“Yeah, I’m still going to stay. Tomorrow’s the day, and—”
“That sounds more like a reason to go.”
“I know, but it’s already well gone midnight, and I’ve been drinking.”
“I’ll come get you. All you have to do is ask.”
“You wouldn’t get here until dawn.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know.”
Forehead pressed to the cool, black window-glass, Arthur closed his eyes and smiled. After the chaos of the evening, the shouting and the accusations and the old familiar wrench of disappointment, his father’s house now was quiet, near to peaceful. He had Merlin’s voice tight and fierce in his ear. Arthur hated to worry him but could revel selfishly in the second-order effects: in being protected, even from afar.
“I’ll be heading back first thing tomorrow. Home before you’ve time to miss me,” Arthur said softly.
Merlin’s sigh came through the phone receiver like the rustling of sheets, like the intimate friction sound of a hand stroking down an arm, like they might be together and touching and not needing to speak at all.
“That’s not possible,” he said.
“It’s only that I don’t feel right leaving without even seeing him tomorrow,” Arthur replied.
“You don’t have to make excuses—not for me, and definitely not for him.”
It might have been a rebuke if it weren’t said so gently, and if they hadn’t had that exact conversation a hundred times before. Arthur nodded, rolling his head against the window where it lay, even though Merlin couldn’t see him.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too. Sleep well, okay? Call me back if you need to, whatever time.”
“I will.”
“Okay. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Still, a heartbeat passed before either of them could stand to hang up; but Arthur steeled himself and did so, bolstered by his commitment to being home again before supper tomorrow. He could stand one more night after all he’d stood before. Whatever Merlin feared, Arthur had changed in many ways, and mostly through him. His father did not hold the same absolute power over Arthur’s head and heart that he once had.
Pushing away from the window, Arthur stowed his phone in his jeans pocket and meandered down the hall. Thick rugs muffled his footsteps, which had always creaked treacherously on the old wood when he was a boy, unable to sleep, sneaking out of bed and across the house to sit below that very window which had the best view of the stars stretching out in a great carpet above the woods behind the house. The rugs had appeared by the time Arthur made his first visit home from uni. This was due to the sudden lack of children one might be tracking by ear throughout the house, ever watchful, in one’s own way.
Arthur came to his childhood bedroom. Lamp-light glowed around the edges of the door, and Arthur pushed it open.
There was his father, sitting on the side of his double bed with dark red covers he had, very solemnly at the age of twelve, exchanged in the place of his old footie sheets. Uther had his hands clasped tightly between his knees, hunched over with his glasses beside him and his head bowed, but when Arthur came in, he straightened up. For a moment, they only stared at each other. Uther’s hair—well thinning at this point, steely gray as long as Arthur could remember it—stuck up in the back as if he’d been running his hand over it non-stop. He looked tired and old.
“Please sit,” Uther said.
Arthur sat with a foot or so between them, Uther towards the foot of the bed, Arthur towards the head. Despite the distance and their rough equivalence in mass, the give of the mattress naturally pulled them toward each other and forced each to sit stiffly to remain apart.
“You know, I blame myself,” said Uther.
“Father—”
“Please, just—listen.”
Arthur folded his arms tightly across his body, so tense in posture it pulled his shoulders inward. He’d been prepared for the both of them to spend a night licking their wounds, to have a grim but cordial breakfast, then depart with only familiar hurts. But if Father insisted on having him sit here and listen while he droned on about how clearly only his parental deficiencies could have produced a son as inadequate as Arthur, well: Merlin might get his deepest desire, and not in the way Arthur had intended to fulfill any of his short-term dreams: but Arthur’s relationship with his father, such as it was, would not survive this.
Uther took his silence for acquiescence, while Arthur only searched for ice to numb what he was sure was coming.
“I blame myself, because it was I who spent every day of your life instilling the values I thought would be important in your life. I molded you into a man who would stand tall, who would carry himself with a pride he deserved, to hold convictions and fight for them against all censure and opposition. Yet I...I have had hours to think, and perhaps all these thoughts I should have had sooner.” He rubbed his palms on the knees of the slacks he still wore at this hour, then took up his glasses and wiped at them, for something to do with his hands. “I was the one who pushed you, yet when confronted with the man you have become—proud and upright and willing to fight for your convictions—I react poorly. And I am sorry, Arthur.”
“Wait—what?”
The tension slipped from Arthur’s shoulders like a too-large coat, the sort a son might throw on to playact at being his father. He leaned across the space he’d put between them.
This whole time, the two men had picked their own spots on the walls to stare at instead of each other: old rugby trophies, a bookshelf that was half suspiciously-pristine textbooks and half well-thumbed mystery novels, tape-marks on the paint where Arthur had pulled down his childhood posters and left imperfects Uther had never even tried to smooth over. But their eyes met now, and if either had a wetness that perhaps exceeded the norm, well, they were both upright and proud and all the rest, and like gentlemen, would let it go unremarked.
“You are my son,” Uther said. “If a vulgar, communistic Welshman is going to make you happy, of course I ought to give my blessing. Of course. I hope one day you may forgive me for ever acting otherwise.”
And what was Arthur supposed to do with that, other than grab his father by the shoulder and pull him into a rough hug, and perhaps drip a tear or two on his expensive businesslike sweater, under circumstances where he wouldn’t see it? Uther’s hands came up to pat his back, at first almost delicately, but then firm, clutching, a man who had seen something irreplaceable and vital nearly crushed by his own carelessness.
“He will. He already has,” Arthur swore damply, with a manly sort of sniffle. “And I will. Too. I promise.”
“Good. That’s good.”
They disentangled themselves with much dignity, then assumed identical postures alike to the one Uther had worn when Arthur came in: leant forward, hands clasped, elbows on their knees. Done with the business of emotions, they once more ceased to make eye contact, which was right, and good.
“Of course, you will have the wedding here at the house,” said Uther briskly. “You young people are prone to desiring a more modern venue, but the gardens have been recently profiled, and even if tradition is to be eschewed the historical value…”
Arthur would not be needing to call Merlin again that night. His phone could stay in his pocket, the one opposite the ring box he’d been carrying for weeks. Tomorrow was Arthur’s birthday, and for the first time in his memory, his father had gotten him something he truly wanted.
