[fanfic] Rex Meus (Merlin/Arthur)
Title: Rex Meus
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: NC-17 (to be safe)
Word Count: 5249
Warnings: explicit sexual content...that's about it I think.
Summary: The world is dying. The spreading desert sands threaten to choke out the livelihood of his people. There is talk of a wandering mage, who searches for the man who will save them all. Arthur is skeptical of the existance of either. (Fantasy/Canon!AU)
Author's Notes: Written for the Danger Days Fic Challenge (ddfic_challenge), only I didn't finish in time. :/
Much thanks to my awesome beta the_beanster.
Are you gonna be the ones who save us
From the black and hopeless feeling
Will you mean it when the end comes reeling?
- Bulletproof Heart, My Chemical Romance
Night has fallen, and the desert air is dry and cool. He draws warmth from the cloak wrapped tightly around him and the slab of rock he sits on, the surface still infused with the heat of the sun. When he was a child, still an extraneus, an outsider, he hated this time of day-the cold, the shadows stretched across the sands, the silence. The desert has never been a loud place, but once the sun sets, it’s as if all sound has been sucked away. Everything goes still, not even the wind blowing; he’s only seen a nighttime sandstorm once in his entire life. Now though, he savors the silence, enjoys this time of peace.
Only three years into adulthood, he is the youngest of the tribe’s council, chosen so that he may represent the youth in the tribes. The responsibilities that come with the position are heavy, but he accepts them as his duty. He wasn’t born into this tribe, but he loves his people all the same.
He needs this time away from the others though, away from the elders who make up most of the council and spend many of their meetings in long, drawn-out debates that don’t necessarily come to any conclusions. He leaves from meetings these days with frustration and a headache gnawing at him, and isn’t soothed by the raucous children and the gregarious nature prevalent among the tribe’s adults who greet him throughout the camp.
So the nighttime silence of the desert is a godsend, a time for him to relax and dwell in his own thoughts without interruption.
The rest of the council are not pleased with his nighttime wanderings. “Caveant, Arthur, be careful,” they say, as if they haven’t lived and thrived in the desert as long as they have, as if he has any real memories of the four years of his life before his mother took him into the desert. But he is proficient with every weapon the tribe has available and is as capable of sand-crossing as any desert-born. They cannot stop his wanderings; they know he prefers this solitary hour.
When the time comes for him to return to camp, he sighs and casts a look out over the silhouetted sand dunes and rock formations in the horizon, lined in silver from the moon. He might not have many days left to look at this particular landscape, at least not for another year. It’s almost time for the tribe to move again. They’ve almost reached the limits of the land’s resources here, and the older adults are starting to get restless. Tomorrow, they will decide where to move onto next.
As he gets up to leave, he catches sight of a desert moth fluttering in the air. But moments later, the tiny creature’s flight falters and then fails all together. The moth falls onto the sand, and he can’t see it through the shadows. He wonders if it’s a bad omen.
The desert is expanding, growing. As the months pass, sand is slowly creeping and covering where there once was soil. Messengers are traveling between tribes at breakneck speeds, passing on the news and concerns. It’s not the desert expansion that is the problem, not to them at least. It’s that the sand is growing but resources are decreasing. The sand is encroaching on waterholes and plant life, and it is only a matter of time before resources everywhere will dwindle and the people’s livelihoods will be threatened.
Arthur stews in his uselessness, brooding as the council meetings grow more tense and urgent. He wants to do something, anything to help. But what can a single man do against nature itself?
There is talk of a peregrinus, a wanderer, who walks the desert alone in search of something, someone. Those who’ve met him say that he’s travelled outside of the desert, but he walks and speaks like one of their own. They say he’s looking for a salvator, someone who can save them from the apocalypse everyone fears is coming. Some say he’s a magus, and it takes Arthur a while to remember that it means a mage, because it’s been over a decade since anyone has even claimed to be capable of magic. Arthur, like many others in his tribe, is skeptical, about the magic and a savior. But perhaps with magic, there can exist a man who could save the world.
The days are too short, and the nights are too long. They sleep with extra blankets at night, and go through too many candles too quickly. The council is worried there won’t be enough food, so the adults eat less, saving the rest for the children and those who need the sustenance more. Some of the tribes near the outskirts of the deserts have left, seeking refuge in the cities safe from the sand’s reach-at least for now. Arthur’s tribe is still unsure whether to follow.
He doesn’t expect the peregrinus to be a-a boy,really-a man just out of his adolescence.
Arthur is meandering around the outskirts of camp when he spots him, a thin figure wrapped in a cloak just starting the descent from the crest of a dune in the distance. He waits, watching the figure slowly make its way towards him and the camp.
The traveler pulls down his hood when he reaches Arthur, and Arthur stares.
His eyes are the blue of the night sky, so deep Arthur fears he’ll fall into them if he looks into them too long. His skin is pale, a milky white that should not be possible in the desert, where everyone’s skin is tanned golden or darker. He is tall and skinny, and his cheekbones are sharp enough to cut.
He’s beautiful, Arthur thinks, wondering if he should be bothered he thinks of a man as such.
He coughs and wets his lips before saying, “You’re the peregrinus,”
The stranger nods and answers, “Yes, I’m called that. I’m Merlin. Are you from the Nairus tribe?”
Arthur nods.
“What’s your name?” the man asks him.
“Arthur.”
“Like Arcturus, the star?”
Arthur nods, and the boy breaks into a grin, blinding like the sun.
“It’s nice to meet you, Arthur. Will you take me to your camp?”
When they enter camp, they draw the curious stares of everyone out and about. Visitors are always of interest to the desert people, especially with the messengers now coming and going with bad news. Arthur takes him to Sauren, the tribe’s chieftain. Merlin introduces himself as the peregrinus all the tribes are talking about. He says that he is a magus looking for someone, and would it be alright if he had a word with him?
Sauren nods, gesturing back to his tent. He then claps a hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he would a son, giving him a greeting and a smile before following Merlin into the tent.
Arthur loiters in the camp’s common area, chatting with the friends he runs into and diverting questions people ask him about the peregrinus.
When they leave the tent an hour later, Sauren declares a feast to welcome Merlin to their tribe, though there isn’t enough food for more than a humble meal and Merlin protests the need.
Arthur finds himself seated next to Merlin once everyone has gotten their share of food and are gathered around the central fire. Merlin gives him a small quirk of a smile, Arthur gives him a nod in return, and they focus on not letting their food go to waste.
“Who are you looking for?” Arthur asks when the silence between them grows too long and awkward, even with their dinners to occupy them.
“A man, my King,” Merlin replies.
