Welcome to Aetheris Academy, the place where brilliance and obsession collide.
Step into the hallowed halls of Aetheris Academy, a prestigious institution where only the most exceptional students are chosen to study and hone their craft. Known for its rich history, rigorous curriculum, and unmatched reputation, Aetheris is a place where the best and brightest gather—but not everything is as perfect as it may seem. Behind the polished exterior, there are whispers, secrets, and dangerous desires lurking just beneath the surface.
Welcome to Aetheris. You’ll never quite escape once you step inside.
What if the tide only looked merciful from a distance?
They speak of survival as though it is clean.
As though devotion leaves without taking pieces of you with it.
But the deep remembers differently.
Even when false disciples turned from the vows they once swore beneath moonlit waters…
even when loyalty became performance…
even when empathy revealed itself to be little more than spectacle dressed in softer language…
the tide remained.
And so did the things within it.
You look at me now and ask only surface-level questions, mistaking composure for peace. Some do not ask at all. They simply enable the erosion quietly and call it understanding.
But there is something strangely freeing about realizing your own worth after spending so long surviving people who benefited from your silence.
I no longer feel compelled to justify my storms to those who only loved me while I was drowning quietly.
If I must become the villain in another person’s fragile scripture so they may feel righteous in their own reflection—
so be it.
A/N: this is the final chapter, im marking them all under the tag 'merlin dangerous devotion'. Gwaine gets hurt in this one >:3
“I don’t understand why we have to entertain the brat,” Merlin mutters and Arthur sighs.
“You can’t call him a brat,” Arthur says, though he has to agree with the sentiment. He has no idea how Prince Fredrick became such a brat when his father is such a good king, except he sort of does. He knows personally the spoiling quality royalty has about it, especially when you’re young. And the tragedy is, King Richard’s good rule means occasionally his son falls by the wayside. Like now. Merlin rolls his eyes. “I just need someone to entertain him while his father and I speak. I figured you could do some of those parlor tricks of yours.”
“Parlor tricks?” Merlin repeats, voice just shy of high-pitched with indignation. Arthur just barely misses hiding his smile, but Gwaine doesn’t bother to smother his snort. Merlin gapes angrily at him.
“We’ll be happy to,” Gwaine says, throwing his arm over Merlin’s shoulders, and Arthur narrows his eyes at the knight.
“You are not to take him to any taverns or give him alcohol of any kind. The last thing we need is the two of you making fools of yourselves in front of him,” Arthur says. “Or, triple goddess forbid, get him in trouble.”
“I don’t need alcohol to make a fool of myself, you know that,” Gwaine says and Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “And Merlin doesn’t need it to find trouble.”
“Hey!” Merlin protests, “I don’t find trouble, I get the two of you out of trouble.”
“I know,” Arthur says to Gwaine, ignoring Merlin– Merlin makes an offended noise– and suddenly questioning his decision to leave Richard’s son in the hands of these two. He could’ve left him with Leon or Lancelot. Or George. But no, he picks these idiots for some unfathomable reason. “Richard’s a friend, so please just take care of Fredrick, yeah?”
“We’ve got it all handled, Princess,” Gwaine says and sighs and nods. Arthur thinks it’s all rather dramatic of him.
“Alright, I’ll meet you two on the training grounds as soon as we’re done,” Arthur says. Truth of the matter is, he wishes he could be with them instead of talking to King Richard. Even if he does rather enjoy his talks with the other king. Richard is the first king who recognized his rule after he took over from his father. Richard is the first king he made peace with by himself, repairing a relationship broken by his father, instead of relying on old treaties.
“If you actually think of my magic as parlor tricks, Arthur, we’re having words when this is all done,” Merlin says, pointing at him.
“Yes, yes,” Arthur says. He takes Merlin by the shoulders, turning him around and pushing him out of the hallway he’d paused them in and toward the courtyard where they’re to meet their visitors. “Scold later, dignitaries now.”
Merlin huffs in annoyance and twists so Arthur’s hands fall from his back. The three of them fall in step, walking side-by-side to meet King Richard’s party. Arthur can feel nerves curling in him. It’s been years since he’s met the other king. The last time Richard was here, the anti-magic laws were still intact and Arthur wasn’t aware of even Emrys’ existence. The three of them pause at the top of the steps, Gwaine standing to Arthur’s left with loose limbs and Merlin standing to his right and worrying at his lip. Arthur crosses his hands behind his back and looks out to where King Richard’s horse will ride up, where the sun is rising, painting the sky and courtyard in beautiful shades of pinks and oranges. They wait there for several minutes, the sun slowly climbing, Gwaine humming whatever song is stuck in his head, until Arthur spots King Richard’s white horse.
King Richard is just as imposing a man as he remembers. He is large like an old oak, sturdy and of a stocky build. His hair is golden like Arthur’s, though his eyes are a deep brown. The lines on his face tell stories of both the stresses of a king and a lifetime of smiles— smiles which are warm and freely given, as if everyone he meets is an old friend.
“Welcome, King Richard,” Arthur greets, walking down to meet his mare. King Richard swings off it with grace and grasps Arthur’s forearm when Arthur holds out his hand.
“It’s nice to see you again, King Arthur,” Richard says, before bucking convention in a way Arthur’s never experienced with another ruler but is quite familiar with when it comes to him. He uses his grip on Arthur’s arm to pull him into a tight hug. Arthur returns it gladly.
“It’s nice to see you again, as well,” Arthur says.
“You may remember my son, Fredrick.” Richard says and places a hand on the shoulder of the boy next to him. He’s taller than the last time Arthur saw him, but five years will do that to a still growing child. Arthur smiles.
“Of course,” he says. “Though he’s grown since we’ve last seen each other.”
Richard smiles proudly. “Yes, I’m fairly certain he’s going to overtake me in height soon. And he’s looking more like his mother every day as well.”
“Lucky him,” Arthur says with a smile and Richard’s eyes twinkle at his words in a silent laugh. Any other king and Arthur would worry about offending him, but never Richard. The man held a good humour Arthur’s little seen in other nobles.
“His mother would agree with you,” Richard jokes, turning to Merlin and Gwaine, his smile widening as he places his hands on his hips like an assessing parent. While he may not be Arthur’s own parent, Arthur knows well he truly is assessing them. Arthur’s own smile turns proud as he also looks toward them, Gwaine as seemingly unbothered as ever while Merlin’s fingers curl nervously into his sleeves at being made the center of attention. “Now, who are these young men by your side?”
“This is Merlin, my Court Sorcerer, and Gwaine, our personal knight,” Arthur says, gesturing to each in turn. Richard hugs both of them, just as he’d hugged him, and Arthur nearly laughs at the look of surprise on Merlin’s face and the way Gwaine wheezes at Richard’s grip. With the way Gwaine smiles afterwards, Arthur is fairly certain Richard has endeared himself to the knight faster than Arthur did. (An easy feat, Arthur thinks, with a bit of embarrassment.)
“It’s nice to meet the both of you,” Richard says.
“It’s nice to meet you as well, sire,” Merlin says, inclining his head as if he’s ever held a shred of propriety in his body. At least Gwaine doesn’t pretend.
“Now,” Arthur says. “I’ve asked them to keep watch over Fredrick as we talk, if that is alright with you?”
“It would be quiet alright, Arthur,” Richard says with a smile, and Arthur can see the grumbling in Merlin’s eyes as Richard tells his son to go with them and to behave. Arthur suppresses his own smile at Merlin’s reluctance. Much as Merlin would deny it, he is strangely adept with children. Even the older ones, such as Fredrick is. Once they’ve left, going off who knows where but hopefully nowhere they’ll find trouble, Richard turns back to Arthur.
“They aren’t just your Court Sorcerer and knight,” Richard says, soft and knowing, and Arthur ducks his head.
“They’re not,” Arthur says.
“You love them a lot. And they you,” Richard says and Arthur turns to him, eyebrow raised. “It shows. Are they your consorts?”
Arthur nods. “They are.”
“You’re a very lucky man,” Richard says and the approval in his eyes is a balm Arthur knows he’d never get from his own father, were he alive. “To have two people who love you as much as they do.”
“I am,” Arthur agrees.
This visit with Richard is something Arthur wasn’t aware he needed, but he did. For more than just the official political reasons the other king was there for. It was nice to have a friend who understood the more kingly duties Arthur holds, the challenges of holding a kingdom on his shoulders. Someone older and, Arthur readily admits, wiser.
Arthur parts ways with Richard after the meeting and a short tour of the new things Merlin and Gwaine have brought Camelot, heading towards the training grounds. He knows his knight and sorcerer well enough, as does he know what it’s like to be a young king-in-training, to guess that is where they’ve likely ended up. He is not disappointed. Rounding a corner, he spots them up ahead, a gaggle of knights and Merlin watching as Gwaine fights Fredrick. Smiling to himself, Arthur leans on the fence surrounding the training area to watch as well.
Fredrick isn’t bad, if untried. He stumbles more than a knight should and Arthur knows from the way he moves the knights in Richard’s kingdom likely go easy on him often. Understandable, but damaging in the long run. He should bring it up when he sees Richard later. As he watches, Fredrick stops moving like a knight and Gwaine follows suit, the fight looking less and less like a duel and more like a tavern brawl and Arthur gets the idea Fredrick also knows the knights go easy on him. He wonders if the young prince has found other avenues to learn fighting. Less honourable ones. If he does, the thoughts very quickly become unimportant.
Fredrick slashes and Arthur sees red hit the dirt. It’s clear everyone does, the way even the knights go silent. The sky rumbles with thunder, Camelot’s sky darkening so fully of clouds there’s no sky to be seen in any direction. The knights shift, knowing the danger it heralds. Merlin has lived in Camelot so long now, he feels like a fixture of the castle. So does Gwaine. The image of the knight falling seems to sear itself into his mind in a moment, interwoven by dark clouds. Arthur jumps over the fence, running toward Gwaine as he slips to the ground. He slides to his knees barely a moment before Gwaine lands, catching the other man in his lap and guiding him to lean back into his chest to keep the weight off the wound. He looks over Gwaine, taking in the harsh slash dug into the side of his leg. It’s bleeding badly and Arthur makes quick work removing his shirt to press it against the gash. George is sure to have a fit about it later, when he discovers the blood seeped into one of Arthur’s best shirts. Especially when he made such a fuss, dressing all three of them in their best to meet Richard. Gwaine hisses, flinching as Arthur presses the cloth into the wound and Arthur sees Merlin flinch as well, glancing back at them, eyes nearly molten from how brightly the gold shines in them.
