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Arthur scowls down at his wrist.
“I liked it better when I thought it was a girl’s name,” he says to Morgana, who, unsurprisingly, unsympathetically pats his arm. Her fingers are cold, which makes it only worse.
“Arthur, you’ve never once liked a girl in your life,” she says, which is untrue—he’d liked Lizzy, the cook’s daughter, when he was five or six. He distinctly remembers a lecture in which he was told not to push people he liked, after all, and then an even longer lecture about not liking people so below his station.
“Emrys,” Arthur sounds out the name, painstakingly carefully written in dark letters on his pale wrist. The m crosses the thin, bluish vein, curling alongside the flow of it. “Are you really sure that’s what Gaius said his name was?”
Between Arthur and Morgana, there are many, many insults, and very few secrets. Arthur’s inclination towards men had been the first to unravel, when he was fifteen and had just made friends with a visiting knight from Mercia—eighteen years old, utterly dashing, very kind about Arthur’s sword skills in spite of the growth spurt that had severely hindered Arthur’s ability to measure how far he needed to jump in order to hit a man. Which had not, at all, led to Arthur overreaching several times.
By the end of the knight’s visit—oh, and Arthur still remembers, so mortified—he’d been utterly mad for him, and had embarrassed himself immensely by trying to go for a kiss. And it would’ve been bad enough, had Morgana not stumbled upon the two of them, sitting by the light of the moon while Arthur was gently being let down, his cheeks redder than the dress she’d been wearing.
“Yes, Arthur, I’m sure,” Morgana says impatiently, and plucks at Arthur’s hair while she purses her lips. “He’s teaching me magic, Arthur, I’m only hanging on his lips every second he tells me something.”
And that secret had been given up fairly early, too—if only because Morgana had been sobbing in his arms because of her nightmares. Arthur had often hinted to Gaius that he might help her better, if only he applied some of that old knowledge he used to have about the Old Religion and its followers. Uther didn’t need to know, Arthur is staunchly sure.
He isn’t sure what caused Gaius to finally give into their unsubtle, combined efforts to have him teach Morgana a bit of control. It’s only to help her, Arthur had reasoned, because it’s not as if Morgana will actually use the magic. And even if she did—she isn’t evil. She’s Morgana; annoying, biting, ferocious, but not a bad person.
“Fine,” says Arthur, because it’s true that Morgana does seem to pay attention to Gaius very well. “Then what am I to do about the fact that my soulmate is apparently a dodgery old sorcerer?”
And that’s the third secret—the soulmate, usually hidden under Arthur’s leather bracelet, as everyone’s is. Morgana had confessed to him, even before she’d let him know that her nightmares were actually the effect of magic, powerful magic, that she was one of few people who didn’t have a name.
The more time progresses, the happier Morgana seems to be about it. Arthur thinks it fits her, a little bit, for her heart not to belong to one specific person. She’s never liked anyone the way that Arthur liked the knight from Mercia, and she seems entirely at peace with that. Arthur is glad for her, but it doesn’t solve his own problem.
He’d thought it was a girl’s name. He thought perhaps he’d like her, if he just got to know her well enough. He hadn’t liked the knight from Mercia that way until he’d befriended him—perhaps he’d feel the same way about Emrys, and all his life, he’d pictured the vague image of a black-haired, kind-faced girl who’d be his queen.
But no.
“I don’t know, Arthur,” Morgana says, but she’s still grinning. “Perhaps he has a daughter with the same name. Or a son, considering your—appetites.”
“Don’t call them that,” Arthur complains. “Girls are all—harpies. Men are infinitely better—we can fight, and we don’t sit uselessly by the hearth all day, embroidering our skirts— ow.”
“Serves you right,” Morgana tells him, utterly uncaring of how hard she’d pinched Arthur’s arm. He rubs it, glaring at her; it might bruise, and she really is a harpy. Arthur is glad he’s never been in love with a girl, because they’re far more vicious and underhanded than knights, who’d solve their differences by beating each other with swords.
It’s far more refined, in his opinion.
“How did Gaius even end up telling you about Emrys?” Arthur asks, leaning in. Gaius doesn’t know his soulmate’s name, and nor does—well, anyone apart from his father and Morgana, that is. It’s the secret of one’s soul, and not so easily shared. “Were you talking about the dodgery old—sorry, Emrys? That time he came to Camelot? ”
It had been two years since that—if Arthur’s honest, really weird— visit of the dodgery old sorcerer. He can hardly recollect why the sorcerer came by at all—something to do with someone being accused of sorcery? But it’d really been Emrys? He hadn’t introduced himself by that name then—it’d been something equally odd. Dragoon?
Arthur shudders. What if Emrys knew that he was Arthur’s soulmate? What if that’s the entire reason he’d given a fake name?
Morgana doesn’t seem to follow his train of thought. “Well, no. It was odd—Gaius suggested to me that he might not have much left to teach me, because he was not very powerful. So I asked him who was powerful enough to help me, and he suggested—Emrys. And said we’d seen him before.”
“He didn’t seem that powerful,” Arthur says dubiously. It’s bad enough that his soulmate may be an ancient sorcerer who’s off his rocker, but then to also have him be powerful? That seems like asking for problems. Hopefully Emrys would fall over from old age one of these days, and Arthur might get a new name on his wrist.
It’s never happened, as far as he knows, but a prince can dream.
“The real question is,” Morgana starts, a devious smirk on her lips—and perhaps she is evil, because she’s certainly starting to look more like a wicked witch with each passing day—and gently taps Arthur on his wrist; the one that has Emrys plastered over it. “You’ve found your soulmate. What are you going to do about it?”
“Wait for him to die,” Arthur says sensibly.
Morgana fixes him with a strict look. “If he’s a powerful sorcerer, I imagine he can live for a long time. Maybe he’s kind. Maybe it’s not a romantic soulmate—that’s happened before, hasn’t it? He might just be important to you, or will be, anyway.”
“I don’t want him as my soulmate,” Arthur complains. “He was rude, and he’s magic, and he’s old and quite frankly, I think he’s insane and—”
“And he’s not Merlin?” Morgana asks, crossing her arms.
And that’s the final secret, and the one that might be giving Arthur most trouble, these days. That odd, long-limbed, endlessly useless manservant of his. Arthur never should have told Morgana about Merlin’s tenacity to chatter on, and to tell Arthur what he really thinks, and of what Arthur really thought about Merlin’s face stretching entirely when he smiles, and the pale stretch of his throat—
Merlin is so incapable at being a normal servant that he’s made a prince go ahead and fall in love with him. Go figure.
