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There was a feast to celebrate the signing of the Magic Restoration Act in Camelot, and Merlin, in his official capacity as the new Court Sorcerer, marked the occasion by getting spectacularly drunk. He was both joined by and encouraged in this endeavour by the knights, with whom he was seated for the feast. Arthur, watching on from the head table where he was making stilted conversation with delegates from the druid and Catha peoples, rather wished he could do the same.

It had been a gruelling four months since he and Merlin had limped home from the battle of Camlann, weary and heartsore. Though Arthur’s life had been saved, it had been very close, and Merlin had been exhausted from the efforts of it when Morgana had finally caught up with them. The less said about that final confrontation, the better.

Nonetheless, they’d returned, and Arthur had set about relearning the entire history of his relationship with Merlin. It had been a painful business, but a necessary one. His eyes had been opened, and finally, after months of pouring over old manuscripts and consulting with an increasingly stuffy procession of scholars, counsellors and magic users, they’d succeeded in drafting a new suite of laws to restore magic to the kingdom.

If this had been the only change of the past months, Arthur might have been in more of a celebratory mood that evening, but it had not. A little over a month prior, Gwen had sat him down and gently explained to him that their marriage was over. This may sound like due cause for any and all Brooding and Moping, but it was the next part that had been the real blow. Gwen had gone on to explain the reasons for ending their marriage, starting with her undeniable feelings for Lancelot, and ending with certain revelations concerning Arthur. And his… preferences.

But he was not going to be thinking about that, not tonight, preferably not ever.

The volume of the celebrations mercilessly increased as the evening wore on, as did the number of drunken courtiers pleading for Merlin to perform various acts of sorcery. Arthur watched him indulging them with what started out as minor feats, and began to grow rather wilder as the wine flowed. All of this culminated in final act of wonder that briefly brought the court to awed silence.

Merlin, besieged by an incredibly intoxicated Sir Bleoberis, who wanted nothing more than ‘more magic, come on Merlin, please’, turned a little helplessly to look at Arthur. There was a moment where their gazes caught and held, deep blue flaring to bright, dazzling gold. The light in the room seemed to be dimming, but as Arthur turned to look, there was no change to the candles or braziers. Instead, green moss was creeping up the walls, trees taking root in the flagstone floor. Vines entwined themselves around the pillars, large, blue flowers opening up. Within a matter of minutes, the entire banquet hall was an ancient-looking grove, illuminated by the golden glow of fireflies, blue and pale gold blossom drifting gently down.

Arthur swallowed. The grove was beautiful, the sort of place that bards invent for lovers who are bound for Great Tragedy to lie together in the halcyon twilight before their final parting. It was the sort of place Merlin should have made for that druid girl he’d so loved. Freya. Had she lived, that was.

The banquet hall was silent for a moment. Then, a rapturous applause broke out, loudest of all from the magical folk in the room who seemed even more in awe than his courtiers. Arthur caught murmurings of ‘great power’ and ‘tremendous display, conjuring so much real living matter’. It was at this point that Gwen, who’d been seated beside Arthur, continuing her role as Queen despite their separation, excused herself to bed, and as the wine flowed ever faster and the volume grew ever louder, Arthur couldn’t help but wish he were able to retire himself.

His pitiful situation was improved when Merlin staggered up and slumped into Gwen’s vacated seat. Arthur was so relieved to be able to turn away from the Catha leader he was failing to hold a conversation with that he did not even scold Merlin for plonking himself down into the throne.

“You’ve got flowers in your hair,” Merlin informed him sagely, reaching out to remove them and nearly taking out Arthur’s eye in the process. “Oh, sorry.”

“I’ll never understand,” Arthur said, through watering eyes, “how you can perform the most.. absurd acts of sorcery, and still be the clumsiest idiot I’ve ever known.”

Merlin grinned brightly, “Told you, ‘s part of my charm.”

“Well,” Arthur said dryly, “I suppose this time it might have something to do with the fact that you’re completely sozzled.”

Merlin laughed, taking no offence. “Probly doesn’t help.”

He was a warm, bright, drunken presence next to Arthur for the rest of the night, occasionally visited by Gwaine, who ensured that he did not venture even close to sobriety through the long hours. In fact, he was in such a state of inebriation by the time they were able to stagger up to bed, that Arthur looped an arm around his back to guide him up. This was purely, of course, to keep him from reeling into a wall and accidentally taking out a side of the castle with his magic. He could have had a servant to do it, Arthur supposed, but as Merlin’s new chambers were right down the hall from his, it seemed a cruelty to disturb them at such an hour. Especially when they had an entire woodland grove to dispose of the next morning.

He very generously, therefore, steered Merlin into his rooms and deposited him in a heap on the bed.

“Good night, then,” he said, with a little helpless smile at the lump of sorcerer, and turned to go.

“Wait,” Merlin flailed into a sitting position, and flapped at him. “Arthur, wait.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” Merlin said, with the kind of sincerity only the truly drunk can manage. “There w’s times when I thought this day’d never come. But it did. We’re free.” He grinned, eyes bright with  tears. “You did it, jus like that, like it was nothing, ‘fter all these years… Thank you, Arthur. ‘m so happy.”

“I’m glad,” Arthur replied, trying to keep his voice steady, pushing down the little tender aching that rose up in his chest. It would get easier to ignore, with time.

Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m only sorry it took so long to get here.” He turned to leave, but Merlin stopped him once again.

“Arthur.” Merlin’s voice had hushed, “’m sorry about Gwen. Wish I could make you this happy too.” Arthur turned back to see Merlin’s eyes had turned sorrowful. He continued, almost breathed, “You deserve to be so happy, Arthur.”

Arthur swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. It was a vast feeling, to have those eyes on him, looking as if they could see into his soul. They stayed that way for a long moment, then Arthur said, “You’re going to be sick, aren’t you?”

Merlin did something with his head that was neither nodding nor shaking and Arthur reached grimly for the chamber pot, which he succeeded in getting beneath his friend’s face just in time.

~*~

Not content with feasting alone, Arthur decreed there was to be a tournament to welcome magical folk back to Camelot, because of course there was. Nothing says ‘we mean you no harm’ to a formerly persecuted people than their persecutors demonstrating their skills with deadly weapons. This was a fact which Merlin kindly and considerately (and loudly) pointed out, only to be met with some seriously impressive eye-rolling from his beloved King.

It was the first tournament he’d attended since taking up his new role as Court Sorcerer, the first in which he’d not be assisting Arthur with his preparations, a thought that left him oddly discombobulated. He’d actually arisen early on the day in question, purely out of habit, and been nearly to the armoury to gather His Majesty’s equipment before he remembered. His first, joyful thought was that he could get another hour’s sleep at least and he’d been quite delighted all the way back to his chamber (yes, his chamber, not Gaius’), until he was lying in his bed, thinking.

George would be getting Arthur out of bed, no doubt gently and with great respect for the Royal Dignity. There would be breakfast already laid out, and Merlin wondered with a little unease, whether anyone had told George that Arthur preferred a lighter breakfast of fruit before a tournament, not the meat he usually demanded. Of course it didn’t much matter whether George knew to get the green apples, not the red, and to bring both the August blackberries and the last of the pears because Arthur really would need his strength today, as much as he preferred not to weigh himself down with heavier foods.

It didn’t matter because then George would be slipping the padded tunic over Arthur’s shoulders, helping him on with the mail, then buckling on the pauldron, the hauberk, slipping each piece together, tightening the tiny straps. Hopefully he’d tighten them enough. But not too much. Too much would chafe, even through the under layers, rubbing the soft, pale skin red-raw. Too loose and, well, Merlin didn’t really like to think about shifting plates that could gape and expose vulnerable flesh to a vicious, darting blade.

So instead of sleeping an extra hour, Merlin tossed around fitfully for a while before resigning himself to starting the day. He was grouchy with himself for wasting a perfectly good opportunity for a lie-in, which had been few and far between ever since he’d been at Camelot. He was grouchy with Arthur for being a delicate flower whose happiness was entirely dependent on being fed correctly and who delighted in throwing himself into the path of dangerous weaponry with the minimal protection afforded by plate armour. He was not grouchy enough not to go to Arthur’s chamber directly and double check each and every one of those stupid buckles, much to Arthur’s bemusement. The red apples left untouched on the side he could do nothing about.

All of this to say that it was an inauspicious start to the day, which later proved true by the arrival of one of the most attractive men Merlin had ever laid eyes upon.

His name was Sir Lucan, and he was both a sorcerer and a knight, freshly come to Camelot to participate in the tourney. On hearing this, the steward in charge of registration made it clear, both through words and with his narrow-eyed suspicion, that magic of any kind was not permitted in the tournament. Merlin, standing on the field in his customary position at Arthur’s side despite several attempts from various people to shoo him to the stands where he apparently now belonged, thought briefly that Lucan handled the steward’s insolence with great dignity and poise.

The knight had simply replied, “I am aware of the rules, my good man. Rest assured, I have no intention of dishonouring my gracious hosts by breaking them.” He inclined his head respectfully in Arthur’s direction, who responded with a nod of his own.

Then Sir Lucan smiled, a wicked, seductive thing that would have made several of the more romantically minded ladies of the court swoon. He held Arthur’s eye all through the obnoxious smirk as he added, “I fully intend to win this tournament with nothing but my own honest skill with a blade.” Most egregious of all, when Merlin, already mid-scoff, turned to Arthur to gleefully watch him be utterly unimpressed by this blatant peacocking, he found Arthur looking a little wide eyed, a pink flush barely visible on his cheeks.

The thing was, Merlin’s love for Arthur was his last, well-guarded secret. He’d come to know the truth of it very shortly after his arrival in Camelot and had nursed the sweet aching of it inside himself for the better part of ten years. Whether it made his plight easier or harder to bear he could not have said, but he’d certainly never cherished any hope of having his affections returned. Arthur liked women. Specifically, Arthur loved Gwen. This was how it was to be, and although Merlin could not have stood him loving anyone less worthy, he’d long since perfected the art of channelling any inconvenient welling up of love into a sort of forced contentedness at his friends’ happiness.

Now though. Now Arthur and Gwen had separated, which in and of itself had sent his world reeling. Now this strange knight, a man, had made Arthur blush. Actually blush. All the years of their friendship, he’d never once let himself imagine that Arthur might be capable of an attraction to men. Merlin felt rather as though the world had tilted slightly, and he watched the progress of the tournament that day in something of a disoriented haze.

The worst part was that, not only was Lucan an excellent swordsman, he appeared to be one of those noble breed of knights who prefer to win honourably, or not at all. Merlin had the ignominious task of witnessing Arthur being alternately impressed by Lucan’s skill, courage and, finally, his gallantry as the day wore on.

His progress up the rankings was matched, of course, by Arthur. At the end of the first day, Merlin had a sinking feeling that Lucan might just make it all the way to the finals. That feeling only grew worse at the banquet that night. Arthur greeted all the victorious knights of the day with his usual Royal Politeness, but his acknowledgement of Sir Lucan was markedly friendly.

“You fought well today,” Arthur said, clasping the proffered forearm as Lucan made his way down the receiving line, “but more than that, you fought honourably. I don’t believe we’ve seen such an act of gallantry as you showed today, not in many years at least.”

“I must have been inspired by the company I find myself in, Sire,” Lucan replied, smiling beatifically. “In any case, I could not have felt right in myself if I had not called a halt to the bout and allowed Sir Garrick to recover his breath. It is no honour to win when your opponent is not able to mount a fair fight.”

“Very true,” Arthur nodded, impressed. “We could do with more of your kind in Camelot, Sir Lucan.”

“You do me great honour, my Lord,” Lucan bowed deeply, and was then obliged to move on or hold up the line of his fellows.

“What a kissarse,” Merlin, who was not supposed to be part of the receiving line, muttered to Arthur, eyeing Sir Lucan’s broad shoulders as they moved away.

“What?” Arthur looked at him, face scrunching in confusion, and hissed back, “what are you on about? He’s simply behaving as a knight ought to, with honour and with due respect for the crown.”

“He’s buttering you up.”

“He’s behaving with chivalry. Which he certainly seems to have in spades, after what he did today.”

