The death of Uther Pendragon was the catalyst for a lot of things. Some expected, some not so.

The sun was low on the horizon when the bells began to toll, resonating with a solemn finality that scattered birds and spread a chill at odds with the hazy summer evening. The turrets of Camelot stood out against the pale sky in sharp relief, towering over the scattered mourners below.

Arthur, protocol and tradition be damned, remained at his father's side well into the early hours of the morning. His eyes were dark and mouth pressed thin, and the only movement in the room came from the compulsive twisting of a glass-beaded necklace threaded throughout his fingers. It had been his mother's, a remnant from long ago, so rarely did Arthur risk taking it from the jewellery box of hers he still kept. He sat silently, on a hard wooden stool barely fit for a servant, and watched the faint rays of the rising sun fall through the window upon the lifeless profile of his father.

It was Morgana who dared to interrupt his vigil first.

"Arthur," she said, and her voice was quiet but strong. She watched the twisting of the necklace for a moment, flashes of green and blue catching in the sunlight, and took a step forward. Her footfalls echoed loudly in the dawn silence, and abruptly Arthur's fists clenched, knuckles whitening and stilling the necklace's movements.

"Get out."

Morgana's eyes widened a fraction, and almost convulsively she shook her head, that feeling of dread she'd been harbouring rising, softly but insistently. It was Arthur, just Arthur, yet when he had spoken…

She had not thought to hear Uther's voice ever again.

"The people wait for you, Arthur," she continued, taking one more step, carefully watching his shoulders tense, as his gaze finally shifted from the bed to her feet. When he looked up and met her eyes, Morgana almost lost her nerve; the raw pain and loss reflected there made her want to take him in her arms, and simply keep him hidden from the rest of the world. But, that was not how this went – something she knew better than anyone. "It's time to take up your crown. For Camelot, for your people, for Gaius… for your father."

The anguish flickered in Arthur's expression for only a moment, before losing itself to hardness. "Did you not hear me, Morgana?"

She inclined her head, dark hair falling forwards, "I will leave just as soon as you do."

*

She smiled as Arthur rose, the crown upon his head a benediction. Merlin stood to one side, and though his face was still shadowed by sorrow, she had never seen him look prouder. The air was a little stifling, heavy with summer heat and the thick scent of pollen. But as Arthur began to speak, of hope and strength and determination, of unity and stability and an Albion without fear, Morgana knew that at that moment, everyone saw in him the king he would become. Just as she had.

And she smiled again as she slipped away into the shadows behind the nobles. He'd never understand, and perhaps neither would Gwen – but Merlin would. Arthur's time was just beginning, she knew.

And so was hers.

*

A year later, when summer had made way for autumn, Arthur stopped asking if there had been any word from Morgana. Instead he buried himself in his duties and practices, and it was all Merlin could do to make sure he ate and slept enough.

One afternoon, he caught Arthur in the courtyard, taking his arm and pulling him over to a low bench.

"Stop hauling me around, Merlin," Arthur frowned at him, but there was a catch in his voice that sounded more weary than irritated. "I'm sure you've become even more disrespectful since I became king, though I wasn't sure it was possible."

Merlin smiled a little, and shrugged. "Just keeping you grounded, Sire."

"Yes, well." Arthur muttered, and made as though to get up.

"Don't," he said suddenly, and as Arthur turned to look at him, his eyes were strangely understanding. Merlin glanced away, following the wind-chased dry leaves that danced across the stones. "Have you thought any more about it?" His voice was quiet, and Arthur's response equally so.

"Yes, of course. It's all I've been thinking of for the past week." Merlin felt a surge of affection, tinged with uncertainty—"I'm not sure." Arthur took a deep breath and leant back against the wall, "what do you think?"

"Me?" Merlin stared at him, suddenly taking in the way he was being studied; Arthur's eyes slightly narrowed, shadowed by an expression that he couldn't quite read. "I… think that you'll make the right decision."

