Merlin Fic: Two Short Interludes in the Nature of Possession M/A, R
More fic. It's still not totally right but I think it's now a fairly honourable defeat. Thanks to JB filenotch for comments. Any story failure or individualistic turns of grammar are emphatically my fault.
In which Merlin gets possessed, Alsoa writes romantic fumbling sex and (probably) the seeds of a huge future misunderstanding are sown.
TWO SHORT INTERLUDES IN THE NATURE OF POSSESSION
Alsoa
Herbs. Midnight. Secret. Careful.
There’s actually a lot more to it, but this is pretty much the gist of what has filtered into Merlin’s mind after twenty minutes of conversation with Gaius. He’s only half listening because it has been that kind of a day and really it’s taking every bit of patience to smile and nod and not stomp childishly around the room.
“Witch Bronwyn’s Lake,” concludes Gaius.
At which point Merlin explodes, taking them both by surprise.
“Don’t call her a witch! If she was a witch she would never have drowned!” Oh, where has that come from? He’s practically yelling in Gaius’s face, fingertips literally spitting fire. “If she drowned then she couldn’t have been a witch and if she was a witch then she shouldn’t have drowned.”
He circles the room magically sweeping objects out of his path not because he needs to but just because he can and there’s a savage satisfaction about being able to do so. “And then she dies and people tear her reputation into shreds.”
“Merlin!” Gaius doesn’t even raise his voice. The two soft syllables are enough.
“Sorry,” mutters Merlin, although he’s not sorry at all. He is going to allow himself to get upset and if Gaius doesn’t like it, then tough. He wonders briefly if Gaius has any idea of what it’s like to have to suppress an elemental part of yourself for pretty much every waking hour of every single day. Later he’ll feel sorry. Not now.
Just now he’s as emotionally drained as Bronwyn’s Lake. In other words, totally dry since Bronwyn’s Lake is not actually a lake at all. It’s a sandy hollow in the centre of the forest a little over a mile outside Camelot. Legend says the witch Bronwyn drowned there during trial by ordeal for sorcery, though how has never been explained since no water runs near the spot and the thin soil drains so quickly that few plants grow. It’s also a mystery why a women who has proved her innocence by dying should go to the afterlife with the title of ‘witch’ so firmly attached.
“It’s just completely unfair,” broods Merlin, although the injustice belongs to centuries past.
“Better than surviving and being hanged,” points out Gaius with a chilling finality obviously intended to close discussion.
The hint is lost on Merlin who turns a face of utter frustration on his mentor. “It’s not as if she could help having magic.”
“She is a legend, not a person, and even if she were a person there’s nothing you can do to change her fate now.” Gaius assumes his calming patients voice at which Merlin pulls a mutinous face. This makes his mentor laugh, which wasn’t actually the point but is better than being patronised. “Now you look like Arthur. Is there something about today you’ve neglected to tell me?”
Merlin shrugs. “What exactly am I supposed to tell you? Today has been just like every other day: Do this, Merlin; fetch that, Merlin; dress me, Merlin; undress me, Merlin; run around me from dawn to dusk with never a word of thanks and be grateful for it because you’re only a servant!” A broom picks itself up and hurls itself against the door with a resounding crash. “It’s like after all this time he doesn’t even see me as a real person.”
“How do you want be seen?” Gaius stops laughing and his face sets into an expression both reproving and anxious. “Merlin the Great Magician? You are his servant.”
There’s no reply to that. At least not one he can say out loud. Feeling faintly foolish, Merlin walks to the far end of the room to pick up the fallen broom by hand and return it to its place against the wall.
“I..just. I want to be seen as me.” He knows he’s protesting too much and to the wrong person but since Gaius is pretty much the only person he can protest to he carries on. “I bet Bronwyn wanted the same thing - just to be allowed to be who she was.”
“What did I just say? It’s a story not a history.” Merlin opens his mouth to interrupt but Gaius waves him silent. “You can’t right every wrong, Merlin. Learn to pick your causes.” He turns to his books, folding over the pages of a worn vellum almanac containing lists of the properties and illustrations of plants used in healing, and tracing a careful finger over the faded ink. “All the same there must have been a lake some time in the past. The wychbryony only grows where water once flowed. It’s deadly when ingested, so be careful not to handle the roots and don’t touch your fingers to your mouth.”
Supplying herbs for Gaius was something that Merlin had taken over soon after his arrival. It didn’t take long to see that the old man found getting around difficult even in the comparative comfort of Camelot. Countryside hikes were a chore that he gave up without protest when Merlin offered. There were unexpected bonuses, too. As court physician Gaius had a certain amount of privilege but nothing to that which Merlin enjoyed as personal servant to Prince Arthur. The prince might question his whereabouts but no one else dared. Gaius’s herb cupboards had never been better stocked.
“I get it. Magic bad, but evil killing plants good,” says Merlin, leaning over so that he can memorise the plant in question. He rests an arm along Gaius’s shoulders by way of silent apology. They have had the conversation about magic many times before and it never, ever gets resolved simply because there is no satisfactory resolution; at least as long as Merlin stays in Camelot.
Gaius squeezes Merlin’s fingers in acknowledgement. He shuts the volume gently. “Really, Merlin, you should have learnt by now that you can’t just magic away every ill no matter how much you may wish to. Sometimes it causes as many problems as it cures.”
“And this cure works by how?”
“It works by matching poison with poison and hoping the two sides balance each other out.”
“Oh.” The word comes out flat and for a moment Gaius looks disappointed. Merlin knows that, despite the fine words from the dragon on destiny, the old man had really hoped that Merlin would become his apprentice and dedicate himself to herbs and healing and other domestic-type magic. It’s impossible to explain that even with all the cleaning and drudgery and irritation and frustration of being the prince’s manservant, just being with Arthur feels like being alive. It would be too much to say that castle life revolves around Arthur but he is certainly in the centre of things. There’s nothing exciting about helping Gaius administer poultices to the dying although Merlin’s conscience makes him help whenever possible.
“And if it doesn’t balance?” He manages to sound interested this time.
“Then it kills you,” Gaius answers, with a little shrug, quirking lips at Merlin’s shocked expression. “Don’t forget the plant must be picked by full moon. The healing properties will be at their most potent.”
“You said no magic,” protests Merlin, moving away from the bottles and piles of herbs on the workbench. He brushes his shirt down and wishes he had something slightly less threadbare to wear.
“I said you couldn’t rely on magic. I never said it couldn’t help.”
*
It’s always been cold around Bronwyn’s Lake. Merlin would, thank you very much, rather not at be faffing around the hollow at all, except for the whole wychbryony thing. He can feel things watching him and tries hard to imagine that it is only night animals out hunting but the hints of forlornness of daytime are magnified a hundred times by night. The sand shimmers like ripples of water in the moonlight. He has a lamp but its light is barely heeded, a pale golden glow lost amongst the silver shadows.
He wishes he had brought Gwen for company but probably Morgana would have needed her services to dress for the feast. He smiles at the thought. Morgana has no notion of casual dressing at the best of times but her special occasion outfits are truly mesmerising. Not that her allure is all down to dress. She would turn eyes in the humblest of outfits. Or no outfit at all. Arthur, too, has that indefinable something that draws attention. Merlin could match that with his powers. He knows he could. Then their relationship would be equal and - maybe - different. But that’s a line of thought he really should not allow himself to go down. Even here, in the dark, on his own. Some things are not meant to be.
Sounds carry at night. From time to time, Merlin imagines he can hear drifts of music coming from the castle. Some travelling bards have arrived with new tunes to enchant - if that is the right word - the court. There’s much coming and going at Camelot but true strangers are rare and the excitement of something new and different has permeated down to the farthest reaches of the village. The inns will do well tonight.
In the great hall the wine will be flowing equally freely. All the court will be present dressed in their finest velvets and silks. Arthur will be wearing his red jacket. This Merlin knows for sure because he laid it out before embarking on his plant-finding mission. An apology for a bad day would be unthinkable but Arthur has come the nearest to it he finds possible with the offhand comment that Merlin can have the rest of the night off to enjoy himself.
Enjoy himself? Right! He tries not to feel resentful that tonight of all nights should be full moon. Still, if he’s quick he should get back in time to hear some of the music and watch the dancing. The roots aren’t half as horrid as Gaius had made out and pull out of the loose soil with scarcely a rustle of protest. Merlin has nearly filled his basket when the girl arrives.
He senses her presence before she appears so that he has already turned to face her by the time she comes into view. Long skirts give her the appearance of floating over the sandy floor. She has long dark hair worn loose over a full cloak. In the moonlight her features appear dainty and even. She’s lovely, yes, that much is obvious even in this light. It’s too dark to see the colour of her eyes but they glitter invitingly and her smile is complicit. Merlin, who had tensed in anticipation of danger, relaxes and smiles back.
“Hello! I thought I heard someone moving around.”
“Hello!” His response is warm, natural friendliness bubbling to the surface. It’s good to see a fellow human and one who can only be bound on a similar quest to his own. “Let me guess, you’re here for the plants. You probably heard me stamping around looking for decent roots.”
“That would be it.” Her voice is soft with an accent that he can’t place. “I think I felt you more than heard you.”
He grins. “It is that kind of place, isn’t it? No wonder people think it’s haunted! I feel sorry for Bronwyn if she really is stuck here for eternity.” She says nothing and after a while he carries on. “Have you come far to gather the wychbryony? Gaius says it’s much more potent by full moon.”