“Oh come on! Any one of our knights would have done the same. Sir Garrick was obviously suffering from some kind of medical condition. It would have been unthinkable for any decent knight to press the advantage while he was literally lying on the ground!”

“Exactly, Merlin. I pride myself that Camelot’s knights are second to none in their honour and gallantry. Lucan is a match to any of them.”

They continued in the same manner all the way through the receiving line and into the banquet hall, whereupon they were obliged to separate, Arthur making for the head table, and a scowling Merlin going to join Lancelot and the others.

~*~

The next day was worse. Lucan did, in fact, make it to the finals. He was even able to hold out a good long while against Arthur, his movements light and nimble, Arthur a touch slower but stronger. Merlin watched from the sideline, where he’d been assisting Arthur with his armour, George having been detained by the removal efforts of a mysterious green slime that had appeared in the King’s chambers that morning.

The two armoured figures parted, light glinting off polished helms as they circled one another before moving in together. Stroke for stroke and parry for parry their swords met, crossed, flicked away and darted back, in a a dance as intricate as any waltz. Merlin cheered with the crowd as Arthur slipped beneath Lucan’s guard to clout him across the helm with the flat of his blade, the blow disrupting the delicate pattern of his footwork and sending him staggering back.

But instead of pressing his advantage, Arthur allowed the other knight to pause and regain his breath. Lucan removed his helmet, ears evidently ringing with the force of the strike, and his sweat slicked chestnut hair gleamed in the pale sunshine, face flushed attractively pink with the exertion, as if he’d come straight from the bedroom, not the battlefield. Arthur, of course, removed his own helmet, to the usual rapturous applause from his subjects. He was positively glowing, all golden hair and blue eyes bright with the adrenaline of the fight. Merlin’s heart gave a traitorous little thrill.

They met again, resuming their dance, their swords clashing breathtaking quickly now. Their blades met, crossed and caught in a bind. Merlin watched the two of them, faces far too close together, each straining towards the other, eyes locked, as if nothing else existed in the world, and clenched his teeth.

In the end, Arthur won, his superior strength naturally forcing Lucan’s sword down until the knight stumbled, at which point Arthur was on him. And really, Merlin thought afterwards, stripping away Arthur’s plate as his King chattered excitedly about Lucan’s skill, the man couldn’t be that talented if he’d got his blade trapped in a bind. Not when it was so obvious that Arthur would win it.

~*~

“So,” Arthur said, later that evening, taking a sip from his goblet, “would you care to tell me why a man of your obvious skill would let himself get caught in a bind he couldn’t win?”

They were standing to one side of the festivities, Sir Lucan leaning casually against the wall next to a tapestry depicting Achilles weeping over the body of his beloved. Around them, the reception was in full swing, brightly coloured silks swirling in time with the music as the courtiers of Camelot danced. Sir Lucan cocked his head, his green eyes glinting up at Arthur from under his long, dark lashes as his full lips curled up at one corner.

“You know as well as I do, my Lord, that the bind is the closest two swordsmen can come,” he replied, voice as smooth as satin, “When two swords cross and you can feel the strength, the will of your opponent. I find it’s the best way to take the measure of a man, Sire.”

Arthur quirked his eyebrow, pretending as if he were not slightly bewildered. “But it meant you losing the fight. What good did taking my measure do you?”

“Well, Sire,” Sir Lucan’s, eyes were on his own goblet as he traced a finger around the rim. His voice dropped a little and Arthur was forced to lean in to hear. “I could tell you are a strong and courageous warrior. More than that, I could see that you are a righteous and honourable man, a great King. As great as the stories say.” He looked back up at Arthur from under those lashes. “In truth, I did not come here to win a tourney, my Lord. I wanted to see for myself if the court of Camelot, now that magic is free, would be the kind of place a man like myself could serve with pride.”

“And,” Arthur asked. Lucan’s eyes, he noticed, were really rather nice once you’d got past the colour. Not that there was anything wrong with green, though if they’d been blue… “what did you find?”

Lucan’s lips pulled into a smile, even as he slid the lower gently between perfect white teeth. “To serve you, my Lord, would be more than an honour. It would be a privilege.” Oh God, Arthur realised, the man was flirting with him.

“Well,” he said, stepping back, feeling his face heating a little. “You must extend your stay a while, see how you like it here. I’d be honoured if you’d join our knights for training tomorrow.”

“Nothing would please me more,” Sir Lucan said, and with his free hand, he took Arthur’s, raising it to his lips before Arthur, stunned, could so much as move. “Until tomorrow then, Sire,” he said, with a smile like a promise, and disappeared back into the array of silks, vanishing from sight amid the throng.

Arthur drew back his hand, feeling where Lucan’s mouth had pressed lightly against it, not entirely sure what to make of it. Quite how Lucan could tell that Arthur himself would even be interested in another man, he had no idea. He’d not even known it himself, until recently. Although perhaps it was more accurate to say that he’d not allowed himself to know it, not until the awareness had been unceremoniously thrust upon him by the kindness(?) of his Queen.

Now here he was, nearly thirty and with no idea how to begin to explore that part of himself, or even if he wanted to. Perhaps it would be easier to carry on ignoring it. Lucan was attractive, courageous, chivalrous and was certainly interested in him, but for all this, there was something… lacking in their exchanges that made him feel a little cold.

He glanced around the room to see if anyone had noticed their interaction, and his eyes found Merlin in conversation with Leon. Merlin was wearing his brown servant’s jacket, which, over the past year, his shoulders had finally grown broad enough to fill. Not that Arthur had noticed, much. In the candle-lit banquet hall, the light fell softly over his face, his high cheekbones, his full mouth. As if sensing the attention, Merlin turned and their gazes met, the blue of his eyes vibrant in the dim light as he smiled slightly at his King. Arthur felt the warmth that he’d been missing flare to life in his chest, as if the sun were beginning to rise inside him. Hot on its heels was that awful, crushing sense of being utterly alone in his feelings. He forced himself to turn away from the smile.

He thought again of Lucan. It had been nice, he supposed, to be desired by somebody, at least.

~*~

“He what?” Merlin said furiously. Gwaine raised an eyebrow and leant back on his chair so that it rested on its two back legs. It was the day after the end of the tournament, and the two of them were breakfasting together in Merlin’s room. The sour mood Merlin had awoken in that morning had been improving with the application of both the breakfast and the company of his friend, but now it blackened again.

“The King invited Sir Lucan to stay a while in Camelot. He’s joining us later for training,” Gwaine repeated. “Thought you might want to come along too, seeing as how he’s a sorcerer. Might get a good spar out of it.”

“Sorcerers don’t ‘spar’, it’s too dangerous. Besides I doubt I could get a good fight out of that… peacock.” Merlin felt his mouth twisting in his disgust.

“Peacock, is it?” Gwaine asked, looking irritatingly amused, “Merlin, that peacock reached the finals of the tourney yesterday, beating out all the champions from the neighbouring kingdoms and several of our own.”

“Only because you and Lancelot and the others weren’t fighting. You’d have had him flat on his back in seconds.”

“Maybe. That something you especially want to see then?”

Merlin eyed his friend warily. “It might be.”

“Well then the best place for you to be this afternoon is training then, isn’t it?” Gwaine grinned at him toothily. Merlin snorted.

And so it was that he found himself, dressed in the Official Robes of the Court Sorcerer of Camelot (sans pointy hat, which had been pyrotechnically vetoed on first sight), making his way to the training grounds with Lancelot after lunch. Being late August, it ought to have been a lovely, bright day, with a golden sun to scatter blindingly off the blades and mail of the Knights and gleam winningly in Arthur’s hair. But this was Britain, so it wasn’t. In fact, it was the best sort of day that can generally be had in a British August, which is to say that the sky was a nondescript white, and the ground was just about dry.

Merlin settled himself in his old seat, on the bench by the weapons racks. He greeted Arthur’s demand to know what he was doing there with “watching the training”, in a tone which suggested that Arthur was rather an idiot to be asking.

True to his word, Gwaine did have Lucan flat on his back, although to Merlin’s chagrin it took a good deal longer than a few seconds. Horribly, only Gwaine, Lancelot and Arthur were able to beat the man, and Merlin spent the first hour of the session watching in growing irritation as all but Camelot’s very best were bested themselves. Arthur was grinning brightly, asking Lucan to demonstrate a particular parry that even Leon had only ever seen used once before, complementing his agility and discussing possible training regimens to improve his own quickness. It was thoroughly revolting.

As they all took a breather half way through the session, Gwaine came over to flump down heavily next to him.

“Well, there you go. Got him on his back for you.” He was still flushed with the exertion of it. Merlin huffed out air through his nose in disgust, watching Lucan pour water over his head, eyes closed and lips parted to catch the rivulets that ran over his face. He knew was not the only one watching.

“What is it you’ve got against him then?” Gwaine asked, following the direction of his gaze as Lancelot came over to join them.

“Nothing,” Merlin said, scowl belying his words, “I just don’t think he’s as impressive as everyone’s making out.”

 “As a knight he certainly does have some skill with a blade,” Lancelot said thoughtfully, then catching sight of Merlin’s face he quickly added, “nothing to Arthur of course, or Gwaine.”

Gwaine inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment.

"We’ve yet to see his skills as a sorcerer though,” he said with a grin, loudly enough for it to carry. “What do you think, Merlin, how about a contest of magic?” His words were picked up by the Knights around them who began to grin and ‘ooh’ at the challenge.

Merlin shot Gwaine a dark look. “Magic should not be used for displays of vanity,” he began, “it’s a gift that should be used for great deeds-” Gwaine cut him off with a laugh.

“Come off it, Merlin. You turned the banquet hall into a flowery forest because you were drunk and you got caught up staring at-”

“Surely it couldn’t hurt?” Lancelot hurriedly cut in. “What we’re doing here isn’t for vanity after all. We’re here to train, and it’s not like you get much chance to practise with a fellow sorcerer.”

Merlin would have vehemently protested, but in the end it didn’t really matter. Gwaine’s voice had been pitched to carry, and carry it had. Lucan made his way over to them, perfect eyebrow cocked charmingly and perfect mouth pulling up at one corner, as if to say that he’d bested the majority of Camelot’s Knights, and didn’t much fancy the chances of her Court Sorcerer. Or at least that was how Merlin interpreted it. A less judgemental audience, Lancelot, for example, might merely have thought him intrigued by the idea of training together.

“Well, my Lord Merlin,” Lucan started, and Merlin tried (although not very hard) not to scrunch up his nose at the title.

“It’s just Merlin,” he interrupted. Lucan’s face twitched in annoyance, but quickly smoothed back to placidity.

“Merlin,” he inclined his head in apology, “I have heard much talk of your power and skill in the art of wizardry. I’d be honoured to train alongside you.”

Merlin chewed the inside of his lip. Lucan was irritatingly pleasant and even though the flattery (the flattery he’d been using on Arthur) made his skin crawl, there was really no way to avoid this without appearing shockingly childish or rude. Even so, he was about to decline, but then Arthur himself, evidently seeing Merlin about to refuse, sauntered towards them, flushed and sweaty and gorgeous.

The King smirked in that infuriating way he’d never quite lost from his days as a spoiled princeling, which had always made Merlin yearn to put him in his place. (What that place was usually depended on his mood, but more often than not it was on his knees with his mouth around Merlin’s-)

“Well what are you waiting for, Merlin,” Arthur said, in that smug tone which did not help to redirect Merlin’s train of thought, “as Camelot’s Court Sorcerer, you’ve her reputation to uphold.”

Merlin sucked in his cheeks slightly to keep from glaring at the King of Camelot in full view of Sir Lucan and said, “of course, Sire,” in a tone that, had he still been a servant, would have held the promise of cold bath water that night. Arthur merely grinned at him, the tosser.

They set up the targets. Merlin was adamant that they not spar, as much as he’d dearly have loved to put Lucan on his back himself, he didn’t quite trust his own control not to hurt the man. Despite being a slimy little twat, Lucan didn’t quite deserve the unchecked force of Albion’s most powerful sorcerer raining down upon him.

