(fic) within the confines of such chemistry
within the confines of such chemistry, Merlin/Arthur, 2531 words. Just as Arthur is thinking that this young man might very well be the strangest sorcerer that he's ever happened across, Merlin comes along without so much as an argument or a fight, and gets that much stranger.
cheers to brightedelweiss for beta-ing!
It comes to them at first as rumors, faint whispers that there is a new leader of sorts amongst the druids. A sorcerer of unprecedented power, that even the forest spirits stop and stare in awe. Next, there are full-fledged stories of the sorcerer's travels, that wherever he goes, previously struggling villages and crops flourish in his wake.
The stories sound unlikely, fanciful, the idle gossip of desperate people seeking hope. They also sound a little bit too much like undermining the authority of the crown, and it is this that catches the king's attention.
Riders are sent out and they come back with a name.
Merlin.
*
There is a look in his father's eyes as he speaks of magic and calls for the arrest of this mysterious Merlin figure, for all that his crimes sound harmless. If Arthur realizes for the first time that this gleam is nothing short of mania, he shares this with no one, not even Morgana.
*
They ride hard and fast for days through the many forests and fields of Camelot, pushing his knights and their horses far past what Arthur normally would have been comfortable with. He doesn't want to imagine the disappointment and anger that will cross his father's face lest he return to Camelot empty handed, and so they ride on, chasing a figure that seems more and more mythical with each passing day.
Until one day they reach a village where the eager innkeeper says that why yes, I do know of a Merlin, he's been staying here these past few days, and he's done wonders for the village's healing supplies, what do you want with him?
When Arthur enters the inn's common room, one hand on the pommel of his sword, he doesn't know what he's expecting.
It certainly wasn't a scrawny young man about his age with too-big ears and bright blue eyes assessing him with curiosity, rather than malice. Merlin smiles widely with the air of someone who laughs easily, and introduces himself without a hint of fear.
Just as Arthur is thinking that this young man might very well be the strangest sorcerer that he's ever happened across, Merlin comes along without so much as an argument or a fight, and gets that much stranger.
*
Merlin stands before King Uther and the court, arms crossed loosely in front of his chest, with a calm expression across his face. Arthur marvels at it, for he has seen far too many of the accused groveling at his father's feet, tears pouring down their faces as they beg for their lives. Merlin must have some sort of mental affliction to withstand the unbridled hatred in Uther's gaze.
"Do you deny that you have performed magic in Camelot? That you have willfully broken the law and cast spells on my land?"
"No, I don't deny that," Merlin replies with a secretive smile, as if amused by a joke that only he knows.
There's a tell-tale tightening of Uther's jaw that Arthur has come to understand means nothing but a painful conclusion for whomever has enraged his father, and he speaks up before he can take the time to second-guess himself.
"If I may, Father. We know very little of the power that this sorcerer holds over the druids and our lands, and we will learn very little information from him if he's dead."
Uther glares at Arthur, a test of wills between them that has become much more common as of late, and Arthur sets his jaw in determination. He can't explain why this is so important to him, why it is so vital that he find out what lies beyond that easy demeanor and wide smile, but all he knows is that some inexplicable feeling is guiding his actions. He would think himself ensorcelled if it weren't for his clarity of mind.
"The word of a sorcerer cannot be trusted, Arthur."
"I'm aware of that, Father, but perhaps by keeping that in mind, we could learn just as much from his lies as we would if he were capable of speaking the truth."
Arthur can clearly see Uther wavering, and so he adds, "Besides, this man allowed himself to be arrested, he might very well be of inferior intelligence." He determinedly doesn't look in Merlin's direction, although he very much wants to see if his words did anything to alter Merlin's calm façade.
Uther nods tightly. It's a small victory, one that could easily be taken away should his father have second thoughts later, but a victory nonetheless. "Very well, you may question him, but if you learn nothing, he will be punished as all sorcerers are under the laws of Camelot."
