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The thing is –
The thing is, soulmarks aren’t supposed to move. They’re supposed to lie in wait, soldiers standing unflinchingly at their post, waiting for their other half to make them whole again.
Arthur’s soulmark danced.
Falcon, he had named it, for that’s what it was – a beautiful bird, golden and black, moving, flying, soaring across planes of skin, dancing and weaving in dazzling patterns. It would flit excitedly from shoulder to shoulder as if celebrating in Arthur’s joys, lovingly cradle every cut and bruise Arthur received from training, curl itself snugly on his chest, sleeping soundly over his heart every night.
Falcon was his best friend – his only friend – for ten beautiful summers, until Uther’s manic quest for answers proved fruitful.
Emrys.
His soulmate was Emrys, the most powerful sorcerer of all time, king of the druids, god amongst mortals. His soulmate was magic incarnate, destined to take Arthur, to claim him, to –
Arthur never found out what else his soulmate would do. Uther’s blade had sliced clean through the neck of the druid prophet before she could finish.
Arthur knew he should be horrified – should feel the same anger and panic and hysterical denial his father exuded – should be glad that Gaius had found a way to strip it from his skin.
And yet –
Falcon had been Arthur’s only companion. His friend, his secret comfort, his one source of care. He had felt the bird’s affection for him, had known deep to his core just how deeply Falcon cherished him, and knew this reflected his soulmate’s love in kind.
If this bird, this beautiful creature, had been magic….
Magic couldn’t be evil. It just couldn’t.
…
It would be a long, long time before Arthur would feel the gentle warmth of unconditional love again.
Not until he met Merlin.
…
Merlin expected a lot more shouting. Speeches of betrayal, perhaps some seething threats of banishment – or perhaps, if he was so unlucky – a sword to the throat before he could ever speak a word in his defense.
Merlin expected – well. A lot more anything. More than an incredulous look, a scoff, and a bemused murmur about how this made so much sense.
Merlin isn’t sure what, exactly, about felling a half-dozen bandits with a blink of an eye made so much sense to Arthur, but perhaps he’d accidentally tossed him to the ground, too – perhaps Arthur was concussed?
Perhaps he’d hit his head…oh, yes, that one’s worked before. Right then. He’ll just swallow his panic far, far down and put on his most idiotic smile and play the fool once more, he’ll just –
Arthur’s hands are on his neck.
Except, no, that’s not quite right – they’re moving up to cup his cheeks, and that makes no sense –
“Merlin,” Arthur sighs, in a way that seems to indicate this isn’t the first time he’s called his name. “Merlin,” he repeats, softer this time. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay, do you hear me?”
He really doesn’t – not over the booming sound of his heart pounding in his chest, his blood screaming in his ears – but he nods anyways.
Arthur shakes his head like he doesn’t believe him, fingers dancing across Merlin’s cheeks to wipe at the wetness flowing down them.
When did he start crying?
“I promise you, no harm will come to you,” Arthur continues, his eyes urgent and wild. “Merlin, do you understand? I will keep you safe. I swear it.”
The thing is –
The thing is Arthur should hate him. If not for the magic, for the lies. If not for the lies, then for being the one thing he’s been taught to hate since birth.
Some of this must spill out – or maybe Arthur simply knows Merlin too well, knows what must be racing through his panicked mind. He simply gives Merlin a small shake, brings his face impossibly closer, and shatters everything Merlin has ever thought or known.
“Merlin. My soulmate is a sorcerer. And I know he is not evil.”
My soulmate is a sorcerer.
My soulmate is a sorcerer.
And I know he is not evil.
Oh.
Oh.
He – he knows.
He knows what Merlin is, he knows what they are to one another, and he’s smiling, eyes full of affection and leftover concern – concern for Merlin, for Merlin’s fear, Merlin’s safety.
He knows and of course, of course he’s not said anything, he can’t – not with Uther on the throne.
But for Arthur, Merlin would wait eternity.
…
The thing is –
The thing is, Arthur knowing changes everything and nothing. Perhaps, Merlin supposes, it’s because he knew all along. He lays awake at night sometimes, trying to pinpoint when exactly – how, exactly – Arthur figured out what they are to one another.
And yet –
His eyes are softer, his teasing jibes gentler, launched with an undercurrent of affection. His hands teasing, gliding more naturally across his shoulders, through his hair in the guise of a playful ruffle, against the small of his back as he walks them to the training grounds.
