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Merlin is three when his mother packs up their things, leaves their little village behind, and seeks refuge with the druids. He’s too young to understand why, and it takes years until he realises it was because of him. Because of his magic.
Their old home, Ealdor, is a tiny backwater collection of huts on the border between Camelot and Essetir, too unimportant to attract anyone’s notice. In Camelot, King Uther hunts and executes sorcerers in his brutal attempt to purge magic from the land, and in Essetir, while sorcerers aren’t killed on sight, they are pressed into service to the Crown. It’s not a safe place for raising a precocious toddler with strong magic but little control over it, even if it’s all Merlin has ever known.
Despite all that, Merlin likes growing up with the druids. It doesn’t matter to them that he and his mother are newcomers, and there are plenty of children with magical abilities of their own for him to play with. As he grows, he learns to control his magic, learns to shape it and use it to help around the camp.
He knows to be careful, to stay hidden in the forest, the danger of raids by grim-faced knights a constant presence at the back of his mind. It’s not an easy life, always hiding, often on the move, but he is happy.
***
Merlin is ten when he hears about the prophecy. The Once and Future King, destined to unite the lands of Albion and bring magic back to the kingdom. And at his side to help and protect him, Emrys, the most powerful warlock ever to walk the Earth.
He scoffs. Those stories seem far-fetched and considerably less important than the patch of blueberries he discovered the previous day. Merlin loves blueberries, and he wants to eat his fill before anyone else stumbles upon it.
By now, he’s old enough to realise that his magic is much stronger than the other children’s; that, more often than not, all it takes is for him to will something to happen, without the crutch of spells and incantations. But, like Wynna is the fastest runner and Carwyn is best at hide and seek, this is just a simple fact of life, nothing to lose sleep over… and certainly not the stuff of prophecies.
***
Merlin is sixteen when he finds out.
“I’m what?”
Iseldir, the leader of their clan, winces at the high pitch of Merlin’s voice.
“You’re going to be married to Prince Arthur of Camelot.”
His words are patient, conversational, as if they aren’t setting Merlin’s entire world on its ear. Him, married? To a prince?
“But… why? How? King Uther executes people like us! Why in the Goddess’ name would I want to marry his son, and why would the king ever agree?”
Iseldir runs a hand through his shaggy hair as he takes a deep breath. Clearly, this isn’t the reaction he expected, but then again, what else is Merlin supposed to say?
“Before the purge, when King Uther and Queen Ygraine were desperate for an heir, a bargain was struck,” Iseldir explains in a low voice, as if trying to calm a spooked animal. Merlin would resent it if he wasn’t too busy reeling from the shock. “A High Priestess, Nimueh, would help them conceive a child, but in exchange for her help, this child was to be promised in marriage to the strongest magic user in our community. It was meant to be a way to bridge the gap between magical and non-magical citizens of Camelot, a way to ensure magic’s continued acceptance.”
“Well, that worked out great.” Merlin snorts.
“Merlin. Mind your tongue.”
Caught out, Merlin ducks his head in acquiescence.
“Nobody knew that the gods would take Ygraine’s life in payment for her son’s, or that the king would go mad with grief and fury and unleash terrible retribution on the entire magical community. He has no intention of honouring the agreement, but it is not his choice to make.”
“But surely Arthur won’t want to marry a sorcerer either. He is his father’s son, is he not? He must hate us as much as Uther does.”
“We cannot know his mind. All we can do is be prepared to approach him after his father’s death, and hope that he is willing to follow through. If not, the consequences will be dire, both for Camelot and for magic itself.”
“Fine, but that still doesn’t explain why I’m supposed to marry him. Why me? I’m nobody special.”
Iseldir’s grey eyes seem to look right into his heart. “But you are. There is a prophecy—”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “Of course there is.”
“—about you and Arthur. You may have heard it before; the prophecy about Emrys and the Once and Future King.”
Merlin is stunned into silence by Iseldir’s words. He vaguely remembers the prophecy from years ago, something about uniting Albion and bringing back magic. But it can’t be him that’s supposed to achieve that, can it? He’s just a sixteen-year-old boy, he’s never been anywhere, done anything. It’s not fair to spring all this destiny business on him.
“I’m… Emrys?” The name feels foreign in his mouth. “I’m pretty sure my mother named me Merlin.”
Iseldir smiles gently. “You, Merlin, are by far the most powerful warlock any of us has ever seen. We never told you outright because we agreed that you should grow up as normally as possible, but you are special. You will help bring peace and magic back to the land.”
“I—”
His thoughts are racing, even as his knees almost buckle under the weight of destiny placed so suddenly upon his shoulders. One thought pushes his way to the front.
“Does my mother know?”
“She does. She wanted to tell you sooner, but…”
All of a sudden, Merlin’s patience, already in short supply at the best of times, runs out.
