Archive of Our Own

1. Morgana

Through the open window, raised voices and laughter drift into the room, accompanied by the clang of metal on metal. With a put-upon sigh, Morgana sets her book aside and climbs to her feet, with half a mind to close the window and shut out any distractions now that the dashing hero has finally outwitted his rival and is on his way to fulfil the quest and win the lady’s favour. Instead, she finds herself looking down into the courtyard, deserted except for two familiar figures.

She watches as Arthur twirls his sword in that particularly irritating manner he has perfected since childhood, his goading smirk visible even from high above.

“Come on, Merlin, is that all you’ve got?”

Morgana rolls her eyes at his taunt, only too aware of just how annoying her half-brother can be even when he’s not trying anywhere as hard as he is right now.

Below, Merlin, with the hard-won experience of having been Arthur’s closest friend for the better part of their teenage years, snorts and keeps his guard up, refusing to let himself be goaded into an unwise attack. “We can’t all have been trained to kill since birth,” he fires back, the air quotes audible in his voice. “Or trained to be a prat, for that matter,” he adds with a cheeky grin.

From her perch up in the window, Morgana watches Arthur’s body tense in the split second before he throws himself at Merlin, his blade tossed aside in favour of a good old-fashioned brawl. “Why, you little—” is all he manages, voice loud with mock outrage, before they both hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

Giving up on her reading for the time being, she settles in to watch as the scuffle inevitably ends with Merlin flat on his back, Arthur draped over him like a rumpled, sweaty blanket.

She loves her half-brother, she does, but she’d be the first to admit that he can be something of a stuck-up arse, too conscious of his station and the power that comes with it, and too willing to be the son Uther wants him to be. It’s what she likes best about Merlin: the fact that he has never once in his life cared that Arthur will one day be the next Grand Duke of Camelot. Instead of seeing the title, like so many others do, he sees Arthur, with all his faults, and never lets him get away with hiding behind what Uther has taught him.

The thing is, though, Morgana is neither blind nor stupid. She may be quieter than her half-brother, less boisterous, but she is very good at noticing things, even at a distance. Things like the flush high on Merlin’s cheekbones, too sudden and fiery to be explained away by the pale early-spring sun, as he scrambles out from under Arthur’s weight. Or like the way Arthur’s hands twitch almost imperceptibly, as if he has to fight down the instinctive urge to hold onto Merlin just a moment longer than appropriate between friends.

She can’t pinpoint the exact moment when their easy friendship began to turn into something more, something unspoken, but it’s there in every searching gaze, every lingering touch. It’s there in the way they seem most at ease, most themselves, with each other, all duties and demands of their respective stations forgotten, Arthur’s laughter wild and unrestrained the way it never is with anyone else.

Later that day, they are all gathered around the dinner table. Even with Merlin as their only guest for the evening—and at this point he might as well be family, near-constantly stuck to Arthur’s side as he is —Uther has insisted on a full seven-course meal, as befits his status as Grand Duke of Camelot. Increasingly, Morgana is so tired of the performance of it all, the endless posturing and preening, as if anyone but Uther would care enough to be scandalised if they had a normal family meal for once.

Across the table from her, Merlin fidgets as if he, too, would rather be back at Merula Castle with its simple, comforting food and relaxed conversation, Merlin’s mother presiding over the table with the kindness and quick wit that Merlin clearly inherited from her.

“…should think about a suitable match for you, now that you’re almost of age, Arthur.” Uther’s voice rips her out of her thoughts; at her side, Arthur chokes on his mouthful of wine, sputtering.

As they argue back and forth—Arthur citing his youth, his wish to one day marry for love, while Uther reminds him coldly of his duty to the family name and the stipulation in his mother’s will—Morgana’s eye is drawn to Merlin. He sits motionless, food forgotten on his plate, something quietly devastated in his expression as he listens to Arthur promise his father that he’ll find a suitable woman to love and marry one day, he will, he’ll just need a little more time.

It’s so obvious, once she has noticed it—what idiots they both are, letting themselves remain caught in this web of expectations, duties, and fears, when they could have something wonderful instead.

Over the years, she remains at the periphery of their friendship—the golden heir of Camelot and his perpetual shadow, neither of them hardly ever seen without the other even as duties begin to pile onto their shoulders. They grow older, although not necessarily wiser, and continue to bicker and argue their way through life as if they have invented a special language all their own.

