Fic: Where Legends Lie - Part 5

[rebbeile]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7



His dreams were strange. They seemed almost real; he dreamt of waking with his head fuzzy and pounding, but the room was turning wide and gold around him, and Arthur was there with his arms around Merlin’s body and his blue eyes worried as they looked into Merlin’s face, and Merlin was torn between panic, because Arthur shouldn’t be worried, and a tiny, bubbling sense of happiness, because Arthur was looking at him, not through him or at the wall behind him or at his feet. He dissolved into darkness when Merlin tried to focus on him, though, and then all he dreamt of was a parade of faces - Gaius’, peering down at him, and Gwen’s, and - briefly - Morgana’s, but it was the Morgana that Merlin remembered from his first days at Camelot. He saw Gwaine, too, and he felt as though his mind was burning up, turning through all the people he knew. He tried to hold on to their faces as they swirled above him, because he felt as though he was about to forget them and he didn’t want to let them go.

He dreamt of Gaius bent over his body, pressing something cool against his lips, and then he was talking, a stream of words that flowed from somewhere inside him, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to say them out loud. Home, he told Gaius. I want to go home. But Gaius simply pressed a hand to his forehead and stayed silent.

And throughout it all was Arthur, his golden face in the corner of Merlin’s dreams, his hand clasping Merlin’s when all the faces had swirled back into the darkness, his voice soft in Merlin’s ear, whispering things that Merlin couldn’t quite understand, things that made the roar of blood in his ears fade a little and the thudding ache of his head seem a little less painful. Arthur had his fingers tangled in Merlin’s hair, his gaze steady on Merlin’s face, until Merlin began to feel that this was a dream he could live with, one that he wouldn’t mind slipping into for the rest of eternity.

There were moments, too, when Merlin could feel his magic drifting though his body, floating over the surface of his skin like it wanted to break free, only he couldn’t understand why. It pressed into the centre of his mind, and he could see his mother, her face pale and weary, smiling at someone Merlin couldn’t quite see. There was Will, too, walking along the street with his hands in his pockets and his head bent against the wind. The streets were drained of colour, all grey and dark, and Merlin couldn’t tell whether it was just because of his dream, or if they’d always been like that and he hadn’t noticed until now. It was odd to think that he’d changed so much that he could barely recognise his own town. He would have felt panicked if not for Arthur’s hand on his, his fingers wrapped tight around Merlin’s own, as though he wasn’t ever going to let go.

He drifted again after that, his body heavy and hot and his mind fuzzy. There was something important about where he was, he knew, something he was supposed to remember, but every time he got close to it his mind slipped back into the darkness again.



Merlin woke to find sunlight streaming through the window, pouring across the blankets and warming his face. His limbs felt heavy, like he’d been asleep for far longer than he’d intended. The sun was higher in the sky than it usually was when he woke. He pushed back the blankets, sitting up, but paused as he realised that - as far as he could remember - he hadn’t been in bed when he’d fallen asleep, and he certainly hadn’t been in Arthur’s bed.

He paused for a second, confused, and then scrambled out of it. What was he doing in Arthur’s bed? Looking down at himself, he realised that his boots and his belt and his jacket were missing, and that the tunic he was wearing wasn’t his own. He was in Arthur’s clothes, in Arthur’s bed, with his head aching and none of this was making any sense. Arthur wasn’t around and Merlin wondered why no one had woken him up. The prince wasn’t the sort of person who would take very kindly to finding other people asleep in his bed.

He took one last look around the room and then walked towards the door, the stone cold against his bare feet. He’d just go to Gaius’ chambers, he decided, and ask the man what on earth was -

Merlin’s train of thought broke suddenly off as he walked through the door and straight into Arthur. He reeled backwards, arms flailing wildly and ended up collapsing in a painful, undignified heap at Arthur’s feet.

“Merlin, you idiot,” the prince said, staring down at him. “What are you doing up?” Merlin blinked at him, holding a hand to his pounding head as he tried to get his feet back under him.

“What?”

Arthur made a face, like he thought Merlin was being even more idiotic than usual, and then reached down and pulled Merlin upright by his tunic, tugging until it was rucked halfway up his body and Merlin could feel the air blowing cold around his hips. He squawked in protest, but the prince didn’t let go, instead marching him back over towards Arthur’s bed with his hands clasped over Merlin’s shoulders. Merlin felt his breath hitch at the feel of Arthur’s hands strong against him, and he twisted frantically free of the man’s grip, stepping backwards so that Arthur couldn’t grab him again.

“Merlin,” Arthur said in annoyance. “What on earth has got into you?”

Merlin looked from Arthur to the bed and back again, his heart thudding wildly within his chest. He didn’t - Arthur was trying to get him into Arthur’s bed. He’d woken up in Arthur’s bed. Something was very wrong here, but he couldn’t work out exactly what it was, because his brain had sort of seized up the moment Arthur had grabbed him.

