A Complication: Chapter 8
The bed had been prepared; the armour had been stripped and laid onto a table, leaving Arthur in just his linens when Merlin finally got the chance to see his own room.
He didn’t expect much; he was a servant and this was not Camelot, but when he opened the door, the first and definitely the most alarming detail of his quarters for the night hit him like a battering ram. There was no bed.
“Um,” he blurted out, before he could stop himself. Tiredness made him do it; he blamed that and he blamed his being used to a bed in Camelot.
“What is it?” The hope that Arthur hadn’t heard his noise of protest was dashed when the prince stood himself behind Merlin and peered over the wizard’s shoulders into the second bedroom.
“There’s no bed,” Arthur sniffed, with an air far less concerned than the one Merlin had taken.
“Clearly,” Merlin snapped, forgetting himself again. But really, tiredness could be blamed for a lot of things.
“Hmm.”
“It’s fine, I’m used to the floor,” oh how those words ebbed away a little part of his soul, and not just because he was hoping to sleep comfortably, but because of what he hoped those words would prompt from the prince; something he shouldn’t hope for... an offer.
Arthur didn’t reply instantly; he looked to his own bed and pondered silently for a moment or two. Then it came.
“Don’t be an idiot, you’ve been travelling just as long as I have; you can’t sleep on the floor tonight.”
“But...”
“I’ll sort something out.”
Arthur then turned and walked to the door of his chamber. Merlin watched the back; the broad shouldered beauty that walked away from him, and he sighed, admitting now that there was no material dark enough to veil this forbidden attraction. In so many ways forbidden, reasons reaching numbers he faltered when trying to count, and all the time angry at himself for even resolving to reason. There was no rationalising it, Arthur was the Crown Prince; Arthur was a man. Merlin was a servant; Merlin was a man. It should have ended there.
But it hadn’t.
“In the mean time,” the prince said, spinning on his heel to face Merlin and opening the door, gesturing into the hallway, “bring us up some ale, will you?”
The wizard nodded. He passed Arthur, stepping out onto the landing and catching a smile before Arthur closed his door. Merlin sighed again.
After creeping downstairs as quietly as could be done with uncertain footing in darkness, Merlin reached what he hoped was the kitchen, then fumbling for a few moments he entered it and at once the moon’s faint light faded around him from an open window. It was here that he paused, suddenly hesitant.
Back in Camelot he had had no qualms about fetching Arthur food or drink, no matter how late the hour, but here, in an unknown place, he suddenly felt unsure. Arthur was still the Crown Prince, but did the same rules which had applied in Camelot apply here too?
He thought only for a second more, remembering the respect shown to Arthur upon their arrival at the Inn, and the fact that his usual room was permanently reserved, and he decided that it was fine to proceed.
No sooner had this decision come; no sooner had Merlin, aided by moonlight, found the pantry and a barrel of ale, than he heard a loud noise behind him and turned to find Kathy hovering wildly in the doorway, armed with a mallet.
“Who’s there?” She cried, apparently not recognising Merlin in the dim light, and she took a half-blind swing at him, fortunately so poorly aimed that it was easy to dodge.
“Woah! It’s Arthur’s manservant!” He stuttered, side-stepping.
Immediately she stopped, dropping the mallet to the ground.
“Oh, I am so sorry!”
Merlin could see that her eyes were wide as she stood awkwardly, looking at him with a different expression, but one no less unsettling than the first.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
And she looked so comical then, so naively unaware of her own fragility, that Merlin couldn’t hold back a smile.
“I’m fine, you missed me,” he assured, grin widening, “I’m sorry to have woken you; it’s just, Arthur wanted some ale...”
“Yes,” Kathy interrupted, suddenly, and with a curious crease between her brows.
She stepped past Merlin, more familiar with the room than the wizard had been, and brought down two cups from a cupboard Merlin hadn’t before noticed. She placed one of the cups underneath the barrel, dislodged the cork and a liquid poured freely whose essence filled the whole room within seconds.
Merlin took a long, deep, thirsty breath. It smelt like ale, and yet it smelt purer, healthier, almost heavenly, and at that last thought Merlin decided he must have been tired. Or drunk on the vapours; he couldn’t be sure.
“Mmm,” he let the appreciation slip, and his tongue lined his lips.