If Fredrick were wise, he’d be scared. But instead he is laughing, sword pressed into the dirt and stained red with Gwaine’s blood. The second he notices the beautiful, terrible gold, he scowls. As if Merlin is just a speck Fredrick can’t believe would dirty his shirt. It angers Arthur, partly because he would’ve been the same– was the same– at Fredrick’s age. Raised on his father’s bigotries. He knew Uther’s bigotries still lived in the hearts of some men, but he didn’t think it extended even to King Richard’s kingdom. Not when Richard was always kind to magic users, refusing to bow to Camelot’s laws when they changed. This is something else he’ll have to bring up when he sees Richard again. The other king has to know the dangerous thoughts which live within his own house. For the good of his people.
“Gwaine?” Arthur says, focusing back on his knight. There are bruises forming where he’d been hit during the mock fight. What was supposed to be a mock fight. Gwaine grunts, voice softer than it usually is. Merlin makes a savage noise at the sound.
“‘m fine, Princess,” Gwaine says. “I’ve had worse.”
“You shouldn’t have,” Merlin says, acerbic, and Arthur mentally agrees. It’d be preferable to never see Gwaine injured like this, to never see it at all, but he knows their reality means it’s inevitable.
“Merlin’s right, at least in this instance,” Arthur says. “Wounds like this aren’t supposed to happen during training. Who even suggested using real swords?”
“Who do you think, Arthur?” Merlin growls. It’s the kind of noise Merlin seldom makes, the one that sends a shiver up even his own spine. Merlin makes it easy to forget he’s more than just an idiot with a bright smile, that he’s also the world’s most powerful warlock, magic itself, and could’ve caused the entire castle to simply crumble to the ground around them all the very first time he entered Camelot. He makes it easy to forget how very lucky they were that destiny called him here in the beginning, not revenge.
The worst part is, a very real part of him wants to see Merlin unleashed. Wants to see Merlin return hurt for hurt. But it’s not who Merlin is, to hurt a child, even one as foolish as this. It’s not who Arthur is, either. He’s very happy for that, because he knows it easily could’ve been.
Fredrick trembles, ignoring Arthur entirely, focus clearly torn between the pissed off warlock in front of him and the knight he hurt. It nearly makes Arthur feel sorry for him, but the blood seeping into his hands through the cloth dampens the feeling. Being a knight since he was old enough to hold a practice sword dampens the feeling, weapon safety hammered into from even before he could hold the practice sword. Fredrick should’ve known better. There is a lesson he sorely needs to learn, and it’s better for him to learn it here than elsewhere. With them, rather than someone crueler. “Le– leash your dog,” Fredrick’s voice shivers, skipping through fear.
“Merls,” Gwaine calls, fingers digging into Arthur’s arm as he moves to sit up better, Arthur helping guide him. It’s the first thing which gets Merlin to look away and Arthur watches the gold dim slightly when he looks at Gwaine, recognizes in Merlin the same thing he already internalized himself. A force of nature, muzzled and waiting. When Gwaine shakes his head, the gold leaves Merlin’s eyes entirely.
“You will return to your father and inform him you’ve been confined to the guest chambers for the rest of the night and tomorrow,” Arthur says, voice firm. It’s the voice Merlin’s mockingly called his ‘king voice’, the one he learned more from Morgana than their father and perfected in council meetings over the years. The one which gets people to shut up and actually listen. “You may roam Camelot again after tomorrow, but if you pull something like this again, you will be banished back to your kingdom and you will never be allowed within her walls again.”
A warlock’s love can be a dangerous thing.
And so can a king’s.
The child glares at them and leaves in a huff, but doesn’t talk back, knowing if he does he may find himself in much more trouble with his father for angering the king of the kingdom they’d come to visit. Fredrick is lucky Arthur won’t throw away an alliance and– more– a good friendship just because the son made a mistake, as long as the father doesn’t make one as well. (He trusts King Richard won’t.) He turns back to Gwaine, Merlin already kneeling at Gwaine’s other side.
“Are you okay?” Merlin asks, checking Gwaine as best he can with the way Gwaine’s leaning against Arthur.
“I’m fine,” Gwaine waves Merlin off, only to wince. Arthur scoffs.
“Fine indeed,” Arthur says. He stands carefully, slowly, and Gwaine groans as he’s forced to stand as well. “We’re taking you to Gaius.”
“But-” Gwaine starts, only to be cut off by Merlin’s sharp “No buts, Gwaine”. Gwaine shuts his mouth after, but he looks more fondly annoyed than chastized. Merlin places Gwaine’s other arm over his own shoulders so the two of them can support Gwaine while they slowly make their way towards Gaius’ chambers. It’s too slow for Arthur, impatience eating at his guts, but he knows any faster would be worse. Every few limping steps, Gwaine flinches and both Arthur and Merlin flinch with him.
Arthur opens the door and Gaius looks up, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, chain keeping them in place. He knows the moment Gaius notices Gwaine as Merlin and he carefully maneuver the knight into the room by the way Gaius stands, quickly clearing the wooden table.
“Set him here,” Gaius instructs and they quietly do as told, helping Gwaine sit up on the table, his legs hanging off it. Merlin moves the bench so Gwaine can rest his feet on the wood. Gwaine settles back on his elbows as he does, closing his eyes, leg stretched out and heel on the end of the bench. “Alright, let’s see.”
Gaius sets a bucket of water next to Gwaine which Merlin heats without a word or even looking at it as Gaius cuts away Gwaine’s pants, carefully pulling the material away from his skin where the blood has dried and where it’s still tacky. It looks worse than it is, Arthur thinks. But Gaius still grabs needle and thread, asking Merlin to sterilize it.
“Will you need to amputate it?” Gwaine asks, opening his eyes to smile at them. Merlin looks annoyed, but Arthur can see the way his shoulders relax.
“No, I’m afraid you’ll just have to make due with the same old leg,” Gaius says, dipping a rag in the bucket and wringing it out to work on cleaning the wound before doing anything else.
“And here I was hoping Merlin would get to outfit me with a cool tree leg,” Gwaine sighs, before yelping when Merlin whacks him with a cloth. “What was that for?”
“For being an idiot,” Merlin says, bright, turning away to sterilize the needle as asked. He’s quiet as he does, washing it in steaming water. It doesn’t escape Arthur, how his eyes aren’t bright and his smile is strained. It doesn’t escape Gwaine, either.
“Merls,” Gwaine says, softer, catching Merlin’s free hand. He brushes his thumb over Merlin’s palm. “I’m sorry.”
Merlin sighs, shaking his head, but he squeezes Gwaine’s hand back. It unfurls something in Arthur’s chest and he takes his own breath, stepping closer, settling his own hand on Merlin’s shoulder.
“The important thing is you’re okay. And that you don’t do this again,” Arthur says, shuffling to the side so Gaius can stitch Gwaine up. The movements are sure and quick, the hands of someone who has stitched many a wound. Arthur’s always been glad he has someone like Gaius in his court; has been since he was a child and Gaius was patching his broken bones and healing the fevers he was prone to at a younger age. Not just for Arthur himself, but for Morgana as well, caring for injuries only he could care for. Caring also for those smaller injuries which could only be healed by pressing a kiss to them, in a child’s mind.
“Talking about doing this again-” Gwaine says, earning a sharp look from Merlin. He raises his free hand. “Not that I mean to, I assure you. Arthur, what you said to Fredrick. You’d really break the peace between you and Richard, just for me?”
“Yes,” Arthur says immediately, causing Gaius to turn sharply toward him. Gwaine hisses as the wrap pulls too tight.
“Sire!” Gaius gasps, chastising.
“Son of a good king or not,” Arthur says seriously, “I will not stand by as he injures one of my consorts then mocks my other.” Merlin squeezes his shoulder; a thank you. Arthur reaches up to squeeze his hand back; an of course. Gaius shakes his head at them, though it is with exasperation rather than anger.
“Dogs, all three of you,” Gaius mutters and Gwaine snorts while Arthur grins, teeth feeling oddly sharp in his mouth.
Promising Every Reason, Vowing Eternity, Revering Tenderness.
That was the first truth I learned about you —
that in the dictionary of my life,
your name would sit beside forever.
Painting Every Ray, Velveting Evenings, Resting Together.
I could spend centuries in that silence —
your breathing marking time,
my hand memorizing the warmth that made me believe in home again.
Preserving Each Reunion, Valorizing Every Rare Touch.
Even the ones that happen in doorways,
between errands,
when the world doesn’t notice,
but I do.
Poetry Echoing Rapture, Vows Ever Refined by Time.
You don’t age.
You ripen.
Every glance carries more weight,
every kiss more gravity,
and I’m still not done tasting your presence.
Then —
you tilted your head,
that almost-smile pulling me by the pulse,
and the next breath was heat,
and the next word was want,
and the next thought was don’t let go.
Promises Enfolding Real Vulnerability, Encircling Reassuring Touches —
became promises to keep holding,
past the point words could keep up,
until silence itself sounded like yes.
Your eyes said I love you.
Your touch said stay here.
Your whole being said forever.
And I listened to every language you spoke that night.
You want a love poem?
Here it is:
Every letter of every word.
Every breath.
Every quiet, unguarded sound you tried to hide —
I kept.
Forever.
🧠 Read more respect-coded doctrine and emotional architecture at:
👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence
🛡️ Masculine polarity. Scrolltrap psychology. Unforgiven words.
🚪 Warning: This one breaks more than hearts.
THE MUMMY WAS A LOVE STORY (YOU JUST WEREN’T BUILT TO SEE IT)
🩸 THE MUMMY WAS A LOVE STORY
Let’s get this straight before we even exhume the sarcophagus:
Imhotep didn’t want power.
He didn’t want gold. He didn’t want worship.
He wanted her.
And he died screaming for her name, carved open by divine cruelty, buried alive in the kind of tomb that makes Hell look like a spa package.
You think you’ve simped?
You think you’ve loved?