“Shut up, Morgana,” Arthur says heatedly, feeling the flush settle awkwardly in his cheeks. “Merlin isn’t my soulmate, so there’s clearly something severely wrong with him, and I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.”
“I’m sure,” Morgana says serenely, which is only a womanly way for her to lie, because her tone says, You’re a moron, and Arthur knows that’s what she actually means.
Harpies, all of them, Arthur thinks sourly. At least his soulmate is a man, even if he’s a dodgery sorcerer who might fall over from old age in about ten minutes. At least he’s not a woman.
~*~
Just to figure out what’s wrong with Merlin.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Merlin asks dubiously when he’s making Arthur’s bed.
Maybe it’s his ears. They are abnormally large, but when Merlin smiles, they stick out under his hair even more, and Arthur’s oddly fond of the movement. Perhaps it’s his fingers; they are long and elegant, unlike a knight’s hands, calloused in an entirely different way. It could be that Merlin’s not a knight, actually, or at all like one. Still, Merlin is braver than many of Arthur’s men, and that’s the value he places highest of them all. Loyal, too.
“Just making sure you’re actually doing your job, for once,” Arthur says. “Instead of just disappearing and leaving my room a mess, and trying to convince me that no, Arthur, it really isn’t my fault, there was an emergency I needed to deal with—”
“I don’t sound like that,” Merlin says defensively, and fair enough, Arthur had pitched his voice far too high. Still, he thinks he nailed the cadence of Merlin’s voice. He’s had to listen to Merlin prattle on often enough, after all.
“I’m sorry, Merlin, let me try again,” he says instead, and clears his throat. “I’m the worst servant that Prince Arthur has ever had—”
“You’re a prat,” Merlin tells him, but his ears are a little red when he fluffs up Arthur’s pillow. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”
That’s a lie. Maybe Merlin isn’t his soulmate because he’s a liar, except that he’s particularly bad at it. “Because of my rippling muscles, of course,” Arthur tries, but Merlin doesn’t grow any redder at that, nor does he look particularly impressed. Sometimes, Arthur swears he can see Merlin looking at him from the corner of his eye, but then he turns around, and Merlin never is.
It’s enough to make a prince doubt himself.
“Yes, my lord,” Merlin mutters, in the same way that Morgana can say, I’m sure, and have it be utterly meaningless. Those two should talk less often—he thinks Morgana has a bad influence on Merlin.
“Do you remember that old sorcerer from two years ago?” Arthur asks suddenly, and Merlin blinks at him, his hands paused mid-air as he clutches the duvet. “The one with the silly name—Dragoon, I think he said his name was.”
Merlin straightens his back. “Erm—yes. I think so? I mean, I wasn’t there with you—”
“Must’ve been off in the tavern again,” Arthur says strictly, and adds, “but you do remember him, don’t you? Has Gaius ever mentioned him to you?”
“Erm,” Merlin says pointlessly.
“You’re useless,” Arthur informs him. It’s only a kindness, really.
Merlin runs a sleeve across his nose, giving him an insulted look. “I do so much more for you than you know,” he tells Arthur, and storms out of the room. Which only goes to highlight that Merlin is a shoddy manservant, because his bed is only half-made, and Arthur’s breakfast is sitting, half-finished, on the table.
Arthur sighs, and leans his head back. He has no idea why his soulmate is about the oldest person on this planet, but it might yet be a blessing that he doesn’t have to deal with Merlin’s oddly sensitive nature every day for the rest of his life.
Even if it doesn’t feel like that. Even if he still can’t come up with a reason for Merlin to be an utterly horrible potential soulmate, despite everything else.
~*~
Morgana is in a hovel.
That’s the best description Arthur can give of it, really; it’s dilapidated, rat-infested—or so he likes to imagine—dingy and cheap, and too small for a man to live in. Then again, Arthur tries to reflect, it’s not as if sorcerers are allowed in the citadel.
Still, he could’ve built something a bit nicer. All in all, it casts some doubt on those assertions of Emrys being one of the most powerful sorcerers in the world. If he had been, surely he could’ve created something that looked a little… nicer.
Arthur will not go live in that dump with him, soulmate or not.
Morgana has been in there for just over an hour when she comes out again, right when Arthur had been about to doze off in the bushes he’d hidden himself in. And with her is the man himself: Dragoon, or Emrys, or supposedly Arthur’s soulmate. He looks even older than he does in Arthur’s memories: his beard is so white it could reflect the sun, he thinks, and he’s hunched over so badly that he must reach up to only half his actual height.
Arthur rolls his nose. At least Merlin could actually kiss him, he thinks; it’d be nice and soft and maybe, if he’s lucky, it might be that Merlin doesn’t actually know what he’s doing because he’s never been kissed by anyone before, so only Arthur would be the one to show him—
He shakes away the thought. The dodgery old sorcerer is waving Morgana away, who is glancing sideways at where Arthur is hidden.
No time like the present.
He jumps up, and his knees protest a little bit—he’s been crouching in the bushes for an hour, he’s not to blame—but he has his sword up swiftly to point at Emrys’ throat. The sorcerer looks at him oddly, his mouth forming an ‘o’.
“I have questions,” Arthur says, his heart beating fast in his chest.
Emrys takes a step back. “And why are you here,” he snaps. “How did you—”
“I followed Morgana,” Arthur tells him, because Morgana had expressly forbidden him from telling Emrys that she’d given him the location. She did need his expertise, after all, or so she’d said. “Your name is Emrys, isn’t it?”
Emrys blinks at him. Something feels familiar about that, but Arthur ignores it in favour of lifting up his sword to brush against Emrys’ chin.
“Ye-es,” the sorcerer croaks. “Aren’t you going to ask me why—I mean—”
He’s shaken, Arthur thinks triumphantly, because he seems far less certain than he did when he’d wandered into the castle.
“What I want to know is none of your concern,” he says. “Why did you tell me your name was Dragoon, last time we met?”
Emrys narrows his eyes at him, and suddenly bats at Arthur’s sword with his stick. That seems like an insurmountably bad idea, considering that Arthur could very easily hack right through that crenulated old staff, and then where would the loony sorcerer be?