“In the desert?” He gives Merlin a perplexed look. Kings don’t exist in the desert; there aren’t any cities for them to rule.
“Yes.”
“And…you know what he looks like?” Arthur then realizes that’s probably a stupid thing to ask; of course he’d know. He wouldn’t be looking in the first place, would he?
“Yes,” Merlin says again, looking him right in the eye.
Even in the firelight, Arthur feels as if the wanderer’s gaze sees straight into his soul. Merlin then smiles and turns his attention to the bowl in his hand.
Arthur finds himself captivated by the contours of Merlin’s face, the pale smooth skin outlined in orange by the light of the fire. For a second, when Merlin glances up at a shout from across the fire, it is as if Merlin’s eyes shine molten gold.
Arthur shakes himself and averts his eyes before he can be caught staring.
Sauren comes up to him as the feast is winding down and asks if he could allow Merlin to share his tent for the duration of his stay.
A small voice in the back of his head is telling him what a bad idea this is. He pointedly ignored the other voice inside sounding far too eager for merely showing hospitality. But he looks at Sauren, the man Arthur often looks to as the father he never had, and he looks at Merlin, who blinks back at him almost expectantly with his hypnotic blue eyes, and he knows he can’t refuse.
It takes hours for him to fall asleep. It’s been three years since he’s slept with another person in his tent, let alone a stranger. Merlin’s presence is like a weight at the back of his mind. If he shifts over in his cot just a little, he can see the silhouette of Merlin’s body, curled up in his cloak and the extra blankets Arthur has lent to him. The very top of his head, all rumpled locks of black hair, peeks out, limned in the soft moonlight creeping through the slit in the tent flap.
Arthur rolls over onto his side, forcing himself to stare instead at the wall of his tent. Yes, he can admit to himself that Merlin fascinates him, but it’s only because the young man gives off an air of otherworldliness. Like the rumors say, he seems like a desert walker but feels almost like an extraneus, so of course Arthur is curious, just like all the others in his tribe are.
Merlin spends the next day wandering through camp, talking with the people he meets along the way and asking questions. It’s Arthur’s turn to help Ramon watch the sheep, so he does not linger to hear what the peregrinus is asking. He doesn’t see Merlin again until he returns for dinner. Neeta, the old woman who has been mother-henning him since his own mother passed, tuts at him when he admits to not eating lunch, and adds an extra scoop of porridge onto his plate.
Merlin appears when he settles down to eat, balancing his own plate of food. Arthur wonders how, after a full day out in the sun, Merlin can remain so pale.
“Are you really a magus like the rumors say?” Arthur asks, reasoning to himself that it’s only logical to find out more about a person sharing his tent.
“Yes.”
“I mean, really?”
Merlin frowns. “You don’t believe me?”
“I’m not calling you a liar,” Arthur says, because disappointment isn’t a good look on Merlin. At all. “It’s just, there hasn’t been any magic in years.”
“Nineteen years, actually-that anyone knows of,” Merlin says.
“And you know that because…?” Arthur tries not to be offended when the peregrinus rolls his eyes. Then Merlin sobers, pulling a small, mirthless smile.
“I’m the last magus.”
“...I’m sorry to hear that,” Arthur says. He searches for the right words to say. “…will you show me some magic then?”
Merlin brightens immediately. “Of course. Let me think…”
A minute passes as Merlin closes his eyes, like he is meditating. Arthur tries not to stare the dark sweep of Merlin’s eyelashes contrasting his pale skin. Merlin is smiling when he opens his eyes again, and Arthur’s breath is caught in his throat. Merlin’s eyes shine gold, and Arthur is looking at him too closely to blame it on a trick of light. Merlin holds up a hand, and Arthur jerks back a little at the sight of a tiny dragon made of flames curled up in his palm.
“Gods,” Arthur says under his breath. Tentatively, he leans in for a closer look. The little dragon lifts its head, seeming to look up at him. It reminds him of the ones in his old childhood picture book, the only book he or any of his tribe owns and one of the few items his mother had brought with her when she took him into the desert so many years ago. “Draco? Why?”
“Because my mentor's king was named from the Draco.”
“Your mentor's king?”
“Yes. Uther Pendragon. My mentor was his court magus.”
“Was?” Arthur notices the tense.
“They died, my mentor and his king. Last year.”
“....and that's why you're looking for your king?”
Merlin nods.
“Then the rumors...” Arthur pauses, unsure if he should continue.
“What?”
“The rumors say you're looking for a man who can...fix all of this-” Arthur waves rather ineffectively at everything around them “-the world.”
“...maybe,” Merlin says, and Arthur can tell that he knows.
“You know why the world is....”
“Dying?” Merlin finishes for him. “Yes. Because the king and his magus have died. “
“That doesn't make any sense.” Arthur sets his bowl on the ground, food the farthest thing from his mind now.
“The compago,” Merlin says.
Arthur frowns. “The joining? Of what?”
Merlin sighs and closes his hand slowly. When he opens it again, the dragon is gone and not a mark is left on his palm.
“I didn’t want to speak of this so soon, but I will,” he says. There’s a loose thread in the seating rug he and Arthur are sharing, and he plays with it absently, as if gathering his thoughts. “Every rightful king has a magus at his side,” he finally says. “The compago joins a king to a magus, and it also joins them to the lands. With their joining, the world is in balance. When the king passed away….”
“Because he has died, the world has started dying as well?” Arthur exclaims. “That’s ridiculous!”
Merlin smiles sadly at him and replies, “It’s been that way since the very beginning.”
“And your mentor…?”
“The compago joins a king to a magus,” he repeats slowly, meaningfully, and the realization dawns on Arthur.
“If a king dies, the magus dies too? And the same the other way around?” He gapes at Merlin, silently willing the man to deny it. But Merlin just looks at him steadily and nods.
That night, he doesn’t even attempt to sleep, but waits until the camp quiets down before rolling out of bed and donning his cloak and boots. He’s already holding the flap of his tent open when he hears Merlin stir.
“Arthur?”
“Go back to sleep, Merlin.”
Arthur looks over his shoulder to see Merlin rub the knuckles of his hand over his eyes before blinking blearily up at him. He looks adorable in a way no grown man should. Arthur looks away.
“Where are you going?”
“Out for a walk.”
“At this time of day?” he remarks, sitting up.
“I like to think about things at night-alone. Go back to sleep, Merlin,” Arthur says again.
Merlin mumbles something but rests his head back down, and Arthur steps out of his tent, letting the flap fall shut after him. He sighs before heading out of the camp.
