The Flying Fox
Author: Gilli_ann
Title: The Flying Fox
Rating: G
Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Uther
Pairing: Future Arthur/Merlin
Summary: Young prince Arthur hunts a fox, but finds a Merlin.
Word Count: 999
Prompt: 'Strange'
Author's Notes: Canon-era AU
The Flying Fox
The little fox was running for its life towards the forest, a red-brown streak across the green field. The easily visible white tip of its tail guided Arthur as he let his eager arrow fly.
He hadn't taken sufficient aim. The arrow barely hit its mark. The fox yelped and stumbled briefly as the arrow nicked it, but it ran on and was lost from view.
Keeping a tight grip on his reins, Uther shook his head. "Poor shot," he grumbled. "You're too hot-headed. Let this be a lesson. Be certain of your aim before you act."
Arthur pouted. "Yes, father." A moment later, without missing a beat, he whistled for his dog and urged his pony into a gallop.
"What now?" his father called, annoyed. "Come back! We must ride to Camelot!
"You've told me to never give up! " Arthur yelled in response, not even turning his head. "I'll get that fox!"
Rider, horse, and hound disappeared among the trees at the far end of the field.
King Uther frowned at his son's disobedience, but secretly admired the boy's courage and refusal to admit defeat. Inspection of the eastern provinces had taken them into contested border territory, true, but there hadn't been a whiff of Essetir patrols, and the tiny village they'd just passed seemed peaceful. The young prince was in no danger. Would he make good on his fox-catching boast?
*****
Hot on the scent of the wounded fox, Cavall led the way. Arthur followed close behind his trusted dog. The trail led to a huge ash tree, its boughs wide and its roots clearly home to many burrowing critters.
Arthur noticed some crimson droplets on the sparse grass. "Cavall, we've got him. Find the fox. Hunt!"
Surprisingly, and despite the blood-spatter that indicated the fox's recent presence, Cavall lost the trail. Snuffling at the ground, giving a few frustrated yelps, the dog searched all around the foot of the old tree without retrieving the scent. It was as if the fox had taken flight and mysteriously disappeared into thin air.
"What now?" Arthur groused, exasperated. "Come on!"
"Your hunt won't be successful today," came a voice from above.
Startled, Arthur looked up. A boy was sitting on one of the large branches, his bare feet dangling in the air, his body comfortably supported by the broad bole. How he'd gotten up that high was anybody's guess. He wore nothing more than a pair of simple britches and a dark-stained faded tunic.
"What? Did you see the wounded fox?" Arthur asked, still so focused on chasing his prey that the newcomer barely registered in his mind.
"What had it ever done to you?" the boy asked. "Let wild animals be."
Reining his pony in, Arthur studied the boy more closely, meeting his bright blue eyes. He looked to be Arthur's own age, and probably also had his height, but was very slim. With his dark hair and unusually pale skin there was a strange, fey air about him, like that of a woodland sprite. But Uther had long since taught his son not to believe in fairy-tale creatures.
"Who are you? Do you live in the village back there?" Arthur asked sourly, chafing at his failure as a huntsman.
"Ealdor. Yes, I do live there. And the wild animals around here are my good friends. I don't want them harmed," the boy said. "I'm Merlin."
"Like a bird? Well, MERlin, I take it you're the village fool? If the harvest is poor and life becomes hard, you'll soon enough want to hunt your animal friends for food and warm pelts," Arthur scoffed. "No matter if you think yourself a bird or what other nonsense you pretend to believe."
Merlin rolled his eyes. "Life is hard already, and food is always scarce, you prat. You obviously can't see what's right in front of your nose. If I'm a fool, you're an arse."
"I'm Prince Arthur of Camelot. You can't address me like that and call me names."
"Why not, prince fox-hater?"
"I could have you thrown in our darkest dungeon for such insolence."
"You'd have to catch me first," Merlin grinned. "And you're clearly not very good at that."
Arthur spluttered, offended. Before he could come up with a sufficiently biting reply, he noticed that the stains on Merlin's tunic were growing. Realization dawned. "You're bleeding. Are you wounded?"
Merlin wrinkled his nose, making a dismissive gesture. "It's just a scratch."
"It has to be more than that," Arthur said, nudging his pony to move sideways so he could get a better look. "Yes, you've got a nasty wound on your neck. It looks bad."
"My mum will fix it," Merlin shrugged.
"No wonder you're so pale."
"Arthur! Arthur, return here at once! Where are you?" It was Uther's voice, loud from beyond the trees. The king sounded both angry and worried. "Come back immediately, or I'll have the guards fetch you!"
"Yes, yes, I'm coming," Arthur called back. For some reason that he couldn't quite explain to himself, he didn't want his father or the guards to see Merlin.
He looked up and smiled. "There's something about you, Merlin. I can't quite put my finger on it." He gripped the edge of his cloak and ripped off a large piece of fabric. Guiding his pony to a spot right under Merlin's branch, he stood in his saddle, reaching to hand Merlin the red cloth. "Here, bind your wound with that. Tie it tightly around your neck. And then hurry home and get tended to."
"Thank you, Arthur," Merlin said quietly, pressing the crimson fabric to his bleeding neck. "You'll get in trouble for ruining your cloak. I won't forget this, or you."
"Nor I you," Arthur said, surprising himself. "Take care now."
"Perhaps we'll meet again," Merlin called as Arthur rode off to face his father's fury. "Who knows? Maybe one day I'll come flying all the way to you in Camelot?"
