The Knight in the Well
Title: The Knight in the Well
Contributor: Rubichan
Medium: fanfic
Fairytale Prompt: The Ballad of Tamlin
Rating: PG
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin, hinted Gwen/Morgana
Warning: slash
Wordcount: 7220
Sorry this thing is so long, guys. Beta'd by a dear and lovely friend of mine, any mistakes you see are entirely my fault and were probably made after she looked it over.
----
The first thing Merlin ever knew of his father was that he'd died. Even that he only knew because of the pinched little clerk who came to their door informing him that Caddwrhyl, that sprawling and dilapidated house up on the hill, had been left to him. Hunith had slumped against the doorframe with a cry of despair. But Merlin, oh Merlin, he could only think of the wild dark woods that enfolded Caddwrhyl and how they were his to explore now by right. He had never met his father, didn't even know his name, but in death he had given Merlin a gift of his own heart's desire.
For a long time after the news came, Hunith bade Merlin stay away from Caddwrhyl. "It's an unnatural place," she warned. Full of enchantments and tragedy, though tragedy of what nature she wouldn't say. Poor Hunith should have known that the promise of danger would only draw him to that house. The second she took her eyes off him, Merlin was away to the tanglewood of Caddwrhyl.
It was a longer journey than it seemed from Merlin's little village to Caddwrhyl. By the time he arrived, his cheeks were flushed with exertion and his breath was coming short. But there it was, looming dark and forbidding, filled with promise. The windows hadn't any glass in them and the door was leaning off the hinges-- this was a place that had been abandoned long, long ago. How had his father come to own Caddwrhyl in the first place, to leave it to Merlin now? For the first time he found himself wishing he knew more about the man.
Leaving the inside of the house for another day, he began instead picking his way through the dense growth surrounding the great house. Summer was at its height; the forest was lush with green and eye-catching explosions of wildflower color. It was a pleasure for Merlin as he stamped and thrashed his way around. The smell of fresh, wet earth was everywhere-- the smell of growth, of life.
Life, yes, and not the small lives of men. The lives of oaks, who had been here since before he was born and would persist long after his death. Ancient cycles, mystery upon mystery to be found here. Free, natural, chaotic in order. Magic. Merlin felt far more comfortable here, among the willows and the wilds, than he ever could in the carefully laid houses of men. He loved his village and his people, but here, ah. Different out here, no one judging him and finding him lacking some integral part.
Eventually his meanderings brought him through the trees to a wellspring. The sunlight came dapple-filtered through the leaves, and the well itself was soaked in deep cool shadows and choked with roses. Deep emerald moss clung to the crumbling stone, thick and soft. Idly Merlin remembered that his mother loved roses-- he should bring some back to her. Perhaps that would soften the edge of her wrath when she heard he'd been to Caddwrhyl. These were preternaturally beautiful roses, the colour of blood with petals of soft velvet. He settled onto one of the cool wellstones, taking out the small knife he kept at his belt and cutting away roses for his mother.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The voice came from behind and startled Merlin into dropping the rose he held into the water. Who would speak to him in such a way? He whirled around, but the sharp words died on his tongue.
The sunlight filtered down and touched the man's features, setting his hair alight and defining each and every golden eyelash. He was beautiful, impossibly so, a creature of fairy stories that seemed out of place in the mortal world-- until he opened his mouth.
"What are you staring at me for?" A sneer drew across his face, marring the features. "Do you have some sort of mental affliction? I asked you a question."
Merlin was stunned again, this time by the sheer arrogance of his tone. "I own Caddwrhyl," he said indignantly, though he admitted he didn't look very lordly with his hair sticking up all over the place and his boots covered in forest muck. And he hadn't been owner of anything until a week ago, either. Neither of these things made Caddwrhyl less his, though, and the haughtiness of this man was inexcusable in any context.
For a moment, the gold-gilt vision of arrogance seemed... vulnerable. An expression crossed those features that Merlin couldn't read, but made his chest seize. "You...? Owner of..." Then the moment of vulnerability passed-- he visibly steeled himself, schooling his features into an unreadable mask. "Nonsense. A clumsy thing like you? I could hear you from the other side of the house."
"Nonsense?" What was that supposed to mean? Merlin was just as likely as anyone else. And he was not clumsy. The woods were just tricky, that's all. "I'll have you know my father gave me this property; I can pick any roses I like, and no obnoxious prat can tell me otherwise."
And before the stranger could open his mouth to say anything to the contrary, Merlin picked himself up, defiantly plucked one more rose, and left.
^
That night over dinner, Merlin asked his mother if anyone lived in the woods around Caddwrhyl. She paused, bread halfway to her mouth. The look she gave her son then was unreadable, though when she replied, her tone was so casual Merlin was inclined to believe he'd imagined it.
"No, of course not. Don't be silly, Merlin. No one's lived in or around Caddwrhyl for decades."
Merlin frowned. Who, then, had been the man at the well? For all that he had been inhumanly gorgeous, his personality was solidly mortal. Something was strange about him, something Merlin couldn't put his finger on. "You don't think it's possible someone lives up there? Not in Caddwrhyl itself, but maybe around it...?"
Hunith just shook her head. "No, no one." Again, there was that curious expression on her face. "Why are you asking this now, Merlin?"
The encounter had felt strangely private, and Merlin found himself reluctant to share it with his mother. "Oh-- no reason. I was just... curious. That's all." Hunith frowned, but pressed him no further. As they finished the rest of their meal, Merlin decided he would get to the bottom of this, one way or another. And the best place to start was with another trip to Caddwrhyl.
^
It would be another three days before Hunith's attentions wandered enough to allow Merlin to slip out again. When he finally made it back, there was no one in sight. He cut a wide circle around the well, hoping to see some sign-- a footprint, a broken branch, the path to a house, something that would indicate that the man he'd seen at the well had been more than an idle fancy brought on by too much summer heat. He found nothing.
Disappointed and defeated, Merlin sat down on the edge of the well again. The stones were cool and smooth beneath him, soothing against the high June heat. While he sat he started to think about just what it was that he was doing here. He liked mysteries, certainly, and the unraveling of them especially, but there was more to it than that. Just what was it that Merlin hoped to find here? His hand reached out and brushed against the roses. Why had he been so upset about them? Merlin plucked another rose. Just what--
"Are you here again?"
Merlin's musings were cut short with the arrival of the Mysterious Man At the Well, his face twisted in annoyance but still unfairly beautiful. Though now that Merlin was slightly less startled by his appearance, he had time to note that his hair was darker than he remembered, less of a blinding gold and more the sort of light gold-brown that wasn't so uncommon in the villages. It was a strangely reassuring color, like the man before him had to be human, just from that.
"You must be deaf, boy," and suddenly Merlin remembered the other thing that made him so sure he was solid and real, and not just some sort of eldritch apparition. He was insufferable.
"My name is Merlin, not boy," he snapped. His fist closed around the rose, which unfortunately still had thorns attached. His ensuing yelp drew a laugh from Mystery Man. Merlin glared balefully at him.
"Well then, Merlin," there was a heavy emphasis on the name. "Come here." Merlin stared uncomprehendingly. The blonde man snorted. "Your hand, let me see it. You really are an idiot, aren't you?"
Before Merlin had a chance to respond, the blonde man was at his side, taking his injured hand with surprising gentleness. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a red handkerchief of a material so fine and light, Merlin could scarcely feel the weight of it at all when it was tied around his hand.
"Thank you," he murmured, not really understanding what just happened.
"Can't have you bleeding on my roses." But the way it was said, Merlin got the feeling those words didn't mean what one would immediately assume.
His face was drawn into a puzzled frown. "Who are you?"
He took a long moment before answering. When he did, it was with the haughtiest expression Merlin had ever seen.
"Arthur. Just Arthur now."
The break in his voice made it difficult for Merlin to breathe.
^
For the rest of June and into July, Merlin spent every moment he could at the well by Caddwrhyl. He dodged questions about where the handkerchief had come from, guarding the knowledge of Arthur's existence like a precious treasure. It felt wrong somehow, to tell Hunith about him. After all, she'd been so against his going. He was still convinced she knew something about Caddwrhyl she wasn't telling, but for the moment he was unconcerned.
His thoughts were of Arthur, the mystery and the magic of him. Merlin dreamt of the tilt of his mouth when he was smiling. When he thought of the way he managed to look both infuriating and endearing at the same time, a strange dizziness swept his body and he'd throw himself into his chores to shake it off. Sometimes the sound of that arrogant voice saying his name (Merlin, just so) would seem to sound in his ears and he'd be clumsier than usual, tripping over his own feet and sending everything flying. And, deep in the night, his thoughts would give him a fever he didn't know how to subdue.