A ten minutes’ walk away from the outskirts of camp, Arthur settles at the crest. He sinks his hands past the sun-warmed layer of sand, reaching for the cool grains underneath. It’s soothing, the feel of the fine grains between his fingers. It grounds him to the world around him and instills calmness in him.
He thinks of the compago.
It’s unbelievable and disconcerting that only two people are responsible for the survival of the world. The responsibilities of a king sound more than enough. To be responsible for the entire world seems impossible for one man, even two men, to bear.
And it puts him at unease, the thought of Merlin binding himself to another person, knowing full well that if something happens to his king, he would die too. He doesn’t understand how Merlin is willing to go through with it.
Only he does, really. The world is dying.
Merlin starts joining him on his nighttime excursions. The first time, Arthur eyes him warily, unsure if he wants Merlin to leave him alone or give him company-if the magus could keep quiet.
He gets used to Merlin’s chatter though, even enjoying the sound of the man’s soft voice as he let his consciousness drift.
Tonight, they lie down side by side on a large slab of rock, staring up at the stars, and Arthur learns things about Merlin, even though he doesn’t ask a thing.
Merlin was born into the desert, proving wrong the rumors that he is an extraneus, and is from the Ealdus tribe, a group of desert-dwellers who preferred settling in one place, rather than crossing the desert like Arthur’s tribe does. But Merlin tells Arthur that his tribe has probably been forced to cross the desert by now, in search of more resources.
Merlin doesn’t have a father anymore, but his mother is alive and well, still part of the Ealdus tribe. Merlin says he hasn’t seen his mother in over eight months, and before that, in two years. Arthur wants to tell Merlin to go see her again, to make the most of the time he has with her. Because he misses his own mother so much when he sees the softening in Merlin’s eyes as he speaks of his mother.
He doesn’t though, because of course Merlin can’t, not while he seeks to save the world from its slow death.
Merlin is a natural-born magus. He was born with magic, he admits to Arthur, and didn’t start formally studying magic until five years ago, when he turned sixteen. At sixteen, he left the desert, following his mentor to Camelot.
“Camelot,” Arthur murmurs under his breath. He wonders why the name makes something inside him ring.
“It’s beautiful-different from the desert, but beautiful,” Merin says. “I wish you could have seen what it looked like five years ago.” He sighs. “It’s fading now though, just like the rest of the world.”
“Why are you spending time here then? Shouldn’t you be looking for your king?” Arthur asks. It’s a question that has been bothering him. He doesn’t know why Merlin still hasn’t moved on to another tribe, but a secret part of him doesn’t want Merlin to leave, not just yet.
“I’ve found him,” Merlin replies, much too casually, and Arthur jerks up into sitting position from the ground to look over at him. “He’s not ready yet though. I’m waiting for him to come to me.”
Once again, Merlin looks at him with that strange agelessness from before, too deep and somber for someone his age, someone like Merlin. Arthur senses that Merlin is telling him something, but he’s not sure if he wants to know what it is.
It’s Merlin who looks away first this time, lowering his eyes for a moment before looking back up at Arthur through his dark lashes.
“Oh” is all Arthur can find to say.
One night, as he listens to Merlin’s babbling, Arthur suddenly realizes, finally accepts, what the ball of warmth in his stomach is whenever he looks at the magus.
Arthur props himself up on an elbow to get a better look at Merlin, at the man’s fey-ish features, skin luminous under the moonlight, and deep blue eyes half-closed from drowsiness. Arthur’s eyes are drawn to the changing shape of Merlin’s lips as he spoke. A feeling of…of fondness swells in him as Merlin talks of his recent desert crossings.
“Merlin,” Arthur simply says.
Merlin immediately stops talking, and there must be something showing on Arthur’s face because suddenly, he finds himself pressed into the sand on his back, Merlin’s long, lean body sprawled on top of him. Arthur tentatively places his hands on Merlin’s hips. It’s so different from holding a woman. Merlin’s hips are sharp and fit into his hands just right. Merlin’s chest, flat and solid, is pressed against Arthur’s, and he likes having Merlin’s weight on him far too much. Merlin smiles softly down at him, his face mere inches from Arthur’s. Warmth pools low in Arthur’s belly, and he smiles back.
“Hello,” he murmurs.
“Hello,” Merlin whispers back, and his breath caresses Arthur’s cheek, sends shivers through his body.
They stare at each other in silence, for once neither of them looking away, and Arthur feels like he’s drowning and frankly doesn’t care. Then Merlin’s fingers are curled tightly in the folds of Arthur’s cloak, and his lips are pressed against Arthur’s, soft and a little dry and perfect.
The first time they lie together is out under the stars. They spread their cloaks down, to stop the sand from getting everywhere, and Arthur has Merlin splayed out underneath him, flushed and panting. His blood burns as he pushes away Merlin’s clothes, revealing his skin inch by inch to the light of the moon, flawless and pale and every bit as alluring as ever. And Arthur can’t resist mouthing at Merlin’s throat when Merlin throws his head back, body arching up to meet his.
Merlin moans softly as Arthur’s hands trace down his body and chokes when a hand finally reaches between his legs and wraps around his hard length. Arthur strokes him, eyes fixed on Merlin’s face and the way his mouth falls open and his eyes squeeze shut with every stroke.
“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, and Arthur can’t help but shiver at the way he says his name-as if Arthur was important, as if he was more than just a simple desert dweller whiling away his days.
Merlin gurgles something, low and lyrical, and his eyes flash gold.
“Arthur,” Merlin gasps again, and somehow, Arthur just knows what he wants to tell him. And when Arthur’s finger slides down to Merlin’s entrance and simply slips in with little resistance, Arthur nearly chokes on the rush of air he sucks it. Merlin is hot, and wet, and loose.
“Gods, Merlin, you-your magic-”
Merlin cuts him off, wrapping his hand around Arthur’s cock. His hand is cool and slick as if covered in oil, and Arthur smothers his groan into Merlin’s shoulder as the man strokes him. He’s so hard it hurts, but it doesn’t stop him from inserting another finger into Merlin and slowly pumping his fingers in and out of him. With a whine, Merlin lets go of Arthur; his long fingers move instead to touch himself, and he spreads his legs even wider for Arthur, andoh gods what a sight it is-
“N-now, Arthur, please,” Merlin whines, pushing back on Arthur’s fingers.
Arthur does as he asks, unable to and unwilling to resist. He nearly comes the first time he sinks into Merlin and they both have to hold still, just for a moment, chests heaving and eyes locked. Merlin, he discovers, makes the most delicious keening noises when Arthur drives into him. He adjusts his hips just a little, so that he hears those sounds every time he hits that spot inside Merlin.
