Smoke Without Fire [3/6] - Merlin - Arthur/Merlin
Night had fallen by the time Merlin came to find them. He slipped inside the door of their shared chambers like a thief, far quieter than Arthur would have imagined him to be capable of. Arthur and Lancelot looked up from where they were gathered at the table in their chambers. Half-eaten food was left on their plates, with wine still lingering in their jewelled goblets.
"Sorry it took me so long," Merlin said, breathless. He leaned against the door in order to close it. "It was hard to slip away."
"No doubt your 'expert' opinion was in high demand at court," Arthur suggested. He hardly recognised himself, this petty, bitter creature. No wonder Merlin chose not to return, he thought.
"It was, actually," Merlin snapped. "I am an advisor to the king. He values my opinion."
Arthur snorted. The opinion of someone like Merlin would be 'valued' in no reputable royal court. He was a commoner, a foreigner and a sorcerer. Even King Philip had fairly good sense. A warlock: a teller of lies. They weren't to be trusted. It said as much in the name.
"If you truly believe that, Merlin, then you're even more of a fool than I remember," he said. And he remembered now - so much, so perfectly. He remembered their arguments, and how it had never felt like this. Even at his most annoyed, there had always been an undercurrent of amusement. Not now. Now he felt the way he did when he was fighting with his father: slamming his head against an unfeeling wall.
"I didn't come here to fight with you," Merlin said.
Maybe he too had envisioned their reunion as something more joy-filled. In all the thousands of times that Arthur had dreamt about meeting Merlin again, he had never felt quite so betrayed or bitter.
"Then why did you come?" he asked - angry, not hopeful. He couldn't allow himself to hope that Merlin would say, Because of you, you prat. Because I've missed you. Arthur was smarter than that. "Why didn't you stay dead?"
Merlin swallowed and offered no answer. There were several empty seats at the table, but he didn't sit down. "Are you going to marry Isabella?"
Since that morning, Arthur had hardly thought of her, even if she was the reason he was in this dire place to begin with. "Perhaps," he answered. He could have said that it was no longer Merlin's business, but he managed to hold his tongue.
He wanted Merlin to tell him that he shouldn't, that it was a stupid, hateful idea and he wouldn't stand for it. A little bit of jealousy would have been appreciated, because then Arthur wouldn't have to feel quite so crazy or alone.
Yet, he thought, he should have known that Merlin would never do what he wanted him to.
"I think you ought to do it," Merlin said. "If something doesn't happen to patch these two countries together, there's going to be a war. You won't win it. You can't."
Arthur sneered: he didn't need yet another person doubting his abilities as a soldier and as a leader. He had his father for that. "Camelot is more than capable of holding its own."
"Philip has magic on his side. You won't stand a chance."
"You mean he has you on his side, don't you?" Arthur retorted. Merlin, turning his back on Camelot... It felt like far more of a personal betrayal than it should have.
"If you boys start a war, I won't be involved at all. I won't choose sides."
He would hide away - vanish into thin air for another five years. He'd already shown his excellent skills at disappearing, hadn't he? Arthur had experienced them first-hand. They were well-honed.
"You'll need to," Arthur said - because Camelot would need him. His father's hatred of magic left the kingdom without a powerful resource. Arthur was hesitant to trust it himself, the fears and prejudices of his upbringing firmly entrenched, but he could recognise the peril that his kingdom was in.
"Lancelot, can I talk to Arthur for a minute? Alone?"
Until Merlin had addressed him, Arthur had forgotten about the knight sitting at his side. Merlin was too magnetic: it was dangerous. Lancelot fumbled an apology for his presence, hurriedly pushing his chair back. The look of guilt on his face was enough to soften the stress in Merlin's expression as he assured him that he had nothing to say sorry for.
Behind Lancelot, the door closed. Arthur and Merlin were abandoned to a room slightly larger than Arthur's bedroom in Camelot. There was a tapestry on the wall depicting a hunt, with red thread flowing like blood from a wound on a stag's flank. Far in the corner there was a four-poster bed: on the floor nearby was Lancelot's pillow and blanket.
Between Arthur and his companion, the silence prickled. He wasn't surprised that Merlin was the one to break it.
"I wish you weren't so mad at me," Merlin said.
Arthur's shoulders twitched. It might have been a laugh, well-repressed. "I wish I didn't have to be."
Merlin moved forward, step by step, until he reached the edge of the table. He leant against it, holding onto the side with his hands as if that alone was keeping him grounded. "Well, you don't 'have' to be. I officially relieve you of all 'being mad at Merlin' duties. Easy as that."
Arthur didn't allow himself to smile. He wasn't going to allow Merlin to squirm away from five years of consequences. "I presume that means you're going to come home with me when I return to Camelot?" he asked loftily, sounding so much more confident than he felt. He knew that Merlin had stayed distant for a reason.
Merlin didn't budge, and his smile began to fade. "I can't do that. What do you think Uther would do to me if I waltzed back through the castle gates? Throw a banquet in my honour? Clap me on the back and ask me how I did it?"
"I would protect you."
Merlin rolled his eyes: he made no attempt to hide his cynicism. "Yeah, 'cause you did such a good job of that last time, didn't you?"
Arthur stood up sharply, his chest stinging with the impression that his honour had been slighted. He tried to banish the grief-soaked images of Gwen and Morgana's expressions when they had broken the news: it haunted him, that moment, even now that he knew Merlin was alive. "I did all I could," he stated.
"And it wasn't enough. That's all I'm saying. As long as Uther is king, Camelot is not safe for me."
"We could hide you," Arthur insisted, stepping along by the side of the table like a fish ensnared on a line. "Change your appearance, your name, keep you out of my father's sight..."
"It wouldn't work. One slip and I'd be dead, for real this time," Merlin said - but his voice was softer now, sapped of the anger that had fuelled it before. "I will come back, Arthur, when I can. When it's safe."
