#arthurpendragon

And Arthur was currently trying to snuff it out. 

A heavy knock rattled my oak door. It wasn’t a request; it was a warning. 

"Enter," I said, steeling myself. 

The door swung open, and Arthur marched in. He was still in his tunic and breeches, having shed his armor but not his agitation. His hair was damp, sticking up in tufts that usually made me laugh and reach out to smooth them down. Tonight, his expression froze the affection in my throat. 

"We need to talk," he announced, pacing immediately to the fireplace. He didn't look at me. He looked at the flames, his hands clasped behind his back, imitating a posture our father used to take. It made my heart ache. 

"I assumed as much," I said, keeping my voice level. "Since you’ve been terrorizing the squires for the last hour. I thought you might eventually come to the source of your irritation." 

Arthur spun around. "Irritation? You think this is irritation, YN?" 

"Fury, then?" I suggested, moving to sit in the high-backed chair near the fire. I tried to appear regal, unbothered. "You are rarely subtle, Arthur. It’s one of your few charming qualities." 

"Do not mock me. Not tonight." He took a step toward me, the firelight casting long, dancing shadows across his face. "I saw you. In the lower town. With him." 

He didn't say the name. He didn't have to. The air in the room seemed to charge with the unspoken identity. Merlin. 

"We were walking, Arthur," I said, feigning nonchalance. "Is walking against the laws of Camelot now? Should I check the statutes?" 

"You were not just walking!" Arthur exploded, throwing his hands up. "You were… leaning. You were whispering. You looked at him as if—as if he were a knight returning from a crusade, not a clumsy servant who can barely saddle a horse without tripping over his own feet!" 

"He is your servant," I reminded him sharply. "And your friend, though you loathe to admit it." 

"That is entirely different!" Arthur countered, his voice cracking with frustration. "He is my servant. I deal with his incompetence because I am used to it. But you? You are the Princess of Camelot. My sister." He pointed a finger at me, his eyes blazing with that protective fire that had suffocated me for as long as I could remember. "Do you have any idea how it looks? The King's sister, consorting with the help?" 

"I don't care how it looks," I said, my voice rising to match his. I stood up, refusing to be looked down upon. "I care about how it feels. And for the record, he isn't incompetent. He is brave, and loyal, and he has saved your life more times than you have the wit to count." 

Arthur scoffed, dragging a hand down his face. "Oh, please. Merlin? Brave? The man hides behind trees when we hunt rabbits. YN, you are projecting qualities onto him because… because you are bored. That is it, isn't it? Court life is dull, the visiting nobles are pompous windbags, so you’ve decided to amuse yourself with the Court Jester." 

The insult landed hard. It wasn't an insult to me, but to Merlin. To the man who listened to me when I felt invisible in a room full of dukes. To the man who made me laugh until my ribs ached when the grief of our parents weighed too heavily. 

"He is not a jester," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And I am not amusing myself." 

Arthur stopped pacing. He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time since he entered the room. The anger in his eyes began to recede, replaced by a dawning, terrifying realization. He saw the set of my jaw. He saw the lack of apology in my stance. 

"YN," he said, his voice softer, laced with a panic I rarely heard. "Tell me you haven't done something foolish. Tell me you haven't… fallen for him." 

I held his gaze. The silence stretched between us, filled only by the crackling of the logs in the hearth and the relentless rain outside. I could have lied. I could have laughed it off, told him it was a fleeting fancy, and saved us both the heartache. But I was a Pendragon, and we did not run from the truth. 

"I cannot tell you that," I whispered. 

Arthur looked as though I’d struck him. He staggered back a step, collapsing into the chair opposite mine. He put his head in his hands. "Gods above. Merlin. Of all the people in the five kingdoms. Merlin." 

"He is a good man, Arthur." 

"He’s a peasant!" Arthur snapped, looking up, his eyes pleading. "YN, you know the laws. You know the expectations. I cannot… I cannot rewrite centuries of tradition because you like the way he polishes boots." 

"It has nothing to do with boots!" I cried out, the frustration boiling over. I walked over to him, kneeling on the rug so I could look him in the eye. "And you’re one to talk. Don’t think I don’t know how you’ve fallen for Gwen. Do you think I care about titles? Do you think I care about land or dowries? Look at us, Arthur. Look at this castle. It is cold. It is lonely. We are surrounded by people who want things from us, people who flatter us for power, people who plot against us." 

I took his hands. They were rough, calloused from the sword, but familiar. "When I am with him, I am not the Princess. I am not a political pawn to be married off to seal a treaty with Nemeth or Mercia. I am just YN. He sees me. He challenges me. He calls me out when I am being arrogant—just like you do." 

Arthur grimaced. "He calls you arrogant?" 

"He calls me worse," I smiled through the tears threatening to spill. "He treats me like a person." 

Arthur pulled his hands away gently and stood up, walking back to the window. He leaned his forehead against the cold stone. "I am trying to protect you. You know that. If the Council finds out… if our enemies find out… they will use him against you. They will use him to get to the throne." 

"I can protect myself," I insisted, standing up and brushing off my skirts. "And he can look after himself better than you give him credit for." 

Arthur let out a short, humorless laugh. "Merlin? Defend himself? YN, the man would try to talk a bandit to death." 

"He has a strength you don't see," I said, thinking of the strange coincidences that always seemed to happen around Merlin—the falling branches, the lucky rock slides. "But that isn't the point. The point is my happiness. Isn't that what you promised me? When Father died? You swore you would make sure I was happy." 

Arthur turned slowly. The firelight caught the gold of his hair, giving him a halo that belied the turmoil on his face. He looked tired. Being King had aged him, etched lines around his eyes that shouldn't have been there at his age. 

