#merthurmicrofic

Before, Merlin was Arthur's servant and friend, though they were both too often begrudged to admit to the latter. In this rising golden age, he is Arthur's closest friend still, now with the title of Court Sorcerer woven into the new fine cloth gracing his shoulders. In both worlds, he has maintained status as a categorical menace. Beloved by all, but a menace.

"The dragons," Arthur says, deciding for the moment to let the blatant grape-thievery pass by unremarked. He does, however, slap Merlin's hand when he reaches for another. "Before you called them off, they were intent on taking all the kingdoms of Albion into their hoard. Their strange magic had ensnared the minds of every ruler from Cornwall to Northumbria—except for mine."

"Perhaps their magic simply wasn't strong enough to penetrate your thick skull," Merlin says idly.

"Ha, ha," says Arthur, flicking a crumb of bread at him. "I'm serious, Merlin. It doesn't make sense."

That is, unless it has something to do with the prophecy. He falls into consternation, thinking of what he has learned since the truth about his destined rule came to light. He doubts that being the other side of Merlin's coin, whatever the hell that means, is anything concrete enough to spare him from the thrall of two twelve-millennia-old beings—but perhaps wielding a sword forged in dragon's breath could be to blame.

Arthur realizes, a short while into this train of thought, that Merlin has fallen suspiciously quiet. Upon looking over to assess the situation, he finds Merlin with half his face hidden by his goblet, his eyes averted, looking—and there is no two ways about this—downright embarrassed.

"Wait. Hold on," says Arthur, lowering his hand from his mouth and pointing it accusingly across the table. "You know something!"

"What? No," says Merlin, looking up and away, still with that damning flush on his cheeks. "No, I don't. I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know anything."

"You do!" exclaims Arthur. "You do, and you're not telling me!"

"There's nothing to not tell," says Merlin. "You're seeing things. Maybe the dragons got to you, after all."

"No," says Arthur, and that is the last shred of dignity he spares for the night, as he stands from his chair and surges across the table towards Merlin. Merlin shrieks and raises his arms, but he isn't fast enough to stop Arthur from putting him in a headlock, one arm fastened around Merlin's neck while the other digs into the top of his head.

"Tell me—what—you—know—!"

"For gods' sake—I don't—I'm not telling you now, you clotpole! I'm protecting your pride—"

"So there is something," Arthur says, gleeful.

Merlin scrabbles upwards, trying and failing to get ahold of Arthur's arms and wrestle himself free. His chair has fallen to the floor, now; he is sort of halfway-perched on its upturned arm. Arthur has a leg braced on the back of it. No doubt, the only reason the guards haven't come bursting in with their spears at the ready is the fact that this has happened no less than two times a week in the past several months.

"No, there isn't," Merlin protests. He is remarkably stubborn for one so firmly in possession of the lower hand. "Nothing you would appreciate me telling you, your majesty."

His elevation to nobility has not changed much. For one, it has not stopped his habit of using Arthur's titles exclusively for the purpose of pissing him off.

"I'm not letting go until you tell me," Arthur grouses, ruffling a handful of Merlin's ever-untidy hair with his fist.

Merlin wiggles around some more, further channeling his kinship with his cousins the stoats, then makes a long, drawn-out groan of a noise. He sounds like a child told to help with the washing after supper. "For the love of—fine. You arse."

Arthur releases him with no small sense of victory. Merlin leans forward against the table, gasping, letting most of his weight fall into his arms. Then, as Arthur steps back, he turns and glares.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. Crosses his arms over his chest. "Sometime this evening would be appreciated, Merlin."

"Fuck off," says Merlin. He lifts a hand to straighten his neckerchief, and—yes, he is still quite red.

"I may have—claimed you," he says. "Magically speaking."

Arthur blinks. Whatever he had been expecting to hear, it wasn't that.

"Claimed me," he echoes, dully—wishing that perhaps in repeating it, the sense of the phrase would become clear, or else Merlin would feel more inclined to make it clear.