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees that Merlin's expression hasn't changed, and he considers that perhaps his mental affliction theory might be right after all.
Either that or Merlin is every bit as powerful as the stories say he is.
Arthur can't decide which he'd rather be the truth.
*
Arthur paces back and forth, tapping his riding gloves against one hand, trying to convince himself that he is in no way nervous. Arthur Pendragon has not had occasion to be truly nervous in years, and he has no intention of stopping now simply because some foolhardy sorcerer with an easy grin has caught him off guard.
He descends the staircase to Merlin's cells, strides past the guards and bids them to leave him alone with the prisoner. One falters, determined not to leave the prince alone with an enemy to the crown, but a sharp glare sends him scuttling away as well.
"You're a bit of a prat, you know," Merlin says by way of greeting, "you've probably terrified that guard half to death with your glare. I suppose you've learnt that from your father?"
"If you weren't already in a cell, I'd have you thrown in the stocks for speaking to me like that," Arthur says, leaning carefully against the wall opposite from where Merlin sits cross-legged on the floor.
"You told the entire court of Camelot that I'm of "inferior intelligence," I'll speak to you how I like," Merlin returns, a quirk of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
Arthur suppresses a laugh, although their banter has put him more at ease, this same thrust and parry that he has engaged in with Morgana since they were but small children. There is some part of him, a voice that sounds quite a bit like his father, that whispers that sorcerers shouldn't have a sense of humor. That one should never find commonalities with the enemy, because that's the sort of thinking that could get him killed one day. A dead king is of no use to his people.
The fact that Merlin remains relatively untroubled despite his circumstances should be cause enough for a concern, but the other man's face is more open and honest than it has any right to be, and all of a sudden there is a wealth of questions that he needs to know the answers to from this oddly captivating man.
"Why do you do it?"
Merlin stretches out his legs in front of him and looks up at Arthur, curious. "Why do I do what?"
"Magic. Why would you choose to do magic, of all things, in a kingdom where it's punishable by death. Do you have no sense of preservation?"
"I've always done magic," Merlin answers with a shrug, "I can't remember a time in my life when I didn't have it. I suppose I was born with it."
"That's absurd, no one is born with magic. Magic is a choice, and a wrong one at that."
"Not for me," Merlin says, and then, "Who are you trying to convince here? Me or yourself?"
Arthur's eyes narrow and his face feels flushed, although from anger or embarrassment, he couldn't say. "That will be all for today," he snaps, and strides out of the cell, locking it firmly behind him.
When he finally reaches his own room again, Arthur slams a fist into the door and vows to pass responsibility on the matter back to his father.
*
Thoughts of that knowing smile on Merlin's face and the manic gleam in his father's eyes keep Arthur awake that night. Despite everything his father has ingrained deeply in him since childhood, Merlin's crimes keep coming back to them and Arthur isn't sure anymore if they are crimes at all. Using magic may be punishable by death and that fact he has never questioned, but what could be dark about using that magic to help crops to flourish and to make healing supplies more potent?
(what could be dark about those blue eyes and infuriating grin?)
The next morning, he is halfway to the dungeons before he realizes what he's doing.
*
For the following two weeks, they carry on like that. Banter mixed equal parts with amusement and irritation, and it is almost like his relationship with Morgana, but there is something else that he can't quite put his finger on. A gentle unfurling of some unnamed quality deep within him that makes it so that he doesn't mind when Merlin spends hours discussing the inanities of village life, rather than on important matters to the crown. He laughs harder than he has in years at tales of getting stuck in fences after trying to flee from playing an ill-advised prank and ignores the prick of jealousy that rears its ugly head at the mention of a boy named Will.
There is something about the time that they spend alone together, as the guards have long since learnt to stay away, that's unlike any friendship that Arthur has ever had before. Merlin is isolated, cut off from the rest of Albion, and there is a small petty part of Arthur that is glad of this. None of Morgana's mocking or Uther's judgement exists here in this cell, and it might very well be the only time that Arthur spends outside of his own chambers that is away from watchful eyes.
