Fic: The Coming of Arthur: An Interlude (6/6), for lolryne ♥
Title: The Coming of Arthur: An Interlude (6/6)
Rating: R
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur, established relationship, but Arthur knows nothing of Merlin's magic
Summary: What happens after the last scene of 3.12.
Warnings: violence, angst, spoilers for Merlin 3.12
Disclaimer: I disclaim.
Author's Notes: This gift for lolryne is supposed to ease her waiting for episode 3.13! It is my take on what could possibly happen between 3.12 and 3.13, and will be posted in six parts, one part on each day that we spent waiting. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine -- and my eyes are falling shut here every other second, so I expect at least a couple of typos. Happy Season-Finale-Day, everyone! :D
Previous Chapters:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
Gaius shouts his name. Gwaine storms in, sword drawn, followed by Elyan. Both of them try to reach him, stop him, but they are too late.
Another shout, a blinding flash, and Merlin is suddenly sitting upright. His arm is outstretched, palm pointing towards Arthur, and his eyes shine golden.
Arthur can feel the point of the sword touching the bare skin of his own stomach, drawing a single drop of blood, but he cannot move it any further.
“Oh no, you won't!”, Merlin growls.
The bastard has stopped time.
They just stare at each other. When time has ceased to exist, there is nothing else but looking. Seeing. Understanding.
Merlin seems unearthly, but it is not only due to his golden eyes. It is the sheer power he possesses, the force that radiates off him, that has washed through everything else, that fills Arthur. It is a power unlike any other. It does not corrupt. It does not swallow him up, or make him heady. Instead, it clears him. Cleanses him.
“You are not free to die”, Merlin finally says, calm and serious.
“Neither are you”, Arthur replies quietly.
They look at each other. See. Understand.
Merlin smiles. “You clotpole”, he whispers warmly, before the golden shine leaves his eyes, his lids fall close and he collapses onto the floor.
All of the sudden, time is back. Gaius wraps both arms around Merlin, calling his boy's name, and Gwaine's sword comes down with such force on Arthur's that it clutters out of his hands onto the floor.
“What the hell are you doing?!”, Gwaine shouts while Elyan hastily picks up his prince's sword, keeping it out of reach.
Arthur only shakes his head, still stunned: “Merlin's a sorcerer.”
Gwaine looks at him as if he was mad: “So what?! And if he was a screeching harpy, so bloody what?!”
So what.
So what.
Arthur opens his mouth, means to say more, I'm not free to die, but his words are drowned out by Gaius's cry of joy: “Merlin! Sire, he is waking up!”
Even as his heart jumps, Arthur knows that he cannot be around to see his friend awake. He knows not what he would do if he were.
So he turns around, away from them, and leaves the cabin, first walks, then runs, away, into the forest.
Arthur spents an hour bashing trees, kicking branches, yelling into utter darkness. Curses, followed by her name. “Morgana!”, over and over, “Morgana!”, until more tears come. He sheds them in the dark, muttering more curses, then covers his face in his hands and whispers: “Father.” Again and again. “Father.” And then - “Guinevere. Gwen. Gods, Gwen!”
And, last of all - “Merlin.”
Merlin.
Who he trusted like no other. Who lied to him. All this time.
What must it have been like?, Arthur suddenly wonders. What must it have been like for Merlin to hide who he was? To act like an incapable idiot, a weakling, while he indeed could have taken Camelot with a mere snap of his fingers?
A shudder runs through him as Arthur remembers the power his servant revealed, when he stopped time. Stopped time, for the Gods's sake! Merlin could have murdered Uther, Arthur and all the knights of Camelot within the blink of an eye, claiming the throne for himself - Pendragon or not. He could have been king. He could have had anything he wanted; all the wealth, all the men, all the luxury he required. Soft feather-beds. A meal like a feast every day. Servants to tend to him, look after him, fulfil every of his wishes before he even voiced them.
Instead, he chose to serve Arthur.
Merlin chose to not sleep in a feather-bed but stare at it longingly every night. To share Arthur's meals, or Gaius's more modest ones. To be a servant instead of keeping his own.
Why?
It seems unimaginable to Arthur. Why would anyone purposefully avoid power and wealth? Why would anyone prefer to serve than to rule? Why would Merlin allow Arthur to treat him like he had - ordering him around, insulting him, sometimes even humiliating him - when he could have turned the castle into ashes at any given moment?