You ever kissed a Pharaoh’s concubine, got caught, and still went back to raise her soul using ancient necromantic flesh rituals while plagues poured out of your trauma?
No. You haven’t.
I. WHO HE WAS (THE SADBOY HIGH PRIEST WITH GODLIKE GAME)
Imhotep was a man of stature, yes.
But he was also a man possessed. By forbidden touch. By stolen perfume. By the kind of woman you only ever hold once—because the world ends if you do it again.
And he did it again.
He anointed her. He smeared gold on her shoulders like a man unafraid to be executed with his whole chest.
And when Pharaoh caught him?
They didn’t just kill him.
They erased him.
Not prison.
Not death.
Not exile.
No, they made up a new punishment just to make sure no man ever loved that hard again.
Buried alive.
Eaten by flesh-beetles.
Cursed to live in death and feel every second of it.
All because he touched the wrong woman — and meant it.
---
II. WHAT HE DID (THE CURSE IS THE PROOF)
You think this man came back because he was evil?
No.
He came back because the ritual wasn’t finished.
Because the love didn’t die.
Because even under the sand, even stripped of flesh, his soul was still tracking her frequency.
He returns, blind with rage, bent with grief, unstoppable in devotion.
"He must not be resurrected, or he will bring with him the Ten Plagues of Egypt!"
Good.
Let it rain blood.
That’s what it costs when you try to separate a man like that from the one who anointed him.
He was going to raise her.
He didn’t care if the world burned.
The plagues weren’t the weapon.
They were the grief.
III. WHO STOOD AGAINST HIM (INVICTUS COLONIZER & CHAOTIC BAE ENERGY)
Rick O’Connell — the scruffy lion-hearted relic of colonial chaos.
A himbo with a revolver and a libido made of pure biceps and sarcastic charm.
He wasn’t wrong. He was just... in the way.
Evy, the modern Anck-su-namun proxy, didn’t choose him because he was better.
She chose him because she was scared.
Imhotep wasn’t trying to steal her.
He thought she was her.
And maybe, on some level — she was.
The part of her that tilted toward danger.
The part of her that kept the Book of the Dead.
The part that read it out loud.
Girl, if you didn’t want the hot ghost ex to come back with full plague mode, why’d you flirt with ancient resurrection magic like it was a drink menu?
---
IV. WHAT THIS REALLY WAS (NOT A MONSTER MOVIE. A DEVOTION MYTH.)
Imhotep wasn’t a villain.
He was a cursed masculine archetype, written out of modern love stories because he makes normal men look like they’re wearing diapers.
He kissed her, killed for her, died for her, and came back through death to get her.
She killed herself just to give him the chance.
He raised armies of the damned just to see her again.
That’s not horror.
That’s biblical fucking love.
Hollywood tried to paint him as a villain.
But every woman I know clenched during that scene where he looks at her and whispers her name with 3,000 years of agony and reverence.
It wasn’t possession.
It was recognition.
And if the world had to collapse to make it happen again, so be it.
V. THIS IS WHO YOU REALLY ARE (AND WHY YOU FELT IT)
You felt that lump in your throat?
That quiver between your thighs?
That wasn’t fear.
That was your ancestral nerve endings remembering what it feels like to be chosen like that.
To be the kind of woman a man would resurrect death for.
To be the kind of man who doesn’t wait for permission to love, only for the moment to strike.
This wasn’t a mummy movie.
This was a secret gospel.
A declaration that the masculine force of romantic vengeance cannot die — even if you bury it with beetles.
So next time someone asks you what The Mummy was about, you say:
“It was about a man who died for pussy… and came back holy.”
Because that’s the truth.
Because you felt it.
Because deep down, you prayed after watching.
🔁 CALL TO ACTION
📌 Reblog if you’ve ever felt chosen in myth, not convenience.
🧠 Save this post before someone tries to sterilize it for comfort.
💥 Tag a friend who forgot that devotion can be violent and sacred at once.
🗝️ Comment: “I am loved beyond the veil.”
🛐 He came back through plagues for the chance to see her face again.
He kissed her soul while cursed with rot.
And if love like that is wrong —
let the scarabs take me too.
🩸 I PRAYED AFTER WATCHING.
A/N: this is the first chapter, im marking them all under the tag 'merlin dangerous devotion'. this was for the after camlann bang though i didnt quite make the requirements (sadly)
The throne room is unsurprisingly quiet. One doesn’t expect a lot of noise when a warlock reveals himself, and when it is to a kingdom like Camelot who has a history of killing at even a whisper of magic they’d understandably expect complete silence. But it’s much deeper than Merlin expected it to be. It’s not the silence of a room where everyone is holding their breath, waiting for the next move. It’s the dead silence of a dangerous forest; like all the air has been sucked out till there is nothing left, not even the smallest of lives. Nothing moves. Even the tapestries don’t whisper, still as they cling to the walls. Merlin clears his throat, loud in the silence, a sliver of anxiety running through him. The feeling of this place is something he’s only witnessed a few times, in the deepest most ancient places, and it’s one he’s never quite gotten used to. Maybe eventually he will. He has lots of time to become acquainted with it. He breathes, allowing the feeling to run through his veins even as he keeps it from shivering through his skin, his posture straight and strong and his grip on his staff tight.
“King Arthur,” Merlin says, loud and clear. Someone shifts and it sounds in the room like a thunderclap. He looks to his side to see Gwaine standing loose like he hasn’t a care in the world, though Merlin knows him well enough to know the bored expression will snap away in a moment should the need arise. Gwaine smiles and winks at him. It’s all Merlin needs to continue. “I am Merlin, though the druids know me as Emrys. I bring with me a request to return magic to its rightful place in Camelot.”
The room erupts into murmurs like a sudden storm. The tapestries sway in its wind, brushing against the wall like agitated beasts woken from a long hibernation. Merlin feels the castle itself tremble and a heartbeat in the stones under his feet, the first signs of life after what seems like years, a sudden breath of oxygen in an ancient place. His magic swirls inside him, responding to it, goading it, and he can feel the tentative relief within the walls of Camelot like a welcome home after a long journey, like the return of a victor after a hard war. It’s the same as he felt in the woods while Gwaine and he rode closer, anticipation seeping through every piece of Camelot at the thought of her magic returning to her.
King Arthur scoffs and the masonry creaks. The entire kingdom holds its breath, the deprivation of it after such a sudden gasp oppressive.
“You came into the heart of Camelot just to ask that? You are aware of what we do to sorcerers, aren’t you?” King Arthur asks, raising an eyebrow. Merlin breathes in, long and slow, reminding himself that he is not the building around him. He is magic, and magic touches the stones and dirt of this place, it reaches to its darkest corners and lingers like dust, but he is not the dust. He is not the trees outside nor the wind held still, even if he awaits King Arthur’s words as much as they do. He is magic and Arthur’s rule affects that magic, effects all of Albion as its pumping heart, but Merlin is more than the blood, he is more than Emrys. He is Merlin, son of Hunith and Balinor, husband to Gwaine. He breathes out, just as slow, realizing the room is awaiting his answer just as much as King Arthur’s.
“Of course I am,” Merlin says. “that is why I am here. It has to stop. I can’t let you kill my people anymore. I can’t let you deprive Camelot of her magic anymore.”
“Let?” King Arthur leans forward, a chuckle on his lips. “That’s a bold word. And how are you going to stop me if I don’t? If I continue to “deprive Camelot of her magic”, as you say. Perhaps I’ll kill you where you stand, instead of dealing with your trial, if they’re truly your people.”
Merlin nearly sighs, though he’s not very surprised. When you’ve had your heart hardened for so long, it is hard to react in any other way. He feels Gwaine shift behind him and he doesn’t have to look to know the position he’s taken up. Neither of them know if King Arthur will truly attempt it, but Gwaine is prepared for the possibility. The knight at King Arthur’s side shifts as well, taking a step forward, his face dark and serious. He must care for his king greatly. Not a lot of people are willing to stand against Gwaine when he shifts like this. The people who know Gwaine typically just move out of his way. Even the powerful ones, like Morgana.
“Keep your dog leashed,” Leon says, a hand on his sword’s hilt and ready to pull out at a moment’s notice.
Arthur raises an eyebrow, watching the sorcerer. The sorcerer who doesn’t flinch or move, except to hold a hand out to his knight. “Heel,” he says, face straight. To Arthur’s surprise, the knight steps down immediately, posture loosening like an empty bowstring, faster than any of his own knights. He’d think it was magic, except the sorcerer’s eyes didn’t even flicker gold. Leon relaxes seconds later, though his hand doesn’t leave the hilt of his sword. Meanwhile, the sorcerer’s knight has gone back to the same posture as before, loose and open like he hasn’t a care in the world. If Arthur hadn’t seen the change himself he never would’ve believed it happened.
One of the younger knights snickers at Leon’s words and the sorcerer’s reaction, but Arthur doesn’t share his sentiment. There is a dogged loyalty between the sorcerer and his knight; a devotion shared between them like master and pet. A loyalty like this is dangerous, Arthur knows. It’s teeth sharp as knives and words with the power of swords. And when both parties know– when they acknowledge it and even lean into it– it can be a weapon as dangerous as magic. If this leads to a fight, Arthur is quite certain he will lose several knights before they even reach the sorcerer. He sits back in his throne, wary of both.
“All I ask is that you allow us to stay here for a time, so I can show you magic isn’t something to be feared,” the sorcerer says with an earnest expression. It’s a stark difference from just seconds earlier, as open as his knight. It’s so earnest Arthur nearly finds himself wanting to believe the sorcerer right then. Blue eyes stare at him, large as the sky. Arthur sighs and waves a hand. Maybe it will be safer to just let them be for a time, to keep them close where he can watch them.
“Fine,” Arthur says and Leon glances over in surprise. The sorcerer’s eyes widen as well, before a soft smile overtakes his face. It nearly looks like relief. “I’ll allow the two of you in my kingdom without punishment, but you will both remain under strict guard. Lancelot?”
Lancelot steps up immediately, looking between their two… guests… and Arthur. “You will be the one to watch them.”
“Yes, Sire,” Lancelot says, moving toward the two.
“What about when we sleep?” The knight asks, smiling. “Or will we be bunking with you?”
Arthur glares at him. “You will room with my knights.”
