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.
A/N: this is the fifth chapter, im marking them all under the tag 'merlin dangerous devotion'. Canon typical violence
The night is late when Arthur finds himself wrapped in Gwaine’s cloak, wearing Gwaine’s clothes, and traveling under the cover of darkness away from the house they’re staying in with Merlin and Lancelot. Gwaine wanted to go out for a nightcap before bed and Arthur agreed, because he is a fool. He’s wearing Gwaine’s clothes and cloak because he doesn’t want to be recognized as a king if he’s to drink and because they are the only clothes which fit. Arthur forces himself to breathe lightly, because if he didn’t he’d breathe in deeply of Gwaine’s scent: sweat and dirt and warmth. He bundles the cloak close and wonders absently of the implications wearing a druid’s cloak might bring.
“This is just what we need,” Gwaine whispers, looking back at him with a wild grin. “Some mead to warm us.”
“Yes.” Arthur nods his head, agreeing. It’ll also be nice to go somewhere as simply Arthur. Somewhere as just a peasant, and not a king. Gwaine holds the door open for him, bending at the waist in a loose bow.
“Maiden,” Gwaine says and Arthur rolls his eyes, but goes through the door. At least he didn’t call him the usual nickname. Gwaine walks in after him at something close to a swagger, dark hair bouncing with his steps, and smile easy on his lips. Arthur looks around the tavern. It’s a small, cluttered place, well lit with candles flickering on a few tables and in the windows but with plenty of shadows eating away at the wood, reaching from the bodies and tables pushed together. There’s one large table in the back, where Arthur is pretty sure he catches a flash of dice. The people clustered around it, shoulder to shoulder, make it hard to tell while also making it easier to guess. Gwaine heads immediately to a table in the back where they will be able to watch the door, backs against the wall. Neither of them are waiting for anyone, but Arthur recognizes the instinct for what it is. After so many years of Merlin and him living alone, traveling from place to place, it’s not surprising Gwaine still heads for an advantageous spot. Arthur appreciates it. He follows him and takes the chair on the right, where he has a good view of the place. There are circular water stains on the table and Arthur circles one absently. Gwaine sits with one foot up on his chair.
They’re not there for very long before a woman comes over. She’s older and stocky, graying hair tied back in a bun and brown dress dirtied with flour. She navigates all of the tables, chairs, and people like she’s done it every day for decades. An action which handily signifies her as the owner of the tavern.
“‘Ello. Your friend is rather handsome,” she says once she reaches them, and Arthur is inclined to agree, though he wouldn’t speak it aloud.
“He is,” Gwaine says brightly and she laughs while Arthur feels his cheeks heat.
“I wasn’t talking about your friend,” the keeper says and Gwaine smiles cheekily.
“I know,” Gwaine says. “But I think you should be. He is quite handsome, after all. Especially wearing my clothes as he is.” Gwaine winks at him, and Arthur feels his cheeks heat even more. The tavern keeper looks between the two of them, eyebrows raised, before she laughs lightly. The sound is pleasant, if not a touch surprised.
“What’ll it be for the two of you?” She asks.
“Just some mead,” Arthur says.
“And some bread and cheese,” Gwaine adds. Glancing to Arthur he says: “It’s good to eat as you drink, too, sometimes.” Arthur nods. Gwaine’s right, it is better to eat when you drink, especially if you don’t want to get drunk. Which means Gwaine’s not going to even attempt getting drunk. Arthur’s not entirely sure what to think of that.
“Drink is always better with good food and good company,” the keeper agrees with a wink to Gwaine.
“Exactly,” Gwaine says, smiling. Arthur ducks his head slightly, though he knows Gwaine must’ve long seen the redness of his cheeks.