Morgana watches as Arthur lets himself be introduced to a seemingly endless parade of well-bred young women, as he half-heartedly attempts to get to know them and find some common ground, only to turn right back around for Merlin’s company the moment he’s released from his duty, his entire face lighting up as it only ever does with Merlin.

And she watches as Merlin gets better and better at teasing Arthur over his failed attempts at courtship, drawing him out of his sombre moods and laughing it off, the devastated expression she remembers from that long-ago dinner carefully hidden away where no one—and certainly not Arthur—will ever see it.

Like she said: idiots, the pair of them.

2. Finna

Finna is just finishing up her final round through the castle to make sure everything is in order before she turns in for the night when she hears voices from the library.

“Marry me.”

She freezes, half-hidden behind a large potted fern, barely two steps from the door. She knows that voice, has listened to it change over the years as its owner grew from a curious, excitable child to the young man he is now. It’s been well over thirty years since she first started working for the Wyllt family, here at Merula Castle. She remembers the current baron’s father, a quiet, serious man, and his pretty wife—even back then, not content to remain quietly in her husband’s shadow. She remembers their joy when they discovered that the baroness was pregnant, and then the shock and grief at the baron’s untimely passing before the child was even born. She’s watched Merlin—as she thinks of him in the privacy of her own head, almost like a grandchild of her own—grow up, knows him better than almost anyone; surely, she’d know if he’d found someone he wanted to marry?

“I’m your friend so you know I’m not after your money and there won’t be any pressure to have kids and we can divorce easily when you find someone you really love.”

The words, delivered in an almost pleading tone, make her frown. What sort of arrangement is Merlin getting himself into? Is there some trouble in his life that she doesn’t know about?

“Merlin, you’re a genius,” she hears another man’s voice say, excitement palpable in his tone. “Hold on, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere!”

Before she can so much as think about moving, the door to the library is flung open, and she watches with wide eyes as none other than Arthur Pendragon, future Grand Duke of Camelot, sprints down the corridor in the opposite direction from where she’s still hiding behind the fern.

She tries—and fails—to wrap her head around what she just inadvertently witnessed. Merlin’s explanation about being a friend and not after money, about there being no pressure to have kids, certainly makes much more sense now that she knows he was addressing Lord Pendragon. The two of them are thick as thieves, have been since they were both gangly teenage boys, but…why would they decide to marry, now, out of the blue?

And, more importantly, what would that mean for Merlin? A fierce protectiveness wells in her chest as she considers the implications.

It’s difficult to keep secrets from the household staff, as everyone knows, and Merlin hasn’t exactly made a secret of the fact that he likes both women and men, so that part is not necessarily a surprise. What is surprising, however, is that Lord Pendragon would agree to a marriage when his name, by all accounts, has only ever been linked to women.

The thing that really rubs Finna the wrong way, though, is the divorce easily when you find someone you really love bit of Merlin’s little speech. One thing she knows for certain: Merlin is not the type to marry—share his life with someone—without love, not even to merely help out a friend. But if his feelings for Lord Pendragon go beyond friendship—and she has eyes; she’s seen the longing looks when Merlin thinks nobody’s watching—while Lord Pendragon merely thinks of this as a convenient way to avoid his responsibilities a little longer… Well, like she said, she loves Merlin like her own grandchild, and the last thing she wants is to watch his heart be broken.

She’s still deep in thought by the time hasty footsteps announce Lord Pendragon’s return. As he draws to a stop right outside the door, she thanks her lucky stars that the oil lamps along the wall are already turned down for the night, the dim light rendering her virtually invisible in her hiding place. Hardly daring to breathe, she watches as Lord Pendragon fidgets with something small and golden in his hand, the metal catching what little light is left in the corridor.

Contrary to her expectations, he doesn’t look like someone who is about to have all his problems solved at little cost to himself. His eyes are wide, a small furrow between his eyebrows, and his breathing is quicker than could be explained by his dash through the corridors. As his fingers clench around what must surely be a ring, she notices the subtle tremor in his hands.

He looks like he’s about to take a plunge of a cliff, with no way of knowing if he will meet water or jagged rock at the bottom.

With a sharp inhale, he squares his shoulders and opens the door, back straight and steps measured.

