Fic Merlin: Here's the thing about magic (Merlin/Arthur) R
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Monsters, magic, a denial of magic, misunderstandings, major angst and a side order of plot, sex and romance. Complete.
Beta thanks to_la_la_la and to luthien . Two brilliant Ls. All horrid things left belong to me.
HERE'S THE THING ABOUT MAGIC
Alsoa
At one point they thought the roof was falling in but really it was just the end of the world…
It should have been an easy fight.
“Now there’s a face that only a mother could love!” Arthur curls a lip at the lion-headed creature blocking the cave ahead of them.
“Faces,” corrects Merlin as the beast turns slightly. He holds his torch higher to reveal a second head. This one seems modelled on a nightmare interpretation of a domestic goat.
The two headed beast stands on four giant paws. To its rear they see a long snake-like tail swishing. It stares at them, holding itself unnaturally still as if undecided whether to strike or run.
Arthur, who comes alive at moments of danger, throws Merlin a grin. “I don’t think much of yours. Definitely fell off the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down.”
Even though he’s only holding the torch Merlin feels the blood coursing through his own system, there’s something very arousing about watching a fight. About watching Arthur fight. He grins back, “I know you’re not to everyone’s taste but I don’t think you could actually be described as ugly.”
Arthur’s eyes flash in a mixture of amusement and promised amoratory retribution. “Later,” he says. “Let’s deal with this thing first.”
Fleeing being impossible, herded as it is at the rear of the cave, the beast crouches back on its haunches and prepares to strike.
Arthur tenses and raises his sword in readiness.
Reports of a beast terrorising the outlying villages have been trickling into Camelot for some weeks. When the trickle becomes a full-flowing stream, King Uther judges that it was time for action. A little PR exercise won’t hurt. It can only be good for the further flung reaches of the kingdom to see Camelot’s might in action. Uther and Arthur (and by extension Merlin, although the last conversation between the prince and his manservant t place late at night, naked in front of the fire and possibly would not meet the king’s approval) decide that a dozen knights will suffice.
“Make a little show of it,” advises Uther to his son. “It won’t do to make it look too easy. We want something that will provide fireside talk for the winter months.”
Arthur nods. He knows the difference between a show fight and the rough and tumble of genuine battle.
Merlin knows the difference too. He and Arthur have left the knights outside having cornered the beast in its cave-lair. A smattering of onlookers follow at a discreet distance ready to report back to their homes. Arthur elects to enter the cave alone. Merlin accompanies him because…well, just because someone has to hold the torch and Merlin has no intention of waiting behind when there’s the faint outside chance of a possibility that he might be needed.
In truth, the prince’s decision to leave his knights guarding the entrance of the cave is less bravado then an idea protecting the onlookers from possible danger and of not alarming the beast so that he can make a swift, clean kill. Whatever Merlin might think of Arthur’s habit of hunting as a sport - and he thinks plenty and none of it good - he’s never noticed that Arthur takes pleasure in inflicting pain for its own sake. He’ll kill efficiently or not at all.
About two minutes into the fight Merlin realises they are deep into ‘not at all’ territory.
From the moment the Arthur and creature exchanged blows the atmosphere changed, darkened, splinter shifted into some overlapping world from which seeps a miasma of malevolence. The semi-comical hybrid they first encountered has transformed into a species of demon - hating and hateful. It’s magic, Merlin knows, but it’s not enchantment of a kind he recognises or knows how to deal with. He can only stand there, watching in horror, as whatever it is threatens to consume them.
Yes, Merlin knows the difference between a show fight and a real battle. The real thing is ugly and messy and graceless. It smells of blood and desperation. There is no guarantee Arthur will win.
Flames lick and spit at their feet thrown by the thing that is bearing down on them. Small stones rain down, dislodged by the force of the blows hitting the rough hewn walls of the underground cavern.
Arthur spares a brief, charged glance at Merlin and then turns all his attention back on the two-headed monster that blocks their passage. It smells of decay and fear and self-hatred projected onto the puny humans facing it. Die mortals.
