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Bingo prompts: fairy tale au, third person pov, spell gone wrong
Word count: 3,837
Fic under the cut because of length.
The Council of the Roundtable was Arthur's first and most enduring decision - aside from the repeal of the magic ban - once he became King. A weekly forum where the Knights, the Court Sorcerer, Crown Princess, and Lady Guinevere gathered to be heard on the minutiae of keeping Camelot running.
Arthur still had the older council, full of the stuffy advisors that had so excellently sucked up to Uther for at least two decades, but this was to ensure that the future of Camelot moved forward and wasn't dragged back with the shackles of the past.
The meeting progressed as they usually did. Leon had led them all in the important matters, Gwen had been heard on behalf of the Lower Town. Percival and Lancelot offered reports on the borders. Even Gwaine offered sensible suggestions for trade treaties with other kingdoms.
Merlin himself had even reported on the progress of building and staffing the very first magical school in Camelot.
Unfortunately, there was only so much sitting around and being responsible that they all could manage. They were young still, full of energy, used to letting off steam.
Arthur and Morgana were (bickering) debating their current issue, namely whether to make the sorcerers of Camelot separate to or part of the Knights of Camelot (they were both against and for at the same time, but had very different reasons for being so). Leon and Elyan waded in, each with their own peacekeeping tactic.
Merlin technically should have offered his own opinion - downsides of being the Court Sorcerer, intervening between two equally stubborn Pendragons - but he and Arthur had already talked themselves round in circles about this last night. And that headache wasn't one Merlin was inclined to revisit.
Gwaine sidled his chair closer to Merlin, an air of mischief about him Merlin ought to have been wary of. “Say, Merlin,” he began, his tone carefully casual. “Can you actually magic someone into a frog?”
Merlin's face scrunched up. “A frog?” He wished this was one of the weirder conversations about magic he'd had, but it really wasn't. “Why?”
Gwaine shook his hair out of his face. “Well, I was at the tavern last night. With Perce and Elyan. And Lancelot going on about poetry and Lady Gwen and we were drinking to make that lovesick babble bearable and-”
“One of the patrons minding their own business threatened to turn you into a frog if you didn't shut up?” Merlin hadn't been there, yet he could see that happening.
Gwaine inclined his head. “More or less.”
Merlin rolled his eyes. “No, Gwaine,” he sighed, almost wishing it were actually so. “I can't just magic someone into a frog.”
As he spoke, Merlin waved his hand towards the other side of the table, dismissing Gwaine's question by word and action.
Unfortunately, no one told Merlin's magic that. As he waved his hand, his eyes flared gold, and there was a puff of smoke out of the corner of his eye.
“Arthur!” Morgana's cry shocked them all. Loud and scared, with all the emotion the repressed siblings usually pretended they didn't feel.
Always at the ready, Leon drew his sword. Guarded and eager to defend against whatever threat had vanished Arthur.
Merlin sprang to his feet, staring at the still faintly smoky pile of clothing Arthur had been wearing moments before.
“Arthur!”
Merlin scanned the room as fast as he could, his magic flaring out to sense Arthur's presence. He was still there, Merlin could feel that.
“Arthur, you prat,” Merlin scowled, trying to pinpoint the King. “This isn't funny! Where are you?’
From the midst of Arthur's clothes, beneath the supple fabric of his cloak, came a faint sound. Like a very cross ribbit.
Oh no.
Please let Merlin not have changed the once and future King into a cross frog.
Merlin scrabbled through the clothes, dread coiling like ice in his stomach. Perched regally on Arthur's scabbard was a small, green amphibian giving Merlin the most reproachful stare he'd ever seen.
Gwen gasped, her dress swishing as she turned to the sorcerer more prone to unintentional outbursts of magic. “Morgana!”
Morgana blanched, staring down at Arthur. “It wasn't me, was it?”
Gwaine's voice was full of his slow smirk. “Actually, I think it was Merlin.”
Eternally unfazed Leon turned wide-eyed to him. “Merlin!”
Merlin rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I didn't mean to. It's Gwaine's fault.”
“I don't doubt that,” Elyan muttered, sending a fond scowl at Gwaine.
“It’s going to be okay,” Lancelot reassured them, Merlin relaxing at the confidence Lancelot exuded. “Merlin can just,” Lancelot waved his hand, “magic him back.”
Morgana scooped up her little brother, ignored his offended noise, and raised an eyebrow at Merlin. “Can you change him back?”
The worry in her eyes was well founded. Camelot was prospering, true, but the repeal on magic was so new compared to Uther's campaign of hatred and terror. Their King being turned - even accidentally - into a frog might cause some to fall back on old prejudices.
“Of course he can,” Gwaine replied, clapping Merlin forcefully on the shoulder. “He's Emrys. The most powerful sorcerer in the land. If anyone can do it, he can.”
Morgana shared a look with Leon and nodded, every bit as regal as her brother. “I agree,” she said softly. “But until Arthur is restored, no one can know of his condition.”
Leon stood straighter. “Perhaps an impromptu hunting trip. Just the King and - is Mordred still visiting the Druids?”
Morgana hummed a yes.
“Then we'll say Mordred is with him,” Leon decided, his tone carrying the weight of authority.
“No one outside of this room and Gaius will know,” Morgana finished, meeting their eyes deliberately.
It wasn't the first time Arthur had left Morgana in charge while he recreated, but it was the first time Morgana didn't know how long her unofficial regency would last.
Morgana raised Frog Arthur to her eyes. “Merlin will make you yourself again. We'll take care of everything until then.” Her blue eyes roved to Merlin. “You'll have him striding about the castle again in no time. Won't you, Merlin?“
Merlin could do nothing but nod, accepting the very displeased, kingly frog deposited in his hand.
