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Arthur was exhausted enough that he threw himself face down onto his bed fully clothed, the fire already burning low. He had been working tirelessly since becoming regent to make sure his people would have a good Yule—he needed to reassure them as much as himself—visiting the town despite the cold, taking the people wood for their fires to keep them warm, handing out bundles of flowers he’d had Merlin collect, dry, and bind as small tokens of goodwill. Merlin, of course, had been following him around town, carrying the basket, making conversation with the people in the lower town he knew better than Arthur ever would, no matter how the prince might try. Arthur had tried very hard not to resent that fact, but he had always had a little of his father’s temper, and it had resulted in Arthur snapping at Merlin more than once out of jealousy he would not admit to.
Merlin bore it the way he always did: with sarcasm and insults given with such fondness—which was easy to miss if one didn’t know Merlin well. Arthur counted himself among those who did, and though he would never admit as much to Merlin, he was grateful for that fact.
Despite the late hour, Arthur’s manservant did not seem any the worse for wear, keeping his cheerful countenance. "This won't do at all, sire."
"Merlin, I don't believe it's down to a servant to tell me what is acceptable," Arthur said into the pillow, hoping his voice was suitably chastising.
"It is my business to see you properly looked after."
"So put another blanket on and leave me alone."
"No."
Arthur was in no mood for Merlin’s insubordination. "Just leave me alone then."
"Nope."
"You're sacked," he grumbled, though it was half-hearted.
"Also no."
Arthur pushed up on his hands then, raising his head from being muffled in finery. "You can't tell me I can't sack you! You're the most bloody insolent prick I've had the misfortune to employ," he snapped, feeling marginally better before throwing himself back down. He didn’t need to see Merlin to know what his face looked like—it certainly wasn’t full of apology or worry for his livelihood, or shame for answering back so blatantly. Arthur did not think it ever would be, nor did he want it to.
"Perhaps I am," Merlin said thoughtfully, "but it's Yuletide tomorrow."
"Don't remind me."
"I have a gift for you, sire."
"Can it wait?" Arthur asked. He knew he sounded like a spoiled child, especially when he also knew how little time or money Merlin had, so getting the prince a gift was a gesture far more meaningful than the usual petty trinkets given by nobles each time they visited to try to buy favour. Merlin giving a gift to him was something else entirely, and Arthur dared not think on it for too long.
"Not at all," Merlin said briskly, already getting Arthur’s warmer jacket from the wardrobe. Arthur groaned; not only did he have to leave his warm rooms again, he would apparently be leaving the castle too. He made protesting noises as he climbed back out of bed, pulled on his boots. "Do you trust me, sire?" Merlin asked as he held up the jacket for Arthur to put on.
"Absolutely not. You've been a manservant for four years and still spill wine." Arthur gave him a small smile, a truce of sorts for snapping at him—assuming Merlin was joking as he often was.
"This is important, Arthur." The prince looked up then, catching the seriousness in his tone—and something else he could not name. He had heard it underpinning Merlin’s words before, and it always compelled him. It spoke of fealty, of visions of the golden future Merlin always told Arthur he would bring. "Do you trust me?" Merlin pressed.
"With my life,” Arthur said with the same sincerity Merlin showed. It was one of those rare moments where the bond between them was laid bare, where their words were simple and truly honest, never to be repeated and often to be laughed off later—but that was later.
"Then come with me."
Arthur crossed the room and slid his arms into the jacket Merlin still held—taking a moment to stretch his stiff limbs, roll his tense shoulders. "Come on, we can't be late," Merlin needled, picking up his own far more threadbare jacket, a faded brown coat that looked even more forlorn beside the rich Pendragon-red velvet of Arthur’s.
"For what? It's already nightfall.”
"Your gift."
"You can't be late for a gift."
"You certainly can."
"How?"
"You'll see."
