Dewiniaeth - Part Three
Part One Part Two
The duel is set for the morning of the Harvest Festival, Uther allowing the public to watch instead of limiting it to the knights and various noblemen currently in residence. Gaius and Merlin sit up until the small hours of the morning working out how to break Nimueh's spell, testing the words of power on bowls Gaius no longer has a use for.
By the time the sun casts its clear light over Camelot, there's a heap of bowl fragments littering Gaius' workbench and Merlin has what feels like a swarm of butterflies wreaking havoc on his insides. Everything's going so well, so smoothly, that something is bound to go wrong. It did before, with the stupid scar and Arthur dredging up some observational skills from somewhere, and Merlin can't help being pessimistic.
The threat of execution if he gets caught tends to do that to him.
"Hurry hurry hurry!" Gwen sounds, if possible even more nervous than Merlin, her hands clutching fitfully at her skirt as they practically jog to Sir Owain's quarters. "Llew will keep him occupied in the armoury once he's fitted his armour, and stop him coming back up here for anything, so we should be okay, but for goodness sake hurry."
"Gwen, I know," says Merlin through gritted teeth. Opening the door is harder than last time, his nerves making it difficult to keep hold of his magic. With a force of effort the lock clicks, and he stumbles across to the cupboard before he's truly upright, hampered by his skirts. Gwen stands just inside the door, bouncing on her toes with nervous energy as she keeps watch.
The bowl is right where it should be, although the water level has gone down; it's been used recently. Merlin wonders what Owain had told Nimueh, or what the sorceress had asked the knight, but lets go of the thought in favour of concentrating at the job in hand. He moves the bowl to the table, pulling a face at the feel of the dark magic imbued in the stone.
Giving off a faintly malevolent air, the object resists Merlin's first attempts at touching it with his magic. He frowns and tries to ignore Gwen, still bouncing. This is turning out to be more difficult than he'd imagined, or planned for. There's another layer of spells on top of the ones which make the bowl into a scrying charm, that aren't affected by any of the words he's learnt to destroy the thing.
Resting his chin on the table, so his eyes are level with the bowl, Merlin concentrates and focuses his magic. It resists, but then-
Oh. That's new.
"Gwen, this is some pretty clever magic."
She doesn't look round, just answers, voice tense. "As in, clever but you've got rid of it and just forgot to use the past tense?"
"As in, Sir Owain didn't even have to be here for Nimueh to speak with him. She spelled the bowl to record her messages, like words on parchment, and then to reveal themselves to him when he spoke the words of power she gave him."
"That's all well and good, but get rid of it?!"
"Okay, okay, destroying!" Merlin grins, unable to help himself, because it really is an amazing work of magic. It's almost a shame to get rid of it, but...
He pulls together the words he thinks will unravel the first layer of spells and speaks them, hoping nothing dramatic will happen. The last thing they need is an explosion of magic that'll have half of Camelot... Merlin leans back sharply as Nimueh's image appears, looking just as Merlin remembers her.
He's too shocked to hear all of the message, but catches something about a reward, and Sir Owain's 'rightful place', probably a reference to the knight's well-known resentment of being fourth in line to the family estates.
"She bribed him." Merlin stares at Nimueh's smiling, manipulative face and feels the magic surge to the tip of his tongue. A few guttural words and a sharp gesture later the bowl is a pile of shards, scattered over the tabletop while the liquid filling it holds form for a moment then vanishes like smoke.
Gwen says nothing as they slip out of the room and down towards the hastily constructed duelling ring. She knows how corrupt the court is, how often money changes hands for favours small and large. This goes beyond that; taking aside Merlin's condition, Sir Owain was aiding a sorceress, a known enemy.
The combatants are about to start when Merlin and Gwen enter, facing Uther and saluting with upraised swords. Merlin curtseys and takes the seat reserved for him as the defended (oh how Morgana teased him last night about all this), hands clenching as he takes in Arthur's blank expression.
Gwen mistakes his action for anxiety, and leans over. "He'll win, don't worry. Arthur's the best knight in Camelot."
"I know," Merlin whispers back, "I just feel guilty for getting him into this without even knowing what's going on. He'd probably have helped anyway."
"We can explain after this is done, if you want?"
