Chapter Text
Merlin wakes to the sound of Camelot already humming with restless energy.
Boots thud down the hallways. Servants rush with armfuls of linens. Somewhere downstairs, someone is shouting about missing grain stores. Gaius’s quill scratches furiously across parchment.
All signs of a morning where King Uther Pendragon is… in a mood.
Merlin drags himself upright and rubs sleep from his eyes. “Gaius? What’s going on?”
Gaius doesn’t look up from his writing. “The king has summoned the council unexpectedly. No one knows the cause. But it’s making the entire castle twitch like a horse who smells a storm coming.”
“That sounds promising,” Merlin mutters.
Gaius gives him a pointed look. “You had better hurry. I suspect Arthur will be called in before long, and you know how he gets when he wants something and you’re not there to immediately serve it to him.”
Merlin tries not to smile. “He’s not that bad.”
“He is precisely that bad,” Gaius says without missing a beat. “Now go on. And for the love of the gods, try to stay quiet today.”
Merlin leaves Gaius’s chambers with a sense of apprehension curling low in his stomach. When the king is restless, Camelot ripples. And when Camelot ripples, Arthur usually gets dragged into something dangerous. Merlin quickens his steps.
He finds Arthur in his chambers, fastening the last buckle of his jerkin with brisk, impatient motions.
“There you are,” Arthur says, relieved and annoyed in equal measure. “Where in gods’ names have you been?”
Merlin blinks. “I literally just woke up.”
“Yes, well—try doing it faster next time.”
Merlin rolls his eyes but hands Arthur his sword belt. “Do you know what the king wants?”
“No,” Arthur mutters. “But it’s never good when he summons the council at dawn. And it’s worse when he doesn’t tell me why beforehand.”
That, Merlin thinks, is the real source of Arthur’s tension. Arthur hates being left in the dark.
“Come on,” Arthur says. “If we’re late, he’ll blame me.”
“And then you’ll blame me,” Merlin adds.
“As is tradition,” Arthur agrees, marching toward the door.
⸻
The council chamber buzzes with controlled unease. Nobles murmur to one another. Advisors trade theories at a hushed pace. Uther sits at the head of the table, stone-faced and severe, fingers drumming his chair’s armrest with measured impatience.
Arthur approaches and bows. Merlin stands at the back, trying, and failing to look inconspicuous.
“Arthur,” Uther begins, voice cold as winter. “A patrol assigned to the eastern road has not returned.”
Arthur straightens. “How long overdue?”
“Three days.”
The murmurs rise sharply, and Merlin’s thoughts halt. Three days. That isn’t late. That’s gone.
Uther raises a hand. Silence falls. “The border is too vital to leave unmonitored,” he continues. “If men loyal to Camelot vanish on our own roads, we must assume hostile interference.”
Arthur absorbs this, jaw tightening. “Do we have any information? A last reported location? Witnesses?”
“A messenger brought word yesterday,” Uther says. “He found no bodies. No signs of struggle. Only abandoned bootprints and drag marks near the forest’s edge.”
A cold twist tightens in Merlin’s chest. Drag marks mean bodies. Bodies mean—
“Bandits, perhaps,” Leon suggests gently from his seat among the knights. “That stretch of road has always been vulnerable.”
“Or enemy scouts,” one of the councilmen offers nervously.
“Or sorcery,” another whispers.
Uther’s glare silences them both.
Arthur takes a breath. “What are your orders, Father?”
“You will lead a search party at once,” Uther says. “Retrieve the patrol if they live. Recover their bodies if they do not. And eliminate any who dare attack Camelot’s men.”
Arthur nods once, sharp and steady. “I depart at dawn.”
Merlin feels it then—the familiar, helpless knot of fear when Arthur is sent into danger without hesitation, without question. He forces his worry down.
Uther dismisses the council. Arthur turns sharply, already striding for the door. “Merlin. With me.”
Merlin scrambles after him
⸻
Arthur heads toward the training courtyard with intense purpose. The knights are already gathering—Leon with a map under his arm, Lancelot tightening his gauntlets, and Gwaine leaning back on a bench, chewing an apple like they are going hunting for picnic spots.
“Morning!” Gwaine chirps. “Council drama? Missing men? Political crisis? Some fool lose Uther’s favorite candlestick?”
“Patrol’s missing,” Arthur says, voice clipped.
Gwaine’s grin falls. “Ah.”
Merlin begins packing Arthur’s supplies. Water skins, salves from Gaius, a whetstone, extra layers, food.
Arthur hovers closely behind him.
Too closely.
“You forgot the flint,” Arthur murmurs near his shoulder.
Merlin jumps. “I’m not done yet, am I?”
“You nearly forgot it,” Arthur insists.
“I have forgotten it before and we survived,” Merlin points out.
Arthur glares. “Barely.”
Gwaine strolls over, watching them both with far too much amusement. “Relax, princess. Merlin knows what he’s doing.”
Arthur scowls. “I’m not worried.”
“You’re always worried,” Gwaine drawls. “Especially when your favorite idiot is involved.”
Merlin chokes on air. “I’m not his favorite!”
Arthur goes stiff. Leon closes his eyes like he needs divine patience. Lancelot pretends to be fascinated by his saddle straps.
Gwaine grins wickedly. “Sure you aren’t.”