Again, Arthur shudders at the mental image, miserably burying his hands into his hair and twisting. That unbeliveably mighty sorcerer is not the person he fell in love with. It's not. He loved Merlin. Clumsy, head-strong, impertinent, loyal Merlin. He loved that Merlin stumbles over his own feet when he brings up Arthur's breakfast. Loved that he talks to the horses before saddling them. Loves that he challenges him despite his inferior position, time and time again.
But is Merlin still all of that? Is he still the same?
Arthur cannot make sense of it. His brain is too much of a muddle, his mind slow and unresponsive. Must be all that bloody crying, he thinks, and wipes his cheeks, deeply embarrassed.
It is only then that he notices the rough fabric still tied around his wrist.
It is Merlin's neckerchief.
In the dark, no one can be watching. No one can witness his weakness. No one can see that he presses it to his nose and breathes in Merlin's scent like a dying man would his life elixier.
The smell and feel of it is so familiar. He has unwrapped it from Merlin's neck so many times, has pressed hs nose and lips to the pale skin to taste herbs and sweat. He has marked it with teeth and caressed it with his tongue. Here he had hidden his face mere hours ago, after they escaped from Camelot. After Merlin has saved his life, again. After he took a beating for it without protest, without defence. Before he put his life into mortal peril once more, in a desperate effort to preserve Arthur's.
“You are not free to die.”
He realises then that he has to return. He is neither free to die, nor to flee. Not as long as all is not lost. Not as long as there is breath in his body that Arthur can use to rescue Guinevere and his father, and save his people.
I am the Prince.
It is his destiny.
So, eventually, after a long, long while, he walks back towards their hideout - shoulders straight and head held high.
When he reaches the cabin, Elyan immediately jumps to his feet from where he had been dozing in keeping watch, wary. Arthur smiles at him, puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes briefly. It seems to reassure the man enough to let him pass.
Inside the cabin, a fire is burning. Gwaine and Gaius are huddled around Merlin, who seems pale and weak, purple bruises on his jaw and his right eye, but at least he is sitting upright, and laughing.
Arthur does not know what to do with the sudden rush of joy that beats through his body. He thought he would never hear that sound again.
They fall silent when he enters. He clears his throat, pushes down the urge to leave, stay outside, just to hear Merlin laugh again, and orders quietly: “Leave us.”
Gwaine does not seem to like the idea too much. His eyes flicker to Gaius, who nods reassuringly. Hesitantly, Gwaine helps the older man to his feet and follows him outside. When he has reached the door, Arthur calls his name.
They look at each other, measuring, until Arthur's face softens: “Thank you.”
No more words are necessary. Gwaine nods, and leaves.
The silence stretches out between them. Merlin rests in his corner on the floor, scrunches up his nose, then rubs his face - as if he was embarrassed. “I made time stop, didn't I?”, he finally asks, his voice actually timid.
Arthur raises both eyebrows and nods pointedly.
“Ah, damnit”, Merlin curses, “I'm such a bloody idiot.”
“Finally you see things my way”, Arthur replies, and receives a glare in return.
“You're impossible to please, you know that? When I'm just a simple servant, you declare that I'm a thousand shades of useless. And when it turns that I'm … that I'm not, it's still not good enough for you.”
“It's not that you're simply a servant, Merlin, it's that you're the worst servant in the world. I've told you that a million times-”
Arthur interrupts himself. It astonishes him how easy it is to fall back into their routine. Now that Merlin is sitting there, lanky and awkward, his eyes their normal shade of blue, just as blue as the bruises on his face, it is hard to believe that they ever glowed golden with magic.
Yet they have. Merlin has lied to him. For years, he has lied to him. In spite of everything, Arthut cannot forget that trespass. The mere thought pains him more than he will ever be able to say.
They look each other in the eye for a while, only now, time has not stopped. They look at each other as friends, lovers, not as sorcerer and prince. This isn't about sorcery. This is about the man Arthur knows, his manservant, and where the hell he has gone.
Abruptly, Merlin moves around, until he is on his knees, and pulls Arthur's hand towards him. It is the one that is still wrapped in the neckerchief. He touches the back of it with his lips and starts speaking. “I solemnly swear allegiance to Camelot and her people, to defend them till my last breath, standing by my Prince's side.”
