Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“How’s the babe?”

Merlin peeks up from where he’s using a mortar to mash up some herbs for Gaius at the table. The old physician is sitting just across from him, glasses slipped to nearly the tip of his nose and inquisitive eyes scrutinizing Merlin from over the brim. He’s rubbing some sort of oil over his wrinkly hands, having complained about the never ending ache in his bones and Merlin can smell the sharp pungency of ginger and lavender mixed together.

“He’s good,” Merlin says softly, eyes flicking down to his own hands, such a difference from Gaius’s. Instead of wrinkles and weathered skin his are strong, tanned from his work in the sun, and sprinkled with tiny cuts and scrapes. He often felt they were too harsh for Amarius’s baby soft skin, the callouses an unpleasant sensation against the infant’s cheeks or little hands that were unblemished like newborn’s should be. He pauses crushing the herbs to rub his fingers together.

“Need some?” Gaius asks, holding the bottle of oil up and Merlin gives him a half grin before shaking his head.

“Afraid it wouldn’t do anything. I think my hands are too far gone.”

“Best to start taking care of yourself now. You’ll age quicker with a child. An unfortunate side effect.”

Merlin frowns, “side effect?”

Gaius looks grim as he nods, “I’ve seen it many times. Youthful, spry men turned ragged during their years of child rearing. It’s common.”

“What are you on about?” Merlin chuckles, “stop messing with me. That’s not true.”

“Is it not?” Gaius questions and gestures to himself, “look at me. Look at what you’ve done.”

Merlin snorts, turning away from the old man with a toothy grin and a gleam in his eye as he shakes his head at Gaius’s ridiculousness though, he’ll admit, he can’t deny the tadbit of truth lingering in the physician’s words. It makes him blush a bit.

Gaius is smiling too, a breathy chuckle following as he says, “there’s that smile. You’ve looked wretched since the moment you got here. What’s bothering you, my boy?”

“I’m not wretched,” Merlin amends lightly, his crushing of the herbs growing less and less fervent, “just got a lot on my mind.”

“Why not take a load off? I’m here all day.”

Merlin smirks, “it’s not important.”

“Well then why don’t you answer me this,” Gaius begins, setting the bottle down on the table as he leans closer, “why are you not at the council meeting right now? Not that I don’t enjoy your help. I’m afraid I just don’t have the strength in my hands as I used to, but shouldn’t you be with Arthur? Isn’t he confirming Amarius to the court?”

Merlin can’t help but look a bit ashamed as he stops crushing the herbs altogether, chewing the inside of his cheek and avoiding Gaius’s critical eye with a certain heat upon his face. He could be stubborn and ask Gaius the same thing but he knows that’s just plain childish. Gaius had been going less and less to meetings of the court, his old age keeping him confined strictly to his physician duties and even that he was sharing much of the burden with Merlin. But Merlin wants a distraction, to steer the topic away from court and towards almost anything else. But before he can even formulate something to do just that, Gaius is already speaking for him.

“Ah, I see,” the physician hums, leaning back in his chair and fixing his glasses. Merlin watches him skeptically, waiting for him to continue and when he doesn’t it makes the warlock feel uneasy.

“See what?”

Gaius flashes him his knowing eyes quickly, “nothing.”

“Gaius,” Merlin groans, “see what?”

The old man feigns innocence as he shrugs nonchalantly, shaking his head and busying himself by grabbing a nearby tome and opening it but Merlin knows he isn’t reading. Merlin cocks his head, a puff of air exhaled through his nose as he grumbles, “you’re just trying to get me going. It won’t work.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” Gaius replies, his eyes flicking up, “I just see you’re only here so you don’t have to be there. But I suppose I should just be grateful for the help regardless.”

Merlin’s shoulders sag and he looks every bit tired of this conversation that is hardly yet to begin, “that’s not true.”

Gaius says nothing but he doesn’t have to. Merlin can see the knowing glint in his eye even from across the table. He can’t help a little sneer; leave it to Gaius to say so much without actually saying anything at all. He knows Gaius is waiting him out, the old man can be so stubborn like that, but Merlin’s not in the mood. He hasn’t been all day since Arthur had attempted to persuade him to join him once more at court. Merlin refused, again, and it all ended with both he and Arthur feeling irritated with each other, a contrast to the night they had had together prior. Merlin almost wondered if Arthur was simply trying to butter him up, like all those sweet words, gentle touches, and sensational kisses had merely been a part of some inner plot to convince Merlin to change his mind. But, in the end, Merlin knew that was unfair. It wasn’t their first night together and Arthur had proven to be quite the versatile creature in bed, switching from a domineering like beast to the softest and most careful lover Merlin ever thought possible. The variety almost gave him whiplash, if he was honest.

Either way, Merlin had come to Gaius’s in a bit of a sour mood. It’s not like he and Arthur hadn’t been peeved with each other before. That had practically been the basis for their whole relationship to even start with. But things just felt different since they had become parents and Merlin wasn’t exactly sure how to explain it. To disagree so fervently on a topic that involved their son just settled in Merlin’s gut like rocks.

“Have you written your mother?”

Merlin’s thought process stutters to a halt as he looks up to where Gaius is still ‘reading’ the large book. His head stays tilted while his eyes glance up and Merlin scrunches up his nose. Gaius is asking all the hard questions today.

“No,” he admits sheepishly, “I have not.”

“Merlin!” Gaius chides, shutting the book rather loudly and he genuinely looks miffed. “You said you were going to write to her last week. And that after you failed to write to her the week before that. What are you waiting for? The boy to be old enough to walk himself to Ealdor and greet his grandmother?”

“No, of course not,” Merlin retorts, “I just-... I have a bunch of letters started, Gaius, I just don’t know what to say. How do I explain to her that I’m-.. that I have a child with Arthur?”

Gaius leans in, his arms coming to rest on the table and he almost looks like he’s about to share a secret, “the same way you told me. She’s your mother and she’s known about you and your magic the longest. I don’t doubt she will be overjoyed to hear she has a grandson and you continuing to keep it from her isn’t fair.”

Merlin sighs. Of course he’s right, his mother would be through the roof with excitement to hear about Amarius and that it was unfair to keep the child basically a secret from her. But perhaps that’s what held him back. He knew what his mother would want to do the second she read his letter.

“She’ll come to Camelot,” he tells Gaius defeatedly, “you know she will.”

“I know,” Gaius agrees readily, “she can stay with me. It’s not like you spend much time in your bedroom these days anyways, I have the space.”

Merlin’s cheeks heat up at the innuendo and he quickly goes back to mashing up the herbs in the mortar, missing the way Gaius smirks at his reaction.

“I’m just….” Merlin trails off, eye flitting around the room helplessly, “so much has changed since she last saw us. Saw Arthur. And don’t get me wrong, I want them to meet again, especially under more favorable circumstances, but it’s weird to think about. I’ve separated my life in Ealdor and my life in Camelot for so long. To have them merge like that I just… don’t know what to expect.”

Gaius tilts his head, eyebrows drawn as he regards Merlin carefully, “what do you fear will happen when they do?’

Merlin gives a halfhearted shrug, “I dunno. I don’t know what I’m afraid of. Or if I’m even afraid. Just… unsure.”

Gaius nods, like he understands but the wrinkle in his brow tells Merlin he struggles to do so. “Your life is changing, as it always has been. Though I’m sure now in ways you’ve never imagined possible. But fret not, my boy,” Gaius pauses to reach forward and engulf Merlin’s hand in his, “you are not alone.”

Merlin’s lip twitches in the slightest as his fingers tap under the weight of Gaius’s hand. The words are heavy yet warming and a stark reminder of the little family they had built in the last three months. And perhaps that’s why Merlin was so hesitant. Hesitant with writing to his mother, telling the court, and ultimately the rest of Camelot. The little bubble-like realm they had been living in for the last three months was blissful and challenging and yet so rewarding and precious. It felt unreal and fragile and Merlin feared what would happen to it all if they began to let the outside world trickle in. He knew putting it off was futile, that presenting Amarius to the whole of the kingdom was inevitable and that continuing to pretend otherwise was only detrimental to the acceptance of a prince gifted by gods and created by magic. He also knew it was entirely unfair- unfair to his mother, to the kingdom and to Amarius. It was selfish to want to keep the baby to just himself and Arthur and the small circle of confidants that had made themselves out to be more like aunts and uncles. And the more he thinks about it the more the gnawing guilt in his chest grows.

“You think I should be there with Arthur…” Merlin states, eyes downcast and jaw set. Gaius taps his hand.

“I think, when it comes to Amarius, you and Arthur need to work together. You do with that information as you see fit.”

His hand is gone and Gaius rises to give Merlin some space. It makes sense, Merlin thinks. He knows deep down he should be in that council room with Arthur and he thinks he’s always known but had been too much of a coward to admit it. A part of Merlin feared members of the court would place all the blame solely on him, accusing him of enchantments or other magical injustices for perhaps trying to get to the throne. Merlin knew it didn’t matter what they said, Arthur had been in that cave just like he had and knew Merlin had just as much to do with Amarius’s creation as he did. And that’s all that mattered.

Merlin sets the mortar on the table with a definite thump, a sigh tumbling from his lips when he stands from the chair. Gaius turns to him at the sound.

“I’m an idiot,” he explains seldomly, “but I’m sure you know that.”

Gaius shrugs, “I’ve suspected it. But it’s a condition that never seems to last long.”

Merlin frowns. He should’ve seen that coming. “If Miriam comes, will you watch Amarius until I’m back? It shouldn’t take long… hopefully.”

Gaius watches as Merlin goes to open the door, seeming unsure, “now hold on a minute, Merlin, me? Watch him alone?”

“Why not?” Merlin teases with a little grin as he steps out, “you raised me just fine.”

“Yes, you weren’t a baby. Though sometimes you lack common sense like one.”

“Miriam will stay with you, if you ask nicely, I’m sure. I won’t be long, Gaius. Plus, he enjoys his grandfather Gaius time.”

Merlin doesn’t wait for a rebuttal as he shuts the door and Gaius is left fumbling for words at the solid wood. He grunts, muttering to himself, “grandfather Gaius… what a fool.”

He grumbles and fusses, praying Miriam doesn’t get there before Merlin returns but it’s no use when the young maid knocks at his door, the little bundle a gurgling, cooing mess in her arms. The baby lights up at Gaius’s worn yet fond smile, kicking out in delight and settling calmly in the old physician’s arms when Miriam hands him over. Gaius takes a seat at one of the chairs, maneuvering the blanket away from the baby’s face and chuckling softly at the bright blue eyes that stare back up at him with such adoration for such a young age.

“Heh. Hello, my boy,” Gaius greets sweetly, his spectacles pushed up so he can see all of the baby’s features clearly. A little bit of Arthur mixed perfectly with Merlin but when the baby gives a shy grin Gaius swears all he sees is his ward. He thinks his old, rickety heart melts just the slightest.

Neither take notice of Miriam stepping out quietly.

+

The hushed silence in the room was tense following a disagreement among the court and Arthur wondered if this would be a good enough excuse for him to opt out of mentioning Amarius altogether. Clearly no one was in the mood to hear more than a tiebreaker between the two opposing sides over whether aid would be sent to villages in other kingdoms that had been experiencing failed crops following a drought.

“What’s happened is unfortunate,” one member had said, “but they are not our people. We can not supply aid to those in other kingdoms when what we have may barely cover our own. What if disaster strikes the villages of Camelot? Our resources will have already been spent.”

“People aren’t looking to their own kingdoms for help anymore, they’re coming to Camelot because they know it’s only grown while their own kingdom has depleted. Caerleon would be in a state of despair if it were not for Camelot’s forces, is it so outrageous to think the people wouldn’t turn to us for other aid as well?” the other side had argued.

It was a big debate and an even bigger decision. Arthur had done what he could to help the kings and queens of the other kingdoms to stay afloat but they seemed to flock to him even more when he did. Merlin claimed it was all part of the rise of Albion but Arthur felt it was more of a rise in his heart rate. It was a tough job to have all the people of Camelot reliant on him and his kingdom and it only grew more daunting to know other kingdoms were now doing so as well. Arthur tried to put faith in whatever prophecy or destiny Merlin would babble on about but it did little to solidify his confidence in believing he could be this Once and Future King Merlin always spoke about. Especially when his own team of councilmen and advisors were torn on matters as dire as this.

They wait on him now, to give word one way or the other and Arthur feels weighed down by the choice he knows to be right. He speaks carefully.

“If we were to let innocent women and children die, especially when we had the means to help, it may create a rift between our kingdom and theirs. And I know my father worked tirelessly for an alliance between all the five kingdoms.”

He glances at Lord Baldovin, hoping his words pacify him more than anyone else on that side of the table before continuing. “But, before making any decisions on how to help, I find it would be wise to assess the situation ourselves. We’ll send a garrison with provisions and then reevaluate the matter again upon our findings.”