“I have many names,” Emrys snaps, and his voice is utterly grating to Arthur’s ears. “But you probably can’t count that high!”
“Why didn’t you tell me your name was Emrys?” Arthur demands, and ignores the insult. He’d be more surprised to hear a word of kindness out of Emrys’ mouth. “Tell me!”
“Ngah,” the sorcerer spits at him. “That’s a name that was given later in my life. You tell me, young Pendragon, with your sharp sword and your dull brain—what are you doing here, following your father’s ward!”
“Well, I hardly could ask you for a meeting, now could I,” Arthur says.
Emrys shrugs; it’s a tired old thing, and it ends with Emrys forcefully sticking his staff in the ground. “Bleh! Why not?”
Arthur stops. “You’re a sorcerer.”
“That I am,” Emrys confirms, grinning. “And you hate magic!”
“When it’s used for evil,” Arthur tells him, “yes.” He doesn’t have much more time to think about that—Morgana has morphed his beliefs enough from his father’s, but there’s little he can do about the laws surrounding magic until he’s king. And it’s not as if he wants his father to die soon. It’s a complicated love, but it’s love nonetheless. He’s Arthur’s father. So Arthur continues, before Emrys accuses him of treason, “And why are you my soulmate?”
That is enough to stop the old sorcerer in his tracks. “What?” he croaks.
“It’s one-sided, then?” Arthur asks, the relief sharply filling up his lungs. Emrys might be his soulmate, but it’s entirely possible that Arthur isn’t his. About one in every ten soulmates are unrequited; it just happens. “I’m not yours?”
“Give me that,” Emrys snaps, and tugs at Arthur’s wrist. It’s immensely rude, of course, not the done thing. In fact, Arthur would be well in his rights to call for Emrys’ execution when the dodgery old sorcerer undoes the clasp of Arthur’s leather bracelet—gently, he notices, Emrys’ spotted fingers trembling but careful—and turns it to see the black-inked name that has been on Arthur’s skin since he was born.
Emrys.
“You didn’t know,” Arthur confirms carefully.
“No,” Emrys says weakly, and drops Arthur’s wrist. He absentmindedly twists Arthur’s leather bracelet between his fingers, as if he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. “I didn’t know.”
“Look,” Arthur tries. “I don’t know what it means, because—no offence—you’re older than my grandfather would have been, and you’re… a dodgery old sorcerer—”
“—Ngeh! Dodgery!—”
“—but it must mean that you have some role to play in my life,” Arthur says. He may not look forward to it, but at least it means that Emrys certainly has no expectations of him. Arthur, although he has a name plastered on his wrist, is free. And the thought makes his heart beat faster, because—
Well, he still can’t think of a reason for Merlin to be such a horrible soulmate. If only he can figure out if Merlin’s wrist has a name, or if Merlin is also one of those whose soulmate is unrequited, or…
Or if he cares enough about Arthur not to care about his soulmate—an unlikely proposition, but Arthur is a prince. Merlin might not care about gold, but Arthur surely can offer him something he does want.
“My role is to teach you about magic,” Emrys says, suddenly, a little quietly, entirely unlike that huffing, puffing grandfather he just was. He looks wise, suddenly, his eyes dark and hooded and focused on Arthur.
And maybe Arthur can sense the power, just now.
“I’m not a sorcerer,” Arthur protests, and holds up his hands. His wrist feels oddly bare without its bracelet, but Emrys is still tightly holding onto it. “I am a knight, and magic is banned in Camelot, on the pain of death—”
“Is that so?” Emrys says humourlessly.
“If my father were to find out, yes,” Arthur says, and hesitates, looking towards where Morgana disappeared. “But I’m not so sure he’s right.”
“He’s not,” Emrys tells him, and finally hands back the bracelet to Arthur. “Magic is not evil, Arthur Pendragon. Evil can only be found in the hearts of men. I will not teach you to practise magic, no, but I can tell you about its uses—about its people, and what it is. You can live in ignorance, or you can let me show you.”
Arthur considers the sorcerer for a second; the solemnity of his gaze, the pale purse of his lips, slightly hidden by the long, white beard. He doesn’t seem so odd now, and he could have attacked Arthur before. He didn’t need to make this offer.
And, for some reason, he’s Arthur’s soulmate.
“Fine,” Arthur says, and finally lowers his sword. Despite the familiarity of it in his hand, he feels unsettled, as if he’s been disarmed. Emrys grins.
“Tomorrow,” he decides.
Arthur looks around them. “I’m already here,” he says. “I might as well stay. No one is expecting me back for any number of hours.”
“Tomorrow,” Emrys snaps, the crankiness thundering in his voice. “I am weary, and you will do as you’re told, for once.”
With that, he steps back into his creaky little abode, throwing the door behind him so hard that his entire hovel shudders. Arthur blinks, and decides not to press the issue.
~*~
“I need to talk to you,” Arthur says to Merlin when he’s bringing him his dinner.
“Oooh,” Merlin says, drawing out the vowel, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You actually need to talk to me? That means you’re not ordering, or throwing things at me. You’ll listen to what I say, or are you insistent on just prattling on as usual—”
For good measure, Arthur throws a bun of bread at him. It doesn’t have the intended effect; Merlin catches it with a grace Arthur didn’t expect from him, and simply takes a bite. Arthur settles for glowering at him.
“Talk,” Arthur says, and loses all that bluster for a second. Merlin’s face is smug, and there’s a crumb on his upper lip, and the sunlight catches his hair and colours it a deep blue, contrasting against his pale skin and making him look like some sort of ethereal creature from the depths of mythology. Merlin’s hand is still halfway up to his own mouth, the bun only half-eaten, and Arthur is transfixed on the wiry muscle of his arm, and the pale expanse of his wrist, and where his skin ducks under Merlin’s thick, braided bracelet.
And the name of Merlin’s soulmate, hidden under that discoloured leather. Arthur itches to peel it off him, to put his pinky finger under that band and just chance a look. Perhaps it’s not that Merlin isn’t perfect for Arthur; perhaps it’s that there’s someone who’s made for Merlin who isn’t Arthur.
Arthur will have them burnt—or perhaps not, but he’ll glower at them as he did at Merlin, and he’ll make sure Merlin’s hours are so long he never gets to speak with them. There’s the thickly, oozing feeling of jealousy crawling up his throat and making it hard to speak, even when Merlin looks at him sideways when Arthur has been quiet for too long. The simple fact of the matter is that Arthur has a soulmate he will never love; a soulmate so far removed from him he’ll never entirely understand. And then there’s Merlin, whom he understands quite well, and who seems to understand him in turn.
