Unarmoured

by HowDidIGetHere20

Summary:

Arthur has always taken Merlin on every mission—unarmoured, untrained, endlessly reckless.
It never used to matter.
But lately, every danger feels sharper. Every close call lasts too long.
And Merlin is starting to notice the way Arthur hovers… and how the prince’s worry is beginning to look a lot like something else.

Notes:

No beta so I apologise for any mistakes or slight continuity errors..

Set to be around 20 chapters right now, but honestly will probably end up doing more.

Chapter 1: The Summons

Merlin woke to the sound of Camelot already humming with restless energy.

Boots thudded down the hallways. Servants rushed with armfuls of linens. Somewhere downstairs, someone was shouting about missing grain stores. Gaius’s quill scratched furiously across parchment.

All signs of a morning where King Uther Pendragon was… in a mood.

Merlin dragged himself upright and rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Gaius? What’s going on?”

Gaius didn’t look up from his writing. “The king has summoned the council unexpectedly. No one knows the cause. But it’s making the entire castle twitch like a horse who smells a storm coming.”

“That sounds promising,” Merlin muttered.

Gaius gave him a pointed look. “You had better hurry. I suspect Arthur will be called in before long, and you know how he gets when he wants something and you’re not there to immediately serve it to him.”

Merlin tried not to smile. “He’s not that bad.”

“He is precisely that bad,” Gaius said without missing a beat. “Now go on. And for the love of the gods, try to stay quiet today.”

Merlin left Gaius’s chambers with a sense of apprehension curling low in his stomach. When the king was restless, Camelot rippled. And when Camelot rippled, Arthur usually got dragged into something dangerous.

Merlin quickened his steps.

He found Arthur in his chambers, fastening the last buckle of his jerkin with brisk, impatient motions.

“There you are,” Arthur said, relieved and annoyed in equal measure. “Where in gods’ names have you been?”

Merlin blinked. “I literally just woke up.”

“Yes, well—try doing it faster next time.”

Merlin rolled his eyes but handed Arthur his sword belt. “Do you know what the king wants?”

“No,” Arthur muttered. “But it’s never good when he summons the council at dawn. And it’s worse when he doesn’t tell me why beforehand.”

That, Merlin thought, was the real source of Arthur’s tension.
Arthur hated being left in the dark.

“Come on,” Arthur said. “If we’re late, he’ll blame me.”

“And then you’ll blame me,” Merlin added.

“As is tradition,” Arthur agreed, marching toward the door.

⸻

The council chamber buzzed with controlled unease. Nobles murmured to one another. Advisors traded theories at a hushed pace. Uther sat at the head of the table, stone-faced and severe, fingers drumming his chair’s armrest with measured impatience.

Arthur approached and bowed. Merlin stood at the back, trying—and failing—to look inconspicuous.

“Arthur,” Uther began, voice cold as winter. “A patrol assigned to the eastern road has not returned.”

Arthur straightened. “How long overdue?”

“Three days.”

The murmurs rose sharply.

Merlin’s thoughts halted.

Three days.

That wasn’t late.
That was gone.

Uther raised a hand. Silence fell.

“The border is too vital to leave unmonitored,” he continued. “If men loyal to Camelot vanish on our own roads, we must assume hostile interference.”

Arthur absorbed this, jaw tightening. “Do we have any information? A last reported location? Witnesses?”

“A messenger brought word yesterday,” Uther said. “He found no bodies. No signs of struggle. Only abandoned bootprints and drag marks near the forest’s edge.”

A cold twist tightened in Merlin’s chest.

Drag marks meant bodies.
Bodies meant—

“Bandits, perhaps,” Leon suggested gently from his seat among the knights. “That stretch of road has always been vulnerable.”

“Or enemy scouts,” one of the councilmen offered nervously.

“Or sorcery,” another whispered.

Uther’s glare silenced them both.

Arthur took a breath. “What are your orders, Father?”

“You will lead a search party at once,” Uther said. “Retrieve the patrol if they live. Recover their bodies if they do not. And eliminate any who dared attack Camelot’s men.”

Arthur nodded once, sharp and steady. “I’ll depart at dawn”

Merlin felt it then—the familiar, helpless knot of fear when Arthur was sent into danger without hesitation, without question.

He forced his worry down.

Uther dismissed the council. Arthur turned sharply, already striding for the door.

“Merlin. With me.”

Merlin scrambled after him.

⸻

Arthur headed toward the training courtyard with intense purpose. The knights were already gathering—Leon with a map under his arm, Lancelot tightening his gauntlets, and Gwaine leaning back on a bench, chewing an apple like they were going hunting for picnic spots.

“Morning!” Gwaine chirped. “Council drama? Missing men? Political crisis? Some fool lose Uther’s favorite candlestick?”

“Patrol’s missing,” Arthur said, voice clipped.

Gwaine’s grin fell. “Ah.”

Merlin began packing Arthur’s supplies—water skins, salves from Gaius, a whetstone, extra layers, food.

Arthur hovered closely behind him.

Too closely.

“You forgot the flint,” Arthur murmured near his shoulder.

Merlin jumped. “I’m not done yet, am I?”

“You nearly forgot it,” Arthur insisted.

“I have forgotten it before and we survived,” Merlin pointed out.

Arthur glared. “Barely.”

Gwaine strolled over, watching them both with far too much amusement. “Relax, princess. Merlin knows what he’s doing.”

Arthur scowled. “I’m not worried.”

“You’re always worried,” Gwaine drawled. “Especially when your favorite idiot is involved.”

Merlin choked on air. “I’m not his favorite!”

Arthur went stiff.
Leon closed his eyes like he needed divine patience.
Lancelot pretended to be fascinated by his saddle straps.

Gwaine grinned wickedly. “Sure you aren’t.”

Merlin, flustered, dropped the flint. Arthur immediately picked it up.

Their fingers brushed.

Both jerked back like they’d been burned.

Lancelot quietly cleared his throat. “We should… get things in order.”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed instantly, relief flooding his voice. “Do that.”

Merlin kept packing, cheeks warm, trying not to replay the moment in his mind.

⸻

The packs were sorted. Supplies accounted for. The knights gathered awaiting orders.

Merlin finished tying off one of the bundles—and Arthur hovered again.

“Is that secure?” Arthur asked.

“Yes,” Merlin said.

“You checked the knots?”

“Yes.”

“And the balance?”

“Yes.”

“And the—”

Merlin finally spun around. “Arthur. I do know how to pack for a journey.”

Arthur closed his mouth.

Their eyes held—just a second too long.

Leon approached gently. “The men are ready, sire.”

Arthur nodded but didn’t move.

Merlin stepped back, giving him space. “You should get going.”

Arthur’s throat bobbed.

“Right,” he murmured. “We leave at dawn tomorrow. Get everything else prepared.”

Merlin nodded.

Arthur hesitated one more heartbeat—then turned away.

⸻

Merlin brought Arthur’s dinner to his chambers later than he meant to. He’d been making lists, sorting supplies, organizing packs—anything to keep occupied.

He found Arthur seated on the edge of his bed, polishing his sword with controlled, meticulous strokes.

“You’re late,” Arthur said, still focused on the blade.

Merlin huffed. “Good evening to you too.”

Arthur shot him a brief glance—tired, a bit on edge—but his expression shuttered quickly.

Merlin set the tray down. “You’ve been pacing the castle all night.”

“I wasn’t pacing,” Arthur said, too quickly. “I was making preparations.”

“For a routine mission,” Merlin replied lightly, hands on his hips. “Nothing dramatic.”

Something in Arthur’s jaw tightened. He didn’t rise to the bait.

“It isn’t routine if men under my command disappear,” he said, quieter.

Merlin’s chest ached. He stepped closer, careful not to crowd.

“You’ll figure out what happened,” he said. “You always do.”

Arthur’s breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale. “If they’re dead—”

“Then you bring them home,” Merlin said simply.

A beat of silence.

Arthur set his sword aside with deliberate calm, as though every movement was calculated.

When he finally looked at Merlin, it was brief—steady, unreadable except for the faintest crack beneath the surface.

“Be ready at dawn,” Arthur said.

Merlin nodded. “I will be.”

Arthur’s shoulders eased, barely noticeable unless you were looking.

“Goodnight, Merlin.”

Merlin felt it anyway. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

He turned for the door.

“Merlin?”

He paused, looking back.

Arthur’s expression didn’t soften, but something in it shifted.

“…Thank you,” he said.

Just that. Nothing more.

But it was enough.

⸻

The torches flickered low.
The corridors quieted.
The castle dipped toward sleep.

Merlin closed the door behind him, heart full and heavy.

Tomorrow, they would ride out.

Chapter 2: Small Anomalies

Dawn rolled slowly across Camelot’s fields like a pale-gold tide.

The sky blushed with warm light. The morning wind carried the smell of dew and horses and fresh-baked bread from the lower kitchens. Birds chattered noisily in the rafters above the courtyard, as if even they sensed the energy crackling through the castle.

Merlin finished tightening the saddle strap on Arthur’s horse just as Arthur strode into the courtyard in full training leathers—boots polished, sword belted, cloak clipped neatly at his shoulder.

He looked every inch the crown prince.

Except for the faint creases of worry at the corners of his eyes.

Arthur’s gaze immediately swept across the courtyard—and landed on Merlin.

Merlin pretended not to notice the breath Arthur let out, a quiet exhale like he’d been holding tension in his chest all morning.

“Ready, Merlin?” Arthur asked, voice neutral.

“Yep,” Merlin said, patting the saddle even though he’d triple-checked it already. “Everything’s packed.”

Arthur scanned him from boots to hair—quick, assessing, and far too revealing.

Merlin frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.” Arthur cleared his throat. “You’re just—wearing very little protection.”

Merlin blinked down at himself. “I’m dressed.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Merlin followed Arthur’s gaze, which lingered on—

His shirt.
His entirely unarmored, utterly vulnerable shirt.

Ah.

Here we go.

“Arthur,” Merlin said gently, “I’m not a knight.”

“You’re also not expendable,” Arthur snapped before he could stop himself.

Merlin’s breath caught.

Arthur froze, face burning. “I just mean—if you get hit out there—if something happens—”

“I’ve survived worse,” Merlin tried.

“Not the point,” Arthur muttered. “You should at least wear a gambeson.”

“You packed a spare one, didn’t you?” Gwaine called from behind the horses, grinning broadly as he sauntered over. “What are the odds.”

Arthur glared at him. “I didn’t pack it for Merlin.”

“You absolutely packed it for Merlin,” Gwaine corrected.

“I didn’t—”

“Just admit it, Arthur,” Gwaine continued cheerfully. “You’re terrified something might hurt the boy.”

Merlin nearly choked. “I’m not a boy!”

Gwaine slung an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “Exactly. He’s a very attractive, grown man, capable of tripping over his own feet in seventy-three different ways.”

Merlin elbowed him.

Arthur glowered.

Leon approached next, steady and composed as always. “We should leave before the market crowds gather.”

“Yes,” Arthur said sharply, swinging onto his horse. “Mount up. We have ground to cover.”

Lancelot nodded, already astride his horse. He gave Merlin a reassuring look—quiet, understanding, a silent promise of support if needed.

The kind of look that warmed Merlin’s chest.

Arthur saw it.

Arthur did not look pleased.

“Ride,” Arthur commanded.

And they set off.

⸻

The eastern forest trail curved between tall pines, their branches whispering overhead. Morning light filtered through the canopy in soft gold beams, turning the dust rising from their horses’ hooves into drifting motes that sparkled like tiny stars.

It should have been peaceful.

But the forest felt… watching.

Leon noticed first. “There’s no birds.”

Merlin looked around. Leon was right—no birdsong. No rustling. Not even the distant call of a hawk.

The kind of silence that wasn’t natural.

Arthur’s hand tightened on his reins.

Gwaine snorted, trying to cut the tension. “Maybe the birds decided to take a holiday.”

“Birds don’t take holidays,” Arthur said.

Gwaine perked up. “How do you know? Have you ever asked one?”

Arthur swore under his breath.

Lancelot slowed his horse a little until he was riding beside Merlin. “Stay close,” he murmured quietly.

Merlin smiled faintly. “I’m fine.”

“I know.” Lancelot glanced toward Arthur. “But some people worry more than others.”

Merlin followed his gaze.

Arthur was riding slightly ahead—but not too far. Just enough to appear casual, yet still in perfect position to intervene at the smallest hint of danger.

Merlin pretended not to notice.

⸻

They found the first clue mid-morning.

“Hold,” Leon called, dismounting.

They all gathered around the disturbed patch of earth. Deep prints. The distinct shape of Camelot-issue boots.

Lancelot crouched beside Leon. “Five men. Two walking heavily—carrying weight.”

“Bodies?” Gwaine asked, quiet for once.

Nobody answered.

Arthur knelt beside the tracks, tracing the edge of one print. “Heading north-east… into the denser part of the forest. Why would they go that way?”

“They didn’t choose to,” Leon murmured.

Merlin felt a cold dread settle into his stomach.

Arthur stood. “We follow.”

They mounted again, following the prints as they twisted deeper through the trees. The air grew cooler. The light dimmer. Moss clung to the rocks and trunks like soft green shrouds.

After a while, Arthur looked back—

At Merlin.

Not at the trail.
Not at the forest.
Not at any potential threat.

Just Merlin.

“You alright?” Arthur asked.

Merlin blinked. “I’m literally just riding.”

“You look pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

Gwaine laughed behind them. “He’s got you there, mate.”

Arthur ignored him. “If you feel faint, tell me.”

“I—Arthur, I’m fine,” Merlin insisted, equal parts touched and exasperated. “Seriously.”

Arthur did not look convinced.

⸻

When they reached a steep ravine, the horses balked.

The path narrowed dangerously. Rocks jutted sharply. Leon dismounted to check the ground stability.

“It’s loose,” he called. “We’ll need to lead them across on foot.”

Arthur nodded. “Slowly. One at a time.”

Gwaine went first, leading his horse with a feigned swagger he absolutely did not feel.

Lancelot followed.

Leon next.

Merlin stepped forward, taking his horse’s reins—

And the stone beneath his boot broke free.

His foot slipped.

He pitched forward—

But a whisper of instinctive magic surged from his fingertips, a gentle push of stabilizing force against the air.

He regained balance.

No one noticed.

Except—

Lancelot’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing with concern.

He didn’t say anything.

Just gave Merlin a tiny, subtle shake of his head.
Careful.

Merlin swallowed and nodded back.

He knew.

He had to be more careful.

If Arthur ever saw—

He shoved the thought aside.

⸻

As afternoon wore on, their progress slowed. The tracks became erratic, scattered, confused. The forest thickened around them like a closing fist.

Merlin grew warm, then cold, then warm again. Twigs snagged his shirt. Dirt smeared his sleeves. His legs ached from the long ride.

He didn’t complain.

Arthur noticed anyway.

“Do you need a break?” Arthur asked.

Merlin stared at him. “You’re on a mission from Uther. You’re not allowed to take breaks.”

“I can take a break if I damn well please,” Arthur snapped.

“Oh,” Merlin said amusedly. “Well in that case, I’m the one who’s fine.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “You’re being difficult on purpose.”

“Absolutely.”

Gwaine cackled from somewhere behind them. “Gods, just kiss already.”

Both Arthur and Merlin choked violently.

Leon pretended he didn’t hear anything and moved ahead to scout.

Lancelot sighed the sigh of a man who had accepted his role as the group’s emotional babysitter.

⸻

By dusk, they found a small clearing with a stream trickling nearby.

“Here,” Arthur said. “We’ll make camp.”

They dismounted. Gwaine immediately threw himself onto the grass with an exaggerated groan. Leon began checking the perimeter. Lancelot went to gather firewood.

Merlin was halfway through unpacking supplies when Arthur approached, studying him with a faint crease between his brows.

“You look like you’ve been dragged behind the horses,” Arthur said lightly.

Merlin snorted. “And you don’t?”

Arthur ignored that. His gaze flicked to the bundles Merlin carried—too many, too heavy.

“You’ve been at this since sunrise,” Arthur remarked, almost off-hand, as if noticing nothing in particular. “If you want to—take a moment… no one will trip over themselves without you for five minutes.”

Merlin paused. “Everyone else is working.”

“They’re finishing what they started,” Arthur said, tone carefully neutral. “Yours can wait a bit if it needs to.”

Merlin frowned, thrown. “Are you saying I’m slow?”

Arthur huffed, looking away as if the trees suddenly needed his attention. “I’m saying you don’t have to do everything at once.”

The words hung there, oddly gentle for something phrased like a complaint.

Merlin’s chest tightened.

“…Right,” he said quietly. “A moment. Sure.”

Arthur didn’t react, but some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

“Good,” he said, brisk again. “Just—sit. Or don’t. Whatever.”

Merlin found a fallen log and lowered himself onto it. Arthur stayed a short distance away, pretending to oversee Leon and Lancelot, but his eyes kept sliding back toward Merlin when he thought no one would notice.

Lancelot noticed.

He hid a smile.

Gwaine noticed.

He nearly cackled.

Leon noticed.

He silently prayed for patience.

⸻

They ate beside the crackling fire—bread, dried meat, apples. The air cooled, the sky deepened into violet, and the first stars glittered through the trees.

Merlin felt the day settle in his bones. Tired, but not unpleasantly so.

When Gwaine finished telling a ridiculous story about nearly being seduced by a baron’s wife and daughter, Leon announced they should all sleep as they must reach the last known point of the patrol early morning.

The others drifted to their bedrolls.

Merlin unrolled his beside the fire, then curled onto his side.

He wasn’t surprised when Arthur approached moments later.

“You warm enough?” Arthur asked quietly.

“Arthur, you packed three cloaks on my horse.”

Arthur hesitated. “Do you need one?”

Merlin smiled gently. “I’m alright.”

Arthur crouched, adjusting Merlin’s blanket anyway.

Merlin’s breath hitched.

“Arthur?”

Arthur froze mid-movement. “…Yes?”

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The—hovering.”

Arthur’s mouth opened, then shut. He stared at the blanket instead of Merlin. “This mission isn’t safe.”

“No mission you go on is particularly safe,” Merlin said softly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Merlin waited.

Arthur inhaled slowly. “I don’t like the idea of you getting hurt. Not when you have nothing to protect you.”

Merlin’s heart twisted.

“Arthur…” His voice came out faint.

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “I shouldn’t have let you come.”

Merlin sat up a little. “You didn’t let me. I chose to.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Arthur whispered.

Merlin swallowed hard. “But… I’m here. Because I want to be.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked to his, full of emotion he didn’t know how to carry.

They held the moment too long.
Too close.
Too much.

Arthur stood abruptly. “Get some sleep.”

Merlin nodded. “…You too.”

Arthur walked to his bedroll.

Merlin watched him settle down on the other side of the fire.

Arthur watched Merlin from across the flames.

Neither slept quickly.

⸻

Near midnight, Merlin’s eyes snapped open.

There—
A crunch of leaves.
A rustle of movement.

Too heavy to be an animal.

His magic flared involuntarily, sensing—

Intent.
Hostility.
Shadows moving.

He pushed up onto his elbows.

Someone else stirred.

Arthur.

He sat up silently, hand on his sword, gaze scanning the dark.

Their eyes met.

Arthur mouthed:
You hear it too?

Merlin nodded.

But the sound faded.

Leaves settled.

The forest exhaled.

Stillness returned.

Arthur didn’t lower his sword for several long moments.

Finally, he whispered, “Keep your things close.”

Merlin nodded.

But he didn’t sleep again.

Arthur didn’t either.

The forest watched them.

The silence held its breath.

And morning crept toward them, slow and inevitable…

Chapter 3: The Hours Between

The forest felt heavier in the morning.

Not darker, exactly—pale light still filtered through the canopy in soft shafts—but the air had weight to it, like the trees themselves were holding their breath.

Arthur rode at the front of the small party, jaw tight, eyes scanning every shadow. Leon kept pace at his side, gaze fixed on the ground for tracks. Gwaine hummed distantly behind them, the tune thin and tuneless, like even he couldn’t quite muster his usual cheer.

Merlin rode at the back, trying to pretend his spine wasn’t vibrating with unease.

They were close.

He felt it.

Not with magic—not exactly—but with the same creeping certainty that had been gathering in the hollow of his chest ever since they found the first prints leading deeper off the main road.

“Here,” Leon said quietly, drawing rein. “Tracks pick up again.”

Arthur slowed his horse, leaning to see. Deep heel marks. Boots slipping, dragging. Scuffs and broken branches.

“Still theirs?” Arthur asked.

Leon nodded. “Same pattern as yesterday. This way.”

They followed the signs for another half-mile, the trees thickening around them, needles muting every hoofbeat. Gradually, the smell changed—earth and sap and something else.

Iron.

Blood.

Leon raised a hand, bringing them to a halt. “Sire.”

Arthur wrinkled his nose, catching it too. His stomach dropped in anticipation of what they were about to find.

“Dismount,” he ordered softly.

They slid from their saddles. Lancelot took the horses’ reins, leading them off the narrow track. Gwaine unsheathed his sword without comment. Merlin’s fingers tightened around the strap of the packs he carried.

They stepped through the trees.

The clearing was small, choked with ferns… and death.

Four bodies lay scattered near the remains of a firepit. Camelot’s red and gold glinted faintly beneath dried blood and dirt. One man still clutched a broken spear shaft. Another’s hand rested on his sword hilt, as if he’d died trying to draw it.

Arthur stopped dead.

Leon whispered, “By the gods…”

Lancelot bowed his head.

Gwaine’s jaw clenched.

Merlin’s heart sank. These men had left Camelot expecting a normal patrol. A steady route. Routine.

They had never made it back.

Arthur moved first, forced into motion by duty if nothing else. He knelt beside the nearest knight, fingers brushing the crest on his torn surcoat.

“Sir Garran,” he said quietly.

Leon checked another. “Sir Tolan. And… Varric. Den.” He straightened slowly. “It’s the whole patrol.”

The words landed like a stone.

Arthur’s expression went flat—not empty, exactly, but shuttered in that way it always did when grief and responsibility collided.

“Check for survivors,” he said hoarsely. “Doubtful, but…”

They searched, stepping carefully around bodies and broken shields. It didn’t take long to confirm the obvious.

“No one left,” Lancelot said softly.

Merlin swallowed. “Do we… bury them?”

“Yes,” Arthur said immediately—and then, after a beat, “But not yet.”

All eyes turned to him.

He rose to his feet, looking older in that moment, the weight of command settling heavily on his shoulders.

“We mark the location,” Arthur continued, voice steadying. “We send a wagon from Camelot with men to prepare them properly. But we don’t linger here. Whoever did this might still be close.”

Gwaine nodded grimly. “Look at the cuts. These weren’t wild beasts. That was steel.”

Leon’s eyes narrowed. “And haste. See? They stripped the bodies—took coin, gear. Left the armor that wasn’t useful. Bandits.”

Arthur’s mouth thinned. “Bandits bold enough to ambush Camelot’s own patrol. On Camelot’s road.”

He looked around, gaze sharp. “Do we have their trail?”

Leon pointed beyond the clearing. “Here. Lighter prints leading away. More feet than just the four.” He followed the marks a few steps. “Could be eight, maybe ten men. Armed. Moving quickly.”

Arthur didn’t hesitate. “We follow.”

Leon’s brow creased. “We should send word first. Let the king know we’ve found the patrol—”

“We’ll do both,” Arthur said. “Gwaine, ride back to the last crossroads. Leave a marker on the main road for a messenger to find. We’ll send him from there. The rest of us track these bastards before they vanish into the trees.”

Gwaine nodded, eyes flaring with something that mirrored Arthur’s anger. “Gladly.”

As Gwaine led his horse away, Merlin shifted his weight. “Arthur… are you sure? We’re only four. If there are ten bandits—”

Arthur looked at him, something sharp and fierce behind his eyes. “They killed my men. They won’t disappear without answer.”

Merlin held his gaze and saw, beneath the anger, the same thing he’d seen last night by the fire:

Fear.

Not fear of battle. Arthur was never afraid of that.

Fear of failing those who followed him.

“We’ll be careful,” Merlin said softly.

Arthur’s expression flickered. Just for a second.

Then he nodded, once. “Stay close.”

He turned to Leon and Lancelot. “Let’s move. We won’t get another chance to catch them so soon after an attack.”

They followed the trail.

⸻

The tracks led them back toward a narrower stretch of road—a dip between two low rises, trees crowding close on both sides.

Merlin’s skin prickled.

“This pass,” Leon murmured, frowning. “If they attacked Garran’s patrol here, they’d know it’s a good choke point.”

“You said the same yesterday,” Arthur said quietly.

Leon’s mouth tilted grimly. “Still true today.”

The forest was quiet. Sunlight dappled the ground, throwing patches of light and shadow that made it impossible to tell where solid earth ended and a root began.

Gwaine rejoined them at the edge of the rise, breathing a little harder from the quick gallop to the crossroads and back.

“Message point set,” he said. “First patrol down the king’s road will see it.”

“Good,” Arthur replied. “Stay sharp. We may be walking into… something.”

“Like an ambush?” Merlin offered.

Arthur shot him a look over his shoulder. “For once, try not to say the worst thing out loud.”

Merlin opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again.

They eased their horses into the pass.

Arthur’s fingers tapped lightly against the pommel of his sword. Leon’s eyes roamed the treeline, looking for out-of-place shapes. Lancelot scanned the slopes. Gwaine’s hand never strayed far from his hilt.

Merlin had the distinct feeling of standing in the center of a circle just before it closed.

A bird shrieked somewhere above and went abruptly silent.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “Too quiet,” he muttered.

Leon nodded once. “Aye. Even the birds have gone still.”

They advanced another twenty paces.

An arrow hissed out of the shadows.

⸻

Arthur’s training took over before his mind caught up. He wrenched his shield up; the arrow slammed into it with a dull thunk and skidded off.

“AMBUSH!” he roared.

Bandits burst from behind the trees—five, ten, more—shouting, blades gleaming. Some came from the slopes above, sliding down on loose soil, others charged straight from the trunks as if they’d grown out of them.

Leon spurred forward, shield raised, intercepting a man who’d aimed for Merlin’s unprotected side. Lancelot wheeled his horse to flank, using the height to drive back two attackers at once.

Gwaine bellowed something horribly obscene and met the nearest bandit with a wild grin and a crashing sword blow.

Merlin’s heart slammed against his ribs. He ducked instinctively as another arrow shrieked past his head, almost falling off his borrowed horse in the process.

“MERLIN!” Arthur shouted, parrying a blow and driving his opponent back. “Get behind the line!”

Merlin scrambled, grabbing at the mane, managing somehow to slide down the far side of his horse instead of under its hooves. He nearly fell on his face, caught himself on one knee, and seized the nearest thing to hand—

A fallen branch.

Not even a good one. It was splintered at one end, bark peeling.

Brilliant.

“What are you doing?” Arthur bellowed, blocking two blows in quick succession. “I said behind—”

Merlin didn’t go behind.

Because from where he crouched, he could see what Arthur couldn’t: three bandits circling wide, trying to get to the horses from the side path branching off the main track.

If they got to the horses, the knights would lose their advantage. If the knights lost their horses, they’d be boxed in with no exit.

Merlin’s mind calculated several options at once.

None of them were good.

So he did what he always did.

The reckless thing.

He darted forward, brandishing his makeshift staff like an idiot—Arthur’s idiot—and shouted, voice loud and cracking:

“HEY! Over here, you great sacks of troll snot!”

Three heads snapped toward him.

Merlin waved his stick again. “Yeah, you! The ones with the faces like a horse’s arse—come on then!”

One bandit snarled. “Get him!”

They turned their backs on the horses and charged.

Arthur’s stomach dropped. “Merlin, NO!”

Merlin bolted down the narrow side path, crashing through the underbrush, branch clutched tight as he dodged low-hanging branches.

Behind him, the three bandits thundered in pursuit.

Arthur tried to break free of the press, but two attackers slammed into his shield. He forced one back with a brutal riposte, but the other caught his shoulder with a glancing blow. Pain flared hot and sharp.

“Leon!” he shouted, teeth gritted. “Keep the line! Merlin’s—”

“I see him!” Leon yelled, even as he drove an enemy back. “Go! We’ll hold!”

Lancelot shifted seamlessly, stepping into the gap Arthur left, shield high, sword moving in a blur.

Arthur kicked his horse hard, breaking away down the side track.

But the battle, even reduced, refused to let him go outright. A bandit lunged from the left; Arthur had to haul his horse around, parry, slash once. Another came from behind. Gwaine intercepted him with a roar and a crash of steel.

“Go!” Gwaine shouted, wild-eyed. “I’ve got this one! Don’t lose the idiot!”

Arthur didn’t need to be told twice.

He spurred his horse into a gallop down the narrower path, following the crushed ferns and snapped twigs. shouts echoed ahead. The forest blurred.

Then, abruptly, the sounds cut off.

Arthur reined in hard, listening.

Nothing.

Just his own breathing and the pounding of his horse’s heart.

“Merlin?” he shouted. “MERLIN!”

Silence swallowed the name.

He pushed on for another twenty yards before the path narrowed too much for the horse. He swung down and tied the reins hastily to a low branch.

“Stay,” he ordered, as if the animal could understand. Then he ran.

The undergrowth clawed at his boots. Branches whipped his face. He followed the signs Merlin had left like breadcrumbs without meaning to—broken stems, scuffed soil, a streak of fabric on a thorn.

And then—

He found them.

Two bandits lay sprawled in the leaf litter, necks at angles that spoke of sudden, brutal impact. Stones jutted nearby, one smeared slightly darker as if something—or someone—had collided with it at speed.

He knelt briefly, fingers brushing the hilt of one fallen man’s sword. No sign of Merlin. No blood that looked fresh.

He forced himself onward.

⸻

The sun bled down the sky as hours crawled.

They regrouped eventually—Arthur, Leon, Lancelot, and Gwaine, faces grim, clothes dusted with dirt and blood. The bandits who’d attacked the main road lay dead behind them. On a mute, practical level, the problem of the missing patrol’s killers was solved.

It didn’t feel like a victory.

Not with Merlin still missing.

“We’ve swept the side paths north and west,” Leon reported, voice tight. “No sign of him.”

“South and east too,” Gwaine added. For once, there was no grin on his face. “Found more of them, though.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Three more bandits. All dead. Someone did… unpleasant things to their heads.”

Arthur’s throat worked. “He was buying us time.”

Lancelot nodded slowly. “Drawing them off, keeping them from flanking the horses. If they’d made it around the back…”

They didn’t finish the sentence.

The horses grazed nearby, restless. The forest had grown dusky, shadows stretching long, the air cooling quickly.

Arthur stared into the trees.

“I am not leaving him out here.”

Leon stepped forward, steady as ever. “No one’s suggesting that. But we need structure. We comb in grids. If we split too far in the dark—”

“We’ll lose each other as well as him,” Lancelot finished.

Arthur ground his teeth. “We’re already losing light.”

Gwaine straightened. “Then let’s not waste what’s left. Tell us where you want us, Princess.”

They divided the forest into arcs radiating from the last confirmed sign of Merlin’s passage. Leon and Lancelot took one side. Gwaine another. Arthur refused to be paired.

He could not bear to have anyone point out the logic of turning back. Not yet. Not when every fiber of him screamed that Merlin was still out here.

Still moving.

Still needing him.

“Call out every few minutes,” Leon said, torch flaring in his fist. “If anyone hears a reply—”

Arthur was already walking away.

⸻

The forest became a maze.

Trunks, roots, low branches clawing at his clothes. The light bled from gold to amber to rust and then to grey as dusk encroached. Arthur’s torch threw a jittering halo around him, the smoke sharp in his nose.

He called Merlin’s name again and again, his voice growing hoarse.

“MERLIN!”

No answer.

“Merlin!”

Silence.

He found more signs. A scuff where someone had stumbled. A broken branch at shoulder height. A smear of blood on a rock, thin and drying.

Not enough to tell how bad it was. Just enough to twist his stomach into tighter knots.

“Idiot,” he muttered, voice rough. “Stupid, reckless, insufferable…”

The words caught somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

He pushed on.

His shoulder ached where the earlier blow had glanced off him, but he ignored it. His legs burned. He lost track of how long he’d been walking.

Once, he heard Gwaine’s voice faint in the distance, calling Merlin’s name. Another time, Leon’s. But their paths didn’t cross. The forest swallowed sound strangely.

At some point, the sky between the branches darkened fully. The only light remaining was torchfire and the faint silver smear of a rising moon.

“Merlin!” Arthur called again, more raw plea than command now.

Nothing.

Branches cracked under his boots as he shoved through a thicket. A root caught his toe; he staggered, slammed a hand against a trunk to steady himself. His breath came in sharp, angry bursts.

He hated this.
Hated the feeling of helplessness.
Hated that Merlin had been allowed—no, had chosen—to put himself in danger again.

Mostly, he hated the hot, strangling panic every time his mind flashed an image of Merlin lying still, open-eyed, somewhere out here.

He forced himself onward.

⸻

“Arthur…”

He almost missed it.

A whisper, so faint he thought it was his imagination at first. The wind. A broken thought.

He stopped dead.

“Merlin?” he called carefully.

Silence.

His heart hammered.

He turned slowly, tilting his head, listening. The torch hissed softly, smoke curling past his cheek.

Then again. Barely. “Arthur…”

Arthur ran.

He crashed through the undergrowth, thorns snagging his cloak, bark scraping his hands. The faint sound came again—and this time he could pinpoint it, somewhere ahead and slightly downhill.

He slid down a small incline, boots skidding on loose soil.

There, at the base of an old oak, half hidden by shadow and bracken, was a crumpled shape.

Arthur’s breath splintered.

“Merlin!”

He dropped to his knees so fast they hit the ground hard.

Merlin slumped against the trunk, one leg stretched out awkwardly, the other bent like he’d tried and failed to push himself upright. His head lolled to the side, eyes half-closed, unfocused. Dirt smudged his face; a line of dried blood traced from his hairline down past his ear. His shirt was torn, and the sleeve on his left arm was soaked through with darker red.

He looked small.

He never looked small.

“Merlin,” Arthur said again, but this time it came out softer. Broken. “Hey.”

Merlin blinked sluggishly. His gaze wandered, then finally latched onto Arthur’s face. He squinted, as if to make sure it was real.

“Oh,” he whispered, and tried to smile. “Arthur. Hullo.”

Arthur’s chest hurt.

“You—” His voice cracked. He cleared it and tried again. “You’re hurt.”

Merlin’s eyes floated down to his own arm, as if noticing it for the first time. “Oh. That. It’s… fine.”

Arthur stared at him. “You are not fine.”

“Bit… dizzy,” Merlin admitted. “Got hit. Fell. Rolled. There was a rock. Very rude of it.”

“Of course there was,” Arthur muttered, breath shaking. “Did they—”

“Didn’t catch me,” Merlin slurred. “Lost them somewhere… back there.” His free hand flapped vaguely behind him. “Think I… dropped a tree branch on one. Or maybe myself. Hard to tell.”

Arthur’s nose prickled.

Leon had been right: if they’d caught him, there would’ve been drag marks. A camp. Signs of capture.

Instead, Merlin had outrun them.

Or outwitted them.

Or both.

But at a cost.

Leon, Arthur thought distantly. I need Leon. He knows more about field injuries. He knows—

No.

No, that could wait.

Merlin was here. Merlin was breathing. Merlin’s pulse fluttered under Arthur’s fingertips when he reached with shaking hands to feel at his throat.

Still alive.

Arthur let out a long, shuddering exhale he hadn’t realized he’d been holding all day.

“You idiot,” he whispered. His hands moved—tugging at Merlin’s torn sleeve, trying to assess the wound. “Stupid, reckless, insufferable…”

Merlin’s head tipped back weakly against the tree. “You said that… already.”

Arthur swallowed hard. “I should’ve tied you to the horse.”

“Romantic,” Merlin mumbled.

Arthur choked on a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so close to a sob.

Leon’s voice echoed faintly in the distance, calling Arthur’s name now.

“Here!” Arthur shouted back. “This way!”

He slid an arm behind Merlin’s shoulders, gripping his good arm gently. “Can you stand?”

Merlin made a valiant attempt. His leg buckled immediately. He swayed alarmingly.

“No,” Arthur said at once. “You’re not walking anywhere.”

“I can—”

“No,” Arthur repeated, more forcefully. “You’ve done enough for one day.”

Gently, carefully, he scooped Merlin up—one arm under his knees, the other braced around his back.

Merlin made a startled sound that dissolved quickly into a quiet, tired sigh. His head dropped against Arthur’s shoulder, breath warm against his neck.

“You were worried,” he murmured, words slurring together.

Arthur’s heart thudded painfully. “We couldn’t find you.”

“That’s not… what I asked,” Merlin mumbled.

Arthur closed his eyes for a brief, raw second.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I was worried.”

Merlin smiled, faint and wobbly, and let his eyes slip shut again.

Leon and Lancelot appeared at the top of the small incline, torches held high. Gwaine loomed just behind, eyes wide, relief crashing across his face when he saw who Arthur carried.

“There he is,” Gwaine breathed. “You gave us a fright, mate.”

“I told you,” Merlin muttered, almost asleep, “I’m fine.”

Gwaine snorted. “You look like something the cat dragged in, and then the cat died.”

Leon descended carefully, already scanning Merlin. “Sir, we should get him back to camp. I can clean and bind the wounds there. Moving him too much here risks making things worse.”

Arthur nodded and started up the incline, grim determination in every step.

He did not let go of Merlin.

⸻

The knights had thrown together a rough camp not far from the road—just enough space for a fire, some bedrolls, and a makeshift perimeter. The bodies of the bandits lay beyond, covered with cloaks. Some had bits of Camelot metal woven onto their belts—buckles, badges, the occasional scrap of red cloth.

Trophies.

Arthur’s lip curled.

Gwaine moved ahead to clear space near the fire. Leon spread out a bedroll, and Arthur knelt, lowering Merlin onto it with as much care as if he were made of spun glass.

Merlin winced as his injured arm jostled. Arthur’s hand flew instantly to steady him.

“Easy,” he said. “You’re alright.”

Merlin’s eyes cracked open, unfocused. “S’what you’re for,” he muttered. “Making sure I’m alright.”

Arthur swallowed.

Leon knelt on the opposite side, pulling a small kit from his belt. “With your permission, sire?”

Arthur reluctantly shifted back just enough to give him room, but didn’t move far. His hand remained on Merlin’s shoulder, thumb unconsciously rubbing small circles through the torn fabric.

Leon cleaned the head wound first, then the gash along Merlin’s arm. “Deep, but not ruinous,” he murmured. “We’ll need to watch for fever.”

“He’s not getting a fever,” Arthur said immediately.

Leon’s mouth twitched. “I’ll inform his body you’ve decided that.”

Gwaine dropped onto a nearby log, exhaling hard. “Bloody hell, Merlin. Next time you want to play bait, maybe warn us first?”

Merlin squinted at him. “But then you’d have told me not to.”

“Yes!” Arthur snapped.

Merlin blinked slowly, then yawned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose.

