Full list of ships within this: Gwen/Merlin/Lancelot, Gwen/Arthur, Gwen/Morgana, Gwen/Merlin, Gwen/Gwaine, Merlin/Arthur, Merlin/Lancelot. :D

Season 3 spoilers, in case we still warn for those.

As always, I don't own BBC's Merlin or the characters.

Hidden Flames

She's always liked heroes.

The world is a harsh, dark place, after the queen's death; the king provides protection, from outside forces and the plague of magic within, and demands everything in return. But amidst the cold, some people stand out like bright flames in the darkness, and Gwen loves them for that.

Morgana is the first. Morgana is like that when Gwen first meets her, sullen and fierce, and she stays like that; though she learns to forge the sullenness itself into sharp steel beneath silk-like smiles, one as cutting as the other. Other people get used to the injustices and the suffering they see too much of; Morgana grows angrier and more aware with every passing year, until at last she screams at Uther himself and asks her to steal bread from the kitchens and sneaks through the streets of Camelot at night in bright-coloured capes that frighten Gwen more than the rest.

But Gwen loves her for it. She loves to watch her swordplay, and to spare with her, though she's never a true adversary, she loves to see one of her father's swords that she helped make in her hand, and to admire her quick, graceful movements. She stands on the sidelines and cheers as prince Arthur falls under her blows. She watched her bring the point of her sword under his chin, and thinks that Morgana would kill without a second thought.

She loves her for that, too. There's a security to that, a saving line in a labyrinth, in the certitude that Morgana will be there, to fight to the end. Gwen kisses her sword-calluses with reverence, kisses her lips still trembling with powerless fury, her closes eyelids when she bites down tears from having seen too much death. She buries her face in her hair and hugs her close, for hours, sometimes, when she wakes from terrible dreams, and loves her, loves her!...

Yet when Merlin comes along, he sweeps her away the moment he appears.

The thing is, with Morgana, she's a noblewoman, and always has been. Gwen loves that part of her too, but there's a distance between them, all the worse for Morgana's refusal to see it. Morgana can cut down nobles with a jib and walk away, head high and smiling. She has a sword, like any knight, and good instructors. She can argue with the king, and if Gwen sometimes has fearful fantasies of her mistress locked away in a solitary tower, in her mind, there are always stories: songs of a brave, lost princess, murmurs in the street for years and decades. There's no obscurity; not forgetfulness, no normality.

And Morgana doesn't get that taking food from the palace's kitchen is still stealing, and that someone, there, will be held responsible.

Merlin, he's like her, in a way, in ways Morgana isn't. And Merlin is...

Well, he's brave. Brave and kind, and new in town and already throwing himself into trouble because he can't pass by a band of bullies even though he has no chance of winning. Gwen's heart jumps and flutters and she winces in sympathy when the confrontation ends as it had to and she's already thinking of all she'll have to try, get Morgana on the case, talk to Gaius...

And then she meets Merlin. And he's much more than such a stupid, wonderful hero: he has the cutest smile she's ever seen, and those high cheekbones and perfect jaw-line, and he's funny and nice, and self-depreciating and proud and –

Oh, she's a total mess. She's too used to Morgana to get flustered anymore, though sometimes she comes close. With Merlin, she is hopelessly, hopelessly out of commission. He seems to like her anyway. He saves her life. It's – it's wonderful. Even Arthur sees it, even Arthur is wonderful for that, for saving him, and she kisses him, and she really shouldn't have, and she can't regret it.

Then there's Lancelot, and Lancelot is... like a dream come true. He's born in obscurity, like her, like Merlin, and he's everything a knight should be and more. He took up a sword when he didn't have to, to serve and protect those like him. Nothing feels brighter, more hopeful, than the thought of a man like Lancelot among the knights of Camelot, raised to honour and power; he is everything that is right with the world, everything Camelot needs, everything she can ever wish for. The obvious affection between him and Merlin makes her fall even worse.

And, oh, he's gorgeous. And he likes her. She's almost sure – she dares to hope –

And then he's gone. It's so unfair she could cry, and maybe she does cry, a little. Later, Merlin tells her, with a knowing smile, that he'll be back. He seems so sure. He has such hope in the future. She doesn't know why; but she likes it, likes it enough to trust him.

Then her world shatters.