She laughs teeth sparkling in the moonlight. “There’s power in the full moon. So, yes, in a way I have come far for the roots.” She picks her way across the sand until she stands by his side. “It’s a long while since anyone has disturbed me here.”
Merlin shivers a little. “I don’t think anyone would come here if they didn’t have to. It feels too lonely.” She gives a small, knowing smile. It is, part of him thinks, a very strange situation to be in but Merlin has been in many strange situations. Besides, the girl has magic. He can sense it calling to him.
Her voice is frail, as if unused to speaking. “We all do what we must. Who is Gaius?”
“Gaius is my uncle and he will be fascinated to meet another herbalist. If you’ve come on a long journey you should come back with me to Camelot. I’m Merlin, by the way, I work for the Prince. We don’t have a lot of space but we can offer you better shelter than a tent for the night.” He holds up the basket for her inspection. “I think I’m done now.”
“Camelot?”
“The castle.” Merlin elaborates. Surely everyone knows this? He’s surprised at her lack of knowledge but feels it would be rude to show it.
“The castle,” she draws out the word. “It’s still here then? After all this time? And Quintus?”
He shakes his head. “No, sorry, I’ve never heard of Quintus and it’s an unusual name. Gaius may know. He knows everyone.”
“But you do know the prince?” She’s oddly insistent.
“Oh yeah! I do know Arthur. So you’ll come back with me?”
Her hands are pale, almost ghostly. A large ring shines on the third finger the stone dark against her skin. “You invite me freely?”
He laughs. “Of course! Just tell me who you are so I can introduce you properly.”
“So easy,” she murmurs. She reaches in the basket and fingers the roots drawing them up carelessly and then dropping them down.
“Don’t --,” Merlin begins, noticing her lack of gloves. “They’re poison.”
“Shhhhh.” She draws a pale finger across his mouth and leans closer so that he feels the breath from her lips as she closes the space between them. His skin numbs under her touch as he feels himself drawn down into darkness. She smells of damp leaves and stagnant water. “Don’t talk anymore.”
*
The castle is a blur of light and noise. Its bright colours are almost painful after the coolness of wood and night. For a moment Merlin dips his head into his hands shutting out the sheer overwhelming mass of stimuli. There’s something important he needs to remember. Something just out of reach, nearly grasped, then gone. Then he recovers and remembers that tonight is a feast and he is looking forward to seeing his friends.
The musicians are still playing in the main hall. Almost as soon as Merlin arrives Gwen spots him and hurries to greet him, her face lit with pleasure.
“Merlin! You came.” Her hand flutters on the scarf around his neck, tweaking it slightly before drawing back as if embarrassed at the gesture as he instinctively flinches from her touch.
“Sorry, cold,” he apologises at the hurt in her face. What’s the matter with him? It’s Gwen! She’s his friend.
“You should wrap up better.” She drops her hands but continues to fuss around him. “Have you seen Morgana, doesn’t she look stunning? There’s going to be more dancing later. Would you dance with me? I mean, if you want to, that is.”
To save having to reply, Merlin gazes to where Morgana is seated at the high table between King Uther and Arthur. Uther is staring into middle distance clearly lost in the music and his own thoughts. The two younger members of the royal family are studiously ignoring each other in a familiar way that indicates that ‘words’ have been spoken.
Morgana is wearing a dress of deep velvet that catches around the back of her neck and exposes her creamy shoulders. She looks beautiful and untouchable. Arthur’s cheekbones are stained red which clashes with his jacket an effect that could be the result of either drink or emotion. In the torchlight his hair gleams a deeper gold than the circlet he wears. He rivals Morgana in looks but seems altogether more…touchable. They wear matching expressions of haughty indifference to their surroundings.
Arthur and Morgana have a complicated relationship that Merlin’s never fully understood but the tie between them is deep. It’s completely unreasonable to feel jealous that at least their ability to hurt each other is equal. If they feel pain at least they also have the power to inflict it.
What is it this time? Merlin is about to question Gwen when reality shifts and the unreasonable makes total sense. The scene is the same but he is watching it with a stranger’s eyes, reading an alternative history of desire, betrayal, broken promises and a single over-riding need for revenge. For everything there is a price and finally, finally, there will be a reckoning.
It’s close in here and difficult to breathe. Merlin tries to draw in air but everything is closing in around him. It’s like being held underwater. They say you reach for the light when drowning but as he goes under he feels only darkness.
“Merlin! Merlin! Speak to me,” Gwen is all over him as he doubles up struggling for breath. “Are you alright? Shall I get you back to Gaius?”
He coughs and chokes trying to clear his airways. Breathe now. Deep. Control is something that does not come naturally but time has made concealment easy. It works now as he comes to, flailing against the well-meaning pats, even managing to sound flippant. “Ow! Leggo, Gwen! I’m fine. It’s just really hot in here after being outside. Don’t you dare mention this to Gaius or he’ll want to dose me with something horrible.”
She’s his friend but she wants to be more than his friend and right now Merlin wishes she would just go away so he can pull the fragments of self together.
“But, Merlin, you’ve gone white.” Gwen lets go as instructed but continues to radiate concern. “At least go and sit down. I’ll fetch you some water.”
“I will,” he promises, avoiding meeting her gaze. “Just give me a minute and I’ll follow you.”
People are staring at them and a little circle has opened up around them. At the high table Arthur and Morgana note the commotion and unite temporarily in a decision to investigate. People instinctively step aside as they approach. Watching Merlin’s pleased and also furious because even now, just by coming over, what should be about him has become about them. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, because that doesn’t make sense at all. He isn’t thinking straight.
“Gwen. Merlin.” Morgana’s greeting takes in both but settles on Gwen and on a question. She moves closer to her maidservant and begins a low-voiced conversation. Merlin thinks he hears his name.
Meanwhile Arthur is surveying him with unconcealed amusement. “Merlin, you came!” he observes. “And in your usual inconspicuous fashion.” It’s clear he’s been drinking but is nowhere near drunk.
“I did. But I think I might be better uncoming.” Merlin’s aware that he’s babbling. “Or even going.” He blanks out the noise and fuss around him and focuses on Arthur, concentrating on the blue and black of his eyes. “Do you mind if I go and sit down in your rooms for a bit? It’s nearer than going home.”
“You really haven’t got the whole servant bit down yet, have you?” Arthur shakes his head, all mock severity, then he relents as Merlin totally fails to respond in kind and allows concern to surface. At this point sheer force of will is keeping Merlin upright as he struggles to keep track of space and time. Arthur reaches an arm out to steady him. “Come on then. It’s a bit unconventional but at least you’ll be handy if I need you when I want to get ready for bed.”
He hears Morgana’s decisive voice in the background but doesn’t follow what she says. Something about totally selfish. Merlin leans into the apparently casual arm Arthur has slung around his shoulder, which is actually supporting most of his weight. He just hopes he can get out of the hall before passing out.
He doesn’t faint but the walk down the hallway to the prince’s rooms is a bit of a blur. When he finally emerges from the confusion of movement and sickness, he’s sprawled against the pillows of Arthur’s bed and the prince is wrapping his fingers around a goblet of wine. He watches as Merlin drinks with a disconcertingly direct gaze.
“Better?”
Merlin nods and places the goblet down on a side table. The goblet is gold inlaid with jewels and finer than anything he’s ever drunk from before. Just like the bed and coverings on which he’s lying. They’re softer and thicker than any he has ever lain on and yet they feel as familiar as a memory as if all his deepest imaginings have become solid. He’s lying in Arthur’s bed. He only hopes he hasn’t said something irretrievably stupid. Or embarrassing. Or honest. Or any thing at all really. Probably not since all his limbs seem to be attached. Even so, he presses his fingers against his lips to ensure his thoughts stay silent.
By the side of the bed he notes his basket of wychbryony roots, an incongruously homely touch amongst the finery. He must have gone straight to the main hall on his return to the castle without realising it.
It would be easier if Arthur would just stop looking at him like that.
“Sorry,” he says as a general catch-all and because he really must say something or burst.
“What?” Arthur looks puzzled, wrinkling his chin. Merlin spreads his hands to take in his surroundings. “Oh, the bed. It’s not as if I was using it at the time.”
“I should get up.”
The prince nods, encouragingly. “Yes, you should.” Then adds as an extra incentive. “There’s lots of cleaning up to do around the place.”
Merlin grins, responding to the sudden lightening of mood. “You make it sound so appealing.”
He rises, noticing for the first time that Arthur has gone to the trouble of removing his boots. The floor is cool against his bare feet and he feels a moment of gratefulness as every other bit of him is suddenly overheated. Humour dissipates to be replaced by the intensity of moments before. They’re standing close so he’s aware of every intake of air taken by Arthur, can see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. That’s not unusual. What is different is the awareness of movement as if he’s re-experiencing this emotion after years of draught. The stone pendent Arthur wears is caught on the tie of his shirt. Without thinking Merlin lifts a hand to free it, brushing against warm skin. Then Arthur grabs his hand forcing it away before stepping back.
“Merlin?”
It’s actually surprise but, at this point, any intonation that ends in a question feels like rejection. As Arthur drops his hand Merlin hears himself give a small choked cry. Then, once again he is swamped by the feeling of being out of himself. He watches with horror as his hand rises, runs a caressing finger along Arthur’s jaw and then swings back and slaps him across the face.
As blows go it’s not hard but it has the element of shock for both giver and receiver.
