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Merlin lets himself in without knocking.
“There's a bit of a problem,” he announces.
Lancelot, in his room like Merlin had hoped after his patrol shift in town, looks up from his spot in bed. “You could knock. Hello to you, too.”
Merlin grins at him, indulging in the brief distraction. “I don't even knock when I'm attending to Arthur. You don't know the things I've seen.”
“So perhaps you should start,” Lancelot says, then blinks at him. “What was that about a problem?”
“It's, er, something called a barghest,” Merlin reports, running through the slew of information Gaius had given him. “I've got to take care of it before Arthur gets word. You know how he is when he's sick—and if he catches wind of a threat to Camelot he'll get himself right out of bed and go charging out bumbling around while hacking his lungs up—ugh. I don't even want to think about it.”
Lancelot's brow furrows. He sits up, swinging his legs over to stand.
“The sighting hasn't been reported…? Does Leon know?”
If Leon knows, Arthur will find out. Luckily, though—
“Well, I was the one who saw it,” Merlin says. “Alright, it was close enough to the walls that someone in the lower town saw it too, but I promised I'd take the matter to Arthur to be handled. Just… they don’t need to know we’ll take care of it.”
Lancelot stands in one smooth motion, reaching for his mail, and Merlin goes to help him get his armor on, going through the familiar motions. He spares a moment to be endlessly grateful for Lancelot, his secret-keeper; who readies himself with barely a word.
Lancelot dithers after taking his sword, but Merlin hands him his shield.
“You'll need it,” Merlin says lowly. He hates putting Lancelot in danger like this, but he'd seen the flash of large, sharp teeth and known he couldn't do it alone. “Gaius said, according to the books, the wounds from a barghest never heal.”
After that Lancelot takes his shield, looking at him worryingly. “Then what about you?”
Merlin grimaces. He's dressed as usual: tunic and trousers, his trusty jacket and neckerchief. Gaius hadn't approved, giving him the worst of arched brows, but Merlin knows himself. Armor will only weigh him down; running away from the barghest in armor will more likely mean Merlin tripping and getting his head bitten off.
“A healing spell might work, he said, but if it’s been done we don’t know.” Merlin pats Lancelot's shoulder. “But I've got a big, strong knight with me. What's there to be afraid of?”
Lancelot smiles, but his words are solemn. “I will protect you.”
That's what I worry about, Merlin thinks.
They go through the plan as they flit through the castle. It's not much different from the griffin or the other magical threats they've faced then. They find the monster, Merlin does magic, and Lancelot sticks the sharp end of the sword in it. Merlin would say the rate of success is rather high, so it doesn't need changing.
Merlin even has the foresight to enchant Lancelot's sword first.
“Aren't you worried about Arthur?”
Merlin waves a hand as they slip through the castle. “I gave him a sleeping draught. He needs the rest anyway. We should be safe until morning, if need be.”
They head out the castle without incident, but it’s when they hit the lower town that Lancelot hisses, “Merlin!” and grabs his arm.
“Whah—”
Lancelot yanks him back, sending him stumbling. Merlin opens his mouth, then catches sight of two figures right in their path.
Gwaine and Gwen.
They both freeze. Gwaine is gesturing, clearly teasing from the look on his face; Gwen snorts with barely-restrained laughter, shoving at his arm. Gwaine must be escorting her home.
“Let's go this way,” Merlin manages.
“Down the alley. We can take the long way around.”
They dart down as fast as they can, slipping into the shadows, and Merlin heaves a sigh of relief. Lancelot shakes his head, mouth shaped in an amused smile.
“One day, Merlin,” he says, reaching over to straighten Merlin’s neckerchief. “We won’t have to do things like this.”
Merlin ducks his head down, looking away. He knows what Lancelot means, the implication. That there will be a day where Merlin doesn’t have to hide; when they can march out openly, brandishing sword and spell alongside one another, like equals. Lancelot is like this sometimes—he says these words, so sure that for everyone else in their lives the revelation of Merlin’s magic will be as painless and easy to accept as it was for him. But Merlin knows the truth. It isn’t. Not with vengeful sorcerers and accursed monsters around every corner. Not with how much suffering has been wrought by the hand of magic, and just the same, how much suffering those with magic have had to bear. It seems impossible.
“Maybe,” he mutters.
