Fic: A Most Generous Gift (Merlin/Arthur)
Title: A Most Generous Gift
Author: sarcasticchick
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: R
Warnings: Dark themes, no spoilers though occurs after 1x13
Word Count: 3,000+
Summary: "Such fine metal a peasant could not possess, with little time to hone a sharp blade. Why, I imagine it was a dreadful experience."
Disclaimer: Merlin and Arthur (in this form, because in this form they certainly aren't anything like legend) belong to BBC.
Beta: lilithilien who kicks so much ass she beta'd for me, then with one hand tied behind her back, came up with title and summary.
A/N: re: the warning - There's no non-con or dub-con, no gory graphic violence, no graphic baum-chicka-wha-wha, but it's admittedly dark and possibly a bit warped if you think at all like me.
This is written for everyone who watched the show and wondered how and why everyone is so remarkably well-kept (other than to make viewers drool at the pretty people in shiny armor). I would apologize for the direction my brain took for such a light-hearted show in finding an answer - but I'm saving that for another fic I have in mind.
Merlin tried not to squirm while he waited impatiently for Simon to return. He hated these days - no, he loathed these days. It was completely unfair and unnecessary, but Arthur being the prat that he was insisted upon them without fail. Apparently it was improper for his manservant to appear like a common peasant when attending to him at court or during feasts.
His rebuttal that he was, in fact, a common peasant fell upon deaf ears.
Beards were manly. Or at least they added years to his face, Merlin thought. All the men of Ealdor grew beards, especially in the wintertime, and Merlin could not understand why Arthur demanded he subject himself to the torture of being shaved every third day. Plus, he smelled like Arthur for a full day after. And while he might do the Prince's bidding in how he dressed, how he performed his chores, how he fought with a sword and even how he danced, Merlin drew the line at smelling like him.
Especially when those scents were so closely tied to his ardour that Merlin spent the rest of the day and into the next in a near-constant state of arousal.
The prat was aware of that, too.
At least he wasn't forced to sit for Peter, the barber who serviced the good people of Camelot. His skills were questionable at best; Merlin delivered a potion to him every fortnight to help improve his vision which had grown weak with age. He certainly wasn't entrusting a knife-wielding, half-blind, crooked-fingered man with his life.
No, if Arthur forced him to shave, then it was only proper he experienced it at the trusted hands of Simon, manservant to the King. Merlin found no shame upon discovering that typically the most trusted servant shaved the King and the Prince, but was told in no uncertain terms that Merlin would never bring a sharp blade so close to his throat.
It was hardly an insult, since Merlin didn't trust himself with his own throat, much less Arthur's.
Simon had wandered out after tending to the Prince's daily routine, still listening to Arthur prattle on about one of his knights who'd been wounded during the last tournament. Merlin scowled as the scent of oil wafted up to his nose, forcing him to recite plant names to distract himself from thoughts of Arthur's body gleaming with it following a post-training rub down.
The oil had other uses, too; Merlin was still a bit sore from that employ, which really didn't help his thoughts as he shifted on the wooden chair.
The door to Arthur's chambers shut with a squeak and Merlin immediately pictured the man who had served the King for decades; the image chilled any thoughts of tangled sheets and golden prince. Not that Merlin would consider Simon ugly, but he was quite frightening for the severity of his expression. To hear the kitchen servants tell it, the King had removed Simon's tongue when he'd taken him on; Gaius insisted that the man had been born unable to speak. Either way, Arthur's threats of removing Merlin's tongue had for a while appeared an honest warning.
That was until Merlin demonstrated how wicked his tongue could be and Arthur had never made mention of it again.
Hearing the sound of metal scrape against the platter on which it rested reminded Merlin of what he was still doing in Arthur's chambers. Dutifully, he straightened in the chair and raised his chin, mentally cursing Arthur yet again for forcing him to suffer this while forcing his body to still. He'd learned quickly not to move while Simon's hand held the blade; Merlin preferred his blood flowing in his body, not spilling onto the floor.