“Get out, Merlin!”
There’s no air here. For a moment Merlin wonders if he is going to be physically sick. The torch he is holding flickers under the sulphur blast of the creature’s breath.
“No,” he answers. It’s all he can manage and probably all that Arthur can spare the attention to take in.
The goat head turns one huge unblinking eye towards them and emits a fiery bleat. It should be funny only it’s not.
Horribly, incongruously, Merlin thinks of his home village and the goats grazing along the road. The goat head bleats again, twice, three times, plaintively. Then the sound is abruptly cut off as Arthur swings his sword and decapitates it. There’s a brief fountain-rush of blood before flesh from the stump slowly begins to reform itself once again taking on the contours of a head. Maddened by the pain and the scent of blood the lion-twin curls back its lips in a savage growl. The snake tail swishes. Arthur’s sword swings again, creating a momentary breeze where no air stirs. This time it is the lion head’s turn to topple and rise.
And so the scene replays itself again. And again.
Blood splashes on the floor curling into the spills of torch oil creating smoky puddles where the flames lick and retreat. The snake tail swishes hitting the rocks to create yet another fault fracture. Already lines dissect the wall. The cavern is beginning to crumble.
Arthur risks another over the shoulder glance holding Merlin’s gaze for the briefest of seconds. In the torchlight his eyes appear huge and black, a slight sheen of sweat covers his skin. He’s spattered head to foot with blood from the beast. “Get out, Merlin. Make sure everybody’s out and seal the entrance.”
“You’ll need the light.” It feels like he’s shouting but Merlin can only just hear his voice over the other sounds.
“There’s light enough. I’ll manage.” The last words are spaced out as Arthur slashes his sword defensively. Merlin makes no move. “For fuck’s sake, Merlin! Get out of here. The roof is going to go.”
“No,” says Merlin.
Arthur makes an indescribable noise. “Master. Servant. Remember that whole deal? It’s an order. I can’t hold this thing much longer.”
Merlin shakes his head although it’s an instinctive gesture as Arthur is unable to see it. “I’m not leaving you.”
I will never leave you. He’s already made this vow. And if that means they both die in this place well surely the afterlife contains some sort of version of together.
Looking at the beast in front of him he knows that Arthur can’t kill it because it is magic. He also - instinctively - knows that magic can’t wholly kill it because it has been born and bred and not created.
Still staring at Arthur - as if gaze itself will keep the prince safe - he reaches inside himself and tries to find the power. Here’s the thing about magic; it’s not always under your control although when Merlin has really needed, as opposed to simply wanting, it the floodgates have always opened. Now when Merlin doesn’t actually know what to do he simply trusts that the magic will know for him.
He props the torch upright against the wall and goes to stand by Arthur who continues to slash at the beast even while repositioning himself to provide a shield for his servant. Merlin feels the sweat drip down his face. He reaches for Arthur’s arm. The sword stills as a blanket of magic rolls over them both. Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise but he makes no attempt to break away from Merlin’s hold. In front of them the beast rears up on its hind legs for a final attack.
Merlin covers both Arthur’s hands with his own. “Strike now.” He instructs.
Arthur raises the sword and swings downwards in a faultless arc. Merlin lets his hand follow. The magic flows through him. Through them. The sword turns molten gold and sparks as it strikes through flesh and bone to the heart of the beast. The twin heads droop as the giant paws falter and fall to the ground. The lion head gives a final low rumble as the beast curls up, smoke and fire destroying it from within. The pyre is quickly consumed as the beast is reclaimed by whatever magical powers are responsible for its spawning.
In a few minutes it is just Merlin and Arthur and an empty cave. The torch has fallen over but - incredibly - is still alight. Merlin bends to retrieve it, raising it above his head to maximise the light. The rock groans as it shifts and settles.
“We’d better go.” Merlin says to Arthur who has been silently watching the beast burn, his sword, now returned to silver, remains drawn but point down. His voice sounds too loud in the silence. He continues, softer now, fighting down panic with the pretence of normality. “I don’t think the roof is going to collapse but you never know.”
