Chapter Text
“I don’t want to get up,” Arthur grumbles, his voice muffled in the crook of Merlin’s neck, and he rolls his eyes while trying to ignore the warmth welling up in his chest.
It was so much easier to drag Arthur out of bed when he wasn’t actually sharing it with him.
Softly tugging at a strand of blonde hair, he waits until Arthur grunts in acknowledgement. “Unfortunately, you are the king, which means that you will have to get up and get ready. It would make a rather poor impression if there’s no one to greet all the envoys that are going to arrive in a few hours.”
“All your magic, and you can’t even buy me five more minutes?” Arthur says with a long-suffering sigh, but he does lift his head to stare down at Merlin. “How are you so awake already?”
He shrugs, tracing the lines of Arthur’s features with his thumb. “I’m used to getting up early.”
Arthur’s eyes narrow, and he simply watches Merlin for long seconds. “You’re nervous,” he finally says, a small smile curling his lips. “Whyever would you be nervous about a bunch of royals arriving in Camelot?”
Merlin stares at him flatly, before flicking his forehead lightly. “Oh, I don’t know, you dollophead. Maybe because whenever Camelot had visitors in the past, someone’s tried to kill you. Or maybe because now I’m not a servant, far beneath anyone’s notice, but your Court Sorcerer. Your Court Sorcerer, who’s made responsible for Camelot’s changes and thus, probably not all that well-liked by the majority of our visitors. Do I need to go on?”
“Ah, but you’re forgetting something,” Arthur says with a smirk, tugging at Merlin’s ear. “For one, any and all assassination attempts would be futile. And then, you’re now basically considered nobility for various reasons, so nobody would dare to openly display their dislike.”
Snorting, he shakes his head. “That’s not nearly as reassuring as you think it is.”
Before Arthur can answer, there’s a chirp from the end of their bed, and the next moment, Aithusa jumps up, effectively squashing their legs underneath the blanket. “Merlin! Arthur! Breakfast!” she says, wings flapping and coming dangerously close to tearing down the bed hangings.
“Very good, sweetheart,” Merlin praises, sitting up to pat her while Arthur huffs beside him.
“You say that every single time she manages a new word. I think you’re merely encouraging her to do whatever she wants to,” he grumbles, but he completely fails to hide his affection. “Not to mention that she’s really getting too big for the bed. Hell, for the castle to be honest.”
Merlin clicks his tongue in disapproval before burying his face in Aithusa’s neck. “Don’t listen to the mean king, he’s just jealous,” he stage-whispers, laughing when Arthur hits him with a pillow in retaliation.
Sighing, he draws back. “Down, Aithusa,” he orders, ignoring the betrayed look he receives before she does as she’s told. “I know you’re right, but I’m wary about leaving her with Kilgharrah. What if something happens to her?” he says, leaning against Arthur’s side.
“Merlin, she’s a dragon, and nearly as big as a horse by now. She’ll be able to take care of herself, you just worry too much.”
He knows that Arthur is right, the point only emphasised when he has to stop the weapon’s rack from crashing over as Aithusa bounds past it to curl up in front of the fireplace.
“I’ll take care of it after the negotiations, alright? Or after we’re done with Morgana—I’d feel better knowing that there are as few threats as possible,” he says, and it’s only partly an excuse to put it off for a while longer.
Arthur sighs, most likely knowing exactly what he’s doing, but he also presses a kiss to Merlin’s temple before getting up. “Just make sure that she doesn’t scare our guests to death. Maybe Alined though, he’d deserve it.”
“I’m still of the opinion that you shouldn’t have let him come,” Merlin grumbles as he gets out of bed as well, grabbing one of Arthur’s tunics to put on. “I swear, if he tries using a love potion on you again, I’m going to turn him into a rat and feed him to Aithusa personally.”
“That’s disgusting,” Arthur says with a grimace, though his lips are twitching. “You really shouldn’t torture your poor dragon with low-level food.”
“Breakfast!” Aithusa pipes up, nodding her head up and down, and Merlin’s helpless against the laughter bubbling up in his chest.
Arthur’s grinning, the pleased, self-satisfied one that always makes him look like he’s twenty again, mischief dancing in his eyes and the lines around his mouth softening. “See? She agrees with me.”
Merlin merely shakes his head and crosses the room to let in the servant when there’s a knock on the door.
The tension with which he woke up has lessened though, and maybe they’re really going to get through the whole week without any great disasters.
Midday finds them standing on the steps of the castle, waiting for the first delegation to arrive.
Despite Merlin’s protests, Arthur insisted that he takes the place directly next to him, arguing that it would send the wrong signal to the magical population of Camelot if it appeared like they weren’t acknowledging Merlin’s rightful place as Arthur’s husband.
Merlin thinks it’s rather underhanded that Arthur’s using his own traditions against him. Unfortunately, he can’t deny the warmth that’s washing over him whenever Arthur so openly shows his acceptance of it, all serious eyes and affectionate teasing.
He doesn’t even want to start on the overwhelming surge of emotions any time he so much as thinks about the words husband and Arthur in the same sentence.
Still, he can feel the disapproving stares of the older nobles resting on his back, and he’s once again glad that Arthur has already replaced a good number of them on the council.
Those who live in Camelot are still present for the reception of the envoys, but so are the knights, Gwen, and Gaius, and it goes a long way to calm Merlin’s fraying nerves.
It doesn’t matter how many times Arthur has assured him that Camelot has very little to worry about and that all of the kingdoms coming to visit are already allies; this is the first time that a majority of Albion’s kingdoms are coming together since the start of Arthur’s reign. The fact that the repeal of the ban was the catalyst leaves Merlin with a brimming certainty that this could be the start of something great—or of a long-lasting struggle to fulfil their destiny.
He’s shaken out of his thoughts when a murmur runs through the courtyard, and the first entourage moves over the drawbridge.