"It should be now," Arthur said. He was whining; he knew he was whining and he hated himself for it, but there was no way to fight against it.
Merlin reached out for him and took hold of his hand. Warm and soft, they were no longer the hands of a servant or a country boy, but the grip was still Merlin's. It was careful and gentle, so cautious, as if he was worried about hurting Arthur or even merely hurting his feelings.
"It will happen," Merlin assured him. He reached out to place his other hand over the back of Arthur's, encircling and enclosing him. Surrounded. "I know it's not your forte, but you'll have to be patient."
"I have spent five years of my life being 'patient'. I'm sick of it."
"Me too," Merlin admitted. His hands squeezed Arthur's. "Believe me: I would much rather have spent that time in Camelot."
"You'd have rather mucked out my stables than spend your days advising a king and socialising with nobles in court? You are a very strange man, I must say."
He received a shove to the arm for saying it, with Merlin's hands letting go of his own, but Merlin's face had opened into a wide smile: it was worth it. It was so worth it.
"Nobles are prats. And not even endearing ones, here. I have no idea how Philip can stand most of them. They're absolutely power-mad. It's..." Merlin's smile was gone, and he needed to pause for a few moments as he considered his words. Arthur didn't jump in with any suggestions. He wanted to hear Merlin's thoughts, not his own. "Nothing's genuine. You can't talk to anyone without wondering if they're about to stab you in the back."
"Welcome to politics," Arthur sighed, before he wondered when exactly he had managed to become quite so gloomy.
"If this is politics, I can say with absolutely certainty that I want nothing to do with it."
And Arthur could have told him that a long time ago. Merlin wasn't cut from the right cloth for life at court. He was too well-meaning by far; he was too good.
Yet Arthur couldn't say that to his face. It sounded much too sappy for a trained warrior to get away with without ruining a well-earned reputation.
"Of course not," he breezed. "It's all far beyond your intellectual capabilities. You needn't feel bad."
He received another shove to his shoulder, but this time he caught Merlin's wrist before Merlin could pull away. His hand encircled it easily, and when he looked down he could see the contrast of Merlin's pale skin against the tan of his hand. The sight of it made something stir inside him, a burn of desire that felt like it might suffocate him.
He wet his lips, but couldn't pull his eyes away from the point where they were linked - and he absolutely could not make himself let go. The very idea seemed ridiculous.
"I..." he said when it became clear that he ought to say something rather than stand there, clinging mutely to Merlin's wrist. "I would tell you off for attempting to shove royalty, but something tells me that you wouldn't listen."
"No, probably not," Merlin agreed, far too cheerfully.
"Do you listen to Philip when he instructs you?" Arthur asked. His gaze was still lowered: the velvet skin on the inside of Merlin's wrist was enough to keep him distracted.
"Most of the time," he said. "He's not like you."
Arthur couldn't be sure if that was an insult or a compliment. He didn't ask. There was no way he could be sure that he would like the answer.
"Merlin..." he sighed, running out of words, out of answers, out of anger. All energy was sapped from him, stolen from the very centre of his being. It was like a loss of blood.
Merlin's fingers startled him when they pressed, cold, against his jaw. It was more gentle than his oaf of an ex-servant should have been capable of, yet it was impossible to resist when Merlin's touch guided his face up to shift his gaze away from his wrist. Merlin was grinning, and it was a smile Arthur could stare at for eternity, feeling like a lovesick poet with a long, white quill in hand.
"Arthur," Merlin said, trying to mimic the seriousness of Arthur's tone - and failing. He seemed to give up. "I'm here. You're here. Shouldn't we stop being mad about everything else? It's making me feel like a prat."
"I thought I was the prat?" Arthur complained, as he felt a smile beginning to lift the corner of his mouth. His attention was pooled on the points of contact between them: his hand around Merlin's wrist; Merlin's fingers against his jaw.
"Then maybe it's making me feel like you?" Merlin suggested. Arthur would have objected, but Merlin's fingers guiding him forward made that impossible. His heart raced, ba-boom, ba-boom, as an anxious part of him became aware of Merlin's intentions: a kiss.
Merlin's lips touched his own, parted and warm. Arthur's eyes slipped closed and his grip on Merlin's wrist tightened to painful levels. He'd been waiting for this for a long time, perhaps since the moment that Merlin had first saved his life or even the second that they had first met. Their lives had been a brewing pot for destiny, all of it waiting for this.
His left hand climbed Merlin's body, leaving the right hand free to maintain its grip on his wrist. He found Merlin's neck and moved up, pushing his fingers through night black hair as Merlin's tongue traced his bottom lip, tasting. Arthur refused to acknowledge that the needy whine he'd just heard had come from his own mouth: a sound that desperate had to have come from Merlin.
He stepped forward, pushing Merlin back so that he had to hop up to sit fully on the table, legs parted to allow Arthur to slot between. Images played in his mind, warm fantasies of freeing Merlin from his clothes and basking in his pale body right here on the table. The need that burned within him demanded little else to satisfy it.
Yet Merlin was a man of more control. His hands landed on Arthur's shoulders, and with a mild amount of pressure he managed to push back, leaning back. His smile was wider and more innocent than Arthur had seen from him since they'd been reunited.
"Um..." Merlin said, as eloquent as ever. "Wow."
"'Wow'," Arthur echoed. "I have waited a long time to do that."
"If you don't mind, you didn't do anything. I kissed you. You can't take the credit for that."
Arthur responded with a kiss like butterfly wings against Merlin's lips. "Is that better?" he asked, brushing the words against his mouth.
"A huge improvement," Merlin said. The happiness on his face spread fast to Arthur's own.
"You have to come back with me now," Arthur urged, aware that he was spoiling the mood and yet powerless to stop himself. "You can't kiss me like that and expect me to leave you behind."
Merlin's smile had frozen and fractured like a shattered mirror. His hands brushed at Arthur's shirt, picking off invisible lint. "You will hopefully be returning with your new bride. She will no doubt be able to provide you with all the kisses you'll need."