To Arthur he mentioned none of this. It would spoil everything, he thought. They had an easy, lightly antagonistic relationship that from the outside would probably appear both vicious and strange, but to them, ah. It was understood that no matter how many times Merlin told Arthur he was an arrogant prat, or Arthur told Merlin he was too clumsy to have made it through so many years of life, they were, at the heart of it, friends. It was a precious thing, but delicate, thin and breakable like the shell of an egg. One slip of the tongue, and it would be nothing but a spatter of yolk on the ground.
"You're very strange, you know," Arthur said one day. They were both leaning up against the low wall of the well, Merlin eating his lunch and Arthur eating nothing at all. (Arthur never ate, Merlin noticed. He never ate, and he never slept, and he never seemed to feel too hot or too cold.)
"What do you mean?" That was faintly offensive, as were most things that came out of Arthur's mouth. Arthur just stared at him for a long time, the lift of his brow and the set of his mouth telling Merlin he not only though he was strange, but an idiot as well. "I'm not that strange!"
Arthur shook his head. "Most normal people would spend all their time here." He made a vague gesture at the well and beyond to Caddwrhyl. "With... someone like me."
Merlin felt his pulse quicken. Someone like Arthur? The way he said it-- Merlin could hear the unspoken secrets there. He'd been prodding, gently, every time he came, but he was still no closer to knowing anything about Arthur than he had been at the start. Where Arthur lived, how he managed to always be here, at the well, when Merlin came-- he knew none of this. Sometimes it drove him absolutely to distraction, the not-knowing. Sometimes, though, he found he cared more about how Arthur managed to be so stunningly pretty all the time.
"Someone like you? What, a prat?" Arthur chuckled; the sound spread warmth all over Merlin's body. Merlin didn't say anything, hoping his silence would encourage Arthur to elaborate on the point. When he didn't, Merlin made a sound in the back of his throat. It seemed to startle him out of a reverie, and he gave Merlin a strange look.
"Merlin, surely you've noticed." He kept his features very carefully blank. "You have to have noticed. No one is that thick." Not even a muscle twitched. "You-- are you-- you are unbelievably stupid!" He had the grace not to act offended. After all, if he did, Arthur might not tell him.
"I'm not--" Arthur let out a sigh. The expression on his face when he turned to face Merlin pinned him to the ground. It was arrogant, it was always arrogant, but underneath there was such a deep fear, thick and overwhelming. What could Arthur possibly be afraid of, here? There was only Merlin.
"I was human once," he said.
This-- was more than Merlin had been expecting. Once? What did Arthur mean, "once"? He seemed real and solid enough. Pieces slid into place, thunk-thunk-thunk. Arthur who never ate, never slept, was always there. Arthur who had just appeared one day.
And Arthur, who was looking at him as if he was expecting Merlin to break him apart. Maybe he was, Merlin realized. His mother might have. Will, the only other person he really felt close to, certainly would have. For a moment Merlin sat mute, waiting to feel angry, or shocked, or anything other than the satisfaction of a mystery unravelled. He didn't. Instead he offered Arthur a shaky smile.
"So how did you get transformed from man to utterly insufferable prat?"
It had been the right thing to say, clearly; all the tension drained out of Arthur's shoulders. The look he gave Merlin then was all of his familiar arrogance, with none of the underlying vulnerability.
"You're grinning again. Stop that, it makes you look utterly mad."
Merlin just elbowed Arthur in the side. He had meant the question sincerely-- if Arthur had been human once, then why wasn't he now? But Arthur seemed reluctant and Merlin didn't want to push the issue. Something felt a little different between them, and Merlin didn't want to kill it if he could help it.
So when Arthur leaned in close, Merlin tried very hard not to lean too. Arthur's lips brushed his, the touch so delicate it was almost not there. Even that feather-light moment of mouths on mouths sent a dizzying fire through his whole being. He couldn't stop himself then, not when his dreams had been torturing him for weeks. He moved himself forward so quickly their teeth clashed together, Arthur's lip catching and cutting open. The heady taste of Arthur was mixed together with coppery blood-- it was enough, it was more than enough, it was driving him mad.
But then Arthur was pulling away, abruptly. Merlin's mouth was cold and a little bit swollen. Arthur looked just as confused as Merlin felt, his pretty face a mess of conflicting feelings and desires. He reached out, but Arthur backed away. He was shaking his head, and Merlin heard him mumble about consequences and how Merlin wasn't strong enough. Before he could open his mouth that he was, really, stronger than he looked, Arthur was gone as if he had never been.
^
He went back twice, but no matter how many roses he plucked, no matter how many times he called out Arthur's name, he never appeared.
That was it then. Somewhere in that last exchange, Merlin had messed it all up. Had it been wrong, then, to return that hesitant kiss? (Even now Merlin could feel it, Arthur's lips had been so smooth as they slid over his chapped ones. It had been perfect, as perfect as anything mortal could ever be.) Merlin thought then that he would rather have remained nothing more than friends with Arthur for the rest of his life and beyond that. At least it was better than no relationship at all.
Hunith, for her part, hovered anxiously around Merlin the entire time. When he got back from Caddwrhyl that last time he had brushed past her concerned questions and the sweet-angry tilt of her mouth in favour of collapsing on his bed and not moving for several hours. His mother was not delicate; she bullied and badgered her way into Merlin's confidence.
He couldn't stay in there forever. Eventually he emerged, and immediately Hunith was there, asking him what had happened and how did he feel and insisting he sit down and eat something, despite all of Merlin's protests. No, he was not hungry. No, no one did anything to him. He was fine.
Really.
His mother, of course, didn't believe him like any good mother would not. Her fussing was unceasing until Merlin finally crumbled and spilled not the whole story, but enough. He left out the way the particular set of Arthur's mouth left him dizzy and breathless, but maybe it was more evident than he'd thought. Hunith paled, finally quiet.
"You're not to go there again." Her voice was quiet, but her words were woven from steel. This was a command, brooking no argument. It wasn't often that his mother commanded him to do much of anything in that voice; nine times out of ten he never listened to her. That voice was reserved for the tenth time. For the first time in his life, Merlin found himself set to disobey that command.
"Why?" he demanded. (His voice might have been a little petulant, but it really had been a very trying week.) Hunith's mouth pressed into a thin line and she just shook her head.
"Trust me in this, Merlin. No good will come of going to that house, or seeing Arthur Pendragon." Merlin's head jerked up sharply. He had never told her Arthur's family name, primarily because he didn't know know what it was. His mother did, and his mother seemed to know a lot more.
"You know something!" Merlin thrust an accusatory finger in her direction. "There is something about that house, and I want to know what it is."
Hunith bit her lip. She twisted her hands, she knit her brow, she did all of those things that people do when they are vastly uncomfortable and don't want to talk about something. So it was something of a surprise when she actually did-- maybe she was just tired of Merlin's incessant investigations. Maybe she hoped if she told him what she knew, he wouldn't go back to Caddwrhyl.
"They were an... important family, the Pendragons," she began haltingly. Merlin was listening, all earnest concentration. There was no way he'd miss a word of this. "Like royalty, almost. Very rich, certainly, and influential... But the father." His mother's face flickered with something he couldn't understand.
"He wasn't a bad man," she said, slowly. "Just... stubborn. Not one to believe in the old ways, insulting those who did. How was he to know it would get the better of him one day? There was a girl in the village, pretty, very sweet. The rumour went that she had the favour of the queen of the fey things that lived around here..." Hunith snorted. She didn't really believe in such things, herself. It was just something she couldn't quite disbelieve, either. "Uther-- the father --he didn't... approve. This was all before my time, I don't know what happened but... The girl, Guinevere, she. I'm not sure but she-- they say Uther dragged her out, declared her a harlot. No fey creature, her lover, but a woman." Hunith bit her lip, thinking on the girl. "It was..." Hunith looked to her son, beseeching, needing him to understand. "People didn't take that. Well."
For a moment it seemed as if Hunith wouldn't continue. She was lost in memory, thinking back to a story from before she was even born. "Uther had a son, a bright boy. A bit spoilt, sometimes cruel, but the village loved him well enough. Uther's pride and joy, after his wife passed away." Her gaze lingered over Merlin, who had the grace to feel both extremely loved and extremely uncomfortable. He knew she was thinking about his father. Hunith always thought about his father, though she never mentioned him.