There’s a muttering of grunts and agreements but neither side appears very satisfied though they do their best to conceal it.

“Before I call this meeting to an end,” Arthur begins and he goes to stand but before he can get very far the double doors of the council room open and capture his attention. He’s momentarily put off that someone would enter unannounced but his annoyance morphs into relief when he sees none other than Merlin strolling in, the door closing heavily behind him and causing him to startle and stop in his place when he realizes he’s gathered the attention of the court.

“Merlin!” Arthur greets, perhaps a bit too eagerly and when he receives some skeptical glances he clears his throat. “Merlin…. Glad you could join us.”

But clearly the joy of his presence isn’t shared among one side of the table. They eye him intensely and Merlin himself looks like he’d stepped into the room impulsively and is sorely regretting it. Arthur beckons him to his side and Merlin follows the order, paying the knights little mind as they attempt to greet and tease him as he passes. When he stands at the head of the table, near Arthur, the King takes a step closer, his back turned to the court and face tilted away as he whispers, “just in time… did you change your mind?”

Merlin shrugs one shoulder, “just here to make sure you don’t royally mess this up. I know how you are with public speaking, I write your speeches after all.”

Arthur goes to retaliate, a smirk threatening to take hold but he reframes, reminding himself this isn’t the place or time. Instead, he nods gratefully and allows Merlin to step away, placing himself somewhere behind Gwaine and Lancelot, politely refusing their offer to take the chair beside them.

“Is everything alright, Sire?” Baldovin speaks up for the first time since this meeting had begun and while his words indicate concern his tone does not. He merely looks placid, his dark eyes darting to Merlin before back to the King. Arthur regards him coolly.

“Fine. But there are rumors… and I feel they must be dealt with accordingly.”

That seems to pique everyone’s interest, even Baldovin who shares a quick minuscule glance with Uhtric at his left hand. Arthur does the same with Merlin.

“There’s word going around that I’ve fathered a bastard child,” there’s a moment where everyone seems to lean in. Or maybe it’s just Arthur’s anxiousness playing tricks on his mind. But he can’t deny he feels entirely more apt to make this statement when he knows Merlin is a little more than an arm's length away. “This is partly true.”

There’s an audible gasp but from who, Arthur isn’t sure until Merlin reaches forward to whack Gwaine in the back. Gwaine turns to him with the hint of a smirk but Percival elbows him to behave.

The rest seem interested though not entirely shocked. It’s not uncommon for kings or princes to have bastard children, especially when said king or prince remained unmarried for as long as Arthur had. People had fabricated stories and assumptions long before the arrival of Amarius but Arthur had never given them any attention. Until now, of course, and Arthur knows what holds their interest at this very moment is the prospect of a bastard child being only half true. Their gazes flitter among each other, some lips moving in silent questions. Arthur remains still.

“There is a child… and he is, in fact, mine.”

Uhtric grins naughtily, “then what part of this rumor is untrue?”

Arthur blinks, “he is not a bastard.”

More confusion followed by a few bouts of patronizing chuckles, mainly from Uhtric who leaned back in his chair like what he was hearing was more entertaining than a court jester with jokes. “How so, Sire? If you don’t mind me asking. Do you also have a secret queen we don’t know about?”

There’s a few snickers but Arthur’s not laughing though he does flick his eyes to Merlin briefly but long enough to catch the warlock give him a glare.

“No,” Arthur explains, “this child is sired by magic.”

Those words are enough to silence the whole table. It’s so quiet one could hear the scurry of a mouse from across the great hall. Every pair of eyes are on Arthur; waiting, watching, holding their breaths as they decipher just exactly what he was trying to tell them. Arthur continues amongst their impermeable silence, describing he and Merlin’s journey to the Crystal Caves the best he can. He aims for a diplomatic approach but it’s hard when the situation is so unprecedented. His eyes find Merlin multiple times, as if silently asking him if he’s telling the tale accurately or true. Merlin merely watches him with the tiniest hint of an encouraging smile, a slight head nod to prod him onward. The court listens as though the story were as captivating and enthralling as the tales told to little children. There’s audible noises of disbelief and face contorted in bemusement. Some seem awed, especially when the gods are mentioned and that the child was created from both Arthur and Merlin themselves and that’s when the court acknowledges Merlin’s late appearance and the warlock has the decency to look a little bashful at all the attention.

“He’s my son,” Arthur concludes, “but above all, he’s my heir and next in line to the throne of Camelot. I don’t expect everyone to understand… Nothing about this is traditional or easy to grasp. But I do expect total acceptance and-“

“This is preposterous!” Baldovin rises from his chair at a pace that does not suit him. His dark eyes have widened considerably as they bite into Arthur and his thin lips have parted in a sneer. He looks entirely outraged as he watches the King with little restraint. “Arthur, what are you thinking? You can not confirm this child as your heir, it goes against our customs and beliefs-“

“I already said I realize this isn’t in line with tradition but there’s far greater powers at play here than just old rules from a time past.”

“Arthur,” Baldovin says again but he sounds pleading and Arthur is vaguely aware of the fact the man hadn’t referred to him by his first name since before he was crowned Prince of Camelot. It’s foreign and intimate and takes him back to when he was just a boy and Lord Baldovin answered only to his father. “Arthur, please, you’re not speaking reasonably here. It’s one thing to change the rules regarding magic, it’s another to bring it back into the kingdom, but to place it on the throne?! What would your father say?”

Arthur visibly hardens. He’s had three months to contemplate what his father would say and do and the more he did the more Uther’s image rotted in his mind and soiled in his heart. Uther had no qualms, in the end, if it came to damning his own blood for the sake of keeping magic at bay. It’s only conceivable to assume he’d have brought the same fate upon Amarius. It wouldn’t have mattered if the boy were his grandson, his own flesh and blood, because he was also a part of magic and Uther’s hate for magic always out weighed his love for anything or anyone else. Arthur knew this, he loathed this, and it often made him angry at a dead man he couldn’t condemn. And yet Arthur hated to admit there was a part of him, that silly part of him that had loved Uther so fiercely growing up that it was like trying to scratch off an old scar. He fantasized what it would’ve been like if Uther were still here and things had been different. If Uther hadn’t been so imprisoned by his hatred and instead the loving and caring grandfather Arthur would sometimes wish he could’ve been and only then could Arthur imagine an aging Uther proudly holding Arthur’s infant son in his arms.

But all it ever would be was a fantasy. A thought Arthur would not allow to occupy his mind longer than necessary. The truth was that if Uther were still here, Amarius would not be safe. And for that reason, among others, Arthur could not bring himself to give a damn what Uther would say.

“My father no longer rules this kingdom,” Arthur tells Baldovin in a tone of finality. He will no longer be cowed into pleasing the likes of men who only bristled as they watched with disdain as Arthur carved his own just path as King. “It’d be in your best interest, Lord Baldovin, to remember that. And if you, or any others,” his eyes flick to Uhtric briefly, “can not do so then perhaps it’s time to retire seats that no longer suit you.”

It’s the first time such a threat has ever been made and the words appear to have a physical reaction upon Baldovin’s face, like Arthur had reached across the table and slapped him. His eyes widen even more so, his nostrils flaring just the slightest. But Baldovin is not rash. He considers his options, Arthur can see it like the shadows of a candle flame that dance across an opposing surface, and when he tilts his chin down slowly, Arthur knows Baldovin has chosen to submit, if only to appease to Arthur’s mercy.

“My lord,” Baldovin addresses him formally but the way he says it sounds like he is speaking to an impulsive child, “have you not considered the implications of such a decision? What this will say about you as a king? This is not just unheard of, it’s ludicrous. A true heir must come from a king and a queen. Not a king and a sorcerer!”

Baldovin’s voice betrays him at the end as it rises and his hand flies out to gesture to Merlin across the table. Arthur goes to defend him but before he can, Baldovin continues.

“Do you not see this for what it is? It’s a ruse! The magic users want revenge, it’s what they’ve always wanted, and he,” Baldovin glares at Merlin, “is doing this to usurp you! How can you be so blind?”

Merlin can not say he’s surprised by the accusation but despite his readiness to hear such heated words his cheeks pink anyways. He looks down, pinching the bridge of his nose and feeling more at ease when Gwaine and Lancelot rise and effectively intercepts Baldovin’s view of him. Uhtric rises as well, slowly like a cat ready to pounce as he glares at the opposing knights he never took seriously to begin with anyways.

Arthur’s eyes dart between the two forces and his bubbling frustration begins to top off as he orders for Baldovin to be silenced. The old man slaps his mouth shut, still staring accusingly at Arthur with such betrayal it’s almost palpable.

“That’s enough,” Arthur threatens in such a low tone it could almost pass for a growl. Such a contrast from the previous shout and the change dictates the atmosphere in the room. It's tense, of course, but there’s something else filtering around; an air of certainty. Nothing more has to be said but Arthur can almost see the invisible crack that snaps the table in half. He’s not sure he could mend what’s been broken between the two sides even if he wanted to.

“I was there. In the caves. With Merlin. Neither of us asked for the circumstances we were dealt but there are far greater powers at play here than just the two of us. I understand a lack of understanding but such accusations will not be tolerated. The child as my heir is beyond my choice but, if it makes things easier to comprehend then consider him my chosen heir anyway. Magic has never truly been eradicated from these kingdom’s walls. It’s always been at the heart of Camelot. And at the heart of Camelot, it will stay.”

Arthur catches Merlin’s eye, if only for a second but the words echo from a time past when Merlin had been filling Arthur in all that he had done as the King had laid dying somewhere in the forest. And it made sense, in that moment, that magic had always been. And always will be.

“This is not the first time magic has played a role in the succession of the throne. I find it hard to imagine it may be the last.”

There’s a tense silence following. Baldovin seems frozen to his very spot, dark eyes caught on Arthur like a fish hook. It’s unnerving, to Merlin anyways, and if looks could kill Arthur might’ve been a dead man where he stood. But he doesn’t even flinch and his ability to remain unshaken is admirable to say the least.

Arthur figures there’s nothing more left to be said as he turns to regard the table as a whole.

“This meeting is adjourned. You’re all free to go.”

But no one moves, not until Arthur steps away from the head of the table and heads for the large doors. He passes Merlin with a brief head tilt, as if the warlock would need an indication to follow. The knights go first, following their King dutifully. But the far side of the table seems almost rooted to their spot, dumbfounded in this new revelation and some looking to Baldovin as if he’d do something, say more. But Lord Baldovin doesn’t. He simply watches Arthur go and before Merlin follows he turns to the Lord, gaining the attention of what remains at the table and effectively Baldovin.

The Lord’s eyes narrow on him, like Merlin’s the vilest of all. But he’s used to being regarded in such a manner. There’s so much Merlin wants to say, to clear his name and prove himself just as innocent in the matter as Arthur. But he finds words fail him as Baldovin stares him down as though he hoped looks alone would turn the warlock into dust where he stood. Eventually, Merlin breaks eye contact first, turning away and heading for the door after Arthur and his men. He can feel Baldovin watching his retreating back and Merlin tilts his chin down as he approaches Arthur and slips past the knights through the doors, not saying a single word.

+

Arthur’s formidable front crumbles once they’re in the great expanse of the corridors. The knights linger to his left while Merlin begins a hasty retreat to his right and Arthur is torn, though be it momentarily, between addressing his men and following his warlock. But the decision is clear and his knights wave him off as he turns in the direction Merlin had gone.

Merlin is not running, he doesn’t even appear to be that much in a hurry but Arthur has to jog a few paces to catch up to his lanky strides.

“Merlin,” he calls out but the warlock can barely give him a side eye.

“Mer- lin,” he reiterates as he reaches out to grasp him by his arm. Merlin doesn’t stop walking but he does falter enough for Arthur to fall into stride at his side. From here, Arthur can see the darkened shadow from his sharp cheekbone. He’s brooding, no doubt, and he turns his head just enough the other way in hopes Arthur won’t continue his silent analysis.

Arthur looks back behind him. The corridors are clear but he still guides Merlin around a corner a little roughly, the warlock hissing at him when he stumbles over his two left feet. There’s an alcove just around the pillar and Arthur hauls him in, his gloved hand buried in the material of Merlin’s tunic and the warlock glares at his hand like it had burned him.

“You’ll wrinkle my shirt! I just washed it.”

Arthur releases his shirt with a sigh, “you can just get a new one.”

“I like this one.” Merlin’s words are testing, his eyes narrowing as his arms cross over his front protectively and Arthur softens a bit.

“Are you alright?”