Arthur hated the princess even more as he heard that, as if she alone was the very one who was keeping Merlin at bay. It wasn't her fault - he hadn't even met her - but he felt ready to despise her.
His dark expression hardly cleared when Merlin's hands rubbed at his arms. "How about we agree not to talk about it for the rest of the night?" Merlin suggested. "I'll swap bedrooms with Lancelot and we can share. It'll be like Ealdor all over again."
Arthur didn't bother to remind Merlin that that particular sleepover had ended with Merlin's friend, Will, dead. He brushed Merlin's hair from his forehead. "There will be more kissing involved than last time, I presume."
"Lots more. So what I really meant to say was 'it'll be like Ealdor all over again if we had spent the whole trip making out'."
Making out with Merlin... Uncomfortable butterflies burst to life in Arthur's stomach in anticipation. His mouth felt dry. "I'll find Lancelot to tell him of his new sleeping arrangements," he said.
The smile that Merlin gave him, promising the world, was more than enough to ensure that Arthur would hurry back to his side in no time at all.
*
Arthur struggled to pay attention to Philip that morning. He had to stifle wide yawns every few minutes: he hadn't slept last night, not for a single second. He felt sure that he could blame that entirely on Merlin. If Merlin hadn't been so ridiculously irresistible, Arthur would have been well-rested this morning. Back in Camelot, perhaps he ought to have had Merlin put in the stocks for such a crime.
"It has been two weeks since you arrived at my doors," Philip said, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder. They stood at the far end of the great hall, with courtiers and servants lining the walls and milling in the free space. Philip's voice boomed loud enough for their casual audience: this was no private conversation. Arthur considered himself lucky that it was in English at all, because he felt that the words Philip was saying were in no way for his benefit. "Two weeks. In this time, you have demonstrated your passion, your power and your determination. These are traits I would desire in the man who takes my daughter as his wife. To this end, I would like to make an introduction. Prince Arthur of Camelot: meet my daughter, Isabella."
At the head of the hall, the grand, ornate set of doors were pushed open. The servants pushing it scurried out of the way as a group of women began to walk inside. They were beautiful, all of them, dressed in expensive material and the latest fashion. Jewels dripped like water around their necks.
The girl in the middle, no more than fifteen at most, was undoubtedly the princess. Her dark hair, almond eyes and tanned skin resembled that of her father's, and the other women walked with their heads bowed subserviently. This young woman, almost ten years his junior, was the one whose hand was on offer. Yet she wasn't the one who captured his attention. Rather, it was a tall woman at the back, her black hair tumbling over her shoulders instead of being tied back in a complicated manner. Her pale skin looked exotic in this country.
Morgana.
Not yet adapted even to having Merlin back, Arthur's mind couldn't handle the overload. His eyes widened until the whites showed clearly. On the side of his face he could feel the weight of Merlin's gaze, a warning, but he couldn't pay attention. She had been like a disturbingly attractive sister to him since they were both much younger than Isabella was now.
Don't do anything stupid, came Merlin's voice in his head, and he knew if he looked to the side he would find Merlin's eyes glowing gold. Stay calm, alright?
He ignored it; it was nothing more than the buzz of a fly in his ear.
"What are you doing here?" burst from his chest of its own accord.
Morgana looked up at him with worry in her eyes and a carefully neutral expression on her face. Arthur had seen that look from her far too many times while she had been in Camelot, trying to make his father see reason while struggling not to lose her temper. Towards the end, her rage had surfaced more often than not, impossible to control.
Behind him, he became aware of a chuckling sound from behind his back. He looked over his shoulder to direct his wide-eyed gaze at the king.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, as if through denial and will-power alone he would be able to convince himself that she was not here in the court of their enemy of her own free will.
"Forgive me; I do not mean to laugh. Your face is very... ah, precious." Philip placed a large hand onto his belly and shuffled his position on his chair. "I did not know what your reaction to Lady Morgana would be. It pleases me to see that you care for her greatly. Merlin and Morgana have been very loud when they told me that you are a good man. Now I think they may speak the truth."
"I am relieved to hear that you are coming around," Arthur said, but the words came out in a way that sounded scripted. Morgana was right there, so close. Equally, Merlin was right there too, loitering near the king's elbow. To share tense space with them both once more made him feel as if he had stepped back to a simpler, better time in their lives.
"Yes. 'Coming', not 'have come'. There is still work to be done."
"Of course. I wouldn't presume otherwise," Arthur said. It was difficult to focus on his diplomatic aims now - it seemed to be nothing more than an annoyance.
"Today, you will walk with my daughter and talk to her. Tomorrow, perhaps, we will discuss further arrangements." Philip waved his hand generously. Arthur wanted to know how on Earth he was supposed to care about such little things as 'marriage' and 'war' when he'd spent last night with Merlin sprawled in his lap and when Morgana lived and breathed in the same room as he did. Politics were a distant thing. "The guards and your knight will accompany you. Go: we will meet again tomorrow."
Under Philip's instruction, Arthur had no choice but to allow himself to be escorted from the room. The ladies-in-waiting dutifully staying behind, including Morgana. When he looked for her over his shoulder, he found her eyes there to meet his own. The expression on her face was impossible to read; he had always been so bad at reading anything about her to begin with, even without five years of distance between them.
He fell into step beside the young Spanish teenager. She was far shorter than he was, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder, and her thick eyebrows were set together in a deep frown.
"You can relax, you know," he said. "I'm not half as bad as your father seems to think."
She turned her head to look up at him, her dark brown eyes blinking twice. A moment passed and she looked away again without saying a word as they walked through the castle corridors. Their hangers-on walked one step behind them. Through open windows, warm sunlight poured through into the hallway.
Still, she hadn't said a word to him by the time they reached the doors that would lead to the private gardens.