Lancelot chuckled quietly from his post at the edge of the clearing. “He’s going to be insufferable when he’s conscious properly again.”

“He’s insufferable now,” Arthur muttered. But the bite had left his tone.

When Leon finished and stepped back, Merlin was already drifting in and out, lashes dark smudges against his cheeks.

Arthur stayed where he was, cross-legged on the ground beside the bedroll, cloak now spread over both of them. Every so often, he’d glance up to check the perimeter, scan the trees, ensure no new threat loomed.

Then his eyes would always drift back to Merlin.

Alive.
Breathing.
Still here.

The knot in Arthur’s chest loosened slowly, just enough to let the shaking start in his hands.

He curled them into fists so no one would see.

⸻

The night deepened.

The fire crackled softly, painting the clearing in flickering orange. The others took watch in turns—Leon, then Lancelot, Gwaine humming a low tune when it was his time, the sound oddly gentle.

Arthur didn’t sleep.

He sat vigil.

At some point, Merlin stirred, brow furrowing.

“Arthur?” he mumbled, voice rough.

“I’m here,” Arthur said quietly.

Merlin’s hand groped blindly until it found Arthur’s sleeve. His fingers curled weakly in the fabric.

Arthur’s breath caught.

He covered Merlin’s hand with his own. “Rest,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

“Good,” Merlin whispered, already fading again. “Don’t… go anywhere.”

Arthur looked down at him, at the ridiculous mess of him, at the bruises already starting to bloom, at the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“I won’t,” he said.

The admission was soft, meant for Merlin alone and maybe not even that.

But it was true.

He couldn’t go anywhere.

Not from this.

Not from him.

Not anymore.

As the hours slipped by and the forest settled around them, Arthur let the reality sink deep:

He had nearly lost Merlin today.

Not in battle beside him, not in some dramatic, noble moment, but in the chaos of a badly timed choice and a side path and the sharp teeth of the forest.

And every moment he’d spent searching had felt like drowning.

He wasn’t ready to name what that meant.

But he knew this much:

Next time—
There could not be a next time like this.

Because he didn’t know if his heart could survive it again.

Chapter 4: What Almost Was Lost

Arthur kept Merlin close.

Too close, in Merlin’s opinion.

Close enough that, on the journey back to Camelot, Arthur seemed incapable of letting him fall more than three steps behind. He timed the pace of the horses to match Merlin’s slower walk, cast constant glances backward, and barked orders at anyone who rode too near Merlin’s side.

Leon exchanged looks with Lancelot.

Gwaine exchanged looks with himself.

Merlin exchanged looks with the sky in an appeal for mercy.

“Arthur, I’m fine,” Merlin insisted for the seventh—eighth?—twentieth?—time that morning.

“You were unconscious,” Arthur said without looking back.

“For about a minute!”

“Too long.”

Merlin sighed, rubbing the back of his still-tender head. “I can walk.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“You’re hovering.”

“No, I’m supervising.”

“That’s worse.”

Arthur shot him a sharp look over his shoulder. Merlin immediately regretted speaking.

Not because Arthur glared—but because the look wasn’t angry.

It was worried.

Deeply, intensely worried.

Merlin’s stomach tripped.

He looked away.

They walked in uneasy silence for a while. Leaves rustled overhead. A breeze stirred Arthur’s cloak. Merlin tripped over a tree root and pretended he meant to.

Arthur didn’t comment, but his hand shifted instinctively toward Merlin before he caught himself and let it fall.

Lancelot noticed everything. Merlin knew he did. That quiet, steady gaze flicked between Arthur’s tense shoulders and Merlin’s flushed face with too much understanding.

Gwaine… also noticed everything. But with less understanding and more delight.

“So,” Gwaine said at last, sidling up beside Merlin with a grin, “on a scale of one to ten, how dramatic was it?”

Merlin blinked. “What?”

“The rescue. The collapse. The swooning, probably. Did you swoon? You look like a swooner.”

“I did not swoon,” Merlin said hotly. “And it wasn’t dramatic.”

“Oh, wasn’t it?” Gwaine leaned down conspiratorially. “Because the moment he saw you weren’t with us, Arthur looked like he’d swallowed a beehive and set three others on fire.”

Merlin flushed scarlet. “He was… worried.”

“Worried?” Gwaine scoffed. “He went full heroic-prince-on-a-warpath. I’ve seen kings take coronation oaths with less intensity.”

“Gwaine,” Merlin hissed.

“What? Can’t a man admire devotion when he sees it?”

“It wasn’t—devotion.”

“Mm.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That noise.”

“Mm?”

“Gwaine!”

Gwaine laughed loudly. Arthur shot them a suspicious look. Merlin wanted to curl into the dirt.

But then Arthur’s eyes lingered on him—just a moment too long. Checking. Counting breaths.

And it softened something in Merlin’s chest.

Just a little.

⸻

They reached Camelot at sundown.

By the time they crossed the lower gates, torches had been lit along the walls, the courtyard beginning to fill with voices and movement. The guards straightened when they saw Arthur, saluting sharply.

But it wasn’t Arthur their eyes lingered on.

It was Merlin.

Merlin, pale and bruised. Merlin, clearly exhausted. Merlin, walking beside the prince instead of behind him.

Arthur noticed.

Arthur scowled.

“We’re going straight to Gaius,” Arthur said.

“I know the way,” Merlin muttered.

“Good. Then you can lead and prove you’re not about to fall over.”

“I’m not going to fall over!”

Merlin immediately stumbled on the cobblestones.

Gwaine caught him under one arm.

Arthur nearly had an apoplexy.

“I’ve got him, sire,” Gwaine said lightly.

“You do not,” Arthur snapped, swooping in and pulling Merlin firmly but gently away. “He’s mine—my responsibility.”

Merlin stared at him.

Gwaine’s eyebrows shot up. Leon closed his eyes. Lancelot’s mouth twitched in a suppressed smile.

Arthur realized what he’d said.

His ears went red.

“I—he’s my servant,” Arthur corrected stiffly. “And he needs to see Gaius.”

Merlin, despite everything—despite exhaustion, despite fear, despite the ache in his arm—felt something warm bloom beneath his ribs.

Arthur cared.

More than he should.

More than he understood.

⸻

Gaius fussed over Merlin for half an hour.

He cleaned the cut on Merlin’s arm. Checked his reflexes. Prodded his head. Gave him foul-smelling tea which Merlin pretended tasted fine.

Arthur hovered the entire time.

Standing.
Pacing.
Leaning.
Crossing and uncrossing his arms.
Interrupting with useless questions.

“Are you sure he’s not concussed?”

“No, sire.”

“How can you tell?”

“I just told you.”

“Tell me again.”

“Arthur,” Merlin groaned, “go… stand somewhere else.”

“No.”

Merlin buried his face in his hands.

Gaius gently but firmly shooed Arthur toward the stairs.

“He needs rest. You’re in the way.”

“I’m not in the—”

“You are.”

Arthur scowled but obeyed, muttering under his breath all the way up the steps.

Gaius gave Merlin a pointed look once he was gone. “He was quite… anxious. Understandably.”

Merlin tried, and failed, to appear casual. “He worries. About everyone.”

“Mhm.”

“He does!”

Gaius raised a single eyebrow.

Merlin gave up.

⸻

Merlin eventually fell asleep on his cot, breath soft, curls mussed.

By the time Arthur escaped the last of his duties, night had fully claimed Camelot.

The castle had a different sound at this hour. The usual bustle of the day was replaced by a muffled quiet: the distant murmur of guards changing shifts, the soft creak of old stone settling in the cool. Torches guttered along the corridors, casting long shadows that tugged at his thoughts.

He should have gone straight to his chambers.

He had training at first light, reports to read, a dozen small matters that needed his attention. That was what a crown—present or future—demanded of him.

Instead, his feet took him somewhere else entirely.

He paused outside Gaius’s chambers, hand hovering over the latch. Light glowed faintly beneath the door. For a moment, he considered turning away. If Gaius was there, Arthur would have to put on the mask: the calm, collected prince, politely inquiring about his servant’s health.

He wasn’t sure he could manage that tonight.

Before he could decide, the door opened from within.

Gaius started slightly, then dipped into a bow that was more a tired nod than anything formal. “Sire. I was just going to fetch more willow-bark from the stores.”

“How is he?” Arthur asked, dispensing with courtesy.

Gaius didn’t pretend not to understand who he meant. “Bruised. Exhaused. He took a harder knock than he lets on.” His eyes softened. “But he’ll be fine, given rest and a little sense.”

Arthur huffed. “The first he can manage if forced. The second is beyond him.”

“Mm.” Gaius’s mouth twitched. “He’s asleep. Try not to disturb him?”

They both knew that if Arthur chose to disturb Merlin, Gaius would say nothing. Gaius had known Arthur since he was a boy; he understood the things Arthur left unsaid.

Arthur stepped inside as Gaius left, letting the door fall mostly shut behind him. The main chamber was dim, lit by a single candle and the embers in the hearth. The familiar clutter of books, vials and herbs crowded every surface. It smelled of smoke and dried plants and something sharp and bitter that Arthur could never quite name.

He glanced to the small alcove where Merlin slept.

The curtain was half-drawn, a thin, faded thing that did nothing to keep out drafts—or prying eyes, if they cared to look.

Arthur hesitated.

He had no right to be here. Princes did not lurk beside servants’ beds like thieves in the night. If anyone saw—

“Merlin?” he called softly.

No answer.

Gaius was gone. The candles had burned low. Merlin shifted in sleep, fingers twitching toward the bandage on his arm.

Arthur crossed the room quietly.

Merlin lay crumpled on the bed, blankets twisted around his legs. The bandage around his upper arm was visible where his shirt sleeve had been cut away, the linen clean and neat beneath the bruises that blossomed up his shoulder and along his neck.

Arthur’s chest tightened.

He had seen Merlin injured before—scraped, winded, even bloodied. Merlin’s life with him was not a safe one, however much it hurt to admit. But this had been different. There had been that awful, yawning absence where Merlin ought to have been. The hours of not knowing. The blood on the leaves.

Arthur had always thought there would be time.

Time to say… something. Time to figure out what this was. Time to work out where friendship ended and whatever lay beyond it began.

Today had reminded him that time was not a promise. It was a luxury.

He stood for a moment, just watching him.

Alive.
Safe.
Here.

Arthur swallowed hard.

He had never—never—felt fear like he had in the forest. He had faced beasts, magic, traitors, sorcerers, even death itself. Nothing had cracked him the way those hours without Merlin had.

Not knowing if Merlin was hurt.
Not knowing if Merlin was alone.
Not knowing if Merlin was—

He couldn’t even think the word.

His hand twitched toward Merlin’s hair, stopped halfway, clenched into a fist.

He forced himself to step back.

He forced himself to breathe.

He forced himself to turn away.

But at the door, he paused.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered.

Merlin shifted, brow furrowing. Arthur froze, caught like a boy sneaking sweets from the kitchens.

“…Arthur?” Merlin’s voice was rough with sleep.

“Yes,” Arthur said, because he could think of nothing else, and he’d never been able to lie convincingly to Merlin anyway.

Merlin blinked his eyes open, squinting against the candlelight. For a moment he looked disoriented, gaze snagging on Arthur’s silhouette. Then recognition flickered through, followed quickly by confusion.

“Is something wrong?” Merlin pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing. “Has there been an attack? Did I oversleep? I can get up—”

“Don’t you dare,” Arthur said, more sharply than he intended. Merlin stilled, startled. Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face, trying again. “No. Nothing’s wrong. I just… came to see how you were.”

Merlin stared at him.

“Why?”

Arthur stared back. “What do you mean, ‘why’? You nearly got yourself killed”.

Merlin’s mouth curled into something that might have been a smile, if it hadn’t been so worn at the edges. “I’m still here.”

“Barely,” Arthur muttered.

His gaze swept over Merlin, cataloguing every sign of injury. The bruise at his temple, the faint swelling at his jaw, the cuts along one cheek. The way his arm was held just a fraction too close to his side.

“Gaius said it’s mostly bruises,” Merlin offered, as if he could feel Arthur’s scrutiny. “And a cut on my arm. I’ve had worse.”

“You shouldn’t have had this,” Arthur snapped. “You drew those men away on purpose.”

Merlin’s expression shuttered. “Someone had to. They were circling around the line. You didn’t see them.”

“I see everything on that field,” Arthur said. “My men are my responsibility. You are my responsibility.”

“I’m a servant,” Merlin said quietly. “You don’t have to—”

“Don’t.” The word came out raw, escaping before Arthur could tame it. “Don’t say it like that. Like your life is… expendable.”

Merlin’s eyes widened, the candlelight catching in their blue depths.

Arthur looked away first, annoyed to find heat in his cheeks. He dragged the rickety stool closer and sat down, the wood creaking under his weight.

“Gaius said you should rest,” he said, tone stiff. “But the bandage on your arm needs checking.”

Merlin frowned. “He already—”

“Then I’ll check his work,” Arthur said. “Humour me.”

Merlin hesitated. Arthur could see the protest forming. You don’t have to. I’m fine. There are more important things.

He’d heard it all before. He didn’t want to hear it again.

Something in Arthur’s face must have given him away, because Merlin sighed and shifted carefully, offering his injured arm.

“Fine,” he said. “But if you start lecturing me again, I’m throwing you out.”

Arthur snorted. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He reached for the bandage with careful fingers. The linen was knotted loosely enough to undo without tugging. As he unwound it, Merlin’s skin was revealed inch by inch: pale, dusted with freckles he’d never noticed before, marked by the angry red line of a shallow cut.

Arthur’s throat felt dry.

He forced himself to be clinical. This was nothing. He’d seen worse wounds a hundred times. But never on Merlin. Not like this. Not when the memory of that smear of blood on the forest floor still clung to his mind.

His fingers brushed the edge of the wound. Merlin hissed.

“Sorry,” Arthur said quickly.

“’s all right,” Merlin muttered, though his jaw clenched.

Arthur leaned in, examining the cut. Not deep. Clean. Gaius had done a good job washing it, and there was no sign of infection yet. It would scar, though, he thought. A thin white line, a permanent reminder.

He wrapped fresh linen around Merlin’s arm, hands steady despite the mess in his head. The closeness pressed in on him. Merlin’s breath warmed his cheek. When he glanced up, he found himself only inches from Merlin’s face.

Merlin swallowed. “You’ve done this before.”

“I have some experience with bandages, yes,” Arthur said dryly. “I am a knight.”

“But not usually for servants,” Merlin said.

There was no accusation in his voice. That somehow made it worse.

Arthur secured the bandage and let his fingers linger a moment too long on the inside of Merlin’s wrist, feeling the jump of his pulse.

“I don’t usually have servants who throw themselves into the path of bandits,” he said.

Merlin looked away. “I told you. I was just—helping.”

“You led them away from our flank,” Arthur said. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Merlin’s mouth twisted. “You would have done the same for me.”

Arthur stared at him, the truth of that statement hitting with the force of a blow.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I would have.”

Silence settled between them, thick and fragile.

Merlin’s gaze flicked back to his, searching, uncertain. Arthur could see the questions there. Why does it matter so much? Why are you here in the middle of the night? Who am I to you, really?

Arthur had no answers he knew how to give.

What he had was the memory of the empty forest and the echo of his own voice shouting Merlin’s name and getting nothing back.

What he had was a tightening in his chest every time Merlin laughed with someone else. The sharp, petty twist when Gwaine slung an arm around Merlin’s shoulders, carefree and easy in a way Arthur could never be.

What he had was fear.

Fear that if he spoke, if he reached, if he wanted too much, he would lose this entirely.

“You scared me,” Arthur said, the admission spilling out before he could snatch it back.

Merlin blinked. “I—what?”

Arthur held his gaze, forcing himself not to look away. “When we couldn’t find you. I thought—” His voice broke. He swallowed hard. “I thought you were gone.”

“I’m not,” Merlin said softly.

“I know that now,” Arthur said. “But then, all I could think about was every stupid argument we’ve ever had. Every time I could have—”

He cut himself off. Merlin’s eyes were very wide, very bright in the dim room.

“Could have what?” Merlin asked.

Arthur clenched his hands together in his lap. “Nothing.”

Merlin made a frustrated sound. “You can’t do that. You can’t start saying something important and then stop because you get… scared.”

Arthur’s head snapped up. “I am not scared.”

Merlin raised a brow. “You’re hiding in my broom cupboard of a room in the middle of the night because you were too worried to go to bed without checking if I was still breathing. That seems a bit like fear to me.”

Arthur opened his mouth. Closed it again. “This is how you talk to a prince, is it?”

“It’s how I talk to you,” Merlin said.

The words landed between them, simple and devastating.

Arthur’s heart skidded sideways.

For a moment he could not see the future. Could not see Uther or Camelot or the weight of a crown. All he could see was the curve of Merlin’s mouth and the smudge of ink still clinging to the side of his hand and the faint tremble in his fingers where they clutched the blanket.

“How I talk to you,” Arthur repeated, quieter. “As if I’m not—”

“Not just a prince,” Merlin finished. “You’re… you.”

The room felt too small.

Arthur could not think of a single thing to say that would not change everything.

He reached without thinking, his hand cupping Merlin’s cheek, thumb brushing just beneath the bruise at his temple. Merlin’s breath hitched.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered, his name turned into something almost reverent.

Arthur’s senses narrowed to that sound. The warmth of Merlin’s skin under his palm. The closeness of their faces. The way Merlin didn’t lean away.

He did not mean to move.

One moment he was staring at Merlin’s eyes. The next his gaze dropped to Merlin’s mouth, and all the fear and anger and relief and want that had been coiled inside him all day snapped like an overstretched bowstring.

He leaned in.

⸻

The faint rattle of the outer door jolted them apart.

Arthur drew back instantly, the spell around them shattering like spun glass. Merlin inhaled sharply as the space widened between them, both of them blinking as though waking from something dangerous and sweet.

“Gaius,” Arthur whispered, straightening so quickly the stool wobbled beneath him.

Arthur’s mind flooded with horror.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, to himself as much as to Merlin. “I—Merlin, I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” Merlin breathed.

Arthur froze.

Merlin’s eyes were wide, but there was no anger there. No disgust. Just shock and something else that made Arthur’s pulse thunder.

“Don’t… apologise,” Merlin said, voice shaking. “Not if you didn’t mean it.”

Arthur stared at him, feeling as though the ground had shifted under his feet.

“I didn’t… think,” he admitted. “I just—”

“I know,” Merlin said.

“You’re not the only one who… lost their head today,” Merlin said, attempting a better smile and almost managing it. “So if this is you going mad, you’re in good company.”

Arthur’s laugh came out half-strangled. “Merlin, this isn’t— I’m not—this isn’t how things are done.”

“No,” Merlin agreed. “It isn’t.”

“I’m not asking you for anything,” Merlin said quietly. “I know what you are. Who you have to be. I just…” He swallowed. “I don’t want you to almost kiss me and then spend the rest of your life pretending it never happened because you were afraid.”

Arthur’s breath left him in a rush.

He had been prepared for rejection. For a hastily mumbled excuse and Merlin avoiding him for the rest of his days. He had not been prepared for this gentle, stubborn, merciless honesty.

Footsteps sounded in the main chamber—slow, familiar, unmistakable.

Arthur stood. Then froze. Then stood again, as if his body hadn’t fully decided how to exist.

Merlin pushed a hand through his hair, trying to look less like a man who had just—almost—kissed the Crown Prince. “He’ll… he’ll think you’re checking the bandage,” Merlin said quietly.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “He’ll think I’m lurking in your room at midnight.”

Merlin’s lips curved in something small and wry. “Well. You are.”

Arthur glared at him, cheeks warming, and Merlin immediately softened. The moment hung there—fragile, unsteady—before Gaius’s silhouette shifted just beyond the curtain.

“Merlin? I found the willow bark—” Gaius called, voice drifting toward them.

Arthur stepped back, away from the bed, away from Merlin, retreating into the safer shadows near the alcove’s entrance. His expression shuttered with practiced ease, though Merlin could still see the ragged edges beneath it.

He cleared his throat. “I should go.”

“Arthur—” Merlin began.

But Arthur was already half-turned, gripping the curtain as though it were a lifeline. For a breath, Merlin feared he would leave without another word—that the moment would become something Arthur locked away and refused to acknowledge.

Instead, Arthur paused.

He didn’t look back fully, just angled his head enough that Merlin could see the shape of his profile in the candlelight—tense, conflicted, unbearably fond.

“Get some rest,” Arthur said softly.

Not an order. Not quite a request.

A promise, in the smallest shape he could safely give.

Merlin felt it settle deep in his chest. “I will.”

Arthur nodded once—quick, as if any longer would undo both of them—and slipped out through the curtain just as Gaius entered with an armful of herbs.

The door closed behind the prince with a quiet click.

Merlin lay back against the pillows, heart racing, pulse thrumming at the hollow place Arthur’s absence left behind.

Rest, Arthur had said.

Merlin wasn’t sure how he was supposed to. But the warmth lingering on his cheek where Arthur’s hand had been made sleep feel impossibly close, tugging at him despite the chaos in his chest.

The night settled around them both—thick with things unsaid, but no longer quite so empty.

Chapter 5: Half-Steps

Notes:

I’m still fairly new to writing, and I’m very much in the process of finding my voice and style. You might notice that my writing shifts a little from chapter to chapter as I experiment, learn, and grow along the way. But I will try to keep it as consistent as possible.Thank you so much for your patience — and for coming along on this journey with me.

Merlin did not sleep.

He lay on his back staring at the dim curve of the ceiling above his alcove, listening to Gaius move quietly about the main chamber, the soft clink of glass and murmur of herbs being sorted. Every sound felt too loud. Every breath felt too shallow.

Arthur had been here.

Arthur had touched him.

Merlin pressed two fingers to his cheek, right where Arthur’s thumb had rested—warm, careful, reverent. As if Merlin were something fragile. As if he mattered.

That was the problem.

He mattered.

And Merlin had wanted this for so long that now, with it hovering so dangerously close, his chest felt tight with fear instead of triumph.

He replayed the moment again and again: Arthur leaning in without meaning to. The way his breath had hitched. The way he’d looked startled by his own want. The way he’d stopped himself.

The way he’d left.

Don’t push, Merlin told himself fiercely.
Don’t scare him. Don’t make this harder than it already is.

Arthur had a crown waiting for him. A kingdom. Laws written in stone and blood and fear. Merlin had… a broom cupboard of a room and a secret that could get him burned alive.

And yet—

Arthur had come anyway.

Merlin turned onto his side and stared at the curtain, half-expecting Arthur to reappear like a ghost drawn back by unfinished business. He didn’t.

The night stayed quiet.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged Merlin under despite himself, his last thought a whisper of hope he didn’t quite dare name.

⸻

Arthur did not sleep either.

He stood in the corridor long after leaving Gaius’s chambers, back pressed to cold stone, eyes shut tight as if that might steady the chaos in his head.

What had he almost done?

No—what had he wanted to do?

Arthur dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, then stopping again. His pulse was still racing, his thoughts looping uselessly.

I am the prince.
He is my servant.

And yet the thought that wouldn’t leave him alone was simpler. Sharper.

I could lose him.

He’d come terrifyingly close already.

Arthur had always understood duty. It was the shape of his life, the backbone of every choice he made. But this—this was something else. This was fear that hollowed him out, want that didn’t listen to reason, something fragile and dangerous and necessary lodged beneath his ribs.

Merlin had looked at him like—

Arthur exhaled hard and shoved himself away from the wall.

He could not do this tonight. Could not unravel everything at once. If he stayed here much longer, he would turn back. He would say something reckless. He would cross a line he wasn’t sure he could uncross.

So he went to his chambers and lay awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling, thinking of ink-smudged fingers and stubborn mouths and the terrifying softness of Merlin leaning into his touch.

⸻

Morning arrived whether either of them was ready or not.

Merlin woke stiff and sore, his arm aching dully beneath its fresh bandage. He dressed slowly, more carefully than usual, painfully aware of every movement. When he stepped out into the main chamber, Gaius was already awake, peering at him over the rim of a mug.

“You slept poorly,” Gaius observed.

Merlin blinked. “Did I?”

“You didn’t snore,” Gaius said dryly. “That’s how I know.”

Merlin flushed and reached for the kettle. “I’m fine.”

“Mhm.”

Gaius watched him for a long moment. “Arthur came by last night.”

“I know,” Merlin said, too quickly.

Gaius’s eyebrow arched. “I suspected you might.”

Merlin busied himself with pouring water. “He was… worried.”

“So I gathered.”

The silence stretched, full of things Gaius did not say. Merlin braced himself for questions that never came.

Instead, Gaius sighed. “He’s arranging armour for you.”

Merlin froze. “What?”

“A gambeson,” Gaius clarified. “Light. Flexible. Won’t interfere with movement.”

Merlin stared at him. “He can’t just—”

“Oh, he can,” Gaius said mildly. “And he will. He was very insistent.”

Merlin’s chest did something small and traitorous.

⸻

Arthur was insufferably tense at breakfast.

He spoke too formally. Sat too straight. Barely touched his food. When Merlin approached with his tray, Arthur didn’t look up—then looked up too fast, eyes flicking over Merlin like a reflex.

“You’re late,” Arthur said.

Merlin blinked. “You didn’t eat yesterday either.”

Arthur opened his mouth, shut it, and stood abruptly. “Finish quickly. We’re going to the armoury.”

Merlin nearly dropped the goblet in his hand. “We’re what?”

Arthur was already moving. “You can walk, can’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then walk.”

Merlin followed, heart thudding, trying not to smile like an idiot.

The knights noticed.

Leon noticed the way Arthur stayed half a step ahead but kept glancing back. Lancelot noticed the careful way Arthur steered Merlin around crowded corridors with a hand hovering just shy of contact. Gwaine noticed everything and grinned like he’d just been handed a secret wrapped in ribbon.

“Well,” Gwaine said cheerfully, falling into step beside them, “this is new.”

Arthur ignored him.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Gwaine continued. “Field trip? Fashion advice?”

“I’m getting Merlin armour,” Arthur snapped.

Merlin flushed. “It’s not armour, it’s—”

“A gambeson,” Arthur said firmly. “And you’re wearing it.”

Gwaine’s brows shot up. “Blimey. Should I be offended you’ve never done that for me?”

“You wear mail,” Arthur said flatly.

“And I look great in it,” Gwaine added.

Arthur didn’t dignify that with a response.

⸻

The armoury smelled of oil and metal and old leather. Arthur dismissed the armorer with a clipped nod and selected a padded gambeson himself, testing the weight, the seams, the flexibility.

“This one,” he said.

Merlin eyed it warily. “It’s bulky.”

“It’s protective.”

“I won’t be able to move properly.”

“You move too much as it is,” Arthur shot back, then sighed. “Try it.”

Merlin did.

Arthur watched far too closely as Merlin tugged it over his head, fingers catching briefly in the ties. Without thinking, Arthur stepped forward and stilled Merlin’s hands.

“Here,” he murmured. “Let me.”

Merlin’s breath caught.

Arthur tied the straps carefully, knuckles brushing Merlin’s ribs, his wrist, the warm line of his side. He was acutely aware of how close they were—aware of Merlin’s pulse fluttering beneath his fingers.

Neither of them spoke.

When Arthur finally stepped back, the space felt suddenly too large.

“There,” he said gruffly. “Better.”

Merlin swallowed. “Thank you.”

Arthur nodded once, then turned away too quickly.

⸻

The rest of the day unfolded in awkward half-steps and careful distance.

Arthur avoided being alone with Merlin—and failed repeatedly. Merlin tried not to stare—and failed worse. They circled each other like something fragile, unsaid but very much alive.

The knights noticed.

Not enough to name it. Not enough to accuse.

But enough.

Leon’s gaze lingered.
Lancelot’s smile was knowing.
Gwaine’s smirk was downright dangerous.

Arthur pretended not to see any of it.

Merlin pretended his heart wasn’t racing every time Arthur’s hand brushed his sleeve.

Neither of them knew what came next.

Only that whatever it was, there was no going back to the way things had been before.

And that frightened them both—almost as much as the idea of letting go.

Chapter 6: The Road Home

Summary:

From here on, we’re moving into an arc that’s loosely inspired by canon. The events and timing aren’t exact, but I’ve used the original storyline as a framework to build on. This arc is really important to me for developing both Merlin and Arthur—individually and in how their relationship continues to grow—so some things may look familiar while others take a different turn.

Hunith arrived at Camelot just after midday.

She was dusty from the road, cloak worn thin at the shoulders, boots scuffed from miles of walking where no cart would take her further. There was a bruise darkening the skin beneath her left eye — not fresh, but not old enough to ignore.

Merlin saw it the moment the guards ushered her into the courtyard.

“Mum,” he breathed.

She turned at the sound of his voice, and the worry etched into her face softened into something steadier. “Merlin.”

He crossed the space between them in three strides, stopping just short of touching her as if suddenly unsure he was allowed. She reached for him first, hands warm and sure on his arms.

“You’re hurt,” Merlin said, anger and fear tangling sharp in his chest.

“I’m fine,” Hunith replied calmly. “It looks worse than it is.”

Merlin did not believe her for a second.

Arthur had come to a halt a few paces behind him. He took in the scene quickly — the bruise, the way Merlin’s shoulders tightened, the way Hunith stood despite exhaustion like a woman who refused to bend.

Something in Arthur’s expression hardened.

“What happened?” he asked, voice clipped but controlled.

Hunith turned to him, assessing — then inclined her head politely. “Bandits. They came demanding food and coin. When we refused, they took what they wanted anyway.”

Arthur’s jaw set. “And the bruise?”

“I stood in their way.”

Merlin felt sick.

Arthur exhaled sharply through his nose. “You shouldn’t have had to.”

Hunith’s lips curved, faint but resolute. “Someone had to.”

Arthur held her gaze for a moment longer, then nodded once — respect, plain and unadorned.

“Come,” he said, already turning. “I’ll take you to the king.”

Merlin blinked. “Arthur—”

“I’ll arrange an audience,” Arthur said without looking back. “You said your village is in danger.”

“Yes,” Hunith said. “It is.”

“Then we won’t waste time.”

Merlin stared at Arthur’s back as he led the way across the courtyard, cloak snapping lightly in the wind.

Gwen watched too.

She noticed the way Arthur had positioned himself slightly between Merlin and Hunith as they walked. The way Merlin stayed close, like a thread drawn tight between them. The way Arthur slowed his pace without thinking.

She said nothing.

Morgana, watching from the steps above, said even less — but her eyes were sharp.

⸻

The throne room was cold, despite the fire burning at its heart.

Uther Pendragon sat rigid upon his throne, expression carved from stone. He listened as Hunith spoke, her voice steady as she described the raids — the fear, the men who had come in the night and taken what they pleased when refused.

Merlin stood near the front of the chamber, fists clenched.

Arthur stood nearer the dais, jaw tight, shoulders squared as if bracing for impact.

When Hunith finished, she lowered herself to her knees.

The sound echoed.

Not from weakness. From resolve.

Merlin flinched. Arthur’s fingers curled hard around the pommel of his sword.

Uther leaned forward, expression softening into something almost kind.

“You have my deepest sympathies,” the king said. “I wish I could offer more than words.”

Hunith lifted her head. She did not bow it.

“My people are afraid,” she said. “They need help.”

“Surely we can spare a few men.” Arthur added.

“And if I could give it,” Uther replied smoothly, “I would. But sending Camelot’s knights into disputed territory would be seen as an act of war. I cannot endanger the realm.”

Arthur inhaled sharply.

“I would wipe these men out if it were within my power,” Uther continued, regret heavy in his tone. “But a king must think beyond one village. Peace must be preserved.”

Merlin felt sick.

Hunith remained kneeling. The disappointment showed plainly on her face — not loud, not pleading. Just… there.

Uther inclined his head. “May the gods watch over you.”

Morgana was first to move .

She cast a brief, sharp glance at Uther — disapproval flickering openly across her features — before stepping forward. She took Hunith gently by the arm and helped her to her feet.

“This way,” Morgana said softly.

Hunith accepted the help without protest.

Arthur watched them leave, something burning behind his eyes.

———

They found privacy in a narrow corridor just beyond the council chambers.

Arthur stopped abruptly and turned on Merlin, frustration and helplessness written clear across his face.

“If it were up to me, we’d be on our way there now.”

Merlin blinked, surprised by the raw honesty in his voice.

“You tried,” Merlin said quietly. “Thank you. For getting an audience with the king.”

Arthur let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “It isn’t right. People shouldn’t be left to fend for themselves just because they live beyond a line on a map.”

Merlin smiled faintly. “That’s just the way you are.”

Arthur scoffed. “Don’t make it sound noble. It’s infuriating.”

Merlin’s smile softened.

Arthur hesitated, then said more quietly, “I won’t leave it like this.”

Merlin frowned. “Arthur—”

“I’m coming with you,” Arthur said firmly. “To help your village.”

Merlin stared. “Your father—”

“Will survive the shock,” Arthur cut in. “Morgana’s already packing.”

As if summoned by the words, Morgana appeared at the end of the corridor, cloak slung over one arm.

“I am absolutely not missing this,” she said brightly. “And Gwen’s coming too.”

Gwen nodded from behind her, expression calm but determined. “Someone should make sure you all don’t do anything foolish.”

Arthur huffed. “This is not a social call.”

“No,” Morgana agreed. “It’s a moral one.”

Arthur held Merlin’s gaze. “I’m not letting you do this alone.”

Merlin’s chest tightened. “…All right.”

⸻

They left Camelot before dusk.

The road wound away from the city, the stone towers shrinking behind them as fields gave way to trees and open land. The pace was steady, purposeful.

Arthur rode close to Merlin, close enough that Merlin could hear the familiar rhythm of his horse’s breathing.

Gwen noticed Arthur’s eyes flick toward Merlin every few moments, as if checking that he was still there.

Merlin noticed the way Arthur’s hand tightened on his reins whenever the road narrowed.

Neither said anything.

They made camp near a low ridge as night fell. A modest fire. Simple food.

Hunith watched Arthur carefully as he accepted a bowl of stew.

“This is very good,” Arthur said after exactly one bite.

Hunith smiled. “It’s just stew.”

“Yes,” Arthur said earnestly. “But it’s… very good stew.”

Merlin snorted. Arthur shot him a look. Hunith laughed softly.

Later, when the others slept, Merlin sat with his mother by the fire.

Arthur stood watch a little too close.

Merlin watched the fire instead of Arthur.

If he looked too closely, he was afraid something fragile in him would give way — the careful balance he’d been holding since Camelot, since the throne room, since Arthur had said I’m coming with you like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“He must care for you a great deal.”

Merlin’s stomach tightened instantly.

Of course she’d noticed. Hunith had always noticed — the way he hid hurt behind humor, the way he pretended not to want things he wanted desperately. It shouldn’t have surprised him that she saw this too.

He forced a lightness into his voice. “Arthur would do the same for any village. That’s just the way he is.”

And it was true. Arthur was good. Stubbornly, infuriatingly good. He fought for people who had nothing to offer him. He stood between danger and anyone who couldn’t stand there themselves.

Merlin was proud of him for it.

That was the problem.

“It’s more than that,” his mother said gently. “He’s here for you.”

The words landed too close to the truth.

Merlin swallowed. He felt suddenly very small — like a boy again, sitting at the table while his mother saw through him with terrifying ease.

“I’m just his servant,” he said, too quickly.

He told himself it was realism. He told himself it was caution.

But part of him whispered the old fear anyway: Know your place.

Hunith turned fully toward him then, her gaze steady and warm and unyielding. “Give him more credit than that. He likes you.”

Merlin let out a soft, breathless laugh. “That’s because he doesn’t know me. If he did, I’d probably be dead by now.”

It sounded like a joke.

It wasn’t.

Arthur didn’t know. Not about the magic. Not about the power coiled beneath Merlin’s skin, the truth that could turn affection into fear in a heartbeat.

Merlin had faced monsters without flinching — but the idea of Arthur looking at him differently, of seeing revulsion or betrayal in those earnest blue eyes, terrified him more than any blade.

Hunith’s hand settled over his.

“You’ve always carried more than you let on,” she said softly. “That doesn’t make you unworthy. It makes you brave.”

Merlin blinked hard and stared into the fire until the sting behind his eyes faded.

He didn’t trust himself to speak.

⸻

Later, when the camp had quieted and the fire had burned low, Merlin lay wrapped in his blanket, staring up at the stars.

Arthur was nearby.

Merlin could hear him shifting, the faint creak of leather, the familiar rhythm of his breathing. Close enough to be reassuring. Close enough to make Merlin’s chest ache.

Arthur was risking something by being here — defying his father, choosing his own sense of right over obedience. Merlin knew how hard that was for him. He knew how deeply Uther’s voice had carved itself into Arthur’s bones.

And he was doing it anyway.

For the village.
For Hunith.
For Merlin.

The thought was too much. It pressed against Merlin’s ribs, warm and frightening and hopeful all at once.

What if this was as close as they ever got?

What if Arthur could only ever reach for him in small, careful ways — a hand squeezed in the dark, a promise whispered when no one else could hear?

Was that enough?

Merlin didn’t know.

But when Arthur leaned closer and whispered, “Everything will be all right,” Merlin believed him — not because the words were certain, but because Arthur meant them.

When Arthur’s fingers brushed his hand and squeezed once, Merlin let himself hold on just a moment longer than necessary.

He didn’t pull away.

He didn’t need more than this tonight.

Just the knowledge that Arthur was here.
That he had chosen this.
That Merlin, for once, was not alone in carrying the weight of what came next.

Merlin closed his eyes and let the quiet settle around them.

Tomorrow would be difficult.
Tomorrow would be dangerous.
Tomorrow would demand more courage than either of them wanted to think about.

But tonight —

Tonight, Arthur was near.
And for now, that was enough.

———

Morning came pale and cool.

They crested the final rise just as the village came into view — low cottages, worn fences, smoke curling thinly from chimneys.

Merlin’s heart clenched.

Arthur drew his horse to a halt beside him.

“We’re here,” Arthur said.

Merlin nodded.

And together, they rode down toward home.

Chapter 7: Choice, Not Glory

They rode straight into chaos.

The village erupted around them in a clash of steel and shouting voices — a knot of men in battered leathers pressing hard against villagers armed with farming tools and desperation. Smoke curled from a half-toppled fence. Someone screamed. A body hit the dirt.

Arthur reacted without hesitation.

He was off his horse in a breath, sword already in his hand, shield up as he drove himself into the fray. Morgana was beside him almost immediately, moving with sharp, practiced instinct — parrying a strike aimed at Arthur’s exposed flank.

Merlin barely had time to think.

A bandit lunged toward Arthur from the left, blade raised high. Merlin’s heart leapt into his throat.

No.

He lifted his hand just enough to hide the motion — just enough.

The man’s sword hilt twisted violently in his grip, wrenched sideways as if by accident. The blade clattered uselessly into the dirt. The bandit stared at his empty hand in confusion just long enough for Arthur to knock him flat.

Merlin ducked back, pulse racing.

No one noticed.

