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It had been almost two years since Merlin had joined the council. He’d proved himself again and again, with increasing frequency as he adjusted to the new position, and Arthur found that he could barely picture the Round Table without Merlin sitting at his right hand.
But still, as with Gaius, there were certain members of the nobility that still considered Merlin beneath their level.
In their defense, Merlin didn’t necessarily make it difficult for them.
The council chamber doors slid into the room, silent guards holding them open so that Merlin could walk past. There were a few discontented murmurs, but for the most part, the lords showed their animosity by watching Merlin balefully as he circled the table and took his seat next to Arthur.
“I came as quickly as I could,” Merlin muttered to him. His eyes were downcast, a meek look that had become somewhat habitual since his confession to Arthur almost four weeks ago.
Arthur felt his lips twitch. It still surprised him every now and then to realize that some facets of Merlin’s personality would never change—magic or no, he was always running late. “I’m used to it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merlin give a small smirk and settle more comfortably in his chair, a bit of the tension in his shoulders relaxing.
Without acknowledging Merlin’s late arrival to the rest of the council, Arthur shot a glance around the table before focusing on Sir Leon and giving a quick nod. “Let’s begin.”
— — —
“—continuing on the topic of magic, sire, Lord Rathel and I—”
Arthur fingered the rim of his goblet, maintaining an impassive expression as the lord droned on about his concerns with the repeal on the magic ban. This was by no means the first time Tornac had complained, nor the first time Arthur had listened patiently before explaining his solution to each problem.
It was vital, he knew, that each lord had an opportunity to bellyache and argue over the process. It was time-consuming and exhausting, but necessary. Twenty years of magical hatred would take time to undo, and letting the noblemen—and common folk—voice their hesitation was an essential part of the task.
That said, he thought with an internal groan, Lord Tornac had gone far and beyond the point of merely questioning the new laws. He was challenging Arthur without purpose, not to mention repeating himself, and his whining was getting out of hand.
Arthur turned his head slightly, letting Tornac’s melodramatic voice fade as he eyed Merlin, expecting a shared smirk and an eye roll.
Instead, Merlin was staring at the table, his eyes glazed over, completely unaware of Arthur and possibly the entire room. His face was white, and a muscle in his jaw was jumping periodically, obviously pulled tight by a clamped jaw. In his lap, Merlin’s left hand was a white-knuckled fist.
For a moment, Arthur thought Merlin was simply fed up. Tornac had been talking for at least fifteen minutes, and Arthur, firm in his decision to let the lords speak their concerns, hadn’t interrupted him except to calmly answer his questions. But Merlin, as a warlock, would be justifiably sick of the man’s relentless opposition. Arthur certainly was.
But it was only seconds before his brain caught onto what his eyes were seeing and made a connection, one that at one time would have made no sense, but that now was very likely to be true.
Quickly, Arthur rose to his feet. Tornac stopped in the middle of a long-winded speech, his mouth hanging open in surprise, and Arthur didn’t hesitate to take advantage of his silence.
“Council is dismissed,” he said. There was no hesitation in his voice, no room for questions. “We will reconvene tomorrow to address what matters we were unable to speak of today.”
He turned away from them, dismissing them with his actions as well as his words, and the room was filled with the sounds of scraping chairs and rustling clothing as the group stood and made their way out.
Beside him, Merlin was also stirring, blinking in slight confusion as he lifted his gaze. “I’ve never seen you cut Tornac off before,” he said. “You should do it more often.”
Arthur stared down at him, shocked to see a smile on Merlin’s face. How many times, he wondered with a bitter sort of hurt, had Merlin been in pain and hid it just like now?
Setting his jaw, Arthur took Merlin’s arm in his hand and nudged him to his feet, watching him carefully and taking pains to ensure he wasn’t escalating whatever the problem was. “Come on, Merlin,” he said, his voice firm, though quiet in the bustle of the room. He led his friend to the door, walking slowly. “I want you to come to my chambers.”
“I’m not your servant anymore,” Merlin protested. “You can’t make me polish your armor or wash your socks—”
“Shut up, Merlin.” He let Merlin’s arm go, watching him out of the corner of his eye, and was pained to see Merlin grimace before quickly hiding it.
“But—”
“I said, shut up.”
Merlin shut up.
A tense silence stretched between them, almost palpable in its rigor, and Arthur could physically feel his alarm from moments ago morphing into red-hot anger. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, without needing any proof other than this instance, that Merlin had done this before. He’d hidden terrible pain before, probably on multiple occasions, and that hurt worse than any of the deceit surrounding Merlin’s magic.
Which was saying a lot.
He paused in front of the double doors to his chambers, taking a breath to calm himself. Merlin hovered behind him, hesitant and anxiously obedient and hurting. The alarm rushed back full force and Arthur pushed the doors open, holding them until Merlin moved inside, then letting them fall closed as he followed.
Guinevere stood by the window, her hands on her back to offer some measure of support to her growing belly, and turned to survey them, a smile coming readily to her face. “Hello, Merlin,” she said, looking mildly curious.
Arthur spared her a hurried smile, but his main focus was Merlin, who attempted to answer Gwen but was cut off when Arthur gently took his arm and pulled him toward the bed.
“Sit,” he said firmly.
Merlin did, the smallest of winces momentarily showing itself in the lines of his face. Arthur caught the sound of his breath hitching. “What—”
Arthur interrupted him, crossing his arms across his chest. “What is going on?” he said. “What happened?”
