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The soothing sound of stiff bristles rasping against Hengroen’s fine coat makes all of Arthur’s thoughts go silent. Even though he’s certainly alarming the stable boys - they don’t quite know what to do with the king grooming his own horse - Arthur is grateful for the simple task. He desperately needs simplicity and silence today.
If only he could shake off the pesky band of well-meaning advisors. Unfortunately, his flight to the stables doesn’t appear to have deterred them, as the shuffle of many feet pauses outside of Hengroen’s stall door. Arthur looks over to where Lady Gwenevere, Master Gaius, Sir Kay and Sir Leon stand, looking quite out of place in their court finery.
Blast them all.
“Your Majesty,” Gwen speaks first, in a tone that suggests deference but doesn’t quite cross the line into respect. “If I may -”
“And if I say you may not?” Arthur asks, hopeful.
“If I may,” Gwen repeats, serene and reproachful all at once, “there’s much to do, and you have an entire stableful of grooms to see to the horses. Would not your energies be better suited to finishing the preparations?”
“And if I may,” - as your bloody king, Arthur does not say, because petulance is not becoming of a monarch no matter how bloody henpecked he is by his horrible advisors - “I clearly said to my entire assembled court that I required a bit of solitude and fresh air to ready myself for this historic day. Did my words not carry?”
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Gwen exchange glances with Kay, his oldest friend and staunchest supporter, and Leon, his truest knight and beloved brother-in-law.
He also sees Leon and Kay roll their eyes in unison.
Bastards.
“My lord, we heard you,” Gwen says.
“And yet, here I stand, surrounded and besieged on all sides,” Arthur says. Hengroen snorts, an equine sound of derision that makes Arthur glare at him.
“It isn’t every day, Sire, that we prepare for so great a change. Your absence makes the people uneasy.” Now Gaius has waded into the fight, and everything he’s saying sounds so bloody reasonable. Arthur suppresses a groan and turns to face the four of them.
“Well, I am uneasy.”
“As is natural,” Gaius says. His lined face is carefully neutral but something in his canny gaze looks victorious, as if he got Arthur to concede a point and now victory is in sight. “But the people take their cues from you , Sire. If you show anything but confidence in your choices, they will -”
“I know!” Arthur says, and then ducks his head in response to Gaius’ eyebrow. “I know,” he repeats, more softly. “And I stand by this choice. I just want -”
Kings don’t want things, Uther had once said. They either take them or they bury desire beneath duty. Wanting is weakness; to have or to deny is strength.
But Arthur doesn’t want to be the kind of king that Uther was. Today is proof of that, at the very least. He lets out a breath. “I just want a moment. I understand the organization of the feast is well underway, yes?”
Gwen nods, looking a little affronted that he would even ask.
“And the repairs to the living quarters of the south tower are complete? All properly aired and appointed?”
“Of course, Sire.”
“And I took care myself to schedule the grand tour of the kingdom,” Arthur continues. “Leon -”
“We’re ready to leave at the week’s end,” Leon says. He’s looking at Arthur with rueful understanding. “I see what you’re saying, Sire, but -”
“There’s nothing to do but wait, and my skin is crawling,” Arthur interrupts. “And I will have some peace. Leave me be and I will return as the most gracious, willing, enthusiastic host these lands have ever seen. Following my perfect example, the people will surely be beside themselves with ecstatic welcome and throw flowers and tokens from every street corner and shop window, but I -” he breaks off, aware his voice is getting loud again, and takes a deep breath. “Leave me be. And please don’t make me make it an order.”
Kay snorts and both Gwen and Gaius open their mouths to speak, but Leon simply raises his hand and nods at Arthur. “Understood, Sire.”
But he doesn’t trail after the others when they leave; instead, Leon catches Arthur’s shoulder and squeezes it. “Though my lady wife is far better at concealing her emotions than you are, Arthur, you must know Morgana is nervous, too.”
“And I hope she knows - as I hope you know - that I have wrought this change in part because I want to ease any and all of her fears in regard to her gift?”
“She knows.” Leon squeezes his shoulder again and lets go, stepping back. “As do I. Enjoy your solitude, Sire. But remember - the sorcerer is meant to arrive at dusk. Don’t be late.”
—
The stables are too busy even if the king’s request to be left alone has been reluctantly granted, so Arthur saddles Hengroen himself and rides out the moment Leon’s footsteps fade away. Arthur is dressed simply for now - he’ll need the whole sodding ceremonial garb for the welcome feast later - and though the leather jerkin and well-wrought deerskin breeches are too finely made for common folk, they lend Arthur a degree of anonymity as he rides through the lower town and out of the southeast gate towards the kingswood.
