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A stupid game turned serious;

Honestly? Most shit involving The Knights (AKA, Camelot’s man-children) is something stupid turned serious (or occasionally, vice-versa).

In which King Arthur realises he barely knows anything about his manservant, and the knights want to turn it into a competition.

It started as all serious discussions start: a group of grown men hanging around in the middle of a forest, bored out of their minds. Obviously.

Alright people, lets do this one last time (except not really).

The Gang, today consisting of Sirs Leon, Gwaine, Lancelot, Percival, Elyan, King Arthur, and The King’s manservant, Merlin, are in the woods doing... something. It doesn’t really matter what to be honest. Maybe a patrol, maybe a hunt, maybe a quest, maybe a picnic. Whatever the reason, they’re gathered around a roaring fire, darkness falling around them as they stare apathetically into the flames.

Gwaine finally decides that it’s time to break out his secret weapon, and pulls a large water-skin from his bag, waggling his eyebrows as he takes a gulp and passes it to Percival, sat next to him. Percy takes it hesitatingly, but smiles widely and takes a glug of his own after sniffing at the lid.

The water-skin gets passed around the circle, Arthur eventually asking:

“What’s in that then, ale I presume, Gwaine?”

Gwaine holds a hand to his chest and gasps in mock offense:

“Why Sire, you really think I, the noblest of knights, would drink ale whilst on the job?”

The others snort at his tone, and the obvious lie, and Arthur just raises an eyebrow as the water-skin finally reaches him. He sniffs it, and rolls his eyes before taking a swig, Gwaine smirking victoriously as he says:

“It’s cider, the very best. I was saving it as a treat for a rainy day and look at me, sharing it with all of you, I’m so nice.”

Merlin had been about to take a long swig from the skin, but grimaces as Gwaine says cider, and passes it over to him instead. Gwaine shrugs, not questioning it, but Arthur looks to his servant curiously:

“Not a fan of cider, Merlin? That surprises me, with how often you’re at the tavern.”

Merlin shakes his head, ignoring the tavern comment and responding with an easy smile:

“No not really, more of an ale person myself.”

Arthur hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t say anything, fiddling with his hands as quiet conversation flows easily between the other knights, The King and Merlin sitting comfortably in their silence. After half a candle mark of Arthur’s incessant fidgeting and soft frowning, Merlin thumps him on the arm, gaining everyone’s attention as he says:

“For pities sake, Arthur, you’ve been thinking for ages, it looks wrong on you, what’s got your knickers all in a twist?”

Leon and Percival are the only ones who manage to cover their snorts entirely, but Gwaine openly laughs at Merlin’s comment as Arthur briefly scowls before responding thoughtfully:

“You know, Merlin, we’ve known each other for ten years. I hate to admit it, but you probably know me better than anyone, yet I was unaware that you don’t like cider. It’s odd, how little I actually know about you, don’t you think?”

Merlin just raises an eyebrow, smirking as he says:

“I’m an open book, sire, it’s not my fault you never ask questions.”

Arthur huffs, and then does so again even louder when he sees the victorious smirk on Gwaine’s face:

“Why don’t we make a little competition out of it? Arthur can ask questions about Merlin, us lot have to answer. Whoever knows most, wins.”

Leon rolls his eyes:

“Wins what, exactly?”

Gwaine shrugs, taking another swig of his cider and snatching his hand away with a stuck-out tongue when Percival reaches for it with a pout:

“I don’t know, my respect?”

Everyone snorts in laughter and Gwaine huffs good-naturedly:

“Oh, fine. The chance to say they know Merlin best. Considering half the Kingdom likes him, and the other half loves him, that’s a fairly impressive prize.”

Merlin blushes and Arthur looks incredulous, but doesn’t argue when the rest of the knights hum in agreement and nod, as if Merlin being popular were the most obvious thing in the world. Gwaine grins, gesturing at Arthur vaguely:

“Go on then, princess, what don’t you know about Merlin?”