It wasn't surprising that Merlin's attire hadn't come up as of yet. Merlin's life had been thrown so upside down recently that for a while he could scarcely acknowledge what his own name was, let alone give space for aesthetic concerns. From the moment his crew had been called out to check in on a man passed out along the riverbanks, expecting a drunk, and finding instead a very familiar blonde head and aquiline nose, Merlin's heart had both frozen and exploded, caught high in his throat and never settling back down.
There was Arthur's confusion, and Merlin's joy, but there was also grief and anger and panic and a change that Merlin had spent his centuries praying for and now that he was here, entirely did not know what to do with. He hated the fear in Arthur's eyes when a car drove by on the road, the sorrow when he read through Merlin's history books, the insecurity when he quietly asked Merlin what he was to do in a world that no longer needed kings.
So Merlin's mind is understandably distracted as he dresses, pulling on an oversize sweater that was a gift from a coworker, his favorite flowy maxi skirt, a loose scarf for the early fall chill. And really, it was Arthur's fault too, for he had something to say about the ring in Merlin's lip and the length of his hair and the size of his platform boots, and yet nothing about his dress. But when they left Merlin's terrace house with Arthur charging out the front door and insisting that Merlin was lagging behind, as always, Merlin thought no more of his clothes than what he always wore off-duty.
And how could he, when it felt like the sun had finally returned after an endless winter? He knew the terror of being a man out of time, he saw it reflected so clearly in Arthur's eyes. He was prepared to protect Arthur against it all, to feed him the world in bits and pieces, morsels he could swallow.
Arthur didn't want a morsel. He was wide-eyed at indoor plumbing and email and matcha lattes and antibiotics and travel documentaries and Duolingo and breadmakers. He insisted Merlin take him to the local cafe, the thrift stores, the library, the high-end shops, the parks. He was ravenous (at times literally, when anything containing the taste of vanilla or citrus was involved) to take in the world that fate had thrust him back into.
Merlin could never deny his king anything. Every time Arthur smiled at some new flavor or appliance or disease now neutralized, Merlin felt the sun reflect its warmth on him, too. And it was impossible not to smile back.
Even when he was being a brat.
"Get the one with pine-apple," Arthur orders, looking over Merlin's shoulder at the pastry display. While Merlin's spell smoothed Arthur's Brittonic into modern english, words that didn't exist in his time sometimes came out a bit misshapen. "And three mack-a-rooms."
"Macaroons. And you didn't even eat the ones I bought last time."
"Those tasted odd. Like chewing on a sprig of wheat."
"I told you you wouldn't like pistachio. It's not my fault you couldn't resist the fact that they were bright green—"
Merlin had first managed to coax Arthur out of his house and into a public place with the promise of food finer than even the most extravagant feasts in Camelot. Ever since then, he hadn't had a single weekend without Arthur demanding some sort of confectionary. And while that certainly had its upsides (Arthur's delight at the taste of passion fruit and the sugary crumbs on his fingers when he insisted Merlin try a piece and the tranquil mornings as they sat the park and every so often Merlin would turn his head and Arthur would already be looking at him, and how long had he been—?), Merlin wasn't looking forward to seeing how Arthur would handle the dentist in the event of a cavity.
But he categorizes all of that as problems for Future Merlin, who's doing better than he has in quite some time, and right now Present Merlin is only concerned about enjoying his fruit tart. There's a peaceful silence as they leave the bakery, walking over to the park they often visit.
A pair of young men approach them, and Merlin barely notices before one steps in front of him, deliberately, and knocks his shoulder into Merlin's chest.
The tart splats against Merlin's favorite sweater, smearing custard and whipped cream.
"What the fu—" Merlin whirls, expecting to see a pair of sniggering teenage boys. But no, these are men in their mid-twenties, looking at Merlin not with juvenile amusement, but with disgust.
"It's no more of an embarrassment than you already were," one of them spits. "Either dress like a man, or take your freak ass home—"
He stops talking. Arthur's stepped forward, closer than most people are socially comfortable with. "What is the meaning of this?"
It's not a question. The other man is taller than Arthur, and clearly thinks that gives him an advantage. "What are you, his boyfriend? You into that, you sick fuck?"
Merlin's seen enough of Arthur's body language to know that he's about to throw a punch. He doesn't stop it.
Arthur hits hard, not just with his arm muscle, but with his body weight too, the way a boxer would. The man's head whips to the side, momentum nearly knocking him off his feet. Arthur aimed for the jaw, not the nose— which means the man instead goes down, out cold.
The other man for half a second looks stupid enough to charge at Arthur, but then his pants fall down around his ankles. He tries to take a step forward, and instantly falls down, not quite catching himself fast enough to avoid smacking his face against the cobblestone.
Arthur's got the look in his eye that indicates he'd like to deliver them to the police station himself, but people are already starting to give curious looks from a distance, and memory spells always leave Merlin with a migraine. "Come on," he hisses, grabbing Arthur's wrist and quickly dragging him away.
Arthur waits until they've ducked into a little grove at the park to gently pry his wrist free, although his face is all thunder. "They should be arrested. They assaulted you—"
"Technically, you're the one that assaulted them," Merlin points out. Arthur still didn't quite grasp that dueling wasn't an acceptable practice to resolve disputes. "It's not worth the trouble."
"They were worse than Saxons," Arthur retorts, aghast. "Utterly barbaric—" And then he quiets, jaw working in the way such that Merlin knows something more is coming, something uncomfortable. "I… I don't understand. What was it that made them target you?" Then, before Merlin can try to distract him from the crucial detail, "They said you didn't… dress like a man?"
Merlin goes to cross his arms over his chest, until he realizes his sweater is still covered in custard. "They're just knobheads. They…." Merlin chews his lip, catching the cool metal of his ring. Thinking about what words he can say that wouldn't reveal more than he was ready for. "They think of dresses and skirts as woman's clothes, and don't think men should wear them."
"I see."
Merlin can't read anything in Arthur's face, and it's making his pulse quicken. "Did you… did you not wonder, before now? About what, what I wear?"
"I've seen plenty a wizened elder in a tunic. At first I assumed you were merely dressing your age."
Merlin rolls his eyes, but his hands still uneasily fidget by his side. He knows Arthur's deflecting. "But then?"
