Chapter Text
Merlin’s having a solid day, all said and done.
It isn’t much different than the usual in Ealdor—with its ever-climbing stalks of unkempt grass, wooden gates, bleating goats, and nosy villagers. But today there’s a nice breeze in the air. Sometimes it’s all you can ask for on a hot summer’s day. So, Merlin decides to make the most of it.
“Mother,” he calls on his way out of their small hovel. “I’m heading to the clearing with Will.”
“Oh, Merlin, sweet, can you take care of the laundry before you go?” she calls back, sticking her head out of the kitchen to look at him challengingly.
For one self-indulgent second, he thinks about refusing, but ultimately decides better of it. “Sure.” He flashes her a too wide smile, which she returns with a partially stilted one.
“ Without magic, Merlin,” she says. Now, she’s the one smiling widely.
“Yes, Mother,” he says dully, but doesn’t push it. It’s been a bit tense between them ever since Will found out about Merlin’s magic. Even tenser with his mother’s casual mentioning of sending Merlin away somewhere, as though that’s going to happen. Luckily, he’s been able to get her to settle on the matter, especially with Will promising to keep quiet, but it’s still a sore subject between them and he isn’t entirely sure she’s ruled it out.
“Wait,” his mother calls. She approaches him by the doorway, then gives him a kiss on the cheek. “You know I love you, right?” she asks.
And he does. She’s just trying to keep him safe; he knows that.
“I had an inkling,” Merlin says sarcastically.
“Just an inkling, huh? Nothing more?”
“Not yet, but I’ll update you should it form into a passing thought. When it becomes a full-fledged idea, you’ll definitely know,” he says cheekily. She smacks him on the arm with a dirty cloth and he shuffles out with a smile.
---
Merlin is almost finished hanging the laundry when a man suddenly appears before him.
“You, servant!” the man barks in a brisk tone. He’s pointing at Merlin, facing him from the side and bouncing on his toes as though he has somewhere better to be. “Go fetch my father! I have urgent news for him.”
Merlin looks at him dumbly from where he’s wringing out a soggy pair of breeches.
“What are you doing?” the man asks, outraged.
“Uh,” Merlin looks to the breeches, to the clothesline, then back to the man. He shrugs. “Laundry, I guess.”
“No, you daft idiot, why don’t you do as I command? I am your prince. Now, go fetch my father!” the man commands, then promptly disappears into thin air.
Well, that was weird.
Merlin looks around, hoping to find someone to share his confusion with, but nobody seems to have noticed the strange man shouting about servants and royalty. Merlin once again looks down to the soggy breeches he’s still holding. Can inhaling leftover lye fumes make you hallucinate?
---
It happens again later that day when Merlin is trying to sleep. He cancelled his plans with Will and told his mother he wasn’t feeling well, so she told him to lie down and sleep it off.
“How dare you sleep on the job, servant!” the man yells. Merlin startles in his spot on the floor. The man stalks over to the window nearby. “The sun is halfway through the sky. Are you some sort of degenerate?”
Merlin groans, looking up at the man with squinting eyes. So much for sleeping it off then. Merlin turns over onto his stomach, smothering his face into his pillow.
“Hey, I asked you a question!” the man says.
Maybe if Merlin ignores him, he’ll go away.
“Answer me!” The man stomps over to him. “I am your prince!”
Merlin lets out another groan. He jolts angrily in his little makeshift bed, completely frustrated. He opens his eyes to look at the man, who looks startled and slightly offended. “Why do you keep saying you’re my prince? You know, for a pickup line, it’s pretty played out.”
The man sputters indignantly, obviously caught off guard. “I-it’s not a pick-up-line!” he argues, then disappears like a petulant child.
Merlin hums to himself. Figures. He turns back over onto his stomach, deciding to write this one off as just a dream, even though he knows better.
---
Merlin is starting to run out of excuses.
“Servant!” The man calls. Thankfully, Merlin isn’t doing anything important at the time, just enjoying a night out in the clearing, stargazing. It’s his safe place, his time to relax and get away from his responsibilities, from his mother’s worried glances, and even from Will when he’s being annoying.
It’s a wide and open space, not small and cluttered like most things in Ealdor. It reminds him that there are grander things out in the world, makes him feel like they’re waiting for him, even if he doesn’t ever plan on leaving. He just likes the idea that they could be.
“You know, if you continue to be rude and call me that, I’m not going to answer you,” Merlin says. “And I’m definitely not going to go out with you.”