“You know what, fine. You want me to marry some prattish prince? Well, I want to meet him first. I’m not going into a marriage blind, especially not to a magic-hating Pendragon.”
Iseldir looks taken aback by his sudden vehemence. “How do you propose to do that? The prince is well guarded, and you cannot openly use your magic in Camelot. I doubt Uther has told him about the agreement, and you mustn’t tell him either, about the marriage or the prophecy itself.”
A plan begins to form in Merlin’s mind. It’s a mad plan, with a million things that could go wrong, but if it works, it will give him the chance to observe Arthur, get to know him, and judge if he might live up to his destiny.
“My mother knows Camelot’s Court Physician,” he hears himself say. “I’m sure she could ask him to take me in for a while.”
***
Merlin is seventeen when he meets Prince Arthur for the first time. It’s an inauspicious beginning. The prince is tormenting a servant, egged on by his cronies, and Merlin, never one to look the other way, spends the night in the dungeons for his troubles.
“He can’t be my destiny,” he complains to Gaius, the elderly Court Physician, once he is released. “He’s an arrogant arse!”
His mind involuntarily flashes to bright blue eyes, tousled blond hair, and a crooked smirk, and he shovels another spoonful of gruel into his mouth, angry at himself for finding the prat attractive despite his atrocious personality.
“Just give it some time,” Gaius counsels him.
Merlin does, and somehow ends his first week in Camelot as Arthur’s new manservant as a “reward” for saving the prince’s life.
More than once, while working his way down an endless list of chores, he wishes he’d let that witch’s dagger find its aim, instead of saving Prince Prat’s life. Arthur is arrogant, infuriating, and entitled beyond anything Merlin has ever witnessed before. Merlin is fairly sure that, if they were married, one of them would kill the other within a day or two.
The thing is, Arthur is all that and more, but as the weeks pass, Merlin comes to see that he is also courageous, and fair-minded, and so painfully conscious of his duty to his people.
He sees the way King Uther treats him, cold and demanding, with just enough occasional praise thrown in to keep Arthur wearing himself to the bone trying to win his father’s approval.
He sees Arthur work harder than anyone in training, taking his position as First Knight seriously and leading by example, pushing the men to be the best versions of themselves.
He also sees the changes in Arthur, as he keeps needling and pushing and generally ignoring any boundaries that should separate servants from their masters. He watches Arthur grudgingly listen to him when he tells him he’s being a prat, and he learns to duck in time to avoid any goblets thrown half-heartedly in retaliation.
When a young druid boy is hiding inside the citadel, hunted by the guards, Arthur helps Merlin smuggle him out right under Uther’s nose. All the while, Merlin feels his own triskelion tattoo burn across his chest, a reminder that he would be hunted like that, too, if anyone ever found out who he truly is.
***
Merlin is eighteen, and he and Arthur are inseparable. They’re not friends, can never be friends while one is a prince and the other a servant. Merlin’s secret looms between them, but Merlin keeps saving Arthur’s life with his magic, and sometimes, Arthur saves him right back.
Arthur is still a prat, and Merlin still cannot truly imagine what it would be like to marry him, despite his irritating infatuation that refuses to go away. What he can imagine is the kind of king Arthur will be: steadfast, fair, someone who puts his people first. He doesn’t know where Arthur gets this from—certainly not from Uther—but if anyone can live up to the prophecy of the Once and Future King, it’s Arthur.
Merlin is Arthur’s manservant, Gaius’ apprentice, and unofficial protector of Camelot against the enemy of the week, and he is tired. Not just physically, although he would give almost anything for a week of uninterrupted sleep, but also from keeping his secrets. He doesn’t know how people can live like this, day in and day out, hiding parts of themselves away to save their lives. Growing up, he learned that magic was a tool with many different uses, but nothing to be feared or shunned in itself. Now, he forces it down every time it wells up inside him, eager to rise to a new task.
He’s gotten good at it, too. These days, when he lights a fire, his first instinct is no longer to use the power inside him, even when he is alone. It’s what’s kept him alive so far, but it feels like a half-life at best. Now, more than ever, he appreciates the choice his mother made all those years ago, choosing a simple life with the druids over a life lived in constant fear.
He supposes he could return to the druid camp; after all, his mission of discovering what kind of man Arthur is has been accomplished. He could wait until Uther is dead, until Arthur is forced to honour the treaty, safe in the knowledge that Arthur is a man worth marrying. But every time he thinks about it, every time he makes up his mind to leave, there is a new threat on the horizon, a new problem to solve, or Arthur’s laugh ringing across the training field, and he stays.
***
Merlin is nineteen when Arthur finds out. They’re out hunting in the Darkling Woods, just the two of them, the trip a thinly veiled excuse to get out of the citadel for a few days. It’s easy and comfortable, their banter well-honed, and even the small group of bandits swarming from the trees surrounding their camp is initially only a minor cause for concern.