"I assumed things were different now." Now it's Arthur's turn to avoid Merlin's eyes, putting his hands over his pockets and looking out over the park. With the soft breeze, the background shrieks of children laughing, the melody of quiet conversation, Merlin could almost close his eyes and imagine himself back home. Almost. "Many things are."
"Things are different," Merlin says. "Most people used to think like those two men. Now there are a lot fewer of them."
Arthur nods, still looking over the park. Merlin watches the clench in his jaw, and waits. "You… you never wore women's clothes in Camelot. Did you want to?"
"Never occurred to me. It didn't until—" He swallows down the word hundreds, doesn't want the reminder of how much time there is between himself and everyone he's ever loved. "—quite some time had passed. And then I started, and," he shrugs, aiming for casual, "'s comfortable."
"As in more convenient?"
1500 years, and Merlin's still never braced for when Arthur's gaze zeros in, all of the attention of a hunter finding the weak spot. Like he can see where the edges of Merlin's defenses don't quite line up. Merlin takes a deep breath. "I can change my body however I wish. I can be a man. I can be a woman. I can be a bird, a cat, a snake, I once spent two decades as an oak tree. Trying to make myself match those around me only made me more aware of how different I was. So eventually I just… did as I pleased."
He's watching Arthur so carefully, looking for a twitch, a frown, anything that indicates he's stumbled too far, where not even Arthur's innate compassion can understand him. He wouldn't be upset, as long as Arthur wasn't cruel about it. He's long since learned to take whatever scraps he can salvage.
But after a moment Arthur just nods, looking back at Merlin. "I'm sorry about your sweater." He takes a step to Merlin, gingerly grabbing the hem to inspect the fabric. "Do you think it can be cleaned?"
Merlin's gaze darts around to make sure no one's looking their way, and then his eyes flash gold as the stain on the sweater disappears. "Good as new."
"I used to wonder how you always got even the worst stains out of my clothes," Arthur grumbles. "Do you want to head home? We don't have to…."
Merlin rolls his eyes. "I may not be a man, but I'm not a damsel. I don't need coddling after losing my tart."
"Well," says Arthur. He lets go of the sweater, but he doesn't step back. His hand moves slowly, courageously, to Merlin's hand hanging by his side. Their knuckles brush. "If you ask nicely I might be persuaded to split my pastry with you."
Merlin slowly curls his hand around Arthur's own, and watches as Arthur's cheeks turn pink. His gaze doesn't stray from Merlin's however, and Merlin thinks he'll never meet a braver man. "Even the macaroons?"
"Don't get greedy," Arthur retorts, and pulls Merlin along into the light of day.
It wasn't surprising that Merlin's attire hadn't come up as of yet. Merlin's life had been thrown so upside down recently that for a while he could scarcely acknowledge what his own name was, let alone give space for aesthetic concerns. From the moment his crew had been called out to check in on a man passed out along the riverbanks, expecting a drunk, and finding instead a very familiar blonde head and aquiline nose, Merlin's heart had both frozen and exploded, caught high in his throat and never settling back down.
There was Arthur's confusion, and Merlin's joy, but there was also grief and anger and panic and a change that Merlin had spent his centuries praying for and now that he was here, entirely did not know what to do with. He hated the fear in Arthur's eyes when a car drove by on the road, the sorrow when he read through Merlin's history books, the insecurity when he quietly asked Merlin what he was to do in a world that no longer needed kings.
So Merlin's mind is understandably distracted as he dresses, pulling on an oversize sweater that was a gift from a coworker, his favorite flowy maxi skirt, a loose scarf for the early fall chill. And really, it was Arthur's fault too, for he had something to say about the ring in Merlin's lip and the length of his hair and the size of his platform boots, and yet nothing about his dress. But when they left Merlin's terrace house with Arthur charging out the front door and insisting that Merlin was lagging behind, as always, Merlin thought no more of his clothes than what he always wore off-duty.
And how could he, when it felt like the sun had finally returned after an endless winter? He knew the terror of being a man out of time, he saw it reflected so clearly in Arthur's eyes. He was prepared to protect Arthur against it all, to feed him the world in bits and pieces, morsels he could swallow.
Arthur didn't want a morsel. He was wide-eyed at indoor plumbing and email and matcha lattes and antibiotics and travel documentaries and Duolingo and breadmakers. He insisted Merlin take him to the local cafe, the thrift stores, the library, the high-end shops, the parks. He was ravenous (at times literally, when anything containing the taste of vanilla or citrus was involved) to take in the world that fate had thrust him back into.
Merlin could never deny his king anything. Every time Arthur smiled at some new flavor or appliance or disease now neutralized, Merlin felt the sun reflect its warmth on him, too. And it was impossible not to smile back.
Even when he was being a brat.
"Get the one with pine-apple," Arthur orders, looking over Merlin's shoulder at the pastry display. While Merlin's spell smoothed Arthur's Brittonic into modern english, words that didn't exist in his time sometimes came out a bit misshapen. "And three mack-a-rooms."
"Macaroons. And you didn't even eat the ones I bought last time."
"Those tasted odd. Like chewing on a sprig of wheat."
"I told you you wouldn't like pistachio. It's not my fault you couldn't resist the fact that they were bright green—"
Merlin had first managed to coax Arthur out of his house and into a public place with the promise of food finer than even the most extravagant feasts in Camelot. Ever since then, he hadn't had a single weekend without Arthur demanding some sort of confectionary. And while that certainly had its upsides (Arthur's delight at the taste of passion fruit and the sugary crumbs on his fingers when he insisted Merlin try a piece and the tranquil mornings as they sat the park and every so often Merlin would turn his head and Arthur would already be looking at him, and how long had he been—?), Merlin wasn't looking forward to seeing how Arthur would handle the dentist in the event of a cavity.
But he categorizes all of that as problems for Future Merlin, who's doing better than he has in quite some time, and right now Present Merlin is only concerned about enjoying his fruit tart. There's a peaceful silence as they leave the bakery, walking over to the park they often visit.
A pair of young men approach them, and Merlin barely notices before one steps in front of him, deliberately, and knocks his shoulder into Merlin's chest.
The tart splats against Merlin's favorite sweater, smearing custard and whipped cream.
