Thanks to Conversed for the awesome Beta services, and to carms-lian0592 for the prompt!

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Merlin runs from the prince's rooms as though physically propelled by Arthur's own cold hands. He feels desperation chasing him down the hall, burning up his spine and curling into his throat, and ridiculously, he feels like he might cry. He comes to a dead stop against a granite column which looks like it holds up the whole damn castle and gives it his burden, too, turning to it like a friend's shoulder.

He tries to compose himself before anyone sees him snivelling like a girl. Furiously, he scrubs life into his face, attempting to dislodge the remains of the deepest sleep he'd had in months, and hurt that stings like skin rubbed raw.

His sleeve comes away wet and Merlin wishes he could punch himself in the face for it.

Arthur wasn't himself last night; too drunk to know what he was doing, too relaxed to keep up the boundaries between the prince and the servant. Now, in the cold light of day, everything is back to normal and Merlin feels like a fool.

What the hell was he thinking anyway, falling asleep in Arthur's bed like that? What was he hoping to achieve with that stupid stunt?

Nothing. Not hoping for anything. Just wanted to close my eyes for a minute 's all. Was tired. Fell asleep.

His mother's words beat around in his head while he casts careful glances all around, like a thief. You're a terrible liar, Merlin. Your eyes. It's all there in your eyes for anyone to see.

Anyone except Arthur, thankfully.

Merlin breathes deeply and arranges his features into something resembling mildly chagrined, which is normal when he comes from Arthur's rooms, instead of deeply, hopelessly wounded.

Why should this matter? Why should Arthur's thoughtlessness hurt so much more today than any other time? The prince has been this way as long as Merlin has known him—which is admittedly not that long—short and snide, if not plain cruel.

Ah. Therein lies the truth.
Arthur has always been this way.

It is Merlin himself, who has changed.

And maybe if he hadn't lain in the swaying heather with his shoulder radiating tingling heat for hours afterward, or if he hadn't suddenly begun to watch the nape of Arthur's neck like the secrets of the universe waited under his sweat-darkened blond hair... Maybe then he could brush off Arthur's callousness. Maybe then he could take it in stride like he always has.

But no, not even then. Because Kilgharrah has made it clear that Merlin and Arthur's paths lead to the same great merge, upon which the fruition of Albion resides. Yet here is skinny, insignificant Merlin with the one gift he can't even use, and here is Arthur, with too many gifts to count and everything he needs already there within his grasp.

Not for the first time, Merlin envisages himself walking away, satchel over his shoulder, not looking back. It's such a tempting vision. Too bad it makes him feel like the worst kind of coward.

Still, he considers it, if only to put distance between himself and the prince, to dampen down the heat he feels deep in his belly and to quiet the roar of blood in his ears because this can't be good, this can't be right. And it's the most ridiculous thing ever, because he needs to deny it to survive here, but how can he deny this—wasn't that Merlin, with his nose digging little furrows into Arthur's side last night to get close to the scent and the delicious body heat of the man? And wasn't that him staring at Arthur's red mouth, slack in sleep but Gods, still perfect, still so beau—

But the moment Merlin half-thinks these things, the moment they're actual thoughts in his mind, he claps a lid over them and screws it down tight, because those things can't be. They didn't happen.

They didn't.

Liar.

Clutching his head in his hands, he breathes deeply and feels the tip of that skilled blade slipping so easily between his ribs, flesh as pliant as warmed wax to its unforgiving sharpness. He hates this pain and revels in it, too, knowing now exactly what it means, but unable to stop himself feeling it. It's his infatuation slipping into vulnerable flesh, feeling like divine conviction and hopeless agony at the same time.

When he finally pushes off the column and starts for the kitchens, it occurs to him that he's hiding even more now than ever, not just the thing he was born with, but the thing that was born inside him without him knowing it. That stray seed blown in by fate lays roots in his chest.

Is this why Kilgharrah knows their destinies to be intertwined? Is this why Merlin will ever fight at Arthur's side? Will he nurse this engorged heart for the rest of his life, watching Arthur love, and marry, and father sons to rule after him?

Merlin closes his eyes against the overflowing bitterness, and balls his hands at his sides.

The winged beast has betrayed him yet again, knowing that Merlin would have run, had he known.

Well, no matter. He can't run now. It's much harder to leave behind your heart and soul than it is an uncaring, ungrateful lord, no matter his grand destiny.

And finally, as he straightens into a semblance of himself, his mind betrays him too. While he tries to think of nothing and to concentrate on his chores, it's a Sisyphean task, doomed to fail again and again.

On the outside, he's just Merlin, a little absent today, is all. On the inside though, he's a scratched and broken loop of dirty blond hair plastered to the back of a sweaty nape, the heather's purple sprigs, pink skin all warm from sleep, and a perfect mouth forming the beautiful shape of ugly words.

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It's mid morning before Arthur's horse is saddled and the knights assembled, and Merlin can't help but wonder at the sense of this hunting trip—if they were serious, they'd have set out at dawn to set up a campsite from which to foray into the woods to hunt.

Sure enough, it's a complete fiasco, with Arthur too hung over to take it seriously. He grumps and growls his way through the entire day until they're all sullen and quiet, eager to get back to bathe and eat, and get the hell away from each other.

The woods are dark and deep today, overcast skies and dense canopy lending it an unearthly gloom. Hidden things live in these woods, existing in the periphery, on the outer of consciousness. The eeriness taints them all with an undercurrent of pent-up agitation.