They don’t last long, not at the rate they’re going. He can’t pull his eyes way as he watches Merlin come apart with a choked groan. Merlin clenches down on him, and Arthur could feel the shudder that runs through him, could feel the magic that courses through him. And that’s what tips him over the edge, makes him bury himself a little deeper and spill his seed into Merlin.
Afterwards, after Arthur pulls out and slumps half on top of Merlin, after Merlin cleans them up and wraps a cloak around them with a flash of gold, Merlin presses up against him, long legs tangling with Arthur’s and his head resting on Arthur’s shoulder. They don’t talk, just breathe in the night air and stare up at the stars. Arthur is lulled to sleep by Merlin’s warmth and the steady beat of Merlin’s heartbeat next to him.
The sands of the sandglass are falling too quickly-at least, that’s what Merlin says. He says that the world’s time runs on the steady trickle of the clock’s sands, that for every compago, the glass is turned and the world’s time renewed. But when a king and his magus dies, the glass leaks and leaks; if no compago is made and all the sand runs out, then the world will die.
Arthur still doesn’t like it, how the fate of the world rests now on the shoulders of Merlin and his unnamed king. Merlin is too young for such a huge responsibility. He doesn’t say it though, knowing Merlin has already accepted his fate.
He pointedly doesn’t think of when Merlin will have to leave. Merlin knows in that strange way of his, and they do not mention it, instead spending their nights close together, and often their days as well. They whisper to each other stories of their childhood. Merlin speaks of Will, his best friend from Ealdus, and the knights from Camelot. Arthur tells him of his mother and a father he remembers nothing about, left behind when he and his mother joined the Nairus tribe. They talk deep into the night and fall asleep in the middle of conversation with their foreheads pressed together and legs slotted between each other’s.
Sometimes at night, whether delirious with lust or sleep, Merlin speaks to Arthur in a smattering of different tongues. He says it so softly, or Arthur is too distracted to listen properly, that Arthur barely hears him, but when he does, it sounds like Merlin is saying the same things again and again.
“Fy brenin, a rí,” he says.“Rex meus, rex meus.”
My King.
Several days after he and Merlin first lie together, Arthur and some of the other council members are tasked with checking how much food is left. There is only four days’ worth left if they wish to save enough to make the next desert crossing and last through the first day of settling.
The day Merlin plans to leave is the day the tribe will move on to another spot in the desert-if their destination’s waterhole hasn’t already been buried in the sand.
They send a scout ahead-Nata, one of the boys Arthur had grown up with, known for his speed-and he comes back the night of the same day, a bleak look in his eyes and a frown on his face. He shakes his head and tells Sauren and the council that their planned destination is inhabitable, that they have to choose a different destination.
Every night as the day of the desert crossing approaches, he clings to Merlin, be it in their nest of blankets on the floor of Arthur’s tent or under the stars like the first time.
The four days pass by too quickly, and Arthur wakes to the morning light with his stomach feeling like lead and his heart choking him.
Arthur doesn't want Merlin to leave, but he cannot ask him to stay, to come along with the tribe. His pride will not let him. So he says nothing and can't bear looking at him.
He packs his things and breaks down his tent by hand. Merlin offers to do it all by magic, but Arthur shakes his head. He needs the time to work with his hands, to think of uncomplicated things like folding up his clothes and pulling out the stakes from the ground. Merlin leaves his side to speak with Sauren, and Arthur already misses his presence, even if he's less than twenty feet away.
Arthur loads his things into one of the wagons before he finally lets himself look at Merlin, lets himself drink the sight of him in and carve the precise way Merlin looks into his mind’s eye. It doesn't take long for Merlin to notice his gaze, and the magus stares back at him with that soul-penetrating gaze of his.
Merlin is wearing that hooded cloak of his, the one Arthur had first seen him in, though his hood isn’t pulled up, and the attraction he feels for Merlin is as strong as-stronger than-how he’d felt for Merlin that first day. Arthur’s chest aches, like the way it had in the year following his mother’s passing. He fears, knows, that he will not see Merlin again when they part, and he feels like he will be ill.
Arthur blinks, and suddenly, Merlin is right in front of him, the gold still fading from his eyes.
They simply look at each other once again, not a word to say at first. Arthur, for one, cannot think of what to say without betraying his resolve to be strong, to let Merlin make the choice-as if there even is one.
“Merlin,” Arthur manages to say, and his voice doesn’t crack like he feared it would.
“Arthur,” Merlin replies, the corner of his mouth dimpling into a small half-smile. Arthur cannot understand what’s so amusing.
“…I guess you’re leaving then,” he says. He looks at everywhere but Merlin. “I-”
Before he can say more, Merlin grabs his face and kisses him, firmly and deeply. Arthur can’t think, can’t breathe. He groans and relishes the sweet slide of Merlin’s lips and tongue against his own, his hands moving on their own accord to tug Merlin even closer.
When Merlin pulls away, his hands drop down to clasp Arthur’s tightly.
“Come with me,” Merlin whispers to him.
Arthur realizes, suddenly, what he is asking of him, what Merlin has been implying all along.
“You want me to be your King.”
Merlin smiles, a small upturn at the corners of his lips, and his eyes look at him with gravity beyond his age.
“You already are my King. Now I want you to be King of the World.”
“I can’t.” Arthur knows; he is no King.
“You can,” he insists.
“Merlin-”
Merlin interrupts before he can say more, cupping Arthur’s face with his hands: “Listen. You hold your own in the council even though you’re the youngest member they’ve ever had. You’re the one people often go to when they need a quarrel to settle. You know when it’s okay to fight and when talking things out works better. And you care about people. Arthur, you skip meals so that others can have more to eat. I haven’t just been sitting around all day; I’ve been asking about, and from everything I’ve heard, everything I’ve seen, I know you can.”
Arthur thinks of long lean limbs and smooth pale skin, and of choking desert sands and diminishing food reserves. He thinks of deep blue eyes and small fond smiles, and of bleak, pinched faces and heavy, bowed heads.
He gives in, closes his eyes and nods his head. He thinks he should feel a greater weight fall on his shoulders. Instead, he feels fingers stroking his cheek and lips against his forehead, and it feels like a benediction and the first touch of dawn.
Translations:
Extraneus - Latin for “outsider”
Caveant - Latin for “be careful”
Peregrinus - Latin for “wanderer”
Salvator - Latin for “savior”
Arcturus - the star in the Bootes constellation (the Herdsman), Arthur in medieval sources was sometimes written in Latin like this (x)
Draco - Latin for “dragon”
Compago - Latin for “a joining”
Fy brenin - Welsh for “my king”
A rí - Irish Gaelic for “my king”
Rex meus - Latin for “my king”
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: NC-17 (to be safe)
Word Count: 5249
Warnings: explicit sexual content...that's about it I think.