Arthur raises his head and stares at Merlin. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to say anything. His face says it all: why didn’t you tell me? Merlin opens his mouth to say something, anything, and shuts it again as Arthur turns away. It’s quiet now except for the sound of their breathing.
Merlin risks a hand against the rock face and presses but the surface doesn’t give. The roof at least will hold. Arthur sheaves his sword, spares him a single shuttered glance, and walks past him towards the exit. Merlin follows holding the light which is now beginning to fail.
*
The remainder of their party is waiting for them outside the caves as ordered. Thanks for all the help guys, thinks Merlin, although he can hardly blame the knights for following orders and they wouldn’t have been able to do much anyway. The shocked looks when Arthur and Merlin re-appear reinforce the impression of returning from another world. Uther will more than achieve his wish for fireside talk this winter. Grass scents the air where it has been crushed under heavy boots. A woodpecker sounds against a distant tree. Merlin blinks as his eyes struggle to adjust to the sun’s glare.
They block off the entrance to the cave with stones from the surrounding outcrops. It’s routine work and done with quiet efficiency. Arthur could organise this in his sleep and from the look on his face he might as well be doing just that. Merlin shifts stones along with the other soldiers and covertly watches the prince. Arthur has washed the blood off his face with water from a canteen but is still otherwise filthy. Something within Merlin clenches painfully. At any other time this scene would end in Arthur’s bedroom with Merlin stripping off the layers of clothing from the prince and slowly washing all the grime off inch by inch. Even now he’s sure if he could just touch Arthur he would somehow be able to explain, make things all right.
Surely magic is not such a big thing? It’s not as if Merlin lied. He just didn’t tell the truth.
At the castle Uther waits for them at the gates. In the way of gossip, news of their success has reached Camelot before them. He gathers Arthur in a black-gloved hug and spares a nod of approval for the men. Unmindful of the blood and gore liberally besmirching Arthur’s person Uther retains an arm across his son’s shoulders and guides him away into the privacy of the throne room.
*
Merlin slips home quickly to wash and change thankful that Gaius is out on his rounds and not there to question him. Then he heads back to Arthur’s rooms. There’s water to order for washing, and Arthur will need someone to take care of his armour. And then there’s food to consider. And...and Merlin really needs to see Arthur to talk to him.
Hours slip by. The water has cooled and been taken away, along with the soup and bread. Merlin lights the candles and adds more wood to the fire. The candles burn low. The fire is reduced to glowing embers. Merlin wonders if he will wait here all night.
But, no. Some time after the last of the night guards have changed shifts, the waste collectors have retrieved their noisome loads from storage and rolled them away to some unknown disposal point, and the castle has finally quieted, Arthur finally returns.
He looks resigned rather than surprised to see Merlin waiting for him.
“I thought you might need me,” says Merlin, adding quickly and too brightly. “For cleaning and stuff.”
“You thought wrong.” Arthur doesn’t sound angry, more dismissive. He’s washed and changed somewhere along the line. “I don’t require your services.”
It’s more or less the reaction he’s been expecting but Merlin refuses to be put off. He’d sort of hoped to work up to the whole magic thing by way of a little sock cleaning and soup serving but if such is not to be the direct approach will have to do. He meets Arthur’s eyes. “I need to talk to you.”
The look Arthur turns on him is almost 100 per cent Crown Prince of Camelot. It’s designed to be intimidating and it is. “I don’t want to talk to you. So that decides it.”
“We need to talk,” insists Merlin.
Arthur becomes dangerously still. In contrast Merlin feels the need to move. He covers the ground between them until they are only inches apart and fists his hands to prevent making any kind of pleading motions.
“And if I say no are you going to force me to listen with magic?” Arthur has a huge array of tones and facial expressions at his fingertips, but this is the first time Merlin has heard him speak tonelessly. If it’s deliberate bait it works.
Merlin’s voice rises in response, “I have never, would never - could never - force you into anything!”
Arthur watches him with cold and painful triumph. “That’s something. At least it means only one of us was lying.”
