Kink Me! #19
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Warnings for spoilers for up to 2.09-ish (as far as I can tell -- I may decide to include more later, but even if I do it'll only be up to the series 2 finale, most likely), for being embarrassingly platonic so far as the boys just refuse to cooperate (it's a kinkmeme for a reason, damnit), and for blatant abuse of italics, hyphens, and parentheses (it's a curse, really -- I can't help it).
I'll stop rambling now but first, a huuuge thank you to the anon who requested this prompt -- it's amazing, and it's turning out to be a blast to work with.
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their sound shall reach the stars
The seas shall rise up in the twinkling of an eye, and the dust of the ancients shall be restored.
The winds shall fight together with a dreadful blast, and their sound shall reach the stars.
-- Geoffrey of Monmouth, 'Historia Regum Brittaniae'
Arthur strode into his chambers, grateful to have finally escaped his father’s guests’ company. A baron from a city bordering Mercia was visiting Uther for “pleasure” rather than business, but if the way they kept foisting his daughter towards Arthur was any indication, the greatest pleasure the man would find would be in a marriage agreement. “God,” he said, unsheathing the belt strewn across his hips and tossing it onto the table where he heard the ceremonial sword he’d been forced to carry meet wood with a loud thunk (and Merlin’s protests not to do that because now he was going to have to check for nicks later), “I thought that meeting with Lord Anselm was never going to end.”
His usually inept manservant had managed to make himself useful for once -- it appeared he was just finishing setting out a tray of cold meats, fruits, and cheeses. “Lady Evelyn doesn’t catch your fancy then?” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching cheekily.
Arthur snorted incredulously as he flopped into the chair in front of the tray, thankful he hadn’t actually made the grave error of giving him a half-compliment laced in an insult for having the lunch ready. Really, Merlin would never learn his place, he thought with amusement. “She’s fourteen,” he replied, hoping his horror at his father’s gall shone through the good humour that food always brought.
“Yes, well,” Merlin started, his expression all mock-seriousness, “I see the king is striving to find a match for you in maturity, then.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and threw a grape at him (surely that was like regular entertainment for Merlin, with all the time he spent in the stocks). “Do shut up, Merlin. Anyway,” he continued through a mouthful of cheese, “it’s not as though my father is seriously considering her. It’s just for politics. And some of us have to grin and bear it for the sake of our duties.” He paused for a moment, and then grinned and added, “We can’t all lounge around in the royal chambers all day,” pleased to see Merlin’s mouth drop open in indignation.
“I’ve been slaving around on my hands and knees-”
And the lewd grin that lit up on Arthur’s face was automatic (he had obviously been spending too much time with the knights) as he crowed, “Oh?” and damn it he was not imagining Merlin on his knees now, looking up at him with that insolent smirk and -- he was suddenly quite grateful for the table between them and his servant’s unfailing obliviousness.
“Cleaning your royal chambers,” Merlin continued determinedly, as though nothing had happened -- though Arthur noted with no small amount of satisfaction that Merlin’s not-quite-a-stumble at Arthur’s words had been rather spectacular, even by his usual standards, and he was flushed all the way to the tips of his ridiculous ears -- “not lounging around.”
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He was not disappointed when the flush strewn across Merlin’s face seemed to only redouble. “Well,” he spluttered, carelessly leaning against Arthur’s bedpost (and really, only Merlin could manage to lean impertinently). “I scrubbed the floors,” he then crowed, clutching to a seeming lifeline, “so I’d thank you to stay indoors as long as possible, if you please --”
“And if I don’t?” Arthur couldn’t help grumbling. Something was inherently wrong (and yet it happened all too often) about Merlin telling him what he should and shouldn’t do.
“-- as it takes ages to scrub them, and I’d really like to put off doing it again for as long as possible, even if that’s probably not likely as you manage to get everything impossibly dirty,” Merlin rambled, continuing on as if he hadn’t heard Arthur’s mutter. “But I also cleaned your robes for the feast tomorrow night. And you managed to get wine on the sleeve again, so that took longer than I’d --”
“Merlin?”
Merlin’s spiel dropped off. “Er. Arthur?”
Arthur could feel the beginnings of a horrid headache coming on. “When I asked if you were slaving about all day, I didn’t really expect you to give me a blow-by-blow recount,” he moaned. Between the Lady Evelyn (if she was even old enough to be considered a Lady), his father, and his prattling manservant, he’d be lucky to go the week without killing someone. He gave up the rest of his lunch as a lost cause and instead moved towards the oh-so-inviting bed, flopping onto it with a gluttonous sigh.
As usual, Merlin wasn’t happy with whatever Arthur wanted to do. “Wh- Arthur! I just finished making that! Fluffed the pillows and everything.”
Arthur let a long-suffering sigh out before he grabbed one of the pillows and tossed it at Merlin, feeling inordinately pleased at the squawk his manservant let out as it met his shoulder. “Well?” he said, looking at Merlin with an expectant grin. “I’d hate to deny you the joy of fluffing my pillows.”
Merlin was looking at him with the familiar combination of frustration, exasperation, and amusement. So Arthur probably should have expected it when Merlin threw the pillow back at him with a surprising amount of force and a “prat”.
He hadn’t expected that one toss of a pillow would result in all-out war, however.