Summary: The world is dying. The spreading desert sands threaten to choke out the livelihood of his people. There is talk of a wandering mage, who searches for the man who will save them all. Arthur is skeptical of the existance of either. (Fantasy/Canon!AU)
Author's Notes: Written for the Danger Days Fic Challenge (ddfic_challenge), only I didn't finish in time. :/
Much thanks to my awesome beta the_beanster.
Are you gonna be the ones who save us
From the black and hopeless feeling
Will you mean it when the end comes reeling?
- Bulletproof Heart, My Chemical Romance
Night has fallen, and the desert air is dry and cool. He draws warmth from the cloak wrapped tightly around him and the slab of rock he sits on, the surface still infused with the heat of the sun. When he was a child, still an extraneus, an outsider, he hated this time of day-the cold, the shadows stretched across the sands, the silence. The desert has never been a loud place, but once the sun sets, it’s as if all sound has been sucked away. Everything goes still, not even the wind blowing; he’s only seen a nighttime sandstorm once in his entire life. Now though, he savors the silence, enjoys this time of peace.
Only three years into adulthood, he is the youngest of the tribe’s council, chosen so that he may represent the youth in the tribes. The responsibilities that come with the position are heavy, but he accepts them as his duty. He wasn’t born into this tribe, but he loves his people all the same.
He needs this time away from the others though, away from the elders who make up most of the council and spend many of their meetings in long, drawn-out debates that don’t necessarily come to any conclusions. He leaves from meetings these days with frustration and a headache gnawing at him, and isn’t soothed by the raucous children and the gregarious nature prevalent among the tribe’s adults who greet him throughout the camp.
So the nighttime silence of the desert is a godsend, a time for him to relax and dwell in his own thoughts without interruption.
The rest of the council are not pleased with his nighttime wanderings. “Caveant, Arthur, be careful,” they say, as if they haven’t lived and thrived in the desert as long as they have, as if he has any real memories of the four years of his life before his mother took him into the desert. But he is proficient with every weapon the tribe has available and is as capable of sand-crossing as any desert-born. They cannot stop his wanderings; they know he prefers this solitary hour.
When the time comes for him to return to camp, he sighs and casts a look out over the silhouetted sand dunes and rock formations in the horizon, lined in silver from the moon. He might not have many days left to look at this particular landscape, at least not for another year. It’s almost time for the tribe to move again. They’ve almost reached the limits of the land’s resources here, and the older adults are starting to get restless. Tomorrow, they will decide where to move onto next.
As he gets up to leave, he catches sight of a desert moth fluttering in the air. But moments later, the tiny creature’s flight falters and then fails all together. The moth falls onto the sand, and he can’t see it through the shadows. He wonders if it’s a bad omen.
The desert is expanding, growing. As the months pass, sand is slowly creeping and covering where there once was soil. Messengers are traveling between tribes at breakneck speeds, passing on the news and concerns. It’s not the desert expansion that is the problem, not to them at least. It’s that the sand is growing but resources are decreasing. The sand is encroaching on waterholes and plant life, and it is only a matter of time before resources everywhere will dwindle and the people’s livelihoods will be threatened.
Arthur stews in his uselessness, brooding as the council meetings grow more tense and urgent. He wants to do something, anything to help. But what can a single man do against nature itself?
There is talk of a peregrinus, a wanderer, who walks the desert alone in search of something, someone. Those who’ve met him say that he’s travelled outside of the desert, but he walks and speaks like one of their own. They say he’s looking for a salvator, someone who can save them from the apocalypse everyone fears is coming. Some say he’s a magus, and it takes Arthur a while to remember that it means a mage, because it’s been over a decade since anyone has even claimed to be capable of magic. Arthur, like many others in his tribe, is skeptical, about the magic and a savior. But perhaps with magic, there can exist a man who could save the world.
The days are too short, and the nights are too long. They sleep with extra blankets at night, and go through too many candles too quickly. The council is worried there won’t be enough food, so the adults eat less, saving the rest for the children and those who need the sustenance more. Some of the tribes near the outskirts of the deserts have left, seeking refuge in the cities safe from the sand’s reach-at least for now. Arthur’s tribe is still unsure whether to follow.
He doesn’t expect the peregrinus to be a-a boy,really-a man just out of his adolescence.
Arthur is meandering around the outskirts of camp when he spots him, a thin figure wrapped in a cloak just starting the descent from the crest of a dune in the distance. He waits, watching the figure slowly make its way towards him and the camp.
The traveler pulls down his hood when he reaches Arthur, and Arthur stares.
His eyes are the blue of the night sky, so deep Arthur fears he’ll fall into them if he looks into them too long. His skin is pale, a milky white that should not be possible in the desert, where everyone’s skin is tanned golden or darker. He is tall and skinny, and his cheekbones are sharp enough to cut.
He’s beautiful, Arthur thinks, wondering if he should be bothered he thinks of a man as such.
He coughs and wets his lips before saying, “You’re the peregrinus,”
The stranger nods and answers, “Yes, I’m called that. I’m Merlin. Are you from the Nairus tribe?”
Arthur nods.
“What’s your name?” the man asks him.
“Arthur.”
“Like Arcturus, the star?”
Arthur nods, and the boy breaks into a grin, blinding like the sun.
“It’s nice to meet you, Arthur. Will you take me to your camp?”
When they enter camp, they draw the curious stares of everyone out and about. Visitors are always of interest to the desert people, especially with the messengers now coming and going with bad news. Arthur takes him to Sauren, the tribe’s chieftain. Merlin introduces himself as the peregrinus all the tribes are talking about. He says that he is a magus looking for someone, and would it be alright if he had a word with him?
Sauren nods, gesturing back to his tent. He then claps a hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he would a son, giving him a greeting and a smile before following Merlin into the tent.
Arthur loiters in the camp’s common area, chatting with the friends he runs into and diverting questions people ask him about the peregrinus.
When they leave the tent an hour later, Sauren declares a feast to welcome Merlin to their tribe, though there isn’t enough food for more than a humble meal and Merlin protests the need.
Arthur finds himself seated next to Merlin once everyone has gotten their share of food and are gathered around the central fire. Merlin gives him a small quirk of a smile, Arthur gives him a nod in return, and they focus on not letting their food go to waste.
“Who are you looking for?” Arthur asks when the silence between them grows too long and awkward, even with their dinners to occupy them.
“A man, my King,” Merlin replies.
