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Arthur and his knights stalked between the trees of the Darkling Woods. Gone was the clank of chainmail, replaced instead with creak of hunting leathers. Each carried a crossbow, though not a single bolt had taken flight. Something strange lingered in the air, a curling awareness that was impossible to shake. Arthur knew these lands like the back of his hand. He had hunted game since he was a boy, and yet the forest had never felt like this: tense and expectant.

A thin mist wreathed the world, casting ghostly vapour across the ground and condensing into cold droplets upon his leather jerkin. No breeze stirred the trees above their heads, and the peace was so dense it seemed like blasphemy to speak. No hare, pheasant or partridge had crossed their path. No deer had awaited them, quiet and watchful, in the clearings that dappled the woodland. There were no tracks, no fewmets – no sign at all. It was as if every animal in the forest had hidden itself away, leaving nothing but the ancient oaks and towering pines to bear witness.

'I don't like this.'

Arthur sighed, casting a look over his shoulder at Merlin. He couldn't even blame the lack of game on his clumsiness, not when Merlin had been creeping along, his head ducked and his shoulders hitched up to his neck: as timid as their absent quarry.

'Another funny feeling, Mer-lin?' he asked, lowering his crossbow and turning to face him. Even as he did so, he regretted his sneering doubt. It was habit, by now, to be dismissive. He and his knights were all guilty of it, with the exception of Lancelot. To be fair, before now, none of them had any reason to suspect there might be more to Merlin's heightened instincts than cowardice.

None of them had known about his secret – about his sorcery.

That had all unravelled in the summer, brought to light in a brutal fight that would have left them dead if not for Merlin's intervention. Arthur still remembered the shock of it, the awful jolt of horror deep in his gut when he saw Merlin's eyes shine bright, unforgettable gold.

It had been a trying time, coming to terms with it, battling between the demands of his duty and the call of his heart. In the end, the latter had won, but it was not an easy matter.

Acknowledgement was not acceptance, and Merlin seemed unwilling to speak of what he could do. He never volunteered information and had a terrible tendency to dodge questions when asked directly. Not that Arthur could blame him; it was a deadly secret to have. After years of being told to keep it hidden, it seemed Merlin struggled to break the habit, even around those he considered his friends.

Still, just because Merlin did not voluntarily mention his magic, even now, that did not mean Arthur would do the same. He'd played that game, trying to pretend that nothing had changed, but a good commander used every strategic advantage at his disposal, and that included taking heed of Merlin and his "funny feelings".

'Are they premonitions?' He put one hand on his hip and raised his eyebrows as Merlin stumbled to a stop, looking a bit like a hunted rabbit.

'What?'

'Your so-called "funny feelings". They always seem to come true. Do you think I haven't noticed that every time we're on a ride and you start whinging, everything falls to pieces?'

'He's right,' Gwaine said cheerfully. 'Though I'd have said "Goes to shit", myself.'

Merlin shifted his grip on the bag he had slung over his shoulder. In theory, it was to carry small game. In practice, it hung, slack and empty. 'No? Or they're not very good ones. I never know what's going to go wrong, only that it feels like something will.'

'There's nothing more specific?' Leon asked gently. He had been the most uncertain about Merlin's magic when they found out about it, but even he had soon realised that Merlin would rather kill himself than ever bring them to harm. 'Today, I mean?'

Merlin shrugged. 'Just dread. It feels like something's coming, but I don't know what.'

'Great.' Elyan gestured towards the setting sun, now half-hidden below the horizon. 'Think we've got time to make it back to the castle before nightfall?'

'No chance.' Percival shook his head, unloading his crossbow and hefting it onto his shoulder. 'It's a long walk back to the horses, and by the time we get there, it'll be too dark to ride safely.'

'We'll return to the picket and make camp,' Arthur decided. The night looked set to be clear and cold, bar the low mist that continued to obscure their boots. 'We'll head back to the castle at dawn, even if we must do so empty-handed.'