"I'll have to, if Gaius can't find anything." He sounds hollow to his own ears, flinching as Arthur and Owain begin with a clash of swords. Arthur's carefully controlled mask falls as he attacks, anger now evident in the set of his jaw, the way his strikes are barely within the limits of a formal duel, the way he gives absolutely no quarter.
This goes beyond a simple duel for a woman's honour, Merlin realises.
It's not a happy thought.
Sir Owain stumbles under the speed of the sword wielded against him, manages to right himself and parry Arthur's next jab with a cut of his own. It's to no end; he's already lost and he knows it, now simply trying to survive. Arthur's next stroke is vicious, an uppercut that disarms his opponent and sends Owain's sword spinning away as Arthur's foot deftly hooks around his ankle and drops him neatly to the floor.
Arthur is taut with anger as he once again levels his weapon at Owain's throat, shaking with the obvious and barely suppressed desire to run the knight through there and then. Uther stands and proclaims the terms of the duel for those watching, which happens to be most of Camelot, plus the majority of those visiting for the festival.
Owain lost, and he pays the price of exile.
Not out of the kingdom; a servant's honour, or even that of all the women affected by him is not worth banishing him from Albion. Just from Camelot, a forced return to the estates he has no hope of ever commanding, and Merlin has never been happier to see a man punished. Morgana calls to Gwen and 'Mary', eyes understanding as the three of them wind their way between the throngs of people and back to the castle.
Arthur catches up with them as they mount the steps, still in his armour, sword barely sliding back into it's sheath as he appears in front of them. "Morgana, if I may borrow my maid from you?"
"Come now Arthur, it's a feast day. Surely you can manage by yourself for once?" Her voice is light and teasing; either Morgana hasn't seen the signs of Arthur's impending anger, or she's choosing to ignore them. Merlin steps forward to Arthur's side as the prince speaks again, not sparing a glance for his 'maid.'
"Morgana, do not test me," he says, voice curt. He turns and strides into the entrance hall, back stiff. Merlin glances at Gwen and receives a reassuring nod before hurrying after Arthur, trying desperately to figure out what the hell to say.
Blinding pain forces him to fumble at the wall for support as Arthur turns a corner ahead, angry footsteps carrying him along quickly. Merlin's head feels as if it's about to split in half, his vision swimming as a voice fills his mind. He recognises it through the horrible feeling of a magic not his own crawling over his skin as Nimueh's.
"You disappoint me, young Emrys. You've convinced him to do everything else for you, why not this?" Merlin grits his teeth and says nothing, aware that somehow she would hear. "You have left me with no choice, through your stubbornness." As in the forest those long months ago, Merlin is left with her laughter as the pain slowly fades. One thing at a time thinks Merlin pleadingly as he hurries on.
Arthur's door is wide open, he himself standing facing the window. "Arthur-"
"Shut the door." Merlin complies, hands starting to shake. This is not his Arthur, insomuch as he has an Arthur to call his own. This one is cold, icy with a rage Merlin can sense barely held in check under the armour and flesh. "Now, Merlin, explain to me why I just fought a duel for your honour when I know I've taught you enough to get out of a situation like the one I found you in."
Merlin opens his mouth to speak but promptly shuts it again as Arthur holds up a hand. "And then, if you please, explain to me why one of the servants saw you and Gwen sneaking out of Sir Owain's chamber, the very knight I was fighting, and also happened to see a granite bowl broken into fragments in the table. Tell me all, and maybe I won't have you put in the dungeons."
Merlin speaks, telling him everything.
Really. Everything.
He starts with his magic, through all of the things he's done for Arthur and Camelot, through meeting Nimueh in the woods, to her plans for him, and consequently for Arthur, right up to Sir Gareth. By the time he's done explaining about the bowl, and the magic he used to shatter it, Arthur could be stone himself for all Merlin can read off him.
Finally whatever it is that Nimueh had done, and that Merlin was too stupid to figure out she'd done in his rush to follow Arthur, releases his tongue.
Merlin claps his hands over his mouth and runs.
--
The dragon wisely assumes that Merlin wants to be left alone, probably because he doesn't run out onto the small ledge demanding help and/or answers, and stays hidden away wherever it is he goes when not confusing Merlin with talk of coins and destiny.
Merlin sits against the cave wall, skirts pooling around him, and waits.
