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Merlin returned to his room, his mind already preoccupied with thoughts of the day. Earlier that day, Arthur had called him—summoned him, actually—to come by at night. He had claimed it was important, that there was something vital Merlin needed to hear. Arthur’s face had been serious, more serious than Merlin had ever seen, and when their eyes met—truly met—Merlin’s pulse had quickened. For a fleeting moment, he dared to hope. Maybe… maybe this is it. Maybe Arthur feels the same.
As soon as he stepped inside his room, his gaze was drawn to something that immediately caught his attention—a folded piece of parchment resting quietly on his bed. It was out of place, as if it had appeared there with purpose.
He unfolded it carefully, the elegant handwriting—he immediately recognized it as Arthur's—that adorned the page unmistakable.
Your gaze is moonlight, veiled by the night,
A secret I’ll chase, hidden from sight.
My chest, a pyre, with flames that grow,
Burning for you, and only you, I know.
The words struck Merlin like a bolt of lightning. His heart plunged into his stomach, and the parchment trembled in his hands as his breath caught in his throat. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself that this letter wasn’t meant for him, the To Merlin at the top of the page crushed his hopes. The truth was unavoidable.
Arthur knew.
His mind spun into a whirlwind of panic, searching through every moment, every instance where he might have revealed his magic to Arthur. Had he—had he ever given anything away? He couldn’t even remember anymore. The truth was simple, too many times—he had used his magic for Arthur.
He had been so careful, so cautious, when King Uther still reigned. Fear had been a constant companion, and every day felt like a balancing act on the edge of a blade. But after Uther’s death, and Arthur’s rise to the throne, Merlin had let his guard down. Perhaps he had hoped—naively, foolishly—that Arthur’s views would evolve, that the king who had become like family would understand him, see him not as a threat, but as something more.
But clearly, he was wrong.
Burning for you. The words on the parchment caught his attention again. It was written with such force that the ink had bled into the paper, as though it were a raw declaration of some horrible truth. Merlin felt a sickening sensation settle in his chest, as though the fire that burned in Arthur’s words was slowly but surely being stoked around him.
This was it. The sentence, the death sentence, from the king.
With a heavy heart, Merlin dragged his feet toward Arthur's chambers.
What he thought before, now seemed laughable.
A sorcerer, sentenced to death, dreaming of the king’s love. Absurd.
Merlin smiled bitterly and knocked on the door.
“Enter.”
Arthur's voice came from behind the door, tight and shaky, as if he were nervous and scared about what he was about to face. It was normal for Arthur to feel fear, Merlin thought, considering he was about to confront a secret sorcerer—someone he'd known for ten years. But despite that, Arthur's hesitation still made Merlin feel as though a dagger had been driven into his heart.
“You summoned me, sire,” he said, voice thick with the weight of what was to come. He entered the room slowly, shutting the door behind him as quietly as possible. His gaze dropped to the floor, his posture slumped, like a criminal waiting for their sentence to be read aloud.
“Merlin,” Arthur said softly, his voice still taut with tension. The way he said Merlin’s name made it feel like a physical thing—his stomach tightened, and his chest grew heavy.
“Did you... umm... read that—well, the...” Arthur trailed off, clearly struggling for the right words.
“The letter,” Merlin interjected, unwilling to call it a death sentence.
“Yes,” Arthur nodded quickly, a flicker of something in his eyes. “That is, the letter.”
Merlin’s throat closed, and it took him a moment to answer, his voice barely audible. “Yes,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“Then I guess…” Arthur’s voice faltered too, and Merlin was startled to hear it shake, “you know what it means.” The words seemed to carry more weight than he could have imagined. For a moment, Merlin allowed himself to think—perhaps this was difficult for Arthur too. Perhaps the king didn’t want this either. The thought, strange and unexpected, gave him a small, strange sense of relief.
Merlin swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure.
“...I do,” he managed, though the words tasted bitter. At least Arthur wasn’t having the guards drag him away, executing him immediately. “And... I have no objections.”—a part of him wanted to say it with finality, but it came out trembling. He could hear Arthur’s soft sigh of relief, though it did nothing to ease the knot in his chest.
