Archive of Our Own

The first time Arthur says it, Merlin tries not to let it reach him.

After all, these are just words, aren’t they? A couple of meaningless words pronounced in the spur of the moment, nothing more. Everyone does that every once in a while. Say words they don’t actually mean just because they’re angry and want to hurt the person who’s made them feel that way. Rage can turn even the best of men into cruel ones, that’s something Merlin knows, something Merlin has seen. And he himself has never been one to fear stirring that very feeling in people, never been one to fear unveiling the truth, even if that meant forcing unpleasant words into a man’s ears and causing his anger to land upon him. Merlin knows what annoying a man entails, knows what the price will be, but he does it all the same, because somebody has to do it, and he knows that he can endure. He doesn’t mind the insults, and the thrown goblets, and the exasperated cries; what would bother him the most, he believes, would be the silence. Words hurt, of course they do, but it’s alright. Merlin’s alright with all of that. It’s not as if anyone forced him to speak his mind, anyway. He does it, because he’s confident enough that he can bear the words that will follow. It’s always been his role, and he’s played it well enough so far. He won’t let a few words get the best of him.

And besides, it’s hardly the first time Arthur’s threatened him of a similar fate, is it?

Merlin can still remember the Valiant business that happened years ago, on his first days as Arthur’s manservant. He can recall the events with surprising clarity, given how easily he dismissed the memory. It’s odd, how clear the words remain inside his mind. Though what’s most piercing in his memory isn’t the dialogue – it’s the feelings that were put into it. He can hear it all, feel it all; the sting of betrayal held in Arthur’s tone – I believed you, I trusted you –, the shame, loud and clear – you humiliated me! –, and finally, the bitter yet categoric verdict, almost sounding like a sentence: I no longer require your services. He can still hear himself beg Arthur to believe him, you can trust me, he screams, he pleads, but it’s pointless, he knows that now, though at the time he didn’t know Arthur well enough to understand that. It’s pointless, because Arthur’s suddenly shaking his head and yelling, out of my sight! For a strange reason, these are the words that shock Merlin the most, the words that make his mind quiver and shiver, and that make some part of him think: banishment? And as he repeats the words, over and over again, he can’t help altering them, and soon the out of my sight becomes: out of my kingdom. Merlin is quick to bounce back, though. Quick to force himself to think reasonably. A master doesn’t banish his servant for such simple motives, after all. He’s been sacked, that’s all. It happens every day, to plenty of servants. So it’s alright, really. And he’s known Arthur for, what – less than a week? He’ll get over it soon enough. Not to mention, Arthur’s reaction does make sense. Merlin made him look a fool in front of the entire court. Brought him dishonour. Caused the people around him, including his own father, to question his courage – and if there’s one thing that Arthur values above all, it is his courage. He can’t bear the idea of people thinking him a coward, so really, it makes sense. What man likes to be called a coward anyway? He gets it. He gets it. And it’s partly Merlin’s own fault, anyway. It was naïve of him to believe that coming to Arthur would be a good idea. He should have guessed that Valiant wouldn’t be so easily exposed. He should have known, and now, he’s learnt his lesson. He’s been sacked. So what? Things happen.

And it doesn’t hurt; not truly. It’s not pleasant, Merlin won’t pretend that it is, but it’s not painful either, far from it. It merely stings a little, and Merlin can’t deny that his ego is a little bruised, too. But he doesn’t have time to think much upon it; doesn’t want to waste the time. Right now, Arthur’s life is on the line – it always seems to be, Merlin now reflects. Nevertheless, Arthur’s in danger, and the priority is to make sure he no longer is. And so, even though the words hurt when they came out, now, it’s alright. Arthur’s life being in danger is, in one way, a blessing: it’s a way for Merlin to ignore both the words and the sting.

He was right not to ponder much upon it, too, because once the whole matter is settled, Arthur comes to him and admits that he made a mistake. I’m rehiring you, he says, and then proceeds to list all the things that need to be done. And so, as quickly as it had appeared, the sting disappears. Joy bursts inside Merlin’s heart. He understands now; understands that Arthur was angry, mostly as his swollen ego, but that now that the truth has been restored, he’s no longer mad at Merlin. His honour is back, and so is their relationship. The sting is gone. It didn’t even stay there long enough to leave a mark. As it disappears, Merlin’s half-certain the memory will fade as well. It’s all forgotten, isn’t it?

And for a while, Merlin comfortably settles into that routine – he wraps himself in the certainty   that he and Arthur are made to last, and that nothing, no matter the circumstances, will ever have the power to shake that. Their situation, he thinks, is set in stone and meant to remain that way forever – and, quite frankly, that’s a forever he can easily conceive. Yes, he is certain that Arthur and he will forever remain so – master and servant, man and friend. Of course, Arthur complains. He grumbles about the bed that isn’t properly made, quirks a brow at the sight of Merlin’s daily clumsiness, and even voices his wishes for a more efficient manservant; but Merlin knows that he means none of it, and so he cares little about the remarks. That’s probably why when Cedric comes to Camelot, Merlin doesn’t see the man as a threat, per se; simply as a complication, a thorn to his side. He doesn’t care for Arthur’s remarks either, because he knows that Arthur’s merely teasing. He has teased in the past, and it’s never gone further than that. The strength of the link binding him to Arthur is one of the things he’s most confident about, and the tales of a better Albion that Kilgharrah’s been serving him have only been reinforcing this undying faith he harbours. And Arthur, Arthur gives him no reason to question that – until he does. Until it happens – again. Until Arthur says, think about whether you want to be my servant or not. And it’s not just a joke; it’s not just Arthur saying, Cedric is the perfect manservant, isn’t he? or, you could learn from George’s polishing, no, no, no, this is Arthur directly questioning Merlin’s position as his manservant. At first, he can’t believe that he just heard that. But the rage in Arthur’s eyes when he says, go, is real, and Merlin realises that Arthur, once more, wants him out of his sight. He’s always thought that the link uniting them was something they would never question, always thought that Arthur held it as sacred Merlin does, but apparently, he was wrong. And it stings. Deeper this time. Deeper, because at this point, Merlin’s done much more than a couple magic tricks. He has saved Arthur’s life, has already lost count of the number of times he’s danced too close to death to ensure Arthur lived, and so he feels, deep inside, that he is worthy of Arthur’s respect and friendship. He is worthy of it, and finds himself wishing, more and more often, that Arthur would once call him brave instead of cowardly, astute instead of stupid. It’s dangerous to harbour such thoughts, Gaius keeps telling him that, but he can’t help it. Can’t help hoping. He’s been thinking this way for a while now, has been wishing that he could tell Arthur of all the things he’s done. But it’s stronger this time, and the strength of this desire, coupled with the conscience of Arthur’s low opinion of him and how quick he was to dismiss him, undoubtedly stings. It also reminds him that, as much as he might wish to romanticise their relationship, it’s far from perfect. He knows Arthur, but Arthur doesn’t know him. Not the whole him, at least.

He tells Gaius as much, confesses to Gaius how very much he would like Arthur to see him for who he really is. For Arthur to look at his magic, to truly look at it, and to think, it’s magnificent. For Arthur to look at Merlin, to truly look at him, and to say, you’re not a coward. Because he’s not, is he? If only Arthur could see. One day, he will, Gaius says. One day. One day, Merlin will be brave. But today, he’s an idiot. Merlin may serve him, but Arthur has no idea of the extend of his servitude. And a part of Merlin, already feeling old and weary, is beginning to think that he never will. As much as Merlin tries to chase that voice away, it never yields. Later, Arthur calls the guards and sends Merlin to the cells. He sends Merlin to the cells, and not Sigan, because he won’t believe him when he tells him that Cedric’s possessed. He won’t believe him. It’s in the darkness of the cells that Merlin remembers the Valiant incident, in the darkness of the cells that Merlin wonders what made Arthur trust him back then and distrust him now. What’s he done wrong this time? Should he have kept quiet? The sardonic voice inside him seems all too happy to say, will he believe you when you tell him of your secrets? It’s a terrible question.

Then comes Merlin’s confrontation with Sigan. Even today, he can remember every single word of their conversation. He repeats it sometimes, in his bed, and thinks of how honest he truly was that night.

“He cast you aside without a moment’s thought.”

“That doesn’t matter.” But it does. It does, so, so much, because if it didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt, would it? If it didn’t, it wouldn’t have been so hard to say the words.

“But it must hurt so much to be so put upon, so overlooked, when all the while you have such power.”

“That’s the way it has to be.” It’s the only way. But is it? Couldn’t there be another way? A way where Arthur would look at Merlin and see his equal? Merlin would like to try this other way, but he dares not. He convinces himself that things must remain that way, because he’s too afraid to change them, and also because, that’s what he’s always been told. That one day, things will be different, but that for now, he must wait.

“Does it? To have the world appreciate your greatness. To have Arthur know you for what you are.” He forces himself not to listen to the words, lest he be tempted, but how can he?

“That can never be,” he says. But what if it could? What if it were? How can he possess such powers and yet be so powerless? Things must remain that way, though. He cannot allow himself to think of that future, or he’ll once more mistake his dreams for reality. He already did that with his relationship with Arthur, and look at where it led him. He forgot how complex things truly were.

“Arthur will tremble at your voice, he will kneel at your feet.” Those are the words that precipitate Merlin’s decision.

Because he doesn’t want that. “I don’t want that.” He doesn’t want that.

“You’d rather be a servant?”

“Better to serve a good man than to rule with an evil one,” and by serve, he means protect, respect, befriend, love. All of these things at once. These things only he feels, only he sees, but he will carry on achieving all the same. Maybe he can’t say that Arthur and he are friends, but serve is a verb he can use, in public, too, without anyone knowing what it truly means to him. It’s safe. A safe way to contain his affections for Arthur. Serve. It’ll have to be enough for now and maybe forever.

That’s probably why he accepts Arthur’s lack of voiced apology later. Because he’s already accepted the truth of his reality, and knows that, no matter the number of times Arthur will hurt him with his words, he will carry on serving him. That’s specifically why he has to be the one to tell Arthur those terrible truths – because he, at least, will remain. He has no such faith in Arthur’s other men, nor does he want them to suffer from the sharpness of his words. He will remain. That is all that matters. Merlin can bear it. Because he knows that if it weren’t him, it would be somebody else. Arthur isn’t mad at him; simply mad at the bit of truth he brings with him. So long as he clings to that bit of certainty, he’ll be alright.

Only he isn’t.

The first time Arthur says it, the first time Arthur plainly speaks of banishment, Merlin is not fine. He tries to tell himself that these are just words, mere words, nothing more, but the coldness in Arthur’s tone forces him to question that thought. The other times Arthur got angry, his tone was filled with hot rage, and Merlin found comfort in that thought – comfort in the idea that Arthur’s heart was too hot with rage for him to register his words. And the wound of Merlin’s easy replacement with Cedric, that Merlin has so far done his best to ignore, is now reopening, bleeding at daylight.