“Where did you—” Merlin’s voice rings out, only to cut itself off with a soft, surprised “Oh.”

She hears shuffling, then a soft thump as if of something hitting the plush carpet. Unbidden, her mind conjures an image of Lord Pendragon down on one knee, holding out the ring he was clutching so tightly just moments ago.

“Is that… Arthur, is that your mother’s ring?” Merlin’s tone is half-reverent, half-scandalised. “You can’t—this isn’t—”

“Shut up, Merlin. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.” There’s the sound of a throat being cleared. “So, Merlin Wyllt, bane of my existence for the last eleven years…will you marry me?”

Finna finds herself holding her breath, even as she tells herself that she’s being ridiculous.

“You prat, I proposed to you first!”

“Yes, but you didn’t have a ring, did you, Merlin?”

“You know what? I take it back, I’m not marrying such a clotpole.”

“That’s not even a real word and you know it!”

As they descend into familiar bickering, Finna finally forces her stiff legs to move. The rational part of her knows that this is likely to be a disaster in the making—but if they can somehow, against all odds, make it work, it might just turn into something magical.

3. Elyan

The wedding is a grand affair, as befitting the Grand Duke of Camelot’s only son and heir. It may be an open secret in the castle that Uther Pendragon is anything but pleased with the choice his son has made—various shouting matches between the two Pendragon men have made this abundantly clear to anyone within hearing range—but there is no world in which Uther would ever settle for anything less than the best and most ostentatious when it comes to keeping up appearances. As a result, the guest list is enormous, the musicians accompanying the event are the finest money can buy, and the floral arrangements alone probably cost more than what Elyan earns in a year.

Privately, Elyan is proud of Arthur for standing up to his father and choosing to marry the man he loves, despite knowing full well how his father would react. If they wanted their son to marry some suitable lady, he thinks as he watches the two grooms share a private laugh, Lady Ygraine’s will should have been more specific in its wording regarding Arthur’s marriage.

He likes to think that he knows Arthur and Merlin quite well, after spending the last five years in Camelot, and there have never been two people more obviously perfect for each other. There’s no reason to think that their future as a married couple will be anything but happy, disapproving fathers notwithstanding.

And they do seem happy, initially.

Merlin has always spent much of his time in Camelot, but now he moves in permanently, and Elyan enjoys having another friendly face around, especially one as fun and easy-going as Merlin. Arthur, too, seems more settled now that he’s a married man, his laughs—the real, full-body ones, not the polite ones that don’t reach his eyes—coming easier and more often. Granted, they keep separate bedrooms, but it is a truth universally acknowledged that the nobility have many strange and ridiculous customs, and it’s entirely possible that one of them snores or steals the blankets or whatever else would make sharing a bed a challenge.

Over time, though, there are little things that catch Elyan’s attention.

He’s never before considered either Merlin or Arthur to be particularly shy or reserved—the opposite, really—but in public, they seem to carry on exactly as they always have. No kisses, no casual touches, no handholding; nothing at all to indicate that they are now married. Before, when they were keeping their love secret from Uther, it made sense that they would not be openly affectionate where people could see, but now? When his sister finally married Lancelot, they could barely keep their hands off each other for months, and while not everyone may be as publicly demonstrative, Elyan at the very least expected…something.

And this one observation might not mean anything on its own, but then there’s the damning fact that whatever increased happiness they might initially have exhibited fades, slowly but surely, until Arthur is back to barking commands on the training field, his jaw clenched and his strikes hard enough that even Percival struggles to parry them, while, on the flip side, Merlin turns ever quieter and more withdrawn.

More than once, Elyan catches Merlin fiddling with his wedding band, an expression on his face that is more reminiscent of prodding at a sore tooth, only to watch it smooth back out into a bland smile the moment Merlin becomes aware that he’s not alone.

He’d think he was imagining things, if not for others sharing similar observations. Lancelot corners him before dinner one night, his dark eyes filled with worry, and tells him how, earlier that day, he’d asked Merlin if he was all right, only to be brushed off with an of course and the world’s least convincing smile. Gwaine confides that a simple joke he’d made about Arthur and Merlin’s love life had caused the temperature in the room to suddenly drop sharply towards freezing, before Merlin had excused himself on some flimsy pretext and all but fled the room.