“Queen Annis,” Arthur greets when the older woman dismounts in one smooth movement, and Merlin follows a step behind as Arthur walks down the stairs. “Welcome to Camelot. I’m glad you could make it.”
Queen Annis returns the bow, smiling faintly. “Thank you for your invitation, King Arthur. Lord Emrys,” she adds, sharp, curious eyes landing on Merlin, and he has to hide his surprise at her knowledge of not only who he is, but of that particular name.
“Your Majesty,” he answers, bowing as well and offering a smile. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
It sets the course for the rest of the afternoon. Regardless of whether Merlin has met the arriving royals before or not, they all greet him as Emrys and treat him with nearly the same courtesy they’re bestowing on Arthur.
Both Bayard and Alined clearly recognise him from his time as a servant, but where Bayard congratulates him without a hint of snideness, Alined hides his sneer more than poorly.
Merlin couldn’t care less, but the overall recognition leaves him wrong-footed. As far as he was aware, the name Emrys was mostly known among the Druids and other followers of the Old Religion. It has spread somewhat since his announcement as Court Sorcerer, but he’s been under the impression that it was limited to the population of Camelot and Ynys Gybi—not Albion’s royalty.
Arthur looks pensive when he mentions it after the last convoy has been shuffled off by servants to their quarters, and the two of them are changing in Arthur’s chambers for the feast tonight.
“Our court knows of the name though,” Arthur says after clearly thinking it over, shrugging and turning away to strip himself of his tunic. “News travel fast, and I’m sure all of them did more than a little research when they heard of the change in policy and the new position.”
It makes sense, but not enough so to vanish the sliver of suspicion that there’s more to it.
Glancing at him, Arthur huffs and crosses the distance between them to wrap an arm around Merlin’s shoulders. “If it bothers you so much, I’m sure you can ask the Druids about it when their delegation arrives tomorrow morning.”
Sighing, he leans his head against Arthur’s shoulder and closes his eyes. “You’re probably right. If there’s a reason for it, I’m sure they’re going to let us know soon enough.”
“It’s not like it would be a disadvantage, in any way,” Arthur says, his hand warm and steady on Merlin’s neck. “If they know who you are, it’s only going to strengthen Camelot’s position further.”
He has a point, and after drawing a deep breath to centre himself, Merlin straightens up, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s lips. “Maybe there’s some brain in that thick skull of yours after all.”
The feast is running without a hitch, although Merlin still can’t shake the awkwardness of sitting at the high table instead of running around and serving wine and food.
There are various means of entertainment throughout the night, and even after months of magic slowly seeping back into Camelot’s daily life, it still leaves him breathless that there are a few magical displays in between.
Arthur smiles softly at him when the show of lights is over, squeezing his hand on the table before turning to talk to Mithian.
“Aren’t you going to show us something as well? I’ve heard your power is unparalleled,” Annis asks from Merlin’s right, and he’s intrigued and wary at the statement in equal measures.
Making sure that it doesn’t show on his face, he inclines his head. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I will, though it is set to take place during the feast at the end of the talks.”
She smiles, and there’s no calculation in her gaze, only amusement. “Easing all of us into it, I see. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
It’s exactly why they had agreed to start off with small, simple tricks, and Merlin can feel his respect for her growing.
‘Think it’s going to be alright?’ Arthur asks him silently when everything is slowly winding down, and Merlin lets his eyes wander through the room once more.
The knights, including Mordred, have already mingled with those of the other kingdoms, while Mithian, Elena, and Gwen are sitting together on one corner of the table and talking quietly.
Bayard, Annis, Rodor, and Godwin are deep in conversation as well, and only Alined is sitting off to the side on his own, a pinched expression on his face.
Leaning back in his chair, Merlin hums under his breath. ‘I suppose so, though I think all of them would wait until tomorrow to voice any problems, and we’ll see how well it goes when the Druids and Alator and Finna arrive. I’m also going to check the wards once more before we go to bed.’
Arthur’s expression tells him that he’s worrying too much, and maybe he is. But it’s not only him or Arthur who could be attacked if someone has any ill intentions, and Merlin has seen too much over his years in Camelot to take any chances.
The next morning finds them on the steps of the castle once again, though Merlin is far less nervous about greeting the magical side of their guests.
They’ve all been offered a permanent seat on the council, but while they were all grateful, none of them was in a hurry to accept. Merlin has a strong suspicion that they’re more than happy to let him do that particular part. He can’t blame them for not wanting to give up their lives in favour of spending so much time among nobles of which some are still none too happy about the recent changes though.
Much to Merlin’s relief, they all readily agreed to take part in the negotiations. There’s something comforting in not being the only one with magic among all these royals, regardless of how steadfast the support from Arthur and his friends is.
Contrary to his and Arthur’s plans, their guests unanimously insisted on being part of today’s welcoming committee. It makes Merlin think about their knowledge of him again, and he has to keep himself from fidgeting as they’re waiting.
Finally, they spot the group of riders at the entrance of the courtyard, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he can follow Arthur out of the lines around them.
By the goddess, but he’s so glad when all of this is over.
His relief is short-lived though. Iseldir is accompanied by Ambika and Urias, and Alator and Finna are with them as well—and all of them bow to Merlin first, resulting in low murmurs coming from the group behind them.
Arthur’s lips twitch when he catches sight of Merlin’s grimace. ‘Honestly Merlin, one would think that you’re used to this by now.’
He sighs to himself. ‘Clotpole.’
“I’m going to show you to your chambers,” he says out loud, gesturing for the small group to follow. “The talks are set to begin in an hour, but we can get some food from the kitchen if you’re hungry?”
“We’re fine, Emrys,” Iseldir says, a fond smile playing over his face.
Merlin nods, hanging back while they offer their greetings to the other royals. They don’t speak again until they arrive at the designated guest chambers in the North tower, the ones that were traditionally reserved for the magical court members and guests.
