Merlin -- Sweeter Dreams: Part III

[tierfal]

Title: Sweeter Dreams
Part: 3
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 9,050
Warnings: occasional language, generally mild violence
Summary: Following a rather different ending to 2.10 ("Sweet Dreams"), Merlin and Arthur head to Olaf's kingdom of Valden to put things right. In the process, Merlin racks up an impressive series of treasonous crimes: insolence, incompetence, tripping while running for his life, and accusing the crown prince of snoring are only the beginning.
Author's Note: This is the part with the stuff.


(PART 3/4)
Amazingly, after the fight had been broken up, all and sundry made it through the rest of the trip unscathed-though Merlin didn’t think he was likely to remain unscathed, if the looks Arthur was shooting him were any indication.

Merlin found that unfair. After the little “slander” hiccup, the rest of the excursion proceeded rather well: Sir Humbert, whom Merlin had learned had his eye on Vivian’s cousin Genevieve, had hunted down and swiftly killed a majestic stag, and all the men had forgone their differences to bond over the brutal and unnecessary death of a beautiful animal. Merlin had spent that portion of the adventure wandering around the surrounding forest, pouting and trying not to feel complicit, but no one had commented, and it seemed like everything had settled very nicely, on the whole.

As they started back, someone sidled up beside Merlin and threw an arm around his shoulders. Merlin jumped, turned as much as the individual’s grip allowed, and discovered Fabian, fresh-faced and beaming.

“I admire your dedication, Merlin,” he declared, tossing his gleaming hair for no apparent reason. “You’re very good at what you do.”

“Thank you, sir,” Merlin said, deciding that he would have to revise his opinion of Fabian, who was evidently completely oblivious to reality.

“It’s really quite rare to find servants with such… tenacity,” Fabian went on. “I find it inspiring.”

“Um,” Merlin said in a way he hoped was encouraging. He was starting to think that this was one of those conversations where the other person was dropping hints under the erroneous impression that Merlin would pick them up. The truth was that Merlin usually ended up in a vast field of fallen clues, none of which had adhered to him. He had a talent for incomprehension.

If you put it that way, maybe he did qualify as ‘mentally-afflicted.’

He would not be telling Arthur about this.

“No, it’s true,” Fabian was insisting, apparently a bit more aware than Merlin had given him credit for. “I would be honored to earn such commitment from a servant of mine. Isn’t your master honored to have you at his side?”

Merlin stared at Fabian for the length of a few bewildered blinks, and then he laughed uproariously.

Arthur chose that moment to seize his shoulder, mutter “Pardon me” to Fabian, and haul Merlin well off to the side-which he thought illustrated the point quite succinctly.

“What are you doing?” the prince demanded, glancing irritably back at the hunting party crashing its way through the trees.

“Investigating?” Merlin hazarded. “I think Fabian has a servant fantasy or some-”

Arthur made a noise like “Eughaugh” and grabbed Merlin’s neckerchief, firm fingers clenching tight.

“We’ve already established that the only person who can love Fabian is himself,” he cut in. “Forget Fabian. Have you ‘investigated’ anyone else?”

“Well,” Merlin said, “Humbert’s more interested in Genevieve than-”

“Everyone knows that,” Arthur interrupted.

“No, they don’t,” Merlin protested, finally succeeding in pulling his accessory out of the prince’s grip. “How’d you find out?”

“You just told me,” Arthur answered, “loud enough for everyone to hear. Look, Merlin-” He grasped his servant’s elbow and stopped them walking, letting the group get further away. “I don’t trust Fabian. He’s conniving.”

Merlin sized the prince up, folding his arms. “You’re just jealous because he’s got better hair than you do.”

“What?” Arthur demanded, disbelieving now. “He does not.”

“He does,” Merlin assured him airily, starting after the hunting party. “It’s luxurious.”

Arthur grabbed his arm again. “What matters,” he managed, “is whether Vivian thinks so. Have you sounded him out? He seems more interested in you than in her.”

Merlin stopped again, struggling to free himself, and turned to face Arthur properly, the better to stare at him.

“He’s just friendly,” he decided. On further contemplation, he added, “And slightly delusional.”

“No,” Arthur gritted out, “you’re naïve. You wouldn’t know attraction if it was handed to you in a labeled box.” He poked Merlin, urgently, in the chest, and Merlin squirmed away. “You’re like a child sometimes-”

“I am?” Merlin burst out. “You’re the one bothering me when I’m trying to do what you asked and have a conversation with-”

Something small and sharp hit him in the back of the head.

Merlin spun, rubbing at his skull, but he saw no source of projectiles among the trees. He looked up next and found only leaves made thin and bright by the sunshine, like tiny stained-glass windowpanes.

“Now what?” Arthur sighed.

“Just-” Merlin began, and then something pelted him between the shoulder-blades. “Ow!”

“Maybe that’s attraction, trying make a point,” Arthur remarked, snickering.

“It’s not funny,” Merlin told him, scowling at the unrevealing forest. “This sort of thing isn’t random; it could be-”

A small stone appeared from nowhere to smack painfully against his cheek, and when Merlin’s hand snapped up to touch the place, he drew it back bloody.

“It’s Trickler,” he said.

Arthur’s eyes went wide just in time for him to watch Merlin jump-a rock had just targeted his arse, which really wasn’t fair at all.

“Bastard!” Merlin yelled in the direction the cheap-shot had come.

“Don’t provoke him, Merlin,” Arthur reprimanded, waving him nearer. The prince had drawn his hunting knife. “We’re not here to fight.”

“Easy for you to say,” Merlin muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur asked, circling Merlin defensively.

“Nothing,” Merlin said, and the forest snickered.

Arthur was immediately on the alert, brandishing the knife, trying to pinpoint the sound.

Trepidation rippled up and down Merlin’s spine, like marbles rolling on his skin.

“We should go,” he realized. “We should catch the others up; we don’t want to be out here alone-”

“Well, why don’t you talk about it more instead of doing it?” Arthur suggested, voice acidic with sarcasm. “Come on, then.”