The prince does not move but Merlin has the impression that he has withdrawn to a great distance. For a moment they watch each other divided by less then a foot; worlds apart. Arthur breaks first and Merlin has the impression that the words are drawn out unwillingly. “You must have enjoyed laughing at me.”
It’s so far from the truth that Merlin can’t even reply. “No,” he mouths silently. He makes a quick, instinctive move towards Arthur, arms raised to grab on somewhere. He’s checked mid-flow.
“If you try and touch me I will break both your arms.” Arthur doesn’t raise his voice. It’s a promise, not a threat. Merlin drops his hands, defeated.
Sometimes Merlin has bad dreams. Dreams where he has never met Arthur, Arthur is dead, or there is some monstrous thing separating them. The first is impossible, the second unthinkable, but he’d always imagined the third to be somehow surmountable. It’s always an unknown big, black void of a something that keeps them apart like a monster or a sorcerer’s spell. Merlin never imagined that the sorcerer would be him.
“Will you at least listen to me?” If he can just explain.
Anger would be easy to counter. Passion nearly always leads to passion. Nothingness is a new experience. Arthur simply goes blank. It is, thinks Merlin, as if he has simply ceased to exist.
“Go home, Merlin. Your services are no longer required.”
*
Gaius greets him at the door with a worried face and a goblet of mulled wine. Merlin sips the wine and huddles under the blanket the physician drops over his shoulders.
“The knights are saying there was some kind of monster?” Gaius makes it a question.
That’s easy enough to reply to so Merlin describes the monster’s two heads and its snake-like tail as Gaius flips through his ledgers of strange and unusual beasts. They decide it’s a chimaera, which seems to satisfy Gaius. Merlin opts not mention the whole ‘evil going to devour your soul’ miasma that went with it as something too complicated that he doesn’t want to talk about now. Then he regrets the decision as Gaius’ unthinkingly rubs salt on an open wound.
“Arthur may like to know what it is he’s killed. Was it all sword-play or did you give a magical helping hand?” asks Gaius with dry mischief. The prince’s passion for hunting is something of a joke between them as are Merlin’s efforts to secretly save his master’s life.
Merlin says nothing but huddles deeper into his blanket. He shuts his eyes to avoid having to look at Gaius.
“Merlin, is something wrong?” Gaius pushes aside his books and places his hands on Merlin’s shoulders. The touch is light but comforting. Merlin feels his shoulders start to shake.
“I don’t want to have magic anymore,” says Merlin, as to his horror, he starts to cry.
Their paths cross early one morning in the castle courtyard. Arthur is on his way to training. His cloak billows out as he walks.
“It was a chimaera,” says Merlin, knowing the prince will understand.
Arthur’s smile glitters. “Things chimaera and they go.”
To use magic at Camelot is to risk your life. For Merlin not to use magic at Camelot proves a lot harder. All the little things that he just does are left undone. The minor trip-fall accidents he prevents. The doll snapped in two by a cart. Oh, OK, so Merlin did prevent that one. But he did it non-magically by the jumping, grabbing and nearly-being-run-over method. The child was grateful. Gaius is not impressed as he cleans and binds the rather impressive cut on Merlin’s shin.
“I don’t see why you didn’t just..move the doll sideways.”
Merlin allows himself a smile. “You’re telling me to do magic?”
Gaius pauses in his work. “Yes! Yes, I am. Use your powers to clean that workbench.”
He nods towards a table on the far side of the room where small spills of herbs mark Gaius’ efforts at putting together a sleeping potion.
“I’d rather do it by hand,” insists Merlin in what he hopes is an offhand voice.
“But I’m asking you to do it magically,” says Gaius, prodding at a stubborn piece of grit that has embedded itself into the cut.
“No.” Merlin winces. He’s sure Gaius prodded extra hard just then deliberately.
Gaius finishes his cleaning and decides that air will be more effective than bindings in aiding the healing process. He motions to Merlin that he can stand. Merlin turns to go but is stopped by Gaius’ fingers on his arm. Gaius looks like there’s all kinds of things he’d really like to say but something in Merlin’s expression stops him. He wrinkles his brow a minute obviously considering his words.
