fic: gone were but the winter (you should have seen this coming when the primer happened, honestly)
Have a piece of distressingly porn-free, utter self-indulgence. For tabbyola, who made me the happiest girl in the world by loving Merlin, and with many thanks to adellyna for the beta, hand-holding, and being generally outstanding. ♥ (Title and cut tag from Spring Quiet by Christina Rossetti.)
gone were but the winter
7,740 words. Arthur/Merlin. PG-13. Mild spoilers for episodes 1x07 and 1x13. Everything you recognize belongs to the BBC.
It starts in spring, on the heels of a late frost, when the air turns sweet with sunlight and warmth. The trees around the castle seem to grow green overnight and Merlin is accompanied by birdsong on his morning walks to Arthur's room. It's a welcome relief after weeks of stubborn cold, so Merlin can't for the life of him understand why the entirety of Camelot seems to sink into a deep depression. The lunches he eats downstairs in the kitchen are held in silence like they're sitting in a tomb, and Merlin comes across crying chambermaids with a frequency that is kind of alarming. Gaius overboils a month's worth of collected herbs and Arthur throws a tantrum about the state of his room that leaves Merlin so embittered he seriously considers feeding Arthur rat again.
"And everyone is nice to him," Merlin complains to Gwen as he's helping her carry laundry up to Morgana's chambers. It's quite a lot, and heavier than Arthur's. He's breathing hard by the time they've reached the right door. "Nobody seems to notice that he's even more rotten than usual."
"You don't really mean that," Gwen says, fumbling for the keys at her hip.
Merlin says, "No, I really do," and tilts his pile of clothes to avoid something thin and lacy sliding to the ground. "Do you know how many times he had me remake his bed this morning? What's this for?"
Gwen colors slightly and yanks it out of his arms, muttering, "You should not be seen carrying that," before giving him a critical look. "Merlin," she starts, but then a guard rounds the corner and instead of actually explaining Gwen squeezes his hand, takes the rest of the laundry from him, and leaves Merlin standing in the hallway alone.
***
It's completely inexplicable, but undeniably true: people are treating Arthur like they're afraid he might explode at any moment. Merlin thinks he could handle the scullery maids curtseying so low they lose their balance when they pass, and Morgana letting Arthur win at chess three nights in a row certainly does have its advantages (mostly that Arthur doesn't seem to feel the need to make Merlin play, and lose, in return), but it's the knights' behavior that tips the whole thing over. They dance around Arthur ridiculously during drills, fighting like they're trying to avoid making contact at all costs; it doesn't do anything but infuriate Arthur and make Merlin's life more miserable by extension.
He's pathetically glad for the time he spends polishing tables for the banquet planned the first week of May. It's no more cheerful than the funereal atmosphere everywhere else, but at least he's out from under Arthur's ridiculous mood.
He's on his third hour of making sure the dark wood shines when the footman who's scrubbing next to him looks up and nudges Merlin with his elbow. "Must be a hard time for you as well."
Merlin pushes hair off his forehead with the back of his hand, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the way his fingers reek of vinegar. "What?" he asks distractedly.
The boy - Eric, or possibly Alan, Merlin thinks - lowers his voice and shoots him a significant glance. "You know," he mutters. "The prince."
Merlin barely refrains from thumping Alan - Edgar? - on the back hard in relief. "Oh, thank God," he says faintly. "I was starting to think I was the only one who'd noticed."
Edward (or maybe Edmund) shakes his head with a small smile. "Of course not," he says. He pauses in his work and tilts his head consideringly. "Though it's really not as bad as last year, I don't think."
Merlin's hand clenches around the soft polishing cloth involuntarily. "It's like this every year?" he asks, horrified, but he forgets to be quiet and the steward gives them an absolutely murderous look, so that effectively puts an end to that conversation right there.
It's another two hours before Merlin gets to leave the Hall, his fingers cramping painfully and the sky outside the windows smudged with pink sunset. He hasn't even made it to the stairs when the familiar rhythm of Arthur's steps sounds behind him, along with a sharp, "Hey!"
Merlin very carefully doesn't sigh as he turns around. "Yes, sire?" he asks with as blankly obedient a face as he can manage at Arthur's tone.
Either it's not very obedient at all or Arthur is simply in too foul a mood for it to matter, because he glares at Merlin impressively. "Who was that in my rooms tonight?" he demands, rocking back and forth on his heels. He must not have bothered redressing after taking off his armor; his tunic is rucked up at the waist, gaping open over the smooth swell of his collar bone.
It takes Merlin entirely too long to answer, which he chooses to blame on the vinegar fumes. "Conor, Sir Anselm's servant," he says, distractedly rubbing his aching knuckles. "I asked him to fix your bath and supper because I was down here." He wonders for a moment whether Conor made off with Arthur's ceremonial crown or something, but discards that thought when he remembers the worshipful glaze on Conor's face at the mere mention of Arthur's name. "Why, didn't he do a good job?"
Arthur bobs his head irritably. His hair is still sticking up in sweaty tufts behind his ears, so clearly he hasn't actually been in any bath. Merlin can feel his patience slipping by the second. "No worse than you," Arthur says tartly, adding after an uncomfortably long pause, "but he kept looking at me."
Merlin blinks at him. "He looked at you?" he asks, abruptly fighting not to grin. "You mean while he was taking your clothes -"
"Oh, for - no," Arthur snaps, flushing bright red down to his chest. "He was just staring, like - " He trails off with a vague, frustrated handmotion.
Like you were being a royal arse? Merlin very much wants to ask, but doesn't, because he's growing as a person. "Like?" he prompts instead, thinking longingly of the tincture Gaius set aside for the days Arthur's armor gives him particular trouble. Clearly it's going to be a while before he can soak his hands.
"Like I was delicate," Arthur says finally. He's still glowering, but there's something carefully guarded about the look he gives him that Merlin doesn't quite know how to place.
"Oh," he says blankly, and Arthur snorts.
"Exactly the sort of pithy rejoinder I've come to expect from you," he says archly, but his face relaxes into a more familiar expression of annoyance. "Well, are you coming?"
"Coming where?" Merlin asks, but even as he says it he has a horrible suspicion.
It's confirmed when Arthur shoots him a withering glance and pushes past him in the direction of his chambers. "To get my bath and my food," he says, and has the nerve to continue, "it's late enough already."
Merlin gapes after him, reminding himself forcefully that, against all common sense, a great many people would probably be displeased if he beat Arthur senseless with the empty bucket someone left behind. "I thought Conor was there, staring at you," he manages finally.
Arthur stops and turns, without the grace to look even slightly abashed. "I sent him away," he says, in his best keep up, Merlin tone of voice.
Merlin says the only thing he can think of that won't end with him in the stocks, which is, "He was really quite excited about serving you for the night, you know." He punctuates it with a glare of his own, for good measure.
Arthur does look more than a little guilty at that, though he quickly covers it with an imperious jerk of his head. "Well, I can't help that. Get moving now, would you?"
Merlin, plotting elaborate and unpleasant revenge as he goes, follows.
***
There are fruit pies in the kitchens the next morning, and Merlin spends long minutes torn between nursing his grudge and the possibility of finally breaking Arthur out of his temper (because if he can't shoot his crossbow at something, food is usually the quickest way to do it). In the end, he relents and asks the cook for a blackberry pastry. He's fully expecting to have to pry it out of her hand in pieces, because the cooks are nothing if not stingy with confections, even for crown princes, so he's more than a little taken aback when her face crumples and she puts two - still oven-warm - on Arthur's plate.
"You take good care of him, yeah?" she asks, and surreptitiously wipes her face with the corner of her apron as she turns away.
This is starting to well and truly freak Merlin out.
***
Hunting trips with Arthur have run the gamut from walking into a Sidhe's trap to disturbing the Questing Beast, and when it comes to things Merlin's life would be better without, they rank ahead of pretty much everything but stable work. It should be taken as a sign of how desperate he really is when Merlin blurts out, on the third day of Arthur's prolonged fit of pique, "Wouldn't you like to go hunting?"
Arthur looks over at him from where he's inspecting his dagger collection on the table. "Eager to get me out of here, are you?" he asks, and his face is lofty, almost amused. Merlin knows better than to trust it; it's the very sort of expression that would have him walking around throwing knives at people.
"Of course not," he lies unconvincingly, and Arthur's eyes narrow.
"Good," he says and tosses a scabbard down on the table. Merlin winces at the clatter. "Because I'm not going anywhere until you've cleaned all of these again. Honestly, Merlin, do you have any skills at all?"
***
It gets worse the day after, and even worse the day after that, and Wednesday finds Merlin hiding in an alcove behind a tapestry until Arthur's passing steps have faded in the distance. He plucks a spider off his jacket and sadly ponders the meaning of the words rock bottom.
***
"He can't keep on like that," Merlin says and taps the full water skin against his knee. "He's going to kill himself. Or them," he adds, as Arthur throws Sir Kay to the ground with a vicious twist of his shoulders.
It's been another bad practice, maybe even the worst all week. If any of the knights so far have managed to land a blow on Arthur, it's only because he practically threw himself at their swords. Merlin thinks he can guess how long it must have taken Arthur to get them to forget his crown, to lunge and strike him and kick his legs out from under him the way he's seen them do; now it's all gone, and Arthur's frustration is clear in every tense hit he delivers.
Gwen rests her chin on her folded hands. "He is working them longer than usual," she admits, forehead creasing slightly.
Out on the training field, Arthur hollers, "Next!" His knights obediently rearrange themselves and Sir Bors steps forward. The first clang of Arthur's sword against his shield makes Merlin flinch. Next to him, Gwen sucks in a sharp breath.
