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“Please” Merlin was moaning, writhing about on the blanket, hands tugging at his clothing like it was strangling him.
He had been doing this for the past hour, ever since Lancelot had dragged him into the cave, away from the prying eyes of the other knights.
They had ridden out to face a new enemy to the kingdom, a magical beast which could destroy whole towns with one terrifying roar. Peasants had swarmed into Camelot, reporting dozens dead or missing, hundreds of homes and acres laid to waste. Arthur hadn’t wasted any time in pursuing the beast.
They had come across it earlier that night, approaching a town near the border. Arthur had led the charge, more brawns than brains, as usual. Lancelot had known what would happen. At first sight he could see that the beast was beyond their strength, its magic making it even more impervious to their futile swords and arrows. He knew what Merlin would do, and he made no move to stop him, since he knew it was their only chance of surviving and protecting the lives of the whole kingdom.
Merlin only hesitated a moment, making sure the others were duly distracted and wouldn’t notice his magic. Lancelot couldn’t believe how blind they all were. Sometimes he wondered if it was just willful ignorance. Because when Merlin summoned those words from deep within the Earth there was no way to ignore the unmistakable surge of power, like nature herself were reacting to his commands. Lancelot watched his eyes glow molten gold, invisible shockwaves emanating from his outstretched hands. In these moments he didn’t know whether to be awed by his beauty or terrified of his power.
Lancelot had known it was necessary. But what he hadn’t know was the toll it would take on the young sorcerer. Merlin was hardier than he looked, for all Arthur’s playful teasing. But magic was different. Magic took something out of the user that was more than the strain of muscles or mind. It was as if his life force was diminished, at least temporarily, ebbing like a sea at low tide until nature had time to readjust and restore its balance.
Merlin must have used incredible amounts of power, because he collapsed almost instantly. But the others didn’t seem to notice, only aware that the beast had been mysteriously and miraculously wounded, and they pursued it to deliver the final blow.
Lancelot was the only one who went to Merlin, scooping the boy up as if he weighed no more than a sack of flour. He would find the others later and let them know they were alright. But right now he had to get Merlin somewhere safe, where the others wouldn’t see him like this, wouldn’t ask questions Lancelot couldn’t answer. It was too dangerous.
He found the cave nearby, by a stroke of fortune. Such lucky turns always seemed to happen around Merlin, like the boy was blessed by some all-seeing power. Lancelot laid down his cape as a makeshift bed and gently placed the boy down.
Merlin was delirious, breathing fast and unsteady, writhing in obvious discomfort. He was whispering words, words Lancelot couldn’t make out, but thought he probably wouldn’t understand regardless.
He had checked Merlin for signs of fever or injury, but the boy seemed fine, just weak. Lancelot didn’t know exactly how this worked, but he knew it took time. He had seen Merlin go through similar bout before, and all it required was a little rest. But it had never been this dire. He had never passed out before, and it worried Lancelot.
But there was nothing he could do, at least not without alerting the others and putting Merlin’s life in certain danger. He was fairly certain that Arthur would not betray Merlin, even if he knew his secret. But the boy had bound him to secrecy, and it was an oath he would not break.
As the night had worn on Merlin’s writhing and moaning had become more severe, almost desperate. His words became more intelligible, and Lancelot could tell he was pleading, though he knew not what for. He tried to offer Merlin some water, but he wouldn’t hold still long enough to swallow it, instead spilling over his chin and neck.
Merlin seemed to be desperately hot, because he was tugging at his clothes, trying to pull them off, away from his heated skin. But he was wearing too many layers, and his fumbling hands couldn’t make sense of the obstructions.
Lancelot moved to his side, trying to aid him. He pulled off the neckerchief, now damp with sweat, then his outer jacket. Merlin whimpered at the contact, whenever the knight’s fingers brushed against his bare skin. Lancelot tried not to flush, he knew Merlin was unaware of his actions in his delirious state. But he was making such desperate sounds, nearly keening in a way that was so unintentionally erotic. Lancelot felt disgusted with himself for even thinking it, but the thought wouldn’t go away, as much as he begged it to.
