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It happens quickly.
One minute, Merlin and Arthur have the fight under control. They’d been ambushed on a hunting trip, caught completely unawares by a pair of sorcerers who apparently had it out for the king. Arthur had got out his sword, and Merlin had positioned himself behind him so he’d be free to use his magic without being seen.
Then the sorcerers moved together, cornering Merlin and Arthur against some tightly-grouped trees, and suddenly they had the upper hand.
Arthur tries to push out of the trap, swinging his sword in the little space available to him, and Merlin shifts behind him so he can make his move. He slows the fight for a moment to give himself time to think, running through a hundred options before settling on something not exactly plausible.
At least Arthur never seems to question the absurd things that always seem to happen around him.
Merlin grabs Arthur and pulls him aside just as the tightly-grouped trees fall forward and trap the sorcerers against the ground.
It’s enough to crush at least a few bones and organs.
He plans to run to safety after that, but Arthur hesitates, and then Merlin stumbles. He glances around to see what could have tripped him, and his gaze catches on something sticking out of the side of his chest.
Merlin swallows around rising panic and takes a few steps away from Arthur and the sorcerers he’s currently killing.
There’s a dagger in him. His shirt is already dampening with blood. He can hardly breathe; moving his chest at all makes his vision go grey. The pain is starting to filter in through the shock.
He needs Gaius. Gaius is back at the castle. He and Arthur are half a day’s ride away.
He touches the dagger’s pommel and everything goes sideways. He stumbles again. Gaius isn’t an option. It’s up to him.
“Good riddance,” Arthur says, victorious against the crushed sorcerers.
Merlin straightens up and angles himself away from Arthur.
“Too much for your delicate eyes?” Arthur teases as he sheathes his sword.
“Something like that,” Merlin manages to say.
“How do you think they found us?”
“Luck,” Merlin gasps.
“Are you alright?”
Arthur comes closer and Merlin turns away.
“Fine, fine,” he says through clenched teeth. “Just…” His head is swimming and his legs are starting to go numb. “Water.”
“What?”
“I need water. The horses.”
He wants—needs—Arthur to go be distracted elsewhere so he can work on saving himself.
Arthur comes closer again, close enough to touch Merlin’s shoulder, and Merlin’s knees buckle. He hits the forest floor with a groan, and a shocking pain rips through him. He braces himself with a hand on the ground and tries not to pass out.
“Merlin.” Arthur crouches down next to him and gasps when he sees the dagger. “Merlin!”
Time is running out. Merlin needs to save himself now or not at all. He casts around in his mind for some spell, for something—anything—that he can do. The woods are tilting dangerously around him, and Arthur’s voice is far away, and everything goes dark.
Merlin falls to the ground without so much as a grunt.
Arthur turns him onto his back and gawks at the dagger stuck so close to his heart.
“Merlin,” he says harshly, trying to bring Merlin back from whatever he’s succumbed to. “Merlin, you’re not dying on me here.”
The words just hang in the air, and Arthur exhales before checking Merlin’s wrist. He checks his neck too, but it’s just as quiet and still. His chest isn’t rising and falling with breath.
“Merlin,” he tries again. “You’re not dying on me here.” He can hear the tremor in his voice.
He can’t lose Merlin. Merlin is, against all odds, the most important person in Arthur’s life. He’s everything to Arthur, everything Arthur thought he hated and didn’t know he needed, and he doesn’t even know it. Arthur has never found the time or place to tell him, but he has always thought that Merlin probably knows anyway, that this thing between them is known if not acknowledged and, on the good days, mutual.
All of that is at risk now, and Arthur flounders in the face of unfathomable loss.
Time is slipping by too fast. He has to get Merlin back to Gaius. Gaius can fix this.
Arthur stands and pulls Merlin’s limp body up with him, careful not to dislodge the dagger. He drags him past the dead sorcerers and over to their horses.
“Come on, work with me here,” he grumbles as he struggles to lift Merlin onto his own horse.