Wrong answer; Arthur looked furious. "Don't be so pathetic, Merlin. You don't usually feel any compunction about sharing your opinions, why start now?"

Merlin froze, and abruptly Arthur's anger was gone, replaced by a strange, faint kind of sadness. "I just wish," Arthur murmured, standing up and taking a step forward, "I could at least count on your honesty."

And then he was gone, cloak billowing in the chill wind, crown dull upon his golden hair. Merlin felt sick, and wondered if perhaps it was time.

*
As it turned out, the time never came – Arthur's moods became too inconstant, veering between deep affection and inexplicable irritation. It was never quite the right moment.

In spite of all the things he'd done, Merlin often thought unhappily, he was nothing but a coward when it really counted.

*

Morgana had actually been right; Merlin did understand – so much so that he almost wished he didn't. She had left him a letter, long since burnt; within it she had entreated him not to tell Arthur. But it was unnecessary; he'd kept her confidence before, and she his, and he would not break that now because of her absence. But it was hard, sometimes, when Arthur - even over a year later – still obsessed over it on occasion, Morgana's silent disappearance never ceasing to able to make him burn with frustration and hurt.

"I know we argued," he said, struggling to articulate, "I know we didn't always get on. But I thought we trusted each other, at least. She was like my sister."

Merlin wasn't entirely sure about that last statement; Arthur and Morgana's relationship had been a complicated mess at best, but he hated having to watch Arthur put himself through such torment every time he drank a little too much and became almost maudlin.

But despite what it did to Arthur, Merlin kept silent. He endured watching Arthur's anguish of not knowing, because he was wary of the effect the truth would have. But evenings like that didn't happen often; Arthur was too dedicated a king to let himself fall to self-pity too frequently. His personal issues would always come second to those of the kingdom and people.

When such evenings did come, though, and Arthur began to let his guard down, Merlin would be there to keep him from sinking too low. Occasionally on those nights, when Arthur was seated in front of the hearth and had drunk more than Merlin could keep track of, he'd take Merlin's hand as he stood beside his king. Sometimes he'd fall silent and study it, fingers warm and sword-callused as he traced the marks left by Merlin's work; the dirt under his nails. Sometimes he'd press kisses to it - to the fingers and thumb, and the centre of his palm. No crown upon his head or cloak on his shoulders, hair tousled and burnished by firelight, and he was just Arthur, but still somehow regal in his melancholy. His lips would be hot and dry, chapped from the autumn winds. There was a quiet sincerity in it, that made Merlin's heart ache and his tongue freeze.

Those evenings were never mentioned in the light of day.

Yes, Merlin understood Morgana. Because he knew all too well that before long he'd be following a similar path, and telling Arthur – no matter how tempting – was something he couldn't afford to contemplate. It was for Arthur's sake, and Merlin could not stand to be ordered to stay.

Because Arthur would be the one to unite Albion, and Merlin needed to be ready.

*
Some two years after Morgana's disappearance, Gwen awoke, breath misting in the chill winter air, to find an envelope resting beside her on the pillow.

She'd cried upon finishing the letter - Merlin's letter, she discovered – and then hesitated, feeling sick at the instruction that she should read it to Arthur. But she dried her eyes and steeled herself, and when she found him he was busy berating some other servant for failing to fetch Merlin for him. He caught sight of her and she knew how she must look – swollen around the eyes, still tear-stained, and completely unable to summon a smile. He dismissed the other servant and beckoned her over.

"Gwen?"

She couldn't bring herself to say anything, and just handed him the letter. He gave her a final searching look as he accepted it, fingers tightening around the already worn and crumpled edges; the letter was obviously already well-read. She could hardly watch as his eyes flickered over the messily scrawled message – and she knew, could see the precise moment he understood. And, because it was Arthur – (she knew him at least that well; knew this about him just as Morgana and Merlin did) – his first reaction was one of fury.

