Sometimes, Merlin thought about telling Arthur about his magic.

Sometimes, he also thought about keeping it a secret forever until both of them had been dead for ages and it mattered to no one any longer.

(And other times, according to Arthur, he didn't really think at all.)

…

The main problem about confessing anything to Arthur was that Arthur could be as flighty as a feline when it came to magic. One week, he'd go from cursing magic users up and down the wall, and the next, he would admit that maybe they weren't all that bad and perhaps even a little useful - not that he had anyone specific in mind, he claimed.

Each time Merlin thought about broaching the subject, however, something negative occurred and nipped the idea in the bud.

First, a sorceress sent a raging maelstrom upon Camelot that Merlin had to stop before all of the crops in the surrounding field were flattened.

Next, a sorcerer turned Uther into a toad, and Merlin and Arthur had to chase the hopping mad monarch around the castle on their hands and knees before he got killed by one of the hunting dogs or citadel cats.

After that, before Merlin could hardly get Arthur's pants mended, they had to hunt down a sorceress who had threatened to kill not only Uther (relatable) but also Arthur (also relatable).

Every blasted time Merlin opened his mouth, it was as though thunder broke. He wanted to tell Arthur, but he didn't know how.

So he kept his mouth shut and lied through his teeth.

And tried not to think about turning Uther back into a toad.

…

The sorceress did not kill Arthur. Instead, she died herself, another one of the poor souls bitter and tired of living in a world that hated her.

Merlin felt as though his limbs were made of lead as he took the lead to Arthur's horse and started tugging it and his own towards the stables.

"I just wish we could have saved her. There was good in her."

He almost stopped in his tracks.

They were the very words he had been thinking, but they had come from Arthur's mouth.

There was good in her.

There was good in her.

The words echoed around in Merlin's head for days afterwards.

There was good in her.

That meant Arthur could believe that there was good in Merlin. That magic wasn't the evil, twisted thing Uther had always wanted everyone to believe.

There was hope.

There was good in her.

"I don't know what to do," Merlin lamented to Lancelot over a pint at The Golden Dragon. "I want to tell him, but I keep thinking that maybe I didn't hear him right or I didn't understand what he really meant. Maybe he hasn't really changed."

Lancelot seemed to consider this. "Well…Arthur is not the same person he was before he met you. It may be best to tell him now before another sorcerer unfortunately tries to kill him." He coughed into his sleeve. "It may sway his opinion."

"Maybe not. That sorcerer just might be me," Merlin muttered before taking a sip of his ale.

"He's been in a good mood lately. Why don't you try before his birthday feast?" Lancelot suggested.

That was true. There was nothing Arthur liked more than food and feasting, and the idea of it had made him slightly less grouchy the past couple of days. But Merlin still wasn't sure. Every time he thought about the idea of letting the cat out of the bag, his stomach felt like it was being tied in a Gordian knot. "You were nearby when he made that comment. Do you think he meant it?"

Lancelot coughed again.

Merlin wondered if Lancelot was coming down with a cold.

Lancelot seemed to be oddly interested in his ale (for Lancelot), but before Merlin could ask him if everything was all right, Gwaine sauntered over and dropped an arm over each of their shoulders. "Hey, how about we hit the tavern up the street?" he suggested. "I heard someone's paying for everybody's drinks over there. It'd be a shame to miss out."

"Oh, no, you've had enough. We're already going to have to drag you home like a sack of potatoes," Merlin complained, but before he could finish his conversation with Lanceloet, Gwaine had dragged him off.

But Merlin still thought about it when he was polishing the stubborn toe on Arthur's favorite pair of leather walking boots, when he was hauling the prat out of bed at noon, and when he was lying in bed and staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night.

The very idea of telling Arthur was burning him from the inside. If he didn't say anything, it would consume him from within, but if he did say something and Arthur didn't approve…well, he would be burning from the outside, then.

But there was good in him.

And Lancelot had practically said that it wasn't a bad idea, per say. He thought there was a chance. That it should even possibly be done sooner than later.

Merlin made up his mind.

He was going to tell Arthur.

No beating around the bush, no excuses, he was just going to tell him. No time seemed right, so he would just have to get it out before he lost his nerve for the umpteenth time.

(And, if Arthur did have a problem with it, it wouldn't be the first time Merlin had knocked him out.)

Marching to Arthur's chambers, he rehearsed what he was going to say.

"Arthur," he said, throwing the door open and scaring the tar out of the prince, and then Arthur again because this is not a one-Arthur situation. "I have magic."

The door slammed shut behind him.

For a second, Arthur stared at him, non-comprehending, as the papers he had been holding fluttered around him like little birds.

"I have magic," Merlin repeated.

Multiple emotions flashed across Arthur's face.

Shock.

Frustration.

Disappointment.

Then, resolve.

"No," Arthur said almost petulantly. "You don't."

"I do, Arthur, and I swear, I've only used it for good, for you-"

Cutting him off and stepping forward, Arthur put both hands on Merlin's shoulders and gripped tightly until Merlin stopped his ramble. "No, you don't have magic. You can't."

This was going worse than Merlin had hoped. He'd been expecting rage and banishment, perhaps, but outright denial?

He eyed the heavy book on Arthur's desk. "I-"

"Listen, Merlin, I've made a bet with the knights. Honestly, I didn't think you'd have the nerve to admit to it after all these years. But you can't confess you have magic until after my birthday feast, do you understand?"

Merlin did not understand.

Quite the opposite.

Apparently, it wasn't just Arthur, but all of the knights already knew, and Merlin couldn't think of in the blue blazes how.

Arthur took his confusion for reluctance and huffed. "All right, if you keep your mouth shut for two more weeks, I'll split the coin with you. Then, you can confess all you want. Is it a deal?"

"You…and the knights…have a bet."

"Yes. So is it a deal?"

"I…yes. Yes."

"Good." Arthur released him and awkwardly patted him on the shoulder twice. "Make sure it looks good. We wouldn't want anyone to get suspicious." He cleared his throat. "Now, since it's out in the open, you can use your magic to scrub my floor since you spilled soup on it yesterday. Just make sure nobody sees you."

Merlin certainly made sure nobody saw him use magic to fetch a pail of water he'd left in the corner earlier and dump it on the prat's head.

…

Two weeks later, the knights of the round table were sent on a quest to deal with a mythical raging monster in the woods surrounding Camelot that turned out to be the size of a cat.

(Later, there would be debate about whether or not it actually was a cat. Arthur swore it absolutely wasn't as no cat could have led him in circles for days. The others had doubts.)

In the middle of their trying to lure it out of a tree, it took a flying leap out of the branches and landed on Arthur's head.

Arthur, who was standing a little too close to an outcropping that was very easy to underestimate until one was falling from it. It was a trivial thing to bash one's head against the smattering of rocks at the bottom, but it was a good thing there was a handy dandy sorcerer around to catch him midair before he could come even close to the boulders.

Arthur yelled at Merlin for a solid ten minutes for "concealing his magic" and "betraying the royal trust."

Merlin called him a clueless clotpole and a blind buffoon.

The knights ruefully counted out their coins.