“Right,” he said to Arthur, calling on his magic. “Here goes nothing.”
Merlin tried. Goddess, did he try. Incantations, intent, offhand comments and hand waving. Everything he could think of. All the while Frog Arthur sat in the palm of Merlin's hand, silently judging him for his inability to change him back.
He took Arthur up to his own tower in the Castle, the dedicated library of Court Sorcerer tomes and scrolls. Arthur made himself at home on the same chair he always claimed - the softest one, the prat, but Merlin supposed he couldn't begrudge him since it was technically his fault Arthur was in his current predicament - and watched as Merlin flipped frantically through them all.
He even used his magic to find the relevant pages with transformations or amphibians of any kinds.
There was nothing.
It was as if no sorcerer had ever turned anyone into a frog before.
… Or if they had, that person never became human again.
But that was defeatist thinking. Merlin never stopped to think if things were possible, he made them possible. So did Arthur.
And if Merlin didn't make this possible, Morgana was going to be very displeased. Instead of being changed into a frog, Merlin had the feeling he was going to be changed into a leech or a cockroach or something equally unpleasant.
With a final, defeated sigh, Merlin closed the last promising tome. Frog Arthur, from his comfy seat, let out a slow, deliberate ribbit that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of profound disappointment.
“Alright, alright,” Merlin muttered, scooping the froggy king up gently. “Don’t get your… well, don’t get anything in a twist. I haven't given up, you know. We're just moving onto plan B.”
This time, Arthur's ribbit sounded like a mocking laugh.
“Fine,” Merlin scowled. “Plan sodding G. Happy?”
Arthur tilted his froggy head, slapping his hand down on Merlin's palm.
Taking that as a no.
He knew Arthur wasn't happy. Gaius, however, might, might, be sympathetic enough not to second Morgana's unspoken desire to turn Merlin into a dung beetle.
“Merlin!” Gaius greeted brightly, looking up from his preparations for Lady Aelwyn's latest tonic.
Merlin spared a moment to soak in the unspoken pride Gaius exuded around him since magic had been legalised again and Camelot was thriving again. “Hullo, Gaius.”
Gaius either didn't pick up on or think to note the glumness in Merlin's voice. “What brings you here, my boy? I thought you were in Council until evening.”
On the long trudge to Gaius' chambers, Merlin had practiced the right words to ease Gaius into the situation. Unfortunately, the frog prat had other ideas. He loudly ribbeted, leaping from Merlin's hand onto the top of his head.
Gaius’ eyebrows twitched. “Why do you have a frog, Merlin?”
Merlin's mouth moved, no helpful explanation coming to him. “It's not a frog-frog, Gaius,” he heard himself say, high pitched and suspicious even to his own ears.
“It's not a frog?” Gaius repeated, staring at the very frog-like frog on Merlin's head.
Merlin shook his head slightly “Nope.”
“If it's not a frog, then what is it?”
“…'rthur.”
“What was that, Merlin?” Gaius frowned. “You'll have to speak up. My hearing isn't what it used to be.”
“It's Arthur.”
Gaius' eyes had never been that wide. “The King?!”
Frog Arthur gave a depressed ribbit of agreement.
Gaius staggered back a pace, sinking into his usual bench. “How did this happen?”
Merlin gave the abridged version of events. Starting with Gwaine's offhand comment and Merlin's unintentional magic that changed Arthur from Arthur to an adorable green froggy.
Gaius stared at Merlin for a long moment, centuries of disappointment passing over his face. “You must change him back.”
“I tried!” Merlin cried, dropping on to the bench. “Magic got us into this mess, but nothing I could do changed him back. I've been through all the books, the scrolls, all the magical knowledge Uther didn't destroy. But nothing worked. He stayed,” Merlin lifted the King from the top of his head, setting him down on the table, “all green and amphibian.”
Frog Arthur sent a very baleful glare up at Merlin. It was astonishing how clearly a nonverbal frog could communicate that Merlin was a useless idiot. And how it was incredible that someone as clearly useless as Merlin had managed to make it to Camelot, let alone to the prestigious position of Court Sorcerer.
Frog Arthur was very expressive. Strangely moreso than actual Arthur.
Gaius raised an eyebrow.
The nonverbal communication was strong in this room.
“I see,” Gaius intoned gravely. “Well, if your magic cannot change him back, perhaps there is some potion or tincture that will.”
Gaius did not sound hopeful.
“Arthur is the King, and Camelot needs her King,” Merlin reminded Gaius, all those lectures about destiny and fate and whatnot coming back to him. Fond as the people were of Morgana, some of the older councillors were wary of having a sorceress in charge. “What are we going to do about His Royal Frogginess?”
Gaius frowned in concern at frog Arthur. “Since magic cannot help, I am afraid the only thing we can do is wait. And consult our books. Arthur has assembled a wise council, Camelot will not fall in the meantime.”
Frog Arthur ribbeted mournfully.
Merlin nodded in commiseration. Gaius really wasn't any help at all.
Kilgharrah, when Merlin summoned him, was no more helpful.
His draconic laughter rumbled around the clearing. “Your King has been transformed into a frog?”
“Yes!” Merlin cried, a bit fed up of having to explain this fact. “He's a bloody frog! Now can you help me or not?”
“Not,” Kilgharrah said, and he did sound almost apologetic about that. “You shall find the answers you seek within your heart, Young Warlock. In time.”
No matter how Merlin cajoled, ordered, pleaded, Kilgharrah would say no more on the subject. Merlin regretted his father's death a lot, but never moreso than when he had to deal with the Great Dragon.
