Fic: an arse is an arse, of course, of course (2/3)
Title: an arse is an arse, of course, of course (2/3)
Characters: Arthur/Merlin, Arthur/OMC, Merlin/Lancelot
Author: aeroport_art
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Word Count: 4,692 (out of 13,383)
Notes: Oh man...I had SO MUCH HELP on this story. mini_moue was my lightning-fast proofer, dark_reaction gave this story the swift kick in the butt that it needed, and oxoniensis was amazingly sweet to look this over on such short notice and still have such extensive concrit. So, THANK YOU GUYS. This story was major suckage before they chipped in with their amazing brains. Other than that...gosh, this story took me about SIX MONTHS to write but it's finally here. I hope you guys enjoy.
Summary: Arthur's vivid, recurring dreams involve fucking his manservant, and it's throwing him off his game.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
It starts the night after they kill the afanc.
Far below the castle walls, where the water’s been poisoned and the beast lurks in the shadows, they destroy the bugger-Morgana brave with a sword and Merlin a passable torch-bearer. That evening they kill the afanc, and that night Arthur’s dreams begin. They’re strange dreams, full of whispers and smoke, red flames licking underground ceilings and always, in the midst of it all, Merlin behind the inferno with his eyes glowing gold.
The morning after, Arthur wakes up hard (as usual) and muttering Merlin’s name under his breath (not so usual). This happens six days in a row-six nights of golden fires and six mornings of Arthur bringing himself off in bed, eyes screwed tight and his mind even tighter against the cloying vestiges of his recurring dreams.
After six days of this nonsense with no end in sight, Arthur decides to do something about it.
That afternoon he picks up a fellow knight. It won’t be the first time…granted, it’s only his second time, but it’s still as easy as anything to lure someone into his bed. Who would dare deny the Crown Prince anything?
The knight’s name is Owain. He’s young, fit, and perfectly willing. The fact of his gender (male…very male) doesn’t bother Arthur at all; sleeping with men is simply practical. While the sweet scent of a woman’s perfumed skin stirs his loins, as it does for any red-blooded young man, Arthur’s heard too many horror stories about illegitimate children and dangerous, jealous women to ever dip his stick in that particular pool. For Camelot, Arthur affirms.
After a session of hard training with the knights, this is how Arthur finds himself leading a fidgeting Sir Owain into his inner chambers.
“Not a bad haunt,” Owain says when they get in, his head swirling about to take in his surroundings. Spotting the bear rug on the floor, he points at it with the tip of his scabbard. “I remember that.”
It was Arthur’s prized kill, from two summers ago. “I remember it too. You tried to solicit me that night, with Tristan and Breunor just across the stream,” he says conversationally.
Owain gives an embarrassed chuckle. Though self-assured-Arthur wouldn’t have chosen him if he were a snivelling lout-Owain looks all too rueful as he scratches the back of his head, admitting, “Yes, there was that.”
“Indeed,” Arthur agrees, sidling closer.
Owain looks up and asks, “So…what made you change your mind?”
Owain’s a good-looking man. His close-cropped hair accentuates his masculinity (unlike Merlin’s dark curls, which only accentuates how he’s ten times the girl Morgana will ever be), and Owain’s eyes are vivid green. Furthermore, said eyes don’t follow Arthur into his dreams, which is all the convincing he needs at this point.
Arthur grabs Owain and presses his mouth against his. It really is that simple.
They shed their armour, greaves and breastplates dropped with a resounding clatter while the chainmail they wear slithers off in heavy heaps. There’s no need to rush-they’ve got all afternoon-but Arthur’s impatient and he undresses Owain quickly, pushing him towards the bed even as he pulls his own clothes off.
Owain isn’t complaining. Though calm and steady by day, it appears he stores his passion for times like this; suddenly, Owain is wild, eager to spread his legs and arch wantonly at every touch Arthur will grant.
Arthur smiles to see how his plan is unfolding, neatly and accordingly. Even if fucking Owain doesn’t distract him from his stupid dreams about his stupid manservant, it’ll at least provide a pretty visual during his morning wank.
“Arthur!” Owain moans, drawing attention himself-he’s got one knee up to his chest as he works a spit-wetted finger into himself. Arthur feels his dick twitch.
“Wait, stop,” he orders, rolling over the mattress to the other side. From his bedside drawer, Arthur plucks out a vial of rosewood oil, meant for soothing muscles. It’s a good thing he’s got it handy; it makes everything easier, and infinitely more fun.
Before long, Arthur’s got two fingers inside Owain and being begged for a third. Yet he ignores him and withdraws his hand-Arthur’s got more pressing matters to address (namely, himself).
Arthur slicks himself with a handful of oil, jerking purposefully and fast. Thumb pressing down at the head, he leans forward and guides the tip of his dick to Owain’s entrance. Works himself in with rocking thrusts to the sound of Owain’s soft, pained grunts as they stick-slide together.
When he bottoms out, Arthur breathlessly asks, “You okay?”
“Yeah-yeah, I’m good.” Owain takes a deep breath and pushes back experimentally. A wince accompanies it, but whether he actually wants more or is just loath to back out, Owain says bravely, “Go on. Move.”
Finally, Arthur thinks. He leans back in his seat and throws Owain’s legs up, holding them behind the joints of his knees so he can drive back in without obstacle. From here on, it’s just Owain’s tight heat and Arthur gets to relax, gets to lose himself in a good, mindless fuck.
Just when he’s starting to get into it, Owain loose and greedy and mewling like a hungry kitten, the door opens with a small creak.
Arthur slows his pace (to the protestations of Owain) and glances up, catching sight of the intruder in his vanity mirror-
Merlin.
Reflected in glass, image blurry but discernable, is Merlin. He’s holding an armful of supplies but he’s staring straight at the bed (straight at Arthur).
Well, shit. What a picture he must make. The prince of Camelot, balls-deep in another knight’s arse. Fuck, Arthur inwardly groans, his every nerve screaming to leap off Owain and clutch for the sheets. He stuffs down the panic, however, and focuses instead on how this is no time to overreact and make a fool of himself. A prince must always act with dignity-this includes when he’s (literally) been caught with his trousers down.
It’s only a tumble. No big deal, he tells himself. Just make it look good, and the rest will take care of itself.
So he does. Owain feels it too, the moment Arthur snaps into himself. He’s on a mission now, he’s got something to prove, so Arthur braces himself against Owain’s flung-out legs, fucks down once, hard, and makes the retreat something to be remembered.