They’re poorly equipped, and Arthur has no trouble dispatching several of them while Merlin keeps to the relative safety of a large tree, using his powers to trip bandits, make them drop their weapons, or, if need be, let a well-chosen branch fall onto their heads.
It’s all fun and games until Arthur slips on a mossy stone, catching himself before he goes sprawling, but too late to parry the blow aimed at his neck.
Merlin sees everything unfold as if in slow motion. The blade arcs toward Arthur’s unprotected neck, his chainmail waiting safely back home in Arthur’s rooms. Arthur, one hand still stretched out for balance, attempts to bring his own sword up to meet the blow, but even an inexperienced fighter like Merlin can tell that he won’t make it in time.
The choice, then, is no choice at all.
Merlin steps forward, flings out his hand, and feels his magic rush to do his bidding. As the bandit goes flying, he knows that Arthur can see his eyes flare a brilliant gold, damning evidence that he, as the king’s son, cannot ignore.
He watches Arthur shake off the shock and defeat the last of the bandits in quick succession. Fighting to remain outwardly calm despite his racing heart, he waits for Arthur by the firepit, the remains of their small camp scattered around them.
Arthur’s face is impassive as he approaches, bloody sword in one hand, the other clenched into a fist.
“You have magic,” he says, and it’s not a question.
Merlin answers it anyway, forcing his eyes to hold Arthur’s gaze.
“I do,” he says, proud that his voice doesn’t waver. He is not here to make excuses.
“Why?”
Of all the stupid questions…
“I was born with it,” Merlin spits, defiant, “and I won’t apologise for it. If you want to kill me for something I had no control over, you’re welcome to try, but I want you to know I’ve never once used it for evil.”
Something flickers in Arthur’s eyes.
“No, I meant… why did you save me? With magic? You know Camelot’s laws… my father’s laws.”
Oh. “I… I wasn’t about to let you die. Not when I could help it.”
“But—”
“You’re a good man, Arthur, and you’re my friend. How could I not save you? I’ve been doing it for years.”
He watches Arthur’s face soften, even as his eyes narrow in confusion. Despite himself, Merlin allows a tiny spark of hope to flicker to life in his chest.
“What do you mean, for years?” Arthur sounds almost affronted at the suggestion that he needs saving on a regular basis, and Merlin can’t hold in the hysterical laugh that bubbles up at his expression.
“My magic has been saving your royal arse ever since we met,” he finally gasps out. “I’m happy to give you the details, if you think your ego will survive it.”
“I could still have you thrown in the dungeons,” Arthur warns him, but the look in his eyes belies his threat, and something inside Merlin relaxes.
They talk, far into the night, as Merlin tells his side of their adventures. It feels like the beginning of something fragile and new as Arthur settles back onto his elbows, his expression raw and honest in a way that Merlin has not witnessed before.
“I understand why you didn’t tell me,” he says, and Merlin can see how much this admission costs him. “I won’t pretend that a part of me isn’t hurt that you didn’t trust me, but I’d have to be a fool to grow up in Camelot and not understand the threat any sorcerer faces here.”
“It’s not that I didn’t trust you,” Merlin says, because he does, and he needs Arthur to know that. “But your father…”
“Yes,” Arthur agrees, his voice as tired as Merlin feels after talking for hours. “But my father.”
In those three words, Merlin hears a world of conflict, all the times Arthur has gone up against his father and lost. For all his determination, he is only the prince, and Uther is king. Merlin wonders, sometimes, if it is harder to have a father and be forced to witness all his shortcomings, or to not have a father at all.
“I swear to you, Merlin, that I will keep your secret. You have nothing to fear from me. But, from now on,” Arthur says, fixing Merlin with a penetrating gaze, “you will tell me things.”
Merlin nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat that is their shared destiny. He thought he would feel lighter, now that Arthur knows about his magic and accepts him for it, but it only makes the rest of his secrets weigh more heavily on his heart.
***
Merlin is twenty when Lord Godwyn of Gawant and his daughter, Princess Elena, arrive in Camelot. He already knew that Uther had no intention of honouring the marriage agreement with the druids, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he intends for Arthur to marry Elena. When Arthur tells him the news, though, it still feels like a rug being pulled from under his feet.
Was all this for nothing, then? He remembers Iseldir’s words of dire consequences if Arthur fails to honour the treaty, and tells himself that he is only worried for Camelot and its people. His own personal feelings about blond prats have nothing to do with it.
“I can’t marry her, Merlin,” Arthur tells him over dinner in his chambers while Merlin steals the best bits off his plates. “I don’t love her; hell, I don’t even know her!”
Merlin can only nod, unwilling to examine the fact that an arranged marriage exactly like that is in Arthur’s future, one way or another. “Your father won’t listen to you,” he says instead.
“No.” Arthur slumps in his chair. “He thinks it’s a strategic match, important for Camelot’s future. I can’t even fault him for it. Elena is nice enough, I suppose, and Lord Godwyn is a staunch ally. But I… I always hoped I might marry for love, one day.”