"What the fu—" Merlin whirls, expecting to see a pair of sniggering teenage boys. But no, these are men in their mid-twenties, looking at Merlin not with juvenile amusement, but with disgust.
"It's no more of an embarrassment than you already were," one of them spits. "Either dress like a man, or take your freak ass home—"
He stops talking. Arthur's stepped forward, closer than most people are socially comfortable with. "What is the meaning of this?"
It's not a question. The other man is taller than Arthur, and clearly thinks that gives him an advantage. "What are you, his boyfriend? You into that, you sick fuck?"
Merlin's seen enough of Arthur's body language to know that he's about to throw a punch. He doesn't stop it.
Arthur hits hard, not just with his arm muscle, but with his body weight too, the way a boxer would. The man's head whips to the side, momentum nearly knocking him off his feet. Arthur aimed for the jaw, not the nose— which means the man instead goes down, out cold.
The other man for half a second looks stupid enough to charge at Arthur, but then his pants fall down around his ankles. He tries to take a step forward, and instantly falls down, not quite catching himself fast enough to avoid smacking his face against the cobblestone.
Arthur's got the look in his eye that indicates he'd like to deliver them to the police station himself, but people are already starting to give curious looks from a distance, and memory spells always leave Merlin with a migraine. "Come on," he hisses, grabbing Arthur's wrist and quickly dragging him away.
Arthur waits until they've ducked into a little grove at the park to gently pry his wrist free, although his face is all thunder. "They should be arrested. They assaulted you—"
"Technically, you're the one that assaulted them," Merlin points out. Arthur still didn't quite grasp that dueling wasn't an acceptable practice to resolve disputes. "It's not worth the trouble."
"They were worse than Saxons," Arthur retorts, aghast. "Utterly barbaric—" And then he quiets, jaw working in the way such that Merlin knows something more is coming, something uncomfortable. "I… I don't understand. What was it that made them target you?" Then, before Merlin can try to distract him from the crucial detail, "They said you didn't… dress like a man?"
Merlin goes to cross his arms over his chest, until he realizes his sweater is still covered in custard. "They're just knobheads. They…." Merlin chews his lip, catching the cool metal of his ring. Thinking about what words he can say that wouldn't reveal more than he was ready for. "They think of dresses and skirts as woman's clothes, and don't think men should wear them."
"I see."
Merlin can't read anything in Arthur's face, and it's making his pulse quicken. "Did you… did you not wonder, before now? About what, what I wear?"
"I've seen plenty a wizened elder in a tunic. At first I assumed you were merely dressing your age."
Merlin rolls his eyes, but his hands still uneasily fidget by his side. He knows Arthur's deflecting. "But then?"
"I assumed things were different now." Now it's Arthur's turn to avoid Merlin's eyes, putting his hands over his pockets and looking out over the park. With the soft breeze, the background shrieks of children laughing, the melody of quiet conversation, Merlin could almost close his eyes and imagine himself back home. Almost. "Many things are."
"Things are different," Merlin says. "Most people used to think like those two men. Now there are a lot fewer of them."
Arthur nods, still looking over the park. Merlin watches the clench in his jaw, and waits. "You… you never wore women's clothes in Camelot. Did you want to?"
"Never occurred to me. It didn't until—" He swallows down the word hundreds, doesn't want the reminder of how much time there is between himself and everyone he's ever loved. "—quite some time had passed. And then I started, and," he shrugs, aiming for casual, "'s comfortable."
"As in more convenient?"
1500 years, and Merlin's still never braced for when Arthur's gaze zeros in, all of the attention of a hunter finding the weak spot. Like he can see where the edges of Merlin's defenses don't quite line up. Merlin takes a deep breath. "I can change my body however I wish. I can be a man. I can be a woman. I can be a bird, a cat, a snake, I once spent two decades as an oak tree. Trying to make myself match those around me only made me more aware of how different I was. So eventually I just… did as I pleased."
He's watching Arthur so carefully, looking for a twitch, a frown, anything that indicates he's stumbled too far, where not even Arthur's innate compassion can understand him. He wouldn't be upset, as long as Arthur wasn't cruel about it. He's long since learned to take whatever scraps he can salvage.
But after a moment Arthur just nods, looking back at Merlin. "I'm sorry about your sweater." He takes a step to Merlin, gingerly grabbing the hem to inspect the fabric. "Do you think it can be cleaned?"
Merlin's gaze darts around to make sure no one's looking their way, and then his eyes flash gold as the stain on the sweater disappears. "Good as new."
"I used to wonder how you always got even the worst stains out of my clothes," Arthur grumbles. "Do you want to head home? We don't have to…."
Merlin rolls his eyes. "I may not be a man, but I'm not a damsel. I don't need coddling after losing my tart."
"Well," says Arthur. He lets go of the sweater, but he doesn't step back. His hand moves slowly, courageously, to Merlin's hand hanging by his side. Their knuckles brush. "If you ask nicely I might be persuaded to split my pastry with you."
Merlin slowly curls his hand around Arthur's own, and watches as Arthur's cheeks turn pink. His gaze doesn't stray from Merlin's however, and Merlin thinks he'll never meet a braver man. "Even the macaroons?"
"Don't get greedy," Arthur retorts, and pulls Merlin along into the light of day.
"The people will be singing tales of the one-footed King of Camelot," Emrys said, in a sort of lilting tone that made Arthur both want to strangle him and break into a grin. "Long may he hobble—"
"smile"
"Oh, hello Arthur," Gwen said, looking up from the pile of correspondence she was sorting through. "Did you manage to get a break from the council, or am I meant to be hiding you in here?"
Arthur's lips twitched into a smile. "If I said the latter would you allow me to squeeze into your closet?"
"Might find that a bit cramped, my lord," Gwen said with a smile of her own. "You'd have to go under my desk."
Feel free to join in! Find the words I provide in one or several WIPs, and quote a sentence or two that contain them.
Words: gold, fury, mock, storm.
Tagging: @bakerharrystyles @aemelia, @diaryofatrekker and @haloud ☺️
Merlin's barely recovered from the shock of hearing a polite knock on his very remote little cottage, when he swings the door open to find Arthur Pendragon staring at him. "I've been exiled," Arthur says calmly. "May I come in?"