So, it’s not just Elyan’s imagination, then.

If it were any other couple, it would be easy to assume that their love simply isn’t strong enough to stand the test of marriage. Elyan has two functional eyes, though, and it’s impossible for him to miss the yearning looks Arthur sends Merlin during long, boring meetings, when they’re seated on opposite ends of the long table, or the kicked-puppy expression on Merlin’s face as he watches Arthur dance with some young lady at a ball. If he didn’t know better, he’d say they weren’t a couple at all yet, both of them pining for something they think they can never have.

Finally, he can’t take it any longer.

“Merlin,” he greets, casually, as he enters his friend’s study, “how are you doing? Still buried under mountains of paperwork?”

Merlin shoots him a wan smile. “Unfortunately. My mother has taken over as many of my duties in Wyllt as possible, but there’s still far too much to see to in addition to my new duties here. Did you need something?”

With a flourish, Elyan produces the plate of sweetcakes he’s been hiding behind his back. “Gwen made these last night and gave me some leftovers. I thought I’d be a good friend and share them with you. I’d wager you’ve skipped lunch again, haven’t you?”

A sheepish expression crosses Merlin’s face, confirming Elyan’s assumption. “There’s so much work to do, and I haven’t been all that hungry lately.” Nevertheless, he reaches for a sweetcake and takes a large bite.

The opening is too good for Elyan to waste. “Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask: are you all right? You’ve seemed…quiet lately.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin says around a mouthful of sweetcake. “Really. I’m just busy.” He doesn’t even attempt a smile this time; Elyan is unsure if this is a good or bad sign. “Speaking of, I really should get back to this…”

It’s as clear a dismissal as he’s ever heard from Merlin. He manages a smile of his own that probably does nothing to hide the worry in his heart, and leaves Merlin to his work.

4. Will

If anyone were to ask Will whether he’s happy for his best friend, he’d say yes, of course. Objectively, Merlin has made an excellent match, snatching up the heir to a grand duchy as a mere baron. Moreover, Will’s not an idiot, despite what Merlin used to tell him on a near-daily basis; he’s known Merlin his entire life, and he’s probably been aware of Merlin’s feelings for Arthur Pendragon longer than Merlin himself.

It doesn’t change the fact that he misses his best friend, or that he resents their marriage for taking Merlin away from Wyllt and—more importantly—from Will. It certainly doesn’t change the fact that he simply does not like Lord Arthur Pendragon, with his self-important air and his oversized ego. He’s everything Will dislikes about the nobility (Merlin and Lady Hunith being the sole exceptions to this sentiment) rolled into one blond, supremely irritating package.

So no, perhaps Will isn’t, in fact, happy that his best friend up and left him to play house with the world’s biggest arse, even if he would never tell Merlin this to his face. Not that Merlin has even been around to tell, of course, since he’s abandoned Wyllt for the glamour of Camelot without a second thought and not been back since.

Consequently, when he hears of Merlin’s sudden and unexpected arrival, his initial reaction is elation to have his friend back, with a confusing jumble of hurt and anger thrown into the mix. Once he actually makes his way into the castle and tracks Merlin to his bedroom, though, all those feelings are swept away by an immediate, stark sense of worry. Merlin looks like absolute shit; there are deep shadows under his eyes, and he’s definitely lost weight he didn’t have to spare in the first place.

The fingers of his left hand are suspiciously bare.

Will had meant to tell Merlin hello, but what comes out instead is “What did the bastard do?”

There’s no need to specify who he’s talking about, not when he can see the flinch Merlin tries to hide at his words. Will is moments away from saddling a horse and riding all the way to Camelot to wring Arthur fucking Pendragon’s neck, but Merlin, with the experience of long acquaintance, is already moving to block the way to the door.

“He didn’t do anything,” Merlin says, and, above all, he sounds tired. “It’s—look, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, tough luck, because I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong. You think you can just slink back here, looking like death warmed over, and I won’t be asking questions?” Will tries his hardest not to let his frustration at Pendragon, at the entire fucking situation, bleed into his voice, but really, does Merlin genuinely think he’ll just let this slide?

In lieu of an answer, Merlin rolls his eyes and drops heavily into one of the chairs in front of the fireplace, gesturing for Will to join him.