Arthur rolled his eyes, had never been a fan of people who were not direct in their words, dealt with too much of it from lords on the council day after day. It was only because it was Merlin he allowed it now. Arthur suppressed a groan when Merlin led him to horses he had already had tacked up.
"Merlin, it's late. I'm to be up early tomorrow to prepare. Which means you have to be up even earlier,” he said in what he thought was a very reasonable tone for a man who had been denied his bed and dragged out into the cold.
"It's worth it," Merlin promised.
"You keep saying that." Irritation crept into Arthur’s voice then, even as he mounted Hengroen.
"It is!"
"I’ll believe it when I see it,” Arthur’s usual derision was back. Merlin just grinned—one of those bright smiles that seemed to take over his whole face—before urging his own mare out into the cold night. Arthur followed on his destrier. Once they had left the courtyard and he could let Hengroen have his head and break into a canter, Arthur was almost glad to ride after days of duty, despite having wanted his bed before.
Merlin led him deep into the forest, eventually stopping in a clearing Arthur felt he should know, having grown up exploring these woods any opportunity he got, often much to the despair of his nursemaids and, later, the knights tasked with minding him. He had no recollection of this place though, the flowers still in bloom despite the bare trees, a circle of ancient-looking stones standing in a silent vigil around the perimeter. Druidic, he realised, though there was no flare of fear, or anger, within him. This was a place of peace, of healing, and—yes—of magic.
"This is all a bit weird, Merlin," he said as lightly as he could, trying to calm his sudden nerves. The question was, how did Merlin know about this place?
"I thought you trusted me."
"You know I do," he sighed.
"Then wait here." Merlin smiled, scrambling off his horse with all of his usual lack of grace.
"Do I need to close my eyes?" A smirk played at Arthur’s lips; watching Merlin stumble was all too familiar and put him more at ease in this eerie, beautiful place.
"No. Just wait."
"Where are you going?" Arthur’s voice was indignant as Merlin made to leave the stone circle and head into the undergrowth, not wanting to be left here alone. He shook off that thought immediately: he was a knight, more than capable of protecting himself. Besides, the buzz against his skin he somehow knew was some ancient magic did not feel as if it wished him ill, despite what his father might say about it.
"To get your present!"
"You've hidden it out in the woods? Playing the long game if you're betraying me to bandits now," Arthur laughed, sure he must be imagining the way he felt the magic here swell at the sound.
"Oh, come on."
"Just checking."
Merlin gave him another of those joyful grins before disappearing out of sight.
Arthur paced around the clearing, thinking of the gift he had bought for Merlin and planned to give to him tomorrow. He had gone to the tailor himself, requested a fur-lined velvet cloak, just the same as his knights wore, only in a deep navy instead of the Pendragon red, decorated with silver leaves around the hood and collar instead of the embroidered dragon crest. He had gone back personally to pick it up, had hidden it in the bottom of his wardrobe—thinking it a beautiful thing, and likely far too much for a servant—but he did not care. He found himself half planning what he might say, wondering for a wild moment what it would be like to confess to Merlin the dreams he’d had about them both, the temptation he felt prickling at his skin whenever Merlin dressed (or un dressed) him, though he dared not say a word that could change the friendship they had built on strange, intimate moments, which Arthur treasured more dearly than Merlin could ever know. He sighed, watching his breath in the cold air and listening to the horses pawing the ground where they were tied just outside the clearing, pleased with the fresh grass that somehow grew there in the dead of winter.
Arthur whipped around as soon as he heard movement nearby—expecting Merlin, not quite catching his scowl before it flitted across his face—which wasn't very princely behaviour but Arthur didn’t care; it was not as if the old man before him had ever shown him any manners.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur demanded, less than pleased to see the man who called himself Dragoon, the very picture of a sorcerer with his robe and long white hair and beard, kept neat somehow—magic, probably— even from wherever it was he lived. Despite the sorcerer’s lack of manners and refusal to give a straight answer, Arthur had never felt threatened by him. He could feel the thrum of power emanating from Dragoon, believing wholeheartedly he was as powerful as he claimed, but that power had never felt as if it was something meant for evil, even when this man—whose very existence was a crime—had stood in the centre of Camelot.
