Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first bad thing is that Merlin doesn’t bring him breakfast. 

Merlin is not a reliable servant. He’s there when Arthur really needs him - mostly - but his attitude to working hours is nonchalant at best. Which is fine, of course. Arthur would never admit it to anyone, but it turns out that he’d rather have Merlin’s advice, or jokes, or presence over consistency. So he breakfasts with Morgana, and when she asks where Merlin is he just shrugs and says he gave him the morning off. 

Merlin isn’t there at the start of training either, so Arthur borrows a squire and smiles tightly through Sir Bedivere's jokes about useless manservants. “Yes, I’ll be having words with my man,” he says. And he will. He’ll call Merlin an idiot and ask him where he was, maybe throw in another round of armor polishing to top it off. And hopefully, the next time Merlin decides to disappear, he’ll tell Arthur instead of just vanishing. 

If it wasn’t ludicrously draconian, he’d put tell Arthur where you are at all times on Merlin’s list of duties. Not that Merlin pays attention to anything on that list anyway. 

His armor is too tight the whole way through training. 

At lunch, he drops by Gaius’s rooms for a salve for his aching muscles - it’s not a lie, the terrible squire really did a number on him - and gets told, once again, that Merlin is in the tavern. Two hours later, he asks Gwen if she knows where Merlin is. A half hour after that, Morgana is still shouting at him about “cornering my maid” and “tone of voice” and “behaving like a lunatic.” 

“It’s all right, my lady,” says Gwen. “But I’m sorry, sire, I really don’t know where Merlin is.” 

“Did he say anything?” snaps Arthur, and then holds up his hands at Morgana’s glare. “Sorry, sorry - I just haven’t seen him all day.” 

“Because you gave him the morning off!” Morgana throws up her hands. “Honestly, the way you’re attached to Merlin is concerning. Let him have some personal time - “

“Merlin didn’t say anything about having the morning off last night,” says Gwen. 

“You’ve seen him?” And let the record show that he says this in a perfectly calm, normal sort of way, and not, as Morgana mutters, “like a little blond bloodhound.” 

“Yesterday evening. He - “ Gwen stops. “Um. Well. You see, sire - “

“Just tell me what happened,” says Arthur. “You won’t be in trouble, Gwen. Morgana will fillet anyone who tries.” 

“He said he’d be coming back after curfew,” says Gwen, all in a rush. “Said not to worry, but asked me to leave a key out for him to the servant’s entrance. I checked this morning - it was still there. But I put it back! Gaius said he didn’t know where Merlin was, but that I probably shouldn’t worry.” 

“Gaius.” Arthur snorts. “He told me Merlin was at the tavern!” 

“Oh, how terrible,” croons Morgana. “Covering for a servant. So - when precisely did you give Merlin the morning off?”

Arthur grits his teeth. “I thought I’d let him have some personal time.” 

“You know, Arthur, under all that armour, you’re really just a big, cuddly sweetheart.”

Arthur spends the next hour working at his desk, because he is a prince, goddammit, and Merlin is allowed to have his own life. It’s after dark when Gaius knocks and enters. 

“Has Merlin finally remembered that he has a job?” He doesn’t look up. Merlin will be back and all will be well. 

“Ah, no.” Gaius coughs. “Sire, when I said that Merlin was at the tavern, that was more of an - educated guess.” 

Arthur looks up. “So you don’t know where he is.” 

“No.” Gaius looks very, very tired, and older than Arthur wants to think about. “And I am afraid.” 

Merlin is not in any of the taverns. Nor the whorehouses, the warehouses, the library. Arthur checks the castle dungeons with his heart in his throat - surely they wouldn’t, sure he’d have heard if - and finds nothing. For the first hour of searching, Arthur repeats, like a creed, Merlin’s things are still in his room and he wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. If not to him - and oh, that thought makes his breath catch - then to Gaius or Gwen. As time wears on, as the list of places to check gets shorter and shorter until it dwindles away, the words transform, become menacing. He wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye. Not willingly. Arthur finds himself checking slumped figures in alleyways, pressing gold into the hands of beggars and drunks half in relief that they’re not Merlin’s corpse, half in a hope that - what? That the gods will let him buy back Merlin’s safety? 

Gwen meets him on the street just as he’s about to start a third round of tavern hopeless checking. She’s been asking around the townsfolk. When she runs to Arthur, her eyes are glassy and terrified. 

“Where is he?” Say he’s in the tavern. Say he shacked up with some pretty girl and lost the whole day in bed. Say anything but - 

“The baker’s wife saw him last night,” she says. “I think I know where he is, but - Arthur, you have to help him. He can’t have done anything.” 

“Where, Gwen?” She flinches, and he curses himself. “I’m sorry. Just - please. Where is he?” 

There are two jails in Camelot - the dungeon under the castle, used for serious crimes, and the city lock-up for petty misdemeanours, drunken brawling, little thefts. Arthur makes himself look bored and irritated as he tells the guard that he’s here for his servant.

“Of course, sire,” says the guard. “We have quite a few people in - there was a big dust up at the Pig’s Head last night. Would he be one of those?” 

Arthur scoffs. “Merlin? Brawling? Unlikely. He’s skinny, about my height, dark hair, blue eyes - “

“Oh?” The guard cocks his head, and there’s something in his eyes that Arthur doesn’t like. Something like a nasty joke. “Oh, yes, we’ve got someone of his description.” 

Merlin is in a cell far at the back of the lock-up, sitting with his head on his knees. Arthur spots his silly red kerchief first, and the sight is enough to make him weak with relief. He walks, doesn’t run. He is a prince picking up his foolish drunk servant. Not - anything else. 

“Merlin,” he says, trying to sound irritated, and then Merlin raises his head and Arthur chokes. 

The right side of his face is a mass of bruises. There’s a cut on his eyebrow, and his split lip is still leaking blood down his chin. Arthur has a brief mad vision of crushing someone’s - anyone’s - head with his mailed fist, and then manages to choke out, “So you were brawling?” 

Merlin doesn’t say anything. His eyes are blank when he looks at Arthur. No recognition, no relief, just an awful cringing exhaustion. He drops his head back into the cradle of his arms. 

“You.” Arthur turns to the guard. “He was in the brawl, then?” 

“Ah, well.” The guard smiles. “No, just some of the lads got a bit rough bringing him in. You know how it is with - them lot.” 

“What lot?” spits Arthur, and the smile slides off the guards face. “Merlin’s no thief, and he’s not violent. Please explain to me exactly what he could have done that would have justified brutalising the trusted servant of the crown prince of Camelot.” 

“I - “ The guard takes a step back, eyes flicking between Merlin and Arthur. “I’m sorry, sire, I didn’t - we had no idea who he was - we just found him - natural reaction - perhaps you didn’t know - “

“Five words or less,” growls Arthur. “What is he in for?” 

And then Merlin, voice scratchy, says, “Sodomy.” 

Merlin doesn’t speak as Arthur pays off the guards, and that silence rings through Arthur like a blow. He knows he is talking. He knows he is smiling and saying things about youthful exuberance and country boys and never good with women, probably took what he could get, and he knows that the guards are all nodding along as the world gets put back into its proper order and gold gets put into their purses. He knows that his hands don’t shake because he forces them not to. He knows that he doesn’t line up the guards and drive his sword into their bellies one by one. Merlin doesn’t ask him to. 

They walk back to the castle in silence, Merlin trailing behind him. 

“Gaius’s rooms,” says Arthur, and Merlin still doesn’t say anything. Arthur wants to kneel at his feet, lay his bared blade on the ground, swear to gut every last one of them. But he can’t, and the uselessness kicks him in the teeth. 

“Gods above,” breathes Gaius, when he sees Merlin’s face. “What happened?” 

Merlin shrugs and doesn’t answer. 

“He was in the city lock-up,” says Arthur. “For - brawling.” 

Gaius raises an eyebrow. “Brawling?” 

Arthur has a smooth lie ready, he’s sure of it, but he can’t quite remember it because Merlin is lifting his eyes for the first time and looking at Arthur with - not happiness, but the memory of happiness. “It’s fine, Arthur. Gaius, I was with a lad. He ran, I didn’t. There were too many guards, I couldn’t try anything.” 

“Bastard,” says Arthur with feeling. 

Merlin shakes his head. “I’m glad he got away. There was no point there being two of us. Am I fired?” 

“What?”

“Am I dismissed from your service, my lord?” 

“Dismissed? Don’t be an idiot, Merlin.” That earns him half a smile. “Just - next time - “ 

He stops, unsure what to say. Be careful? Choose better partners? The one command Arthur can’t give is be safe, because it won’t be safe for Merlin, and Arthur can’t command him to never shag a man again because - fucking Morgana - he is allowed a personal life. 

“Your majesty,” says Gaius. “I would like to examine Merlin now.” 

Arthur waves a hand. “Of course, please.”

Gaius coughs. “The examination may need to be - intimate.” 

“Gaius, no.” Merlin grasps Gaius’s hand. “They didn’t - no. They just beat me. They didn’t hurt me like that.” 

Gaius shuts his eyes and murmurs a prayer of gratitude. Arthur should do the same, but his whole body is boiling with the thought of - of them touching Merlin - Merlin - soft, gentle Merlin with his jokes and blue eyes and kind words, and it is bad enough that they beat him, but if they have touched him like that Arthur will go back and flay them, he will tie their bleeding bodies to a stake and burn them, he will split them open like - 

But they didn’t. Merlin just said they didn’t. It’s fine. 

He takes a deep breath. “Right. Yes. Very well. Merlin - um - get better.” 

And he leaves, hearing Merlin and Gaius whispering behind him and trying not to feel sick. 

Arthur cannot sleep. 

He is exhausted, bone-tired from a day of fighting and searching and worrying, but every time he closes his eyes a fist comes down on Merlin’s face. He lies on his back, thoughts spinning in circles. Merlin must be safe. Merlin got beaten. Merlin is queer. Merlin may be beaten again. Merlin must be safe. 

Arthur’s no innocent. He’s been in a camp before a battle; he knows what happens between men, when they’re cold and desperate and scared. A human touch is a human touch. Not that Arthur - Arthur couldn’t. It’s not his place. It’s not his business.  

Merlin is his business. In between the flashes of violence, Arthur sees the man Merlin was with skittering away. What did he look like? Pretty, probably - Lancelot (and oh, it all makes sense now) was beautiful, and Merlin is - Merlin wouldn’t have to settle. Lancelot’s hand in dark hair; Merlin’s teeth in a golden neck. But Lancelot wouldn’t have run. So Arthur pictures the anti-Lancelot. Someone soft and yielding. Pale. Blue-eyed. Blonde. 

He cannot sleep. 

Merlin is clearly anxious when he comes in in the morning. He skitters around the room, no chatter or irritatingly cheerful morning attitude. Arthur opens his mouth half a dozen times hopelessly. What is he meant to do, order Merlin to chivvy him out of bed? Demand Merlin be fine? Merlin is not fine. Merlin got beaten. Merlin could be beaten again. 

“I’ll tell the guard they’re never to go near you again,” he says. 

“Thank you, sire,” murmurs Merlin. 

“And I - “ Surely, surely there will be something he can do to bring light back into Merlin’s eyes. “I’m glad your - paramour is safe. Sorry for calling him a bastard.” 

“It’s quite alright, sire.” 

Arthur gives up. “All right. Dress me.” 

“What?” 

Arthur shrugs off his sleep shirt and holds out his arms. “Dress me? Unless - “ Oh god, he chokes on the thought. “Unless - god, Merlin, you’re injured, should you even be - “

“No, I can - I can dress you. It’s just - it’s just that - “ Merlin is blushing deeper and deeper, rose to salmon to red, and then he blurts out, “Aren’t you worried I’m going to look at you?” 

“Well you can hardly dress me with your eyes closed. Though I’m guessing that’s how you dress yourself.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, and the sight does not make Arthur’s heart burst into a thousand butterflies. “No, Arthur, I mean - you know - aren’t you scared that I’ll - I’m queer!” 

“So?”

“So you’ll be naked.”

“It’s never bothered you before.”

“Yes, but doesn’t it bother you?” He turns, his mouth tight and unhappy. “Some men would be - well.” 

“Oh.” Arthur can’t help his grin. “Merlin, do you think I’m pretty?” 

“A pretty big prat, all right.” But Merlin is blushing twenty shades of scarlet, and his mouth is wobbling like he can’t decide whether to laugh or run, and oh, for all their verbal sparring, their little merry war, Arthur has never scored a point like this. He could burst with triumph. 

“You doo,” croons Arthur. “You think I’m handsome.”

“And if I did?” Merlin crosses his arms. He’s still blushing, but there’s a little light of defiance coming into his eyes - yes, fuck you, you’re handsome, what are you going to do about it? “Would you still want me dressing you if you knew that I - “

“What are you going to do, look at me? I don’t mind you enjoying your duties.” 

Merlin’s mouth falls slack. He swallows. “Enjoying.” 

Something inside Arthur jumps, a creature skittering through the underbrush too fast to be caught. Suddenly it isn’t a joke anymore. 

“I don’t care,” says Arthur, barely more than a whisper. “You can - you’re allowed to look at me.” 

And Merlin isn’t, eyes fixed firmly somewhere over Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur needs his eyes. He steps out of his smallclothes, completely bare. “Look at me, Merlin.” 

It’s the voice he uses for real commands - not the get my breakfast voice, the stay here, even if I die voice. And Merlin does. His eyes go skittering over Arthur’s skin, face half-shocked and half-desperate, hands clenched into fists. He’s getting hard. Arthur feels a glow of satisfaction - Merlin is getting hard because he knows he’s allowed to. Because Arthur made him feel safe. 

And then there is a moment where everything - flips. 

Arthur cannot say what causes it. Something in the shift of Merlin’s stance, or perhaps his gaze turning from awestruck to greedy, or maybe just the thought that rises unbidden - he could look at me like this every day. Suddenly he is no longer a crown prince talking to his servant. He is just a man, standing naked for another man’s pleasure. 

And he is bringing pleasure. Merlin absently palms his own hardening cock, head tilted like a farmer admiring a horse at market, or a patron examining a penny whore. The thought should fill Arthur with shame; instead it’s something closer to pride, because whatever’s he’s doing, he seems to be good at it. 

He makes a sound, and the world rights itself. The clarity is somehow disappointing. 

“Dress you,” mumbles Merlin. He reaches blindly for the closet, eyes fixed on Arthur’s chest. “I should dress you.” 

Arthur keeps his voice gentle. “The blue shirt today, I think. Much as it will pain you to cover up such radiant beauty.” 

Merlin laughs, and the spell is broken. Yes, thinks Arthur, vaguely, gratefully. Yes. This. You. 

The next bad thing is that Merlin gets blackmailed. 

“You can’t trust Lord Oswald,” he tells Arthur, dressing him for dinner. His hands are professional and gentle; his eyes are only on Arthur’s body as much as needed. There has been no repeat of that strange moment they shared a month ago, which Arthur finds himself strangely disappointed by. Merlin had trusted him then, trusted Arthur to see his vulnerability and want. He finds himself vaguely anxious that maybe he did something wrong, but what can he say? Excuse me, would you like to get hard while I stand there again? 

Arthur forces himself to pay attention. “Why not?”

“He tried to blackmail me to steal your patrol rotas off your desk.”

“Blackmail you? With what?” 

“Ah.” Merlin grimaces. “I hooked up with one of his servants. Turns out the whole thing was a set-up. Oswald confronted me afterwards. I played up how scared I was of you, insisted you’d turn me out without a reference - “

“Which servant?” 

“Alfred, the one with the green eyes - Arthur, put down the dagger!” 

Arthur does not put down the dagger. “He seduced you - used you under false pretences - I’ll - “

“You cannot stab the servant of a visiting lord!”

“I’m not going to stab him,” lies Arthur. “I’m just going to scare him a little bit.” 

“And when Oswald goes to your father about the crown prince threatening his men for the honour of his queer servant?” 

“I’ll tell my father what happened - “

“And I’ll be thrown out of Camelot, unless the king decides I’ve besmirched your honour and has me beheaded instead. Arthur, think. Why would Oswald want to know the patrol routes? Could he be planning to attack Camelot?” 

“He doesn’t have enough men for that, it’ll just be him trying to avoid taxes and that’s not the point - “

“I think it is the point, actually. Taxes? How so?” 

“His wealth comes from importing wool from Mercia and he doesn’t want to pay import tariffs on it. I’ll go to him and - “

“Or,” says Merlin, “I can give him a fake patrol rota and then your knights can catch him in the act. You get your tariffs, I don’t get imprisoned for rampant cocksucking - “

“Rampant?” 

“And no one gets stabbed.”

Arthur does not feel that last one is a point in the plan’s favour. “And the man who tricked you? He just gets away with it?” 

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Arthur, these things happen to men like me.” 

“Well they shouldn’t.”

“So change the law when you’re king. For now - “

“I will.”  He grabs Merlin’s hand, clutches it to his chest. “Merlin, when I am king, I promise you, no one will ever hurt you again.” 

Merlin’s mouth drops open. His eyes are wide and astonished. There’s a light blush high on his cheekbones. It suits him. He looks - he looks like he trusts Arthur, like he would crack right open and let Arthur cradle his soul in his palm. On some instinct, Arthur raises their clasped hands to his lips and slowly kisses Merlin’s fingers, exactly as he would a courtly lady to whom he’d pledged. 

“I should point out,” says Merlin, sounding strangled, “that you hit me all the time.” 

“That’s just horseplay, Merlin, it doesn’t count.” 

“All right.” Merlin’s grin is dazzling, worth a hundred tourney prizes. “Thank you, Arthur. But for now - ?” 

“Fine.” He smiles and releases Merlin’s hands. “We’ll do it your way.” 

But he can’t stop thinking about it. 

“You’re distracted,” says Morgana over a private breakfast in her chambers. 

“I’m fine.” The problem is not arrests, because Arthur got that vile little captain fired so publicly that no one will ever touch Merlin again. The problem is his father, because - 

“Arthur.” Morgana pokes him with her spoon. “I just told you Lord Oswald got turned into a toad, and you didn’t even react.” 

“Had it coming,” says Arthur. 

Morgana grimaces. “Yes, Gwen told me about that blackmail mess.”

“Gwen shouldn’t be spreading Merlin’s business around,” snaps Arthur. 

Morgana raises an eyebrow. “Arthur, I already knew.”

“You knew?”

“Merlin told me he was queer ages ago.” 

“Right,” says Arthur. It is, of course, Merlin’s right to trust whoever he wants. Morgana is a safe person to trust, after all; she wouldn’t do anything to Merlin. And the fact that Merlin thought he couldn’t trust Arthur is - well, Merlin knows the truth now. “I need to work out what to do about that.” 

Morgana pauses. Sets down her cup. Begins to explain, in tones very calm and precise, exactly what she will do to Arthur if he fires Merlin. 

“Stop - stop!” he wails, just as she’s describing something truly disgusting involving his toenails. “I’m not going to fire him, Morgana. I just - it’s not safe, is it?” 

“What, worried he’ll impinge on your manly virtue?” 

“No, I told him I’m fine with that.” 

“Wait, what - “

“It’s his safety, Morgana. I mean, the man’s made of trust and elbows - “

“Yes, but you dealt with the guard - “

“They hit him. They could have broken his jaw.”

“And it’s terrible that he’s in danger, and the law is awful - “

“He wouldn’t have been able to speak. He’d have gone mad within a day - “

“But Merlin is an adult, and he can calculate the risks himself - “

“What is the next person who catches him does worse?” 

“You can’t forbid him from shagging men!” 

“Morgana, they could have killed him!” 

“Oh.” Her voice goes soft, and she reaches for Arthur’s hands. “Oh Arthur. You care.” 

He snatches his hand away. “Is now really the time to make fun of me?” 

“I’m not, I promise.” She sighs. “Look, I will only say this once, because you are a horribly vain little puffball who thinks he’s the center of the universe and you have the emotional nuance of a horse, but you’re a good man, Arthur. It’s sweet - no, don’t make that face, I’m not mocking you - it’s sweet that you want to take care of Merlin, but you have to accept - “

“You’re right.” The knowledge hits him like a light. “He needs someone to take care of him. I have to take care of him.” He isn’t sure what that means yet, but he’ll find a way. 

Morgana drops her head into her hands. “Big blonde sheepdog.” 

The third bad thing is the one that breaks Arthur. 

He pushes Merlin against the wall of his chamber - gently, but firmly - pulls the scarf away from his neck. “Who did that to you?”

“It’s fine.” Merlin reaches up to cover his neck - cover the bruises on his neck - from Arthur’s view. His own hands fit perfectly into the fingermarks on his throat, and Arthur’s vision whites out for a second, because this is what it must have looked like, this is what it looked like when someone held Merlin by the neck against a wall - 

And here Arthur is, holding him against a wall again. He staggers back. “I’m sorry, I - Merlin, who?” 

“I don’t know,” says Merlin tiredly. “I don’t get names.” 

“What happened?” 

Merlin shrugs. “A man wasn’t particularly grateful for the pleasant time we’d spent together.” 

“Give me a description.” 

“No.”

“Why not?” 

“Because you’re reaching for your sword.”

“I’m not,” lies Arthur. “I’m reaching for a quill.” 

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “A quill?” 

“I’ve got one in my pocket.” 

“And here I thought you were just happy to see me.” 

“Don’t joke, Merlin, you’re hurt.” 