Merlin had known that Arthur’s words would not be kind. Arthur had shot him a glance of warning, after all. And yet, still remembering the broken glint in Gwen’s eyes as she had left Camelot and the poor state her departure had left Arthur in, Merlin had said it regardless.

Except that you still love her.

Nothing could have prepared him for Arthur’s cold answer, though, nor for the way Arthur’s eyes had locked with his in unveiled threat.

You ever say anything like that again and I swear you’ll join her in exile forever.

Merlin isn’t sure what bothers him the most with those words. Arthur’s tone when he says them definitely comes as a shock, there’s no point denying it. But how Arthur swears, and forever, and exile… As soon as he hears the word, his throat goes dry, and terror fills his heart. His first reflex, as always, is to tell himself that Arthur doesn’t mean it. And yet, it sounded like a threat, did it not? You ever say anything like that again and…

Yes, definitely a threat.

And Arthur’s not one to throw empty threats.

Surely he will apologise. Not clearly, of course, but in one of his veiled ways to admit that he was wrong to speak in such a manner. Maybe something like, don’t take this as an invitation to quit your job, Merlin, or, you’re not leaving this kingdom without me, or else who knows how you would survive? Yes, surely Arthur will say something of the sort once he has calmed down. And yet, once again, Arthur did not seem possessed by rage. On the contrary, he was perfectly calm. For the last few days, Merlin’s noticed that his state has been one of cold anger. By speaking of Gwen, he had hoped to bring back the king he knew, the king who got angry and then apologised and was back to his normal self.

Arthur’s cold answer, however, shatters his hopes of bringing his friend back.

And Merlin – Merlin just can’t help thinking about the words. He can’t help recalling the scene, revisiting it inside his mind, and trying to put his finger on what he’s done wrong to cause Arthur to react in such an unlikely manner. He wonders if Arthur means the words. Join her in exile forever. Would he truly do that?

No. He shakes his head and forces himself to bury the words deep within him, forces the words into that secluded part of his mind made of I no longer require your services and guards! He tells himself not to think of the words for another second; what good will it achieve anyway? He will act as though Arthur had never uttered them; after all, Arthur wouldn’t want him to act any other way, would he? Surely he’s not expecting Merlin to submit himself to his authority all of a sudden. Surely this sudden threat of exile isn’t Arthur telling Merlin, change. That’s impossible. Besides, Arthur wouldn’t last a day without Merlin. He’s already sent Gwen away. He can’t send Merlin too. Merlin won’t let him.

And so he does his best not to treat Arthur any differently, because he knows that, as nonexistent as Arthur’s apologies might be, Arthur must have been pondering on the words he’s said, and is probably thanking Merlin, deep inside, for not behaving any differently. Merlin’s convinced of it.

A few days later, when Mithian comes to him and confides into him – one thing I’ve learned since being here is that Arthur values your opinion above almost all others –, Merlin expects his heart to be filled with joy and even pride, as it probably would have a few years back; instead, inexplicable bitterness almost makes him choke, and all he can utter is, “oh”. Mithian smiles, probably mistaking Merlin’s confusion for humility and genuine surprise. “Even if he’d be the last person to admit it,” she adds. “You can say that again,” Merlin’s bitterness replies, but he quickly chases that sardonic voice out of his mind, and once he’s finally able to think properly again, yes, he is happy. Things finally appear to be back to normal. He’s even beginning to wonder whether Arthur’s words were truly pronounced with such coolness to his tone; perhaps there had been a bit of rage in it, after all. Maybe Arthur can’t even remember uttering the words. You’re fooling yourself, the sardonic voice chants. But he ignores it.

Arthur and he go back to bickering, and when he finds Gwen, Merlin has no doubt in his heart that Arthur will forgive her. Things will go back to the way they used to be: Gwen will find Arthur, Arthur will acknowledge the gap left by her absence, and they’ll go back to loving each other. Things will go back to normal, and Merlin will be able to forget the words once and for all. But Gwen is hurt, and guilty, and Gwen won’t come back. Merlin feels like he is losing her all over again, and learning of Agravaine’s betrayal finally confirmed, in addition to the pain and the revolt over the injustice of Gwen’s fate, makes adrenaline pour through Merlin’s veins as he rushes into the castle to find Arthur. Tell him of the danger, Gwen said. And he will. He must. Arthur values your opinion above almost all others, Mithian told him. Arthur will believe him. Merlin is sure of it now. He will tell Arthur, Agravaine’s deceitfulness will be revealed, and Merlin will find a way to convince Gwen to come back. They will have the Albion they deserve. They will.

He no longer thinks about revealing his magic and getting the gratitude he always thought he deserved; those are just selfish thoughts of his, wishful thinking that is no longer a priority to Merlin nor to the future of Albion. The priority, at this instant, is to free Camelot of Agravaine’s treachery, bring Arthur and Gwen back together, and let Arthur be the fair ruler he is destined to be.

When he comes to Arthur, he is too confident. That’s his mistake. You defy me? You defy your king? Merlin doesn’t let the words faze him. He must simply ignore them, as he always has. That’s what Arthur would have him do if he knew of the truth. Yes, I do, Merlin’s tone is certain, he can’t wait for Arthur to know, can’t wait for Arthur to see –

The papers are still there.

Can we please –

Merlin tries, he genuinely tries, but Arthur will have none of it.

One more word out of you, and I swear to God I will send you into exile.

Merlin can’t process the words. He doesn’t get it. It doesn’t make sense. Mithian said –

Arthur values your opinion above almost all others.

How can he – why – what has he done wrong? Surely his word is worth more than Agravaine’s, and so it doesn’t matter whether the papers are here, does it? Surely his word is enough, it must be!

Values your opinion above almost all others.

And then he gets it. Almost all others. Now, it is clear that Agravaine is part of this almost. Clear that so long as Agravaine will be here, in Camelot, his word – Morgana’s word – will forever counter Merlin’s. Clear that, with Agravaine here, there is absolutely nothing Merlin can do. For Agravaine, Arthur would do anything. For Agravaine, Arthur would banish Lancelot, banish Gwen – banish Merlin?

Now Merlin knows that the little bit of trust that Arthur still held for him, he has destroyed on this very night.

And he just can’t forget the words.

They haunt him. Day and night, they haunt him. It’s not like that the other times. The other times, Merlin didn’t have time to think upon the words, what with Artur’s life being on the line and all. There was always something more important, always some priority. And so Merlin’s learnt to forget the words, to bury them deep inside him, dedicating his mind to more pressing matters. He’s done so with the memories, done so with the magic, done so with his pain… he vaguely wonders how many other parts of him he will have to bury to be up to the task.

All he knows is that, all of these memories that he’s isolated and vowed never to bring back again… they’re here now. They’re back. He’s got time to think, too much time, and plenty of memories to fill the hours.

He understands that this time, there’ll be no apology, veiled or unveiled. Arthur won’t go back on the words he said. He’ll just assume that Merlin forgot them, or learned to live with them. To him, the case is closed.

To Merlin, is has only just begun to open, and the memories are flowing out. Involuntarily, Arthur has opened a door Merlin no longer knows how to close. Those memories – he won’t be able to bury them this time, won’t be able to keep them contained, and he doesn’t even know if he wants to contain them! Doesn’t even know if he would dare to do so, not with the risk of Arthur bringing them back some other day, with another careless comment about banishment. It would only take one word to make them emerge, after all – only one cursed word. And Arthur wouldn’t realise, Arthur wouldn’t care, but banishment – the mere word fills Merlin’s entire being with dread.

He knows it’s not the pyre, knows there’s much worse, but banishment would mean staying away from Arthur forever – and, as pathetic as that might sound, he thinks he would rather die than let that happen. It is clear that the feeling is not reciprocated, clear that in Arthur’s eyes, he will never come first. There’ll always be people coming before him, and he’s made peace with that long ago – but if even Agravaine can come before him, then anyone could, no? Anyone could replace him. Call Merlin a traitor and have Arthur get rid of him. Anyone could.

Merlin no longer feels safe in Camelot.

The rest of the day, Merlin feels sick. He can’t think properly. As always when his pain catches up with him, he can feel the grief left by the loss of his loved ones clutching as his heart more acutely than usual. More than ever, he wishes he could be near them. Wishes he could speak to Lancelot once more, to the real Lancelot – Arthur won’t allow his knights to speak of him since the episode with the shade –, wishes he could tell him everything and relish in the certainty that Lancelot will believe him, that he will not doubt him. He wishes he could go and see his father, let his arms embrace him one more time and beg him to let him come with him, learn of the ancient gift. He wishes he could find Freya, hold her close, be himself and have her hold him dear for who he is, who he truly is; wishes he could apologise for not saving her, apologise for not letting her be his priority, his first. Finally, he wishes he could meet Will in Ealdor, run in the woods, just the two of them, and then sit in a tree and show him his ‘magic tricks’ – that’s what Will liked to call them. He wishes he could see Will’s eyes brighten in wonder at the sight of the flower growing in Merlin’s palms, ask if he can touch it, ask how it feels. He wants Will to look at him and say, you’re worth it, and don’t let that prat make you think otherwise. He even wishes Aithusa were here, wishes he could go to her and tell her that it’s alright to be different, that it doesn’t make you any less worthy of love and affection, and smile in the certainty that at least he was done one thing right. He wishes he could talk to the old Morgana, the young Morgana with kindness in her eyes, and whisper at her: I have magic, too. I’m like you. Because now it’s too late, now they’ll never be alike. Some part of him even wishes he had gone to Arthur after the Cornelius Sigan episode, spoken clearly of how he felt, and told him, quite frankly, that ‘serving’ him was simply not enough. Wishes he had told him, bluntly, of all that he had done, and said, that’s enough.

But it’s too late for any of that.

And now he’s stuck – stuck in that reality that no longer pleases him, a reality that has stopped pleasing him a very long time ago.

Now he is stuck, and there’s no one coming to save him, is there? There’s no one, because the only ones who would have come for him are all dead now. Lancelot, Balinor, Freya, Will, even Morgana – they’re all gone. And oh, does he miss them. It’s funny, in some twisted way, to think that all those that are dead knew about Merlin’s magic. They all knew that Merlin was different, and they all loved him for it. The only ones who knew him, who knew the real Merlin, with gold in his eyes and blood on his hands and tears on his cheeks, are gone. And Merlin thinks, maybe it’s a sign. A cruel sign that he is doomed to remain on his own, unknown by his loved ones… forever. He is beginning to think that that’s the way things are meant to be, that that’s the way things will always be. For once, the sardonic voice inside doesn’t say a word. It probably knows that Merlin’s opinions are starting to converge with its own. He’s done too many mistakes, and now he will pay for them by remaining alone for the rest of his life. The gods have given him countless chances of loving and being loved, and he has failed everyone. Now they’re done giving him chances.

The first night after Arthur’s promise, Merlin has a panic attack.

