Fic - Saiyuki - A Time of Kings
Fandom: Saiyuki
Theme: Fantasy AU
Title: A Time of Kings
Author/Artist: nouvellebrielle
Warnings: Uh, mostly worksafe, except for one bit that comes up to a mild R. And um. Minor character genderswitch (there are many evil women in Arthurian legend and ... a lot less evil women in Saiyuki Gaiden). And anachronisms. But that's nothing that new. Oh! And character death. Because, yeah. Arthurian legend.
Pairing(s): Tenpou/Kenren, background Kenren/Goujun, Kanzeon/Tenpou, Kanzeon/Jiroushin
Notes: A mishmash of Gaiden and Arthurian legend. Beta done by the amazing avierra, thanks for the fantastic job as always, hun! My hands touched this last so any mistakes are mine. Lastly, voting for Kenren.
The fields of Camlann are stained red by the rising dawn. Merlin steps beyond the canvas of his tent, dew soaking the cloth of his calfskin slippers. His glasses slip down the bridge of his sweat-slicked nose. Never has Albion experienced such a summer as this. Arthur and he, they haven’t discussed it but they both understand that it bodes ill for battle.
Despite that, the men are ready for what is to come; Knights of the Round Table interspersed with bakers and blacksmiths and boys. Hardly the stuff that legends are made of, but Camelot has little control over her fate these dark days.
Retrieving his staff, he makes his way across the encampment to where the king's tent sits, Pendragon colours fluttering in the crying wind. Merlin tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ears and wishes he’d remembered to pack Arthur’s favourite brew before the trip.
The guards admit him without question. Within, Arthur has already awoken. The king sits clad in black leather hide, a preference that the other knights deem ridiculous but which Merlin secretly understands.
(‘Why on earth would I wanna go clanking around with chainmail chaffing at my crotch? Stop waving the padding around, Merlin. It sure as hell doesn’t make things better. But what would you know. You get to go around in your awful wizard rags. Which you need to wash. I can smell your very magical person from the other end of the castle.’)
Arthur’s black hair hangs loosely in his eyes as he stares down into his empty goblet, a man haunted by his burdens and-just perhaps-a little too much wine.
'I see you're up early as always,' Merlin remarks. Behold, the greatest king to walk and ever walk these lands. Mark the slouch of his shoulders, the dark bruises beneath sleepless lids. Hear the creak of mortal bones, grinding slowly to a halt.
Arthur looks up at Merlin.
'Is it time?' he mutters.
Merlin draws back the tent flap to let in the vengeful sun.
'Yes, sire,' he says.
Arthur scrubs a hand over his face. It’s plain as day to Merlin; Arthur’s tired.
'Good,' he says hoarsely. ‘Let’s get this over with. I miss my bed already.'
‘And your servant girls, no doubt.’
‘Oh, no doubt.’
He straightens up to his feet, wobbling at the knees before the weakness melts away from his bearing. For a second there, Merlin sees the young prince Arthur once was, free like the vast summer sky and belonging only to those he chooses to give himself to.
(‘C’mon, Merlin. You know what I mean. Cerdic’s realm, and it’s just beyond those hills. I wanna see it for the heck of it...no, the men won’t miss us if it’s just a quick peek. We’ll be back before the Table gets its knickers in a twist-yeah, you really don’t take much convincing, do you?’)
But when Arthur steps out from beyond his tent every inch of him belongs to his people, and Merlin's heart, carved from stone, shatters along with the blare of trumpets. The mournful cacophony of the weeping trees are not lost to him in the noise. He knows what they know.
Today, Arthur is going to die.
Once upon a time (although, really, it’s only been thirty odd years, but time does fly when it passes in the company of mortals), there were two boys, a kingdom, and too much opportunity.
But before that, there was coincidence (or a few).
Arthur hadn’t been present for Merlin’s grand entrance into Camelot. What he knew he’d heard from the matronly kitchen staff, who’d never missed the opportunity to regale him with their latest pickings from the grapevine: Merlin had arrived at the doorsteps of the castle one stormy evening, when the chill of winter's frost lingered in the steely bite of the draughts on the stone corridors…
The servants had just finished laying out the tapestries when there was a frantic pounding on the door near the kitchen hearth. The cook took him in, poor soul, trembling in his sodden peasant drabs, fed and clothed him and asked for him to be put to work.