"Then they both disappeared." The sentence was abrupt, clipped. "They say the fey queen took them both, Guinevere in protection-- and Arthur in revenge. That's ridiculous, of course," she added quickly. "It's more likely the two of them eloped together, or that Arthur left and the girl met someone. Uther didn't stay long, himself. Caddwrhyl has been empty, ever since."
She frowned, fixing her son with a stare. "But this happened before I was born, Merlin, so whoever it is you're seeing there, it can't be Arthur Pendragon. The whole place is unlucky." With that, she clearly considered the matter settled and pushed herself back from the table. "I have to make a trip to the apothecary-- would you be so good as to feed the chickens, Merlin?"
The sudden return to more domestic topics didn't fool Merlin. He nodded his head anyway, feigning obedience. It wouldn't be the first time. He turned the story over and over in his mind, unable to make sense of it. How was it even possible that Arthur, his Arthur who teased him about his ears, was the same? Some part of him wanted to believe that Hunith was right, that this man was just having him on and wasn't, in fact, Arthur Pendragon at all.
He couldn't convince himself. Arthur was who he said he was, and Merlin couldn't say how he knew, but he knew. Partially it was because he didn't think Arthur was such a duplicitous person-- a prat, yes, and arrogant besides. But dishonest? Never. Arthur was a good man.
So there was no question in his mind that Arthur had come under the thrall of the Fey Queen. Merlin's chest clenched when he thought of the expression that had been on Arthur's face. I was human, once. While he didn't understand what Arthur thought could harm Merlin, surely he was wrong. Arthur could never do him harm. Arthur was the one in danger, wasn't he?
All at once Merlin resolved in his mind to save Arthur. He wasn't sure how, exactly, he could do that, but surely it must be possible. What sort of a cruel world would it be if there were nothing Merlin could do, if he were doomed never to be a simple mortal man again? If there was a way, he would find it. He had to.
Somewhere in all of this Merlin came to the sweet, heavy conclusion that he might be a little bit in love with Arthur Pendragon. It wasn't a comfortable realization; it wasn't one easily dismissed, either. He supposed he'd tried, in his own fashion, to come to terms before this. But he had never admitted it, never let the thought rumble solid and undeniable through his heart and mind.
For a moment, he'd thought-- but no. The memory of that hastily-ended kiss still lingered in his mind. And it didn't matter, he told himself firmly. Arthur could feel however he wanted about Merlin. It wouldn't change how Merlin felt, or what he knew he had to at least try to do. Arthur was a prat and a friend, and that was enough.
If only he would speak to him.
^
Perhaps his obedience hadn't been as convince as Merlin previously supposed. For the next week, Hunith rarely let Merlin out of her sight. When she had to go to another village, she managed to enlist Gaius, the local apothecary, as Merlin's keeper in her stead. It was very nearly August before Merlin had the chance to slip away to Caddwrhyl.
Luckily for him, Gaius put much less store in the old rumours surrounding the place. It wasn't so keenly important to keep Merlin away for Gaius. The most transparent of excuses was all it took. Then Merlin was off and away, seeking Arthur out with a painful thundering in his chest.
"Arthur!" He arrived at the well breathless and disheveled. "Arthur, I need to talk to you." He pulled three roses in succession; Arthur, it seemed, was still determined to keep his distance. "Arthur, you great bloody git, I will throw myself in this well and drown if you don't come out and talk to me." He moved towards the well and clambered purposefully up the the rough stone sides. As he reached the top, he felt arms jerk him back. He fell, all ungainly limbs and elbows, crumpling into a heap on top of-- Arthur.
"You're touched in the head!" were the first words out of Arthur's lips. His fingers were digging into Merlin's arms hard enough to bruise; oh but he looked furious. Still, somehow Merlin couldn't stop a grin from splitting his face from ear to ear. Arthur'd told him time and time again that it made him look utterly ridiculous and sort of highlighted just how big his ears really were, but he always said it in this way that was both insulting and hopelessly endearing.
"Speaking to me after all?" Arthur just shoved Merlin off of him and onto the ground in response.
"Go home, Merlin," was all he said. After carefully picking himself up off the ground, he wouldn't look Merlin in the face.
That wouldn't do at all. How was Merlin supposed to rescue Arthur if the man wouldn't even look him in the eye? "I'm not leaving." This was something he was going to dig his heels in about. Arthur could, of course, just leave himself-- but Merlin didn't think he would. The threat of death-by-drowning was still hanging in the air (it was idle, but Arthur didn't need to know that).
Merlin reached out and caught the edge of Arthur's sleeve before he could pull out of range. "Arth--" The expression on his face made Merlin choke on whatever he had been about to say. He wiped it from his face as soon as Merlin looked at him; the impression of that intense longing remained.
"Arthur," he said, softly. Arthur's fists clenched; Merlin imaged that if he uncurled them there would be blood-filled half moons all along his palms.
Licking his lips, he tried again. "Arthur." Firmer this time, with a delicate note of pleading laced throughout. Arthur shook his head. He looked desperate as he drew closer, as if he wanted to stop but he didn't know how. Merlin wasn't above encouraging him.
When Arthur leaned in and kissed him this second time, it was all fire and desperation, a distinct contrast to his fluttering hesitance before. Merlin pushed his body closer, needing to reassure himself that this was real, that these really were Arthur's lips, Arthur's tongue pressing into the cavern of his mouth. Arthur tastes like spice came the dizzy thought spiraling out of dark recesses of his mind.
"I've come to save you," Merlin murmured into the kiss. Arthur's back stiffened and he pulled away to look him in the face.
"No, you haven't." His face brooked no argument. "You're going to go home, Merlin, and you are going to forget we ever met, because you can't save me. You can barely walk in a straight line without tripping over your own shoes."
He was hiding his tension with light insult, or trying, but the uneasy stiffness in his limbs gave him away. Merlin remained resolute.
"Arthur, I have to try." It came out as more of a plea than he intended, but it must have worked at least a bit because Arthur's features softened. He looked terrified, Merlin realized, though it hadn't yet occurred to him that if Arthur was afraid for anyone, it wasn't for himself.
"You're asking to get yourself killed, idiot." Even the insult sounded like an endearment from Arthur. "What do you think it is that would be required of you?"
For the first time Merlin stopped and considered what he was trying to do with a bit more gravity. This was a man who was held out of time by the Queen of All Fey Things, a man held as punishment for a man arrogant enough to think he could defy her power.
But this was Arthur, and for him, Merlin would try anything. There must have been something of the sentiment in his expression, because the next thing he heard from Arthur was a resigned sigh, followed by Arthur's forehead dropping to Merlin's shoulder.
"Why would you do this for me?" he asked.
Merlin wasn't sure how to answer that. He loved Arthur, to be sure, but it was more than that. He felt obligated, like it was something he could do, and therefore had to.
"I just will," he said simply, trying to convey all that he was thinking and feeling in the brush of his fingertips against the back of Arthur's neck, in the heavy rise and fall of his chest and the subtle shift of his hips.
Arthur shifted his own hips, and Merlin's breath hitched. There were fingers sliding carefully, reverently, under his shirt, tracing mysterious languages onto his skin. Every touch lit him up, and when his eyes met Arthur's, he knew they were both well and truly lost.
^
For all of August and September, Arthur said nothing of how Merlin could hope to rescue him. But he didn't push Merlin away, and the both of them spent those long days together as summer drew to a close. This, more than anything, made Merlin happy. It wasn't that anything changed between them, really. Arthur still teased him, and Merlin still barbed right back. But the quality of it was different, and every so often Merlin would find Arthur staring at his mouth, or he'd be studying Arthur's hands, and they'd find less need for any talking at all.
It was beautiful and heavy with the tastes of summer. And, like the season, would one day have to end. By October, the trees were turning from green to all the browns, reds and golds of autumn, carpeting the woods around Caddwrhyl. This was good, too, but Merlin could sense an urgency in Arthur that hadn't been there before. He paced and prowled around the well, restraint and distraction in his every motion. It only grew as the rose petals dropped off and the hips grew heavy and fat.
"I could use those to make tea, bring that next time I come," Merlin said one day, tracing the line of Arthur's spine with his finger. Arthur, it seemed, did not feel cold, either. He was always perfectly willing to let Merlin undress him like this.
"The Tithe is coming." Arthur pulled away from Merlin's ministrations. "It's going to be me this year." He said this with a desperate look on his face, as if Merlin would know exactly what he meant. Merlin arched his brows expectantly.