"I did promise that," he admitted quietly. "But I thought… I thought your happiness would look different. I thought it would be a castle of your own, a powerful husband who could give you the world. I wanted you to be safe, YN. Secure." 

"Security isn't happiness, Arthur. It's just existence." 

I took a deep breath. I had to make him understand. I had to use the only weapon I had left against his stubbornness: the absolute truth. 

"Arthur, listen to me," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "You know I have tried. I have danced with the dukes. I have smiled at the princes. I have accepted the flowers and the poetry and the empty compliments. And I felt nothing. Nothing but the cold expectation of duty." 

I stepped closer to him, placing a hand on his arm. He didn't pull away. 

"But when I am with him… when we are just sitting by the river, or when he’s making fun of your training drills, or when he looks at me with that stupid, lopsided smile…" I paused, choking back a sob. "I feel alive. I feel like I can breathe." 

I looked deep into my brother’s blue eyes, imploring him to see me not as a responsibility, but as his sister. 

"No one had ever made me as happy as he does," I said, the words hanging heavy and absolute in the air. 

Arthur stared at me. I watched the conflict war behind his eyes. I saw the King battling the Brother. The King wanted to arrest Merlin for overstepping his station, to lock me in the tower until I came to my senses. But the Brother… the Brother remembered what it was like to be lonely in a crowded room. 

The silence stretched for an eternity. Outside, thunder rumbled low and long, shaking the floorboards beneath our feet. 

Finally, Arthur let out a long, ragged sigh. His shoulders slumped, the tension draining out of him. He looked less like a monarch and more like the boy who used to help me steal tarts from the kitchens. 

"He’s an idiot," Arthur muttered, but there was no venom in it. 

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "He is," I agreed. "A complete clotpole." 

Arthur looked at me, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And he has ears that are entirely too big for his head." 

"Massive," I nodded, a tear finally escaping and tracking down my cheek. "Like a bat." 

Arthur reached out and brushed the tear away with his thumb. His touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the warrior he presented to the world. "If he hurts you," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a low growl, "if he makes you shed a single tear of sadness, YN… I will run him through. I don't care if he is my friend. I don't care if he is the only one who knows how to polish my armor properly. I will end him." 

I laughed, a wet, shaky sound. "I know you would." 

Arthur pulled me into a hug, squeezing me tight against his chest. I buried my face in his tunic, smelling the scent of woodsmoke, horses, and rain that always clung to him. It was the smell of safety. 

"I don't approve," he mumbled into my hair. "Let the record show, I formally do not approve." 

"Duly noted, Sire," I mumbled back. 

He pulled back, holding me at arm's length. "You will have to be careful. The court… they talk. Father’s ghost still haunts these halls, in the minds of the older council members. They will not understand." 

"I know," I said. "We will be discreet." 

Arthur rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Discreet. You and Merlin. The two clumsiest, loudest people in Camelot attempting discretion. I should just abdicate now." 

"You love us," I teased, feeling a lightness in my chest that hadn't been there an hour ago. 

"I love you. I tolerate him," he corrected, though his eyes were warm. "Go to sleep, YN. I have a headache, and I need to figure out how I’m going to look Merlin in the eye tomorrow without punching him." 

"Goodnight, Arthur," I said softly. 

He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. He didn't look back, but he spoke one last time. "He makes you happy?" 

"Yes," I said. "More than anything." 

"Then," Arthur said, his voice Gruff, "I suppose I can refrain from banishing him. For now." 

He left, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. 

The next morning, the rain had stopped. The sky was a washed-out, brilliant blue, the kind that makes the white stone of Camelot gleam so brightly it hurts the eyes. 

I made my way down to the training grounds. I told myself I was going to watch the knights drill, which was a socially acceptable pastime for a Princess, but we all knew why I was there. 

I spotted them immediately. Arthur was in the center of the ring, sword in hand, barking orders at a terrified new recruit. And there, standing by the fence holding a water skin and looking thoroughly bored, was Merlin. 

He looked up as I approached. His face lit up—that instant, unguarded joy that always made my stomach do a somersault. He wore his ridiculous neckerchief and a jacket that had seen better days, and he looked like the finest thing in the kingdom. 

"Morning," he said as I reached the fence, his voice low so the nearby knights wouldn't overhear. 

"Morning," I replied, gripping the wooden rail. 

"Do you know what’s wrong with Arthur?" Merlin asked, darting a nervous glance toward Arthur. "He was in a foul mood this morning. Threw a goblet at me because his breakfast was 'too cold'. I think he suspects something." 

I watched Arthur across the field. He had stopped drilling the recruit and was looking over at us. He wasn't glaring, exactly. He was watching. Calculating. 

"He knows," I said. 

Merlin choked on his own spit. He went pale, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. "He… he knows? As in, knows knows?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm dead," Merlin whispered, looking around as if searching for an escape route. "I need to pack. I can be in Ealdor by nightfall if I steal a fast horse. But he’ll track me. He’s got hounds." 

"Merlin, breathe," I laughed, reaching through the fence to tap his hand. "He isn't going to kill you." 

Merlin looked at me skeptically. "This is Arthur we're talking about. He threatens to kill me when I forget to wash his socks. Imagine what he’ll do when he finds out I’m… with his sister." 

"He knows that, too. I told him." 

Merlin stared at me. "You told him? And you’re still standing? And I’m still standing?" 

"I told him that you make me happy," I said simply. 

Merlin went still. The panic faded from his face, replaced by a softness that made my heart flutter. He looked down at his boots, then back up at me, a shy smile curving his lips. 

"I do, you know," he said quietly. "Want to make you happy." 

