fic: Red was for Camelot
Title: Red was for Camelot
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: Slight amounts of violence?
Word count: 3,300~
Summary: It is Arthur's first battle as King of Camelot, and he sustains a fatal wound. First-time, discovery of Merlin's magic and a bit of mind fuckery. For the prompt 'red' in my quill_it prompt table.
Red was for Camelot. It was the bright colour of their tunics standing out against the dull metal chain mail as they waited at the top of the hill, horses shying occasionally as they sensed the tension. The standard bearer was beneath the giant flag, also proud, vivid red. Squinting into the sun, Arthur calmed his horse with one gloved hand. He was sweating beneath his armour, which was warm after having been under the sun since dawn. His breath came out heavy, hissing through the cracks of his teeth as they waited.
They waited for a long time until Arthur finally roared the order. "CHAAAARGE!"
A ripple of light shimmered across the hillside as a multitude of men in armour raced down towards the Balorian army, crushing the grass beneath their feet and churning the dry mud.
-
Red was for rust. As the sun set, Arthur could barely recognise the tunics as the same ones from this morning. Sweat-stained and grubby, with flecks of rust smeared on, the dull colour helped him to distinguish which dead were his. He was back on the hill, looking down as the last of his men stumbled wearily up the slope. Only those who could still walk there would return to the camp for now. Later, teams would slink through the bodies, either hauling back those alive but unable to walk, or ending their misery.
The start of the evening was signalled as light breezes drew across the grass, cooling the sweat inside Arthur's chain mail and making him shiver. He was the army's leader, but he headed back with the last stragglers, knowing that every man mattered. He slumped onto the low stool in his tent, no longer having to play the part of confident, assured King, and let Merlin wrestle the armour off where it clung to him.
"Urgh," was probably the most coherent sound Arthur made for a good five minutes, really very grateful as Merlin peeled off the undershirt, which stank of steel and rust and sweat, and helped him into a bath. He wondered briefly how long it had taken Merlin to get hot water from those wretched smoky things they called campfires before allowing the warmth to soak into him. "Mmm," he murmured appreciatively as Merlin eased the sweat and dirt off his skin with a washcloth. The low chuckle from his manservant was, strangely enough, reassuring and relaxing both.
Finally clean and feeling far better though the bathtub had been cramped and the bath had been brief, Arthur bundled up in clothes and yawned. "See if you can help Gaius after you eat." It hung unspoken between them that Merlin's usual duties, cleaning and polishing Arthur's armour, was not a necessary job here. They were at war; they both understood that there were far more important things to be doing.
"Right, and you should remember to actually eat, you know," Merlin tossed back at him on his way out with a tired version of his usual grin. Arthur snorted at his back. He had a meeting to get to, to review the day and prepare for the next and unfortunately, Merlin was right: most likely he would have just forgotten about food if he hadn't been reminded.
-
Red was for blood. Arthur's faint thought as he stared down at all that blood was that red on red did not make red. The smears against his tunic were dark, almost black, and getting darker by the moment. One of the enemy's swords had caught him well, sliding up just under where the chainmail ended. His air whistled out of him as he breathed, a high pitched whining accompanying every exhale.
Gaius, he had been told, was making his way here as quickly as possible, but the dear physician was old now. He would not be here for a while. Arthur was not sure he had a while left. He knew that he was dying, and he also knew that this war would be lost without him, for without him, the army of Camelot would not know who to turn to.
"Arthur!" A familiar voice made him weakly turn his head as Merlin pushed past his two guards to where he lay, slightly to the side of the main battlefield. His men were out there, suffering worse injuries than he was and he ought to be there, leading them. He was such a useless King. "Arthur!" Merlin repeated, his sharp voice slicing through the morose, hazy thoughts sliding around his mind at the moment.
His pathetic manservant was outfitted in armour that didn't completely fit. Merlin looked wild as he reached for the edge of Arthur's chainmail. He had to use both hands to stop it sliding out of his grasp, slick with blood as it was. Arthur could tell how bad the wound was from the look on Merlin's face, the way his lips trembled and his eyes widened and glistened. "Arthur, I'm sorry," Merlin whispered, words barely making it out of his throat.