“I’m serious,” he insists, and that haunted look is back in his eyes. “He didn’t do anything wrong. This entire mess is my own stupid fault.”

Will has so many questions based on those two sentences alone, such as “what entire mess”, “what did you do”, and “what didn’t Pendragon do”, but he also knows that the best way to get Merlin to talk is to just stay silent and let him run his mouth, so he says nothing and tries to look appropriately supportive.

“I just… I don’t even know what I was thinking. I only know I can’t do this any longer. It’s killing me, Will.” Merlin’s eyes are wide and red-rimmed as he meets Will’s gaze for a moment, before looking back down to where his fingers are worrying at the hem of his sleeve. “I thought I could, just like before, but…being so close to him, being his, and never getting to have him for real? I was so stupid, thinking I could make it work.” Something that sounds suspiciously like a choked-back sob interrupts Merlin’s words, and Will feels the murderous rage in his belly flare to life once more.

“Merlin—”

“No, I was. I thought, maybe, somehow, he’d magically realise that he feels the same way I do, and we’d…be together for real. It’s stupid, I don’t know why I thought he’d ever l—”

Merlin’s voice cracks painfully over the last word, and Will listens to him clear his throat once, twice, before he manages to continue.

“It’s my own fault for making this into something it never was. I even told him he could simply divorce me if he found someone he actually loved.” This time, Merlin gets the word out in one piece, but it sounds as if it’s tearing up his throat on the way out. “He’s only doing what we agreed on, it’s me who can’t stop wishing that he’d—”

“No, wait, hold on.” Will feels a little bad for interrupting Merlin’s tirade, but what in god’s name? “Are you trying to tell me this wasn’t a love match?”

That gets Merlin to raise his head again, his expression morphing from devastated to incredulous in the space of a heartbeat. “Obviously not?” he says, as if Will is the one being unreasonable here. “His mother’s will stipulates that he must be married before he can succeed to the title, and he didn’t want to marry some random woman. It made sense to suggest that we could get married, no strings attached. We’re friends, after all.” It would almost be convincing if his voice didn’t shake quite as much.

“No, but, you’ve been in love with him for years. And—”

Merlin cuts him off with a bitter laugh. “Yes, I’m well aware, thank you. I thought I could do it, or maybe he’d—”

“And,” Will barrels on, “he obviously feels the same way about you. Have you seen the way he lights up when he’s around you? It’s disgusting is what it is.”

Merlin is shaking his head before he’s even finished speaking. “No, you’re wrong. If he did, he would’ve said so by now, but he hasn’t. I’m not an idiot, I would have noticed.”

For a brief, unhinged moment, Will isn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or hit Merlin over the head. Finally, he settles on burying his face in his hands.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he says, voice muffled, “that the two of you are truly made for each other?”

5. Lancelot

Dinner is the final straw. Or rather, Lancelot thinks wryly, the fact that he’s so distracted by the disaster that is Merlin and Arthur’s marriage that he can’t even focus enough to appreciate the dinner Gwen has spent the better part of the evening cooking. As he puts another spoonful in his mouth without actually tasting anything, he comes to a decision.

He’s spent months watching Merlin’s smiles become more and more strained and then fail entirely; months attempting to dodge Arthur’s increasingly foul moods; months watching his two friends turn more miserable with each passing week. The others see it too, he knows—Elyan, Gwaine, even Percival, who doesn’t usually let himself be dragged into this kind of thing.

Still, none of them have Lancelot’s unique perspective as a happily married man, so naturally it must fall to him to try and salvage the situation.

He sleeps on it, just to be certain, but morning does not bring any better solution, and so he finds himself climbing the stairs to Arthur’s rooms shortly after breakfast.

Normally, he would have preferred to speak to Merlin first, since between the two of them Merlin is significantly less likely to bite his head off, but Merlin hasn’t been around for several days now. Ostensibly, he’s gone home to Wyllt to attend some pressing estate matters, but Lancelot was in the room just last week when Merlin spoke to the courier from Wyllt, and there was not a single piece of news that would have required Merlin’s presence back home.

His careful knock is met with a snarl of “What?” that would have lesser men fleeing back down the stairs, but Lancelot is here on a mission, and so he pushes open the door and steps inside.

Arthur is slumped at his desk, looking like he hasn’t had a proper sleep in days. His hair is rumpled, as if he’s spent the last hour raking his fingers through it, and he’s toying with something small and metallic-looking.