“What the -’”Arthur stills, his face turns red then white the imprint of Merlin’s fingers clearly delineated against his skin. “Are you mad? Do you think this is some kind of game? Because it’s not funny.” he asks, and now he is angry, voice low with fury. The teasing good humour of only minutes before might never have been. “I could have you killed for that.”
The part of Merlin that is still Merlin tenses for the blow. This is not good. Not good at all. And battling against the realisation of something being very wrong are a host of memories and desires that recall when that initial touch would end not with a slap but a kiss. Merlin has never considered himself a coward but all at once he is very, very afraid.
“You thought it was a game when you left me to die.” This time the voice doesn’t sound like Merlin’s for all that it’s using his mouth. It sounds like a young girl. A fire is burning in the room but the air is chilled. Merlin feels the hairs on his arms rise except they’re not really his arms at all. It feels like he’s wearing someone else’s body. Which means, even more frighteningly, that someone or something else is inhabiting his body.
He’s not the only one to have come to this conclusion.
The anger drains from Arthur’s face to be replaced by horror, calculation, worry and resolve in quick succession. There’s a fighting staff on the floor by the bed and already Merlin can see Arthur has worked out the moves needed to grasp it and is wondering if brute force will have any effect. He runs a tongue across his lips in concentration.
It is horribly, inappropriately erotic. Merlin attempts to fold his arms across his chest to stop himself moving but the spirit inside him laughs using his own weakness against him and his hands drop uselessly to his side.
“Who are you? And where’s Merlin?” It sounds almost casual. You’d have to know Arthur very well to read the nuances in the question. Merlin tries hard to empty his mind of all Arthur thoughts just in case he gives the spirit some kind of advantage.
He/it laughs. “You want him? Come and take him.”
After the slap Merlin is a bit more prepared to find himself launching a second attack on Arthur. It’s small consolation that the entity possessing him obviously has no idea who Arthur is or it would have picked another adversary. As it is, Merlin is sure that in a physical fight he and the thing are both going to get killed. The question is will they both die or will his death free the spirit to wreck havoc around Camelot. That means he has to live long enough to make a plan. If he had any control over his voice box Merlin thinks he might start to laugh hysterically.
He, or rather it, picks up a fighting stick and he finds himself facing the prince. As sparring matches go it’s less one sided than you might think largely because Arthur seems to be fighting purely defensively and because the spirit knows how to fight, or use him to fight, or something. Merlin (or at least his body) gets in a couple of blows before Arthur moves them steadily away from the bed into the main room.
They circle around a bit avoiding the table and pushing aside the chairs. Arthur seems to move instinctively. Merlin, hampered by bare feet and the huge internal battle for possession, is clumsy in comparison. The mirror glints in the corner of his eye. Reflexions break and merge and change as they move. Fragments coalesce and hold. The mirror bounces back an image that is not him. Shock stills him. Merlin remains frozen as Arthur’s image appears behind him..it..her..them.
“Who the hell are you?” Arthur demands again, this time not to Merlin but to the image he’s reflecting. In the mirror his eyes are huge and shadowed but the set of his mouth is unafraid.
“Bronwyn,” says Merlin’s mouth. The reflection in the mirror shows the young girl of the hollows. The expression is different though. This time she is angry and humiliated. Not even a woman scorned but a girl who believed in empty promises. “Bronwyn who the prince betrayed and the king condemned to death.”
“Lady Bronwyn of the lake,” says Arthur with a small ironic bow to the mirror. “Your tale is a sad one but we’ve never met. You have made a mistake so release my servant now.”
She smiles, a veritable coquette enjoying her power. Merlin feels a reflected flash of triumph. “My lord, I think he now belongs to me.”
Arthur is having none of that. Girl or not, it’s obvious from his expression that chivalry is about to take a running jump. “My lady, you think wrong. Now, give him back and you can fuck right back off to wherever you came from.”
In the mirror Bronwyn shakes her head, confused and disappointed. The Merlin part of Merlin wonders what reaction she had expected. But not for long as Bronwyn’s disappointment obviously needs release and he finds himself once again raising his stick and striking. Arthur strikes back. Once again they match blows. Merlin’s tiring now as much from mental as from physical effort. He feels something like relief that he cannot possible last much longer.
In this strange duality Bronwyn has control of his body but Merlin is swamped with emotions honed to purity over the space of years. She loves him. She hates him. He betrayed her. He would never betray her. And the cruellest blow of all is condemning her to an eternity where she would always be alone while his line populates the future. The half-life of centuries burns palely against these hours of conscious emotional turmoil.
Merlin hopes that release will bring nothingness but even so without a body Bronwyn is powerless. He knows at some level that his magic is much stronger than hers but to use it would be to allow her access and he doesn’t think he can stop her without creating some kind of catastrophic magical fallout. He’s not even sure what she’s planning except that it involves the prince and Morgana and that it’s not exactly good news for either of them.
They’re moving back, back, back. With an effort of will Merlin restrains his arms so that he will receive full force of the next blow when Arthur strikes. It’s a blow that never falls. At the last minute Arthur changes direction and the stick flies harmlessly past his face. He can feel the breeze as it passes.
“Bloody fight back, you idiot!” hisses Arthur furiously. “And don’t tell me you can’t because I trained you myself to be better than that.”
“I’’” Merlin starts to say but Bronwyn reasserts control of his mouth. Once again she’s angry. Although now Merlin can sense that she’s angry with him too. And surprised as if she thought she would be welcomed previously.
“Oh, so that’s it. He doesn’t know!” She whirls Merlin’s body away and starts to laugh taunting Arthur. “You think that he’s afraid of you. Don’t you know that he could kill you any time?”
Arthur stills. Merlin’s seen that look a hundred times before and it’s frankly scary. It’s a look that says only one of us is coming out of this and it’s definitely me. Controlling his body, Bronwyn stops laughing and takes a small step backwards.
“Really?” Arthur throws his stick down with a decisive flourish. He sounds slightly bored. “I don’t know who you are, but if you think Merlin’s afraid of me or that you can make him kill me, you’re welcome to try. In fact, I’ll help you try.” He reaches for the ceremonial dagger he wears at his waist and places it in Merlin’s hand hilt first.
He/Bronwyn takes it, checks the balance and then lunges. Arthur remains still as the tip barely scratches his skin. Blood wells at the cut but does not fall. Merlin watching decides that if Bronwyn doesn’t manage he, Merlin, will be killing Arthur himself for stupidity as soon as he gets control of his body back.
She’s distressed now and more than a little confused. “Oh Quintus, I’ve waited years for this. Why did you leave me to die alone?”
“Point taken?” Arthur doesn’t even bother to disguise the sneer.
She drops the knife and launches Merlin at Arthur who easily fends him off. The Merlin part of Merlin notes that he would probably be nursing a few broken bones by now if it wasn’t for the fact that Arthur is unsure just who he is fighting and is apparently unable to strike a woman. Merlin’s not sure if he’s grateful or not. He decides not, as Arthur ends the struggle by grabbing both his wrists and forcing Bronwyn to stay still by exerting pressure from his thumbs on the pulse points. It’s all a bit pitiful. Not to mention painful.
“There is no Quintus here.” The prince says firmly.
“There must be. You knew my name.”
“Yes - as a legend.”
“As a person. Unjustly killed for daring to love.” His/her voice trembles. The strain of leaving her sanctuary of years has taken its toll. “And choosing my love wrongly. I want my name back. Why did he say he would come when he didn’t?”
“Is that what this all about? Lady, you have your name.” Arthur gentles his voice. “Years upon years and even the land has changed and still your name lasts while he is forgotten.”
She wavers. Merlin feels it. “It’s not enough. I was innocent.”
“These events have no meaning here.” Clearly Bronwyn has felt the years pass but the passing of time has had no meaning. She’s been trapped in a loop while the world has moved on.
“I seek a royal pardon.”
“I give you that and you go?” Merlin feels himself nod. It’s like a game of chess. He feels tired and knows that Bronwyn does too with the additional fatigue of being out of space and time. Merlin knows he could kill her now by thought alone and probably survive. He also knows that he won’t need to. It would be one more needless cruelty.
Arthur draws himself up and assumes his most kingly air. “Very well. I absolve you from all charges of sorcery. Go seek your peace.”
There’s a whirl. Merlin more or less staggers to the glass. He is reflected within it. Behind him he can see Arthur watching him his face unreadable. “Is she gone?” He asks resting his palms against the cool surface grateful for the simple sensation of touch.
“How the hell should I know? You were the one she was camping out in.”
Merlin doesn’t reply. He’s busy flexing his arms and legs to see if they are under his control again. He seems to be fine apart from a certain weariness. But he thought he was fine before and -- hey, look! Demonic possession! For a moment panic floods him. What if they want to test him for sorcery? Bronwyn’s gone but he retains the echo of her emotions. He remembers drowning…
“You might try hitting me again,” suggests the prince interrupting this spiral of thought.
It’s the tone rather than the suggestion that persuades Merlin. Insufferable entitlement just about sums it up. Against all odds it summons a smile of relief. Arthur at least is definitely Arthur.
Merlin obediently throws a punch, which is immediately blocked and ends up with him spinning round his arm trapped halfway up his back.
Arthur breathes into his neck. “Congratulations. You’re back.” Merlin squeezes his eyes shut in relief. And surely it must only be his imagination that supplies the press of lips against his skin as he is released.
“How can you tell?” Merlin’s curious as Arthur lets him goes and he’s massaging life back into his arm.