His dick feels like it’s getting squeezed of all blood, the way Owain’s arse clings to him on the way out. Owain’s surprised trumpet of noise makes Arthur smirk in triumph, and the tiny gasp he hears across the room-he’d been waiting for it, waiting for some acknowledgement Merlin was still there, still watching-Merlin’s choked gasp slaps a huge grin on his face.
Owain, utterly oblivious to their new audience, continues to bray in a truly inspired fashion with Arthur’s name featuring prominently alongside “oh God”s and “you’re huge. ” Arthur couldn’t have planned it better himself, and it’s with great magnanimity that he finishes up, flooding Owain with his come to the tune of Merlin’s fading footfalls. He relishes the moment until all he can hear is the ringing in his ears, then collapses onto his elbows and presses his face to the side of Owain’s damp neck, breathing heavily.
A single thought comes to him, slowly: Merlin, you sly dog.
For under normal circumstance, servants are to politely and speedily remove themselves from the premises when catching their masters in the middle of a quick shag. Merlin, on the other hand, had stood there…for ages. Just watching. What in God’s name passed through that incomprehensible mind, Arthur can only wonder.
He hopes Merlin was shocked. Hopes he doesn’t forget this anytime soon, that the image is burned into his eyelids, as Merlin is Arthur’s.
“My Lord?”
“Oh right,” Arthur says, glancing down at Owain’s rigid, trembling prick, which he’s nearly forgotten. It only needs a few, good jerks before Owain is coming spectacularly, and by the end of it all, Arthur’s feeling pretty damned good about himself.
-----
The rest of the night is less successful.
Apparently, he can’t just fuck away his disturbing dreams. It’s been made worse, even-the sex part sticks, only it isn’t Owain he’s fucking anymore. It’s his stupid, sodding manservant spreading himself wide, panting Arthur’s name like it’ll put out fires. In the dream, Merlin cries not ‘sire’, not ‘lord’, but…
Arthur…faster! Go faster-oh god, Arthur-
“Bloody hell,” Arthur grumbles, wiping himself down with a towel (because he came in his sleep like a bloody twelve-year-old).
-----
It ought to come as a relief then, that Merlin vanishes off the face of Albion. But it isn’t.
Not only is Arthur having sex on a nightly basis (in his head) with someone his father believes to be mentally retarded, Merlin’s disappearance is fucking with him during the day as well.
Seriously, it’s been like, a week since he’s been by Arthur’s chambers. A lesser man (well, someone Arthur doesn’t owe his life once or twice over) would’ve been sacked ages ago, but he couldn’t even sack Merlin if he wanted because he’s NOWHERE TO BE FOUND.
Arthur curses something distinctly un-princely, balls up the sleeping hose he’s just taken off and launches it as far as he can, childishly pleased when it snags on the (thankfully unlit) chandelier. Merlin’s going to have to strain himself to get that one.
Serves him right, this is getting ridiculous. And just for the record, Arthur isn’t upset because he misses having Merlin around to make fun of. He’d never miss the way Merlin treats him like some equal whom he can tease (Arthur is never to be teased), instead of the employer who could have him executed (which he totally would). No, it’s got nothing to do with Merlin…it’s the principle of the matter.
The matter being that Arthur is PRINCE OF CAMELOT and Merlin is a STUPID PEON WHO WON’T SHOW UP FOR WORK.
Arthur’s going to have to remedy that. It won’t be hard, he’ll simply go straight to Gaius and get him to pry that lazy sod out of bed.
-----
A short while later, Arthur finds Gaius at his lab, puttering about with liquids and herbs. Arthur quickly lets him know that his charge is a terrible excuse for a manservant and that he, the prince (if anyone cares anymore), requires his presence immediately.
Arthur has half a mind to charge inside and bang on the bedroom door just to make his point-normally would, in fact, but something about greeting a slow-blinking, drowsy Merlin makes his stomach roll.
After all, the dreams have in no way ceased (they’re getting worse, actually) and it’s affecting him in ways Arthur refuses to acknowledge. Easier just to avoid a treacherous situation altogether, and so he spins around and heads back the way he came.
-----
The night after they kill the afanc, Merlin follows Arthur back to his chambers.
“Your wound, sire.”
Arthur looks down at his arm and watches his sleeve tear open before his very eyes. A clean, invisible slice follows, cutting into the meat of his bicep until a string of beaded blood wells to the surface.
“Right…” Arthur says uncertainly.
Merlin lowers his eyes. “Your shirt. I can’t dress the wound like that.”
Arthur complies, removing his outer tunic, and tosses it over the back of a chair as he heads towards the bed. Merlin follows obediently, choosing to remain silent as Arthur flops onto his mattress and looks up expectantly.
Merlin says: “Your inner shirt as well.”
So, off it goes. Arthur pulls the body-warmed linen over his head and throws it aside.
What happens next should tip him off, should alert Arthur that this isn’t natural, but he can’t think straight when Merlin’s clambering into his lap like a heavy, bony child wanting a bedtime story. There’s nothing childlike about what Merlin does next, however; he brings his mouth down to the cut on Arthur’s inner bicep and tantalizingly holds it there. Warm puffs of breath ghost over Arthur’s skin, drawing up goose bumps until Merlin extends his tongue and delicately drags it over the line of beaded blood.
Merlin pulls back and appears to savour the taste, eyes probing as they regard Arthur with feral heat.
Eyes normally an insignificant blue, hidden under dark fringe and dark lashes, Arthur likes the way they suddenly sharpen up close: shards of hazel break up the colour like metal in water and it should be cold, should be calculating, but instead it’s searing like Merlin’s gaze will ignite whatever it lands upon.
In this case it’s Arthur, and he’s hardly immune. When Merlin repeats, “Your wound, sire,” Arthur can’t help but tip his head back and groan. This time, he feels instead of sees the new wound develop; it arcs across the muscle connecting his thigh to his groin in a clean whip of heat, the rip of fabric sounding like an afterthought.
Arthur needs no instruction this time, he knows what needs to be done. His hips scramble up as he pushes his clothing down, revealing the cut (and then some) in all its vulnerability-does so without the slightest hesitation, because it’s Merlin he bares himself to, it’s just Merlin seeing him like this.