A shady look dropped over Merlin’s features, and he tilted his head just slightly, the same way a dog does when they perform their most innocent look. “I don’t—”
Gwen moved closer, her concern bouncing off Arthur and heightening his own, and he stopped Merlin mid-sentence again. “Why are you hurt?” he asked. “Why are you hiding it?”
Finally, Merlin seemed to give in. He looked down, sighing almost inaudibly. “I didn’t have time to tell you.”
“‘You didn’t have time to tell me’?” Arthur parroted, barely restraining his voice to loud instead of shouting. “Really, Merlin?”
“The council meeting—”
“I thought we were past this! I thought you’d actually started telling me the truth! For gods’ sakes Merlin—!” With the last words, he grabbed a goblet off the desk and hurled it across the room, and the metal bounced and clanged along the stone floor. “Don’t you—”
“I’m not used to this!”
Arthur stared at Merlin, his chest heaving, distantly aware of the fact that Gwen stood next to the table with her mouth open in shock. Merlin was standing, too, having risen from the bed when he cut into Arthur’s tirade with his raw shout, and now he was only inches away from Arthur, a hand to his ribs and a pained expression on his face.
“I’m not used to this,” Merlin said again, his voice low. He wasn’t looking at Arthur, but at the floor between them.
“To what?” Arthur said, just as quiet.
Merlin took a step back and eased himself back onto the bed, now making no effort to conceal his labored breathing. “I’m trying, Arthur,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “You have no idea how hard. I’ve wanted this for so long.”
“Then why?” Arthur asked. His voice came out hoarse, sounding young and vulnerable and everything that was opposite of how a king should sound. At this point, he didn’t care—not in front of only Gwen and Merlin, and not when the situation was hurtful in every meaning of the word. “Why didn’t you tell me? Did, what, did you think I would laugh or something?”
“No,” Merlin said quickly. He looked up, and Arthur was startled to see tears in his eyes. “That’s just it, Arthur, I didn’t think at all.”
Gwen moved away from the table, and Arthur glanced at her, wondering if she understood what Merlin meant—he certainly didn’t. But Gwen was just watching, a soft, concerned expression on her face.
“This is what I always do,” Merlin said, a note of desperation in his voice that made it clear he wasn’t lying. “I’ve never been able to tell anyone but Gaius.”
Memories flooded Arthur’s mind. Merlin turning up late or not finishing chores, and then making strange excuses like, “finding rare herbs,” and “knocking himself out.” Gaius’ most frequent explanation, “in the tavern.” Even—and Arthur almost closed his eyes in horror—the bitterly casual statement, “I was dying.”
It all made sense now.
In the month since Merlin’s secret had been revealed, there had been too much to process and too much to talk about to fully consider the implications of Merlin’s self-appointed role as Camelot’s guardian. Arthur had been hurt, deeply, and that was taking time to fade just like Merlin’s meek behavior. The rift was slowly closing as Arthur learned and Merlin talked, but still, in the bustle of trying to reinstate magic without panicking the populace, Arthur hadn’t had the chance to think about the reality of Merlin’s pain and loneliness.
But it made sense now.
It was going to take a lot longer than a single month to break down a cycle of secrecy and isolation that had been years in the making. Just like Arthur had needed time to accept the fact that Merlin had magic, Merlin would need time to start being upfront without external prompting.
“I just…” Merlin continued, “I came back this morning and remembered the council meeting, and they’re so important right now I couldn’t miss it—but, Arthur, I swear, I wasn’t intentionally lying—”
“Stop.”
Merlin had been looking at the floor, shaking his head, but at Arthur’s command, he lifted his gaze. There were tear tracks on his face, and the sight of them, coupled with his pleading blue eyes, reminded Arthur almost exactly of the day Merlin had confessed his magic, kneeling in this very chamber and begging for a chance to earn the trust he’d broken.
Arthur stepped forward, closing the gap between himself and Merlin, and squatted so he didn’t have to keep staring down at his friend. “I understand, Merlin, it’s alright.” He rested one hand on Merlin’s bony knee, slightly awkward, but mostly acting without thought.
Behind him, Arthur heard Gwen’s dress rustle as she moved closer, and he looked up to find her smiling gently at Merlin as she rubbed his shoulder.
Merlin, who’d also looked up to give Gwen a painfully relieved smile, glanced down again, meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I am sorry, Arthur—”
“Shut up,” Arthur interrupted again. “Shut up, Merlin. I’ve heard enough apologies this month.” He shook Merlin’s knee, feeling his lips quirk into a bit of a grin. “Gods know I owe you some.”
Merlin laughed slightly, closing his eyes for a moment and then opening them again. They were still bright, but the tears were no longer a product of regret and pain. “I’m still getting used to this,” he said quietly, the smallest questioning note in his voice.
“So is Arthur,” Gwen said. “We all are.”
Arthur nodded. “Tornac won’t let us forget it.”
Merlin laughed again. “No, I suppose not,” he agreed. He sniffed, then got to his feet, wincing.
Arthur stood, too, then put a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and waited until he looked up. “Don’t do that again, Merlin,” he said, willing his sincerity to show on his face. “You’re the closest friend I’ve got, and I couldn’t bear to lose you.”
Merlin nodded quickly, blinking, and Arthur looked away until he regained his composure. Gwen smiled at them, clearly laughing silently, and Arthur made a mental note to tickle her feet that night in retaliation.
“I promise,” Merlin said, after a pause. “Thank you, Arthur.”
Ignoring the second sentence, Arthur clapped his hands together. “Good. Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”