Even sober, Gwaine can’t keep himself from gambling when they notice a new game starting. Arthur watches as Gwaine plays, declining to join in when asked. Arthur makes bets, sometimes, but he’s always been more for bets between knights than gambling in taverns. As he watches, he’s near glad for it. Gwaine plays like he has something to prove. Hand after hand he wins and Arthur is sure Gwaine would take him for everything if Arthur ever tried to play against him. It’s a thought that makes him oddly fond, like Gwaine gambling the very clothes off Arthur’s back is something amusing. Mayhaps it is. The knights, Merlin, and Gwaine himself would certainly think so. It’s noticeably less amusing for the three who let Gwaine join their game. He watches as they slowly become more and more agitated at Gwaine’s constant winning until the agitation bubbles over into an anger Arthur knows well will bubble even more, until a full fight breaks out. Arthur shifts, abandoning his lean against the empty table next to them to place a hand on the back of Gwaine’s chair instead. It’s not threatening, per say, he doesn’t really even mean it to be. It’s more a protective measure. If anything, it may even be a warning. The three take no notice of it, anyway. But Gwaine readjusts in the chair, pulling a leg up under himself so his back is closer to Arthur’s hand, and he knows the knight noticed his actions even without looking. The corner of Arthur’s mouth lifts, the inside of his chest expanding.
Gwaine wins another hand and the dam starts to crack. One of the three, someone thin with bright blue eyes, throws his cards down face up. Arthur’s not sure why he’s the first to break. The hand he has wasn’t even close to good enough to win. “You’re cheating,” he accuses with a growl that makes his nose scrunch and his dark mustache twitch like a rabbit’s whiskers. Gwaine laughs, because of course he does, and the man’s mustache twitches more angrily.
“I assure you, friend, I’m not.” Gwaine lifts his hands, pulls down his sleeves one at a time and even shakes them to show there are no extra cards. The bright eyed man scoffs, leaning back, crossing heavily tattooed arms over his chest. His eyes are narrowed, flashing dangerously. He shoves his cards into the middle of the table, the other two following suit after a moment.
“Deal again.” The man leans back in his chair, nodding at the cards.
“Alright.” Gwaine shrugs, but the man holds out his hand.
“Not you,” the bright eyed man says. When his eyes flicker to Arthur, he finds the blue oddly cold. There’s nothing like the laughing warmth he’s grown used to finding in Merlin’s. Arthur finds he doesn’t like or trust this man. “Him.”
“Alright.” Gwaine adds his cards to the pile and the red haired woman at the bright eyed man’s left takes them up without even a word, shuffling them together into a single stack before handing them off to Arthur. Gwaine doesn’t turn to Arthur as he takes the cards from the woman, or when he shuffles them, or even when the woman cuts the deck twice before he deals them out. But his fingers do brush over Arthur’s wrist when he picks up his cards after Arthur places the last in front of him. The remaining stack is placed in the middle of the table, and Arthur watches as Gwaine once again wins.
“Again.” The man says, and the process repeats. The crack in the dam widens. Arthur can see it happening and is sure Gwaine can as well. The only problem is, he doesn’t think Gwaine cares. Or maybe he does, and simply understands something Arthur doesn’t. Gwaine wins this hand as well. It’s like watching the beginnings of a flood. The bright eyed man’s hands clench around his cards, black tattoos stark on his pale fingers. The woman’s eyes flit to him, like she knows what is coming, and Arthur sees the other man watching him.
“Again,” the man says, dark.
“Geoff,” the woman says, but the man doesn’t respond, mustache twitching. The woman sighs; the long suffering sigh of someone used to their partner’s antics. The cards get dealt again, the man’s bright eyes flinty.
When the words “search him” come and the silent man in the group goes to move, Arthur moves first.
“Surely this is unnecessary,” he says, arm out in front of Gwaine, and the entire group looks at him like they’re laughing at him. Arthur frowns. The bright-eyed man looks at him, really looks at him it seems, for the first time. His eyes are flinty, and his mustache twitches like rabbit’s whiskers again.
He dismisses Arthur with a scoff. “Keep your guard dog on a leash, knight, or things may get ugly.”
Gwaine leans back, lacing his hands behind his head, obviously amused at being the only one who knows just who his dog is. “Arthur?” He calls, and Arthur turns to him, expectant as the guard dog he’s been likened to. Ready. Gwaine smiles at him, all teeth. “Sic ‘em.” And just like that, Arthur moves.
