Fic: Armory by Suaine
Title: Armory
Author: suaine
Characters: Arthur, Merlin (pre-slash)
Rating: G
Summary: Arthur comes to the armory to think, but Merlin isn't easily dodged.
The armory smells like oil and leather, with a faint tang of metal underneath, a spike in the scent like a crossbow bolt. Arthur comes here often. He likes to run his hand along the swords' edges, daring them to cut him, or watch his reflection in the polished steel of the halberds.
He doesn't know, exactly, what he's looking for and hasn't yet found it.
His preferred weapon is the one-hander, any sword of the type will do. It gives him control and leaves his other arm free to push idiot servants out of the way of monsters. It's a double-edged weapon, which reminds him that there is always another side to things. Like magic, it can cut both enemy and friend, even the bearer if he isn't careful.
"Arthur?"
His hand lands on the mace rack, a coincedence in a sea of strange and disturbing coincedences when it comes to his manservant. "Leave me alone, Merlin."
"No," says Merlin, in his defiant voice, like backing down even to the Prince of Camelot will somehow lose him a battle. A knight knows when to throw a battle to win the war another time, but Merlin is no knight.
That is part of Arthur's problem.
"I could sack you again."
The other part of his problem is that faced with Merlin at his most stupidly annoying, Arthur still can't make good on his idle threats. Merlin is as blunt as a bludgeon sometimes, and easily as hard headed.
"You won't." The certainty with which Merlin says it makes Arthur turn around, despite his best intentions.
Merlin looks like the death he so marginally escaped only hours earlier, and Arthur can still see the arc of the great sword as it reached for Merlin's neck. A weapon like that can take the heads off three idiots at once. He still remembers that moment and what it did to his insides, still remembers the feeling of standing on the other side of the battlefield, unable to reach as time itself slowed and drew out his torture. Of course the worst moment of his life would drag on forever.
"You almost died today." Arthur hates how the words come out, an accusation, like it affects him what happens to Merlin. Like it would break his heart.
Merlin takes a step toward him, his eyes on the dagger in Arthur's hand. The dagger he threw, straight and true, across a battlefield. Arthur knows it's pure luck for Merlin to be able to look at anything. "I didn't." Arthur isn't sure if Merlin means to say I didn't die or I wasn't going to and it doesn't really matter either way. Arthur's still shaky on the first (the sword swooping down like some kind of hunting bird) and angry about the implication of the second.
It's that anger that comes out when faced with Merlin's petulant expression. "Pray, tell me, why is that? If I had hit him anywhere else, even an inch to either side, you'd be a head shorter right about now."
Shaking his head, Merlin makes a move for the hand that holds the dagger, and his touch sends lightning through Arthur's limbs. "First of all," Merlin says, and his voice brings goose bumps out on Arthur's skin. "First of all, you always hit the target. You're the best I've ever seen." His hand wanders up to grasp Arthur's arm just above the elbow. The touch grounds something in Arthur. "And secondly, I can't die yet. I have a job to do."
Merlin's eyes are impossibly blue. "I don't think immortality comes with being the worst manservant in history."
"No," Merlin says, his lips twitching a bit, "that just offers the worst pay in history."
Arthur rolls his eyes. He isn't quite ready to shake the day's events and go back to lighter themes. "Merlin, I'm serious. What am I going to do if you get yourself killed?"
"Get a new manservant?"
It makes Arthur growl, deep in his chest. "Merlin."
"Sorry, sorry," Merlin says. The man even has the audacity to laugh. Arthur's arm twitches and he almost drops the dagger. "I promise I won't get myself killed unless it's to save you from scary monsters. Again."
Arthur's other hand comes up and rests on Merlin's shoulder, almost of its own volition. With his last remaining willpower, Arthur can keep himself from stroking Merlin's neck with his thumb. Every breath Merlin takes banishes the image of the sword to some shadowy realm of unrealized possibilities.
They stand like this for a moment, a moment that becomes a whole string of moments, until Arthur isn't sure there was ever anything else. He wants to kiss, to mark, but he steps back instead and tries not to project the yearning he feels. They both know, anyway, that it is only a matter of time until Arthur's resolve is fully broken. He can't deny Merlin anything, not for long, and Merlin wants this like nothing else. Arthur knows because Merlin doesn't push and doesn't back down, just waits for Arthur to get there.
"I think," Arthur says, looking around, "some of this armor needs polishing."
Merlin blinks, and slowly focuses again on something other than Arthur's eyes. It's both freeing and a loss, and the loss gets heavier every time. "Of course," Merlin says, and adds "Sire" as an afterthought, without meaning all the things everyone else means when they say it. Merlin doesn't use it as a weapon, unless he knows that Arthur will see the feint coming.
Arthur stays to watch, for a while, until Merlin shoots him a glare and Arthur has two choices. He can go and be a prince somewhere else, or he can stay and be something else. He grabs a rag without thought, dips it into the oil, and runs it along his favorite sword. Merlin laughs and Arthur says something inappropriate about a knight. But mostly they sit in silence, smiling, surrounded by the weapons of Arthur's trade.
For the first time, Arthur thinks he may have found what he was looking for.