For a moment Arthur is too bewildered to realise that Merlin is uttering the knight's oath. “Merlin”, he tries to interrupt, but Merlin's voice simply rises above his : “I swear to give my life for yours, if need be. I swear to protect you as if we carried the same blood. Arthur, I swear”, and his voice breaks on the last word, on his Prince's name, desperation tinting it for the first time since he has regained consciousness. Still, he moves his lips towards his Prince's ring, the last step necessary to confirm the oath, make it unbreakable, irreversible.
“Merlin, don't!”, Arthur hisses, attempting to pull his hand out of his servant's grip, but Merlin merely grins as his stubborn mouth presses a brief kiss to the ring. “When have I ever followed any of your orders, Sire?”, he asks, a bright smile suddenly on his lips. It stretches from one ridiculously large ear to the other, and abruptly Arthur cannot resist any longer:
He sinks down and leans in to kiss Merlin, cutting of any other words, justifications, admissions that may follow. He does not need to hear any more because nothing the other man could confess - nothing! - could make Arthur love him less. He is still Merlin. Always has been, always will be.
When they separate, Arthur cradles Merlin's face, strokes his sharp cheekbone, so familiar, and whispers: “I would have protected you.”
Before he has even finished, he feels Merlin flinch as Arthur's thumb touches a bruise, a bruise he put on Merlin's face. He feels like a liar all of the sudden, and realises why the thought of Merlin lying to him hurt so much. Half of it is his friend's betrayal, but the other half is that he had to.
Arthur buries one hand in Merlin's hair, wraps the other around his back and lowers him carefully onto the floor. As his fingers gently stroke through dark strands, he leans down and places a tender kiss on the bruises on Merlin's face - first on his jaw, then on his right eyelid. On his left, just for good measure. On those cheekbones. On his forehead. On those lips, his lips, and Merlin answers with sudden urgency, apologies swallowed between their eager mouths. Merlin's hands are scratching down his back, along his sides, under his tunic, pressed against naked skin. Goosebumps spread as cold meets heat, and then Arthur moans in complaint as Merlin separates their mouths. He kisses a wet trail up Arthur's cheek, to his ear, and whispers breathlessly: “Take me, Arthur.”
Arthur knows what Merlin really is asking. Forgive me. What he does not know is whether he is able to forgive, just yet. But it barely matters, when he is all of the sudden filled with elating strength, with desperate need, and with something else, rushing through him, making him heady. He dare not call it happiness, for too much is uncertain and wrong for that, but it makes him follow Merlin's request anyway.
Getting out of their clothes is awkward and painful as Arthur's trouser get caught on his leg-wound and Merlin hisses as his shirt is pulled off violently, scraping across the bruise on his ribs. It is even uglier than the two on his face, sharp and black, and Arthur freezes. For a moment, all he can do is stare, and feel his shame, until he leans down and showers Merlin's chest in gentle kisses. He is asking forgive me as well, though he dare not utter it any more than his friend. He does not know whether Merlin himself is ready to forgive yet, but it matters just as little as Merlin pulls at his lower back and spreads his own legs wide.
Arthur barely prepares him, and Merlin does not ask for it, just bites down hard on his Prince's shoulder as Arthur pushes into him. They remain still only for a brief moment, in which Merlin shuts his eyes tightly, hisses in pain.
When he opens them again, they are golden.
Arthur almost comes.
It is more than Merlin's hands pushing him deeper then, a stronger force, until his eyes stop glowing, when they roll back into his head and his orgasm overwhelms him. A moment later, Arthur is swept up by his own, flashes of gold filling his vision, his head, his entire being.
He is brought back from his high by lazy kisses placed on the shell of his hear, his hair, his lips. Slowly, Arthur turns his head into them, catches Merlin's lips in a gentle caress. Then he pulls out, turns onto his back and pulls Merlin onto his chest, combing sated fingers through the other's hair. They have much to talk about, apologies to utter and forgiveness to grant, but not just then. Instead, they simply like there, until Merlin finally speaks:
“And what now?”
Arthur ponders the question for a while before he meets Merlin's blue eyes. A grin spreads out on his lips as he strokes his warlock's cheek, the neckerchief still wrapped around his wrist.
“Now? Now we are going to recapture my kingdom!”
For it is Destiny.