He rides far enough that the citadel is hidden behind a few bends of the road before urging Heongroen to a halt next to a small clearing in the trees. He’s reached his destination; across the meadow sits a large, familiar boulder. The boulder itself is nondescript, but around the back it has a curious hollow where, over time, a tree has taken root. The space between trunk and rock is just the size of a fully-grown man, and it fills with cool moss and dried leaves in the long hot days of late summer. Arthur discovered it as a boy and knows that he’ll be wholly concealed from sight in the little hollow, and Hengroen will have plenty of good grazing where the meadow opens up even further in the woods.
Once properly cocooned from the world, Arthur allows himself to return to the horrible, twisting vine of fear that keeps looping itself around all reason. The thick roots of paranoia and prejudice Uther planted in Arthur’s childhood against magic are tough to dig out, and Arthur keeps wondering if he’s asked a wolf into the fold.
Because he sent an envoy of peace to the druids.
Because he signed a decree, saying magic is once again legal in Camelot.
Because he invited the druids to send him a magician to act as court sorcerer, to sit at his table, advise on his council, and live in the very heart of Arthur’s bloody stronghold.
Not everyone agreed with his decision. Several of his oldest councilors, friends of Uther’s from the days of the purge, resigned in protest. Some of the nobility recalled the sons they were fostering at court until they could gauge the success of Arthur’s new laws. The common people are, as Gaius noted, unsure - cautiously optimistic and frightened in turns.
But Arthur has to believe peace is worth it. If nothing else, he has to safeguard the relief in his sister’s eyes after she confided that her dreams sometimes came true.
A scuffling noise on the road brings Arthur back from his spiraling thoughts, and he holds himself still. The sound of something - fabric and leather, maybe? - hitting the rock makes him think that someone has thrown a satchel across the clearing.
“By the seven sacred circles!”
It’s a man’s voice. The accent isn’t quite Camelot but Arthur finds it pleasing all the same, despite the whining tone. The unfamiliar curse is followed by a close-sounding chirruping noise, like the man has a kestrel or sparrow hawk on his arm.
“I know we’re nearly there,” the man says crossly. “That’s why we’re bloody stopping.”
Another chirp.
“Easy for you to say.” The voice is mulish now, and Arthur frowns. Is the man talking to his bird like the creature can respond?
“Your wings’ll work just fine. You can leave as easy as you like.”
Poor sod must be touched in the head.
“Me, on the other hand … you heard the way the elders kept moaning about destiny and forging bonds and sanctity and on and on. If I try to leave, Mum will kill me first, and then they’ll resurrect me so they can kill me a second time.”
A rustle, like the aforementioned wings were being stretched. The man snorted. “No. That is, I don’t think the elders can do a resurrection. I dunno, though. And that’s just the thing, isn’t it? I’m still learning , Aithusa. It isn’t fair!”
Perhaps Arthur is allowing himself to get too invested in the unseen stranger’s woes, because he hears something like reproach in the next chirp from the bird. He braces a little against the trunk of the young tree, trying to lever himself up enough to see without giving away his hiding spot.
“ You’re the one acting like a hatchling, yolkface!”
A scuffle, and a muffled exclamation of indignation.
“Fine. Fine!” The man sighs, and it is a sound of such pure misery that it pricks at Arthur’s heart. “Everyone in Camelot will hate me, though. No, no, they will, because the ink hasn’t yet dried on their stupid bloody treaty, and everyone will look at me like I drink the blood of the innocent and kill babies for fun, and if I make one wrong move I’ll have my head lopped off or get myself tied to a stake and burned -”
A more forceful chirp that sounds more like a growl. Arthur has the vague notion that he’s never heard a bird make that sound before, but that feels unimportant against the realization taking shape in his mind. He shifts a little, edging higher on the rock against the trunk, and glimpses the top of a head of dark hair. Gently, slowly, Arthur moves one foot to the lowest bough of the tree to scoot a little higher.
“Thanks,” the man says, soft. He still sounds wretched. “It’s just … I want -” The words are cut off by a muffled sniffle, and Arthur imagines his unseen stranger scrubbing a palm over his face. “Out of everyone who could have been called upon to be court sorcerer for Camelot, I wish they hadn’t picked me.”