Everyone looks to Arthur expectantly, even Merlin, and The King throws a glance his way before sighing, and giving in:

“Fine. Lets start simple, what... uh... what is Merlin’s favourite season?”

Lancelot throws his arm in the air immediately almost yelling-

“Spring!”

- in his excitement. Merlin just laughs and nods, and the other knights sulk slightly at having been beaten before looking to Arthur again:

“...Right. When’s Merlin’s birthday?”

Everyone looks shocked at that, and Leon takes advantage of their surprise to answer smoothly:

“First day of the year. I mean no disrespect, My Lord, but how on earth do you not know his birthday?”

Arthur flushes as he looks indignantly back at his First Knight, his petulant tone making everyone else laugh:

“He never told me!”

Leon just raises an eyebrow:

“He never told me either, I asked eight years ago, and in return he asked mine, and we’ve exchanged gifts every year since.”

Merlin smiles fondly at the memory, and gives Arthur a sharp elbow to the ribs when the man goes to argue some more, cheerfully saying:

“First of the year is right. Next question?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, responding to Merlin’s jab with a gentle punch to the arm (or gentle as far as he is concerned) :

“Hmm. What... is Merlin’s favourite food?”

The knights all scramble to answer, but it’s Gwaine who shouts the loudest, standing up to make sure he’s noticed:

“Blueberries!! And strawberries!! Any sweet fruit, basically.”

All of the knights, even Arthur, look to Merlin in suspense as he thinks over the answer. He finally blinks in surprise and nods, and Gwaine pumps his fist in victory before sitting back down again. Merlin smiles and shakes his head, saying in a disbelieving voice:

“It’s kind of flattering that you knew the answer before I even did.”

Gwaine covets Merlin’s words, grinning proudly at the servant’s fond, though still slightly shocked smile.

Arthur rolls his eyes yet again, clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention:

“Alright, alright. How many summers has he seen?”

~

The game goes cheerfully on for a while, long into the night, and it’s hard to say who’s winning. All (bar one) answer many questions, and they’re having so much fun (and Arthur is learning so much), that The King can’t bare to stop them. He doesn’t think anyone will mind the exhaustion tomorrow.

Eventually, all (bar one) are asking Merlin questions, and all (bar one) are answering them, though Arthur is growing mildly embarrassed at his lack of general knowledge on the man he’s seen everyday for ten years.

The game turns a little sombre, when Arthur clears his throat and asks the circle:

“What does Merlin know of his father?”

As far as Arthur was aware, it wasn’t a sensitive topic for Merlin; his father had come up briefly in conversation a few times years ago, and Merlin had never seemed bothered, but those few short conversations hadn’t actually told Arthur anything about the man, and he was curious to see if his servant had confided in any of the others.

Lancelot looked shocked at Arthur’s query, but the others just look around the circle blankly, realising that no one knew the answer. For some reason, Arthur had to resist the urge to smile victoriously at that. After a few moments, Leon shrugged, looking to Merlin with a questioning expression.

Merlin gave the knights a tight smile before answering quietly:

“Met him for the first time a few years ago, he died almost immediately. Only got a couple days with him.”

Lancelot gritted his teeth, reining in the glare that he wanted to send Arthur’s way as The King stares at his manservant in shock. Merlin keeps his gaze trained on the ground, even as Arthur quietly apologises. Leon clears his throat, and Merlin gives him a slightly easier smile, gesturing for him to continue at the knight’s questioning look:

“I have a good one. Has Merlin ever been in love?”

Merlin takes in a quiet gasp, but no one notices as a few of them begin talking over one another. Gwaine is the loudest (as per normal), shouting-

“With me, of course.”

-and sending a wink Merlin’s way. He quickly drops his playful smirk when he sees Merlin’s barely concealed sorrow, but before he can ask what’s wrong, Arthur scoffs, and answers:

“Ok, even I can answer that one. No, Merlin has never been in love.”