The fight ended as abruptly as it had begun. The bandits, outmatched and startled by Camelot steel in their midst, retreated with snarled curses and threats.

One of them turned at the village edge, eyes wild with fury.

“You’ll pay for this,” he shouted. “With your lives. All of you!”

Then they were gone.

Silence rushed in to fill the space they’d left behind.

Arthur stood in the center of the village, chest heaving, sword still raised. He scanned the ground — injured villagers, overturned carts, fear etched into every face.

Merlin felt something twist painfully in his chest.

This was his home.

And Arthur was standing in it like it mattered.

⸻

Merlin barely had time to process the fact that they’d survived when a familiar voice cut through the stunned quiet.

“Merlin?”

He turned — and found himself face to face with a boy who had once been his entire world.

“Will,” Merlin breathed.

Will stared at him for a heartbeat longer, then scoffed. “You still up to the same old magic tricks again?” He paused, lips twitching. “I thought I told you I didn’t want your kind around here.”

Merlin snorted. “I miss you too.”

They collided in a hug, rough and unceremonious, the kind that spoke of scraped knees and shared secrets and growing up with nothing but each other.

———

Arthur saw it before he meant to.

The way Merlin’s face lit — unguarded, effortless — as he crossed the space and pulled the other man into a rough, familiar embrace. No hesitation. No rank. No distance. Just instinct.

Arthur’s chest tightened sharply, unbidden.

He told himself it was nothing. That of course Merlin would know people here. This was his home. These were his people. Of course someone would greet him like that.

And yet—

Arthur hadn’t realised how little of Merlin belonged to anyone else anymore.

The arm slung around Merlin’s shoulders lingered a fraction too long. The laugh Merlin gave was softer than usual. Easier. Arthur felt an irrational flare of something hot and unpleasant coil low in his gut.

Mine, a treacherous voice whispered.

He crushed it instantly.

Merlin was not his. He had no claim. No right.

Still, the thought lingered — sharp, jealous, unwelcome — that this stranger had known Merlin before Arthur had. Had shared things Arthur never would. Had touched him without flinching.

Arthur’s jaw tightened.

“Merlin,” he snapped, sharper than he’d intended.

The word came out clipped, commanding — a shield he knew how to use.

Arthur stood several paces away, expression tight, eyes fixed on the way Will’s arm was still slung loosely around Merlin’s shoulders.

“Gather the villagers,” Arthur said. “I need to speak to them.”

“Yeah, in a minute,” Merlin replied, not looking away. “I’m just talking—”

“Now, Merlin,” Arthur snapped. “There isn’t much time.”

Something in his tone — clipped, sharp, unmistakably irritated — made Merlin blink.

He stepped back, lifting his hands. “Yes, sire,” he said, heavy with sarcasm.

Arthur did not look amused.

Will watched the exchange with open curiosity. “He always like that with you?”

Merlin opened his mouth — then shut it again as Arthur turned away, already barking orders to the villagers.

“…It’s complicated,” Merlin muttered.

⸻

Arthur stepped forward, raising his voice so it carried across the square.

“I know Kanen’s kind,” he said. “He’ll be back. And when he is, you must be ready for him. First of all, we have to prepare for—”

“Am I the only one wondering who the hell this is?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened.

He turned toward the voice — a young man, broad-shouldered, defiant, eyes sharp with suspicion and fear. The same man who had just had Merlin’s arms around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Arthur kept his expression calm.

“I’m Prince Arthur of Camelot.”

A scoff. “Yeah? And I’m Prince William of Ealdor.”

A ripple of unease moved through the villagers.

Arthur resisted the urge to bristle. He had learned, painfully, that rank meant nothing to people who had already been abandoned by it.

Hunith stepped forward. “Keep quiet. He’s here to help us.”

“But he’s made things worse,” Will shot back. “Kanen will be back — and when he is, he’ll want revenge. You’ve just signed our death warrants.”

Arthur felt the accusation land — not because it was loud, but because it wasn’t entirely wrong.

He held his ground.

“That’s alright, Hunith,” he said evenly. “This is his village.” His gaze flicked back to Will. “What would you have us do?”

“We can’t fight Kanen,” Will said. “He has too many men.”

Arthur nodded once. “So what’s the alternative?”

“Give him what he wants.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Arthur’s frustration flared — not at Will, but at the weariness behind his words. At how used he was to yielding.

“And then what?” Arthur said, sharper now. “Those of you who don’t starve will face him again next harvest. And the one after that.”

“We’ll manage,” Will insisted. “We’ll survive.”

Arthur’s gaze hardened. Survival isn’t living.

“The only way he can be stopped,” Arthur said, voice steady, “is if you stand up to him.”

Will’s eyes flashed. “No. You just want honour and glory. That’s what drives men like you.” He gestured sharply. “If you want to fight, go home and risk the lives of your own people — not ours!”

The words struck deep.

For a split second, Arthur saw his father in Will’s face — the same cold assumption, the same belief that power was always selfish.

He inhaled slowly.

This wasn’t about pride. It wasn’t about proving himself.

It was about Merlin. About Hunith. About the bruise beneath her eye and the quiet courage in her spine.

“Will,” Merlin said quietly.

Hunith stepped forward, voice firm. “I’ll follow you. If I’m to die, then I want to go out fighting.”

Arthur’s breath caught.

One by one, others joined her.

“You can count me in.”

“So can I.”

“I’m with her.”

The square filled with voices — tentative at first, then stronger.

Arthur looked around at them, something fierce and resolute settling in his chest.

This wasn’t glory.

This was choice.

And he would not turn away from it.

———

Merlin found Will inside one of the cottages, the low ceiling heavy with smoke and the smell of old leather. Sunlight crept in through the narrow window, catching on a stand of armour pieces propped against the wall.

Will was adjusting a chainmail shirt when Merlin stepped closer.

“He knows what he’s doing,” Merlin said, quietly but firmly. “You’ve got to trust him. Look—when I first met Arthur, I was exactly like you. I hated him. Thought he was pompous. Arrogant.”

He remembered it vividly — the arrogance, the insults, the way Arthur had seemed carved from entitlement and cruelty. How easy it had been to decide what Arthur was.

Will snorted, righting the stand. “Well, nothing’s changed there, then.”

Merlin smiled faintly despite himself. “Maybe not at first glance. But in time, I came to respect him. For what he stands for. For what he does.”

For what he chooses, Merlin thought. Even when it costs him.

Will shook his head. “Yeah, I know what he stands for. Princes. Kings. Men like him.”

The words stung more than Merlin expected.

“Will,” he said carefully, “don’t bring what happened to your father into this.”

Will’s hands stilled. “I’m not.” He turned, eyes sharp. “So why are you defending him so much? You’re just his servant.”

Merlin felt the familiar weight settle in his chest — that word. Servant. Like a boundary drawn in stone.

“He’s also my friend,” Merlin said.

The truth of it rang louder than he meant it to.

Will scoffed. “Friends don’t lord it over one another.”

“He isn’t like that,” Merlin said, heat creeping into his voice. “Not when it matters.”

Will’s gaze hardened. “Really? Then let’s see when the fighting starts. See who he sends in first.” A pause. “It won’t be him.”

Merlin’s jaw tightened.

“You’re wrong,” he said quietly. “I trust Arthur with my life.”

He didn’t say because he’s already saved it. He didn’t say because he’d die before letting harm come to me.

Will stared at him. “Is that so? Then he knows your secret, does he?” He stepped closer. “Face it, Merlin. You’re living a lie. Just like you were here. You’re Arthur’s servant — nothing more. Otherwise, you’d tell him the truth.”

The words struck like a blade between the ribs.

Merlin said nothing.

Because Will wasn’t wrong.

Because every unspoken truth sat heavy in his chest — magic humming beneath his skin, love tangled painfully with fear.

What happens when he knows?
What happens when he doesn’t?

Merlin swallowed. “This isn’t about that.”

Will’s expression softened — just a fraction. “Isn’t it?”

Merlin turned away before he could answer.

⸻

Not far from the cottage, Arthur stood watching the villagers gather what weapons they could — spears, farming tools, rusted blades.

He didn’t realise he was staring until Morgana spoke.

“Interesting,” she said lightly.

Arthur blinked. “What is?”

Morgana followed his line of sight — Merlin and Will standing close, voices low. Too close. Too familiar.

“The way you looked when they hugged,” she continued, a knowing tilt to her smile. “Very princely of you.”

Arthur stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” Morgana said sweetly. “You just looked like you wanted to tear his arm off.”

Arthur scowled. “He’s distracting Merlin.”

Morgana hummed. “Is that what bothers you?”

Arthur opened his mouth — then shut it again.

Morgana’s voice softened, just enough to be kind. “Relax. Merlin doesn’t look at him the way he looks at you.”

Arthur’s breath caught.

She stepped away before he could respond, leaving the thought behind like a spark on dry ground.

⸻

Merlin emerged from the cottage moments later, the conversation with Will echoing painfully in his mind.

You’re living a lie.

He spotted Arthur across the square — tense, watchful, trying to carry the weight of a village that wasn’t his.

And despite everything — despite the fear, the secrets, the impossible distance between what he was and what Arthur believed him to be —

Merlin still trusted him.

With his life.

With his heart.

Even if one day, that truth might cost him everything.

everything.

⸻

The house was small, the walls close, the air warm with the smell of woodsmoke and old memories.

Merlin lay on the floor beside the hearth, staring up at the low rafters. He’d slept here a thousand times as a boy — curled near the fire, listening to the wind outside and his mother’s steady breathing in the next room. It should have felt familiar.

Instead, it felt… crowded.

Not with people.

With Arthur.

Arthur shifted beside him, the movement careful, as if he were trying not to disturb the entire house.

“Have you always slept on the floor?” Arthur asked quietly.

Merlin huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah. The bed I’ve got in Camelot’s luxury by comparison.”

Arthur frowned, staring at the packed earth beneath them. “Must’ve been hard.”

Merlin rolled slightly onto his side. “Mm. It’s like rock.”

Arthur didn’t smile.

“I didn’t mean the ground,” he said. “I meant—for you. It must’ve been difficult.”

Merlin blinked.

He hadn’t expected that.

He stared at the shadows dancing along the wall, choosing his words carefully. “Not really. I didn’t know any different.” A pause. “Life’s simple out here. You eat what you grow. Everyone pitches in. As long as you’ve got food on the table and a roof over your head… you’re happy.”

Arthur absorbed that in silence.

Happy, Merlin thought. He hadn’t been sure he knew what the word meant until he’d left.

“That sounds…” Arthur hesitated. “…nice.”

Merlin smiled faintly. “You’d hate it.”

Arthur snorted softly. “No doubt.” Then, quieter: “Why’d you leave?”

Merlin’s chest tightened.

“Things just… changed.”

Arthur turned his head to look at him. Even in the dim light, Merlin could feel the weight of his attention. “How?” Arthur prompted. “Come on. Stop pretending to be interesting. Tell me.”

Merlin swallowed. “I just didn’t fit in anymore. I wanted to find somewhere that I did.”

The words felt dangerously close to the truth.

Arthur was quiet for a long moment.

“Had any luck?” he asked.

Merlin hesitated. “I’m not sure yet.”

Arthur watched him — really watched him — and something in his expression softened. He shifted closer without seeming to realise he was doing it, their shoulders brushing lightly.

“You will,” Arthur said, low and certain. Then, after a beat, as if confessing something he hadn’t planned to: “I’ll make sure of it.”

Merlin’s breath caught.

Arthur cleared his throat, suddenly businesslike. “We’ll start training the men tomorrow. It’s going to be a long day.” He nodded toward the table. “Get the candle.”

Merlin reached for it, blew it out gently.

Darkness settled.

For a while, neither of them moved.

Then — tentative, careful — Arthur’s hand brushed Merlin’s on the floor between them. Not quite holding. Just there.

Merlin froze.

Arthur didn’t pull away.

Instead, his fingers shifted, just slightly, until they rested against Merlin’s knuckles — warm, steady, grounding.

Arthur spoke so quietly Merlin barely heard him.

“I don’t know if we can win,” Arthur admitted. “But I swear to you — I will find a way to protect this village. Your mother. All of them.”

Merlin turned his head, eyes burning in the dark.

“I know,” he whispered.

Arthur’s thumb pressed once, gently, against Merlin’s hand.

“Get some rest,” Arthur said. “I’ve got you.”

Merlin closed his eyes.

And for the first time since they’d arrived, he believed him.

Chapter 8: In Plain Sight

Morning arrived softly in Ealdor.

Sunlight filtered through the small window, catching dust motes in the air and warming the packed earth floor. The house smelled of fresh bread and herbs, the comforting kind of smell that settled something deep in Merlin’s chest before he could stop it.

Arthur stood near the door, half turned away, struggling with the fastening of his jacket.

Merlin, already awake and moving on instinct, stepped closer. “You’re doing it wrong.”

Arthur huffed. “I am not.”

“You are,” Merlin said mildly, fingers already fixing the clasp. His movements were practiced, gentle — the same ones he’d done a hundred times in Camelot, only here they felt… different. Quieter. More intimate.

Arthur went still.

Just for a moment.

Then Morgana’s voice cut in, sharp with amusement. “You still not learned how to dress yourself?”

Arthur straightened immediately, shoulders squaring like armour snapping into place. The prince slipped back over him as easily as breath.

“You don’t have a dog and fetch the stick yourself,” Arthur said airily, glancing down at Merlin. “No offence.”

Merlin snorted. “None taken.”

But Morgana noticed the way Arthur’s mouth softened when Merlin smiled — the way the insult landed without teeth. Gwen noticed too, from where she stood by the table, pretending very hard to focus on stacking bowls.

Hunith turned from the hearth, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Prince Arthur,” she said gently, “you didn’t finish your breakfast.”

Arthur blinked, genuinely surprised. “Didn’t I?”

Morgana arched a brow. “No. And if you’re going to be leading a village into battle, you’re not doing it on an empty stomach.”

Arthur eyed the remaining bread like it might offend him.

“Come on,” Morgana added. “Eat up.”

Arthur sighed — long-suffering, theatrical — and took another bite.

“Mmmm,” he admitted reluctantly.

Hunith smiled at him, warm and approving. “You’re welcome.”

Arthur swallowed and nodded earnestly. “It’s very good. Truly.” Then, after a beat, a little awkward: “You’re… very good at this.”

Hunith’s eyes twinkled. “I should hope so. I’ve had years of practice.” She tilted her head, studying him openly now. “Camelot’s very lucky to have such a handsome prince.”

Arthur choked.

Merlin bit his lip hard.

Morgana looked delighted.

Arthur’s ears went red. “I—well—that is—thank you.”

Hunith smiled knowingly, then turned back to the fire.

Arthur cleared his throat loudly and clapped his hands together, desperate for ground that didn’t involve compliments. “Right. Let’s get going. We need wood. And lots of it.”

Merlin nodded. “Of course.”

Arthur handed his empty dish to Gwen without thinking.

Gwen stared at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the dish.

“…You know,” she said sweetly, taking it anyway, “you are perfectly capable of putting that down yourself.”

Arthur blinked. “I am?”

“Yes,” Gwen said. “Miraculously.”

Arthur frowned, as if this were deeply suspicious, then muttered, “Huh,” and retreated toward the door.

Merlin watched him go, something warm and unsettled curling in his chest.

Arthur looked back once — quick, instinctive — making sure Merlin was following.

He always did.

Morgana caught the glance.

So did Gwen.

Neither of them said a word.

But the looks they exchanged spoke volumes.

And Hunith, watching from the hearth with a quiet smile, thought to herself that her son had done better than he realised — not just in where he’d gone, but in who he’d found.

———

Merlin adjusted his grip on the axe and started toward the edge of the village.

The weight of it was familiar in his hands — not uncomfortable, exactly, just… unnecessary. Old habits died hard. Appearances mattered. Especially now.

“Merlin!”

He flinched before he meant to.

Will jogged up behind him, squinting at the axe like it had personally offended him. “Where are you going with that thing?”

Merlin didn’t slow. “What does it look like? We need wood.”

Will snorted. “We both know you don’t need an axe to fell a tree.”

Merlin huffed out a laugh despite himself. “And I remember the trouble that got me into. I nearly flattened Old Man Simmons.”

Will grinned. “Ha. Yeah. Well, he deserved it. Stupid old crow.”

Merlin smiled faintly. “He never did like me anyway.”

“Well,” Will said dryly, “even less after that.”

Merlin chuckled, then stopped walking.

He turned, really looking at Will now — arms crossed, jaw tight beneath the humour, eyes sharper than they used to be. Guarded.

“Why are you being like this?” Merlin asked quietly.

Will didn’t answer right away. He kicked at the dirt, then looked up. “You know why. Why did you leave?”

The question hit harder than Merlin expected.

He shifted the axe against his shoulder. “It wasn’t what I wanted. My mother was worried. When she found out you knew… she was furious.”

“I wouldn’t’ve told anyone,” Will said at once.

“I know,” Merlin replied. And he meant it. That had never been the problem. “I know you wouldn’t.”

Will studied him for a long moment. “You’d be able to defeat Kanen on your own, wouldn’t you?”

Merlin’s stomach twisted.

“I’m not sure,” he said honestly. “Maybe.”

Will’s eyes narrowed. “So what’s stopping you? So what if Arthur finds out?”

Merlin looked away.

How could he explain this without sounding foolish? Without sounding like he’d chosen one impossible thing over another?

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he said quietly.

“Try me.”

Merlin exhaled slowly.

“One day Arthur will be a great king,” he said. Saying it out loud felt strange — grounding. “But he needs my help. And if anyone ever found out about my powers… I’d have to leave Camelot. For good.”

Will stared at him. “Are you telling me you’d rather keep your magic a secret for Arthur’s sake than use it to protect your friends and family?”

The words landed like a blow.

Merlin swallowed.

It wasn’t that simple.

It was never that simple.

⸻

Arthur stacked another bundle of firewood beside the wall, then straightened, rolling his shoulder to ease the pull.

He wasn’t used to this kind of work — not really. Training yards and armour and swords were one thing. This was quieter. Slower. Purposeful in a way that didn’t come with orders barked down a line.

Hunith watched him from the doorway, arms folded loosely, expression unreadable in a way that made Arthur inexplicably nervous.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh… is this enough?”

“For now,” she said. “You don’t have to do all of it yourself, you know.”

Arthur nodded. “I know. I just—” He stopped himself. Don’t sound eager. “I wanted to help.”

Hunith stepped closer, glancing over the stacked wood, then up at him. “You’re not what I expected.”

Arthur blinked. “I—should I be concerned?”

She smiled. “No. Just… pleasantly surprised.”

He felt absurdly pleased by that.

“You’re very different from your father,” she added gently.

Arthur stiffened without meaning to.

“I mean that kindly,” Hunith said, noticing. “You listen. You see people.”

Arthur didn’t know what to say to that.

So he defaulted to honesty. “I’m still learning.”

Hunith studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Merlin’s lucky.”

Arthur’s heart stuttered.

“I mean,” she added, eyes twinkling now, “to have found someone who’d come this far for him.”

Arthur flushed. “I’d come for the village regardless.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “I’m sure you would.”

There was something in her tone — not disbelief, exactly. Just… knowing.

Arthur shifted his weight. “He’s… he’s important,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Hunith smiled softly. “I know.”

That somehow made it worse.

She rested a hand briefly on his arm — warm, steady. “You already have my approval, Arthur. You don’t need to work quite so hard for it.”

Arthur stared at her.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “I’m not—”

Hunith laughed quietly. “You’re very obvious.”

He groaned. “Merlin is never going to let me hear the end of this.”

“Oh,” she said cheerfully, “I hope he does.”

Arthur couldn’t help it.

He smiled.

⸻

Merlin stood very still.

Will was still waiting for an answer.

“I’m not choosing one over the other,” Merlin said finally. “I’m trying to protect both.”

Will shook his head. “You’re protecting him.”

Merlin didn’t deny it.

Because maybe… he was.

And maybe that scared him more than anything else.

He tightened his grip on the axe and started walking again.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “We need wood.”

Will watched him go, something unreadable in his eyes.

And somewhere across the village, Arthur glanced instinctively toward the trees — toward Merlin — without knowing why.

⸻

The sun climbed high and unforgiving over Ealdor.

Arthur stood in the center of the village green, sword raised, voice sharp and steady as he drilled the men again and again.

“I won’t be able to teach you everything,” he called, pacing before the uneven line of villagers. “But you can learn the basics. Stance. Balance. How to parry a blow. How to strike back.”

He demonstrated once — clean, efficient, effortless.

The men tried to copy him.

The result was… uneven.

“On my count,” Arthur continued. “One. Two. Three. Four.”

Steel scraped. Feet shuffled. A man nearly lost his grip on his sword.

Arthur forced himself not to wince.

This isn’t a training yard. These aren’t knights.

They were farmers. Fathers. Boys who’d never held a weapon until today.

“One. Two. Three. Four,” Arthur repeated. “Watch for the feint. Keep your feet moving. Stay in range only long enough to land the blow.”

He stopped behind one of them, adjusting their stance with quick, firm hands. “Again.”

The men obeyed, breathing hard, sweat streaking their faces.

“One. Two. Three. Four.”

From the edge of the green, Morgana and Gwen watched, sharpening blades. The scrape of stone on metal was rhythmic — almost meditative.

Almost.

“There is no way they’re going to hold Kanen off,” Morgana muttered under her breath.

Gwen didn’t look away from the sword in her hands. “Men aren’t the only ones who can fight.”

Arthur heard them.

He always heard Morgana — even when he pretended not to.

“Again!” he called sharply. “One. Two. Three. Four!”

Matthew stepped forward as Arthur lowered his blade. “What do you want us to do about watch duty?”

Arthur nodded, grateful for something practical to focus on. “You organise sentries. If there’s any sign of Kanen or his men, you ride straight back here.” His gaze hardened. “I don’t want you trying to be heroes.”

Matthew gave a humourless chuckle. “I’ll leave that to you.”

Arthur didn’t smile.

He watched the man walk away, then turned back to the line. I promised Merlin. I promised his mother.

Failure wasn’t an option.

⸻

Arthur drew water from the well a short while later, lifting the bucket to drink. The water was cool, grounding — but it did nothing to ease the tight knot in his chest.

Morgana leaned against the stone edge, arms crossed. “Looks like the battle’s already been fought and lost.”

“They’ll toughen up,” Arthur said, though even to his own ears it sounded like hope more than certainty.

“They need to,” Gwen added quietly.

Arthur wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “How are we doing for weapons?”

Morgana shrugged. “There isn’t much. But we can scrape together enough.”

Gwen hesitated, then spoke carefully. “It’s not the weapons that worry us.”

Arthur glanced at her.

“It’s having enough people to use them,” she continued. “We think the women should be allowed to fight.”

Morgana nodded sharply. “You don’t have enough men. And they aren’t trained soldiers.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened.

“It’s too dangerous,” he said at once.

“For them,” Morgana countered. “Or for your pride?”

Arthur bristled. “This isn’t about pride.”

“Then what is it about?” Gwen asked gently.

Arthur looked out over the village — at Hunith carrying water, at children darting between buildings, at Merlin in the distance, axe resting against his shoulder as he spoke to someone Arthur couldn’t quite see.

I will not let this fail.

“I won’t throw untrained people into a fight they can’t survive,” Arthur said. “Not if I can help it.”

Morgana studied him — searching, assessing. “You don’t get to protect people by deciding for them.”

Arthur didn’t answer.

Because part of him knew she was right.

He turned sharply and strode back toward the resting men.

“Right!” he barked, raising his voice. “Back on your feet. Come on — let’s go!”

The men groaned, then obeyed.

Arthur lifted his sword again, shoulders squared.

He would find a way.

He had to.

escape hearing.

⸻

That night the house had settled into uneasy stillness.

Firelight flickered low in the hearth, throwing long shadows across the packed earth floor. The air smelled of woodsmoke and damp wool and the faint remnants of Hunith’s cooking. Outside, the village slept fitfully — no laughter, no music, just the soft murmur of night insects and the occasional creak of a roof shifting in the cold.

Arthur lay a short distance away, already asleep or pretending to be. Merlin wasn’t sure which.

He stared up at the ceiling beams, listening.

Across the room, Gwen lay awake beside Morgana. They spoke quietly, voices kept low out of courtesy rather than secrecy. The kind of conversation meant for the dark.

“We don’t stand a chance,” Gwen murmured.

Merlin’s chest tightened.

Morgana didn’t answer immediately. When she did, there was no surprise in her voice — only frustration. “Arthur can’t see that. He’s too stubborn.”

Gwen turned slightly on her pallet. “Or too determined.”

“That’s the same thing with him,” Morgana said, but there was something softer beneath the words. Something worried. “He thinks if he wants something badly enough, if he tries hard enough, it will work.”

Merlin swallowed.

He knew that look on Arthur’s face. The one from earlier that day — jaw set, eyes bright with the weight of a promise he hadn’t said out loud but carried anyway.

Gwen hesitated, then asked quietly, “Why do you think he came here?”

Merlin’s breath caught.

He didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. He focused on keeping his breathing slow and even, hoping the dark would keep him invisible.

Morgana’s answer came without hesitation.

“The same reason we did,” she said. “Merlin.”

Merlin felt the word land like a stone dropped gently but deliberately into still water.

“Arthur may act like he doesn’t care,” Morgana continued, voice low and certain, “but he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.”

There it was.

The truth spoken plainly, without ceremony or accusation.

Gwen was quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “I’ve noticed it too.”

Morgana gave a quiet huff that might have been a laugh. “It’s hard not to. He watches him like—” She stopped, reconsidered. “Like someone he’s afraid to lose.”

Merlin’s fingers curled into the blanket.

He thought of Arthur earlier that day — the way his voice sharpened whenever danger was mentioned, the way his gaze kept flicking to where Merlin stood, as if checking he was still there. As if counting.

“I don’t think Arthur realises it,” Gwen said gently.

“Oh, he realises something,” Morgana replied. “He just doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Merlin closed his eyes.

Neither do I, he thought.

The fire crackled softly.

“He’s trying to protect everyone,” Gwen said after a while. “The village. Hunith. Merlin.”

“And that’s exactly why this scares me,” Morgana said. “Because he’ll blame himself when it goes wrong.”

When, not if.

Merlin shifted slightly on his pallet, the movement small enough to pass as sleep. The conversation faded after that, drifting into silence as the fire burned lower and the night pressed in closer.

Eventually, Morgana and Gwen fell quiet.

Merlin lay awake.

Arthur’s presence was a steady warmth beside him — close enough that Merlin could feel it without touching. He wanted, irrationally, to reach out. To anchor himself to that certainty. To ask Arthur if he really believed he could do this.

Instead, he stayed still.

Because if Arthur was here for him — if that was true — then Merlin had never carried so much fear and gratitude in his chest at once.

Outside, the village slept.

And somewhere beyond the dark, Kanen waited.

Morning would come regardless.

Chapter 9: The Cost of Command

Arthur stood in the common square with the men gathered before him, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight out of habit rather than confidence.

He could feel it already — the thinness of what he was offering them.

“We’re not going to be able to defend Ealdor with sword and sinew alone,” Arthur said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “We’re going to need a plan. Something that limits their movement. Draws them where we want them. If we fight them on their terms—”

A scream cut through the air.

High. Sharp. Terrified.

Arthur’s blood went cold.

He turned and ran, boots pounding against packed earth as villagers spilled from doorways behind him. He saw the horse first — lathered with sweat, riderless — and then the body slung across its back.

“No,” Arthur breathed, already knowing.

“Get him down from there!” he barked.

Hands reached up. Someone sobbed. The body slid awkwardly to the ground, limp and wrong in a way living bodies were never meant to be.

Matthew.

Arthur knelt without thinking. The arrow jutted from his back at a brutal angle, feathers stained dark. A strip of parchment was tied beneath the shaft.

Arthur’s fingers shook as he untied it.

Merlin was beside him in an instant. “What does it say?”

Arthur stared at the words until they blurred.

“Make the most of this day,” he read hoarsely. “It will be your last.”

The world tilted.

A cry tore from the crowd — Matthew’s fiancée dropping to her knees, hands clawing at his still form.

Arthur forced himself to stand.

This was his fault.

Arthur had asked these men to stand. To fight. To believe.

And one of them was dead.

“You did this!”

Will shoved forward through the crowd, eyes blazing, grief sharp and wild. He pointed straight at Arthur.

“Look what you’ve done! You’ve killed him!”

Arthur took the blow without flinching. He deserved it.

Merlin didn’t.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Merlin said quickly, stepping forward before Arthur could speak.

Arthur glanced at him — saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself back.

Will rounded on Merlin. “If he hadn’t come here strutting around like a prince, treating us like his own personal army, this never would’ve happened!”

Arthur felt something snap.

“These men are brave enough to fight for what they believe in,” he shot back, voice sharp with anger and something dangerously close to desperation, “even if you aren’t!”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

He regretted them instantly.

Will laughed — harsh, broken. “You’re sending them to their graves. You’ve already killed one man. How many more need to die before you realise this is a battle that can’t be won?”

He stepped closer, eyes locked on Arthur’s.

“When Kanen comes, you haven’t got a chance. You’re going to be slaughtered.”

Arthur held his ground.

Inside, everything was screaming.

I should have done more.
I should have seen this coming.
I should never have brought them this hope if I couldn’t protect it.

He thought of Hunith. Of Merlin. Of the promise he’d made — spoken and unspoken — that he would keep them safe.

The weight of it pressed down on his chest until breathing hurt.

hurt.

⸻

Merlin found Will at the edge of the village, near the trees where the noise didn’t quite reach.

Will was pacing, fists clenched, jaw tight.

Merlin stopped a few steps away.

“You didn’t have to say that,” Merlin said quietly.

Will spun on him. “Didn’t I?”

Merlin swallowed. His gaze flicked back toward the square — toward where Arthur still stood surrounded by grief and expectation, carrying it all alone.

“He’s taking this harder than anyone,” Merlin said. “You think he doesn’t blame himself? You think he doesn’t feel responsible?”

Will scoffed. “That’s convenient.”

Merlin shook his head. “That’s who he is.”

He hesitated, then said more softly, “Arthur doesn’t send people to die lightly. Every loss… it stays with him.”

He didn’t say I’ve seen it.
Didn’t say I know the way it haunts him.

But the truth sat heavy in his chest.

“He came here because he believes this village matters,” Merlin continued. “Because my mother matters. Because—”

Because I matter, he didn’t say.

Will’s expression wavered, just for a moment. Then hardened again.

“And if he’s wrong?” Will demanded. “If believing that gets everyone killed?”

Merlin’s throat tightened.

I don’t know, he thought.
And that’s what terrifies me.

Out loud, he said, “Then blame him after. But right now, tearing him down won’t bring Matthew back.”

Silence stretched between them.

Merlin looked away, back toward the village.

Arthur was still there.

Still standing.

Still trying.

Merlin wished — fiercely, helplessly — that he knew how to ease the weight Arthur carried. How to take some of it onto himself without everything falling apart.

Instead, all he could do was this:

Stand by him.

Even when the cost was becoming impossible to ignore.

———

Arthur stood at the edge of the village, far enough away that no one thought to follow him.

The sounds carried anyway — muted voices, the low murmur of grief, the sharp crack of someone splitting wood far harder than necessary. Life continuing because it had to.

Matthew’s face would not leave him.

Arthur saw it every time he closed his eyes: slack, pale, wrong. The arrow. The note. The promise of what was coming next.

This is my fault.

He pressed his hand against the wooden post beside him, knuckles whitening. He had come here with certainty — with conviction, with the belief that courage and planning could carry them through anything.

That was the lie every prince was taught.

He had trained men before. Led soldiers into battle. But those men had chosen the sword knowing what it demanded. These men had chosen their homes. Their families. Their fields.

And now one of them was dead.

What would I have done differently?
Should I have sent him back sooner? Should I have seen this coming?

Uther’s voice echoed unbidden in his head: A king must think beyond one life.

Arthur swallowed hard.

He had thought he could do both.

Protect the many and the one.

He thought of Hunith’s quiet strength. Of Merlin’s steady faith — infuriating, unshakeable, terrifying in its trust. Of the promise he had never said aloud but felt lodged in his bones: I will keep you safe.

His chest tightened.

What if Will was right?

What if all Arthur had done was give them false hope — just enough to get them killed?

He exhaled slowly, breath shaking despite his effort to control it.

Kings were not supposed to doubt.

Princes were not supposed to break.

But Arthur had never learned how to carry death lightly.

⸻

Merlin found him sharpening his sword.

The rhythmic scrape of stone against steel was too hard, too fast — anger masquerading as preparation. Merlin hesitated at the doorway, watching Arthur’s shoulders rise and fall with each breath.

He’s blaming himself, Merlin thought immediately.
Of course he is.

Merlin crossed the space quietly and sat beside him without asking.

“William’s father was killed fighting for King Cenred,” Merlin said gently. “So he doesn’t trust anyone of nobility.”

Arthur didn’t look up. “Do you think the villagers believed him?”

Merlin shook his head. “No. He’s always been a troublemaker. They’re used to ignoring him.”

Arthur paused, blade hovering mid-stroke.

“And if he’s right?”

The question landed heavier than Merlin expected.

Arthur finally looked at him — really looked — and Merlin saw it then: the guilt, the doubt, the fear Arthur hid from everyone else because he believed it was his alone to bear.

“He isn’t,” Merlin said firmly.

Arthur let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh — bitter, exhausted. “I’m treating these men like soldiers, and they’re not. You’ve seen them fight. They… they haven’t got a clue.” His voice dropped. “You need to tell them all to leave the village before Kanen returns.”

Merlin stiffened.

“No,” he said at once. “We’re going to stay. We’re going to fight. And we’re going to win.”

Arthur turned fully toward him now, disbelief flickering across his face. “Merlin, it can’t be done. The odds are too great.”

Merlin leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, gaze unwavering.

“It can,” he said. “We’re going to make Kanen rue the day he ever came to this village.”

Arthur shook his head. “How?”

Merlin didn’t answer right away.

He thought of Will’s words. Of magic burning under his skin. Of all the ways this could go wrong — of all the secrets he was still keeping.

Instead, he said the truth Arthur needed.

“You’ve just got to believe in them,” Merlin said quietly. “Because if you don’t, they’ll sense it. And the battle’ll be lost before it’s even begun.”

Arthur studied him — searching, uncertain.

“You really believe that,” he said.

Merlin nodded. “I believe you.”

Something in Arthur’s expression shifted — not relief, exactly, but steadiness. Like a man being handed a compass when he’d begun to think he was lost.

He set the sword aside.

“All right,” Arthur said at last. “Then we do this properly.”

Merlin felt the knot in his chest ease, just a fraction.

For the first time since Matthew’s death, Arthur looked like himself again — not because the doubt was gone, but because he was no longer facing it alone.

And Merlin would make sure of that.

back of the room.

⸻

The common building was full.

Too full.

Arthur could feel the weight of every pair of eyes on him as he stepped forward — men with rough hands and tired faces, women standing shoulder to shoulder, children clinging to skirts in the shadows. Fear lived here now. It clung to the rafters and the packed earth beneath their feet.

He had brought that fear with him.

Arthur drew a breath and forced himself not to flinch from it.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said, voice steady despite the tightness in his chest, “the women and children should gather what belongings they can carry and go to the woods.”

The words barely left his mouth before Gwen stepped forward.

“We’re not going anywhere.”

Arthur turned toward her, already shaking his head. “I know you want to help. But the women can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous.”

Gwen’s chin lifted, eyes blazing. “The women have as much right to fight for their lives as the men do.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

Arthur felt the old instincts rise — command, control, certainty. The voice he’d been taught to use. I know better. I decide.

“But none of you know how to fight,” he said, trying again.

“The more of us there are, the better chance we stand,” Gwen shot back.

The women stepped forward as one.

Arthur froze.

For a heartbeat, all he could see was what he’d been trained to see: risk. Chaos. Loss he would have to answer for.

Then he saw something else.

Resolve.

The same fire he’d seen in Hunith’s eyes before Uther’s throne. The same courage he’d seen in Merlin every day since they met — stubborn, foolish, impossible courage.

Arthur’s gaze flicked, just briefly, to the back of the room.

Merlin stood there, quiet, watchful — not urging, not pleading. Just trusting.

Arthur exhaled.

“This is your home,” he said, his voice softer now, truer. “If you want to fight to defend it, that’s your choice.” He straightened, meeting every gaze in the room. “I’d be honoured to stand alongside you.”

Something shifted.

Arthur felt it — like the ground settling beneath his feet.

“Kanen attacks tomorrow,” he continued. “He’s brutal. He fights only to kill. Which is why he will never defeat us.”

Merlin’s chest tightened.

Arthur’s voice carried now — not loud, but certain. The kind of certainty that didn’t demand obedience, only belief.

“Look around,” Arthur said. “In this circle, we’re all equals. You’re not fighting because someone’s ordering you to. You’re fighting for so much more than that.”

Merlin felt pride bloom sharp and unexpected in his chest.

Arthur wasn’t speaking like a prince.

He was speaking like a leader.

“You fight for your homes,” Arthur went on. “You fight for your family. You fight for your friends. You fight for the right to grow crops in peace.”

Arthur’s hands curled into fists at his sides, not in anger — in resolve.

“And if you fall,” he said, voice steady despite the ache beneath it, “you fall fighting for the noblest of causes. Fighting for your very right to survive.”

The room was utterly silent now.

“And when you’re old and grey,” Arthur finished, “you’ll look back on this day — and you’ll know you earned the right to live every day in between.”

He lifted his sword.

“So fight,” Arthur said. “For your family. For your friends. For Ealdor.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then swords rose. Axes. Pitchforks. Whatever they had.

“For Ealdor!” someone shouted.

Merlin found his voice joining them without thought.

“For Ealdor! Ealdor! Ealdor!”

The chant filled the room, echoing off stone and wood and fear alike — turning it into something fierce and alive.

Merlin watched Arthur in that moment — really watched him.

Not the prince who doubted himself in the quiet. Not the boy who carried the weight of every death like a wound.

But the man he was becoming.

And Merlin thought, with a certainty that burned brighter than fear:

They’re going to win.

Because Arthur Pendragon believed they could.

And Merlin would make sure he was right.

perceptive, and gently fearless in her love.

⸻

Hunith sat by the small table, hands folded loosely in her lap, staring at nothing.

The house was quiet now — too quiet, the kind that pressed in on Merlin’s ears once the adrenaline of the day had faded. He hung his jacket on its peg and hesitated, suddenly unsure of where to put himself. This place was home, but it felt smaller than it used to. Or maybe he’d grown in ways that didn’t fit inside it anymore.

“Come here,” Hunith said softly.

Merlin crossed the room and sat beside her. She lifted a hand and cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. The touch was achingly familiar — grounding in a way nothing else was.

“I do love you, my boy,” she said.

Something tight in Merlin’s chest loosened. Just a little.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

Hunith’s mouth curved into a sad smile. “I should never have gone to Camelot. I’ve ruined everything for you.”

Merlin frowned. “You haven’t. Why would you say that?”