“Do you know why all the visiting royals are aware of my name?” he asks when he’s sure that they won’t be overheard, and it probably shouldn’t surprise him that none of them seems shocked.
Ambika pats his arm, her eyes full of amusement. “We can’t know for sure, but I’d assume it has something to do with how the magical population in most of the kingdoms is becoming increasingly vocal over their dissatisfaction with their rulers.”
Merlin frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Well, news of Camelot’s changes and, subsequently, of your appointment as Court Sorcerer have travelled fast, as you know. Many have already left to migrate to Camelot or are planning to do so. Obviously, that’s not in the interest of the respective kings and queens—Camelot is disproportionately stronger with the assistance of magic,” Iseldir explains, and if Merlin didn’t know any better, he’d say that there’s a hint of smugness in his tone.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t really answer his question. “I know, it’s one of the main topics on the agenda for these negotiations,” Merlin says, tilting his head. “What I don’t understand is how they’re seemingly aware of who I am.”
Iseldir inclines his head, and there’s still the shadow of a smirk on his face. “Don’t you think that they would’ve tried to make progress on their own first? There were attempts to get the magical community of their kingdoms—the very same that they’ve suppressed for the last two decades in accordance with Uther’s policies—to negotiate.”
“Of course, it’s glaringly obvious that it’s a move to keep up with Camelot,” Alator goes on. “We’re all aware that Camelot has changed its laws not out of a desire for more power. But as for why the other kingdoms are trying to follow as soon as possible—it’s nothing but a desperate reach for strength and preserving their standing within Albion.”
There’s something heavy sitting in Merlin’s stomach, and he knows what the next words are going to be before Ambika speaks them. “The majority of the magical population across all kingdoms only accepts you, and Arthur as the Once and Future King, as their sovereign. Very few are shy to voice that opinion.”
Hysterically, Merlin’s reminded of how Gwaine likes to joke that he’s the king of the magic people, and he swears to never breathe a word about this to him.
Swallowing, he clears his throat, forcing the sudden burst of panic down. “Do they assume that it was a deliberate move on our part?” he gets out, already running through a myriad of options if that’s the case.
Ambika smiles and squeezes his arm once more. “For the most part, I don’t think so. Gwynned for example has never followed through with the persecution as vigorously as Uther has, and there are advisors with at least enough knowledge to be aware of the prophecy. I think most of them must’ve heard about it in one way or another by now.”
“Our estimation is that their main goal is to assure themselves that the treaties with Camelot are still holding, and to convince you to tell those who want to come to Camelot that there’s no need to leave their kingdoms,” Alator adds, and Merlin has to bite back a hysterical laugh at how calmly they’re all taking this.
He’s not been involved in court for weeks for nothing though, and he forces himself to focus. “Do you think I should? Provided that they’re going to adapt laws about magic close to the ones we’ve installed?”
Iseldir tilts his head, folding his hands in front of him. “You might, but it won’t change that most sorcerers will only accept you and Arthur as the ultimate authority.”
“Do not worry,” Finna says, the first time she speaks, and there’s a soft smile on her face that reminds him of all the hours he’s spent with her back on Ynys Gybi, buried deep in books. “This is but the beginning of uniting Albion. It was always meant to be both you and Arthur who’d accomplish it.”
This, more than anything, finally manages to calm him down, and he exhales a measured breath, consciously letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders. She’s right, of course, but it’s sometimes easy to forget within a kingdom in which most people still view his and Arthur’s positions as vastly different.
“Thank you,” he says, smiling in gratitude. “Is that the stance of the Druids and those back on Ynys Gybi as well?”
All five of them smile at him with a mixture of exasperation and affection, and he once again marvels at how lucky he’s got to find them during his time away.
“Of course it is, Emrys. Most Druid clans have moved into Camelot at this point anyway,” Urias says, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“We’ve always only been loyal to you,” Alator says in that intense manner that he never seems to shake. “And while Ynys Gybi is marked down as a part of Gwynned, it hasn’t been seen as such by its inhabitants for a long time, as you know.”
“It would be nice if it didn’t have to be hidden though, wouldn’t it?” Merlin says softly, still remembering very well how much effort it takes to keep the island supplied with food and other necessities.
“It would,” Alator agrees, his gaze unwavering.
Right. Seems like Merlin has to reconsider how these negotiations are going to go.
“Very well,” he says, already shuffling ideas around and trying to gauge where to find Arthur. “Get settled in, and I’ll see you in the council chambers in an hour.”
In the end, the whole matter is resolved more easily than he feared.
It becomes obvious—at least once he knows to look for it—that all of the five present kingdoms are desperate to secure their treaties with Camelot. Especially Annis, Bayard, Rodor, and Godwin readily agree to adopt Camelot’s policies on magic, in exchange for the guarantee that Camelot, and the other allied kingdoms, will support them in the case of war.
Alined is clearly reluctant, but Merlin refuses to address his people in any capacity—to stay or to not revolt against the crown—if Deorham doesn’t sign. Combined with the pressure of needing the treaties and Camelot’s alliance due to the trade routes, in particular, Alined still caves remarkably fast.
A bigger issue is the recognition of Arthur and Merlin as the only rightful rulers of Albion, of course. While all of them have apparently heard of the prophecy in one way or another, there’s an unmistakable, lasting suspicion. Even the reassurances from Iseldir, Alator, and the others can’t dispel the wariness, not that Merlin expected differently.
He has enough experience to know how desperately royals cling to their power.
There’s not much he can actually do about it though; it’s not like he has never tried to evade all the responsibility and expectations himself, and he doubts that asking nicely would do the trick.
As much as the belief in their destiny has spread among the magical community over the last year, most sorcerers he’s met are still stubborn. Not to mention that he can’t blame them for refusing to respect the very same people who persecuted them more or less manically for years.
