[fic] The Ivy Crown, 4b/9

[da_ya_ri]

If one stopped to think about it, Arthur suspected that it must be something about the clear country air that rendered Maneshale's bards more skillful than those of Camelot. At any rate, it only took the fiddlers about a minute to tune their instruments, and then they launched into a merry tune that made even the gray-haired old man Arthur had sat down next to bob his head along in rhythm.

The clearing was filled with flickering light, the bonfires casting a golden glow over everything even as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon and painted the treetops. The villagers had lit the fires as soon as the wood had been assembled into four neat piles, although it had been barely late afternoon then—when he asked, Arthur had been assured that the wood would take ages to properly catch fire, and now he saw that they'd been right. The fires were fully alight now, roaring columns of flames that spat gleaming waves of embers into the darkened sky, and he had to admit that they looked even more impressive here, in a large clearing in the middle of the woods, than they did at Camelot in the courtyard and the market square.

All around him, people were laughing and dancing and drinking, cheeks rosy even without the aid of wine in the firelight. The bards were standing just a few paces behind Arthur, and he thought he recognized bits and pieces of their melodies from songs he'd heard at court, despite the occasional eruption of roughened, off-key singing that erupted from the other end of the table.

He'd been ushered to sit down along with the others, a goblet of heavy, spiced wine pressed into his hand by a passing girl and pats clapped onto his shoulders by some of the farmers as they thanked him and his men for their help. In Camelot he would've been up and about by now, circulating among the visiting nobles and taking great care to be equally polite and friendly to all their daughters. He might have asked Morgana to dance, if only for the chance to be turned down and fall into the familiar rhythm of their sniping matches. The knights would have been whirling the ladies across the room, trying to keep up with the music to the best of their ability. And Merlin would have been leaning against a nearby pillar, grinning at Arthur with wine-stained lips whenever their gazes met, and Arthur wouldn't even have been annoyed that Merlin kept sneaking stray gulps of the pitcher he was carrying.

But apparently the villagers had decided to let their visitors sit back and enjoy the feast, since no one had come to talk to him or even ask him to dance all evening. He pushed the thought of Camelot away—it was no use thinking of how things had been, because they would never be the same again, and if there was one thing Arthur hated, it was the maudlin mood he could feel himself slipping into.

Leaning his elbows on the freshly-furnished table that he'd seen the villagers put together that afternoon, he sought out the familiar shapes of his knights amidst the revelers. Leon was dancing with the chambermaid that had served them their lunch at the inn—Arthur could see her grimacing slightly even through the twilight, and guessed that Leon kept stepping on her feet, but she still seemed to enjoy the dance.

A never-ending, persistent stream of girls kept walking up to Lancelot, curtsying to him with coquettish gleams in their eyes. But as far as Arthur could tell from this distance, Lancelot kept declining their offers to dance, ever-so-courteously. The sight stirred up a faint tingle of amusement in the back of his mind, until he remembered that Lancelot was probably thinking of Gwen and turned down the women because of her.

He frowned in annoyance, taking a stubbornly big swallow of wine to drown the thought; now was not the time to mull over that either, especially since it was just a single element on a long list of things he couldn't change. The alcohol burned a path down his throat, a welcome distraction, and he let his gaze drift again. He could see the innkeeper dancing with his wife, twirling her through the gap between two bonfires—something Arthur would need to do eventually as well, because even if he didn't feel like dancing, the ritual still demanded that he purified himself in time for the onset of summer.

Some of the men got up from the other end of the table, swaying just slightly as they milled about looking for their wives (or, well, at least for the women they had chosen to spend this night with). The rough-cut wood was laden down with trays of food, smoked fish and baked meat and tureens of thick, savory soup that Arthur had already eaten his fill of. A roasted pig took up the middle of the table, an apple in its mouth, and as Arthur watched, a couple of dancers plopped down on the wobbly bench, their faces shining with laughter and sweat. They weren't the first to lay into the pig and cut off thick steaming slices from its flank—judging from the size of the animal, Arthur suspected that its meat would last them another day.

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Arthur looked to the left, at the second table that had been set up on the eastern side of the clearing. Leon had finished his dance with the chambermaid and was sitting down, already reaching for a mug of cider—his hair was in disarray from the dance, gleaming in the firelight. He was inclining his head at someone, although the expression didn't seem purely joyful; even from this distance, Arthur could see a note of concern undermining his cheer. Following the knight's gaze, he didn't even know why he was surprised when his eyes landed on Merlin.

