"So," Arthur says, after a week of fighting, of shaking fists and slamming doors and accusations and betrayals bleeding through all the walls that separated them, and then another week of silence, inflexible and awful and every-kind-of-miserable-there-is silence, and then a third week of I'm sorry and so am I and I didn't want to lie and I know and are you going to banish me and no, that's a bit farther down the schedule, I was thinking I'd lift the ban on magic first, "are you powerful, then?"

"Um," Merlin says. He fidgets with the edge of his frayed sleeve. "I—I can hold my own."

Arthur snorts. Hold his own? Right. The day Merlin can hold his own against anyone, or anything, even with his magic, Arthur will eat his sword and top it off with his shield. Gods help them if Merlin ever has to hold his own.

"Right," he says, dismissively, "so, you're still completely useless."

Merlin doesn't even try to argue—maybe he's too happy Arthur's talking to him again to put up a fight, or maybe he just knows better than to think Arthur would believe him, because he shuts his mouth, and he smiles, and says, "And you're still completely a prat."

Arthur throws an empty wine goblet at him.

"So," Elyan says, through chattering teeth, three weeks after that, after Merlin's completely idiotic insistence that he can hold his own, while they're out on a routine patrol and the weather's turned against them, and now it's started to rain, and everyone's cold and exhausted and soaked to the skin, and Arthur can barely see, "you think you can get us a fire going in all this, Merlin?"

Arthur snorts. "Don't be ridiculous, Elyan. Even magic can't—"

The rain stops.

No, the rain actually stops. Right there. In midair. A thousand crystal-clear droplets hang suspended, for several moments, in front of Arthur's eyes, and then the clouds clear up and the sun comes out and the thousand crystal-clear droplets just—just vanish, just evaporate, just disappear into nothing, and Arthur is left wide-eyed and open-mouthed and slack-jawed, and did Merlin actually just control the weather?

"I don't think," Merlin says, like he just—just picked up a sword, or went up a staircase, or—or something equally unremarkable and ordinary as that, not like he controlled the weather, not like he sent rain spiraling off to gods know where, and he doesn't even—he doesn't even sound out of breath, or anything, "a fire would be a whole lot of use to us in rain like that, Elyan."

"Merlin," Gwaine says, "holy fuck."

Percival nods fervently.

"What?" Merlin says, and looks at the knights, one by one by one, from Leon to Percival to Gwaine to Elyan to Arthur, and a pink flush dusts his cheeks. "What?" he repeats, a touch of real impatience to his voice now.

"You told me," Arthur says, and he can't completely keep the note of betrayal from his voice, "you told me you weren't powerful."

"Um." Merlin fidgets with the edge of his fraying sleeve again. "Surprise?"

"So," Leon says, "I don't believe I ever actually got to thank you for saving my life."

The druid elder, who has introduced himself to them as Iseldir, relaxes his wrinkled face into a wide, warm smile, and shakes his head. Chin-length grey hair drags down his badly-shaven cheek with the motion. "No need for thanks, Sir Knight," he says simply. "We will always help those in need of it."

Arthur steps up. "I know we're a large party," he says, hesitantly—these are people he has hunted and killed in his youth, and there is no word for the impertinence he is about to display, but it's the best chance they've got, "but if we could wait out the night with you—we've lost our horses, and we've lost the trail of the cockatrice out there—"

"Of course," Iseldir waves a hand in welcome, gesturing to the stretch of simple tents and fires at his back, "please, join us. It will be an honor to house Emrys and his companions."

"Em—?" Arthur's tongue catches on the strange sound, the foreign name, and it sits, unfamiliar, and coldness in its unfamiliarity, in his mouth. "Emrys?"

Leon coughs. "Um. His—his name is Arthur. Actually."

"You know what," Merlin says, very loudly, "I think we should take our chances with the cockatrice!"