"That looked painful," she says sympathetically. The balmy but insistent breeze has tugged several of her curls loose from their pins, and she has to use both hands to tame them. Merlin looks past her, at the western sky slowly turning to dusk, and abandons all hope of being back in time for supper.
He just barely catches the movement out of the corner of his eye, but he can hear Gwen's yelp, stifled a second too late. Bors hits the ground even harder than Kay did. For a second, Arthur stumbles - overbalancing or simply tired - and Merlin's magic unfurls on its own, all too aware of Bors's sword still sticking up out of his grip and ready to break Arthur's fall if it has to; but Arthur rights himself and offers Bors his hand after a few moments, and Merlin takes a deep breath.
Gwen bites her lip. "Look, he's letting them go now," she says, as the tired group starts trudging off the other side of the field. Arthur stays behind, still holding his sword, just him between the grass and the open sky.
Merlin crosses his arms and suppresses a shiver. "Honestly, you'd think he could hurry up," he says. "I'd like to eat sometime today." He had to skip lunch to organize and reorganize the cupboard in Arthur's room, which, as far as Merlin can tell, was just another episode in Arthur's recent attempts to style himself the biggest prat in the kingdom, and he's getting heartily sick of it.
Gwen pats his arm and says inexplicably, "Well, you know, it's only one more day."
Merlin frowns, but before he can ask what on earth that means, there's a short tug on his sleeve. "Hey," Conor says breathlessly, and presses a wrapped parcel into Merlin's hands. "Here it is, I tried to get it back as quickly as possible!"
"Thank you," Merlin says blankly, weighing it in his hands. He gives Conor a quizzical look. "What is it?"
Conor beams, looking very pleased with himself. "It's his Highness' sword belt," he says. "I took it to my uncle, just like his Highness told me. He says it's good as new now."
"Arthur told you to go get his sword belt fixed?" Merlin asks in surprise, remembering too late he's not supposed to call him by name, but after a wide-eyed moment, Conor merely nods.
"He said he knew my family does good work," he says, standing a little taller with obvious pride.
"That's very kind of him," Gwen says after a moment, when Merlin completely fails to respond. She smiles at Conor, who nods and says,
"And he thanked me," looking practically delirious at the mere memory.
Merlin finally recovers enough to say, "Well, ah, great," and wave the parcel at Conor with a distracted grin before tucking it into his pocket. "I'll make sure to give it to him."
Conor bounds off, and Merlin stares after him until he's nearly to the castle gate. "I don't understand," he says weakly, when Gwen nudges him with her shoe. "He's been such a complete tosser to everyone -"
Gwen frowns, but doesn't comment except to say, "He was very nice to Martha when she broke a vase in his chambers on Tuesday."
"Oh, great," Merlin says, annoyed. "So he's just been a tosser to me."
Gwen clucks her tongue softly, somewhere between disapproval and comfort. "Just be patient with him," she says. "It hasn't been an easy week."
Merlin throws up his hands in exasperation. "But what has he even done? He's just been in council meetings with the king all the time." And audiences, and family meals where, for once, no one had actually seemed to be fighting. If anything, Merlin would think the absence of Uther's usual thinly veiled disapproval, replaced with looks at Arthur that approached something like gentleness, would be cause for celebration, not a prolonged tantrum.
The face Gwen gives him in response to this is far less soothing and uncomfortably close to Gaius' you utter clod eyebrow raise.
"Please, just tell me what's going on," Merlin asks a little desperately. "Everybody keeps talking about it without actually saying anything! How am I supposed to help Arthur if I don't even know what's the matter?"
That gets her, of course. Merlin watches Gwen look conflicted for several long moments and tries not to feel guilty about it. He really does want to fix whatever nebulous problem Arthur is having, if mostly so he'll stop making Merlin's life difficult. "Please?" he repeats.
Gwen says, "Oh, I really shouldn't, we're not even supposed to talk about it -" but Merlin thinks he can see her relent, just before she falls completely silent.
"What?" Merlin asks, and Gwen motions mutely at something behind his back, which turns out to be Arthur, walking towards them and almost within earshot. Merlin wants to hate him, he really does, but somehow he just can't seem to work up the venom when Arthur's shoulders slump so defeatedly.
Of course, all that his compassion gets him is a heavy slap of a gloved hand against his shoulder and, "By all means, Merlin, if you're done gossiping over here," as Arthur stalks past him with a nod and muttered Guinevere at Gwen.
This time, Gwen really does look a little sorry for him.
When Merlin gets to his room, Arthur has already started tugging on his armor, making a mess of the buckles as usual. Merlin bats his hands away - which surprisingly enough doesn't earn him so much as a reprimand - and starts peeling layer after layer of metal away. He knows by now he has to be quick, quiet if he can, with Arthur's pulse running fast and his instincts still confused from the fight. Merlin tries to make his fingers steady and after a while Arthur's breathing quiets.
"There," Merlin says finally, as he slides Arthur's heavy quilted tunic off him. Arthur always seems smaller, the first few moments after his soldierly trappings are gone, and sometimes it takes Merlin every last ounce of his willpower to keep from reaching out and curling his hand around the back of Arthur's neck - just for a second, just to cover that vulnerable-looking stretch of skin.
Merlin clears his throat, feeling his cheeks grow hot, and tosses the tunic over the back of Arthur's chair awkwardly. "Will that be all?"
Arthur scrubs one hand through his hair. "Just send someone up with bathwater and some food," he says, apparently too exhausted to bother with tormenting Merlin any further for the day.
Merlin is not about to push his luck; he drops Conor's parcel on the table without comment and flees.
***
The next morning Arthur finally - finally - decides to go for a ride. Merlin readies his horse and tosses him the reins with almost unseemly haste. "There, have fun," he says, already starting to back away. Maybe if he's quick enough -
"What are you talking about?" Arthur asks. He swings himself into the saddle with a soft creak of leather. "You're coming with me."
- no such luck, apparently.
"I really don't think -" Merlin starts, but Arthur cuts him off with a terrifying smile.
"Oh, I do," he says. His horse tosses its head impatiently, and Arthur guides it in a tight circle before raising his eyebrows at Merlin. "Preferably today."
"Yes, sire," Merlin says bitterly, and goes to ask the equerry for a horse. He ends up with one that was apparently quite content to be napping in peace and has him winded with the effort to spur it beyond a snail's pace by the time they cross the drawbridge. He digs both heels into well-rounded flanks and warms himself with the fond memory of Arthur getting thrown by Morgana's new palfrey, twice in the same day.
Blessedly, Arthur doesn't seem to be in the mood for conversation, or a lecture on any of the things he generally feels Merlin needs additional education on (most frequently hunting, followed closely by courtly manners and not making a spectacle of yourself in public holding a sword, Merlin, honestly, how hard can it be). They ride in silence for several minutes, and Merlin doesn't dare break it to ask where they're going when Arthur turns them off the forest path.
It's cool in the shade between the trees, the ground speckled golden with sunlight. Merlin's horse finally perks up a bit and he has to pull on the reins harder than expected when Arthur stops under a blooming hawthorn tree. "We'll leave them here," he says as he dismounts, tying his horse loosely and waiting for Merlin to follow. He still doesn't look cheerful, exactly, but less on edge than Merlin has seen him in days now, so Merlin nods mutely and starts to track through the brush after Arthur.
It's not as thick as he expected. Someone seems to have cleared a makeshift path, or maybe there used to be one here and it hasn't completely overgrown. He only gets tangled in brambles once, which Merlin is ready to count as a good thing, even if Arthur - judging by his put-upon sigh as he cuts him loose - disagrees.
"Not that I'm not enjoying this little trip," Merlin says, panting up a rather steep hillside after Arthur, "but where exactly are we going?"
"What's the matter?" Arthur asks maliciously. He stops, both hands on his hips, and looks down at Merlin. He's not even breathing hard, the prat. "Can't keep up?"
Merlin grits his teeth. "Oh, no, I'm fine," he lies, surreptitiously clutching at the stitch in his side. "I was just thinking, you know, it wouldn't do if you fell in a ravine somewhere and broke your princely ankle." He gives Arthur a dark look meant to convey that Merlin could make that happen, but Arthur only laughs and leans forward to grab Merlin's sleeve and haul him the last few steps up the hill.
"Don't worry, we're here," he says drily and parts a tangle of willow branches with his arm.
It's a clearing. A pretty clearing, surrounded on three sides by flowering bushes and with a nice view over the valley south of Camelot, but, still. A clearing.
Merlin stares at Arthur, waiting for the reveal. When it becomes obvious that none will be forthcoming, he volunteers, "Ah. Yes."
Arthur rolls his eyes. "Try not to trample the flowers," he says, gesturing at a bunch of daffodils by Merlin's feet. There are patches of them all over the clearing, daffodils and bluebells, a few poppies and a ring of purple crocus. They're arranged rather haphazardly, but clearly planted with intent, and remnants of straw caught in the leaves indicate that someone went to the trouble to come and cover them during the recent cold snaps.
"Did you put those here?" Merlin asks, and Arthur gives him an incredulous look.
"No," he says, nudging a single crocus with the tip of his boot thoughtfully. "I think some of the servants did."
Well, that clears up absolutely nothing.
They stand in silence for a while. Then, without preamble, Arthur says, "This was my mother's favorite place," and Merlin - who had been about to complain about the utter pointlessness of this excursion - is abruptly left with nothing to say.
"Oh," he finally tries. "I'm -"
I'm sorry, he'd meant to say, but something in Arthur's face warns him away from that. Instead he says, "It's nice here."
Arthur's stance relaxes so slightly that someone who's not watching as closely as Merlin might miss it. "Yeah, well," he says briskly. "It's quiet. Away from all the -" he illustrates with a wave of his hand "- fuss." He takes a deliberate step over one row of poppies, away from Merlin.