It seems like such an inappropriate question the second it leaves his mouth but Arthur’s not really sure what else would’ve been better to say to Merlin after all that. The way things have changed between them makes Arthur feel sometimes like he and Merlin couldn’t be closer or more intimate. Other times he feels like they’re meeting for the first time and learning to navigate this new relationship of theirs sometimes feels like trekking through an unfamiliar forest blindfolded. Sometimes, he knows exactly what to say. Other times it’s like he doesn’t understand the very language he’s spoken his whole life. But if words evade him and his actions betray him his feelings never waver and he can only hope Merlin knows that. But his apprehension must be as plain as day on his face because Merlin’s harsh features melt into fond dubiety as the corners of his mouth tip upwards and his lashes flutter gently.

Arthur relaxes at the change. He can handle all kinds of Merlin. From grumpy and sassy to cheeky and sweet but when Merlin’s angry, especially now that Arthur is privy to the immense power he holds, the King feels a little out of his league in terms of dealing with it. He doesn’t fear Merlin, never has and doesn’t think he ever could, but there’s a certain something deep within that stirs to life when he imagines all the things Merlin could do if pushed to the brink.

Merlin still hasn’t responded to his question, perhaps because it truly was the wrong thing to ask, and Arthur reaches out to cup his cheek, the warmth of his leather glove so soft compared to Arthur’s rough and calloused bare hand.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Arthur jokes lightly and Merlin huffs a short laugh.

“I was accused of conspiring against you. What was so good about it?”

Arthur pauses for a moment to take in the fact that Merlin sounds and looks tired. His thumb caresses the point of his cheek absentmindedly.

“You can’t take that to heart,” Arthur tells him, sounding so sure and unconcerned it makes Merlin swallow nervously. “They just need time to adjust. Take it all in before they come around. They only jumped to such conclusions because-“

“Because they hate magic,” Merlin interjects and Arthur is quick to shake his head before nodding.

“Alright, some of them do, yes but I was going to say because this is so unheard of, Merlin, it’s never happened before. Some people are going to need more time than others.”

Merlin doesn’t appear any more reassured. “What if they don’t? What if they never ‘come around,’ Arthur, you can’t just get rid of them.”

“Yes I can, I can do what I want.”

Merlin looks exasperated, “Arthur-“

“I can get rid of whoever I want,” Arthur says again but this time he’s on the verge of being brazen as his hold on Merlin’s face slips so his fingers can curl into the hair at his nape. “They’re my councilmen, my advisors, their job is to assist and guide me and those who rule after me and if I can’t trust them to do that then I won’t have them a part of my court. Amarius is here to stay, whether they like it or not, but if they choose not then…” Arthur pauses, shrugging, “so be it.”

Merlin thinks it sounds so simple when Arthur puts it like that. But Merlin isn’t the naive little villager from all those years ago who used to think with destiny on their side he and Arthur could accomplish whatever may come. He had learned over the years nothing is quite that clean cut. Nothing ever came as easy as Arthur is now making it sound and maybe that’s because for the last few years he and Arthur had lived two very different lives even if they were so tightly entwined. Arthur had Merlin’s magic to guide and protect him, he got the benefits of magic without the complications that came with actually having magic. Merlin’s had to live in secrecy and fear every day, watching and listening to what being discovered as a magic user resulted in from the shadows as sorcerers who were executed on accusations alone. He heard the cruel words uttered about those who practiced magic, even from Arthur himself. So forgive him if his fear and hesitation, even now, made him pessimistic when it came to the likes of Amarius.

He can only hope his son could grow up differently; freely. He can only hope Arthur is right. But, so it would seem, that is not their only problem. And Merlin should’ve known, after years of being here in Camelot, one problem is never enough.

“And what about your queen?” He asks and hates how the bitterness laces his words like poison. He doesn’t mean to be so harsh, he swore he’d be prepared to hear whatever it was the council spewed. But the idea that even after the announcement of Amarius they’d bring up a queen reminded Merlin just how far they were to making things right. Or, at the very least, manageable.

Arthur stiffens, his hand slipping from Merlin’s hair and his eyes downcast. “He was just trying to hurt you.”

“And not you?”

Arthur looks back at him, “of course. But we mustn’t give them the privilege of a win.”

“You make it sound as though it is war.”

Arthur shrugs a single shoulder.. “Call it what you will.”

Merlin narrows his eyes, “don’t speak like that. You can not risk such upheaval.”

“Merlin, you can’t tell me how to speak.” Arthur’s grinning, like the whole thing was a joke and maybe to him it was but to Merlin this whole conversation cemented the idea that they were shaking the very foundation this new age of Camelot had been built on. They were risking peace.

“Will you marry if it pleases the court?”

Arthur’s grin falls entirely and for a moment Merlin feels guilty at the look of uncertainty that crosses Arthur's face. The King looks almost afraid, if only for a moment, before regaining a semblance of confidence once more, “why would you even ask such a thing?”

“Would you?” Merlin presses, stepping that much closer to him so their chests are merely inches apart. Arthur’s gaze falls hooded from the close proximity, his eyes lowering to the warlock’s lips and his own parting for a breath as he exhales, “no.”

Merlin tilts his head, his eyes scanning Arthur’s unashamed. He leans in, ever so slowly and Arthur meets him halfway as his eyes flutter close but before he can press his lips to Merlin’s, there’s a soft press of fingers against his. He opens his eyes, his forehead nearly touching Merlin’s and when he takes that half step closer, they do, a gentle knock of taut skin and Arthur can’t figure out why Merlin’s hesitating. The warlock can be quite the tease, a detail Arthur had learned to love, but this just seems a little cruel off the heels of their latest event.

There’s a clatter of trays from somewhere down the hall, murmuring of servants and they are reminded where they are. A semi private alcove is really no place to be engaged in such activities but even still, Arthur can’t pull away. He’s reminded again of that magical hold Merlin has on him, whether it’s real or not does not matter because Arthur can’t find it in him to step back. On the contrary, he’d rather close the gap completely.

But Merlin isn’t having it and in a cruel twist he steps back before whispering, “wrong answer.”

And then he’s gone. A whirl of brown and red as he swoops past Arthur and the King is left alone in the alcove, confused and bewildered as he contemplates exactly what Merlin just said. But it’s hard to focus at the moment when he can still feel the ghost of Merlin’s breath across his lips and the memory alone leaves goosebumps in his wake.

He feels lucky to be underneath all the armor and chainmail and Merlin’s parting words are left by the wayside as he feels stupidly giddy for the night when he and Merlin can be alone once more.

+

Word travels fast, no matter the size of the kingdom.

Camelot was fairly large in comparison to others but that did not prevent news of Amarius’s existence from reaching all the corners of the kingdom before morning the next day.

Arthur wakes to the sound of what can only be considered a ruckus that morning. George hadn’t even made his way to his chambers yet but by the positioning of the sun out his window, Arthur could tell he’d be here any moment.

He’s slow to rise at first, letting the sounds of murmured commotion from below his window clarify itself from an indistinctive hum to a sharp chorus of what reminded Arthur of the days of festivals and celebrations. Then he’s reminded there are no festivals or celebrations planned. No tournaments or duels or anything of the likes of that and he’s suddenly falling out of bed as he rushes to his window.

What he sees is quite astonishing, to say the least, and completely unexpected. Villagers are gathered in the courtyard, in front of the castle and almost directly under his window. They’re spread out though there’s so many of them one couldn’t tell. It would’ve looked like an angry mob if they weren’t smiling and seemingly elated. Some are dancing, twirling in a mirage of browns and tans from their dresses and shawls. Others seem to be chanting, what exactly Arthur can’t tell but whatever it is, it seems to spread like wildfire through the crowd.

He’s quick to backup from the window, not wanting to be seen from below in his half naked state. He grabs a pair of trousers, not having the patience to wait for George and stumbles into them with a little less grace than expected from a king. That’s when his door flings open.

“Geog-!” Arthur fumbles, nearly falling over before he gets his trousers up to his waist. When he turns he sees it’s not George but Merlin and really he should’ve known. There’s only one person in the whole five kingdoms rude enough to burst through his bedroom door without knocking.

“You’re dressed?” Merlin asks, clearly goading him on but Arthur’s not in the mood.

“Shut up.”

“Have you heard?”

Arthur huffs at him, hands on his hips, “the mob in the courtyard? How could I not?”

Arthur gestures to his window and Merlin stalks over, leaning against the glass and peering down. Arthur follows him, stepping up behind to get another look.

“What have you heard exactly?”

Merlin glances at him over his shoulder briefly, “just that everyone knows.”

There’s a moment of silence that follows as the two gawk at the villagers below. In the recent years there was no denying the overall mood of Camelot had been lighter and more airy. But this blatant display of ovation was out of place and entirely without reasoning. Or so it seemed.

“What are they doing?” Arthur asks lightly, a hint of disgust in his voice and Merlin rolls his eyes.

“Celebrating.”

There’s a whack to the back of the warlock’s head and Merlin squawks in protest as he steps back from the window.

“Clearly, Merlin,” Arthur says, the same tone he uses when he feels no one in the world is more of an idiot than his bumbling servant turned Court Sorcerer. “But why? This is-… they’re acting mad.”

Merlin’s still rubbing the back of his head as he watches Arthur peer back out the window skeptically, “they’re celebrating Amarius. Gaius said it’s tradition when there’s a birth of a prince. Or princess.”

Arthur turns to him, lip curled in offensive confusion. He himself had been a prince and had never heard of such a thing. Granted, he would’ve only been a baby then. It’s not like he would’ve remembered such an event. But surely he would have been informed. Or his father would’ve mentioned it…. But, then again.

Merlin’s face softens, though in a way Arthur doesn’t quite appreciate as he offers a little shrug, “your birth was different. People mourned.”

Of course. His birth signified the death of the Queen. There were no celebrations or time for goodwill. His father turned bitter quickly after that and raged war on half the population of not only Camelot but all the land. People didn’t have time to be festive over the birth of a prince when their whole lives were being uprooted. And, for some, executed.

Arthur understands then, in that moment, the importance of Amarius’s birth… or creation?…. For many. Though the actual means of how the little Prince had been brought about were unique and unprecedented (even more so than Arthur’s) his very existence was living, breathing proof of the resurrection of a time long buried away in blood and hatred. They could celebrate again, commemorate the life of a boy who would grow to be their king. One they pledge loyalty to without fear of execution or banishment.

Arthur feels a warmth chase away the guilt in his stomach as his lips twitch into a grin.

“What else did Gaius say?”

+

If people want to celebrate, Arthur will let them and he lets them know by addressing them personally. It’s liberating, to say the least, to announce to almost the entirety of his kingdom he is in fact a father. Arthur hadn’t realized the weight of keeping Amarius a secret until he no longer had to and when people erupt in cheers at the confirmation he turns to find Merlin clapping along with everyone else. They share a smile, if only small enough for the two of them, and he hopes Merlin’s fears and trepidation are subdued in the joyful commotion of their people.

The castle is buzzing after Amarius’s public confirmation. The corridors seem to be in a never ending thrum of conversation between servants and nobles alike. What were once hushed suspicions and silly little tales of assumptions were now vibratious chatter that need not be kept in whispered voices between two conspirators in the hidden corners of the castle. People spoke freely and loudly amongst each other. Some in utter disbelief and others with a sense of pride at having guessed at least some of the mystery baby’s parentage correctly.

Not a soul had yet claimed to have ever guessed Amarius was a baby created by magic, nor that Merlin was the other half of the equation that made up the little prince. And while an overwhelming majority of the kingdom seemed joyous and hopeful at the idea that didn’t stop their curiosity and skepticism from making itself known. But the uncertainty and questions are all put aside when the child is seen in the flesh. It was almost like seeing Amarius alive and breathing and interacting with his parents set in stone a notion of validity.

A feast is held; large and grand and perhaps the most jovial there had ever been. It reminded Merlin a little of when Arthur would have his birthday celebrations though this time the King attended on his own willful accord and he did so with a beaming smile and eyes that lit up at every greeting. Merlin had always enjoyed these kinds of celebrations, even under Uther’s reign. He found them to be quite the spectacle, usually at Arthur’s expense, and most times they were a good distraction from the everyday struggle of having to keep his magic a secret.

But this feast is different. For starters, Arthur ruled his kingdom not at all like Uther had and Merlin had noticed that those of all statuses allowed themselves the liberties of letting loose however they saw fit. Some drank more than their fair share, a staggering mess among the crowd. Some simply ate to their delight. And others engaged in various challenges and makeshift tournaments of coin tossing or dice rolling. But this particular feast stuck out even more so than that and Merlin only had to look down to watch a mini Leon and toddling Branwen attempt to whiz by his feet, Branwen chasing the older boy with a butter knife clutched in his tiny, chubby fist.

“Don’t!” Aeron was whining and Merlin was quick to swoop down and pluck Gwaine’s son off the ground. The boy is small, he is only just over a year after all, but he had the uncanny ability of appearing to have already had the consciousness of a near adult. His little, strawberry colored brows are knitted downward and his pink little lips are carved in a childish pout as he glares at Merlin from in the man’s arms. Like this, Merlin thinks he looks exactly like his fiery mum and he vaguely looks around to see if perhaps Lilith or Gwaine are searching for their offspring.