"You—!" Arthur, boots squelching in the mud as he paces, back and forth, from tree to druid tent to other tree to other druid tent, rakes his fingers through his hair again, for what's got to be the millionth time since Iseldir got down on his knees and bowed to Merlin and called him my lord. "You—!" He turns, on his heel, to jab an accusing finger into Merlin's chest. "You are king," that's not a word he ever imagined he'd apply to Merlin, not once, not ever, but it's the right one, he knows it's the right one—the reverence and respect on the druids' faces is evidence enough of that, "you are king of the druids! The druids! And you didn't tell me?!"

"Um," Merlin says, "king is a—a very, very strong word—"

"Merlin, they were bowing," Elyan reminds him.

Merlin reddens. "I hate it when they do that," he mutters.

"King!" Arthur shouts it again, because now that it's in his head, Merlin with a crown and a cloak and a throne and a castle won't leave him alone. "King! And you didn't tell me!"

"I am not," Merlin says, firmly, "a king."

"Don't worry, Princess," Gwaine pipes up, "Camelot is safe from the neighboring ruler."

Percival sniggers.

"Gwaine," Merlin says seriously, "shut the fuck up."

"So," Percival says, "what do we do now, then?"

"Um," Merlin says, and shifts slightly, rubbing at his calves with a wince—Arthur's seconds away from doing the same, it feels like they've been crouching here for hours, "I might have an idea."

"You hear that, everyone?" says Gwaine, who isn't even close to forgetting their impromptu overnight stay with the druids anytime soon. "King Merlin's got a plan."

"Shut up, Gwaine," Merlin and Arthur murmur in unison.

"Let's hear it," Elyan tells Merlin.

"Erm," Merlin rubs at his legs again, "how are you lot with heights?"

"So," a dragon—an actual dragon, and not just—not just any dragon, oh no, of course not, that would be too normal for Merlin, wouldn't it, too normal for Mr. Emrys, Mr. Powerful-Sorcerer-Who-Can-Stop-The-Weather, Mr. King of the Druids, no, he just had to go and make nice with the dragon that tried to kill everyone in Camelot and is supposed to be dead, "the truth has come to light at last, young warlock."

"Well," Merlin says, "not—not all of it."

"Merlin," Arthur gasps, with one hand on his sword hilt—he's ready to go down fighting, if he needs to, "tell me this isn't the dragon I killed. Tell me this is not the dragon I killed."

"Um," Merlin says. "Okay. It's—it's not the dragon you killed. It's—um. It's his. Identical twin."

The dragon makes a rumbling noise that Arthur thinks might be disapproval. "You haven't told him you're a dragonlord?"

"A—a what?!" Gwaine spins on his heel to look at Merlin, eyes like saucers.

"I—I wanted to ease him into it," Merlin mumbles, red to the tips of his ears.

"A dragonlord?" Arthur repeats incredulously, because no, no, no, Merlin cannot be a powerful sorcerer and a druid king and a dragonlord, he just—he just cannot, it's impossible for anyone to be that ridiculously magical. "An actual—" he snorts. "You're actually a dragonlord, now, too?"

Merlin scuffs the toe of his boot miserably on the ground. "Well—this wasn't—um—exactly recent—"

"Merlin," Leon breaks in, frown creasing his face, "why did you and Arthur go and seek out Balinor, then, if you had the power the whole time?"

Merlin swallows. "Oh. Um. Okay. I—uh—I think Arthur needs to sit down."

"So," the girl says, as she rises from the center of the silver lake in a series of ripples, her long dark hair flowing like a waterfall down her back, and a slightly wistful smile on her face, and she glides to the bank, and places her palm flat to the bleeding gash on Merlin's chest, "can't stay out of trouble, can you, Merlin?"

"Merlin," Arthur says, as the girl whispers a word, and the gash disappears, just like that, in a blinding flash of light, "why is there a girl in the water?"

"Um," Merlin says. He looks at the girl. "Can you put the wound back? I think I liked it better when I was dying."

The girl from the lake laughs.

"How do you—?" Percival looks between them. "How do you two—?"