Most of the time, anyway. When he’s not being a moron.
“Arthur?” Merlin asks gently—and there it is, that perfect comprehension. Merlin lowers the bun, and runs a sleeve over his face, and the crumbles fall down from his upper lip. He is entirely focused on Arthur, and Arthur bows his head.
His resolve is shaking, already. Perhaps he shouldn’t tell Merlin; perhaps it’s only in his own self-interest.
“I can trust you, can’t I?” Arthur asks.
Merlin is full-on frowning now, and it tilts his face into something more mature. He’s less like a boy, like this, his chin jutted forwards and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. When he crosses his arms, his entire boyhood has faded away—no, Merlin is no longer that young farmer’s boy who stumbled into Arthur’s service.
“Of course you can trust me,” Merlin says, and despite the defensive stance, his tone is still quiet, and nearly tender. “We’re friends, aren’t we? It’s you and me, Arthur.”
Arthur has heard the same words a thousand times; all from people who wanted his favour, his friendship, his status. From Merlin’s lips, it’s the first time he wholeheartedly believes it, and it’s because Merlin has shown it before he ever said it.
“I need your help with something, but my father can’t know,” Arthur admits in a breath, before he changes his mind again. “I mean it, Merlin. If he were to find out…”
The unspoken words linger in the air. Merlin’s eyes have darkened, and he nods curtly. “I understand.”
“There’s three things, actually,” Arthur says, and bites the inside of his cheek. It’s hard to shake the feeling of Merlin’s intent look. Arthur isn’t exactly glad to be giving up secrets; he’s managed to work out a system of secret sharing with Morgana, but none of that means that he’s in any way or shape good at it at all. And especially with Merlin, who seems to know everything so that Arthur never needs to say a thing, it’s complicated.
“Three things,” Merlin echoes, a little wryly. “None of which I can tell the king?”
“Nor anyone,” Arthur corrects, “my father’s just the most important of the people who can never know. Merlin—well, I suppose it’s easiest just to come out and say it.” Merlin doesn’t move, and without that excuse to daddle any longer, Arthur blurts out, “My soulmate has turned out to be a sorcerer.”
“A sorcerer,” Merlin repeats sceptically. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, look,” Arthur says, and rotates his wrist so that Merlin can see, yanking his bracelet down at the same time. It’s a punishable offence, of course, to look at someone’s soulmark when you’re not the soulmate in question. It’s especially a sensitive issue for royalty—for Arthur— who always have to make sure they’re not being tricked into marriage.
But it’s there for Merlin to see, the stark letters spelling Emrys, the truth of it written on Arthur’s skin.
“Emrys,” Merlin says, and presses his lips together. He looks a little lost, for a moment, and Arthur wonders—but then Merlin’s frown returns, and he peers curiously at Arthur. “But how do you know it’s a sorcerer?”
“I thought it was a girl’s name,” Arthur starts, and ignores the odd look Merlin gives him at that, “but then Morgana—she knows, she’s known for years—came to tell me that Emrys is a sorcerer. And she knows because Gaius told her. He never mentioned Emrys to you?”
“Arthur, it’s illegal to consort with sorcerers,” Merlin says, his tone very much implying that Arthur’s being an idiot.
“Well, and there’s the second thing,” Arthur says, and uncomfortably looks at the door. Morgana will be readying for bed, but there’s something prickling his skin. He knows he shouldn’t give up her secrets, but he has an excuse, and it’s only Merlin. “Morgana only asked Gaius because she has magic, and she can’t control it. That’s why she’s been around Gaius more often, lately, but it’s not enough anymore. She needed someone stronger.”
If Merlin’s surprised by this, he shows remarkably little of it. “Her nightmares,” he only says, and presses his lips together, so that they’re all white and nearly invisible in the pallor of his face.
“You don’t seem surprised?” Arthur ventures. He is willing to defend Morgana, of course he is; she’s the closest thing he has to a sister, a secret-sharer, his family despite their blood. He has the sense, though, that Merlin might have known. Or suspected, at least, and never said anything.
“I didn’t want to insinuate anything,” Merlin says, as if he is the one who needs to defend himself. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t be—but I’m not surprised, no. So she’s gone to Emrys to be taught by him, then. And Emrys is your soulmate, being a dodgery old sorcerer.”
“That’s what I said!” Arthur exclaims, and then blinks at Merlin. “But I didn’t tell you that.”
“Aren’t all powerful sorcerers old and dodgery?” Merlin points out, his voice a little high-pitched.
And that’s a fair enough point. Arthur shrugs, and continues on. “I went to confront him last time, but he didn’t seem to be aware of our—connection. And really, Morgana seems to trust him well enough. He offered to—help me understand magic, and I think I’ll take him up on the offer. I might go with Morgana next time, just to show Emrys that I’m really not all that opposed to magic.”
“And you’re not?” Merlin asks, low. His arms are still crossed, but it’s as if he’s lost the force in his stance since Arthur started talking; they’re hanging low, nearly on his hips, as if he can’t be bothered to stop slouching, or maybe as if he’s protecting himself instead.
“Well, you know,” Arthur says, and falters. He lets out a breath and leans back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s complicated, of course. I don’t think magic itself is evil, necessarily, but I do think that kind of power… corrupts. And I think it has the right to be angry, but I wonder if that’s good for anyone.”
He can’t see Merlin anymore, but he can hear him shuffling on his feet for a second, and then there’s that rich voice. “I’d thought you’d be more—upset about this.”
“I’m not really,” Arthur says, and realises that he actually seems to be speaking the truth. Having a dodgery old sorcerer for a soulmate really isn’t that much worse than that vague future he’d been picturing; that dark-haired queen he didn’t think he’d really be attracted to. The plain fact is that it hardly seems to matter who his soulmate is, because he has already given up his heart to someone else.
That makes it sound melodramatic. Perhaps Arthur will get over this inconvenient, obstinate attraction to Merlin, but no one else has ever spoken his mind quite as much to Arthur, or has ever so sincerely befriended him, and apparently Arthur’s heart is a soppier thing than he’d like it to be. There’s no denying it, so best to go along with it.
And at least this way, no one will be surprised that Arthur’s not waxing poetry—and he doesn’t know any poetry, so that’s for the best—about Emrys.
