FIC: Merlin: fire in her hands, R, Merlin/Arthur
Hunith braids her hair before she cuts it off, saying that it’s too beautiful to be lost entirely. She’ll hide the braid somewhere, look at it in the firelight some nights when she feels lonely. Remember her daughter. She takes one last long look at her, stroking her cheek with warm fingers, smoothing the shirt over her shoulders. Then she slips another piece of bread into her rucksack, says: “Be careful,” and sends her off before the village awakens.
The hike through the woods is exhilarating. She climbs trees and runs up hills mostly for the joy of it, feeling the liberty of movement in these clothes, testing her limits. At night she keeps the fire going by magic while she sleeps, still not comfortable with the idea of being alone in the darkness. Girls should not be sleeping in dark woods by themselves. She isn’t really a girl any more.
Camelot is bustling with life. She reminds herself that she’s a country boy, walks with long confident steps and smiles unabashedly at the girl in the market who tells her how to find the court physician. The girl blushes and smiles shyly back.
“I’m Merlin. My mother, Hunith, sent me here,” she says, standing in the doorway of the physician’s quarters, the letter from Hunith in one hand. Gauis looks at her, purses his mouth and raises an eyebrow. “I see. You take after your mother a great deal. Come on in, then.”
Gaius puts her to work as an assistant, chopping ingredients for potions, running errands and keeping the rooms tidy. She tries very hard to remember Hunith’s advice at all times, to keep her head down, go unnoticed, and not do anything rash. She reminds herself of the man executed in the courtyard the day she came to Camelot, the king’s cold fury, and the witch who screamed a mother’s love and hatred before disappearing into tatters and thin air. When she’s returning from the market and passes a group of young nobles throwing knives at a running target, she clenches her fists so hard her fingernails make half-moon-shaped marks that remain until the evening. But she keeps quiet and she goes unnoticed. And if those young nobles find the handles of their knives splintery and hard to hold the next morning, well, no one will know.
Gauis takes her to the feast and Merlin does her best to be useful. She spends most of the evening thinking that there’s something off about Lady Helen. It’s like she tries too hard to be at ease with her movements and words, like she’s not used to her own skin and hiding it. She’s hiding it well, but Merlin recognises the feeling. She watches her every move. And when Lady Helen throws her dagger, Merlin slows it down and pushes Arthur out of danger without even thinking about the fact that this is the prince who throws knives at a running boy for a laugh. The King makes her Arthur’s manservant as a reward. Arthur takes in the very slight boy in ruffled country clothes and seems less than pleased with the fact that such an unheroic figure has saved his life.
The lady Morgana’s maid, Gwen, comes to find her later.
“I wouldn’t have pinned you for one of those manly save-the-world-types,” she says, “But you were very brave, Merlin. It’s a pity you’ll have to put up with Arthur now, though.”
“Oh, I’m in disguise,” she answers. “You have no idea what I could do if I put my mind to it!” Gwen’s very pretty when she laughs, warm glitter in her eyes. She touches Merlin’s wrist when she leaves, like a small wish, a promise.
“Go on, be angry with me,” Merlin says. Gauis sighs and sits down on the other side of the table. “You saved the Prince’s life, my dear. I’m proud of you. Now, however, you must be doubly careful. The Prince will keep you near and watch you close.”
Later Gauis watches her go over her clothes, mending and cleaning them gently with magic. “You are a question that’s never been posed before,” he says. “I do not understand your powers. Take great care, my Merlin.”
The next morning she binds her breasts harder than ever. It hurts a little. But if the Prince will scrutinise her appearance, she’d better be prepared.
She swears to herself that she’ll keep quiet and just do whatever the prince asks, to just get through the days. It should be simple. She lasts two hours. He’s such a prat. Her instincts get the better of her and suddenly she’s talking back without the involvement of her common sense. She can do that kind of banter almost without thinking; it’s close to automatic. Except this isn’t Ealdor, a cute girly smile won’t take the edge of her words and let her get away with anything. This is Camelot, she is a manservant and being obnoxious to the Prince of Camelot who could have her executed or thrown in the dungeons at his whim. She swallows hard. At the end of the day Arthur says: “You’re the worst manservant I’ve ever had. But there’s something about you, Merlin,” and sends her off.