“A man must well hold a friend in every way,” Lancelot quotes at him.
“Been studying to become a philosopher instead, have you?”
“Arthur did not blame me for the circumstances from which I was born.”
“Without m—mm—”
He almost says magic out loud, careless as he is sometimes, interrupted by the sound of a footfall behind them.
“Fancy seeing you two here,” calls Gwaine. “I thought I saw some familiar faces passing by. Heading down to the tavern, boys?”
Maybe, Merlin thinks uselessly, if he doesn’t say anything Gwaine will magically go away. This is just what they need. He throws his hands up in surrender, tottling as he turns on his heel to face their friend.
“You caught us.”
“Arthur complains you go too much, but I never see you.” Gwaine flicks his hair back. “Finally. Care for a pint?”
“We…” Lancelot flounders.
“Expecting to get into a brawl, I bet,” Gwaine continues, checking out Lancelot’s full mail. “Now that sounds even more fun.”
Merlin cringes. Oh, no.
Gwaine is an incredibly loyal knight, despite what some might think of him. Arthur didn’t accept Gwaine into his ranks only because of his skills with a sword, although he’s wicked good at catching people off guard. Perceptive. Gwaine jests and complains and relishes in antagonizing Arthur—but he’d chosen to be here, too. Gwaine would never go anywhere he doesn’t want to. He has a loud mouth and brash demeanor, but his heart betrays him: he would go to the very gates of hell for any one of them.
They are all traits Merlin admires, but right now, Gwaine is fixed onto them like the best of Arthur’s hounds on a trail.
“Gwaine…” Merlin says, bracing himself to send Gwaine away.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Gwaine says, demeanor shifting. “But you know you can trust me.”
“It— it’s not…”
Gwaine’s face twists slightly, eyes flicking to Lancelot, though it smooths out again in the next heartbeat. Merlin hates that he knows what Gwaine is thinking.
“You know what they say,” Lancelot interrupts. Merlin shoots him a look he hopes says, excuse-me what-on-Earth, but he continues anyway: “Two’s company, but three is… even more company.”
Gwaine throws his head back and laughs. “I don’t think that’s how the phrase goes.”
Merlin throws Lancelot one last, desperate is-this-a-good-idea look, and as Gwaine ambles up to them, Lancelot leans over and murmurs, “It’ll be alright. And it’ll be helpful.”
“He…”
“…won’t find out,” Lancelot finishes, then adds pointedly, “and I don’t think it would be so bad if he did.”
Merlin swallows his protest. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. How many times has he done magic alongside the knights without them knowing, to protect them? For just a moment he imagines blurting it all out to Gwaine anyway, like Lancelot suggests. Gwaine has been outside Camelot loads, but he’s also seen some terrible things.
“He won’t,” Merlin agrees, voice soft.
“Not the tavern then, I take it,” Gwaine ventures as they veer towards the city gates. The night guards straighten as the three of them approach, hastily shifting to appear as though they have been paying attention. Merlin rolls his eyes. There’s a makeshift table made from a barrel and a plank of wood, balancing on it a half-finished game of Nine Men’s Morris.
Having two knights at his side makes it a little easier to leave without being questioned. They’re barely given a second glance once they’re recognized, the guard on the right already turning back to their game.
Merlin stops them on the edge of the woods, and lights the torch he’d brought. Warm light casts over their faces.
“Gwaine,” he says. “You should go back. It’s dangerous.”
Gwaine, who tenses, relaxes one second later. “Oh, good.”
“I mean it. We’re looking for… well it’s kind of like a dog. A really big dog. Listen, I don’t want you to get hurt. If it gets you—”
“You've lost one of the hounds?” Gwaine asks, laughing. “That kennelmaster is a tough one, no wonder you're out here searching this late. Well, the more eyes, the better. We'll round it up and manage a drink in the tavern before the night is over.”
Merlin swallows. He needs to finish warning Gwaine. Lucky that Gwaine has his leathers on still, but—
Two pinpricks of light peer out from between the trees.
More torches?
No. Wait.
“Not that kind of dog,” Merlin manages, dread filling his gut. “Gwaine, don’t let yourself get clawed or bit!”
A low, deep growl.
“Oh, shit—”
“That kind of dog!”