“Arthur?” Merlin prods quietly, and Arthur realises he probably ought to have said a little bit more. “What are you thinking about?”
“Poetry,” Arthur says promptly.
Merlin huffs out a breath. “Poetry,” he repeats.
“I suppose,” Arthur says slowly, “I suppose that it’s better to be able to choose your heart for yourself.”
He makes sure not to look at Merlin’s way when he says it, because he can just imagine what his manservant will say of it; Merlin, whose sense of romance is even larger than his ears, and who stares oddly at that band on his wrist sometimes, and who has all sorts of childish belief about true love and gentility that would put the noblest of knights to shame.
But Merlin murmurs, “Perhaps you’re right,” and Arthur is left to wonder if Merlin’s own heart has been broken in some way. It shouldn’t make his own surge in hope; that maybe he can step in where Merlin’s soulmate let him down. Merlin’s heartbreak shouldn’t be the making of Arthur’s joy.
Soulmates are a complicated business.
“You’ll cover for me, won’t you?” he asks, finally getting to the real reason he’d told himself he needed to speak to Merlin—not because it’s a comfort to speak to him, never that. Merlin always prattles on uselessly, except he hasn’t said a whole lot in this conversation. “With my father? I presume I’ll have to meet Emrys at all sorts of times if he’s to teach me, and as far as I know, old men tend to sleep early.”
“Well, it’s difficult being old,” Merlin points out, which is a bit odd, because how would he know? He’s two years younger than Arthur.
“But you’ll help?” Arthur asks again. “If you’re uncomfortable with magic, Merlin—”
“No, that’s not it,” Merlin says, and when Arthur turns to him, his eyes are cast down, and his expression is tangled up with all sorts of emotions Arthur can’t read. But then Merlin looks up and meets his gaze, and he’s that same, uncomplicated manservant that’s been bothering him for years. “I’ll do it. But if I end up in the stocks—”
“I suppose you’ll have to come up with convincing lies, then,” Arthur says triumphantly, and ignores Merlin’s annoyed look. It’s not his fault if Merlin’s the most rubbish liar in Camelot, really. He can consider this practice.
~*~
It’s a tiresome event, Emrys’ lessons. The first time Arthur arrives together with Morgana in the smelly old hut—and he has no idea how someone lives here; the hut seems devoid of even the most basic furniture, like a bed, so Arthur can only assume that he was wrong and Emrys doesn’t sleep at all—Emrys just turns up his nose at him and makes a creaky “Hrm,” sound.
But he sets them both down on two stools, and the wood protests so loudly that Arthur fears it’ll collapse if he puts his full weight on it, so he leans mostly on the ball of his feet. Which means his calves start cramping even as Emrys goes on about the applications of spells and ancient traditions and druid rituals and everything else that sounds utterly alien to Arthur.
But then he makes a little flame, and Morgana follows, and their eyes shine golden with both the magic and the reflection of the fire. And Arthur, despite himself, is enraptured by the flame in their open palms, leaning forward.
“Careful,” Emrys snaps. “It doesn’t hurt us, but it will burn you.”
It isn’t enough to dissuade Arthur from inspecting the flame carefully nonetheless, but he makes sure not to lean towards Morgana’s palm any further. “And that’s all magic?” he asks, breathless.
“Just magic,” Morgana says triumphantly. The fire crackles in her hand, seemingly less stable than Emrys’ flame. That just flickers quietly, entirely under the old sorcerer’s control. He must have a great deal of experience.
There’s an odd expression on Emrys’ weathered face, one that speaks of loss and grief. He stares at his own flame, his lips drawn tightly, and then suddenly collapses his fingers together. The fire disappears, quietly sizzled out, and Emrys’ expression seems darker without that light to illuminate him.
“It’s a responsibility to wield it without harm to others,” Emrys says gravely. “In essence, magic is nature itself; not even a tool, like a sword or an axe, but like a tree, drawing its life from everything around it. It is more than spellwork, and it is more than a convenient weapon. It is life itself.”
Arthur has never been able to watch magic like this; just fluttering around, just merely existing. He thinks he understands, in a way, even as he realises he’ll never fully know what it’s like to wield such a supernatural power. He can sense it, thrumming in Emrys’ hut, and he can see the love that Emrys holds for this gentle flame, and all it represents.
Such a thing can’t be evil. Not inherently; not by itself.
“But what about the corruption?” asks Morgana, quietly staring at her own flame, still flickering in her palm. It casts shadows over her face, her narrow nose and her arched brow; she looks more like herself than Arthur has ever seen before.
“There is no corruption,” Emrys answers. “There is only the fear and anger in a man’s heart, and the power to act on it. And not being taught—well, it leads to darker paths than if magic were to run free.”
“So who taught you?” Arthur asks, leaning forwards.
Emrys’ lips crook into a near-smile. “These matters are not important, young Pendragon. What matters is that magic is not a thing of evil, and that it has never been. And your father is wrong about what he has taught you.”
The lessons continue in that vein—three times a week, if Arthur and Morgana manage to sneak away from their duties. Morgana goes more often than Arthur does, but Arthur sometimes manages to find time when Morgana doesn’t. Between the both of them, they must be running the old, barmy sorcerer ragged.
Except he might not be as insane as Arthur thought he would. Indeed, the more he speaks to Emrys, the fewer of those odd noises he makes; instead, he turns his mind towards thoughtful remarks and a love for magic. There is something familiar about him, Arthur thinks, and only in bed realises he’d been thinking of Merlin; that crinkling of his eyes, that clear affection in his voice.
And how painful it is, to recognise something of Merlin in his soulmate. Emrys hasn’t shown him his mark, and Arthur is far beyond hoping that Merlin will share his own. But Emrys’ clear love, his affection and his sense of duty towards magic—towards teaching Arthur, even, and Morgana—is noticeable in everything he does.
Perhaps they are destined to be something together, and Arthur dreams of a Camelot in which magic runs free; a Camelot in which magic is that beautiful piece of life that Emrys has shown him it can be. It can be, he feels that strongly in his heart. It can be, and he will be a different kind of king to his father. Justice will run free, and magic will be freed of hate.
Emrys has taught him, and taught him well.
~*~
“My father’s been asking me where I have been the past two weeks,” Arthur says when Merlin finally deigns to show up in the morning, with a shoddy breakfast that seems to have gone cold.
