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Camelot isn’t quiet, the soft rain and muffled voices of drunken men sees to that, but it does feel uncommonly still. The cloak of night-time seeming to lend some eerie gravitas to the world… whether real or imagined, it didn't rightly matter much. The light rain has been falling for hours, slowly but steadily drenching the city. The outer rim of Camelot is home to some of the more salacious taverns and way-houses of the city, far as it is from the prying eyes of King Uther’s peace-keepers and the oppressive shadow of the castle. The northern most tip of the city is known colloquially as Beggars’ Drift. Incidentally, with its convenient geographical positioning, Beggars’ Drift is where most travellers choose to stop their weary feet, filling up the streets and public houses like driftwood caught in a dam.
Rain drips from a wooden sign which reads The Eight Fingers – or it did at some point in its past, but the letters are so faded that even in the harshest sunlight there appears to be only the faintest suggestion of letters. But everyone knows The Eight Fingers in Beggars’ Drift, a tavern that has always had an eclectic mix of patrons: thick-set bravos, blushing clerks, painted-ladies, rough country folk and – as on this particular night – the odd bounty hunter.
This bounty hunter – a bullish man with more strength than brains – sits inside The Eight Fingers drinking a toast to his latest good fortune. He knows that King Uther will pay him a grand sum for the skinny warlock. King Uther, though a cold and unbending sovereign, keeps his word about sorcerers and their ken, as reliable as the tide. The bounty hunter can almost feel the ghost of a silver fortune lining his pocks, weighing him down. A burden to be happy of.
While the bounty hunter sits in the crowded warmth, fingers sneaking up the skirt of a whore and his breath warm in her ear, his good fortune sits caged outside the tavern. It is a man – young and gaunt and exhausted. There are ropes around his wrists and old welts on his back from thigh to shoulder blades. His large blue eyes stare into the night with the disinterest of the condemned, only the occasional whispered moan crossing his lips.
The Eight Fingers’ courtyard is suddenly bathed in a wash of orange and the young man finds himself drawn to the light. Two men stand in the tavern’s doorway. The first is tall and russet-haired, with broad shoulders hidden under a plain cloak. The second is slightly shorter, but his cloak is a shocking dark blue, the colour of a precious stone from the Orient, and certainly of a better cut than his companion’s. His hood is up, concealing his face in shadows.
“Just because I am allowing you, for this single night only, to call me by my given name, does not give you free reign to abuse this right,” the second is saying.
“Whatever you say, Artie.” The first man’s indulgent smirk is just visible in the light spilling out from the alehouse – his large, callused hands are holding open the door.
“I can have you beheaded,” his hooded companion mutters darkly.
“You could. But you won’t.” He closes the tavern door, leaving the two men to stand in the dark and the drizzle.
“Remind me again why I thought this was a good idea,” the hooded man – Artie – asks, voice verging on petulant. He tips his head upward so that his face can feel the rain, eyes closed. His fellow pauses for a moment to watch, calculating his next words.
“Honest answer? Or arse-lick answer?”
“You’re a smart man, Leon. Take a fucking guess.”
“I believe getting-so-drunk-you-couldn’t-remember-your-own-name was on the cards, Si – Artie.”
“Well that failed spectacularly.”
“Indeed,” Leon agrees. “But to get that drunk you have to ah… drink. Lots. More than a half tankard.”
“I tried. But that ale was vile – I’ve never tasted its kind before. Like having someone pore pitch down my throat. The devil if I know how anyone can stomach it.”
Leon laughed, a deep-bellied sound that echoed around the alehouse courtyard. It startled a few roosting pigeons from their perch under the eaves but otherwise the night remained still.
“Never took you for a delicate flower,” he said to Artie after a moment.
“Again with the beheading.”
Artie began to walk swiftly across the cobbled courtyard, his strides long and even. Leon followed a pace behind, a grin evident on his broad face. Neither man noticed the blue eyes of the bounty hunter’s prize watching them. Not at first. All it took for the tide to turn, for fate to slide into place like the coming together of two magnets, was a drunken farrier’s apprentice.
The apprentice, young and stupid with ale, stumbles around the corner into the courtyard, body swaying dangerously. He lurches at the suddenness of coming upon both Artie and Leon, and the poor boy begins to tip forward, arms stretched out as though hoping for an ill-advised hug. In the blink of an eye, Leon manoeuvres himself between the drunken boy and Artie. One hand pushes his companion roughly aside – causing Artie to lose his own balance and fall against the bounty hunter’s cage – and the other came to rest upon the hilt of the sword previously hidden under his cloak.
“Keep moving, friend,” Leon says to the gasping apprentice. The glint of sharp metal is easy enough to spot in the moonlight.