"I doubt any marriage would be likely to go well between us if you refuse to even speak to me," Arthur said, far more irritable than he meant to allow himself to be. It was difficult to focus on his real reason for being in this country to begin with. All he could think about was the two people that he had left behind with Philip.
"I don't think she speaks English, my lord," Lancelot suggested.
It annoyed him far more than it should have. "What? What kind of idiot doesn't speak English? Even Merlin manages it, most of the time."
"You yourself do not speak Spanish," Lancelot reminded him.
Arthur grunted. "Whose side are you on anyway?" At times Lancelot struck him as the most loyal and reliable man that he had ever encountered. There were other times, however, when Arthur had to wonder why he didn't surround himself with knights and advisers who would agree with absolutely everything that he cared to say. It would make his life much easier.
"Nobody's side. Perhaps I could translate for you," Lancelot suggested, keeping to his peace-maker role.
There seemed to be little point in translating, in Arthur's opinion. Marriage to a woman that he could not communicate with was impossible. Women were difficult enough to understand even when he did speak the right language.
Nonetheless, he struggled onwards with the conversation. They circled the gardens twice: dry sentences took twice as long as they ought to in translation. It was mid-afternoon before they went back inside and by that time Arthur was thoroughly sick of trying to come up with anything to say to the poor girl.
Isabella was instantly taken in the opposite direction from Arthur once they stepped inside. She cast a worried glance over her shoulder at him; her brown eyes were young, too young. For a political marriage, Arthur knew that Isabella was the right age; there had been many younger brides. Even with the historical precedent, he felt dirty for even considering it when her expression was so frightened.
"She seems very lovely," Lancelot said optimistically as they were escorted to the chambers by the guards - who did, it had to be said, a remarkable job of pretending as if they were not 'escorting' but were instead 'accompanying'.
"She seems young. Young and Spanish... My father can't be serious about this. She is entirely unsuitable," Arthur said. He shook his head in disapproval. There had to be another way around this. Having met him, surely Philip might be more lenient towards Camelot without a marriage arrangement to seal the deal.
Yet Arthur knew that for as long as magic was persecuted in his country, Spain would not relent. His father, likewise, would be unwilling to accept sorcerers in Camelot. They were stuck with their feet in the mud, sinking further and further every single day.
He pushed open the door to their chambers and the sight of Merlin was instantly there to greet his eyes. He was slouched in one of the wooden chairs in the room with his feet propped up against the table-top, his black boots appearing newly polished. There was a thick book in his lap, holding his attention, but when Arthur and Lancelot entered he snapped it closed and placed it upon the table, setting his feet back onto the floor as he sat suddenly upright.
"Well?" Merlin asked urgently. "How did it go?"
Arthur's answer, it had to be said, was somewhat unconventional considering the question. "I can't believe you didn't tell me about Morgana."
And Merlin's response, it also ought to be said, didn't do anything to reassure him. He rolled his eyes and said, "It wasn't my place to tell you."
"And it was Philip's? For dramatic effect? She's like a sister to me, Merlin. I grew up with her. How could you know she was right here and not say a thing?"
"Philip thought it might turn you against us. I dunno. Royal reasoning; I can't follow it. None of you make any sense to me. He thought it would make it look like he had been 'stealing' from you if you found both of us, but then you reacted so well to finding me that he thought..."
He trailed away, but Arthur was still stuck on his first sentence. 'Turn you against us'. Us. Like he, Morgana and Philip were a solid unit with a common goal. After last night spent with Merlin, Arthur had started to think that they were getting back on the right track - an even better track than before, in fact. He'd been wrong; he felt like he'd been a fool.
"You should leave," he sighed, tired of the weight on his shoulders and the rage in his chest. "I don't want to argue with you today. Get out."
Merlin looked ready to refuse - he always looked that way - but Lancelot interrupted, as soft-spoken as ever, before he could say a word. "I think it might be best if you do as Arthur says. You may talk to him tomorrow, once the dust has settled."
Although reluctant, Merlin left. Arthur released a long breath of air and felt some of the tension leave his body. After five years of thinking Merlin was dead, it should not have been a relief to be without him again - but it was. Merlin confused things. Emotions ran too high when he was there, and Arthur hated the way he felt out of control around him.
He moved into the room, his fingers skimming over the tabletop, before he plopped heavily into the seat that Merlin had vacated. It still held the heat of his body and the phantom of his smell. Arthur closed his eyes for a moment and could only think of last night; of the smooth, pale skin of Merlin's torso beneath his fingertips, and of the gasps and whimpers from Merlin's kiss-red lips. It was a night that was bound to haunt his thoughts for years to come, and neither of them had even taken their breeches off. The thought of how it might feel with bare skin against skin, with nothing off limits, was enough to make a new spike of desire rush through him now despite his anger.
He opened his eyes and glared at the book that Merlin had left behind. Reaching out for it in the hopes of a distraction, Arthur took in the title-less cover. There were no elaborate decorations as would be more typical for a manuscript. Upon opening the book, however, it was instantly apparent that this was no Christian text, pain-stakingly copied by monks. The pages were older than he could imagine, dust-covered and cracked. Diagrams, incantations, ingredients and pictures of plants and foul creatures decorated every page.
A dark shiver ran down his spine; informed by a childhood of bedtime stories and vivid nightmares, he couldn't stop it. Wicked witches with warts on their noses... It was difficult, even knowing Merlin and Morgana, not to associate the Old Religion with darkness. For so many years, he had thought of sorcerers as the enemy. He closed the book with a storm of dust and looked up at the ceiling, trying to work out what his next move ought to be.
"Sire?" Lancelot asked, still standing near the door. "How may I help?"
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing for a moment's peace. He felt like he couldn't do what was expected of him, not any more. "Fetch me some parchment and something to write with. I need to send a letter to my father," he announced after a long pause.