"You're expecting me, Arthur Pendragon,” came the scratchy voice with more than a hint of amusement at Arthur’s petulance.
"I wasn't, but here you are. Where is Merlin?"
"Here I am, indeed. Merlin is running errands for me. A useless servant he may be—oh yes, young Pendragon, I know what you say about him—he is skilled at finding the rarest herbs, and his young fingers are all the better for pulling them from the earth.” Dragoon waved curled, arthritic fingers in Arthur’s face to demonstrate.
"I suppose you have my gift," Arthur sighed, managing not to roll his eyes.
"Indeed I do. But first, I must ask something from you."
"Oh, here we go. What is it this time? A new shack in the woods? A donkey?" Arthur’s voice oozed rancour. Dragoon ignored his mockery, continued as if Arthur had not spoken.
"A promise—that what you see here stays in your heart and your mind alone. You must speak of it to no other, for good or for ill. Not your servant, not your father, not your wife or lovers in years to come."
Arthur was stunned into silence, considering. "Very well," he said carefully, not sure what to make of it. “You have my word, as a knight and a man of honour.”
The old man grinned, raising his arms and shaking his long sleeves down his wrists to expose his gnarled hands. "Close your eyes, my lord." The title from Dragoon’s mouth sounded much the way it did from Merlin’s; heavy with sarcasm.
"I'm not a child," Arthur snapped, but did as he was bid. He heard nothing, but he could feel the magic rising around them in the stone circle again, warming his skin—though it was only now that goosebumps arose on his arms.
"Arthur, my darling boy." A new voice came, unfamiliar to him.
Arthur opened his eyes then, immediately feeling like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach and the world had tilted on its axis. He recognised the woman standing before him even though he had never seen her before. He saw his own golden hair, his own deep blue eyes looking back at him. "I … Mother? Is that you?"
"Yes." Ygraine smiled, stepping forward with her arms extended.
Arthur glanced at the old man who was standing quietly, respectfully for once. He knew he should be angry at Merlin for organising magic, of all things, as a gift to the prince regent of Camelot. He wasn't, though. He was captivated by his mother—the woman he had known his whole life yet had never known at all. The life she lived had been hidden, kept behind locked doors and in drawers with keys, like a dirty little secret.
A shiver ran down Arthur’s spine as he remembered what had happened when, at ten, he had uncovered the one portrait Uther kept, a small painting he had stared at for a full hour before his father found him. The cold anger had been unlike anything he'd ever seen from Uther before, the spanking without a single word terrible. Even worse had been the way his father had sought him in his chambers later that evening and embraced him for the first time in as long as Arthur could remember, telling Arthur he was all he had left of Ygraine and that was enough—but that Arthur was never to go looking for anything of hers again.
Arthur had cried himself to sleep after that, missing the soft touch of the mother he'd seen a picture of for the first time, and the strong embrace of his father.
It was the last time he'd ever cried, until he felt the lump in his throat and the hot tears on his cheeks here on a freezing December night in a druidic circle.
"You're ..." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. This is terribly unbecoming for the prince of Camelot," he whispered, hearing his father.
"Hush. I'm here," she said softly as she embraced him. Arthur had to bend down to hold her. She was cold, Arthur did not like to think about why, but found he did not care in this moment. "Now, and always."
"How do I—how do I rule when that time comes, mama?" He asked quietly, knew without having to think about it that was what he would call her. "How do I become a good king for my people? They loved you. That’s all Gaius would ever tell me."
"They love you too, Arthur. I'm so proud of you. You are a just and kind man … all you must do to be a good king is stay true to your heart."