'I wonder where all the animals are?' Lancelot mused, falling back to walk at Merlin's side as they retraced their steps through the forest.

'Hiding.'

Arthur looked over his shoulder, noting how Merlin shivered in his too-thin jacket, his lips pursed tight after his one-word answer. He looked as if he would rather be anywhere but here, tense and a little wild-eyed.

Once, he would have teased him mercilessly about it. Now, however, Arthur found a mirroring unease trying to braid his spine. After all, Merlin was not weak or cowardly. All those times he'd been running from battle it had actually been to put a safe distance between them so that he could work his magic unseen. He followed Arthur on quests even when ordered not to. For him to be this unsettled set alarm bells ringing in Arthur's head.

'You can't sense anything?' he asked, waving a hand at the trees around them. 'Something out of place or strange?'

Merlin sank his teeth into his bottom lip as he came to a halt. The bag creaked again as he tightened his fingers on the strap, but that was the only move he made. There were no whispered words or strange gestures. Instead, his eyes flared bright, and Arthur was hit by the abrupt awareness of something all around him, warm and comforting, shocking and exhilarating. It was a summer's day and a tempest all at once, and the trace of it over his skin left him breathless and flushed.

He was not the only one who felt it. The knights around him stumbled in their stride, reaching to brace themselves against the trunks of the trees. Their experience of Merlin's magic was piecemeal, often lost within the brutal chaos of a fight. This was different, and there was no hiding the awe that lit their expressions. It was one thing to know Merlin was a sorcerer, but another to feel his power like the sky above their heads, vast and limitless.

'There's nothing there.' Merlin's eyes dimmed, the sensation of his magic receding. 'No animals, no people. It's like the woods are empty.'

Like everything that normally made the trees their home had fled. Arthur grimaced, shaking his head as he pushed himself upright, ignoring the faint shake to his knees as he led the way back to where they had left the horses. Dread coiled tight in his gut, but Percival was right. Attempting to ride back to Camelot in the fading light could end in disaster. He just had to hope that whatever had plunged the woods into silence and stirred Merlin's caution into a frenzy would pass them by.

They had travelled far in their search for game, and by the time they reached the horses, the last trace of twilight had given way to true night. Normally, the woods would be alive with owls and bats. Now, nothing darted overhead.

Silence pressed down all around them, and Arthur tried not to sigh in audible relief when they entered the clearing where they had left the horses. They were still there, but even they seemed ill-at-ease, their ears pricked forward and the whites of their eyes showing. Hengroen pawed at the ground, shifting uneasily and straining against his picket.

Arthur ran a hand down his nose, murmuring soothing nothings as he retrieved Excalibur from where it was strapped to the saddle. He felt the need for its comforting weight as they all went about setting up camp.

The fire that leapt to life beneath Merlin's hands chased off the worst of the shadowy disquiet that had caught them all in its clutches, though tatters of it lingered. They sat in a close ring, sharing out the provisions they had brought. Normally they would laugh and joke, but even the conversation was subdued, each man keeping one eye on the shadowy woods around them.

Merlin sat cross-legged to Arthur's left, their knees pressed together as he stared into the flames, too distracted to notice Arthur watching him out of the corner of his eye. That was probably just as well. He couldn't stop thinking about how the magic had felt – how it had brushed against him as if he were something both fragile and precious. Something worthy of care.

After their rocky start, Merlin had proven himself stunningly loyal. He made no apology for his devotion, but to sense it writ so deep in the power he wielded... It made Arthur feel unworthy and small, ashamed of how he'd first reacted to the revelation of Merlin's magic and the relative silence on the subject he had maintained ever since.

Yet any words he could think to say tasted clumsy in his mouth, and so he subsided once more. Subtly, he leaned his shoulder against Merlin's and hid a smile when he felt the pressure returned, the two of them pressing against each other in mute comfort.