“So,” Merlin said, in the politest tone he could muster, which given all his years practising on arsehole nobles was really quite respectable. “How would you like to start?”

“Perhaps if we warm up with simple force attacks, then move on to elements?” Lucan suggested, then added, quietly, “That is, if you’re up to elemental magic.”

Merlin snorted. “Sounds great. How much power?”

Lucan blinked, “Full power, of course.”

“You don’t think that’s a bit much? Arthur won’t be pleased if we destroy all his archery targets.”

Lucan laughed, genuinely, as if he thought Merlin was joking, and turned to face his target. “I’ll start, then, shall I?”

Without waiting for Merlin to respond, he set his feet, squared his shoulders and raised his arms. In a deep, hoarse voice, he shouted, “ic i beslēa!”, and the first target was blown backwards several feet, before tilting back and toppling over. Lucan gasped and dropped his hand, breathing fast with the effort of it. The knights whooped and applauded. Glancing over at them Merlin saw Arthur clapping along appreciatively. His gaze fell on Lancelot, who simply lifted an eyebrow and twitched up the corner of his mouth in what, for Lancelot, passed as a smirk.

Merlin looked at his own target, eyeballed the distance between it and the castle wall behind it and made a quick mental calculation, weighing his options. Deciding it didn’t warrant spoken power, he simply focussed his mind, and pushed. The target blasted back, flying through the air to shatter spectacularly against the wall in a shower of splinters. There was a slightly stunned silence from behind him, then Gwaine let out something between a whoop and a bellow and the applause started.

Awkwardly, Merlin inclined his head to them in acknowledgement. For all he’d spent many of his earlier days in Camelot idly daydreaming of being admired for his magic, now he was here, it felt strange and a bit uncomfortable. He turned to Lucan, who was looking a little red in the face. “Perhaps we should stop there?” He suggested, but Lucan only flushed up more and clenched his jaw.

“Not at all,” he said coldly, “Let’s continue.”

Continue they did. They conjured wind storms that sent their targets reeling about, fireballs that set them ablaze, rent great gashes in the earth and brought down fierce thunderstorms that struck out enormous bolts of white lightning. Or rather Merlin did. Lucan’s windstorm didn’t do much to his target. He conjured a decently sized fireball, but then only managed a small ditch in the ground and his thunderstorm just spat out a couple of pitiful sparks before fizzling out. Even Merlin felt a little bad for him.

After the last terrific booms of his own thunderstorm had faded, he was about to turn to Lucan and say something conciliatory, when he was unpleasantly reminded of all Lucan’s abject failings by Arthur coming up beside them and clapping a hand on the knight’s mail-clad shoulder.

“Well,” he said, not even looking in Merlin’s direction, “I suppose that’s what comes of battling a sorcerer who’s been sitting on his arse all day while you’ve been training!”

Lucan snorted (irritatingly prettily) and gave Arthur a wide smile, “You do me too much credit, I’m sure, Sire. But I will confess that, having faced the greatest warriors in Albion already this afternoon, I’ve not been at my best to face your Court Sorcerer.”

Arthur smiled back, his real smile, not just the one he gave to pompous old lords or flirtatious princesses. Merlin clenched his hands into fists, as the two of them walked back over to join the rest of the knights, who congratulated Lucan on his “good showing” and “acquitting himself admirably”.

“Well,” said Gwaine, coming over to sling an arm around his shoulder, “you certainly showed him.”

“Enjoy that, did you?” Merlin asked lightly.

“Watching you put that upstart in his place? Absolutely. Didn’t you?”

Merlin tore his gaze away from where Lucan was resting his hand on Arthur’s arm, and forced himself to remember the man’s expression as his Earth spell half collapsed around him.

“Yeah, a bit. And what do you mean, upstart? I thought you liked him.”

“Me? Nah, he’s been going round the last few days acting like he’s something special ‘cos he’s got magic as well as being half-decent with a sword. I just wanted to see you put him in his place.” Merlin grinned, the first real smile he’d had in the last two days. That was until Gwaine added, “Don’t know what Arthur’s been seeing in the guy to make him act so friendly.”

“Yeah,” Merlin said, “me neither.”

~*~

The butterflies in Arthur’s stomach had just about subsided by the time he got back to his chambers. As he sloughed off his armour and sank into the warm bath George had prepared for him (perfect temperature, perfectly timed), he closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. It was one thing, to know one’s best friend and former manservant was the most powerful sorcerer in existence, it was quite another to see, actually feel that power, tangible in the air all around you. Drunken revelry aside, Merlin had been keeping the magic displays to a minimum since Camlann, and Arthur had never actually seen him wielding the sort of magic he’d use in combat.

He shivered at the memory, then shook himself and grabbed the soap set out next to the bath. He scrubbed vigorously, almost taking off an entire layer of skin in an effort to keep those thoughts at bay. Kings did not daydream. They did not fantasise about their Court Sorcerers. They most certainly did not imagine sinking to their knees in front of said Court Sorcerer as he wielded untold powers while Arthur undid those breeches and opened his mouth to-

“Sire,” George said, entering the room from the servant’s annex. Arthur jumped, and banged his elbow on the side of the bathtub. “May I assist you with your bath?”

“No!” Arthur would have shouted, but his voice had come out rather hoarse. He cleared his throat and said in a manner more befitting the dignity of a King, “No thank you, George. Not today.”

Bowing, the servant set about collecting the discarded pieces of Arthur’s armour. Merlin, he thought with a sudden pang, would have chastised him for leaving it strewn about all over the place, but George merely gathered it up and took it away for polishing without a word.

Arthur sighed, and set about scrubbing his back. Merlin had always helped him with this. Arthur half-smiled to himself at the memory. His strokes had always been too rough and Arthur had usually resorted to splashing him in revenge (kingly dignity be damned), at which point Merlin would dump the remainder of the water bucket over his head and declare he could wash his own hair.

Sometimes though, after training had been particularly hard, or maybe if his Father had been particularly disapproving, Merlin would sit quietly down behind him with a tonic from Gaius. He’d massage it into Arthur’s aching shoulders, working out the knots with gentle determination until Arthur relaxed into his hands.

That memory made him ache, and he suddenly found he had no desire to stay in the bath. As he stood up out of the water, he was painfully aware of the quiet in his chambers, the sloshing of the water the only sound. There was a dreadful lacking here, where for so many years these rooms had been full of life and noise; the absence of Gwen, of Merlin, had turned his home into a void too large for him to fill alone. Towelling off and pulling on clean clothes, he chafed at his arms to warm them, feeling a chill despite the warmth of the day.

Thinking to ask for the fire to be lit, he strode over to the door to summon a servant. The door, however, burst open as he was reaching for the handle, making him step smartly back with a low sound of concern, which could in no way be construed as a yelp.

“Sorry,” Merlin said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Learn to bloody well knock, would you?” Arthur said, very calmly, he felt. “And I wasn’t startled.”

“Really?” Merlin stepped through the door and shut it behind him, “so you’re saying I hallucinated you jumping about three feet in the air?”

“Well you always have been a bit delusional. I suppose hallucinations are the next natural step.”

Merlin scoffed softly. His gaze flickered over Arthur’s face as if he were searching for something. There was a pause, and Arthur used it to take his customary seat at his long wooden dining table, gesturing to Merlin to take his own.

“So what brings you here?” he asked, when it became apparent that Merlin wasn’t going to start.

“What makes you think something brought me here?”

“The fact that you’re here at all. What is it?”

“What, a sorcerer can’t visit his King for a chat?”

Arthur huffed impatiently, “Just tell me what you want, Merlin. Come on, spit it out.”

“I did want to chat, actually.”

“About?”

Merlin cleared his throat, shifting a little in his seat. “What are your.. feelings towards Sir Lucan?”

Arthur’s heart kicked up from ‘a bit fast’ to ‘racing’. He clenched his fists under the table. Of all the people to discuss his awkward, half-formed little hopes with, Merlin would have been the bottom of the list.

“My… feelings,” he said, with as much ridicule as he could muster. “You came here to talk about my feelings. Did you bring ribbons too? For us to tie each other’s hair into while we talk about our feelings? Honestly, Merlin, you couldn’t be more of a girl if you tried.”

Merlin met his gaze, unimpressed.

“Arthur, you obviously… favour him. I just want to know how much. What you’re expecting to happen.”

Arthur felt his nails digging into his palms and forced himself to unclench his fists. “I don’t really see that that’s any of your business. I’m the King, I can favour who I choose.”

“Look,” Merlin said, resting his elbows on the table and leaning in, eyes intent in that awful, enthralling way of his. “Honestly, I didn’t even know you were interested in men until two days ago. And now the sudden interest in Lucan…”

Arthur raised his eyebrow, “You think he’s enchanted me, or something?”

“What? No, no that’s not what I was thinking, I just..” Merlin trailed off, dropping his gaze to his hands, where he was picking at a loose splinter in the table. “I suppose I wonder why you didn’t tell me. You know, about liking men.”

“Why?” Arthur was clenching his fists again. “Is it a problem?”

“No! Of course not. You know us commoners don’t care about that sort of thing. But I know it’s different for you.” Merlin was looking up at him again, and his eyes were kind. Arthur let out the tension in a long sigh, unclenching his fists.

Merlin clearly wasn’t going to let this go, and really, there was nobody else he could say this to. The idea of sharing it with someone, someone who apparently wasn’t going to judge him, felt surprisingly nice. He clasped his own hands on the table in front of him and began to fiddle absently with his mother’s ring.

“You’re right,” he said, eventually. “It is different for nobles, especially the King. You know we have to marry and produce heirs, there’s not much room for love without the possibility of children.” He swallowed. “I didn’t tell you because it was something I’d never even let myself think about. I’d been telling myself all my life that I would love a woman, that I’d marry a woman. And in the end I made myself believe it.”

“So what changed?”

Arthur tried not to blush. He couldn’t quite meet Merlin’s eyes as he said, “Something that Gwen said when we ended things. Made me think about things differently.”

Merlin looked like he was about to question further, so Arthur blurted, “You know, I spent so many years trying to be the son that my father wanted, a son who would make him proud.. I suppose I couldn’t stand the idea of letting him down. And I would have done, if I’d allowed myself to acknowledge that part of me.”

“And now?” Merlin asked.

“And now, I don’t suppose there’s much point in trying,” Arthur sighed. “Gwen and I tried for an heir, and in three years we didn’t succeed. If you’re to be believed, I shouldn’t have been born in the first place. Maybe it’s time for the Pendragon line to end.”

“And that means you’re free to.. choose a man?”

Arthur hesitated, “It’s.. a possibility I’d like to explore,” he said, and found, almost to his surprise, that it was true.

“With Lucan?” Merlin had dropped his gaze.

“Yes… maybe. I don’t know.” Arthur gave himself a mental shake. “Maybe. If he’s amenable.”

Merlin snorted, but there was no humour in his eyes when he looked back up. “I don’t think you’ll have any problems there,” he said, with distaste evident in his voice.

“You don’t like him much, do you?” Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow. Merlin usually took to just about everyone, with immediate and sometimes alarming effect.

“Not really. And it’s not just me, Gwaine said he’s been going round acting like he’s better than everyone because he has magic.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Gwaine has a chip on his shoulder. Is that why you humiliated Lucan today? You were trying to put him in his place? For Gwaine?”

“What? No. I didn’t embarrass him on purpose – it’s not my fault he’s not very good at magic.”

Arthur felt some of those butterflies stir to life in his belly again at the casual reminder of Merlin’s power. He clamped down hard on the feeling, channelling his expression into something stern.

“Well next time you could go a little easier on him. He is my personal guest and I want him to feel welcome here.”

Merlin’s face seemed to ripple with something that looked like anger for a moment, but then it was calm. Arthur thought he might have imagined it, as Merlin only said, “Right, well now I know what he means to you, I’ll let him win more in future.”

The conversation pretty much stalled after that, and Merlin left the room shortly after. Arthur found himself alone in the chamber which had briefly seemed full and lively again, and was now that awful cavernous hollow filled only with empty silence once more.