Merlin’s ribs ache with the pressure of his secret held inside. How much would it hurt, being married to Arthur, all the while knowing that Arthur doesn’t love him?
It’s almost a relief when Elena turns out to be possessed by the Sidhe. It gives Merlin something to do, something to plan for, and with Arthur’s help covering things up, Gaius and Merlin find it easy enough to administer a potion that removes the Sidhe from inside her.
The downside is that, now, there is nothing standing in the way of Arthur marrying her. Elena has proven herself a kind, funny, and loveable person, and a part of Merlin can see the two of them, a golden royal couple, leading Camelot into an equally golden future. How could a gangly druid boy ever compare?
It’s strange, he thinks, as he tries to find a comfortable position on his thin mattress that will finally, finally allow him to sleep. He never particularly wanted to marry Arthur. He came to Camelot half-hoping that Arthur would turn out to be a horrible person, and that he would be able to cry off, and screw destiny. But now that Arthur is one single night away from marrying someone else, feelings that he’s been pushing aside for three years are slowly choking him, tearing him up from the inside out.
They could still fulfil their destiny, he supposes, even if they aren’t married. He imagines it, standing off to the side while Elena sits next to Arthur, watching them kiss and touch while he remains alone, only called upon when there is a magical emergency. He’s not sure he can do it.
The next morning, as Arthur frets about the ceremony, the conversation turns to destiny, and Merlin almost laughs at how closely Arthur’s feelings of being trapped by the life planned out for him mirror Merlin’s own in this moment. He wants to be at Arthur’s side, but not at the cost of their happiness. Not because it’s being forced on them.
The only thing that he allows himself to say regarding the upcoming wedding is, “If Uther thinks an unhappy king makes for a stronger kingdom, then he’s wrong. You may be destined to rule Camelot, but you have a choice… as to how you do it.”
He doesn’t know if it’s enough, but this must be Arthur’s decision. Merlin doesn’t have a claim on him, at least not one that Arthur can know about.
The wedding is beautiful, if one likes that sort of thing. Merlin watches with a sick feeling of inevitability as first Arthur, then Elena, make their vows. He’s never broken any bone, but he imagines this is what it must feel like, the nauseating realisation that something has been irreparably damaged even as the pain hits.
The voice of Geoffrey of Monmouth, officiating the ceremony, rings out across the great hall. “Do any say nay? Then as we gather here today, we are all witness to this rite—”
His speech is interrupted as the large doors slam open, revealing a slim figure in a hooded cloak. Heads turn, and Merlin isn’t sure if the relief on Arthur’s face is really there, or if it’s just wishful thinking on his part.
The hood is thrown back, revealing a young-ish woman with dark-brown curls cascading down her back. Despite her small frame, she commands the room, her voice easily eclipsing the whispers and mutterings of those assembled.
“Uther Pendragon,” she calls out, her bright blue eyes blazing. “Have you forgotten the oath you made, when you begged for my help?”
So this is Nimueh, High Priestess of the Old Religion. Merlin watches her avidly, his eyes taking in everything from the confident smirk of her red lips to the burgundy dress peeking out from under her cloak.
“Sorceress! Arrest her!” Uther is on his feet, gesturing for the guards to attack, but a single sweep of Nimueh’s hand has the entire hall frozen, as guests and guards alike struggle against invisible bonds.
Merlin knows instinctively that he could break them, that he is more than a match for Nimueh in terms of raw power, but her voice in his head stops him in his tracks.
Hello, Emrys. It seems you need a bit of help with your destiny.
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t need to as Nimueh turns her attention back to Uther.
“You will listen to what I have to say,” she says, her voice cool and regal. “Let it be known that a bargain was struck, twenty-four years ago. A son and heir, in exchange for the son’s hand in marriage to a person from the magical community. Was it not so, Uther?”
Uther, of course, is unable to answer, but his glare says enough.
“Unfortunately, Princess Elena, lovely as she may be, does not have a drop of magical ability. You weren’t thinking of breaking the contract, were you, Uther? That would be… unwise.”
A golden flash of her eyes lets wind whip around the room, ruffling clothes and rattling the windows.
“Let this be a final warning, Uther Pendragon,” Nimueh calls out, and then, in a whirl of mist, she is gone.
Her disappearance breaks the spell, and the hall is filled with cries and shouts as the guests rush to the doors. Uther is still shouting for the guards to arrest Nimueh, but Merlin’s gaze is caught by Arthur, who looks utterly stunned even as he leans forward and takes Elena’s hand.
“I am sorry, Elena, but it seems I cannot marry you. In truth, you are a wonderful woman, and a beautiful bride, but even without this… added complication…”
“You do not love me.” Elena’s statement is matter-of-fact.
Arthur shakes his head. “And I think, if you are honest, you do not love me either.”
“No.”
Merlin takes his first deep breath in what feels like days.
