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For the record, Merlin told Arthur that this was a terrible idea.
“Nothing good ever happens in the Valley of the Fallen Kings,” he said while readying the horses. “Couldn’t we just… go around? The Plains of Denaria are supposed to be nice this time of year.”
Arthur, the ass, rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t be such a girl, Merlin. There’s nothing wrong with the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Besides, going around would add a full day onto our journey. I’m not going to offend King Godwin by being late because you’re afraid of some trees.”
“I’m not afraid of trees,” Merlin argued, “I’m afraid that we’re going to be attacked by mercenaries or worse like every other time we take that route.”
Now, a half day later, after fighting off a hoard of bandits in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, Merlin is about three seconds away from saying, I told you so.
Arthur is scowling, surveying the ravine as he sheathes his sword. Their horses ran off in the scuffle with all of their supplies, and they’ve been separated from the knights. It’s not good, to say the least. And Merlin fucking called it.
Merlin opens his mouth to point out that he was right, but Arthur is already turning a glare on him.
“Shut up, Merlin,” he says.
“I wasn’t going to say ‘I told you so,’” Merlin lies.
There’s an odd rumbling sound; Arthur turns towards the cliff wall beside them as Merlin continues.
“But, it is true that if you had listened to me—“
Arthur grabs Merlin roughly by the shoulder, shoving Merlin behind him as the rumbling grows louder, and Merlin looks up.
Because their luck is fantastic, there’s a rockfall careening towards them. Merlin’s magic surges but he pushes it down, glancing about frantically for another option. His eyes catch on a cave opening just behind them and he moves without thinking, grabbing Arthur’s arm and pulling him backwards.
They don’t have time to outrun the rockfall unaided, but if they have a place to go and Arthur is focused on that—
“Come on!” Merlin has to raise his voice to be heard above the roar. “In there!”
Arthur catches sight of the opening and runs, hand still fisting Merlin’s jacket. They pull each other forward with almost violent desperation, Arthur’s eyes fixed on their salvation– the perfect cover.
Merlin’s eyes flash gold and time slows around them, just long enough for them to stumble past the threshold of the cave. The magic disperses, then, and the ground shakes as rocks hit the earth. He sees Arthur push him further into the tunnel, keeping himself between Merlin and the opening like a shield, and then the opening of the cave is covered by rubble and everything is plunged into darkness.
It’s disorienting, the sudden loss of vision. Merlin blinks uselessly as the rocks finish shifting, leaving behind only an echo and the sound of breathing. At some point, he must have lost his grip on Arthur, because his hands are empty. It fills him with panic and he gropes in the direction that he thinks Arthur is in. “Arthur?”
“I’m here,” he hears Arthur reply. He sounds alright and something in Merlin’s chest eases.
Merlin reaches out and tries to move towards Arthur’s voice. Unfortunately, Merlin is clumsy enough when he can see where he’s going; in the dark, it’s a lost cause. He manages all of three steps before he’s tripping over a rock and falling forward, crashing into another body.
Arthur grunts with surprise, breath leaving his lungs in a short, punched out gust as Merlin’s momentum takes them to the ground. “Merlin–”
“There you are,” Merlin says brightly. He realizes rather abruptly that he’s sprawled on top of Arthur and scrambles to try and push himself up. One of his hands somehow ends up gripping what he thinks is Arthur’s bicep, and another ends up on what is definitely Arthur’s chest, and Merlin thanks the gods that Arthur can’t see the way his face burns red.
Eventually, he manages to recollect himself, sitting beside Arthur with their shoulders pressed together. So that they know where each other are, he tells himself– except, Merlin has always been a terrible liar, so it’s not all that convincing.
He can’t tell how Arthur feels about the proximity without seeing his face, but Arthur doesn’t pull away. “We need to find our way out of here.” His tone is all business– kingly.
“The knights can’t have gone far,” Merlin says. “They might have heard the rockfall— maybe they’ll come investigate.”
“We can’t count on that.” Arthur shifts, and all of a sudden, his touch is gone. “Stay back— I’m going to try to move the rocks—”
Fear flares in Merlin’s chest, cold and constricting. “Arthur, it could collapse in on you. You can’t see what you’re doing.”
And neither can Merlin— if something happens, he’ll be powerless to use a discreet spell because he won’t be able to tell that Arthur needs him. Unless he wants to reveal himself, Merlin is helpless— a feeling he has always loathed, especially when it comes to Arthur.
“Don’t be such a girl. It will be fine,” Arthur says.