“I-“ Merlin started, then stopped, unsure of what to say. Arthur stared at him for a second, waiting for him to continue, and then he seemed to notice that Merlin was still barefoot and beltless and that his tunic - Arthur’s tunic, Merlin corrected himself, though he still wasn’t sure why he was wearing that - was sitting so far askew that it was hanging off Merlin’s shoulder. His gaze slid slowly over Merlin’s body, an odd expression flicking onto his face, and Merlin winced. He must look a mess.

There was a moment of silence as Arthur eyed Merlin’s clothes and Merlin tried to get his thoughts into some sort of order. He took a deep breath, Arthur’s eyes flicking to his chest as he did so, and then he seemed to realise that he was staring and looked quickly away, scowling.

“Would you just get back into bed, Merlin?” he said shortly.

Merlin looked miserably from Arthur to the bed, his head pounding again. “Did we - why am I meant to be getting into your bed?” he asked slowly.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Because it’s better than yours, and the better rest you get the sooner you’ll be well. I’ve just had Gareth trying to get my armour off and he’s even more incompetent than you.”

“But I’m not sick,” Merlin said slowly, staring at him. Apart from his headache, he felt fine.

“Merlin, you’ve been asleep for the past two days. You fainted on my floor.”

“Oh.” Merlin considered that. “So we didn’t -“ he broke off.

“We didn’t what?” Arthur asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing,” Merlin said quickly, but Arthur stepped closer, his gaze fixed hard on Merlin’s face. “We didn’t what, Merlin?”

Merlin swallowed. “It’s just,“ he started. He had a feeling that he wasn’t quite as well as he originally thought, because his brain seemed to have stopped filtering everything that was coming out of his mouth.

“I thought, because there was you, and the bed, and I was wearing this,” he pulled at Arthur’s tunic, causing it to slip further off his shoulder than it had been before, “that we might have, you know.”

There was a long pause as Arthur tried to work out what it was that Merlin was saying. Merlin watched him, the way his eyebrows were tugged down low on his forehead in confusion, the way the sunlight brushed through the ends of his hair. He could see the exact moment when Arthur realised what Merlin had meant, because the man’s eyes widened and something in his jaw tightened.

“You thought we -“ he started incredulously. “You thought that I would -“

Merlin felt the unsaid end of that sentence cut through him like a sword. He knew what Arthur meant, that the idea of him being with Merlin was something unthinkable. He’d known that the prince felt like that all along, but it still hurt to hear it.

“Right,” he said quietly. “Sorry. That was stupid.” He turned towards the door, rejection washing hard through him, but Arthur grabbed his arm before he could leave.

“No,” he said firmly, and Merlin turned back to look at him. “You need to hear this.” The prince looked uncomfortable, but there was a determined expression on his face, as though he’d decided what to say and he was going to see it through until the end.

“I would never do that,” he said, his grip tightening on Merlin’s arm. “I know that some nobles do, but haven’t, and I wouldn’t, Merlin. Not to you. Not to any of the servants.”

Merlin stared at him. Of all the things that Arthur could have said, that was the last one he’d been expecting. It shouldn’t have been, though, because Merlin should have realised that Arthur would bring his own honour into this. Merlin felt irritation sparking through his veins.

“You think that I would let you?” he said indignantly. “That you could just, what, take me?” he paused as another thought came to him. “Is that what you think happened with Gwaine?” Arthur’s eyes widened, and Merlin felt a wave of anger sweep through him. He wrenched his arm back towards his body, trying to pull his wrist free.

“God, Arthur, you ass. You have no idea,” he snapped. “I would never let anyone near me if I didn’t want them there. I’m not - this is the way I am, Arthur. It’s not because I’m a servant. It’s not because I want to please anyone. If I was with you, it would be because I wanted to be, Arthur, not because you ordered me to.” Arthur froze, his fingers loosening slightly on Merlin’s wrist.

“You want to be?” he asked, and there was something fragile in his face in that moment, a look that Merlin wanted to capture and keep forever, because he’d never seen Arthur like that before, with his blue gaze resting uncertainly on Merlin’s face and his voice soft and low.

And then Merlin realised what Arthur was asking - that he’d seized onto what Merlin had implied rather than what he’d said - and he realised that he couldn’t lie to the prince, not now. Not when Arthur was staring at him like that, with his hand warm on Merlin’s wrist and his jaw tight, as though he was waiting for Merlin to say no. As though he was expecting Merlin to.

But Merlin wasn’t strong enough for that. He couldn’t be that person, the one who pushed away everyone and everything, so that things could stay the way they were supposed to be. He was selfish and he wasn’t brave enough and he had always wanted Arthur, always, even when he didn’t know that Arthur had existed outside of those stupid pages.

No, he thought. He should say no. No, Arthur, I’ve never wanted that and I never will. That’s what he should say.

He nodded.

Arthur was silent for a moment, staring at him. Merlin shifted beneath his gaze, feeling his heart thudding hard within his chest and uncertainty creeping into the corners of his mind. Perhaps Arthur hadn’t meant what Merlin thought he’d meant, at all.