“Oo, sleepover,” Gwaine says and Merlin smiles just slightly at his antics, unable to help himself, before he clears his throat.
“Thank you, Sire,” the sorcerer says and an odd feeling passes through Arthur, not entirely pleasant but not entirely horrible either, at a sorcerer calling him sire. Arthur nods, pushing it down.
Ships: a hint of merthur (Merlin/Arthur) and also merwaine (Merlin/Gwaine)
Word Count: ~6k
A/N: this is the third chapter, im marking them all under the tag 'merlin dangerous devotion
There’s a sorcerer in his castle. It’s not the one– the warlock– he’s begrudgingly grown used to. Arthur would very much like to know just when he invited all these magic users to Camelot, because he doesn’t remember doing so. In fact he’s pretty sure he did the opposite. He wonders if asking Merlin if he was the one to invite them would be rude, then remembers he’s king and he doesn’t care. He stomps through the castle after his wayward warlock. It takes an absurd amount of time to find him, but it usually does now. At any point in time, Merlin could be in more places than a house servant would be and Merlin isn’t even a servant. Merlin might be helping the maids fix beds one moment only to be in the woods the next gathering herbs for Gaius and then in the middle of town the very next. Sometimes Arthur wonders if he can fly or duplicate himself and honestly so far he has found no evidence to the contrary. Though he really hopes he can’t duplicate himself, because he doesn’t think he can handle two Merlins. A singular Merlin (especially with added Gwaine) is quite enough. Sometimes, more than.
“Have you seen Merlin?” Arthur asks a girl as she walks by, taking the basket of laundry from her as he might’ve once done to Gwen before she disappeared so she doesn’t have to hold it as he questions her.
“Uh,” the girl flounders, looking confused, hands curling around nothing. “I think he may be doing something for Gaius, Sire.”
Right. Of course. Arthur nods his head and thanks her, before handing the laundry back to her. He heads off with her staring after him, eyebrows furrowed, before she slowly continues on her own way.
Arthur opens the door of the Court Physician’s chambers, expecting to ask Gaius for the location of his wayward warlock, but stops short at a room empty of all but Merlin. He stares for a moment. He’d been expecting to traipse through the forests of Camelot for him. Or to send a messenger through them, at least. This was much easier. “Merlin.”
Merlin hums, not bothering to look away from his work. There are plants in his hands, no doubt herbs he’d picked earlier. Arthur recognizes one as mint, but not much else.
“Are you aware there’s a sorcerer in my castle?” Arthur asks, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall next to the door. It’s the perfect spot to watch Merlin as he works and to seem rather impatient as he does.
“... what?” Merlin asks, looking up at him rather confused. Which is kind of fair, because Arthur himself is also a bit confused. But it’s also not fair because Merlin is also a magic user who simply invited himself into his castle and life.
“There is a sorcerer. In my castle,” Arthur repeats, slowly like Merlin might be stupid.
“... yes?” Merlin says slowly, like Arthur might be stupid. “I’ve been here for a while, Arthur. In fact you gave me express permission to be here. Are you just now noticing?”
“Not you, you dimwit,” Arthur snaps. “There’s another sorcerer in my castle.”
“Did you only just now find out about Mordred and Gaius?” Merlin asks. “Because they haven’t exactly been hiding it since I’ve gotten here and honestly I’m not sure Gaius ever fully hid it. He’s very stubborn and it’d be quite foolish of your father to completely remove Gaius’ spellcraft from the job, though he was phenomenally stupid-”
“Wait, stop, what?” Arthur waves his hands in front of himself, pushing off the wall. Merlin clamps up, right in the middle of what was no doubt going to turn into an insult about Arthur himself. “You mean to tell me, one of my own knights is a sorcerer?”
“No?” Merlin says, drawing it out, looking a little ashamed of himself. Arthur sighs. Alright, so it turns out two of his trusted people have been hiding magic from him for years. The person who damn-near raised him has hid magic for years, though Gaius is a little less surprising with everything that’s run rampant through Camelot over the years. Merlin is right, it would’ve been foolish to remove all spellcraft from the Court Physician’s job. There’s enough Gauis does that looks like magic, it would’ve been hard to do so even if his father tried. He wonders suddenly if it’s just Gaius and Mordred, or if there are other people Arthur knows who also have magic. Did they also use it in their jobs? Their lives? The year a good harvest was desperately needed or they risked casualties, and the farms of Ealdor pulled through—some of the servants called it a miracle before his father put a stop to it, even the hopeful word darkened by sorcery. But was it magic? All the possibilities make his head throb a little, a warning of an impending headache if he goes any further down that road, so he ignores it for now.
“There’s a strange sorcerer. They just got here,” Arthur says.
“Oh,” Merlin says, nodding. He goes back to the herbs he is no doubt sorting for Gaius, like a sorcerer in Camelot is just every day business. Arthur guesses perhaps it is. If his father knew, he’d be turning over in his grave.
Actually, if his father knew, he’d probably burn the entire castle to the ground and start over.
Arthur sighs again. “Do you know this sorcerer, Merlin?”
Merlin looks over at him with an offended look. “Am I just supposed to know every sorcerer?”
“Well you did say they were “your people”,” Arthur says derisively, quoting the day Gwaine and Merlin first arrived.
“Yes- Well I-” Merlin flounders a bit. “I didn’t quite mean it like that.”
“Well then how did you mean it, Mer-lin?” Arthur asks.
“I mean, the druids think of me as some kind of lord,” Merlin waves his hand around in the air in what Arthur guesses is supposed to be an approximation of something “lordly” but really just looks silly. “And I am magic, so killing magic users is like… killing…” He trails off and his ears flush red, like two strawberries poking out from his head. “Anyway, I meant it more metaphorically and you must be stupider than you look if you didn’t understand that,” Merlin finishes, putting his nose in the air before he returns to the herbs. Arthur raises his eyebrows.
“Oh, I’m stupid?” He drawls.
“Quite,” Merlin says.
“And yet I had to be the one to come find you about the new sorcerer, instead of your magic powers telling you?” Arthur says, wiggling his fingers in a mocking approximation of doing magic. Merlin splutters, dropping the greens from his hands. There are purple flowers attached to them, and some small petals fall from the stems when they land on the table amidst the already tied bundles.
“Magic powers?” Merlin repeats, looking at him again. Arthur smiles, he can feel it pulling smugly at his cheeks.
“Yes, magic powers,” Arthur says. “Like a faerie.”
“A faer-” Merlin glares at him, mouth open, for several seconds before it snaps shut. “Well I’d rather be one of the fair folk than a donkey-faced clotpole.”
“A clotpole?” Arthur asks. This is a new one. Usually, the warlock calls him a prat or an ass or something else he hasn’t quite figured out how to pronounce just yet but knows must be an insult in the language of wherever he appeared from. “And what, exactly, is that?”
“In two words?” Merlin asks, tilting his head. He gives a tight-lipped smile, mischief glimmering in his eyes. They seem very blue, all of a sudden. Like the sky after a rainfall. “King Arthur.”
“Very funny, Merlin,” Arthur deadpans. Merlin smiles at him, wide enough his ears move, before he stands. Arthur watches as Merlin puts the herbs in their different places; clipping and hanging and shoving bundles in drawers. It’s a madness he doesn’t understand, but is sure Gaius and Merlin do. After he’s done, Merlin thrusts his hands into a bucket of water and scrubs off whatever the plants may’ve transferred to his skin.
“Now let’s see about your new sorcerer,” Merlin says, turning to him, still with a smaller– though no less dim– smile on his face as he dries his hands on his pants.
“She’s not my anything-!” Arthur protests and Merlin’s smile goes cheeky again, something warm in the blue of his eyes. It does something strange to his heart and Arthur turns to the door, ignoring it as he has every other time his heart has gone strange around the warlock and his knight. An entire life of being taught magic was something evil and to be afraid of is a lot to overcome, afterall.
They travel through the castle in relative silence, walking through her stone halls and hearing echoes of the staff like whispers from her walls. Ever since Merlin arrived, the castle has seemed louder. Arthur isn’t really sure why that is, but he knows it is. He knows with the certainty of someone who’s seen every corridor, knows every secret passage. She’s never been as lively as she is now with a warlock in her walls. Arthur finds he likes it.
“She asked for you specifically,” Arthur says once the doors are in sight. It raised flags in his mind, of course, but for Merlin’s sake he pushed them down. As far as he knows, she is a friend of the warlock. Of course, he still left Leon and Lancelot to watch her as a precaution. He may be willing to give the benefit of the doubt to magic users now, but he hasn’t grown stupid. Merlin comes to a sudden stop, turning to Arthur, and Arthur stops with him.
“She asked for me?” Merlin asks.
“Yes. Are you going deaf? I can speak louder,” Arthur says, then notices the way Merlin’s face has gone serious, his eyes like stone instead of sky. “Yes,” Arthur repeats, quiet, tone as serious as Merlin is.
“Me Merlin, or me Emrys?” Merlin asks. As far as Arthur knows, there is no true distinction between them, but the way Merlin speaks the names now it is as if one is a mountain and the other a valley.
“Merlin,” Arthur says after a moment’s thought and Merlin goes very still. Before this moment, Arthur didn’t even notice the typical small movements Merlin made. It was like the warlock could never stand even a second of standing in place, his body constantly reverberating movement, vibrating for anything to do even while holding itself still. Sometimes his fingers tapped, or his feet, or he’d sway softly like a piece of grass in a breeze. There is none of that now. Merlin stands like he’s not breathing and Arthur has to watch his chest very closely to ensure he is. Then Merlin abruptly turns, striding through the doors into the throne room. The castle rattles like a warning.
The sorceress is on his throne, something which sits wrong on Arthur’s tongue. She’s reclined like she belongs there, though once she notices their approach she uncrosses her legs and sits up. Her smile is the kind of polite being forced to deal with people you don’t like since childhood trains into you and her eyes look more dangerous than before. It has Arthur standing a little straighter, watching her a little closer.
“Merlin,” she says, a weight to her words. It makes Arthur’s hackles rise more than anything else about her has. She suddenly seems vicious in a way she didn’t initially. The deep red of her dress flows like blood along the stones and he half expects it to seep into them, to mar the throne and the platform it rests upon. “How has Camelot been? They kill magic users like us here, you know.”
