[fic] The Ivy Crown, 2b/9

[da_ya_ri]

They reached the border two days later, and if anyone had asked Arthur why he'd chosen exactly that route for them, he would have said that he preferred to cross into the Northern Plains under the cover of a thick, mountainous forest.

Which was true, of course—but Arthur also remembered the area from when his father had taken him on a journey through the northern part of their kingdom. Moreover, he remembered that there was a lake just beyond the border, sheltered in the midst of the hilly wood and fed by one of the numerous rivers that ran through the forest. And well, they'd spent the past three days on horseback in rather warm weather, and by now Arthur was all but dying for a bath (and if Gwaine called him spoiled one more time, Arthur would instigate an impromptu sparring match to teach him some respect, Leon's placating glances be damned).

The water was so cold that it took his breath away, a feeling like the pinpricks of thousands of icy needles spreading over his skin, but Arthur still waited until his lungs weren't seizing up quite as violently anymore before pushing himself back up to the surface. The morning breeze felt even colder, and Arthur allowed himself a moment of gasping for air and squinting into the early sunlight. It wasn't a real bath by any means, more like a quick dip, but it was as cleansing as it was refreshing, the cold chasing the last vestiges of sleep from his mind.

Arthur had always thought that it felt odd to be away from Camelot, no matter how many patrols into foreign territory he had been on, and this time was no different. The Northern Plains weren't even particularly hostile land, and he knew that he would be far more wary and on his guard if they'd journeyed into Mercia, despite the peace treaty. But being outside the borders of Camelot's jurisdiction automatically put him on his guard, and he was just a bit more careful in choosing their nightly camp sites, a bit more vigilant when he scanned the woods around them as they followed the winding, mountainous trail that would eventually lead them to their first stop.

The village was called Treffynnon, situated next to a river that flowed out into the sea; in fact, if Arthur remembered the maps correctly, he was fairly sure they'd already crossed the river shortly after passing over the border. Arthur had never met or corresponded with Sir Ricbert, the first of the dead nobles, but according to his father, he had been a complacent, friendly man, a bit miserly at times, but easy to negotiate with. At any rate, the messengers had said that the village was prospering, and Arthur doubted that a peasant had murdered the man anyway.

He shook himself out of his thoughts with some difficulty—he'd still have more than enough time to pore over this particular mysterious death, as well as all the others—and dunked under once more. His fingers and toes were starting to go numb, and his skin felt like it had been sandpapered, but the cold cleared his mind, and when his head broke the surface again he felt ready for another day on horseback.

Save for the ripples that his movements sent across the surface, the water around him was almost eerily still—he had waded just far enough for the water to come up to his waist. The rosy sunlight turned the lake into a slate of gold foil, and Arthur spotted a doe standing far away on the opposite shore. Despite the swaying long grass that grew on the hillside, it wasn't grazing—its gaze seemed to be resting on him, calm and unafraid for the distance between them, and Arthur smiled absently as he turned around.

The smile froze on his face when he saw Merlin standing at the shore.

As far as he could tell, Merlin was just waiting for him to be done with his bath—he was looking at Arthur but hadn't yet noticed his gaze on him; he was just staring in his general direction with a vacant, oddly forlorn expression. Still, Arthur felt his heartbeat speed up uselessly, trying to pump enough blood into his half-numbed limbs to stir his muscles into action. Who knew how long Merlin had been standing there, and Arthur had had his back turned to him the entire time, too caught up in his thoughts to have heard his approach—

No, Arthur thought, with a vigor that surprised him, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He didn't want to be thinking that Merlin could easily have attacked him from behind, because out here, in the still morning air, the mere thought seemed so ridiculous that Arthur felt an unbidden laugh bubble up in his throat. He choked it back down with some difficulty, and their gazes locked when he opened his eyes again. Merlin made a short, aborted movement as though he was thinking about making a run for it, but in the end he just shifted his weight with obvious unease, an absent hand starting to play with the too-long cuff of his sleeve.

Although the wariness in his eyes allowed for little more than a twitch of his lips, Merlin still made an effort to smile when their gazes met, and said, with a tentative hopefulness that pulled at something hidden and forgotten in Arthur's chest, "Good morning."

Arthur just looked at him for a long moment, at the skittish wariness in Merlin's eyes, the minute shuffle of his feet that looked like he was getting ready to obey if Arthur ordered him to leave. But somehow, the words refused to come. Merlin had probably wondered about his absence, since Arthur hadn't told him that he was going for a swim; he must have followed Arthur's trail of snapped twigs and flattened grass to the lake. Arthur was well acquainted with Merlin's ridiculous tendency to worry about even the simplest things, and he could just guess what kinds of scenarios Merlin's mind had come up with—the prince floating lifelessly through the water, strangled by a sea monster or just an unfortunate tangle of algae while his knights were just beginning to rouse after a night of uncomfortable sleep on the forest ground.