She’s actually quite good at the cleaning part, she thinks. Well, for a village girl she was horribly inept, but with a little magic touch and some pointers from Gwen she thinks she’s doing better than any country boy could be expected to. Gwen is almost too helpful, all smiles and laughter and lingering small touches. The hope in her eyes breaks Merlin’s heart a little. Arthur keeps calling Merlin the worst manservant in the history of man. She thinks it’s mostly because she’s lousy at swords practice. She isn’t sure why Arthur feels the need to practice with her, when he could go beat up his knights instead, but Arthur insists that his manservant needs to able to hold his own in a fight. Somewhat at least. Of course Merlin is awful with a sword. She’s never been allowed to do anything of the kind. The days of practice leave her bruised all over and exhausted, but she learns and gets better and sometimes she feels a wild energy almost like magic burning through her from the liberty of it. Gauis frowns at her bruises, gives her salves and quirks disapproving eyebrows, but he can’t very well do anything about it. Slowly, she gets more muscled, which even Gauis can’t object too. She’s still the most slender of the servant boys, but it’s an improvement.
It happens on a hunting trip. Merlin’s hurrying to catch up to Arthur, and stumbles over a root. She goes flying, rolling down a slope and ends up sprawled at Arthur’s feet with all their supplies scattered on the ground around them.
“Honestly, you’re so clumsy I don’t know how you even survive,” says Arthur. Then, suddenly - “Merlin. Are you hurt? Was it the practice yesterday? You should have told me!”
She realises that her shirt has ridden up far enough to show the bandages holding her breasts in. “Oh, it’s nothing, don’t worry.”
“That’s a lot of bandages for nothing. Let me look at it,” Arthur says and reaches down. She scrambles up and away.
“No, no, it’s nothing! Gauis helped me out. Don’t think about it.” She backs further away. Arthur looks confused and annoyed. Merlin gathers everything up and sets off quickly before he decides to press the issue.
She grabs the poisoned wine from Arthur’s hand and downs it quickly, feeling triumphant as she falls and the world spins out of focus, then surprised and sad. So the dragon in the cave that calls to her in the night was right after all, with his big cryptic words and talk of destiny. She’s willing to lay her life down for Arthur. He turns out to be worth it. Her last clear thought before the blackness and feverish dreams take her is that it’s a pity that she won’t see more of this prince who’s showed himself worthy of his title after all.
Gwen is at her bedside when she wakes up, tears and tiredness and joy. And as Merlin blinks slowly Gwen throws herself at her and kisses her on the mouth. It’s warm and too soft and filled with too much emotion. Gwen straightens, looking surprised and embarrassed, wipes her cheeks and says: “I’m so happy that you’re alive”.
Arthur watches her as though she might break at any given moment for weeks after that. Merlin can feel his gaze following her as she moves about her duties, tidying his chambers, serving him wine at feasts. It’s unsettling. She tries harder to keep her pattern of movement boyish, but often she’s too tired.
“You’re actually getting more graceful, Merlin. I never thought it possible,” Arthur observes one evening as Merlin’s helping him change for the feast.
“I guess I’ve got plenty of role models around. Like Morgana,” Merlin answers and promptly trips over the broom she forgot to put away this morning. Arthur folds over laughing. Anything for my prince, Merlin thinks and dusts herself off.
Yet another hunting trip in the woods, no knights this time. There’s only Merlin and Arthur, so of course they get attacked by bandits. Arthur pushes Merlin behind him and draws his sword, making quick work of those who dare get close. Merlin takes the crossbow, for plausible deniability, and spells arrows into the hearts of those who keep their distance or threaten Arthur too much. Every second feels like an eternity. She’s cold, calculating, watching these men bleed to death from her handiwork. Then it’s over. She shivers. Arthur turns around.
“That was almost too easy,” he says. “You’re damn good with the crossbow. Why didn’t you tell me so? You could’ve been of use, hunting. Instead of just stumbling around blindly. you lazy idiot.”