The first thing he noticed was the goblet clutched in his hand—a distant part of Arthur's mind mused that if it contained wine, it was no wonder that Merlin was leaning against the table for support. But he didn't look drunk, and he appeared to be idly surveying the celebration, eyes dark in the flickering light.

It could just be Arthur's imagination, but he thought that Merlin seemed to avoid looking in his direction, his body turned slightly away from Arthur's table, shoulders hunched as if against a chill, in spite of the bonfires roaring just a few paces away. As he watched, Merlin flickered a doubtful look down at his goblet, but raised it to his lips to take an experimental gulp of whatever was inside. Arthur guessed that it must indeed be wine, since Merlin grimaced when he lowered it again and swallowed his mouthful with some difficulty.

The alcohol didn't seem to do anything for him, though. He still looked lonely and a little sad, and even from this distance Arthur saw the effort it took him to give Gwaine a fleeting smile when he whirled a giggling maid past him in a raucous dance. The sight made something pull tight in Arthur's chest, an uncomfortable, achy pressure unfurling the ball of anger that had been sitting there all night.

But then he thought back to their argument, and had to look away and breathe deeply against the renewed surge of simmering emotion. He downed the last of his wine, and forced himself to think that it served Merlin right.

To all intents and purposes, he'd felt furious enough to burst when he'd stridden off into the forest that afternoon. He'd thought that he had managed to close off that foolish, aching part of himself after Merlin had revealed to him that Lancelot had known of his magic all along, but apparently he had been wrong. As with so many things lately, Arthur didn't know how else to react except to erupt into anger, and so he had whirled around when he felt a hesitant touch on his arm, ready to strike out at whoever had been foolish enough to follow him.

It had just been Sir Leon, though, and Arthur had felt himself deflating a little almost against his will. It was impossible to hold on to all of his ire with the way Leon looked at him, guarded and wary and just short of concerned, but that didn't mean he couldn't try. He'd squared his shoulders and let his knight look at him in silence, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of being assessed crawling across his skin.

"Arth— sire," Leon had said eventually, after the hush had stretched for long enough, "whatever Merlin said, I'm sure he meant no disrespect."

For a brief moment, Arthur wondered at how everyone seemed to think that honorifics would placate him, but then Leon's words registered with him, and he just shook his head even as he felt his hands curl into fists on their own accord. "Don't fool yourself, Leon," he snapped back harshly, although the words were accompanied by a brief flash of regret, because none of this was Leon's fault after all. "Merlin is a walking, talking epitome of disrespect."

"If I may speak freely, your highness," Leon countered, but didn't wait for confirmation, looking determined to say what he'd come to say regardless of whether Arthur wanted to hear it, "you used to value that."

Arthur had gaped at him for what felt like a pretty long time, not all that surprised at the older man's words, but quite unable to come up with a scathing reply. It was true, after all—if there was one thing he'd come to value about Merlin over time, it was his straightforwardness, rather than his dismal service. Merlin always told Arthur what he thought of him, not mincing his words but neither aiming to cut him down to size with two sentences and a disappointed look like his father had used to.

Well, almost always. There was at least one thing that Merlin had been dishonest about. And suddenly, beneath the gently rustling leaves with Leon's gaze on him, it had struck Arthur as so profoundly unfair that even after all this time, the mere memory of Merlin's confession was still enough for him to make his teeth gnash so hard his jaw hurt.

Leon looked back at him in silence, and it had been evident from the steely persistence hidden behind his gaze that he wasn't going to back down no matter how hard Arthur glared at him. And somehow, for the first time in months, Arthur found himself almost wanting to be the one to surrender, to let his shoulders slump from their tense hunch and unclench his fists, perhaps run his fingers through his hair in an effort to wipe the ever-present simmer of betrayed anger from his mind.

He'd felt tired just then, unbearably exhausted even under Leon's calm, searching regard. No one would need to know if he faltered just a little, if he just gave in and at least nodded, if he acknowledged that Leon was right, that his thoughtless anger was making him lose sight of what Merlin had meant to him, had been to him before. Maybe that was the reason why Merlin had gone to Lancelot yet again while he'd used to come to Arthur to discuss anything of importance such as the Green Knight's motivations. As unobservant as Arthur thought Merlin was on an average day, maybe he felt it too, the distance between them that widened into a chasm no matter how stubbornly Merlin had tried to breach it during the past few months.