He must have followed Arthur like he had countless times before, with the simple intention of making sure that he was alright. Arthur took a deep breath, and although the tightness in his chest didn't let up, it was surprisingly easy to keep his voice even as he replied, "Good morning."

Merlin's answering smile should have triggered a smile of his own, relieved as it looked, but for some reason it just stirred up a slow, simmering coil of remembered anger. Arthur remembered that smile, the tremulous curve of Merlin's lips that poorly concealed a tangle of conflicting emotions. He'd seen it once before, in another situation where Merlin had looked this hapless and thoroughly unable to gauge Arthur's reaction. The dim firelight had done nothing to disguise the hope and the fear in Merlin's too-bright eyes back then, and if Arthur hadn't been so preoccupied by staring at the quill that hovered in the air in front of him, he might even have teased him about it.

He didn't feel much like teasing him now either, and so he just set his features into a frown and started striding back towards the shore. Merlin blinked, clearly puzzled by what he'd done in the past few seconds to pull the customary scowl back onto Arthur's face, but with that particular memory stuck in front of his mind's eye, it was all Arthur could do not to snap at him to leave. No matter when or how it crossed his mind, shoving it away never got easier, and by now he had turned it over in his head so many times that it felt like the dams of his self-control were barely holding in an ever-increasing avalanche of anger, shocked betrayal, and something that didn't want to name because it felt dangerously close to pain.

But Merlin hadn't done anything this time—in fact, he hadn't done anything worth yelling at him for for a long time. It was frustrating, in a way, that Merlin had transformed himself into the perfect servant that everyone knew he wasn't as soon as Arthur had found it in himself to talk to him again. Maybe things would be different between them now if Merlin had only stayed his usual bumbling, hapless self—that way, Arthur could have shouted at him for the past two months, or however long it would have taken for the sickening roil of accusing anger to cease.

He wasn't quite sure how things would be different between them now, but he was willing to believe that it was Merlin's fault that they weren't. It would have been unfair to snap at him now, though, because Merlin had done nothing worse than to wish him a good morning, and so Arthur stopped a few paces from the shore, the water lapping lazily at his stomach, and gave him a pointed look.

"Oh," Merlin said after a puzzled pause, flushing, and scrambled backwards as though Arthur had pointed a crossbow at him. "I'll just, um—"

He waved vaguely in the general direction of their camp, looking rather crestfallen at the prospect of returning to the company of the knights, and Arthur realized, with a dim sort of surprise, that this was the first time he'd been alone with Merlin ever since that evening when Merlin had told Arthur he was a sorcerer. The apprehensive hope in Merlin's eyes suddenly made a lot more sense—he probably thought that if he just presented Arthur without enough opportunities to yell at him in private, he would eventually be forgiven.

The thought should have made him scoff at Merlin's naivety—how dare he assume that everything was going to be fine and dandy if he just stuck around for long enough?—but when Arthur opened his mouth, the words that tumbled out were, "Pass me my clothes."

Merlin froze, half suspended between turning away and turning back around to face him. Arthur stared at the stiff set of his shoulders for a long moment, feeling oddly imbalanced and out of his depth—he hadn't meant to say that, the order had just fallen from his mouth without his consent. But although he wasn't sure if he even wanted Merlin to stay, his mind was curiously empty of anything at all that could have sent him away.

Then Merlin bent down to collect his clothes where Arthur had carelessly dropped them on the mossy ground earlier, and Arthur released a slow breath, stepping towards the shore and out of the water. A towel was lying on an outcropping of rock, neatly folded, and Arthur quickly dried the water from his skin before taking the bundle of clothes from Merlin's outstretched hand. Merlin didn't turn back around to face him, but he wasn't walking away either, and the tips of his ears had gone red.

As Arthur shrugged on his shirt and tied the laces of his breeches, it occurred to him that his clothes were oddly warm, like they had been treated to an hour of sunlight, rather than having lain crumpled up on dew-covered moss. Then he remembered the quill, and decided not to dwell on it. The warmth felt good on his chilled skin, after all, and somehow he was reluctant to shatter the quietness of the morning with inquiries of whether Merlin had really used magic just now, just to warm his clothes. And so he remained silent, but he took care not to brush Merlin's arm with his own as he walked past him.

