Archive of Our Own ^beta

At first, Uther brushes it off as simply a coincidence. 

He’s overseeing a tournament to commemorate a new peace treaty with Orkney, and no expense has been spared. The festivities have filled the kingdom with cheer, and each match between the knights from both kingdoms have been met with rancorous applause. And, only furthering Uther’s good mood, Arthur is trouncing Sir Gareth. 

It’s not often that Uther feels a distinct sense of pride in Arthur, but now, he’s radiant with it. That’s his son. When Arthur fights, he feels every inch Uther’s child, and it’s easy to forget the circumstances of his birth and how much he cost Uther. 

With a clang, Sir Gareth parrys a blow of Arthur’s. Their swords clash, again and again; sheer will seems to be the only thing keeping Sir Gareth on his feet as Arthur drives him back, scarcely leaving room between his strikes. 

“Your son fights well,” King Lot remarks from beside Uther. 

Uther smiles. “Yes, he does.” It’s moments like these that prove Arthur is a Pendragon through and through; not even Nimueh’s cursed powers could take that from him. Arthur is Uther’s son, and Uther feels radiant because of it. 

His good mood is threatened mere moments later; Sir Gareth ducks around Arthur’s sword and with a speed Uther didn’t know he had, thrusts his own weapon forward before Arthur can react. 

Uther watches with horror, as though time has slowed, as the sword plunges toward Arthur’s gut. 

Instead of impaling Arthur, though, the blade changes direction at the last moment, flying backwards, out of Sir Gareth’s hands and to the edge of the arena. 

Arthur holds up his sword to Sir Gareth’s chest, and as the crowd roars, Sir Gareth, looking absolutely befuddled, yields. 

Uther applauds alongside the crowd, a frown marring his features. He’s glad that Arthur is alright, of course, but swords don’t do that. It’s almost as though—

Arthur pulls off his helmet before shaking Sir Gareth’s hand, and for a moment, Uther swears that Arthur’s eyes are bright as the sun. 

It must be a trick of the light, he decides. It couldn’t be anything else. 

Arthur is a Pendragon, after all. His son would never use magic. 

When it keeps happening, Uther is forced to reckon with the fact that his son and heir might be a sorcerer. He watches as a dagger flies to Arthur’s hand as though summoned when an assassin tries to kill him in court, sees a healthy tree branch fall atop a bandit when they are ambushed in the woods. The final straw is when he walks into Arthur’s chambers to find a sword being sharpened despite the fact that there’s no one in the room. 

Uther goes cold and flees for his own chambers. Because it can’t be. 

There will be consequences, he hears Nimueh whisper in his memory, if you wish to conceive a child using magic. 

He thought that Ygraine’s life was consequence enough. A life for a life, a horrible, twisted exchange. But Arthur possessing magic… 

He sees Nimueh’s cruel smile in the back of his mind. 

Oh, gods. 

Arthur has magic. His son, who is perhaps not as much a Pendragon as Uther believed. His son, though seemingly loyal now, who is fated to be corrupted and consumed by the same force that took Ygraine from him. 

Has magic not already done enough? Has he not lost enough to it? Ygraine is dead because of it, and if her murder was in vain—

Uther doesn’t think he would be able to bear it. 

Perhaps Arthur can still be saved. Magic only corrupts if it is used; perhaps if Uther… speaks with him, makes him understand the danger….

He hopes that Arthur isn’t lost to him already.

In Arthur’s experience, emergency summons to his father’s chambers aren’t exactly a good omen. 

Usually, they mean that something is terribly wrong with the kingdom and Arthur has to fix it or go on some quest— and quests are fine, really, so long as he can take Merlin with him, but tonight, after a particularly grueling training session with the knights, he’s really looking forward to sleeping in his own, soft bed, even if his useless manservant has probably forgotten to fluff his pillows, again. He does not want to go galavanting off through the Valley of the Fallen Kings or trudging through the Forest of Ascetir. Tomorrow, perhaps, but not tonight. 

Arthur tries not to show his trepidation as he enters his father’s chambers. Weakness is unbefitting of a knight, a prince, or a Pendragon, and Arthur is all three. 

Uther is looking out the window, unseeing. His gaze is troubled— almost haunted. 

Arthur closes the door behind him, and the snap makes his father jump, whirling to face him. 

There’s something unsettling about this— his father is paranoid, certainly, but never jumpy, never lost in his own head. Still, Arthur keeps his shoulders square and his voice level as he prompts, “You asked to see me, Father?” 

His father’s face twists with something akin to pain for a moment; before Arthur can be certain that’s what the expression is, it’s gone. “Yes,” Uther says, a little distant. “Yes, I did.” 

Arthur waits. 

“Arthur… despite my best attempts, I am not a perfect king, nor a perfect father… nor a perfect husband.” Uther isn’t quite looking at Arthur. Instead, his gaze is fixed somewhere behind Arthur’s left ear. “I have made many, many mistakes. One of them, I fear, may have cost you greatly.”

Arthur frowns, lost. “Father—“

Uther flinches.  

Arthur’s sense that something is terribly wrong stops nudging him, and instead begins to lay blows. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says. The worry makes him blunt, unwilling to tread as carefully as he normally would with Uther. 

Uther chooses his words carefully. “I have condemned you to carry a great burden. Arthur… how long have you been practicing magic?”

Arthur’s brain screeches to a halt. “What?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” Uther’s voice is solemn, as though speaking at a funeral. “I’ve seen it, with my own eyes.”

Arthur is completely, genuinely lost. He’s never done magic a day in his life. Do strange things occasionally happen around him? Sure, but there’s always some sort of logical explanation, not— magic. Arthur is pretty sure that he would know if he were a sorcerer. 

Still, a flash of fear jolts through him. Sorcerer or not, if his father believes him to be magic, he’ll face the pyre. Camelot’s laws ensure it, and Uther bends those laws for no one. 

“I’ve never done magic,” Arthur insists, managing to keep the panic out of his voice. “I’m not sure what you saw, Father, but it wasn’t me. I am loyal to Camelot.”

His father turns his head, still not looking at him. “I understand that such power can be… intoxicating,” he says, and Arthur stares, incredulous, because he’s the bloody prince, what other kind of power would he need, “but you must resist it, if you can. If not for me, then for your mother.”

Now Arthur is really confused. “My mother,” he repeats. “What does my mother have to do with this?”

Uther squeezes his eyes shut, pained. “Ygraine,” he says heavily, “was unable to conceive. So, we turned to Nimueh. To magic.”

There’s a horrible feeling of dread building somewhere deep in Arthur’s chest. He wants to beg his father to stop, to deny it, but the words catch in Arthur’s throat. 

“She warned that your birth would come with a price. Neither of us knew what that price would be. When… when Ygraine—“ Uther swallows, and moves on, “I thought that price had been paid. But clearly, it hasn’t, for you have been cursed with the possession of magic.”

The world seems to be crumbling around Arthur. His father’s crusade against magic is built on hypocrisy, his existence is to be blamed for his mother’s death— and he has magic? He is one of those things that his father (is Uther truly his father?) loathes, an evil, power-hungry sorcerer. 

“Your mother didn’t die for you to become corrupted,” Uther says. 

Die for you. As though she were some sort of sacrifice. 

“It will be hard, I am sure, but you must reject the power you have been burdened with,” Uther continues. “Perhaps then—“

Arthur cannot think. He can’t feel anything but rage— at Uther, for keeping this from him, for being a hypocrite and a liar, for letting his mother die, and at himself, for being. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he stays, but he’s sure that he’ll regret it, and he can’t stand the thought of remaining in Uther’s presence. 

Without a word, he leaves, ignoring his father’s pleas behind him. 

His feet carry him to the training field. He doesn’t bother to don any armor, just grabs a sword and starts hacking away at a dummy that was left out from before. 

Morgana says that it’s immature to hit things instead of working through his emotions. Arthur disagrees, and thinks that she can fuck off. He’s having a moment, here, and the familiar grip of his sword and the repetition of movements that he knows well are probably the only things keeping him from breaking down. Also, it feels good to hit things, goddammit. 

He slashes and strikes at the dummy until he has blisters on his hands and his sword gets stuck impaled in its chest. Sweat drips— well, everywhere— and he’s breathing heavily, though if that’s because of exertion or anger he couldn’t say. The things he has learned have settled somewhere in his chest. He aches, knowing that his mother died for him, an imperfect son who could never measure up to her in worth. His stomach rolls at Uther’s hypocrisy. 