Merlin is just slumped there, pulse-less and not breathing. Arthur mounts the horse behind him, wraps his arms around Merlin’s waist, and starts the ride home.
It takes too long to get back to the castle, even going as fast as the horse can manage with double the usual burden. As soon as Arthur reaches the courtyard, he shouts for the guards to fetch Gaius.
He slides off the horse and guides Merlin to the ground as carefully as he can.
Merlin is pale, almost grey, and he’s not as pliant as he had been back in the forest.
Arthur kneels next to him, cradling his head so it won’t touch the cold stones.
“What’s happened?” Gaius asks as he arrives.
Arthur looks up blankly. “I rode as fast as I could,” he says, his voice ragged.
“Oh,” Gaius breathes. He gets to his knees and brushes his hands over the dagger’s hilt before checking for a pulse. Arthur knows there isn’t one. He knows.
He knows. He’d ridden home as fast as anyone could have, mind blank, focusing absolutely on the speed of the horse and keeping Merlin upright on it.
But he knew then, and he knows now.
“Arthur,” Gaius says quietly.
“No,” Arthur hears himself say. “No, you—you can fix this. You can save him. You have to save him.”
Gaius puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, but Arthur shrugs it off and sets Merlin’s head ever so gently on the ground before getting to his feet.
“You’ll save him,” he says gruffly before walking away, into the castle, up the stairs, and all the way to his room.
Arthur isn’t sure how much time passes. Servants come and go, undress him, bathe him, redress him, bring him food. Sometimes it seems that time is crawling, each minute going by like slugs. Other times, it feels like everything is happening at double-speed, the world sped up while Arthur stands still in the middle of it all.
He thinks he should probably cry. That’s what people do when someone dies; when the grief wells up and there’s no other outlet, they cry. They cry a lot.
He’s dead, Arthur says to himself. Merlin is dead.
It does nothing. He feels nothing.
He knows he needs to accept it. He needs to accept it and cry. He can’t find the grief within him, though. If it weren’t for the distinct lack of Merlin, it might just be any other day. And it’s not as if there haven’t been days without Merlin before. Sometimes he disappears ‘to the tavern’ for days on end. Arthur has learned to cope with those days, with his absences.
It might take a few more days for this to sink in. Right now, Merlin could just be at the tavern.
Right now, there’s still days and months and years ahead with Merlin. Right now, Arthur hasn’t lost his chance.
Eventually, Gaius comes to him. Arthur is at his desk, staring at some report from his knights. It means nothing to him.
“Your Majesty,” Gaius says as he approaches. “Tell me what happened.”
Arthur shakes his head. “We were ambushed. They came out of nowhere… they must have been tracking us. They were sorcerers. They… one of them… threw a dagger, I suppose. I didn’t see it happen.”
Gaius is quiet for a moment before saying, “They had very good aim.”
Arthur knows what that means, but he still can’t accept it. “Can I see him?”
Gaius nods, and Arthur follows him silently through the castle. They reach his chambers, and Gaius holds open the door for him.
Arthur steps inside. It all looks perfectly normal except for the dead body. Merlin’s body. He’s naked, his bloody clothes in a pile on the floor. The dagger is gone from his chest, the wound clear and open and deep.
Arthur can’t help but notice the myriad other wounds on Merlin’s bare body. Scars of injuries past.
There are so many. Too many for a servant, even one who often gets caught up in Arthur’s skirmishes. Why would a servant have this many scars? Could they all be from before Merlin came to Camelot? What could he have possibly been doing in Ealdor to obtain so many scar-leaving injuries?
Arthur looks back at Gaius, but he’s still by the door, letting Arthur take his moment with Merlin.
Arthur takes a deep breath and looks back at Merlin. It hardly seems like him. Who is this, lying on the table with a sea of secret scars strewn across what should be a blemish-free body?
There are so many quirks Arthur has excused over the years, so many strange things Merlin did or said that Arthur just accepted as part of his charm. But this? How can Arthur ignore this?