Merlin scowls briefly before schooling his face into something a little more blank, answering in a monotone voice:

“Once, a long time ago.”

Arthur looks taken aback, and all the knights (bar Lancelot, who is looking more and more distraught at the topic, having been briefly told of Freya) lean in curiously. The King rolls his eyes and smirks:

“Fine, going by your morose expression, I’m guessing it was either unrequited, or they left you, so which was it, Merlin?”

Lancelot looks to him sharply, grinding out his name in a whispered, though horrified tone. Before he can reply, or even blink to be honest, Merlin waves a hand dismissively in Lance’s direction, staring at his fiddling hands as he quietly answers:

“Neither, she... she died, actually.”

The intake of breath of everyone else in the circle is audible, and Merlin looks up, not meeting anyone’s eyes, but giving them a mournful smile. Leon gulps, frowning in concern as he gently asks:

“What happened? If you don’t mind us asking, of course?”

Merlin’s expression changes to that of assessment, and the knights wait with baited breath as he gazes at each of them in turn, Lancelot quietly saying:

“You don’t have to, Merlin, it’s fine.”

Merlin shakes his head slightly before taking a deep breath and sitting up straight, answering Leon’s question:

“She was a non-practicing Druid, kidnapped from outside of Camelot by some bounty hunter looking for easy money and dragged here for the reward.-”

A few quiet breaths are taken in at Merlin’s admission of falling in love with a Druid, but no one interrupts him:

“-I felt bad for her, helped her escape. I hid her for a while, kept her safe, did the whole... falling in love thing.-”

His eyes go glassy and he stares into the middle distance as he continues, tears gathering but not quite falling:

“-We were going to run away together, build a home on the shores of a lake with mountains and trees nearby; grow our own food.-”

Merlin gulps, taking a deep breath as he begins fiddling with the hem of his tunic slightly:

“-But something went wrong, she was found, chased by knights. I caused a... distraction, helped her escape again, but not before she gained a fatal blow. I got her out of the city, but the wound was too serious; I didn’t have any of my equipment with me and there was no one nearby who could help. She... she bled out.”

He finishes in almost a whisper and he quickly wipes away the lone tear on his cheek, sniffling slightly before he looks up to the shocked knights again, a fake smile on his face:

“Not the happiest story, I know.”

Arthur shakes his head slightly, staring at Merlin with wide eyes as he murmurs:

“Merlin... how did I not know about this?”

In a moment of weakness, Merlin is almost tempted to tell him the truth, tell everyone, that Arthur was the one who killed her, that Merlin had to clean her blood from his sword the next day with a smile on his face, but he quells the urge, giving him a weak smile and a pat on the leg:

“Because I didn’t tell you. It’s understandably not something I’m fond of talking about.”

Arthur nods gently, wiping the frown from his face as he pats his manservant awkwardly on the shoulder, not knowing quite what to do. Gwaine clears his throat, and quietly asks:

“What was her name?”

Merlin smiles, and the others are grateful to see that it’s real. Sad, but real. Lancelot stays quiet; he knows the answer, but he also knows that this is less about Gwaine’s stupid competition, and more about Merlin’s friends wanting to know him:

“Freya. Her name was Freya. I laid her to rest in a lake not too far from the city limits. I can take a little peace, some days, knowing that she ended up exactly where she wanted to, in the end.”

Leon nods knowingly, a soft smile on his face as he murmurs:

“Freya. It’s a beautiful name.”

Merlin’s smile grows and he nods his agreement, before blinking the memories from his eyes and clapping his hands:

“Come on, that’s enough of that moroseness, next question.”

~

And so, it continues even further, all the knights (bar one) asking questions; some generic: “name of Merlin’s childhood best friend?” (Arthur knew the correct response, but stayed quiet, the guilt just a little too much as he lets Gwaine answer instead), and some a little more specific: “Would Merlin rather live on the bottom of the ocean, or above the clouds?” (They all shouted guesses, and Merlin decided that, in the end, he’d rather live above the clouds with his namesakes).