But even as he raged and began to order the knights out despite the snow, Gwen could see the deeper hurt and betrayal he was trying to suppress. And when he'd shouted himself hoarse and sat back on his throne, hunched over with his head in his hands, Gwen stayed. She saw the dampness around his red eyes and said nothing, just fetched him the wine.

Because now it was just them, the ones who'd been left behind.

*

Arthur called Gwen to his rooms later that evening, as the snow fell thick and fast past the window.

"Did you know?" he said abruptly, as soon as she entered, "did you know about his magic?"

"No, your Highness." Gwen's voice trembled a little but her expression was honest, and something eased inside him. Merlin hadn't told her. She hadn't lied to him.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and stood up, moving to stand beside the window. "Build up the fire a little more," he muttered by way of conversation, the reality of how empty things would be truly beginning to sink in. Arthur stayed silent for a while, watching the snow build up around the outside sill; watching his breath clouding upon on the glass. The domestic sounds of Gwen clattering efficiently with the fireplace were somewhat comforting; better than silence, and nothing like what he'd lost.

She didn't offer any further conversation, and neither did Arthur. He had so much to say, but the one who needed to hear it was long gone.

*

Merlin had left a little over two years after Morgana. However unlike Morgana, he had at least left with a promise to return. No hint as to how long it might take, whatever it was he'd gone to do – just that one day he'd return to their side.

Gwen spent a lot of time with Arthur in the aftermath of Merlin's disappearance – he'd never kept many people close, and she supposed initially they were drawn together by their loss. In the beginning they talked about Morgana, and, once the raw hurt began to fade, they talked about Merlin, too. She performed some of Merlin's duties now, though the more personal or labour-intensive tasks were left to some other male servant, who seemed to change every other week.

She grew very adept at reading Arthur's moods – whether he wanted trivial chatter or silence, or if it was one of those rare occasions where he'd speak low and soft, utterly earnest and open and it would make her heart ache. On those occasions, she couldn't help but think of him as Arthur, rather than her king. Which worried her somewhat, because she was sure someday soon she'd do something silly, like slip up and forget his title again – but she couldn't help it. She'd long known he was an idiot, but daily his more endearing qualities seemed to overshadow most else – and he'd aged considerably in the few years since he'd been crowned.

Arthur was a wonderful king, she knew. The people loved him and he ruled fairly. Always persistent at the back of her mind, though, was awareness that the issue he'd been considering for a full year before Merlin's disappearance – that of the legality of magic – had still not fully been addressed. He'd never executed anyone for magic use, but he'd yet to officially lift the ban.

One evening, as she was sitting beside his hearth mending clothes, the question just slipped out. She stammered, trying to apologise – she'd been talking about Merlin after all, and the magic issue was related so she hadn't been thinking and—

Arthur looked mildly surprised, but not angry, or even irritated. He just seemed lost in thought for a moment and then gave her a slightly sad smile. "The ban ends," he said, "the day Merlin returns to Camelot."

She probably should have stopped talking then, but she'd been finding recently that she couldn't stand it when he looked so deeply lonely. "Arthur—I mean, your Highness," she began, feeling sick in her stomach and sure this could only go even more wrong, "I know I'm only a servant – I mean, that is, not that you don't treat me well – you do! Better than I expected! Not – not that I thought you'd treat your servants badly but—"

"Gwen," he murmured, interrupting her with a hint of exasperation, but his voice was gentle, "it's fine. You can say whatever it is you need to say."

"Just—" she took a breath, "just that, you can talk to me. If you need to."

Arthur nodded, and stayed silent for a long while after that; Gwen watched him as she continued her work, needle slipping in and out of the worn cloth automatically. He stared into the fire and tapped his fingers against the heavy wood of the table, firelight flickering over his fingers and casting shadows under his eyes.

She suddenly missed Merlin in that moment, so viscerally and painfully that tears sprang to her eyes. It wasn't right that he was gone, that he'd left them like this – and he probably didn't even realise what he'd done to them – her and Arthur both.

Gwen tried to blink away the tears, all at once aware that Arthur's attention had shifted back to her.