“Lancelot? What do you want?”

It’s not exactly an enthusiastic greeting, but he’ll take what he can get. “I’m here to talk to you about your marriage,” he says, inching closer despite knowing full well that this is the verbal equivalent of launching a stone right at a humming beehive.

Arthur doesn’t disappoint. “My marriage is none of your business,” he hisses out, knuckles white as his fingers clench around what Lancelot now recognises as a ring.

“He’s gone, isn’t he? Merlin?” he asks, and watches the fight drain out of Arthur, leaving behind nothing but exhaustion and grief.

For a moment, nobody speaks. Then, Arthur nods, shoulders bowed beneath an invisible weight. “Back home to Wyllt. He left his ring behind, along with a letter saying he can’t do this anymore.” He carefully sets the ring—Merlin’s wedding band—onto the smooth surface of his desk.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” He means it, too; the mere thought of Gwen leaving him like this makes him want to curl up in a corner and die. Still, he’s here to save their marriage, not to commiserate. “What did he mean, he can’t do this anymore? The two of you seemed so happy in the beginning?”

“I don’t—he’s been getting more and more miserable, but he wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong. I think…” Arthur swallows hard before trying again. “I think he’s realised that he doesn’t want to be with me, but he’s too kind to tell me outright.”

Lancelot finds himself shaking his head before Arthur has even finished speaking. “No, I don’t think that’s—”

“He’s my best friend,” Arthur interrupts him as if he hasn’t heard a single word. “I never wanted to risk losing that just because I had these stupid feelings I couldn’t get rid of.” He’s not even looking at Lancelot anymore, instead staring off into the distance as if remembering a happier past. “When he suggested we marry so that I could inherit the title, I thought, surely he must feel the same way, even if he can’t say it out loud yet.” He lets out a ragged ghost of a laugh. “It’s not like I could, either. I thought we just needed time. But…nothing. If anything, he’s grown more distant since the wedding, and now…” A shake of his head. “Now it’s clear he regrets marrying me in the first place, so much that he can’t even be in the same place as me.”

There’s so much abject misery in Arthur’s voice that Lancelot instinctively gentles his own, like he would if he were speaking to a spooked horse. “Arthur…have you considered that perhaps Merlin has been going through the exact same situation as you?” He thinks back to all the false starts and misunderstandings before he and Gwen finally got their act together, all the worries that proved utterly unfounded once they actually talked about them.

“I—what?” Arthur is already shaking his head. “No, he was only trying to be a good friend, to help me out with my mother’s will. I’m the one who made this into something it never was. He just couldn’t keep on pretending any longer, not even to spare my feelings.”

Lancelot can’t help it; he lets out a snort. “And when has Merlin ever cared about sparing your feelings? Insults and bickering are practically how you communicate! And look, I’ve been watching the two of you wallow in misery for the past weeks, and, much like you, he wouldn’t be this distraught over something that wasn’t important to him in the first place.”

“I don’t—”

“You’re already miserable, Arthur. What have you got to lose at this point? Go after him, actually talk to him about all of it for once in your life. What’s the worst that could happen? You find out he doesn’t love you back? You’re already assuming that right now, anyway, aren’t you? But what if he does? What if he’s being just as much of an idiot as you?”

Finally, Arthur’s gaze snaps back to him, a flicker of his usual determination returned to his expression. Lancelot watches him nod slowly, as if to himself, and square his broad shoulders.

“Have my horse saddled,” he commands, standing and slipping Merlin’s wedding band into a pocket of his breeches.

“Yes, sire.” Lancelot suppresses a victorious smile as he makes for the door.

Mission accomplished.

+1. Hunith

Hunith isn’t a stranger to worrying about her son. Merlin was a good kid, and he’s grown into an even better man, but she knows him well enough to acknowledge that he has his faults. He can be stubborn as a mule and has never encountered an injustice he didn’t want to fix, and—coupled with his inherent inability to keep his mouth shut—this has landed him in more than his fair share of trouble over the years.

She’s never seen him like this, though: putting on a brave front in public, diving into administrative matters as if she hasn’t spent the last months handling them without any trouble, only to just…stop, whenever he thinks himself unobserved. It’s unsettling, watching this quiet, exhausted version of her son, all the while being told that he’s “fine, really, Mother, I just needed a bit of time to myself.”