“That’s what you said when I told you we should take a different route,” Merlin says. He can hear the crunch of gravel beneath Arthur’s feet as he moves. “And now, here we are, after a bandit attack and a rockfall—“
Arthur’s sigh is so incredibly Done. “Yes, thank you, Merlin. Now are you going to continue to waste time, or will you back up already?”
“You’re going to get us both killed,” Merlin argues, but he finds himself on his feet, stepping in the opposite direction of Arthur’s voice.
“Neither of us are dying,” Arthur says. “Did you back up?”
“Yeah. Didn’t know you cared,” Merlin quips, as though his heart isn’t in his throat. He trusts Arthur– of course he does– but if things go wrong–
“I don’t,” Arthur says. “I just know that if something goes wrong, I don’t want you following me in the next life. You’ll be insufferable, always wittering on about how you told me so–”
“I did tell you so, you prat, and I’m telling you so right now–”
“It’s purely selfish,” Arthur interrupts, and Merlin doesn’t need to see his face to know that Arthur is lying. It warms Merlin from the inside out.
It’s silent for a moment. Then–
Arthur grunts. There’s the sound of falling pebbles, and a noise that must be Arthur adjusting his grip or his stance.
Merlin waits, scarcely daring to breathe. His magic hovers beneath his skin, ready to leap out at a moment’s notice, even though that will almost certainly be too late. Try as he might, all there is is darkness before him. He cannot see Arthur, and–
“It won’t budge.” Arthur’s voice is full of frustration. “No man could move these rocks– not from our side, at least.”
Beneath the sheer relief that Arthur hasn’t become Prince Pancake, something in Merlin’s chest withers. His magic might be their only way out– and perhaps it would be easy enough to wave a hand and blast the rubble outward, but there isn’t a single explanation for such an event besides sorcery. And even if there was, in this complete and total darkness, the golden glow of Merlin’s eyes would give him away.
If it comes to a choice between saving Arthur and keeping his secret, there is no choice. Merlin would save Arthur a thousand times over, no matter what the consequences. He had hoped, though…
Merlin wouldn’t change his magic for anything, but he never would have chosen it for himself. His place at Arthur’s side means more to him than he could ever hope to express, but that wasn’t his choice either. His job, his destiny– even ending up in Camelot– none of it was his choice. He made his peace with it all a long time ago, but he had hoped that he would at least get to choose this. When to tell the people he cares about that he has magic. When to tell Arthur that he has magic.
There are worse ways for it to happen, he supposes. Except, he’s not ready for it to happen at all. Arthur’s view on magic swings wildly between extremes, and even if right now he has no quarrel with it, he’ll be furious and hurt that Merlin didn’t tell him sooner. He’ll look on Merlin like a liar, a stranger, a betrayer, and Merlin doesn’t know if he can take that. He doesn’t know if he can bear to lose Arthur, who not only carries most of Merlin’s hopes for the future, but who he also cares for more than anyone else, save perhaps his mother and Gaius. (Who, if Merlin is honest with himself, he loves, but right now, he’s too raw to acknowledge it.)
“Perhaps,” Arthur says, carefully concealed hope in his tone, “you might have an idea on how we could get out of here?”
There’s something expectant about the pause that follows, like Arthur is waiting for something. Like he trusts Merlin, and Merlin–
“The knights,” Merlin blurts out. “We should wait and see if they come looking.”
Arthur sighs, and there’s something almost tired about the way he replies, “Right. The knights are our only option. Merlin–” He cuts himself off.
“What?” Merlin says.
“Nothing.” Arthur clears his throat. “You can stop cowering in your corner, you know.”
Merlin feels as though he’s missing something, but he isn’t about to take these moments with Arthur for granted, so he shoves his nerves aside and shoots back, “You were the one who told me to back up!”
Maybe the knights will come. Maybe Merlin won’t have to lose Arthur after all. Or maybe, Merlin thinks as he tries to blindly make his way back to Arthur, he’s just pushing off the inevitable.
A hand tangles awkwardly with his own, and Merlin realizes that Arthur was looking for him, too. Wordlessly, he lets Arthur guide him to sit, side by side again.
For a few minutes, the only sound is their breathing. Then, Arthur speaks.
“Ealdor is quite different from Camelot,” he says, apropos to nothing.
Though Arthur can’t see him, Merlin frowns. “I suppose. What makes you say that?” It’s been years since Arthur followed him home; they’ve barely spoken about it since, save for Arthur giving him a few days off upon their return for him to grieve Will and asking every couple of months if he’s heard from Hunith.