Merlin kept his head lowered, his eyes fixed on his toes, as his mind conjured images of fire and smoke—of flames licking at his skin, consuming him from all sides. He heard Arthur move toward him, but Merlin refused to look up.
“Merlin, look at me.”
Somehow, Arthur had closed the distance between them. He was so close now that Merlin could smell the faint scent of the training grounds on him—sweat and the dust of battle. For a brief, agonizing moment, Merlin remembered the way Arthur used to sweat in the sun, laughing as he swung his sword with reckless abandon, his golden hair sticking to his forehead, the sunlight tracing his jawline like the golden glow of a god.
Those moments were gone now.
Gathering what little courage remained, Merlin finally looked up at Arthur, dreading what he might see. Would there be fear? Disgust? A loathing of him, of his very being? His heart stuttered when their eyes met, but no—there was none of that.
In Arthur’s blue eyes, he saw only gentleness. The kind of gentleness that made his pulse quicken, that made his breath catch in his throat. It was so different from what he had expected that he couldn’t understand it.
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Arthur murmured.
Merlin, his heart hammering in his chest, opened his mouth to say something—anything—but before he could speak, Arthur took his hand, placing something warm and round into his palm.
Merlin blinked, confused. He looked down at the object in his hand—
“This belonged to my mother,” Arthur said, his voice low but firm. “I’ve carried it with me, as if she’s still with me.”
“And you’re going to… give it to me?”
Merlin stared at the small object in his hand, still unable to comprehend why Arthur—Arthur, the king—would entrust such an important sigil to a sorcerer like him. A sorcerer condemned to death. His breath hitched, and he added softly, “I... I can’t...”
Arthur’s expression softened. “I know it won’t be easy for you—but…” Arthur said, his tone so firm, so unyielding, almost like a command. “Just... take it.”
In that moment, Merlin understood.
Arthur wasn’t just handing him a token; he was entrusting him with something far heavier—his mother’s memory, his own hopes.
When Merlin’s secret is revealed, Arthur finds a way to use him. The king commands Merlin to use his magic to bring his mother back to life—which is why he entrusts Merlin, a sorcerer, with his precious sigil.
Merlin couldn’t help but wonder if Arthur understood the ancient law of the Old Religion—that to bring one life back, another must be sacrificed. Perhaps Arthur knew, perhaps he didn’t, but did it really matter? Merlin had already been sentenced to death. In the end, it was only a matter of whether he would die as a sacrifice… or on the pyre.
“I do, Arthur,” Merlin whispered, his voice thick with bitterness, “I'd do anything for you.” His gaze locked with Arthur’s, a mix of longing and desperation clouding his thoughts. He knew, deep down, that this could be the last time he would ever see Arthur, the last time he could touch him, hold him close. Over the years, he had hidden so much—his magic, his love, his heart. But now, one secret had been revealed, and as his life hung in the balance, he wondered—should I hide the rest of it? Or was this the moment when everything would be laid bare?
Without thinking, driven by a storm of emotions too powerful to contain, Merlin moved closer. He pressed his lips to Arthur’s, his hands finding their way to the king’s back, clutching at him desperately, as though trying to anchor himself in a world that was slipping away. The kiss was frantic, fierce, as if each second was a stolen moment of something they could never have again. Merlin could feel the muscles in Arthur’s body tense, the rapid rise and fall of his chest as their breaths mingled, heavy and labored. Arthur’s breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping him as their lips met with a ferocity that spoke of everything Merlin had kept buried for so long.
Merlin had expected Arthur to push him away—to reject him, to remind him of the distance between them. But instead, Arthur’s hands gripped him with surprising strength, pulling him closer, pressing their bodies together. The warmth of Arthur’s skin seeped into him, and for a moment, Merlin thought he might melt into it.
The kiss was frantic, each moment stolen. Merlin's chest rising and falling rapidly against Arthur's. Their bodies pressed together, heartbeats thundering in unison, and Merlin couldn’t tell where he ended and Arthur began.