As a knight, Lancelot should have been far beyond fetching and carrying, even with his low beginnings, but he made no argument. He left the room, and Arthur, alone. The silence was a relief after he had spent so long surrounded by others. He leaned back in his chair and tried to think his way through all of the problems that had leapt forth to greet him, mentally drafting the letter that would be sent back to Camelot.
*
Part Four
"Sorry it took me so long," Merlin said, breathless. He leaned against the door in order to close it. "It was hard to slip away."
"No doubt your 'expert' opinion was in high demand at court," Arthur suggested. He hardly recognised himself, this petty, bitter creature. No wonder Merlin chose not to return, he thought.
"It was, actually," Merlin snapped. "I am an advisor to the king. He values my opinion."
Arthur snorted. The opinion of someone like Merlin would be 'valued' in no reputable royal court. He was a commoner, a foreigner and a sorcerer. Even King Philip had fairly good sense. A warlock: a teller of lies. They weren't to be trusted. It said as much in the name.
"If you truly believe that, Merlin, then you're even more of a fool than I remember," he said. And he remembered now - so much, so perfectly. He remembered their arguments, and how it had never felt like this. Even at his most annoyed, there had always been an undercurrent of amusement. Not now. Now he felt the way he did when he was fighting with his father: slamming his head against an unfeeling wall.
"I didn't come here to fight with you," Merlin said.
Maybe he too had envisioned their reunion as something more joy-filled. In all the thousands of times that Arthur had dreamt about meeting Merlin again, he had never felt quite so betrayed or bitter.
"Then why did you come?" he asked - angry, not hopeful. He couldn't allow himself to hope that Merlin would say, Because of you, you prat. Because I've missed you. Arthur was smarter than that. "Why didn't you stay dead?"
Merlin swallowed and offered no answer. There were several empty seats at the table, but he didn't sit down. "Are you going to marry Isabella?"
Since that morning, Arthur had hardly thought of her, even if she was the reason he was in this dire place to begin with. "Perhaps," he answered. He could have said that it was no longer Merlin's business, but he managed to hold his tongue.
He wanted Merlin to tell him that he shouldn't, that it was a stupid, hateful idea and he wouldn't stand for it. A little bit of jealousy would have been appreciated, because then Arthur wouldn't have to feel quite so crazy or alone.
Yet, he thought, he should have known that Merlin would never do what he wanted him to.
"I think you ought to do it," Merlin said. "If something doesn't happen to patch these two countries together, there's going to be a war. You won't win it. You can't."
Arthur sneered: he didn't need yet another person doubting his abilities as a soldier and as a leader. He had his father for that. "Camelot is more than capable of holding its own."
"Philip has magic on his side. You won't stand a chance."
"You mean he has you on his side, don't you?" Arthur retorted. Merlin, turning his back on Camelot... It felt like far more of a personal betrayal than it should have.
"If you boys start a war, I won't be involved at all. I won't choose sides."
He would hide away - vanish into thin air for another five years. He'd already shown his excellent skills at disappearing, hadn't he? Arthur had experienced them first-hand. They were well-honed.
"You'll need to," Arthur said - because Camelot would need him. His father's hatred of magic left the kingdom without a powerful resource. Arthur was hesitant to trust it himself, the fears and prejudices of his upbringing firmly entrenched, but he could recognise the peril that his kingdom was in.
"Lancelot, can I talk to Arthur for a minute? Alone?"
Until Merlin had addressed him, Arthur had forgotten about the knight sitting at his side. Merlin was too magnetic: it was dangerous. Lancelot fumbled an apology for his presence, hurriedly pushing his chair back. The look of guilt on his face was enough to soften the stress in Merlin's expression as he assured him that he had nothing to say sorry for.
Behind Lancelot, the door closed. Arthur and Merlin were abandoned to a room slightly larger than Arthur's bedroom in Camelot. There was a tapestry on the wall depicting a hunt, with red thread flowing like blood from a wound on a stag's flank. Far in the corner there was a four-poster bed: on the floor nearby was Lancelot's pillow and blanket.
Between Arthur and his companion, the silence prickled. He wasn't surprised that Merlin was the one to break it.
"I wish you weren't so mad at me," Merlin said.
Arthur's shoulders twitched. It might have been a laugh, well-repressed. "I wish I didn't have to be."
Merlin moved forward, step by step, until he reached the edge of the table. He leant against it, holding onto the side with his hands as if that alone was keeping him grounded. "Well, you don't 'have' to be. I officially relieve you of all 'being mad at Merlin' duties. Easy as that."
Arthur didn't allow himself to smile. He wasn't going to allow Merlin to squirm away from five years of consequences. "I presume that means you're going to come home with me when I return to Camelot?" he asked loftily, sounding so much more confident than he felt. He knew that Merlin had stayed distant for a reason.
Merlin didn't budge, and his smile began to fade. "I can't do that. What do you think Uther would do to me if I waltzed back through the castle gates? Throw a banquet in my honour? Clap me on the back and ask me how I did it?"
"I would protect you."
Merlin rolled his eyes: he made no attempt to hide his cynicism. "Yeah, 'cause you did such a good job of that last time, didn't you?"
Arthur stood up sharply, his chest stinging with the impression that his honour had been slighted. He tried to banish the grief-soaked images of Gwen and Morgana's expressions when they had broken the news: it haunted him, that moment, even now that he knew Merlin was alive. "I did all I could," he stated.
"And it wasn't enough. That's all I'm saying. As long as Uther is king, Camelot is not safe for me."
"We could hide you," Arthur insisted, stepping along by the side of the table like a fish ensnared on a line. "Change your appearance, your name, keep you out of my father's sight..."
"It wouldn't work. One slip and I'd be dead, for real this time," Merlin said - but his voice was softer now, sapped of the anger that had fuelled it before. "I will come back, Arthur, when I can. When it's safe."
"It should be now," Arthur said. He was whining; he knew he was whining and he hated himself for it, but there was no way to fight against it.