Then it turned out that Merlin was gifted with extraordinary clumsiness. He had a penchant for breaking the dishes. Ruining the royal stew. Setting the kitchens on fire. He ought to be in the stables, the cook argued. So Merlin was sent thus. He was just about to report to the stable-master for duty, in fact, when the crown prince and his retinue returned back from a hunt, bearing a boar for a feast, and logs for the evening fire.
Later, no one would be certain how it happened; Llamrei, ever faithful mare, reared her head as she bucked against an invisible hand. The prince, caught by surprise at such unprecedented behaviour, struggled to calm her to no avail, and would have crashed upon the snow in an ugly fall had a small lithe figure not darted out to snatch the reins from his fingers and steady her against his shoulder with a smooth murmur and a pat or two.
Arthur looked down upon his rescuer, a pale-faced boy of not more than fourteen summers, with features that were too pretty like a girl’s but with angles to his jawline that hinted at a blossoming youthful masculinity. It was a noble face, fine and delicate like the courtiers that pay homage to Uther, and at sharp contrast to his servant’s garb. Arthur found his interest piqued.
'You have a name, boy?' he asked, reaching for his purse to pay his gratitude.
The boy nodded.
‘Wanna tell me what it is?' Arthur leant over to press the silver into a sweat-damp palm. It was shockingly cold to touch and Arthur felt the stirrings of pity as he took in the threadbare tunic on the boy's shoulders, the minute trembling of his frame with each gust of northerly wind.
The boy finally spoke. 'It's Merlin,' he said, voice jittery in his throat, and Arthur's mind was made up.
'Merlin. And I'm Arthur.' He extended his hand in invitation. 'You have my thanks. Listen. I kinda need assistance in my chambers-ah, not quite what it sounds like, don’t fret. My pageboy’s been dismissed; it seems that he mysteriously contracted the pox although how or wherefrom I really couldn’t say…'
‘I need a smoke,’ Arthur says. Beneath him, Llamrei, blessed with longevity by the Old Religion, paws at the earth with her hooves and shakes out her glorious mane.
Merlin throws him a wry glance. Truth be told, Arthur isn’t the only one struggling with such base desires, but they ride at the head of Camelot’s army on its slow march towards Mordred’s banners. It’s nothing Merlin can’t fix but he isn’t sure whether Arthur’s statement is rhetorical or not.
‘Try to focus, Sire,’ he murmurs. ‘I’d rather not have to scrape you off the battlefield because of withdrawal symptoms. Mordred would have a field day.’ His own words burn in his ears. It’s one thing to joke about death, another to joke about the inevitable. Merlin doesn’t know how to balance them both without feeling like he’s picking at fresh wounds.
‘Oi.’ Arthur’s tone is a cross of amusement and annoyance. ‘It isn’t my fault that Mordred’s such a charmer.’
‘But it is my liege’s dalliance with his half-sister that has led to this-ah, how shall we put this delicately-minor inconvenience?’
‘Okay, okay. I get it. You have my permission to stop the censure.’
‘Your poor knights, having to suffer on account of your brilliant moment of splendid dipsomaniacal stupidity.’
Arthur turns to glare at him, half-outraged, half-incredulous. Merlin likes pushing his buttons, in more ways than one. He isn’t going to stop now. This is a face to remember for eternity. ‘I’m just saying,’ Arthur says, with great self-righteousness, ‘it isn’t like Morgy went out of her way to explain our family relationship to me, yeah?’
Merlin snorts. It’s an unexpected sound to herald Camelot’s greatest battle with, and he can feel the surprise radiating from the men behind him. Not a bad thing, he decides, and lets himself smile more easily. Uplifting their morale is going to be a challenge; Arthur has a natural charisma, Merlin is willing to admit, but even he’s hard pressed to come up with a good motivational speech this time.
(‘Right. So. Boys. There’s a giant, well, giant, see, and it’s right up there on the top of the mountain. Now. What say we-oh, why on earth do you need to know that, Percy? It’s Snowdon, all right? Mount Snowdon? Mountain Snowdon? Snowdon the mountain. One of ‘em, anyway. The point is, first one up to fell the giant, well. Wins. That’s it, really.’)
They come to a halt just before a steep valley. Arthur’s eyes are narrowed as he scrutinises the enemy front. He’s every bit as bright as Merlin had hoped (but will never concede). It’s taken him all of one look to tell that something’s heinously wrong.
Merlin can feel it too. But he’s cheating, of course.
‘What’s causing it?’ Arthur asks. Merlin can see the fingers of Arthur’s sword hand twitching. Either he’s unsettled enough to want the comforting weight of Excalibur in his palm, or his need for his pipe has gotten greater.