Arthur laughs and for once it’s totally without affectation. “Merlin, you slapped me. You may not be the best fighter in the world but you’re not a total girl! It was like being savaged by Morgana. A bit easier really because I’ve always suspected Morgana might be ruthless when it came down to it, scratching and biting, that sort of thing.”
“Thanks, I guess.” Merlin’s not sure if he’s been insulted or not. “It’s good to know I’m not a total loss.”
Arthur’s smirk actually makes Merlin want to try and punch him again. It’s Arthur at his most infuriating, the more so as Merlin knows the prince is trying to make him feel better.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He shakes his head. “Not really.” But then he does anyway. “I went to the lake to pick herbs for Gaius - we’d better burn them, by the way, I don’t think they’re healthy. Then I came back and she was there. At least, I think that’s what happened. It’s all kind of a blur.”
“How on earth did she trap you?”
Merlin shakes his head, trying to grapple with the sheer strangeness of the conversation. “I think I might have invited her.”
“Oh.” Arthur lifts both eyebrows questioningly, then grins. “It does sound the kind of thing you might do.”
Merlin raises both hands in acknowledgement of his own stupidity. Then he asks the question which has been haunting him. “Is that why you gave her the knife? Because you didn’t think I could kill you.”
“Is that what you think?” The prince becomes serious. He turns from the fire where he has emptied the basket of herbs. They burn quickly as paper with a black flame. “Mer, I’m very sure I could trust you to kill me if you thought it was the lesser evil but I didn’t think she could. And since whoever it was who betrayed her is long gone it just seemed a matter of giving her a reason to go.”
There’s probably a huge amount more that needs to be said but for the moment Merlin just wants to stand there feeling the emptiness in his mind. Having disposed of the herbs Arthur is busying himself pouring more wine into goblets. He hands one to Merlin who takes a sip. Then a gulp because this seems the sort of situation where wine might help.
“Should we tell the king?”
“No.” This at least is definite. Arthur perches on the table and rests one foot on a chair all the while staring at his servant.
“But, what if she’s not really gone. Just gone… elsewhere.”
Still Arthur shakes his head. “Then we’ll deal with it…elsewhere. Believe me, Merlin, you really don’t want to go to my father and tell him that you think you were possessed by the spirit of a witch who you happened to meet while strolling in the moonlight looking for medicinal herbs. Just trust me on this. On the subject of magic my father will not be reasonable. That will mean trouble for both you and Gaius.”
“Put like that.”
There’s not much left to say. The room is a mess, of course, but that can be cleared up in the morning. Merlin yawns. “I’m tired. This possession stuff takes it out you.”
“Stay.”
Merlin feels his eyes widen. For the first time since they have known each other Arthur looks uncertain. There is a moment’s strained silence. “If you want to, that is. It’s not an order.”
This is a moment Merlin has imagined many times. The scene ranges from dramatic to romantic but nothing like this quiet offer in a mess of a room with its echoes of old tragedies. Bronwyn chose badly but her choice was her own to make. He understands that now. Except this offer. He’s unclear where it comes from. Has he said too much? Given too much away? He feels his heartbeat in his throat. Merlin’s used to keeping things hidden but for the first time in his life he feels utterly defenceless. Even if he could use his magic it would be no use to him here and now.
“Why?” He has to actually force the word out because he’s so scared of the possible answer.
“Because I want you to.”
It helps that Arthur’s not smiling. Even so Merlin can’t help pressing. “Why now?”
The prince steeples his fingers and stares down at his hands as he replies. “Because this is the first time you’ve given any indication that you might want to stay. Here. With me.”
As power balances go it’s an incredible turnaround. Merlin knows just how proud Arthur is and just how much it must cost him to make this offer and risk refusal. The blood’s still pounding in his ears but it feels as if it might start circulating normally again. He feels his lips quirk up in what must be the world’s stupidest grin.
“You do have the world’s most amazing bed.”
Apparently that is the right thing to say since Arthur looks relieved and amused and all at once approachable. Not to mention desirable. This being so, Merlin loses no time in approaching. Arthur is still at the table but he’s now standing against it which makes it natural for Merlin to move as close as possible and reach his arms around Arthur’s waist. At some point, he knows, they will kiss, but just now it’s an almost moment which will never come again and as such he’s not in a hurry to break it.
“See,” he says encouragingly. “In the end it was easy.”
Arthur leans rests his forehead against Merlin’s own. “I don’t think easy and you belong in the same sentence. You complicate things.”
You have no idea, thinks Merlin. He should mention the magic now, stop the pretences. He knows it but does not because doing so would risk this moment. At some point there’ll be a price to pay but he’ll worry about that later. Just now no cost seems too much.
“Complicated is good, right?”
Arthur feels warm and solid and reassuringly familiar and terrifyingly strange. Objectively Merlin notes how quickly the prince is starting to breathe and the shallowness of breath and how their matched height means that their mouths are virtually level. It doesn’t take much movement to close the gap. Really it seems the most natural thing in the world and where lips meet tongues must surely follow because that too seems right and good.
“Complicated is just complicated.” Arthur mutters breaking away from Merlin with obvious difficulty. He runs a tongue over swollen lips. “Don’t do that again?”
“What this?” Merlin leans his lips against the fast-beating pulse of Arthur’s neck. He sucks lightly resisting the temptation to leave a mark.
“No. Get possessed by an evil spirit.”
Merlin gives an involuntary shudder and feels Arthur’s arms tighten around him, palms flattened against his back. “Not for a while. At least not twice in one day. I’m not sure she was evil. I felt sorry for her.”
“I didn’t,” says Arthur. It’s obviously not true but Merlin isn’t going argue. He has other things to do with his mouth. These involve Arthur’s mouth but since Arthur doesn’t seem to have any objections that’s alright.
They stand hip to hip and there’s warmth and bare skin and delicious friction and touching. The prince moves his hand to cup Merlin’s jaw and gently pushes his head to the side. Arthur breathes into his ear and starts to speak, a lava trail of suggestion that travels straight into Merlin’s nerve endings. The words barely make sense to his brain but his body seems to have no trouble coming to an accommodation.
“Are you sure?” he breathes, thinking that at least one of them should be. Arthur looks less sure than Merlin has ever known him but he nods decisively.
He’ll probably never be able to dress Arthur again without the vision of undressing him. The boots are kicked off as are the fine linens. Arthur does the same for him and it’s oddly charming that he obviously has never performed such a service before. Folding would clearly be a waste of time so the fine fabrics mix with the coarse in a puddle on the floor.
He’s not nervous except in that way of anticipation; that moment before you drop off a cliff. At least here, in Arthur’s massive four-poster, he is assured of a soft landing.
They’ve both got bruises they didn’t have a few hours ago. A small price, thinks Merlin, eyeing the cut he made on Arthur’s skin. He wonders, if it ever came down to it, if he would be able to kill the prince and prays it’s a choice he’ll never be called on to make.
Meanwhile Arthur is waiting sprawled out on the bed. Joining him there is really the only sensible option. It’s not like its Merlin’s first time. But the hurried fumbles of past experience haven’t exactly left him an expert at these things. And, of course, this is Arthur, which makes it different and he really, really wants to make it good.
Arthur’s hands fit perfectly on his hips. His mouth trails kisses long the line of Merlin’s collarbone each touch leaving a trail of sensation. Then, when he runs out of bone he licks the line between Merlin’s ribs down to his navel. It’s almost too much. For a moment Merlin’s nervous of what comes next except they’ve come so far tonight in a strange way it’s become a matter of trust.
“Tell me if I hurt you?” Merlin says at last when the silence becomes too deep and each hitched breath a message or a promise. Oil spills on the expensive coverlet. His fingers are slick but not at all certain. He hopes he’s done it right.
Arthur shuts his eyes. It takes him two attempts to start speaking and then the words spill out in a breathy rush. “Bloody hell, Merlin, you’ve already tried to kill me at least twice tonight. It’s a bit late to be worrying about that.”
Merlin brushes back the damp blond hair and drops kisses on the lids of Arthur’s eyes. It’s actually much too late because the friction is unbearable. He edges in relentlessly because he simply can’t help it. And since Arthur is muttering a series of broken-breathed profanities in time with each movement it seems to be alright.
It’s easy really in the doing, all he has to do is look at Arthur’s face and move just so to make his eyes cloud. That look of vulnerability and he wants more than anything to see Arthur’s face as he comes.
“Look at me,” he says although it comes out less as an order than a question.
Arthur’s eyes edge open. “Say my name,” he counters.
Merlin obeys. So the possessor is owned as much as the possessed. That seems to make sense. Merlin gathers Arthur tighter, moves deeper and faster and forgets worrying about the past or the future and concentrates solely on the moment until he feels his partner tensing around him and allows himself to let go. And, yes, no doubt about it, it was good.
*
Arthur’s bed really is the most comfortable thing, decides Merlin. And Arthur lying with his head facing Merlin’s, body entwined with his is the most natural thing in the world.
“What would you want to be remembered by after a thousand years?” asks Merlin.
“I don’t think you get to choose,” Arthur murmurs sleepily.
“Yes, but say you did get to choose. What would you be remembered for? Being king or some sort of thing?”
“Like Bronwyn’s Lake, you mean? Arthur’s chair or Arthur’s table?”
“Arthur’s sword?” offers Merlin.
This elicits a gurgle of laughter. “Now you’re just being dirty.” Arthur settles down again and gives the idea more consideration. “Camelot is bigger than all of us. As long as it survives I’m happy to be a forgotten part of its history. Will you shut up and let me sleep now?”