He reaches out, fingers hovering over a strange patch of skin on the centre of Merlin’s chest. It looks like a burn, but it’s so large. What could have caused it? Had Merlin stuck his whole torso in a fire?
Arthur touches the burn gently, feeling the strangely smooth skin under his fingertips.
His eyes start to sting, and he blinks back tears.
Who is this man? Who was this man? How could he have hidden all this?
Merlin has seen Arthur naked too many times to count—from dressing and bathing and Arthur’s general lack of modesty. He’s never considered how one-sided it had been, how different Merlin might have looked under his clothes, how there might be so many things about him that Arthur doesn’t know.
How could Arthur not have known?
How could Merlin have concealed so much of himself? And not just physically.
Arthur wipes his eyes and steps back, needing space from the reality that his servant is—was—practically a stranger.
Not that Merlin was ever only just a servant. From the beginning, he had been a friend. And Arthur had hoped for so much more.
Gaius comes over and puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur allows it for a moment, but then it starts to feel like a stranglehold and he steps farther away.
“I need to finish cleaning him,” Gaius says. When Arthur doesn’t respond, he adds, “You can watch, if you wish.”
Arthur nods and finds an empty spot of table to lean against. He crosses his arms and looks on as Gaius washes Merlin’s body with a wet cloth. He dabs ointment over the dagger scar and some other, fresher-looking scars. He works in silence, leaving Arthur to grapple with his thoughts.
Had he known Merlin at all?
Had Merlin hidden all this from Arthur on purpose? Or was it just habit? Had he let anyone in?
Gaius doesn’t seem too concerned by the scars. Maybe he’s known all along who Merlin really is.
How could Arthur have let himself get carried away with Merlin when he didn’t even know who Merlin was? How could he have spent so many nights and so many mornings, alone in bed with no company but the sun, thinking of Merlin? How could he have imagined their future together? Who had he been fantasising about all this time? Clearly, it wasn’t the real Merlin.
“Oh,” Gaius says suddenly. He glances over his shoulder at Arthur and then back at Merlin, shifting to hide whatever he’s found.
Perhaps it’s some new scar not even Gaius was aware of.
Arthur watches gloomily until it becomes clear what Gaius is trying to hide. Merlin’s body is moving.
At first, Arthur thinks it must be some residual something or other, some part of Merlin’s insides shifting to come to their final position.
“Why don’t you go get me some fresh water?” Gaius suggests, his voice louder than necessary.
Now Arthur is sure it’s nothing residual. Gaius is trying to get him to leave, to not notice the strange movements of Merlin’s body.
But he has noticed. He watches, a sense of horror creeping in, as Merlin stirs and murmurs something.
Arthur knows people don’t come back from the dead. He knows.
But he also knows that Merlin was dead. As much as he had been struggling to accept it, he knew.
“Arthur, you should go,” Gaius says in a last ditch effort to hide the fact that Merlin is apparently alive again.
There must have been some magic in the dagger, something that only simulated death, or something that would allow the victim to arise again. Or maybe it’s not Merlin at all but some shade of his former self, some utterly wrong version of him returned from the dead.
Arthur doesn’t have his sword on him, and he very much wishes he did. He has no way to defend himself if this undead Merlin attacks him.
He wonders if he really has it in him to fight Merlin. To kill him. To re-kill him.
Merlin coughs and shifts and, finally, opens his eyes.
“Merlin,” Gaius breathes in relief.
“Gaius,” Merlin croaks. He looks around, spots Arthur, and smiles.
Arthur moves quickly, picking up the same dagger that has already killed Merlin once, and holds it to Merlin’s throat.
“Arthur!” Gaius tries to protest, but Arthur holds up a hand to silence him.
“What are you?” Arthur asks.
“I’m—what? I’m Merlin. Arthur, what are you—”
Arthur presses the dagger into Merlin’s skin. “Merlin is dead.”