And then there’s the matter of the magic. 

Arthur doesn’t feel particularly magical— mostly, he’s just sore and tired and wretched— but if he came to be through it, it’s not entirely implausible that he would be capable of using it. And… he thinks, really thinks about all the odd coincidences that have taken to occurring around him, from healthy tree branches falling on bandits about to stab him to how his bathwater is always the perfect temperature despite the fact that it takes Merlin a ridiculous amount of time to fill the tub…

He’s never heard of magic being intrinsic like that, but he’s never heard of anyone being born of it, either. The likelihood of Arthur being— he’s barely able to think the words— a sorcerer, seems greater by the minute. 

The disgust he feels towards himself is automatic. It’s two decades of being taught that to be magic is to be evil, to be doomed, corrupt, unredeemable. But he thinks of Uther and his mother, using magic so powerful as to create life itself. 

It’s near impossible right now to see Uther as anything but evil when Arthur has just learned of the blood that drips from his hands, but his mother…

No one has spoken of Ygraine in many, many years. His father refused, and from a young age, Arthur learned not to pry. Morgana, though, remembers a little of her, and told Arthur all she knew, and before he learned not to speak to servants, they would smile sadly at him and speak fondly of her. Ygraine was kind and loyal, they said. The best queen the land had known in many years. Arthur can not believe that she was wicked. 

Arthur doesn’t feel particularly evil himself, either. And that begs the question… is magic truly evil? Or was that just another one of his father’s lies, a convenient justification to his crusade? After all, how can you be evil when it’s evil that you’re exterminating? 

Images flash through Arthur’s head; a camp of peaceful Druids, slaughtered for the crime of existing; a girl burned on the pyre, screaming for her parents, who she tried to heal from a plague with magic; Gwen’s father, locked in a cell to await death for the mere crime of speaking with a sorcerer. Blood that is upon Uther’s hands; blood that has stained Arthur’s. 

His rage threatens to simmer over again. These were— are— citizens of Camelot, used only as pawns in Uther’s cruel game. Their lives mean nothing to the king, and that cuts even more deeply than it might have before, because Arthur is a sorcerer, too, spared from Uther’s mechanations only because he is heir to the throne. He wants to march back to Uther’s chambers and make him understand. No, Arthur wants to make him pay.  

The training has cleared his head enough to make him aware that that won’t solve anything. Uther is too proud, too stubborn to learn any lessons, and even if Arthur were to try and take control of the kingdom, a coup or an assassination would do nothing but lose him the loyalty of his knights and his kingdom. Arthur can’t do anything— but he can’t go back to his life as it was, either. He’s standing on a precipice, and sooner or later, he will fall. 

He has to do something— revenge upon Uther, justice for magic users— how did Arthur not see it all before? He feels a fool for being so blind to their suffering. The reason for his ignorance, his position as crowned prince, though, must mean that he can atone for that, that he can help. 

It strikes him, out of the blue. A way to do both— get back at his father, and improve the lives of magic users in the kingdom. 

Uther will not execute Arthur; given his attitude earlier and his history of hypocrisy, Arthur is certain at least of that. Which means, he has a free pass to do magic— if the court sees him using it without slipping in his duties or being corrupted, the propaganda of sorcerers being evil will fail, and Uther will have to live with the shame of the entire kingdom knowing he has a sorcerer for a son. 

It’s a mad plan. It’s beyond mad, actually. 

Arthur turns on his heel and strides towards the castle. There’s only one person who he trusts to help him with this. 

And Merlin somehow always makes Arthur feel better. His presence is a sort of mundane magic of its own, and after today, Arthur can’t think of anyone who he would rather be with. 

For once, Merlin is having a great day. There haven’t been any attempts on Arthur’s life, Arthur didn’t throw anything at him this morning, Gaius has promised to make stew this evening, and he hasn’t been sent to muck out the stables. Instead, he’s sitting at the table in Arthur’s chambers repairing chainmail. 

It’s a peaceful sort of task. A bit tedious, but he likes to do it by hand instead of with his magic, just to be sure that Arthur will be protected. 

He’ll reinforce the protection charms on it afterwards, of course. Arthur can never be too safe, after all. Even with the plethora of precautionary enchantments Merlin places on his things, Arthur still manages to get himself into trouble. 

It’s rather frustrating, but Merlin loves him despite it. Not that he’ll ever tell Arthur that, of course. He would be insufferable, and he really doesn’t need to know that Merlin loves him. 

Anyway. Merlin is having a lovely day, which is turned abruptly on its head when Arthur bursts through the doors and announces, apropos to nothing, “I need to learn magic.”

Merlin falls out of his seat. The armor comes crashing down on top of him. Somehow, he manages to wheeze, “What?”

Arthur lifts the chainmail off of Merlin, impatiently dropping it back on the table. “You’re meant to be fixing it, you know, not using it as a blanket.” 

Despite the weight off his chest, Merlin’s not quite able to draw breath to answer. Because Arthur said— well, there’s no way that Arthur said—

“As I was saying, I need to learn magic,” Arthur announces, as though that’s a completely normal thing for him to say. 

Merlin stares. 

Arthur scowls at him. “I’m not paying you to lay around! You’re meant to help me, you idiot.”

Merlin scrambles to his feet, mind still blank with shock— and panic, because if Arthur’s is asking him for help with magic, he must know that Merlin is a sorcerer and Merlin is not prepared to deal with that—

“I don’t know magic,” he says quickly, probably looking as put together as a deer about to bolt. 

“I know you don’t know anything about magic, Merlin,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes, “but Gaius used to practice it. Perhaps he has some old books.” 

The relief at his secret being safe only lasts a few blissful moments before he remembers that Arthur wants to learn magic— which is incredibly unlike him. 

“Can I ask—“ Merlin tries to sound like a well-adjusted individual,”— why the sudden interest in magic?”

Arthur’s face shutters, going from brisk and expectant to something uncertain and upset. “I’m a sorcerer,” he says. 

Merlin blinks dumbly at him. “You’re a sorcerer,” he repeats, and Arthur nods. “Arthur, I think I would know if you were a sorcerer.” 

Arthur gives him a look and wisely, Merlin shuts up. “I thought so, too. But apparently—“ He clenches his jaw, struggling with the words. “Apparently, I was born of magic. My mother could not conceive, so a deal was made with Nimueh… for a price. My mother’s life was taken… and I was given magic. My father has seen it himself.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, so much that Merlin isn’t quite sure where to start. Arthur can’t meet his eyes, though, and his jaw is tight; for the first time since he came in, Merlin takes stock of the blisters on his hands and the sweat that soaks his clothes and his hair, like he ran himself ragged training, because that’s what Arthur always does when he’s upset. 

 Merlin wants to reach out and embrace him, to take him into his arms and promise that it will all be alright. He doesn’t, but the urge is there all the same. He settles for touching Arthur’s elbow, feather light. 

Arthur turns to him, and Merlin can feel his heart break for him. To learn that his mother’s life was traded in exchange for his is a horrible burden; Merlin remembers the way it pressed down on him, stealing the air from his lungs when he learned that Gaius had gone to the Isle of the Blessed to die in Merlin’s stead. But to also discover that his existence is due to magic after a lifetime of being taught to hate and fear it…

Uther’s hypocrisy isn’t lost on Merlin, and though it makes him furious, he pushes it aside. He can be angry later. Right now, Arthur needs him. 

Arthur, who apparently is a sorcerer. 

Even as Merlin aches for his friend, part of him is thrilled. If Arthur is magic, perhaps Merlin doesn’t have to hide anymore. Perhaps Arthur will understand the reason for the lies and secrecy; magic could be something they share instead of something Merlin desperately conceals. Visions of conjuring frivolous things beside and alongside Arthur, like butterflies or flowers or shapes in the fire, dance in his head. 

Arthur squares his shoulders and clears his throat, a mask sliding into place. “I’ve never heard of someone being born of magic, being born with magic, or suddenly developing it. But it would explain everything— the branches falling on bandits, the way my bathwater is always the perfect temperature—“

Merlin’s fantasies screech to a stop. The branches and bathwater— those things are his doing, not Arthur’s. Which means—

“It must be because of me,” Arthur says, completely serious and completely wrong. 

“Er,” Merlin says articulately. Because apparently, Uther and Arthur have caught onto Merlin’s magic… and assumed that it’s because of Arthur. 