Merlin notes the ‘us’ and supposes that that will probably be just fine.
In which Merlin gets possessed, Alsoa writes romantic fumbling sex and (probably) the seeds of a huge future misunderstanding are sown.
TWO SHORT INTERLUDES IN THE NATURE OF POSSESSION
Alsoa
Herbs. Midnight. Secret. Careful.
There’s actually a lot more to it, but this is pretty much the gist of what has filtered into Merlin’s mind after twenty minutes of conversation with Gaius. He’s only half listening because it has been that kind of a day and really it’s taking every bit of patience to smile and nod and not stomp childishly around the room.
“Witch Bronwyn’s Lake,” concludes Gaius.
At which point Merlin explodes, taking them both by surprise.
“Don’t call her a witch! If she was a witch she would never have drowned!” Oh, where has that come from? He’s practically yelling in Gaius’s face, fingertips literally spitting fire. “If she drowned then she couldn’t have been a witch and if she was a witch then she shouldn’t have drowned.”
He circles the room magically sweeping objects out of his path not because he needs to but just because he can and there’s a savage satisfaction about being able to do so. “And then she dies and people tear her reputation into shreds.”
“Merlin!” Gaius doesn’t even raise his voice. The two soft syllables are enough.
“Sorry,” mutters Merlin, although he’s not sorry at all. He is going to allow himself to get upset and if Gaius doesn’t like it, then tough. He wonders briefly if Gaius has any idea of what it’s like to have to suppress an elemental part of yourself for pretty much every waking hour of every single day. Later he’ll feel sorry. Not now.
Just now he’s as emotionally drained as Bronwyn’s Lake. In other words, totally dry since Bronwyn’s Lake is not actually a lake at all. It’s a sandy hollow in the centre of the forest a little over a mile outside Camelot. Legend says the witch Bronwyn drowned there during trial by ordeal for sorcery, though how has never been explained since no water runs near the spot and the thin soil drains so quickly that few plants grow. It’s also a mystery why a women who has proved her innocence by dying should go to the afterlife with the title of ‘witch’ so firmly attached.
“It’s just completely unfair,” broods Merlin, although the injustice belongs to centuries past.
“Better than surviving and being hanged,” points out Gaius with a chilling finality obviously intended to close discussion.
The hint is lost on Merlin who turns a face of utter frustration on his mentor. “It’s not as if she could help having magic.”
“She is a legend, not a person, and even if she were a person there’s nothing you can do to change her fate now.” Gaius assumes his calming patients voice at which Merlin pulls a mutinous face. This makes his mentor laugh, which wasn’t actually the point but is better than being patronised. “Now you look like Arthur. Is there something about today you’ve neglected to tell me?”
Merlin shrugs. “What exactly am I supposed to tell you? Today has been just like every other day: Do this, Merlin; fetch that, Merlin; dress me, Merlin; undress me, Merlin; run around me from dawn to dusk with never a word of thanks and be grateful for it because you’re only a servant!” A broom picks itself up and hurls itself against the door with a resounding crash. “It’s like after all this time he doesn’t even see me as a real person.”
“How do you want be seen?” Gaius stops laughing and his face sets into an expression both reproving and anxious. “Merlin the Great Magician? You are his servant.”
There’s no reply to that. At least not one he can say out loud. Feeling faintly foolish, Merlin walks to the far end of the room to pick up the fallen broom by hand and return it to its place against the wall.
“I..just. I want to be seen as me.” He knows he’s protesting too much and to the wrong person but since Gaius is pretty much the only person he can protest to he carries on. “I bet Bronwyn wanted the same thing - just to be allowed to be who she was.”
“What did I just say? It’s a story not a history.” Merlin opens his mouth to interrupt but Gaius waves him silent. “You can’t right every wrong, Merlin. Learn to pick your causes.” He turns to his books, folding over the pages of a worn vellum almanac containing lists of the properties and illustrations of plants used in healing, and tracing a careful finger over the faded ink. “All the same there must have been a lake some time in the past. The wychbryony only grows where water once flowed. It’s deadly when ingested, so be careful not to handle the roots and don’t touch your fingers to your mouth.”
Supplying herbs for Gaius was something that Merlin had taken over soon after his arrival. It didn’t take long to see that the old man found getting around difficult even in the comparative comfort of Camelot. Countryside hikes were a chore that he gave up without protest when Merlin offered. There were unexpected bonuses, too. As court physician Gaius had a certain amount of privilege but nothing to that which Merlin enjoyed as personal servant to Prince Arthur. The prince might question his whereabouts but no one else dared. Gaius’s herb cupboards had never been better stocked.
“I get it. Magic bad, but evil killing plants good,” says Merlin, leaning over so that he can memorise the plant in question. He rests an arm along Gaius’s shoulders by way of silent apology. They have had the conversation about magic many times before and it never, ever gets resolved simply because there is no satisfactory resolution; at least as long as Merlin stays in Camelot.
Gaius squeezes Merlin’s fingers in acknowledgement. He shuts the volume gently. “Really, Merlin, you should have learnt by now that you can’t just magic away every ill no matter how much you may wish to. Sometimes it causes as many problems as it cures.”
“And this cure works by how?”
“It works by matching poison with poison and hoping the two sides balance each other out.”
“Oh.” The word comes out flat and for a moment Gaius looks disappointed. Merlin knows that, despite the fine words from the dragon on destiny, the old man had really hoped that Merlin would become his apprentice and dedicate himself to herbs and healing and other domestic-type magic. It’s impossible to explain that even with all the cleaning and drudgery and irritation and frustration of being the prince’s manservant, just being with Arthur feels like being alive. It would be too much to say that castle life revolves around Arthur but he is certainly in the centre of things. There’s nothing exciting about helping Gaius administer poultices to the dying although Merlin’s conscience makes him help whenever possible.
“And if it doesn’t balance?” He manages to sound interested this time.
“Then it kills you,” Gaius answers, with a little shrug, quirking lips at Merlin’s shocked expression. “Don’t forget the plant must be picked by full moon. The healing properties will be at their most potent.”
“You said no magic,” protests Merlin, moving away from the bottles and piles of herbs on the workbench. He brushes his shirt down and wishes he had something slightly less threadbare to wear.
“I said you couldn’t rely on magic. I never said it couldn’t help.”
*
It’s always been cold around Bronwyn’s Lake. Merlin would, thank you very much, rather not at be faffing around the hollow at all, except for the whole wychbryony thing. He can feel things watching him and tries hard to imagine that it is only night animals out hunting but the hints of forlornness of daytime are magnified a hundred times by night. The sand shimmers like ripples of water in the moonlight. He has a lamp but its light is barely heeded, a pale golden glow lost amongst the silver shadows.
He wishes he had brought Gwen for company but probably Morgana would have needed her services to dress for the feast. He smiles at the thought. Morgana has no notion of casual dressing at the best of times but her special occasion outfits are truly mesmerising. Not that her allure is all down to dress. She would turn eyes in the humblest of outfits. Or no outfit at all. Arthur, too, has that indefinable something that draws attention. Merlin could match that with his powers. He knows he could. Then their relationship would be equal and - maybe - different. But that’s a line of thought he really should not allow himself to go down. Even here, in the dark, on his own. Some things are not meant to be.
Sounds carry at night. From time to time, Merlin imagines he can hear drifts of music coming from the castle. Some travelling bards have arrived with new tunes to enchant - if that is the right word - the court. There’s much coming and going at Camelot but true strangers are rare and the excitement of something new and different has permeated down to the farthest reaches of the village. The inns will do well tonight.
In the great hall the wine will be flowing equally freely. All the court will be present dressed in their finest velvets and silks. Arthur will be wearing his red jacket. This Merlin knows for sure because he laid it out before embarking on his plant-finding mission. An apology for a bad day would be unthinkable but Arthur has come the nearest to it he finds possible with the offhand comment that Merlin can have the rest of the night off to enjoy himself.
Enjoy himself? Right! He tries not to feel resentful that tonight of all nights should be full moon. Still, if he’s quick he should get back in time to hear some of the music and watch the dancing. The roots aren’t half as horrid as Gaius had made out and pull out of the loose soil with scarcely a rustle of protest. Merlin has nearly filled his basket when the girl arrives.
He senses her presence before she appears so that he has already turned to face her by the time she comes into view. Long skirts give her the appearance of floating over the sandy floor. She has long dark hair worn loose over a full cloak. In the moonlight her features appear dainty and even. She’s lovely, yes, that much is obvious even in this light. It’s too dark to see the colour of her eyes but they glitter invitingly and her smile is complicit. Merlin, who had tensed in anticipation of danger, relaxes and smiles back.
“Hello! I thought I heard someone moving around.”
“Hello!” His response is warm, natural friendliness bubbling to the surface. It’s good to see a fellow human and one who can only be bound on a similar quest to his own. “Let me guess, you’re here for the plants. You probably heard me stamping around looking for decent roots.”
“That would be it.” Her voice is soft with an accent that he can’t place. “I think I felt you more than heard you.”
He grins. “It is that kind of place, isn’t it? No wonder people think it’s haunted! I feel sorry for Bronwyn if she really is stuck here for eternity.” She says nothing and after a while he carries on. “Have you come far to gather the wychbryony? Gaius says it’s much more potent by full moon.”
She laughs teeth sparkling in the moonlight. “There’s power in the full moon. So, yes, in a way I have come far for the roots.” She picks her way across the sand until she stands by his side. “It’s a long while since anyone has disturbed me here.”
