Merlin: the secret prince

A trip to Merlin's Kingdom

"What do you mean this hasn't happened in years, Merlin?" Lancelot asked, stepping forward, his eyes wide with concern. The room still seemed to hum faintly with residual energy from Merlin's earlier outburst, like the echo of a thunderclap that hadn't quite faded.

Merlin didn't respond. His jaw clenched, shoulders rigid. He stared into the middle distance, breathing shallow, as if willing himself to disappear.

It was Percival who broke the silence. He let out a slow breath, one that seemed to carry the weight of years.

"Merlin... has anger problems," he said quietly, looking from Lancelot to Gwen and Morgana. "But not the kind you might think. He doesn't lose his temper often—in fact, it's rare. But when he does..."

He hesitated, his voice lowering a notch.

"His voice changes. It drops, becomes... cold, almost unrecognizable, like someone—or something—else is speaking through him. It's like his magic feeds on his fury. What you saw just now? That was mild. We've never seen the full extent of it. We think—" he looked at Merlin, who was still unmoving, "—that it would only surface if someone he loved was hurt. And we're not sure what would happen if it did."

A heavy silence fell over the group.

"Why haven't you told us about this before?" Gwen asked, her brows furrowed, voice tinged with hurt.

Merlin's voice was barely a whisper. "I didn't want to make you worry..." His eyes fell to the floor, avoiding everyone's gaze. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, knuckles pale.

Morgana stepped forward, voice warm but firm. "We would've worried anyway, Merlin. You're not alone in this. You never have been."

She smiled at him gently, and the others nodded in agreement, their faces softening. Lancelot placed a reassuring hand on Merlin's shoulder, and Merlin finally looked up, eyes rimmed red but grateful.

"Thank you," he said, his voice cracking. But just as quickly, he composed himself. "Anyway, we should get moving. We've got a journey to prepare for. We leave at first light tomorrow."

It was a clear cue to change the subject. Nobody pushed further, sensing that the wound was still raw.

They dispersed quietly, each one heading off to carry out the tasks Merlin had assigned.

Merlin walked with a slower pace than usual, his hands tucked into the folds of his cloak, mind heavy with doubt. The stone corridors of Camelot were familiar, comforting even—but tonight, they felt colder.

As they neared Arthur's chambers, Merlin finally broke the silence. "Arty?"

Arthur turned slightly, a questioning hum in his throat. "Yeah?"

Merlin hesitated, then sighed. "I've hidden so many secrets from you. For years. Why aren't you angry with me?" He stared at the floor again, voice laced with shame. "I thought that once you knew the truth, you wouldn't help Deria. Or me."

Arthur stopped walking. He turned to face Merlin fully, crossing his arms.

"I am angry," he said quietly. "But not for the reason you think."

Merlin flinched.

"I'm angry because you didn't trust me. After everything we've been through, I thought I'd earned that. You've stood by me through every war, every betrayal, every heartbreak. You fought beside me not just as a servant, but as a brother. And now I realize that all this time, you were carrying an entire kingdom on your shoulders—in silence."

Arthur's voice wavered, his eyes clouded with guilt.

"I should've seen it. I should've given you the space to feel safe enough to tell me. I failed you, Merlin."