The cards on the table scatter as it tips over, Arthur launching himself across it to get to the bright eyed man, all grabbing hands and teeth. They are both on the floor, the man on his back, before any of the three realize it. Arthur feels nearly feral in a way he hasn’t before. Not since he was twenty, his brain flooded with the conflict between power and responsibility and enough rage and sorrow to kill the gods themselves in his veins. There is simply something about knowing Gwaine is behind him, watching him. That Gwaine told him to attack, sending him off like a dog after a rabbit. His nails scrape against the man’s neck. The man’s mustache twitches, rabbit whiskers moving as the man glares. He can see the other two staring at them, frozen in shock. More, he can feel Gwaine’s eyes on his back, and the knowledge curls up his spine, settles in his gut and throat like dragon fire. His fingers twitch, curling tighter, and the man chokes. The noise jolts the other two out of their frozen state. Arms wrap around his waist, pulling at him, lifting him and the bright eyed man until his fingers are forced to slip from the man’s neck so he can breathe in gasping breaths. Arthur flails, striking out with elbows and heels. One or several of his strikes connect; the woman holding him curses and drops him.
Arthur lands on his knees and twists to sweep his leg under the woman and second man, making them drop to the floor as well. Tavern fights, as Arthur has found, don’t really call for a lot of finesse. Not like a more traditional spar between knights, whether it be training or a tournament. So Arthur doesn’t bother with technique. Instead, he focuses on the fight, on knocking them out before they can knock him out.
A hand clamps around Arthur’s ankle before he can stand up, pulling him back across the floor with enough strength to sting. Already Arthur knows he’ll have a hand shaped bruise there. He turns and sees the other man, someone blonde and broad shouldered, for just a moment before the man punches him. It’s a strong punch, rattling Arthur and making his ears ring a moment. Arthur shoves against the man while his ears still ring, flipping them over and punching him in return and blinking when the man is unfazed. Usually, his punches seem to hold more weight. The blonde grins wickedly and brings their foreheads together, causing Arthur to stumble up and back onto his feet. Arthur shakes his head. At least he’s standing again. The man moves to follow and Arthur searches the table quickly, grabbing the pitcher of alcohol the bright eyed man was drinking from and bashing it into the man’s skull. This time, the man falls back, clearly dazed. Before Arthur can continue his assault, a flash of light sparks before his eyes.
Arthur stumbles back at the bright light. He looks around, spots the woman and sees her eyes aren’t brown but gold, and curses. Of course the trio had to have a sorcerer among them. This is the last time Arthur ever listens to Gwaine and fights (it’s not). The light fades, the woman’s eyes returning to brown, and Arthur dodges a moment before a body would’ve crashed into him. The blonde man runs into one of the tables instead, upsetting the drinks on it and causing a ruckus. Well, more of a ruckus than they already have. Arthur spares a moment to mentally apologize to the owner. Then, he throws the pitcher at the woman.
Magic users have at least one reliable weakness– except maybe for Merlin–; they need to maintain concentration for any spells. While the woman focuses on the pitcher, Arthur attacks, getting as far as a punch in her stomach before the blonde man grabs him by the arm, spinning him back. Arthur ducks the first punch to his jaw, using the blonde man’s grip on him to attempt yanking him down as Arthur drops to the ground, sliding under his legs. The man releases his grip, deciding his balance is more important than his hold on Arthur. Arthur rolls to his feet behind him, and the man twirls to the side, facing Arthur once more without being directly in front of him. Both of them narrow their eyes at the other, watching quietly without interference from either the bright eyed man or the woman. They circle, the floor miraculously cleared so neither of them trip on anything.
The man attacks first, striking vicious and fast. Arthur barely manages to dodge, feeling the air go past his ear as he does. Returns are slower, and Arthur grabs the man’s arm as it passes back by his ear, gripping it and ducking behind him, twisting his arm behind his back. The man hisses and bends forward, forcing Arthur up and over his back. When Arthur lands, the man wraps his arm around Arthur’s neck and applies pressure, making Arthur release his hold on the arm he’d twisted, replacing it to hold onto the arm around his neck instead.