“Except you just did,” the man points out smugly, then freezes. “Answer me…that is.” His face hardens, covering up his embarrassment. “And I told you it wasn’t a pickup line.”
“Whatever you say.” Merlin shrugs, feigning nonchalance. In reality, the man isn’t that bad looking. No, now that Merlin takes the time to look at him, he’s actually quite…beautiful. For a possible hallucination, that is.
His hair is relatively short, but curling just slightly around his ears, and his face is clean-shaven. He’s dressed in ordinary clothes, but despite this, Merlin gets the feeling that he’s just a little too well kempt for Ealdor. It makes sense, given the whole “prince” thing.
Merlin chuckles to himself, glad that his imagination has some sense of continuity. If he’s really gone crazy, then at least he’s got that going for him.
“Why do you insist on being so insolent?” the man asks.
“This is my space,” Merlin says, gesturing to the empty clearing with wide, open arms. “I can be whatever I want to be here.”
The man looks around. “Where are we?”
“We’re in Ealdor,” Merlin says.
“Ealdor?” the man asks, sounding the word out. “Where’s that?”
“It’s in Essetir,” Merlin says.
“Cenred’s kingdom,” the man barks and Merlin nods. “Why would we be in Cenred’s kingdom?”
“Well, I live here—have my whole life,” Merlin says. “Why are you here?”
The man makes to respond, but stops, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. It’s very…cute. Merlin feels a flash of irritation at himself for thinking it. He shouldn’t be engaging with this apparition, much less developing some sort of weird crush on him. Wouldn’t that be pathetic?
“I don’t know…” the man says, head suddenly turning each and every way, like he’s looking for something, but can’t quite find what he’s searching for. “I’m supposed to be in Camelot…in the castle. I live there. I’m the prince.”
“ The prince?” Merlin asks. “I thought you were my prince?”
“Not if we’re not in Camelot,” the man says, smirking.
Merlin tries not to be offended. He has no right to be offended. “So, why are you here?”
This makes the man pause. “I-I’m not quite sure.”
Merlin decides to try a different path. “Earlier, you said that you had some sort of urgent message. What was it?”
The man looks at him then and despite his stoic, almost passive face, Merlin can tell that he’s actually...scared. The man shakes his head frantically. “I don’t know,” he says, more to himself than to Merlin.
“Okay,” Merlin placates, knowing that he’s not going to get much else out of him. “Do you want to look at the stars with me, then?”
“What?” the man asks, thrown off, but he doesn’t look scared anymore, so Merlin takes it as a win.
“Maybe you can tell how close we are from the castle by the constellations,” Merlin says. Really, he just thinks that the man needs to calm down. If stargazing works for Merlin, why shouldn’t it for him?
“Okay,” the man says shakily after a pause, then lies down next to Merlin. The stars lull them both into peaceful, slow breathing. Eventually, the man lets out a sigh and disappears once again.
---
The man appears before him many more times after that, usually when Merlin doesn’t want him to—when he’s hanging out with Will, trying to sleep, or doing chores with his mother. Not that Merlin wants him to show up, he doesn’t .
This happens for about a week or so, the man popping into Merlin’s peripheral on and off. Every time, he looks at Merlin like he’s the most confounding creature that he’s ever come in contact with, then disappears, often before Merlin can even try to start a conversation. Not that he would want to do anything to keep the man around for longer than necessary. He wouldn’t .
Oh, who is he kidding? This is the most interesting thing to happen to Merlin since he learned how to make his boots race around the house when he was five.
Consequently, after a while, Merlin finds himself getting used to and even anticipating the man’s appearances. Merlin was always one to grow attached to people too easily, anyways; when he latches onto something or someone, he latches on for life. It’s a quality of his that has generally yielded more positive results than not, so he can’t complain. Just ask Will. After just one hour of making mud pies together when they were small, Merlin promptly declared Will as his new best friend, and they’ve been practically inseparable ever since.
And due to the nature of…whatever the man is or whatever powers are binding him to Merlin, it looks like he and Merlin won’t be separating any time soon, even if Merlin wanted them to.
---
“Merlin, my dear! Can you gather the dishes when you’re done?” his mother calls from the other room.
“Merlin,” the man repeats, suddenly appearing. “What kind of name is that?”
“My name,” Merlin says around his last bite of porridge, surprised that the man is speaking to him this time. “Why? Do you have a better one?” Merlin stands up from his place at the table, then begins gathering and stacking dirty bowls, cups, and wooden spoons.
“My name is Arthur, obviously,” the ma—Arthur says. “Prince Arthur.”