It feels only natural then, when on a seemingly meaningless day, Arthur pulls him in by the neckerchief and ends his gossiping prattle with a searing kiss. He walks Merlin to the bed, pushing him into the soft velvet oh so gently, and shows Merlin for this first time in his life how it feels to be truly known, truly vulnerable, and truly loved.
Merlin never dared to dream he could have this – could have Arthur’s arms and Arthur’s heart and Arthur’s trust. And though he doesn’t say it – and deep down, Merlin knows he can’t, won’t, not until Uther is long dead – he knows he has Arthur’s love, too.
Before long, Merlin spends the night in Arthur’s bed more than he does in his own. Before long, Merlin grows used to good morning kisses and strong arms lulling him to sleep at night. Before long, Merlin can truly see the future ahead for the first time – and it’s bright, shining, warm and golden.
…
Two summers after Arthur invites Merlin into his bed, the king dies.
It’s a tough few months for Arthur – and for Merlin too, trapped between his unending relief and constant concern for Arthur. It seems the weight on Arthur’s shoulders increases tenfold, and Merlin throws himself into what he does best: taking care of his king.
Today is especially bad, it seems – not even half a candle mark since the start of the day’s council meeting, Arthur stormed back into his chambers, seething with anger.
“It’s like they don’t think me capable of making one bloody decision!” He cries, throwing the door shut behind him. “I’ve not even been the king for a full season and yet the court is pushing for me to marry. They think our allies will feel reassured to see a union of strength guiding Camelot through this…transition,” he bites out, frustration rolling off his body in waves.
And oh, this isn’t anger, not today. This is fear. Fear that he’s failing his people, that he’s not good enough, and Merlin can’t let that stand.
“Arthur,” Merlin begins, reaching a hand up to his shoulder to steady him. “You have been a wonderful king so far. The council has always been like this. They said the same to Uther – and look where that ended up…” he trails off meaningfully, remembering Uther’s short-lived betrothal to a troll.
Arthur doesn’t quite smile at that, but he huffs out a small laugh. Merlin will take the victory.
“And, after all,” Merlin continues, unable to help himself. “There’s always your soulmate.”
Arthur positively freezes.
“Excuse me?”
And.
Well.
That’s probably warranted. He did just all but ask Arthur to go ahead and just marry him but –
Uther is dead now, isn’t he?
“There’s always your soulmate,” Merlin repeats tentatively. “Now that you’re the king, you could always have your soulmate.”
Something dark crosses over Arthur’s expression.
“Is that really what you want?” Arthur asks carefully, and oh, this makes sense. It’s just Arthur’s unfounded insecurities rearing its head once again. And really, reassuring him has never been a hardship.
“I – Arthur, of course,” Merlin rushes. “There’s nothing I want more. How could you think otherwise?”
Something in Arthur’s expression shatters.
He flinches away from Merlin’s hand on his shoulder, rears back like he’s been burned, and Merlin watches as long destroyed walls raise right back up in front of his eyes.
“Well, I don’t bloody care what you want, Merlin,” he bites. “I don’t want my soulmate, I don’t love my soulmate, and I certainly don’t want to marry him.”
Merlin can’t breathe.
Can’t think, can’t make sense of the words thrown at him, of the way they slice through his heart and soul, the way they light up his soulmark with sparks of pain. Can’t understand how he could have gotten this so wrong – can’t understand how he was certain he had Arthur’s heart, and yet it seems he never had anything at all.
“I – But. Arthur – I don’t,” he stammers. He doesn’t understand, he can’t, he can’t breathe –
“But nothing,” Arthur snarls. “Bring it up again, and I’ll consider it treason. My soulmate is nothing to me.”
And Merlin breaks.
…
He coughs up his first flower that night. Fitting, he thinks, how the blood drawn from the thorns matches the Pendragon red of the roses that torment his lungs.
…
The thing is –
The thing is, this isn’t new. This, obsession, it almost seems, that Merlin has with putting Arthur’s needs far, far before his own. This…need to make himself and his happiness smaller, so much smaller than that of his friends, but especially, especially Arthur’s.
It makes sense. Merlin has always wanted what was best for Arthur.
What’s best for Arthur should be his soulmate.
And gods above, Arthur tried. Tried to think of that beautiful bird, tried to think of the love and comfort and warmth dancing over his skin, tried to think of his people and the consequences of rejecting a god, of rejecting the prophesized Emrys.
Tried, tried, tried, and failed, every single time, with every single glance, every single stolen touch from the beautiful boy in his bed.
