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The first thing Merlin can remember learning is how to hide.
Any time he is the least bit afraid, his mother tells him, any time he feels scared, or threatened by anything - by anyone - he should just run away, find some way to make himself very small in a place no one can see him, until the danger passes. As long as he leaves, and goes somewhere no one can find him, he’ll be safe.
Merlin remembers her words - well, mostly he remembers the stricken look on her face as she said them, crouching down to look in his eyes in the hazy light of the physician’s chambers. Only, Merlin doesn’t feel scared very often. It seems important to her so he tries to listen, but Camelot is still wide and wild and wondrous to him, its dangers not yet revealed and so, not yet real in the eyes of a child. Still, hiding seems like the kind of thing he should practice, to make sure he gets it right when the time comes.
Hiding turns out to be more fun than Merlin expected, once he puts his mind to it. Camelot’s castle has lots of places, and it’s easy to make a game of finding them all, deciding which one is best until he finds another that’s better.
Plus, hiding is how he finds Wart.
Arthur cannot believe the gall of that peasant.
No one speaks to him that way. Especially in the lower town - it’s called the lower town for a reason, isn’t it? People that live there literally lower their gaze out of respect when he passes, grateful that the crown prince - well, almost crown prince - is gracing their muddy streets and stinking gutters at all when he doesn’t have to. He could just leave it out of his patrols, leave them to fend for themselves. It’d certainly keep his boots cleaner.
So the nerve of that boy to even open his mouth, let alone pick a fight? When he was clearly beyond outmatched by Arthur and his men, and all over what? Some squire from a failing house?
Arthur strips off his doublet, grit and dust shaking out of it onto the floor of his chambers. It’ll take forever to get that cleaned up, too. Arthur glowers at his dirty clothes and makes a note to request a new manservant.
At least he can console himself with the knowledge that the peasant boy is spending the evening in the stocks, and will likely come out far dirtier for it. Maybe that’ll teach him to think before he speaks.
“Oh. Are you already hiding here?”
The boy’s head whips around, and for a brief moment his wide gray eyes look shocked. Then he scowls.
“I’m not hiding.”
“Well I am,” Merlin says, pleased to not have to find another spot. This ledge has got to be the best he’s found yet, and that was an awful lot of stairs to climb up on small legs.
“Then you... Youwe a cowawd,” the boy says with a pause and a sniff, but Merlin frowns.
“A what?”
The boy looks annoyed, but not at Merlin. More at his shoes, if the direction of his frowning stare is anything to go by. He takes a deep breath.
“A cow- a cow-ward.”
The insult would probably sting more if he hadn’t clearly worked so hard to say it. Merlin just shrugs and sits down on the ledge next to him.
“Well then you’re a liar.”
“Am not!”
“Are too,” Merlin insists, “because this is a spot for hiding, and you’re in the spot, so - you’re hiding.”
No response.
“What’s your name?”
Nothing.
“... do you not have a name?”
“I have a name!” the boy says in a frustrated huff.
“Well what is it?”
“It’s Aw - Awr -” the boy cuts off, biting his cheek, before trying again, “Awrth -”
“Wart?” Merlin offers helpfully. The boy doesn’t seem to appreciate it.
“Wawrt?! That’s not a name!”
“It could be!”
“No it couldn’t!”
Turns out, it absolutely could.
Well, now Arthur doesn’t know what to think.
The peasant boy - Merlin, as if that’s any sort of name - saved his life? Arthur’s not sure anyone’s ever saved his life before. At least, besides one of his knights, during a battle or an ambush by bandits on the road, but that’s different. Protecting each other in a fight is implicit in the knight’s code. He’s repelled an attack meant for each of them as well, and so there is no debt between them.
He hasn’t done anything for Merlin except had him thrown in the stocks. Twice.
Which, both times the boy absolutely deserved it. If Arthur doesn’t teach him to pick his battles more carefully, Camelot certainly will, and it will send someone bigger and meaner than Arthur to deliver the message. Better Merlin learn now with a bit of spoiled food to the face, than later with a knife in his back.
But Arthur can’t imagine his tangentially educating Merlin on the ways of this city could possibly have inspired the kind of bravery he just witnessed in the throne room. So why, then? Why would Merlin put himself in danger for Arthur’s sake? There’s something else going on with the boy, Arthur’s sure of it. He just can’t imagine what.
Unfortunately, he’s going to have plenty of time to figure it out with Merlin as his new manservant, good Lord, what was his father thinking?
The next time Merlin goes to the ledge, Wart isn’t there. Merlin sits down to wait, hoping he’ll come. Mostly, he just doesn’t want to go back to the physician’s chambers yet. Hiding there used to be fun, but he’s noticed that Gaius and his mum talk differently when they think he’s not listening. His mother’s face gets more drawn and Gaius’s brow gets more furrowed when they can’t see him. They talk about Merlin sometimes, too. About his glowing light and his picture book. They use low, worried voices, and it makes Merlin feel bad even though he doesn’t understand why. The light hadn’t hurt anyone, and like he’d already explained, his book just wanted to be with him, and it isn’t his fault that books haven’t got legs and have to float to move around.
He doesn’t like the feeling though, so he was hoping Wart would be here. Even if Wart doesn’t say much. That’s probably why, when Wart does eventually show up, Merlin’s extra excited to talk to him.
“Why’re you hiding?”
Wart blushes a vibrant red, right up to his sandy blonde hair.
“I am not -”
“Because my mum told me to hide when I’m scared, but Camelot isn’t very scary, so I’m just practicing.”
Wart frowns but doesn’t speak, so Merlin keeps going.
“I’m getting really good. If you want, I can show you all the places I’ve found to hide in the castle. There’s loads of options, and some of them are definitely big enough for two. I still think this one is the best so far.”
“Aw-aren’t you a little small to be out by - to be out alone?” Wart asks instead of replying to Merlin’s offer. Merlin frowns.
“Aren’t you?”
“That’s diff - differwent. I’m the pwince,” Wart stammers through gritted teeth. Merlin frowns.
“The pwince?”
Wart huffs and doesn’t answer. He’d been glaring but now he doesn’t seem to want to look at Merlin at all.
“What’s a pwince?”
Wart scoffs like it should be obvious. After a long moment of frowning, he grumbles his answer quietly to the air in front of him.
“Means I can be out by myself.”
“Huh, well I can be out by myself too,” Merlin replies after thinking it over, because he’s got the vague sense that isn’t what “pwince” means but also doesn’t see why it would matter either way, “when my mum is busy which is all the time. That’s how I found this hiding spot.”
Another long moment of silence passes.
“My mum’s studying books and plants and stuff with Gaius the physician. Do you know him?”
Wart nods but doesn’t elaborate. He scuffs his boots against the stones, looking down at his feet.
“He’s nice I guess. We live with him. It’s warm and dry, but it’s also small and it smells like mushrooms, and I can’t tell if the rooms smell like mushrooms because he smells like mushrooms, or if it’s the other way ‘round. I don’t really like mushrooms.”
No response.
“You don’t talk very much,” Merlin finally observes.
“Well, you talk a lot,” Wart shoots back with a scowl. Merlin just shrugs.
“That’s what my mum says, too, but if I didn’t, how would anyone know what I’m thinking?”
The first thing Arthur notices is the silence.
Surely it’s impossible he could’ve gotten used to Merlin in so short a time? Yet, it’s been one day without him, and all Arthur can hear is the echoing quiet of his chambers. Apparently this interim manservant serving as a replacement - though how he’ll ever replace Merlin’s seemingly willful incompetence, he has no idea - doesn’t feel the need to fill every second with interminable chatter. Arthur doesn’t miss it. He doesn’t.
There was something comforting, though, about listening to Merlin prattle on about everything and nothing while he stumbled his way through his duties. Maybe Arthur just doesn’t relish the alternative - being alone with his own thoughts, about the tournament, about Valiant, about how best to beat him.
The loudest thought of all being a persistent, intrusive doubt that asks, what if Merlin is right? What if Valiant is cheating? Arthur knows he inherited his father’s rashness in many ways, but he suspects he reflects more after the fact than Uther does, and his reflection can’t stop wondering why Merlin would go to such lengths, would spin such a lie that benefited him in no discernable way except to improve Arthur’s chances of winning the tournament. Having only known Merlin for a short while, Arthur can still confidently say that the likelihood of Merlin doing something just to curry Arthur’s favor - or anyone else’s for that matter - is vanishingly small.
Lying in bed that night, Arthur tries to convince himself it doesn’t matter either way. In some ways it doesn’t. Whether or not Merlin lied, whether or not Valiant is using magic, Arthur still cannot afford to look like a coward in front of his people, to look weak in front of his father. So magic or not, Arthur still needs to fight, and he still needs to win.
As the silent, lonely night wears on, the chances of that start to seem much the same as the chances of Merlin doing anything just to get Arthur to like him - doubtful, at best.
“Why don’t you talk?” Merlin asks as they sit braced against the warm patch on the stone wall in the passageway. Wart says there’s a fireplace on the other side and that’s why it’s warm sometimes. Merlin asks why Wart doesn’t sit over there by the fire instead, which gets him a shrug and no real explanation.
Not real explanations are kind of Wart’s specialty.
“Not supposed to.”
Merlin lets out an indignant huff.
“What does that mean, ‘not supposed to’? Who isn’t supposed to talk?”
Wart glances over at him and seems to take a deep breath in preparation.
“My fath - father says if I can’t talk w - right, I shouldn’t talk at all.”
Merlin frowns.
“But you talk fine?”
Suddenly Wart’s face changes - warms a little, like the stones on their backs. Merlin can see it just around the corners of his mouth.
“I’m trying. It’s not as… difficult, when no one’s watching.”
“But I’m watching,” Merlin points out, “and you sound right to me?”
“That’s differwent. When it’s just you watching I can do it, but when everybody’s watching I can’t, it doesn’t work, so I’m not supposed to.”
“But then how are you supposed to practice?” Merlin huffs, exasperated on Wart’s behalf, “You can’t get better if you don’t practice. That’s what my mum says. That’s how she’s good at making sick people better. That’s how I’m good at hiding!”
Wart crosses his arms and rests them on his tucked up knees.
“I don't - I never see anyone. I’m supposed to pw-practice with Masterw Lucius, but he - I don’t like him much.”
“Why not?”
Wart opens his mouth to answer, but the creak of a door sounds behind them as if behind the stone wall, and Merlin only has a second to be shocked by the panicked look on Wart’s face before the other boy goes running, down the passage and out of sight.
“What on earth were you thinking?!”