“Arthur, I -“ he started, and then Arthur tightened his hand on Merlin’s wrist and pulled him forward, until they were standing almost chest to chest and Merlin could see the tiny lines running over the prince’s lips and the way his blonde eyelashes swept the tops of his cheeks as he blinked.

“Idiot,” he said, and then leant in and pressed his lips against Merlin’s.

It wasn’t, Merlin thought later, how he had imagined it would go. He’d imagined them both to be - not strong, exactly, but firm, sure of what they were doing and of what they wanted. He’d thought Arthur would be different. He’d thought that he would be different, because he was silly and skinny and out of place, and the Merlin he’d imagined with Arthur had been so much better than he could ever be.

But this Arthur wasn’t the Arthur he’d imagined, either. This Arthur had his fingers pressed into the pale skin of Merlin’s waist and his mouth open against Merlin’s, his tongue swiping hot across Merlin’s lips in a way that made Merlin cling to him, like he couldn’t remember how to stand. This Arthur was an idiot and an ass, but he was the only Arthur there was and the only Arthur worth having.

So Merlin forgot about all those scenes he’d imagined. He forgot about the book and the legend and Arthur’s big, wide-arcing destiny, just for a moment, because they weren’t what he wanted right now. Right now there was just Arthur, his skin soft beneath Merlin’s hands and his fingers warm as he slipped them beneath the hem of Merlin’s tunic. Merlin opened his mouth beneath Arthur’s, letting Arthur slide his tongue slick and hot against Merlin’s own. He tangled his fingers into Arthur’s hair, tugging a little too hard, and Arthur gave a tiny, hitching gasp at the movement and caught Merlin’s bottom lip lightly between his teeth.

Merlin jerked his hips, hands sliding down to clutch at the base of Arthur’s spine, with desire flooding hot through his veins. He could feel the cool, rough press of stone against his back and he realised that Arthur had pushed him against the wall. His hands were tugging at Merlin’s tunic and he growled with frustration when it got stuck around Merlin’s chest.

“Impressive, sire,” Merlin whispered, half-mocking, his lips brushing against the shell of Arthur’s ear. Arthur leaned back and frowned at him, his eyes startlingly blue as he fixed them on Merlin’s face.

“Shirt,” he said, voice low and husky. “Off, Merlin. Now.” He trailed his fingers down Merlin’s side and Merlin shivered, pulling off his tunic in a jerky, uncoordinated movement and tossing it to the floor. Arthur stared down at Merlin’s chest, his gaze hot against Merlin’s skin, and god, Arthur was looking at him like he wanted to do everything that could be done between two men, everything that Merlin could imagine, only he didn’t quite know how to start.

Merlin pulled Arthur back in towards him and slid his hand down to the front of Arthur’s breeches, palming him through the fabric and pressing open-mouthed, filthy kisses against Arthur’s mouth. He could feel the moment when, whatever final bit of control Arthur was trying to hold onto, snapped and he curved around Merlin, rutting up against him, his mouth slipping from Merlin’s own down to the side of Merlin’s neck. Merlin could hear him panting open-mouthed, with every thrust, and the sound was burning fiery through his chest and flooding his belly with heat. God, he could feel Arthur against him, the prince’s cock hard through the thin fabric of his breeches and his chest flush against Merlin’s. It was better than anything Merlin had felt, better than anything he’d imagined, because this time it wasn’t just his own fingers and hands and imagination, but Arthur, real and solid and rocking hard against him with his red lips parted and his fingers tight on Merlin’s waist.

Merlin groaned, sliding a knee between Arthur’s legs and dipping his fingers under the band of Arthur’s breeches, so that he could feel the round, tight curve of Arthur beneath his hands, pulling the man in towards him until they were pressed as close together as it was possible for two people to be.

Merlin wanted - he wanted this, but also more - he wanted Arthur around him, wanted the prince above him, pushing hard into his body, wanted to take the man apart with his fingers and his mouth until Arthur had forgotten what it was like to do anything else but writhe, gasping and needy, beneath Merlin’s touch. And somewhere beneath that, swirling deep beneath his desire, there were more - a whole lifetime’s worth of things that he wanted to do to Arthur, only they would have to wait, because this time Merlin simply wasn’t going to last.

He kneaded Arthur’s skin with his fingertips, hooking one leg around the prince and tipping his head back, so that it thunked hard against the wall. The sharp, sudden feel of it was a point of pain that focused him, drew him back from the edge for long enough that he could look down and see Arthur, his cheeks flushed with colour and his mouth open as he rutted in against Merlin, filthy and raw.

Merlin slid a hand around to the front of Arthur’s breeches and tugged at the laces there, pulling at them with frustrated movements until they were loose enough that Merlin could pull Arthur’s cock free and press it hot against his own, one hand wrapped tight around the both of them.