“I am a sorcerer,” Arthur says, not necessarily at peace, but full of determination. “My father has lied to me, not only about myself, but about magic.”

Merlin’s fledgling attempt to try and convince Arthur that the bandits and bathwater are coincidences dies in his throat. “What do you mean?” He’s almost afraid of the answer, as much as he craves it. 

Arthur’s eyes are clear. “I don’t believe that magic is evil,” he says. Every word chips away at Merlin, makes his heart beat faster and chest warm. “I don’t believe that it corrupts or destroys people. The propaganda that says otherwise only serves to sow fear and discord amongst the citizens of Camelot.”

For all Kilgarrah’s words and for all that he trusts Arthur’s good heart, Merlin never thought he would hear Arthur speak those words. The weight of it hits him with all the force of a stampede, and he’s surprised that he doesn’t physically stagger. The corners of his eyes prickle. 

Arthur hesitates, uncertainty showing through his confident mask. He doesn’t quite manage to cover it. “Say something, Merlin. God knows I can never get you to shut up.”

Merlin nods rapidly. It takes a few moments for the lump in his throat to disperse enough for him to speak. “I think you’re right. Magic isn’t a curse— it’s beautiful.”

Arthur relaxes at Merlin’s approval, like it’s something he craves. It strikes Merlin rather abruptly that Arthur must have learned this only hours ago— and he didn’t hesitate to come to Merlin, even thinking that he had magic when it was against the laws of Camelot. Perhaps the gravity of his presumed situation hadn’t fully sunk in yet, but he trusted Merlin not to reject him, and that warms something deep in Merlin’s core. 

Merlin shouldn’t be encouraging the idea that Arthur has magic, but nonetheless, he finds himself asking, “So that’s why you want to learn magic? Because you’ve changed your mind about it?”

“I’m in a position where I can help magic users,” Arthur says, frowning thoughtfully. “Other magic users. I can’t undo Uther’s laws, but if I perform magic before the court and prove that it isn’t a violent, evil power, its fear of magic will weaken. And—“ Something darker flashes in his eyes for a moment, “— if I publicly use my magic, the whole kingdom will know that Uther has a sorcerer for a son, and he will have to live with that.”

It’s… actually not that horrible of a plan, except for the part where Arthur doesn’t actually have magic, and, “You’re not worried that Uther will execute you?” Because Merlin worries about that on a fairly regular basis. Arthur may be the king’s son, but Morgana seems confident that holding a similar status won’t protect her from Uther’s wrath. 

Somehow, Arthur is unworried. “My father won’t do anything. He would consider it an insult to my mother’s memory.” His gaze on Merlin softens. “I know that this isn’t an orthodox thing to ask a servant for. But as… a friend… will you help me?”

All plans of Merlin being more responsible with his magic usage crumble to dust and he finds himself nodding, because what wouldn’t he do for Arthur?

Arthur doesn’t quite manage to tamp down his smile, which, small as it is, is radiant. He claps Merlin on the shoulder and squeezes. “Right. We’ll get started on that right away— see if you can find some of Gaius’ things— and I’ll need a bath. Don’t bother heating the water, I’ll take care of it.”

Merlin wonders if he’s made a horrible mistake, but it’s hard to care when Arthur’s hand is still warm on his shoulder. 

There are very few things that surprise Gaius these days. Old age accounts for some of it, but it’s mostly Merlin. 

Merlin, who is currently trying to walk out the door with his spell book conspicuously stuffed under his shirt. 

That boy is going to get himself killed, Gaius thinks, not for the first time. He sighs deeply, setting the tincture he’s trying to prepare aside. 

“Merlin?”

Merlin whips around, looking incredibly guilty, his hand halfway to the door. “Yes?” 

Gaius lifts The Eyebrow. “Just where do you think you’re going with that spell book?” 

Panic flashes across Merlin’s features before he blurts out, “Nowhere. Just to… learn spells.”

“You can’t just use your room?” Gaius asks. 

“There’s an infestation,” Merlin lies quickly. “Beetles. Beetles everywhere, really, big, venomous beetles.” He begins to inch towards the door. “Don’t go in there, just in case. Greatthanksbye!” 

Gaius can only watch Merlin go and wonder what on earth he’s gotten himself into this time.

Arthur pages through the spell book Merlin found while Merlin draws the bath. He’s not really a book person— even after only a few minutes of reading the words have already begun to swim on the page— but it is interesting. 

“Crops, Merlin,” he says, glancing up from the book. “Magic that bolsters crops— can you imagine how much this would help the kingdom?” 

Merlin nods, a small smile on his face. “The outlying villages, especially.” He’s almost certainly thinking of Hunith and Ealdor, where food is far too scarce. 

Arthur resolves that as soon as he masters this particular spell, he and Merlin will visit Ealdor, and he can repay Hunith and the villagers for their kindness with fields that are never barren. (And it will make Merlin smile, Arthur thinks, and that is always a good thing.)

He turns the page and grins. “And here! A spell for shutting people up. That will come in handy, won’t it?”

Merlin makes a valiant attempt to glare at him from where he’s emptying the last of the bathwater into the tub. “Prat.”

“I’ll do it, right now,” Arthur threatens, and Merlin snorts. “What, you don’t think I could?”

“Your bath is ready,” Merlin says, not answering. 

Arthur shuts the book with a snap. “You still doubt that I can do magic, don’t you.”

Merlin opens his mouth, then closes it. “Well,” he hedges, and Arthur interrupts. 

“Unless there’s a sorcerer following me around and keeping me out of trouble, I must be the one doing the magic,” Arthur says. 

There’s an odd, almost panicked look on Merlin’s face, but Merlin makes weird faces all the time, so Arthur ignores it. 

“Feel the bathwater,” Arthur commands. He almost expects Merlin to argue seeing as he never does what he’s told, but Merlin sticks his hand into the tub without complaint. 

“It’s water,” Merlin says bluntly. 

“Yes, but what temperature is it?” Arthur prompts. 

“Lukewarm.” Merlin dries his hand off on his tunic. 

Right. Now is the part where Arthur uses magic to heat it. He’s done it before, clearly, he’s just… not quite sure how. Does he have to stare at the tub? Point at it? No, he’s never pointed at it before; he must just look at it. 

Brows furrowed, his eyes bore into the water, willing it to heat. 

The seconds stretch and he begins to second guess himself. Not just whether he can perform magic, but whether or not he should. He doesn’t feel as though he’s going to be corrupted by such a simple thing, but what if—

A faint cloud of steam begins to rise lazily from the tub. 

All his fears melt away and he looks, grinning, to Merlin. 

Merlin doesn’t look particularly surprised or impressed when he feels the water. “It’s warm.” 

Arthur’s grin turns smug. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

Merlin gives him a look. “You’re going to have to do more than heat water to impress me, Sire.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow, schooling his features. “Oh? Like what?”

“Dressing yourself, for starters,” Merlin says. 

“Dressing the prince is an honor,” Arthur insists, feigning offense. 

“Yes, big honor, serving a man who can’t even put on his own trousers.” 

Arthur re-opens the spell book and begins to flip back through the pages. 

Merlin steps a little closer. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for that spell to shut you up.” Arthur manages to flip through another three pages before Merlin is pulling the book away and guiding him behind the screen. 

“Let’s get you in the bath, shall we, Sire?” he says brightly. 

Arthur can’t quite get control over the smirk on his face. Oh, he’s going to enjoy teasing Merlin about using magic. 

When Uther comes to seek him out, Gaius begins to worry. 

“My Lord.” Gaius gives a slight bow, setting aside his work. “What brings you here?”

Uther glances furtively at the door, as though to reassure himself that it is closed. When he turns back, it is to brusquely ask, “Are you certain that we are alone?”

Gaius raises an eyebrow at that but nods once. “Yes, my Lord. Quite.” 

Uther is solemn. “Twenty years ago, you swore to me your silence on the circumstances of Arthur’s birth. Do you remember?”

Gaius thinks of Uther, hunched beside Ygraine’s lifeless body, Nimueh still and sorrowful behind him, and a maid, holding a crying babe close to her breast. He thinks of the way Uther’s tears turned to hate as he screamed at Nimueh and declared his war on magic. “I do.”

“The price,” Uther says, “was not all that— that Nimueh—“ he spits her name like a curse, “— promised.”