"I didn't do it on purpose," Merlin protests, as if that helps whatsoever. "Or—not at first. It's sort of a dragonlord thing, I think. Like—making you a part of my hoard. The claim puts you under my protection. It makes it so that nothing else can... hurt you, or control you, or curse you. Mostly." He coughs awkwardly. "So. In the eyes of magic, you're—mine."

His expression is wide open; vulnerable. He hasn't looked truly afraid since the day he broke open and told Arthur he had magic, his every ugly secret spilled onto the blood-stained ground between them—but this is something close, maybe.

"It's been the best way to keep you safe, Arthur," Merlin pleads.

There are many things that Arthur should be saying. He should assure Merlin that he understands—his reasoning at least, if not the magic behind it all. There have been a great deal of magic-users and magical beings attempting to lord their strength over the once and future king over the past year; Arthur himself has been growing quite desperate, and had felt enormous relief when the onslaught began to trickle off. He should say he is grateful, of course, for Merlin's protection, no matter how odd a form it takes. He should say he is not bothered.

The truth is, however, that he is only half listening. He has been only half listening, only half present in the room at all, since the very second Merlin looked at him with his great helpless eyes and said, "You're mine."

Those two simple words swirl in Arthur's head. The way Merlin said them; the faint spark of intent in his eyes when he did. Arthur's stomach churns as though he has drunk too much wine on too little food, even though his meager single goblet sits not yet emptied beside his nearly-picked-clean dinner plate. There is something coming awake in him, bright and alive; something dangerously warm and wanting. It is a thing he has done very well, these past ten years, at forcing down. At ignoring to the point that he could often forget it even existed. But now it reminds him, saying terrible, impossible things, like Yes, please, and I want to—I want to be yours.

Merlin looks at Arthur strangely, unsure.

Then, he looks down. His eyes widen; his jaw goes slack.

Arthur knows, at once, what has garnered the reaction. He can feel how—physically his humiliating feelings have manifested. Good lord.

"Arthur," Merlin says—gasping, almost laughing. "You—really?"

Arthur stomps over to his bed and sits down without another word, his face aflame. He considers grabbing a pillow to cover his—embarrassment, but it isn't severe enough for that, at least. Small blessings.

"If you are so appalled, you are free to leave," He says hotly, fixing his gaze on the far wall. "We need never speak of this again."

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur watches Merlin shake his head. It is not so surprising that he refuses to go—ever resistant to orders, even when he was supposedly bound by law and station to obey them—but he does not even do Arthur the courtesy of keeping the new distance between them. Rather, he closes it in six quick, loping strides that remind Arthur he is actually quite a tall person, capable of moving with remarkable grace when it suits him.

And then he just—stands there, looming. With his tallness. He looks like a birch tree.

"I'm not appalled," Merlin says. His eyes flit around Arthur's face—urgent, assessing. He looks very much so as though he is struggling not to look down again. "I—you liked it that much? Hearing me say that?"

He sounds astonished. He sounds positively awe-struck. Arthur has never felt more exposed. He grits his teeth, fists clenching in the knees of his trousers. "You are free to leave," he repeats.

He should stand, perhaps. Should try to regain control of the situation. And perhaps with anyone else, he would. But Merlin already knows the power he holds here. Anything more Arthur could do would only betray that further.

Something fragile flickers over Merlin's expression. The fragility turns to annoyance; the annoyance to steel.

"No," he says.

Arthur scoffs. "No?"

"No," Merlin says, petulant as always. And he shoves Arthur back by the shoulders.

It isn't a particularly hard shove. Still, the itch under Arthur's skin is easily goaded. He shoves Merlin in turn—pushing his chest until he stumbles—and Merlin's eyes glimmer and he is pushing back with enough force to send Arthur toppling to the bed, then summarily following him down. They squabble like foxes in the brush, knees aiming for vulnerable organs; hands shoving at faces, shoulders, and incongruently bony elbows; elbows digging in under ribcages with knife-like precision; feet angling towards sensitive shins.

Arthur tells himself he is enacting restraint, when he presses a struggling Merlin down into the covers. He tells himself he is simply trying to keep him at arm's length. (This is, as it has always been, an absolute bold-faced lie.)