Fed up and cold, Merlin returned to the castle and his warm chambers, where he'd left Arthur with his sister for company.
Morgana was, indeed, waiting for Merlin when he entered his chambers. She looked less frazzled and irritated than when she'd come storming in on a wave of purple fabric and fury, demanding an update on her brother.
“Ah, Merlin,” Morgana called, perched regally on the edge of Merlin's best chair. “How was the Great Dragon? Did he offer any wisdom?”
“None,” Merlin grouched, throwing himself into the other chair. “Only that I would find the answers I seek within my heart. In time.” He mimicked Kilgharrah's cadence, scowling at Morgana's laughter. “What does that even mean?”
“That he already believes you possess the knowledge to turn Arthur back.”
Merlin threw his hands into the air. “But I don't!” What good was it being Emrys if he couldn't change Arthur back? “If I knew how to turn him back, he'd be calling me a useless bumpkin with all the magical control of a slug and dragging the knights out for excessive training after they made one frog joke. But he's not. He's sitting there, eating my lettuce and silently judging the Druids for thinking I'm Emrys!“
Morgana, strangely, smiled. “The Druids know what they are doing, Merlin,” she reminded him, as if Merlin didn't know that. “And in the time that I stayed with them, I learned many things myself.” Morgana sipped on tea summoned from thin air. “Did you know that wisdom and knowledge preserve themselves, Merlin? If one form dies, another is born. What we believe to be forgotten is remembered, if only you know where to look.”
“Have you been taking lessons in cryptic speaking from Kilgharrah?” Merlin snarked, too mentally exhausted to unpack what Morgana was hinting at.
Morgana shook her head. “Aithusa is the only dragon I speak to, Merlin,” she sighed, tsking reprovingly at him. “Speaking in riddles is something I was born with.”
Arthur abandoned his lettuce to ribbit an agreement.
Morgana shot the frog a scathing look. “I will remember that,” she warned, narrowing her eyes at him. “I'm trying to change you back. I can stop if you like.”
Arthur ribbeted something that sounded vaguely apologetic.
Morgana nodded, satisfied. From the depths of her gown, she drew a simple book. It didn't look like it had come from the Camelot library, the binding simple leather, no extravagant decoration on the cover.
“A book?” Merlin frowned, Arthur looking as confused as Merlin felt. “Why?”
Morgana simply smirked, rising to her feet gracefully. She picked Arthur up, kissing the top of his froggy head. Arthur swatted at Morgana with a webbed foot but didn't hop away. She set Arthur back on the table, winked at Merlin and wafted to the door.
“Goodnight, little brother. Try not to spend all night studying, Merlin,” she waved, winked again, and left.
Arthur hopped onto Merlin's hand, giving him a look Merlin could read well. “I know,” Merlin sighed, frowning at the door. “I'll get Gwaine to schedule her a meeting with that Lord who spits all the time.”
Arthur croaked disparagingly.
“Fine,” Merlin conceded. “Not Lord Spits-a-lot. What about Baron Mumble Monotone? The grain mutterer.”
Arthur nodded, hopping tiredly in place.
Merlin sympathised. It had been a long day. Bed sounded very good.
Such was the length of his day - and the oddness of his life - that Merlin didn't even bat an eyelid at setting his froggy king on the bed. Arthur turned his back as Merlin changed, something Merlin appreciated, but claimed Merlin's favorite pillow, which he did not.
Tired as he was, though, Merlin didn't feel sleepy. Bones deep exhaustion yes, but also kind of like he could power through all night.
And Morgana's knowing smirk was niggling at him.
He reached for Morgana's book, which he'd set on the table by his bed.
“Would you like me to read to you, Arthur?”
Arthur gave Merlin the most disgusted look he'd ever seen on a frog's face. He settled more comfortably on Merlin's favorite pillow, closed his eyes, and for all the world seemed to have dropped right off to sleep.
Muttering about idle Kings and their suspiciously smug sisters, Merlin settled into the other side of the bed.
It was a book of old fables. Nothing Merlin hadn't heard of before, told around the village when he was a child, spoken in the lower Town to children at festivals and such. The Golden Goose. The Boy Who Cried Wolf. The Ugly Duckling.
Merlin had resonated a lot with the Ugly Duckling as a child. Waiting for the day when everyone would realise he was a swan and not just an ugly duckling.
But none of the tales accounted for Morgana's smugness. Her air of superior knowledge.
Then Merlin turned the page, and there it was. A simple, crude illustration of a frog. The Frog Prince. The Frog Prat would be more accurate for Arthur.
Still, Merlin settled in to read the tale. Morgana wouldn't have given him this if she didn't think it would help. She was irritated with Arthur most days, but that didn't mean that she wanted him stuck as an amphibian with no way to change back.
He'd never much liked this story as a child. The spoiled princess annoyed him, a ball made of gold was pointless, and honestly the frog was irritating. But he read it anyway. If it might help Arthur, who was also ensorcelled into frogginess, then Merlin would read on.
The tale was largely as he remembered it - same spoiled princess, same Golden ball - but the ending. He'd never paid attention to it before.
“…One night, as the frog lay on her pillow, the princess leaned down and gave him a gentle kiss. In an instant, the frog changed into a handsome prince.”
“So all I've got to do is find a princess to kiss you,” Merlin informed his probably sleeping king. He read on. “Or someone who feels true love and friendship for you.” He frowned severely at the frog. “You're not making it easy on me, are you?”
How was he supposed to do this?