"Do you love him?" he asked, voice strangely rough though not unkind, and she couldn't quite read his expression, oddly impassive.

She swallowed, throat aching and her hands fisted in the garment on her lap. "Yes, I suppose I do," she said simply, and wondered at the flicker of emotion that passed abruptly across his face. She took a breath and continued, "but," Gwen choked out a quiet laugh, "he never noticed me like that. He's… so oblivious. But really sweet, I think that's what I always liked about him. I – I mean like, of course."

Arthur nodded slightly, and after a pause said, "come and sit at the table, Gwen. Have some wine."

She froze, breath caught in her throat, but Arthur seemed not to notice and downed the rest of his goblet.

"Guinevere," he sounded faintly impatient that she hadn't yet moved, so she leapt up, needles and thread scattering everywhere.

"Oh—!" She dropped to her knees again, feeling across the cold stone to try and retrieve them, cheeks flushing at her clumsiness.

"Leave it." Gwen stilled at the almost amused-sounding command, and lifted her gaze to find that Arthur was watching her intently, and there was a warmth in his eyes that she'd never have expected. "Sit," he waved a hand and she finally complied, feeling horribly awkward as Arthur, as the king fetched a goblet for her and poured the wine.

"Thank you," she said a little stiffly – and something wavered in his expression, as though he were closing off.

This was horribly inappropriate, but Gwen could suddenly see – more clearly than the brief flashes she had glimpsed before – that Arthur needed a friend. Needed someone who understood - and in that, they only had each other.

With that, something eased, and they drank and talked quietly as the fire burned low and the snow never slowed in its assault outside.

"He's so proud of you, you know," she murmured fondly, the wine going to her head - and the comment brought a smirk to Arthur's lips – she supposed it was a slightly ridiculous notion, the king's servant being proud of him – but they both knew that Merlin was so much more than that, and Arthur did not look displeased. "You're…" she hesitated for a moment, Arthur's eyes intent upon her, "you're the centre of his world, Arthur, no matter how often he insults you or complains about you, and he cares for you above all else. Above everyone else."

"And he left."

"For you."

"If he'd cared enough to ask me, I would have told him to stay."

It suddenly dawned on her then, as she watched his hand tremble around the stem of the goblet, the tightness in his jaw and the barely controlled emotion thick in his voice, that she was not alone.

And she knew.

"…he'll come back to you, Arthur."

He didn't reply, and looked entirely unconvinced.

*
The first time he kissed her was on their wedding day, soft and gentle as the nobles looked on with fixed smiles and polite disbelief still in their eyes – but when they took to the balcony, the cheers were deafening.

Arthur looked out over the spring-fresh courtyard, a smile upon his lips and Gwen a constant reassuring presence at his side. It had been a small ceremony; the castle chapel full but not crowded, with shafts of sunlight streaming down through the thin colourful windows above. He'd touched her cheek and seen her lips curve in an answering smile, something about her dark eyes telling him it's alright, Arthur, it's okay - for he knew she held the same deep affection for him as he did for her. She'd had small white flowers in her hair, and dust motes had danced in the sunlight around them.

They raised their hands to the crowds, and the people rejoiced. Arthur knew that, despite whatever those at court thought, Gwen was loved by those in the streets; by those who made up the heart of Camelot. Once one of them – and, in many ways still – she was the people's queen – her hands still rough from years of work, but gentle nonetheless.

Later that night, it was those hands that traced across his back as he kissed her jaw, her neck, the soft curves of her shoulder. It was slow and comforting, and neither of them burned with passion. But Gwen was his constant, and he hers, and Arthur knew that when he woke in the morning, she would still be there.

*
It was about five months after the wedding when word came that Lancelot had returned to Camelot amidst orange tinted trees and chill winds. He seemed different, somehow, more confident and sure in himself, sinking to one knee before Arthur and offering up his fate once more.