Merlin nodded, moving carefully back towards the path, trying not to shy too far from his protector.

Another pebble struck his forehead despite his efforts, and he staggered, wincing away from the new injury. Arthur steadied him, glancing fervently around them, and then swiped a new spot of blood from Merlin’s face with the back of his hand.

“Leave him alone,” Arthur called into the unresponsive woods. “You’ve made your point.”

A larger stone struck Arthur’s jaw.

“Hell,” Merlin said, and then the barrage of pebbles began.

“Hell!” Arthur agreed, jamming his knife back into its sheath, seizing Merlin’s arm, and starting off after the hunting party at a run, one hand shielding his head.

Merlin stumbled along with him, elbow crooked to cover his face as best he could, a hail of little stones bouncing off his back and shoulders, pitched with sufficient strength to breed a thousand bruises where they hit.

“Head down!” Arthur barked, palming the back of Merlin’s skull and forcing it forward. A rock the size of an egg soared past, having barely missed its mark.

Stinging shards rained down on them, battering at Merlin’s calves and arms and back, Arthur’s grasp on his wrist guiding them to duck and weave through the forested land, trying to forge into thick vegetation for shelter.

“Ow!” Merlin yelped again when a good-sized stone hit him in the back of the knee, as if his balance wasn’t bad enough to begin with. “Arthur-”

A glance confirmed that the prince wasn’t faring much better. Their hasty journey into a tangled patch of undergrowth proved tantamount to an open invitation for thorns to stab them at every turn, and while many of the stones were deflected by the close trees, quite a number made it through.

Arthur curled a hand in the front of Merlin’s tunic and jerked him down, so fast and so forcefully that Merlin’s head spun. Three rocks whizzed through the place said head had been, and Merlin wobbled as Arthur let him up.

“How far ahead is the party?” the prince asked, craning his neck, then ducking, then stretching to look towards the path again.

“I don’t know,” Merlin managed faintly. “Just-oh, you’ve got to be shitting me.”

The rock rolling steadily towards them, crushing all the shrubs and saplings in its path, barely qualified as a rock at all-“boulder” would have been more descriptive, though “the worst possible thing at that particular moment” would have done it, too.

“Merlin,” Arthur said slowly, his hand closing tightly around his servant’s forearm, “run.”

“Good idea,” Merlin decided in a squeak, watching another bit of greenery disappear beneath the merciless monolith crunching steadily nearer.

“I know it is,” Arthur said; “come on!”

They ran.

Like little meteors or tiny knives, waves of pebbles streaked after them, battering their backs, but they had a very literally larger concern by now. Its largeness was currently tearing through anything in its path, and they were next.

“Where did he find a boulder in the forest?” Merlin wanted to know.

Arthur did not deign to answer, though the tone of his muttering seemed to indicate similar incredulity.

The terrain was surprisingly treacherous-tangled roots snared the toes of Merlin’s boots, twigs whipping into his already beleaguered face, and fallen trees and bushes lurked too high to jump, leaving him to scramble over them clumsily instead. Merlin’s balance betrayed him more than once, and Arthur gripped his arm, hauling him back to his feet; they ducked under branches and vines, spiky-edged leaves clinging to their clothes and hair, and always the boulder bore down on them, ever louder and closer as the moments passed one anxious heartbeat at a time.

Somehow, the sun was getting brighter, and just as Merlin started to wonder if that was some kind of positive omen, they broke out of the trees and onto the top of a considerable hill. His momentum threw him forward, and his heels followed his head’s example, and then he was bouncing and slamming into the dirt, over and over, his shoulders catching gopher holes, grass prickling at his skin, the whole world spinning like a potter’s wheel.

He was about halfway down-maybe?-before he realized he was screaming, and then a particularly vicious bump knocked the wind out of him, and then the sky twirled a few more times and let him go.

Dazed and reeling, Merlin lay where he’d landed, sprawled like a rag doll on his side, and watched a ladybug crawl slowly and fastidiously up a blade of grass. He had just enough presence of mind to be glad he hadn’t rolled any further; he might have crushed the pretty little thing.

“Merlin!” Arthur was shouting, and by the way his voice was coming closer, he was probably running down the hill. “Merlin, get up! Are you-Merlin-”

A very strong hand gripped his shoulder and shook hard, and Merlin squinted up at the backlit face. Arthur’s features were vaguely distinguishable in the shadow, his gold hair fired into a halo by the sunlight, and terror transitioned into annoyance when he saw that Merlin was alive.

“Is anything broken?” he demanded. “Get up, Merlin; we don’t have time-”

Next thing, he was hauling Merlin up again, gesturing violently to the boulder just topping the rise, and then dragging them into the woods again.

Merlin was even clumsier when a lumpy hill had just beaten the living hell out of him, but there wasn’t much to be done for that. Arthur kept dragging him, batting leaves and branches aside, shouldering through the ones that wouldn’t yield, and Merlin kept stumbling after, struggling to focus his fragmented mind on the task of putting one foot in front of the other.

His eyes watered, and his bones ached, and he’d banged his right toes against a particularly cruel root, and Arthur was throwing an arm around his waist to yank him away from a scraggly shrub that had assaulted him, and then they staggered out onto a proper path, and the entire hunting party stared at them in disbelief.

Merlin collapsed onto the ground and gazed dumbly up at the sky. He couldn’t hear the boulder, though Arthur was spinning on one heel, looking for it just in case. Trickler wanted them-or him, and Arthur was a bonus prize. Merlin wasn’t sure why, but this incident had virtually convinced him of it, and he was nearly certain that the geological freak phenomena that had attacked them wouldn’t follow them back to the group.

“What in the hell happened to you?” Fabian asked, voice going a little high with surprise.

“There was-” Arthur said faintly. “We-well, it’s-”

“We fell,” Merlin announced, finding the strength to raise one arm and extend his index finger authoritatively. ‘Falling,’ he had found, could explain almost any injury that a person could obtain by strange or unfortunate means.

“You fell,” Fabian repeated slowly.