The sound of voices drifted towards them from the camp's general direction, and Merlin hurried to his side a moment later, carrying the towel. He was walking a bit too slowly, half a step behind Arthur, like he was taking great care not to step within arm's reach. The thought made an aimless surge of annoyance rush through him, and for a moment Arthur almost reached out to tug Merlin forward irritably until he was walking beside him. Then it occurred to him that that was exactly the sort of thing he would have done before Merlin had told him about his magic, and Arthur clenched his hands into fists.

"Hurry up," he said instead; the words came out gruff, more harshly than he'd intended, as though Arthur's vocal chords couldn't remember how not to snap at Merlin after they had spent two months doing just that. "We have a long way to go."

"We do," Merlin agreed, his voice curiously soft, like he had caught on to some hidden meaning in the words. It took Arthur a moment to understand, and when he did, he wished he hadn't. Another surge of useless irritation pulsed through him, but he did not say, "And whose fault is that?", because he knew that the crestfallen looks that Merlin gave him when he said things like that no longer made him feel better.

The words hovered on his tongue, though, like poison that wanted to be spat out. He gritted his teeth to prevent them from tumbling out, and sped up his steps as soon as he caught sight of the little clearing they had made camp in the night before. This time, Merlin didn't quicken his pace to catch up with him, but Arthur didn't know whether to feel relieved or not.





By the time they arrived at Treffynnon, Gwaine was really, really longing for a stiff drink.

During the past few days, he'd fervently (though silently) thanked the nameless servant that had been thoughtful enough to pack wineskins for them, but of course he couldn't just hog them for himself. Percival, Elyan and the squires had parted ways with them when they'd reached the border, and so Gwaine's shares of wine had gotten considerably larger—but still, the wine had nothing on his favorite kind of cider.

His opinion of Camelot's crown prince rose a few notches when Arthur led them to the local inn; the sun was low in the sky, and after a week of sleeping in forests, even Leon and Lancelot seemed cheered at the prospect of a warm bed for the night. Gwaine let his gaze travel around the large room as they waited for Arthur to negotiate a price for a night's stay at the inn—it looked tidy and well cared for, and altogether in far better shape than some of the taverns he had seen in his life. It didn't seem very well-attended, though, and the few guests were local farmers and peasants, if the wary looks they kept casting towards them were anything to go by.

The tinkling of coins drew his attention back to the prince, who was now paying for their rooms for the night. Arthur had taken great care to fill his pouch with well-chosen gold from the royal treasury—when Gwaine had asked, he'd explained that paying only with coins from Camelot would look suspicious, seeing as they were supposed to keep a low profile. He'd mingled Camelot's gold with money from Caerleon, packed a fair share of Mercian coins as well, and even a few that bore Cenred's crest.

The innkeeper, a middle-aged man whose face looked too pale and wan for the laugh lines around his eyes, accepted the payment without fuss, though. He told Arthur, in an oddly absent-minded tone, that his was only a small inn, and that they'd have to share the bedrooms in pairs if they all wanted a warm bed for the night. Merlin perked up at that, his eyes lighting up with the same odd, apprehensive hopefulness Gwaine had seen so frequently whenever he looked at Arthur, but Arthur made a face like he'd swallowed a hot coal.

Gwaine looked away again, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. As far as he could tell, neither of them had managed to pull their heads out of their asses so far, although the week of traveling had alleviated the tension between them to some extent. Gwaine still hadn't seen them talk, but at least they didn't avoid each other quite as much as they'd done before.

As if on cue, Arthur sent Merlin upstairs with their luggage without so much as turning to look at him. Merlin seemed thrilled, though—probably because the decision of who to share a room with had been left to him—and started hauling their bags in the general direction of the stairs. Lancelot courteously offered his help, which Merlin accepted with a smile that even looked genuine, and Gwaine wondered briefly if he'd decide to share a room with Arthur.

If he were Merlin, he would either steer clear of the prince or force him into close quarters—that way, he'd get the chance to poke and prod at Arthur's temper until it snapped and they'd finally get to shout at each other over whatever had gone wrong between them. And as far as Gwaine could tell, Merlin seemed to be going with the second option so far, what with how he'd refused to back off even though Arthur had done his best to avoid him in Camelot.

Lancelot and Merlin disappeared up the slightly lopsided staircase, and Gwaine shook himself out of his thoughts, following Leon and Arthur to a table near the back of the room. The group of farmers still gave them glances of thinly-veiled suspicion, and Gwaine didn't like the way they kept whispering among themselves. But Arthur demonstratively sat down with his back to them, as if to emphasize that he really wasn't a warrior, but just a harmless traveler passing through the region, although Gwaine noticed that Leon took the seat opposite of the prince, so that he'd see it first if the group tried anything.