Arthur swallowed down a groan, pupils blown wide and eyes flicking down to stare at the place where Merlin was holding them together.

“Gods, Merlin, you -“ he said, voice raspy, broken, and then Merlin stroked his hand over them both and it was almost too rough, the angle was wrong, his head was still pressed hard against the rough stone of the wall, but fuck,  it was perfect, the way Arthur was pushing up into his hand and moaning. There were tiny gasps ripping from his throat, and his golden-skinned shoulders were tight, his forehead beaded with sweat and his lips a deep, bitten red.

“Arthur,” Merlin managed, and Arthur’s eyes flicked suddenly back to his own, deep blue and framed by clumped-together, gold lashes. Merlin could see the moment Arthur hit that point, slipped over the edge, because his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing hitched and Merlin could feel Arthur’s release rolling through him in the way that he clutched his hands tight around Merlin’s waist and the way that he jerked beneath Merlin’s fingers.

Merlin gasped, pleasure flooding hot through his insides, and came with his fingers skidding over Arthur’s cock and his teeth sinking hard into his bottom lip, his senses narrowing down around it until all he could see was the hard line of Arthur’s shoulder and all he could feel was the hot, wet rush of release and the wicked, bruise-hard clamp of Arthur’s fingers against his skin.

He came back slowly, in pieces, his mind hazy with pleasure and his arms loose around Arthur’s waist. He felt odd, stretched out at the core, as though Arthur had wrung something from within him that Merlin had never expected anyone to take.

Arthur was still firm against him, and Merlin tilted his head down and pressed a kiss to the man’s shoulder.

“Arthur?” he said, suddenly uncertain, unsure whether Arthur would want him to leave, whether that was all that he needed from Merlin.

Arthur looked up at him, hair sticking out on one side and lips swollen and red. “I think,” he said, in a low, raw voice that sent shivers down Merlin’s spine, “that you should stay here tonight. You are clearly not well enough to leave my chambers.”

And for once, Merlin didn’t argue.



Merlin woke the next morning to find Arthur pressed face-down into the pillows beside him. The sheets were bunched low around his waist, exposing the long, golden line of his back, and his limbs were spread wide as though he wasn't used to sleeping with another person in his bed.

In his bed. Merlin turned the phrase over in his mind, thinking. He was in Arthur's bed, with the prince's arm draped over his waist. He felt a surge of swift panic at that, because he didn't know, he didn't want to know what this would do to everything, to Arthur, to the legend, if it would change everything or nothing at all. If it meant everything or nothing at all.

“Stop it,” Arthur mumbled, rolling over onto his side and cracking open an eye. Merlin froze.

“Stop what?” he asked carefully.

“Stop thinking, Merlin, it doesn't suit you.” Arthur shut his eyes again with a smirk. Merlin aimed a kick at him under the sheets, which would have worked better if he hadn't gotten his legs hopelessly tangled.

“You're still a prat,” Merlin said.

“And I can still put you in the stocks for saying that,” Arthur replied, but there was a smile on his face as he said it and his fingers were running along Merlin's side, brushing from his shoulder down to the angled curve of his hip and back again.

And so Merlin didn't think any more about it that day. Instead, he curled closer to the prince, ignoring Arthur's half-hearted mumble of complaint, and lay with his head on Arthur's chest for a few more minutes before Arthur had to get up for morning council with the nobles and Merlin had to go and explain to Gaius why he hadn't come home last night.

“Just tell him that you got locked in the stables again,” Arthur smirked as Merlin helped him to put on his armour.

“That was one time,” Merlin protested. “And I got out in the end.” He'd only been stuck in there because there was a fay between him and the door, but he hadn't mentioned that to Arthur.

He did up the buckles on the chest plate, brushing his fingers over the smooth skin between Arthur's neck and his shoulder. Arthur's eyes flickered shut for a moment and Merlin stepped forward, dropping his hand to Arthur's waist and pulling the prince closer, his fingers hooked tight around the links of Arthur's chainmail. It was an awkward sort of a hug at first, because Arthur was coated in metal and standing stiff in Merlin's arms, but Merlin wrapped himself around the prince anyway, his chin resting on Arthur's shoulder until he felt Arthur relax and slide his own arms around Merlin.

Merlin thought that he had never loved anyone quite as much as he did Arthur in that moment. It was as though he could feel Arthur tearing down the final barrier that he'd put around himself, the closest one and the one that he'd kept sealed the longest. It was a barrier most people didn't have - Gwaine didn't, he himself didn't - but it was also one that Merlin had never thought he'd be able to get through.

But somehow, at that moment, with the sound of the maids walking briskly along the passageway outside and the early morning sun shining through the window, Arthur seemed to have discovered that he didn't need to keep everyone out, not all the time. That sometimes he could stand in the arms of his manservant and the world wouldn't come crashing down around him.

It couldn't last, said the tiny voice in the back of Merlin's mind. Merlin would happily give up whatever destiny he had for a lifetime with the prince, but he couldn't give up Arthur's.