“Into a briar patch,” Merlin improvised, remembering the bleeding gash on his cheek.

“Into a gully,” Arthur put in, panting. “A-gully full of briars. And it was difficult to climb out, and then we ran to get back to you so you wouldn’t… worry.”

“Well, that worked,” Lord Slander-Not-Defamation remarked.

Lord Clearly-a-Bit-in-Love-with-Vivian gave him a dirty look.

Arthur brushed himself off, squared his shoulders, and looked over the company in a way that challenged anyone to contest his excuse, and then he offered Merlin a hand up.

Merlin took it.

-
Arthur paced, and Merlin looked gloomily at their list, where they’d crossed out half a dozen of the names.

“I don’t think Vivian loves anyone,” he said. “At least not anyone we’ve met. We should find the handsomest lord and just tell him to try kissing her.”

“That’s too subjective a judgment,” Arthur responded, swiveling sharply and striding back towards the table, his hands behind his back. “Though I suppose your strategy in my case was effective. Maybe we could attempt to replicate that.”

“But she can’t see you,” Merlin pointed out, sighing and pushing a finger at the pen, “or she won’t pay attention to anyone else. And Olaf would never forgive us for it anyway.”

“If he found out,” Arthur said.

“He would,” Merlin replied. “Can you imagine any of those lords not bragging about it to everyone they knew? It was different with you. Women have more discretion.”

“You would know,” Arthur commented, walking towards the wall again. “Since you’re such a girl.”

Merlin threw the ink bottle’s cap at him.

Arthur dodged easily and then pointed an imperious finger at Merlin.

“That’s treason,” he said. “I’m going to have all of your crimes written up when we get home-if there’s enough paper in the whole of Camelot.”

“Crimes?” Merlin repeated, surreptitiously looking about for more ammunition. “There was a fly on you; I was just trying to scare it off.”

“Throwing objects at the crown prince,” Arthur noted, using his fingers to number the list. “Tripping the crown prince when he is running for his life.”

“That was accidental,” Merlin interjected.

“Failing to obey the crown prince’s orders to run for your own measly little life in a timely fashion,” Arthur went on, ignoring him. “Accusing the crown prince of snoring.”

“I’ll have Gaius settle it,” Merlin promised.

“Inciting altercations while the crown prince is attempting to pursue espionage investigations.” Arthur brought up his other hand. “General failure as a servant; denial of the crown prince’s conclusions to that effect. Insolence verging on insurrection. Constant flirting on the job.”

“Flirting with people other than you, you mean,” Merlin fired back.

Arthur paused.

Collette swept in through the open door, bearing a huge, heavy-looking bucket of steaming water. Merlin hastened to help her.

“Here, let me-”

Arthur clapped his hands together. “Is it bath-time, then?” he asked.

Merlin stopped midway through the process of repossessing Collette’s burden to stare at Arthur.

“You’ve got a bit of dirt there,” Arthur observed, motioning to the entirety of Merlin’s form.

“I’m fine,” Merlin said cagily.

“I’ll go first,” Arthur coaxed, and then Merlin knew he’d won-once the prince was soaking in the soapsuds, he’d be so pleased with himself that he’d forget all about Merlin’s state.

“As you like,” Merlin said. “Shall I help Collette get the bath-water for you, Sire?”

Arthur waved a hand negligently. “See to it.”

“Prat,” Merlin muttered the second he and Collette were in the hall, going for the next few buckets to fill the tub. “Can you believe him?”

“Your cheek’s bleeding, Merlin.”

“You’d think he’s prince of the world.”

“So is your forehead.”

“Don’t know what he’s got against a little travel dust anyway.”

“You have leaves in your hair.”

He reached up and discovered that she was right.

“Long day?” he managed.

“Don’t you think maybe Arthur’s right?” Collette asked. “I mean, wouldn’t washing up feel nice after all you’ve been through this afternoon?”

Merlin frowned. “He’s just worried I’ll get dirt in his bed.”

There was a communicative pause, during the course of which Collette’s eyebrows rose considerably.

“I mean,” Merlin blurted out, “that-I was just-borrowing-his bed. Last night. Just the once. Because there were… extenuating circumstances. It’s not like-you know.”

Collette smiled faintly. “No,” she assured him, “I know what you mean.” They’d reached the pump, and she handed him a bucket. “What do you say we make a quick job of this?”

The girl, as Merlin was discovering, had a powerful talent for speaking things and then shaping reality to make them true-in record time, they’d filled the bathtub in his and Arthur’s room, and the prince was standing over it, his arms folded, looking satisfied.

“Right,” he said. “Lend a hand, Collette?”

Merlin had just enough time to wonder why Arthur didn’t want his assistance as well before he realized that the two of them were closing in on him.

“Hey,” he said faintly, backing away only to encounter the table, then a chair. “Let’s not do anything rash.”

Arthur cracked his knuckles.

“Believe me, Merlin,” he said, blithely. “I’ve been planning this for a long time.”

Merlin edged around the chair, glancing quickly towards the door. “Why don’t we talk about this?” he suggested. “We’re all reasonable, civilized people, aren’t we?”

“Reasonable, civilized people take baths, Merlin,” Arthur said.

Merlin shied away from him, but his foot tangled around the leg of another chair, and it tipped, and they tumbled together. He fell surprisingly lightly and didn’t bang anything at a particularly painful angle, which must have been the floor’s way of apologizing for what was in store.

“I thought you were going to go first!” Merlin protested hopelessly, scrabbling as Arthur dragged him towards the bathtub by his arm.

“You’re filthy, Merlin,” the prince remarked, as if that justified bath-related abuse.

“You’re going to dislocate my shoulder!” Merlin cried.

“Careful,” Collette put in, catching Merlin’s other arm and attempting to pull him to his feet.

“Let me go!” Merlin wailed, wriggling to no avail.

“You are pretty roughed-up,” Collette told him, wheedlingly.

“It’s part of my charm!” Merlin managed.

“Come on, Merlin,” Arthur growled, hauling him towards the tub.