She sighed, her hand still resting against his face. “I know what you’re planning to do.”

Merlin’s breath left him slowly. He leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“If it comes to a choice between saving people’s lives and revealing who I really am…” He shrugged, trying for lightness and failing. “There isn’t really a choice.”

The truth of it sat heavy in his chest. He’d known it since the moment Kanen rode away. Since Matthew was brought back on a horse with an arrow through his back. Destiny didn’t wait politely for fear to catch up.

Hunith’s gaze sharpened. “You can’t let Arthur know about your gift.”

Merlin’s head snapped up. “Why not?”

The word came out sharper than he meant it to — tangled with something raw and aching beneath it.

“Maybe it’s meant to be this way,” Merlin said, forcing himself to keep going. “Maybe this is when it happens. And if he doesn’t accept me for who I really am, then—” His voice wavered despite his effort. “Then he’s not the friend I hoped he was.”

Not the man he hoped he was. Not the one Merlin had started to believe in with a terrifying, hopeful part of his heart.

Hunith studied him for a long moment.

“Oh, Merlin,” she said gently. “You sound very brave when you say that.”

Merlin swallowed. “I’m not.”

She smiled sadly. “No. You’re scared. And that’s how I know how much you care.”

Her hand slipped from his cheek to his shoulder, grounding him. “Arthur is a good man. I can see that. He’s kind, and stubborn, and he looks at you like—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Like you matter.”

Merlin’s throat tightened.

“That doesn’t mean he’s ready,” Hunith continued. “Or that the world is ready. Loving someone doesn’t always make things safe.”

Merlin looked down at his hands. “I don’t want to lie to him forever.”

“I know.” Hunith squeezed his shoulder. “But loving someone also means protecting them. Sometimes from the truth. Sometimes from yourself.”

Merlin let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to do this without losing him.”

Hunith leaned her forehead gently against his temple. “Then don’t do it alone. Whatever happens, you are my son. You are good. And you are loved — magic or no magic.”

Merlin closed his eyes, pressing into her warmth like he had when he was small and the world had felt too big.

Outside, the night stretched on — heavy with what was coming.

And somewhere not far away, Arthur Pendragon prepared for a battle he believed he could win.

Merlin held onto that thought like a fragile promise, even as fear coiled tight beneath his ribs.

Because tomorrow, one way or another, everything would change.

Chapter 10: As an equal

Notes:

I had Taylor Swift’s “epiphany” stuck in my head while writing this chapter — I’ll explain more in the end notes if anyone’s interested. I may have accidentally written a mini thesis on it… oops 😅

The woods were still, the kind of stillness that only came before something terrible.

Arthur stood at the edge of the trees, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, eyes scanning the narrow paths between the trunks. Morning light filtered down in thin bands, catching on leaves and damp earth. Somewhere behind him, the village stirred — low voices, nervous movement, the scrape of boots.

He barely noticed Gwen approach until she was beside him.

“Arthur,” she said quietly.

He turned. She held out a wooden bowl, steam curling faintly into the air.

“Hunith made you some food.”

Arthur took it automatically. “Thanks.”

Gwen nodded and turned to go.

Arthur looked down at the bowl. Took a cautious mouthful.

“…I think,” he muttered under his breath.

Gwen stopped.

She turned slowly, hands folding in front of her. “Food is scarce for these people,” she said, voice firm but not unkind. “You shouldn’t turn your nose up at it.”

Arthur blinked at her.

The silence stretched — heavy with rank, with habit, with everything Arthur had been taught about how people spoke to him.

Gwen’s face drained of colour.

“Oh. No — I—” She took a step back, flustered. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

She turned quickly, already retreating. “It won’t happen again.”

“Gwen.”

She kept walking.

“Guinevere.”

That stopped her.

She turned back, wary now, unsure what she’d crossed.

Arthur exhaled slowly. He set the bowl aside and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“Thank you,” he said.

Her brows knit together in surprise.

“You’re right,” Arthur continued, quieter. “And you were right yesterday too. About the women. About everything.” He hesitated, then added under his breath, “We’re going to need all the help we can get.”

Gwen studied him for a moment, then smiled — small, warm, unafraid.

“We’ll be fine,” she said.

Arthur let out a short, humourless laugh. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I have faith in you,” Gwen replied simply. “I mean… we all do.”

Arthur looked back toward the village — toward the people who had trusted him, followed him, believed him when he’d told them they could win.

He thought of Hunith’s steady gaze. Merlin’s quiet certainty. Morgana’s fierce resolve.

“I was trying very hard to like the food,” he admitted, glancing back at Gwen. “For the record.”

Gwen’s smile turned teasing. “I noticed.”

“She’s Merlin’s mother,” Arthur added, a little awkwardly. “It felt… important.”

Gwen’s eyes softened. “You don’t need to pretend with her,” she said gently. “She already respects you.”

Arthur swallowed, nodded once, and picked the bowl back up.

“Well,” he said, taking another bite and managing not to grimace this time, “I suppose I’d better finish it.”

Gwen laughed softly, the sound light against the tension pressing in around them.

For a brief moment, standing there together in the quiet woods, it felt like something solid — a beginning of trust, of understanding.

⸻

The house was quieter than it had any right to be.

The air felt heavy, as if it knew what was coming.

Merlin reached for Arthur’s armour out of habit, fingers already finding familiar straps — then stopped when Arthur caught his wrist gently.

“No,” Arthur said.

Merlin blinked. “What?”

Arthur nodded toward the padded gambeson laid out beside Merlin’s things. The one he’d insisted on. The one he’d chosen himself.

“Not today,” Arthur said. “Put on your own.”

Merlin hesitated, something warm and complicated settling in his chest. “Right,” he muttered. “Of course.”

They dressed in silence after that — the muted scrape of leather, the soft clink of metal, the steady ritual of preparation. Merlin tugged the gambeson into place, fingers clumsy with nerves, and reached for the bracers.

The buckle wouldn’t catch.

“Come on,” Merlin whispered, frowning at it. “You’d think after all this time—”

Arthur stepped closer.

His hands closed over Merlin’s, steady and sure.

“Here,” he murmured.

Their fingers brushed as Arthur tightened the strap properly, his touch lingering a moment longer than necessary. Merlin became acutely aware of how close they were — of Arthur’s breath, warm and steady, of the tension thrumming just beneath his calm exterior.

Arthur’s knuckles grazed Merlin’s wrist as he finished, then stilled.

“You ready?” Arthur asked quietly.

Merlin swallowed. “My throat’s dry.”

Arthur let out a slow breath. “Me too.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then Arthur held out his hand.

Merlin took it.

Their grip was firm, grounding — the kind of clasp soldiers shared before battle. Arthur squeezed once, hard enough to be felt.

“It’s been an honour,” Arthur said, voice low.

Merlin’s chest tightened. “Whatever happens out there today,” he said, words tumbling out before he could stop them, “please don’t think any differently of me.”

Arthur frowned. “I won’t. It’s alright to be scared, Merlin.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Merlin said quietly.

Arthur’s hand stilled around his.

“What is it?” Arthur asked. “If you’ve got something to say, now’s the time to say it.”

Merlin opened his mouth — and closed it again.

Before he could think better of it, Arthur stepped forward and pulled him into a brief, fierce hug.

Merlin froze for half a second, then melted into it, hands fisting in the back of Arthur’s tunic. Arthur’s arms came up instinctively, holding him like he was something precious — something that mattered.

Arthur pulled back just enough to cradle Merlin’s face between his hands, thumbs brushing his cheeks. His expression was open now, unguarded in a way Merlin rarely saw.

“Listen to me,” Arthur said softly. “No matter what happens today, you are not a burden. You are not a mistake. You are—” He swallowed, voice thickening. “You are the reason I believe we can do this.”

Merlin’s eyes burned.

Arthur leaned his forehead against Merlin’s. “You give me strength,” he murmured. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

Merlin nodded, breath unsteady. “You’re not doing this alone,” he said. “I’m right here. I always will be.”

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath with them.

Then—

“Arthur.”

Morgana’s voice cut through the quiet.

“They’ve crossed the river.”

Arthur closed his eyes briefly, then dropped his hands and stepped back, the prince once more — but steadier now, anchored.

He met Merlin’s gaze one last time. “Stay alive,” he said.

Merlin managed a crooked smile. “You first.”

Arthur turned toward the door.

Merlin followed.

And together, they walked toward the fight.

⸻

The village held its breath.

Arthur walked the line slowly, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. Calloused hands closed around his as he clasped them — farmers, blacksmiths, boys barely old enough to shave. None of them trained. All of them terrified.

“Ready?” he asked one man.

The villager swallowed. “Ready.”

Arthur nodded. “For Ealdor.”

He moved on.

When he reached Gwen, he paused.

“Are you frightened?” he asked quietly.

She met his gaze without flinching. “Not in the slightest.”

Arthur huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. He squeezed her hand once and moved into position.

Merlin was already crouched nearby, eyes fixed on the tree line. Arthur caught himself watching him — counting breaths, noting the way Merlin’s shoulders were set, tense but determined.

Stay where you are, Arthur thought fiercely. Please.

The sound of hooves shattered the quiet.

Kanen and his men rode out of the woods, armour gleaming, laughter careless as they entered the empty village.

Arthur raised a fist.

“Hold,” he murmured.

The riders slowed, eyes darting.

“Hold.”

Kanen sneered. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”

Arthur’s pulse thundered in his ears.

“Now,” Gwen whispered. “Pull!”

The gate sprang up. Horses screamed. Riders crashed against the barrier, chaos erupting as Morgana struck flint against stone.

Nothing.

Arthur’s stomach dropped.

“Now, Morgana,” he hissed. “What are you waiting for? Something’s gone wrong.”

Time stretched — too long.

And then Merlin moved.

“No,” Arthur breathed.

Merlin broke from cover, sprinting toward Morgana.

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted.

The word tore from his chest, sharp with memory — too close to the sound of Merlin vanishing into trees, too close to blood on leaves and hours of not knowing.

Kanen’s head snapped up. “There’s one. Get him!”

An arrow flew.

Merlin ducked.

Another followed — closer this time.

“Kill him!” Kanen barked.

Arthur surged forward a step, every instinct screaming to abandon the plan, to reach Merlin, to—

Stay. Command. Lead.

Merlin reached Morgana, breath ragged.

“Give me the flint.”

She shoved it into his hands, eyes wide.

Merlin struck stone to stone — once, twice — nothing.

Arthur’s vision tunneled.

Please.

Merlin closed his eyes.

I can’t let him die for this, Merlin thought desperately. Not again. Not because of me.

The words burned on his tongue.

“Baerne.”

Fire roared to life.

The prepared line ignited in a wall of flame, trapping the riders in a ring of heat and panic.

Kanen shouted. “Come back! Don’t run!”

“There!” a rider shouted, charging Merlin from behind.

Before Arthur could move, a figure leapt from a rooftop — Will, clad in his father’s old armour — slamming into the rider and dragging him from his horse.

Merlin blinked. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

Will grinned grimly. “Neither did I.”

They fought back to back as the villagers surged forward.

“Now!” Arthur roared.

The cry ripped from him — raw, desperate.

“For Ealdor!”

Steel rang. Screams filled the air. Arthur cut through the fray, every movement precise, brutal, necessary. He parried, struck, advanced — but his eyes kept snapping back to Merlin.

Too exposed.
Too slow.
Too close to the fire.

The villagers began to falter.

“There’s too many of them!” Will shouted.

Merlin’s chest heaved. He could feel the magic coiled inside him — screaming to be used.

If I don’t—

“Cume thoden.”

The wind exploded outward.

It tore through the village like a living thing — hurling riders from saddles, ripping weapons from hands, sending men sprawling. Dust and leaves spiraled skyward.

Arthur staggered.

He stared.

Wind like that didn’t just happen.

The bandits broke. They fled.

The village roared.

Arthur barely heard it.

Kanen dismounted, fury blazing. “Pendragon!”

Arthur turned to him on instinct, blade already raised.

They fought hard and fast — Kanen savage, relentless. Arthur met him blow for blow, rage sharpening every strike.

He drove his sword through Kanen’s chest.

The body fell.

Arthur didn’t pause.

He turned, stalking toward Merlin and Will, blood pounding in his ears.

“Who did that?” he demanded.

Merlin froze. “What?”

“Wind like that doesn’t just appear from nowhere,” Arthur snapped, voice cracking with something dangerously close to panic. “I know magic when I see it. One of you made that happen.”

Merlin took a step forward. “Arthur—”

If he has magic, Arthur thought wildly, how do I protect him? From Uther? From the world? From himself?

Before Merlin could speak again—

“Look out!”

Will slammed into Arthur, shoving him aside as a crossbow bolt tore through the air.

It struck Will square in the chest.

Time shattered.

“No!” Merlin screamed.

Will collapsed.

Arthur scrambled to his feet, finishing Kanen with a brutal strike before turning back.

“You just saved my life,” Arthur said hoarsely.

Will coughed, blood blooming dark. “Yeah. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

Arthur dropped to his knees. “Get him inside! Now!”

As they lifted Will, Arthur’s gaze found Merlin again.

Fear burned hotter than suspicion.

Questions screamed — but they could wait.

Because Merlin was alive.

And Arthur would face anything before he let that change.

⸻

Will’s house was too small for the number of people inside it.

Arthur ducked through the doorway alongside Merlin, the smell of blood and smoke already clinging to the air. They laid Will down carefully on the rough table, village men stepping back as if afraid to touch him now that the fight was over.

Arthur’s hands were slick with someone else’s blood.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

“That’s twice I’ve saved you,” Will rasped, breath shallow.

Arthur swallowed. “Twice?”

Will’s eyes flicked briefly to Merlin — fond, apologetic — then back to Arthur.

“Yeah,” he said. “It was me. I’m the one that used the magic.”

The room seemed to tilt.

Arthur felt the words hit him like a physical blow — fear, relief, dread all tangled together so tightly he couldn’t separate them. His gaze snapped to Merlin without meaning to, searching his face for… something. Anything.

Merlin shook his head sharply. “Will, don’t.”

“It’s all right,” Will said weakly. “I won’t be alive long enough for anyone to do anything to me.” A breath, shuddering. “I saw how desperate things were becoming. I had to do something.”

Arthur’s chest hurt.

“You’re a sorcerer?” he asked quietly.

Will huffed a faint laugh. “Yeah. What are you going to do? Kill me?”

Arthur stared at him — really looked at him — a dying man who had thrown himself into the path of magic and steel without hesitation.

“No,” Arthur said immediately. “Of course not.”

He turned to Merlin. “Do what you can for him.”

Merlin nodded, eyes shining.

Arthur placed his hand briefly on Will’s shoulder — a warrior’s touch, steady and sincere — then straightened.

“I’ll give you some space,” he said, voice rougher than he intended.

He didn’t look at Merlin again — not because he didn’t want to, but because he was afraid of what he’d see if he did.

As Arthur ushered the others out, his thoughts spiraled:

If it had been Merlin…
If Merlin had magic…
How would I protect him from my father? From the laws? From myself?

The door closed softly behind him.

Arthur stayed just outside, jaw clenched, listening.

⸻

The silence rushed in once they were alone.

“I was right about him,” Will murmured. “I told you he was going to get me killed.”

Merlin let out a broken laugh. “You’re not going to die.”

Will smiled faintly. “You’ve always been terrible at lying.”

Merlin knelt beside him, hands hovering uselessly over a wound he couldn’t heal — not without crossing a line that could never be uncrossed.

“You’re a good man, Merlin,” Will said softly. “A great man.”

Merlin shook his head. “Don’t.”

“And one day,” Will continued, breath hitching, “you’re going to be servant to a great king. You can still make that happen.”

Merlin’s throat burned. “Thanks to you.”

Will’s smile softened. “This place has been boring without you. It was good to see you again.”

“Yeah,” Merlin whispered. “You too.”

Will’s hand twitched, fingers brushing Merlin’s sleeve.

“Merlin,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I’m scared.”

The words cracked something open inside Merlin.

He leaned closer, voice gentle, desperate. “Don’t be. It’s going to be all right.”

Will exhaled.

“Merlin—”

His breath stilled.

Merlin froze.

For a long moment, he stayed exactly where he was, as if moving might make it real.

Then he bowed his head, pressing his forehead to Will’s shoulder, grief crashing through him in a wave so sharp it stole the air from his lungs.

Outside the door, Arthur closed his eyes.

He didn’t know exactly what had been said.

But he knew loss when he heard it.

And somewhere deep in his chest, beneath the relief and the fear and the things he refused to name yet, something settled into place.

The knowledge that leadership did not come without ghosts.

And that Merlin — bright, stubborn, endlessly brave Merlin — carried more of them than anyone ever should.

⸻

Merlin did not remember leaving Will’s house.

He only remembered the quiet afterward — the way the world seemed to tilt, as if it had lost its centre and never bothered to tell him. The village moved around him in hushed fragments: footsteps on dirt, the crackle of dying fires, the low murmur of voices that felt too distant to belong to him.

Will was gone.

The thought sat in Merlin’s chest like a stone. Heavy. Unyielding.

He sank down near the edge of the village, back against a fence post worn smooth by years of hands and weather, and let himself breathe for the first time since it had happened. His breath hitched immediately.

He took it, Merlin thought, grief sharp and hollow all at once.
He took the blame. He saved me.

Again.

Will had always been like that — reckless, loyal to a fault, brave in a way that didn’t ask for permission. Even now. Especially now.

Merlin pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, willing the burn away. It didn’t help.

Arthur’s face rose unbidden in his mind — the way he’d marched toward them after the windstorm, eyes blazing, fear and fury tangled so tightly Merlin hadn’t known where one ended and the other began.

Who did that?

Merlin swallowed.

Arthur had been terrified. Merlin was certain of it now. Terrified that someone he cared about — someone under his protection — had been touched by magic. Terrified that he hadn’t seen it coming. Terrified that he might lose control, lose someone else.

If he’d known…

Merlin’s chest tightened painfully.

If Arthur had known it was him — if Arthur had really seen him, magic and all — would that fear have turned into something else? Into anger? Betrayal? Horror?

Would Arthur have looked at him the way Uther looked at sorcerers?

Or worse — would he have tried to protect him anyway, and been torn apart for it?

Merlin dragged a hand through his hair, breath shaking.

How long can I keep doing this?
How long can I stand beside him and not tell him the truth?

He loved Arthur. He knew that now, even if he didn’t yet know what to do with it. And love, Merlin was learning, was not just warmth and safety — it was fear. It was restraint. It was choosing silence even when it hurt.

Footsteps crunched softly behind him.

Merlin didn’t look up.

Arthur stopped a few steps away.

For a moment, he said nothing. And Merlin realised — dimly — that Arthur was giving him time. Space. The same careful respect he showed wounded men on the battlefield.

Then Arthur sat down beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“You don’t have to be alone,” Arthur said quietly.

Merlin’s breath hitched.

“I didn’t—” His voice broke. He swallowed and tried again. “I didn’t mean for him to—”

“I know,” Arthur said immediately.

Merlin turned then, eyes bright and unfocused. “He saved you. He saved me. And I didn’t even—”

Arthur reached out without hesitation, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Merlin’s head, fingers threading gently through his hair. He pulled him in, firm and sure, anchoring.

Merlin folded into him like he’d been waiting for permission.

Arthur held him there, Merlin’s forehead pressed to his shoulder, Merlin’s hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic as the grief finally broke free. Arthur’s thumb moved in slow, steady circles at the nape of his neck, grounding, soothing.

“It’s all right,” Arthur murmured. “You don’t have to be strong right now.”

Merlin shook his head weakly. “I should have—”

“No,” Arthur said, voice firmer now. “You shouldn’t have had to do anything.”

Merlin laughed once, broken and wet. “You make it sound so simple.”

Arthur exhaled softly. “I’m learning that it isn’t.”

He tipped Merlin’s chin up gently, just enough to look at him. Merlin’s lashes were clumped with tears, his face flushed and open in a way that made Arthur’s chest ache.

“This doesn’t make you weak,” Arthur said. “Feeling this. Caring this much.” His thumb brushed beneath Merlin’s eye, wiping away a tear without comment. “If anything… I think it makes you stronger than most.”

Merlin searched his face, something fragile and hopeful flickering there.

Arthur felt it too — the pull, the closeness, the dangerous urge to lean in and make it mean something more. His gaze dropped to Merlin’s mouth for half a second too long.

He stopped himself.

Not now, he told himself firmly. Not like this.

He rested his forehead briefly against Merlin’s instead — a silent promise, a restraint born of care — then eased back, though he didn’t let go entirely.

“We should go,” Arthur said softly. “They’ll be lighting the pyre soon.”

Merlin nodded, though he didn’t move right away.

Arthur squeezed his shoulder once, steady and sure. “I’m here,” he added, as if Merlin might need reminding. “You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Merlin drew a shaky breath.

Together, they stood.

And though the distance between them returned — titles, grief, the weight of everything unsaid — the space felt different now.

Not empty.

Just… waiting.

Notes:

This chapter and honestly a lot of the arc is inspired by epiphany, both in tone and in theme.

At its core, epiphany is about people placed in moments of unbearable responsibility — soldiers, healers, leaders — doing what they must while carrying the weight of what they’ve seen and what they’ve lost. It’s about quiet bravery, about service, and about the things that leave marks no one can fully speak aloud.

That felt deeply Arthur-coded here.

Arthur spends this chapter standing at the edge of violence and leadership, making choices that affect lives he’s responsible for. He’s learning — painfully — that command isn’t just strategy or strength, but holding fear, grief, and trust at the same time. Lines like “With you, I serve / With you, I fall down” reflect the way Arthur leads beside others rather than above— not as a distant prince, but as someone who bleeds and doubts and still steps forward.

The song’s focus on watching someone breathe — “Watch you breathe in / Watch you breathing out” — echoes Arthur’s growing awareness of how fragile life is, and how easily it could be taken. Merlin watching Will die — breath as the final measure of life. Will’s sacrifice becomes one of those moments Arthur will carry forever: something that changes him, something he won’t ever fully put into words.

For Merlin, this chapter holds a different kind of epiphany.

He’s surrounded by people fighting, dying, choosing each other — and he’s reminded that love and loyalty don’t make things safer, only more meaningful. Will’s death, Arthur’s fear, and the weight of magic all converge into a single, brutal truth: some things can’t be spoken, only carried.

And yet, there’s still connection.

Still hands held.
Still trust given.
Still a reason to stand and fight.

The epiphany in this chapter isn’t a sudden revelation that fixes everything — it’s the quieter kind. The understanding that leadership creates ghosts. That loving people means risking loss. And that choosing to stand together, even when it hurts, is what gives it meaning.

Chapter 11: The End of Love

Notes:

This chapter was inspired by The End of Love by Florence + the Machine. I’ve added more thoughts about it in the end notes, if anyone’s interested 😊

Also There’s a mirrored line in this chapter that calls back to a previous one — a little nod to the Chapter 4 almost-kiss for anyone keeping score. Consider this a friendly “did you notice?”

The pyre crackled softly.

The village had gathered in a wide, uneven circle — faces drawn, eyes red, hands clasped tightly together as the flames climbed higher, consuming wood and grief alike. Smoke curled into the sky, carrying Will’s name with it.

Merlin stood very still.

He hadn’t realised how rigid he was until Arthur stepped up beside him — close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. Arthur didn’t look at him at first. He looked at the fire, jaw tight, eyes shadowed.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said quietly. “I know he was a close friend.”

Merlin swallowed. “He still is.”

Arthur nodded once, accepting that without question.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Arthur’s hand hovered — just briefly — before settling on Merlin’s shoulder. Not a grip. Not a pull. Just pressure enough to say I’m here. Merlin leaned into it without thinking, only a fraction, but Arthur felt it all the same.

He wished — fiercely — that he could do more.

Arthur drew a breath. “You knew he was a sorcerer,” he said gently. “Didn’t you?”

Merlin didn’t look away from the flames. “Yes.”

Arthur hesitated. “That’s what you were going to tell me.”

“Yes,” Merlin said again.

Arthur’s fingers tightened briefly on Merlin’s shoulder, then eased. His voice, when it came, was careful — not angry, but not free of tension either.

“You know how dangerous magic is,” Arthur said. “You shouldn’t have kept this from me.”

Merlin turned then, meeting his eyes.

“And if he hadn’t been dying,” Merlin asked quietly, “what would you have done?”

Arthur opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

The answer didn’t come easily — and that told him more than he was ready to admit.

“He saved your life,” Merlin pressed, still soft, still careful. “He saved all of us. If his magic had been discovered sooner… would you have condemned him for it?”

Arthur stared at the pyre, conflict twisting in his chest.

“No,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t have.”

The certainty in his voice surprised even him.

Merlin watched him closely. “Then do you still believe all magic is evil?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened.

“I believe…” He exhaled slowly. “I believe magic can be used for evil. I’ve seen that. But I’ve also seen it used to protect people. To save lives.”

Merlin’s heart stuttered.

Arthur continued, more quietly now. “What I believe doesn’t change the law. Or my father. And until it does…” He shook his head, frustration clear. “Some things aren’t mine to fix. Not yet.”

But one day, Merlin thought.
When you’re king.

Arthur stepped back then, turning toward Gwen and Morgana, the weight of command settling back onto his shoulders like armour he couldn’t yet remove.

Hunith came to Merlin’s side as the fire burned lower.

“You’d better be going,” she said gently.

Merlin frowned. “I don’t have to—”

“Yes,” Hunith said, firm but kind. “You do.”

He looked at her, fear flickering. “If anything were to happen to you—”

Hunith smiled, soft and knowing. “I know where to find you.”

She took his hands in hers, warm and steady. “You belong at Arthur’s side, Merlin. I’ve seen how much he needs you.” Her gaze softened. “How much you need him.”

Merlin huffed a quiet, wet laugh. “Someone once said we’re like two sides of the same coin.”

Hunith nodded. “They were right.”

Merlin hugged her tightly. “I’m going to miss you.”

“When you left,” Hunith murmured into his hair, “you were just a boy. Now look at you.” She pulled back, eyes bright. “I’m so proud of you.”

Merlin blinked hard and nodded.

Later, as the village faded behind them and Camelot’s road stretched ahead, Arthur rode beside Merlin in silence.

He didn’t reach out.

But he stayed close.

And for now, that was enough.

⸻

The road back to Camelot was quieter than the road away.

Arthur rode at the front, as was expected of him, shoulders squared, posture unyielding. From a distance, anyone would have seen a prince returned victorious — armour scuffed, sword nicked, bearing the weight of command with practiced ease.

Inside, he felt hollow.

Will’s face kept rising unbidden in his mind. The defiant grin. The fear he’d tried to hide at the end. The way he’d stepped forward without hesitation, knowing exactly what it would cost him.

Life was not a thing you could count on.

Arthur had always known that in theory. Battles, training yards, stories of fallen knights — death was a constant companion to the crown. But knowing something and feeling it were very different things.

He had felt it when Matthew was brought back on the horse.
He had felt it when Will fell.
And he felt it now — riding through the long stretch of road, knowing how easily Merlin could have been the one carried inside instead.

His gaze drifted back, against his will.

Merlin rode a little behind him, hunched forward in the saddle, hands loose on the reins. He looked smaller somehow, folded inward, grief clinging to him like mist. Gwen rode close on one side, Morgana on the other — not crowding him, not speaking much, but present in that quiet, deliberate way that said we’ve got you without needing words.

Arthur’s chest tightened.

He had spent so long telling himself distance was protection. That restraint was mercy. That if he did not reach, did not name, did not want too openly, then he could not lose.

But Will had died anyway.

And Arthur could not stop thinking about how close he’d come — so many times now — to losing Merlin without ever having truly had him at all.

What would be worse?

To reach and risk everything?
Or to keep standing apart, armour locked in place, until one day Merlin was simply… gone?

Arthur swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the reins.

He could still feel the echo of Merlin’s face in his hands — the warmth of his skin, the way he had leaned in without thinking. He had pulled back then, telling himself it was necessary. Sensible. Right.

Now it felt cowardly.

Behind him, Merlin blinked against the wind, eyes burning from more than exhaustion. The road blurred in and out of focus. Every clop of hooves sounded too loud, every silence too heavy.

Will was gone.

The word still felt unreal. Final in a way Merlin couldn’t quite hold yet. He carried gratitude alongside the grief — sharp, painful gratitude — because Will had saved them. Had saved Arthur. Had saved Merlin from a truth he wasn’t ready to face.

From a truth he wasn’t sure Arthur was ready to hear.

And yet… Arthur had looked at him differently since.

Not colder. Not suspicious, exactly. If anything, gentler. Watchful. As though Merlin were something that might break if handled the wrong way.

That scared him almost as much as it comforted him.

Merlin glanced ahead, catching Arthur’s profile — rigid, thoughtful, distant in a way that had nothing to do with rank. Something twisted in his chest.

We can’t keep doing this, he thought.
Circling. Almost. Never.

Gwen leaned closer at one point, murmuring something soft — nonsense, really, about the road or the weather — but her hand brushed Merlin’s sleeve in a small, grounding gesture. Morgana shot her a look that said don’t hover, then promptly did exactly that herself, riding closer than necessary.

Merlin managed a faint smile. He loved them fiercely for it.

A little farther ahead, Morgana nudged her horse closer to Arthur’s.

“So,” she said lightly, eyes forward, voice pitched just low enough that only he could hear. “I didn’t realise armour-fitting had become such an… intimate affair.”

Arthur nearly dropped his reins.

“Morgana,” he hissed, colour flooding his cheeks.

She smirked. “Relax. I’m not scandalised.” Her expression softened, just a fraction. “Actually… I think it’s about time.”

Arthur exhaled through his nose. “This isn’t—”

“—dangerous? Complicated? Ill-advised?” Morgana supplied. “Yes. All of the above.” She glanced back at Merlin, then returned her gaze to Arthur. “Still worth it.”

Arthur didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Morgana’s voice gentled. “You don’t protect people by never touching them, Arthur. Sometimes you protect them by letting them know they matter.”

She let her horse fall back again, leaving Arthur alone with the truth of it.

The road stretched on.

Camelot loomed closer with every mile.

And somewhere between grief and exhaustion and the fragile, terrifying knowledge that tomorrow was never promised, Arthur Pendragon made a quiet decision.

He would talk to Merlin.

Soon.

Before fear stole the chance from him again.

Before silence did more damage than honesty ever could.

And Merlin — riding just behind him, heart bruised but still stubbornly hopeful — felt it too, like a change in the air before a storm.

Something was coming.

And this time, neither of them intended to run.

⸻

Night had settled fully over Camelot by the time Arthur stopped pretending he could sleep.

He had tried. Truly. He’d sat on the edge of his bed, boots unlaced, sword set carefully aside, staring at the stone wall until the torchlight blurred. He told himself Merlin was exhausted. That he should let him rest. That tomorrow would be a better time.

Tomorrow had taken too many people already.

Arthur shoved himself to his feet.

The corridors were quiet at this hour, the castle softened by shadow. His steps echoed too loudly in his ears as he moved with purpose he refused to name. By the time he reached Gaius’s chambers, his heart was pounding hard enough to feel like a mistake.

He paused outside Merlin’s door.

His hand hovered.

For one cowardly second, he considered turning away.

Then he knocked.

There was a shuffle inside. A soft, surprised, “—Arthur?” And the door opened, just a crack, Merlin peering out with tired eyes and hair still damp from washing.

“Oh,” Merlin said, blinking. “I—hi.”

Arthur swallowed. “Can I come in?”

Merlin stepped back immediately, opening the door wider. “Yeah. Of course.”

The room was small. Too small for everything Arthur was carrying. A candle burned low on the table, casting warm light over rumpled blankets and discarded boots. Merlin closed the door behind Arthur, the sound of it clicking shut unnervingly final.

They stood there.

Awkward. Uncertain. Too aware of each other.

“I didn’t mean to avoid you,” Arthur said abruptly, because if he didn’t speak now, he might never start. “I just—today was… I didn’t trust myself not to say the wrong thing.”

Merlin’s mouth curved, faint and sad. “That makes two of us.”

Arthur nodded once. He paced a step, then stopped. Turned back.

“I keep thinking about Will,” he said quietly. “About how fast it all happened. About how he stepped in without hesitation.” His voice roughened. “And all I can think is—what if that had been you? If I’d waited too long to say something to you? What if you died thinking you were alone?”

Merlin’s breath caught.

Arthur looked at him then. Really looked. At the grief Merlin was still carrying, thin and sharp beneath the exhaustion. At the strength it took for him to still be standing.

“I don’t want to do that with you,” Arthur said. “I don’t want to keep pretending distance is the same as safety.”

Silence stretched between them, fragile as glass.

Merlin took a small step closer. “Arthur… what are you saying?”

Arthur laughed softly, without humour. “That I’m terrible at this. That I don’t know what the right words are. That I’m frightened of the future and furious at myself for letting that fear decide things for me.”

He stepped closer.

Close enough now that Merlin could feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“But I know this,” Arthur said. “I don’t want to wonder what might have been.”

Merlin’s heart was hammering. He could feel it everywhere—in his throat, his hands, the space between them.

Arthur hesitated. Just for a breath.

Something in him wavered — not fear exactly, but the instinct to brace, to shore up the walls before the tide came in. He had spent a lifetime doing that. Holding. Containing. Believing that if he stood firm enough, nothing would be lost.

Arthur exhaled.

Then, quietly, deliberately—

“This time,” he said, voice barely more than a breath, rough with everything he wasn’t saying, “I am thinking about it.”

Merlin’s lips parted. His breath brushed Arthur’s mouth — warm, unguarded, waiting.

“All right,” Merlin said softly.

It felt like stepping off something high.

Arthur leaned in — slowly at first, giving Merlin the chance to pull away, to change his mind, to decide this was too much after all.

Merlin didn’t retreat.

He tilted forward instead, closing the last inch like gravity finally claiming them both.

Their lips met.

For a heartbeat, Arthur was acutely aware of the moment of impact — the way something inside him gave way, the way the careful balance he’d been holding tipped and didn’t right itself again.

And then there was no space for thought.

The kiss was warm and deliberate, but it carried a weight beneath it — the sense of something long-contained finally being allowed to move. Arthur’s hand came up to Merlin’s face, thumb brushing his cheek with reverence that felt almost unbearable. Merlin’s fingers curled into Arthur’s tunic, not pulling yet, just holding on like he needed something solid as the ground shifted under him.

Arthur breathed out against him, the sound low and involuntary, like relief washing through him all at once.

The kiss deepened — not rushed, but fuller, the way a river swells once the barriers are gone. Merlin leaned into him instinctively, trusting, and Arthur responded without thinking, his other hand sliding to the back of Merlin’s neck, steady and anchoring, as if to say I’ve got you. I won’t let this sweep you away alone.

Merlin made a soft sound against his mouth — surprised, breathless — and Arthur felt it like a current through his chest.

For a fleeting, dangerous second, Arthur wanted more.

Wanted to stop thinking about consequences and simply fall — to let the floorboards give way, let the river rush in and carry him wherever it would.

The want hit him hard enough to make his breath stutter.

That was what finally made him slow.

He didn’t pull away — not fully. He lingered, forehead resting against Merlin’s, their noses brushing, breaths uneven and shared. The world felt tilted, unsteady, as if he might wash away if he wasn’t careful.

Merlin opened his eyes.

Arthur wished he hadn’t.

Because Merlin was looking at him like he’d stepped into the water willingly — like he trusted Arthur not to let him drown.

Arthur’s voice shook, honest and stripped bare.

“Was that—”

“Yes,” Merlin whispered, too quickly, too surely. “Yes.”

Arthur swallowed hard, his hand still cradling the back of Merlin’s neck, thumb warm against skin.

“I don’t know what happens next,” Arthur admitted quietly.

Notes:

Florence + the Machine’s The End of Love captures Arthur’s emotional state in this chapter and story almost perfectly — not as heartbreak, but as the quiet, terrifying relief of finally letting go.

The line “we were reaching in the dark.” It immediately made me think of the earlier chapter where Arthur loses Merlin in the woods — the frantic search, the literal darkness, and that helpless feeling of reaching for someone you can’t see but refuse to give up on.

The line “I feel nervous in a way that can’t be named / I dreamt last night of a sign that read ‘The end of love’” really captures Arthur’s headspace here — the fear that holding back, continuing to protect himself instead of choosing Merlin, might actually be what costs him everything.

“And it was so far to fall / But it didn’t hurt at all” reflects the instant Arthur stops bracing himself. For most of his life, love has felt like a risk measured in loss — something that would hurt if he ever truly gave in to it. Stepping into this kiss feels like stepping off a great height: a surrender to gravity, to want, to the unknown. And yet, when he finally falls, it doesn’t shatter him. It steadies him. The fear he expected never arrives.

The second lyric — “You tore the floorboards up / And let the river rush in / Not wash away” — mirrors the moment Arthur allows himself to stop containing everything he feels. He has spent his life reinforcing the structure beneath his feet: duty, restraint, silence, control. In kissing Merlin, he lets those supports break. He allows the flood of feeling — to move through him instead of holding it back.

Importantly, the river doesn’t wash him away. It doesn’t destroy him or erase who he is. It carries him forward. This is not the end of love for Arthur — it’s the end of resisting it.

Though I will say — while Arthur is finally letting his feelings in and no longer resisting them, I don’t think it’s fully clicked for him yet that he’s in love. He knows the feelings are strong: the need to protect Merlin, to be with him, to let him in, to want him in a way that feels constant and grounding. But he hasn’t found the name for it yet. He hasn’t quite worked out what all of that adds up to — only that it matters, deeply, and that walking away from it would feel worse than facing it.

Another lyric that really stuck with me while writing this chapter was “I’ve always been in love with you / Could you tell it from the moment that I met you?” It feels especially fitting for Merlin’s POV — his love isn’t a sudden realization so much as a quiet truth that’s been there since the beginning, woven into everything he does for Arthur.

Chapter 12: Learning to Hold

Notes:

This chapter is written with two songs in mind — Holding a Heart by Toby Lightman for Arthur’s POV, and Feel About You (acoustic) by Aislin Evans for Merlin’s POV. I’ll be doing a deeper dive into how each song connects to their internal states in the end notes, for anyone who’s interested.

Arthur didn’t sleep much the that night.

Not properly. Not the kind of sleep that made a person feel human in the morning.

He lay in his bed staring at the canopy above him, the shadows of the torchlight shifting along the carved wood, and every time he closed his eyes he was back in Merlin’s room—too close, too quiet, too full of him.

Merlin’s mouth, soft and warm and startled beneath Arthur’s.
Merlin’s breath shuddering.
Merlin’s hands gripping his tunic like he was afraid Arthur might vanish.

Arthur’s chest tightened until it hurt.

He turned onto his side, then back again, then sat up and dragged a hand through his hair with a quiet, vicious frustration.

This was madness.

He was the crown prince of Camelot. His life belonged to duty. To appearances. To laws and expectations that had been written long before Merlin was even born and would remain long after both of them were dust.

And Merlin—

Merlin was a servant. His servant. A man who already lived too close to danger simply by existing in Arthur’s shadow, with Arthur’s enemies always watching for weaknesses to exploit.