A/N: Thank you so much to all of you who have left me (constant) feedback. You made writing this so much easier! It's been a great, great ride, and now I'm completely stocked for the season finale. Hopefully, so are you. ENJOY TONIGHT'S EPISODE, GUYS! :D
Rating: R
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur, established relationship, but Arthur knows nothing of Merlin's magic
Summary: What happens after the last scene of 3.12.
Warnings: violence, angst, spoilers for Merlin 3.12
Disclaimer: I disclaim.
Author's Notes: This gift for lolryne is supposed to ease her waiting for episode 3.13! It is my take on what could possibly happen between 3.12 and 3.13, and will be posted in six parts, one part on each day that we spent waiting. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine -- and my eyes are falling shut here every other second, so I expect at least a couple of typos. Happy Season-Finale-Day, everyone! :D
Previous Chapters:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
Gaius shouts his name. Gwaine storms in, sword drawn, followed by Elyan. Both of them try to reach him, stop him, but they are too late.
Another shout, a blinding flash, and Merlin is suddenly sitting upright. His arm is outstretched, palm pointing towards Arthur, and his eyes shine golden.
Arthur can feel the point of the sword touching the bare skin of his own stomach, drawing a single drop of blood, but he cannot move it any further.
“Oh no, you won't!”, Merlin growls.
The bastard has stopped time.
They just stare at each other. When time has ceased to exist, there is nothing else but looking. Seeing. Understanding.
Merlin seems unearthly, but it is not only due to his golden eyes. It is the sheer power he possesses, the force that radiates off him, that has washed through everything else, that fills Arthur. It is a power unlike any other. It does not corrupt. It does not swallow him up, or make him heady. Instead, it clears him. Cleanses him.
“You are not free to die”, Merlin finally says, calm and serious.
“Neither are you”, Arthur replies quietly.
They look at each other. See. Understand.
Merlin smiles. “You clotpole”, he whispers warmly, before the golden shine leaves his eyes, his lids fall close and he collapses onto the floor.
All of the sudden, time is back. Gaius wraps both arms around Merlin, calling his boy's name, and Gwaine's sword comes down with such force on Arthur's that it clutters out of his hands onto the floor.
“What the hell are you doing?!”, Gwaine shouts while Elyan hastily picks up his prince's sword, keeping it out of reach.
Arthur only shakes his head, still stunned: “Merlin's a sorcerer.”
Gwaine looks at him as if he was mad: “So what?! And if he was a screeching harpy, so bloody what?!”
So what.
So what.
Arthur opens his mouth, means to say more, I'm not free to die, but his words are drowned out by Gaius's cry of joy: “Merlin! Sire, he is waking up!”
Even as his heart jumps, Arthur knows that he cannot be around to see his friend awake. He knows not what he would do if he were.
So he turns around, away from them, and leaves the cabin, first walks, then runs, away, into the forest.
Arthur spents an hour bashing trees, kicking branches, yelling into utter darkness. Curses, followed by her name. “Morgana!”, over and over, “Morgana!”, until more tears come. He sheds them in the dark, muttering more curses, then covers his face in his hands and whispers: “Father.” Again and again. “Father.” And then - “Guinevere. Gwen. Gods, Gwen!”
And, last of all - “Merlin.”
Merlin.
Who he trusted like no other. Who lied to him. All this time.
What must it have been like?, Arthur suddenly wonders. What must it have been like for Merlin to hide who he was? To act like an incapable idiot, a weakling, while he indeed could have taken Camelot with a mere snap of his fingers?
A shudder runs through him as Arthur remembers the power his servant revealed, when he stopped time. Stopped time, for the Gods's sake! Merlin could have murdered Uther, Arthur and all the knights of Camelot within the blink of an eye, claiming the throne for himself - Pendragon or not. He could have been king. He could have had anything he wanted; all the wealth, all the men, all the luxury he required. Soft feather-beds. A meal like a feast every day. Servants to tend to him, look after him, fulfil every of his wishes before he even voiced them.
Instead, he chose to serve Arthur.
Merlin chose to not sleep in a feather-bed but stare at it longingly every night. To share Arthur's meals, or Gaius's more modest ones. To be a servant instead of keeping his own.
Why?
It seems unimaginable to Arthur. Why would anyone purposefully avoid power and wealth? Why would anyone prefer to serve than to rule? Why would Merlin allow Arthur to treat him like he had - ordering him around, insulting him, sometimes even humiliating him - when he could have turned the castle into ashes at any given moment?
