He'd saved Guinevere, and Arthur, and all Avalon. Again.
He'd felt bitter victory before, when the price of it scarcely seemed worth the outcome. But this was different. Things, he felt, would be forever changed by this. They would be forever changed. Not least Guinevere, who might as well have been dead for so long; then Arthur, whose castle and chamber had been so invaded, and his most beloved violated by his most loathed; his most recent companion by his most ancient. So Merlin would have to be the strong one. Again.
He made his way to the Royal Chambers, carrying a carafe of the best wine in Camelot. A celebration is in order, Arthur had announced once they had returned from the Cauldron. He had ordered Merlin to feed and stable the horses, to bring them supper, and afterwards to bring wine.
Hours later, after the sun had set, Merlin shuffled the half-empty carafe awkwardly from one hand to the other, uncertain what to do with himself. Arthur and Guinevere looked solemn and unsure.
"Join us, Merlin," Guinevere said at length, retrieving a third goblet. She filled it herself – the skill of a servant and the grace of a queen, Merlin thought. He glanced at Arthur, who smiled weakly and tipped his goblet silently, a private toast. Merlin nodded at him as Guinevere again took her place. No one raised a toast, nor mentioned Morgana. It wasn't necessary: the ghosts she'd left at Camelot filled every empty space.
It was supposed to be a celebration, Merlin thought. Gaius would have told him to let himself be happy. It should have been the happiest occasion they had had in weeks, and yet all three were silent. It was as though the relief and hope they had felt that afternoon had sunk with the setting sun, giving way to the darkness. Merlin no longer felt any real satisfaction or pride over having performed the ritual. And he could see in Arthur's face that optimism had given way to concern over Morgana's power and reach. Guinevere looked no longer relieved and free as her ordeal and her attempts at Arthur's life no doubt came back to her.
After silently emptying the carafe, Guinevere sighed. "It has been a long day." She glanced at them both in turn. "If you'll both excuse me, I think I shall retire."
She stood and turned before Arthur could see her off chivalrously. Instead, he took a last long sip of wine and followed her. Merlin sat dumb, alone at the King's personal table, and with the best wine in Camelot still singing in his throat. It occurred to him that he should not be there, not with or without the King and Queen. Another day, it would perhaps have made him quite happy, and a little bit smug. Tonight it only made him uncomfortable. He shook himself and began to clear the table. In an effort to be brief, he knocked over a goblet.
The sound of metal on hard wood seemed to echo around the chamber, and when he picked it up, the silence seemed even more profound that it had before, so that when Arthur spoke, he almost dropped it again.
"Come, Merlin."
Merlin turned, expecting to see a chastising face, and ready with a poor apology, but the words died on his lips. Arthur looked frighteningly breakable, although he tried to hide it under an expression of aloof self-importance. But what really struck Merlin was that it had not been a command or an admonishment. It had been an invitation.
"Do – do you not wish to be, uh, alone tonight, Sire? With the Queen, I mean." He glanced at Guinevere as she appeared behind him, her expression soft but troubled. Arthur smiled the first genuine smile he had all evening.
"Quit babbling, Merlin." Arthur took a step forward, although whether his goal was intimidation or something else entirely, Merlin did not know. "If we wanted to be alone, would you be here?" It was the same tone of voice he used when he wanted Merlin to know exactly how stupid he thought he was. But there was something else in it: a challenge, perhaps, or a question.
"I – I suppose not," was all he managed before Arthur's hand wrapped around his jaw, pulling upwards. Arthur's fingertips were rough against his cheek, his stubble rough against his lips.
It was a short kiss, certain and desperate. It surprised Merlin less than it should have, and less than he knew it would in the morning. When Arthur's eyes came into focus, he saw fire in them for the first time since they had left the Cauldron. The grip on his jaw was tight, and it occurred to him that Arthur was holding back.
Something rustled behind them, and Merlin remembered quite suddenly that not only were they not alone, but that this was absolutely ridiculous. This was Arthur and Gwen, and more importantly, his King and Queen. He could probably be sentenced for treason for this.
Perhaps this was not happening, after all, but was another of Morgana's cruel tricks. She was toying with their minds even still with a twisted love spell, or a dream planted in his mind. But he knew the tickle and taste of magic, knew its darkness, now, too, and he knew that this was not it.
Arthur's eyes left his, and Merlin followed his gaze. Guinevere looked from one to the other, took their hands in hers and smiled reassuringly. As Arthur released his grip on Merlin's jaw, it occurred to Merlin that this was actually happening. He wasn't entirely certain if that was a relief or not until Guinevere turned so that her dress could be unfastened. Merlin's fingers were unused to the task, and careful in handling the delicate fastenings. Arthur watched, close behind Merlin but not touching. When Guinevere's dress fell to the floor, Merlin felt a warm, steady hand on his hip, pulling him back, pressing him to Arthur's front.