"I know." 

Suddenly, a heavy gauntlet clamped onto Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin jumped about a foot in the air. 

Arthur was standing there. He was sweaty, imposing, and wearing his King face. He looked from Merlin to me, and then back to Merlin. 

"Merlin," Arthur boomed. 

"Sire!" Merlin squeaked. "I was just… the Princess was requesting… water?" 

Arthur ignored the lie. He leaned in close to Merlin, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper that I could barely hear. "If you are not in the armory polishing my chainmail in five minutes, I will have you in the stocks for a week. And Merlin?" 

"Yes, my lord?" 

"If the chainmail isn't polished to a mirror shine… well. Let's just say I will be very unhappy. And when I am unhappy, my sister is unhappy. And we established last night that her happiness is… paramount." 

Arthur released Merlin’s shoulder and gave him a hard pat that nearly knocked the poor boy over. Then, Arthur looked at me. He gave a single, curt nod—a silent acknowledgement of our truce, of his promise—and strode back into the training ring, bellowing for Gwaine to stop slacking off. 

Merlin stood there, rubbing his shoulder, looking bewildered. "Did he just…?" 

"I think he just gave us his blessing," I grinned. "In his own way." 

"His way involves a lot of threats," Merlin grumbled, though he looked relieved. 

"Go polish the chainmail, Merlin," I said, backing away toward the castle. "I’ll see you at dinner." 

"Wait," Merlin called out. 

I stopped and turned. 

"Does this mean I don't have to hide behind the tapestries anymore when I see you coming?" he asked. 

"It means," I said, "that you have to work harder. Because now the King is watching." 

Merlin groaned, but his eyes were laughing. "Great. No pressure." 

I walked back up the stone path toward the keep, the sun warming my back. I could hear the clang of swords behind me, the shouts of the knights, and Merlin’s distinct laughter ringing out over the noise. 

I thought about the future. I thought about the dangers that surely lay ahead—Morgana, the magical threats Arthur refused to see, the politics of the court. I knew it wouldn't be easy. I knew loving a servant, even one as extraordinary as Merlin, would bring challenges that could shake the foundations of Camelot. 

But as I reached the top of the stairs and looked out over the sprawling kingdom, I felt a sense of peace I hadn't felt in years. Arthur was on the throne, guarding the kingdom. Merlin was at his side, guarding Arthur (and secretly, the world). And I was no longer just a spectator in my own life. 

I had my brother’s protection, but more importantly, I had his understanding. He had seen the truth in my eyes last night. He had realized what I had known for months, what I had finally dared to speak aloud. 

Titles didn't matter. destiny didn't matter. Magic didn't matter. 

I smiled, listening to the distant sounds of the two men I loved most in the world bickering down below. 

No one had ever made me as happy as he does. And for the first time, I was allowed to keep that happiness. 

Later that evening, the castle was quiet again. I found myself in the library, a massive room filled with the scent of old parchment and beeswax candles. I wasn't reading, though. I was waiting. 

The door creaked open, and Merlin slipped inside. He looked tired; his hands were stained with polishing oil, and he had a smudge of soot on his cheek. 

"Is the chainmail shiny enough?" I asked, looking up from the table. 

"He used it as a mirror to fix his hair for ten minutes, so I assume so," Merlin sighed, dropping into the chair next to me. He looked at me nervously. "YN… about what you said to him. Last night." 

I closed the book I had been pretending to read. "Yes?" 

"Did you mean it?" He looked earnest, stripped of his usual defenses. "That I make you… that happy?" 

I reached out and took his hand, ignoring the oil stains. His fingers curled around mine, warm and solid. 

"Merlin," I said softly. "Arthur offers me a kingdom. He offers me safety. He offers me the legacy of our father. But you…" I squeezed his hand. "You offer me myself. You make me laugh when I want to scream. You make me brave when I want to hide." 

He watched me, his blue eyes intense. "You don't need me to make you brave, YN. You're a Pendragon. You're the bravest person I know. Except maybe… well, no, definitely braver than Arthur when there's a spider in his room." 

I laughed, the sound echoing off the high shelves. "See? That. That is why." 

Merlin smiled, lifting my hand to press a kiss to my knuckles. It was a courtly gesture, something a knight would do, but coming from him, it felt more intimate, more real. 

"I have a secret too," he whispered, his eyes twinkling with something I couldn't quite place—a depth, a golden hue that seemed to flicker for a second before returning to blue. 

"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow. "And what is that?" 

"No one," he said, echoing my words from the night before, "has ever made me feel as seen as you do." 

We sat there in the quiet of the library, the King's sister and the King's servant, holding hands over a table of dusty history books. I knew Arthur was likely pacing somewhere, worrying about proprieties and safety, but I also knew he would let us be. 

Because despite his bluster, despite his armor, Arthur Pendragon loved his sister. And he knew that without Merlin, the light in my eyes would go out. 

"Come on," I said, standing up and pulling Merlin with me. "I stole some tarts from the kitchen. Arthur doesn't know." 

Merlin grinned, the shadows of the day vanishing. "Now that is true bravery." 

Arthur exhaled, a small, weary smile touching his lips. "And you’re trespassing, YN. Again." 

YN stepped into the circle of candlelight. She bore the striking, dark features of her brother, Mordred, though hers were sharper, tempered by a few more years of survival in the harsh northern borders before they had come to Camelot. She wore a simple tunic and breeches, her dark hair pulled back in a severe braid that exposed the long line of her neck. 

She carried a tray with a steaming bowl and a clean linen cloth. "I’m not trespassing if the King is too stubborn to see the physician and I have to step in to prevent gangrene." 