The barghest is even bigger than he thought from the glimpse Merlin caught of it before. In the dim light he struggles to make out its full shape. A long snout turns upward, sniffing. The ends of it trail into shadow—not just blending in, rather, the very outline of it is smoky, like the form of it is immutable. What isn’t are the giant claws, caught in the moonlight, and sharp teeth as large as Merlin’s forearm.
“Split!” Gwaine roars.
Merlin’s frantic mind loses itself, and his body moves instead on instinct, flinging himself left. Gwaine and Lancelot go right. The barghest swings in his direction, dancing yellow flames of its gaze narrowing.
Merlin scrambles backward, his confidence wavering. Like an idiot, he drops his torch, the light guttering out and leaving them only in moonlight.
“Woah!”
“You stay up front,” Lancelot shouts to Gwaine. He jerks his head. “I’ll flank.”
In a flash Merlin understands what he’s doing. Gwaine will be the distraction, good as he is at it. Fending off the barghest should be no issue for him, and Lancelot—the one with the enchanted weapon—can deal the final blow.
With his back to Merlin, Gwaine can’t see him do magic, if he needs to.
“Here, doggy, doggy,” Gwaine calls, testing his sword in the air. “Merlin here’s a bit too small of a meal for ya.”
The barghest lunges, snarling.
Merlin throws his arm out, hissing a spell under his breath, the first he can think of. The barghest stumbles over nothing.
The smell of decay hits Merlin a moment later as Gwaine takes his chance, slashing at its leg. A howl splits the air. Merlin gags, pulling his neckerchief up.
Less than a moment later, Gwaine curses. Merlin nearly does too when he sees what Gwaine does: that the slash he’d made, bubbling dark with thick blood, is already healing over itself and disappearing.
Think, Merlin.
A branch snaps. Lancelot raises his shield just in time, the sound of claws against metal echoing. A heavy paw slams into him, and Lancelot crumples, crying out.
“Lancelot, no!”
Gwaine moves somewhere to his left, and Merlin sprints with him. “Here!”
The barghest whips around faster than Merlin realizes, already lunging. The ground shakes as it slams into a tree instead, upper branches cracking. Merlin finishes the job.
“Forbearnan firgenholt!”
The treetop buckles, slamming down on the barghest’s head, and it screams. Behind it is no sign of Lancelot.
“Please be safe,” Merlin prays.
“He’ll be fine.” Gwaine huffs out a breath. “Us, though? I think running is a good idea right about now.”
The sword—Merlin needs to enchant his sword. They hit another copse of trees and Gwaine steps in front of him again, planting his feet and readying his sword.
Fear catches in him, buzzing. The sword, he thinks again, but when he lifts his arm he finds his hands shaking. Gwaine will know.
He won’t need to worry about it if they all die. Merlin chokes on a hysteric laugh, searching for the words of the spell again, and that’s when he hits the ground. His laugh turns into a wheeze as the air is knocked right out of his lungs.
Hot air blows on his face. Merlin looks up, and up, and up into a row of massive teeth and realizes, quite suddenly, that he is very much trapped. Under the barghest. It’d leapt right over Gwaine to get to him.
“Astr—”
The moon catches his eye, reappearing as the barghest opens its mouth, spittle dripping. Merlin scrambles away faster than dodging one of Arthur’s goblets, and it just misses him.
“I got you!”
The barghest snaps again as Gwaine drags Merlin out of the way, feet scrabbling uselessly against the ground. Then something yanks him forward again, air in his throat tightening. A bit of red flashes between its teeth—his neckerchief. fs
“C'mon!”
Gwaine pulls him back hard. Something tears.
The barghest howls. Its eyes flicker, then go dark completely as its body dissipates from bone to shadow to nothing.
“Well,” Merlin says, blinking. “Easy cleanup.”
Merlin's vision clears. Lancelot stands before them, panting, blade still pointed down where he must have just plunged his sword. All the tension leaves him, and Merlin drops bonelessly with relief like the barghest. Gwaine whoops.
“Nicely done, Lance!”
Lancelot smiles, sheathing his sword then rushing over to help Merlin up.
“You're not hurt, are you?” he asks, looking over Merlin. “I feared…”
Merlin brushes off his clothes. He tugs mournfully at his neckerchief, touching the skin at his throat where he'd almost been grazed.
“No, no. You? When you disappeared…”
“Just knocked the wind out of me. Right as rain. Gwaine?”