But perhaps, Merlin thought, this was what was supposed to happen. Not Merlin being here, exactly, but someone being here. Perhaps Arthur had needed to learn how to open up that tiny, hidden part of himself before he could let Gwen in, and Merlin had pushed out some other person for this part in the legend. It wasn't the part he wanted to play - it was one that could have gone to anyone, a formless, interchangeable role, but it was the only one that Merlin knew he could ever hope to get, and he would hold tight to it for as long as he was able.



Neither Arthur nor Merlin told anyone over the next few weeks that they'd moved from being prince and servant to something more. It wasn't something that Merlin needed to share, and it was safer if they kept it hidden, anyway.

Gwaine found out two days after they'd first slept together, though, because he was Gwaine and he had some sort of a sixth sense for those sorts of things. He tackled Merlin about it when Arthur was down at the training fields practicing his swordwork with Leon.

“You did it,” he said, dragging Merlin into one of the alcoves of the passageway. Merlin stared at him.

“I did what?” he asked, even though he had a suspicious feeling that he knew exactly what Gwaine was talking about.

Gwaine made a gesture that Merlin thought it best not to try and interpret. “You know, with Arthur,” he grinned.

“How do you know?” Merlin asked. He didn't think that Arthur would have told.

Gwaine wrapped an arm around Merlin's shoulder. “Arthur's been almost pleasant and you've been grinning for the past two days, Merlin,” he said. “I know how to put things together.”

Merlin scowled. “It's nothing,” he said, even though it wasn't to him. But Arthur wouldn't see it that way. Arthur couldn't see it that way.

Gwaine patted him on the shoulder. “Of course it is,” he replied in a tone that suggested he thought it was a lot more than that, then he let go of Merlin, winked, and walked off down the passage before Merlin could convince him that it really was nothing.



One morning towards the end of winter, when the weather seemed to have decided that it was ready for spring and had produced a week of warmer days, Arthur came down into Gaius’ chambers while Merlin was helping the old man to clean out his old potion bottles. Merlin was sitting on the floor, with dirt streaked over his face and some unknown, filthy black liquid smeared over his fingers.

“Merlin,” Arthur started brusquely, then stopped and stared at Merlin’s hands. “What is that?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin said, staring miserably down at them. “It came from in there.” He nodded at the cupboard in front of him and Arthur made a face.

“I need you to meet me at the stables in ten minutes,” he said. “Tell Gaius it’s something urgent, and for gods’ sakes, Merlin, wash your hands before you leave.” He turned towards the door with a smirk.

“You wash your hands,” Merlin called after him. It wasn’t the wittiest line he’d ever thought of, but Arthur was smirking in a very distracting way and Merlin was covered in what smelled awfully like decaying leeches, so he thought it was pretty good, all things considered.

It took him ten minutes just to get the stuff off his hands and he ran down to the stables with his shirt still soaked through at the sleeves. Arthur was waiting for him with a pleased look on his face and two horses shifting restlessly behind him.

“We’re going out for the day,” he announced.

Merlin stared at him. “We’re what?”

“We’re going riding together,” Arthur continued patiently.

Merlin blinked. “Arthur, you’ve never ridden with me in your life. And don’t you have things to do? A kingdom to protect, perhaps?”

Arthur frowned at him. Merlin could see in his face that he’d been planning for a different reaction than the one that he was getting.

“Leon and Gwaine have offered to oversee everything,” he said. “Gwaine was particularly insistent.”

Merlin scowled, knowing that Gwaine would have jumped at the chance to let Arthur do something like this. “Fine,” he sighed, pushing his still-soggy sleeves up around his elbows and wandering around to tighten the straps on his horse’s saddle.

“Come on, Merlin, we don’t have all day,” Arthur said, swinging up into the saddle of his horse with an ease that Merlin still didn’t possess.

Merlin raised an eyebrow at him.“You’ve taken the day off,” he said, “so yes, I think we do.”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

Merlin shook his head and climbed into the saddle, prodding his horse into a trot as they headed towards the gate. He wanted to ride fast, to feel his horse pounding the ground beneath him and to see Arthur galloping hard alongside.

They didn’t slow until they were deep in the forest, and they had to duck their heads beneath the low-hanging branches as they rode. Merlin didn’t know where they were - the forest still looked all the same to him, a sea of dappled green that left him completely disoriented. Arthur seemed to know where they were going, though, because he would nudge his horse decisively onto a certain path at every narrow fork between the trees.

They soon came to a shallow stream, one with round, pale pebbles littering its streambed and leafy branches skimming its surface.

“I rode through here as a boy,” Arthur said, looking around as he reined in his horse. “And there -“ he pointed to one side of the stream, “That was where I learnt to swim.”

“Did your father teach you?” Merlin asked, surprised.

“No, Leon’s father did,” Arthur said. “Leon also learnt.”

Merlin smiled, detecting an edge of remembered rivalry in Arthur’s tone. “So there is something that you aren’t the champion of,” he said.