"It's a scratch," Arthur muttered, though he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. 

"It’s a slice from a rusty Mercian blade, Arthur," she corrected, setting the tray down on top of a map of the Western Valley. She moved the crown aside with a casual irreverence that would have given the court nobles a heart attack. "And since my brother was the one guarding your flank when you decided to charge a shield wall, I feel personally responsible for stitching you back together." 

"Mordred did fine," Arthur said, his voice softening at the mention of the young knight. "He fights well. He’s brave." 

"He’s reckless," YN countered, dipping the cloth into the hot water. "He learns it from you." 

She moved around the table, nudging his knee with hers until he turned the chair to face her. "Tunic off. Let me see." 

Arthur hesitated only a moment before complying. He hissed slightly as the cool air hit the angry red gash running along his ribs. It wasn't life-threatening, but it was ugly, the edges inflamed from a long day of wearing chainmail over it. 

YN’s expression didn't change, but her eyes darkened. She knelt beside him, wringing out the cloth. The steam rose between them, smelling of antiseptic herbs—not magic, just old earth remedies she had brought with her from the Druid lands, lands that were now just quiet forests and simple people in this age of steel. 

"You didn't tell Gaius about this," she stated, pressing the warm cloth to the wound. 

Arthur grit his teeth, gripping the arms of the chair. "Gaius would have confined me to bed. I have three delegations arriving tomorrow." 

"You’ll be greeting them from a pyre if you let this fester," she murmured. Her touch was firm but incredibly gentle, a contrast that always disarmed him. 

For a long time, the only sound was the rain and the crackle of the fire. Arthur watched her work. He watched the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way her eyelashes cast long shadows on her cheeks. When they had first arrived in Camelot—refugees from a border war, seeking asylum—others had been suspicious. But Arthur had seen something in Mordred’s eagerness and YN’s fierce, quiet protectiveness. 

He had given Mordred a sword and YN a place in the household. He hadn't expected to give her his heart. It was a dangerous thing, a King loving a woman with no title, the sister of a knight, a northerner. But in the privacy of these chambers, the titles faded. 

"You pushed him out of the way," YN said suddenly, breaking the silence. She was applying a stinging salve now, her fingers working rhythmically. 

"Who?" 

"Mordred. The reports said the Mercian lunged for him, and you took the hit." 

Arthur shrugged, a painful motion. "He’s young. He hasn't learned to watch his blind spot." 

"He is a Knight of Camelot, Arthur. It is his job to die for you, not the other way around." She looked up then, her dark eyes locking onto his blue ones. There was anger there, but it was buried under layers of fear. 

"I am his King," Arthur said, his voice dropping an octave. "It is my job to protect my people. That includes my knights. That includes your brother." 

"And who protects you?" YN asked, her voice tight. "Because from where I’m standing, you seem intent on throwing yourself onto every spearpoint in the realm." 

"I have the best armor in the five kingdoms," Arthur tried to joke, but it fell flat. 

YN finished bandaging his ribs, tying the linen strips with a sharp tug that made him wince. She stood up, walking over to the basin to wash her hands. Her back was to him, her posture rigid. 

Arthur pulled his tunic back on, the fabric catching slightly on the bandages. He watched her. He knew that stance. It was the stance she took when she was terrified but refusing to show it. It was the way she had stood when Mordred first entered the melee tournament, and the way she stood when Arthur rode out to war. 

"YN," he said softly. 

She didn't turn. "Do you have any idea what it’s like? Waiting here?" 

"I can imagine," he said. 

"No, you can't," she snapped, spinning around. Water dripped from her hands onto the stone floor. "You are the one with the sword in your hand. You have the agency. You have the control. I have to sit in this stone box and wait for the bells to toll. I have to wait to see if they bring back a body, and if that body is my brother, or if it’s... you." 

Arthur stood up, ignoring the twinge in his side. He crossed the distance between them. "We won the skirmish. The borders are secure. Mordred is safe. I am safe." 

"For now," she whispered. "But you take such risks, Arthur. Unnecessary risks." 

"It is necessary," he argued, frustration bubbling up. "I cannot lead from the back. I cannot ask men to bleed for me if I am not willing to bleed for them. That is the burden of the crown. You know this." 

"I know the burden of the crown involves living long enough to produce an heir and keep the kingdom stable," she countered, her voice rising. "Not playing hero in a muddy ditch because you think you’re invincible." 

"I don't think I'm invincible!" Arthur shouted back, the stress of the week finally cracking his composure. "I know exactly how fragile I am! Every time I ride out, I know it could be the last time. Do you think I want to die? Do you think I want to leave Camelot? To leave you?" 

The confession hung in the air, heavy and electrified. 

YN stared at him, her chest heaving slightly. The anger drained out of her face, replaced by a raw vulnerability that hurt Arthur more than the sword wound. 

"Then why?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Why did you step in front of that blade? Mordred was wearing plate. He would have taken a bruise. You took a slice that missed your lung by an inch." 

Arthur sighed, running a hand over his face. He walked back to the table and leaned against it, the fight draining out of him. "Because he’s your brother, YN. And I couldn't look you in the eye if I let him fall when I could have stopped it." 

YN closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, they were wet. She walked over to him, stepping into his personal space. She reached out, her hand hovering over the fresh bandage beneath his tunic. 

"You are an idiot," she whispered. 

"I’ve been told," Arthur half-smiled. 

"If you had died," she said, her voice steadying into a hard, diamond-like clarity, "Camelot would have mourned a King. But I would have lost everything. Do you understand that?" 

Arthur reached out and took her hand, pressing it against his chest, over his beating heart. "I’m still here." 

"But you won't always be. Not if you keep this up." 