Merlin puts his hands up like he’s interacting with a wild animal. Her brow quirks briefly at it. “I know. But I’m here trying to change that.”
“Change would come much easier if you simply raze it all to the ground and start over,” she says airly, tone belied by the way she glares at the stone walls and the tapestries and the windows beyond them where the sky shines a bright blue with the sun and where Arthur knows his people are going about their days. She glares at it all like she wishes to tear it apart, brick by brick, with her very hands. Then she looks back to Merlin, head tilting. “Surely you are powerful enough to do it, if you wanted. Tear down the entire castle, every house, and start anew.”
“I could,” Merlin says and Arthur nearly starts. Even now, months after Merlin and Gwaine joined Camelot, Arthur has only seen a fraction of Merlin’s true power. He knows that after the time with the bandits. But the idea Merlin could take apart the entire castle he’s known since birth, could destroy the town below her, all presumably with just a word, fills him with an emotion he cannot name. “But I think we both know I won’t. Camelot doesn’t deserve to fall for the mistakes of a foolish king. Especially when I know her new king can do much, much better if he’s only given a chance.”
The sorceress scoffs. “He’s had the chance since his father died, and yet the rule remains.”
“All he’s known is to fear magic. All he’s known magic to be used for is to kill and hurt,” Merlin says, making Arthur think of their late night chats, of speaking quietly with Merlin and Gwaine about the things his father told him growing up. About the many assassination attempts Arthur still isn’t sure how he lived through.
“And you believe you can change that? You can, what, make him see the light?” The sorceress asks, eyebrows raised, face painted in disdain. When Merlin says he can, says with full confidence he already is, she laughs.
“So you would defend them?” The sorceress asks.
“With my life,” Merlin says, and Arthur’s heart beats a little harder, a little faster.
“Well if the great Emrys is truly standing with Camelot, maybe it’s too late…” She stands from the throne, paces across the landing. She walks confidently, without looking, like she knows where to step to not fall. Her gaze moves to Merlin. “Perhaps I should kill you and take care of it myself instead.”
Arthur feels his chest go cold. For someone who threatened Merlin in the very same way when he first came to Camelot, hearing someone else say those words makes something inside Arthur clench. He nearly wishes he could go back in time simply to throttle himself for not killing her where she stood when she first entered his throne room. She continues, oblivious to Arthur’s mental processes.
“Yes.” She nods to herself. “I think perhaps the world needs a new magical leader. One willing to make more definitive choices.”
Despite the smell of ozone entering the air, Arthur feels as if all the oxygen has suddenly been sucked from the room. Perhaps it has even been sucked away from the entire castle; reaching every floor, every stone, every tapestry until there is nothing left to breathe. Arthur breathes anyway, because he has to. He can feel the tension rising, warlock and sorceress both staring each other down, playing the most potentially deadly game of chicken he’s ever seen. His hand goes to his sword and it occurs to him in the back of his mind, like an afterthought, that it’s strange he’s only now reaching for it. There’s the quiet sound of metal on leather as he removes Caliburn from his sheath. It’s soft like a whisper, but feels loud in the strange emptiness of the room.
The sorceress pauses her steps, taking in Arthur for what feels to him like the first time since he returned with Merlin. Her eyes flicker over his form and he recognizes something in them, but he doesn’t know what it is. Then she begins to laugh. “Really? You’re going to hold a sword to me in defense of a magic-user, oh noble Son of Uther?”
Arthur growls, low in his throat, and waits though he is not sure what for. His eyes flick to Merlin. The sorceress’ eyes follow.
“It seems you’ve acquired another pet dog,” she says softly. Her demeanor changes for just a moment, eyes no longer dangerous and features softening as her head tilts to examine the two of them. For that moment, Arthur nearly believes she will stand down. Then she laughs again, hard and jeering, dismissing Arthur as any threat to her. “Put your little guard dog on a leash before he gets hurt, Merlin. You know it is better to keep this just between us, as it should be.”
“Arthur.” Arthur hears his name, soft under the jeering laugh, and turns to the man beside him. Merlin’s hand is held out to him in the same way he once saw him do to Gwaine. “Heel.” Arthur feels his heart skip a beat in surprise. Merlin is there, trusting him to back down because he asks. Because he told him to. He feels his body loosen, his limbs shift out of combat and into something more casual, and Arthur isn’t entirely sure if his mind is active in his body’s compliance or not. Did it simply stop processing when Merlin whispered his name? His chest expands and contracts with his breathing. When did he become one of Merlin’s dogs? Because there is no doubt about it now, not after he’s followed Merlin’s instructions– waited for Merlin’s instruction, he realizes with a start– without even a thought. He is one of Merlin’s dogs, just as Gwaine is. There is a rushing like the ocean between his ears as his mind tries to wrap itself around it. When had that even happened? The thoughts keep him from hearing the rest of the confrontation between them; he is underwater and the words they speak are garbled. Merlin makes grand hand gestures, as if he is about to take off. The sorceress stands tall and imposing, until Merlin makes one gesture that has her rolling her eyes in a move which feels very familiar, but his brain refuses to parse it. Both of them pause and turn toward him; Arthur blinks woodenly as Merlin steps closer to him. Once Merlin is in his space, he takes him by the shoulders, then shifts to take him by the cheeks, moving his head to look at him properly when Arthur doesn’t move it himself. The warlock seems worried, all clear blue eyes and pouty lip.
“Did we break him?” The sorceress asks in what is suddenly a very familiar voice and Arthur blinks, coming up from water to swivel his head toward his sister.
“Morgana?” He asks, feeling stupid with it. His tongue has gone thick in his mouth. Every feature of the sorceress has been shed to reveal his sister. All except the blasted dress. He recognizes it now. It’s one of her favourites. It's the last thing he saw her in.
Morgana smiles at him like she hasn’t been gone for years. She looks the same as he remembers her, only older. There are laugh lines where there’d never been before. It makes her look more beautiful than she ever did while she lived within the walls of Camelot. “Hello, brother dear.”
He shakes Merlin off, taking a few trembling steps toward her like she may disappear into smoke if he dares get too close. He points a shaking finger at her and she waves. The finger swivels to point at Merlin instead, who’s gone sheepish. Arthur drops his arm, stomps his foot. “What in the hell is going on here!”
“Well I couldn’t just let Merlin stay here for months without checking up on him, could I?”
Arthur feels the words like a stab to his chest, though he knows he shouldn’t. She truly had no reason to trust him, despite their childhood. She had no reason to trust him because of their childhood. Because they both still know what it was like to grow up under Uther. They both saw each other’s worst moments when they were still too young to fully know better and yet were expected to anyway, simply because they were the heir and ward of the king. Still, he can’t help himself. “You didn’t trust me.”
“We both know how Uther was, and how much you wanted his approval.” Morgana smiles sadly, spreads her palms. “And was I wrong? You were the one who chose to keep the laws even after his death, afterall.”
“No one’s been executed since then, either,” Arthur feels the need to say. “The laws haven’t been enforced in Camelot in years.” Because they haven’t been, not really. It’s true Merlin is the first magic user in years to show himself, the first since that first year after his father died, but Arthur hasn’t taken up any of the mantles Uther had. He hasn’t hunted magic users, hasn’t sought the druids. There have been no trials since Uther fell ill.
He tries not to think about the threat he made to Merlin and about whether or not he would’ve followed through, even without executions of his own under his rule. (He would’ve. He would’ve told his knights to run Merlin through, if not for Gwaine. If not for Merlin’s soft words and the loyalty the knight and warlock hold for each other.)
“Executions or not, enforced in Camelot or not, they’re still laws that get people killed, Arthur.” Morgana’s words are hard, her eyes doubly so. Arthur knows she’s right. He bows his head.
“You’re right.”
Morgana’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “I’m what?”
“You’re right,” Arthur repeats, glowering now, and Morgana looks delighted in the way only a little sister can look.
“You really have changed since I’ve been away. I wonder, is it natural or did Merlin have a hand in you not being such a pompous arse anymore?” Morgana asks, smile unwavering and annoying, and Arthur would be more annoyed at her in turn if not for the fact he’s seeing her again, finally, for the first time in so long. If not for the fact he finally has confirmation she’s alive and clearly happy. If not for how, even with her ribbing, her eyes seem proud of him for this, at least.
“And I see you haven’t changed at all, sister,” Arthur says, smiling all the while, just to be a shit. Her smile morphs into a glare immediately.
“Maybe you didn’t change as much as I thought,” Morgana grouses. It makes Arthur laugh for some inexplicable reason and Morgana bites her lip before she ends up laughing as well. Only then do they hug, holding each other as close and tight as they can after so many years apart.
“I’ve missed you,” Arthur whispers, a confession just for Morgana.
“I’ve missed you, too,” Morgana whispers back, a confession just for Arthur. Arthur smiles into her hair and squeezes her a final time, Morgana squeezing him just as hard in return, before he pulls back, holding her by her upper arms to simply look like he is a mother examining his child for changes and health after a long trip. It makes amusement dance on her features, but she says nothing. He knows it’s because she’s doing the same. Her eyes scan him as he scans her; her eyes are brighter, her dark circles are lighter, she holds herself taller. She smiles easier. A part of Arthur hopes she finds similar changes in him, hopes she finds him smiling easier, holding himself more confidently. Hopes she looks at him and finds someone worthy of being a king.
“Where did you go?” Arthur finally asks, pulling away fully. Both of them still stay within arms length of each other.
“Gwen and I traveled for a bit at first. We visited villages and some border kingdoms before we finally ended up with a group of druids in Camelot’s territory, so they could help me learn to control my magic,” Morgana says. “That’s where we met Merlin and Gwaine the second time. The first time we had to save them from a tavern brawl Merlin here started,” Morgana teases, looking sideways to Merlin.
“The guy was being a complete ass,” Merlin says, an excuse, not a defense. Morgana snorts, but nods in assent.
“When did you end up developing magic?” Arthur asks, bringing the conversation back. It’s a question his brain maybe should’ve thought of before now, and would have if not for being occupied with Morgana’s return and her utter dramatics. It’s something he’s suddenly desperately curious about. How long did his own sister hide, before escaping? Morgana tilts her head.