Arthur shook his head, sweat-soaked blond hair flopping into his eyes. "Not your fault," he gasped. It was important to him to pass certain information on before he died, Arthur knew that. Even in death, it was his duty to protect the people of Camelot as much as possible. "When I'm gone-" But there was clearly something he didn't understand, because Merlin shook his head, the first tear welling up.
"Arthur, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he repeated in a whisper, hand tracing the wound lightly. "Arthur-" Merlin had screwed his face up completely, as if that would help him stop the words that he wanted to say come pouring out. Arthur waited two, long, ragged breaths, eyes struggling to focus on Merlin as he went numb and dizzy and nauseous from the blood loss all at once, but Merlin said nothing more. Instead, he leaned forward, head bowed. "Curaen," he whispered lightly.
Merlin passed his hand through all that blood splashed across Arthur's chest, and there was... no pain. Arthur sat up, raising his own hand to check - no, no wound at all - and he felt fine, great even. Eyes widening, he looked up at Merlin as realisation set in, only to see the back of his manservant as he fled. The ghost of a final whispered, "I'm sorry," floated back to him.
-
Red was for anger. It was an anger that Arthur didn't feel. He was needed on the battlefield to lead his men, and even the thought that Merlin had magic did not stop anything. He had to get back on his horse and join the fray, staying in touch with and commanding all of his generals, making sure that he knew what was happening around him, keeping an eye on the flow of the battle as well as fight the enemy who charged at him. There was no room in Arthur for anger.
Even when the day ended, and he traipsed back wearily to his tent, there was no anger. Not because the day had emotionally spent him, or because he had forgiven Merlin for the betrayal, but because he was scared. Merlin hadn't been waiting for him when he returned, and he didn't know whether to be glad or not. It took this page almost an hour to heat enough water for his bath, and it was barely more than lukewarm. Arthur welcomed it anyway, feeling himself shrink in the cooling water as he found enough time to be overwhelmed by what he had found out today.
He, Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, was scared of Merlin, his pathetic manservant. How many times had he thought Merlin incapable of anything, useless or weak? Merlin had healed a death blow in moments, with no effort at all, and then apologised for it; it stood to make sense that he could deal so much damage with the same.
Arthur shivered, and it was not the water. His knightly training that gave him such strength, such endurance, such speed seemed incomparable now. It was he who was weak, not Merlin.
Towelling himself down rigorously as if he could rub away the feelings and thoughts he'd been having all day, Arthur allowed himself to wonder briefly where Merlin had gone, where he had run away to, as he dressed himself again, and then dragged himself through the motions that his duty required. He had some food, another meeting with his generals, took a quick round through the camp so that his men might see him and be encouraged by him, and then a visit to Gaius' physician tent.
Other might think that a visit to wounded and dying men last thing before bed to be particularly depressing, but Arthur found that it grounded him, gave him all the more reason to get up the next day and carry on fighting; these men were the reason he fought. Additionally, old age had not made Gaius any less proficient. The wounded were comfortable and generally not in pain. The conditions were clean and the men not too dispirited. Then, he had to wonder whether so many of his men made such good recoveries because Merlin helped Gaius so much. He bit his lip before reaching forward.
"Good evening, Gaius," Arthur raised the tent flap and entered. The men turned to look at him, respect in their eyes, as he wove through the pallets. Nodding and exchanging words with them, Arthur froze as he realised that at the back, washing bandages, was Merlin. So he had not run away after all; he had only run from Arthur. Again, he did not know whether to be glad or not.
Merlin wrung out the bandages, straightened up and noticed him. Arthur was close enough to see his eyes widen just before he bolted out the other side of the tent. Arthur tried to following, but Merlin knew the layout of the tent and was out before he had made more than three steps. He swallowed, took a deep breath. He swallowed again, and then carried on with his kingly duties like nothing had happened. A sly look from Gaius, however, told him that the old man knew exactly what happened.