“Then, perhaps, this intervention was for the best. But I would be honoured to call you my friend.”
Elena beams, the smile lighting up her face. “I would like that very much.”
After pressing a courteous kiss to the back of her hand, Arthur turns to face his father.
“I think, Father, that there is much to discuss. Shall we retire to my rooms?”
***
Later, after the shouting and the accusations, Merlin opens the door to Arthur’s chambers to find the prince slumped in his chair, his blond hair mussed and dark shadows under his eyes.
Arthur looks up at the sound of Merlin’s footsteps, and a tired smile lifts the corners of his mouth.
“I’m not marrying Elena. In fact, I won’t be married for a long time.”
Merlin ignores the strange mix of pain and giddiness lancing through him at these words, instead sinking down on the chair next to Arthur’s. It’s not proper servant etiquette, but then again, when have things ever been proper between them?
“What did your father say?” he asks, his voice soft.
“He said Nimueh spoke the truth, but that the contract was rendered null and void when magic took my mother’s life. He said there can be no treaties with traitors and killers.”
Well. Trust Uther to put his own personal spin on any given situation.
“And what do you think?”
“I think my father has kept this from me for my entire life. He was willing to risk the wrath of the Old Religion to further his own ends, pushing me to marry Elena instead. But it doesn’t matter. Either way, I will have no say in whom I marry.”
“Is… is your father going to honour the marriage agreement?” He hardly dares to ask, his entire body tense with anticipation. He doesn’t know what it is he hopes for, but he still flinches as Arthur barks out a derisive laugh.
“Are you joking? My father will never let me marry a sorcerer. He would rather see Camelot fall. But,” he says with a determined set to his jaw, “my father will not be around forever. And I’ve been thinking about magic, and about good and evil, ever since I found out about… you know.”
“You have?” Merlin didn’t know that. He thought Arthur simply compartmentalised it, saw Merlin as distinct from the grey mass of other magic users.
“Yes. And, let’s be honest here, you are not that special.”
Merlin looks up, affronted, but the teasing glint in Arthur’s eyes settles his ruffled feathers.
“What I mean to say is, if you have magic without being corrupted by it, then surely others do, too. Surely, for every murderous sorcerer bent on revenge there are ten who are only trying to live their lives as best they can. I don’t know why my father can’t see that—won’t see that, but I think he is wrong.”
The silence following Arthur’s words is deafening.
Merlin feels the world spin around him as wild, reckless hope burns bright in his chest. Arthur agreeing to keep his secret is one thing, but this? This is more than he ever hoped for. He was prepared to push and prod, to drag Arthur screaming and kicking toward acceptance of all things magic, but to have him take this step voluntarily, on his own?
Love, sharp and frightening, pushes against its hiding place between Merlin’s ribs. Much as he has denied it, it’s been there for a while, biding its time, waiting for him to finally acknowledge his feelings.
He is in love with Arthur, the man he is destined to marry. It would be perfect, really, if not for the tiny, inconvenient detail that Arthur hates the idea of having his life mapped out for him, and the fact that Merlin has no idea if Arthur could ever feel the same about him.
Even if he were allowed to, Merlin doesn’t know how he could tell Arthur about this entire mess without making Arthur resent him. Instead, he settles for another question, one that has been burning at the back of his mind for years.
“So, once you’re king, you’ll honour the agreement and marry whoever is chosen for you?”
Arthur looks like a man walking to the gallows, but his voice is firm, every bit that of a king.
“I will.”
The way he says it sounds less like a promise and more like a death sentence.
***
Merlin is twenty-one when King Uther dies. It’s not a magical attack, just an assassin sent by King Odin to avenge the death of his son and heir. Uther isn’t even the target; the son died in a duel with Arthur some years back, and Uther is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, stepping in to defend Arthur.
By the time Merlin learns of the attack, there is nothing to be done, not even using magic. He would, too, for Arthur, but Uther is already beyond help.
The one good thing (besides the removal of a tyrant from the throne, of course) is that the manner of Uther’s death allows Arthur to remember him with a measure of fondness, rather than just the fraught relationship father and son had of late.
Merlin waits up outside the hall where Uther is laid out, while Arthur spends the night keeping vigil and saying goodbye. When he exits the hall in the pale light of dawn, his eyes red-rimmed but dry, Merlin is there to pick up the pieces.
There are a million things to do for the new king, but Arthur spends the morning with Merlin instead, grabbing breakfast from the kitchens and eating it high up on the battlements, where no one disturbs their peace.
“You’ll be a great king,” Merlin says around a mouthful of bread, because it’s the truth, and because Arthur looks like he needs to hear it.
Arthur stares at him, his eyes wide and unguarded.
“You really believe that? My father…”
Merlin swallows, his ears heating under Arthur’s gaze.
“With all my heart,” he says.