When he and Arthur talk about it the evening before the talks are over, Arthur merely gestures dismissively, an amused smile on his face. “Don’t get me wrong, I understand why it bothers them. But they’ll just have to come to the same conclusion as I—there are people who will always view you more highly, and it’s their right, considering how all of us have treated them for the longest time.”
He has a point, but Merlin still thinks that it’s ridiculous, and makes sure that Arthur trips over his own feet when he smirks at Merlin’s grumbling.
With most of the issues resolved, the last day is supposed to only entail the official signing of the contracts and the final feast.
Apparently, Alined cannot take being side-lined any better than he could all those years ago. When they’re all still sitting around the round table, the scrolls signed and sealed at the side, he clears his throat, eyes sporting a decidedly cruel glint.
“If you’ll allow me the question,” he drawls, looking between Arthur and Merlin. “Considering that at least those associated with sorcery fall under your jurisdiction, do you plan to do something about that mad sister of yours?”
Merlin instantly tenses, and he can feel Arthur’s annoyance rising as well.
Before either of them can answer, Bayard clears his throat, his eyes serious. “While I disagree that it’s your issue alone, I did hear that she was trying to recruit mercenaries up North. She might still pose a serious threat.”
That particular piece of information is news to them, and they exchange a glance. While Morgana might have difficulties to gather serious support from the magical community, there’s still more than one kingdom at odds with Camelot, easy to notice through the absence of Lot and Odin for example.
“We’re aware that she’s still posing a threat,” Arthur says, inclining his head towards Bayard in gratitude. “We do have every intention to deal with the issue soon.”
“How?” Alined immediately asks with a nasty twist to his lips. “As far as I’m aware, she’s said to be powerful, and has taken Camelot twice already despite the supposed power of your Court Sorcerer.”
Arthur’s eyes narrow, his fingers twitching on the table, and Merlin reaches out to squeeze his leg. “She is not to be underestimated,” he agrees, smiling sharply at Alined. “The success of our plan relies on catching her unaware though, so you will have to forgive us for not sharing any details.”
Before Alined can come up with an answer, the doors to the council chambers burst open, Aithusa storming inside with excited chirps of, “Merlin! Arthur!”
Arthur groans and Merlin has to bite back laughter at how rapidly the other royals jump out of their seats. Panicked shouts of, “Dragon,” and “Guards,” are flying through the room while the Druids, Camelot’s knights, and Alator and Finna barely react.
“It’s alright!” Merlin calls over the ruckus, turning to Aithusa. “Didn’t I tell you to stay up in my chambers?”
She hangs her head before shaking it. “Merlin. Outside, and flying!”
“Excuse me for a moment,” he directs at the room at large, gesturing for her to follow.
‘Sorry about that, I think she’s getting restless,’ he adds for Arthur, only to be met with a wave of amusement.
‘Are you kidding? What better way to disperse any doubts about our power than having a dragon disrupt a meeting, and getting to reveal that it’s only one of the two my Court Sorcerer is controlling, as the sole remaining Dragonlord?’
Merlin sighs to himself, shaking his head. ‘You’re way too proud of that, considering that you’ve done nothing for it.’
‘And yet you married me,’ Arthur shoots back, and Merlin’s just glad that nobody can see his sappy grin.
It’s a week later that he and Arthur are sitting together over breakfast, though neither of them has really touched their food.
They’re set to leave for their quest of finding Morgana today, and Merlin’s stomach is tied up in knots despite all their careful planning. Arthur doesn’t seem to be much better off.
“It’s going to be alright,” Merlin says, repeating the words they’ve been saying over and over since the envoys of the other kingdoms had left and there was nothing else to distract them anymore.
Arthur hums, tapping his ring against the goblet. There’s a crease between his brows and a twist to his lips, betraying how deep in thought he is. “Do you think Gwaine’s jealous?” he suddenly asks, his eyes snapping up to meet Merlin’s, and the question catches him so much off guard that he stares at him blankly for several seconds.
“What?” he finally manages, shaking his head. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
A sigh, a shift, and then Arthur’s shoulders slump. “I think he’s been avoiding me. At first, I thought it was because of how busy we all were over the last few weeks, but it’s been going on since we got together. And I know that you two had a thing and I mean, I’d get it, I’d be mad too if I lost you to someone else but—“
“Arthur, stop,” Merlin interrupts, not knowing if he should be more exasperated or amused. “Gwaine’s been seeing Percy for weeks now. I’m not going to deny that there might’ve been more from his side than from mine—we never really talked about it, but I knew, and I think he knew that I knew. But I don’t believe that there was ever any doubt about the seriousness of the thing between us.”
“Are you sure?” Arthur asks, and Merlin wants to kiss him with how much affection is rising in his chest at the obvious concern in Arthur’s voice.
“Obviously, I can’t tell for sure, I don’t think he’d tell me. But he seems happy now, so he’s probably just busy with dragging Percy off whenever they have a moment, instead of showering you in attention,” he teases, moving out of the way when Arthur attempts to flick his forehead.
Nodding, Arthur slumps in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. The silence stretches again, but Merlin can see that there’s still something on Arthur’s mind.
“What are you worrying about now?” he asks, pushing his plate away to cross his arms on the table. “I swear, you’re getting as bad as I am.”
Arthur’s lips twitch in response, and he musters Merlin for long moments. “Are you going to tell me why you’re so reluctant to take Mordred with us?”
Ah yes, he expected that question sooner or later, no matter that he sometimes loathes how well Arthur can read him. And he probably should tell him before they leave anyway, even though the last shreds of his worries lessened to as good as nothing since their visit of the Disir.
“Under one condition,” he says because he might worry more about Arthur than anyone else, but he’s still not going to throw Mordred under the carriage.
Raising his brows, Arthur shakes his head, but he still says, “Alright then, what is it?”