Gaius frowns. A life for a life is the way of that sort of magic, and no one can deny that that price was paid many times over, first with Ygraine, then by the lives of the sorcerers Uther has hunted ever since. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Uther suddenly looks old beyond his years, heavy beneath the urgency and fear that fills his eyes. 

“Arthur has magic,” he says, and suddenly Gaius has a very good idea of what Merlin was doing with his spell book. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Blows that should fell any mortal man glancing off of him, slaying beast after beast that can only be destroyed by magic. It must be an effect of his birth.”

“I’ve never heard of any such thing,” Gaius says slowly. He doesn’t doubt that Uther cares about his son, but he also knows the atrocities Uther is willing to commit in the name of destroying magic; Gaius isn’t entirely certain how safe Arthur is with Uther believing him to be a sorcerer. If Uther can be convinced otherwise—

“Arthur is clearly a special case.” Uther waves him off, troubled. “I tried to confront him about it, but…” He trails off. “Gaius, you have served me well these many years, and not just as a physician. You have also been a trusted source of knowledge regarding more… unnatural matters.”

Gaius inclines his head, face carefully neutral. 

“Do you know of any way to—“ Uther makes a face, “— bind his powers? Remove them from him?”

“Sire…” Gaius chooses his words carefully. “As I said, I have never heard of such circumstances resulting in a child possessing magic as you have described. I would caution against doing anything too hastily. But,” he acquiesces, “if it will put your mind at ease, I will see what knowledge I can find.”

“I don’t want to believe it either, Gaius,” Uther says, sounding almost mournful, “but it is true. Come to me at once the moment you find something.”

Gaius bows. “My Lord.” 

Uther moves towards the door, then stops. “I trust that you won’t tell anyone about this,” he says, then is gone. 

Gaius sits down heavily. Arthur, a sorcerer?

He knows that there is no way to remove one’s magic; not one that is humane, at any rate. Perhaps he could pretend to find something, make Arthur drink a potion that does nothing but that Uther believes would strip Arthur of the magic he apparently wields. Arthur would have to be careful not to be caught using magic afterwards, of course, or the king would have both their heads—

Is he going to have to cover for two idiot sorcerers?

Gaius sighs deeply. He really is getting too old for this. 

“Forbærnan.” Arthur stares, determined, at the candle on his dresser. “Forbærnan!”

The candle stays stubbornly unlit. 

Arthur throws his hands up in frustration. He’d been doing so well before— well enough that Merlin praised him for it! He’d lit the candle on his first try, and his second and third— why was the fifteenth time any different? 

He points at it, giving the candle a look that dares it to do anything but light. “Forbærnan!”

Nothing. 

Arthur racks his brain. He’s not doing anything differently. He’s pronouncing the spell the same way he did the first time, willing the flame to ignite with the same determination— the only thing that’s changed is that Merlin left to fetch his dinner. 

He understands at once. He’s still nervous about using magic, no matter how determined he is to prove his father wrong— it’s only been a matter of hours since his world was turned on its axis, after all— but Merlin’s presence soothes something inside him. Arthur can’t be afraid of magic when Merlin is looking at him like he’s something wonderous.

The door opens behind him and Arthur tries not to brighten too noticeably (if Merlin discovers that Arthur misses him when he’s gone he’ll never hear the end of it) as he turns, a jab at Merlin’s tardiness on his tongue dying on his tongue when it’s Uther who greets him. 

Arthur stiffens. “Father,” he says tonelessly. 

Uther’s face is drawn, almost desperate. There’s something urgent in the way he addresses Arthur. “I understand that you’re upset,” he says. “This is a burden that should not have been placed upon you.”

A burden, to know his father as a monster. A burden, to know how blind he was to the truth. A burden, to know that his mother’s life paid for his. Somehow, Arthur doesn’t think that that’s what Uther means. 

“You are my son, though. You are the greatest warrior Camelot has known in many years. It will be difficult, I am sure,” Uther says, almost sounding as though he’s trying to convince himself as much as Arthur, “but I fully believe that you can overcome this. If you reject these cursed powers–”

“Are they?” Arthur says before he can stop himself. 

Uther is taken aback, startled into silence. Arthur rarely speaks back to him, and certainly not with such vitriol and disrespect, but right now, all Arthur feels no respect for his father, only fury and betrayal. 

“Magic cannot be evil,” Arthur says, even as the little voice in his head doubts his words, “According to you, my mother used it for my birth, and I cannot believe that she was a monster.”

Uther looks as though he’s been struck. Then his face ripples, enraged. “Do not speak about her like that–”

“I can hardly believe that I am evil,” Arthur speaks over him, voice hard, “when I have spent my entire life working to better this kingdom.” The words fall from his lips one after another, and even if Arthur wanted to stop, he couldn’t. “The Druids are peaceful, and half the sorcerers we burn only use their magic to keep food on their tables or heal loved ones. That is the furthest thing from evil that I can imagine. The only scourge I see in Camelot is your own hatred!”

Arthur is breathing hard. His hands clenched by his sides at some point during his speech, and even as his father advances, thunderous, he doesn’t falter. He is a prince, he reminds himself. He doesn’t bow or cower before anyone. 

“Magic is what killed Ygraine,” Uther says, deadly quiet. “Magic nearly destroyed Camelot. To suppose you know better is arrogant and foolish. Have you forgotten how many times sorcerers have threatened your life?”

Arthur meets his eyes coldly. “They didn’t threaten my life any more than you have. Or have you forgotten? Your laws demand that I burn at the pyre.” 

Uther steps back, looking at Arthur in horror, as though Arthur is a stranger. “You don’t mean that.” 

Even as Arthur hates Uther, he feels as though someone is gouging out part of his chest at his father’s expression. It’s a horrible feeling, to care for someone who cannot care for you. He keeps his expression hard, though. “I do. Your son is a sorcerer, Uther Pendragon.”

Uther flees. 

The moment Arthur is alone, it all comes crashing down on him. He feels weak, his legs suddenly uncertain they can hold his weight and his stomach sick. The adrenaline that has kept him functional since he was first confronted is spent, and to put it quite bluntly, Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever felt this much like shit. 

He’s just driven away his father, who he can no longer stand the sight of. His father, who Arthur looked up to and admired for as long as he can remember, who is actually a horrible man and a tyrannical king. His father, who Arthur has spent every waking hour trying to make proud, always in vain. They had a relationship that Arthur treasured– and now he has burnt it to the ground. 

And, perhaps worst of all, Arthur was right to do so. 

Arthur has never known a sorcerer to cry. Princes certainly don’t. And Arthur is both of those, but he chokes on a sob anyway, desperately stuffing his fist against his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

He mourns for everything that he’s lost today– a life, a father, an identity– but no man is worth his tears. He will not cry, he will not.

The door creaks open and Merlin carries a platter cheerfully. “Chicken, tonight, and I got you extra dessert–” He catches sight of Arthur, standing in the middle of the room, and his brows knit with concern. “Arthur?”

And that’s all it takes. The little bit of composure that Arthur managed to hang onto melts away, and he begins to cry in earnest. 

It’s not particularly manly. Arthur would argue that it’s actually quite embarrassing, especially in front of Merlin, who he never wanted to see him like this, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. He feels too much already.

Without a word, Merlin abandons the dinner on the table and goes to Arthur, gently guiding him towards the bed. He doesn’t complain about how Arthur leans into him, tucking his face into Merlin’s neck. Instead, he sits them down and there are arms around Arthur. 

“It’ll be okay,” Merlin promises quietly. “I swear, Arthur, it will.”

Arthur lets himself be held and thanks the gods that he has Merlin. 

Arthur doesn’t show at dinner. 

This, in itself, isn’t enough to rouse Morgana’s suspicion— Arthur normally takes dinner in his chambers a few times a week— but the way that Uther’s eyes keep drifting to Arthur’s empty seat is. He hasn’t said a word all evening, and prods at his food more than he does eat it. And he looks–

It takes nearly five minutes of silence for Morgana to put her finger on it. Uther looks upset, not in the sense that he’s angry, but as though he’s regretting something. She’s only seen that look in his eyes once: when he admitted that he had been wrong to execute Gwen’s father, kneeling at Morgana’s father’s grave. 

It’s a sombering parallel. It also only serves to make her more curious– Uther scarcely seems to be human, most days; instead he’s a creature of cruel tyranny and stubborn pride. It is no easy feat to make him feel, and Morgana burns with the need to know what it is that has gotten through his armor for a reason she doesn’t dare verbalize. 

