[Merlin] On the Proper Balance of the Elements (Merlin/Arthur, gen)
Summary: Merlin only shrugs in response, turning a page. "Gaius won't let me into the study again till I've read this." (Post series one). For bewarethesmirk.
AN: It may not be porn, but happy birthday! *tosses confetti*
On the Proper Balance of the Elements
The river curves in a bend here, a greenish gold where the sunlight hits the water, blue-green where the cut of the bank casts a shadow. Thin willow branches trail like shifting curtains.
It shouldn't be necessary for a man to be a brilliant tracker to find his own manservant.
Merlin sits in the shade against an ancient willow tree, watching the water flow by with an odd sort of focus which shuts out the entire rest of the world. Arthur considers scaring him, because the fool never keeps track of the space around him, whether it's listening courtiers in the throne room or a dangerous road at night. It's a wonder that Merlin survived all the years before they met, but then he remembers that tiny hut with its dirt-packed floors, the shabby village full of helpless simple people just trying not to freeze to death or starve. Arthur sighs and deliberately steps on a twig.
Merlin starts and blinks hard, then relaxes without looking up. "Oh, it's just you."
Arthur considers explaining just how many things are wrong with that statement. But Merlin is rubbing his eyes as though he'd been reading faint difficult words by weak candlelight and not woolgathering outside on a summer's day. He still looks exhausted, has for too long. All told, it's easier just to drop down and, on a whim, rest his head on Merlin's outstretched legs.
"I'm not a pillow, you know."
"I don't think anyone would mistake your bony legs for a pillow."
He wouldn't put it past Merlin to shove him off, prince or no, but Merlin goes back to reading like he doesn't find any of this particularly odd, so Arthur shifts to a more comfortable angle and tries to remember what he wanted Merlin for. Something, a frayed strap. It had felt terribly important at the time, but the shade is cool here and the sound of the river soft and soothing. Iridescent green dragonflies dart and hover, and the willows bend down gracefully to touch their reflections.
"You've been shirking." Arthur says it quietly, too little an accusation, and not sure exactly why--he shouldn't have to put up with lazy servants.
Merlin only shrugs in response, turning a page. "Gaius won't let me into the study again till I've read this."
It's a thin book covered in worn leather. The title is worked into the spine with red-brown ink flecked with gold: On the Proper Balance of the Elements. But when Arthur looks again, more carefully, he sees it actually says De Aequilibritate Pari Elementorum, like the English words had been just a strange trick of the eye.
"Wait, you read Latin?"
Merlin looks shifty. "Not very well?" he hazards.
Arthur has had royal tutors since he could crawl, dull afternoons that he'd have rather have spent outside, hunting or at least improving his footwork, but learning too was a duty and not everyone can shirk.
And yet, Merlin, who shouldn't even be able to read...
"Where on earth did someone like you learn Latin?"
Merlin's mouth thins, offended. "Maybe Gaius taught me. Maybe he thought it would be helpful."
"In what?"
That seems to stop Merlin in his tracks and he looks away abruptly, tipping his head back to watch the fragments of blue sky between bright leaves. The shade is dappled with sunlight, and the patterns on Merlin's face keep shifting.
"You trust me, right?" It's just a whisper.
"You're an idiot."
Merlin nods sharply. After a long pause he says, "I'd never hurt you." It's a ridiculous thing to say, but he means it with a naked earnestness that keeps Arthur from laughing, but only just.
Arthur has heard men on battlefields swear loyalty to each other, not in service but passionately, by choice and sealed in blood, and incongruously that is what he thinks of--this slip of a servant with more bravery than good-sense, who reads like a noblemen's son and was born in a muddy village one kingdom over, and who still doesn't have the slightest notion about the intricate webs of standing that drive life forward in its calm and orderly turns.
"As if you could."
Arthur closes his eyes, letting the tranquil stillness of this place wash over him--the lazy river and the bending willows drawn all around like a green and silver curtain. He has a small span of time before the afternoon practice, the early evening patrol and reporting to his father, nowhere pressing to be at this particular moment. The grass is soft and tender, gently covering the cool earth, and Arthur can feel the dappled sunlight as shifting patches of warmth against his skin. It's so strange to be like this, even around someone as harmless and familiar as Merlin.
"Don't let me be late." Glaring is almost more trouble than it's worth.