Merlin, flustered, drops the flint. Arthur immediately picks it up. Their fingers brush, and both of them jerk back as though burned.
Lancelot quietly clears his throat. “We should… get things in order.”
“Yes,” Arthur agrees instantly, relief flooding his voice. “Do that.”
Merlin keeps packing, cheeks warm, trying not to replay the moment in his mind.
⸻
The packs are sorted. Supplies accounted for. The knights gather, awaiting orders. Merlin finishes tying off one of the bundles—and Arthur hovers again.
“Is that secure?” Arthur asks.
“Yes,” Merlin says.
“You checked the knots?”
“Yes.”
“And the balance?”
“Yes.”
“And the—”
Merlin finally spins around. “Arthur. I do know how to pack for a journey.”
Arthur closes his mouth. Their eyes holding —just a second too long.
Leon approaches gently. “The men are ready, sire.”
Arthur nods but doesn’t move, and Merlin steps back, giving him space. “You should get going.”
Arthur’s throat bobs. “Right,” he murmurs. “We leave at dawn tomorrow. Get everything else prepared.”
Merlin nods. Arthur hesitates one more heartbeat—then turns away.
⸻
Merlin brings Arthur’s dinner to his chambers later than he means to. He has been making lists, sorting supplies, organizing packs—anything to keep occupied. He finds Arthur seated on the edge of his bed, polishing his sword with controlled, meticulous strokes.
“You’re late,” Arthur says, still focused on the blade.
Merlin huffs. “Good evening to you too.”
Arthur shoots him a brief glance, tired and a bit on edge, but his expression shutters quickly.
Merlin sets the tray down. “You’ve been pacing the castle all night.”
“I wasn’t pacing,” Arthur says, too quickly. “I was making preparations.”
“For a routine mission,” Merlin replies lightly, hands on his hips. “Nothing dramatic.”
Something in Arthur’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “It isn’t routine if men under my command disappear,” he says, quieter.
Merlin’s chest aches. He steps closer, careful not to crowd. “You’ll figure out what happened,” he says. “You always do.”
Arthur’s breath leaves him in a slow, controlled exhale. “If they’re dead—”
“Then you bring them home,” Merlin says simply.
For a moment Arthur says nothing, setting his sword aside with deliberate calm as though every movement is calculated.
When he finally looks at Merlin, it is brief, unreadable except for the faintest crack beneath the surface. “Be ready at dawn,” Arthur says.
Merlin nods. “I will be.”
Arthur’s shoulders ease, barely noticeable unless you are looking.“Goodnight, Merlin.”
Merlin feels it anyway. “Goodnight, Arthur.”
He turns for the door.
“Merlin?”
He pauses, looking back.
Arthur’s expression doesn’t soften, but something in it shifts. “…Thank you,” he says.
Just that. Nothing more. But it’s enough.
⸻
Merlin lies awake longer than he means to. The castle has settled around him, the familiar hush of stone and distance and sleeping bodies, but his thoughts refuse to follow. They circle instead, slow and stubborn, always finding their way back to the same place.
Arthur.
Arthur hovering at his shoulder. Arthur watching his hands as he tied knots. Arthur standing too close, looking too long, saying too little. Arthur’s gaze holding his for half a second past what courtesy requires, past what friendship explains, past what Merlin knows how to account for.
It happens more often than Merlin admits to himself. Sometimes it is sharp and focused, like Arthur is trying to read something written just beneath Merlin’s skin. Sometimes it is softer, almost hesitant, like he has reached for something and stopped himself at the last moment. Sometimes it looks dangerously close to longing.
Or at least, that is how it feels to Merlin. How it looks when he lets himself imagine it might mean more than it does.
And Arthur never seems to notice. He never startles out of it. Never looks embarrassed. Never realises he has been standing there, staring, as though Merlin is the only solid thing in the world.
Merlin tells himself it means nothing. He has told himself that for years. Arthur is intense. Arthur is protective. Arthur worries. Arthur fixates. Arthur cares too much and thinks too hard and carries too much responsibility on his shoulders. Of course he looks like that sometimes. Of course he lingers. Of course he watches.
It’s easy to explain. But it’s harder to ignore the way his pulse jumps every time it happens.
Harder to ignore the warmth that spreads low in his chest when Arthur’s voice drops near his ear. The way his thoughts scatter when their hands brush. The way a single word of thanks feels like something precious and dangerous all at once.
Merlin knows what he feels. He has known for a long time. He keeps it quietly, carefully. Something warm and dangerous he can’t allow himself to name, folded away inside himself like a letter he never intends to send. Private and fragile and safer left unread.
Arthur is his prince. His friend. His responsibility. His impossible centre of gravity. And Merlin will not risk any of that for a hope that might exist only in his own head. For something that might be nothing more than his own wanting, reflected back at him.
So he tells himself it’s nothing. That Arthur’s looks are just looks. That his closeness is habit. That his concern is duty. That the way he softens sometimes is coincidence.
He tells himself this because people like Arthur do not fall in love with people like him. Because hoping would mean risking being wrong. And being wrong would break something he does not know how to put back together.
Merlin turns onto his side and stares into the dark, heart full and careful and quietly aching. The only thing he knows for sure, is that whatever Arthur feels, whatever he doesn’t, or whatever he has yet to understand about himself, Merlin will be there. That, at least, is certain.