Guinevere spun and pressed herself against his chest as Arthur attempted to untie Merlin's trousers, his fumbling royal hands almost incapable. Merlin wanted to tease him, and had this been yesterday, or tomorrow, certainly would have. Instead, he just smiled silently into Guinevere's mouth as she kissed him not so differently to the way Arthur had, confident and needy, only slower. Arthur tugged impatiently at the knot of his trousers, tugging at Merlin's crotch with it.
Then Arthur's hand was gone, and his warmth, and Guinevere was pulling them both towards the large bed. She pulled Arthur's shirt over his head, then her own undergarment. They both looked expectantly at Merlin. Once his clothes were on the floor, there was a moment of stillness as they glanced at one another, surrounded by candlelight in the darkness.
They needed him, he realised finally. They didn't want to be alone, not any more than he did, and not even together. Perhaps they needed a third party simply to assure them that everything was indeed okay, like Merlin was the pinch that made them certain they were awake. Perhaps it was nothing so complicated as that, though. The way Arthur and now Guinevere held him was needy but affectionate. The more Merlin thought about it, in fact, the more it made sense: they needed him separately, he realised, but moreso they needed him together. They needed him so that they could be together.
He wasn't sure who moved first after that, but it seemed that everything happened very suddenly, as though a every veneer and facade they had ever shown each other had toppled at once. Everything he'd ever felt for Arthur or Guinevere, everything he'd ever wanted from them disappeared and yet doubled when he realised that he needed them, too. He'd been so preoccupied with things having gone right that he'd not quite acknowledged that had something gone wrong today, all would have been lost. The kingdom would have fallen, and Arthur and Guinevere would have been lost to him forever.
And it would have been his fault. His two closest friends, gone because he couldn't save them. Arthur lay back against the headboard, Guinevere reclining comfortably against him and offering her hand to Merlin. He took it without hesitation and knelt on the bed, between their thighs. Arthur's face pressed against her hair, her hand reached back against his cheek. His hands travelled freely, familiar with the plains that drew sighs and the hollows that drew gasps. He kissed her name into her shoulder, as though she had been long absent. Merlin supposed that she had.
He placed his hand over hers on Arthur's cheek, kissed him as hard as he could without losing his balance. Arthur bit a promise into his bottom lip as he pulled away. Merlin kissed Guinevere's face, down her neck, his strikingly pale fingers running from her wrists to her ribs, stopping to trace the hair under her arm. Guinevere pulled Arthur's mouth to hers.
Merlin simply watched, caught between their breaths as he was between their thighs, until Arthur lifted a hand to Merlin's face. Only his fingertips could reach Merlin's cheek, and as they brushed their way from jaw to lips, Merlin felt his eyes flare. He closed them instantly, desperately realising how close to losing control he really was. But Arthur's thumb was insistent on his bottom lip, and a small hand placed his own on a round hip, and he knew the danger was gone. Opening his eyes carefully, he quelled the danger rising inside with practiced precision, and watched Arthur's mouth move against Guinevere's. Arthur's tongue swept across her bottom lip just as his thumb swept across Merlin's. It felt like the final invitation, the last chance and the last permission.
Merlin's long fingers curved around Guinevere's waist. The walls heard nothing but their rhythmic breaths, the whisper of skin on skin as Merlin's hands framed her breasts, thumbs teasing slowly back and forth across her nipples. Arthur's hands held her hipbones, fingers barely brushing hair, stroking the crease between her thighs and mons. She lifted her knees so that Merlin could sit closer. Instead he moved further down, tongue and lips replacing his thumb on her nipple.
He kissed over her belly, across her hips, licking where Arthur's fingers met her skin, following down through her dark hair. Arthur's pinky was pressed along the crease at the top of her thigh. Merlin licked again, sucked the tip of Arthur's finger, and saw his thigh jerk against Guinevere's hip.
Releasing the finger with a soft scrape of his teeth along the underside, Merlin's mouth moved to Guinevere's outer lips and she gasped. Guinevere turned again to kiss Arthur, heatedly, unsteadily as though she could somehow fall, enveloped as she was by her them both. Someone's hand tangled in his hair and tugged. Arthur. He smiled – smirked, really – as his tongue licked up, barely pushing between her lips. He wrapped an arm under her knee, around her thigh, his hand covering Arthur's in the crook of her hip. A third hand closed over theirs, grip insistent, a plea.