She's not sure when she started to notice Arthur; but probably it was Merlin who brought the change. The prince becomes a person under her friend's daily complaints, many of them smiling and fond, in a way he wasn't when Morgana spoke of him, because in Merlin's tales he's Merlin's equal, even if Arthur himself doesn't know that yet. Or maybe he does. Maybe Merlin changed him; or maybe he just brought out something that was there all along.

Yet she's not sure where it starts. When she stopped thinking of him as a spoiled, arrogant prince, and started to see a brave warrior and leader, ready to lay down his life for his people. She doesn't know when the surprise and the fondness start to change into love, purer, deeper, more desperate than what she has known before.

Because – her world has shattered.

All the heroes in her life, himself the first, they could not save her father. And it was not for lack of bravery and love that they failed; it was for lack of power.

She sits by Arthur's bedside, a wet cloth in her hand, and looks down at his too peaceful face. He is what she truly needs. He is what everyone needs. A hero who will be a king, who will bring safety and justice with a hundred swords and his body thrown into the first line. He is the one who arrested her father. But there is hope yet.

But that's just the start. It takes time. It takes Arthur being an idiot, and yet so willing to learn, and so strong and so strikingly vulnerable, and she has an absurd dream of living with him in her small house by her father's forge, day after day; it's never going to happen, neither that, nor –

Except that she can't, she just can't forget him. And she knows he loves her back. And a spell confirms the strength of their love, and she almost dies for love of him, and her brother almost dies for her love of him, and he's the best, the very best thing that has ever happened to her.

And when, after their victory against Morgana and Morgause, they ride into Camelot, her brother, Lancelot, Merlin, Gwaine... she knows she's entitled to hope for everything.

Time passes.

She loves Arthur, she always will. But perhaps marriage and kingship are not the high point and the end of her route.

"He won't talk to me," she says to Merlin during one of the feasts, in the flickering candlelight of the brightly decorated room.

Arthur has been multiplying the feasts, in and out of court, to keep moral high, with the king stricken down and sick and so many attacks by magic-users on the throne still. Merlin is a guest in this one when he was a servant during the last. He's the king's advisor now and still undresses him at night and arranges for his baths (Gwen can guess why this is, though: they're not ready to give up that thing they've shared since day one). They stand together, in a corner of the room, watching the guests spinning around them; she misses Morgana every time, the way the room would swirl and move towards her in waves.

Gwen thinks it's unfair, sometimes, that Merlin was not raised to knighthood with the others; he can't wield a sword like them, for sure, but for a peasant he fights well and is that all there is to it? But he just laughs when she mentions it to him, something twinkling in his eye; and Arthur made up for it, with the advisor role. But in consequence, it's often like this, the two of them, isolated, they who, alone in their group with Gaius, were not knighted that day, both their role at court at once so high and so uncertain and shaky. So they stand together at feasts and sit across of each other at council tables and tell Arthur to cut it out already, because they love him.

They searched the books, together, when the Chimera attacked, to find its weaknesses. They sat together, up on the wall, fearful and powerless, as their knights rode out to fight it. She kissed him when they finally appeared on the horizon and she counts their silhouettes. She's so elated, so happy, so full of love!... And the thing is, she's never truly stopped loving Merlin. It's not the same deep love, almost drowning her in its intensity, that she feels for Arthur (for Lancelot). It's friendship no less deep mixed with desire, safe and spiky. She's never quite sure of Merlin but in his affection for her. She knows he keeps secrets. She can't begin to imagine what they are.

Merlin stared at her then, a smile on his face and a little dazed, and the automatic "sorry, sorry I didn't mean..." dies on her lips. She did mean it.

"I can arrange to trap him with you," Merlin offers now; he's a little tipsy already; he really can't hold his liquor. "I'm sure Gwaine could think of something."

She bites down a laugh; maybe she's had a little too much wine herself.

"That's not what I meant," she says. "Just – is he alright?"

Is he angry at me, she wants to ask. And it's not fair, it's not fair that she'd have to wonder, that she'd get tongue-tied like she used to two years ago in front of him. He's the one who made the choice for her. He's the one who left.

Perhaps she's projecting.

"He's fine," Merlin says, looking a little sad; then, with a genial smile, like he has just thought of something outright brilliant. "I'm here, aren't I?"

This time she does laugh, and if a few people turn to look at her, disapproving, she doesn't care. She's always loved the friendship, the love between them; it makes her feel oddly calm and safe to think of it.

"You should visit some time, the two of you." She can't talk to Lancelot, it seems. But to the two of them, she can.

