The hearts sovereignty

by murther_303

Chapter 1: Seven days

Notes:

A new chapter will be posted everyday. Some days may have more then one chapter

The ceremonial sword felt heavier than it should in Arthur's hand. He adjusted his grip, eyeing the practice dummy with the kind of focus usually reserved for actual combat. Seven days. In seven days, he would marry Guinevere and cement his reign with a queen the people adored.

So why did the thought sit in his chest like undigested meat?

"You're gripping too tight," Merlin observed from the side of the training field, arms crossed over his thin frame. "You'll tire yourself before the actual fight."

"There is no actual fight, Merlin. It's a *demonstration* for the visiting nobility." Arthur lowered the sword anyway, rolling his shoulder. "And when did you become an expert on swordsmanship?"

"Years of watching you wave sharp objects around." That crooked smile, the one that never failed to irritate and amuse in equal measure. "I've picked up a thing or two."

Before Arthur could formulate a suitable insult, the warning bells shattered the morning calm.

They moved in unison, years of crisis honing their coordination to something beyond conscious thought. Arthur grabbed his sword belt while Merlin was already running toward the citadel. By the time they reached the courtyard, smoke billowed from the eastern watchtower.

"Sire!" Leon emerged from the chaos, soot streaking his face. "Raiders breached the lower town. They've taken the grain stores and set fire to cover their escape."

Arthur's mind shifted into the familiar rhythm of command. "Take the knights through the eastern gate. Cut off their retreat. I'll—"

"The fire's spreading toward the residential quarter," Merlin interrupted, his eyes fixed on the tower. "There are families trapped."

Arthur saw it then—the way the wind carried embers toward the thatched roofs, the narrow streets that would become a death trap. A choice, sharp as any blade: pursue the raiders or save the trapped citizens.

"Leon, you have command. Drive them out." Arthur turned to Merlin. "We're getting those people out."

Merlin nodded once, and they ran.

The heat hit like a physical blow as they entered the burning quarter. Merlin grabbed a water bucket from an abandoned stall, soaking both their neckerchiefs. Arthur tied the wet cloth around his face and kicked in the first door.

Three families evacuated. Five. Seven. The smoke thickened, clawing at Arthur's lungs. Through the haze, he saw Merlin guiding an elderly woman toward safety, his hand gentle on her elbow despite the flames licking at the doorframe behind them.

Then Arthur heard it—a child's cry from the building collapsing inward.

"Arthur, no!" But Merlin's warning came too late. Arthur was already moving, diving through the doorway as timber groaned overhead. He found the boy huddled beneath a table, eyes wide with terror.

"Come on!" Arthur hauled him up, turning back toward the exit.

The ceiling gave way.

Arthur curled around the child, bracing for impact—but it never came. He opened his eyes to find Merlin standing in the doorway, arm outstretched, eyes blazing *gold*. The fallen beam hung suspended in the air, defying gravity, defying reason.

*Magic.*

Merlin's face contorted with effort, sweat streaming down his temples. "Move!" he gritted out.

Arthur moved, clutching the boy, diving past Merlin and the impossible floating timber. The moment they cleared the threshold, the beam crashed down, and Merlin stumbled. Arthur caught him with his free arm, and for a heartbeat they stood there, pressed together, Merlin's rapid breathing hot against his neck.

"You have magic," Arthur whispered.

"I have you," Merlin replied, and something in those words, in the fierce protectiveness of his gaze, struck Arthur with more force than any falling beam.

The boy's mother appeared, sobbing her thanks, pulling her son away. The moment broke. Merlin stepped back, his eyes now their usual blue, guarded and afraid.

"Arthur—"

"Later." Arthur's voice came out rougher than intended. "We'll discuss this later."

They worked until the fires died and the raiders were captured. They worked until Arthur's lungs burned and his muscles screamed. They worked until he could no longer avoid the truth that had crystallized in that smoke-filled doorway.

He had almost died, and his last thought hadn't been of Gwen, of his kingdom, of his duty. It had been of Merlin. Always Merlin. The way he smiled, the way he argued, the way he stood between Arthur and danger without hesitation.

The way Arthur needed him like air.

As the sun set over Camelot, Arthur stood in his chambers, still smelling of smoke, staring at the formal wedding clothes laid out for tomorrow's final fitting. Seven days until he married Gwen. Seven days until he did his duty.

And his heart had never felt further from his own command.

Chapter 2: Smoke and truth

Arthur paced his chambers, still wearing his soot-stained tunic. The servants had prepared a bath that grew cold while he waited, rehearsing words that refused to form properly. Through the window, Camelot's lower town glowed with lanterns as families returned to damaged homes, grateful to be alive.

Because of magic. Because of Merlin.

The door opened without a knock—only one person had that particular brand of audacity.

"You wanted to see me." Merlin's voice carried none of its usual levity. He stood in the doorway, shoulders tense, eyes wary. Ready for judgment.

Arthur stopped pacing. "Close the door."

Merlin obeyed, and the soft click of the latch seemed unnaturally loud. They stood there, ten feet of expensive carpet between them, the weight of years and secrets pressing down.

"How long?" Arthur asked finally.

Merlin didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Since before we met. I was born with it."

"Born with it." Arthur's laugh came out bitter. "My father spent his reign executing sorcerers. Built his laws on the principle that magic corrupts, that it's evil by nature. And you—" He gestured sharply. "You've been practicing it under his roof. Under mine."

"To protect you." Merlin stepped forward, hands open, imploring. "Every day, Arthur. Every single day, I've used it to keep you alive. The griffin that nearly killed you in your first tournament? The plague that swept through the citadel? That time you were poisoned and I had to ride to the Isle of the Blessed—"

"You're saying I owe you my life."

"I'm saying I've given you mine!" The words burst from Merlin with unexpected force. "Do you think I wanted this? To lie to you every day? To watch you enforce laws that would see me executed? I stayed because—" He stopped abruptly, jaw clenching.

"Because why?" Arthur demanded, moving closer despite himself. The anger he'd expected to feel dissolved into something more complicated. Something that had been building since he'd seen those golden eyes, since he'd felt Merlin's breath against his neck in that burning house.

Merlin looked away. "Because you needed me. Because Camelot needs you, and I was meant to protect you. It's my destiny or some rot like that."

"Destiny." Arthur ran a hand through his hair, dislodging soot. "Is that what the druids told you? That you're meant to be my servant forever?"

"Not your servant." Merlin's eyes snapped back to his, fierce and wounded. "I've never been just your servant, and you know it."

The truth of it hung between them. Arthur thought of all the times Merlin had defied him, challenged him, made him laugh when the crown felt too heavy. Stood between him and death without hesitation. He thought of how the castle felt empty when Merlin was gone, how the victories felt hollow if he couldn't share them with that ridiculous grin.

How his heart had seized when the ceiling fell, not with fear for himself but terror at losing—

"I should arrest you," Arthur said quietly. "By law, by everything my father built, I should have you in chains."

"I know." Merlin lifted his chin, defiant even in surrender. "So do it. Call the guards. But know this—I'd do it all again. Every spell, every lie. Because you're worth it. You're going to be the greatest king Camelot has ever known, magic or no magic be damned."

Arthur closed the remaining distance between them. Close enough to see the gold flecks in Merlin's blue eyes, the slight tremor in his hands. Close enough to feel the pull, the want—

He grabbed Merlin's wrist instead. Not roughly, but firm. Grounding.

"No one can know," he said. "Swear it to me. No more magic unless absolutely necessary. The court is already unstable with the wedding, with the changes I'm trying to make. If they discovered you—"

"They'd blame you," Merlin finished. "Say you've been corrupted by a sorcerer."

"I don't care about that." The words came out more vehement than Arthur intended. "I care about—" He stopped, suddenly aware of how close they stood, how his thumb had begun unconsciously stroking the inside of Merlin's wrist. He released him abruptly. "I care about keeping you safe. You idiot. After everything you've done for Camelot, for me—"

A knock at the door made them both step back.

"Sire?" Guinevere's voice, gentle and concerned. "I heard about the fire. Are you hurt?"

Arthur stared at Merlin for one more heartbeat. Merlin, who looked at him like he held the sun in his hands. Merlin, who had magic. Merlin, who made his chest feel too small and too full all at once.

"Go," Arthur said softly. "We'll speak more later."

Merlin nodded and slipped toward the servant's entrance, pausing only to glance back once. Then he was gone.

Arthur opened the door to find Gwen holding a basket of medical supplies, her face creased with worry. Beautiful, kind Gwen, who deserved so much better than a husband who felt his world tilt when someone else left the room.

"I'm fine," he assured her, mustering a smile. "Just tired. The preparations for tomorrow's ceremony—"

"Can wait," she said firmly, stepping inside. "Sit. Let me at least tend these burns."

He sat. Let her minister to him with gentle hands, making small talk about flower arrangements and seating charts. All the details of a wedding that felt increasingly like a noose.

Seven days. He had seven days to regain his equilibrium, to remember his duty, to stop thinking about blue eyes turning gold and the desperate need to keep someone safe at any cost.

Seven days to stop wanting what he couldn't have.

Chapter 3: The weight of steel

Arthur woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and a splitting headache. Six days. Six days until he stood before all of Camelot and pledged his life to Guinevere.

He dressed himself, waving away the servants, needing the simple mechanical task to order his thoughts. Magic. Merlin had magic. Had always had magic. Every moment they'd shared, every battle, every quiet evening in his chambers—Merlin had been hiding this fundamental truth.

And Arthur had sent him away last night to let Gwen tend his wounds, because that was what a proper betrothed did. He was doing everything properly. Everything by duty.

So why did his chest ache?

"Sire, the seamstress is asking about the final fitting for your ceremonial robes." George appeared in the doorway, immaculate as always, everything Merlin wasn't. Competent, respectful, utterly forgettable.

"Tell her this afternoon," Arthur said curtly.

"And Lady Guinevere wishes to know if you'll join her for breakfast to discuss the processional order—"

"Training yard. Now." Arthur buckled his sword belt with more force than necessary. "I need to clear my head."

The morning air bit with early autumn chill. In the yard, Sir Leon was already drilling the younger knights, their swords ringing in steady rhythm. Normal. Everything could be normal.

"Arthur!" Leon's face brightened. "Good to see you up and about. We heard about yesterday's heroics."

"Just doing my duty," Arthur said, rolling his shoulders. "Pair up. I need a proper bout."

They fell into familiar patterns—thrust, parry, riposte. The physical demands pushed everything else aside. This was simple. This made sense. Steel against steel, skill against skill, nothing complicated or confusing or—

"You're dropping your left guard."

Arthur spun. Merlin stood at the yard's edge, arms crossed, wearing that threadbare jacket he refused to replace. Their eyes met, and Arthur felt the impact like a physical blow.

"I am not dropping my guard," Arthur said, too sharply.

Merlin raised an eyebrow. "You dropped it three times in the last minute. Sir Leon nearly had you."

"My technique is fine."

"Your technique is abysmal this morning." Merlin walked closer, that familiar exasperated fondness in his voice. "You're thinking too much. You always fight worst when you're in your head."

Leon coughed politely. "I'll just... go check on the other rotations."

Arthur barely noticed him leave. Merlin had reached the practice dummy now, running his fingers along a sword left propped against it.

"You shouldn't be here," Arthur said quietly.

"Where else would I be?" Merlin's tone was light, but his eyes were serious. "I'm your servant, remember? Terribly incompetent, constantly underfoot, but persistently present."

"Merlin—"

"Show me."

"What?"

Merlin lifted the practice sword, tested its weight. "Show me what's got you so twisted up you're fighting like a first-year recruit. Work it out."

It was a terrible idea. Arthur knew it was a terrible idea. They should maintain distance, formality, especially now. Especially with everything Arthur was trying not to feel.

He raised his sword anyway.

They'd done this a hundred times—Arthur training Merlin in basic defense, claiming he needed his servant to at least not die immediately in a crisis. Merlin was hopeless with a blade, all awkward angles and mistimed strikes, but he'd gotten better over the years. Good enough to give Arthur an easy workout, at least.

Except this morning, nothing felt easy.

Every movement brought them close. When Arthur corrected Merlin's stance, his hand on Merlin's shoulder felt like a brand. When Merlin blocked a strike and grinned, breathless and triumphant, Arthur's heart stuttered. The early sun caught in Merlin's hair, turning it golden, and Arthur thought: *beautiful*.

The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it settled into his chest like truth.

"Better," he managed, voice rough. "Your footwork's improved."

"I have an excellent teacher." Merlin lunged, overextended. Arthur stepped inside his guard easily, swept his leg, and Merlin went down with an undignified yelp.

Arthur followed him down without thinking, pinning him, sword across Merlin's chest. They were nose to nose, both breathing hard. Merlin's eyes were so blue, clearer than any sky, and Arthur could see his own reflection in them.

"You're dead," Arthur said softly.

"Am I?" Merlin's voice had dropped, rough and quiet. His gaze flicked to Arthur's mouth, just for a heartbeat, then back up. "You sure about that?"

Arthur became aware of every point of contact between them. Merlin's chest rising and falling beneath him. The warmth of him. The way Merlin wasn't struggling, wasn't joking, just looking at him like Arthur was something precious and devastating all at once.

He wanted to kiss him. God help him, he wanted it so badly his hands shook.

"Arthur." His name, barely a whisper. Not a question, not a plea. Just... acknowledgment. Like Merlin could see everything Arthur was feeling and wasn't running from it.

The sword clattered from Arthur's grip.

"Arthur!" Gwen's voice, warm and approaching. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere—oh!"

Arthur jerked back, scrambling to his feet. Merlin rose more slowly, retrieving the fallen practice swords with shaking hands.

Gwen stood at the yard entrance, her smile uncertain. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I just wanted to finalize the guest list, but it can wait—"

"No." Arthur's voice came out strangled. He forced himself to meet her eyes—kind, perceptive eyes that saw too much. "No, we're done here. Merlin was just... training."

"Of course." She stepped closer, glancing between them. Arthur wondered what she saw. Guilt must be written across his face in block letters. "Merlin, it's good to see you. I heard you were quite brave yesterday, helping with the evacuations."

"Just doing what needed doing," Merlin muttered, not looking at either of them. "I should... Arthur's armor needs cleaning. I'll just—"

He fled. There was no other word for it.

Gwen watched him go, then turned to Arthur. She didn't speak, just waited with that infinite patience that made her so perfect, so worthy of being queen.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said finally. "I've been... distracted."

"I know." She reached out, squeezed his hand gently. "Six days is not very long to prepare for a lifetime. It's natural to feel uncertain."

Uncertain. Such an inadequate word for the storm in his chest, the way his hands still trembled with wanting, the absolute certainty that he'd just been about to kiss someone who wasn't his betrothed.

Someone he couldn't stop thinking about. Someone whose name felt like a prayer and a curse all at once.

"Let's review the guest list," Arthur said, because he was good at duty. He'd always been good at duty.

Even when it was killing him

Chapter 4: Distance

George arrived at dawn to dress Arthur, and the wrongness of it settled into Arthur's bones like winter cold.

"Your breakfast, Sire. Cook prepared the meal exactly to your specifications." George set down the tray with military precision, every dish aligned perfectly.

Arthur stared at the food. Eggs, bacon, bread toasted to uniform gold. Nothing like Merlin's offerings—burned toast scraped salvageable, porridge somehow both lumpy and watery, served with a cheeky grin and casual insult.

"Where's Merlin?" The question escaped before Arthur could stop it.

"I believe he's been reassigned to the lower kitchens, Sire. As you requested."

Arthur had requested no such thing. He'd simply told Geoffrey to adjust the servant rotations, ensure Merlin had duties elsewhere. Far from Arthur's chambers. Far from temptation.

Five days until the wedding.

"Very good," Arthur said hollowly.

The morning council dragged interminably. Wedding preparations dominated discussion—guest accommodations, feast arrangements, security protocols. Gwen sat beside Arthur's chair, radiant in a blue gown that matched her eyes, contributing thoughtful suggestions about seating arrangements. She was perfect. She would be a magnificent queen.

Arthur watched her smile and felt only guilt.

He caught sight of Merlin once, passing through the courtyard below the council chamber windows. Merlin carried an enormous basket of linens, struggling with the weight. He looked up—their eyes met through the glass—and Arthur jerked his gaze away, turning deliberately back to the trade agreements Leon was explaining.

When he glanced back, Merlin was gone.

Four days until the wedding.

Arthur threw himself into kingly duties with ferocious dedication. He reviewed guard rotations personally, inspected the armoury twice, held audiences with petitioners until his head pounded. Anything to stay busy. Anything to avoid the crushing awareness that Merlin wasn't there.

George maintained Arthur's chambers with flawless efficiency. His armor gleamed. His clothes were pressed and immaculate. His schedule ran like clockwork.

Arthur had never been so miserable.

"You seem tired, Arthur," Gwen said gently that evening. They were walking the castle gardens, her hand tucked into his elbow, the picture of domestic contentment. Moonlight silvered the roses around them. Romantic. Perfect.

Empty.

"Just wedding nerves," Arthur lied.

"Mm." She didn't sound convinced. "I haven't seen Merlin around much lately. Is he well?"

Arthur's throat tightened. "He's fine. Just busy with other duties."

"I see." Gwen stopped walking, turned to face him. Her expression was too knowing, too gentle. "Arthur, if something's troubling you—"

"Nothing's troubling me." The words came out harder than intended. "Everything's fine, Gwen. The wedding will be fine. We'll be fine."

He watched something flicker across her face—hurt, understanding, resignation, he couldn't tell. She simply nodded, squeezed his arm, and they continued walking in silence.

Three days until the wedding.

Arthur saw Merlin in the stables when he went to check on his horse. Merlin was mucking out stalls, a job usually reserved for the lowest stable boys. His jacket was filthy, his face smudged with dirt, and when he noticed Arthur, he froze.

"Sire." The formality cut like a blade.

Arthur's chest constricted. "Merlin."

They stared at each other across the stable. Arthur wanted to close the distance, wanted to ask why Merlin looked so exhausted, wanted to demand who had assigned him this degrading work. Wanted to apologize for the training yard, for the almost-kiss, for every complicated feeling churning in his gut.

"Did you need something, Sire?" Merlin's voice remained carefully neutral, but his eyes held confusion and something that looked painfully like hurt.

"No. I—" Arthur swallowed. "Carry on."

He left before he could do something stupid. Like explain. Like reach out. Like beg Merlin to understand that this distance was necessary, that Arthur couldn't trust himself anymore, that every moment near Merlin felt like standing at a cliff's edge.

Two days until the wedding.

The final dress rehearsal took place in the great hall. Arthur stood at the altar in his ceremonial robes while Geoffrey droned through the ceremony protocols. Gwen waited at the far end of the hall, practicing her processional entrance.

"And here, Sire, you will take your bride's hands..." Geoffrey gestured expectantly.

Arthur's hands remained at his sides. He couldn't make them move. Couldn't make himself reach for the future he was supposed to want.

The hall doors creaked open. Merlin slipped inside, carrying fresh candles for the sconces. He moved quietly along the wall, trying to be invisible, but Arthur's awareness of him was magnetic, inescapable.

Merlin glanced up. Their eyes locked.

Arthur saw it then, clear as daylight—the hurt. The confusion. The lost, bewildered pain of someone who didn't understand what he'd done wrong, why his best friend had suddenly become a stranger.

"Sire?" Geoffrey prompted.

Arthur tore his gaze away, forced himself to focus on Gwen approaching down the makeshift aisle. Her smile was uncertain, her steps hesitant.

Merlin set down his basket with a thump that echoed through the hall. When Arthur looked back, he was already leaving, shoulders rigid, walking too fast.

"Excuse me," Arthur muttered. He started forward—toward Merlin, toward explanation, toward something—

"Arthur." Gwen caught his sleeve. Her voice was quiet, meant only for him. "Perhaps we should take a break. You seem... distracted."

The understanding in her eyes was almost unbearable. She knew. Maybe not the details, but she knew his heart wasn't fully present. Knew something had fractured.

And still, she was kind about it. Still graceful. Still perfect.

Arthur wanted to scream.

"Yes," he managed. "A break. Good idea."

One day until the wedding.

Arthur sat alone in his chambers, staring at his ceremonial crown on its velvet cushion. Tomorrow he would wear it. Tomorrow he would speak vows before the entire kingdom. Tomorrow he would become the husband of Guinevere, the king he was meant to be.