Arthur looked at her, searching for the right words. He needed to comfort her, but he couldn't lie. He couldn't promise to stop fighting; that was who he was. That was what the kingdom needed. 

"Listen to me," Arthur said, his tone shifting to something more pragmatic, the tone he used for strategy. "I have made arrangements. If the worst happens... if I fall... the council knows my wishes. Mordred will be knighted to the inner circle. You will be provided for. You will have the estate in the lower town, the one with the garden you like. You’ll be safe. I’ve ensured that no matter what happens to me, your future is secure." 

He thought this would help. He thought showing her that he had planned, that he had been responsible, would alleviate the fear of the unknown. He looked at her, expecting to see relief, expecting her to understand that he had taken care of the logistics of his own death for her sake. 

Instead, YN pulled her hand away from his chest as if he had burned her. She took a step back, her expression shifting from sadness to incredulous disbelief. 

"My future is secure?" she repeated, her voice flat. 

"Yes," Arthur nodded, missing the warning signs. "You wouldn't be left with nothing. I wanted to make sure you knew that." 

YN let out a short, sharp laugh that had no humor in it. She shook her head, looking at him as if he were a stranger. 

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" 

The words cut through the room, sharper than the Mercian blade. 

Arthur blinked, taken aback. "I... I thought knowing you wouldn't be destitute—" 

"Destitute?" she interrupted, her voice rising. "Do you think I care about the estate? Do you think I care about gold, or safety, or a garden?" 

She advanced on him again, poking him hard in the chest with a finger, ignoring his wince. "You are standing there, planning your own funeral, telling me how comfortable I’ll be when you’re rotting in the ground, and you think that comforts me? You think that’s what I want?" 

"YN, be reasonable—" 

"I don't want to be reasonable, Arthur! I want you!" She shouted the last word, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "I don't want a pension. I don't want a house. I want the man I love to stop trying to get himself killed! I want to wake up in the morning and not have to wonder if the bells are tolling for you." 

She turned away, pacing the length of the rug. "You reduce everything to duty and logistics. You think if the paperwork is in order, the grief won't matter. You think you can manage my heartbreak like you manage the grain stores." 

Arthur stood frozen. The realization hit him slowly, like the cold rain seeping through armor. He had treated her fear as a problem to be solved with resources, not as an emotional reality to be held. He had tried to be the King for her, when she needed the man. 

He watched her pace, her hands clenched into fists. She was shaking. 

"YN," he said, his voice quiet, stripped of all royal pretense. 

He didn't wait for her to acknowledge him. He crossed the room in three long strides and caught her arm, gently turning her around. She resisted for a second, her body tense, but then she looked up at him, and the dam broke. Tears spilled over her cheeks, hot and fast. 

Arthur pulled her in, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. She smelled of rain and herbs and something distinctly her. She clung to him, her fingers digging into the back of his tunic, holding on for dear life. 

"I'm sorry," he murmured into her hair. "I'm sorry. I'm a clotpole." 

She let out a wet, choked laugh against his chest. "Yes. You are." 

"I didn't mean to dismiss you," he said, pulling back slightly so he could cup her face in his hands. His thumbs brushed away the tears. "I just... I don't know how to fix this part. I can fight battles. I can write treaties. I can organize a kingdom. But I don't know how to stop the world from being dangerous, and I don't know how to stop you from worrying." 

"You can't stop the world," YN whispered, leaning into his touch. "But you can stop acting like your life is currency to be spent. You can value yourself as much as I value you." 

Arthur looked at her—really looked at her. In the dim light, with the rain hammering outside, she was the most real thing in his life. The crown was heavy, the throne was cold, but this... this was warm. This was vital. 

"I don't want to die," Arthur admitted, the words feeling strange on his tongue. He rarely admitted fear. "I used to not care. Before you. Before I had something to lose that wasn't just... duty." 

YN’s eyes searched his. "Good. Hold onto that. Fear keeps you alive." 

"It also terrifies me," he confessed. "Because when I was on the ground today, when the steel hit me... my first thought wasn't for Camelot. It was that I hadn't told you I loved you this morning." 

YN let out a soft sound, half-sob, half-sigh. She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him. 

It wasn't a chaste, courtly kiss. It was desperate and deep, fueled by the adrenaline of the day and the fear of what could have been. It tasted of salt and longing. Arthur’s hands moved to her waist, pulling her flush against him, mindful of his wound but needing the contact more than he cared about the pain. 

For a moment, the storm outside ceased to exist. The politics, the wars, the expectations—they all dissolved. There was only the warmth of her mouth, the steady beat of her heart against his chest, the grounding reality of her presence. 

When they finally broke apart, breathless, Arthur rested his forehead against hers. 

"I promise," he whispered, "to be more careful. I can't promise to never fight. But I promise to remember that I have to come back to you." 

"That’s all I ask," YN said softly. She traced the line of his jaw with her thumb. "And if you ever try to talk to me about my 'secure future' without you again, I will let Mordred practice his archery on your favorite cloak." 

Arthur chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest. "Noted. No more death planning." 

"At least not tonight," she said. 

She pulled away slightly, taking his hand and leading him toward the large four-poster bed. "You need rest. Your body needs to heal." 

"I have papers—" 

"The papers will be there in the morning," she cut him off. "The King commands the kingdom, but the healer commands the patient. Lie down." 

Arthur didn't argue. He felt the exhaustion in his bones now that the adrenaline of the argument had faded. He sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off his boots. YN moved around the room, extinguishing the candles one by one until only the dying embers of the fire cast a glow across the chamber. 

She didn't leave. She never did on nights like this. 

Arthur laid back against the pillows, wincing slightly as his ribs settled. YN sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. 