“Oh,” says Merlin, suddenly serious. He tilts his head, looking at Arthur like he’s a puzzle to be solved. “And that really upsets you, doesn’t it?”

Arthur steps back, suddenly feeling limp and unsure. “Well,” he blusters, “I suppose I’m just so used to having a terrible servant, I couldn’t survive the transition to a useful one if you - “ 

His voice cracks. No, even when joking he can’t finish that sentence. 

Merlin smiles. Arthur’s heart can’t take it. Merlin is standing there with bruises on his neck, fresh from a night where he was hurt and scared and alone in some alley, and he’s just smiling. It’s enough to make one want to break a window. 

“I said I’d protect you,” says Arthur. His voice is hoarse. “I meant it.” 

He wants to kneel, wants to draw his sword and press it into Merlin’s hand, but Merlin is just shaking his head. “Arthur, you can’t - even if you changed the law tomorrow, some people just don’t like who they are and they take it out on others. You can’t protect me from this.” 

“Unacceptable,” says Arthur, vaguely aware that it’s an insane thing to say. 

“I dealt with him,” says Merlin. “Despite appearances, I can take care of myself.” 

Except he can’t. And - apparently - neither can Arthur. 

Oh, he can think of ways. He could come along with Merlin on all his assignations and stand guard - except that Merlin, or his lovers, would probably object to having the Crown Prince of Camelot watching their very illegal fucking with a sword in his hands. Could he vet Merlin’s lovers somehow? Sit down with them and make them answer questions about whether they were going to hurt Merlin? Again, Crown Prince. “You have to be more careful,” he says without thinking. “I’ll think of something - “

“Careful?” 

He spits the word. Arthur jerks out of his thoughts. “No, I didn’t mean - “

“You have no idea,” hisses Merlin. “You have no idea what it’s like. Creeping around with my hood pulled low, playing fucking word games while you try and work out if they mean what you think they mean, and half the time I don’t even fancy them but it’s a pair of hands on me and I’ll take what I can get. And I still get hurt. You can just - stride through the castle and beckon any woman with one finger, you can swan around all golden and sunny and never slink through the shadows, you have never had to lie to anyone you love, so don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare tell me to be careful.” 

“Well forgive me, Merlin, but for all your precautions, you’re still illegally fucking men you don’t know - “

“And what’s my other option? You’re acting like I’ve never thought of these dangers before. They’re new to you, Arthur; this is my life. But I’m not going to stop. I like sex. I’m good at it, and it’s fun. So I guess I’m just going to have to risk it, unless you can magic up some safer way for me to fuck.”

And Arthur opens his mouth to tell Merlin that he understands, he does, but Merlin is too important to risk to a corrupt guard or an angry lover, that Arthur doesn’t just want him to be safe, he needs him to be safe, that the thought of anything happening to Merlin - bright, cheerful, laughing, useless Merlin - makes Arthur want to start putting heads on spikes, that he knows now why foxes chew off their leg to escape a trap, but what comes out instead is, “I could do it.” 

Merlin blinks. “You could - what?” 

“I mean - “ He should stop talking, but fuck it, he’s committed now. “It makes a certain logical sense, if you think about it.” 

“A certain logical sense.” Merlin nods. “Why don’t you explain that to me.” 

“No one’s going to arrest me. My rooms are locked, and you’re the only person with a key, so no one can walk in. You can blackmail me worse than I can you - don’t make that face, I’m not saying you would, just that you’re safer.” He’s realising these things as he says them, it all becoming clearer and clearer - yes, of course, Merlin has needs and Arthur will take care of him. “You trust me, and you fancy me, and this way you won’t worry. God, it’s genius.” 

“Hm. Yes. Are you queer?” 

“What?” 

“Queer. Into men. Sexually.” 

“Does it matter?” Merlin glares, and Arthur spreads his hands. “No, I’m not queer, but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” 

“The point is that you’re queer, I’m a man, let's have sex.”

“Let’s have - Arthur, you’re a prince!” 

Arthur scoffs. “What, so it’s beneath the royal dignity? Trust me, Merlin, there are plenty of princes who dally with men.” 

“Yes, but generally because they enjoy it, not as some weird favour to a servant.” 

“Don’t be petty,” snaps Arthur, genuinely stung. “For god’s sake, if you don’t want to you can just say no.” 

Merlin laughs bitterly. “Oh, I know. But I’m not going to do that, am I?” He rubs his face. “God, I have no self-preservation. Or common sense. Or - “

“Any wit at all?”

“Oh yeah, insult me, that will turn me on.” 

“You know, I think it might actually,” says Arthur, and is rewarded when Merlin blushes. “So - so you’ll…”

Merlin shrugs. “I’m queer, you’re a man. A bit too posh for my tastes, but you’ll have to do.”

“I’ll have to - Merlin!”

The grin he gets is unrepentant. “Posh, and sort of - what’s the word for an overbred horse?” 

“Fucking overbred - “

“And beautiful,” says Merlin, suddenly quiet. There’s a hunger in his eyes that’s close to pain. “Like that story of the statue come to life, all marble and gold. Brave, too. Loyal. Kind. You’ve got a sort of weight to you. To your presence. Like the silence of a church. You’re so good it breaks my heart.” His smile is a soft, trembling thing. “So yeah, I guess you’ll do.” 

Arthur tries for words five times - thank you is right out, and everything else is just some undignified variation on please. Merlin’s words have conjured a gossamer bubble into the room, vast and insubstantial. Or maybe it’s inside his chest - either way, he needs to pierce it immediately. He puts on his briskest, most martial voice. “Right, where do you want me?” 

“Sorry?” 

“Think, Merlin. This is for you. Just -” Words fail him. Just what? Just bend Arthur over and shove it in? 

“Ah,” says Merlin. “Just tell you how I’m going to use you?”

Use. The word streaks through him like a comet. 

“Yes.” 

Merlin tilts his head and watches. Arthur feels naked already under that stare - too new, too blind, too full of something hot and sharp that he can’t name. The gossamer is spooling in his lungs, each breath drawn up through layers of shimmering that ripple out through his muscles, making his body do - some new thing. Not a shudder, not a prickle. A strange sensation that pools in the bottom of his stomach. Is there a word for good sickness? 

Softly, so softly, Merlin says, “Strip for me, sweetheart.” 

Arthur unbuttons his jerkin, pulls off his shirt, kicks off his boots, all in a state of curious blankness. He’s not putting on a show. He’s just - following instructions. He drinks in Merlin’s quickened breath, the tongue that darts along his lower lip when Arthur steps out of his britches. 

Merlin called him sweetheart. 

That’s the words that stays with him as he stands there naked, trying to find something to do with his hands, lacing them behind his back like he’s - presenting. Sweetheart sweetheart sweetheart echoing off his ribs. 

“Good boy,” says Merlin. 

Arthur’s knees nearly buckle. 

Merlin drops into an armchair. He’s hard and seemingly unbothered by it, the picture of lazy masculinity. Arthur has a brief, mad vision of Merlin as a lord, ordering some pretty little maid to stop cleaning and service him, except it wouldn’t be a maid, and oh god, Arthur is the maid and Merlin is just looking at him, running his eyes along Arthur’s limbs, his chest, his cock which twitches when Merlin reaches down and lazily squeezes his own cock and says, “Come here.”

Arthur stumbles over, hands still clasped. Merlin pats his own thigh. “Here. Facing me. I want you on my lap.” 

Arthur settles onto him, knees either side of Merlin’s thighs. He’s been the one in Merlin’s position more times than he can count, teasing a pretty girl before pulling her forward to ride his cock. Merlin will do - is doing - to Arthur what Arthur did to them. Running his hands across Arthur’s chest, his thighs, reaching round to squeeze his arse, one finger teasing gently over the fold - that same hot, sharp feeling - and then Merlin smiles and leans forward to catch Arthur’s nipple in his teeth. 

“Fuck,” says Arthur. His thrusts into the air without meaning to, and Merlin grabs his hips to hold him still. Merlin’s mouth is rewriting Arthur. There’s tongue and teeth and gentle pressure, just the edge of pain. That shimmering wave inside him rises, crests again and again in the hollow of his throat. Arthur clamps a hand over his own mouth. 

“I’ve always wanted to play with your tits,” murmurs Merlin. 

“Hnng,” says Arthur, instead of I am going to think of this for a thousand years or what are you doing to me? What is happening? or Tits? Tits??? 

Merlin pulls out his cock, starts to stroke himself in time to the movement of his tongue. Arthur thinks vaguely that that should probably be his job. He reaches out, wraps his hand around Merlin’s and is rewarded by Merlin grabbing him by the waist and pulling him closer. 

“That’s right, sweetheart.” Merlin pulls his own hand away, lets Arthur stroke him. “Are you - oh, Arthur.” His grin is somehow fond and predatory at once, and Arthur can’t think why until Merlin reaches up and runs a finger along the hand Arthur’s using to cover his mouth. “Trying to keep quiet, are we? Don’t want anyone walking in and finding the prince letting a servant use his body?” 

Arthur can’t help it; he moans against his palm. He will be good, he will be so very, very good and follow Merlin’s instructions and let Merlin do what he wants to him, and in return Merlin will let Arthur keep him safe. That’s what Arthur’s always done, hasn’t he? Put his body between Merlin and harm. Whether he’s swinging a sword or seeking the morteus flower or stroking Merlin’s cock. That’s what it means to be a knight; you lay your body down for someone, and Merlin may not be a fine lady but he’s Arthur’s, and Arthur is - can be - will be - his. 

“So good,” croons Merlin, and Arthur nods desperately, yes I’m so good I’ll be so good for you. Tell me you like my tits again. 

Then Merlin strokes Arthur’s cock with the tip of one clever finger; running it up and down, circling the head, playing with his slit before tracing the vein down to his balls. “You’re leaking,” he whispers. “God, you’re so wet for me.” 

It’s the exact thing Arthur would say to a woman, and that’s the thought that makes him come. 

He whites out, biting his palm to stop his scream. Merlin wraps his hand around Arthur’s cock, jerking him as he comes for what seems forever, hips pumping and semen spattering across Merlin’s chest. Merlin half-laughs, voice full of wonder as he says, “Sweetheart. Sweetheart, I’m going to - “

“Yes,” says Arthur, speeding up his hand, and Merlin pulls him forward, kissing the side of Arthur’s neck and moaning louder and louder until he comes over Arthur’s fist. 

Arthur is not queer. He is fairly firm with himself on this point, lying (alone) in bed that night. He just… likes being useful. He doesn’t get to be useful often, not like that. Oh, a prince is a very useful thing, and people want a lot from him - favour, orders, leadership. But those are things he can give away by virtue of his position; no one wants what he can make them with his own two hands. The closest he ever gets is when fighting, and even then he has to be a commander in the field and a symbol of Camelot in the ring. But Merlin just wants his body, and Arthur can lay it at his feet. 

He will be safe, and all Arthur has to do to keep him safe is fuck him so well he doesn’t dream of another. 

And in return… 

There doesn’t need to be an “in return.” The reward is Merlin, safe inside the castle and with his throat unbruised. 

But Merlin called him “Good boy” again as he cleaned Arthur up, told him he was sweet as he helped a staggering Arthur to bed, and Arthur knows that he glowed under the praise. 

He is sweet. It’s nice to be noticed. 

Merlin is the same as ever the next morning, waking Arthur with far too much cheer. He dresses Arthur with careful but impersonal hands, neatens the room as Arthur eats, bustles and chatters and generally fills the air with his Merlin-ness. Thank god, Arthur thinks, in a vague and undirected way. 

Merlin is about to leave when Arthur clears his throat. “Oh, Merlin - “

“Hm?” 

He keeps his eyes on the paper in front of him. “If you ever need - you know, last night - just tell me, won’t you?” 

“Tell you, huh?” 

Arthur looks up, feeling a blush rise into his cheeks. Ask, he meant ask, but Merlin is smiling at him full of mischief and light. He crosses the room, kisses Arthur on the cheek, gently pinches Arthur’s nipple through his shirt. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll tell you what to do.” 

And he does. 

Merlin is halfway through undressing Arthur - and halfway through some ridiculous story about a lord’s wife - when he stops, tilts his head and says, a little consideringly, “I think I’d like to fuck your thighs.” 

“Yes,” says Arthur, even though he’s struggling to picture the mechanics of the act, but it turns out what Merlin means is he wants to bend Arthur over the dresser and fuck the crease between Arthur’s oil-slick thighs, one hand over Arthur’s mouth - “We don’t want anyone to hear the prince being debauched, do we?” - the other stroking Arthur to climax. Arthur wants to tell Merlin that it’s unnecessary, that Merlin’s pleasure is the one that’s important, but he can’t speak so he supposes he’ll just have to live with it. 

Merlin fucks him like that again a day later when they’re on a hunting trip, Arthur on all fours in the dirt. He can feel his knees bruise and graze, his arms scratch, and knows he’ll wear these like battle scars. Proof of a job well done. He wants them, wants a lasting mark, something he can press and say And here is where I got fucked like a beast in the mud, and it’s on that thought that he - coincidentally, surely - comes. 

Later, once they're safely back in his chambers, Arthur strips in front of the mirror while Merlin bustles around behind him. His knees are purpled and scraped, there’s a dark round bruise on his forearm he didn’t even feel at the time, a twin set of fingermarks on his hips. He digs his own fingers into those marks, just to check if they hurt, hisses as he’s proved correct. 

“Are you really that turned on by your own beauty?” says Merlin, not looking up from the laundry. 

“Examining your handiwork. You marked me up.” 

“What? I - oh, shit.” Merlin’s by his side in an instant, hands fluttering over Arthur’s hips, never quite touching. “Arthur - oh my god - I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean - “

“It’s fine. I - it’s good, you know, that you’re so - “ His mouth stumbles - “enthusiastic. You can touch them, if you like.” 

Merlin’s face goes blank. “If I like.” 

“Yes.” 

“Touch them. Like you were touching them, a second ago.” 

“I - yes.” 

“Why were you poking your bruises, Arthur?” 

“To see if they hurt.” 

“Hm. Yes. Important to check that, isn’t it?” 

“It’s like - “ There’s a logical answer to this, though he can’t quite feel his way to it at the moment. “It’s like in training, you know. You get a bruise and it hurts, but you feel good about it afterwards.” 

“Gods above.” Merlin smiles fondly, brushing away a strand of Arthur’s hair. “You really have no idea what you’re about, do you?” 

Arthur opens his mouth to respond indignantly, and then Merlin grips his hip and squeezes. 

It’s like being blinded by sunlight, pain and warmth together. Merlin’s holding him like this - holding him in place, one hand on the back of Arthur’s neck while the other twists and pinches at his abused hip. He focuses on not flinching, not crying out. If Merlin wants to hurt him, he can be hurt. He’ll take it. He’ll take it all. 

Merlin chuckles. “I suppose, as a knight, you can handle a little rough play. Arthur, if I go too far, tell me to stop.” 

He nods, even though he has no intention of doing so. He is a knight after all, and this is what knights do - offer up their body, their pain, on the word of another. Merlin is his to protect, just as if he were a lady Arthur had sworn to. He’d fight bandits for Merlin. He’d let Merlin beat him blue. 

“Oh, lovely,” murmurs Merlin. “Look at your cock.”

Arthur feels strongly that he'd rather not know what his cock is doing. It's exactly as embarrassing as he feared - flush and wet and shoving itself forward eagerly like a dumb dog. How humiliating, to have something want like that. “You don't have to worry about that,” he babbles. “It's nothing, really.”

Merlin raises a brow and traces the very edge of his nail up Arthur’s vein. “Sure looks like something.”

“You can just - fuck - just ignore it and do what you want.”

“Can I? What if I want to use it?”

It takes a second for Arthur to catch on. “You want me to fuck you?”

“No, because as we've established you have no idea what you're doing. I want you to go lie on your back in the middle of that big ridiculous bed of yours, and then stay very still and quiet while I ride your cock.”

“Hnng,” says Arthur. “Yes. Good.” 

He lets himself be gently pushed back to the edge of the bed, collapses on it, shuffles to the center laid out like a starfish. He can do this, he can be still and quiet while Merlin - there’s a sound of clothes rustling. Merlin is getting undressed. 

Arthur is following instructions. He is keeping his eyes focused firmly on the canopy above his bed. But it’s as if the image is there, engraved in silk - Merlin’s body twisting as he pulls off his shirt, torso picked out in cloth of silver, tiny streaks of indigo brocaded into the black of his hair, crescents of lapis for his eyes, starburst of garnets at his nipples, a touch of tyrian purple at the beaded head of his cock. I have never seen Merlin bare, he thinks, and then, I’m about to. Oh god, I’m about to see him. 

The bed dips slightly under Merlin’s weight. Arthur feels - is there a word for good fear? Because this is fear, it must be, the way his whole body is alight with what is about to happen to him, as if he were about to fight a battle but with no chill edge of death. He can barely breathe. This moment, the moment where his body is given to Merlin, feels as blessed and weighty as the labyrinth after the unicorn, as fighting the questing beast or the griffin. He should have a tapestry made of it. He would have them crown Merlin with starlight. 

And then Merlin is settling over Arthur’s hips, cupping Arthur’s jaw. “You alright?” 

“Better,” croaks Arthur. Merlin naked brings tears to his eyes. His body, so lean and supple, the gentle curves of muscles in his arms, muscles he worked for scrubbing and carrying and mending, muscles he will use to push Arthur down as he takes his pleasure. There is a faint scar just above his elbow, another on his chest, and if Arthur weren’t pinned in place by Merlin’s instructions he would lean forward and kiss them. You will never have another scar again, as long as I live. 

“I need to get myself ready first,” says Merlin. He kisses Arthur on the cheek. “So you just wait here.” 

Arthur nods and watches as Merlin takes a jar of salve from the nightstand and slicks his fingers thoroughly. Merlin reaches behind his back and - oh gods, Arthur can’t see, but he can hear the soft slick sounds as Merlin breathes deeply and relaxes into - into whatever he’s doing to himself. It’s like there’s a double image hovering before him, Merlin above him and Merlin from behind, sliding fingers into himself. Arthur briefly imagines Merlin sliding fingers into him and then has to vigorously count the flowers embroidered above him before he embarrasses himself. 

Merlin’s face is going soft with pleasure. For the first time, it strikes him - he had never seen Merlin truly relaxed before they started doing this. Even in their softer moments, drinking just a little too much wine in Arthur’s chambers while Merlin somehow took all his money at dice, there has always been a tight little edge of anxiety to him, invisible till he saw Merlin without it. But I know him now, he thinks, and then, a little smugly, perhaps he was just trying to hide how very handsome he thought I was. 

“I’m going to have you now, darling,” whispers Merlin. “Is that alright?”

“Please,” gasps Arthur, and then Merlin is lifting up, hands pressing Arthur deeper into the mattress as he slides onto Arthur’s cock. 

Arthur has fucked before. He’s a grown man, not a raw young squire with a hair trigger. He tells himself this very firmly as Merlin sinks onto him, as the heat that lives inside him spreads through Arthur’s whole body until he’s glowing hot. If he could just move he could sweat it off. But Merlin said still. It’s like holding his hand over a candle flame, trying not to cry out. 

“You’re not allowed to finish until I’ve had my fill,” says Merlin. He’s panting, grinning a little wolfishly. “I’ll tell you when you’re done. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” He says yes knowing it’s going to kill him. He has to either come or die, and he can’t come, but at least he’ll die under Merlin’s hands. 

Merlin starts to move on him. Arthur counts his breath and tries to focus on anything but the feeling of Merlin, warm around his cock. The pattern of vines above him. The faint chill in the evening air. Merlin’s soft scent, comfrey and lavender with just a salt-lick of sweat. The soft noises Merlin’s making, halfway between a breath and a whine, like they’re being forced out of a secret place inside him, like Arthur’s cock is pushing the air out - no, no, bad. He digs his nails into his palms. 

“God,” moans Merlin. “Do you know how hard it’s been, looking at your gorgeous cock every day?”

“Hnnng.” Arthur really feels that Merlin has no right to be talking about how hard things are right now, metaphorically or otherwise. 

“I used to go back to my rooms and touch myself - “ Arthur’s whole body seizes up, and he has to bite his tongue and think quite vigorously of archery - “imagining it was you touching me instead. You’ve got such gorgeous hands. Never even let myself imagine you fucking me. Didn’t think you’d let me.” He cups Arthur’s face. “But you will, won’t you?” 

“Yes.” His throat is dry.

Merlin moves his hand down, wrapping around Arthur’s neck - not pressing, just holding, making sure Arthur stays very still. “You’re so good, aren’t you? The perfect knight. Point you at a castle and you’ll take it, point you at a dragon and you’ll slay it, point you at someone who needs a good fuck and you’ll give them exactly what they need.” 

The dragon would be easier. Merlin’s so tight. Arthur’s fighting his own body, fighting with all the strength he has not to surge up into that sweet heat, or roll Merlin over so he can fuck him properly, or just come immediately at the sound of those filthy words in Merlin’s voice. By the time Merlin’s done he’s going to have scars on his palms and a mouth full of blood. Just like a proper knight should. 

“So you’ll let me have you,” murmurs Merlin. “Again and again and again.” 

“Merlin, if you talk, I’ll - I’m trying to be good, I’ll be good for you, but you can’t talk to me, or - or I’ll - “

“Sweetheart,” says Merlin. And then, because he is a sadist, he clenches around Arthur and starts to ride him in earnest. “Do you need some help staying focused?”