“Merlin, please. “
Arthur catches a fleeting glimpse of a feline smile, Merlin’s mouth curled up at the corners, before the view’s obscured-Merlin ducks his head down and concentrates on dragging the rest of Arthur’s trousers off, yanking loose one leg at a time until the offending garment is bunched up and forgotten on the dusty floor.
“Arthur,” Merlin says against the soft skin of Arthur’s thigh. Arthur, Merlin mouths against the soft skin of Arthur’s groin.
-----
“Arthur,” Merlin says, his voice muted.
Arthur groans, burrowing his head between two pillows.
“Arthur, ” the infernal voice comes again, and it’s louder this time. Clearer, too. “C’mon, get up.”
A heavy weight comes down one side of the mattress and the pillow covering Arthur’s face is rudely snatched off. Arthur scrunches his eyes shut against the sunlight that bleeds through his eyelids in a wash of pink, but it’s too bright to counter and he isn’t getting his pillow back no matter how insistently he gropes at the air.
Finally, reluctantly, he cracks an eye open. Merlin’s face swims into view, pinched like a worried nursemaid’s and far too close for comfort.
Before Arthur can squeeze his eyes back shut and duck under the covers, Merlin makes a grab at him and God damn it, he’s trying to get some sleep here but Merlin’s pesky hands are tight on his shoulders, clinging on and shaking him awake.
“Come on, ” Merlin prods, leaning over so he can employ his favourite method of rousing Arthur: two thumbs on either of Arthur’s eyelids, Merlin pries them up in an effective (and thoroughly annoying) manner.
When Arthur’s vision focuses, he realizes he’s staring into the very eyes he’d been dreaming of just moments ago. Merlin’s limbs are draped all over him, elbows tight against Arthur’s ribs and digging into the mattress for leverage, his cool hands still on Arthur’s face with his thumbs light on Arthur’s brow. The rest of him is a solid weight, unwittingly pressed against Arthur’s morning erection.
Merlin chuckles, belly vibrating against Arthur’s decidedly interested cock, though (thank GOD) Merlin doesn’t seem to notice. He just says, “There you are. Now keep them up, we’ve got to get you dressed-“
Arthur jerks away like he’s been burned, shoulder blades hitting the flat surface of the headboard with bruising force.
“God, Merlin, most servants just knock on the door and leave it at that,” Arthur complains, his voice thick with sleep.
“I did,” Merlin replies timidly. “You weren’t waking up. But you have that meeting with the stable master at noon, so I let myself in-“
“Well let yourself back out, ” Arthur snaps, still hyper aware of his hard on (for the person sitting on his bed). “I mean it, Merlin, get out.”
“But I still need to bring up breakfast-“
“Are you deaf? Leave, and don’t bother coming back for the day. I could use the peace and quiet.”
The wounded look Merlin gives him brings a twinge of guilt, but once left to his privacy (and his own right hand), Arthur doesn’t think about much at all, just curls into the indent left by his servant and defiantly sticks his head back under the pillow as he works himself to orgasm.
-----
Later on that day:
“Where is the dolt?”
“You gave him the day off. What, did you expect him to hang around on the off chance you’ll throw some chores and insults his way?” Morgana fixes a withering look on him. “He’s probably hiding from you.”
Morgana is a bright girl. And Merlin is the worst manservant he’s ever had.
She continues, “Besides, I’m the one who told him to make himself scarce. I knew you’d come stomping around, demanding him back so he could hold your hand while you take a piss.”
Arthur decides he doesn’t like bright girls very much.
-----
Since his father refuses to let Arthur sound the alarms or put a bounty on Merlin’s head for the day, Arthur’s resorted to searching his manservant out the old-fashioned way: on foot.
Sure, he knows the castle like the back of his hand-he’s grown up here, jumped puddles in all the uneven alleys, explored every last staircase, and named every stone creature that adorns the walls. Nonetheless, it takes a lifetime to find every nook and cranny in the castle. Attempting such a stroll in the span of one afternoon is totally ludicrous…
…which is why Arthur decides to seek Gaius out instead. In the bustling courtyard where the market is taking place, Arthur asks the fishmonger if he’s seen the physician. A pointed finger leads him to the Anglide’s.
Inside, Gaius is speaking with the parents of young Sarah Anglide, who is covered in hives and crying non-stop. Arthur stays in the doorway.
“Excuse me,” he calls imperiously. “This is the prince. I need to borrow the court physician for a moment.”
Gaius materializes. “Your Highness. May I help you with something?”
“Indeed. I’m-“
An ear-piercing shriek comes from the back room and Arthur falters.
Gaius leans in to make himself heard above the little girl’s screaming: “Try the western tower, above our quarters. He likes it up there.”
Arthur is more than happy to leave the young banshee behind him, and so it’s with a slight bounce in his step that he makes his way back through the market and towards the castle.
-----
Arthur takes the winding staircase up the tower, and by the time he’s reached the top he’s dizzy from the endless climb. Outside in the blinding light of day, the air tastes sweet and Arthur sucks it in greedily.
Merlin is exactly where Gaius said he’d be. Arthur spies him right away, lying on the floor like some countryside yokel. Granted, the sun-bathed stone is probably warm at his back compared to the brisk temperature bestowed by the tail-end of winter. Either way, Merlin looks comfortable with his hands folded under his head and legs stretched out before him.
Striding over until he’s standing directly above Merlin-whose eyes are closed as he remains unaware of Arthur’s presence-Arthur silently mulls over the Very Important Question of how best to approach (and startle) his manservant.
A flick to the ear? Arthur considers, for Merlin does have ridiculous ears that beg for abuse. No, too obvious. Arthur bends over for a better look, then gets down on his hands to study Merlin’s face upside-down.
Merlin’s eyes are closed and his face is relaxed. Blissful, even. There’s a small smile playing over his lips and it makes Arthur wonder what he’s thinking about.
Arthur lets his elbows buckle as he brings their faces closer together.
Maybe Merlin’s thinking about his village-his family, perhaps, or something simpler like a favourite food or game he’d play back home. Arthur doesn’t really know what peasants do for fun but whatever it is, Merlin looks more content than Arthur can ever remember seeing.
Soon, a small sound filters into the air, only to be carried away by the wind. When it picks up again, however, it’s louder and more obviously coming from Merlin.
Arthur looks down. Merlin is…well, he’s humming. He’s humming to himself-and now he’s singing under his breath, snatches of melody and words making their way into Arthur’s ears. The whole thing is rather mesmerizing.