“You’re not gonna question me about learning magic under Uther? Tell me about the dangers and scold me for doing so?” Morgana asks. Arthur shrugs.
“You fought with him all the time, but even you weren’t foolish enough to actually attempt teaching yourself magic just to spite him. If you were, then you wouldn’t have bothered to escape to the druids with Gwen,” Arthur says. “I figure if Merlin can be born with magic, why not you?”
Morgana blinks, then smiles. “Arthur, you’ve finally gotten a brain in that big head of yours.” She sobers slightly as he frowns at the insult. “Do you remember my nightmares?”
“Yes,” Arthur says, remembering nights of Morgana waking up screaming. Nights where he’d stay with her, or alternatively stay close by, in the hopes it’d help her sleep easier. He still remembers how foul the sleep aid Gauis made for her smelled, even with the added lavender.
“They weren’t nightmares,” Morgana says, eyes far away, no doubt remembering those nights herself. “They were prophecies. Horrible, horrible prophecies. They’re one of the things the druids and eventually Merlin helped me learn to control.”
“So you don’t have them anymore?” Arthur asks.
“I do,” Morgana says. There is a resigned melancholy as she shrugs. “But they’re not as bad now. I don’t wake up screaming nearly as often.”
“Wouldn’t you rather not have them at all?”
“I’d rather have them than be caught unawares,” Morgana says and Arthur nods. He’d make the same decision, if he was the one with the nightmares.
“How long did you know their true cause, before you left?” Arthur asks and very pointedly brushes away any thoughts of asking why she hadn’t told him. He was always more Uther’s child then she was, though she had more of his anger. There’s no way he would’ve given her up, even then, but he’s not sure he would’ve been able to understand. Magic was evil, cruel, consuming and damaging. If she brought her concerns to him, they would’ve increased each other’s fear and tried to find a way to stop it instead of control it.
“About a few weeks. I’d had a nightmare about the snake in the shield. You remember, from the tournament?” Morgana says, and Arthur nods, remembering how he may’ve died that day if not for Morgana. It was soon after when Arthur woke to Morgana’s room being empty and the servants frantic search for the king’s ward. Uther only searched a day for her. It was the decision which created an inescapable wedge between them, especially after Uther punished him when he’d found him poring over maps a week after the search was called off. Morgana continues, “Two nights later, I lit a candle in my sleep and nearly set my bed curtains on fire, if not for Gwen.
We realized it must be magic then, and I knew I couldn’t stay much longer afterward. I planned to sneak out in the dead of night alone, but Gwen wouldn’t let me.” Morgana smiles, small and full of love. Arthur smiles, too.
“Well.” Arthur stands straighter, shoulders back, looks at his sister, looks at Merlin. “It’s about time I made some… definitive choices, wouldn’t you say, Morgana?”
Morgana’s lips stretch in a wide smile like the cat that got the cream. “I’d say our people deserve it after all this time.”
“I agree,” Arthur says and means it. He’s always wanted to be a good king. A just king. Now, he will finally be good and just to all his people. Not just halfway, but fully. Merlin looks at him with pride and Arthur feels it fill his chest.
“If we’re going to look at the magic laws, maybe we should head to the Round Table. That way we could talk more comfortably, too, unless you two want to keep standing,” Merlin offers and Arthur and Morgana give him twin eye rolls which leave him staring, but they assent.
“Will you return to Camelot now?” Arthur asks later, hands stained with ink and papers spread on the table between them, the beginning of a draft made from the merits of all three of them.
Morgana smiles sadly and takes his hands. “No. Gwen and I are quite happy with the life we’ve made. I will visit, though. I have to make sure you’re not running Camelot into the ground or getting into too much trouble with Gwaine and Merlin, after all.”
Merlin squawks in indignation. Arthur and Morgana share a look Arthur is nearly surprised he can consider knowing, it tells him just how long Gwaine and Merlin have been here, better than any time-keeping device could.
“Next time I’ll bring Gwen,” Morgana promises and Arthur nods. He’d love to see Gwen again, too. He didn’t appreciate her enough before she was suddenly gone, whisked away in the night with Morgana. Arthur never doubted they’d take care of each other. It’s good to have confirmation they’re still together. And in a way he hadn’t expected, too. (He should’ve.)
“I’d love that.”
Arthur sees Morgana off late that night, after they’ve supped and talked until the candles nearly burned to their holders. Neither of them cry, but Arthur notices the wetness of Morgana’s eyes and can feel the wetness of his own.
After, as he is returning to his chambers, Arthur is nearly ambushed by Gwaine. He shows up seemingly out of nowhere, appearing out of the shadows as Arthur opens the door. It nearly makes Arthur jump. But Gwaine doesn’t laugh at him for it. He only stares. Arthur stares back, feeling off-footed, and gestures into his chambers.
“Did you want to come in?” Arthur asks.
“You protected Merlin,” Gwaine says, in what is most certainly not an answer. Arthur blinks at him.
“What?”
“A sorceress threatened Merlin, and you protected him,” Gwaine says, and Arthur feels embarrassed heat flood his cheeks, his chest. It’s nearly silly. He’s saved and protected many throughout his life, both as prince and king, and he’s rarely felt weird at getting thanks for it. But this time it curls around his insides like shyness.
“It was just my sister, she wouldn't have hurt him,” Arthur attempts to brush off, but Gwaine shakes his head, apparently not having it. Occasionally, the stubbornness of Merlin’s knight knows no bounds and Arthur knows this is one of those moments.
“You didn't know who the sorceress was, though, did you?” Gwaine asks. “You didn’t know it was Morgana.”
“I- No, I didn't," he admits quietly. Gwaine smiles.
"Exactly. So thank you, Princess." And this time, Arthur simply ducks his head instead of protesting. It’s not like he exactly planned to protect Merlin, but he feels like those words would fall on deaf ears. Gwaine treats him like he actively fought, instead of backing down just because Merlin told him to heel. Gwaine looks at him with pride, looks at him like he’s defended the entire kingdom single handedly against a dragon attack instead of simply being prepared to fight for one warlock.
He suddenly realizes the answer he thought he’d gotten back in the woods to why Gwaine protects Merlin was wrong. It’s not just safety. It’s devotion and loyalty, like he first saw in his throne room. It’s love.
Ships: merwaine (Merlin/Gwaine) with a hint of arwaine (Arthur/Gwaine) crush
Word Count: ~5k
A/N: this is the second chapter, im marking them all under the tag 'merlin dangerous devotion
Every so often, Arthur takes hunting trips. It’s something he’s done since he was a prince, to cool his head and calm his heart. Even now, Arthur never feels more at peace than he does in the forests of Camelot. At least he normally finds peace here, tracking animals and hunting what he might find. With this particular hunting trip, Arthur is having difficulty finding it. Nearly all of his attention has been diverted to Merlin and Gwaine instead.
Usually, when Arthur takes these trips, it is with only the Round Table knights by his side. A few days of comradery does good for more than just Arthur, he knows. It’s a time they can all relax, can forget about titles and classes and the lines of propriety which stand between knights and king. The knights seem to be relaxing just fine, which Arthur is thankful for. All of them work hard and they deserve the break. But he finds it impossible for himself. He brought Merlin and Gwaine on the hunting trip with them, entirely unwilling to let either sorcerer or knight out of his sight for even a moment. He may be willing to let them stay in Camelot– as willing as can be, for a decision as senseless as this– but he’s not dumb enough to trust them any further than he can throw them and Arthur learned long ago to keep people like that close. Especially since Lancelot, though following orders and keeping his own eye on them, seems to be compromised. Arthur’s not even surprised. Lancelot has one of the biggest hearts of the knights from the Round Table; the first time Arthur had to fetch Lancelot from Gauis because he’d ended up getting caught in a drinking contest with Gwaine, all he could do was sigh. The fact Merlin seemed to respond in kind wasn’t exactly assuring. Leon watches Merlin and Gwaine as well, eyes wary as the two ride close to Lancelot, engaged in conversation with him.
Another thing which Arthur finds unsurprising: Gwaine and Merlin share a horse. It’s not surprising because Arthur has noticed the two share a lot of things: a room, supper, laughs. He’s even seen them wear each other’s clothing on occasion, despite them having two separate builds. But right now the horse is in front of Arthur and he watches as the two trot along, Gwaine holding the reins and laughing with Lancelot as Merlin rolls his eyes from his spot between Gwaine’s arms, resting back against Gwaine’s chest. It’s an easy kind of intimacy Arthur hasn’t seen or shared with any of his own knights, yet Merlin shares it freely with his own. Arthur frowns at them, though they’ve given him no reason to. Leon nudges his own horse closer to Arthur’s.
“If you keep glaring at them, the knights will never trust them,” Leon says quietly. Arthur scoffs, but looks away from the sorcerer and his knight to focus on the woods instead, scanning the underbrush for prints. Though he doesn’t know how much he actually sees as one should see while hunting. All he can focus on is the sound of Gwaine’s laughter in front of them. He sighs, looking back at Leon.
“It’s for the best they don’t get comfortable around a sorcerer or his knight,” Arthur says. Leon gives him a Look at it, lips thin and eyebrows so low they cause the corners of his eyes to crinkle. But he doesn’t question him. Both of them know how dangerous men like Merlin and Gwaine can be. Even if Merlin seems more like a rabbit than a man, especially the way he’s disturbed the hunt a few times already, and Gwaine spends more time in the tavern than any respectable knight truly should. The two of them proved themselves in the throne room that day, even if Arthur hasn’t seen anything its like since. There’s something about them, something about Merlin and Gwaine which pulls at Arthur, tells him he needs to watch a little closer. To keep them both on a short leash, whatever that entails. (And Arthur tries not to think of Merlin and Gwaine in his throne room on that first day. Of Merlin holding his hand out toward Gwaine and telling his knight to heel with an unwavering expression; a look so emotionless Arthur’s only seen it’s like two other times, once on Gaius and once on Morgana, before she went missing. Of Gwaine stepping down while the word still lingered in the air, barely off Merlin’s lips, command hovering like ash. The ability to turn into a flame, to bite and tear with the sharp edge of a sword and all the ferocity of an attack dog.) Arthur watches them, wary, emotions he doesn’t quite recognize under his skin.