“Yes. Please, I’m sorry, yes - “

Merlin reaches down, rolls Arthur’s nipple between his fingers and twists. Arthur can almost taste the bright lemon streak of pain cutting through all the honeyed pleasure. He makes a small, strangled scream that he’ll never admit to, and Merlin releases him immediately. 

“Sorry, I - “

“Do that again,” barks Arthur. “Please, Merlin, anything, just do that again - “ 

Merlin’s fingers are back on his nipple, pinching and rolling, while his other hand grabs Arthur’s hip and digs into the marks left there earlier. Arthur wants them permanently, wants the bruises pushed so deep into the muscle that he’s branded by Merlin’s stippled touch. Merlin can stroke them with pleasure whenever he dresses Arthur, or perhaps he’ll put his head down and lick them, soft warm presses of his tongue while Arthur stands there trembling - 

“No moving,” says Merlin in that infuriating sing-song tone, and Arthur grabs the sheets so hard he feels them rip. 

Merlin tuts. “There now. I’ll have to fix that in the morning.” 

“Sorry,” says Arthur from between gritted teeth. Not that Merlin has any right to be complaining right now, but anything more than two-syllable words is beyond him. 

“It’s all right.” Merlin strokes his thumb along Arthur’s jaw. “I’m sure you’ll make it up to me. Oh, oh, yes - “

Merlin bends back, like his whole bodies going molten as he fucks onto Arthur harder. He looks so extraordinary, his whole body limber and tight at once like a skilled archer’s draw. Arthur wants to touch him, wants to put his hands on those hips and feel the coiled pleasure in the bones, and he can’t - 

The whole world goes hazy and light. He isn’t coming - his body is still burning with desperation. But there’s something in that can’t, like a warm blanket thrown over him. His thoughts are right there in front of him, little eddies, but Arthur is drifting outside them. Merlin is moving and Arthur’s hands are raking the sheets and even the embroidery above him seems to be coming alive, but Arthur cannot, does not, never has to again. He could lie here forever waiting for Merlin to come back and use him at his pleasure, hard cock sticking up like a sundial, drunk on this silence.

“There you are,” murmurs Merlin. His hand is back on Arthur’s jaw, and Arthur turns and sucks Merlin’s thumb into his mouth. Yes, here I am. 

“Oh, that’s illegal,” says Merlin, and then he’s coming across Arthur’s stomach. It should feel dirty - it does - but god it feels good to be debased like this, to wear the marks of his own submission like a ribbon on his lance. 

And he would really, really like to be rewarded now. “Can I - “ he slurs around Merlin’s thumb, and Merlin’s barely got the “Yes,” out before Arthur is coming deep inside him, feeling like his own soul is being pulled out of his cock in wisps of silk. 

In the quiet twilight, as all his muscles go slack, Arthur floats. The world comes at him in glittering shards. There are Merlin’s hips under his hands, finely wrought as filigree. There is Merlin’s delighted laughter, and his voice gone melted-soft as he calls Arthur sweetheart again. There is Arthur’s own throat, making noises back - just noises, because he has gone somewhere where language cannot catch him, a new land of milk and honey. 

Merlin moves away, but Arthur only has a moment of feeling slightly cold and very forlorn before he’s back with a wash-cloth, wiping away the traces. “Don’t,” murmurs Arthur sleepily. “Wanna keep them.” 

“Daring,” says Merlin, “and exciting, but it might turn heads at the next council meeting. Move over, you’ve got a bit on your shoulder.” 

“Don’t care.” He drags Merlin back into bed with him, ignoring his squawks, and gets in a bit of quality nuzzling time. He hasn’t felt this good since he slayed the Questing Beast. “You smell of medicine.” 

“And you smell of money.” Merlin kisses his cheek. “You’re amazing.” 

“Hmph. I bet you say that to all the girls.”

A pause. “Well, no, I don’t.” 

“Right,” says Arthur, and then they’re laughing. Arthur rolls them so their foreheads are pressed together. Merlin has extraordinary eyes, now he’s this close. Like lapis lazuli, that pigment so precious that artists collect grains of it from the floor on a soft silk cloth, only to be used in the lightest brushstrokes, the starry vault above heaven or the edges of the Virgin’s cloak. 

“I understand now,” he pants. 

“You do?” 

“If I was queer, I’d definitely break the law for that.” 

Merlin’s face tightens. It’s the same expression - soft smile, wide eyes - but it’s like it’s balanced on his face now. 

“Right,” says Merlin. “Well, I guess now you understand us. So, big day tomorrow!” 

“What?” says Arthur. Merlin rolls off the edge of the bed and starts flinging on his clothes. “Um, is it?” 

“Course!” His voice is chipper as a kettle; his eyes are anywhere but Arthur. “You’ve got that, um, patrol. Right?”

“Right.” Wrong. Very wrong. He does have patrol, yes, but - there is something oozing out of him and leaving a hollow behind, like a whiskey glow fading to nausea. He could say get back into bed. He could order it. He won't, because he’s not that kind of shit, but oh, he wants to. 

“So I should probably head to bed now. I mean, I’ll have to be up at the crack of dawn, polishing your armor and - doing, you know, servant-y things.” Merlin smiles at Arthur, looks away. “So I should go.”

“Yes,” says Arthur. No no no yells a small voice inside him. That’s probably just the part of Merlin he seems to have absorbed, acting insolent as usual. “So… see you tomorrow?” 

“See you tomorrow!” calls Merlin from the door. Arthur rolls onto his back, staring up into the weave above him (does it look different?) and feeling that, despite all appearances to the contrary, he has somehow fucked up. 

But clearly not too badly, because life falls into a golden tumble, all touch and tongue. Arthur is giddy with it. He has spent his whole life working to be worthy - of his crown, of his power, of his father’s approval - and now he can just offer something to Merlin, and Merlin will take it. 

Another hunting trip, another glimmering morning of Merlin brushing dew from his eyelashes as Arthur hands him a hunk of bread and says, “I still think we should have shot it.” 

“Have you learnt nothing from that bloody unicorn?” says Merlin. “I don’t even want to think about what a phoenix curse would be like. All the water in the city turns to burning oil, or - “

“I would have been reborn anyway!” 

“Then what’s the point of shooting it!” 

“To say I had, obviously.” 

“Would anyone have believed you, without a corpse?” 

“I’d have had your testimony, wouldn’t I?” 

“Nah,” says Merlin through crumbs. “I’d go all sad to the council and tell them how you’d just shot a particularly fat chicken - “

“A chicken?” 

“ - and set it on fire, then danced round its ashes - “

“Why?” 

“ - and demanded my silence - oh, to annoy you, obviously. It’s about fifty percent of my motivation.” 

“What’s the other half?” 

“Money.”

“I thought it was my ravishing beauty, to be honest,” says Arthur, and then squawks as Merlin shoves him. He grabs Merlin as he goes down, and then Merlin’s the one squawking as he wrestles Arthur’s hands away. Arthur could fight back, but Merlin’s grinning down at him as he pins Arthur’s hands to the floor. Shadows and sunlight band across his face, as if he’s two men at once - his mouth lit in a gorgeous curl of triumph, his eyes almost glowing in the strip of shadow. Arthur says, breathless, “It was nice of you to keep me out of trouble.” 

“I’m very nice,” says Merlin. HIs hips move against Arthur. 

“I suppose you should have a reward.”

“What are you offering?” He’s looking at Arthur’s mouth, so intently that Arthur thinks he could track the shape of his lips in Merlin’s pupils. 

It’s surely that which makes him say, “You can have my mouth, if you want.” 

“If I want it?” 

“Yes. If you’d - I’ve never done it before, so - but I can manage, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure too,” says Merlin. He sits up and undoes his laces. “Right, I’ll just sit back on the log, and if you kneel - “

“Are you stage-managing this blowjob?” 

“You’ve never done it before, you can’t start by lying down. That’s advanced-level cocksucking.” 

“Hmph.” He’s sure it can’t be that hard. 

But he has to be grateful to Merlin, because it turns out cocksucking is actually quite difficult. Not that Merlin seems to mind - he seems quite happy to keep one hand fisted in Arthur’s hair, moving him how he wants as Arthur licks, kisses, sucks, trying to race Merlin, find exactly what he wants before Merlin can direct him to it. He’s always been a fast learner. He thinks he thoroughly deserves the smug glow of satisfaction he feels when he finds a ticklish patch of skin just under the head that makes Merlin swear three times and then come in his mouth. 

Arthur swallows - well, it would be rude to spit, and he did earn it, so - “Like I said, I’d never done it before.” 

“Oh,” says Merlin. He weakly pats the back of Arthur’s neck. “You did alright, trust me.” 

“But I could probably get better.” 

“Sweetheart, that was wonderful.” 

Wonderful. It’s sweeter than the last vestiges of Merlin on his tongue. “But - you know - if you - if you kept wanting that, I suppose you could - train me.“ 

“Train you.” Merlin’s cock twitches. “Arthur Pendragon, you are going to be the death of me.” 

But clearly he plans to be merry before he dies, because he does. In Arthur’s bedroom, in the forest, once - suicidally reckless - in the corridors while all of Camelot is feasting in the hall below. “You’re getting so good,” murmurs Merlin, and there are tears on Arthur’s face that he’d like to blame on his gag reflex, but he suspects they’re tears of joy. Even the difficulty is part of the wonder of it, like he’s trying to conquer Merlin’s pleasure in some way. He can fall into the rhythm of breath and suction, experiment with his tongue until Merlin makes some new noise, even race his previous time. 

“I’m aiming to get to three minutes,” he tells Merlin, as Merlin strokes his hair. It feels amazing. It should perhaps be undignified, being petted like a hound, but Arthur feels a deep kinship with his dogs right now. He would probably also tear out a throat with his teeth if it meant being touched like this. 

“Three minutes till what?” says Merlin. 

“Till you come down my throat.” 

Merlin covers his face. “You just have to be the best at everything, don’t you? Right, come up here.” 

That’s the surprising thing - Merlin always pleasures him afterwards. He had tried to protest - admittedly rather weakly - after the third time. You don’t have to he’d said, and Merlin had just looked at him. I want to. Can I? 

The answer to that question would always be yes, but it doesn’t hurt that Merlin has a truly glorious mouth on him. Arthur has probably never once lasted even two minutes. Though to be fair, he’s usually found himself rubbing his own cock while he sucks Merlin, so Merlin has an unfair head start.

“You could just not touch yourself,” says Merlin, when Arthur points this out as they’re both panting on Arthur’s bed after another shining session. His eyes gleam. “I could tell you not to.” 

“Yes,” says Arthur immediately. Except it turns out that kneeling there and just taking it as his cock hardens and weeps, shaking with the anticipation of his own release, having to work at Merlin faster and harder with mouth, knowing that Merlin’s pleasure is his reward, that Arthur has to earn whatever he wants - 

“I barely touched you,” says Merlin, looking at the mess on his hand. 

“I’ve had a very stressful month,” says Arthur primly, trying desperately not to blush. 

“The things I can do to you.” Merlin sounds awed. “You’re wonderful.”

And then there’s the actual fucking. They largely consign themselves to Arthur’s chambers for that, because once Merlin’s got Arthur’s cock into him he likes to ride him for ages. Sometimes he’ll even just stop, and then sit there shifting and moaning as Arthur bites his lip bloody with the effort of not begging for more. “Sorry,” says Merlin, as Arthur keens weakly. “You just feel so good inside me, I’m not quite ready for it to be over. You just lie there and stay hard for me, yeah?” 

The most torturous is the day that Arthur goes to find Merlin in Gaius’s rooms - he has a reason, something to do with his armor, or a salve, or his duty list, he’s sure it’s terribly important - and next thing he knows he’s flat on Merlin’s terrible bed as Merlin slides onto him, babbling loose-lipped about how Arthur’s being so good, so sweet to let Merlin just use his perfect cock like this. 

“It’s like you’re just going to sit on me and toss yourself off,” whines Arthur. 

Merlin’s smile goes sharp. “Why, Arthur, what a wonderful idea.” 

There must be a word for good torture. Merlin strokes himself languidly, his other hand braced on Arthur’s thigh as he rocks, shifts, gasps as he rubs the head of Arthur’s cock against some place deep inside him. He looks like he might look if he were alone, and Arthur thinks of Merlin doing this to himself alone on this bed, opening himself up with his fingers, the most secret thing you can do - except here he is, letting Arthur into this intimacy. And then he stops thinking at all, loses himself in the feeling of being here but not here. He is aching and desperate. He never wants this to end. 

Merlin is gasping now, beginning to bounce on Arthur’s cock, gentle motions that do nothing to ease the ache. His cock drips onto Arthur’s stomach, slick and obscene. Arthur thought he’d gotten used to not moving, but now he’s shaking, muscles seizing with the urge to roll Merlin over and just go at him. This is treason. He’s going to make it illegal to do this to him, he really is. Just as soon as Merlin lets him come. It would be easier to starve, it would be easier to take  a blade, than it is to lie here in the silken heat of Merlin’s body and not get fucked. Merlin swipes his thumb through the mess on his torso, rubs it across Arthur’s lips, and Arthur moans and opens his mouth to lick it clean. 

“Fuck,” mumbles Merlin, “I’m going to - “ And then he’s coming all over Arthur, some even landing on his chin. Arthur licks it off. There’s nothing that Merlin can give him he won’t take. 

“Christ.” Merlin cups his jaw. “Oh, you’re so good to me, sweetheart. You want to finish? Come on, you can have me now.”

Arthur surges up at him, nipping Merlin’s jaw and carrying them over. They’re nearly a casualty of the horrible bed - Arthur is getting him a new one immediately - but he catches them, shoves Merlin into the pillow, makes several gibbering sounds that must translate to can I, can I because Merlin is saying, “Yes, Arthur, yes,” and Arthur is fucking him like his life depends on it, fucking him with brutal, embaressing snaps in his hips, fucking him like a virgin who’s lost his head. God, how embarrassing to want like this, a whining dog humping the furniture, no human left inside his head, just need. Merlin is perfect around him, sweeter and hotter than any girl he’s ever had. “Your legs,” says Arthur, gripping those sleek thighs as he hoists them up. “No, your shoulders - “ kissing them - “your neck” - running his mouth along Merlin’s delicate clavicle - “your - Merlin, sweetheart, sweetheart.” The word feels clumsy on his tongue, but Merlin’s face goes shocked and open. Arthur presses their foreheads together, gasps, “I don’t understand, I don’t - “ and then he’s coming . It feels incandescent. It feels like the most important orgasm of his life. 

When he comes back together, his face is pressed tight into Merlin’s neck and Merlin is - laughing, the little harridan. 

“What?” he says, perhaps a touch crotchety. 

Merlin kisses his forehead. “No, sweetheart, you were wonderful, thank you. Just - what don’t you understand?”

“Why I’m sleeping with you, since apparently all I get is mockery.” 

“And praise! Lots of praise!” Merlin makes a valiant effort to control his giggles and fails utterly. “Don’t worry, Arthur, I know these feelings can be scary at first - “

“Oh, you little - “

“But with a bit of practise - “

Arthur starts to laugh too. He can’t help it - Merlin looks so beautiful, blissed out and golden, and it turns out that having someone giggle while you’re inside them is a very nice feeling. 

But he keeps turning his own words over in his mind, like a stone worn smooth by hands. He tries not to. He’ll be sitting at his desk or talking with his father and suddenly there it will be - I don’t understand. He doesn’t. He doesn’t even understand what the question is, the question he apparently asked himself and received no answer to. He didn’t understand how it felt so good, right? He tells himself this quite firmly, and yet he still catches himself looking at Merlin’s neck and trying to divine some wordless answer there. 

And he fucked Merlin, which was - well, it was very nice at the time, but it doesn’t really feel in the spirit of the arrangement they have. Arthur is the one who should be pleasuring him, not the other way round. Holding Merlin down - losing himself in the clench of Merlin’s body - Merlin going soft and pliant under him - Merlin making this little ah ah ah sounds in the back of his throat - Merlin, in short, looking like he was having a very nice time indeed - 

Arthur brings himself back to the point, which is that clearly there needs to be some recalibration of their little affair. “You can fuck me, if you like,” he tells Merlin, while they’re rolling around Arthur’s bed and enjoying a bit of light groping. 

“Oh can I?” says Merlin, a trifle too archly for someone who’s just been told he can fuck a prince. “Why, how magnanimous. Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” 

“No.” Honesty, he has quickly learned, is the only policy in bed. “But you know what you like, right? You can probably do all sorts of things to me.” 

“Well. Since you asked so nicely.” 

Arthur opens his mouth to say that he didn’t ask, he offered, and then Merlin grabs his cock and he shuts up. 

This is definitely beneath his dignity as a prince. He feels this strongly, belly-down on his bed, hips propped up with a cushion as Merlin gently kneads the edge of his hole. That’s how he keeps thinking of it - I’m meant to be a prince, and now I’m just a hole. The thought should make him want to stop. It doesn’t. 

“Sweetheart,” murmurs Merlin, and then something whispered too low for hearing. Arthur’s mind fills in the words, or tries to - there are lacuna even in his head, I’m going to [...] you and feel you [...] so you [...], each stutter a shriek of flesh and tongue. He wants something very badly, or Merlin wants it. He’s about to find out what. 

“This is going to feel strange,” says Merlin, and pushes a finger into him. 

Strange is not the word. 

Later, when he tries to put this together in his head, Arthur will think of Caenus, a princess who wished to be impenetrable and was transformed into an invulnerable man. Why would anyone wish that? I died on a sword for Merlin. It was the honour of my life. 

At the time, all he can think is inside me inside me another human being is inside me. There are lines round the body, unmoveable walls of selfhood, the me versus the other, and Merlin is shattering them with a single finger. He undoes Arthur’s selfhood with a curl of his wrist. 

Arthur groans into the pillow. 

“Calm, sweetheart.” Merlin presses a palm into the flat of his back. “I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.” 

He crooks his finger against the good part. 

Arthur stops existing. What was once Prince Arthur is a smear of vapour against his eyelids. He is nothing but that secret part that Merlin’s touching, all his body just a medium for the aftershocks. 

“Remember, you’re not allowed to finish till I say you can,” says Merlin, as if Arthur would dream of letting his body do anything other than Merlin’s will. 

“God.” Merlin pushes in another finger. “You’re so tight.” Arthur’s mind is sinking back into that dumb-dog haze, each caress of praise just making him want to earn more. He experiments by rocking back on Merlin’s fingers, hears an answering groan. 

“I need to - “ Merlin pulls his fingers back. “I have to - I need to - “ And then there’s one long, glorious, burning push, inexorable and slow as the rising sun, and Merlin is - Merlin has - 

“Oh my god,” whispers Merlin. “I’m fucking the crown prince.”

He is, and it’s glorious. The moment when Merlin starts to move is sung by choirs of angels. Merlin’s hand splayed on Arthur’s lower back, holding him in place - it’s a sword tapping on his shoulder, a crown falling on his head, it’s proof of concept for all of Arthur’s existence. He can feel his body changing, shifting, remaking itself in Merlin’s shape for Merlin’s pleasure. He will be changed by this everlastingly, and he embraces it like freefall. He has never been filled like this. He didn’t even know he was starving before Merlin came and sated him. 

It could last a minute. It could last a hundred years. Arthur doesn’t know. They are fucking in geological time, the face of the earth rewritten by a millenium of water. He is a new man by the time Merlin grabs him by the shoulder and says, “You can. Come on, with me, together - “ and he comes untouched. 

In the silence afterwards, he holds Merlin’s hand. Holds him tight and true. The next bit will happen, yes, but only when he lets go of Merlin’s hand. 

They will lie together, just a little summer space of heat and happiness. And then Merlin will touch him - not the touch of a lover, but not the touch of a servant either, a new kind of contact - and say was there anything else you wanted? 

And when Arthur says no - how could he say anything else? - Merlin will smile a little sadly and leave. 

Merlin always leaves. And he has the right, and Arthur would never deign to tell Merlin what he should want - but sometimes, curled in at night, he wonders why Merlin never wants to stay. 

There are side-effects of - of protecting Merlin. 

For one, Arthur seems to be in an extraordinarily good mood these days. He laughs more. He tells several of the other servants that he really appreciates their work. He’s even a little softer on his knights - not in matters of real discipline, obviously, but he finds that the tricks he plays on them are gentler now. There’s no need to laugh at someone when you could laugh with them and know that you’re sharing the same happy glow. Noblesse oblige. 

“You know, sire, I - I really admire the new tack you’ve taken in training,” says Leon, his mouth carefully rounding the vowels into something respectful. “Not that there was anything wrong with it before, of course! You just seem more… collegiate, now.”

“Our knights should be a brotherhood, not a heirarchy,” says Arthur, which is a) true and b) isn’t I’m just so much more relaxed now I don’t have to worry about Merlin fucking someone else. 

But more importantly, he’s spending a lot more time with Merlin. Not that they didn’t spend at least half their time together before, but now it’s more like three quarters, because whenever Merlin’s done for the day he’ll give Arthur that look and Arthur will fall glittering into his hands. And then once they’re done, there’s no point in them parting immediately, is there? Arthur might need to complain loudly about something as Merlin pets his hair. Merlin might have another story to tell, nonsensical and funny and so very Merlin. Lying entwined, whispering into each other’s shoulders, just makes a certain logical sense. 