"Every seven years, the Fey of this court and the Fey of another exchange sacrifices." Arthur grimaced. "It is not something desirable. I've heard stories..." His lips pressed into a thin line. Merlin restrained himself from smoothing out the furrow in his brow; the whole set of Arthur's body told him volumes.
Merlin's mouth was dry when he went to speak; his voice came out as more of a parched croak than the assuring tone he had been hoping for. "I'll never let that happen."
Arthur smiled a tight smile. This was becoming an increasingly common occurrence, Merlin noted with despair. "You'll have to pull me from my horse-- the white one. As an earthly knight, I should be the only one to have one. I can't tell you any more than that but--" Merlin could almost see the wheels clicking in Arthur's mind as he struggled to come up with his next words.
"I would never-- I can't hurt you, deliberately. Just remember that."
^
The hardest part, Merlin thought, was surely the waiting. Arthur had explained what needed to be done as best he could-- where the Host would be, and where Merlin needed to wait. It was quite a lot of waiting, as it turned out. Hunith was a heavy sleeper, so there had been little trouble in sneaking out of the house. So little problem, in fact, that he'd made it to the right spot a good deal earlier than planned. It was cold, even with the heavy green cloak he had bunched up around his body. His knees were starting to cramp from sitting still for so long. It seemed like days passed in the span of those hours-- but the sun never rose, so that couldn't be so. Nothing but Merlin's mind, drawing the time out to seem interminable.
His chin had dropped to his chest despite his vain struggle to keep himself away when he heard the sharp clatter of hooves on the road. All at once he was jerked to alertness, the fog of sleep clearing out from his mind. This was what he had been waiting for-- his chance to save Arthur. He knew he'd only have this one chance and never again. If he failed, there was no telling what sort of horrors would befall the both of them. He shivered, and not with cold.
The Host was really quite resplendent. Seeing real Fey now, he wondered that he had ever thought Arthur anything but a mortal man. Beautiful as Arthur was, these creatures were a thousand times more so. He could see their Queen at the head of the column, a tall woman with a proud straight back and long dark hair that she let fly unbound behind her, pennant to the Host. There was no doubt as to who she was; no one but Morgana could be so wholly gorgeous, a vision carved from the brightest stars and the blackest velvet nights.
For a time Merlin despaired of seeing Arthur at all-- what if he'd lied? What if he'd been wrong? Merlin saw horses of all colours but white ridden by riders of all kinds, none of them human. None of them Arthur. He could see the end of the train by now, a ways down the road. Arthur had to be among them, somewhere.
Just as his heart was about to give in-- there! A flash of white mane, and Merlin could see him, gilt armour and a star at his brow. There was no mistaking it, that was his Arthur. Even with that cold and distant expression he had never seen (was this what he looked like in the Realm?), he had no doubts. Swift as thought Merlin rushed to the side of Arthur's horse.
All around him came the outraged cries of fairy men and women. Merlin did his best to ignore them, focusing only on Arthur and wrestling his solid weight from the back of the horse. The beast wasn't helping any, prancing back and forth and whinnying in a fashion entirely unlike the sound of mortal horses. It was like music, but it set Merlin's teeth on edge, for the longer he struggled with this the more likely it was that the Host would capture him before he got Arthur free.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see them closing in. Great and terrible faces, ripe with promise of unending torment if ever he were to falter or fail. They drew shining blades and their horses, such as they were, let out unearthly keenings, the like of which he had never heard. Desperation gave him a sudden strength, and he pulled with all his might.
Arthur fell from the horse. Merlin couldn't stop himself from crying out in pain as the sharp weight of Arthur's armour bit into his limbs and the soft flesh of his belly. But he held on tight, some instinct telling him that this wasn't the end.
All at once he wasn't holding Arthur any more, but a great black adder, reared back to strike. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut. I would never hurt you. Those were Arthur's words, and Merlin gathered them about him now, giving him a strength he would otherwise have lacked.
Just as the adder was about to strike and Merlin certain he would surely perish, whether Arthur wanted to hurt him or not, it wasn't a snake in his arms. Instead he clung to the fur of a great black bear, murder in his eyes and claws curved and wicked. It gave a mighty roar, a terrible sound that nonetheless made Merlin think of Arthur. Arthur, shouting and growling in some sort of horrible mood. Still he held on.
The bear became a lion, teeth as long as Arthur's fingers, but the mane of it was soft and thick and the colour of Arthur's hair so Merlin wasn't so afraid, even as it thrashed and lashed out at him with claws and teeth. It was a struggle to keep hold of him as he changed size and shape, but Merlin had promised. He would save Arthur, at any cost. He hadn't actually been hurt yet, just afraid. Perhaps Arthur had been worried for nothing, after all.
As soon as he thought this, Arthur transformed again-- to a burning brand of iron. Merlin bit his tongue until his mouth filled with blood at the pain of it. He could smell the flesh of his hands burning; this was no illusion. That heavy, meaty scent was unmistakable. Merlin found himself mumbling Arthur's name over and over, though he could no longer see in front of him through the tears that sprang to his eyes despite his efforts. Oh but the pain was excruciating-- would this go on forever? Would Arthur never be released from this form until Merlin died from the pain of it? Oh, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. The name fell a benediction from his lips.
Then he was an iron brand no more, but instead a torch burning so impossibly hot and bright. Some instinct in Merlin had his body pick itself up from the ground. Feet moved with unbidden swiftness to the nearest body of water-- a stream. He plunged the torch into the icy waters and his own hands as well (they'll blister all the worse for that Merlin he could hear Gaius in the back of his mind).
And for a long and terrible moment, nothing happened.
Merlin held an extinguished torch, and nothing more. Had that been wrong? He had moved by strange, unknowing impulse, some calling in his bones taking his hands and feet and giving him the knowledge for what he should do. What if that was the wrong choice?
Then there came a pulse, a surge of warmth in contrast of the water so cold. A bright light, but not fearsome like the lights of the host, shone out bright and true from the wood. It grew unbearably strong, and then quite suddenly, he had under his hands his own dear Arthur, cold and wet and naked. Undeniably mortal. Merlin wrapped his cloak around him. It was a shield, keeping away the baleful eyes of the Host.
For they were still there, those strange and beautiful creatures which had held Arthur for so long among them. All eyes were focused on the pair of them, until they turned as a one towards the approaching figure of Morgana.
If the Queen had been beautiful riding at the head of the column, then it was almost painful to look on her now. The fury carved into her features did nothing to mar them. She seemed more lovely for it, if anything, all that anger making her stand straight and tall and burn like the sun. Merlin had to look away.
"Quite the prize, boy." Her voice burned and scraped across his ears, the sound of a thousand bells at once. Beautiful cacophony. "I wish you the best of him."
For a brief moment Merlin relaxed, only to draw himself back up at her next words. "Would that I could say I wish a pleasant fate for either of you." She levelled her terrible gaze at Arthur and let out a sigh. The sound was almost mortal.
"Had I but known it would come to this, Arthur Pendragon..." Merlin tensed when Morgana's lips curled into a terrible smile. There was no mirth in it. "I would have taken those blue eyes of yours and put in two of wood."
Merlin held his breath, waiting for some terrible blow from the Fey Queen-- but none came. Instead Morgana turned and motioned to her Host as if she had forgotten all about Merlin and Arthur. Though as she returned to her place, Merlin could swear he saw an almost tender smile curl at her lips as she took the hand of a small dark rider.
It was only when the last of the hoofbeats faded away into the distance that Merlin had the courage to pull the hood away from Arthur's face. He seemed-- tired, tired and cold in a way Merlin had never seen him before. He was wholly mortal now, Merlin realized. Not to mention naked and wet on Halloween, with nothing but a cloak to warm him. Merlin fell forward, enfolding Arthur in his embrace.
"Arthur, Arthur," he murmured into that blonde hair over and over. The name blurred and stopped being a name, just a sound with no meaning but I love you. Eventually he realized he should, perhaps, say that, now that this was over with. "Arthur, I love you, now and for always."
Arthur said nothing, but took a calloused finger and turned Merlin's face towards him. When they kissed this time, there was no hesitance, no desperation. It was sweet and lingering, their chapped lips scraping togther. There were the warm motions of Arthur's tongue, meek presses against his mouth that he opened, willingly. In this kiss he knew that what he'd done had been what he had to do.
A life without Arthur could not have been much of one at all.
And so they returned to Ealdor, cold, wet and mortal. Forever after that they lived, if not always with great harmony, then at least with great love. And that is the part that counts.