“This isn’t going to make a difference, Merlin. It’s not like a penance. Whatever you do now doesn’t change what you did or didn’t do before. All it’s doing is making you miserable. You cannot deny what you are.”
Merlin slides away from his gaze. They’ve never had a direct conversation about why Merlin has stopped being Arthur’s manservant and recommenced being Gaius’ apprentice. At one level Merlin suspects that Gaius is rather relieved given Uther’s whole anti-magic stance and habit of executing first and asking questions later. Gaius doesn’t really mention Arthur at all but whether through tact or obliviousness Merlin hasn’t known.
Now he does. Gaius raises an ironic eyebrow. “Maybe it’s for the best. It’s easy to see you’re much happier this way.”
Merlin doesn’t bother replying. He heads to his bedroom where at least he can be miserable in private. Naturally he will not think at all about Arthur.
Here’s a thing that not many people realise about Arthur unless they have come into his personal orbit. Arthur is a brilliant teacher. He’s demanding and insists that his knights display the same kind of commitment as he gives himself but he does ensure they give their best.
In the first awkward interlude when Merlin was assigned to work with Arthur the prince dedicated himself to training Merlin up.
“You need to know something about the manly art of self-defence,” is how he actually puts it.
“Don’t women need to defend themselves?” asks Merlin.
Arthur considers this as something of an irrelevance. “Of course, although strictly speaking you’re supposed to be doing the defending for them. Still, I’ve worked with Morgana and I know which one of you I’d be backing.”
“Go on then,” encourages Merlin.
Arthur slants an amused glance. “Very well, as I was saying, you need to know something about the person-ly art of self-defence.” He shrugs, “For goodness sake, Merlin, get up. I didn’t hit you that hard and you may need to know how to fight one of these days so you might as well take advantage and get taught properly.”
Eventually Merlin can actually handle a stick without poking himself in the eye. He’ll never be an expert fighter but nor will he be cut down in the first minute while still attempting to pull out a knife.
And while Arthur has laughed at him plenty of times, mainly when picking squished bits of vegetables off him after a stint in the stocks, he has never ever mocked Merlin during a training session. Not even when he’s really, really bad.
The basket-maker Sebbi’s house catches fire. It’s wood, like most of the structures in the lower village and the flames quickly take hold. Merlin is one of the first on the scene. He’s not alone but there are few people around. For a moment he hesitates. He could - perhaps - stop the fire without attracting undue notice. Sebbi runs past him, shouting “Water! Water!” He lives alone so the house is obviously empty. Merlin could stop this. But what difference will it make? It’s only a building which can be rebuilt. When he talks to Arthur - and he has to believe that he will talk to Arthur again - he needs to be able to say that he’s given up magic.
He grabs a bucket and runs towards the well.
There are very few places in the castle they haven’t made out in at some point or other. Merlin has been pushed back against stone walls, kissed behind tapestries, tugged into secret rooms. There’s a kind of heady delight of almost being caught.
After a particularly awful day after which Arthur has scrapped Merlin off the ground and all but hoisted him up on one of the wooden box horses, Merlin is not looking forward to whatever the next section of training is.
“Lean back a little,” orders Arthur in a smoky voice that causes Merlin’s eyes to fly open. The prince’s hands are busy at the tie of his breeches. Merlin gives a panicked look around. There is risk taking and there is risk taking. Arthur, he feels, inclines a little too much to the latter.
“Don’t worry, we’re alone,” says Arthur in a tone calculated to make any sane person worry.
Merlin makes vague flailing gestures at the wooden box where he perches precariously. He is distracted somewhat by what Arthur is doing with his hands.
Arthur responds with a look of amazement. “I’m a prince, Merlin, you can hardly expect me to get down on my knees.”
