Chapter Two : The Tale

Arthur was hugging him.

Merlin could not believe it. After everything that had happened, after all the lies he had told, after what he had just confessed…

A giddy feeling rose up in him, a wave of relief overpowering all else. Arthur knows. And he doesn't hate me.

It felt like the world was spinning around him. Like the sun had just come out after the longest night of his life. Arthur doesn't hate me. Merlin clung to his King, his friend, as if Arthur was the only thing holding him up. Arthur accepts me. It didn't feel real.

For long minutes they clung to each other as the emotion poured out of them both, anchoring each other as the world restructured itself around them.

Arthur knows.

Merlin has magic.

When everything started to steady, Arthur drew back, studying his friend's face. They eased into sitting positions closer to the fire.

"Why did you lie to me?" he asked eventually. Merlin had dreaded the question, but the anger he was expecting wasn't there. Hurt, yes. But not anger.

He let out a long breath. "I wanted to tell you. Gods, how I wanted to. I came so close, so many times."

"So why didn't you?"

"When we first met, you would have chopped my head off." It was a simple statement, accompanied by a cheeky grin that was so effortlessly Merlin that it stirred the urge to throw something at him.

At first Arthur opened his mouth to protest, the thought abhorrent, but Merlin raised an eyebrow – eerily like Gaius – and he reconsidered as he thought back to the day they had first met. When Merlin had confronted him about the way he had tormented his servant, and Arthur had retaliated by having him arrested.

Yes, if he had known that Merlin was a sorcerer (warlock?) back then he would certainly have had him executed. Then Arthur thought of those first few days again and his mouth dropped open. "That day in the market! You cheated!"

His manservant actually had the nerve to grin at him. "Is it cheating if you're born with it?"

Arthur spluttered. "It-it's magic! It's illegal!"

"I warned you." Merlin shrugged playfully.

"No, you-" Then he remembered. That strange confrontation. I could take you apart with one blow.

I could take you apart with less than that.

"You meant... magic?" It was strange to say it, and yet strange how right it sounded. "Could you actually?" Merlin have him a questioning look, as if he were a complete idiot (a look Arthur was unfortunately used to and that never failed to make him growl) and he elaborated, "Take me apart in less than one blow?"

Merlin flinched but didn't drop his gaze. "Probably."

Arthur whistled. "Why didn't you?" Because he hadn't been holding back then, even knowing that Merlin was a peasant with absolutely no combat experience whereas Arthur had had years and years of deadly training. Merlin could have hurt him, would have been justified even. Yet all Arthur remembered was a lot of tripping.

"In the heart of Camelot? Despite what you say I'm not actually an idiot, Arthur. And I would never use my magic like that." A fleeting smile. "Not even on an ass."

"Maybe not in the market, but later? You had plenty of opportunity."

"If I had wanted you dead, Arthur," Merlin said quietly, "I wouldn't have saved you from Lady Helen. Or the poisoned chalice. Or any of the magical beasties you faced before or since. I told you, you're my friend. I could never hurt you, with magic or otherwise."

Arthur's questions stung a little but Merlin understood where he was coming from. Because why would any magic user protect a Pendragon? Almost all the sorcerers Arthur had ever known had tried to kill him.

"Anyway, we're getting off the subject. After a while, after we became… sort of friends, I didn't really believe that you would have me executed. I nearly told you in Ealdor, actually, and I would have if we hadn't been interrupted. I trusted you enough even then. But you might have banished me if you had known, and then you would have been dead."

He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that Arthur almost didn't protest. Almost. "I can look after myself, you know, Merlin."

His servant just rolled his eyes. "I lost count a long time ago of how many times you would have been dead if it weren't for me. But even if that wasn't it… Camelot is my home too, Arthur. I didn't want to leave, though as much as I feared the consequences, I still wanted to tell you. More than that, though… if I had told you when Uther was king, you would have had to choose. Me or him. No matter how much I wanted to tell you the truth I never wanted to put you in that position, never wanted to risk you committing treason. It wasn't safe."