“Stand down, Leon. It’s only a boy who can’t hold his drink. No harm,” Artie says to his man. He waves off the shaking apprentice with a frown, right hand rubbing his left shoulder experimentally. It had connected rather forcefully with… Artie raises his eyes to the horse-drawn cage. Two blue eyes in a sunken face stare back. Artie’s nostrils flair.
For a moment, all that exists in the world are these two men – one free, one caged and both breathless. A lightning strike of emotions hits them at the same time: shock, fear, awe, hope. Both are lost in their own reverie and unable to understand the significance of what is happening to them. Had they been aware of anything beyond each other they might have heard the ground below them rumble, a sound eerily like the chuckle of some great beast.
“Leon,” Artie barks at last, breaking the silence if not the connection. Leon lopes over to Artie, hand still on the hilt of his sword.
“Si – um. Yes?”
Artie points distractedly at the cage, unable to voice what he wants Leon to tell him. Leon considers the cage and its occupant for a moment before turning back to Artie, expression solemn.
“The bounty hunter,” he says, voice low and head tilting towards The Eight Fingers. A look of understanding dawns on Artie’s face.
“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck. A warlock? But… he’s so young.”
“As the King says: there is no age limit to sorcery. Remember the druid boy?” Leon says, gently. It’s a touchy subject. “I think we’d better be…”
“No,” Artie cuts off his companion. He paces to the cage, bringing his face up close to the bars and peering in. The young warlock flinches, breath rattling in his lungs. If he hasn’t got the Shivering Sickness yet, he soon will. He looks so beaten, more animal than human.
“This isn’t right,” Artie whispers neither to himself nor to the warlock or Leon – he just has to say it out loud. Leon shifts uneasily, eyes darting from Artie to the cage and to the streets beyond The Eight Fingers. Artie rests his forehead on the metal bars for a moment, eyes fluttering closed for the briefest of moments. When he turns around, his expression is stony and fierce.
“Leave me, Leon.”
“But –“
“If you disobey my direct order I will have you thrown into the stocks for insubordination – mark my words. Am I understood?” Unlike the previous threats of beheading, Leon seems to know instantly that this warning is very real.
“I do not want you to be a part of this,” Artie says, quieter than before but no less firm. Leon nods deeply, more like a bow, and turns away with obvious reluctance. Artie watches him leave, disappearing into the warren of streets in Beggars’ Drift.
Without a word Artie turns to the cage and unsheathes his sword. He wants to hack at the chains wrapped around the door but knows it would be futile. To test his theory (and possibly to expel some of the anger welling up inside him), he lands a ringing blow to the chains. A few sparks fly to the cobblestones but nothing more. The prisoner suddenly comes to life, shuffling forward and rasping out words that seem to have cobwebs on them.
“Cut the ropes,” he says, holding out his tied wrists. Artie barely hesitates. He lifts his sword and takes careful aim. The ropes fray and a moment later give completely. A trickle of blood wells from the warlock’s forearm where blade met skin.
“I’m… I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Artie says, voice a little unsteady. The warlock glances from Artie to his bleeding wrist. He shakes his head and wipes the blood down the side of his grimy trousers.
“It doesn’t matter,” he croaks. “Stand back.”
The look on Artie’s face is close to supercilious indignation – he isn’t used to taking orders of any kind from anyone, but the young man is looking so determined, so solemn that Artie dances back a few paces. The warlock brings his hand up to the iron lock, fingers splayed. He takes a breath, too shallow and wheezing to be fortifying, and then speaks.
Artie unconsciously takes another step back as the ancient words slip into the air and hang like an echo. Eerie. The warlock’s eyes flame gold and the lock explodes, clattering across the cobbles. Artie finds his body unwilling to move for the longest time. He stands there breathing in gulps of wet, night air and staring at the warlock.
The young man looks exhausted. His powers, what was left of them, have now been used up and have affected him physically. His arms shake with the weight of the cage door, creaking it open small increments at a time. His breathing is becoming more erratic and he looks ready to give way mere inches from emancipation. At last he looks up from his futile struggle to stare at Artie. Eyes which are already startling and large are made even bigger by starvation. It’s a look of abject weariness. The world is too heavy for such a skinny frame and he’s crumpling before Artie’s very eyes.
Artie crosses to the horse-drawn cage and heaves the door open with a grunt. He takes a firm grip on the warlock’s arm to help him down, but every last bit of strength is gone and the young man collapses to the wet cobbles. Without pause, Artie crouches and puts his arms under the man’s own arms and knees, then lifts. It isn’t a comfortable weight but nor is the warlock particularly burdensome, manageable like no grown man should be.
Artie begins to walk. The wreck of a man in his arms barely moves and the only way Artie knows he’s alive is by the warm breath against the curve of his neck.
“Thank you.” It’s barely a whisper, a mere suggestion of words.
“What's your name?” Artie asks quietly. He turns a deserted corner and then another and third before a name is mouthed, warm against his neck.
Merlin.
