They'd been at the camp almost two weeks before Arthur's shoulder had healed enough for him to train. It was a surprisingly fast recovery. A combination, Merlin supposed, of magic and Arthur's sheer force of will.
The Prince was not a patient person.
And so, finally, he'd convinced Iseldir to let him have his sword which, until yesterday, had been kept hidden. Armour was still out of the question though. It was far too heavy. Besides, it was only a training exercise. It wasn't exactly dangerous.
~~~
Merlin winced as Mordred almost impaled Arthur with a sword.
"Good," the Prince laughed, twisting out of the way just in time. "You're improving. Now," he moved back into position, "go again, but this time try not to put too much weight behind the sword. You don't want to lose your balance."
Sat at the foot of a tree, Merlin watched as the Druid began his advance again. His face was set with concentration: calculating, but not cold. He moved gracefully, like a leaf in the stream of creation.
And then he was lightning.
He shot forward in one swift strike, sword slicing through the air and— and straight into the ground. Mordred had lost balance.
"Did you see what I did?" Arthur said.
"I know where I went wrong," Mordred blurted out, at the same time.
The Prince smiled. "You almost had it. When I moved I caught the edge of my sword on yours, and it completely unbalanced you. Here," he held out a hand, "you're actually pretty good. If you were up against someone else — say, Merlin — you may have pulled that off."
Merlin shot him a half-hearted glare.
"I'm not that good." Mordred allowed himself to be pulled back to his feet. Then, brushing off the dirt, he added: "I've just got a good teacher."
"Well, that part's true. My Knights would say the same."
Somehow, Merlin doubted this. Not because he thought the Knights disliked Arthur's teaching, but because he knew they could never resist an opportunity to tease him. For them, disagreeing outright with the Prince of Camelot was just another Tuesday.
"Right," Arthur steadied himself, "you defend this time."
That was the only warning he was given. Mordred leapt back as Arthur advanced, ducking out the way of the first strike, and just about meeting the second: a loud metallic clash ringing out through the trees.
Arthur moved again.
Mordred managed to stay up right as the Prince threw him backwards, and then promptly disappeared from view. Mordred knew what came next. He spun, just in time, to see Arthur's next strike: sword gripped high in both hands and soaring downwards.
It was over in a second.
Without thinking, Mordred brought his own sword up, meeting Arthur's with just enough force that the sword jolted backwards and went flying out of the Prince's hands.
Arthur sucked in a sharp breath.
"I'm sorry, I didn't—"
"It's fine," it was not fine, his shoulder was intensely uncomfortable, "you did well. You should be proud."
"Are you sure you're okay though?"
Merlin, already on his feet, had decided that perhaps enough was enough. "Arthur, maybe you should rest."
The Prince rolled his eyes and tugged aside the collar of his shirt, exposing the livid red scar. "Nothing's ripped, see? No blood. I'm fine."
"Still."
"Still what?"
"You've been out here for hours."
"And?"
"Arthur, let's just go back okay? Please?"
The blond scowled. "Yes, sire."
"Really?"
"Ohhh, I'm sorry, have I displeased his lordship?"
Merlin watched as the Prince, rather aggressively, yanked his sword out of the ground — ignoring the pang that shot through his shoulder — and, for a horrible moment, looked as though he were going to do a mock-bow.
He didn't.
That would have been taking it too far.
Instead, Arthur just stood there, letting his annoyance fester, until Mordred walked straight past him, evidently trying to keep any and all expression from his face. Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Something funny?"
Hilarious, the Druid thought.
"No? Good."
Both warlocks watched as the Prince turned on his heel and made off the direction of the camp.
"I'd say that went well," Merlin sighed. "Oh, and Mordred?"
"Yes?"
A smile tugged at the corner of Merlin's lips. "Sometimes I think you forget you're telepathic."
~~~
It was a good few hours before Merlin saw Arthur again.
Since the Prince had been dismissed from the medical tent, they'd both been given their own separate spaces: two small tents near the edge of the camp. For the most part, Merlin stayed inside. He'd been given books to read and plants to study and was thoroughly enjoying the freedom that came with his sudden lack of responsibilities. Of course, he still made himself useful. Sometimes he'd helped Mordred cook evening meals — they'd tried to teach Arthur, but after the third mushroom caught fire they decided it was best if he didn't help — or fetch water from the wells or herbs from the forest. Small tasks kept him busy, but mostly he liked to be alone.