“Here, at least-”

Collette peeled Merlin’s shirt off, and Merlin howled, and Arthur hissed at him to shut up and stop alerting everyone in the castle to their presence. Thrashing, Merlin ignored that suggestion and took to yelling various things about torture and indignity, the specifics of which were unimportant so long as the message got across.

The secondary message was Let go, or odds are I’ll accidentally break your nose.

Despite all of his talented flailing, Collette somehow undid his neckerchief, too, and was pulling off his boots when Arthur threw both arms around Merlin’s waist, hefted him, and then deposited him in the tub.

Merlin squeaked as hot water splashed everywhere, and then he huddled, pouting, wrapping his arms around himself and trying not to feel extremely exposed, which he was. He supposed he ought to count himself lucky that Collette hadn’t managed to deprive him of his trousers-he had other pairs of those, but he only had a single sense of pride, and he couldn’t replace that with a dry one as soon as he was alone.

Arthur stepped back and planted his hands on his hips, looking satisfied, and then glanced at Collette.

“I don’t think anything short of a dozen knights with halberds has ever gotten Merlin into the bath before,” he remarked.

This was clearly untrue; Gaius’s eyebrow had done it a hundred times.

“Any chance I could entice you to work in Camelot?” the prince went on.

Collette smiled apologetically at Merlin and offered him the soap. She seemed so sincere that he took it, albeit grudgingly.

“I’m afraid I’m a bit too settled here,” Collette told Arthur as she took off Merlin’s second boot and set it aside with its brother.

“You should give Merlin tips,” the prince decided.

“I’m already perfect,” Merlin cut in, reluctantly rubbing at his cheek with some soap. It stung in the cuts, and he drew his hand away slightly muddy. Maybe his tormentors had a point.

A little bit of a point. An incidental point. A point he could have gone the rest of his life without conceding, if he’d wanted to.

Arthur snorted. “Perfectly incompetent,” he said. “You’re not even-Merlin, that’s not how you use soap.”

“Go away!” Merlin protested, attempting to writhe out of reach.

His efforts proved futile, however, as the prince pushed up his sleeves, tossed his silver ring to Collette, and pried the soap out of Merlin’s hands. Merlin wriggled, but to no avail; he was squarely trapped in the tub, unable to get leverage with his legs still over the side, no matter how much as he swung his arms and hollered his disapproval.

Naturally, Arthur disregarded his objections, lathered up the soap, and started spreading suds all over Merlin’s back.

“Don’t touch me!” Merlin tried to duck away, which only encouraged Arthur to start smearing the soap on his head, fingernails scraping at his scalp and tugging through his wet and quickly-tangling hair. Merlin swatted at Arthur’s hands, but fruitlessly; the prince’s grip was sure, and his slightly rough palms were steady, and he was relentless all around. Merlin supposed he should have expected that.

Unsurprisingly, the prince tried to perch on the edge of the tub for a better angle, curling his fingers in Merlin’s hair and tilting his servant’s head towards him. All the while Merlin railed at the top of his voice, shoving uselessly against Arthur’s chest-wet handprints marked his lack of progress. Hopeless, by the looks of it, Merlin did the only thing he could think of: he splashed Arthur in the face.

Arthur blinked, wrinkled his nose, and blinked again, his bangs dripping in his eyes.

Then he dipped a hand into the bath and batted water back at Merlin, who flinched.

The splash war escalated so fast that Collette didn’t have time to run before becoming collateral damage. Her squeal of surprise segued into uncontrollable giggling, and Arthur slipped and half-fell into the tub, where he started rubbing soap more vigorously against Merlin’s face and shoulders and chest, all slick hands and incredulous laughter. Merlin was doing his best to churn up a splash tempest in the hopes of deterring the hygiene-minded prince, whose hands were much too warm and far too invasive: the soap was burning in the little gashes, and Merlin’s cheeks were burning as well, entirely of their own accord.

That was about when Harper skidded into the room, his sword bare, his shirt unlaced, and his hair in disarray.

He stared, and then he grinned, lowering the blade.

“Oh,” he said, in a tone of significance that Merlin didn’t like. “It sounded like someone was getting killed in here.”

Merlin realized that Arthur was most of the way into the tub with him, both of them soaked through and decorated with patches of soapsuds, with Collette standing by. He went a bit redder still, because this definitely wasn’t what it looked like.

Merlin didn’t even want to think about what it looked like.

To tell the truth, he had no idea what that could be.

Ian was peeking around the doorframe, and his hair was ruffled, too.

“Told you,” he remarked to Harper idly.

“You have a talent for distinguishing screams of agony from screams of cleanliness,” Harper noted in reply.

Arthur cleared his throat, cleared his throat again, clambered hastily out of the tub, and threw the soap to Merlin, who missed catching it and promptly lost it in the water.

The prince was standing very tall, apparently mustering as much dignity as could be salvaged from the situation. Merlin attempted not to get distracted by how adorable Arthur looked all wet and flustered.

“I appreciate your checking in on us,” the prince managed to announce. “As I’m sure you were…” He glanced at Ian by the door and went pink despite a third throat-clearing. “…busy…”

Harper paused, looking between the two of them concernedly. “What happened?” he asked, gesturing to their various small injuries. “Are you all right?”

“Trickler happened,” Merlin said, making a strong effort to forget that he was bent double in a bathtub, with bare feet and soap in his hair. He supposed it wasn’t much worse than the stocks, and he’d had lots of good conversations there. “We were hunting with Fabian in the forest-”

Harper snorted and tried to cover with a cough. Ian rolled his eyes.

“And we got separated from the group,” Merlin went on slowly, “and Trickler started throwing rocks at us. What’s so funny?” He wanted to add, Other than my current position, but he was worried that the answer would be No, that’s all.

“Fabian,” Harper responded instead. “That man is my favorite court menace, bar none. That aside, why the hell would Trickler want to follow you around in the forest?”

“Revenge?” Merlin hazarded. It was the closest thing to a motive that he’d been able to generate from the conversation he and the other sorcerer had had before.