‘Morgan,’ Merlin says, without further elaboration. He doesn’t know how to describe Morgan’s magic in words that Arthur will understand, unless he sticks to the choicer terms in the king’s colourful vocabulary. Anyhow, her name alone is sufficient explanation. Arthur’s expression darkens.
‘Hell,’ he mutters. ‘She won’t leave it be until she’s torn me into pieces herself, is that it? Crazy bint.’
Merlin can’t bring himself to correct his king, so he doesn’t.
Not her, the wind whispers its warning. Merlin tells it to hush.
And Nimueh’s voice responds, floating in the blank space between mental consciousness and physical hearing.
Told you, didn’t I? You’re in too deep.
Had she always been this irritating? Merlin cannot recall anymore, the same way he cannot remember being a boy in the caves near Lake Glaslyn, playing amongst the magic until his eyes absorbed the colour of the amethysts growing on the wall.
Nimueh sounds impossibly smug. Merlin bites his tongue to keep from frowning.
What’re you going to do now, pretty boy?
It would be kind of you to provide some assistance. Merlin’s reply is a trifle testy.
No can do. Already he wields Excalibur. Now it’s up to you to show me what he can do.
He’s fully capable of showing you himself.
She laughs. It grates on Merlin’s nerves and he scratches at the back of his neck and tries to appear calm. Arthur is watching him, he notes in dim realisation. It won’t do to let the façade slip. Arthur doesn’t need any more on his plate and a psycho-sadistic fence-sitting sorceress is an entire buffet on her own.
How interesting. She’s smiling. He can tell. Word of advice, pretty.
No thank you.
Give him his pipe. You’ll regret it if you don’t.
Merlin’s chest clenches. He draws a shaky breath, squeezes his eyes shut to prevent a lapse in control over his power. The earth trembles. Trepidation. He’s never had a good grip on his temper.
Arthur’s by his side in an instant. Right by it. Their wrists brush as he takes the reins from Merlin’s slack fingers.
‘Focus,’ Arthur says, face troubled, eyes concerned, and it’s too much all at once.
Merlin looks away. It’s no effort-it shouldn’t be any effort-for him to spirit Arthur’s pipe from his tent and into the king’s fingers.
It leaves him exhausted anyway.
Merlin can’t-doesn’t like to-remember his first meeting with Nimueh. She’s an infuriating sort, the kind of woman that both attracts and repels him at once. She may be older than he, but he’ll one day learn more. Know more.
A sorceress that never left her lake to seetouchtastesmellfeel for herself. Whatever she had to offer, Merlin would take and go. Or so he’d thought, but oftentimes, whenever he could spare a moment to leave Arthur’s side (without Camelot catching the plague or Albion being assailed by generic medieval mythical monsters-these moments were precious few and far in-between), he found himself back at Glaslyn.
Coupling with Nimueh was rudimentary. That wasn’t to say that she wasn’t skilled in its various acts, but to Merlin it was mere collateral; an acceptable exchange that didn’t disadvantage him beyond limits and yet gave access to her useful albeit cryptic pearls of wisdom.
Which was why he was surprised to show up one autumn’s morning-after tourney season and Arthur’s having a lazy lie-in for once instead of training the men-to find the elderly Geoffrey of Monmouth, honorary court historian, in the greedy embrace of the lecher of the lake.
‘Not much of a lady, are we?’ he asked mildly. He wasn’t jealous, just uncomfortable with the sudden development. Arthur didn’t know about these impromptu visits and Merlin wasn’t convinced that Monmouth was any good at keeping counsel.
Nimueh smirked, but withdrew her claws. Monmouth was stammering his apologies, but Merlin dismissed them with a slight smile. If he was going to do Merlin the favour of entertaining the insatiable witch, then so be it. There were only benefits to be had.
‘I was hoping that you’d come, actually,’ she said, voice delighted.
Merlin raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘I’m not interested in joining your fun, sorry.’
‘My, presumptuous, aren’t we?’ She chortled. ‘I can still change my mind about showing you my sword, you know.’
Merlin clapped politely. It was the done thing, wasn’t it? ‘Congratulations,’ he said, with great solemnity, ‘you’ve finally figured out how to grow one for yourself.’
She smirked, even as Monmouth swallowed in nervousness. ‘Mouthy as always,’ she purred, ‘that’s why I’ll always find you adorable, my pretty.’