Merlin looks at her oddly. His smile is confused but soft.

"Yeah, alright," he says, but the faraway look in his eyes makes her unsure whether he'll even remember in the morning.

"I think it's time you go home," she says gently.

Merlin nods his head and lets himself by guided out of the hall; but outside he pauses, stops, turns towards the way to Arthur's chambers. Gwen heaves a sigh and lets him. The feast is long yet and the reigning prince can't leave early; she'll hear from Arthur about the passed out manservant on his bed in the morning, no doubt.

"How kind of you to come," she says formally, when she opens the door, because she can't think of what else to say.

There are quarters for her in the castle now, but she doesn't use them unless she has to be close to them or when a really soft bed sounds particularly good. One day she'll have no other choice but to move there; but until then, she'll keep her small house by her father's forge.

"Not that I thought you wouldn't come, after you said –" she goes on, after a look on Lancelot's face.

"Hi Gwen," Merlin charitably interrupts her, while Lancelot bows and kisses her hands, making her blush. She's doing it again; it's ridiculous; but after Lancelot left when they'd been in so deep, she's back on square one, with a terrible crush and no idea what to do with it, and maybe this wasn't a good idea...

But she can't bear the distance between them. She let that happen to her once before. She let Morgana go before she'd even left for good.

She guides them inside and towards the dinning table. She's made chicken, and Merlin has to grin at that.

"Did we ever tell you about the time Arthur tried to cook chicken?" he asks Lancelot after she's served them; Gwen thinks that he's a little nervous too, and trying to cover it up, for her.

Lancelot shakes his head; he's sat down next to Merlin, and she's seen the way their hands brush, quiet comfort she has no part in. But he's looking at her, his gaze so intense; she'd almost forgotten that about him. He makes her hearth pound in her breast with something more than a mere crush.

"He didn't," she says, glancing down at her plate.

"He says he tried," Merlin insists, tucking in. "He just didn't even know which side goes up. You'd think with all the birds he kills all the time, he'd have learned something."

"He's a prince," Lancelot says quietly.

Merlin glances up at the following silence, looked back and forth between them. Oh, it was a good idea to ask him to come along.

"You're a knight now," he teases. "Does that mean you forgot how to cook?"

Lancelot smiles faintly.

Merlin does most of the talking that night; Gwen is glad of it. It's so good to see them together. There's something there that even Merlin and Arthur don't have, a trust, an openness even as Merlin overdoes it and Lancelot gives hesitant answers and stares at her across the table.

"We should leave," Lancelot eventually says, after they've helped her with the washing up, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room; the pain in his stance has been getting more obvious throughout the night. I did this, she thinks guiltily, even though she knows she's not being quite fair to herself.

"Don't," she says quickly, and walks up to him; he takes her hands as she holds them out to him, his grip steady but light and unsure, like he can't believe it can last. "Don't leave, not again." She stares him square in the eyes; she wasn't sure it would come to this when she invited them, but she's sure now, so very certain. "I love you."

He draws his hands back as if burned.

"You love Arthur," he says, the fact as evident in his mouth as the sunrise.

"Yes, I love Arthur," she snaps, some irritation slipping into her voice; she would be angry at his denial, for the decision he made for her, but that's part of who he is, and she doesn't want him to change. But she doesn't want him to love her from afar either. She just wants this. "That doesn't mean I don't love you too." She turns to look at Merlin who's hovering in the background, uncertain and on the edge of smiling, and who comes up towards them, drawn in by her pleading gaze. "Both of you." She holds out her hand to Merlin this time, and he takes it, his palm warm against hers.

"But Arthur –" Lancelot starts; the question is in Merlin's gaze as well, even as he squeezes her hand.

"I'll talk to Arthur," she promises. "Just don't – don't leave again. You –"

She breaks off. Merlin is still holding her hand as she steps forward to kiss Lancelot. For the first time, in safety. She can't believe she's waited this long.

Arthur is very busy these days, with little time for quiet, gay reunions in his chamber and hunts and picnics in the forest, but he always has a quiet moment for her.

She drags him into one of the empty chambers in the part of the castle where the queen's quarters used to be. They've done this in the past, though back then it was mostly to make out quietly in-between two meetings and a mythical beast; she has hazy memories of these rooms, a dark brown bedpost next to Arthur's spread out body, the key of an empty wardrobe in her back as she's pushed against it, Arthur's lips on her neck, a case in a corner that she's bent backward over, Arthur's leg between hers...