Merlin struggles in vain as Arthur marches them down the hallway and away from the throne room. Far away, far enough that Arthur’s sure Merlin is nowhere near his father before he lets go, lest Merlin try to go marching right back to get himself killed.
Which he does immediately. Arthur shoves him back, none too gently, and Merlin’s sturdier than he looks, only in that he doesn’t go sprawling on the stone floors.
He is however not nearly sturdy enough, nor apparently in possession of any of the skills required, to take an extremely misguided swing at Arthur, and thus lands himself in a headlock once again.
“Fine. We’ll just stay like this until you’ve got this death wish out of your system.”
Merlin tries to twist and break the hold, but he’s getting tired and Arthur’s been training in combat since he was seven years old.
“Better me than Gwen!”
“You seem to be under the impression that he won’t gladly kill both of you for much less than trying to hit me,” Arthur whispers harshly into Merlin’s ear, and Merlin stills quickly against his chest as Arthur continues, “and somehow you’d be even less useful locked in a cell, so - are you finished?”
Merlin stops trying to break free and for a moment, neither of them move. Arthur can feel Merlin’s furious breaths, hot across his arm, but - but at least he’s not fighting anymore. Arthur quickly rights him, hands on his shoulders, taking in the flush of his pale skin across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, the unhappy twist to his mouth as he stares back in open agony.
“Look, I -” Arthur starts before pausing, suddenly uncomfortable. He clears his throat.
“I know you have… feelings for Gwen, and it may seem like you’re protecting her by trying to take her place, but I cannot let you take the blame for what is not your fault.”
Merlin looks at him, and his frown shifts for a moment towards confusion before he waves off Arthur’s words as if irrelevant.
“But it isn’t her fault either! Gwen isn't a sorcerer.”
It’s a shameful, unsettling sort of relief, not having to discuss Merlin’s obvious crush on Gwen any further.
“Well then let us hope Gaius has found a very compelling alternative. My father is not fond of changing his mind.”
The next time Merlin visits the passageway to the ledge, Wart isn’t there, and he doesn’t show up when Merlin waits for him. Eventually Merlin gives up, disappointed, and heads back the way he came.
He sighs at the prospect of descending all those stairs he just climbed up, and his foot is on the top step when he hears voices behind the wall. Wart did say there was a fireplace on the other side, even if he always had some excuse not to show it to him. Maybe that’s where he is now, and Merlin could just go there instead of the ledge.
Excited at the prospect of further exploration, Merlin finds the narrow passage branching off from their hiding place. He creeps through the darkened tunnel slowly, curious, following the voices.
“Master Lucius tells me you’ve been sneaking out of his lessons.”
There are faint pinpricks of light, and Merlin quickly finds himself behind a barrier of heavy woven material. If he angles his head just right, he can see a sliver of the room beyond.
“Well, I assume if you’re abandoning your studies, you must no longer need them,” says the deep voice of a larger silhouette on the other side of the cloth, standing in front of a smaller figure.
“I didn’t -” another voice starts. Wart’s voice. The deeper voice cuts him off.
“Go on then, boy, tell me. Who are you?”
Silence.
“Don’t make me ask again. What is your name?”
“The lessons don’t help,” Wart says instead, “They just make it wo - worse -”
“Who are you?”
A pause, and then a deep breath.
“My name is... A - Arw - Awth -”
Crack.
The sound of the impact flies through the cloth, breaking around Merlin and echoing down the passage behind him. On the other side, only silence. Not a cry, not even a sniffle. Merlin peers through the tiny gap again, only to immediately shrink back into the darkness. He stays hidden. He is afraid.
Just not for himself.
“Merlin, just apologize -”
“No, no it’s... it’s fine.”
Merlin pulls the chalice back, out of Arthur’s reach. Well, it’s not really out of Arthur’s reach - Merlin’s built like a sun-starved weed, and Arthur could have the cup out of his hands in two steps and the barest grip, if he weren’t rooted in place, paralyzed with indecision, because… why would Bayard travel all this way, just to start a war he could’ve caused from the safety of his own throne room? It makes no sense, that the wine would be poisoned.
But then, why would Merlin think it was?
Merlin looks at Bayard, then Gaius… then Arthur, before raising the chalice to his mouth. His eyes bore into Arthur’s, the fear in them unmistakable - as is the absolute certainty on his face when Merlin drinks the entire cup, never once breaking his gaze. That is, until the seconds of false comfort lapse and Merlin collapses to the floor.
Suddenly, no force on this earth could hold Arthur back. Rushing to Merlin’s side, oblivious to the eyes on him or the clatter of drawn swords as he grabs Merlin’s face in his hands, shaking gently, trying to rouse him. Lifting Merlin easily onto his back, carrying him from the room and halfway across the castle. Pacing around Gaius’ quarters, reading over the physician’s shoulder, too impatient to care that he has no chance of understanding the herblore in this text. Feeling only relief that there is an antidote, indifferent to the danger required to procure it - welcomes it, even, that this should be a problem he is so uniquely suited to solve.
Arthur is in motion, chasing down his father. In motion, thoughts racing as he stares into the fire in his chambers, already planning his disobedience even as Morgana comes to provoke it. In motion, urging his horse through the barbican. Pushing only faster, flying through the lower town and out of the city, towards Balor, the clattering of shod hooves sparking on cobblestones chasing out all other thoughts, the growing fear from Arthur’s mind.
Arthur pushes his horse faster, as if he can outrun it.
“Okay, wait right here. I’ll be right back.”
Wart looks a little uncertain as Merlin slips through the half-height doorway, but Merlin’s done this loads of times. He reaches the other end of the passage and peaks out from around the shelving, weighed down with pots and pans.
The kitchen is mostly empty. Just the cook, tending to a pot on the stove, one of the kitchen girls chopping something on the butcher’s block, and a table covered with the dishes for the evening meal. Loaves of bread, cheeses, fresh fruits and vegetables - which Merlin pays very little mind - and best of all, pies of numerous shapes and sizes, all left mostly unsupervised.
Merlin takes a little extra time to pick the good stuff, since it’s for Wart. Even if that means he almost gets caught when the cook turns around while he was too busy trying to pick the nicest looking hand pies.
When Merlin gets back, Wart is sitting in one of the alcoves with his knees tucked up to his chest and a small frown on his face. It disappears when he sees Merlin, though he still clearly tries to school it into something more stoic.
“You took forwever,” Wart complains even as he budges over so Merlin can sit too and lay out their little feast on the napkin he wrapped it all up in.
“No, you’re just impatient. Plus there were so many choices! There wasn’t this much stuff the last time I came.”
“It’s because there awre guests coming,” Wart says, picking a dinner roll off the pile.
“What kind of guests?”
Wart shrugs, picking at the bread.
“Some friend of my fatherws and his wife.”
“Where are they from?”
“Here, I think, but he’s been off in the North-ern Plains.”
Merlin frowns, “Why was he away?”
Wart groans, throwing up his hands.
“I don’t know, to fight or something. Why do you always ask so many questions?”
Merlin shrugs, biting into the hand pie he’s picked at enough to identify as chicken. Wart sounds more nervous than angry.
“How else would I find stuff out? Do you have to go to the feast?”
Wart nods, and Merlin notices he’s barely eaten the roll he picked, mostly needling it to pieces with his fingers.
“Here, bread’s better with stuff in it. Try this one.”
He hands Wart one of the pies. It has a little shape pressed into the crisp browned crust.
“What’s that supposed to be?” Merlin asks as Wart bites off the part of the shape that looked like a head. Wart examines it.
“Oh, a dwagon I think?”
“A what?”
Wart swallows his bite.
“A dragon. It’s - they put them on all our stuff.”
Merlin frowns, picking up another pie with the same shape.
“I wish I could see a dragon.”
Wart looks indignant.
“Dragons aren’t real. It’s just a decorwation.”
“Yes they are!” Merlin insists, “There’s one in my picture book!”
Wart rolls his eyes, “A picture book for babies.”
“It’s not for babies! It’s got all kinds of beasts and dragons and there’s one dragon that breathes fire and talks and -”
“Well how come no one’s seen one?”
Merlin shrugs, unwilling to admit this is a good point. He can’t remember anyone ever claiming to have seen a dragon, but that doesn't have to mean they aren't real. He probably just hasn’t asked enough people.
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re hiding.”
Merlin’s alive. Arthur tries to focus on that.
“Your disobedience shows a complete lack of judgement. You are as you ever were - a willful, foolish child.”
Arthur’s alive too, though he’s feeling less and less so the longer this goes on.
“To endanger the monarchy, over a servant of all people! Is this how you intend to rule - with such womanish sentimentality?”
Now Arthur just needs to make sure his father doesn’t have Merlin executed out of spite.
“I will not have your weakness reflect on me. Defy me over such nonsense again and I’ll cut him down where he stands.”
Later, after Arthur’s exorcized another conversation with the king using an unfortunate wooden dummy and his sword, he does try to reflect on his actions. Later, staring into the fire in his chambers, knowing for certain that Merlin is hale and hearty - well, hearty as he ever was - under Gaius’ care, Arthur can quietly admit - to himself, in his head - that he isn’t sure why he feels so certain saving Merlin was the right thing to do. Contrary to what Morgana likes to imply, Arthur isn’t stupid. He knows what’s at stake if he dies, and he does care for Camelot’s future - a future that becomes much less certain without an heir to protect it.
That Merlin should’ve been saved is not the question. Arthur’s insistence that he do it himself, though, that he be the one to retrieve the Mortaeus flower, is… perplexing. He has knights, after all. Capable men at his disposal, men he trusts with his life. Just, apparently not with Merlin’s.
Yet Arthur cannot regret his actions either, and he’s quite sure that’s not just because he didn’t manage to fall to his death or get eaten by spiders in their course. Perhaps it’s the absolute certainty that Merlin displayed, when he looked into Arthur’s eyes and drank an entire cup of poison on his behalf. The emotions on Merlin's face, now seared into Arthur’s mind, the fear and yet still such inexplicable, bewildering conviction he showed. It seemed the least Arthur could do was commit to his own actions in kind.
He felt his path was true on his journey as well, not that there could be any explaining this to Uther. Arthur can still picture the guiding ball of blue light, appearing in his darkest moment, leading him out of the pit. The warm familiarity he felt when he saw it, when something so obviously magical should’ve filled him only with fear and doubt.
Arthur knows he would’ve followed it wherever it led, like a trusted friend.
“And then Wart said Camelot’s library has the most books of any library in the whole world. He’s going to show me all of them next time I see him.”
Merlin’s mother looks at him with a face that’s becoming familiar, where she purses her lips and wrinkles her eyebrows a little. It’s making this little crease on her forehead, Merlin can see it getting bigger.