'What about wards?' Leon's quiet question seemed to curl amidst the smoke from the fire. 'They're protective spells, aren't they? Can't we use them?'

Merlin emerged, blinking, from his reverie, and a faint smile flickered across his lips. 'They're already up,' he said, which made Arthur suck in a quiet breath of surprise. The only thing he'd noticed Merlin do was ignite the kindling. He'd had no idea that he'd woven other enchantments around them as they made camp. 'They won't protect us from everything, though. Wild animals and bandits, yeah. Anything magical?' He shrugged. 'Maybe. Or maybe not.'

'Good enough for me,' Gwaine said, reaching out to clap a hand on Merlin's shoulder. 'I can take first watch.'

'Don't let your mind wander,' Arthur warned. Standing sentry was a tiresome business, and it was all too easy to slip into a fugue and be taken by surprise. 'Wake me when it's time to take second.'

'Will do,' Gwaine promised easily, getting to his feet and drawing his sword before settling at the camp's perimeter, his blade at the ready.

'Something tells me we're in for a rough night,' Elyan murmured as he came back from checking the horses one last time.

'Sleep,' Arthur urged. 'And try not to let your imagination run away with you. It could be that there is a reasonable explanation for all of this.'

No one needed to speak up to make their doubts known. They wrote themselves on every tense face as the knights climbed into their bed-rolls, settling down with their swords in easy reach. More than used to the discomforts of patrol, they were all normally able to fall asleep within moments, but Arthur suspected he was not the only one who lay awake. Sleep, when it did come, kept slipping away, and in the end, he gave it up as a bad job, freeing himself from his blankets to sit beside Gwaine.

'Rest if you want. I can take over,' he murmured.

'Don't think I could if I tried. Merlin's right. Something about tonight feels... off.'

Arthur couldn't argue with that. Instead, he and Gwaine shared the watch, neither of them speaking as the night thickened. The only sound was the snuffle of Percival's occasional snore and the whisper of wood crumbling to ash in the fire. Nothing else disturbed them, and Arthur's fingers grew stiff around the pommel of his sword.

Then, in the thickest black of the night, Merlin sat bolt upright in his bed-roll. The sudden movement made Arthur flinch, and he let out an irritated huff.

'Merlin, what is it?'

There was no answer, though even from where he sat, he could see the way Merlin's chest heaved as if he had just run a marathon. Had it been a nightmare? Some stirring of his mind tearing him from his slumber, or was he reacting to something out here in the world beyond dreams?

'Merlin, mate?' Gwaine called again, sharing a look with Arthur when he got no response.

'I'll check on him,' Arthur promised, rising to his feet and shaking off the stiffness that had seized his frame. Now, shifting around the fire, he could see Merlin's face, its natural warmth stripped away. His eyes were bright gold once more, but Arthur couldn't feel that same, thrilling presence of magic as he had earlier that day. He wasn't blinking, either, just staring straight ahead in a way that sent a shiver darting down Arthur's spine.

He cleaved his sword into the soil, keeping it close at hand as he considered his options. He'd woken enough knights from bad dreams to know it was a dangerous job. He'd got more than one blackened eye from a wild punch thrown by a man still mostly asleep.

Not that Merlin seemed to struggle with night-terrors. Once, he would have assumed nothing had happened in his life to inspire them, but now he suspected otherwise. He knew some of what Merlin had done, and he'd suspected all the times he was "at the tavern" he was actually somewhere else, protecting them all in secret.

And now this.

Bracing himself, he reached out, resting his hand on Merlin's shoulder before tightening his grip and giving him a little shake. 'Merlin? Merlin, wake up.' There was still no response. Arthur was just debating whether to slap him soundly around the face when he took a sharp breath: a gasp like a drowning man. Dark lashes fluttered, and his eyes seemed to find their focus, no longer looking through Arthur but at him.

'The Wild Hunt.'

'What?'

