Keep The Wolf From The Door - Merlin - Arthur/Merlin
Title: Keep The Wolf From The Door
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 6493
Rating: PG-13
A/N: This is a vampire AU set in the Scent 'verse.
Summary: While in Ealdor, Arthur tries to investigate the death of several sheep.
"It's probably only safe for me to stay for another week, Merlin, if that," Arthur says, staring out of the cottage's window at the night's sky rather than looking at his servant. Merlin is sitting cross-legged on the bed beside him, and from the corner of his eye Arthur can see the paleness of his skin. It's hard not to look - not to stare, not to draw him closer and smell - but it's getting easier. Being around Merlin in general, that's getting easier, though it's still a test of his self-control every single second that Merlin is by his side. He'd happily swear that Merlin is doing this on purpose, smelling annoyingly good and leaving a worried burn in Arthur's chest every time that he isn't around. "I don't want a repeat of what happened the last time the moon was full."
"You mean you don't want me to have to kick your royal arse again?" Merlin asks. He speaks quietly because his mother is asleep nearby. As wonderful as Hunith is, Arthur has to confess that she is something of a buzz-kill. Yet she is warm and friendly, even if her face is pale and drawn with worry far more often than it ought to be. "I'll do it, y'know. Gladly."
"Like you could. I'd be expecting it this time - you caught me by surprise before, that's all," Arthur answers determinedly. Perhaps he should schedule a rematch at some point to put Merlin back in his place. He swallows and tries not to think about the burn of Merlin's magic running through his veins or the power that pumped through Merlin's blood, waiting to be claimed by whoever was brave and fast enough to take it. It had flowed like liquid gold onto his tongue that day, making him stronger, making him better. He wants it again - he wants it at all times - but that desire is beginning to fade into a background thump. "And with that in mind, Merlin, I should return to Camelot before the moon is full."
"Will it make any difference?" Merlin asks, managing to sound both gloomy and curious at once. "You can run back here in under a day. If your... vampireiness is being especially hard to handle, will being in another place even help?"
Arthur makes a mental note to thump Gaius around the head at some point for teaching Merlin nothing more about vampires than 'vampireiness'. Good god, Merlin is extraordinarily lacking in education. "It's easier when you aren't there," he manages to say eventually, after turning it over in his mind for a few moments as he struggles to think of how to put this: it isn't something that he knows how to explain to a mortal, even if said mortal is as special as Merlin is. Merlin is in his mind, his heart, his blood. The strength of need that Arthur feels - to feed from him and, at the same time, to protect him from harm - is so overpowering that it makes it impossible to think of anything else.
"Why?"
"When you're there I can smell you." He hates doing this: he hates having to explain it to Merlin, to anyone. It makes him feel like a monster far more than the cold blood in his veins or the prick of hidden fangs. "I'll find something to distract myself while I'm gone. If I don't think about you, I won't come."
Merlin lets out a long breath of air and leans against him. The heat of his skin is burning against Arthur's side: he swallows, hard, and tries to think of anything else.
"What if I want you to come?" Merlin asks, as tempting as the devil himself. "Or what if I don't want you to leave in the first place?"
"Then you are every single bit as foolish as you look," Arthur complains. His voice doesn't shake. No, really, it doesn't. "And Gaius would have me scalped if I agreed. And that's not to mention what Morgana would do if I hurt you again."
"So is this a confession that big, bad Arthur Pendragon is afraid of an old man and a girl?" Merlin teases. Arthur shoves at his shoulder: it is nearly strong enough to push him right off of the bed, and only a fast scramble of limbs stops him from making a bruised mess of his knees on the ground. "Alright, alright. I'm sorry."
Arthur looks down at his lap to hide the way he's smiling to himself: he hadn't even known that Merlin had any sincere apologies in his vocabulary. "I would stay if it was safe," he reassures him. "I ran across the entire country to get to this tiny little village only to be forced to harvest fields every single hour of the day - and I did it willingly. I wouldn't have bothered if I didn't want to be here."
"You don't want to be here," Merlin says. "You want to be near me."
Arthur doesn't answer: he hates this weakness, hates that Merlin knows about it, and hates that they have to acknowledge it. He makes do with a grunt and hopes that Merlin knows what he means by that. He doesn't actually know that much himself, but it's probably better to leave it up to interpretation anyway. Merlin will be able to think up a better meaning all by himself.
"Perhaps we ought to get to some sleep," he suggests, stiffly. He doesn't sleep much any more, but Merlin does - and at least if they are sleeping then Merlin will no longer be talking, which at the present moment Arthur feels would be a significant improvement. "Good night, Merlin."
Merlin mumbles something moodily at him, too incoherent for anyone but a skilled linguist to decipher, and lies down to chase his dreams. Arthur remains sitting and stares at the cottage's window, trying not to think of the foul full moon that lurks in his future.
*
It is early in the morning but already the summer sun is hot. It prickles over Arthur's skin: uncomfortable. It won't make him burst into flames any time soon but he still doesn't enjoy the sensation. He'd rather take a bath in fire, given the choice. Sweat is already gathering on his brow by the time that Will decides to join them. Arthur has heard his footsteps thumping up the field for several minutes, but he doesn't bother to look up until Merlin's friend has arrived at their side: too close to Merlin, they're always too close, yet when it is Gwen it doesn't make him bristle in quite the same way.
Struggling extremely hard, Arthur manages not to growl at him.
"That's another sheep killed," Will says, gesturing back towards the village.
Merlin straightens up, his hands filled with wet stalks of wheat. He squints against the sunlight, his cheeks red from exertion already. Arthur very stubbornly tells himself that Merlin does not look adorable like this - and then even more harshly reminds himself that he does not look good enough to eat.
"What d'you mean?" Merlin asks, a little out of breath.
"Another one of Joe's sheep has been mauled in the night. He's fuming." Will scratches at his nose, looking away from them for a moment, across the field, before his attention returns. "Your mum didn't tell you? We've been having trouble ever since you left."
"Trouble with the sheep?"
"Yeah. There's wolves or something. We keep trying to catch them, but no luck."
Hearing those words, Arthur tries to ignore the knowing shiver that runs down his spine: Merlin's home life is supposed to be as normal as it is possible for the life of a teenage sorcerer to be. This sort of thing must happen in the countryside all the time. "You said it's been happening since Merlin left?" Arthur asks, after clearing his throat in as innocent a way as he can possibly manage. Considering the way that Will's eyes narrow, it doesn't sound nearly as innocent as it ought to.
"A couple of nights a month since then, yeah."
Merlin's looking at him now too, questions hidden in his eyes, but with Will here in front of them Arthur doesn't want to discuss it: he shrugs. He doesn't know how much Will knows about Merlin, about him, about them, but he doesn't want to talk about it with him anyway. It's a petty jealousy, and it's one that he's decided to blame on his vampiric condition if he can get away with it.
They have to keep their heads down for the rest of the morning and get on with their work: it seems as if no matter how much they accomplish there is always yet another field that needs to be tackled, or someone else that could do with a spare pair of hands. With strength mortals could only dream of, Arthur still finds himself tired - and cranky - so he doesn't want to imagine how Merlin is feeling by this point. He can smell old copper on the air - spilt blood - but it is dry and it is animal. The scent is enough to tease his hungers to life but not enough to override his thinking. A sheep's blood is nothing compared to the drink working alongside him, pumping through Merlin's veins.
