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As he’s noted numerous times before, Merlin’s life is exhausting for many reasons.
Firstly, he spends half his time babysitting a royal prat, and the other half of his time trying to make sure said royal prat isn’t killed by the many, many people who want him dead. (Honestly, Merlin sympathizes with their plight sometimes.)
Secondly, in the midst of all this running around and attempting to protect Arthur, Merlin has to try and keep his secrets. What secrets, you ask? Oh, you know, nothing too heavy. Just that he’s an incredibly powerful sorcerer, and that he’s in love with the Crown Prince of Camelot, a kingdom where magic is extremely illegal, and all those who practice it are immediately sentenced to death.
So, fairly normal, every-day stuff.
Anyway, the point is that his life is very taxing, and therefore, the absolute last thing he needs is a drink laced with truth serum.
Unfortunately, fortune has never really listened to what would be most convenient for Merlin.
—
Feasts are extremely tedious affairs and a total waste of time. Therefore, Merlin feels perfectly justified in sneaking the occasional tidbit off of Arthur’s plate, or stealing a sip of wine now and then.
After all, it’s not like anyone would ever try to mess with the Crown Prince’s food.
Yes, ok, so Merlin is a bit of an idiot.
—
When Merlin recognizes the funny taste, he immediately spits Arthur’s wine out all over the table, forgetting for a moment that he isn’t supposed to be drinking any wine in the first place, but instead serving it to Arthur. To make matters worse, he manages to spray the tainted wine onto visiting ambassador Lord Peregrindor. The good lord, who has been droning on about some particularly boring topic for hours, now sputters indignantly, cheeks flecked with purple droplets.
“Good gracious, what is the meaning of this?”
“Sorry, sorry,” says Merlin, hurriedly grabbing a rag and beginning to wipe furiously at the lord’s grape-stained tunic.
Peregrindor flails under his attentive cleaning.
“Get - get off me, boy!” he screeches, face red with fury.
“ Mer lin,” Arthur hisses behind him.
Merlin freezes.
A strong hand clamps down on the back of his tunic and drags him away from the indignant Peregrindor. Merlin thrashes, but to no avail.
“Please, forgive my idiot manservant’s stupidity, my lord. He will be dealt with…accordingly.”
Great. The last thing Merlin needs right now when he’s dealing with some unknown enchantment is a pissed off Arthur. Could things just go his way for once?
As soon as the door slammed behind them, Arthur deposits Merlin unceremoniously on the cold cobblestones, and glares at him, eyes flashing dangerously.
Merlin opens his mouth to defend himself, but Arthur beats him to it.
“What. In. Albion. Was. That .”
Merlin knots his fingers together and attempts to think of an appropriate excuse.
“I…was checking your drink to make sure it wasn’t poisoned, and I choked.”
At least, that’s what he tries to say.
What comes out instead is “I was thirsty, so I took a sip of your wine because I knew you wouldn’t notice, but then it tasted like it was enchanted, so I spat it out.”
As the erroneous words fall from Merlin’s lips, his eyes widen in horror.
Oh shit.
Arthur stares at him.
“You…thought my drink was enchanted?”
“Y-yes?”
“How would you know that?”
Merlin feels the rebellious words rising in him as soon as Arthur asks, but he can’t, won’t voice them. He clamps a hand over his mouth and takes a step back, praying that he will somehow be able to combat the spell he’s clearly under.
Arthur takes a step forward, backing Merlin towards the wall.
“Merlin,” he says ominously.
The words are pushing at Merlin’s lips, begging for release. His face is growing warm from the effort, and his palms are growing increasingly clammy.
“Merlin, I order you to answer me!”
Perhaps the order somehow enhances the effect of the potion. Perhaps Merlin is growing tired. Or perhaps his hand slips. All Merlin knows is that somehow, his hand falls away, his treacherous mouth opens, and the words that will doom him to the pyre tumble out.
“It’s easier for me to recognize the effects of magic because I’m a sorcerer.”
As soon as the last, damning word escapes, Merlin slips around Arthur and runs.
—
He runs with total abandon, not knowing where he is going or who he is running from. (The guards? Arthur? The knights? All of Camelot?) He knows only that he has to get away.
At long last, he crashes through a pair of unknown doors, and falls to the ground, panting.
His head spins as he attempts to process all that has just occurred. All these years of keeping secrets, of tiptoeing around, of biting his tongue as others took the credit for his deeds, and now his magic is revealed by a stupid truth potion? Gods, destiny really does hate him.
Merlin had always thought that when he did tell Arthur of his magic, he would be ready to stand and face the consequences, trusting that his prince would administer judgement as he saw fit.
But then again, Merlin had also always thought that when he told Arthur, it would be of his own free will, and not dragged from him by other means.
The cruel irony is that his well-meaning magic has been revealed through the malicious kind of magic that Arthur has been raised to fear.
He needs to get out of here. He needs to escape Camelot before Arthur finds him. Although there is a chance that Arthur won’t execute him, Merlin doesn’t really want to stick around and find out. Even if Arthur doesn’t, he would still likely loathe Merlin for all eternity, and Merlin couldn’t bear the idea of watching hatred fill the eyes he loved so much.
Sighing, Merlin raises his head and looks around to see where his panicked feet have taken him.
When his gaze lands on the all too familiar four poster and desk covered in treaties, Merlin curses.
His heart, treacherous as ever, has led him straight into the dragon’s den.
And for once in his life, that is actually a metaphor.
—
Merlin is a sentimental fool, which is why he refuses to leave Arthur’s chambers as soon as he discovers where he is. He needs to at least say goodbye.
He opens the wardrobe and breathes in the scent of his prince one last time. Then, he walks to the bed, and thinks of how only this morning he had had to drag Arthur from his bed and then dodge the numerous pillows that were chucked at him.