Though eventually, hours and maybe hundreds of questions in to the game, Elyan holds a hand up, drawing everyone’s attention as he clears his throat:

“I’ve noticed, Percy, that you have neither asked anything, or answered anything. I know that you know at least a few of the answers, so what gives?”

Everyone looks to the gentle giant curiously, thinking back on the game and realising that Elyan is right; he hadn’t said a word since they started.

Percival gives Merlin an odd look for just a fraction of a second, before schooling his face into a smile and looking at the others with a raised eyebrow:

“It’s fun watching you lot scramble. I already know Merlin, I don’t need to win some competition.”

Elyan rolls his eyes fondly, but Gwaine pouts:

“Come on, Percy, there must be something you want to know. Anything, come on?”

Percival hums as he stares into his lap, before looking up at Merlin again, that strange look back on his face. Merlin tilts his head (though his face remains blank), at the man’s expression; an odd mix of challenging and anxious and knowing.

The knight clears his throat, muttering almost to himself:

“Maybe one thing.”

Merlin raises an (almost condescending?) eyebrow, and Gwaine pats Percival on the back encouragingly. The giant takes a few more moments, staring at Merlin assessingly, before he nods, and asks his first question:

“Do the Gods hear our prayers?”

Everyone is taken aback at that, but Percival doesn’t break the stare he has with Merlin. The servant looks a little nervous at first, and glances at Arthur quickly before turning his gaze back to Percival, his expression schooling itself back into neutrality. The knights stay silent, just figuring it was an odd man’s way of asking whether Merlin was religious or not, which surprisingly none of them know the answer to.

Merlin is obviously considering the question, and Lancelot is the only one to notice the way his eyes harden as he makes a decision. The corner of Merlin’s mouth ticks upwards in an almost imperceptible smirk (the servant is surprised at his own confidence, but hey-ho, he isn’t going to question it), before it falls down again and he answers, his one-word response firm, but quiet:

“Yes.”

Percival nods slowly, his expression not changing and his gaze not wavering as the other knights stare on, well and truly befuddled:

“Then why don’t They answer? Thousands of voices all crying out in agony, pleading for help, for mercy. How can They hear that and not answer?”

Merlin takes a deep breath and tilts his head, forgetting all around him bar Percival, his answer falling from his lips in a tone that was just slightly biting:

“They did answer. They just answered in the way that most benefitted Them. They don’t pay attention to the sacrifices made in the mean time, as long as They get what They want in the end. Do you honestly think They care about the suffering of mortals?”

Percival clenches his jaw, as if he were expecting that answer but isn’t any less disheartened to hear it said out loud, but he still doesn’t look away, not even at Merlin’s harsh, blank stare, or his forceful, bitter voice. His voice almost shakes in his response:

“And you? Do you care?”

The other knights are too confused by this conversation to say anything, all staring on in bewilderment, perhaps thinking they had had too much to drink. Lancelot is starting to realise with numb horror what might be happening, and glances rapidly between the two oblivious men.

At Percival’s question, Merlin smirks openly, his expression somehow dangerous and mournful as he glances to his lap, before staring back up at the knight again:

“A tool can hate those that use it, and still be willing to be used.”

Percival frowns slightly:

“And whose tool do you see yourself as? The Gods, or humanity?”

Merlin tilts his head, his smirk leaning slightly more to the dangerous side as the knights continue to listen in on the confusing conversation, starting to think that maybe it wasn’t for their ears:

“Both. You both use me, do you not? The same means, to the same end, for different reasons. They want balance for Their own selfish agenda, because it suits Them, and you want mercy, because you understandably don’t want to suffer.-”

The smirk falls from Merlin’s face, his expression and tone turning dark and his hands clenching tightly as Percival pales:

“-You think I don’t hear those thousands of voices? I could recite every prayer word for word, even your own, Sir Percival.”