"Merlin, we should stop for lunch," he announces, though for him the need for food is akin to the need for sleep: a habit brought over from his human life. Yet it puts humans at ease, he thinks, to hang onto a few central habits like that. Despite his nature - and despite Edwin's wishes - Arthur thinks that he will be more human than vampire for a long time still. Forever, if he has any say in the matter. "You're exhausted."
"I am? You're the one that smells like a pig," Merlin complains, but he's quick to throw down his tools all the same.
"You look like you might faint at any second," Arthur says confidently, although Merlin really doesn't look like that at all. He is flushed and sweating, out of breath, but Arthur has learnt that he is a lot stronger than he looks. He has a great deal of experience in these fields, Arthur supposes. A whole childhood and adolescence spent here, a time of his life that Arthur will never be able to see or understand. "I could carry you back, if you'd like."
And he would if Merlin asked, though the real reason he had offered was to watch Merlin splutter in indignation: it works, too, like a charm. "I do not need to be carried, Arthur! I'm a grown man," he protests.
"Are you sure? There's no need to be stubborn about this. I'd rather carry you back than see you swoon in the heat."
"I'm going to hex you," Merlin declares, turning to start walking back towards the village. "I'm going to hex you until your arms fall off. And your legs. And several other unfortunate bits as well."
Laughing, Arthur moves after him. Will stays behind and Arthur is glad for that: he needs some time away from him, without his plain scent mixing with Merlin's. He catches up with Merlin within a few paces. "I wouldn't have thought that you'd want my 'unfortunate bits' falling off," he murmurs after leaning in close to brush his words against Merlin's ear. His hand, resting upon Merlin's shoulder, strokes two fingers against the side of Merlin's neck: he feels him shiver. "That wouldn't be a good hex for either of us, would it?"
Merlin's answer is little more than a quiet shiver of air, and it's sounds like that that remind Arthur of why he needs to back off. He doesn't know if he'll ever have the self-control he needs to be near Merlin like this - or to put his 'unfortunate bits' anywhere near him. That sound alone makes it hard not to shove him down into the long grain; it would be so very easy to pin him there and rip more soft noises from his lips, to break the skin and drink him down. Arthur wets his lips and steps back, pushing off of Merlin sharply. Can't be near him when it gets like this, when he can almost taste Merlin's blood on his tongue again.
"Sorry," Merlin mumbles, and Arthur wants to tell him that apologising is ridiculous but he doesn't trust himself to speak right now: he shakes his head and doesn't say a word. Merlin clears his throat and Arthur tries not to allow his attention to shift back to his neck, to his pulse, to his blood. "When Will mentioned Joe's sheep, you looked a bit funny. Is everything alright?"
He's happy for a change of subject, but less happy with what Merlin has chosen to hop to. "I assume it is. It seemed odd, that's all - it started right after you left."
"You think I have something to do with it?"
"Of course not. I was only wondering if your presence had scared it off before. The wolves, I mean." He ought to explain the finer details to Merlin, he supposes. Werewolves, vampires, sorcerers, fairies. There is so much more to the supernatural world than Merlin realises; even Arthur himself has only scratched the surface thanks to his father's disapproval. He is far from the ideal teacher. "Werewolves have been known to avoid the presence of sorcerers when possible," he adds, as casually as he can - he throws it off-hand into the conversation, as if he had expected Merlin to already know.
"Werewolves?" Merlin hisses, with that perfect level of exasperation in his voice. Hearing it, Arthur starts smiling again. "There are werewolves now?"
"Merlin, you can be such an idiot at times. Of course there are werewolves. They may have nothing to do with your little sheep killings in any case. Probably have bigger things to do than stalk sheep. Bigger beings to maul, I mean."
"But it's not even the full moon!"
Merlin sounds as if he might explode from trying to keep his voice at an acceptable level: they're nearly at the cottages now, ready to enter the village once more. The population already take measures to avoid being in their company. Ranting and raving about werewolves would probably do very little to enhance Merlin's popularity.
"It doesn't actually have to be a full moon. They work in monthly cycles; there is little lunar about it." He manages to sound extraordinarily knowledgeable for someone who has never met a werewolf or read anything about them, so he has no intention of allowing Merlin to know that the majority of his information will be either made up on the spot or scraps he remembers one of his maids telling him when he was a child. He is a creature of the night: that affords him some mystery. "It's probably nothing to worry about, really. If I knew you were going to be such a girl about it I wouldn't have said anything."
"What does 'being a girl' about being told that werewolves exist and are eating Joe's sheep even mean?" Merlin hisses in annoyance. "I'm being normal."
Their feet are leading them into the village now: time to change the topic, Arthur decides, and he's glad to be the one to do so. Merlin's scowl displays his displeasure when Arthur begins to talk about his plans for returning to Camelot soon, but Arthur charges ahead with it stubbornly.
*
"I'll stay awake tonight," he announces. "Watching the sheep."
The eyebrows of some of the men in the village rise doubtfully - a prince, a noble, an outsider - but Merlin nods enthusiastically. They have little choice but to consent, and when night falls he finds himself heading out to the sheep pen.
"I could come with you," Merlin suggests, lingering near the doorway. At this point, Arthur would like nothing more than to slink back inside with him and slip into bed by his side, where he can scent his skin and listen to his inane chatter until Merlin finally drifts into a peaceful sleep. With Merlin at his side, Arthur finds that he can doze more often. "I could probably help."
Arthur is shaking his head before Merlin has even finished suggesting it. He doesn't want Merlin anywhere near any kind of danger. It makes him grit his teeth, makes his fist curl, and he knows that Merlin would hate it if he knew. Merlin doesn't want to be protected - and doesn't truly need to be - but Arthur can't fight the need to do so. He wants to hide Merlin away, lock him in one of Camelot's towers, keep him from the world and its cruelties.
And that?
That means that there is definitely no way that he is going to be allowed anywhere near a possible werewolf.
"Get some sleep," he urges, reaching out to brush imaginary dirt from Merlin's pale cheeks. "We've got another day in the fields tomorrow."
Merlin sighs, weary with him, and his hand grabs onto Arthur's by his face; he holds him there, pressed against his skin. "You really are quite an idiot," he tells Arthur earnestly. For once, Arthur is inclined to agree with him, though he says nothing. Merlin looks at him, level-headed and curious. "I want to kiss you good night. Is that alright? You won't, y'know... go all black-eyed and try to eat me again?"
Arthur feels himself beginning to smile like a lovesick suitor. "I promise to control myself," he says, even though they both know that that is and will always be a dicey subject. The dangers for them both fall to the back of his mind when Merlin steps closer to him, the concept of personal space fading away. He's so warm, so human, and Arthur knows that they ought to be more careful about doing this out in public. Merlin lives in this village - his mother lives in this village - and upsetting the locals was not on Arthur's to-do list when he followed Merlin all the way out here.
It doesn't matter.
Good god, it does not matter a single bit after Merlin kisses him, a breeze of contact against his lips. Merlin's hand is on his shoulder, the other on his hip, and Arthur thinks that he would give the world and immortality to stay like this. It is nothing but light contact, freakishly chaste for how badly Arthur longs for him, but it is everything: it is death and life and the end and Arthur wants to crush Merlin for this. Wants to hold him close and feel every rib crack beneath his strength, and keep on kissing him until he feels Merlin's breath shudder to a stop against his lips. The sound that rumbles out of him at the thought is a growl of both fear and desire: the need to kill and the need to protect are always going to be at war.