"I'm not mocking you," Merlin huffs, exasperated. His eyes are alight with—something. He flexes the wrist Arthur has all the fingers of one hand wrapped around, and Arthur can feel his pulse rabbiting under his skin.

Arthur swallows bodily, looking down at Merlin's rumpled form. "Then what on earth are you doing?"

"I'm wondering," Merlin answers. There is something in his voice, now, that greater fools than Arthur might feel inclined to call soft. A curious breathlessness to the way that he swallows and says, "What might happen, if I. If I told you again."

Arthur tells himself he will not beg.

"...If you told me what?"

Merlin tilts his head, gaze sharpening. He lifts his free hand to twist in the laces of Arthur's tunic.

"That you're mine," he says.

Arthur shudders. His body melts towards Merlin's before he can stop it, the rightness of the words singing through him like nothing else ever has. His grip goes lax around Merlin's wrist; his lips part. It is quite possible that he makes some kind of noise.

“I love you guys,” he sighs emotionally. “Even you, Gwen, even though you made us do these vile, vile shots.” He does something atrociously complex with his face to convey the level of vileness and the depth of his disappointment. Gwen’s supposed to be the sweetest. The one who understands him best. “Vile, vile shots,” he reiterates. “But I love you. All of you.” His long knobby fingers wave and wiggle to encompass them all in the immensity of his unconditional affection.

They all smile at him and exchange commiserating glances as they raise their drinks. Merlin has clearly overwhelmed them with his eloquent outpouring of love. That’s how he was raised. His mum taught him that. Always tell the ones you love what they mean to you, don’t put it off to another day. His mum’s the best. His friends are the best. And so they all need to hear exactly how much he loves them – well, except for a certain someone who shall remain in the dark as to the actual extent of Merlin’s hopeless love and devotion for him, because Merlin really can’t let that cumbersome cat out of the frazzled bag.

Merlin brings what’s left of his pint to his lips, only to have it magically absconded by a hand he knows very well. A hand that’s both strong and manly and graceful, and would doubtlessly feel phenomenal wrapped around Merlin’s cock.

“All right, I think someone needs a bit of water and fresh air,” Arthur announces, making Merlin sound like some sort of ailing potted plant. “Come on, up you get.” Summoning fingers pluck at the shoulder seam of Merlin’s t-shirt with gentle authority.

“I really like your hand,” Merlin feels the need to say as he gets to his feet. He can safely say that much. Once vertical, the world sways a little and said hand steadies him at the elbow. “It’s a great hand. They’re both great actually,” he adds, belatedly worried that Arthur might think Merlin lopsided and unfair in his appreciation.

Agile, capable and dependable. Arthur’s hands are always catching stuff and that’s quite hot as far as Merlin’s butter fingers are concerned. Arthur’s hands are always there for Merlin. And they obviously feature heavily in his wank bank.

They hover at the small of his back as Arthur guides him through the tables. They’re even here as Merlin’s lazy foot catches on the treacherous little step that leads to the beer garden. They prevent Merlin from faceplanting on the tiles outside. See? Catching stuff! That’s exactly what Merlin was saying. Thinking. Musing. Whatever. Man, he’s tired.

“Here,” Arthur says, handing him a plastic cup filled with a transparent liquid. “Drink this.”

Merlin does.

“Uh… Iss water,” Merlin notes after taking a trusting sip. Far be it from him to complain or show himself ungrateful, but…

“Nothing gets past you, eh Merlin,” Arthur mutters, rolling his eyes. “Keep drinking, you’ll thank me later.” Arthur nods at him encouragingly as he leans his arse against the low wall.

Right. Okay then.

Merlin drinks the bland water slowly but steadily, like a child taking a medicine under the watchful gaze of a clucking mother. As he drinks, he throws side-glances at Arthur and his hands.

They’re such familiar hands. Intimate hands. Hands that have poked, patted and held Merlin over the years, through thick and thin. They’re the hands that always find him. They’re the hands he could never not grab when they reach for him. But for all that he knows every last scar, mole and callus on them, they are sadly chaste and scrupulously friendly.

It’s sweet and kind of tragic. Much like Merlin.