But a voice had piped up from the back of his mind, sounding suspiciously like his father, telling him that crown princes did not back down and show weakness in front of their knights, even if it was just Leon. Arthur took a deep breath, and another, trying to will away the tight obstruction in his chest, reaching up to mercilessly squeeze at his throat. Merlin was a sorcerer, and a traitor, and if Arthur listened to the voice at the back of his mind, there was no reason for him to feel like the floor was being yanked from under his feet the further they drifted apart. And if he had subconsciously stopped believing that a long time ago, no one needed to know.

Words had bubbled up in him, just as spiteful as the ones he'd hurled at Merlin in the clearing, but after a long moment of silence, Arthur had not said that Leon was to mind his own business. He'd just turned on his heel and walked away, and Leon seemed to have gotten the hint, because he did not follow him.

Suddenly, a cheer went up at the far side of the clearing, and Arthur blinked to refocus his eyes on the farthest bonfire, forcefully yanking his mind back into the present. Sounds of mildly panicked mooing arose as a few men threw more wood onto the fires, sweating under their thick leather tunics that protected them from flying embers. He could hear dogs barking, and suddenly a small herd of cattle burst out from between two sparking mounds of flame, guided through the gap between two bonfires by enthusiastic farmers.

Arthur watched the procession until the cows disappeared back into the trees and the farmers around him broke out into applause. He'd heard of livestock being driven between the purifying flames, but hadn't seen it actually done until now—by the time that part of the peasants' rituals started, he was usually shut up in the castle, plied with wine and heralded with stories from the visiting court jester. The cattle had looked well-fed and healthy, their dark brown fur shimmering in the firelight, and Arthur found himself smiling absently, glad that this village, at least, would get on well enough without their lord.

The bards fell silent behind him for a moment, and the dancers milled back into the clearing, having stood off to the side to let the cattle pass by before. Expectant looks were directed at the musicians, until the fiddlers launched into a tune that was distinctly familiar.

The old man next to Arthur started humming along even as the dancers moved around the fires again, and eventually one of the bards started to sing, his clear voice rising effortlessly above the crackling of the flames and the general chatter that filled the clearing. Arthur blinked in surprise when half of the villagers around the table suddenly joined in—it seemed to be a well-known song not just in Camelot. He didn't know the words, but found himself tapping his foot in rhythm anyway, giving himself over to the distraction with no small measure of relief.

He could see—though mercifully not hear—Gwaine singing along on the other side of the clearing, his arm slung over the pale shoulders of the same chambermaid that had danced with Leon before. Leon was watching them too, although he didn't look at all offended as the girl smothered her giggles into Gwaine's tunic; apparently his singing was as atrocious as Arthur suspected.

Two laughing villagers raised their goblets to him in passing, and Gwaine interrupted his caterwauling for just long enough to down the rest of his mug in one gulp. The chambermaid looked distinctly impressed when he put it down on the table with an audible clang, his hand remaining steady. He tugged her up from the bench after a moment, stumbling only slightly when he drew her back into the circle of dancers, and if his steps weren't as sure as hers, no one seemed to mind.





After his second goblet of watered-down wine, Merlin realized with sudden astonishment that he was drunk.

Well, he wasn't completely sloshed, or at least not as drunk as Gwaine—who was holding his liquor way better than Merlin did, to be sure, but he supposed it was to be expected, due to his friend's drinking habits. Gwaine had downed so much cider that Merlin marveled at how steady he still was on his feet. His dancing was less agile than before and he seemed to be stepping on quite a few toes on his way, but he was still whirling his giggling partner around the bonfires, apologizing ever-jovially whenever he bumped into someone. The villagers didn't hold their squashed toes and slightly bruised shoulders against him, but rather toasted him with their goblets whenever he returned to the table for another drink, their grins infected by his cheer.

Merlin, on the other hand, was reasonably sure that he would fall over if he got up, and with how woozy his head was getting, he didn't feel like testing that theory. His brain felt mushy, like it had been wrapped in wool, and while that had been quite a pleasant feeling at first, it was now starting to slow down his thoughts. Initially, he'd just wanted to help himself to some liquid courage with vague plans of cornering Arthur behind a bonfire and drawing all the things that had remained unsaid that afternoon out of him. But then one gulp had led to the next, and before he'd fully caught on to what he was doing, he was slowly but surely getting shitfaced and didn't even mind all that much.

It was nearing midnight by now, and while everyone was getting progressively drunker, that was apparently no reason for the villagers to stop dancing. Just watching their movements made Merlin dizzy, and he looked down into his goblet for a while to steady himself, noticing somewhat absently that the liquid within reflected the stars. His thoughts were drifting aimlessly, little pinpricks of light zapping across the horizon of his mind. For some reason he found himself thinking of Erik, and wondered how he might be celebrating Beltane tonight—Merlin hoped that he'd join the villagers, or at least not sit around all alone in the hunting lodge.