He had never been able to deny Guinevere, even when she gave him the option, and had absolutely no intentions of doing so tonight.
Guinevere was unravelling between them as sure as she was being put back together, Morgana's bitter, furious magic blown away like dust with every breath they took against her neck and thigh. And what was beneath was strong and sweet, bright and bold and forever changed. He pulled her towards him, dragging her down, and both she and Arthur hissed in surprise. He flattened his other palm against her pubic hair, pulling up, using his thumb to spread her lips. She groaned, her hand tightening over Merlin's on her hip.
If he flattened his tongue just so, he could feel her pulse, barely-there but fast and alive. He refused to think about how close they had come to losing her; how completely they had lost her for so long. What Morgana must have done to her, to turn so good a person to such hate and coldness...
His hand glided up her stomach, waist, across her chest, stopping against her heart. Strong fingers closed over his wrist, closing over his own pulse, as though they knew what Merlin had been looking for in Guinevere. His breathing quickened from so knowing a touch, from its lack of gentleness, its sheer want. He looked up again, passing over Guinevere's flushed body, taught and panting, her mouth open, pink, her eyes closed tightly. She looked more alive, more herself than she had in so many months.
For the first time, he licked into her, and his eyes snapped open as Arthur's mouth closed over two of Merlin's fingers.
He had thought earlier that he'd never seen Arthur so patient, so content to wait, but when he their eyes met, he realised that Arthur wasn't waiting at all. That he was here with them, and that this would not be over before dawn pushed at the drapes. Arthur's tongue seemed somehow to mimic Merlin's own, although Merlin thought that perhaps it was the other way around. He felt his face go hot, glad for the dim light, as Arthur mouthed, sucked deliberately at his middle and fourth finger. His tongue ran between them as he pulled Merlin's hand away and down, over Guinevere's shoulder and breast, leaving a small glittering path down her body.
Once he was sure that Merlin understood, Arthur let go, wrapping his arm across her chest, his hand holding her breast. Pausing only long enough to seek her shuddered permission, Merlin's fingers pushed into her. He felt her arch towards him as she threw her thigh over his shoulder.
He leaned back slightly, tasting her on his lip, touching only with his hands. He watched her muscles flex under her dampening skin, sweat beading at the hollow of her neck and in the hair under her arms as she reached behind, gripping the back of Arthur's neck. She was hot and tight around his fingers.
Above him her groans grew louder, echoing in the bedchamber. Arthur's breathing stuttered as she buried her face in his neck, her hand releasing him to instead grip Merlin's hair. With her guidance, Merlin kissed the apex of her dark lips chastely, once, then ran his tongue slowly from where his fingers curled inside her to her clitoris. The pitch of her moans was higher, louder on every stroke of his fingers, every flick of his tongue. Her hips jerked against his hand and mouth. Her back arched as she tensed, held together between them, Arthur's arm around her chest and their three hands still clutching together at her hip. He didn't slow down until her hand fell from his hair and her thigh slipped from his shoulder. She moaned softly with every slow kiss and stroke, until her hand closed around Merlin's wrist gently and he stopped.
He heard Arthur mumble something into her hair, and when Merlin's eyes touched her face, there was a smile there. Fond, and a little bit knowing, and Merlin paused for a moment to press his cheek into her thigh and return it. She inhaled sharply in the suddenly silent room as he pulled out of her. They made no attempt to speak. They weren't ready, not yet.
It felt like a brief respite from the chaos, from the silent, needy tumult of their coming together. Her wetness like purple silk on his tongue, heavy, soft, and decadent; heat building in his own groin when he passed a hand, still wet and warm, over himself; his free hand between two others, holding him down, here.
Arthur was moving, then, Guinevere's hair decorating the pillows as she reclined in his place. He took something from underneath the pillows; Merlin recognised the bottle as one of Gaius'. He stood by the bed, stepped towards Merlin to finger his hair, to wipe his glistening lips clean with a thumb, to wrap fingers around his jaw once again and pull. Merlin went willingly, although his hand tightened on Guinevere's hip. Arthur's mouth covered his, adding velvet to silk as he kissed into him. They both groaned as Arthur pulled away, but then Guinevere was holding Merlin's cheek and pulling up.
It felt like thanks when she kissed him, and hope. She kissed with the elegance of a queen, and the passion that was so beautifully her own. The passion which had made her stand up to Uther, to fight for her family. The passion that flared in her eyes years ago as she teased and flirted with Merlin, that had been stolen from her for too long. He bit back sudden tears, surprised, reminding himself that it was over now, at least for the time being. At least for tonight.