Author: suaine
Characters: Arthur, Merlin (pre-slash)
Rating: G
Summary: Arthur comes to the armory to think, but Merlin isn't easily dodged.
The armory smells like oil and leather, with a faint tang of metal underneath, a spike in the scent like a crossbow bolt. Arthur comes here often. He likes to run his hand along the swords' edges, daring them to cut him, or watch his reflection in the polished steel of the halberds.
He doesn't know, exactly, what he's looking for and hasn't yet found it.
His preferred weapon is the one-hander, any sword of the type will do. It gives him control and leaves his other arm free to push idiot servants out of the way of monsters. It's a double-edged weapon, which reminds him that there is always another side to things. Like magic, it can cut both enemy and friend, even the bearer if he isn't careful.
"Arthur?"
His hand lands on the mace rack, a coincedence in a sea of strange and disturbing coincedences when it comes to his manservant. "Leave me alone, Merlin."
"No," says Merlin, in his defiant voice, like backing down even to the Prince of Camelot will somehow lose him a battle. A knight knows when to throw a battle to win the war another time, but Merlin is no knight.
That is part of Arthur's problem.
"I could sack you again."
The other part of his problem is that faced with Merlin at his most stupidly annoying, Arthur still can't make good on his idle threats. Merlin is as blunt as a bludgeon sometimes, and easily as hard headed.
"You won't." The certainty with which Merlin says it makes Arthur turn around, despite his best intentions.
Merlin looks like the death he so marginally escaped only hours earlier, and Arthur can still see the arc of the great sword as it reached for Merlin's neck. A weapon like that can take the heads off three idiots at once. He still remembers that moment and what it did to his insides, still remembers the feeling of standing on the other side of the battlefield, unable to reach as time itself slowed and drew out his torture. Of course the worst moment of his life would drag on forever.
"You almost died today." Arthur hates how the words come out, an accusation, like it affects him what happens to Merlin. Like it would break his heart.
Merlin takes a step toward him, his eyes on the dagger in Arthur's hand. The dagger he threw, straight and true, across a battlefield. Arthur knows it's pure luck for Merlin to be able to look at anything. "I didn't." Arthur isn't sure if Merlin means to say I didn't die or I wasn't going to and it doesn't really matter either way. Arthur's still shaky on the first (the sword swooping down like some kind of hunting bird) and angry about the implication of the second.
It's that anger that comes out when faced with Merlin's petulant expression. "Pray, tell me, why is that? If I had hit him anywhere else, even an inch to either side, you'd be a head shorter right about now."
Shaking his head, Merlin makes a move for the hand that holds the dagger, and his touch sends lightning through Arthur's limbs. "First of all," Merlin says, and his voice brings goose bumps out on Arthur's skin. "First of all, you always hit the target. You're the best I've ever seen." His hand wanders up to grasp Arthur's arm just above the elbow. The touch grounds something in Arthur. "And secondly, I can't die yet. I have a job to do."
Merlin's eyes are impossibly blue. "I don't think immortality comes with being the worst manservant in history."
"No," Merlin says, his lips twitching a bit, "that just offers the worst pay in history."
Arthur rolls his eyes. He isn't quite ready to shake the day's events and go back to lighter themes. "Merlin, I'm serious. What am I going to do if you get yourself killed?"
"Get a new manservant?"
It makes Arthur growl, deep in his chest. "Merlin."
"Sorry, sorry," Merlin says. The man even has the audacity to laugh. Arthur's arm twitches and he almost drops the dagger. "I promise I won't get myself killed unless it's to save you from scary monsters. Again."
Arthur's other hand comes up and rests on Merlin's shoulder, almost of its own volition. With his last remaining willpower, Arthur can keep himself from stroking Merlin's neck with his thumb. Every breath Merlin takes banishes the image of the sword to some shadowy realm of unrealized possibilities.
They stand like this for a moment, a moment that becomes a whole string of moments, until Arthur isn't sure there was ever anything else. He wants to kiss, to mark, but he steps back instead and tries not to project the yearning he feels. They both know, anyway, that it is only a matter of time until Arthur's resolve is fully broken. He can't deny Merlin anything, not for long, and Merlin wants this like nothing else. Arthur knows because Merlin doesn't push and doesn't back down, just waits for Arthur to get there.
"I think," Arthur says, looking around, "some of this armor needs polishing."
Merlin blinks, and slowly focuses again on something other than Arthur's eyes. It's both freeing and a loss, and the loss gets heavier every time. "Of course," Merlin says, and adds "Sire" as an afterthought, without meaning all the things everyone else means when they say it. Merlin doesn't use it as a weapon, unless he knows that Arthur will see the feint coming.
Arthur stays to watch, for a while, until Merlin shoots him a glare and Arthur has two choices. He can go and be a prince somewhere else, or he can stay and be something else. He grabs a rag without thought, dips it into the oil, and runs it along his favorite sword. Merlin laughs and Arthur says something inappropriate about a knight. But mostly they sit in silence, smiling, surrounded by the weapons of Arthur's trade.
For the first time, Arthur thinks he may have found what he was looking for.