“I’ll be taking that, Branwen, thank you,” Merlin tells the boy as he plucks the butterknife from his pudgy fingers and rests him on his hip. Branwen does not protest but his brow doesn’t relax either and the silence is almost more terrifying than a cry of frustration.

“Thank you, Merlin,” little Aeron mumbles up at him, a blonde curl falling into tear filled blue eyes as he looks up at the warlock with his fingers to his lips. Merlin rests a hand on his head, looking around for his parents as well.

“Where is your father? And Branwen, why do you have a knife?”

Branwen doesn’t speak- he really doesn’t know how to form words beyond some garbled babbling and screeching. But Aeron is a well educated little boy and is quick to grab Merlin’s wrist with a grin, hanging off his arm and seemingly never noticing as the warlock nearly topples over from the sudden weight.

“With King Arthur!”

“What are you two boys doing?” A ferocious voice rumbles from behind and Merlin jumps a bit as he turns to see Hasina standing behind him. She’s a powerhouse of a woman, standing as tall as Merlin and far wider in terms of muscle. She’s got her hands on her hips, her fur pelts she often adorns making her appear that much larger and domineering as she gives the two little boys (at least Merlin hopes it’s just the little boys) a scalding look.

Merlin can feel Aeron let go of his hand, standing straight with his arms behind his back as he folds quietly under Hasina’s gaze. Even Branwen submits, he knows a formidable match when he sees one, though his eyes remain hardened for his tender age.

“Give him here,” Hasina says, reaching out for Branwen and Merlin hands him over as if the demand were given to him like he were a child meant to obey. Arthur says he’s a wimp when it comes to Elyan’s wife but he doesn’t care. If Hasina told him to sit down and behave, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

The Northwoman takes Gwaine’s son and gives Leon’s a wiggling finger to come closer and Aeron does so, taking her hand unlike he had taken Merlin’s; polite, gentle, obedient. She looks to Merlin softer then, her eyes twinkling with a knowing glint as she says, “little boys. They can be quite something. Though I’m sure you’ll find that out for yourself soon enough.”

Merlin goes to respond, his jaw unhitching before stuttering to halt as Elyan appears. He’s frantic, two identical crying babies in each arm as he splutters, “I don’t know what I did! Ro started in and then Thomas- I think they’re hungry.”

Crying must be contagious because Branwen instantly starts in, a fist to his mouth and big, fat tears already rolling down his cheeks. Merlin watches as the two flounder (well, Elyan flounders) and wonders silently if he should step in but Hasina is as miraculous as she is strong. She puts Branwen on her other hip before taking one of the babies from Elyan though Merlin’s not baby savvy enough to know exactly which one. She’s managing the task of bouncing Branwen to calm him while rocking the other baby soothingly and in a mere few seconds it seems to work.

Merlin’s left to marvel, his eyes darting from Hasina and her arms full of calm children while Elyan struggles to get the other baby to calm. Aeron and the warlock share a skeptical look.

“There you are!” Lilith appears, taking Branwen gratefully from Hasina. “I turn around for one moment and you’re gone again.”

Lilith pins her cat-like eyes on Merlin, green and calculating as she forces herself to soften slightly at his presence. Lilith may not be nearly as tall nor as broad as Hasina but that does not make her any less intimidating as her lip slithers into only what she would consider to be a polite smile.

Merlin returns it, though be a bit shaky, and steps away into the chaos of the celebration as the parents arrange their children accordingly. He looks around for his own child, one would think being Amarius’s parent he would have the privilege of knowing where the little Prince was throughout the night but that was not the case. The feast was for him, afterall, and even though the baby was just that- a baby- he had been the highlight of the night. People swarmed to get a glimpse of him, no matter if he were cradled in Arthur’s, Merlin’s or Miriam’s arms. The baby tended to bounce around between the three, though he occasionally ended up in the likes of Gwen or Lancelot’s care. Merlin felt a little guilty for that, for they had Maeve to lookout for as well. But Merlin had learned early on that taking on Amarius was not a burden for either of them. They often stepped up willingly and without being asked and Merlin thinks he will forever be grateful they did so.

The whole celebration is quite the convoluted mess. Everything had started out fairly organized and well contained but as the night went on people had unraveled. The whole thing made not having Amarius in his sights that much more concerning. Merlin just wanted to see him; see who he was with, what they were doing. It felt wrong not to know and he hoped that in the time he didn’t have eyes on their son, Arthur did.

Merlin finds refuge from the chaos at Arthur’s side, where the King sits at the head of the table. He’s surrounded by Leon, Percival and Frida, and Gwaine. Percival is holding his infant daughter, the little girl only just that much older than Amarius and Maeve, and to Merlin’s great relief, the large knight has the little boy cradled in his other arm, marveling back and forth between his daughter and friend’s son.

“Gwaine,” Merlin addresses as he interrupts the group's attempt at a quiet discussion among the madness, “your son had a knife.”

“Blazes,” Gwaine groans, slinking back into his chair, “again? Where?”

“Lilith has him now. She’s looking for you.”

Gwaine’s lips curl unpleasantly, a few less than ideal words tumble from his tongue that earn him a glare from Leon.

“Still not getting along then?” Percival asks as he settles back into his chair with both babies, looking content and giddy to be having both content in his arms.

“We get along,” Gwaine mumbles, “most of the time, at least. She’s just… Lilith.”

A bit of an awkward silence passes among the group. It was no secret that the last couple of months for Gwaine and his child’s mother had been turbulent. Though they put a brave front on for Branwen’s sake there was no hiding the growing animosity between the two. Where the animosity stemmed from was a mystery for those who weren’t Gwaine or Lilith but Merlin himself had suspected the two were at odds when it came to parenting Branwen and most times Gwaine’s input was disregarded on the regular. It seemed unfair, from Merlin's viewpoint, but Gwaine had yet to come to anyone for advice or guidance so he felt it wasn’t his place to say one way or the other. And truth be told, who was Merlin to offer any of that anyways? Parenting was still a very new concept for him and parenting with Arthur had been going quite swimmingly in comparison. He wasn’t sure there was much he could offer Gwaine.

Leon slaps his shoulder but otherwise says nothing and Gwaine takes his leave to find Lilith. “Best to just face the heat, eh?” And then he’s gone.

They watch him go and Percival huffs something rather insulting about Lilith under his breath before his wife nudges him to behave. Arthur tilts his chin up to Merlin by his side, pulling the chair that sat askew beside him to be more welcoming and Merlin takes the seat with a grateful nod. When he’s settled, he offers to take Amarius from Percival as the baby had grown aware of his presence and began to squirm to get a better view of his father.

Frida watches with a childlike wonder as Merlin adjusts the baby in his arms, “isn’t it just heartwarming when they start to recognize you?”

Merlin looks at her, sharing in her innocent grin because it’s hard not to with a girl like Frida. Her blonde, straight locks frame her face in a halo like effect, her pale skin illuminating her blue eyes like small pools of the purest water Merlin thinks he’s ever seen. Everything about Frida is gentle, such a contrast to her native people who are more like Hasina; large, intimidating, and rough around the edges. Frida reminded Merlin like the white, fluffy clouds on a warm summer day. Just floating along in a quiet sway. She was soft, delicate, and her voice was just as much so. Like a calming tune that flitted from a lute.

“He’s a good baby,” Percival comments, his tiny daughter looking even smaller when in his arms as she sat up to watch Merlin and Amarius with rapt interest. She’s the spitting image of Frida, little blonde hairs sticking up in every direction on her round head. Her eyes are large and blue but her features are little and among pale skin that is already dotted in barely there freckles for her young age.

“Does he sleep through the night?” Frida asks, her eyes bouncing between King and sorcerer respectfully and the two share a hesitant pause before Arthur speaks up.

“Not quite,” he admits and nods to where Miriam stands not too far away, “but Miriam would be the expert. She is often the one to tend to him at night.”

Miriam smiles politely, “he’s a well behaved child, My Lord.”

Frida looks regretful though fondly so as she casts her gaze to her tiny daughter with a sigh, “how fortunate. Ceridwyn has yet to sleep a full candle mark. I swear that as the sun sets, she only grows more wakeful.”

Merlin looks down at Amarius in his arms, the babe content in the white gown Gwen had been adamant he was dressed in. It was tradition, supposedly, though neither Merlin or Arthur would know. It made him appear more cherub-like as it pooled around his features and darkened his hair and highlighted his eyes. He watches Merlin like a hawk, or perhaps an owl given his wide eyes, and when they make contact, Amarius grins. Merlin smiles back, the breath in his lungs trapped in the way it always is whenever he’s on the receiving end of such a look from the baby. The urge to have Amarius close at night is stronger than ever on the heels of their conversation and Merlin thinks maybe they could make it work. Surely more impossible tasks have been achieved.

There’s a ruckus from across the great hall, even more of a ruckus than what the celebration has already produced and it causes even little Amarius to jump in Merlin’s arms. Their attention is brought to the far side of the large space where four young knights have drunken themselves into such a glorious state they’ve found themselves in a pile on the floor, a table and few chairs thrown about around them. Servants gather to help the young men to their feet but only one knight can actually stand- the rest are far too busy giggling like children on the floor.

Percival snorts, shaking his head as he eyes both Leon and Arthur with an air of skepticism. “And here I thought I wanted a boy. Perhaps I won’t be missing out on much.”

Leon frowns, “Aeron won’t behave in such a manner. He will know better.”

“Sure you can make such a promise?” Percival asks teasingly.

“Of course. I never acted that way.”

Arthur’s quick to shoot his knight a questionable glance, one that says a lot more than words ever could and Leon is quick to defend himself. “What? I never did!”

Arthur sits up, “no? Never?”

“I-… well, never in public.”

Arthur stares.

“My Lord,” Leon ponders nervously before his eyes grow wide in realization and he shifts in his chair before glancing back at the young knights still regaining their composure. “Aeron will not.”

They chuckle at his dreaded realization and maybe even a little at the preposterous idea that Leon could be so adamant in the belief his own son will avoid the whimsical ways of youth.

Frida takes pity by the sight of a nervous grin on Leon’s face and places a hand over Percival’s knee as she says, “being young isn’t a curse nor a fate known only to boys. You’ll have your own trials soon enough.”

Percival looks disbelieving but there’s a twinkle in Frida’s pools of blue that reminds Merlin too much of a dare and Percival sobers up rather quickly at that, shifting uncomfortably and he looks at his daughter before back at his wife.

“We’ll see.”

Just then, Branwen appears. This time he’s clutching an arrow between his chubby hands, the business end dangerously close to his face as he eyes the point with the focus of a scholar, as if studying it. He’s once again parent-less, not even Hasina is around, and the adults suck in a sharp breath before Frida is quick to reach out and take the arrow from the little boy who gazes up at her like she had just committed the most deplorable act.

“Goodness, Branwen,” Frida chides, picking the toddler up despite his squirming and settling him in her lap, “how do you even find such things? Where are your parents?”

“I’m here!” Gwaine pants, approaching hurriedly through the crowd and taking a moment to catch his breath, “he got away from me. Again.”

He reaches out for his son, taking him into his arms regardless of the little boy’s wiggly protest, and gives the group of them a nod in farewell, “I think we’re done here. I need this lad in a confined space.. one with no sharp objects perhaps.”

“Agreed,” Leon tells him with a chuckle and Gwaine fakes a harty ha-ha as he turns and leaves. Once he’s gone, Leon turns to Arthur and Percival with raised brows. “That’s the one,” he jokes, pointing after Branwen, “that’s the trouble maker.”

They laugh fondly at the remark but there is no denying the tad bit of truth in Leon’s words. For someone so young Branwen certainly was quite the handful. Merlin looks down to where Amarius rests pliant in his arms, content to be cuddled close, and thinks of what the future between the children might look like, what adventures and mishaps may they get up to. It excites and terrifies him all at once.

Gwaine used to be the last to leave a celebration as grand as one like this. But now, caught in the grip of fatherhood, he has become one of the first. But others follow shortly after. Leon and Elenor retreat at the same time Elyan and Hasina do, the twins still quite fussy in their arms. Percival and Frida are next, bidding both Arthur and Merlin a goodnight before cooing softly at Amarius. Gwen and Lancelot appear, having been hard to spot in the second half of the night. Maeve isn’t with them, she had been put to bed earlier on, and Gwen offers to take Amari if Merlin and Arthur wanted to stay longer. But Merlin had no desire. The celebration had taken on a whole new meaning- one not quite fit for a young prince and he had no intentions in keeping a mere three month old awake through the night for the likes of drunken antics- no matter how many inherbinated guests attempted to persuade him otherwise.

