Fic: Strange Beasts, Part 2: Sweet
Title: Strange Beasts
Author: alby_mangroves
Disclaimer: Merlin is not mine.
Word Count: This chapter: 990
~Previous
Tiny flames float in their hundreds above revellers in the dining hall; the place looks positively festive tonight, decorated with fresh wreaths of berries, boughs, and fruit.
Retreating as far as he can without being downright rude, Merlin stands bathed in shadow. Keeping still is hard for a natural fidget, and behind his back, his fingers dance along to the tune of his thoughts which still lie in that fragrant meadow of sun-warmed heather.
He smooths the cuff of his sleeve over and over, burnishing it with his touch just for something to do, somewhere to focus all these runaway thoughts.
Merlin is restless, but he doesn't know why. He would run, would sprint to burn off some of this anxiety, but it's not possible. His presence is required here, under the same candles which settle their warmth on a head crowned in golden hair, brighter than any metal.
He tells himself that he watches Arthur because he must, because he's the prince's manservant and must be here to anticipate needs and provide service.
He tells himself he can look away any time he likes, and that his shoulder still tingles because... well, better let Gaius look into that- maybe it's an allergy to the heather, and nothing at all to do with Arthur's shoulder touching it.
He watches Arthur entertain a visiting nobleman's daughters, pretty girls both, and wishes he could run, from the hall and from the keep, just run under the moonlight until there is nothing else but the burn in his muscles and the breath in his lungs.
Arthur inclines his head toward his pretty guests as one of them draws close to whisper in his ear, and Merlin holds his breath, almost, almost on the verge of plucking her words from the air and turning them into toads to fall in her lap.
He doesn't care what she's saying, not at all. He cares only that there is a girl's pretty mouth murmuring things so close to Arthur's ear and there's nothing in life that could have prepared Merlin to feel what he feels in this moment.
He closes his eyes and swallows hard, keeping his magic down like bile.
When he opens them, it's only shock that keeps him in place. The girl is reaching her little fingers into Arthur's collar and plucking out a tiny sprig from between the prince's shirt and ceremonial tunic. She flicks it away as though it were nothing but dust, and Merlin's eyes follow it to its resting place behind Arthur's chair, where it's immediately crushed by a passing servant.
Merlin can't tear his eyes from it, this little broken twiglet, and though it bears no purple crown, he knows it's heather from the moor.
Instantly, the vague dislike he feels for the girl ripens into open hostility so sudden that he grits his teeth against it.
Looking up, he finds Arthur's eyes-mild and already a little glassy-on his, in a fond expression so out of place on the prat prince's face that it's downright bizarre. It's like looking at an entirely new person. One who isn't an arse.
It's the wine, Merlin thinks, he's drunk, or nearly.
Whatever the reason, it makes no difference to Merlin's chest, which seems too narrow for all these big feelings.
Merlin's insides are churning and he wants to look down but he can't, not when Arthur's eyes are soft and heavy like this, and dark and deep like the lake in the woods.
And it's only a moment, but long enough for one of the sisters to wonder why Prince Arthur's attention is hers no longer. She follows Arthur's eyes to the boy in the shadows, her dismissive gaze crawling up and down Merlin's lanky body, from his old boots all the way to his stupid big ears. Merlin can smell her confusion even over his own.
In the end, Arthur grants him reprieve by holding up his goblet, mouth smirking in an expression so familiar as to give Merlin the push to remember himself.
"No more wine, Merlin, bring me something sweet," he requests, and the girls turn back to the table thinking the riddle solved, the Prince theirs once more, but Arthur doesn't turn away. His eyes smile lazily at Merlin, and all of a sudden there is an itch between his ribs, right where a slim dagger would fit, stabbed home by a battle-skilled hand.
"My Lord," Merlin murmurs, bowing.
He sets off in search of a servant with a tray, snatching up a jug of honey mead for his prince, even the crushed heather sprig-which had seemed so vital only moments ago-forgotten in his eagerness to serve. When he returns to Arthur's side, the prince's full attention is once more on his father's guests.
As it should be, chants Merlin's self-doubt from its cave in his spleen, and he believes it, for why would Arthur want Merlin's company when he has that of his equals?
Swallowing down the heat from Arthur's earlier gaze, Merlin extends himself over a gap between bodies to pour sweet mead into the prince's silver goblet. Before Merlin is gone again, Arthur takes it up and drinks deeply, the kernel of his Adam's apple clearly the most fascinating sight since the Great Dragon beneath the keep, because it has all of Merlin's attention.
When Arthur sets aside the goblet, a small spill dribbles down his chin, and he wipes it absently with his sleeve. It glistens there in a sweet, moist smear, and Merlin would breathe if he could, he really would.
"I will need you soon," Arthur says, his eyes smiling and heavy, and the point of the dagger finds the perfect place from which to bleed Merlin's heart dry. He lets it slide in between his ribs and holds the hilt tight lest it tries to slip out.