“Well I think Camelot’s archives are off-limits, Merlin, so perhaps you and ‘Wart’ should play somewhere else?”
Merlin shakes his head gleefully as he hands his mother another cloth baggie and some string. They’re making herb pouches to steep in hot water, since there’s been a nasty cold going around the castle and the sounds of sniffling have been echoing through the stone halls all week.
“Not for Wart! He says he’s allowed in, and then he can let me in when Geoffrey’s not looking. We’re going to look at all the books on dragons. Wart says there’s no such thing as dragons, but then I don’t know why there would be books about them. I think they’re real, and they are magical and wise just like in my picture book. Wart says I’m lying, but why would there be dragons all over all the walls and knights and stuff here if dragons weren’t real?”
His mother hums quietly, examining the piles of different dried herbs in front of her like she’s not listening, but Merlin knows she is. She always listens to him.
“Wart doesn’t have a picture book, but he’s got wooden swords and a bow and arrow and a horse. I don’t think I believe him about the horse, but he says she’s white and eighteen hands tall and he’s going to show her to me after we get done in the library. Do you think he really has a horse, mum?”
His mother smiles and reaches over to smooth down Merlin’s hair. She does that a lot, but it always sticks back up.
“I think it must be nice to have a special friend with as much imagination as you, darling. As long as you stay out of trouble!”
“Oh, Wart can’t get into trouble. He’s the pwince.”
But his mother’s already weighing out more cowslip roots and nettle leaves and doesn’t reply - Merlin’s pretty sure it’s because she agrees with him that whatever a “pwince” is, it can’t be that important.
“It’s nice to see you with a friend.
Arthur only half hears her - Merlin is off chatting with Lancelot, and Arthur already regrets not making him wear the ceremonial servants garb for this feast. It seemed too rude, even for Arthur, since the last time Merlin was in that hat he got poisoned, but Arthur could use a laugh right now and Merlin’s constant prattle is less diverting when it’s across the room directed at someone else.
“Hmm?”
“You and Merlin,” Morgana clarifies, gesturing across the room, “I don’t remember the last time I saw you with someone who hasn’t sworn an oath of fealty to the captain of the knights of Camelot.”
Arthur scoffs as Merlin acts out some kind of prat fall - well, with him it’s never clear, could be an actual fall - that Arthur strongly suspects is an impression of him. Probably from the first time they met, which unfortunately didn’t end up being the part of that interaction Arthur’s the most embarrassed by.
“Merlin and I aren’t friends.”
When he finally acknowledges Morgana, she’s rolling her eyes, though she quickly arranges her face back into its beatific smile, which means she intended Arthur to see her disbelief. Any lady of the court knows how to school her expression in an instant, Morgana most of all.
“Oh, please. It’s not like I’m going to run off and tell Uther, no one here is listening - is it so hard to admit you actually like him?”
Arthur feels warmth on his face, beyond that of the crowded hall or the plentiful mead.
“Oh sure, Merlin’s great. I love how he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut even when no one cares to hear his opinions, or how he’s constantly second-guessing me like he has no concept of what a ‘prince’ is, or how he -”
“- actually stands up to you?” Morgana interrupts, green eyes locked on him, “How he tells you the truth, instead of just what you want to hear?”
Arthur knows how to keep his feelings off his face too. At least, most of the time.
“Yes, perfect. Just the qualities we look for in a servant.”
She lets out a noise of disgust.
“You don’t want him to act like a servant.”
“No, I want him to stop trying to get himself killed,” Arthur shoots back without thinking, and immediately feels like he’s admitted something he shouldn’t have.
Morgana looks at him for a long moment, and now Arthur knows he’s admitted to more than he should have. Eventually she sits back in her chair and hums thoughtfully.
“You’re different, you know. With him around.”
Arthur sighs and tries to pretend he doesn’t care to know what she means.
“What do you mean?”
Morgana shrugs, taking a sip of her wine - heavily watered down, since it wouldn’t do to have the king’s ward be publicly incapacitated. Arthur’s drink is stronger, since his “education” in holding his alcohol began as soon as he was old enough to hold a sword. Sometimes he wishes it was still weakened.
“You’re less… rash,” she finally explains, “More measured, in your actions. More confident -”
“Really? Because I seem to recall you declaring I had an overabundance of confidence on several occasions,” Arthur interjects with a dry laugh.
Morgana shakes her head.
“An overabundance of arrogance, maybe. This is different. You’re more secure in yourself, and less…”
Arthur waits a moment.
“... Less?”
Morgana frowns, and when she does answer, her voice is low - like it’ll make her words any less shocking to Arthur’s system.
“Less like your father.”
It’s the closest he’s heard Morgana come to criticizing their shared master. Well, perhaps until recently. If Arthur has changed at all in recent months, he’s not the only one - though he’d hesitate to describe any of Morgana’s actions of late as measured.
“And, you smile more,” she adds, with a small smile herself. Arthur scoffs.
“Sure, just what the people need. A smiling king.”
“Well, perhaps not, but since it’s mostly at Merlin I don’t think anyone else will have noticed.”
Oh, his traitorous, traitorous face. From the sideways glance of Morgana, she’s already noticed its rising color.
“Mhmm, that’s what I thought. Don’t worry, your secret need for human companionship is safe with me. I like Merlin, I think he’s good for you. I have no desire to see him exiled, or worse.”
Arthur looks across the room, where Merlin is still chatting and smiling and bumping shoulders with Camelot’s newest knight. He has no desire to see Merlin exiled (or worse) either. In fact, he wishes Merlin would come back here and save him from Morgana’s unnerving powers of perception. Or, maybe he just wishes Merlin would come back to him, period.
Gaius’ chambers offer plenty of places to hide, but sneaking out at night is a little trickier. The tower chamber he shares with his mother barely has enough space for him to roll out his bedding without partially covering the little trap door in the floor, and then how would he open it without waking her up?
Merlin’s never been the most graceful child, but all his hiding practice helps him move quietly when he needs to, and his mother’s so exhausted from her work that she sleeps right through the creaking hinges as Merlin shuts the door behind him.
Camelot Castle is easier to sneak around in at night, but it’s more intimidating too. It probably should be less so, since there’s no one around to spot him. It’s much easier getting past the occasional lone guard nodding off at his post than that guard wide awake plus the bustle of people moving back and forth in the halls at all times of day, carrying supplies and laundry and reports and all likely to be annoyed at the appearance of a small child underfoot with dirty knees and worn clothes that distinctly say, “not supposed to be here”.
It’s just a little scary because the secret passageways are all pitch black. Not that they’re exactly well-lit in the daytime, but without even the dim sunlight to creep around doorways or through cracks in loose stones, it’s so dark in the labyrinth of tunnels that weave in and out of the castle’s walls that Merlin can’t see his hand in front of his face.
Or he wouldn’t be able to, if he didn’t have his light.
The small orb glows a faint blue and bobs ahead of him down the passage, casting a dim but constant glow around him. His mother’s been very clear, Merlin is never to make the lights where anyone can see him. Well, technically she’d said he should never make them at all, and Merlin tries not to, but that doesn’t really make sense to him. If no one can see him, what’s the harm in having his little orb to wander around with him, lighting his footsteps, showing him the way ahead? He’ll make it disappear before he goes into Wart’s chambers - even if when he gets there, he really doesn’t want to, watching it sadly for a moment before banishing it with a thought. It feels bad to put it out, when all it ever did was help him.
Merlin forgets quickly, though, in the way that children do.
“Okay and this one is called ‘Mesgedhra’.”
Merlin turns the page and points to the illustration of a great, green dragon with a long, whiplike tail and spiked comb mane.
“Everyone thinks she’s evil, because of how she looks like a snake. She’s not, though. She’s very wise and clever.”
“How do you know?” Wart asks skeptically, though his face remains transfixed by the picture laid out in front of them, “It’s just a drawing. It’s not like she can tell you.”
Merlin shrugs, which jostles the blankets pulled over their heads a little. He pushes them back a bit so they don’t obstruct the candlelight from the lamp on Wart’s bedside table.
“Well, I just…” he trails off. He wants to tell Wart about the voice he sometimes hears in his head, when he’s falling asleep, or just waking up, or by himself in his room. The voice that knows his name is “Merlin”, and occasionally tells him things if he asks - like about the dragons in his book. Sometimes the voice tells Merlin useful things, like how to be too hard to see for normal eyes and sneak around where he’s not supposed to, and sometimes it isn’t very helpful at all and just rambles on about Merlin’s “destiny”. He wants to tell Wart, even though he hasn’t even told his mother about the voice, because she’ll just worry, but then he also knows that if he had told her, she’d definitely tell him not to tell anyone else.
“I just… lots of things aren’t how they seem,” Merlin says eventually, though he can feel Wart’s eyes on him like he took too long to answer. “Like, when I first met you, you seemed like a jerk -”
“Hey!” Wart jostles him with his shoulder, and Merlin pushes back, and for a moment they’re distracted by the kind of childish shoving that falls out of favor as one grows older and touch takes on new, more complicated meanings. For now, while things are still simple, they can giggle and fight all they want.
“- but now I know you’re not, you were just pretending.”
Merlin grins and grabs Wart’s hand with his slightly smaller one, lacing their fingers and going back to the picture book. Wart huffs like he’s annoyed, but there’s too much smile in it as he points to the next page.
“Okay and what about this one?”
“Oh, that one is like, the king dragon. He’s very old, and sometimes he’s mean but he’s just trying to protect the other dragons. They don’t always listen to him though, because they’re young and foolish.”
“And… and he’s magical?” Wart asks, like even saying the word frightens him. It makes Merlin’s heart hurt.
“Yes, all dragons are magical.”
Wart runs his fingers over the drawing of the golden dragon on the page. It seems strange to Merlin that Wart has so many things, far more than Merlin does - a whole chamber for himself, this giant bed with the hanging curtains around it, wooden swords and an actual horse (Merlin admits he was wrong about the horse being made up, though he still isn’t convinced she’s eighteen hands) - but he doesn’t have any picture books. The few books in the room are histories of battles or great houses, and if there is a picture it’s of some old crest and barely even colorful. Merlin wishes he had even more books to bring, since Wart seems so enchanted by this one.
“You can borrow it, if you want,” Merlin offers. Wart looks surprised.
“But it’s your only - it’s your book.”
Merlin shrugs, “It’ll be here when I need it.”
He preens a little under the obvious gratitude on Wart’s face, feeling quite mature and grown up for having shared his one possession.