Merlin made to retort, but Nimueh chose that second to flick her wrists towards the lake. It bubbled, foamed, did a couple of things that appeared so historically significant that Monmouth chose to inscribe it into his history book-with added pomposity and after editing out most of the innuendo, of course.
Fireworks were nothing to Merlin. Nimueh was one for the theatrics, and it was always less impressive once you knew how it was done.
He was far more interested in what she had to say next.
‘For your precious Arthur,’ she drawled. ‘Don’t just chuck it into your collection of nonsensical oddities, yes? It’ll help him be king of Albion for just that much longer.’
‘He’s neither mine nor precious,’ Merlin said, but it was half-hearted. This wasn’t the first time they were having this argument.
Nimueh scoffed.
‘No?’ she mocked. ‘Then your future eye is clearly short-sighted. Try getting a prescription for those.’
The sun beats down over their heads in unrelenting waves. It’s nearly midday and Mordred’s army is festering. Rather literally. The stench emanating from their ranks is foul, leaving a sour taste in Merlin’s mouth as he tries not to hurl his meagre breakfast back up along with a hearty dose of bile.
‘Can’t believe this,’ he hears Gawain complaining, the young knight leading his horse in restless circles, ‘we haven’t even begun, and they already smell dead.’
‘Quiet,’ Bedivere says, golden, beautiful, and every inch the bureaucratic nobleman he’d been in Arthur’s court before his decision to take up arms. It was a move that had invited scorn from the other courtiers of his station, but Merlin watches him watch Gawain, the boy he’d raised from youth, and thinks he understands. What does Bedivere see, he wonders, when he watches Merlin watch Arthur? Does anyone even notice?
They must have noticed.
Arthur is antsy. He’s champing at the bit, Merlin realises. It’s good and bad in turn; Arthur only ever truly feels alive when he’s living on the edge but Arthur isn’t young enough to live on the edge anymore.
Age has caught up with his liege. Merlin takes in the grey at Arthur’s temples and conceals a sigh. They’ve had quite the run and he’s never had to consider the unflattering position of being alone once Arthur moves on as mortal men are wont to do.
Merlin isn’t ready.
‘Ready?’ Arthur asks, because he has the unfortunate tendency to be contrary, even unintentionally. Behind them, Camelot’s finest cheer. ‘Let’s go put Mordred out of his misery. Even he can’t be enjoying the summer’s perfume of a thousand rotting corpses.’
‘That’s exactly what they are,’ Merlin says. ‘A resurrected army. Morgan’s only become lovelier since her banishment.’
‘Tell me about it. I’ve no idea why you were so enamoured with her.’
‘Please speak for yourself, Sire. I was merely suspicious of her ways-’
They’re interrupted by a loud wail from Percival. ‘Sire, Owain won’t let me ride next to him into battle.’
‘Who would?’ is Owain’s incensed reply, ‘you’re always flinging your arms and legs everywhere like a monkey-’
‘Why’s it matter? You’re so short, they wouldn’t hit you anyway-’
‘Who’re you calling short-’
Merlin’s lip twitches. He looks at Arthur, who, well, for want of a better word, laughs. And laughs, and laughs, and laughs, until he’s gravitated, somehow or another, to the centre of all attention again. It’s the nature of kings to be selfish that way, Merlin thinks, but some kings are loved for it while others are hated.
It’s obvious which category Arthur falls within.
‘Galahad,’ Arthur calls, when he finally catches a breath. ‘You’ll ride with Percival to lead the left flank. Encircle towards the enemy’s rear but wait till we make first contact before coming in strong.’
‘Yes, my liege.’
‘And…’ Arthur runs a hand through his short crop of hair, expression considering. ‘I’ll lead the main attack myself, with Merlin’s ranged support. Ranged, Merlin, I’m emphasising this for the last time. You aren’t in anything remotely considered armour. Bors…Kay. You boys lead the right flank and I’ll…’ he trails off. Merlin doesn’t miss the sudden darkness that flitters over Arthur’s face before vanishing just as quickly as it came. He blames it on Lancelot, on Guin, even on himself, for failing to stop Arthur from making his fatal mistakes.
‘Fuck, My Lords,’ Arthur is saying, face filled with a rare regret. ‘To put it bluntly, we’re in this shit because of me. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’
There’s a long, drawn silence.
Gawain’s the first to tap his fist to his heart in a gesture of loyalty but it is soon mirrored by the knights that surround their king. It’s foolish. It’s also the first time in countless millennia that Merlin allows himself to do something as human as hope.