Tomorrow his life would be set in stone.

George had laid out his evening clothes and departed silently. The room felt cavernous in his absence. Or not his absence—Merlin's absence. The hole where Merlin should be, filling the space with chatter and insults and that crooked smile.

Three days of deliberate distance. Three days of avoiding blue eyes and confused hurt. Three days of trying to convince himself this was right, this was duty, this was what a good king would do.

Arthur had never felt more like a coward.

A soft knock interrupted his spiral. "Come," he called, expecting Geoffrey with more wedding documents.

Gwen entered instead. She closed the door quietly behind her, stood there in the candlelight looking uncertain and resolved all at once.

"We need to talk," she said gently. "Really talk, Arthur. About what's actually happening."

Arthur's carefully constructed walls began to crumble.

"I don't know what you mean," he tried weakly.

Gwen crossed to him, took his hands in hers. Her touch was warm, familiar, kind.

And nothing like the electric shock of Merlin's skin against his.

"Yes," she said softly. "You do."

Chapter 5: The counsel of friends

Arthur stared at their joined hands—Gwen's delicate fingers interlaced with his rougher ones. A perfect picture of unity. He felt like a fraud.

"Gwen, I—"

"You've been avoiding Merlin," she said quietly. Not an accusation. An observation, gentle as everything about her. "For three days, you've kept him away from you. And you've been miserable for every moment of it."

Arthur's throat closed. He tried to pull his hands back, but she held firm.

"I'm not blind, Arthur. I see how you look for him in every room. How you go still when someone mentions his name." She paused, searching his face. "I see how lost you seem without him near."

"He's my servant. My friend," Arthur managed. "Of course I notice his absence."

"Yes." Something flickered in her eyes—sadness, perhaps, or understanding. "Your friend. The person you trust most in this world. The one whose opinion matters more than anyone else's, including mine."

"That's not—"

"Arthur." She squeezed his hands once, then released them, stepping back. "I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And because I love you, I need to ask: Are you happy? Truly happy, about tomorrow?"

The question hung between them like a sword. Arthur opened his mouth, prepared to offer reassurance, the automatic response of a king who'd spent his life doing what was expected.

But Gwen deserved better than lies.

"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know what I'm feeling, Gwen. Everything's confused, and I—" He broke off, pressing his palms against his eyes. "I'm sorry. You deserve better than this. Better than my confusion."

"Perhaps." Her voice remained impossibly gentle. "But what I deserve and what will make you happy might not be the same thing. And I'd rather you be honest with me now than resent me for a lifetime."

"I could never resent you."

"But you might resent yourself." She moved to the door, paused with her hand on the latch. "Think about what you truly want, Arthur. Not what your father wanted. Not what the court expects. What *you* want." She glanced back, and her smile was sad. "I'll see you tomorrow. Or I won't. Either way, I'll understand."

She left before he could respond.

Arthur stood frozen in the empty chamber, her words echoing. *What you truly want.* As if he could afford such luxuries. As if kings chose their own paths rather than following the roads laid out by duty and tradition.

As if wanting Merlin with an intensity that frightened him was something he could ever admit aloud.

He needed air. Needed space. Needed someone who wouldn't look at him with gentle understanding or confused hurt.

He found Leon in the knights' quarters, reviewing patrol schedules by lamplight. His first knight looked up in surprise as Arthur entered without ceremony.

"Sire? Is something wrong?"

"I need to talk," Arthur said roughly. "Not as king to knight. As—" He struggled for the word. "As friends."

Leon set down his quill immediately, gestured to the chair opposite. "Always."

Arthur sat heavily, suddenly uncertain how to begin. How did one confess to feelings that violated every principle of duty and propriety? How did one admit to desires that could never be fulfilled?

"Tomorrow," he started, then stopped. Tried again. "Tomorrow I marry Gwen."

"Yes," Leon said carefully.

"I care for her. Deeply. She's remarkable—kind, intelligent, brave. She'll be an extraordinary queen."

"But?" Leon prompted when Arthur fell silent.

Arthur dragged a hand through his hair. "But I can't stop thinking about someone else."

Leon went very still. "I see."

"Do you?" Arthur laughed bitterly. "Because I don't. I don't understand what's happening to me, Leon. I thought I knew my path. Thought I knew my own heart. And now, five days before my wedding, everything's turned inside out."

"Who is she?" Leon asked quietly.

Arthur's silence was answer enough. Leon's eyes widened slightly, but he recovered quickly, knight-trained discipline smoothing his expression.

"Ah," he said neutrally. "Not a she, then."

"Does that disgust you?"

"No." Leon's response was immediate, firm. "You're my king and my friend, Arthur. Your happiness matters to me, regardless of its source." He leaned forward. "Though I'll admit, the timing is... complicated."

"The timing is disastrous," Arthur corrected. "And it doesn't matter anyway. What I feel, what I want—none of it matters. I have a duty. Gwen deserves a husband who's fully committed. The kingdom needs stability, heirs, a proper royal marriage."

"The kingdom needs a king who isn't slowly dying inside," Leon countered quietly. "I've watched you these past days, Arthur. You're going through the motions, but there's no life in you. No joy."

"Joy is a luxury."

"Is it? Your father thought so. He married for duty, for alliance, and he was miserable for years. Do you want that same emptiness?"

Arthur stood abruptly, paced to the window. Below, Camelot sprawled in moonlit silence—his city, his responsibility, his burden.

"What I want doesn't matter," he repeated. "I'm the king. My personal desires can't supersede the kingdom's needs."

"Even if pursuing duty makes you a lesser king?" Leon challenged. "A distracted, unhappy king serves no one well."

Arthur turned. "What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting you talk to Gwen. Be honest with her. She's perceptive—she likely already knows something's wrong." Leon stood, approached carefully. "And perhaps talk to the person whose absence is tearing you apart. This distance between you and Merlin—it's not sustainable, Arthur. Everyone's noticed."

Hearing Merlin's name spoken aloud in this context made everything terrifyingly real. Arthur's chest tightened.

"I can't," he whispered. "If I talk to him, if I'm near him, I'll—" He broke off. "I don't trust myself anymore, Leon."

"Maybe that's exactly why you should talk to him," Leon said gently. "Before you make vows you'll regret. Before you bind yourself to a path that leads nowhere you want to go."

Arthur stared at his oldest friend, seeing understanding and concern in equal measure.

"The wedding is tomorrow," he said hollowly.

"Yes," Leon agreed. "It is. The question is: what are you going to do about it?"

Arthur had no answer. He clasped Leon's shoulder once in silent gratitude, then left, walking blindly through torch-lit corridors. His feet carried him without conscious direction, and he found himself outside Merlin's chamber door, hand raised to knock.

From inside, he heard movement. Merlin, awake despite the late hour.

Arthur's hand trembled. One knock. One conversation. That's all it would take to shatter everything or make it whole.

He stood frozen, caught between duty and desire, between tomorrow's vows and tonight's truth.

Chapter 6: The threshold

Arthur knocked.

The sound seemed impossibly loud in the silent corridor, three sharp raps that couldn't be taken back. His heart hammered against his ribs as movement stilled inside the chamber. A long pause, then footsteps approached.

The door opened a crack. Merlin's face appeared, eyes widening in shock.

"Arthur? What—" He glanced down the corridor, clearly checking for witnesses. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to talk to you."

"At midnight? The night before your wedding?" Merlin's voice was careful, stripped of its usual warmth. The distance Arthur had forced between them lived in that careful tone.

"Please."

Something in Arthur's voice—desperation, perhaps, or exhaustion—made Merlin step back, widening the door. Arthur entered quickly, and Merlin shut it behind him with a soft click that sounded like a cell door closing.

The chamber was small, spartan. A narrow bed, a table with medical supplies, clothing hung neatly on pegs. Evidence of Merlin's life lived in the margins of Arthur's own. A single candle burned low, casting shadows that made Merlin's face difficult to read.

"You shouldn't be here," Merlin said quietly. "If someone sees—"

"I don't care."

"You should." Merlin crossed his arms, a defensive posture Arthur had never seen him use before. "You've spent three days making it abundantly clear you don't want me near you. What's changed?"

The hurt in those words struck Arthur like a blade. He'd done this—pushed Merlin away, watched him suffer through degrading work, avoided him like a coward. All because being near him had become unbearable in ways Arthur couldn't explain.

"Nothing's changed," Arthur said roughly. "Everything's changed. I don't—" He stopped, dragged both hands through his hair. "I don't know anymore."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have!" The words came out sharper than intended. Arthur forced himself to breathe, to find some semblance of control. "Merlin, I'm sorry. For how I've treated you. For the distance. You didn't deserve that."

Merlin's expression didn't soften. "Why did you do it, then?"

Because being near you makes me want impossible things. Because I can't trust myself when you're close. Because tomorrow I'm marrying Gwen and all I can think about is you.

Arthur couldn't say any of it. The words tangled in his throat, forbidden and terrifying.

"I needed space," he managed finally. "To think. To figure out—" He gestured helplessly. "Everything's confused right now."

"Confused about what? About me having magic?" Merlin's voice hardened. "Is this still about that? Because I told you, Arthur. I've used it to protect you, to save you. If you can't accept that—"

"It's not about the magic!" Arthur snapped, then caught himself, lowered his voice. "I mean, yes, that's part of it. Everything I thought I knew about you was turned upside down. But that's not—" He stopped, trapped between truth and silence.

Merlin stepped closer, studying Arthur's face in the candlelight. "Then what? What is this about? Because you're clearly falling apart, and I can't help you if you won't tell me what's wrong."

The proximity was a mistake. Arthur could see the concern in Merlin's eyes now, the worry that survived beneath the hurt. Could smell the herbs Merlin used in his remedies, could feel the warmth radiating from him in the small space.

"You can't help," Arthur said quietly. "Not with this."

"Let me try."

The simple offer—*let me try*—nearly broke him. Because Merlin always tried. Always stayed. Always fought for Arthur even when Arthur pushed him away. And Arthur was so tired of fighting himself.

"I don't know if I can marry her," he whispered. The confession escaped before he could stop it, raw and terrifying. "Tomorrow. The wedding. I don't know if I can go through with it."

Merlin went very still. "Because of me? Because of the magic?"

"Because—" Arthur's voice caught. "Because when I thought I was going to die in that fire, you were my last thought. Not duty. Not Camelot. Not the woman I'm supposed to marry tomorrow. You." He looked away, unable to bear the intensity of Merlin's gaze. "And I don't know what that means. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that."

The silence stretched between them, fragile and dangerous.

"Arthur," Merlin said softly. "Look at me."

Arthur forced himself to meet Merlin's eyes. Found them blazing with something fierce and complicated—surprise, hope, fear.

"What are you saying?" Merlin asked carefully.

"I don't know," Arthur admitted. "I don't have words for what I'm feeling. I just know that pushing you away has been torture. That thinking about tomorrow makes me feel like I'm drowning. That standing here with you is the first time in days I've been able to breathe properly."

Merlin inhaled sharply. "That's—Arthur, that's not nothing."

"It has to be nothing." Arthur's voice turned desperate. "Tomorrow I make vows. I become a husband. I have responsibilities, expectations, duty—"

"Is that what you want?" Merlin interrupted. "Or is it what everyone else wants for you?"

The question echoed Gwen's words, Leon's concern. Everyone kept asking what Arthur wanted, as if desire was something he could afford.

"What I want is irrelevant," he said hollowly.

"It's not." Merlin moved closer still, near enough that Arthur could see the candlelight reflected in his eyes. "Arthur, you can't build a life on duty alone. You'll suffocate. You'll—" He stopped, swallowed hard. "You'll waste your one chance at happiness."

"And if my happiness costs too much? If it hurts people? Causes chaos?"

"If your unhappiness costs more?" Merlin countered quietly.

They stood barely a foot apart now, the space between them charged with everything unspoken. Arthur's hands trembled with the urge to close that distance, to stop thinking and just *feel* for once.

"I should go," he whispered. "I shouldn't have come here."

"But you did." Merlin's voice was soft, wondering. "Why? What do you need from me, Arthur?"

*Everything,* Arthur thought wildly. *Everything I can't have.*

But he couldn't say that. Couldn't cross that final threshold. Not tonight. Not when tomorrow still loomed with its vows and expectations.

"I need you to forgive me," he said instead. "For the distance. For the confusion. For—" He gestured helplessly. "Everything."

Merlin's expression softened finally, the defensive walls crumbling. "There's nothing to forgive. You're scared. I understand."

"Do you?"

"Yes." Simple, certain. "I've been scared every day since you found out about my magic. But I'm still here. I'll always be here, Arthur. No matter what you decide."

The promise settled around Arthur's shoulders like a cloak. Comforting and heavy in equal measure.

He reached out, squeezed Merlin's shoulder once. The contact sent electricity through his palm. "Thank you."

He turned to leave before he could do something irreversible. His hand was on the door latch when Merlin spoke again.

"Arthur? Whatever you choose tomorrow—make sure it's your choice. Not your father's ghost, not the court's expectations. Yours."

Arthur looked back at Merlin, silhouetted against candlelight, and felt something crack open in his chest.

He left without answering, but they both knew the truth: tomorrow would change everything, one way or another.

Chapter 7: Fractures

The Great Hall had been transformed. White silk draped from the rafters, catching morning light and scattering it like snow. Flowers lined the aisle between rows of benches—roses from the castle gardens, their perfume heavy in the confined space. At the far end, Geoffrey of Monmouth stood before the altar, ancient ceremonial book open in his weathered hands.

Arthur stood at the head of the aisle in full ceremonial armor, Leon beside him as groomsman. Court officials occupied the front benches, observing with critical eyes as Geoffrey outlined the proceedings. Everything had to be perfect for tomorrow's ceremony when nobles from every allied kingdom would witness Camelot's king take his queen.

Merlin watched from the shadows near the servants' entrance, technically present to assist with any last-minute adjustments but really because he couldn't stay away. Not after last night. Not after Arthur's whispered confession in the candlelight—*you were my last thought*.

The great doors opened. Gwen entered on her brother's arm, wearing a simple gown that would be replaced tomorrow by something far more elaborate. But even in rehearsal clothes, she looked radiant. Composed. Every inch the queen she was about to become.

Merlin saw Arthur's shoulders tense.

Elyan led Gwen down the aisle at the measured pace Geoffrey had prescribed. One step, pause. Another step, pause. The timing had to be exact for the musicians tomorrow. Gwen's face was serene, though Merlin caught the tightness around her eyes. She knew something was wrong. She'd known for days.

They reached the altar. Elyan placed Gwen's hand in Arthur's with careful ceremony, then stepped back to his designated position. Arthur and Gwen stood facing each other, Geoffrey between them, exactly as they would tomorrow when vows became binding.

"Now," Geoffrey said, his reedy voice carrying through the hall, "you will join hands. Look at one another. This is the moment when you speak your vows before gods and witnesses."

Gwen lifted her eyes to Arthur's face. Her expression was open, hopeful despite everything. Waiting for him to meet her gaze.

Arthur stared at her. His face had gone pale.

"Your Majesty?" Geoffrey prompted. "The vows will begin with your pledge."

Arthur didn't move. Didn't speak. He stood frozen, Gwen's hands in his, looking at her as if she were a stranger. As if the weight of what tomorrow meant had finally, completely crushed him.

Merlin's chest constricted. He'd seen Arthur face down sorcerers, monsters, armies. Had never seen him look so utterly paralyzed.

"Arthur?" Gwen's voice was soft, concerned. Her fingers tightened on his. "Are you all right?"

Arthur blinked. Seemed to surface from somewhere very far away. "I—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "Yes. Sorry. Just... tired."

It was the weakest lie Merlin had ever heard him tell.

"Perhaps we should take a moment," Leon suggested diplomatically, stepping forward. "It's been a stressful week with the fire and recovery efforts. His Majesty hasn't slept much."

"The ceremony is tomorrow," one of the court officials said sharply. "We must complete the rehearsal. There can be no errors before the allied kingdoms."

"We'll continue," Arthur said, but his voice sounded hollow. Dead. He looked at Gwen again with something like desperation in his eyes. "Please. Let's continue."

Gwen studied his face for a long moment. Then nodded slowly, though something painful flickered across her features. "Of course."

Geoffrey resumed his instructions, walking them through each ritual element. Arthur moved through it mechanically. When Geoffrey indicated the moment for the ceremonial kiss, Arthur bent forward and pressed his lips to Gwen's forehead—brief, chaste, completely devoid of passion.

Merlin had to look away.

The rehearsal concluded with Geoffrey's blessing and instructions to arrive early tomorrow for final preparations. The court officials departed, discussing flower arrangements and seating hierarchies. Leon clasped Arthur's shoulder, murmured something Merlin couldn't hear, then left with Elyan.

Arthur and Gwen stood alone at the altar. Merlin knew he should leave, give them privacy, but his feet wouldn't move.

"Arthur," Gwen said quietly. "We need to talk."

"Not now." Arthur's voice was strained. "Please, Gwen. I can't—not now."

He walked away before she could respond, his footsteps echoing through the empty hall. He passed within feet of Merlin without seeing him, lost in whatever private hell he'd constructed.

Gwen stood alone before the altar, surrounded by white silk and roses meant to celebrate joy. Her shoulders sagged. For just a moment, her careful composure cracked, and Merlin saw the hurt beneath.

Then she straightened, took a breath, and started down the aisle with the same grace she'd entered with.

Merlin made a decision.

"Gwen," he called softly, stepping from the shadows.

She turned, surprise crossing her face. "Merlin. I didn't know you were here."

"I was helping with preparations." The lie tasted bitter. "Can we talk? Please?"

Gwen hesitated, then nodded. "The gardens?"

They walked in silence through corridors and out into the morning sunlight. The castle gardens were quiet this time of day, most servants occupied with final wedding preparations. They found a bench near the fountain, away from prying eyes and ears.

Gwen sat, arranging her skirts carefully. Not looking at him. "You want to talk about Arthur."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Merlin admitted. "Gwen, I'm worried about him. About both of you."

"So am I." Her voice was steady, but her hands twisted in her lap. "He's been distant for days. Distracted. And just now, at the rehearsal..." She trailed off, swallowed hard. "That wasn't a man excited to marry tomorrow."

"No," Merlin agreed quietly. "It wasn't."

Gwen finally looked at him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but her gaze was sharp. Assessing. "You know something. About what's troubling him."

Merlin's throat tightened. "Gwen—"

"Please," she interrupted. "I love Arthur. Truly. And I thought he loved me. But something's changed, and I need to understand what. If you know anything, Merlin, I'm asking you to tell me. I deserve that much truth, don't I? Before I stand at that altar tomorrow?"

The plea in her voice cut deep. She did deserve truth. Deserved better than this confusion and half-answers. But how could Merlin explain what he barely understood himself?

"He does care for you," Merlin said carefully. "I know he does. But he's... struggling. With duty and expectations and what he wants versus what everyone else wants for him."

"And what does he want?" Gwen asked softly.

Merlin met her eyes. Saw the intelligence there, the perception. She already knew. Perhaps had known longer than Arthur himself.

"I think," Merlin said slowly, "that's what he's trying to figure out."

Gwen studied him for a long moment. Then, quietly: "Is it you?"

The question hung between them like a sword.

Chapter 8: Truth in the garden

Merlin's breath caught. The directness of Gwen's question left no room for deflection. She sat watching him with those perceptive brown eyes, waiting.

"I don't know," he said finally, and it was the truth. "I don't know what Arthur feels. Or what he wants. I only know he's tearing himself apart."

Gwen looked away toward the fountain, its gentle splash the only sound between them. When she spoke again, her voice was steady despite the emotion beneath. "I've seen the way he looks at you. The way he's always looked at you, really. I told myself it was just friendship. Deep loyalty. The bond between a king and someone who's saved his life more times than anyone can count."

"Gwen—"

"Let me finish," she said gently. "Please." She took a breath. "But this past week, watching him pull away from you, seeing how miserable it made him—more miserable than any groom should be days before his wedding—I had to admit what I'd been avoiding. What I'd perhaps known all along."

Merlin felt something crack open in his chest. "You don't have to do this. You shouldn't have to—"

"Be honest?" A sad smile touched her lips. "I think we're past the point where anything less will do. Don't you?" She turned back to him. "I love Arthur. I genuinely do. And I thought I could be enough. That what we had—the respect, the companionship, the shared vision for Camelot—would be sufficient foundation for a marriage."