When they get to the end, Wart flips right back to the beginning and starts to look through the pages again. Merlin watches him carefully out of the corner of his eye. It’s nice to see Wart smiling, since he’s usually more serious. It’s not that Merlin doesn’t like serious Wart. Serious Wart is great at swords, and horses, and knows a lot of stories about Camelot and battles and the king. Merlin thinks Wart is pretty great in general, serious or not. It just seems like this Wart is having more fun.
At some point though, fun isn’t enough to keep one awake in a cozy bed and a warm, dark room with a dying fire, and Merlin can’t help but nod off, head dropping to Wart’s shoulder, lulled by the even breaths of one who is also falling asleep.
Something is definitely bothering Merlin.
It’s the expression on his face that gives it away. Not that Merlin never looks serious - on the contrary, Arthur catches him at it almost daily, glimpsing the flash of some dark emotion across Merlin’s features when he thinks Arthur won’t notice. On the rare occasions where Merlin isn’t at his side and Arthur’s eyes search for him across the great hall or the training pitch, or even when Merlin moves around Arthur’s chambers doing chores and Arthur can watch him without interruption, that’s when the unserious, often hapless face that Merlin projects out to the world slips to reveal whatever lies underneath. Arthur knows it's there, he just doesn’t know why, and whenever Merlin realizes he’s being watched the crack snaps shut and it feels too late for Arthur to ask.
So if Merlin is sitting, illuminated by the campfire, fully visible and surely aware of Arthur’s repeated glances, and hasn’t bothered to conceal the open distress on his face, then something is definitely bothering him, and this is surely the time for Arthur to mention it - if he could ever figure out what it was he wanted to know.
He racks his brain for the right words through the entire course of making camp, brushing down the horses and setting up bed rolls while Merlin gathers wood for a fire and unpacks provisions for their meal. He openly studies Merlin’s face while they eat, waiting for Merlin to bristle at his staring and broach the subject himself, or hoping (shamefully) that Merlin will shake off whatever is bothering him like he usually does and Arthur can continue pretending it isn’t important. Arthur just isn’t well-equipped for this, asking about feelings, and for how quick Merlin is to (inappropriately) share his opinion on every other matter under the sun, he hardly ever volunteers any information about himself.
He’s been especially mute during this whole situation with the druid boy, and perhaps that’s what finally drives Arthur’s curiosity to its breaking point. So when it’s getting late, and neither of them have made any move to sleep, Arthur contrives some reason to stand up and stow or fetch or check something from his pack and when he returns, he sits down next to Merlin instead of where’d he just been on the other side of the fire.
“Merlin, is -” Arthur has to stop and clear the break out of his voice. Embarrassing. “Is everything alright?”
Merlin’s eyes snap up from where they’d been staring aimlessly into the fire to look at Arthur with such open shock it’s almost insulting. Arthur takes a tight breath and resists the urge to give in the more familiar, less productive reaction of indignation.
“It’s just… you haven’t been yourself, since that sorcerer -”
Merlin winces and Arthur pauses, trying to correct an unknown offense.
“- since Cerdan, and that boy, came to Camelot.”
Several emotions pass across Merlin’s face, but Arthur is too caught in the look of open pain to decipher the rest. His hand raises of its own accord, barely a few inches off the log before he snaps it back down, knowing full well it was on its way to Merlin’s face like he could freeze the hurt in place long enough to confront it, or smooth it away with his fingers.
And well - damnit, this is what Morgana was talking about, wasn’t it?
Merlin looks back at the fire.
“Well, I - I admit, the threat of execution when we return to Camelot and your father discovers what we’ve done, does weigh on me a bit…”
Arthur frowns, and Merlin must mistake it for something else.
“... sire.”
Arthur waves off the honorific with a scoff.
“That’s not it. And he’s not going to find out. And he’s not going to execute us.”
“No, he’s not going to execute you.”
Arthur thinks on this for a moment. It doesn’t feel like the explanation - at least, not all of the explanation. Still, it bears addressing.
“I would never let that happen,” he says quietly, staring into the fire and feeling Merlin’s gaze on the side of his face. He can’t look, can’t bear to confirm the skepticism he’s imagining there.
“Why did you save the boy?” Merlin asks abruptly, and Arthur groans at the non sequitur and how once again Merlin has steered the topic away from himself.
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
Merlin scowls. It’s all wrong on his face.
“He was a sorcerer,” he points out, but it’s more petulant than anything, like he’s trying to trick Arthur into arguing against the laws of Camelot. Arthur huffs a humorless laugh. There’s no trick required. At least, not out here, in the dark woods where only Merlin can hear him.
“He was a child.”
“So? There’s undoubtedly been others who were just as innocent and found no such mercy. Why this child? Why, of all the people you could’ve -?”
“Because I could!” Arthur cuts him off, volume rising higher than is smart in these woods, but he can’t help it, “Because for once, I wasn’t helpless. Or, because Morgana asked me to, or, or - because the boy reminded me of someone, or I thought it’s what you would’ve done. Are any of those reasons good enough for you? Do you want me to go back, cut him down instead -?”
“No!” Merlin cries, and if anything he looks more upset than before. Arthur’s heart clenches in his chest. He should never have asked, he’s just made it worse.
“No,” Merlin repeats after a brief silence, nothing but the crackling of a dying fire in their ears, “I’m sorry. Of course not. I’m just…”
He trails off, and for a moment it seems like he’s going to say something, tell Arthur something true for once in their impossible friendship.
“I’m just glad it’s over,” Merlin finishes lamely, and Arthur lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. It sounds like disappointment in Arthur’s ears, and if the look on his face is anything to go by, in Merlin’s as well.
Arthur gives up, stands and walks to his bedroll. He lays down and stares up at the trees, feeling more upset than he should be, and certainly more than he wants to reveal to Merlin. After a moment Merlin does the same, and Arthur can feel his presence like a persistent tug, a physical pull towards where Merlin lays next to him, angled away to the opposite side of the fire. He's close enough that if he reached up, he could touch Merlin’s hair, and yet it feels like there’s a massive gulf between them.
“He reminded you of someone?” Merlin asks after a few minutes. Neither of them even pretend to sleep. Arthur sighs.
“Yes, just - someone I knew, when I was a child.”
Merlin shifts on his bedroll. Arthur can hear the rustling somewhere above his head.
“A friend of yours?”
“Sort of,” Arthur says hesitantly. No matter how long it’s been, the pang this causes in his chest never fades entirely.
“I never actually knew his name.”
The first time Merlin sees someone die, Wart is there too.
His mother tells him not to look, even though everyone else is. The square is full of people from all over, lower town to high houses, and everyone is looking at the man on the wooden platform. Well, almost everyone. Merlin isn’t, because his mum said that the king could make attending executions mandatory, but he couldn’t make them watch if they don’t want to. Everyone else seems to want to - Merlin looks up at all the faces turned the same way and sees toothy grins on more than a few, and even the ones that aren’t smiling don’t look too upset either. He can’t see anyone else around him besides his mum averting their eyes - hers are on the ground, but Merlin sees her hand shaking against her skirts and reaches to grab it with his own. She looks down at him as he squeezes her fingers and tries to smile and make her feel better.
Then he looks up at the balcony.
Gaius is up there, next to the king. His mum says Gaius takes care of the king and his family when they’re sick, but the king doesn’t look sick. He looks serious, and angry, but otherwise healthy as he raises and lowers his hand. Movement in the center of the square causes murmuring through the crowd, but Merlin’s eyes are still on the balcony, because that’s where Wart is.
Wart’s not looking either. He’s staring at his shoes again, blonde head shining in the sun. He’s got on a fancy red jacket - Merlin’s seen him wear it before, that time Merlin found him at their spot and Wart wouldn’t speak at all and his face was bruised and swollen on one side. He looks stiff and uncomfortable now, and keeps his face turned away from the man on the wooden platform. That is, until the King abruptly grabs Wart’s face, roughly pulling it up and pointing it at the center of the square where smoke is just starting to rise. Then Wart looks where the King points him.
Merlin tries to keep his eyes on Wart, away from the smoke. Warts eyes grow wider and wider as the smoke thickens and the crowd starts cheering, and the look in them steals Merlin’s breath as if he’s fallen on his back. Wart tries to jerk his head away once, and the cuffing he gets from the King turns it right back.
So Merlin looks at the burning man - the burning sorcerer.
Maybe his mother’s too busy yelling to notice Merlin’s eyes on what she didn’t want him to see, the man shrouded in fire in the center of the square. Even as she covers Merlin’s ears with her hands, she still joins in the jeering, raucously hooting and hollering with the rest, maybe even the loudest of them all even though Merlin’s never heard her make any noises like those before. He doesn’t understand until years later that she was trying to protect him from hearing any other sounds.
No one covers Wart’s ears. No one holds his hand. Wart has to look, so Merlin looks, too.
“Arthur, I have to go back to Ealdor.”
Arthur nods and pretends this doesn’t feel like being punched in the stomach.
“Of course -”
“I can’t leave them to fend for themselves. The town, the people - they’re just farmers and craftsmen, not soldiers. They’re defenseless, they’ve no way to repel Kanen and his men -”
“Merlin -”
“And, and I know I’m hardly going to be much help either, but I can’t stay here fed and protected while those people are wiped out -”
“Merlin!”
Merlin finally stops talking and frowns at Arthur. Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes, since it’s not really the moment for it, but good God.
“Merlin, I completely understand. Of course you have to go back.”
Merlin looks briefly speechless, which is really something. It’s been happening more and more, though. Since they rescued the druid boy, Merlin’s been uncharacteristically quiet, like whatever was truly bothering him on their road back to Camelot somehow followed them home. Well, followed Arthur home.
“It's your homeland,” Arthur continues when Merlin doesn’t say anything, “She's your mother. You want to protect them. I’d do exactly the same, feel exactly the same, if it were Camelot.”
Merlin manages a small smile.
“Well, if it were Camelot, it would be well-defended.”
Arthur drops his eyes, looking down over the edge of the parapet. It seems safer than meeting Merlin’s gaze right now, when Arthur’s turmoil is probably obvious with even the slightest scrutiny. He can say he understands, and he does, but the thought of Merlin leaving threatens to override all of Arthur’s better judgement.
“Though… technically, Ealdor isn’t my homeland.”
Arthur’s gaze snaps back up to look at Merlin in confusion. Merlin glances at him and sighs.
“I wasn’t born there. We didn’t go to Ealdor until I was… oh, maybe four? Five?”
Arthur frowns, wondering that he didn’t know this. Did Merlin never tell him? Maybe he never asked.
“Where were you born?”