On certain days King Uther holds open sessions where the people of Camelot can express their grievences and receive judgement from their monarch. Sebbi is here to petition for a grant to rebuild his home which has been completely destroyed by the fire. The king listens silently. The story is soon told and Sebbi waits head bowed to hear his fate. Merlin watches from the benches on the side. Uther’s face is impassive. Arthur, by his side, allows sympathy to show for the plight of the man. Inclining his head slightly towards his son Uther obviously asks a question with his eyes for Arthur nods slightly. Uther shakes his head.
The king sits forward on his carved chair, folds gloved hands on the table in front of him and pronounces judgement.
“Sebbi, of Camelot, you have come here to petition for monies to rebuild your home destroyed by fire. This is refused. We have investigated this event and found it to be the result of a candle placed near bales of dryed grasses. It is only by good fortune and the efforts of your neighbours that a major fire was averted within the lower village. For this carelessness you are fined the sum of 10 silver pieces.”
Sebbi is led away. The next petitioner approaches.
At the end of the procedures the royal family are the first to leave. Uther goes first followed in order by his son, his ward, and the various officers of the crown who have been attending. Arthur gazes over the crowd, sees Merlin and deliberately looks away. Morgana also sees him and offers a sympathetic smile as she passes.
A few days later, Sebbi’s fine is paid off anonymously. It does not make Merlin feel any less guilty. He didn’t think it could be possible to be this unhappy. Except he is.
Merlin’s not very good at knots so Arthur has to tie his ankles and one of his hands himself. Naturally that leaves the final knot and Merlin suspects Arthur could escape from it if he wanted, after all, he hasn’t been able to force himself to tie it very hard, but the prince doesn’t try. Later, he adds knots and ties to Merlin’s programme of training. They don’t bother the other way around. Arthur can, sometimes does, easily immobilise Merlin with one hand around his wrists. It’s so much a fact that anything extra would be superfluous
Unhappy would not be the first adjective that comes to mind when considering Arthur at this moment. Spoilt. Brattish. Arrogant. These would all rank high on the list but unhappy would be a reach because Arthur has pretty much got a smirk plastered on his face 24/7.
Always difficult to please, Arthur has reached new levels of demanding. It’s an open secret that the domestic servants now draw straws to see who will be unlucky enough to deal with the prince.
“It’s not funny,” says Gwen as Gaius laughs and even Merlin manages the flicker of a smile. Arthur can be a brat and he’s not always fair about who he takes his temper out on. Merlin is possibly the only servant Arthur has never managed intimidate. Was. Was possibly the only servant.
Camelot’s soldiery are also feeling the strain. Arthur has doubled training sessions for his knights and insists that ordinary foot soldiers undertake more rigorous training. Naturally he supervises this himself.
“Morgana thinks its something to do with Uther,” confides Gwen. “The king is really pleased with Arthur. He says he’s developing a kingly attitude.”
“He’s already got plenty of kingly attitude,” says Merlin defensively. Then, wondering if he has protested too hotly adds, “He can certainly be a royal pain in the arse.”
Gwen laughs. “I expect you’re pleased to have got away from him. Morgana says she feels sorry for him because it’s not easy being a prince, but I don’t. I think he’s just arrogant.” She adds, “Or crossed in love.”
Merlin makes a kind of grunting noise, intended to evidence disinterest, and turns away. He bites a lip to prevent himself showering Gwen with questions. Could Arthur have possibly have found someone else? Did Merlin mean so little to him?
“What was that, Merlin?” asks Gwen.
Merlin’s still trying to control his features sufficiently to respond, when Gaius saves him the necessity. “All jobs have their downsides, Gwen. It’s not always easy to see the inside from the outside. Being a prince isn’t all velvets and crowns.”
She laughs. “If you say so, Gaius! It’s not as if the likes of us will ever have the chance to find out!”
Cushioned in the darkness with even the curtains of the bed closed Arthur says, “I love you.” And Merlin, lost in the white heart of together where all the edges are blurred and he can’t tell where he stops and Arthur begins says blindly, “I will never leave you.”
Of course it’s all a lie.