And, Arthur realizes with a start, rather voyeuristic.
Though all he has to do to announce his presence is clear his throat, Arthur suddenly feels guilty all the same. This is probably a very private place for Merlin; this high up, with only wind and sky and stone for company, the rest of the castle feels like a world apart. He shouldn’t be here uninvited.
Arthur moves closer, purses his lips together and blows a steady, lingering stream of air over Merlin’s face.
It does the job. Merlin jerks his head a bit, eyebrows tightening, and Arthur quickly pulls back and waits to get noticed.
Dark lashes flutter, then slowly lift to reveal a set of eyes bluer than the sky reflected in them. Arthur sits there, feeling awkward as Merlin blithely smiles at him.
“Arthur,” Merlin says easily, like he knew he had company all along. “What are you doing up here?”
“I was just passing by,” Arthur says glibly, and it’s an obvious lie. No one uses the western tower for anything. “So this is what you do during your free time…” Arthur squints up at the sky. “Absolutely nothing?”
“I wasn’t doing nothing. ” Merlin protests. “I was cloud-watching,” he explains, as if it’s a perfectly suitable answer.
“Cloud-watching?” Arthur repeats dryly. “You’re a simple man, Merlin. A very, very simple man.”
Merlin laughs, Arthur lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you never cloud-watch,” Merlin says teasingly.
Arthur looks at him very seriously. “I never cloud-watch.”
“You’re missing out then.”
“I don’t have time for inane things like staring at fixed spots for hours.” Arthur scoffs. “I’m a very busy man.”
“Yet you have time to search for a stray manservant…”
“Hardly!” Arthur yells, deeply affronted. He’s a prince-Arthur would do no such thing. “You’re just lucky the Duke of Casain and his men got sidetracked with bandits this morning. Even still, you’ve completely botched my schedule. The stable master requested a whole slew of things that need to be ordered-”
“Did he finally ask for that rig he obviously wants? God, I get nervous every time he’s around the new filly, the way he looks at her.”
Arthur snorts despite himself. God, that’s sick. “A whole slew of tack, you filthy-minded boor.”
“I’m a boor?”
“The point is, ” Arthur says. “You’re ruining my schedule. I was forced to pass off all the orders to the stable boy.”
“That’s his job, sire,” Merlin counters, saying “sire” like he’s saying “stupid”.
“It’s his job if I say it’s his job,” Arthur sniffs, and he’s about to add more when his mouth suddenly goes dry…
Merlin’s face has been taken hostage by brazen affection; his white teeth gleam in the sun and his eyes have gone dark with mirth. He’s looking at Arthur like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing, and it’s disarming, it’s playing dirty. How is Arthur supposed to keep the upper hand when Merlin is looking at him like that?
“So you’ve got your stable boy at the saddler’s,” Merlin says conversationally, “and Casain won’t be in until nightfall. That sounds like free time to me.”
Arthur opens his mouth to argue…well…
Merlin’s grin widens. Arthur closes his mouth. Then fiercely says, “No thanks to you. ”
Merlin’s laugh is raucous and real, and it makes Arthur feel warm all over.
He’s got appearances to keep, however; Arthur huffs loudly, then hunkers down next to Merlin and pointedly ignores the victorious “ha!”
“This doesn’t mean I’m not a busy man,” Arthur argues, just for good measure.
Merlin nods back agreeably. “I know. Never said you weren’t.”
They spend the rest of the afternoon watching the clouds drift by overhead.
-----
Less than one week passes before Merlin goes and gets himself killed. Or attempts to, at least (what sort of person knowingly drinks POISON?).
Arthur gets out of the dungeons earlier than expected and heads straightaway for the physician’s quarters. It’s a waste of time, though; at the door, Guinevere tells him Merlin is asleep, and for all her apologetic bluster, she would not budge, citing Gaius’ express orders not allow any visitors.
As if Arthur’s just a visitor.
Still, he has no choice but to return to his bedchambers.
“A little appreciation wouldn’t go amiss,” he says aloud to the empty room.
-----
That night, Arthur dreams he’s in bed with Merlin.
For once, they aren’t doing anything promiscuous, they’re just…lying there. Arthur can see himself, curled protectively around Merlin who’s either asleep or just dozing.
Arthur noses at the back of Merlin’s neck, where black hair meets fine, baby-soft down. Merlin smells sweet, like a girl (which is hardly surprising), and underneath Arthur’s splayed palm, Merlin’s heartbeat is steady and strong.
-----
When Arthur finally gets the chance to see the fruit of his labours, it comes in the form of a small cocoon of blankets.
“Thank you,” Merlin says from the cocoon, where only his head pokes out. His skin is wan and he looks like he’s going to faint with every word that comes from his mouth, but the point is, Merlin’s alive.
Alive, and so damned earnest about thanking him, Arthur wants to mock him or crack a joke, or something-anything to diffuse the weight in the air. But maybe because of it-(or maybe because Merlin is staring at him with huge, insecure eyes that make him feel gooey inside)-Arthur’s at a loss. He’s just standing by the door, not saying anything.
It’s not on purpose; Arthur’s just feeling overwhelmed. He wants very badly to convey his own gratitude. It was, after all, Merlin who saved his life first, but he can’t, for the life of him, find the appropriate words.
As the seconds tick by, Merlin starts to look like he regrets saying anything at all; his mouth thins and his eyebrows knit together, so Arthur finally sighs, “Get some rest.”
Then, just like that-Merlin smiles, his grin reaching from ear to ear.
The warmth hits Arthur like a ton of bricks. He blinks stupidly, trying to shake Merlin’s expression from his sight, but he may as well be trying to blink away colour.
Standing there, something dangerous coils up in Arthur’s belly like a tendril of smoke from a flint, and the longer he stays the more it threatens to ignite. And while he seldom backs down from a fight, Arthur knows when he’s playing with fire.
So, he turns to leave.
When the door is firmly braced against his back, only then does Arthur let the heat dissipate, feeling it spread over his skin until he’s tingling down to his fingertips and toes.
It occurs to him, then, in the orange glow of sunset outside the physician’s quarters: Arthur is in over his head.
He’d defied his father; he’d charged into the forest to battle cockatrices and sorceresses, putting Camelot at risk just to save the one life. If Arthur’s behaviour reveals anything, it’s that Merlin’s become a liability to him. A liability to Camelot.