It doesn't take long. Arthur might consider Merlin an idiot, but it's mostly for show these days and he thinks along the lines of someone with more to them than meets the eye, affected by magic, and comes up with a dragon no one else is supposed to know about. He pauses before stepping out onto the ledge, unsure of how to proceed.
Merlin turns his head at the soft scuff of boots. "Come to clap me in irons and haul me off to the dungeons?" He holds his hands out mockingly, wrists pressed together.
"Believe me, Merlin, if I were to clap you in irons it wouldn't be to haul you to the dungeons." Merlin very carefully doesn't look as he gracefully drops down to lean against the opposite wall, sword laid by his side. That comment, whatever it may mean, hit a little too close to Nimueh's plan for Merlin's liking.
"Then... what are you doing here?"
"Tracking you down."
"And?" Arthur simply looks at him. "Arthur, you were there, in your room, about half an hour ago, right?"
"Yes, idiot. I'm surprised you managed to hide from me for that long, actually. You're not as stupid as I thought you were."
Merlin blinks slowly. "But... you were really angry, before. With me, I think. And now you look like you're, well. Like you've beaten me at sparring again. Forgive me for being a bit confused."
"Searching the castle is a good opportunity to get your anger in check."
"Ah." Merlin waits for more, but that appears to be it. Clearly he's going to have to keep the conversation he never wanted to have going, because otherwise he might possibly go mad. "You do realise I was telling the truth? Not that I wanted to, obviously, but still. It's true. All of it."
Arthur crosses his legs and leans his elbows on his knees, fixing Merlin with his typically intense gaze. "You didn't want to tell me the truth about your magic."
So that's what this comes down to. Merlin sighs.
He should've known Arthur's bruised pride would be the first thing on the cards.
"No."
"Why not? I thought-I thought we could trust each other." Arthur's voice is bitter, traces of anger slipping through.
"I trust you with my life, Arthur; if I'd told you about my magic, would you have trusted me with yours?"
"You think that little of me?"
"I think you're that loyal to your father."
"I'm loyal to my friends as well. You should know that by now." He sounds accusatory, like it's been obvious all along. Merlin feels his own anger flare up, finds himself glaring at Arthur.
"If we're friends, as you imply, then why have you been avoiding me for the few weeks?" Arthur opens his mouth to speak but Merlin overrides him. "I'm a girl, I've needed all the friends I can manage right now."
"I avoided you to make it easier for Sir Gareth!" snaps Arthur, and isn't that something.
"... What?"
Arthur sighs, looking away. "I thought - well, actually Morgana thought - that if I was always around, and treating you the way I always did, then he'd get the wrong idea."
"The wrong-oh." Merlin swallows. "Why on earth would anyone get that idea?"
The rattling of a chain alerts them to the dragon's imminent entrance. Merlin stays where he is, really not wanting to deal with this in the middle of what he suspects is going to be quite a revelation, but Arthur's on his feet in an instant. Merlin lets himself admire his movements this time; at this point his future can go in any direction, so what's the harm?
"Arthur Pendragon, this is a surprise. I had not thought to see you here for many years to come; this is most auspicious," the dragon rumbles, "although it would perhaps have been better if you were on better terms with the young warlock here. The two of you are two sides of a coi-"
"Could you please, for once, shut up?"
The dragon huffs in an indignant way which almost blows them halfway back to the dungeons, and takes off again. Arthur's hand leaves his belt where his sword should be but isn't, all the anger Merlin wants because he can deal with that, and the consequences, better than this eerily calm Arthur once again evident in the lines of his body.
"Arthur-" Merlin breaks off as Arthur turns smartly on one heel, gasps as he's pulled up and held firmly against the rock. His skirts, amazingly, don't rip.
"I know you're dense, Merlin, but surely even you could work out that things between us aren't entirely pure?"
"Well, I-" Evidently Arthur isn't really asking questions, if the way his hands tighten warningly on the fabric at Merlin's shoulder and waist is anything to go by. Merlin, along with the dragon, shuts up.
"I've avoided you because otherwise people, including that knight you were so eager to bed, would've assumed that I was bedding you!" Arthur bends his head until all Merlin can see is unruly blond hair, tangled after the duel. "It wouldn't matter that I'm not, or wasn't; Sir Gareth wouldn't have touched you."
"So..."