(She needs to know that he is human, that he is capable of caring enough to understand, to forgive. She needs to know that she was right to stop Tauren from killing him. She needs to know that she will not have to live the rest of her life afraid.)

“Is something troubling you, My Lord?” Morgana is careful to keep her voice light. Concerned, but not curious. 

Uther startles at being addressed, then smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “No, not at all. Thank you, Morgana. I’m afraid I’ve been poor company this evening, and for that, I apologize.”

“It is forgotten,” Morgana assures him with a smile. “I can hardly fault your mind for being elsewhere. You’ve had a great many burdens on your shoulders these past few weeks.”

Uther’s expression goes distant, like he’s forgotten something. “These past few weeks,” he echoes, a bit blankly, “yes.”

Morgana files the reaction away. 

They eat– or, Morgana eats, and Uther thinks– in silence for a few minutes. Morgana is reevaluating her approach, debating if she should try to ask more candidly, when Uther speaks.

“In truth, Morgana, I worry about Arthur.” His frown is etched deeply into his face, eyes heavy with concern. “He’s… not been himself, lately.”

She should have known, Morgana thinks, almost jealously. Uther cares for no one, save Arthur. 

She saw him from her window earlier this afternoon, though, hacking away at a dummy with his sword like some sort of emotionally immature knight. That’s perfectly normal for him, as far as she’s aware. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she says, not unkindly. “Arthur may be an obnoxious fool, but he’s always alright.”

Uther doesn’t even admonish her for the insult. “I hope you’re right,” he says, and offers her another weak smile. 

Morgana smiles back, even though she wants to frown. 

What is going on with Arthur?

After dinner, Morgana heads towards Arthur’s room. He’s less delicate to interrogate; unlike Uther, he gets flustered easily and gives away everything within a few minutes, and all she needs to do is ask a few breezy but pointed questions. 

Her plans are thwarted by Merlin, quietly closing the door to Arthur’s chambers behind him. There’s an intimacy to the care with which he does it that makes her feel as though she shouldn’t be watching. 

When Merlin notices her, he nearly jumps out of his skin. “Morgana!” He panics, then corrects himself. “I mean, My Lady–”

A smile spreads across Morgana’s face. So that’s what Uther was upset about. Arthur and Merlin have finally gotten over themselves, and Uther despises both Merlin and the idea of Arthur loving anyone but a princess. 

“Had a good evening?” she asks, a bit smug. “You and Arthur, alone at last…”

Merlin’s jaw drops and she fights a laugh. 

“I was starting to think that you two would never figure it out,” she says. “But it seems that love conquers all– even Arthur’s particular brand of obliviousness.”

“It’s not like that, Morgana, really,” Merlin tries to protest. It doesn’t work, seeing as his cheeks have gone bright pink.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Merlin. I saw it,” she says, tapping her head. Which, she didn’t, but really, it doesn’t take a seer to know that Merlin and Arthur are head over heels in love with each other. 

Merlin gapes, his blush deepening. “You– what? When?”

Morgana just smiles at him, raising a finger to her lips. “Shh. It’ll be our little secret.” Fully satisfied, she turns to leave. “Congratulations, Merlin.”

Merlin gapes helplessly after her, like a fish out of water. 

“I fucked up,” Merlin announces. 

Kilgarrah somehow manages to raise his eyebrows despite not having any. “Have you,” he says. It comes out more dryly than he intended, but in his defense, Kilgarrah Does Not Get Paid Enough For This. 

It’s a mark of how badly Merlin has messed up that he doesn’t notice the dragon’s tone. Instead, he starts pacing like a man possessed. 

Kilgarrah settles down on his rock and folds his front legs. He suspects that Merlin will be here for a while. 

“Uther thinks that Arthur has magic,” Merlin blurts out eventually, “because Arthur is always killing creatures that can only be destroyed with magic, he doesn’t die from mortal wounds, and he was apparently born of magic.”

Kilgarrah suspects that he knows where this is going. 

“So, Uther confronted him, and now Arthur thinks that he has magic. Only, he’s not freaking out like everyone thought he would. Instead, Arthur is trying to learn magic.”

Kilgarrah blinks. He most certainly did not know where this was going. 

Merlin gestures wildly. “But he doesn’t have magic, I have magic, but I can’t tell him that, so now I’m helping him learn magic to spite his father and challenge Camelot’s laws, and did I mention that Morgana thinks that we slept together?”

“Did you?” Kilgarrah asks. It’s less cryptic that he really ought to be, being the Great Dragon, but he’s been suffering through Merlin’s pining for months. 

Merlin’s jaw works uselessly for a moment before he manages to sputter, “No!”

“You are two sides of a coin, Young Warlock,” Kilgarrah intones, “Two halves of a whole. Your coming was foretold–”

Merlin looks absolutely horrified. 

Whoops. Bad word choice. 

“What I mean is,” Kilgarrah says, “the prophecies that speak of you and Arthur were written at the dawn of time. Your destinies are woven so tightly that I doubt there is any power on earth that could separate you. If anything, honesty about your regard for one another would only strengthen those ties.”

“Okay, right, fine, but that’s not the problem!” Merlin still looks incredibly embarrassed, even as he changes the conversation. “The problem is that Arthur thinks he’s magic, Uther thinks he’s magic, and now I have to help Arthur pretend that he’s magic without anyone catching on!”

Kilgarra frowns, because he really does think that Merlin’s repressed feelings are the more dire problem– the fate of Albion, possibly, and Kilgarrah’s sanity, certainly, depend upon it being resolved. “What counsel do you seek, then?”

“How do I fix this?” Merlin asks. He looks so stressed, so desperate, that Kilgarrah almost feels bad for him. 

Almost. 

Kilgarrah straightens up. “Tell Arthur the truth,” he says. “If he is keen on learning magic himself, he should have no problem with your abilities.”

“I can’t.” Merlin shakes his head. “He may not care about the magic, but he will care about the lies– that’s why he’s furious with Uther, and I can’t do that to him, not now.”

“Can’t do that to him,” Kilgarrah asks, “or can’t do that to yourself?”

“Both,” Merlin says helplessly, and leaves. 

Kilgarrah sighs deeply. Is this truly what he has been reduced to? A chained oracle, whose advice is never even taken? It’s demeaning. It’s a mere shadow of what he was before. 

Not for the first time, he wishes that he could rip Uther Pendragon apart, limb by limb. 

He remembers Merlin’s words, though– that Uther is convinced his own son is a sorcerer, the very thing he seeks to eradicate– and Kilgarrah hopes viciously that Uther is suffering because of it. 

Arthur doesn’t speak with his father for the better part of a week. 

Uther doesn’t try to reason with him, he doesn’t request Arthur’s presence– nothing. It hurts as much as it’s a relief. 

Arthur throws himself into his magic. He practices until the words are no longer clumsy on his tongue and the little, still afraid voice in the back of his head quiets. Merlin is by his side for all of it. 

Merlin has to be the most wonderful man that Arthur has ever known. Arthur never doubted that Merlin would stick by him, even with magic, but since his last conversation with Uther, Arthur is doubly grateful. For Merlin’s acceptance, for his smiles. For the way he held Arthur, that night in his chambers, when Arthur fell into him without a second thought. 

Merlin is the only person who Arthur would trust seeing him like that– scared and broken– but Arthur never wanted Merlin to see him like that. He doesn’t want Merlin to think him weak. He values Merlin’s good opinion too highly for that.

Somehow, Arthur still seems to have it. That night, he fell asleep in Merlin’s arms and woke the next day lying in his bed, boots lined up neatly beside his dresser and the blankets pulled up over him, as though Merlin tucked him in. The care of it made something in Arthur’s heart warm, like it always does when Merlin does these little things that are so clearly because he wants to. And when Merlin came in a few minutes later, breakfast in hand, he beamed at Arthur and made some sort of quip about Arthur being awake and putting him out of a job, to which Arthur responded by shooting right back that he was only up because Merlin was late, as per usual…

They haven’t talked about it, but Arthur doesn’t think they need to. And that only makes his fondness for Merlin grow, because Arthur isn’t good with words, doesn’t know how to thank Merlin in any way that could possibly be enough, but Merlin understands anyway. He just smiles, and goes right on to call Arthur a clotpole or some other ridiculous made up word. They understand each other with the sort of ease with which they draw breath, and Arthur has never been more thankful for it. 

“You know,” Merlin pants one afternoon, lugging Arthur’s armor around the castle, “you really should learn levitation next.”