Arthur’s touch was urgent, possessive, and Merlin could feel it in the way his fingers slid to the back of his neck, pulling him even closer. The heat of Arthur’s skin burned through him, and Merlin’s heart seemed to stop as their lips fused together, each movement sending shivers down his spine.
The world around them seemed to tilt, to shift in ways that Merlin couldn’t comprehend. His knees bumped against the soft edge of the bed, and he realized, with a sudden rush of awareness, that Arthur had been guiding him backward all along. Slowly, steadily, Arthur had pushed him to the very edge, and now, with a soft, almost hesitant pressure, Merlin’s back came to rest against the mattress.
Arthur followed him down, leaning over him, supporting himself on either side of Merlin, his weight pressing slightly onto him. Their faces were so close now, their breaths mingling, so close that Merlin could feel the heat of Arthur’s skin against his own, could hear the racing of his heart in the stillness of the room.
Arthur… Arthur… The name echoed in Merlin’s mind, a silent chant, a plea, a prayer. Every part of him—his magic, his soul, his very love for Arthur—screamed, as if trying to tear free from his body, to burst out into the open. He could feel it rising in him, like a tidal wave, crashing against his chest, threatening to overwhelm him. The need to be closer to Arthur, to lose himself in him, was overwhelming.
And yet, in that moment, Merlin understood something. He had never been more vulnerable, more exposed to the man he loved.
Arthur wasn’t asleep when Merlin woke up.
His mind was still tangled in the memories of the night before—the heated, intense closeness they had shared. The way they had gasped for breath, their mouths desperate for each other, their bodies pressed together in a rhythm of hunger and need. Hands had roamed, touching, caressing, exploring the sticky warmth of each other’s skin. It was like honey, sweet and intoxicating, yet filled with an undeniable weight of desire and something darker. Arthur had Merlin completely, and yet it felt like something far more profound was unfolding between them.
Arthur lay still, his breathing steady, his expression calm, as he waited for Merlin to stir. He half expected Merlin to tease him as usual—covering his face with a pillow or making noise to rouse him. But this time, Merlin’s touch was different. It wasn’t playful, but soft, gentle. His fingers caressed Arthur’s skin like a precious treasure, as though every inch of him was sacred. Arthur’s heart quickened, his pulse racing as Merlin’s fingers grazed his chest, tender and slow.
Arthur could feel the warmth of Merlin’s breath against his shoulder, the delicate brush of his lips over the mark of the Questing Beast.
“—orry… sorry, I'm sorry, Arthur…”
Merlin’s voice was barely audible at first. It deepened, turning into a tremor.
Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. A chill ran down his spine. Before he could process the weight of those words, he reached out, grabbing Merlin’s wrist, pulling him close.
Merlin hadn’t expected him to be awake, and panic flashed across his face. He tried to pull away, but Arthur tightened his grip, holding him in place.
Arthur’s voice was a mixture of confusion and concern. “Why so sad?”
“I will do everything for you, even if it means dying for yo...”
“What's wrong, Merlin?” Arthur’s words cut through the air.
Merlin sniffled, biting his lip. “Maybe you took pity on me, or tried to use me—I don’t know...” His voice cracked. “But I'd appreciate that if you—”
“Me what?” Arthur asked, brow furrowed.
“—if you don't let them burn me on the pyre.”
Arthur’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What the hell are you talking about!? And why would I?”
Arthur was taken aback. His mind raced, trying to piece together what Merlin was talking about. He stared at him, brow furrowed, desperate to understand why Merlin was crying.
Merlin took a shaky breath, gathering himself before speaking again. “I’m a sorcerer, Arthur,” he whispered, his gaze meeting Arthur’s for the first time. “I have magic.”
The words hit Arthur like a thunderclap. He was stunned—completely caught off guard. His mind struggled to process what he was hearing, but before he could form a response, Merlin spoke again, his voice barely audible, yet filled with a quiet intensity.
“I only use it for you, Arthur,” Merlin said, his tone raw with emotion. “I’m willing to give my life for you… if that’s the only way I can be of value to you. As long as it makes you happy.”