Kathy smiled in a very patriotic sort of way.
“Best ale in all of Albion, this is,” she paused, and then almost shyly added, “Merlin.”
“I know,” he smiled genuinely, “Arthur mentioned so.”
He hoped that this comment would have put a larger smile on Kathy’s face; knowing that the prince approved of their famed drink (knowing the prince approved of something distinctly Merlin’s would certainly have made Merlin smile) but instead that same curious creased expression from before hit the Inn keeper. She was wincing.
Merlin blanched.
“Did I say something... wrong?”
She looked at him sharply, and then widened her eyes again.
“No, no!” she spluttered.
“Are you... sure?”
“Of course,” she tried her best to smile, but the agitation could not be hidden, and Merlin was suddenly reminded of Gwen at her most flustered moments.
“Right,” he said, “then I’ll just get these to Arthur and...”
She bit her lip. He caught the gesture and pointed.
“There! You did it again!”
“I’m so sorry, Merlin,” Kathy began, “I have not been to Camelot in such a long while, the customs are unfamiliar to me.”
Merlin stared, but his confusion only rose. He quirked an eyebrow.
“Um...”
“It’s just,” she continued, “something I have to get used to, I’m sorry.”
“What is?”
She reddened, and a small, scary thought which asked “does she know about how I feel?” flickered through Merlin’s mind before he extinguished it. But it grew from the ashes again when Kathy made an obvious attempt to avoid the wizard’s eye.
“It’s not important; obviously somebody in your position has privileges, allowances, which we here in Asidore would not even dream of.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Merlin faltered, his ears growing hot. The line of conversation wasn’t even making sense, but the less he comprehended, the more his paranoia made him believe that she was onto him.
“Well, your refusal of his orders, for one thing...”
Merlin blinked.
“And the way you address him as...” she took a sharp intake of breath, “Arthur.”
“Yes?” Go on, he thought, just say it; say it so the ground can swallow me up.
“Well, obviously the position of the prince’s manservant has taken a different meaning over the years.”
She bowed low and handed the two full cups of ale to Merlin before he could ask anything else.
“For the prince and for yourself, and don’t hesitate to rouse me if there is anything else you require.”
And just as slyly as she had arrived, she left again.
He didn’t expect much; he was a servant and this was not Camelot, but when he opened the door, the first and definitely the most alarming detail of his quarters for the night hit him like a battering ram. There was no bed.
“Um,” he blurted out, before he could stop himself. Tiredness made him do it; he blamed that and he blamed his being used to a bed in Camelot.
“What is it?” The hope that Arthur hadn’t heard his noise of protest was dashed when the prince stood himself behind Merlin and peered over the wizard’s shoulders into the second bedroom.
“There’s no bed,” Arthur sniffed, with an air far less concerned than the one Merlin had taken.
“Clearly,” Merlin snapped, forgetting himself again. But really, tiredness could be blamed for a lot of things.
“Hmm.”
“It’s fine, I’m used to the floor,” oh how those words ebbed away a little part of his soul, and not just because he was hoping to sleep comfortably, but because of what he hoped those words would prompt from the prince; something he shouldn’t hope for... an offer.
Arthur didn’t reply instantly; he looked to his own bed and pondered silently for a moment or two. Then it came.
“Don’t be an idiot, you’ve been travelling just as long as I have; you can’t sleep on the floor tonight.”
“But...”
“I’ll sort something out.”
Arthur then turned and walked to the door of his chamber. Merlin watched the back; the broad shouldered beauty that walked away from him, and he sighed, admitting now that there was no material dark enough to veil this forbidden attraction. In so many ways forbidden, reasons reaching numbers he faltered when trying to count, and all the time angry at himself for even resolving to reason. There was no rationalising it, Arthur was the Crown Prince; Arthur was a man. Merlin was a servant; Merlin was a man. It should have ended there.
But it hadn’t.
“In the mean time,” the prince said, spinning on his heel to face Merlin and opening the door, gesturing into the hallway, “bring us up some ale, will you?”
The wizard nodded. He passed Arthur, stepping out onto the landing and catching a smile before Arthur closed his door. Merlin sighed again.