Arthur drops his head back against the shut door with a soft thunk.
This has to end.
Back | Next
Characters: Arthur/Merlin, Arthur/OMC, Merlin/Lancelot
Author: aeroport_art
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Word Count: 4,692 (out of 13,383)
Notes: Oh man...I had SO MUCH HELP on this story. mini_moue was my lightning-fast proofer, dark_reaction gave this story the swift kick in the butt that it needed, and oxoniensis was amazingly sweet to look this over on such short notice and still have such extensive concrit. So, THANK YOU GUYS. This story was major suckage before they chipped in with their amazing brains. Other than that...gosh, this story took me about SIX MONTHS to write but it's finally here. I hope you guys enjoy.
Summary: Arthur's vivid, recurring dreams involve fucking his manservant, and it's throwing him off his game.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
It starts the night after they kill the afanc.
Far below the castle walls, where the water’s been poisoned and the beast lurks in the shadows, they destroy the bugger-Morgana brave with a sword and Merlin a passable torch-bearer. That evening they kill the afanc, and that night Arthur’s dreams begin. They’re strange dreams, full of whispers and smoke, red flames licking underground ceilings and always, in the midst of it all, Merlin behind the inferno with his eyes glowing gold.
The morning after, Arthur wakes up hard (as usual) and muttering Merlin’s name under his breath (not so usual). This happens six days in a row-six nights of golden fires and six mornings of Arthur bringing himself off in bed, eyes screwed tight and his mind even tighter against the cloying vestiges of his recurring dreams.
After six days of this nonsense with no end in sight, Arthur decides to do something about it.
That afternoon he picks up a fellow knight. It won’t be the first time…granted, it’s only his second time, but it’s still as easy as anything to lure someone into his bed. Who would dare deny the Crown Prince anything?
The knight’s name is Owain. He’s young, fit, and perfectly willing. The fact of his gender (male…very male) doesn’t bother Arthur at all; sleeping with men is simply practical. While the sweet scent of a woman’s perfumed skin stirs his loins, as it does for any red-blooded young man, Arthur’s heard too many horror stories about illegitimate children and dangerous, jealous women to ever dip his stick in that particular pool. For Camelot, Arthur affirms.
After a session of hard training with the knights, this is how Arthur finds himself leading a fidgeting Sir Owain into his inner chambers.
“Not a bad haunt,” Owain says when they get in, his head swirling about to take in his surroundings. Spotting the bear rug on the floor, he points at it with the tip of his scabbard. “I remember that.”
It was Arthur’s prized kill, from two summers ago. “I remember it too. You tried to solicit me that night, with Tristan and Breunor just across the stream,” he says conversationally.
Owain gives an embarrassed chuckle. Though self-assured-Arthur wouldn’t have chosen him if he were a snivelling lout-Owain looks all too rueful as he scratches the back of his head, admitting, “Yes, there was that.”
“Indeed,” Arthur agrees, sidling closer.
Owain looks up and asks, “So…what made you change your mind?”
Owain’s a good-looking man. His close-cropped hair accentuates his masculinity (unlike Merlin’s dark curls, which only accentuates how he’s ten times the girl Morgana will ever be), and Owain’s eyes are vivid green. Furthermore, said eyes don’t follow Arthur into his dreams, which is all the convincing he needs at this point.
Arthur grabs Owain and presses his mouth against his. It really is that simple.
They shed their armour, greaves and breastplates dropped with a resounding clatter while the chainmail they wear slithers off in heavy heaps. There’s no need to rush-they’ve got all afternoon-but Arthur’s impatient and he undresses Owain quickly, pushing him towards the bed even as he pulls his own clothes off.
Owain isn’t complaining. Though calm and steady by day, it appears he stores his passion for times like this; suddenly, Owain is wild, eager to spread his legs and arch wantonly at every touch Arthur will grant.
Arthur smiles to see how his plan is unfolding, neatly and accordingly. Even if fucking Owain doesn’t distract him from his stupid dreams about his stupid manservant, it’ll at least provide a pretty visual during his morning wank.
“Arthur!” Owain moans, drawing attention himself-he’s got one knee up to his chest as he works a spit-wetted finger into himself. Arthur feels his dick twitch.
“Wait, stop,” he orders, rolling over the mattress to the other side. From his bedside drawer, Arthur plucks out a vial of rosewood oil, meant for soothing muscles. It’s a good thing he’s got it handy; it makes everything easier, and infinitely more fun.
Before long, Arthur’s got two fingers inside Owain and being begged for a third. Yet he ignores him and withdraws his hand-Arthur’s got more pressing matters to address (namely, himself).
Arthur slicks himself with a handful of oil, jerking purposefully and fast. Thumb pressing down at the head, he leans forward and guides the tip of his dick to Owain’s entrance. Works himself in with rocking thrusts to the sound of Owain’s soft, pained grunts as they stick-slide together.
When he bottoms out, Arthur breathlessly asks, “You okay?”
“Yeah-yeah, I’m good.” Owain takes a deep breath and pushes back experimentally. A wince accompanies it, but whether he actually wants more or is just loath to back out, Owain says bravely, “Go on. Move.”
Finally, Arthur thinks. He leans back in his seat and throws Owain’s legs up, holding them behind the joints of his knees so he can drive back in without obstacle. From here on, it’s just Owain’s tight heat and Arthur gets to relax, gets to lose himself in a good, mindless fuck.
Just when he’s starting to get into it, Owain loose and greedy and mewling like a hungry kitten, the door opens with a small creak.
Arthur slows his pace (to the protestations of Owain) and glances up, catching sight of the intruder in his vanity mirror-
Merlin.
Reflected in glass, image blurry but discernable, is Merlin. He’s holding an armful of supplies but he’s staring straight at the bed (straight at Arthur).
Well, shit. What a picture he must make. The prince of Camelot, balls-deep in another knight’s arse. Fuck, Arthur inwardly groans, his every nerve screaming to leap off Owain and clutch for the sheets. He stuffs down the panic, however, and focuses instead on how this is no time to overreact and make a fool of himself. A prince must always act with dignity-this includes when he’s (literally) been caught with his trousers down.
It’s only a tumble. No big deal, he tells himself. Just make it look good, and the rest will take care of itself.
So he does. Owain feels it too, the moment Arthur snaps into himself. He’s on a mission now, he’s got something to prove, so Arthur braces himself against Owain’s flung-out legs, fucks down once, hard, and makes the retreat something to be remembered.