Wandering the halls of Camelot asking people to kiss his frog wasn't something Merlin could get away with doing. Gwaine, perhaps, if he was very drunk. But Merlin? It would set back the image of sorcerers decades. Or make everyone think Merlin was dottier than he was.
Which left Merlin with his conundrum. How was he supposed to find True Love's kiss for Arthur, when Arthur didn't seem to be in love with anyone.
“Gwen!”
Quick as his triumph came, it went. Gwen was in love with Lancelot and everyone could see it. Arthur hadn't seemed that disappointed when they'd begun courting.
Or there was, um, and maybe, um.
“You have no romantic life, do you?” Merlin scolded Arthur, the frog king cracking one eye open.
The look he shot Merlin was absolutely resigned. He hopped onto Merlin's chest, ribbeted mournfully and sighed.
Merlin froze, recognising the tone. That mournful resignation was the same Arthur always had when they discussed matters of the heart. With just a hint of the fond exasperation when he called Merlin an idiot.
Wait. What? … No.
It couldn't be. Morgana wouldn't arrange the pieces that easily, knowing Merlin would read the story and come to the conclusion and- no. Right? It couldn't be. Could it?
“Arthur, why did Morgana give me this book?”
Arthur ribbeted disgustedly. I'm a frog, you idiot.
“Arthur.”
Arthur hopped onto Merlin's pillow, closing his eyes pointedly.
“This conversation is not over, Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin insisted, turning to face Arthur. “Do you-? Am I-? Are we-?”
Arthur opened one eye, glaring balefully.
“Shut up, Arthur,” Merlin scowled. “I'm better with my words now than you.”
Considering Arthur was a frog, that wasn't saying much, but Merlin would take the victory.
Arthur flicked his tongue out at Merlin, a quick, wet sound that communicated his derision.
Merlin sniffed, extinguishing the candles with a burst of magic.
Minutes seemed to pass like hours. Each second an interminable lifetime. Merlin stared at the ceiling, thoughts circling around his brain. Why Morgana had given him the book. What Arthur had or hadn't been meaning with that sound.
Every conversation they'd ever had played in the background. Every touch. Every look. Every act of sacrifice or nobility. Every shared smile and laugh. Every time they'd sought each other out over everyone else.
How Arthur looked so soft sometimes when he looked at Merlin. How that made Merlin feel, all sort of warm and gooey in his chest.
But this was ridiculous! Arthur was a king! A man of Royal blood and arrogant prattishness. And Merlin was just Merlin. Clumsy and gangly and awkward and magic.
Maybe. Maybe he could have all those things he'd never thought he could. The momentary daydreams of something more than what they shared.
Maybe, just this once, he could dare to hope.
But if he tried and failed, what then? Could a man live with shattered dreams? Could he endure eternity knowing his feelings were never to be reciprocated?
If he didn't try, Arthur would be condemned to his froggy fate forever. Never to unite Albion, or to be the greatest king ever to live.
And that was a fate worse than eternity with regret.
He had to try. For Camelot and the future of Albion.
Merlin rolled onto his side, watching Arthur sleep in the moonlight.
Such a small thing, to bestow a kiss. Easy, familiar, happened every day. Yet Merlin felt daunted.
He'd faced life as a hidden sorcerer in Uther Pendragon's Camelot. Fought undead armies, high priestesses, and the cryptic advice of dragons. He'd had to do horrible things he'd repeat in a heartbeat.
Surely this was nothing in the face of all that.
One more service to Camelot.
One more duty to the man who was so much more than just his king.
“Alright, you prat,” Merlin whispered fondly. “For Camelot.”
Merlin's lips landed on the crown of Arthur's cool head, a tingle spreading through them.
Before he had a chance to feel disappointment or worry that he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life, golden light surrounded him. A faint humming filling Merlin's bones.
When the light cleared, Arthur was laying atop the covers, real and warm and human.
It worked. It really, actually worked.
Arthur had changed back.
Merlin laughed, throwing himself at his king. They sort of collided at the lips, laughing breathlessly, kissing messily but with wild abandon.
Arthur's lips curled into a smirk as they parted, satisfaction emanating from him. “Took you long enough, Merlin.”
for @merthurmicrofic ︱"change" ︱1632 words ︱bingo fills at end
It's a terrifying thing, to stand on the precipice of changing everything. To know the world you live in and the one you are about to inhabit are irrevocably different. If Merlin were not stripped down to desperation, he may have not had the courage to speak. He wonders if doing so is a folly, if the worlds in which he held his tongue are kinder, happier.
"I have magic."
But this is the world Merlin lives in. The one he's created. The one where he'd rather throw himself to the changing winds of fate than let his king think he'd abandon him.
Arthur stills from where he'd been about to leave the room. Right after he'd thrown the cruelest words he'd ever said to Merlin like a dagger. I thought you were the bravest man I ever knew. I guess I was wrong.
"I was born with it," Merlin continues, and Arthur's back is still turned to him, and he can't know, can't see the expression on Arthur's face. "I've used it to protect you since the moment we met. To help you become the king you've always been meant to be. And I want to go with you into battle, you help you win this fight, more than anything but— Morgana, she— she did something that took my magic. I need to go somewhere to try to get it back, or we'll— you'll— Arthur, please, look at me."
The words rush out of him like a waterfall, matching the taste of salt that's landed on his tongue. He's trembling.
Arthur slowly turns to face Merlin. His eyes are damp. "I thought you would never trust me enough to tell me."
Merlin's heart stops. His inhale of breath gets caught somewhere in his throat, and he manages no more than a sputtered "You— you knew—" before Arthur's moving to him.