It’s Merlin’s turn to lean on the wall and look wistfully out over the battlements.
“Here. In Camelot.”
The revelation is staggering. That means… Merlin was here? Somewhere? When Arthur was young, when he was still hidden away in some tower in the keep, rarely seen, never heard, all that time - Merlin was somewhere in the city?
Arthur tries to form a logical question, while his mind spins with several illogical ones.
“Is, is that how you came to know Gaius?”
Merlin nods, “Yes, my mother was his apprentice, she learned herbcraft from him. We lived right above his chambers.”
Above his chambers… Merlin lived in the castle. Arthur could have seen him, might have met him?
“Why did you leave?”
Merlin’s expression turns sad and tense. Seemingly the only emotions Arthur can elicit from him these days.
“It became… my mother was worried that -” he cuts off abruptly, frustrated. “... she thought the city was too dangerous for - for a child. Camelot didn’t feel safe, at the time.”
“Does it now?” Arthur asks skeptically.
Merlin shrugs, but he looks back and a little of the tension melts from his face.
“Sometimes.”
Arthur hums in agreement. Merlin pushes off the wall.
“But Ealdor is important to me. I have to try.”
Arthur just nods, having already made several decisions in his head.
“It’s been an honor, serving you,” Merlin adds, trying for a smile.
Arthur scoffs.
“Oh, has it?”
Merlin huffs a laugh.
“Sometimes.”
“Well you,” Arthur says, turning and poking Merlin in the chest with his index finger, “have been unparalleled as a servant, I must say. Truly inimitable, we may only hope to never see your likes again.”
Merlin rolls his eyes, but Arthur isn’t finished.
“In fact, I fear you would be so impossible to replace that I cannot dismiss you.”
There it is, that indignant look, never far from the surface. Merlin opens his mouth to argue.
“But you said -”
“Also I cannot imagine what you could possibly do in Ealdor on your own besides make matters worse, so. Let’s go.”
He throws an arm around Merlin’s neck and proceeds to drag him back towards the castle.
“Hey! What do you think you’re -”
“Coming with you, obviously,” Arthur says, smiling as he shoves Merlin ahead of him through the door, “so get moving, I’m sure Morgana and Gwen are already packed.”
It was always going to happen eventually. The timing just couldn’t have been worse.
Merlin didn’t mean to. That’s what he’ll tell his mother, when he sees her again. If he sees her again. He’ll tell her that he knows he wasn’t supposed to do it, it was just an accident.
Even if it wasn’t exactly an accident.
One moment, Merlin is walking across the inner bailey towards the pantry, because the pantler has a soft spot for Gaius and sets aside extra bread and cheese for them on Tuesdays. The next he is running like he’s never run before, feet pounding against the paving stones as bells ring and guards shout behind him.
The girl would’ve died, if Merlin hadn’t lifted the carriage. She would’ve been crushed under its wheels, under its horses, right at the steps of the keep. Right at the feet of the king, waiting there to receive his guests. Right at Wart’s feet, standing beside him.
And Merlin, standing in the open door of the pantry, arms laden with provisions for their evening meal, would’ve let her die.
Only, he didn’t. Only, before he even thought about it, before he even lifted a finger, the carriage, the horses, all of it was airborne. It flew, in a way horses and carriages are not supposed to, just over the top of the girl’s head where she lay on the cobblestones. It landed with a loud clattering of hooves and wooden wheels right in front of the king. If its brief journey through the air and echoing return to the ground was not enough, the faint golden glow of it, lingering as it slid to a stop in the courtyard, surely would be.
For a moment, silence. Then, an explosion of noise. People shout and scream, the king barks orders at men in red capes with dragons on their shoulders, who fan out across the bailey. One man stays to grab Wart and pull him back up the steps into the castle. Bells go off in the high north tower, signaling to anyone who can hear them - Camelot is under attack.
Merlin doesn’t stay to see if they know it was him. He doesn’t linger and gauge whether anyone spotted a boy, small for his age, with eyes glowing the same color of the carriage. He is afraid, and he does what his mother told him to do, what he practiced. He runs, and he hides.
He’s through the tunnel in the outer wall and into the keep, crossing the first hallway where one secret passage ends on one side and begins again behind a statue on the other. If he’s quick, maybe no one will see him. Maybe no one will notice a small boy -
An arm grabs his and pulls him aside into a stairwell. Merlin flails and fights back.
“What - what are you doing here?”
Wart’s voice is panicked, but clear. Merlin stops flailing long enough to realize who’s grabbed him.
“I - I -” he tries to answer, but no words come. Wart is looking at his eyes with shock and disbelief, and Merlin knows. He knows they’re still glowing.
Voices echo down the hall, and suddenly Wart’s tugging on his arm.
“I got away but they’ll notice soon. Come on!”
Merlin blindly follows him up the stairs, and down a wide hallway. This isn’t secret, they’re right out in the open. He doesn’t know where Wart’s taking him. Wart could be turning him in -
Wart opens a heavy wooden door and shoves Merlin through.
“Inside!”
It’s Wart’s chambers. Merlin has never come through the main door before.
“They’ll search everwywhere, even the tunnels,” Wart insists, still pushing Merlin along towards his bed, “You’ve got to hide here, get under the bed.”
Merlin lets himself be dragged to the floor, and finally moves of his own volition to crawl under Wart’s bed. Wart lets the sheets fall back and suddenly everything is darker. Merlin drags himself all the way up to the head against the wall and curls up at the corner farthest from the door.
It doesn’t take long before the door bursts open again. Multiple pairs of heavy boots storm in, and Merlin puts his hands over his ears and tries not to listen. It mutes the voices but he can’t seem to stop them entirely.
“... are you alright?”
“Yes, father.”
A brief pause.
“Where is Sir Bedivere?”
“I sent him back to aid in the search. The safety of Camelot is more important than my own.”
A strained but amused laugh.
“Your safety is the safety of Camelot, my son.”
“Did you find the attacker, father?”
“Not yet, but we will. I’ve ordered a full scale search of the city. Stay in your chambers, I will have two guards stationed at the door. See that no one enters this room, no matter the cost. Do you understand me?”
Other gruff voices respond. More footsteps. A closing door. Silence.
For a long time, nothing happens. Then, light footfalls come around to the far side of the bed. The bed skirt lifts and Merlin sees Wart crouched on his heels, looking down.
“It’s okay, you can come out now…”
Merlin buries his face in his knees so Wart won’t see that it’s wet. The hand on his hair suggests Wart might’ve noticed anyway.
“You know, Merlin didn’t have many friends growing up.”
Arthur bites down on the immediate urge to say something sarcastic in response, one, because it’d be rude, and two, he desperately wants more information about Merlin and has given up getting it from the source.
“Really?”
Luckily, Merlin’s mother isn’t nearly so deflective.
Hunith shakes her head as she wraps twine around another junction of the abatis they’re constructing. Arthur probably should be focused on training the men, but they’re taking a much needed break and he saw a rare moment where Merlin wasn’t with his mother and seized the opportunity.
“No, he was so solitary as a child. Especially in Camelot. Once we moved here, and he met Will - well, you’ve met Will I suppose."
Arthur has met Will, though he rather wishes he hadn’t.
“But when I was still training with Gaius - oh, I was so busy, I felt terrible when he had no one to play with. He always seemed so cheerful and unbothered, so I didn’t push, but I worried that he’d be lonely.”
“Did he not have any friends? When he was in Camelot?” Arthur asks, trying to keep the intensity of his curiosity out of his voice. To think, he and Merlin should have something else in common, yet another impossible parallel between them where there should be none.
Unexpectedly, Hunith hums in amusement as she ties off the spiked branch and moves to the next.
“Well, sort of...” she stops to snicker conspiratorially, eyes crinkling, “he did have an imaginary friend.”
Oh, this is too good to be true.
“An imaginary friend?” Arthur repeats in disbelief, momentarily abandoning the pretense of working, or politeness, “I’m not sure that counts.”
“Well you’d think not, m’lord, but he had such a vivid imagination,” Hunith insists, “Merlin talked about him constantly, this friend who could go anywhere in the castle and never be in trouble, a little boy who rode a giant horse and knew how to swordfight and was never afraid.”
She shrugs, looking at Arthur with such fondness on her face that Arthur feels warmed by it, himself.
“I swear, he had me half convinced the boy was real, except that I never saw him. Merlin always had some excuse not to bring him ‘round. He said he was a secret.”
Arthur huffs an amused - possibly bordering on affectionate - laugh, but it can’t be helped. Clearly Merlin hasn’t changed much since he was small. Well, smaller.
Hunith smiles and shrugs, “With everything Merlin told me, it truly sounded like he’d created some alternate version of himself to have adventures with.”
She looks off over the grassy field and sighs, and the look on her face strikes at something in Arthur’s chest. Some old emptiness.
“Anyway, it’s just so nice to see him care about someone so much again,” Hunith says finally, returning the smile Arthur can’t keep off his face, “He’s obviously very attached to you -”
“What are you two talking about?”
Arthur whirls around to see Merlin behind him, looking wary. Arthur grins.
“Oh, Hunith was just telling me about your special secret friend, from when you were in Camelot.”
Merlin blushes immediately.
“Mum! You told him about that?!”
Hunith looks entirely unfazed.
“Oh, don’t give me that look, darling. You were so sweet, telling me all about the brave, strong prince trapped in the castle -”
“Ugh, mum, shut up,” Merlin groans, sounding horrified, “I was five! I grew out of it!”
“Come now, Merlin, don’t be embarrassed,” Arthur says gleefully, throwing an arm around Merlin's shoulders and further forgetting his manners in the name of giving Merlin a hard time, “it makes complete sense that you’d want a noble, courageous prince to spend time with. I’m so happy to be fulfilling a life-long dream of -”
“Oh please, sire,” Merlin says, scowling, “my imaginary prince never made me wash his stockings.”
By the time Merlin comes out from under the bed, it’s dark outside the windows of Wart’s chambers. The north tower bell has stopped ringing, though what that means about the search for the sorcerer is unclear. Wart got up a few times to go to the door, once to let in a servant who came with food and to start a fire, another to ask his guards if there were any updates. Merlin couldn’t hear the guard’s answer and Wart didn’t tell him.
Which is to say, it’s very quiet when Merlin finally crawls out under the bed skirt. He sees Wart sitting against the wall with his arms rested on his knees. He looks solemn but calm, and Merlin harshly wipes his face again just in case. It’s probably too late - Wart could certainly hear the intermittent sniffling coming from under his bed, and even if he couldn’t, Merlin’s eyes hurt enough that they’re sure to be puffy and red.