Contributor: Rubichan
Medium: fanfic
Fairytale Prompt: The Ballad of Tamlin
Rating: PG
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin, hinted Gwen/Morgana
Warning: slash
Wordcount: 7220
Sorry this thing is so long, guys. Beta'd by a dear and lovely friend of mine, any mistakes you see are entirely my fault and were probably made after she looked it over.
----
The first thing Merlin ever knew of his father was that he'd died. Even that he only knew because of the pinched little clerk who came to their door informing him that Caddwrhyl, that sprawling and dilapidated house up on the hill, had been left to him. Hunith had slumped against the doorframe with a cry of despair. But Merlin, oh Merlin, he could only think of the wild dark woods that enfolded Caddwrhyl and how they were his to explore now by right. He had never met his father, didn't even know his name, but in death he had given Merlin a gift of his own heart's desire.
For a long time after the news came, Hunith bade Merlin stay away from Caddwrhyl. "It's an unnatural place," she warned. Full of enchantments and tragedy, though tragedy of what nature she wouldn't say. Poor Hunith should have known that the promise of danger would only draw him to that house. The second she took her eyes off him, Merlin was away to the tanglewood of Caddwrhyl.
It was a longer journey than it seemed from Merlin's little village to Caddwrhyl. By the time he arrived, his cheeks were flushed with exertion and his breath was coming short. But there it was, looming dark and forbidding, filled with promise. The windows hadn't any glass in them and the door was leaning off the hinges-- this was a place that had been abandoned long, long ago. How had his father come to own Caddwrhyl in the first place, to leave it to Merlin now? For the first time he found himself wishing he knew more about the man.
Leaving the inside of the house for another day, he began instead picking his way through the dense growth surrounding the great house. Summer was at its height; the forest was lush with green and eye-catching explosions of wildflower color. It was a pleasure for Merlin as he stamped and thrashed his way around. The smell of fresh, wet earth was everywhere-- the smell of growth, of life.
Life, yes, and not the small lives of men. The lives of oaks, who had been here since before he was born and would persist long after his death. Ancient cycles, mystery upon mystery to be found here. Free, natural, chaotic in order. Magic. Merlin felt far more comfortable here, among the willows and the wilds, than he ever could in the carefully laid houses of men. He loved his village and his people, but here, ah. Different out here, no one judging him and finding him lacking some integral part.
Eventually his meanderings brought him through the trees to a wellspring. The sunlight came dapple-filtered through the leaves, and the well itself was soaked in deep cool shadows and choked with roses. Deep emerald moss clung to the crumbling stone, thick and soft. Idly Merlin remembered that his mother loved roses-- he should bring some back to her. Perhaps that would soften the edge of her wrath when she heard he'd been to Caddwrhyl. These were preternaturally beautiful roses, the colour of blood with petals of soft velvet. He settled onto one of the cool wellstones, taking out the small knife he kept at his belt and cutting away roses for his mother.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The voice came from behind and startled Merlin into dropping the rose he held into the water. Who would speak to him in such a way? He whirled around, but the sharp words died on his tongue.
The sunlight filtered down and touched the man's features, setting his hair alight and defining each and every golden eyelash. He was beautiful, impossibly so, a creature of fairy stories that seemed out of place in the mortal world-- until he opened his mouth.
"What are you staring at me for?" A sneer drew across his face, marring the features. "Do you have some sort of mental affliction? I asked you a question."
Merlin was stunned again, this time by the sheer arrogance of his tone. "I own Caddwrhyl," he said indignantly, though he admitted he didn't look very lordly with his hair sticking up all over the place and his boots covered in forest muck. And he hadn't been owner of anything until a week ago, either. Neither of these things made Caddwrhyl less his, though, and the haughtiness of this man was inexcusable in any context.
For a moment, the gold-gilt vision of arrogance seemed... vulnerable. An expression crossed those features that Merlin couldn't read, but made his chest seize. "You...? Owner of..." Then the moment of vulnerability passed-- he visibly steeled himself, schooling his features into an unreadable mask. "Nonsense. A clumsy thing like you? I could hear you from the other side of the house."
"Nonsense?" What was that supposed to mean? Merlin was just as likely as anyone else. And he was not clumsy. The woods were just tricky, that's all. "I'll have you know my father gave me this property; I can pick any roses I like, and no obnoxious prat can tell me otherwise."
And before the stranger could open his mouth to say anything to the contrary, Merlin picked himself up, defiantly plucked one more rose, and left.
^
That night over dinner, Merlin asked his mother if anyone lived in the woods around Caddwrhyl. She paused, bread halfway to her mouth. The look she gave her son then was unreadable, though when she replied, her tone was so casual Merlin was inclined to believe he'd imagined it.
"No, of course not. Don't be silly, Merlin. No one's lived in or around Caddwrhyl for decades."
Merlin frowned. Who, then, had been the man at the well? For all that he had been inhumanly gorgeous, his personality was solidly mortal. Something was strange about him, something Merlin couldn't put his finger on. "You don't think it's possible someone lives up there? Not in Caddwrhyl itself, but maybe around it...?"
Hunith just shook her head. "No, no one." Again, there was that curious expression on her face. "Why are you asking this now, Merlin?"
The encounter had felt strangely private, and Merlin found himself reluctant to share it with his mother. "Oh-- no reason. I was just... curious. That's all." Hunith frowned, but pressed him no further. As they finished the rest of their meal, Merlin decided he would get to the bottom of this, one way or another. And the best place to start was with another trip to Caddwrhyl.
^
It would be another three days before Hunith's attentions wandered enough to allow Merlin to slip out again. When he finally made it back, there was no one in sight. He cut a wide circle around the well, hoping to see some sign-- a footprint, a broken branch, the path to a house, something that would indicate that the man he'd seen at the well had been more than an idle fancy brought on by too much summer heat. He found nothing.
Disappointed and defeated, Merlin sat down on the edge of the well again. The stones were cool and smooth beneath him, soothing against the high June heat. While he sat he started to think about just what it was that he was doing here. He liked mysteries, certainly, and the unraveling of them especially, but there was more to it than that. Just what was it that Merlin hoped to find here? His hand reached out and brushed against the roses. Why had he been so upset about them? Merlin plucked another rose. Just what--
"Are you here again?"
Merlin's musings were cut short with the arrival of the Mysterious Man At the Well, his face twisted in annoyance but still unfairly beautiful. Though now that Merlin was slightly less startled by his appearance, he had time to note that his hair was darker than he remembered, less of a blinding gold and more the sort of light gold-brown that wasn't so uncommon in the villages. It was a strangely reassuring color, like the man before him had to be human, just from that.
"You must be deaf, boy," and suddenly Merlin remembered the other thing that made him so sure he was solid and real, and not just some sort of eldritch apparition. He was insufferable.
"My name is Merlin, not boy," he snapped. His fist closed around the rose, which unfortunately still had thorns attached. His ensuing yelp drew a laugh from Mystery Man. Merlin glared balefully at him.
"Well then, Merlin," there was a heavy emphasis on the name. "Come here." Merlin stared uncomprehendingly. The blonde man snorted. "Your hand, let me see it. You really are an idiot, aren't you?"
Before Merlin had a chance to respond, the blonde man was at his side, taking his injured hand with surprising gentleness. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a red handkerchief of a material so fine and light, Merlin could scarcely feel the weight of it at all when it was tied around his hand.
"Thank you," he murmured, not really understanding what just happened.
"Can't have you bleeding on my roses." But the way it was said, Merlin got the feeling those words didn't mean what one would immediately assume.
His face was drawn into a puzzled frown. "Who are you?"
He took a long moment before answering. When he did, it was with the haughtiest expression Merlin had ever seen.
"Arthur. Just Arthur now."
The break in his voice made it difficult for Merlin to breathe.
^
For the rest of June and into July, Merlin spent every moment he could at the well by Caddwrhyl. He dodged questions about where the handkerchief had come from, guarding the knowledge of Arthur's existence like a precious treasure. It felt wrong somehow, to tell Hunith about him. After all, she'd been so against his going. He was still convinced she knew something about Caddwrhyl she wasn't telling, but for the moment he was unconcerned.
His thoughts were of Arthur, the mystery and the magic of him. Merlin dreamt of the tilt of his mouth when he was smiling. When he thought of the way he managed to look both infuriating and endearing at the same time, a strange dizziness swept his body and he'd throw himself into his chores to shake it off. Sometimes the sound of that arrogant voice saying his name (Merlin, just so) would seem to sound in his ears and he'd be clumsier than usual, tripping over his own feet and sending everything flying. And, deep in the night, his thoughts would give him a fever he didn't know how to subdue.