Arthur's clasping him on the back of the neck, and then he's bowing his head so their foreheads brush against one another. Merlin doesn't know how long they stay there, just breathing. The world is much the same as it was moments ago— there is still an army thundering towards them, Arthur will still ride out with his life as a shield to protect Camelot, Merlin is still stripped of everything that made him an agent of fate.
And yet, everything has changed.
"Your magic," Arthur says, head still pressed against Merlin's. "Can you get it back?"
"I don't know," Merlin whispers. "I have to try."
Arthur pulls back, but keeps his hand settled on the nape of Merlin's neck. They're so close that Merlin can feel the puff of Arthur's breath ghost over his face. Arthur's eyes are so, so blue, like the open sky, like an endless sea.
His eyes drop to Arthur's lips.
Tomorrow, they might both be dead. If Merlin has courage enough for one truth, he can act on another.
He's just started to lean in when the hand on the back of his neck squeezes. His finds Arthur looking directly into his eyes.
"I'm needed on the battlefield," Arthur says slowly. His voice is rough. "And you need to recover your magic. For I don't think we'll win this war without it."
Merlin realizes what Arthur's saying. Go. Go, and come back to me.
He's making Merlin promise to come back. To pick up where they've paused.
"And when I return?"
"Find me." Arthur replies. "Wherever I am, find me."
Find me, and I'll be yours.
Merlin makes Arthur promise him, as well.
//
Find me.
Merlin's magic takes to the battle like an oncoming storm, rolling out in every direction around him. For the first time in his life he doesn't care to hide, sprinting headlong into the fray. Merlin can hear the knights' shouts of surprise as he cuts through the battlefield— some clearly recognizing the king's manservant, some just stunned at the sight of a sorcerer among their ranks.
Merlin pays them no mind. He's only looking for one man.
Lightning strikes down around him, taking out a group of Saxons that hoped to flank his right side. He pauses, eyes scanning over the battlefield, and a gale force wind directs a volley of arrows to fall harmlessly into the dirt. When a couple of mounted soldiers charge towards him, roots spring up from the earth, sending their horses crashing to the ground.
Merlin feels less like a man and more like a force of nature. But he doesn't know what he'll become if he can't find Arthur.
"Arthur!" he cries out, his voice magically amplified. He reaches out with his magic, searching for the soul he knows as well as his own.
A heartbeat stutters. Merlin hears the relieved breath as if it were in his ear.
"Merlin?"
There.
His magic cuts a path in front of him, and no man, no weapon is capable of standing in his way. His feet lead him to a rocky gorge, where the corpses of men in both red and brown litter the earth. Merlin spots a head of straw-blonde hair, a sword with glimmering golden runes, and nearly collapses with relief.
If Merlin is a force of nature on the battlefield, Arthur is a wild animal. He moves with a warrior's instincts, no hesitation in his eyes as he drives Excalibur into the chest of the Saxon in front of him. Even as another enemy rushes towards Arthur with ax drawn, the king pounces on a weakness with a hunter's instinct— kicking out a weakened leg, disarming his opponent with a quick maneuver, and ending their life.
A man in Camelot red cries out in pain, lifting his hand from where he lies on the ground. Arthur's attention instantly diverts to him, and that's what makes him Merlin's king. In that moment, an injured Saxon sits up from behind Arthur, managing to level a crossbow at Arthur's head.
Merlin cries out, the crossbow fires, and Arthur turns in alarm.
The bolt changes direction mid path, flying past Arthur's head. Merlin's fist clenches, the Saxon's neck snaps, and the bolt drops to the floor.
Arthur turns, eyes meeting Merlin's, and Merlin can't help it, running towards Arthur and throwing his arms around him. Arthur's right arm loops around Merlin's waist, the other still tightly clutching Excalibur.
"You came back."
"I gave you my word."
Merlin pulls back, cradling Arthur's head in his hands. They're alive. They're both alive.
The grim masque of facing death lifts for a moment from Arthur's face. His eyes lighten, and for a moment his lips twitch, and echo of the cocksure smile Merlin saw a decade ago outside of Camelot's walls.
If Merlin wasn't standing in front of Arthur he would have never seen the blade coming. Mordred is as silent as a shadow, sword drawn, eyes locked onto Arthur. The slightest widening of Merlin's eyes is the only warning his body gives him of the incoming attack.
How might fate had been changed, if Merlin hadn't taken Arthur into his arms at Camlann?
It's too fast for Merlin to reach for his magic. To quick for him to listen to anything but his most basic instincts.
He shoves Arthur to the side, throwing his own body forward. A heartbeat later, Mordred's blade sinks into Merlin.
//
Merlin's dying.
He knows this from the way his body feels like a thing that does not belong to him, freed of all pain. He knows this from the way he can't make out any concrete words from the voices that float around him. He knows this from the way his magic flickers in his chest like a flame sputtering out.
Most of all, he knows this from the great expanse that swallows him up. A void that he thinks he's never existed outside of.
He doesn't want to die. He promised Arthur. He promised he would return.
He thinks he hears the sound of waves lapping at the shore, distantly. There's a song beneath the shore, someplace that feels like home. Someplace that Merlin came from and thinks he will always have come from. The water calls to him. He can't see his way out from under the depths.
There's a hand on his own. A man's voice, broken by grief.
"Please. Please, Merlin. I can't—" A shuddering breath. "I'm so sorry. If I could change things— if I could take your place—"
Don't you dare, Merlin thinks. He'd make the same choices a hundred lifetimes over.
Fingertips brush along his jaw, impossibly gentle. Something wet falls on his face, and it trickles down, mixing with the endless cavern that lies below him, reaching up with ready hands to pull him under for good.