After creeping downstairs as quietly as could be done with uncertain footing in darkness, Merlin reached what he hoped was the kitchen, then fumbling for a few moments he entered it and at once the moon’s faint light faded around him from an open window. It was here that he paused, suddenly hesitant.
Back in Camelot he had had no qualms about fetching Arthur food or drink, no matter how late the hour, but here, in an unknown place, he suddenly felt unsure. Arthur was still the Crown Prince, but did the same rules which had applied in Camelot apply here too?
He thought only for a second more, remembering the respect shown to Arthur upon their arrival at the Inn, and the fact that his usual room was permanently reserved, and he decided that it was fine to proceed.
No sooner had this decision come; no sooner had Merlin, aided by moonlight, found the pantry and a barrel of ale, than he heard a loud noise behind him and turned to find Kathy hovering wildly in the doorway, armed with a mallet.
“Who’s there?” She cried, apparently not recognising Merlin in the dim light, and she took a half-blind swing at him, fortunately so poorly aimed that it was easy to dodge.
“Woah! It’s Arthur’s manservant!” He stuttered, side-stepping.
Immediately she stopped, dropping the mallet to the ground.
“Oh, I am so sorry!”
Merlin could see that her eyes were wide as she stood awkwardly, looking at him with a different expression, but one no less unsettling than the first.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
And she looked so comical then, so naively unaware of her own fragility, that Merlin couldn’t hold back a smile.
“I’m fine, you missed me,” he assured, grin widening, “I’m sorry to have woken you; it’s just, Arthur wanted some ale...”
“Yes,” Kathy interrupted, suddenly, and with a curious crease between her brows.
She stepped past Merlin, more familiar with the room than the wizard had been, and brought down two cups from a cupboard Merlin hadn’t before noticed. She placed one of the cups underneath the barrel, dislodged the cork and a liquid poured freely whose essence filled the whole room within seconds.
Merlin took a long, deep, thirsty breath. It smelt like ale, and yet it smelt purer, healthier, almost heavenly, and at that last thought Merlin decided he must have been tired. Or drunk on the vapours; he couldn’t be sure.
“Mmm,” he let the appreciation slip, and his tongue lined his lips.
Kathy smiled in a very patriotic sort of way.
“Best ale in all of Albion, this is,” she paused, and then almost shyly added, “Merlin.”
“I know,” he smiled genuinely, “Arthur mentioned so.”
He hoped that this comment would have put a larger smile on Kathy’s face; knowing that the prince approved of their famed drink (knowing the prince approved of something distinctly Merlin’s would certainly have made Merlin smile) but instead that same curious creased expression from before hit the Inn keeper. She was wincing.
Merlin blanched.
“Did I say something... wrong?”
She looked at him sharply, and then widened her eyes again.
“No, no!” she spluttered.
“Are you... sure?”
“Of course,” she tried her best to smile, but the agitation could not be hidden, and Merlin was suddenly reminded of Gwen at her most flustered moments.
“Right,” he said, “then I’ll just get these to Arthur and...”
She bit her lip. He caught the gesture and pointed.
“There! You did it again!”
“I’m so sorry, Merlin,” Kathy began, “I have not been to Camelot in such a long while, the customs are unfamiliar to me.”
Merlin stared, but his confusion only rose. He quirked an eyebrow.
“Um...”
“It’s just,” she continued, “something I have to get used to, I’m sorry.”
“What is?”
She reddened, and a small, scary thought which asked “does she know about how I feel?” flickered through Merlin’s mind before he extinguished it. But it grew from the ashes again when Kathy made an obvious attempt to avoid the wizard’s eye.
“It’s not important; obviously somebody in your position has privileges, allowances, which we here in Asidore would not even dream of.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Merlin faltered, his ears growing hot. The line of conversation wasn’t even making sense, but the less he comprehended, the more his paranoia made him believe that she was onto him.
“Well, your refusal of his orders, for one thing...”
Merlin blinked.
“And the way you address him as...” she took a sharp intake of breath, “Arthur.”
“Yes?” Go on, he thought, just say it; say it so the ground can swallow me up.
“Well, obviously the position of the prince’s manservant has taken a different meaning over the years.”
She bowed low and handed the two full cups of ale to Merlin before he could ask anything else.
“For the prince and for yourself, and don’t hesitate to rouse me if there is anything else you require.”
And just as slyly as she had arrived, she left again.