Gwaine staggers. He clothes at his side, hissing, and Merlin's heart drops in his throat. Gwaine looks up slow, wetting his mouth.
“I…” he says. “Ow.”
“Gwaine—” Merlin steadies his shoulder, dread rushing through him. “Hold on, let me see.”
Gwaine swallows again. This close, Merlin can see the bob of his throat.
“I think I need help.” Gwaine lifts his eyes to Merlin, then his lashes flutter and he grins. “A pretty lady, preferably, but I guess you'll have to do.”
“Gwaine,” Lancelot sighs.
“You cannot be joking,” Merlin accuses, pointing a finger at me. “No—you had better be.”
“Ahh,” Gwaine says, raising his hands. There is no wound, as Merlin feared, on his side. “But I'm very serious. It's the only cure!”
“You’re insufferable.”
“But you like me anyway.”
Gwaine goes to sling an arm around Merlin’s shoulders, and Merlin ducks away from him, wrinkling his nose.
“I thought I was promised drinks,” he says, and Merlin rolls his eyes. “We still have plenty of time before daybreak.”
“Neither one of us made such promises. We had better get back to Camelot before someone raises a fuss.”
“Sure, sure, Sir Lancelot.”
This time, when Gwaine puts his arm around Merlin’s shoulder, he lets it happen. He stretches his other hand out to clap Lancelot’s in a familiar celebration of victory Merlin sees often after fights.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to go to The Rising Sun. He hasn’t seen Evoric since a few months ago, when Merlin helped Gaius treat the innkeeper’s son and got a hot meal and a crisp mug of ale in return. Merlin can already see it all unfolding. Arthur won’t be up until late with the sleeping draught, and his order of bedrest means Merlin could, perhaps, stay out a little later than usual.
“Well.” Merlin licks his lips. The cook at the Rising Sun makes a mean pie, to boot. “Maybe we could have one—Gwaine, gross, what is—”
Something warm and wet seeps through the fabric of Merlin’s sleeve, right under Gwaine’s hand.
“What’s what?” Gwaine asks, but Merlin’s heart starts pounding again.
He twists, grabbing Gwaine’s arm, but it’s too dark. His fingers are already slick. He’s sure in a moment, even without seeing, that he knows what this is. Not sweat and not gross monster slobber.
“Lancelot, my torch.”
Lancelot wastes no time, snatching up the torch from the ground, and strikes at it once, twice, before Merlin lights it wordlessly with just a flash of his eyes. Light illuminates them, dirt and sweat and all, and as it gets closer to Gwaine he feels his stomach tie itself tighter and tighter in knots.
“When did it get you?” Merlin demands.
He reaches up, pulling the remains of his neckerchief off.
Gwaine frowns, flexing his hand. “Must have been when I was grabbing you. It’s barely a scratch, though.”
“This is my fault,” Merlin says furiously, binding the wound.
“What? No, mate, ‘course not, that—”
“Gwaine, you don’t even understand.”
“Take a breath,” Lancelot says quietly, and Merlin sucks in air. As he glances across to Lancelot he sees the same worry reflected in his gaze. They’re both thinking of the same thing. “We should get back to Camelot. To Gaius.”
“But—you’re right. Of course. Hurry, Gwaine.”
Merlin tears his shirt, and binds the wound again, so thick Gwaine might as well be wearing a mitt on his hand.
It will do something. It has to be enough, for now.
“We’re not far,” Merlin says, and this time takes Gwaine’s arm around his shoulders to support him. “We’ll be back by the next candle-mark.”
“It’s only a scratch,” Gwaine grouses. “By your grim-looking faces you’d think I’ll be dropping dead by the next candle-mark.”
“Of course you won’t.”
He’s trying to think, desperately flipping through the pages of Gaius’ book in his mind’s eye. Down below the scratchy drawing of the barghest, the description of its fiery gaze and shadowy figure: a wound that never heals. Neither stitch nor cauter would mend it.
But what, Merlin thinks, of magic? There’d been no word written of it. Like many, many things lost in the Purge so too was much text and knowledge; Merlin’s lucky at all for that scant page of information, much less that Gaius has taught him enough of healing spells. He bites his lip.
It has to be the last resort. They just have to make it to Gaius.
But like many things upon being in Merlin’s vicinity, things go south fast.