Arthur had never had the luxury of weakness.

Uther had seen to that.

Stand straight.
Speak clearly.
Do not fidget.
Do not hesitate.
Do not let them see you feel anything.

Arthur could still hear his father’s voice as sharp as a blade: cold correction disguised as instruction. Approval offered like a coin, rare and conditional. Affection rationed into near-nothing, as if too much warmth would rot him from the inside.

A prince did not cling.
A prince did not beg.
A prince did not… need.

And Arthur had learned, very early, how to lock his needs behind his ribs and pretend they weren’t there.

Then Merlin had arrived, clumsy and defiant and infuriatingly brave, and somehow—somehow—he had looked at Arthur like there was a person under the title.

Like the mask wasn’t all he was.

Arthur had let him.

Gods help him, he had liked it.

That was the danger.

Not the kiss itself, not even the want—Arthur could survive want. He’d survived plenty of things he wasn’t meant to want.

It was what the kiss had proven.

That he could want Merlin enough to forget everything he’d been taught.

Enough to lean in without thinking. Enough to touch Merlin’s face like he didn’t belong to anyone else. Enough to let himself need.

It felt like holding something alive and fragile, something that trusted him not to tighten his grip.

He didn’t know how to hold this yet. Only that he didn’t want to drop it.

None of that had told him what to do when someone handed him their trust and stood waiting

Arthur swallowed hard, jaw tightening.

He could ruin him.

Not with scandal—though that was a threat, real and ever-present, like a blade hovering at Merlin’s throat.

Worse.

Arthur could ruin Merlin by letting himself be selfish.

By reaching for comfort when Merlin’s life already demanded so much courage. By asking for softness from someone who had never been allowed to be soft himself. By letting Merlin become the place Arthur ran to when the world grew too heavy—

—and then having to tear himself away when the world demanded it.

Arthur stared into the dark, chest rising and falling too fast.

If anyone found out, Merlin would be punished first.

Merlin would be blamed. Merlin would be accused of seduction, of ambition, of treachery. Merlin would be dragged into the light and judged by people who had never once bothered to see him.

Arthur could order men to fight. He could face down brigands and monsters and sorcerers and not flinch.

But the thought of Merlin being hurt because of Arthur’s weakness—

It made something cold and furious coil in his stomach.

So Arthur did what he always did when he didn’t know how to carry something.

He tried to control it.

The next day, he found himself speaking too formally. Moving too precisely. Keeping his hands to himself as if they were dangerous weapons. He told Merlin to do things he didn’t need to be told—walk faster, stand there, bring this—because orders were easier than… whatever else kept trying to rise in his throat.

He avoided being alone with him because alone felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down at something beautiful and terrifying and inevitable.

And Merlin—

Merlin looked at him, sometimes. Quick glances when he thought Arthur wasn’t watching. Soft, careful expressions like he was waiting for Arthur to decide whether to keep him or throw him away.

It was unbearable.

Arthur wanted to go to him. Wanted to pull him close and press his mouth to Merlin’s temple and say something simple and true, something that would fix the tightness in Merlin’s eyes.

But Arthur didn’t know how to fix things with tenderness.

Tenderness wasn’t a tool he’d ever been allowed to hold.

Uther would have called it foolishness.

Uther would have called it weakness.

Arthur could almost hear it:

You are not a lovesick boy.
You are the heir to Camelot.
Do not forget what you are.

Arthur clenched his fists beneath the blankets until his nails bit into his palms.

He wasn’t forgetting.

That was the problem.

He remembered exactly what he was.

And every time Merlin crossed the room and handed him a goblet or adjusted his cloak or said something ridiculous with that bright, impossible sincerity—

Arthur felt, very clearly, what Merlin could be to him.

Not a servant. Not a mistake. Not a passing indulgence.

A constant.

Something Arthur had never had.

Something he did not know how to deserve.

So he kept his distance.

Not because he didn’t want Merlin.

Because he wanted him too much.

Because wanting made him careless.

Because carelessness got people killed.

And Merlin had already come so frighteningly close.

———

Arthur did not mean to pull away.

That, Merlin thought later, was the cruelest part.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t scold. He didn’t pretend nothing had happened. If anything, Arthur became painfully careful — polite in a way that felt like distance, formal in a way that felt like armour pulled tight.

He spoke to Merlin as he always had in public. Orders clipped and precise. Praise rare but sincere. Concern disguised as practicality.

In private, there were pauses where there hadn’t been before. Glances that cut away too quickly. Hands that hovered and never quite landed.

Merlin noticed everything.

He noticed Arthur standing a little farther back when they walked the corridors together. Not far enough to be obvious — just enough to sting. He noticed the way Arthur never lingered anymore, how conversations ended the moment there was no practical reason to continue.

He noticed the silence.

At first, Merlin told himself it was sensible. Of course Arthur needed time. Of course he was thinking. Of course the weight of everything — the crown, the kingdom, the danger — had come crashing down the moment he’d allowed himself to want something.

Merlin could be patient.

He’d been patient his whole life.

But patience, Merlin was learning, felt a lot like fear when it stretched too long.

———

That night, Arthur stood at his window for a long time, staring down at the torchlit courtyard as if he could see the shape of the future in the stones.

He could not. He could only see the pieces of it that terrified him: Uther’s gaze. The council’s whispers. The laws that would never bend for love.

He could see Merlin, bright and brave, walking into danger with a grin.

Arthur closed his eyes.

He had kissed him.

He had wanted him.

And now he had no idea what to do with the fact that Merlin wanted him back.

It felt like being handed something priceless with hands that had only ever known how to hold swords.

Arthur let out a slow breath and pressed his forehead against the cool glass.

He wasn’t running from Merlin.

He was running from the part of himself that had already chosen him.

And the worst thing—the thing Arthur would not let himself admit out loud—was that even if he pulled away, even if he buried it, even if he tried to become the prince his father wanted again…

He didn’t think he could go back to the way it had been before.

Not after Merlin had looked at him like that.

Not after Arthur had leaned in.

Not after the world had narrowed to warmth and breath and the realization that Merlin felt like home.

Arthur swallowed, throat tight.

Tomorrow, he told himself grimly, he would do better.

Tomorrow, he would figure out what to say.

Tomorrow, he would find the right words.

But dawn came, as it always did, and Arthur stepped into the day still holding the same terrible truth in his chest:

He did not know how to do this.

He only knew he didn’t want to stop.

———

By the second night, Merlin couldn’t stop replaying it.

The kiss.
Arthur’s hands, steady and unsure all at once.
The way his breath had hitched, the way he’d said This time, I am thinking about it.

Thinking about it.

Merlin lay awake in his narrow bed, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, his thoughts spiralling, despite his best efforts to rein them in.

Maybe Arthur regretted it.
Maybe he’d realised it was a mistake.
Maybe Merlin had crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

He pressed his lips together, fighting the familiar urge to make himself smaller. Easier. Less of a problem.

Don’t push, he reminded himself again.
Don’t scare him.

But another thought followed close behind, quieter and far more dangerous:

What if he’s scared anyway?

Merlin turned onto his side, curling his fingers into the blanket.

Loving Arthur had never felt safe.

It felt like stepping forward without knowing whether the ground would hold. Like placing something precious into another person’s hands and hoping they wouldn’t flinch.

Merlin had lived his whole life trusting in fragile things.

Magic that could be taken from him.
Hope that could be punished.
People who might leave.

Arthur was no different — except that he was worth the risk..

He didn’t need Arthur to promise anything. He didn’t need certainty or declarations or a future neatly laid out in words.

He just needed to know one thing.

That the way he felt wasn’t wrong.

That he wasn’t wrong.

———

Arthur avoided being alone with Merlin until he didn’t.

It happened in the evening, when the castle had begun to settle into its quieter rhythms — guards changing shifts, servants retreating from the halls, the echoes of the day softening into something more forgiving.

Merlin brought Arthur’s dinner up to his chambers, hands steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest.

Arthur was standing near the window when Merlin entered, cloak already discarded, sword unbuckled but not yet set aside. He turned at the sound of the door, expression tightening just slightly before smoothing out again.

“Leave it there,” Arthur said, gesturing to the table.

Merlin did.

He hesitated by the door.

Arthur noticed. He always did.

“Was there something else?” Arthur asked, too carefully.

Merlin swallowed.

This was it.

He could leave. He could retreat, pretend this ache would fade if he ignored it long enough. He could keep being patient, keep being understanding, keep telling himself that Arthur’s silence was kinder than rejection.

But the thought of another night like the last — sleepless, knotted with uncertainty — settled something hard and resolute in his chest.

“Yes,” Merlin said quietly. “Actually.”

Arthur stiffened. Not visibly, not dramatically — just enough that Merlin saw it anyway.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, a warning and a plea all at once. “If this is about—”

“It is,” Merlin interrupted, gently but firmly. He took a step forward before he could lose his nerve. “But not in the way you think.”

Arthur closed his eyes briefly, as if bracing himself.

Merlin took a breath.

You can do this, he told himself.
You’ve faced worse than this.

He looked at Arthur — really looked at him. At the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flexed uselessly at his sides, the careful distance he was maintaining like it was the only thing holding him upright.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Merlin said.

Arthur opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“I haven’t—”

“You have,” Merlin said softly. “And I understand why. I think I do, anyway. But I can’t keep guessing.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “Merlin—”

“I don’t need answers about the future,” Merlin pressed on, voice trembling now despite his efforts to steady it. “I don’t need promises or plans or—gods, I know how complicated this is. I know.”

He stopped a few paces away, hands clenched in front of him like he was holding himself together by sheer force.

“I just need to know,” Merlin said, quieter now, “if it’s all right. To feel the way I feel about you.”

Arthur looked stricken.

Merlin laughed weakly. “Because I do. I know that much. And I can live with uncertainty, Arthur — I’ve lived with it my entire life. But I can’t go on thinking that wanting you makes me… a problem. Or a mistake.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and fragile.

Arthur stared at him like he’d been struck.

Merlin’s voice wavered, but he didn’t stop. “So if you’re pulling away because you think I expect something from you — I don’t. I just…” He exhaled shakily. “I just need you to tell me that I’m not wrong for this.”

Arthur’s chest felt like it was collapsing inward.

Gods.

He had never meant this. Never meant to make Merlin doubt himself, doubt this. He had been so busy wrestling with his own fear that he hadn’t seen what his silence was doing.

“Merlin,” Arthur said hoarsely. He took a step forward before he could think better of it. “Look at me.”

Merlin lifted his eyes.

Arthur had faced battlefields with less terror than he felt in that moment.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Arthur said honestly. “I don’t know what the right words are, or what the right shape of this is meant to be. I was taught not to want things I couldn’t control. Not to reach for things that could be used against me — or against the people I care about.”

Merlin’s breath hitched.

“My father…” Arthur swallowed. “He didn’t teach me how to be gentle. Or how to accept gentleness from anyone else. So when you look at me like you do — like I’m allowed to be more than what I am — it terrifies me.”

He let out a shaky breath. “But not because of you.”

Arthur stepped closer.

“Nothing about the way you feel is wrong,” he said, voice low and fierce with sincerity. “If anything, it’s… astonishing. And I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.”

Merlin shook his head immediately. “You don’t have to deserve it.”

Arthur huffed a weak, breathless laugh. “See? That. That’s the sort of thing I don’t know what to do with.”

Merlin stepped into his space then, closing the last distance between them.

“You don’t have to know,” Merlin said softly. “You don’t have to be good at this yet. I don’t need perfection, Arthur. I just need honesty. And trying.”

Arthur’s throat bobbed. “I am trying.”

“I know,” Merlin said, and meant it. “And I’ll try too. We can be terrible at it together, if you like.”

Something in Arthur’s expression finally broke.

For a heartbeat, he hesitated — not because he didn’t want this, but because he was still learning how to want it without fear.

Then he reached out — tentative at first — and drew Merlin into his arms.

Arthur held him carefully at first — like he was still learning the shape of this, the weight of it — then tighter, once he realised Merlin wasn’t pulling away.

Merlin melted into the embrace without hesitation, resting his forehead against Arthur’s shoulder, breathing him in like he’d been holding his breath all day.

“I want to learn,” Arthur murmured into his hair. “For you. I don’t know where this leads, and I’m afraid of what it could cost you — but I want to try.”

Merlin’s eyes burned.

“That’s all I want,” he whispered.

Arthur pulled back just enough to look at him, one hand still warm and steady at Merlin’s back. He hesitated — then leaned in, pressing a gentle, reassuring kiss to Merlin’s lips.

It wasn’t desperate.
It wasn’t urgent.

It was quiet and careful and full of promise.

Merlin sighed into it, smiling faintly when they parted.

Arthur rested his forehead against Merlin’s, eyes closed.

“We’ll figure this out,” he said.

Merlin smiled, heart aching in the best possible way.

“I know.”

And for the first time since the forest, the fear between them eased — not gone, not solved, but shared.

Which somehow made all the difference.

Notes:

Song: “Holding a Heart” - Toby Lightman

Arthur’s arc in this chapter is about being handed something precious before he knows how to hold it.

This song isn’t about confidence or triumph. It’s about restraint - the quiet panic of realising what you’re holding is alive, and that fear, not malice, might hurt it.

“Breathe in / Holding / Go on, begin to let go.”

Arthur is physically incapable of letting go at first.
After the kiss, his instinct is control:

He controls his hands.
His distance.
The situation.
Himself.

But emotionally, he’s already holding Merlin’s heart - and the terror is knowing he can’t set it down without damage.

In this chapter:
• Arthur doesn’t regret the kiss.
• He regrets how much it matters.
• Letting go doesn’t mean walking away - it means loosening fear’s grip.

That’s why he freezes instead of fleeing.

⸻

“I’m turning myself into somebody else.”

Arthur feels himself becoming someone Uther never prepared him to be.

He was trained to stand straight, suppress need, and see love as liability.

But wanting Merlin turns him into someone else - someone who aches, hesitates, and worries about gentleness.

That change frightens him more than danger ever has, because it isn’t a choice he can undo.

⸻

“Calm down… I’m holding a heart here in my hand.”

This lyric is the emotional thesis of Arthur’s POV.

Merlin’s trust is alive. Warm. Fragile.
Arthur feels it physically - like something breathing in his palms that could be hurt by tightening his grip.

That’s why he becomes painfully careful: orders instead of touches, formality instead of honesty, distance instead of tenderness.

He isn’t rejecting Merlin.
He’s trying not to break what he’s holding.

⸻

“My own work of art / Here where I stand.”

Arthur doesn’t see Merlin as a temptation.
He sees him as something astonishing.

Merlin isn’t just wanted - he is valued. Arthur sees his courage, humour, loyalty, and softness, and feels unworthy of it.

Arthur doesn’t think I shouldn’t want him.
He thinks I don’t know how to deserve him.

This isn’t self-loathing.
It’s reverence, tangled with fear.

⸻

“Give in so hard / To start living.”

Arthur’s final choice - pulling Merlin into his arms and kissing him gently - isn’t reckless surrender.

It’s giving in to living, not just desire.

He doesn’t promise safety or pretend the risks aren’t real.
He simply stops punishing both of them for wanting something human.

That’s the moment Arthur chooses to try instead of control.

-

Merlin’s POV

Song: “Feel About You (Acoustic)” - Aislin Evans

Merlin’s chapter isn’t about fear of being hurt.
It’s about fear of being wrong.

His arc is quieter than Arthur’s - but just as brave.

“You came out of nowhere / And you opened up my eyes.”

Arthur didn’t just become someone Merlin loved.

Arthur became someone who made Merlin realise how much he’d been surviving instead of living - how used he was to making himself smaller, how rarely he allowed himself to want openly.

Merlin doesn’t see Arthur as safety.
He sees Arthur as truth.

And truth is dangerous when you’ve been taught to hide.

⸻

“Take me into your arms and tell me it’s okay to feel the way I feel about you.”

This is Merlin’s core need.

He doesn’t ask Arthur to promise a future or solve the impossible.
He asks for moral permission.

Merlin has spent his life being told his magic is wrong, his instincts dangerous, his love punishable.

Arthur pulling away doesn’t just hurt - it reopens an old wound:

If he steps back, maybe I was wrong to feel this at all.

That’s why Merlin speaks up - not to demand, but to clarify reality.

⸻

“Wish I was normal / Wish that I could fit in.”

Merlin’s fear isn’t rejection.
It’s becoming a problem.

That’s why he’s careful: he waits, softens his voice, gives Arthur space.

But patience stretched too far starts to feel like erasure.

The longer Arthur stays silent, the more Merlin wonders whether loving him means disappearing again.

⸻

“I’m not fine without you.”

Merlin never says this out loud - but it’s true.

Not because Arthur completes him.
But because Arthur sees him - and being unseen again would hurt more than danger ever could.

So Merlin chooses honesty over safety.

⸻

“Take me into your arms.”

This isn’t about physical closeness alone.
It’s about being held without judgment.

When Arthur finally embraces Merlin, it answers the real question Merlin has been asking all chapter:

Am I allowed to feel this?

Arthur’s answer - gentle, steady, imperfect, trying - is yes.

Chapter 13: Beyond All Reason

Notes:

Song for this chapter- Beyond all Reason by Vancouver Sleep Clinic

Are you team ‘reckless Arthur’ or ‘trying-to-be-careful Arthur’?

Arthur had never realised how many people were always watching him.

He’d grown up under eyes, of course—courtiers gauging his moods, Uther measuring his worth, servants tracking his every movement. But he had never been so aware of it as he was now, walking through the courtyard with Merlin at his side, conscious of every glance, every bow, every flicker of attention.

Because now he had something to hide.

“Stop looking like you’ve committed treason,” Merlin muttered under his breath, arms full of laundry. “You’re making people nervous.”

“I have not committed treason,” Arthur hissed.

“Then why are you scowling like that?”

“This is just… my face.”

Merlin gave him a dubious look. “Right.”

They reached the steps up toward the training ground. Arthur’s guard captain saluted. A group of squires scrambled to look busy. Gwaine lounged against a pillar nearby, watching them approach with a grin that made Arthur’s skin prickle.

“Morning, Princess,” Gwaine drawled. “Merlin.”

“Don’t call me that,” Arthur said automatically.

Gwaine’s gaze slid from Arthur to Merlin and back again, sharp beneath the lazy humour. “You’re looking… well-rested, both of you. Sleep well?”

Merlin almost missed a step.

Arthur’s heart lurched. “I sleep as I always do.”

“Mm.” Gwaine’s smile widened. “Must be nice.”

Leon appeared at Arthur’s elbow, saving him. “Sire, the men are ready for inspection.”

Arthur latched onto the distraction with almost embarrassing relief. “Good. Let’s begin.”

He strode away, leaving Merlin to fend for himself under Gwaine’s too-knowing gaze.

If he didn’t stop now, he wouldn’t stop at all.

Behind him, he heard Gwaine say, “So, Merlin, anything interesting happen last night?”

Merlin’s voice rose an octave. “No! Absolutely not! Why would you even—”

Arthur nearly tripped over a spear rack.

⸻

Training helped.

There was nothing like the rhythm of drills, the weight of a sword, the burn of muscle to drag his mind away from Merlin’s mouth and back to matters like don’t get stabbed by your own knights. But distraction only went so far.

Especially when Merlin kept wandering into his peripheral vision.

Fetching water. Bringing fresh practice swords. Leaning against the fence with his arms folded and his eyes fixed on Arthur like he was the only thing worth watching.

Leon was the first to say something.

“You seem… distracted today, Sire,” Leon remarked as they traded blows.

Arthur parried too late and took a solid thump to the shoulder. “I am not distracted.”

Leon, long-suffering, simply raised his brows. “If you say so.”

A moment later, Arthur lost his footing and went down hard in the sand.

From the sidelines, Merlin winced. Gwaine laughed. Lancelot murmured, “He’s off his game.”

Arthur lay there for a beat, puffing, and thought miserably that he’d survived ambushes, magical creatures and his father’s temper, only to be undone by one very irritating, very kissable servant.

He got back to his feet and glared the knights into silence.

⸻

Merlin wasn’t having an easier time of it.

Being in love with Arthur had always been… complicated. Before, it had been a quiet ache he carried around with him—ordinary and hopeless and oddly manageable. Something he could tuck away in the corners of his heart like a secret letter never sent.

Now it was a living thing.

It sat in his chest like a bird too big for its cage, fluttering wildly whenever Arthur looked at him. When Arthur’s hand brushed his in passing. When Arthur’s voice softened on his name.

And when Arthur didn’t look at him, it hurt.

By mid-afternoon, Merlin had dropped a tray, called one of the noble ladies “my lord,” and very nearly walked straight into Uther in the corridor.

“Watch where you’re going, boy,” Uther had barked, and Merlin had mumbled apologies while thinking, If you knew how your son kissed me, you’d probably have me executed on the spot.

Which wasn’t helping his nerves.

He spent the rest of the day skittering around the edges of Arthur’s path—close enough to do his duties, far enough not to be suspicious while also somehow hoping Arthur would catch his eye.

It was exhausting.

By the time evening rolled around, he was frayed down to the thread.

When Arthur dismissed him from his duties for the night, Merlin nodded, bowed, and fled.

———

Arthur told himself he should be careful.

He made it through council, through a tense meal in the great hall, through Uther’s usual litany of complaints about neighbouring kingdoms. He even made it halfway back to his chambers afterwards, boots echoing on stone, mind rehearsing phrases like we must be careful and I need to wait for the right moment, when it’s safe.

He passed the corridor that led to Gaius’s quarters.

He didn’t look down it.

He got as far as the next archway before he turned around and went straight there.

He didn’t bother coming up with an excuse for himself. He was long past pretending this was about bandages or check-ups or anything but sheer, selfish need.

He just needed to see Merlin.

Just for a moment.

Just to know he was still here, still real, still his in this strange, secret way that made Arthur’s heart both soar and ache.

He knocked once on Gaius’s door and stepped in without waiting.

The main chamber was empty.

“Gaius?” he called.

No answer.

A faint murmur reached him from behind the door that led to Merlin’s room. Then a soft clink of glass. Arthur’s pulse quickened.

“Merlin?” he said.

Merlin poked his head out, hair ruffled, sleeves rolled up, a bottle of something in hand. “Oh! It’s you. Er. Hi.”

Arthur felt the corners of his mouth lift, helpless. “Who were you expecting? The King of Nemeth?”

“I’d take a dragon at this point,” Merlin muttered. “At least then I’d die quickly.”

Arthur frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.” Merlin stepped out, letting the curtain fall. “Gaius is with a patient. He said he’d be gone for a while.” He hesitated. “Did you… need something?”

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, anything sensible.

What came out was, “You.”

Merlin blinked. “Oh.”

Arthur swallowed. “To talk.”

“Right. Talking. Yes.” Merlin set the bottle down on the table with exaggerated care. “I’m very good at talking. I never shut up, people say. You say.”

Arthur felt a laugh escape him despite everything. “You’re rambling.”

“Sorry. Nervous.”

Arthur stepped closer, the air between them tightening. “We stand,” he said slowly, “on very dangerous ground.”

Merlin’s smile tilted wry. “When have we ever stood anywhere else?”

Arthur huffed. “Point.”

They looked at each other.

Outside, the castle murmured and creaked. Inside, the room seemed to shrink to just the two of them—the candlelight, the scattered books, the long shadow of Gaius’s worktable stretching across the floor.

“I meant what I said,” Arthur managed at last. “Last night. I don’t… know how to do this. Any of it. But I meant it.”

Merlin’s shoulders dropped, some of the tension easing out of him. “Good. Because I meant it too.”

Arthur’s chest eased, like a fist loosening.

Merlin took a small step forward. “So… what now?”

Arthur could have said: Now we set boundaries. Now we agree to be cautious.

Instead, he reached out and took Merlin’s hand.

Their fingers laced together as if they’d been waiting for it.

“Now,” Arthur said quietly, “we learn how to keep secrets.”

Merlin’s smile flashed, bright and a little disbelieving. “Those I can do.”

Arthur squeezed his hand. “And perhaps… we continue where we left off.”

Merlin’s breath hitched. “I wouldn’t object.”

Arthur was just starting to lean in when a loud voice echoed faintly from the corridor.

“—told you, Gwaine, Gaius is probably down here—”

Arthur jolted. Merlin jumped.

They stared at each other in horror.

“Hide,” Merlin hissed.

“Where?” Arthur demanded, glancing around the room.

Merlin shoved him toward the door. “In my room!”

“That is not better!”

“Just go!”

They stumbled through the door together, tangling for a second in the narrow gap, Merlin’s hand braced on Arthur’s chest. Arthur caught Merlin’s waist to steady him—just as the main door opened.

“Gaius?” Leon’s voice drifted in. “Are you here?”

Arthur froze.

Merlin froze.

They were pressed close, barely any space between them in the tiny room. Merlin’s back ended up against the wall, Arthur’s body half-blocking him from view.

From the other side of the curtain, Gwaine said, “Place is empty. Bet he’s off poking someone with leeches.”

“Gwaine,” Leon sighed.

“What? He does enjoy his leeches.”

“We could just leave the message on his table.”

“Or we could have a look around,” Gwaine mused. “You ever notice how Merlin always disappears in here? Could be he’s got a secret stash of something fun.”

Merlin mouthed, I’m going to kill him.

Arthur resisted the urge to groan.

Footsteps approached. The shadow of someone’s legs fell across the gap at the bottom of the door.

If they came in here—

Arthur shifted instinctively, angling himself closer, one hand coming up to brace against the wall beside Merlin’s head, the other still at his waist. They froze like that, breath held, Arthur’s body shielding Merlin without conscious thought.

“You hear something?” Gwaine asked.

Leon replied, dry and unimpressed, “No. And if I did, I’d pretend I didn’t. Come on.”

A beat.

Then another.

Bootsteps retreated. The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Arthur didn’t move at first.

He was suddenly acutely aware of everything — Merlin’s breath ghosting warm against his throat, the solid heat of him pressed close, the way Merlin’s pulse fluttered fast beneath his fingers.

Too close.

Too tempting.

Arthur moved before he could talk himself out of it.

He ducked his head and pressed his mouth to the curve of Merlin’s neck.

Merlin choked on a sound so sharp Arthur felt it vibrate against his lips.
“Arthur—”

“Shh,” Arthur breathed, the whisper ghosting over Merlin’s skin.

He hadn’t meant to kiss there. He hadn’t meant to kiss at all — not now.

But the moment his lips met the soft, warm skin just below Merlin’s jaw, something in him snapped like dried tinder.

Merlin’s hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the leather. His head tipped back against the stone, giving Arthur more room, more access.

Arthur should have pulled away.

He didn’t.

He let his mouth trail lower, pressing slow, lingering kisses down the column of Merlin’s throat. Merlin shivered, a helpless little tremor that went straight through Arthur.

Merlin breathed, “Arthur,” like a prayer and a curse all at once.

Arthur’s teeth grazed the place where Merlin’s neck met his shoulder, light at first, then firmer when Merlin arched into the touch. He sucked gently, the faintest mark, nothing that wouldn’t be hidden by a collar.

Merlin made a sound Arthur would be thinking about for weeks.

“Is this—” Merlin gasped, “—part of the hiding plan?”

“Absolutely not,” Arthur murmured against his skin. “This is… a separate initiative.”

Merlin huffed a desperate little laugh that turned into a soft moan when Arthur’s hands found his waist, sliding under the hem of his shirt. Merlin’s skin was warm, his muscles jumping slightly at the contact.

Arthur’s thumbs stroked slow circles at the small of his back. Merlin’s stomach tightened under his palm.

He wanted—gods, he wanted—

Too much.

Arthur forced himself to pause, to drag his mouth back up to Merlin’s jaw, then to his lips, catching them in a kiss that was deeper, hungrier than before. Merlin met him eagerly, mouth parting, breath mingling, one hand fisting in Arthur’s hair, the other clutching at his shoulder as if to anchor himself.

Arthur’s hand slid higher under Merlin’s shirt, fingers tracing the line of his spine. Merlin shuddered, pressing closer, until there was no space left at all.

Time blurred.

For a while, there was nothing but kissing and breath and the soft, helpless sounds Merlin made when Arthur’s mouth found a particularly sensitive spot along his throat. Arthur could feel his own self-control fraying, every nerve lit up, every instinct screaming more.

He deepened the kiss once, twice, tasting the edge of something that felt dangerously like losing himself entirely.

That was what finally jolted him back.

He broke the kiss on a sharp inhale, resting his forehead against Merlin’s, both of them panting.

Merlin blinked up at him, dazed, lips kissed-red, hair mussed where Arthur’s fingers had slid through it.

Arthur closed his eyes for a second.

“If we keep going,” he said, rough, “I am not going to be able to stop where I should.”

Merlin swallowed, colour high in his cheeks. “Who says we should?”

Arthur let out a strangled laugh. “Every law in this kingdom. Every expectation. Every set of eyes that would gladly drag you out into the courtyard if they knew what I want to do to you right now.”

Merlin’s fingers tightened in his tunic.

“I don’t care about them,” Merlin said, fiercely soft. “I care about you.”

Arthur’s heart stuttered.

“Idiot,” he murmured, because it was easier than saying I care about you more than anything and it terrifies me.

Merlin smiled, breathless. “Your idiot.”

That sent a ridiculous surge of warmth through him.

Arthur pulled back just enough to look at him properly, to see the flush on Merlin’s cheeks, the fond exasperation in his eyes, the trust.

“We have to be careful,” Arthur said, quieter now. “We can’t afford to get careless. Not here. Not where anyone could walk in.”

Merlin nodded, sobering. “I know. I don’t want to make things harder for you.”

“You make everything harder,” Arthur said, then winced. “That’s not—what I meant.”

Merlin snorted, biting his lip to keep from laughing outright. “Oh, I think I understood perfectly.”

Arthur glared half-heartedly, then kissed him again just to shut him up.

This one was brief—soft, lingering, a promise postponed rather than denied.

When they parted, Arthur let his hands slide back out from under Merlin’s shirt, fingers reluctant to leave the warm skin there.

Merlin caught one of his hands and squeezed it.

“We’ll figure it out,” Merlin said. “When and where and how we can… be this. Without getting executed.”

“That is a fairly important part of the plan, yes,” Arthur agreed dryly.

Merlin’s thumb brushed over his knuckles. “We’re good at impossible things. It’s sort of our speciality.”

Arthur couldn’t argue with that.

He pressed a final kiss to Merlin’s forehead, then stepped back, straightening his tunic and trying to look less like a man who’d just been thoroughly kissed in a cupboard.

“I should go,” he said grudgingly. “Before someone actually does come looking for Gaius.”

Merlin nodded, though his eyes were still soft, his lips still curved. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

Arthur hesitated at the door.

“Goodnight, Merlin,” he said. “And… if Gwaine starts asking questions, do not tell him anything.”

Merlin grinned wickedly. “Of course not. I’ll lie creatively.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”

———

He slipped out into the main chamber, then into the corridor, heart still pounding, skin still tingling where Merlin’s hands had been.

As he rounded the corner, he almost ran straight into Gwaine.

“Oh, evening, Sire,” Gwaine said, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Arthur forced his expression into bland neutrality. “I was checking on Gaius. For reports. On… medicinal stores.”

Gwaine’s mouth tipped. “In Merlin’s room?”

Arthur’s stomach dropped. “I wasn’t in Merlin’s—”

Gwaine snorted. “Relax, Princess. Your hair’s a mess, your collar’s crooked, and I’m not an idiot.”

Arthur bristled. “If you say a word—”

Gwaine held up his hands. “My lips are sealed. Truly. Leon might die of shock if I started gossiping with him in the corridor.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

Gwaine’s grin softened into something unexpectedly gentle. “Because I’ve never seen you look quite so alive as you have the past few days. Be careful. But… be happy, yeah?”

Arthur stared at him.

“Go away, Gwaine,” he finally muttered.

“Aye, aye.” Gwaine saluted, still smirking, and sauntered off.

Arthur watched him go, equal parts irritated and oddly grateful.

Then he turned toward his own chambers, fingers lifting unconsciously to touch his lips, where Merlin’s kiss still burned like an ember.

Keeping this secret would be close to impossible.

But impossible was where they’d always lived.

Notes:

This chapter was inspired by Beyond All Reason by Vancouver Sleep Clinic. I kept coming back to the feeling of loving someone in a way that refuses to stay contained — feelings that pushes through fear, logic, and self-preservation even when you know the risks.

For Arthur especially, this chapter sits right at that “point of no return.” He’s spent his entire life mastering restraint and control, but now he’s crossed a line he can’t uncross. The lyrics about being “at war with my nature” and“beyond all reason” mirror his internal conflict: knowing exactly how dangerous this is, and still choosing Merlin anyway.

“Safe in the hollows, sheltered and dry / I was waiting on your words”This is exactly the dynamic of the chapter’s first half: Arthur and Merlin moving through the castle performing normal, both of them waiting for the other to say something real again. Merlin is jittery all day, Arthur is distracting himself with training/council, but under it they’re both waiting for the next “what are we doing now?” moment.

“At war with my nature… at the point of no return”
Arthur’s inner conflict is textbook this lyric: he’s spent his whole life mastering restraint, image, control — and now he’s crossed a line he can’t uncross. The “dangerous ground” line is basically the same emotional beat.

“How can we pretend / When you love someone that love will never bend?”This is your central tension: they’re trying to act like nothing has changed (publicly), but the private reality refuses to stay contained. Arthur cannot go back to “just my servant,” and Merlin can’t go back to loving Arthur quietly from a safe distance.

“It’s beyond all reason… the part of me that’s burning through my chest”That’s Arthur in the hiding scene. He knows it’s reckless. He knows the stakes. And he still kisses Merlin’s neck anyway — because the want is bigger than logic in that moment. It’s not romance-as-pretty; it’s romance-as-compulsion-and-relief.

“Chasing a heartbeat, a rush to the head… and you’re back where you started / In pieces again”
This maps onto the cycle I’m building: secret closeness → interruption/panic → back to acting normal → emotional whiplash. Even the near-caught moment with Leon/Gwaine mirrors that “rush / then shattered back into reality” feeling.

“Against all sense / Against all gravity… Every step denying reality”
That’s the whole secret relationship premise in Camelot: the laws, Uther, the surveillance, class/rank — and still Arthur keeps choosing Merlin. Every step they take toward each other is a step “denying reality,” but it’s also the only thing that feels true.

Chapter 14: Normal ways

Notes:

Chapter inspired by In Normal Ways by Gia Margaret. More on that below for anyone interested :)

I’m thinking about putting together a playlist for this fic — if anyone has song suggestions that remind them of Arthur, Merlin, or the general vibe, I’d love to hear them!

Merlin was halfway across the training yard when Arthur saw it.

Merlin—standing far too close to Gwaine, laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world. Gwaine was leaned in with that lazy, infuriating grin, saying something clearly designed to pull that sound out of Merlin again.

And it worked.

Arthur’s jaw tightened.

The sound hit him sharper than it had any right to. Too easy. Too familiar. Merlin’s laugh had never been rare—but lately, Arthur had noticed when it wasn’t aimed at him.

He brought his sword down against the post with unnecessary force.

“Idiot,” he muttered.

Leon, nearby, paused mid-swing. Very deliberately resumed, as if he’d learned the art of hearing without acknowledging.

Merlin laughed again. Actually laughed. Then—gods help him—tilted his head and leaned closer to hear Gwaine better.

Arthur’s grip slipped. His blade nicked the wood.

“Moron,” Arthur added, louder, as if the post had offended him personally.

Enough.

“Merlin.”

His voice cut cleanly across the yard.

The sharpness was deliberate. Easier than letting anything else show.

Merlin froze.

Slowly—so slowly—he closed his eyes like a man bracing for impact.

Arthur felt a flicker of guilt at that. Buried it immediately.

“Yes?” Merlin called back, not turning.

“You were supposed to bring my armour.”

Merlin glanced down at his empty hands. Then toward the armoury. Then up at the sky, as if consulting the gods.

“Oh. That.”

Arthur folded his arms and stalked closer. He made sure his boots hit the ground like a declaration. Like a warning. Like he hadn’t been watching Merlin’s mouth curve into a smile that wasn’t meant for him.

This was the part he understood. Irritation. Authority. Familiar ground.

He stopped directly beside Merlin—close enough that Gwaine had to take a very deliberate step back to avoid being shouldered out of existence.

Arthur didn’t acknowledge it. He didn’t look at Gwaine at all.

“Don’t tell me you forgot,” Arthur said.

“I didn’t forget,” Merlin replied brightly. “I just… decided you didn’t need it.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “I’m training.”

“Yes,” Merlin said, turning at last, all wide-eyed innocence. “I can see that. Lots of shouting. Very impressive.”

Arthur leaned down slightly, lowering his voice just enough to sound like irritation instead of intent. He was painfully aware of how close they were now. Of how easy it would be to let it show.

“You think this is funny?”

Merlin’s eyes flicked over Arthur’s face—quick, soft, private. The kind of look that didn’t belong in a training yard. Then he smiled, like he’d found something he liked.

Arthur’s chest did something stupid.

“I think it’s fascinating,” Merlin said, “how someone so important can be so incapable of dressing himself.”

“I am perfectly capable—”

“—You once put your greaves on the wrong legs.”

Arthur bristled. “That was one time.”

“And you tripped over them.”

Gwaine made a soft, delighted sound—like a man enjoying a play and refusing to pretend otherwise. Arthur shot him a glare sharp enough to skin.

He hated that Gwaine was enjoying this. Hated that Merlin wasn’t pretending not to.

“Get the armour,” Arthur said.

Merlin didn’t move.

Arthur felt the absurd urge to smile. Suppressed it ruthlessly.

“You know,” Merlin went on thoughtfully, “for someone who’s meant to be the future of Camelot, you’re not very good at thinking ahead.”

Arthur scoffed. “Oh, here we go.”

“All muscle,” Merlin continued, voice mild, “no brain. Very intimidating.”

Arthur leaned in closer—too close, if anyone was paying attention. He told himself it was to intimidate. He told himself a lot of things.

Close enough that only Merlin could hear him.

“You’re insufferable,” Arthur says.

The insult landed softer than it should have. Familiar. Almost fond.

Merlin’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it softened—bright and infuriating and entirely unbothered.

“And yet,” Merlin murmured, “you’d be completely lost without me.”

Arthur opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Because the answer came too easily.

His gaze dropped—briefly, traitorously—to Merlin’s lips. Then snapped back up like that had never happened.

He straightened, letting the armour of rank settle back into place.

“…Just get the armour.”

Merlin tilted his head. “Say please.”

Arthur’s teeth ground together.

He could feel Gwaine’s presence like a weight at his back. Could feel the eyes. The watching.

This was the cost of caring where people could see.

Behind Merlin, Gwaine looked like he was seconds away from applauding.

“Please,” Arthur muttered.

Merlin paused. Savoured it. Then, with eyes dancing like he’d won something, he nodded once.

“There,” he said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He turned and walked toward the armoury, shoulders loose, like he hadn’t just dismantled Arthur in front of half the yard and enjoyed every second of it.