In that moment, everything else—magic, secrets, the weight of the past—seemed insignificant. What mattered, what hurt, was the thought of losing Merlin.
“How could I!” Arthur’s grip on Merlin tightened. “How could I ever be happy without you?” His voice cracked as the thought of Merlin sacrificing himself tore at his chest. "The thought of you leaving me—it’s unbearable."
Merlin took a shaky breath, gathering himself before speaking again. “In the Old Religion,” he began, his voice barely a whisper, “to bring someone back to life… another life must be exchanged.”
“I don’t want anyone back. The only one I want is you!”
Merlin’s eyes widened, clearly surprised by the intensity of Arthur’s reaction. “But—but you gave me your mother’s sigil—” he started, his voice shaking with confusion. “And those words you said—”
Arthur flushed, his face turning red. After a beat, he choked out the words. “Are you an idiot?” He exhaled, trying to regain his composure. “I gave it to you because it was a—well, it was a proposal.” His voice softened as he added, almost apologetically, “I wanted to ask you to be mine.”
Merlin blinked, completely stunned. “A proposal?” He shook his head, still processing. “Then what about the death sentence!?”
Arthur furrowed his brow, perplexed. “What death sentence?”
Merlin waved his hand, a little exasperated. “Something about the pyre… and the whole moonlight-gaze thing... Well, like this—” He stretched out his other hand, the one Arthur wasn’t holding, and waved it through the air. The candlelight danced in response, catching in his fingers as if the shadows themselves were responding to his touch. Suddenly, a spark flickered to life in his hand, twisting into a tiny dragon of flame. Arthur’s breath caught, but what truly stunned him was the look in Merlin’s eyes—deep, oceanic blue, shimmering with a golden light like the moon rising over the dark sea. It was pure, radiant beauty, and it stole Arthur’s breath away.
"Weren’t you the one who found out this and going to burn me alive?" Merlin pouted, his expression almost pitiful, like a lost, drenched puppy.
“For God’s sake, Merlin—” Arthur groaned, exasperated. “That was a— a love poem!”
“Wait, what?” Merlin stared at him, the confusion still clouding his mind. Slowly, comprehension dawned.
“I thought you were writing a death sentence, clotpole!”
“Merlin, for the love of—do you really think I’d write a poem about lighting you on fire?”
"Well, yeah!" Merlin snapped, his voice rising with panic. "You’re talking about flames and burning, and I’m over here thinking you’re about to drag me to the pyre! I'm terrified!"
Arthur blinked, his mouth hanging open in shock. "That's... that's not my fault, Merlin!"
“Can’t you just be more direct then!”
Arthur let out a bitter laugh, unable to help himself. He reached out, cupping Merlin’s face in his hands. “That was completely direct enough!” he said, his voice half-amused, half-exasperated. “Except I forgot that poems might not work on country boys.”
Merlin snorted, rolling his eyes. “Prat.”
“Idiot.”
“I’m not.”
“Say that again. You actually scared out of your wits by a love poem.” Arthur grinned, playfully pinching Merlin’s bare bottom.
Merlin muttered under his breath, “God, this isn't how I imagined magic being revealed.”
Arthur laughed, the sound rich with affection. “Well, now that you've said it, show me again.”
Merlin blinked, confusion dancing in his eyes. “What?”
“Your magic,” Arthur said, his voice filled with anticipation. “I want to see the moonlight in your gaze again. Literally.”
Merlin’s cheeks turned crimson, and he sighed helplessly. With a wave of his hand, his eyes shimmered again, glowing with molten gold. Arthur moved in closer, his heart racing. He leaned down and gently kissed Merlin’s forehead. “I love you, Merlin,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I love you with my life. Is that direct enough?”
Merlin’s face turned even redder, completely stunned by the confession.
Arthur smiled tenderly, holding Merlin’s face gently in his hands. His eyes softened, a hint of something more serious creeping into his gaze. “Or would you prefer me to be more?”
Merlin barely managed a breathless nod, his heart pounding in his chest.
Arthur’s voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, as he said, “Like... will you marry me?”