Later, once Gaius has calmed him, the physician explains that Merlin was screaming, kicking, struggling to breathe and calling the names of the people he knew. Merlin pretends he doesn’t remember, but he does. He fell asleep, and had a dream. In the dream, Arthur was lighting a pyre, Agravaine was laughing in the background, Gwaine and Gaius were hanged, and Merlin was tied to the pyre. He tells Gaius he doesn’t remember what happened. He already hates himself enough for worrying him; he won’t bother him with his dreams as well.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Merlin?”

He’ll have to go back to Arthur on the morrow. Act as if nothing had happened – or, on the contrary, act accordingly to what has happened. How must he act? He hasn’t got the faintest idea what to do. For the first time in his life, he hasn’t got the faintest idea how to behave in the presence of Arthur.

He is terrified.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

He doesn’t sleep a wink that night.

“Have you not slept, Sire?” Exile, exile, exile. “Is there anything you need?”

Please say no, he thinks with all his strength. Please say no. Please say no.

He keeps getting flashes of the images that appeared inside his mind all night. Flashes of Lancelot at the veil, of Freya at the lake, of Will in Ealdor, of Balinor in the forest, of Morgana in the throne room, of Arthur in Agravaine’s rooms – and, somehow, he feels like he’s lost him, too. Because never before had Arthur spoken of banishment, never.

And he can’t stop the flashes – whether his eyes are opened or close, they come and distort his reality. He wishes they would just go.

“How can I love someone who’s betrayed me?” Merlin closes his eyes, feeling very sick and struggling to focus on Arthur’s words. He tries to, with all the strength he has left, but the word – it keeps haunting him, never relenting.

Merlin’s mind is blank, apart from the images that keep flashing in there, and it suddenly feels as though his heart had somehow closed itself to the king.

And yet Arthur just keep – talking.

“How can I make myself love another?”

It’s hell. This whole situation is hellish.

Exile, exile, exile.

Merlin forces himself to focus on his surroundings, and sees that Arthur isn’t even looking at him, so maybe he hasn’t noticed his presence yet, maybe he’s just thinking aloud, maybe Merlin still has time to leave –

“Tell me that.”

The command makes Merlin flinch, and it takes all of his will not to scream.

Tell me that.

Leave my kingdom.

He speaks. “If there is nothing else that you require, perhaps I could–“

“I don’t know what to do.” He tries not to look at Arthur, but it’s almost as hard as avoiding his gaze. Arthur’s lost and turns to him for guidance, and the voice inside Merlin chuckles; can’t he see that Merlin’s even more lost than he is? Arthur himself chuckles, somehow cynically. “I have no idea… what to do.”

That makes two of us, then.

“What should I do, Merlin?”

Hearing his own name makes him flinch once more.

Tell me that, Merlin.

Leave my kingdom, Merlin.

Out of my sight, Merlin.

He shivers.

Then realises that Arthur is still waiting for an answer.

He wants to leave this room. He needs to leave this room. And so he looks inside his mind and searches for the truth, searches for words, ideas, memories, anything, that will answer Arthur’s question and guarantee he won’t speak of banishment again.

It would only take one wrong word, Merlin knows it. He has to be careful now.

And he looks inside his mind and looks for the truth, looks for words, anything, to answer Arthur’s question and make sure he won’t speak of banishment again. Even refusing to answer could bring that word up, and Merlin can already hear Arthur say, answer or I’ll banish you.

His breath is quickening. He has to find something to say. Now.

Gwen. Think about Gwen.

Finally, he finds a bit of truth, and says it.

“All I know, my lord,” the title hurts his lips, but not as much as Arthur’s name would have, “is that no one would sacrifice more for Camelot or you than Gwen.” He doesn’t bother to mention his own loyalty – it’s obvious that he does not matter. In Arthur’s trust, he’ll never be first. And as for the loyalty, he prides himself in being the most loyal man Arthur will ever encounter, but knows that things must remain this way: unvoiced. As they’ve always been. His own loyalty does not matter. It never will. He will forever remain on the side, by the Round Table as well as in Arthur’s heart, because this is how things must be. It’s the only way they can be. He knows that now. He’s learnt his lesson.

And he means the words – he means it when he speaks of Gwen’s devotion and love, because Gwen is devoting and caring. In a small corner of his mind, though, he prides himself into thinking that no one, absolutely no one, would and has sacrificed more for Camelot and Arthur than Merlin himself. And this little bit of recognition, he thinks, will have to be enough, because it’s all he’ll ever get.

He doesn’t speak of his own devotion – what would be the point? Each time he does, Arthur simply shakes his head and smiles, save for some rare moments when Merlin’s devotion is all that he has left, and even at those moments, Merlin’s pretty sure that he looks at him and pretends that it’s Gwen, one of his knights, one of his people, instead of his lazy manservant. That’s what gives him faith.

Let at least Gwen have a chance to receive Arthur’s gratitude and respect; the gods know she deserves it. Let her have a chance to have what he cannot. There’s no one he would rather see in this role.

Besides, it’s not Merlin’s devotion Arthur wants. He doesn’t care for it.

This if about Gwen, and it must remain about her.

“And if that were so?” Arthur asks, tone indecipherable. Merlin can fee his eyes on him, and he panics. Why is Arthur looking at him? He didn’t say anything about his own devotion, did he? Of course, he thought it, but surely he did not say it aloud…

Arthur’s asked him another question, he quickly realises.

“You must do what your heart tells you, Sire.” There’s nothing else he can say.

“What if I don’t know what that is?”

Merlin shakes his head and smiles sadly. Arthur can’t see him; he’s not looking at him anymore.

Now, Merlin knows he never will.

“I think you do,” he replies. Everyone knows, he thinks. Gwen is in there. Let her remain.

And he hopes, for her sake, that she will never give as much of herself as Merlin has for Arthur and Albion. That is his job, not hers, and he doesn’t wish it upon anyone.

He cannot stay in this room for another second.

“Is there anything else, Sire?”

“You may go.”

Thank God.

“Thank you, Merlin.”

And these words, that would once have been sufficient to bring a timid smile to young Merlin’s lips, are suddenly not enough, and make him feel nothing. Nothing, because Merlin knows now, deep in his heart, that this is as far as Arthur’s gratitude will go.

Maybe these words, for Arthur, are a semblance of an apology; a way to say, we’re even, and now things can finally go back to normal. But they can’t. Not on Merlin’s side. And besides, they weren’t even normal to begin with, were they? He’s made him peace years ago with the idea of having to live in the shadows, provided that one day, he tell Arthur all about it. But now? Now, realises how naïve he used to be. Arthur will never see him for who he really is. Arthur won’t even look at him.

But he did just thank him, and Merlin knows he ought to feel joy, at least for old time’s sake. And so he digs into his memories as fiercely as he can, thinks of Gwen and the warmth of her heart, and the only joy he can muster in the end is joy at the idea of Gwen and Arthur finally finding happiness again. The taste of it is bittersweet, but at least id doesn’t make Merlin want to scream and tear his heart into a million pieces. For now, that will have to be enough.

All he’s got to do now is find a way to get rid of all these flashes inside his head, because they’re becoming unbearable.

Agravaine – Agravaine knows that he knows, and when they meet in the corridors, he gives Merlin that look – that triumphant look that says, there’s nothing you can do, boy. Merlin hates him. Does he envy him? Maybe a little. He wonders how he managed to win Arthur’s absolute trust, and finds it terribly ironic that the man Arthur trusts most in this world should also be the one who’s most likely to stab him in the back. In the meanwhile, Gwen and him, who love him the most, have been exiled or might soon be.

The following day, Arthur is still troubled, but he’s pensive. Had Merlin been less troubled himself, he would have jumped on the occasion to knock some sense into him, since those are the moments during which Arthur’s the most receptive to advice, but he remains silent. For the whole day, he’s been trying to drown the nightmares and the memories by keeping himself busy doing chores, even staying awake all night to do just that. He has barely eaten because of the constant lump in his throat, and he has yet to feel the consequences on his body; for now, he barely feels the lack of sleep and food. He just feels – empty. As though he were floating, drifting from place to place, but barely conscious of it. He vaguely thinks of exile, and wedlock, and broken promises. His thoughts are confused, but his body is not. He has barely been that efficient before.

He learns that Arthur will not, in the end, marry Mithian. Arthur’s waiting for him in his chambers, and Merlin knows he can’t just show up like that – surely Arthur will await answers, reassurance and guidance, and Merlin’s in no state to provide any of these. He quickly concocts himself a tonic, then heads for Arthur’s chambers, feeling in a less sorry state. On his way to the king’s room, he does his best to wrap his heart in ideals of the happiness that awaits Gwen and Arthur, dismissing the images of exile and betrayal that want to follow. He knows that Arthur’s change of heart isn’t due to Merlin – Gwen’s marriage ring was the sole trigger, and Merlin merely an instrument –, and so when he knocks at the door and enters, his mind is free of illusions: this is about Gwen and Arthur.

“Have I been a fool? To give up so much for somebody – for a woman who betrayed me? A – a woman who I might not even see again?”

Merlin can’t help but wonder what will happen when – because there will be a when, he is certain of it now, and relieved that at least one thing right has come out of this terrible enterprise – Gwen comes back. Will Arthur banish him then, at the slightest impudence? He won’t need Merlin any longer when she’ll be back, that much is certain. Hardly needs him now, with Agravaine by his side. Obviously, Merlin must stay for now, since Agravaine cannot be trusted and will turn against Camelot any chance he’ll get, but once Gwen is back, then Merlin won’t be needed.

Perhaps… perhaps that’s where Merlin’s destiny is meant to end.

Perhaps, once Gwen and Arthur will be reunited once and for all, his duty to Albion will be over, and the gods will expect from him that he leave, never to return.

Suddenly, the idea of leaving isn’t as unbearable as it originally was. At least if he leaves, then Arthur won’t get the chance to banish him. The thought makes him shiver.

“You will see her again,” Merlin promises, keeping his voice low and respectful. He is careful with what he says now. Some part of him still hopes that Arthur will notice, and frown, and asks him to be Merlin again, not this dutiful servant whose mask he’s wearing. He hopes that Arthur will be annoyed with his behaviour, that he will even come to regret his words. He wants to punish Arthur… and yet he is also the first to reassure him, because he can’t bear seeing him so upset. “You did the right thing, my lord.” The voice inside him roars with laughter. Oh, it’s back. “As I knew you would.”

Sire… My lord…

The voice thinks Merlin’s behaviour is hilarious.

“And how could you be so sure?”

“Because…” And, with horror, Merlin realises that the answer comes naturally, even after all the pain Arthur’s words have put him through. “You’re Arthur. You’re noble. You’re the Once and Future King.” You still are to me. Even from the other edge of this world, I would call you this.

“Doomed to be a bachelor.” Merlin forces a laugh, but it comes out strangled. Arthur doesn’t seem to notice. He never notices. “What’s the point of loving someone who cannot be found?” Merlin can feel Arthur’s eyes on him, which is quite surprising, but he knows that just because Arthur’s looking doesn’t mean he’s watching.