"Stay?" he asked, though he knew the answer. 

She nodded and kicked off her own shoes, climbing in beside him. She lay on top of the covers, fully clothed, resting her head on his uninjured shoulder. Arthur draped his arm over her, his hand tangling in her dark hair. 

The silence that settled over them was different now. It wasn't the tense, heavy silence of the council room. It was peaceful. Companionable. 

Arthur stared up at the canopy of the bed, listening to the rain which had softened to a gentle patter. 

"YN?" 

"Hmm?" 

"Thank you. For patching me up. And for... the other part. Keeping my head on straight." 

She shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat. "Someone has to. Mordred certainly won't; he thinks the sun shines out of your armor." 

Arthur smiled into the darkness. "He’s a good kid. I’ll keep an eye on him. Better than I did today." 

"I know." 

They lay there for a long time, the firelight dancing on the walls. Arthur felt the tension slowly leaving his muscles, his breathing syncing with hers. 

He thought about what she had said. Is that supposed to make me feel better? 

He realized now how hollow his offer of security had been. A house and gold were cold comforts for a warm heart. He had been trained since birth to think of alliances, lineage, and assets. But YN didn't love the King of Camelot; she loved Arthur. And Arthur was just a man—flesh, blood, and bone—who could break. 

He tightened his hold on her slightly. He couldn't offer her a world without danger. He couldn't offer her a guarantee of old age. But he could offer her this: his survival instinct, sharpened not by duty, but by love. 

"YN," he whispered, sleep tugging at his consciousness. 

"Go to sleep, Arthur." 

"I love you." 

He felt her smile against his skin. "I know. I love you too." 

A ghost of a smile touched his lips—that rare, genuine smile that he hoarded like gold coin, spending it only when he thought no one was looking. "Arrogance is an ugly trait, YN." 

"I learned from the best, my Lord." 

He scoffed, shaking his head, but he sheathed the sword. The tension in his shoulders, usually as tight as a bowstring, loosened just a fraction. This was our dance. He was the weight of the kingdom, heavy and unyielding; I was the counterweight, the archer from the borderlands who didn't care about court protocol. 

I had come to Camelot two years ago, a tracker looking for coin. I stayed because the coin was good. I stayed longer because the clumsy servant boy with the big ears made me laugh. I stayed permanently because the arrogant Prince—now King—turned out to be a man worth following into the dark. 

And lately, following him into the dark was all I wanted to do. 

"Get some sleep," Arthur commanded softly, kicking dirt over the embers to dim the fire. "We ride at first light." 

"Yes, Sire." 

I laid back, pulling my cloak tight against the chill. Through my lashes, I watched him. He didn't sleep. He sat guard, staring out into the black trees, carrying the safety of all of us on his back. I wanted to reach out, to touch his hand, to tell him he could rest. But there was a chasm between us—a chasm made of crowns and duty and unspoken fears. 

I closed my eyes, but sleep was a long time coming. 

The ambush happened just past noon the next day. 

We were navigating a narrow ravine, the rock walls rising high on either side like the teeth of a giant beast. It was a tactical nightmare, the kind of place my father had warned me never to walk through. But it was the only path to the valley. 

"Merlin, stop dragging your feet," Arthur called back, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He was scanning the ridges. 

"I'm not dragging them, I'm pacing myself!" Merlin huffed, struggling with the pack horse. "Unlike some people, I don't have a horse trained for—" 

Snap. 

The sound of a twig breaking above us was as loud as a thunderclap in the silence. 

"Above!" I screamed, already nocking an arrow. 

Men poured over the ridges. They weren't just bandits; they were mercenaries, clad in mismatched leather and steel, yelling war cries that echoed off the stone walls. 

"Protect the King!" I shouted, though it was unnecessary. Arthur had already drawn Excalibur, the blade singing as it left the scabbard. 

"YN, take the ridge!" Arthur barked, parrying a blow from a burly man who had jumped down directly in front of him. "Merlin, get down!" 

I didn't argue. I scrambled up a pile of scree, finding a perch on a jutting rock. I had the high ground. I drew, aimed, and loosed. 

My first arrow took a crossbowman in the shoulder just as he leveled his weapon at Arthur. My second took a swordsman in the thigh. It was chaos. Clanging steel, shouts of pain, the panicked whinny of the horses. 

From my vantage point, I saw the flow of the battle. Arthur was a whirlwind of gold and red, moving with a lethal grace that was terrifying to behold. He fought three men at once, his sword flashing like lightning. Merlin was dodging and weaving, miraculously avoiding death, occasionally "tripping" enemies in ways that looked clumsy but were suspiciously effective. 

But there were too many of them. 

"Arthur! Behind you!" I yelled. 

A mercenary with a mace was rushing Arthur’s blind side. Arthur was engaged with two others; he couldn't turn in time. 

I didn't think. I didn't calculate wind speed or distance. I just drew the string to my cheek and let go. 

The arrow whistled through the air, threading the needle between two fighting men, and struck the mace-wielder in the neck. He dropped instantly. 

Arthur spun around, saw the fallen man, and then looked up at me. For a split second, amidst the blood and the dirt, our eyes locked. There was gratitude there, and something else—something hot and intense that made my breath hitch. 

Then, a horn blasted. The mercenaries, realizing they were losing more men than the King was worth, signaled a retreat. They scrambled back up the ridges, disappearing into the thick forest. 

"Let them go!" Arthur ordered, breathing hard, his chest heaving. "Check for injuries." 

I slid down the rock face, my boots skidding on the loose gravel. I landed in the dust and immediately went to Merlin. "You alive, Merlin?" 