For the length of a few heartbeats, there is silence, and then Arthur’s lips are on his, slightly chapped but soft, a barely-there touch, and Merlin forgets any thought he’s ever had.
He doesn’t kiss back, too surprised to react, and it’s only when Arthur begins to draw back, tension radiating from his body, that his muscles finally cooperate. His hands come up to wind into Arthur’s hair, and then he’s kissing Arthur, closed-mouthed presses of lips, before his tongue darts out to flick across Arthur’s lips.
As if all the tension drains from him, Arthur goes pliant against him, his mouth opening to allow Merlin access. Merlin takes advantage, their tongues tangling as the kiss deepens, as Arthur’s arms wrap around Merlin’s waist and draw him impossibly closer.
It’s everything Merlin has ever dreamed it could be, only better, and he loses himself in the give and take, in the heat of Arthur’s mouth against his own.
He is so focused on mapping out the contours of Arthur’s lips that it takes him a moment to catch up when, suddenly, there is empty space in front of him. Arthur is sitting several feet away, his eyes blown wide, his chest heaving under his wrinkled tunic.
“What—” Merlin rasps out, still feeling the ghost of Arthur’s lips against his own.
“I can’t,” Arthur whispers, his hands balled into fists. “I’m to be married. It won’t be long now that Father…”
“But…”
“I can’t do this. It wouldn’t be fair, not to you, and not to whomever I marry. I’m sorry, Merlin. I shouldn’t have… taken advantage like that.”
“Taken advantage?” A part of Merlin wants to burst into hysterical laughter, while another, larger one is a hairsbreadth away from tears. How is this his life? Arthur… Arthur wants him, against all odds, against all common sense, but he’s worried about cheating on Merlin… with Merlin.
A groan forces its way out past the lump in his throat.
“You haven’t taken advantage,” he says, because no matter what, the last thing he wants is for Arthur to blame himself. Once again, he wishes he could simply tell Arthur everything, but Iseldir’s instructions were clear, and besides, Arthur wouldn’t thank him for it.
Arthur is still talking, berating himself, but Merlin doesn’t want to hear it. This was all supposed to be simple. Go to Camelot, find out if the prince is someone he wouldn’t mind marrying, get out. It was never supposed to be such a mess. There were never supposed to be feelings.
“It’s fine, Arthur,” he cuts off his rambling. “I understand.”
Arthur looks at him, searching his face, and Merlin forces himself to nod encouragingly. Whatever he finds in Merlin’s expression, Arthur relaxes a fraction and grabs the goblet filled with watered wine, drinking deep.
“We’ll be all right, won’t we, Merlin?” he asks, cautious hope in his voice.
“Of course,” Merlin answers easily, and he wonders when he lost the ability to lie to himself like that.
***
Nimueh doesn’t waste time. Uther has only just been placed in the crypts below the citadel, and Arthur’s coronation is still days away when she strolls into the throne room, bold as she pleases.
“Well met, Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot,” she calls out, effectively silencing all other courtiers and councillors milling around. Merlin is standing a few feet off to the side, and he freezes at her words. This is it. Time has run out.
“I have come to ask you the same question I asked your father, not so long ago. Are you willing to honour the treaty?”
Merlin watches Arthur square his shoulders beneath the red cape.
“I am.”
“Really?” Despite her words, Nimueh doesn’t look surprised in the least. “In that case, our delegation will come to Camelot a sennight hence. There will be both a handfasting in the druidic style and whatever ceremony you see fit. I expect safe passage for our people.”
“You will have it,” Arthur confirms. “We will be expecting your arrival.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Merlin knows he’s been working on a repeal of the magic ban, has spent the last few nights bent over dusty old documents with him as they’ve tried to piece together a functioning system of laws to replace Uther’s wholesale ban. But he also knows it’s not the right time to make it public, with Arthur not even crowned yet.
Meet me in the woods tonight, Emrys, Nimueh’s voice reverberates inside his head. He nods briefly to let her know he understands, and then she is gone, in a less dramatic fashion this time as she uses the doors.
Later that night, Merlin picks his way through the dark forest, cursing under his breath as his foot catches on a root. Nimueh is already there, waiting for him.
“Took you long enough,” she says, her full, red lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.
“I assumed you didn’t want Arthur to know about our little meeting,” Merlin retorts. “It took a while to get away unseen.”
“I assume Iseldir already told you what to do?”
“I’m supposed to marry Arthur, yes.” He ignores the twin thrills of eagerness and apprehension rushing through him.
“On the day, you will sneak away and come to us here, in the forest. We will enter the citadel together, with your identity hidden by a cloak. You will speak your vows, and only then will you reveal yourself.”
“Why? Are you worried Arthur won’t agree if he knows it’s me?” The same fear is a black pit in Merlin’s belly, but he doesn’t want Nimueh to know that.
Instead of answering, Nimueh favours him with a smile that feels like ice dripping down his spine. “Run back to your destiny, little warlock,” she says, her voice sweet as honey. “Until then.”