In the nursery, where the ambiance is as quiet and peaceful as a tranquil forest, Amarius seems to have come alive. He gurgles and coos, fighting against Merlin’s arms as he attempts to sit up.

“Seriously?” Merlin lectures in what Arthur had begun to call his ‘fatherly’ tone. “Now you’re ready to party? You were a sweet little lad all night, no matter the chaos, and now that you’re about to be put to bed you want to play?”

Amarius squeals, as if replying to his father’s frustration with glee. Merlin almost believes he is and if Merlin’s irritation is what gets Amarius excited then there’s no question he is the son of Arthur. Merlin could groan in his own self pity.

“I’ll take him,” Gwen tells him sweetly, arms offered up and Merlin hands the boy over gratefully. “I’ll feed him until he sleeps. It always works.”

Merlin smiles, his hand light and warm upon the boy’s head as he bids him a goodnight. He slips out quickly before Gwen can undo her gown. He and Arthur still haven’t gotten quite comfortable being in the same room whenever Gwen or Miriam fed the children. Lancelot still teased them but it just might be something they never truly get over- pardon them.

He leaves the nursery feeling relaxed which is such a twist given the last couple of days. The kingdom, while majorly jovial, still had this odd blanket of doubt casted over it. Merlin hadn’t seen Baldovin or the likes of Uhtric at Amarius’s celebration and he couldn’t decide if that satisfied or terrified him. On the one hand, not having to dodge their narrowed eyes had been a relief. But on the other they’re absence spoke volumes and while it was hardly commented on during the celebration, Merlin knew Arthur didn’t take note lightly.

Despite it all, it had been the first night since Amarius’s arrival that he and Arthur got to spend time in the company of the people they held close and, on top of that, it felt good to flaunt their son in a way. It was like the sweet, cool relief of jumping into a river on a hot day. No more hiding, no more visiting the nursery in secret or having to listen to meritless rumors. It just felt good, Merlin would admit, to be out in the open once more. Once as a sorcerer and now as a father. It was the first time since the beginning of Amarius’s confirmation that Merlin felt alright.

And that’s how he and Arthur end up falling asleep, content in the knowledge that their world had been enlightened once again. They were at ease, they were safe, they were blessed.

They might’ve even felt like a family.

+

And then they weren’t.

And that’s the problem, Merlin would attest, with being happy. Guards are let down, awareness is shot, and trust is taken for granted.

Merlin’s not sure how long they had slept but it had been tipping past midnight and more so into the morning when something snapped inside of him. It felt like when leather broke, like a cinch having been tightened too quickly under a horse’s belly. Fast and loud and enough to cause Merlin to jolt upright in bed as though he had been slapped. Arthur awakens alongside him, still riddled with sleep and bleary eyed but alert as he reaches out to place a warm, comforting hand upon Merlin’s heated, bare chest.

“S’ a dream,” he tells Merlin sleepily, “go back to bed.”

“It’s no dream,” Merlin tells him and his voice is far too anguished for someone who had all but literally been pried from the depths of sleep. Arthur seems to come to a little more, sitting up alongside Merlin and swiping at his jaw as he wills his eyes into working properly in the half dimmed room.

“What do you mean?”

Merlin’s breathing heavy, like he’d been running or fighting, and his eyes, even in the barely there light of the predawn hours, are glowing not from magic, but what appears to be fear.

“I-…” suddenly it seems to click, like at the crack of a whip, and he’s fumbling to his feet in a mess of limbs.

“Merlin!” Arthur croaks, annoyed as he flings his legs out from bed on the other side, “what are you- wait, where are you going?”

Arthur’s quick, his grogginess gone as he darts around the bed and grabs the warlock by the arm in a haste. “What in the gods' names are you doing? You’re half naked!”

“Amarius,” Merlin whispers, breathless and pleadingly and Arthur looks like he still can’t quite understand.

“What?” He prods, shaking Merlin’s arm when he won’t answer Arthur immediately, “Merlin, talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

Just then there’s pounding on the door. Loud and persistent and Merlin jumps, whirling around and staring at the door wide eyed. Arthur’s grabbing a tunic, he thinks it might actually be Merlin’s but he’s beyond caring at this point, before chucking it on and marching towards the door. Before he can get there, he’s interrupted by a frantic voice of a common guard from the other side.

“Sire! Wake up, it’s the Prince!”

Arthur’s step falters and his blood runs cold. He glances back at Merlin, wondering what he could’ve possibly known or seen or dreamt about that led up to this moment but wastes no time questioning as he flings the door open to reveal the guard that had been stationed in their hall. He’s nervous, pale and almost appears to quaking once before the King and Arthur’s ready to push by him and head for the nursery before the guard reveals,

“The Prince is sick. S-someone poisoned him.”

If Arthur’s blood had run cold it now weighed in his veins like ice. Nothing made sense at that moment and a part of Arthur wondered briefly if maybe he had been the one dreaming. For a moment, just a moment, he feels rooted to his spot, lips parted in a silent question but before he can waste anymore time, Merlin’s breaking him from his trance, bumping into him none too gently as he ignores the guard and grabs Arthur by the shirt to encourage him along.

Merlin’s got a shirt on and while they race down to the nursery, Arthur vaguely takes note how they’re both barefoot. And have swapped tunics. That, paired with the fact that they both came out of Arthur’s room at such an early hour in front of a young knight is sure to get the rumor mill up and running.

And Arthur doesn’t care.

The nursery door is wide open and there’s commotion coming from inside. A baby is crying but the cries are not Amarius’s. They’re Maeve’s. She’s in the arms of her mother, who’s pale and teary eyed as she attempts to soothe her upset daughter. When Gwen sees Merlin and Arthur enter, her barely concealed tears turn to weeping as she steps forward to place a hand over Merlin’s chest, “oh, Merlin.”

At Amarius’s cradle are Lancelot and Miriam. Arthur rushes to them and with three people crowded around Merlin can’t see the baby. He grabs Gwen’s hand, eyes big and fearful as he asks, “what happened?”

“Miriam said she came to the room to feed him and there was a man already there, over Amarius’s cradle. She spooked him and he dropped a vial before pushing her out of the way and escaping.”

“Who?” Merlin demands darkly but Gwen merely shakes her head.

“It was too dark to see. Whoever it was knocked out the guard at the far end of the hall. He still hasn’t woken up yet.”

Merlin heads for the cradle where Lancelot is checking Amarius’s pulse and gripping Arthur’s upper arm, in form of comfort or to keep him from doing anything rash, Merlin isn’t sure. Miriam is teary eyed, standing by the side, looking guilty and fearful all at once.

“The guard is fetching Gaius. Amarius is alive but his pulse is slow.” Lancelot tells them seriously. The baby is lying so still it’s frightening. Not even in his sleep is he so unmoving. He’s grown pale, concerningly so, and his little lips appear ashen. It’s the most terrifying thing Merlin and Arthur have ever seen.

“There’s no time, Gaius has everything he needs in his chambers.” Merlin steps up beside Lancelot, reaching down and grabbing his still son in his arms. The baby goes limp and the idea causes Merlin’s eyes to sting. “We have to go to Gaius''.

Lancelot nods and Merlin catches Arthur’s wide eyes quickly before he’s all but running from the room. He’s grateful, momentarily, when he glimpses Arthur grabbing the baby’s linen blanket.

They’ll need all the comfort they can get.

+

Merlin has seen so many patients upon the cot in Gaius’s chambers but never one so little and out of place like Amarius. The baby looks like he’s just sleeping, though too still to be familiar, but Arthur and Merlin know better. He’s on his back, his little eyelids shut indefinitely and his chubby arms resting alongside his head. Gaius put them there to get a better view of the baby’s torso; he wanted to watch Amarius breathing for changes.

The baby had fallen feverish, a thin sheen of sweat coating his usually too soft skin and making it clammy and sticky. His baby hair is slicked up, messy and unruly no matter how many times Arthur tries to smooth it down. Gaius and Merlin work at the table, examining the poison from the left over vial with the eyes of skilled physicians. Arthur stayed by Amarius’s bedside, not daring to leave for even a moment as he ran soothing fingers up and down Amarius’s exposed arm.

“So?” Merlin questions Gaius impatiently as he leans over the table on his knuckles, “what do you think?”

Gaius is examining the bottle, little drops of a deep purple still remain inside the tiny vial. His face is drawn in concentration. He’s done everything but taste the poison for himself and still hadn’t offered up any explanation for what it could be. And the longer they waited the worse it got for Amarius.

Gaius finally puts the bottle done, a raised brow nearing his hairline over the brim of his spectacles as he stares back at Merlin impassively. “His symptoms give away nothing. No rash, no convulsions. Just a fever and sleep. Which makes me hesitate to say nightshade is the poison within the bottle. However, that’s the only one I can think of given the color and smell.”

“Nightshade?” Merlin repeats, his breath caught somewhere in his throat. He can remember Gaius warning him not to eat the little purple berries that occasionally sprung along Camelot’s borders. They were rather sweet looking and had a tendency to look like blueberries though they were anything but. Merlin’s heart skips a beat when he remembers Gaius telling him a handful could kill an adult man. But only 2 or 3 could kill a child.

And Amarius wasn’t even a child. Not yet. He was hardly out of infancy. Three months. He couldn’t talk, walk, or crawl. He babbled, here and there, and had just really started to master a working smile and jubilant giggle. He had yet to try real food, grow teeth, or learn to say dada or papa. He’s never worn shoes or real pants. He’s experienced a miniscule of what life has to offer and Merlin suddenly feels choked and light headed when he realizes his son may never get to. He turns from Gaius, leaning back into the table and watching as Arthur sits by the bedside, chin in his palm as his other hand splays across Amarius’s stomach. The King dips his face into his palm and Merlin feels the dread they share ten fold.

Had they failed? And so soon? Surely the gods wouldn’t give them this child only for him to be taken away so quickly.

Gaius is there, at Merlin’s side, a gentle, old hand on Merlin’s arm as he says, “I have the remedy.”

It's of little console. Merlin’s been in Gaius’s company long enough to know the antidote for Nightshade is a poison in its own right. It must be ministered carefully and adequately. And is usually never given to children.

No, usually when a child has consumed Nightshade, the only thing left to do is pray.

But Merlin’s not praying. Not yet.

He ignores Gaius, walking across the room to where Amarius lies and grabs the extra chair opposite of Arthur. The King lifts his head and in the candlelight ambiance, Merlin can catch the glistening of unshed tears. But now's not the time for comfort. He merely turns away, peering over his son quizzically and with an air of determination he pulls the white linen down the boy’s body. The baby does not stir and Merlin thinks he’d give anything to see Amarius do so. His skin is still pale and clammy but, like Gaius said, there is no rash which is the only shining lining. Merlin places his warm hand over the baby’s chest, feeling and waiting. Amarius’s breathing is slow and meek, his diaphragm barely lifting Merlin’s hand at all. The idea that his son is struggling to simply breathe makes Merlin want to crumble. Instead, he takes a calming breath, closes his eyes, and attempts to call upon his magic to help weed the poison out of Amarius’s little body.

His magic obeys like a servant at the ready, eager and pleased to have been brought to the surface so feverently. Merlin can almost instantly feel the familiar magic that swarms inside of Amarius. It’s not as well behaved as Merlin’s. It’s young, just like the baby, and presents itself rather chaotically which shocks Merlin for a moment. He’s always known Amarius had magic, he felt that connection before he had even seen the child with his own eyes. But it had always been rather tamed and contained, never venturing out and causing a ruckus like Hunith had said Merlin’s did when he was young. And although Amarius’s magic seems to be lashing out, Merlin can also feel how tired it is. Like it had been stirring for some time.

Merlin opens his eyes, a bit breathless as the golden hue fades from his irises and he slowly retracts his hand, looking down at the baby with a sense of awe.

“What?” Arthur asks pointedly, “what’s happening? Did you cure him?”

Merlin shakes his head, “no. Not like I had hoped. It’s… odd though. It’s almost as if his magic is protecting him. Like it’s fighting the poison. That must be why he doesn’t have any of the other symptoms. Or has yet to wake up.”

Gaius hobbles over, his hand large upon the baby’s heated forehead as he analyzes his little body once more. “That’s very likely. Whatever magic he has may be his best shot at overcoming this. That and…” Gaius pauses to look at Merlin, “well, healing magic if-“

“I’m no good,” Merlin tells him sourly, “I just tried. All these years I’m still-… gods, I’m still such rubbish at it. Perhaps you can, Gaius…?”

The old man looks at his ward apologetically, “I’m sorry, my boy. I’m afraid I’m not powerful enough nor proficient enough to cure this.”

Arthur and Merlin both look equally defeated as they turn their eyes upon their son’s near lifeless body. How the little babe could've been so lively and bubbly only a night ago seemed so impossible now. Arthur shakes his head.

“You have to try, Merlin.”