This one brings no immediate memories, and it's better that way, especially considering what she has to say. She gulps. She hates to give him pain. They don't touch as she speaks.

"I love you," she says. She has to make that clear first.

"I love you too," Arthur says, voice soft, looking at her in askance; he can tell this is a preliminary to something else.

She bites her lips, looks down at her hands where her fingers are twisting nervously; she felt so certain about managing this, last evening.

"I love Lancelot as well. And Merlin." She looks back up; Arthur eyes are wide, his mouth half-open. "And I love you, but I don't want to give them up." She'd meant to say: "I would, if you asked me too. But I don't want to." But it seems cruel, now, to give him that choice.

There's a pause.

"Merlin?" Arthur says.

She laughs, a little shrill, a little nervous.

"Yes. Didn't you – ? Yes. Merlin. It's not the same as with you but..." She trails off. "I can't explain it."

"Right," Arthur mutters, and turns to stare at a spot on the wall behind her.

And she can't – she just can't deal with his silence.

"I'm sorry," she says quickly; she didn't want to, she didn't mean to but – "I'm sorry. Just forget I said anything, it was a stupid –"

"Guinevere," Arthur interrupts her, in that exasperated and loving way he has, and lays a hand on her arm.

She glances up at him.

"It's –" He heaves a sigh. "It's strange. But if it's what you want..."

She nods.

"When we're married, you'll..." he trails off suddenly.

"When we're married?" she prompts. God, has she made him this uncertain?

"You'll have to be careful."

She nods again.

"I know." She smiles weakly. "Thank you."

He kisses her.

It's wonderful. It's wonderful to walk down the castle's corridors with Lancelot on one arm, Merlin on the other (Arthur will catch hell for this one day, but he'll catch hell for marrying her anyway), to meet for quiet dinners in her home, to ride out together, to see them kiss, to feel their bodies pressed against her both at once. They have quiet dinners at home, and they put the luxurious bed in her castle chamber to good use. They do sword-practice, Lancelot giving the instruction and she and Merlin sparring, because Lancelot is as bad as Arthur about hitting her.

It's not that simple, of course. She feels selfish. Lancelot sometimes holds her too tight, like he expects her to vanish any moment. Arthur argues with Merlin more than usual, and thank God they're over the phase of their relationship where Arthur threw heavy objects. He throws Lancelot to the ground during practice (more than usual). He's needy and demanding when they have sex. Her own brother shakes his head at her in desperation. Only Gwaine laughs and takes it in stride.

And it's easy to flirt with Gwaine.

He finds her in the very back of the tavern, on a quiet, solitary table, and puts down a full beer mug in front of her with a heavy clang and a flourish.

"You," he says, with an exaggerated gesture, "look like someone who could use some beer." He drops down on the chair across of her. His eyes are twinkling, and she can't help but smile.

"Thank you," she says, and takes a gulp. It's cold and pleasant, and why go to a tavern if you don't plan to drink?

"So..." Gwaine begins. "You look as lovely as ever."

She smiles into her cup. She doesn't look lovely; she looks a mess, because she went out in a hurry, everything around her, the people she loves, suddenly too much to deal with.

"No answer," he says. "Let's try something else."

She looks up, raises her eyebrows at him in challenge. He takes a deep breath.

"Princess Esmeralda," he starts; she grins again and puts on an attentive face. "I was almost right too. A knight's sister. A prince's fiancée."

"It's still not my name," she says, with a little shake of her head and a smile; a curl falls over her face.

"It will be," he says and draws out his arm in a wide gesture, as if asking he the pay attention to the fascinating landscape of the tavern. "I can see... the future."

"Can you?"

He learns over the table, very close; she pushes her own head forward, a little closer; he can see into her cleavage; she doesn't mind.

"Do you know," he asks, and leers at her, "what I see?"

She laughs and looks down, and he learns back into his chair.

"Too much?" he asks.

"A little," she says, and it seems she can't stop grinning. "Aren't you drinking anything?"

"No money," Gwaine says promptly, and lays a finger on his lips when she stares down at the mug in front of her in askance.

"I'll treat you," she says.

Gwaine almost swoons at her.

"I love you," he declares.