“I thought you might have some stories.” Arthur says, like this is a perfectly ordinary thing for him to suggest.
“Stories,” Merlin repeats.
“I don’t see any acrobats jumping out to entertain us.”
“Very funny.”
Arthur knocks their shoulders together with surprising gentleness. “Go on,” he goads. “Surely you’ve got at least one good story.”
Merlin has a hundred stories. Ealdor was– and is– a simple place, but that never mattered to him. Even if his magic hadn’t kept things… interesting, he and Will got themselves into all sorts of trouble. With Will gone and Escetir long behind him, it seems that all Merlin has are stories.
He can’t tell them all to Arthur. Not with the way his magic is woven throughout many of them. But Arthur is right; they’ve nothing better to do, and the fact that Arthur wants to know is touching in a way it probably shouldn’t be.
(And, Merlin thinks, it’s better than counting the minutes and wondering what he’s counting to– to the moment of rescue from the knights, or to the moment of truth between him and Arthur?)
“I might have one,” he says after a long stretch. “It was… maybe a year before I came to Camelot? Old Man Simmons was being an arse– worse than you, if you can believe it– and he said something that pissed Will off….”
He leaves out some of the details, like what exactly Old Man Simmons had said to rile Will (that if Merlin had any sense, he’d do what his father did and leave) and how they managed to lead a dozen goats through the street and into the man’s house without being caught (using magic). But Merlin tells Arthur the rest of it; one of the goats nearly eating his neckerchief, how Will nearly pissed himself laughing at Old Man Simmons’ shriek of terror when he discovered his hooved guests, the scolding he and Will received from their mothers, and their punishment: cleaning up Old Man Simmons’ house after the goats were shepherded back to the fields.
It isn’t anything terribly special, or even interesting, but Arthur laughs in all the right places and makes jibes about how cleaning Old Man Simmons’ house was probably more a punishment for the old man than Merlin, “seeing as you’ve never properly cleaned anything a day in your life.”
Merlin resents that remark (even though, okay, maybe Arthur has a bit of a point). The teasing and reminiscing about simpler, relatively carefree times, though, have him feeling lighter than before, and when he jumps into his next story (the Beltane Will got drunk enough to flirt with Matthew in front of his wife), it’s with more enthusiasm.
He finds himself wondering, is this easier in the dark? Letting himself be known? He doesn’t talk about himself much, even when he’s prompted; it would be too easy to become comfortable and let something slip. But right now, he can’t see any of the consequences. The only reminder of Arthur’s presence is the warm, calloused hand that has yet to let go of his own and Arthur’s occasional commentary.
(Merlin scarcely dares move, for fear of Arthur realizing that they’re still holding hands. He very pointedly does not think about how right it feels.)
After his fourth story, Merlin manages to turn the conversation back around on Arthur and asks him about growing up in Camelot. Arthur goes quiet for a moment and Merlin worries that he overstepped, but then Arthur is telling him about the afternoons he and Morgana skived their lessons to look for secret passages in the castle, before the weight of prince and lady were so firmly thrust upon their shoulders, and the times he and Leon, Arthur barely a squire at the time and Leon on the cusp of knighthood, sometimes snuck food from the kitchens after training.
Merlin doesn’t miss the fondness in Arthur’s voice as he talks about his sister and his oldest friend, but there’s still a somber tinge to each story that Merlin’s never had. The difference, he suspects, is that Arthur grew up lonely; the only person not beneath him was Uther, who is more king than father, and Arthur has always been considered more heir than human. Arthur grew up far too young, Merlin thinks, and he supposes that his magic and the secrecy that came with it meant that he grew up too young, too, but despite that, he was never lonely in such a visceral way in Ealdor. He had his mother and he had Will, and for most of his childhood, that was enough. Merlin didn’t grow into his loneliness until he came to Camelot.
When Arthur finishes telling him about Leon, he pauses for a moment, then says, “I think your stories are better.”
Merlin aches, but he keeps his tone light. Pity is not what Arthur wants or needs. “Well, I do have a way with words. You’d think that you would have figured that out by now, what with me writing your speeches.” He’s rewarded with a swat to the head, with Arthur’s hand that isn’t holding his.
“Nobody likes a clever clogs, Merlin.” Arthur’s drawl is unimpressed, but somehow, Merlin manages to catch some fondness in it.
He’s going to miss this, he thinks fleetingly. When his secrets have been brought to light, he’s going to miss Arthur’s fondness most of all.