“You’re not going to treat him any differently. You’ll even let him become a knight if he wants to and is good enough.”
“I thought you didn’t want him to become a knight?” Arthur quips, but he seems to catch on to how serious Merlin is, and sighs. “Alright, I promise.”
Merlin nods and takes a moment to think over his words. “There was a prophecy about Mordred and you, saying that he would be the one to kill you. I believed it for the longest time until I stayed with the Druids and learnt that the future is never set in stone.”
Glancing at Arthur, he finds him merely looking curious, a small smile on his face. “That’s why you were so late when I smuggled him out of Camelot.”
He winces but doesn’t bother denying it. At this point, he’s told Arthur nearly everything he has done, except for what he’s forgotten himself, or anything related to Mordred.
“I also nearly got him killed, after that,” he admits quietly, the guilt of it still sitting deep within his bones.
“Gods, Merlin—“
“I know. I know, okay? I never claimed that all my choices were particularly good ones,” he interrupts, twisting his fingers into his sleeves. “Anyway, he was supposed to enter an alliance with Morgana, and they had a weirdly strong bond from the start. I eventually stopped believing it to be inevitable and I’m more than convinced that it wouldn’t happen even if it was still possible to kill you but—“ he trails off and gestures helplessly. “He knows of the prophecy, and I’m worried about how well he’s going to deal with witnessing everything that’s going to go down.”
Arthur’s silent, the frown back between his brows, but he eventually gives a slow nod. “I understand why you’d worry, but have you considered that it might be a conscious choice on his part? He was very insistent to accompany us, and while his main reason might be to not let you face her alone as he said—perhaps he also wants to confront her once more. Reassure himself that destiny can’t make him do anything.”
“Why wouldn’t he tell me, then?” Merlin says, hating how much sense it makes and that it hasn’t occurred to him himself.
“Because you’re constantly worrying about him,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. “You don’t even want him to become a knight. Don’t get me wrong, I get where you’re coming from—he really is young. But he might’ve been concerned that you’d be even more against him coming along.”
Merlin groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Stop being so reasonable,” he mutters, but the glare he directs at Arthur is terribly weak.
Getting up, Arthur steps behind him and wraps his arms around Merlin’s shoulders. “You want to keep them all safe, Merlin. It’s nothing bad.”
He thinks of Mordred, and Aithusa, and the rest of his friends. Of how he’d still prefer to do the whole thing with Morgana on his own, or at least only with Arthur, and knows that there’s no use in protesting.
“Come on, we have to get ready if we don’t want to be late to our own quest,” Arthur says after a while, pressing a kiss to his temple before straightening up.
Merlin stays where he is for a few beats, just breathing, and telling himself that it’s all going to be fine.
At least he doesn’t have to worry about Arthur anymore.
Mordred, Gwaine, and Leon are already waiting in the courtyard, talking quietly among themselves, and Merlin greets them with a strained smile before taking Llamrei.
“Lancelot and Gwen will be here in a moment,” Leon says, taking one of the bags Merlin holds out for him. “Do we still need to go beyond the Forest of Ascetir, or has anything changed?”
“I still think that it’s a bad idea for Guinevere to come,” Arthur grumbles from behind him before Merlin can answer, and he rolls his eyes.
He sighs, and despite knowing that it’s useless, says, “She was her friend too, Arthur. It makes sense that she wants a chance to confront her, and considering that we agreed not to—“
“Yes, yes, I know,” Arthur interrupts him. “Doesn’t mean I’m not worrying anyway.”
“You and Lancelot both,” Merlin mutters to himself. It’s not that he doesn’t worry, he just knows which battles to pick. “And yes, as far as I can tell, Morgana’s still using Morgause’s former castle, and Kilgharrah confirmed it last night,” he directs at Leon, who’s doing a poor job at hiding his smile.
Thankfully, he’s saved from debating the composition of their group for the umpteenth time when Lancelot and Gwen join them.
“Let’s go,” Arthur says after they’ve secured the luggage and mounted their horses, and they leave the courtyard in a fast trot.
There’s a tension lying over their group that’s impossible to shake, and none of them talks much as they make their way through the Darkling Woods. Autumn’s on its way but today is still comfortably warm, and they only take a short break around midday to let the horses rest and eat something.
When they finally reach the lake that poses the hidden entrance, they’re all nervous enough for it to rub off on the horses. By now, Merlin’s mentally questioned the wisdom of their plan so many times that there’s a faint headache pounding behind his eyes.
“Right,” Arthur says, breaking the silence. “Everyone knows what they’re supposed to do?”
“You both made us repeat it so many times, I could recite it backwards in my sleep,” Gwaine pipes up, and even though it’s a poor attempt at lifting the mood, Merlin still smiles weakly.
He dismounts, securing Llamrei’s reins on a tree, and waits until Mordred’s followed suit.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Merlin asks him quietly, unable to not offer him one last chance to back out, but all he finds in Mordred’s expression is steely determination.
“I’m not going to let you walk in there on your own. I know you can’t die, and I know that you know what you’re doing. But you only have one chance to get it right and the alternate plan only works if someone’s there to get you out in case it does go wrong after all,” Mordred says, and his smile is infuriatingly patient as he holds out his hand.
Sighing, Merlin takes it. “Stubborn idiot,” he says, then turns towards the others and nods. “Wait for my—“
“We know, Merlin,” Gwen and Arthur say simultaneously, drawing laughter from the rest of the group, and he shrugs his shoulder.
“Better safe than sorry,” he says, not waiting for an answer before transporting himself and Mordred into the courtyard of the castle on the other side of the lake.
It’s empty when they land, and they’re staying still for long, tense seconds. The only downside of the transportation spell is that it’s not inconspicuous by any stretch of the imagination, and as expected, it doesn’t take long until they hear hurried steps echoing from a corridor to their right.