Merlin pats at his shoulder vaguely, the place in his book marked with a long pale finger. He's watching the river again.
"I won't."
AN: It may not be porn, but happy birthday! *tosses confetti*
On the Proper Balance of the Elements
The river curves in a bend here, a greenish gold where the sunlight hits the water, blue-green where the cut of the bank casts a shadow. Thin willow branches trail like shifting curtains.
It shouldn't be necessary for a man to be a brilliant tracker to find his own manservant.
Merlin sits in the shade against an ancient willow tree, watching the water flow by with an odd sort of focus which shuts out the entire rest of the world. Arthur considers scaring him, because the fool never keeps track of the space around him, whether it's listening courtiers in the throne room or a dangerous road at night. It's a wonder that Merlin survived all the years before they met, but then he remembers that tiny hut with its dirt-packed floors, the shabby village full of helpless simple people just trying not to freeze to death or starve. Arthur sighs and deliberately steps on a twig.
Merlin starts and blinks hard, then relaxes without looking up. "Oh, it's just you."
Arthur considers explaining just how many things are wrong with that statement. But Merlin is rubbing his eyes as though he'd been reading faint difficult words by weak candlelight and not woolgathering outside on a summer's day. He still looks exhausted, has for too long. All told, it's easier just to drop down and, on a whim, rest his head on Merlin's outstretched legs.
"I'm not a pillow, you know."
"I don't think anyone would mistake your bony legs for a pillow."
He wouldn't put it past Merlin to shove him off, prince or no, but Merlin goes back to reading like he doesn't find any of this particularly odd, so Arthur shifts to a more comfortable angle and tries to remember what he wanted Merlin for. Something, a frayed strap. It had felt terribly important at the time, but the shade is cool here and the sound of the river soft and soothing. Iridescent green dragonflies dart and hover, and the willows bend down gracefully to touch their reflections.
"You've been shirking." Arthur says it quietly, too little an accusation, and not sure exactly why--he shouldn't have to put up with lazy servants.
Merlin only shrugs in response, turning a page. "Gaius won't let me into the study again till I've read this."
It's a thin book covered in worn leather. The title is worked into the spine with red-brown ink flecked with gold: On the Proper Balance of the Elements. But when Arthur looks again, more carefully, he sees it actually says De Aequilibritate Pari Elementorum, like the English words had been just a strange trick of the eye.
"Wait, you read Latin?"
Merlin looks shifty. "Not very well?" he hazards.
Arthur has had royal tutors since he could crawl, dull afternoons that he'd have rather have spent outside, hunting or at least improving his footwork, but learning too was a duty and not everyone can shirk.
And yet, Merlin, who shouldn't even be able to read...
"Where on earth did someone like you learn Latin?"
Merlin's mouth thins, offended. "Maybe Gaius taught me. Maybe he thought it would be helpful."
"In what?"
That seems to stop Merlin in his tracks and he looks away abruptly, tipping his head back to watch the fragments of blue sky between bright leaves. The shade is dappled with sunlight, and the patterns on Merlin's face keep shifting.
"You trust me, right?" It's just a whisper.
"You're an idiot."
Merlin nods sharply. After a long pause he says, "I'd never hurt you." It's a ridiculous thing to say, but he means it with a naked earnestness that keeps Arthur from laughing, but only just.
Arthur has heard men on battlefields swear loyalty to each other, not in service but passionately, by choice and sealed in blood, and incongruously that is what he thinks of--this slip of a servant with more bravery than good-sense, who reads like a noblemen's son and was born in a muddy village one kingdom over, and who still doesn't have the slightest notion about the intricate webs of standing that drive life forward in its calm and orderly turns.
"As if you could."
Arthur closes his eyes, letting the tranquil stillness of this place wash over him--the lazy river and the bending willows drawn all around like a green and silver curtain. He has a small span of time before the afternoon practice, the early evening patrol and reporting to his father, nowhere pressing to be at this particular moment. The grass is soft and tender, gently covering the cool earth, and Arthur can feel the dappled sunlight as shifting patches of warmth against his skin. It's so strange to be like this, even around someone as harmless and familiar as Merlin.
"Don't let me be late." Glaring is almost more trouble than it's worth.
Merlin pats at his shoulder vaguely, the place in his book marked with a long pale finger. He's watching the river again.
"I won't."