And even when they’re not shagging, Merlin does invade so. He starts reading in Arthur’s rooms as Arthur finishes up patrol rosters or tax duties, occasionally reading out passages that make him angry, or make him laugh. Arthur has had to update his little library twice from the royal collection - Geoffrey was near tears with joy - just to give Merlin something else to move on to. It makes sense. Merlin might need him, after all. Merlin should be there. 

But there’s another aspect to it. Arthur can’t name it, and then one day it hits him quite suddenly as Merlin’s reading some terrible riddle from Exeter - “I am the beast of the weaponed sex, can you believe that? We should send Morgana down south; she’d teach them a thing or two about which sex is weaponed.”

“I think,” says Arthur, no thought at all, “that you’re my friend.” 

The word clangs inside him, a great knocker ringing his bell. Friend friend friend. He pays Merlin. He protects Merlin. Those are two walls across which friendship cannot exist. Merlin can have many friends, true friends; Arthur can have none, not really. There’s a hollow shuddering open inside him; he would like a friend, he would like Merlin to be his friend, and here he is ripping out his insides and offering the offal to Merlin as if it were good meat. 

But Merlin rolls to his feet and cups Arthur’s face. “Oh, sweetheart. Of course I am.” 

Arthur does not burst into tears. He does not mouth prayers of gratitude into Merlin’s palm. “You can have me, if you like,” he says, and Merlin says, “Oh Arthur, you’re going to break my - yes, darling. I’ll have you now.” 

He’s never had a friend before. Well, no - he’s had Merlin’s friendship for far longer than he’s realised, but now that they’ve named it, it frees something inside him. When Sir Cador makes an extremely long speech about the need for more patrols and Arthur widens his eyes and stares at Merlin, it’s his friend making a silly face back. When he’s at a formal reception ball, backed against a wall by an extremely pushy lady-in-waiting to Queen Laudine, he can make help-me eyes at his friend, and Merlin swoops in and politely informs him that the Lady Morgana has been asking to dance with him for the last half hour. 

It makes him inclined to re-evaluate other relationships in his life. “I suppose you’re my friend,” he tells Morgana as they dance. “Even if you’re a girl.” 

“Good god,” says Morgana. “Are you dying? Will it be quick? Is it horribly painful?” 

“I’ve changed my mind. Gwen can be my friend. You’re my sworn nemesis.” 

“Gwen is my friend, thank you very much. You’re a trained knight, how is your footwork so terrible?” 

So when the ball begins to lag, Arthur - feeling, for once, very young and very silly - grabs two bottles of wine and a plate a sweetmeats, rolls a spare tablecloth under his arm, shoves some candles and a flintbox in his pocket and whispers to Gwen, “Will you tell Merlin to meet me at the lake?”

He is a little drunk. That’s the only excuse for it. He sneaks down to the shore, he lays out the tablecloth like a picnic blanket, he lights the candles - he has to stick them in the mud to keep them upright, which Merlin will surely comment on - lays out the sweetmeats, uncorks the wine. And all through it he doesn’t understand. 

Then he looks at what he has done. 

The candle-flicker casts caustics across the tableau. The sweetmeats have been gently shaken to lie evenly across the plate, sugarspun cases glinting pink and blue, sparkling in and out of light like a crowd of settled fairies. The wine is still shivering gently in the bottle, wafting ruby shadows through its depth, Homer’s wine, the kind of wine that bleeds blue-black into the crack of lips as it’s passed back and forth between mouths. His mouth, Merin’s mouth. As they lie on the cloth, heartsblood red. The cloth Arthur laid out to cradle both their bodies. 

There is something great and terrible growing on the horizon, and knowing it will break him. 

And then - “Meet me by the lake, he says, as if the lake isn’t half a fucking mile long - Arthur, could you not give me any more hints - oh.” 

Arthur turns, his guts tangled in his fist, and makes himself meet Merlin’s gaze. 

“I thought - “ His voice is a half-born thing. “I thought you might like it.”

Merlin is a fidgety sort of person, generally. He takes two steps and a stumble for each of Arthur’s strides, he talks with his hands, he flits back and forth across Arthur’s chambers like he has to move to think. Arthur has only seen him stock-still in moments of high crisis and solemn hush. 

He doesn’t move as he whispers, “Oh Arthur. I love it.”

And the scene is complete, everything clicking into place. The terrible thing is still just beyond the hills, but it doesn’t matter. Merlin is here, and Arthur has made him happy. Merlin will tell him what to do. 

“It is for me, right?” says Merlin. “I mean, I’m not about to throw myself down on the blanket only to have you huff and send me up to the castle to fetch Lady So-and-So with a basket of biscuits?” 

“Throw away.” He collapses back onto the blanket, and Merlin settles next to him. He’s so interesting looking. Handsome, obviously, but handsome at a slant, like the features only just go together. One twist to his mouth and he’d be plain; one stretch to his cheekbones and he’d be the bland sort of pretty. Arthur never quite gets tired of catching him at new angles. 

“Thanks for saving me from Lady Ellender,” he says.

“Oh my god.” Merlin waves his hands. “I thought for a second she was actually going to go for your balls right there in public.” 

It’s perfect. The first glass of wine goes down to the dulcet strains of Merlin’s impression of Lady Ellender pouting and stomping round the ball when Arthur was snatched away from her. Then Arthur says, “It’s a political problem, really, because half these families only got collated into a kingdom when my father conquered them, and they’d all quite like dynastic control of their land back, and they all hate each other like spitting cats - “ He’s still talking about the difficulty of balancing old noble feuds by the time Merlin’s pouring the fourth glass, and he’s about to apologise when Merlin says, “Yeah, Clynna in the kitchen - her dad was working up country in Lord Eddys’s lands, and all the staff used to have to sleep with knives for fear that Lady Bertha’s people would come across for a round of cattle stealing - “ So he gets to hear about the war from the other side - stories he wants to know, stories he should know - and that’s glass five. By glass six they are doing terrible impressions of the knights, hooting with laughter. By glass seven they are supine across the cloth, touching in strange, accidental places - elbow to shoulder, hip to stomach, wrist to chest. 

“It’s strange,” says Merlin. “I didn’t know what I would get, coming to Camelot. I thought I’d just - I don’t know. Learn a respectable trade. Send some money home to mum. Get a little house and a usual pub. Have a happy little life.” 

“Are you not happy?” 

“I’m happy. I’m - “ He laughs. “I’m more than happy, bigger than happy. I thought life would be a walk through a valley, and then suddenly it turns out that I’m trekking up a mountain.” For a moment his eyes are very old and sad. Then his mouth wobbles and lifts, the sun coming out from behind his face. “But oh, that view.” 

“I don’t work you that hard, Merlin - “

“I didn’t expect to love it.” It comes out in a flood. “I thought Camelot would just be a place I lived.” 

“But you do.” He suddenly needs to know the answer very badly. “You do, don’t you?” 

Merlin turns to look at him. It’s quite a lot to take, with the candlelight and the silence and Merlin’s mouth so close and wet. “Yes. Yes, I love Camelot. I love it so much.” 

And it feels only natural for Arthur to say, “You can kiss me, if you like.” 

They’re already so close together, eyelashes almost brushing. So he gets to watch in minute, excruciating detail as Merlin’s face falls. 

“Actually,” says Merlin. He looks away. “Actually, I think I’m alright. Thanks, though.” 

“You’re welcome,” says Arthur automatically, and Merlin winces. God, he should cut out his own tongue and nail it to the walls of Camelot as a warning against idiocy. Part of him wants to argue - so you’ll let me kiss your cock, but not your mouth? - but he’s fairly sure that would be undignified. “Well, plenty of other things we can do.” 

“Yeah.” Merlin shifts away. “About that. I think maybe this thing has run its course, don’t you?” 

Someone has shot him. There’s an arrow sticking out though his chest - three arrows, lung-heart-lung, another one at his guts, and Arthur is leaking out onto the ground in a sticky red mess. That’s the only explanation for this feeling. No. No, this has not run its course. You haven’t even kissed me yet. But his mouth hangs open. He can’t breathe.

“But - but won’t you need - “ 

“Well.” Merlin shrugs. “You know. Plenty more fish in the sea.” 

Arthur realises, with a rising tide of outrage, that Merlin isn’t just ending this. He’s going to fuck someone else. Someone else is going to - to put their hands on Merlin, in lust or in anger, and they’ll just think of him as a cheap fuck, a pretty lad they can have in an alley instead of something to be treasured, adored, they won’t know the value of what they’re touching - 

“You can’t,” he says. “We discussed this. It’s not safe - “

“We discussed this?” spits Merlin. “Do you even hear the words you’re saying right now?” 

He rolls to his feet. He’s looking at Arthur like he - like he hates him. 

Arthur rises to follow him. “But it doesn’t make sense, and this does! I mean, we have good times, don’t we? You - you told me I was wonderful, and you would stroke my hair - “

“What, so I’ll never have it so good again?” 

They’re straying very far from the point. The point is that if Merlin leaves now, Arthur will never get to - no. The point is the bruises. That has always been the goal here. “You’d just go back to that? To people hurting you and blackmailing you, to the possibility of arrest? Merlin, I can’t allow anyone to hurt you.” 

“Can’t allow?” 

“That’s - I’m your prince. That means it’s my - I have a duty to - “ Every time someone hurts you it is my fault. Every blow you take may as well have come from me. I bear the weight. I bear the stain. Please, Merlin, please. 

Merlin laughs, thin and bitter. “Got it. So to be clear, my lord, are you ordering me to fuck you?” 

“No.” That arrow is back - no, twenty arrows, through his lungs and his groin and his heart. “I didn’t - that isn’t - this was your thing.“

“You wouldn’t be the first lord to do so,” says Merlin. He’s still smiling, every curl of his lip rupturing another of Arthur’s organs. “It’s easy for you lordlings, isn’t it? Take your pleasure where you want it and then blame the whole thing on the poorer man. You could have me with a snap of your fingers and then punish me for being taken. Well, if it’s a choice between your bed and the stocks, Prince Arthur, I chose the stocks any day.” 

Arthur feels sick. Not in a vague, emotional sort of way - he is going to vomit at Merlin’s feet. “That’s ridiculous,” he begs. “I didn’t - Merlin, I only do what you tell me to!” 

“Are you fucking serious?” Merlin laughs again, and this time there’s a touch of hysteria. 

“Well I do! I didn’t - Merlin, please, I didn’t - “

“That’s just a game, Arthur!” He sounds tired at even having to explain this. “It’s not real, Arthur. I don’t have power over you, I can’t tell you to do anything. In real life, you’re the Crown Prince of Camelot, and I’m just a servant. It’s time you remembered that.” He turns away, covering his face, and when he speaks again his voice is broken with tears. “It’s time we both remembered that.” 

I wasn’t playing, thinks Arthur. I didn’t know this was a game, I didn’t know there were rules, I didn’t know I was breaking them. Can you tell me where I went wrong? I’ll do better, this time, I promise. 

But if he was making Merlin all this time - he thinks back to the day of Merlin’s arrest, when Arthur had imagined killing every single man who’d laid hands on him. And here he is, one of them, worse than them. It’s only justice, now, it’s only his duty, to stand her very still and let Merlin gut him. He hopes his death is painful. 

Merlin doesn’t kill him. Instead he turns away, heading back to the castle. “You can pick up your own shit. I’m done with you tonight.” 

“Merlin - “

“It’s fine.” His voice floats backwards through the dark, like the call of a shade. “You can fire me tomorrow.” 

Arthur stands there for a long time, alone and bleeding and somehow cruelly alive. Then he turns and viciously kicks the wine bottle at a tree, staining the trunk red. 

Merlin comes to his room the following morning. 

Arthur is grateful. His whole plan hinges on Merlin coming to him. If he hadn’t - he’d have sent a message to Gaius, he supposes. 

(Not hunted down Merlin himself. Never again.) 

Arthur rises from his desk and motions Merlin to sit. He’s dressed already. Not that he slept, or tried to. He had vague ideas that maybe he didn’t deserve sleep, and anyway, he had a lot of writing to do. He has to get this right. He has to say this right. 

He has planned this down to the last syllable. And yet, looking at each other across the desk - Merlin hasn’t sat, of course, and why would he? Why would he follow Arthur’s commands ever again? - all Arthur wants to do is push his fingers into the little hollows either side of his own sternum and pull. 

“I am aware - “ His throat is dry. You don’t deserve water. “I am aware that there are no apologies I can make that will be sufficient. But you have my deepest apologies anyway.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything. He looks terrible, red-eyed and rumpled, his cheeks hollowed with misery. I put those marks there, he thinks, and then has to bite his tongue to hold off a sob. 

“I didn’t realise - truly, I didn’t know I was making - “ This part of his speech has deserted him, and he has to stumble for the next words. “But if you tell me that I - that I - I promise I won’t treat myself differently to any other criminal.” 

“Arthur, no.” Merlin’s voice is hoarse. “I asked you, remember? I asked you plenty of times.” 

“But - if you thought that I - that I was demanding you asking - “

“If I thought that, I’d have left.” 

Arthur has to cover his mouth and take deep shivering breaths through the relief. 

When he turns back, Merlin is trying for a smile. Failing spectacularly, just shoving up the corners of his mouth and hoping for the best, but at least it suggests he doesn’t want Arthur flayed and salted. “Were you really up all night planning how to order your own execution?” 

“It turns out it's legally impossible, so I figured I’d just get creative with an axe and some rope.” 

“No.” Merlin reaches across the table, pulls back. “Never. Not for me, not for anything.” 

Arthur breathes out the last of his terror. The next part is the worst part, like holding yourself still for the dentist’s tongs. “I want to be clear - I’m not dismissing you from my service. I would never - I want you to stay. But if you don’t - “

“I’m staying.” 

“But if you don’t - please, Merlin, I had to practise this so many times - then your years of service - “ God, why hadn’t he picked another word? - “will be rewarded. You’ve saved my life multiple times, and your council has been - “ Everything. Perfect. Treasured - “extremely helpful on many occasions. You will be gifted with a small estate just across the border from Ealdor - Carmarthan, it’s quite lovely. There’s no village attached, but the manor is sound and the grounds are plentiful, and Camelot will provide you with a pension of six silver a month for the rest of your life to help pay for the workers. Alongside all revenue from the estate, of course. I’ll send Gwen or Gaius with your pension, if they ever wish to, along with a retinue of knights, so that you can see them regularly. If there’s anyone else you wish to visit from Camelot, let me know. Or if you’d prefer to go into a trade, I can set you up in the lower town, with an investment ready to cover all start-up costs. Your children, should you have any, will be welcomed at court as sons of local gentry, not commoners, and whether you stay here or go to Carmarthan you will be granted the title of freeman of Camelot.” 

Planning out the reward - payment - restitution - Arthur doesn’t really want to think of the right word - was both the hardest and easiest part of the night. Easiest because the complex snarls of rank and reward, etiquette and hierarchy, the calculations of how much he could afford to give without whispers, kept his mind from anything else. Hardest because - he is flaying himself, giving this. It’s better than any servant could ever dream of (but not enough. Never enough). Even if Merlin liked him, even if Merlin was the most loyal man in existence, any sane man would take this offer. Merlin will take it and go. And Arthur will be left in Camelot, at once a golden skin of glory and a shadow on the wall, with no one he can ever call his friend. 

Because that is what Arthur’s been missing. He has cast himself again and again in different roles to Merlin - lord, master, employer, knight, defender, lover - but he had only just grasped the truth of it. Merlin is his friend, his best friend, and when he goes, there will be no one irreverent or disrespectful enough to fill that place. 

Merlin nods. “Alright. Are you done?” 

“Done?” 

“I mean, is that everything you practised? Can I speak now?” 

“Um. Yep. Yes, that's it.” 

Merlin nods. “Great. Thank you for that very generous offer, but I’m staying.” 

“God, thank you, thank you,” gasps Arthur, and then turns to hide his face in his hands. There is mercy in the world after all. 

“Arthur.” When he looks up, Merlin's watching him like a bird. “Do you know why I’m staying?” 

“No?”

“Because of the way you asked me. You said I want you to stay. You said you wanted it. Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” he lies. 

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “Is there anything else you want to ask me?” 

Yes, plenty of things, only when Arthur tries to raise the questions to his lips they all seem intangible, unspeakable, somehow wrong. Would your mother like a chain studded with diamonds? Likely to get him slapped. I’d like to hit someone - anyone - and I’d like you to choose who. Less of a question, more of a statement of insanity. He’s so tired that he has to wrestle his tongue into submission. “Um. How are you?” 

Merlin smiles a little sadly. “Oh, Arthur. I think sometimes Morgana might be right about you.” 

Arthur throws open the door to Morgana’s chambers. “Merlin says you’re right about me.” 

“Why good morning, Arthur,” says Morgana, not looking up from her book. “I’m very well, thank you. Yes, please join me for breakfast.” 

“Morgana, focus.” He slams his hands down on the table. “In what way are you right about me?” 

She raises an eyebrow. “Well, you are an egotistical little weasel with more teeth than necessary. You have got hair like a crofter’s hut, a face like a fish, the manners of a monkey, the brains of a donkey, the self-regard of a minor deity and eyes like - hmm, no, I can’t think of a clever simile. Your eyes are creepy.”

Arthur waves a hand. “He didn’t mean that.” 

“Of course not, petal.”

“He didn’t. He likes my eyes and my hair and my - and the rest of it. Come on, Morgana, you must have said something. He told me that you were right about me and I need to know why.” 

She sighs. “I have no idea. Perhaps it would help if you gave me just a smidgeon of context? What were you doing when he said this?” 

“Um,” says Arthur, and then there’s a muffled squeak from the corner. He looks up to find Gwen, frozen with a dress in her hand, staring at the walls and plainly trying to look like she has no idea what Arthur’s talking about. 

“You know,” says Arthur. 

“Know what?” says Morgana. “Gwen, what do you know?” 

“Nothing!” shrieks Gwen. “I know nothing and no one’s told me anything and I really, really only heard something because Merlin was very drunk and afterwards he started panicking and made me swear not to tell anyone because he didn’t want anything to happen to you and he didn’t need to make me swear because I wouldn’t have told anyone anything so it’s fine, it’s fine!” She laughs, high and wild. “Shall I fetch another plate, your highness?” 

“What do you know?” He advances towards her, and then stops, because Morgana has calmly, gracefully extended her arm and is now holding a knife to Arthur’s throat. 

“Do not,” she says evenly, “shout at Gwen.” 

“Morgana, it’s fine” says Gwen. She’s suddenly calm, like they’re trading off turns at being hysterical, and she’s smiling at Morgana full of warmth and affection, like - like Morgana has just defended her from an angry man, a man who once came to her house with soldiers to arrest her, and suddenly he’s remembering Merlin saying You’re the crown prince. It’s time you remembered that.

“I’m sorry.” He hunches his shoulders, making himself small. “Gwen, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean - I don’t care that you know. I should have known Merlin would tell you, you’re his friend. And I don’t mind that he did. You’re a loyal friend to - to all of us, but especially Merlin. Of course I trust your discretion. I’m just a little upset about a comment Merlin made earlier, and I thought you might have some insight. But it’s wrong to ask you to betray his confidence, and it’s even more wrong for me to have done it in such a brutish manner. You have my apologies, and I hope eventually I may have your forgiveness.” 

“You can have it now,” says Gwen. “And I’m sorry that I know what I know, and doubly sorry that I can’t share anything Merlin’s told me. There - everyone’s done their apologies, so we can put away the knives now.” 

Morgana resheaths her blade. She’s looking at Arthur like he’s just caught the light. “I’m not apologising.” 

“Heaven forbid.” 

“But I am slightly more inclined to help you. If you tell me what on earth is going on.” 

“Right.” Arthur seats himself, all business. “You remember our conversation?” 

“Again, crumb of context.” 

“About how Merlin can’t protect himself and how someone had to take care of him.” 

“You said that, not me.” 

“But the point stands, no? Anyway, so I thought about it some more, and then Merlin got hurt, and I worked out what I had to do.” 

“Right.” Morgana puts her head in her hands. “This is preemptive facepalming, by the way. I just know whatever comes next is going to be terrible. What did you have to do?” 

“Well, I pointed out to him that the most logical choice - and in retrospect, this is perhaps where I went wrong - was that he should have sex with me.” 

“Good grief,” says Morgana, and drops her head to the table. “Ok, go on.”

“I made it clear to him that I wasn’t queer - “ Morgana emits a small, wordless scream - “but it was all going well! He was getting laid, I was keeping him safe, we were rubbing along well - “

“Oh, I’m sure.” 

“ - And then I asked him if he wanted to kiss me, and he said no. Which is fine! Of course it’s fine. But then he got upset and ended things, and today we talked again - he’s agreed to stay, thank god - but then at the end he said you were right about me and I don’t - I don’t know why.” He stares down at his hands. He wants to start digging into the table, claw apart the wood, rend and tear until he can rip apart time itself and drag him and Merlin back to that lake, back to Merlin’s throat in the moonlight, the moment where he could have said the right thing. But what would be the use? He still doesn’t know what the right thing is. 

“Don’t know why he said I was right,” says Morgana, “or don’t know why he left you?” 

Arthur covers his mouth, like that will bring back the feel of Merlin holding him. “He said that I needed to remember that he was a servant and I was a Prince. I didn’t - he said he wanted it at the time, but maybe - “

“You weren’t making him,” says Gwen abruptly. Her eyes are very kind. “He was happy, Arthur. I promise.” 