"It would be," Merlin said quietly. "For most people, that would be more than enough. You'd be an extraordinary queen."

"But Arthur isn't most people." Gwen's fingers stilled in her lap. "And I won't trap him in vows when his heart is elsewhere. When he froze at the altar today, looking at me like I was a cage closing around him—" Her voice wavered. She steadied it. "I deserve better than that. We both do."

Shame flooded through Merlin. "This isn't your fault. None of it."

"I know." She said it simply, without bitterness. "It's not yours either. Or even Arthur's, really. The heart wants what it wants. We can't always choose." She reached over and placed her hand on his. "But we can choose how we respond. How we treat each other through difficult truths."

Merlin stared at their joined hands. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if Arthur's struggling because of feelings he has for you, feelings he thinks are impossible or forbidden—then he needs to hear that someone understands. That he's not alone in this." She squeezed his hand. "He needs his best friend to talk to him. Really talk to him. No more dancing around it."

"I don't even know if he—" Merlin stopped, frustrated. "What if I'm wrong? What if it's just the stress of the wedding and I make it worse?"

"You won't." Gwen's certainty was unshakeable. "Merlin, I've watched you two for years. Whatever this is between you, it matters. More than duty, more than tradition. Maybe even more than Camelot itself, though neither of you would admit it." She released his hand. "He came to your room last night, didn't he?"

Merlin's silence was answer enough.

"Go to him," Gwen said. "Make him tell you what's really happening in his head and heart. Because tomorrow he's supposed to stand before the kingdom and pledge his life to me, and we both know he can't do that while feeling the way he does."

"And if he admits it?" Merlin asked. "If he says what I think he might say?"

"Then we deal with it honestly." She stood, smoothing her skirts with the grace that came so naturally to her. "I won't be the reason Arthur lives a lie. Or the reason you do either."

Merlin rose as well. "You're remarkable. You know that?"

"I'm practical." But her smile was warmer now. "And I care about both of you too much to let this continue. Now go. He'll be in his chambers, brooding and avoiding everyone."

She was right, of course. Merlin left the gardens with purpose thrumming through his veins, anxiety and determination warring in equal measure. The walk to Arthur's chambers felt both too long and not long enough.

He didn't knock. After years of simply entering whenever needed, formality felt absurd now.

Arthur stood at the window overlooking the courtyard, still in his ceremonial armor though the rehearsal had ended an hour ago. He didn't turn when the door opened.

"I told Leon I wanted to be alone," he said.

"Good thing I'm not Leon, then." Merlin closed the door behind him, leaning against it. "We need to talk."

"Not now, Merlin."

"Yes, now." Merlin crossed the room to stand between Arthur and the window, forcing Arthur to look at him. "No more avoiding. No more pretending everything's fine when we both know it isn't."

Arthur's jaw tightened. "I don't know what you—"

"Don't." The word came out sharper than intended. "Don't lie to me. Not after everything. Not after last night."

Something flickered in Arthur's eyes—pain, fear, longing. His hands clenched at his sides. "What do you want me to say?"

"The truth." Merlin held his gaze. "You're getting married tomorrow, Arthur. Tomorrow. And you can barely look at Gwen without panicking. You've been pushing me away for days, then showing up at my door at midnight. You need to tell me what's happening. What you're thinking. What you're feeling."

"I can't—"

"You can." Merlin stepped closer. "You can tell me anything. You always could. Even when I was hiding magic from you, even when we were both keeping secrets—you could always talk to me. So talk. Tell me why you're destroying yourself."

Arthur's composure cracked. "Because I don't know how to do this!" The words exploded from him. "I don't know how to marry Gwen when every time I look at her I feel like I'm betraying—" He stopped abruptly, breathing hard.

"Betraying what?" Merlin pressed. "Say it."

"You," Arthur whispered. "I feel like I'm betraying you."

Chapter 9: The breaking point

The words hung between them like something physical, tangible. Arthur looked stricken, as though he'd revealed something he could never take back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, armor catching the afternoon light streaming through the window.

"What do you mean?" Merlin's voice came out quieter than he intended. His heart hammered against his ribs.

Arthur turned away, one hand coming up to grip the back of his neck. "I don't know how to explain it. I don't have the words for—" He made a frustrated sound. "Everything is wrong, Merlin. Everything. I'm supposed to be happy. I'm marrying a woman I respect, who'll be an excellent queen, who I care for deeply. But when I think about tomorrow, about standing in that hall and making those vows, I can't breathe."

"Arthur—"

"Let me finish." Arthur's hand dropped to his side, fingers curling into a fist. "Please. Because if I don't say this now, I never will." He drew a shaking breath. "When that building was collapsing during the fire, when I thought I might die, the only thing I could think about was you. Not duty. Not Camelot. Not even Gwen. Just... you. That I wouldn't get to see you again. That you'd think I'd died angry with you for having magic, when the truth is I don't care about the magic. I never did. Not really."

"Then what do you care about?" Merlin stepped closer, drawn by the raw vulnerability in Arthur's voice.

Arthur finally turned to face him. His eyes were red-rimmed, bright with unshed tears. "You. I care about you. Too much. In ways I shouldn't. In ways that make everything else feel like a lie." His voice cracked. "I've tried to stop. God, I've tried. That's why I pushed you away, gave you to Geoffrey, avoided you. I thought if I just... if I kept my distance, these feelings would fade and I could marry Gwen the way I'm supposed to."

"But they didn't fade."

"No." The word came out broken. "They got stronger. Every time I saw you across the courtyard, every time I heard your voice in the corridor, it was like—" He pressed a hand to his chest. "Like something was pulling me toward you. And I hate it. I hate feeling this way because I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to be the king Camelot needs when all I can think about is my servant."

Merlin flinched at the word, but Arthur continued, words tumbling out now like water through a broken dam.

"No, not my servant. Never just that. You're my best friend, Merlin. The person I trust most in this world. The one who's saved my life more times than I can count, who challenges me, who makes me want to be better. Who makes me laugh even when everything is falling apart." Tears spilled over now, tracking down Arthur's face. "And somewhere along the way, you became the person I—" His voice broke entirely. "The person I think about when I wake up. The last face I want to see before I sleep. The one I want beside me, not as a servant but as—"

He couldn't finish. A sob caught in his throat, and suddenly he was crying in earnest, all the tension and fear and confusion of the past week crashing down on him at once. His shoulders shook with it.

Merlin closed the remaining distance between them, reaching up to grasp Arthur's shoulders. "Arthur. Look at me."

Arthur raised his head, and the devastation in his expression nearly broke Merlin's heart. "I can't marry her," Arthur whispered. "I can't stand at that altar and lie. Not to her. Not to myself. But I don't know how to stop it without destroying everything."

"You're not destroying anything," Merlin said fiercely. "You're being honest. Finally."

"Honest about what? That I have feelings for a man? For you?" Arthur's laugh was bitter, broken. "Do you understand what that means? What people would say? The crown, the kingdom, everything my father built—"

"Your father is gone." Merlin's hands moved from Arthur's shoulders to his face, cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing away tears. "You're the king now. You get to decide what matters. What's worth fighting for."

Arthur's eyes widened at the touch. They stood frozen like that, barely breathing. The space between them felt charged, electric. Arthur's gaze dropped to Merlin's lips.

"I don't know how to do this," Arthur breathed. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"Neither do I," Merlin admitted. His voice was rough. "But I know that I—" He swallowed hard. "I know that if you marry Gwen tomorrow while feeling like this, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. And so will she."

Arthur's hands came up to cover Merlin's where they still cradled his face. "What am I supposed to do?"

"What do you want to do?"

The question hung between them. Arthur's eyes were still on Merlin's mouth, and Merlin felt the shift in the air, the way Arthur's breathing changed. They were so close now that Merlin could feel the warmth radiating from Arthur's skin.

"I want—" Arthur started, leaning in.

The door burst open.

"Sire, forgive the intrusion, but—" Leon stopped abruptly in the doorway, taking in the scene before him: Arthur and Merlin standing chest to chest, hands on each other, faces inches apart, Arthur's tear-stained cheeks.

Merlin jerked backward. Arthur's hands dropped to his sides.

Leon cleared his throat, his expression carefully neutral despite the clear shock in his eyes. "The council is waiting. They need your decision about the final arrangements for tomorrow."

Arthur closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, something had shuttered behind them. "Tell them I'll be there shortly."

Leon nodded, backing out quickly and closing the door with more force than necessary.

Silence settled over the room like ash.

Chapter 10: The council's answer

Arthur stood motionless after Leon's departure, the ghost of Merlin's touch still warming his face. His breathing hadn't steadied. Neither had his heart.

"I should go," Merlin said quietly, but made no move toward the door.

Arthur wanted to tell him to stay. Wanted to pull him back, to finish what had almost happened. Instead, he wiped roughly at his face, trying to erase the evidence of his breakdown. "Yes. The council won't wait forever."

Merlin's expression flickered with something Arthur couldn't quite name—disappointment, perhaps, or resignation. "Arthur, whatever you decide—"

"Don't." Arthur held up a hand. "Please. I can't... not right now."

Merlin nodded slowly, then slipped out through the servant's entrance, leaving Arthur alone with the weight of what came next.

Arthur moved to the washbasin, splashing cold water on his face until the redness around his eyes faded somewhat. He straightened his tunic, adjusted his sword belt, and stared at his reflection in the polished silver mirror. The man looking back at him appeared hollow, haunted. A king who'd lost his way.

No. Not lost. Finally finding it.

The walk to the council chamber felt like a march to execution. His footsteps echoed too loudly in the stone corridors. Servants pressed themselves against walls as he passed, offering hurried bows he barely acknowledged. The afternoon sun slanted through the high windows, casting long shadows that stretched before him like dark omens.

Leon waited outside the council doors, his stance formal but his eyes concerned. "Sire."

"Don't," Arthur said again, for the second time in as many minutes. He couldn't bear sympathy right now. Couldn't afford to crack again when he needed to be strong.

Leon's jaw tightened, but he simply opened the doors.

The council chamber buzzed with conversation that died the moment Arthur entered. Ten men sat around the great oak table—advisors, nobles, representatives from allied kingdoms who'd arrived for the wedding. Geoffrey of Monmouth stood near the head of the table, the massive ledger of ceremony and protocol open before him.

"Your Majesty," Geoffrey began, "we require your final approval on several matters. The seating arrangements for the lords from Mercia, the timing of the feast, the—"

"How long have you all been planning this wedding?" Arthur interrupted, moving to stand at the head of the table but not sitting.

The question clearly caught them off guard. Lord Ewan, one of the senior advisors, exchanged glances with the others. "Several months, Sire. Since you announced your betrothal to the Lady Guinevere."

"And in all that time, did anyone ask if I wanted it?"

Silence fell like a blade.

Geoffrey cleared his throat. "Sire, the betrothal was your decision. We've simply been executing your wishes."

"My wishes." Arthur's laugh held no humor. "Or Camelot's wishes? The council's wishes? The noble houses who want to see their king properly married and producing heirs?"

Lord Ewan rose slowly. "Your Majesty, I don't understand. The wedding is tomorrow. The guests have arrived, the preparations are complete. What is this about?"

Arthur gripped the back of the ornate chair before him, knuckles whitening. Through the window behind the council table, he could see the courtyard where he and Merlin had sparred days ago. Where everything had shifted.

"I can't marry her," he said quietly.

The words dropped into the room like stones into still water, ripples of shock spreading across every face.

"I beg your pardon?" Geoffrey's voice climbed an octave.

"I said I can't marry her." Arthur's voice grew stronger. "Not tomorrow. Not while I'm... not while things are as they are."

Lord Ewan's face reddened. "This is madness. You cannot simply cancel a royal wedding the day before—"

"I'm not canceling it." Arthur forced himself to meet their eyes. "I'm postponing it. Indefinitely."

Chaos erupted. Half the council leaped to their feet, voices overlapping in outrage and disbelief.

"The humiliation to the Lady Guinevere—"

"The political ramifications—"

"Every noble house in the kingdom is here—"

"What will we tell them?"

"ENOUGH!" Arthur's roar silenced them. He'd learned that voice from his father, the tone that made grown men freeze. "I am your king. This is my decision."

"But why?" Geoffrey's question cut through the tension, genuinely bewildered. "Sire, the Lady Guinevere is beloved, suitable in every way. What could possibly—"

"Because my heart isn't in it," Arthur said simply. "Because she deserves better than a husband who's marrying her out of duty alone. Because I would be lying to her, to all of you, and to myself if I stood at that altar tomorrow."

Lord Ewan sank back into his chair, looking ill. "You'll destroy your reputation. The kingdom's stability. Everything."

"Perhaps." Arthur released the chair, straightening. "But I'll do it honestly. Leon, send word to Lady Guinevere that I request an audience. Privately. Tonight."

Leon, who'd remained silent near the door, nodded. "Yes, Sire."

"The rest of you will begin informing the guests that the wedding has been postponed due to... unforeseen circumstances. Make whatever excuses you need to. But it's not happening tomorrow."

Geoffrey looked stricken. "The people will demand answers, Your Majesty."

"Then I'll give them answers." Arthur moved toward the door, then paused. "But first, I owe the truth to the woman I was meant to marry."

He left them in stunned silence, Leon falling into step beside him.

"That took courage," Leon said quietly as they walked.

Arthur shook his head. "That took desperation. Courage would have been not letting it get this far."

"Will you tell Gwen everything?"

Arthur thought of Merlin's hands on his face, the moment before the almost-kiss, the feeling of standing on the edge of something terrifying and true. "Yes. She deserves that much."

And perhaps, finally, so did he.

Chapter 11: Honesty's price

Gwen arrived at Arthur's chambers as dusk settled over Camelot, her bearing composed despite the chaos that must have reached her ears by now. She wore a simple dress of deep blue, her hair unadorned. Not the appearance of a bride-to-be, Arthur noted, but of a woman preparing for difficult truths.

"Come in," he said, stepping aside. "Please."

She entered with quiet grace, waiting until he'd closed the door before speaking. "The whole castle is talking. The council members look like they've witnessed the end of days, and Geoffrey nearly fainted when I passed him in the corridor."

"I imagine they're not pleased."

"Are you?" She turned to face him fully, her brown eyes searching his face. "Pleased, I mean. With your decision."

Arthur moved to the window, needing distance and the fading light to soften what came next. "Relieved. Terrified. Guilty beyond measure." He paused. "But yes. Pleased isn't the right word, but... less like I'm drowning."

Gwen's reflection appeared in the darkening glass beside his own. "You owe me the truth, Arthur. All of it. Not the careful political explanation you'll give the council, not the public story. The real reason."

"I know." His throat tightened. "You deserve far more than that, actually. You deserve a husband who loves you without reservation, who thinks of you first in every crisis, who doesn't feel like he's betraying someone else by standing beside you."

The words hung between them. Gwen moved closer, her voice gentle but unyielding. "Someone else. Not another noblewoman. Not a political alliance you're torn between." She paused, and he could hear the knowledge in her silence. "Merlin."

It wasn't a question.

Arthur closed his eyes. "How long have you known?"

"Known? I'm not certain I *know* anything." She came to stand beside him at the window, close enough that he could feel her warmth but not touching. "But I've suspected. The way you look at him when you think no one's watching. The way you've been these past days, pushing him away like it physically hurt you to do it. The way you froze at the rehearsal." Her voice softened further. "The way you've never looked at me quite the same way."

Shame burned through him. "Gwen, I do care for you. I respect you, admire you—"

"I know you do." She placed a hand on his arm, stopping his spiraling words. "Arthur, I'm not angry. I'm not even surprised, not truly. I think part of me has always known that the space you made for me in your heart was real, but it wasn't... it wasn't the whole space. There was always a part of you that belonged somewhere else."

"I tried," he said roughly. "I tried to be what you needed, what Camelot needed. I thought if I just went through with it, if I focused on duty and honor and doing what was right—"

"You'd stop loving him?"

The word *love* struck him like a blow. He'd been avoiding it, even in his own thoughts, but hearing Gwen say it made it impossible to deny. "I don't... I never meant to."

"Love isn't something we mean to do." Gwen withdrew her hand, turning to look out at the courtyard where torches were being lit against the gathering dark. "It simply is. And Arthur, trying to marry me while feeling this way wouldn't have been noble. It would have been cruel. To both of us."

"What do I do?" The question escaped before he could stop it, raw and desperate. "How do I be king and feel this? How do I rule Camelot when everything I was taught says this is wrong, impossible, forbidden?"

"You be yourself," Gwen said simply. "The Arthur who fights for what's right even when it's hard. The king who protects the vulnerable, who questions unjust laws, who believes Camelot can be better than it was." She met his eyes. "You've changed so much since your father's time. Changed Camelot. Perhaps this is simply another way you'll transform what a king can be."

"The council will never accept it. The nobles. The people."

"Perhaps not immediately." She offered a small, sad smile. "But you postponed a royal wedding the day before it was meant to happen because you refused to lie. That takes courage most kings never show. If you face this with the same honesty..." She trailed off, shrugging slightly. "I don't know what happens. But I know you'll face it as yourself, not as a man living a lie."

Arthur felt something crack open in his chest, painful and liberating at once. "I'm sorry. For all of it. For not realizing sooner, for letting it go this far—"

"Stop." Gwen's voice firmed. "I don't want apologies. I want you to be happy. Truly happy. And I want you to be honest with Merlin the way you've finally been honest with me."

The thought of facing Merlin, of saying these things aloud to him, sent panic and longing through Arthur in equal measure. "I don't know if he—"

"He does." Gwen moved toward the door, then paused. "Whatever comes next, Arthur, you're not alone in this. I may not be your wife, but I'm still your friend. I'll always be your friend."

She left before he could respond, the door clicking shut with quiet finality. Arthur stood in the growing darkness, the canceled wedding a ghost between him and an uncertain future. Outside his window, Camelot's lights flickered to life one by one, illuminating a kingdom that would wake tomorrow to a king who'd chosen truth over tradition.

Now he simply had to find the courage to tell Merlin why.

Chapter 12: The council's ultimatum

Arthur barely slept. Dawn came too quickly, bringing with it the day that should have been his wedding. Instead, he dressed for battle of a different sort—council chambers rather than tournament grounds, political maneuvering rather than sword work.

The summons came before he'd finished breakfast. Not a request. A demand.

The council chamber was already full when Arthur arrived, the air thick with tension and barely suppressed fury. Every seat occupied, nobles from across the kingdom who'd traveled for the wedding now gathered like vultures circling wounded prey. Lord Aelric stood at the far end, his silver beard bristling with indignation. Lady Catrina, widow of a northern lord, watched with calculating eyes. Geoffrey sat apart from the others, looking older than Arthur had ever seen him.

Leon stood by the door, hand resting on his sword hilt—a gesture of support that didn't escape Arthur's notice.

"Your Majesty." Lord Aelric's voice dripped with false courtesy. "How gracious of you to finally join us."

Arthur took his seat at the head of the table, forcing his expression into something resembling calm authority. "I agreed to this meeting to address your concerns about yesterday's decision."

"Concerns." Lord Brennan of the eastern territories slammed his palm on the oak table. "You call it *concerns* when you humiliate the kingdom on the eve of a royal wedding? When you leave noble families who traveled weeks to attend standing in confusion? When you make Camelot look weak and unstable to every neighboring kingdom?"

"I postponed the wedding," Arthur said evenly. "I didn't cancel it permanently. I didn't humiliate anyone."

"You postponed it indefinitely with no explanation." Lady Catrina's words were precise, surgical. "Which every court from here to the northern borders will interpret as weakness. Indecision. A king who cannot commit to his own choices."

"Or a king who refuses to make vows he cannot keep," Arthur countered.

Lord Aelric leaned forward. "Then give us a reason. A real reason. Not political double-speak or vague references to 'unforeseen circumstances.' Why, after months of preparation, after accepting Guinevere as your bride, did you suddenly refuse?"

The chamber fell silent, every eye fixed on Arthur. He thought of Gwen's words the night before, her quiet understanding. He thought of Merlin, somewhere in the castle, unaware that Arthur had finally spoken the truth aloud to someone else.

But he couldn't speak it here. Not yet. Not like this.

"My personal feelings," he said carefully, "are not something I'll discuss with this council."

"Your personal feelings are irrelevant." Lord Brennan's face flushed red. "You are the *king*. Your marriage isn't about feelings—it's about succession, stability, alliances. You have a duty to this kingdom that supersedes whatever momentary doubts you experienced."