"What?" Merlin wheezes.
Arthur seems to take that as invitation enough, shouldering past Merlin to enter. Dimly, Merlin notices he's wearing his long traveling coat, his sword at his hip, and a pack slung over his shoulder. "You keep this place just as messy as you did my chambers," Arthur tuts, looking over the humble interior of Merlin's cottage. His nose wrinkles in distaste as he looks at the dirty bowls on the table sat next to tinctures of bitter and poisonous plants, and Merlin's few articles of clothing drying on all the chair-backs. "Honestly, Merlin, what would your mother think?"
He swings his pack around, throws it down on the table, and begins to remove his coat. "I," Merlin breathes. "You. What are you—"
"Please tell me you have some actual meat in this hovel," Arthur adds. "It's a very long ride from Camelot, and I didn't stop to hunt for fear that I wouldn't make it here before nightfall."
He removes his coat, folding it and putting it up on a nail that sticks out from a wall. He turns and looks at Merlin expectantly. "Well?"
"EXILE?!" Merlin shrieks. "What are you— you're not— how did you even—"
His magic is bubbling up inside of him, confused, hurt, and restless. If Merlin hadn't already checked that it is indeed Arthur standing in front of him, he'd have thought the man an imposter. "How did you find me?" he settles on, hands curling into fists in an effort to control his raging emotions.
"I didn't," Arthur says. He leans over, absentmindedly straightening a pile of scrolls Merlin left askew. "I always knew where you went."
"What?"
"Lancelot is a very good tracker," Arthur says, in the tone of voice that indicates it explains everything Merlin needs to know. "Although he got a little too close following that business with the Sluagh. I told him to make sure you were well, not press his face into the windows."
"The wards," Merlin says faintly. He felt them thrum a couple weeks prior, indicating that someone had approached his cottage, although Merlin was unable to discover who.
His magic gave him no such warning for Arthur's arrival, the bastard.
"You've known where I've been ever since you sent me away," Merlin says slowly, trying to make his mind understand. Arthur is still looking at him with the expression he has whenever he thinks Merlin is being particularly slow about something. "And you didn't… mind? Say something?" Scream at me to leave? Show up with a company of Camelot's knights to dole out the law?
Arthur looks cross. "Well, you could have chosen someplace further than a day's ride out from Camelot," he says, and Merlin winces. Arthur then suddenly looks apologetic, and Merlin doesn't know why. "But it's for the best that you didn't. It would have been too hard for me to reach you had I need of you."
"Need of me," Merlin echoes faintly.
Arthur's apologetic expression melts into one of guilt. "I— I made sure I wasn't followed," Arthur says, and it is as he is instinctively flexing his hand that Merlin notices the bruises on his knuckles. "But I should have been more careful. My father, well—" A pained expression crosses his face. "Out of the two options, I was betting that he wouldn't choose exile. The other, I could handle."
Oh. So that's what this is about. Arthur has done something to irritate Uther, and he has turned to Merlin to fix it. He is desperate enough to decide he has need of Merlin again to seek him out. Merlin supposes it shouldn't be surprising that Arthur knows where he is, since it doesn't matter where he lives, as long as it is away from Arthur. Or maybe Arthur just wants the security of knowing Merlin can't run if Arthur decides to renege on his mercy.
If Merlin were his own friend, he would advise himself to have more self-respect. As it stands, at least there is no one else in the cottage to witness how pathetic he is. "What do you need?" Merlin says quietly.
Arthur shoots him a look. "Well, a fire would be nice, for starters. And I wasn't kidding about needing a meal—"
"With Uther," Merlin says exasperatedly. "Surely you must have some idea of how to calm his anger. I could conjure a kelpie and make sure there are witnesses to you heroically slaying it—"
"I've got my father under control," Arthur says. "Sure, it does make things a bit harder having to conduct a base of operations from this…." He looks around, and decides on a word that won't spark Merlin's ire, "abode, but my knights and I have been using coded communication for months now. The council was losing faith in him even before he chose to exile the crown prince. I give it less than a month before he brings Camelot to the brink of crisis, and then I'm sure the guards will be more than happy to allow me to return."
Merlin blinks. Perhaps this really is an imposter that has entered his home wearing Arthur's skin, or maybe he has finally gone utterly mad. He would have thought it would take more than half a year of broken-hearted solitude to get to that point. "Arthur, what are you talking about—"
"Oh, right. I'm sorry, I considered sending Lancelot with a message, but I didn't want him to be caught with anything on him were he found. I couldn't—" His thumb brushes over his lip, and Merlin sees a scab there. "I couldn't risk anything pointing to your location. Hence why I told my father I wouldn't give up that information, even under torture."
"What?!"
"Don't ruffle your petticoat, I'm fine," Arthur says quickly, as if Merlin had not just felt his magic jumping under his skin with all the fury of a dragon guarding its treasure. "I was expecting him to take me up on the offer, and then I wouldn't have to bother you. But it seems my father decided it more appropriate to strip me of my rank and title until I told him where you've been hiding."
Merlin stares at Arthur dumbly. There's no doubt about it, he has gone mad.
At least one of them, anyway.
"Why wouldn't you just tell your father where I am?"
"Very funny. Should I have offered to lead the knights to capture you myself, then?"
Merlin keeps his face blank to conceal the pain. "I suppose."
Arthur gives him a queer look. "You're acting odd. Did your brain wither away from having a forest respite for a few months?"
"Forest respite," Merlin sputters, and he may be pathetic but he still has enough dignity to grow angry. "I don't know what you want, and I'll help you with whatever you need, but might I remind you that you were the one that exiled me!"
Arthur rolls his eyes, and Merlin's hands curl into fists. "You're being dramatic."
It's so casual, so thoughtlessly cruel, that Merlin's magic lashes out before he can stop it. It doesn't hurt Arthur—he never would, never could—but Arthur's mouth falls open as he is shoved into a chair and held in place with invisible hands. For a second, fear flashes across his face, but even that is not enough to quell the anger inside Merlin. Like the first crack of ice across a frozen lake, it only splinters under further pressure.
