Arthur was pacing his chambers almost as quickly as his heart was hammering in his chest. He still couldn't believe what had just happened. He'd stumbled out of the cavern as if in a dream: numbed and blinded by the darkness. And he'd been alone. Making his way back along the corridors without Merlin had felt wrong. It had felt like treachery. But now he hardly knew what to think.
Arthur Pendragon, born of magic.
The words kept swirling round and round his head, taunting him. It couldn't be true. Of course it wasn't. His Father would have never made a deal with a warlock. It was unthinkable. And yet, there were many things about his Father that Arthur didn't know. And many things he disagreed with. The ban on magic, for one. The way warlocks were hunted, as if for sport, and then tortured and put to death in the most agonising of ways.
Arthur made a sharp turn as he reached the far wall, and began pacing in the other direction.
A life for a life.
His birth had led to his Mother's death, that much Arthur knew was true. He'd always blamed himself. Her blood was on his hands. If he hadn't existed, she'd still be alive.
A life for a life.
But then, just for a moment, Arthur allowed himself to look at it from a different perspective. From a new angle.
A life for a life.
Every life his Father has taken, every sorcerer he'd killed, had always seemed personal. Even if the sorcerer was a stranger. Even if they'd been peaceful (which they often were) all of them, when caught, had suffered. They'd died in excruciating pain. Like they were paying for something. Like it was revenge.
Arthur snapped round as Merlin burst through the door.
"I thought you'd be here, I—"
"Did you know?"
"What?"
"Did you know?" Arthur hissed.
"No. I knew nothing of your birth."
"Do you swear it?"
"Yes. Arthur, I promise you, I didn't know."
"He lied to me," Arthur said, his voice suddenly dropping, "all these years. He always made me feel like it was my fault. He always looked at me like I wasn't good enough; like he was searching for her, and was disappointed to find me instead."
Merlin took a step towards him. "I'm sure that's not true," he whispered, "Arthur, your Father loves you."
"No," the Prince shook his head, his voice rising again, "no, he's a liar and a hypocrite! How can he condemn others for something he's done himself? He says magic is evil and must be eradicated at all costs, and yet he keeps a dragon locked beneath the castle, and his son, his own son, is a product of the very thing he hates most! If he's so committed to destroying all traces of magic, why am I still alive?" His voice broke as he forced out the last half of the sentence.
"Arthur..."
"Don't," he warned, "just move. I need to speak with my Father."
"No. That's a bad idea."
"This isn't up for debate."
"I said no."
"Merlin, get out of my way!"
Merlin caught him as he made for the door: one hand on each shoulder, being especially gentle with his injured side, but just enough to get Arthur's attention.
The Prince slackened. His anger seemed to dissipate and, before he knew what he was doing, he'd slumped into Merlin's embrace, snaking his arms around the brunet's waist and burying his face in his neck. He was exhausted. Completely and utterly drained. Slowly, Arthur drew in a breath. Merlin smelled of ink and fresh herbs and campfire smoke. It was intoxicating.
"Arthur," Merlin mumbled, as if the word in itself was a complete sentence. And then again, "Arthur," as if he was uttering a sacred spell, as if he was bringing the word to life.
The Prince simply held him tighter.
And then: "I need you," Merlin whispered.
"Hmmm?"
"You asked why you're still alive. It's because I need you."
Arthur paused. Then, slowly, he lifted his head and pulled back. Merlin met his eyes easily and, without being able to stop himself, Arthur reached up and brushed a thumb against his cheek: delicately, as if he was afraid of breaking something.
Merlin leaned into the touch.
Then, searching the brunet's eyes, Arthur did something else entirely; he moved his hand to the back of Merlin's neck, leaned up, and kissed him. It was hesitant at first. Arthur's lips seemed to ghost over Merlin's own, just close enough to feel the hotness of his breath. And then Merlin made this noise — something between a gasp and a soft moan — and Arthur pressed in deeper, tugging the brunet closer against him: one hand still on his neck, the other on his hip.
Merlin could feel his heart racing.
Arthur continued to kiss him, harder now, as if he wanted to be as close as possible and then more, as if he wanted to be so close he couldn't breathe. Merlin kissed back with equal desperation. He allowed himself to be pushed, stumbling, back against the door, his arms wrapped around Arthur's neck for support: as if he'd lose him if he let go.
Then, slowly, Arthur pulled back. He smiled and pressed his forehead against Merlin's, as if sharing a kiss hadn't been enough, as if he wanted to share the very air he breathed. "What," he whispered, "would I do without you?"
Merlin, still half in shock, let out a small, shaky laugh. "Something stupid, probably."
"Yeah." Arthur dropped his head slightly, nuzzling the crook of Merlin's neck. "Yeah," he repeated, "something stupid."
"Arthur?"
"Hmmm?"
"What is it?"
The Prince shook his head.
"Tell me."
"No," he murmured, "I don't wanna ruin this moment. I want to stay here forever."
"Then don't move," Merlin smiled, gently stroking Arthur's hair, "but tell me anyway."
"Alright. I was thinking— look, I know he's an arse, and I had half a mind to kill him, but I think maybe we should set the dragon free."
Merlin blinked. "What?"
"He shouldn't be chained down there like some rusting war trophy. We have to set him free."
"Your Father would never agree."
"I know. That's why it's a secret."
"Another one?" Merlin laughed, "I thought we'd had enough of those."