Merlin huffs. "I don't know what you're complaining about," he says. "Everyone's been nice to you. Not that I know why, you've just been an even bigger prat than usual."
He falls silent awkwardly when he realizes he's insulting Arthur at what is sort of like his mother's graveside, but Arthur doesn't look angry. He lowers himself to the grass, stretches out his legs and squints up Merlin. "Sit down, will you," he demands, shading his eyes with one hand. "I shouldn't have to crane my neck to look at you."
Merlin hesitates, but the grass looks soft, and when Arthur says impatiently, "I know it must be hard for someone with your limited mental ability to work out the logistics," Merlin rolls his eyes and drops down next to him. The ground is warm and dry, slightly sloping, and Merlin leans back on his hands and turns his face up to the sun.
His thoughts are just starting to drift pleasantly when Arthur says, "You're the only one who hasn't been. Nice to me, I mean."
Merlin blinks his eyes open and says indignantly, "I think the fact that I haven't murdered you yet for being so insufferable counts as me being plenty nice to you."
Arthur looks away and smiles, the first real one Merlin has seen from him in days. The light is making his hair glow even brighter than usual. "Not yet," he says, mocking, and Merlin mutters,
"Yeah, I'm still considering it." Short blades of grass tickle his palm, and he rubs his hand against his trouser leg distractedly, refusing to look at Arthur. It's taken him months to beat his body out of the horrifying habit of getting sort of weak in the knees when Arthur did certain things, like smile in that way or stand too close to him or look at Merlin through his lashes in a move that, by all means, should not be effective, but is. It's flat-out embarrassing, and Merlin would like to avoid a repeat performance.
He can feel Arthur shift next to him, his boot knocking Merlin's. Merlin doesn't move his foot, but it's a close thing. "I know I've been making you work pretty hard," Arthur says, sounding a bit grudgingly apologetic.
A small cool breeze goes through the trees, ruffling Merlin's hair and making the flowers sway. Merlin shivers and resists the urge to lean closer to Arthur and his big, stupid body radiating warmth. "Oh," he says sarcastically. "You mean when you sent for me in the middle of the night to come scrub out your fireplace? Or when you made me spend all my mealtimes in your room cleaning up?" He's about to get started on the rest of it, like that bloody cupboard, when Arthur clears his throat and says, all in a rush,
"You were the only one I could stand to have around."
An ill-timed bird chirps happily into the middle of the ensuing silence.
"Oh," Merlin says finally, helpless against the smile he feels tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looks down at his lap, then at a stray daffodil between his knees, then over at Arthur. He's faintly pink in the cheeks, and Merlin wants to laugh.
When he catches Merlin watching, Arthur's face settles back into a more familiar look of irritation. "Don't flatter yourself," he says, opening and closing his fingers around the hilt of the dagger at his hip. Merlin knows that movement; it means Arthur gave away more than he meant to. "You're still completely useless in every other way."
"If you say so, sire," Merlin says pleasantly. He leans forward to grab a fistful of bright-smelling grass, and adds, "you could have just asked, you know. I would have come."
Arthur's expression closes off so fast that Merlin is still busy being perplexed when Arthur snaps, "I'm not looking for pity from you."
It takes Merlin a few seconds before he can get his mouth to work to say, "Who's saying anything about pity, you prat." Arthur glares at him; Merlin tosses his handful of grass to the side and crosses his arms, glaring back. "Why would I pity you?" he asks tartly. "I'm your friend, that's how it works. You don't have to order me around."
He bats at a bumblebee in annoyance. It seeks refuge on Arthur's shoulder, who doesn't seem bothered by it. "You're really not feeling sorry for me?" he asks slowly, an odd inflection in his voice. The bumblebee seems to realize at last that Arthur is useless, and takes off with a buzz.
Merlin throws up his hands exasperatedly. "No," he says. He doesn't ask why Arthur apparently thinks he should be overcome with sympathy, considering the last time Arthur was laid up with a twisted ankle he spent three days ceaselessly complaining about the great and terrible hardship of his life. Merlin frowns and kicks at a particularly thick patch of grass.
After several long moments, Arthur shakes his head. "We should get back," he says calmly, rising in one fluid motion. He offers Merlin his hand without looking at him. Merlin considers ignoring it, but his legs feel lazy and heavy from the ride and then the sitting, and don't really seem to want to cooperate. He curls his fingers around Arthur's warm, sword-calloused ones with a mute sigh and lets Arthur yank him to his feet unceremoniously.
Arthur drops his hand and gives Merlin an unreadable look. They're standing too close; Merlin feels Arthur's chest brush his arm with every inhale. He tries not to look at the freckles on his throat, standing out against winter-pale skin. "Thanks," Arthur says finally.
Merlin swallows. "It's fine," he says, feeling slightly confused and off-kilter, and definitely too hot. Of course, there's no breeze in sight when he could use one.
Arthur nods and pushes past him. Merlin takes a deep breath before he follows, trying to avoid the willow branches smacking him in the face.
***
They're riding back into the courtyard when Merlin says, voice raised to be heard over the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, "At least you weren't rude to anyone else." He remembers the proud swell of Conor's chest and Tuesday afternoon, when he rounded a corner and saw Arthur holding the door for one of the seamstresses, and amends, "Actually, I guess you were pretty nice to them. You know. For you."
Arthur slides off his horse and hands the reins to a stable boy who comes running. "Thank you kindly for that sweeping amount of praise, Merlin," he says, punching Merlin's thigh as he walks past. "I'm not in the habit of yelling at people who are trying to be kind to me. I'm not a brute."
Merlin pulls a face as he dismounts, stealthily rubbing his leg. "So you just took it all out on me?" he calls after Arthur. "Great, thanks very much!"
Arthur waves cheerfully over his shoulder.
***
When Merlin bursts into Gaius's rooms after a brief stop in the kitchens, Gaius looks up from his work and asks, "Shouldn't you be helping Arthur get ready for the feast?" The concoction by his elbow keeps bubbling enthusiastically. The whole room smells of thyme.
Merlin swallows the last of his apple and asks, alarmed, "That's tonight?"
"When else would it be?" Gaius asks distractedly and adds a few drops of water. A thin cloud of green steam rises. "You should hurry up, it won't do for him to be late to this."
"What are you talking about, he's always late to feasts," Merlin points out, quickly cutting himself a piece of bread. It's a little stale, but it'll have to do for now. Maybe he'll be able to nick something during the banquet.
Gaius straightens and takes off his glasses, frowning. "It's a little different when you're the guest of honor, I should think," he says. There's a stain down the front of his work robes, but Merlin notices that his good blue ones are laid out across the foot of his bed. Gaius picks up his mortar and pestle and shoots Merlin a stern glance. "And Arthur will be expected to stay until the end, so don't think about skipping out early."
"I'm not a totally rubbish servant, you know," Merlin says, mildly offended. "I wouldn't have run off." Well. At least not very far. Merlin takes an indelicately big bite of bread and asks, as clearly as he can around the food, "What's this feast for, anyway?"
The dry crunch of stone against stone falls away when Gaius' hand stills. "Merlin," he says after a moment, "do you know what day it is?"
Merlin ventures, "Friday?"
Gaius makes a face like a frog getting stepped on. "It's Arthur's birthday, you idiot," he barks, dropping the bowl of half-crushed herbs to the table and putting both hands on his hips in a disturbingly accurate impression of Merlin's mother.
A piece of bread goes impressively down the wrong pipe, and it's a while before Merlin can talk again. "But that makes no sense," he chokes, wiping at watering eyes with his sleeve. "Everyone's just been depressed, why would -"
Then he remembers Arthur's face when he said, This was my mother's favorite place, and all of a sudden a lot of things make sense.
"I'm so stupid," Merlin moans, burying his face in his hands.
"I am not about to protest, if that's what you are waiting for," Gaius says testily.
***
The feast is not as bad as Merlin had expected. If anything, the absence of tears, screaming, or very public falling-outs makes it rather less eventful than these things typically are. Sir Agravaine gets drunk and sings, but it's something from his usual repertoire about lusty shepherdesses, and the wine thickens his accent to the point where no one can understand a word past the first verse, anyway. A group of well-wishers surrounds Arthur the entire night, and if he's not actually enjoying himself, then he's at least doing a good job pretending.
Somewhere in the middle, after the second course but before the singing starts, Gwen tip-toes up to Merlin, clutching a bowl of cherries to her chest. "Sorry about not telling you," she whispers. "It's just, the king passed a decree..."
She trails off, and Merlin follows her gaze to Uther in his chair. He looks grim and pale, leaning on the table rather more heavily than usual, and doesn't seem to notice the way Arthur's smile grows just a little more strained every time he turns in his direction. Neither of them are drinking much, which, Merlin guesses, probably doesn't improve the experience of Agravaine's performance when it starts.
"Oh," Gwen says at the first notes, sounding quietly appalled, and Merlin grins and tries to pay attention to the shepherdesses instead of Arthur's tense shoulders across the Hall.
***
They make the trip back to Arthur's room in silence, only their steps a hollow echo in the empty hallways. Merlin looks outside once and sees light in the king's chambers across the courtyard. He looks away quickly, at the way Arthur's crown flashes gold with every torch they pass, and doesn't let himself get distracted again until the door falls shut behind them with a comforting thump.
Merlin sags against it with a quiet sigh of relief. "I can send for some spiced wine," he offers, but Arthur shakes his head.
"It's fine," he says, setting his crown on the table and tossing his jacket haphazardly across his creepily-beloved royal chair. He looks exhausted, like he's come back from a prolonged campaign. Merlin bites his lip.