“Your stories,” Arthur starts, sounding oddly uncertain, “Will was in most of them. Your friend.” A pause. “The sorcerer.”
Merlin stiffens ever so slightly. He keeps his voice carefully level when he replies, “Will wasn’t very well-liked, either. It just… made sense for us to be friends.” And Will was one of the best men that Merlin thinks he’ll ever know; a wicked sense of humour, loyalty that would put Arthur’s knights to shame… Merlin misses him sometimes to the point of aching. “He was a good man, too. His magic didn’t change that.”
Arthur is silent.
Quietly, Merlin begins to panic.
Merlin didn’t realize until now how much he relies on Arthur’s expressions. For a man taught to remain stoic and unfeeling, Arthur wears his heart on his sleeve. The twitch of his brow and the curve of his lips often say more than his words. Without being able to see those things, Merlin has no idea what’s going through Arthur’s head.
At last, Arthur speaks. “Do you have any stories about that?”
Merlin knows what Arthur means, but he plays dumb, hoping uselessly that Arthur will let it go. He doesn’t want to talk about magic when he can’t tell what Arthur is thinking. “About Will being a good man?”
“About his magic.” The words come out even, but there’s intention behind them. Merlin has no idea what it is, but he swears that Arthur is looking at him, even with the all-encompassing darkness.
“I didn’t think you would want to hear those sorts of stories,” Merlin says carefully. He fights the urge to claw his way out of his skin and flee.
“They’re your stories, aren’t they?” Arthur says.
Merlin’s blood runs cold, but Arthur can’t mean it like that. If he knew about Merlin’s magic, he wouldn’t be sitting here, holding Merlin’s hand. They wouldn’t have just been laughing about goats terrorizing dodgery old men and running from Camelot’s cook who seemingly hasn’t changed in twenty years. If Arthur knew about Merlin’s magic, he wouldn’t be asking these questions– he’d be banishing Merlin at best, beheading him at worst.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Arthur starts, his grip on Merlin’s hand loosening, and somehow, that’s the thing that spurs Merlin into action.
“Will was a menace without magic,” Merlin says without thinking, “but with it? He was worse. There was a group of boys who were giving him trouble, once, and he dyed all of their clothes pink while they were laid out to dry. No one knew who did it or how, but it was him and his magic.” It’s not the full truth of it, but it’s close– Will had been having trouble with the boys, but Merlin was the one who decided to do something about it. Will didn’t know anything about it until he saw the boys walking around in their newly dyed tunics. It was the first time he’d laughed– really laughed– since his father had died.
Arthur stops his movement to pull away from Merlin. He doesn’t say anything, but he must be listening, so Merlin continues.
“We’d do stupid wagers sometimes– who could chop the most firewood in an hour, or who could reach the treeline first– and there was one day where we went out to the stream and decided to see who could catch more fish. I– he used magic to pull the fish out of the water and then insisted that he wasn’t cheating.” A small smile comes to Merlin’s face as he remembers Will’s annoyance. It had ended with the two of them splashing around in the stream and their bet forgotten. “He was.”
“You two were perfect for each other, then,” Arthur says. It almost sounds like he’s smiling, too. “You’re just as lazy.”
“I resent that,” Merlin says, because he can’t say that it’s not true. He still feels unsettled, ready to wrench himself from Arthur’s grip and run, fighting the urge to curl into a ball and hide. The normalcy of their banter eases some of his nerves, but in the end, it’s not enough.
How long have they been trapped in here? Surely, the knights will find them soon, or else…
“When did he tell you?” Arthur asks, becoming serious again. There’s something almost vulnerable in his voice. If Merlin didn’t know him, he would have missed it.
The question surprises him. It takes a moment for him to remember how to speak. “He didn’t.”
“You weren’t surprised, though,” Arthur says, “in Ealdor, when he summoned the wind.”
“I found out by accident. Will fell out of a tree and then he just… stopped falling.” It’s strange, to tell Arthur the truth, even if it is misleading. Merlin can’t decide if he hates it or loves it. He tries to dispel the tightness in his chest with a quip. “I don’t know who was more surprised, him or me.”
Arthur is quiet for a moment. “Did anyone else know?”
“Only his mum.” Merlin has no clue why Arthur has suddenly started asking all of these questions; he has even less of a clue as to why he’s answering. Maybe it’s because he’s always wanted to be honest with Arthur; to finally be known by him. Maybe it’s because he can’t see the look on Arthur’s face as he bares part of his heart. Maybe it’s because somewhere deep down he knows that the knights aren’t coming, and he’s going to have to reveal himself. “I don’t think I ever would have known if I didn’t see it myself.”