Again, Arthur shudders at the mental image, miserably burying his hands into his hair and twisting. That unbeliveably mighty sorcerer is not the person he fell in love with. It's not. He loved Merlin. Clumsy, head-strong, impertinent, loyal Merlin. He loved that Merlin stumbles over his own feet when he brings up Arthur's breakfast. Loved that he talks to the horses before saddling them. Loves that he challenges him despite his inferior position, time and time again.
But is Merlin still all of that? Is he still the same?
Arthur cannot make sense of it. His brain is too much of a muddle, his mind slow and unresponsive. Must be all that bloody crying, he thinks, and wipes his cheeks, deeply embarrassed.
It is only then that he notices the rough fabric still tied around his wrist.
It is Merlin's neckerchief.
In the dark, no one can be watching. No one can witness his weakness. No one can see that he presses it to his nose and breathes in Merlin's scent like a dying man would his life elixier.
The smell and feel of it is so familiar. He has unwrapped it from Merlin's neck so many times, has pressed hs nose and lips to the pale skin to taste herbs and sweat. He has marked it with teeth and caressed it with his tongue. Here he had hidden his face mere hours ago, after they escaped from Camelot. After Merlin has saved his life, again. After he took a beating for it without protest, without defence. Before he put his life into mortal peril once more, in a desperate effort to preserve Arthur's.
“You are not free to die.”
He realises then that he has to return. He is neither free to die, nor to flee. Not as long as all is not lost. Not as long as there is breath in his body that Arthur can use to rescue Guinevere and his father, and save his people.
I am the Prince.
It is his destiny.
So, eventually, after a long, long while, he walks back towards their hideout - shoulders straight and head held high.
When he reaches the cabin, Elyan immediately jumps to his feet from where he had been dozing in keeping watch, wary. Arthur smiles at him, puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes briefly. It seems to reassure the man enough to let him pass.
Inside the cabin, a fire is burning. Gwaine and Gaius are huddled around Merlin, who seems pale and weak, purple bruises on his jaw and his right eye, but at least he is sitting upright, and laughing.
Arthur does not know what to do with the sudden rush of joy that beats through his body. He thought he would never hear that sound again.
They fall silent when he enters. He clears his throat, pushes down the urge to leave, stay outside, just to hear Merlin laugh again, and orders quietly: “Leave us.”
Gwaine does not seem to like the idea too much. His eyes flicker to Gaius, who nods reassuringly. Hesitantly, Gwaine helps the older man to his feet and follows him outside. When he has reached the door, Arthur calls his name.
They look at each other, measuring, until Arthur's face softens: “Thank you.”
No more words are necessary. Gwaine nods, and leaves.
The silence stretches out between them. Merlin rests in his corner on the floor, scrunches up his nose, then rubs his face - as if he was embarrassed. “I made time stop, didn't I?”, he finally asks, his voice actually timid.
Arthur raises both eyebrows and nods pointedly.
“Ah, damnit”, Merlin curses, “I'm such a bloody idiot.”
“Finally you see things my way”, Arthur replies, and receives a glare in return.
“You're impossible to please, you know that? When I'm just a simple servant, you declare that I'm a thousand shades of useless. And when it turns that I'm … that I'm not, it's still not good enough for you.”
“It's not that you're simply a servant, Merlin, it's that you're the worst servant in the world. I've told you that a million times-”
Arthur interrupts himself. It astonishes him how easy it is to fall back into their routine. Now that Merlin is sitting there, lanky and awkward, his eyes their normal shade of blue, just as blue as the bruises on his face, it is hard to believe that they ever glowed golden with magic.
Yet they have. Merlin has lied to him. For years, he has lied to him. In spite of everything, Arthut cannot forget that trespass. The mere thought pains him more than he will ever be able to say.
They look each other in the eye for a while, only now, time has not stopped. They look at each other as friends, lovers, not as sorcerer and prince. This isn't about sorcery. This is about the man Arthur knows, his manservant, and where the hell he has gone.
Abruptly, Merlin moves around, until he is on his knees, and pulls Arthur's hand towards him. It is the one that is still wrapped in the neckerchief. He touches the back of it with his lips and starts speaking. “I solemnly swear allegiance to Camelot and her people, to defend them till my last breath, standing by my Prince's side.”