Better than gold, though it’s too late for that, too.
“Are you alright?” is the first thing Wart says to him, and it makes Merlin’s throat tight all over again. He nods anyway, but pulls his knees into his chest and tucks his face into them.
“They sent up some food, if you want any,” Wart adds, standing to retrieve a plate from the table and place it on the floor between them.
Merlin shakes his head.
“Well you should have something to drink at least.”
He presses a small cup into Merlin’s hands, and Merlin does take a sip. His hands shake, and some drops splash on the floor. The tightness in his throat grows. His eyes sting.
Wart gently takes the cup, setting it aside, and puts a hand on Merlin’s shoulder.
“Isn’t there anything I can -?”
“Are you going to burn me?”
Merlin’s voice sounds horribly wet, but he makes himself look up at Wart anyway. Wart’s eyes are wide and he’s already shaking his head.
“What? No! Of course not.”
Merlin can’t help it, he sobs quietly into his knees. Suddenly he’s being pulled in, across the distance between them, tucked under Wart’s arm. It just makes Merlin cry harder, but Wart just leans his head down on top of Merlin's and hugs him until he stops. Merlin tries to wipe his face on his sleeve, embarrassed. Wart wouldn’t cry. Wart never cries. He would be brave, and quiet, and, and, well Merlin’s not sure what, but there’d be a sword probably.
“Come on, say something,” Wart says when Merlin quiets down again, “I think this is the longest I’ve heard you go without talking. I don’t like it.”
Merlin says the only thing in his head, even if it’s stupid.
“Why aren’t you going to burn me?”
“Why would I? You didn’t hurt anyone.”
“Yes but I -”
“And you saved that little girl,” Wart cuts him off, pulling back to look Merlin in the eye, “and you’d never hurt me.”
It’s not a question, but Merlin still feels like he needs to answer it.
“No, never. You’re my friend.”
“Exactly,” Wart says, like that settles it. Merlin thinks he should feel better, since Wart isn’t mad at him, but he doesn’t. It’s like how he always feels, after he makes stuff move or disappear or glow. Sad and lonely.
“I… I do wish you’d told me,” Wart says after a while, voice soft like maybe he’s a little sad too.
“My mum said I should never tell anyone,” Merlin tries to explain, “she said if anyone found out, it’ll be - I’ll be -”
“I wouldn’t have told anyone,” Wart insists, looking down at his lap, “You’re my f-friend, too.”
Merlin doesn’t know what to say to that. Wart glances up at him and sighs, sitting up.
“She must be very worried about you. They’ve stopped looking, but it’s dark out now. I don’t know how to get you back home.”
Merlin does want to see his mother. He wants to tell her he’s sorry, he didn’t do it on purpose - even though he knows he did.
“I’ll get home just like I usually do,” he says, unfurling himself but still not getting up. Wart frowns.
“How? You won’t be able to see.”
Merlin sighs and holds up a hand. He can’t see any harm in it now.
The floating blue orb of light is a little smaller than normal, but it glows well enough in the low light from the fire. Wart stares at it, an awed expression on his face. It hangs between them for a moment before coming to float over Merlin’s shoulder.
“How do you do that?”
Merlin shrugs.
“I don’t know. It just comes when I ask it to and helps me. It’s nice to have, when it’s dark.”
Wart’s expression shifts, and it’d be longing to anyone old enough to understand that kind of emptiness.
“I wish… I wish I had one.”
Merlin doesn’t know if this will work. He’s never really tried, since he’s not supposed to make the floating lights at all. He reaches out for Wart’s hands and turns them over so Wart’s palms face up to Merlin’s down. Light glows between them, and when Merlin lifts his hands, there’s a new glowing orb. It’s a warm gold, instead of blue, and when Merlin pulls his hands back and the orb stays with Wart, just like he asked it to.
“I don’t know how long it’ll last, but I think - it wants to be your friend, too.”
For all that they were victorious in Ealdor, the ride back to Camelot is a solemn one.
Arthur keeps checking over his right shoulder, making sure Merlin is still behind him. Making sure he hasn’t turned and raced back down the road back home. He’d said Camelot was his homeland, but having spent some days in that village, the place Merlin has family, has - had - a real friend, Arthur can’t imagine life under a king like Uther, with his attitude towards sorcery, or serving a prince like Arthur who often exists solely uphold those values, would hold much temptation. Even the harsher, poorer living conditions and the capriciousness of King Cenred might be tempting by comparison.
Arthur didn’t ask if Merlin knew about his friend’s magic, when they were still in the village. It seems impossible that he didn’t, for one, with how close he clearly was with Will. That and it hardly seems to matter now. If Uther is so constrained by the boundaries of his kingdom that he wouldn’t aid Ealdor against bandits, Arthur sees no reason he should enforce Camelot’s laws there. In fact, it becomes harder and harder to see why he should enforce them at all, considering how their breaking just saved his life. Again.
Morgana and Gwen have ridden ahead a little, and from the looks they keep shooting back, they’re trying to give Merlin some space. Arthur cannot bring himself to join them. It’s too easy to imagine the blank, hollow expression on his manservant’s face as the last thing Arthur sees before he loses Merlin to the relative safety behind them. So he slows his horse just enough that she’s side by side with Merlin’s, even if the road is barely wide enough.
“So, tell me about him,” Arthur says after a minute of silence spent periodically glancing at Merlin’s face.
“Hmm?” is Merlin’s only response, and it sounds a thousand leagues away, but Arthur’s persistent.
“Your imaginary friend. Tell me about him.”
Merlin lets out a disbelieving huff.
“Why, so you can more effectively tease me?”
Arthur shrugs, “Naturally. We’ve got a long way to go, you can’t expect me to pass it without entertainment.”
Merlin scoffs, but Arthur’s put-on entitlement has the desired effect, because it’s almost a laugh, and that’s almost a smile.
“Of course not, sire. What would you like to know?”
“Everything, obviously,” Arthur says airily, “come on Merlin, give me some details to work with. What was your imaginary prince like? Dashing?”
Merlin laughs, and Arthur’s heart aches with it.
“Well since he was supposed to be about my age, and I was five, I don’t know about dashing,” Merlin points out, but he looks contemplative, “I might’ve been… a little enamored, though. I remember wanting to impress him, to show him I was brave and strong like he was.”
His eyes flick over towards Arthur, and he collects himself.
“Anyways, I just had a little too much time on my own, I think.”
Arthur collects himself, too, since he was dangerously close to insisting that Merlin is brave and strong, which undoubtedly would raise eyebrows since Arthur’s spent most of their acquaintance suggesting the opposite.
“Well, I always knew you were incurably strange,” Arthur concludes instead, “but never could have I imagined it went so far back.”
“Mhmm yes, we aren’t all born with your innate social graces, I’m afraid,” Merlin says dryly, and if only he knew. If only Merlin could know how desperately Arthur needs to hear the ways in which they are the same, as he is bombarded daily with the ways they are not. Without strictly meaning to, Arthur tries a different tactic.
“Oh, I don’t know about ‘innate’,” he admits, “I only ever had one friend, and I didn’t even know his name. ‘Imaginary’ isn’t that far off.”
Merlin looks sad again when Arthur checks, but it’s different from before. Less empty. He covers it quickly, like they always do.
“Well, maybe. At least I bothered to give ‘Wart’ a name.”
It is impossible, of course, that Arthur heard him correctly.
“What?” he asks, even as a faint cold begins to trickle down his spine.
“I know, it’s ridiculous,” Merlin says with a self-deprecating laugh, “but that’s what I called him. ‘Wart’.”
And the bucket of ice water tips over Arthur’s head.
“Merlin!” his mother cries as he slips through the door, closing it softly behind him. He’s in her arms in an instant.
“Oh my - I thought you were, I was so sure they’d caught you -”
She’s squeezing him half to death, but Merlin only burrows further into her arms. He can feel the wetness of her cheek where it’s pressed to the top of his head, the shake in her fingers where they’re gripping into his clothes.
“I’m sorry mum. I didn’t -” he hiccups, and there’s probably no point in lying to her, “I’m sorry.”
She shakes her head into his hair, kissing the top of his head.
“No, sweetheart, it’s alright. I’m just so relieved you’re s-safe - that you’re back.”
She stumbles on the word, probably because she doesn’t like lying to him either.
When his mother finally pulls back, Merlin can see Gaius watching them quietly from his table, arms folded in his robes. Hunith stands and looks at him, though her hand never leaves Merlin’s shoulder.
“Gaius -”
He holds up a hand.
“Hunith, there’s no need to explain. I’ll make the arrangements. A horse would be faster, but if you need a cart -”
“A horse is fine, I can manage,” she says firmly, then softens, “thank you, Gaius.”
She crouches back down to look Merlin in the eye.
“Merlin, sweetheart, I need you to go upstairs and get your things together, alright?”
Merlin frowns, “Why do I need my things -?”
“Not everything, just your clothes. Whatever will fit in your pack.”
“But why -?”
“Because…” she pauses, and that line on her forehead is deeper than ever while she seems to think about what to say, “... because we need to go away for a while, alright? Somewhere you’ll be safe.”
Merlin feels the tightness grow in his chest from where it’d started to fade, but it’s different now. A different type of uncomfortable from when he was under Wart’s bed, before Wart said he wouldn’t hand Merlin over to be burned.
“But they - they didn’t find me. I hid, just like you told me to, and no one found me -”
“I know, sweetheart,” his mother says, taking both his hands, “I know you did, and I’m so proud of you, but they could’ve found you, and next time -”
“I won’t do it again!” he insists, because there might be a point in lying after all, “I won’t, I didn’t mean to -”
She hugs him again, and now the fabric of her dress under Merlin’s face is wet too.
“I can’t bear it, Merlin. I can’t. So please, just for a while, alright? Just… just until it’s safe for you to come back.”
“But I don’t want to leave,” he says, voice wet even though he’s trying, he doesn’t want to cry. Wart wouldn’t cry. “What - what about your plants? What about Wart?”
His mother makes a soft, heart-wrenching noise into his hair and pulls back to look at him, smoothing it down as she often does.
“Oh, my sweet, special boy,” she says, wiping his eyes, “Maybe you can bring ‘Wart’ with you?”
Merlin doesn’t feel special. Or if he does, he doesn’t want to. Not if this is what it means, not if what makes him special means he has to go away, to always hide. What would be the point then, of any of it? If it means he has to be alone?
“But I can’t! He can’t come, he - he lives here, in the castle, in the tower, with his horse and the knights and he can’t leave, his father won’t let him -”
“Merlin, wouldn’t he want you to be safe too? I’m sure he will understand.”