Merlin’s just doing what he always does. Putting Arthur first.
He repeats it like a mantra the rest of the day. Whispers it like a prayer as he readies himself for bed alone – Merlin never came back for the evening.
He tosses and turns, but sleep evades him. He closes his eyes, yet burned behind them is the image of Merlin, crushed at the thought of Arthur forsaking his soulbond.
It shouldn’t hurt this much. Merlin is simply doing what he always does, putting Arthur’s interests first but….
If he really loved Arthur, the way Arthur knows he loves Merlin, well.
Would he really let go of Arthur so easily?
…
The morning brings no clarity – only more questions.
It’s Merlin’s face that greets him when he wakes, but it’s gaunt and dulled of its usual cheer. He dresses Arthur like a perfect servant should – free of lingering touches, of teasing commentary, of the casual affection they’ve so easily shared.
Perhaps…perhaps Merlin simply thinks Arthur is mad at him?
Yes, that would make sense. Arthur had shouted, and Merlin was only trying to help, and he can fix this, he can.
“Merlin,” he begins, wincing at the undercurrent of uncertainty he can’t quite keep out of his voice. “I…apologize for shouting at you yesterday. That was unfair of me to take my frustrations out on you.”
“It’s alright, sire.”
Sire?
Sire?
Merlin doesn’t call him that – hasn’t in so long, Arthur nearly forgot he should – and this is worse than he thought.
He can fix this. He will. He just needs to show Merlin that he matters – that Arthur will always want him, love him, choose him, no matter who the stars fated him to be with.
He takes Merlin’s hand, gently, like he has a thousand times before, and leans in to kiss him, to pour everything he has into it –
And Merlin flinches.
…
It’s almost as if it happens in slow motion. Arthur, leaning in for a kiss. Arthur, apologizing for shouting, but not for his words.
His words. Gods.
I don’t want my soulmate. I don’t love my soulmate. I certainly don’t want to marry him.
And now it makes sense. This thing between them – it was never about Merlin, his heart, his being. It was about his body. His loyalty. His discretion.
Oh, did he want to give in. To pretend yesterday never happened, to fall into Arthur’s arms and pretend he still had his love, to convince himself that this could be enough.
But he couldn’t. Couldn’t bear to feel his kiss and know there was nothing behind it, couldn’t bear to give over his body and his love and know it wasn’t returned.
He can break this off.
He has to.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin begins. “I think it would be best if we stopped…” and here Merlin flounders, because what does he even call it? “…this.”
“If we – ” Arthur parrots back, stunned, before he quickly shakes it off, replacing his surprise with walls of stone. “Right. Of course.”
And Merlin doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this causal, easy acceptance. Of course.
Of course he never loved him. Of course.
I don’t want my soulmate of course I don’t love my soulmate of course I certainly don’t want to marry him of course of course of course of course of
And he should say something back, probably, but Arthur’s already moved on, sitting down and staring intently at his breakfast, as if this conversation was nothing more than small talk, as if he hadn’t shattered Merlin’s very being for the second time in a day.
Of course.
..
It’s George who arrives to ready him for bed, and some small shred of hope Arthur didn’t even realize he was holding on to breaks.
Did Merlin ever love him?
Had the soulmate talk been Merlin’s way of trying to escape?
Gods, did Merlin ever even want him – or did he simply say yes to another order from his prince?
And with that thought, Arthur feels bile rushing up his throat, feels his stomach churn and his lungs constrict and just barely manages to make it over to the chamber pot before he upends the few bits of dinner he managed to choke down, except –
Except what comes out is flowers.
Like – like the ones in the bouquet Merlin picked for him just last week. A king’s chambers can’t be dull and lifeless, he had said, but Arthur knew they weren’t for the room – they were for him.
Or…or so he had thought. Maybe he had been wrong – maybe he had been wrong all this time – and that thought only serves to bring more petals careening through his throat.
No longer dull and lifeless indeed, he thinks to himself.
There’s a garden in Arthur’s chambers, bloomed of his own anguish.
…
Days pass, then a week, then another.
There was a story Hunith used to tell him as a babe, of a caged bird and a boy who loved it too much to let it fly away.
When you love something, you set it free.
Arthur couldn’t have been clearer – he didn’t love Merlin, didn’t want Merlin.
There was no precedent for undoing a soulbond – even the darkest of sorcerers hadn’t dared to tamper with something so sacred. But gods be damned, he was Emrys, and he would grant this freedom to Arthur, no matter how much the thought killed him.