Arthur ordered a round of the tavern's best brew and a large dinner for them all, and Gwaine stopped thinking about the ongoing tiff between Merlin and the prince when a large pint of cider was set down in front of him. He gulped down the first few mouthfuls like he hadn't had anything to drink in days, but then he slowed and took the time to savor the flavor. In spite of the familiar heated burn of alcohol down his throat, there was just a hint of an apple's sweetness in the aftertaste, and Gwaine signaled to the innkeeper to order another pint before he had even finished his first.

A serving girl poked her head out of a door that Gwaine assumed led to the kitchen, but as soon as her gaze fell on their group, she was quick to close the door again. The people in these parts really didn't seem to like strangers that much, although he didn't see what their problem was, since they had just paid for a night at the inn and a large dinner. If Percival had been here, he probably would have heaved a sigh of relief, though, since the girl was obviously too skittish for Gwaine to have the heart to throw her at him. The thought made him grin—Gwaine had made it his personal mission to make sure Percival got laid, no matter how often his fellow knight claimed that even if he were looking for a girl at all, he'd search for a woman who wouldn't just admire his muscles.

Footsteps on the stairs announced Merlin and Lancelot's return, and the other guests rose in an unspoken agreement, coins clinking on the table as they paid for their drinks. They seemed in a hurry to leave, like they feared being outnumbered by the strangers—a fair share of suspicious, mildly hostile glances were cast in their general direction as the group walked past them to the door. Although Gwaine could see a muscle twitch in Arthur's jaw, the prince remained silent and kept his eyes down, obviously not looking for a confrontation with the locals just now. Leon slowly leaned back in his chair, pretending to stretch, but Gwaine knew that his hand was resting on the dagger at his hip.

The door slammed shut behind the farmers just as Merlin and Lancelot reached them, and Leon sat up again with a relieved-sounding sigh, letting go of his dagger. There was a mildly awkward pause, but then Merlin took a seat between Leon and Gwaine, Lancelot sitting down at Arthur's other side. The innkeeper brought a pile of dishes and a large steaming pot of stew, and for a while nobody said anything as they dug in, relishing in the taste of something else than dried fruit and grilled rabbit.

The light in the room had dimmed by the time Gwaine set down his spoon at last and returned to his pint of cider, feeling pleasantly full and a bit tired after the day's ride. Gryngolet had kept him quite busy, prancing out of their formation as if he wanted to charge headfirst into the thick forest, but fortunately Gwaine had always managed to rein him back in. As much as he had initially resented Arthur for giving him the single most disobedient horse from the royal stables, Gwaine had grown oddly fond of his steed's antics over the past week. Although he'd understood Gryngolet's urge to break away from their slow pace and just race through the forest until he grew tired, he hadn't allowed him to go through with it—the terrain was quite mountainous, and he didn't want Gryngolet to break a leg when sliding down a hill.

The innkeeper had been bustling around the room as they'd eaten, lighting a few candles on the windowsills to ward off the growing twilight. Torches lined the walls and a large chandelier was hanging from the ceiling, but apparently the man wanted to save those for a busier night. Now he was wiping down the table that the farmers had sat at earlier, his back not quite turned to them.

A movement from the corner of his eye caught Gwaine's attention, and when he glanced up, Arthur was lounging comfortably in his chair, his relaxed posture belied by the quick glance he exchanged with Lancelot. Despite the vaguely fuzzy feeling that was spreading through his head because of the cider, Gwaine found himself sitting up a little straighter. It seemed like Arthur had decided to finally get down to business and address the issue that had brought them here in the first place.

"This cider is very good," the prince declared, in the careless, lofty tone of someone who'd had a little too much to drink and didn't mind his words anymore, although Gwaine knew that he hadn't drunk enough for his wit to be dulled. "Tell me, who is the nobleman we have to thank for your well-stocked brewery?"

"That was Sir Ricbert, sir," the innkeeper replied after a somewhat wary pause, as if he was thoroughly unused to being complimented for the quality of his drinks. "He— well, he's dead now, though."

"Oh," Arthur said, carefully feigning surprise, and shook his head lightly like he couldn't believe it. "I'm sorry to hear that. I heard he was a good swordsman—whoever bested him must have been a marvelous warrior indeed."

The man paused again, but this time he seemed to be weighing his options. He was still clutching the rag he had used to wipe down the table, his small, watery eyes drifting between them, and Gwaine was a little dismayed, though not particularly surprised, to recognize the wearily suspicious, exhausted air of someone who had lived in fear for long months.