“Arthur,” Merlin says slowly with a grimace, as though the word feels wrong in his mouth. “Sounds pretentious.”
“What? No, it doesn’t!” Arthur argues.
“I hate to break it to you, but it does,” Merlin says. “And from what I’ve seen so far, the name fits.”
Arthur scoffs. “What would you know ? You’re just a peasant with a peasant’s name, Merlin .”
Merlin stops short. “What did we say about being rude?” he asks sharply, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“We didn’t say anything about it. You did,” Arthur responds just as sharply. “And rudeness begets rudeness, Merlin.”
Merlin faintly thinks that he likes the way Arthur says his name—even when it’s just dripping with disdain, maybe even especially so in that case. Arthur’s voice has this very refined, proper lilt to it, one that almost makes Merlin think that he isn’t imagining him, that for some reason a prince from a neighboring kingdom has come to visit Merlin, of all people. But that can’t be.
Right?
Merlin wants to ask him about it, but is a bit hesitant to do so, especially after the reaction he had last time to Merlin’s prodding.
“Fair enough,” Merlin admits, instead. “Let’s try not to be rude with each other, then. Or we can be equally rude to each other all of the time, but with the knowledge that it doesn’t really mean anything.”
“What kind of arrangement is that?” Arthur asks.
Merlin turns to face him. “A friendly one. Or, one that friends have.”
“Friends?” Arthur laughs out loud. “As though I would become friends with a simple peasant.”
“I think you just did,” Merlin says with a wide smile because he’s already decided, just like he decided with Will.
Merlin then gathers the half-forgotten stack of dishes and makes his way to the large basin in the next room. Arthur doesn’t follow him, already having disappeared.
---
“Where do you go?” Merlin asks Arthur the next time he appears. It’s a lazy time of day and he’s attempting to whittle a cut piece of branch into a dog. He’s recently taken up doing this after he’s done all of his chores for the day, mostly because his mother says that he can’t just spend all of his free time lying in the clearing or goofing around with Will.
Arthur gives him a questioning look. “What do you mean?” He looks more relaxed now, so Merlin figures that some light questioning might work, as long as he doesn’t force it.
“When you’re not here, where do you go?” Merlin asks, whittling forgone. It was looking less like a dog and more like a blob with ears anyway. “You said you’re from Camelot. Do you go back there?”
This seems to throw Arthur for a loop. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Is there anything you can remember? From home, perhaps?” Merlin asks, trying to be neutral.
Arthur pauses, thinking. “I think I can remember...decorations. We were celebrating something, and it was last notice—I know this because I had to release my manservant, Morris, from his duties to go help out in the kitchen. You’d like him, you’re both completely dull.”
“As though you’re a good judge of character,” Merlin shoots back.
“I associate myself with you , so probably not,” Arthur says. “Not that I seem to have a choice otherwise.”
“Hey, I’m just as stuck with you as you are with me,” Merlin says, but he keeps his tone light.
A few minutes later, Arthur asks. “Do you think I’m dead?”
“I don’t know,” Merlin says. He’s still not entirely sure that Arthur really exists yet.
“I mean, there has to be a reason we’re stuck together, right?” Arthur says, not sounding so confident.
Merlin’s answer is the same. “I don’t know.” But he wishes he did. “I’m sorry.”
Arthur nods thoughtfully, then disappears. Merlin decides to go back to his whittling. Starting with a new branch, this time, he decides to make a dragon.
---
Sometimes, despite his mother’s wishes, and his better knowledge, Merlin uses his magic to help with his chores. It’s not necessarily because they are too difficult or tedious, it's just that...his magic is a part of him. And trying to hide it or separate himself from it is much harder than his mother can understand.
So, who cares if he uses it to help him gather the kindling? He’s out past the clearing, covered by trees. It’s not like anyone can see him do it, anyways.
“You-you’re a sorcerer,” Arthur says. Well, except for him.
Although Merlin has gotten used to Arthur’s appearances, this time he’s startled enough into dropping his bundle of dried twigs, which were previously hanging in the middle of the air.
Merlin can feel his own face harden. “It’s not illegal here.” Not illegal, but dangerous. He bends low to gather the falling twigs from the ground.
“In Camelot, you would be hanged for that,” Arthur says. “Perhaps even burned.”
“What, for talking back to you?” Merlin asks, being purposefully obtuse. “Please, do arrest me, my lord. I’ve committed the most egregious of sins.”