“And put you out of a job?” Arthur claps him on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Merlin smiles, eyes narrowed in a way that means something along the lines of, I am very seriously considering strangling you but you would run me through and also I like you too much. How unfortunate for me.

Arthur gives him a winning grin. 

They turn the corner and Arthur nearly runs headfirst into Morgana. 

Her eyes flit between them. “Arthur. Merlin.” There’s a smirk playing on her lips that Arthur doesn’t like. 

“Morgana.” He tries to move past her, but she blocks him. 

“You’re going to run off before I give you my congratulations?” Morgana asks.

Arthur blinks. “Um. Thank… you?” Is she congratulating him for having magic? Does Morgana know about that?

“Hurt him and I’ll kill you,” Morgana says, almost sweetly, and Arthur can’t tell if she’s joking or not. 

He also has no idea what she’s talking about. 

Before he can ask, Morgana is gone, the train of her dress disappearing around the corner. 

Next to him, Merlin is pink. It’s a rather fetching color on him, Arthur notes vaguely. 

“Do you know what she was talking about?” Arthur asks, turning to Merlin.

“What? No.” Merlin nearly drops the armor in his hands. “Are you sure you can’t do levitation?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. 

Even though he isn’t speaking with his father, Arthur still carries out his official duties. He trains with the knights each day, and goes through the legislation the council puts together. The problem arises when he goes to lead his knights on patrol almost a week into his and Uther’s battle of wills, and is told apologetically by Sir Leon that Uther has forbidden it. 

Arthur storms into his father’s council session, Merlin hot on his heels. 

Uther looks up as the great doors ricochet against the walls. For a moment, there’s surprise, then his face hardens.

The half a dozen or so council members around him step wisely back– they know better than to get in Arthur’s way when he’s in a mood. 

“Why did you tell Sir Leon that I wasn’t accompanying my patrol.” Arthur doesn’t ask. He demands. 

“Because,” Uther replies, cold, “you have proven to me that your judgement is clouded. You are in no state to lead patrols this week.” His words are a thinly veiled threat: know your place, or I will do worse than keep you from patrols. The fear in his eyes betrays him, though.

Arthur has openly questioned him in front of his council. Arthur carries a secret that would ruin him if the court found out. 

He can feel the eyes on him. His father’s, which grow less afraid and more triumphant with every moment that Arthur doesn’t respond. The council members’, who frown at him, no doubt wondering what on earth has gotten into the obedient prince they have known for years. And Merlin’s. 

Arthur hasn’t told anyone about his magic except for Merlin, who Arthur never doubted would stand by him. His father knew before he did. It’s daunting, standing before so many men who Arthur has known since he was a child, knowing that if he says the words crowding against the back of his throat, he may very well lose their respect. For a moment, Arthur thinks he won’t go through with it. He could grudgingly accept his father’s judgement, perhaps pull a page from Merlin’s book and make his father’s title sound like an insult–

And then he thinks of Merlin, barging into this very same room, eyes wild as he confessed to being a sorcerer to save Guinivere. For one person, Merlin risked not just his good name, but his life. Arthur, being prince, has the opportunity to do even more. Ridiculous as Arthur thinks it is, no one will reconsider the law if a serving boy has magic, but perhaps they will for him.

“Magic or not,” Arthur says, unfaltering, “I am your first knight.”

The silence that follows is suffocating. Arthur doesn’t break his father’s gaze, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees a council member’s jaw drop. 

The blood drains from Uther’s face. “Arthur,” he hisses, but Arthur continues. 

“Leading patrols is my duty. I will be leading the next one– with or without your permission.” With that, he turns on his heel, cloak billowing behind him as he strides out of the hall. 

Merlin stares at him for a moment, an expression on his face that Arthur can’t read, before scrambling after him. 

The moment they’re both in the corridor, the doors slam shut behind them despite no one having touched them. 

Arthur can’t help but feel vindicated. Let his father try to explain that. 

Merlin thinks he’s going to have a heart attack. He just did magic, in front of the king. 

Arthur Pendragon, you’re lucky I love you, he thinks, almost hysterically. 

He was facing away from Uther, when he slammed the doors behind him and Arthur. They were out of the room; there’s no way that anyone saw. Probably. Hopefully. 

Merlin really, really hopes that Arthur doesn’t make a habit of wanting to do magic in front of Uther. For his own sanity. And, you know, because he likes having his head attached to his body, and would rather not be burnt alive, thanks. 

While Merlin can feel grey hairs starting to grow in, Arthur is smiling to himself. It’s a small, private thing that almost makes This Whole Fucking Situation that Merlin is in worth it. Which is ridiculous, because if he’d been caught he would be dead, but Merlin would do almost anything to make Arthur smile like that, in a way that’s satisfied and almost proud.

 And he should be, Merlin thinks. Arthur may not actually have magic, but he knows that it can’t have been easy, to stand in front of a room of council members and the king and announce it. He’s grown up taught to hate magic, and now he’s boldly accepting it.

These are the moments where Merlin is certain that Arthur will be a great king one day. Not because of any prophecy, but because how steadfastly he sticks to anything he believes to be right. 

“That was very brave of you,” Merlin says. 

Arthur tries not to look pleased, but Merlin knows him too well. “I’m a knight, Merlin, I’m always brave.”

“Still,” Merlin insists. “It was.”

They walk side by side in a comfortable silence for a few moments.

“How long do you think it will take before word of my ‘bravery’ will spread?” Arthur puts on a brave face when he asks, but there’s an uncertainty behind his eyes that he doesn’t quite manage to hide.

Merlin considers it. The council members will certainly whisper among themselves, even if they are too afraid of Uther to speak more directly about it, and nobles never seem to realize that their servants have working ears. “Probably… two or three hours before the whole castle knows?” 

“Well,” Arthur says with forced brightness, “let’s enjoy the next two hours, then.”

Morgana bursts into Arthur’s chambers not an hour later. 

“You have magic?” she demands. 

Arthur takes her in. Morgana’s eyes are almost wild, and her cheeks are flushed as if she ran all the way to his chambers. She doesn’t look betrayed, at least, but the words still crowd in Arthur’s throat. 

Morgana is like a sister to him. He’s already lost his father, he doesn’t think he could bear to lose her, too. 

But Morgana has never been quite like Uther. She’s fought him over his decrees on magic in the past, saw his tyranny for what it was long before Arthur ever did. If anyone (besides Merlin) would stand by him, it would be her. 

“Arthur.” She looks at him, expectant.

“I do,” Arthur says. 

The moment seems to stretch. Arthur can feel his heart hammering in his chest and the dampness on his palms…

And then Morgana laughs, disbelieving, smiling, and is across the room in a moment, wrapping him in a hug. 

Arthur blinks once, then twice, and then realizes that he should probably hug her back. The relief he feels is staggering, and though he would never admit it (Morgana would never let him live it down) he’s grateful for this. For her. 

“I’m so glad,” Morgana whispers. “I thought–” She pulls back and searches Arthur’s eyes for something. “Arthur, I–” she swallows, then something in her settles. “Me, too.”

“You… too,” Arthur repeats, a little lost. 

Morgana steps further back. She cups her hands together, and speaks. “Blóstmá.”

Arthur watches as her eyes turn a molten gold and a flower blooms from nothing in her hands. 

They’re silent for a moment. Morgana watches him, almost uncertain.

Arthur can’t help it. He begins to laugh. 

“Arthur,” Morgana chides, or maybe threatens, but soon enough, she’s laughing, too. They’re both cracking up, and Arthur doesn’t have the faintest idea what’s so funny about all of this, but he sees Morgana fail to stifle a particularly unlady-like snort, eyes bright, and he thinks that this, this joy, this camaraderie, is what magic is meant to be about.

Uther is having a Horrible day. The past couple days have all been horrible, but today deserves the capital letter. 

He cannot believe Arthur’s insolence– questioning him in front of his council, speaking proudly of his magic. Using magic, without a second thought. It is infuriating. As king, he deserves more respect than Arthur has shown him. He taught Arthur better than that.

But his Arthur was not a sorcerer. His Arthur had not been corrupted by the power running through his veins. His Arthur, Uther thinks, is gone, and that cuts him to his core with a pain he hasn’t felt since Ygraine’s death.

Ygraine. She died for nothing, and Uther is alone. 

Morgana bursts into the throne room.