No matter if it killed him – though the roses tearing up his lungs may finish the job first.
He had done his research, after all. The final stages, the fatal stages of Hanahaki were marked by full flowers – and somehow, Merlin in all of his hopeless love and devotion had skipped right past petals into full-fledged disease. There wasn’t any hope for him, not really, not unless Emrys truly meant immortal.
He had often thought his body simply wasn’t big enough to carry all the love he had for Arthur. That, like his magic, it was bursting at the seams, ready to combust, to consume him in the fallout.
It turns out he wasn’t that far off, after all.
…
The thing is –
The thing is, if there is only one thing Arthur still knows about Merlin, it’s this: he cannot know about the Hanahaki.
Because he would do something stupid and self-sacrificing, like try to force himself to love Arthur when he clearly doesn’t, when he clearly wants nothing to do with him, given how little he’s seen of him in the past fortnight. And the flowers may be eating him alive, but he’d take choking on his own devotion over watching Merlin pretend to love him back.
And he doesn’t – that much is clear. It’s been over a month since the morning Merlin called things off, and Arthur can count on one hand how many times he’s seen him. If not George, it’s Gwen, or one of the other servants who come to serve him, arriving with a grimace and an apology and knowing clear as day that they’re not who Arthur wants.
Merlin hasn’t left Camelot – he still hears the castle talk of him, still sees glimpses of his red neckerchief as he darts in and out of the woods – and Arthur wants to follow, to chase him and shake him and beg for an answer, to know why he wasn’t good enough, but –
It would break him. And as much as he wants to cry, to scream, to let himself shatter, he can’t.
He needs the kingdom to be running in order, to have the perfect people in the perfect positions, for Camelot to be strong and prosperous so that when the day comes, when the final flower squeezes the life from his lungs, at the very least, she won’t fall.
In some ways it’s a blessing Merlin pulled away – he doesn’t need to be so careful, not when Merlin isn’t around to mother hen over coughing fits or notice the bloody blooms buried under scraped speeches in the trash. No, he’s free to gasp for breath in peace, to find heart wrenching irony in the fact that no matter what, Merlin still manages to take his breath away.
…
In the end, it’s bloody Gwaine who gets him caught.
Gwaine, who is convinced that Arthur and Merlin’s ‘separation,’ as he calls it, is Arthur’s fault. Gwaine, who’s noticed Arthur’s coughing spells and his refusal to see Gaius and conveniently, just so happened to innocently mention to Merlin that perhaps a tonic could be of help for the king. Gwaine, who left the day’s training with a wink and a smug grin that Arthur hadn’t thought anything of, thought it just to be Gwaine’s usual antics, until Merlin burst through his chamber door, basket of tonics in hand.
It all goes to hell after that.
Because one look at Merlin’s face, one look into Merlin’s eyes and seeing the worry so deeply carved in them, to hear the concern etched into his voice and the care so clearly put into the tonics he crafted –
To see something so close to the love he thought he had, something so full of devotion, but to know it was only loyalty at best – or duty at worse –
To see him and to love him, but not to have him –
Arthur couldn’t hold back.
Petals came rushing upwards, stems and thorns tearing and tangling in his throat, but nothing, nothing hurt more than the abject horror in Merlin’s eyes.
By the time he had finished retching, Merlin was trembling like a leaf, pale faced and eyes shining with devastation. His arm had reached out, like he wanted to hold Arthur, to comfort him, but he simply snatched it back, choked out an apology, and fled.
That had been a candlemark ago.
And Arthur knows, he knows that down in his rooms, Merlin is conjuring up some magical plan, some harebrained scheme to fix this, and he knows he needs to stop him before he does something stupid but –
He doesn’t know how to face him. Not now, not when his heart isn’t just on his sleeve, but in Merlin’s hands, waiting like a prisoner for his own execution. Not now, not when Merlin surely knows it’s him who Arthur loves.
Not now, not ever – but for Merlin’s sake, he will.
…
The thing is –
The thing is, Merlin has thousands of regrets, hundreds of moments where he wished he would have done something different, saved more people, said the right words to the right person at the right time.
But nothing, nothing will compare to the regret he feels, to the brutal shock of grief that paralyses every fiber of his being when Arthur lurches over and coughs up flowers.
He did this. He did this to Arthur, he cursed him, he caused him pain and suffering, all because he was stupid enough to meddle with their soulbond. Arthur must have felt the rejection through the bond, his tampering must have caused the disease, he did this.