To Arthur he mentioned none of this. It would spoil everything, he thought. They had an easy, lightly antagonistic relationship that from the outside would probably appear both vicious and strange, but to them, ah. It was understood that no matter how many times Merlin told Arthur he was an arrogant prat, or Arthur told Merlin he was too clumsy to have made it through so many years of life, they were, at the heart of it, friends. It was a precious thing, but delicate, thin and breakable like the shell of an egg. One slip of the tongue, and it would be nothing but a spatter of yolk on the ground.
"You're very strange, you know," Arthur said one day. They were both leaning up against the low wall of the well, Merlin eating his lunch and Arthur eating nothing at all. (Arthur never ate, Merlin noticed. He never ate, and he never slept, and he never seemed to feel too hot or too cold.)
"What do you mean?" That was faintly offensive, as were most things that came out of Arthur's mouth. Arthur just stared at him for a long time, the lift of his brow and the set of his mouth telling Merlin he not only though he was strange, but an idiot as well. "I'm not that strange!"
Arthur shook his head. "Most normal people would spend all their time here." He made a vague gesture at the well and beyond to Caddwrhyl. "With... someone like me."
Merlin felt his pulse quicken. Someone like Arthur? The way he said it-- Merlin could hear the unspoken secrets there. He'd been prodding, gently, every time he came, but he was still no closer to knowing anything about Arthur than he had been at the start. Where Arthur lived, how he managed to always be here, at the well, when Merlin came-- he knew none of this. Sometimes it drove him absolutely to distraction, the not-knowing. Sometimes, though, he found he cared more about how Arthur managed to be so stunningly pretty all the time.
"Someone like you? What, a prat?" Arthur chuckled; the sound spread warmth all over Merlin's body. Merlin didn't say anything, hoping his silence would encourage Arthur to elaborate on the point. When he didn't, Merlin made a sound in the back of his throat. It seemed to startle him out of a reverie, and he gave Merlin a strange look.
"Merlin, surely you've noticed." He kept his features very carefully blank. "You have to have noticed. No one is that thick." Not even a muscle twitched. "You-- are you-- you are unbelievably stupid!" He had the grace not to act offended. After all, if he did, Arthur might not tell him.
"I'm not--" Arthur let out a sigh. The expression on his face when he turned to face Merlin pinned him to the ground. It was arrogant, it was always arrogant, but underneath there was such a deep fear, thick and overwhelming. What could Arthur possibly be afraid of, here? There was only Merlin.
"I was human once," he said.
This-- was more than Merlin had been expecting. Once? What did Arthur mean, "once"? He seemed real and solid enough. Pieces slid into place, thunk-thunk-thunk. Arthur who never ate, never slept, was always there. Arthur who had just appeared one day.
And Arthur, who was looking at him as if he was expecting Merlin to break him apart. Maybe he was, Merlin realized. His mother might have. Will, the only other person he really felt close to, certainly would have. For a moment Merlin sat mute, waiting to feel angry, or shocked, or anything other than the satisfaction of a mystery unravelled. He didn't. Instead he offered Arthur a shaky smile.
"So how did you get transformed from man to utterly insufferable prat?"
It had been the right thing to say, clearly; all the tension drained out of Arthur's shoulders. The look he gave Merlin then was all of his familiar arrogance, with none of the underlying vulnerability.
"You're grinning again. Stop that, it makes you look utterly mad."
Merlin just elbowed Arthur in the side. He had meant the question sincerely-- if Arthur had been human once, then why wasn't he now? But Arthur seemed reluctant and Merlin didn't want to push the issue. Something felt a little different between them, and Merlin didn't want to kill it if he could help it.
So when Arthur leaned in close, Merlin tried very hard not to lean too. Arthur's lips brushed his, the touch so delicate it was almost not there. Even that feather-light moment of mouths on mouths sent a dizzying fire through his whole being. He couldn't stop himself then, not when his dreams had been torturing him for weeks. He moved himself forward so quickly their teeth clashed together, Arthur's lip catching and cutting open. The heady taste of Arthur was mixed together with coppery blood-- it was enough, it was more than enough, it was driving him mad.
But then Arthur was pulling away, abruptly. Merlin's mouth was cold and a little bit swollen. Arthur looked just as confused as Merlin felt, his pretty face a mess of conflicting feelings and desires. He reached out, but Arthur backed away. He was shaking his head, and Merlin heard him mumble about consequences and how Merlin wasn't strong enough. Before he could open his mouth that he was, really, stronger than he looked, Arthur was gone as if he had never been.
^
He went back twice, but no matter how many roses he plucked, no matter how many times he called out Arthur's name, he never appeared.
That was it then. Somewhere in that last exchange, Merlin had messed it all up. Had it been wrong, then, to return that hesitant kiss? (Even now Merlin could feel it, Arthur's lips had been so smooth as they slid over his chapped ones. It had been perfect, as perfect as anything mortal could ever be.) Merlin thought then that he would rather have remained nothing more than friends with Arthur for the rest of his life and beyond that. At least it was better than no relationship at all.
Hunith, for her part, hovered anxiously around Merlin the entire time. When he got back from Caddwrhyl that last time he had brushed past her concerned questions and the sweet-angry tilt of her mouth in favour of collapsing on his bed and not moving for several hours. His mother was not delicate; she bullied and badgered her way into Merlin's confidence.
He couldn't stay in there forever. Eventually he emerged, and immediately Hunith was there, asking him what had happened and how did he feel and insisting he sit down and eat something, despite all of Merlin's protests. No, he was not hungry. No, no one did anything to him. He was fine.
Really.
His mother, of course, didn't believe him like any good mother would not. Her fussing was unceasing until Merlin finally crumbled and spilled not the whole story, but enough. He left out the way the particular set of Arthur's mouth left him dizzy and breathless, but maybe it was more evident than he'd thought. Hunith paled, finally quiet.
"You're not to go there again." Her voice was quiet, but her words were woven from steel. This was a command, brooking no argument. It wasn't often that his mother commanded him to do much of anything in that voice; nine times out of ten he never listened to her. That voice was reserved for the tenth time. For the first time in his life, Merlin found himself set to disobey that command.
"Why?" he demanded. (His voice might have been a little petulant, but it really had been a very trying week.) Hunith's mouth pressed into a thin line and she just shook her head.
"Trust me in this, Merlin. No good will come of going to that house, or seeing Arthur Pendragon." Merlin's head jerked up sharply. He had never told her Arthur's family name, primarily because he didn't know know what it was. His mother did, and his mother seemed to know a lot more.
"You know something!" Merlin thrust an accusatory finger in her direction. "There is something about that house, and I want to know what it is."
Hunith bit her lip. She twisted her hands, she knit her brow, she did all of those things that people do when they are vastly uncomfortable and don't want to talk about something. So it was something of a surprise when she actually did-- maybe she was just tired of Merlin's incessant investigations. Maybe she hoped if she told him what she knew, he wouldn't go back to Caddwrhyl.
"They were an... important family, the Pendragons," she began haltingly. Merlin was listening, all earnest concentration. There was no way he'd miss a word of this. "Like royalty, almost. Very rich, certainly, and influential... But the father." His mother's face flickered with something he couldn't understand.
"He wasn't a bad man," she said, slowly. "Just... stubborn. Not one to believe in the old ways, insulting those who did. How was he to know it would get the better of him one day? There was a girl in the village, pretty, very sweet. The rumour went that she had the favour of the queen of the fey things that lived around here..." Hunith snorted. She didn't really believe in such things, herself. It was just something she couldn't quite disbelieve, either. "Uther-- the father --he didn't... approve. This was all before my time, I don't know what happened but... The girl, Guinevere, she. I'm not sure but she-- they say Uther dragged her out, declared her a harlot. No fey creature, her lover, but a woman." Hunith bit her lip, thinking on the girl. "It was..." Hunith looked to her son, beseeching, needing him to understand. "People didn't take that. Well."
For a moment it seemed as if Hunith wouldn't continue. She was lost in memory, thinking back to a story from before she was even born. "Uther had a son, a bright boy. A bit spoilt, sometimes cruel, but the village loved him well enough. Uther's pride and joy, after his wife passed away." Her gaze lingered over Merlin, who had the grace to feel both extremely loved and extremely uncomfortable. He knew she was thinking about his father. Hunith always thought about his father, though she never mentioned him.