Title: The Flying Fox
Rating: G
Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Uther
Pairing: Future Arthur/Merlin
Summary: Young prince Arthur hunts a fox, but finds a Merlin.
Word Count: 999
Prompt: 'Strange'
Author's Notes: Canon-era AU
The Flying Fox
The little fox was running for its life towards the forest, a red-brown streak across the green field. The easily visible white tip of its tail guided Arthur as he let his eager arrow fly.
He hadn't taken sufficient aim. The arrow barely hit its mark. The fox yelped and stumbled briefly as the arrow nicked it, but it ran on and was lost from view.
Keeping a tight grip on his reins, Uther shook his head. "Poor shot," he grumbled. "You're too hot-headed. Let this be a lesson. Be certain of your aim before you act."
Arthur pouted. "Yes, father." A moment later, without missing a beat, he whistled for his dog and urged his pony into a gallop.
"What now?" his father called, annoyed. "Come back! We must ride to Camelot!
"You've told me to never give up! " Arthur yelled in response, not even turning his head. "I'll get that fox!"
Rider, horse, and hound disappeared among the trees at the far end of the field.
King Uther frowned at his son's disobedience, but secretly admired the boy's courage and refusal to admit defeat. Inspection of the eastern provinces had taken them into contested border territory, true, but there hadn't been a whiff of Essetir patrols, and the tiny village they'd just passed seemed peaceful. The young prince was in no danger. Would he make good on his fox-catching boast?
*****
Hot on the scent of the wounded fox, Cavall led the way. Arthur followed close behind his trusted dog. The trail led to a huge ash tree, its boughs wide and its roots clearly home to many burrowing critters.
Arthur noticed some crimson droplets on the sparse grass. "Cavall, we've got him. Find the fox. Hunt!"
Surprisingly, and despite the blood-spatter that indicated the fox's recent presence, Cavall lost the trail. Snuffling at the ground, giving a few frustrated yelps, the dog searched all around the foot of the old tree without retrieving the scent. It was as if the fox had taken flight and mysteriously disappeared into thin air.
"What now?" Arthur groused, exasperated. "Come on!"
"Your hunt won't be successful today," came a voice from above.
Startled, Arthur looked up. A boy was sitting on one of the large branches, his bare feet dangling in the air, his body comfortably supported by the broad bole. How he'd gotten up that high was anybody's guess. He wore nothing more than a pair of simple britches and a dark-stained faded tunic.
"What? Did you see the wounded fox?" Arthur asked, still so focused on chasing his prey that the newcomer barely registered in his mind.
"What had it ever done to you?" the boy asked. "Let wild animals be."
Reining his pony in, Arthur studied the boy more closely, meeting his bright blue eyes. He looked to be Arthur's own age, and probably also had his height, but was very slim. With his dark hair and unusually pale skin there was a strange, fey air about him, like that of a woodland sprite. But Uther had long since taught his son not to believe in fairy-tale creatures.
"Who are you? Do you live in the village back there?" Arthur asked sourly, chafing at his failure as a huntsman.
"Ealdor. Yes, I do live there. And the wild animals around here are my good friends. I don't want them harmed," the boy said. "I'm Merlin."
"Like a bird? Well, MERlin, I take it you're the village fool? If the harvest is poor and life becomes hard, you'll soon enough want to hunt your animal friends for food and warm pelts," Arthur scoffed. "No matter if you think yourself a bird or what other nonsense you pretend to believe."
Merlin rolled his eyes. "Life is hard already, and food is always scarce, you prat. You obviously can't see what's right in front of your nose. If I'm a fool, you're an arse."
"I'm Prince Arthur of Camelot. You can't address me like that and call me names."
"Why not, prince fox-hater?"
"I could have you thrown in our darkest dungeon for such insolence."
"You'd have to catch me first," Merlin grinned. "And you're clearly not very good at that."
Arthur spluttered, offended. Before he could come up with a sufficiently biting reply, he noticed that the stains on Merlin's tunic were growing. Realization dawned. "You're bleeding. Are you wounded?"
Merlin wrinkled his nose, making a dismissive gesture. "It's just a scratch."
"It has to be more than that," Arthur said, nudging his pony to move sideways so he could get a better look. "Yes, you've got a nasty wound on your neck. It looks bad."
"My mum will fix it," Merlin shrugged.
"No wonder you're so pale."
"Arthur! Arthur, return here at once! Where are you?" It was Uther's voice, loud from beyond the trees. The king sounded both angry and worried. "Come back immediately, or I'll have the guards fetch you!"
"Yes, yes, I'm coming," Arthur called back. For some reason that he couldn't quite explain to himself, he didn't want his father or the guards to see Merlin.
He looked up and smiled. "There's something about you, Merlin. I can't quite put my finger on it." He gripped the edge of his cloak and ripped off a large piece of fabric. Guiding his pony to a spot right under Merlin's branch, he stood in his saddle, reaching to hand Merlin the red cloth. "Here, bind your wound with that. Tie it tightly around your neck. And then hurry home and get tended to."
"Thank you, Arthur," Merlin said quietly, pressing the crimson fabric to his bleeding neck. "You'll get in trouble for ruining your cloak. I won't forget this, or you."
"Nor I you," Arthur said, surprising himself. "Take care now."
"Perhaps we'll meet again," Merlin called as Arthur rode off to face his father's fury. "Who knows? Maybe one day I'll come flying all the way to you in Camelot?"