He hurt the one man he loved above all else, the one he has killed and betrayed and lied to protect – and now, he’s all but sentenced him to death, too.
Arthur hadn’t coughed up petals, but bouquets. Full blooms, bloodied and menacing, mocking Merlin with their meanings, damning evidence of just how long Arthur had been hurting.
Arthur has been sick since his very first attempt to break their bond, hasn’t he?
And Merlin had failed to realize it, too busy wallowing in his own grief, too busy trying to set Arthur free – only to curse him to die in the end.
He did this.
He did this, and Arthur is going to die, and it’s all his fault.
…
It’s something out of Arthur’s worse nightmare when he opens the door to Merlin’s room, only to find him slumped over on his desk, blood trickling down his lips, surrounded by dozens and dozens of bloodied roses.
And Arthur feels something racing up his throat, but he’s sure it’s bile this time, not flowers, because Merlin isn’t moving, Merlin isn’t breathing –
“Merlin!” Arthur screams, grabbing his limp body and shaking him, slapping his cheek, frantically feeling for a pulse. “Merlin!”
No. No.
He must have – oh gods – he must have taken the Hanahaki from Arthur, and now Merlin is dying, and it’s all Arthur’s fault, it’s all his fault and now another person he loves is going to die because of him.
“What have you done?” Arthur shrieks. “What have you done, Merlin?”
Finally, finally, Merlin rouses, groaning pitifully, dull eyes struggling to focus on Arthur.
“What have you done?” Arthur cries again, shaking Merlin until his focus clears, until his face crumples and he bats away Arthur’s hands, covering his face with his own.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m so sorry, Arthur.”
“Fix it!” Arthur screams. “Damn you, Merlin, fix this!” Because Merlin can, he has to, he’s – he’s a sorcerer for god’s sake! He can give back what was taken. Arthur will make sure of it.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Arthur, I tried, I –”
“Then try again!”
“I have!” Merlin cries. “Gods, don’t you think I’ve tried everything? What do you think I’ve been doing these past weeks? I’ve been…. I’ve been trying to set you free from our bond. I didn’t – Arthur, I swear I didn’t know what it would do to you.”
“What do you bloody mean ‘our bond’? We don’t have a bond!” Arthur grits out, frustration overtaking him. He doesn’t understand what Merlin is saying, doesn’t understand what this has to do with Merlin taking Arthur’s Hanahaki –
Something in Merlin snaps.
He stands up, gold-flecked eyes blazing with a devastation that takes the wind out of Arthur at the sheer depth of it.
“I get you don’t want me, okay? I get it! I do,” Merlin bites. “But for once, would it kill you to even acknowledge what we are to one another?”
“Apparently, we’re not anything!” Arthur snaps back, hurt and shame running through him as he thinks of the way Merlin so easily ended things.
Merlin rears back like he’s been slapped.
“Right.” Merlin says quietly, an eerie calm slipping into his voice. “Right. Nothing at all.”
His eyes flash gold, a wave of light dancing over his body. A glamour, Arthur recalls – Merlin had used one on him once to conceal an ill-placed love bite.
It ends as quick as it begins, and for a moment, Arthur can’t tell the difference, not until his eyes register movement.
There’s a soulmark – flying, dancing across Merlin’s crossed forearms.
It’s a dragon. Pendragon red, adorned with a golden crown, it’s a dragon, and it’s his, he knows it down to his core. It’s his mark, except it can’t be, his soulmate is Emrys, his soulmate is –
Powerful. The most powerful sorcerer of all time.
“I… have yet to find something my magic can’t do.” Merlin had admitted once, swirling golden tendrils of light through his hands. “Most sorcerers need spells but my magic just…. does.”
A god. King to the Druids.
“And you’re sure you don’t want to go with me?” Arthur had asked, surprised Merlin didn’t want to join him to treaty with the Druids.
Merlin had turned bright red, stammering out explanations, how the Druids viewed him as some figurehead, how they had this other name for him, how he wanted the Druids to have faith in Arthur for who he was, not simply because Merlin was beside him.
And the Druids – they had sworn to him that Emrys was always by his side, and he had thought they meant spiritually, but they didn’t, did they?
They meant Merlin.
Merlin is Emrys.
Merlin is his soulmate.