He catches Arthur staring at him, quite often, as though seeing something no one else could see, but he’s not a fool: he perfectly knows that at these moments, Arthur wishes Gwen were there, standing beside him in his stead. It all comes back to Gwen in the end – not that he resents her for it, of course. How could he?

“Gwen will be found. You will find each other.” Merlin feels dizzy, and he thinks, that’s my last promise to you.

For some reason, Arthur speaks of wisdom and prattling fools. If you had been paying closer attention, you would have noticed that I have not ben prattling for a very long time. He winces when he knocks over a chamber pot, and Arthur teases.

Merlin doesn’t laugh, but he takes advantage of Arthur’s distraction to quietly leave the room. The king doesn’t call him back.

“You’re not eating, Merlin.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’ve just–“

“Got a lot in your mind?” Gaius guesses, a small smile stretching his lips.

“Something like that,” Merlin mutters.

When Gaius’s eyebrow quirks, his face adopting an air of suspicion, he knows he is doomed. “Strange. I would have thought this to be a peaceful time for you. No attempts on Arthur’s life… A princess coming to visit…”

Merlin searches for an answer that won’t raise further suspicions. “Ah, you know me, Gaius. Nothing kills me more than boredom.”

For once, he almost wishes there could be a murderer hidden somewhere so he could keep busy at least. Almost wishes he had buried Arthur’s words as soon as he had heard them, just like he did all the other times.

But, truth be told, this moment would have come, sooner or later. And already after Cornelius Sigan, Merlin stopped seeing things in a golden light.

“Are you sure, my boy?”

“Huh?” He glances up, frowning. “Oh, yeah. ‘M just tired, that’s all. I think I’ll… turn in for the night. G’night, Gaius.”

“Sleep well, Merlin.”

He does not sleep well. Does not sleep at all, truth be told.

He’s agitated. His mind just won’t go to rest. The voice won’t shut up. The images won’t stop flashing.

But now, added to the pyre comes another fear. Exile.

A fear he’d never anticipated before, because he’d never thought it would come to happen. Not to him, not to Merlin.

And yet, here he stands today. Pathetically repeating the words his king has told him, and using them to feed his awoken nightmares.

And the images just – flash.

Endlessly.

A lonely rider, leaving Camelot. Exile.

A body convulsing in flames. Pyre.

A warlock wandering in the wild, going to Ealdor, the Isle of the Blessed, the Lake of Avalon, the cave of Balinor, and remembering, each time, the ones he’s lost. Solitude.

Now he can put names on his demons, but it doesn’t make them any easier to defeat.

“That’s it. I’m giving you a potion to sleep. This cannot go on any longer, Merlin!”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine, Gaius.”

“Fine? Merlin, you look like you haven’t slept for three months!”

Only a week, he thinks. “It’s fine,” he replies.

“Merlin.” Gaius’s voice softens. “What’s the matter?”

“What’s it like? Life in banishment?” he asks instead of answering the question.

“Oh, my boy. You’re thinking about Balinor, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Merlin lies. It’s not a complete lie, is it?

“Oh, it was hard, no doubt, but Hunith – Hunith was a ray of sunlight in your father’s life. And so were you.” He rests his hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

Was I? Merlin thinks bitterly. Were it not for me, he’d still live.

He smiles. “You’re probably right.” Grabs his bag. “Well, I’m off!”

He should leave.

He’s got an itinerary written in his mind already. First, he’ll go to Avalon, say hi to Freya. Then he’ll go to Ealdor, go to his mother, share memories of Will and go to his tomb. He’ll convince Gwen to go back to Camelot, to go back to Arthur. He’ll go to the Isle of the Blessed, try to make peace with his magic and apologise to Lancelot. Finally, he’ll go to the cave where his father lived and learn as much as he can about the ancient arts. He won’t go back to Camelot after that. He’ll write letters, of course. Letters to Gwen, letters to Gaius, letters to Gwaine and to the knights. It’ll be a good life. Not a particularly meaningful one, but he no longer wants meaningful. He’s done with all of this.

Yes, he’ll leave. He’s sure of it now. It’ll be better – better for everyone. He can’t help noticing that Gaius and Hunith are the last to know of his magic, and couldn’t bear losing them too. The furthest he’ll be, the safest they’ll remain. And as for Arthur… Arthur will be alright. He’ll have his loved ones to support him. They’ll do what Merlin no longer can.

“Why do you mistrust Agravaine so?”

“What?” Merlin isn’t sure he’s heard Arthur properly.

“You’ve heard me. Why do you distrust my uncle?”

My uncle. Probably a way of reminding Merlin of who Agravaine is, and of the spot he occupies in Arthur’s heart. As if Merlin could possibly forget.

He must be careful with what he says next.

That’s probably one of Arthur’s veiled ways of offering him a chance at redemption, a chance to prove that he is still faithful to him.

“I don’t – I never said anything like that.” Coward, coward.

Arthur has an odd sort of smile, the sort of smile he reveals when faced with something absurd, something he can’t quite fathom out. “Of course you did.”

“Did not.”

“Merlin, do you think me daft?” Arthur’s tone is teasing, and yet Merlin’s whole being freezes at the words.

“Course not.”

“Right… so now I know there’s definitely something wrong with you.” He looks at Merlin more closely. “Have you slept?”

Irritated, Merlin quickly shakes his head. “Course I slept.” He clears his throat. “If there’s nothing else you need…”

Arthur raises a hand. “Wait.” Merlin wishes he would just look away. “Don’t lie to my face, Merlin.”

Merlin’s retort is immediate, so instant that he can’t refrain it. “Or what? You’ll send me away?”

Silly as it might be, he can’t seem to pronounce the words exile or banishment out loud.

“Send you away – what the hell is that supposed to mean, Merlin?”

Everything. “Nothing.” He sighs. “May I leave now?”

He doesn’t wait for Arthur’s answer to take his leave, and later finds comfort in the idea that there’s nothing Arthur can do to him that hasn’t already been done to Merlin a thousand times over in his dreams.

“I know it’s hard, Merlin.”

“Huh?”

“Not being able to tell Arthur about… about you know what.”

Merlin frowns. “No, it’s alright.”

“Merlin, you can talk to me. It is perfectly normal to want gratitude–“

“I’m not sure Arthur would be grateful, as a matter of fact.”

“Merlin?”

“Why, it’s true. Maybe he’d be mad and accuse me of betrayal. Besides, would he even believe me?” He swallows with difficulty. “You know, Gaius, I’m starting to think that maybe this is for the best.”

“But – Merlin, years ago, you just couldn’t wait to tell him, to have Arthur know you for who you really are–“

“Years ago, I was naïve. I didn’t know Arthur as much as I do now. I believed only in the tales Kilgharrah fed me, which were quite utopian, come to think of it.”

“Merlin, don’t tell me you’ve lost faith.”

“Course not. I still believe Arthur will be the greatest king this land will ever know. Don’t worry, Gaius.” I’m just not sure I’m the one meant to get him there. He smiles. Gaius smiles back, a little uncertainly.

“He needs you. Arthur needs you. Never forget that.”

“I won’t.” He barley listens to the words. He’s already thinking of when he ought to leave, and what he should do about Agravaine. Perhaps if Gwen were to tell him about it – but he wouldn’t wish Arthur’s cruel words upon her either…

He needs to think of a solution.

After another one of Merlin’s evasive answers, Arthur snaps.

“I didn’t hire you for your flattery, Merlin! I hired you for truth.”

“You didn’t hire me, your father did. After I saved your life.”

“Your point, Merlin?”

“Just stating facts. Sire.”

“Well,” Arthur shakes his head, “if you’re going to use facts, maybe I should remind you that I rehired you after the Valiant incident.”

Valiant incident. Merlin resists the urge to scoff. “Yes, you did rehire me, Sire.” After I saved your life. Again.

Arthur quirks an eyebrow, suspicious. “Saved my life?”

“Huh?” He realises he spoke aloud. “I just meant – I told you about him. That’s all.”

“That’s true. Thank you for reminding me, Merlin.”

For the rest of the morning, Arthur’s eyes keep darting back to Merlin, and his face is thoughtful. Merlin tries not to meet his gaze and to think of the travel that awaits him. Agravaine keeps casting him triumphant looks. He knows he’s being protected by his nephew, so he doesn’t even bother with being discreet. Merlin thinks it’s ridiculous.

He figures he should try to write a goodbye letter or something of the sort for Arthur.

He begins writing at night, but is hardly ever satisfied with the result.

The first letter is too bitter.

Sire,

Will your pride forever come before my word? If so, I can carry on no longer.

“The immortal army.”

“Huh?”

“It was said that Morgana defeated it. The first one, that is. But it couldn’t be her, could it? If she had already been turned against us…”

“Maybe she was still on our side back then.”

“Hm.”

The second, too sentimental.

Arthur,

You’ve always been the one who mattered the most. Surely you must know how much you mean to me, how much you’ll always mean to me. You must live, Arthur.

“We never really did know what happened to Morgause, did we?”

“I guess not. Does it matter? The point is she’s gone.”

“Maybe.”

The third, too self-deprecating.

My lord,

I tried, I swear that I tried. I tried to save them. It just wasn’t enough. And now, I’m not enough. But it’s alright. I’m going. You don’t need me. I hope you and Gwen find happiness together.

“Remember the Questing Beast, Merlin?”

“Vaguely.”

“No one is supposed to survive their bite. But I did.”

“You’re strong, Sire.”

“And yet you, skinny as a rake, survived the Dorocha’s touch. We must be quite special, you and I.”

The fourth, much too insolent.

Your Highness,

I’ve done my bloody share, and now I’m just done. You threatened to banish me. Threatened twice. So now I’m going, and I won’t return.

“I felt a strength push me at the veil… before Lancelot took my place. Some strength knocked me out.”

“Probably the magic of the place, my lord.”

“The magic of the place. Do you really think that’s possible?”

“I wouldn’t know, Sire.”

The fifth sounds like something a love-sick teenager could write, and Merlin is ashamed to even lay eyes upon it.

You were always my priority, but I was never yours, was I? Paradoxically, I was always yours, period – and you, never mine’

“Will, your friend – he must be a talented sorcerer. Not as talented as Emrys, of course, but still.”

“Warlock. Was born with it. Wait, what? Emrys?”

“Isn’t he one of the greatest warlocks to live or something? Agravaine asked Gaius about him a few months past.”

“Oh, yes, he did.”

“Mh-hm. Do you remember Dragoon the Great? Gaius spoke of him as well. It seems we’re all surrounded with sorcerers, and have no idea about it.”

The dozen letters that follow are flawed as well. Merlin just can’t seem to find the right words. He’s got much to say, and no idea how to phrase it. It’s hard, to write about things he has so far only allowed himself to think of inside his mind. Hard to place words on something he has always done his best to ignore.