'The Wild Hunt are coming.' His voice sounded strange, both Merlin's and not, as if something far older spoke through his lips. The words carried, seeming to drift through the mist, and Arthur saw Gwaine get to his feet, hurrying around the bed-rolls to rouse everyone.

'That's a myth,' Arthur said, trying to ignore the way his heart tripped into a faster beat and his fingers felt fat with panic. 'A story to scare people from wandering too far into the woods at night.'

Slowly, Merlin shook his head, seeming to blink back to himself as he struggled free of his bed-roll. 'No, it's not, and tonight, they ride.'

Arthur wet his lips, grappling with his thoughts. The Wild Hunt was a story one of his nurses had told him as a boy. The tale reeked of magic; the poor woman had not lasted long in Uther's Camelot, but the story had stuck with Arthur.

They rode on dark, cold nights, their ghostly horde racing across the land. Any living soul unfortunate enough to become their quarry was never heard from again. Some said they sought to steal the souls of the living to replace the ones they themselves had lost. Others said they were the damned, cursed to ride the land long after they had died. Yet more stories claimed their leader was a god: a guardian of the underworld, sent forth to build his army.

But they were just stories, or so he'd hoped.

'They're real?' Merlin winced at the tightness of Arthur's grip, and he forced himself to let go, already regretting the bruises he had probably painted on Merlin's skin. 'What do we do?'

'Hide?' Percival suggested, already kicking over the ashes of the fire. 'Keep quiet and hope they don't come this way?'

'Too late.'

Something shifted between the trees, and Arthur sucked in a breath. Where there had been nothing but shadow, horses stepped forward. Or what had once been horses. Shades of pewter and white outlined the emaciated flanks. Bloody mouths shifted and nostrils flared, but no steaming breaths escaped them. Hounds stalked alongside them, their skin slack and their eyes blind. Yet it was the men on the horses' backs that caught Arthur beneath their thrall.

Armour covered them. There was no exposed flesh to give away the state of decay that lay beneath. No rust pitted their plate, but the light caught it strangely, gleaming in ways it should not. A terrible cold surrounded them: absolute. It made every breath ache.

He rose hesitantly to his feet, sensing the other knights do the same, moving like little more than puppets. They should draw their swords and issue a challenge, but the thought was like steam, impossible to catch.

'No.'

The command shattered the air like glass, and Arthur reeled, blinking, as he felt invisible restraints fall away. He had not even noticed himself being caught in their grasp. There had been nothing but a seeping cold and an indomitable will drowning out his own.

Merlin stood in front of him, his habitual slouch gone. He stood straight and tall, one arm out to the side as if to shield Arthur. Those narrow shoulders were firm, resolute, and all trace of his dread had vanished. It was as if, now he knew the monsters he faced, Merlin saw nothing to fear. The knowledge that the cursed dead stood before him seemed to be no cause for alarm. Instead, Arthur could see the wrench of his lips, baring his teeth in a snarl as his eyes flared bright. 'You can't have them.'

And you will stop me?

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Arthur could not even tell which of the riders spoke. The words overlapped each other, echoing, and he cast a look around, realising they were surrounded. Two dozen riders waited amidst the trees. They carried no weapons, Arthur realised, but then perhaps they did not need them. Power was a stale flavour in the air, carrying with it the mustiness of a sealed tomb. It was nothing like Merlin's. His was light and life, theirs was only the bitter indifference of death.

'If I must.'

The voice huffed: a disbelieving sound of mirth. It was the only warning they got before the pressure slammed down upon them. It dragged at Arthur's shoulders and battered his head, threatening to crack his knees unless he bowed in obeisance. Sweat blossomed over his skin, his teeth creaking as he tried to fight it, yet even as he did so, he knew he was not the real target.

Merlin's magic crackled and spat beneath the strain, gold traceries flickering through the air as it earthed itself at his boots. Frost curled around him, painting intricate lace across the leaf-litter, and each panted breath exploded out of him in a cloud of mist.