He nodded, fighting the words out through the lump in his throat. "And if … what if I don't wish to marry, or I don't wish the duty of an heir. How does one bear it?"
"All I have ever wanted for you is happiness."
Arthur was too choked to speak for a long moment. "I wish so much I had the words to tell you all I want to, but I fear our time is short."
"You may not always be able to see me, but I am always with you Arthur. I'm always listening."
"Do you mean that? Or is it what the illusion is told to say?" he asked sadly.
"This is no illusion. The veil is thin in this place, and I was called to you in good faith by power absolute."
He nodded again, tightly. "Am I—have I been enough? Worthy of being called your son?"
"More than, my dear," Ygraine said with true sincerity. “You will always be my son. My precious baby boy.”
"What was your rule like? My father, before?" Arthur asked, wanting to know so much—though she began to shimmer, fade before his eyes and he looked desperately to the old man who stood respectfully quiet. "No! I need more time. Please!"
"I love you, Arthur," his mother whispered, before his arms were empty and the warmth of the surrounding magic dissipated, leaving him cold.
"I love you too,” he whispered, to nobody. Dragoon bowed slightly to Arthur when he stepped back into the circle, the most respect he had ever shown him. The old man did not speak, leaving Arthur to compose himself, for which Arthur was grateful. He stood silently for a moment, grief renewed though its pain brought with it healing—to see his mother, to speak to her, to be embraced by her: all he had ever wanted. He did not feel so unmoored, so unsure now, the world righting itself again.
"Thank you," Arthur managed to gather himself and say. "Did you—did you know her?"
"I did not. But I know many who did.”
"What was her rule like? And my father, when she loved him."
"Before her death drove him mad, Camelot was ruled in peace. Magic was not only tolerated, but welcomed. A high priestess of the Old Religion was one of your father’s chief advisors," Dragoon answered sagely.
"Could I have—what could I have done?" The self-blame was as old as Arthur himself. His father may have given awkward speeches about how he was the most precious thing and that it was magic that killed his mother, but Arthur had been able to feel the resentment behind the words. Even if Uther did not actively blame him, Arthur did.
"Nothing, young prince. Her fate was sealed before you were born. To try to take blame for Uther Pendragon's greatest crime is a path that only leads to madness and ruin." The sorcerer’s tone was warning, though it remained uncharacteristically gentle for Dragoon. Although, when he thought about it now, the way he had spoken to Arthur at their first meeting may have been uncharacteristic. Why should a sorcerer have any reason to be pleasant to the son of the man who had made hunting down and executing his kind his life’s work?
"What was she like? What did she enjoy doing, what duties did she try to get out of? Please, I need—I have nothing." Arthur did not care he was pleading as if he was still ten years old, that tears coursed down his cheeks untouched until they dripped from his chin.
"She was beautiful, kind, well-loved. As eager to be involved in the running of her kingdom as her husband.” Dragoon’s voice was patient, indulging him.
"Did she sew or wield a sword? Could she dance or sing? What did she wear on her wedding day?" Arthur was begging now, wondering where Merlin was and how long it took him to gather herbs, or how long Dragoon was making sure Arthur’s servant stayed away.
The sorcerer held up a hand. "I cannot answer every question, as much as I wish I could. Take solace in knowing that she is proud of the man you've become."
"Yes." Arthur sniffed, wiped at his face hurriedly, as if the old man hadn't seen him weep like a child, grateful now that Merlin was not here to see his weakness. "Of course. Thank you. How can I ever repay you for such a gift?"
"This is a gift, young Pendragon. There is no price."
"This is far more than a gift. A gift is a new pair of gloves, a book, armour." Arthur looked up at the sorcerer, noting how strange and unearthly he looked, that sense of familiarity still there. "Will you sit for a while?"
"No. I should go. There are many duties I must see to."
"Please. Just a moment, to tell me about you. About magic." His voice on the last word went quiet; he could barely believe what he’d said. He looked more intently into the old man's face, searching for answers.