Usually Simon's hands were so warm they felt like fire against Merlin's skin, but today they were cold - the chill in the castle must have touched even the King's manservant. Five individual points of ice pressed along his chin and jaw, angling it into the daylight streaming through the window. Merlin wasn't used to this; typically Simon started with long, sweeping strokes against his neck and jaw, which got most of the panic over having a blade to one's throat out of the way first. This morning, however, Merlin felt the cold press of the blade against his cheek, slowly scraping down towards his jaw.
"I wonder how the daily rituals we enjoy in Camelot differ from those in Ealdor."
All breath and action ceased as the low tones of the King wrapped around him, tight as tangled bed linens in a nightmare, spoken with such casual ease. Merlin couldn't identify fear simply because he had become empty of all things. Hollow, or perhaps solid as a gargoyle watching over the castle, and just as heavy, dragging him down until the urge to flee became manacles around his ankles, binding him to the chair as the blade firmly rasped over his skin.
So slow did it move that Merlin feared he'd magicked time in the presence of the King.
"Such fine metal a peasant could not possess, with little time to hone a sharp blade. Why, I imagine it was a dreadful experience."
Merlin didn't flinch, didn't dare so much to blink as five points of ice placed pressure on his jaw, tilting the angle of his head. The blade touched his skin once more, kissed it, really, the assured kiss of a lover rolling like water confidently over his skin.
For a brief moment wrought by an indulgence in hysterics, Merlin wondered if Uther slept with a blade clutched in his hand.
And after the hysterics passed, rattling around the still form he found easy to maintain, Merlin observed with a certain note of calm terror that he was going to die.
Again the metal stroked his cheek, every whisker it met shorn clean with no tug or pull while it licked his face - a danger where Arthur's was desire but both equally as personal. Someone had ample time to apply a whetstone to this knife, nothing less than the sharpest perfection for the King and Prince. "But your beard is still light. Naught but a boy when you left your village, and little more than one now. I assume you fail to appreciate the gift bestowed upon you by my son."
Merlin's bitter retort dwindled on his tongue as the knife whispered over the skin under his nose, daring him to speak with insult directly to the King. He knew better, he knew better, but it was all he could do not to say a word while the tang of metal teased his tongue amidst the spicy scent of oil.
And yet he didn't move, didn't so much as blink. No matter how much his insides trembled and clamored for him to run, to melt the blade, to do anything, Merlin held still. He had no other choice as Uther, King of Camelot, dragged the knife to his jaw, canting Merlin's head. His throat was entirely exposed to the blazing warmth thrown by the hearth and the chilled, warning touch of death in Uther's hands.
Terror.
He recognized the word as it beat loudly in his ears, his heart fluttering in time with the desperate gasps of air that pretended to be breath. Terror. His tongue clicked in a dry swallow, spit vanished like knights in the face of Arthur's foul temper, and he ruthlessly smothered the tickle in his throat warning him of a cough.
The rustle of clothing pitched just below the slow, rough sounds of the blade as it scratched over his throat meant that Uther had moved, shifted, but to where and for what purpose Merlin couldn't fathom. His attention was solely focused on the knife's sweeping swaths over his neck and under his jaw. Uther's intent made itself clear when his words fell into Merlin's ear, so close he felt the King's breath like dragon fire upon his skin. "Like you fail to appreciate mine."
Merlin rapidly tried to think of anything in Camelot which could be construed as a direct gift from the King - perhaps his servitude? - but in the manner of all royalty Merlin knew that breathing Camelot's air might qualify as a gift from the King. A panicked list of possible grievances tumbled through his mind before they collapsed in the utter silence of the room where even the crackling fire held its breath.
The blade stopped.
"Sorcerer."