Merlin flicks his eyes to him but says nothing which seems to irritate the King more than anything.

“You’re the greatest sorcerer - warlock - to have ever walked the Earth. If anyone can use healing magic it’s gotta be you.”

“That’s not true,” Merlin tells him and his frustration with himself is translated into a bitter snap that has Arthur looking shocked before his wide eyes narrow into a glare.

“How the hell is that? I’ve seen you-.. I’ve seen the things you’ve done, what you’re capable of. You can call lightning from the sky and summon quakes from the depths of the earth. Dragons bow at your command and-”

“Dragons.” Merlin whispers, a little breathlessly as he turns to Arthur in a haste. The King shakes his head with furrowed brows.

“What about them?”

“Aithusa.”

“What?”

Merlin grips at Arthur’s shoulder. “The white dragon. The one Morgana had with her, remember?”

Arthur’s face twists in doubt and his shoulder forms rigid under Merlin’s grasp, “what about it?”

“Like Kilgharrah, Aithusa is a great dragon. He can heal. He healed Morgana when she was almost dead and his abilities are great, I could feel it. Even when he was so young. Aithusa can save Amarius!”

“Merlin,” Arthur intervenes, knocking his grip off as the King goes to grab both of Merlin’s shoulders, “you can’t be serious. That dragon was on Morgana’s side. It was evil, just like her. And it’s probably dead after the battle. We haven’t seen it since.”

“No,” Merlin admits, “he’s alive. I can feel it. I’ve felt it this whole time, if I-”

“You mean you’ve known an evil dragon was alive this whole time and you never did anything about it?”

“He’s not evil!” Merlin protests feverhently, as if Arthur were calling Merlin himself the evil one. “He was young then. And afraid. All he thought he had was Morgana. It’s not his fault he was used as a pawn in her twisted ideals. I felt it in him before the battle, he didn’t want to hurt me. There’s good in him.”

Arthur doesn’t look anymore convinced as he studies Merlin intently, “he attacked us. All of us.”

“I summoned him into this world,” Merlin admits, “he’ll listen to him. Just like Kilgharrah. And he can help, I know he can.”

Arthur’s silent for a moment, his hands slipping from Merlin’s shoulders as his eyes find their little son still lying still as stone upon his cot. Gaius is over the boy, his hand a gentle weight on Amariu’s head as he stares back at Arthur and Merlin with a hint of uncertainty. Arthur figures Gaius might not be any more on board with Merlin’s plan than he is. But if Merlin thinks that Morgana’s dragon can help Arthur thinks it’s their only option.

“Where will you even find the dragon?” Arthur asks, his eyes never leaving the ailing babe.

“He’ll come to me. I will call for him.”

“How do you know he’ll actually come?” Arthur asks skeptically, “last time we saw it, it was raining fire down upon us like nothing. What makes you think it’ll wanna come to you?”

Merlin straightens up, jaw set in a hard line as he says, “I’m the Dragonlord.”

Arthur narrows his eyes once more before Merlin explains, “he’ll have no choice.”

+

Merlin’s confidence in facing Aithusa is shot the moment he leaves Camelot.

He hasn't seen the white dragon in two years. Hasn’t spoken to him, called for him, or hardly thought of him. That didn’t mean Merlin didn’t feel for him. He felt Aithusa’s energy and magic in the air like a gentle hum of vibration that came and went in strength. But never truly disappeared. He also felt that same energy grow larger, healthier. Like that of Kilgharrah, though it lacked the very obvious familiarity of the Great Dragon’s. Aithusa’s magic was far more foreign and yet in the same vein. Merlin took relief in knowing that, no matter where Aithusa was, he seemed to be doing well. The dragon may have sided with Morgana in the end but Merlin was sure in the notion that Aithusa was not at fault. He simply was taken advantage of and the trauma he and Morgana experienced together no doubt strengthened a makeshift bond between the two that Merlin knew could be shaped into something a little less intense with time.

Or, at least, he hoped.

Merlin marched alone on his gray mare in the dead of night. He felt that in the white light of a full moon it would be better to meet up with Aithusa instead in the middle of the day. Dragon’s were rather recluse- or Kilgharrah had been so. And Aithusa, in the few times prior that he and Merlin had met, had seemed rather shy and reserved. Coverage in the night seemed to provide a better setting of an unlikely confrontation.

Coming alone had been harder to decide. Arthur was adamant on tagging along- he didn’t quite trust the dragon he still claimed was evil. But Merlin was able to convince him to stay at Amarius’s side where he was undoubtedly needed most. And Merlin wasn’t sure if Aithusa would be as comfortable to meet up with the both of them.

In fact, he wasn’t sure what the dragon would be comfortable with. Or what he was even like now. Or if anything had changed at all. Was he still the crippled, meek creature who bowed pitfully at Merlin’s roar? Or had he grown more into himself? Was he revengeful? Bitter? Or was he still just as young as Merlin thought him to be?

The more and more the warlock thought of how their meetup could go the more anxious he became. He had hoped that above all else, the mute dragon would at least be able to understand him. And vice versa.

Merlin pulls his mare up on the outskirts of a darkened meadow. The moonlight illuminates it in a silvery glow and the flowers and scattered rocks catch it the best. There’s a gentle night time breeze blowing through, just strong enough to rustle the trees and cause Merlin’s bangs to tickle his forehead. He dismounts his horse and ties her to a small branch before ascending into the middle of the meadow where the moon shines the brightest. He thinks briefly how desperately he wishes he could be calling upon Kilgharrah for the bond he felt with the Great Dragon was so much stronger than what little he felt with Aithusa.

But he hadn’t felt Kilgharrah in this world for quite some time and can remember the day the earth shook and the sky opened when the dragon’s magic disappeared for good. All things magical had seemed to mourn. Even Aithusa.

Once in the middle, Merlin takes a deep breath, his nerves tucked away and in its place the confidence that accompanies his call that rumbles from his chest and pours from his lips in a voice he himself didn’t quite recognize. And yet knew all too well.

It’s enough to disrupt a few sleeping birds from nearby trees, his roar-like demand that seemed so out of place in such a peaceful spot. The quiet that follows is almost deafening and he waits with unsteady breaths as he glances around the clearing for a sign his call is being heeded to. For a long moment, there appears to be none.

And then, suddenly, there is. It’s sharp like a pin prick from inside. Merlin jolts and turns quickly to look up before a gust of overpowering wind attempts to flatten him to the ground. He covers his face with his arms and peeks through to see a blackened, long shape gliding through the night sky before overshadowing the moon itself. And then the black turns a pale white, glowing much like the flowers and rocks had been, before the gust of air is back and swooshes once more at Merlin’s face. He covers himself completely this time. The flapping of Aithusa’s wings is loud and tremendous and Merlin can hear his horse frantic at the treeline. He waits until the dust and wind settles before lowering his arms carefully, glancing up at a sight that befuddles and astonishes him.

He had imagined Aithusa the same way he had last seen the weak dragon. Deformed and crippled and small, much more like a wyvern rather than a dragon. And yet the creature before him was anything but.

Aithusa was large, perhaps as large as Kilgharrah had been, yet remained sleek and slim in comparison. He was a blinding white, not the sickly pale he had been two years ago, and his wings were spiked and healthy as they fluttered to his side gingerly. His eyes were catlike and a piercing blue that seemed as cold as a winter morn. His neck was long and curled and his face angular as spikes and horns protruded from them sharply. He looked utterly breathtaking and terrifying as his long, spiked tail curled around him like a cat as he looked down at Merlin with an unreadable gaze that made Merlin feel as small and meek as he had thought Aithusa would’ve been.

Merlin lets out a watery laugh, slapping a hand over his mouth and studies the healthy dragon with eleated eyes. “Aithusa?”

The dragon rumbles, almost like a purr from deep within his chest that travels up his throat and Merlin watches the skin around Aithusa’s neck vibrate with the vocals. Merlin chuckles, “look at you!” he praises, “you look-.. Aithusa, you look amazing. Did you do this? Heal yourself?”

Aithusa’s head lolls to one side but he doesn’t seem to share in Merlin’s enthusiasm. Instead he merely blinks and Merlin’s heart drops at the realization. “Are you still not talking?”

The dragon does not respond and Merlin feels saddened for the beast. So powerful, so majestic, and yet trapped in a world of silence. What Merlin wouldn’t give for some of Kilgharrah’s ridiculous riddled advice right now.

“Aithusa…” Merlin begins softly, taking a step forward, “you look so well. I wish-... I wish I could-...”

The warlock stops, suddenly overcome with a sadness he can’t quite explain. He remembers the pain in Aithusa’s eyes all that time ago and no matter how much the dragon has changed… he realizes the pain in his eyes has not. The creature of his own kin, left alone in his time of need and then once more in his time of healing.

He turns on the beast, overcome with a guilt he hadn’t the time to acknowledge until now. And maybe that’s why he hadn’t called on Aithusa sooner. He had been afraid to confront the dragon for everything that had gone so horribly wrong in their time apart. He’d been afraid to admit that the reason Aithusa had turned to Morgana wasn’t the dragon’s fault. Or even Morgana’s. It was his.

Tears sprang to his eyes unwelcomed but Merlin does not have the energy to wipe them away. Instead he covers his face in shame and hopes Aithusa would only be generous enough to give him the moment he needed to regain himself.

Instead he hears, “wish you could what?”

Merlin’s tears stop almost as instantly as they began and he feels frozen to his spot. The voice. So gentle and yet powerful enough to have been felt within his bones. It’s loud, like Kilgharrah’s had been, yet soft like a summer breeze. It wrapped around him in a chilling embrace and sent a shiver down his spine. And yet none of that stood out to Merlin. What made the warlock turn back to the dragon in awe was the fact that the voice, so grand, so smooth, so steady, was feminine.

“You’re a girl?!”

Aithusa raises his head. Her head. High enough to block the moon from behind and cast Merlin into the darkness of her shadow where he’s instantly chilled. She appears to be looming over him like this and Merlin, even with all his power and magic, feels miniscule in her presence. And very, very much like a fool.

The dragon merely chuckles. A womanly tone that sounds alluring as much as it does demeaning and Merlin can feel his cheeks pink a bit.

“If that’s what you want to call it. Then so be it.”

Despite the obvious twist of events, Merlin can’t help but smile a bit giddily. Aithusa’s talking. And her voice sounds so wonderful and beautiful and every word is spoken with such certainty Merlin could’ve been fooled into thinking Aithusa had been talking since the day he called her from her egg. He can’t help but laugh as well.

“I-... I don’t understand. Kilgharrah.. He referred to you as he and… well I just thought…”

Aithusa shifts on her feet, her tail rising and falling as she regards him cooly, “only humans fuss over such things. I am who I am. Nothing more.”

Merlin cocks his head, before nodding slowly. Whether in understanding or appeasement, even he isn’t sure. But he drops the subject anyways.

“It’s good to hear your voice Aithusa,” he admits softly and with a sense of pride, “and to see you looking so well.”

“I wish I could say the same,” the dragon tells him with a hint of regret, “my lord.”

Merlin bristles. Kilgharrah had never referred to him as my lord, even after he had taken over the title of Dragonlord. To hear it now felt out of place and wrong.

He’s quiet for a moment as he mulls over Aithusa’s words. His guilt had subsided in the sheer excitement over the dragon talking but hearing her speak words that rang painfully true has the guilt trickling back in like rain on an old straw roof.

Merlin looks the dragon up and down carefully, “we have much to discuss.”

“Perhaps,” she purrs once more, yet her tone reveals nothing. If she’s angry, she doesn’t show it and she gives nothing away in her composure. She’s as still and attentive as a nameless knight.

Merlin knows there’s so much that needs to be hashed out. Apologies, explanations, pleas for forgiveness even. But there’s no time. Not right now. And even though it pains Merlin to call upon the dragon for a favor in a time he knows he is not owed one, he does so anyway.

“I need your help, Aithusa,” Merlin begins, voice shielded in a baritone he hopes does not allow for his fragile courage to slip. He knows, if need be, he could simply order Aithusa to help him but he desperately hopes he doesn’t have to.

“I know,” the dragon tells him and lowers her head enough that they are almost at direct eye contact. Like this, Merlin can see the white and blue swirls in her eyes like the crystal lakes that flow from the mountains back in Ealdor. “You seek healing for the young Prince.”

Merlin’s breath hitches in his throat. “How do you know?”

Aithusa blinks slowly, “when the Great Dragon perished, he passed on all his knowledge to me. I know most all things.”

Merlin shifts uneasily. Of course. Aithusa continues.

“For instance, I knew of the young Prince before you were called to the caves. I know his destiny and how it’ll entwine with yours. I know how the great King Arthur will fall and I know how Albion will rise.”