Merlin can't see, can't feel, can't breathe— and yet. And yet, there's one golden touch, reaching him even when he should be lost in the depths. A voice he hears, even when he's hopelessly adrift.
"You promised," Arthur begs. "You promised you'd come back."
I don't know where you are, Merlin thinks. I don't know how to find you.
Lips press against Merlin's.
They're warm, flush with life. A golden touch, anathema to the cold water that seeks to claim him.
The spark of warmth spreads from his lips, down his throat, into his lungs, his veins, sprawling from his fingertips to the very core of his being. His magic, the flame almost completely enveloped by the deep, flares like a bonfire. Driving away the abyss that holds him, lifting him up, up, up. A north star, a guiding light. Merlin's eternal map, not to his home, but to where he belongs.
Merlin presses back into the kiss. His eyes flutter open as the contact breaks with a ragged gasp. He looks up into sea blue eyes.
"Found you."
(merthurmicrofic bingo fills: episode fix it + BAMF merthur + present tense + Excalibur + first kiss + magic reveal + hurt/comfort)
Arthur never knew what it was. Not really. The colour of the sky, he was told. The proper one. The colour of the rivers and streams. The colour of the lakes. The colour of some of Morgana's dresses.The colour of one of Morgan's eyes. His fathers eyes. His mother's eyes too, Arthur was told, though they seemed so grey in the paintings.
Grey was what Arthur knew blue as. The cloudy sky interchangeable with the cloudless sky. All the same to Arthur.
It didn't matter. He got by without seeing blue. It didn't affect his princely duties, nor his ones as a knight. And in his father's view as long as Arthur could see the red of Camelot and could discern the glint of magic use, his inability to see blue was unimportant.
And then.
And then…
Arthur met the most impudent, disrespectful, backwater bumpkin in all of the kingdom. He didn't give two figs that Arthur was the prince, just stood up to him, looked him right in the eyes and that was that.
Blue. Everywhere. Vivid and brilliant. The shade of Merlin's eyes. Such a colour he never knew existed. Worth waiting for. Just to see the first glimpse in the eyes of his fate.
They bantered, Arthur knew they did. As much for show as to protect their secret from Uther. His father would not be pleased Arthur had found his match in Merlin.
He sent his soulmate to the stocks, and he did feel a little bad about that. Really. But the sky was such a lovely shade of blue, as Arthur was learning were his own eyes, and Merlin could appreciate it at leisure. While Arthur figured out what they were supposed to do.
As would be their pattern, Merlin solved that conundrum. Saved his life and became Arthur's manservant. Uther would never have allowed it had he known, but Morgana was right. What Uther didn't know wouldn't hurt him, or Arthur or Merlin.
Morgana knew immediately, as did Leon Arthur suspected. Uther never found out. Arthur seeing blue was of no consequence to anyone else. Save Merlin, of course, and he already knew everything about Arthur.
(The fact that Arthur had also gained the ability to see gold that day too, well, Merlin could keep his secret for now. He really was adorable when he was trying to be sneaky.)
Objectively, their first flat was terrible. Hot water that either scalded them or didn't work at all. A kitchen tap that dripped for ten minutes at precisely 3:27 every morning. Carpet that was inexplicably paisley. There was a patch of something on the ceiling that looked either like a dragon or a jousting knight, depending on how they squinted their eyes. The bedroom was barely big enough for their bed, let alone dressers. The couch was at a permanently funky angle, and the windows only opened if they jiggled them the right way.
But it was theirs.
It was home.
And Merlin had fallen in love with it the moment the friend of a friend of one of Gwaine's acquaintances had shown them through it.
Arthur pretended to grumble. Muttering about the shade of the walls, discontinued in the bloody seventies, he said. But Merlin knew him better. Arthur had fallen in love with it too.
Bright and blue and wonderful. A far cry from the red Uther covered his cold manor in - a mark of family duty and legacy more of a burden than a joy to Arthur.
The wintry sunlight had struggled through the windows, shining off the blue, blue walls, and Merlin had seen a flash of his life. Late nights and early mornings, Christmases and birthdays, Saturday dinners with their friends, Sunday gatherings for the football.
The life they would have.
The life they did have.
The perfect beginning, wrapped up in four blue walls.
Guinevere's words drift on the warm breeze, breaking the stillness of the clearing, and Arthur's shoulders stiffen by instinct.
He lifts himself slightly, tilting his chin up so his eyes can fix on the distant, tintless rim of the sunlit glade. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The girl lets out a muffled giggle, and Arthur feels his body soften at the sound—he tries to resist it, but it's spring, and spring gives everything the right to be softer.
"He likes the blue ones," Gwen says again, slowly, as though Arthur might need time to take in each word. "The little ones—forget-me-nots, I think they're called." She squints at him, and the sight must be delightful, for she tries to bite back a smile, and fails miserably. "If you like, I could help you pick the loveliest ones, Sire."
Arthur swallows, then nods. "All right," he says quietly. "If you don't mind."
When Arthur died, all the blue in the world died with him.
All blue was Arthur. The sparkle of his eyes when he teased him; the fiery burn when he was determined; the soft light when they were alone.
Arthur was no more. The other half of Merlin's coin - the other half of Merlin's soul - wrenched away, taken before either of them were ready.
To Merlin's eyes - his broken heart, entrenched in immortal grief - all blue was grey. Dull and lifeless, all warmth and beauty extinguished.
Arthur's eyes, pained and beautiful, the last pure blue Merlin had ever seen. He wanted it no way else. All other blue paled, no other blue would he see again.
Eons passed, Merlin grew accustomed to grey skies, grey oceans, grey eyes staring back at him in the mirror. The world was still vibrant - reds and greens and golds, all the colours he knew so well - but not a glimpse of blue.