~Next
Author: alby_mangroves
Disclaimer: Merlin is not mine.
Word Count: This chapter: 990
~Previous
Tiny flames float in their hundreds above revellers in the dining hall; the place looks positively festive tonight, decorated with fresh wreaths of berries, boughs, and fruit.
Retreating as far as he can without being downright rude, Merlin stands bathed in shadow. Keeping still is hard for a natural fidget, and behind his back, his fingers dance along to the tune of his thoughts which still lie in that fragrant meadow of sun-warmed heather.
He smooths the cuff of his sleeve over and over, burnishing it with his touch just for something to do, somewhere to focus all these runaway thoughts.
Merlin is restless, but he doesn't know why. He would run, would sprint to burn off some of this anxiety, but it's not possible. His presence is required here, under the same candles which settle their warmth on a head crowned in golden hair, brighter than any metal.
He tells himself that he watches Arthur because he must, because he's the prince's manservant and must be here to anticipate needs and provide service.
He tells himself he can look away any time he likes, and that his shoulder still tingles because... well, better let Gaius look into that- maybe it's an allergy to the heather, and nothing at all to do with Arthur's shoulder touching it.
He watches Arthur entertain a visiting nobleman's daughters, pretty girls both, and wishes he could run, from the hall and from the keep, just run under the moonlight until there is nothing else but the burn in his muscles and the breath in his lungs.
Arthur inclines his head toward his pretty guests as one of them draws close to whisper in his ear, and Merlin holds his breath, almost, almost on the verge of plucking her words from the air and turning them into toads to fall in her lap.
He doesn't care what she's saying, not at all. He cares only that there is a girl's pretty mouth murmuring things so close to Arthur's ear and there's nothing in life that could have prepared Merlin to feel what he feels in this moment.
He closes his eyes and swallows hard, keeping his magic down like bile.
When he opens them, it's only shock that keeps him in place. The girl is reaching her little fingers into Arthur's collar and plucking out a tiny sprig from between the prince's shirt and ceremonial tunic. She flicks it away as though it were nothing but dust, and Merlin's eyes follow it to its resting place behind Arthur's chair, where it's immediately crushed by a passing servant.
Merlin can't tear his eyes from it, this little broken twiglet, and though it bears no purple crown, he knows it's heather from the moor.
Instantly, the vague dislike he feels for the girl ripens into open hostility so sudden that he grits his teeth against it.
Looking up, he finds Arthur's eyes-mild and already a little glassy-on his, in a fond expression so out of place on the prat prince's face that it's downright bizarre. It's like looking at an entirely new person. One who isn't an arse.
It's the wine, Merlin thinks, he's drunk, or nearly.
Whatever the reason, it makes no difference to Merlin's chest, which seems too narrow for all these big feelings.
Merlin's insides are churning and he wants to look down but he can't, not when Arthur's eyes are soft and heavy like this, and dark and deep like the lake in the woods.
And it's only a moment, but long enough for one of the sisters to wonder why Prince Arthur's attention is hers no longer. She follows Arthur's eyes to the boy in the shadows, her dismissive gaze crawling up and down Merlin's lanky body, from his old boots all the way to his stupid big ears. Merlin can smell her confusion even over his own.
In the end, Arthur grants him reprieve by holding up his goblet, mouth smirking in an expression so familiar as to give Merlin the push to remember himself.
"No more wine, Merlin, bring me something sweet," he requests, and the girls turn back to the table thinking the riddle solved, the Prince theirs once more, but Arthur doesn't turn away. His eyes smile lazily at Merlin, and all of a sudden there is an itch between his ribs, right where a slim dagger would fit, stabbed home by a battle-skilled hand.
"My Lord," Merlin murmurs, bowing.
He sets off in search of a servant with a tray, snatching up a jug of honey mead for his prince, even the crushed heather sprig-which had seemed so vital only moments ago-forgotten in his eagerness to serve. When he returns to Arthur's side, the prince's full attention is once more on his father's guests.
As it should be, chants Merlin's self-doubt from its cave in his spleen, and he believes it, for why would Arthur want Merlin's company when he has that of his equals?
Swallowing down the heat from Arthur's earlier gaze, Merlin extends himself over a gap between bodies to pour sweet mead into the prince's silver goblet. Before Merlin is gone again, Arthur takes it up and drinks deeply, the kernel of his Adam's apple clearly the most fascinating sight since the Great Dragon beneath the keep, because it has all of Merlin's attention.
When Arthur sets aside the goblet, a small spill dribbles down his chin, and he wipes it absently with his sleeve. It glistens there in a sweet, moist smear, and Merlin would breathe if he could, he really would.
"I will need you soon," Arthur says, his eyes smiling and heavy, and the point of the dagger finds the perfect place from which to bleed Merlin's heart dry. He lets it slide in between his ribs and holds the hilt tight lest it tries to slip out.
~Next