"At least let me stoke the fire," he says, and walks over to kneel on the hearth before Arthur can turn that down too. The poker is cold in his hands, but the flames flare satisfyingly when Merlin feeds them another log. He can hear Arthur behind him, the soft curse and involuntary shuffle-hop that accompany most every attempt at pulling off his boots (because Arthur refuses to sit down for it, because he is convinced he has superior balance, when he really, really doesn't; because Arthur is ridiculous).
Automatically, Merlin says, "Please try not to split your head open," and pushes himself back to his feet. He dusts off his hands and adds, "I'd only have to clean it up."
Arthur snorts as he flops back on his bed gracelessly, bare feet hanging off the edge of the mattress. Merlin watches the even rise and fall of his chest for a while, unable to bring himself to leave. He jumps guiltily when Arthur opens his eyes and looks at him.
"Oh, right," Arthur says, wiping a hand across his face. "You can go."
"Okay," Merlin says. The fire spits sparks behind him.
Arthur raises his eyebrows. It makes the shadows under his eyes seem even more pronounced. "You're not leaving," he says, struggling up onto his elbows.
"No," Merlin agrees, fighting the hysterical urge to laugh. Any second now Arthur is going to toss him out and quite probably call him an utter girl while he does it, and he'll have made as big a fool of himself as Arthur generally accuses him of. But Arthur looks thin-skinned and bone-deep tired, and, well, it's not like Merlin has a lot of dignity left to lose, anyway.
It seems like a long time before Arthur says, "All right." He opens his mouth as if to add something, but then shakes his head and slowly lies back down.
Merlin exhales roughly. "All right," he says, forcing his fingers to release their white-knuckled grip on the table's edge. He pretends not to notice the way Arthur is watching from half-lidded eyes when he drags the chair around to face the bed (it's even more unwieldy than it looks, and Merlin stubs his toe) and lifts Arthur's jacket out of the way.
"Merlin," Arthur says, before he actually has a chance to sit down.
Merlin freezes mid-movement. "What?" he asks, inconspicuously rubbing his sore foot against his calf.
Arthur sounds much closer to his usual tone of long-suffering tolerance when he says, "You don't have to sleep in the chair." He scoots over a few inches on the bed and raises his eyebrows at Merlin expectantly.
"Oh," Merlin says, "right," and stands around awkwardly for a few seconds before twisting out of his servant's surcoat and toeing off his boots. The stone floor is cold even through his socks, which pretty much kills any hesitation he might otherwise feel about quickly climbing onto the mattress. Something occurs to him as he's settling down, and he pauses with the sheets pulled halfway across his legs, suspicious. "Are you worried about my comfort, or somebody else sitting in your chair?"
Arthur looks shifty and doesn't reply, and Merlin rolls his eyes. "Generous as always," he says huffily, and Arthur glares in response and says,
"Don't get grabby with the royal pillows." He gives up a good portion of the covers, though, so Merlin supposes it could be worse.
He's still trying to make a comfortable groove for his head when Arthur asks suddenly, "Why are you so keen on staying?" There's a quiet rustle of sheets when he moves.
Because I'm supposed to take care of you, Merlin doesn't answer. He thinks Arthur would quite probably throw him out after all if he did. Instead, he says, "Don't you want the company?" with a dry mouth and shifts to look at Arthur, the slide of his cheek against fabric loud in his ear.
Something curls tight in his stomach at the look on Arthur's face, wide open and a little uncertain. Merlin refuses to look away, still, and finally Arthur turns back to the ceiling. His throat works when he swallows. "I do," he says.
Merlin feels faintly weak with relief, though he prefers to think it's the lack of food. "Stop complaining, then," he mutters, closing his eyes and trying to relax.
It doesn't work, impressively. Merlin's heartbeat refuses to quiet down, even though the snap and crackle of the fire in Arthur's room puts him close to falling asleep while still working most evenings. Normally he'd pull out the book and practice old spells, but obviously that's out of the question. He starts to count sheep, and gets to a hundred and fifty before giving up.
It's Arthur. Every time he moves, the mattress dips and shifts, and Merlin's pulse quickens with it. It doesn't help that the sheets smell like him, too - grass and leather and faded soap - and when Arthur rolls over close enough that Merlin can feel the heat from his body, he has to admit that maybe this was a spectacularly awful idea.
"You're a terrible bedmate," he says before he can help himself, blinking his eyes open to find their faces unexpectedly close. He can count the fine lines on Arthur's forehead when he frowns.
"This is my bed, you know," Arthur says, sounding vaguely affronted. "Nobody's making you lie in it." His hair is disheveled and the ends stick out at ridiculous angles round his ears.
Merlin channels his urge to reach out and smooth it back to order into an irritated, "You were the one who wouldn't let me touch that stupid chair," and then somehow Arthur is trying to push him off the bed and Merlin is clinging and resisting, because his feet are tangled in the sheets and he's just going to fall and brain himself on the floor if Arthur keeps shoving, and his mouth is definitely two steps ahead of his brain when he shouts, "Fine, that'll teach me to feel bad for you!"
Arthur freezes with both hands fisted in Merlin's shirt, breathing heavily. Merlin can see the moment his face closes off, mouth a hard, bitter line, and he grabs Arthur's wrists without thinking and says, "No, no, Arthur, I didn't mean that," words tumbling over each other in his haste.
"Let go of me, and then get out," Arthur says calmly. His voice is steady, but Merlin can feel the skittish jump of his pulse against his fingertips. He doesn't know what will happen if he does let go and leave, but he knows it'll be too late to fix what he's broken.
He squares his shoulders and says, "No."
Arthur looks honestly taken aback. "What?"
"I'm not leaving," Merlin says, a little desperately. His palms are sweating and Arthur could probably break his grip if he tried, but he doesn't. Something like surprise shines through the stiffness on his face, and something else, something wary.
Finally, he repeats, "Let go."
Merlin couldn't if he wanted to, fingers locked in position stubbornly. He opens his mouth to say something, but whatever it was falls apart on his tongue when Arthur bows his head and says, "Please."
Merlin's hands drop away, and he feels suddenly ashamed. "Arthur," he mutters, "I'm -"
"Shut up for once, will you?" Arthur interrupts him. One fluid movement and he's braced over Merlin, hands on either side of him. His thumbs brush the curves of Merlin's shoulders. Merlin shivers and stays as still as he can.
After several long moments, Arthur says, "I need to know that you're not here for pity." He looks at Merlin the way he sometimes looks after a fight, bruised but defiant, and almost challengingly proud, and Merlin's breath gets stuck in his throat.
"I'm not," he finally manages, "I swear I'm not." He raises his hands hesitantly, not sure if it's allowed, but Arthur doesn't move to stop him and so Merlin cups his face in his palms.
A muscle in Arthur's jaw twitches lightly. Merlin has kind of forgotten how to function. He inhales with a gasp when Arthur leans down, and Arthur stills, so close his warm breath blows against Merlin's lips. He doesn't ask out loud; he doesn't have to. Merlin scrounges up what little brain power he has left to brush his nose against Arthur's in encouragement, and Arthur closes the gap and fits their mouths together softly.
Merlin makes a very undignified noise and grabs Arthur's shirtfront, fabric bunching in his fist. Arthur comes down on top of him, whether by accident or by design, and the solid weight of his body pressing Merlin into the mattress is enough to make heat flare in Merlin's belly. He rocks his hips up almost desperately, fingers digging into the shifting muscles at Arthur's back hard enough to bruise, maybe, and opens his mouth for Arthur to lick inside with a muffled groan.
They have to break eventually, for simple lack of air. Merlin presses sloppy, eager kisses up the sweat-damp line of Arthur's throat and manages, between ragged breaths, "By the way, I didn't get you a present."
Arthur bites his jaw, noses his cheek, and says hoarsely into his ear, "I guess I'll just have to take your service not being quite as abysmal as it used to."
Merlin wants to ask whether this will be an expected part of his duties in the future, then, but Arthur tangles his fingers in Merlin's hair just this side of painful and starts working on getting his trousers unlaced, and it rather stops being important.
***
"How do you know it was her favorite place?" Merlin asks, much later, when the fire has burned down to embers and early-morning chill is starting to creep into the room.
Arthur stretches and yawns. "What?" he asks, fingertips trailing up and down Merlin's spine.
Merlin pillows his head on his arms. "The place in the woods," he says quietly. "Did your father tell you?"
Arthur clears his throat. "No," he says. "My father doesn't - " He stops and shifts uncomfortably. The mattress moves with him, but it only presses him closer, warm, all along Merlin's body, so Merlin is not complaining. "My nursemaid took me there on my fifth birthday," Arthur finishes.
Merlin makes a small sound of acknowledgment and watches Arthur's profile in the half-dark. He doesn't look like Uther much - the curve of his nose, the soft dip of his mouth - and Merlin wonders if Arthur resembles his mother instead. Maybe the blue eyes are hers, or the stubborn jut of Arthur's chin. Something occurs to him then, and he tries to keep the surprise out of his voice. "You go every year?"
Arthur tenses, a barely-there tremor of muscles along his side. His hand stills. "Yes," he says, glancing sideways at Merlin. The line of his jaw is defiant, as if daring him to laugh. "Why?"
"Nothing," Merlin says. He has the distinct feeling he's smiling stupidly, so he hides it by ducking his head and pressing a kiss to Arthur's bare shoulder. "Just wondering."
Arthur gives him a strange look, but his hand readily settles back into its rhythm when Merlin arches to encourage it. "By the way," Arthur says after a while, drowsy. "I want you to get me more of those blackberry pastries for breakfast. Those were exceptional."
