Merlin: the secret prince

Planning to go to Merlin's Kingdom

The sun rose over Camelot like a blessing. Golden rays spilled across the spires, warming the stone walls and piercing the morning mist that still lingered at the edges of the castle grounds. In the heart of the training field, the clang of metal on metal rang out like church bells—discipline, strength, tradition. Steel struck against steel, feet thudded against packed dirt, and voices called out orders in unison.

Merlin was among them, his breath steady, muscles taut. The sweat on his brow glistened in the sunlight, but his movements were smooth, efficient—his sword swinging through the air with quiet purpose. Though he wore no crown, no silk robes, the knights around him moved with deference, acknowledging what they all knew now: this was their prince, the rightful heir to Deria.

After a final parry and nod of dismissal, Merlin sheathed his blade and passed his waterskin to one of the younger squires. "Good work today," he said, voice still calm but edged with exhaustion. "We'll run archery drills tomorrow at sunrise. Double line formation."

The knights nodded in acknowledgement before dispersing. Merlin rolled his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness from training, and then began the walk through the winding corridors of Camelot, back to familiar stone walls, back to the one job he still insisted on doing—waking Arthur Pendragon.

Despite his royal blood, despite the prophecy now confirmed and his future kingdom waiting across the sea of trees, Merlin still rose with the sun to shake the king awake and make sure he ate breakfast.

Old habits. Some chains are made of comfort.

He entered the royal chambers quietly, expecting the usual snores and chaos of pillows strewn across the bed—but instead, the chamber was filled with soft light and silence. Gwen sat by the tall, arched window, already dressed in a simple gown of deep blue velvet, her hair braided neatly over one shoulder. Steam rose from her cup of tea as birdsong filtered through the open window.

Merlin blinked. "You're up early."

Gwen turned, smiling. "Good morning, Merls. You look tired."

He offered a grin and shrugged. "Finished training with my knights. Thought I'd stop by and drag the king out of bed."

She laughed softly. "Old habits?"

He nodded. "Exactly what I was thinking. But you—Queen of Camelot, up before the sun? Shouldn't you be sleeping in and enjoying the perks?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Some habits don't vanish with a crown. This was my rhythm for years. It's when I feel most at peace."

Merlin smiled, genuinely. "You were always more responsible than the rest of us."

"Well," she said, sipping from her cup, "somebody had to be. But now that you're no longer hiding who you are, you really don't need to do this. Someone else can wake Arthur."

"As much as I'd love that," Merlin replied, walking to the corner to pick up discarded clothing from the night before, "I couldn't put anyone else through the horror that is Arthur's morning complaints. The whining alone would traumatize a grown man."

Gwen chuckled again, this time with more fondness than amusement. "Still, Merlin, you have responsibilities. You're a ruler now—Deria awaits. You won't always be here."

Merlin's gaze dropped, and for a moment, something unreadable passed across his face—loss, maybe, or guilt.

"I know," he said softly. "That's why I've already sent word to my mother. They'll be expecting us in two weeks, give or take. The moment Arthur and Camelot are ready, I'll begin the journey home."

Gwen's smile widened. "Your mother... I look forward to seeing her again. She's fierce. And kind. She raised a fine man."

There was something in Merlin's eyes that warmed then—pride, humility, affection. "Thanks, Gwen. That means more than you know."