At first glance Matthew Mather is not particularly impressive. White beard, straggling white hair, teeth and nails like old ivory and bloodshot eyes the colour of pebbles, Mather moves in a symphony of dirty whites and creams and carries a long white cane. A self-styled holy man, he travels the countryside routing out demons. At second glance onlookers might allow that Mather has a certain air that distinguishes him. At third glace they would do well to be afraid. It is better not to invite Mather’s attention. He is the coldest man Merlin has ever met. And he has a passion for his work.
As is his custom Uther has invited Mather - for he claims noble lineage - to be a guest at court. And where there are guests, there are entertainments to be prepared.
Although he no longer works for Arthur, Merlin is still able to attend many of the feasts, either as Gaius’ assistant or in a general working capacity where the castle kitchens have recruited as many additional hands as possible to cater for increased numbers. Merlin would not talk to Arthur even if the opportunity came up. It never does. Under the perpetual smirk Arthur looks tired and driven. He eats little but is always one of the last to leave the table. The prince has stupid taste in friends, Merlin tells himself, watching them laughing and joking. He doesn’t care about the people. Gwen was right about him all along.
After the food has been consumed and cleared Matthew Mather pays for his lodging by telling stories. He describes in loving detail the cases of witchcraft and possession he has encountered in his travels. As he holds forth his thin, pale hands seem to glow with the heat from the fire as they motion to illustrate his tales.
Mather’s voice rises and falls enticing his listeners as skilfully as any trained bard. “She cried, my good lords, how she cried but the prick of the knife would not lie. We cut off the devil’s mark and then tossed the wench into the fire. So her soul was saved even as her body burned.”
Merlin listening wonders if he is going to be sick and backs away from the group. Arthur remains at the high table, hands clasped loosely around a goblet of wine and face downwards. As Merlin stares, the prince’s head lifts and he directs a look of loathing at Mather. Merlin wonders if Mather’s dinner conversation was along the same lines as his after-dinner speeches. Please Arthur, he thinks, do not have sneered at Mather no matter what he might have said. He is not the kind of man to forget a snub.
Uther’s face is inscrutable but then Merlin has never been able to read the king in the way he can his son.
“Let me tell of the whole family possessed by the spirit of swine,” recounts Mather, as a servant moves to unobtrusively refill his goblet. He takes an appreciative sip. There is silence as his audience waits for him to begin. Mather starts low, barely louder than a whisper, voice rising as he draws them in. “They moved on all fours, squealing and grunting….”
“Merlin!”
The sound of his name breaks the spell of the story. Gaius is at his elbow, guiding him out. “Come now, Merlin. We’re not needed any longer and I don’t think these stories are healthy.”
Merlin gives a little shiver. “Gaius! Have you heard him? It’s…it’s unspeakable.”
“Shhh,” says Gaius, looking around to see who might be listening to them. Careful is second-nature after a lifetime at court. “No more now, we’ll talk at home.”
*
By odd coincidence the arrival of Mather sparks a deluge in cases of witchcraft in the villages around Camelot. Each morning Mather sets off with his staff in hand and a raggle-taggle of followers hoping to see the master at work. They are not disappointed. Young. Old. Comely. Diseased. It seems that there is no particular type of person drawn to sorcery but there indeed many practising such evils. After the first few cases are pinpointed by Mather using his holy powers, anonymous tip-offs start to come in and neighbours bring in concerns over neighbours. Reports of burnings and hangings begin to circulate around the castle. Small groups of people gather to whisper in corners.
Uther knits his brow and paces the corridors of the castle with barely-held in ferocity. Often Arthur is at his side. Sometimes they seem to argue but more often their expressions are in agreement. Something must be done. The people are scared and restless. Sorcery must not be allowed to take hold of Camelot.
*
Morgana has been having bad dreams. Gaius sends Merlin daily to her chambers with a herbal preparation designed to ease sleep. It does not seem to work so each day the formula is modified somewhat. Morgana laughs and says she feels like a medical experiment but it is clear she is distressed. Dark shadows smudge her eyes.
Merlin is mixing the herbs with water in the quantities Gaius has prescribed when Arthur strides in following the most cursory of knocks.