“You know what I mean,” Arthur says. “And maybe I will arrest you.” He reaches for Merlin’s wrist, perhaps to pull it behind Merlin’s back, but his hand passes right through, never making contact with Merlin’s skin.
This shocks Merlin into dropping his bundle once again. Cursing himself, he leans back down to collect them again. Once he’s finished, he looks back up, only to see that Arthur is looking at his own hand absently. He tries to swipe it across Merlin’s head, but it just goes through again.
“What did you do to me?” Arthur asks. His anger is like that of a petrified wave, hanging in the air and threatening to crash down on the both of them.
Merlin stands up straight. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Well you must’ve. You’re a sorcerer,” he spits. “Something like this can only be done with sorcery!” He gestures to himself, trying to indicate that his ghostly state is all Merlin’s fault.
“Perhaps, but it’s not my doing,” Merlin says. “Why would I call some random prince, if that’s what you are—”
“Of course, I’m a prince, what are you talking about?”
“—to me . As you said, I’m just a simple peasant with a simple peasant’s name,” Merlin finishes. He starts ahead, hopping and sidestepping all of the dips and turns in the forest floor without looking. He knows them all like the back of his hand at this point.
Arthur follows him on foot, following the same pathway. But where Merlin turns and hops over a large branch, Arthur walks right through it, not seeming to notice as he does. “I’ll be watching you from now on,” he says, eyes squinting. “Like a hawk.”
“I hope you enjoy watching me collect the kindling,” Merlin says, letting said kindling lift from his arms and back into the air, mostly just to annoy Arthur, who gasps next to him. When Merlin looks back over for his reaction, he’s disappeared again.
---
Arthur pops in every few hours, like he usually does. Each time, he stares Merlin down like he’s the source of all of his problems. Sometimes he appears very suddenly, jumping into Merlin’s vision like he’s expecting to catch him performing some arcane ritual sacrifice, or pricking a doll made up to look like his royal highness. He generally calms down when he catches Merlin doing neither.
In fact, after a few days of Merlin barely performing any magic at all—he’s still trying to lie low—Arthur starts to look a little...bored.
Figures, then, that he would catch Merlin just as he’s enchanting the dishes to wash themselves.
“How do you do that?” Arthur asks. His face is a bit triumphant, like he’s finally got enough evidence against Merlin to prosecute him under Camelotian law.
“Most times I don’t,” Merlin says simply, leaning back against the wall in their small kitchen.
“What?” Arthur asks. “I don’t understand. Are you cursed, then?” His voice is oddly sincere.
“No,” Merlin can’t help but smile. “Well, maybe, with you here.” Arthur scowls at that. “What I mean is, it’s not something I often have to think about. My mom said I was making things float before I could even walk.”
“Before you could walk?” Arthur asks incredulously. “How did you learn so young?”
Merlin laughs out loud. “I didn’t learn anything. I was born with my magic.”
Arthur looks at him like he’s caught him in a lie, like Merlin should be ashamed of being dishonest with royalty such as himself. But the longer Merlin remains silent, the softer Arthur’s face becomes. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can get anything out, Merlin’s mother is walking into the kitchen with a smile on her face.
“What are you laughing about?” she asks brightly, but her smile drops as Merlin drops the still self-animating dishes and cloth. The little crease in between her eyebrows gets deeper and her eyes are full of disappointment. “Merlin, what did we say about this? What if someone else walked in?”
“We’re in our own house. I thought it’d be okay,” Merlin defends uselessly. Really, he didn’t think about it. He was just being lazy and they both know it.
His mother gives him a scolding look, then turns to wash the dishes by hand. Merlin approaches her cautiously in an effort to help, not missing Arthur’s questioning look as he does.
After a few minutes of scrubbing, rinsing, and drying, Merlin carefully breaches the quiet. “I’m sorry,” he says.
The disappointment and anger fade from his mother’s expression almost instantaneously, her eyes now lit with compassion. “I know. It’s okay, I understand. You just... we just —well, we have to be careful. You know what could happen if word got out about your magic.” She places the stone bowl she was holding in the pile with the other dried dishes, then turns to wrap her arms around him, petting his hair softly.
“I know,” Merlin says against her shoulder. “I’ll do better.”
“I just want you to be safe,” she says. She leans back to look him in the eye. “Maybe I should send you away.”
“No,” Merlin argues. “I won’t leave you. I want you to be safe, too.”
Merlin’s mom nods her head at this, but Merlin gets the sneaking suspicion that while he’s won this battle, the war is far from over.
---
Later on, Arthur appears before Merlin as he’s lying in the clearing.
