Fic: Lay of the White Hart (Merlin/Arthur)
Summary: Arthur really is much better at noticing some things than others.
AN: Many thanks to p_zeitgeist for betaing and being, as always, brilliant and splendid. A riff on Marie de France's Lai of Guigemar.
Lay of the White Hart
I
Ferns grow along the branches here, clinging to the mossy bark. Sections of huge fallen trees litter the forest floor. Saplings spring up from the decay. Small muddy puddles collect in the damp earth, their edges showing more of those strange marks that shift gradually between familiar cloven deer-tracks and an odd almost human footprint.
Behind him, Merlin's sack gets snagged. A branch snaps and Merlin yelps. Arthur stops and lets his head fall forward, talking a deep and calming breath.
"Why do I even bring you?"
Merlin catches up, not even trying to be quiet. "How should I know?"
II
The camp is warm and dry, the ground covered with pine needles. Merlin sits with his back against a weathered tree, staring into the fire. For once he's not fidgeting, or hunched in on himself, or ducking his head with that quick shy smile. Sparks drift up, the hiss and pop of the fire the loudest sound in the hollow.
There's a strange sharp delicacy to the line of Merlin's jaw. He doesn't look at all like the person Arthur knows.
The apples are the end of last year's crop. He lobs one at Merlin's chest, disturbing the unfamiliar image.
III
Rain falls in a fine mist. It's cold enough that their breathe comes in faint white puffs.
The woods end suddenly in a wide sunlit glade. The land goes silent. The white stag is a man's height, antlers sweeping up in an intricate array of points like tree branches.
Arthur thinks of the flash of pride in his father's eyes, the trophy that rack of horns would make, and does nothing.
Merlin looks at him curiously, appraisal in the tilt of his head. "You're not going to shoot it?"
The great stag bows once and vanishes back into the forest.
IV
The rain deepens, stray drops slipping from the overhanging branches. Merlin looks cold, his thin body hopeless at staying warm. His hair is starting to curl softly at the edge of his blue neckerchief. He keeps watching Arthur, puzzled and impressed in a way that's flattering and insulting all at once.
"If you tell anyone--"
Merlin ducks his head and smiles. "I won't. You know I won't."
The ground is spongy with peat, with trees slowly working their way back into the earth. Merlin scrambles along behind him, just as out of place here as he is everywhere else.
V
The horses are hobbled at the edge of the forest, huddled close together, spoiled by warm dry stables. The rain falls, cold and steady. It's a long wet ride, but at least in such weather there'll be no shame in returning empty-handed.
Merlin is wholly bedraggled, dark hair plastered down on his forehead. He glances up, and it's only when he smiles, amused and rueful, that Arthur realizes, of course, he must look near as bad.
Merlin hates hunting. And here he is, soaked and cold and not unhappy.
It's frustrating, how Merlin demands so much and yet so little.
VI
He sends a stable boy ahead, word passing along the chain of servants, through the courtiers and up to his father. Arthur brings nothing, so they'll be no need of an audience.
The rain eases perversely. Merlin trails along after Arthur, quiet and meditative, his footsteps like soft echoes.
At the curtain wall in the second circle Arthur stops to watch the gate sentry post, noting which men are sharp and which lax. Merlin stands next to him, causally letting his arm jostle a prince's as he leans on the white parapet, watching the brilliant lights of the lower city.
VII
The fire's been laid and food brought. He isn't sure when these stopped being Merlin's jobs. Sometime after he'd given up on Merlin's horrible--but occasionally brilliant--mending.
Merlin closes the door behind them, catching the sleeve of Arthur's coat, stripping away the wet leather. He kneels as Arthur sits on the bed, pulling off Arthur's wet muddy boots, but then ruins the impression of careful competence by dumping everything unceremoniously on the floor. Arthur tips his head back and stares at the ceiling.
"Why do I keep you around?"
Merlin glances up with a shrug. "I haven't the faintest."
VIII
The forest is different in his dreams, tree spaced like columns, silvery branches stretching up as pointed arches. Vivid green moss covers the ground like a carpet.
The boy is slight, his head crowned with white-edged ivy, eyes that of a deer, calm and liquidly blank. But whenever Arthur looks away he can see the stag flickering, pale and luminous, on the edge of his vision.
The boy reaches out, shifting into a young man crowned with autumn leaves. Since this is only a dream Arthur doesn't step back.
The touch feels like warm gentle rain against his upturned face.
IV
Merlin opens the bed-curtains. The morning is cool and gray, and the outer practice grounds will be slivery with dew. A good day, then, to remind the younger members of the honor guard that they won't always be fighting on dry even ground.
Merlin sets out clothing, quiet, attention not particularly on his work. That's more or less ordinary. His touch is absentminded, impersonal as he fixes the fold of a collar.
Merlin's hands no longer have calluses. His clothes are simple but no longer homespun. He stands straighter, something still and calm about the way he holds his body.