Merlin drifts in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he’s sure he hears a voice saying his name, other times he’s pressed against something warm and yielding, like being wrapped in the comforting arms of a lover. But mostly it’s a blank stretch of time for Merlin. Everything bleeds together. When he finally comes to, his eyes open into darkness. He’s somewhere dry and quiet, but he can sense heavy walls all around him. Merlin can hear the echo of the place, like being stuck in a cave. It isn’t entirely horrible, it makes a change from the bounty hunter’s cage and ropes and at least he’s warm. A blanket has been tucked around him and another is folded under his head.
Merlin doesn’t know how long he lies there breathing before he hears the empty ring of footsteps bouncing off the stone walls. He doesn’t have enough energy to move – even if he did, where would he go? Merlin can barely see beyond the end of his nose. His heart beats an unsteady rhythm as slowly the black of the cavern begins to lighten. The red-gold light suddenly arrives around a corner to reveal a young man. He stops abruptly at the sight of Merlin.
“You’re awake,” the man says, voice careful and neutral.
The name ‘Artie’ jumps to the forefront of Merlin’s mind. It’s the man that helped him escape. The flame of the torch illuminates his face and Merlin can finally see him in detail: blonde hair, light blue eyes, thin mouth, broad shoulders and the unmistakable, unthinking baring of the highly born. He is a beautiful man, sure and easy in his own skin.
Artie sets his torch in a sconce on the stone wall before moving over to crouch by Merlin. He sets down a cloth sack which he begins to unpack. There is bread and cheese and a flagon of what Merlin supposes must be beer and several other objects, mostly small jars and vials like one might find at an apothecaries’.
“How do you feel?” Artie asks.
“I’ve… certainly felt better,” Merlin manages. He attempts a smile but from the look on Artie’s face he doesn’t think it comes out quite right.
“You’ve been down here for two days fighting a fever. The bounty hunter has been raising all kinds of hell, sore as a boar with toothache. The king’s men are looking for you – but you’re safe for now. No harm can come to you here.”
Merlin wants to say thank you but it sounds so… insignificant in comparison with what this man, this total stranger, is doing for him.
“Where is ‘here’?” Merlin asks instead. Artie uncorks the flagon of beer and without hesitation he places a hand behind Merlin’s head and holds him up while the other hand puts the flagon rim to Merlin’s mouth. He drinks the watered down beer, too thirsty to do anything else. Artie doesn’t look embarrassed or awkward and is speaking quite calmly all the while.
“The old grain stores. Camelot is riddled with them thanks to the industriousness of the old Roman conquerors. I used to hide here as a child.” He takes the flagon away and settles Merlin’s head back on the blanket. “People don’t often come down here, most don’t know it even exists. You’ll be safe. I’ll see that.”
Artie takes up a vial and pops the cork – the smell of an astringent, medicinal concoction permeates the air. Merlin doesn’t think he’ll like what’s coming next. Artie upends the vial against a square of cloth and moves Merlin’s covers aside. Merlin shivers at the sudden cold and watches as Artie moves to the hem of his ragged shirt. Suddenly he pauses, hand hovering and the faintest hint of a blush shows on his fair skin.
“I… sorry, do you mind? I’ve been seeing to your injuries for the past two days, but you were never awake. Obviously. Never had to um… ask.”
“Thank you,” Merlin blurts, quiet and sincere. He didn’t mean to say it, not then, but at Artie’s charming hesitation he can’t help himself. “I don’t mind.”
Artie nods curtly and Merlin’s shivering becomes worse when his shirt is lifted up. He tries to help get the garment off completely but it sends sharp bands of pain across his chest. Artie tells him to be still and let him do the work. Merlin complies readily enough. The first dab of the medicine against his abrasions has Merlin sucking in a breath. He closes his eyes trying not to cry or writhe under the steady pressure. Artie is not exactly gentle but his hands are steady and knowing and it occurs to Merlin, somewhere between spikes of pain, to think that Artie must have experience tending to wounds. It's a comforting and sad thought.
Artie stops dabbing at Merlin’s skin but the stinging doesn’t lessen very much. Breathing through gritted teeth, he opens his eyes to see Artie taking a tiny clay pot from his makeshift physician’s kit. Merlin dreads what’s inside. The fragrance is far more pleasant, like pine resin and cloves. Instead of putting the oil on a cloth, Artie pours a little into his palms, rubs them together and then places his hands on Merlin’s burning skin.
Merlin sucks in a breath at the feel of Artie’s strong fingers and the strange cooling sensation of the oil. Artie carefully massages the oil into Merlin’s skin, eyes steady on his task and not once glancing aside at him. Merlin is finding it hard to catch his breath. Fingers run low towards the waistband of his trousers, dangerous and somehow sensual, before sweeping back up his side towards his neck. At Merlin’s thrumming pulse Artie’s fingers stop and rest for a moment.