***
The week that follows is the most nerve-wracking of Merlin’s entire life. He thanks the gods for the distraction Arthur’s coronation provides, with enough work to keep his hands busy until he’s too exhausted to think.
The coronation itself is beautiful, Arthur looking regal and splendid in his red cloak with the golden dragon on top of his chainmail, a golden crown on his head as he faces his people as their king.
“Long live the King!” echoes around the great hall, and Merlin finds himself shouting along with the others, his heart full to bursting with love and pride. For a moment, he even manages to forget what is coming.
The next morning dawns bright and sunny, the weather a mockery of the apprehension threatening to choke Merlin as he makes his way into the forest, ostensibly to gather herbs for Gaius. He’s promised Arthur he’ll be back in time for the druids’ arrival, and his heart aches at the thought of Arthur thinking he’s been abandoned when Merlin inevitably doesn’t show.
Most senior members of his clan are there, along with those of other groups, and several people who are decidedly not druids, like Nimueh and a few other women who can only be High Priestesses.
He doesn’t spare them a single glance, all his attention on a dark-haired woman wearing a green headscarf.
“Mother!”
Merlin runs the last couple of steps, and then he is in his mother’s arms, breathing in her familiar scent. She’s shrunk, he realises, or rather, he must have grown. He’s almost an entire head taller now, and his mother feels slight and fragile in his arms.
“Merlin,” she says, happy tears in his eyes as she tightens the hug. “How have you been?”
“I’m… I’m well, mother,” he replies, because how can he explain everything that’s happened since he left for Camelot?
“And the wedding? Are you excited? Nervous? Worried? You know you don’t have to go through with it if you don’t want to, don’t you, Merlin?”
He feels all these things and more, his stomach tied in knots when he thinks about it, but he knows, deep down, that he cannot cry off now. Prophecy or not, he belongs at Arthur’s side, and he can only hope that once the day is through, Arthur will still want him there.
“No, I… I’m ready,” he says, hoping that if he says it often enough it will be true.
“I’m so proud of you,” his mother breathes, her smile wobbly. “No matter what happens.”
The rest of the morning passes in a blur, with last-minute instructions on the handfasting rite, and more encouraging pats on his back than Merlin is entirely comfortable with. Before he knows it, they are on their way to Camelot, Merlin swathed in a midnight-blue cloak with a hood that, once pulled up, will obscure his face.
Their procession passes through the lower town, drawing whispers and stares from the townspeople. The way up to the citadel seems both shorter and much longer than usual, and Merlin swallows nervously as they arrive in front of the gates. His hood is up, making it difficult to see, but he can make out the guards, instructed to let the druids pass.
They enter the courtyard, and there, on the steps leading up to the entrance, is Arthur, resplendent in his billowing red cape and his golden crown. For a moment, Merlin feels shabby in comparison, unworthy of marriage to such a vision, but then he remembers that it’s Arthur.
Arthur, whose smelly socks Merlin has washed, who snores if he sleeps on his back, and who can’t carry a tune to save his life.
He bites back a grin and bows exactly as deep as Arthur does, and not half an inch more.
Merlin stays silent through the initial pleasantries, letting Nimueh and Iseldir do the talking. He is relieved to notice that Arthur is a gracious host, not betraying his true feelings about this marriage by even the slightest slip.
Arthur precedes them into the great hall, taking up his position at the far end, while Merlin and his retinue hang back beyond the doors. Merlin’s heart is pounding, a mix of panic and giddiness flooding his veins. This is really happening. He is going to marry Arthur.
He is so caught up in his thoughts that he almost misses his cue, his mother’s gentle nudge letting him know that it is time. Slowly, with measured steps, they enter the hall and make their way down the aisle, past rows upon rows of people.
Merlin doesn’t see any of them. He only has eyes for Arthur, who is holding himself stiffly, his face carefully polite. He wants nothing more than to cast aside his hood, to run towards Arthur and catch his lips in a bruising kiss, but he knows he can’t.
Instead, he takes step after agonising step, until finally he’s standing beside Arthur, with Geoffrey of Monmouth once more presiding over the ceremony. Arthur is not looking at him, his gaze trained firmly ahead, to where Nimueh is now joining Geoffrey.
Raising her arms with her usual dramatic flair, she begins to speak in a voice that carries across the room. “We are gathered here, in the light of the Triple Goddess, to witness the rite of handfasting…”
Tuning out the words he knows by heart at this point, Merlin chances a look at Geoffrey and has to fight back a grin. The poor man looks scandalised by the implication that any ceremony performed by him is not good enough, his pointy white beard quivering with indignation.
When it is his turn to speak, he does so with dignity, intoning the same words he said at Arthur’s and Elena’s would-be wedding a year ago. And then, suddenly, it is time for the vows. Nimueh winds a strip of richly embroidered cloth around their wrists, joining them together, and Geoffrey speaks.