“But Vivian’s such an easy target,” Collette pointed out. “Speaking of which, I had better go check on her if you’ve got things under control here.”

Arthur gave her a Your presence will not mitigate my suffering, so you’re free to go look, and Collette bobbed a curtsey and slipped out the door, smiling at Ian as she went.

“She’s right,” Harper decided. “Why the pair of you?”

“I guess because we stopped him before,” Merlin said, shifting a little and trying to position his knees in front of his chest. “Maybe he figures it’s only fair to ruin our plan the same way.”

“It’s you he wants,” Arthur said.

Merlin stared at him. The prince’s face revealed nothing, his expression impressively neutral as he looked to Harper again.

“It’s Merlin he caught in the halls,” Arthur recollected, “and he didn’t bother me today until I moved to Merlin’s defense.”

That made more sense than Merlin wanted to think about. His experiences had certainly taught him that sorcerers tended to be territorial, and Merlin, who understood the power of magic best, was Trickler’s greatest threat. It might also explain the way Trickler had gotten into his head-was it all a matter of trying to drive him away?

Harper propped his sword against his shoulder, settling his other hand on his hip. “All the more important that we find him, then.”

Arthur pushed damp hair off of his forehead. “We could always lock Merlin in a closet.”

It was Ian’s turn to acquire a sudden cough.

“Try it,” Merlin muttered. He looked to Harper, hoping the other man would understand him instinctively. “Just look after people like you’ve been doing; I can take care of myself.”

“You can’t even wash properly,” Arthur butted in, settling a hand at the side of Merlin’s head and pushing him sideways for emphasis. He directed his next words at Harper. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

The captain smiled. “Perfect. I’ll start a search of the castle in the meantime-if he’s getting this bold, we should probably be concerned.”

Merlin was still sitting in the cooling bathtub, evidencing the epitome of ridiculousness. He badly wanted this conversation to be over.

He also wanted Arthur to go jump off of a battlement, but he was trying to focus on realistic goals.

Harper seemed to have a sixth sense for these things-he offered them a quick bow, promised his best effort, and strode out, catching Ian’s arm en route. The captain’s servant had the presence of mind to shut the door after them, and Merlin could have sworn the man winked.

Merlin was ready to retire from servitude, sorcery, and excitement and take up farming in Ealdor now.

Arthur drew a deep breath, released it as a sigh, and glanced down at him again.

“Somehow,” he observed, “you still manage to be coated in dirt. When I said there was something special about you, Merlin, I didn’t know it was that you were a mud magnet.”

“You’ve had lots of time to figure that out,” Merlin responded, halfheartedly scooping up some floating suds and brushing them across his forehead. “Would you go look at the list? I forget who’s still on it.”

“No, Merlin,” Arthur said calmly, crossing his arms. “I’m going to stand here and monitor you until I’m satisfied with how clean you are.”

Merlin felt a deep and rather convincing urge to leap from the tub and strangle the life out of Arthur Pendragon. He was prevented mostly by his angle, which was still awful-he had no leverage for leaping and throttling, tragic as that detail was.

Swallowing and making a distinct effort to stay calm, Merlin resolved to show the prince how good people acted in bad situations: for instance, remaining reasonable, or not subjecting servants to various unnecessary humiliations. He made an elaborate show of washing both arms and as much as he could reach of his back, and he even went so far as to wet his face, wrinkling his nose at the way the cuts still sizzled with momentary pain. A short ways into this display, Arthur changed his mind about looming ominously over the bathtub and retreated to the bed, where he sat to watch.

Without waiting for a confirmation, having vaguely scrubbed at all the obvious centers of dirt, Merlin assigned himself instead to the task of getting out of the bathtub again. After some careful shifting, he braced both hands on the edge, fought for traction on the floor, and, slightly miraculously, pried himself from his erstwhile prison, bursting free and stumbling a bit as he regained his balance on his legs.

Arthur treated him to some slow and deliberate applause.

“I’d like to see you do that,” Merlin informed his torturer, making his soggy-trousered way over to his pack to sort through its contents.

“I would do it with much more grace,” Arthur said, “given that I’m not made of sticks and a little skin. I’m not letting you on the bed until you’re dry, you know.”

Merlin frowned, retrieved a pair of new trousers, shook the worst of the wrinkles out, and turned away from Arthur to make the switch.

Instants before she would have seen far more of him than either of them would have liked, Collette burst in again, looking one part dazed and two parts terrified.

“It’s the jester,” she said, pushing the door shut and leaning against it, wringing her hands so intently that Merlin feared for her knuckles. “He was in Vivian’s room-the door was ajar, and I heard voices, which never happens; she never has men with her, as you’d probably guess. So I looked, and he was telling her about how Arthur Pendragon had come to see her despite her father’s wishes, because nothing could keep them apart, and he was in the castle waiting for her, but she had to find him, because true love would make it all turn out right-” Collette sucked in a long breath and let it out shakily, clenching her fists and then holding them against her mouth. “And she was enraptured,” she went on, softer and slower now. “She believed him. She believed all of that. She knows you’re here.”

Merlin and Arthur exchanged glances, and the prince transitioned seamlessly into a commander at war.

“Merlin,” he said, sliding smoothly off the bed, “you and Collette go back to Vivian’s room and make sure she’s safe. I’ll find Harper and alert him.”

Merlin shouldered a dry shirt on, lamenting the fact that wet, heavy trousers were currently the least of his problems.

“Oh,” Collette said, strangely collected. “She’s safe. I chased him off.”

Merlin and Arthur glanced at each other again, and then they stared at Collette in unison.

“Well,” Collette amended, coloring a little, “I sort of-burst in and… shouted at him that he’d better not harm a hair on her head, you know, and he… vanished.”

“He could have killed you,” Merlin pointed out.

Avoiding their eyes, Collette shrugged.

“Well,” Arthur said slowly, still incredulous, “there’s a chance he’ll have come back, if he has more to say.”

“And what are we supposed to do if he has?” Merlin managed.