Merlin shivers a little. “I don’t think anyone would come here if they didn’t have to. It feels too lonely.” She gives a small, knowing smile. It is, part of him thinks, a very strange situation to be in but Merlin has been in many strange situations. Besides, the girl has magic. He can sense it calling to him.
Her voice is frail, as if unused to speaking. “We all do what we must. Who is Gaius?”
“Gaius is my uncle and he will be fascinated to meet another herbalist. If you’ve come on a long journey you should come back with me to Camelot. I’m Merlin, by the way, I work for the Prince. We don’t have a lot of space but we can offer you better shelter than a tent for the night.” He holds up the basket for her inspection. “I think I’m done now.”
“Camelot?”
“The castle.” Merlin elaborates. Surely everyone knows this? He’s surprised at her lack of knowledge but feels it would be rude to show it.
“The castle,” she draws out the word. “It’s still here then? After all this time? And Quintus?”
He shakes his head. “No, sorry, I’ve never heard of Quintus and it’s an unusual name. Gaius may know. He knows everyone.”
“But you do know the prince?” She’s oddly insistent.
“Oh yeah! I do know Arthur. So you’ll come back with me?”
Her hands are pale, almost ghostly. A large ring shines on the third finger the stone dark against her skin. “You invite me freely?”
He laughs. “Of course! Just tell me who you are so I can introduce you properly.”
“So easy,” she murmurs. She reaches in the basket and fingers the roots drawing them up carelessly and then dropping them down.
“Don’t --,” Merlin begins, noticing her lack of gloves. “They’re poison.”
“Shhhhh.” She draws a pale finger across his mouth and leans closer so that he feels the breath from her lips as she closes the space between them. His skin numbs under her touch as he feels himself drawn down into darkness. She smells of damp leaves and stagnant water. “Don’t talk anymore.”
*
The castle is a blur of light and noise. Its bright colours are almost painful after the coolness of wood and night. For a moment Merlin dips his head into his hands shutting out the sheer overwhelming mass of stimuli. There’s something important he needs to remember. Something just out of reach, nearly grasped, then gone. Then he recovers and remembers that tonight is a feast and he is looking forward to seeing his friends.
The musicians are still playing in the main hall. Almost as soon as Merlin arrives Gwen spots him and hurries to greet him, her face lit with pleasure.
“Merlin! You came.” Her hand flutters on the scarf around his neck, tweaking it slightly before drawing back as if embarrassed at the gesture as he instinctively flinches from her touch.
“Sorry, cold,” he apologises at the hurt in her face. What’s the matter with him? It’s Gwen! She’s his friend.
“You should wrap up better.” She drops her hands but continues to fuss around him. “Have you seen Morgana, doesn’t she look stunning? There’s going to be more dancing later. Would you dance with me? I mean, if you want to, that is.”
To save having to reply, Merlin gazes to where Morgana is seated at the high table between King Uther and Arthur. Uther is staring into middle distance clearly lost in the music and his own thoughts. The two younger members of the royal family are studiously ignoring each other in a familiar way that indicates that ‘words’ have been spoken.
Morgana is wearing a dress of deep velvet that catches around the back of her neck and exposes her creamy shoulders. She looks beautiful and untouchable. Arthur’s cheekbones are stained red which clashes with his jacket an effect that could be the result of either drink or emotion. In the torchlight his hair gleams a deeper gold than the circlet he wears. He rivals Morgana in looks but seems altogether more…touchable. They wear matching expressions of haughty indifference to their surroundings.
Arthur and Morgana have a complicated relationship that Merlin’s never fully understood but the tie between them is deep. It’s completely unreasonable to feel jealous that at least their ability to hurt each other is equal. If they feel pain at least they also have the power to inflict it.
What is it this time? Merlin is about to question Gwen when reality shifts and the unreasonable makes total sense. The scene is the same but he is watching it with a stranger’s eyes, reading an alternative history of desire, betrayal, broken promises and a single over-riding need for revenge. For everything there is a price and finally, finally, there will be a reckoning.
It’s close in here and difficult to breathe. Merlin tries to draw in air but everything is closing in around him. It’s like being held underwater. They say you reach for the light when drowning but as he goes under he feels only darkness.
“Merlin! Merlin! Speak to me,” Gwen is all over him as he doubles up struggling for breath. “Are you alright? Shall I get you back to Gaius?”
He coughs and chokes trying to clear his airways. Breathe now. Deep. Control is something that does not come naturally but time has made concealment easy. It works now as he comes to, flailing against the well-meaning pats, even managing to sound flippant. “Ow! Leggo, Gwen! I’m fine. It’s just really hot in here after being outside. Don’t you dare mention this to Gaius or he’ll want to dose me with something horrible.”
She’s his friend but she wants to be more than his friend and right now Merlin wishes she would just go away so he can pull the fragments of self together.
“But, Merlin, you’ve gone white.” Gwen lets go as instructed but continues to radiate concern. “At least go and sit down. I’ll fetch you some water.”
“I will,” he promises, avoiding meeting her gaze. “Just give me a minute and I’ll follow you.”
People are staring at them and a little circle has opened up around them. At the high table Arthur and Morgana note the commotion and unite temporarily in a decision to investigate. People instinctively step aside as they approach. Watching Merlin’s pleased and also furious because even now, just by coming over, what should be about him has become about them. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, because that doesn’t make sense at all. He isn’t thinking straight.
“Gwen. Merlin.” Morgana’s greeting takes in both but settles on Gwen and on a question. She moves closer to her maidservant and begins a low-voiced conversation. Merlin thinks he hears his name.
Meanwhile Arthur is surveying him with unconcealed amusement. “Merlin, you came!” he observes. “And in your usual inconspicuous fashion.” It’s clear he’s been drinking but is nowhere near drunk.
“I did. But I think I might be better uncoming.” Merlin’s aware that he’s babbling. “Or even going.” He blanks out the noise and fuss around him and focuses on Arthur, concentrating on the blue and black of his eyes. “Do you mind if I go and sit down in your rooms for a bit? It’s nearer than going home.”
“You really haven’t got the whole servant bit down yet, have you?” Arthur shakes his head, all mock severity, then he relents as Merlin totally fails to respond in kind and allows concern to surface. At this point sheer force of will is keeping Merlin upright as he struggles to keep track of space and time. Arthur reaches an arm out to steady him. “Come on then. It’s a bit unconventional but at least you’ll be handy if I need you when I want to get ready for bed.”
He hears Morgana’s decisive voice in the background but doesn’t follow what she says. Something about totally selfish. Merlin leans into the apparently casual arm Arthur has slung around his shoulder, which is actually supporting most of his weight. He just hopes he can get out of the hall before passing out.
He doesn’t faint but the walk down the hallway to the prince’s rooms is a bit of a blur. When he finally emerges from the confusion of movement and sickness, he’s sprawled against the pillows of Arthur’s bed and the prince is wrapping his fingers around a goblet of wine. He watches as Merlin drinks with a disconcertingly direct gaze.
“Better?”
Merlin nods and places the goblet down on a side table. The goblet is gold inlaid with jewels and finer than anything he’s ever drunk from before. Just like the bed and coverings on which he’s lying. They’re softer and thicker than any he has ever lain on and yet they feel as familiar as a memory as if all his deepest imaginings have become solid. He’s lying in Arthur’s bed. He only hopes he hasn’t said something irretrievably stupid. Or embarrassing. Or honest. Or any thing at all really. Probably not since all his limbs seem to be attached. Even so, he presses his fingers against his lips to ensure his thoughts stay silent.
By the side of the bed he notes his basket of wychbryony roots, an incongruously homely touch amongst the finery. He must have gone straight to the main hall on his return to the castle without realising it.
It would be easier if Arthur would just stop looking at him like that.
“Sorry,” he says as a general catch-all and because he really must say something or burst.
“What?” Arthur looks puzzled, wrinkling his chin. Merlin spreads his hands to take in his surroundings. “Oh, the bed. It’s not as if I was using it at the time.”
“I should get up.”
The prince nods, encouragingly. “Yes, you should.” Then adds as an extra incentive. “There’s lots of cleaning up to do around the place.”
Merlin grins, responding to the sudden lightening of mood. “You make it sound so appealing.”
He rises, noticing for the first time that Arthur has gone to the trouble of removing his boots. The floor is cool against his bare feet and he feels a moment of gratefulness as every other bit of him is suddenly overheated. Humour dissipates to be replaced by the intensity of moments before. They’re standing close so he’s aware of every intake of air taken by Arthur, can see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. That’s not unusual. What is different is the awareness of movement as if he’s re-experiencing this emotion after years of draught. The stone pendent Arthur wears is caught on the tie of his shirt. Without thinking Merlin lifts a hand to free it, brushing against warm skin. Then Arthur grabs his hand forcing it away before stepping back.
“Merlin?”
It’s actually surprise but, at this point, any intonation that ends in a question feels like rejection. As Arthur drops his hand Merlin hears himself give a small choked cry. Then, once again he is swamped by the feeling of being out of himself. He watches with horror as his hand rises, runs a caressing finger along Arthur’s jaw and then swings back and slaps him across the face.
As blows go it’s not hard but it has the element of shock for both giver and receiver.
“What the -’”Arthur stills, his face turns red then white the imprint of Merlin’s fingers clearly delineated against his skin. “Are you mad? Do you think this is some kind of game? Because it’s not funny.” he asks, and now he is angry, voice low with fury. The teasing good humour of only minutes before might never have been. “I could have you killed for that.”