Arthur felt his cheeks redden. "Actually, I was hoping we could have one more."
"What, besides the dragon?"
"Besides the dragon."
"Alright. What is it?"
"This," Arthur whispered, placing a light kiss on Merlin's collarbone, "I mean— whatever this is. It is something, isn't it?"
"Arthur—"
"Because if it's not— if I misread, you can tell me. I mean," he pushed himself back slightly, away from the brunet. "Oh gods, okay, look, I—"
"Arthur," Merlin laughed, pulling the Prince back by his shirt, "will you stop?"
"I— stop what? Which part?"
"Panicking."
"Oh."
"Which part did you think?"
"I don't know," Arthur breathed. His mind was racing. Everything had happened so fast. It was like being submerged in freezing water: sobering and disorienting all at once. There were only two things he knew for certain. One: he'd kissed Merlin. Two: Merlin had kissed him back.
That had to mean something.
"Alright," Merlin whispered, still holding Arthur against him, "I'll help you free the dragon — I promised him I'd set him free when the time came — and then, as for this," he glanced from Arthur's eyes to his lips and back again, "I— I don't know what it is either. It doesn't have to be anything. But—"
"But?"
"Well, if you want it to, then—"
Arthur cut him off with a kiss. It was softer this time — and longer — like some of the urgency had melted away. Melted like the way winter ice surrendered to sweet summer flowers. Melted like the way honey lingered on the lips. "I want it to," he whispered.
"Good. I— me too." Already Merlin wanted to kiss him again. Just because he could. Because he was allowed. Because it felt amazing.
"You have to say it."
"Alright," Merlin smiled, heart still racing, "I want it to be something." He was still a little dazed, almost wondering if he'd imagined the last few minutes but, with Arthur's shirt still balled in his hands, and the Prince's own hands now resting on his waist, imagining it was an impossibility. It was real. It had happened.
And it was a little bit terrifying.
Merlin tried to stop his mind going into overdrive. Running a hand through Arthur's hair, he tried to push back all the questions of 'what are we doing?' and 'what happens next?' and 'what if the King found out?' (because somehow, Merlin couldn't see Uther being too pleased about his son making out with a sorcerer).
Arthur could almost sense the way Merlin's mind was spiralling. "Something's troubling you," he whispered, "what is it?"
Merlin shook his head.
"It's something."
"I just— I should probably go."
"Oh."
"No, it's not like that," Merlin reassured, as the Prince dropped his eyes to the floor, "it's just late, and we're both tired, and I don't want Gaius to worry that I've gone missing again."
Arthur pulled a face. "Again? When were you missing before?"
"What, you don't remember abducting me on the way to meet your Uncle?"
"Oh," Arthur's face split into a smile, "yeah, sorry about that."
"Prat."
"Oi."
"Arthur?"
"Hmm?"
"Could you— could you maybe move? I need to open the door."
Arthur, who still had both hands pinning Merlin's waist to the door, rolled his eyes. "Must you always spoil my fun?"
"Don't be dramatic."
"Alright, alright," Arthur smiled, releasing him, "just make sure you're here tomorrow. Preferably on time."
"I honestly don't know where else I'd be."
~~~
The next few days seemed to pass in a succession of both affection and awkwardness.
Twice, Arthur woke to a vase of fresh flowers sat on his desk. Sunflowers and forget-me-nots bound by a thread of white string. He'd known immediately who'd put them there. And the flowers seemed to know too, for every time he caught sight of them it was as if they were singing Merlin's name.
Merlin himself never mentioned them.
Though once, when Arthur spotted him looking in their direction, Merlin had turned an interesting shade of pink.
A different day, during training, Gwaine had felt it necessary to point out Arthur's inability to stop smiling at the most trivial of things. A bad joke, a particularly pretty sparrow, even a lost fight — though that was admittedly rare — seemed to draw something out of him. Something warm and sincere, as if, to him, the mundane had gained a new sense of meaning.
Arthur had brushed away the comment.
Shortly afterwards, Merlin had walked past, deep in conversation with Gwen, and Arthur had managed to trip over his own feet and end up, face-first, in the grass. Thankfully only the knights had seen. But, rather than get up, Arthur had simply laid there. He'd spread his arms and soaked up the sun and laughed. And when Elyan had joked that he'd gone mad, the Prince had pulled his legs from underneath him.
And then somehow all the knights were on the ground. And they'd laughed until tears rolled down their faces. Until it hurt to breathe.
They'd discussed the incident later, at dinner, when Arthur had disappeared to some distant corner of the castle. And Gwen, who'd come to offer them drinks and ended up staying, had mentioned that she'd noticed a similar sort of behaviour in Merlin. He seemed to be humming rather a lot. They were strange melodies, like none she'd ever heard before, even as a child, but they'd carried a certain charm to them, and hearing just a few notes seemed to be capable of lifting even the most sorrowful of spirits.
But, she'd mused, the two things were probably unrelated.
There'd been a lot of hushed talk after that: theories and debated and goodness knows what else. Bets, too. All of them swearing to secrecy. "This doesn't leave this room," Gwaine had said, sealing a bet with Percival. Everyone had murmured their agreement.
"You seem confident," Lancelot laughed, taking on a bet with Leon.
The other knight shrugged.
"Care to share your secret?"
Leon merely smiled.
"Come on, tell me. What makes you so sure you'll win?"
"In a word?"
"Yeah."
"Poetry."