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There is something mystical, about the Scottish Highlands. Something magical, about the rolling hills, the reaching mountains, the lochs that stretch far into the distance. Something enchanting, about the deer grass that is tinted orange in autumn, about the highland cattle grazing the fields next to the moors, about the centuries’ old village down the winding road. Arthur can’t feel the magic that runs through the burns, that blooms with every thistle and heather in spring, that whispers with every gust of wind — not the way Merlin can, but that doesn’t mean he can’t tell it’s there, anyway.
He had never been this far north, before he woke up on the shore of Avalon a few years ago; he hadn’t even realised there was anything worth visiting, anything at all, this far north. But oh is it worth it, this wonderful land. It is beautiful and quiet, peaceful and undisturbed in a way Camelot never was and the cities of this time could never hope to be. The little farm is far from the nearest house, farther yet from the nearest shop and village, but Arthur doesn’t mind. He lived his whole life, before, at the heart of it all. He quite likes living at the outskirts, now, away from the fuss and restlessness of civilisation, away from the lights and the noise.
It’s quiet, out here. No sounds of hooves on cobbled streets, of blacksmiths and the clang of metal, of vendors yelling out their prices and wares. Out here, the only sounds are those coming from the clicking of the keyboard of Arthur’s laptop, the pipes groaning with effort, the shower running in the bathroom, and the draft whistling as it pushes through the wooden casing of the windows. Arthur should probably get the windows changed, stop the wind and the cold creeping through the casing and the glass, but it’s not like they aren’t used to it. There was no such thing as triple glazing, back in Camelot. And besides, it reminds him of home, the whining of the wind, the flickering of the flames in the hearth when they light a fire in the living room. Sometimes, when he looks out through the window at the stretching fields and the tall mountains and the white sheep that walk across them, he can pretend over fifteen centuries haven’t passed, that Morgana never betrayed him and that he never failed her, that Camlann never happened. He can pretend that Camelot still stands tall and proud, ruled by someone fairer than him, by someone without a past tainted with bloodshed, by someone who is not his father’s son. He can pretend that this small, cozy farm they run didn’t take death and betrayal and centuries to build.
He can pretend it’s just Merlin and him, by choice, a day’s ride outside the border of Camelot, where magic is legal and no one knows Arthur is destined to be the Once and Future King, where a week by horse will take them home, would they choose to return.
But they’re not, and there is nothing to return to. So they move on, and they live, because there is nothing else to do.
And Arthur is grateful, for this second chance, even when his loved ones aren’t here to share it with him. Even when the world is new and different and so much larger than that which he used to call home. Even when it means filling out government forms about finances and taxes on a clunky laptop while Merlin mucks out the stables — because despite having lived through every technological revolution, Merlin relies on Arthur to do everything that has anything to do with IT. And despite only having been in this century for a couple of years, Arthur doesn’t mind doing it. Especially when it reminds him of what it means, that he gets to keep track of how many sheep they have every season, how many new lambs are born in spring, how much fodder the cows and the horse consume every week.
He misses Camelot, and the people he left behind, yes. But he’s grateful, for this second chance, for a chance to build a home in a world that doesn’t expect him to carry the weight of it on his shoulders.
The door to his room opens. The old iron hinges squeak, the wooden floor creaks, and the bedsprings groan when Merlin throws himself onto the bed, face first.
Merlin grumbles. “I’m exhausted,” he says. It’s muffled by Arthur’s pillow.
“You got to sleep in this morning,” Arthur says, not turning his head to look away from the screen in front of him.
“Hey, you’re not the one who had to go into town and shop and then make dinner and muck out the stables,” Merlin retorts, voice much more audible.
Arthur only gestures to the computer in front of him and Merlin huffs out a breath.
“Lady is doing good. She’s eating and drinking normally again,” Merlin says after a moment of silence, the only sounds the clicking of the keyboard and the draft pushing through the window.
Arthur hums, the lump of anxiety that had lodged itself in his chest when their mare stopped eating and started losing weight three weights ago finally loosening. He’s already lost one bossy, dark haired girl that he pretended he couldn’t stand; he’s not sure he could lose another. “What a shame,” he says, because he knows Merlin knows he means the opposite.
When Merlin and he had just taken over the farm and the handful of sheep that came with it, they gratefully accepted the highland cattle — or hairy coos, as Merlin insists they’re called up here — that their closest neighbour offered them. The woman was turning too old to care for them, she said. Merlin and Arthur had been thinking about adding a few more animals, and what more fitting than the famous highland cattle?
“Do you think we should name her High Priestess?” Arthur asked, when they finally led the two cows onto their pasture.
Merlin punched him in the arm. “You can’t name a cow after Morgana, Arthur. That’s not very nice.”
“Why not?” Arthur said. “I think it’s fitting.” He paused. “Might be a little rude to the cow, though, don’t you think?”
Merlin rolled his eyes at him, but didn’t say anything three weeks later when Arthur declared that their new, raven mare with striking green eyes and an attitude was to be named Lady of the Court, because even after a thousand years he still reads Arthur like an open book.