Merlin sets it down too hard, and winces at the rattling of the cutlery on the dining plate. Arthur just stares at him, the dark shadows under Merlin’s eyes and the pale stretch of his face, and the hastily-wrapped neckerchief. No, Merlin clearly hasn’t had a good night, but the worrying part of it is that Arthur can’t really remember the last time he did see Merlin well-rested.
“So,” Merlin says. “Just lie.”
“Merlin,” Arthur says in exasperation, and leans forward. “I can’t just lie to the king.”
“Why not?” Merlin asks tersely. “You’re making me do it, my lord.”
There’s a wild, acerbic edge to Merlin’s words, in a way that indicates they’re not simply bantering for the fun of it. Arthur had never realised that they did do that, and that Merlin always seemed to have an upper hand in their debates; he had liked it that way, to be honest. Arthur’s conversations always have to be polite, and noble, and there’s always a veil of courtesy. With Merlin, there’s the veil of barbed comments and meaningless insults.
But Merlin is upset, and Arthur has never done well with sincere comfort.
“Just,” he starts vaguely, and gestures with his hand towards where the throne room is, somewhere in the castle, “what have you been telling him when he asked me of my presence?”
“I haven’t run into him,” Merlin says brusquely.
Arthur runs a hand over his face, massaging the side of his brow. It does little to soothe the oncoming headache.
“You haven’t run into him,” Arthur slowly repeats, “any of the times I was at Emrys’ house—well, let’s call it a hovel, it’s more truthful. Merlin, have you been avoiding him, perhaps? You do know I was joking about the stocks, don’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t care about the stocks,” Merlin snaps. “You’ve had me in them often enough when I first started working for you, you utter arse. No, I’m not avoiding Uther! I just haven’t run into him, because I’ve been busy for you, but not that you’d realise everything I do for you—”
Arthur carefully looks around his room. His clothes from the day before are still in a corner of his room, shoddily shoved aside, and his dinner from yesterday is on the edge of the table. A few flies are eating the remainders of the chicken, buzzing quietly above the plate. The flowers in the vase, once freshly cut and making his room smell like a girl’s—although, admittedly, it had been rather nice—are now wilting sadly, having lost most of their vibrant colours.
Merlin has stopped, the pink rising high on his cheekbones.
“I didn’t say a thing,” Arthur feels the need to point out when Merlin glowers at him.
“Oh, you thought it,” says Merlin, crossing his arms defensively. Arthur takes a moment to appreciate the leanness of his frame, the muscled shoulders he can see underneath Merlin’s faded tunic. Not a boy anymore, no. A very grumpy man, instead.
“Merlin, I’m really not quite sure what you want me to do,” Arthur says. “I don’t think I’ve been asking so much of you. But if you tell me that somehow, I’ve overburdened you, I’d hope you’d say something to me. God knows you have no issue running your mouth.”
Merlin opens his mouth, then aptly closes it again. “No,” he says eventually. “You haven’t. I just—I haven’t been sleeping well, I suppose.”
Arthur thinks of Morgana’s nightmares, for a second, and wonders—but no. Merlin knows that secret as well, now, and he said he hadn’t been surprised by it. Of course, Arthur remembers; he’d had that childhood friend who’d practised magic. He wonders how he could have forgotten. At least it means Merlin seems to be familiar with some of the aspects of sorcery, and might recognise it in himself.
“Well,” Arthur says after a moment’s silence. “Get some rest today, then. I’ll be going to Emrys right after dinner—you can have an early night. I won’t even make you polish my boots.”
Merlin doesn’t look as relieved as Arthur hoped he would, but he chalks it up to exhaustion.
~*~
“This,” Emrys says, in a voice heralding doom, “will be my last day of teaching you.”
Arthur blinks at him. “Why?” he demands. “There’s still so much I don’t understand about magic, and about its people.”
“Why?” Emrys repeats, and makes a noise of dissatisfaction. “Ngeh! Why! One would think, Arthur Pendragon, you’ve learnt not to ask so many questions and to think for yourself! Perhaps I must go, even if it is only for a while. Perhaps I have simply grown tired with your excuse for a brain! Why, indeed!”
“But,” Arthur says, his mind whirring. “What about Morgana?”
Emrys’ expression softens for a moment. “She has learnt enough to be able to get by,” he exclaims. “Yes, she is a very capable young woman. I have not taught her everything, but she will manage by herself. Like I have done, and like all sorcerers must, in the end.”
And it’s true that at least she doesn’t set fire to her plants anymore. Her nightmares seem to have calmed too, because she’s been sleeping more than ever before. Still, Arthur’s stomach churns with worry; and with questions.
He still feels as if he knows so little.
“Will you explain to me one last bit of magic?” Arthur asks.
Emrys sniffs. “Fine, then. What is it you want to know?”
There’s a moment of silence, in which Arthur wonders if this is really the best path to tread. Then he mans up, clears his throat, and asks, “What about soulmates?”
“Soulmates,” Emrys says incredulously. “Bleh! What do you want to know about soulmates!”
“Well,” Arthur says helplessly. “I want to understand how it works. I want to know why—some soulmates are romantic, and others aren’t, and what it means. How they are made, and what it means to be in love with someone you aren’t intended for. I want—”
“Soulmates,” Emrys starts slowly, before Arthur is even finished, “are a mystery, even to me. They are a facet of magic that brings people together and pushes them apart, and I do not know how they are made. But you can choose your own connections, Arthur. And that name on your skin—I am sorry for that.”
“I’m not,” Arthur says.
Emrys peers at him curiously. “And why is that?”
“Because I think,” Arthur starts slowly, and looks down. “I think you’ve made me a better prince.”
Emrys opens his mouth, and there it is again, that seemingly vulnerable, sincere expression that reminds him of Merlin so much, and—
The door flies open, and two of his father’s knights enter, swords raised high and the metal gleaming in the light of Emrys’ flaming torches. Arthur has brought his own sword, but he is ill-prepared for an attack, and the first knight—Accolon, Arthur remembers, one of his father’s favourites—immediately goes for Arthur, grabbing his arm and yanking him back.
“The sorcerer has enchanted you, my lord,” Accolon says strictly, but Arthur’s eyes follow Galehault as he aims his sword at Emrys’ throat.
“Stop!” Arthur calls out, “Stop!”