He exhales, feeling the blessing of that wash through him. “So Morgana, I think this is the part where you tell me how stupid I’ve been.”

She reaches out and takes his hand. “You’ve been very, very stupid,” she says, and her kindness feels like being told the wound is fatal. 

“Can you tell me how?” 

“Oh, darling. I can tell you that perhaps, if you enjoy sleeping with a man and you’re very sad when it ends, that’s a sign that you’re potentially a little queer. I can suggest that maybe you and Merlin should have had a few more conversations. But I can’t tell you why Merlin left you. I don’t think anyone can but Merlin.”

“I don’t want to push him. He only just agreed to stay as my servant.” 

“It’ll get better.” 

“You promise?” 

“It’ll probably get better. Or you’ll go mad and take to roaming the halls at midnight howling ballads at the moon, and then Uther will have you walled up in a tower.”

He matches her small, soft smile. “Oh good, something to look forward to.” 

“Sire,” says Gwen. She’s come to stand just behind Morgana’s chair, and she’s looking at him appraisingly. It’s not Merlin’s appraisal,  the way he’d run his eyes over Arthur as if everything pleased him, nor is it Morgana’s look of mild surprise at the possibility of his not being a spineless little toad. Gwen looks like a woman testing the weight of a sword, balancing Arthur on the flat of her palm to see if he’d swing true. “May I ask two questions?” 

“Of course.”

“Firstly, what did you say to Merlin that convinced him to stay as your servant?” 

“Well, I apologised for any hurt I had caused.” Gwen waves her hand, yes, yes, go on. “And I - I offered him a generous pension if he wanted to leave, and - I don’t know, he just said he stayed because I asked him to. I didn’t order it.” 

“No, you asked him,” says Gwen simply. Arthur bites his lip to stop himself from begging. “Secondly, did you want to kiss Merlin?” 

The best tutor Arthur had never told him he was wrong. Master Llywellyn would just ask questions instead, questions like breadcrumbs that lead Arthur stumblingly onwards until he hit the right answer. He thinks perhaps Gwen is doing the same thing, each question a stone in a path - except that Arthur can’t see where it leads. “I would have liked it if he kissed me, yes.” 

“So you did,” says Gwen. “You wanted to kiss Merlin.” 

There’s a distinction there, he’s sure, between I would have liked it and I wanted to, except now it’s turning to sand in his hands. You wanted to kiss Merlin. You wanted. You wanted you you you- “I wanted. Yes.” 

The path Gwen laid out for him has led straight to hell. 

For three days, he and Merlin are kind to each other. There’s an effort to their teasing now; they talk a little less, smile a little more, take visible turns in conversations when they used to talk over and under and through each other. If Arthur feels he’s lost his right hand, then he’ll just have to use his left. In time, this will be effortless again. 

So they talk in the quiet tones of old flames, and Arthur looks at Merlin and thinks, I want to kiss him. 

Merlin, leaning against the windowsill in a moment of quiet contemplation. I want to ask him what he’s looking at. I want to kiss him. Merlin with a smudge of jam on his cheekbones. I want to kiss that away. I want to tell him that he tastes of strawberries. Merlin cleaning his armor. I want to kiss his hands. Merlin tugging on his neckerchief. I want to kiss his neck. Merlin, asleep at the other end of Arthur’s table, eyelashes fluttering and breathing slow. I want to kiss him on the temple. I want to wake him gently and tell him that it’s late, he should come to bed. 

After a while it becomes a child’s litany, I want I want I want. He can no longer itemise them all, or perhaps his imagination fails him. Things he had, things he never had - there is a richness and detail to it, a whole parallel life running alongside his own just out of reach. He dreams of a door that leads back to a moonlit lake and wakes with his pillow wet. 

He is so full of it, mouth bubbling with need, that when Merlin asks him one evening if there’s anything else he needs, Arthur just says, “I want - “. And then stops, jaw hanging empty. 

“Arthur?” Merlin cocks his head. “Are you alright?” 

“I want - “ To protect you, except I don’t think you like that. I want to be run through with a sword meant for you, and to die with your lips on mine. I want to walk through flames for you. Was that a game? I meant it. Maybe you were playing, but I meant it. “I want - would you like - I mean, I would like it if - but you don’t have to - have a glass of wine with me?” 

And then, because he’s spent all his dignity anyway, he puts his head in his hands. 

“A glass of wine?” When Arthur looks up, Merlin’s eyes are twinkling. “Is that a euphemism, or did you really have a minor breakdown over asking me for a drink?” 

“Breakdown,” says Arthur, nodding. “No, I mean - drink. A drink. Yes.” 

“All right,” says Merlin, reaching for the drinks cabinet. “White or red?” 

“Let’s play a game,” says Merlin. “Do you like games?” 

They are several bottles in by now. Arthur has passed through I’ll be a little foggy tomorrow to god, training is going to hurt tomorrow to I’m not making it to training, not tomorrow and possibly not ever again. “I like games. Not dice. You cheat at dice. I don’t know how, but you cheat.” 

“I do, and you’ll never catch me,” says Merlin cheerfully. He prods Arthur with his foot. Prods, because Arthur is on the floor. The floor is very nice. Good stone. “Do you want to play a game?” 

“I just said I did.” 

“Say it. Say I want to play a game.” 

“I want to play a game, Merlin.” 

“That’s the game.” Merlin slides onto the floor and hauls Arthur up till they’re sitting opposite each other on the flagstones, knees almost touching. “You say something you want, then I say something I want.” 

“I want all my fucking money back from those dice games.” 

“Good start! No. I want - hm. I want Sir Leodegrace to fall off his horse at the next tourney.”

“That’s horrible!” He drinks. “I want that too, actually.”

Merlin pokes him again. “No, you’ve got to say your own thing.”

“I want Gaius to find a way to make medicine taste better.” 

“I want Gaius to stop sending me to catch toads.” 

“God, I want to unknow that there are toads in my medicine.” 

“I want to put a toad in Sir Hugo’s bed.” 

Arthur can’t take this, Merlin saying I want in that voice with his lips all wet, Merlin itemising all the things he wants that aren’t Arthur. He pokes Merlin’s ribs to maintain appearances. “You’re so mean, Merlin. Sir Hugo’s decent.” 

“He’s decent to you. He’s always taking out his anger on the servants. The other day - “ Merlin giggles - “do you remember when he got dumped by his horse into the fishpond? He came storming back into the castle, kicked the bucket Meggy was scrubbing with so it went all over her, and she just stood up and said, why thank you, my lord, I see that being sopping wet is the latest fashion amongst the nobles. How kind of you to make me as stylish as you. He went so purple I thought that he was going to drop dead on the spot.” 

Arthur, not laughing, says, “He’ll leave court in the morning.” 

Merlin stops sniggering. “Arthur, he’s not - it’s not like he’s violent or gropey. He’s just a bit of a dick. We can handle him.” 

“And I’m proud of Meggy, but I can handle him better. No - listen. Merlin, you told me to remember I was crown prince of Camelot. This is what it means to be prince. My father rules the kingdom, but the knights are mine. I decide what it is to be a knight in Camelot, and I cannot allow that to be compromised.”

“Nobody expects you to - “

“Well they should! Let’s play this fucking torturous game: I want to be a good knight. A good king. And what that means is a protector. What will happen when I run off Sir Hugo? My father will shout at me. Hugo’s friends will try and cause some trouble on the training fields. And the rest of the knights, the ones here and their kin and kith back home, will know that bullies and brutes have no place in Camelot. The powerful men will know that they can’t humiliate servants for pleasure; the servants will know that if they are humiliated they have recourse to justice. Do you truly think me so weak that I wouldn’t bear a little trouble for the common good? That is what I want, that is what it means to be me, putting my whole life into the good of another, and maybe you thought it was just a game but I wasn’t fucking playing.” He stops, breathing hard. His voice is cracked from shouting - at Merlin, Sir Hugo, his father. Himself. “That’s what I want to be.” 

“I know,” says Merlin. His eyes glimmer. “You’re a good man Arthur. I just - “ He looks away. “I was angry. I never believed you’d order me to - I just wanted to hurt you. I’m sorry.” 

“I’m sorry too,” whispers Arthur. I want to know what I’m sorry for. I’m sorry for hurting you; how did I do that? Show me the wound, please. Don’t let it rot. 

“I want magic to be legalised,” says Merlin. 

Arthur jerks his head up. “What? Why?” 

“Because it’s not fair, Arthur. You’re killing people for the way they're born.” Merlin’s fists are clenched, trembling. “Do you really think half the people executed since I’ve been here deserved to die? A quarter of them, even? A tenth? Think about who you’ve seen burn: women singing a healing charm to sick children, a farmer with a spell to encourage laying, a girl getting water out of a dry well. They’re just ordinary people living ordinary lives, using whatever tools they can get to survive same as the rest of us.” 

“Merlin - “

“And it’s not fair to the people who magic could help, either. I’ve read Gaius’s books, I’ve seen what magic could do. How many people are dying of something that a simple spell could fix? How many people are starving when a half-decent sorcerer could raise a better harvest?”

“But, Merlin - “

“We’ve seen evil sorcerers. How many people died at their hands?”

“Exactly - “

“And how many of those sorcerers would have ever, ever raised a hand to anyone if your father hadn’t hunted them like dogs? Magic doesn’t corrupt, power corrupts, and that corruption spreads like rot. You kill a man unjustly and the hate ripples out until everyone is lying and cheating and killing, just to try and stop it happening to them.” His voice cracks. “What you said - what you said about Will - “

“I’m sorry.” Arthur swallows. “I know he was your friend.”

“He was a good man. And if - if he’d died another way, if one of the witchfinders had come through and killed him - “ Merlin looks him dead on, tear-streaked and terrified and so, so brave. “I’d have hated them. I’d have hated you. Maybe I’d have done something about it.” 

A month ago, Arthur might have laughed at the idea. Merlin, doing something - like what? Yet now - he’s always known Merlin is clever, whatever Arthur says out loud. It had seemed a cheerful kind of intelligence, like that of healers or monks. Useful, not dangerous. 

But Merlin had held Arthur’s soul in his hands, comfortable in that power. Confident, even. He’d hurt Arthur with a smile. Yes, they were just playing. But you don’t play with knives unless you’re very, very good with them. 

“You would never hurt anyone.” He wants to believe it. 

“I hurt that man. The one who bruised my throat.” Merlin’s throat bobs, lit gold in the firelight. “The law hated him so he hated himself, and he hated me for reminding him what he was. So he hurt me, and I - “ He looks away. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re wondering. But this law - both laws, against magic and against sodomy - they’re not justice, Arthur. They’re poison. So if you want to be a good king, that’s what you’ll do.” 

It’s a gauntlet thrown down, and Arthur’s a raw squire again, about to fumble a challenge. “My father would never - “

“But you’re going to be king. What will you do?” 

And Arthur - Arthur cannot answer. 

“Forget it.” Merlin dashes away his tears. “I’m drunk, and I - I want to go to bed.” 

Arthur grasps at the empty air. “But it’s not your turn.” 

“I’m good for it.” He smiles, a little tremulously. “You can tell me what you want tomorrow.” 

“I understand Sir Hugo has left us,” says Uther. 

Arthur shifts uncomfortably in the chair opposite Uther’s desk. The fact he’d been offered a chair at all is a good sign - usually Uther will have him stand for the telling off, or if he’s really fucked up he’ll be called before the throne. But it wouldn’t be out of character for Uther to catch onto his own patterns and use them to throw someone off. More and more these days, Arthur will look at him and catch a kind of double image: his father and, just behind him, a man who won the crown by right of conquest. 

“The people trust us not to brutalise them,” he says. “If we let one man hurt the servants, we encourage others to follow his lead. The rot spreads.” Merlin’s words in his mouth. He can almost imagine Merlin here, watching Arthur be what he should. “If they grow to hate us, what’s to stop them supporting our enemies? It does not matter if we have the best arms in the world, if the people will feed our besiegers while starving us.” 

He is aware, as he’s saying it, of an uncomfortable distinction between us and them. The king should not be negotiating power with the people; the king should be of the people, his power their power. It is not a line of argument that will work on his father. But it lingers. 

Uther raises his brow. “But over such a small matter - “

“Better to set the standard now over something small than to wait and let it blossom into gross malfeasance, which will make us look like hypocrites when we finally punish it. Has Sir Hugo’s going really caused so much trouble that we can’t spare him?” 

“He looks to the Baron of Cwylyn, who will likely soon send me a very angry letter about running off his cousin.” 

“I will not apologise,” says Arthur levelly, “and I will not take him back as a knight.” 

Uther stares at him for a second, then nods. “No, you won’t. What’s done is done, and your reasoning is sound. You may go; I’ll see you at dinner.” 

He turns back to his letters. Arthur should go. But he came here keyed up for a fight; he came here to do some good in the face of his father’s disapproval. He imagines Merlin’s face - oh, you just told Sir Hugo to leave and your father didn’t even care? Very brave of you, I suppose. “Why is there a law against sodomy?” 

“It’s an unnatural vice,” says Uther, in the tone he reserves for reciting other people’s opinions. “Why the sudden interest?” 

His heart is beating so hard Arthur is sure that his father will see it fluttering below his skin. “Because I believe the law is wrong, but I would like to know if there’s something I’m missing.” 

“You’ll find few who agree with you.” 

“People don’t like queers, but they don’t like drunkards and nose-pickers either and we don’t put them in the stocks.” 

Uther leans back in his chair. “It keeps the people happy, and it costs us nothing.” 

“But it does cost us something. Every law that we put on the books means more manpower enforcing it. We’re paying guards to spend time on something useless. And much as I’d like it if every guard in Camelot was a pure and honest soldier, the truth is that there’s plenty of men who’d rather spend their time beating up harmless couples fucking in alleyways than chasing down a thief. Both pay just as well, and one’s a lot more like hard work.” 

“We should strike a law down because we can’t afford it?” 

“Because it’s inefficient. Beyond that, it’s encouraging more crime. We’ve given every blackmailer in the city a fresh pool of victims. Maybe a few couples being gouged for coppers in the lower town doesn’t affect us - “ that us is ash on his tongue - “but what about the knights who could be turned by threats? The guards who could be told that if they don’t open a door, their lover dies?”

“Perhaps those knights and guards should stop fucking other men.” 

“But they won’t. We deal in the real world, where lust makes people stupid. I mean, remember me and the Lady Sophia?” It’s the right words, and it’s not a lie - he remembers sun-dappled mornings glinting off her blond hair, the feeling of getting to be young for once - but he still feels a coward as he sees his father relax slightly. 

“You’ve given me some very well-turned arguments, Arthur. But you told me the law was wrong. Why?” 

He is going to throw up after this. It used to happen to him sometimes after battle: the rush of nerves drains away after the fight, leaving him shaky and ill. “It doesn’t hurt anyone. What two men do with their bodies is no wrong. We hurt people for loving each other.”

“It’s disgusting.” 

“Since when is disgust the axle of the law?”

“That’s a good line,” says Uther mildly. “You should use that on the council.” 

“I will, if I have to.” 

“You do.” His father’s voice is firm now. “You have identified something that I don’t really care about and made a reasonable argument, but this is your cause, not mine. I won’t strike this law down by fiat. I won’t oppose you, but I won’t support you either. Convince the majority of the council. Make it look like I’ve been pushed. Now, was there anything else?” 

Arthur stands. Already the fight is leaving him, and he fights his body to stop the shakes. “Nothing, father. Thank you.” 

His hand is on the door when his father says, “Oh, and Arthur? Go out and make a fool of yourself over a woman. Fuck a few whores. Be loud and normal and raucous, yes?”

“Of course.” 

He just makes it to his chamber before he turns and vomits all over the door. 

“Fuck a few whores?” shrieks Morgana. “Fuck a few - ? That man should try being fu - “

Arthur, who has had a very tiring day, says, “Morgana. Please. My father. There are some images I don’t want.” 

There are ten men, including himself, who are loosely considered of the kings council. Arthur has three voices in his camp for sure: Gaius, who loves Merlin, Leon, who can always be trusted to do the decent thing, and the new captain of the city guard, a sensible man called Vonnich who was swayed partly by Arthur’s arguments about efficiency and mostly by a desire not to piss off the Crown Prince. Three more for an effective majority. 

Here is Arthur’s own council, spread out around his chambers. Gaius has half an ear on the conversation, more focused on leafing through old scrolls for legal precedents. Leon is leaning against the wall as stoically cheerful as ever. Gwen perches on her chair like she’s not quite sure she’s allowed to sit. And Merlin and Morgana are both pacing: Morgana colourfully and loudly, Merlin in a tight little line and deep silence. 

“While it may be vulgar, it’s understandable,” says Gaius. “Arthur is expected to make a good marriage; Uther will want to make it clear that Arthur’s interest in the law does not come from any - personal inclinations.” 

Is that a hint? Does Gaius know? Oh god. Arthur is a brave man, but if Gaius knows that he’s been besmirching his assistant then Arthur will have to die. He will crawl away and find some nice damp earth and bury himself in the loam. 

“You should tell him you’re having me,” says Morgana. “Oh, we could set up such a scandal! It wouldn’t actually happen, of course, but we could bounce on the bed and make very loud noises.” 

“My lady, your honor - “ says Leon. 

“Oh, fuck my honor.” 

Arthur rubs his temples. “Morgana, not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but my father would have you shipped off to a convent within a week.”

She tosses her hair. “I’d break out.” 

“Yes, that’s what I’m worried about.” 

“I’ll do it,” says Gwen. “I’ll be your lover.” 

Everyone twists to stare at her. Except Merlin, who is looking straight at Arthur. 

“Um.” Arthur reaches uselessly for a quill. “Gwen, I’m very flattered - “

She gives a little spurting giggle. “Oh, I wouldn’t actually have you, Arthur.” Arthur has a brief image of being had by Gwen, accompanied by a blend of longing and terror. “I’ll make some loud noises and come out grandly proclaiming about your prowess; you’ll buy me a nice necklace that’ll make people talk. I’ll give the necklace back, of course!”

“I won’t put your honor on the line, Gwen,” says Arthur. “Thank you, but I can’t.” 

She shrugs. “My father’s dead. My brother’s long gone. I’ve no interest in getting married, and when I’m an old lady I’ll be able to tell people I was briefly the mistress of a handsome prince.” 

“And the stares and whispers of others mean nothing to you? You won’t notice the names people call you, the treatment you’ll receive? What about other men? If the court thinks you’re - available, then some of them will come after you. And I’d protect you, I swear I would, but - “ Oh, it’s bitter to say, bitterer still to know - “there are some things I can’t protect you from. Even if I was by your side every second.” 

“And what about my honor?” 

“That’s what I’m - “

“Not my reputation.” Her voice is like a whip-crack. “Not my virginity. My honor. You talk about wanting to protect people, wanting to lay yourself on the line for them - all those fine ideals I can look up to, but, what, I’m not good enough to try and live them? I care about this law. I care about making it easier for you to kill it. I’m no swordswoman, I won’t ever be able to lay down my life for my friends. This is what I can do, and I want to. You can say no for any reason, but don’t you dare do it for my honor.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and then everyone starts talking at once. 

Arthur ignores them. On the one hand, he doesn’t necessarily need Gwen’s sacrifice. It would be helpful, yes - a sustained lover is more convincing than a few nights in the lower town brothel, but not by much. She’s saving Arthur from a few unpleasant and mechanical fucks, but that’s not a strong enough reason to do this. He’d much rather - his skin crawls at the thought of touching someone who isn’t Merlin, at having to pretend at ardent desire so nobody talks - but that isn’t Gwen’s burden to carry. 

On the other hand - he thinks of the way he talks to his knights when he offers them dangerous tasks. Their bravery, their solidity, the way they always - to a man - volunteer. He does it for morale, of course, but more importantly he is offering them the chance to be a knight, to live that abstract glory they all chase. And here is Gwen, offering to do battle on the only field she has. Arthur has spent his whole life desperate for the chance to do good in the teeth of fate. Gwen is just asking for her chance to do the same. 

“Two conditions,” he says, cutting through the noise. “First, you keep the necklace, and whatever else I buy you. If you want to do me service the same way a knight would, you let me reward you the same.” 

Gwen’s mouth twists. “Thank you, my lord. Nothing too long, please; it’ll get in the way when I try to work.” 

“Second - you let me protect you. I mean it. If someone is rude, you come to me. It’ll help the ruse if it looks like I’m fierce over you.” 

“Thank you, sire, but they’ll be less rudeness than you think downstairs.” Her eyes sparkle. “Half the servants dream all day of tupping a prince.” 

Merlin makes a little strangled noise. 

“I support Gwen in whatever she wants to do,” says Morgana stiffly. “But if you touch her, I will flense your fat and roast it into crackling like the pig you are.” 

“At this point, that might be a fucking blessing.” He rubs his eyes. “Right, it’s late. Gaius, would you write me up a list of strategies we could use on the remaining six advisors? We’ll reconvene in the morning. Apparently I have a mistress now, and she eats up so much of my time.” 

“I still think you should have grunted more,” says Gwen. 

“I am a prince,” intones Arthur loftily. They are lying - still very much clothed - on the bedspread, the evening’s theatrical performance finished. “We do not grunt. We - gurgle.” 

They are also, not to put too fine a point on it, rat-arsed drunk. 

“Gurgle,” says Gwen. “Poor Merlin.” 

“He was privileged to hear my gurgle.” 

“Go on, show me your sex gurgle.” 

“I shall not. My sex gurgle is for people who have earned it.” 