The pressure was unbearable, and Arthur let out a tight noise of pain as it drove him down, forcing him to one knee. Something seemed to grab the back of his head, yanking it down in a mockery of a bow, like a knight offering supplication to his lord. He heard the others follow reluctant suit, every one of them brought low by the ancient, unstoppable force.

And still, Merlin did not succumb.

Kings and emperors have knelt to me, and you will not.

The voice sounded thoughtful, intrigued, and a fresh wash of panic raced down Arthur's spine. That was worse, somehow, than the cold indifference of before. That sounded like a hunter who had spotted a worthy quarry, rather than easy prey.

They scorn you, these mortals. Ride with us, and all will know your glory.

Arthur felt the magic change, no longer a crushing weight but a line and hook, something meant to ensnare, rather than subdue. He saw the closest horse shift as the rider loosened its grip on the reins. Its gauntlet shimmered strangely as it held out a hand to Merlin, beckoning.

Come with me.

Arthur could sense the weight of promise in that voice. It said nothing of reward, and yet he could feel how it tempted Merlin. It did not offer gold and riches, but a sense of belonging. It promised an end to secrecy, and darker things: power unchecked and untamed. It offered Merlin freedom in every sense of the word, both beautiful and terrible.

No.

'He is mine.'

The words escaped Arthur in a snarl as he lunged to his feet, snagging Excalibur free from where it still rested in the earth. The blade gave an unearthly gleam as every muscle and joint screamed in pain. The Wild Hunt's power grappled with him, but he would rather let it crumble him to nothing but dust than see Merlin stolen from him.

He looped his left arm around Merlin's waist, tugging him close as he shifted Excalibur's blade into a guard position, the point angled skywards and the honed edge ready to sweep out in a brutal arc.

Merlin's crackling power sparked off the length of the blade, pooling in the runes that etched its surface. The magic trailed over Arthur as well, yet it did not sting and nip at him. It blessed his skin and curled through his bones, warming him from the inside out. He did not notice the flowers blooming around his feet, their petals bright amidst the frost. He was too busy staring into that blank, expressionless helm, waiting for either its challenge or surrender.

You do not know to what you lay claim. You, who are not even yet king of these lands.

'He is my king,' Merlin replied, his voice as strong as iron. 'That is enough. My magic is his to command. You are not welcome here.'

You think you have the power to banish us?

'No.' Arthur felt breathless as the knowledge unfurled in his mind. It was as if the magic were speaking to him, a voice older than all the ages of mankind telling him what he must do. He had never been so aware of the world around him, the star-flung sky above their heads and the somnolent earth beneath their boots. It was all connected, bound up in Merlin's power, which he laid at Arthur's feet like a gift. 'He doesn't. Not on his own.'

A grin flickered across his lips, feeling feral and wild on his face. 'But he isn't alone, is he?'

Quick as a flash, he turned Excalibur's point back down and plunged it deep into the waiting earth, pinning the frothing surge of Merlin's magic in place. The sword hummed, acting like a lodestone, gathering the cresting, rushing tide of Merlin's strength to it before releasing it with a boom of thunder.

The trees flexed, their branches creaking as the wind roared. The thin, wraith-like mist rolled before it, and the ghostly horses reared and plunged, screaming like the fiends of hell. The riders cursed as the dogs whimpered. Gold light flared outwards, brighter than the sun itself, and Arthur shut his eyes, turning his face towards Merlin as he waited for the storm to pass.

He could smell the scent of magic on his skin: fresh rain and growing things. He could sense the tempest within him, but it was a not a wild, raging thing. Merlin was completely in control. This was not the meek, mild magic he used for his chores. It was bigger by far, the world bending easily to Merlin's will.