Emrys raises a hand, and his eyes glow gold as Galehault is thrown back. He flies into Arthur, and all three of them come barreling down. Arthur’s shoulder stings, but he is the first to come up, adrenaline and the sense of urgency stirring him. He only just catches sight of Emrys’ muddy shoes as he disappears, and he nimbly runs after him before his fathers’ knight can grab hold of him.
Emrys is an old, dodgery sorcerer—it’s the first time it fills up Arthur’s lungs with worries, that thought, because there’s no single way that Emrys can outrun the knights. Still, he is oddly fast when he grabs Arthur’s sleeve when Arthur catches up, and his eyes are gleaming ferociously.
“Let me go,” he snarls, and lets go of Arthur. “Make your way to Camelot. There’s no sense in being caught.”
“They’ll find you,” Arthur says in exasperation. “Emrys, I still need you. If I’m to know everything about magic, and if I’m to understand—”
“Let me go,” Emrys snarls when Arthur grabs him. And it would be so easy for Emrys to knock him out, wouldn’t it? To throw him back, to let himself be captured. And he’d disappear from Arthur’s life, and that would be that. No more education for Morgana, and no more understanding for Arthur.
And his soulmate—old, dodgery, frail—out of his life.
Arthur isn’t proud of what he does next. He grabs his sword, and with a swift thump on Emrys’ head, he knocks him out. The sorcerer just slumps over, clearly not having expected the blow. From inside the hovel, Arthur hears voices; he quickly grabs Emrys under his armpits—gross—and yanks him behind the hovel, just in time for Accolon and Galehault to race out of Emys’ hovel.
“The king will be most displeased,” Accolon says, peering into the forest. Arthur ducks as low as he can, covering Emrys’ mouth with his hand in case he wakes up. Quietly, he grabs a rock from the ground and throws it as far as he can with his limited arm span.
It does the trick, anyway. Galehault calls out, “There! He must be running away!” and follows the sound at once. Arthur waits a few minutes to make sure they won’t come back—five, then ten, then fifteen, until his legs start cramping and he starts to worry that staying might be more dangerous than going.
So he hoists up Emrys and makes his way into the other direction.
~*~
He really has no idea how old Emrys is, Arthur reflects in the dark of night.
He’s stopped half an hour away from the hovel; he’d preferred to have gone further, but it’s dark and he doesn’t have a light. He nearly tripped two times already, and if Arthur busts his ankle, he’ll be even further from home—well, metaphorically, because he probably won’t be able to move if he does.
By the limited light of the moon, falling mottled on Emrys’ face through the canopy above them, all Arthur can see is that he has an awful lot of lines on his face. In sleep, they droop lowly, and he seems—pensive, maybe, or simply bothered. His nose twitches a couple of times, but Arthur doesn’t think he is particularly restless.
Arthur has been acting like the selfish prat Merlin always accuses him of being tonight, but there are some questions he needs answers to. Chances are that Emrys will not want to see him again after this, after Arthur proved so much about his own character with one well-aimed blow. So he decides to be a little bit more selfish, and inches closer to sleeping sorcerer.
The band around his wrist is discoloured leather, braided and fitting loosely around Emrys’ wrist. It is Merlin’s bracelet, Arthur realises. He knows it well enough—has stared at it desolately, trying to figure out who belonged to Merlin’s soul. He has dreamt about taking it off and seeing Arthur’s name, although Merlin’s isn’t on his.
He knows that bracelet, and he doesn’t know what to do about the fact that it sits on Emrys’ arm.
Before he can give into the impulse, he slowly sits back, and leaves the bracelet where it is. Dark suspicions flood his mind, theories that he does not want to give voice to. These are all questions for the morning, though, and Arthur droops off against an uncomfortable tree.
~*~
The answers have arrived by themselves by the dawning of the sun, as it is, the rays of warm light settling them on raven-dark hair and a pale, piqued face lined with exhaustion—but not age.
Arthur stares at Merlin, sleeping, and at the red bruise on his forehead where Arthur hit him. And he wonders which one of them is real.
“Ow,” Merlin says as Arthur pokes him with the sword, and swaps lazily at him. “My head. Ugh.”
“Merlin,” Arthur barks out of years’ old familiarity, and then stops himself, frowning. “Emrys.”
“Not my name,” Merlin says drowsily, and Arthur can see the moment the penny drops. There’s the exaggerated, nearly funny twist of Merlin’s expression, and then his manservant sits up in one smooth movement, staring at Arthur as if he’s never seen him before.
Arthur feels his hackles rising at Merlin’s dumbfounded expression, and he pokes Merlin with his sword—carefully, not enough to actually break that ivory skin. “Well?” he asks.
“You hit me!” says Merlin accusingly.
Arthur glares at him. “You hid your magic from me for five years! You pretended to be my manservant when you’re in fact—”
“I am not a dodgery old sorcerer!” Merlin cries out.
It’s quiet for a few moments—that is, as quiet as it can be in a forest, which means it’s not very quiet at all. Arthur stares at Merlin, and Merlin stares back in defiance, his lips pursed, and it’s all so ludicrously idiotic that Arthur bursts out into laughter.
“Dodgery!” he repeats, and bends over howling.
Merlin does not seem to think it’s nearly as funny. He stands up a little awkwardly and dusts off his trousers, and runs a hand past the red spot on his head. “You have no idea,” he says furiously, “the position you put me in, asking me to cover for you!”
“Because you were there, too!” Arthur is still crying from laughter, feeling a bit as if he might have gone insane when the tears hit the ground. “Good Lord, Merlin, it’s no surprise my father never saw you around! What were you thinking!”
“Well, I’m glad you think it’s so funny,” Merlin mutters. “In the meanwhile, I was left wondering if you’d hack off my head or if you’d rather burn me on the pyre.”
“Oh, come on,” Arthur says, but Merlin’s comment has soured the joke a little bit, and he calms himself. Merlin is still glaring at him, as if he’s got something to be mad about.
“I can’t believe you knocked me out.”
Arthur shrugs. “You were going to leave, for God knows how long, and I still need—”
Well. A great many things, really. He still needs guidance in all things magic, especially if he is to prepare for legalising it when he becomes king. He still needs a mentor in what makes a good leader, and he increasingly starts to think his father might not be the best answer. Mostly, he might not have wanted his soulmate to run away from him in the dark of night, no matter how crooked his back or how long and white his ragged beard.
Merlin seems to have realised the same thing. He looks down, caressing his wrist unconsciously—the braided leather jolts along with his movements, and Arthur can’t tear his eyes away.