You will mourn, Ambrosius, the trees caution. Merlin shuts out their voices and listens, instead, to his name on Arthur’s lips.
Arthur is smirking at him. Mouth curled upwards, dark and sensual, inexplicably compelling.
‘You may,’ Arthur says grandly, ‘have the honour of starting this war. Make it more than a wee bit of puff, will you?’
‘Will a bang do?’
‘A bang will do nicely.’
Merlin raises his staff. It rains fire from the heavens because, well. Nimueh doesn’t have a monopoly on the dramatics.
The upside of having a court sorcerer was that one’s coronation ceremony tended to be a rather one-of-a-kind, never-seen-before brand of unique.
The downside of having a court sorcerer was that one’s coronation ceremony tended to be a rather one-of-a-kind, never-seen-before brand of unique.
Arthur wasn’t impressed. He was, actually, rather terrified and unwilling to admit it. This, in turn, led to his irritation with the source of his discomfort, which so happened to be the aforementioned court sorcerer. A pity, since anyone with a half-functioning mental capability would realise that taking out one’s fear-induced anger on the only magical being in town was akin to being very, very stupid.
Arthur’d had enough of being stupid for a day.
‘I don’t even know what that says,’ he hissed, jabbing an inconspicuous finger in the direction of the very, very intimidating stone in the middle of Camelot’s market square.
‘Oh, you mean the squiggly inscriptions? Don’t worry too much, I suspect few people would be able to read it, if any. Roughly, it means something like, rightful king, please come here and pull the rather large and obvious sword out so we can all heave a sigh of relief and go back home.’
‘Funny.’
Merlin was squinting. He’d left his glasses back in his chambers again. Arthur was going to have to have a word with him about climbing all those flights of stairs while blind as a bat.
‘It stopped being funny once we starting baking in the sun, Arthur.’
‘Don’t see why you’re complaining. Have you seen what I’m wearing?’ In addition to his rather hard quandary-no pun intended, really, this was serious-Arthur had been forced by their rather officious chamberlain into robes of the most garish purple. And if there was one material he couldn’t pull off, it was ermine.
‘I don’t know, Arthur,’ Merlin was saying with a considering air, ‘don’t you think it’s highlighting your personality in rather honest terms?’
‘Don’t say it.’
Merlin, as per normal, ignored his command.
‘I mean, it really does scream ‘obnoxious git’ at the top of its voice-’
Arthur groaned. ‘You’re such an arse. See if I ever pack your tower for you again.’
Merlin’s smile was sweet. Dangerously so. ‘I don’t recall ever asking you to.’
‘I do it for your own good and you know it.’ In the midst of the crowd of commoners, Arthur’s knights had started on their attempt to pull the sword out of the stone. It was a rather lovely sword, Arthur had to give Merlin that, although he had no idea from whence it came, or why Merlin decided that it would be a brilliant idea to jab it into a boulder that definitely hadn’t been in the square before.
‘This…is…sorcery!’ Percy grunted as he exerted all his force on the sword. It didn’t even budge an inch.
Arthur turned to Merlin, exasperation only mounting when it became evident that Merlin was enjoying himself immensely.
‘It doesn’t take Sir Percival long to notice these things, does it?’ he murmured, amused.
‘I still don’t want to do this,’ is Arthur’s grudging reply.
Merlin glanced heavenwards in despair. ‘Then you leave me with no choice, Sire,’ he said mournfully. He raised a hand towards the skies. An odd wind picked up. The leaves seemed to rustle with laughter at Arthur’s plight as a single, conspicuous beam of sunlight descended upon the shocked prince.
The crowd fell silent.
Placed on the spot, Arthur had no choice but to step up to take his rightful place. Hand on the encrusted hilt, boot braced upon the stone, he pulled and the sword slid out to blinding brilliance in the light. Arthur hefted it skyward-it seemed like the thing to do-and it sang as it sliced through the air.
One by one, his people fell to their knees as they hailed their newly crowned king. Merlin was the last to kneel in supplication. His head was bowed in a semblance of subservience, but his eyes were wicked as they gazed upwards to meet Arthur’s.
They were a dark, hot violet. Arthur was struck by a sudden, unbidden want.
And the wind roared in jubilation, carrying Merlin’s whisper for his ears only.
‘Beyond Albion, sire,’ was what he said.