Percival takes in a deep breath, his eyes widening, looking to the floor and nodding mutely, completely oblivious to the confused and now slightly worried stares of the other knights. Lancelot is really hoping that no one sees how panicked he is, especially when he notices the moonlight disappear behind heavy, angry looking clouds, and the wind howling just a little more violently than was natural.

Merlin finally looks away from the now subdued knight and glares to the sky with a scowl when a loud clap of thunder echoes out across the darkness. Percival flinches at the sound, but doesn’t look up, and Lancelot stares at Merlin in concern, aware of how his... gifts, sometimes get away from him. The servant ignores him, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as the clouds begin to slowly recede once more, and the wind dies down.

Thankfully, no one seems to notice the rapid weather changes, too caught up in... whatever just happened between Merlin and Percival.

Gwaine finally breaks the silence:

“What the hell was that?!”

Everyone looks to Merlin expectantly, but he just raises a condescending eyebrow:

“That, Sir Gwaine, was thunder. No need to be afraid, I promise it won’t hurt you.”

Percival looks up at the servant sharply, evidently aware of the weather’s unnatural manifestation, but he doesn’t say anything, and no one notices. Elyan scoffs:

“I think he meant the freaky ass conversation that you and Percy just had. What prayers? What Gods??”

Merlin looks to him coolly, tilting his head as if deciding what to say before speaking slowly:

“Both of us grew up in rural areas, with different... beliefs. If you don’t understand our conversation, then you are simply unfamiliar with our beliefs.”

Elyan looks dubious, and Leon speaks next, his voice slow and concerned:

“You said you heard prayers, Merlin. We may not know what you have faith in but that’s... something else. Are you feeling ok?”

Merlin gives him a smile that’s just a little too sharp, but before he can say anything, Arthur finally breaks his silence.

He had previously been sat still as a rock next to Merlin, staring thoughtfully into his lap as he considered his manservant’s words. Prayers? Of thousands of people who are suffering? Gods? Balance? Balance of what? As much as Merlin might like to joke, Arthur really isn’t as stupid as he seems, and the question he asks has everyone in the circle stiffening in surprise:

“Merlin, what are your opinions on magic?”

Lancelot is almost vibrating in his seat at this point, and Percival looks almost scared of Merlin, though no one else takes notice of them, not even of the way Lance grasps loosely at the sword against his hip, or the way Percival’s hands are shaking. They’re all too busy considering The King’s question, and realising that, even in situations when opinions had been welcomed, had been asked for, they had never heard a peep from Merlin about magic.

Merlin slowly turns his head to look at the man next to him, his expression making a jarring transformation from venomously confident to nervous and afraid. He takes a subtly deep breath before settling an assessing gaze on The King, surprised by the blonde’s genuinely curious expression. He hums thoughtfully, schooling his face into neutrality once again as he speaks clearly:

“Magic is just a tool, like a quill or a sword. You can’t blame all blades for the action of an assassin whose weapon of choice is a dagger. Magic can cause pain, yes, but so can fire if mishandled. And just like fire, magic can be beautiful, warm. I’ve seen magic heal, grow, brighten. I see it in music, in food, in the growth of a meadow and the laughter of children. Magic...-”

He turns to the fire as he pauses, fiddling with his hands slightly as he internally reaffirms his decision to be truthful, fully; but he knows that he also has to be careful:

“-it ties this universe together. It’s woven between the very threads of existence, you can’t escape it. You can’t wipe it out, no matter how much you try, no matter how many you burn or hang or hunt, it will always grow, in cracks if it has to. Magic will... will always have a song, playing in the minds of those who want it. You need only listen.”