“Why do you keep your magic a secret? I thought you said it isn’t illegal,” Arthur says, apropos of nothing. Or perhaps not. What was hours ago for Merlin may have been mere seconds for Arthur. And Merlin wasn’t sure during what part of the conversation he left, only that he was gone when Merlin and his mother finished cleaning up. He guesses he has his answer now.
“It’s not, but Cenred has been known to collect sorcerers,” Merlin says. “And I’m not too keen on fighting another man’s wars. Plus, I can’t leave my mother here, not now.”
“Why not?” Arthur asks, as though it doesn’t cost him anything to do so. But what’s a social intrusion between a prince and a peasant?
“Kanen and his men like to raid Ealdor during harvesting season. Last year we were barely left with enough to get us through the rest of the winter. This time, we think he means to take it all, by force if he has to. I will not see her hurt,” Merlin says.
“Even if it means using your magic?” Arthur asks quietly. “Even if it means being taken away?”
“Yes,” Merlin says without hesitation.
“That’s almost...noble of you,” Arthur says, looking down and away from Merlin. He’s wearing an unreadable expression, but in lieu of saying anything else, he lies down beside Merlin in the soft grass with a sigh, even though Merlin knows he doesn’t feel any physical change from it.
Merlin smiles. “You’re going to have to decide, then,” he says, looking to Arthur at his side.
“Decide what?” Arthur asks.
“If I’m just a peasant with a peasant’s name, an evil sorcerer, or almost...noble,” Merlin says, looking back up. He doesn’t mean for the question to come out so seriously.
“Somewhere in between all three,” Arthur says. “So, you’re alright, I guess. For a sorcerer.”
“You’re alright, too, I guess,” Merlin says, shrugging, “for a pompous prince.”
Arthur doesn’t disappear for a long time, but he doesn’t say anything, either. That’s fine. Merlin finds that he enjoys his company, even in silence.
---
“You should come to Camelot,” Arthur says about a week later, as though it’s taken him that long to come up with perhaps the worst plan ever. He’s caught Merlin at a bad time—he’s currently throwing stones across the small lake next to the clearing with Will.
“What?” Merlin asks out loud before he thinks better of it.
“Huh?” Will asks, confused.
“You should come to Camelot,” Arthur repeats, pressing on. “You can ask my father for aid to help you defeat Kanen.”
“You want me to go to the place that you said would have me burned at the stake?” Merlin asks. “Yeah, I don’t think I’d have a lot of luck there. I might as well go to Cenred, now. At least with him I won’t die .” Probably.
Will swats Merlin across the head playfully. “Who are you talking to?” he asks, laughing.
“Ow,” Merlin says, rubbing his head. He gestures to Arthur. “I’ve got this weird prince guy in my head and he’s trying to send me to my death!” He punctuates the last part by looking Arthur in the eyes.
Will’s eyes glaze over where Arthur is, never catching on the prince’s form. “Is it a magic thing, then?” he asks. Merlin nods because it’s the most likely option and Will goes back to throwing stones, uttering something like, “Only you, Merlin,” under his breath.
Merlin can’t help but smile despite himself. This is why he and Will are such good friends. Arthur, on the other hand…
“You obviously wouldn’t tell anyone about the magic thing,” Arthur argues, as though it’s really that easy. “And while you’re there, you can find out what happened to me.”
Merlin scoffs. “Is that what this is about, then? You want me to investigate for you?”
“No,” Arthur argues. “Okay—well, maybe. But I do want to help you with your village. And I will. You and I both know that going to Cenred for help is useless.”
He’s right about that; Cenred doesn’t care about the smaller villages, especially one like Ealdor, which is so far from the kingdom it might as well not exist.
“And Camelot would?” Merlin asks.
A pause. “Not normally, no,” Arthur says.
Merlin throws his hands in exasperation. “Then what’s the point—”
“But,” Arthur interrupts, “this isn’t a normal situation. You have me in your head.”
“And how is that a good thing, again?”
“Think about it,” Arthur continues, “I can tell you anything you need to know—where to go, who to talk to, how to get an audience, and what to say to win my father’s favor.”
“Like I could do that even with your help,” Merlin says, rolling his eyes.
“No, probably not,” Arthur says. “But if you find a way to reverse…whatever this is, and return me back to my body, then I can help you.”
Merlin looks at him for a minute, contemplating. He can’t help but admit that Arthur makes a strange sort of good point. It could theoretically be his best shot, if he wants to both keep his mother safe and stay by her side. Kanen’s men won’t come until harvesting season, which isn’t for at least another month, so Merlin has the time to do it. And it would get Arthur out of his personal business, which makes the deal actually enticing enough to consider.
