#julia writes

"Lancelot is a very good tracker," Arthur says, in the tone of voice that indicates it explains everything Merlin needs to know. "Although he got a little too close following that business with the Sluagh. I told him to make sure you were well, not press his face into the windows."

"The wards," Merlin says faintly. He felt them thrum a couple weeks prior, indicating that someone had approached his cottage, although Merlin was unable to discover who.

His magic gave him no such warning for Arthur's arrival, the bastard.

"You've known where I've been ever since you sent me away," Merlin says slowly, trying to make his mind understand. Arthur is still looking at him with the expression he has whenever he thinks Merlin is being particularly slow about something. "And you didn't… mind? Say something?" Scream at me to leave? Show up with a company of Camelot's knights to dole out the law?

Arthur looks cross. "Well, you could have chosen someplace further than a day's ride out from Camelot," he says, and Merlin winces. Arthur then suddenly looks apologetic, and Merlin doesn't know why. "But it's for the best that you didn't. It would have been too hard for me to reach you had I need of you."

"Need of me," Merlin echoes faintly.

Arthur's apologetic expression melts into one of guilt. "I— I made sure I wasn't followed," Arthur says, and it is as he is instinctively flexing his hand that Merlin notices the bruises on his knuckles. "But I should have been more careful. My father, well—" A pained expression crosses his face. "Out of the two options, I was betting that he wouldn't choose exile. The other, I could handle."

Oh. So that's what this is about. Arthur has done something to irritate Uther, and he has turned to Merlin to fix it. He is desperate enough to decide he has need of Merlin again to seek him out. Merlin supposes it shouldn't be surprising that Arthur knows where he is, since it doesn't matter where he lives, as long as it is away from Arthur. Or maybe Arthur just wants the security of knowing Merlin can't run if Arthur decides to renege on his mercy.

If Merlin were his own friend, he would advise himself to have more self-respect. As it stands, at least there is no one else in the cottage to witness how pathetic he is. "What do you need?" Merlin says quietly.

Arthur shoots him a look. "Well, a fire would be nice, for starters. And I wasn't kidding about needing a meal—"

"With Uther," Merlin says exasperatedly. "Surely you must have some idea of how to calm his anger. I could conjure a kelpie and make sure there are witnesses to you heroically slaying it—"

"I've got my father under control," Arthur says. "Sure, it does make things a bit harder having to conduct a base of operations from this…." He looks around, and decides on a word that won't spark Merlin's ire, "abode, but my knights and I have been using coded communication for months now. The council was losing faith in him even before he chose to exile the crown prince. I give it less than a month before he brings Camelot to the brink of crisis, and then I'm sure the guards will be more than happy to allow me to return."

Merlin blinks. Perhaps this really is an imposter that has entered his home wearing Arthur's skin, or maybe he has finally gone utterly mad. He would have thought it would take more than half a year of broken-hearted solitude to get to that point. "Arthur, what are you talking about—"

"Oh, right. I'm sorry, I considered sending Lancelot with a message, but I didn't want him to be caught with anything on him were he found. I couldn't—" His thumb brushes over his lip, and Merlin sees a scab there. "I couldn't risk anything pointing to your location. Hence why I told my father I wouldn't give up that information, even under torture."

"What?!"

"Don't ruffle your petticoat, I'm fine," Arthur says quickly, as if Merlin had not just felt his magic jumping under his skin with all the fury of a dragon guarding its treasure. "I was expecting him to take me up on the offer, and then I wouldn't have to bother you. But it seems my father decided it more appropriate to strip me of my rank and title until I told him where you've been hiding."

Merlin stares at Arthur dumbly. There's no doubt about it, he has gone mad.

At least one of them, anyway.

"Why wouldn't you just tell your father where I am?"

"Very funny. Should I have offered to lead the knights to capture you myself, then?"

Merlin keeps his face blank to conceal the pain. "I suppose."

Arthur gives him a queer look. "You're acting odd. Did your brain wither away from having a forest respite for a few months?"

"Forest respite," Merlin sputters, and he may be pathetic but he still has enough dignity to grow angry. "I don't know what you want, and I'll help you with whatever you need, but might I remind you that you were the one that exiled me!"