Arthur blinked at him as if this was a test question he was supposed to know the answer to. “You hold him off,” he answered simply.

“What with?” Merlin demanded, flinging his empty arms out wide.

Arthur studied him for just a moment.

“Figure something out,” he instructed, oh-so helpfully, as he buckled his sword belt. “Act as bait if you have to.”

Merlin was starting to think that Arthur was trying to kill him again.

-
Vivian’s room was none too close to theirs-the princess lived high up and well away from the castle’s major passages. The seclusion, Merlin thought, was a good step towards security, though a half-dozen armored guards by the door certainly wouldn’t have hurt.

The door in question was closed now, and they pressed their ears to it, straining for sound.

Merlin couldn’t hear much more than the faintest rustling-and then a delighted sigh. After a moment of silence, he looked to Collette, who shrugged, waved at him to stay out of sight, and knocked briskly on the door.

“Who is it?” Vivian sang.

“It’s me again,” Collette replied, her fingers already curled around the door handle.

“Oh,” Vivian said. “Come in!”

With one last glance at Merlin, Collette obeyed, leaving the heavy door open just a crack.

“Collette!” Vivian was crying breathlessly-and had she just clapped her hands? “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Ah,” Collette asked, sounding magnificently unexcited. “What are you referring to? Please, Milady, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“You didn’t hear? I suppose it’s a secret,” Vivian whispered. There was a pause, and Merlin crept closer, aligning his eye with the gap Collette had left in the door. He could just make out Vivian bouncing around in a pale gown, visible at intervals around Collette, who had her hands folded behind her back so tightly that her knuckles were bright white. Then Vivian giggled loudly. “All right!” she said. “It’s Prince Arthur! He’s here, because he loves me enough to risk my father’s wrath! Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?”

Merlin was guessing that the word Collette would have chosen was “suicidal” or “horrific,” but Vivian evidently wasn’t in the mood for semantics.

“How-lovely,” Collette managed, subjected to the full force of Vivian’s radiant grin. “He-I’ve heard that he-is a very honorable young man. Honorable enough that you should be quite careful in pursuing him, Milady, lest your father catch him, which would dishonor him a great deal.”

“You’re right,” Vivian murmured unhappily, and Merlin let himself relax against the door a little. “We’ll have to be very cautious liaising. I’ll have to send messages. You need to find him, Collette; bring him-this!” With a flourish, she produced a red silk handkerchief and waved it around. “Bring him this!”

Collette shifted uncomfortably. “Milady, I don’t know where he is.”

Merlin craned his neck, trying to see Vivian’s face past Collette’s shoulder. He caught a glimpse of an exquisite pout.

“Well, you know the castle better than anyone, Collette. And you’ve done me a thousand favors before. What do you think I should do? Are you any good at poetry?” Collette mumbled something noncommittal, and Vivian tapped her foot. “What rhymes with ‘Arthur’?”

Merlin leaned a little closer, lost his balance, fell into the door, outweighed it, and tumbled into the room.

Sadly-and tellingly-his first thought was that Arthur would be justified in slaughtering him now, and the question of whether he’d cracked his skull sulked into his consciousness well after he’d indexed Arthur’s options for murder weapons.

Tentatively, he opened his eyes, which he’d automatically squeezed shut on impact. Vivian and Collette were staring down at him, the former bewilderedly, the latter in guilt-stricken concern.

“Don’t I know you?” Vivian asked.

“Um,” Merlin managed, fumbling for words, “no. No, I don’t think you do. You see, I’m… new… here, and I’d… certainly remember a lady as lovely as yourself.” That wasn’t a bad start. Maybe he could distract her with the compliment. “I was just exploring the halls a bit and happened to… trip.”

Collette did not look particularly reassured by Merlin’s pathetic excuse for an excuse, but it was better than nothing. Vivian was still watching him suspiciously, and Merlin recalled that he was lying on the floor, so he scrambled to his feet instead. At least this way, he could run if things got too-

Vivian’s bright eyes lit up. “I do know you! You’re Arthur’s servant! He’s sent you to find me!”

Merlin bolted.

There was one single, solitary thing to be grateful for: he was getting a much better sense of the mazy halls, and he could now navigate them without expecting to get lost and die. Well, that, or the world had decided he’d had enough downright rotten luck today and was cutting him a break.

Either way, he didn’t stop until he’d made it back to his and Arthur’s room and slammed the door behind him, panting heavily, gingerly shifting as he realized how chafed his legs were from running in the wet trousers.

Arthur, sitting at the table spinning his hunting knife, abruptly looked up.

“How’s Vivian?” he asked.

“Fantastic,” Merlin answered breathlessly. “All the more fantastic for thinking you’re going to woo her at the first opportunity. She’s got a nice token for you already. And she recognized me.”

Merlin left out the part about that being entirely his own fault.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair and frowned. “The way our fortunes are, I’m not surprised. Harper knows the situation, at least. I trust there’s no sign of Trickler?”

Merlin shook his head and sat next to Arthur, folding his arms on the table.

The moment he touched the chair, he remembered that his trousers were still soaked and jumped up again.

“Don’t let anyone walk in,” Merlin mumbled to Arthur as he went to fetch dry clothes. “Your bath water’s going to be frigid.”

“There are more important things to do than take a bath right now,” Arthur replied. At Merlin’s disbelieving stare, he crossed his legs, scowling. “What?”

Merlin shrugged, turned away, took a deep breath, and dropped his wet trousers, stepping out of them. “Just never known you to pass up a bath before.”

“Hang those up somewhere,” Arthur ordered of the abandoned article crumpled on the floor. Merlin’s face went very hot at the thought that Arthur was watching him as he nudged the pile of heavy fabric aside with his foot and pulled on the new pair. “Come on,” Arthur scolded. “Don’t just leave it there.”

Resisting the urge to glance back at him, Merlin smoothed his warm new clothes, picked up the lump of wet cloth, and draped it over the back of one of the chairs.

“I guess we can run you a bath tomorrow,” he told the tabletop.