Merlin can hear his very own heartbeat in his ears. The naive side of him wants to beg Aithusa to tell him how Arthur will ultimately die. And, more importantly, when. But he knows dragons all too well at this point and if there’s one thing they’re good at it’s keeping secrets.

Perhaps that’s part of the bond he and they shared.

“I know what you will ask of me,” Aithusa tells him gently before lowering herself nearly to the ground, her nose almost touching his chest as she says, “and I know what you will keep to yourself. Deep in your heart.”

Merlin takes half a step backwards, Aithusa’s warm breath from her nostrils almost like a warning as it tickles his skin in a tolerable burn. He thinks he can almost hear the rumble of fire deep within her throat when she chuckles yet again. “And I know the young Prince is gravely ill. His condition is worsening and you are greatly afraid, as you should be. The Prince has remarkable magic at his disposal. But he is too young to utilize it. He will surely die.”

Merlin shakes, his voice trembling when he asks, “but you’ll save him… won’t you? He’s-... he’s the next Dragonlord, you’re kin as well as mine, you’ll help him.”

Aithusa raises her head, a feral grumble following as she slices her tail through the air and peers down at Merlin like the ant he feels he is. “Do I really have a choice, my lord?”

Merlin swallows hard, like his own saliva had turned to rock in his mouth. He didn’t want to have to order Aithusa to do anything against her will. She had already suffered so much and he had failed her time and time again. However, nothing compared to the loss of Amarius if the dragon chose not to help.

“No,” the warlock admits shamefully, “you do not.” There’s a tentative pause before Merlin tacks on, “he’s my son.”

A moment of deafening silence passes between them. It crackles with tension so thick Merlin can feel it on his skin and in his bones. He recalls the time when he had been young enough to still be considered a boy and how it felt to be standing before Kilgharrah below the castle- small, naive, and unsure. But eventually there had been a shift in their positions. Merlin grew as well as his magic and his understanding of the world and just what role his existence played in it. He would never claim to be above the Great Dragon but they definitely had found some sort of even ground. Even after he became the Dragonlord, and his power over Kilgharrah was great, he saw them as equal.

But now, standing before Aithusa who he no longer recognized, he felt brought back to all those years ago- the same feelings of being small, naive, and so very unsure. And he really shouldn’t, he knows this, for he had grown even more so after Kilgharrah's passing. And yet it all meant nothing now under Aithusa’s piercing gaze. With one word Merlin could demand the world from Aithusa and yet she had all the power.

When Merlin fears Aithusa will not answer him, she speaks again, “I will help the Prince. For it is not his time to die. His purpose is far greater than this and there is much he has yet to accomplish.”

Merlin feels as though the dragon had brought life back into his own lungs. The sweet relief is almost so overwhelming that he can feel it bubble up in his chest. He falls to his knees in a heap, breaths slipping past his lips as he says, “thank you, Aithusa.”

“I’m not done,” the dragon almost snaps and Merlin tilts his head up to look at her. She almost sounded like Kilgharrah with that tone in the days Merlin had the uncanny ability to tick the old dragon off with a single word alone.

“I will help the Prince,” Aithusa repeats, “but heed my warning, my lord, you and the King will face many trials as fathers. Your troubles will be great and there will be times your will will be tested. And I won’t be able to intervene.”

The warning sounds more like a threat and it has Merlin straightening up on his knees. Again, he wants to know what it is that the dragon knows. All these trials, all these troubles, he’s desperate to know everything- if not for himself, for Arthur and Amarius. The not knowing makes him feel helpless in a way that seers his skin.

Aithusa’s face seems to soften as she watches him below her and for the first time, she seems to take pity on him. “But fear not,” she assures in a gentle voice, “the good will outweigh the bad… in the end.”

It’s a small comfort but a comfort nonetheless and Merlin can merely nod in response. His mouth feels dry and rough and at this point he’s just eager to get back to Amarius so Aithusa can work her magic upon him.

He stands abruptly, straightening his shoulders and tilting his chin with a small nod, “we should hurry.”

+

Aithusa agreed to meet Merlin back in Camelot before the moon took center stage in the night sky. She never strayed too far, Merlin noticed, as he galloped his horse in the darkness of her shadow from above, something he realized he actually found great comfort in.

Once within the wall of the Kingdom, Aithusa’s shadow disappeared and Merlin watched helplessly from the saddle of his horse until he pulled the mare up frantically behind the castle and dismounted. He hurried into the castle and to Gaius’s.

Gaius’s chambers are a bit more crowded than Merlin had anticipated when he enters the room hurriedly. Arthur is still by the child’s bedside looking contemplative down at the babe with a thumb nail between his lips, clearly wrought with worry. Gwen is nearby, looking distraught as she rests her hands on Arthur’s shoulders in sympathy. Lancelot is with Gaius, along with Gwaine and a tearful Miriam as she tells Gaius details of the night before. Any other time, Merlin would be eager to hear what she has to say as well but right now he’s got one thing on his mind.

At his presence, all eyes turn to him and Arthur is quick to rise. He comes to Merlin with his arms open, almost as if he’s ready to embrace Merlin, but the warlock meets him halfway only to dodge his questions and look of concern as he goes to the bed and gathers up Amarius’s small and limp body. The baby weighs less than before though Merlin’s unsure if it’s from the poison or just his mind playing cruel tricks on him. He wraps his son up quickly in the baby’s linen blanket and, ignoring calls for him, flees back out the door. It’s only when a harsh grip to his shoulder stops him halfway out the threshold does he turn and take in Arthur’s haughty look.

“Where are you going?!” Arthur demands breathlessly and Merlin knows he’s feeling overwhelmed by being left in the dark. He is not sure where Merlin went exactly, what he plans to do, or if it’s enough to save their son. For a moment, Merlin’s face softens as his grip on the baby tightens.

‘Come,” he says simply and turns away.

Arthur falters, only for a second, glancing back at the rest briefly before hurrying out the door. The King is reminded once more, if only briefly, how little he actually knows Merlin. All these years and all these secrets revealed and yet once more Arthur feels like a lost soul in the dark.

And still, Arthur thinks, he’d follow Merlin right about anywhere.

Arthur follows Merlin until they’re outside the castle, nothing but the pale moonlight gleaming upon them and the chilly night air surrounding them in a light breeze. Arthur shudders, worried for Amarius beyond the sickness as he goes to remind Merlin to make sure the blanket is secured around the little boy.

“Merlin,” Arthur insists, footfalls never seeming to be enough to match the warlock’s, “Merlin, it’s too cold out here for him, where are we-”

There’s a swooshing sound. Loud and followed by a breeze far greater than before and Arthur stutters in his tracks, hands absentmindedly going to his side for his nonexistent sword when he looks up at the pale white, almost glowing beast before them. The dragon lands gracefully, its large, impending wings almost too grand to comprehend as it lifts its long neck and peers down at the three of them with catlike eyes. Arthur grips at Merlin’s elbow, tugging him back just a bit as he stares back at the beast wearily. He had expected Merlin to learn a cure from the dragon or perhaps receive a potion. Not bring the beast back to Camelot in the night.

“Merlin,” Arthur hisses, his grip almost bruising, “what have you done?”

Merlin turns to him and his blue eyes are sharp in the moonlight as he regards Arthur sternly, “she can help us. She’s the only one who can.”

“And you trust it?” Arthur questions. The dragon rumbles something from its chest. Not quite a growl but not necessarily words either and Arthur watches in astonishment as black smoke rolls from its nostrils. He can’t help but swallow a lump in his throat.

“Aithusa,” Merlin tells Arthur in a steady tone, “her name is Aithusa.” He looks up at the dragon in a way one might look to a deity; inspired and calmed and marveling. “And I trust her.”

He turns back to Arthur, for the first time appearing relieved rather than distraught over their son’s condition as he reaches under the baby to place a warm hand over Arthur’s. “Trust me.”

Arthur flutters his eyes, his grip loosening the slightest as he looks down at the still near lifeless baby in Merlin’s arms. Amarius appears none the better as he lies still as stone in his father’s arms, the only movement being the gentle wind through his dark head of hair. Arthur’s eyes water again on their own accord and he can’t help a shaky nod.

He lets Merlin walk closer to the dragon, the two sharing a moment of quiet understanding. It’s intense in a way Arthur clearly can’t understand, like words were being exchanged without actually being said and Arthur feels almost like he’s intruding. He watches with rapt interest as Merlin carefully lifts the baby away from his chest and up just enough for the dragon to lower her head and regard the child carefully. From Arthur’s standpoint, it almost looks like Merlin’s offering their child as a sacrifice and Arthur has to fight the urge not to jump in between and fight the beast back regardless of the fact he is weaponless. But he trusts Merlin. He does. Maybe he doesn’t know everything he should and he knows he certainly doesn’t understand half of what he does know but he was beginning to realize he didn’t need to. Not anymore. His trust in Merlin has become almost as blind as a wildren. And he finds the idea isn’t as daunting as perhaps it should be.

The dragon only takes a moment before her white lips pursue together and a grayish, white plume of smoke billows from her mouth and upon their son in a cloud. It glistens and sparkles, like crystals from the caves, before dissipating almost as quickly as it had formed. Arthur finds himself mesmerized and choking on unhinged hope as he takes careful steps forward when Merlin brings the baby back into his chest. Something stops Arthur, a wall of doubt, as he glances at the composed dragon who watches him with soft eyes. He almost asks if it worked, if the dragon, Aithusa, had actually saved their child when suddenly a wail pierces the air. It’s sharp and bubbly and so familiar that Arthur feels the weight of the world fall from his shoulders as he crowds around Merlin and the two of them gaze down into his arms where Amarius lies awake, distrubed, and crying fitful tears of distress. Color has almost instantly reignited back in his cheeks, a dusty pink replacing the pale hue as he squirms restlessly. Merlin looks to Arthur in sheer bliss, his face disbelieving and mirroring Arthur’s own as the two share gasps of breathless laughter and rejoice in their son’s revival..

Arthur can’t help in his joy to wrap his arm around Merlin’s back, his hand grasping the man’s shoulder as he takes his other hand to swipe a thumb at the stray tears on Amarius’s face. The baby gasps a gurgling sob, pausing for a moment to blink up at his father’s owlishly as Arthur gently continues to wipe his cheeks. Merlin grins through his own tears, holding the baby close as he whispers, “you’re alright now, Amarius. You’re safe, lad.”

Amarius sniffles, arms flailing and managing to catch hold of Arthur’s thumb. It brings comfort to the calming boy readily.

The dragon shuffles, her feet dragging across the ground as she steps back to lower her head in submission. For a moment, Merlin’s perplexed at the idea that she’d bow to him after everything but the thought is short lived when he suddenly feels that it’s not actually meant for him. Or even Arthur for that matter.

“Thank you,” Merlin tells her sincerely, “thank you. For everything.”

Aithusa raises her head enough for her piercing eyes to lock with Merlin’s, her voice a deep yet gentle purr when she admits, “I do it for him.”

Merlin looks down at his son, the baby having sense relaxed in his arms and taken comfort with Arthur’s warm hand on his cheek.

“His destiny is far greater than our past.”

It’s a promise if Merlin’s ever heard one and where he and Aithusa have lacked a sense of connection since the fall of Morgana he can suddenly feel pulsating between the beast and his son. It’s terrifying as much as it is mesmerizing and Merlin’s grip on his son tightens just that much more.

“I understand.”

Aithusa dips her head once again, finally turning her attention to Arthur with his own nod from the beast before her wings flap in a whooshing motion as she takes to the air swiftly, her gleaming body disappearing into the dark night sky until she’s indistinguishable among the twinkling stars large pale moon.

“Incredible,” Arthur lets slip within an exhale and Merlin turns his head to watch the King watch the beast like a child might watch their first shooting star. Merlin smirks and his amusement doesn’t go unnoticed by Arthur who quickly covers for himself with a cough into his hand.

“So… she did it… she saved him?” Arthur’s face is incredibly hopeful as he runs his fingers over the baby’s soft hair, as if he can’t be truly relieved and elated until he knows for sure Amarius is going to be alright. Merlin smiles, eye dropping to his little, healthy son once more as he runs a slender finger over delicate cheeks.

“Yes. She did it.”

+

It was a rejoiceful reunion upon the return to Gaius’s chambers. Amarius being awake, lively, and full of color once more brought a wave of relief and joy that left no occupant in the room untouched. The baby only squirmed when Gwen and Miriam had peppered his face with kisses, looking to his fathers almost as if he was searching for their help.

But the joy did not last. Gwaine, along with Lancelot, regretted to remind everyone the culprit behind the poisoning was still unidentified and even worse, not in custody. The guard that had been knocked out by the unknown man in the night suffered a concussion that muddled with his memory but what little he did remember was of no help. The man behind the poisoning was dressed in dark clothing, too dark to be recognized. Miriam spoke of the same, claiming she too was unable to get a good glimpse of what he had looked like for her to make any accusations.