Arthur rolls his eyes, and Merlin's hands curl into fists. "You're being dramatic."

It's so casual, so thoughtlessly cruel, that Merlin's magic lashes out before he can stop it. It doesn't hurt Arthur—he never would, never could—but Arthur's mouth falls open as he is shoved into a chair and held in place with invisible hands. For a second, fear flashes across his face, but even that is not enough to quell the anger inside Merlin. Like the first crack of ice across a frozen lake, it only splinters under further pressure.

"I did everything for you," Merlin rasps. "I bled, I killed, I would do it again without hesitation, and I know I lied to you, I know I hurt you, but— but you can't just turn up again like nothing has happened, when you sent me away—"

"—Merlin—"

"It's not fair, it's not fair to take me up one day and cast me away the next, so after this," Merlin's voice trembles, but he juts his chin upwards, he is stronger than this, damn it, "if you no longer wish to see me, then respect your own wishes and leave me be—"

"Merlin!" Arthur is still straining against the weight of the magic holding him in place. But he doesn't look angry, more confused and irritated. And sweaty. "When did I exile you?"

"Oh, I don't know," Merlin snaps. "Maybe this will refresh your recollection: 'Leave here now and don't come back.'"

He knows his voice is a harsh imitation of Arthur's exact words, as they have been ringing in his head since the moment he first heard them. They had barely sunk in, leaving their impression in the grove of his mind—a permanent scar that would never fade—when Arthur barked, "Now," his expression utterly furious. And Merlin had listened.

He breathes out harshly, trying to get a rein on his anger. And Arthur looks—

—well. He doesn't have a word to describe how Arthur looks, exactly.

"Merlin. You did magic in front of my father and his entire court." Arthur is speaking very clearly and slowly. "It was all I could do to buy you enough time so you wouldn't be caught while you fled."

Merlin blinks. He hasn't focused on that part of the situation, truly. He has been more concerned with the hurt in Arthur's eyes, the way his expression turned cold and commanding within a second. All of it, targeted at Merlin. "You were angry."

"I was frightened." Something shudders across Arthur's face before he can conceal its honesty. "I always knew you were a reckless idiot, with how little you cared for doing magic in plain sight, but I knew even I couldn't save you from that display—"

"You." Merlin feels dizzy. He sinks heavily into one of his chairs, and he hears Arthur take a deep breath as his magic releases his hold on him. "You knew. About my magic."

"Of course I knew; I'm not blind," Arthur says, aghast. "I just figured you were pretending otherwise so we wouldn't have to talk about it. Did you really not—" And then his mouth closes. He blinks. Merlin can almost see the coals inside of Arthur's head producing steam. When he speaks again, his voice is small. "I see now. How things might have occurred differently to you."

Part of Merlin wants to cry, part of him wants to scream, part of him wants to laugh hysterically, and he very bravely and wisely does not do any of that. "So you weren't sending me away. Forever, that is."

"No." There is a similar edge of hysteria to Arthur's voice. "Just until I could make it safe for you again. Until I could bring you back to Camelot."

"You kept track of where I was," Merlin says distantly. "You—" He shakes his head quickly. "Arthur, you didn't— please tell me you didn't tell Uther to torture you rather than reveal where I was— I'm not worth it, why did you, why—"

He stops when he finally catches Arthur's eye. Arthur is looking at him in a way Merlin had only caught in glimpses before, like a beam piercing through the clouds, but now the full force of the sun is shining upon him. "How is it obvious to everyone other than you?" Arthur asks.

Merlin's face shatters, and Arthur is out of his chair, making his way over with apologies, and Merlin hears him saying something about how he assumed, he was wrong, he didn't mean to, and that nothing needs to change. He puts his hand on Merlin's shoulder, and Merlin realizes they are both great idiots, and it is probably better to speak with their actions, rather than words. So he does exactly that.

It is only when Arthur has his breeches half undone that he pauses to speak, as he hikes Arthur's tunic up for better access to his chest. "I do love you too, by the way."

“Oh,” and he laughs, warmly and hoarsely, like an old engine. “Not really, my dear. Heaven is very, very far away; I don’t think that’s the way to feel it.” He settles down on a backless bench near an old oak tree, putting Laura Lee back on the ground. “I feel closer to God when I come back safely to the ground. The further you are from your ground, the harder it is to feel connected to anything, you see? Why do you ask? Did you feel closer to God on my shoulders?”