Arthur frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” he said indignantly. “Of course there isn’t.”

Merlin laughed, the sound loud in the still air.

They decided to stop by unspoken agreement, kicking off their boots and tethering their horses to trees in the grassy clearing beside the water. They left their clothes in haphazard piles on the bank and turned to the stream. Merlin eyed the water cautiously, watching in amusement as Arthur dived straight in, like Merlin had expected he would, and emerged seconds later gasping and swearing.

“It’s cold,” he said, and Merlin nodded, grinning wickedly. He had bathed in streams like these often enough that he could tell when the water was going to be icy.

Arthur looked over at him and caught sight of his grin before Merlin had time to wipe it off his face. He raised an eyebrow, as though daring Merlin to try and run, and then charged at him, sending them both tumbling into the water with a splash.

And then Merlin was underwater and he couldn’t see the surface, couldn’t see anything but the tangle of Arthur’s limbs and his own in the water. The events of years ago, with the Sidhe, came whipping into his mind as he tried to fight his way back into the air, but he pushed them away as his feet found the pebbled bottom of the stream and his head broke the surface.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Merlin gasped. Arthur emerged beside him and started laughing, head thrown back and hands clutching at his sides.

“It isn’t funny, prat,” Merlin said, heart still pounding hard within his chest. He waded over to Arthur and held out his hands. “Look, I’ve gone blue.”

But Arthur simply flashed him a crooked smile, wrapped his arms tightly around Merlin’s waist and pulled him under again.



Once Merlin had tried - and entirely failed - to convince Arthur that, for normal people, swimming didn’t involve as much dunking as it did floating, they clambered out onto the hard-packed dirt bank, pulled on their breeches and sat close together in the sunlight while they tried to get dry. Merlin tipped his face up to the sunlight, eyes closed as he let the warmth sink into his skin. He felt happy, sitting there with stream-water dripping from his skin and Arthur’s shoulder bumping against his. The scent of summer, light and faded, was still lingering on the breeze that shook the branches above them, and it was easy to forget that there was any world outside of this one.

Arthur rose from the bank, after a while, and wandered over to the horses. He pulled lunch from the saddlebags and brought it back over to Merlin. There were apples, fat ones that Merlin knew Arthur had taken from the barrels deep within the castle where they were stored, a thick-crusted, white loaf of bread and, oddly enough, chicken. Merlin had forgotten what it was like to be able to buy whatever he wanted at the grocer’s, to be able to get things to eat whenever he wanted them. He’d  been in this world for so long that he’d almost forgotten the taste of things like chocolate and pot noodles and icecream - things that he had never thought he’d go without.

“Chicken?” he asked, eyebrow raised, when Arthur had sat back down beside him.

“I like it,” Arthur said firmly.

They ate quietly and then Merlin watched as Arthur threw the last crumbs of the bread over towards a bird that was sitting on one of the low branches overhanging the stream. He looked content, with his blonde hair pushed back off his forehead and a tiny smile quirking his lips.

Merlin smiled, feeling something pressing warm within his chest - not a big, sharp sort of a feeling, but a tiny, creeping one that he felt sure had been there all along, slowly inching its way forward into his heart. He loved Arthur, he realised, with that big, hold-onto-them-forever sort of love that he had never expected to find.

Arthur looked over at him and raised an eyebrow, and Merlin made a face. Arthur crawled across the dirt between them and pressed his lips against Merlin’s. He tasted faintly of apples.

This was going to hurt in the end, Merlin knew. But right now, with Arthur sprawled golden-skinned in front of him and the sun dancing warm upon the surface of the stream, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.



It was late in the afternoon when they finally arrived back at Camelot.

Elyan was waiting for them at the gate to the castle. “There’s a lady to see you,” he said. “She thinks she’s found a breach in the walls at the south end of town.”

Arthur nodded and swung down off his horse, handing his reins to Merlin.

“Have fun,” Merlin said cheerfully, watching him go. There were reports like that every other week, but it was usually up to one of Uther’s knights to go and investigate. Merlin wondered why Arthur had decided to go, then shrugged it off. It was probably just to  show the townspeople that he was willing to listen.

He wandered back up to the castle after he’d stabled the horses and saw Gwaine and Lancelot sitting by the water pump in the courtyard, with their shoulders bumping together and their backs flat against the cool stone wall of the castle. Merlin hesitated for a moment, unwilling to disturb them, but then Lancelot looked up and smiled at him, a soft curl of lips that dissolved away Merlin’s uncertainty. Gwaine waved an arm in his direction, beckoning him over, and he whispered something to Lancelot that made them both grin.

“There you are, princess,” Gwaine said as Merlin approached them. “Are you finished with Arthur for today?”

Merlin frowned, prodding Gwaine in the side with his foot. Lancelot laughed.

“Leave the man alone,” he said to Gwaine. “You deserve him, Merlin.”