“Tomorrow,” Arthur said, “we’re going to line up the lords, swear them all to secrecy, and give each one a moment with Vivian. We can’t afford to have her compromised in such a dangerous situation.”

“You think having her true love announced to her is going to make her safer?” Merlin asked, moving across the room to consider the bathtub without having looked at Arthur yet. “It seems to me that love makes people more vulnerable.”

He heard Arthur drumming his fingers on the table. “I don’t see what you mean.”

“When you realize you’re in love with someone,” Merlin said, pushing up his sleeve and fishing the bar of soap out of the-yup-chilly water, “you’re always conscious of them. And the best way for somebody to hurt you is to hurt them. If someone causes you pain, you can convince yourself you’re strong enough to take it, but when it’s someone you love more than yourself, seeing them in pain is unbearable. If you give her a true love, you give her another weakness, too.”

“I thought you would support loving everyone,” Arthur said slowly.

“I do,” Merlin said, balancing the soap on the edge of the tub. “That’s why-well, I’m easy to hurt, aren’t I?”

“That’s why you always run to the rescue?” Arthur supplied. “Not because of duty or courage or honor, but because you love too much?”

Merlin smiled a little. “I never really thought about it like that. I just try to do what seems right.”

He heard the chair creak, and he chanced a glance at Arthur, who stood and stretched.

“Let’s hope it sees us through tomorrow,” the prince remarked. “I imagine we’ll need a whole lot of luck to go with your righteousness.”

Merlin got up, folded his hands a little, and managed a smile.

“While you’re up,” Arthur said, “will you take out the bath-water?”

For a moment, Merlin considered contriving to make Arthur drink it, and then he remembered how unpleasant his own experience with bath-tea had been and decided to spare the prince that kind of misfortune.

Hauling the extraordinarily heavy tub out of the room, he mused that he definitely was too loving for his own good.

-
Merlin paused pointedly as Arthur began preparing for bed. He’d procrastinated as much as possible tidying up the remnants of the dinner Ian had brought them, but now his options were hopping onto the mattress beside the prince or laying out his old bedding on the floor, and he wasn’t sure which choice Arthur intended him to make.

For someone who alternated between straightforward to a fault and blockheadedly stubborn, Arthur could be impressively unpredictable.

Apparently, Merlin himself was somewhat less surprising: Arthur, sitting up against the headboard and consulting their list, gave him a stern look and pointed to the open side of the bed.

That was unequivocal enough. Merlin sidled over and climbed in, trying not to rock the mattress too much. Maneuvering to look around Arthur’s arm, he peeked at the paper, spotted as it was with inkblots (his), straight, bold strikeouts (Arthur’s), and letters with delicate curves and flourishes (courtesy of Collette).

“Why is Fabian still on our list?” Arthur asked.

Merlin chewed on his lip. “Well, we can’t exactly cross him off. All the other ladies love him; Vivian could, too.”

“I should hope Vivian would exhibit better judgment than to dedicate herself to a scheming fop with shiny hair,” Arthur muttered.

Merlin grinned. “Don’t forget that she didn’t fall in love with you until the spell forced her to. That sounds like terrible judgment to me.”

Arthur glanced at him, eyebrows rising, and Merlin went pink for what had to be the hundredth time that night as he realized what he’d said.

“Merlin,” the prince responded slowly, setting the list in his lap, “why do I always find myself wondering how much you say on purpose and how much just comes out to spite you?”

“I think it’s about half and half,” Merlin managed, distracted by Arthur’s eyes, which were dark and bright at once, royal blue but so intent.

Their corners crinkled as Arthur smirked. “You use that to your advantage, don’t you? You’re a whole lot smarter than you look.”

Merlin smiled a little, sheepishly, and tugged at the blankets. “Only to help people,” he said. “Well, people and prats.”

“The two main demographics in Camelot,” Arthur noted mildly. He was quiet for a moment, and Merlin picked at a few loose threads in the sheet until the prince’s expectant gaze finally grew too heavy, and he had to look up.

Arthur’s eyes were calculating but strangely warm.

“Merlin,” he said, “answer something honestly for me.”

Merlin heard his heart thumping in his ears. He wanted to tell the truth-he always wanted to-but there were so many things he just couldn’t say. The more they traveled, the more they learned, the more Merlin saw of the world and its people, the less of himself it was safe to show. It was only safe to exist in the capacity of Arthur’s servant, of the bumbling, naïve numbskull trotting at his heels; the rest he had to hide. The rest he had to bury, and honesty about all those buried things-the traits, the thoughts, the theories, the bits and pieces of knowledge that sparked in him, poised to ignite the world around them if he let them free… honesty about those things was out of the question.

“Of course,” he said. “Always.”

Arthur looked at him, looked away, and then at Merlin again. Then he placed their list on the nightstand and shifted to sit facing his servant, one knee up under the blanket, his arm draped over it.

“In the tent,” he said, “you kissed me last, didn’t you?”

Merlin stared. Of all the things…

“I-” he stammered. “It was an accident-”

Arthur’s head was tilted just slightly, just enough that his bangs were slowly sliding across his forehead.

“I don’t think it was,” he said.

Merlin’s hands were shaking, which was odd, because they were folded in his lap, and he swore he could hear his pulse beating in his temple, a distant rushing like the sound of the sea. Why hadn’t he realized before how close they were?

“But you can’t…” Merlin’s voice protested. “But… the Dragon said ‘her’; I remember-”

Arthur blinked, and the change in his expression gutted the moment instantaneously.

“The Dragon?” he repeated flatly. “What Dragon?”

The Dragon Merlin was going to feed himself to when they got home, of course.

“The one your father’s got chained under the castle,” he said, leaning forward now. “Arthur-”

“I don’t believe this,” the prince muttered fiercely, pushing his hair back.

Merlin watched him uncertainly. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” he mumbled.

“A Dragon, Merlin?” Arthur was raving.

“You have a one-track mind, Arthur.”

“I think this track is suitable given that no one told me there’s a Dragon under the bloody castle!”