“I did." She nods vigorously. “When I grow up, I want to fly planes too.”

“Well, that’s very difficult.” He looks at her with that specific kind of fascination people give children who set their feet on anything—when the act of securing yourself to an idea is more important than the idea itself. Securing yourself means growing up.

“It cannot be that difficult,” Laura Lee says sheepishly, and her grandfather laughs again.

For as long as she remembers dreaming, Laura Lee dreams of the skies. She looks up whenever she prays, and the wooden boards of the ceiling she sees are like a coffin lid. She can’t reach them when she’s on her knees, and not even when she stands up, but she imagines herself to be infinitely taller, entirely unbound, to be hitting the wood with her fists, decisively yet gently, as if holding a steering wheel. It’s not until Bible camp that she learns most people look down when they pray. It’s not until Bible camp that Laura Lee learns that most people see religion as a restriction of sorts. It’s a set of rules that teaches you the words you cannot say and the people you cannot be.

To her, it’s the skies. If the clouds are anything close to what she imagines them to be, buckets of cold water filling your lungs and making you learn to breathe differently, it’s just like being baptized. To her, religion is freedom. Anything Laura Lee does, she does because she believes it’s right, so it’s a zero sum of giving and taking. She believes in miracles, but she also doesn’t think about them too often. If you start expecting miracles, they aren’t miracles anymore. There’s a place for everything, and hers is somewhere on her grandfather’s shoulders, scratching the barrier of infinity.

She’s not afraid of God—she trusts God. She’s still afraid of Ferris wheels, roller coasters, and skyscrapers because these are the forces she cannot control—nobody’s running them. If believing taught her anything, it’s that you cannot trust a machine or anything without a soul. Soul is everything, and hers is beautiful, with large glass windows and a view of the clouds, birds, and sunshine. With flying, it’s all in her hands, so steady and eager to punch through ceilings.

Her grandfather tells her a lot about plane crashes and dead-stick landings as she gets older. It doesn’t scare her. Caution is not fear. It’s a warning, a lesson, and a blessing. To be cautious is to be brave. Laura Lee is nothing if not brave. She knows that when a plane takes off, porcelain shatters inside you, and you can never fix what’s broken, but debris is also not fear; it’s a sign of living.

“Pilots die too, you know?” That's what her grandfather tells her in elementary school, when her dreams are still too bright and too distracting. She’s a hard-working child, but she still just shrugs when anybody asks her about her favorite class.

“Everybody does." Laura Lee frowns at him, with her neat sunshine hairstyle and another one of her flowery dresses. More often than not, she comes home with her hem dirty and her forehead sweaty. “It’s not for us to decide.”

When Laura Lee starts playing soccer with her classmates in the schoolyard, landing in mud, scraping her knees, and only ever crying before bed, almost nobody’s surprised. Running is almost like flying, and competing is almost like taking control, steering a wheel, and her grandfather tells her there’s nothing more important for a pilot than his ground. If you don’t look down, you’ll never learn how to land. So she keeps falling face-first, but she still looks up during all of her prayers. Religion is a zero sum. When she’s eight, she’s finally stretched in both sides.

(this is actually a part of a currently-abandoned LottieLee fanfiction I was working on. I just really like how this part turned out, so I didn't want to let it go to waste. maybe some of you will like it and be potentially interested in my future writing for this fandom. you can also follow my ao3 (link in my blog description) where I post lots of horror-themed content and plan on posting a MistyNat fic in the future

—

Arthur can break his father's nose, but he can't undo the order. He can rage until his mind blacks out, but he can't turn back time. He can insist on justice, vengeance, but he can't erase dozens of eyewitnesses.

The forge caught on fire, and spread quickly. Gwen rushed in to help, more familiar with how to quench the inferno than most, but ended up trapped by the flames with the farrier's 10-year-old daughter in her arms. The guards had already uttered prayers for their souls. Then Merlin raised his hand, and the fire went out.