"No warrior, sir," he replied at last, with as heavy a sigh as though he had to put a conscious effort into pushing out the words. "We know nothing about what exactly happened, but no mortal man could have done that."

"Done what?" Lancelot asked, pushing his half empty mug of cider away—the movement looked idle to the untrained eye, but Gwaine caught the sharp alertness in his gaze anyway. Merlin and Leon had leaned forward, the previous tiredness chased from their features now that they were about to get at the information they had come here to retrieve.

The innkeeper put down his rag and leaned back against the table. "Sir Ricbert used to live right by the sea with his wife and sister," he began, slowly, like he had to think hard about each word before he spoke; "it's a large house, a mansion really, you couldn't miss it if you tried."

He paused, and Gwaine saw his hand clench around the tabletop for support; a gnawing feeling of unease was beginning to stir in his stomach by now, but he knew that it wasn't because of the drinks he'd had. "His family has disappeared, we know not where," the innkeeper said, still speaking slowly, although now it seemed like a poor effort at concealing his trepidation at the topic. "We reckon they fled. Anyone would have made a run for it, after what happened to the mansion. I've never seen anything like it. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was—"

The man broke off, his eyes going wide as he realized what he'd been about to say, but everyone had caught on to the unspoken word anyway. "Magic," Leon finished, carefully, his tone half a question, but the innkeeper nodded, looking relieved that he didn't have to say it out loud.

Gwaine noticed the way his gaze kept flickering between Arthur and the knights as if he was afraid they'd pull their daggers on him for having so much as dared to insinuate that sorcery was at work in his hometown. Something must have given them away, Gwaine concluded, and the innkeeper probably knew they were from Camelot by now—there was no other reason for him to be wary of talking about magic in their presence.

Arthur didn't bat an eye, though, and kept up the politely curious expression, although Gwaine noticed a new tightness around his mouth. From the corner of his eye he saw Merlin lean back slowly as if he was surreptitiously trying to edge out of Arthur's field of vision, but Arthur had his eyes fixed on the innkeeper and didn't even look in Merlin's direction.

"All I know is that some strange man passed through these parts, barely a week before Sir Ricbert died," the innkeeper said, a little defensively, like he was only continuing his tale to draw their attention away from his near slip-up. "He never even showed up here—probably thought himself too high and mighty to sleep in an inn like any other self-respecting traveler. He requested an audience with the lord himself, and stayed with him in his mansion for a day before moving on. And a week later, Sir Ricbert was dead."

"Strange," Lancelot muttered, and Arthur nodded slowly, sparing a moment to take a sip from his mug. He appeared to be in deep thought, his brow furrowing as he turned the new bits of information over in his head; Gwaine guessed that their first stop the next day would most likely be the dead vassal's mansion.

"We're scared, the villagers and I," the innkeeper said, softly now, and when Gwaine looked at him again, his eyes were pleading. "We've heard rumors of patrols from Mercia being sent to conquest our land. Did you know Sir Ricbert used to be a vassal of Camelot?" He spread his hands, a helpless gesture, and his gaze traveled between them as though hoping for understanding and clemency. "The taxes weren't too high, we lived peacefully alongside our lord, and no knights or mercenaries ever bothered us."

"I'm sure the Mercian patrols will be intercepted," Arthur said firmly, and Gwaine knew that he was already planning to send a messenger back to the castle with a letter to his father telling him to do just that. Well, advising, more like. "From what I've heard, Camelot does not abandon its allies. Your village will not suffer for its loyalty."

Gwaine didn't even know why Arthur still bothered to pretend that he wasn't the crown prince of exactly the kingdom they were talking about; he had straightened up in his seat and was fixing the innkeeper with a steady, calm gaze that carried the weight of an oath. The room seemed quieter than before, the twilight creating a play of shadows across Arthur's face, and for a moment he looked older, and if Gwaine narrowed his eyes just so, the flicker of candlelight in Arthur's hair looked as golden as any crown.

He couldn't help but think that the innkeeper had picked up on it too, because he swallowed hard and nodded after a long moment, accepting Arthur's words as the promise they were. He didn't ask how Arthur knew that Camelot's rulers even cared about the fate of a tiny village on the northern coast. But a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, and he stood up straighter as he picked up the rag again, like Arthur's words had been enough to soothe his worries.