Despite all the time that had passed it felt like a meeting of old friends, and as celebration of his return, Arthur declared his intention to revoke the old law that had previously denied Lancelot his rightful title.

He gripped Lancelot's shoulder, glad that, despite all those who had left him – here at least was one who had returned. He insisted that Lancelot join them for dinner that night, and so, later, the three sat together and talked in high-spirited voices of Lancelot's journeys.

But there was much left unsaid, and they all smiled a great deal – some smiles lingering longer than others.

Another few weeks, and Arthur found himself summoning Lancelot to his chambers one evening – a casual request, this time between friends.

"Lancelot," he said softly, leaning back into his chair and gesturing for the other to shut the door, "you and I have a lot in common, I think – one thing being that we both want Gwen to be happy."

Perhaps best to get straight to the point.

"Your Highness?"

Arthur paused, still not altogether sure whether Lancelot would consider this an affront to his honour. "I've seen how she is with you," he began, and the other man stiffened, though there was no trace of guilt. "I know you were surprised to see us married – and believe me, you weren't the only one. Gwen and I…" he trailed off, struck by the conflict of emotion playing across Lancelot's face.

"I'm – I'm not quite sure what you mean, Sire." He looked as terrified as Arthur had ever seen him, hands clasped behind his back and posture rigid.

"I'm saying," he said slowly, deliberately, "Gwen's happiness is extremely important to me. I love her." His throat tightened and he glanced away towards the fire. "But," and Lancelot was staring at him with a growing shadow of disbelief, "things aren't always the way they should be."

The answering expression told him that he was perhaps being a bit too cryptic, but clarifying further would not be wise. He cleared his throat and reached for his wine. "Gwen and I understand each other. I understand the way she smiles at you.

You should go to her. One of your duties is, after all, to guard the Queen."

Lancelot's face was unreadable, brown eyes wide but his mouth a thin line. "I returned to Camelot with my honour. I… the Queen andthe King's happiness is my duty. I would not be the cause of one's sacrifice."

Arthur emptied his goblet, the sweet taste lingering in his mouth. "That would not be the case," he said bluntly, "you have my word."

Lancelot looked conflicted and as though he desperately needed to know the reason to fully satisfy his conscience - but held himself back, and Arthur did not offer.

There was a brief silence, filled with nothing but the crackling and spitting of the fire, and Arthur was about to dismiss the knight when the hesitant question finally came.

"Sire," Lancelot spoke as though treading on dangerous ground, "where is Merlin?" Arthur met his eyes for only a split-second before glancing away again into the flames.

"…not here. Not for a long time." He reached for the wine jug, and Lancelot nodded almost imperceptibly.

"I see. I'd like to see him again; it's been… many years." Lancelot paused before adding, almost questioningly, "I hope you're not without him much longer."

Arthur gazed back at him appraisingly for a moment, finally conceding, "Yeah. Me too." He smiled ruefully and swirled the wine around in his goblet. "Camelot's been without his shoddy services for longer than is right."

He gestured dismissal, and Lancelot departed with a deep bow.

*

Another year saw Arthur alone in the council chamber, poring over maps and pages of notes written in his own cramped, spidery hand when quiet footsteps caused him to pause. "Yes?"

"Miss me?"

Arthur froze, the voice so painfully familiar it was suddenly as though he were newly crowned again; Merlin had never left and had just come to bring him some wine. He'd have that silly half-smile on his face and Arthur would feel, just for a moment, that things were fine. At that time he'd mourned for his father, for Gaius, and dearly missed Morgana, but Merlin hadn't treated him as though he might break. Maybe, he'd have finished changing Arthur's bedding – tangling everything while half-heartedly complaining, cheeks flushed from exertion and tufts of dark hair sticking out because it was his destiny to always look a mess. Arthur would shake his head and say something disparaging, but it was all right because Merlin would give him that stupid exasperated smile and Arthur's mouth would go dry.

Later, things had changed. It had got harder, and Merlin had grown more distant – only now did he fully understand why, and couldn't stop looking back and seeing that secret weighing heavily upon Merlin's conscience, shadowing all his actions.