-
Red was for fire. That's where Arthur eventually found Merlin, next to one of their large campfires. His manservant was shivering, but he was sitting so close that he must have been almost burning himself. Arthur didn't say anything, trying not to scare him away. He laughed to himself, not that it was amusing, that Merlin was afraid of him when he was almost definitely more scared of Merlin at that moment. He just sat down next to Merlin with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
They sat there together, the silence stretching between them like sticky taffy. Just before it reached that thin, brittle point, Merlin spoke, his head ducked and his shoulders hunched as if he expected a blow around the head. "I'm sorry."
Arthur stretched his legs out, weighing his words carefully before saying them, in a feignedly casual tone. "I know. So you've said, several times." He still didn't dare to look at Merlin, staring into the fire as it gave him little white spots in his vision instead. "You saved my life," he added softly.
A small smile quirked momentarily at the corner of Merlin's mouth, and Arthur thought that maybe it was an improvement. "I'll add it to the list of other times I've saved your life," he quipped, and a thrill of fear ran through Arthur as he wondered if it was true.
His father was both right and wrong, Arthur thought as the two of them stared into the fire. Uther had been right when he said that they should be scared of magic; it was dangerous and those without it could very easily be at the mercy of those who did. But he had also been wrong. Merlin had served him for years now and had never hurt him more than possibly when he'd dropped him from halfway down the castle because they'd run out of rope. Arthur knew that he would never stop being afraid of Merlin's magic, for it was a powerful and deadly weapon, but he also knew that he was not afraid of Merlin, who was caring and cheerful, and who made sure that his baths were hot.
"Come on, Merlin," Arthur rose slowly. It was not a forgiveness that Merlin had kept this secret, this part of himself away from him, but an acceptance. "We have a war to win."
Merlin followed him, as he always had. "We already have," he said quietly, as if he almost hoped that Arthur would not hear. Arthur's eyebrows shot up as his imagination immediately threw out an image of Merlin wading into the Balor camp, boldly throwing fireballs and charring everything and everyone in his sight.
Trying to speak past a lump in his throat that hadn't been there just a moment ago, Arthur breathed, "What did you do?" If he looked slightly ashen, it must have been a trick of the light as they walked towards the darkness. He was grateful that Merlin was loyal to him, and it made him feel ashamed that he had to wonder if he had to reward Merlin for it. It felt too much like buying a loyalty when he would have had it completely anyway.
Merlin shrugged lightly as he held the tent flap open for Arthur. "Rats ate their supplies." The simple sentence would have sounded like a basic report of the enemy's unsanitary conditions to anyone passing by, but somehow it brought relief welling up in the form of tears behind Arthur's eyes. He rubbed at them heavily, pretending that he was only tired. He hadn't known how he could reconciliate the thought of a violent, harsh Merlin with the person he thought he had known, but it had been foolish of him to think that he had needed to. Merlin had ended a war in the simple, kind-hearted way that he did all things: by making it impossible for the Balorians to stay.
Instead of expressing any of this though, Arthur cleared his throat. "Rats, Merlin? That's got to be the most cowardly way to fight a war."
Merlin grinned at him, recovering progressively more into his normal self as he helped Arthur into his nightclothes. "Yep, that's me: cowardly and quivering." Arthur didn't really have an answer for that. He just gripped the other man's forearm in one of those male shows of companionship, unable to express his gratefulness. Merlin chuckled at him, as if he understood perfectly. He probably did.
"Good night, Arthur," Merlin tucked him into bed with uncharacteristic affection.
-
Red was for passion. Arthur reached out over his warm covers, which was a gold dragon embroidered on red, to clasp Merlin's hand as he tucked Arthur in to his make-shift bed. "Arthur?" Merlin asked, uncertainty wobbling across his eyes as Arthur refused to let go. He was scared and he was confused, and he might even have been angry, and yet he pulled Merlin forward by the hand until he was sprawled across the covers.
"Merlin," Arthur simply said, pulling the covers over the both of them before wrapping his arms around Merlin's skinny frame and pulling him into a tight hug. He could feel the curve of Merlin's ribs snug against his arms and the sharp dig of his pelvis against his thigh. Merlin crumpled Arthur's nightshirt in his fists and pressed himself into Arthur's solid torso as if he would bury himself in Arthur's very essence.