One night, though, the night before his planned departure, the words come to him, and so he writes. He’ll leave on the morrow, he’s decided. Arthur left the city during the day and shouldn’t come back until the next evening, which should give Merlin plenty of time to flee Camelot. He’ll flee a coward, but he cares little for any of that. All he will do, after all, is prove Arthur right.

I’m done being brave, he thinks.

He is rather satisfied with the result of the letter. It doesn’t seem like he is wallowing in self pity, nor is it filled with bitterness. It’s truth. One part of himself wants Arthur to read it, while the other dreads that possibility. He decides to leave the letter on his desk, among the drafts. He’ll decide where to place it on the morrow, when he leaves.

In the meantime, he’ll wander about the castle and try to memorise the shapes of these walls he is likely never to see again. He won’t be able to sleep that night anyway; he might as well go for a walk, no? His heart aches terribly at the idea of leaving Arthur, but the truth is, things can’t remain that way. And if he does nothing, Merlin will fade. He will fade in the background, become a mere wall to Arthur’s eyes, and the gods only know what he will become to his own eyes. He has already begun losing himself for the last few days, and that can carry on no longer. He won’t sleep. He’ll barely eat. He can’t keep up at this pace. He’ll fade.

The terror – it’s draining him. Exhausting him. And he won’t be able to hold on for much longer, much less to keep hiding it. He’s had enough of the nightmares, and the voice, and the way his heart breaks each time Arthur mentions either Agravaine or Gwen. He’s had enough of not being enough, of not being first. He gave up everything for Arthur, gave up on everything he had, but he won’t manage to continue unless Arthur starts giving him something in return. And he knows that such a thing is not likely to happen; because, as much as Merlin might be ready to give up everything for Arthur, Arthur isn’t ready to do the same. Once upon a time, he thought that he could bear to remain by Arthur’s side, forever unseen, simply ‘serving’, but that was a time of gleaming ideals and young sparks of courage. Besides, back then, he thought he’d at least have Arthur’s trust, if nothing else. Even without his gratitude, even without his recognition, he’d have his trust, and it would have to be enough. It would have been enough. All those years, it’s been enough – the sole certainty that there’s no one Arthur would trust more with his life, with his kingdom, with his soul, than Merlin.

And now he’s learnt that even that, Arthur won’t yield to him. He’s learnt that he is to remain on the side, forever.

And he can’t.

Won’t.

He can’t spend his life fearing to hear Arthur breathe another word about exile. He can’t spend his days controlling each word and each movement, and spend his nights staying awake to avoid catching nightmares. He’s being haunted by the pyre, by banishment, by solitude, and he has to let go. To do that, he must go.

And the sooner will be the better.

There’s no point in waiting for something that will never come. Once, he waited for the day of his magic’s reveal. Then all he wanted was the proof of Arthur’s trust. Now, he understands that he will get neither of those things, and will end up with nothing. He arrived in Camelot with nothing but his gifts, and now he must leave with both his gifts and his memories.

He tries to convince himself that he’s lucky – after all, he has spent year at the side of Arthur Pendragon. He is grateful for that. Sincerely, he is. But this has to end now.

As he walks by the stocks, he remembers all those times he’s spent, locked in there, particularly that very first time, and blushes at the memory of Gwen coming to him with laughter in her eyes – most people call me idiot.

As he walks through the yard, he remembers a young Arthur with sunlight in his hair, throwing dagger after dagger and speaking words of mockery through his bursts of laughter. A young Merlin joins the scene, stops the shield with his foot, and – come on, that’s enough. He’s met his soulmate.

As he walks through the corridors, he remembers an Arthur with a smug grin directed at Merlin – what a man does in his spare time is completely up to him…

As he walks down the stairs to the vaults, he remembers a young Merlin facing a dragon with a voice full of faith, and a sentence he has heard all too often comes echoing inside his mind, like a distant childhood theme – a half cannot truly hates that which makes it whole…

And the sentences come spinning inside his mind, one after the other, regardless of his will.

You’re like two sides of a same coin.

Why do you think he came? For Merlin.

He likes you!

He is the Once and Future King.

Merlin shakes his head, and starts when he recognises the throne room, which he has just entered. It is entirely empty. As he lets his eyes wander about the room, he can see Arthur sitting at that throne, eyes filled with love and gratitude, always for his people. Can see his people staring back at him, in awe of his greatness. Can see Arthur smile, in that solemn yet warm smile of his, promising them justice and equality.

Quickly, the scene becomes more and more concrete in Merlin’s mind, the details piling up one after the other, and he chooses to allow himself this one last fantasy: with his magic, Merlin reconstructs the scene, using tones of Pendragon red and gleaming gold. He paints it. The two colours, he finds, fit quite well together. Merlin can feel his eyes blaze gold as he manipulates colours and shapes alike, allowing this dream he has believed in for so long to finally to life, just one time. It is magnificent. The painting unravels all around him, surprisingly smoothly, and it takes him a while to realise that it is no longer he who conjures the images – his magic is. It is as though it had a mind of its own, as though it no longer needed Merlin’s directions to know what to paint, leaving Merlin a sole spectator to the scene unrolling in front of him. And at this moment, more than ever, Merlin can feel that his magic is no mere tool. It lives, creates, dreams. It’s everything, present in every bit of earth and stone, spreading its light into every corner and every piece of wall. The entire throne room is bathed into it, and Merlin feels like things were always meant to be that way. His magic was always meant to be here. And it doesn’t want to leave.

He understands that his magic is showing him what it wants to see come true, and so he lets it. He lets it work quietly, efficiently, naturally, and allows himself simply to stand back and watch. Merlin trusts his magic; he lets it trace chairs, candles, knights all around him, letting himself be wrapped into this dream one last time before he leaves. Finally, his magic can walk free. Magic is not only meant to deliver a deadly blow or light a fire, he understands. Sometimes, it just being here is enough. Sometimes, it simply breathing is enough. It doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Only to share. This is its purpose, he realises. The purpose of these great powers that he inherited at birth. To be released into the human world to make each thing, alive or otherwise, be more than just itself. Magic makes everything so more intense. And here, in this room, it is finally back where it belongs after having been banished for so long, finally back here, where it has always belonged, among the people and into their hearts… and so is Merlin.

So is Merlin, kneeling in front of Arthur, whose eyes are filed with warmth and wonder. Thank you, says Arthur, voice clear, for all to hear. Thank you, old friend. Arthur offers him a hand, and Merlin reaches for it and stands. Stands beside his king. Everyone can see it here; everyone in the room can see that this is where they both belong. Together. Two sides of the same coin, a distant voice rumbles. Merlin’s eyes are shining gold, but nobody seems to care. The whole scene is rubbed in ruby and gold anyway, animated by the very magic that animated Merlin himself. He is no longer on his own. Everyone can feel it now; perhaps not as strongly as he always does, but they can feel it all the same. Finally, people know. Finally, they’ve met with his magic, and they’ve adopted it. Merlin’s not so different now. Special, yes; but not out of place.

This is the best gift he could ever ask for. The best gift he could ever dream of.

The throne room is now bathed in a golden light, beautifully contrasting with the red of the knights’ cloaks, and Merlin can see Arthur’s hair shining gold, the colour similar to that of his own eyes. Red and gold are both present in the scene, but it is not a conflict; they are simply completing each other. Contrast is not a bad thing. It’s just – different. Merlin’s magic, the world’s magic, is embracing the place as it would greet an old friend; it is embracing the halls of a home in which it never thought it would be welcomed again. It is a reunion, an invitation of peace. Camelot has never been in such harmony before.

And Merlin thinks – this is the way it’s meant to be. The way it has always been meant to be. This is our way.

Finally, he has found a place where he belongs. And finally, his magic can breathe.

Arthur and Merlin are standing as equals. How could they not be, when they are each the half of the other?

Merlin wants to lose himself in that blissful scene, but he can’t. Deep down, it’s an illusion – he knows it is. A warlock’s fantasy. A fantasy that makes him feel safe, and loved, and better than he has felt in a very long time. He wonders what it would be like – for real, to be known and loved and embraced in such an unrestrained way. To have his magic run freely into the outer world. To simply know, deep within his heart, that he is loved, to know it as certainly as he knows that he is magic. To love with no fear. To live with no secrets. To live like a king. Merlin shakes his head, a tired smile tugging at his trembling lips. He’s seen too much to ever believe in that silly old expression again.

The vision he is surrounded with achieves what he has been unable to achieve for the last few days: bring peace to his soul.

This, he decides, is the state I want to be in when saying goodbye to Arthur.

There must be harmony in his heart when their souls part, harmony, not chaos. They both deserve as much. These are the best goodbyes he could ever hope to achieve. If there is harmony in his heart, then maybe he can convince himself that this is how their destiny was supposed to end. That this, is how things have always been meant to end. With the two sides of a same coin parting in peace.

And so he thinks of Arthur, of the magnificent king he is growing to be, and says goodbye.

He says goodbye to that prat he first met.

Says goodbye to his friend.

Goodbye to his king.

His other half.

When the men in the vision start chanting, long live the king, long live the king, magic flows inside the room, and Merlin, the real Merlin, not that shadow that seems realer than he currently is, breathes the air in deeply, this air oh so full of magic.

“Long live the king,” Merlin murmurs. “Try not to be too much of a clotpole in my absence, Arthur.”

“And how am I supposed to do that if you’re not around to show me how to?”

Merlin freezes.

Arthur – here – no!

Arthur’s tone sounds erratic, as if he were out of breath for some reason. Merlin slowly turns around to face him, albeit reluctantly, and sees the king take a few steps closer. The sound of his boots hitting the stone floor echoes inside the throne room. Merlin remains immobile, suddenly feeling very much like the deer on the other side of Arthur’s crossbow, and shivers as he remembers that Arthur’s got good aim. Extremely good aim.

The king is still wearing his long, red cloak, and Merlin vaguely registers a scent of horse, rain and dirt. His boots are staining the floor with mud, but Merlin doesn’t dare tell him as much. As he looks closely, he noticed that Arthur’s hair is tousled and that his jaw is tense. Despite his cold tone just now, Arthur looks furious. But his eyes, Merlin also notes, appear to be filled with an odd sort of anguish. His first thoughts are that Arthur’s concerned – after all, he often tends to hide his concern with a mask of rage. But why would he be? Has something happened? Is he injured?

As Merlin checks Arthur’s appearance once more, he sees that the king is holding his gloves with one hand, the other filled with… sheets of parchment.

Letters?

“What are you – shouldn’t you be – you weren’t supposed to come back–”

Merlin’s tone is weak and uncertain as he tries to catch a closer glimpse of the papers Arthur’s holding so as to establish whether or not these are his letters.

Maybe these are the plans of Camelot. Maybe he has finally found some proof to incriminate Agravaine with.

“Care to explain these, Merlin?”

Alright. Definitely the letters, then.