With firm hands on Merlin's shoulders he puts distance between them, needing to wait for his head to clear again. Being separated for a night will do them good; in Camelot, despite his best attempts to have Merlin in his sight at all hours of the day, Merlin finds ways of being kept busy or avoiding him. Arthur hates it, but he's discovering the downsides of having Merlin by his side constantly. He can barely think about anything else at all, and with every passing moment the darker side of him curls and fidgets and wants to come out. Distance. That may be all that is needed. A night apart could cure it all.
If not, then he imagines that he will have to depart for Camelot far sooner than he had anticipated. Merlin won't be pleased.
"Good night," he says, ridiculously breathless for someone who doesn't have to breathe. "I'll see you in the morning."
He doesn't hear what Merlin says to him in return. Even his enhanced senses can't overcome the twist of worry in his gut that stems from being around Merlin: from what he fears might happen if he allows it to continue. He wishes he could be like Morgana; she's more controlled than he is. Always has been, and he doesn't know why. He's never allowed Edwin to take the role of a proper sire and show them the ropes: there are some things that neither one of them wish to be shown. Perhaps it's just Morgana's personality that her self-control stems from. He kicks at the ground irritably as he walks towards where Joe's sheep are kept. He's a better vampire than Morgana is; unfortunately, he thinks that Morgana may be better at being human. She always has liked to best him at the most important stuff (although, of course, he'd never admit as much to her face, and he frequently thanks his luck that their transformation hasn't included any telepathy).
The sheep are awake and restless when he approaches their pens. They are slim, their wool freshly shorn. It makes them look more undignified than usual, Arthur thinks as he leans against the thin wooden railing that keeps them in. "I guess it's just you and me now," he said to them. Most baa'ed with indifference. With a disapproving roll of his eyes, Arthur looks around and tries to find a half-way comfortable place to sit against the wall inside the pen, his body already itching to go back to the cottage and doze in Merlin's bed until the sun came up. He feels too alert to sleep - night is the natural time for his kind to be awake - but with Merlin beside him it gets easier.
This is becoming intolerable, Arthur thinks, his bad mood beginning to settle upon his shoulders. I'm going home tomorrow.
He cracks a knuckle in boredom, trying to think of all of the duties that he is neglecting back home in Camelot. He will have an angry lecture from Uther waiting for him, and no doubt Merlin will be in trouble as well upon his return. He'll protect him. Perhaps he'll allow his father to put Merlin in the stocks for a few hours, just to serve him right, but nothing too bad, too painful, too permanent. Merlin is his: he is beyond any jurisdiction of his father, regardless of what the law may say.
He sighs and knocks the back of his head against the wall he's leaning against: in trying to think of anything else, it had taken under a minute for his thoughts to circle determinedly back towards Merlin. It feels as if he's in the depth of insanity, unable to think his own thoughts any more. His night is a difficult thing, left alone with his own thoughts. He usually quite enjoys his own company, but ever since his life has been invaded by Merlin it's been impossible to do so. He thinks, sometimes, that he really ought to hate Merlin, not adore him.
The night is long, uneventful and boring. Hours have passed and his eyelids are heavy with boredom when -
He hears the creaking of hinges and the stealthy padding of four large feet. Breathing in deeply, the scent on the air fills his lungs: it's wolf, but it's more than that. It's wrong; unnatural.
Werewolf.
He's never seen one before, but he knows the scent instinctively. He steps forward from the wall, creeping towards the gate with footsteps that make no sound. It looks like he's floating. He's stopped breathing altogether and his senses are on overload: a hunter's instincts. The sheep are unsettled, no longer sleeping. They shuffle from side to side and rush to the opposite side of the pen, squishing together to get away from the beast approaching the other side of the wall and the vampire inside with them. Arthur doesn't pay attention. He's reached the wooden wall.
On the other side, the wolf is large and hulking. Its fur is clean and well-cared for and its mouth is curled in a cruel snarl. It's much larger than a regular wolf and its teeth are a great deal longer. Muscles line its flanks. Golden eyes glare at Arthur as he places a hand on the wall, ready to jump clean over it.
He hasn't thought this far ahead yet and he isn't thinking now. He can't kill it; underneath that animal body there is probably one of the villagers. Will, pops into his mind with no effort, It has to be Will. There's a quiet, dark part of him that thinks that maybe he should kill the wolf. That would stop Merlin from spending time with him, wouldn't it?
The thought vanishes as quickly as it had formed when he jumps and pushes forward with his hand, vaulting over the fence. The wolf takes a step back, bent low to the ground: ready to pounce. Arthur growls back at it. He shows his own teeth, pointed like needles. It's not enough. The wolf launches.
It hits him - two dagger-sharp sets of claws to the chest - and together they fall backwards to the ground. They thud hard and roll, strength matched for strength. It's like fighting an equal; he hasn't done that in years. His fist curls: he punches the beast's snout and it falls back, whining. His knuckles hurt. He'd heard bone crack. He's half-way to his feet once more when it returns, pouncing onto his back. Sharp teeth scrape against the back of his neck, foul breath panting there. He feels teeth pierce his skin.
Rearing back, he manages to knock it off of his back, but he can feel blood running. A human would be dead by now. "I don't want to have to hurt you," he yells at the wolf - but he's starting to think that perhaps that won't be an issue.
He scrambles backwards in a half-crouch, trying to work out where his sword has got to; if it's a choice between him or one of the villagers, he has to choose himself. He can see the wolf shaking itself off and his hand reaches blindly for a hunk of firewood from the pile outside one of the cottages. It's heavy in his grasp, enough to stop anything at all with enough strength behind it. It'll do. As the wolf begins to run for him again, he decides that it will have to - he's ready to swing, ready to throw, ready to crush the wolf's skull.
But it stops. Mid-step, it pauses, and it takes Arthur a moment for his arm to relax and his mind to clear enough to process the strange words he'd just heard being yelled across the village. Cautiously, he gets to his feet - and there Merlin is, stood behind the wolf with arm outstretched and eyes bright gold. The scent surrounding him is even richer than normal and he is panting under the strain of running here. The wolf doesn't move, not a single inch, even when Merlin lowers his hand slowly.
"Are you alright?" Merlin asks, out of breath.
"Me?" Arthur huffs as he gets to his feet. He takes his gaze away from the wolf in order to throw a glare in Merlin's direction. "I told you to stay at home."
"Actually, you didn't say that," Merlin says, but if he thinks Arthur is going to let him get away on a technicality he's very much mistaken. He doesn't give Arthur the chance to say anything, though. "You were just about to get mauled by a werewolf. Should I go back inside and leave you to it?"
"I had the situation perfectly under control," Arthur insists. He dabs his fingers against the back of his neck, aware of the cuts caused by sharp teeth there. The pain stings, but it will heal quickly. Within a day they will be gone altogether.
"Of course you did, sire," Merlin sighs at him, and Arthur would swear that he catches him rolling his eyes. Cheeky bugger. "So this is a werewolf?"
"Yes." Arthur looks back at its frozen form, running his eyes across the stunning design of its body: it is the perfect hunter, the perfect killing machine. It puts the power contained in his own muscles to shame. "What did you do to it?"
"I'm, ah, not actually too sure, to be honest," Merlin says - he sounds sheepish as he walks closer to inspect his handiwork. "I said whatever came to mind. It seems like it worked?"
"I'm alive, in any case," Arthur confirms, though they have other concerns now - and he had never been worried for his life. Not really, right? He's a vampire; he's a knight; he's the prince. He could have quite easily fought this little beast off without any assistance whatsoever from Merlin. "In the meantime, we have an entirely new problem: how are we going to explain to the others why there is a werewolf floating near the sheep pen?"