Merlin swallows a laugh and closes his eyes, curling deeper into the soft nest of blankets. "Sorry," he says very seriously, and rests his forehead against Arthur's temple. "I think those are gone again until next year."
gone were but the winter
7,740 words. Arthur/Merlin. PG-13. Mild spoilers for episodes 1x07 and 1x13. Everything you recognize belongs to the BBC.
It starts in spring, on the heels of a late frost, when the air turns sweet with sunlight and warmth. The trees around the castle seem to grow green overnight and Merlin is accompanied by birdsong on his morning walks to Arthur's room. It's a welcome relief after weeks of stubborn cold, so Merlin can't for the life of him understand why the entirety of Camelot seems to sink into a deep depression. The lunches he eats downstairs in the kitchen are held in silence like they're sitting in a tomb, and Merlin comes across crying chambermaids with a frequency that is kind of alarming. Gaius overboils a month's worth of collected herbs and Arthur throws a tantrum about the state of his room that leaves Merlin so embittered he seriously considers feeding Arthur rat again.
"And everyone is nice to him," Merlin complains to Gwen as he's helping her carry laundry up to Morgana's chambers. It's quite a lot, and heavier than Arthur's. He's breathing hard by the time they've reached the right door. "Nobody seems to notice that he's even more rotten than usual."
"You don't really mean that," Gwen says, fumbling for the keys at her hip.
Merlin says, "No, I really do," and tilts his pile of clothes to avoid something thin and lacy sliding to the ground. "Do you know how many times he had me remake his bed this morning? What's this for?"
Gwen colors slightly and yanks it out of his arms, muttering, "You should not be seen carrying that," before giving him a critical look. "Merlin," she starts, but then a guard rounds the corner and instead of actually explaining Gwen squeezes his hand, takes the rest of the laundry from him, and leaves Merlin standing in the hallway alone.
***
It's completely inexplicable, but undeniably true: people are treating Arthur like they're afraid he might explode at any moment. Merlin thinks he could handle the scullery maids curtseying so low they lose their balance when they pass, and Morgana letting Arthur win at chess three nights in a row certainly does have its advantages (mostly that Arthur doesn't seem to feel the need to make Merlin play, and lose, in return), but it's the knights' behavior that tips the whole thing over. They dance around Arthur ridiculously during drills, fighting like they're trying to avoid making contact at all costs; it doesn't do anything but infuriate Arthur and make Merlin's life more miserable by extension.
He's pathetically glad for the time he spends polishing tables for the banquet planned the first week of May. It's no more cheerful than the funereal atmosphere everywhere else, but at least he's out from under Arthur's ridiculous mood.
He's on his third hour of making sure the dark wood shines when the footman who's scrubbing next to him looks up and nudges Merlin with his elbow. "Must be a hard time for you as well."
Merlin pushes hair off his forehead with the back of his hand, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the way his fingers reek of vinegar. "What?" he asks distractedly.
The boy - Eric, or possibly Alan, Merlin thinks - lowers his voice and shoots him a significant glance. "You know," he mutters. "The prince."
Merlin barely refrains from thumping Alan - Edgar? - on the back hard in relief. "Oh, thank God," he says faintly. "I was starting to think I was the only one who'd noticed."
Edward (or maybe Edmund) shakes his head with a small smile. "Of course not," he says. He pauses in his work and tilts his head consideringly. "Though it's really not as bad as last year, I don't think."
Merlin's hand clenches around the soft polishing cloth involuntarily. "It's like this every year?" he asks, horrified, but he forgets to be quiet and the steward gives them an absolutely murderous look, so that effectively puts an end to that conversation right there.
It's another two hours before Merlin gets to leave the Hall, his fingers cramping painfully and the sky outside the windows smudged with pink sunset. He hasn't even made it to the stairs when the familiar rhythm of Arthur's steps sounds behind him, along with a sharp, "Hey!"
Merlin very carefully doesn't sigh as he turns around. "Yes, sire?" he asks with as blankly obedient a face as he can manage at Arthur's tone.
Either it's not very obedient at all or Arthur is simply in too foul a mood for it to matter, because he glares at Merlin impressively. "Who was that in my rooms tonight?" he demands, rocking back and forth on his heels. He must not have bothered redressing after taking off his armor; his tunic is rucked up at the waist, gaping open over the smooth swell of his collar bone.
It takes Merlin entirely too long to answer, which he chooses to blame on the vinegar fumes. "Conor, Sir Anselm's servant," he says, distractedly rubbing his aching knuckles. "I asked him to fix your bath and supper because I was down here." He wonders for a moment whether Conor made off with Arthur's ceremonial crown or something, but discards that thought when he remembers the worshipful glaze on Conor's face at the mere mention of Arthur's name. "Why, didn't he do a good job?"
Arthur bobs his head irritably. His hair is still sticking up in sweaty tufts behind his ears, so clearly he hasn't actually been in any bath. Merlin can feel his patience slipping by the second. "No worse than you," Arthur says tartly, adding after an uncomfortably long pause, "but he kept looking at me."
Merlin blinks at him. "He looked at you?" he asks, abruptly fighting not to grin. "You mean while he was taking your clothes -"
"Oh, for - no," Arthur snaps, flushing bright red down to his chest. "He was just staring, like - " He trails off with a vague, frustrated handmotion.
Like you were being a royal arse? Merlin very much wants to ask, but doesn't, because he's growing as a person. "Like?" he prompts instead, thinking longingly of the tincture Gaius set aside for the days Arthur's armor gives him particular trouble. Clearly it's going to be a while before he can soak his hands.
"Like I was delicate," Arthur says finally. He's still glowering, but there's something carefully guarded about the look he gives him that Merlin doesn't quite know how to place.
"Oh," he says blankly, and Arthur snorts.
"Exactly the sort of pithy rejoinder I've come to expect from you," he says archly, but his face relaxes into a more familiar expression of annoyance. "Well, are you coming?"
"Coming where?" Merlin asks, but even as he says it he has a horrible suspicion.
It's confirmed when Arthur shoots him a withering glance and pushes past him in the direction of his chambers. "To get my bath and my food," he says, and has the nerve to continue, "it's late enough already."
Merlin gapes after him, reminding himself forcefully that, against all common sense, a great many people would probably be displeased if he beat Arthur senseless with the empty bucket someone left behind. "I thought Conor was there, staring at you," he manages finally.
Arthur stops and turns, without the grace to look even slightly abashed. "I sent him away," he says, in his best keep up, Merlin tone of voice.
Merlin says the only thing he can think of that won't end with him in the stocks, which is, "He was really quite excited about serving you for the night, you know." He punctuates it with a glare of his own, for good measure.
Arthur does look more than a little guilty at that, though he quickly covers it with an imperious jerk of his head. "Well, I can't help that. Get moving now, would you?"
Merlin, plotting elaborate and unpleasant revenge as he goes, follows.
***
There are fruit pies in the kitchens the next morning, and Merlin spends long minutes torn between nursing his grudge and the possibility of finally breaking Arthur out of his temper (because if he can't shoot his crossbow at something, food is usually the quickest way to do it). In the end, he relents and asks the cook for a blackberry pastry. He's fully expecting to have to pry it out of her hand in pieces, because the cooks are nothing if not stingy with confections, even for crown princes, so he's more than a little taken aback when her face crumples and she puts two - still oven-warm - on Arthur's plate.
"You take good care of him, yeah?" she asks, and surreptitiously wipes her face with the corner of her apron as she turns away.
This is starting to well and truly freak Merlin out.
***
Hunting trips with Arthur have run the gamut from walking into a Sidhe's trap to disturbing the Questing Beast, and when it comes to things Merlin's life would be better without, they rank ahead of pretty much everything but stable work. It should be taken as a sign of how desperate he really is when Merlin blurts out, on the third day of Arthur's prolonged fit of pique, "Wouldn't you like to go hunting?"
Arthur looks over at him from where he's inspecting his dagger collection on the table. "Eager to get me out of here, are you?" he asks, and his face is lofty, almost amused. Merlin knows better than to trust it; it's the very sort of expression that would have him walking around throwing knives at people.
"Of course not," he lies unconvincingly, and Arthur's eyes narrow.
"Good," he says and tosses a scabbard down on the table. Merlin winces at the clatter. "Because I'm not going anywhere until you've cleaned all of these again. Honestly, Merlin, do you have any skills at all?"
***
It gets worse the day after, and even worse the day after that, and Wednesday finds Merlin hiding in an alcove behind a tapestry until Arthur's passing steps have faded in the distance. He plucks a spider off his jacket and sadly ponders the meaning of the words rock bottom.
***
"He can't keep on like that," Merlin says and taps the full water skin against his knee. "He's going to kill himself. Or them," he adds, as Arthur throws Sir Kay to the ground with a vicious twist of his shoulders.
It's been another bad practice, maybe even the worst all week. If any of the knights so far have managed to land a blow on Arthur, it's only because he practically threw himself at their swords. Merlin thinks he can guess how long it must have taken Arthur to get them to forget his crown, to lunge and strike him and kick his legs out from under him the way he's seen them do; now it's all gone, and Arthur's frustration is clear in every tense hit he delivers.
Gwen rests her chin on her folded hands. "He is working them longer than usual," she admits, forehead creasing slightly.
Out on the training field, Arthur hollers, "Next!" His knights obediently rearrange themselves and Sir Bors steps forward. The first clang of Arthur's sword against his shield makes Merlin flinch. Next to him, Gwen sucks in a sharp breath.
"That looked painful," she says sympathetically. The balmy but insistent breeze has tugged several of her curls loose from their pins, and she has to use both hands to tame them. Merlin looks past her, at the western sky slowly turning to dusk, and abandons all hope of being back in time for supper.