He could feel that lithe body shuddering against his own, vibrating beneath the force of the energy pouring through him. Merlin's hand rested over the back of Arthur's on Excalibur's pommel, his fingers shifting until their grip was entwined. Perhaps he should be afraid. After all, he was as much a part of this spell as Merlin. The magic swirled through him, plucking at something within him beyond his knowing, but there was no room for uncertainty. Not when Merlin was right there, bright and strong and loyal, defending the borders of his realm from magical enemies as surely as his knights would stand against an army.

Finally, the light died away, and Arthur parted the seam of his lashes to look at the forest. His brow was pressed to Merlin's temple, the two of them leaning in to each other as if they might collapse without each other's support.

'Are they –' He wet his lips, clearing his throat to banish the rasp of his voice. 'Did you kill them?'

'No.' Merlin let out a breath, and Arthur turned to watched the last gold sparks fade from his eyes. 'They were already dead, but they won't ride Camelot's lands again. They have no claim here, not anymore.'

'Because of you.'

Merlin's grin was crooked but bright, and there was a gleam in his eyes that made Arthur's heart give an awkward little whooshing thump. 'Because of us.'

Arthur pursed his lips, swallowing hard as he peeled himself from Merlin's side. His legs felt like the bones had turned to water, his entire body loose as if he had just drilled beyond endurance on the training ground. He turned, graceless and ungainly, checking over his knights as they picked themselves up from the floor, wincing at bruised knees and aching bones. 'Is everyone all right?' he asked.

'I believe so.' Leon's face was milk-pale. There was little light, now, with the fire extinguished and the magic gone, but there was a sliver of a moon overhead. Its feeble light did little to peel away the night, and Arthur tried not to cringe from the darkness pressing in at all sides.

'Leoht.'

A silver-blue orb of light spun into being, hovering obligingly at Merlin's shoulder. It threw off the veil of the night, revealing nothing monstrous lingering between the trees. Arthur would have to be blind to miss the way his knights relaxed, and Arthur threw an approving look in Merlin's direction before looking at the orb anew. They had hashed out what Merlin had done for him. Arthur knew it all, the good and the bad, but while he was aware it had been Merlin who saved him in the Forest of Balor, he had not seen that ball of light since that day.

Now, its presence eased the last, raw edges of his fading uncertainty, and Arthur felt his acceptance settle into place: absolute. He had experienced Merlin's magic for himself, not merely as a spectator, but as a fundamental part of it. He did not know what role he had played in chasing off the Wild Hunt, only that it was something the two of them could only have achieved together. He saw, more clearly than ever before, that magic was as much as part of Camelot as its rivers and trees, and he realised what his father had cast aside with his Purge.

"My king". That was what Merlin had said, but Arthur could hear the truth in those words. It had not merely been a statement of allegiance. It went deeper than that, down into the very roots of the world. Down into the caverns of Arthur's beating, bloody heart, where king and kingdom became one and the same. It spoke of something else – of all the subtle looks and breathless moments they had shared. It whispered of the affection and attraction that haunted them in equal measure. It reminded Arthur of every time he'd had to hide a caress by ruffling Merlin's hair or chasing him in horseplay.

"My king", Merlin had said, and yet to Arthur, it sounded like so much more.

'Sire?'

Lancelot's quiet call interrupted him, and he blinked himself from his thoughts. 'What should we do?'

Arthur glanced up between the trees, considering the state of the night. Dawn was still hours away, but he doubted any of them would be able to return to slumber. He could read the uncertainty that still clouded their expressions and the fear that nestled in their hearts, not of Merlin and the magic he had wrought at Arthur's side, but of the spectres they feared may still haunt the darkness.

'Build the fire. Check the horses. Take your ease and sleep if you can, but I understand that dreams may not find anyone easily tonight.' He did not put it into words, but he knew they heard his tacit approval to speak of what they had seen. He was not like his father, as eager to live in denial as he was to punish even the slightest hint of magic. Besides, they needed to rationalise what had happened. They needed to accept, sometimes, that there were some things you could not fight with iron.