“Gosh, poor me. I’ll be telling everyone that we had such a wonderful time, and then someone will ask me how your gurgle was and I won’t be able to tell them. They’ll all know I failed to satisfy you. Gurgle-less Gwen, that’s what they’ll call me.” 

“I shall defend you. I’ll tell them that I gurgled many times, but you respect my privacy.” 

“You’re a good man, Arthur,” she says, suddenly serious. “Even if this doesn’t work and the law remains, it’ll mean something that you stood up for what’s right. I’m proud to be part of it.” 

He takes her hand, bows his head over her wrist. “I’m proud to be standing beside you, Lady Guinevere. Or lying beside you, I suppose.” 

“Lady Guinevere.” She giggles. “Now that’s got a ring to it.” 

“Maybe you should be a lady.” 

“You can’t just hand me a title, Arthur.” 

“On the contrary, after this it’ll be practically expected.” It’s not just chivalry that’s making him say that. There’s something there in the idea of Gwen as a lady of the court, a counterbalance to his father’s us and them. The thought trails off into abstractions he’s too drunk to follow. He’ll get it in the morning. 

All these thoughts he can’t quite catch. “I’m trying to follow the path you laid out for me,” he tells Gwen. “But I can’t see it. I’m lost.” 

She pats him on the head, her eyes slipping closed. “Oh, Arthur. I think half of what you think happens is just inside your head.” 

But that’s the last place I want to be. That thought, so clear and startling, is the last thing he remembers. 

Sir Bertrand. Sir Cador. Sir Geraint. Sir Palamedes. Geoffrey of Monmouth. Urien of Bruges. These are the men that Arthur needs to win. 

Arthur sends a carefully worded message to Palamedes and is surprised to receive an extremely warm invitation to supper in the knight’s chambers. “I have my own men cook my food,” Palamedes confesses. “I tell the king it is because I cannot eat anything that may have been touched by pork, but truthfully - may I be truthful? Thank you - ten years in this country, and I’m still not a fan of your flavours.” 

“I don’t blame you,” says Arthur, because the food is wonderful - tiny herby pastries, stuffed vine leaves stewed with sour plums, anchovies so lightly and delicately spiced they sing in his mouth and tiny cups of something called kahve that make Arthur’s brain sit up and sing. “I’m honoured by your generosity.” 

“As I am honoured by your visit.” Palamedes offers Arthur another cup, but he demurs - his hands already jittery. “As we are being truthful, I suppose I should tell you that I already know why you are here.”

Arthur nods, unsurprised. Palamedes is a diplomat as well as a warrior - born in Anatolia, he worked his way to Uther’s court via a patchwork of countries and now speaks almost every language one can name.  And there is a very hazy border between diplomat and spy. “Should I ask how?” 

“I’m not listening at your door, sire. But you must understand, in many countries it’s not unusual for a son to overthrow the father. When you began holding closed door meetings, when your man Gaius began to search for legal precedents in the records, I did some research into what, exactly, he was looking up.”

“And your thoughts?”

“I have the benefit of an international viewpoint. I’m not wedded to the customs of this land.” He shrugs. “In my own home country, it is illegal, but… lightly enforced.”

“Even lightly leaves room for abuse.” 

“I agree. And you’ll have my vote. But perhaps don’t trumpet me as one of your party until the final meeting.” Palamedes smiles slightly. “Sir Cador will be a problem anyway, and he doesn’t like me.” 

“Thank you. If there is anything I can do to reward your loyalty…” Palamedes is a decent man, but he’s also not a fool. If all he wanted was to support Arthur’s action, he could have sent a message. A dinner is a negotiation. 

“I have a brother, Safir. I would ask for a place for him as a knight of Camelot.” 

“Done, my friend,” says Arthur, and then he does take another cup of kahve, so he’s practically bouncing off the walls as he regathers his own council. 

“That was easy,” says Merlin, neatly ticking off Sir Palamedes name. 

“Too easy,” says Arthur. “The others won’t be. Cador’s a hind-bound traditionalist, all wind and vinegar. Bertrand’s an upright moralist - Leon, you’re his friend, aren’t you? Talk to him. Urien I don’t have much of a read on.” 

“He’s a treasury man,” says Gaius. “The financial argument will sway him most of all, but he’ll want something for his pains, and it won’t just be a place for his brother.” 

“Bribary,” says Arthur, the word bitter in his mouth. 

Gaius turns his palms up. “If you made him an offer - “

“But I can’t, because word would get around, and then everyone would be asking for a handout. And if I open the negotiations, it puts me on the backfoot.” 

“I’ll talk to him,” says Morgana. “He likes me. Not like that, Arthur, don’t give me that look. We play chess together. He’s not a knight, so he’s capable of talking to a woman without offering to save her every other sentence.” 

“And I’ll handle Geoffrey, sire,” says Gaius, before Arthur can begin expounding the virtues of chivalry. “We’re old friends.” 

“That just leaves…” Leon sucks his teeth. “Geraint. He’s going to be a problem.” 

“Why?” says Merlin. 

“He and the prince have sometimes disagreed on matters of honour.” 

“What Leon means is that Geraint hates me,” says Arthur flatly. “He was my second before Leon. Then I discovered how he treats his wife. He’s a loathsome little toad, and I’ve dented his pride. He won’t even care what this cause is about, he’ll just use it as a stick to beat me with.” 

“Lucky we don’t need him, then,” says Merlin. 

“No,” says Arthur. “We can’t throw away a single card. I’ll talk to him.” 

He takes a fortifying glass of wine and goes to speak to Cador first, on the basis that it will be slightly less distasteful. A half-hour later, he is - with all royal dignity and privileges of rank preserved, of course - thrown out on his ear. He dusts himself off, wipes away the spittle that Cador spewed along with his hate, and goes to seek Geraint. 

Arthur finds him in the stables, brushing down his horse. It makes the back of Arthur’s throat prickle. These little touches - the care for his animals, the love for his weapon, the fine pronouncements of chivalry in his resonant voice - are what convinced Arthur that Geraint was a true knight. But he is just the semblance of the thing - a shadow on the wall cast by truer men. 

Uther likes him. When Arthur raised Geraint’s treatment of Enid, Uther had shrugged it off. “So he told his wife to be quiet. Many men do.” And Arthur had bit his tongue. Quiet had not been the word he used, and the tone - Arthur wouldn’t even speak to dogs like that. Geraint had not hit Lady Enid, not in front of Arthur. Perhaps he doesn’t at all - but the way she had flinched. After that he had started noticing, had started listening a little more attentively to the rumours, and had quietly promoted Leon to be his second instead. 

But he needs him now, so Arthur smiles and forces himself through several rounds of small talk - he does not ask how’s the wife, though the temptation is overwhelming - until finally Geraint, all genial smile and eyes like hellfire, says, “Prince Arthur, not that I’m not enjoying this little chat, but am I correct in suspecting you have something you need of me?” 

“Right,” says Arthur, and lays it all out, exactly as he had to Uther - inefficiency and blackmail and danger to Camelot. Geraint’s smile grows wider and wider. Arthur does not dunk him straight into a pig trough. Truly, he is a master of statescraft. 

“Well,” says Geraint eventually. “I suppose I can see your arguments. They have persuasive force, certainly. You seem very…invested.” 

The insinuation is there and gone again, a flash of a knife against ribs. Geraint turns back to his horse. “What does the king think?” 

“He is prepared to be persuaded by council.” Code for he doesn’t give a fuck. 

Geraint ignores the subtext. “Ah, so he is not on side. I’m not quite sure I’ll be able to help you, my lord. He is our king, after all, and he does expect obedience.” 

Arthur smiles. I’m not quite sure - but you can be made so. “No disobedience required, I promise you. And I would appreciate your support, and be prepared to offer it in return.” Name your price, you little bastard. 

“Hm.” He sets down the horse brush. “It’s just - well, you know the whispers that may get around about anyone supporting such a law.” 

“Surely you are above the words of such fools, sir.” 

A flash of anger. “Oh? The words of fools have undone me before. As you know, sire, I have of late lost some face.”

There it is - you humiliated me, let me humiliate you. “Perhaps you would consent to join me in a contest of arms tomorrow morning, sir. I’m quite sure you would easily walk away the victor.” You can beat me into the mud. You can stamp on me, spit on me, whatever you want. Just give me your vote. 

“Against you, sire? Surely not.” 

“I am quite sure you could best me, easily,” says Arthur, instead of beating Geraint’s skull into a more pleasing shape. 

Geraint purses his lips. “Oh, but I am not sure, and others certainly won’t be. Not against a man of your famed martial prowess.” Translation: Absolutely no one will believe it, which yes, fair, but Arthur is rather regretting becoming an unbeatable knight right now. “So, sire, I think there will be no single combat for me.” 

“Of course. But please, sir, I hate to think that you find yourself - downtrodden in the eyes of the world. Won’t you let me help you?” 

“It is difficult.” Geraint cocks his head and sizes Arthur up, a housecat licking its paws before it dives for the kill. “Those horrible whispers I mentioned - they went straight to the core of me, you see. They insulted my dignity as a man. These people seemed to believe that I - a trained knight, a lord in my lands - could not keep my wife happy.” 

“Terrible.” He cannot think what Geraint is asking for - a public apology? Does he want Arthur to talk to Lady Enid about something? 

“While the rumours of your women are very flattering, my lord. I understand you have been spending time with Mistress Guinevere.” His tongue flicks across his lower lip, “A most buxom wench.” 

Arthur’s blood runs cold. 

He says, lips numb, “Shall we stop playing games, sir knight?”

Geraint’s bland visage doesn’t even flicker. “Yes, my lord, I think that’s quite sensible.”

“I want your vote, and in return, you would like…?”

“Oh, sorry, was I too subtle?” He leans back, smile like an oil slick. “I think I’d quite like to fuck your woman, Arthur. Fuck her loudly, and thoroughly, and as publicly as possible.” 

“Publicly?” 

“Oh, I think here should do just fine.” Geraint gestures to the stable. “She’s just a peasant bitch, I’m sure she’s been had in far less fine locations. I want her on all fours, squealing in glee, where as many people can walk in on us as possible. So that the next time you go off half-cocked, running your mouth off about my wife, people will know that the prince is just bitter because I showed his woman what a real man can do.” 

“I see,” says Arthur. “And - not to denigrate your manhood, of course - shall I inform Guinevere ahead of time about said gleeful squealing?” 

“She’ll make the right noises for me, I’m sure. Or I’ll teach her to. I find even the stupidest of whores can manage to say yes, yes, yes once you’ve slapped it into them.”

“You’ve clearly put quite some thought into this.”

“I’m a man of simple pleasures. And you, sire, need my voice to - get your pleasure.” He beams. “So. Do we have a deal?” 

“Let me consider my answer,” says Arthur, and punches Geraint square in the nose. 

He goes down hard, and Arthur grabs the back of his collar and slams Geraint into the dirt, one knee in his back, twisting Geraint’s wrists up past his shoulder blades till he squeals in pain. “You disgust me,” he whispers, mouth pressed against Geraint’s ear. “You vile little shit. How dare you wear the cloak of Camelot while you spill this filth. You swore vows to defend the innocent, and then you talk of raping them in the mud.” 

“Oh, I don’t think she’s innocent anymore,” rasps Geraint, and then screams as Arthur wrenches his arm back. 

“Let me tell you how this is going to play out,” says Arthur pleasantly. “You’re going to threaten to go to my father. I’m going to shrug. You’re going to go to Uther and bleat some pablum about how I was vewy mean to you in the stables. My father and I will have a five minute conversation where I tell him I was off my head after you insulted a lady’s honour in so vile a way - I’ll be sure to quote you - and he will clap me on the shoulder and tell me not to be so hot-headed next time. And then I will spend the rest of your miserable life entirely focused on utterly destroying you.” 

Geraint goes to speak, and Arthur shoves his face into the hay. “And then,” he says, “you are going to stay away from Guinevere. Because if you speak to her, if you so much as look at her, I’m going to beat you to death with a quarterstaff and give your body to the dogs.” 

He rises. Behind him, Geraint sputters upright. “And here I was wondering if your interest in sodomy was more personal. That servant boy you have, Merlin, does seem awfully dedicated to the care of your body - “

Arthur turns and kicks him in the stomach. 

“I will have you out of Camelot, Sir Geraint.” He turns to leave. “Even if I have to drag you by the hair.” 

Their play is not looking good. 

Urien of Bruges has come around after a nice little chat with Morgana about how the high wool duties from Camelot are having a terrible effect on his cousin’s cloth business; one royal seal later, marking the company as operating with the special friendship of Camelot, they have another vote. But Cador and Geraint are obvious washes, and Bertrand stops Arthur in the corridor as he’s coming back from training. 

“Leon has told me of your plans,” he says, “and your arguments are well-founded. But I have always loved Camelot as a place where honour is valued more than mere practicality, and I will not give my voice to something against my religion. I hope you understand, sire.” 

Arthur nods, even though he doesn’t. Arguing theology with Bertrand will get him nowhere; he will just have to lay his hopes with the other councillors. “May I ask if you’ll stay in Camelot, even if the law changes?” 

“I will. And I’ll still be proud to follow you. I am sorry to stand against you, sire.”

Worse still, Gaius reports that Geoffrey wouldn’t even hear him out. “It was extraordinary,” he says. “I couldn’t even get a word out before he started shouting. Quite out of character.” 

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” says Arthur. “Right, that’s enough for today. Gwen, much as I hate to deny you a night of ecstasy, I think I might take the evening off.” 

She giggles. She’s wearing the necklace he gave her, a simple setting of pale green and deep purple stones in an arrangement that’s floral without being fussy. “That’s quite alright, sire. I’m sure I’m beginning to chafe.” And then she slips out as Arthur’s still sputtering. 

He catches Morgana before she slips out the door with the others. “Have Gwen sleep with you tonight.” 

Morgana’s eyes flash. “What?”

“I’m worried about her.” And he tells her, in a low voice, what Geraint said. 

She’s seething by the time he’s finished. “That little low-life bastard. I’m going to geld him with a rusty dagger.” 

“That can be plan B. In the meantime, keep her with you. I don’t want her wandering the castle alone. Merlin?” 

“I’ll keep an eye on her when she’s not with Morgana,” says Merlin. “And I’ll tell the other servants. Everyone loves Gwen, they’ll keep a watch.” 

Merlin is quiet as he tidies up Arthur’s desk. Arthur takes another glass of wine - politics is hell on the liver - and quietly runs through the things he can control: the order of patrols, the tax collection from the lands to the west, the poor relief to the lower town. He has never, not once, wished to be anything other than Prince of Camelot, but he feels more and more like a man standing on a rope, trying to catch knives before the wound becomes fatal. He wishes, just once, that there was someone who could say here is what you must do, here is the way. His father was that to him, once. But Arthur is no longer sure he wants to follow in his father’s direction. 

He startles as Merlin lays a hand on his shoulder. “Arthur. I’ve been meaning to say - thank you for doing this.” 

“It’s not for you, Merlin.” He shuts his eyes. “Well, not just for you.” 

“I know. But still.” 

Eyes still closed, he covers Merlin’s hand with his own. “I’m just so tired,” he says, and hates the way his voice cracks on the final word. 

Merlin is silent for a moment. Then he leans forward and kisses Arthur. 

It’s good. God, it’s so good Arthur could dissolve. He can already feel himself drifting away into the hazy half-world of Merlin’s hands and Merlin’s instructions, a world where all he has to do is let Merlin take him as he wants. It’s the thing he’s been dreaming about ever since the lake. The kiss is so sweet and gentle, all half-edges and hesitation, slowly learning the shape of each other as Merlin coaxes Arthur’s mouth open. Arthur could just give in, but there’s something in letting himself be coaxed, in the slowness of surrender, that’s almost hypnotic. Merlin will take Arthur out of princeship piece by piece. 

But - the timing. Merlin thanked him before he kissed him, and Arthur can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t desire, it’s gratitude. Oh he knows (he hopes) that Merlin doesn’t think Arthur needs the deal sweetening to go through with it. But he doesn’t want to take someone to bed just for the price of decency. 

He pulls away gently. “You said you would tell me what you wanted, during that awful game.” 

Merlin swallows. “I did.” 

“Is this what you wanted from me? The thing you needed, that I - tell me honestly, Merlin. Please.” 

“No.” Merlin shuts his eyes. “But I don’t - I was being selfish, asking for - I don’t mind - “

“I do,” says Arthur. He cups Merlin’s jaw. “Go. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

He waits for the door to shut, and then he hunches over in his chair and weeps. 

“This is a beautiful collection.” 

Geoffrey nods at Arthur’s words, back straight and hands wringing. “Thank you, sire. Though of course the credit should go to your father - it belongs to him.” 

“You curated it, though, didn’t you?” He takes a folio from the shelf and gently strokes the front page. “Ah, this one I remember. Once learning flourished, now it’s come to be condemned as tedium - “

“The days of thirsting after truth are now the days of idle youth.” Geoffrey smiles. “You were always a keen student, your highness.” 

“I think you might have beat that poem into me through repetition,” he says, and Geoffrey inclines his head, caught - oh yes, young Arthur had heard that verse a lot. “But I still remember the stories in these books. Queen Medb and Finnbenach. Troilus and Cressida. Achilles and Patroclus - “

Geoffrey breaks in. “Sire, I see the point you are leading me to. But I cannot.”

“Of course.” He keeps himself calm. There is something jittery about Geoffrey, like he’s been at Palamedes’ kahve stash. “Would you explain your reasoning?” 

“I - well - it is unnatural, you know that.”

“The Greeks certainly thought it natural. And the Romans. You were the one who taught me that poem by Catullus, about the man seeming equal to a God - “

“I taught you that as a moral exercise, your majesty, and if you have -” And then something strange happens. Geoffrey starts to shout. 

Not a slow rising of anger. Not a sudden explosion. It’s as if between one word and the next he suddenly remembers that he meant to be shouting all along. He stamps his foot, then stamps it again harder. His arm wave up and down, a poor dumb show of rage. 

 “If you took the lesson that such filth was unacceptable then I have clearly failed as an educator. Now, I’m sorry - “ 

It’s all such a bad performance that it’s almost making Arthur sad. 

He replaces the book on the shelf. He should perhaps shout back, or conciliate, but he can’t quite hide his - bafflement. “Did someone put you up to this? Cador or Bertrand, has someone said something - “

“My morals are my own!” howls Geoffrey. “How - how dare you - to think that I would agree with this - why would you think this of me?” 

“I’m sorry!” Arthur backs away - there are tears in Geoffrey’s eyes now, and he doesn’t think they’re faked. “I just thought - I remembered our lessons, when you’d talk about these poets without signalling disgust - “

“Can a man not love these words without suspicion? Can’t I be nothing more than a man of learning? The words are beautiful, that is all! It proves nothing, it proves nothing, they are just poems!”

“Oh,” says Arthur, as the last lock of understanding clicks open. “You’re afraid.” 

“I’m afraid,” says Geoffrey, still trying to bluster, “that this law will… will…” He trails off. 

“Sit down,” says Arthur. “My dear old tutor, please sit down.”

Geoffrey sits like his strings have been cut.

“Let us lay out the terms of this conversation,” says Arthur, settling across from him. “I am talking to a man who loves poetry and history, a man of learning. I am addressing him on this topic for no other reason. Shall we start there?” 

Geoffrey nods, silent. 

Arthur keeps his voice gentle. “In light of all your learning, do you believe that sodomy is wrong?” 

Geoffrey goes still. And then he shakes his head, just once, before catching at his jaw as if to stop the movement. 

“Neither do I,” says Arthur. “And that is in part due to your teaching. You spoke of Hardian and Antinous with the same tone as Pericles and Aspasia. You understand, therefore, that I had high hopes of gaining you to my cause. You can speak of these matters more eloquently than I. Will you stand with us?” 

“I cannot.” 

“You would not stand alone. Gaius, Sir Leon, Sir Palamedes - “

“And I wish you luck, but they can, while I - “ He shakes his head. “None of you understand.” 

Arthur could continue to pour well-oiled arguments, but he knows that they’d slide right off. You can’t argue with a fear like this, a child’s fear that tells you to curl up tight and make no movements, a fear as inborn as that of the dark. All he can do is offer a thin path of light out of that shadow, a slight glimmering of the way, And the only way he can do that is - is by conquering his own fear, the one he’d woven so deep into himself that its voice has started to sound like his own. He tries to speak three times, mouth flooding with sour bile, and finally manages to gasp - “I do. I understand.”

“You don’t, you don’t - “

“Geoffrey. I understand. I - this fear. We share it.” And his heart is hammering, and he’s going to throw up all over the very expensive tomes on Geoffrey’s desk, but he drags all his courage into his face to manage a smile. “There’s a reason I remember those Catullus poems.” 

And he’s done it, the only thing he can do - offer his own back for Geoffrey’s knife, so they can build this fragile bridge of trust together. But he also knows that Geoffrey might not take that step. If he went to Uther, if he said do you know what your son told me - well, Arthur’s life would be over, and Geoffrey could breathe deep in the knowledge that he’d put some distance between them. Arthur doesn’t think that will happen, but it doesn’t make it any easier to put himself in the path of a blade. 

Geoffrey stares at him, incredulous, and then bursts out, “But you - you like swords!” 

“So did Hadrien,” says Arthur. “What can I say? I’m a man of varied tastes.” 