"Momentary doubts." Arthur's control began slipping. "You think this was impulsive? That I woke yesterday morning and simply decided I didn't feel like getting married?"

"We think," Lady Catrina said smoothly, "that you allowed personal sentiment to override political necessity. Whatever the cause—and we have heard... rumors—the result is the same. Camelot needs a queen. Needs heirs. Needs the stability a royal marriage provides."

*Rumors.* The word sent ice through Arthur's veins. "What rumors?"

The looks exchanged around the table told him everything.

Geoffrey spoke for the first time, his voice heavy with something like sorrow. "There has been... talk, sire. About your relationship with your manservant. About the real reason you've postponed the wedding."

The chamber seemed to contract. Arthur gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles white. "My relationship with Merlin is none of this council's concern."

"Everything you do is our concern." Lord Aelric stood, commanding the room. "You are not just a man, Arthur. You are Camelot's king. And if your... attachment... to a servant is what prevented this wedding—"

"Careful." Arthur's voice dropped to something dangerous. "Very careful how you finish that sentence."

Lord Aelric didn't flinch. "Then we will be direct. This council demands you set a new wedding date. If not to Guinevere, then to another suitable noblewoman. Lady Vivian of Olaf's kingdom has expressed interest. Princess Mithian remains unwed. There are options."

"You're demanding I marry someone?" Arthur stood slowly, rage and disbelief warring in his chest. "Anyone, so long as I marry?"

"We're demanding you do your duty," Lord Brennan snapped. "Or face the consequences."

"Consequences." Arthur looked around the table, seeing the set jaws, the crossed arms, the unified front. "You're threatening me."

"We're protecting Camelot." Lady Catrina's voice remained maddeningly calm. "Several lords have already expressed concerns about your... fitness to rule... given recent decisions. If you cannot set aside personal desires for the kingdom's good, perhaps they're right to question whether you should wear the crown."

The word hung unspoken but understood: *rebellion*.

Leon shifted by the door, hand tightening on his sword. Arthur caught his eye, saw the warning there. This was real. The council wasn't posturing—they were drawing a line.

"How long?" Arthur asked quietly.

"We reconvene in three days," Lord Aelric said. "You will announce your choice of bride and set a wedding date within the month. Or we will be forced to take this matter to the broader noble houses for... consultation... about Camelot's leadership."

Arthur stood frozen as the council filed out, their faces hard with satisfaction at having cornered their king. Only Geoffrey remained, looking at Arthur with something like pity.

"They mean it," the old man said softly. "You've pushed them to the edge. One more step, and they'll push back hard enough to topple you."

"So I marry a stranger to keep my throne? Lie to another woman the way I nearly lied to Gwen?"

"You find a way forward that doesn't destroy everything you've built." Geoffrey moved toward the door, pausing. "Sometimes being king means there are no good choices. Only less terrible ones."

Arthur stood alone in the empty chamber, the weight of the crown suddenly unbearable. Three days to choose between his throne and his heart. Three days to decide if being honest was worth losing everything.

He needed to find Merlin. Needed to tell him what he'd done, what it meant, what was coming. But how did you tell someone you loved them while explaining that you might have to marry someone else to keep your kingdom from falling apart?

Chapter 13: Three days

Arthur found Merlin in the armory, polishing a sword that didn't need polishing. The repetitive motion of cloth against steel, the way Merlin's shoulders hunched forward—it spoke of avoidance, of finding any task to keep his hands busy and his mind occupied.

"Merlin."

The cloth stilled. Merlin didn't turn around. "Sire."

The formality stung worse than any council threat. Arthur stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The armory smelled of oil and metal, weapons lining the walls like silent witnesses.

"Don't," Arthur said quietly. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" Merlin set the sword down with careful precision, still not meeting his eyes. "Address you properly? I am your servant, after all. Some people seem to think I've forgotten that."

So the rumors had reached him too. Arthur felt something crack in his chest. "I need to talk to you. About yesterday. About why I—"

"You postponed your wedding." Merlin finally turned, and Arthur saw the careful blankness in his face, the way he'd shuttered everything behind a mask of polite distance. "The whole castle knows. Congratulations on making the harder choice."

"It wasn't hard." The words came out raw, honest. "Not marrying Gwen when I feel—when I—" He stopped, the weight of what he needed to say suddenly enormous.

Something flickered in Merlin's expression. Hope, maybe. Or fear. "When you what?"

Arthur crossed the space between them, close enough to see the dust motes dancing in the light from the high window, close enough to catch the smell of herbs that always clung to Merlin's clothes. "When I can't stop thinking about you. When every time I tried to imagine my wedding day, all I could see was your face. When the idea of binding myself to someone else felt like betraying the one person who matters most."

Merlin's breath caught. "Arthur—"

"Let me finish. Please." Arthur's hands were shaking. He clasped them behind his back to hide it. "I told Gwen the truth. Not all of it, but enough. She knew. She said she'd suspected for a while that my heart wasn't entirely hers. She was kind about it. Kinder than I deserved."

"She's a good person," Merlin said softly.

"She is. And she told me to stop being a coward about what I want." Arthur huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if it wasn't so painful. "So here I am. Being honest. Terrified, but honest."

The silence stretched between them, fragile as spun glass. Merlin's eyes searched his face, looking for something—certainty, perhaps, or proof this wasn't some cruel joke.

"What are you saying?" Merlin asked finally, voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm saying I love you." The words tumbled out, graceless but true. "I don't know when it started. Maybe it was always there, buried under duty and expectations and everything I was taught about what a king should want. But I love you, Merlin. And I couldn't marry Gwen knowing that."

Merlin swayed slightly, reaching back to steady himself against the workbench. "You—" He stopped, shook his head as if to clear it. "Do you understand what you're saying? What this means?"

"I know exactly what it means." Arthur stepped closer, emboldened by the fact that Merlin hadn't fled, hadn't laughed, hadn't rejected him outright. "It means everything just got infinitely more complicated."

"Complicated," Merlin repeated, and suddenly he was laughing, a slightly hysterical sound. "That's one word for it. Arthur, you're the *king*. I'm a servant. A servant with illegal magic, in case you've forgotten. You can't just—we can't—"

"I know." Arthur caught Merlin's hand, threading their fingers together. The touch sent electricity up his arm. "That's why I needed to tell you everything. The council met this morning."

He watched Merlin's face shift from wonder to wariness. "And?"

"They gave me an ultimatum. Three days to choose a bride and set a wedding date, or they'll move to question my fitness to rule."

Merlin went very still. "They threatened you."

"They're afraid. The postponement made Camelot look unstable. And there are rumors about us. About why I really called off the wedding." Arthur squeezed Merlin's hand. "They want me to marry someone—anyone—as long as I produce heirs and stop making decisions based on feelings they consider inappropriate."

"So you came here to tell me you love me before you go marry a stranger." Merlin tried to pull away, but Arthur held fast.

"I came here because you deserve to know the truth. All of it. What I feel, what I'm facing, what it might cost." Arthur pulled Merlin closer, their bodies nearly touching. "I'm not going to lie to you. I don't know how to fix this. I don't know if there's a way to keep my throne and be honest about what I want. But I needed you to know that when I postponed that wedding, it was because of you. Because I'd rather face the council's wrath than spend my life pretending I don't love you."

Merlin's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "You're an idiot."

"Probably."

"They could take everything from you."

"I know."

"And you're telling me anyway."

"I'm telling you anyway." Arthur raised his free hand to Merlin's face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. "Whatever happens in three days, I wanted you to know. You've saved my life more times than I can count. You've protected me, stood by me, seen me at my worst and stayed anyway. You deserve honesty. Even if it's complicated and terrifying and possibly catastrophic."

Merlin leaned into the touch, eyes falling closed. When he opened them again, Arthur saw his own fear and hope reflected back. "What do we do now?"

"I don't know," Arthur admitted. "But we have three days to figure it out."

Chapter 14: Discovered

The three days felt simultaneously infinite and impossibly short. Arthur wanted to hold onto this moment—Merlin's hand in his, the truth finally spoken between them—and never let the outside world intrude again.

But the armory was too exposed, too public. Anyone could walk in seeking weapons or repairs.

"Come with me," Arthur said, reluctance heavy in his voice as he released Merlin's hand. "Somewhere we can actually talk without interruption."

Merlin followed him through the castle's corridors, maintaining the appropriate distance of servant from king whenever they passed guards or courtiers. Arthur hated it—the performance, the pretense—but he understood its necessity. For now.

His chambers felt different when he closed the door behind them. The space had always been his sanctuary, but now it hummed with possibility and danger in equal measure. Merlin stood near the window, backlit by afternoon sun, and Arthur's breath caught at how right he looked there.

"So," Merlin said, arms crossed defensively across his chest. "Three days to find a solution that doesn't end with you married to someone you don't love or deposed by angry nobles. Simple."

"When you put it like that." Arthur poured wine with unsteady hands, offering a cup to Merlin. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and he felt that spark again—the one he'd been trying to ignore for months, maybe years.

Merlin took a long drink. "Have you considered what they're actually afraid of? It's not just about succession."

"What do you mean?"

"You're changing things. Your father would never have postponed a wedding, never admitted to doubts. You're showing vulnerability, making decisions based on your own heart rather than tradition." Merlin set down his cup, meeting Arthur's eyes. "That terrifies them because it means you might change other things too."

Arthur hadn't thought of it that way. He'd been so consumed by guilt and fear that he hadn't recognized the deeper threat his honesty posed to the established order.

"Maybe that's not a bad thing," he said slowly. "Maybe Camelot needs to change."

"Maybe," Merlin agreed. "But change makes people dangerous. Especially people with power who have a lot to lose."

They stood in silence, the weight of impossibility settling around them. Arthur wanted to touch him again, to prove this was real and not some fever dream born of desperation.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Arthur said. "About all this. About us."

Merlin's expression softened, vulnerability breaking through his careful composure. "I'm thinking that I've loved you for longer than I want to admit. That every time you nearly died, every time you were hurt or in danger, it wasn't just duty that drove me to protect you. It was this." He pressed a hand to his chest. "But I'm also thinking about what loving me will cost you. Your throne, your legacy, everything you've worked for."

"You think you're not worth that?" Arthur closed the distance between them, unable to stay away any longer. "Merlin, you *are* my legacy. Everything good I've done as king, every decent choice I've made—it's because of you. Because you see me as more than just a crown."

"Arthur—"

"No, listen." He cupped Merlin's face in both hands, thumbs tracing the sharp line of his cheekbones. "I've spent my whole life doing what was expected. Being who my father wanted me to be. And I was miserable. Then you came along and made me question everything, made me want to be better. Not for Camelot, not for duty—for you. Because you believed I could be."

Merlin's hands came up to grip Arthur's wrists, holding him in place. "What if we can't find a way? What if choosing me means losing everything else?"

"Then I lose everything else." The certainty in Arthur's voice surprised them both. "I can't go back to pretending. I can't marry someone else and spend my life wondering what might have been. I'd rather face the council's fury than live that lie."

"You're really willing to risk your kingdom for this?" Merlin's voice cracked. "For me?"

"You're not separate from my kingdom. You're the heart of it." Arthur leaned closer, their foreheads nearly touching. "I just need to know—is this what you want? Because if it's not, if I'm pressuring you or if you'd rather I just marry some noblewoman and we forget this conversation happened, tell me now."

"Forget this?" Merlin laughed, the sound caught between joy and disbelief. "Arthur, I couldn't forget this if I tried. I've been half in love with you since you were a spoiled prat throwing knives at servants. I just never thought—never let myself hope—"

Arthur kissed him. It wasn't planned, wasn't calculated—just a surge of feeling too strong to contain. Their lips met clumsily, neither quite sure how to navigate this new territory, but then Merlin's hands slid into Arthur's hair and everything aligned. The kiss deepened, years of unspoken longing pouring into the contact. Arthur's hands moved to Merlin's waist, pulling him closer, and Merlin made a small sound that sent heat cascading through him.

They broke apart breathing hard, staring at each other with wonder and want. Arthur opened his mouth to speak—

The door crashed open.

Lord Aelric stood frozen in the doorway, shock transforming into cold fury as he took in the scene: the king and his manservant, flushed and disheveled, standing far too close. The truth written plainly in their swollen lips and tangled hands.

"So the rumors are true," Aelric said, voice dripping with disgust. "This is why you disgraced Lady Guinevere. For your *servant*."

Arthur stepped forward, instinctively placing himself between Aelric and Merlin. "Get out."

"Oh, I'll leave." Aelric's smile was vicious. "After I inform the council that their king is not only refusing to marry, but is engaging in unnatural relations with a commoner. That should make tomorrow's emergency session quite interesting."

"Lord Aelric—" Arthur started, but the nobleman was already gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

The silence he left behind felt suffocating. Arthur turned to Merlin, who had gone pale.

"Well," Merlin said shakily. "I suppose we're out of time."

Chapter 15: No retreat

Arthur didn't give himself time to panic. The moment Aelric's footsteps faded, he turned to Merlin with steel in his voice.

"We're not waiting for tomorrow's session. I'm calling the council now."

Merlin's eyes widened. "Arthur, you can't—you need time to prepare, to think about what you'll say—"

"No." Arthur straightened his tunic, smoothing away the evidence of their embrace with hands that trembled only slightly. "If I wait, Aelric controls the narrative. He'll spend the next twelve hours poisoning every noble in Camelot against us. Against you." He met Merlin's gaze. "I won't let him turn this into something shameful."

"It doesn't matter what you call it. They'll see what they want to see." Despite his words, something fierce and hopeful flickered in Merlin's expression. "You're really going to stand in front of the entire council and tell them you chose me over Guinevere?"

"I'm going to stand in front of them and tell them the truth." Arthur moved toward the door, then paused. "Come with me."

"To the council chamber? Arthur, that's—"

"Necessary." His voice softened. "I'm done hiding. If we're going to face this, we face it together."

The walk to the council chamber felt both endless and too brief. Arthur sent a page running ahead with orders to summon all council members immediately, on the king's direct command. Word would spread quickly—already he could see servants whispering, guards exchanging glances. Aelric had wasted no time.

Leon intercepted them outside the chamber doors. "Arthur, what's happening? I just saw Lord Aelric looking like someone handed him a bloody crown."

"He found me with Merlin." Arthur kept his voice low but steady. "I'm addressing the council before this spirals further."

Leon's face went carefully blank, processing. Then he nodded once, decisive. "I'll stand with you."

"Leon, you don't have to—"

"I said I'll stand with you." Leon's hand moved to his sword hilt—not threatening, but solid. Present. "Whatever comes."

The council chamber filled rapidly. Lords and ladies arrived flushed from hurrying, confusion and anticipation sharp in the air. Aelric stood near the head of the table wearing an expression of vindicated righteousness that made Arthur's jaw tighten. Geoffrey sat in his usual place, ancient eyes unreadable.

Arthur took his position at the table's head, and deliberately gestured for Merlin to stand at his right hand—not behind him in a servant's place, but beside him. The chamber's murmurs intensified.

Lord Brennan arrived last, breathing hard. "Your Majesty, what emergency requires such urgency?"

"Lord Aelric has information he wishes to share with this council," Arthur said, voice carrying clear and cold. "I thought it best we address it immediately, rather than allow speculation to fester."

Aelric stepped forward, practically radiating satisfaction. "I went to His Majesty's chambers to discuss tomorrow's session, and found him engaged in... intimate relations with his manservant." He spat the last word. "This is why he refused to marry Lady Guinevere. Not for reasons of state, but for base desires. Unnatural appetites that shame the crown and endanger the kingdom."

The explosion of voices was immediate. Lady Catrina looked horrified. Lord Brennan's face went purple. Others shouted questions, denials, demands. Only Geoffrey remained silent, watching Arthur with something that might have been sadness.

Arthur raised his hand. The noise didn't stop immediately, but gradually his presence commanded attention. When he spoke, his voice cut through the chaos.

"Lord Aelric's facts are correct. He did find me with Merlin. What he characterizes as shameful, I name differently: truth." He felt Merlin tense beside him but continued. "I postponed my wedding because I could not marry Lady Guinevere while my heart belonged elsewhere. She knew this. She released me from our betrothal with grace and understanding that none of you have shown."

"You admit to this perversion?" Aelric looked almost gleeful. "Before witnesses?"

"I admit to loving someone." Arthur's hand moved—not touching Merlin, but the gesture unmistakable. "If that's perversion, then your definition is flawed, not my character."

"You cannot seriously expect us to accept this," Lady Catrina said, voice shaking. "A king must marry, must produce heirs. You would throw away your duty, your dynasty, for—for *him*?" The disdain in her tone made Arthur's blood heat.

"I would not lie to secure heirs," he said. "Would you prefer a king who honors his word, or one who builds his reign on deception?"

"We would prefer a king who understands his obligations," Lord Brennan snapped. "This council gave you three days to choose a suitable bride. Instead you've confirmed our worst fears. You leave us no choice but to—"

The door burst open. Sir Percival stumbled in, armor scorched and bloodied, barely staying upright. Leon moved immediately to support him.

"Sire," Percival gasped. "The eastern border—raiders—not ordinary bandits. Sorcerers. Powerful ones. They've burned three villages. Sir Gwaine is holding the garrison but they're overwhelmed. He sent me to request reinforcements immediately."

The chamber went silent. Arthur's mind shifted instantly from personal crisis to military emergency. "How many raiders?"

"At least fifty fighters, plus three sorcerers working in concert. They're organized, well-armed. And they're moving toward Camelot."

Arthur looked at the council. "We will continue this discussion after we've dealt with the immediate threat to our kingdom. Lord Aelric, Lord Brennan—begin mobilizing the garrison. Lady Catrina, coordinate evacuation protocols for outlying settlements. Leon, gather the knights. We ride within the hour."

"And him?" Aelric pointed at Merlin. "You'd bring your... *companion* on a military campaign?"

Arthur's voice could have frozen fire. "I bring the man who has saved my life and this kingdom more times than you can count. Anyone who has a problem with that can stay here and explain to the survivors why their king delayed defending them to argue about his personal life."

No one spoke.

"We leave at sunset," Arthur said. "Dismissed."

As the council scattered to their tasks, Merlin touched Arthur's elbow. "You realize we just walked out of one fire into another?"

"At least this one we know how to fight." Arthur met his eyes. "Together."

Merlin's smile was quick, fierce. "Together."

Chapter 16: Fire and trust

The ride east took them through countryside still smoking from the raiders' advance. Arthur led thirty knights and twice as many soldiers, pushing hard to reach Gwaine's position before nightfall. Merlin rode beside him—not behind with the supply wagons where a servant belonged, but at his side where Arthur had wordlessly insisted he stay.

Leon noticed but said nothing. So did the others, though Arthur caught Elyan's speculative glance more than once.

"You're broadcasting," Merlin murmured as they crested a hill overlooking a burned village.

"Broadcasting what?"

"That you're worried. About me." Merlin's voice stayed low. "Every time we pass a scorched field, you look at me like you're expecting me to vanish."

Arthur's hand tightened on his reins. "Sorcerers did this. Powerful ones, according to Percival. If they sense your magic—"

"They won't." Merlin's certainty was absolute. "I've hidden from worse. I've hidden from *you* for years, and you're considerably more perceptive than most."

The compliment—was it a compliment?—made something warm unfurl in Arthur's chest despite the destruction surrounding them. Before he could respond, Gwaine's garrison appeared ahead, a defensive position hastily fortified at a crossroads.

Gwaine himself looked exhausted but grimly pleased to see them. "About time, Princess. Thought you'd stopped to fix your hair."

"Situation?" Arthur dismounted, already scanning the terrain.

"They hit us at dawn, pulled back around midday. Testing our defenses, I think." Gwaine's levity faded. "Three of them worked together to bring down the old watchtower. Took them maybe thirty seconds. Whatever they're planning, they've got the power to flatten us if we're not smart."

Arthur studied the maps Gwaine had spread across a makeshift table. The raiders had moved in a pattern—not random destruction, but deliberate. "They're driving toward something. Not Camelot directly, but..."

"The old Roman road," Merlin said quietly, leaning over the map. "It's the fastest route through the mountains. If they control it, they control trade and troop movement for a hundred miles."

Gwaine raised an eyebrow. "Since when does our Merlin read military strategy?"