Merlin's oh-so-helpful input is to shrug with one shoulder. Fantastic. Arthur makes sure to sigh extra-loudly this time.
"Well, why would I know?" Merlin complains. "Won't it switch back when the sun comes up?"
"Probably. These things are complicated, Merlin." That is his own special code for 'I haven't the faintest idea'. Thankfully Merlin doesn't seem to have worked that out just yet. He can milk the illusion of an all-knowing vampire for a little while longer.
"Hm," Merlin says thoughtfully. "Then I guess we just have to wait. If it's still like this when everyone wakes up, we can shove a blanket over it."
"Because no one would notice a hovering blanket?"
"If you have a better suggestion..." Merlin trails off and waits - and when Arthur has nothing he can offer, Merlin's nod is self-satisfied. "It's settled, then. I'll wait out here with you in case it wears off."
"Do you think it might?"
"I have absolutely no idea." Merlin has no choice but to shrug, and Arthur thinks that that must be terrifying, to have so much power in your blood but not to be completely in control of it. He remembers how it had felt to have magic of his own after he had drank from Merlin; such a rush, but impossible to control it. It hadn't felt like his at all, having a life of its own instead.
Arthur takes Merlin's hand and together they go to sit down against the outside of the pig pen, watching the frozen beast cautiously. Arthur wants to demand that Merlin goes back inside where it's safe, in case it unfreezes, but he knows that it would be futile. He's starting to know Merlin well enough to realise when he's caught onto a lost cause. He relocates his sword, accidentally left back with the sheep, and though Merlin scolds him he remains holding it for the remainder of the night, his eyes always on the horizon and waiting for the sun to dip. It takes too long. Merlin becomes drowsy, leaning against him, his head dipping occasionally to rest upon his shoulder before he jerks awake once more.
"Merlin," Arthur murmurs once the sun has risen. With an over-strong shove he wakes him up. "Look. It's changing."
The creature's fur is beginning to ripple, the lines of its body starting to blur. It's like staring at an object beneath a rippling stream; it's possible to tell that something is there, but impossible to make out what it is. Behind the wall of the sheep pen, the animals are beginning to stir and cry with nerves. Merlin and Arthur get to their feet, watching the transformation, and Arthur reaches out to place a hand on Merlin's arm, steering him behind him. He leaves his hand there, reassuring, because he knows that this isn't going to be pretty. Whoever the wolf is about to turn into, it's someone that Merlin must know.
Arthur wishes that he could stop the transformation - Merlin ought to freeze the wolf again and hold it in place to hold back any further pain or complications. He should never have allowed Merlin to come back home, Arthur realises now. He should have ordered him to stay in Camelot.
When the transformation stops and a nude, exhausted form falls to the ground, he wishes more than ever that he had thought to keep Merlin at the castle. This is something that no one should have to see.
"Mum?" Merlin says, quiet and shocked. On the ground, lying on her front, she stirs and groans in pain.
When she looks up at them, Arthur can see bruises and blood on her face - caused by his fist, no doubt. "Merlin? What's happening?" she asks.
He doesn't have an answer for her. Neither of them do, but Merlin especially seems frozen. There are so many questions that need to be asked, so many discussions that they need to have, but now is not the time for them and the centre of the village is certainly not the place. "We need to get her inside," Arthur murmurs to Merlin, willing to take the lead in the decision-making. Merlin and his mother aren't ready to do so, too much truth spilling into the open.
He picks her up; they go inside. The answers can wait until later.
*
Merlin doesn't go out to the fields that morning; when Will asks why, Arthur shakes his head. "Hunith is ill," he says. It's close to the truth. He can't concentrate on what he's doing for most of the day. One of Merlin's neckerchiefs, a faded blue colour, has been tied around his neck to disguise the toothmarks scratched into his skin. He's lucky he's a vampire; the infection won't spread on top of that. All evidence of the fight will be gone by tomorrow morning.
Physical evidence, in any case. Arthur isn't sure what will happen from here on with Merlin and his mother.
He doesn't find out anything at all until he returns to the village for lunch, rushing far faster than he would usually care to simply so that he can reach Merlin a few seconds earlier. He knows that Hunith and Merlin have to talk and that he can't be present for that; he would be an intruder. He knows this, and yet his instincts don't give a damn - they need Merlin in sight at all times or it becomes impossible to think of anything else.
When he reaches the door he knocks on it firmly, having to focus on self-control so that he doesn't knock the door off of its hinges altogether. It's answered within moments, Merlin standing in such a way that he blocks all view of the inside of the cottage. Seeing the way that he looks - pale, miserable, distracted - Arthur has to fight against the urge to whisk him away from all of this. It wouldn't help. Running away is, this time, far from an option.
"Can we talk?" he asks. His voice is kept much lower than it has to be; the secretive tone is enough to attract a wary glance from Will as he walks past the pair of them. Merlin offers a half-hearted wave.
He nods and takes Arthur's hand, walking outside with him. They end up hidden in a spot near the back of Merlin's home, sitting on the ground with the sun on their faces. Arthur doesn't know what to say. He keeps waiting for the words to come, but there's nothing. Nothing.
"It's why she sent me away," Merlin says - quiet. "She didn't want me around while it was happening. She must have thought..."
He trails away and Arthur allows him to do so. It's a sentence that perhaps Merlin shouldn't finish; Hunith herself probably hadn't been thinking anything clear or well-defined at the time.
"She was trying to protect you," Arthur assures him, and in that he and Hunith will always have something in common. He won't say how glad he is that she sent Merlin away when she needed him most; it was that action that brought Merlin to Camelot, to his castle. How could he regret that?
Merlin looks down at his hands, fidgetting nervously. He won't sit still, edging around in his stressed out misery. "I'm a sorcerer, my mother's a werewolf and my boyfriend's a vampire. My life is mad."
Boyfriend, Arthur thinks, struggling against a smirk. What a ridiculous phrase for it, for this, for them. He doesn't comment on it: now isn't the time.
"It could be worse," he muses. "You haven't got a ghost yet. Or a fairy."
"Oh, don't. Next thing you know I'll find out that Gaius is actually hiding wings under his clothes. Sparkly wings." Merlin twitches a smile unwillingly at the thought, but he leans his head back against the wall behind him with a thud. He pauses - and it's a horrid, heavy pause - before he says. "I'm going to stay here, Arthur. For as long as I can - as long as I have to."
It isn't a question exactly, but Arthur understands that he's asking for permission. He wants to say no; he's the master, Merlin is the servant, and he will return to Camelot right this second. His word is law, in Camelot if not in Ealdor. If he demanded it, it would happen.
He holds his tongue.
"I should've been here all this time, really. Should never have come to Camelot."
Arthur pulls him closer until Merlin fits neatly against him, Arthur's arm around his shoulders. "You know, you speak a lot of nonsense most of the time," he informs Merlin. "It was Hunith's decision to send you away after she discovered about her condition. Personally, I think it was a wise decision to make, although Joe would possibly disagree. Don't wallow in misery simply because you can. It's ridiculous."
Merlin is ridiculous in general, but Arthur doesn't bother to discuss that with him. He wants to talk to Hunith before the day is out, needing to know more about who passed the infection to her and the exact details of her condition, but he is willing to put it off for now, thinking only of the future. He has to return to Camelot before the full moon - before the week is out - and he has to face the reality of doing so without Merlin at his side. Ealdor is only one morning's run away, but with his duties to the kingdom too pressing to ignore the only thing that is certain is that he will no longer be able to have Merlin as a constant presence at his side. It's going to be different. It's going to drive him mad.