Merlin blinks up at him, and they stare at each other for a moment. Arthur tries to find something in Merlin’s gaze that is new or different, but all he sees are the same familiar blue eyes he’s seen every day for the past decade. All he sees is the trust Merlin has in him, even despite what he’s doing.
“I’m not dead,” Merlin says quietly. “Please.”
“How do I know you’re actually Merlin? How do I know you’re not some spirit possessing him?”
Merlin wets his lips. “The first day we met,” he says slowly, “I called you ‘friend’.”
Arthur’s jaw clenches.
“I made you laugh,” Merlin adds.
Arthur keeps staring down at Merlin, trying to see him as he is, trying to see him plain.
He should be thrilled that Merlin is back in the land of the living. But all he can think is that there’s no way to know if this is really Merlin, because he never knew the real Merlin to start with. There was always something between them, some barrier that Arthur wasn’t even aware of. Now it’s obvious.
Arthur puts the dagger down. “How is this possible?”
“His wounds must have been superficial. The shock of them was probably—” Gaius tries, but Arthur shoots him a look and he goes quiet.
Arthur waits for Merlin’s explanation.
For his part, Merlin props himself up on his elbows and then, slowly, sits up. He brushes a hand over the fresh wound on his chest and sighs. It’s a resigned sort of sigh, the sigh of a man about to give into something he’s been fighting for a very long time.
“It’s magic,” Merlin says. He’s not looking at Arthur.
“In your wound?” Arthur asks.
Merlin shakes his head. “No. In me. In my blood.”
Arthur tries to make sense of that. How could Merlin have magic in his blood if it wasn’t from the dagger?
Merlin looks up, meeting Arthur’s gaze. “I have magic.”
Arthur huffs, not appreciating the attempt at humour. But Merlin isn’t smiling, and neither is Gaius. Arthur looks between them, waiting for some other explanation, but nothing comes.
Merlin has magic.
Arthur doesn’t understand how that accounts for why Merlin’s come back from the dead, but it’s not as if he has a deep knowledge of magic.
Magic.
Magic has been outlawed in Camelot for Arthur’s entire life. And Merlin’s had it all along, right under Arthur’s nose.
Arthur steps back and back again until he hits a table.
Merlin looks like he wants to say something else, but Arthur doesn’t have it in him to listen. He leaves, heading for his room but only making it halfway before he changes his mind and leaves the castle instead, needing air, needing space, needing time.
Merlin closes his eyes, but Arthur’s face is still there looking back at him, confused and betrayed. He knows that face will haunt him. He knows that face is the end of his time in Camelot.
Gaius fetches clean clothes and busies himself while Merlin dresses.
“You were right to tell him,” Gaius says when Merlin is decent again.
“I was dead,” Merlin says, in disbelief at the fact. “I could have saved myself if I hadn’t been worried about using magic in front of him.”
“Your magic saved you anyway,” Gaius says.
“He wouldn’t have believed any other explanation. I… didn’t want to lie to him. Not anymore.”
“He’ll come to understand in time.”
Merlin shrugs. He looks around Gaius’s chambers, taking in the familiar messes and all the clutter, and tries to imagine leaving and living somewhere else.
The door opens, and Leon and Percival burst in, eyes wide when they see Merlin standing there.
“We heard you were—” Percival starts.
“You’re not dead!” Leon exclaims.
Merlin has to smile. “No. Afraid not.”
Leon comes over to clap him on the shoulder. “I thought you got stabbed in the heart.”
“Not quite. Just close to it.” Merlin pulls aside his shirt collar to show the scar. Leon hisses.
Percival comes over to inspect it as well. “Gaius, you’re a miracle worker,” he says appreciatively.
“The knights have been mourning all day,” Leon says. “Wait until they hear you’re still with us.”
“I’ll go tell them,” Percival says. He ruffles Merlin’s hair before hurrying out.
“Does Arthur know?” Leon asks.
“He… does,” Merlin says.
“Good. Good. I was worried about him. I don’t know what he’d do without you.” Leon laughs. “It’s good to see you in one piece.”
“It’s good to be in one piece.”
