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Uther may have attempted to purge all magic from Camelot, but there were some facets of the Old Religion even he couldn't touch. Many of the festivals had written themselves deep into the hearts and minds of the people: observances of the seasons that would not be forgot, no matter how much the king might wish it. After all, monarchs came and went. The gods did not.
Lughnasadh nestled neatly halfway between the solstice and the equinox, right at the start of the harvest season. It was a time to share the bounty that the turn of the year had brought and to bless the grain that would be carried in from the field in the coming weeks. In the castle, that meant feasts, tournaments and dancing: a veneer of civility laid atop a tradition so old it remained unquestioned. It was, Merlin thought, more refined, as if all the rough edges had been smoothed down, leaving it presentable for a king and his court.
In the Lower Town, it was another matter. They had not forgotten that the roots of it plunged themselves into fertile soil, nor that the bounty of a good summer should be celebrated without apology. There was dancing, but it was a long way from the stately sweep of the courtiers: reels and jigs and dizzy swirling. Endless amounts of food was cooked and shared. The drink flowed: beers and coarse wines and moonshine that might, once, have started out as apples... It was both raw and unbridled, and Merlin's magic loved it.
It wove between the dancers and gilded the edge of the fires, lit not for their warmth but for the symbolism of the gaudy flames. It curled, delicate, in the shy smiles shared between those who would be lovers by the end of the night and buzzed beneath his skin, humming along to the waltz of the world in a way that left him feeling far more drunk than any ale could manage. In some ways, it was almost too much, and yet he wouldn't give it up for anything. Uther could cut his head off for all he cared, as long as he could feel like this for a moment more.
A warm hand over the nape of his neck made his breath catch, the touch stirring the small hairs that curled there. Calluses from years of sword-work pressed against his skin.
'Careful,' Arthur murmured in his ear, his voice low and rough: perfect. 'I can feel what you're doing.'
'Not doing anything,' Merlin husked back, turning his head to take in the flush on Arthur's cheeks and the darkness of his gaze. The firelight blessed him, painting molten gold in his hair and pressing shadows into the hollow of his throat. His tunic was unlaced to combat the heat, creating a deep vee of bare flesh. Sober, Merlin would have told himself not to look. Now, he didn't even try, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.
'Merlin...' Arthur murmured, all hot warning. His fingers shifted, tracing the bare column of his throat. He'd left his neckerchief off, and now Arthur's touch offered its benediction. It took everything in him not to tilt his head and bare the vulnerable flesh: his surrender absolute. Only some faint thread of reason reminded him that they were in the Lower Town where anyone could see. Even this, he knew, would raise eyebrows, but it was so very hard to care. Especially when the moon and stars, the hidden sun and the silent lark were all reminding him that Arthur was his: there for the taking.
Arthur knew him now, all of him: the secret of his magic and the breadth of their shared destiny. It was a burden shared between them, rather than buried in the shadows of Merlin's heart. He had always known that telling Arthur would change things. The harsh words and long silences, he'd expected, but he hadn't pictured anything like this past month, where every last boundary between them had fallen to rubble.
His magic shivered through him in delight at the memory of their first kiss, very shortly followed by Arthur hard and hot beneath him in the ridiculous royal bed. Even better, he saw the exact moment that the frothing edge of his power whispered across Arthur's skin, invisible to everyone else, but an undeniable tide of sensation to the man it cocooned in its warmth. He witnessed the flutter of Arthur's lashes and the way his lips parted around a tiny sip of air. He shifted his weight where he stood, his chest pressing against Merlin's arm before his hand slid down to catch his fingers in his grasp.
With one quick tug, he pulled him away from the firelight, leading him back into the shadows that clung like black velvet to Camelot's streets. Above them the stars were a dizzying froth, and Merlin almost felt as if he could reach out and touch them, his magic riding the wind even as it bled down into the rich, loamy earth, untethered. He felt like he was losing his outline, spooling outwards in every direction. Only Arthur's touch kept him grounded, and he barely heard Arthur's shocked little curse.
'In here, quickly.'