The knights did as they were bid, and Arthur did not miss the way they each reached for Merlin, rubbing a hand through his hair or curving their fingers over his shoulder: their gratitude written into their touch. Nor did he miss the way Merlin seemed to flourish under the attention, his smiles small and unsteady at first, but genuine and pleased.

How many times had he done similar feats and received no recognition for it? Dozens by Arthur's count. He knew most of them, or so Merlin said, but now Arthur understood, better than ever, the size of the debt he owed.

Probably far more than he could ever repay.

They kept themselves busy, raising their voices in talk as if to challenge the quiet woods around them. Percival kept the fire built high, and with its light it seemed the knights reclaimed their courage. It was Lancelot who went to look between the trees, checking for hoof-prints or any mundane evidence of what they had all seen. Elyan joined him, and while they did not find anything, the attempt seemed to settle them further.

It helped that, at some point, the forest began to stir. An owl ghosted by, its familiar call like a lullaby. Small creatures returned to scratch through the undergrowth. Moths danced around the orb of magical light Merlin had left ignited, their wings pressing kisses to its interface in a way that made Merlin smile. At their picket, the horses no longer huddled, turning their attention instead to the oats Percival offered them.

Life crept back in to the place where death had briefly roamed, and it seemed as if the world breathed a sigh of relief.

True to Arthur's word, they set off at first light. Gone was the breathless, oppressive peace. Birds called out their raucous dawn chorus as the knights talked and teased each other, their fear made manageable in daylight. It was only as they approached Camelot that Arthur raised his voice in gentle reminder.

'If anyone asks, we merely had an unsuccessful hunt. Nothing of any note happened. No tales in the tavern, Gwaine, and no talking among yourselves.'

Arthur looked at Merlin where he rode at his side. When they had first found out about his magic, they had all sworn, despite their doubts, to keep his secret. That was not about to change. They had to be careful, in the flush of survival, not to let something slip. 'We would struggle to explain how we escaped the Wild Hunt without mentioning Merlin's involvement.'

'And yours,' Gwaine pointed out, giving a quick, knowing grin. 'Don't think we didn't notice you were right in the middle of whatever our Merlin did.'

'All the more reason to hold our silence,' Leon replied. 'Fear not, Sire. We know what's at stake.'

Arthur did not need to turn in his saddle to know that resolution would paint each face. There was not a man among them who did not know the risks. It was not just loyalty to him which made them cautious. Merlin may not be a knight, but he was one of them, and they would rather run themselves through than see him fall victim to Uther's prejudice and paranoia.

'Deal with the horses, and then the day is yours. Get some sleep,' Arthur urged. 'Training resumes at the first bell tomorrow.'

There was some good-natured groaning, but no one protested in earnest. In truth, it would probably do them all some good. There had been no opportunity to raise their blades to the Wild Hunt. The magic had them in its thrall between one blink and the next. Their triumph had been thanks to Merlin's magic, rather than their battle prowess – and they all knew it.

The grooms took the horses, who seemed relieved to have returned to their stables, and Arthur took one of the saddlebags from Merlin before he could protest, swinging it over his own shoulder without a thought. 'You worked hard and slept little,' he murmured, making sure his words could not carry. 'You must be tired.'

Merlin's look was one of careful consideration. 'I'm not the only one,' he pointed out. 'We should get you to your chambers, unless you need to report to your father?'

Arthur shook his head, waylaying a servant as they mounted the castle steps and bidding them to deliver a brief missive to his father: one that would assure him of his safety and excuse his absence. If he had any complaints, Arthur would deal with them tomorrow. For now, the private sanctuary of his rooms called to him with its siren-song, and he was only too happy to answer.

He and Merlin walked in silence, their shoulders occasionally bumping and the backs of their knuckles brushing. Arthur swallowed, wondering if he was the only one who felt as if the air around them was charged with potential. It was as if, in the space of one night, everything had shifted, settling into its natural place. In some ways it felt as if he was looking at Merlin and seeing him for the first time – all of him, not just the disparate fragments of his secrets and the masks he employed in Camelot's court.