"So I made things easier for you and kept out of your way. Less for the gossips to make lies out of." He abruptly lets Merlin go, stepping away to stare out over the depths of the cave. Merlin knows that if he reached out and touched he would end up in irons, or at least with a black eye.
He does the only thing he can think of, and tells the truth.
Again.
In case Arthur missed it the first time, which he appears to have done.
"It was me, not Will, who raised the wind against the raiders. And before that, I helped Lancelot kill the gryphon." Merlin might be reading too much into Arthur's back right now, but it seems as if he tenses a little more at the almost-knight's name. "A-and, um, I helped you kill the afank, the thing poisoning the water."
"When I was in the Caves of Balor, fetching that plant, there was a light."
"That was me too. Although, in my defence, I was unconscious at the time."
Arthur's watching him now, no longer hiding or controlling his anger, no longer even trying to. It's a relief, if Merlin's honest. Now he can be angry as well. "Do you think my father will see the difference?"
"No. But will you?" Arthur says nothing. Merlin smiles bitterly, holds his wrists out again. "Then I guess it's the irons for me after all."
"Merlin," Arthur says warningly, "don't."
"And then what? How will Uther have me killed? Beheaded as a common sorcerer, maybe?" He ignores the further warning on Arthur's face and carries on. "Or perhaps something more showy, and no doubt more painful, for the sorcerer who dared get so close to the Crown Prince of Camelot?"
Before he even notices Arthur move Merlin finds himself shoved against the wall again, wrists caught tightly in Arthur's grip and pressed against the rock at eye level.
"Not close enough." Arthur grits the words out as if he'd rather not say them, but can't help himself.
Merlin knows that feeling, gets it every time he uses magic where he might be seen.
"I won't tell. I'd never-I won‘t." Arthur sounds broken, another admission wrung from him with only partial consent. Merlin fixes his gaze at a point over Arthur's head and tries to resettle their conversation into something he can understand, something that isn't making his magic ache.
"You're going to miss the feast." Arthur's head snaps up, and he looks at Merlin incredulously.
"What?"
"The feast. You're going to miss it if we stay, um, here." Merlin twists his wrists experimentally, but if anything Arthur's grip tightens. "Doing this."
"You're thinking about the feast at a time like this?"
"Arthur, you can't miss it." Merlin's voice is soft, but he feels himself start to tremble as Arthur presses even closer, body tight against Merlin's own in a way that feels dangerously good.
"I can be late," he says, and stops Merlin from contradicting him with the simple method of sealing his lips over Merlin's. Merlin makes a muffled squeak, which he will later deny, and kisses back with everything he has. It's barely enough to meet Arthur, let alone match him; Arthur kisses rough and wild, biting at Merlin's lower lip and sliding his tongue inside to map out every dark place of Merlin's mouth.
It's everything the gentle Gareth wasn't, and it's going to get Arthur killed.
Merlin isn't proud of it, and never will be, but he uses his magic to push Arthur back.
Arthur looks like he's been punched, just stands there with swollen lips and flushed cheeks. Merlin knows that if he gives Arthur an inch he's going to end up shoved against the wall again, skirts around his waist and too far gone within moments to stop. He holds a hand up between them, his wrists aching, and tells Arthur this, fully expecting Arthur's anger.
Instead, Arthur smirks. "What's the problem with that?"
"Stop being such a prat!" Merlin puts his hands on his hips without realising, something he's done a lot more now that he's actually got hips. "I thought I went through this back in your room."
"The magic could be fun as well." Merlin gives Arthur a warning look. "Fine, fine; you'd think I really was threatening to have you beheaded - sorry. I shouldn't joke," he adds, seeing Merlin's face pale. "To be honest, after you told me you have magic, I didn't really listen. It sort of caught my attention. I think you might've done something to stop whatever you were saying making sense, too; I thought it was the firelight, but your eyes flashed the same way as they did when you pushed me away just then."
Merlin vaguely remembers trying to do something like that; good to know it worked.
"Oh. And you're really, you know, alright? Only, you're not threatening me with your sword" Merlin cast a wary look at where it was still lying on the floor, "or yelling at me for lying, or anything, and I have to admit it's worrying me."
"You're worried that I'm not threatening to turn you in?" Arthur looks incredulous. Merlin shrugs and nods slightly. "I'm not my father, Merlin." He says it with such sincerity and conviction, a stony look on his face, that Merlin decides to stop worrying and be thankful that Arthur's so accepting; it might not last, after all, so he'll take this while he can.