"The prince regent of Camelot, son of the tyrant king, should not ask such insolent questions," Dragoon snapped, voice hardened again, much more akin to the Dragoon Arthur had previously met.
"If I am to be king one day soon, I wish to know about all of my people. My father has been wrong before, prideful, wrathful. Now he languishes, his mind gone. I do not want to share that fate. I do not want his bitterness and tyranny to become mine. I wish to learn and make my own decisions, and I know of no other sorcerer to ask.” The words felt thick on his tongue, mind reeling though every word spoken rang with truth.
Dragoon smiled then, spoke slowly, as if Arthur was a fool. "Magic is all around you, Arthur Pendragon."
The smile. It may have been worn by an ancient man, wizened and bearded, whom Arthur had never seen look at him with anything but a scowl until now. Everything slotted into place in Arthur’s mind’s eye. He recognised those eyes, those cheekbones, and he knew exactly how the jaw and chin beneath the long beard were shaped. The smile gave all that away; he'd recognise it anywhere. It hit him suddenly—knocking the breath from him like a physical force—the true depth of this gift given, and he surged forward, kissing the sorcerer hard and urgent.
"What do you think you're doing, young man!" Merlin yelped, panicked.
"I know it's you."
"Of course I'm me! I'm a very old man. You shouldn't be shoving your tongue down my throat! My late wife will want a word about this next,” ‘Dragoon’ muttered.
“Merlin.”
"Who's Merlin?" Merlin tried, weakly.
"Oh, I wonder ." Sarcasm dripped from Arthur’s voice as he fell into their usual banter, letting its familiarity wrap around him comfortingly in the face of Merlin and Dragoon being one and the same. "I do apologise, old man. I simply can't help myself. You see, I have a thing for wizened, ancient warlocks with a bad attitude. Simply weak at the knees when I see them."
"You dirty thing."
"Absolutely. Tell me, is everything dusty and scrawny beneath your robe?"
"Arthur!" he squawked.
Arthur smirked now there was no way Merlin could try to pass himself off as Dragoon any longer. His heart felt lighter for a moment, almost giddy, despite what Merlin having magic might mean, which Arthur decided not to think too hard about for now on top of everything else.
“Fine. Close your eyes."
"Why?" Arthur asked the way he would back in his own chambers, as if this was not the middle of the night and they were not standing in an ancient, magical stone circle.
"Just do it,” Merlin snapped, though he sounded like himself again.
"Why? Are you taking the robe off?" Arthur teased with some effort, though he turned his back.
Merlin muttered under his breath about ‘dirty young men’ before he muttered words Arthur did not understand, transforming back to his true self though he was left standing in the old man's robes, his own clothes folded over a low branch some way off where he had changed before. Arthur kept his mind as carefully blank as he could. It was part of his knights’ instincts—wounds received on the battlefield could be fought through, ignored until the battle was over.
"You can look."
Arthur turned back to see him, taking Merlin in as if it was the first time he had laid eyes on the man. Nothing had changed; Merlin was still an inch taller than him, was still too skinny, still had ears too large for his face. His blue eyes still looked like shards of crystal and his lips still drew Arthur’s eye straight away with their prominent Cupid’s bow. Merlin met his gaze, guarded but full of hope. He had asked Arthur if he trusted him, but he had trusted Arthur, bringing him here. The thought sent heat all the way through Arthur’s chest.
"Is it all right to kiss you now?" Arthur breathed, something he had wanted for a very long time, had denied himself; assuming he would have to marry a woman and sire an heir. He recalled his mother’s words, almost sure this was the right thing though the lump returned to his throat at the precious, fleeting memory.
"I—yes."
Arthur smiled, pulled him close but stopped short at the sudden thought that struck him. "Wait … which is the real you?"
"What? I'm me."
"Well, obviously you have magic. So are you really a hundred years old with a beard, or are you an awkward skinny bloke in his twenties?"