One day, Merlin was sitting in his little garden, reading a book that barely held his attention, and a butterfly alighted on the page.
A tiny thing, fragile and delicate like a snowflake. It glittered in the sunlight, a vibrant shade Merlin hadn't seen in so long. A perfect, precious periwinkle.
There was a breath in the back of Merlin's mind, a sigh that sounded like “Merlin.”
Merlin smiled, his heart warm for the first time in millenia. Blue had returned to his world. And Merlin felt like he'd been born again.
“I believe I asked for blue,” says Arthur flatly, squinting at the rough scrap of fabric in his hands. Maybe if he does so, it will change colors by sheer force of his determination. He has borne witness to more unlikely things. “This is green.”
“It is sort of a green-blue, sire,” George offers.
“Yes, well, for these negotiations it needs to be a blue blue,” Arthur grits out, sighing through his teeth. “A real blue. A handsome blue. Like — I don’t know, the sky, or Merlin’s eyes, a robin’s egg —”
George blinks. “What was that second one?”
“The sky,” Arthur snaps, stuffing the sample back into George’s hands. “Surely you’ve seen it. Great big roiling thing up in the heavens? Or is your life so dull you spend all your time in the dungeons polishing brass?”
George stands brusquely to attention. Arthur had thought he already was standing to attention, but somehow he manages to stand to attention-er.
“Blue it is, sire,” he nods, and then, arms laden, he scurries off, the doors to the armoury booming closed behind him.
Ready your horses, strap on your armour and dust off your lance – the tournament is about to begin!
Details and extra cards below!
How it'll work:
Each week a one-word prompt will be posted as usual.
However, for an extra challenge, you can join in the Merthur Microfic Bingo Tournament from 1 December 2025 to 4 January 2026.
The aim of the game is to tick off as many of these bingo squares for each of the five weekly prompts during this time as you can.
You can choose to do as few or as many as you like, and aim for bingo, blackout, or anything in between.
What counts as a fill?
Any type of fanwork is welcome – including microfics and longer fics, art, moodboards, web weaving, fanvids, gifsets, poetry and more! The only rules are that each work must:
be human-made, not AI-generated
feature Merlin/Arthur (see more detail in the FAQs)
incorporate at least one of the five weekly prompts posted during the Tournament period
be a new work (not something previously published)
The prompts
You will see some squares have a second prompt listed – this is to ensure all creators are able to complete each square, not just writers.
POV: First person ⚔️ Alternate prompt: Red
Excalibur
POV: Non-Merthur ⚔️ Alternate prompt: Black and white
Modern AU
Festivities and gifts
Mythical creatures
Present tense ⚔️ Alternate prompt: Landscapes
Fairytale AU
Spell gone wrong
Jealousy
First kiss
Forced proximity
Magical object
POV: Third person ⚔️ Alternate prompt: Gold
Knights of the Round Table
Different first meeting
Episode fix-it
Future tense ⚔️ Alternate prompt: Nature
BAMF Merthur
Past tense ⚔️ Alternate prompt: Details
Humour
POV: Second person ⚔️ Alternate prompt: Green
Magic reveal
Hurt/comfort
You can interpret any of these prompts as creatively as you wish!
Sharing your fills
As usual, post your works on tumblr (either directly, or as a link) and tag us!
You can also post to the Bingo Tournament AO3 collection, but this is entirely optional.
Join our discord server!
If you'd like to hang out and chat with other Merthur creators, leave a comment below and you'll be sent an invite link.
FAQs
What counts as Merlin/Arthur for this fest? This fest is specifically for flash fiction and other creations centred on Merlin and Arthur as a pairing. Creations are not required to include romantic or sexual content, which means you can (and are encouraged to) explore their platonic dynamic as well – however, we ask that Merlin and Arthur are not depicted in non-Merthur ships (including poly ships, as these are their own ship, and not Merthur) unless Merthur is strongly implied as being, or wanting to be, end game.
Can I tick off multiple squares in one fill? YES!
Can I submit multiple fills in one week, or multiple fills for one prompt? YES!
Choose your card!
There are four designs to choose from – all with the same prompts, just different shields (for some extra whimsy).
Arthur's words were teasing, but his hands were gentle. So very gentle as he massaged Gaius's special lotion into the skin on Merlin's back and shoulders.
Merlin made a face at the wall. "This is your fault too, cabbage head," Merlin grumbled, sighing the next breath. The lotion was so very, very cool. "You had to drag me out on a hunt."
Yes, Merlin had been the one to decide on a nice splash in the river, but he wouldn't have been in that position if Arthur had stayed in the castle.
Arthur flicked the back of Merlin's neck, "Insubordination."
He didn't stop rubbing the lotion into Merlin's heated skin.
Merlin hummed, his limbs going nice and heavy. "Go hunt the sun," he said dazedly. "Trying to assassinate your manservant."
"It's only a minor burn, Merlin." Arthur rolled his eyes. "A few days rest and you'll be fine. Spare a thought for me. I'll be stuck with George and his brass jokes until you've stopped playing on this."
He pressed a kiss to the back of Merlin's neck, where he was miraculously not sunburned.
"Wear a shirt next time, Merlin," Arthur ordered, rubbing one final dollop on the most throbbing part of his burn. "The sun might not like this fair skin of yours, but I do."
Every breath tears out of him, lungs cleaved open and flayed over hot coals. He claws weakly at his chest, but can only inhale in thick, sharp bursts, each one like raking gravel from a wound.