The part of Merlin that is still Merlin tenses for the blow. This is not good. Not good at all. And battling against the realisation of something being very wrong are a host of memories and desires that recall when that initial touch would end not with a slap but a kiss. Merlin has never considered himself a coward but all at once he is very, very afraid.
“You thought it was a game when you left me to die.” This time the voice doesn’t sound like Merlin’s for all that it’s using his mouth. It sounds like a young girl. A fire is burning in the room but the air is chilled. Merlin feels the hairs on his arms rise except they’re not really his arms at all. It feels like he’s wearing someone else’s body. Which means, even more frighteningly, that someone or something else is inhabiting his body.
He’s not the only one to have come to this conclusion.
The anger drains from Arthur’s face to be replaced by horror, calculation, worry and resolve in quick succession. There’s a fighting staff on the floor by the bed and already Merlin can see Arthur has worked out the moves needed to grasp it and is wondering if brute force will have any effect. He runs a tongue across his lips in concentration.
It is horribly, inappropriately erotic. Merlin attempts to fold his arms across his chest to stop himself moving but the spirit inside him laughs using his own weakness against him and his hands drop uselessly to his side.
“Who are you? And where’s Merlin?” It sounds almost casual. You’d have to know Arthur very well to read the nuances in the question. Merlin tries hard to empty his mind of all Arthur thoughts just in case he gives the spirit some kind of advantage.
He/it laughs. “You want him? Come and take him.”
After the slap Merlin is a bit more prepared to find himself launching a second attack on Arthur. It’s small consolation that the entity possessing him obviously has no idea who Arthur is or it would have picked another adversary. As it is, Merlin is sure that in a physical fight he and the thing are both going to get killed. The question is will they both die or will his death free the spirit to wreck havoc around Camelot. That means he has to live long enough to make a plan. If he had any control over his voice box Merlin thinks he might start to laugh hysterically.
He, or rather it, picks up a fighting stick and he finds himself facing the prince. As sparring matches go it’s less one sided than you might think largely because Arthur seems to be fighting purely defensively and because the spirit knows how to fight, or use him to fight, or something. Merlin (or at least his body) gets in a couple of blows before Arthur moves them steadily away from the bed into the main room.
They circle around a bit avoiding the table and pushing aside the chairs. Arthur seems to move instinctively. Merlin, hampered by bare feet and the huge internal battle for possession, is clumsy in comparison. The mirror glints in the corner of his eye. Reflexions break and merge and change as they move. Fragments coalesce and hold. The mirror bounces back an image that is not him. Shock stills him. Merlin remains frozen as Arthur’s image appears behind him..it..her..them.
“Who the hell are you?” Arthur demands again, this time not to Merlin but to the image he’s reflecting. In the mirror his eyes are huge and shadowed but the set of his mouth is unafraid.
“Bronwyn,” says Merlin’s mouth. The reflection in the mirror shows the young girl of the hollows. The expression is different though. This time she is angry and humiliated. Not even a woman scorned but a girl who believed in empty promises. “Bronwyn who the prince betrayed and the king condemned to death.”
“Lady Bronwyn of the lake,” says Arthur with a small ironic bow to the mirror. “Your tale is a sad one but we’ve never met. You have made a mistake so release my servant now.”
She smiles, a veritable coquette enjoying her power. Merlin feels a reflected flash of triumph. “My lord, I think he now belongs to me.”
Arthur is having none of that. Girl or not, it’s obvious from his expression that chivalry is about to take a running jump. “My lady, you think wrong. Now, give him back and you can fuck right back off to wherever you came from.”
In the mirror Bronwyn shakes her head, confused and disappointed. The Merlin part of Merlin wonders what reaction she had expected. But not for long as Bronwyn’s disappointment obviously needs release and he finds himself once again raising his stick and striking. Arthur strikes back. Once again they match blows. Merlin’s tiring now as much from mental as from physical effort. He feels something like relief that he cannot possible last much longer.
In this strange duality Bronwyn has control of his body but Merlin is swamped with emotions honed to purity over the space of years. She loves him. She hates him. He betrayed her. He would never betray her. And the cruellest blow of all is condemning her to an eternity where she would always be alone while his line populates the future. The half-life of centuries burns palely against these hours of conscious emotional turmoil.
Merlin hopes that release will bring nothingness but even so without a body Bronwyn is powerless. He knows at some level that his magic is much stronger than hers but to use it would be to allow her access and he doesn’t think he can stop her without creating some kind of catastrophic magical fallout. He’s not even sure what she’s planning except that it involves the prince and Morgana and that it’s not exactly good news for either of them.
They’re moving back, back, back. With an effort of will Merlin restrains his arms so that he will receive full force of the next blow when Arthur strikes. It’s a blow that never falls. At the last minute Arthur changes direction and the stick flies harmlessly past his face. He can feel the breeze as it passes.
“Bloody fight back, you idiot!” hisses Arthur furiously. “And don’t tell me you can’t because I trained you myself to be better than that.”
“I’’” Merlin starts to say but Bronwyn reasserts control of his mouth. Once again she’s angry. Although now Merlin can sense that she’s angry with him too. And surprised as if she thought she would be welcomed previously.
“Oh, so that’s it. He doesn’t know!” She whirls Merlin’s body away and starts to laugh taunting Arthur. “You think that he’s afraid of you. Don’t you know that he could kill you any time?”
Arthur stills. Merlin’s seen that look a hundred times before and it’s frankly scary. It’s a look that says only one of us is coming out of this and it’s definitely me. Controlling his body, Bronwyn stops laughing and takes a small step backwards.
“Really?” Arthur throws his stick down with a decisive flourish. He sounds slightly bored. “I don’t know who you are, but if you think Merlin’s afraid of me or that you can make him kill me, you’re welcome to try. In fact, I’ll help you try.” He reaches for the ceremonial dagger he wears at his waist and places it in Merlin’s hand hilt first.
He/Bronwyn takes it, checks the balance and then lunges. Arthur remains still as the tip barely scratches his skin. Blood wells at the cut but does not fall. Merlin watching decides that if Bronwyn doesn’t manage he, Merlin, will be killing Arthur himself for stupidity as soon as he gets control of his body back.
She’s distressed now and more than a little confused. “Oh Quintus, I’ve waited years for this. Why did you leave me to die alone?”
“Point taken?” Arthur doesn’t even bother to disguise the sneer.
She drops the knife and launches Merlin at Arthur who easily fends him off. The Merlin part of Merlin notes that he would probably be nursing a few broken bones by now if it wasn’t for the fact that Arthur is unsure just who he is fighting and is apparently unable to strike a woman. Merlin’s not sure if he’s grateful or not. He decides not, as Arthur ends the struggle by grabbing both his wrists and forcing Bronwyn to stay still by exerting pressure from his thumbs on the pulse points. It’s all a bit pitiful. Not to mention painful.
“There is no Quintus here.” The prince says firmly.
“There must be. You knew my name.”
“Yes - as a legend.”
“As a person. Unjustly killed for daring to love.” His/her voice trembles. The strain of leaving her sanctuary of years has taken its toll. “And choosing my love wrongly. I want my name back. Why did he say he would come when he didn’t?”
“Is that what this all about? Lady, you have your name.” Arthur gentles his voice. “Years upon years and even the land has changed and still your name lasts while he is forgotten.”
She wavers. Merlin feels it. “It’s not enough. I was innocent.”
“These events have no meaning here.” Clearly Bronwyn has felt the years pass but the passing of time has had no meaning. She’s been trapped in a loop while the world has moved on.
“I seek a royal pardon.”
“I give you that and you go?” Merlin feels himself nod. It’s like a game of chess. He feels tired and knows that Bronwyn does too with the additional fatigue of being out of space and time. Merlin knows he could kill her now by thought alone and probably survive. He also knows that he won’t need to. It would be one more needless cruelty.
Arthur draws himself up and assumes his most kingly air. “Very well. I absolve you from all charges of sorcery. Go seek your peace.”
There’s a whirl. Merlin more or less staggers to the glass. He is reflected within it. Behind him he can see Arthur watching him his face unreadable. “Is she gone?” He asks resting his palms against the cool surface grateful for the simple sensation of touch.
“How the hell should I know? You were the one she was camping out in.”
Merlin doesn’t reply. He’s busy flexing his arms and legs to see if they are under his control again. He seems to be fine apart from a certain weariness. But he thought he was fine before and -- hey, look! Demonic possession! For a moment panic floods him. What if they want to test him for sorcery? Bronwyn’s gone but he retains the echo of her emotions. He remembers drowning…
“You might try hitting me again,” suggests the prince interrupting this spiral of thought.
It’s the tone rather than the suggestion that persuades Merlin. Insufferable entitlement just about sums it up. Against all odds it summons a smile of relief. Arthur at least is definitely Arthur.
Merlin obediently throws a punch, which is immediately blocked and ends up with him spinning round his arm trapped halfway up his back.
Arthur breathes into his neck. “Congratulations. You’re back.” Merlin squeezes his eyes shut in relief. And surely it must only be his imagination that supplies the press of lips against his skin as he is released.
“How can you tell?” Merlin’s curious as Arthur lets him goes and he’s massaging life back into his arm.
Arthur laughs and for once it’s totally without affectation. “Merlin, you slapped me. You may not be the best fighter in the world but you’re not a total girl! It was like being savaged by Morgana. A bit easier really because I’ve always suspected Morgana might be ruthless when it came down to it, scratching and biting, that sort of thing.”