"I did everything for you," Merlin rasps. "I bled, I killed, I would do it again without hesitation, and I know I lied to you, I know I hurt you, but— but you can't just turn up again like nothing has happened, when you sent me away—"
"—Merlin—"
"It's not fair, it's not fair to take me up one day and cast me away the next, so after this," Merlin's voice trembles, but he juts his chin upwards, he is stronger than this, damn it, "if you no longer wish to see me, then respect your own wishes and leave me be—"
"Merlin!" Arthur is still straining against the weight of the magic holding him in place. But he doesn't look angry, more confused and irritated. And sweaty. "When did I exile you?"
"Oh, I don't know," Merlin snaps. "Maybe this will refresh your recollection: 'Leave here now and don't come back.'"
He knows his voice is a harsh imitation of Arthur's exact words, as they have been ringing in his head since the moment he first heard them. They had barely sunk in, leaving their impression in the grove of his mind—a permanent scar that would never fade—when Arthur barked, "Now," his expression utterly furious. And Merlin had listened.
He breathes out harshly, trying to get a rein on his anger. And Arthur looks—
—well. He doesn't have a word to describe how Arthur looks, exactly.
"Merlin. You did magic in front of my father and his entire court." Arthur is speaking very clearly and slowly. "It was all I could do to buy you enough time so you wouldn't be caught while you fled."
Merlin blinks. He hasn't focused on that part of the situation, truly. He has been more concerned with the hurt in Arthur's eyes, the way his expression turned cold and commanding within a second. All of it, targeted at Merlin. "You were angry."
"I was frightened." Something shudders across Arthur's face before he can conceal its honesty. "I always knew you were a reckless idiot, with how little you cared for doing magic in plain sight, but I knew even I couldn't save you from that display—"
"You." Merlin feels dizzy. He sinks heavily into one of his chairs, and he hears Arthur take a deep breath as his magic releases his hold on him. "You knew. About my magic."
"Of course I knew; I'm not blind," Arthur says, aghast. "I just figured you were pretending otherwise so we wouldn't have to talk about it. Did you really not—" And then his mouth closes. He blinks. Merlin can almost see the coals inside of Arthur's head producing steam. When he speaks again, his voice is small. "I see now. How things might have occurred differently to you."
Part of Merlin wants to cry, part of him wants to scream, part of him wants to laugh hysterically, and he very bravely and wisely does not do any of that. "So you weren't sending me away. Forever, that is."
"No." There is a similar edge of hysteria to Arthur's voice. "Just until I could make it safe for you again. Until I could bring you back to Camelot."
"You kept track of where I was," Merlin says distantly. "You—" He shakes his head quickly. "Arthur, you didn't— please tell me you didn't tell Uther to torture you rather than reveal where I was— I'm not worth it, why did you, why—"
He stops when he finally catches Arthur's eye. Arthur is looking at him in a way Merlin had only caught in glimpses before, like a beam piercing through the clouds, but now the full force of the sun is shining upon him. "How is it obvious to everyone other than you?" Arthur asks.
Merlin's face shatters, and Arthur is out of his chair, making his way over with apologies, and Merlin hears him saying something about how he assumed, he was wrong, he didn't mean to, and that nothing needs to change. He puts his hand on Merlin's shoulder, and Merlin realizes they are both great idiots, and it is probably better to speak with their actions, rather than words. So he does exactly that.
It is only when Arthur has his breeches half undone that he pauses to speak, as he hikes Arthur's tunic up for better access to his chest. "I do love you too, by the way."
"Glad we got that sorted," Arthur replies, and they tumble into bed, basking in the privilege of an undisturbed exile.
For all the frequent magical disasters in Camelot, there were none to be found when Merlin needed them the most. He closed his eyes, letting his magic spread through the wards that hummed under and around the castle. Just one breach, he begged. Just one disgruntled faerie, or a Pooka on a rampage, hells I'd even take a Knuckelavee—
The doors to his study slammed open, and Arthur stormed in looking quite cross. "Where the hell have you been hiding! We're expected at the feast any moment now!"
"I, um—" Merlin fluttered his lashes and gave Arthur his best concerned look. "I felt something in the wards, I really should investigate—"
"You're full of shit," Arthur replied. Damn. It seemed that Arthur was finally growing desensitized to that trick. "You are not getting out of this. This is your feast—"
"—that I didn't want—" Merlin quickly pointed out.
"—I had to commission new robes so you'd have something to wear other than those rags—"
"—that I didn't ask for—"
"—and I've already had Lord Fairmont ask why we're not serving hare. And I've been forced to explain that my beloved consort," Arthur said, with gritted teeth and a pulsing vein, "is too soft-hearted to stand the thought of fluffy little bunnies being turned into stew. We are going. To. The feast."
"I really don't think," Merlin tried again weakly, but Arthur seemed to have remembered for the moment that he is King of Camelot, and, technically speaking, could tell Merlin what to do. He took Merlin's hand in his own with the fierce determination on his face that Merlin had seen his bear before facing down enemies on the battlefield. Arthur dragged him out of his study and into the hallway, and Merlin squawked as he stumbled behind.
"I know, not as fun when you can't hide in the back and make faces at me," Arthur grumbled. "If I have to endure this, you do too—"
"Arthur—"
"And don't even think about slipping out early, we are both drinking watered wine the entire night—"
"I'll embarrass you!" Merlin blurted out.
Arthur paused, stopping in the hallway. Merlin pulled his hand out of Arthur's grasp, folding his arms over his velvet tunic. He looked down, unable to meet Arthur's eyes as his ears burned in shame.
"What?"
"I… I know I've lived in the castle for years, but." Merlin paused, swallowing. "No one's ever paid attention to me before now. And I know everyone will be watching, judging me, judging you—"
"I don't care what anyone says. If anyone says anything unkind to you, anything at all, you tell me and I'll deal with it—"
"They don't have to say anything," Merlin muttered. "I'll— I'll use the wrong spoon, or trip over my feet while dancing, or with my luck spill an entire ladle of gravy all over myself. And then they'll whisper to each other, and think that you're making a mistake, and— I can't bear the thought that people lose faith in you because of me."
"Merlin," Arthur breathed, terribly tender. But Merlin stubbornly refused to lift his eyes off the stone floors.
Then Arthur let out a breath. "You're right," Arthur sighed. "You'll likely use a serving fork to eat pheasant, and all the dim-witted lords will laugh among themselves, and make comments about this being the reason why you don't start courting manservants."