Merlin reached out for him and took hold of his hand. Warm and soft, they were no longer the hands of a servant or a country boy, but the grip was still Merlin's. It was careful and gentle, so cautious, as if he was worried about hurting Arthur or even merely hurting his feelings.
"It will happen," Merlin assured him. He reached out to place his other hand over the back of Arthur's, encircling and enclosing him. Surrounded. "I know it's not your forte, but you'll have to be patient."
"I have spent five years of my life being 'patient'. I'm sick of it."
"Me too," Merlin admitted. His hands squeezed Arthur's. "Believe me: I would much rather have spent that time in Camelot."
"You'd have rather mucked out my stables than spend your days advising a king and socialising with nobles in court? You are a very strange man, I must say."
He received a shove to the arm for saying it, with Merlin's hands letting go of his own, but Merlin's face had opened into a wide smile: it was worth it. It was so worth it.
"Nobles are prats. And not even endearing ones, here. I have no idea how Philip can stand most of them. They're absolutely power-mad. It's..." Merlin's smile was gone, and he needed to pause for a few moments as he considered his words. Arthur didn't jump in with any suggestions. He wanted to hear Merlin's thoughts, not his own. "Nothing's genuine. You can't talk to anyone without wondering if they're about to stab you in the back."
"Welcome to politics," Arthur sighed, before he wondered when exactly he had managed to become quite so gloomy.
"If this is politics, I can say with absolutely certainty that I want nothing to do with it."
And Arthur could have told him that a long time ago. Merlin wasn't cut from the right cloth for life at court. He was too well-meaning by far; he was too good.
Yet Arthur couldn't say that to his face. It sounded much too sappy for a trained warrior to get away with without ruining a well-earned reputation.
"Of course not," he breezed. "It's all far beyond your intellectual capabilities. You needn't feel bad."
He received another shove to his shoulder, but this time he caught Merlin's wrist before Merlin could pull away. His hand encircled it easily, and when he looked down he could see the contrast of Merlin's pale skin against the tan of his hand. The sight of it made something stir inside him, a burn of desire that felt like it might suffocate him.
He wet his lips, but couldn't pull his eyes away from the point where they were linked - and he absolutely could not make himself let go. The very idea seemed ridiculous.
"I..." he said when it became clear that he ought to say something rather than stand there, clinging mutely to Merlin's wrist. "I would tell you off for attempting to shove royalty, but something tells me that you wouldn't listen."
"No, probably not," Merlin agreed, far too cheerfully.
"Do you listen to Philip when he instructs you?" Arthur asked. His gaze was still lowered: the velvet skin on the inside of Merlin's wrist was enough to keep him distracted.
"Most of the time," he said. "He's not like you."
Arthur couldn't be sure if that was an insult or a compliment. He didn't ask. There was no way he could be sure that he would like the answer.
"Merlin..." he sighed, running out of words, out of answers, out of anger. All energy was sapped from him, stolen from the very centre of his being. It was like a loss of blood.
Merlin's fingers startled him when they pressed, cold, against his jaw. It was more gentle than his oaf of an ex-servant should have been capable of, yet it was impossible to resist when Merlin's touch guided his face up to shift his gaze away from his wrist. Merlin was grinning, and it was a smile Arthur could stare at for eternity, feeling like a lovesick poet with a long, white quill in hand.
"Arthur," Merlin said, trying to mimic the seriousness of Arthur's tone - and failing. He seemed to give up. "I'm here. You're here. Shouldn't we stop being mad about everything else? It's making me feel like a prat."
"I thought I was the prat?" Arthur complained, as he felt a smile beginning to lift the corner of his mouth. His attention was pooled on the points of contact between them: his hand around Merlin's wrist; Merlin's fingers against his jaw.
"Then maybe it's making me feel like you?" Merlin suggested. Arthur would have objected, but Merlin's fingers guiding him forward made that impossible. His heart raced, ba-boom, ba-boom, as an anxious part of him became aware of Merlin's intentions: a kiss.
Merlin's lips touched his own, parted and warm. Arthur's eyes slipped closed and his grip on Merlin's wrist tightened to painful levels. He'd been waiting for this for a long time, perhaps since the moment that Merlin had first saved his life or even the second that they had first met. Their lives had been a brewing pot for destiny, all of it waiting for this.
His left hand climbed Merlin's body, leaving the right hand free to maintain its grip on his wrist. He found Merlin's neck and moved up, pushing his fingers through night black hair as Merlin's tongue traced his bottom lip, tasting. Arthur refused to acknowledge that the needy whine he'd just heard had come from his own mouth: a sound that desperate had to have come from Merlin.
He stepped forward, pushing Merlin back so that he had to hop up to sit fully on the table, legs parted to allow Arthur to slot between. Images played in his mind, warm fantasies of freeing Merlin from his clothes and basking in his pale body right here on the table. The need that burned within him demanded little else to satisfy it.
Yet Merlin was a man of more control. His hands landed on Arthur's shoulders, and with a mild amount of pressure he managed to push back, leaning back. His smile was wider and more innocent than Arthur had seen from him since they'd been reunited.
"Um..." Merlin said, as eloquent as ever. "Wow."
"'Wow'," Arthur echoed. "I have waited a long time to do that."
"If you don't mind, you didn't do anything. I kissed you. You can't take the credit for that."
Arthur responded with a kiss like butterfly wings against Merlin's lips. "Is that better?" he asked, brushing the words against his mouth.
"A huge improvement," Merlin said. The happiness on his face spread fast to Arthur's own.
"You have to come back with me now," Arthur urged, aware that he was spoiling the mood and yet powerless to stop himself. "You can't kiss me like that and expect me to leave you behind."
Merlin's smile had frozen and fractured like a shattered mirror. His hands brushed at Arthur's shirt, picking off invisible lint. "You will hopefully be returning with your new bride. She will no doubt be able to provide you with all the kisses you'll need."
Arthur hated the princess even more as he heard that, as if she alone was the very one who was keeping Merlin at bay. It wasn't her fault - he hadn't even met her - but he felt ready to despise her.