“I need to turn you over -- do your back,” Artie explains. Merlin nods and together they get him onto his stomach. As the fingers start again, slower because of the old mess of wounds on his back, Merlin hides his burning face in the musty fabric of the blankets. He’s glad he can’t see Artie’s hands on him any more so he can concentrate on the medicine seeping into him and numbing the pains. It’s been a long time since Merlin felt no physical pain and wills himself to concentrate on this delightful feeling of his body finally healing.
“There,” Artie says with satisfaction, taking his soothing hands from Merlin’s back.
Artie doesn’t stay long after that. He helps Merlin with his shirt and packs away his pots and vials. He points to the bread and the cheese warning Merlin not to eat too much, his stomach won’t be able to handle much at first.
“When will you be back?” Merlin asks, a touch desperately when it looks as though Artie is about to leave without another word. The man turns to Merlin and looks down.
“Whenever I can slip away,” he says with a distracted sigh. “I’ll be missed if I come too often, but I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Artie,” Merlin says again for lack of anything else to say. The reaction to his words isn’t what Merlin is expecting. Artie looks stunned and a little disgusted, lip curling.
“For the love all that is holy, never call me Artie. Ever.”
“But I thought. That man you were with, Leon, he called you Artie,” Merlin stumbles over his words. He’s embarrassingly relieved that the look hadn’t been directed at him.
“Leon was making a jest at my expense,” not-Artie elaborates dryly.
“What shall I call you then, friend?” Merlin watches as the man’s shoulders stiffen at first. His body eases after only a moment and he seems to come to a decision because he looks at Merlin, a little smirk on his face, playful and full of arrogance.
“Arthur. Arthur will do just fine.”
“Show me,” Arthur commands. Merlin hitches his left shoulder in a half shrug. It’s not like there’s any reason he shouldn’t show Arthur his magic. He shouldn’t be nervous, but he is, a little, deep in the pit of his stomach. Arthur has seen him use his magic before but it had been in a moment of live or die and he hadn’t really been thinking all that clearly. This is different and Merlin wonders what Arthur’s reaction will be.
“Since you said it so nicely. What would you like, oh impatient one?” Merlin teases lightly. “Something to eat perhaps?”
“Yes. Good idea. How about… strawberries?”
“Outside of summer?”
“You’re magical. The normal laws of nature – or man,” Arthur gives him a pointed look, “don’t seem to apply to you.”
Merlin rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. He sort of treasures these moments of trivial banter because they make him feel normal again, like he’s back in Ealdor. He’s so grateful to Arthur for giving him this, not just the freedom, precious though it is, but a fragment of his old self seems to slot back into place whenever they’re together. Concentrating, Merlin cups his hands together and recites an old incantation from memory. He feels the warm tingling sensation of his magic glowing between his fingers and opens up his hands. In his palm lies a little red rosebud.
Arthur stares for a moment before saying sarcastically, “not exactly a strawberry.” But it’s also said gently, with a satisfied little smile quirking his lips. Merlin knows he’s pleased Arthur and is immeasurably happy for it.
“Bet you were quite the charmer growing up,” Arthur says, taking the flower from Merlin.
“Not really, more like accident prone, dreamy. Anxious to leave.” At Arthur’s curious look, Merlin elaborates. “Ealdor was home, it was comfortable and safe, but I never quite belonged… I was sure there had to be a place for me somewhere, a place with a gap just the right size for me. I wanted to find what my mum called my ‘perfect fit’.”
“Did you?” asks Arthur, voice low and eyes staring at the rose in his hands, fingers twirling it slowly.
“Never got the chance. I’d barely crossed the boarder into King Uther’s territory when I was picked up by the bounty hunter.”
“You were coming to Camelot?” Arthur asks, sounding surprised. He lifts his eyes to Merlin’s face, searching for something. Merlin gives another half-shrug and nods.
“But why? Surely you knew of F – King Uther’s stance on sorcery. You were as good as hanging yourself!”
“Don’t you think I knew the risks? Nowhere is safe for my kind, so I keep quiet. I hide who I am and that has always been the way. I came to Camelot because my mother knows someone here, someone who’d be willing to look after me. Gaius and Mum go a long way back.”
“Gaius?” Arthur’s voice is sharp with surprise and his eyes are narrowing with misgiving. “The same Gaius who attends the King as court physician?”
“Well, yes. But – ”
“Does he know about your magic?”
“No! Goodness, no. Only two living souls knew before the bounty hunter caught me. My mother and Will.” Arthur looks ready to argue but bites down the surge of words, jaw clenching. Merlin watches, unable to fathom this strange reaction, and before his eyes Arthur seems to physically gather his wits together and tether his emotions to a tight reign. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers trembling a little.
“Who’s Will?” He’s changing the subject, but Merlin doesn’t mind.