“Okay, moving on to more important things."
"Like why I don't have you up against the wall anymore?"
Merlin swallows. "Like that, yes. I, um, the the thing is..." Arthur starts advancing on him, his intent obvious. "Ifwehavesexmymagicwillkillyou!" Arthur stops and blinks.
"What. The. Hell? That's the most ridiculous thing you've ever- well, not the most ridiculous thing, but certainly the most ridiculous excuse not to sleep with me I've ever heard." Anyone else would look insulted; Arthur just looks like he's paused for a second. Which he has, because Merlin has to hold up both hands and press them against Arthur's chest to keep them a vital few inches apart.
"I'm serious. Nimueh bound some of her magic to my own, as part of the spell that did this." He moves a hand to gesture roughly at his current state of femininity, hurriedly replacing it when Arthur leans forward testingly. "She meant for me to tell you about it, and for you to have a noble moment-"
"Only a moment?"
"In between your prattish ones, yes, stop interrupting." Arthur grins and stops pressing against Merlin's hands, raising his eyebrows to prompt him on. "You'd have a noble moment, offer to 'help', which is exactly what she wants, and the bit of her magic linked to mine would use my magic to kill you. And probably me, but that's not really the issue."
"It's part of it, you idiot. If you're as powerful as she clearly believes you to be, then it stands to reason she'd want you dead as well as the Crown Prince."
"... You might have something there." Arthur leers and presses forward, the gap between them narrowing in an alarming manner. Merlin can feel the rush of magic grow, the thread of Nimueh's twisting it into something that wants to take and devour and kill with an intensity Merlin can't quite shut out. He realises it's been quiescent up until now, the flashes of too-hot desire he's previously felt around Arthur nothing compared to this.
Those flashes were just me, thinks Merlin as he tilts his head to let Arthur carry on doing whatever it is that feels so good to his neck, which makes things a bit complicated.
Arthur bites down at the join of Merlin's neck and shoulder, and his magic surges up to spark at his fingertips. The small part of Merlin not making choked off whimpers and curling his hands in the fabric of Arthur's shirt vaguely remembers there's a reason this is a bad idea, and that Arthur's not listening to him, but then Arthur sucks at the bitemark he's made and the last vestiges of coherent thought flee.
The dragon's roar makes them jerk apart, both breathing heavily. Arthur looks angry, turning his head to send a glare towards the beast that would probably wipe out the last Great Dragon in Albion if it wasn't such a tough old thing. Merlin stares fixedly at the side of Arthur's head, forcing the magic down and away.
"Young warlock, as untried as you are, I thought you had more sense than this!" Merlin's never heard the dragon shout like this before, not even when he's being particularly rude and demanding answers so he doesn't have to make a difficult decision.
"It's not him, it's the sorceress' magic!" yells back Arthur equally loudly, not even a little intimidated, which isn't all that surprising. The dragon shifts in his rock perch, claws grinding into the stone. He looks somewhat more understanding - at least, Merlin thinks he does.
It's a little difficult to tell, what with it being a dragon and all.
"Why did you not come to me with this, Merlin?" If he didn't know better, and hadn't been down here so many times trying to get answers from the infuriatingly cryptic dragon, Merlin would swear his voice is tender.
"Because every time I come down here to ask for help, you give me some ramblings about Arthur and me being two sides of the coin, or our destinies being intertwined, or something, and then fly off to your ledge!" It's possible the shouting is contagious.
"With the demise of my kind, and my imprisonment here, my magic is severely weakened," continues the dragon, seemingly ignoring Merlin's outburst, "but I can still help."
"How?" Arthur's direct and authoritative tone is at odds with the way his hands are bracketing Merlin's waist, thumbs pressing into the hollows of his hipbones in the best way possible.
Merlin steps back and twists out of Arthur's grasp gently.
It doesn't do to tempt magic, after all.
"I can make it so that Nimueh's foul magic does not entice Merlin's to kill you, but burns itself instead."
"If you have magic, why haven't you freed yourself." Merlin regrets the question as soon as it leaves his mouth, wondering why on earth he's interrupting at such a crucial moment.
The dragons resettles his wings the way he always does before capitalizing random words and confusing the living daylights out of Merlin. "The Laws of Magic are Complex and Varied; I am bound by them as much as you are, young Warlock. To help myself is forbidden; to help the young Pendragon is allowed."