Merlin’s voice grew soft towards the end of his little speech, and the knights stare at him in shock. The camp is silent save for the rustling of beetles through the leaves and distant yowling foxes, until Gwaine once again speaks; though this time his voice is gentle, pained almost:

“How can you stand to live in Camelot, when you believe that? No offense, Sire,-”

He nods briefly at Arthur before continuing, and the use of Arthur’s actual title for once lets everyone know how serious Gwaine really is:

“-how can you serve a Pendragon?”

Arthur clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t say anything or argue, he knows that Gwaine’s question is valid. How can Merlin have such a high opinion of magic and serve the family that ordered its genocide?

In response, a weak, though slightly amused smile graces Merlin’s face, though he keeps his gaze firmly on the flames:

“Destiny is a tricky thing. Some days I remember that my whole life has been taking from me and planned ahead, through horrors I scarcely understand until I’m forced to face them alone, and its crushing, but equally, nothing and no one since Freya has tempted me to leave. When... when I can think of nothing but my fear, I distract myself with promises of a golden future, and it helps me rest.”

Everyone takes subtle gasps at Merlin’s mention of fear, understanding the implications intrinsically. Thankfully, they all gloss over the destiny comment; Merlin has talked about his father and Freya and magic all in one night, with Arthur, he’s not sure he can manage any further difficult conversation.

Gwaine, like Lancelot, now has a hand on his sword, sobering instantly as he looks around at his fellow knights, nodding briefly at Lance before his sweeping gaze searches for any signs of anger or hatred in the other faces.

Arthur gulps at Merlin’s words, taking a deep breath before he asks his next question:

“Merlin, do you have magic?”

Arthur knows the answer, and maybe a small part of him always has, because he isn’t stupid, but he wants, no, he needs, the truth from Merlin’s lips. Gwaine and Lancelot stare at him intensely, but the others focus their curious (not angry, not hate-filled, just curious, and maybe a little fearful. For him, though, not of him, thankfully) gazes on the dark-haired servant at his side. Merlin takes a deep breath, finally looking up at Arthur with an unreadable expression:

“I was born magic, it’s what I’m made of; Ma looked down and my eyes were already golden. She thought the threat of torture by pyre hanging over my head would scare me into learning to control it better, so she sent me to Camelot. It worked, I suppose,-”

He looks to the sky and gestures vaguely to where thunderous clouds had roiled briefly, though violently earlier:

“-though sometimes my emotions get the best of me.”

He looks back to the fire, trying not to show the relief on his face when no one makes any moves to attack him. He feels Arthur shift besides him, but he doesn’t feel tense, nor does he feel angry or scared. The knights seem frozen in time, and with the rolling emotions in Merlin’s gut he feels the need to glance up quickly, just to make sure that they aren’t frozen in time (something he’s done accidentally more than once). Their eyes are wide, and they are still, but he can see the slow rise and fall of their chests and if he really listens, he can hear their quick heartbeats. He looks back down to the fire.

Arthur takes a fortifying breath, staring into the same flames as his manservant:

“Destiny?”

Merlin sighs:

“It’s a long story. To put it quickly, the many, many prophecies say that you’re destined to bring magic back to balance and begin a golden age, and I’m meant to help and protect you along the way.”

He feels Arthur nod, but still doesn’t dare to look:

“You said you... you hear prayers.”

Merlin tenses, and he can feel Arthur’s heartbeat speed in response to his sudden... discomfort, but still he waits for Merlin to answer:

“This destiny of ours is... old. It’s ancient. Beliefs, faith, they have power, just like words and just like magic. If enough people believe in you, if enough people pray to you... well... it’s bound to bleed through eventually. How do you think Gods are born?”

It's Arthur's turn to stiffen now, and he settles an intense stare on the side of Merlin's head. The King gathers his bravery, and forces it up his throat and out of his mouth, asking the question on everyone's minds:

"Are you a God, Merlin?"

Merlin smiles slightly, shaking his head with a gentle guff of laughter, and everyone relaxes, just a little bit:

"Not quite, thankfully. I struggle as it is looking after you idiots, I don't think I could handle the responsibility of being a God."