X
It's quite appropriate, really, that Merlin eat from his table--one might say almost traditional--but not at the same time and actually sitting down, knocking one knuckle thoughtfully against the smooth polished wood.
Maybe because it's raining again, soft taps against the windows, Merlin asks, "What do you think it was?"
Arthur gives him a look that clearly says, How should I know? Merlin smiles and shakes his head.
Somehow there is always just one plate and it most definitely stays on Arthur's half of the table. Merlin reaches over for another richly spiced pastry with familiar ink-stained fingers.
XI
He dreams in odd fragments. Merlin hands him the crossbow. The stag falls, speaks with a human voice as blood spreads on the floor of the hollow, staining the dry golden pine-needles.
The arrow rebounds and the creature turns, vanishing. There's a wound in his thigh, bleeding sluggishly. Merlin's touch is hot as he breaks off the arrow, wraps the wound with soft linen.
It's a long chase. The hounds circle but cannot pull the hart down.
Merlin extends his hand into the bright wavering fire, but when Arthur looks again he's only staring at the flames, lost in thought.
XII
Merlin barges in without knocking, triumphantly holding a dull-looking book. The room's bright and warm, the windows open. Merlin leans against the nearest bedpost, talking quickly. He's been running his hands through his hair again.
Arthur really isn't listening--it's early and he never listens to Merlin--when it occurs to him in a calm awful rush that he would like to see how Merlin looks pressed against fine linen sheets. Daft cheerful Merlin, with his odd features and thin spindly body.
Nothing changes, the room still sunny. In the courtyard magpies chatter. The sky's cloudlessly blue.
Oh, thinks Arthur.
XIII
By the time Merlin slips in, finished with whatever he spends his time on nowadays, the fire has fallen into glowing embers. The stone fireplace is cool and rough beneath Arthur's hands.
Merlin leans against the table nearby, doesn't ask, simply there like always.
Arthur straightens. This may go horribly wrong, but--he thinks not.
He steps in too close, letting himself see at last that same sharp delicacy in Merlin's mouth--this person he doesn't know, who is guarded and quietly patient.
And Merlin, of course, would look merely confused. But then his head tilts at that appraising angle.
XIV
Years later, when Arthur is King and the seven realms have been united, Merlin will give him a map, huge and fantastically detailed, on which places name themselves. The words gradually shift and alter, as though the land has moods and memories.
But as often as not the map is unreadable, everything labeled with strange lost languages. He points this out to Merlin and Merlin just shrugs, saying magic can't do everything, watching as Camelot appears again in bright red ink, then slowly changes, fades.
This is how the forest comes to be called the Wood of the White Hart.
AN: Many thanks to p_zeitgeist for betaing and being, as always, brilliant and splendid. A riff on Marie de France's Lai of Guigemar.
Lay of the White Hart
I
Ferns grow along the branches here, clinging to the mossy bark. Sections of huge fallen trees litter the forest floor. Saplings spring up from the decay. Small muddy puddles collect in the damp earth, their edges showing more of those strange marks that shift gradually between familiar cloven deer-tracks and an odd almost human footprint.
Behind him, Merlin's sack gets snagged. A branch snaps and Merlin yelps. Arthur stops and lets his head fall forward, talking a deep and calming breath.
"Why do I even bring you?"
Merlin catches up, not even trying to be quiet. "How should I know?"
II
The camp is warm and dry, the ground covered with pine needles. Merlin sits with his back against a weathered tree, staring into the fire. For once he's not fidgeting, or hunched in on himself, or ducking his head with that quick shy smile. Sparks drift up, the hiss and pop of the fire the loudest sound in the hollow.
There's a strange sharp delicacy to the line of Merlin's jaw. He doesn't look at all like the person Arthur knows.
The apples are the end of last year's crop. He lobs one at Merlin's chest, disturbing the unfamiliar image.
III
Rain falls in a fine mist. It's cold enough that their breathe comes in faint white puffs.
The woods end suddenly in a wide sunlit glade. The land goes silent. The white stag is a man's height, antlers sweeping up in an intricate array of points like tree branches.
Arthur thinks of the flash of pride in his father's eyes, the trophy that rack of horns would make, and does nothing.
Merlin looks at him curiously, appraisal in the tilt of his head. "You're not going to shoot it?"
The great stag bows once and vanishes back into the forest.
IV
The rain deepens, stray drops slipping from the overhanging branches. Merlin looks cold, his thin body hopeless at staying warm. His hair is starting to curl softly at the edge of his blue neckerchief. He keeps watching Arthur, puzzled and impressed in a way that's flattering and insulting all at once.
"If you tell anyone--"
Merlin ducks his head and smiles. "I won't. You know I won't."
The ground is spongy with peat, with trees slowly working their way back into the earth. Merlin scrambles along behind him, just as out of place here as he is everywhere else.
V
The horses are hobbled at the edge of the forest, huddled close together, spoiled by warm dry stables. The rain falls, cold and steady. It's a long wet ride, but at least in such weather there'll be no shame in returning empty-handed.