A questioning noise pulsed in Merlin's throat as he was pushed through a doorway, the sweet scent of clean hay assailing his nose as Arthur slid the bar across the door. The gloom was soft and secretive, but not what Merlin wanted. Immediately, a diffuse light seemed to bleed out of the air itself, not bright enough to seep through the wooden slats, but there all the same. It sparkled off the blue of Arthur's eyes, and he reached for him, tangling his fingers in the slack laces of Arthur's tunic and pulling him closer with a soft, longing groan.
'Wait.' Arthur's hands caught his wrists, making Merlin blink. It was incredibly hard to focus on what was right in front of him. Not Arthur, who may as well fill his whole world from one horizon to the other, but where they were and what was happening. He felt lost in that delicious, delirious state that came with the very best dreams, where no action had consequence and he could do whatever he pleased.
Except Arthur told him to wait, and so Merlin obeyed with little in the way of protest but the small, uncertain sound that popped in his chest.
'Are you with me?'
That felt like a question that was almost impossible to answer. The small, human part of him that was Merlin was in that same, physical space, but there was so much more to him than that. Perhaps he should be alarmed by how far his magic wanted to drift, yet it was the most natural feeling in the world, like a bird spreading its wings to take flight. He'd felt like this once before, though it had been not nearly as intense. He had been fifteen, wobbling on the uncertain cusp of manhood, and his magic had been almost impossible to bring to heel. It had chafed at his skin, desperate to escape, and only his fear had stopped it.
Now, the one person in all the world who mattered most knew what he was, and it was impossible to remember the importance of restraint when all his magic wanted was to be free.
'Mostly?'
'Barely.' Arthur had no right to sound that fond, all tenderness. If there was one thing that was lacking from what they shared it was the softer hints of affection. They fucked each other and revelled in their pleasure, but none of it crossed that line into anything more romantic. Neither of them had said a word on that score. On Merlin's part, at least, it seemed safer to hold his silence and hope that Arthur couldn't taste his love in his kiss.
Yet now the hands that guided him back towards the straw were gentle on his shoulders, and the lips that pressed against his brow were probably meant to soothe, rather than entice. Except that he had Arthur, still criminally clothed, lying next to him: a stretch of warmth all down his front. Merlin arched his hips, his grin wild and wicked as he felt how hard Arthur was in his breeches. Yet before he could even think of reaching for Arthur's laces, a single word stopped him, dragging the scattered little pieces of his mind back into focus.
'No.' The straw rustled as Arthur shook his head, his eyes impossibly blue and intense. Yet there was no hardness there, no rejection. If Merlin had to guess, the expression on his face was one of amused regret and just a touch of noble sacrifice, as if Arthur were depriving himself as well as Merlin. 'I've been watching you all night. You've had no more than two cups of ale, and even you're not that much of a lightweight, but Merlin, you're drunk on something.'
'You?' he suggested, smiling when Arthur laughed, sudden and bright, like his own mirth surprised him.
'I don't think so,' he murmured at last. 'Didn't you notice you're glowing?'
Merlin frowned, taking the words apart and putting them back together in the hope they'd make more sense. The world billowed around him as he finally looked down at his hands, noticing the soft, dewy glimmer to his own skin for the first time. He stared at it, turning his palm this way and that, trying to remember why it might be a problem. All his concerns seemed so very far away, buried like bones in the Darkling Woods: forgotten.
'No one saw,' Arthur promised, and his words seem to hum with a thousand other things: unspoken. 'I made sure of it.'
Of course, Merlin realised, more than a little dazed. This was still Uther's Camelot. His magic was still a death sentence. It was not yet the golden age where Arthur ruled.
'Thanks.' He nuzzled into Arthur's palm when he lifted it to Merlin's face, cupping his jaw and resting one thumb against the crest of his cheekbone. 'I didn't forget. It just – it's hard to remember why it matters.' He flexed his fingers, marvelling at the feeling of muscle sliding over bone. It was like he was only vaguely there in his own body. He was a kite tethered to earth by nothing stronger than a cobweb. One strong breeze might snap it, and he would be lost forever.
'This hasn't happened before.' Arthur said it knowingly. 'You couldn't have hidden it from me, not even when I had no clue about your magic. I would have noticed.'