Hesitant, though genuine smiles materialise around the circle. Gwaine releases the hold he has on his sword and laughs, though Lancelot only loosens his grip slightly, still a little... twitchy, for his friend's safety.

Arthur snorts at Merlin's words, shaking his head slightly with a smile as he responds:

"You are a terrible servant Merlin, perhaps the world is safer with you as a human. Plus, I don't think I could stand the humiliation of having to... worship you."

Merlin smiles, nodding his head in amused agreement. Lancelot relaxes fully, and all the knights stare at Arthur in slight confusion. To say they were expecting a far worse reaction to Merlin not only being magic, but being so magic he was almost a God, would be an understatement. But to be fair, none of them reacted badly, and as much as they might all be just a little jealous of the fact, Arthur was much closer with the man than they were. Perhaps him being accepting shouldn’t surprise them.

The King’s smile falls and he frowns, though the expression is more sad than anything:

“The things I’ve done to you, Merlin, the things I’ve said. Prophecy or no, how are you still here? How can you have so much faith in my supposed destiny?”

Merlin huffs out a gentle laugh and shakes his head as if the answer was obvious

“I don’t have faith in the destinies, nor the prophecies or fates or visions. I just have faith in you. You’re a good man, Arthur, you love your people and your kingdom endlessly, you are empathetic to the point of self-destruction. How could I not have faith? One day, the world will be united, and golden, and it will have been entirely down to you, not some centuries old blurry dream.”

Arthur lets out a breath at the way Merlin replied so softly, at how effortlessly the words fell from his lips, as if it were both the most apparent thing in the world, and something that he believed with his whole being. Tears gather in The King’s eyes, but they don’t fall as he swallows his emotions, reaching blindly for Merlin’s hand as they both stare into the fire. Their fingers find each other naturally, without effort, and Arthur wonders how he’d never noticed it before: how easily they always found each other.

Percival finally seems to have relaxed, though he still regards Merlin with an odd mix of reverence, and a gentle teasing fondness you feel for a younger brother. The other knights stare upon the two with an odd mix of annoyance (at owing Gwen a great deal of money when they get back to the city) and varying levels of barely concealed adoration.

The camp is silent for a while, but comfortably so. Just because they’re all ok with Merlin’s magic, with everything that has just been revealed, doesn’t mean it isn’t a lot to process. Silent that is, until Elyan frowns in confusion, tilting his head before looking at Percival:

“Out of curiosity, when did you figure out what Merlin was?”

The knight flushes slightly as he shrugs, saying:

“Since he first fell asleep in front of me: I felt it.”

Merlin nodded knowingly, muttering something along the lines of “I’ll have to work on that” under his breath with a thoughtful hum, but Arthur furrows his brows, slowly repeating Percival’s words:

“You... felt it?”

Percival takes a deep breath, looking like a man who has spent his entire life afraid, and has decided to be brave all of a sudden. He clears his throat, and unties the collar of his tunic with quick fingers, pulling it down to reveal a part of his chest. Everyone gasps in shock when he mutters something unintelligible, eyes flashing gold as a Druid Triskelion reveals itself tattooed over his heart. The King lets out an almost unheard, dumbfounded “huh.” and Merlin smiles, giving Percival a proud nod.

The knight returns his smile, only hesitating slightly, before asking:

“How long have you known what I am?”

Merlin snorts and rolls his eyes:

“From the moment I saw you. I can hide my gift, at least a little, you can’t hide yours, not from me.”

Percival looks shocked, and the knights are back to staring confusedly between them:

“Why didn’t you say anything?!”

The servant tilts his head slightly and smiles (the knights try to pretend that it isn’t just a little sharp again):

“I was curious. I wanted to see how long you would try to hide it from me, how long it would take for you to start resenting me, doubting me. About six years, apparently.”

Percival flushes, embarrassed at having been caught out:

“I apologise, My Lord, for my lack of faith.”