"Since he pays attention," Arthur said, voice sharp enough to forestall further questions. "Leon, take twenty men and fortify the northern approach. Elyan, position archers on that ridge. Gwaine, your men need rest—rotate them out but keep half ready to move."

He continued issuing orders, falling into the familiar rhythm of command. This he understood. This made sense in ways the council chamber never had.

The attack came at dusk.

No warning beyond a sudden taste of copper in the air and Merlin's sharp inhale beside him. Then fire—great gouts of it arcing over their defensive positions, and Arthur was shouting orders, sword drawn, leading the charge toward the raiders pouring from the tree line.

Combat narrowed his world to immediate threats: blade meeting blade, the weight of his shield, the disciplined formations of his knights holding against superior numbers. He fought his way toward the center where the sorcerers directed their assault, knowing that was the key. Stop them, and the raiders would break.

A lance of pure force struck the ground beside him, throwing him sideways. He rolled, came up swinging, and found himself facing one of the sorcerers—a woman with marks burned into her skin, eyes blazing gold.

She raised her hand and Arthur knew, with cold certainty, that his shield wouldn't stop what came next.

The blast never arrived.

Merlin appeared from nowhere, shoving Arthur aside, and the air between them shimmered. The sorcerer's attack hit something invisible and shattered like glass. Her eyes widened in recognition, then fury.

"You," she hissed. "Emrys."

Merlin's expression went carefully blank. "Leave now and you live."

She laughed and attacked again, joined by her companions. The battle became something else—magic crackling through the air, Merlin deflecting and countering while Arthur guarded his back against physical threats. They moved together like they'd trained for this, like Arthur had always known the truth and they'd spent years perfecting this deadly dance.

A raider broke through and Arthur cut him down. Merlin didn't flinch, trusting Arthur to protect him while he faced the magical assault. That trust was dizzying, terrifying, perfect.

When Merlin finally brought the lead sorcerer down—something invisible that struck her unconscious rather than killing—the remaining raiders scattered. Leon's cavalry cut off their retreat, and within minutes the fighting ended.

The silence after battle always felt unnatural. Arthur's ears rang. His sword arm ached. Merlin stood three paces away, breathing hard, looking at Arthur with something raw and vulnerable in his eyes.

"You saw," Merlin said unnecessarily.

"Everyone saw." Arthur glanced around. Leon was coordinating the knights. Gwaine bound a wound on his arm. Elyan stared at Merlin with open shock. "We'll deal with it."

"Just like that?"

Arthur crossed the distance between them, too tired and too honest to care who watched. "You saved my life. Again. You saved all of us. If anyone has a problem with that, they can explain why they'd prefer to be dead."

Merlin's laugh was shaky. "Your council's going to murder us both."

"Let them try." Arthur wanted to touch him, to confirm he was solid and safe and *there*, but settled for a look that said everything his hands couldn't. "We need to secure the area, tend the wounded. Then we'll figure out our next move."

"Together?"

The question carried weight beyond tactics. Arthur held his gaze. "Together."

Later, after the prisoners were secured and sentries posted, Arthur found Merlin sitting alone by the fire. He sank down beside him, their shoulders brushing.

"The sorcerer called you Emrys," Arthur said quietly.

"It's a name some magic users know me by." Merlin stared into the flames. "Part of that destiny nonsense I mentioned."

"Tell me."

So Merlin did, voice low, while the camp settled around them. He spoke of prophecies and purpose, of magic and meaning, of years spent hiding in plain sight. Arthur listened, and with every word felt the distance between them collapse further.

When Merlin finally fell silent, Arthur said, "I watched you fight today. Properly watched, without pretending I didn't know. You were extraordinary."

Merlin's shoulder pressed more firmly against his. "We were extraordinary. You gave me space to work. Protected me. Trusted me."

"Always," Arthur said, and meant it with every fractured piece of himself.

Leon approached then, expression carefully neutral. "Arthur. The prisoner wants to talk. Says she has information about who sent them."

Arthur rose, reluctant to break the moment but duty-bound. "Coming."

Merlin stood too, and this time when they walked back into crisis, Arthur let their hands brush—brief, electric, witnessed.

Let them see. Let them know.

He was done hiding.

Chapter 17: The messenger

The prisoner spoke with surprising candor once Leon removed her bindings. She sat in the command tent, wrists still marked from iron chains, and met Arthur's gaze with defiance tempered by pragmatism.

"We were hired," she said flatly. "Three weeks ago, in a tavern north of the border. A man with coin and connections wanted Camelot's eastern defenses tested."

"Tested or destroyed?" Arthur leaned against the table, arms crossed.

"Both. He wanted to know how quickly you'd respond, how coordinated your forces were." Her eyes flicked to Merlin, standing in the shadows behind Arthur. "He didn't mention Emrys rode with you. We'd have asked for more gold."

Merlin stepped forward slightly. "This man—describe him."

"Average height, dark cloak, spoke like nobility trying not to sound noble." She shrugged. "Paid half upfront, promised the rest when you were occupied out here."

Arthur's jaw tightened. "When I was occupied. Not Camelot. Me specifically."

"You're a popular topic lately, Majesty. Canceled weddings, council disputes, unnatural preferences." Her smile held no humor. "Word travels. Some people think you're distracted. Weak. Ripe for testing."

Leon's hand moved to his sword hilt, but Arthur raised a palm. "You'll remain in custody until we verify your information. Cooperate, and I'll show mercy. Lie, and you'll wish you'd died in battle."

She nodded once, accepting the terms, and Leon escorted her out.

The tent felt smaller with just the two of them. Merlin moved to the map table, fingers tracing the raider's path. "Someone wanted you away from Camelot. The timing's too convenient."

"Aelric." Arthur said the name like a curse. "Or someone working with him. Create a crisis, force me to choose between defending my people and defending my throne."

"You chose your people." Merlin's voice carried quiet pride. "Like you always do."

Arthur crossed to him, drawn by gravity he'd stopped questioning. "I chose to have you beside me. Everything else followed."

The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Merlin's throat worked as he swallowed. "Arthur—"

"I meant what I said earlier. By the fire." Arthur kept his voice low, aware of the guards outside. "I'm done pretending this doesn't matter. That *you* don't matter more than anything else."

"Even your crown?"

The question would have been impossible to answer a week ago. Now Arthur barely hesitated. "If keeping the crown means losing you, losing this—" He gestured between them, encompassing everything spoken and unspoken. "Then I'll find another way to serve Camelot."

Merlin's breath caught. "You don't mean that."

"Don't tell me what I mean." Arthur reached out, fingers brushing Merlin's wrist where his sleeve had fallen back. The touch sparked like the magic he'd witnessed in battle. "I watched you today. Saw what you truly are. You were terrifying and brilliant and I couldn't look away."

"Arthur." Merlin's voice fractured on his name. "If this goes wrong—"

"Then it goes wrong with us together." Arthur's thumb found Merlin's pulse, felt it racing. "I'm tired of being afraid. Of hiding. Of pretending duty matters more than truth."

Merlin turned his hand, palm meeting palm, fingers threading together. The gesture felt monumental despite its simplicity. "I've loved you for years," he whispered. "I've fought and lied and committed treason in a dozen different ways, all for you. I never thought—never let myself imagine you might—"

"Feel the same?" Arthur stepped closer, until barely a breath separated them. "I'm not good with words, Merlin. Never have been. But this, what I feel, it's not confusion or curiosity or some crisis of duty. It's real. You're the realest thing in my life."

Merlin's free hand rose to Arthur's chest, palm flat over his heart. "The council will never accept this. You know that."

"Then I'll make them accept it. Or I'll build a new council." Arthur covered Merlin's hand with his own. "I became king to make Camelot better than my father's kingdom. That starts with being honest about who I am. About who we are."

The tent flap burst open and Gwaine stumbled in, face grim. "Arthur. Messenger from Camelot. You need to hear this."

Arthur and Merlin separated, the loss of contact physically painful. The messenger—one of Arthur's regular riders—entered looking exhausted and anxious.

"Sire." He bowed hastily. "I rode straight through. The council has made a formal declaration."

Arthur's blood chilled. "What declaration?"

"They've given you four days to return and submit to a competency hearing. Lord Aelric has convinced a majority that your recent decisions demonstrate impaired judgment. If you don't appear and address their concerns, they'll vote on whether to appoint a regent until you're deemed fit to rule."

The words landed like blows. Merlin made a sharp sound beside him.

"They can't do that," Gwaine said. "Arthur's the king."

"They cite precedent from your grandfather's time," the messenger continued miserably. "When King Rodor of Nemeth was temporarily removed after a hunting accident affected his mind. They're claiming this situation falls under the same provisions."

"My mind is perfectly sound." Arthur's voice could have cut glass.

"They're calling your relationship with Merlin evidence of enchantment, sire. Several nobles are prepared to testify that you've been behaving erratically since the fire. That Merlin must have bewitched you."

Merlin went white. Arthur felt rage and fear war in his chest.

"There's more," the messenger said reluctantly. "They've summoned Lady Guinevere to testify about the canceled wedding. And they've issued an arrest warrant for Merlin on charges of sorcery and corrupting the king."

The world tilted. Arthur gripped the table edge, mind racing through implications and strategies and the sheer impossible audacity of it.

"Four days," he said finally.

"To return and face the council, yes sire."

Arthur looked at Merlin, saw his own fear reflected back. They'd acknowledged their feelings, chosen honesty, and reality had arrived to exact its price.

"Then we have four days," Arthur said quietly, "to decide how this ends."

Chapter 18: Before the storm

They rode through the night, reaching Camelot's walls as dawn painted the citadel gold. Arthur had pushed the pace mercilessly, rotating horses at every garrison, sleeping only in snatches. Merlin stayed at his side the entire journey, their silence speaking louder than words.

The lower town stirred awake as they clattered through the gates. Arthur caught the stares, the whispers trailing in their wake. News traveled faster than horses in Camelot. Everyone knew about the council's ultimatum, the charges against Merlin, the king who'd chosen his manservant over his crown.

Leon met them in the courtyard, his armor already fastened. "The council convenes at midday. Aelric's been rallying support since you left."

"How many stand with him?" Arthur dismounted, every muscle protesting the brutal ride.

"Seven, maybe eight lords. But he's swaying others with talk of enchantment and the kingdom's stability." Leon's gaze flicked to Merlin, expression unreadable. "There are also twelve knights who've formally declared their loyalty to you, regardless of the council's decision."

Small comfort against a potential civil fracture. Arthur nodded curtly. "I'll address them. All of them, together."

"Arthur." Merlin's voice was hoarse from the cold ride. "You should rest first. Eat something. You can't face them like this."

"I face them exactly like this." Arthur turned to him, saw the exhaustion shadowing those blue eyes, the tension carved into his jaw. "Covered in road dust, straight from defending their eastern border while they plotted against me. Let them see what their ultimatum cost."

Leon cleared his throat. "I'll inform Geoffrey you've arrived. Your chambers have been prepared."

When they were alone in Arthur's rooms, the enormity of what lay ahead settled between them like a physical weight. Merlin moved mechanically, reaching for Arthur's armor clasps out of habit, but Arthur caught his wrists.

"You don't have to—"

"I know." Merlin's fingers stilled under his grip. "But I want to. For however much longer I'm allowed."

The words cut deeper than any blade. Arthur pulled Merlin closer, suddenly desperate for contact, for proof this was real before it could be taken away. "You're not going anywhere. I won't let them—"

"You might not have a choice." Merlin's voice fractured. "If they force you to choose between me and Camelot—"

"I choose you." Arthur said it fiercely, certainly, the truth he'd been circling for weeks finally crystallizing. "I choose this. Whatever consequences come, we face them together."

Merlin looked at him with something like wonder and devastation mixed. "You're impossible."

"So I've been told." Arthur managed a rough smile, then sobered. "I'm afraid, Merlin. Not of the council or losing the crown. I'm afraid of failing you. Of not being strong enough to protect what matters most."

"You are strong enough." Merlin's hand came up to cup Arthur's jaw, the touch achingly gentle. "You're the strongest person I know. Not because of your sword or your crown, but because you're brave enough to choose truth over tradition."

Arthur turned his face into Merlin's palm, feeling the calluses there, the warmth. When he looked up again, Merlin's eyes were impossibly close, filled with everything they'd been too afraid to name until now.

"I love you," Arthur whispered. "Whatever happens in that council chamber, I need you to know that. Not because of magic or destiny or duty, but because you're *you*. Because I can't imagine ruling Camelot, can't imagine my life, without you in it."

Merlin's breath hitched. "Arthur—"

Arthur kissed him. Not the interrupted, frantic kiss from before, but something slower, deliberate, claiming. Merlin made a sound against his mouth, hands fisting in Arthur's travel-stained tunic, pulling him closer. The kiss tasted like road dust and desperation and hope, like every unspoken word between them finally given voice.

When they broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Arthur felt steadier than he had in days. This was real. This was worth fighting for.

"Whatever happens," Merlin said quietly, "I'm with you."

The bells tolled noon too soon.

The council chamber was packed beyond capacity. Not just nobles, but knights, courtiers, servants—everyone with enough status to claim a right to witness. Arthur entered alone, having refused Leon's suggestion of a formal escort. He wore his father's ceremonial armor, the red cloak Merlin had mended a dozen times, and the crown that felt heavier with each passing day.

Aelric stood at the head of the opposition, face triumphant. "King Arthur. You've returned to face the council's judgment."

"I've returned," Arthur said coldly, "to remind this council who rules Camelot."

Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Arthur didn't wait for Aelric's response. He strode to the throne, turned, and met the eyes of every person present.

"You claim I'm unfit to rule because I canceled my wedding and chose honesty over political convenience. You say I'm bewitched because I acknowledged feelings that don't fit your narrow expectations." His voice carried to every corner. "I say you're cowards, afraid of change, clinging to my father's prejudices because they're comfortable."

Aelric's face purpled. "You defend a *sorcerer*—"

"I defend the man who saved my life and this kingdom more times than any of you know." Arthur let steel enter his voice. "The same man who helped defeat the raiders threatening our eastern border while you sat here scheming. You want to put me on trial? Then put yourselves on trial first. Who among you can claim perfect adherence to duty over heart? Who here has never bent a law or tradition when it suited them?"

Silence. Then Geoffrey of Monmouth stepped forward, ancient face grave.

"The question before us," the librarian said carefully, "is not whether Your Majesty has feelings for Merlin. The question is whether those feelings compromise your ability to rule justly and well."

Arthur met his old teacher's eyes. "Then judge me on my actions, not my heart. Judge me on the kingdom I've built, the battles I've won, the reforms I've implemented. If that's not enough, if you truly believe I'm unfit—" He paused, let the weight settle. "Then remove me. But do it honestly, not hiding behind fears of sorcery and corruption."

The challenge hung in the air, dangerous and unmistakable. Aelric opened his mouth, but Geoffrey raised a hand.

"The council will deliberate. Your Majesty, you will have our decision by sunset."

It wasn't the victory Arthur wanted, but it was all he would get. For now.

Chapter 19: The price of compromise

The afternoon crawled past like a wounded animal. Arthur paced his chambers while Merlin sat motionless by the window, watching the courtyard below. Neither spoke. There was nothing left to say that hadn't already been said in the council chamber, nothing to do but wait for judgment.

When the bells finally tolled sunset, Leon arrived to escort them back.

The council chamber felt different now—the chaotic energy of the morning replaced by something colder, more calculated. The nobles had arranged themselves in careful formation, faces revealing nothing. Geoffrey stood at the center, ancient hands folded over a leather ledger.

Arthur took his place before them, spine straight, crown steady. Merlin stood three paces behind, as protocol demanded, but Arthur could feel his presence like warmth at his back.

"King Arthur." Geoffrey's voice carried the weight of centuries. "The council has deliberated on the matter of your fitness to rule and the charges brought against you by Lord Aelric."

Aelric's expression was sour, almost bitter. Arthur marked it, filing the observation away.

"We find," Geoffrey continued, "that your actions as king have consistently demonstrated wisdom, courage, and dedication to Camelot's welfare. Your military leadership is unquestioned. Your reforms have strengthened the kingdom. Your justice is fair."

A pause, heavy with implication.

"However, the matter of succession cannot be ignored. A kingdom requires stability, continuity. Your father understood this. Every ruler must."

Arthur's jaw tightened. Here it came—the condition, the price they'd decided he must pay.

Lady Catrina spoke next, her voice measured. "We propose a compromise, Your Majesty. One that acknowledges both your... personal truth and Camelot's needs."

"What compromise?" Arthur kept his tone neutral, betraying nothing.

Geoffrey met his eyes. "The council will accept your choice not to marry, and will not oppose your relationship with Merlin, on one condition: you must provide Camelot with a legitimate heir. A biological child of your blood to inherit the throne."

The words landed like stones in still water, ripples of shock spreading through the chamber. Arthur heard Merlin's sharp intake of breath behind him.

"You're asking me to—" Arthur stopped, recalibrated. "To father a child outside of marriage?"

"Not outside marriage," Lord Brennan clarified. "A formal arrangement. A woman of suitable rank who would bear your heir, with full legal protections and honors. She would be recognized as the child's mother, elevated in status, but you would not be required to take her as queen or consort."

"We have already identified several noblewomen who would consider such an arrangement," Lady Catrina added. "For the good of the realm."

Arthur felt the walls closing in, the careful trap of their logic. They were offering him Merlin, offering acceptance, but demanding he betray that very choice in the most fundamental way.

"And if I refuse?"

Aelric's smile was predatory. "Then the council will have no choice but to declare you unfit. The kingdom cannot be left without clear succession. We would install a regent—someone capable of putting duty before personal desire."

There it was. The ultimatum dressed as compromise.

Arthur turned, found Merlin's eyes. Saw the devastation there, the understanding of what was being asked. Merlin's face had gone pale, his hands clenched at his sides.

"How long do I have to decide?" Arthur's voice came out rougher than intended.

"The council requires your answer before the week's end," Geoffrey said quietly. "And should you agree, the arrangement should be... undertaken within the year."

Undertaken. Such a clinical word for what they were demanding.

Leon stepped forward, his loyalty written in every rigid line. "The king has just returned from defending our borders. Surely he deserves time to consider such a significant decision."

"Five days is generous, Sir Leon," Aelric said coldly. "Given that His Majesty has already kept us waiting through one canceled wedding."

Arthur forced himself to breathe, to think past the roaring in his ears. This was politics at its cruelest—they were forcing him to choose between love and duty again, but this time the choice was impossibly tangled. He could have Merlin and rule Camelot, but only by taking another to his bed, by creating a child with someone else.

By doing the one thing that would prove to everyone—including Merlin—that the council still controlled him.

"I need to speak with Merlin," Arthur said. "Privately."

"Of course." Geoffrey inclined his head. "The council will await your decision. But Arthur—" The use of his given name made everyone still. "Think carefully. This is the best outcome you could have hoped for. Don't let pride destroy what we're offering."

The dismissal was clear. Arthur turned and walked from the chamber, Merlin following in silence. The corridors stretched endlessly before them. Servants and courtiers melted away at Arthur's expression, leaving them blessedly alone.

They made it to Arthur's chambers before Merlin finally spoke.

"You should accept." His voice was hollow, scraped raw. "It's everything you wanted. You can rule, you can be honest about... about us. It's just one night, maybe a few, until—"

"Don't." Arthur rounded on him. "Don't pretend this doesn't destroy you. I can see it in your face."

"What you can see," Merlin said with terrible gentleness, "is me understanding the price of loving a king. I've always known there would be sacrifices, Arthur. This is just... larger than I expected."

"I won't do it." Arthur's hands shook with the force of his conviction. "I won't be forced into—"

"Then you'll lose everything." Merlin stepped closer, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Your crown, your ability to protect Camelot, maybe even me if Aelric takes power. Is that better? Is that somehow more noble?"

Arthur wanted to scream, to tear down the stones of the chamber itself. Instead he reached for Merlin, pulled him close, felt the trembling in that slender frame.

"There has to be another way," he whispered against Merlin's hair. "I just found you. I can't—"

"Five days," Merlin said quietly. "We have five days to figure out if another way exists."

But in the settling darkness, neither of them could imagine what that way might be.

Chapter 20: Forbidden knowledge

The library's restricted section smelled of decay and old leather, its shelves heavy with texts Geoffrey kept locked away from curious eyes. Merlin had picked the lock an hour past midnight, when even the most diligent servants had retired.