"You haven't heard of a noblewomen named Ragnelle, have you?" he asked the next serving girl who stopped to refill his goblet, with undiluted wine this time—he might have stopped her if his mind had been less fuzzy, but as it was, he didn't really care what he drank anymore.

She just gave him a weird look and shook her head, moving on to the other table where a cluster of farmers was sitting, rocking back and forth slowly with their arms around each others' shoulders as they sang along to the bards' song. Merlin followed her with his gaze, but although he forgot to brace himself, he was surprised to see that Arthur wasn't there.

He'd been sneaking surreptitious looks at him all evening while he waited for the wine to settle into his bloodstream as the warm, comforting presence that it seemed to be for the other revelers. Arthur, on the other hand, had studiously avoided even glancing his way, and Merlin had tried not to let that sting as much as it wanted to, assuring himself that he would get his chance to talk to Arthur again before the night was over. The firelight had cast a golden glow across his features, lighting up the suntipped ends of his hair, but even the soft, flickering light couldn't hide how tired Arthur looked. At least he hadn't seemed to want to drown his thoughts in alcohol like he sometimes did in Camelot.

Even though the two tables were barely a few paces apart, Arthur had seemed so far away, like he'd disappear the minute Merlin's gaze didn't hold him down—and well, now he had. Blearily, Merlin wondered when he'd ever thought that all he had to do to earn his place at Arthur's side was to tell him about his magic.

He downed his wine in three big gulps, choking and coughing when a trickle went down the wrong pipe and burned a path down his throat. Then he put the goblet down with a clang and hauled himself up into a standing position before he could think better of it. Thankfully the world remained mostly steady around him, although it took him a few swaying steps to regain his balance.

Picking a way through the dancers would have been an ordeal even completely sober, and as fuzzy as Merlin's mind felt, he found himself bumping into people more often than not. But the villagers just rolled their eyes at his clumsiness, laughing and briefly putting a hand on his shoulder or arm to steady him again. Gwaine spun past him, hair flying and his teeth gleaming in the firelight with the broad grin that seemed permanently etched onto his features. He was still dancing with the same chambermaid Merlin had seen him with all evening, although she seemed a little worse for wear by now, the wreath of hawthorn knocked askew on her head and her movements not quite fast enough to keep up with her partner's boundless energy anymore.

There was a brief pause as the bards finished their song and the villagers lined up for a round dance, and Merlin made good use of it by hurrying through the rows of people towards the far side of the clearing. He let out a sigh of relief when he'd passed the dancers, glad that he wouldn't be in the way anymore. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Leon, who seemed to be trying to get back to the table although a giggling girl was following him, set on convincing him to dance with her.

Merlin dutifully suppressed his smile although Leon wasn't even looking in his direction, and ducked past a shower of sparks that burst from the nearest bonfire when one of the farmers heaved another load of logs into the flames. The fires would burn all through the night, and he didn't envy the men who had to keep them going. Warmth had suffused his bones and sunk into his skin even when he'd still been sitting at the table, but it was even hotter this close to the fires. Every inhale made his throat sting, his eyes burning from the heat.

It got easier to breathe once he'd passed the first two bonfires and was walking towards the far end of the clearing, stumbling every few steps on the uneven ground. The roar of the flames nearly drowned out the music from behind him, and he was surprised at how quiet it was here, away from the others. There was just the crackling of the fires, an occasional burst of embers soaring up into the sky, and Merlin followed them with his gaze until he got dizzy from looking up. The air felt like a living, breathing thing against the exposed skin of his face and hands, crackling with a strange energy that he attributed to the effects of the wine after a moment.

He found Arthur standing in front of the last fire, his face tilted towards the sky, like he was watching the embers too. Merlin could see the stars twinkling amidst the velvety blackness if he squinted, but down here, the flickering firelight outshone even the waning crescent moon. He could see the exact moment Arthur noticed him, because his stance shifted almost imperceptibly—Merlin might have missed it if he hadn't been looking so closely, but at least he didn't fold his arms across his chest or turn away. He just stood there and watched Merlin's approach, his silhouette backlit by the fire behind him, one hand loosely propped on his hip and the other hanging down at his side.

Merlin stopped a few paces away, not wanting to crowd Arthur, but it took him a moment to regain his footing—it was like his legs didn't comprehend the concept of standing still anymore after they'd been in motion for the past few minutes. He stumbled, but didn't fall, and fixed his gaze on Arthur's unmoving form to steady himself. Arthur's face was inscrutable, carefully wiped blank of any expression at all, and Merlin took a deep breath, envying his control.