And, he realises as he holds on too tightly, he's going to have to cope.
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 6493
Rating: PG-13
A/N: This is a vampire AU set in the Scent 'verse.
Summary: While in Ealdor, Arthur tries to investigate the death of several sheep.
"It's probably only safe for me to stay for another week, Merlin, if that," Arthur says, staring out of the cottage's window at the night's sky rather than looking at his servant. Merlin is sitting cross-legged on the bed beside him, and from the corner of his eye Arthur can see the paleness of his skin. It's hard not to look - not to stare, not to draw him closer and smell - but it's getting easier. Being around Merlin in general, that's getting easier, though it's still a test of his self-control every single second that Merlin is by his side. He'd happily swear that Merlin is doing this on purpose, smelling annoyingly good and leaving a worried burn in Arthur's chest every time that he isn't around. "I don't want a repeat of what happened the last time the moon was full."
"You mean you don't want me to have to kick your royal arse again?" Merlin asks. He speaks quietly because his mother is asleep nearby. As wonderful as Hunith is, Arthur has to confess that she is something of a buzz-kill. Yet she is warm and friendly, even if her face is pale and drawn with worry far more often than it ought to be. "I'll do it, y'know. Gladly."
"Like you could. I'd be expecting it this time - you caught me by surprise before, that's all," Arthur answers determinedly. Perhaps he should schedule a rematch at some point to put Merlin back in his place. He swallows and tries not to think about the burn of Merlin's magic running through his veins or the power that pumped through Merlin's blood, waiting to be claimed by whoever was brave and fast enough to take it. It had flowed like liquid gold onto his tongue that day, making him stronger, making him better. He wants it again - he wants it at all times - but that desire is beginning to fade into a background thump. "And with that in mind, Merlin, I should return to Camelot before the moon is full."
"Will it make any difference?" Merlin asks, managing to sound both gloomy and curious at once. "You can run back here in under a day. If your... vampireiness is being especially hard to handle, will being in another place even help?"
Arthur makes a mental note to thump Gaius around the head at some point for teaching Merlin nothing more about vampires than 'vampireiness'. Good god, Merlin is extraordinarily lacking in education. "It's easier when you aren't there," he manages to say eventually, after turning it over in his mind for a few moments as he struggles to think of how to put this: it isn't something that he knows how to explain to a mortal, even if said mortal is as special as Merlin is. Merlin is in his mind, his heart, his blood. The strength of need that Arthur feels - to feed from him and, at the same time, to protect him from harm - is so overpowering that it makes it impossible to think of anything else.
"Why?"
"When you're there I can smell you." He hates doing this: he hates having to explain it to Merlin, to anyone. It makes him feel like a monster far more than the cold blood in his veins or the prick of hidden fangs. "I'll find something to distract myself while I'm gone. If I don't think about you, I won't come."
Merlin lets out a long breath of air and leans against him. The heat of his skin is burning against Arthur's side: he swallows, hard, and tries to think of anything else.
"What if I want you to come?" Merlin asks, as tempting as the devil himself. "Or what if I don't want you to leave in the first place?"
"Then you are every single bit as foolish as you look," Arthur complains. His voice doesn't shake. No, really, it doesn't. "And Gaius would have me scalped if I agreed. And that's not to mention what Morgana would do if I hurt you again."
"So is this a confession that big, bad Arthur Pendragon is afraid of an old man and a girl?" Merlin teases. Arthur shoves at his shoulder: it is nearly strong enough to push him right off of the bed, and only a fast scramble of limbs stops him from making a bruised mess of his knees on the ground. "Alright, alright. I'm sorry."
Arthur looks down at his lap to hide the way he's smiling to himself: he hadn't even known that Merlin had any sincere apologies in his vocabulary. "I would stay if it was safe," he reassures him. "I ran across the entire country to get to this tiny little village only to be forced to harvest fields every single hour of the day - and I did it willingly. I wouldn't have bothered if I didn't want to be here."
"You don't want to be here," Merlin says. "You want to be near me."
Arthur doesn't answer: he hates this weakness, hates that Merlin knows about it, and hates that they have to acknowledge it. He makes do with a grunt and hopes that Merlin knows what he means by that. He doesn't actually know that much himself, but it's probably better to leave it up to interpretation anyway. Merlin will be able to think up a better meaning all by himself.
"Perhaps we ought to get to some sleep," he suggests, stiffly. He doesn't sleep much any more, but Merlin does - and at least if they are sleeping then Merlin will no longer be talking, which at the present moment Arthur feels would be a significant improvement. "Good night, Merlin."
Merlin mumbles something moodily at him, too incoherent for anyone but a skilled linguist to decipher, and lies down to chase his dreams. Arthur remains sitting and stares at the cottage's window, trying not to think of the foul full moon that lurks in his future.
*
It is early in the morning but already the summer sun is hot. It prickles over Arthur's skin: uncomfortable. It won't make him burst into flames any time soon but he still doesn't enjoy the sensation. He'd rather take a bath in fire, given the choice. Sweat is already gathering on his brow by the time that Will decides to join them. Arthur has heard his footsteps thumping up the field for several minutes, but he doesn't bother to look up until Merlin's friend has arrived at their side: too close to Merlin, they're always too close, yet when it is Gwen it doesn't make him bristle in quite the same way.
Struggling extremely hard, Arthur manages not to growl at him.
"That's another sheep killed," Will says, gesturing back towards the village.
Merlin straightens up, his hands filled with wet stalks of wheat. He squints against the sunlight, his cheeks red from exertion already. Arthur very stubbornly tells himself that Merlin does not look adorable like this - and then even more harshly reminds himself that he does not look good enough to eat.
"What d'you mean?" Merlin asks, a little out of breath.
"Another one of Joe's sheep has been mauled in the night. He's fuming." Will scratches at his nose, looking away from them for a moment, across the field, before his attention returns. "Your mum didn't tell you? We've been having trouble ever since you left."
"Trouble with the sheep?"
"Yeah. There's wolves or something. We keep trying to catch them, but no luck."
Hearing those words, Arthur tries to ignore the knowing shiver that runs down his spine: Merlin's home life is supposed to be as normal as it is possible for the life of a teenage sorcerer to be. This sort of thing must happen in the countryside all the time. "You said it's been happening since Merlin left?" Arthur asks, after clearing his throat in as innocent a way as he can possibly manage. Considering the way that Will's eyes narrow, it doesn't sound nearly as innocent as it ought to.
"A couple of nights a month since then, yeah."
Merlin's looking at him now too, questions hidden in his eyes, but with Will here in front of them Arthur doesn't want to discuss it: he shrugs. He doesn't know how much Will knows about Merlin, about him, about them, but he doesn't want to talk about it with him anyway. It's a petty jealousy, and it's one that he's decided to blame on his vampiric condition if he can get away with it.
They have to keep their heads down for the rest of the morning and get on with their work: it seems as if no matter how much they accomplish there is always yet another field that needs to be tackled, or someone else that could do with a spare pair of hands. With strength mortals could only dream of, Arthur still finds himself tired - and cranky - so he doesn't want to imagine how Merlin is feeling by this point. He can smell old copper on the air - spilt blood - but it is dry and it is animal. The scent is enough to tease his hungers to life but not enough to override his thinking. A sheep's blood is nothing compared to the drink working alongside him, pumping through Merlin's veins.
"Merlin, we should stop for lunch," he announces, though for him the need for food is akin to the need for sleep: a habit brought over from his human life. Yet it puts humans at ease, he thinks, to hang onto a few central habits like that. Despite his nature - and despite Edwin's wishes - Arthur thinks that he will be more human than vampire for a long time still. Forever, if he has any say in the matter. "You're exhausted."