"About that," Merlin says, uncomfortably, but come on, there can't be anything worse than the magic, and the king-of-the-druids and last-dragonlord thing, can there?

Can there?

"We're—we're kind of—?"

"Married," the girl from the lake finishes for Merlin, with a wide, beaming smile.

Oh. Okay. Apparently there can.

Gwaine whistles approvingly. "Way to pick a queen, Merlin!"

"So," Gwaine says, "we're fucked."

"No," Merlin says, out of the corner of his mouth, and under his breath, "no, I don't think we are."

"Merlin," Arthur hisses, "if you summon that dragon again, you are going to be mucking my stables for the rest of your life."

"No, he won't," Percival murmurs, "he's still got a kingdom to rule."

"Percival!"

"Right," Elyan says, "what's the plan?"

"I'm going to loose everyone's ropes—"

"There are over a hundred men in this camp," Arthur points out.

"I love the long odds much as the next man," Gwaine adds, "but I don't think even we've got it in us to fight a hundred men."

"We're outnumbered, thirty to one," Leon murmurs.

"Percival counts as three," Elyan says fairly.

"Really? I'd say five," Gwaine objects.

Merlin huffs. "Listen. I'm going to loose everyone's ropes, and you all are going to run. All right?"

Arthur twists around to stare at him. Surely, surely, even Merlin can't be that stupid. Right? "Merlin," he says, "there are over a hundred men in this camp."

"Yes," Merlin says testily, "I heard you the first time, Arthur, thank you."

"Yeah, apparently not."

"I'm serious—"

"So am I!"

"—I'm going to loose everyone's ropes," Merlin repeated, for the third time, in what Arthur had come to think of as his King-Merlin voice, the one that sounded actually sort of commanding, "and you lot are going to run. Do you hear me? Get to the trees. Don't look back, don't wait for me, I'll catch you up."

"What do you think you're going to do?!" Arthur burst out. "Tickle them to death?!"

"Arthur, for fuck's sake, if you don't listen to me right now—"

"Yeah, come on, Princess, respect your sovereign."

"Gwaine, if you call me that one more time, I am going to personally invent a spell that will sew your lips shut."

Arthur shifts in his ropes. "I don't like it," he murmurs.

"Ah, come on, Arthur, you're still our king, no matter what the druids—"

"I meant Merlin's plan," Arthur snaps.

"—oh."

"Well," Merlin says, "neither do I, but I don't hear you lot coming up with anything brilliant, so, my plan it is."

"So," Merlin says, "I'm going to guess you have some questions."

"I just watched you take down one hundred and twelve men at once, Merlin. Yes. I have some questions."

"Yeah," Gwaine pipes up, "like, is that how you do diplomacy in your druid-kingdom, because yeesh, no wonder no one tries to fuck with the druids anymore—"

"Shut up, Gwaine!"

Notes: I had far, far too much fun with this one. Seriously, if you stayed this long, you deserve a medal or something. This was just a heap of shameless self-indulgence, and I'm sorry.

On another note, though, I imagine this as a sort of prequel to my other post-reveal fic, Hug, where it's stated Merlin previously told Arthur about the incident with the Fomorrah in S4, E06, Servant of Two Masters, if for no other reason than that fic inspired this one. Hug is similar in that it also takes place in a post-S4 universe where Arthur knows about Merlin's magic and accepts it, but what really stuck out to me when I stopped to think about it was that, in that one, Arthur seems to know a pretty good portion of Merlin's secrets. Things that I don't think Merlin would initially share with Arthur when the magic itself first comes out. Whether because the stories surrounding these secrets were deeply personal experiences for Merlin (e.g. he's the last dragonlord, he's in love with the Lady of the Lake), or just because he doesn't deem the secrets themselves important enough to share (e.g. he's Emrys, the druids hail him as some kind of ruler, he's the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth.) But in spite of the slight tie-in, this one and Hug can really both be read as standalone, no need to go from one to the other.

Thanks for reading!