Arthur was the opposite.
The Prince wanted nothing more than to be active. He'd go for long walks through the forest and find trees to climb — just because he could — returning with clothes ripped to pieces by branches and brambles. And so he'd taken up sewing. He'd spend hours sat beside a campfire deep in concentration, studying each stitch as though it were something sacred; if the result wasn't perfect, he'd start all over again.
Arthur had made friends too. He'd gotten familiar with at least half the camp, and everyone he spoke to practically adored him. He'd help with chores — washing clothes, collecting fire wood, fixing broken tents — and let the children stick flowers in his hair and throw leaves in 'sneak attacks', which had very quickly become one of their favourite games. It helped that they had magic. Arthur would suddenly get hit by an unfairly large gust of leaves, and then listen in defeat to the sounds of laughter.
Sometimes he barely saw Merlin at all.
It was hardly surprising then that it took several hours before Merlin heard Arthur's voice outside his tent. The warlock let his book fall to his lap. "What do you want?"
"I'd like to come in."
There was a hushed chorus of giggles, and Merlin could have sworn he heard a small voice say "you forgot the magic word!"
"I mean," Arthur amended, "I'd like to come in, please."
Merlin, now incredibly curious, got up and pulled back the curtain of the tent. His face instantly split into a grin.
Arthur looked ethereal. The last golden droplets of the setting sun illuminated his entire face and made his hair glow as bright as a halo. He was also wearing a flower crown. It had been woven from purple tulips and bright blue forget-me-nots. And, while the Prince was blushing profusely, it actually seemed to suit him.
"Well."
"Shut up, Merlin."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were—" one of the Druid children tugged at his cloak. "Excuse me," Arthur said, looking at Merlin rather seriously, "but I am being summoned." Then he crouched down and watched as the child placed a second flower crown in his hand. "What's this one for?"
The child glanced between them and then, as though it were a secret, whispered: "we made one for Emrys too."
"Hmmm, should I give it to him?"
The child nodded.
"Alright." Then, standing up again: "Merlin, this is for you."
The crown was almost identical to Arthur's, but this time with golden tulips instead of purple. The warlock held out his hand.
"That's not how this works," Arthur smiled.
"How does it work then?"
"Like this." Reaching up, Arthur placed crown carefully on top of Merlin's head, his fingertips brushing the brunet's scruffy hair as he set it in place. "Perfect. And now," Arthur declared, turning to face the children, "I'm very sorry but I have to speak to Merlin alone."
They nodded very seriously, but remained where they were.
"Right," Arthur laughed, "I'd like to speak to Merlin alone, please."
The children scattered.
"Wow," Merlin breathed, "they've managed to teach you manners in what, two weeks? Impressive."
"Hey, I had manners before."
"Incredibly poor ones."
"Merlin."
"What?"
Arthur sighed. "Alright, it's true. Can I please talk to you now?"
The warlock held aside the curtain and let him through.
"I wanted to apologise," Arthur began, "for being so childish earlier. I was stressed and in pain and I took it out on you, and that wasn't fair. I also made myself look like, I don't know, like—"
"A clotpole?"
"Precisely. I was a clotpole and I'm sorry."
"It's alright, I get it. I know things aren't easy for you right now, and that's putting it lightly."
"That's not an excuse for my behaviour."
Merlin smiled.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Arthur moved a little closer and held out his arms. "Can I?"
"You're sweet," Merlin smiled, moving into the Prince's arms and holding him tightly.
"'M not."
"You are to me."
"I have an idea," Arthur whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," he pulled back and reached for Merlin's hand, "follow me."
"Arthur, you're going the wrong way."
The Prince, ducking through the back entrance of the tent, placed a finger to Merlin's lips. "Unless you want to be ambushed by a bunch of magic-wielding children, you might want to keep your voice down."
"Ah," Merlin smiled, immediately dropping his voice, "good point."
Now satisfied, Arthur moved his hand from Merlin's face and led the way out of the tent.