'Would you?'
'Definitely.' Mirth sparkled in Arthur's voice like a mountain stream racing its way over the rocks. 'I've barely been able to look away from you for months, now. Years, maybe.'
It was a rueful admission, a sound that curled up in Merlin's ear and purred its promises. It made him smile. 'So long?' he murmured, shivering as the cool kiss of invisible starlight against his skin was replaced with the warm blade of Arthur's hand. He didn't remember him pulling his tunic out from his belt, but now he stroked one palm up and down Merlin's spine, back and forth in a way that seemed to reel him in in the tiniest increments. His other arm had wormed its way under Merlin, curling him close.
Arthur hummed, smudging featherlight kisses across Merlin's brow, banding them from one temple to another like a coronet. One leg had insinuated itself between Merlin's, not pressing against where he was still hard and wanting, but merely anchoring him in place, reminding him of such mundanities as the hay beneath his body and the beams above him, stalwart and strong.
'Magic changes.' The words sounded a little slurred on his tongue. He remembered the taste of apples. 'Like the seasons, it changes. So do I.'
'You didn't, before,' Arthur murmured, his hand shifting to cradle the back of Merlin's head, teasing the curls he had yet to tame with a pair of shears. He traced the curve of them as if fascinated before burying his fingers in their depths, making Merlin melt.
'The druids.' He wet his lips, his voice nothing but a whisper. 'They mentioned it. Cryptic.' He pulled a face. They were almost as bad as the dragon, sometimes. 'Something about my magic growing – the connection with the natural world getting stronger. It's that, probably.'
Arthur gave a little sigh, one that bubbled on a laugh when Merlin wriggled closer still, trying to bury himself in Arthur's ribs. 'Is it permanent?'
Merlin wrinkled his nose and made a disgruntled noise. The druids hadn't told him. Yet he could still feel his own power, its wax and its wane, the ebb and flow. This was a peak, a pinnacle of the year: a shifting point. By tomorrow, he would be as close to normal as he ever got. It would happen again, as the circle of the year turned and the seasons changed, but at least he'd know, next time. It wouldn't take him by surprise. Not again.
'It'll come and go.' He let his eyes slip shut, already feeling how it had crested. His skin buzzed and hummed, but it was quieter than it had been. 'Sorry.'
Arthur pressed a kiss to the centre of his brow, leaving his lips there as he murmured against Merlin's skin: 'Don't be. It's part of you and your magic. We need to be careful, that's all.' His hand pressed against Merlin's back, grounding. 'Rest now. We can think on it more tomorrow.'
Grudgingly, Merlin did as he was told, letting Arthur be the one to hold him in place. He spoke of nothing important – the training of the knights and the need for another patrol. He kept his words soft and steady; a tether he could follow from wherever he drifted, and Merlin wrapped himself up in the cadence of Arthur's voice as the sharpest, most dazzling edges of the world slowly returned to normal.
It felt like he was sketching his outline – stitching him back in place inch-by-inch. The soothing skim of Arthur's fingertips reminded Merlin of what it was to have a body of flesh and bone. Desire was an ember that never went out, but under Arthur's soft ministrations, nor did it burn so much it hurt. It was just there: another of the world's certainties.
The sky was blue, water was wet, and Merlin wanted Arthur – loved Arthur.
And Arthur loved him in turn.
It glowed in Arthur's eyes and skated along the curve of his smile. It wrote itself in the softness of his touch and the press of his body. He could have tumbled Merlin in the hay tonight, and Merlin would have welcomed it, but Arthur had instead reached for restraint. He wanted all of him, not just what his magic had chosen to leave in its wake, and that told him that what he and Arthur shared was far more than just physical.
Arthur cared, and Merlin's heart swelled in response.
Tomorrow, he would coax Arthur to bed. He would give and take pleasure, no longer shielding his heart as he did so. All this time, even when the secret of his magic was on display, Merlin had been holding part of himself back – desperate to protect himself from the pain when it all eventually fell apart.
Now, he caught one brief glimpse of the future, hovering on the cusp of the season's turn. It was theirs to claim: a life together, if they sought it: a golden age for them both.
And Merlin wanted nothing more.