The moment passed when Arthur turned back to them, but although he suddenly seemed as tired as they all were, Gwaine didn't miss the determination in his gaze that hadn't been there before, the conviction that he would do everything in his power to ensure that these people would indeed not suffer for their loyalty. He quickly hid his expression by taking another gulp of cider from his pint—he didn't want Arthur to think that Gwaine was admiring him or something nonsensical like that.

Merlin, on the other hand, made no effort to conceal the quiet pride in his smile, or the softness in his eyes as he didn't drop his gaze even when Arthur's eyes came to rest on him. Gwaine considered kicking him under the table, but after a moment Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably, looking away and down into his mug as though it held all the answers to his questions.

Thus rebuked, Merlin sighed a little but didn't look too crestfallen—even Gwaine didn't know how much of the scowl on Arthur's face came from whatever dragged-out argument he and Merlin were having, and how much was born of the natural discomfort of being complimented. Gwaine drained the last of his cider, relishing in the tingle of alcohol down his throat, and rolled his eyes—if Arthur was going to be this bloody noble for the rest of their quest, he was in for more looks like the one Merlin had just given him.

But well, he thought as he set the mug back down with a grin, watching Arthur get used to that would be quite entertaining indeed.





Judging from the slow, quiet breaths from the other side of the room, Arthur was already half asleep by the time Merlin finally dared to speak.

"That was a nice thing you did back there, reassuring the innkeeper," he said, careful to pitch his tone low so that Arthur could pretend not to have heard.

Arthur was silent for a long moment, jolted out of that undefinable place between sleep and waking by Merlin's words. Then he sighed, sounding distinctly indignant, as though he had just managed to forget that he was forced to spend the night in a room with him. Merlin heard the bed creak when Arthur moved—he could barely make out the bed on the other side of the room, but he thought that it looked like Arthur had turned towards the wall, obviously not intent on discussing this further. He didn't reply, not even to tell Merlin to shut up and stop talking about things he didn't understand.

Merlin sighed, and pulled his own blanket more tightly around himself. The room was small but just as tidy as the inn's ground floor, and Merlin had dropped his and Arthur's luggage on the floor as soon as he'd seen the two beds. Lancelot had given him a knowing look, but hadn't commented on it; he was the only one except for Gaius whom Merlin had told about their fallout, and not entirely of his own free will, at that.

Sure, Lancelot had asked more than once what had gone wrong between them, and Merlin had felt guilty every time he'd seen the worry in his friend's face. But he hadn't felt ready to tell him, until Lancelot had taken the uncharacteristically desperate measure of inviting him for a few drinks at the Rising Sun. Merlin had told him everything after barely two cups of wine, his tongue loosened by the alcohol and probably by loneliness as well.

He'd had a hangover the next day, and what with how contrite Lancelot had looked, Merlin had forgiven him for getting him drunk on purpose. To his own surprise, he'd felt a little better, especially when Lancelot told him with an apologetic grimace that plying him with wine to coax him into talking had been Gwaine's idea. In hindsight, he'd been almost grateful for it, because the thought of Lancelot desperate enough to go to Gwaine for advice made him feel guilty all over again.

Merlin turned away towards the wall as well, unwilling to put himself through the sight of Arthur's back any longer. In a way, his drunk conversation with Lancelot reminded him of the evening when he'd told Arthur about his magic—he hadn't really felt ready then either, but he'd done it anyway.

He'd spent nearly five minutes standing in the corridor just outside Arthur's chambers, and in hindsight he was glad that no guard had been in sight, because Merlin had kept raising his hand to knock, only to lower it time and time again. Images had flashed through his mind, of the executioner's black hood and a burning pyre and of Arthur's eyes gone cold and hard as stone, but he'd done his best to shove those images away. He'd focused his thoughts on the round table of the Kings of Old, and on how he truly wanted to earn his place to Arthur's right, instead of just being shoved there by destiny. And so he'd knocked, tentatively, because he knew Arthur had had a rough day between testing a few hopeful candidates for knighthood and convincing his father that no, King Bayard's latest letter did not hold hidden threats but was merely an assessment of the situation in Cenred's fallen kingdom.

There was barely a second's pause before Arthur called him inside, though, and the prince hadn't looked all that tired when Merlin slipped into the room and closed the door behind himself. He was seated at his table, various scrolls and parchments spread out in front of him—it had taken Merlin a moment to adjust, since he'd expected Arthur to be pacing his room in exhausted agitation, like he had done so often since Morgana's betrayal.

"I'm proud of you, Merlin," Arthur had said, his mocking tone undermined by the flicker of amusement in his eyes. Flames were crackling in the fireplace, illuminating Arthur from behind, so that it looked like he was still wearing his coronet. "You've finally figured out how to knock."