Sibilant words hissed in his ear but Merlin heard nothing beyond panic. He didn't remember moving but he tried, tried to stand and flee from Camelot, but he couldn't and his boots slipped on the stone when his body failed to comply. Lungs screamed for air as his heart roared in his ears, but all he managed was a stifled croak before he realized he couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe and he felt the King's body braced behind him, refusing to shift with Merlin's struggles, the hand at his throat never letting go.
Five points of ice, crushed round his neck so tight.
And then the blade returned, pressed cold against his other cheek, and Merlin had to still for fear of cutting off his face or poking an eye out, and wasn't that just terribly funny as he couldn't breathe.
"My son and I owe you several life debts," Uther continued casually, resuming the delicate duties of shaving after releasing his restraining hold. Merlin would have laughed - tried to - in disbelief but all that emerged was a gasp punctuated by hitched breathes he couldn't quite control while a gloved hand smoothed over the tender skin of his throat. He was going to die (Uther knew, he knew), just like all those who had practiced magic before him, but at least he would be clean-shaven; at least he would not further insult Arthur upon his death. "And I am nothing if not just."
The images of 'sorcerers' with their cheeks pressed against a chopping block sprang forth unbidden; tongues of red and gold consuming those 'witches' tied helplessly to pyres danced in vivid display to the contrary before Merlin's eyes. But none had felt the King's blade as intimately as this, head bracketed by gloved hand and an aged warrior's chest, and Merlin wasn't so sure that his situation was better for it.
"I have given you life, Merlin of Ealdor."
The sound of the King's voice at his ear startled Merlin into complete awareness. He couldn't stop the shudder from shaking his body, trying to pull away while Uther held him fast with the strength of iron in a dungeon just as dark. The bastard enjoyed it, drinking Merlin's fear as easily as a mulled wine while the knife caressed his skin. For all he tried Merlin couldn't hide it, couldn't bury it deep like he was sure Arthur could do - as he had seen him do whie facing a number of frightening beasts of varying shapes and sizes.
Merlin couldn't even see the King, just the burning hearth in front of him. There was no one to face but a low voice that sounded just enough like Arthur's to be confusing and a blade that rasped as it shaved away the recent growth.
Didn't make Uther less a beast, however. One Merlin could not kill, no matter how he wished to protect his own life or the lives of any other sorcerer, witch or warlock.
Arthur would never forgive him.
"Life, sorcerer. A most generous gift in repayment for the debts."
Strong hands forced Merlin's head to twist until his cheek was pressed against what he knew had to be some of the most expensive fibers in all the kingdom, but all Merlin felt was wood, harsh and abrasive against his freshly shorn skin. The knife scraped at his throat and up under his jaw, smelling of spiced oil and blood-stained oak, but Merlin refused to beg. The King may be feasting on his terror but he would not hear Merlin beg or give thanks for something that wasn't Uther's to give.
Not to give, but certainly his to take.
A fine line of pressure appeared on his neck. Merlin retreated immediately with far more sound than he would have liked, but the wall of the King's robes did not give nor did the edge disappear. If anything the knife pursued, following Merlin's path as he pressed harder into the unyielding body of the King in his vain attempts to flee his execution. It didn't hurt so much as burned, the blade so sharply honed to grace the skin of Kings and Princes, and it took Merlin a few frantic, mindless moments to realize he wasn't dead.
The awareness was so overpowering it made Merlin's thoughts go hazy as a smoke-filled morning. But his mind wasn't so dim that he missed the King's next words, voice no more than a growl as he uttered both vow and warning.
"Protect my son."
Merlin felt everything left unsaid in the gloved hand that stroked his chin and the metal still resting edge-first on his throat, cold and terrifying against the sting of its kiss.
And then it was gone, everything was gone, the absence of the King's vise so startling that Merlin fell forward before he could physically compensate, head jerking while his hands clutched the arms of the chair. Uther knew. Fingernails dug painfully into the wood as he desperately tried to find balance - for his thoughts, for his body, for his magic as it coiled and burned from restraint, demanding vengeance in agreement with the small voice in his mind that whispered he could.