They move quickly to press themselves against the wall next to the doorway, and Merlin calls his magic to his fingertips. The spell to temporarily rob someone of their magic is complicated, and not the kind of magic he uses particularly often.
It’s also outlawed by Camelot’s laws, but then again, Merlin’s never been particularly bothered by the specifics. He and Arthur debated for a while if they could justify the hypocrisy, but considering that it’s the best—if not only—chance they have, short of outright killing Morgana, they eventually decided to take the risk.
He’s stopped from contemplating the ethics of what they’re about to do any further when Morgana hurries into the courtyard.
The spell rolls off his tongue, and Merlin’s just finished the incantation when Morgana whirls around, lifting her hand as soon as she spots them.
The force of his spell makes him stagger, only the wall behind him keeping him from outright stumbling, and he can feel the additional power in the middle of his chest. He wouldn’t be able to use it, but it’s there, pushing against his own as Morgana tries again and again to curse them.
Neither he nor Mordred says anything, watching as the comprehension of what they’ve done sinks in. When she turns to run, Mordred thrusts his hand out, freezing her where she stands.
Another flash of Mordred’s eyes and she’s pushed into the half-crumpled throne standing in the middle of the courtyard, vines appearing to bind her arms and legs. Only then does Mordred lift the immobilisation spell, and Merlin sends up several balls of light to alert the others.
Morgana’s glaring, but there’s fear lingering underneath it, her hands trembling where they’re balled into fists. Merlin’s chest aches with what has become of her. “Are you going to kill me?” she spits, a cruel twist to her lips. “Maybe you’ll actually be successful this time, Emrys.”
Merlin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t recoil from the venom in her voice, but he wishes. He wishes that things could’ve been different, that it wouldn’t have to end like this. That she could’ve been a part of everything they’re building instead of an obstacle so serious, the Old Religion itself decided to intervene.
It’s so easy to imagine how little change would’ve been required for their places to be reversed.
“Not if I can help it,” he says calmly, and the flash of surprise in her eyes is barely there, but Merlin still notices it.
“Now, that doesn’t sound like you. After all, you were always so very quick to turn on your friends,” she mocks, before turning her eyes on Mordred. “Seems like you’ve found another one like yourself.”
And Merlin can live with the hatred she’s throwing at him, has learnt to live with the knowledge that some of it is justified in more ways than one, but his anger still surges at her attempt to drag Mordred into it.
“It was you who has turned on her friends first, Morgana,” he says, swallowing the fury that’s trying to claw its way up his throat. “I had to choose between you and everyone I love. Not only that—between you and every single person in Camelot. I hate what I had to do to you, but if I had to choose again, I would do it all over in a heartbeat.”
“And I would kill you the second I had the chance,” Morgana snarls, her chin raised defiantly despite her position, and Merlin doesn’t doubt it for a second. “Though as I’ve heard, it doesn’t stick particularly well, does it?”
“What a remarkable observation,” Mordred says flatly before Merlin can answer, and there’s a hardness to his face that Merlin hasn’t seen before. “Especially considering that only about every single person with magic is aware of it.”
Morgana’s eyes flash, and she sneers. “Does your precious king know? Or would that make you too much of a freak to keep you around?”
“I know, Morgana,” Arthur’s voice sounds from behind them, and he steps up next to Merlin, squeezing his hand briefly before straightening up.
Leon, Gwaine, Lancelot, and Gwen are shortly behind him, and Morgana’s eyes widen. Then she throws her head back and laughs, the sound so cruel and cold that it makes the hairs on Merlin’s neck stand up.
“Is that it, then?” she asks, her face twisted into a snarl. “You’ve come to kill me, and the rest is here to watch your final act of betrayal on your own kind? You’ve taken everything from me, after all. My home, my sister, my own people, and now my magic. What more is my life in the whole equation?”
“You only have yourself to blame for the decisions you’ve made,” Gwen speaks up, stepping forward. “There could’ve been another way, but you decided to turn against all of us without ever giving us a chance.”
Morgana stills, and her fingers are twitching where they’re curled around the stone of the throne. Gwen doesn’t waver under her piercing gaze though, her own face set into hard lines and her back straight.
“You turned on me,” Morgana finally spits. “I asked you to stay with me, and you betrayed me.”
Gwen shakes her head, her eyes flashing. “After you sided with a sister that came out of nowhere, plotting not only to take your revenge on Uther—something I might not have done myself but could’ve understood—but innocent people, Morgana. What has Arthur ever done to you? Or the civilians you decided to kill?”
“Arthur’s never cared about sorcerers until his bedwarmer turned out to be one,” Morgana instantly shoots back, her eyes flicking over to Arthur and Merlin as if waiting for one of them to rise to the bait.
“He helped to save me,” Mordred says, his voice harsh and unforgiving. “Between the two of us, I think I would’ve had more of a reason to judge him without giving him a chance. Yet I am the one living in Camelot, while you’re still clinging to your hatred that has lost any ground to stand on.”
Morgana’s jaw clenches, and Merlin’s once again overwhelmed by pity. It’s not that he doesn’t understand some of it, that he can’t sympathize with being scared and alone and feeling cheated by the world. How it’s sometimes easier to turn your back on everyone before they’ll get the chance to turn their back on you.
“The throne should be mine,” she finally says, turning her eyes on Arthur once more.
Gwen’s obviously not done though, regardless of how clearly Morgana doesn’t want to speak to her. “And your desire for what, power? It was so big that you would’ve seen me killed, or banished from my home because you thought I might take it from you? You were my friend, Morgana. And you betrayed me first, so don’t you dare twist this story to fit your sorry delusions full of self-pity and self-righteousness.”
Even Merlin’s taken aback at the venom in her words, and the following silence is only broken when Gwen shakes her head, turning away. “I’m done here,” she says, sparing one last glance at Morgana. “I have nothing more to say to you.”