Bowing his head, he utters a silent farewell.
The doors slam open. Merlin whirls.
Arthur stands frozen in the doorway, face pale.
Merlin isn’t sure what to do. Should he run away? Should he jump out a window? Should he get down on his knees and beg Arthur to release him? Should he shout “Behind you!” and then disappear into thin air when Arthur’s back was turned?
Well, he’s never really mastered the whole disappearing thing, so that last option might be out.
Arthur makes his decision for him.
The prince walks in, calmly bars the door, and then stalks over to Merlin and practically throws him into a chair.
Merlin’s hands tremble on the armrests; he rushes to sit on them and conceal his fear.
“Tell me,” Arthur says, sitting down across from him.
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me about the ma - the magic.” Arthur’s voice breaks on the forbidden word, but he courageously powers through and says it anyway.
Merlin takes a deep, steadying breath. Arthur isn’t exactly being warm and welcoming, but he isn’t moving to chop off Merlin’s head either. That seems like a promising sign.
“What - what do you want to know?” he whispers, hoping his nervousness isn’t too obvious.
“Anything,” Arthur says. “Tell me anything.”
“You don’t have a specific question?” Merlin asks, surprised.
“Well, considering you seem to have just swallowed a truth potion, I feel that it would be a little unfair to ask you a question.”
Wow. Sometimes Merlin forgets Arthur actually has a functional brain.
“There’s so much to tell that I don’t really know where to begin.”
“Fine,” Arthur sighs. He tips his chair back onto two legs and stares at the ceiling, brow furrowed in concentration.
After a painful moment of silence, he allows the chair to return to its original stance with a crash. Merlin winces. Will he have to add carpentry and furniture repair to his ever-growing list of duties?
That is, if he has any duties after this conversation.
“How long have you had magic?”
“Since birth,” Merlin rushes to respond, eager to demonstrate that he is prepared to tell Arthur anything. (Well, he also can’t help but answer, because of, you know, the enchantment. But it’s the thought that counts, right?)
Arthur blinks, an indiscernible emotion flickering in his eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Merlin may be nervous, but he can’t help snorting at that.
“Seriously, Arthur?”
Arthur glowers in true prat fashion.
“No, Merlin, I’m asking as a joke, obviously .”
“Oh come on! You’re the son of Uther Pendragon, a man who is routinely blinded by his hatred for magic and refuses to listen to any reason! Good gods Arthur, I know you think I’m an idiot, but I’m not that stupid!”
Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, gripping the armrests of his chair tightly.
Ok so maybe Merlin shouldn’t have insulted Uther. Stupid truth serum.
He hurries to make amends for his comment.
“But Arthur, I do it for you. Only you. And I would rather die than use it to harm you.”
Arthur remains ominously silent. Merlin wonders what else he can tack on to appease his prince and demonstrate his undying devotion.
However, he quickly learns that proof is not what Arthur requires.
“But why ?”
The question is so soft and vulnerable in its tone that Merlin almost misses it. However, the pleading look in Arthur’s eyes, unusually open and searching, tells him that he did not imagine the whispered words.
“What do you mean, why?”
“Why would you protect me? After everything my father’s done against your kind, why would you keep trying to save me?”
Merlin has caught glimpses of this side of Arthur before: raw and ragged, convinced of his own undeserving nature, when Arthur thought he wasn’t looking.
Gods, Merlin hates Uther.
But never before has Arthur so exposed himself to Merlin. It’s this knowledge, and not the truth potion, that compels him to lean forward, hesitantly brushing Arthur’s shoulder with a tentative hand, and say what comes next.
“Arthur…I protect you because - because it’s my destiny, yes, but more importantly - because I love you.”
Arthur gazes at him, slack-jawed and entirely immobile. If it wasn’t for the faint rise and fall of his chest, Merlin would think he had accidentally killed him.
“Arthur?” he asks after an incredibly long and uncomfortable silence; he’s fearful that Arthur has in fact stopped functioning.
“When you say love…do you mean like how you love Gwen…or how my father loved my mother?”
Merlin’s throat goes dry. He’d intended for it to be interpreted as I love you as a friend and nothing but a friend , but that wasn’t the truth, and it hadn’t been the truth for a long time.
And unfortunately for Merlin, the truth serum is still very much in his system.
He tries to choke the words back, tries to bite his tongue and prevent the words from spilling out, but despite being the most powerful sorcerer ever born, apparently he is useless when it comes to combating the effects of one measly little potion.
“I don’t love you how your father loved your mother.”
Strangely enough, Arthur looks…disappointed?
However, Merlin doesn’t have time to think about this, because the words keep spewing forth.
“I love you more than he could have ever loved her. I love you so much that sometimes it hurts, and it makes me want to cut my heart out. I love you so much and sometimes I don’t even know why, because you say things and I realize I shouldn’t love you, because you hate magic, and I am magic, so you’ll probably hate me, and it’s all just so confusing. But I love you. I don’t know when it started, but I know it will never stop. And speaking of things that will never stop, I will never stop talking if you don’t do something, because this potion keeps making me talk, and I’d really rather not say anything embarrassing, since I’ve already pretty much destroyed our friendship, and I really don’t want to destroy it any -”
“Merlin.” Arthur’s standing now. So is Merlin. They are, in fact, standing very close together, so close that Merlin can feel Arthur inhale before his next words.
“I could never, never hate you.”
“What?”
“I could never, never hate you. Because I love you too.”
Merlin’s head spins. This is too much to process.
“You’re joking,” he murmurs weakly, wondering vaguely whether the truth potion had also contained hallucinogens.
Arthur’s lips quirk.
“Shocking as it may be, I do have a sense of the proper times and places to crack a joke like that,” he murmurs, and closes the gap between them.