“He didn’t trust you?” Arthur says, so softly that Merlin thinks for a moment that he imagined it. The words hit him like a blow to the chest.
“It was never about trust,” Merlin says, his own voice wavering. He feels far too raw and exposed. He’s glad, suddenly, for the darkness. “That’s just– how it is, for magic users. He never would have told anyone.”
Arthur is so quiet that if his hand weren’t still in Merlin’s, Merlin would think himself alone.
“He would have spent his whole life,” Arthur says at last, sounding almost lost, “with that secret? No one to help carry his burdens?”
Merlin scrubs his free hand across his face, swallowing around the lump in his throat.
“That sounds…”
“Lonely?” Merlin offers. It is.
A beat. Then another.
Arthur’s next words send Merlin’s world crashing down around him.
“Merlin… I know,” Arthur says. Three simple words, but there is no missing the weight to them.
A strange, horrible numbness falls over Merlin, even as his hands begin to shake with fear. No, he thinks. No, this can’t be happening. Arthur can’t know.
“Know what?” Merlin asks. His voice comes out strangled.
“About your magic,” Arthur says. “Not Will’s. Yours.”
Merlin cannot breathe. He’s vaguely aware of Arthur talking, but the words don’t make any sense. All he can do is think: Arthur knows.
So much agonizing over how he would even begin to explain himself, draft upon draft of pleas that he’s cycled through in his head, sacrifice after sacrifice to keep this truth hidden, and still, Arthur has found out. How? When? Was Arthur awake one of the dozen times Merlin believed him unconscious and used magic in front of him? Did he catch Merlin in a far stupider incriminating act, like using a spell to polish amour? Or did Merlin give himself away talking about Will just now?
A hand squeezes his and Merlin’s panicked thoughts come screeching to a halt.
Arthur is still holding his hand. Why is Arthur still holding his hand?
“You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you. Really, Merlin, you’d think that those ears of yours would be good for something,” Arthur says, finally cutting through the fog that’s enveloped Merlin’s mind. He sounds almost fond, and slightly annoyed, as though this is all normal for them. You didn’t shine my pauldron properly, Merlin, perhaps I ought to have you shadow George again. In case it slipped your mind, Merlin, I’m the prince; you can’t address me like that. Well, Merlin, I’ve discovered your greatest secret and know that you’re a warlock, do try to keep up.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin manages. He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for– not listening? The lies? The magic?
No. Not the magic. Merlin is terrified and sick to his stomach and wishes that he’d been able to tell Arthur from the start, but he won’t apologize for what he is. He did not choose magic, but it is part of him and he wouldn’t trade it for the world.
“You’ve never been very good at listening to me,” Arthur says, still unphased, and Merlin doesn’t understand. “Please, don’t start now.”
“You know,” Merlin says, testing the words out. They feel clumsy and wrong in his mouth. “For how long?”
“Almost a year,” Arthur says.
The ground drops out from under Merlin and the air is punched out of him. When he speaks, his voice comes out far too small. “What?”
“I didn’t want to believe it at first.” For the first time since he revealed that he knows, Arthur loses the unaffected air to his tone. Now, he sounds almost regretful. “You were one of the people I cared about most, and you practiced a craft that I thought to be pure evil. I felt betrayed, angry– but I couldn’t bear to see you burn.”
Merlin remembers, suddenly, many months ago, an odd stretch of time where Arthur had been… different. More snappish and closed off than usual. He plied Merlin with so many chores that Merlin had scarcely been able to talk to him. He’d thought that it was just one of Arthur’s moods.
“I wondered if perhaps there was a way to save you from the magic’s influence. So, I… did some research. I convinced Geoffrey to let me read some of the forbidden texts that he’d squirreled away,” Arthur continues. “It didn’t take long for me to realize that magic wasn’t what I thought it was. That it doesn’t corrupt– that some people are born with it.”
Merlin’s eyes burn and he scrubs a hand across his face. “Arthur–”
“I wanted you to tell me.” Arthur is painfully, achingly earnest. “I wanted to earn the right to know you, magic and all.”
“Arthur,” Merlin says again, like it’s all that he knows how to say. His ribs feel as though they might crack from the sheer wave of emotion that fills his chest.