"I am? You're the one that smells like a pig," Merlin complains, but he's quick to throw down his tools all the same.
"You look like you might faint at any second," Arthur says confidently, although Merlin really doesn't look like that at all. He is flushed and sweating, out of breath, but Arthur has learnt that he is a lot stronger than he looks. He has a great deal of experience in these fields, Arthur supposes. A whole childhood and adolescence spent here, a time of his life that Arthur will never be able to see or understand. "I could carry you back, if you'd like."
And he would if Merlin asked, though the real reason he had offered was to watch Merlin splutter in indignation: it works, too, like a charm. "I do not need to be carried, Arthur! I'm a grown man," he protests.
"Are you sure? There's no need to be stubborn about this. I'd rather carry you back than see you swoon in the heat."
"I'm going to hex you," Merlin declares, turning to start walking back towards the village. "I'm going to hex you until your arms fall off. And your legs. And several other unfortunate bits as well."
Laughing, Arthur moves after him. Will stays behind and Arthur is glad for that: he needs some time away from him, without his plain scent mixing with Merlin's. He catches up with Merlin within a few paces. "I wouldn't have thought that you'd want my 'unfortunate bits' falling off," he murmurs after leaning in close to brush his words against Merlin's ear. His hand, resting upon Merlin's shoulder, strokes two fingers against the side of Merlin's neck: he feels him shiver. "That wouldn't be a good hex for either of us, would it?"
Merlin's answer is little more than a quiet shiver of air, and it's sounds like that that remind Arthur of why he needs to back off. He doesn't know if he'll ever have the self-control he needs to be near Merlin like this - or to put his 'unfortunate bits' anywhere near him. That sound alone makes it hard not to shove him down into the long grain; it would be so very easy to pin him there and rip more soft noises from his lips, to break the skin and drink him down. Arthur wets his lips and steps back, pushing off of Merlin sharply. Can't be near him when it gets like this, when he can almost taste Merlin's blood on his tongue again.
"Sorry," Merlin mumbles, and Arthur wants to tell him that apologising is ridiculous but he doesn't trust himself to speak right now: he shakes his head and doesn't say a word. Merlin clears his throat and Arthur tries not to allow his attention to shift back to his neck, to his pulse, to his blood. "When Will mentioned Joe's sheep, you looked a bit funny. Is everything alright?"
He's happy for a change of subject, but less happy with what Merlin has chosen to hop to. "I assume it is. It seemed odd, that's all - it started right after you left."
"You think I have something to do with it?"
"Of course not. I was only wondering if your presence had scared it off before. The wolves, I mean." He ought to explain the finer details to Merlin, he supposes. Werewolves, vampires, sorcerers, fairies. There is so much more to the supernatural world than Merlin realises; even Arthur himself has only scratched the surface thanks to his father's disapproval. He is far from the ideal teacher. "Werewolves have been known to avoid the presence of sorcerers when possible," he adds, as casually as he can - he throws it off-hand into the conversation, as if he had expected Merlin to already know.
"Werewolves?" Merlin hisses, with that perfect level of exasperation in his voice. Hearing it, Arthur starts smiling again. "There are werewolves now?"
"Merlin, you can be such an idiot at times. Of course there are werewolves. They may have nothing to do with your little sheep killings in any case. Probably have bigger things to do than stalk sheep. Bigger beings to maul, I mean."
"But it's not even the full moon!"
Merlin sounds as if he might explode from trying to keep his voice at an acceptable level: they're nearly at the cottages now, ready to enter the village once more. The population already take measures to avoid being in their company. Ranting and raving about werewolves would probably do very little to enhance Merlin's popularity.
"It doesn't actually have to be a full moon. They work in monthly cycles; there is little lunar about it." He manages to sound extraordinarily knowledgeable for someone who has never met a werewolf or read anything about them, so he has no intention of allowing Merlin to know that the majority of his information will be either made up on the spot or scraps he remembers one of his maids telling him when he was a child. He is a creature of the night: that affords him some mystery. "It's probably nothing to worry about, really. If I knew you were going to be such a girl about it I wouldn't have said anything."
"What does 'being a girl' about being told that werewolves exist and are eating Joe's sheep even mean?" Merlin hisses in annoyance. "I'm being normal."
Their feet are leading them into the village now: time to change the topic, Arthur decides, and he's glad to be the one to do so. Merlin's scowl displays his displeasure when Arthur begins to talk about his plans for returning to Camelot soon, but Arthur charges ahead with it stubbornly.
*
"I'll stay awake tonight," he announces. "Watching the sheep."
The eyebrows of some of the men in the village rise doubtfully - a prince, a noble, an outsider - but Merlin nods enthusiastically. They have little choice but to consent, and when night falls he finds himself heading out to the sheep pen.
"I could come with you," Merlin suggests, lingering near the doorway. At this point, Arthur would like nothing more than to slink back inside with him and slip into bed by his side, where he can scent his skin and listen to his inane chatter until Merlin finally drifts into a peaceful sleep. With Merlin at his side, Arthur finds that he can doze more often. "I could probably help."
Arthur is shaking his head before Merlin has even finished suggesting it. He doesn't want Merlin anywhere near any kind of danger. It makes him grit his teeth, makes his fist curl, and he knows that Merlin would hate it if he knew. Merlin doesn't want to be protected - and doesn't truly need to be - but Arthur can't fight the need to do so. He wants to hide Merlin away, lock him in one of Camelot's towers, keep him from the world and its cruelties.
And that?
That means that there is definitely no way that he is going to be allowed anywhere near a possible werewolf.
"Get some sleep," he urges, reaching out to brush imaginary dirt from Merlin's pale cheeks. "We've got another day in the fields tomorrow."
Merlin sighs, weary with him, and his hand grabs onto Arthur's by his face; he holds him there, pressed against his skin. "You really are quite an idiot," he tells Arthur earnestly. For once, Arthur is inclined to agree with him, though he says nothing. Merlin looks at him, level-headed and curious. "I want to kiss you good night. Is that alright? You won't, y'know... go all black-eyed and try to eat me again?"
Arthur feels himself beginning to smile like a lovesick suitor. "I promise to control myself," he says, even though they both know that that is and will always be a dicey subject. The dangers for them both fall to the back of his mind when Merlin steps closer to him, the concept of personal space fading away. He's so warm, so human, and Arthur knows that they ought to be more careful about doing this out in public. Merlin lives in this village - his mother lives in this village - and upsetting the locals was not on Arthur's to-do list when he followed Merlin all the way out here.
It doesn't matter.
Good god, it does not matter a single bit after Merlin kisses him, a breeze of contact against his lips. Merlin's hand is on his shoulder, the other on his hip, and Arthur thinks that he would give the world and immortality to stay like this. It is nothing but light contact, freakishly chaste for how badly Arthur longs for him, but it is everything: it is death and life and the end and Arthur wants to crush Merlin for this. Wants to hold him close and feel every rib crack beneath his strength, and keep on kissing him until he feels Merlin's breath shudder to a stop against his lips. The sound that rumbles out of him at the thought is a growl of both fear and desire: the need to kill and the need to protect are always going to be at war.
With firm hands on Merlin's shoulders he puts distance between them, needing to wait for his head to clear again. Being separated for a night will do them good; in Camelot, despite his best attempts to have Merlin in his sight at all hours of the day, Merlin finds ways of being kept busy or avoiding him. Arthur hates it, but he's discovering the downsides of having Merlin by his side constantly. He can barely think about anything else at all, and with every passing moment the darker side of him curls and fidgets and wants to come out. Distance. That may be all that is needed. A night apart could cure it all.