But now, in this one moment, Merlin's quiet voice took him back, and he almost didn't register the slow footfalls approaching him. He blinked and glanced up, and somehow it was right even though it was so different. Once more, Merlin stood before him – but older, now, darker around the eyes and a stronger jaw line, and really, Arthur thought, that beard didn't suit him at all— But then Merlin smiled, and he found he couldn't really think at all.

They said love was blind, but Arthur had never quite understood why. Love, he'd thought, was about seeing - knowing everything that the other person is, all their truths and flaws and all the reasons you shouldn't – but loving them anyway. For those reasons, not in spite of.

No, Arthur did not think love was blind, but anger was.

Before he even realised what he was doing, he'd backhanded Merlin across the face, breathing harsh and uneven in his own ears, heart pounding and struggling to find some outlet for years of pent-up anger and mixed emotion. Merlin hadn't even tried to avoid it; his head was still slightly turned, colour blooming on his cheekbone – and one look at the regretful acceptance on his face made Arthur feel – drained. Weary. Merlin had hollowed cheeks and a thin scar that trailed down from behind his ear, and as their eyes met again Arthur found he couldn't think, still couldn't say a word, only act.

He strode forward and pulled Merlin to him, the embrace almost desperate in its need for contact, for solidity, for reassurance of reality. Arthur dropped his forehead to the other's shoulder, hands bunching in the heavy material of the cloak on his back. He smelt of forests and the warm summer air, of bonfire smoke and Merlin, and Arthur's fingers tightened convulsively as he felt one of Merlin's hands drift up over his hair, removing his crown and setting it on the table.

Later he couldn't recall how long they'd stayed that way, only that when they finally drew apart Merlin had rubbed at his sparse beard and looked a little awkward, almost helplessly saying, "I'm home."

Something eased in Arthur's chest, then, and though he'd not yet said a word, all he could bring himself to choke out was, "welcome back."

Merlin just rolled his eyes, and murmured something about Camelot's inarticulate king.

*

Arthur was true to his word, and that very same day the ban on magic was lifted throughout Camelot.

Immediately after, he'd watched Gwen and Merlin's tearful reunion, where she kissed his cheeks and scolded him for being reckless, and he wiped away the dampness around her eyes, adjusting her delicate crown and telling her she made a beautiful queen.

"Tomorrow," Gwen said as she left them alone, "tomorrow, you must tell us everything, Merlin."

She touched Arthur's cheek gently as she passed; hair soft curls around her face and her smile a blessing. He watched her leave, the summer heat suddenly stifling, as it had been five years ago with his father's forehead cooling beneath his fingertips.

"I'm happy for you both."

When he turned, Merlin was leaning against one of the thick stone pillars, and his smile was easy and honest. And for a second he could almost have been the simple servant boy who'd arrived at Camelot years before. Arthur approached, wondering how – so long ago now – he could have thought anything concerning Merlin was simple. He inclined his head, watching Merlin carefully – how he tensed a little despite his relaxed posture, how his eyes wouldn't leave Arthur's own.

Arthur's lips twisted into a small smile. "She's the perfect queen for Camelot," he said candidly, and Merlin's gaze was sharp. "And for me."

He stood directly in front of Merlin then, acutely aware of how little distance there was between them – and suddenly, for the first time since his return, Merlin looked uncertain.

"Arthur," he began, "you—"

"No," Arthur interrupted, suddenly full of anger, of love, of guilt and frustration and overflowing feelings, "no – don't." He wasn't even sure what it was he was trying to avoid hearing – only knew that Merlin was staring intently at him, his lips, his neck, and it would be so easy just to—

Merlin's eyes glimmered gold, and Arthur couldn't look away. "Arthur," he tried again, solemn and quiet, and all Arthur could think was, magic. "The things I've seen…" he shook his head a little as though trying to refocus, and the gold faded to be replaced by familiar blue, shadowed by sadness. "I've killed a lot of people, Arthur. With magic, without magic." Arthur stiffened, but Merlin didn't even pause. "I've done things, things that – that would make you think that maybe your father had the right idea."