Leon stands there for a moment, seemingly just basking in Merlin’s presence, and then excuses himself. He gives Merlin’s shoulder a squeeze before he leaves, and Merlin knows that’s as good as a hug from Leon.
Someone comes in looking for Gaius, their hand badly wrapped in a bloody bandage, and Merlin goes up to his room while Gaius resumes his regular duties.
Everything looks the same as it always has. The only thing that’s changed is Merlin himself.
He sits on the edge of his bed and presses a palm to his dagger wound. It still hurts, still feels very fresh, but it’s also clearly well on its way to being healed. Soon enough it will just be another scar.
The door opens, and Merlin looks up to see Morgana and Gwen coming in. Gwen immediately rushes over to hug him.
“We heard you died,” she says into his hair. “I’m so relieved.”
Merlin gives her a squeeze and looks over at Morgana, who appears to be on the edge of tears.
“I didn’t believe it,” Morgana says. “I thought someone was playing a cruel joke.”
Gwen finally lets go of Merlin but doesn’t step back, apparently not wanting to be too far away from him.
“No joke,” Merlin says. “I’m here.”
“How?” Morgana asks wonderingly.
Merlin looks between her and Gwen. He wants to tell them, to let them know who he really is. Morgana, especially, should know that she’s not alone in her private struggle with magic.
But old fears come rushing back, and Merlin can’t bring himself to reveal the truth.
“It’s a long story,” he says.
Gwen takes one of his hands in both of hers. “We’ll be here when you’re ready to tell it.”
Morgana finally steps away from the door and comes over to pull Gwen away. She holds Gwen’s hand, and Merlin feels a pang of guilt that they are comfortable showing off their relationship in front of him when he’s still keeping secrets.
“Come on,” Morgana says, tugging Gwen back to the door.
Gwen gives Merlin a wave as she’s pulled away. Merlin watches them go, regret settling in his stomach. He should have told them. He should have trusted them.
He gets up to go after them, but then Gwaine comes into his room. His eyes are red, but he’s smiling.
“You’re awake,” he says, closing the door behind him.
“That’s one way to put it,” Merlin says as he sits back down on the bed.
Gwaine comes to sit next to him. “Did you… you were just asleep, right?”
“No. I was dead. Really dead.”
“How are you here, then? How are you sitting next to me?”
Merlin takes a deep breath and decides to trust him, to start trusting those who have always trusted in him. “Magic saved me.”
“Gaius used magic?” Gwaine asks incredulously.
“No. I did. Unconsciously, I suppose. I—I have magic. I always have.”
Gwaine is quiet for a long moment but finally says, “You know, that explains quite a lot.”
Merlin chuckles. “Yes, I bet it does.”
They sit in silence, and Merlin is relieved to find that it’s a comfortable one. Gwaine is accepting him for who he is, for all he is.
“It feels good to finally tell people,” Merlin admits.
“Who else have you told?”
“Gaius has always known. And… I told Arthur.”
Merlin glances over to see Gwaine wincing. “What did he say?”
“Nothing,” Merlin sighs. “I told him and he… left.”
“Typical.”
Merlin tries to smile, but based on Gwaine’s look of concern, he doesn’t manage it.
“Leave him to me,” Gwaine says bracingly. He pats Merlin’s knee and gets up. “I’ll talk some sense into him.”
“No, don’t,” Merlin says. “You don’t have to. That’ll just make it worse.”
“Worse? How?”
Merlin pauses, not wanting to insult his friend, and Gwaine laughs.
“I promise I will be gentle and subtle,” he says. His smile slowly fades as he looks down at Merlin, and then he asks, “What was it like?”
“Dying?”
Gwaine shakes his head. “Coming back.”
“It was like sinking,” Merlin says slowly. “But instead of sinking into nothing… it was sinking into everything.”
Gwaine looks at him for a moment and then nods. “Right. I’ll make Arthur see some sense.” He leaves before Merlin can protest again.