Another low growl.
“I don’t care what Kilgarah thinks. Everyone says I must be Emrys, but nothing about me says I’m bound for any kind of destiny -” another muffled sound, and then, “If I cause it all to go wrong and sorcerers start being killed again, it’s my fault. I can’t live with that.”
Arthur’s muscles bunch as his guess at the stranger’s identity snaps into certainty. Unfortunately, the branch snaps under the force of his foot, and Arthur falls with an undignified yelp.
Several things happen at once.
The voice shouts “Who’s there?” as Arthur tumbles into view, arse over shoulders. He gets a jumbled look at a tale, pale, lean, captivating someone before registering the terrier-sized lizard standing to attention - not a lizard, a dragon, with wings and a snarl full of wicked-looking teeth - and then the stranger leaps backward, catches his heel, and falls down as well.
Some instinct Arthur has long since learned to trust tells him not to get up yet. Instead, he simply props himself up on his elbows, staring at the compelling stranger and his unlikely companion. The dragon is pure white and glowing in the last drips of daylight falling through the trees, and when the man scrambles back to his feet, Arthur has the strange, hazy thought that the stranger’s skin is as white and unblemished as the dragon’s smooth scales.
He forgets to be afraid of the dragon.
“Who are you?” The man demands. He’s glaring at Arthur from beneath dark fringe; unlike the other druids Arthur met with during the peace talks, he’s not wearing robes. From his dusty boots to the wrinkled scrap of fabric tied around his throat, he looks shabby and unassuming and thoroughly unmagical.
“I’m -” That instinct tugs again, and instead of the litany of titles Arthur is supposed to use, the horrid nickname Kay bestowed upon him when he and Arthur and Leon were all snotty little pages together comes out of his mouth. “Wart.”
Blue eyes blink at him. Arthur winces.
“Unfortunate name, mate.”
“It’s - yeah, no getting around that,” Arthur says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You didn’t,” the man says, and the little dragon shoots him a look so human Arthur can practically hear the creature’s disdain at the stranger’s lie.
“Good,” Arthur says. “I just - I was taking my rest, just there, and couldn’t help but overhear you. I thought it would be bad manners to interrupt your, erm. Your conversation.”
“But eavesdropping is fine?”
“You intruded on my solitude,” Arthur says loftily. “It’s hardly my fault you decided to have a loud, one-sided discussion within my earshot.”
“Don’t insult Aithusa,” the man says, waving a hand to where the little dragon is idly licking at one wing joint, looking supremely unbothered. “I was talking to her. It’s hardly my fault -” and his approximation of Arthur’s accent makes Arthur wince - “that you can’t understand her.”
“My apologies, Lady Aithusa,” Arthur says. He sits up slowly so he can make a little half-bow in the dragon’s direction. She ignores him, but her master’s posture unwinds a little from his defensive crouch. “And who are you?”
The question is as good as a lie; Arthur already knows the man’s name. The druids had called him Merlin, Emrys who had been foretold. Arthur’s negotiator had asked if Emrys was his title, and the druid had replied that Emrys is who he is, had always been, and always would be. Arthur had rolled his eyes when this message was relayed to him.
“M’name’s Merlin,” the man offers. No airs and graces.
“And … you’re headed to the citadel?”
Merlin sags, dropping down to sit across from Arthur as if he’d been held up by strings that had suddenly been cut. “I’m supposed to be.” He gives Arthur a sidelong glance. “You’re … are you from Camelot?”
“Born and bred,” Arthur says, and he couldn’t stop the hint of pride in his voice if he tried. He sat up himself, bracing his palms on the mossy ground. “I live in the citadel at the country’s capital, actually.”
“But you heard me -” Merlin cuts himself off and studies Arthur for a moment. “If you were listening to me, then you know I have magic?”
“I do.”
“And …” Merlin fidgets, looking scared again. “You …?”
“The king decreed that magic is legal and that magic users have the same rights and protections as all of Camelot’s people, should they abide by the old and new laws of the land,” Arthur says. “I follow the king’s laws.”
He’s never said anything more true in his life.
“Just like that?” Merlin sounds dubious.
Arthur considers. “Well. After much debate, research, conversation and introspection … yes. Just like that.”
“Tell me, Wart,” Merlin wrinkles his nose at the horrible name, but keeps talking. “Are the other men of Camelot so eager to follow King Arthur’s new laws?”