The door to his rooms shut behind them, settling in the threshold, and Arthur huffed a small laugh as Merlin lit the logs that lay in the grate with a flick of his hand. 'Don't get careless,' he warned.

'I won't.' Merlin set the saddlebag down on the table before reaching to relieve Arthur of his burden. The packs were set aside, forgotten, as he instead focussed his attention on Arthur's hunting leathers, untying laces and easing the form fitting hide from Arthur's frame.

More than once, those full lips parted, as if Merlin wanted to speak but thought better of it. His gaze kept looking up to Arthur's and then darting away just as quickly, not scared, but unsure, a perplexed frown pinching his brow.

By the time he stood in his socked feet, breeches and loose white tunic, Arthur's patience had expired. He felt jittery and on-edge, wondering what Merlin was struggling to put into words. He reached out as Merlin went to shift away, tangling his fingers in the cuff of his tunic before shifting to encircle the wrist beneath. The bones there were delicate but strong, and Arthur rubbed his thumb over the fragile vault of bone and the flickering pulse beneath.

'What is it?' he asked, watching Merlin's shoulder relax as if Arthur's touch were enough to banish his tension. He did not pull away or make excuses, as Arthur half feared he might. Instead, he turned to face Arthur more fully, wetting his lips before stepping into his space. His gaze was clear and confident as he met Arthur's eye: a keen reminder, should he need it, that Merlin was far from cowardly.

'You said I was yours, back in the woods. When the Hunt was trying to take me with them, you said I was yours.'

'Aren't you? Mine, that is?' Arthur bit his lip, noting how Merlin's gaze flickered down to his mouth.

'Your servant?'

The rasp of Merlin's voice sparked a delicious shiver down Arthur's spine, and he shook his head, just a fraction, his words buzzing low in his chest as he replied, 'My friend.'

Merlin watched Arthur through hooded eyes as he reached out, the gentle weight of his palm over the line of Arthur's waist robbing him of breath. A genuine smile curled his mouth, his eyes sparkling, but there was also a soft flush to his cheeks. It looked charming, flirtatious, and Arthur's heart skittered wildly beneath his ribs.

'Nothing more?'

He could retreat, Arthur thought, foggy and distant. He could take a step back and leave it at that: their friendship finally acknowledged after years of stubborn denial on Arthur's part. It was not a lie, after all. Merlin was his best friend. If that was all he wanted, then Arthur would take it and be grateful until the end of his days, but he didn't think either of them could deny that they both longed for something bigger – something of which friendship was one part of a greater whole.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned in, and claimed Merlin's lips with his own.

It was not magic that rushed through him, lighting fires wherever it touched. It was simply the pleasure of feeling Merlin shiver against him: claiming victory in surrender. It was the soft, breathless noise that caught in Merlin's chest and the way his hand slipped around Arthur's lower back, pulling him closer. It was how Merlin opened up for him, and how readily Arthur gave himself in turn.

They kissed until Arthur's lips felt sore and swollen with it, his head spinning and his heart giddy. They kissed until he needed more air than he could claim, and even then, he broke back only a fraction, his brow still pressed to Merlin's and their noses brushing. 'You're mine,' he murmured, 'and I am yours, for as long as you want me.'

He felt Merlin's smile against his mouth, his toes curling at the brief, hard, possessive kiss he bestowed: a claim that felt as if it resonated all the way down to Arthur's soul.

'Clotpole,' Merlin chided, fond, when he withdrew. 'You fought the Wild Hunt for me. I'm never letting you go now.'

'Good.'

Arthur grinned, reaching for Merlin and kissing him anew. There was plenty in this world that might try to split them apart, from his father's machinations to magical attacks, but together they would weather it all. They belonged together, and they always would: prince and servant, king and sorcerer...

Merlin and Arthur.