The door 'snicked' shut behind him and the blade rattled a war-cry against the plate upon which it had been left.
He could.
On his life, he probably should.
But it was Arthur's father he protected, not the King.
His hand shook as Merlin touched his neck and he turned a bit faint when he saw the blood on his fingertips. Wasn't much; just a warning. A hint of possibility along a path of the King's choosing.
Merlin refused to walk it.
The knife stilled.
The fire burned cheerfully in the hearth, banishing autumn's chill with its blaze; the scent of spiced oil hung in the air and his arse was still tender from the pleasure found and taken the previous night. Merlin removed the oil from his face and neck with a small cloth and resolutely did not look at the smear of red that decorated it when he was done. Everything realigned, back in proper order, the King attending kingly things and Merlin just a servant doing as a servant was expected.
One day, Camelot would have her great King, but he would not wear the blood of the fallen one.
***
"By all of Albion, did you lose yourself in the castle again, Merlin? Don't tell me you hid from Simon after I left."
Merlin smiled the smile Arthur expected as he carried the Prince's armour. He walked by his side, which was most inappropriate given his station but that had never stopped Merlin, and Arthur had eventually quit complaining. "I wouldn't have to hide if you'd let me grow a beard."
He would have liked to have hid today.
"You look like a common idiot with a beard." Arthur's voice was toned with indignation and arrogance, but Merlin didn't rise to the challenge with their old arguments that were now more practiced than original. He was too lost in his thoughts, too confused whether to tell Gaius that Uther knew or not, and still not fully recovered from his twice-weekly ritual that certainly had never been seen in Ealdor.
"Hold up." Arthur frowned and stopped walking, and Merlin barely restrained himself from flinching when Arthur touched his chin. He tilted it in the daylight for a better angle before finally pushing away the linen tied round Merlin's neck. Warm fingers, lightly pressed, rubbing smooth over skin like no Prince ought. "Did Simon cut you?"
Merlin didn't miss Arthur's surprised fury; he would have needed to be blind as well as deaf. As sacrosanct as the position of barber for the royal family was, such offense was punishable by death. That Arthur would extend such thoughts to him - well, perhaps the Prince hadn't stopped to consider that Merlin wasn't royalty and so the righteous anger was misplaced.
He couldn't quite stifle the shiver that shook his frame, however, as Arthur continued to stroke Merlin's chin, a gesture stirring memories of just an hour past when a King's gloved hand had done the same. Arthur's eyes widened in recognition of his actions; his hand jerked away as he cast furtive glances about to see if anyone had seen. But the anger never left, and Arthur's jaw was set in a line so determined that Morgana couldn't break it if she tried.
So Merlin lied, and made it the best lie he'd ever told.
"I sneezed," Merlin said with a shrug, careful not to unbalance the stack of armour in his hands. "The smell of the oil tickled my nose."
Arthur stared at him, completely aghast with his hands on his hips, but utterly distracted as Merlin intended. "You are either the bravest man I have ever met or the most stupid. Since you're ... you" - Arthur cast a disparaging look before resuming walking, assuming Merlin would follow - "I'm going with most stupid. Who sneezes with a blade at their throat?"
Merlin did follow, hastening his steps to make up the distance before he lifting his eyes to the castle's parapet where a dark figure watched. Watched and enjoyed the product of his savagery, Merlin assumed, as the silhouette of the King was unmistakable. Watched to consume the fear of a sorcerer cowed by Uther. Watched as the sorcerer guarded his son in ways no mere knight could undertake. Watched to remind the sorcerer that death was assured if he failed, or perhaps simply on the King's whim.
But Uther claimed no victory here - not with Arthur, not with Merlin, and not with the power he wielded with such terrifying force and consequence. It was not by the King's orders that he would protect Arthur; it was never Uther's to command. And if Merlin died for the Prince, his sacrifice would be for no one else and with no other cause.