His dick feels like it’s getting squeezed of all blood, the way Owain’s arse clings to him on the way out. Owain’s surprised trumpet of noise makes Arthur smirk in triumph, and the tiny gasp he hears across the room-he’d been waiting for it, waiting for some acknowledgement Merlin was still there, still watching-Merlin’s choked gasp slaps a huge grin on his face.
Owain, utterly oblivious to their new audience, continues to bray in a truly inspired fashion with Arthur’s name featuring prominently alongside “oh God”s and “you’re huge. ” Arthur couldn’t have planned it better himself, and it’s with great magnanimity that he finishes up, flooding Owain with his come to the tune of Merlin’s fading footfalls. He relishes the moment until all he can hear is the ringing in his ears, then collapses onto his elbows and presses his face to the side of Owain’s damp neck, breathing heavily.
A single thought comes to him, slowly: Merlin, you sly dog.
For under normal circumstance, servants are to politely and speedily remove themselves from the premises when catching their masters in the middle of a quick shag. Merlin, on the other hand, had stood there…for ages. Just watching. What in God’s name passed through that incomprehensible mind, Arthur can only wonder.
He hopes Merlin was shocked. Hopes he doesn’t forget this anytime soon, that the image is burned into his eyelids, as Merlin is Arthur’s.
“My Lord?”
“Oh right,” Arthur says, glancing down at Owain’s rigid, trembling prick, which he’s nearly forgotten. It only needs a few, good jerks before Owain is coming spectacularly, and by the end of it all, Arthur’s feeling pretty damned good about himself.
-----
The rest of the night is less successful.
Apparently, he can’t just fuck away his disturbing dreams. It’s been made worse, even-the sex part sticks, only it isn’t Owain he’s fucking anymore. It’s his stupid, sodding manservant spreading himself wide, panting Arthur’s name like it’ll put out fires. In the dream, Merlin cries not ‘sire’, not ‘lord’, but…
Arthur…faster! Go faster-oh god, Arthur-
“Bloody hell,” Arthur grumbles, wiping himself down with a towel (because he came in his sleep like a bloody twelve-year-old).
-----
It ought to come as a relief then, that Merlin vanishes off the face of Albion. But it isn’t.
Not only is Arthur having sex on a nightly basis (in his head) with someone his father believes to be mentally retarded, Merlin’s disappearance is fucking with him during the day as well.
Seriously, it’s been like, a week since he’s been by Arthur’s chambers. A lesser man (well, someone Arthur doesn’t owe his life once or twice over) would’ve been sacked ages ago, but he couldn’t even sack Merlin if he wanted because he’s NOWHERE TO BE FOUND.
Arthur curses something distinctly un-princely, balls up the sleeping hose he’s just taken off and launches it as far as he can, childishly pleased when it snags on the (thankfully unlit) chandelier. Merlin’s going to have to strain himself to get that one.
Serves him right, this is getting ridiculous. And just for the record, Arthur isn’t upset because he misses having Merlin around to make fun of. He’d never miss the way Merlin treats him like some equal whom he can tease (Arthur is never to be teased), instead of the employer who could have him executed (which he totally would). No, it’s got nothing to do with Merlin…it’s the principle of the matter.
The matter being that Arthur is PRINCE OF CAMELOT and Merlin is a STUPID PEON WHO WON’T SHOW UP FOR WORK.
Arthur’s going to have to remedy that. It won’t be hard, he’ll simply go straight to Gaius and get him to pry that lazy sod out of bed.
-----
A short while later, Arthur finds Gaius at his lab, puttering about with liquids and herbs. Arthur quickly lets him know that his charge is a terrible excuse for a manservant and that he, the prince (if anyone cares anymore), requires his presence immediately.
Arthur has half a mind to charge inside and bang on the bedroom door just to make his point-normally would, in fact, but something about greeting a slow-blinking, drowsy Merlin makes his stomach roll.
After all, the dreams have in no way ceased (they’re getting worse, actually) and it’s affecting him in ways Arthur refuses to acknowledge. Easier just to avoid a treacherous situation altogether, and so he spins around and heads back the way he came.
-----
The night after they kill the afanc, Merlin follows Arthur back to his chambers.
“Your wound, sire.”
Arthur looks down at his arm and watches his sleeve tear open before his very eyes. A clean, invisible slice follows, cutting into the meat of his bicep until a string of beaded blood wells to the surface.
“Right…” Arthur says uncertainly.
Merlin lowers his eyes. “Your shirt. I can’t dress the wound like that.”
Arthur complies, removing his outer tunic, and tosses it over the back of a chair as he heads towards the bed. Merlin follows obediently, choosing to remain silent as Arthur flops onto his mattress and looks up expectantly.
Merlin says: “Your inner shirt as well.”
So, off it goes. Arthur pulls the body-warmed linen over his head and throws it aside.
What happens next should tip him off, should alert Arthur that this isn’t natural, but he can’t think straight when Merlin’s clambering into his lap like a heavy, bony child wanting a bedtime story. There’s nothing childlike about what Merlin does next, however; he brings his mouth down to the cut on Arthur’s inner bicep and tantalizingly holds it there. Warm puffs of breath ghost over Arthur’s skin, drawing up goose bumps until Merlin extends his tongue and delicately drags it over the line of beaded blood.
Merlin pulls back and appears to savour the taste, eyes probing as they regard Arthur with feral heat.
Eyes normally an insignificant blue, hidden under dark fringe and dark lashes, Arthur likes the way they suddenly sharpen up close: shards of hazel break up the colour like metal in water and it should be cold, should be calculating, but instead it’s searing like Merlin’s gaze will ignite whatever it lands upon.
In this case it’s Arthur, and he’s hardly immune. When Merlin repeats, “Your wound, sire,” Arthur can’t help but tip his head back and groan. This time, he feels instead of sees the new wound develop; it arcs across the muscle connecting his thigh to his groin in a clean whip of heat, the rip of fabric sounding like an afterthought.
Arthur needs no instruction this time, he knows what needs to be done. His hips scramble up as he pushes his clothing down, revealing the cut (and then some) in all its vulnerability-does so without the slightest hesitation, because it’s Merlin he bares himself to, it’s just Merlin seeing him like this.