Reaching around Merlin's face, Arthur dug it out from the curve of his own neck with a firm grip on Merlin's jaw, a grip that would probably bruise. He flicked his tongue against his lips to wet them, his only sign of nervousness before crushing his mouth down on Merlin's. Shifting them both, Arthur slid himself to trap Merlin between himself and the thin bedroll, pressing himself down on Merlin so forcefully that Merlin could feel the rough floor beneath.
Wrenching Merlin's mouth open, Arthur invaded with his tongue, swirling across everything he could reach. Merlin was inviting, encouraging with his soft sounds of delight, and as patient as, Arthur now realised, he had always been with him. He curled up a fistful of that dark, thick hair and dragged downwards, growling as it pulled out a taut line from his jaw to shoulder. Arthur pressed forceful kisses down that skin with his teeth until it showed uneven patches of red. His other hand clutched at Merlin, his strong fingers squeezing Merlin's arm, shoulder, waist until he thought Merlin's fragile body would break and shatter under his trained strength.
Arthur tore Merlin's clothes when he tried to take them off, and he didn't care. He scraped his teeth and tongue down all that skin and wrapped himself in the cacophony of noises that Merlin was making. He pushed - no, shoved - Merlin's legs apart and held them apart slightly more than could be comfortable, and licked Merlin's thighs as they trembled for just a moment before reaching for that lavender oil that Gaius had given him to help him relax at nights. This had probably not been Gaius' meaning.
Slicking his fingers, dripping oil everywhere and letting the fragrance diffuse, Arthur looked into Merlin's eyes as he prepared him, starting slowly, but never too slowly. He kept moving, perhaps just a tiny bit faster than Merlin would have enjoyed, stretching just a bit wider than was necessary.
And Merlin let Arthur hurt him. Because he knew that Arthur would not, could not ever truly hurt him.
"Arthur," Merlin breathed his permission, eyes wide and apprehensive and still so trusting. Arthur hastily slicked himself up and pushed his way in, forcing himself past the tightness and the hotness, gasping as Merlin cried out beneath him. He hesitated for just a moment, wondering with a sudden horrible feeling that this might be too much, that he might have pushed it - Merlin, too far, but Merlin grinned up at him, and Arthur slammed his hips forwards, just because he could. That wiped the little grin right off. They both knew that this control he had was an illusion, but Merlin more than just let it happen: Merlin wanted it this way.
As Merlin squirmed, Arthur could see from the light of the guttering candle that Merlin was starting to bruise already, dark blotches the size of his palm. Merlin couldn't see anything, because he had his eyes rolled back as Arthur claimed him for his own.
-
Red was for love. Sometimes, passion came by itself, with no love. Sometimes, love came by itself, with no passion. But Arthur could not imagine having one without the other when it came to Merlin. They stayed pressed together for a long while, until both of their muscles complained from the tension. The tightness eased away slowly, until Merlin was relaxed, snug beneath Arthur who had his hand loosely curled over Merlin's hip, his weight like a comfortable heavy blanket. "Arthur," Merlin started eventually into the darkness; the candle had spluttered out just moments ago, "Arthur, I-"
"I know," Arthur softly interrupted. And he did.
He already had Merlin's loyalty; he knew that Merlin would die for his king. But now, he had Merlin's love, and now he knew that Merlin would also live for him.
-
Red was for Camelot. The proud banner waved in the sunlight as the standard bearer rode forward to claim the land as the Balorians retreated, indignant and undignified. They could not keep the land, and so Arthur would claim it, his first addition to what would become the kingdom of Albion. Behind the flag rode Arthur and Merlin, but not as they came. When they came, it was as Arthur, and Merlin, with Merlin behind to pick up the pieces. As they rode forward, it was as Arthur and Merlin, together.
Fin
----------------
Thanks for reading! I'm just going to pimp out camelots_closet, which is a Merlin/Arthur fic exchange if anyone is interested and hasn't signed up yet. :3
Join camelots_closet, a Merlin & Arthur fic exchange now!
Round #1: Beltane!