Making his way to the end of the bed, Arthur's hand dragged down Merlin's spine. He arched into Guinevere as Arthur's fingers spread across his backside. The covers moved under his knees as Arthur settled against him, thigh to thigh. Merlin buried his face in Guinevere's hair, weight on his elbows, and he fisted the coverlet when Arthur leaned back, dragging his length between Merlin's buttocks, pushing briefly between his thighs. It was all the courtesy Arthur would give him, he knew, all the warning. If he didn't want Arthur to take him here, now, exactly like this, this was his opportunity to refuse. Merlin almost laughed, thought hadn't ever needed anything so badly in his life.
He pushed back against Arthur, up onto his knees, sacrificing his position against Guinevere. But then her hands ran up his thighs, skimmed over Arthur's hands, scratched just enough across his back, and he forgot to miss it.
Behind him, Arthur huffed, as though surprised, and fingers dug into his hip. Something cold dripped onto him, trickled down, pulling a shiver and a quiet yelp from him. He felt it drip from his testicles to the bed beneath. The next drip started at his tailbone was caught by a finger just as quickly, which trailed the same path down, palming Merlin's hot length. He shivered again at the cold. Arthur's finger travelled slowly up, grazing, drip, down, only this time he pushed in. At any other time, Arthur would have made fun of the noise he made, and he was glad he couldn't see the smirk that he knew was on his face.
As Arthur's finger teased him slowly, Guinevere's hands were everywhere. He sunk lower on his knees, pushing back against Arthur, rubbing himself awkwardly into Guinevere's soft belly. He thought he heard himself whimper at that, although it could have been Guinevere or Arthur; his head was reeling pleasantly, his face, his whole body, too hot. Arthur's fingers were too much, and definitely not enough, and he knew he could ease the burn and fill the need. All it would take was a silent word from his own lips. But he couldn't, not here, not with them, not after the horrors that magic had just brought them.
It was frustrating, his need. He needed them, to share himself with them. It felt like they were finally becoming whole again, after so long, but that didn't mean the same thing for Merlin as it did for them. They knew that magic had saved them, but it had also ruined them first. Besides, he thought, he wanted to feel this come morning; Guinevere's fingernails trailing heat on his back, Arthur pressing inside him.
He would need to feel it tomorrow, because tomorrow Morgana truly became their enemy, and he wasn't yet used to the idea that she was beyond salvation. He pushed the thoughts aside – they belonged in the darkness of another time. For now, he buried himself between Guinevere's shoulder and Arthur's hips.
All too soon, he felt Arthur pull away. He barely raised his head before he felt more cold liquid against his skin, heard the surely empty bottle hit the coverlet with a quiet thud. Arthur's hands were fluttery against his skin for a moment, as though he was briefly unsure what to do, but they anchored themselves to his waist and pulled him back onto his hands and knees. The way he thrust into Merlin was anything but unsure. It was not nearly so gentle as he had been with Guinevere, so patient, and nor did he wish it to be. Arthur growled low in his throat, and Merlin let himself get lost.
When his release finally came, it was with Guinevere's hand wrapped around him roughly; Arthur's own release driven into him, fingerprint-bruised into his hips and bitten into his shoulder blade. He hadn't felt release so pure since the first day he'd used his magic.
Afterwards, they lay together. Merlin held Guinevere's breast in one hand, caressing gently, as the other reached behind him, tangled in Arthur's hair. Arthur's chest was warm against his back, his breath hotter against his neck, slowly becoming less ragged. Guinevere's leg was thrown over Merlin's, Arthur's steady hand holding her thigh.
It was strange, he thought, how much he had missed Guinevere since she had married Arthur. He hadn't really noticed a great deal. But now, lying against her, he realised that he had missed her soft arms, the texture of hair that always smelled so comfortingly feminine.
The wine, he suspected, had been a powerful catalyst, but it would be a lie to say that it had been the cause. He wasn't sure whether there had really been a cause at all, or whether this had been a culmination of many things. Of the tension and fear of the past few months, of the youthful flirtations of years ago, of the relief in the present and looming uncertainty of the future. Destiny, he thought, had not prepared him or this. And it gave him a tiny, dangerous flicker of hope that maybe that meant that Destiny could be wrong. Not about everything, but just about enough to leave him a choice.
As he watched the heavy drapes fend off the rising sun, he remembered Mordred's words returning from the Cauldron. Arthur's a lucky man. Not just to have Gwen, but to have you. What Mordred had not realised, of course, was that despite everything, despite their secrets and betrayals, despite all the things that he and his friends might never share, they were all lucky. At least for now.