“In the desert?” He gives Merlin a perplexed look. Kings don’t exist in the desert; there aren’t any cities for them to rule.
“Yes.”
“And…you know what he looks like?” Arthur then realizes that’s probably a stupid thing to ask; of course he’d know. He wouldn’t be looking in the first place, would he?
“Yes,” Merlin says again, looking him right in the eye.
Even in the firelight, Arthur feels as if the wanderer’s gaze sees straight into his soul. Merlin then smiles and turns his attention to the bowl in his hand.
Arthur finds himself captivated by the contours of Merlin’s face, the pale smooth skin outlined in orange by the light of the fire. For a second, when Merlin glances up at a shout from across the fire, it is as if Merlin’s eyes shine molten gold.
Arthur shakes himself and averts his eyes before he can be caught staring.
Sauren comes up to him as the feast is winding down and asks if he could allow Merlin to share his tent for the duration of his stay.
A small voice in the back of his head is telling him what a bad idea this is. He pointedly ignored the other voice inside sounding far too eager for merely showing hospitality. But he looks at Sauren, the man Arthur often looks to as the father he never had, and he looks at Merlin, who blinks back at him almost expectantly with his hypnotic blue eyes, and he knows he can’t refuse.
It takes hours for him to fall asleep. It’s been three years since he’s slept with another person in his tent, let alone a stranger. Merlin’s presence is like a weight at the back of his mind. If he shifts over in his cot just a little, he can see the silhouette of Merlin’s body, curled up in his cloak and the extra blankets Arthur has lent to him. The very top of his head, all rumpled locks of black hair, peeks out, limned in the soft moonlight creeping through the slit in the tent flap.
Arthur rolls over onto his side, forcing himself to stare instead at the wall of his tent. Yes, he can admit to himself that Merlin fascinates him, but it’s only because the young man gives off an air of otherworldliness. Like the rumors say, he seems like a desert walker but feels almost like an extraneus, so of course Arthur is curious, just like all the others in his tribe are.
Merlin spends the next day wandering through camp, talking with the people he meets along the way and asking questions. It’s Arthur’s turn to help Ramon watch the sheep, so he does not linger to hear what the peregrinus is asking. He doesn’t see Merlin again until he returns for dinner. Neeta, the old woman who has been mother-henning him since his own mother passed, tuts at him when he admits to not eating lunch, and adds an extra scoop of porridge onto his plate.
Merlin appears when he settles down to eat, balancing his own plate of food. Arthur wonders how, after a full day out in the sun, Merlin can remain so pale.
“Are you really a magus like the rumors say?” Arthur asks, reasoning to himself that it’s only logical to find out more about a person sharing his tent.
“Yes.”
“I mean, really?”
Merlin frowns. “You don’t believe me?”
“I’m not calling you a liar,” Arthur says, because disappointment isn’t a good look on Merlin. At all. “It’s just, there hasn’t been any magic in years.”
“Nineteen years, actually-that anyone knows of,” Merlin says.
“And you know that because…?” Arthur tries not to be offended when the peregrinus rolls his eyes. Then Merlin sobers, pulling a small, mirthless smile.
“I’m the last magus.”
“...I’m sorry to hear that,” Arthur says. He searches for the right words to say. “…will you show me some magic then?”
Merlin brightens immediately. “Of course. Let me think…”
A minute passes as Merlin closes his eyes, like he is meditating. Arthur tries not to stare the dark sweep of Merlin’s eyelashes contrasting his pale skin. Merlin is smiling when he opens his eyes again, and Arthur’s breath is caught in his throat. Merlin’s eyes shine gold, and Arthur is looking at him too closely to blame it on a trick of light. Merlin holds up a hand, and Arthur jerks back a little at the sight of a tiny dragon made of flames curled up in his palm.
“Gods,” Arthur says under his breath. Tentatively, he leans in for a closer look. The little dragon lifts its head, seeming to look up at him. It reminds him of the ones in his old childhood picture book, the only book he or any of his tribe owns and one of the few items his mother had brought with her when she took him into the desert so many years ago. “Draco? Why?”
“Because my mentor's king was named from the Draco.”
“Your mentor's king?”
“Yes. Uther Pendragon. My mentor was his court magus.”
“Was?” Arthur notices the tense.
“They died, my mentor and his king. Last year.”
“....and that's why you're looking for your king?”
Merlin nods.
“Then the rumors...” Arthur pauses, unsure if he should continue.
“What?”
“The rumors say you're looking for a man who can...fix all of this-” Arthur waves rather ineffectively at everything around them “-the world.”
“...maybe,” Merlin says, and Arthur can tell that he knows.
“You know why the world is....”
“Dying?” Merlin finishes for him. “Yes. Because the king and his magus have died. “
“That doesn't make any sense.” Arthur sets his bowl on the ground, food the farthest thing from his mind now.
“The compago,” Merlin says.
Arthur frowns. “The joining? Of what?”
Merlin sighs and closes his hand slowly. When he opens it again, the dragon is gone and not a mark is left on his palm.
“I didn’t want to speak of this so soon, but I will,” he says. There’s a loose thread in the seating rug he and Arthur are sharing, and he plays with it absently, as if gathering his thoughts. “Every rightful king has a magus at his side,” he finally says. “The compago joins a king to a magus, and it also joins them to the lands. With their joining, the world is in balance. When the king passed away….”
“Because he has died, the world has started dying as well?” Arthur exclaims. “That’s ridiculous!”
Merlin smiles sadly at him and replies, “It’s been that way since the very beginning.”
“And your mentor…?”
“The compago joins a king to a magus,” he repeats slowly, meaningfully, and the realization dawns on Arthur.
“If a king dies, the magus dies too? And the same the other way around?” He gapes at Merlin, silently willing the man to deny it. But Merlin just looks at him steadily and nods.
That night, he doesn’t even attempt to sleep, but waits until the camp quiets down before rolling out of bed and donning his cloak and boots. He’s already holding the flap of his tent open when he hears Merlin stir.
“Arthur?”
“Go back to sleep, Merlin.”
Arthur looks over his shoulder to see Merlin rub the knuckles of his hand over his eyes before blinking blearily up at him. He looks adorable in a way no grown man should. Arthur looks away.
“Where are you going?”
“Out for a walk.”
“At this time of day?” he remarks, sitting up.
“I like to think about things at night-alone. Go back to sleep, Merlin,” Arthur says again.
Merlin mumbles something but rests his head back down, and Arthur steps out of his tent, letting the flap fall shut after him. He sighs before heading out of the camp.
A ten minutes’ walk away from the outskirts of camp, Arthur settles at the crest. He sinks his hands past the sun-warmed layer of sand, reaching for the cool grains underneath. It’s soothing, the feel of the fine grains between his fingers. It grounds him to the world around him and instills calmness in him.