For that was his gift to Arthur, the future King.
Fin.
Author: sarcasticchick
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: R
Warnings: Dark themes, no spoilers though occurs after 1x13
Word Count: 3,000+
Summary: "Such fine metal a peasant could not possess, with little time to hone a sharp blade. Why, I imagine it was a dreadful experience."
Disclaimer: Merlin and Arthur (in this form, because in this form they certainly aren't anything like legend) belong to BBC.
Beta: lilithilien who kicks so much ass she beta'd for me, then with one hand tied behind her back, came up with title and summary.
A/N: re: the warning - There's no non-con or dub-con, no gory graphic violence, no graphic baum-chicka-wha-wha, but it's admittedly dark and possibly a bit warped if you think at all like me.
This is written for everyone who watched the show and wondered how and why everyone is so remarkably well-kept (other than to make viewers drool at the pretty people in shiny armor). I would apologize for the direction my brain took for such a light-hearted show in finding an answer - but I'm saving that for another fic I have in mind.
Merlin tried not to squirm while he waited impatiently for Simon to return. He hated these days - no, he loathed these days. It was completely unfair and unnecessary, but Arthur being the prat that he was insisted upon them without fail. Apparently it was improper for his manservant to appear like a common peasant when attending to him at court or during feasts.
His rebuttal that he was, in fact, a common peasant fell upon deaf ears.
Beards were manly. Or at least they added years to his face, Merlin thought. All the men of Ealdor grew beards, especially in the wintertime, and Merlin could not understand why Arthur demanded he subject himself to the torture of being shaved every third day. Plus, he smelled like Arthur for a full day after. And while he might do the Prince's bidding in how he dressed, how he performed his chores, how he fought with a sword and even how he danced, Merlin drew the line at smelling like him.
Especially when those scents were so closely tied to his ardour that Merlin spent the rest of the day and into the next in a near-constant state of arousal.
The prat was aware of that, too.
At least he wasn't forced to sit for Peter, the barber who serviced the good people of Camelot. His skills were questionable at best; Merlin delivered a potion to him every fortnight to help improve his vision which had grown weak with age. He certainly wasn't entrusting a knife-wielding, half-blind, crooked-fingered man with his life.
No, if Arthur forced him to shave, then it was only proper he experienced it at the trusted hands of Simon, manservant to the King. Merlin found no shame upon discovering that typically the most trusted servant shaved the King and the Prince, but was told in no uncertain terms that Merlin would never bring a sharp blade so close to his throat.
It was hardly an insult, since Merlin didn't trust himself with his own throat, much less Arthur's.
Simon had wandered out after tending to the Prince's daily routine, still listening to Arthur prattle on about one of his knights who'd been wounded during the last tournament. Merlin scowled as the scent of oil wafted up to his nose, forcing him to recite plant names to distract himself from thoughts of Arthur's body gleaming with it following a post-training rub down.
The oil had other uses, too; Merlin was still a bit sore from that employ, which really didn't help his thoughts as he shifted on the wooden chair.
The door to Arthur's chambers shut with a squeak and Merlin immediately pictured the man who had served the King for decades; the image chilled any thoughts of tangled sheets and golden prince. Not that Merlin would consider Simon ugly, but he was quite frightening for the severity of his expression. To hear the kitchen servants tell it, the King had removed Simon's tongue when he'd taken him on; Gaius insisted that the man had been born unable to speak. Either way, Arthur's threats of removing Merlin's tongue had for a while appeared an honest warning.
That was until Merlin demonstrated how wicked his tongue could be and Arthur had never made mention of it again.
Hearing the sound of metal scrape against the platter on which it rested reminded Merlin of what he was still doing in Arthur's chambers. Dutifully, he straightened in the chair and raised his chin, mentally cursing Arthur yet again for forcing him to suffer this while forcing his body to still. He'd learned quickly not to move while Simon's hand held the blade; Merlin preferred his blood flowing in his body, not spilling onto the floor.