“Want to talk about it?” Arthur asks with painstaking casualness.

Merlin shrugs. Arthur’s black leather jacket looks really nice. Soft and trim and setting off his broad shoulders. Merlin would love to—

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice is a little hoarse with awkwardness. He’s not one to talk about the stuff that he feels needs to be talked about. He’s usually a very private man. But he makes the colossal effort to be that guy for Merlin. The shoulder to cry on. The best mate. Always the best mate.

“I’m fine.” Merlin drags a wan smile across his face. The alcohol-induced buoyancy that kept him going through the evening is swiftly evaporating, leaving nothing but numbness and dull misery in its wake.

Arthur sighs.

“How long had it been?”

Merlin sniffs. It’s beginning to feel cold out here.

“Five months,” he says. Five fucking months. His relationships keep getting shorter and shorter. “It’s okay. It’s not like we were picking curtains or anything.” But Merlin was already looking up Christmas gifts, because that’s what one is supposed to do when October rolls around. And maybe it’s the water he’s drunk or maybe it’s just the night’s chill, but Merlin feels the residual sweat on his skin cooling too fast, adding to the baseline of despondency. He had even begun to save up for a nice dinner in a posh restaurant, but in retrospect he’s not sure his heart was ever really in it. His eyes sting.

“He’s a twat,” Arthur tells him with quiet finality.

Merlin nods limply. It doesn’t make it better. It doesn’t absolve Merlin from being a self-sabotaging tosser. This relationship was doomed to fail, like all the others. There are mortifying tears gathering in his eyes. He doesn’t know anything anymore, except that he needs—

“Come ‘ere,” Arthur murmurs and pulls him into a full hug.

Arms wrapped tight around Merlin’s shoulders and back. Hands spread and holding. Arthur is so blessedly warm and solid against him, so completely engulfing him in the kind of protective embrace that only he seems to get right. Arthur gives the best hugs. Always has. A whimper of a sob escapes Merlin as he clings to the soft leather of Arthur’s jacket.

“You really know how to pick them,” Arthur sighs and holds on, hands now rubbing comforting circles. “What was the excuse this time?”

“He said I was emotionally unavailable,” Merlin sniffles, feeling both soothed and too idiotic for words.

“What does that even mean?”

It means… It means that Liam was a damn sight more observant than Merlin ever gave him credit for.

And it also means Merlin is a right arsehole for hanging on to fanciful things that cannot be.

“Means there’s something wrong with me,” Merlin mumbles into Arthur’s collar. God, he smells so good. Merlin’s arms tighten in spite of his better judgement. How much more pathetic can he get? Does it even matter at this point?

“The only thing wrong with you is your appalling taste in men,” Arthur grouses, fingertips gently stroking Merlin’s hair.

Merlin snorts. “Can’t argue with that.”

But it’s not that his taste is appalling. His taste is impeccable. It’s just that it also happens to be impossible.

How long has he been repressing his feelings for his best friend? Fucking years.

“Just promise me something,” Arthur says quietly, the vibration of his voice rippling through Merlin’s chest and making his heart stutter with abject happiness.

“Anything,” he breathes, ready to die right here in the cold if that’s what it takes.

“Don’t throw yourself at the next guy who makes eyes at you, okay? Give yourself a break. Give single life a try for a few months. You never know, you might like it.”

A minute shift in the tender pressure of Arthur’s arms lets Merlin know that the hug has run its course. He draws back, dewy-eyed and wibbly-lipped as Arthur’s hands drift to his shoulders and hold him, forcing him to look upon everything he aches for.

“I wish I was more like you,” Merlin says wetly. Which is truth-adjacent.

Arthur rolls his eyes and lets his lips quirk into a sarcastic twist.

“O-kay, hit me with it. What is that supposed to mean?” he grumbles, irresistibly sweet in his sourness.

Merlin’s smile turns a little tremulous. Time to embrace the pain.

“You know,” he shrugs. “You don’t bother with dating or relationships. You just… have fun. Love ‘em and leave ‘em. Wham, bam, thank you—"

“Brilliant. Lovely. Glad the superficial, promiscuous void that is my love life is so inspiring to you.”