"I didn't talk to Lancelot because I wanted to," he told him, without any preamble at all, his tongue loosened by the alcohol that was zapping through his bloodstream. But at least his voice came out steady and decisive, and Merlin reminded himself to be grateful for small favors.

Arthur didn't reply, didn't even move or indicate that he was listening, and Merlin swallowed nervously, adding, as an afterthought, "Well, I did in a way, he's my friend after all, but—"

He grimaced when he realized that his babbling was threatening to ruin the moment, and forced himself to snap his mouth shut. Arthur seemed impossibly far away, a tight, unreadable expression on his features like he was struggling not to react to Merlin's words. The ground between them looked overwhelmingly black in the dim light, and if he hadn't known better, he might have thought it to be a chasm between them, widening with each second that ticked by.

"I wanted to talk to you," Merlin said, cursing the desperate note that was slipping into his tone without his consent. He'd wanted to do this calmly, to slip around Arthur's defenses before the prince found a reason to shout at him again, but he couldn't force his voice back into the calm, detached tone he'd lain out in front of his mind's eye. The wine was watering down the restraint he'd thought he had on himself, dragging his emotions too close to the surface again. "I just didn't think you'd listen."

Arthur seemed to consider that, and Merlin forced his breathing to remain regular and unhurried, trying to beat down the tremor of hope that fluttered in his chest. At least he hadn't gotten yelled at just yet, which was a step further than what had gone down that afternoon.

Merlin started slightly when Arthur brought up a hand to run his fingers through his hair, sighing deeply. For a moment he looked exhausted, like he was just as tired of the back-and-forth nature of this thing they were doing as Merlin was—Merlin felt his heart begin to pound in his chest, but he didn't look away when Arthur sought and held his gaze for a long moment.

The silence stretched, and Merlin thought dizzily that Arthur's eyes were fathomless and dark in the twilight, and that his golden hair caught the firelight in a way that looked like he was wearing a crown. He waited for Arthur to take the opening that Merlin was offering him, and hoped, hoped that Arthur would break—that he would finally vent all of the questions and accusations that must have accumulated in his mind during the past few months.

"I'm listening now," Arthur offered at last, although he obviously wasn't, or at least not the way Merlin wanted him to. His voice was too sharp, tight with residual held-back anger from the past afternoon. The look of fatigue was gone, but Merlin held on to the memory stubbornly, reminding himself that it had been there, however fleeting. "Talk, then."

Merlin thought about that for a while, turning the words over in his head, and wondered dimly why he didn't feel more surprised. It seemed like he should be, since he hadn't seen that coming at all, but something in Arthur's tone had thrown him off-kilter, the same strange undercurrent he had noticed that afternoon as well. The way Arthur held himself, his shoulders squared and his features kept carefully blank—it seemed too much like he was trying to prove to Merlin that Lancelot had nothing on him when it came to listening.

He still took a deep breath, though, trying to assemble what he wanted to say through the wine-induced haze in his mind. While he of course wanted to tell Arthur everything, he hadn't quite imagined it would start like this. It didn't seem to happen at the right moment or even for the right reason, but the stiff, closed-off look on Arthur's face brooked no argument.

There was something suspiciously like distant, remembered pain in the tight line of his jaw, and Merlin knew that if he didn't talk now, Arthur would get the completely wrong idea about the fact that he'd talked to Lancelot first. And so he swallowed the uncomfortable itch in his throat, ignored the clamminess of his hands, and spoke.

"Do you remember when we first met?" Merlin began, hesitantly, and had to fight down a small rush of relief when a bit of the woodenness melted out of Arthur's expression, giving way to surprise. It made him feel lightheaded, but he still waited until Arthur nodded before he went on.

"The first time I used magic in Camelot was when we— um— during the fight in the market," he finished lamely, belatedly realizing that that might not have been the best example of what his magic could do, at least not if he wanted to convince Arthur that it wasn't evil.

Arthur stared at him for a moment before comprehension dawned on his features, obviously remembering the incident. He looked astonished, rather than angry, but Merlin figured that that might come later—he watched Arthur warily, and saw recognition flicker through his eyes as though he'd turned the matter over in his head a lot of times back in the day. Merlin smiled a little at the thought; it was just like Arthur to feel vindicated now that his defeat had been accredited to magic.