Morgan le Fay is a taint on the glassy surface of the Old Religion. Merlin knows magic, understands it fundamentally-oh, for goodness sake, he is magic, for the most part. Comparatively, she is part human, part fairfolk, and the darkness in her magic shocks even him.
Kill her, he hears Nimueh say, deadly serious, wholly. She cannot be allowed to return to Avalon or your Arthur will never have peace in his resting place.
For once, they are in complete agreement. It’s momentous. Merlin is rather sure that it’s a first.
A mist has settled over the fields, obscuring most of Merlin’s vision. This makes him uneasy. He cannot distinguish Arthur from the silhouettes that offer him occasional glimpses through the opaque air like a phantasmagoria of dream images. He doesn’t bother lifting his staff. There is only one way to undo Morgan’s spell and he’s more than glad to see it done.
He finds her on the edge of an overhanging plateau, surveying the battle from her vantage point.
‘That wasn’t hard, was it?’ she says to him, although from the way she whirls around, she hadn’t anticipated his arrival.
Merlin isn’t in the mood to humour her.
‘My lady,’ he greets, more out of habit than politeness. ‘Shall we proceed with matters?’ He has a list of errands to run on this glorious day, and she’s stalling him so as to speak. The earth has volunteered to help him with some of them, but there’s still the matter of the golden throne and the half-finished spell he’s left behind in his tower that really must be completed by the end of twilight.
Morgan regards him coolly. Ambition is a terrible thing, Merlin thinks, noting how it has consumed her completely, leaving nothing behind but an empty husk and a mad searing in her eyes.
Arthur is nothing like her. Merlin doesn’t believe that he’s ever been more grateful for anything in his life.
(‘It’s not that I’m complaining or anything, Merlin-just listen. Correct me if I’m wrong, but do I really need another patch off Rience’s lands? I mean. He’s stopped bothering Guin’s old man and I feel kinda sorry for all the territory we’ve been snipping off his borders-wait. What d’you mean, prime land for wine production?’)
Morgan attacks him first. He meets fire with ice, lightning with earth, wind with a void of nothingness. It plays out exactly as he expects.
Ah, well. Perhaps not exactly.
Morgan’s knife is a flicker of silver in the black light of the mists. Merlin doesn’t dodge in time, is so used to being cared for by humans that he’s forgotten what they’re capable of.
Careless, careless.
There’s a wrenching pain across his gut-that, in itself, is a surprise too-and he isn’t sure which spell of the Old Religion he uses then, except that it’s rage-fuelled, implodes Morgan from the inside, and causes it to rain in red droplets all over the valley.
Panting, Merlin rolls on his back, scrambling to pack his innards through the gnash on his belly. There’s magic within him yet and it’ll heal; therein lies the problem with immortality. It’ll heal, whether or not you want it to.
Nimueh? He tries to reach her thoughts, but is met with silence.
It’s quiet, too quiet, like the world is grieving. Merlin doesn’t let himself dwell on it. There’s business at hand and until he sees it for himself, he’s not going to believe it. Arthur’s always lived harder than anyone else.
(‘Y’know, this is probably your best idea yet. And that’s truly saying something, since the whole swimming with the selkies shebang turned out rather spectacular, yes. No complaints about that one. But dragons? Honest to goodness dragons? You’ve outdone yourself this time, my good lord high sorcerer. Now. Move over, will you, and tell me how to fly this damn thing.’)
The mist dissipates and the rain lets up. Merlin staggers to his feet to hunt for his king.
The first time Arthur saw Guinevere, he was being received in her father's hall as a champion of Carhaise.
Merlin noticed it straightaway, of course.
Leodegrance’s daughter was fair like no mortal he’d ever seen before, and it was obvious that Arthur was enamoured. This, however, was no rare occurrence with Arthur, who had many a time before sworn eternal passion towards each newest object of his current desires. If there was one thing his king had truly mastered, it was the art of sentiment.
For the best, Merlin decided. If nothing else, it would be an effective way to put the Morgan le Fay fiasco out of Camelot’s minds. Following on with that train of thought, it would only be wise to see where Arthur stood on the subject of matrimony.
'You're embarrassing yourself, sire,' Merlin pointed out in a whisper, ever-helpful especially when he knew that Arthur wouldn’t take well to his opinion. 'I think there's some spit on your chin.'
'No, really, thank you for the running commentary, Merlin.'
Merlin had to hold back a burst of mirth at Arthur’s glower. He only grew more triumphant when he noticed the young king wiping surreptitiously at his mouth in the event that Merlin really was right. Arthur was in a good mood, though. Overall, anyway. He turned to share a moment of amusement with Merlin, who quickly met it with an unreadable smile.