Merlin had done his best to smile back, feeling relieved and oddly unsettled by the unspoken welcome in Arthur's gaze. He was surprised at the break in Arthur's routine of running himself ragged and trying to subtly keep the kingdom together without his father noticing, but he'd still sent a quick, silent thank you to whatever had led to this momentary reprieve. His head felt empty of thought, as if the surprising warmth in Arthur's eyes was enough to send all his fears and worries scurrying out of sight into the farthest corners of his mind.

"Better late than never," Merlin had replied, speaking slowly as he chose his words with careful precision, probably for one of the first times in Arthur's presence. But if he was going to shatter the quietude that had settled over Arthur's mind, he was going to do it as gently as possible.

Wiping his cold, sweaty hands on his trousers, Merlin had taken a deep breath, although the air stung and burned in his throat like he was already breathing in the smoke of a pyre. "And I hope that's what you'll think about this, too," he continued after a moment, trying and failing to keep his voice even. His words seemed too fast for his mind to second-guess, tumbling out of his mouth in a quickening slide. "Maybe you won't right now, and that's fine, really—you have a right to be angry, but please—"

He faltered and broke off, silenced by the confused look that flitted across Arthur's features—there was concern there as well, unguarded and open as Arthur leaned forward in his chair. "Merlin, calm down," he said, his tone pitched low and soothing as though he were trying to calm a particularly skittish horse. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Merlin replied helplessly, and wiped his hands again—his fingers were numb with cold by now, despite the warmth he could feel radiating from the fireplace. Arthur subsided back into silence, although Merlin could still see the softness of concern in his eyes, and he felt suddenly, perilously close to tears. Arthur looked like he might get up any second, maybe to put a reassuring hand on Merlin's shoulder, and Merlin prayed desperately that he wouldn't, because he knew he'd flee then. He could do this as long as Arthur remained seated, but if he were to stand up and face him eye to eye, Merlin knew he would break.

A few more deep breaths, and the lump in his throat eased enough for Merlin to swallow it for now. He felt the tremor again, the twitchy shakiness that had started up in his muscles as soon as he'd stopped in front of Arthur's door, and he fought not to let it show as he said, "I have to tell you something." He paused for a moment, more words hovering uncertainly on his tongue, but then he added, "Something that I should have told you long ago. But— I'm telling you now, and I'm sorry."

"Alright," Arthur said, leaning back again as if to observe the situation from a different angle. He still looked worried, although the barest edge of wariness had entered his gaze—it wasn't angry or even particularly sharp, not yet, but Merlin cringed nevertheless.

He sucked in another deep breath, and for a moment he almost felt grateful, in a slightly mad, helpless kind of way that had nothing to do with relief—it was not unlike the feeling that sometimes overcame him when they were in danger. As soon as they broke cover, shouting for their enemies to show themselves and fight, there were no more decisions to be made—it just happened.

Arthur was no group of bandits he had to face down, though; but while his mind had been utterly blank just a second ago, the words came to him with surprising ease now. The frantic pounding of his heart nearly drowned out the words to his own ears, but his voice remained steady when he said, quietly, "Arthur, I'm a sorcerer."

He had expected the moment of blank incomprehension as well as the disbelief that followed suit in Arthur's expression, and to his own astonishment, the sight didn't make him want to run. The crackle of the fire was the only sound disturbing the silence for a long moment, but when Arthur opened his mouth to speak, disbelief still written plainly across his features, Merlin knew he was going to ask him if he'd been sneaking some wine or if he'd hit his head somewhere.

Levitation spells had always been his forte, and so Merlin didn't need to speak when he focused his attention on the quill lying abandoned on the table. He fought the instinct to lower his gaze, struggling to keep his head held high and let Arthur see the flash of gold in his eyes, and the quill moved, lifted off the table with a whisper of sound as the pristine white goose feather scraped across wood.

Arthur's gaze followed the quill until it was hovering at eye level, and his hands moved slowly to grip the armrests of his chair as though preparing to push it back. It was an instinct-governed motion, triggered by the ingrained response to magic that Arthur probably couldn't have suppressed even if he'd tried. Heart thrashing in his throat, Merlin watched as Arthur's gaze slowly shifted from the quill to him, and Merlin smiled then, tremulously, not because he felt particularly relieved or even safe, but because he wanted Arthur to know that it was alright, that he wasn't here to do anything to him—that he had just come to finally tell him.