“Do you know how many times I’ve pretended to be unconscious so that you can use your gifts?” Arthur asks. “How many horrible excuses I’ve accepted? Who even spends a week in the tavern?”
“Gwaine,” Merlin says, still shaky and disbelieving. “I told Gaius not to use that excuse.”
Arthur snorts.
Merlin closes his eyes, though it makes little difference, and tries to sort through the mess in his head. Arthur knows and has known for months. He hasn’t told Uther. He wanted Merlin to tell him on his own terms. He wants to know about the magic, he wants to know about Merlin. For something so simple, it refuses to make sense to Merlin.
“You’re not angry?” Merlin asks, dreading the answer.
“Only with myself,” Arthur says, “for not doing more to protect you. For not being someone who you could go to.”
“It was never about that,” Merlin says, his vehemence surprising him. “If I cared about you less, I might have been able to tell you, eventually. I couldn’t–” He cuts himself off, not quite able to finish.
Arthur seems to understand anyway. His hand squeezes Merlin’s a bit more tightly for a moment, and then he’s lifting it.
There is warm breath on the back of Merlin’s hand, and then the gentle, lingering press of lips.
Merlin and Arthur have never been affectionate like this. From the beginning, it has been playful shoves and flying goblets and all other manner of horseplay. Their words are barbed, filled with insults and meant to rile each other up. It’s a language that the two of them are fluent in. Somehow, despite this being completely new, Merlin knows what Arthur means by it. There is no mistaking it for anything else:
Arthur wants to make sure that Merlin knows that he is loved.
The hand holding Merlin’s lowers, but doesn’t let go.
“The knights aren’t coming,” Arthur says quietly, as though afraid of scaring Merlin off. “I think we both know that. The only way that we’re getting out of here is if you use your magic.” A beat, and then, “Will you show me?”
Merlin’s breath hitches.
He’s barely begun to wrap his head around the fact that Arthur knows, and that even more, he is not afraid or furious or hurt. Merlin is not being cast out or executed– instead, he’s been offered Arthur’s vulnerability and trust.
It’s irrational, and perhaps even unfair to Arthur to fear that he will go back on his acceptance once he sees Merlin use his powers. Still, Merlin hesitates, something ugly and afraid rearing its head within him.
But Arthur is right; the knights are not coming, and Merlin is the only one who can save them. He’s the only one who can save Arthur.
Arthur, who is at his side, with his fingers still intertwined with Merlin’s. Arthur, who Merlin has never been able to deny anything to, so long as it was in his power to give. Arthur, who trusted him to tell the truth in his own time.
Perhaps it is finally time for Merlin to lend Arthur that same trust.
Merlin lifts his free hand in the direction of the blocked cave mouth. Before he can lose his nerve, he gathers his magic. “Ic ábíetee þæt stánhol.”
Merlin’s eyes shine gold, and for a moment, their light is enough for him to catch a glimpse of Arthur, watching him with something like awe or relief carved into his features. Then, there’s the sound of shifting rock and the last orange rays of the setting sun are streaming into the cave.
Not once does Arthur look away.
Merlin looks him over carefully, searching for any sign that actually seeing Merlin’s magic has changed his mind. His eyes flicker over Arthur’s features warily– but all he finds is Arthur, looking at Merlin the same way he always has, if a little softer than usual.
There are a thousand things that Merlin wants to say. They stick in his throat uselessly.
Arthur has always known him, though– more than Merlin realized, it seems– and all he does is incline his head, like he knows all the words that Merlin cannot figure out how to say.
And then, there is nothing more to be said. Arthur knows and forgave Merlin’s secrets and lies long ago. Merlin is learning that with, not despite, he is still wanted at Arthur’s side. The weight of this has not broken them. They are okay, and that’s all that matters.
Arthur glances towards the cave opening. “It’s too dark for us to go on. We’ll have to spend the night here.”
Merlin isn’t exactly keen on spending the night in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, but it’s probably better for them to hunker down in the cave than try to traverse it in the dark.
“We should start a fire,” Arthur says, making to rise. “I’ll go find wood–”
Merlin’s eyes blaze, and an inviting fire begins to flicker before them, despite the lack of kindling.
Arthur blinks. “Well, that’s handy.”
Merlin can’t help the way his lips twitch. “I have told you, I have many talents.”
“And lazy,” Arthur adds, trying to sound unimpressed. “I hope, Merlin, that you don’t use this as an excuse to further slack off in your job.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Sire,” Merlin says. They’re both aware that this is a lie.
Somehow, Merlin thinks that neither of them will mind this one.