“And your father - “

“Doesn’t know.” He keeps his voice light. “When I came to him about this bill, he told me to - well, to publicly console myself with ladies of loose virtue.” 

“My father, he - he bought me a girl, once. I must have been fifteen.” Geoffrey smiles lightly. “We spent the evening playing chess. I think she lied for me, but - perhaps not well enough. Afterwards, he sent me to the monks. So - you and young Mistress Guinevere…” 

“We tend to just get drunk. I’ll have to suggest chess.” He wants to throw himself at Geoffrey’s feet and beg him to keep this secret, but he needs to be a model of bravery. “Master, you will not be alone. Please, join us. If this bill passes, won’t it make you safer?” 

“If it passes. And if it doesn’t, and I’ve stood up…” Geoffrey covers his mouth. “May I have time to think about it?” 

There is no time - the council meets tomorrow, and Arthur needs to bring this discussion then or he’ll lose all his momentum. “Of course,” he says, and stands. “It has been a pleasure, master.” 

“An honour, sire.” Geoffrey clasps Arthur’s hands in his own. “And I hope - I will pray for your success.” 

The morning of the council meeting, Merlin dresses Arthur as if for war. 

Every piece of velvet is smoothed and stroked until the nap lies neat. The pearls on his doublet are shone with careful flicks of a clean cloth. His boots shine as Merlin kneels and rubs at them again, removing any lingering trace of dust. 

Arthur swallows. “We might not win today.” 

“I know.” Merlin stands and adjusts Arthur’s collar. “But it matters that you tried.”

“I’ll keep trying. I promise.”

Merlin hums and minutely adjusts Arthur’s chain. “They’re talking about you in the taverns I go to. They say that you’re a fair man, a good king. It’s good to see a bit of hope in their faces.” 

“You may pass on my promises to them as well.” 

Merlin smiles. “Your future subjects.” 

“That’s me. King of the queers.” 

“I think traditionally we’re meant to have queens.” 

Arthur laughs. “I need to thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For what you’ve done for me.” He clasps Merlin’s hands. “One day, you will be in that council room.” 

Merlin goes shocked and pink. His mouth wobbles until he forces it into a grin. “Might make it a bit hard for you to put me in the stocks.” 

“I’ll think of something else.” A joke to seal a vow. They have their own language, him and Merlin. It tells the truth at a slant. 

Gwen catches him on the stairs and tucks a flower into his doublet in front of a crowd of tittering maids. “Good luck, your majesty,” she says, and when he kisses her hand he could almost - almost - wish that what they had was real. I could love you, he thinks, but - the way is barred. “And, um - Morgana said she’d be waiting outside the council chamber.”

Morgana is talking to Geraint in the square below, one last push. Arthur watches her smile, smile, smile, and then crack. “The honour of a woman - “ she shrieks, and Geraint rolls his eyes and stalks away with only the barest hint of a bow, catching up to where Cador and Bertrand are eyeing them suspiciously. 

It is time. 

“So,” says the king. “On to sodomy.” 

It starts off well. Arthur gives his speech, the one pulled from discussion with his friends. He talks about blackmail. He talks about wasted resources. Disgust is not the axel of the law, as his father suggested, and this is a private vice, and we permit all other men to have their harmless pleasures. Vonnich nods his assent, and Palamedes talks about how many other kingdoms don’t legislate against it, peppering his speech with charming anecdotes of queers he has known. Bertrand talks of religion, quoting the Bibles that have been eking into Camelot, but Arthur isn’t over-worried - Uther is mistrustful of Christianity. Geoffrey says nothing, which is disappointing. 

Geraint sits silent and spiteful as a snake. 

“Well,” says Uther. Arthur can see the calculation in his eyes, trying to work out if the majority Arthur has gathered is worth pissing off the others. “I reserve the right of final decision, but perhaps we should put it to a vote - “

Geraint coughs. “Forgive me, your majesty, but I have one other - relevant point.” 

“Oh?”

Geraint rises, pacing across the space in front of the throne. “We must consider the reason why some would wish for the law to be changed,” he says, all very expected, and then - “I’m concerned that overturning this law would… confuse the hierarchy of Camelot,” and it’s a blow to Arthur’s left, seen just one second too late. 

Geraint opens his hands. “The Crown Prince has raised the point that we do not criminalise fornication between unmarried men and women. But consider the difference. A man may dally with a woman below himself - “ He doesn’t quite glance at Arthur, but there’s a few titters that tell him that everyone’s thinking of Gwen - “but when he marries, he marries within his station. Their children bear his rank, and the rank of his wife. The order of the world is maintained.” 

“I have never yet heard of one man impregnating another,” says Palmedes, bless him. “Is this something you encountered on your travels, Sir Geraint?” 

Geraint cuts through the laughter. “I speak not of children. I speak of courting. Of love. Let us imagine some highborn nobleman. He meets a woman of good rank and breeding, he marries her, and through his love for her he has a care for her family and her lands. Their families are tied together, and those ties create a net that strengthens the nobility of this kingdom, binding them together. Order is maintained. He has never dallied with a man - why would he? He knows such  things are forbidden by law, so he turns it from his mind. But what if that same son of nobility were to hear of this law and become curious? So he goes to one of these foul dens where men seek lovers, and tumbles first into bed and then into romance with some swineherd or baker.” His eyes cut into Arthur. “Perhaps even some servant.” 

“Men have fallen for women below them since the dawn of time,” says Arthur. 

“And then they have regained their senses. But these places, where men like this mingle - they exist outside society’s laws, and thus outside hierarchy. I’m quite sure you’ve never been anywhere like that yourself, Prince Arthur - “ an oily little bow - “but I’ve made enquiries, and I’ve discovered that men of all classes will… converse.” Another titter. He is losing the battle on laughter - Uther can be hated, but he will not be ridiculous. 

“If it were legalised, they would not have to,” says Arthur, instead of so what? 

“But consider the implications for the realm, Prince Arthur. Our - imaginary - noble son could meet anyone there. These are not men of known families and quantities. What would he do with his life, his wealth, his power, if he were bound in love to a simple farmer? What might he try to direct the state to do?” He gives Arthur one last, small smile, a lash of the whip. “What if one of these men was a sorcerer?” 

“Sorcery,” says Arthur, striding across to him, “has nothing to do with this.” Uther’s eyes are going hard and cold. And Arthur doesn’t want sorcery legalised, no matter how often Merlin’s voice comes back to him in the middle of the night saying it’s not fair, but for a second he sees a tripled imaged on the throne - his father, the king, and a puppet jerked around by the string of his hatred. 

“One kind of criminal is not so different from another,” says Geraint. And then, low enough that only Arthur will hear - “I am sorry you will not get you pleasure today, your majesty. I still intend to get mine.” 

Arthur breathes out and vividly imagines pulling out his sword and sliding it into Geraint’s throat. 

But he doesn’t need to. 

He leans down low, a breath away from Geraint’s ear. “I told you I would get you out of Camelot. You should have taken my first offer. I’m afraid this is going to be a little more painful.”

And then Morgana bursts into the room. 

“No - “ she shrieks, pushing past the guards. “No, Merlin, perhaps this will damage my honour, but I must speak.” 

“Right-o,” says Merlin, trailing behind her. She glares at him. “I mean, but my lady, he is a knight, will anyone believe you - ?” 

“The king is fair and merciful,” announces Morgana, and throws herself to her knees before Uther. “Your majesty, whatever Sir Geraint has been saying, it is a lie motivated by the most venal, basest lust.” 

“Lust?” says Sir Geraint. “Your majesty, I assure you, I was merely joking - “ 

“So you admit it!” shrieks Morgana. “You admit that you told Prince Arthur that you would only support this bill if you could have a night of pleasure with a woman.” 

“I admit nothing! I made some off-colour comments, hardly a matter for the king - “

“Off-colour? What was it - even the stupidest of whores can say “yes yes yes” once it’s been slapped into them - “

“I heard him, your majesty,” says Merlin. He shrinks back against a pillar when Uther turns his gaze on him. “I mean, he admitted to saying so just now, in the courtyard - Meggy heard it too - “

“You repeated such things in front of a crowd?” says Arthur, though of course Geraint did - probably enjoyed it too, hoping that news of his comments would creep through the grapevine back to Gwen.

“Was that what that ruckus was in the courtyard?” says Cador. 

Geriant rolls his eyes. “Oh for god’s sake. While I’m sure that Prince Arthur has taken a personal interest in this - “

“Of course he has,” hisses Morgana. “He is like a brother to me. Did you really think he would allow you to ravish me?” 

Arthur has to fight to keep his face sober and sorrowful as he watches the gears click into place in Geraint’s head. 

“Fuck,” says Geraint. “No, your majesty - this isn’t - “

“The honour of Lady Morgana,” roars Cador. “Why - the King’s ward - you snide little rat, I should gut you - “ 

“Shut up,” snaps Uther. “Arthur, is this true?” 

Arthur bows his head. “I should have come to you, sire. But I thought I had dealt with the matter myself. I did not realise he would approach Morgana.” 

“She approached me!” Geraint is panicking now. “No, I don’t mean - “

“You think I want you?” says Morgana. “Do I look like a woman overcome with lust? Though I suppose you have very little experience with such a thing.”

“You lying little bitch - “

“SILENCE!” roars Uther, and the room falls dead. 

Uther takes several deep, shuddering breaths. “Morgana. My own - my own ward - “

Geraint falls to his knees. “Your majesty - “

“I strip you of your knighthood,” says Uther. He’s still breathing hard, and for a second Arthur thinks he might take up his sword and run Geraint through. “You will leave Camelot within the hour. And if you ever, ever return, I will carve you slowly and let you rot to death in the town square.” 

“But they’re lying - “

“GUARDS! Take him away.” Geraint makes an aborted lunge for the throne, but the guards grab his arms and hold him back. “Drag him if you have to.” 

“By the hair, perhaps,” says Arthur. 

“I don’t care what you do to him. Just get him out of my sight.” 

“I can walk,” spits Geraint. He shakes off the guards. “Camelot. I hope it crumbles behind me.” 

And he storms out, the guards trailing behind him as the door closes.

“Morgana,” says Uther. “Are you alright?” 

Morgana stares at him. “I’m - yes. I’m alright. More angry than scared.” 

“Your father was a warrior.” There’s a catch in Uther’s voice that might, impossibly, be tears. And then - no, surely Arthur is dreaming - he steps off the throne, kneels before Morgana and hugs her. What on earth.  “He would strike me for how I’ve failed to protect you, and I’d deserve it. But he would be so very, very proud of your bravery today.” 

“Thank you, sire,” says Morgana. “I knew you would protect me.” And they did know that, it’s what this whole entire gambit was based on, but there’s something trembling in Morgana’s mouth that suggests maybe she didn’t know, not really, until this exact moment. 

“Right.” Uther stands, helps Morgana up, dusts his hands. Coughs a little. “If that’s all - “

“No!” 

Geoffrey has jumped to his feet. He quivers under their astonished stares, tucking his hands behind his back. “Majesty, I have - I would like to - I have a few words - “

“Go on, master,” says Uther. 

Geoffrey opens his mouth, croaks three times. 

And then he starts to speak. 

Arthur has given speeches himself. He would say, if pressed, that he was a fairly good public speaker. Persuasive, mellow, reasonable. 

Next to Geoffrey, he is just a child. 

Geoffrey starts with the Greeks. He talks of Achilles and Patroclus. Of the Spartans. “They were the greatest warriors of ancient Greece,” he tells Cador, pressing his hand. “Our armies have always run on the strength of love for one’s brother knights, love for one’s commander. Picture the bravery of an army where they fight for their lover by their side. What man would not rather be spitted on a sword than let his dearest love behind him die?” 

“And did Achilles and - er - “

“Patrocles - “

“They won at er, at - “

“Troy, yes! Achilles saw Patroclus die and became unbeatable in his rage and grief.” 

“Well,” says Cador. “Well. Well.” 

Geoffrey speaks of the Bible.. “Arsenokoitai,” he says, kneeling before Bertram. “That is the word used to describe David and Johnathan. It means man-lovers, and they knelt in the light of the Lord together, their love the tool that God used to bring a true king to the throne. A covenant bound in oaths of the truest friendship and love.” And he then quotes several passages, all Greek to Arthur, but Betram is nodding along, sometimes completing Geoffrey’s quotes for him, with the light of conversion in his eyes. 

To Uther, he speaks of history. “Let Camelot stand amongst the great realms of legends,” he says. “Let us strive to emulate them, so that in the centuries to come men will never forget King Uther and his court.” 

“Fine,” says Uther, though Arthur can see a greedy light in his eyes. “Betram, Cador, any more objections? Then the law against sodomy is struck down. No speech, I think, but send word to the guards. I believe we’re done for the day.” 

And it’s done. 

Arthur stands alone in his victory, just for a moment. He has done it. It will be in Uther’s hand, but he knows that truly this is his own first act as king. Geoffrey is blinking back tears before the throne, stunned silent and seeming not to hear Bertram’s congratulations on his speech. Cador is laughing with Palamedes and Urien, a joke that Arthur is very glad he can’t hear. Merlin and Morgana are jumping up and down with glee, Merlin laughing like a man released from a cell - and he has been released, hasn’t he? There’s no threat now, he’s safe, Arthur promised to make him safe and he did it - 

“Arthur.” Gwen’s there, smiling. It’s embarrassing, really, how pleased he is to have her proud of him. “You did a wonderful thing today. Thank you.” 

“It was all of us together,” he says. “I’m - thank you, Gwen. I need to talk to the guards.” 

And he strides out of the room, away from the sight of Merlin, who is free now to have whoever he wants, who doesn’t need Arthur at all. 

But Arthur is at peace with it, of course. 

He is very tranquil as he lays awake all night, staring at the ceiling and imagining who Merlin’s celebrating with. How Merlin’s celebrating. He slips into gentle, calming dreams of Merlin having someone else, and when he wakes to Merlin’s chivvying, Arthur scrutinizes him for marks of love with the utmost complacency. Truly, he is a master of inner peace. 

“I’m going to be such a good king,” he murmurs to himself, because he deserves some consolation. 

Breakfast with Morgana goes as well as it ever does for him. “I understand you gave Merlin the evening off,” she says. “Decent of you.” 

“I thought he deserved to celebrate.” He is a still lake in a peaceful valley, unruffled by the wind.

“I think him and Gwen just got very drunk together.” 

“How delightful.” Glassy, black water. 

Morgana sighs. “Right, let me say that again very slowly. Last night, when Merlin could have been doing anything, he just got drunk with Gwen.” 

“They have such a wonderful friendship.” 

“How can you be so good at politicking and so useless with feelings?” 

“I’m not useless.” There goes his inner calm.

She glares at him. “The word wretched comes to mind.” 

And, well, yes, Arthur is a little wretched, though he doesn’t see what business of hers that is. He’s proud of himself. He’s proud of his men, his councillors, especially Geoffrey, who he thanks with a hearty handshake and then gets a watery hug. This is what Merlin meant when he told Arthur to remember he was prince - that he has actual power to put behind his desire to protect, not just his body. 

And if he spends thirty minutes staring into space when he’s meant to be writing a speech, wishing that his body was enough, wishing that Merlin didn’t need him to be a prince - well, he’s only human. 

Merlin interrupts his reverie by dropping a crossbow on his desk. “We’re going hunting.” 

“Oh are we, Prince Merlin?” 

“Would you like to go hunting, your princliness?” At Arthur’s raised eyebrow, he shrugs. “You’ve been doing nothing for a week but reading and talking and stressing. You need fresh air.” 

“You make me sound like an overkeyed dog,” he grumbles, but hunting does sound quite nice. And Merlin’s telling him to do something again, even if it’s only going outside and failing to hit all the deer that Merlin scares off. 

The day is fine and chill, a light early-spring breeze brushing over Arthur’s skin. They ride for hours - Arthur manages to get three pheasants, despite Merlin’s constant chatter - and break for lunch next to a small stream. Merlin builds a fire. Arthur plucks a pheasant. He could almost convince himself that it’s old times, and perhaps Merlin will look at Arthur in that sly, fae way and reach for his lacings. 

“You made a difference yesterday,” says Merlin, warming his hands. “The - I won’t tell you any names. But there’s people today who were crying with joy.”

Which is wonderful, obviously. Arthur is very glad that all the other men Merlin is seeing are happy. “Friends of yours?” 

Merlin shrugs. “Friends. Enemies. People I just see occasionally at the right sort of tavern. There were even two lads kissing in the street, and when one of the stallholders tried yelling at them they just told her to fuck off.” 

“Brave of them.” And he truly means it. Perhaps he should find out their names and publicly acknowledge them in the street, to stop anyone taking the old law into their own hands. He abandons the bird and leans back on the rock, enjoying the sun-baked warmth on his aching shoulders. “There’s just so much that needs to change, Merlin. Have you ever taken on a duty and then realised it was much bigger than you thought it would be?” 

“Hm. Yeah, once or twice.” 

“It’s just that, once I started thinking about what other laws might need changing, I realised that there just wasn’t any real way for me to know. I can go down to the lower town, or people can come to court, but that’s only really good for the people in the city. Half of the further-out villagers couldn’t afford to take the time to come to Camelot if there was a problem in the law. I think we’d probably need a peripatetic royal court, which my father will loathe - he’s convinced any time he leaves Camelot it’ll be attacked.” 

“You could go.” 

“Yes, but there’s still the problem that there’s only one of me. We need a wider range of magistrates, but a far-off judge with little crown oversight is at risk of corruption, and then the only person they can appeal to is the crown, so we end up with the same problem. Perhaps we could have an elected speaker for each town to come to court with any concerns. Or - no, we have the speakers, and then they pass it on to someone on the council who’s specifically for the concerns of the commonfolk. Maybe two people.” 

“Well,” says Merlin. His voice sounds strange. “You’ve clearly put some thought into this.” 

“It’s just - my father, the way he talks about the people. Like we’re against them, somehow. A king should be for the people, and I don’t just mean on their side, I mean for like - a tool for them to use, a sword in war and a scale of justice in peace. That’s why we have kings, isn’t it? Otherwise we’d all just be clustered in villages, stabbing our neighbours whenever we showed up.” He turns to Merlin, who is looking at him very strangely, mouth all wobbly and eyes too blue. “I’m sorry, I’m talking nonsense, aren’t I?” 

“You’re not.” Merlin’s voice trembles. “Kingship as submission. It’s very you.” 

“You can just say they’re bad ideas, Merlin.”

“They’re wonderful ideas, Arthur.” Merlin covers his mouth. “Oh god, I want to kiss you. I really do.” 

Which is of course the precise moment that a knife slices through the air and embeds itself in their pheasant.  

Arthur gives himself half a second to hate the universe with a passion. Rolls, rises, unsheaths. “Merlin, crossbow. Cowards! Come out and show yourself!” 

“Oh, willingly.” Geraint strides from between the trees, still in mail and swathed in a cloak of black. “Sorry to interrupt your romantic moment. Didn’t I call it, lads?” 

“You did, sir,” says another man, and then another joins him, and another - six in all, all in mail to Arthur’s hunting leathers, each armed with a crossbow. The river is at Arthur’s back, too strong to ford. They’re going to die here. 

“Run,” he whispers to Merlin, and raises his voice. “Geraint, you’re a knight. You can still strive for honor. Come down here and face me in single combat.” 

“I think the Lady Morgana put an end to my striving for honor.” 

“You’re mad,” blurts Merlin, who is still not running. “Uther will never forgive you for this.” 

“Uther’s not going to find out,” says Geraint. “Lot of bandits in these woods. Anything could have happened to you.” 

“I’ll surrender,” says Arthur calmly. “Just let Merlin go.”

“Arthur, no - “

He pushes Merlin away. “He’s done nothing to you. He’s an innocent.” 

Geraint raises an eyebrow. “Like your Guinevere? You should have let me have a turn on her, Arthur. Now I’m going to let my boys do whatever they want to your servant here. Sure, he’s ugly, but clearly you’ve found a use for him. Try not to break him too quickly, lads. I want this to last.” 

“Please.” He can taste the failure in his mouth. “Please, you can do anything to me, just let Merlin - “

“Don’t listen to him,” shouts Merlin. “I’m the one who caused all this, you want me, I’m nothing, just let Arthur - “

“Touching.” Geraint smiles. “Don’t worry, sire, I’ve told my men to get you in the legs first. We want you to be able to watch. Boys? Fire.” 

Arthur flings himself in front of Merlin. “Get to the stream!” he shouts, and forces himself to face his death, as the strings snap and the bolts fly towards him - 

“No,” says Merlin, and the bolts stop in mid-air. 

Arthur turns. Merlin is staring at Geraint and his men. His voice is calm. His face has the calm and implacable fury of a god. And his eyes are shining a pure and brilliant gold. 

“He gave you a chance,” says Merlin mildly. “You really should have taken it.” 

The bolts spin on their axis and shoot each bowman square between the eyes. 

Six corpses. Six mercenaries - not cheap ones by the look of it, they’re in better mail than the usual ruffians - dead in the span of a breath. The flat black fact of their dead bodies, blood and brain oozing into the soil. Merlin did that. He only took as long as he did to make a point. He could have killed them quicker. He could have killed them before they realised they were dead. 

Power corrupts, Merlin had said. And then he’d killed without blinking. 

Geraint stumbles backwards. “You're a sorcerer.”