Arthur looks impressed. Clearly this is the first time he's been on the receiving end of the dragonsramblings. He'll learn.
"And that will make it safe for us?" Arthur catches hold of Merlin, without looking, just before he gets out of arms reach. He doesn't do anything, simply keeps a firm hold on Merlin's arm.
"Yes," booms the dragon, stretching his wings. "It will not, however, be enough to keep the other effects of Nimueh's magic from coming to bear. What those are, I cannot say, and this is all I can do."
"It will be enough." Arthur leaves no room for Merlin to argue, interrupt again, or even question what he thinks he's doing.
"Then I shall prepare. I will inform you when my preparations are complete, and it is safe." The dragon flaps and then, like usual, throws a parting comment over his shoulder as he vanishes up into the vaulted heights of the cave. "This is all part of your destiny, young warlock, another piece fitting into the-"
"Map of my future, I know." Merlin sighs and tries to ignore the way Arthur is looking at him, a disturbing mix of fondness and predatory. He fails. "I'm getting worried about you."
Arthur's fingers start stroking over Merlin's wrist in a most distracting manner. "And why is that?"
"You haven't arrested me for lying about my magic, you haven't insulted me in a pretty long time - for us, anyway - and you're looking at me like... like I'm special. And not in a bad way, either."
"Are any of those things bad?" Arthur sighs at Merlin's pointed look. "Fine. I might, just possibly, have been waylaid in my search for you by Morgana. And Gwen. They had some things to say to me."
"They wouldn- what am I saying, of course they would." Arthur starts to slide his hand further up Merlin's arm, pushing the sleeve of his dress aside smoothly. "No no no, stop it. You've got to get yourself into your fancy coat and get to the feast, or we won't have to worry about Nimueh's magic because Uther will have already killed you."
Arthur... well, he pouts. That's the only word Merlin has to describe it. "He wouldn't kill me. Chastise, maybe, but not kill."
"Lord Kynan and his daughter - marriageable daughter - are the guests of honour tonight."
"Ah. Death might be foreseeable, in that case."
Something not nearly so human as laughter goes unheard as they hurry away to make Arthur presentable for the feast, Merlin only just able to keep out of reach of Arthur's teasing hands, and the dragon settles down to craft a spell using his diminished magic in only a few short hours.
How they're going to stop the patently obvious bond of tension and want between them from being noticed by all and sundry, he doesn't care to imagine - although maybe he could have told them what else Nimueh's enchantment was woven to do...
The dragon snorts. When has he ever been that helpful?
Besides, it'll be fun for them both.
--
Arthur has never been to a more frustrating feast, and for the Crown Prince of Camelot that's saying something. Uther has, predictably, sat him next to Lord Kynan's daughter, with orders to make sure she is happy and content. This would be more bearable if she wasn't twelve and at the age where any man who deigns to talk to her makes her simper and giggle.
It goes without saying what a man who looks like Arthur does to her.
Sometime during the third course Arthur catches sight of Merlin, moving between the rows of lesser nobles with considerably more grace than he usually does, and has to clench his hands on the arms of his chair to stop himself moving. Whatever it is that Nimueh's spell was designed to do, other than kill him, it appears to be working; the feeling rushing through his body feels similar to the rush he'd felt when Merlin had pushed him back with magic.
In honour of Lord Kynan's daughter, whose birthday this past summer means she is now of marriageable age (as Merlin had oh-so-helpfully reminded him at the worst possible moment), a bard has been commissioned to write and perform an appropriately long and dull poem. Ceridwen she may be called, but Arthur does not feel blessed to be forced to listen to this stuff when he has more important things to be doing.
Five verses, far too many pauses and a lot of emotive music later, Uther calls for dancing, as relief before the rest of the epic poem. Arthur slides on his 'gracious Prince' mask and asks Ceridwen to dance as Lord Kynan leads Morgana out, who looks as happy as Arthur feels about the whole thing.
Ceridwen dances as she talks; a lot of enthusiasm, but with annoying girlishness, her (frequently wrong) steps interspersed with comments about the other guests that are either shockingly indiscreet gossip or her idea of clever conversation.
Arthur isn't sure which would be worse, and focuses on not strangling her with one of the ridiculous ribbons draped over her dress.