He just barely catches the movement out of the corner of his eye, but he can hear Gwen's yelp, stifled a second too late. Bors hits the ground even harder than Kay did. For a second, Arthur stumbles - overbalancing or simply tired - and Merlin's magic unfurls on its own, all too aware of Bors's sword still sticking up out of his grip and ready to break Arthur's fall if it has to; but Arthur rights himself and offers Bors his hand after a few moments, and Merlin takes a deep breath.
Gwen bites her lip. "Look, he's letting them go now," she says, as the tired group starts trudging off the other side of the field. Arthur stays behind, still holding his sword, just him between the grass and the open sky.
Merlin crosses his arms and suppresses a shiver. "Honestly, you'd think he could hurry up," he says. "I'd like to eat sometime today." He had to skip lunch to organize and reorganize the cupboard in Arthur's room, which, as far as Merlin can tell, was just another episode in Arthur's recent attempts to style himself the biggest prat in the kingdom, and he's getting heartily sick of it.
Gwen pats his arm and says inexplicably, "Well, you know, it's only one more day."
Merlin frowns, but before he can ask what on earth that means, there's a short tug on his sleeve. "Hey," Conor says breathlessly, and presses a wrapped parcel into Merlin's hands. "Here it is, I tried to get it back as quickly as possible!"
"Thank you," Merlin says blankly, weighing it in his hands. He gives Conor a quizzical look. "What is it?"
Conor beams, looking very pleased with himself. "It's his Highness' sword belt," he says. "I took it to my uncle, just like his Highness told me. He says it's good as new now."
"Arthur told you to go get his sword belt fixed?" Merlin asks in surprise, remembering too late he's not supposed to call him by name, but after a wide-eyed moment, Conor merely nods.
"He said he knew my family does good work," he says, standing a little taller with obvious pride.
"That's very kind of him," Gwen says after a moment, when Merlin completely fails to respond. She smiles at Conor, who nods and says,
"And he thanked me," looking practically delirious at the mere memory.
Merlin finally recovers enough to say, "Well, ah, great," and wave the parcel at Conor with a distracted grin before tucking it into his pocket. "I'll make sure to give it to him."
Conor bounds off, and Merlin stares after him until he's nearly to the castle gate. "I don't understand," he says weakly, when Gwen nudges him with her shoe. "He's been such a complete tosser to everyone -"
Gwen frowns, but doesn't comment except to say, "He was very nice to Martha when she broke a vase in his chambers on Tuesday."
"Oh, great," Merlin says, annoyed. "So he's just been a tosser to me."
Gwen clucks her tongue softly, somewhere between disapproval and comfort. "Just be patient with him," she says. "It hasn't been an easy week."
Merlin throws up his hands in exasperation. "But what has he even done? He's just been in council meetings with the king all the time." And audiences, and family meals where, for once, no one had actually seemed to be fighting. If anything, Merlin would think the absence of Uther's usual thinly veiled disapproval, replaced with looks at Arthur that approached something like gentleness, would be cause for celebration, not a prolonged tantrum.
The face Gwen gives him in response to this is far less soothing and uncomfortably close to Gaius' you utter clod eyebrow raise.
"Please, just tell me what's going on," Merlin asks a little desperately. "Everybody keeps talking about it without actually saying anything! How am I supposed to help Arthur if I don't even know what's the matter?"
That gets her, of course. Merlin watches Gwen look conflicted for several long moments and tries not to feel guilty about it. He really does want to fix whatever nebulous problem Arthur is having, if mostly so he'll stop making Merlin's life difficult. "Please?" he repeats.
Gwen says, "Oh, I really shouldn't, we're not even supposed to talk about it -" but Merlin thinks he can see her relent, just before she falls completely silent.
"What?" Merlin asks, and Gwen motions mutely at something behind his back, which turns out to be Arthur, walking towards them and almost within earshot. Merlin wants to hate him, he really does, but somehow he just can't seem to work up the venom when Arthur's shoulders slump so defeatedly.
Of course, all that his compassion gets him is a heavy slap of a gloved hand against his shoulder and, "By all means, Merlin, if you're done gossiping over here," as Arthur stalks past him with a nod and muttered Guinevere at Gwen.
This time, Gwen really does look a little sorry for him.
When Merlin gets to his room, Arthur has already started tugging on his armor, making a mess of the buckles as usual. Merlin bats his hands away - which surprisingly enough doesn't earn him so much as a reprimand - and starts peeling layer after layer of metal away. He knows by now he has to be quick, quiet if he can, with Arthur's pulse running fast and his instincts still confused from the fight. Merlin tries to make his fingers steady and after a while Arthur's breathing quiets.
"There," Merlin says finally, as he slides Arthur's heavy quilted tunic off him. Arthur always seems smaller, the first few moments after his soldierly trappings are gone, and sometimes it takes Merlin every last ounce of his willpower to keep from reaching out and curling his hand around the back of Arthur's neck - just for a second, just to cover that vulnerable-looking stretch of skin.
Merlin clears his throat, feeling his cheeks grow hot, and tosses the tunic over the back of Arthur's chair awkwardly. "Will that be all?"
Arthur scrubs one hand through his hair. "Just send someone up with bathwater and some food," he says, apparently too exhausted to bother with tormenting Merlin any further for the day.
Merlin is not about to push his luck; he drops Conor's parcel on the table without comment and flees.
***
The next morning Arthur finally - finally - decides to go for a ride. Merlin readies his horse and tosses him the reins with almost unseemly haste. "There, have fun," he says, already starting to back away. Maybe if he's quick enough -
"What are you talking about?" Arthur asks. He swings himself into the saddle with a soft creak of leather. "You're coming with me."
- no such luck, apparently.
"I really don't think -" Merlin starts, but Arthur cuts him off with a terrifying smile.
"Oh, I do," he says. His horse tosses its head impatiently, and Arthur guides it in a tight circle before raising his eyebrows at Merlin. "Preferably today."
"Yes, sire," Merlin says bitterly, and goes to ask the equerry for a horse. He ends up with one that was apparently quite content to be napping in peace and has him winded with the effort to spur it beyond a snail's pace by the time they cross the drawbridge. He digs both heels into well-rounded flanks and warms himself with the fond memory of Arthur getting thrown by Morgana's new palfrey, twice in the same day.
Blessedly, Arthur doesn't seem to be in the mood for conversation, or a lecture on any of the things he generally feels Merlin needs additional education on (most frequently hunting, followed closely by courtly manners and not making a spectacle of yourself in public holding a sword, Merlin, honestly, how hard can it be). They ride in silence for several minutes, and Merlin doesn't dare break it to ask where they're going when Arthur turns them off the forest path.
It's cool in the shade between the trees, the ground speckled golden with sunlight. Merlin's horse finally perks up a bit and he has to pull on the reins harder than expected when Arthur stops under a blooming hawthorn tree. "We'll leave them here," he says as he dismounts, tying his horse loosely and waiting for Merlin to follow. He still doesn't look cheerful, exactly, but less on edge than Merlin has seen him in days now, so Merlin nods mutely and starts to track through the brush after Arthur.
It's not as thick as he expected. Someone seems to have cleared a makeshift path, or maybe there used to be one here and it hasn't completely overgrown. He only gets tangled in brambles once, which Merlin is ready to count as a good thing, even if Arthur - judging by his put-upon sigh as he cuts him loose - disagrees.
"Not that I'm not enjoying this little trip," Merlin says, panting up a rather steep hillside after Arthur, "but where exactly are we going?"
"What's the matter?" Arthur asks maliciously. He stops, both hands on his hips, and looks down at Merlin. He's not even breathing hard, the prat. "Can't keep up?"
Merlin grits his teeth. "Oh, no, I'm fine," he lies, surreptitiously clutching at the stitch in his side. "I was just thinking, you know, it wouldn't do if you fell in a ravine somewhere and broke your princely ankle." He gives Arthur a dark look meant to convey that Merlin could make that happen, but Arthur only laughs and leans forward to grab Merlin's sleeve and haul him the last few steps up the hill.
"Don't worry, we're here," he says drily and parts a tangle of willow branches with his arm.
It's a clearing. A pretty clearing, surrounded on three sides by flowering bushes and with a nice view over the valley south of Camelot, but, still. A clearing.
Merlin stares at Arthur, waiting for the reveal. When it becomes obvious that none will be forthcoming, he volunteers, "Ah. Yes."
Arthur rolls his eyes. "Try not to trample the flowers," he says, gesturing at a bunch of daffodils by Merlin's feet. There are patches of them all over the clearing, daffodils and bluebells, a few poppies and a ring of purple crocus. They're arranged rather haphazardly, but clearly planted with intent, and remnants of straw caught in the leaves indicate that someone went to the trouble to come and cover them during the recent cold snaps.
"Did you put those here?" Merlin asks, and Arthur gives him an incredulous look.
"No," he says, nudging a single crocus with the tip of his boot thoughtfully. "I think some of the servants did."
Well, that clears up absolutely nothing.
They stand in silence for a while. Then, without preamble, Arthur says, "This was my mother's favorite place," and Merlin - who had been about to complain about the utter pointlessness of this excursion - is abruptly left with nothing to say.
"Oh," he finally tries. "I'm -"
I'm sorry, he'd meant to say, but something in Arthur's face warns him away from that. Instead he says, "It's nice here."
Arthur's stance relaxes so slightly that someone who's not watching as closely as Merlin might miss it. "Yeah, well," he says briskly. "It's quiet. Away from all the -" he illustrates with a wave of his hand "- fuss." He takes a deliberate step over one row of poppies, away from Merlin.