For a moment Arthur is too bewildered to realise that Merlin is uttering the knight's oath. “Merlin”, he tries to interrupt, but Merlin's voice simply rises above his : “I swear to give my life for yours, if need be. I swear to protect you as if we carried the same blood. Arthur, I swear”, and his voice breaks on the last word, on his Prince's name, desperation tinting it for the first time since he has regained consciousness. Still, he moves his lips towards his Prince's ring, the last step necessary to confirm the oath, make it unbreakable, irreversible.
“Merlin, don't!”, Arthur hisses, attempting to pull his hand out of his servant's grip, but Merlin merely grins as his stubborn mouth presses a brief kiss to the ring. “When have I ever followed any of your orders, Sire?”, he asks, a bright smile suddenly on his lips. It stretches from one ridiculously large ear to the other, and abruptly Arthur cannot resist any longer:
He sinks down and leans in to kiss Merlin, cutting of any other words, justifications, admissions that may follow. He does not need to hear any more because nothing the other man could confess - nothing! - could make Arthur love him less. He is still Merlin. Always has been, always will be.
When they separate, Arthur cradles Merlin's face, strokes his sharp cheekbone, so familiar, and whispers: “I would have protected you.”
Before he has even finished, he feels Merlin flinch as Arthur's thumb touches a bruise, a bruise he put on Merlin's face. He feels like a liar all of the sudden, and realises why the thought of Merlin lying to him hurt so much. Half of it is his friend's betrayal, but the other half is that he had to.
Arthur buries one hand in Merlin's hair, wraps the other around his back and lowers him carefully onto the floor. As his fingers gently stroke through dark strands, he leans down and places a tender kiss on the bruises on Merlin's face - first on his jaw, then on his right eyelid. On his left, just for good measure. On those cheekbones. On his forehead. On those lips, his lips, and Merlin answers with sudden urgency, apologies swallowed between their eager mouths. Merlin's hands are scratching down his back, along his sides, under his tunic, pressed against naked skin. Goosebumps spread as cold meets heat, and then Arthur moans in complaint as Merlin separates their mouths. He kisses a wet trail up Arthur's cheek, to his ear, and whispers breathlessly: “Take me, Arthur.”
Arthur knows what Merlin really is asking. Forgive me. What he does not know is whether he is able to forgive, just yet. But it barely matters, when he is all of the sudden filled with elating strength, with desperate need, and with something else, rushing through him, making him heady. He dare not call it happiness, for too much is uncertain and wrong for that, but it makes him follow Merlin's request anyway.
Getting out of their clothes is awkward and painful as Arthur's trouser get caught on his leg-wound and Merlin hisses as his shirt is pulled off violently, scraping across the bruise on his ribs. It is even uglier than the two on his face, sharp and black, and Arthur freezes. For a moment, all he can do is stare, and feel his shame, until he leans down and showers Merlin's chest in gentle kisses. He is asking forgive me as well, though he dare not utter it any more than his friend. He does not know whether Merlin himself is ready to forgive yet, but it matters just as little as Merlin pulls at his lower back and spreads his own legs wide.
Arthur barely prepares him, and Merlin does not ask for it, just bites down hard on his Prince's shoulder as Arthur pushes into him. They remain still only for a brief moment, in which Merlin shuts his eyes tightly, hisses in pain.
When he opens them again, they are golden.
Arthur almost comes.
It is more than Merlin's hands pushing him deeper then, a stronger force, until his eyes stop glowing, when they roll back into his head and his orgasm overwhelms him. A moment later, Arthur is swept up by his own, flashes of gold filling his vision, his head, his entire being.
He is brought back from his high by lazy kisses placed on the shell of his hear, his hair, his lips. Slowly, Arthur turns his head into them, catches Merlin's lips in a gentle caress. Then he pulls out, turns onto his back and pulls Merlin onto his chest, combing sated fingers through the other's hair. They have much to talk about, apologies to utter and forgiveness to grant, but not just then. Instead, they simply like there, until Merlin finally speaks:
“And what now?”
Arthur ponders the question for a while before he meets Merlin's blue eyes. A grin spreads out on his lips as he strokes his warlock's cheek, the neckerchief still wrapped around his wrist.
“Now? Now we are going to recapture my kingdom!”
For it is Destiny.
A/N: Thank you so much to all of you who have left me (constant) feedback. You made writing this so much easier! It's been a great, great ride, and now I'm completely stocked for the season finale. Hopefully, so are you. ENJOY TONIGHT'S EPISODE, GUYS! :D