Then he catches sight of Merlin again, and forgets about the simpering girl in his arms immediately. Arthur had assumed that Merlin hasn't been wearing his scarf because it belongs to Merlin and not whatever he's been calling himself for nearly three months, but right now the logic couldn't be further from his mind because all he can see is pale, perfect skin marred by a single red mark, nowhere near concealed by the neck of Merlin's dress.
Arthur's overriding thought as he dances is: I made that mark.
He put that there, on Merlin's soft skin, and now everyone can see it. Merlin trades his empty tray of goblets for a fresh one, looking round as Gwen nudges him. She says something, too far away for Arthur to hear, but the way Merlin's free hand flies to his neck makes it obvious what it was.
Merlin's eyes find Arthur's, and any pretence at resisting the pull between them that they've been managing crumbles into dust.
Arthur knows his gaze is burning, doesn't try and hold it down, because Merlin's is the same. Ceridwen says something inane and childish, Merlin licks his lips, and Arthur thinks he'd be willing to give Lord Kynan whatever he's asking for in the negotiations now just so he can get out of here and have Merlin against a wall again.
The dance ends, another one starting almost immediately, and Arthur hands Ceridwen off to his father without really paying attention, so fixed is he on the slope of Merlin's stupid hips in his dress. Then Morgana steps on his foot and positions his hands for the next pattern.
"Keep looking at him like that and we'll be expecting you to take him in the middle of the room."
"And you tell me off for being crass."
Morgana's smile is sharp, her eyes mocking. "I'm only saying. Anyone would think you want him."
"Don't you mean her?" Arthur says warningly as another pair come slightly too close within hearing range, gritting his teeth as he sees Merlin smiling at Lord Kynan, of all people.
"Whatever you say, Arthur." She narrows her look, seemingly contemplating something through the next round of steps. "If you hurt him, or send him away once he's back as he should be, I will make sure the Pendragon line ends with you."
Arthur does not look down just in case. "Why do you care?" He asks, conveniently forgetting that he hadn't thought about Merlin like that, let alone cared who Merlin did that with (that's new, and not a nice idea. Arthur makes a note to avoid thinking about Merlin with anyone else from now on, not that it'll be an issue) up until relatively recently.
"Upsetting Merlin would upset Gwen, and I do not want that. She's had a hard enough time as it is." Arthur raises an eyebrow. Morgana steps gracefully on his foot again. Hard. "Enough of that. Now, if you want to make your excuses to your father, I'll keep the little twit occupied for the rest of the evening."
That makes Arthur suspicious. "You never do anything nice for me, and I'm pretty sure this counts as nice." If 'nice' means giving him images of Merlin spread out across his bed, - girl or boy, no matter - willing to do any number of things any number of times, then yes, she's being nice.
"I like Merlin," replies Morgana smartly, "he's much more tolerable than you. Besides" she adds with a wicked smirk, "he'll wear you out, and you won't be quite so insufferable tomorrow."
Arthur opens his mouth to protest and tell Morgana that if anyone's going to be worn out, it'll be Merlin, but the words freeze in his throat as a voice makes itself known in is head.
::I have completed the spell, young prince. It will last as long as there is dark sorcery bound to Merlin, and no longer.::
That they both hear the dragon goes unsaid; Arthur can feel another presence in his head, through the dragon's, one that swirls and glitters like gold.
Merlin.
Arthur searches him out, sees him still being talked at by Lord Kynan. Hm. Time for that to stop. "I believe I will do what you so kindly suggest, my lady." Morgana's eyes are bright and knowing, her curtsey a shade less teasing than usual. "Save your end of the bargain for tomorrow; I can't promise you'll get it, mind, but I'll probably be in a better mood to hear it."
"Of course. Go, before Lord Kynan decides to take him- her to bed." Morgana laughs at Arthur's expression, turning away to no doubt gossip with Gwen and plan what she wants in return for spending the evening with a girl who will never match Morgana's intelligence or wit.
Then Lord Kynan touches Merlin's arm, and Arthur promptly forgets about Morgana, Ceridwen and everything else that isn't Merlin and mine and don‘t fucking touch him. Arthur's about to stride over and pull Merlin out of the room when something, no doubt part of Nimueh's spell meant to ensure that once they've started this, they'll finish it, makes him pause.