Arthur grips onto the arm around his neck, rough cloth bunching under his fingers, and stomps his heel onto the man’s toes. Knights don’t play dirty, but it doesn’t mean they don’t know how. The man hisses; Arthur realizes it’s the first sound he’s heard him make. But he only tightens the arm around Arthur’s neck and Arthur realizes he has to drop once more, hoping his sudden dead weight is enough to unsteady the blonde man. He drops, letting his entire being go boneless, and the man stumbles. Arthur rolls behind him once more, and this time when he pops up he kicks the blonde man in the back and sends him stumbling forward, over a knocked over chair.
With the blonde man out of the way, the bright eyed man rejoins the fray. Or, tries to. He’s slower than the other man and Arthur catches his hand on the second attempted punch. Arthur tightens his grip, forcing the bright eyed man to his knees, and punches him. Three punches hit before Arthur’s hand freezes like it’s being held back. Immediately, Arthur looks around for the woman. It’s a mistake.
A fist collides with Arthur’s cheek and his ears ring. Tomorrow, when the bruises bloom, because they will bloom, Merlin is going to give both Gwaine and Arthur the most scathing look. Arthur stumbles to the side, turns just in time to catch another fist to the face. The next blow, Arthur manages to block. He returns the blow with one of his own to the blonde man’s chest. It’s annoying just how little the blonde man stumbles when he knows most of his knights would’ve. Fighting him reminds Arthur of Percival, firm and steady, except the man is smaller than Percival by at least half. It feels less like punching a wall, and more like punching a pillow in the way the blonde man takes it. The way he barely stumbles, absorbing the shock of Arthur’s fists. The only things the blonde man hasn’t absorbed were the kick he delivered behind him, and the force of the metal drink pitcher. Which tells Arthur his fists alone aren’t strong enough. Not for this one.
Arthur backs away, looking around, keeping space between them. The other patrons of the tavern have afforded them a wide berth– with the exception of Gwaine, who sits watching in his chair at the outer edge– and there are two knocked over tables as well as five knocked over chairs. The cards they were using litter the ground. Several are bent. The man moves forward to punch him again and Arthur rolls to one of the chairs, grabbing it as he stands. Before the man can turn around, Arthur hits him with it. The heavy wood collides with the man’s back, making him crumple forward to his knees. He grunts as he does.
“Okay, enough,” the woman steps forward, holding up her hands. Arthur hesitates, unsure, looking over toward Gwaine for guidance. The other man, the blonde, stands up with a stagger. But he doesn’t go to hit Arthur again, only straightens. Gwaine nods and Arthur slides out of the ready position to something more casual, even if he’s still on guard.
He can tell the other man is also still on guard.
The woman sighs, walking over, checking the blonde’s face. She’s shorter than him– about the same he is to Merlin– and she reaches up to cup his cheek, turning his face this way and that. Arthur can hear her click her tongue over the din of the tavern righting itself once more. “We’re going home,” she says, waving the bright eyed man forward, who tucks himself under the blonde man’s other arm so they can both support him on their way out.
Arthur watches them for a moment, then turns to Gwaine, huffing a laugh when he sees he’s still on that damn chair. “Are you comfortable?”
“I’m always comfortable, watching a handsome man fight for me,” Gwaine says with a wide smile and Arthur rolls his eyes, righting the table it all started at.
“Of course you are,” Arthur says, but his tone isn’t admonishing enough and he gets the idea it wouldn’t have mattered even if it was. Gwaine stands up, moving chairs back to the table while Arthur picks up scattered cards. He pauses as he does, glancing at Gwaine, curious. “Did you cheat?”
“Of course not, Princess. I only cheat when the other players are better than me,” Gwaine says with a smile which makes Arthur narrow his eyes in a way he definitely learned from Merlin. Then, unbidden, Arthur finds himself laughing. He doesn’t doubt Gwaine would cheat if it suits him, but he believes him that he didn’t in this instance. Gwaine wraps his arm around Arthur’s waist in a way which mirrors the others, and Arthur leans his weight on his knight, both of them chuckling like madmen in the center of the damage they helped cause. Arthur pays extra before they leave, as an apology for the fighting and damage it caused, and Gwaine supports him on the walk back to the camp. The bruises are already starting to bloom, and he knows they’ll be dark and obvious tomorrow. Arthur and Gwaine laugh quietly together, two people bonding over the scolding they know they’re bound to receive come dawn.