It was getting dark outside. The sun had just about disappeared, dragging with it the rest of the day's light and making room for the stars. The air had turned chilly. It sent shivers through the warlock's body, and he felt himself let go of Arthur's hand. The Prince glanced back at him but didn't say a word.
It wasn't long before they stopped.
They were in a small clearing. Above them, the trees opened wide enough for them to see the night sky and watch as the moon moved out of a mist of clouds, sailing gently through the darkness like a ship on the open sea.
Merlin allowed himself to be led into the centre of the clearing, almost slipping on the dew-drop coated moss beneath him. It felt strange underfoot, but shone wonderfully in the starlight. "Now will you tell me why we're here?"
The Prince simply held out his hand, the ghost of a grin playing on his lips. "May I have this dance? You do owe me one, after all."
Merlin stared at him.
"What is it?"
"I can't dance," he whispered, "I don't know how."
"Then I'll teach you." Arthur reached out, taking Merlin's left hand in his and lacing their fingers together. He then guided Merlin's free hand to his shoulder, and let his own hand fall to the warlock's waist, pulling his body closer against him.
"Don't we need music?"
"Not for this type of dance," Arthur whispered, slowly starting to sway. "Just you is enough."
Merlin didn't know how to respond to that. In fact, the entire situation felt strange and unreal: like something out of a dream. It was a dream that would haunt you. It would follow, hovering in the back of your mind like a mist, hours after you'd woken up, and you'd think of it so often that it would begin to feel more and more real — however bizarre it had been — until you'd almost willed it into existence. You'd fabricate its memory. You'd make it something real. You'd make it something painful.
"Careful," Arthur said softly, steadying the brunet as he slipped.
Merlin mumbled an apology.
"You're doing perfectly."
It was strange, having Arthur encourage him. Not because he'd never done that before, but because Merlin had gotten so used to the teasing that anything else felt odd. It was out of place in their little routine. It just wasn't how they did things. In fact, for a moment, Merlin almost wished that Arthur would say something else — some side comment or witty remark — because the way he was holding him, cradling his body with such tenderness, was sending Merlin's head spinning.
And then, without really thinking, Merlin pulled himself closer, wrapping his arm around the back of Arthur's neck and resting his head on his shoulder.
The Prince smiled. "Tired?"
"No."
"Then what?"
Merlin took a slow breath, inhaling the sweet smell of flowers that clung to Arthur's shirt. "Just want to be near you."
"Well," he pressed a kiss to Merlin's forehead, "I suppose that's allowed."
Is it, Merlin thought, feeling his heart hammering against his chest. Is it allowed? Maybe here, in the empty forest, hidden by shadows and darkness that not even the starlight could dispel, maybe here it was allowed. Here, where they were free of responsibilities. Where their only concerns were each other. But in Camelot? A Prince and a servant could never be anything more than their titles. Not even to each other. And Arthur — Arthur wasn't just a Prince anymore, he was the heir to the throne of Camelot. He was its rightful King. And Kings were expected to marry someone of equal station, and strengthen bonds between kingdoms, and have heirs, and have a life what was so far away from anything Merlin could ever imagine.
He shut his eyes and tried not to think about it.
He tried not to think about Arthur kissing him. He tried not to think about how good it felt when he held his hand or wrapped him in his arms — how safe it felt, just being near enough to Arthur to feel the warmth of his body and the beating of his heart. He tried not to think about how they were dancing, both still in crowns of flowers as though they'd been coronated, swaying beneath the night sky like it was the simplest thing in the world.
He tried not to think about how in love he was.
Because that was the truth: Merlin was in love with Arthur Pendragon. Completely and utterly and terrifyingly in love. And he wanted so badly to tell him. He really did. It wasn't even the fear of rejection that stopped him. It was the knowledge that, even in the unthinkable event that, maybe, just maybe, Arthur loved him back, it wouldn't make a difference. They were both bound to their stations.
They were helpless.
But at least, being with Arthur now, Merlin could try to forget. He could try to forget that it wouldn't last. He could try to forget how much it would hurt later. He could try to forget that his heart was breaking.
A/N
I'm extremely tired and hardly know what I've written and I think I'm slowly realising that maybe I don't know how to write at all
Anyways I'm pretty sure there's a Dirk Gently reference in here somewhere and if anyone spots it I'll be very happy
~ Kat