“Not all of them,” Arthur says honestly. “But more are than I - more than anyone - expected. Once the new court sorcerer arrives,” he dares to add, “I imagine that the people will see that he is a man, like other men, with skills and abilities of his own, like other men.”
“Don’t pretend you aren’t a great eavesdropping prat - you know that court sorcerer is meant to be me. You’re laughing at me,” Merlin accuses. His cheeks flush a dull red, and Arthur sits up straighter.
“No! On the contrary,” Arthur gets his legs under him and sits up on his knees. It’s an undignified position for a king, but it feels right. “I didn’t know what to expect when word of a court sorcerer came. Or rather, I expected an elder druid so full of mystery and magic that perhaps I - all of us - might find him strange and frightening. You’re so ...” he waves a hand.
“Unimpressive?” Merlin offers, deadpan, and Arthur laughs. Even in shabby clothes, Merlin holds Arthur’s attention; he’s anything but unimpressive.
“Approachable.”
“And yet, a tree branch had to break in order for you to approach me at all.”
“That was manners,” Arthur insisted. “A desire not to interrupt you and the lady.”
“Right,” Merlin says, but he doesn’t look scared or ashamed anymore. Instead, Arthur notes, he simply looks beautiful. He isn’t quite glowing like his pearlescent dragon in the dying light, but he is long-limbed and clear-eyed and just a little fae with his exaggerated features. On another person, the overall effect might be coltish and awkward; not on Merlin.
“Well, approachable as I may seem, I don’t think I’m right for the job,” Merlin stands and brushes clinging bits of grass from his trousers. “I don’t think I can stay in Camelot.”
Arthur starts. “But - you’re the Court Sorcerer?”
“Not yet,” Merlin says. “And you’re the only one who knows what I look like. If I don’t go, my people will certainly send someone better suited to King Arthur and his bloody silly court.”
But you suit me just fine, Arthur doesn’t say. “Aren’t you expected today?”
“I’ll tell my people that this is a test of the king’s new treaty.” Merlin shrugs. “If he can stand the mild insult of tardiness, then perhaps he won’t let other petty grievances compel him to put sorcerers back under the sword.”
“A treaty was signed!” Arthur protests. “It will be honored. You and all peace-loving people of your kind will be protected!”
“You can’t promise that,” Merlin says. “Besides, this is Camelot.”
“And?”
“And Camelot is what my mother threatened me with when I was a naughty child. ‘Don’t throw the acorns you’re meant to be collecting, or you’ll be sent to Camelot for Uther to eat,’ ‘Go to sleep, or the knights of Camelot will find you,’” Merlin recites. “Whoever takes up the position of Court Sorcerer will dance the rest of their lives on a knifepoint of peril, because you, my dear Wart, live in a land of monsters.”
“Hardly!” Arthur stands now. “Camelot is - Camelot is a blade reforged. There is a new king. Though there are sins to atone for, the king is determined to make amends. The people want nothing more than safety and an end to violence. And - and for all you know, the land itself is paradise!”
Merlin stares at him, looking half-alarmed, half-amused. “If only all monarchs were so well-served by the defenses of their common people. Is Camelot a paradise?”
Arthur spares a moment to think; the sweet smell of the apple orchards now that the summer is in its stride is his favorite scent in the world. He considers the healthy forests full of game and old-growth timber, carefully tended by his woodsmen and huntsmen alike. The fields, now green, will burnish themselves to gold with wheat by harvest. Even the blankets of snow that ice the world like a layer of sugar on Cook’s best scones, never too harsh and cold for the hearty people to survive. The honey-colored stone of his castle, the bustle of his markets, the faces of townsfolk and farmers content and well-fed.
“It is,” he says.
Merlin’s mouth - Arthur’s attention sharpens on those bee-sting lips - quirks into a smile. “Oh?”
“I could list all the reasons why, but, in short, there’s simply not a more congenial spot,” Arthur falters, hating himself because he is rhyming like a love-struck, half-drunk minstrel, “for … for, erm -”
“For happily ever-aftering?” Merlin says sarcastically.
“Yes,” Arthur says, stubborn and embarrassed and too focused on the plush softness of Merlin’s mouth. “No better place for that than here in Camelot.”
There’s a moment where Merlin’s dubious expression doesn’t change. Then, he smiles, and the loveliness of that smile makes Arthur’s palms sting with the desire to touch. “You sound so certain. I want to believe you, even if that makes me a fool.”