“He… was my best friend. We grew up together: climbed trees together, got drunk for the first time together and quite possibly bothered Old Man Simmons into a not-so-early grave together – but there’s no hard evidence of that.” He smiles at the memories, of Will’s incredulous face when Merlin made stupid suggestions, of his very vocal passion for fair play and the anguish when his father was killed in the name of a faceless king – a king that turned his face away when Ealdor was most in need. The bitter, acidic taste of bile rose up Merlin’s throat.
“Was?”
“Killed last harvest. By bandits.” Merlin pauses to rest his forehead against one of his bent knees and takes a deep breath. “We begged for help but no one would come.”
Arthur says nothing, face grim. Merlin looks up from his knees and worries his lower lip.
“I wonder sometimes,” Merlin whispers into the quiet, “if I will ever see a just ruler. When I close my eyes at night I sometimes fancy I can hear a voice telling me that my hopes will come true, to be patient. It says I have a place in this future I dream about. I can make a difference because it’s my destiny.” Merlin sighs. Still Arthur says nothing but his face is fierce, a mixture of pain and hope.
“I know what I’m saying is treasonous and I don’t expect you to agree. You’re of noble blood, that much is clear from your arrogance as well as the cut of your clothes.” Merlin gives Arthur a blinding smile before turning sober once more. “King Cendred would not help us save our home, King Uther persecutes me for something as arbitrary as… being born with blue eyes. I hear the crown prince is more… open-minded, if still possessing the arrogance of his class.”
A bark of startled laugher fills the hollow space around them, making it sound as though twenty people laughed and not one.
“The prince is… he tries, very hard, to do what is right,” Arthur says. “He does not always succeed. There are times when I wonder if he’s worthy.”
“Do you know him well?”
“Sometimes I think I know him better than anyone. Then he does something that I can’t begin to explain. I’m always surprised.” Arthur looks up then, eyes bright and intense, and Merlin’s breath hitches at the sight. Honestly, the man is more stunning than even he – vain prat that he is – can possibly know. They sit in companionable silence a few minutes before Arthur grunts and stands.
“I’ll come tomorrow, as soon as I can,” he says, wrapping his blue cloak around his shoulders. “I’ve um… alleviated a poultice from Gaius’ store. It’s supposed to help with a weak chest.” Now Merlin can really see a blush crawling up Arthur’s cheeks and can’t help the smile that breaks out across his face.
“You’re as good as any mother hen worrying over her chicks,” he observes with amusement. Arthur rolls his eyes and takes the torch from the wall.
His back is to Merlin as he says, “You’re my responsibility.” Then Arthur’s gone, taking the light with him. Something hot unfurls in Merlin’s stomach and he can’t name it. He doesn’t want to be anyone’s responsibility and he really doesn’t want to be Arthur’s. Merlin closes his eyes to try and shut out all the screaming in his mind telling him what he’d really like to mean to Arthur. But the voice in his head is persistent.
Merlin opens his eyes and whispers, “Please.”
The darkness says nothing.
Arthur doesn’t come the next day or the day after that. Merlin begins to really worry and hates being left, quite literally, in the dark. He’s run out of water too and he doesn’t know how safe it is to look for more, presuming he could find a way out. Merlin tries not to think that something horrible has happened to Arthur – surely he hasn’t been found out? If that were the case, Merlin would not be down here, but up on Uther’s chopping block.
When Arthur does finally show he looks quietly thunderous. His right eye is swollen and black.
“What happened?” Merlin asks, lurching onto unsteady feet and stumbling over to Arthur. Arthur drops his cloth sack and tilts his face away from Merlin’s prying fingers, skin flinching as Merlin examined the bruise.
“A fist,” Arthur bites out and moves away. Merlin lets his arms drop uselessly at his side. “I’m sorry I took so long to come back.”
“I was worried,” Merlin says honestly. “I thought… I didn’t know what to think.”
“I’m fine… it’s just getting harder to slip away. I sort of attract a lot of attention without really meaning to. People notice where I am and where I’m not.”
“Glad to know your ego didn’t go anywhere in the last few days.”
“Idiot,” Arthur says almost affectionately, shaking his head. “I brought that poultice and some clothes. You can’t keep wearing those vile things.”
Merlin looks down at the stained and bedraggled clothing and has to agree. Arthur rummages in his bag and comes out with a fine red tunic and a pair of plain brown trousers. He holds them up for inspection. They’re deceptively simple pieces but clearly worth more than Merlin would ever be able to afford, even if he worked for a year. He sucks in a breath.
“Arthur! But they’re much too fine,” he says in awed exasperation. “What did you do, steal them from the prince himself?”
Arthur actually laughs quite a bit at that question. “Didn’t steal, no.”
“You’re hedging,” Merlin accuses. “And are you really suggesting that those are in fact the crowned prince of Camelot’s own clothing?”
“Um. No?”
“Sweet heavens. You – I… Is that how you got the black eye?”