“You’re not superficial. And only reasonably promiscuous, I guess.” Merlin shivers uneasily. “I just think that your way of doing things is better. It’s less…” He shakes his head weakly in search of the word. “Less disappointing? Less soul-gutting?” A shaky sigh leaves him and he sticks his clammy hands in his pockets. “Must be nice for a change. No expectations, no agonising feelings, no drama. Just a good rough shag, no strings attached.” Merlin forces a smile.

Arthur tips his head to the side a little and gives him an oddly guarded look.

“Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

****

But it’s a lie.

One-night stands have been simpler, shallower, sleazier and on occasions embarrassingly easy to come by – but not once has Arthur seen them as better.

Despite appearances, Arthur would give anything to be in a relationship. One specific relationship, to be exact. But he’s just too much of a coward. Too insecure about his chances of succeeding, when this is probably the one rejection he isn’t sure he could handle. Every time Merlin becomes single again, Arthur sinks into doubts, faffs about and eventually misses his window of opportunity. Every time Merlin’s boyfriends throw in the towel, Arthur tells himself, ‘this time.’ This time will be the one. This time he will go up to Merlin and court him to within an inch of his life. Astonish them both with how articulately sensitive and romantic Arthur can be. Prove to everyone that the reason Merlin has never found true happiness in a relationship is because only Arthur can provide it.

That too is probably a lie, by the way. Arthur can’t know for sure whether he has what it takes to make Merlin happy, but he sure would like to be given the chance to try.   

“Come on,” he coaxes the shivering owner of his heart. “I’m taking you home.”

Merlin nods, a tired curve to his lips. They stumble through the pub again, give their friends a wave and finally make their exit onto the dark street.

“Your place or mine?” Merlin says as a joke, batting half-teasing eyelashes – it sends an unexpected spike of want lancing through Arthur’s heart.

“Mine,” he rumbles in answer. “I’m keeping an eye on you.”    

“Are you worried about my virtue?”

“I’m worried about you choking on your own vomit.”

“I have better manners than that.”

“No you don’t.”

Merlin chuckles, then hunches a little in his flimsy t-shirt, quelling another shudder.

Arthur takes his jacket off and drapes it over Merlin’s shoulders.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he warns.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” But Merlin’s voice sounds all soft and dreamy and it’s a siren’s call to Arthur’s dishonourable longings. “Thanks.”

Arthur’s place is not far and Merlin’s been there countless times. There’s a full change of comfort clothes – a pair of plush tracksuit bottoms and a loose-fitting fuzzy sweater – with all but his name on it in one of Arthur’s drawers. A glass of pre-emptive aspirin and a hot shower later, Merlin makes a legless, woolly-brained but very huggable appearance in Arthur’s living-room.

“How do you feel?” Arthur asks, decidedly not looking at the disarmingly cute toes.

“Not dead yet,” Merlin mutters as he slumps on the couch next to Arthur with a grunt and gazes unseeingly at the rugby players athletically running all over the tv screen. “What now?”

“Now? If your track record is any indication, you fall asleep on me and slobber all over my shoulder while snoring loudly.”

“You love it,” Merlin comments as he nestles against Arthur.

“I don’t.”

He does.

Arthur really, sadly, does love these little slices of homely Merlin he is able to snatch in between boyfriends.

“Is that a pair of socks in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” he eventually asks.

Merlin chuckles sleepily.

“I couldn’t trust myself to bend over to put them on,” he replies.

Arthur gives a long-suffering huff, then digs a hand in Merlin’s pocket, which makes him yelp and squawk.

“Come on, you big baby,” Arthur grouses as he manhandles Merlin’s sensual and somewhat ticklish feet into his lap and yanks the socks onto them.

“Damn, we’re into proper fetish territory,” the cheeky bastard announces, wiggling his now socked tootsies.

“You wish.”

Merlin snorts.

“I do wish. This is the kinkiest thing I’ve done all year.”

“I don’t want to know.”

But Merlin doesn’t care and hooks his feet over Arthur’s in a way that tries to be suggestive, but ends up being painfully adorable.