“You must know,” Merlin says, slowly meeting his gaze, “that it wasn’t—I didn’t intend to trick you. I didn’t want to—it all got away from me, and I didn’t know what to do, and I was running myself ragged keeping up the lie…”
“You are my soulmate, aren’t you?” Arthur asks gently. “When it says Emrys, it really does mean you?”
Merlin grimaces. “I didn’t know,” he confesses. “It’s—one of my names, yes. A name for someone I’m prophesied to be, I don’t know, Arthur. I thought—when I met you, I thought—”
Arthur takes a few careful strides forwards when Merlin falters. Merlin’s eyes are dark and hopeful, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Arthur moves slow enough so that Merlin can stop him, but he never does, and so he takes Merlin’s wrist and undoes the binding.
Arthur Pendragon, Merlin’s wrist says, neatly scrabbled in a small enough font so it fits. But it is his name, sure enough. And Merlin had spent years in his service with Arthur never acknowledging him as more than a servant, as more than a friend, at best—
Because Arthur hadn’t known.
“You thought I was yours, and you weren’t mine.”
Merlin nods shakily, but he’s still staring down at his wrist. “But even without that,” he murmurs, “I couldn’t have left. I’m sorry for lying.”
“I can’t blame you,” Arthur says. If anything, Emrys— Merlin, it’s Merlin—had taught him that the shadow of Camelot reaches far and long, exterminating much of the light that magic had cast. It isn’t Arthur who had noticed, or even many of the people without magic; it is the sorcerers who had suffered, the druids and those who held faith in the Old Religion. Fear is a strong thing; Arthur knows that for himself.
“I can tell you all of it,” Merlin says hesitantly, nearly stumbling over his words. His wrist is still in Arthur’s palm, and he rubs his thumb over his name. Arthur Pendragon, with a nice flourish on the P, and a curl at the start of the A.
“I don’t know,” Arthur says lightly. “You ramble on enough as it is. Is it a good story?”
“It involves a dragon,” Merlin tells him.
Fine. Arthur is a prince, and he knows that most of the stories involving dragons also include some sort of helpless princess in a tower. These are tales that end well for him, and judging by Merlin’s dark eyes, it’s quite a story, indeed.
Arthur tugs at Merlin’s wrist, and Merlin falls against him willingly. “You can still choose, you know,” Merlin reminds him, as if his warm breath on Arthur’s cheek isn’t alluring. As if Arthur hadn’t chosen a long, long time ago. “Just because you’ve got one of my names on your wrist—”
“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur says, and leans forward to kiss him.
It’s a bumbling thing, tongues and teeth clashing, but Merlin’s lips are warm and soft. He makes a surprised noise, and moves his head a little clumsily, and inwardly, Arthur smugly thinks to himself that he really must be Merlin’s first kiss.
He worms his hand in Merlin’s hair, and keeps them together.
~*~
“So, you see, father,” Arthur finishes his tale with a flourish. “The sorcerer has been defeated, all thanks to my manservant’s vigilant caring of myself and my own undefeated skills in battle.”
Uther eyes Merlin strictly. Merlin waves carefully, and there’s still a stick in his hair—perhaps a consequence of Arthur tugging him to kiss in a bush on the way back to Camelot. He hopes it isn’t too noticeable to Uther, and he slaps at Merlin’s arm. Merlin stops waving.
“Well, I’d hoped your manservant had felt he could come to us earlier if he thought you enchanted,” Uther says. “Certainly the threat of magic is serious enough to warrant a warning.”
“I just wanted to make sure, my lord,” Merlin says, as practised. Perhaps he’s a better liar than Arthur had granted him. Still not that good, obviously, because Arthur had figured him out in the end.
Uther huffs; it’s a clear sound of dismissal, and indeed, he already turns back to his letters. Arthur lets out a shaky breath of relief.
“Fine,” Uther says. “And you are sure this sorcerer has been conquered, Arthur?”
“Yes, father.”
And that’s the end of it. Arthur tugs Merlin out of his father’s chambers, nearly stumbling over his feet in his haste to get away. They don’t stop there; they make it halfway the castle before Arthur falls against one of the walls, wheezing in laughter.
“I told you he’d believe it.”
“Because you were the one who told him,” Merlin points out, but he’s laughing like a madman too, the smile crinkling his eyes. Arthur tugs at him, and kisses him again, drunk on the sweetness of Merlin’s lips and his ability to do so. Merlin indulges for a moment, and then pushes him off.
“I am your prince,” Arthur says in mock rage.
“And I can turn you into a beautiful toad,” Merlin says, “and then you’ll have to wait for love’s true kiss to turn you back into a handsome prince, but you’re insane if you think I’ll kiss a toad for you.”
“Who says you’re my true love’s kiss?” Arthur challenges him.
Merlin smiles mischievously and leans in. “Magic does,” he whispers conspiratorially, and presses a quick kiss against Arthur’s cheek before he leans back. “But it’s a secret.”
“When I’m king,” Arthur says, suddenly feeling a solemn mood set over him, “It won’t be. You do know that, won’t you?”
It’s a sobering thought, that idea of the years stretching before him. His father’s crusade against magic hasn’t ended, and although the sorcerer that ended up today may only be a fictional one, it won’t always be like that. And Arthur will have to make a choice.
Although he thinks it’s already been made, largely.
“We still have a long way to go,” Merlin says quietly. “But I’ll show you.”
“I can’t believe you actually have something of value to teach me,” Arthur says, his heart hammering in his chest. That is two secrets of Merlin’s, and two he’ll keep very close to his heart. Well—maybe. He thinks there’s one person with whom they probably ought to be shared.
Merlin just tilts his head. “I can’t believe,” he says, “you called me a dodgery old sorcerer.”
“You were!”
“Toad,” Merlin warns, and lets his hand slip from Arthur’s, although none of that wipes the warm smile off his face. “You’ll see, Arthur. This is only the beginning.”
~*~
“So,” Morgana starts that night, knowingly looking at the door through which Merlin just disappeared. Arthur might not have been able to keep that sappy smile from his face; he caught himself in the mirror, and he really can’t seem to wipe it off.
Apparently, that’s the sort of person he is.
“So,” Arthur echoes.
“You and Merlin, then?” Morgana says, raising her eyebrows at him. “Tell me everything, won’t you? What’s one more secret?”
And Arthur tells her.