Usually Simon's hands were so warm they felt like fire against Merlin's skin, but today they were cold - the chill in the castle must have touched even the King's manservant. Five individual points of ice pressed along his chin and jaw, angling it into the daylight streaming through the window. Merlin wasn't used to this; typically Simon started with long, sweeping strokes against his neck and jaw, which got most of the panic over having a blade to one's throat out of the way first. This morning, however, Merlin felt the cold press of the blade against his cheek, slowly scraping down towards his jaw.
"I wonder how the daily rituals we enjoy in Camelot differ from those in Ealdor."
All breath and action ceased as the low tones of the King wrapped around him, tight as tangled bed linens in a nightmare, spoken with such casual ease. Merlin couldn't identify fear simply because he had become empty of all things. Hollow, or perhaps solid as a gargoyle watching over the castle, and just as heavy, dragging him down until the urge to flee became manacles around his ankles, binding him to the chair as the blade firmly rasped over his skin.
So slow did it move that Merlin feared he'd magicked time in the presence of the King.
"Such fine metal a peasant could not possess, with little time to hone a sharp blade. Why, I imagine it was a dreadful experience."
Merlin didn't flinch, didn't dare so much to blink as five points of ice placed pressure on his jaw, tilting the angle of his head. The blade touched his skin once more, kissed it, really, the assured kiss of a lover rolling like water confidently over his skin.
For a brief moment wrought by an indulgence in hysterics, Merlin wondered if Uther slept with a blade clutched in his hand.
And after the hysterics passed, rattling around the still form he found easy to maintain, Merlin observed with a certain note of calm terror that he was going to die.
Again the metal stroked his cheek, every whisker it met shorn clean with no tug or pull while it licked his face - a danger where Arthur's was desire but both equally as personal. Someone had ample time to apply a whetstone to this knife, nothing less than the sharpest perfection for the King and Prince. "But your beard is still light. Naught but a boy when you left your village, and little more than one now. I assume you fail to appreciate the gift bestowed upon you by my son."
Merlin's bitter retort dwindled on his tongue as the knife whispered over the skin under his nose, daring him to speak with insult directly to the King. He knew better, he knew better, but it was all he could do not to say a word while the tang of metal teased his tongue amidst the spicy scent of oil.
And yet he didn't move, didn't so much as blink. No matter how much his insides trembled and clamored for him to run, to melt the blade, to do anything, Merlin held still. He had no other choice as Uther, King of Camelot, dragged the knife to his jaw, canting Merlin's head. His throat was entirely exposed to the blazing warmth thrown by the hearth and the chilled, warning touch of death in Uther's hands.
Terror.
He recognized the word as it beat loudly in his ears, his heart fluttering in time with the desperate gasps of air that pretended to be breath. Terror. His tongue clicked in a dry swallow, spit vanished like knights in the face of Arthur's foul temper, and he ruthlessly smothered the tickle in his throat warning him of a cough.
The rustle of clothing pitched just below the slow, rough sounds of the blade as it scratched over his throat meant that Uther had moved, shifted, but to where and for what purpose Merlin couldn't fathom. His attention was solely focused on the knife's sweeping swaths over his neck and under his jaw. Uther's intent made itself clear when his words fell into Merlin's ear, so close he felt the King's breath like dragon fire upon his skin. "Like you fail to appreciate mine."
Merlin rapidly tried to think of anything in Camelot which could be construed as a direct gift from the King - perhaps his servitude? - but in the manner of all royalty Merlin knew that breathing Camelot's air might qualify as a gift from the King. A panicked list of possible grievances tumbled through his mind before they collapsed in the utter silence of the room where even the crackling fire held its breath.
The blade stopped.
"Sorcerer."