He couldn't help it; he drew back a little, stunned. The thought of Merlin - Merlin—

"No, I know you," he insisted, and Merlin's expression darkened.

"You did," he murmured, "as well as I'd let you. But I've changed, Arthur – we both have."

Arthur felt something tighten in his chest at that. "But you came back, you—"

"Obviously, you prat," and Merlin's lips quirked upwards in an achingly familiar smile, "I told you I was happy to be your servant 'til the day I die, and that was the truth. Do you think I go round saying that to all the boys?"

Arthur choked out a laugh, "still no respect, then, I see some things haven't changed."

Merlin regarded him quietly, gaze lingering as he said softly, "no, and some things never will."

In the dizzy flash of anger that followed that statement – you say it so earnestly, but you left without a word – Arthur wondered if he'd ever let it go. He studied Merlin in the silence and the heat, the air heavy and almost oppressive. He'd always tended towards impulsiveness, but liked to think that, at least in this, he'd never lose control. But suddenly Merlin's hand was on the side of his neck, and all that was unspoken coming undone.

From before – dark evenings and too much wine, Merlin (just Merlin, then, he hadn't suspected, not that) beside him with warm hands that he'd take, and Merlin wouldn't say a word. But it had been – comfortable. There had been something deeper that made his stomach clench, made Merlin's pulse quicken under his fingertips as he'd pressed kisses to the palm—

And now that palm was flush against his skin, and Arthur pushed forwards, forcing Merlin back against the pillar, and then – waiting, looking, their breaths coming short and fast – and Merlin's lips were slightly parted, and his gaze challenging.

He leant in and felt Merlin abruptly still, muscles taut beneath his hands, and whispered harshly against his mouth, "I do know you." With the brief contact he heard Merlin's sharp intake of breath. "I know you've only done what you've had to."

Neither of them closed their eyes at first; breath hot on already too-warm skin, flushed from the August heat, and the kiss was surreal: uncertain but rough and intent, teeth on lips and hands vice-tight. The light was beginning to fade as Merlin pushed him down to the cool stone floor, and Arthur screwed his eyes shut and pressed bruises into the curve of Merlin's back.

When Merlin's lips moved lower, though, he couldn't help but watch – because Merlin was here, at last, fingers clutching Arthur's thighs, and his mouth was hot and wet and honest.

Later, when the moon was high in the dark sky, Arthur stirred, his shoulders stiff and muscles protesting the now-cold stone beneath him. Merlin still slept, head resting on his arm, so close Arthur could feel his body heat. The only light in the room came from the single window, and the faint moonlight showed the dark marks which stood out on the pale skin of Merlin's back and torso. Arthur lowered his head to press his lips to them, mouth ghosting across prominent ribs, hand resting lightly on Merlin's stomach.

He pulled off his own shirt to fold a makeshift pillow and lay down once more, fingers drifting to Merlin's hip. It was strangely easy and comfortable to fall asleep again, small points of contact in the dark of their first reunion in years.

And around Arthur's neck, glittering softly in the moonlight, was a blue glass necklace.

*

Six months on and they stood tall, the two of them, flanking their monarchs, exchanging a concerned look as the self-proclaimed sorceress was guided into the hall; Merlin at Arthur's right hand, Sir Lancelot at Guinevere's left. Arthur gently touched Gwen's arm, a comforting gesture, and she gave him a grateful smile as the unsettling woman advanced towards the thrones. She'd arrived early that morning, full of cryptic words and promises of news.

She stopped the appropriate distance away and Merlin tensed, the air heavy with foreboding.

"Young Arthur Pendragon," the stranger paused, and Arthur waved off the outrage of the stationed guards, and bade the woman continue. "I bring you a message from My Lady," and she smiled, but her eyes were cold, "Morgana Le Fay."