Arthur dragging his manservant away looks fine and proper; no one who knows Merlin's total incompetence as a servant would question it. But if he drags a maid away, well. That's another thing entirely. Checking his angry stride into something more leisurely and befitting a feast, he forces himself to ignore the way Merlin is completely tense and make small talk with various nobles instead.
He purposely goes in the opposite direction, choosing to draw out the delicious tension coursing through him. It's like being on the tourney field, the adrenaline and the heightened senses. Except this time, instead of being attuned to his opponent's attacks, he's increasingly aware of every single movement Merlin makes, even if he's out of sight.
By the time Arthur gets close enough to see Merlin and Lord Kynan again, he knows that Merlin is starting to get angry with the lord, his back stiff and the hand not still balancing the tray of wine clenching the fabric of his skirts. One of Lord Kynan's hands is still resting heavily on Merlin's arm, and he doesn't move it as Arthur steps alongside them.
"Ah, your highness. I was just telling this young woman here about my own estates." Arthur's jaw tightens. He knows exactly what that means; Kynan wants Merlin to be part of the negotiations, a small token of regard that won't appear on any official treaties but will most surely be granted if Uther sees the way Lord Kynan's eyes are wandering all over Merlin's body.
Arthur lets none of his anger, or indeed anything else he is feeling, show as he replies. "I understand you have some especially fine hunting there?"
"Yes, my lord." Arthur discreetly rests his hand at the small of Merlin's back, trying to communicate the necessity of being somewhere more private and preferably more horizontal right now, although the horizontal part it optional because Arthur would sort-of-kind-of-really like Merlin up against a wall again.
It's possible that you can't convey all of that through a simple press of hand against fabric, but by the way Merlin leans back into the touch he understands enough.
Arthur waits for Lord Kynan to pause in his wittering about deer, or something, and politely interrupts. "If your lordship would enjoy it, I would be honoured to take you hunting around Camelot." And not bring you back he thinks with anger, because the hand keeping Merlin in place and close by hasn't moved at all.
"It would be my honour, your highness." Kynan half bows, but Arthur catches the flicker of his gaze from Arthur's hand, twitching perilously close to his belt knife without him even noticing, to his own hand on (he thinks) an inconsequential maid's arm. "Would tomorrow afternoon allow for a good ride?"
Arthur has to use all of his willpower to not lay Lord Kynan flat on the floor with a good uppercut and throw Merlin over his shoulder just to get out of here. He understands perfectly the words going unsaid here; the afternoon would be preferable, your highness, because I‘ll need the morning to recover from getting drunk and bedding your maid.
It's lucky that Uther chooses that moment to appear, because the small noise of protest Merlin makes as Kynan's grip tightens is almost enough for Arthur to ruin the negotiations of the past week.
If this feeling of absolute possession and want is part of Nimueh's spell, Arthur has to give her a modicum of grudging respect. She really does know how to make two people fall into unbridled lust.
Arthur pulls himself out of visions of stripping that dress off Merlin (probably not thanks to Nimueh) in time to hear his father speaking. "... of course, I would be delighted to join you. Arthur?"
"Of course, father. We had agreed on tomorrow afternoon." Arthur's pointed look makes it clear to Kynan that he has the morning to recover from the wine only, but before the lord can retaliate with an answering look, probably along the lines of 'do you want those extra soldiers or not?", Uther tilts his head at Arthur, looking concerned.
"Are you quite well? You look a little flushed."
"Probably too much wine," jokes Kynan, and Arthur allows himself am inward flash of victory. The lord's jovial tone and smile are clearly forced, the knuckles on the hand holding his goblet white with strain.
"I think not. Arthur, you had better retire; you need to be fit for leading the hunting party tomorrow." Arthur bows, his head filling with ideas and images of what he is finally free to do to Merlin. Uther points at Merlin and adds sharply: "You, go with him. See that he is safely into bed, and call Gaius if needs be."
"Yes, your highness." Merlin curtsies with far more alacrity than he has ever bowed, Kynan's hand jerking away from his arm as if burnt. Arthur nods to their guest of honour, forcing himself not to grab Merlin's hand and run as they thread their way through groups of other guests.
The great doors beckon, corridors and Arthur's bedchamber only moments beyond.
What sounds remarkably like draconic laughter speeds Arthur's steps.
--
Part Four