Something in Uther eases slightly. Perhaps he isn’t completely alone. He still has Morgana, who, despite her headstrong and defiant nature, is fiercely loyal. She will certainly stand by his side. 

“Morgana.” Uther can’t quite keep the relief from his voice as he rises from his throne. “I take it you have… heard.”

Morgana stops before him. “I have.” 

There’s something different to the way she stands, Uther notices. Morgana has always stood proudly, but the set of her shoulders, the defiant way her chin juts out– somehow, it seems stronger, more certain, now. 

“It is in light of that that I have something I wish to discuss with you,” Morgana says. “My Lord–” She hesitates, the slightest crack in her composure.

Uther wonders what could rattle her. He has always known Morgana to be fearless. 

Morgana steels herself and meets his gaze. Challenges it, almost. “My Lord,” she says, “I, too, have magic.”

Uther’s heart falters beneath his ribs as Morgana’s eyes burn gold. 

Oh, gods, he thinks, hysterical, it’s spreading. 

Uther Pendragon will deny it to his dying day, but he faints on the spot. 

Not for the first time, Gaius wonders why he doesn’t retire already. 

“Sire,” he says, praying to the gods for patience, “I do not believe that magic is a contagion in the scientific sense. If it is spread, it could be genetic, though there is little knowledge on the matter–”

The blood drains from Uther’s face. He struggles to push himself up where he’s lying in his bed.

Gaius explicitly told him to keep still not two minutes ago. He opens his mouth to do it again, but Uther interrupts.

“Magic is genetic?” Uther is looking somewhere past Gaius, horrified and unseeing. “You don’t think– it can’t be possible–”

Uther’s sanity is precarious on the best of days. Clearly, he’s finally lost it.

Gaius tries to ease him back down. “You ought to rest, Your Majesty. You’ve had quite a shock today. If you would like, I have a tincture–”

“Gaius.” Uther grips Gaius’ forearm with bruising strength. “Be honest with me. Do I have magic?”

Gaius stares at him. “Sire?”

“First Arthur, now Morgana,” Uther says, eyes darting about frantically. “It cannot be a coincidence that both of my children have it. They do not have the same mother, so if they inherited it, it would have come from me.”

Gaius reels at the implication that Morgana is Uther’s daughter. Somehow, he manages to reply, “No, I don’t believe that you have magic. Would you like something to help you rest?”

Uther nods numbly.

Gaius finishes with Uther, and vows that as soon as Uther isn’t on the verge of a nervous breakdown, he’s going to demand a raise. Because he does not get paid enough for this shit.

Camelot’s rumor mill goes haywire.  

For the next two weeks, Merlin hears every ridiculous theory about what’s happened to the royal family under the sun. Some of it is right, and some of it is ludicrous– and as the personal servant to Prince Arthur, the rest of the castle seems to think that he’s the one to press for answers. 

Yes, Arthur and Morgana have magic. No, Uther isn’t dying. Yes, Arthur is still first knight. No, the magic ban hasn’t been repealed. No, there’s nothing in any of the laws that states that Arthur being a sorcerer means he can’t assume the throne, and no, Uther has not disowned him. Yes, Merlin still believes that Arthur and Morgana are good people. No, Uther has not lost his mind (though sometimes Merlin wonders). 

Merlin can’t go anywhere in the citadel without someone trying to interrogate him, and it’s exhausting. Every time he repeats the lie that yes, Arthur is a sorcerer, it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. 

After two weeks of pretending, Merlin feels awful. It’s one thing to lie in order to survive (though that makes him feel awful, too), but this deception has cost Arthur his relationship with his father. As much as Merlin hates Uther, he knows that despite the indifference Arthur tries to project, he misses him. And there’s no way that he can keep this up forever– what will Arthur do when he finds out, not only that Merlin has magic, but that Merlin let him believe all of this to save his own skin? Though that’s not it, not really.

Merlin did it because Arthur called him his friend, and he kept doing it because he’s rarely seen Arthur so happy as when he’s “doing magic.” His relationship with Morgana has flourished. And when he talks with Merlin about dreams of a kingdom where magic is not only accepted but encouraged, it’s with a determination that takes Merlin’s breath away. 

It’s selfish, to let this continue, but Merlin can’t bring himself to stop it. 

Beside him, Arthur is examining some treatises on the legalization of magic. It crinkles beneath his fingers, and Merlin watches, somewhere between a wonderful joy and festering guilt.

He’s meant to be writing a speech for Arthur– something about grain or wheat, Merlin’s not quite sure– but he can’t tear his eyes away from the curve of Arthur’s lips as he frowns thoughtfully, lost in the manuscript. 

Merlin needs to do something. He just doesn’t know what.

Almost a month after announcing to his father’s council that he’s a sorcerer, Arthur has fallen into a routine that he likes. 

Merlin wakes him up in the most obnoxious way possible, and prattles on as he serves Arthur breakfast (and steals food from Arthur’s plate when he thinks Arthur isn’t looking). From there, Arthur heads out to train his knights, who have stopped eyeing him warily, mostly thanks to Sir Leon knocking some sense into them. He has Merlin draw him a bath if he has time before attending any council meetings; the council has mostly come around to his presence, though some of Uther’s more loyal advisors still scowl at him and flinch when he speaks. (Uther doesn’t acknowledge Arthur in any way during the council meetings, not even to tell Arthur to leave. It still hurts, but not as much as it once did.) Once or twice a week, he makes an effort to venture into the lower town, where people have been far more accepting of having a prince with magic. Some days, Morgana joins him. Those days are especially good– the braver of the common folk, usually the children, ask if they can see a spell, and Morgana smiles brightly, more carefree than Arthur has seen her in a long time. 

The best part of each day, though, is undoubtedly the evenings. He’ll have dinner and then he’ll practice his magic by candlelight, with Merlin beside him, or the two of them will just talk. 

Tonight is a talking night. They’re sharing a pitcher of wine and Arthur is wildly aware that it’s highly inappropriate to do so with a servant, but it’s hardly the worst bit of decorum he’s broken as of late. 

“It always seemed strange to me,” Arthur says, perhaps a little tipsy, “that we have a dragon as Camelot’s crest when we have no dragons. Isn’t that odd?”

Merlin is oddly pensive. The firelight dances over his features in a way that’s mesmerizing, and Arthur can’t bring himself to look away. 

“Perhaps,” Merlin says, “it’s because Uther believes that Camelot conquered the dragons. As a show of strength. Or–” His lips quirk up, “– it’s because you’re the Pendragons, though I really think that Pratdragon would be more fitting for you.”

Arthur takes a swipe at his head, but it’s a half-hearted attempt. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

Merlin’s eyes shine, or maybe it’s just the light. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Arthur stares intently at him, willing his magic to do something, like dump the rest of the wine pitcher in Merlin’s hair, or pull the insolent man’s chair out from under him. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work, so Arthur mostly just ends up looking like an idiot.

“Are you trying to use magic on me?” Merlin asks, pretending to be affronted. “I can’t believe this. And after everything I’ve done for you, too.” He shakes his head solemnly. 

Arthur intensifies his focus. Whatever face he makes must be particularly stupid, because Merlin breaks, snorting into his goblet. 

Whatever. Arthur doesn’t need magic. He cuffs Merlin over the head. “Shut up, Merlin.” 

Merlin just laughs harder– he’s a giggly drunk– and Arthur can’t quite hold back his smile. 

His nose wrinkles when he laughs, Arthur finds himself thinking fondly.

“I’ll have you in the stocks for a week,” he threatens.

“Whatever you say, Sire,” Merlin says once he’s gotten control over himself. He’s still grinning. 

Arthur rolls his eyes and does his best to stifle his own grin as he takes a sip of his wine. 

“He’s a sorcerer!”

Morgana watches as the man is dragged before Uther and forced to his knees. He’s clearly terrified, hardly daring to look at the king. 

“I saw him, using magic to wash his clothes!” one of the guards insists. 

“He could be plotting the downfall of the kingdom as we speak!” the other guard cries. 

Uther considers them gravely. He opens his mouth–

“This man hardly poses a threat,” Arthur says. “I dare say, Father, that the knights of Camelot are capable of fighting off clean trousers.”

Uther’s eye twitches and he takes a breath before speaking. “Be that as it may, the law is clear. Do you confess to using magic?”

The man cowers. “Yes, My Lord. But–”

“Then I sentence you,” Uther begins, “to–”

Morgana clears her throat and glares daggers at him. 

