Emmm hiii!! <3 Age diff is what started out as a simple idea of a canon PWP with, one might guess it, an age difference between arthur and merlin (with merlin as the older one, for once 😌) and then basically immediately grew a plot where Ygraine didn't die but "only" got ill, as such the purge did not happen the same way, and Merlin at 20 years older than Arthur is, together with his father, leading a pretty successful opposition. it's 2k words long and not even remotely in sight of the smut that was the inspo (age diff... inexperienced arthur..... fucking you so good you'll come over to my side of the war....... ykwim 👀) but i'm sure i'll get there uhh. eventually lmao
A spy, his father had said; that is what he is supposed to be here. Uther Pendragon has no interest in brokering peace with the magical community, no matter what magical contracts have to say on that matter. Arthur’s father might not have gotten out of sending him here, but he would not be infamous for his stance on magic if he hadn’t equipped Arthur with extensive training as well as instructions on how to use these six months to their favour.
Arthur gets it, he does. He knows, too, that destiny and prophecies are fickle concepts at best, treasonous at worst. None of these pieces of knowledge lessen the anticipatory burn though, the twitching of his fingers for something that he does not know the shape of.
“Here,” Mordred says, opening the flap of a tent. It’s modest, on first glance, furs and a brazier, a low stool and table taking up most of the space. Still, Arthur is familiar with war tents, and the ones common soldiers get to stay in, if at all. This is generous, all things considered.
“Thank you,” he says, offering Mordred a smile. “Would you have any idea of what kind of schedule awaits me, then?”
It does smart his pride, a little, to act this deferential to a child, one with magic at that. He knows better to let it show on his first day here, though.
As Mordred explains the general schedule of the camp, it begins to dawn on Arthur that he is not going to find himself alone with Emrys anytime soon, that, in fact, he might consider himself lucky if he sees him soon at all.
“Is that not why I am here?” he asks eventually, a little more sharply than he should, really.
Mordred merely huffs though, rolls his eyes. “The Elders said you might say that. He is our leader though, our King; do you think that King Uther” — he sneers the word, in a manner that strips all the childlikeness from him for a brief, startling moment— “would spend his time with a magical child he is contractually obliged to, without even knowing whether it will be worth the trouble?”
The bluntness of it is a shock, and Arthur swallows his first answer, the second and the third, bitterness coating his throat. Reminds himself that of course, of course, Emrys is older, is not merely a heir pushed around by his father but a grown man, long-since leading his own sections in this war that has been going on since Arthur was born.