Morgana’s unmoving, her face blank, and Merlin jumps when Gwaine suddenly speaks up. “Not to rain on your parade, but the throne wouldn’t have been yours anyway. You’re not only younger but also an illegitimate child, which negates your claim.”
There’s a collective sigh running through their group, but it snaps Morgana out of it, and she snarls. “Not if I finally kill him.”
And Merlin—Merlin’s tired, and his nerves are on edge, and the pettiness and impossibility to resolve this are wearing on him. Arthur’s face is set into steel at his side, but he can feel the tension and agitation pulsing through their link like he’s shouting it from the rooftops. It’s enough to snap the last remains of his patience.
“You still don’t have a claim. Not anymore,” he says, and he can hear how cold his own voice sounds. “By the laws of the Old Religion, which are now accepted in Camelot, I am the next in line. And as you’ve so kindly pointed out, death doesn’t stick particularly well for me, which means you do not have a chance to become Camelot’s queen. You have barely anything to offer to potential allies, whether those with magic or from the surrounding kingdoms of Camelot, and you have no cause to keep fighting but for your own hatred and bitterness. It’s over, Morgana.”
She stares at him, her lips twisting like she’s itching to test out how well death sticks to him right here, and her voice is low and shaking when she taunts, “So why don’t you just kill me then? As you said, there’s nothing else for me.”
“There could be,” Arthur says, his face giving nothing away. “We’re not here to kill you, but to make you an offer.”
“An offer,” Morgana echoes after a beat, incredulity etched into every line of her face.
“You will get the estate of Tintagel with free reign over the land. You get to keep your magic, your autonomy, and a yearly allowance that will leave you to live a comfortable life until the estate brings in enough on its own,” Arthur says, and there’s a trickle of warmth bleeding into his voice that makes Merlin’s chest ache.
For the first time, Morgana’s mask wavers, obvious shock shining in her eyes. Merlin knows that she must remember that Tintagel was Arthur’s mothers’ home, that she must be aware of the magnitude of meaning behind this offer. And Merlin prays, prays that she’ll have only the tiniest sliver of who she used to be left within herself to not throw it back into Arthur’s face.
Time seems to stretch as her eyes wander over their group, her jaw working. “And in return?” she finally asks, and Merlin doesn’t know if it’s wishful thinking, or if some of the bitterness has left her tone.
Arthur nods, straightening the barest amount. “You will swear an oath on your life and magic to cease any and all conspiration and attacks against Camelot. Neither you nor anyone on your word is to attack the kingdom or any of its citizens or allies. There will be knights living on your estate for the first few years to ensure you adhere to Camelot’s laws, and you’re to treat the people under your care well.”
Merlin watches her closely as the words sink in, and he can see the conflict warring on her face, the search for a loophole she could use. He’s confident that between all of them, they’ve made it as foolproof as humanely possible.
“You know what is said about us,” he says quietly when she hasn’t answered after what feels like minutes. “The prophecies spoke of me as your doom. And I never wanted to, not now and not in the past, but if you ever attack one of those close to me again, with or without this oath, I swear to the goddess, I will kill you without any hesitation.”
The truth of the words rings through the courtyard, and there’s nausea welling up within him at how much he means them; at the fear that’s showing on her face again.
“It’s not an offer,” she finally says, the mocking mask slipping back into place. “It’s blackmail. Whatever would your people say if they knew?”
Arthur smiles, mirthless and cold. “They would thank me for sparing them a queen that would kill them where they stand and burn their crops.”
There’s the faintest wince flashing over her face, and her eyes flick to the side, avoiding to look at any of them.
“Morgana,” Leon suddenly says, stepping forward. “Take it.”
She stares at Leon, and then, finally, she nods. It’s short and sharp, reluctance and anger radiating off of her, but she also says, “Alright,” and an immeasurable weight lifts from Merlin’s shoulders.
“To swear a magical oath, I do need my magic back,” she says with a faint smirk when nobody moves, relief rendering all of them frozen, and it reminds Merlin so much of who she used to be that his throat tightens.
“I’m aware,” he still manages, glad when his voice doesn’t waver. He nods at Arthur who walks over to her, unsheathing his sword and touching it against her neck. His hands don’t shake, his expression like polished marble again, and Merlin knows how much he loathes doing this.
Ignoring the sliver of guilt, he takes a deep breath and meets Morgana’s eyes. “The blade at your neck was forged in a dragon’s breath. I’m sure you’re aware of what that means.”
Her eyes widen again, and she gives the faintest nod in response.
All of them tense when Merlin speaks the spell to release her magic back to her, watching as she stiffens and takes a deep breath.
Her fingers twitch, the vines binding her falling away, and she glances at Arthur. “Will you allow me to stand, or do you want me to grovel in gratitude?”
Arthur doesn’t answer, merely gestures for her to get up, and Merlin crosses the distance between them, holding his hand out.
She hesitates once more, staring at his hand as if it’s going to bite her after all, but then she grasps his wrist in a tight grip, a challenge clear in her eyes.
Merlin meets her gaze steadily and recalls the words he’s remembered better than anything else in his life. “Will you, Morgana Pendragon, swear on your life and magic to cease any and all acts of violence, manipulation, and further attacks against Camelot and Albion, her people and allies, both on your own and the instigation or support of others to do so?”
A huff of breath slips past her lips, and her jaw clenches before she says, “I swear it on my life and magic.”
“Will you adhere to Camelot’s laws on life and magic, and govern the people in your care with responsibility and fairness?”
“I swear it on my life and magic,” she says, the answer falling from her lips more easily.
“So be it,” Merlin says, watching as golden and silver tendrils of magic rise from where their hands are joined, winding around their wrists and flaring brightly before sinking into their skin.
The similarity to the magic of the Disir when they bestowed immortality on Arthur isn’t lost on Merlin, and it brings back their insistence that they would not fail.