“No,” Arthur says shortly. He crouches again to unearth a large clay jar from the bag. “Here’s the poultice. You’ll have to take your shirt off for this, usual drill.”
Merlin complies, his face a little red as Arthur watches him, and drops the shirt to the floor. Arthur comes over and kicks the offensive garment aside with his boot and a mild sneer.
“Lie down,” he commands, voice deep. Merlin swallows. He moves to the blankets and uses the wall for support as he lowers himself back down – his legs are embarrassingly ineffective still. Once on his back staring up at the rocky ceiling, Arthur falls – gracefully, the show-off – to his knees and opens the jar. There’s a bit of cloth inside soaking in a liquid that smells… Merlin isn’t sure what it is, but it isn’t wholly unpleasant. Almost like almonds but earthier.
Arthur removes the material and unfolds it. Carefully he lays it across Merlin’s exposed chest, pressing the cold material against his skin. Merlin mumbles something about it being really rather cold but Arthur just ignores him until he’s finished patting down the cloth.
“You’ll thank me when you’re not dying of the Shivering Sickness,” he says at last.
“Mother hen,” Merlin teases. “How long do I have too keep this on?”
“Not long, so stop complaining and lie still.” Arthur sits back, folding his legs under him. Merlin asks for water and Arthur helps him to drink – Merlin has really missed water. Arthur looks a little shamed at the obvious greed in Merlin’s noisy slurping. Merlin knows he’s about to apologise with that stiff, formal voice of his – so he says,
“You ever going to tell me how you got that eye?”
Arthur stiffens, shoulders hunching in defence. “I got in a fight. With my father.”
“Your father hit you?” Merlin isn’t expecting that. He can’t quite believe his ears.
“My father is… he’s a tough man. I don’t always stack up to his expectations.”
“So he hits you?”
“God damn it, Merlin,” Arthur says, agitated. He runs a hand through his hair and won’t look at Merlin. “He… my father doesn’t make a habit of hitting me, no. This,” he waves at his swollen eye, “was partially deserved on my part. And I wasn’t the only one who left the room looking like they’d been in a street brawl. Look, you know what fathers are like.”
“Not really,” Merlin murmurs. “I never knew mine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“I… my mother died when I was very young.” Arthur is very quiet of a sudden.
“Sorry,” Merlin says and really means it. Arthur shrugs and won’t say anything more. Merlin smiles sadly, fingers fiddling with the cloth on his chest. It doesn’t feel cold any more; it feels quite hot, but pleasantly so, radiating heat into his tight chest and easing it.
“My father left before I was even born. I used to be so jealous of Will and his father; they were really close. I wanted someone like that – not that Mum wasn’t great with me. She never talked about him, not even once. I often wander what he’s like. If I… take after him. Or if I’m just,” Merlin shrugs, “like this. Alone.” His voice whispers the last word. Arthur still doesn’t say anything and Merlin thinks that maybe he said too much. Sometimes people aren’t very good with this sort of thing, being open, sharing themselves. Merlin has a feeling that Arthur is just such a person – emotionally constipated. Merlin can’t help but want to tell this man everything that enters his mind, his deepest secrets, all his words. It’s a strange feeling.
“Time to take this off you,” Arthur says at last, not really looking at Merlin and paying rather a lot of attention to removing the poultice. Merlin lets him fuss and doesn’t say anything, he’s not always been the brightest boy but he does learn from his mistakes.
“Feeling better?” Arthur asks, stuffing the material back into the clay pot. Merlin nods, rubbing his bare chest.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Now let’s get you into your new clothes.” Arthur reaches for the expensive tunic and trousers. With a firm grip on Merlin’s upper arm, he begins to haul Merlin from the floor. Merlin rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything against being manhandled, not until Arthur’s hands reach out for the flimsy tie of his trousers.
“What are –? Arthur! I can undress myself, you great ox. I’m not enfeebled.”
“Take them off, then. And don’t be such a blushing virgin about it. You haven’t got anything I haven’t seen before.”
Merlin can’t help but bristle at Arthur’s casual flippancy. Sure there were summers where he and Will used to run around Ealdor completely naked, sprawled in the grass and splashing each other in the stream, but they’d stopped doing that around the time their voices broke. Jaw jutting out in defiance, meeting Arthur’s bored gaze with an angry one of his own, Merlin unties the trousers and lets them drop.
“Give me those,” Merlin snaps, stepping out of the old trousers and holding out a hand for the new ones. Arthur dangles them out of reach, dancing back a step. He’s smiling.
“Arthur, you complete prat. This isn’t funny.”
“Well I don’t know about that!” Now Arthur is positively grinning.
