Rheged Part 9
Merlin dressed alone for the banquet and when Bran arrived ready to help, he dismissed him. Bran very obviously sulked, but he seemed to recognise that Merlin was in no mood for challenge and so he left him to himself, informing him huffily that he'd meet him in the banqueting hall.
Merlin had found he couldn’t bear the idea of sitting at the feast table wearing the clothing Arthur had all but torn off him. So he'd changed to his other formal attire, a blue so dark as to be almost black. Its sombreness matched his mood.
It took an effort of will to leave his chambers, but like a knight donning his mail, he found that old, dissembling mask of blithe unconcern, so much a part of him now that when he looked in his mirror, he could almost believe in it himself.
Still, he had to stand before the door for long minutes, trying to brace himself, until at last he slipped out and walked through the corridors quickly, doing all he could to hide his halting stride, sore still from those two hard fucks. And he would not let himself think on that. Wouldn’t even acknowledge the existence of memory if he was going to make himself move forwards as he should, and not scuttle back to his rooms to cower and lick his wounds like the coward Arthur believed him to be.
When he arrived, smiling with careful delight in the banqueting hall, he found to his enormous relief that he wasn’t late - the king and queen were still to arrive. More than that, he realised he hadn’t been set a place near the royal couple and their visitors. It was like a rescue.
Instead he slipped in among the knights who were in their usual spot, mingling half way down the left leg of the huge U-shaped arrangement of tables, and Gwaine, when he saw him, managed to manhandle Leon down a place and haul Merlin to stand behind the seat next to him as they waited for Arthur and Gwen. Merlin slumped against it with a nauseous mixture of apprehension, guilt and relief churning his belly; because whatever else, Gwaine always managed to make him feel safe, valued, protected.
His well-honed skill at concealing his true self served him now though. He managed what he hoped was a warm grin.
Gwaine smirked back, wickedly.
“You changed into my favourite,” he murmured.
Gwaine had chosen the colour for Merlin because he loved him in dark shades; said they made him look powerful and dangerous and like a Court Sorceror. Which was ridiculous, but Merlin had always enjoyed the conceit, and enjoyed even more the look in Gwaine’s eyes when he wore the tunic.
Tonight though, tonight it was …too much.
They waited for perhaps five further minutes until the king and queen arrived through the main doors and progressed through the hall, Gwen’s hand on Arthur’s arm. Merlin thought he could see as well as anyone else there what they’d probably been doing. Gwen looked happy and …Merlin couldn’t help labelling it for the first time, smug; Arthur, dressed in gorgeous red and gold, looked relaxed. Gwen’s mouth, Merlin thought with a stab of agony, looked to him perhaps very slightly swollen.
In truth Merlin had seen them look just like that many times since they’d wed. Contented.
Just… this evening…this evening he found he’d been expecting …something … Some sign maybe that Arthur had been shaken too, even a bit; something less likely to force him to find and know his place in Arthur’s life quite so quickly.
He was terrified by the depth of pain he felt as Arthur and his true love swept past him, united in their happiness, while he stood and watched, torn from his place of safe denial.
And yet... he knew it was exactly what he’d told Arthur had to happen. They had to go on as they’d been.
Not, Merlin thought wryly, as he watched him lean down to listen, with great concentration, to Gwen, that Arthur showed any sign at all of wanting it differently.
This was right.
No one could know. Least of all the people who would be most hurt by their moment of …
What?
Madness? Infidelity? Selfishness? Destiny?
He sat and ate what he could force down of the food Bran placed in front of him and tucked himself behind Gwaine and out of Arthur’s line of vision from his place at the centre of the U of tables. Gwaine didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss. In fact with Elyan and Percival across from them and Leon at their side, it was a relaxed, boisterous meal, and Merlin found he could shelter behind their exuberance.
Tonight though, he thought of Lancelot and his quiet smiles with a new, desperate admiration; remembered the way his eyes had stayed determinedly away from the young lovers. He thought he’d felt sympathy when Lancelot was alive. Now it was empathy, total empathy.
As time went on and with each goblet of wine, Gwaine leaned closer, but that was normal.