Sign-ups are currently open!
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: Slight amounts of violence?
Word count: 3,300~
Summary: It is Arthur's first battle as King of Camelot, and he sustains a fatal wound. First-time, discovery of Merlin's magic and a bit of mind fuckery. For the prompt 'red' in my quill_it prompt table.
Red was for Camelot. It was the bright colour of their tunics standing out against the dull metal chain mail as they waited at the top of the hill, horses shying occasionally as they sensed the tension. The standard bearer was beneath the giant flag, also proud, vivid red. Squinting into the sun, Arthur calmed his horse with one gloved hand. He was sweating beneath his armour, which was warm after having been under the sun since dawn. His breath came out heavy, hissing through the cracks of his teeth as they waited.
They waited for a long time until Arthur finally roared the order. "CHAAAARGE!"
A ripple of light shimmered across the hillside as a multitude of men in armour raced down towards the Balorian army, crushing the grass beneath their feet and churning the dry mud.
-
Red was for rust. As the sun set, Arthur could barely recognise the tunics as the same ones from this morning. Sweat-stained and grubby, with flecks of rust smeared on, the dull colour helped him to distinguish which dead were his. He was back on the hill, looking down as the last of his men stumbled wearily up the slope. Only those who could still walk there would return to the camp for now. Later, teams would slink through the bodies, either hauling back those alive but unable to walk, or ending their misery.
The start of the evening was signalled as light breezes drew across the grass, cooling the sweat inside Arthur's chain mail and making him shiver. He was the army's leader, but he headed back with the last stragglers, knowing that every man mattered. He slumped onto the low stool in his tent, no longer having to play the part of confident, assured King, and let Merlin wrestle the armour off where it clung to him.
"Urgh," was probably the most coherent sound Arthur made for a good five minutes, really very grateful as Merlin peeled off the undershirt, which stank of steel and rust and sweat, and helped him into a bath. He wondered briefly how long it had taken Merlin to get hot water from those wretched smoky things they called campfires before allowing the warmth to soak into him. "Mmm," he murmured appreciatively as Merlin eased the sweat and dirt off his skin with a washcloth. The low chuckle from his manservant was, strangely enough, reassuring and relaxing both.
Finally clean and feeling far better though the bathtub had been cramped and the bath had been brief, Arthur bundled up in clothes and yawned. "See if you can help Gaius after you eat." It hung unspoken between them that Merlin's usual duties, cleaning and polishing Arthur's armour, was not a necessary job here. They were at war; they both understood that there were far more important things to be doing.
"Right, and you should remember to actually eat, you know," Merlin tossed back at him on his way out with a tired version of his usual grin. Arthur snorted at his back. He had a meeting to get to, to review the day and prepare for the next and unfortunately, Merlin was right: most likely he would have just forgotten about food if he hadn't been reminded.
-
Red was for blood. Arthur's faint thought as he stared down at all that blood was that red on red did not make red. The smears against his tunic were dark, almost black, and getting darker by the moment. One of the enemy's swords had caught him well, sliding up just under where the chainmail ended. His air whistled out of him as he breathed, a high pitched whining accompanying every exhale.
Gaius, he had been told, was making his way here as quickly as possible, but the dear physician was old now. He would not be here for a while. Arthur was not sure he had a while left. He knew that he was dying, and he also knew that this war would be lost without him, for without him, the army of Camelot would not know who to turn to.
"Arthur!" A familiar voice made him weakly turn his head as Merlin pushed past his two guards to where he lay, slightly to the side of the main battlefield. His men were out there, suffering worse injuries than he was and he ought to be there, leading them. He was such a useless King. "Arthur!" Merlin repeated, his sharp voice slicing through the morose, hazy thoughts sliding around his mind at the moment.
His pathetic manservant was outfitted in armour that didn't completely fit. Merlin looked wild as he reached for the edge of Arthur's chainmail. He had to use both hands to stop it sliding out of his grasp, slick with blood as it was. Arthur could tell how bad the wound was from the look on Merlin's face, the way his lips trembled and his eyes widened and glistened. "Arthur, I'm sorry," Merlin whispered, words barely making it out of his throat.