He thinks of the compago.
It’s unbelievable and disconcerting that only two people are responsible for the survival of the world. The responsibilities of a king sound more than enough. To be responsible for the entire world seems impossible for one man, even two men, to bear.
And it puts him at unease, the thought of Merlin binding himself to another person, knowing full well that if something happens to his king, he would die too. He doesn’t understand how Merlin is willing to go through with it.
Only he does, really. The world is dying.
Merlin starts joining him on his nighttime excursions. The first time, Arthur eyes him warily, unsure if he wants Merlin to leave him alone or give him company-if the magus could keep quiet.
He gets used to Merlin’s chatter though, even enjoying the sound of the man’s soft voice as he let his consciousness drift.
Tonight, they lie down side by side on a large slab of rock, staring up at the stars, and Arthur learns things about Merlin, even though he doesn’t ask a thing.
Merlin was born into the desert, proving wrong the rumors that he is an extraneus, and is from the Ealdus tribe, a group of desert-dwellers who preferred settling in one place, rather than crossing the desert like Arthur’s tribe does. But Merlin tells Arthur that his tribe has probably been forced to cross the desert by now, in search of more resources.
Merlin doesn’t have a father anymore, but his mother is alive and well, still part of the Ealdus tribe. Merlin says he hasn’t seen his mother in over eight months, and before that, in two years. Arthur wants to tell Merlin to go see her again, to make the most of the time he has with her. Because he misses his own mother so much when he sees the softening in Merlin’s eyes as he speaks of his mother.
He doesn’t though, because of course Merlin can’t, not while he seeks to save the world from its slow death.
Merlin is a natural-born magus. He was born with magic, he admits to Arthur, and didn’t start formally studying magic until five years ago, when he turned sixteen. At sixteen, he left the desert, following his mentor to Camelot.
“Camelot,” Arthur murmurs under his breath. He wonders why the name makes something inside him ring.
“It’s beautiful-different from the desert, but beautiful,” Merin says. “I wish you could have seen what it looked like five years ago.” He sighs. “It’s fading now though, just like the rest of the world.”
“Why are you spending time here then? Shouldn’t you be looking for your king?” Arthur asks. It’s a question that has been bothering him. He doesn’t know why Merlin still hasn’t moved on to another tribe, but a secret part of him doesn’t want Merlin to leave, not just yet.
“I’ve found him,” Merlin replies, much too casually, and Arthur jerks up into sitting position from the ground to look over at him. “He’s not ready yet though. I’m waiting for him to come to me.”
Once again, Merlin looks at him with that strange agelessness from before, too deep and somber for someone his age, someone like Merlin. Arthur senses that Merlin is telling him something, but he’s not sure if he wants to know what it is.
It’s Merlin who looks away first this time, lowering his eyes for a moment before looking back up at Arthur through his dark lashes.
“Oh” is all Arthur can find to say.
One night, as he listens to Merlin’s babbling, Arthur suddenly realizes, finally accepts, what the ball of warmth in his stomach is whenever he looks at the magus.
Arthur props himself up on an elbow to get a better look at Merlin, at the man’s fey-ish features, skin luminous under the moonlight, and deep blue eyes half-closed from drowsiness. Arthur’s eyes are drawn to the changing shape of Merlin’s lips as he spoke. A feeling of…of fondness swells in him as Merlin talks of his recent desert crossings.
“Merlin,” Arthur simply says.
Merlin immediately stops talking, and there must be something showing on Arthur’s face because suddenly, he finds himself pressed into the sand on his back, Merlin’s long, lean body sprawled on top of him. Arthur tentatively places his hands on Merlin’s hips. It’s so different from holding a woman. Merlin’s hips are sharp and fit into his hands just right. Merlin’s chest, flat and solid, is pressed against Arthur’s, and he likes having Merlin’s weight on him far too much. Merlin smiles softly down at him, his face mere inches from Arthur’s. Warmth pools low in Arthur’s belly, and he smiles back.
“Hello,” he murmurs.
“Hello,” Merlin whispers back, and his breath caresses Arthur’s cheek, sends shivers through his body.
They stare at each other in silence, for once neither of them looking away, and Arthur feels like he’s drowning and frankly doesn’t care. Then Merlin’s fingers are curled tightly in the folds of Arthur’s cloak, and his lips are pressed against Arthur’s, soft and a little dry and perfect.
The first time they lie together is out under the stars. They spread their cloaks down, to stop the sand from getting everywhere, and Arthur has Merlin splayed out underneath him, flushed and panting. His blood burns as he pushes away Merlin’s clothes, revealing his skin inch by inch to the light of the moon, flawless and pale and every bit as alluring as ever. And Arthur can’t resist mouthing at Merlin’s throat when Merlin throws his head back, body arching up to meet his.
Merlin moans softly as Arthur’s hands trace down his body and chokes when a hand finally reaches between his legs and wraps around his hard length. Arthur strokes him, eyes fixed on Merlin’s face and the way his mouth falls open and his eyes squeeze shut with every stroke.
“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, and Arthur can’t help but shiver at the way he says his name-as if Arthur was important, as if he was more than just a simple desert dweller whiling away his days.
Merlin gurgles something, low and lyrical, and his eyes flash gold.
“Arthur,” Merlin gasps again, and somehow, Arthur just knows what he wants to tell him. And when Arthur’s finger slides down to Merlin’s entrance and simply slips in with little resistance, Arthur nearly chokes on the rush of air he sucks it. Merlin is hot, and wet, and loose.
“Gods, Merlin, you-your magic-”
Merlin cuts him off, wrapping his hand around Arthur’s cock. His hand is cool and slick as if covered in oil, and Arthur smothers his groan into Merlin’s shoulder as the man strokes him. He’s so hard it hurts, but it doesn’t stop him from inserting another finger into Merlin and slowly pumping his fingers in and out of him. With a whine, Merlin lets go of Arthur; his long fingers move instead to touch himself, and he spreads his legs even wider for Arthur, andoh gods what a sight it is-
“N-now, Arthur, please,” Merlin whines, pushing back on Arthur’s fingers.
Arthur does as he asks, unable to and unwilling to resist. He nearly comes the first time he sinks into Merlin and they both have to hold still, just for a moment, chests heaving and eyes locked. Merlin, he discovers, makes the most delicious keening noises when Arthur drives into him. He adjusts his hips just a little, so that he hears those sounds every time he hits that spot inside Merlin.