Sibilant words hissed in his ear but Merlin heard nothing beyond panic. He didn't remember moving but he tried, tried to stand and flee from Camelot, but he couldn't and his boots slipped on the stone when his body failed to comply. Lungs screamed for air as his heart roared in his ears, but all he managed was a stifled croak before he realized he couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe and he felt the King's body braced behind him, refusing to shift with Merlin's struggles, the hand at his throat never letting go.
Five points of ice, crushed round his neck so tight.
And then the blade returned, pressed cold against his other cheek, and Merlin had to still for fear of cutting off his face or poking an eye out, and wasn't that just terribly funny as he couldn't breathe.
"My son and I owe you several life debts," Uther continued casually, resuming the delicate duties of shaving after releasing his restraining hold. Merlin would have laughed - tried to - in disbelief but all that emerged was a gasp punctuated by hitched breathes he couldn't quite control while a gloved hand smoothed over the tender skin of his throat. He was going to die (Uther knew, he knew), just like all those who had practiced magic before him, but at least he would be clean-shaven; at least he would not further insult Arthur upon his death. "And I am nothing if not just."
The images of 'sorcerers' with their cheeks pressed against a chopping block sprang forth unbidden; tongues of red and gold consuming those 'witches' tied helplessly to pyres danced in vivid display to the contrary before Merlin's eyes. But none had felt the King's blade as intimately as this, head bracketed by gloved hand and an aged warrior's chest, and Merlin wasn't so sure that his situation was better for it.
"I have given you life, Merlin of Ealdor."
The sound of the King's voice at his ear startled Merlin into complete awareness. He couldn't stop the shudder from shaking his body, trying to pull away while Uther held him fast with the strength of iron in a dungeon just as dark. The bastard enjoyed it, drinking Merlin's fear as easily as a mulled wine while the knife caressed his skin. For all he tried Merlin couldn't hide it, couldn't bury it deep like he was sure Arthur could do - as he had seen him do whie facing a number of frightening beasts of varying shapes and sizes.
Merlin couldn't even see the King, just the burning hearth in front of him. There was no one to face but a low voice that sounded just enough like Arthur's to be confusing and a blade that rasped as it shaved away the recent growth.
Didn't make Uther less a beast, however. One Merlin could not kill, no matter how he wished to protect his own life or the lives of any other sorcerer, witch or warlock.
Arthur would never forgive him.
"Life, sorcerer. A most generous gift in repayment for the debts."
Strong hands forced Merlin's head to twist until his cheek was pressed against what he knew had to be some of the most expensive fibers in all the kingdom, but all Merlin felt was wood, harsh and abrasive against his freshly shorn skin. The knife scraped at his throat and up under his jaw, smelling of spiced oil and blood-stained oak, but Merlin refused to beg. The King may be feasting on his terror but he would not hear Merlin beg or give thanks for something that wasn't Uther's to give.
Not to give, but certainly his to take.
A fine line of pressure appeared on his neck. Merlin retreated immediately with far more sound than he would have liked, but the wall of the King's robes did not give nor did the edge disappear. If anything the knife pursued, following Merlin's path as he pressed harder into the unyielding body of the King in his vain attempts to flee his execution. It didn't hurt so much as burned, the blade so sharply honed to grace the skin of Kings and Princes, and it took Merlin a few frantic, mindless moments to realize he wasn't dead.
The awareness was so overpowering it made Merlin's thoughts go hazy as a smoke-filled morning. But his mind wasn't so dim that he missed the King's next words, voice no more than a growl as he uttered both vow and warning.
"Protect my son."
Merlin felt everything left unsaid in the gloved hand that stroked his chin and the metal still resting edge-first on his throat, cold and terrifying against the sting of its kiss.
And then it was gone, everything was gone, the absence of the King's vise so startling that Merlin fell forward before he could physically compensate, head jerking while his hands clutched the arms of the chair. Uther knew. Fingernails dug painfully into the wood as he desperately tried to find balance - for his thoughts, for his body, for his magic as it coiled and burned from restraint, demanding vengeance in agreement with the small voice in his mind that whispered he could.