The makeshift bandage does little after a short while. Gwaine goes from confident, joking about skiving off of morning training if Arthur is still ill, to being quiet, something terrifying in the paces between the thick trees of the forest and just beyond the outer wall. The night guards are still where they left them, leaning over their game of dice. Merlin grits his teeth.
A silent push of magic, and the men shout as the board topples, dice spilling. Lancelot takes Gwaine’s other side, and they hurry in one big rush. Gwaine is still walking, good man that he is, but one glance at him shows him sweating, brow creased as he focuses only on putting one foot in front of the other.
He should have left well enough alone. Or dealt with it himself. Why had he let Gwaine come…? No, why Lancelot as well? There will be no next time. They plunge towards the castle, hurried by Gwaine’s paling face and his harsh breathing. But it’s in the lower town that Gwaine gives out.
“Shit—”
Not expecting the drop, Merlin stumbles as Gwaine’s weight shifts. Lancelot reacts for both of them, catching Gwaine before he hits the ground.
“This is… worse than that time…” Gwaine mutters, trying to muster a smile.
“Quit that,” Merlin says, looking towards their destination. They’re too far. He reaches out with his mind, toward the same space where Druidspeak exists for him, trying to link his mind to Gaius, but nothing happens. Frustration wells in him. They need help. They need Gaius, and Gwaine needs—Merlin.
“I know!”
Lancelot jerks his head in the direction of the street, and Merlin sees a dwelling soft with warm light, a haven. Gwen’s.
Gwen screams when Merlin bursts down the door, grasping a metal jug with her hand, and then her eyes widen when she sees Lancelot behind with Gwaine. To her credit, Gwen doesn’t miss a single beat. She sets her jug back and pulls back the sheets to the low bed she has.
“Here,” she says. “Oh, no, Gwaine. Where—”
“His hand. A magical beast,” Merlin says shortly. “Bandages, cloth, Gwen, I need—”
“Alright, Merlin.”
She makes quick work of it, producing clean cloth and setting water. Lancelot hovers nearby as Merlin unbinds the wound, and they all wince as one at the sight. It really is no more than a deep scratch, a set of marks on the back of his hand; but it bleeds freely and quicker than any wound Merlin has ever treated as physician’s apprentice, and the edges are so dark they’re almost black.
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know. Send—if there’s anyone—send… send for Gaius.”
Lancelot is out the door again in a heartbeat. Merlin uses cloth to pack the wound, cursing that he doesn’t have his supplies. Applying pressure only makes Gwaine groan, pained.
“We can stitch it,” he says uncertainly to Gwen, looking at the worry lines of her face and wincing when she has no answers for him. “We… it doesn’t matter if it… we can’t close it completely, but—”
“Yes, of course.”
Merlin’s fingers tremble finely as he prepares the needle.
“Not looking good, am I?” Gwaine asks from the bed.
“The world may be coming to an end if you’re saying that,” Gwen tells him, and Gwaine still has the mind to laugh. “Hold still. No, Gwaine, you’ll be alright. Won’t he, Merlin?”
She sends him a pleading look, searching for reassurance. Merlin tries.
The door opens behind them.
“Oh, Lancelot…”
“Gwen. Merlin, I’ve sent for Gaius.”
“If I’d known I could get all this attention from you lot I’d have gone out dog-hunting ages ago.” Gwaine winks up towards Gwen. “All it took was a mere scratch. Do you reckon it’ll work on sweet Elaine?”
As they bicker, Lancelot touches Merlin’s back with a feather-light touch.
“The wound…”
“...is magical,” Merlin agrees. “But wounds dealt by beasts have been healed before.”
Lancelot’s face pinches as he looks to Gwaine.
“Not funny, is it?” Gwaine asks. He sighs, looking suddenly serious despite the previous smile he’d worn and the grey pallor to his skin. “Merlin, this wasn’t your fault. And if you can’t do anything about it, well—you have been… you are a true friend. All of you.”
Merlin’s shaking his head, the words drifting around him. “I won’t listen to this.”
“Merlin…” Lancelot says softly. “There isn’t enough time. You must do it.”
“I—I know.”
Merlin’s heart feels like it’s going to tear in two. He’s not sure, suddenly, why he’s hesitated at all, and he stands with a dizzying certainty. Gwaine will not die.