Usually, round about now, Merlin realised with a flash of unhappy self-knowledge, he’d be darting glances apprehensively toward Arthur, to see if he was frowning with disapproval at them. And it was as if the thought had the physical power to force his reluctant eyes up at last and toward the king.
But Arthur, when he looked at him, wasn’t looking at them at all; not, in fact, it seemed, remotely interested.
As his kingship had progressed, Arthur had become customarily more careful and dignified in public, but at that moment, his head was thrown back with unusual mirth, his strong throat stretched and bared, golden skin on display.
And Merlin abruptly flashed back with horrible clarity to the last time he’d seen Arthur exactly like that, and he hadn’t been laughing. He’d been coming, spurting; the moment Merlin had first felt the flood of Arthur’s semen inside him, the moment the bond between them began to lock in place. Merlin felt his skin begin to flush, and his cock and his arse twitching with desperate, lovely memory. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought to blank his mind, beat the image away.
He opened them again to a jolt of panicked shock.
He was being observed.
Not by Arthur, thank God - he was focussed on Gwen and the Rhegedian next to her, also laughing at his left side- but by the man on Arthur’s right, a dark-haired, grey-bearded man with an oddly unlined face and hooded dark eyes.
He was staring at Merlin as if he’d suddenly spied the richest jewel in the kingdom.
Merlin didn’t recognise him, but he knew he must be one of the party from Rheged who’d started off this whole awful chain of events. And since he was seated in the place of honour, it was a fair assumption that this was the ambassador himself, Myrthryn.
Merlin met his eyes helplessly for long seconds; his own, he knew vaguely, must seem wide and startled and worried. So he did the only thing he could think to do in the face of such mesmerised attention. He hid behind a huge, moronic smile.
It broke the moment at least.
The man smiled back at Merlin very slightly, nodded his head, and turned to Arthur, who was focussed now on his own plate.
Whatever the man said though, it brought Arthur’s eyes up at once unerringly and Merlin was caught in his gaze like prey. Merlin’s false smile fixed, meaningless now, as he looked into Arthur’s unreadable face, just as Gwaine’s arm came to rest expansively and possessively along the back of his chair.
He thought he saw Arthur’s eyes harden slightly, or perhaps he imagined it; but Merlin looked away at once anyway, turning eagerly, desperately to Gwaine.
“Er…” Merlin murmured out of the side of his mouth and Gwaine turned his attention to him at once, “Dont look, but I think I’ve been rumbled by the Rhegedians. Is that Myrthryn, on Arthur's right?” He found he surprised even himself with the believability of his false cheer.
Gwaine, quick as ever, didn’t do what everyone usually did to that request; he didn’t look. Instead he grinned brightly at Merlin.
“Yep. Only a matter of time. Told you he was obsessed.”
“Yeah, thanks for the support,” Merlin snarked, with a fair try at mock bitterness. His throat felt tight and raw with apprehension.
“Well, you’re big news in Rheged,” Gwaine said fairly.
“My lord…”
Merlin jerked, startled, as Arthur’s manservant suddenly appeared behind their chairs, silent and elegant. William was as far a choice of personal servant from Merlin as it had been possible for Arthur to make. His whole being defined discipline - all iron-grey cropped hair and spare, ascetic frame and steely dark eyes; he looked as if he'd never indulged in a sweetmeat or a jug of ale in his life.
He'd been Uther’s servant before Arthur became king, and took over when Merlin had… left the job. When the revelation of his magic had broken his relationship with Arthur like a dry stick and his old life had collapsed around his head.
Merlin had thought it was a terrible appointment when he’d found out about it, because William would never, ever question or challenge anything Arthur did. He was even worse than George. But maybe, he thought despairingly now, he’d just been jealous.
The man leaned close over him, between himself and Gwaine, displaying all the proper discretion Merlin had never learned.
“His Majesty has requested you attend him to meet the ambassador from Rheged, my lord,” he murmured expressionlessly, because he really was the perfect manservant.
Gwaine hid his mouth behind his hand and Merlin glared at him, even as he loved him just a little bit more for the distraction of his normality, his mischief, his care.
He didn’t look at the head of the table.