Merlin makes a grab for the clothing but misses and stumbles. Before he can go crashing into a wall, strong arms hold him steady. Merlin looks up into Arthur’s face only a few inches from his own. He can’t say anything, not while Arthur is holding him tight, keeping him safe in the circle of his arms. He wants to rest his head against Arthur’s shoulder like he did when Arthur rescued him, wants to put his nose up to Arthur’s neck and breathe him in, deep lungfulls of this beautiful, exasperating man. But he doesn’t.
“I’m alright,” he says instead. He begins to pull away, to let Arthur know he can let go without fear of Merlin causing further injury to himself. Arthur doesn’t let go, if anything his arms tighten. Merlin looks up confused and is about to ask Arthur what he thinks he’s doing. That’s when Arthur kisses him.
Arthur’s warm lips move softly over Merlin’s. It’s a sweet kiss, not sensual, and Merlin can feel his limbs begin to buckle from the sheer surprise and joy of it. He lifts a hand to cup Arthur’s face, to hold him where he is. When they break away they’re breathing heavily. Arthur closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Merlin’s and Merlin is reminded vividly of the night they met, when Arthur made that same gesture against the bars of the cage.
“There’s something about you, Merlin,” Arthur says against his lips. Merlin grins, face nearly splitting in two. Arthur moves abruptly, swinging Merlin into his arms like that first night when Merlin had been too weak to walk. Arthur carries him over to the pile of blankets, Merlin’s very own knight in shining armour.
“I’m not actually a girl, you know,” Merlin chastises lightly.
Arthur smirks, eyebrow raised suggestively. “Yes Merlin, I had noticed.”
He lowers Merlin with infinite care, mindful not to jar any of Merlin’s numerous injuries. The gentle concern in his movements makes Merlin’s heart hurt and he can’t wait any longer. He curls a hand around the back of Arthur’s neck and pulls, bringing their lips together again. It most definitely isn’t sweet anymore – it’s hot and wet and glorious. Arthur slips a tongue into Merlin’s mouth and Merlin moans.
Arthur breaks away first but only so he can plant a kiss on Merlin’s chin, then his neck in that ticklish spot that makes Merlin squirm (Arthur huffs a laugh at that), then his collarbone and then… then he starts to kiss every one of Merlin’s injuries. Even the smallest bruise gets Arthur’s undivided attention. His tongue passes over the sores, lips parting and planting gentle kisses on the fading green smudges. Merlin shudders and runs his shaking fingers through Arthur’s hair. His trembling turns into something fierce when Arthur goes lower (and lower) until he’s got his lips hovering over the trail of dark hair where it meets the hair around Merlin’s erection. Arthur looks up and studies the obvious affect his attentions have on Merlin and smiles. His eyes seek Merlin’s through long, fair lashes.
“I’m flattered,” he teases, hands resting warm against Merlin’s hips. Merlin tosses his head and grins crookedly.
“Arrogant arse. You know it’s completely unfair that I’m wearing not a stitch and you’re dressed in about a million layers.” Merlin frowns, tugging at Arthur’s thick doublet. “I can’t feel you.”
Arthur’s smile is small but genuine, mostly playing out in his eyes as he moves back onto his knees and begins to undress. It is a slow sensual show: shrugging off the red doublet, untying his tunic and slipping it over his head so that the muscles in his stomach and shoulders contract and show just how defined his body is. Merlin watches in wonder as eventually Arthur stands to take off his trousers. Then he’s standing completely naked before Merlin in the glow of the torch light. He doesn’t swing his arms or shift from foot to foot like some might when laid so bare; instead he stands looking down at Merlin, confidence rolling off him in palpable waves. Merlin realises this man could do anything if he just set his mind to it – he’s capable of moving mountains and hearts. He already holds Merlin’s in the palm of his hand.
“Come here,” Merlin whispers, holding out his arms. And Arthur comes.
It can’t last forever, though they pretend otherwise. Arthur becomes reckless, sometimes visiting Merlin as often as twice a day. They cling and kiss in increasing desperation, as Merlin’s body heals and the search above ground becomes more intense. Merlin doesn’t want to think about any of it, only wants Arthur’s hands on him, holding on and anchoring him. Forever.
“You should be more careful,” he says as they recover in each other’s arms one evening. Sweat still clings to them. “If anything happened to you because of me…”
“Shush,” Arthur says, dropping lazy kisses on Merlin’s jaw. “I’m fine. Stop worrying.”
“Can’t help it.” Merlin gently strokes the blue of Arthur injured eye. Arthur doesn’t pull away like he had once, but still flinches at the touch. Merlin moves his hand away, running a thumb across Arthur’s lips. “I’ll always worry about you. Till the day I die.”
Arthur gives him a quizzical look, eyebrows knitting together.
“Merlin, I – “
Merlin never finds out what Arthur is about to say because suddenly they’re not alone. A man Merlin recognises as the russet-haired man from the night of his escape is standing in the doorway of their underground cavern. He looks grim and worried, face glowing bright in the light of his torch. Merlin gasps.