Merlin frowns at his shoes.
“But he’ll be lonely.”
“You’ll see him again. I promise. Just, remember him, alright? Think about him, don’t forget, and he’ll come back to you. I know it.”
No one else has ever called him ‘Wart’.
Of course they haven’t. What a ridiculous thing to call someone. It doesn’t even make sense as a nickname for “Arthur”, and if it did, it’s not like anyone in Camelot would dare to call the crown prince of the kingdom something so preposterous as “Wart”.
Well, no one besides perhaps the person seated on Arthur’s hearth, waxing his boots.
For long stretches of time, Arthur could almost convince himself that the boy in his wall never existed. It certainly made more sense than the alternative, that there was a small child secretly moving about the castle in its numerous hidden passages, who somehow never got caught despite his incessant talking and complete lack of sense, who’d discovered a way into Arthur’s rooms at a time when most of Camelot barely knew Arthur existed, let alone the location of his chambers. Much more likely that Arthur simply dreamed him up, in a time of such complete and utter loneliness, than that such a boy was real, and was his only friend.
But, the book. That damned book, tucked between the wall and his headboard. Hardly a book at all, with its few words and many pictures. Bearing no resemblance to the tombs lining Arthur’s shelves, full of cramped, careful letters about lords and houses, battles and treaties. That book that Arthur would sneak out of its hiding place, every few months for those first few years, flip through its pages, and know. Know that someone had given it to him, or at least, forgotten to take it back. Even if it’s been ages since he touched it, Arthur’s long since memorized its pages in vivid clarity. It had to come from somewhere, and when he pictures it, the colorful illustrations of fantastical beasts and dragons and… and magic, he remembers the boy that gave it to him.
Now Arthur can't help but stare at Merlin, whenever they're together, not that Merlin seems to notice. He’s been uncharacteristically silent and solemn since they returned from Ealdor. It’s understandable. He lost his oldest friend, who revealed himself to be a sorcerer.
Or, one of his oldest friends, who pretended to be a sorcerer. Because if Merlin is the boy in the wall and Merlin made that glowing light for Arthur when he was a child, then it seems all but certain that Merlin made the wind storm that took out Kanen’s men, and that…
… Merlin is the sorcerer.
And Merlin has been lying to him this entire time.
And Merlin is in mortal danger every second he stays in Camelot.
“... sire?”
Arthur starts violently and looks up to see Guinivere peering at him quizzically from where she’s stopped in the hall, basket of laundry on her hip.
“Um, yes - yes?”
“Are you well?” Gwen asks, and now she looks more concerned. Arthur tries to pull himself together.
“Yes, I was - yes. Have you seen Merlin?”
She frowns.
“Oh - no, I haven’t. I would’ve - is he not with you?”
He isn’t, and now whenever they aren't together, Arthur is haunted with graphic visions of Merlin being captured, thrown in a cell, bent over a chopping block, lit on -
“Ah, no, but I… I’m sure he’s fine.”
She smiles at him, and Arthur feels the flush on his face before he even works out why he’s blushing. It’s the type of smile, he realizes. Morgana must’ve told her. That or Gwen can read it right off his face.
“I’m sure he is, m’lord. Merlin can take care of himself, even if he doesn't always act like it."
Arthur can’t go on like this.
He needs to say something to Merlin. He knows he does. At least, before he goes completely insane, panicking every time Merlin’s out of his sight. It’s on the tip of his tongue constantly, this not yet formed confession. It almost escapes a dozen times in the coming weeks. Any time there’s a moment of quiet between them - and there seem to be more and more of those, with Merlin doing less of the talking - Arthur wants to tell him.
I was Wart. I was real. You were the boy with the lights. You were everything to me.
You are everything to me.
Once he even loses himself completely, grabbing Merlin’s wrist as Merlin bids him goodnight, holding him in place a moment longer as if that’s something they always do. As if Merlin wasn’t stunned at the contact, eyes locked on their hands, wide with shock.
Arthur still says nothing. Instead he lets go like he’s been burned, mumbles some half-formed apology, and rolls over in his bed, not wanting to know which Merlin was more surprised by - the feeling of Arthur’s hand on his, or that Arthur would - could - apologize for something.
Clinging to his mother on the back of a fast horse, watching Camelot Castle disappear behind a hill, Merlin cries harder than he’s ever cried in his life.
He doesn’t want to leave. He loves Camelot, even if it doesn’t love him. He loves their tiny room above Gaius’ chambers, even if it smells like mushrooms. He loves the way the physician scowls at him for getting into his ingredients and specimens and equipment but still will pull down any jar from the shelves if Merlin asks, will show him any strange half-formed creature swimming in alcohol or let him smell any herb that makes him sneeze. He loves the courtyards, bustling with people all the way from the well-off merchants of the castle bailey to the foragers and farmers of the lower towns. He loves the endless winding halls and passages, the secret tunnels that let him sneak from one place to the next unseen. He loves the adventures he’s been on, the places and people he’s discovered.
He loves Wart, and he didn’t get to say goodbye.
Wart will forget about him, Merlin just knows it. It doesn’t matter what his mother says. Wart will be stuck up in his tower, lonely and angry at Merlin for leaving. Angry at the magic that made him have to leave. Wart will change his mind about being his friend, about not turning him in. Then, Wart will stop thinking about him at all. Merlin will be gone for too long, and by the time he comes back, when whatever “a while” is has passed and Merlin can return to Camelot and say he’s sorry for leaving, he’s sorry for the magic, Wart will have forgotten all about him, and they’ll be strangers.
“You’ll be back, Merlin,” his mother assures him, no doubt distraught over the state of his eyes and his face when they stop at an inn for the night. He tries to compose himself, because she looks so upset too and this isn’t her fault. He knows she didn’t want to go either. It’s not her fault they had to leave their home.
It’s Merlin’s.
“I had no idea you were so keen to die for me.”
This is a lie, but then - what’s another, between them?
Merlin’s eyes flick up, away from the goblets, to Arthur’s for a moment. The resignation in them is just as clear as the blue of his irises.
“I can hardly believe it myself.”
This perhaps is closer to the truth, because Arthur can hardly believe it either. Can’t believe it, in fact. Couldn’t believe it before he killed the unicorn, before he saw that deep and all-encompassing disappointment directed at him from where Merlin sat, cradling the beast’s head, feeling its last breath across his fingers. Arthur can’t imagine why Merlin would stay at all, let alone sacrifice himself. For what? An impulsive prince who’ll cut down a magical being to impress the father that used to grimace at the sound of his voice? To spend his days spitting distance away from a king that would become his executioner without a second thought?
Yet, here Merlin is, staring at the goblets, and his intent to drink poison and save Arthur’s life again could not be more apparent if he was shouting it.
And now Arthur’s path is as clear and righteous as it was when it led him to that cave full of spiders and magic. All he needs is a sufficient distraction, and since it’s the last one he’ll ever need, he’s got just the thing.
He reaches across the table and takes Merlin’s hand.
The look on Merlin’s face would be funny, if not for everything else about this situation. The immediate jerk of his hand is less humorous, but Arthur persists. He’s about to be dead anyway, Merlin can put up with him for a few more seconds.
Merlin’s hand is cool and feels small in his own, though the long fingers finally conceding to lace through his are strong. His skin isn’t soft at all, but Arthur relishes every callus. Merlin can’t afford to be soft, if he’s going to live. Not when Arthur won’t be there to protect him, even if he’s really ever needed it. Arthur needs it.
Merlin’s voice is barely audible over the rushing waves.
“What’re you doing?”
At least he never had to tell Merlin he was Wart. Selfish maybe, but Arthur’s glad he never revealed it, never tarnished the child he once was, the friend Merlin believed - or imagined - him to be, with who he became.
Arthur huffs a laugh.
“Something very stupid.”
He lifts Merlin’s hand to his mouth, just for a second, and lets go. It’s not enough to convey what he feels, but then, he never was any good at talking to Merlin about this kind of thing.
Dying for him, Arthur thinks as he snatches the goblet out of Merlin’s reach, dumps the contents into his own, and downs the whole thing, will have to be an acceptable substitute.
They’ve been in Ealdor for long enough that Merlin’s forgotten how long they’ve been there, by the time his mother mentions Wart.
“I saw you and Will down by the brook today. It’s so nice you’ve made a friend.”
Merlin eats another mouthful of porridge. Truth be told, Will’s kind of a stick in the mud, always fussing about something, worried about getting into trouble. But, when he forgets to fuss he’s nice and loyal and Merlin likes him.
“A visible one, I mean.”
He looks up from his breakfast.
“What do you mean, visible?”
His mother smiles softly at him from over her mug of steeped mint and rosehips. Both grow wild here, and she’s been welcomed warmly into the village for her knowledge of medicinal plants and soothing teas.
“Well, you never talk about him anymore, but remember your ‘friend’ from - from before? That you used to roam about the castle with?”
Merlin does remember. Mostly. Partly. It’s hard to keep a hold of the details.
“He was… Wart was visible.”
“I’m sure he was to you, darling,” his mother says kindly, “and that’s what matters, even if no one else could see him.”
And, no one else ever did see Wart, did they? Which shouldn’t mean he wasn’t real, but now that Merlin can’t see him either, details fading in his young mind, it all feels much less certain.
“I guess so,” Merlin admits. He misses Camelot, but it’s fading in that way that seems impossible when you’re young and it’s difficult to have a sense of these things. When you’re only five years old, a year seems like a lifetime, and that more may yet go by hasn’t entered your wildest nightmares. So it’s hard to be sure, all on his own, that Wart wasn’t someone he made up. Especially with a new friend he can see and hear and touch, who everyone knows as the miller’s boy.
No one else knew the boy that lived in a high tower and rode a horse and wielded a sword. No one else knew how brave he was, even when he was hurt by those that should’ve loved him. No one else knew how he protected Merlin, when he didn’t have to. No one else saw him, and after a while, when weeks turn into months turn into years, Merlin starts to wonder if he ever saw him, either. Or, maybe Wart was someone only he could see.
Maybe Wart was only real for Merlin.
When Arthur doesn’t die in the labyrinth, it seems like a sign. He should come clean with Merlin about Wart. He should admit he knows about Merlin’s magic, and make sure Merlin knows he’s safe, that Arthur would never let any harm come to him for it. He should probably explain about the hand holding, too, but maybe Merlin forgot about that, or chalked it up to the delusions of a doomed man. Either way, he means to tell Merlin the truth, he does.
Then he’s dying on the rocky floor of the Questing Beast’s cave, and the last thing Arthur remembers thinking is that it serves him right for waiting so long.