If not, then he imagines that he will have to depart for Camelot far sooner than he had anticipated. Merlin won't be pleased.
"Good night," he says, ridiculously breathless for someone who doesn't have to breathe. "I'll see you in the morning."
He doesn't hear what Merlin says to him in return. Even his enhanced senses can't overcome the twist of worry in his gut that stems from being around Merlin: from what he fears might happen if he allows it to continue. He wishes he could be like Morgana; she's more controlled than he is. Always has been, and he doesn't know why. He's never allowed Edwin to take the role of a proper sire and show them the ropes: there are some things that neither one of them wish to be shown. Perhaps it's just Morgana's personality that her self-control stems from. He kicks at the ground irritably as he walks towards where Joe's sheep are kept. He's a better vampire than Morgana is; unfortunately, he thinks that Morgana may be better at being human. She always has liked to best him at the most important stuff (although, of course, he'd never admit as much to her face, and he frequently thanks his luck that their transformation hasn't included any telepathy).
The sheep are awake and restless when he approaches their pens. They are slim, their wool freshly shorn. It makes them look more undignified than usual, Arthur thinks as he leans against the thin wooden railing that keeps them in. "I guess it's just you and me now," he said to them. Most baa'ed with indifference. With a disapproving roll of his eyes, Arthur looks around and tries to find a half-way comfortable place to sit against the wall inside the pen, his body already itching to go back to the cottage and doze in Merlin's bed until the sun came up. He feels too alert to sleep - night is the natural time for his kind to be awake - but with Merlin beside him it gets easier.
This is becoming intolerable, Arthur thinks, his bad mood beginning to settle upon his shoulders. I'm going home tomorrow.
He cracks a knuckle in boredom, trying to think of all of the duties that he is neglecting back home in Camelot. He will have an angry lecture from Uther waiting for him, and no doubt Merlin will be in trouble as well upon his return. He'll protect him. Perhaps he'll allow his father to put Merlin in the stocks for a few hours, just to serve him right, but nothing too bad, too painful, too permanent. Merlin is his: he is beyond any jurisdiction of his father, regardless of what the law may say.
He sighs and knocks the back of his head against the wall he's leaning against: in trying to think of anything else, it had taken under a minute for his thoughts to circle determinedly back towards Merlin. It feels as if he's in the depth of insanity, unable to think his own thoughts any more. His night is a difficult thing, left alone with his own thoughts. He usually quite enjoys his own company, but ever since his life has been invaded by Merlin it's been impossible to do so. He thinks, sometimes, that he really ought to hate Merlin, not adore him.
The night is long, uneventful and boring. Hours have passed and his eyelids are heavy with boredom when -
He hears the creaking of hinges and the stealthy padding of four large feet. Breathing in deeply, the scent on the air fills his lungs: it's wolf, but it's more than that. It's wrong; unnatural.
Werewolf.
He's never seen one before, but he knows the scent instinctively. He steps forward from the wall, creeping towards the gate with footsteps that make no sound. It looks like he's floating. He's stopped breathing altogether and his senses are on overload: a hunter's instincts. The sheep are unsettled, no longer sleeping. They shuffle from side to side and rush to the opposite side of the pen, squishing together to get away from the beast approaching the other side of the wall and the vampire inside with them. Arthur doesn't pay attention. He's reached the wooden wall.
On the other side, the wolf is large and hulking. Its fur is clean and well-cared for and its mouth is curled in a cruel snarl. It's much larger than a regular wolf and its teeth are a great deal longer. Muscles line its flanks. Golden eyes glare at Arthur as he places a hand on the wall, ready to jump clean over it.
He hasn't thought this far ahead yet and he isn't thinking now. He can't kill it; underneath that animal body there is probably one of the villagers. Will, pops into his mind with no effort, It has to be Will. There's a quiet, dark part of him that thinks that maybe he should kill the wolf. That would stop Merlin from spending time with him, wouldn't it?
The thought vanishes as quickly as it had formed when he jumps and pushes forward with his hand, vaulting over the fence. The wolf takes a step back, bent low to the ground: ready to pounce. Arthur growls back at it. He shows his own teeth, pointed like needles. It's not enough. The wolf launches.
It hits him - two dagger-sharp sets of claws to the chest - and together they fall backwards to the ground. They thud hard and roll, strength matched for strength. It's like fighting an equal; he hasn't done that in years. His fist curls: he punches the beast's snout and it falls back, whining. His knuckles hurt. He'd heard bone crack. He's half-way to his feet once more when it returns, pouncing onto his back. Sharp teeth scrape against the back of his neck, foul breath panting there. He feels teeth pierce his skin.
Rearing back, he manages to knock it off of his back, but he can feel blood running. A human would be dead by now. "I don't want to have to hurt you," he yells at the wolf - but he's starting to think that perhaps that won't be an issue.
He scrambles backwards in a half-crouch, trying to work out where his sword has got to; if it's a choice between him or one of the villagers, he has to choose himself. He can see the wolf shaking itself off and his hand reaches blindly for a hunk of firewood from the pile outside one of the cottages. It's heavy in his grasp, enough to stop anything at all with enough strength behind it. It'll do. As the wolf begins to run for him again, he decides that it will have to - he's ready to swing, ready to throw, ready to crush the wolf's skull.
But it stops. Mid-step, it pauses, and it takes Arthur a moment for his arm to relax and his mind to clear enough to process the strange words he'd just heard being yelled across the village. Cautiously, he gets to his feet - and there Merlin is, stood behind the wolf with arm outstretched and eyes bright gold. The scent surrounding him is even richer than normal and he is panting under the strain of running here. The wolf doesn't move, not a single inch, even when Merlin lowers his hand slowly.
"Are you alright?" Merlin asks, out of breath.
"Me?" Arthur huffs as he gets to his feet. He takes his gaze away from the wolf in order to throw a glare in Merlin's direction. "I told you to stay at home."
"Actually, you didn't say that," Merlin says, but if he thinks Arthur is going to let him get away on a technicality he's very much mistaken. He doesn't give Arthur the chance to say anything, though. "You were just about to get mauled by a werewolf. Should I go back inside and leave you to it?"
"I had the situation perfectly under control," Arthur insists. He dabs his fingers against the back of his neck, aware of the cuts caused by sharp teeth there. The pain stings, but it will heal quickly. Within a day they will be gone altogether.
"Of course you did, sire," Merlin sighs at him, and Arthur would swear that he catches him rolling his eyes. Cheeky bugger. "So this is a werewolf?"
"Yes." Arthur looks back at its frozen form, running his eyes across the stunning design of its body: it is the perfect hunter, the perfect killing machine. It puts the power contained in his own muscles to shame. "What did you do to it?"
"I'm, ah, not actually too sure, to be honest," Merlin says - he sounds sheepish as he walks closer to inspect his handiwork. "I said whatever came to mind. It seems like it worked?"
"I'm alive, in any case," Arthur confirms, though they have other concerns now - and he had never been worried for his life. Not really, right? He's a vampire; he's a knight; he's the prince. He could have quite easily fought this little beast off without any assistance whatsoever from Merlin. "In the meantime, we have an entirely new problem: how are we going to explain to the others why there is a werewolf floating near the sheep pen?"
Merlin's oh-so-helpful input is to shrug with one shoulder. Fantastic. Arthur makes sure to sigh extra-loudly this time.