Arthur watched him go, expression carefully neutral.

He didn’t let himself watch for long.

He waited until Merlin was out of earshot.

“Insufferable,” he muttered.

The word held no heat at all.

Behind him, Gwaine cleared his throat.

“You know,” Gwaine said, casually—far too casually—“if you wanted to interrupt us, you could’ve just said so.”

Arthur didn’t look at him. “He has work to do.”

The lie slid out smoothly. He was very good at those.

“Mm,” Gwaine hummed. “Funny how his work always seems to involve standing very close to you.”

Arthur turned slowly, glare blazing. “Do you want latrine duty?”

Gwaine grinned, utterly unrepentant. “Worth it.”

Arthur stalked back to his post, picked up his sword, and resumed training with a little too much focus—each strike sharper, faster, as if he could carve the feeling out of his chest.

Across the yard, Merlin—out of sight—grinned to himself.

And Gwaine, watching Arthur’s back with bright, wicked amusement, decided he was going to have so much fun today.

⸻

Uther summoned Arthur that evening.

That alone put him on edge.

The throne room was quieter than usual at that hour, the fire low, the light slanting pale through the high windows. Uther stood by the map table rather than sitting, fingers braced against the edge as if the stone itself might try to escape him.

“There have been reports,” Uther said, without looking up. “From the eastern trade road.”

Arthur stepped closer, boots echoing faintly against the stone. “Reports of what?”

Uther’s jaw tightened. He moved one of the carved markers across the map with a sharp, deliberate motion. “Strange behaviour. Animals unsettled. Lights seen at night.”

Arthur waited, spine straight, expression neutral.

“Superstitious nonsense, most likely,” Uther continued briskly. “But even rumours of sorcery must be investigated.”

There it was.

Arthur folded his arms, feeling the familiar tightening in his chest. “If you believe it’s nothing, why send anyone at all?”

Uther’s gaze snapped up, cold and measuring. “Because I will not allow magic to fester unchecked within riding distance of Camelot. Small things become large ones if they’re ignored.”

Arthur held his ground. He had learned, over years, exactly how much resistance he was allowed. “Then you want a patrol.”

“No.” Uther shook his head. “That would draw attention. Panic. Gossip.” His lip curled faintly. “I want this handled quietly.”

“How quietly?” Arthur asked.

“Small,” Uther said. “Contained. You will go.”

Arthur nodded once, unsurprised. He had expected nothing else.

“You’ll take a small group.” Uther paused—just long enough to be deliberate. “Men you trust.”

Arthur’s thoughts flickered immediately: Leon’s steadiness. Lancelot’s quiet strength. Gwaine’s instincts, sharp beneath the humour.

And—

His gaze slid, unbidden, toward the doors.

Merlin stood waiting at a careful distance, hands clasped behind his back, eyes lowered like the model of attentiveness. He looked, to anyone else, like nothing more than a servant doing his duty.

Arthur knew better.

“And your servant,” Uther added, as if the decision were an afterthought. “He’s proven… useful.”

The word landed oddly.

Arthur felt a brief, unwanted spark of pride—quick and sharp as flint. Merlin had proven himself. Again and again. Clever, brave, relentlessly loyal.

Then the spark curdled into something colder.

Useful meant noticed.

Useful meant observed.

Useful meant Merlin was now within Uther’s line of sight in a way Arthur did not like at all.

For a second, Arthur’s thoughts slipped back to Ealdor.
He shoved the memory aside before it could fully form — the wind, the panic, the way his first instinct had been Merlin.

Will’s confession had settled everything neatly. Too neatly, if he were being honest.
Arthur refused to follow the thought any further, telling himself — firmly — that coincidence was not the same as truth.

Arthur kept his face carefully blank. “Of course,” he said evenly.

Uther straightened. “You leave today. I don’t want this lingering.”

Arthur inclined his head. “We’ll see to it.”

As he turned to go, Uther’s voice cut after him, sharp as flint striking steel.

“If there is magic involved, Arthur—”

“I know,” Arthur said quietly.

He did.

He left the throne room without looking back.

In the corridor beyond, Merlin lifted his head as Arthur approached, blue eyes searching his face—quick, instinctive, already braced for whatever verdict had just been delivered.

Arthur saw the question there.

He didn’t answer it.

Not yet.

“Pack light,” Arthur said instead. “We’re riding east.”

Merlin blinked—just once—then nodded, already turning toward the stairs without complaint.

“Right,” he said simply.

As they walked side by side down the corridor, Arthur became acutely aware of the weight of the choice he’d just made.

A magic-adjacent mission.
A small, trusted group.
And Merlin—clever, reckless, irreplaceable Merlin—right where Arthur could see him.

Where Uther could too.

Arthur’s jaw tightened.

This wasn’t just about investigating rumours anymore.

It was about keeping Merlin close.

And keeping him safe—
from whatever waited on the road ahead,
and from the far more dangerous scrutiny behind them.

⸻

The road east was quieter than Arthur expected.

Not silent — never that — but unburdened. No court whispers trailing after him, no council eyes measuring every breath. Just the steady rhythm of hooves on packed dirt, the low creak of leather, the open sky stretching wide and indifferent overhead.

Arthur rode at the front out of habit.

Merlin rode just behind his shoulder.

Arthur didn’t tell him to move back.

Gwaine noticed immediately.

“Well,” Gwaine said cheerfully, breaking a stretch of companionable quiet, “this is cosy.”

Arthur kept his eyes forward. “We’re on a road.”

“Yes,” Gwaine agreed. “But normally you ride like you’re allergic to company.”

Arthur flicked him a look. “Focus.”

Leon sighed, long-suffering, from the other side. Lancelot said nothing, but Arthur caught the faint curve of his mouth — the look of a man who had already decided how this was going to go and was letting the rest of them wear themselves out first.

Merlin leaned forward in his saddle slightly, close enough that Arthur felt it rather than saw it — the brush of fabric, the warmth at his side.

Arthur’s shoulders eased before he could stop them.

He hadn’t realised how tense he’d been.

That thought startled him enough that he straightened again, posture snapping back into place. He told himself it was vigilance. Responsibility. Leadership.

It had nothing to do with Merlin riding close enough that Arthur could hear his breathing if he paid attention.

He absolutely did not pay attention.

Behind them, Gwaine rode close to Merlin’s other side, close enough to invade personal space with practiced ease.

“So,” Gwaine said lightly, “Merlin. Ever been east before?”

Merlin shrugged. “Once or twice. Nearly died. You know how it is.”

Arthur snorted despite himself.

Gwaine grinned. “Charming travel recommendation.”

“Oh, it’s lovely,” Merlin assured him. “If you enjoy mild peril and sleeping on questionable floors.”

“Lucky for me,” Gwaine said, eyes glinting, “I enjoy questionable floors. And questionable company.”

Merlin laughed — soft, unguarded.

Arthur’s grip tightened on the reins.

He told himself it was nothing. Gwaine flirted with anything that moved. Merlin laughed at everything. This was normal. Harmless.

Still.

Arthur shifted his horse a fraction closer to Merlin under the pretence of correcting their formation. Their knees brushed.

Merlin startled slightly, then relaxed — and didn’t move away.

That felt… significant.

Arthur stared very hard at the road ahead.

The day wore on gently. Conversation drifted and returned, easy as breath. Leon and Lancelot discussed route options. Gwaine complained loudly about the pace. Merlin chimed in with commentary no one had asked for.

Arthur found himself listening without meaning to. Found that when Merlin spoke, the road seemed shorter.

When Merlin fell quiet, Arthur noticed.

He didn’t name that either.

By the time they reached the inn, dusk was settling in, the sky streaked with fading gold and bruised violet. The building itself was squat and weathered, a little crooked, smoke curling from the chimney like a promise.

Arthur dismounted first, rolling stiffness out of his shoulders.

Merlin slid down a moment later, boots hitting the ground a little awkwardly. Arthur’s hand shot out on instinct, catching his elbow.

“I’ve got you,” he said automatically.

Merlin blinked up at him.

Then smiled — small, private, like he was tucking the moment away.

“I know,” Merlin said.

Arthur let go at once, pulse doing something unhelpful.

Inside, the inn was warm and loud and smelled faintly of stew and woodsmoke. The innkeeper looked them over with a practised eye and paled slightly when Arthur introduced himself.

“We’ll need rooms,” Arthur said.

The innkeeper hesitated. “Well… rooms, yes. Beds…” He winced. “We’re a bit full tonight.”

“How many beds?” Gwaine asked.

“Two,” the innkeeper said apologetically.

Silence.

Then:

“Oh, absolutely not,” Arthur said.

Gwaine brightened. “Oh, absolutely yes.”

Leon pinched the bridge of his nose. Lancelot exhaled slowly, already resigned.

Merlin looked between them. “We’ve slept worse places.”

“That is not the point,” Arthur said firmly.

Gwaine slung an arm around Merlin’s shoulders with infuriating ease. “I don’t mind sharing. Merlin doesn’t bite.”

Merlin snorted. “You don’t know that.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched.

“No,” Arthur said flatly. “You’re not sharing with him.”

Gwaine raised a brow. “Didn’t realise you were so invested.”

Arthur felt heat creep up his neck. “He’s my servant.”

Merlin shot him a look. “Charming.”

“And you snore,” Arthur added, grasping for authority like a lifeline.

“I do not!”

“You do.”

“Only when I’m drunk!”

“Which is always,” Arthur snapped.

Lancelot cleared his throat. “I’ll take the floor.”

Everyone turned to him.

“That’s not necessary,” Leon said tiredly.

“It’s fine,” Lancelot replied calmly. “I’ve slept on worse. And this ends the argument.”

Gwaine pouted. “You’re no fun.”

Lancelot smiled mildly. “I’ve been told.”

Arthur opened his mouth — then closed it.

Because the truth was: he didn’t want Merlin anywhere near Gwaine’s bed.

And he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to explain why.

“Fine,” Arthur said curtly. “Merlin, you’re with me.”

Merlin’s heart skipped. He kept his voice steady. “All right.”

The room they were given was small. Two narrow beds, barely space to walk between them. The others settled quickly, exhaustion winning out over commentary.

Eventually, the room fell quiet.

Arthur lay stiffly on his side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Merlin lay beside him, equally rigid, hands folded awkwardly over his chest like he was trying not to exist.

This was a terrible idea, Arthur thought.

This was also the best idea he’d had all day.

“You don’t have to hover at the edge,” Merlin whispered.

Arthur huffed softly. “I’m not hovering.”

“You are,” Merlin said gently. “You’re about to fall off.”

Arthur shifted an inch closer.

Their shoulders brushed.

Neither of them spoke.

The quiet stretched — not awkward. Just… full.

Arthur realised he could hear Merlin breathing. Steady. Real.

He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed this closeness until it was here again.

“I’m glad it’s you,” Merlin said quietly.

Arthur’s chest tightened.

“Me too,” he replied, before he could stop himself.

They lay like that for a moment longer — then Merlin shifted, tentative, his arm brushing Arthur’s side.

Arthur hesitated.

Then he turned slightly, just enough that Merlin could rest against him without it being obvious.

Merlin exhaled, a soft sound of relief.

Arthur lifted a hand and rested it lightly against Merlin’s hair, fingers barely touching.

A promise disguised as accident.

He pressed a brief, careful kiss to Merlin’s forehead — cautious, chaste, but full of everything he wasn’t ready to say yet.

Merlin smiled into his shoulder.

They would separate before morning, Arthur told himself.

They would be careful.

They would absolutely fail.

Because when Arthur woke later, Merlin was curled against him, head tucked under his chin, one hand fisted in Arthur’s tunic like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Arthur closed his eyes.

He didn’t move.

He could hear it in the silence now.

And he wasn’t ready to let it go.

———

Merlin woke warm.

That was the first confusing thing.

He never woke warm. Not on the road. Not on a lumpy mattress stuffed with straw. Not with thin blankets and Gwaine’s snoring echoing off the walls.

But warmth pulsed all around him. A firm, steady weight rested over his waist. Something solid pressed against his back. And—gods—there was breath against the back of his neck.

Slow. Even. Familiar.

Arthur.

Merlin’s eyes opened fully.

Arthur’s arm was wrapped around him, hand splayed protectively over his stomach, thumb curled under the hem of Merlin’s shirt. Their legs were tangled together in an unintentional knot. Arthur’s chest was pressed firmly against Merlin’s spine, rising and falling in soft breaths that ghosted across Merlin’s skin.

Merlin didn’t dare breathe.

His heart fluttered helplessly—too loud, too warm, too much.

How is this real? How is he holding me like—like I matter?

He lay perfectly still, drinking in the moment with a kind of desperate, quiet hunger.

Arthur stirred behind him.

Merlin froze.

The arm around his waist tightened instinctively, pulling him closer. Arthur’s breath hitched against the base of Merlin’s neck, warm and unguarded, and Merlin had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop a soft sound from escaping.

Then Arthur’s mind caught up with his body.

His whole body tensed.

“Merlin?” he murmured—hushed, gravelly, intimate.

Merlin swallowed. “Morning.”

Arthur went absolutely still.

Merlin felt the exact moment the prince realized how tangled they were.

Arthur shifted slightly—just enough to glance over Merlin’s shoulder—and the sight must have hit him like a blow because he inhaled sharply. “We—were we—”

“Sleeping,” Merlin whispered, face burning. “Just. Sleeping.”

Arthur’s voice was quiet and hoarse. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I didn’t either,” Merlin said quickly. “It’s fine. It’s good. I mean—not good—just—not bad—”

Arthur made a strangled sound.

Merlin wanted to dissolve into the mattress.

Then—

A loud, obnoxious voice shattered the fragile intimacy.

“Well, well, well,” Gwaine drawled from across the room. “Look at you two.”

Merlin almost fell off the bed.

Arthur recoiled like he’d touched something burning, sitting up so abruptly the bedframe creaked. Merlin scrambled upright beside him, hair wild, shirt rumpled.

Gwaine sat on his own bed, grinning wickedly. Leon sat next to him, burying his face in both hands in secondhand embarrassment.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Gwaine chirped. “Cuddle away.”

Arthur’s ears went red.

“We were not—” Arthur began.

“You absolutely were,” Gwaine said.

“We—Merlin moved,” Arthur insisted.

“You dragged me,” Merlin blurted.

Gwaine cackled. Leon sighed deeply.

Lancelot—who had been quietly lacing his boots by the doorway—glanced over, expression gentle and understanding. When Merlin caught his eye, he offered a small, reassuring smile that made Merlin breathe a little easier.

Arthur, however, was spiraling.

He stood too quickly, reaching for his boots, jaw clenched tight. Merlin could practically see the storm of thoughts battering behind his eyes.

We were seen.
They know.
He was in my arms.
I held him.
I want to hold him again.
Gods, what am I doing?

Arthur shoved one foot into a boot and nearly missed.

Gwaine noticed.

“Oh, steady there, Your Majesty,” he said brightly. “Wouldn’t want you falling over now. Tragic way to start the day.”

Arthur shot him a glare that could have curdled milk. “If you don’t stop talking—”

“What?” Gwaine said innocently. “I’m just appreciating the… domestic scene.”

Leon made a muffled sound from behind his hands. Something between a groan and a prayer.

“This is none of your business,” Arthur snapped.

Gwaine arched a brow. “You made it my business the moment you decided to spoon your servant in a room with four witnesses.”

Merlin made a strangled noise.

Arthur’s head snapped toward him. “I was not spooning.”

Merlin stared very hard at the floor. “You were… adjacent.”

“Extremely adjacent,” Gwaine agreed. “Protectively so. Very knightly. Very romantic.”

Arthur opened his mouth to argue — then seemed to realise there was no version of events where he came out of this looking dignified.

He shut it again.

Lancelot cleared his throat gently. “It’s all right,” he said, calm and steady. “No one is offended.”

Leon finally lowered his hands, blinking at them both like a man who had seen something irreversible. “I am,” he said flatly. “Emotionally.”

Merlin let out a weak, hysterical huff of laughter before he could stop himself.

Arthur glanced at him — just for a second — and something in his expression softened. Not enough for anyone else to catch. Enough for Merlin to feel it.

Gwaine caught it anyway.

“Oh,” he said, delighted. “That look. That was new.”

Arthur rounded on him. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

Gwaine beamed. “I’ve waited years.”

Leon rubbed his temples. “Can we please just… get dressed and pretend this conversation never happened?”

“Too late,” Gwaine said cheerfully. “I’ll be telling this story to my grandchildren.”

“You will not,” Arthur growled.

Lancelot finished tying his boots and stood, adjusting his cloak. “For what it’s worth,” he said mildly, “you both look… comfortable.”

Merlin risked a glance at Arthur.

Arthur looked back.

Just for a heartbeat.

There was no panic there now. No regret. Just a quiet, startled fondness — like Arthur was still adjusting to the shape of waking up with Merlin pressed against him.

That felt louder than any words.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Right. We’re moving out.”

Gwaine smirked. “After breakfast?”

“Yes,” Arthur snapped. “After breakfast.”

“And after you stop looking at Merlin like you’re deciding whether to kiss him again or hide him in a cupboard,” Gwaine added helpfully.

Arthur pointed at the door. “Outside. Now.”

Gwaine laughed, rising easily. “As you wish, Princess.”

He clapped Merlin lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “Good morning, sunshine.”

Merlin’s ears burned. “Go away.”

Leon followed, muttering something about needing stronger ale. Lancelot lingered just long enough to meet Merlin’s eyes again — reassuring, steady — before giving a small nod and leaving as well.

The door shut.

Silence fell.

Arthur exhaled slowly, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I didn’t mean for that to—”

Merlin shook his head. “It’s all right.”

Arthur hesitated. “It is?”

Merlin swallowed, heart still racing. “Yeah. I mean. It was… nice.”

Arthur’s mouth twitched despite himself.

“It was,” he admitted quietly.

They stood there, awkward and soft and a little stunned, the echo of warmth still lingering between them.

From outside the door, Gwaine’s voice floated back cheerfully:

“So, who wants to place bets on how long before they forget we exist again?”

Arthur groaned.

Merlin smiled.

Notes:

This chapter was inspired by In Normal Ways by Gia Margaret. On the surface, this is a jealous, banter-heavy chapter — Arthur scowling, posturing, pretending he’s irritated — but underneath it’s about something much quieter and more dangerous for him: wanting Merlin in ways that are ordinary.

Arthur doesn’t know how to want Merlin openly yet, so it comes out sideways — hovering, inventing excuses to keep him close, bristling when someone else occupies that space. What he’s really reaching for is something the song keeps circling: waking up together, sharing warmth, feeling Merlin’s weight beside him, the kind of closeness that feels normal and grounding rather than dramatic or forbidden.

That’s why the inn scene matters so much. For a few hours, Arthur gets exactly what he’s been craving — not a declaration, not a grand choice, just Merlin curled against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And that softness exists under constant pressure: Uther, magic, danger, and the knowledge that “normal” isn’t something this world easily allows them.

Arthur doesn’t have the language for any of this yet. He only knows that when Merlin is close, he breathes easier — and when he isn’t, everything feels sharper.

Chapter 15: Men on the moon

Notes:

Chapter inspired by- Men on the moon by Chelsea Cutler. More on that below as always 😉

The road east was narrow but well-worn, hedged in by fields just beginning to turn gold at the edges. The air smelled of dust and late summer, and the steady rhythm of hooves lent itself easily to conversation.

Which Gwaine, naturally, took full advantage of.

“So,” he said cheerfully, riding a little closer to Merlin than strictly necessary, “do you always look this charming when you’re being dragged into potential danger, or is this a special occasion?”

Merlin snorted. “This is my danger face.”

Gwaine tilted his head, considering. “I’d hate to see the casual version.”

Merlin laughed—an easy, unguarded sound—and shook his head. “You really don’t.”

Arthur heard it.

Of course he did.

He kept his gaze forward, reins loose in his hands, posture relaxed in a way that had taken years to perfect. To anyone watching, he looked unbothered. Mildly amused, even.

Inside, something tight and unpleasant twisted.

Because that laugh—that laugh—had sounded the same this morning. Soft. Unforced. Still half-warm with sleep when Arthur had woken behind him, arm heavy around Merlin’s waist, breath at his neck.

For one quiet moment, it had felt… easy.

No thinking. No fear. Just warmth and closeness and the startling realisation that Merlin fit there like he belonged.

Arthur swallowed.

Gwaine leaned in slightly as Merlin replied, lowering his voice just enough that Merlin had to tilt his head closer to hear him. Merlin obliged without thinking, shoulders brushing Gwaine’s arm as their horses drifted nearer together.

Arthur’s jaw clenched.

Leon cleared his throat quietly, pointedly, and adjusted his grip on the reins. Lancelot shot him a brief look—aware, calm, saying nothing.

Arthur said nothing too.

Gwaine was like this with everyone. Open. Easy. Reckless with charm. And Merlin—Merlin laughed with people. He always had. It was one of the things Arthur liked about him. The way he lightened rooms without trying.

So why did it feel different now?

“Careful,” Gwaine was saying. “If you keep smiling at me like that, I might start thinking you enjoy my company.”

Merlin grinned. “I enjoy lots of terrible things.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Gwaine replied smoothly.

Arthur shifted in his saddle, leather creaking softly.

This looks so easy for them, he thought, before he could stop himself.

No hesitation. No careful glances around. No pulling back at the last second like Arthur had done—standing in that room, heat still lingering between them, apologising for something that had felt right.

No laws hanging over them.
No secrets waiting to cut deep if they slipped.
No danger in wanting.

Merlin laughed again, nudging his horse forward slightly as if to escape Gwaine’s grin—though not very hard. Gwaine followed with infuriating ease.

Arthur’s chest tightened.

Could Merlin have that?
Could he wake like that every morning—warm, unafraid, without having to second-guess every touch or word?

Arthur had woken holding him and immediately thought of everything that could go wrong.

Gwaine would wake and simply reach.

Arthur felt the distance between himself and Merlin stretch—not in space, but in something heavier. Quieter.

He could have joined in. Thrown out a cutting remark. Told Gwaine to mind himself. That was his role, wasn’t it? Prince. Commander. Irritatingly present force.

Instead, he stayed silent.

And the silence sat there, thick and noticeable, like a held breath no one wanted to acknowledge.

Merlin glanced back at him then, just briefly—an instinctive check, a flicker of awareness. Their eyes met for half a second.

Arthur gave him nothing.

He couldn’t trust himself to.

Merlin’s smile faltered, just a fraction, before he turned forward again.

Gwaine noticed.

Arthur saw that too.

The laughter continued. The road rolled on.

And Arthur rode beside them, quiet as a drawn blade, unable to shake the memory of waking with Merlin in his arms—and the sharp, unwelcome thought that maybe someone else could give Merlin that ease without ever having to let go.

⸻

Merlin felt it immediately.

Arthur’s silence wasn’t anger — Merlin knew what that sounded like. This was something else. A careful withdrawal. A tightening inward, like Arthur had climbed somewhere high again, somewhere Merlin couldn’t quite follow.

Merlin had learned there were places Arthur went that he couldn’t reach — not because Arthur shut him out, but because he’d been raised too high, too alone. Because duty and fear and responsibility lived up there with him, pressing down like thin air.

Merlin glanced at him from the corner of his eye.

Arthur rode straight-backed and distant, gaze fixed on the road ahead, wearing the stillness like armour. Like a prince again.

And Merlin — for all that he stood beside him, for all that they had shared in the dark — didn’t know how to reach him there.

Not without pulling.
Not without asking for something Arthur wasn’t ready to give.

So Merlin waited.

Not helplessly. Not hopelessly.

He waited because some distances could only be crossed when the other person chose to come down.

⸻

Arthur told himself it didn’t matter.

That this was nothing. That he was being ridiculous. Merlin laughed with everyone. Merlin leaned in when people spoke softly. Merlin had always been warm like that — open, easy to touch, easy to be around.

Arthur was the one who was different.

He felt it like a flaw some days.

He rode on in silence, the sound of hooves and distant birds filling the space where his thoughts refused to quiet. Gwaine’s voice drifted in and out of his awareness, punctuated by Merlin’s laughter, and each time Arthur felt it land somewhere uncomfortably close to his ribs.

Why does this bother me so much?

The answer came too quickly.

Because when Merlin laughed like that this morning, half-asleep and pressed warm against Arthur’s chest, it had felt like something fragile and rare. Something Arthur had already started telling himself he didn’t deserve.

Because when Merlin leaned into him, Arthur had immediately thought about consequences.

And when Merlin leaned into someone else, Arthur thought about how easy it looked.

Am I being selfish?
he wondered suddenly.

The thought unsettled him more than the jealousy had.

Arthur had always been taught to put duty first. To weigh every choice by its cost. To sacrifice personal want for the greater good without hesitation.

So why did this feel like he was failing that lesson?

Was he keeping Merlin close because Merlin wanted it…
or because Arthur needed it?

He replayed the way Merlin had looked at him that night — standing there in that too-small room, hands clenched like he was bracing for impact, asking not for promises but for permission.

I just need to know if it’s all right.

Arthur’s jaw tightened.

Merlin was kind. In ways Arthur wasn’t sure he fully understood. Kind enough to wait. Kind enough to soften his voice instead of demanding. Kind enough to make space for Arthur’s fear instead of taking it personally.

Arthur had let himself lean on that kindness.

And now—now he was sitting here in silence, letting his own thoughts spiral instead of doing the one thing Merlin had asked of him.

The realisation hit him hard enough that he almost missed the turn in the road.

No.

No, this is what I always do.

He knew this pattern too well — the retreat disguised as restraint. The distance framed as protection. The careful logic that sounded noble and ended with Arthur standing alone, having decided what was best for everyone without ever giving them a choice.

Merlin had called him out on it.

Gently. Honestly. With that infuriating clarity that always stripped Arthur bare.

We’re in this together.
I need honesty.
I don’t need perfection. I need trying.

Arthur exhaled slowly, the breath steadying something inside him.

He had promised.

Not certainty. Not safety. Not that he would get this right every time.

But that he would try.

And trying meant not disappearing into his own head the moment things got difficult.

It meant trusting Merlin enough to believe that laughter didn’t equal replacement. That kindness didn’t mean obligation. That choosing Arthur, even quietly, still counted as a choice.

Arthur glanced sideways again — just once.

Merlin was listening to Gwaine now, smile softer, more distracted. As if some part of him was elsewhere.

Arthur felt something shift.

Not possessiveness.

Resolve.

He didn’t need to compete.
He didn’t need to test or withdraw or punish himself with silence.

He needed to talk to Merlin.

Actually talk. Before fear dressed itself up as reason and did the damage for him.

Arthur straightened in the saddle, fingers tightening briefly on the reins before easing again.

Not later, he decided.

Not after I’ve made this worse.

Soon.

And this time, he wouldn’t let his fear speak for him.

ground.

⸻

Arthur doesn’t plan it.

That’s how he knows he’s reached the edge.

They’ve barely stopped to water the horses when Gwaine says something—too close to Merlin’s ear, too low, too familiar—and Merlin laughs, tipping his head back just slightly, sunlight catching in his hair.

Something in Arthur gives way.

“Merlin.”

The word is sharp enough that Merlin startles.

Arthur is already dismounting, already reaching for Merlin’s wrist before he’s fully aware of the movement. He doesn’t drag him. Doesn’t yank.

Just grips, firm and urgent.

“Come with me.”

Gwaine’s brows lift. “Everything all right, Princess?”

Arthur doesn’t look at him. “Fine.”

He doesn’t wait for permission.

Merlin stumbles a half-step to keep up, heart kicking into a gallop—not fear, exactly, but surprise, the sudden awareness that something has shifted.

Arthur leads him off the road, into the cover of trees just far enough that the sounds of the others blur into background noise. He stops abruptly, turns—

—and suddenly Merlin is right there. Too close. Close enough that Merlin can feel the tension radiating off him, see it in the tight line of his jaw, the way his chest rises a little too fast.

“Arthur?” Merlin says softly. “What’s wrong?”

Arthur opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

He drags a hand through his hair, pacing a step away, then back again like the space between them physically hurts.

“I—” He exhales hard. “I can’t— I’m trying not to do the thing I always do.”

Merlin’s brow creases. “Which thing?”

Arthur lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. Almost.

“Decide everything on my own. Convince myself I know what’s best and then—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “And then shut down.”

Merlin’s chest tightens.

Arthur steps closer again, unable to stop himself this time. Not touching—not yet—but crowding Merlin’s space like distance is suddenly intolerable.

“When I see you with him,” Arthur says, voice low, rougher now, “I start telling myself stories. That you’re just being kind to me. That this—” His gaze flicks between them, helpless. “—is easier with someone else. That I should step back before I make things harder for you.”

Merlin’s breath catches. “Arthur—”

“I know,” Arthur says quickly. “I know that’s not fair. I know you told me—” His voice dips, unguarded. “—you told me we’re meant to do this together.”

He swallows.

“But I wake up with you in my arms, and it feels so right it scares me. And then I see how easily you laugh with someone else, and I think—gods, what if I’m the one making this dangerous?”

Merlin steps forward this time.

Deliberately.

He closes the last inch of space, one hand coming up to rest against Arthur’s chest, right over his heart. He can feel how fast it’s beating.

“I chose you,” Merlin says quietly.

Arthur stills.

“I’m choosing you,” Merlin repeats. “Right now. I laugh with Gwaine because he’s ridiculous. I lean in because that’s who I am. But I want—” His fingers curl slightly in Arthur’s tunic. “—this. You.”

Arthur’s control fractures.

He leans in without quite meaning to, bracing one hand against the tree behind Merlin, trapping him there without pressing—just close enough that Merlin can feel the heat of him, the tension in every line of his body.

“Say it again,” Arthur murmurs, voice gone gravel-dark.

Merlin’s pulse skids.

“You,” he says, breathless but steady. “I want you.”

Something raw flashes across Arthur’s face—relief, need, something dangerously close to hunger.

His other hand comes up, cups Merlin’s jaw, thumb brushing his cheek with reverent urgency.

“Mine,” Arthur breathes, the word slipping out before he can stop it. “I— I need to know—”

Merlin doesn’t let him finish.

He rises onto his toes and kisses him.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not restrained.

It’s answering.

Arthur groans softly into Merlin’s mouth, the sound torn from him, and suddenly he’s kissing back like he’s been holding himself together with thread. His hand slides into Merlin’s hair, grip tightening just enough to make Merlin gasp.

“Yes,” Merlin murmurs against his lips. “Yours.”

Arthur’s breath stutters.

He crowds closer, pressing Merlin fully back against the tree now, no space left between them. His free hand slides under Merlin’s shirt, palm flattening against warm skin, fingers splaying at the small of his back.

Merlin shudders—hard.

“Oh,” he breathes, the sound breaking open as Arthur’s thumb brushes over his spine.

That does it.

Merlin’s hands clutch at Arthur, one gripping his cloak, the other tangling in his hair and pulling, just enough to make Arthur suck in a sharp, helpless breath.

He kisses down Merlin’s jaw, along his throat, mouth open now, desperate. Teeth graze skin. Then lips. Then a slow, deliberate suck that draws a broken sound from Merlin’s chest.

Arthur presses his mouth there again, harder this time, half-instinct, half-claim. He knows he’s leaving a mark even as he does it—and the knowledge sends a dark, possessive thrill through him that nearly undoes him completely.

Merlin moans.

Not loud. Not theatrical.

Just real.

The sound punches straight through Arthur’s restraint.

He groans, low and rough, forehead dropping to Merlin’s shoulder as he fights for breath, for control, for sanity.

His hand tightens at Merlin’s back, fingers digging in like he wants skin on skin, wants more, wants—

He stills.

Forces himself to breathe.

Gods.

“I want to keep going,” Arthur admits hoarsely, voice barely holding together. “I want—” He swallows hard. “But not like this. Not here. Not where I have to stop myself like this.”

Merlin’s hands slide up to his shoulders, grounding, warm. “Later,” he says softly. “When it’s safe.”

Arthur nods, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving.

“I promise,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Merlin’s temple. “Later. I won’t—” Another breath. “—I won’t disappear on you.”

Merlin leans into him, forehead resting against Arthur’s collarbone. “I know.”

They stay like that for a few seconds longer—breathing, steadying, realigning.

Arthur’s hands ease, slipping reluctantly back to Merlin’s waist, thumbs brushing once, lingering.

Then he steps back—just enough.

Enough to survive.

He looks at Merlin like he’s memorising him.

“Come on,” Arthur says quietly. “Before Gwaine decides to follow us.”

Merlin smiles, flushed and bright and very much chosen.

They walk back together.

This time, Arthur doesn’t let the distance grow again.

⸻

The road feels different after.

Merlin notices it first—not because anything obvious has changed, but because he has.

His pulse is still a little unsteady, warmth curling low in his stomach where Arthur’s hands had been, where his mouth had lingered. Every step his horse takes seems to echo with it, a quiet reminder that what just happened was real. Chosen. Not imagined.

Arthur rides beside him.

Not too close. Not distant either.

Close enough that Merlin can see the way Arthur’s shoulders have loosened, the way his hands rest easier on the reins. Close enough that when their horses drift nearer, Arthur doesn’t pull away.

Merlin lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

He’d spent so long learning to love Arthur quietly—carefully—that part of him had been braced for this to vanish the moment it became difficult. For Arthur to retreat behind duty and fear and that impossible sense of responsibility he carried like a second skin.

But Arthur hadn’t run.

He’d come to him instead.

Merlin’s chest tightens—not with longing this time, but something steadier. Warmer. The knowledge settles deep and certain:

He wants me.
Not in spite of the danger.
Not because of habit.
But because he chooses me.

Arthur catches him looking.

For half a second, something flickers in his eyes—vulnerability, maybe, or the echo of that raw moment under the trees. Then Arthur’s mouth tilts, small and private, and he inclines his head just slightly, like a promise without words.

Merlin looks away before Gwaine can notice.

Speaking of—

“Well,” Gwaine says, stretching the word lazily as he rides a little closer. “You two seem… less murdery now.”

Arthur doesn’t rise to it.

That alone is telling.

Leon gives Gwaine a look that says do not, and Lancelot’s gaze flicks briefly between Arthur and Merlin—measuring, kind, knowing. He says nothing, only nods once, as if acknowledging something that doesn’t need explanation.

Merlin shifts in his saddle, aware of Arthur’s presence at his side like a constant point of gravity.

Not solved, he thinks.
But shared.

And somehow, that makes it lighter.

⸻

Arthur is checking the horses when Gwaine sidles up beside him.

He doesn’t lean.
Doesn’t grin.

That alone is suspicious.

“Before you say anything,” Gwaine says lightly, hands up in surrender, “I’m not here to make a joke.”

Arthur snorts. “I don’t believe you.”

“Fair.” Gwaine hesitates — actually hesitates — then scratches at the back of his neck. “All right. I am. But not the usual kind.”

Arthur stills, fingers tightening briefly on the bridle before he looks up. “What do you want, Gwaine.”

Gwaine studies him for a moment, the humour softening into something more deliberate.

“I might’ve… pushed a bit too hard,” he admits. “With Merlin.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens. “You think?”

“Yes,” Gwaine says easily. “I do. And before you decide to skewer me with that look — hear me out.”

Arthur doesn’t answer.

Gwaine takes that as permission.

“I wasn’t trying to take him from you,” Gwaine says. “I was trying to get you to notice you already had him.”

Arthur’s gaze flicks back to him, sharp.

“That doesn’t make it better,” Arthur says flatly.

“No,” Gwaine agrees. “But it makes it honest.”

Silence stretches between them, filled with the quiet sounds of the road — leather, breath, distant movement.

“I could see it,” Gwaine continues, quieter now. “The way you two keep circling each other. Like you’re both terrified of stepping wrong.” A corner of his mouth twitches. “You especially.”

Arthur bristles. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gwaine smiles, but there’s no bite in it. “Arthur. I’ve watched men march into battles they knew they wouldn’t survive. Fear looks a lot like confidence when you dress it up right.”

Arthur looks away.

“I thought,” Gwaine says, choosing his words carefully, “that Merlin might need a nudge. And I thought you might need a reminder that waiting too long can hurt just as much as acting too fast.”

Arthur exhales sharply. “So you decided to flirt with him.”

“Well,” Gwaine shrugs. “That part might’ve been… enjoyable.”

Arthur shoots him a glare.

“Easy,” Gwaine says quickly. “I stopped the moment I realised it wasn’t helping — just winding you tighter. That’s on me.”

Arthur says nothing for a long moment.

Then, quietly: “He’s not something to test.”

Gwaine nods at once. No argument. No deflection. “I know. That’s why I’m saying something now.”

Arthur finally meets his eyes.

“And for what it’s worth,” Gwaine adds, softer, “I wasn’t worried you’d hurt him.”

Arthur stiffens.

“I was worried you’d keep convincing yourself you didn’t deserve him,” Gwaine finishes. “And Merlin would keep waiting because that’s who he is.”

That lands.

Arthur swallows.

“I won’t,” he says, low and certain.

Gwaine studies him, then smiles — real this time. Warm. Satisfied.

“Good,” he says. “Then I’ll mind my own business.”

He takes a step back, then pauses.

“For the record,” Gwaine adds, grin returning just a little, “you might want to work on your jealousy. It’s very obvious.”

Arthur groans. “Get out of my sight.”

Gwaine laughs, already turning away. “Anytime, Princess.”

Arthur watches him go, then glances instinctively toward Merlin — who is a little way off, talking quietly with Leon, looking calm. Chosen. Steady.

Arthur lets out a slow breath.

Not everyone who pushed was an enemy, it seemed.

Some people just… pushed too hard.

⸻

By late afternoon, the road narrows and the land begins to change. The trees thin, giving way to rocky outcroppings and uneven ground. The air feels sharper here—charged, restless in a way that has nothing to do with weather.

Arthur slows his horse, lifting a hand.

“All right,” he says, voice firm again, command settling naturally into place. “This is where the reports stopped being… vague.”

Merlin’s focus sharpens immediately.

He scans the treeline, the ground, the way the birds have gone quiet. The warmth from earlier doesn’t fade—but it tucks itself away, becoming something he carries rather than something that distracts him.

Work mode, then.

Arthur glances at him, just once.

Merlin meets his eyes.

Whatever this is between them—unfinished, dangerous, real—it isn’t gone. It’s just… waiting.

They dismount.

Steel shifts. Voices lower.

The easy rhythm of the road gives way to purpose, to caution, to the familiar edge of uncertainty.

Arthur steps forward, prince and leader once more.

Merlin follows at his shoulder, exactly where he belongs.

And as they move deeper into the trees, toward whatever waits for them on the eastern road, Merlin knows one thing with absolute certainty:

When Arthur looks back this time, he won’t find empty space.

He’ll find Merlin.

Right there.

Notes:

This chapter was inspired by Men on the Moon by Chelsea Cutler. On the surface, it’s a quiet road chapter — banter, jealousy, a moment pulled aside beneath the trees — but underneath it’s about distance that isn’t physical at all.

“We put men on the moon / But I still don’t know how to get to you.”