“Are you always so solicitous with your one-night stands?”

“You’re not a one-night stand. You’re my annoying best mate with shit taste in boyfriends.”

Merlin sighs and rubs his itchy nose against Arthur’s shoulder.

“Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing wrong all along. Can I be your one-night stand?”

And Arthur’s heart has some sort of mini-breakdown.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, I’d really like to know what it’s like. Being your hook-up. Are you sweet? Are you rough? Are you thorough and diligent?”

“Thorough and diligent?!” What is he, a chartered accountant? “It’s having a shag, Merlin. It’s not… It’s not…” Christ, what sort of harebrained ideas live under that dark and entirely too sexy mop of hair? “It’s not what you think.”

“So educate me.”

“Why are we having this conversation anyway?”

“Because I’m drunk and I’m vulnerable and I need to be distracted from the utter mess that is my dating record,” Merlin mumbles.

“And you really think my sex life is enviable?”

“Well, I don’t see you getting twatted and maudlin.”

“Exactly. You don’t see me.” It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have his moody, self-flagellating nights in front of the telly. “And I think you guys seriously overestimate my bodycount. Not everyone who leaves the club with me ends up in bed with me.” Far from it. Although he may have let his friends assume it for bragging reasons. “Sometimes they get cold feet. Sometimes they just come in their pants before we’ve had a chance to do anything. Sometimes they’re just too drunk to know what they’re doing so I just drive them home.”

Merlin makes a frustrated, almost pained noise against him.

“Bloody gentleman,” he mutters. “What about the other ones?”

“What, do you want me to draw you a picture?” Arthur snaps. This conversation is getting uncomfortable, and he’d really like to shock Merlin into silence. “We get each other off, okay? The quicker the better. So it’s any combination of handjobs or blowjobs, but more often than not it’s me fucking them up against a wall until they beg for mercy and come so hard they pass out.”

And finally that shuts Merlin up. He even has the decency to blush. But he’s nothing if not tenacious – and horribly curious.

“Do you kiss them?” he eventually asks in a small but slightly hoarse voice.

For fuck’s sake.

“You’re getting morbid, Merlin.”

“Do you?”

Arthur closes his eyes and counts to ten but knows his asinine best friend won’t let it go until he’s got his answers.

“Usually.”

And that, thankfully, seems to properly shut him up.

For all of five blissful minutes.

“So… Can I be your one-night stand?” Merlin asks, nudging him with a socked toe.

For the @merthurmicrofic challenge. Sorry, this is by no means a microfic. 🤦‍♀️ I did try to cut it short, though. You're actually lucky I'm sick as a dog or this would have devolved into yet another endless WIP. 🙄 prompt: lie word count: hideous (2863)

“You sent forth no scouts, no archers?” Uther was saying, his tone icy. “A nest of nearly a hundred vipers does not disappear without a trace!”

Arthur replied, “They must have had a Seer among them. They appeared to flee in all directions; tracking them was impossible. It is not the fault of our scouts—”

“Correct. We both know where the fault lies.”

Silence; then the rustling of robes and leathers as Uther stood. Merlin’s fists curled, his nails scraping the wood under his hands, as Uther slowly descended the dais and Merlin pictured Arthur standing there, alone in the vast chamber, staring forward as he was circled.

“You are far too old to disappoint me like this, Arthur,” said Uther, and if his voice was cold before, now Merlin shivered, gritting his teeth on the shreds of his control.

“Yes, Father. I accept full responsibility—”

“If you cannot command a simple raid like a competent adult, perhaps you should spend some time squiring for a more dedicated knight. Sir Ector, for example, knows better than to lollygag about in the stables when he has a report to give his king.”

“Your Majesty, I—”

“I have already heard this tale. Foolishly, I thought my son might offer some further insight into the circumstances of such failure, but apparently not.”

Arthur spoke again, the words so fumbling and young it made Merlin’s chest ache. “The mission was not an utter loss. We were able to destroy an altar and several magical artifacts which might have—”

A crack split the air, the unmistakable report of flesh on flesh.

Uther did not get to finish his tirade about idiot boys who thought trinkets and puppet stages mattered at all when their perfidious creators walked free. In fact, he barely got to begin.