~*~

Merlin seethed as he strode aimlessly down the darkening corridors. Having left Arthur’s chambers with anger boiling under his skin, he felt he had to walk to soothe it down, get it under control. Arthur really was going to let that infuriating little toad get close to him. He was welcoming it. He’d all but rebuked Merlin for beating him earlier to spare the man’s feelings.

The brazier at the end of the corridor abruptly and violently flared to life, and Merlin jumped, thinking for a moment that the magic had come from him somehow. Then he registered the footsteps around the corner, and on instinct he flattened himself into an alcove, out of sight of the main corridor. In his blind frustration, he’d not been paying any attention to his surroundings, but now he saw he was in one of the guest wings. By chance or by the curious quirk of his magic that always seemed to put him in the right place at the right time, this was the wing where Lucan was staying.

Closing his eyes, Merlin allowed his mind to See around the alcove, into the corridor. He Watched as Sir Lucan strode down towards his room, eyes darting around the apparently empty hallway as if searching for onlookers. Merlin’s Gaze was drawn to his left hand, which clutched something bulky and wrapped in cloth beneath his cloak. Lucan glanced around as he entered his room, and there was the sound of voices as he greeted someone waiting in the chamber. Merlin tried to See around the doorway, but Lucan had stepped through quickly and shut the door, which stopped his Sight cold. It was warded.

Merlin waited in his alcove for an hour, then two, but Lucan did not emerge, and neither did whoever he’d been speaking with. As the bell tolled midnight, he gave it up and returned to his chambers to pace and fret. In the light of this suspicious behaviour, Lucan’s attentions to Arthur, merely an irritation before, now took on a much more sinister aspect.

Merlin chewed his lip as he considered his options. His first instinct was to tell Arthur, it was always to tell Arthur. But long years of being disbelieved made him pause. After their discussion earlier, after Merlin’s obvious dislike of the man had been made plain, could he really expect that Arthur would take him seriously? And what evidence of wrongdoing did he have, really? A locked door, the sound of voices and a bad feeling. Arthur had made it perfectly clear many times over the years how much credence he would give to Merlin’s ‘funny feelings’. No. Something was wrong, but Merlin would need to find out more. For now he’d just have to watch, and wait, and make sure Arthur and Lucan were never left alone.

~*~

Merlin spent the following week shadowing Lucan, with little to show for it but a sour pit in his stomach and an ache in his cheeks. The pit was from watching the way Lucan’s hands seemed to constantly rest on Arthur’s arm or shoulder, or, several times, all of which made Merlin grind his teeth viciously, on the small of his back. The ache in his face was from all the fake smiling he had to do to cover his tooth-grinding.

When he could be sure that the King and his new, dimpled shadow would be securely in company, out training with the knights or at dinner with the court, he slipped away to try his hand at Lucan’s locked door. It turned out to not only be warded against his Sight, but scrying in crystals and also enchanted against unlocking spells. All these many layers of magic he could have pushed through like scraps of fabric, but not without leaving them in tatters, which would make it obvious exactly who had broken them. It would not matter, if Merlin found what he was looking for behind the door, but, as Gaius had pointed out when Merlin had told him everything, if he didn’t, he’d only alert Lucan to the fact that he was on to him. As well as making a fool out of him if Lucan went to Arthur, there was every chance that Lucan would move whatever, or whoever, it was that he was trying to hide.

Hence his days spent watching from the sidelines as Arthur bestowed his crooked smile, shining eyes and even that ridiculous, braying laugh, on the most unworthy of recipients. It was hell.

It was in this state of smothered suspicion and outraging flirtations that reports came to the Court of Camelot of a beast attacking the town of Menai. As such news often was, it was delivered to the King by a dishevelled knight who burst into the council chambers during what had previously been an unremarkable morning session. The knight was Sir Kay, one of the old guard who’d grown up in the court of King Uther and who had taken to eying Merlin with the utmost suspicion in the months since Camlann. If Merlin remembered correctly, Kay had been among the crowd who’d been egging Arthur on the day they’d first met.

There was nothing of the usual swaggering air about him now. He was gaunt with the memory of what he’d seen, sweating and exhausted with the desperate ride that had carried him for several days from the coast to the heart of the kingdom.

“It was monstrous, Sire,” Kay said, voice rough with thirst, pupils wide with fear, “A cat the size of two horses together, with fangs the length of my forearm and claws like knives. It tore through people like they were nothing more than straw dolls. Sir Bleoberis and Sir Constantine are both dead.”

Next to Merlin at the council table, Gaius went very still. Before Arthur could respond, he asked, “Was this cat jet black? So dark that the light didn’t even seem to touch it?”

Kay turned to look at him, surprised. “Yes,” he said, “looking at it was like looking at the night’s sky with no stars. It was a bright day, but the light seemed to miss it somehow, like it was a shadow. Except for its eyes. And its teeth.”

Gaius turned grimly to Arthur. “I believe this creature is called the Cath Palug, Sire.”

Arthur’s face creased in confusion. “I’ve never heard of such a beast.”

“You would not have. Even in my youth, tales of the creature were old stories, almost legends.”

“What did these legends say?” Arthur asked.

“The Cath Palug was created from dark powers by the high priestesses of the Old Religion. For what purpose, the stories differ. Some say it was a cult within the order trying to seize power, others that the Cath Palug was intended to be a guardian of the Isle of the Blessed, and something went terribly wrong. In either case, the creature that they created was an abomination, not truly subject to either magical or natural laws.”

“Not subject to magical laws?” Merlin asked, puzzled, “what does that mean?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Gaius answered, “The stories say only that, in some way, magic does not work entirely normally on the creature. It could not be controlled by the high priestesses who created it for this very reason. In the end, they could not kill it and so they imprisoned it on an island across the Strait of Menai. Their power maintained the defences that prevented the creature from reaching the shore.”

“Morgana was the last of the high priestesses,” Merlin realised, his stomach sinking. Arthur flinched a little at the mention of his sister. Gaius was nodding.

“Precisely. With her death, the power that maintains the wards must have died with her. The creature was allowed to roam free.”

There was a pause, in which the council absorbed the information. Then Arthur said, “We have no choice. We must kill it before it does any more harm to the people of this kingdom.”

“Sire,” Gaius said grimly, “this is a creature born of dark magic, it defeated even its creator’s attempts to destroy it. I fear there is little hope for us.”

“Is there another choice? Could we imprison it again?” He looked to Merlin, but Gaius answered.

“The spells used to contain it will have been lost in the Great Purge. Attempting to replicate them through trial and error would likely prove deadly.”

Merlin shifted in his seat, wanting to disagree, but in all honesty he couldn’t. There were hundreds of locking, binding and shielding spells. And it would be even more complicated without knowing how the creature was affected by magic. If it was as lethal as Gaius and Kay seemed to think, he might very well be dead before he found the right enchantment to contain it. Arthur, looking intently at him, seemed to read his reluctant agreement on his face.

“Then it is as I said. We must attempt to kill it, before any more lives are lost. The creature is resistant to magic, but do we have any evidence to say it is resistant to steel?” He looked at Gaius, then at Kay, who shrugged.

“None that I am aware of, my Lord.” Gaius answered.

“Good,” Arthur said, standing. His jaw was set grimly, but firmly as he surveyed them all. Merlin felt that familiar sense of helpless pride welling up inside him. For all his clottishness, Arthur really was a majestic King, made more so by how completely unaware of it he was. God, but he was beautiful. “I will lead a company of knights to meet this beast: Leon, Gwaine, Lancelot, Elyan, Percival. Merlin, you’ll join us.”

At this, Gwen sat forward in alarm. She was seated across from Merlin, having retained her place on the council. Now she spoke up. “My Lord, is it really wise of you to go yourself?”

Arthur’s face softened a little as he looked at her. The little ache that rose in Merlin was as pleasant as it was painful. Despite their separation, it was clear they still cared for each other, as friends, if not lovers. Queen Guinevere could always be relied upon to have the best interests of her King at heart, a fact for which Merlin would forever be grateful.

Arthur replied, “I will not ask my knights to face this alone.” Then, holding up a hand to forestall the objections of the council, “and it will do us good to have the people see me leading, following my injuries earlier this year.” Merlin flinched at the memory, nausea rearing up at the memory of Arthur’s pale face, the life leaching from him slowly. As he always did, he took a moment to thank all the gods in existence that they’d made it to the lake in time.

The argument quelled the disagreements, and the council was dismissed. Within two hours, the knights had convened in the courtyard, where Merlin had an unpleasant surprise. They were to be joined on their quest by none other than Sir Lucan.

“What’s he doing here?” Merlin hissed to Gwaine as they mounted up. Gwaine glanced in the direction he was glaring. Lucan was resplendent in full plate armour, his hair shining more brightly than Merlin thought the weak sunlight warranted. As usual, he’d attached himself to Arthur’s side, leading his horse into the spot Merlin would usually have occupied without a second thought.

“He heard what we’re about, and wanted to help,” Gwaine answered, with a satisfying twist of distaste to his lips. “Apparently he grew up near the coast, thought he might be useful as a guide, if it comes to it.”

Merlin scoffed in disgust.

~*~

They rode hard for two days, stopping to rest only when they could go no further. Merlin’s magic lit their way in the dusk and letting them keep going far beyond the natural limits of daylight. The party was quiet, almost ominously so, Arthur thought, with Lucan riding nearly silently at his side, Merlin and Gwaine keeping any and all chatter at the rear. The absence frayed his nerves, making him grim and surly. Not, of course, that they had any reason for cheerfulness, considering what awaited them at the end of their journey.

On their third day of travel, they neared the coast. From Kay’s report, the creature had been heading east, towards Camelot. Gaius had guessed it would likely keep to watercourses, being familiar only with the coastal environment of the island on which it had been imprisoned. So when they came across the wide river, its turbulent waters splitting the forest in two as the greyish light glinted off the green surface, they kept close to its southern bank as they followed it into the west.

Gaius’ intuition was correct. They’d only been following the river for half a day, when Lucan suddenly tensed at his side and called him to a halt. Within seconds, Merlin came up beside them, clearly having sensed whatever Lucan had. Before he’d known of Merlin’s power, Arthur would have scoffed at the wary expression on Merlin’s face as he scanned the trees on the northern bank. Now he too looked intently into the forest, trusting his Court Sorcerer’s instincts almost automatically.

“What can you feel?” he asked.

Merlin glanced at him in an astonishment that Arthur felt was slightly insulting, but he only said, “It’s here, somewhere.” On Arthur’s other side, Lucan nodded his agreement. His handsome face was tight.

“It feels… wrong,” he added. “Sire, I believe your learned Physician was correct. This is not a natural creature.”

Arthur pushed down the creeping sense of fear with the ease of long practise. He dismounted quietly, tying his horse to a nearby tree, and the others did the same. It would not do for their mounts to startle. Trained warhorses as they were, there was no accounting for how they’d hold up when faced with this Cath Palug.

It was on foot, then, that they moved along the river bank in a line, Arthur at their head, Merlin and Lucan following after. Their footsteps were masked by the sound of the churning waters. The trees on the north bank were not dense, daylight showing clear between the slender trunks, so when their eyes fell upon the patch of shadow winding slowly upstream towards them, they knew at once what they were seeing.

It was as Kay had said; the Cath Palug was monstrously large, its shoulders shaking the branches of the trees as it slunk past them with an unnatural, sinuous grace. The black of its hide was darker than pitch, so dark that no light reflected off it, as if it were stealing the essence of the world. Yellow, malevolent eyes stared fixedly at them from above the two great, white canines that hung down from its upper jaw. Arthur did not shiver, but it was close.

“Form up,” he said, voice suddenly hoarse. He looked to Merlin, “Is there anything you can do?”

Merlin regarded the creature, body tense and eyes wide. He swallowed and tilted his head down slightly, stare becoming more intent as that strange charge seemed to gather itself around him before his eyes flared gold.

He raised a hand. “Forbærne yfel” he said, in a deep hoarse voice that made something quiver in Arthur’s stomach, despite the imminent danger. Flames grew up around his outstretched hand, flowing round and gathering speed before shooting out in a great blast of fire across the river towards the monster. For a moment, Arthur was sure that nothing could survive such an attack, but his brief elation turned to dismay as the fire neared its target and seemed to ripple strangely in the air. The bright flames shivered and began to change, turning white and falling in flakes.