Arthur shook his head, sweat-soaked blond hair flopping into his eyes. "Not your fault," he gasped. It was important to him to pass certain information on before he died, Arthur knew that. Even in death, it was his duty to protect the people of Camelot as much as possible. "When I'm gone-" But there was clearly something he didn't understand, because Merlin shook his head, the first tear welling up.
"Arthur, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he repeated in a whisper, hand tracing the wound lightly. "Arthur-" Merlin had screwed his face up completely, as if that would help him stop the words that he wanted to say come pouring out. Arthur waited two, long, ragged breaths, eyes struggling to focus on Merlin as he went numb and dizzy and nauseous from the blood loss all at once, but Merlin said nothing more. Instead, he leaned forward, head bowed. "Curaen," he whispered lightly.
Merlin passed his hand through all that blood splashed across Arthur's chest, and there was... no pain. Arthur sat up, raising his own hand to check - no, no wound at all - and he felt fine, great even. Eyes widening, he looked up at Merlin as realisation set in, only to see the back of his manservant as he fled. The ghost of a final whispered, "I'm sorry," floated back to him.
-
Red was for anger. It was an anger that Arthur didn't feel. He was needed on the battlefield to lead his men, and even the thought that Merlin had magic did not stop anything. He had to get back on his horse and join the fray, staying in touch with and commanding all of his generals, making sure that he knew what was happening around him, keeping an eye on the flow of the battle as well as fight the enemy who charged at him. There was no room in Arthur for anger.
Even when the day ended, and he traipsed back wearily to his tent, there was no anger. Not because the day had emotionally spent him, or because he had forgiven Merlin for the betrayal, but because he was scared. Merlin hadn't been waiting for him when he returned, and he didn't know whether to be glad or not. It took this page almost an hour to heat enough water for his bath, and it was barely more than lukewarm. Arthur welcomed it anyway, feeling himself shrink in the cooling water as he found enough time to be overwhelmed by what he had found out today.
He, Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, was scared of Merlin, his pathetic manservant. How many times had he thought Merlin incapable of anything, useless or weak? Merlin had healed a death blow in moments, with no effort at all, and then apologised for it; it stood to make sense that he could deal so much damage with the same.
Arthur shivered, and it was not the water. His knightly training that gave him such strength, such endurance, such speed seemed incomparable now. It was he who was weak, not Merlin.
Towelling himself down rigorously as if he could rub away the feelings and thoughts he'd been having all day, Arthur allowed himself to wonder briefly where Merlin had gone, where he had run away to, as he dressed himself again, and then dragged himself through the motions that his duty required. He had some food, another meeting with his generals, took a quick round through the camp so that his men might see him and be encouraged by him, and then a visit to Gaius' physician tent.
Other might think that a visit to wounded and dying men last thing before bed to be particularly depressing, but Arthur found that it grounded him, gave him all the more reason to get up the next day and carry on fighting; these men were the reason he fought. Additionally, old age had not made Gaius any less proficient. The wounded were comfortable and generally not in pain. The conditions were clean and the men not too dispirited. Then, he had to wonder whether so many of his men made such good recoveries because Merlin helped Gaius so much. He bit his lip before reaching forward.
"Good evening, Gaius," Arthur raised the tent flap and entered. The men turned to look at him, respect in their eyes, as he wove through the pallets. Nodding and exchanging words with them, Arthur froze as he realised that at the back, washing bandages, was Merlin. So he had not run away after all; he had only run from Arthur. Again, he did not know whether to be glad or not.
Merlin wrung out the bandages, straightened up and noticed him. Arthur was close enough to see his eyes widen just before he bolted out the other side of the tent. Arthur tried to following, but Merlin knew the layout of the tent and was out before he had made more than three steps. He swallowed, took a deep breath. He swallowed again, and then carried on with his kingly duties like nothing had happened. A sly look from Gaius, however, told him that the old man knew exactly what happened.