“Is it your wish, Arthur, to become one with this man?”
If Arthur has any doubts, he doesn’t show it. His voice rings out clear and strong as he makes his vow.
“It is.”
“And is it your wish, Emrys, to become one with this man?”
Merlin has spent long hours worrying that he wouldn’t be able to get the words out when it mattered, but it turns out that nothing has ever felt easier than to answer, “It is.”
He sees a flash of confusion in Arthur’s eyes, sees his eyes narrow as if deep in thought, but then it is time for the druidic part of the ceremony, with more questions that need answering. Merlin breezes through them, only aware of Arthur’s intent gaze on him.
“…blessing of the Triple Goddess,” Nimueh concludes her speech, and then the hall erupts into cheers, and it slowly sinks into Merlin’s mind that they did it. They are married.
Gods help him.
“You may now lift the hood,” Nimueh tells Arthur in her silky voice, and Merlin tenses. This is the moment of truth.
Arthur’s fingers shake almost imperceptibly as he reaches for the fabric obscuring Merlin’s face. A gentle tug, and then…
Merlin watches as Arthur’s eyes widen, as he freezes with his hands still lifted. There’s not as much shock as he thought; perhaps Arthur already suspected from the few words Merlin spoke during the ceremony. He watches, helplessly, as Arthur’s expression shutters, the mask he’s perfected over years under Uther’s tutelage slipping neatly into place. Arthur is much too conscious of the importance of this day to make a scene, but Merlin knows he won’t be as reticent in private.
“There will be a feast to celebrate our wedding,” Arthur says, his voice perfectly even as it rings out across the hall, “but first, my consort and I will require a few moments of privacy.”
Approval greets his words, with the occasional ribald laughter thrown in, but Merlin knows people’s assumptions on what is about to happen could not be further from the truth. Arthur’s grip around his wrist is bruising as he leads Merlin from the room, the polite façade slipping as soon as they are in the privacy of an empty room across the hall.
“Explain yourself,” Arthur says, his voice matching the ice in his eyes. Merlin would almost prefer him shouting, throwing things, anything but this cold fury.
“I’m a druid.”
“Yes, Merlin, I gathered as much when I married you just now.”
With no other option, Merlin launches into the entire sorry tale, from the day he found out about his destiny to the moment he first met Arthur.
“And so, you see, I only wanted to see what I was getting myself into, but then… well, you know. You were there for it. You needed my help, and I came to know the kind of person you are, and every time I told myself I should leave, I found reasons not to.”
“And reasons not to tell me the truth.” The quiet hurt in Arthur’s voice is almost worse than the fury. “I thought we were past this, Merlin.”
“I couldn’t tell you,” Merlin tries to explain, tripping over his words in his haste to make Arthur understand. “The elders had forbidden it. And… I already put so much on your shoulders with the magic. I didn’t want you to hate me for this, for taking away your choice.”
“Merlin, you idiot. You were there the day after my father died, on the battlements. Surely even you must be intelligent enough to realise that, if there had been a choice for me, it would have been you.”
Stunned silence follows Arthur’s declaration. Merlin’s mind is reeling. Surely Arthur can’t mean…
“Cat got your tongue?” Arthur asks.
Merlin fumbles for words. “But… me? I don’t…”
“Was it not obvious? I thought you knew when you counselled me against marrying Elena, and then, when I kissed you on the battlements.”
Arthur is smiling now, a small, private thing, and Merlin feels dizzy as his impressions of the past rearrange themselves to fit this new reality.
“But you said you couldn’t—I didn’t think it meant that much to you, I thought you were just caught up in the moment or something.”
“Caught up… Merlin! I thought I had to marry someone else a few days later! You know, if ever there was a good moment to tell me I was promised to you, that would’ve been it.”
“I’m sorry.” Merlin hangs his head. “I never meant…”
“You never do,” Arthur says, but the bite is gone from his voice. “Well, I can’t possibly have the marriage dissolved. Imagine the scandal, what the druids would say, or that scary High Priestess. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me now, Merlin. Really, you only have yourself to blame.”
Merlin looks up to see a teasing glint in Arthur’s eyes, the frozen blue warmed to the colour of a summer sky. “You’re not… angry?”
“Oh, I’m plenty angry. But I’m also, quite unexpectedly, rather happier than I ever thought I would be, and I don’t want to ruin that.”
Knees weak with giddy relief, Merlin feels himself drawn into the circle of Arthur’s arms.
“And besides,” Arthur murmurs, leaning in to nuzzle his nose against Merlin’s, “I expect you to make it up to me later.”
Merlin’s answer is swallowed by Arthur’s lips on his.
When the king and his new consort finally make it to the feast, almost an hour late, their clothes are rumpled, and Arthur’s crown is askew. Merlin doesn’t point it out, though. Truth be told, he thinks it goes rather perfectly with the smile on Arthur’s well-kissed lips.