Arthur circles the castle twice, doing his best to avoid questions but ultimately having to admit to several people that Merlin is alive and well. When he grows sick of not having answers for the curious—or not being willing to share the answers he does have—he retreats to his room.
How could he not have known? It seems so obvious now. All those strange moments and accidents and small miracles. Of course it’s all been magic.
Of course Arthur hasn’t known who Merlin is at all. Of course he’s been in the dark for years. Of course everything he’s hoped for between them has been built on nothing but fantasy.
Before he has too much time to brood, Gwaine bursts in.
“Not now,” Arthur says. He sits at his desk and tries to look busy.
Gwaine doesn’t leave. Instead, he comes over and slaps his hands down over the papers on the desk. “Now.”
“Gwaine—”
“I spoke to Merlin.”
Arthur pauses, considering his next move carefully. If he admits to Gwaine that he knows, if he says it out loud, if he makes it real, there’s no coming back from that.
Pretending to be ignorant doesn’t appeal, so Arthur looks up at Gwaine and asks, “He told you?”
Gwaine nods. “He did.”
Years of secrets and now Merlin’s just telling anyone?
Arthur’s jaw clenches. “He betrayed me,” he says, testing out the words.
“I don’t think he could help it,” Gwaine says.
“Not with the magic,” Arthur says. He looks down at Gwaine’s hands and pushes them off the desk. “With the lie.”
That hangs between them, the truth of it all gnawing at Arthur’s insides. Merlin lied to him.
“What would you have done if you knew about it sooner?” Gwaine asks.
“How should I know? He never gave me opportunity.”
“And you don’t see why he didn’t tell you?”
“I—” Arthur huffs. “He should have trusted me.”
He should have trusted Arthur the way that Arthur had trusted him.
“Maybe he did,” Gwaine says. “Maybe it’s nothing to do with trust.”
“What else—”
“What would you have done?” Gwaine asks again. “What would you really have done? If you’d found out when you met him, or on any day in between then and now—what would you have done? If your father was still the king, what would you have done? Kept his secret? Turned him in?”
“I—” Arthur shakes his head. How could he know what he would have done?
“Maybe he didn’t want you to have to decide.”
Arthur sighs and closes his eyes. Of course Merlin would be self-sacrificing about his magic. Of course he would have been trying to protect Arthur from the truth of himself, to spare Arthur the impossible choice he would have been presented with. Of course he put Arthur before himself, as he always does.
“How is he?” Arthur asks, looking up at Gwaine.
“I think he’s worried.”
“Would you send him to me? If—when he’s feeling well enough. If he’s recovered.”
“How does one recover from death?” Gwaine asks lightly.
Arthur ignores him.
“I’ll see how he’s doing and send him along,” Gwaine says. He loiters for a moment, watching Arthur, before leaving.
Merlin makes his way to Arthur’s room as slowly as he can. He’s sure he knows what’s going to happen when he gets there. Arthur, hands tied by his father’s laws, will banish him. Merlin will have to return to Ealdor, to the village he outgrew, and spend his days farming.
At least it will be nice to see his mother again.
He can’t fathom never seeing Arthur again. After so many years of seeing him every single day, every morning, every evening—how can he possibly go back to anything else? How can he let that go? How can he be expected to recover from not having that?
Even dragging his feet and taking some detours, Merlin comes to Arthur’s room before he’s ready. He takes another minute to himself, a minute to remember the good times and the life he’s built here, and then goes in without knocking.
Arthur is sitting in his desk chair, but he’s facing the windows and watching the world outside.
Merlin walks over to the desk, making noise to announce his presence, and waits.
He knows that Arthur knows he’s there. The silence is suffocating, and Merlin curls his hands into fists. Arthur must hate him.
“I thought I knew you,” Arthur finally says.
Merlin closes his eyes against shame and regret and everything that’s built up between him and Arthur over the years.
“I am sorry,” he says quietly. “I… I only ever use magic for—for you, for Camelot. I used it to bring those trees down on the sorcerers.”
“All that, and you still died.”