That line kept echoing for me in the context of Arthur’s position. He quite literally lives “up there” — a prince, an heir, raised under pressure and expectation. He knows how to command and endure, but he doesn’t know how to come down — not without fear of what it costs.

Merlin, meanwhile, lives below that height. A servant, someone who reaches instinctively but has learned not to demand. He doesn’t know how to reach Arthur where he is — not without pulling, not without asking for something Arthur may not yet be ready to give.

So for much of this chapter, they circle each other across that invisible gap. Arthur mistakes Merlin’s ease with others for replacement. Merlin understands Arthur’s withdrawal not as rejection, but as altitude — the place Arthur retreats to when the ground feels unstable.

“And now all I can do / Is wait for you to come down.”

That waiting isn’t passive. It’s trust. Merlin knows some distances can only be crossed when the other person chooses to descend on their own.

Arthur’s turning point comes when he recognises his silence for what it is — not protection, but absence. Fear dressed up as restraint still causes harm.

“I’m not the same as I was before / And I wouldn’t hurt you anymore.”

Arthur recognises his worst habit: withdrawing, going quiet, deciding for others in the name of protection. What’s different now is that he catches himself. He remembers Merlin asking him to try — to be honest, not perfect — and for once, Arthur listens before the damage is done.

The road feels different afterward because Arthur is different. Not cured. But changed. He chooses to come down instead of pulling away. He meets Merlin in the middle.

“I’ll go through the walls and kick down doors.”

That line is about resolve — Arthur deciding he will change if he has to. That he will learn to communicate, to stay present, that he will literally kick down the walls he’s built around himself and fight his own instincts when they lead him away from Merlin instead of toward him.

“And I’d do all the things we didn’t / ’Cause I choose you.”

This is the quiet hinge of the chapter.

Arthur doesn’t choose Merlin instead of duty — he chooses Merlin within it. He doesn’t retreat or wait for fear to pass. He steps closer, names the fear, and breaks the pattern.

And Merlin answers him not with reassurance, but with choice.

“I chose you.”

Not obligation.
Not comfort.
Choice.

It matters that Merlin says it first. It matters that Arthur hears it. Because from this point on, what they’re building isn’t based on longing or fear or what might be taken away from them — it’s built on the fact that, even under pressure, even within constraint, they are actively choosing each other.

Chapter 16: Control

Notes:

Song- Control by Halsey

Uh oh… I think Arthur is starting to notice something. 😬
How do you think he’ll react when his suspicions are finally confirmed?

They don’t cross the line again.

Not after the horses balk like they’ve hit a wall.

Arthur feels it first through the reins — the sudden, violent resistance as his horse throws its head and skids sideways, hooves scraping dirt. Merlin’s horse reacts a heartbeat later, snorting sharply, muscles bunching as it refuses to take another step forward.

“Easy,” Arthur murmurs, steady and low.

The air is wrong here.

Not colder. Not warmer. Just… arranged. Like something has decided how it should feel and is enforcing it.

Arthur dismounts at once, hand coming out automatically to steady Merlin as he swings down. His fingers close briefly at Merlin’s elbow — protective, instinctive — and Merlin stills at the touch, eyes fixed on the treeline ahead.

“Did you feel that?” Merlin asks quietly.

Arthur nods. “We’re not riding through.”

No argument. No bravado.

Gwaine opens his mouth anyway — then closes it when the wind dies completely, as if someone has cupped a hand over the world.

“All right,” Arthur says, stepping back and taking in the space with a commander’s eye. “We do this properly.”

They fan out carefully, not crossing whatever invisible threshold has spooked the horses. Leon marks their position with a strip of cloth tied to a low branch. Lancelot moves without being told, pacing slow, measured steps outward, counting under his breath.

Merlin watches the ground.

The dirt near the road is scuffed — not fresh, but not old either. Tracks overlap messily: bootprints, a broken wheel rut, the faint drag of something heavy pulled unwillingly.

The marks stop.

Not fade. Not scatter.

Stop.

Merlin crouches, fingers hovering just above the earth without touching it. “Someone was dragged,” he says softly. “More than one, I think.”

Arthur comes up behind him, gaze following the line of disturbance until it vanishes at nothing.

“At the boundary,” Arthur says.

“Yes.”

Gwaine swallows. “That’s… comforting.”

They follow the edge sideways, slow and deliberate. Arthur scratches a rough line in the dirt with the tip of his sword, mapping the invisible curve as they go. Every so often, the air seems to press back — not violently, but firmly, like a hand on the chest saying no further.

“The silence doesn’t move,” Merlin murmurs, half to himself. “It’s fixed.”

Arthur glances at him sharply. “What does that mean?”

Merlin hesitates, then shakes his head. “I don’t know yet.”

That answer doesn’t reassure Arthur nearly as much as Merlin clearly intends it to.

They find the cairn near the far edge of the ward — a low pile of stones half-swallowed by moss and time. Old. Older than Camelot’s road, older than the markers Uther favours. Some of the stones are etched faintly with symbols worn nearly smooth.

Leon frowns. “This isn’t a grave marker.”

“No,” Lancelot says quietly. “It’s a boundary.”

Arthur straightens. “A ward.”

Merlin nods, slow. “A very old one.”

They stand there a moment, the weight of it settling in.

“This wasn’t built to trap travellers,” Arthur says. “It was built to contain something.”

“And now it’s failing,” Merlin replies.

They test the edges again — torches lit, then brought near the line. The flame bends subtly away from the trees, guttering blue at the tip before snapping back to orange the moment it’s withdrawn.

Gwaine stares. “I don’t like that.”

“Good,” Arthur says. “That means you’re paying attention.”

They head back toward the road to speak with the nearest villagers — a small farming cluster just far enough away that the air loosens its grip. The moment they step clear, sound rushes back in: birdsong, wind, the creak of leather.

Too fast. Too relieved.

The villagers see them coming and stiffen.

An older man steps forward, cap in his hands. “You shouldn’t be there,” he says quickly. “Best to leave it alone.”

Arthur keeps his tone calm. “People have gone missing.”

The man’s jaw tightens. “Aye. And they’ll keep doing so if you meddle.”

“What happened there?” Arthur asks.

The man looks past him — not at the trees, but around them. “Nothing that wants remembering.”

Merlin feels a chill run down his spine.

Arthur studies the man for a long moment, then nods once. “We won’t disturb the ground.”

The man exhales, relieved. “Good.”

Arthur doesn’t say: yet.

They return to the edge of the ward as dusk begins to thin the light, the boundary faintly visible now only by absence — where the world stops behaving like itself.

Arthur plants his feet, expression grim and focused.

“All right,” he says. “We know this much: the ward is real, it’s old, and it’s been breached. Something inside is pulling people to the edge.”

His gaze flicks to Merlin — not accusatory. Assessing. Protective.

“And we are not charging in blind.”

Merlin meets his eyes.

For a moment, something unspoken passes between them.

Understanding.

The ward hums softly, just below hearing.

As if it knows it’s being watched.

⸻

Merlin doesn’t mean to reach for it.

He never does.

It starts the way it always does — not as magic, not consciously. Just a listening. The way he listens to storms before they break, or to Arthur’s footsteps before he turns a corner. A tilt of attention. A soft, inward stillness.

The ward answers immediately.

Not loudly.
Not violently.

Eagerly.

Merlin’s breath catches.

The sensation crawls over his skin — a tight, electric awareness, like standing too close to something alive. His arms prickle. The air presses in, expectant, as if it has recognised him as… relevant.

No. No, no, no.

He clamps down hard, forcing his focus outward, grounding himself in the dirt beneath his boots, the weight of his body, the sound of Arthur breathing beside him.

The pressure doesn’t vanish.

It waits.

That’s worse.

Arthur notices Merlin stop.

It’s subtle — a fraction too still, shoulders drawn tight, gaze fixed on nothing. Merlin looks like a man holding his breath without realising he’s doing it.

Arthur steps closer without thinking.

His hand settles at Merlin’s elbow — not restraining, just present. Steady.

“Merlin,” he says quietly.

Merlin blinks, the moment snapping like a thread pulled too hard. “What?”

“You went somewhere,” Arthur says. Not accusing. Observant.

Merlin forces a shrug. “Just… felt odd, is all.”

Arthur doesn’t move his hand. “Odd how?”

Merlin hesitates — just long enough to be noticed.

“The air,” he says finally. “It’s wrong. Charged. Like before a storm.”

Arthur frowns slightly. “How would you know that?”

Merlin opens his mouth, closes it again.

“Well,” he says, grasping for something half-true, “I’ve nearly been struck by lightning more than once.”

Arthur huffs despite himself, but his eyes stay sharp. “That’s not an answer.”

Merlin swallows. “I pay attention.”

That much, at least, is true.

Before Arthur can press further, Gwaine shifts nearby, rolling his shoulders like a man trying to shake off a chill.

“Tell me I’m not the only one who feels like the trees are leaning in,” he says lightly.

Leon glances at him. “Leaning in?”

Gwaine opens his mouth to reply—

And freezes.

His name slips through the trees.

Soft. Close. Almost amused.

“Gwaine.”

It isn’t shouted.

It isn’t echoed.

It sinks into the space around them, like sound travelling through water.

Gwaine’s grin vanishes.

Arthur’s sword is out instantly, blade angled toward the sound. “Show yourself!”

Nothing answers.

The air hums — faint, low, unsettled.

Lancelot steps closer to Arthur’s flank without comment, his posture alert. Leon’s hand goes to his weapon.

“That wasn’t wind,” Gwaine says quietly.

“No,” Merlin agrees, voice too thin.

Arthur turns on him at once. “You know something.”

Merlin flinches.

“I—no,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “I just—wards like this, sometimes they… echo. Old places do that.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “Wards.”

Merlin winces internally.

“I mean—old markers. Old things,” he corrects hurriedly. “Places people tried to keep others out of. Or in.”

Arthur studies him, the silence stretching.

“And how do you know that?”

Merlin meets his gaze — open, earnest, and deliberately incomplete. “Because my mother scared me with stories about places like this when I was a kid.”

That, too, is true.

Just not the whole of it.

Arthur exhales slowly, fingers tightening at Merlin’s elbow — not in suspicion, but in instinctive protectiveness.

“All right,” he says at last. “Then no one answers if it speaks again. And no one moves alone.”

His gaze holds Merlin’s a moment longer than necessary. “Understood?”

Merlin nods. “Yes.”

The ward hums again — quieter now. Patient.

Merlin has the sickening certainty that if he weren’t holding himself back, if he let the magic surface even a little, the ward would open for him without resistance.

Arthur doesn’t know that.

He only knows that Merlin looks like he’s standing at the edge of something dangerous — and that makes Arthur step closer, not away.

The trees remain still.

Listening.

Waiting.

⸻

They find the cairn by accident.

Or perhaps the cairn allows itself to be found.

It sits just off the road, half-swallowed by earth and bramble — a low, uneven mound of stones darkened with age. Moss creeps between the gaps, thick and undisturbed, as though the land has been trying to bury it for a very long time.

Nothing lives here.

The quiet has weight to it — not the open hush of forest, but something pressed flat and held still.

Arthur slows his horse first, hand lifting instinctively. “There.”

They dismount without discussion.

Up close, the stones are old — older than Camelot’s borders, older than any recent conflict Arthur can recall. Some bear shallow markings worn nearly smooth by time. Not runes. Not quite writing.

Names, perhaps. Or prayers worn down by centuries of saying them aloud.

Merlin stops short.

His stomach drops.

The ward tightens around the cairn like a held breath.

Not aggressive.
Not defensive.

Hungry.

Merlin digs his nails into his palm, grounding himself hard enough that it hurts.

“This is it,” Leon murmurs. “Whatever people saw from the road—it started here.”

Gwaine crouches near the edge, peering at the ground. “Tracks,” he says, all humour gone. “Cart ruts. Footprints.”

Arthur joins him, scanning the dirt. The marks are clear up to a certain point—

—and then they simply stop.

No sign of struggle.
No blood.
No return trail.

Just absence.

Arthur straightens slowly. “They didn’t leave.”

Merlin swallows. “Or they weren’t meant to.”

Arthur turns to him at once. “Merlin.”

“I mean—” Merlin gestures awkwardly at the stones, the sagging earth around them. “Look at it. Whatever this was built to do, it’s… worn thin.”

Arthur studies the cairn again, unease settling deeper. “You’re saying this thing was made on purpose.”

“Yes,” Merlin says, too quickly — then reins himself in. “I mean. It looks deliberate.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow slightly. “How do you know that?”

Merlin hesitates, then forces himself to sound reasonable. Mundane.

“Because no one stacks stones this carefully unless they’re afraid of what’s underneath,” he says. “And no one puts it this far from the road unless they want it forgotten.”

Arthur doesn’t challenge that.

He circles the cairn once, boots crunching softly. The air feels wrong here — heavier, like sound itself struggles to move. His torch flares oddly as he passes, the flame thinning and paling, pulling sideways as if caught in a draft that isn’t there.

Arthur slows. Watches it.

“That’s not wind,” he says quietly.

“No,” Merlin agrees, voice low.

Gwaine shifts, uneasy. “I don’t like it,” he mutters. “Feels like standing too close to something that remembers people who should be gone.”

The ward stirs at that.

Not visibly.

But Merlin feels it tug — a low, aching pull beneath his ribs, like a hook catching on something familiar.

You’re close, it seems to murmur. You belong to this.

Merlin steps back sharply.

Arthur notices immediately.

“That’s far enough,” Arthur says, sharper now. He moves without thinking, placing himself half a step in front of Merlin. “No one touches it.”

Lancelot nods once, already shifting position, reinforcing the boundary without comment.

“What’s under it?” Leon asks.

Arthur studies the centre of the cairn — the faint inward slope, stones settled too neatly around a hollow.

“A pit,” he says slowly. “Or a collapse.”

Something buried that has shifted.

Merlin’s voice comes out rougher than he intends. “If it’s disturbed—”

Arthur glances back at him. “Then what?”

For a moment, the truth presses dangerously close — the knowledge that if the seal breaks completely, something will wake, something that remembers being alive.

Merlin swallows it down.

“Then whatever this place was meant to hold won’t stay quiet,” he says instead.

Arthur absorbs that.

He doesn’t ask why Merlin is so certain. Not yet.

He nods once, decisive.

“Then we don’t break it,” Arthur says. “We don’t dig. And we don’t leave it like this.”

His jaw tightens. “We find out how to shore it up without setting it loose.”

Beneath their feet, the ground gives a faint, almost imperceptible shudder.

Merlin feels the ward respond — not with relief, but with attention.

That’s what frightens him most.

Because wards aren’t supposed to notice people.

Unless they’re starting to fail.

 

⸻

The ground does not move again.

That’s the problem.

Arthur has learned to trust patterns — ambushes repeat, enemies advance, threats escalate. Stillness, when it lingers too long, is usually the prelude to something worse.

He gestures for the others to spread out, slow and deliberate.
“Leon. Gwaine. Check the perimeter. Quietly.”

Gwaine nods once, all levity gone, and moves off without comment. Leon follows, sword loose in his grip.

Arthur turns back to the cairn.

Up close, the stones look wrong — not merely old, but strained, like something beneath them is pushing just hard enough to be felt if you know how to look.

Arthur doesn’t know how to look.

But Merlin does.

Merlin stands very still, hands curled at his sides, eyes unfocused in that way Arthur has seen before — not daydreaming, not fear exactly.

Listening.

Arthur’s unease sharpens.

“Merlin,” he says under his breath, pitched low enough that it doesn’t carry. Not a command. Not a warning. Just a tether.

Merlin blinks, breath hitching slightly, then refocuses. “Sorry.”

Arthur studies him, the feeling in his chest tightening. “You keep drifting off like that.”

Merlin shifts. “I’m just thinking.”

Arthur doesn’t believe him — not entirely.

“About this place,” Arthur continues. “About what happens if we touch it.”

Merlin’s shoulders tense — just a fraction.

“I’m guessing,” Merlin says quickly. Too quickly. “Anyone would. It’s—” He gestures helplessly at the cairn. “It’s obvious something’s wrong.”

Arthur lets the excuse sit between them.

He steps closer to the edge of the stones, careful not to cross whatever invisible line his instincts are screaming about. He crouches, runs a gloved hand over the earth.

Cold.

Not damp. Not dry.

Cold in a way dirt has no right to be.

“If this was built to contain something,” Arthur says slowly, “then whoever did it knew exactly what they were afraid of.”

Merlin swallows. “Yes.”

Arthur straightens sharply. “You’re sure.”

Merlin hesitates.

This is the edge — the place where lying too hard will do more harm than saying nothing at all.

“I’ve… heard stories,” Merlin says. “Old ones. About battlefields where the dead weren’t laid properly. Where things were sealed away because no one could fix what happened.”

Arthur’s gaze doesn’t leave him. “Stories.”

Merlin nods. “The kind people stop repeating because they don’t like what they imply.”

Arthur exhales through his nose. “And those stories say what happens if this fails?”

Merlin looks back at the cairn, at the subtle inward bow of the stones.

“They say when a ward like this collapses,” he says quietly, “whatever it’s holding doesn’t just leave.”

Arthur waits.

“It leaks,” Merlin finishes. “Slowly. Into everything around it.”

That lands.

Arthur scans the treeline — the blighted ground, the way sound feels pressed flat, the tracks that simply end.

Steel won’t help.

Fire won’t help.

Breaking the cairn would be unforgivable.

“So what are you suggesting?” Arthur asks.

Merlin’s heart stutters.

Because he knows the answer.

And because offering it means stepping into his fear headfirst.

“We don’t force it,” Merlin says carefully. “We don’t open it. We stabilise what’s left.”

Arthur turns fully toward him. “Explain.”

Merlin opens his mouth.

Closes it.

“I might be able to tell what it needs,” he says instead. “If something was moved. Or taken. If the balance is off.”

Arthur’s eyes narrow. “You said you were guessing.”

Merlin meets his gaze.

This time, he holds it.

“I said I wasn’t certain,” he corrects quietly. “That’s not the same thing.”

The ward presses outward — not a sound, but a pressure, like standing too close to a storm you can’t yet see.

Arthur feels it now.

His hand comes up instinctively, closing around Merlin’s elbow — firm, protective. “That’s far enough.”

Merlin stills.

Not because of the grip — but because Arthur hasn’t pulled him back.

Hasn’t ordered him away.

Arthur searches his face for something he can act on — panic, recklessness, bravado.

What he finds is resolve, held tight and careful.

“You’re holding something back,” Arthur says quietly.

Merlin swallows. “I’m trying not to give you half an answer.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens.

For a moment, every instinct in him demands he end this — pull Merlin away, call it off, take the risk on himself instead.

But the land doesn’t give them that luxury.

“All right,” Arthur says at last.

Merlin blinks. “All right?”

Arthur doesn’t soften. “I need to know what I’m agreeing to.”

He tightens his grip just slightly — not controlling, anchoring.

“Can this be set right without unleashing whatever’s buried?” Arthur asks.

“Yes,” Merlin says immediately.

“Can it be done without you putting yourself in the ground with it?”

Merlin hesitates.

Arthur sees it.

His voice drops. “Merlin.”

“It’s not a death sentence,” Merlin says carefully. “It just… isn’t without risk.”

Arthur looks back to the cairn, to the strained stones, to the land holding its breath.

His shoulders square — not in confidence, but in acceptance.

“I don’t like this,” Arthur says flatly. “I don’t like you being this close to it. And I don’t like not knowing what you’re doing.”

He looks back at Merlin.

“But I trust you enough not to take this decision away from you.”

Merlin’s chest tightens.

Arthur releases his elbow — reluctantly — and turns sharply.

“Leon. Gwaine,” he calls. “Clear the perimeter. No one approaches this site. If anyone asks, tell them the ground’s unstable.”

Gwaine looks like he wants to argue — then catches Arthur’s expression and nods. “Understood.”

Lancelot shifts subtly, blocking sightlines from the road without comment.

Arthur turns back to Merlin.

“I don’t need to know how,” Arthur says quietly. “I need to know when to keep people away.”

Merlin’s chest aches at the trust in that.

“I’ll tell you,” Merlin says. “When it matters.”

Arthur holds his gaze a second longer than necessary.

Then, softer — only for him:

“Don’t make me choose between this place and you.”

Merlin answers without hesitation. “You won’t have to.”

⸻

The others don’t question Arthur’s orders.

That, more than anything, tells Merlin how serious this has become.

Leon keeps watch at the treeline, posture rigid, eyes scanning. Gwaine circles once, then settles into stillness — alert, sober, no jokes left to spend. Lancelot positions himself where the road bends, body angled just enough to block sight without drawing attention.

Arthur stands between them and the cairn.

Deliberately.

“Whatever you need,” Arthur says quietly, without turning around, “do it quickly.”

Merlin steps closer to the stones.

The air thickens immediately — not colder, not warmer, but heavy, like breath held too long. The hum beneath his feet sharpens, recognises him in a way that makes his skin prickle.

He ignores that.

He kneels instead.

From the outside, it looks simple enough. Respectable. Harmless.

Merlin brushes dirt from the base of the cairn with careful hands, uncovering shallow grooves etched into the earth — old, half-erased by time and neglect. He traces them lightly, head bowed, lips moving soundlessly.

Arthur shifts closer the moment Merlin lowers himself.

Not hovering.

Guarding.

“What’s he doing?” Gwaine mutters, just loud enough to test the air.

“Paying attention,” Arthur replies flatly.

That ends it.

Merlin exhales slowly and reaches into his satchel, drawing out a strip of cloth — plain, travel-worn, easily dismissed. He wraps it once around his wrist, pressing his thumb into his pulse until he feels it steady.

The ward responds.

Not visibly.

Not dramatically.

The pressure eases — just a fraction — like a jaw unclenching.

Merlin closes his eyes.

He doesn’t cast.

He listens.

Names rise unbidden — not spoken aloud, not yet — impressions instead. Lives cut short. Ground soaked too fast. Something buried in haste and regret rather than honour.

The ward doesn’t want power.

It wants acknowledgement.

Merlin murmurs softly now — words that sound like prayer if anyone were close enough to hear. Old phrases. Common ones. Things any village child might have learned for burial rites long ago.

Arthur hears only cadence.

He hears grief shaped into sound.

When Merlin leans forward, closer to the stones than Arthur likes, Arthur steps with him, a silent shadow at his back. His presence blocks sightlines, blocks questions, blocks the simple curiosity that might become dangerous.

“Give him room,” Arthur says once, sharp and final, when Leon shifts his weight.

Leon stills.

Merlin presses his palm flat to the earth.

For a moment, the ward pushes back.

Hard.

Merlin’s breath stutters.

Arthur’s hand closes around his forearm instantly — not pulling, not interrupting.

Steady.

“I’m here,” Arthur says under his breath, like an anchor thrown.

Merlin grounds himself in that.

He exhales.

Then he speaks the names.

Not loudly. Not theatrically.

Just enough.

The pressure changes.

The hum deepens, settling instead of tightening. The stones seem to sink a hair’s breadth into the earth, aligning themselves with something older than fear.

The ward accepts the offering.

Not blood.

Not power.

Witness.

Merlin draws his hand back slowly, fingers trembling now that the worst of it has passed.

Arthur notices.

He steps in front of him without comment, body angled just enough to block every other line of sight.

“That’s enough,” Arthur says aloud. “We’re done here.”

No one argues.

Behind them, the air loosens.

Birdsong returns — tentative at first, then real.

Torches burn normally again.

The land exhales.

Arthur doesn’t ask what Merlin did.

He doesn’t ask how.

He simply places a hand at Merlin’s back — firm, grounding — and steers him away from the cairn as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Only once they’re clear does Arthur lean in, voice low and meant for Merlin alone.

“You still with me?”

Merlin nods. “Yes.”

Arthur studies him for a second longer, then inclines his head.

“All right,” he says. “Then we move.”

They leave the cairn standing.

Repaired.

Watching.

And far beneath the earth, something old settles back into uneasy sleep — appeased, but not erased.

Not finished.

Not forgotten.

what comes next:

⸻

They leave before full dark.

Arthur doesn’t say it’s because the land still feels unsettled, but Merlin knows. The ward is holding — not healed, exactly, but no longer straining at its seams. That will have to be enough.

For now.

The ride back is subdued.

No one jokes. No one presses for explanation. Even Gwaine keeps his thoughts to himself, eyes forward, posture alert in a way Merlin hasn’t seen from him before.

The road feels… normal again.

Hooves strike dirt instead of sinking into it. Sound travels where it’s meant to. The air no longer presses in around them like a held breath.

Merlin becomes aware, gradually, of how tired he is.

Not the bone-deep exhaustion of spellwork gone wrong — nothing so obvious — but the quiet kind that settles behind the eyes after holding yourself too carefully for too long.

Arthur notices.

Of course he does.

He reins in slightly, letting the others drift ahead just enough to give them space without making a show of it.

“You did well,” Arthur says, not looking at him.

Merlin blinks. “I didn’t do anything.”

Arthur’s mouth curves faintly. “You know what I mean.”

Merlin considers deflecting.

Doesn’t.

“…Thank you,” he says instead. For the orders. For the silence. For standing where he did.

Arthur nods once.

They ride the last stretch without speaking.

When Camelot’s lights finally come into view — distant, steady, familiar — something in Merlin’s chest loosens. Home, for all its complications.

Arthur straightens in the saddle, the weight of command settling back into place.

“Once we report,” Arthur says, already thinking ahead, “this will be logged as a contained anomaly. No further action required.”

Merlin hums softly. “For now.”

Arthur glances at him, sharp and knowing. “You think it won’t stay buried.”

Merlin looks back toward the darkened road behind them.

“Old things rarely do,” he says.

Arthur considers that.

Then, quietly: “Then we’ll be ready.”

They ride on.

Behind them, far beneath the repaired stones, something shifts — not enough to break free, not enough to be named.

Just enough to remember.

And in Camelot, as the gates rise to admit them, Merlin has the uneasy certainty that whatever they stabilized on the eastern road was not an ending.

Only a warning.

Notes:

This chapter was inspired by Control by Halsey. It’s not a romance-forward song in the way some of the others I’ve used are — it’s darker, tighter, and more inward — which made it a perfect fit for a chapter about restraint, fear, and the cost of being the one who knows.

A lot of this chapter lives in the tension between power and containment. Merlin isn’t losing control here — he’s actively choosing it. That’s where the song kept circling for me.

“They send me away to find them a fortune.”

Merlin is once again placed closest to danger, not because he seeks it, but because he senses things others can’t. He didn’t choose to be the one the ward responds to — he simply is. That quiet inevitability mirrors the way Merlin is so often relied upon without being fully seen.

“The house was awake / With shadows and monsters.”

The warded land isn’t violent or loud — it’s aware. Listening. Waiting. That feeling of a place being awake rather than hostile felt exactly right for the boundary, the cairn, and the sense that something old is paying attention.

“I tried to hold these secrets inside me / My mind’s like a deadly disease.”

This line maps closely onto Merlin’s internal struggle. The danger isn’t the magic itself — it’s the secrecy, the pressure of knowing too much and having to decide when not to act. Merlin clamps down not because the magic is wrong, but because letting it slip would endanger everyone around him.

“I’m bigger than my body / I’m bigger than these bones.”

The ward doesn’t respond to Merlin’s physical presence — it responds to what he is. His magic. His awareness. The thing in him that’s older and wider than his years. Merlin is physically small in this chapter, but the land recognizes something vast in him, and that recognition is unsettling.

“Please stop, you’re scaring me.”

Merlin’s fear has never really been about power — it’s about perception. About becoming something people fear instead of trust. That’s why he chooses witness instead of force, listening instead of command. He refuses to become the monster even when the land seems willing to let him.

“Who is in control?”

That question sits quietly under the entire chapter. Control here isn’t dominance — it’s choice. Merlin is in control because he doesn’t force the ward open. Arthur is in control because he doesn’t take that choice away from him. Restraint becomes an act of strength rather than weakness.

This chapter is about holding something dangerous without letting it consume you. About being recognized by power and choosing not to answer it with spectacle. About Arthur standing between Merlin and the world, and Merlin standing between the world and something far worse.

Nothing is solved here. Nothing is erased.

The ward is stable — not healed.
The danger is quiet — not gone.

And that uneasy balance felt exactly like the heart of Control.

Chapter 17: Lose myself

Notes:

Song for this chapter- Lose myself by Nick Wilson

There a deep dive in the end comments as always 😊

Also- oh my god this edit killed me 😭 https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSPaamcFR/

The report takes longer than it should.

Arthur stands before the map table in Uther’s private council chamber, hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate. He recites facts cleanly and without embellishment — terrain, duration, containment, outcome.

Everything is technically true.

That’s the problem.

“The disturbance was localised,” Arthur says evenly. “Old stonework. A degraded boundary. We stabilised it.”

Uther doesn’t look up.

He moves a marker across the map with slow, deliberate precision. “Stabilised,” he repeats. Not a question. Not approval.

“Yes, Father.”

Silence stretches.

The fire crackles softly. Somewhere high above, a window rattles faintly in the wind. Uther’s fingers still on the marker.

“And how,” Uther asks at last, “did you manage that without incident?”

Arthur doesn’t answer immediately.

He has already decided what not to say.

“We reinforced the site,” Arthur replies. “Reset the stones. Ensured no further interference.”

Uther turns then.

His gaze is sharp, assessing — not angry, not yet. Measuring.

“No casualties,” Uther says. “No release. No pursuit.”

“That’s correct.”

“And no involvement of magic,” Uther adds lightly.

Arthur meets his eyes without flinching. “None that I observed.”

The words sit carefully balanced between honesty and omission.

Uther studies him for a long moment.

“You’ve had two missions now,” Uther says slowly, “where circumstances resolved themselves with remarkable… convenience.”

Arthur feels the weight of it immediately.

“The incident in Ealdor,” Uther continues, voice even. “Which you neglected to report in full.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens. “There was nothing to report.”

Uther’s mouth thins. “A known sorcerer died saving your life.”

Arthur doesn’t look away. “He died defending his home.”

“And the eastern road,” Uther presses. “Where an unstable ward was ‘stabilised’ without loss, without escalation, and without explanation.”

Arthur’s voice stays steady. “Because we acted quickly.”

Uther steps closer.

Not into Arthur’s space — into his line of sight.

“You are not a careless man,” Uther says quietly. “And you are not a foolish one.”

Arthur holds himself still.

“When you leave things out,” Uther continues, “it tells me you believe you’re protecting something.”

Arthur says nothing.

The silence stretches again — heavier now, sharpened.

Finally, Uther turns away.

“For now,” he says, dismissive and dangerous all at once, “I will accept your account.”

Arthur exhales internally, just a fraction.

“But understand this,” Uther adds, not turning back. “Patterns reveal themselves whether we wish them to or not.”

Arthur inclines his head. “Of course.”

“You are dismissed.”

Arthur leaves the chamber without haste, every step measured.

Only when the doors close behind him does he let his shoulders drop — just enough to feel it.

He does not look toward the servants’ corridor.

He does not seek Merlin out.

That would be too obvious.

But as he walks the long way back through the castle, one thought stays with him, steady and unyielding:

Whatever Uther suspects, he suspects Arthur first.

And Arthur will bear that weight gladly —

if it keeps Merlin out of reach.

⸻

Uther does not call it surveillance.

He calls it diligence.

The council chamber is nearly empty when he speaks again, long after Arthur has gone. The fire has burned down to embers, casting more shadow than light.

“Send word to the eastern garrisons,” Uther says calmly. “I want reports on any unusual activity along the trade routes. Quietly.”

The man at the table nods, already writing.

“And the court?” the advisor asks.

Uther considers this.

“Discreet observation,” he says at last. “Nothing overt. No accusations.”

Another pause.

“Pay particular attention to those who spend the most time near my son.”

The quill stills for just a fraction of a second.

“Servants?” the advisor asks carefully.

Uther’s gaze flicks up — sharp, warning.

“Everyone,” he corrects. “Guards. Knights. Companions.” His mouth tightens. “Especially those who seem… indispensable.”

The advisor inclines his head. “As you wish.”

Uther turns back to the fire.

Two missions.

Two anomalies.

Two moments where magic should have left scars and did not.

Arthur’s instincts were sound — but instincts could be manipulated.

And if there was one thing Uther had learned in all his years as king, it was this:

Sorcery rarely announced itself.

It hid behind loyalty.
Behind usefulness.
Behind boys who stood too close to princes.

“Watch,” Uther says quietly. “And wait.”

Outside the chamber, the castle goes on as it always has — footsteps, laughter, the scrape of armour against stone.

And somewhere within its walls, unseen eyes begin to open.

⸻

Merlin doesn’t think anything of it at first.

Helping Arthur ready his chambers at night has always been routine — a quiet, familiar rhythm that predates danger, prophecy, and everything else that’s complicated them. He sets Arthur’s cloak aside, unbuckles armour with practiced ease, moves through the space like he belongs there.

Because he does.

Arthur sits on the edge of the bed while Merlin works, shoulders tense beneath the loose linen of his shirt. He’s been like this since they returned — composed enough for the court, steady enough for his father, but frayed at the edges in ways only Merlin ever sees.

Arthur is acutely aware of it.
Of how thin the control feels.
Of how much effort it takes not to reach out and ground himself in the one constant still moving calmly around the room.

Merlin pretends not to notice.

He smooths the sheets. Straightens the table. Moves as he always does.

Routine is safety.

Arthur watches him do it — the certainty of Merlin’s hands, the unthinking care — and feels something in his chest tighten. He’s survived battles with less fear than the thought of asking this wrong.

“Merlin,” Arthur says suddenly.

Not sharp. Not commanding.

Just… uncertain.

Merlin turns. “Yes?”

Arthur hesitates, gaze dropping to his hands. He rubs his thumb over the ring on his finger — grounding himself, buying time. He knows exactly what he wants. That doesn’t make it easier to say.

If Merlin says no, Arthur isn’t sure what he’ll do with the silence that follows.

“I—” Arthur exhales. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

The words hang there, bare and honest — more honest than Arthur usually allows himself to be.

Merlin doesn’t speak right away. He watches Arthur’s jaw tighten, the instinctive bracing for refusal.

Arthur hates that he’s waiting for it. Hates that he’s already preparing to accept it.

Instead, Merlin steps closer.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks gently.

Arthur looks up then, blue eyes searching — not commanding, not princely. Just asking. “I just… need you close,” he admits. “After everything.” A beat. “I keep thinking about that night at the Inn.” His voice softens. “When I was holding you — how easy it felt. How safe.”

Safe.
The word lodges deep. Arthur doesn’t use it lightly.

Merlin’s chest softens.

“No one will come in,” Arthur adds quickly, the practical reassurances tumbling out as instinct kicks in — as if safety can be guaranteed by logistics alone. “No one enters without permission. And you’re here every morning anyway — if anyone sees you—”

“I know,” Merlin says softly, cutting him off with a small smile. “Arthur. I know.”

Arthur swallows, the tightness in his chest easing just a fraction. He forces himself to ask it properly — to give Merlin the choice.

“So… will you?”

Merlin nods once. “Of course.”

The relief that crosses Arthur’s face is immediate and unguarded — a flicker of something almost boyish before he reins it back in.

They move toward the bed together, slower now. Arthur sits back against the pillows, uncertainty flickering again — not about Merlin, but about himself. About how much he wants this. About how clearly that want has become a need.

Merlin hesitates at the edge.

Then Merlin climbs in.

Arthur exhales — a long, shaking breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding — as Merlin settles beside him. He turns instinctively, arm coming around Merlin’s waist like it’s always known where to go.

The familiarity startles him. Comfort can be dangerous. But tonight, Arthur lets himself have it.

This time, there’s no need to freeze.

No knights nearby.
No doors to listen through.
No restraint demanded by fear of being seen.

Merlin fits against him easily, head tucked beneath Arthur’s chin, one hand resting over Arthur’s heart.

Arthur feels it then — the steadiness returning, piece by piece.

It’s quiet.

His breathing begins to slow, tension bleeding out of him in degrees. His fingers curl into Merlin’s shirt, not possessive — grounding. Proof that this is real. That Merlin is still here.

“I’m terrible at this,” Arthur murmurs after a while. “Saying things. Knowing what to do.”

Merlin smiles into his chest. “You’re doing fine.”

Arthur huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t know where to aim half the time. I think I miss more than I hit.”

Merlin tilts his head back just enough to look at him. “You don’t.”

Arthur meets his gaze, something open and earnest there — a look Merlin sees only in moments like this, when Arthur isn’t bracing for anything at all. “Everything feels… clearer when you’re here,” he admits. “Like I don’t have to hold myself together quite so tightly.”

Merlin’s thumb traces a small, absent circle over Arthur’s chest.

“Then let go,” he says softly. “Just for tonight.”

Arthur does.

He presses a kiss to Merlin’s hair — not rushed, not hungry. Just there. Just real. A promise without words.

Merlin sighs, content, and shifts closer until there’s no space left between them.

Arthur closes his eyes.

For the first time in days, his thoughts quiet — replaced by the steady rhythm of Merlin’s breathing, the warmth of him, the simple truth settling deep and certain:

I just want to be here.
I just want to lose myself in this.

In him.

They fall asleep like that — not tangled, not hidden, not afraid.

Just held.

⸻

Arthur wakes with a gasp caught halfway in his chest.

For a moment, he doesn’t know where he is.

There’s earth in his mouth — cold and metallic — the taste of fear and old stone. The ward yawns open beneath his feet, light flaring wrong, wrong, wrong, and Merlin is there and not there all at once, swallowed by the dark between the trees, his name torn out of Arthur’s throat as the ground gives way—

Arthur jerks upright.

His breath comes fast, sharp. His hands curl in the sheets like he’s still gripping a sword.

It takes him a second to realise there are no trees. No ward. No watching eyes in the dark.

Just stone walls. Low firelight. And—

“Arthur.”

Merlin’s voice is right there. Close. Real.

Arthur turns his head and sees him, half-upright beside him, hair mussed with sleep, eyes already sharp with concern. Merlin’s hand is on Arthur’s arm, warm and solid, anchoring him to the bed.

“You’re here,” Arthur says hoarsely.

Merlin’s mouth softens. “I’m here.”

Arthur drags in another breath, then another, forcing his lungs to obey. The images linger anyway — Uther’s gaze, cold and knowing; the ward humming beneath his boots; Merlin slipping from his grasp again and again in ways Arthur cannot stop.

His hand tightens around Merlin’s sleeve without asking permission.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Arthur admits quietly. The words cost him something. He lets them anyway. “In the woods. In the dream. I couldn’t—” His voice breaks, just barely. “I couldn’t reach you.”

Merlin shifts closer at once, his other hand coming up to cup Arthur’s jaw. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

Arthur does.

Merlin’s eyes are steady. Unafraid. Here.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Merlin says softly. “You’ve got me.”

Arthur closes his eyes for a heartbeat, leaning into the touch like a man starved of contact. When he opens them again, something in him gives — not fear, not control, but the last brittle layer holding everything back.

He pulls Merlin in.