Lancelot tried to move away, thinking distance would help clear his mind. But Merlin’s fingers latched on to him, pulling towards himself, until Lancelot lost his balance, toppling over on top of Merlin’s chest. He quickly pushed himself up, afraid of hurting the poor boy. But Merlin’s fingers remained fast around his arms, keeping him in place. Lancelot didn’t know Merlin could be so strong, especially weakened as he was. He wondered if this was something to do with his mysterious magic, if maybe he wasn’t weakened at all, but actually overflowing with power, channeling it through his defenseless body.
The thought stunned him too much to move for a moment, and Merlin seemed to take the opportunity to explore the skin within his grasp, tugging and squeezing on biceps, flanks, thighs, whatever he could reach.
Lancelot let out a stuttered gasp when Merlin’s hand brushed over his groin. Merlin was whimpering again, moaning “please, please, please,” and Lancelot had to muster every ounce of his resolve, breaking from the tight grip and throwing himself backwards, landing on the floor on the cave with a hard thud.
The loss of contact distressed Merlin even more, and he began writhing with renewed desperation.
Lancelot couldn’t believe what had just happened. Merlin was his friend, his trusted companion and ally. They were bonded as brothers-in-arms, sworn to protect their king. It was not within the knight’s code to do such things, to take advantage of a comrade in their weakness. And yet Lancelot could still feel the touch of those fingers on himself, eager and coaxing. He felt ashamed of his own hardness, desperately willing it away. But his body refused to listen to his mind, ignoring his noble intentions. The body wanted what it wanted, honor and duty be damned.
Merlin was whimpering now, hands outstretched, seeking in the darkness. Lancelot watched him with brooding eyes. Merlin called out again, “please,” and it went straight to Lancelot’s gut, like a bolt of lightning, igniting need and desire that he hadn’t known he could feel. It was a dark, ugly feeling, not like the tender love he felt for Gwen. It was basic, animalistic. He felt like nature was calling to him, just as it spoke to Merlin in those glorious moments when he unleashed his magic. Merlin’s magic was calling to him, and he couldn’t resist its draw any more than he could stop the sun from rising.
Lancelot crawled back toward Merlin, still hesitant but unable to stop. Merlin reached out, grabbing on and dragging him close, flush against his body. Lancelot couldn’t stifle a groan as he felt Merlin slide against him, his thigh rubbing against his arousal in the most delicious and wicked way. It seemed to please Merlin, because he did it again, harder this time, and Lancelot felt himself gasping for breath.
It felt like he was detached from his body then, hovering somewhere above them, observing the scene below. He saw Merlin gasp and groan, reaching between their bodies, pushing clothing out of the way, touching flesh. He took Lancelot’s hardness in his hand, fisting it with rough strokes, leading the knight’s hand to mirror the actions on himself. And Lancelot did, without hesitation, because he was beyond thinking now, beyond wondering why and how and anything but more and now.
Merlin’s moans were desperate and deep, pace quickening as they rubbed together in heated abandon. Lancelot felt himself tense, unable to hold back a gasp as he spent, feeling Merlin follow seconds later, letting out a great cry which nearly deafened him, and sounded like the whole forest crying in relief. In reverberated off the walls of the cave and out over the trees, and Lancelot was sure it echoed around the world.
The two slumped there together, sweaty and sticky and utterly boneless. Lancelot pulled himself away. The magnetic draw he had felt was gone, the strange power dissipated. Whatever magic had been calling to him was now gone, seeped back into the primordial Earth.
Merlin lay peaceful now, breathing light and steady, skin cooling in the night air. Lancelot looked on him with something like awe, amazed that such power could be contained within such a small, delicate body.
Lancelot knew what he had to do, cleaning off the evidence of their encounter, laying Merlin back peacefully to get some much needed rest. When he woke they would go find the others, who would probably be desperately searching for them by now.
Lancelot knew he would never speak of this, not to his dying day. He would never quite understand what had happened this night, but he would never forget it either, like a dream that would come back to him in the quiet hours of the night, when he was vulnerable and unguarded. And in those hours he might feel a deep, aching pain, a want that would never go away. But it was his burden to bear, to protect Merlin, to shield him from the weight of his power. And that Lancelot would gladly do, a price he would gladly pay to protect his friend, his brother, his comrade. To their dying day.