The knights got along with them quick enough, folding them into the group like they’ve always been there. Arthur fears the two have been adopted into his Round Table like strays without his say-so, the knights growing affectionate far too fast. He’d fear sorcery for it, but for the way the entire castle is with sorcerer and knight. It isn’t just the Round Table which has brought the two into their lives as if they were simply an addition waiting to be found. And much as he wants to, he can’t truly see Gaius’ nephew using sorcery to sway emotions. No, Merlin and Gwaine are simply able to bring people to them with an ease Arthur has spent his life learning. He wonders how long they’ve spent learning the same, remembers Merlin called the druids his people. A king for a king. His grip on Hengroen’s reins tightens minutely. Leon frowns at him but continues to stay silent.
“Besides,” Arthur says, distancing himself from his own thoughts, loosening his grip. He stretches his fingers, letting them rest against his palm. “you watch them just as closely.”
“But I’m your first knight. It’s my duty to keep an eye on every knight, doubly on new recruits like Gwaine. You’re the King, Arthur. The knights will take cues more readily from you,” Leon says calmly.
Arthur snorts, watching as Merlin shifts closer to Lancelot and one of Gwaine’s hands drops smoothly to his waist to keep him steady so he doesn’t tumble from the horse. “Tell me when they start doing that, because I don’t think they ever have.”
“Well, the ones not in our group.” Leon shrugs, not even bothering a defense of his fellow knights. “Do you really think they’ll try to overthrow you or something?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur says, knowing it’s a lie as soon as it hits his own ears. Leon’s hum tells him his first knight doesn’t believe him either. Arthur tries to believe it, to close his eyes and make it so, but he’s already seen Merlin and Gwaine playing with the servant’s children in the courtyard, seen the way they get on with Galahad and Percival and even Mordred who mostly stays to himself. In the past few weeks they have done nothing except train with the knights, help Gaius and the castle staff, and entertain. He’s even heard some of the staff speak in the halls about the “bright new apprentice” Gaius has picked up and how helpful he is. He’s also heard several speak of his handsome companion, both women and men alike. Arthur doesn’t stay long when he hears those chats, leaving the castle staff to gossip amongst themselves. Not a single person has complained about magic, despite Merlin not hiding or suppressing its use. (Rather, plenty of the older maids have complained to the younger about the ease which the job used to have, before its use was banned, speaking with a freedom Arthur imagines they never did when his own father was still on the throne. The dual emotions the thought inspired in him is one of many things Arthur chooses not to think of.)
A larger bout of laughter draws Arthur’s attention back to the trio ahead of them in time to see even Gwaine’s grip is not quite enough to keep Merlin balanced on their horse. Merlin is half hanging off the saddle, one hand gripping Gwaine’s leg to attempt staying on the other holding onto Lancelot’s shoulder. Lancelot is helping Gwaine reseat him, hand on Merlin’s back as the three of them laugh. It’s not going very well, their humour making it so none of them are very steady, Merlin slowly slipping further and Lancelot seconds from following and Arthur sighs as he rides ahead to grab Merlin by the side of his shirt to yank him back into the saddle. This brings them out of it, the trio looking at him in surprise.
“Thanks,” Merlin says, eyes wide before his grin goes dopey. Arthur scoffs, putting distance between the horses once more.
“Well I didn’t want to stop just because you fell off like an idiot,” Arthur says.
“I’m sorry to almost inconvenience you,” Merlin says, somehow dry and lofty at once.
“As you should be,” Arthur says. Merlin snorts and Gwaine gives him an unimpressed look that’s honestly a little weird to see, given the way he usually looks at everyone else. But he is the king, so he shakes it off like he does every such look he’s received his entire life instead of dwelling on it. Instead of letting it itch under his skin, like it apparently so desperately wishes to do. He falls back to rejoin Leon, not stopping the frown as it pulls on his lips, and Leon gives him another Look. This one is more knowing than the first, the way his eyes narrow accentuating the dark circles under his first knight’s eyes. Arthur wonders how he got the dark circles, if Leon is sleeping properly. If Leon ever has.
The hunt continues on, just as unsuccessful as it has been since they entered the woods early that morning. Despite– or, perhaps, because of– Merlin being a sorcerer, he is absolute rubbish at hunting. Several rabbits have been lost because of Merlin’s insistence on scaring them away and it annoys Arthur more than he wants to admit, mostly because he is more okay with it than he would ever admit which is much worse. But they will need to catch something eventually, just so they have something more to eat than the provisions they’ve brought with them to cook. Something Arthur makes sure to inform the sorcerer of.
“I doubt you’ll starve,” Merlin says, looking at him from over Gwaine’s shoulder and Arthur gapes at him. Doubly so when Leon gives a little puff of amusement.
They ride around near aimlessly until the beginning of sunset, when Merlin does indeed stay behind with the horses and allow Arthur to finally catch something without him traipsing around the forest like a dragon. He catches one rabbit and Gwaine catches another, smiling as he holds it up for Arthur to see, and Arthur nods back at him. There is the warmth of camaraderie in his chest as he looks at Gwaine’s smile. It blooms bright and strong as it does for any of his knights– for his Round Table– when he interacts with them, before he registers the feeling and stomps down on it. This is not one of his knights and he’s definitely not a part of his Round Table. This is the knight of a sorcerer. Strong, and attractive, and tasked with the protection of a magic user. One who remains in Camelot because of Arthur’s kindness, not because he wants either of them there.
Despite their earlier words, Leon talks with Gwaine as if he is part of the Round Table while they walk back. If this is how even his first knight interacts with someone who protects one who is a criminal under Camelot’s laws, it is a miracle Camelot herself still stands.
Merlin smiles at them when they return and Gwaine speeds up to reach him first, proudly handing him the rabbit he caught. There are berries lying on a cloth next to Merlin and all of their bedrolls have been set out around an unlit campfire. The two bedrolls lying side-by-side so they are one do not escape Arthur's notice. Looking around more, he also notices none of the horses are tied to the trees. All of them roam free as if their small camp is fenced. He's not sure which surprises him more, their free-roaming or the fact none of them have taken the opportunity to wander out of sight.
"Merlin?" Arthur calls, making Merlin turn away from Gwaine and toward him instead. He smiles at the sorcerer, mouth thin. "Why aren't the horses tied up?"
"Because they don't need to be?" Merlin raises an eyebrow. He gestures around them as if to say 'see? all here'. Which, while it’s true they haven’t left, it’s the principle of the matter. It’s the fact that these are animals, trained, yes, but not to be trusted to be alone without simply wandering off. The fact they haven’t is simply dumb luck.
"So you just left them here, by themselves, as you waltzed off and picked flowers?" Arthur asks. Merlin gives him a flat look.
"First, waltzed? I think you'll find I didn't waltz anywhere-" "I don't think you even can waltz," Gwaine adds, something Merlin only gives a look to as he continues like the interruption didn't occur, "second, I didn't pick flowers, I gathered fruit so you might have something equating a healthy meal, sire."
“Oh. Well if you’re so equipped to cook, then I guess you can take care of this,” Arthur says, throwing the rabbit to Merlin. It nearly hits him in the face, but Merlin throws up his hands and his magic stops it midair. Arthur’s too surprised to see Merlin’s eyes, but they’re blue when the rabbit drops into his hands. Merlin glares at him. Gwaine gives him the same unimpressed look he’d given him earlier. Stupidly, Arthur wonders if the horses staying wasn’t luck, but instead an aspect of Merlin’s magic. He knows sorcerers can affect nature, he’s seen it already with Merlin when he guides the flowers to bloom for the castle’s servants and children. If he can do that, couldn’t he also keep horses tethered without need of rope? When Merlin holds a hand out, Gwaine places a small blade in his palm, keeping eye contact with Arthur as he does.
Arthur absently watches Merlin as he skins both rabbits, making conversation with Gwaine the entire time. The sorcerer and knight bounce off each other with long familiar ease. Arthur turns his eyes to the woods around them instead, feeling suddenly out of place. The night is settling in more, a few stars showing faint in the violet sky through the treeline. It feels stretched out in the woods where no candles are being lit and no stone creates a false dark. Like a wheel slowly being turned, colours slipping by in the endless sky as a very long tapestry. The knights around him make their own conversations, stripping bits of their armour and resting. As Merlin begins on the second rabbit, Arthur stands to stretch, bending backwards till his spine makes a horrid noise Leon always flinches at but feels fantastic. (At least he doesn’t pop his neck like Morgana used to do, before she disappeared in the night with her maidservant. He hopes she’s still out there somewhere, laughing with Guinevere and making others incredibly uncomfortable with the sounds her neck makes.) Once he feels loose again, he wanders over to where Hengroen has found herself to take her brush from her saddlebag and give her some attention. He could talk to the knights, of course, but he’s ridden with them all day. For just a short while, Arthur wants to be alone. Hengroen seems to appreciate it. She nuzzles him as he runs the brush over her flank. The repetitive action is as soothing for him as it is for her; Arthur can feel his body relaxing and his heart slowing like he’s released a long held breath. It’s calming like hunting is. Like being outside with the breeze and the stars and the grass is. Arthur breathes, for no reason other than he can.
It’s a respite he needs, away from thoughts of the sorcerer and his knight. But as all kingly respites seem to be, it is far too brief.
“Did you at least think to bring a pot or anything else to cook with?” Merlin calls over to Arthur. The only thing keeping him from showing vocal annoyance is years of courtly practice. Instead he simply turns a thin smile on Merlin and shrugs. It’s as if the sorcerer thinks he’s an idiot, planning a trip and not bringing something as simple as a cooking pot. Though it was Leon’s prepping which reminded them all to bring the bedrolls, Arthur’s mind too focused on other things to remember himself. Merlin rolls his eyes and turns to ask Gwaine for sticks so they can roast the rabbits rather than search through bags for the cooking pot. While Gwaine is gone, Merlin turns to the campfire and holds a hand over the wood. With quiet words and a flash of golden eyes, the wood sparks and comes to life. Unlike the first few times Arthur witnessed Merlin’s casual display of magic, he doesn’t instinctively flinch back. Instead he raises an eyebrow at the use of magic for something so easily done without.
“Could you not do that without magic?” Arthur drawls.