And because Arthur is standing, and because his eyes won’t move from Merlin’s lips, Arthur finds himself a hands’ breadth away from the other man. He doesn’t recall walking forward, but Merlin is gazing at him with something like hungry curiosity on his face.
Arthur leans in. They’re of a height, and the smell of him - clean sweat and crushed grass - makes Arthur feel a little drunk. He can’t remember what he was meant to be afraid of, all of Uther’s warnings and dire predictions swept away in an unkingly tide of lust.
But he hesitates, a whisper away from Merlin’s mouth. “I know it gives a person pause,” he murmurs, and thrills when his consonants make their lips touch.
Merlin groans, seizes Arthur by the hip with one hand and the back of his neck with the other, and kisses him with a ferocity that’s matched by the victorious swelling in Arthur’s heart. Or, rather, in his too-tight deerskin breeches, but the intoxication of Merlin’s lower lip between his teeth erases the differences between the two. Until, of course, one of Merlin’s thighs shoves between his own and Arthur lets out a sound he will later deny.
“And they worry about magic here,” Merlin mutters. He’s detached his mouth from Arthur’s, and his hands are roaming, touching Arthur urgently - running a hand up his chest, down his back, into his hair, cupping his arse. “When young gods like you are mucking about in patches of sunshine, luring strangers into ruin with thighs like tree trunks and shoulders that could hold up the bloody sky -”
“Can I ruin you?” Arthur asks dumbly, getting his own hands under Merlin’s tunic to stroke the hot bare skin of his back. “Will you stay in Camelot long enough for me to -”
“Yes,” Merlin hisses, and Arthur’s back thumps against the boulder. Merlin has one hand cupped behind Arthur’s head so he doesn’t feel the impact, and anyway, he’s too distracted by the pleasant sting of Merlin’s teeth on his jaw.
Arthur gasps, writhing up into Merlin’s surprisingly solid weight and bucks their hips together with a cry of satisfaction. He seizes Merlin’s backside - nearly as plush as his mouth, Arthur thinks - and kneads the flesh. Merlin shudders against him, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s neck and diving back into a deep and drugging kiss. Arthur can't say what it is about Merlin that makes the weight of him in his arms quite so perfect and familiar, but he’s consumed with such a feeling of rightness he simply assumes that this is the destiny Merlin’s elders were talking about. Maybe he’ll ask Merlin later. Or maybe he’ll just kiss him and kiss him until the mystery is forgotten entirely.
Minutes - or starless eternities - later, Arthur pulls back with great difficulty and removes his hands from where he’s shoved them down the back of Merlin’s trousers. His greedy fingers don’t want to go far, though, instead seeking out the divot of his hipbones and holding on for dear life. “Merlin,” Arthur gasps.
“Yes, Wart - oh, by the trees, I cannot call you that,” Merlin pants. “Let me rename you -”
“It’s an old, horrid nickname,” Arthur admits. He licks the column of Merlin’s throat, trying to remember the flicker of conscience that made him stop kissing Merlin in the first place. Oh, right. “I must tell you who I am, because -”
“I’ve decided I don’t care,” Merlin interrupts. He sticks his own hand down the front of Arthur’s breeches - when did the laces loosen, or is that from the fabled magic Arthur has yet to truly witness? - and wraps his warm fingers around Arthur’s aching cock. “You could be King sodding Arthur and I’d still want to have you against this rock.”
“Oh fuck,” Arthur says, stupid with sensation and relief and a sharp spike of unrelenting arousal from hearing his name in Merlin’s mouth. “I’ll come!”
“Just as I intend,” Merlin growls, and -
The dragon chirps.
“Shit!” Arthur yelps. He forgot the dragon was there. He fucking forgot about a fucking dragon. By the gods, maybe Merlin is dangerous.
“Fuck!” Merlin agrees, and the lovely hot palm is suddenly gone from his erection. Before Arthur can protest, his laces are suddenly and very obviously magically re-laced and when he manages to fix his wild gaze on Merlin the man is neat as Gaius’ immaculately ordered shelves. “Aithusa said someone’s coming.”
And sure enough, the jangle of tack from many horses is coming from the direction of the citadel, and Hengroen - also forgotten in the luxuriant feel of Merlin’s skin under his hands - nickers from her grazing spot just beyond the boulder in recognition.
“Merlin,” Arthur says urgently. “My name -”
“Your Majesty!” Leon calls from the front of the column, and Merlin’s eyes go wide.
Well. Shit.