“Good spot.” Merlin strides forward, easy as if he’s taking the air. The sword is slippery in Arthur’s hand. He’s vaguely sure he should be doing something. He should kill the sorcerer. He should protect Merlin. He needs to protect Merlin from the sorcerer inside him, or the sorcerer who’s stolen his shape and his lovely blue eyes, used Merlin’s pale hands to kill. “Don’t worry, Geraint. I’ll try not to break you too quickly.” 

Geraint draws his sword. “I will run you through.” 

Merlin nods. “You’ll try. But you said some very disrespectful things about my friend Gwen. It made me pretty angry. If I were you, I’d start running instead.” 

And any sane man would run when faced with this. Merlin is glittering with magic, motes of it swirling through the air like pixie dust. He looks like a thunderstorm. He looks like a god. Arthur wants to run, or drop to his knees and worship, or stab him, or kill Geraint. He does nothing. 

But Geraint is drunk on hate and fear. He lifts his sword with a yell. Arthur lifts his own - a battle, a sword, he has to fight, he’ll kill someone trying to hurt them and it will be safe and clean and just like before - 

Merlin swipes at the air, like he’s swatting a fly, and Geraint crashes into a tree and lies still. 

Then he turns to Arthur, still with those terrible wolf’s eyes. “I suppose I should explain.”

“Yes,” says Arthur, trying not to be aware of the river, the crossbow bolts, the tangible frailty of his own throat, “I think you better had.” 

Merlin opens his mouth. Something runs through him then, an earthquake shudder. He makes a sound like the low wail of ice just before a thaw. Louder and louder, clutching at his throat like he’d crush it just to contain the sound - 

“Stop. Merlin, stop!” 

Merlin stops. In the raw quiet, Arthur can hear someone’s breath, tearing like wet parchment. He doesn’t know whose it is.

“What did you do, Merlin?” He keeps his voice calm. No fast movements around a predator. 

“I’m sorry,” says Merlin. His eyes are welling up, human tears clouding his inhuman gaze. “I’m sorry, Arthur, I had to save your life.” 

“You are. You’re a sorcerer.” The words burn like bile. “And if I had to guess, you’ve been at it a long time.” 

Merlin gasps, a horrible whole body thing, staring around the clearing. “I didn’t want to kill them. I didn’t, I just - I didn’t see another way out.” 

There wasn’t one. By all rights, the two of them should be horribly dead right now, or well on their way to dying. But Merlin had saved them. Merlin, who is a sorcerer. Who wants to kiss Arthur. Who killed all these men. 

“Geraint’s not dead, I think,” says Merlin. “I just knocked him out - please, Arthur, say something, you’re scaring me - “

“I’m scaring you?” he barks. “What are you?”

“Your servant. Your friend.” 

“You didn’t - tell me you didn’t do that. Tell me this isn’t real.” Merlin shakes his head. “How long - all the lies - “

“I didn’t want to burn. I didn’t want to lie. I didn’t want to go. I had to choose one - “

“You chose wrong,” he spits, and Merlin crumples. 

And then he hears it, perfectly awful - hoofbeats thundering through the trees, and Bertrand’s voice calling, “Prince Arthur! Sire, are you alright?” 

“Please,” says Merlin. “Just give me time to run.” 

Something snaps inside him. “Oh, shut up Merlin.” He grabs six of their own crossbow bolts and throws them in the stream, hopefully to sink to the muck. “Say nothing, do you understand? Not a single word.” 

Then he does the only thing he can do - races Bertrand’s hoofbeats, and seconds before they pull up into the clearing he puts his sword clean through Geraint’s neck. 

“Right,” says Arthur, striding into Gaius’s chambers. “Where is he?” 

He had practically dragged Merlin into Gaius’s rooms when they got back to the castle, shoved him at the old man with a whisper of, “I know everything, do not let him leave,” and then gone to lie to the king. 

“He is still in his room,” says Gaius. He looks up at Arthur, and his eyes are very cold. “Against my advice. He seems to believe he owes you an explanation. Where are the guards?”

“The guards?” 

“The guards who will come to arrest us.” He spreads his hands. “After all, sire, you have two sorcerers right here. Surely you do not think you can take us yourself.” 

The light from the fire casts up under his chin, turning his face half-shadowed and strange. Yes, Gaius was a sorcerer, wasn’t he? He has put away such things, of course. But he hasn’t forgotten. All around them hum the fire and the knives and the vials of poison. So many things to hurt with. 

“What sorcerors?” says Arthur lightly. “I’m just here to tell Merlin that the king has offered him a commendation.” 

Gaius raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” 

“He distracted Geraint’s men, you see. Allowed me to take them out myself with a crossbow. Gaius, I - I didn’t see another way but to take the credit. A commendation was the best I could do.” 

“The best you could do,” echoes Gaius. “You know, I thought that when a man got to my age he’d stop being surprised. And then Merlin came along.” 

Arthur nods. “Yes, he is - surprising.” 

“Very,” says Gaius, and gestures towards the door of Merlin’s chambers. “Thank you, your majesty.” 

His hand is on the door when Gaius says, “Oh, Arthur? It is perhaps easier not to speak openly with me. But Merlin must speak of it.”

“Yes.” His voice is hollow. “We must speak of it.” 

Gaius nods. “I will be out gathering herbs. I may be gone for some time.” 

So he does know about the besmirching. Arthur tucks that away as a thought to deal with later. Later feels a very long way away. 

He has barely opened the door when Merlin says, very simply, “Will you kill me before they burn me?” 

“No one is going to burn you,” he says. He has itemised every question he wants to ask as he walked here, ordering and reordering the list to the rhythm of his calm, measured steps. 1. Why are you in Camelot? 2. How long have you known? 3. What have you done to me? Why do I feel like this? Why can’t I kill you? But he can’t make himself ask. They must have this talk. But this is the end, isn’t it? It must be the end. 

 Arthur keeps his voice light. “I suppose now I know how you always win at dice.” 

“I’ll give all the money back,” Merlin whispers, still small and trembling.

“I think perhaps that’s the least of our worries,” says Arthur gently. 

“Ours.” He swallows. “Yeah.” 

“Was that your first kill?”

“No.” Merlin laughs. “Oh god, Arthur, no it wasn’t.” 

“Who else?”

Merlin looks up and away like he’s - counting. “Lady Helen, first week I got here. Edwin Muirden. Ulfrick. Sophia - they weren’t human, they were fae, they were going to - “

“Just tell me the rest.” 

“Um, three bandits. Two of Torrin’s men. Nimeuh. Cornelius Sigun. I think that’s it, in terms of - people.” 

“Nimueh. As in, the most powerful sorceress of the old religion. And Cornelius Sigun, who could raise himself from the dead.” 

“Yes, they were powerful.” He says it so casually, oh yes, that was a hard joust. 

“And you killed them?”

“For god’s sake, Arthur, why would I lie?” 

“I don’t know, Merlin. I imagine it’s become quite a habit with you.” 

“You know me. You do, you know everything that’s important about me. You just didn’t know - this.” 

“You’re right.” Arthur shrugs. “I do know quite a bit about you, don’t I? I know your name, your mother’s name, where you were born. I know that you favor blue over green and venison over pork. I know the exact twist of your mouth when you think I’ve said something rude. I know what you sound like when you cry, when you laugh, when you come. I know you’re queer. I know you’ve seen me ripped bare for you. But all that knowing looks pretty fucking insubstantial when it’s next to the fact that I didn’t know you’re the most powerful sorcerer in the world!” Merlin flinches. “Oh god, you are, aren’t you? Jesus fucking Christ, I’ve been so stupid.” 

He scrubs his face free of tears. “Was it funny, Merlin? God, when I was vowing to protect you, offering my sword - oh, you must have been cracking up. Imagine you needing me.” 

“You killed Geraint for me. I’d be on a pyre right now if you hadn’t.” 

“Yes, you would. I killed a defenceless man on the ground. Put a sword through his neck while he lay there choking on his blood. And you have the nerve to ask me if I’ll kill you before they burn you. You make me sick.” 

Turned away, he can only feel as Merlin gets closer. “I know you hate sorcery, Arthur. But please, believe me, I’ve only ever used it for you, to - “

“If you say to protect me,” says Arthur calmly, “I’m going to run you through.” 

He couldn’t. He knows he couldn’t, both because Merlin would fling him into a wall and because the sword would fall from his hands if he even tried. 

So of course Merlin, fucking madman, says, “I’d let you.” 

He turns. Merlin has an expression Arthur’s only ever seen on men gutted: the horror, worse than the pain, at the unmistakable desecration of their flesh, the body’s betrayal, as they realise they are going to die slowly in the worst way possible and there’s nothing that can stop it. “There isn’t a point to my magic without you.” 

“A sorcerer powerful enough to kill a high priestess would let himself be spitted on a mere sword?” 

“A loyal servant,” spits Merlin, “would choose death before dishonour, the same as any of you knights.” 

“I didn’t ask for your service.”

“Don’t care. You’ve got it.” 

“That’s not how allegiance works - “

“Sorry, my lord, I’m just an idiot peasant. You can’t expect the likes of us to know the finer points of chivalry. We’re a bit too busy cleaning your boots.” 

“Why are you cleaning my boots, Merlin? Why are you here? You sat on my floor, you told me power corrupts, and you, with all your power, are scrubbing my britches - do you expect me to believe that?” 

“Because you’re the point, you idiot! Do you not understand why I said that? Do you not understand how I know? I could be one of those petty sorcerers, lurking in a tower and tearing each other down, I could probably rule over them - they’d let me, I’m fucking prophecised - and I’d be an empty shell with nothing but my own power. Or instead, I could be here, putting all my power into you, because you’re my king! I told you, I’m happy to be your servant till the day I die. I meant it. I’m happy.” He sucks in a shuddering breath. “And I use a spell to wash your britches, you enormous prat!” 

Arthur blinks. Tries to swallow the enormity of that. Says, despairing, “Are you saying that you enchanted my underwear?” 

“Not - no, I didn’t - it’s just a cleaning spell - I mean it’s barely even a spell, really, I just get the washing to do itself.” 

“Right,” says Arthur, and then has a little sit-down on Merlin’s appalling bed - truly, he must be the most crap wizard alive, why is he sleeping like this? To serve Arthur, apparently. Though he doesn’t see how conjuring up some goose feathers and a decent eiderdown would get in the way of that.

Ah, he thinks distantly, I’m going insane. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” says Merlin. “I just thought you’d hate me. Which. You do. So I suppose I was right. And your father would have killed me. I’m still sorry, though.” 

Trust Merlin to get to the heart of it. You hate me. Your father will kill me. 

“I don’t - “ his voice cracks. “Sweetheart, I don’t hate you.” 

And Merlin is looking at him like he’s twenty sunrises at once, falling to his knees in front of him. Arthur can’t help it. He grabs Merlin’s hands, kisses his knuckles, “I don’t, I don’t, I don’t,” mouthed between each joint, and Merlin is saying, “I’m sorry, I am,” over and over,  both of them inarticulate and sobbing, until Arthur grasps Merlin’s face and says, “You were right. I understand, I do, I’m angry - was angry - I don’t know. You were right to lie. I know why you did. It was understandable, it was unavoidable, and it was fucking stupid.”

“I should have trusted you,” whispers Merlin. 

“No, darling.” He presses their foreheads together, one last time - too late, too late - and rips the words out, feeling the bloody hole they leave behind. “You should have stayed in Ealdor, where magic isn’t a crime.” 

Merlin goes still beneath him. 

“You’ll leave tonight,” says Arthur. “I’ll tell Uther that, in recognition of the service you’ve rendered me, you’re to be given a generous pension. I won’t be able to give you an estate in Cenred’s kingdom, but you’ll have twelve silver a month instead. Everything else I offered you before still stands - “

“No.”

“This isn’t a discussion - “

“I agree with you there - “

“I’ll give you time to say goodbye to Gaius - “

“Don’t need to, I’m staying - “

Arthur takes a deep, calming breath and reminds himself that he does, in fact, adore Merlin. “You’re a sorcerer.” 

“I…know?” 

“My father burns sorcerers.” 

“With you so far.” 

“So you need to go.” 

“Hm. Nope.” 

“Merlin - “

“I would rather be dead,” says Merlin, chin up and teary. “I would rather be dead than never hear you say my name like that again.” 

“Well,” says Arthur, a little blank, “now you’re just being dramatic.” 

Merlin shrugs. “Yes, probably. I know the risks, Arthur. I can live with them.” 

“Unacceptable.”

“Oh, this again - ?” 

“No, I mean it literally.” He stands up, paces. “Let me brush you up on some of those finer points of chivalry, Merlin. If you’re swearing yourself into service to me, the bargain goes both ways. There are things I can ask my knights to do. I can ask them to ride into danger, I can ask them to die for Camelot, and I can do those things because in return I offer them honour and reward and a safe harbour. But to ask the service of a man and offer him none of those things, to ask him to sneak around in dark corners, to ask him to scrub boots in return for saving my life, to make him live between two swords, the enemies and my own - that would be the depths of dishonour, and I cannot accept it. I’m sorry - “ And oh he is, he is, he can taste just how wonderful it would be to do battle with Merlin at his side, the way they’d learn each other, the force they could be - “but if I was willing to take your pledge to do just that, then I wouldn’t be worthy of it.” 

Merlin scrambles to his feet, fists clenched. “And the next time a griffin shows up, or a sorcerer, or someone tries to kill you? You’d be dead in a week without me, Arthur - “

“Then I die!” He grabs Merlin by the shirt. “I would rather be dead than watch you burn. See? I can be dramatic too!”

Merlin, insufferable stakes-raiser, grabs Arthur’s collar. “You kill me worse by sending me away! I’ve done you service, Arthur, whether you asked for it or not - and this, this, is how you repay me - I thought - I really thought that when you knew - if you knew, if you weren’t angry - you might be - be proud.” His face is breaking, collapsing, so far past misery he looks almost dead. “I killed for you, and you don’t even want me.” 

“No, no.” He pulls Merlin to him, lets Merlin howl wetly into the curve of his neck. “I am - Merlin, Merlin. Thank you. Best of servants, best of men. But you understand, you must understand. You refused my protection before, didn’t you? When we were - you couldn’t accept it anymore. And I don’t understand your reasons, I still don’t - but can’t you see? I’m proud, I’m grateful, I’m happy, but I have to say no.”

Merlin stops crying. 

“You,” he says into Arthur’s shoulder, “are actually, honest-to-god, the stupidest man alive.” 

“Probably,” admits Arthur, because the weight of evidence is on Merlin’s side. 

Merlin pulls away. “Seriously. A level of idiocy that deserves to be recorded in history. You - are you actually comparing my destiny at your side to sex?” 

“I’m drawing a reasonable parallel - “

“I can’t fuck someone who can’t even admit they want me,” says Merlin, very calmly. “I can’t accept that as protection, Arthur, I can’t spend my life caught between your body and your words, trying to work out which one is lying. It was ripping me open. You want my reasons? Your reasons for doing anything are buried so deeply I’d need six months and a bloody good shovel.”

“I have told you - “

“What do you want, Arthur? Fuck duty, fuck service, fuck danger - I have heard your concerns, I acknowledge their existence, but i just want you to look my in the eyes and tell me if, aside from all that, you want me gone. If you say you don’t want me, I’ll believe you.” His mouth twists. “I should have killed the part of me that thinks otherwise long ago. But I suppose I’m - surprisingly stubborn. So kill it for me.”

And that - that’s so unfair, that Arthur thinks he could scream. 

“I want to make you happy. That’s why - that’s why I do everything, that’s why I am - this. I groan in the mornings because I know it brings you joy to force me out of bed, and I look at you every time something stupid happens in training to see you smile. I want to make a kingdom you’d be proud to live in. I want to be a man you’d be proud to live with. I want to wake up next to you. I want to put you to bed when you’re too tired to keep going. And - “ he knows, suddenly, what he needs to do, the last fence to clear standing high in his way, and he pulls all his courage together for the jump. “I love you. I love you, Merlin.” And he’s done it, he’s clear on the other side, heart shuddering with the aftershock. “But if I love you then I have to make you leave. Because what I want above all is for you to be safe. And if I can’t protect you, and I can’t honour you, then I don’t get to keep you, just for the sake of my heart.” 

Merlin tilts his head. “But that’s - that’s the point Arthur. That’s all I want.” 

“Merlin - “ 

“Oh.” He reaches out and cups Arthur’s jaw. “I don’t want honours or land or any of the gifts you’d reward a knight with. I don’t need you to be useful or good. I don’t even need you to be strong for me. Sweetheart, did you really think your heart wouldn’t be enough?” 

Arthur’s face is wet. Because no, of course it’s not enough. People have wanted Arthur for his gold, his power, his strength, his prowess, they have wanted his brain and his swordhand, and his cock, but no one has ever been stupid enough to want him for his useless quivering heart. Until Merlin.

“And I’ll give mine back to you,” Merlin whispers. “Well? Will that work?”

“Just about,” croaks Arthur, and then they’re kissing, kissing terribly, tears everywhere and hands grabbing desperately and one of them is making some terribly embarrassing sounds. It’s the best kiss of his life. 

“And we’ll keep each other safe,” says Merlin. “We’ll protect Camelot together, and all our people will be safe. I promise it.”

“I swear, I swear - “

“And you’ll do what I say, won’t you? Because you want to - “

“I want to, yes, yes, yes - “ 

Arthur’s clothes are coming off by themselves, which should be terrifying and is instead embarrassingly hot. This is the most idiotic thing he’s ever done, twice as reckless as charging a griffin - pledging his life to a sorcerer, a man, Merlin. There must be a word for good stupid. There is. It’s love. 

“Just to clarify,” he gasps, as Merlin grabs his cock. “You do - you love me, right?” 

“I love you,” says Merlin, and that’s all either of them say for a while, back and forth - love you love you yes yes yes. 

“Wait,” says Arthur, still panting weakly. “Is that what you wanted? Me to love you?” 

Merlin hums. He’s mostly on top of Arthur, and it’s a sign of how deeply besotted Arthur is that he’s not complaining about being poked in eight places at once by Merlin's knobbly joints. “Not exactly, no. I honestly wasn’t hoping that high. I just wanted you to admit that you wanted me.” 

“Why didn’t you say so?” 

“Because then you’d have said it.” 

“Exactly.” 

“But you’d have said it because I said it.” 

Arthur stares at him, incredulous. “You really are a sorcerer, aren’t you? I should have guessed. You talk like a cross between a mystic and a drunk.” 

“You should hear the dragon,” laughs Merlin. “He’s way worse. Actually, I should probably introduce you. I think he’s going to be important.”

“Right, for our golden destiny.” He strokes Merlin’s hair. “This is the bit where you tell me about that, I think.”

Merlin hums. He shifts away, shadows stippling his face. “It’s - everyone’s always irritatingly vague. You’re going to be the greatest king that the world has ever seen. You’re going to unite Albion. You’ll bring back magic and restore the balance of the world and probably ride a few unicorns while you’re at it. No one ever bloody tells me how to get there, though.”

“Right.” The greatest king - fantastic, no pressure then. “That’s me. What about you?” 

“I’m the other half of your coin. My destiny is to serve you.” He strokes Arthur’s shoulder, eyes far away. “I thought once - after the Questing Beast - that my destiny was to die for you. But I think it’s to make you king.” 

For a second Arthur can see through his words into a dark, cold future. Merlin in the shadows, killing and killing and handing Arthur his bathwater with bloodstained hands. Loving the son of a man who murdered his kind; loving a king who kept killing. Drifting further away from each other, never quite able to stop loving. There is the shadow of that Merlin on the wall, and his eyes make Arthur want to weep. 

But they have shut that future out now. 

“You’re crap at prophecies, Merlin.” Arthur kisses his forehead, his cheek, his jaw. “One side of a coin isn’t subservient to the other. You’re meant to be with me, side by side.” 

“One little prophecy and he thinks he’s an expert,” says Merlin, but his face is wet as he kisses Arthur again and again, the sunlight limming his hair with gold.

Arthur kisses him once more on the brow and pulls back. “The ban on magic can’t be repealed while my father’s alive.”

Merlin groans. “Has no one ever told you about afterglow?” 

“I’m glowing. I’m just thinking. We’d need to start laying the groundwork to undermine it now. Leon will follow where I lead, but he needs to believe in magic in order to get the other knights on side. If both of us - “

“What if I sucked your cock? Would you like that?” 

“In a minute, Merlin, focus. Geoffrey really came through for us, and I think he would again - he’s a historian, he remembers that how it is isn’t how it always was. I think we could - “

“Athur.” Merlin kisses him, which is exactly the kind of sneaky move he’s always pulled and, oh god, Arthur’s just handed him another way to cheat. “Listen to me. It’s going to be fine. Ask me how I know.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because we’re destined. Because we love each other. Because we’ve got Gwen and Morgana on side, and they’ll handle anything we can’t. You and me, sweetheart, we’re a golden age.” 

“Yes.” He kisses Merlin, almost loses himself in that sweet touch. But something is turning in his brain, the word cheat. “Hang on. Merlin, the day we met - ” 

“Morgana is right about you.” 

“Yes, and that. How, exactly, is she right about me?” 

“You’re an idiot,” says Merlin. His voice is a little muzzy, as if he’s about to - curl up at Arthur’s side and go to sleep, feeling safe and warm and loved. Like he always should be. The universe has woven them here, together at each other’s side. 

“Oh,” said Arthur, as Merlin’s breathing starts to deepen. And yes, all right, he is. But he’s enough for destiny and enough for Merlin. A golden age. Yes.