"Well, why would I know?" Merlin complains. "Won't it switch back when the sun comes up?"
"Probably. These things are complicated, Merlin." That is his own special code for 'I haven't the faintest idea'. Thankfully Merlin doesn't seem to have worked that out just yet. He can milk the illusion of an all-knowing vampire for a little while longer.
"Hm," Merlin says thoughtfully. "Then I guess we just have to wait. If it's still like this when everyone wakes up, we can shove a blanket over it."
"Because no one would notice a hovering blanket?"
"If you have a better suggestion..." Merlin trails off and waits - and when Arthur has nothing he can offer, Merlin's nod is self-satisfied. "It's settled, then. I'll wait out here with you in case it wears off."
"Do you think it might?"
"I have absolutely no idea." Merlin has no choice but to shrug, and Arthur thinks that that must be terrifying, to have so much power in your blood but not to be completely in control of it. He remembers how it had felt to have magic of his own after he had drank from Merlin; such a rush, but impossible to control it. It hadn't felt like his at all, having a life of its own instead.
Arthur takes Merlin's hand and together they go to sit down against the outside of the pig pen, watching the frozen beast cautiously. Arthur wants to demand that Merlin goes back inside where it's safe, in case it unfreezes, but he knows that it would be futile. He's starting to know Merlin well enough to realise when he's caught onto a lost cause. He relocates his sword, accidentally left back with the sheep, and though Merlin scolds him he remains holding it for the remainder of the night, his eyes always on the horizon and waiting for the sun to dip. It takes too long. Merlin becomes drowsy, leaning against him, his head dipping occasionally to rest upon his shoulder before he jerks awake once more.
"Merlin," Arthur murmurs once the sun has risen. With an over-strong shove he wakes him up. "Look. It's changing."
The creature's fur is beginning to ripple, the lines of its body starting to blur. It's like staring at an object beneath a rippling stream; it's possible to tell that something is there, but impossible to make out what it is. Behind the wall of the sheep pen, the animals are beginning to stir and cry with nerves. Merlin and Arthur get to their feet, watching the transformation, and Arthur reaches out to place a hand on Merlin's arm, steering him behind him. He leaves his hand there, reassuring, because he knows that this isn't going to be pretty. Whoever the wolf is about to turn into, it's someone that Merlin must know.
Arthur wishes that he could stop the transformation - Merlin ought to freeze the wolf again and hold it in place to hold back any further pain or complications. He should never have allowed Merlin to come back home, Arthur realises now. He should have ordered him to stay in Camelot.
When the transformation stops and a nude, exhausted form falls to the ground, he wishes more than ever that he had thought to keep Merlin at the castle. This is something that no one should have to see.
"Mum?" Merlin says, quiet and shocked. On the ground, lying on her front, she stirs and groans in pain.
When she looks up at them, Arthur can see bruises and blood on her face - caused by his fist, no doubt. "Merlin? What's happening?" she asks.
He doesn't have an answer for her. Neither of them do, but Merlin especially seems frozen. There are so many questions that need to be asked, so many discussions that they need to have, but now is not the time for them and the centre of the village is certainly not the place. "We need to get her inside," Arthur murmurs to Merlin, willing to take the lead in the decision-making. Merlin and his mother aren't ready to do so, too much truth spilling into the open.
He picks her up; they go inside. The answers can wait until later.
*
Merlin doesn't go out to the fields that morning; when Will asks why, Arthur shakes his head. "Hunith is ill," he says. It's close to the truth. He can't concentrate on what he's doing for most of the day. One of Merlin's neckerchiefs, a faded blue colour, has been tied around his neck to disguise the toothmarks scratched into his skin. He's lucky he's a vampire; the infection won't spread on top of that. All evidence of the fight will be gone by tomorrow morning.
Physical evidence, in any case. Arthur isn't sure what will happen from here on with Merlin and his mother.
He doesn't find out anything at all until he returns to the village for lunch, rushing far faster than he would usually care to simply so that he can reach Merlin a few seconds earlier. He knows that Hunith and Merlin have to talk and that he can't be present for that; he would be an intruder. He knows this, and yet his instincts don't give a damn - they need Merlin in sight at all times or it becomes impossible to think of anything else.
When he reaches the door he knocks on it firmly, having to focus on self-control so that he doesn't knock the door off of its hinges altogether. It's answered within moments, Merlin standing in such a way that he blocks all view of the inside of the cottage. Seeing the way that he looks - pale, miserable, distracted - Arthur has to fight against the urge to whisk him away from all of this. It wouldn't help. Running away is, this time, far from an option.
"Can we talk?" he asks. His voice is kept much lower than it has to be; the secretive tone is enough to attract a wary glance from Will as he walks past the pair of them. Merlin offers a half-hearted wave.
He nods and takes Arthur's hand, walking outside with him. They end up hidden in a spot near the back of Merlin's home, sitting on the ground with the sun on their faces. Arthur doesn't know what to say. He keeps waiting for the words to come, but there's nothing. Nothing.
"It's why she sent me away," Merlin says - quiet. "She didn't want me around while it was happening. She must have thought..."
He trails away and Arthur allows him to do so. It's a sentence that perhaps Merlin shouldn't finish; Hunith herself probably hadn't been thinking anything clear or well-defined at the time.
"She was trying to protect you," Arthur assures him, and in that he and Hunith will always have something in common. He won't say how glad he is that she sent Merlin away when she needed him most; it was that action that brought Merlin to Camelot, to his castle. How could he regret that?
Merlin looks down at his hands, fidgetting nervously. He won't sit still, edging around in his stressed out misery. "I'm a sorcerer, my mother's a werewolf and my boyfriend's a vampire. My life is mad."
Boyfriend, Arthur thinks, struggling against a smirk. What a ridiculous phrase for it, for this, for them. He doesn't comment on it: now isn't the time.
"It could be worse," he muses. "You haven't got a ghost yet. Or a fairy."
"Oh, don't. Next thing you know I'll find out that Gaius is actually hiding wings under his clothes. Sparkly wings." Merlin twitches a smile unwillingly at the thought, but he leans his head back against the wall behind him with a thud. He pauses - and it's a horrid, heavy pause - before he says. "I'm going to stay here, Arthur. For as long as I can - as long as I have to."
It isn't a question exactly, but Arthur understands that he's asking for permission. He wants to say no; he's the master, Merlin is the servant, and he will return to Camelot right this second. His word is law, in Camelot if not in Ealdor. If he demanded it, it would happen.
He holds his tongue.
"I should've been here all this time, really. Should never have come to Camelot."
Arthur pulls him closer until Merlin fits neatly against him, Arthur's arm around his shoulders. "You know, you speak a lot of nonsense most of the time," he informs Merlin. "It was Hunith's decision to send you away after she discovered about her condition. Personally, I think it was a wise decision to make, although Joe would possibly disagree. Don't wallow in misery simply because you can. It's ridiculous."
Merlin is ridiculous in general, but Arthur doesn't bother to discuss that with him. He wants to talk to Hunith before the day is out, needing to know more about who passed the infection to her and the exact details of her condition, but he is willing to put it off for now, thinking only of the future. He has to return to Camelot before the full moon - before the week is out - and he has to face the reality of doing so without Merlin at his side. Ealdor is only one morning's run away, but with his duties to the kingdom too pressing to ignore the only thing that is certain is that he will no longer be able to have Merlin as a constant presence at his side. It's going to be different. It's going to drive him mad.
And, he realises as he holds on too tightly, he's going to have to cope.