Gwen approaches Arthur when he's released from the dungeon, sobbing her apologies. Arthur wants to tell her it wasn't her fault, but he has nothing to say. Gwen has a strength that Arthur does not, and tells him that they would have saved remains, but there were none. The pyre burned so bright and hot that when the flames finally died out, there was nothing but ash that remained.

After a week, Arthur goes to see Gaius. He looks far older than Arthur remembers.

"Did you know?"

Gaius doesn't respond to Arthur at first, wrapping a bundle of dried yarrow through careful, meditative motions. He slowly set the bundle down.

"I know that Merlin served you with his entire being," Gaius says. His voice is rough. "And that his loyalty to you is absolute." He looks up at Arthur with strangely clear eyes. "He has done far more for you than you could ever know."

Arthur doesn't respond. He turns and heads to the stables. By the time someone realizes he's gone, it's far too late to catch him.

—

Iseldir's already waiting for Arthur when he reaches the druid camp. Arthur dismounts his horse, staggering from riding through the night. Iseldir's expression doesn't change as Arthur speaks.

"Is there a spell that can bring back the dead?"

An even stare looks him over. "Your father once asked the same question," Iseldir says softly. "And then slaughtered everyone who could answer him."

Arthur understands the challenge. If he will turn to sorcery in times of desperation, and then persecute it in times of peace. If he will beg with one hand, and burn with another.

He falls to one knee, one hand bracing himself against the dirt. The weight of innocent lives crushes him. Screams of bodies trapped upon the pyre ring in his ears. "Either my father is wrong, or my heart is," he whispers. The words aren't for Iseldir, it's for the earth itself. "And if my heart is wrong, then nothing I stand for has any meaning."

"Would your answer change, if I told you there was no spell that could do as you ask?"

Arthur looks up at Iseldir. Deep down, he already knew what the answer would be. Otherwise, his mother would be sitting in Camelot. "I would tell you that I will do everything in my power as Prince to protect Camelot's people," he says slowly. "All of them. And when I am King, not a soul will burn on account of having magic." He closes his eyes. "I swear on my life."

It's quiet. He hears the rustle of wind through the grass, the steady song of crickets. The earth itself bears witness to his oath.

He opens his eyes, and Iseldir is smiling. "Follow me."

—

Arthur's lead to a quiet clearing on the edge of a brook. Dawn has just began to rise, casting a film of gold over the grey sky. Iseldir leaves and Arthur looks over the flowing water. Wondering how to live in life in penance of his greatest failure.

"Arthur?"

Arthur turns on the spot. Merlin stands there, a few feet away, wearing only a tunic and soft sleep breeches. Feet bare on the grass. His eyes are wide. He's breathing hard, and his cheeks are flush with blood. With life.

Arthur doesn't realize he's moving until he feels his hands wrap around Merlin's upper arms, fingers digging in. "Tell me this isn't a trick," he breathes. Desperate. "Swear it to me—"

"It's me, it's me," Merlin rushes to say. He takes one of Arthur's hands, and places it over his heart. Arthur can feel it pulsing wildly. Merlin's other hand comes up to cup Arthur's cheek. "I'm here."

Arthur blinks, and the world turns blurry. He's a tower on the verge of collapse. "They saw you burn," he chokes out.

Merlin offers him a small, mirthless smile. "I hadn't been in Camelot very long before I taught myself how to escape… that. Just as a precaution." Then Merlin suddenly turns hesitant, and his hand drops from Arthur's cheek. He won't meet Arthur's eyes.

"You let me think you were dead," Arthur says. Merlin flinches, for it had been meant as a blow.

"I needed to see if you agreed with your father," he replies.

Arthur takes the wound, lets it lance him, and then staggers back up to fight again. "Never," he says, and tugs Merlin into his arms into an embrace that's just as brutal as it is comforting. His fingers dig into Merlin's skin hard enough to bruise, but Merlin presses back as if he welcomes the mark. Every sign that shows that his heart still beats, that blood still flows through his veins. "I am— furious— that you didn't allow me to protect you. But I'd never hurt you. It'd be taking the torch to my own skin."

"Arthur, " Merlin gasps, and then he's kissing Arthur. There's no finesse, no titillation, only the taste of salt and a shared breath. So desperate their teeth knock against one another, and neither mind.