The door 'snicked' shut behind him and the blade rattled a war-cry against the plate upon which it had been left.
He could.
On his life, he probably should.
But it was Arthur's father he protected, not the King.
His hand shook as Merlin touched his neck and he turned a bit faint when he saw the blood on his fingertips. Wasn't much; just a warning. A hint of possibility along a path of the King's choosing.
Merlin refused to walk it.
The knife stilled.
The fire burned cheerfully in the hearth, banishing autumn's chill with its blaze; the scent of spiced oil hung in the air and his arse was still tender from the pleasure found and taken the previous night. Merlin removed the oil from his face and neck with a small cloth and resolutely did not look at the smear of red that decorated it when he was done. Everything realigned, back in proper order, the King attending kingly things and Merlin just a servant doing as a servant was expected.
One day, Camelot would have her great King, but he would not wear the blood of the fallen one.
***
"By all of Albion, did you lose yourself in the castle again, Merlin? Don't tell me you hid from Simon after I left."
Merlin smiled the smile Arthur expected as he carried the Prince's armour. He walked by his side, which was most inappropriate given his station but that had never stopped Merlin, and Arthur had eventually quit complaining. "I wouldn't have to hide if you'd let me grow a beard."
He would have liked to have hid today.
"You look like a common idiot with a beard." Arthur's voice was toned with indignation and arrogance, but Merlin didn't rise to the challenge with their old arguments that were now more practiced than original. He was too lost in his thoughts, too confused whether to tell Gaius that Uther knew or not, and still not fully recovered from his twice-weekly ritual that certainly had never been seen in Ealdor.
"Hold up." Arthur frowned and stopped walking, and Merlin barely restrained himself from flinching when Arthur touched his chin. He tilted it in the daylight for a better angle before finally pushing away the linen tied round Merlin's neck. Warm fingers, lightly pressed, rubbing smooth over skin like no Prince ought. "Did Simon cut you?"
Merlin didn't miss Arthur's surprised fury; he would have needed to be blind as well as deaf. As sacrosanct as the position of barber for the royal family was, such offense was punishable by death. That Arthur would extend such thoughts to him - well, perhaps the Prince hadn't stopped to consider that Merlin wasn't royalty and so the righteous anger was misplaced.
He couldn't quite stifle the shiver that shook his frame, however, as Arthur continued to stroke Merlin's chin, a gesture stirring memories of just an hour past when a King's gloved hand had done the same. Arthur's eyes widened in recognition of his actions; his hand jerked away as he cast furtive glances about to see if anyone had seen. But the anger never left, and Arthur's jaw was set in a line so determined that Morgana couldn't break it if she tried.
So Merlin lied, and made it the best lie he'd ever told.
"I sneezed," Merlin said with a shrug, careful not to unbalance the stack of armour in his hands. "The smell of the oil tickled my nose."
Arthur stared at him, completely aghast with his hands on his hips, but utterly distracted as Merlin intended. "You are either the bravest man I have ever met or the most stupid. Since you're ... you" - Arthur cast a disparaging look before resuming walking, assuming Merlin would follow - "I'm going with most stupid. Who sneezes with a blade at their throat?"
Merlin did follow, hastening his steps to make up the distance before he lifting his eyes to the castle's parapet where a dark figure watched. Watched and enjoyed the product of his savagery, Merlin assumed, as the silhouette of the King was unmistakable. Watched to consume the fear of a sorcerer cowed by Uther. Watched as the sorcerer guarded his son in ways no mere knight could undertake. Watched to remind the sorcerer that death was assured if he failed, or perhaps simply on the King's whim.
But Uther claimed no victory here - not with Arthur, not with Merlin, and not with the power he wielded with such terrifying force and consequence. It was not by the King's orders that he would protect Arthur; it was never Uther's to command. And if Merlin died for the Prince, his sacrifice would be for no one else and with no other cause.
For that was his gift to Arthur, the future King.
Fin.