“Arthur,” Leon says. He doesn’t come towards them but looks over his shoulder, the frown on his face deepening. Arthur groans and rolls over to face Leon.
“Leon,” he growls. “Your sense of duty towards me, while delightful in most circumstances, has gone a step too far. I told you – “
“Sire,“ Leon interrupts urgently. “Your father’s men are on their way. Someone must have tipped him off. I only just managed to slip away.”
“Shit,” Arthur growls, leaping to his feet and stuffing his legs back into his trousers.
“Sire?” Merlin asks confused. He sits up and begins to put on his own clothes with haste. “Arthur, what is he talking about? Your father’s men? I don’t understand.”
“Shut up Merlin, just… just get dressed. I must get you out of here. Have to get you out. Then we can talk.”
Merlin doesn’t argue, not then, though he wants to. He’s finding it hard to catch his breath… everything is moving so quickly and his mind can’t keep up. Arthur holds on to his hand and doesn’t let go. Leon follows with his sword drawn and continues to call Arthur ‘Sire’ – like he’s important, like he’s royalty, like he’s the fucking crowned prince of Camelot. When Merlin stumbles Arthur’s grip tightens but he doesn’t stop or look back. The sound of men in hard-soled boots and chain mail reaches their ears and Arthur slips them down another stone passage in this strange network of warrens and caverns. Merlin can’t even imagine how Arthur knows this place so well. Everywhere looks the same.
Eventually, after a long while, they come to a dead-end and Merlin’s heart lurches. Arthur’s made a mistake, he thinks, but Arthur hands his torch to Leon and places a foot into a rocky shelf. He begins to haul himself up by several of these ledges that Merlin had missed, concealed as they were in the rock face. They act as a ladder and when they run out Arthur reaches up to punch his way through a tiny opening. Merlin jumps back as a shower of dirt begins to rain down. Arthur makes the hole big enough to let a grown man pass through.
“Give me your hand, Merlin,” Arthur says urgently, reaching a hand down from the other side of the hole. Merlin grabs at Arthur’s hand and scrambles up the rocky wall. Above ground, Merlin sees that they are in the forest just outside of Camelot. He can see the castle’s white turrets from between the trees. Leon douses the torches and follows a moment later.
“Be quick, Sire. There isn’t long.” Leon turns and hastens to the edge of a nearby clearing to stand guard. Arthur understands. He pushes Merlin towards the thickest part of the forest at a run, hand once more grabbing at Merlin’s. They run for a full ten minutes until they reach a deeply rutted dirt road. Merlin doubles over, exhausted and gasping for air.
“This road leads west,” Arthur says, lifting his hand to point towards the uphill end of the path. “Don’t travel on it, just travel along side, preferably at night. Keep going until you reach Carmarthen. They… they won’t bother you if you keep your head down. They won’t hurt you.”
“Arthur,” Merlin tries.
Arthur shakes his head and paces, his movements displaying his deep agitation. His voice is harsh and anxious.
“Arthur, stop.” Merlin captures Arthur’s face in his hands and stares him straight in the eyes. Arthur tries to move away but Merlin’s having none of it. “Prince Arthur Pendragon, you foolish, arrogant prat, listen to me.”
Arthur stills at the sound of his full name coming from Merlin’s lips.
“Where you ever going to tell me?” Merlin asks, keeping a tight grip on Arthur’s face. The prince doesn’t say anything, but looks defensive... and sacred.
“I love you, you stupid, stupid man,” Merlin says and he’s kissing Arthur deep and bruising and Arthur joins Merlin’s desperation with some of his own, crushing him in a hug like he never wants to let go. They’re breathless when they part, gasping onto each other’s lips.
“You have to go. I can’t keep you safe, not here, not now.” Arthur punctuates his speech with desperate butterfly-light kisses to Merlin’s face.
“Someday,” he continues between kisses. “Someday I will be King and I will be that man you dreamed of. I will make you proud, Merlin. You’ll come back to Camelot as my… equal, and I shall show you how good this world can be. I will keep it safe for you.”
It’s the most truthful Merlin’s ever heard Arthur and the passionate honestly of his words make him weep. He doesn’t want to leave, but... Arthur is still kissing the tears from his cheeks when Merlin pulls away.
“You saved my life,” Merlin begins, voice cracked. “You gave me something more than my freedom from the bounty hunter, or my health by tending my wounds – you gave me you. My perfect fit.” Merlin steadies his violent shaking and smiles, a last brilliant smile that has Arthur catching his breath and taking a step forward, but Merlin shakes his head.
“Someday,” he whispers. Merlin moves away, walking backwards down the track watching Arthur watching him leave. But it hurts too much and so Merlin turns away and plunges back into the trees. His heart doesn’t come with him, he’s pretty sure it’s still resting in Arthur’s capable hands. Merlin smiles as he runs.