And Merlin had said – oh gods – Merlin had said he wanted nothing more than for Arthur to be with his soulmate, and he meant him, he meant the two of them together, and –
I don’t want my soulmate. I don’t love my soulmate. I certainly don’t want to marry him.
Merlin thinks Arthur wants nothing to do with him.
He must think Arthur used him, must think Arthur doesn’t want him, doesn’t love him, when it couldn’t be farther from the truth.
He catches Merlin’s broken gaze, parts his lips to tell him he has it all wrong, so wrong, but instead he finds himself doubling over, flowers and petals pushing, up up up and out – yet this time, they bring the stems with them, the shinning truth of Merlin’s love cleansing him, curing him from the inside out.
And yet despite his hurt, despite how he surely he must believe that Arthur has casted him away, he can feel Merlin’s hands drawing up and down his back, comforting him through every heaving gasp. Can feel his love, his kindness, his care – his pain – and yet there is he is regardless, always by Arthur’s side, always putting Arthur before himself, and –
Actually.
That’s what he thought Merlin had done – that he had taken the disease from him.
But if Merlin took his Hanahaki, how is it clearing from Arthur’s lungs?
Unless… unless he didn’t.
Unless the Hanahaki was Merlin’s own.
Unless Arthur’s careless words, his failure to recognize his own soulmate, left Merlin reeling with the same bloody blooms, the same piercing pain.
“Merlin,” Arthur pants. “Merlin, forgive me. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay.” Merlin whispers. “You can’t help how you feel.”
“No. You misunderstand,” Arthur urges, taking Merlin’s hands in clasping them in his own, eyes wild and beseeching, begging Merlin to understand. “Emrys. I was told my soulmate was Emrys, not a ‘Merlin,’ but an ‘Emrys,’ but that’s – that’s you, isn’t it?”
Merlin simply stares, wary disbelief and cautious hope warring in his eyes.
“I thought…I thought you were pushing me to court my soulmate because it was what you thought was best for me. That you were doing what you always do – putting my needs above your own, and I was hurt, thinking that you were so willing to give up what we had. I didn’t know, I didn’t realize. Merlin…”
“Arthur,” he whispers, tentative and longing. “Arthur, what are you saying?”
“I didn’t want my soulmate – I wanted you. I didn’t know it was you.”
“I thought you knew,” Merlin breathes, sinking down to sit beside Arthur. “I thought – when you found out about my magic, and you told me that your soulmate was a sorcerer, I thought that was your way of telling me. I thought we just couldn’t acknowledge it until you were king. Arthur – ”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Merlin. I should have told you every day. I love you. I always have.”
“Gods, Arthur,” Merlin chokes, eyes tear bright. “How could you possibly think I didn’t feel the same?”
Arthur doesn’t know – can’t seem to understand just how easily he let his fears and doubt convince him – but it doesn’t matter anymore, not now, not when he finally has Merlin back in his arms, finally has his soulmate.
He leans in, yearning to taste the lips he’s missed so dearly –
Only for Merlin to double over, coughing up the remainder of his own Hanahaki.
Like Merlin had done for him, Arthur holds him through the gasps and the coughs, whispers words of encouragement and rubs his hands up and down his spine, regret washing over him that it came to this, that the both of them had suffered needlessly.
“We’re a right pair of idiots,” Merlin croaks, the last rose petal falling from his lips. “Gods, Arthur – we could have killed each other.”
Merlin’s words sit heavy in the silence, their weight shocking Arthur to the core, and before he knows it, he’s moving, and Merlin is rushing to meet him in the middle –
Finally, finally, Arthur’s lips meet Merlin’s, and it tastes like coming home.
He pours everything into his kiss – his love, his apology, his devotion, his reverence. If Merlin is indeed a god, Arthur will happily serve him, worship him, for as long as he shall live.
He can feel Merlin’s magic crackling between them, alight like never before, encasing him, enveloping him, and suddenly, his heart is ablaze.
Arthur breaks the kiss with a gasp and clutches at his chest, pulling the neckline of his tunic down, and –
And just above his breastbone lie a golden falcon, shaking itself, as if rising from a decades-long slumber.
“Falcon,” Arthur breathes in wonderment, heart melting at the return of his little bird. His old friend, radiating comfort and care and love – it was him all along.
“No, Arthur,” Merlin says fondly, reaching to place his palm over Arthur’s. “It’s a merlin.”
…
They fall asleep in each other’s arms that night, the first of their forever.
And where their bodies press together, fang and feather finally meet, dazzling dragon and beautiful bird becoming one.