The candle flame cast dancing shadows across pages written in languages that predated Camelot itself. Merlin's fingers traced words in Old Brythonic, in Latin, in scripts he didn't recognize but could somehow understand—the gift and curse of being born with magic thrumming through his veins.

*Succession. Bloodlines. Heirs.*

He'd been searching for three nights now, sleeping in snatches during the day while Arthur met with advisors and tried to maintain normalcy. They had two days left before the council demanded an answer. Two days to find an alternative to the impossible choice between Arthur's crown and their relationship.

Merlin pulled another tome from the shelf, this one bound in cracked green leather, its pages brittle with age. The title was barely legible: *De Mysteriis Sanguinis et Vitae*. On the mysteries of blood and life.

He opened it carefully.

The first few pages detailed bloodline magic—the kind of spells that bound families, that tracked inheritance through generations. Merlin skimmed past diagrams of family trees, past incantations for proving paternity. None of this helped. The council wanted Arthur's biological child, and no glamour or deception would survive the scrutiny they'd surely apply.

But then, halfway through, a chapter heading caught his eye: *De Creatione Vitae Per Artem Magicam*. On the creation of life through magical art.

Merlin's breath caught.

The text described ancient practices, older than kingdoms, older perhaps than written language itself. Magic that could coax life from union, yes, but also—his pulse quickened—magic that could draw upon two sources of essence, regardless of physical form, to create new life. The author, some long-dead sorcerer, had documented cases of same-sex couples bearing children through ritual magic, of bloodlines continued through will and power rather than conventional means.

*The child would carry the blood of both progenitors,* the text explained in cramped Latin. *Bound by magic, yes, but no less legitimate. No less real.*

Merlin read faster, heart hammering. The ritual required immense power, precise timing, and a willing vessel—someone to carry the child. But it was possible. It had been *done*.

"Fascinating reading for the middle of the night."

Merlin nearly dropped the book. Gaius stood in the doorway, a lamp in one hand, his expression unreadable.

"Gaius, I—"

"I know what you're doing, Merlin." The old physician moved closer, setting his lamp on the table. His eyes fell on the open pages, and something shifted in his face. "And I know why."

Merlin waited, tension coiling in his shoulders. Gaius had always walked the line between supporting Merlin's magic and fearing what it might cost him.

"Show me what you've found," Gaius said quietly.

Merlin turned the book so they could both see it. Gaius leaned over, squinting at the ancient text, and Merlin watched comprehension dawn across his weathered features.

"This is High Magic," Gaius said finally. "The kind that hasn't been practiced in centuries. The kind that got people burned."

"The kind that could give Arthur an heir. *Our* heir. Without betraying what we have."

"If it works." Gaius's finger traced a passage. "These rituals were dangerous even when magic flourished openly. The power required to sustain such a spell, to ensure the child's health and legitimacy... Merlin, one mistake could be catastrophic."

"More catastrophic than Arthur losing his throne? Than him being forced to—" Merlin couldn't finish the sentence.

Gaius sighed, pulling up a chair. "Tell me everything the text says."

For the next hour, they pored over the pages together. The ritual required a specific alignment of celestial bodies—fortunately, the spring equinox was in six weeks. It needed a vessel willing to carry the child, someone who understood the magic involved. And it demanded that both fathers contribute essence through a spell so intimate, so profound, that the book warned it would bind them irrevocably.

*Those who create life through this art,* the text cautioned, *will be joined in magic as well as blood. What one feels, the other will know. Separation will bring pain. Death of one will break the other.*

Merlin stared at the words. It was an enormous price. And yet—

"I'd pay it," he whispered. "For him. For us."

"Does Arthur know what you're researching?" Gaius asked gently.

Merlin shook his head. "He'd try to stop me. He'd say it's too dangerous, too much to ask."

"He'd be right."

"So I should just stand aside?" Merlin's voice cracked. "Watch him father a child with some noblewoman while I—what, wait patiently in the shadows? Pretend it doesn't destroy me?"

Gaius placed a hand on Merlin's shoulder. "I'm not saying that. I'm saying this decision isn't yours alone. If you pursue this magic, you'll need Arthur's consent. His participation. And more than that—" He gestured to a footnote. "You'll need a willing woman of noble blood to carry the child. Someone who'd risk being labeled a sorceress if the truth emerged."

Merlin hadn't thought that far ahead. His mind raced through possibilities, discarding most immediately. And then—

"Gwen," he breathed.

Gaius went very still. "Guinevere? Merlin, she just ended her betrothal to Arthur. You can't possibly ask her to—"

"She loves him. She wanted him to be happy. And she's already said she'd do anything to help." Merlin was speaking faster now, the pieces falling into place. "If we explained, if she understood this could give Arthur everything—his throne, his legacy, his choice—"

"That's three enormous 'ifs.'" But Gaius didn't say no.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Both men froze. The restricted section was forbidden to all but Geoffrey and the king himself. If guards found them here—

The door swung open.

Arthur stood on the threshold, still dressed despite the hour, his face drawn with exhaustion and worry. His eyes found Merlin, then dropped to the open book on the table.

"I woke and you were gone," Arthur said quietly. "I thought—" He stopped, stepping inside. "What are you doing, Merlin?"

Merlin met his gaze, every desperate hope and fragile possibility written across his face.

"Finding another way," he said.

Chapter 21: Policital consequences

Arthur closed the door behind him, his movements deliberate. The restricted section felt smaller with three of them inside, the candlelight casting long shadows across ancient shelves. His gaze settled on the green leather tome, then lifted to Merlin's face.

"Another way to do what, exactly?"

Merlin exchanged a glance with Gaius, then gestured to the book. "To give you an heir. Without—" He swallowed. "Without requiring you to betray us."

Arthur moved closer, drawn despite himself. "Magic?"

"Ancient magic," Gaius corrected, his tone careful. "Practiced long before Camelot, before your father's purge. The text describes rituals that allowed two people of the same sex to create a child together. Biologically. The child would carry both bloodlines."

The words hung in the air between them. Arthur's hand reached for the table's edge, steadying himself. "That's impossible."

"It's improbable," Merlin said quietly. "There's a difference."

Arthur stared at the cramped Latin text, unable to read most of it but understanding the diagrams well enough—circles within circles, phases of the moon, two figures standing at the center of intricate patterns. His throat tightened.

"Explain it to me. All of it."

Merlin drew a breath. "The ritual requires precise celestial timing. The spring equinox would work—that's six weeks away. Both fathers would contribute essence through a spell, and that essence would be... combined, through magic, to create life. But it needs a vessel. Someone willing to carry the child."

"Someone who'd have to know about the magic," Gaius added. "Someone who'd risk everything if the truth emerged. A noblewoman, to satisfy the council's requirements."

Arthur's mind raced through the implications, through the sheer audacity of what they were proposing. A child. *Their* child. Not his and some stranger's, but his and Merlin's, bound by magic and blood and choice.

"What are the risks?" he asked, because he was king enough to know nothing this powerful came without cost.

Gaius turned several pages, pointing to passages marked with faded ink. "The power required is immense. Merlin would need to sustain the spell throughout the pregnancy, ensuring the child's health and development. One mistake could result in miscarriage, deformity, or worse. And there's this—"

He indicated a section near the bottom of the page. Arthur couldn't read the words, but Merlin's expression shifted, became somehow more vulnerable.

"The ritual creates a permanent bond," Merlin said softly. "Between the two fathers. We'd be linked magically. What one feels, the other would know. Separation would cause pain. If one of us died—"

"The other would be broken by it," Arthur finished. He'd read enough about magical bonds to understand. His father's library had been full of warnings about such things, cautionary tales about sorcerers who'd bound themselves to others and paid terrible prices.

But then, he thought, hadn't he already paid that price? The days he'd tried to distance himself from Merlin had been agony. The thought of losing Merlin, to politics or prejudice or fate, already felt like it would shatter him.

"And if the council discovered we'd used magic?" Arthur asked. "If they learned the child was created through sorcery?"

"They'd call it an abomination," Gaius said bluntly. "They'd question the child's legitimacy regardless of bloodline. They'd likely demand your abdication. And Merlin would be executed."

The words landed like stones. Arthur's hand found Merlin's shoulder, gripping tight.

"So we're talking about a secret that could never be revealed. Ever. A lie we'd have to maintain for the rest of our lives."

"Yes," Merlin said. "Unless Camelot's laws change. Unless magic is accepted again. But that could take years, decades—"

"Or never happen at all." Arthur released him, pacing the narrow space between shelves. The weight of the choice pressed down on him, heavier than any crown. "You're asking me to risk your life on a spell that might not work, that would bind us in ways we can't fully understand, and that could destroy everything if discovered."

"I'm offering you a choice," Merlin corrected. "The council gave you two alternatives—marry me and lose your throne, or father a child with a stranger and lose yourself. This is a third option. Dangerous, yes. But ours."

Arthur stopped pacing, facing him fully. "And the woman who'd carry the child? You said it needs to be someone noble, someone willing. Do you have any idea who'd agree to something this insane?"

Merlin hesitated. "I thought... Gwen might."

The suggestion struck Arthur silent. Guinevere. Who'd released him from their betrothal with grace and understanding. Who'd told him to be honest, to choose happiness. Who'd sacrificed her own chance at being queen because she'd seen his heart belonged elsewhere.

"You want to ask her to risk execution for us?" Arthur's voice came out rough.

"I want to ask if she'd help us find a way forward," Merlin said. "She deserves to know this option exists. She deserves the choice."

Gaius cleared his throat. "There's something else you should consider, sire. The council demanded your answer in two days. Even if you decided to pursue this ritual, you couldn't complete it in time. The equinox is weeks away. You'd need to stall them somehow, buy yourself time without revealing your intentions."

Arthur dragged a hand through his hair. The political calculation was brutal—tell the council he'd accept their compromise, then secretly pursue the magical alternative? The deception sat poorly with him. He'd spent weeks learning the cost of dishonesty.

But the alternative was worse. Agreeing to father a child through duty while knowing another path existed, one that might preserve both his crown and his integrity.

"I need to think," Arthur said finally. "I need to—" He looked at Merlin, seeing the exhaustion in his face, the desperate hope barely contained. "We need to talk. Alone."

Gaius nodded, gathering his lamp. "I'll be in my chambers if you need me. Think carefully, both of you. Some decisions can't be unmade."

He left, footsteps fading down the corridor. Arthur and Merlin stood in the candlelit silence, the ancient book open between them, its promises and perils laid bare.

"Tell me honestly," Arthur said quietly. "Can you do this? This magic—can you perform it without destroying yourself?"

Merlin met his eyes. "I don't know. But I'd try. For you. For us."

Arthur reached across the table, taking Merlin's hand. The touch grounded him, reminded him what they were fighting for.

"Then we talk to Gwen," he said. "Tomorrow. Before I give the council any answer, we find out if this is truly possible. And then—" His jaw set. "Then I decide."

Chapter 22: An unexpected allie

Arthur found Guinevere in the castle gardens at mid-morning, tending to the white roses that had been meant for their wedding. She straightened when she saw him approach, Merlin at his side, and something in their expressions made her set down her shears.

"Arthur. Merlin." Her voice was cautious but not cold. "This looks serious."

"May we speak privately?" Arthur asked, glancing at the two handmaidens lingering near the fountain. Gwen dismissed them with a gesture, then turned back, brushing soil from her hands.

"Walk with me," she suggested, leading them deeper into the garden where the hedges grew tall enough to shield them from curious eyes. When they reached the secluded bench where Arthur had once proposed to her, she sat, folding her hands in her lap. "Tell me what's happened."

Arthur remained standing, unable to settle. Merlin stayed close, his presence steadying. "The council has given me two days," Arthur began. "They've demanded proof that I'll produce an heir, or they'll move to install a regent. Lord Aelric has enough support to make it happen."

Gwen's expression tightened. "I'd heard rumors of their ultimatum. They want you to choose a woman, arrange for a child." She looked between them. "But you're here, both of you, which means you've found another option."

"Possibly," Merlin said quietly. "It's... complicated."

"Show me."

Arthur pulled the folded parchment from his jacket—the pages Merlin had carefully copied from the ancient text, the diagrams and ritual instructions translated into clearer terms. Gwen took them, studying the words with growing wonder and alarm.

"This is magic," she breathed. "Old magic. You're talking about creating a child from—" Her eyes lifted. "From both of you? Together?"

"Through a ritual," Arthur confirmed. "It would require a vessel. Someone willing to carry the child, to give birth to an heir who would be biologically mine and Merlin's. Someone of noble standing to satisfy the council's requirements."

Gwen's hands trembled slightly on the parchment. "And you're asking me."

"We know it's dangerous," Merlin said urgently. "If anyone discovered the truth, you'd be implicated in sorcery. You could face execution alongside me. We wouldn't blame you for refusing—"

"I'm not refusing."

The words fell into silence. Arthur stared at her. "Gwen—"

"I said I'm not refusing." She stood, still holding the parchment, her voice growing stronger. "Arthur, you released me from a marriage that would have made us both miserable. You chose honesty over convenience, love over duty. You think I'd deny you the same chance at happiness?"

"This isn't just about happiness," Arthur said hoarsely. "This is about asking you to risk everything. Your safety, your reputation, possibly your life."

"For a child," Gwen countered. "For Camelot's future. For a chance to prove that love—in whatever form it takes—can build something stronger than tradition." She looked at the diagrams again, tracing the circles with one finger. "I've always wanted children. I thought I'd have them with you, Arthur, in a different life. Maybe this is meant to be. A different path to the same destination."

Merlin's voice was thick. "You'd do this? Truly?"

Gwen turned to him, and her smile was gentle. "You've been my friend for years, Merlin. You've saved my life more times than I can count. You've protected Arthur, protected all of us, at great personal cost. And now you're offering him a future that doesn't require him to betray either his heart or his crown. How could I not help?"

Arthur felt something loosen in his chest, some knot of tension he'd been carrying since the council's ultimatum. "The ritual is six weeks away. The spring equinox. We'd need to stall the council, convince them I'm pursuing their compromise while we prepare in secret."

"Then we lie," Gwen said simply. "We tell them you're negotiating terms with a willing noblewoman—which is true, just not in the way they expect. We buy ourselves time."

"And after?" Arthur asked. "If this works, if the child is born—everyone will believe it's mine and yours."

"Let them." Gwen's chin lifted. "The child *will* be yours, Arthur. Yours and Merlin's, by blood and magic. I'd simply be the one who carried that gift into the world. I'd be honored to do it."

Merlin looked at Arthur, and Arthur saw his own emotions reflected there—gratitude, disbelief, overwhelming relief. He turned back to Gwen, taking her hands in his.

"I don't deserve you," he said roughly.

"Perhaps not," she agreed, squeezing his fingers. "But you have me nonetheless. We all do what we must for the people we love."

She released him and faced Merlin directly. "Teach me what I need to know. About the ritual, the risks, what will be required of me. I want to understand everything before we begin."

Merlin nodded, visibly composing himself. "Gaius has the original text. He can explain the process better than I can. There will be preparations—herbs, tonics, protections. The magic will be demanding, but I'll be with you throughout."

"Good." Gwen folded the parchment carefully, handing it back. "Then we should start planning. Arthur, you'll need to address the council tomorrow. Give them enough truth to satisfy their demands without revealing our intentions. Can you do that?"

Arthur straightened, feeling the king's mantle settle back onto his shoulders—but lighter now, worn with purpose rather than burden. "I can. I'll tell them I've found a willing partner and that arrangements are being made. They'll want details, but I'll invoke privacy until contracts are formalized."

"They won't like it," Gwen warned.

"Let them dislike it. They gave me a choice, and I'm making one. Just not the choice they expected." Arthur looked between them—Merlin, who'd offered everything, and Gwen, who'd accepted the impossible with grace—and felt something like hope kindle in his chest.

"Thank you," he said to her. "For this. For understanding."

Gwen smiled, sad and warm and certain. "That's what family does, Arthur. We find a way forward together."

She walked past them, heading back toward the castle, leaving Arthur and Merlin alone among the roses. Merlin's hand found Arthur's, their fingers intertwining.

"It's really happening," Merlin whispered. "We might actually survive this."

Arthur pulled him close, pressing a kiss to his temple. "We will. All of us."

But even as he spoke the words, he knew the hardest part still lay ahead—facing the council, performing the ritual, and protecting the secret that could destroy them all.

Chapter 23: Terms of peace

Arthur stood before the polished silver mirror in his chambers, adjusting the crown that suddenly felt less like a burden and more like an anchor—something solid to hold onto in turbulent waters. Behind him, Merlin fastened the ceremonial cloak, his fingers steady despite the tremor Arthur could sense in his presence.

"You don't have to do this alone," Merlin said quietly. "I could stand with you."

"No." Arthur turned, catching Merlin's hands. "If you're there, they'll see what I feel. I need them focused on the child, on succession, on the future of Camelot. Not on us. Not yet."

Merlin's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Tell them enough to satisfy them. Nothing more."

"Enough truth to be believed. Enough omission to stay safe." Arthur drew a steadying breath. "The same balance you've walked for years."

A ghost of a smile crossed Merlin's face. "I had a good teacher in deception. A prat of a king who never noticed magic right under his nose."

Despite everything, Arthur laughed—a short, breathless sound that eased some of the tension coiling in his chest. He pressed his forehead to Merlin's briefly, drawing strength from the contact, then stepped back and straightened his shoulders.

"Wish me luck."

"You don't need luck. You're Arthur Pendragon." Merlin's eyes were bright with faith Arthur wasn't sure he deserved. "You're going to change everything."

The council chamber was already full when Arthur entered, the air thick with anticipation and barely concealed hostility. Lord Aelric sat forward in his seat, arms crossed, clearly expecting confrontation. Lady Catrina and Lord Brennan flanked him, their expressions carefully neutral. Geoffrey stood near the head of the table, ledger in hand, while Leon took his position behind Arthur's chair—a silent declaration of loyalty.

Arthur remained standing. "My lords, my ladies. You gave me two days to provide proof of an heir. I'm here a day early."

Aelric's eyebrows rose. "You've made a decision?"

"I have." Arthur kept his voice level, projecting confidence he only half felt. "I've secured the agreement of a noblewoman of impeccable standing to bear my child. The arrangements are being finalized, and I expect conception to occur within the required timeframe."

Silence fell. Lady Catrina leaned forward. "May we know the identity of this woman?"

"The Lady Guinevere has graciously agreed to fulfill this duty for Camelot's sake." Arthur met their stares without flinching. "Despite our decision not to marry, she recognizes the necessity of securing succession and has volunteered to carry the kingdom's heir."

Breath went out of the room. Several council members exchanged glances. Aelric's expression shifted from suspicion to calculation. "The Lady Guinevere," he repeated slowly. "Your former betrothed. The woman you publicly humiliated by canceling your wedding."

"The woman I respected enough to release from an obligation neither of us could fulfill with whole hearts," Arthur corrected sharply. "She understands what's at stake. She's offered this service freely, and I've accepted with gratitude. You wanted an heir of noble blood. You'll have one."

Geoffrey cleared his throat. "And the, ah, arrangement between yourself and the Lady Guinevere—it would be formalized how?"

"Private contracts ensuring the child's legitimacy and Lady Guinevere's honor and compensation. She would be recognized as the child's mother, granted estates and income befitting her status. The child would be acknowledged as my heir, raised in the royal household." Arthur paused. "She would not be queen, as we've established that particular union isn't viable. But she would be afforded every respect and protection."

Lord Brennan stroked his beard thoughtfully. "It's unconventional, but not without precedent. Kings have acknowledged children born outside marriage before."

"The child would be born *within* proper arrangement," Arthur emphasized. "Legitimized from birth, with full royal status. There would be no question of succession."

Aelric's eyes narrowed. "And your... *companion*. Merlin. Where does he figure in this arrangement?"

Arthur's hands tightened on the back of his chair. "Merlin remains in my service and in my confidence. That hasn't changed, nor will it."

"So you expect us to accept this—a child born of a woman you won't marry, while you continue your unnatural relationship with a servant?"

"I expect you to accept a legitimate heir and a stable succession, which is what you demanded." Arthur's voice cut through the rising murmurs. "I've met your terms. Whether you approve of the rest of my private life is immaterial to Camelot's future."

Lady Catrina raised a hand, silencing the protests building around the table. "A question, Your Majesty. If the Lady Guinevere bears your child—when the child is born and established—would you consider making your relationship with Merlin... official? Through some recognized bond?"