“Thank you, Lancelot,” Merlin said, smiling at him. He turned to the pump and began to pull at the handle, watching as clear water flowed into the bucket beneath it.

“Well,” Gwaine said slowly, tilting his head back against the wall and closing his eyes, “I suppose so. You’ve been after him for long enough.” He grinned wickedly, teeth flashing.

Merlin gave a casual shrug, cupping his hands into the now-full bucket and lifting them to his lips. The water was cool and it cut the edge off the thirst that had been building all through the ride home. He drank a little more and then reached down for the bucket, his hands clenching tight on the rim, and threw the rest of the water at Gwaine.

“Hey,” Lancelot said, pushing his dripping hair off his forehead and frowning good-naturedly at him. “Try aiming next time, Merlin.”

Merlin bit back a laugh, turning to look at Gwaine. The man was half-drenched and staring at him with a grin on his face that Merlin was almost certain meant revenge. Merlin swallowed. He backed quickly away and then turned and sprinted for the opposite side of the courtyard, even though he knew that it would take a faster man than him to outrun a knight of Camelot.

What followed was - in Merlin’s opinion - the most vicious waterfight that Camelot had ever seen, in which Merlin was thoroughly defeated by Lancelot and Lancelot was thoroughly defeated by Gwaine. They even managed to draw Leon into battle, because Gwaine had spotted him walking down the steps towards them and he’d tossed an entire bucket over him.

“Gwaine,” Leon had warned, but Gwaine had simply grinned, bowed and thrown a second bucket at him (and Merlin wasn’t even sure how he’d got more buckets, though he suspected that Percival, who was watching them nonchalantly from one corner of the courtyard, might have had something to do with it). Leon had narrowed his eyes, stripped off his jacket and joined in with gusto after that.

By the time the sun was brushing the tops of the trees to the west, all four of them were sopping, gasping, and had collapsed in a vague sort of a heap over by the castle steps. It was there that Arthur found them several minutes later, when he returned from the lower town with Elyan.

“I am ever so glad I made you all knights,” he said dryly, staring down at them.

“You didn’t,” Merlin said brightly, struggling out from beneath Lancelot. Arthur narrowed his eyes at him.

“I can't imagine why that would have been, Merlin,” he replied, running an eye over Merlin’s soggy, dishevelled clothes with his lips twitching. He looked over the other men and blinked.

“Leon?” he asked with surprise.

“Sire,” Leon said, straightening up and trying to straighten his clothes with one hand, water still dripping down his face from his hair. He flashed Arthur a guilty smile.

Arthur gave a long-suffering sigh and shook his head. “Come on, Merlin,” he said, and Merlin followed him up towards the castle, turning his head back in time to see Gwaine wink at him.



They were woken just before dawn the next day by the sound of someone tapping on the door to Arthur’s chambers. Merlin rolled over, still half-asleep, as Arthur unwrapped his arm from around Merlin’s waist and padded over to answer it.

“Who was it?” Merlin asked when Arthur had shut the door again. The prince was reaching for his shirt with a grim expression.

“Leon,” he said. “There’s a messenger from Mercia come to see the king.”

Merlin blinked and sat up. “Shouldn’t the king be seeing him, then?” he asked, climbing out of bed and picking up Arthur’s jacket off the floor, which was where the man had left it the previous night.

Arthur’s jaw clenched slightly, and his hands stilled on the laces of his shirt. “He’s not well,” he said after a moment.

“Oh,” said Merlin. “I’m sorry, Arthur.” He knew that Morgana’s reign had shattered something inside Uther, but he had looked better when Merlin had seen him recently - his gaze full of that familiar icy authority, his voice firm as he ordered his knights out on patrol.

But there were still brief moments when he seemed broken and hollow, as though there wasn’t as much of him beneath his skin as their used to be. It was at those moments that Merlin could see that Morgana had beaten him - that she had taken from him some tiny, deep part of himself that he had never expected to lose. He wondered whether she’d intended for him to end up like this when she’d planned her revenge. He hoped not.

Arthur shrugged, taking the jacket from Merlin’s hands and pushing his arms through the sleeves. “It isn’t as though I haven’t been expecting this, Merlin,” he said. “I have been raised to rule, after all. This time was always going to come.” He ran a hand over his face and turned towards the window, his shoulders tight.

“Not that I will have to rule yet,” he added quickly, but Merlin recognised the uncertainty there, wavering low and faint below the surface of Arthur’s voice. He stepped forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of Arthur’s mouth.

“You won’t,” he said. “It will be okay.” He felt as though he was trying to convince himself as much as he was Arthur, because he could feel unease drifting through the corners of his chest and snagging against his heart. Not yet, he told himself firmly. There is still time.

Arthur looked over at him with that expression he got sometimes, the one that Merlin knew meant that he thought that Merlin was being silly and far too optimistic and just a little bit wise.