One morning, he launches into a story of his own about Morgana and sword fights and how he most definitely never lost, and it doesn't even occur to him to ask questions about magic or druids or treasonous plots.
*
The third week, he starts to dream of gangly limbs entangled with his own and open-mouthed kisses pressed to pale skin and yes, Merlin, don't stop. Arthur starts to think that perhaps he's been ensorcelled after all.
*
"I'm assuming that you've made progress with the sorcerer at this point. What information have you gleaned from his treacherous words?"
Uther's words take Arthur by surprise, and he straightens up, his gaze falling somewhere behind his father's throne. He can't bring himself to look Uther in the eyes, not when he fears that that would give everything away. Both the fact that he has done nothing to gain any real information, as well as the thoughts that keep him up at night and occupy him during the day, although he can barely truly admit to himself what they mean. If he allows those thoughts to take real form, to become something real, then he has more than conspiring against the crown to worry about.
"He has spoken vaguely of a strong druid community living south of the city. As we have established, this is likely a falsehood, and we should consider searching to the north of here," Arthur says, his voice strong and sure. Lies, lies, they're all lies, and his father won't remain oblivious forever.
Uther smiles grimly. "That is satisfactory, send out patrols to those areas. Whether they prove fruitful or not, we will no longer have need for the sorcerer upon their return."
Arthur's blood runs cold. He nods curtly to his father and excuses himself from the great hall, knowing that it's only a matter of time before the king orders Merlin's execution.
*
The trouble is that then there's that whole nasty business with Lady Helen, followed by Valiant and Nimueh, and that incredibly embarrassing incident with Sophia that Arthur is never speaking of again. A whole series of more pressing matters to attend to, attacks on Camelot and magical plagues alike, and Merlin is quickly forgotten, locked up as he is in the bottom of the castle.
Arthur meets each challenge with the steel of his blade and the determined set of his brow. That he often flees to Merlin's cell during a crisis for advice and always emerges the better for it is known only to them. If anyone knew that he was accepting the advice of an imprisoned sorcerer on important matters of the crown, the ramifications would be too terrible to even consider. But Merlin is always eager and cleverer than he looks, and he can be a bit of a cheeky idiot, and at least he always makes Arthur laugh more often than not.
It isn't until the Questing Beast nearly kills Arthur when Uther turns his attention towards the dungeons in fury, desperate for spilt blood and retribution for a world that threatens time and time again to take away from him that which he holds most dear.
*
It is the dead of the night as they flee from the castle, Arthur keeping one hand clamped around Merlin's wrist and the other wrapped around the hilt of his sword. Somehow he always knew that it would come to this, a conscious betrayal that he had been working towards for months now. There are many good logical reasons for why he should have left Merlin in that cell to await his execution, none of them half as strong as this wild emotion that has overtaken him. It is equal parts frustration and affection, and the knowledge that has settled in his mind like a stone that has been cast into a lake that there is nothing he wouldn't do to protect whatever it is that's between them. It is stupid and completely insane and quite possibly the best thing that has ever happened to him.
They are well into the forest surrounding the city and have reached a turn in the road when they finally stop to take a breath, mist curling around them and obstructing their already impaired vision.
"I just have one question."
Merlin looks at him expectantly. "Now maybe isn't the best time to finally start interrogating me, Arthur."
Stupid and completely insane, Arthur reminds himself. "I don't believe for a second that you couldn't have escaped yourself this entire time. Why did you stay?"
Merlin just grins that impossible wide grin of his and steps forward to a press swift kiss to Arthur's mouth. Quick and barely much of anything at all, but he knows that it's a promise of something more some day in the future.
"I'll be back," Merlin whispers into Arthur's ear, and his voice sends shivers up and down Arthur's spine.