Several minutes and many annihilated pillows later, they were interrupted by a knock to the door. Before Arthur could so much as think, Merlin leapt from the edge of the bed (and how did he get there?) was at the door in a flash, opening it to reveal a page. The obviously-prepared words on the page’s lips died as they gave way to an ‘o’ of surprise, and Arthur took a moment to view the scene from his eyes. Merlin was at the door, red from exertion and laughter, two feathers sticking out of his mussed hair in a way that seemed to defy all rules of science, Arthur was kneeling on the bed, the battered remains of a pillow dangling uselessly from his fists, and the entire room seemed to be coated in feathers. The flush on the back of his neck seemed to feel less like from the antics of prior moments and more like embarrassment at getting caught doing something that would have been more endearing had he been many, many years younger.
The page visibly recollected himself and said in an admirably serious tone, “Sire, the King requests your presence in the throne room immediately.”
Arthur hastily hid the pillow sack behind his back, feeling like he was seven and caught smuggling a dozen honeyed pastries from the kitchens again. “Of course,” he said, attempting to sound as calm and princely as possible. If Merlin’s pinched lips and barely-contained mirth were anything to go by, Arthur was failing. Miserably.
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Merlin promptly burst into laughter. “His face,” he blustered, and even through his embarrassment Arthur could see the amusement.
That didn’t stop him from gathering his face into the most intimidating scowl he could muster. (Merlin’s absurd giggles didn’t abate; obviously either it needed work or Merlin needed to be instilled with the proper reverence for his prince. Or both.) He gave it up as a lost job and just shook his head. “This,” he said, sweeping a hand to encompass the disaster that was the feather-covered chambers, “better be cleaned up when I get back.”
And when Merlin’s “yes, sire” sounded far too amused for his own good, Arthur felt utterly justified in muttering, “Honestly, worst manservant ever,” under his breath and giving Merlin a shove to the shoulder as he left. If Merlin claimed later that he was smiling as he did it, well, that was a lie.
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Thank you so much for the (crazy fast!) feedback! <3
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Also, I love the way you write Merlin and Arthur's interaction/banter. Well done indeed!
Thanks for emerging back to the fanfiction world!
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Thank you! I was worried it didn't come off organic enough, but oh welll. No use crying over spilt milk. Thank you for the lovely comment! I'm turning out to be quite happy I did -- I missed fanfiction. (And getting feedback has always been one of my favourite parts of it, not going to lie xDD.)
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The room was empty save for Uther on his throne, Sir Leon in the shadows, his face just as drawn as the king’s, and an unfamiliar peasant standing demurely off to the side, and Arthur’s boots’ whispering seemed unnaturally loud against the stone, echoing into the space between the corners.
“Arthur,” his father greeted him shortly, tension and dissatisfaction at something radiating from the two syllables.
Arthur internally frowned; what could have caused such a radical change in mood in such a little time? “Father,” he replied with a courteous bow of the head. “Is everything well with Lord Anselm and the Lady Evelyn?”
Uther waved a hand distractedly. “Yes, though I’m afraid their visit will have to be cut short. We’ve received rather… unsettling news from this man here,” he said, acknowledging the peasant with a slight tilt of the head.
Unsure as what to make of ‘unsettling news’, Arthur turned towards the man, noting his look, a strange mixture of apprehensive and determined. “What sort of news?” he asked, half-addressing his father, half the poorly dressed man in the shadows.
With a brief flicker of his eyes, the man asked permission to speak, granted with a nod of Uther’s head, and then said to Arthur, “Your highness, I come from a village on the border of Caerleon.” At the mention of the kingdom, Arthur frowned. Camelot didn’t have much to do with its northwestern neighbour, as most of their efforts were spent dealing with the much more antagonistic Cenred to the east; however, there had been whispers of odd dealings in the past few weeks, and a patrol had been sent to find the measure of what was going on. Nothing had been heard from them in about a week -- could this be about that?
“Does this have to do with the patrol we sent to that area?” Arthur asked, first looking at the man, and then at his father. His answer came in the form of a deep frown from Uther. Apparently so.
“Yes, my lord,” the man said, “we -- a friend and I -- were going hunting, to bring back game for the village, and we came across the patrol.” His words died off as though he were unsure how to continue.
Uther supplied the ending for him, curt and hiding all emotion. “They’re dead,” he said, and suddenly the displeasure made a whole lot more sense.
Arthur couldn’t help but feel a stab of pain for the men he had trained with. “How many?” he managed, hoping against the worst, even if the similar anguish exhibited between Leon’s brows suggested otherwise.
“All of them, your highness,” the peasant said before taking a few hesitant steps forward, his hands worrying a piece of parchment idly. “I’d never seen the like of the wounds inflicted before. It didn’t seem as though it were a blade, or arrow….” He seemed loath to voice his fears about how the wounds had been inflicted, but Uther was more than willing to provide the answer.
“Sorcery,” the king said, mouth pursing over the word to show his deep irritation at yet another instance of magic taking from the kingdom. And for a sharp moment, despite the misgivings that had been silently growing like a fever, Arthur could understand his father’s deep-set hatred: what kind of force killed men, men sent for peace and to get things under control, and left them slaughtered like animals for someone to stumble upon?
The reason for the parchment was supplied with a, “One of the men had this… attached to him, sire,” and the death note was placed shakingly into Arthur’s hands as the prince fought to stave off the images attached had prompted.
It was no ransom, no declaration of war, or even credit for the horrendous deed, and somehow the lack of closure, the depart from the norm, the thought that his men had been killed for something he couldn’t have prepared for, was nauseating. On the paper were three simple words that made absolutely no sense to Arthur’s sudden guilt and anger: “Bring us Emrys.”
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I don't know how regular of a schedule it'll be posted at, though; I've never been the best with keeping up with these sorts of things xD.
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