"Barely," Merlin gasped, dusting off his jacket. "One of them tried to sit on me." 

I laughed, a release of tension, and turned to Arthur. He was wiping his sword on the grass, his back to me. 

"Sire," I said, approaching him. "That was close. Too close. They knew we were coming." 

Arthur didn't answer. He swayed slightly. 

"Arthur?" 

He turned, and the color drained from my face. There was a gash in his side, right where the armor plates joined—a lucky strike from a dagger I hadn’t seen. Blood was seeping rapidly into his red tunic, turning it a deep, sickening maroon. 

"It’s... nothing," he gritted out, his face pale. "Just a scratch." 

"You liar," I breathed, rushing forward just as his knees gave way. 

I caught him, his weight slamming into me, heavy and solid. We crumpled to the ground together. 

"Merlin!" I screamed. "Get the kit!" 

We made camp in a small cave a mile away from the ravine. It wasn't ideal, but it was defensible, and it was dry. Outside, the sky had opened up, rain lashing against the earth as if trying to wash away the violence of the afternoon. 

Arthur lay on a bed of furs, stripped to his waist. The wound was deep but clean. Merlin had done his part with a salve that smelled of rotten eggs and magic, though he claimed it was just herbs. Now, the servant boy was outside gathering firewood under the shelter of the overhang, leaving us alone in the flickering light of a small torch. 

I sat beside Arthur, dipping a cloth into a bowl of warm water to wash the dried blood from his chest. His skin was hot to the touch, and he hissed as the cloth grazed the edge of the bandage. 

"Sorry," I murmured, my hand trembling slightly. 

"You have unsteady hands for an archer," Arthur whispered, his eyes half-open. His voice was rough, laced with pain. 

"Only when I'm dealing with stubborn kings who don't know how to dodge," I retorted softly, dipping the cloth again. I traced the line of his collarbone, cleaning away a smudge of dirt. 

Arthur watched me. He wasn't looking at the wound; he was looking at my face. The intensity of his gaze made it hard to breathe. 

"You saved my life today," he said. 

"I did." 

"Again." 

"It's in the job description, Arthur." 

He reached out, his hand closing over my wrist, stopping my movements. His grip was weak, but his skin was electric against mine. "Stop hiding behind the job, YN." 

I froze. The cave went silent, save for the rain drumming outside. I looked down at our hands—his callous, rough, royal hand covering my smaller, scarred one. 

"I don't know what you mean," I lied, though my voice betrayed me. 

"You do." He shifted, wincing, but he didn't let go. "You treat me like I'm just a man. You yell at me. You steal my food. You laugh at me when I fall off my horse." 

"Someone has to." 

"Exactly," he breathed. He pulled my hand closer, pressing it against his chest, right over his heart. I could feel the steady, strong thrum of it beneath his ribs. "Everyone else... they see the Crown. They see the expectations. They see Uther's son." 

He paused, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. 

"When you look at me, YN, what do you see?" 

The question hung in the damp air. It was a dangerous question. A question that could get me exiled, or worse. But looking at him now, stripped of his armor, pale and vulnerable yet so incredibly strong, I couldn't lie. 

"I see a prat," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. "A demanding, arrogant, noble, brave... idiot." 

Arthur chuckled, a sound that quickly turned into a cough. When he recovered, his expression was sober. "I was terrified today. Not of dying. I’ve made my peace with that." 

"Then what?" 

"When I saw that mace swinging... I wasn't scared of the blow. I was scared that if I fell, I’d never get to tell you." 

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Tell me what?" 

Arthur used his other arm to prop himself up slightly, despite my noise of protest. He looked at me with a clarity that pierced right through my defenses. 

He reached up, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from my cheek. His touch was revered, gentle. 

"You challenge me," he continued. "You make me want to be the man you seem to think I am. When you're near, the crown doesn't feel so heavy." 

I leaned into his touch, unable to stop myself. "Arthur..." 

"I know," he interrupted softly. "I know I shouldn't. I know the laws. I know what the Council would say about a King and a hunter. But I'm lying here, bleeding in a cave, and I find that I don't care about the Council." 

He pulled me down. It wasn't forceful; it was a plea. I went willingly, leaning over him until our faces were inches apart. I could smell the rain on his skin, the metallic tang of blood, and the scent that was just him—leather and woodsmoke. 

"YN," he whispered, his blue eyes searching mine for any sign of rejection. 

"Shut up, Arthur," I murmured, and I closed the gap. 

His lips were dry and hot. He kissed me with a hunger that surprised me—a desperate, aching need that told me he had been wanting this just as long as I had. I kissed him back with everything I had held in for two years, pouring all the fear of the battle, all the silent longing, into that contact. 

It wasn't a chaste, courtly kiss. It was messy and real. One of his hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, while I rested my forehead against his, both of us gasping for air when we finally broke apart. 

We stayed like that for a long moment, breathing the same air, existing in a world that had shrunk down to just the two of us. 

"I thought I lost you," I confessed, my voice shaking. "When you went down..." 

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised. 

I pulled back slightly to look at him. "You can't make that promise. You're the King. Danger follows you like a shadow." 

"Then stay in the shadows with me," he said. "Watch my back. Be my eyes." 

"I always am." 

Arthur smiled then, and it wasn't the guarded smile from the campfire. It was open, radiant, and devastatingly handsome. He took my hand again, bringing it to his lips and kissing my knuckles one by one. 

"You're the best thing to ever happen to me," he said. The words were quiet, spoken with a solemnity that made them feel like a vow. 

My breath hitched. "Arthur, you have a kingdom. You have destiny. You have—" 

"I have a lot of things," he cut in firmly. "I have duties, I have riches, I have a legacy. But none of those things happened to me. They were thrust upon me. You... you happened. You walked into my court with mud on your boots and insulted my swordplay, and you changed everything." 