There’s no heat in Arthur’s words. He looks at her with fight still in his eyes, adrenaline pumping, and something else. He steps closer, puts his hand on her jaw and wipes away a smear of blood with his thumb. She identifies the look then, close to but not identical to the way Gwen looks at her sometimes. Arthur’s is more raw, possessive, all violence of desire. But it’s lust. Arthur’s hand feels strong on her jaw, sliding down around her neck. The touch sends frissons down her back, joins the thrumming of magic and battle still strong in her blood. She gasps and shudders, tilts her body towards him. Arthur closes in on her, backs her up to a tree. “There’s something about you, Merlin,” Arthur says and kisses her, takes her mouth entirely and oh. She know she shouldn’t, it’s too much, too close, too dangerous. He will feel it, her lips are too soft against his, her cheeks too smooth, her neck too vulnerable, her waist too slim and her hips too round beneath his hands. She cannot bring herself to care. She bites his lip and he makes a sound that thrills her even more - this is real, she has him, warrior prince burning like fire in her hands. Then he wedges his leg in between her thighs, and goes still, and steps away from her.
“You’re not… You don’t want… I won’t force you,” he says, face blank and voice flat, and turns away from her. Oh hell.
She knows she should take this chance, handed to her on a silver platter; she’s a manservant catering to his master’s desires without concern for his own pleasure. Arthur will avoid looking too closely from now on; it’s the best cover she could hope for.
She cannot stand the stiff hurt evident in Arthur’s posture.
“Arthur. I… Arthur, please,” she says, knowing that her voice goes too soft and light. She steps in front of him, fixing her gaze at his face, thinking please Arthur, please trust me, takes his hand in hers and guides it underneath her breeches into her warm wetness.
Something like horror flicks over his face, then confusion, understanding, anger, lust.
“I’m still Merlin,” she says. “Always. And I want you.”
He undresses her like she’s an elaborately wrapped gift that he can barely restrain himself from ripping open, unwraps her breasts and looks at her with wonder. She kisses him, bites him, manhandles his clothes off him to get the fire back. She will not have him treat her like she’s suddenly turned into frail glass. She fights him with all her might, conquers his mouth, bites down hard where his necks joins his shoulder, and he throws her down, naked on the ground. They roll on the moss and leaves, only meters away from the fallen bandits on the other side of the trees, and it will sicken her to think of later, that this unstoppable desire comes so close to death. Arthur pins her wrists over her head and she arches under him. The pleasure is quick and hard, leaving her shuddering and gasping for breath. Arthur collapses over her.
Arthur wraps them both in his cloak afterwards, sitting with his back to a tree and Merlin leaning on his chest.
“I fought you with swords,” he says, halfway between wonder and anger, and still drowsy from pleasure. “I beat you up over and over and you let me!”
“What would you have had me do? Tell you to stop because you’d be angry when you realised that it wasn’t chivalrous?”
Arthur grumbles and tightens his hold on her waist.
“You stupid, stupid, little idiot. I could’ve hurt you,” he says.
“I can hold my own perfectly well in a fight, don’t you forget,” she says. “Don’t you dare stop practising with me now.”
“Oh, well. I suppose it can’t really hurt… Everybody else will still see a boy and keep picking fights with you. You’d better be able to defend yourself. No more secrets, though, you hear me? You don’t get to hide yourself from me ever again, Merlin.”
Arthur looks down at her with a strange, warm expression, pride and possessiveness and maybe love but she hardly dares to think that. She hides her face in the crook of his shoulder and shakes, all of her trembling.
“There, there,” Arthur says awkwardly and strokes her neck and shoulder with the hand not around her waist. “It’ll be alright. You’re my Merlin. I know you. No more secrets.”
Above them, a light breeze rustles in the trees, like a whisper, like nature’s own magic.
END
Now continued here: Hope Is A Waking Dream, Merlin/Gwen, Merlin/Arthur. In which Merlin is a girl in disguise and Gwen doesn't know. "I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine."
And here, the sequel: windy side of the law, Merlin/Arthur. Secrets will out, Merlin should know. She has too many of them.