"Then they both disappeared." The sentence was abrupt, clipped. "They say the fey queen took them both, Guinevere in protection-- and Arthur in revenge. That's ridiculous, of course," she added quickly. "It's more likely the two of them eloped together, or that Arthur left and the girl met someone. Uther didn't stay long, himself. Caddwrhyl has been empty, ever since."
She frowned, fixing her son with a stare. "But this happened before I was born, Merlin, so whoever it is you're seeing there, it can't be Arthur Pendragon. The whole place is unlucky." With that, she clearly considered the matter settled and pushed herself back from the table. "I have to make a trip to the apothecary-- would you be so good as to feed the chickens, Merlin?"
The sudden return to more domestic topics didn't fool Merlin. He nodded his head anyway, feigning obedience. It wouldn't be the first time. He turned the story over and over in his mind, unable to make sense of it. How was it even possible that Arthur, his Arthur who teased him about his ears, was the same? Some part of him wanted to believe that Hunith was right, that this man was just having him on and wasn't, in fact, Arthur Pendragon at all.
He couldn't convince himself. Arthur was who he said he was, and Merlin couldn't say how he knew, but he knew. Partially it was because he didn't think Arthur was such a duplicitous person-- a prat, yes, and arrogant besides. But dishonest? Never. Arthur was a good man.
So there was no question in his mind that Arthur had come under the thrall of the Fey Queen. Merlin's chest clenched when he thought of the expression that had been on Arthur's face. I was human, once. While he didn't understand what Arthur thought could harm Merlin, surely he was wrong. Arthur could never do him harm. Arthur was the one in danger, wasn't he?
All at once Merlin resolved in his mind to save Arthur. He wasn't sure how, exactly, he could do that, but surely it must be possible. What sort of a cruel world would it be if there were nothing Merlin could do, if he were doomed never to be a simple mortal man again? If there was a way, he would find it. He had to.
Somewhere in all of this Merlin came to the sweet, heavy conclusion that he might be a little bit in love with Arthur Pendragon. It wasn't a comfortable realization; it wasn't one easily dismissed, either. He supposed he'd tried, in his own fashion, to come to terms before this. But he had never admitted it, never let the thought rumble solid and undeniable through his heart and mind.
For a moment, he'd thought-- but no. The memory of that hastily-ended kiss still lingered in his mind. And it didn't matter, he told himself firmly. Arthur could feel however he wanted about Merlin. It wouldn't change how Merlin felt, or what he knew he had to at least try to do. Arthur was a prat and a friend, and that was enough.
If only he would speak to him.
^
Perhaps his obedience hadn't been as convince as Merlin previously supposed. For the next week, Hunith rarely let Merlin out of her sight. When she had to go to another village, she managed to enlist Gaius, the local apothecary, as Merlin's keeper in her stead. It was very nearly August before Merlin had the chance to slip away to Caddwrhyl.
Luckily for him, Gaius put much less store in the old rumours surrounding the place. It wasn't so keenly important to keep Merlin away for Gaius. The most transparent of excuses was all it took. Then Merlin was off and away, seeking Arthur out with a painful thundering in his chest.
"Arthur!" He arrived at the well breathless and disheveled. "Arthur, I need to talk to you." He pulled three roses in succession; Arthur, it seemed, was still determined to keep his distance. "Arthur, you great bloody git, I will throw myself in this well and drown if you don't come out and talk to me." He moved towards the well and clambered purposefully up the the rough stone sides. As he reached the top, he felt arms jerk him back. He fell, all ungainly limbs and elbows, crumpling into a heap on top of-- Arthur.
"You're touched in the head!" were the first words out of Arthur's lips. His fingers were digging into Merlin's arms hard enough to bruise; oh but he looked furious. Still, somehow Merlin couldn't stop a grin from splitting his face from ear to ear. Arthur'd told him time and time again that it made him look utterly ridiculous and sort of highlighted just how big his ears really were, but he always said it in this way that was both insulting and hopelessly endearing.
"Speaking to me after all?" Arthur just shoved Merlin off of him and onto the ground in response.
"Go home, Merlin," was all he said. After carefully picking himself up off the ground, he wouldn't look Merlin in the face.
That wouldn't do at all. How was Merlin supposed to rescue Arthur if the man wouldn't even look him in the eye? "I'm not leaving." This was something he was going to dig his heels in about. Arthur could, of course, just leave himself-- but Merlin didn't think he would. The threat of death-by-drowning was still hanging in the air (it was idle, but Arthur didn't need to know that).
Merlin reached out and caught the edge of Arthur's sleeve before he could pull out of range. "Arth--" The expression on his face made Merlin choke on whatever he had been about to say. He wiped it from his face as soon as Merlin looked at him; the impression of that intense longing remained.
"Arthur," he said, softly. Arthur's fists clenched; Merlin imaged that if he uncurled them there would be blood-filled half moons all along his palms.
Licking his lips, he tried again. "Arthur." Firmer this time, with a delicate note of pleading laced throughout. Arthur shook his head. He looked desperate as he drew closer, as if he wanted to stop but he didn't know how. Merlin wasn't above encouraging him.
When Arthur leaned in and kissed him this second time, it was all fire and desperation, a distinct contrast to his fluttering hesitance before. Merlin pushed his body closer, needing to reassure himself that this was real, that these really were Arthur's lips, Arthur's tongue pressing into the cavern of his mouth. Arthur tastes like spice came the dizzy thought spiraling out of dark recesses of his mind.
"I've come to save you," Merlin murmured into the kiss. Arthur's back stiffened and he pulled away to look him in the face.
"No, you haven't." His face brooked no argument. "You're going to go home, Merlin, and you are going to forget we ever met, because you can't save me. You can barely walk in a straight line without tripping over your own shoes."
He was hiding his tension with light insult, or trying, but the uneasy stiffness in his limbs gave him away. Merlin remained resolute.
"Arthur, I have to try." It came out as more of a plea than he intended, but it must have worked at least a bit because Arthur's features softened. He looked terrified, Merlin realized, though it hadn't yet occurred to him that if Arthur was afraid for anyone, it wasn't for himself.
"You're asking to get yourself killed, idiot." Even the insult sounded like an endearment from Arthur. "What do you think it is that would be required of you?"
For the first time Merlin stopped and considered what he was trying to do with a bit more gravity. This was a man who was held out of time by the Queen of All Fey Things, a man held as punishment for a man arrogant enough to think he could defy her power.
But this was Arthur, and for him, Merlin would try anything. There must have been something of the sentiment in his expression, because the next thing he heard from Arthur was a resigned sigh, followed by Arthur's forehead dropping to Merlin's shoulder.
"Why would you do this for me?" he asked.
Merlin wasn't sure how to answer that. He loved Arthur, to be sure, but it was more than that. He felt obligated, like it was something he could do, and therefore had to.
"I just will," he said simply, trying to convey all that he was thinking and feeling in the brush of his fingertips against the back of Arthur's neck, in the heavy rise and fall of his chest and the subtle shift of his hips.
Arthur shifted his own hips, and Merlin's breath hitched. There were fingers sliding carefully, reverently, under his shirt, tracing mysterious languages onto his skin. Every touch lit him up, and when his eyes met Arthur's, he knew they were both well and truly lost.
^
For all of August and September, Arthur said nothing of how Merlin could hope to rescue him. But he didn't push Merlin away, and the both of them spent those long days together as summer drew to a close. This, more than anything, made Merlin happy. It wasn't that anything changed between them, really. Arthur still teased him, and Merlin still barbed right back. But the quality of it was different, and every so often Merlin would find Arthur staring at his mouth, or he'd be studying Arthur's hands, and they'd find less need for any talking at all.
It was beautiful and heavy with the tastes of summer. And, like the season, would one day have to end. By October, the trees were turning from green to all the browns, reds and golds of autumn, carpeting the woods around Caddwrhyl. This was good, too, but Merlin could sense an urgency in Arthur that hadn't been there before. He paced and prowled around the well, restraint and distraction in his every motion. It only grew as the rose petals dropped off and the hips grew heavy and fat.
"I could use those to make tea, bring that next time I come," Merlin said one day, tracing the line of Arthur's spine with his finger. Arthur, it seemed, did not feel cold, either. He was always perfectly willing to let Merlin undress him like this.
"The Tithe is coming." Arthur pulled away from Merlin's ministrations. "It's going to be me this year." He said this with a desperate look on his face, as if Merlin would know exactly what he meant. Merlin arched his brows expectantly.