Merlin burst from the servants’ corridor, hand outstretched, and froze the world. Or nearly all of it, as Arthur remained untouched, reeling back from his father’s blow, steadied gently by invisible hands. A shimmer of gold curled over the red mark blooming across his left cheek, gentle like the nudge of a kitten’s head seeking pets.

Uther’s eyes popped, his face going the color of whey, then deep purple “S—sorcer—“ he began: but there would be none of that now.

“Shut up. Don’t speak,” Merlin snarled, his own voice nearly unrecognizable, nearly the guttural roar which commanded dragons. Light itself flared with the pulse of Merlin’s magic, and Uther choked and sputtered with a tongue that would no longer form words.

“Merlin, I told you to stay away!” Arthur cried. And the animal in Merlin might have curled up and died of shame at the fear in those blue eyes: if that fear was of Merlin rather than for him, supplicated for mercy as he’d been taught from the cradle, rather than hardening to determination, ready to throw himself before all of Camelot to give Merlin time to escape.

He could stop Uther’s heart right now. Crush it in his chest without moving a muscle. Freeze his lungs or some smaller part of the body’s divine machinery: give him a death as slow or as fast as he pleased, or simply justice, breaking every bone in the hand that hit his son.

“Merlin, please.” Arthur’s voice was softer now. Closer. He reached out and touched Merlin’s arm, tucked his hand into the soft place at the crook of Merlin’s elbow and pulled him in, shamelessly as his father looked on, leaned his face against Merlin’s temple.

“I don’t want...not like this. I know it’s selfish, I—”

“Hush.” Merlin turned his head to swallow self-recriminations in a kiss, deep and soothing. Then he turned his attention back to the murderous king, already knowing what he had to do. Arthur had asked, so Merlin would act; but that did not mean he would stand aside.

“Uther Pendragon,” he growled. “Remember this: raise a hand to your children again and the pain you cause returneth to you a hundred-fold. Now. Forgietan.”

It was not a traditional spell (except the forgetting spell there at the end), but Merlin was not a traditional sorcerer. The threads of magic bound him all the same, wrapping around his hands and throat and sinking in: then Merlin released him, threw his arms around Arthur, and bore them both away.

Later, in the copper bathtub doubled in size by magic, filled and heated by magic, Merlin held Arthur between his legs, arms wrapped around his firm waist, kissing drops of water from the backs of his shoulders. He knew he was being ridiculously clingy, but he couldn’t let go, embarrassed by his display, unable to regret it, horribly anxious all the same to hear Arthur’s reproach.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Arthur said eventually. He leaned back against Merlin, reveling in being held. “You shouldn’t have done that. Don’t do it again. If the slightest thing goes wrong with your memory spell…”

“He hurt you,” Merlin whispered past the lump in his throat.

And Arthur sighed deeply, some form of relief for all the usual lies he used to comfort himself: that he was used to it, that it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care.

“A pigeon,” Arthur parrots, apparently having lost any capability to generate any original speech himself.

Merlin glances down to the egg cradled in his arms. “A… large pigeon.”

“Ah,” Arthur says, in a rather dubious tone of voice, for all that Merlin is usually forthright and irreproachable, “and tell me, Merlin, if I were to go out searching for this abnormally-robust pigeon, would I find it?”

“No,” Merlin admits. See? Forthright and irreproachable. He’s practically a saint. “It… died.”

"It died," says Arthur.

“Choking on a berry,” nods Merlin.

“Ah.” Arthur waves a hand. “So I would find its body, then.”

“No,” Merlin barks out, shifting on his feet. “I, er… I gave it to the kitchens.”

“You lugged a dead pigeon all the way to the castle just to give it to the cook?”

“It had quite a bit of meat.”

Arthur’s left eye twitches, fingers curling around his sword, and then there is a long moment in which he only stares. Merlin tries to fold his hands behind his back, in a clear display of innocence, but forgets the egg, and has to catch it on his knee. The thing inside lets out a startled hiss. Which is, of course, a thing that pigeons do.