His dark expression hardly cleared when Merlin's hands rubbed at his arms. "How about we agree not to talk about it for the rest of the night?" Merlin suggested. "I'll swap bedrooms with Lancelot and we can share. It'll be like Ealdor all over again."
Arthur didn't bother to remind Merlin that that particular sleepover had ended with Merlin's friend, Will, dead. He brushed Merlin's hair from his forehead. "There will be more kissing involved than last time, I presume."
"Lots more. So what I really meant to say was 'it'll be like Ealdor all over again if we had spent the whole trip making out'."
Making out with Merlin... Uncomfortable butterflies burst to life in Arthur's stomach in anticipation. His mouth felt dry. "I'll find Lancelot to tell him of his new sleeping arrangements," he said.
The smile that Merlin gave him, promising the world, was more than enough to ensure that Arthur would hurry back to his side in no time at all.
*
Arthur struggled to pay attention to Philip that morning. He had to stifle wide yawns every few minutes: he hadn't slept last night, not for a single second. He felt sure that he could blame that entirely on Merlin. If Merlin hadn't been so ridiculously irresistible, Arthur would have been well-rested this morning. Back in Camelot, perhaps he ought to have had Merlin put in the stocks for such a crime.
"It has been two weeks since you arrived at my doors," Philip said, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder. They stood at the far end of the great hall, with courtiers and servants lining the walls and milling in the free space. Philip's voice boomed loud enough for their casual audience: this was no private conversation. Arthur considered himself lucky that it was in English at all, because he felt that the words Philip was saying were in no way for his benefit. "Two weeks. In this time, you have demonstrated your passion, your power and your determination. These are traits I would desire in the man who takes my daughter as his wife. To this end, I would like to make an introduction. Prince Arthur of Camelot: meet my daughter, Isabella."
At the head of the hall, the grand, ornate set of doors were pushed open. The servants pushing it scurried out of the way as a group of women began to walk inside. They were beautiful, all of them, dressed in expensive material and the latest fashion. Jewels dripped like water around their necks.
The girl in the middle, no more than fifteen at most, was undoubtedly the princess. Her dark hair, almond eyes and tanned skin resembled that of her father's, and the other women walked with their heads bowed subserviently. This young woman, almost ten years his junior, was the one whose hand was on offer. Yet she wasn't the one who captured his attention. Rather, it was a tall woman at the back, her black hair tumbling over her shoulders instead of being tied back in a complicated manner. Her pale skin looked exotic in this country.
Morgana.
Not yet adapted even to having Merlin back, Arthur's mind couldn't handle the overload. His eyes widened until the whites showed clearly. On the side of his face he could feel the weight of Merlin's gaze, a warning, but he couldn't pay attention. She had been like a disturbingly attractive sister to him since they were both much younger than Isabella was now.
Don't do anything stupid, came Merlin's voice in his head, and he knew if he looked to the side he would find Merlin's eyes glowing gold. Stay calm, alright?
He ignored it; it was nothing more than the buzz of a fly in his ear.
"What are you doing here?" burst from his chest of its own accord.
Morgana looked up at him with worry in her eyes and a carefully neutral expression on her face. Arthur had seen that look from her far too many times while she had been in Camelot, trying to make his father see reason while struggling not to lose her temper. Towards the end, her rage had surfaced more often than not, impossible to control.
Behind him, he became aware of a chuckling sound from behind his back. He looked over his shoulder to direct his wide-eyed gaze at the king.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, as if through denial and will-power alone he would be able to convince himself that she was not here in the court of their enemy of her own free will.
"Forgive me; I do not mean to laugh. Your face is very... ah, precious." Philip placed a large hand onto his belly and shuffled his position on his chair. "I did not know what your reaction to Lady Morgana would be. It pleases me to see that you care for her greatly. Merlin and Morgana have been very loud when they told me that you are a good man. Now I think they may speak the truth."
"I am relieved to hear that you are coming around," Arthur said, but the words came out in a way that sounded scripted. Morgana was right there, so close. Equally, Merlin was right there too, loitering near the king's elbow. To share tense space with them both once more made him feel as if he had stepped back to a simpler, better time in their lives.
"Yes. 'Coming', not 'have come'. There is still work to be done."
"Of course. I wouldn't presume otherwise," Arthur said. It was difficult to focus on his diplomatic aims now - it seemed to be nothing more than an annoyance.
"Today, you will walk with my daughter and talk to her. Tomorrow, perhaps, we will discuss further arrangements." Philip waved his hand generously. Arthur wanted to know how on Earth he was supposed to care about such little things as 'marriage' and 'war' when he'd spent last night with Merlin sprawled in his lap and when Morgana lived and breathed in the same room as he did. Politics were a distant thing. "The guards and your knight will accompany you. Go: we will meet again tomorrow."
Under Philip's instruction, Arthur had no choice but to allow himself to be escorted from the room. The ladies-in-waiting dutifully staying behind, including Morgana. When he looked for her over his shoulder, he found her eyes there to meet his own. The expression on her face was impossible to read; he had always been so bad at reading anything about her to begin with, even without five years of distance between them.
He fell into step beside the young Spanish teenager. She was far shorter than he was, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder, and her thick eyebrows were set together in a deep frown.
"You can relax, you know," he said. "I'm not half as bad as your father seems to think."
She turned her head to look up at him, her dark brown eyes blinking twice. A moment passed and she looked away again without saying a word as they walked through the castle corridors. Their hangers-on walked one step behind them. Through open windows, warm sunlight poured through into the hallway.
Still, she hadn't said a word to him by the time they reached the doors that would lead to the private gardens.
"I doubt any marriage would be likely to go well between us if you refuse to even speak to me," Arthur said, far more irritable than he meant to allow himself to be. It was difficult to focus on his real reason for being in this country to begin with. All he could think about was the two people that he had left behind with Philip.