He got up obediently though, the churning of his stomach building and intensifying until he feared it was going to turn to water. But he straightened, gathering himself, and he followed William, face set to mild interest, trying desperately to hide how little he wished to do this now.
William led him round the back of the U of tables, behind the twin chairs of the king and queen, to a new chair, set beside Myrthyn, and just two away from Arthur. But as he neared it, passed behind Arthur, Myrthryn rose and bowed deeply; as deeply as he might pay respect to royalty.
“My Lord Emrys,” he breathed, awed. His voice was heavily accented but deep and clear.
Merlin swallowed and bowed in return as he slipped behind the man and into the newly placed chair. Myrthyrn sat too and simply looked at Merlin, smiling, apparently delighted.
“Well…um…” Merlin began uneasily, “The Druids call me that …but I don’t… I’m Merlin. Please,”
Myrthryn smiled charmingly and inclined his head. “As you wish,” he said softly and somehow he made it sound as if it were a quirky affectation of Merlin’s.
Merlin flushed. “I’m…. honoured to meet you, Lord Myrthryn,” he said, carefully polite, trying urgently to remind himself how much he really had been looking forward to this, before…everything. “I’ve heard so much of your land of Rheged. I look forward to learning more.”
Myrthryn’s smile widened to a delighted grin. He raised his voice until it reverberated across the room, to make sure the king and queen could also hear, the consummate diplomat. “And we have heard much of you in turn, my Lord Emr…Merlin. I was just telling his Majesty in fact that all we had been told appears true.”
Merlin looked at him apprehensively.
“Oh?” he managed.
Myrthryrn inclined his head again. “We were told …that Emrys had come at last. That he is young, and powerful beyond any that have come before or will come after. And as beautiful as a fawn at bay.”
Merlin stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless, and he felt the blood rushing to his face in a tide of mortification; knew he was turning from pink to red to scarlet; knew that his ears must be glowing.
Myrthryn was watching his blush with a kind of fascinated, approving delight, possibly at his modesty, perhaps even at his humanity. But Myrthryn wasn’t the person who concerned him.
He turned his eyes, without conscious will, beyond him, to Arthur, to find Arthur’s gaze -- inevitably after that-- upon him. He wasn’t smiling; he was frowning slightly in fact, mouth pursed, gaze intent and heavy, as if Merlin were some strange new creature which had materialised unexpectedly in front of him to puzzle him.
Gwen, however, leaning forward from behind him, looked more than approving.
“Well, its true, Merlin!” she said warmly, full of the generosity that made her so lovely. “You are beautiful. Really!”
Merlin’s eyes fell, his face now agonisingly red, emotions such a tangle of shame and chagrin and pain and pleasure. And over them all, the horrible, traitorous wish that he could have found some acknowledgement in Arthur’s eyes, rather than his wife’s.
He looked desperately across at Gwaine, who was grinning broadly at him in turn.
He was always telling Merlin how beautiful he was, usually in the throes of sex, but still…
Merlin tried a tentative, appalled smile, and Gwaine’s proud smirk widened as he raised his goblet in salute. Merlin held his eyes for a desperate second, then turned back to Gwen.
“I… um…I…well… thank you for your flattery. Your Majesty,” he squeaked at last.
Gwen’s gave a wide, eye-rolling grin and Merlin, avoiding Arthur’s gaze, turned quickly back to Myrthryn; the best, for him, of three terrible options. He was totally out of his depth and still flushed painfully with mortification.
“My… Lord Ambassador…”
“Please,” the man smiled. “It’s Myrthryn. And I think the queen has confirmed that flattery had nothing to do with it.,” He inclined his head indulgently, “Sir Gwaine is indeed the most fortunate of men.’’ And that was delivered in a voice as resonant as the one in which the previous compliment had been delivered.
Merlin wondered if his eyes had bugged. He didn’t dare turn to look at Gwaine, but he could almost feel the steel weight of Arthur’s stare upon him. He wondered if this startling, indiscreet honesty passed for diplomacy in Rheged, and he wondered if Arthur was still as disapproving of his union with Gwaine as he had been before their union had been completed.
Trust, at least, was no longer an issue.