-
Red was for fire. That's where Arthur eventually found Merlin, next to one of their large campfires. His manservant was shivering, but he was sitting so close that he must have been almost burning himself. Arthur didn't say anything, trying not to scare him away. He laughed to himself, not that it was amusing, that Merlin was afraid of him when he was almost definitely more scared of Merlin at that moment. He just sat down next to Merlin with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
They sat there together, the silence stretching between them like sticky taffy. Just before it reached that thin, brittle point, Merlin spoke, his head ducked and his shoulders hunched as if he expected a blow around the head. "I'm sorry."
Arthur stretched his legs out, weighing his words carefully before saying them, in a feignedly casual tone. "I know. So you've said, several times." He still didn't dare to look at Merlin, staring into the fire as it gave him little white spots in his vision instead. "You saved my life," he added softly.
A small smile quirked momentarily at the corner of Merlin's mouth, and Arthur thought that maybe it was an improvement. "I'll add it to the list of other times I've saved your life," he quipped, and a thrill of fear ran through Arthur as he wondered if it was true.
His father was both right and wrong, Arthur thought as the two of them stared into the fire. Uther had been right when he said that they should be scared of magic; it was dangerous and those without it could very easily be at the mercy of those who did. But he had also been wrong. Merlin had served him for years now and had never hurt him more than possibly when he'd dropped him from halfway down the castle because they'd run out of rope. Arthur knew that he would never stop being afraid of Merlin's magic, for it was a powerful and deadly weapon, but he also knew that he was not afraid of Merlin, who was caring and cheerful, and who made sure that his baths were hot.
"Come on, Merlin," Arthur rose slowly. It was not a forgiveness that Merlin had kept this secret, this part of himself away from him, but an acceptance. "We have a war to win."
Merlin followed him, as he always had. "We already have," he said quietly, as if he almost hoped that Arthur would not hear. Arthur's eyebrows shot up as his imagination immediately threw out an image of Merlin wading into the Balor camp, boldly throwing fireballs and charring everything and everyone in his sight.
Trying to speak past a lump in his throat that hadn't been there just a moment ago, Arthur breathed, "What did you do?" If he looked slightly ashen, it must have been a trick of the light as they walked towards the darkness. He was grateful that Merlin was loyal to him, and it made him feel ashamed that he had to wonder if he had to reward Merlin for it. It felt too much like buying a loyalty when he would have had it completely anyway.
Merlin shrugged lightly as he held the tent flap open for Arthur. "Rats ate their supplies." The simple sentence would have sounded like a basic report of the enemy's unsanitary conditions to anyone passing by, but somehow it brought relief welling up in the form of tears behind Arthur's eyes. He rubbed at them heavily, pretending that he was only tired. He hadn't known how he could reconciliate the thought of a violent, harsh Merlin with the person he thought he had known, but it had been foolish of him to think that he had needed to. Merlin had ended a war in the simple, kind-hearted way that he did all things: by making it impossible for the Balorians to stay.
Instead of expressing any of this though, Arthur cleared his throat. "Rats, Merlin? That's got to be the most cowardly way to fight a war."
Merlin grinned at him, recovering progressively more into his normal self as he helped Arthur into his nightclothes. "Yep, that's me: cowardly and quivering." Arthur didn't really have an answer for that. He just gripped the other man's forearm in one of those male shows of companionship, unable to express his gratefulness. Merlin chuckled at him, as if he understood perfectly. He probably did.
"Good night, Arthur," Merlin tucked him into bed with uncharacteristic affection.
-
Red was for passion. Arthur reached out over his warm covers, which was a gold dragon embroidered on red, to clasp Merlin's hand as he tucked Arthur in to his make-shift bed. "Arthur?" Merlin asked, uncertainty wobbling across his eyes as Arthur refused to let go. He was scared and he was confused, and he might even have been angry, and yet he pulled Merlin forward by the hand until he was sprawled across the covers.
"Merlin," Arthur simply said, pulling the covers over the both of them before wrapping his arms around Merlin's skinny frame and pulling him into a tight hug. He could feel the curve of Merlin's ribs snug against his arms and the sharp dig of his pelvis against his thigh. Merlin crumpled Arthur's nightshirt in his fists and pressed himself into Arthur's solid torso as if he would bury himself in Arthur's very essence.