“Sir Leon,” Arthur grits out the acknowledgment and Leon gives him a startled, disbelieving look. Arthur curses under his breath. Leon knows him too well … and Merlin is the picture of Arthur’s preferred type. Between that and Arthur’s struggle for composure, Leon must be getting entirely the right idea about the situation the knights just rode into. Arthur soldiers on regardless. “My beloved court. May I introduce Merlin who was, is, and will always be the Emrys, and who has come to be our Court Sorcerer?”
Leon - and Kay beside him, Arthur notices - boggle at him. Wincing internally, Arthur turns on his heel and gives his best courtly bow to Merlin. “And to you, Lord Merlin - may I introduce my bannermen, Sir Leon and Sir Kay, members of my court, and,” he drops his voice, uncomfortably aware of every eye on him, “myself, Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot?”
Merlin gapes. Aithusa makes a rattling sound deep in her sinuous throat and the sorcerer jumps. “I - erm - that is to say - hello?”
“How kind you are, Sire, to ride out to greet our new Court Sorcerer,” Leon says, his surprise well-masked under the courtly manners that so nicely balance Morgana’s typical harpy-like tendencies. Arthur spares a prayer of thanks that his sister isn’t part of the welcoming party.
“I thought it would be a sign of good faith,” Arthur lies regally, and Kay snorts. “And our discussions have not yet concluded, so you will ride as our vanguard back to the citadel to ready the feast. From among you, provide a horse for Lord Merlin - a steady one that may not mind the presence of his honored companion, Lady Aithusa?”
The knights all seem to notice the dragon at once, and there’s a general clanking of armor as each man personally deals with the surprise and alarm of encountering a legendary magical creature in the flesh. But in the end, they turn as a company and depart back towards the castle, one unlucky knight riding an uncomfortable pillion as his horse was made available for Merlin’s use.
Merlin blinks at him as the sounds of the other riders fade. “King … Arthur, then.”
“Kay named me Wart when we were boys together,” Arthur admits. “It did not feel like the time to burden you with the full assault of my titles. You seemed distressed enough without a king falling into your lap.”
The mention of Arthur and laps makes Merlin flush; Arthur feels his own face heat, remembering Merlin declaring that he’d take King sodding Arthur against the massive boulder. The passion hasn’t entirely left his body, and meeting Merlin’s eyes he realizes that it wouldn’t take much to get them both back to that place of rutting and swearing intimacy.
But who needs boulders and meadows when there are warm beds and discreet jars of vegetable oil from the kitchens to smooth the way for deeper connections? Arthur’s cock swells at the thought of naked, smooth skin spread out on his coverlet.
“It’s impossible to see you as anything other than a king, having watched your beloved court spring into action upon your word,” Merlin says. His voice is light, but Arthur sees the tension in his body. “Perhaps the strength of your new laws and convictions is enough to change the hearts and minds of Camelot to embrace magic.”
I’d like to embrace magic all the more deeply if you let me, Arthur doesn’t say. He simply stands before his maybe Court Sorcerer and lets the other man pass his judgments.
“I wonder if your will governs the very air here. Perhaps a law was passed that July and August never be too hot, and for winter snow to melt by no later than March the second. And come autumn, I imagine the leaves fall into orderly piles?”
“No,” Arthur finds his voice again. “They blow away completely. At night, of course.”
“Of course.”
“You know who I am, and what I offer,” Arthur says. He’s surprised at how steady his words come out. “Would you come with me into the heart of Camelot, land of monsters, and help me make peace?”
Merlin smiles. Arthur thinks the sun must have come back over the horizon for the way light seems to fill the darkened clearing. “How could I not? I hear this is the place for happily ever aftering, after all.”
He clambers up into the spare horse’s saddle gracelessly and accepts his satchel when Arthur retrieves it and hands it up to him. Aithusa, like the falcon Arthur initially thought her to be, flies over to rest on Merlin’s outstretched arm with a flap of her leathery wings.
Arthur scrambles to mount Hengroen as Merlin urges his own horse forward. Whatever root of fear and hate Uther had tried to plant in Arthur’s chest is fully withered now, and plans about all the ways they will reform his kingdom together are springing up like new buds in fertile ground.
“Besides,” Merlin tosses over his shoulder, the lights of the citadel visible through the trees in front of him, “Thank goodness your name isn’t really Wart. ‘Arthur’ will certainly be more pleasing to scream when I finally have you.”
Arthur falls off Hengroen.
Aithusa’s chirp sounds like laughter.