The kiss is gentle at first. Careful. Arthur presses his mouth to Merlin’s like he’s checking — confirming that this is real, that Merlin is solid and warm and alive beneath his hands.

Merlin kisses him back just as softly, fingers sliding into Arthur’s hair, grounding him, soothing the last of the tremor from his body.

Arthur exhales into the kiss.

Then he deepens it.

It happens without thought, without strategy — the way everything does once Arthur stops trying to aim. His hand slides to Merlin’s waist, then higher, pulling him closer, needing the contact, the proof. Merlin makes a quiet sound against his mouth — a breath, a hitch — and it goes straight through Arthur like a blade.

Gods.

Arthur groans low in his throat and kisses him again, harder this time, like he’s been holding himself together with thread and it’s finally snapped. Merlin responds immediately, opening for him, fingers tightening in Arthur’s hair, pulling him closer still.

Heat builds fast — too fast — years of restraint collapsing into want.

Arthur’s hands move on instinct now, mapping familiar ground with new urgency. He slips his fingers under Merlin’s shirt and feels bare skin — warm, freckled, alive beneath his palms.

Merlin shudders.

That sound — soft, broken — tears something open in Arthur’s chest.

He breaks the kiss only long enough to drag Merlin’s shirt up and over his head, reverent and desperate all at once. Merlin helps, fumbling, breath already unsteady as Arthur does the same, tugging his own shirt free and tossing it aside without looking.

Skin on skin.

Finally.

The contact steals Arthur’s breath outright. He presses his forehead to Merlin’s shoulder, chest heaving, as the reality of it hits him — the warmth, the closeness, the sheer rightness of Merlin against him with nothing between them.

“I’ve been wanting this,” Arthur murmurs against Merlin’s skin, voice wrecked. “Since the woods. Since before that, probably.”

Merlin’s hands slide over Arthur’s back, exploratory and admiring, like he’s learning him anew. “Then don’t stop,” he whispers.

Arthur doesn’t.

He kisses down Merlin’s throat, slow and open-mouthed, teeth grazing just enough to make Merlin gasp. The sound makes Arthur’s hips roll forward without permission, friction sparking between them, sharp and intoxicating.

Merlin bucks instinctively, a quiet, broken moan spilling from him as their bodies line up.

Arthur groans. “Gods, Merlin—”

He moves again, deliberately this time, rocking into Merlin, feeling the heat build, the tension coil tight and sweet in his gut. Merlin meets every movement, hands clutching at Arthur’s shoulders, nails biting just enough to make Arthur hiss.

Everything narrows.

There’s no ward. No throne. No father’s shadow.

Just this.

Just him.

Arthur slows.

Not because the need lessens — it’s almost unbearable now — but because he wants to stay here. Wants to feel every second of it. Wants to memorise the way Merlin moves against him, the way his breath breaks, the way his body answers Arthur’s without hesitation.

He shifts again, deliberately unhurried, letting the friction build instead of chasing it, letting the tension stretch tight and aching between them. Merlin whimpers softly at the restraint, hips stuttering forward like he’s trying to close the distance Arthur is refusing to rush through.

Arthur groans low in his chest at the sound.

“Arthur,” Merlin breathes — not asking, not demanding. Just saying his name like it’s something solid to hold onto.

Arthur presses his mouth to Merlin’s neck, breathing him in, grounding himself in the warmth and salt of his skin. He moves slowly, rolling his hips in a measured rhythm that draws broken little sounds out of Merlin one by one, each one tightening the coil inside Arthur further.

He feels it everywhere — in his chest, in his hands, in the way his body strains toward Merlin like gravity itself has shifted.

Merlin’s hands tighten on him, insistent enough to pull a strained sound from Arthur’s throat- His own restraint fraying. Merlin moves with him now, desperate and unguarded, the friction between them constant and maddening.

Arthur lifts his head, forehead resting against Merlin’s, eyes wide with awe.

“You feel—” He swallows hard. “—Gods, Merlin. You feel incredible.”

Merlin doesn’t answer with words — just a soft, broken sound that slips from him, fingers tightening like he needs something to hold onto. Eyes blown wide and shining, looking at Arthur like he’s just been undone.

That does it.

Arthur’s control slips another notch — not snapping yet, but thinning, stretched too far to hold cleanly. He rocks into Merlin again, slower still, deeper, letting the sensation crest and fall without breaking, riding it instead of surrendering to it.

Merlin gasps, head tipping back, throat bared, every reaction written plainly across his face. Arthur watches it all, transfixed — the want, the trust, the sheer openness of him — and something hot and reverent twists low in his gut.

Mine, his body insists, not possessive but awed. Chosen.

Arthur presses his mouth to Merlin’s again, swallowing the sound he makes as the tension finally tips past the point of control. He holds Merlin tight, teeth sinking into his shoulder to keep himself anchored as the release tears through him — fierce, overwhelming, his whole body arching involuntarily into Merlin as he loses himself completely.

Merlin cries out, fingers tightening hard as he follows, his body going taut and trembling against Arthur with a muffled sound that leaves Arthur dizzy with it.

For a moment, there is nothing but breath and heat and the aftershocks of too much feeling.

Then Arthur collapses back against the pillows, pulling Merlin with him, arms wrapping around him like a vow. Merlin curls into his chest without question, still trembling, breath warm against Arthur’s skin.

Arthur presses a lingering kiss to Merlin’s hair.

His heart is pounding — not with fear this time, but with something new. Something open.

“I’m here,” Arthur murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Merlin smiles sleepily against him, fingers tracing idle patterns over Arthur’s ribs. “I know.”

Arthur holds him as the night settles back into quiet, the ghosts finally at bay.

And for the first time, Arthur lets himself drift — not guarded, not braced.

Just lost.

In him.

Notes:

This chapter was inspired by Lose Myself by Nick Wilson. On the surface, it’s a quiet, intimate chapter — a shared bed, a nightmare, comfort that turns into something more — but underneath, it’s about Arthur standing in emotional territory he’s never been trained to navigate.

A lot of this song lives in Arthur’s headspace right now, especially the repeated idea of “I’m no good at this” and “I don’t know where to aim.” Arthur is a leader, a fighter, a strategist — he’s been taught how to command armies and carry responsibility without flinching. But intimacy? Asking for comfort? Wanting someone without immediately calculating the cost? That’s uncharted ground.

You see that uncertainty all through this chapter. Arthur knows what he wants — Merlin, closeness, safety — but knowing how to ask for it feels far more dangerous than any battlefield. So he hesitates. He overthinks. He braces himself for refusal even as he asks.

And Merlin doesn’t demand anything from him. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t need Arthur to be confident or eloquent or certain. He just… exists. Steady. Present. Willing. Which is why Arthur wants to disappear into that safety.

“I just wanna lose myself in you.”

For Arthur, that isn’t recklessness. It’s relief. Losing himself doesn’t mean abandoning duty — it means, for once, not holding himself together so tightly that he can’t breathe. It’s why the shared bed matters so much. It’s not about sex first; it’s about rest. About choosing closeness without fear.

The nightmare is where that want sharpens. Arthur’s fear isn’t abstract — it’s losing Merlin, being unable to reach him, watching him slip away while Arthur stands powerless. When he wakes, it’s Merlin’s voice and touch that pull him back into himself. That’s where the song’s quiet devotion lives: “I’m hanging on to every word you say.” Merlin becomes the anchor Arthur didn’t know he was allowed to need.

The physical progression afterward isn’t about escalation — it’s about trust deepening. Skin on skin, finally, not as urgency but as grounding. Arthur stops trying to aim. He stops worrying about doing it wrong. He lets instinct take over instead of fear.

By the end of the chapter, Arthur isn’t cured of doubt. He isn’t suddenly fearless. But he has learned something crucial: closeness doesn’t weaken him. It steadies him. And wanting Merlin doesn’t make him careless — it makes him human.

That’s what Lose Myself represents here. Not loss of control, but the choice to rest in someone else’s presence without armor.

Just for tonight.

Chapter 18: There’s people watching

Notes:

Songs for this chapter-

There’s People Watching by Jade LeMac

Secret love song by Little Mix- very on the nose I know haha.

Deep dive in end comments!

I love hearing what moments land for people — and discussing it with you guys. Comments are always welcome 😊

The castle settles into evening the way it always does — slowly, reluctantly, like it’s loath to give up the noise of the day.

Merlin feels it in the corridors.

They stretch longer at night. Stone echoing underfoot, torches guttering low, voices thinning to murmurs that carry farther than they should. Every sound feels amplified, every movement too visible. He moves carefully, shoulders tucked in, steps measured — a servant’s instinct sharpened by weeks of new awareness.

Arthur is somewhere above him.

Merlin knows this without being told. He can feel it the way he feels approaching storms — not magic, not exactly. Just attention tuned too finely to ignore. Arthur’s footsteps have a weight to them Merlin has learned by heart: the confident pace when he’s moving through council chambers, the slower cadence when he’s thinking too hard, the almost-silent tread when he’s avoiding something.

Merlin rounds a corner and hears it — distant, unmistakable.

Arthur is walking.

Not toward him. Not away.

Just… elsewhere.

The knowledge settles low in Merlin’s chest, warm and tight all at once.

It shouldn’t matter. They’ve spent most nights apart before — years of proximity without touch, without permission. He tells himself this as he carries a stack of freshly laundered linens toward the royal wing, gaze fixed carefully ahead.

But things are different now.

The memory of Arthur’s hands intrudes without warning — the weight of them at Merlin’s waist, the warmth of his palm at the small of Merlin’s back, the steady pressure that had felt less like possession and more like grounding. Merlin swallows, grip tightening on the linens as his body reacts before his mind can catch up.

Physical intimacy hadn’t satisfied anything.

It had clarified it.

The want isn’t sharp. It doesn’t burn.

It lingers.

Merlin passes a servant on the stairs and inclines his head automatically, offering a small, polite smile. The motion is practiced. Easy. No one would guess that his attention is splintered — part of him still in Arthur’s bed, still tuned to the steady rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, the quiet safety of being held without needing to explain himself.

He reaches the upper corridor and slows.

Arthur’s chambers are only a turn away.

Merlin hesitates — then exhales softly and continues past them, because wanting isn’t the same as permission. Because timing matters. Because there are eyes everywhere, even when no one is looking.

He makes it three more steps before turning back.

“Idiot,” Merlin mutters under his breath.

He pivots neatly, retracing his steps as if he’d always meant to come this way, and lifts a hand to knock — then stops himself, knuckles hovering uselessly against the door.

Too obvious.

Instead, he clears his throat and pushes the door open with the air of someone who belongs there.

“Arthur?” he calls lightly. “I forgot—”

He cuts himself off as Arthur turns from the hearth, already halfway to the door like he’d been listening for Merlin’s footsteps.

Their eyes meet.

Nothing happens.

And yet — everything does.

Arthur’s gaze softens instantly, tension bleeding from his shoulders in a way Merlin recognises now. Relief, unguarded and immediate. Arthur doesn’t touch him, doesn’t move closer, but the space between them tightens all the same, charged with everything they’re not saying.

Merlin feels it settle under his skin.

Craving, quiet and persistent.

Arthur’s mouth tilts into something that isn’t quite a smile. “You forgot something?”

Merlin glances down at his empty hands, then back up, lips twitching despite himself. “I think I left my dignity somewhere in here.”

Arthur snorts softly, the sound low and fond. “It’s probably under the bed. That’s where everything else ends up.”

They hold the moment for a beat longer than necessary.

Then footsteps echo in the corridor outside — voices drifting past, unaware, uninterested.

Arthur straightens at once, posture shifting by instinct, the prince settling back into place like armour sliding on.

Merlin feels the distance return — not cold, not sharp.

Just… necessary.

“I’ll come by later,” Arthur says quietly, as if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. “If you’re free.”

Merlin nods. “I’ll… probably forget something else.”

Arthur’s smile this time is unmistakable.

Merlin turns to leave before he can do something foolish — like reach out, like linger too long — and the corridor stretches out before him once more, too long, too empty.

But this time, the ache feels different.

Not unanswered.

Just waiting.

⸻

They meet by accident.

Which is to say, they meet the way they always do — by orbiting the same quiet spaces until the distance collapses on its own.

Merlin is halfway down the armoury stair when Arthur appears at the landing above, boots scuffing stone as he turns sharply, like he’d been pacing and decided on a direction without quite knowing why. He stops short when he sees Merlin, surprise flickering across his face before it settles into something warmer.

“There you are,” Arthur says.

Merlin blinks. “I could say the same.”

The armoury is mostly empty at this hour — racks of polished steel lining the walls, torches burning low and steady. Not private. Not public either. A place people pass through without lingering.

Arthur glances down the stairwell automatically, then back up the corridor behind him. Only then does he step closer, lowering his voice.

“You’re freezing,” he says, frowning.

Merlin looks down at his hands, bare and faintly red from the cold stone. “I forgot my gloves.”

Arthur makes an impatient sound and swings himself onto the edge of the worktable beside them, legs bracketing Merlin. Before Merlin can react, Arthur reaches out and grabs his hands.

The gloves are warm — wool-lined leather, slightly rough where they’ve been worn smooth by years of sword hilts and reins. Arthur rubs Merlin’s hands briskly between his palms, friction building fast.

Merlin’s breath stutters.

Arthur slows — then stops.

He frowns down at their hands like something isn’t right.

There’s a brief pause. Arthur’s gaze flicks up to Merlin’s face, searching. Then, without a word, he drops Merlin’s hands and tugs his gloves off with his teeth, tossing them aside onto the table.

When Arthur takes Merlin’s hands again, skin to skin, the touch is immediate and shocking — like a brand pressed gently but deliberately.

Merlin stills.

Arthur’s hands are warm. Steady. His thumbs sweep over Merlin’s knuckles, slower now, more careful. He rubs warmth back into them as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, fingers slipping easily between Merlin’s, tracing the lines of his palms with quiet familiarity.

Merlin can’t speak.

His chest feels tight, heart beating so fast he’s half-afraid Arthur will feel it through his hands. He lets Arthur do it — lets himself lean just a fraction closer, drawn in by the heat and the focus of Arthur’s attention.

Arthur’s gaze drops to their hands. Lingers.

“Is that better?” he asks quietly.

He isn’t rubbing anymore.

He hasn’t let go.

Merlin swallows — the sound loud in the stillness. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Thanks.”

Arthur’s mouth tilts, faint and fond. For a moment, it looks like he might say something else. Might step closer. Might forget where they are.

Then—

Footsteps.

Voices drifting from the corridor above, growing nearer.

Arthur hears them instantly.

His grip tightens for half a heartbeat — not hesitation, not doubt — calculation.

Then he releases Merlin’s hands and steps back, movement smooth and controlled, gloves already halfway back on by the time the sound reaches the stair.

Merlin’s hands feel abruptly cold.

Arthur turns just enough to face the corridor as two armourers pass by, nodding curtly, posture already settled back into place. To anyone watching, it would look like nothing more than a brief exchange.

When the footsteps fade, Arthur looks back at Merlin.

There’s apology in his eyes.

Not regret.

Merlin understands it — intellectually. Knows exactly why Arthur pulled away. Knows there are eyes everywhere, and danger in even small slips.

But understanding doesn’t stop the ache.

Arthur lowers his voice. “Later,” he says. Not a question.

Merlin nods. “Later.”

Arthur hesitates — just a fraction — then turns and heads up the stairs, already moving like a man with somewhere he’s meant to be.

Merlin stands there a moment longer, flexing his fingers, feeling the ghost of Arthur’s warmth lingering in his skin.

He tells himself it’s fine.

That this is what caution looks like.

That being careful isn’t the same as being hidden.

Still — as he turns and continues down the stairs alone, the sting settles quietly in his chest.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to remind him there are people watching.

⸻

They meet on the west battlement just as the light begins to thin.

It’s an old stretch of wall — no longer used for patrols, half-forgotten now that Camelot’s borders have pushed outward. Ivy has claimed the stone. The wind moves more freely here, carrying the smell of damp earth and distant hearth fires.

Arthur checks the path behind them before stepping fully into the alcove.

Only when he’s satisfied does he turn back to Merlin — and something in him visibly eases, shoulders lowering, breath slowing like he’s finally come up for air.

“You all right?” Merlin asks softly.

Arthur huffs a quiet laugh. “I am now.”

Merlin smiles at that — small, fond — and edges closer, close enough that their breath ghosts between them, visible in the cool air. Arthur can see the moment Merlin gathers his courage: the way his mouth opens and closes once, the flicker of nerves in his eyes, like he’s bracing for refusal.

As if Arthur might turn him down.

As if Arthur hasn’t been thinking about this all evening.

“I dare you,” Arthur says lightly.

Merlin chokes on a laugh — soft and surprised — and then he kisses him.

Merlin’s mouth is warm, but his nose is cold, pressing into Arthur’s cheek and making him shiver. He leans in fully, breath catching against Arthur’s lips as his hand comes up to tangle in Arthur’s hair, fingers gripping at the back of his skull like he needs something solid to hold onto.

Arthur closes his eyes with a quiet sound.

He’s noticed it before — Merlin’s hands in his hair, the way he tugs just a little, grounding himself there — and he is more than all right with it. He kisses back with quiet confidence, unhurried and sure, guiding Merlin without ever forcing him, knowing exactly how each touch draws another breath, another small sound from him.

Merlin follows his lead instinctively.

When they finally part, it’s only because they have to breathe.

Merlin’s hands linger at Arthur’s collar, his forehead resting against Arthur’s. He’s shaking — partly from the cold, partly from the aftershock of being kissed like that. Touching Arthur still feels unreal, like something borrowed from a dream he hasn’t quite woken from yet.

Arthur presses his forehead back to Merlin’s, breathing him in — grounding himself in the familiar warmth, the steadiness of him.

For a moment, the world feels manageable.

Then—

“Well,” a voice says mildly behind them, “this explains a few things.”

They spring apart like startled cats.

Merlin nearly drops off the battlement entirely, scrambling back with a mortified noise. Arthur straightens so fast he almost knocks his head against the stone above them.

“Gaius,” Merlin croaks.

Gaius stands a few paces away, arms folded, expression carefully neutral — though his eyes are dancing with something dangerously close to amusement.

“I was wondering,” Gaius continues calmly, “why my apprentice has been forgetting supplies in places he’s already been three times today.”

Merlin’s face goes crimson. “I— that’s not—”

“And why the prince,” Gaius adds, turning his gaze to Arthur, “has been developing an alarming number of very urgent errands requiring said apprentice’s immediate presence.”

Arthur clears his throat. “It was… strategic.”

Gaius raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure it was.”

There’s a beat.

Then Gaius sighs — not annoyed. Tired. Fond.

“I won’t pretend I didn’t see this coming,” he says quietly. “Merlin has always had a talent for finding trouble. And you,” he adds, glancing at Arthur, “for inviting it.”

Merlin winces. “You’re not… angry?”

Gaius studies them both for a long moment — really looks — and whatever he sees there seems to settle something.

“No,” he says at last. “I’m not.”

Merlin lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

Gaius’s gaze sharpens just a fraction. “But I am concerned.”

The levity fades.

“You know the risks,” Gaius says gently. “Both of you do. The eyes on this castle are sharper than they appear.”

Arthur nods once, serious. “I know.”

“And I am not blind,” Gaius continues, “to the danger you would put him in if you were careless.” His eyes flick to Merlin — then back to Arthur. “So I will say this plainly.”

Arthur straightens, instinctively respectful.

“If you are going to be in Merlin’s life like this,” Gaius says, voice low and steady, “then you had best intend to protect him.”

Arthur doesn’t hesitate. “I do.”

Not dramatic. Not performative.

Certain.

Gaius studies him a moment longer — then nods.

“All right,” he says. “Then you have my blessing.”

Arthur blinks. “Your—”

“My blessing,” Gaius repeats dryly. “Consider it the closest thing you’ll get to a father’s approval.”

Merlin’s jaw drops. “Gaius!”

Gaius smiles faintly. “Do try not to make me regret it.”

He steps past them, pausing just long enough to add, “And for the record — next time, choose somewhere with fewer draughts. You’ll both catch your death out here.”

With that, he walks away.

Silence settles back over the battlement.

Merlin stares after him, then looks at Arthur. “Well. That was—”

Arthur laughs — quiet, relieved, a little incredulous — and reaches for Merlin again without thinking, fingers curling briefly around his wrist.

“Complicated,” he finishes.

Merlin squeezes his hand back.

Arthur leans in, pressing a soft, careful kiss to Merlin’s temple — not hidden, not panicked.

⸻

They learn how to find each other in fragments.

A glance held a second too long across the council chamber. Arthur’s mouth softening when Merlin brings him wine. Merlin catching the way Arthur’s fingers linger at his wrist before he remembers himself and lets go.

Notes are passed under the guise of duty.

Walk the west wall.
Check the armoury stores.
I need you — now.

Merlin slips into Arthur’s chambers long after the castle has settled, moving by instinct more than memory. Arthur is always waiting — seated, standing, pacing — and the moment the door shuts, the distance vanishes. Hands in hair. Foreheads pressed together. Quiet laughter swallowed into kisses meant not to carry.

They touch carefully at first.

Then less so.

Arthur’s hands learn the shape of Merlin’s back by heart, the way he fits against him when pulled close. Merlin learns where Arthur holds his tension and how to ease it — a thumb at his jaw, a breath at his throat, the simple weight of himself pressed warm and real against Arthur’s chest.

No urgency.

No rushing.

Just want, sharpened by restraint.

Merlin leaves before dawn, slipping away while Arthur sleeps or pretends to, fingers brushing one last time as he goes. By morning, they are prince and servant again — composed, distant, careful.

But something has shifted.

They are learning how to love without being seen.

And somehow, that makes every stolen moment burn brighter.

⸻

It happens without warning.

That’s the worst part.

They’re crossing the lower hall together — not alone, not surrounded either, just… existing in the same space, close enough that Merlin can feel Arthur’s presence like a low hum at his side. Knights pass in the opposite direction. A servant ducks around them with a basket of linens. The castle is awake, alert, watching without meaning to.

Merlin laughs softly at something Arthur murmurs under his breath — a habit now, reflexive — and reaches for him without thinking.

Not a grab.
Not a claim.

Just fingers brushing for Arthur’s sleeve. A quiet, instinctive I’m here.

Arthur doesn’t take his hand.

He doesn’t recoil.
He doesn’t flinch.

He just… doesn’t respond.

His gaze flicks up — sharp, assessing — clocking the movement of others, the open space, the eyes that could linger a second too long. And in that heartbeat, Arthur shifts half a step away, creating distance so subtle no one else would notice.

Except Merlin.

The absence lands immediately.

Merlin’s hand stalls midair, then drops back to his side as if it was never meant to be there at all. His smile doesn’t quite fade — he’s had years of practice — but something in his chest tightens, sharp and familiar.

Of course.
Of course here is not safe.

Arthur keeps talking, low and normal, as if nothing happened. As if he hasn’t just recalculated everything in the span of a breath.

Merlin nods along. Answers when spoken to. Walks beside him like he always has.

But the ache is already settling.

It isn’t anger.
It isn’t even surprise.

It’s the old fear, rising quietly:
This is what it means. This is how it will always be.

Chosen in the dark.
Careful in the light.
Loved where no one can see.

Arthur notices the shift too late.

He catches it in the way Merlin’s laugh doesn’t quite reach him anymore, in the way he puts a little more space between them once they’re clear of the hall. Arthur doesn’t say anything then — not because he doesn’t care, but because he knows better than to talk about this where walls have ears.

So he waits.

Later — much later — when the castle has settled and the corridors have thinned, Arthur finds Merlin where he always does when something’s wrong: half-tidying something that doesn’t need it, hands busy to keep his thoughts from being too loud.

“Merlin,” Arthur says quietly.

Merlin looks up. “Yeah?”

Arthur closes the door behind him.

The click feels final.

“I know I pulled away earlier,” Arthur says. No preamble. No excuses. “In the hall.”

Merlin’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “There were people around.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees. “There were.”

Silence stretches — not sharp, not angry. Just full.

Merlin hesitates, then speaks carefully, like he’s testing the ground. “I just—” He exhales. “I want to know what this looks like, Arthur. In the parts of the world that aren’t hidden.”

Arthur doesn’t interrupt.

“Because I can do this,” Merlin continues, voice steady but quiet. “I can be careful. I can be patient. But I need to know if careful is all we’re ever going to be.”

There it is.

Arthur feels it land — not as accusation, but as truth.

He steps closer, slow enough not to crowd him. “I won’t stop choosing you,” he says immediately. “Not in private. Not in my head. Not ever.”

Merlin searches his face.

“But,” Arthur adds, because honesty matters more than comfort now, “I won’t hand my father a reason to hurt you. Or use you. Or watch you.”

Merlin swallows.

“So what does that leave us?” he asks softly.

Arthur doesn’t look away.

“It leaves us being smart,” he says. “It leaves us adapting instead of disappearing. And it leaves me not pretending this doesn’t matter just because I can’t be reckless.”

He lifts a hand — not touching yet, asking without words.

“I pulled back today because I saw eyes,” Arthur continues. “Not because I didn’t want you. And not because I won’t want you tomorrow.”

Merlin nods slowly, letting that settle.

“Hiding doesn’t mean going away,” Arthur says, voice low and certain. “And distance doesn’t mean I’m leaving.”

He steps in then, closing the space properly this time, pressing close against Merlin.

“I’m still here,” he murmurs. “I just need you alive. Safe. And with me when this world finally stops watching so closely.”

Merlin exhales, something in him easing at last.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “just… don’t let me think I imagined it.”

Arthur’s mouth curves, soft and earnest. “I won’t.”

He presses a brief, gentle kiss to Merlin’s forehead — not secret, not rushed, just real.

And when Merlin leans into him, Arthur doesn’t pull away.

⸻

Arthur has been aware of Merlin all day in a way that borders on unbearable.

It starts in council — Merlin standing quietly at the edge of the room, head bowed, hands folded too neatly, as if Arthur hasn’t had those same hands tangled in his shirt, fisted in his hair, warm and demanding. Arthur keeps his gaze fixed on the map table and still knows exactly when Merlin shifts his weight, exactly when his attention drifts.

It follows him through patrol routes and training drills, through clipped orders and polite conversation, through the careful distance Arthur maintains without thinking about it — until thinking about it becomes the problem.

Because every time Arthur closes his eyes, he remembers the sound Merlin makes when he forgets himself.

And worse — he remembers how it felt to be the one drawing it out.

The thought comes unbidden, sharp enough to steal his breath for half a second: the image of dropping to his knees for Merlin, of tasting him slowly, deliberately, of making him feel good until that careful control shatters. The idea settles hot and vivid in his mind — Merlin gasping, hands in Arthur’s hair, utterly undone — and Arthur has to ground himself hard, fingers tightening around whatever’s closest, jaw setting as he forces the thought back down.

Not now.

The memory still lingers, though — low and insistent — not sharp enough to distract him outright, not dull enough to ignore. It coils there, waiting.

By evening, Arthur is restless.

He sends Merlin on errands he could have assigned to anyone — fetch this report, check that inventory, bring the wine up when you’re done — all of them unnecessary, all of them excuses. Merlin doesn’t comment. Merlin never comments. He just meets Arthur’s eyes for a fraction too long before nodding and doing exactly as he’s asked.

That might be the worst part.

Arthur finishes his duties with mechanical efficiency, dismisses the guards, bolts the door himself when he’s finally alone. He tells himself it’s habit. Prudence. Nothing more.

When Merlin arrives, the room already smells faintly of wax and wine.

Arthur pours without asking, watching the way Merlin’s fingers curl around the cup when he takes it, the way his shoulders loosen just a little as he steps further inside. They drink standing — too close, close enough that Arthur can feel the heat of him, can track the rise and fall of Merlin’s breath.

Neither of them speaks.

Arthur tells himself he’ll wait. That he’ll be careful. That he’ll do this slowly.

Then Merlin looks at him — really looks — and Arthur knows he’s already lost.

Carefully, Arthur puts down his cup on the table behind him. Merlin mirrors his action.

He takes a step forward — and that’s all he needs. That’s all it takes. Merlin is suddenly right there, and Arthur stops thinking. He just closes that tiny piece of space between them and kisses him.

Merlin tastes like wine. His body feels warm and solid up against Arthur’s, and Arthur presses forward into him. His hands come up to cup Merlin’s face, fingers sliding into Merlin’s hair. Merlin gives a soft sigh under his breath, and Arthur responds with a low moan. He moves forward, propelling Merlin backwards; Merlin’s back hits the wall with a thump, although Arthur just manages to move his hand up to protect the back of Merlin’s head.

“Sorry,” he mumbles into Merlin’s mouth.

Merlin gives a breathless little laugh against him.

It’s enough to send shivers through Arthur’s body, heat coiling low in his belly. His fingers tighten in Merlin’s hair and he pushes almost frantically into Merlin’s mouth. He’s pressed right up against Merlin, and he takes a moment to enjoy the feel of his body — so firm, so utterly there — and without really realising what he’s doing, Arthur rolls his hips forward into him.

Merlin gasps loudly, tipping his head back so that it thuds against the wall. When Arthur draws back enough to look at him, he sees that Merlin’s eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed red.

He did that. He made Merlin react that way. It’s a heady rush of pleasure to realise it.

His pelvis is still tilted into Merlin’s, and he pushes forward a little, just to hear the small moan Merlin makes at the contact. Arthur grinds his hips into Merlin’s once more, and once more Merlin lets out a ragged groan.

“Arthur,” Merlin murmurs. Little tingles of pleasure dance through Arthur’s body. “Arthur, Arthur—”

“Yes?” Arthur says into the hollow of Merlin’s neck. He presses his mouth to Merlin’s collarbone, and Merlin moans again.

“I—I can’t— I need—” Merlin lets out breathlessly.

“Shh, it’s okay — I’ve got you.”

Arthur tugs Merlin’s shirt up over his head and leans in again. Merlin’s back presses against the cold wall, but he’s too caught up to notice anymore — completely and utterly captivated by Arthur. The way his lips feel against his, the way his hands feel exploring his body — it’s too much and not enough all at once.

Arthur’s lips start to travel down Merlin’s body. He clamps his mouth over a sensitive spot, swirling his tongue until Merlin arches into it, slack-jawed and moaning.

“Oh gods — Arthur… please—”

Breathing in deep, Arthur drops down to his knees, holding Merlin still as he leans in closer. Merlin dips his head to look down at him.

Arthur is looking up through his lashes, pupils dark.

“Oh…” Merlin gasps, and Arthur exhales again.

“Can I—?” Arthur starts, unsure how to ask.

“Yes. Oh gods — please, Arthur,” Merlin gasps, head falling back again.

Arthur slowly loosens the ties of Merlin’s breeches, giving him plenty of time to change his mind.

“Since that first night,” Arthur whispers, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this. I’ve been dying to taste you.”

“Arthur—” Merlin lets out impatiently, voice utterly destroyed.

Arthur’s breath reaches him first, a warm rush that sends a shiver up his spine — then his mouth follows, and the world blurs into heat and pleasure.

Merlin reaches out blindly, hands landing in Arthur’s hair, pulling hard before he realises what he’s doing.

“God — sorry—” he pants, head tipped back, breath loud and ragged.

Arthur pulls off him. “Don’t — I mean, you can,” he says, breathless. Merlin blinks at him. “You can — I like it,” Arthur adds, touching Merlin’s hand in his hair.

Merlin can only respond with a muddled sigh of pleasure as Arthur’s mouth takes him in again. He tightens his grip unconsciously, and Arthur lets out a deep groan around him.

Merlin is gasping. “Arthur, Arthur,” he moans. The heat — the pleasure — is getting almost unbearable.

Arthur is good at this, Merlin thinks — gods, how is he so good at this?

The way he moves, the way his tongue swirls just right. It’s like he instinctively knows how to push every one of Merlin’s buttons, driving him completely mad.

Merlin looks down again — he needs to see Arthur in this moment.

Gods. The sight of him almost does him in on the spot.

Arthur’s gaze flicks up, catching him — watching with the same intensity, the same awe. His pupils are blown so wide they nearly swallow the blue of his eyes entirely. A deep, broken groan tears from Merlin’s chest at the sight, and Arthur answers it with a soft moan of his own.

Merlin tightens his grip in Arthur’s hair again, pushing him in slightly — just enough to draw another sound from him.

The way Merlin does that — not demanding, not forceful, just guiding — sends a low, helpless heat through Arthur’s chest. He likes it more than he ever thought he would. Likes the quiet confidence in it. The trust. The giving up of control, if only for a moment. The certainty that Merlin knows exactly what he’s doing to him.

Arthur lets himself follow, lets himself be moved, and the sound it pulls from him is raw and unguarded. He doesn’t even try to stop it.

Gods. Merlin looking down at him like this — flushed, undone, eyes dark with want — is almost too much. Knowing he’s the reason for it, that he’s drawn this out of Merlin piece by piece, makes something fierce and proud curl low in his stomach.

Arthur feels it everywhere: the pleasure, the awe, the pull of being wanted so openly. Being allowed to give this much, and being guided while he does.

It’s building rapidly, and no matter what Merlin tells himself, he can’t stop it. So he lets himself get swept away in the rising pleasure of it. His stomach knots, thighs tensing as he tugs insistently on Arthur’s hair.

“Please, Arthur — I can’t — I’m going to—”

Arthur doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t soften the moment or try to slow it down. He wants all of it — all of Merlin, everything he’s willing to give. He wants to watch him fall apart.

A soft, broken sound slips from Arthur’s throat in response, unguarded and real.

And that’s all it takes.

The sound hits Merlin like a trigger, the last thread snapping as the tension crashes over him in a tidal wave — pleasure rolling through him so fast it steals his breath, leaves him shaking, clinging, helpless to anything but the feeling.

Arthur feels it like a blow to the gut.

The sight of Merlin like this — breathless, undone, clinging to him — steals what little air Arthur has left. Heat surges low and sharp, his body reacting faster than his thoughts, every instinct screaming at him to move closer, to take more.

Gods.

It’s almost enough to tip him over the edge on the spot.

Arthur grits his teeth, steadying himself, because watching Merlin lose himself so completely — knowing he’s the reason — sends a vicious, dizzying rush through him that leaves his hands trembling. Pride, want, awe all tangled together until he can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Merlin like this is overwhelming.

Beautiful.

And Arthur realises, distantly, that if he stopped holding back — even for a second — he wouldn’t last at all.

Not with Merlin looking at him like that. Sounding like that.

“Oh god,” Merlin pants. “Oh god.”

Arthur rises, taking him into his arms — steadying him. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.” Merlin clings to him like a lifeline, burying his head in the crook of Arthur’s neck while Arthur holds him close.

Merlin’s breath slowly evens out.

Then — deliberately — he shifts.

His hands slide down Arthur’s sides, curious and sure, thumbs brushing warm skin as he leans back just enough to look at him. Arthur’s eyes darken at once, a quiet inhale catching in his chest, like he already knows what Merlin is thinking.

Merlin does.

He’s been thinking about it too.

About Arthur’s mouth. The sounds he makes when he forgets himself. The way he gives so freely, like it never occurs to him that he deserves the same in return.

Merlin’s fingers tighten, grounding himself this time, and he leans in — not hesitant, not asking. His mouth finds Arthur’s again, slower now, deeper, a promise pressed into every second of it.

Arthur makes a soft, involuntary sound against his lips.

Merlin smiles into the kiss, emboldened, and lingers — letting Arthur feel it. Letting him know.

Your turn.

Arthur exhales, hands flexing at Merlin’s back, and when he kisses him again it’s with quiet surrender — letting Merlin take the lead, letting himself be wanted.

Notes:

Song- There’s People Watching — Jade LeMac)

This chapter is built around the idea that secrecy isn’t thrilling — it’s pressure.

The line that sits at the heart of it for me is:

“There’s people watching.”

Not as a warning, but as a constant, low-level pressure that shapes every choice Arthur and Merlin make after they’ve crossed the line into something real.

By this point in the story, Arthur is no longer unsure about Merlin. He isn’t questioning his feelings or pulling away because of fear of intimacy. Instead, his fear has narrowed and sharpened: Uther is watching, and Arthur knows it. That’s why lyrics like:

“Turn away when the camera’s on / Grab your hand, but there’s no response”

don’t mean Arthur doesn’t want Merlin — they mean Arthur has learned exactly when not to touch him. Public restraint becomes protection. Distance becomes strategy. Arthur is choosing Merlin by being careful, even when it looks like absence.

For Merlin, though, restraint is complicated. He understands secrecy — he’s lived inside it his whole life — but secrecy has always carried loss with it. That’s why the line:

“Feeling as you pull away, watch my love fade”

hits from Merlin’s POV. It isn’t about Arthur actually leaving. It’s about Merlin’s instinctive fear that silence means abandonment, that hiding means being left behind “for his own good.” Merlin trusts Arthur — but he’s still learning that love under watch doesn’t vanish; it just changes shape.

The stolen moments throughout the chapter echo:

“Sneaking out to all the unknown places / Just to be alone with you”

These aren’t reckless escapes — they’re survival. Quiet corners of the castle become sanctuaries. A brush of fingers, a shared breath, a look held for half a second too long become proof that this is still real, still chosen.

And underneath it all is the question the song keeps circling:

“Is it worth all the pain just to be together?”

For Arthur, the answer is already yes. He’s willing to carry suspicion, scrutiny, even his father’s wrath — as long as Merlin stays untouched by it.

For Merlin, the answer is yes too — but it’s harder. Because staying means trusting that hiding doesn’t mean disappearing.

This chapter isn’t about doubt. It’s about pressure.

Love doesn’t disappear here. It compresses — it becomes sharper, quieter, more deliberate. And despite the risk, they keep choosing it anyway.

They are not less in love because they must be careful.

They are in love while being watched.

And that’s a different kind of bravery.

Additional Song- Secret Love Song by Little Mix:

This chapter also draws heavily from Secret Love Song, particularly its focus on the quiet, wearing ache of loving someone in pieces. The song isn’t about forbidden love as spectacle — it’s about what it costs to keep choosing each other when the world only allows that choice in private.

Lines like “stolen moments that we steal as the curtain falls” reflect how Arthur and Merlin are surviving right now: in half-seconds, in glances, in spaces that aren’t meant to hold them for long. Those moments are real — grounding, sustaining — but they also come with the knowledge that they’ll never quite be enough on their own.

The line “why can’t you hold me in the street?” maps closely onto Merlin’s experience in this chapter. He understands why Arthur pulls back. He understands the danger, the scrutiny, the necessity of caution. But understanding doesn’t erase the old fear that secrecy can carry — the fear of being loved only where no one can see.

For Arthur, restraint isn’t rejection. It’s protection. He’s not ashamed of Merlin, and he isn’t unsure about what he wants. He’s learned exactly when not to reach — not because the want isn’t there, but because he refuses to turn Merlin into a target. What looks like absence is, for him, a form of vigilance.

This chapter lives in the space between those truths. Love under watch doesn’t vanish — it reshapes itself, growing quieter, more precise, more intentional. Arthur and Merlin aren’t less in love because they must be careful; they’re learning how to stay in love without being taken apart by the world watching them.