All this to say that, when none other than her son-in-law shows up long past dusk, having clearly ridden all the way from Camelot without rest, she is wary, but not particularly surprised.

And if others would consider it eavesdropping to linger briefly outside the door to Merlin’s rooms when she passes them on the way to her own bed after welcoming Arthur to Merula Castle, well… Hunith would simply call it being a mother.

“…are you doing here, Arthur?” she hears her son’s voice, rather defensive and unenthusiastic for someone reuniting with his husband after long days apart. “Didn’t you see my letter?”

“Oh, you mean the one where you told me you couldn’t do this anymore? Yes, very illuminating, Merlin, thank you.” Arthur’s voice rises along with his temper, then deflates just as quickly until he sounds every bit as tired as Merlin himself has been these past days. “I just… I don’t understand. You’re the one who proposed. I thought you wanted…”

“Arthur, it’s fine. This isn’t your fault. I just can’t—look, I know you need this marriage. I get it. And we can stay married until you’ve inherited, it’s fine, you don’t need to worry. I’ll just spend most of the time here, and…” A brittle pause. “It’ll be easy. No complications.”

“And is that what you want? No complications?”

“Of course.” Merlin’s response comes almost too quickly to be believable, and Hunith winces as the puzzle pieces fall into place inside her mind. Those stupid, stupid boys. There’s nothing she can do, though, except hope they eventually figure it out on their own.

“Liar,” Arthur accuses him, but he doesn’t sound angry. Only tired and, underneath it, unbearably fond.

“I’m not—”

“Did you know Lancelot was the one who told me to come here?” Arthur says, almost conversationally, and for a brief moment Hunith is thrown by the abrupt change in topic. “He came to talk some sense into me, because I was miserable and taking it out on everyone else.”

A snort from Merlin, a muttered “No surprise there.”

“He said I should try and be honest about my…feelings.” Hunith suppresses a sudden, wild urge to laugh at the way Arthur enunciates the word, like it’s something deeply suspicious and slightly gross. “So.” She imagines him squaring his shoulders, the way he always does before a fight. “I’ve missed you, Merlin. I’ve missed my best friend. And if that’s all we can be, that’s fine. But when you proposed—and I know it was because of the will, I know you didn’t sign up for anything more than that, I do—but…part of me hoped that it wasn’t just because of that.”

“Arthur—”

“Because I’ve been in love with you for years, and I thought…I hoped that maybe you felt the same way, but then you never said anything, and I swear I never meant to trap you into anything you didn’t want, and I understand if you’d rather end this—”

“Arthur.”

“What?!”

“Twelve years.”

“What? Merlin, I don’t—”

A sound caught halfway between a laugh and a sob. “I’ve been in love with you for twelve years, you absolute clotpole.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Why didn’t you just say—”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

As the voices inside Merlin’s rooms dissolve into bickering that lacks any bite, Hunith spares a fond thought for Arthur’s mother. Ygraine may have spent much of her final years confined to her bed, but those blue eyes—so similar to Arthur’s own—noticed much more than anyone thought. Looking back, it doesn’t seem at all outside the realm of possibility that she saw the potential for this even back then, when the boys were still so much younger, and put that particular stipulation in her will for just that reason.

“Come back to Camelot with me?” Arthur’s hopeful question cuts through her thoughts.

“Yeah, yeah, I will.” She imagines Merlin nodding rapidly, the way he does when he’s excited about something. “But it’s the middle of the night, Arthur, and you’ve already spent hours on horseback. So…stay the night? Here? With me?”

“Fuck, Merlin—” Arthur’s ragged voice is followed by the sound of quick footsteps and a muffled thump, as if of two bodies colliding. For long moment, the room is silent, and Hunith is still too caught up in memories of Ygraine to realise precisely what this means.

It’s only when a drawn-out moan echoes through the corridor, along with a hoarse “Please, gods, Arthur, I need—” in a tone she’s never heard from her son’s mouth before and fervently hopes never to witness again, that she jolts back into action. From the sound of it, the two of them have finally managed to figure things out, and she definitely doesn’t need to be here for whatever happens next. Her worries assuaged, she makes her escape down the corridor with a smile on her face, leaving them to it.