“I – I’d rather not,” he confesses. “Also, err – you’re not supposed to read them all. If you could just – give them to me, I’ll get rid of the wrong ones–“

“Not a chance.” Arthur’s tone is ice-cold. Unyielding.

And yet his eyes somehow seem to be calling for help.

Merlin doesn’t understand. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, really?” Arthur looks really exhausted. Did he eat properly today? “And will you stop – looking at me like that! I’m supposed to be mad at you!”

“Look at you like – like what?”

“Like you care.”

“Of course I care!”

The vision suddenly shakes, as though upset by Merlin’s current state of mind, and he nervously glances at Arthur. But Arthur is staring at him, not at the vision. And he does not seem bothered by the gold of his eyes.

Merlin doesn’t get it.

So far, things were simple. Not ideal, but simple.

And now, they’re not.

Why is Arthur doing this to him?

“Look, Arth – Sire.” Arthur’s eyes glare daggers at him and Merlin gulps. “Don’t – don’t read the letters. They don’t matter. All you need to remember is – Gwen’s in love with you. Agravaine’s a traitor. And I – I’m leaving.”

If he was hoping to cloud the issue, he failed terribly at it.

“No, you’re not.” Arthur looks determinedly certain of it, and Merlin is beginning to feel rather annoyed himself.

“I am.” When Arthur begins to open his mouth, Merlin interrupts. “I can’t stay here any longer! I’m not – I thought that I was strong enough, but I’m not. I’m not.” He shakes his head, tilting his head to hide from Arthur’s eyes. He can’t allow himself to break. Not here. Not now. “Arthur, I’m leaving.”

“You’re not. You’re not, or I swear to God, Merlin–”

Merlin laughs, and for once, his laugh is the same as that of the voice inside him. Sardonic. Tired. “Or what? You’ll banish me?” He almost spits the word, and yet congratulates himself to manage to say it aloud.

Avoiding the word won’t make it any less real, will it?

“Don’t be such a child, Merlin,” Arthur retorts, seemingly unbothered by Merlin’s words. “And don’t you dare being a coward either, because let me tell you, both names don’t suit you at all. Come here and face your words!”

“Oh, really? Now I’m not a coward?” Merlin can now feel anger start pouring inside his veins as he remembers the constant fear, the nightmares, the disappointed hopes, and wonders how Arthur can be so damn nonchalant about it.

“Another time, Merlin,” Arthur says, as though he were the only one legitimate in his anger. “Listen to me. Did you, or did you not, write these?”

Merlin says nothing, and so Arthur begins fidgeting, going over the short fragments of unfinished letters.

“Did you, or did you not, write, I quote, Sire, will your pride forever come before my word?”

“Look–“

“I swear that I tried, I tried to save them all. The question is simple, Merlin. Did you, or did you not, write these words?”

“Listen–“

“I’m afraid I can’t remain by your side any longer.”

As he continues reading the letters, Arthur’s tone seems to lose some of its initial indignation, softening as his eyes scan the words, but Merlin’s own anger is growing, and this brutal removal from this wonderful vision only reinforces this very anger.

“What’s that? I can barely read your handwriting. Ah… Sire, fear not, this is no heartbreak speech. My words aim not at causing guilt, or regret, or even love – merely at explaining the cause of my actions.”

Recognising the last letter that he wrote, Merlin interrupts Arthur to complete the letter he knows by heart. The letter, he thinks, and then goodbye.

“I’ve been thinking, and this has to end. I know what I wrote, Arthur. Year after year, I’ve kept you safe, and I like to think that I’ve kept you grounded as well. I’ve told you the truths you didn’t want to hear, and had to deal with your anger afterwards. I did it, because someone had to, and because some part of me was hoping to be rewarded with your trust in the end. Gaius himself claims that you trust me more than anyone in this world. For a while, I believed that to be true as well.” As he glanced up at Arthur, Merlin’s tone softens, the pain surging inside his chest. “I know now that this is not true. You probably trust me a little – how could you distrust a man who is ready to lose his life for yours? But I know now that every time you’ll look at me, you’ll see the young boy from our first meeting, a bit silly and a bit naïve. I’ve changed, though. I’m not that boy anymore. I’ve seen many things. I am not the warlock that I used to be, Sire. Now, I know my worth, which clearly you do not. Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that you do not need me here. I know now what I did not before: so long as I remain in Camelot, I will forever remain an idiot and never be a brave man, worthy of another’s trust. Not in your eyes, at least. And your opinion of me, Arthur, matters far more than any opinion ever should. You do not need me, Sire. You’re ready now – ready for the throne, ready for Albion. I’ve brought you and Gwen and the crown together – there is nothing left for me here. My destiny in this place is achieved, and I shan’t stay where I have no use, nor will I remain where my presence is clearly not desired. I can’t afford to be dispensable, Sire. I’m sorry, but I can’t. You’ll be a great king, Arthur. My advice to you is to learn to think before you speak your mind, and to avoid threatening your wife of banishment each time she says something that displeases you.

If you’ve still got a bit of trust for me, then you will do as I say and distrust Agravaine. He is not what he seems.

I’ve served you, Arthur, and I’m proud of it. But this – this is the way things have to be. I would rather end things well between us, than have our relationship progressively be shattered by bitterness and grudges.

Love, always and everywhere,

Merlin.”

Arthur is staring at him, his face a mixture of bewilderment and hurt, and Merlin doesn’t know what to make of it. So he makes for the door. However, Arthur’s voice cuts him in his movements.

“What about our future, then?”

Merlin almost laughs. “What future?”

The king wraps a hand around his servant’s wrist and forces him to safe the vision created by his magic. “This future.”

“Don’t you get it?” Merlin shakes his head. “It’s not a future, Arthur. It’s just a dream. Just another – another stupid fantasy of mine.” His voice breaks, and he knows that he must go, lest his whole being start breaking in front of Arthur. “A vision created by my magic.”

Many times in the past, he’s imagined how this moment would go, and he never would have thought it would go like that…

Nor would he have imagined that Arthur would remain unfazed despite how clear his words were. As if he already knew.

He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

Arthur’s grip on his arm is the only thing that’s keeping him grounded, and, soon enough, Merlin can see stars dancing in his sight. Conjuring this vision is exhausting him, and all he can see now are sparkles of gold and red spinning all around him.

“I… I…”

But before he can finish his sentence, his knees collapse under his weight, and he loses consciousness.

He doesn’t remain unconscious for long – at least he supposes so, since when he wakes next, Arthur and he are sat on the steps of the throne room, Arthur’s hands are constantly running across his body in nervous gestures. Merlin feels weak, he can’t deny that, and as he tilts his head upwards, he is surprised to see heated worry dancing in Arthur’s gaze. The king swears, then seems relieved when he sees that Merlin has cracked an eye open.

“Jesus – thank God, Merlin. What am I supposed to do? C’mon, let’s go to my rooms – get up, you lazy oaf.”

Merlin grasps Arthur’s sleeve and tries to grin. “M’fine,” he says.

Arthur’s eyes glare daggers at him. “You’re not.” Running his hands over Merlin’s face, he curses. “Why are you so cold? I leave you for one day, one single day, and when I come back, you’re like a living corpse. You – you dollophead.”

“Still my word.” Merlin grins, more easily this time.

“Doesn’t stop you from being one.”

Then Arthur stands and offers Merlin a hand. “Up you get,” he says as energetically as he can, obviously nervous, though Merlin can’t fathom why. It’s not like he’s Gwen. He’s just Merlin. He’ll be alright. He always is.

Besides, he’s been feeling ill before. He’s been stabbed plenty of times, so why is Arthur –

Oh.

That’s one of the rare times he’s been in such a state in front of Arthur, he guesses.

Though it still doesn’t explain why Arthur should care.

“Let’s have you, lazy daisy.”

“Ugh…”

“Don’t make me carry you.”

As Merlin finally stands up – not by the force of his own strength, but rather of Arthur’s – and sees stars dancing once more, he’s expecting Arthur to release him from his grip, but the king does no such thing. Instead, Arthur keeps his hands on him, urging him to lean all of his weight on him, and begins heading out of the throne room. Merlin is surprised by how gentle he is, obviously aware of Merlin’s dizziness and acting in consideration of it. All the while, he’s rubbing circles against Merlin’s skin with the hand he has wrapped around his servant’s waist, and Merlin reflects that he is half-carrying him already.

“Would you?” he asks.

Arthur shoots him one of many concerned look. “Would I what?”

“Carry me.”

“Jesus, your mind is even slower than it usually is,” Arthur reproaches him, though his tone lacks the heat. Merlin grows unfocused, wondering why he can see rubies floating all around him. Did he somehow invoke them? And why are the rubies gold? Arthur tightens his grip around his waist. Merlin can’t see where they’re going, but he follows him anyway. He would follow him anywhere, really. “Stay focused,” Arthur commands, clicking his fingers in front of Merlin’s eyes. “And I’ve carried you in the past, haven’t I?”

It takes Merlin a few seconds to realise what Arthur is talking about, and then he pokes an accusing finger at Arthur’s chest. “Not properly,” he mutters.

“Properly?” Arthur’s tone now seems amused, and Merlin is relieved to hear him teasing him. He likes that habit of theirs. It feels familiar. Feels like home.

“Properly,” Merlin repeats. “Your back isn’t a very comf – comforta – comforty spot.” He struggles to say the word, but Arthur seems to get it anyway, since Merlin hears him chuckle near him. The sound inexplicably soothes him.

“Want me to hold you in my arms like a damsel, Merlin?”

“You’re the one always ending up in distress,” Merlin retorts, feeling some of his wits coming back to him. “’M just saying, would be nice to switch the roles once in a while.”

He stumbles across some steps, but Arthur doesn’t allow him to fall.

“Hold on,” Arthur whispers into his ear, “we’re almost there.”

“Where to? The stables?”

“Why? Are you going to muck them out for me?”

Merlin shakes his head, and the gesture makes the floor shake. He feels light, all of a sudden. “Nope. Need a ho – horse.”

“Whyever would you need a horse, Merlin?” Arthur’s tone seems less teasing, for some obscure reason.

Why does he keep asking him all these questions? Can’t he just let him rest?

“I can hardly walk all the way to Avalon,” Merlin replies as if it’s obvious, which it is, thank you very much.

“Want to go for a swim, is that it?”

“No… Need to see… F-Freya.”

He doesn’t know why anymore, but the word fills him with an odd sort of melancholy.

“Hiding a secret girlfriend somewhere, are we?”

“Something like that.”

He can feel his knees grow weaker and weaker, and fears he won’t remain conscious for long. At least he’ll finally get some rest. He’s so tired…

He feels safe, safer than he has in days. Without even looking around, he just knows that they’ve just entered Arthur’s rooms, and, convinced that now, he’s safe, he finally allows himself to give into exhaustion.

“G’night,” he mutters, before drifting off.

His body doesn’t hit the floor, for some unknown reason. His magic probably stopped the fall or something.