Arthur takes one last hard look, memorizing the details of Merlin's angular face and absurd ears, before Merlin turns the corner and fades into the mist.
Arthur will be waiting.
cheers to brightedelweiss for beta-ing!
It comes to them at first as rumors, faint whispers that there is a new leader of sorts amongst the druids. A sorcerer of unprecedented power, that even the forest spirits stop and stare in awe. Next, there are full-fledged stories of the sorcerer's travels, that wherever he goes, previously struggling villages and crops flourish in his wake.
The stories sound unlikely, fanciful, the idle gossip of desperate people seeking hope. They also sound a little bit too much like undermining the authority of the crown, and it is this that catches the king's attention.
Riders are sent out and they come back with a name.
Merlin.
*
There is a look in his father's eyes as he speaks of magic and calls for the arrest of this mysterious Merlin figure, for all that his crimes sound harmless. If Arthur realizes for the first time that this gleam is nothing short of mania, he shares this with no one, not even Morgana.
*
They ride hard and fast for days through the many forests and fields of Camelot, pushing his knights and their horses far past what Arthur normally would have been comfortable with. He doesn't want to imagine the disappointment and anger that will cross his father's face lest he return to Camelot empty handed, and so they ride on, chasing a figure that seems more and more mythical with each passing day.
Until one day they reach a village where the eager innkeeper says that why yes, I do know of a Merlin, he's been staying here these past few days, and he's done wonders for the village's healing supplies, what do you want with him?
When Arthur enters the inn's common room, one hand on the pommel of his sword, he doesn't know what he's expecting.
It certainly wasn't a scrawny young man about his age with too-big ears and bright blue eyes assessing him with curiosity, rather than malice. Merlin smiles widely with the air of someone who laughs easily, and introduces himself without a hint of fear.
Just as Arthur is thinking that this young man might very well be the strangest sorcerer that he's ever happened across, Merlin comes along without so much as an argument or a fight, and gets that much stranger.
*
Merlin stands before King Uther and the court, arms crossed loosely in front of his chest, with a calm expression across his face. Arthur marvels at it, for he has seen far too many of the accused groveling at his father's feet, tears pouring down their faces as they beg for their lives. Merlin must have some sort of mental affliction to withstand the unbridled hatred in Uther's gaze.
"Do you deny that you have performed magic in Camelot? That you have willfully broken the law and cast spells on my land?"
"No, I don't deny that," Merlin replies with a secretive smile, as if amused by a joke that only he knows.
There's a tell-tale tightening of Uther's jaw that Arthur has come to understand means nothing but a painful conclusion for whomever has enraged his father, and he speaks up before he can take the time to second-guess himself.
"If I may, Father. We know very little of the power that this sorcerer holds over the druids and our lands, and we will learn very little information from him if he's dead."
Uther glares at Arthur, a test of wills between them that has become much more common as of late, and Arthur sets his jaw in determination. He can't explain why this is so important to him, why it is so vital that he find out what lies beyond that easy demeanor and wide smile, but all he knows is that some inexplicable feeling is guiding his actions. He would think himself ensorcelled if it weren't for his clarity of mind.
"The word of a sorcerer cannot be trusted, Arthur."
"I'm aware of that, Father, but perhaps by keeping that in mind, we could learn just as much from his lies as we would if he were capable of speaking the truth."
Arthur can clearly see Uther wavering, and so he adds, "Besides, this man allowed himself to be arrested, he might very well be of inferior intelligence." He determinedly doesn't look in Merlin's direction, although he very much wants to see if his words did anything to alter Merlin's calm façade.
Uther nods tightly. It's a small victory, one that could easily be taken away should his father have second thoughts later, but a victory nonetheless. "Very well, you may question him, but if you learn nothing, he will be punished as all sorcerers are under the laws of Camelot."
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur sees that Merlin's expression hasn't changed, and he considers that perhaps his mental affliction theory might be right after all.