“Yes.”
“And yet here you are,” Arthur says as he stands to face Merlin. “How?”
“I don’t know,” Merlin admits. He does have his suspicions. Things he’s been told over the years, about himself and his destiny, have been creeping into his mind ever since he woke back up. He’d really rather not think about that now, or maybe ever. “I’m glad to be here, though.”
Arthur looks at Merlin, and Merlin looks back. He seems tired.
Normally Merlin might make some joke about Arthur’s ugly face. Or he might decide to be kind and offer to reschedule Arthur’s duties for the day so he can get a nap in. Right now, Merlin just stands there, memorising Arthur’s face and letting Arthur watch him in return.
“Your scars,” Arthur says. Merlin raises a hand to where the dagger had pierced him. “Not that one. The other ones. The many, many other ones.”
“Oh,” Merlin says, realising Arthur must have had ample time to inspect his body when he’d been dead.
“Oh?” Arthur asks.
Merlin wets his lips. “I’ve used magic to save you from many enemies. To protect Camelot and you and those that matter to you.”
“What kind of enemies?”
“Other sorcerers, like back in the woods. Magical creatures. Sometimes just… bad people. People who would have seen you dead. On the whole, it’s mostly been enemies with magic.” He swallows. “That probably makes it sound as if magic is the problem. It’s not, and it never has been. It’s the laws.”
Arthur’s eyebrows rise, but he says nothing. Merlin knows his time left in Camelot is limited, and he might as well say this before it’s too late.
“If I’d grown up in Camelot, I myself might have turned evil. If all I’d ever seen or been told is that magic and those who wield it are evil… what choice would I have had? I would have seen myself as evil. I would have become so as an inevitability. Anything else would have been unfathomable.”
He lets that hang between them, watching Arthur’s expression shift to something soft.
“You could never become evil, Merlin.”
“And yet I have magic.”
“And scars.”
“You should have seen the things that didn’t leave a mark,” Merlin says in an attempt at humour.
Arthur looks down at the desk between them for a long moment. Merlin waits for the banishment.
Arthur rounds the desk to face Merlin properly, and Merlin holds his breath. He doesn’t know how to make this easier on either of them.
“I will need time to consider how to move forward.”
“Of course,” Merlin breathes. “I… I’ll leave. I’ll resign.”
Arthur’s brow furrows. “Why?”
“The laws…”
“Yes. Clearly they are…” he shakes his head, “not serving their intended purpose.”
“You would change them?” Merlin dares to ask.
Arthur nods, and Merlin just stares at him, waiting for it to make sense.
“It seems it’s my turn to do the surprising for once,” Arthur says with a smile.
“You’ve surprised me plenty over the years,” Merlin says honestly.
Arthur’s smile widens. “And what do you think I’ll do next?”
Merlin’s heart thumps in his chest, as it so often does in these strange moments with Arthur. “Surprise me,” he says, and his voice is barely a whisper.
Arthur considers him for a moment before his gaze drops to Merlin’s lips. Merlin swallows, dizzy with anticipation, and then Arthur is kissing him.
It’s firm until it’s not, timid until it’s not, plain and simple and full of a simmering danger.
Merlin savours it for as long as he dares before pulling back. “Arthur—”
“Don’t say something absurd,” Arthur says. “For once in your life.”
“Why now?” Merlin asks despite himself.
Arthur shrugs, which is a lie, and Merlin waits for him to find the real explanation.
“How could it not be now?” Arthur says. “You were dead. I thought I’d lost the chance.”
Merlin’s cheeks burn. It’s clear this is not the first time Arthur has thought about this. It’s not even close to Merlin’s first time.
“There’s been quite a change in you over the past few hours,” Merlin says.
“Has there?” Arthur asks mildly. “I don’t feel changed. I feel remarkably clear-headed. Almost as if I knew this was coming. As if everything in my life has been leading to this moment right here.”
“What if you feel differently when the shock wears off?”