They don’t last long, not at the rate they’re going. He can’t pull his eyes way as he watches Merlin come apart with a choked groan. Merlin clenches down on him, and Arthur could feel the shudder that runs through him, could feel the magic that courses through him. And that’s what tips him over the edge, makes him bury himself a little deeper and spill his seed into Merlin.
Afterwards, after Arthur pulls out and slumps half on top of Merlin, after Merlin cleans them up and wraps a cloak around them with a flash of gold, Merlin presses up against him, long legs tangling with Arthur’s and his head resting on Arthur’s shoulder. They don’t talk, just breathe in the night air and stare up at the stars. Arthur is lulled to sleep by Merlin’s warmth and the steady beat of Merlin’s heartbeat next to him.
The sands of the sandglass are falling too quickly-at least, that’s what Merlin says. He says that the world’s time runs on the steady trickle of the clock’s sands, that for every compago, the glass is turned and the world’s time renewed. But when a king and his magus dies, the glass leaks and leaks; if no compago is made and all the sand runs out, then the world will die.
Arthur still doesn’t like it, how the fate of the world rests now on the shoulders of Merlin and his unnamed king. Merlin is too young for such a huge responsibility. He doesn’t say it though, knowing Merlin has already accepted his fate.
He pointedly doesn’t think of when Merlin will have to leave. Merlin knows in that strange way of his, and they do not mention it, instead spending their nights close together, and often their days as well. They whisper to each other stories of their childhood. Merlin speaks of Will, his best friend from Ealdus, and the knights from Camelot. Arthur tells him of his mother and a father he remembers nothing about, left behind when he and his mother joined the Nairus tribe. They talk deep into the night and fall asleep in the middle of conversation with their foreheads pressed together and legs slotted between each other’s.
Sometimes at night, whether delirious with lust or sleep, Merlin speaks to Arthur in a smattering of different tongues. He says it so softly, or Arthur is too distracted to listen properly, that Arthur barely hears him, but when he does, it sounds like Merlin is saying the same things again and again.
“Fy brenin, a rí,” he says.“Rex meus, rex meus.”
My King.
Several days after he and Merlin first lie together, Arthur and some of the other council members are tasked with checking how much food is left. There is only four days’ worth left if they wish to save enough to make the next desert crossing and last through the first day of settling.
The day Merlin plans to leave is the day the tribe will move on to another spot in the desert-if their destination’s waterhole hasn’t already been buried in the sand.
They send a scout ahead-Nata, one of the boys Arthur had grown up with, known for his speed-and he comes back the night of the same day, a bleak look in his eyes and a frown on his face. He shakes his head and tells Sauren and the council that their planned destination is inhabitable, that they have to choose a different destination.
Every night as the day of the desert crossing approaches, he clings to Merlin, be it in their nest of blankets on the floor of Arthur’s tent or under the stars like the first time.
The four days pass by too quickly, and Arthur wakes to the morning light with his stomach feeling like lead and his heart choking him.
Arthur doesn't want Merlin to leave, but he cannot ask him to stay, to come along with the tribe. His pride will not let him. So he says nothing and can't bear looking at him.
He packs his things and breaks down his tent by hand. Merlin offers to do it all by magic, but Arthur shakes his head. He needs the time to work with his hands, to think of uncomplicated things like folding up his clothes and pulling out the stakes from the ground. Merlin leaves his side to speak with Sauren, and Arthur already misses his presence, even if he's less than twenty feet away.
Arthur loads his things into one of the wagons before he finally lets himself look at Merlin, lets himself drink the sight of him in and carve the precise way Merlin looks into his mind’s eye. It doesn't take long for Merlin to notice his gaze, and the magus stares back at him with that soul-penetrating gaze of his.
Merlin is wearing that hooded cloak of his, the one Arthur had first seen him in, though his hood isn’t pulled up, and the attraction he feels for Merlin is as strong as-stronger than-how he’d felt for Merlin that first day. Arthur’s chest aches, like the way it had in the year following his mother’s passing. He fears, knows, that he will not see Merlin again when they part, and he feels like he will be ill.
Arthur blinks, and suddenly, Merlin is right in front of him, the gold still fading from his eyes.
They simply look at each other once again, not a word to say at first. Arthur, for one, cannot think of what to say without betraying his resolve to be strong, to let Merlin make the choice-as if there even is one.
“Merlin,” Arthur manages to say, and his voice doesn’t crack like he feared it would.
“Arthur,” Merlin replies, the corner of his mouth dimpling into a small half-smile. Arthur cannot understand what’s so amusing.
“…I guess you’re leaving then,” he says. He looks at everywhere but Merlin. “I-”
Before he can say more, Merlin grabs his face and kisses him, firmly and deeply. Arthur can’t think, can’t breathe. He groans and relishes the sweet slide of Merlin’s lips and tongue against his own, his hands moving on their own accord to tug Merlin even closer.
When Merlin pulls away, his hands drop down to clasp Arthur’s tightly.
“Come with me,” Merlin whispers to him.
Arthur realizes, suddenly, what he is asking of him, what Merlin has been implying all along.
“You want me to be your King.”
Merlin smiles, a small upturn at the corners of his lips, and his eyes look at him with gravity beyond his age.
“You already are my King. Now I want you to be King of the World.”
“I can’t.” Arthur knows; he is no King.
“You can,” he insists.
“Merlin-”
Merlin interrupts before he can say more, cupping Arthur’s face with his hands: “Listen. You hold your own in the council even though you’re the youngest member they’ve ever had. You’re the one people often go to when they need a quarrel to settle. You know when it’s okay to fight and when talking things out works better. And you care about people. Arthur, you skip meals so that others can have more to eat. I haven’t just been sitting around all day; I’ve been asking about, and from everything I’ve heard, everything I’ve seen, I know you can.”
Arthur thinks of long lean limbs and smooth pale skin, and of choking desert sands and diminishing food reserves. He thinks of deep blue eyes and small fond smiles, and of bleak, pinched faces and heavy, bowed heads.
He gives in, closes his eyes and nods his head. He thinks he should feel a greater weight fall on his shoulders. Instead, he feels fingers stroking his cheek and lips against his forehead, and it feels like a benediction and the first touch of dawn.
Translations:
Extraneus - Latin for “outsider”
Caveant - Latin for “be careful”
Peregrinus - Latin for “wanderer”
Salvator - Latin for “savior”
Arcturus - the star in the Bootes constellation (the Herdsman), Arthur in medieval sources was sometimes written in Latin like this (x)
Draco - Latin for “dragon”
Compago - Latin for “a joining”
Fy brenin - Welsh for “my king”
A rí - Irish Gaelic for “my king”
Rex meus - Latin for “my king”