"Every seven years, the Fey of this court and the Fey of another exchange sacrifices." Arthur grimaced. "It is not something desirable. I've heard stories..." His lips pressed into a thin line. Merlin restrained himself from smoothing out the furrow in his brow; the whole set of Arthur's body told him volumes.
Merlin's mouth was dry when he went to speak; his voice came out as more of a parched croak than the assuring tone he had been hoping for. "I'll never let that happen."
Arthur smiled a tight smile. This was becoming an increasingly common occurrence, Merlin noted with despair. "You'll have to pull me from my horse-- the white one. As an earthly knight, I should be the only one to have one. I can't tell you any more than that but--" Merlin could almost see the wheels clicking in Arthur's mind as he struggled to come up with his next words.
"I would never-- I can't hurt you, deliberately. Just remember that."
^
The hardest part, Merlin thought, was surely the waiting. Arthur had explained what needed to be done as best he could-- where the Host would be, and where Merlin needed to wait. It was quite a lot of waiting, as it turned out. Hunith was a heavy sleeper, so there had been little trouble in sneaking out of the house. So little problem, in fact, that he'd made it to the right spot a good deal earlier than planned. It was cold, even with the heavy green cloak he had bunched up around his body. His knees were starting to cramp from sitting still for so long. It seemed like days passed in the span of those hours-- but the sun never rose, so that couldn't be so. Nothing but Merlin's mind, drawing the time out to seem interminable.
His chin had dropped to his chest despite his vain struggle to keep himself away when he heard the sharp clatter of hooves on the road. All at once he was jerked to alertness, the fog of sleep clearing out from his mind. This was what he had been waiting for-- his chance to save Arthur. He knew he'd only have this one chance and never again. If he failed, there was no telling what sort of horrors would befall the both of them. He shivered, and not with cold.
The Host was really quite resplendent. Seeing real Fey now, he wondered that he had ever thought Arthur anything but a mortal man. Beautiful as Arthur was, these creatures were a thousand times more so. He could see their Queen at the head of the column, a tall woman with a proud straight back and long dark hair that she let fly unbound behind her, pennant to the Host. There was no doubt as to who she was; no one but Morgana could be so wholly gorgeous, a vision carved from the brightest stars and the blackest velvet nights.
For a time Merlin despaired of seeing Arthur at all-- what if he'd lied? What if he'd been wrong? Merlin saw horses of all colours but white ridden by riders of all kinds, none of them human. None of them Arthur. He could see the end of the train by now, a ways down the road. Arthur had to be among them, somewhere.
Just as his heart was about to give in-- there! A flash of white mane, and Merlin could see him, gilt armour and a star at his brow. There was no mistaking it, that was his Arthur. Even with that cold and distant expression he had never seen (was this what he looked like in the Realm?), he had no doubts. Swift as thought Merlin rushed to the side of Arthur's horse.
All around him came the outraged cries of fairy men and women. Merlin did his best to ignore them, focusing only on Arthur and wrestling his solid weight from the back of the horse. The beast wasn't helping any, prancing back and forth and whinnying in a fashion entirely unlike the sound of mortal horses. It was like music, but it set Merlin's teeth on edge, for the longer he struggled with this the more likely it was that the Host would capture him before he got Arthur free.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see them closing in. Great and terrible faces, ripe with promise of unending torment if ever he were to falter or fail. They drew shining blades and their horses, such as they were, let out unearthly keenings, the like of which he had never heard. Desperation gave him a sudden strength, and he pulled with all his might.
Arthur fell from the horse. Merlin couldn't stop himself from crying out in pain as the sharp weight of Arthur's armour bit into his limbs and the soft flesh of his belly. But he held on tight, some instinct telling him that this wasn't the end.
All at once he wasn't holding Arthur any more, but a great black adder, reared back to strike. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut. I would never hurt you. Those were Arthur's words, and Merlin gathered them about him now, giving him a strength he would otherwise have lacked.
Just as the adder was about to strike and Merlin certain he would surely perish, whether Arthur wanted to hurt him or not, it wasn't a snake in his arms. Instead he clung to the fur of a great black bear, murder in his eyes and claws curved and wicked. It gave a mighty roar, a terrible sound that nonetheless made Merlin think of Arthur. Arthur, shouting and growling in some sort of horrible mood. Still he held on.
The bear became a lion, teeth as long as Arthur's fingers, but the mane of it was soft and thick and the colour of Arthur's hair so Merlin wasn't so afraid, even as it thrashed and lashed out at him with claws and teeth. It was a struggle to keep hold of him as he changed size and shape, but Merlin had promised. He would save Arthur, at any cost. He hadn't actually been hurt yet, just afraid. Perhaps Arthur had been worried for nothing, after all.
As soon as he thought this, Arthur transformed again-- to a burning brand of iron. Merlin bit his tongue until his mouth filled with blood at the pain of it. He could smell the flesh of his hands burning; this was no illusion. That heavy, meaty scent was unmistakable. Merlin found himself mumbling Arthur's name over and over, though he could no longer see in front of him through the tears that sprang to his eyes despite his efforts. Oh but the pain was excruciating-- would this go on forever? Would Arthur never be released from this form until Merlin died from the pain of it? Oh, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur. The name fell a benediction from his lips.
Then he was an iron brand no more, but instead a torch burning so impossibly hot and bright. Some instinct in Merlin had his body pick itself up from the ground. Feet moved with unbidden swiftness to the nearest body of water-- a stream. He plunged the torch into the icy waters and his own hands as well (they'll blister all the worse for that Merlin he could hear Gaius in the back of his mind).
And for a long and terrible moment, nothing happened.
Merlin held an extinguished torch, and nothing more. Had that been wrong? He had moved by strange, unknowing impulse, some calling in his bones taking his hands and feet and giving him the knowledge for what he should do. What if that was the wrong choice?
Then there came a pulse, a surge of warmth in contrast of the water so cold. A bright light, but not fearsome like the lights of the host, shone out bright and true from the wood. It grew unbearably strong, and then quite suddenly, he had under his hands his own dear Arthur, cold and wet and naked. Undeniably mortal. Merlin wrapped his cloak around him. It was a shield, keeping away the baleful eyes of the Host.
For they were still there, those strange and beautiful creatures which had held Arthur for so long among them. All eyes were focused on the pair of them, until they turned as a one towards the approaching figure of Morgana.
If the Queen had been beautiful riding at the head of the column, then it was almost painful to look on her now. The fury carved into her features did nothing to mar them. She seemed more lovely for it, if anything, all that anger making her stand straight and tall and burn like the sun. Merlin had to look away.
"Quite the prize, boy." Her voice burned and scraped across his ears, the sound of a thousand bells at once. Beautiful cacophony. "I wish you the best of him."
For a brief moment Merlin relaxed, only to draw himself back up at her next words. "Would that I could say I wish a pleasant fate for either of you." She levelled her terrible gaze at Arthur and let out a sigh. The sound was almost mortal.
"Had I but known it would come to this, Arthur Pendragon..." Merlin tensed when Morgana's lips curled into a terrible smile. There was no mirth in it. "I would have taken those blue eyes of yours and put in two of wood."
Merlin held his breath, waiting for some terrible blow from the Fey Queen-- but none came. Instead Morgana turned and motioned to her Host as if she had forgotten all about Merlin and Arthur. Though as she returned to her place, Merlin could swear he saw an almost tender smile curl at her lips as she took the hand of a small dark rider.
It was only when the last of the hoofbeats faded away into the distance that Merlin had the courage to pull the hood away from Arthur's face. He seemed-- tired, tired and cold in a way Merlin had never seen him before. He was wholly mortal now, Merlin realized. Not to mention naked and wet on Halloween, with nothing but a cloak to warm him. Merlin fell forward, enfolding Arthur in his embrace.
"Arthur, Arthur," he murmured into that blonde hair over and over. The name blurred and stopped being a name, just a sound with no meaning but I love you. Eventually he realized he should, perhaps, say that, now that this was over with. "Arthur, I love you, now and for always."
Arthur said nothing, but took a calloused finger and turned Merlin's face towards him. When they kissed this time, there was no hesitance, no desperation. It was sweet and lingering, their chapped lips scraping togther. There were the warm motions of Arthur's tongue, meek presses against his mouth that he opened, willingly. In this kiss he knew that what he'd done had been what he had to do.
A life without Arthur could not have been much of one at all.
And so they returned to Ealdor, cold, wet and mortal. Forever after that they lived, if not always with great harmony, then at least with great love. And that is the part that counts.