“... the stocks,” Uther finishes lamely. “Take him away!” 

As the hall breaks into murmurs, Morgana and Arthur discreetly high five. 

It’s been a long time since Morgana was so content. The magic ban still stands, of course, seeing as the council is loath to change its biases, much less act against Uther, and many of her people are still suffering. Somehow, though, against all odds, Morgana has managed to carve herself a home here. Between the encouraging words from Gwen and Merlin’s smiles and Arthur’s understanding, she no longer feels so alone. 

There’s work to be done still, but she and Arthur have made strides already. The future hasn’t felt so hopeless, these past few weeks. 

Morgana swears that she can see it, reflected back at her in Arthur, and not for the first time, she’s glad that he’s here. That they’re here.

Arthur fixes his gaze on his hands. “Blóstmá.”

Petals unfurl from nothing, and he offers Merlin the flower. For approval, not– anything else. Arthur Pendragon doesn’t give his manservant flowers, after all; that would be ridiculous. 

Merlin takes it with gentle fingers. “It’s beautiful,” he says, and Arthur’s heart does not somersault in his chest, “You’re a fast learner, Arthur.”

Something in Arthur preens at the compliment, but he still frowns. “Morgana tried to teach me earlier and I had no luck.”

“Oh?” Merlin turns away, moving to the table to stick the flower in Arthur’s half-full goblet of water. Arthur was still drinking that, but whatever. He’ll just steal Merlin’s. “Well, not even you can get everything on the first try.”

Except with the magic, Arthur almost always does. He speaks the words, and whatever he intends happens. The only times that he’s failed have been when he was trying to push Merlin out of his chair last week, and when Merlin isn’t around. 

“It’s your fault,” Arthur says. 

Merlin carries the flower to the windowsill. “It’s not my fault that you’re a mere mortal like the rest of us. You know, if you conjure a few more of those, this could be a nice bouquet.”

“You’re such a girl, Merlin.” Arthur rolls his eyes. “Blóstmá. And it is– you’re the reason I’m able to do as much as I can. It’s like… you’re magic.” 

Merlin turns, an almost panicked look in his eyes as he opens his mouth. “Arthur–”

“I know you’re not actually magic,” Arthur says, rising from his chair. His hands are full of flowers– for whatever reason, this last incantation summoned nearly two dozen of them. “But somehow, you– your presence– is. I never feel more at ease than when I’m with you. Something about you…” He crosses the room to put the flowers in the goblet-turned-vase, and when he turns, Merlin is within armsreach. 

Merlin’s eyes meet his, wide and searching. His lips are parted, like Arthur’s words come as a shock.

Arthur knows he doesn’t say enough kind things to Merlin. He tries, now, to find the right words to encompass what it is about Merlin that Arthur finds so settling, but in the end, he can’t.

“There’s something about you, Merlin,” he says, and it comes out softer than he means it to. And then it hits him. 

Oh. I’m in love with Merlin.

Arthur has never been particularly good with feelings. The sudden realization, the ease at which he accepts it should terrify him. Strangely, it doesn’t. 

Or, perhaps not so strangely after all, because Merlin has always made him brave. 

Across from him, Merlin’s expression has softened. His lips quirk. “You said that when we met, too. Remember?”

“You mean when you insulted me in front of my men?”

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Merlin says, and gods help him, Arthur loves him. “You really are a prat–”

Arthur kisses him. 

Merlin makes a startled noise against his lips, but quickly kisses Arthur back. 

Despite their awkward angle, it’s gentle. Their noses knock together and Merlin’s lips are chapped and press a little too hard against Arthur’s own, but it’s easily the best kiss Arthur has ever had, because it’s Merlin.  

Arthur’s heart flutters. A swarm of joyous butterflies seem to have taken off in his stomach, and there are sparks everywhere he and Merlin touch. It’s wonderful. His hand rises to cup Merlin’s cheek, anything to try and get closer.

Merlin jerks back, ending the kiss abruptly. His face goes from flushed to pale in an instant, something all too close to fear in his eyes, and something shrivels in Arthur’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, chest heaving. “Arthur, I’m so sorry, I can’t–”

“What do you mean, you can’t?” Arthur demands, then realizes how that sounds. “Merlin–”

“I have magic,” Merlin blurts out.

Everything goes still. 

In all the time that they have known each other, not once has Arthur considered that Merlin, his bumbling fool of a manservant, might have magic. It seems preposterous. Merlin has always been a horrible liar, though, and his expression– pained, almost shocked, as though he can’t believe that he’s said it– screams that it’s the truth. 

It surprises Arthur and it must show on his face, because Merlin inhales sharply, looking like he might flee. 

“In case you missed it, Merlin,” Arthur says, trying to keep his tone light, “I’ve been using magic on a daily basis for the past month and a half. I’m hardly going to hold it against you.” There was a time where he would have, but he’s grown since then.

It hurts that despite that, Merlin doesn’t seem to trust him. 

“You haven’t been.” Merlin says the words like they pain him. He’s not looking at Arthur. “It was me, the whole time.”

Arthur frowns, because that can’t be right.

“I’ve been protecting you with my magic since I arrived in Camelot, and your father noticed, but he never thought to suspect me. Instead, he confronted you about having magic, and I wasn’t going to play along, but– then you wanted to learn, and it made you so happy… and I didn’t know how to stop, or how to tell you–” Merlin doesn’t seem to be able to go on, but he doesn’t have to. 

Arthur thinks back to how Morgana’s lessons were always fruitless. To how every time he has done magic, Merlin has been around. 

He should be angry, Arthur thinks vaguely. Merlin has been deceiving him for as long as they’ve known each other, and by letting Arthur believe he has magic, not only has he let Arthur make a fool of himself, but he’s utterly ruined Arthur’s relationship with his father. He let Arthur live a lie, the same way that Uther did. 

Except, believing he had magic also let Arthur see through his father’s hypocrisy (and does he really want a relationship with the man who as good as murdered his mother?). It has given him a better relationship with Morgana than he’s had in years. It’s given Arthur the chance he needed to stop chasing after the approval of others and do things that make him happy, whether it was (believing he was) doing magic or spending time with Merlin just because. Arthur is a better person because of it, and Merlin is right, he realizes:

Arthur is happier now than he’s been in years. Happier, perhaps, than he’s ever been. 

Merlin may be an idiot, but Arthur can’t be angry at him for wanting Arthur to be happy. Not when Arthur suspects that he would do similarly stupid things for Merlin. 

“You,” Arthur says, “are such a clotpole.” And before Merlin can argue that that’s his word, Arthur steps back into his space, puts his arms around Merlin’s neck, and kisses him again. 

It’s sweeter, this time, with no secrets between them. They don’t speak, but they don’t need to; Arthur knows Merlin well enough to understand that this kiss is I’m sorry, and in return, Merlin knows Arthur well enough to understand Arthur’s response of, stop apologizing, there’s nothing to forgive you for. The kiss only breaks because the two of them can’t stop smiling. 

Arthur pulls back, just enough to see Merlin.

His eyes are gold, and it’s the most beautiful thing Arthur thinks that he’s ever seen. Arthur has every intention of going back in for another kiss, but Merlin blinks at him, then looks to the room. 

“Er,” he says. 

Arthur looks. 

His chambers are covered, floor to ceiling, in blossoms of all colors. Flowering vines climb his walls like a trellis; the only place that’s escaped the greenery is the small patch of floor where the two of them are standing, and the windowsill beside them. It takes Arthur’s breath away, not because it’s beautiful– though it is– but because of how much it feels like Merlin. Like a sanctuary.

“I didn’t do it?” Merlin tries. 

Arthur gives him a look. “Don’t lie to your prince. I may not be able to hex you, but I can still put you in the stocks.”

Merlin snorts, then sombers. “How… what are we going to do about this?” He gestures between them. 

I’m going to court you and when I inherit the throne you become my consort, obviously, Arthur makes to answer, then realizes that Merlin doesn’t mean them, he means… everything else. 

 “Morgana should probably know the truth,” Arthur says slowly, and makes a face because she’s never going to let him live this down. “We should probably make it clear to the kingdom as a whole. But…”

“But, what?” Merlin watches him carefully. 

“If,” Arthur says, “you didn’t mind keeping up the illusion where my father is concerned…”

Merlin makes a valiant attempt at keeping a straight face, but it doesn’t last long.

Arthur finds himself grinning right back, and it feels like the start of something new.