Merlin huffs. "I don't know what you're complaining about," he says. "Everyone's been nice to you. Not that I know why, you've just been an even bigger prat than usual."
He falls silent awkwardly when he realizes he's insulting Arthur at what is sort of like his mother's graveside, but Arthur doesn't look angry. He lowers himself to the grass, stretches out his legs and squints up Merlin. "Sit down, will you," he demands, shading his eyes with one hand. "I shouldn't have to crane my neck to look at you."
Merlin hesitates, but the grass looks soft, and when Arthur says impatiently, "I know it must be hard for someone with your limited mental ability to work out the logistics," Merlin rolls his eyes and drops down next to him. The ground is warm and dry, slightly sloping, and Merlin leans back on his hands and turns his face up to the sun.
His thoughts are just starting to drift pleasantly when Arthur says, "You're the only one who hasn't been. Nice to me, I mean."
Merlin blinks his eyes open and says indignantly, "I think the fact that I haven't murdered you yet for being so insufferable counts as me being plenty nice to you."
Arthur looks away and smiles, the first real one Merlin has seen from him in days. The light is making his hair glow even brighter than usual. "Not yet," he says, mocking, and Merlin mutters,
"Yeah, I'm still considering it." Short blades of grass tickle his palm, and he rubs his hand against his trouser leg distractedly, refusing to look at Arthur. It's taken him months to beat his body out of the horrifying habit of getting sort of weak in the knees when Arthur did certain things, like smile in that way or stand too close to him or look at Merlin through his lashes in a move that, by all means, should not be effective, but is. It's flat-out embarrassing, and Merlin would like to avoid a repeat performance.
He can feel Arthur shift next to him, his boot knocking Merlin's. Merlin doesn't move his foot, but it's a close thing. "I know I've been making you work pretty hard," Arthur says, sounding a bit grudgingly apologetic.
A small cool breeze goes through the trees, ruffling Merlin's hair and making the flowers sway. Merlin shivers and resists the urge to lean closer to Arthur and his big, stupid body radiating warmth. "Oh," he says sarcastically. "You mean when you sent for me in the middle of the night to come scrub out your fireplace? Or when you made me spend all my mealtimes in your room cleaning up?" He's about to get started on the rest of it, like that bloody cupboard, when Arthur clears his throat and says, all in a rush,
"You were the only one I could stand to have around."
An ill-timed bird chirps happily into the middle of the ensuing silence.
"Oh," Merlin says finally, helpless against the smile he feels tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looks down at his lap, then at a stray daffodil between his knees, then over at Arthur. He's faintly pink in the cheeks, and Merlin wants to laugh.
When he catches Merlin watching, Arthur's face settles back into a more familiar look of irritation. "Don't flatter yourself," he says, opening and closing his fingers around the hilt of the dagger at his hip. Merlin knows that movement; it means Arthur gave away more than he meant to. "You're still completely useless in every other way."
"If you say so, sire," Merlin says pleasantly. He leans forward to grab a fistful of bright-smelling grass, and adds, "you could have just asked, you know. I would have come."
Arthur's expression closes off so fast that Merlin is still busy being perplexed when Arthur snaps, "I'm not looking for pity from you."
It takes Merlin a few seconds before he can get his mouth to work to say, "Who's saying anything about pity, you prat." Arthur glares at him; Merlin tosses his handful of grass to the side and crosses his arms, glaring back. "Why would I pity you?" he asks tartly. "I'm your friend, that's how it works. You don't have to order me around."
He bats at a bumblebee in annoyance. It seeks refuge on Arthur's shoulder, who doesn't seem bothered by it. "You're really not feeling sorry for me?" he asks slowly, an odd inflection in his voice. The bumblebee seems to realize at last that Arthur is useless, and takes off with a buzz.
Merlin throws up his hands exasperatedly. "No," he says. He doesn't ask why Arthur apparently thinks he should be overcome with sympathy, considering the last time Arthur was laid up with a twisted ankle he spent three days ceaselessly complaining about the great and terrible hardship of his life. Merlin frowns and kicks at a particularly thick patch of grass.
After several long moments, Arthur shakes his head. "We should get back," he says calmly, rising in one fluid motion. He offers Merlin his hand without looking at him. Merlin considers ignoring it, but his legs feel lazy and heavy from the ride and then the sitting, and don't really seem to want to cooperate. He curls his fingers around Arthur's warm, sword-calloused ones with a mute sigh and lets Arthur yank him to his feet unceremoniously.
Arthur drops his hand and gives Merlin an unreadable look. They're standing too close; Merlin feels Arthur's chest brush his arm with every inhale. He tries not to look at the freckles on his throat, standing out against winter-pale skin. "Thanks," Arthur says finally.
Merlin swallows. "It's fine," he says, feeling slightly confused and off-kilter, and definitely too hot. Of course, there's no breeze in sight when he could use one.
Arthur nods and pushes past him. Merlin takes a deep breath before he follows, trying to avoid the willow branches smacking him in the face.
***
They're riding back into the courtyard when Merlin says, voice raised to be heard over the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, "At least you weren't rude to anyone else." He remembers the proud swell of Conor's chest and Tuesday afternoon, when he rounded a corner and saw Arthur holding the door for one of the seamstresses, and amends, "Actually, I guess you were pretty nice to them. You know. For you."
Arthur slides off his horse and hands the reins to a stable boy who comes running. "Thank you kindly for that sweeping amount of praise, Merlin," he says, punching Merlin's thigh as he walks past. "I'm not in the habit of yelling at people who are trying to be kind to me. I'm not a brute."
Merlin pulls a face as he dismounts, stealthily rubbing his leg. "So you just took it all out on me?" he calls after Arthur. "Great, thanks very much!"
Arthur waves cheerfully over his shoulder.
***
When Merlin bursts into Gaius's rooms after a brief stop in the kitchens, Gaius looks up from his work and asks, "Shouldn't you be helping Arthur get ready for the feast?" The concoction by his elbow keeps bubbling enthusiastically. The whole room smells of thyme.
Merlin swallows the last of his apple and asks, alarmed, "That's tonight?"
"When else would it be?" Gaius asks distractedly and adds a few drops of water. A thin cloud of green steam rises. "You should hurry up, it won't do for him to be late to this."
"What are you talking about, he's always late to feasts," Merlin points out, quickly cutting himself a piece of bread. It's a little stale, but it'll have to do for now. Maybe he'll be able to nick something during the banquet.
Gaius straightens and takes off his glasses, frowning. "It's a little different when you're the guest of honor, I should think," he says. There's a stain down the front of his work robes, but Merlin notices that his good blue ones are laid out across the foot of his bed. Gaius picks up his mortar and pestle and shoots Merlin a stern glance. "And Arthur will be expected to stay until the end, so don't think about skipping out early."
"I'm not a totally rubbish servant, you know," Merlin says, mildly offended. "I wouldn't have run off." Well. At least not very far. Merlin takes an indelicately big bite of bread and asks, as clearly as he can around the food, "What's this feast for, anyway?"
The dry crunch of stone against stone falls away when Gaius' hand stills. "Merlin," he says after a moment, "do you know what day it is?"
Merlin ventures, "Friday?"
Gaius makes a face like a frog getting stepped on. "It's Arthur's birthday, you idiot," he barks, dropping the bowl of half-crushed herbs to the table and putting both hands on his hips in a disturbingly accurate impression of Merlin's mother.
A piece of bread goes impressively down the wrong pipe, and it's a while before Merlin can talk again. "But that makes no sense," he chokes, wiping at watering eyes with his sleeve. "Everyone's just been depressed, why would -"
Then he remembers Arthur's face when he said, This was my mother's favorite place, and all of a sudden a lot of things make sense.
"I'm so stupid," Merlin moans, burying his face in his hands.
"I am not about to protest, if that's what you are waiting for," Gaius says testily.
***
The feast is not as bad as Merlin had expected. If anything, the absence of tears, screaming, or very public falling-outs makes it rather less eventful than these things typically are. Sir Agravaine gets drunk and sings, but it's something from his usual repertoire about lusty shepherdesses, and the wine thickens his accent to the point where no one can understand a word past the first verse, anyway. A group of well-wishers surrounds Arthur the entire night, and if he's not actually enjoying himself, then he's at least doing a good job pretending.
Somewhere in the middle, after the second course but before the singing starts, Gwen tip-toes up to Merlin, clutching a bowl of cherries to her chest. "Sorry about not telling you," she whispers. "It's just, the king passed a decree..."
She trails off, and Merlin follows her gaze to Uther in his chair. He looks grim and pale, leaning on the table rather more heavily than usual, and doesn't seem to notice the way Arthur's smile grows just a little more strained every time he turns in his direction. Neither of them are drinking much, which, Merlin guesses, probably doesn't improve the experience of Agravaine's performance when it starts.
"Oh," Gwen says at the first notes, sounding quietly appalled, and Merlin grins and tries to pay attention to the shepherdesses instead of Arthur's tense shoulders across the Hall.
***
They make the trip back to Arthur's room in silence, only their steps a hollow echo in the empty hallways. Merlin looks outside once and sees light in the king's chambers across the courtyard. He looks away quickly, at the way Arthur's crown flashes gold with every torch they pass, and doesn't let himself get distracted again until the door falls shut behind them with a comforting thump.
Merlin sags against it with a quiet sigh of relief. "I can send for some spiced wine," he offers, but Arthur shakes his head.
"It's fine," he says, setting his crown on the table and tossing his jacket haphazardly across his creepily-beloved royal chair. He looks exhausted, like he's come back from a prolonged campaign. Merlin bites his lip.