That didn’t stop Arthur from ordering the arrest of anyone in the castle who had been wandering the corridors in the early morning hours of that day. They were mostly early morning servants and a few off duty guards who were stumbling about after drinking too much the night before. Their arrest was never in full, they were merely questioned until deemed innocent and as much as it pleased Arthur to know some of his men were off the hook it irritated him just as much without a lead.

Word spread fast of the Prince’s poisoning and the kingdom was struck in fearful murmurs for the little baby’s wellbeing. People wanted to help and eye witness accounts of a dark figure running through the courtyard and out through the lower village were reported but no matter how many times Arthur issued vigorous searches throughout the town, nothing ever came up. It was almost as if whoever had committed this crime had seemingly vanished into the night. No trail left to follow.

Having no one to blame felt as terrifying as it did aggravating. Arthur and Merlin wanted nothing more than to rid the kingdom of any harm that may fall upon their son and their anxiousness from not being able to do so fueled their fatherly instincts on the edge of a ridiculous overprotectiveness. It was decided before the night after Amarius’s healing that their plan to wait for the baby to be weaned from Miriam before moving him to Arthur’s chambers would be squashed. Amarius was moved from he and Maeve’s shared nursery within the hour and Arthur’s chambers had never looked so different and yet so right. A cradle sits close to the bed, baby quilts and clothes scattered across the room alongside a few stitched horses that had been gifted to Amarius from various townsfolk. Miriam is still feeding the babe and it doesn’t take long before Arthur offers up the antechambers that connect to his own room for the young maid to occupy at night to make feedings easier on them all. It’s not for long since Amarius will be switching to goats milk in a perforated horn within the next few months but the new arrangements do make things a little less private in the King’s chambers.

Arthur and Merlin are not the only parents to have taken extra precautions after the poisoning. Even though it appears the young Prince was specifically targeted, no one is taking chances. Lancelot and Gwen move Maeve in with them as well, leaving the once bustling nursery a vacant space void of furniture and bedding altogether. Those that live in the castle, like Leon and Lady Elenor, Percival and Frida, Gwaine and other knights and ladies who are raising their children keep their babies that much closer. Little Aeron isn’t seen stumbling the halls at his father’s heels as much and Gwaine doesn’t bring Branwen inside the castle walls for some time after. Elyan and Hasina, who live in Gwen’s and Elyan’s childhood home in the upper part of the village, opt out of the extra help in raising their twins. Wet nurses and maids who often drop by to give Hasina a hand are now not requested.

Perhaps it’s all a bit too much and the parents of Camelot are taking their weariness a bit too far. But the idea that someone could be bold enough to try and poison the Prince, within the castle walls, and was never apprehended leaves what they once considered a safe and secure home cracked and uncertain.

It crosses both Merlin and Arthur’s mind multiple times that the culprits behind their son’s near demise was linked to Lord Baldovin. Whether it was at the hands of the old man himself or an accomplice, they weren’t sure. But an accomplice seemed far more reasonable given the assailant’s quick escape. However, there is no proof. There’s no good witnesses to provide a physical description of the man responsible and nothing was left behind in the nursery other than the vial that indicated Baldovin or anyone who supported him.

They question him anyways and he’s as stoic and emotionless as ever. He offers little in terms of condolences to the King on the sickness of his son and let’s not even a shadow of doubt creep upon his waxy features. He’s as unreadable as stone.

In the few days following, they’re left with nothing in terms of finding the truth. It’s nearing the middle of the night as Merlin lays in Arthur’s bed, the King on the other side and Amarius fast asleep somewhere between them. It’s risky like this, Merlin feared allowing Amarius to sleep with them would be more cause of concern given the baby was still so little and defenseless- Merlin didn’t want either him or Arthur to accidentally suffocate him in the night. So the baby was sort of propped up between them and Merlin had used his magic to create a barrier-like force that would protect the baby from any nighttime shuffling. It didn’t prevent Merlin from holding the little baby’s hand- or, rather, the baby holding his hand. Amarius’s little fingers were wrapped loosely around Merlin’s, preventing the warlock from rolling over in fear of waking the baby up. He didn’t mind anyways. It was physical proof his son was close. He was safe.

He hears the blankets ruffle from Arthur’s side and Merlin knows he’s been lying there awake for as long as he has. He doesn’t think Arthur’s managed to get any sleep since they’ve first gone to bed. They had both just laid there, on their backs, in almost total silence, the only sound being the gentle breaths of Amarius and the occasional breeze against the window. Merlin turns his head against the pillow, peering over Amarius’s small body to where Arthur is already staring at him. In the moonlight his eyes appear much more blue and seem to glisten in a way that, before all of this, Merlin would’ve said was far too tender for a man such as Arthur. But so much has changed in the three months and the soft, fond looks Arthur gives him now have become so achingly familiar.

“You should be sleeping,” the King whispers. Merlin almost snorts at the irony.

“I could say the same thing to you, your highness.”

Arthur rolls his eyes before fluttering back at the canopy overhead. His hands have folded over his bare chest as he flexes his jaw in thought. Merlin wants to reach over and stroke it until he relaxes but again, he doesn’t want to risk waking Amarius.

“What’s keeping you up?” He asks instead, his thumb caressing Amari’s tiny fingers.

Arthur sighs through his nose, “a bunch of things…”

“The assailant?”

Arthur nods, “that. Baldovin. You.”

“Me?” Merlin asks incredulously, “how am I keeping you up?”

For a moment, Arthur almost seems like he’s not going to answer, like he’d rather change the subject all together before he looks back over at Merlin again and says, “I feel like there’s so much you’re still not telling me. About… what you’ve done. And who you are. You’ve told me about the prophecy and your magic, of course, and I thought-... I thought I knew you. Again. But then, with the dragon, and…”

Merlin shifts a little to see Arthur better, “what about the dragon?”

“I guess I just… didn’t realize you trusted her. Enough to save our child. I thought she was… like Morgana.”

Merlin feels the guilt again but this time it's for more than just Aithusa. He’s let her down and, he realizes, he’s still letting Arthur down. The idea is enough to crush him because what if he lets Amarius down too?

“I’m sorry,” he admits truthfully and doesn’t regret it even when Arthur furrows his brow, “there’s a lot I probably should have told you. It wasn’t fair for me to leave you in the dark when it came to Aithusa.”

“It wasn’t about Aithusa,” Arthur tells him, “it was about Amarius and saving him. I don’t regret you running off for the dragon. I just hoped you would explain to me afterwards. I want to know everything, Merlin. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything on your own. Not anymore. Especially when it comes to our son.”

Briefly Merlin wonders if the Arthur three months ago could really be the Arthur lying here in bed with him. The one who had been close to giving up both Merlin and Amarius for the sake of his pride. This Arthur now could almost be considered unrecognizable if Merlin didn’t know him so well. Instead, this was the Arthur Merlin thinks he’s always known.

Arthur turns over onto his side, his face taking on a bit more of a serious look as he regards Merlin in the eyes, “I’ve also been thinking about what you said the other day. About me marrying a queen to please the court.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says again and takes his free hand to rub at his face almost in a bashful way, “I shouldn’t have said that. I was just angry.”

“You had every right to be angry.” Arthur assures him, “but I want you to know the only person I ever plan to marry is you.”

Merlin stiffens, his hand still covering his face as he tries to register just what exactly Arthur is saying. He lowers his hand to look at the King in disbelief. “Don’t be foolish.”

“Don’t be daft,” Arthur counters back but there’s not an ounce of humor, “it’s not like what we have between us will stay a secret for long anyways. But even if that wasn’t the case, I wouldn’t care. I’m not taking a wife and I don’t want a queen. I want you.”

Arthur falters slightly, as if his own words had slipped from his mouth without proper filtration and in the faint light Merlin can see the hue of a blush grace his cheeks. “That is… if you’d have me. You don’t have to marry me if you don’t want to.”

For the King of such a great nation Merlin thinks that was perhaps the most adorable confession he’s ever heard. He can’t help to actually chortle a bit at that, covering his mouth to keep quiet and Arthur glares from across their son.

“Pardon me, Merlin.”

“I’m sorry,” the warlock confesses for a third time that night though this time it’s not nearly as sincere, “I’m not laughing at you, I swear.”

Arthur doesn’t look convinced and it takes every ounce of Merlin’s willpower to not break the barrier around Amarius to lean over and kiss his pout away.

“A simple no would have sufficed,” Arthur grouses grumpily.

“Dollophead,” Merlin insults playfully with a smirk, “I could never say no to such a well planned and eloquent proposal like that.”

Arthur stares for a moment before smirking back, “you’re making fun of me. Even now, you have it in you to be an ass.”

Merlin feigns shock as he gestures to Amarius with his eyes and scolds, “there’s a child present, Arthur, please.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll hear a load of unpleasant vocabulary being around the likes of you. I put my foot down the day he calls someone a cabbage head.”

Merlin chuckles and he realizes it’s the first time since the incident he’s really felt at ease. In fact, it was the first time since Amarius's existence had been announced to the public. Like this, Merlin feels joyful. Hopeful. Like he and Arthur could do this. Raise a royal magic baby that had been gifted to them and they could do so as lovers. Even more than lovers.

As husbands.

For the first time, Merlin thinks he doesn’t care about the court, or what the people of Camelot would say, or even Baldovin. All he cared about were the two laid beside him and the life they’d create for each other. And, ultimately, for Albion.

“I’d marry you,” Merlin tells Arthur a little breathlessly and the King catches his eye quickly.

“Would you?”

A few days ago Merlin would have begrudgingly said no. Even if he would’ve so desperately wanted to say yes. But here, now, in this moment he can only nod vigorously against the pillow, a stupid grin upon his lips as he taunts, “who else would have me?”

Arthur scoffs and laughs, “true. You’re such a delinquent.”

“Don’t be a prat.”

“Oh, but I can’t call you an ass in front of the child? You’re a one sided sword, my darling.”

“Darling?” Merlin perks up, eyebrows raised and face splitting into an almost unconcealed grin and Arthur quickly realizes his mistake as he looks away and curls his lips into his mouth.

“You are a sap,” Merlin says matter of factly, “I knew it. When you’re besotted, you’re a sap.”

Arthur opens his mouth, perhaps to fight back but then his face softens incredibly and the smile he sends Merlin is enough to melt glaciers, Merlin swears. He reaches over to grab the hand Merlin has held with Amarius’s and brings both of them to his lips. He kisses both of their fingers tenderly, the warmth startling Merlin as it flares from his hand all the way to his ears. He feels almost too hot and he knows it's because he’s blushing like a lovestruck maiden. But he doesn’t care.

“You caught me,” Arthur murmurs against his fingers and loves the way Arthur doesn’t sound the least bit regretful.

“Can I tell you something?” Merlin asks as he burns in his blush and allows Arthur to engulf his hand upon their son. Arthur simply looks at him.

“Anything.”

“It’s a confession. Something I haven’t told you before. Another secret.”

Arthur tries not to falter or appear hopeful as he nods.

“I think-... no, I know… I’ve always loved you. I didn’t realize it at first and I tried to tell myself, in the beginning, I was only doing what I was doing because a big, cryptic lizard told me to. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that wasn’t the truth. I did it because I love you.”

Arthur squints at him a bit, as if trying to decipher if he actually believed the warlock and Merlin thinks that'd be a prattish thing for him to choose not to believe. But then he’s grinning again, fond and loving and so very much sincere as he says, “I think I knew that one, actually.”

Merlin raises his brows slightly.

“And it didn’t take long, by the way.”

“What didn’t?”

“For me to realize I love you too.”

Merlin runs his thumb along the soft part of Arthur’s palm, Amarius’s little hand lost in between theirs somewhere and the idea of it all has Merlin’s chest feeling like it could burst. Not much else is said between him and Arthur but he doesn’t think much more has to be. They stay like that for a long while, holding each other’s hand and getting lost in each other’s eyes before their lids begin to grow heavy. Arthur falls asleep first, looking so soft and content and Merlin feels he’s not far behind him before a thought pops into his head. He’s quick to quietly and gently untangle his hand from Arthur’s, sitting up and throwing his legs over the bed before making his way towards Arthur’s desk. He pulls out the chair silently and takes a seat with a single glance thrown to his little family.

If he had learned anything over these past few days it’s that life is precious. And never a given. No matter how well you worked a sword or how powerful your magic, every breath is as fragile as a newborn’s. Merlin swore he’d spend the rest of his life, and theirs, to not take a single one here on out for granted. He’d live, not for the prophecy or destiny or because a dragon told him to, but because of Arthur and Amarius. And he’d love without limits. No restrictions, no conditions, and no regrets.

So he grabbed the nearby blank parchment and one of the quills, dipping the tip into the dark ink as he lit the single candle with his magic wordlessly so as to not disturb the others.

And he began to write to his mother.