“Great,” Gwaine said, “It turns fire into snow.”

Merlin huffed. Across the river, the beast had crouched. Ignoring the snow, it crept forward, like a house cat that had sighted a mouse. Its eyes were fixed on them.

“Merlin," Arthur said, calmly, “Please tell me you’ve got something else.”

“Right,” Merlin said grimly. His next attempt was a wave that loomed up from the river to sweep dramatically across towards the Cath Palug. Unlike the fire, it did not change, but neither did it accomplish anything other than making the beast wet.

“You’re supposed to be killing it, not giving it a bath, Merlin,” Arthur hissed at him.

“You heard what Gaius said,” Merlin snapped back, as the giant cat growled from across the river, its enormous body tensing to spring. The knights drew together; Arthur pulled Merlin back from the river. “Wait,” Merlin protested, "let me try-,”

But at that moment the cat sprang. It did not clear the river, but seemed to land momentarily on the surface of the water, before it was back in the air and heading straight for them. Merlin shouted something that Arthur couldn’t make out, and great dark clouds billowed up, seemingly from nowhere. Lightning cracked down towards the monster, but it seemed to change direction mid-strike, arching into the forest instead to light a tree on fire. It began to rain.

“Get back!” Arthur shouted over the sound of the sudden downpour. Thunder boomed overhead as he shoved Merlin back. He wanted to add something about stopping the bloody rain, but at that moment the Cath Palug landed, snarling, on the south bank of the river, its murderous gaze fixed on them.

“On me!” Arthur shouted, and they charged. The Cath Palug reared up like a horse, batting at them with paws the size of shields, but they were faster, more nimble, and evaded the first blow.

“Surround it!” Arthur bellowed, and the knights split, Leon and Percival going left, Gwaine and Elyan going right. Arthur, Lancelot and Lucan ran forwards. For a moment, it seemed to work. The beast dropped back to all fours, its paws slipping slightly on ground that was rapidly growing muddy under the downpour. It twisted around, trying to see both Leon and Gwaine at the same time, leaving an opening for Percival to strike at one foreleg. The massive knight hefted his greatsword, which at Camlann had cleaved one man clean in two, and brought it down in an overhand swing. The sword glanced off. Hissing, the Cath Palug turned to Percival, but Lucan lunged forward with a quick, clever thrust to its neck. Again, his sword glanced off the hide.

Arthur felt horror beginning to bloom in the pit of his belly, but he wrestled it back. There was no room for dread in combat. Fear would kill you faster than any enemy soldier. Setting his jaw, he gripped his sword in both hands and made his own darting jab at the creature’s neck, as it turned its great yellow eyes to Lucan. He had to take two steps forward to do it, putting himself mere feet away from the beast’s fangs. Up close they looked as sharp as daggers. Then he was shoving his sword at the creature, expecting to feel the hide like armour against his blade, but, to his astonishment, it skidded a little, then sank a few inches into the darkness, whether feathers or fur or scales, he could not tell.

Surprise nearly froze him, but muscle memory made him yank the sword back as he retreated one step, then two, dark droplets of blood spattering the ground. Dimly, he heard somebody yelling in triumph. But then, the Cath Palug turned its gaze to him, and he knew that he wouldn’t get a second chance to strike. He was vaguely aware of the other knights charging in, their frantic blows glancing off the creature. Lightning arced overhead, seeming to split in mid-air and hitting the ground to either side of them. The smell of burning was in his nose.

As the beast’s great maw opened up before him and the sharp fangs loomed, Arthur made a quick dart to the side, raising his sword to bring it down on the muzzle, but he slipped in the mud. Then all he could see was darkness, and he felt a jolt in his shoulder, like punch, his arm going numb with the force of it. His sword slipped and fell somewhere he couldn’t see. When the darkness lifted and the beast’s head drew back, its left fang was stained red.

Arthur felt the pain slowly, then faster, tearing white hot through his shoulder. He staggered sideways, then a terrible force hit him, knocking him flat onto his back. As he lay in the mud, dazed with the blow and the pain, he realised he’d been pinned by one of those massive paws. There was no use in struggling, but he tried vainly anyway. The huge face loomed over him, the mouth opening once more. He could feel the Cath Palug’s breath on his face, cold and with a smell like rotting fish. Two rows of sharp teeth filled his view, punctuated by the fangs. There were only the two of them in existence, the monster and him.

Then there was a roar. It echoed around in the space between the ground and the sky, and Arthur could not tell from which it had come. A blinding burst of light came from his right, and the beast’s head retreated a little, flinching away. A figure appeared in his field of view, its dark head standing out clear against the bright, white light, which was shining from the sword it held aloft.

The figure was Lancelot, and the sword was Arthur’s. The light, as incredible as it sounded, was a bolt of lightning that seemed to be pouring from the purple clouds in an almost continuous burst. The lightning was catching on the sword, sparking out in bright, deadly arcs. With a cry, Lancelot drove the weapon at the monster’s side, plunging it in almost to the hilt.

The Cath Palug reared back, and Lancelot was forced to let the blade go. The lightning was streaming faster now, the wild flickering arcs dancing over the pitch black hide. The monster roared in pain, smoke rising from it as the lightning burned into it. It tried to scratch at the sword, but it was stuck fast, and the beast was quickly losing strength. The Cath Palug took three staggering steps back towards the river, blue-black blood dripping into the mud as it heaved its way through. Then it shuddered, and slumped to the ground. Elyan strode forward, pulling the sword from the creature’s side, and climbed up upon the great back, where he drove the blade down through the massive skull, and, finally, it was done.

~*~

As the monster let out its final, shuddering sigh, Merlin let go of the lightning with a gasp, sagging with the release of power. Within moments though, he was running, slipping in the muddy ground, trying to reach Arthur. The knights had the same thought, and he had to push past Percival’s bulk to get to his King, still lying where that dreadful paw had shoved him down, pushing Merlin’s frantic heart up into his throat in the process.

What he saw when he’d got through the press of knights did nothing to calm him. Sir Lucan had got there first, Arthur lying in his arms, face pale and tight with pain. Blood was welling from his shoulder at an alarming rate, mixing with the rainwater to form an obscene torrent that flowed down his arm.

Merlin knelt down on his other side, eyes scanning over the wound, already gently probing with his magic to feel what he could heal. To his relief, though it had torn clean through the muscle, shattering bone and breaking tendons, the tooth had not damaged anything that would kill quickly. Nor did appear to have carried any curse or poison upon it. Though his ability to heal had been unreliable in the past, learning the physicians arts had gone a long way towards developing his healing powers. There was every chance he could heal the wound completely, without even stiffness remaining in the damaged muscle.

He opened his mouth to say something to this effect, possibly to demand that Lucan get his filthy hands off Merlin’s King, but again Lucan beat him to it.

“Not to worry, Sire,” he was saying. “I have a spell that can stop this bleeding. Hold still, my Lord, the pain will be momentary.”

He placed a hand over the wound on Arthur’s shoulder, and Merlin, in dawning horror, felt the crude, blunt edges of the cauterising spell begin to take shape. He had reached out with his own power to feel the extent of the damage, and now he felt the harsh magic butting up against his own. It would burn itself into the wound, sealing blood vessels, locking up the damage so that it would prevent death, but never truly heal.

Feeling that awful magic flowing out towards the body that he’d cared for, loved, tended, healed, soothed for ten years, his reaction was instinctive and unstoppable. Merlin reached out in pure revulsion and snuffed out the spell, crushing it with his own power like a cockroach beneath his shoe. Lucan gasped, hand flying to his chest as if all the air had been driven out of his lungs. His wide eyes darted to Merlin, and he choked at what he saw there. Merlin became aware that his features were contorted with rage, he was almost snarling with anger.

“What are you doing?” Lucan was aghast.

“Merlin?” Arthur was looking at him in bewilderment. All the knights were. Merlin forced his face into something more neutral.

“I had to stop the spell, Sire,” he said, striving for a calm tone of voice, while the fury howled inside him, making his hands tremble. Distantly, he was aware that he might be in shock from the power it had taken to kill the Cath Palug and the terrible, heartstopping moment when he’d thought it had killed Arthur. “It would have stopped the bleeding but not healed your shoulder. You’d have been left without the use of your arm.”

Arthur flinched. If he’d had more blood in his body, Merlin imagined he would have paled.

“Let me,” Merlin got out roughly, sliding his own arms around Arthur, easing him away from Lucan. The knight’s face tightened, but he did not protest.

“Can you fix it?” Arthur was terrified, trying desperately not to show it, his voice coming out curt and clipped.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Merlin said. The weight of Arthur, still alive and warm in his arms was soothing, his rage simmering down and the trembling in his hands easing. He pressed one gently over the wound and closed his eyes. Feeling down into the torn and broken flesh, he murmured the words of the healing spell. His power flowed out in a gentle stream, pooling in the wound, coaxing the injured bone to mend, the torn muscle to knit back together. It was tiring work, but it calmed him. With every little blood vessel that mended, he felt his own heartbeat slow, the world returning to how it was meant to be from where it had sat poised on the edge of a cliff, ready to drop into a terrible oblivion beyond. The wound was healing. Arthur would be well.

It seemed like hours that he spent, kneeling there, holding Arthur in his arms while his magic worked gently on the beloved body. In reality, when Merlin opened his eyes he knew it had only been a minute or two. The colour had returned to Arthur’s face, a lovely pink back in his cheeks, his lips. His eyes were so blue.

Unfortunately, opening his eyes also brought into his field of view, the sulky face of Sir Lucan.

“You-” Lucan bit out, “You can’t just stop another sorcerer’s magic like that. It’s not possible!”

From above him, Gwaine snorted. “Clearly it is possible, Merlin just did it. Saved our King from losing the use of his sword arm too, so it seems.”

Lucan’s face darkened abruptly, something flashing furiously in his eyes. His mouth twisted itself into a scowl and Merlin realised with somewhat of a shock that it was the first time Lucan had ever appeared less than perfectly attractive.

“Better that he be alive,” he snapped. “The use of his right arm isn’t exactly essential.”

Merlin bristled, had this man learned nothing about Arthur? Before he could say anything, Arthur said, somewhat more calmly than Merlin would have, “It is if I want to be able to fight, Sir Lucan. I’m a warrior. Though I do appreciate your efforts, I’m glad we didn’t have to resort to a choice between my life and my arm.” He was sitting up, clapping a hand on Lucan’s shoulder. Lucan’s mouth twisted into a cold facsimile of a smile.

“Of course, Sire,” was all he said.

Much to Merlin’s disgust, they cut the head off the Cath Palug and tied it in a cloth to return to Camelot as a trophy. By mutual agreement, they left the area as quickly as possible, returning to the horses, though it was late afternoon by that point and there would be only a few hours before dark. As they readied themselves to leave, Merlin found that Arthur had contrived to be next to him, fiddling with a strap on his saddle. Arthur cleared his throat, then looked at Merlin.

“I want to say thank you. It’s down to you I still have both my life and my sword arm,” he said, looking rather as if he wished he could follow it up with an order to muck out his stables. Merlin supressed the urge to laugh.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, “First two rounds are on you next time we’re in the Rising Sun.”

Arthur snorted. “I’m not going there again. You always insist on playing dice and then you always cheat.”

Merlin grinned, about to retort, but at that moment, Arthur’s attention was diverted by Lucan, who called over to them. Merlin’s heart sank. Even after what Lucan had nearly done to him, he still, somehow, had Arthur’s favour.

“Go on then,” he said coldly, “don’t keep him waiting.” The little smile that had graced Arthur’s perfect mouth faded. For a split second, Merlin thought he might have looked a little hurt, but then all he did was nod and turn away.

Merlin brooded silently at the end of the column all the rest of that afternoon, and as they made camp and ate dinner, the explanations he gave to the questions thrown at him were sullen.

“Why did Arthur’s sword work on the beast when ours didn’t?” Elyan was wondering, having had his fill of praise from Gwaine and Percival for finishing the monster. Lancelot had long since silenced any and all acclaim for his, more significant, part. All eyes turned to Merlin.