Either that or Merlin is every bit as powerful as the stories say he is.
Arthur can't decide which he'd rather be the truth.
*
Arthur paces back and forth, tapping his riding gloves against one hand, trying to convince himself that he is in no way nervous. Arthur Pendragon has not had occasion to be truly nervous in years, and he has no intention of stopping now simply because some foolhardy sorcerer with an easy grin has caught him off guard.
He descends the staircase to Merlin's cells, strides past the guards and bids them to leave him alone with the prisoner. One falters, determined not to leave the prince alone with an enemy to the crown, but a sharp glare sends him scuttling away as well.
"You're a bit of a prat, you know," Merlin says by way of greeting, "you've probably terrified that guard half to death with your glare. I suppose you've learnt that from your father?"
"If you weren't already in a cell, I'd have you thrown in the stocks for speaking to me like that," Arthur says, leaning carefully against the wall opposite from where Merlin sits cross-legged on the floor.
"You told the entire court of Camelot that I'm of "inferior intelligence," I'll speak to you how I like," Merlin returns, a quirk of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
Arthur suppresses a laugh, although their banter has put him more at ease, this same thrust and parry that he has engaged in with Morgana since they were but small children. There is some part of him, a voice that sounds quite a bit like his father, that whispers that sorcerers shouldn't have a sense of humor. That one should never find commonalities with the enemy, because that's the sort of thinking that could get him killed one day. A dead king is of no use to his people.
The fact that Merlin remains relatively untroubled despite his circumstances should be cause enough for a concern, but the other man's face is more open and honest than it has any right to be, and all of a sudden there is a wealth of questions that he needs to know the answers to from this oddly captivating man.
"Why do you do it?"
Merlin stretches out his legs in front of him and looks up at Arthur, curious. "Why do I do what?"
"Magic. Why would you choose to do magic, of all things, in a kingdom where it's punishable by death. Do you have no sense of preservation?"
"I've always done magic," Merlin answers with a shrug, "I can't remember a time in my life when I didn't have it. I suppose I was born with it."
"That's absurd, no one is born with magic. Magic is a choice, and a wrong one at that."
"Not for me," Merlin says, and then, "Who are you trying to convince here? Me or yourself?"
Arthur's eyes narrow and his face feels flushed, although from anger or embarrassment, he couldn't say. "That will be all for today," he snaps, and strides out of the cell, locking it firmly behind him.
When he finally reaches his own room again, Arthur slams a fist into the door and vows to pass responsibility on the matter back to his father.
*
Thoughts of that knowing smile on Merlin's face and the manic gleam in his father's eyes keep Arthur awake that night. Despite everything his father has ingrained deeply in him since childhood, Merlin's crimes keep coming back to them and Arthur isn't sure anymore if they are crimes at all. Using magic may be punishable by death and that fact he has never questioned, but what could be dark about using that magic to help crops to flourish and to make healing supplies more potent?
(what could be dark about those blue eyes and infuriating grin?)
The next morning, he is halfway to the dungeons before he realizes what he's doing.
*
For the following two weeks, they carry on like that. Banter mixed equal parts with amusement and irritation, and it is almost like his relationship with Morgana, but there is something else that he can't quite put his finger on. A gentle unfurling of some unnamed quality deep within him that makes it so that he doesn't mind when Merlin spends hours discussing the inanities of village life, rather than on important matters to the crown. He laughs harder than he has in years at tales of getting stuck in fences after trying to flee from playing an ill-advised prank and ignores the prick of jealousy that rears its ugly head at the mention of a boy named Will.
There is something about the time that they spend alone together, as the guards have long since learnt to stay away, that's unlike any friendship that Arthur has ever had before. Merlin is isolated, cut off from the rest of Albion, and there is a small petty part of Arthur that is glad of this. None of Morgana's mocking or Uther's judgement exists here in this cell, and it might very well be the only time that Arthur spends outside of his own chambers that is away from watchful eyes.