Merlin hums, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s pillow. “I’m glad she’s okay,” he mumbles, voice drowsy and low.
“Yeah,” Arthur say, quietly. “Me too.”
He isn’t surprised when he finally closes the laptop about half an hour later and finds Merlin asleep. Lady’s condition has been taxing for them both, and Merlin has looked worse for wear the past few weeks, so Arthur doesn’t wake him up. Instead, he stands up and stretches, tossing the warm quilt he keeps at the end of his bed over Merlin, and then he heads for the bathroom. He brushes his teeth and spits in the white porcelain sink and watches the foam swirl down the drain and listens to the pipes groan. He washes his face and takes out his contacts, and stares at his reflection for a moment. It’s distorted, just the slightest, like two identical images not quite fully overlapping. It’s not terribly bad, per se, and Arthur is by no means unable to see without his contacts or glasses, but it’s startlingly apparent and he can’t fathom how he never noticed, before. How he lived for so many years not knowing just how discernible and clear every green leaf is on the tree, how visible the patterns in the stoneworks of their house, how vivid every single strand of grass. How beautiful the night sky truly is, with its billion twinkling lights.
He wonders, sometimes, what details he missed, before. If there were hidden patterns in the castle floor, if there were shapes and designs in the sleeves of Guinevere’s dresses, what the view from the castle really looked like, if Morgana had their father’s eyes.
He tries not to dwell on it.
He grabs his dark-framed glasses from the edge of the sink and puts them on. The two images in the reflection converge, and the world is clear again.
Merlin is still asleep when he returns to his bedroom, so he flicks off the ceiling light and lights the candles on his bedside table. He hasn’t gotten around to buying a bedside lamp yet, but he can’t say he’s putting a lot of effort into the task; it feels like home, like Camelot, to read by candle light.
The bed creaks underneath him when he sits down against the headrest and the wind whines as it passes through the window.
He’s read almost ten pages by the time Merlin snuffles and moves — which is good, by Arthur’s standards. He’s not quite fluent in New English yet, but it’s passable. Most people just think he has a ridiculously thick accent, which Arthur doesn’t mind. He prefers when Merlin does the talking at the market or in town, anyway; Arthur doesn’t understand enough about this world not to make a fool of himself, but he’s getting there.
Merlin mumbles something incoherent.
“What’s that?” Arthur asks, not looking away from his book.
“You’re cute, in glasses,” Merlin mumbles, voice deep and sleepy and a little slurred. He makes a noise. “You’re always cute-“ he yawns, “but especially when glasses.”
Arthur’s heart thuds behind his ribs. “Thanks,” he says, resting the book against his chest as he looks down at Merlin, who is staring up at him with bleary and happy eyes. “You’re cuter when I don’t wear them,” he says, just to be the prat Merlin always accuses him of being.
It takes a while for Merlin’s sleep-addled brain to catch up, but when it does, he pouts and attempts to glare at Arthur. It’s only semi-successful. “Ass.”
Arthur grins at him and tousles his hair.
Merlin grabs his wrist when Arthur goes to pull away, keeping his fingers tangled in Merlin’s dark hair. Merlin hums and closes his eyes, and there is nothing Arthur can do but to keep his fingers in Merlin’s hair, to thread them carefully through his curls. Arthur isn't going to complain.
It took a year and three quick internet searches on the LGBTQ community for Arthur to realise that what he feels for Merlin probably isn’t entirely platonic. Though he thinks the feelings might be returned, he doesn’t know how to ask, doesn’t know how to show how he feels. So he threads his fingers through Merlin’s hair and hopes it’s enough.
“Are you planning on going back to your own room anytime soon?” Arthur asks after another few moments and another few pages.
Merlin doesn’t even bother hiding his grin in the pillow. “Nah,” he says.
Arthur chuckles. “Your bed really isn’t that much more uncomfortable than mine. I’ve tried it,” he says, running his hand through Merlin’s hair one last time before he reaches to grab his bookmark.
Merlin hums. “No,” he agrees.
Arthur places the book on the bedside table and turns to look at him.
“But it doesn’t have you in it.”
Arthur raises his eyebrows in surprise. And then he laughs.
“Smooth,” he says, taking off his glasses and placing them on top of his book. The light of the candles distorts and stretches for a moment, before he blows them out.
He doesn’t bother getting under the covers; instead, he scoots down until he’s lying next to Merlin underneath the quilted blanket.
“You’re hogging the pillow,” he says. Because any wooing skills he may have possessed — how he got Gwen to marry him he’ll never understand, how he got so lucky — was apparently left in the lake.
But Merlin has always read him like an open book, so he only rolls his eyes and scoots closer, tucking the pillow underneath Arthur’s head, and rests his own head on Arthur’s shoulder.
“Better, dollophead?”
Arthur hums, snakes his arm under Merlin’s shoulder, and pulls him a little closer. “Yeah. Much better.”
Merlin presses his smile into Arthur’s chest and the wind whistles. A sliver of moonlight shines through the window, and Arthur may not feel the magic in the Scottish mountains, moving through the lochs and in the air, running through Merlin’s veins. But that doesn’t mean he can’t tell it’s there, anyway.