“Arthur’s sword is magical,” was Merlin’s response.

“But why didn’t the high priestesses try such a blade?” Leon wanted to know. “Surely they could have enchanted one.”

“Not necessarily. They’d have needed a dragon. Arthur’s sword was enchanted by dragon fire.”

“But even that wasn’t enough to slay the monster on its own.” That was Lancelot, looking pointedly at Merlin, and it was not a question. Merlin simply inclined his head. Gwaine ruffled his hair, making him duck away a little irritably. Gwaine did not notice his surliness. Lancelot did.

~*~

“What’s wrong?” Lancelot asked the next day, as they rode again at the tail end of the column.

Merlin chewed the inside of his lip, watching the figures of Arthur and Lucan and the head of their party. The two heads, the blond and the chestnut hair, complimented each other. He turned his gaze to Lancelot, who was watching him with kindness in his eyes.

“I don’t trust Sir Lucan,” Merlin admitted in a low voice. “He’s hiding something.”

“What makes you say that?” Lancelot’s voice was carefully neutral, in a way that made Merlin squint at him suspiciously. He explained the voices he’d heard from Lucan’s chamber, the mysterious person who’d spent the night there, the tight warding on the door, the oddly shaped bundle the man had been carrying. Lancelot’s eyebrow rose as he spoke.

“Have you told Arthur of your fears?” he asked when Merlin had finished.

Merlin grimaced. “No,” he said, hesitating.

“Why?” Lancelot prompted, when he faltered.

“I don’t have any proof.”

“And you don’t think Arthur would believe you without it?” Now Lancelot sounded disbelieving himself.

“It’s not that, I just. I want to know what he’s up to before I go to Arthur.”

“Merlin,” Lancelot’s eyes were sincere, his tone firm. “I know that Arthur and Sir Lucan have been developing a… friendship. Don’t you think Arthur deserves to know before he gets any deeper into it? If Lucan does have ill-intentions, he should be on his guard.”

Merlin swallowed as he imagined, for the first time, Arthur’s reaction to yet another person he’d come to care about betraying him. Lancelot was right, he couldn’t let it get to that point. Arthur deserved better than that.

~*~

Arthur, meanwhile, was in turmoil. He rode back with Lucan a quiet presence by his side, barely exchanging more than a few words with anyone. Merlin, once again, had taken himself and his usual bombardment of soothing prattle to ride at the back with Lancelot and Gwaine, as far from Arthur’s side as he could get. Now that he had the time to really consider it, Arthur thought that perhaps Merlin had been more distant than usual over the past couple of weeks. Perhaps he’d been more perturbed than he’d let on about Arthur’s fancy for men.

It was a good thing, Arthur told his ailing heart firmly. His problem, as he’d learned as a child, was that he expected too much from people. His father, for example, could never have outwardly shown him the kind of affection he’d seen between other fathers and sons. Morgana could not love him at all, when he stood for everything she despised. Agravaine could not love him, when he’d been the reason for his mother’s death. Even Gwen should not have been expected to choose him when there was Lancelot.

Merlin did not, could not, love him. Arthur knew this for a fact, because he’d all but asked. After Gwen had first revealed what she suspected about Arthur’s feelings for his former manservant, Arthur had sought his friend out. He’d known, of course, that Merlin had loved a woman, the druid girl whose fate had been so tragic. So he’d asked, casually, when he’d found an opportunity, if Merlin had ever been able to reconcile himself to loving again. Merlin had looked at him with a pain Arthur wished never to see again on that face, and had said that he’d only ever loved one, and he never expected that would change. And so that was that.

It was a cruel irony, really. Merlin had lost the great love of his life before he’d even had the chance to know her a week. In the same blow, though he’d known him for years, Arthur had lost his before he’d even been aware of what there was to lose.

He had to let go of these feelings, somehow. He needed to forget the way it had felt, when Merlin had taken him from Lucan’s grasp to hold him in his arms, the way the warm, strong body had pressed into his. Above all, he needed to put out of his mind the sight of Merlin’s face above his, eyes shining fiercely blue, then burning gold, full lips pressed together as he wielded untold powers with an absurd amount of tenderness…

Arthur gave himself a mental shake. The absurdity was him. It was all getting ridiculous. Lower expectations it was. Merlin could not love him, but maybe, with time and luck and a great deal of work, there was someone else who might.

~*~

They rode more gently on the way back, so it took the better part of three days to reach the citadel again. The summer sun hung low in the sky when they entered the courtyard and gratefully climbed off their mounts for the last time. Merlin stood quietly among the knights as Arthur dealt with the usual duties of the court, informing them of their success and ordering the Cath Palug head to be preserved among the Trophies of the Kingdom (read: hidden in a back room and only brought out when they had guests they wished to intimidate).

Through these dealings, Merlin felt twitchy and restless. Realistically there was nothing to be concerned about. He would simply tell Arthur of his suspicions, Arthur would believe him, or not, and that would be that. There was no reason to feel as if he would be coming perilously close to admitting.. something. Whatever his private feelings about Sir Lucan, the facts were logical, Gaius and Lancelot had both agreed with him.

In the manner of all such rational thoughts, these did nothing to ease his nerves as he washed and ate. He was jittery all through supper, and when he stepped out of his room to make the short journey to Arthur’s, it felt as if something hot and staticky were welling up in his chest. He took a deep, steadying breath, before stepping out of his chambers and turning down the corridor, only to stop short.

Lucan was coming down the hallway towards him. Towards Arthur’s rooms next door.

By now it was late, the windows in the corridor shuttering out full darkness. Merlin had a sudden, stomach churning image of exactly what Lucan might be wanting in Arthur’s rooms so late in the evening. His chest tightening, he stepped quickly out of his rooms, striding down the corridor, hurrying to get to the door first.

“What are you doing here?” Merlin asked, when they got close enough that he wouldn’t need to call out.

“Visiting his Majesty,” Lucan said. “He sent for me,” he added, not even bothering to disguise his smugness. Merlin felt his stomach roll. Sweat broke out between his shoulder blades.

“I have an urgent matter to discuss with him,” he said coldly, reaching the door and putting his hand on the handle.

“And I’m sure whatever it is his Majesty needs from me will take priority.”

“As a member of the King’s court and one of his advisors,” Merlin ground out, determined not to give an inch to this odious man who was so desperate to get his hands on (around, all over) Arthur, “I think I can judge when something is important enough to bother him with. And this is.” He levelled his fiercest stare at Lucan, who, instead of cowering in terror as he ought, merely narrowed his eyes and turned his gaze towards the doorhandle. Merlin jerked his hand away with a hiss as the metal heated up beneath his fingers.

Enraged, he gave a mental shove, and Lucan stumbled back several feet, eyes widening in outrage as he fought to keep his balance. Recovering fast, he hissed a spell that Merlin couldn’t quite catch, but seconds later a violent wind whipped up, forcing him back a step from the door, which rattled on its hinges. Before he had time to retaliate, the door was ripped open from the inside to reveal Arthur, dressed in a soft white tunic and breeches, Excalibur drawn and held in readiness.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded, catching sight of Merlin and Lucan, all but hissing at each other like angry cats.

“Sire, I was on my way to your chambers as you requested, when I was waylaid,” Lucan got in quickly before Merlin could answer. “I was just attempting to explain to Merlin here that you’d requested my presence personally, and whatever his business was, it should come second to your Majesty’s wishes.” He bowed, looking up prettily from beneath his eyelashes as he did so. “I beg your pardon if I’ve acted wrongly, My Lord.”

“Arthur, I need to talk to you,” Merlin said, before Arthur could respond. “Please.”

At this last, Arthur’s brows drew together in consternation.

“Alright, Merlin you’d better come in,” he said. Then, turning to Lucan, added. “There’s no need to wait, we’ll talk another time.”

Merlin followed him into the room, feelings of triumph and fury rattling around together inside his chest so that he couldn’t quite be sure which was going to come out when he opened his mouth. As he entered, his gaze fell upon the dining table, which bore supper laid for two. And candles. Very calmly, he closed the door.

As Arthur turned to face him, Merlin said, very evenly, “What did you want with Sir Lucan?”

Arthur didn’t meet his eyes. “I fail to see what business that is of yours.”

Merlin’s stomach gave another sickening lurch. He clenched his fists behind his back. “I’m your friend.”

Arthur’s face twitched. His eyes darted up to meet Merlin’s gaze fleetingly. “That doesn’t mean I have to answer to you.”

“Arthur,” Merlin strode around the table so that the two of them were face to face and said, imploringly, “I don’t trust Lucan. He’s hiding something.”

“And what makes you say that?”

 “Look, I don’t have any proof, but the door to his chamber is warded. And I saw him speaking to someone in there.”

Arthur folded his arms across his chest, unimpressed. “So he had a conversation with someone in his chambers. How suspicious. And how do you know his doors are warded? Why were you trying to spy on him?”

“I wasn’t spying,” Merlin said angrily, “I was just…” he trailed off. Arthur raised an eyebrow pointedly. Merlin set his jaw, “Why are you defending him, anyway?”

“I’m not,” Arthur said, defensively, “I just want to know what you’ve got against him. You’ve hated him from the minute he arrived in Camelot. I want to know why.”

“Fine,” Merlin said. His heart had started beating loudly in his ears. He swallowed. “I just don’t think he’s right for you,” he said, mouth dry.

Something flashed across Arthur’s face too quickly for Merlin to catch. Then he scoffed, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Merlin hesitated, weighing his words, “It means I know his type.”

“His type?”

“Yes,” Merlin said tightly, “He set his sights on you the second he saw you. He’s the sort of man who wants something – money or power or sex – from you and when he gets it, he’ll be done.”

Arthur flinched, but his jaw was set. “Why do you sound like you’re speaking from experience?”

Merlin inhaled through his nose. God but he didn’t want to discuss this with Arthur, not with his last secret coiled so tightly in his throat it felt like it could burst out of him at any moment. Reluctantly, he said, “I’ve been with my fair share of men. You get to tell the good from the bad pretty quickly.”

“You..” Arthur had blanched. “You’ve been with men.”

“Yes.”

“You like men.”

“Yes.”

Arthur sagged against the table, nearly knocking over one of the goblets. He said faintly, “But I thought… that druid girl. She was the love of your life.”

Merlin’s breath caught a little at the mention of Freya, but all he said was, “I don’t have to love people to enjoy being with them.”

“So,” Arthur said, clearly still processing, “you like women and men too.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, sounding a little hollow. He was picking at a splinter on the surface of the table, all the fight seeming to have gone from him. The candlelight was warm, casting a golden glow over his pale skin. Merlin swallowed, the sadness in Arthur’s voice had stuck on something tangled in his chest.

“It wasn’t something we ever talked about,” he said gently.

“How many?” Arthur asked softly.

Merlin frowned, “What?”

“People have you been with. How many?”

Merlin scrunched up his face in confusion. “A few.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Other servants, servants of visiting nobles, people from the town. Just people I met and liked and who also liked me. Why do you care?”

Arthur was silent, his eyes trained on the floor. His face was set in a mask of stoicism, although Merlin could see the misery that it was trying to hide and was utterly perplexed. What on earth was Arthur’s problem? And how had the conversation, which was supposed to be about Lucan, got so completely away from him? He took a deep breath.

“So. The point is, I’ve been with a few men, and I know what I’m talking about,” he said, as firmly as he could manage with Arthur looking like somebody had put down one of his dogs. “Sir Lucan’s not going to treat you well. He’s using you and it’s only going to end badly. You can trust me, Arthur. I’m your friend, I only want to protect you.”

At this, Arthur tensed again, the misery bleeding through the mask and carving lines in his face. He looked up at Merlin hopelessly, “You really believe he’s hiding something?”

“Yes,” Merlin said, gently. “I do.”

Arthur nodded, mouth twisting. Merlin’s chest ached, both in sympathy and for himself, and it was the latter that prompted his next question, “I didn’t realise you’d grown that fond of him.”

“I haven’t.” Arthur stood, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Arthur, it’s okay to be upset, you obviously liked him.”