Merlin squeezed his eyes shut. It hurt, but at least Arthur understood. "So then—"
"And anyone with a hint of sense, anyone who wants to retain standing in my court," Arthur continued, "will treat you like the marvel you are. A man who has saved Camelot. Saved me. They'll be tripping over themselves, begging for you to show them your magic. And I've half a mind to ask you to tell them it's only for your King's command."
Merlin's eyes flickered up to Arthur again. He was looking at Merlin with a soft smile. The most relaxed Arthur had ever looked while still wearing ornate robes and a gold circlet.
He took a deep breath. If he started tearing up now, Arthur would never let him hear the end of it. "If I spill wine all over myself, promise me you'll tumble arse-first into the pastry table."
Arthur rolled his eyes mightily, but Merlin saw the way his smile spread, canine teeth flashing in Merlin's direction. "If you insist." One hand reached into the inner pocket of his tunic. "You know, I did have something for you, but if you'd rather conjure ways to humiliate your lover—"
Merlin perked up. "Do you now?"
"Or maybe not, perhaps my gifts are better shared with consorts that don't try to run away from me—"
Merlin stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He quickly pressed a kiss to Arthur's cheek, leaning back just enough to see his face. "May I see it?" he said sweetly.
"I know what you're doing," Arthur muttered, but still his cheeks turned pink. He pulled his hand out from his tunic, and from it hung a pendant on a gold chain. "You received new clothes, but no jewelry," Arthur said. Now he had turned bashful, looking anywhere but Merlin's face. "And I just thought— well, you should have something to wear for your first event as my Consort. From me, that is."
Merlin stared at the necklace. Gold had been delicately cast into the shape of a star, four main prongs and a starburst design with a blue stone nestled in the center. "It's beautiful. Thank you, Arthur," he said quietly. He turned around, peeking at Arthur over his shoulder. "Put it on me?"
He felt Arthur's breath on the back of his neck as the pendant settled over his sternum. The gold chain stook out starkly against the high color of his blue tunic, and would be obvious to everyone that glanced in his direction. Merlin suspected his outfit had been selected with this piece of jewelry in mind.
The clasp closed, and Merlin turned back around. He let Arthur look his fill as the king's thumb dragged over the necklace, satisfaction radiating from Arthur. Possessive thing.
"Well then." Merlin took a last breath to steady himself, and then laced Arthur's hand in his own. "Shall we face the hounds?"
Arthur's resulting smile was brighter than all the stars above Camelot.
for @merthurmicrofic ︱"pain" ︱2010 words ︱part of my wip daemon au
It had been too long since Arthur had done this— laid out snares for rabbits, cut notches into his arrows, crept out into the woods with quiet footsteps. For all that Merlin sniffed and Arthur had lost his desire for the bigger game, there was something about hunting for his meal that always made Arthur feel satisfied deep in his core. Like he had truly earned the right to eat, unlike the fat roasts placed in front of him in the castle for the mere accomplishment of having been born Uther Pendragon's son. He could respect his quarry's sacrifice of flesh to sustain him, give him the strength he needed to serve his people.
Peasants had gone missing, and no one had cared until a nobleman joined their ranks, and Uther of course suspected sorcery when the corpses turned up pale and hard as stone, and rather than send his knights rampaging through the woods to slaughter every warted woman and muttering man they'd seen, Arthur had convinced his father that scouting the area first might be worthwhile. Merlin had insisted he'd join, as he always did, and Arthur had ridden out on Aneirin while Merlin followed behind on a squat little pony named Daisy, chattering Arthur's ear off. When Arthur had finally snapped that this was a scouting mission to stop a murderous sorcerer, not a countryside respite, Merlin had given Arthur such a withering look it was if Arthur had personally besmirched Hunith's honor. Then Merlin had resumed his prattle with Sylve, the stoat easily responding in kind, and Arthur accepted that he had lost all hope of a stealthy approach.
But now Merlin and Sylve had been left behind as Merlin insisted he make a fire and fetch water, and for once Arthur was all too quick to agree with his manservant. Deep in the woods and free of any expectations, Arthur felt like he could breathe again.
Aneirin needed the space, too. The halls of the castle were confining for reasons beyond just the narrow halls and low ceilings being ill-suited for a stag's antlers. He lagged along at a distance just far enough to remain comfortable, absentmindedly sniffing at the ground or pausing to rest under the shade of a tree. They had realized early on that Arthur had no hope of catching prey if Aneirin remained at his side— he was too large, too conspicuous, and common animals recognized Aneirin as not one of their own kind. So he rested some thirty paces behind Arthur while Arthur sat low and silent by a riverbank, while he waited for some badger or duck to cross his path.
Two screams cut through the air like a war-horn.
Arthur jumped, cursing as Aneirin scrambled to his feet. The voices were distinct, one low pitched and more distant, the other high, female, closer. Arthur's gut twisted with dread.
"I hear her," Aneirin said, and slowed down just enough for Arthur to keep pace as he sprinted through the forest. The shrill shriek increased in pitch as he ran, brambles tearing at his legs and lungs burning for air. It choked, gasped, before cutting off in a pitiful whimper.
Aneirin pushed ahead, thundering hooves leaving Arthur behind. Arthur felt the ache in his chest like he'd taken a staff-blow, and yet could not tell his daemon to stop. The red stag ran as far as he dared, until Arthur could not hear the screams over his own heartbeat pulsing hot in his ears. It was just too far Aneirin come back wait—
Aneirin shouted something, something Arthur couldn't hear over his own labored breath, but he saw the stag come to a stop in the middle of a clearing. The relief gave Arthur the surge of strength he needed to catch up. Arthur had barely come to a stop as well, wheezing for breath, when Aneirin's fear crashed over him.
"Help her!" Aneirin shouted. "We need to get her out, do something—"
It took Arthur a minute to realize what he was looking at, with his breath still heavy from exertion, with the whimpers and gasps still coming from the center of the clearing, with Aneirin's panic rushing through his veins. The circle on the ground had been covered with dirt and moss in the years of disuse, the three pillars that grounded the trap innocuous in the vegetation that swallowed them. But Arthur recognized the center instrument, a hollowed hole in the ground lined with metal and covered by a metal grate. He had seen its design sketched on scrolls in Uther's study, as Uther boasted of the ingenuity of Camelot's purge of magic, how they were even able to trap the bird-daemons of sorcerers that flew monstrously far from their humans.