Merlin let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, surreptitiously wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers. Arthur seemed surprised out of the tight hold he'd had on himself before, but this time Merlin didn't try to quell the hopeful warmth that stirred in his chest. Maybe the chasm between them wasn't too wide to breach yet, although it had surely felt that way in the afternoon—at least Arthur wasn't shouting at him, and he wasn't even glaring, although Merlin knew that the truce might end up more short-lived than he wanted it to be. He would still have to choose his words carefully—or well, as carefully as he could with his head swimming with alcohol.

Arthur shook his head a little, like he was trying to get that particular piece of information to slot into place in his mind. An undefined determination sharpened the look in his eyes, although his voice was hesitant when he asked, "But you didn't just use it to win fights in an unfair fashion, did you?"

There was no amusement in his tone, not yet, and Merlin suppressed a sigh, telling himself sternly that he hadn't expected it to be there anyway. Arthur was watching him, not apprehensively, but with a strange thoroughness that looked like he was reassessing everything he'd thought he knew about him. It confused Merlin, made his skin itch and set him on edge, because surely Arthur had had enough time to integrate the magic into his view of Merlin—but well, on the other hand, maybe he'd just avoided thinking about it until now.

"No," Merlin said, softly now, trying not to infuse it with too much emotion. Words bloomed to life on his tongue, trying to tumble out of his mouth. He wanted to assure Arthur that he was still the same person, that nothing had really changed, just like he had when he'd first told him. But back then Arthur hadn't reacted too well to that either, and so he held the words back.

It seemed like he'd already put Arthur on edge again, though, because the prince nodded, his features hardening almost imperceptibly as if a theory of his had just been confirmed. Merlin blinked at him, feeling clumsy and stupid with the wine that still coursed through his system and slowed down his thoughts, but when he finally caught on, he suddenly felt like walking up to Arthur and shaking him back and forth.

"No," Merlin said again, more vehemently, and raked his hands through his hair. He didn't know if he felt frustrated or sad or both—a jumble of emotion was surging up in him, breaking the thin sheet of tranquility that the alcohol had kept them under. "Arthur, I didn't mean— I've only ever used it to help you!"

Arthur recoiled a little, eyes widening at Merlin's outburst, and Merlin bit his tongue to stop himself from saying more, well aware that his voice had risen to a shout. Maybe Arthur really was that obtuse, Merlin told himself, taking a deep breath to calm himself again—maybe he really had no idea that the whole thing wasn't just hard on him. It might be obvious to everyone else, but Arthur had a way of dismissing things that he didn't know what to do with, although Merlin couldn't quite bring himself to believe that the prince hadn't noticed how Merlin had waited all this time for just the right moment to blurt out his pent-up barrage of explanations.

At last Arthur cleared his throat, somewhat uncomfortably, glancing off to the side for a moment like he couldn't believe what he was doing, or what he hadn't done yet, namely yell at Merlin until he stopped trying to explain away the distrust that had been festering in the prince's mind for so long. "How?"

It took Merlin a moment to recognize the single word as a question. "Um," he muttered intelligently, frowning at the lack of anger or even betrayal on Arthur's features. Apparently he'd taken the flicker of distrust from earlier and shoved it away—however unexpected this conversation was for Arthur, he seemed to want to have it, if only just to see where it would lead them. "Remember Valiant?"

Sighing deeply as though lamenting Merlin's lack of trust in his long-term memory, Arthur reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, the gesture so familiar that something small and aching curled up behind Merlin's ribs. "Of course I remember Valiant."

"I used magic then, too," Merlin explained, a bit self-consciously, but he fought to keep his head held high, not flinching away even when Arthur's eyebrows drew together in a frown. If the prince could deal with hearing this, Merlin could damn well deal with saying it. "I made the snakes on his shield come alive."

The searching look slid off of Arthur's face as though it had been wiped away. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and even in the dim firelight Merlin could see the shock in his eyes, the bewildered incomprehension that looked like he'd expected Merlin to say anything but that.

"What, so they could poison me?" he spluttered at last, and now the anger was back, although it was held tightly in check behind a baffled sort of disappointment that Arthur didn't even bother to hide; Merlin flinched back at the snap in his voice. "Thanks a lot, Merlin, but I would have been quite fine without your help."

Merlin gaped at him, his thoughts stuttering to a halt, and a distant faraway corner of his mind mused calmly that if he hadn't drank all that wine earlier, he might have still been able to express himself in an unambiguous manner that would have prevented this. A sinking feeling was starting to crawl through his stomach, settling in with familiar ease, but he still couldn't speak, couldn't even process the fact that Arthur had misinterpreted his words so thoroughly for a too-long moment.