One morning, he launches into a story of his own about Morgana and sword fights and how he most definitely never lost, and it doesn't even occur to him to ask questions about magic or druids or treasonous plots.
*
The third week, he starts to dream of gangly limbs entangled with his own and open-mouthed kisses pressed to pale skin and yes, Merlin, don't stop. Arthur starts to think that perhaps he's been ensorcelled after all.
*
"I'm assuming that you've made progress with the sorcerer at this point. What information have you gleaned from his treacherous words?"
Uther's words take Arthur by surprise, and he straightens up, his gaze falling somewhere behind his father's throne. He can't bring himself to look Uther in the eyes, not when he fears that that would give everything away. Both the fact that he has done nothing to gain any real information, as well as the thoughts that keep him up at night and occupy him during the day, although he can barely truly admit to himself what they mean. If he allows those thoughts to take real form, to become something real, then he has more than conspiring against the crown to worry about.
"He has spoken vaguely of a strong druid community living south of the city. As we have established, this is likely a falsehood, and we should consider searching to the north of here," Arthur says, his voice strong and sure. Lies, lies, they're all lies, and his father won't remain oblivious forever.
Uther smiles grimly. "That is satisfactory, send out patrols to those areas. Whether they prove fruitful or not, we will no longer have need for the sorcerer upon their return."
Arthur's blood runs cold. He nods curtly to his father and excuses himself from the great hall, knowing that it's only a matter of time before the king orders Merlin's execution.
*
The trouble is that then there's that whole nasty business with Lady Helen, followed by Valiant and Nimueh, and that incredibly embarrassing incident with Sophia that Arthur is never speaking of again. A whole series of more pressing matters to attend to, attacks on Camelot and magical plagues alike, and Merlin is quickly forgotten, locked up as he is in the bottom of the castle.
Arthur meets each challenge with the steel of his blade and the determined set of his brow. That he often flees to Merlin's cell during a crisis for advice and always emerges the better for it is known only to them. If anyone knew that he was accepting the advice of an imprisoned sorcerer on important matters of the crown, the ramifications would be too terrible to even consider. But Merlin is always eager and cleverer than he looks, and he can be a bit of a cheeky idiot, and at least he always makes Arthur laugh more often than not.
It isn't until the Questing Beast nearly kills Arthur when Uther turns his attention towards the dungeons in fury, desperate for spilt blood and retribution for a world that threatens time and time again to take away from him that which he holds most dear.
*
It is the dead of the night as they flee from the castle, Arthur keeping one hand clamped around Merlin's wrist and the other wrapped around the hilt of his sword. Somehow he always knew that it would come to this, a conscious betrayal that he had been working towards for months now. There are many good logical reasons for why he should have left Merlin in that cell to await his execution, none of them half as strong as this wild emotion that has overtaken him. It is equal parts frustration and affection, and the knowledge that has settled in his mind like a stone that has been cast into a lake that there is nothing he wouldn't do to protect whatever it is that's between them. It is stupid and completely insane and quite possibly the best thing that has ever happened to him.
They are well into the forest surrounding the city and have reached a turn in the road when they finally stop to take a breath, mist curling around them and obstructing their already impaired vision.
"I just have one question."
Merlin looks at him expectantly. "Now maybe isn't the best time to finally start interrogating me, Arthur."
Stupid and completely insane, Arthur reminds himself. "I don't believe for a second that you couldn't have escaped yourself this entire time. Why did you stay?"
Merlin just grins that impossible wide grin of his and steps forward to a press swift kiss to Arthur's mouth. Quick and barely much of anything at all, but he knows that it's a promise of something more some day in the future.
"I'll be back," Merlin whispers into Arthur's ear, and his voice sends shivers up and down Arthur's spine.
Arthur takes one last hard look, memorizing the details of Merlin's angular face and absurd ears, before Merlin turns the corner and fades into the mist.
Arthur will be waiting.