“Morgana-“ he begins and stops abruptly when he sees Merlin.
“Arthur.” Morgana greets him civilly but with a hint of annoyance. “What is it? Something important to make you barge in like this, I hope.”
Arthur leans against the table, all arrogant swagger, and infuriating entitlement. After the first shocked look he ignores Merlin. “The king summons you. I imagine you may class that as important.”
Morgana glares at the tone but stands up anyway. Uther is not to be kept waiting. “Why? No don’t bother telling me. I’ll go now.” She sweeps out leaving Merlin and Arthur alone in her chamber.
Merlin puts the herbs down, largely because his hands have started shaking. Is Arthur going to stay? Perhaps they can finally talk.
They don’t talk.
Arthur makes a single choked sound. Then movement is a blur and Merlin hits the back of the wall. Hard. Arthur’s mouth is crushing down against his, tongue pushing into Merlin’s mouth. It would be force except Merlin’s hands have snaked round Arthur’s back, dropped down to his hips and pulled the prince forward as far as he can and his own tongue is doing more than a little fighting for possession. It’s been so long. He’s so hard, so quickly, it’s almost embarrassing only Arthur is in like state. Arthur seems reluctant to let go of his mouth. Or perhaps it’s Merlin that can’t let go because if nobody says anything this won’t stop. Merlin thinks he might pass out from lack of breath except their kissing is getting messier, less controlled and there’s a lot of sliding. Arthur dips his head and bites at Merlin’s neck. Painful nips. It’s going to mark Merlin thinks with vicious pleasure grinding into the hard flesh meeting his. He’s actually going to come from a few minutes desperate frottage against the wall. He pushes Arthur’s shirt up, digs fingers into warm flesh. Re-maps skin he already knows by heart.
When it’s over Arthur relaxes his grip and sags against Merlin still holding on to him, but loosely now. Merlin looks beyond the bent blond head to the smooth expanse of bed. They should do this again, but slowly this time, he thinks, and after that it will be time to talk. For a moment he forgets where he is. He runs his hands along Arthur’s arms, past his shoulders, lets them rest behind Arthur’s neck. Arthur raises his head, face flushed, lips swollen, dazed eyes focussed on Merlin’s before their lips catch again for a longer, deeper kiss.
A door opens. Morgana is back.
“Arthur!,” she says, striding into the room, much as Arthur had, but more right since it is hers. And, like the prince earlier, she suddenly stills at the sight before her. Her face flames red. “Arthur, Uther wants you now.”
Arthur looks up at the sound. Confusion is replaced by embarrassment as he recalls where he is. He steps back face settling into lines of haughty indifference that discourage any approach. “This was a mistake,” he says to Merlin. Ignoring Morgana, he leaves without waiting for a reply.
Merlin is left against the wall, sure that the stones are the only thing keeping him upright. Morgana takes one look at him and tactfully averts her gaze. He’s thankful that at least he’s wearing black.
“I should go.” He forces himself to stand straight, to regain some semblance of dignity. He pulls at his shirt, trying without much success to make it look tidier.
“I’m sorry. I would not have come in if I’d known,” Morgana says still facing the window. Shock still faintly laces her voice.
“No. No.” Merlin starts to babble through sheer embarrassment. He licks his lips. They taste of Arthur. He really wants to be anywhere but here. “I need to get back to Gaius. Hopefully the potion will work and you won’t have more nightmares tonight.”
“Merlin,” she says as he tries to exit the room without actually breaking into a run. She turns and beckons him forward. Merlin obeys the summons and then blushes even deeper as she smoothes his hair down and arranges his scarf carefully over his neck. Underneath the fabric he can feel the bite throbbing. Respectability somewhat restored, she lets him go. Merlin once again edges towards the door.
“Merlin,” Morgana stops him again. Pink tinges her cheekbones in a way that has nothing to do with cosmetics. “One thing.”
“What?” he asks, holding on to the door handle.
She fingers the ornate necklace around her throat. “Please be careful.”
Link to Part Two