Dying is more interesting than he expected. It feels more like dreaming - time-muddled images, flashes of light and sound, and all of them of Merlin. Merlin, throwing a glowing sword across the cavern into the Questing Beast’s head. Merlin, with a look of stony resolve, staring at Arthur’s own face, pale and still in his bed. Merlin, riding through mountains, crossing a lake, storming a castle. Merlin offering his own life.
Arthur tries to shout, tries to stop him, but he doesn’t understand how his voice works, in this strange liminal space. Doesn’t understand his body at all, since it feels more like he’s floating, drifting along over Merlin’s shoulder, everything cast in a pale golden glow as he sees Merlin call down the power of the sky, the very elements -
Dying doesn’t seem so bad, if it’s like this. If it’s following Merlin around, watching over him - and his foolish, dangerous, stunning behavior - then Arthur can probably stand being dead. It’s all terribly reminiscent of being alive.
Merlin won’t pretend that his eyes were dry through the entire process of kissing his mother goodbye at the door of their small cottage, letting her squeeze the air out of his lungs for long enough that he felt a little lightheaded with it, and finally turning to set off down the southern road. They weren’t, and who could blame him for tearing up a little? He loves his mother, who’s always looked out for him, who’s given up so much to keep him safe. He loves Ealdor, the humble village with its humble, hard-working people. He loves the quiet life it offered them when they needed it most.
He just doesn’t need it anymore.
As soon as he’s past the first hill, thatched roofs and the windmill disappearing behind its gentle slope, damp tracks quickly drying on his face, the excitement bursts back through him where it’d been briefly pushed aside by sadness. He’s out, on his own, on the road to a new life, a bigger life than he’s had these past twelve years. By this time… well, four hard days of travel from now if he can hitch a ride for part of it, more like a week if he can’t, but he’ll be in a new place, in a city, that he never forgot about even if he barely remembers it.
He triple-checks his breast pocket for the letter from his mother that will serve as his introduction to Gaius. It’s been so long, and the physician wasn’t exactly young when Merlin’s mother was his apprentice and Merlin was a tiny, probably annoying child with too many questions, always getting into things he shouldn’tve. Merlin’s not tiny anymore - well, he’s not short anymore. His width seems reluctant to improve. He likes to think he’s gotten less annoying. His ears haven’t changed as much as he’d hoped, but still Gaius probably won’t even recognize him.
No one will probably recognize him - not that he had many friends or acquaintances when he was there. Merlin’s dim memories of the place he was born are usually just sounds or feelings - a castle, endless stone halls and rooms, the smell of medicinal herbs, the echo of hooves on the cobblestone baileys. He remembers exploring on his own when his mother was busy with her studies, imagining himself on various adventures more thrilling and grandiose than they probably were. He remembers… well, half-remembers creating a friend to adventure with, another boy more brave and athletic and fair, sprung from the imagination of a lonely peasant child with more dreams than means.
Merlin repeats the resolutions he’d made to his mother to convince her to let him go. He’s to focus on his studies. He’s to be kind and helpful to Gaius and not cause the man any undue stress with his presence. He’s to keep his head down, not draw too much attention to himself, and above all else, never tell anyone about his magic. Well, above all else, to never do any magic at all, for any reason, of course, and he won’t. He promised.
Who would he tell, anyway? He won’t know anyone but Gaius. Merlin does hope he makes a few more friends this time around, though. It’s hard, when he’s keeping such a secret, but the city is a sprawling, bustling place. Surely there will be someone he gets on with. Nothing so ridiculous as what his mind cooked up when he was a child, no castle or horse or bravery required. Just, someone he’s got enough in common with that they could be friends, and face whatever life has in store for them. Because Merlin knows his life is what’s ahead of him. The life he’s meant to have, in the place he’s meant to be. He feels it calling to him, even if he remembers almost nothing besides its name.
Camelot.
When Arthur wakes up the first time, Merlin isn’t there and everything hurts. When he wakes up the second time, at least one of those problems is solved.
“M-Merlin…?”
Merlin’s sitting next to his bed, slumped over with his head on the mattress, and it’s so preposterous Arthur tries to laugh. Turns out, everything still hurts.
“Arthur?” Merlin picks his head up, and Arthur feels a little bad waking him. He looks terrible... and comical as he comes to full consciousness and jerks upright.
“Arthur! Um, okay - I’ll get you some water, just don’t try to talk.”
Arthur waits until Merlin comes back with the water to ignore his request completely.
“Y-yes, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” he just manages to rasp out, and Merlin’s laugh is slightly hysterical.
“Maybe not as much as you’d think, sire,” Merlin says quietly as Arthur settles back into his pillows. He might still be a little delirious, because he feels quite warm and perhaps slightly less like he’s been maimed all of a sudden. He blames that for what comes out of his mouth next.
“I saw you.”
“What?” Merlin asks, clearly having half-heard him, more focused on thrusting the water cup into his hands. Arthur takes a long drink and immediately feels more cogent. Too bad his mouth already ran off without him.
“I… I saw you. In the dark,” he mumbles, like that makes any more sense.
Merlin frowns.
“What do you mean?”
“You were… in a boat,” he starts, voice hoarse and painful but now that he’s started talking he can’t stop, “on an island, the crumbling ruins of an old castle. There was… an altar. A woman, Nimueh? And your mother… Gaius…”
He bolts upright. His whole left side throbs violently.
“Where are they? Are they alright?”
Merlin looks pale as a sheet. He pulls the cup out of Arthur’s hands with shaking fingers, setting it aside.
“They’re fine, they’re well. Arthur, it was just a dream -”
“It wasn’t,” he insists, arm locked on Merlin’s wrist, which, maybe it shouldn’t be but now he’s too distressed to care, “I saw them. I saw you -”
“Let me go get Gaius, he’ll explain. You were sick, but now you’re better -”
“No,” Arthur insists, glad he didn’t let go because now he can tug Merlin back to sit on the edge of the bed when he tries to stand.
“No,” he says again, more quietly, because he’s let every other chance go by like there’d be another, and there almost wasn’t. He pretended he could just live like this, with these secrets between them, and he almost didn’t. Now he can’t.
“I wasn’t sick. I was dying. You saved me. I saw you. I was… floating above you, everything was glowing. You were glowing.”
Merlin makes one last valiant effort, and it’s a good thing Arthur is probably too weak right now to strangle him. Probably.
“What you saw - of course it was a dream, sire. You’ve been right here this whole time, how could you have -?”
“Oh come now, Merlin,” Arthur cuts him off because weak or not, he will make an attempt on this man’s life if this goes on for one more second, “it’d hardly be the first time something like that happened around you, would it?”
Merlin stares at him. Arthur stares back. Then he shifts up in the bed, until he can reach around behind the headboard. It pulls at his side, searing pain flashing across his chest.
“No, sire, don’t -”
His fingers make purchase on their target, and when Arthur turns back around, wheezing, he’s holding an old, worn book. It’s not very thick, and its leather bound cover and spine are cracked and split from many openings. Its pages are beyond dog-eared from endless turning.
Arthur pushes it towards Merlin, and can’t quite bring himself to pull his hand back as Merlin takes it, frowning as he cracks the cover and looks down at the faded golden dragon illustrated on the first page.
Merlin stares down at it in silence.
“I… you left this here,” Arthur says, trying to keep his voice even and dry, “when you disappeared. I kept it. When I started to forget, to think maybe I made you up, I would look at it and know that I didn’t, that you were real.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything.
“I should’ve told you - I wanted to tell you, when I realized who you were, but I…” Arthur trails off, more desperate the longer Merlin goes without saying anything, “I thought you might hate me, that you’d be disappointed in who I am. In who I became, after you left.”
Silence.
“But even then, I shouldn’t have kept it a secret. I should’ve told you, that I knew. That I knew everything, so that you’d know you were safe with me, you’ve always been safe with me…”
When Merlin still doesn’t speak, Arthur finally lets go of his wrist and pulls his hand back.
“I’m sorry. I understand if you, if my knowing makes it too hard for you to be here, I’d understand if you wanted to go, if my feelings -”
Merlin looks up sharply, and then takes Arthur’s face in his hands and kisses him square on the mouth.
Arthur sucks in a stunned breath at the feeling of Merlin so close, fingers wound into his hair, shaking against his lips. He barely has time to react, to melt, to return the kiss, to feel the relief settle over his skin and banish the hurt all the way from his wound down to his heart, to have found Merlin again, to have found himself again, before Merlin’s suddenly pulling back, eyes wide with shock.
“I - I, uh… sorry?” Merlin stammers, letting go at once, “I’m not sure where that - I mean. Um. Sorry. Sire.”
Merlin, speechless. A rare phenomenon, though Arthur can hardly blame him.
“It’s um, quite alright,” he says, face heating at the dazed tone of his voice.
Merlin looks extremely skeptical.
“It is?”
“Well, yes,” Arthur tries to assure him, though it doesn’t sound particularly convincing, “I mean, I wasn’t expecting you to - that, but I didn’t, I wouldn’t mind if you…”
To hell with it. Arthur has never been the talker.
“Oh, just, come here.”
He reaches up for Merlin’s shirt and pulls him back in, and now he has time to swallow the shocked sound from Merlin’s throat, to feel Merlin soften against him, to show Merlin everything he’s never going to be able to put into words.
“... Wart?” Merlin whispers when there’s enough space between them to do so. His voice sounds tremulous and wet.
“Yes.”
“You’re real.”
Arthur’s throat tightens even as he laughs.
“Yes, quite.”
Merlin’s hands run over his face like he still doesn’t believe it, and Arthur can’t blame him.
“You disappeared,” he whispers, for the child in him that didn’t understand, even if he does now.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
One tear escapes, then another. Arthur can’t blame him for that, either.
“Don’t be, don’t - I understand, I should tell you to go now but… don’t. Stay, please.”
Merlin’s laugh sounds similarly desperate as he pulls Arthur into him, crushing and fierce and yet suddenly Arthur doesn’t hurt at all.
“I’m not going anywhere, Wart,” Merlin smiles against Arthur’s lips sometime later. Arthur rolls his eyes like relief isn't coursing through his veins.
“You really cannot call me that.”
“But it’s your name!”
“It most certainly is not.”
“It is, it rhymes with Art-hur, more or less. Plus, I’d have known it was you this whole time if you’d just introduced yourself as ‘Prince Wart’ instead -”
The absolute last thing Arthur needs is this nickname getting out amongst the knights, so he kisses Merlin again, firmly, because it turns out to be quite an effective way to get Merlin to stop talking.
-THE END-