Arthur's heart twisted, because he couldn't be mad at that. It actually made sense. And it was just like Merlin, stupid, self-sacrificing Merlin, to think of Arthur's needs and feelings before his own. "And after I became king?"

The sadness in Merlin's eyes deepened, memories that Arthur had never even suspected swirling in them. "You were convinced sorcery was evil. How could I tell you that I had magic? I never wanted to make you hate me, Arthur. I couldn't stand to see hate and fear and betrayal in your eyes. I couldn't live if you hated me. I was afraid."

His voice was a timid whisper, scared in a way Arthur had never, ever seen Merlin be. It almost physically shook him, the reminder of just how much he meant to this crazy, wonderful man before him. His brother in all but blood.

"There were times when that was not true. When I was unsure about magic. You could have told me." Even if everything Merlin had said was right.

Merlin bowed his head. "I have never told anyone before, Arthur. Anyone not like me, anyway. Not ever."

"What?"

"The only people who know I have magic are those who saw me. My mother drilled one principal into me every moment since my birth: do not tell. Those words… I have magic. I have never spoken them before. I have never told anyone. Ever."

The enormity of what he was saying was staggering. The amount of trust Merlin had placed in him. Arthur remembered how he had looked just before those damning three words, so afraid, tortured even.

"Merlin… thank you." He said, suddenly humbled. "Thank you for trusting me."

Merlin gave an honest smile. "Thank you for listening."

Arthur studied his friend, that smile. The relief in it. The joy. Merlin smiled all the time, but not like that, so unguarded, so free. As if Arthur had handed him the world. "Tell me," he said. "Tell me everything."

And Merlin did.

He spoke of dragons and destinies and legends. Of sorcerers and priestesses and spirits. Of monsters and men and those that were in between. He left nothing out, even those things he was least proud of.

He spoke of Nimueh. Of Mordred. Of Kilgharrah. The griffin, the questing beast, the troll. Sigan. Tristan du Bois. Aridean. Morgause. Alined and Trickler and Cenred. The goblin. The Sidhe. The manticore. What he had done for Gwen, how he had nearly burned for it. The cup of life. Immortal armies – two of them. The Dorocha. Aithusa. The Formorah. Alator. The Lamia. Lancelot's Shade. Guinevere's desperate flight from Morgana. Excalibur in the stone.

All those things he had never told anyone he told Arthur that night. Even about Freya. About Balinor.

He confided his fears, about his secrets, about Mordred. About being Emrys, what it meant to have an impossibly heavy destiny hanging over you, how he hated it and yet would never give up on Arthur. Not only his Once and Future King but Arthur. Just Arthur. The man behind the crown. Merlin's friend, something which suddenly meant more than any title.

Some of what he said was horrifying. Some of it was shocking, and dark, and unbelievable. Some of it made Arthur rage and shout, and some of it made him cry.

And at the end of it, that impossible tale of destiny and magic and friendship, Arthur was left awed and humbled.

Just how much Merlin had done for him. Without asking for anything, without a word of thanks.

How awfully Arthur had treated him and yet Merlin had stayed by his side anyway, asking nothing, unwaveringly loyal even as Arthur openly condemned him and all his kind. Never doubting, even for a minute, that even if Arthur did not bring back magic that he was a good king.

They had talked late into the night, until both were exhausted and there was little left to be said, and, even then, Arthur could not begin to comprehend the magnitude of it. How lucky he was to have Merlin. Not Emrys but Merlin. His servant. His friend. His faith and loyalty, the kind normally sung of only in legends.

He barely slept, mind whirling, even as exhaustion dug through him, even as Merlin banked and maintained the fire with just a few words. After looking at Arthur for approval, for permission, of all things.

He did not understand yet, but that was alright. He had Merlin. As long as he had Merlin, he would be just fine.