For the most part, Merlin tries to keep his eyes to himself and his thoughts even more so, unable to stomach the storm that brews over Arthur's head as the afternoon wears on. It's a palpable thing- he doesn't even have to look to sense it, to know it's there, like a literal thundercloud following Arthur around as he weaves among the trees in his clinking mail.

They've spoken briefly—monosyllabically—during the course of the day, but it's not until they're on horseback again and returning to Camelot that the tension seems to ease a little. They ride in single file, Arthur in the lead with Merlin at his back, then the knights, with a field-dressed wild boar carcass slung over a pack horse bringing up the rear.

Behind them, the knights have fallen back slightly, sensing Arthur's mood requires solitude. Only Merlin rides close behind, helplessly drawn, still wanting to be needed, wishing he could use magic to knock them all out and instantly transport them back into their own beds. They could all get up in the morning and be totally oblivious to this horrible, drawn-out agony of a day. He could spirit the boar into the palace kitchens like it's an orphan left at the door of a nunnery, and that would be that.

Sadly, he'd still remember, though. He'd remember last night and Arthur's happy, sloppy grins, his heavy arm like a hot yoke around Merlin's neck, his scent, his scent! There isn't anything in the world that could make Merlin forget that, not even the polar opposite experience of today's ridiculous excuse for a hunting party. He hands clench and nostrils flare a little just at the memory.

Suddenly, it seems that the prince is slowing. Merlin sits up straighter, instantly on alert, immediately pinging with hot spikes of adrenalin.

Unsure of Arthur's intent in allowing Merlin to catch up to his big bay, Merlin continues on until they're riding side by side, and he feels Arthur's eyes slide and snag, dragging over him like the spikes of a flail.

He shoots the prince a quick glance, daring only to rest his eyes on the cape clasp at Arthur's shoulder, but it's enough to ascertain that Arthur's jaw is a tight knot of unsaid words.

He finally speaks a few minutes later, by which time Merlin wants to throw up. He probably would, had he managed to eat anything today, but anxiety has always completely put him off food, and his insides are twisted like rope.

"Merlin," Arthur says gruffly, then clears his throat, then perplexingly falls silent again.

"Sire?" he prompts, but Arthur just gives him a quick frown from beneath furrowed brows. Merlin rides on, strangely silent, when he'd normally be bantering and irreverent and himself, and waits for Arthur to continue his train of thought, which he will, because Arthur always finishes everything he starts.

Abruptly, Arthur barks out a laugh, and Merlin finally looks up, stares at the prince's throat working, his Adam's apple dipping beneath the skin

"What's funny?" he finally asks, really confused now as well as strung tighter than Arthur's crossbow.

"Nothing. Nothing," Arthur repeats, like he's convincing himself. Abruptly straightening in the saddle, he clears his throat. "What chores will Gaius have for you when we return?"

"I...I don't... what? I'm not..." Merlin replies, wondering if he should know this. Should he know this? He should know this.

Arthur huffs, muttering under his breath, difficult, and for Gods' sake, and simple and Merlin reddens, fingers clutching tightly at the reins of his horse, weighing up if it's best to answer or to leave the prince to the conversation he seems to be having with himself, but it's the simple that does it.

"I'm not simple!" he exclaims, and wishes he could cram it back in, after Arthur gives him the look.

"I did not say you were simple," Arthur says from the side of his mouth. "Even though I really wonder sometimes. I said that the question was simple."

"Oh," Merlin offers weakly. Then, "What was the question?"

And then Arthur laughs, really laughs, for what seems like the first time in days. He laughs so honestly and freely that Merlin's stomach clenches with joy. He watches Arthur's face light up with it, but Merlin's the one with an explosion of bright, yellow heat in his gut. He can't help but smile, too, and everything is lighter and instantly more bearable, now that Arthur's muddy mood has lifted.

The prince throws back his head and the laughter that bubbles out scares most of the forest's population into flapping and scurrying away from the sound. All the animals which had evaded them through the day are suddenly everywhere, bounding and leaping out of the way, but none of the hunting party care, because in this moment, golden boy is happy and nothing else matters.

Merlin doesn't even notice the frantic rider bearing down on them, Camelot's colours like a sail flapping on the breeze behind him. He hardly notices anything at all, except for Arthur's white teeth and the music of his laughter as his whole body quakes with it, bright blue eyes almost green with the hue of the canopy above them.

What is it about those eyes? From the purple of the heather to the viridian of the forest, nature infuses its beauty into them, lavishing them with colour. Merlin can't get enough of those eyes. Nothing exists except the halo of warmth around his chest when Arthur is this happy, this free. Merlin's skin tingles with it, magic stinging his fingertips like an effervescent spring.

He's still entranced as Arthur's attention snaps to the path ahead, and all levity is lost. The messenger's horse thunders to a stop directly in front of them, dislodging globs of mud with its ironclad hooves, and Arthur's attention spearheads to the rider's sweaty, panting face.

"What news from my father?" he asks, his eyes hard again, and stormy.

"The King requires your presence immediately, my Lord, reports of skirmishes are coming in from the western outpost, and a counsel is set to convene the moment you return to court."

In the distance, thunder rolls across the grey skies, and Merlin's skin prickles with foreboding. He watches Arthur's back as the prince speeds to Camelot, and the familiar swaying shape of the kingdom's best hope pierces him like a splinter under the fingernail, sharp and immediate, stopping the breath in his lungs.

As the knights pass him by in a rush of glinting mail and a rumble of horses, Arthur's words from last night echo in his mind, spectral and fleeting like bats in the night.

I will need you soon.

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A/N: *whispers* I love all your alerting, reviewing, prompting arses. Thank you.