It gets better with time, perhaps because they realise that she's not testing out her options to figure out what to chose, that she wants exactly this, all of it. Lancelot stops looking at her like she is a faraway, unattainable figure, stops kissing her always like he is drowning. Arthur stops hitting Merlin and Lancelot with sticks more than is strictly necessary, and if Merlin sometimes doesn't come back from Arthur in the evening, well, that's fine as well.

She catches looks between him and Lancelot, however, that she can't read, and twice they fall silent as she walks in. There's a secret there, she can feel that much. She doesn't pry.

Gwaine is a great kisser. She's not surprised.

Then, one day, as she's sitting in her castle chamber mending a dress, they come to her; Merlin stops in the door and stares at the ground. Lancelot walks inside, stops in front of her.

"Gwen?"

There's something up, she can feel that; she puts the dress aside.

"Yes?"

"We need to talk to you." It's Lancelot speaking, while Merlin stares at him intensely; she feels chilled by the solemnity; unbidden, she thinks of Morgana.

"Did something happen?" she asks.

"No," Lancelot says quickly.

"I just need to show you something," Merlin adds, speaking for the first time, and there's something eager in his tone. "Not here," he adds. "Back at your house?"

They leave the castle's walls behind them; they close the door securely, and shut all the blinds. She lights a candle, and Merlin sits in front of it, an uncertain, exited smile on his lips. Lancelot stands behind him like a protective shadow, even as she sits across of Merlin.

"Look," Merlin whispers.

He holds out his hand to the candle; and then his eyes glow golden, and the flame begins to move, switches to the left, the right, rises up and swirls around.

She can only stare.

"You learned a spell," she whispers. "Are you mad?"

"What?" Merlin, who's been observing the flame in concentration, looks up, the flame returning to the candle. "No! I didn't learn one spell, I'm magic!"

"What?"

"I'm magic. I have magic." He waves around an arm. "I've always been. I did magic the first day I came to Camelot."

"Oh God," she whispers. She glances up at Lancelot. "You knew," she realises.

"It's why I had to leave the first time," he says, serious. "I couldn't take the credit for Merlin's victory."

"That was all you, riding out against the griffon," Merlin teases, then glances back at her. "I use it to – mostly to save Arthur's ass. Are you okay with this?"

He sounds fearful.

"Of course!" she says quickly. "Not that I'm not shocked, or worried for you, because I am, but –"

"I knew you would be," Merlin says softly. "But I –" His shoulder slump. "I don't really know."

"It's fine," she says softly, wondering. That changes everything and yet so little. This is still Merlin; but he's even more a hero than she ever knew; a secret, magical saviour. And what does it say about Arthur...?

She has a sudden doubt.

"Arthur knows, of course."

Merlin stares at her, his eyes still faintly golden in the candlelight.

"Arthur?"

"He doesn't? How can you nottell him?"

"He's the prince," Merlin says, slowly, like he's not sure if this is really the question she's asking. "He's Uther's son." She waits, and Merlin's shoulders slump. "I'll tell him, eventually. It's not fair to him to do it now."

He seems very set in this. This can't be it, she thinks. This can't be what Merlin wants, the lying, the hunt against magic that still goes on.

"You're lying to him," she says; if this had been anyone else, she would have doubted them now; maybe magic is not evil at its core; but every user of it she has known of was one who hated and attacked Camelot. But she just can't stop trusting Merlin; it's no in her. "It's going to be worse if you wait." She glances up at Lancelot for help, but the knight just shrugs his shoulders, and he's right. It's Merlin's choice to make. And it will be fine: they're mending things, already, he and Arthur.

"I'm sorry to ask you to lie to Arthur," Merlin says softly. "But I didn't want you to be the only one –" He turns round to Lancelot. "It didn't seem fair."

She doesn't answer. She opens the blinds and lets the spring-air in, and thinks about all she could say to make Merlin change his mind. It's a harsh thing to think, but Uther is as good as dead. Lancelot is a knight; Merlin an advisor; she almost a queen. The future is now.

And she's learned that even heroes sometimes need a little pushing into the right direction. She can do that.

"Thank you for telling me," she says softly; Merlin looks relieved, and she no longer wonders at his mood lifting so dramatically with Lancelot's return; it's not just the love; it's no longer being alone with a terrible secret. She will hate lying to Arthur indeed; but she's glad to be part of this.

In front of Lancelot she stops and lays her head back against his shoulder; he draws an arm around her, and when Merlin stands up, she takes his hands into hers and raises them to her lips.

end

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