Reaching around Merlin's face, Arthur dug it out from the curve of his own neck with a firm grip on Merlin's jaw, a grip that would probably bruise. He flicked his tongue against his lips to wet them, his only sign of nervousness before crushing his mouth down on Merlin's. Shifting them both, Arthur slid himself to trap Merlin between himself and the thin bedroll, pressing himself down on Merlin so forcefully that Merlin could feel the rough floor beneath.
Wrenching Merlin's mouth open, Arthur invaded with his tongue, swirling across everything he could reach. Merlin was inviting, encouraging with his soft sounds of delight, and as patient as, Arthur now realised, he had always been with him. He curled up a fistful of that dark, thick hair and dragged downwards, growling as it pulled out a taut line from his jaw to shoulder. Arthur pressed forceful kisses down that skin with his teeth until it showed uneven patches of red. His other hand clutched at Merlin, his strong fingers squeezing Merlin's arm, shoulder, waist until he thought Merlin's fragile body would break and shatter under his trained strength.
Arthur tore Merlin's clothes when he tried to take them off, and he didn't care. He scraped his teeth and tongue down all that skin and wrapped himself in the cacophony of noises that Merlin was making. He pushed - no, shoved - Merlin's legs apart and held them apart slightly more than could be comfortable, and licked Merlin's thighs as they trembled for just a moment before reaching for that lavender oil that Gaius had given him to help him relax at nights. This had probably not been Gaius' meaning.
Slicking his fingers, dripping oil everywhere and letting the fragrance diffuse, Arthur looked into Merlin's eyes as he prepared him, starting slowly, but never too slowly. He kept moving, perhaps just a tiny bit faster than Merlin would have enjoyed, stretching just a bit wider than was necessary.
And Merlin let Arthur hurt him. Because he knew that Arthur would not, could not ever truly hurt him.
"Arthur," Merlin breathed his permission, eyes wide and apprehensive and still so trusting. Arthur hastily slicked himself up and pushed his way in, forcing himself past the tightness and the hotness, gasping as Merlin cried out beneath him. He hesitated for just a moment, wondering with a sudden horrible feeling that this might be too much, that he might have pushed it - Merlin, too far, but Merlin grinned up at him, and Arthur slammed his hips forwards, just because he could. That wiped the little grin right off. They both knew that this control he had was an illusion, but Merlin more than just let it happen: Merlin wanted it this way.
As Merlin squirmed, Arthur could see from the light of the guttering candle that Merlin was starting to bruise already, dark blotches the size of his palm. Merlin couldn't see anything, because he had his eyes rolled back as Arthur claimed him for his own.
-
Red was for love. Sometimes, passion came by itself, with no love. Sometimes, love came by itself, with no passion. But Arthur could not imagine having one without the other when it came to Merlin. They stayed pressed together for a long while, until both of their muscles complained from the tension. The tightness eased away slowly, until Merlin was relaxed, snug beneath Arthur who had his hand loosely curled over Merlin's hip, his weight like a comfortable heavy blanket. "Arthur," Merlin started eventually into the darkness; the candle had spluttered out just moments ago, "Arthur, I-"
"I know," Arthur softly interrupted. And he did.
He already had Merlin's loyalty; he knew that Merlin would die for his king. But now, he had Merlin's love, and now he knew that Merlin would also live for him.
-
Red was for Camelot. The proud banner waved in the sunlight as the standard bearer rode forward to claim the land as the Balorians retreated, indignant and undignified. They could not keep the land, and so Arthur would claim it, his first addition to what would become the kingdom of Albion. Behind the flag rode Arthur and Merlin, but not as they came. When they came, it was as Arthur, and Merlin, with Merlin behind to pick up the pieces. As they rode forward, it was as Arthur and Merlin, together.
Fin
----------------
Thanks for reading! I'm just going to pimp out camelots_closet, which is a Merlin/Arthur fic exchange if anyone is interested and hasn't signed up yet. :3
Join camelots_closet, a Merlin & Arthur fic exchange now!
Round #1: Beltane!
Sign-ups are currently open!