Merlin is about to turn Arthur down officially, when he catches the expression on Arthur’s face—a desperate, pleading look, his emotions so potent that he can’t even keep up his usual façade of stoic, unbothered royalty. It almost strikes Merlin as funny, because just a week or so ago, Arthur looked at him as though he were dirt under his shoe, then he looked at him like he was the worst type of human being possible, and now it’s as though Merlin is his last hope.
Maybe he is.
“I’m not even sure you’re real,” Merlin argues. Or alive. But it doesn’t matter because he already knows he’s going to help.
“Yes, you are,” Arthur says, seeming to realize this as well. “You’re not that creative.”
“He better be real,” Will says, “or I’m telling your mother about this.”
Merlin huffs. He was wrong about Will, he decides. And definitely wrong about Arthur, who’s smiling now, clearly happy that he’s won. After this is over, he needs to find better friends.
---
“Mother,” Merlin says as they’re eating together later that night. He’s not entirely sure how to go about this, so he just blurts, “I think I ought to go to Camelot.”
His mother freezes mid-bite, then looks up at him like he’s grown a second head. “You—what?”
“I would like to go to Camelot,” Merlin says simply. “For a short time. To get my...bearings.” He makes a complicated hand motion, one that is supposed to signify his magic.
She eyes him suspiciously. “What are you up to?” Her face drops, her eyes suddenly worried. “Did something happen?”
“No, no! Nothing happened,” Merlin lies. “I just think I should get out...and stretch my legs, so to speak.”
His mother hums. “And you wish to do this...in Camelot?” she asks slowly, suspicion back again.
“Yes,” Merlin says awkwardly.
“You’re doing a great job,” Arthur says sarcastically, suddenly appearing. Merlin is happy to say that he doesn’t startle at all. “Really stellar work.”
His mother looks down at her bowl like she’s going to take another bite, but Merlin knows that she’s really just trying to collect her thoughts. Merlin uses this time to give Arthur a look that he hopes says, “Let me handle this.”
Arthur seems to get the message. He puts up his hands in a faux placating gesture and leans passively against a nearby wall, watching Merlin with mirth in his eyes. Merlin fits in a small scowl before his mother looks back up.
She gives him one last discerning look, clearly weighing the supposed severity of whatever he has planned, against her wishes for him to leave Ealdor, before saying, “I suppose it is a safe enough place to go...to stretch your legs.” She attempts to use the same hand movement that Merlin used earlier to represent his magic.
Merlin smiles widely. “Thank you, Mother,” he says, then gathers the dirty dishes from the table, including the one in front of her.
“Hey, I wasn’t done with that,” she complains, but he’s already in the kitchen. He hears her chuckle softly in the other room, though.
“Why does she think it’s safer in Camelot than in Ealdor?” Arthur asks, now at his side. “Does she not know of the ban on magic there? And why didn’t you tell her about asking for aid?”
Merlin looks to the archway that leads to the kitchen, making sure his mother hasn’t followed him. “I didn’t even know about Camelot’s magic ban until you told me. And if she knew about that and why I’m going, I’d be tied to that doorpost,” he explains, pointing.
Arthur doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, then, “She must care for you a great deal.” His face bears an unreadable expression.
Merlin shrugs, smiling. “She’s my mother. She cares for me, and I her. That’s why I’m doing this.”
“I see,” Arthur says thoughtfully. He looks like he might say something else but must decide against it.
Merlin doesn’t have time to react before his mother calls, “If you’re going to Camelot, I must write to Gaius, then—”
“You know Gaius ?” Arthur asks. Merlin shushes him harshly.
“He’s the court physician there and a good friend,” she continues, “so he should be able to provide you with a place to stay, as long as you do the work he asks of you.”
“Sounds great!” Merlin shouts.
“How do you know Gaius?” Arthur asks.
“I don’t. My mother does. I’ve never met him,” Merlin answers. “Why? How do you know him?”
“I’ve known him for as long as I can remember. He’s treated my family since before I was born,” Arthur says.
“So, maybe he’ll know what happened to you,” Merlin guesses. Arthur nods.
Merlin briefly wonders if it’s some kind of fate, that his mother of all people would know someone directly associated with Arthur and the royal family, in Camelot of all places. He looks to Arthur and decides that whatever kind of destiny would try to saddle him with Merlin surely must have a great sense of humor.