He looked at me with such raw honesty that it broke my heart and put it back together all at once. 

"You make me happy, YN. Do you know how rare that is?" 

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I make you angry half the time." 

"That too," he laughed softly. "But I feel alive with you." 

I leaned down and kissed his forehead. "You're a fool, Arthur Pendragon." 

"Perhaps," he murmured, his eyes beginning to droop as the adrenaline faded and exhaustion took over. "But I'm your fool." 

"Go to sleep," I whispered, stroking his hair. "I'll take the first watch." 

"Stay," he mumbled, his grip on my hand tightening even as he drifted off. "Stay close." 

"I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." 

As his breathing evened out into the rhythm of sleep, I sat there in the dim light of the cave, listening to the rain. I looked at the man who would be the greatest King Albion had ever known. 

He was right. It was dangerous. It was forbidden. If Uther were still alive, he’d have my head. Even with Uther gone, the nobility would riot if they knew their King had lost his heart to a commoner with a bow. 

But as I looked at our joined hands, I realized I didn't care either. He was the best thing to ever happen to me, too. And for as long as he had enemies, I would be the arrow in the dark, the shield at his back, and the quiet in his storm. 

A twig snapped outside the cave entrance. 

I stiffened, my hand flying to the dagger at my belt. 

Merlin’s head popped around the corner, soaking wet, holding an armful of dry-ish wood. He froze when he saw us—saw me sitting on the edge of Arthur’s furs, saw Arthur’s hand clutching mine even in sleep. 

Merlin looked from Arthur to me, and then a slow, knowing grin spread across his face. 

"About time," he mouthed. 

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks and put a finger to my lips. One word and I shoot you, I mouthed back. 

Merlin just rolled his eyes and moved to the fire pit, trying to be quiet as he stoked the flames. But as he worked, I saw him glance back at Arthur, and the relief on the warlock’s face was palpable. He knew, better than anyone, how heavy that crown was. He knew Arthur needed this. 

I settled back against the stone wall, keeping my hand in Arthur’s. The storm raged outside, but inside, for the first time in years, everything felt calm. 

The return to Camelot two days later was grueling. Arthur was feverish, riding with gritted teeth, refusing the litter Merlin had tried to construct. I rode beside him, our knees occasionally brushing. 

We didn't speak of what happened in the cave. We couldn't. Not with the knights who had met us halfway, not within the earshot of the patrols. The walls of propriety had gone back up. 

But things had changed. 

When we rode through the citadel gates, the people cheered. They saw their King, wounded but victorious, returning home. They threw flowers and shouted his name. Arthur waved, the perfect image of a stoic monarch. 

As we dismounted in the courtyard, the squires rushed to take the horses. Gwen hurried down the steps, worry etched on her face, followed by Gaius. 

"Arthur!" Gaius called out. "Get him to my chambers immediately." 

Sir Leon and Sir Elyan moved to help him, but Arthur held up a hand. He swung off his horse, landing heavily, wincing. He looked at the castle, then at his knights, and finally, his eyes found mine across the bustle of the courtyard. 

He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The look was a tether, pulling me to him. I see you, it said. I remember. 

"YN," Arthur called out. His voice cut through the noise of the courtyard. 

I straightened. "Sire?" 

"My report on the ambush needs to be detailed. Since you had the vantage point, I expect you in my chambers within the hour to assist me." 

It was a command. It was professional. To anyone listening, it was just the King utilizing his tracker. 

But Merlin, standing by the horse holding the reins, snorted trying to suppress a laugh. I kicked Merlin in the shin as I walked past him. 

"Yes, Sire," I said, bowing my head. "I'll be there." 

Arthur gave a curt nod, but as he turned to walk up the stairs with Gaius, I saw it. The slight relaxation of his shoulders. The knowledge that he wasn't alone. 

I watched him go, feeling a smile tug at my lips. 

Later that night, the castle was quiet. I made my way through the corridors, dodging the patrols I knew by heart. I reached the King’s chambers and knocked softly. 

"Enter." 

I slipped inside. The room was warm, lit by a roaring fire. Arthur was sitting at his table, his side freshly bandaged, a goblet of wine in his hand. He looked exhausted, but when he saw me, his face lit up. 

He stood, ignoring his injury, and crossed the room. 

"You're late," he murmured, but there was no heat in it. 

"I had to clean the mud off my armor. Can't have the King associating with filth." 

"The King doesn't care about mud," Arthur said, reaching out and pulling me into his arms. 

He kissed me again, slower this time, savoring it. It felt like coming home. 

"Lock the door," he whispered against my lips. 

"It's already locked." 

He rested his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. "Good." 

We stood there in the firelight, the King and the hunter, hidden away from the world that wanted so much from him. 

"You know," I said softly, tracing the line of his jaw. "Merlin knows." 

"Merlin knows everything," Arthur dismissed. "He won't say a word." 

"And the Council?" 

"They can wait," Arthur said firmly. "Tonight, I'm not the King. I'm just Arthur." 

He looked at me, and the echo of his words from the cave hung between us.  

I smiled, pulling him down for another kiss. "Well then, just Arthur, show me that map of the valley. I believe you were wrong about the ridge elevation." 

He laughed, a true, bright sound that filled the room. "In your dreams, YN." 

"No," I thought as I looked at him, feeling the warmth of his arms around me. "Not in my dreams. Right here." 

And for the first time in my life, I knew exactly where I belonged. Between the King and his Kingdom, keeping him whole. 

"Just kiss me, Arthur," I whispered.