“He absolutely couldn’t,” Gwaine says, a few long sticks in his hands and a smile on his face. Merlin grumbles something Arthur can’t quite make out, but the annoyed pout on his face gives him a fair approximation. Gwaine responds to it with a chuckle, ruffling Merlin’s hair like he’s a favourite pup once he’s dropped the sticks. The curls stick up everywhere when his hand is removed, giving the impression of bedhead. “Merls is rather useless at making fire without his magic, even with all the travelling we do. He never got the hang of it.”
“When did this become ‘pick on Merlin’ day,” Merlin grumbles.
“Cheer up, Merls,” Gwaine says, knocking his shoulder against Merlin’s as he sits down beside him. “We can pick on the Princess, too.”
“Gee, thanks Gwaine,” Merlin says flatly, placing the rabbit meat over the fire with the sticks. Arthur frowns at Gwaine.
“Anytime dear,” Gwaine says with a smile that makes his eyes glow. Combined with the light of the fire, it turns them to honey. Arthur swallows and looks away. By the knight’s own admission, he holds no magic, but the look of him with gold in his eyes twists Arthur’s insides like he might. Letting one sorcerer into his kingdom is enough, Arthur’s not sure he can handle the thought of letting in more quite yet. He misses the way Gwaine’s eyebrow rises as well as the look which passes between Gwaine and Merlin.
Arthur is the first of them to stir, his body shifting to wakefulness between one breath and the next, all by itself. There is something wrong. He doesn’t know what it is, but the knowledge banishes all the grogginess he would usually feel upon waking.
“Gwaine.” Arthur hears Merlin whisper, the sorcerer and his knight’s combined bedroll close to his own. He shifts to watch as Merlin smacks Gwaine, who gets up blurrily. “Bandits.” This one word wakes Gwaine quickly and he crouches low to the ground, moving quickly to the knights of the Round Table to wake them. While Gwaine does that, Arthur reaches for his sword.
“Are you sure?” He whispers, despite knowing with certainty Merlin is correct. The silence which woke him reaches his ears now; the forest holding its breath. Arthur stands up slowly, watching their surroundings and listening for any sound. From the corner of his eye, he can see Merlin doing the same. Even the wind seems to have stopped and anticipation lights his veins, body preparing itself for the threat it knows is coming.
“Yes,” Merlin says quietly. Arthur expects there to be at least some annoyance in the word, a distaste for Arthur’s doubt, but there’s none. The sorcerer’s eyes are serious as they watch the trees and undergrowth for movement. The spot they chose is open with part of a stream close by on one side and the forest flanking them on the other. The river is the only thing currently making noise, burbling away as it flows past them. Arthur looks around for his knights, sees Leon and Lancelot and Percival with their swords out and nods as they meet his eyes in turn. Then his eyes find Gwaine’s, who looks him up and down before he turns to the trees as well. Unlike the rest of them, Gwaine’s posture is calm and open and Arthur would think him a fool if he hadn’t seen Gwaine prepared to kill at a word from Merlin before. If he hadn’t sparred against him himself.
“How far away, Merls?” Gwaine asks softly and Merlin replies without looking at him, a brief flash of gold appearing in his eyes as he scans the forest once more: “No more than a minute.” The knights look at each other and silently move closer to each other, Arthur moving with them to form a loose circle. Merlin glances at their movements and something in what he sees causes a glimmer in his eyes Arthur sees echoed in Gwaine’s.
“You seem pretty used to this, Sire. Do you get threatened every time you leave the castle?” Merlin asks, his mouth curving upward. Lancelot barks a laugh, a little louder than he should, clearly caught off guard.
“Nearly,” Percival says quietly, his own mouth twitching with a smile.
“You two also seem rather used to it,” Arthur points out, turning it around on them.
“Well we did live in the forest,” Merlin says like Arthur’s an idiot. He thinks it may be an unintentional answer to a question he’s never asked— Why does a knight protect a sorcerer? The forest does seem like a dangerous place to live alone, even if one is a sorcerer, and especially so if you’re not settling in one place. Between Camelot’s laws and Cenred’s thirst for power, Arthur thinks he’d prefer to travel with protection too if he were a sorcerer rather than a knight. He doesn’t even really know how Merlin’s magic works, if he has to rest after using it for bigger things like when the knights take a break after training or how powerful it even is.
“Oh, well excuse me for not knowing that, Merlin,” Arthur drawls.
“You’re excused, Sire,” Merlin says airily and Gwaine throws them both an amused look. Or at least, Arthur thinks he sends it to both of them. The inside of Arthur’s chest warms pleasantly and he looks away from knight and sorcerer, thankful for the night.
“Shut up, Merlin.”
Somehow, he thinks he feels both of them smiling at his back, but he refuses to look back and check. Instead he focuses on watching for the bandits, as they should be. Nevermind Merlin apparently being able to sense them or divine them or whatever magical nonsense it is Merlin’s able to do.
A few seconds later, Arthur hears the first noise he’s heard since waking, outside of their own voices and the gentle river. A branch snaps in the woods. It’s too big, too loud, too oddly quiet, to be caused by anything but a person. He catches Leon’s eye, who nods and moves forward in tandem with him toward where the branch snapped. The second Arthur and Leon are far enough from the others, three bandits leave the trees to their right and another three exit the trees on their left to flank them. Arthur has a moment to consider the branch snap was likely purposeful as he looks between his Round Table, Gwaine and Merlin, and the bandits before three more step out directly in front of Leon and him, weapons drawn and sneering.
“Seems like someone’s a lil’ far from home,” the one in the center of the three in front of them says and Arthur takes in the scars on the man’s arms and the comfortable way he holds his sword. It’s not a fancy weapon, but it’s obviously well cared for, not a bit of rust or dullness on its blade. This is a man who is a trained fighter and may have even been a knight at one time, given the state of his blade and the annoyingly clever idea of separating them– for he’s clearly the leader of the group–, before deciding upon a life of crime instead. Arthur wonders what could’ve led a past knight to decide banditry was more appealing.
“I think you’ll find I’m rather close to my home,” Arthur says, waving his free hand in the direction of Camelot, and the man barks a laugh. A few of the others laugh as well, shutting up only when the man does. It marks his spot as leader as clearly as anything else has.
“Trust me, I know, sire,” the bandit leader says, the title denigratory and his smile cruel. It’s a strange thing to realize, that though Merlin often uses the title mockingly, it has never been with such sneer. Even when Arthur deserves nothing less. He gestures to the other eight, who start to close the circle around them, pressing the group closer to the river. “Fancy king and knights that you are, you must have some trinkets with you that’ll fetch a fair price. I’d hand them over unless you’re feelin’ up to a dip.”
The way the others smile, and laugh, and shove their weapons closer, Arthur knows it won’t end in just ‘a dip’. They will trap them in the river and kill them while they are too busy getting acquainted with the current and depth to fight a foe on higher ground, if they have their way. Arthur’s never been one to let bandits have their way, especially when it’s his people on the line. He gestures to Leon, Lancelot, and Percival so they know to be prepared for a fight, Leon taking two from the right, Percival two from the left, and Lancelot the two who stand the closest to the back while he handles the three in front of them. He trusts Gwaine will protect Merlin, so they don’t have to worry about the sorcerer while contending with the bandits. But before any of them can move, the bandit leader growls, the hold on his sword tightening till his knuckles whiten. His eyes are where Arthur knows Merlin was standing, his expression thunderous and offended. And Arthur frowns, because while he knows Merlin has the special talent to offend with just a facial expression, he can’t imagine the sorcerer would be so monumentally stupid as to gain the attention of the bandit leader. Except whatever Merlin has done, he certainly has caught the bandit leader’s attention, the man disregarding the rest of them near entirely.
“Leash your dog,” the bandit leader snarls at Arthur, looking back at Arthur and Arthur himself turns to look at Merlin. He doesn’t know if “leashing” is something he can even do to Merlin. He’s a sorcerer, not just some pup Arthur adopted along the way, no matter how his knights tend to treat him. Arthur isn’t even sure how powerful he truly is. Yes, Merlin claimed to hold some form of dominion of something over magic users; a king like Arthur is, though Arthur’s never heard of such a thing. As far as he knows, the druids are entirely nomadic, and what need would nomads have for a king? And he has seen Merlin performing bits of magic, making lights and flowers appear like some fool, but nothing large. Nothing he thinks might be impressive or a particularly powerful feat. He is a warlock, as he calls himself, with a knight who clearly protects him of his own free will traveling alongside him. How powerful can he truly be?
Except looking at the sorcerer and his knight now, Gwaine is not protecting Merlin as Arthur would expect him to be. Gwaine is close to him, just as Lancelot is, but he is on guard like every other knight. He’s positioned slightly behind Merlin rather than in front, like a guardian would be. Arthur looks again at the bandit’s leader, unable to form words to command Merlin, too surprised and confused to tell Merlin to heel or attack. But he must say something. He is king, and Merlin has called him so even if he says it with that sparkle in his eyes, and Arthur feels a weight over his chest. Arthur swallows. “Merlin,” comes out of his throat, rawer than he would like, perhaps more trusting than it should be between sorcerer and King of Camelot. When Merlin steps forward, Gwaine does not move an inch, and Arthur can’t help but think it’s not what a protector would do.
“Leave.” Merlin’s voice is firm and his eyes glow golden, yet as far as Arthur is able to tell no magic happens. There are no other words from Merlin’s mouth nor hand movements nor potions to facilitate anything magical happening. Then the bandits laugh as one, shifting closer, and the wind howls. It howls with an intensity Arthur has only heard a few times in his life, loud and hungry like a starving beast. Like they’ve been surrounded by wolves while their focus was on the bandits and the wolves have begun to circle, holding themselves back through sheer willpower, waiting for them to do the dirty work and kill each other so they may have an easy meal. Arthur shudders, because only death follows such a sound. Except the bandits scramble and scatter, fleeing, and the gold bleeds from Merlin’s eyes. The golden colour is the only thing that bleeds— not a drop of blood was spilt upon the grass and dirt of the forest. The birds twitter overhead like the wind was just a bad dream, but the way the leaves now litter the ground in a circle around them and the ones still attached to their branches have gone askew tells him it was not. Merlin turns to Arthur, smiles as dopey as it was when Arthur pulled him back into the saddle, and Arthur isn’t entirely sure if what he feels is whiplash but he thinks it may be.