Merlin is wholly bedraggled, dark hair plastered down on his forehead. He glances up, and it's only when he smiles, amused and rueful, that Arthur realizes, of course, he must look near as bad.
Merlin hates hunting. And here he is, soaked and cold and not unhappy.
It's frustrating, how Merlin demands so much and yet so little.
VI
He sends a stable boy ahead, word passing along the chain of servants, through the courtiers and up to his father. Arthur brings nothing, so they'll be no need of an audience.
The rain eases perversely. Merlin trails along after Arthur, quiet and meditative, his footsteps like soft echoes.
At the curtain wall in the second circle Arthur stops to watch the gate sentry post, noting which men are sharp and which lax. Merlin stands next to him, causally letting his arm jostle a prince's as he leans on the white parapet, watching the brilliant lights of the lower city.
VII
The fire's been laid and food brought. He isn't sure when these stopped being Merlin's jobs. Sometime after he'd given up on Merlin's horrible--but occasionally brilliant--mending.
Merlin closes the door behind them, catching the sleeve of Arthur's coat, stripping away the wet leather. He kneels as Arthur sits on the bed, pulling off Arthur's wet muddy boots, but then ruins the impression of careful competence by dumping everything unceremoniously on the floor. Arthur tips his head back and stares at the ceiling.
"Why do I keep you around?"
Merlin glances up with a shrug. "I haven't the faintest."
VIII
The forest is different in his dreams, tree spaced like columns, silvery branches stretching up as pointed arches. Vivid green moss covers the ground like a carpet.
The boy is slight, his head crowned with white-edged ivy, eyes that of a deer, calm and liquidly blank. But whenever Arthur looks away he can see the stag flickering, pale and luminous, on the edge of his vision.
The boy reaches out, shifting into a young man crowned with autumn leaves. Since this is only a dream Arthur doesn't step back.
The touch feels like warm gentle rain against his upturned face.
IV
Merlin opens the bed-curtains. The morning is cool and gray, and the outer practice grounds will be slivery with dew. A good day, then, to remind the younger members of the honor guard that they won't always be fighting on dry even ground.
Merlin sets out clothing, quiet, attention not particularly on his work. That's more or less ordinary. His touch is absentminded, impersonal as he fixes the fold of a collar.
Merlin's hands no longer have calluses. His clothes are simple but no longer homespun. He stands straighter, something still and calm about the way he holds his body.
X
It's quite appropriate, really, that Merlin eat from his table--one might say almost traditional--but not at the same time and actually sitting down, knocking one knuckle thoughtfully against the smooth polished wood.
Maybe because it's raining again, soft taps against the windows, Merlin asks, "What do you think it was?"
Arthur gives him a look that clearly says, How should I know? Merlin smiles and shakes his head.
Somehow there is always just one plate and it most definitely stays on Arthur's half of the table. Merlin reaches over for another richly spiced pastry with familiar ink-stained fingers.
XI
He dreams in odd fragments. Merlin hands him the crossbow. The stag falls, speaks with a human voice as blood spreads on the floor of the hollow, staining the dry golden pine-needles.
The arrow rebounds and the creature turns, vanishing. There's a wound in his thigh, bleeding sluggishly. Merlin's touch is hot as he breaks off the arrow, wraps the wound with soft linen.
It's a long chase. The hounds circle but cannot pull the hart down.
Merlin extends his hand into the bright wavering fire, but when Arthur looks again he's only staring at the flames, lost in thought.
XII
Merlin barges in without knocking, triumphantly holding a dull-looking book. The room's bright and warm, the windows open. Merlin leans against the nearest bedpost, talking quickly. He's been running his hands through his hair again.
Arthur really isn't listening--it's early and he never listens to Merlin--when it occurs to him in a calm awful rush that he would like to see how Merlin looks pressed against fine linen sheets. Daft cheerful Merlin, with his odd features and thin spindly body.
Nothing changes, the room still sunny. In the courtyard magpies chatter. The sky's cloudlessly blue.
Oh, thinks Arthur.
XIII
By the time Merlin slips in, finished with whatever he spends his time on nowadays, the fire has fallen into glowing embers. The stone fireplace is cool and rough beneath Arthur's hands.
Merlin leans against the table nearby, doesn't ask, simply there like always.
Arthur straightens. This may go horribly wrong, but--he thinks not.
He steps in too close, letting himself see at last that same sharp delicacy in Merlin's mouth--this person he doesn't know, who is guarded and quietly patient.
And Merlin, of course, would look merely confused. But then his head tilts at that appraising angle.
XIV
Years later, when Arthur is King and the seven realms have been united, Merlin will give him a map, huge and fantastically detailed, on which places name themselves. The words gradually shift and alter, as though the land has moods and memories.
But as often as not the map is unreadable, everything labeled with strange lost languages. He points this out to Merlin and Merlin just shrugs, saying magic can't do everything, watching as Camelot appears again in bright red ink, then slowly changes, fades.
This is how the forest comes to be called the Wood of the White Hart.