Everyone is taken aback at Percival’s address of Merlin, and Arthur looks very much like he’d like to argue (though still hasn’t let go of the younger man’s hand, something that no one will draw attention to), but before he can say anything, Merlin winces and shakes his head rapidly:

“Please don’t, I hate it when you lot get all... worship-y.”

Percival nods, cheeks turning redder, but Gwaine just barks out a laugh and repeats some of Merlin’s earlier words:

“I can recite every prayer word for word, even your own, Sir Percival.”

A blush rises on Merlin’s face, reaching his ears as he rubs the back of his neck in his embarrassment:

“Yes, that was a little dramatic of me wasn’t it.”

Arthur snorts, before tugging Merlin’s hand to get his attention. The servant looks at him curiously, and Arthur swallows down his timid smile when he feels Merlin squeeze his hand gently:

“How powerful are you, exactly? You’re obviously not just some ordinary sorcerer if there are prophecies and Percival is calling you My Lord. Oh, and you’re almost a God.”

Merlin grimaces slightly and Arthur frowns in concern; definitely not the response he was expecting. Percival and Lancelot both raise an eyebrow at him, curious to see if he would tell the truth or not as everyone else stares at him, waiting:

“Uh... fairly powerful,-”

Percival scoffs, and Merlin shoots him a brief glare:

“-some say I’m the most powerful Warlock to ever walk the earth. I’m... uh... I’m not great at healing magic, but other than that, I haven’t really found a limit to what I can do.”

Lancelot looks proud, and Arthur finally realises the man’s unsettling behaviour had likely been because he already knew. The King pushes down the red hot jealousy swelling in his lungs, and instead makes a mental note to thank him later: for keeping Merlin safe and loved when Arthur could not.

Leon, and Elyan look a little dumbfounded, obviously struggling to bring together Merlin, someone they thought of as a clumsy, sweet, brother, with TheMostPowerfulWarlockEver™. Gwaine just had a shit-eating grin on his face, and Arthur almost shuddered at the trouble he would no doubt deliberately get himself into now that he knew Merlin could literally do anything he put his mind to.

Arthur shakes away his worry. It’s been one hell of a night, and frankly, he’s not in the mood to get all... authoritative. He’ll ruin Gwaine’s fun one day, just... not today. He squeezes Merlin’s hand again, running his thumb over his manservant’s surprisingly calloused knuckles (he’ll have to ask if Gwaine has been dragging him into barfights) before smiling softly, gazing at the side of his face:

“Show us something?”

A grin spreads across Merlin’s face, but he doesn’t look away from the fire, giving the distinct impression that he’d been waiting for that specific request.

He doesn’t wave his hand, or mutter a spell like Percival had, he just moves his gaze upwards, eyes flashing gold as his smile turns soft, and smoke begins to rise thickly from the wood. It warps unnaturally in the air, as if it were being painted on the breeze, and the soft edges sharpen into an image: the Pendragon crest. Merlin’s gaze flicks down briefly, and as he lifts his chin again, embers fly up in a quick whirlwind. The smoke warps once again, merging with the bright embers into a more life-like dragon. It breaks free of it’s smoky restraints, and the knights all gasp in wonder as it flies around their heads before diving back into the embers and dissipating into the air.

Once the light show finishes, a gentle round of applause goes up around the circle and Merlin blushes, bowing his head and tightening his hold on Arthur’s hand.

Gwaine laughs and claps his hands again loudly to draw everyone’s attention. They all raise eyebrows and groan when they see his normal cheeky grin adorning his face, but he doesn’t look away from the group’s Warlock:

“So, who wins?”

~

THE END!!

I really loved writing this. There’s a special place in my heart for Druid!Percival (and also slightly unsettling!Merlin), and I hope y’all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Like normal, you wanna write it up properly or expand it, let me know and go for it!! Credit and tag me ✌️

Check out This List to see what I might be working on next, and let me know what y’all would like me to prioritise!!

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