He’s pulled out of the memory when Morgana snatches her hand back, instantly taking a step away. “Are you going to accompany me to Tintagel, or am I allowed to move on my own?” she says, and her voice is wavering, her hands shaking where they’re clenching and unclenching at her sides.
“Lancelot, Gwaine, and I are going to accompany you,” Gwen says from behind Merlin, and he whirls around at her words, his heart missing a beat at the surprise of hearing this.
“Are you sure?” Arthur says, at least confirming that he didn’t know about this either.
Lancelot smiles, wrapping an arm around Gwen’s shoulder. “Well, someone has to, and you did say you’d prefer it if one of us were there for the first few months. Gwaine insisted, and Percy will join us once you return to Camelot.”
It’s true, they just hadn’t dared to plan so far ahead. Merlin’s suspecting that Gwen has a hand in this, and the longer he’s thinking about it, the less shocked he is. She’s currently staring at Morgana with a challenge in her eyes as if daring her to say anything about it.
He’s not sure that any of their relationships with Morgana can be salvaged, least of all his own, but he’s wishing desperately that there might be the slightest glimmer of hope.
More of a shock is Gwaine though, and Merlin turns his eyes on him until he looks up. There’s an apology there, and Merlin tilts his head to the side of the courtyard when he hears Arthur, Lancelot, and Gwen start talking about the logistics, with the occasional snide remark from Morgana.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks Gwaine once they’re out of earshot, and the answering smile is sad around the edges.
Gwaine shrugs, staring back at the group around Morgana. “Don’t get me wrong,” he starts, clearly measuring his words. “I’m happy for you and Arthur, and I’m happy with Percy. But I think it will be good for me to have—some time away from it. It will only be for three months before we’re back.”
There’s a lump forming in Merlin’s throat, half sadness for seeing Gwaine go, half guilt for not noticing sooner.
“Stop that,” Gwaine says, shoving him lightly. “It’s not your fault, and I always knew what I was getting myself into. And I really am happy, I just want to make sure that it’s going to stick.”
Merlin’s answering smile is probably on the watery side, but he nods, pulling Gwaine into a hug. “I’m sorry,” he whispers despite Gwaine’s words. “Don’t let her push you around too much, yeah?”
Gwaine laughs and ruffles his hair, his cheerful grin firmly back in place. “You know me.”
When they walk back over to the group, Morgana’s standing off to one side, watching Gwen with a distracted frown on her face, while Arthur’s standing to the other, arms crossed tightly over his chest and his face still so very impenetrable.
Merlin stops next to Leon, leaning close. “Can you and Mordred take Llamrei and Hengroen back to Camelot? Morgana can take one of the other horses.”
Leon raises a brow but nods after mustering Merlin for a moment. “You’re not going to tell me what you’re planning?”
Merlin only smiles. “We won’t be long.”
If that was something he did, Leon would probably roll his eyes. As it is, he merely huffs, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder. “Take care of him.”
Merlin nods, and makes a quick round to say his goodbyes to Gwen and Lancelot, lets Mordred know, and then steps up next to Arthur. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. I want to show you something.’
A muscle in Arthur’s jaw jumps, but then his shoulders slump, and he raises his brows at Merlin. ‘And where do you plan to go?’
‘It’s a surprise,’ Merlin says with a smile, holding out his hand for Arthur to take.
The fact that Arthur doesn’t hesitate dispels some of the lingering tightness in Merlin’s chest, though he does spare another glance for Morgana before focusing on the destination in his mind.
They appear on the beach of Ynys Gybi, the wind blowing the smell of sand and salt into their faces and whipping their hair around.
It’s a testament to how surprised Arthur must be that he doesn’t complain about the feeling of the transportation spell. He stares around them in wonder, his gaze lingering on the half-crumpled castle on the cliff behind them.
“This is where I stayed for most of the time I was away from Camelot,” Merlin says softly, pointing towards the huts and tents at the base of the castle. “It’s called Ynys Gybi, or the Holy Island. There’s a myriad of wards and protective charms around it, and it’s been a safe haven for sorcerers for the last twenty years.”
Arthur gives a slow nod, and Merlin watches as the tension slowly flees from his shoulders, the lines of his face softening from king to man. “It’s beautiful.”
“Come on, let’s walk a bit,” he says, taking Arthur’s hand and pulling him along.
They walk in silence for a while, the early autumn sun shining down on them. Merlin’s unable to tear his eyes away from Arthur for long, the way he seems to shine golden in the light, his eyes bright and faintly crinkled at the corners.
“Do you think we did the right thing?” Arthur finally asks, pulling them to a halt, and Merlin sighs.
Mulling over his words, he eventually shrugs. “Considering the circumstances, yes. There might be many things we could’ve done differently in the past. You, me, Morgana. But there’s no use in worrying over what-ifs. Maybe not everything will resolve into a happily-ever-after, and it’s not a magical solution to all the things that went wrong between her and all of us—but yes, I think we did the right thing.”
Arthur’s watching him, his eyes so very soft, and he reaches up to brush his thumb over Merlin’s jaw. “I just wish…” he starts, then shakes his head.
“Yeah, me too,” he says quietly, leaning against Arthur’s side and watching the waves crash against the rocky shore.
Visibly shaking himself, Arthur bumps their heads together. “For what it’s worth, you’re now stuck with me for good.”
Merlin grins, the rush of affection surging through him nearly choking him. “While that might be the case, do you know what’s also true?”
Arthur hums, raising his brows at him while his lips twitch with barely concealed laughter.
“You’re not getting rid of me anytime soon either.”
A quiet huff of laughter breaks out of Arthur, and the final remains of tension slip away from him. Wrapping an arm around Merlin’s shoulder and pulling his head against his neck, he says, “I think I’m alright with that.”
Merlin whole-heartedly agrees. Whatever the future stretching out in front of them has in store, he thinks they will be just fine. One way or another.
The End.