Predictably, Arthur didn't so much as wait for Merlin to explain himself. He just shook his head, this time in residual disappointed confusion, and Merlin watched in mute, numb helplessness as he turned on his heel and walked away.

Later, Merlin suspected that it had been the alcohol that spurred him into motion, combined with what felt like weeks of remembered frustration creeping up the back of his throat like bile. His first step was unsteady, and he ended up half-slipping down the gentle slope of the clearing as he tried to run after Arthur, but through some miracle he didn't lose his equilibrium completely. The air seemed to shift and snap around him as though shattered by his movement, the crackling of the fires mingling with the roar of blood in his ears. He tripped over his own feet, flailing wildly to keep his balance, and all but barreled into Arthur's back.

Arthur whirled around, and they stumbled down the rest of the slope together, the clearing blurring into a wash of color, bright flames mingling with the shadowy treeline, looking strange and otherworldly in the dim light. Merlin hung on with half-drunken stubbornness, refusing to let go of the front of Arthur's tunic, and Arthur's hands had come up to grip fistfuls of his shirt at some point, pulling it so tightly around his shoulders that an absent, unaffected corner of Merlin's mind wondered if it would rip along his back.

They staggered to a halt under the trees, and for a second Merlin had to squeeze his eyes shut against the surge of nauseating vertigo that threatened to pull him under. His breath was coming in short, sharp bursts of air, and he could still see the brightness of the flames through his eyelids—away from the fires for the first time that evening, he felt cold, the night air chilling his skin like the bite of winter.

"You are such an entitled, pompous, self-righteous prat!" Merlin yelled as soon as he'd regained enough of his breath to push the words out, no longer caring whether anyone heard. The canopy of leaves rustled above as if in agreement, and he used his grip on Arthur's tunic to shake him. "Why did you even bother being jealous of Lancelot if you didn't want to hear what I have to say anyway?"

A part of him regretted the words as soon as they had left his mouth, but it felt so good to yell at Arthur for once, instead of being the one who was yelled at. He felt like he'd earned the right to shout at him as well, although he was aware, in a corner of his mind, that he was being a bit unfair now, since Arthur had listened at least for a few minutes.

Arthur spluttered in outrage, doubtlessly taking offense at the notion of having been jealous at any point of his life, but this close to him, Merlin didn't miss the flash of dismay in his eyes, and he knew that his words had hit home. He also knew that Arthur would erupt into furious denials as soon as he got over his shock, and decided right there and then not to let that happen.

"You do not get to speak to me like that—," Arthur began, but Merlin cut him off with another shake, briefly marveling at the fact that Arthur even let him manhandle him like that, at least for now. But with how submissively Merlin had reacted to the prince's bouts of betrayed anger until now, it was no wonder that he was taking Arthur completely off-guard now.

"Everyone thought you were a coward," he said without preamble, fighting to keep his voice at least close to level, and ignored the way Arthur's mouth dropped open in disbelief, "the court, the king, and you were just— going to get yourself killed to save your stupid honor, and I couldn't—"

Merlin took a deep breath, helpless to stop himself from reliving the frantic desperation that had spurred him on that night, that had forced him to repeat the words of the spell again and again no matter how dry his mouth became or how his eyes tried to droop shut with fatigue. Arthur was silent, his grip still tight with anger and his eyes wild, pupils blown wide in the dim light, but he didn't speak, and he didn't shove Merlin away.

"I spent all night struggling with that spell," Merlin choked out, wondering dimly when his throat had closed up, but he didn't stop. "It was the only way to make sure you survived and didn't end up disgraced. I made the snakes come alive to expose Valiant as the cheater he was."

Arthur was silent, staring at Merlin as though he'd never seen him before, and for a moment it reminded Merlin so strongly of the day he'd told Arthur about his magic that his breath hitched helplessly. But it wasn't quite the betrayed dismay from that evening, although Merlin could still see the confusion wrought into Arthur's irritated frown, and swallowed hard against the thundering drum of his heart.

"And you don't—" He broke off when his voice wobbled, and shook his head although the movement made him even dizzier. Everything seemed to be coming apart, the pain he'd locked away so carefully unraveling at the seams, and he didn't know what to do with it except throw it at Arthur's feet, riding the high of the last of his anger before it fizzled out. "You don't get to just walk away like that, after all this time. You wanted me to talk—"

"Get your hands off me," Arthur said suddenly, his voice low and dangerous and maybe just a little desperate, like the shake of Merlin's voice was not something he'd been prepared to hear. He struggled against Merlin's grip, not in earnest, but more like he was fighting to stir up some residual belligerence, get his feet back onto a ground he could deal with. "I've given you your chance—"

"No, you haven't!" Merlin shouted, his voice finally breaking, feeling almost hysterical and so dizzy that he had no idea which way was up anymore. "You deigned to listen for two seconds, and then you ran away the moment I said something you didn't want to hear!"