'But you are lucky, Arthur,' Merlin commented. 'Her beauty really is beyond all reason.'
Arthur turned his attention back to the lady. Her hair, fair like snow, was twisted at her nape into a long braid and her tunic was virginal white, as was her skin. The circlet upon her brow was gold-gilded. Merlin could see what Arthur saw-it was easy to admire the way she tipped her chin just so as she spoke to her ladies, regal as the queen Leodegrance would undoubtedly wish for her to become.
But stern. Too stern, too serious for Arthur, ultimately. Arthur, who, as far as Merlin knew, couldn’t keep a straight face at the slightest provocation or joke, even if his life depended on it-which it sometimes did, particularly when Uther was involved.
Merlin was happy for Arthur, of course. Happiness was mandatory when it came to these kinds of situations. But he didn’t have to like it.
'Are you jealous, Merlin?'
Arthur was teasing, but only partially so. He was sharp-Merlin had only begun to understand just how well Arthur could read him-and there was a purpose behind his question.
Good thing then, that Merlin knew Arthur like the back of his hand.
Arthur’s expression was priceless as he registered the affirmative hum that Merlin let slip on purpose.
'She is to follow us back to Camelot?' Merlin asked, in all tactless insolence because he liked to pretend at a semblance of humility whenever it suited him fine, but he was also aware that Arthur had never, ever called him out on insouciant behaviour. No, that would be a bit rich, coming from this king.
'Well, yes.’ There was a frown tugging on Arthur’s lips. Confused, just the way Merlin wanted him to be. ‘I think that's the general idea in the cards at the moment.'
'And will you be wed?'
Arthur started and stared at Merlin in open amazement. 'What's gotten into you?' he remarked, clearly unable to fathom why his normally oneiric manservant had chosen this banquet of all times to develop an inquisitive streak.
Merlin shrugged in that dismissive way of his that never failed to rankle.
'I'm merely curious, Arthur, don't take it to heart, please, but she is lovely.'
And, of course, now Arthur would have to ask. But of course, Merlin had been ever so careful to never so much as even pay the least inclination towards the women of the castle. It would only be natural for the unsurpassable gossip that was his liege-Arthur could put the fishmonger’s wife to shame-to have a burning urge to know what it took to gain Merlin's attention.
But Arthur didn’t ask. His countenance grew dark with an emotion that Merlin couldn’t decipher the reason behind. It threw him off in a way few things did anymore.
‘Sire?’
‘Is there someone, Merlin?’ he asked suddenly. Now, this, Merlin didn’t see coming.
He delayed his reply by fussing with Arthur’s wine goblet. He spilt half of it on the table, but for once, Arthur made no comment. The king’s impatience was evident, knuckles white as he gripped at the arms of his seat, but Merlin was hard-pressed to care. Not when Arthur had made things so much more complicated for him.
There was a fifty-fifty chance that he would hit upon the right answer, see. That much was obvious. What Merlin didn’t like was not knowing which one Arthur wanted to hear. When it came to the King of Camelot, Merlin was supposed to be the go-to authority. This was unacceptable, to say the least.
'No, sire,' Merlin said in the end, 'not in the least.'
He didn’t miss the way Arthur refused to look at him for the rest of the feast.
The battle is over and Arthur is nowhere to be found.
The fields of Camlann have been painted with the blood of fallen knights (and bakers and blacksmiths and boys). But it’s their banner-the Pendragon banner-that flutters proudly in waves of red and gold.
Merlin runs.
He sees the knights first, standing in a circle at the top of a hill. Someone is crying. He recognises the anguished noises as belonging to Gawain. He’s soon joined by others.
Merlin wants to leave. He walks over instead, the knights with their tear-streaked faces parting mutely to show him what he’s already seen in countless nightmares.
Arthur is, for want of a better word, broken. Merlin catalogues the injuries in silence; ribs, legs, internal haemorrhaging. He’s almost entirely severed from waist down. It’s the work of the monster that lies not ten feet away, garbed in Mordred’s colours.
The beast is dead. He never was that human anyway.
Merlin schools his face into a deliberate blank. It’s not enough and Arthur sees.
‘Look at you,’ Arthur says (gasps), ‘putting up a brave front like that, just for me. I must look like shit.’