“I’m not upset,” Arthur nearly snapped. He paced across the room to the fireplace and braced his hands against it, looking into the light of it. His body was outlined against the flames, the strong lines of it so perfect it hurt. Merlin wondered, not for the first time, if Arthur would ever stop taking his breath away.

“It’s just,” Arthur was saying, “Look, you were right. I’ve not let myself think about.. being with a man before a month ago, and there’s nobody else who’d be interested and I-” he cut himself off, looking back over at Merlin with those hopeless eyes and said, as if it were being ripped out of him, “Was it really that insane? To think that someone might? Want that with me?”

“No.” Merlin’s response was so immediate and instinctive he wasn’t even sure what he was denying, the question or the pain in Arthur’s face. He cleared his throat to get out the hoarseness, but found that it wouldn’t go.

“Arthur,” he said, roughly, then stopped. Then started again because he found he couldn’t bear it, “Anyone would want you. You could..” he stopped again, helpless to put into words the feeling in his chest, how beautiful and strong and good Arthur was. How dearly he was loved.

But Arthur was looking at him intently. He’d shifted now, his back to the fire, and he folded his arms across his chest. His face still had the remnants of that stoic mask over it, trying to hide his feelings behind the Royal Composure, but his eyes hid nothing, not from Merlin. They were a little wide, and there was a little spark of hope deep in them. Arthur cleared his throat.

“Anyone?” he asked, carefully, cautiously. The hope in his eyes was flickering, as if he were fighting it, trying not to get his hopes up, but… oh.

“Yes, anyone,” Merlin said, voice low and rough and meaningful, and felt a glow begin to bloom slowly, deep in his chest, as he saw the faint blush spread across Arthur’s cheeks. Gods above, surely not. After all this time, it was insane. He’d never even let himself dream about this, not once in ten years.

But Arthur was swallowing, nervous and unsure behind his kingly façade and if there was one thing Merlin knew after all this time, it was how to read this man.

He didn’t let himself think, didn’t let himself question. He crossed the distance between them and cupped that beautiful, idiot face between trembling hands, and kissed him.

It was just a brush of lips at first, as much breath as touch. Then Arthur’s breath hitched, his hands, not entirely steady themselves, came up to grip the backs of Merlin’s arms, holding him there as he angled his head for the kiss and it deepened. Merlin heard himself let out a noise as their mouths slid together, the first real press of Arthur’s mouth hot and wet and glorious against his.

He slid a hand around Arthur’s head, fingers slipping into the soft golden hair, pulling them closer. Arthur let out a little noise that made his head spin, and then their lips had parted and Merlin was pushing forward, the slide of his tongue into Arthur sending heat flashing through him, pooling in his belly.

“I can’t believe it,” Merlin panted into the hot space between their mouths when they finally broke apart for air. “All this time, you were making eyes at Lucan, you were really just hopelessly gone on-”

“Shut up, Merlin,” Arthur gasped breathlessly, tugging him back down for another kiss. Merlin groaned and pressed back in, kissing him deeply, fiercely, before mouthing down the side of his neck to scrape his teeth experimentally over the soft skin at his collarbone. Here he could taste the salty skin, feel the frantic heartbeat in the pulse at his neck. Arthur’s breathing was getting a little ragged, his hands sliding down to Merlin’s back to pull their bodies flush, muscles hardened by training and labour coming together. And these were not the only parts of them that were hardened.

Though it felt almost physically painful, Merlin pulled back to look into Arthur’s face to say something sensible, something a seasoned man of the world who had been with his fair share of other men would say to a man who was all but virginal. But the words died on his lips at the sight of the flushed cheeks, the blue eyes gone hazy with arousal, pupils blown wide. So instead of saying, ‘maybe we should slow this down’, he shivered and pulled them towards the bed, nearly tripping over a chair as he walked backwards. Thankfully, Arthur caught him with a snort of laughter that dispelled some of the dazed look from his face.

“Oh yeah, go ahead,” Merlin said dryly, “Laugh at the person who was going to suck your cock. See how far that gets you.” The smile didn’t fade all the way from Arthur’s face, but the haze did come gratifyingly back into his eyes and he swallowed.

Then they were to the bed, tumbling down into it together. Merlin’s elbow caught Arthur in the ribs and Arthur’s knee landed perilously close to Merlin’s groin, but they managed to wriggle into it unscathed, hands fumbling with recalcitrant belt buckles and laces that seemed to have got themselves tied into gordian knots. Finally, Merlin gave up, and simply stripped them both with magic. Above him, Arthur pulled back far enough to draw his gaze slowly over Merlin’s body, eyes heavy lidded, his swollen lips parting a little as he reached where Merlin’s cock was pulled up, flushed and hard against his belly. Arthur hesitated, seemingly a little lost at the expanse of skin before him.

For a moment, Merlin considered being courteous, gently coaxing Arthur through touching him. But Arthur was kneeling above him, all those acres of naked skin glowing gold in the firelight, hard and wanting and no, actually, Merlin needed to touch him now. He reached up and pulled Arthur down, flipping them over and muffling Arthur’s yelp of surprise with his mouth. He kissed back down Arthur’s neck, down the muscles of his chest, pausing to flick his tongue over a nipple. It made Arthur wrinkle his nose, so Merlin moved swiftly on, scraping teeth over the softer parts of his stomach, being guided by the way his breathing hitched, by the way his hands came up to grasp at Merlin’s shoulders.

And then he’d got all the way down the perfect lines of torso, and he managed to pull away enough to ask, voice low and roughened, “Is this okay?”

“Yes, Merlin, just-” Arthur arched up in frustration, and Merlin grinned at him.

“Have a little patience,” he teased, but then his head was back down and he was mouthing at the hard cock he’d been trying to avoid tantalising glimpses of for nearly a decade. He groaned as he lipped over the spongy head, tasting where it was already wet, feeling the shudder that went through Arthur’s body. He kept up the gentle licking, suckling wetly at the tip until Arthur was panting for it and he wasn’t feeling much less eager himself. When Arthur’s breaths had started to blend into soft moans, he let himself sink down, taking the hard length in, relishing the weight as it slid over his tongue. Arthur cried out, hands flying to Merlin’s head, sinking into his hair, shamefully politely.

Merlin pulled off.

“You can pull my hair if you want to. I like it,” he said roughly and sank back down. He worked Arthur over expertly, taking the ragged breaths to broken half pleas, his name mixed in with the almost-begging, until he was so worked up himself that he began to wonder if it was possible to come from just sucking a cock. Arthur’s thighs were tensing, little tremors running through that perfect body as his back arched. He tugged at Merlin’s hair in warning before the climax hit him and Merlin swallowed the hot come that flooded his mouth as Arthur cried out with pleasure.

He extricated a hand from where it was stroking a golden thigh and began to frantically work over his own cock, still sucking gently at Arthur’s where it was beginning to soften.

“Wait,” Arthur gasped out, voice a little broken. Merlin pulled off, concerned.

“Sorry, is it too sensitive?” His own voice was hoarse.

Arthur was sitting up, sweaty and dishevelled, hair sticking up at the back.

“No, not that. I want,” he started, “can I?” He gestured wordlessly at Merlin’s body.

“Yeah, course.” Merlin scrambled eagerly back up the bed, positioning himself on his side so that Arthur would have easy access to whatever he wanted to touch. The nervousness seemed to have left Arthur, and he dived in, dragging his hot, damp mouth over Merlin’s body sending sparks skittering through him. Merlin wove his fingers into the soft, golden hair, sighing in pleasure as the head drew closer and closer to where he wanted it, the anticipation of the plush lips around his cock nearly making him ache.

Arthur hesitated when he got there, and Merlin said (with a very small degree of reluctance), “It’s okay, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” tugging gently with his handful of hair.

But Arthur said, “No, I do want to. I just. I’ve not, you know. Before.”

Merlin had already known this, but he felt a thrill go through him at the reminder that he would be the first (the only), man to fuck Arthur like this. His cock twitched.

He cleared his throat. “Well it’s pretty straightforward. Just don’t bite down and you can’t really go wrong.”

Arthur nodded, expression verging on that grim heroism with which he lead men into battle, although the effect was somewhat spoiled by the bedhead and the way he licked his lips. He bent his head, taking the tip experimentally into his mouth, sucking at it tentatively. The sight of it disappearing between his swollen lips as those heart-stoppingly blue eyes fluttered closed was nearly enough to make Merlin finish there and then.

Arthur tongued gingerly around the head, obviously getting used to the sensation. Then he sank down the shaft, choking a little and pulling off as he found the limit of his throat.

“You don’t have to take it all,” Merlin managed to get out, “if you get your hand around the rest- yes like that. Oh God, yes like that.” His head fell back against the pillows. “I think you’ve got the hang of it.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to come immediately as Arthur demonstrated that he, too, was a fast learner. The pressure in him built up inexorably, spurred on by the little noises of satisfaction that Arthur was making as he sucked messily.

Merlin realised he was babbling, “- Jesus Christ, Arthur, fuck, you’re gorgeous, oh God that feels so good, going to come so hard-” He bit his lip to stop the stream, hand tightening in Arthur’s hair, making Arthur moan loudly, the vibrations going right through him- and he was done. With a wordless cry, he came, the tremendous pulses of it going through him for so long his vision began to white out.

~*~

After Merlin had come, long and pulsing, into his mouth, Arthur let himself sit there for a moment, the trembling world settling into its new shape tentatively around him. While the two of them had been there together, in that hot, close space where acts of passion can overtake all higher brainpower, he’d not thought to question the motive behind the act. With the wicked mouth on his and the strong hands around him, he’d taken the motive for a return of his own love. Now with the sweat cooling on him and the aftertaste of come sour in his mouth, the dreadful thought came that it might have been simple lust. Or worse, and most probably, it had been pity.

Arthur sat up on his heels, preparing to draw away. He was going to say something nonchalant, to show how completely unbothered he felt about any and all motives Merlin might have potentially had. But sitting up had displayed the entire naked body to him once again. Though boneless and sated now, the sight of it, pale and strong, with the dark line of hair that drew the eye from the shockingly muscled chest tantalizingly downwards, rendered speech somewhat difficult.

Then Merlin, possibly moved by the prompting of his untold power, possibly just by simple affection, saved them both. He lifted himself up onto his elbows to look down the length of his body at Arthur, and smiled at him with so much joy that even Arthur’s self-esteem couldn’t mistake the motive for anything other than what it was. He swallowed against the lump that had suddenly come into his throat. Merlin’s smile softened a little.

“Well come on then,” he said, gesturing somewhat feebly.

Arthur cleared his throat and crawled (with the poise and elegance befitting a king) up the bed, wriggling under the covers, as Merlin flopped around doing the same. A quiet descended on them.

Then was the moment, Arthur thought, where Merlin really ought to have verbalised what he’d only indicated before, through his tone of voice and by smiling, just then, the way that he had. Arthur shifted a little uncomfortably. He wanted, mostly just from curiosity of course, to hear more about the specifics of Merlin’s affection towards him, the inception, duration, depth, strength and so forth. He was wanting to ask about these things. He found, however, that they were, not exactly daunting as his courage was (literally) legendary, but possibly beneath his dignity to enquire about directly. He took another tack.

“So,” he drawled, “anyone would want me then?” He looked over at Merlin a little smugly, hoping, if not for a declaration of ardour, then at least for a little blushing and stuttering. Merlin did none of these things. He simply gave Arthur the look that said that Arthur was being an arrogant prat.

“Oh yes,” he said lightly, “you’re decently good looking when your mouth’s too full to speak.”

Arthur snorted. He’d deserved that. Still, if they were going to talk about that..

“So,” he said, looking away from Merlin’s gaze and scratching nonchalantly at his nose, “that was… good then. That part, I mean. You liked it.”

Merlin let out a little incredulous sort of huff. “Yeah, I liked it. Kind of hard not to. Did you? Like doing it, I mean?”

“Oh. Erm. Yes, I did.”

Merlin raised an eyebrow, propping himself up on an elbow to look into Arthur’s face. The Once and Future King shuffled a little awkwardly onto his side to return the gaze.

