Arthur stirs. In the grey half-light before dawn, Merlin silently leaves the bed—as he has done every morning since Arthur’s return.
He waits until he hears the quiet click of the latch on the door before he sits up, sighing.
The first time he noticed, he’d assumed Merlin was still an early riser; when he eventually grew curious enough to follow, he’d learned why.
*
Merlin pads through the garden on silent feet, huddled in a jacket to fend off the autumnal chill, and traces a well-worn path along the fields below. He heads towards a tangle of gnarled, weather-beaten trees, which shelter him from view on the small stretch of stones on the lakeshore.
There he kneels, head bowed, and touches the palm of his hand to the surface of the lake.
‘Good morning, Arthur,’ he says—the first words of the day. And he stays crouched there, whispering to the water gently lapping at his knees, until the sun has fully risen. Arthur doesn’t know what he says—doesn’t stay to try and overhear. He recognises a man at prayer when he sees one.
*
Every morning, rain or shine, Merlin performs his secret liturgy. And Arthur becomes familiar with the routine, with its pace, and knows exactly when to brew the coffee for Merlin’s return—his own gentle, daily devotional.
It is painful to watch. But Arthur keeps waiting, and keeps making the coffee, and smiles when Merlin walks through the door. It will take a while to break the habit of a lifetime.
But one morning, months later, he wakes in the twilight to a warm body still lying next to his. He rolls over, and Merlin smiles at him.
‘Good morning, Arthur.’ he says.
And it really, really is.
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