He could see now that Arthur had gone pale too, his eyes looking wide and very, very blue beneath his fringe—the disbelief was still there, but it just seemed to stick out of stubbornness, and shock was slowly seeping through at the edges. Arthur stared at Merlin like he'd never seen him before, like he was reconsidering everything he knew Merlin to be, turning over every facet of his personality in the new, harsh light of what he had been told. Merlin stared back helplessly, a slow, sinking feeling spreading through his stomach as he fought to keep his breathing even.

The hot, jagged lump was back in his throat, but this time he couldn't swallow it back down. He had braced himself for the hush and the utter speechless shock, but not for the uncomprehending hurt that he saw in Arthur's eyes, and it went through him like a knife. Merlin had wanted to give Arthur the chance to react, to demand an explanation or to just shout at him as he saw fit, but now he found himself squirming under the weight of the terrible silence that had spread through the room like poison.

"I'm sorry," Merlin whispered, the words little more than a faint outrush of breath, but he couldn't raise his voice. "Arthur, I'm so, so sorry— I wanted to tell you so many times, but—"

He broke off, realizing that fear was not an excuse that the prince would listen to right now, not when the slow darkness of anger began to swirl through Arthur's eyes, chasing away the shock. Although he didn't reach for the dagger that lay on the windowsill next to him, Merlin saw his hand twitch as though he wanted to, and the sight shot pain through his stomach as though Arthur had stabbed him for real.

"Please," Merlin said, but it shattered against the tightness in his throat, coming out as a hoarse, broken sound. He could feel the tears he had fought so hard to hold back burning in his eyes now, and Arthur still hadn't spoken, hadn't asked anything. All the same, the words kept spilling out in a desperate rush, because Arthur's eyes had gone so dark that they looked almost black in the candlelight, and he felt like it was his last chance to explain anything. "It's not— I'm not different now, I'm still the same, it doesn't have to change anything—"

"Get out," Arthur said. It was just two single words, not much louder than Merlin's whisper from before, but it still felt like a punch to the gut. "Get out of this room right now, and don't you dare come back."

Merlin had left. And he had cried, his forehead pressed to the rough, soothing coldness of the wall just outside Arthur's chambers—not for himself, but for the look in Arthur's eyes, the baffled dismay of someone trying to make sense of a blow he hadn't seen coming. He knew that even after the busy day he'd had, Arthur was in for a sleepless night now, his earlier comfortable tiredness chased away by Merlin's confession. He would lie awake contemplating the depths of Merlin's betrayal, he would wonder why his servant, his friend would do that to him, and somehow, that had seemed even worse than the possibility of guards breaking down Merlin's door the next morning.

The bed on the other side of the room creaked again, and Merlin flinched, shaken out of his thoughts. He released a slow breath and the tightness in his throat eased a little—no matter how much time had passed since that day, the memory never failed to make him feel like someone had reached into his chest and was squeezing his heart relentlessly. True, Arthur had looked like he barely got any sleep anymore for the next two weeks, but despite the glares of barely banked fury that Arthur had sideswiped him with, no guards had come to take Merlin away, and for that, he was still grateful.

And then Arthur had broken the silence between them—with a meaningless order, to be sure, but it had been enough to kindle the tiny spark of hope into a persistent flame in Merlin's chest. He'd pushed away the guilt and the hollow despair that welled up in him whenever he let his thoughts wander off towards how close they had been before. He'd focused all his attention on the small scraps of Arthur's life that he was still allowed to take part in, and he'd tried his best to silently convey his willingness to take whatever Arthur threw at him in his betrayed anger, and to explain if Arthur chose to hear him out.

He'd locked away the heavy sadness that clung to him like a persistent leech, determined to sit out his punishment and endure whatever time of trial Arthur thought he deserved, but this quest, this break in their routine was stirring it all up again. Unlike in the castle, Arthur couldn't avoid him here, and since the past week had gone by in relative peace, Merlin felt brave enough to force Arthur into close quarters with him whenever he could.

Arthur's breathing had shifted into the slow, regular pattern of sleep, and judging from the lack of quiet snoring, he was still lying on his side and had yet to turn over onto his back like he normally did. The thought made Merlin smile a little, though wistfully, and he closed his eyes against the blueish shimmer of moonlight from the small window.

He just had to find a way to get Arthur to talk, to blow off some of the fury that had built up during the past few weeks, and then he could show him, slowly but steadily, that not all magic was bad. That Merlin had been born with it, and that he'd never, ever use it against him in any way, and that he had told him because he wanted Arthur to know him, to look upon him and deem him worthy of the place by his side.

He could talk, once he'd let Arthur shout at him for as long as he liked, and maybe, just maybe, Arthur would listen.






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