The silence seemed absolute after his outburst. Merlin swallowed convulsively around the hot, jagged lump in his throat, but couldn't bring himself to even feel mortified at the blurred edges of his vision. Arthur didn't look like he was so much as thinking about laughing at him anyway. He looked a bit helpless, and still resentful, although this quietly simmering irritation had nothing on his earlier anger.

They stared at each other for a long moment, Merlin's heart beating out an unsteady rhythm in his throat, but he didn't drop his gaze. Strains of music and laughter were floating over from the other side of the clearing, carried along by the chilly breeze that was rustling through the leaves above. It seemed odd that the celebrations were carrying on as usual just a furlong away, while Merlin and Arthur were having exactly the kind of conversation that Merlin had spent the past few months hoping and wishing for. Somewhere along the line it had gone wrong, and right now, Merlin didn't even care whose fault that was. He just held Arthur's gaze, the warmth of their bodies merging with how close they were standing together, and let their breaths mingle in the dark, shadowy space between.

"You think you can force me to listen," Arthur said at last, his tone quiet and controlled, "force me to adjust my opinion of magic to what you think is right."

It wasn't quite a question, and somehow, that made Merlin sadder than most everything else Arthur had said to him this evening. He closed his eyes for a second, and took a deep breath, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he was still clutching Arthur's tunic. From the way his fingers were pressed into Arthur's chest, he could tell that his tension was ebbing slowly, coming down from the rush of energy that their argument had triggered. But he still felt Arthur's pulse hammer beneath his knuckles, belying the stony veneer on his face that seemed close to cracking anyway.

"No," Merlin replied, tiredly, and finally released his hold. His fingers stung when he forced them to unclench—it took Arthur a moment to catch on, but when he did, he let go of Merlin's shoulders as if he'd been burned. "I just want to give you something to base your opinion on, something better than..."

...your father's prejudices, he didn't say, but he might as well have voiced the thought out loud, since the darkening of Arthur's eyes showed that he understood very well.

Merlin sighed, and took a step back, since he knew that the prince would never back away from him but needed his space anyway. His head was spinning again, though not as badly as before—yelling seemed to have sobered him up a little, although he knew that he was still in for the worst hangover of his life the next day. He couldn't even remember when the conversation had taken a wrong turn; he only knew that they had now ended up with the kind of silence that Merlin hated, the one that felt too much like defeat. They weren't back to square one, not quite, but Merlin still didn't understand how they'd ended up taking a step back when he'd drunk all that wine earlier with the intention of pushing them forward.

"You were right," Merlin found himself saying, softly enough for the words to nearly get drowned out by the rustle of leaves. "What you said by the lake on the way to Treffynnon—we still have a long way to go."

"I was talking about the journey, Merlin," Arthur replied after a moment of silence, rubbing a hand across his forehead as though to fight an oncoming headache. He looked just as tired as Merlin felt, and a little of the dejection that had curled up in his chest melted away at the sight. It wasn't easy for him either, no matter how much Arthur tried to find shelter behind his anger and convince both of them that he was the only one who'd been wronged.

"Well, I'm talking about us," Merlin muttered back, but the spark of annoyance was short-lived and faint compared to the wildfire from earlier.

Arthur just shook his head at him, and for a moment Merlin wished he'd roll his eyes, although he wasn't surprised when he didn't. "Come on," Arthur said, inclining his head towards the fires with a sigh. "We'd better get back to the others."

Merlin could feel his fatigue finally catch up to him as he trudged up the gentle slope behind Arthur, tripping over his feet every-so-often on the uneven ground. Returning to the bonfires felt good after such a long time spent at the edge of the clearing, and he let out a quiet sigh of relief when warmth engulfed him the closer the got to the flames.

Maybe they had taken a small step forward after all, Merlin mused as he stifled a yawn into his palm and followed Arthur through a throng of dancers. Arthur's shell was cracking, and so was his own resolve to let Arthur come to terms with the whole thing on his own. He couldn't seem to keep his distance anymore, and neither did Arthur, and they just had to figure out how not to yell at each other when they met in the middle. Which would be no mean feat, considering how obstinate both of them were on occasion, but at least it would be a start.






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