Arthur's heart stuttered. He hadn't expected this, hadn't dared hope for acknowledgment, let alone acceptance. "I... that would depend on many factors."

"But you would wish it?" she pressed.

"Yes," Arthur said quietly. "I would."

More silence. Then Geoffrey spoke, his voice measured and deliberate. "There is precedent in older traditions for such bonds between warriors, between brothers-in-arms. If the succession were secured, if an heir were born and thriving, the king's personal happiness would no longer pose a threat to stability. In fact, it might strengthen the realm to have a king who governs from a place of fulfillment rather than resentment."

Arthur stared at him, barely breathing.

Lord Brennan nodded slowly. "Two summers. Let the child be born, healthy and acknowledged. Let two years pass to prove stability. Then, if you still wish it, we would not oppose a formal recognition of your bond with Merlin."

"You'd allow us to marry?" The words came out hoarse, disbelieving.

Aelric looked sour, but even he seemed to recognize the political wisdom. "If the child secures succession, your personal arrangements become less critical to the kingdom's future. We'd require discretion, of course. And the marriage would not supersede the child's claim."

"It wouldn't," Arthur said quickly. "The child would be my heir, unquestionably. But after two years—if Camelot is stable, if the succession is secure—Merlin and I could... be recognized?"

Lady Catrina smiled faintly. "You've surprised us, Arthur. Perhaps we can surprise you in return. Give us the heir we need. Prove your judgment sound. Then build whatever future makes you happy."

Arthur felt Leon's hand grip his shoulder briefly—support and celebration in one gesture. Around the table, heads nodded, some reluctant, others genuinely pleased. Even Aelric, though scowling, didn't object.

"Then we have an accord," Arthur said, voice thick with emotion he couldn't quite contain. "Thank you. All of you."

He left the chamber before they could see how his hands shook, before the tears pressing behind his eyes could fall. Leon followed him into the corridor, then stopped, letting Arthur continue alone toward his chambers—toward Merlin, who would be waiting for news.

When Arthur opened the door, Merlin was pacing, anxiety written in every line of his body. He spun around. "What happened?"

Arthur crossed the room in three strides and pulled Merlin into his arms, holding him so tightly he could feel the rapid beat of Merlin's heart against his chest.

"They agreed," he said into Merlin's hair. "They agreed to everything. And Merlin—in two years, when the child is born and settled—they'll let us marry."

Merlin pulled back, eyes wide. "They said that? Truly?"

"Two summers. That's all we have to wait." Arthur laughed, the sound breaking with relief and joy and disbelief. "We won, Merlin. We actually won."

Chapter 24: Preparations

The weeks passed in a strange duality—outwardly, Camelot settled into a cautious normalcy, the court accepting Arthur's arrangement with Guinevere as an eccentric but pragmatic solution. Inwardly, in the hidden spaces of Gaius's chambers and the restricted library, a different preparation unfolded.

Merlin traced the ritual diagram for the hundredth time, his fingers hovering over the intricate symbols without quite touching the parchment. Each line had to be perfect. Each glyph carved into the stone floor with absolute precision. One error, Gaius had warned repeatedly, and the magic would unravel catastrophically.

"You're certain about the lunar alignment?" Gaius asked, adjusting his spectacles as he consulted three separate texts simultaneously. "The spring equinox alone isn't sufficient. We need the moon in its third quarter, Venus ascending, and Mars in opposition."

"Tomorrow night," Merlin confirmed, exhaustion threading through his voice. "All the celestial requirements align for perhaps six hours. If we miss the window, we wait another year."

Gaius set down his quill. "And you understand what you're attempting? This isn't healing magic or defensive spells. You're working with the fundamental forces of creation itself. The magic will demand everything from you—every ounce of power, every moment of concentration. For nine months."

"I know." Merlin met his mentor's worried gaze. "I've practiced the binding words until I dream them. I've prepared my mind for the sustained effort. I'm ready."

"Are you?" Gaius moved closer, voice dropping. "Because once you begin, there's no stopping. The child's life will be tied to your magic. If you falter, if the spell breaks even for a moment..."

"The child dies. Or worse." Merlin's throat tightened. "I won't falter."

A knock interrupted them—Arthur's distinctive rhythm. Merlin quickly covered the ritual texts as Arthur entered, his expression taut with barely contained anxiety.

"How are the preparations?" Arthur asked without preamble.

"Nearly complete," Gaius replied. "I've prepared the tonics for the Lady Guinevere—they'll help her body accept the magical conception and sustain the pregnancy. Merlin has transcribed the ritual components. Tomorrow we'll need to prepare the chamber."

Arthur nodded, then fixed his attention on Merlin. "And you? How are *you*?"

The concern in his voice made Merlin's chest ache. "I'm fine."

"Don't lie to me. Not about this." Arthur crossed the room, ignoring Gaius's presence. "You've barely slept in weeks. You're pushing yourself too hard."

"I'm memorizing the most complex magic I've ever attempted," Merlin said quietly. "It requires preparation."

"It requires you to survive." Arthur's hands clenched at his sides. "If something goes wrong—if this magic hurts you—"

"Then you'll have me treated and we'll try again," Merlin interrupted gently. "Arthur, we've come too far to doubt now. The council expects results. Gwen has agreed to this enormous risk. We have one chance tomorrow night, and I intend to succeed."

Arthur looked as though he wanted to argue, but Gaius cleared his throat diplomatically. "Your Majesty, I should mention—the ritual will create a permanent bond between you and Merlin. You'll feel echoes of each other's emotions, perhaps even physical sensations. It's an unavoidable consequence of creating life together through magic."

"I remember," Arthur said. "I've made my peace with it."

"Have you?" Gaius pressed. "Because when Merlin channels magic for nine months straight, you may feel the strain. When he's exhausted or in pain, you'll know. You cannot reveal that knowledge, cannot let anyone suspect the connection."

Arthur's jaw set. "I'll manage. What else do we need?"

Gaius consulted his notes. "The chamber must be consecrated—no iron, no crosses, nothing that might disrupt magical flow. We'll use the old watchtower, the one Uther abandoned years ago. It's isolated enough for privacy. Merlin will inscribe the circle tomorrow afternoon. The ritual itself must begin precisely at moonrise."

"And Gwen?" Arthur asked.

"I spoke with her this morning," Merlin said. "She understands what's required. She'll need to stand within the circle, between us, while the magic works. It won't hurt her, but she'll feel the power moving through her. She seemed... remarkably calm."

"She's braver than both of us," Arthur murmured.

The door opened again, and Guinevere herself entered, carrying a basket of herbs. She smiled at the three startled men. "I thought I might help with preparations. Gaius mentioned needing elderflower and moonwort?"

"My lady," Gaius said, recovering quickly. "Yes, thank you. We'll need them crushed and steeped for the tonic you'll drink tomorrow."

Gwen set the basket down and turned to face them all, her expression serious. "I want you to know—all of you—that I'm not afraid. This child will be extraordinary. Conceived in magic, born of love, heir to a kingdom that's learning to embrace change." She reached out, taking Arthur's hand and then Merlin's. "Whatever happens tomorrow, I'm honored to be part of it."

Merlin felt his throat constrict with gratitude and fear in equal measure. Arthur squeezed Gwen's hand, then looked at Merlin with such fierce determination that Merlin's doubts wavered.

"Tomorrow night, then," Arthur said. "We create a future worth fighting for."

As evening fell and they dispersed to their separate preparations, Merlin returned alone to the restricted library. He lit candles around the copied ritual text and read through the incantations one final time, committing every syllable to memory. The words were old beyond reckoning, predating Camelot and perhaps even the druids—magic from when the world was young and anything seemed possible.

He thought about the child who would result from tomorrow's working. Arthur's child. *Their* child. A life woven from magic and hope and desperate love.

He thought about the bond that would link him to Arthur forever after, tying their fates together in ways even destiny hadn't managed.

And he thought about the risk—the very real possibility that his magic wouldn't be strong enough, that he'd fail Arthur in the most fundamental way possible.

*No,* he told himself firmly. *Failure isn't an option.*

He'd faced dragons and sorcerers, had held Arthur's life in his hands a hundred times. Tomorrow would be different—not destruction, but creation. Not death, but life.

He could do this. He *would* do this.

For Arthur. For their future. For the child who didn't yet exist but already carried all their hopes.

Chapter 25: The creation

The old watchtower smelled of stone and time, its circular chamber stripped of everything metal or sacred by Gaius's careful preparation. Merlin had spent the afternoon inscribing the ritual circle, his hands cramping as he carved each glyph into the floor with painstaking precision. Now, as moonrise approached, he stood at the circle's edge and felt the weight of what they were about to attempt settle over him like a physical thing.

Gwen arrived first, dressed in a simple white gown, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She looked ethereal in the candlelight, serene despite the enormity of what she'd agreed to do.

"Are you ready?" Merlin asked quietly.

"I am." She squeezed his hand. "Don't be afraid. This is meant to happen."

Arthur entered moments later, wearing no crown, no armor—just simple clothing that made him look younger, more vulnerable. His eyes found Merlin immediately, and the connection between them hummed with unspoken emotion.

Gaius consulted the star charts one final time. "The alignment is perfect. Venus is ascending, Mars in opposition, the moon entering its third quarter. You have perhaps six hours before the window closes, but the magic will require far less if performed correctly." He handed Gwen a small vial. "Drink this now, my lady. It will help your body accept what's to come."

Gwen drank without hesitation, her expression unchanging.

"Merlin, Arthur—take your positions. Gwen, stand between them, facing east. Do not step outside the circle once the magic begins."

They moved into formation, the three of them forming a triangle within the carved symbols. Merlin could feel the ley lines beneath the tower thrumming with power, responding to the celestial alignment above. His magic stirred, eager and wild.

"Remember," Gaius said from outside the circle. "The words must be spoken in perfect unison. The magic will flow through both of you, combining your essences before transferring to Lady Guinevere. Do not break concentration. Do not stop until the binding is complete."

Arthur met Merlin's gaze across the small space. *Trust me,* his eyes said. *I'm with you.*

Merlin nodded and raised his hands, palms facing Arthur. Arthur mirrored the gesture, their hands nearly touching across Gwen's body. The air between them began to shimmer.

"Begin," Gaius whispered.

Merlin spoke the first words in the Old Language, his voice steady despite his racing heart. The magic responded immediately, pouring out of him in a golden stream that made the candles flare bright. Arthur's part came next—not words, but intent, the fierce desire for a child, for a future, for everything they'd fought so hard to claim. Merlin felt that desire as if it were his own, felt Arthur's love and hope and determination flowing into the magic like fuel to a flame.

The ritual text had warned this would be difficult, that combining two life forces through magic required immense power and control. But as Merlin wove the spell, he found it almost effortless. The magic seemed to *want* this, flowing naturally from him to Arthur and back again, building and strengthening until it blazed between them like a small sun.

Gwen gasped as the magic touched her, her hands instinctively moving to her stomach. The golden light surrounded her, sinking into her skin, and Merlin felt the moment of creation like a bell chiming in his soul. Life sparked into being—tiny, impossibly fragile, but *there*. Real. Growing.

The bond snapped into place between him and Arthur with surprising gentleness, a thread of connection that settled around Merlin's heart and pulled taut. He felt Arthur's wonder, his joy, his overwhelming relief, as clearly as if Arthur had spoken aloud.

Merlin spoke the final binding words, anchoring the spell, tying his magic to the new life so it would sustain and protect the child throughout the pregnancy. The golden light pulsed once, twice, then sank fully into Gwen, disappearing beneath her skin.

Silence fell. The candles steadied. The circle's symbols glowed faintly, then dimmed.

"It's done," Merlin breathed.

Gwen's face was radiant, tears streaming down her cheeks as she pressed both hands to her abdomen. "I can feel it," she whispered. "I can feel the life. It's real. It worked."

Arthur made a choked sound and reached for her, then for Merlin, pulling them both close. "Thank you," he said hoarsely. "Both of you. Thank you."

Gaius was examining the circle, shaking his head in apparent disbelief. "Remarkable. The magic accepted your working without resistance. I've never seen such clean execution of High Magic. Merlin, you should be—"

He turned just as Merlin's knees buckled.

Arthur caught him before he hit the ground, arms wrapping around Merlin's waist as the world tilted sideways. Every ounce of strength had drained from Merlin's body, leaving him hollow and shaking.

"Merlin!" Arthur's voice came from very far away. "Merlin, stay with me."

"'M fine," Merlin mumbled, though his vision was graying at the edges. "Just... tired..."

"Get him to the physician's chambers," Gaius ordered sharply. "Quickly, Arthur. His magic is completely depleted. He needs rest and replenishment immediately."

Arthur lifted Merlin effortlessly, cradling him against his chest. Through the haze of exhaustion, Merlin felt Arthur's fear through their new bond, sharp and visceral.

"You're going to be fine," Arthur said fiercely. "Do you hear me? You're going to be fine."

Merlin tried to answer, tried to reassure him, but darkness was pulling him down like a riptide. The last thing he felt before unconsciousness claimed him was Arthur's heartbeat against his cheek and the tiny spark of new life they'd created together, already growing stronger.

Chapter 26: The bond

Merlin woke to the familiar scent of medicinal herbs and old parchment. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was or why his body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. Then memory crashed back—the ritual, the golden light, Gwen's face radiant with tears, the moment life sparked into being.

He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. Every muscle protested, and a wave of dizziness sent him back against the pillows.

"Easy." Arthur's voice came from somewhere to his left, followed by a cool hand against his forehead. "You've been unconscious for a full day. Gaius said your magic was completely depleted."

Merlin forced his eyes open properly. Arthur was sitting beside the bed, still wearing the same clothes from the ritual, dark circles under his eyes that suggested he hadn't slept. Through the strange new thread connecting them, Merlin felt Arthur's relief like a physical thing, warm and overwhelming.

"Stop worrying," Merlin managed, his voice rough. "I'm fine."

"You collapsed." Arthur's hand moved to grip Merlin's, his thumb tracing circles against Merlin's palm. "You've been pale as death, barely breathing. That's not *fine*."

"The ritual took more than I expected." Merlin squeezed Arthur's hand weakly. "But it worked. Gwen—is she—"

"She's well. Perfectly healthy, according to Gaius." Arthur's expression softened. "She's been asking after you constantly. I think she's been more worried than I have, and that's saying something."

Merlin started to smile, then froze. Something flickered at the edge of his awareness—a sensation he couldn't quite name, like a candle flame in the corner of his vision. Faint, steady, impossibly fragile.

"Merlin?" Arthur leaned closer. "What's wrong?"

"I can feel it," Merlin whispered. He pressed his free hand to his chest, trying to locate the source of the sensation. "The baby. I can *feel* it."

Arthur's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

Before Merlin could answer, Gaius appeared from the adjoining room, moving quickly despite his age. "You're awake. Good. Don't try to stand yet—your magic reserves are still critically low." He began checking Merlin's pulse, his expression clinical. "What were you saying about the child?"

"I can sense it." Merlin struggled to find words for something he'd never experienced before. "It's like... like there's a thread connecting us. I can feel its life force, faint but growing. It's always there, at the back of my mind."

Gaius went very still. "The ritual text made no mention of such a connection."

"Maybe it was in a section we didn't have time to study." Merlin closed his eyes, focusing on the tiny spark of awareness. "It's not painful. Just... constant. Like listening to someone breathe while they sleep."

"This could be problematic," Gaius said slowly. "If you're this attuned to the child's life force, you'll feel everything throughout the pregnancy. Every moment of distress, every—"

"I'll know if something goes wrong," Merlin finished. The implications were settling over him like frost. "I'll know immediately."

Arthur's grip on his hand tightened. Through their bond, Merlin felt Arthur's fear warring with protectiveness. "Is that dangerous? For you or for the baby?"

"I don't know," Gaius admitted. "This is magic that hasn't been practiced in centuries. We're in uncharted territory."

A soft knock interrupted them. Gwen entered, moving carefully, one hand resting unconsciously on her stomach. She looked radiant despite the early hour, her face glowing in a way that had nothing to do with magic.

"You're awake," she said, relief flooding her features. "Thank the gods. I was so frightened when you collapsed."

"I'm sorry." Merlin tried to sit up again, and this time Arthur helped him, propping pillows behind his back. "I didn't mean to scare anyone."

"Merlin was just telling us something unexpected," Gaius said. "He can sense the child's presence. Constantly."

Gwen's eyes widened. She crossed to the bed, settling carefully on the edge. "What does it feel like?"

"Like you're there," Merlin said honestly. "Both of you. The baby's life force is connected to mine through the magic, but I can feel... echoes of you as well. Your heartbeat. Your warmth." He met her gaze. "I'll know if anything threatens either of you."

Something shifted in Gwen's expression—understanding, perhaps, or acceptance. "That's rather beautiful, actually. Like we're all bound together."

"It's also a vulnerability," Arthur said quietly. "If anyone discovers Merlin's connection to the pregnancy, they'll have questions we can't answer."

"Then we're careful," Gwen said firmly. "As we planned. I'm a noblewoman carrying the king's heir through a formal arrangement. Merlin is your manservant and closest friend. Nothing about our public interactions needs to change."

"But everything has changed," Merlin murmured. He could feel the truth of it in his bones, in the strange new awareness that thrummed beneath his skin. The ritual had done more than create life—it had bound the three of them together in ways the ancient text had never fully explained.

Gaius cleared his throat. "You need rest, Merlin. Several more days at minimum before your magic replenishes sufficiently. Until then, you're vulnerable." He glanced at Arthur meaningfully. "As is everyone connected to you."

Arthur nodded slowly, his jaw set in that stubborn line Merlin knew so well. "No one gets near him. I'll post guards outside if necessary."

"That would draw attention," Gwen pointed out gently. "Perhaps just... keep watch. As you would for any sick friend."

The emphasis on *friend* was deliberate, a reminder of the roles they had to maintain. But when Gwen reached out to take Merlin's other hand, forming a triangle between the three of them, her smile was genuine.

"We did this together," she said. "And we'll face whatever comes next together. All of us."

Merlin felt the baby's presence flutter at the edge of his awareness, that tiny spark of life growing stronger even as he watched. They'd succeeded in creating something impossible—a child born of magic and love, a future neither he nor Arthur had dared dream of.

But as Gaius had said, they were in uncharted territory now. And Merlin couldn't shake the feeling that the hardest trials were still ahead.

Chapter 27: Unexpected burden

Three weeks after the ritual, Merlin woke to nausea so intense he barely made it to the washbasin before retching violently. Arthur appeared at his side immediately, one hand steadying him while the other held back his hair.

"That's the fourth time this week," Arthur said, worry etched across his features. Through their bond, Merlin felt Arthur's concern like a physical weight. "This isn't normal magical depletion anymore."

Merlin wiped his mouth with a cloth, legs trembling. "I'm fine. Just need more rest."

"You've been resting for weeks." Arthur guided him back to the bed, his touch gentle but firm. "Your magic should have replenished by now. Gaius said so himself."

Before Merlin could respond, another wave of sensation rolled through him—not nausea this time, but something stranger. A pulling feeling low in his abdomen, accompanied by that constant awareness of the baby's presence. Except the awareness had grown stronger, more immediate. Less like listening to distant breathing and more like feeling a heartbeat beneath his own ribs.

"I need to see Gaius," Merlin said quietly.

They found the physician in his workroom, grinding herbs with methodical precision. He took one look at Merlin's face and set down his mortar immediately.

"Sit. Tell me everything."

Merlin described the symptoms—the morning sickness, the strange pulling sensations, the way certain smells made him ill, the exhaustion that no amount of sleep could cure. The way the baby's presence felt less like observation and more like habitation.

Gaius listened in growing silence, his expression shifting from clinical concern to something approaching alarm. When Merlin finished, the old physician crossed to his shelves and pulled down the original ritual text they'd discovered in the restricted library.

"I should have studied this more thoroughly," Gaius muttered, flipping through pages with increasing urgency. "The passages about the bond—I assumed they referred to all three participants equally."

"What are you saying?" Arthur demanded.

Gaius found the page he was looking for and went very still. When he looked up, his face was grave. "The bond created by the ritual connects the two biological fathers to the child's life force. The vessel—Guinevere—carries the child physically, but the magical connection runs between Merlin, Arthur, and the baby itself."

"I don't understand," Merlin said, though a cold suspicion was forming in his chest.