Merlin doesn’t dream of pyres, or roads of exile, or tombs that night.

Nor does he dream of scenes of horror similar to that of his vision.

He doesn’t dream, per se. He simply… feels. Wrapped into a solid feeling of security and belonging, he allows himself to rest into this sanctuary where, he is certain, bad dreams cannot reach him.

He can’t remember the last time he slept so well.

But then he’s hot.

And he’s unable to sleep any longer.

His limbs are sore, his breathing erratic, and he can feel shivers running over his body. The feeling is not a pleasant one. The bed he is lying on, he distractedly reflects, is surprisingly soft, very unlike his own bed... and so is the pillow on which his head is resting. The blankets appear to have been carefully tucked around him, and he struggles to move a single one of his limbs – and yet he needs to move, he cannot remain in this prison of heat any longer.

Cracking an eye open and wincing at the light, he begins to stretch his limbs as a cat would, and takes the opportunity to take a closer look at his surroundings. There’s a man sitting in a stool beside him, his attention focused on the papers he is holding in a fierce grip. His hair, turned golden by the sunlight, could easily be mistaken for a crown, and that’s how Merlin knows who he is with certainty.

Still attempting to free his body from the blankets’ embrace, Merlin winces when he feels his hand hit something... and then he sighs in relief when the man drops whatever papers he was holding onto his lap to catch the glass in one swift movement before it hits the floor

“Merlin,” Arthur sighs, though he fails at turning the sigh into one of annoyance.

The relief is palpable as Arthur reaches for Merlin’s shoulder with one hand, as if trying to reassure himself that Merlin is real, and that’s when the warlock realises that something is undoubtedly wrong – because if Arthur is relieved, then surely he must have been worried before, and Merlin can tell by the wrinkles between his brows and the quivering of his lips. Surely Arthur must have been worried; worried about something. Something that Merlin must now fix.

Abruptly sitting up on the bed, wincing as his head begins spinning, but remaining in this position anyway, Merlin shots Arthur an alarmed look.

“What’s wrong?” he instantly asks, his sight blurring because of his sudden movement. “Has something happened to Camelot? What can I do?”

Arthur stares at him for a few instants, blinking unbelievably as he is visibly trying to process his words, before cautiously replying:

“Nothing has happened to Camelot.” His tone is comforting as he hesitatingly drops his hand to Merlin’s shoulder, and squeezes.

Merlin isn’t reassured at all. “Gwen?”

“I guess she’s alright.”

“You guess?”

“I don’t know, Merlin,” Arthur snaps, irritated. His hand remains on Merlin’s shoulder, though. “Don’t know if you’ve seen, but I’ve been a bit busy here.”

“But you were worried,” Merlin defends himself, trying to understand. Why is Arthur being so complicated?! “And then I woke up, and suddenly you were not. So tell me… what do you need me for?”

And, just as quickly as it had appeared, Arthur’s anger vanishes, his expression turning into one of deep sorrow.

“You… you’re…” He struggles to find his words. “I do need you,” Merlin nods, glad that he’ll finally get a clear answer, “but not for anything. I just do.”

He frowns. That… was not clear at all. Arthur seems to read his thoughts on his face, because he sighs, running a hand over his face.

“Merlin. Merlin, calm down, alright? Camelot is alright. I am alright. So is Gwen, wherever she is, I am sure. Alright?”

“Alright.” Merlin nods, and Arthur seems reassured. “So, what do you need me for?”

Arthur’s face crumbles as a hint of exasperation dances inside his eyes.

“Merlin.” He looks up, showing that he is listening attentively. Arthur looks around them, then back at Merlin, and he seems to come up with an idea. “Want to help? Here’s something you can do. Eat.”

He grabs a bowl seemingly out of nowhere and approaches it to Merlin’s lap. The scent of it makes Merlin dizzy, and he bites his lip apologetically.

“I can’t. I’m just not hungry, Arthur.”

But Arthur doesn’t relent. “Your body needs strength.”

“I’m fine,” he insists, feeling on the brink of tears. He can’t do what Arthur asks of him. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I just want to sleep.”

“He is right, my boy. You’re too weak, you’ve got to eat something.”

Merlin starts at the sound of Gaius’s voice, but so does Arthur, leading him to believe that the physician has just entered the room.

The room.

Arthur’s chambers.

What is Merlin doing here?

“What am I doing here?”

He must have tried to get out of the bed, because all of a sudden, Arthur’s hands are on him, keeping him in place. “You’re not going anywhere. Not in this state.”

“But I can’t – I can’t, Gaius, tell him.”

Merlin looks up at Gaius, waiting for his support, but the old man gives him a sad look before coming to sit beside Arthur. He rests a hand on Merlin’s forehead, and Merlin leans into the contact, briefly closing his eyes.

“Is he still feverish?” Arthur inquires. Merlin reflects that his expression is indecipherable.

“Gaius. Gaius, Arthur won’t tell me what’s happened. Gaius, tell me. What must I do? He won’t – he won’t tell me.”

Gaius’s expression is oddly similar to that of Arthur, and he seems to struggle until he finally responds. “He told you, Merlin. You have to eat something.”

“But the scent of it makes me nauseous,” Merlin complains.

“Merlin,” Gaius warns with his physician’s voice. Merlin winces. “Just a bite. Come on. Arthur, could you–”

Merlin frowns when he feels Arthur sit beside him, directly on the bed, and fill a spoon with something liquid. Soup, Merlin thinks. It’s soup.

“Is it rat soup?” he cautiously asks Arthur, who smiles.

“Why would it be rat soup, Merlin?”

“The last time you fed me, it was rat stew, wasn’t it?”

For some reason, Arthur instantly blushes, refusing to look at Gaius, and he mutters a, “Eat, idiot.” His tone is soft and makes Merlin want to eat, just for the sake of making him happy. Then Arthur will tell him what he needs him for. So he reluctantly opens his mouth and forces himself to swallow as Arthur presses the spoon to his lips. He shudders when he feels a cloth wiping on his lips with surprising tenderness.

“Another spoonful,” Arthur murmurs. “C’mon, Merlin, just another one, then you can go to sleep.”

When he feels he can’t swallow another bite, Merlin rests his head against the wall, closing his eyes in exhaustion, and he can feel the familiar touch of the cloth rubbing against his skin.

“That was very good, Merlin,” Arthur says softly, and Merlin can feel that he is close. “Can he sleep now?”

“Yes, he can.” Gaius’s hand rubs against Merlin’s shoulder in another soothing gesture. “You’ll be alright, my boy.”

“Thank you, Gaius,” Merlin says out of reflex.

Arthur helps him settle down on the bed, and tucks him once more inside the thin blankets. Then he rests a hand back on Merlin’s shoulder and starts to rub circles there. Merlin thinks he could get used to that.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

Merlin can feel himself falling asleep. “Tell me… when I wake… what you need me for. Arthur? I can help. I have powers, you know. For you, Arthur. Only for you.”

Arthur doesn’t reply, but his caresses become even tender, if such a thing is possible. Merlin falls asleep at once.

When next he wakes, feeling considerably less hot than earlier, the first thing he notices isn’t his body temperature or the soreness of his limbs, but the hand rubbing live, warm circles over the skin of his neck. He doesn’t even need to open his eyes to know who this is – be could recognise Arthur’s touch, Arthur’s scent, Arthur’s presence, anywhere. As he opens his eyes carefully, fearing the daylight, he finds himself smiling contentedly on noticing the absence of light. Indeed, save for a few candles casting elegant shadows on Arthur’s face, the room is in complete darkness.

Arthur, he notes, is going through papers with one hand.

No, not papers, Merlin reflects with an air of déjà-vu. Letters.

The king doesn’t seem to have noticed that Merlin’s awake, visibly very focused on the letter that he is reading, and Merlin frowns as he looks closer. Are his eyes... shining? With tears? He blinks, half-expecting the letters to be replaced with Gwen’s marriage ring, but no. The letters, inexplicably, are still there, in Arthur’s hands. And the tears in his eyes remain.

“Merlin?” Arthur calls, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

Merlin bites his lip nervously, the events of the throne room coming back to his mind rather violently.

Arthur saw my magic. Arthur saw my letters. Arthur saw me leaving. Arthur knows.

Seemingly reading the panic in his gaze, Arthur begins rubbing light circles on his wrist with his other hand, his touch unusually gentle. “Merlin, it’s alright. Breathe. It’s alright.”

There is no mistaking the sincerity in Arthur’s gaze, and so Merlin chooses to believe him, if only for his health’s sake.

“When… when are we?” he finally asks, and Arthur seems relieved to hear his voice.

“Nightfall. You’ve slept all day. Only woke up once. Gaius said you had a fever and blamed it on the exhaustion. Said he hadn’t seen you have a proper meal in days. I should have seen.”

Merlin cautiously sits up on the bed, remembering his earlier headache all of a sudden, and Arthur helps him do so, his eyes not leaving Merlin once.

“I’m… hungry,” he finally says.

Arthur’s eye light up. “You are?”

“Ravenous,” Merlin confirms, grinning.

“Right.” Arthur seems agitated, probably unsure of how to behave. “Well, there’s fruits, biscuits, cold soup, but maybe you could heat it up with your, err, you know, unless it’s too tiring of course, and there’s also some bread and cheese if you like, though Gaius recommended you eat something warm–“

“Bread and cheese would be nice. For a start.”

“Right. Right!” Arthur suddenly jerks up, his hands somehow reluctantly leaving Merlin’s body, to run to the table and grab a plate and some food. Once he gets back, he gently puts it on his servant’s lap, and sits back on the stool. “Tell me if you need help to, err,” he runs a hand over his face, “eat or anything.”

“I’ll be fine,” Merlin comfortingly replies.

He is feeling better; truthfully, he is. It is as though Arthur’s room – or rather, Arthur’s presence – had a soothing effect on his entire being. Shame he’ll have to stay away from him for the rest of his life.

The realisation hits him like a cold bath, and Arthur seems to notice his sudden dismay, because he tries to catch Merlin’s gaze with his own. “Merlin?”

Merlin fiddles with the blanket, suddenly not feeling very comfortable here. “Obviously, I’ll leave,” he quickly says, looking down at his lap. “I’ll probably be feeling good enough to leave on the morrow. Now that you know about my magic, I’ll – I’ll try to go discreetly, so that you don’t have to suffer from the humiliation of having had a warlock manservant for years without knowing. People might question your claim to the throne should they ever learn of it. I’ll be discreet, I swear. Go to some faraway country where no one will know me. Of course, I’ll have to visit my mother first, and Freya, and my father’s cave, but then I’ll be gone, I swear, I won’t remain–“

“Merlin!” Arthur’s hands seize his wrists to stop his movements. “You’re not…” Then he shakes his head, visibly battling against himself. “Of course, you may go if you so wish. I have no right to stop you, none. But, I’m asking you, as a friend – begging you, as the man you’ve known for many years… to stay. And discuss things that obviously we have both been keeping quiet for too long.”