“Well,” Merlin took up, folding his arms, “I don’t think very many people know about him. Except me. And Gaius. And your father, obviously. And I guess any knights who’ve been around since he was caught, since they were probably involved. And I suppose lots of people probably noticed when they dragged a huge dragon through the town on a chain, so anybody old enough to remember that. And any servants or guards who’ve gotten lost might have stumbled on him. And-”

Arthur waved at him incoherently with one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other.

“It’s not so bad,” Merlin ventured cautiously. “I mean, he’s told me to save you at least two dozen times, so he’s clearly on your side.”

Arthur flopped down in the bed and held his pillow over his head.

Sighing inwardly, Merlin abandoned his last hopes for that conversation and settled down under the bedcovers, facing away from the prince. He blew out the candles and watched wisps of smoke twirl upward in the dark, and then he shut his eyes.

He had figured that the disappointment and frustration alone would keep him up well into the night, but it had been such a grotesquely long day of boulder evasion and bath fights that he was actually drowsing in minutes. Just as he started to waver into relatively pleasant dreams, Arthur spoke.

“What about Guinevere?”

His sleepiness, as Merlin discovered too late, had made mincemeat of his usual caution when choosing words.

“What about her?” he asked. “She’s wonderful. She used to be my friend until all this business with you started up, and she stopped having time to talk to me. She’s a lovely girl, though. You should marry her and have adorable babies.”

“No, Merlin,” Arthur said, shoving him none too gently. The prince’s hand wasn’t very steady, and neither was his voice. “I mean… if it’s-you, then what am I supposed to say to her?”

“If what’s me?” Merlin muttered.

“In the tent,” Arthur said again. “You kissed me last.”

Merlin found himself quite awake, but he couldn’t move.

“And that’s what broke the spell,” Arthur said. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I mean, obviously you’re the single worst servant the world has ever seen, but you’re also… kind of brilliant.”

Merlin was not hearing this. He was dreaming.

Wait, yes-of course he was. That made sense. He settled, his tense muscles loosening a little, because if he was dreaming, Arthur could say anything he wanted, and it would have disappeared in the morning, obliterated by the sun.

“And… I think it’d be overestimating even your compassion to say you like me all of the time, but you put up with me anyway-when I’m angry and stubborn and unreasonable and never thank you for a thing. You’re like my conscience. And… I need you. I rely on you more than anything, and even when you’re incompetent, you’re trying. No one else treats me like that. No one else hears me out even when I’m wrong. No one else comes to save me from my own arrogance even when they’ve warned me against it. It has to be you.”

“I thought you hated destiny,” Merlin said, curling smaller, flinching when Arthur’s fingertips grazed his shoulder-blade.

“What’s to hate about doing the same stupid things we’ve been doing all along?” the prince inquired.

Merlin managed a little smile. “That’s sort of how I feel about it.”

There was contemplative silence for a moment, and then, inevitably, Arthur shattered it and stomped on the remains.

“You’re a terrible kisser, you know.”

Merlin rolled over indignantly at that. “I wasn’t even trying to kiss you!” he objected. “I fell!”

Arthur smirked lazily. “You’ve done a great deal of highly suspect falling recently.”

Merlin scowled. “There is nothing ‘suspect’ about me being clumsy; you’ve been complaining about it since day o-”

Arthur kissed him.

This was much more like what he’d envisioned in small, secret moments, in half-dreams stained and sinking into guilt. This was Arthur’s thumb grazing his cheekbone, Arthur’s fingertips at his ear, Arthur’s mouth warm and taunting and responsive-this was Arthur’s breath on his lips and Arthur’s nose against his cheek and the tickle of Arthur’s hair. This was a soft, dark moment of nothing but blind sensitivity, a muddle of unhesitating love and some dizzying fear of messing up just when he had everything.

Arthur’s eyes were bright and curious in the moonlight when they drew apart, and Merlin swallowed, daring to hope.

“It’s official,” the prince said. “You are an abysmal kisser, Merlin.”

“You’re no good either,” Merlin replied, only a little breathlessly. “I feel terrible for putting all those ladies through that.”

“Treason,” Arthur said, belied by his grin. “Now go to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a disaster, if precedent is anything to go by.”

“Is optimism treachery, too?” Merlin asked.

“The worst of all,” Arthur replied, reaching out to push Merlin’s hair off his forehead. “Sleep, will you?”

“I was about to,” Merlin told him, leaning into his hand, “but then you started talking.”

Arthur thumbed at Merlin’s jaw, rolled his eyes, and then rolled over. “Goodnight, Merlin.”

Merlin bit his lip, settling with the pillow, admiring the way the prince’s hair shone palely in the dim light.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” he responded. “Sweet dreams.”

-
“Up, Merlin.”

Merlin mumbled in protest as the prince’s warm hand disheveled his hair, and then he batted at the invasive appendage. None too surprisingly, the prince easily avoided his somnolent attempts at defense and took to tickling him instead.

Wailing, Merlin wriggled, rolled away, and ended up on the floor, though practice ensured that he caught himself before his skull hit the stone.

Upon becoming conscious, Merlin’s first thought was to wonder whether last night had been an elaborate hallucination-or an even more elaborate misunderstanding. What if he’d imagined it all? Or Arthur had eaten something that had made his brain go funny, and he hadn’t actually meant any part of it? Random chance had never been Merlin’s friend. It was more of a mutual, instinctive, undying hatred thing.

Except that Arthur was standing over him, like usual, but there was something different in his smile.

“You’re going to crack your head open one of these days,” he remarked, “and then we’ll finally be able to figure out what’s wrong with you.”

Maybe love-maybe true love-was different; maybe it wasn’t something you worked at, thought about, justified. Maybe true love was something that happened, not something you did.

“First you’d have to clean up the mess,” Merlin noted. He took the firm hand that Arthur offered and pulled himself to his feet. “That sounds fair.”

Arthur shoved his shoulder, a fraction more gently than was his tendency. “Today, we might just get to try. Come on, Collette brought breakfast a quarter of an hour ago.”

[PART II] [PART IV]