“Merlin, please. “
Arthur catches a fleeting glimpse of a feline smile, Merlin’s mouth curled up at the corners, before the view’s obscured-Merlin ducks his head down and concentrates on dragging the rest of Arthur’s trousers off, yanking loose one leg at a time until the offending garment is bunched up and forgotten on the dusty floor.
“Arthur,” Merlin says against the soft skin of Arthur’s thigh. Arthur, Merlin mouths against the soft skin of Arthur’s groin.
-----
“Arthur,” Merlin says, his voice muted.
Arthur groans, burrowing his head between two pillows.
“Arthur, ” the infernal voice comes again, and it’s louder this time. Clearer, too. “C’mon, get up.”
A heavy weight comes down one side of the mattress and the pillow covering Arthur’s face is rudely snatched off. Arthur scrunches his eyes shut against the sunlight that bleeds through his eyelids in a wash of pink, but it’s too bright to counter and he isn’t getting his pillow back no matter how insistently he gropes at the air.
Finally, reluctantly, he cracks an eye open. Merlin’s face swims into view, pinched like a worried nursemaid’s and far too close for comfort.
Before Arthur can squeeze his eyes back shut and duck under the covers, Merlin makes a grab at him and God damn it, he’s trying to get some sleep here but Merlin’s pesky hands are tight on his shoulders, clinging on and shaking him awake.
“Come on, ” Merlin prods, leaning over so he can employ his favourite method of rousing Arthur: two thumbs on either of Arthur’s eyelids, Merlin pries them up in an effective (and thoroughly annoying) manner.
When Arthur’s vision focuses, he realizes he’s staring into the very eyes he’d been dreaming of just moments ago. Merlin’s limbs are draped all over him, elbows tight against Arthur’s ribs and digging into the mattress for leverage, his cool hands still on Arthur’s face with his thumbs light on Arthur’s brow. The rest of him is a solid weight, unwittingly pressed against Arthur’s morning erection.
Merlin chuckles, belly vibrating against Arthur’s decidedly interested cock, though (thank GOD) Merlin doesn’t seem to notice. He just says, “There you are. Now keep them up, we’ve got to get you dressed-“
Arthur jerks away like he’s been burned, shoulder blades hitting the flat surface of the headboard with bruising force.
“God, Merlin, most servants just knock on the door and leave it at that,” Arthur complains, his voice thick with sleep.
“I did,” Merlin replies timidly. “You weren’t waking up. But you have that meeting with the stable master at noon, so I let myself in-“
“Well let yourself back out, ” Arthur snaps, still hyper aware of his hard on (for the person sitting on his bed). “I mean it, Merlin, get out.”
“But I still need to bring up breakfast-“
“Are you deaf? Leave, and don’t bother coming back for the day. I could use the peace and quiet.”
The wounded look Merlin gives him brings a twinge of guilt, but once left to his privacy (and his own right hand), Arthur doesn’t think about much at all, just curls into the indent left by his servant and defiantly sticks his head back under the pillow as he works himself to orgasm.
-----
Later on that day:
“Where is the dolt?”
“You gave him the day off. What, did you expect him to hang around on the off chance you’ll throw some chores and insults his way?” Morgana fixes a withering look on him. “He’s probably hiding from you.”
Morgana is a bright girl. And Merlin is the worst manservant he’s ever had.
She continues, “Besides, I’m the one who told him to make himself scarce. I knew you’d come stomping around, demanding him back so he could hold your hand while you take a piss.”
Arthur decides he doesn’t like bright girls very much.
-----
Since his father refuses to let Arthur sound the alarms or put a bounty on Merlin’s head for the day, Arthur’s resorted to searching his manservant out the old-fashioned way: on foot.
Sure, he knows the castle like the back of his hand-he’s grown up here, jumped puddles in all the uneven alleys, explored every last staircase, and named every stone creature that adorns the walls. Nonetheless, it takes a lifetime to find every nook and cranny in the castle. Attempting such a stroll in the span of one afternoon is totally ludicrous…
…which is why Arthur decides to seek Gaius out instead. In the bustling courtyard where the market is taking place, Arthur asks the fishmonger if he’s seen the physician. A pointed finger leads him to the Anglide’s.
Inside, Gaius is speaking with the parents of young Sarah Anglide, who is covered in hives and crying non-stop. Arthur stays in the doorway.
“Excuse me,” he calls imperiously. “This is the prince. I need to borrow the court physician for a moment.”
Gaius materializes. “Your Highness. May I help you with something?”
“Indeed. I’m-“
An ear-piercing shriek comes from the back room and Arthur falters.
Gaius leans in to make himself heard above the little girl’s screaming: “Try the western tower, above our quarters. He likes it up there.”
Arthur is more than happy to leave the young banshee behind him, and so it’s with a slight bounce in his step that he makes his way back through the market and towards the castle.
-----
Arthur takes the winding staircase up the tower, and by the time he’s reached the top he’s dizzy from the endless climb. Outside in the blinding light of day, the air tastes sweet and Arthur sucks it in greedily.
Merlin is exactly where Gaius said he’d be. Arthur spies him right away, lying on the floor like some countryside yokel. Granted, the sun-bathed stone is probably warm at his back compared to the brisk temperature bestowed by the tail-end of winter. Either way, Merlin looks comfortable with his hands folded under his head and legs stretched out before him.
Striding over until he’s standing directly above Merlin-whose eyes are closed as he remains unaware of Arthur’s presence-Arthur silently mulls over the Very Important Question of how best to approach (and startle) his manservant.
A flick to the ear? Arthur considers, for Merlin does have ridiculous ears that beg for abuse. No, too obvious. Arthur bends over for a better look, then gets down on his hands to study Merlin’s face upside-down.
Merlin’s eyes are closed and his face is relaxed. Blissful, even. There’s a small smile playing over his lips and it makes Arthur wonder what he’s thinking about.
Arthur lets his elbows buckle as he brings their faces closer together.
Maybe Merlin’s thinking about his village-his family, perhaps, or something simpler like a favourite food or game he’d play back home. Arthur doesn’t really know what peasants do for fun but whatever it is, Merlin looks more content than Arthur can ever remember seeing.
Soon, a small sound filters into the air, only to be carried away by the wind. When it picks up again, however, it’s louder and more obviously coming from Merlin.
Arthur looks down. Merlin is…well, he’s humming. He’s humming to himself-and now he’s singing under his breath, snatches of melody and words making their way into Arthur’s ears. The whole thing is rather mesmerizing.
And, Arthur realizes with a start, rather voyeuristic.