“Thanks, I guess.” Merlin’s not sure if he’s been insulted or not. “It’s good to know I’m not a total loss.”
Arthur’s smirk actually makes Merlin want to try and punch him again. It’s Arthur at his most infuriating, the more so as Merlin knows the prince is trying to make him feel better.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He shakes his head. “Not really.” But then he does anyway. “I went to the lake to pick herbs for Gaius - we’d better burn them, by the way, I don’t think they’re healthy. Then I came back and she was there. At least, I think that’s what happened. It’s all kind of a blur.”
“How on earth did she trap you?”
Merlin shakes his head, trying to grapple with the sheer strangeness of the conversation. “I think I might have invited her.”
“Oh.” Arthur lifts both eyebrows questioningly, then grins. “It does sound the kind of thing you might do.”
Merlin raises both hands in acknowledgement of his own stupidity. Then he asks the question which has been haunting him. “Is that why you gave her the knife? Because you didn’t think I could kill you.”
“Is that what you think?” The prince becomes serious. He turns from the fire where he has emptied the basket of herbs. They burn quickly as paper with a black flame. “Mer, I’m very sure I could trust you to kill me if you thought it was the lesser evil but I didn’t think she could. And since whoever it was who betrayed her is long gone it just seemed a matter of giving her a reason to go.”
There’s probably a huge amount more that needs to be said but for the moment Merlin just wants to stand there feeling the emptiness in his mind. Having disposed of the herbs Arthur is busying himself pouring more wine into goblets. He hands one to Merlin who takes a sip. Then a gulp because this seems the sort of situation where wine might help.
“Should we tell the king?”
“No.” This at least is definite. Arthur perches on the table and rests one foot on a chair all the while staring at his servant.
“But, what if she’s not really gone. Just gone… elsewhere.”
Still Arthur shakes his head. “Then we’ll deal with it…elsewhere. Believe me, Merlin, you really don’t want to go to my father and tell him that you think you were possessed by the spirit of a witch who you happened to meet while strolling in the moonlight looking for medicinal herbs. Just trust me on this. On the subject of magic my father will not be reasonable. That will mean trouble for both you and Gaius.”
“Put like that.”
There’s not much left to say. The room is a mess, of course, but that can be cleared up in the morning. Merlin yawns. “I’m tired. This possession stuff takes it out you.”
“Stay.”
Merlin feels his eyes widen. For the first time since they have known each other Arthur looks uncertain. There is a moment’s strained silence. “If you want to, that is. It’s not an order.”
This is a moment Merlin has imagined many times. The scene ranges from dramatic to romantic but nothing like this quiet offer in a mess of a room with its echoes of old tragedies. Bronwyn chose badly but her choice was her own to make. He understands that now. Except this offer. He’s unclear where it comes from. Has he said too much? Given too much away? He feels his heartbeat in his throat. Merlin’s used to keeping things hidden but for the first time in his life he feels utterly defenceless. Even if he could use his magic it would be no use to him here and now.
“Why?” He has to actually force the word out because he’s so scared of the possible answer.
“Because I want you to.”
It helps that Arthur’s not smiling. Even so Merlin can’t help pressing. “Why now?”
The prince steeples his fingers and stares down at his hands as he replies. “Because this is the first time you’ve given any indication that you might want to stay. Here. With me.”
As power balances go it’s an incredible turnaround. Merlin knows just how proud Arthur is and just how much it must cost him to make this offer and risk refusal. The blood’s still pounding in his ears but it feels as if it might start circulating normally again. He feels his lips quirk up in what must be the world’s stupidest grin.
“You do have the world’s most amazing bed.”
Apparently that is the right thing to say since Arthur looks relieved and amused and all at once approachable. Not to mention desirable. This being so, Merlin loses no time in approaching. Arthur is still at the table but he’s now standing against it which makes it natural for Merlin to move as close as possible and reach his arms around Arthur’s waist. At some point, he knows, they will kiss, but just now it’s an almost moment which will never come again and as such he’s not in a hurry to break it.
“See,” he says encouragingly. “In the end it was easy.”
Arthur leans rests his forehead against Merlin’s own. “I don’t think easy and you belong in the same sentence. You complicate things.”
You have no idea, thinks Merlin. He should mention the magic now, stop the pretences. He knows it but does not because doing so would risk this moment. At some point there’ll be a price to pay but he’ll worry about that later. Just now no cost seems too much.
“Complicated is good, right?”
Arthur feels warm and solid and reassuringly familiar and terrifyingly strange. Objectively Merlin notes how quickly the prince is starting to breathe and the shallowness of breath and how their matched height means that their mouths are virtually level. It doesn’t take much movement to close the gap. Really it seems the most natural thing in the world and where lips meet tongues must surely follow because that too seems right and good.
“Complicated is just complicated.” Arthur mutters breaking away from Merlin with obvious difficulty. He runs a tongue over swollen lips. “Don’t do that again?”
“What this?” Merlin leans his lips against the fast-beating pulse of Arthur’s neck. He sucks lightly resisting the temptation to leave a mark.
“No. Get possessed by an evil spirit.”
Merlin gives an involuntary shudder and feels Arthur’s arms tighten around him, palms flattened against his back. “Not for a while. At least not twice in one day. I’m not sure she was evil. I felt sorry for her.”
“I didn’t,” says Arthur. It’s obviously not true but Merlin isn’t going argue. He has other things to do with his mouth. These involve Arthur’s mouth but since Arthur doesn’t seem to have any objections that’s alright.
They stand hip to hip and there’s warmth and bare skin and delicious friction and touching. The prince moves his hand to cup Merlin’s jaw and gently pushes his head to the side. Arthur breathes into his ear and starts to speak, a lava trail of suggestion that travels straight into Merlin’s nerve endings. The words barely make sense to his brain but his body seems to have no trouble coming to an accommodation.
“Are you sure?” he breathes, thinking that at least one of them should be. Arthur looks less sure than Merlin has ever known him but he nods decisively.
He’ll probably never be able to dress Arthur again without the vision of undressing him. The boots are kicked off as are the fine linens. Arthur does the same for him and it’s oddly charming that he obviously has never performed such a service before. Folding would clearly be a waste of time so the fine fabrics mix with the coarse in a puddle on the floor.
He’s not nervous except in that way of anticipation; that moment before you drop off a cliff. At least here, in Arthur’s massive four-poster, he is assured of a soft landing.
They’ve both got bruises they didn’t have a few hours ago. A small price, thinks Merlin, eyeing the cut he made on Arthur’s skin. He wonders, if it ever came down to it, if he would be able to kill the prince and prays it’s a choice he’ll never be called on to make.
Meanwhile Arthur is waiting sprawled out on the bed. Joining him there is really the only sensible option. It’s not like its Merlin’s first time. But the hurried fumbles of past experience haven’t exactly left him an expert at these things. And, of course, this is Arthur, which makes it different and he really, really wants to make it good.
Arthur’s hands fit perfectly on his hips. His mouth trails kisses long the line of Merlin’s collarbone each touch leaving a trail of sensation. Then, when he runs out of bone he licks the line between Merlin’s ribs down to his navel. It’s almost too much. For a moment Merlin’s nervous of what comes next except they’ve come so far tonight in a strange way it’s become a matter of trust.
“Tell me if I hurt you?” Merlin says at last when the silence becomes too deep and each hitched breath a message or a promise. Oil spills on the expensive coverlet. His fingers are slick but not at all certain. He hopes he’s done it right.
Arthur shuts his eyes. It takes him two attempts to start speaking and then the words spill out in a breathy rush. “Bloody hell, Merlin, you’ve already tried to kill me at least twice tonight. It’s a bit late to be worrying about that.”
Merlin brushes back the damp blond hair and drops kisses on the lids of Arthur’s eyes. It’s actually much too late because the friction is unbearable. He edges in relentlessly because he simply can’t help it. And since Arthur is muttering a series of broken-breathed profanities in time with each movement it seems to be alright.
It’s easy really in the doing, all he has to do is look at Arthur’s face and move just so to make his eyes cloud. That look of vulnerability and he wants more than anything to see Arthur’s face as he comes.
“Look at me,” he says although it comes out less as an order than a question.
Arthur’s eyes edge open. “Say my name,” he counters.
Merlin obeys. So the possessor is owned as much as the possessed. That seems to make sense. Merlin gathers Arthur tighter, moves deeper and faster and forgets worrying about the past or the future and concentrates solely on the moment until he feels his partner tensing around him and allows himself to let go. And, yes, no doubt about it, it was good.
*
Arthur’s bed really is the most comfortable thing, decides Merlin. And Arthur lying with his head facing Merlin’s, body entwined with his is the most natural thing in the world.
“What would you want to be remembered by after a thousand years?” asks Merlin.
“I don’t think you get to choose,” Arthur murmurs sleepily.
“Yes, but say you did get to choose. What would you be remembered for? Being king or some sort of thing?”
“Like Bronwyn’s Lake, you mean? Arthur’s chair or Arthur’s table?”
“Arthur’s sword?” offers Merlin.
This elicits a gurgle of laughter. “Now you’re just being dirty.” Arthur settles down again and gives the idea more consideration. “Camelot is bigger than all of us. As long as it survives I’m happy to be a forgotten part of its history. Will you shut up and let me sleep now?”
Merlin notes the ‘us’ and supposes that that will probably be just fine.