"At least let me stoke the fire," he says, and walks over to kneel on the hearth before Arthur can turn that down too. The poker is cold in his hands, but the flames flare satisfyingly when Merlin feeds them another log. He can hear Arthur behind him, the soft curse and involuntary shuffle-hop that accompany most every attempt at pulling off his boots (because Arthur refuses to sit down for it, because he is convinced he has superior balance, when he really, really doesn't; because Arthur is ridiculous).
Automatically, Merlin says, "Please try not to split your head open," and pushes himself back to his feet. He dusts off his hands and adds, "I'd only have to clean it up."
Arthur snorts as he flops back on his bed gracelessly, bare feet hanging off the edge of the mattress. Merlin watches the even rise and fall of his chest for a while, unable to bring himself to leave. He jumps guiltily when Arthur opens his eyes and looks at him.
"Oh, right," Arthur says, wiping a hand across his face. "You can go."
"Okay," Merlin says. The fire spits sparks behind him.
Arthur raises his eyebrows. It makes the shadows under his eyes seem even more pronounced. "You're not leaving," he says, struggling up onto his elbows.
"No," Merlin agrees, fighting the hysterical urge to laugh. Any second now Arthur is going to toss him out and quite probably call him an utter girl while he does it, and he'll have made as big a fool of himself as Arthur generally accuses him of. But Arthur looks thin-skinned and bone-deep tired, and, well, it's not like Merlin has a lot of dignity left to lose, anyway.
It seems like a long time before Arthur says, "All right." He opens his mouth as if to add something, but then shakes his head and slowly lies back down.
Merlin exhales roughly. "All right," he says, forcing his fingers to release their white-knuckled grip on the table's edge. He pretends not to notice the way Arthur is watching from half-lidded eyes when he drags the chair around to face the bed (it's even more unwieldy than it looks, and Merlin stubs his toe) and lifts Arthur's jacket out of the way.
"Merlin," Arthur says, before he actually has a chance to sit down.
Merlin freezes mid-movement. "What?" he asks, inconspicuously rubbing his sore foot against his calf.
Arthur sounds much closer to his usual tone of long-suffering tolerance when he says, "You don't have to sleep in the chair." He scoots over a few inches on the bed and raises his eyebrows at Merlin expectantly.
"Oh," Merlin says, "right," and stands around awkwardly for a few seconds before twisting out of his servant's surcoat and toeing off his boots. The stone floor is cold even through his socks, which pretty much kills any hesitation he might otherwise feel about quickly climbing onto the mattress. Something occurs to him as he's settling down, and he pauses with the sheets pulled halfway across his legs, suspicious. "Are you worried about my comfort, or somebody else sitting in your chair?"
Arthur looks shifty and doesn't reply, and Merlin rolls his eyes. "Generous as always," he says huffily, and Arthur glares in response and says,
"Don't get grabby with the royal pillows." He gives up a good portion of the covers, though, so Merlin supposes it could be worse.
He's still trying to make a comfortable groove for his head when Arthur asks suddenly, "Why are you so keen on staying?" There's a quiet rustle of sheets when he moves.
Because I'm supposed to take care of you, Merlin doesn't answer. He thinks Arthur would quite probably throw him out after all if he did. Instead, he says, "Don't you want the company?" with a dry mouth and shifts to look at Arthur, the slide of his cheek against fabric loud in his ear.
Something curls tight in his stomach at the look on Arthur's face, wide open and a little uncertain. Merlin refuses to look away, still, and finally Arthur turns back to the ceiling. His throat works when he swallows. "I do," he says.
Merlin feels faintly weak with relief, though he prefers to think it's the lack of food. "Stop complaining, then," he mutters, closing his eyes and trying to relax.
It doesn't work, impressively. Merlin's heartbeat refuses to quiet down, even though the snap and crackle of the fire in Arthur's room puts him close to falling asleep while still working most evenings. Normally he'd pull out the book and practice old spells, but obviously that's out of the question. He starts to count sheep, and gets to a hundred and fifty before giving up.
It's Arthur. Every time he moves, the mattress dips and shifts, and Merlin's pulse quickens with it. It doesn't help that the sheets smell like him, too - grass and leather and faded soap - and when Arthur rolls over close enough that Merlin can feel the heat from his body, he has to admit that maybe this was a spectacularly awful idea.
"You're a terrible bedmate," he says before he can help himself, blinking his eyes open to find their faces unexpectedly close. He can count the fine lines on Arthur's forehead when he frowns.
"This is my bed, you know," Arthur says, sounding vaguely affronted. "Nobody's making you lie in it." His hair is disheveled and the ends stick out at ridiculous angles round his ears.
Merlin channels his urge to reach out and smooth it back to order into an irritated, "You were the one who wouldn't let me touch that stupid chair," and then somehow Arthur is trying to push him off the bed and Merlin is clinging and resisting, because his feet are tangled in the sheets and he's just going to fall and brain himself on the floor if Arthur keeps shoving, and his mouth is definitely two steps ahead of his brain when he shouts, "Fine, that'll teach me to feel bad for you!"
Arthur freezes with both hands fisted in Merlin's shirt, breathing heavily. Merlin can see the moment his face closes off, mouth a hard, bitter line, and he grabs Arthur's wrists without thinking and says, "No, no, Arthur, I didn't mean that," words tumbling over each other in his haste.
"Let go of me, and then get out," Arthur says calmly. His voice is steady, but Merlin can feel the skittish jump of his pulse against his fingertips. He doesn't know what will happen if he does let go and leave, but he knows it'll be too late to fix what he's broken.
He squares his shoulders and says, "No."
Arthur looks honestly taken aback. "What?"
"I'm not leaving," Merlin says, a little desperately. His palms are sweating and Arthur could probably break his grip if he tried, but he doesn't. Something like surprise shines through the stiffness on his face, and something else, something wary.
Finally, he repeats, "Let go."
Merlin couldn't if he wanted to, fingers locked in position stubbornly. He opens his mouth to say something, but whatever it was falls apart on his tongue when Arthur bows his head and says, "Please."
Merlin's hands drop away, and he feels suddenly ashamed. "Arthur," he mutters, "I'm -"
"Shut up for once, will you?" Arthur interrupts him. One fluid movement and he's braced over Merlin, hands on either side of him. His thumbs brush the curves of Merlin's shoulders. Merlin shivers and stays as still as he can.
After several long moments, Arthur says, "I need to know that you're not here for pity." He looks at Merlin the way he sometimes looks after a fight, bruised but defiant, and almost challengingly proud, and Merlin's breath gets stuck in his throat.
"I'm not," he finally manages, "I swear I'm not." He raises his hands hesitantly, not sure if it's allowed, but Arthur doesn't move to stop him and so Merlin cups his face in his palms.
A muscle in Arthur's jaw twitches lightly. Merlin has kind of forgotten how to function. He inhales with a gasp when Arthur leans down, and Arthur stills, so close his warm breath blows against Merlin's lips. He doesn't ask out loud; he doesn't have to. Merlin scrounges up what little brain power he has left to brush his nose against Arthur's in encouragement, and Arthur closes the gap and fits their mouths together softly.
Merlin makes a very undignified noise and grabs Arthur's shirtfront, fabric bunching in his fist. Arthur comes down on top of him, whether by accident or by design, and the solid weight of his body pressing Merlin into the mattress is enough to make heat flare in Merlin's belly. He rocks his hips up almost desperately, fingers digging into the shifting muscles at Arthur's back hard enough to bruise, maybe, and opens his mouth for Arthur to lick inside with a muffled groan.
They have to break eventually, for simple lack of air. Merlin presses sloppy, eager kisses up the sweat-damp line of Arthur's throat and manages, between ragged breaths, "By the way, I didn't get you a present."
Arthur bites his jaw, noses his cheek, and says hoarsely into his ear, "I guess I'll just have to take your service not being quite as abysmal as it used to."
Merlin wants to ask whether this will be an expected part of his duties in the future, then, but Arthur tangles his fingers in Merlin's hair just this side of painful and starts working on getting his trousers unlaced, and it rather stops being important.
***
"How do you know it was her favorite place?" Merlin asks, much later, when the fire has burned down to embers and early-morning chill is starting to creep into the room.
Arthur stretches and yawns. "What?" he asks, fingertips trailing up and down Merlin's spine.
Merlin pillows his head on his arms. "The place in the woods," he says quietly. "Did your father tell you?"
Arthur clears his throat. "No," he says. "My father doesn't - " He stops and shifts uncomfortably. The mattress moves with him, but it only presses him closer, warm, all along Merlin's body, so Merlin is not complaining. "My nursemaid took me there on my fifth birthday," Arthur finishes.
Merlin makes a small sound of acknowledgment and watches Arthur's profile in the half-dark. He doesn't look like Uther much - the curve of his nose, the soft dip of his mouth - and Merlin wonders if Arthur resembles his mother instead. Maybe the blue eyes are hers, or the stubborn jut of Arthur's chin. Something occurs to him then, and he tries to keep the surprise out of his voice. "You go every year?"
Arthur tenses, a barely-there tremor of muscles along his side. His hand stills. "Yes," he says, glancing sideways at Merlin. The line of his jaw is defiant, as if daring him to laugh. "Why?"
"Nothing," Merlin says. He has the distinct feeling he's smiling stupidly, so he hides it by ducking his head and pressing a kiss to Arthur's bare shoulder. "Just wondering."
Arthur gives him a strange look, but his hand readily settles back into its rhythm when Merlin arches to encourage it. "By the way," Arthur says after a while, drowsy. "I want you to get me more of those blackberry pastries for breakfast. Those were exceptional."
Merlin swallows a laugh and closes his eyes, curling deeper into the soft nest of blankets. "Sorry," he says very seriously, and rests his forehead against Arthur's temple. "I think those are gone again until next year."