"You're so charming, sire. I see why the nobility are all vying for your hand," Merlin huffed. "This is me."
"Good. This, I like." Arthur closed the distance then to kiss him, lacking the urgency of before. “You have to admit it's more fitting for a powerful sorcerer to look like—what did you call yourself? Dragoon the Great? Not big-headed at all."
"Let’s not worry about that. Worry about kissing me again." Merlin grinned again, that beautiful, all-encompassing smile that made Arthur’s heart stutter.
"I'm not worried about kissing you. Why would I worry about that? I'm excellent at kissing, as well as everything else. You're the one walking around looking like a randy old man," Arthur laughed, trading insults and arguing even here and now, though his smile felt stretched too thin, his words just a little flat.
" You decided the old man was randy!"
"You had a look about you!"
"I did not!"
"Wouldn't have kissed you if you didn't."
"Mm, I don't believe that."
"Believe it or don’t, it makes no difference to me. What are you wearing under the fancy robes?" He knew it was crude but he hoped it might at least get a laugh from Merlin while avoiding facing the weight of his emotions.
"My underthings," Merlin answered simply, telling Arthur he was not falling for it at all.
"Are they nice?"
"Arthur."
"You didn’t answer my question."
"Arthur, stop it."
"You're the one who wanted to kiss me again!"
"Yes. But this is—I want you to want it. Not just distract yourself or gods forbid because you’re grateful and you believe you owe me."
"I do."
"Really? Or are you trying to pretend you're not upset?" Merlin’s voice was gentle; he knew Arthur too well.
"Must you always be so damned awkward?” Arthur’s voice rose though he was not really angry, certainly not at Merlin who gave him such a gift. "I asked my dead mother if it would be all right if I never married, for gods' sake!" he shouted, voice cracking and tears spilling again, unbidden.
"Arthur! Arthur, it's okay." Merlin put his hands on Arthur’s forearms to steady him.
"Never mind." He dashed the salt water from his face. "Doesn't matter. Let's go."
"Kiss me again."
Arthur wanted to, gods he wanted to but he felt foolish after his outburst—too raw, too exposed.
"Kiss me," Merlin repeated softly, stepping up and taking Arthur's face in warm hands.
Arthur nodded, swallowed hard, and could do nothing but let himself be swept away in the kiss. Now that Merlin allowed it, he could feel the magic beneath Merlin's skin, against his own where they touched—like fine threads wrapping around them as if it was something physical.
Merlin smiled as he finally pulled back, keeping his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “Why did you never—?” Arthur asked, though he knew the answer.
"I don't much fancy the pyre?"
"How could you think I would?"
"When we met? Quite easily."
"Since then. It’s been years."
"You're the prince regent. You rule the kingdom in all but name. I am your servant. I didn’t want to … jeopardise anything.”
"I trusted you. I meant that. I just—I wish you’d trusted me fully.” Arthur’s voice came strained, laid bare.
Merlin made a pained noise, rested his forehead to Arthur’s. “I do. More than you know. But this … my magic … It isn’t something I can share easily, especially not in Camelot. Not even with you.”
"Will you trust me with it now?” Arthur whispered.
“Well, now you know. Not as stupid as you look, recognising my disguise.”
“Oi, I am still your prince.”
Merlin did not bother to answer, instead capturing Arthur's lips again to quiet him. Arthur allowed himself to be hushed when it was in as pleasant a manner as this.
Everything he thought he knew about his servant had changed, yet somehow Merlin had not changed at all. Arthur would learn from him, he had no doubt; Merlin often had a way of humbling him. The sour taste of betrayal was swallowed in favour of another kiss, and Arthur was content here as the moon moved across the sky, marking the day of Yule itself.
Later, after Arthur had sat through the banquet, they would talk. But in this moment between the old day and the new, surrounded by the warmth of magic that wanted to know Arthur as much as he wanted to know magic, they were content.