He had never seen a mage-trap in use before, however.
He stared dumbly down at the center pit. The bird within was small, no longer than the length of Arthur's forearm, with blue-grey wings that trembled and flapped desperately against the grate. The trap was built to hold daemons far larger than this one, swans and eagles and owls, and the daemon had just enough space to fling herself against the grate in a desperate attempt to flee before crashing back down against the pit floor.
"Sorcerers are inhuman in their corruption," Uther had explained. "They sever their daemons from their bodies so they can spy and spread their evil far across the land. This trap makes them suffer for their monstrosity."
"Please," the daemon begged, voice high thin with pain. "I can't— I can't feel—"
His memory resonated like a struck bell. I can't feel him, Arthur had thought, helpless and retching on the floor while panicked shouts rang around him. I can't feel him—
He forced himself to the present. It was wrong, so wrong, to see a daemon without its human nearby, to see a person's soul torn out and discarded from its body. Like a severed head had struck up casual conversation about the weather. Arthur told himself that was the reason for the chill in his bones, and no other.
Aneirin roared, rearing back on his hind legs, before bringing his front hooves down on the metal grate. The bars creaked and groaned, but gave no way. The stag gave a mighty bellow, and tried again, and Arthur stood there frozen with the fear of understanding.
"What are you doing?" Aneirin paid him no mind. "Who is— who is that—?"
The bird cringed, trembled. "Please— please don't hurt us— we'll go, we promise, just—" Her wings fluttered faintly again, but she could not managed to even rise off of the floor. "Merlin—" she choked.
Aneirin made a desperate noise, his anguish rippling through Arthur. "It's hurting them," he cried. "You have to release it—"
"You knew," Arthur breathed.
Aneirin didn't reply, or maybe didn't get a chance to. In the pit Sylve let out a pitiful cry, and then her wings beat frantically no more. She lay there limp, small and trembling.
He did not wait any longer. Arthur's knees throbbed when he threw himself down beside the grate. His hands fumbled for the hidden latch by the pit's edge, the one that Uther had shown him how to release. "With their daemons contained in the mage-trap, sorcerers are unable to use their foul gifts. There's no need to even keep your men watching the trap. Just check on it in the early morning— same as for any other snare." Uther had smiled with self-satisfaction, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. "After a night spent severed from their daemons, they'll be easy enough to then take to face justice."
The latch released, and Arthur threw the grate back so hard it rattled against the hinges. Sylve's little chest rose and fell rapidly, but did not otherwise move. Arthur looked up at Aneirin, both of their eyes large with fear.
"We should—" Arthur said, and "bring her—" Aneirin said, and without further thought Arthur was shucking off his thin hunting jacket. He wrapped it over his hands, moving so carefully as he reached down for Sylve. Even though the jacket, his skin prickled with the sheer proximity of another person's daemon.
But there was no time to consider the searing intimacy of what he was doing, not when Sylve was dull like a common bird and not Merlin's soul. Aneirin knelt down so that Arthur could get on his back without jostling Sylve too much. Arthur learned forward as Aneirin straightened and took back off to their camp, clutching the bundle that held Sylve tight against his chest. He did not dare to think, could not afford to.
He had suspected what he would find back at the campsite. But the reality of it still held fresh horror: Merlin's long body curled up onto its side, the dirt around him disturbed where he had likely kicked and thrashed in agony. But now he was still, eyes open but glassy as Arthur swung off of Aneirin. One hand was extended, reaching out for what had been ripped from him.
Arthur knew what that felt like. He was going to be sick.
"Merlin," Arthur choked, rushing to the other man's side. He took a knee, and carefully tumbled the little bundle in his jacket onto Merlin's outstretched palm. Sylve fell into his hand, light and limp.
Merlin and Sylve gasped in in tandem, and Merlin's eyes flared gold as he sparked back to life. There was a moment where they did nothing but breathe, and then Merlin was scrambling to sit up as Sylve pressed tight into his chest. Arthur watched, frozen, as Sylve's form shifted effortlessly from the small bird to the stoat he knew very well.
"You were gone—"
"I'm here—"
"I couldn't feel you—"
"Never again—"
Arthur forced himself to look away. Aneirin slowly lowered his head, nudging Arthur's shoulder in some form of comfort and apology.
He knew when Merlin processed that Arthur was standing there, because out of the corner of his eye he saw Merlin go very still. Then he released Sylve from his embrace, and she took her usual perch winding around Merlin's shoulders. "Arthur," Merlin said, and Arthur did not think he could stand to hear Merlin beg for his life.
"Did it feel like she was being torn out of you?" he said hoarsely. "Like you were being ripped in two?"
A myriad of emotions flickered over Merlin's face before he settled on pale endurance. "Yes. Like I—" Merlin flinched from the fresh memory. "Like I was being unmade."
Arthur had felt the arrow as cleanly as if it had been shot into his own ribs. But that pain had been nothing compared to the agony that followed: Aneirin, tumbling down a gorge, off-balance as he reeled from the strike of a hunter thinking he'd found the most glorious prize. Arthur was already at the edge of where their bond allowed, but the feeling of his connection to his soul straining— of it ready to snap—
He'd thought he'd already died until he felt Aneirin's fur under his hand. Only then could he take his first breath that was not filled with broken glass. He'd wrapped his arms around Aneirin, weeping helplessly, unable to move until he had the confidence his heart was in his chest once more.
"We are going to talk," Arthur said, swallowing his fears. "If I leave you here, you won't run, will you?"
Merlin was still pale, but had the wherewithal to look as if he were seriously considering the answer to Arthur's question. But then Aneirin murmured "please, don't," and in response Sylve slunk off of Merlin's shoulders. She jumped, and a heartbeat later she was a bird, fluttering over to Aneirin to land on one of his antlers.
Arthur glanced back over at Merlin, who refused to meet Arthur's eyes. "Where are you going?" he asked quietly.
"To make sure no one else is caught in that damned trap," Arthur said, and he stood up to do exactly that.
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