“I see,” Arthur says eventually, wearing the sort of wrinkles about his forehead that Merlin has made permanent on Gaius; he is not sure who suits them better. “So I am to understand that there you were, flitting about the woods and minding your own business, as you so often do, when you stumbled upon this tableau of pigeon tragedy. The natural course of action, obviously, being to bake the mother into a pie, you were then forced to reclaim its honor by swiping the egg, smuggling it into my chambers, and —”

“Well, I couldn’t just leave it, could I?” Merlin insists, which is mostly even true. Arthur shoots him a look that suggests he believes Merlin could have done exactly that, so Merlin tries again. “I thought it might be of service to the court?”

“And how, exactly," Arthur sighs, steepling his hands beneath his chin. Praying, perhaps, for just a shred of Merlin’s genius; it is not actually so far-fetched a story when you’ve heard the real thing. “Would a pigeon be of any service to this court?”

Ah. Merlin combs the contents of his venerable brain, and tries not to think of fire-breathing. “It could… shit on our enemies?”

Arthur's expression narrows, but it is at this moment the egg shudders, a great crack splitting down its side, and one tiny, jagged shard of shell chips off to reveal a single, alabaster scale.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, through very gritted teeth.

The thing inside the egg wafts up a bit of smoke.

It was getting almost too dark to see. Merlin couldn't bring himself to say they should stop.

He felt like his whole world had come crashing down.

He had no idea how much worse it must be for Arthur. Arthur who had protected him without a second thought.

Yet he'd taken the blame, rather than let Merlin go to the pyre. He couldn't have even been sure Merlin was loyal. He didn't even have a second to think it through. He just acted.

Even though from the brief microsecond before Arthur had decided on his course of action, Merlin had seen a world of betrayal on his face.

Arthur hadn't known Merlin had magic.

He'd done it anyway. That was who Arthur was. Passion. Acting in the heat of the moment. It was part of what Merlin adored about him, even when it gave him headaches at the same time.

The prince couldn't have known exactly how Uther would react. Was the exile worse than he imagined? Or, gods, did he expect he would have ended up on the pyre himself?

Merlin wondered if he regretted it.

He must.

Arthur had been born a prince, and fought with everything he had to be a good one. It was his life.

And now it was gone.

Merlin wished with everything he had that he could turn back time, to before the feast when Arthur had thrown a sock at his head in anger, and Merlin had burst out laughing at the weakest threat he'd ever received - and Arthur had twitched his lips in response.

What would happen now?

"Let's make camp here, Merlin." Arthur suddenly cut through their silence, making Merlin jump. His voice was sure. Not afraid.

It only made Merlin more confused.

"As you say, Sire." He said unsurely, so unlike his usual self, as he got off his horse.

"Just Arthur. I no longer have that title, after all." Arthur said. He sounded tired, but accepting. Merlin wanted to shake him, ask why the hell he wasn't more upset about this when Merlin was breaking into pieces.

"Arthur. I'm - you can't know how sorry-"

"You saved my life, Merlin." Arthur interrupted him, looking away from his ex-manservant, now purely friend, as he tied his horse to a tree.

"I never wanted this." Merlin trembled. Why wasn't Arthur angry? Could it be... might Arthur actually understand? Even if he didn't know the facts? Might he know Merlin's nature, his loyalty - his love for his prince?

Arthur turned to face him. Even in the darkness, his eyes burned bright with emotion he rarely let show. "I don't regret it, Merlin. Even if you hadn't used it to save me, I could never abide you dying."

Merlin sucked in a deep breath. He felt a tear roll down his cheek. Arthur looked softly at him.

"Ever since you barged your way into my life, it's been you and me. And it always will be. I won't have it any other way." Arthur said, and it sounded like a promise. It sounded even more like an unspoken 'I love you' that Merlin had always longed to hear.

"I'll always be yours, Arthur." Merlin replied, even as another tear escaped, and his heart pounced in his chest.

Arthur smiled. "Then tomorrow you'll tell me everything. Including why on earth you'd come to Camelot in the first place. We'll plan from there. It will be okay, Merlin. I promise."

And Merlin couldn't help but believe him.