“Why would I feel differently? Merlin, you’ve just told me that you’ve been lying to my face since the moment we met—since the moment you called me ‘friend’ and made me laugh—and if that hasn’t changed how I feel, nothing will.”
“I was dead,” Merlin says, his throat tight. “You’re just—you’re not thinking clearly.”
Arthur goes quiet, and Merlin doesn’t know what else to say. He’s wanted this for so long, but he knows it can never be real.
“Do you really want to resign?” Arthur asks.
“No,” Merlin says quickly. “I thought you were going to banish me.”
Arthur shakes his head. “That never crossed my mind.” He reaches out, taking one of Merlin’s hands in his. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t still have questions. A lot of questions. But I think we have time for them now. As long as you don’t die on me again.”
“I won’t,” Merlin promises.
Arthur lets go of Merlin’s hand. “Then what’s the problem?”
For once, Merlin can’t think of any. Arthur knows he has magic. Arthur is reconsidering his father’s laws. Arthur has made his feelings clear. One by one, the problems are being pushed aside, revealing nothing but Merlin’s own fear of being known.
But Arthur does know him. Now more than ever, he knows Merlin better than anyone. He knows Merlin inside and out. He knows more than Merlin can imagine.
He knows Merlin—and he wants Merlin. Still. Despite. Because of.
Merlin cups Arthur’s face as he goes in for a kiss. Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin, and Merlin can’t help but melt into it, to let go, to be held up by Arthur’s strength.
Arthur eases back, smiling as Merlin steals another kiss.
“Don’t resign,” Arthur whispers.
Merlin grins and puts his hands on Arthur’s waist. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
“Good.”
Merlin rests his forehead against Arthur’s and breathes through the impossible joy bubbling inside of him.
“Merlin?” Arthur asks.
“Yes.”
“Where did you go? When you were…”
“Dead?” Merlin leans back to look at him. “I don’t know. If it was anywhere, I don’t remember. I just felt so cold when I was—when we were in the forest, and then suddenly I was warm again. All over, I was tingling with it. As soon as I became aware of it, I opened my eyes, and it didn’t feel like any time had passed.”
Arthur considers him. “You’re full of mysteries.”
“Would you like to solve them?”
Arthur chuckles. “Yes. We’ll start here.” He tugs on the hem of Merlin’s shirt and exposes the burn scar on his chest. He leans in close to give it a kiss.
Merlin sighs and tangles a hand in Arthur’s hair. “A High Priestess hit me with a burst of fire.”
“And you survived,” Arthur says as he straightens up. He pulls off Merlin’s shirt, and Merlin lets him.
Quietly, reverently, Arthur maps out Merlin’s scars with his lips and fingertips until Merlin is trembling. He’s made sure no one has ever seen him like this before. He’s kept so many secrets from so many people, from Arthur especially. Now Arthur can see everything, and Merlin has never felt so exposed.
For Arthur, he’ll bare it all.
Arthur kisses a trail up from Merlin’s shoulder to his ear. “Tell me…”
“Anything.”
“Why did you tell Gwaine you have magic?”
Merlin pauses, surprised by the question, and then laughs. “Why, are you jealous it’s not our secret?”
“No,” Arthur says, but Merlin isn’t convinced.
“Why shouldn’t I tell him? I plan to tell Gwen and Morgana, too.”
“Anyone else?” Arthur asks, leaning back to look at Merlin. He’s smiling.
“Maybe not until after you reconsider the laws.”
“I’d better get on that, then.” Arthur lets go of Merlin and turns towards his desk.
Merlin takes Arthur’s hands in his, pulling him back. “There’s plenty of time for that.”
Arthur grins and kisses Merlin, firm and sure, and Merlin kisses back. There will be plenty of time for this, too. Time for Arthur to change the laws, time for Merlin to reveal his true self to Camelot, time for Arthur to explore Merlin’s scars to his heart’s content, time for Merlin to drag Arthur to bed for other kinds of exploring. With death behind him, Merlin sees nothing but time ahead, and he wouldn’t want to spend it any other way.