Summerpornathon Bonus Challenge Two: Supper in the Dungeons
Title: Supper in the Dungeons
Rating: PG
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin-ish
Wordcount: ~600
Challenge: Bonus Two - Last Supper
Summary: In the dungeons, the night before his execution, Merlin daydreams about food. No character death - surprisingly it's total fluff.
Masterlist
You did not get fed much in the dungeons. By the last night Merlin’s stomch clenched with hunger. Between toying with the manacles that bound him and bound his magic, trying to ease the strain on his wrists, his thoughts kept turning to food, and he welcomed it, painful as it was.
He daydreamed. The feasts they had - there’d been one only a week ago, though it had felt like longer. A whole roast pig laid out on the high table, he remembered just how good it had smelled, and the meat had still been good cold in the kitchen hours later. Often it was goose, which he’d never tasted before coming to Camelot; once it had been swan, which he still hadn’t. For the mouths of royalty alone.
He thought of the meals he’d served to Arthur every day - ham, Arthur liked ham. And sweetmeats, he liked everything sugary, though he’d never admit it, and from there Merlin’s thoughts turned to his mother’s honey-cakes, and he ached at the thought of home. Of what this would do to his mother. But still, his mouth watered at the thought of honey.
Gaius’s cooking. His stews - they were always too watery but Merlin missed them all the same. The bread they bought in the marketplace, especially when they got in early and it was still fresh. Fresh fruit, when they could get it.
Food. As he picked at the raw skin beneath his manacles, the smell of the dungeons making his stomach churn and heave, he thought of every good thing he’d ever eaten, because it was better than thinking about what lay ahead. He settled on bread and honey in the end. The thought of anything more than that made him queasy.
Of course, when his last meal finally came, it was the same thin, watery vegetable gruel as always, the same dry bread.
“You could at least have brought some cheese for the bread,” he said. The helmeted guard who’d handed him his dinner through the bars stood impassive. “I’m a dead man anyway, what difference is it to you?”
The guard still didn’t answer, just stood there, half in the shadows, until his companion muttered a farewell and stomped away back to his station. Then finally the first guard moved, stepped forward and unlocking the door of Merlin’s cell in quick, fluid motions.
“Hey,” said Merlin, then as the guard began to open his manacles, “hey, don’t - what are you doing -” He struggled, but the guard was stronger than him, gripping him tight. One handed pressed over his mouth, silencing him.
“Shut up,” hissed Arthur into his ear. “Do you want to lose your head?”
Merlin froze, then relaxed. Arthur’s hand fell away from his mouth. “What took you so long?” he whispered back.
“Oh, you know,” said Arthur, tone breezy, but he couldn’t quite hide the exhaustion.
“I thought,” said Merlin, voice thick with relief, “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“That’s because you’re an idiot,” said Arthur. “Come on. They’re waiting.” He began to tug Merlin out of the cell. Merlin’s gaze fell upon his dropped meal, and his stomach growled.
“Can’t I just -”
“You can eat later,” said Arthur, and Merlin could hear him rolling his eyes. “Come on.” He pulled Merlin out of the cell, hands clutching him tight, and marched him away still deeper into the dungeons.
Merlin ate again once they were outside in the open air. There was no honey, but the bread was fresh enough, and it would do.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin-ish
Wordcount: ~600
Challenge: Bonus Two - Last Supper
Summary: In the dungeons, the night before his execution, Merlin daydreams about food. No character death - surprisingly it's total fluff.
Masterlist
You did not get fed much in the dungeons. By the last night Merlin’s stomch clenched with hunger. Between toying with the manacles that bound him and bound his magic, trying to ease the strain on his wrists, his thoughts kept turning to food, and he welcomed it, painful as it was.
He daydreamed. The feasts they had - there’d been one only a week ago, though it had felt like longer. A whole roast pig laid out on the high table, he remembered just how good it had smelled, and the meat had still been good cold in the kitchen hours later. Often it was goose, which he’d never tasted before coming to Camelot; once it had been swan, which he still hadn’t. For the mouths of royalty alone.
He thought of the meals he’d served to Arthur every day - ham, Arthur liked ham. And sweetmeats, he liked everything sugary, though he’d never admit it, and from there Merlin’s thoughts turned to his mother’s honey-cakes, and he ached at the thought of home. Of what this would do to his mother. But still, his mouth watered at the thought of honey.
Gaius’s cooking. His stews - they were always too watery but Merlin missed them all the same. The bread they bought in the marketplace, especially when they got in early and it was still fresh. Fresh fruit, when they could get it.
Food. As he picked at the raw skin beneath his manacles, the smell of the dungeons making his stomach churn and heave, he thought of every good thing he’d ever eaten, because it was better than thinking about what lay ahead. He settled on bread and honey in the end. The thought of anything more than that made him queasy.
Of course, when his last meal finally came, it was the same thin, watery vegetable gruel as always, the same dry bread.
“You could at least have brought some cheese for the bread,” he said. The helmeted guard who’d handed him his dinner through the bars stood impassive. “I’m a dead man anyway, what difference is it to you?”
The guard still didn’t answer, just stood there, half in the shadows, until his companion muttered a farewell and stomped away back to his station. Then finally the first guard moved, stepped forward and unlocking the door of Merlin’s cell in quick, fluid motions.
“Hey,” said Merlin, then as the guard began to open his manacles, “hey, don’t - what are you doing -” He struggled, but the guard was stronger than him, gripping him tight. One handed pressed over his mouth, silencing him.
“Shut up,” hissed Arthur into his ear. “Do you want to lose your head?”
Merlin froze, then relaxed. Arthur’s hand fell away from his mouth. “What took you so long?” he whispered back.
“Oh, you know,” said Arthur, tone breezy, but he couldn’t quite hide the exhaustion.
“I thought,” said Merlin, voice thick with relief, “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“That’s because you’re an idiot,” said Arthur. “Come on. They’re waiting.” He began to tug Merlin out of the cell. Merlin’s gaze fell upon his dropped meal, and his stomach growled.
“Can’t I just -”
“You can eat later,” said Arthur, and Merlin could hear him rolling his eyes. “Come on.” He pulled Merlin out of the cell, hands clutching him tight, and marched him away still deeper into the dungeons.
Merlin ate again once they were outside in the open air. There was no honey, but the bread was fresh enough, and it would do.