"I don't think she speaks English, my lord," Lancelot suggested.
It annoyed him far more than it should have. "What? What kind of idiot doesn't speak English? Even Merlin manages it, most of the time."
"You yourself do not speak Spanish," Lancelot reminded him.
Arthur grunted. "Whose side are you on anyway?" At times Lancelot struck him as the most loyal and reliable man that he had ever encountered. There were other times, however, when Arthur had to wonder why he didn't surround himself with knights and advisers who would agree with absolutely everything that he cared to say. It would make his life much easier.
"Nobody's side. Perhaps I could translate for you," Lancelot suggested, keeping to his peace-maker role.
There seemed to be little point in translating, in Arthur's opinion. Marriage to a woman that he could not communicate with was impossible. Women were difficult enough to understand even when he did speak the right language.
Nonetheless, he struggled onwards with the conversation. They circled the gardens twice: dry sentences took twice as long as they ought to in translation. It was mid-afternoon before they went back inside and by that time Arthur was thoroughly sick of trying to come up with anything to say to the poor girl.
Isabella was instantly taken in the opposite direction from Arthur once they stepped inside. She cast a worried glance over her shoulder at him; her brown eyes were young, too young. For a political marriage, Arthur knew that Isabella was the right age; there had been many younger brides. Even with the historical precedent, he felt dirty for even considering it when her expression was so frightened.
"She seems very lovely," Lancelot said optimistically as they were escorted to the chambers by the guards - who did, it had to be said, a remarkable job of pretending as if they were not 'escorting' but were instead 'accompanying'.
"She seems young. Young and Spanish... My father can't be serious about this. She is entirely unsuitable," Arthur said. He shook his head in disapproval. There had to be another way around this. Having met him, surely Philip might be more lenient towards Camelot without a marriage arrangement to seal the deal.
Yet Arthur knew that for as long as magic was persecuted in his country, Spain would not relent. His father, likewise, would be unwilling to accept sorcerers in Camelot. They were stuck with their feet in the mud, sinking further and further every single day.
He pushed open the door to their chambers and the sight of Merlin was instantly there to greet his eyes. He was slouched in one of the wooden chairs in the room with his feet propped up against the table-top, his black boots appearing newly polished. There was a thick book in his lap, holding his attention, but when Arthur and Lancelot entered he snapped it closed and placed it upon the table, setting his feet back onto the floor as he sat suddenly upright.
"Well?" Merlin asked urgently. "How did it go?"
Arthur's answer, it had to be said, was somewhat unconventional considering the question. "I can't believe you didn't tell me about Morgana."
And Merlin's response, it also ought to be said, didn't do anything to reassure him. He rolled his eyes and said, "It wasn't my place to tell you."
"And it was Philip's? For dramatic effect? She's like a sister to me, Merlin. I grew up with her. How could you know she was right here and not say a thing?"
"Philip thought it might turn you against us. I dunno. Royal reasoning; I can't follow it. None of you make any sense to me. He thought it would make it look like he had been 'stealing' from you if you found both of us, but then you reacted so well to finding me that he thought..."
He trailed away, but Arthur was still stuck on his first sentence. 'Turn you against us'. Us. Like he, Morgana and Philip were a solid unit with a common goal. After last night spent with Merlin, Arthur had started to think that they were getting back on the right track - an even better track than before, in fact. He'd been wrong; he felt like he'd been a fool.
"You should leave," he sighed, tired of the weight on his shoulders and the rage in his chest. "I don't want to argue with you today. Get out."
Merlin looked ready to refuse - he always looked that way - but Lancelot interrupted, as soft-spoken as ever, before he could say a word. "I think it might be best if you do as Arthur says. You may talk to him tomorrow, once the dust has settled."
Although reluctant, Merlin left. Arthur released a long breath of air and felt some of the tension leave his body. After five years of thinking Merlin was dead, it should not have been a relief to be without him again - but it was. Merlin confused things. Emotions ran too high when he was there, and Arthur hated the way he felt out of control around him.
He moved into the room, his fingers skimming over the tabletop, before he plopped heavily into the seat that Merlin had vacated. It still held the heat of his body and the phantom of his smell. Arthur closed his eyes for a moment and could only think of last night; of the smooth, pale skin of Merlin's torso beneath his fingertips, and of the gasps and whimpers from Merlin's kiss-red lips. It was a night that was bound to haunt his thoughts for years to come, and neither of them had even taken their breeches off. The thought of how it might feel with bare skin against skin, with nothing off limits, was enough to make a new spike of desire rush through him now despite his anger.
He opened his eyes and glared at the book that Merlin had left behind. Reaching out for it in the hopes of a distraction, Arthur took in the title-less cover. There were no elaborate decorations as would be more typical for a manuscript. Upon opening the book, however, it was instantly apparent that this was no Christian text, pain-stakingly copied by monks. The pages were older than he could imagine, dust-covered and cracked. Diagrams, incantations, ingredients and pictures of plants and foul creatures decorated every page.
A dark shiver ran down his spine; informed by a childhood of bedtime stories and vivid nightmares, he couldn't stop it. Wicked witches with warts on their noses... It was difficult, even knowing Merlin and Morgana, not to associate the Old Religion with darkness. For so many years, he had thought of sorcerers as the enemy. He closed the book with a storm of dust and looked up at the ceiling, trying to work out what his next move ought to be.
"Sire?" Lancelot asked, still standing near the door. "How may I help?"
Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing for a moment's peace. He felt like he couldn't do what was expected of him, not any more. "Fetch me some parchment and something to write with. I need to send a letter to my father," he announced after a long pause.
As a knight, Lancelot should have been far beyond fetching and carrying, even with his low beginnings, but he made no argument. He left the room, and Arthur, alone. The silence was a relief after he had spent so long surrounded by others. He leaned back in his chair and tried to think his way through all of the problems that had leapt forth to greet him, mentally drafting the letter that would be sent back to Camelot.
*
Part Four