Though all he has to do to announce his presence is clear his throat, Arthur suddenly feels guilty all the same. This is probably a very private place for Merlin; this high up, with only wind and sky and stone for company, the rest of the castle feels like a world apart. He shouldn’t be here uninvited.
Arthur moves closer, purses his lips together and blows a steady, lingering stream of air over Merlin’s face.
It does the job. Merlin jerks his head a bit, eyebrows tightening, and Arthur quickly pulls back and waits to get noticed.
Dark lashes flutter, then slowly lift to reveal a set of eyes bluer than the sky reflected in them. Arthur sits there, feeling awkward as Merlin blithely smiles at him.
“Arthur,” Merlin says easily, like he knew he had company all along. “What are you doing up here?”
“I was just passing by,” Arthur says glibly, and it’s an obvious lie. No one uses the western tower for anything. “So this is what you do during your free time…” Arthur squints up at the sky. “Absolutely nothing?”
“I wasn’t doing nothing. ” Merlin protests. “I was cloud-watching,” he explains, as if it’s a perfectly suitable answer.
“Cloud-watching?” Arthur repeats dryly. “You’re a simple man, Merlin. A very, very simple man.”
Merlin laughs, Arthur lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you never cloud-watch,” Merlin says teasingly.
Arthur looks at him very seriously. “I never cloud-watch.”
“You’re missing out then.”
“I don’t have time for inane things like staring at fixed spots for hours.” Arthur scoffs. “I’m a very busy man.”
“Yet you have time to search for a stray manservant…”
“Hardly!” Arthur yells, deeply affronted. He’s a prince-Arthur would do no such thing. “You’re just lucky the Duke of Casain and his men got sidetracked with bandits this morning. Even still, you’ve completely botched my schedule. The stable master requested a whole slew of things that need to be ordered-”
“Did he finally ask for that rig he obviously wants? God, I get nervous every time he’s around the new filly, the way he looks at her.”
Arthur snorts despite himself. God, that’s sick. “A whole slew of tack, you filthy-minded boor.”
“I’m a boor?”
“The point is, ” Arthur says. “You’re ruining my schedule. I was forced to pass off all the orders to the stable boy.”
“That’s his job, sire,” Merlin counters, saying “sire” like he’s saying “stupid”.
“It’s his job if I say it’s his job,” Arthur sniffs, and he’s about to add more when his mouth suddenly goes dry…
Merlin’s face has been taken hostage by brazen affection; his white teeth gleam in the sun and his eyes have gone dark with mirth. He’s looking at Arthur like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing, and it’s disarming, it’s playing dirty. How is Arthur supposed to keep the upper hand when Merlin is looking at him like that?
“So you’ve got your stable boy at the saddler’s,” Merlin says conversationally, “and Casain won’t be in until nightfall. That sounds like free time to me.”
Arthur opens his mouth to argue…well…
Merlin’s grin widens. Arthur closes his mouth. Then fiercely says, “No thanks to you. ”
Merlin’s laugh is raucous and real, and it makes Arthur feel warm all over.
He’s got appearances to keep, however; Arthur huffs loudly, then hunkers down next to Merlin and pointedly ignores the victorious “ha!”
“This doesn’t mean I’m not a busy man,” Arthur argues, just for good measure.
Merlin nods back agreeably. “I know. Never said you weren’t.”
They spend the rest of the afternoon watching the clouds drift by overhead.
-----
Less than one week passes before Merlin goes and gets himself killed. Or attempts to, at least (what sort of person knowingly drinks POISON?).
Arthur gets out of the dungeons earlier than expected and heads straightaway for the physician’s quarters. It’s a waste of time, though; at the door, Guinevere tells him Merlin is asleep, and for all her apologetic bluster, she would not budge, citing Gaius’ express orders not allow any visitors.
As if Arthur’s just a visitor.
Still, he has no choice but to return to his bedchambers.
“A little appreciation wouldn’t go amiss,” he says aloud to the empty room.
-----
That night, Arthur dreams he’s in bed with Merlin.
For once, they aren’t doing anything promiscuous, they’re just…lying there. Arthur can see himself, curled protectively around Merlin who’s either asleep or just dozing.
Arthur noses at the back of Merlin’s neck, where black hair meets fine, baby-soft down. Merlin smells sweet, like a girl (which is hardly surprising), and underneath Arthur’s splayed palm, Merlin’s heartbeat is steady and strong.
-----
When Arthur finally gets the chance to see the fruit of his labours, it comes in the form of a small cocoon of blankets.
“Thank you,” Merlin says from the cocoon, where only his head pokes out. His skin is wan and he looks like he’s going to faint with every word that comes from his mouth, but the point is, Merlin’s alive.
Alive, and so damned earnest about thanking him, Arthur wants to mock him or crack a joke, or something-anything to diffuse the weight in the air. But maybe because of it-(or maybe because Merlin is staring at him with huge, insecure eyes that make him feel gooey inside)-Arthur’s at a loss. He’s just standing by the door, not saying anything.
It’s not on purpose; Arthur’s just feeling overwhelmed. He wants very badly to convey his own gratitude. It was, after all, Merlin who saved his life first, but he can’t, for the life of him, find the appropriate words.
As the seconds tick by, Merlin starts to look like he regrets saying anything at all; his mouth thins and his eyebrows knit together, so Arthur finally sighs, “Get some rest.”
Then, just like that-Merlin smiles, his grin reaching from ear to ear.
The warmth hits Arthur like a ton of bricks. He blinks stupidly, trying to shake Merlin’s expression from his sight, but he may as well be trying to blink away colour.
Standing there, something dangerous coils up in Arthur’s belly like a tendril of smoke from a flint, and the longer he stays the more it threatens to ignite. And while he seldom backs down from a fight, Arthur knows when he’s playing with fire.
So, he turns to leave.
When the door is firmly braced against his back, only then does Arthur let the heat dissipate, feeling it spread over his skin until he’s tingling down to his fingertips and toes.
It occurs to him, then, in the orange glow of sunset outside the physician’s quarters: Arthur is in over his head.
He’d defied his father; he’d charged into the forest to battle cockatrices and sorceresses, putting Camelot at risk just to save the one life. If Arthur’s behaviour reveals anything, it’s that Merlin’s become a liability to him. A liability to Camelot.
Arthur drops his head back against the shut door with a soft thunk.
This has to end.
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