Merlin blinks. “I have magic.”

Arthur smiles. “I know.”

“Since when?”

“About a week. I… saw you, stare at a fire and have the embers take the shape of a dragon. Your eyes were golden. And you were doing that in my chambers, you idiot.” His lips take the shape of a fond smile, and Merlin inexplicably blushes.

“You weren’t supposed to come back today,” Merlin next says. “Err, yesterday, that is. Or was it today? I can’t tell.”

“i wasn’t supposed to, no,” Arthur confirms.

“Then why – why did you?”

“I can’t – I can’t explain it, not really. I just had – just had one of those feelings, you know? One of those really bad feelings. And I needed to see that you were alright. When you weren’t in your room, and when I saw the letters, I… Merlin, I’ve never been so scared in my whole life.”

Arthur’s gaze is sincere, and Merlin bites his lip as he processes the word.

“Why were – why were you scared?”

He won’t allow himself to surround his soul with rootless ideals. Not this time.

“Because you weren’t there,” Arthur naturally replies. “I thought you were gone.”

“I was planning to,” Merlin mutters, looking down at his lap. Then he looks back at Arthur. “But you… would like me to stay?”

“With all my heart.”

“Despite the letters?”

“I’m grateful for the letters.”

“But now, you know… things.”

“I do. Though there are many things I would rather hear from you out loud.”

“What things?”

Arthur winces. “The story of your magic. This… destiny you speak of so often. All those times you’ve saved my life. Agravaine and what you hold against him. Your father and all those others you seem convinced that you have failed. And… all those times that I have failed you.”

Merlin chokes on his sudden tears, unable to believe what he has just heard. There is much he wants to say, much he needs to say, but right now, the only thing that comes out is one single sentence. Where it all started.

“You threatened to banish me.”

“I did.” There is shame on Arthur’s face, plainly written there.

“Twice.”

“Twice.”

“Because of the magic?”

“Because of the lies.”

Merlin’s eyes widen as he partly understands Arthur’s odd behaviour for the last couple of days. Finally, he’s got a reason.

Arthur learned of the magic, and he said he might banish me.

Finally, he understands, and every bit of behaviour that didn’t quite fit suddenly seems to make sense.

I don’t know what to do. I have no idea… what to do. Arthur asking Merlin for help, laughing cynically at himself, because even when it is Merlin he is furious at, he is the one he turns to when he needs guidance… because even when his trust has been broken, he still trusts Merlin to help him do the right thing.

What should I do, Merlin? Arthur, maybe thinking that Merlin knew that he knew and somehow testing him…

And if that were so? Arthur’s undecipherable tone as he wonders what game Merlin is playing. Merlin, passing the test.

Have I been a fool? To give up so much for somebody – for a woman who betrayed me? Somebody, somebody, somebody – Merlin?

What’s the point of loving someone who cannot be found? All those times when Arthur was looking at him, could it be that he was truly, genuinely looking at Merlin?

Why do you mistrust Agravaine so? Arthur trusting Merlin’s accusations?

Not to mention Arthur’s many questions regarding the immortal army, the Questing Beast, Morgause, the Dorocha, Will…

Merlin gasps.

And so does Arthur.

“Hold on,” the king murmurs, brushing Merlin’s face with his hand. “Why did you think I was threatening you of it?”

“Arthur…”

Cupping Merlin’s face with both hands, he insists. “What did you think?”

Merlin bites his lip furiously, tears openly running down his cheeks now. “I – I… you just… threatened to do it. Twice. And I… I didn’t…”

“God, Merlin…”

“You’d never abused of your powers as a king before,” Merlin continues, sniffing. Now that he has begun talking, he finds that he is unable to stop. Not until he’s said it all. “I’ve always told you the truth about who your enemies were, I’ve always – always told you the truths you didn’t want to hear, and each time, y – you were mad, but that was alright, b – because I was used to it and b – because I knew you didn’t mean it – not really. B – but banishment… you never said it before, Arthur. You never said it before. And so I thought…”

“What did you think, Merlin?”

Arthur’s expression is shattered as his eyes stare at him in open horror, and he pulls away, as though burnt by the touch.

Merlin clutches the sheets tightly. “I thought you’d got tired of me,” he whispers, staring into Arthur’s eyes. “I thought I’d never be first to you, when, ever since I’ve arrived to Camelot, you had been my priority. I thought I’d been feeding myself with ideals about our relation, ideals about what it could become, only to remain on the side. Forever. See, during the first years, I thought we were meant to be. I thought you and I were meant to be, forever. And then I realised how sorely mistaken I was. I – I – I thought that I would never be enough. N – not for you. Never for you.” He bites his lip, trying to stop the tears to speak more clearly. “Arthur, it – it broke me. The idea of exile broke me. It ruined me. And – and I can’t – I can’t get it out of my head. It just sticks in there, all day and all night, and the memories keep coming back, and I’m alone, I’m so alone, I can’t – I can’t deal with all that.”

“Merlin, oh, Merlin…”

Arthur’s tone sounds sorrowful, and regretful, and angry – but not angry at Merlin. Angry at himself.

“Merlin, I – I’m…”

His voice breaks, and there are tears in his eyes.

“Don’t cry,” Merlin murmurs, his heart breaking at the sight and even more tears flowing inside his eyes.

“You don’t cry,” Arthur retorts with a slight smile, but the smile is sad, and so is his whole expression. “Merlin, I…” He sighs, runs a hand across his face, then keels beside the bed.

Merlin’s eyes widen. “Arthur, please, no, there’s no n–“

“There is every need,” Arthur strictly replies, though the stiffness in his tone seems to be once more directed at himself instead of Merlin.

Looking up at Merlin, he raises a tentative hand to meet his. Merlin clutches it, unable to utter a word.

“Merlin, I’ve wronged you. I’ve wronged you, and disrespected you, and failed you, in every way a king and a friend can fail another man, and more. I’ve proven to be unworthy and undeserving of any loyalty or affection you may hold towards me, and no word can express how sorry I am for it. Threatening you of exile is the most selfish, idiotic, cruel thing I have ever done. After all you have done for me, I have repaid you with threats and insults, and please believe me when I say that I am sorry. I do trust you, Merlin. More than anyone, I do. Even after discovering about your magic, my trust for you remained. I would trust you with my life, but also with my crown, and my heart, and my soul. It has always been so, but I must have too blind to see it, too proud to even dare acknowledge it. I’ve tried to get rid of it, tried to act as though you mattered little, but at the end of the day, you were all that mattered.” He swallows, a flash of guilt shining in his eyes. “You are right. My pride does keep getting in the way of your word, and I am ashamed of it. You have gifted me with a loyalty I do not deserve, and yet I crave for it all the same. Merlin, I – I’ve always needed you. You always were the one to tell me the truth of my words or my actions, and for that I am grateful as well as admiring.” He clears his throat. “You, Merlin, are the bravest, the strongest, the most faithful and most loving man that I have ever had the chance to encounter and love. Selfishly, I wish for nothing more than keep you by my side, for the thought of you leaving, Merlin – that very thought fills me with dread. I know that I have not treated you as you deserve to. Too many times have I taken you for granted, and this one was one time too many. But I could never… please trust me when I say that I could never bear to send you away. And the simple fact that I mentioned the word… it is irredeemable, and yet I crave for your forgiveness. Merlin. I could not send you away. It would kill me. You hold my soul, and you have always been the one to preserve it from insanity. I wish to do the same for you, if you would show me how.”

Merlin reaches a hand to touch Arthur’s cheek, finding the sight of his tears unbearable, and yet feeling an inexplicable surge of relief flowing inside his chest.

“I’ll forgive you,” he murmurs. “But we’ll have a lot to talk about.”

“We’ll have a lot of time,” Arthur promises. “As much time as you like.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Merlin whispers. “About the lies – and there were a lot of them.”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not.”

“You’re here. I’m here. Right now, it’s all that matters.”

Resting his head on Arthur’s shoulder, Merlin breathes in his scent.

“Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“For now, could you just… hold me?”

Arthur immediately joins Merlin onto the bed, sitting beside him on the mattress and wrapping his arms around him, their bodies fitting so perfectly that Merlin thinks it must be destiny. He can feel him all around him, against every inch of his skin, and nothing has ever felt better than that. As a shiver runs over his body, Arthur tightens his grip, seemingly needing the embrace as much as Merlin did, if not more.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he commands, though his tone sounds more worried than demanding.

Merlin chuckles. “I don’t listen to commands, sorry.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Maybe you should get yourself another servant,” he teases.

“Not a chance,” Arthur grumbles, running his hand over Merlin’s neck.

They bicker for a while, finding it relieving to seek shelter in old habits they never entirely lost.

“I did carry you like a bride, you know,” Arthur says with a pride smirk.

“You did?”

“When you fainted in here, earlier.” He tries to keep his tone nonchalant, feigning indifference, but Merlin won’t fall for it. He decides to make Arthur laugh.

“Why am I never awake for this sort of things?”

“You’re awake now.”

“Yeah, I am. I mean – I’m not dreaming, am I?”

“Dream of me often, Merlin?”

“Definitely not dreaming, then. Good to know.”

They remain silent for a few minutes, finding solace in the presence of the other, before Arthur speaks again.

“Your vision in the throne room…”

“Yes?”

“It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Thank you.”

“Thank my magic,” Merlin smiles.

“Is she listening?” Arthur asks.

He smiles. “She always is.”

Arthur seems content. Merlin clutches his king’s shirt, and keeps his head there, against his chest, listening to his heart beating and finding solace in the melody.

His heart is filled with hope, and he finds that there is yet another thing that be must share with Arthur. Another one of his fears.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers in the dead of night.

“Merlin?”

“I want to stay here, with you. But am I… am I meant to stay? Is this the way things are meant to be?”

Arthur shifts and, pressing his forehead to Merlin’s and running a thumb over his face, he meets Merlin’s gaze with resolution. Merlin wants nothing more than to believe him as he speaks.

“Merlin? Look at me. I want to see you. And please, listen. It doesn’t matter. This – this is all that matters.”

“Us?”

“Us.” Arthur’s thumb brushes Merlin’s jawline in unveiled tenderness as he adds: “And I promise you, we will create another way. Our way.”

“Our way,” Merlin nods. He could get used to the words, because these are words he could drink to. Wake up to. And work to make them turn true.

And as he finally allows himself to close his eyes, embraced by his magic and his destiny, whole at last, there are no wars being waged inside his mind, no false ideals hiding from reality, no pictures of the dead haunting his memories. Even the sardonic voice is quiet that night. There are no demons dancing in Merlin’s heart and cheering at his misfortune tonight, none of it; only the certainty, solid and unwavering, that Merlin matters, and that they will create their own way together.

Hope, whose voice Merlin had almost forgotten, surges inside his chest and whispers, just for his heart to hear: let’s try, at least.

For the first time in many years, Merlin falls asleep at peace, held, loved.