“You don’t sound very convinced about that,” Merlin said.

“No,” Arthur blurted, “I did enjoy it. I wanted to do it. I’ve thought about it. Before today, I mean.”

Merlin smiled, eyes crinkling up with it. “Oh really?”

Arthur cleared his throat, “Yes. I- When you were practicing with Lucan on the training grounds. Afterwards I wanted to… you know.” He waved a hand, feeling his cheeks heating up. He mentally shook himself; one tumble in the hay and he was behaving like a lovestruck girl.

Merlin cocked his head, lips twisting smugly.

“Oh?” He enquired, voice gone a little rough, “You liked that then? Watching me beat him?” Arthur’s cock, spent as it was, gave a valiant twitch. He had the horrible feeling that the blush might be spreading down his neck.

“I might have done.” Then a thought occurred to him. “Wait. Was that why you decided to humiliate him? You were trying to impress me?” The puzzle pieces slotted together and Arthur gaped. “This is why you hated him, isn’t it? You’ve been jealous!”

Merlin’s face creased into something that could have been a scowl, but lacked the required heat. “No,” he lied, very obviously, “Of course not.”

Arthur grinned, the realisation leaving him a little giddy. “You know, Merlin, I’ve no idea how you managed to keep your magic secret all these years. You’re a really terrible liar.”

Merlin huffed a laugh through his nose, face breaking into a reluctant smile. “Fine,” he said, “I suppose I maybe didn’t love the way he kept touching you. And the whole, staring up from under his eyelashes thing, I mean what was that?”

“It did get a little off-putting sometimes,” Arthur agreed. Merlin grinned, but then the smile faded slightly.

“You did like him though,” he said, frowning a little at the bed covers, “you invited him here tonight.” He chewed a little on his lower lip, before looking back into Arthur’s eyes. “Would you really have let him..” he trailed off.

Arthur blinked, confused. Then realisation dawned. “No!” he said adamantly, “I wasn’t, that wasn’t- I just invited him for dinner.”

“Oh.” The frown left Merlin’s face.

“And it wasn’t so much that I liked him, only. Well.” He hesitated, looking down, chewing the words, “I thought you were hung up on that druid girl.”

There was a pause, then, “Arthur,” Merlin’s voice was soft, and full of an emotion that made Arthur’s chest ache. “Just to be clear, it’s true that I cared about Freya a lot. But you’re- you’re it for me. Pretty much since I arrived in Camelot.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, his voice sounding a little scratchy to his ears. “That’s good.”

“I suppose,” Merlin said, a bit dryly, “although if you’d asked me while you were still married to Gwen, who I thought was the love of your life, I wouldn’t have said so then.”

“Right.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes contemplatively, “When did that change, by the way? I mean, when did you start having feelings for me?”

Arthur supressed his instinctive reaction to wrinkle his nose at the word ‘feelings’. Instead he swallowed and thought about it. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, after a moment. “It’s like what I told you about, you know, liking men. I didn’t really want to know about it, so I don’t really know when it started. I only thought about it consciously when Guinevere ended things. You know she told me she thought I was in love with you, not her?”

Merlin laughed a little incredulously, “Really? She said that to you?”

“Yeah,” Arthur smiled a little, “I find she’s usually right about these sorts of things. And once I’d thought about it, I- I suppose I couldn’t stop.”

Merlin grinned at him again, one of those radiant smiles that vanished any last vestiges of doubt, leaving Arthur feeling warm and light. He reached a hand out, running it over Arthur’s bare shoulder, down his arm. “Well then, I suppose I ought to find a way to thank her,” he said, too innocently, “now I get to sleep in the most comfortable bed in the castle. I mean, look at these pillows. Almost makes up for having to share with a clotpole.”

~*~

Merlin walked out of Arthur’s rooms the next morning, whistling. For once, the August sunshine was delivering on the promise of summer, and was streaming in through the windows. After a quick stop by his chambers, which he reflected with some pleasure he’d be spending rather less time in from now on, he was off to the guest quarters. Arthur had impressed upon him, during a slow and leisurely hand-job, his desire that all guests of the King of Camelot be treated with respect and courtesy, never mind who they’d been fluttering their eyelashes at. In aid of future hand-jobs, therefore, Merlin was off to apologise.

He knocked on Lucan’s door and waited, but there was no response. Trying a second time yielded nothing, but something made him linger there anyway, listening. There was a muffled thump from inside the room.

“Sir Lucan?” he called, knocking again. “It’s Merlin. I can hear you in there.” Silence from the room. He knocked harder, still nothing. His previous suspicions, having been silenced by two glorious rounds of sex with the man he loved, suddenly rose again in his mind.

“Whoever you are,” he said, low and menacing, “open this door right now. Or I will break it down.” He waited a moment, then banged on it once more, “You leave me no choice.”

He stepped back, taking a breath, preparing to rip through the warding and tear down the door.

“Wait!” a voice called from inside the room, high pitched and frantic. There was a scrabbling sound, furniture moving and bolts drawing back. Then the door opened and Merlin looked down to see a boy standing there.

He must have been about twelve, with curling chestnut hair and green eyes. He wore a blue tunic that looked to be of good quality: a noble, not a serving boy. Besides, Merlin realised, nobody would have taken this boy as a servant; he was missing his right hand. The child was pale and looked frightened, but his face was set grimly, as though determined to be brave.

“Who are you?” Merlin blurted out. He mentally kicked himself and added, trying for a gentler tone, “and what are you doing here?”

“My name is Bedivere, my Lord,” the boy answered, “and I’m-”

“What the hell is going on?” a furious voice demanded from down the corridor. Merlin turned to see Sir Lucan striding towards them. His face looked like a far worse thunderstorm than anything he’d been able to conjure with magic.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Merlin replied coldly. “I came here this morning to speak to you, and I found this child here in your rooms. Who is he, what is he doing here, and why have you been hiding him?”

Lucan looked ready to strangle him. “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he snapped.

“Brother!” Bedivere objected, and Merlin started, turning to look at the boy who, he realised, did resemble Lucan. “My Lord, I apologise,” he said, humbly, to Merlin.

“We have nothing to apologise for,” Lucan said stiffly.

“I don’t need an apology,” Merlin retorted, “I just want to know why you brought your little brother to Camelot where you only intended to fight in a tournament, then hid him away behind more enchantments than a sorcerer’s tower.”

Lucan glared at him.

Merlin narrowed his eyes. “You can explain yourself to me, or I can go to Arthur right now and you can explain yourself to both of us.”

“Brother,” Bedivere was imploring now, “we have nothing to hide, surely we can explain…”, but Lucan said nothing, a dull, red flush was creeping up his cheeks. Bedivere turned back to Merlin. “My brother brought me here because it is my deepest wish to train as a knight,” he said, eyes full of a longing that was far too sorrowful for a face so young. “We come from King Lot’s kingdom, and he wouldn’t take me as a squire, not with my hand. I was born without this one, see.” He waved the right arm, which ended at the elbow.

Merlin nodded, “I see,” he said, gently. “Go on.”

“Well, the last year or so we heard stories. Bards came to our father’s house and talked all about the Court of Camelot, and King Arthur, and his Knights of the Round table, who were the bravest and noblest of all the knights in Albion. And they said King Arthur was the greatest and wisest and kindest of all of them.” Merlin swallowed, that helpless sort of pride welling back up in him. He nodded at the child, not quite trusting his voice.

Bedivere continued, eager and excited. “Well, Lucan and I thought, if anyone would take me on, train me to be a knight, even with this, it would be King Arthur. So we came here. Lucan’s going to introduce me to him, once he gets to meet him properly.”

Merlin frowned, “Once…” he looked at Lucan, who’s face had fully reddened now. He was looking away, not meeting Merlin’s eyes. And all at once, Merlin understood. Cold anger gripped his chest. He’d been more right than he’d realised, last night when he’d warned Arthur about this man.

“You were seducing him,” he said, icily. “All this time, you were trying to get into his bed so that you could persuade him to take on your brother as a squire.”

Lucan looked up furiously, then shot a panicked glance at Bedivere, who’d turned to him in confusion. His young face went from bewildered to horrified, to shame, as he took in his older brother’s expression. “Is that true?” he asked, quiet and hurt.

“Bedivere,” Lucan said, his voice choked, “I’m sorry.” He sent Merlin a look that promised murder, “I just wanted to be sure that he was a good man before I introduced you..” but the lie sounded hollow, even to Merlin’s ears.

“You didn’t think I was good enough,” Bedivere said, tears forming in his eyes.

“No!” Lucan was distraught. “It was never that. You’d have made the best and bravest knight that the Round Table ever saw! But people are never as kind as they are in the stories, Bedivere. I just wanted to make sure the King would listen to us.”

“Arthur is,” Merlin said. Despite his fury, little Bedivere’s dismay at his brother’s behaviour, and the casual way Lucan had spoken of his dreams, as if they were already over, tugged at his heart. Both brothers turned to look at him.

“Arthur is what?” Lucan asked coldly.

“He is everything the stories say,” Merlin replied, returning the other man’s coldness with his own, before softening his expression and turning it to Bedivere. “He’ll want to put you through the same sorts of tests he gives the other squires. He’ll want to know you’ll be brave, that you’ll follow his commands, that you have some training with a sword. But he’ll give you a chance.”

Bedivere’s eyes lit with a hope that was almost painful to see. “I’ll do it! I can be brave, and follow orders and Lucan has taught me everything he knows about sword work! All I want is a chance.”

Merlin nodded, smiling a little in spite of himself. “Well then, we’d better introduce you.”

~*~

And so it was that Arthur was disturbed from his quiet morning of pretending to be working on Important Legal Documents, but really just daydreaming about his lover’s… hands. He was dragged unceremoniously from behind the desk by said lover and brought to the training grounds. He complained loudly, but found that his complaints were stopped by kisses, which really only incentivised him to complain more, so that his progress to the field only took longer than it should have, and he was a little out of breath by the time he got there.

He was greeted by a young boy, who looked at him with an awe he didn’t know quite what to do with. The child informed him bravely that he wished more than anything to be a Knight of the Table, while looking as though he expected very much to be found wanting. It was a feeling with which Arthur himself could empathise.

The boy looked healthy and strong, apart from the missing right hand and forearm, though that could be got around with the right sort of training. It wasn’t unheard of for soldiers who lost limbs to retrain and go on to fight again. It would help that this child would never have known how to fight any other way. He put the boy through the usual tests, nodding appreciatively as he passed with flying colours. He wasn’t quite prepared for the collapse and tears that followed his declaration that the boy was to be a squire, but thankfully at that point, Merlin stepped in.

It was only afterwards, as they were walking back to his chambers together, that Arthur got the full story, somewhat hesitatingly, out of him.

“You were right then,” he said, with a twinge of embarrassment for having fallen so completely for Lucan’s ruse. “He did want something from me, not me.”

Merlin tensed. “I wish I hadn’t been. I’m sorry.”

Arthur looked at him sideways. “I’m not,” he said, brushing the back of his hand against Merlin’s, a grin spreading onto his face as Merlin took the hint and tangled their fingers together.

~*~

That afternoon was even more brilliant than the morning had been, if that were possible. After lunch, and a round of languorous love-making, Merlin stood at the window to Arthur’s chambers looking out over the courtyard. Down below, Bedivere, dressed in the Official Garb of the Squires of Camelot, was hugging his older brother, promising excitedly to write to him every day.

Merlin watched, with not a little satisfaction, as Lucan swung himself up onto his horse, the sun glinting magnificently off his hair. He was momentarily distracted by a pillow thumping into his back.

“Ow,” he said, trying for an indignant tone that was rather spoiled by the fact that he couldn’t stop smiling.

“Come back to bed,” Arthur demanded imperiously. His tone of voice did not make for a compelling argument. The stretch of his naked body, spread over the red coverlets, very much did.

“You’re such a prat,” Merlin said, turning to catch a last glorious glimpse of Lucan riding out of the citadel. He turned back to Arthur. “Maybe I should have let Lucan have you.”

Arthur wrinkled his nose and Merlin laughed delightedly, as he left the window to join him.