"The pregnancy exists in two states simultaneously," Gaius explained slowly. "Physical and magical. Guinevere bears the physical burden—her body changes, the child grows within her womb. But you, Merlin..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You're experiencing the magical equivalent. Your power is sustaining the pregnancy, yes, but the ritual bound you to it so completely that you're feeling everything she feels. As if you were carrying the child yourself."

The words settled over the room like snow. Arthur's hand found Merlin's shoulder, gripping tight.

"That's impossible," Arthur said. "Men can't—"

"Biologically, no," Gaius agreed. "But magically? This ritual predates modern understanding of magic by centuries. It was designed to create life from two fathers, and apparently the price is that one of them must bear the magical burden of pregnancy alongside the physical vessel."

Merlin pressed a hand to his stomach, feeling the subtle pull of magic there. The baby's presence wasn't just awareness anymore—it was part of him, growing within his magical core the way it grew in Gwen's womb.

"For nine months?" he asked faintly.

"For nine months," Gaius confirmed. "You'll experience every stage alongside Guinevere. The nausea, the fatigue, likely even the physical sensations as the pregnancy progresses. Your magic will adapt to accommodate the child, which means your power will be... different. Unpredictable."

"This is madness," Arthur said. "There must be a way to—"

"To what? Sever the connection?" Gaius shook his head sharply. "That would likely kill the child. The ritual created a triangular bond—Merlin's magic, your essence, and the life growing in Guinevere. Remove any point of that triangle and the whole structure collapses."

Merlin thought of Gwen, who had agreed to this without knowing the full cost. Who even now was carrying a child she believed belonged equally to all three of them, unaware that Merlin was bound to it in ways she couldn't imagine.

"Does Gwen know?" he asked.

Gaius hesitated. "I haven't told her yet. I wanted to be certain first."

Another knock interrupted them. Gwen herself entered, moving with the careful grace of early pregnancy. She looked between their faces and immediately knew something was wrong.

"What is it?" she asked. "Is the baby—"

"The baby is fine," Gaius assured her quickly. "But there's something about the ritual we didn't fully understand."

He explained, more gently than he had with them, about the dual nature of the pregnancy. About how Merlin was magically bound to experience what she experienced, to carry the burden of sustaining the child's life force for the next six months.

Gwen listened in growing horror, one hand pressed protectively to her stomach. When Gaius finished, she turned to Merlin with tears in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "If I'd known—"

"You have nothing to apologize for," Merlin said firmly. "None of us knew. And I'd make the same choice again."

"But you'll suffer for it." Gwen crossed to him, taking his hands in hers. "Every discomfort, every pain—you'll feel it all."

"So will you," Merlin pointed out. "At least I don't have to worry about my body physically changing."

It was meant to be reassuring, but even as he said it, Merlin felt a flutter of uncertainty through the bond. Arthur's emotions were tangled—protectiveness toward both Merlin and Gwen, guilt over putting them in this position, and something else. Fear, perhaps, of what the next months would bring.

"We face this together," Arthur said finally, the same words Gwen had used weeks ago. "All three of us. Whatever comes next."

Merlin felt the baby's presence pulse gently at the center of his magic, a reminder of why they'd done this. A child born of love and magic, carrying the hope of a different future for Camelot.

But as another wave of nausea rolled through him, Merlin couldn't help wondering what other surprises the ancient ritual had in store.

Chapter 28: Birth and revelation

9 months since they made the child everything changes.

The contractions began at dawn, pulling Merlin from sleep with a gasp that had Arthur bolt upright beside him. Through the bond, they both felt it—Gwen's pain, sharp and insistent, signaling that after nine long months, the baby was coming.

Arthur was already moving, throwing on clothes and barking orders to servants in the corridor. Merlin followed more slowly, one hand pressed to his abdomen where phantom sensations mirrored what Gwen was experiencing. The magical connection that had sustained the pregnancy for months now burned bright and urgent.

They found Gwen in her chambers, attended by midwives and Gaius. Her face was pale but determined, her breathing controlled despite the obvious pain. When she saw Merlin, relief flooded her features.

"You need to be here," she said between contractions. "I can feel—the baby needs you both."

Gaius pulled Arthur aside while the midwives worked. "The birth will require Merlin's active participation. His magic has been sustaining the child all these months. When the baby comes into the world, that connection must be carefully severed, or—"

"Or what?" Arthur demanded.

"Or the child's life force could drain Merlin entirely. Or the shock could kill the baby." Gaius met Arthur's eyes gravely. "This is the most dangerous part of the entire ritual."

Merlin heard every word. He moved to Gwen's bedside, taking her hand. Through their shared connection to the child, he could feel the baby's readiness, its eagerness to enter the world, but also its dependence on the magic that had nurtured it from conception.

"I know what to do," Merlin said quietly, though he wasn't entirely certain. The ritual text had been vague about the birth itself, offering only cryptic warnings about the separation of physical and magical bonds.

Hours passed. The midwives murmured encouragement while Gwen labored, her strength remarkable even as exhaustion crept in. Merlin felt every contraction through the bond, his own body responding sympathetically—trembling, sweating, the phantom sensation of pressure and pain. Arthur stayed close to both of them, one hand on Gwen's shoulder, the other gripping Merlin's, his presence an anchor.

As afternoon light slanted through the windows, the midwives grew concerned. "The baby's positioned wrong," the head midwife reported to Gaius. "If we can't turn it soon—"

"Let me," Merlin said. He could feel the baby through the magical bond, sense its position in ways the midwives couldn't. Without waiting for permission, he placed both hands on Gwen's swollen belly and let his magic flow.

Golden light sparked beneath his palms. The midwives gasped, stumbling back. Merlin ignored them, focused entirely on the child. Gently, carefully, he used magic to guide the baby into the correct position, feeling the small body shift and settle.

"Sorcery!" one of the midwives shrieked. "The king's manservant is a sorcerer!"

"Be silent," Arthur commanded, his voice like iron. "Or leave. Merlin is saving this child's life."

The midwives fell into shocked silence, but Merlin knew the damage was done. Word would spread. But none of that mattered now—the baby was coming.

Gwen bore down with renewed strength, and Merlin felt the moment approaching when the child would transition from magical sustenance to physical breath. He kept one hand on Gwen, magic flowing steadily, preparing for the most delicate part.

"I can see the head!" the midwife announced, her professional instincts overcoming her fear.

Merlin's vision split—half focused on the physical reality before him, half lost in the magical realm where the baby's life force blazed like a small sun, tethered to his own magic by threads of gold. As the baby emerged into the world, those threads pulled taut.

The child came in a rush—a wet, squalling bundle that the midwives quickly wrapped in clean linen. But Merlin felt the magical threads stretching to breaking, the baby's life force flickering as it tried to sustain itself independently.

"Merlin!" Gaius's voice was sharp with warning.

Merlin acted on instinct. Instead of severing the magical connection abruptly, he loosened it gradually, letting his power flow into the child one final time—not to sustain, but to *stabilize*. To give the baby's own life force time to kindle and catch.

Golden light filled the room, so bright that everyone shielded their eyes. Through the bond with Arthur, Merlin felt his strength added to his own—their combined essence, the same that had created this child, now ensuring its survival.

The light faded. The baby's cry rang clear and strong. The magical threads dissolved like morning mist, leaving only the faintest connection—parent to child, natural and right.

Merlin swayed, exhausted but whole. Arthur caught him, while Gwen reached for the baby with tears streaming down her face.

"A boy," the midwife said, her voice awed despite her earlier fear. "A healthy boy."

Arthur moved to Gwen's side, looking down at the small face emerging from the linen. The baby had stopped crying, eyes blinking open—blue, like Arthur's. Dark wisps of hair crowned his head.

"He's perfect," Gwen whispered.

Arthur reached out, hesitant, and the baby's tiny hand wrapped around his finger. The king's face transformed—wonder and fierce protectiveness mingling with something deeper. Love, instant and absolute.

Merlin felt it through their bond, the same emotion flooding through himself. This child, born of magic and love and impossible hope, was *theirs*.

But the midwives were whispering among themselves, casting fearful glances at Merlin. The head midwife stepped forward, addressing Arthur with careful formality.

"Sire, we witnessed sorcery. The law requires—"

"The law," Arthur interrupted, his voice quiet but carrying absolute authority, "will be discussed later. What you witnessed was the saving of my son's life. If you speak of this before I am ready to address the court, you will face charges of treason. Do you understand?"

The midwives nodded quickly, but Merlin knew the truth. The secret was out. By morning, the entire castle would know that Merlin had magic—and that he had used it to ensure the prince's safe birth.

Arthur seemed to realize it too. He looked at Merlin, their eyes meeting across the small space. Through the bond, Merlin felt Arthur's resolve crystallizing.

"Tomorrow," Arthur said. "Tomorrow, we tell them everything."

Chapter 29: Dawn of truth

The Great Hall filled rapidly as word spread that the king would make an announcement. Courtiers whispered behind hands, speculation running wild. The midwives had been confined to quarters overnight, but rumors always found a way through castle walls—whispers of sorcery, of golden light, of the king's manservant performing magic to save the royal heir.

Arthur stood before the throne in full ceremonial regalia, the crown weighing heavy on his brow. Leon and the knights of the Round Table flanked him, their presence both honor guard and statement. Merlin stood to Arthur's right—not behind him as a servant, but beside him as an equal. The placement alone sent murmurs rippling through the assembled nobles.

Gwen entered through the side door, moving carefully, the wet nurse at her elbow carrying a bundle of white linen. Despite her exhaustion, Gwen held herself with quiet dignity as she approached the dais. The baby slept peacefully, tiny fist curled against his cheek.

Lord Aelric stood among the front ranks of nobles, his expression already hostile. Lady Catrina and Lord Brennan watched with careful neutrality. Geoffrey of Monmouth waited near the throne, his ancient face unreadable.

Arthur let the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. Then he spoke, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall.

"I summoned you to announce the birth of my son." He gestured toward Gwen, who stepped forward so all could see the child. "Born at sunset yesterday, healthy and strong. The line of succession is secured, as the council required."

Applause began, tentative at first, then growing. Arthur raised a hand, silencing it.

"But there is more you must know. More I will no longer hide." He turned slightly, his gaze finding Merlin's. Through their bond, Merlin felt Arthur's determination, solid as stone. "The birth was difficult. Without intervention, both mother and child would have died."

The hall went still. Gwen nodded, confirming his words.

"That intervention came from Merlin," Arthur continued. "Through the use of magic."

Chaos erupted. Shouts of outrage, gasps of shock, nobles stumbling back as if Merlin might strike them down where they stood. Aelric's voice rose above the rest.

"Sorcery! The law demands his execution!"

"The law," Arthur said, his voice cutting through the uproar like a blade, "is mine to interpret and enforce. And I will not execute the man who saved my son's life."

"This is precisely what we feared," Aelric continued, his face flushed. "You are bewitched, blinded to reason—"

"I am nothing of the sort." Arthur's tone dropped to something dangerous. "And if you question my judgment again, Lord Aelric, you will find yourself answering charges of sedition."

Aelric fell silent, but his expression promised this was far from over.

Arthur addressed the hall again. "Merlin has had magic since birth. He has used it countless times to protect Camelot, to protect me, to protect all of you—though you never knew it. The griffin that attacked the city years ago? Merlin destroyed it. The plague that nearly killed us all? Merlin helped end it. Every battle, every threat, he has stood between this kingdom and destruction."

"Magic is evil," someone called from the crowd. "The old king knew—"

"My father," Arthur interrupted, his voice heavy with controlled emotion, "was a great king in many ways. But he was also a man haunted by his mistakes, who let fear guide his laws. I will not make the same error." He paused, letting his words settle. "Magic itself is not evil. It is a tool, like a sword. The wielder determines whether it serves justice or destruction."

Geoffrey stepped forward, his voice papery but authoritative. "The law has stood for decades, Sire. To overturn it now—"

"I am not overturning it now," Arthur said. "But I am making clear that Merlin—who saved the heir to Camelot's throne—will face no punishment. I have fulfilled the council's requirement. My son is born. The succession is secured. You agreed that if I did so, my personal choices would be respected."

Lady Catrina exchanged glances with Lord Brennan. After a long moment, she inclined her head. "The council did agree to those terms. If the king vouches for this man's character and loyalty, and the prince lives..."

"Then perhaps," Lord Brennan finished carefully, "an exception can be made. For one who has served the crown so faithfully."

It was a concession born of political calculation rather than acceptance, but it was enough. Arthur seized it.

"Merlin will remain at my side, as he has always been. His magic will be used only in service of Camelot. Any who threaten him threaten the crown itself." His gaze swept the room, daring anyone to object. "Is this understood?"

Silence. Then, slowly, Leon stepped forward and knelt. "I have fought beside Merlin for years. I would trust him with my life, magic or no."

One by one, the other knights followed—Percival, Gwaine, Elyan. Their loyalty created a ripple effect. Nobles who respected the knights' judgment began nodding acceptance, however reluctant.

Aelric remained standing, his jaw clenched, but even he recognized the political reality. He could not challenge Arthur when the king had delivered exactly what the council demanded, with the knights united behind him.

Gwen stepped forward, her voice quiet but clear. "Merlin saved my life and my son's life yesterday. For that, he has my eternal gratitude and my complete trust."

The baby chose that moment to wake, letting out a small cry. Gwen rocked him gently, and his complaints faded to curious sounds. Arthur moved to her side, looking down at his son with an expression that made Merlin's throat tighten.

Through the bond, he felt Arthur's fierce love—for the child, for Gwen, and for Merlin himself. Three lives bound together by magic and choice, creating something new.

Arthur looked up, addressing the court one final time. "In two years, as agreed, another announcement will be made. But today, we celebrate the birth of the prince and the beginning of a new chapter for Camelot. One built not on fear, but on truth."

The applause that followed was complicated—some genuine, some merely politic—but it was applause nonetheless. Merlin felt the weight of hundreds of eyes on him, assessing, judging, wondering. But Arthur's presence beside him, solid and unwavering, made it bearable.

They had crossed the threshold. There was no going back now.

Chapter 30: A new Albion

2 years since everything happened. Since Merlin and Arthur became a couple. Since Arthur and Gwen's abandoned wedding. Since Merlin and Arthur's son was born.

The morning sun painted Camelot's stones gold, and for once, Arthur didn't mind being wakened early. Today was different from that wedding two years ago that never happened—today, his hands were steady, his heart certain.

"Papa!" A small voice accompanied by determined footsteps announced Lancelot's arrival before Gwen appeared in the doorway, their son's hand clasped in hers. The boy broke free and toddled toward Arthur with the confident wobble of a two-year-old who believed the world existed solely for his exploration.

Arthur scooped him up, pressing a kiss to dark curls that reminded him of both Gwen and Merlin in different lights. "Good morning, little knight."

"Mer'in?" Lancelot asked, his newest obsession being the location of his other father at all times.

"Getting ready, just like Papa," Gwen said, smoothing Arthur's ceremonial tunic with the easy familiarity of old friends. She wore deep blue today, regal and beautiful, though not as a bride. That role had never truly suited either of them. "Though knowing Merlin, he's probably arguing with Gaius about the proper way to tie ceremonial knots."

Arthur smiled. Through their bond—which had never faded after Lancelot's birth—he could feel Merlin's nervous excitement, bright and jittery as sparks. "He'll be fine once it starts."

"Will you?" Gwen's eyes held warmth and the particular understanding of someone who'd walked beside them through fire.

"Yes." The word came easily, without the choking doubt that had plagued him before. "This time, I know exactly what I want."

Lancelot squirmed down and made for Arthur's crown, sitting on its cushion. "Shiny!"

"Not for you yet, troublemaker," Arthur said, redirecting him toward a less valuable target. Gwen laughed, the sound like bells.

She helped Arthur with the final preparations—the red cloak Merlin had mended years ago, now ceremonially embroidered with gold thread and the new symbol they'd chosen together: a dragon and a sword intertwined. When she stepped back, her eyes were bright.

"Your father would never have imagined this," she said quietly.

"No," Arthur agreed. "But I think, at the end, he might have understood. Love matters more than fear."

The Great Hall had been transformed. Where heavy crimson banners once hung, lighter fabrics now let sunlight stream through high windows. The old Pendragon dragon remained, but joined by new symbols—the achievements of the Round Table, representations of the magical communities now slowly returning to Camelot.

The nobles who gathered were different too. Some of the old guard remained, aged and wary but resigned to change. But new faces filled the ranks—merchants given voice in council, representatives from the outer villages, even two druids who'd accepted Arthur's tentative invitation. Lord Aelric had retired to his estates, unwilling to witness what he called the kingdom's degradation. Arthur hadn't stopped him.

Leon stood as Arthur's groomsman again, but this time his smile reached his eyes. The knights lined the aisle—Percival, Gwaine, Elyan—each having sworn their loyalty to this new vision of Camelot. Gaius waited near the front, looking impossibly old and impossibly proud.

And there, at the end of the hall where Geoffrey stood with the ceremonial texts, was Merlin.

He wore blue and silver, colors Arthur had chosen because they made Merlin's eyes impossible to look away from. No neckerchief—that had been relegated to history—but a silver circlet rested in his dark hair, marking him as consort-to-be. He looked terrified and radiant in equal measure.

Arthur walked the aisle with Lancelot toddle-running ahead, the boy's excitement earning quiet laughter from the assembled witnesses. When Arthur reached the dais, Merlin's expression shifted to something incandescent.

"Hello," Merlin said, soft enough only Arthur could hear.

"Hello," Arthur replied, and took his hand.

Lancelot grabbed both their legs, unwilling to be excluded. Gwen materialized to gently guide him to her side, though the boy kept reaching toward his fathers with grabbing hands. "Papa! Mer'in!"

"Soon," Gwen promised, settling him on her hip.

Geoffrey cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the sudden hush. "We gather today to witness a union unprecedented in Camelot's history. Not merely between two people, but between tradition and transformation, between the old ways and the new."

His words were carefully chosen, politically navigable. But when Arthur looked at Merlin, politics fell away.

"I thought I knew what duty meant," Arthur said when Geoffrey prompted him for vows. "I thought it meant sacrifice, always choosing the kingdom over myself. But you taught me duty also means truth. Honesty. Building something better rather than maintaining something broken." His voice strengthened. "I vow to stand beside you, to face whatever comes together, to build a Camelot where love—in all its forms—is honored rather than hidden."

Merlin's eyes gleamed suspiciously bright. "I was born with magic in a kingdom that would have killed me for it. I learned to hide, to lie, to pretend I was less than I am." He squeezed Arthur's hands. "You taught me I could be whole. That magic and love could coexist with duty and honor." His voice dropped. "I vow to protect you, to challenge you when you're being an idiot, and to remind you every day that you chose this—chose us—and made it possible."

Laughter rippled through the hall, warm and genuine.

Geoffrey produced two rings—simple gold bands engraved with words in the Old Language that meant *two halves, one coin*. Arthur's hands trembled slightly as he slid Merlin's into place. Merlin's remained steady, though Arthur felt the riot of emotion through their bond, when he placed Arthur's ring.

"Then by the authority vested in me, before these witnesses and the eyes of Camelot, I recognize this bond as legal and binding," Geoffrey intoned. "May your union bring wisdom, strength, and hope to the kingdom."

Arthur pulled Merlin close and kissed him as the hall erupted in applause. Through the bond, their emotions tangled—joy, relief, love so profound it had no name. When they parted, Merlin's smile could have lit the castle without candles.

Lancelot broke free from Gwen, stumbling forward with determined steps. Arthur lifted him between them, and the boy threw his arms around both their necks with a delighted shriek. The image—the three of them joined, Gwen beaming beside them, the knights cheering, sunlight streaming through windows onto a hall filled with hope rather than fear—would be captured in tapestries for generations.

Arthur looked out at his kingdom, at the faces accepting and skeptical, old and new, and felt the weight of the crown differently than before. Not as a burden that demanded sacrifice, but as a responsibility shared with the man beside him and the future represented by the child in their arms.

"Ready?" Merlin asked quietly.

"For what comes next?" Arthur met his eyes. "Always."

Notes:

And that my friends is the end.

Sorry if the ending seems confusing or rushed. As I was writing I changed the story line and as I only intended on doing 30 short chapters I couldn't fit more in. I could of done more chapters but I feared I would go of the main plot so I may do a sequel depending on how many people want one.

If you like this it would be appreciated if you could leave a kudos or comment to show support. I am grateful for the support all ready. This is my first story but I have another with a few chapters posted already so please check that out :)