“Gwaine,” he says, and Gwaine blinks at him as Merlin reaches to take his hand. “I can heal you. No. I will heal you. Can you forgive me?”
“Why didn’t you…?” Gwen asks quietly.
“Forgive? My friend, I would trust you with anything and forgive you for all in the world.”
“Maybe not for this,” Merlin says, and focuses. Takes a deep breath. “Gehalge.”
He hears, more than sees, Gwen inhale sharply. Under his hands, Gwaine flinches hard, like he can’t help it. Merlin doesn’t look at either of them, just keeps his eyes trained on the scratch on Gwaine’s hand. The edges shudder, skin reaching to knit together, but blood pools from under the stitches again. He needs something stronger.
“Ic pe…” Merlin starts, and makes the mistake of looking up.
Gwaine is staring, mouth slightly open. He tries to speak, soundlessly making shapes, and Merlin falters. Lancelot’s hand adds more pressure, and Merlin finds the courage to finish the spell, reactions damned.
“...purhhæle pinu licsar!”
For a moment Merlin fears it will all be true. That this is a wound that cannot be healed. Not by stitch or cauter, or magic.
But slowly, bit by bit, it does.
Merlin’s knees wobble. The adrenaline and relief finish their battle and leave the field all at once, and Merlin sags. Lancelot catches his elbow, squeezing his arm.
“Well done, Merlin.” Lancelot presses his lips together and looks steadily ahead to where Gwaine and Gwen are, still silent. “I hold the two of you in the highest esteem, and I am sure you shall think of Merlin all the same, but… let it be known I will defend him, as necessary.”
Merlin makes a noise at that. Lancelot seems to have no qualms about it—he sets his free hand at his side, not touching the pommel of his sword, but close. Not that he would ever truly raise it against a friend, but for Merlin…
“Oh.” Gwen wrings her hands together, and then for lack of something to occupy them, goes quickly to gather up the mess of hastily-procured supplies. “You’re… a sorcerer.”
The waver in her voice at the word sorcerer is awful to listen to.
“Yes, but—well, yes. Something like that.” He doesn’t have anything left to say, just adds, “Please don’t tell Arthur.”
Gwen’s eyes dart to the ground. She folds the remaining clean cloth. “All this time?”
It’s only Lancelot’s hand that keeps Merlin from running. “Yes.”
“Morgana was… is a sorcerer. The magic changed her.”
Her voice has gone a little shrill, like she’s about to cry, and Gwen turns around quickly so Merlin can’t see if she really is. Merlin tamps down the rush of guilt and anger and fear that always surges when he thinks of Morgana.
“Merlin isn’t like her,” Lancelot rebukes.
Merlin has blood on his hands, too, but he doesn’t say it out loud.
“Morgana chose her path,” he says.
“How… many times have you done this?” Gwaine asks, finally. His eyes are clear. Focused. He flexes his uninjured hand, good as new, rolling his wrist to test it. “Saved us?”
Merlin meets his gaze. “More times than you know.”
“More times than can be counted,” Lancelot agrees. “Merlin would never betray us, you know.”
Gwaine’s face scrunches up, and then he laughs. The sound is so startling that Merlin just stares. He bends over double, chortling so hard he snorts, slapping at the sheet.
“That was a good one, Lance. Merlin betray us. Never in a million years!” He sticks his hand out, beckoning, and when Merlin approaches he clasps Merlin’s wrist, warm. “Thank you for healing me. I won’t tell, I promise.”
They all look to Gwen.
“Of course I won’t tell,” Gwen snaps. “You won’t… hurt anyone?”
“Not if I can help it,” Merlin says. He bites his lip, glancing towards Lancelot who nods, smiling. “Shall I show you some?”
There will be the day he longs for, far in the future, he thinks. A day magic can be used freely without fear; a day his magic can be used just for the sake of it. Gaius allowed his healing spells, horrible as Merlin is at them, artisans their crafts.
And Merlin will do this: magic to make bits of light and smoke, spells to summon wind and flowers, and more—more to discover. All to see the pride on Lancelot’s face, joy and wonder from Gwaine and Gwen.
“It was as I told you,” Lancelot murmurs to him later. “You don’t have to do anything alone and in hiding. Not all the time now.”
“Oh, bother,” Merlin says, but he can’t seem to stop smiling.
If they’re all late to their duties in the morning, well. Arthur doesn’t notice, anyway.