But Merlin wasn’t wise, not really. He simply knew enough of the legend to convince Arthur that he spoke the truth in moments when Arthur was unsure. He simply knew enough of the future to persuade Arthur that there were paths upon which a man’s life had no choice but to run, as swift and as helpless as a drop of water within a river.

This wasn’t one of those times, though. This time, Merlin didn’t want to know the truth.

“Go back to bed, Merlin,” Arthur said, picking up his sword from the table, but Merlin shook his head.

“I’ll come too,” he replied, stooping to pick up his shirt off the floor and dragging it over his head. Arthur hesitated for a moment and then nodded.

The room was still half bathed in shadow when they left it.



The knights were all in the hall when they arrived, looking tired and worn out. Merlin could see Gwaine swaying against Leon’s side, and he wondered whether the man had been out drinking the night before. It seemed likely.

“Where is the messenger?” Arthur asked, and a small, skinny man stepped forward and looked at Arthur.

“I have a message for the king,” he started uncertainly, looking around the room as if to check if Uther was there.

“I am his son, Arthur Pendragon. You will speak to me.”

The man hesitated for a moment and then inclined his head. “I bring news from the courts of Mercia,” he said. “There is word of an army moving through the outer lands towards Camelot.”

“From who did your king hear this?”

“Several members of the king’s guard came across them,” the man replied. “Only one survived. He says - he says that they were of magic.” He looked up at Arthur with wide eyes. Merlin knew that Camelot’s stance on sorcery was well-known, and he wondered whether the man was afraid of what Arthur’s reaction to the bearer of such news would be.

Arthur looked at the man, his face impassive. “How far from Camelot was this army?” he asked.

“A week away, perhaps two. They were stationary when our men came across them. It is still possible that they may turn inwards, towards Mercia.” He swallowed.

“Very well,” said Arthur. “I must talk this over with my men.” He turned to Merlin. “Show him to the spare chambers.”

Merlin nodded and the man followed him out of the hall.

“Is he your master?” The man asked after they’d shut the doors firmly behind them.

“Yeah,” Merlin said, turning the corner and heading for the stairs. The man had to jog to catch up.

“He any good?” the man continued. “I’ve had a few terrible ones in my time, and your prince looks right royal. I know that type. They’re all imperious and commanding and complain about everything.” He nodded to himself. “Me and the other servants back in Mercia, we heard all about your prince. Won’t be as good as that Uther fellow, we think.”

Merlin stopped walking and bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, trying to stop himself from swinging his fist into the man’s face. “What’s your name?” he asked curtly, and the man blinked at him.

“Henry,” he said.

“Well, Henry,” Merlin said, voice full of barely-contained anger, “you may tell your friends that not only is Arthur Pendragon is the best man in all of Camelot, he will also be the greatest king that any kingdom has seen. And your room is there,” he added, jabbing a finger towards one of the doors. He turned away, walking back down the steps and leaving Henry staring after him in confusion.



Arthur sent a message back to Mercia, later that day, thanking them for their warning and telling them that Camelot would be perfectly prepared for any attack that came.

A few days after that there was to be a feast, one that was held each year to mark the end of winter. Merlin spent more time polishing than he had in months, because Arthur had decided that he wanted his oldest pair of boots shined up for the evening and nothing that Merlin did would dissuade him.

“But shouldn’t you be preparing for the attack?” he asked one morning, after Arthur had told him that he needed his red jacket aired for the feast.

“I have sent out patrols to the furthest corners of the kingdom, Merlin, and I have doubled the number of guards on duty each night. A single army is not going to stand in the way of a century of tradition,” Arthur replied. “And my sword needs polishing before the feast.”

Merlin leered at him, waggling his eyebrows, but Arthur simply rolled his eyes and sighed.

“You really are an idiot, Merlin,” he said.



The day before the feast, Merlin ran into Gwen coming out from the kitchens with her arms full of fabric to put over the tables in the hall.

“Need a hand?” he asked, because she looked as though she was going to fall down beneath the weight of it.

Gwen smiled at him, nodding, and together they carried the cloth up the steps and into the hall. She had been doing a lot of odd jobs like this recently, ones that the kitchen maids were too busy to do. Merlin knew that she hadn’t quite had a purpose in Camelot since Morgana had left.

“So,” Merlin said. He dropped down onto one of the chairs and looked over at Gwen, who was smoothing the last lengths of the fabric out over the tables. “How’s Lancelot?”

Gwen looked sharply over at him, her cheeks flushed with colour and her dark curls falling around her face. “I don’t - what do you -” she started.

Merlin grinned. “It’s okay,” he said. “I won’t say anything.”

“There isn’t anything to say, Merlin,” she said firmly and then walked over to sit in the chair next to his. “It’s good that he’s a knight now, though, isn’t it?”

Merlin smiled at her. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is.”

Gwen smiled warmly back at him and Merlin realised that she looked happy, completely so. He hadn’t seen that look on her face for a long, long while.  He was happy for her, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was slowly closing in on them - that there would be a point, somewhere not too far off, when everything would have to fall apart.

Part 6