The pain splitting his side is low, and deep, the world limned red by the spots clouding the corners of his vision. Merlin’s face hangs moon-like, a blur above his head, and the depth of his betrayal burns through Arthur like a brand.
They had been running, breathless, near-frantic when he had fallen, a great stitch, like licking flames, erupting in his side. And Merlin — Merlin who had been just behind him, who knows every part of him, whom Arthur had trusted with his life — had stumbled, sworn, shoved Arthur sideways and turned back to meet his eyes — and then, one arm outstretched, he had revealed that every oath, each touch, all the gossamer threads of trust between them, worn to felt over the years, had been a lie.
Arthur tries to speak, but cannot breathe, the white-hot shale of his throat closing up around the words. His muscles seize, like wet cloth twisted and wrung out.
It had been foolish, he supposes, for Merlin to return to him in the wake of such a revelation. Or perhaps Arthur is foolish for not killing him. Maybe Merlin had planned this all along, had never loved him, only savoured the deception; or perhaps Arthur would not deserve his love if he could not forgive him this.
It is difficult to think. Merlin’s hair is haloed in a golden haze of light, and Arthur wants to laugh at the absurdity, the ham-fisted contradiction, but his stomach has been left a cavern, and he can only muster bile. He gasps with thirst, but cannot find any water that is not the sweat bleeding from his brow.
This must be what dying feels like, he thinks blindly. And he will do so before he trusts anyone again. But Arthur is bone-weary, and there is a fire in his ribs, and Merlin is the only man who knows what has been lost.
“Just —” Arthur rasps, palms clenched tight into his side, “just hold me. Please.”
The figure that is Merlin kneels, hums, and throws an empty biscuit package at his head. “I won fair and square, you ninny,” he snips, licking crumbs blithely off his fingers. “Next time you say, ‘first one to the kitchen gets the last custard cream,’ you should be prepared to lose.”
Arthur's bellow was not an unusual way for Merlin to be jolted into wakefulness. Not Merlin's favourite way (those often involved Arthur saying Merlin's name in a husky register, not loud enough to have people's ears ringing from here to Essetir), but not unusual. The face full of vaguely smokey scented fabric, however, that was new.
“Wha-?” Merlin asked, proud he'd managed that much - what with the early wake-up call and the gob full of fabric.
He yanked the cloth off his face, blinking muzzily at the sight of a shirtless Arthur pacing back and forth in front of the bed.
“My shirt,” Arthur was saying, tossing dark glares at Merlin and at his wardrobe as he paced. “My shirt. My favourite shirt.”
His King was clearly in a snit, Merlin shouldn't antagonise him any further.
“It's a shirt, Arthur,” Merlin sniffed, biting back a yawn. “You have hundreds of them.”
Then again, Merlin never let common sense stop him.
Arthur's temper burned in his eyes, then he took a deep breath. “Look at my shirt, Merlin,” he ordered, waving his hand in a go on motion.
It was too early for this. Merlin wanted to pull the covers over his head and go back to sleep, but he didn't much fancy whatever diabolical revenge Arthur would dream up. The last time, he had been stuck in a field with Kilgarrah for a fortnight, filling in the gaps in Geoffrey's history books - between the Great Dragon's riddles and tendency to go off on tangents, never mind the fact that it had pissed down the entire time, Merlin had been sorely tempted to use his Dragonlord power and order Kilgarrah to burn him. (His only solace at the time was that Gwaine was equally miserable, sent to accompany him by a palpably amused Leon).
Shaking off the image of a wet and woebegone Gwaine, Merlin shook out Arthur's favourite shirt. Or, rather, what had been Arthur's favourite shirt. The red fabric now appeared more akin to an archery dummy, littered with misshapen burn marks - some which were still gently smoking.
Ah.
“Trying a new fashion, sire?” Merlin teased, Arthur really did make it too easy. “I'm sure the Knights will love it. Catch on like wildfire, it will.”
“Merlin,” Arthur growled through gritted teeth. “Control your dragon.”
Now that he looked, Merlin could see the top of Aithusa's head peeking over the top of the wardrobe.
Oh.
Right, well. Awkward. But not technically Merlin's fault.
Merlin chucked the shirt back at Arthur, abusing his magic a little so it thwacked him in the face. “She's a baby, you prat,” Merlin sighed, enjoying Arthur's baleful glare. “You can't be upset at her for a little burn here and there. Like your not mad when a puppy leaves a puddle in the doorway.”
Arthur's eyes narrowed, staring between Aithusa (curled up on the wardrobe, looking small and innocent) and Merlin. “Fine,” he sniffed, tossing the shirt aside. “But don't come crying to me when she burns your things.”
“I won't get angry,” Merlin retorted, secure on his moral high ground. “She's a baby.” And she preferred Arthur's things to Merlin's, so Merlin's possessions would remain unsinged.
“AITHUSA!” Merlin's yell echoed in his and Arthur's chambers. He stormed through the doors, brandishing a scrap of charred material. The remnants of his best blue neckerchief.
Arthur was seated at his desk, Aithusa draped over his shoulders like fire was a talent still beyond her. Taking in the undoubtedly sorry picture Merlin made, Arthur's eyes glittered. “Is something the matter, Merlin?”
“Is something-?” Merlin squeaked, too annoyed to form a sentence. “She knows what she did.” Once again, Merlin brandished the charred neckerchief. A small, ashen scrap fluttered to the floor. “Look what she did!”
Arthur's smirk was a glorious thing. “Merlin,” he intoned regally. The dollophead King stroked the white scales of Aithusa's flank, Merlin's traitorous dragon chirruping as she snuggled into his neck. “She's only a baby. You can't expect her not to burn things.”