‘Quite,’ Merlin agrees, sliding easily into their age-old banter as he sinks to the grass next to his liege. ‘You’ve seen better days, for sure. I can’t imagine any of the servant girls wanting anything to do with your infamous lower half anymore.’
‘Aw, shucks. Really?’ Arthur’s mouth wobbles into a grin. It’s harder for Merlin to copy it. ‘You’ll have to do then, if that’s my lot in life.’
‘You flatter me.’
‘You’re full of it.’ Something softens in Arthur’s eyes, already clouding over. ‘Don’t make that face, damnit. It’ll be okay.’
‘Perhaps you should stop talking now.’
The knights are begging him to heal their leader. But Arthur silences them with a glance. He won’t beg, thank the gods, since Merlin can’t deliver.
It’s Arthur’s time.
‘Hey,’ Arthur mumbles. ‘Think y’could get me one last smoke?’ His voice grows steadily softer as he drifts further away from Camlann and his men. Merlin looks into his eyes and sees the shores of Avalon reflected in them.
Merlin doesn’t say a word more. He conjures the pipe up, takes a deep lungful of smoke, then leans over to press his mouth to Arthur’s.
Arthur parts his lips. They share his last breath.
When Merlin pulls away, the King of Camelot has passed on.
I’m sorry, he thinks he hears Nimueh say, but he doesn’t acknowledge her condolences, mind already pressing towards setting Arthur’s affairs in order. He needs something to channel his anger towards, and there’s the matter of hiding Arthur’s throne, returning the sword to Nimueh, putting Gawain in charge of the impending Saxon invasion.
He also wants to go to sleep-already knows the perfect apple tree-but that will have to wait.
‘Bedivere,’ he says, ‘if you could kindly take Excalibur and go down to Glaslyn…’
He’ll wake again when Albion needs him.
There will be no again. Next time, Merlin’ll tear the world asunder first.
Arthur swept a hand over his eyes, shielding out the light from the overhead candelabras in his bedchamber. It was a grey day in Camelot, the smoke from Guin’s bonfire still choking in his memories. He needed to stop thinking about her, needed to focus on what was looming on the horizon ahead, but Morgy’s treachery hadn’t even been half as painful as this was and Arthur couldn’t stop fixating on the better times before.
He’d never expected it to hurt-after all, he wasn’t the pinnacle of fidelity-but this was Guin they were talking about, and Lancelot, two of his closest and dearest despite everything. He’d closed an eye, indulged in his own exploits, but now all of Camelot knew and how the hell was Arthur supposed to clean their mess up?
Fucking idiots.
A phantom gust of wind picked up in the room. He heard the door click as it was bolted shut. There was only one person who would enter his chambers unannounced.
His mattress shifted with the weight of another. Arthur shifted over from the centre of the bed to give Merlin some space.
‘You’re glad,’ Merlin said, matter of fact.
‘Do I look it?’
‘Not outwardly, but I know there’s relief somewhere in you.’
It was true. Galling, but true. Arthur was glad that they’d gotten away, that Lancelot had had the chance to play the hero and rescue Arthur’s wife from the execution her husband had personally overseen.
‘We knew it would happen this way. We even told Gawain about our plans, knowing that he would be unable to resist informing Lancelot.’
‘Gawain’s hardly older than a kid,’ Arthur muttered. ‘We shouldn’t have exploited his feelings.’
‘He’s feeling guilty now,’ was Merlin’s factual reply, ‘but it’ll pass. He’s young yet and Bedivere takes good care of his charge.’
Arthur let out a sigh. Fuck it. Tomorrow’s training would have to be postponed. The knights would understand. He was going to crawl up a tree and come down again only when feeling less pathetic.
‘Guess I still have the men,’ he said.
Merlin hummed in agreement. ‘Yes. Amongst others.’
Something in Merlin’s tone made Arthur open his eyes. Merlin was leaning against the four poster, temple pressed to the mahogany spiral as he stared out past the open window lattice at the endless night sky. He was gaunt, Arthur realised, when had that happened? Idiot was always on the thin side, but with his knees tucked to his chest, Merlin looked impossibly haggard, impossibly frail.
Arthur moved without thinking. He brushed his fingers against Merlin’s neck, earning himself a narrow glance.
‘D’you remember that time we killed the Afanc?’ he murmured against the shell of Merlin’s ear. Merlin turned his head away. Perhaps the gesture was done out of embarrassment. Arthur didn’t care. He knew that they were on the same page and that was the important part.
‘What am I supposed to remember?’ Merlin asked levelly.
‘Dunno. Something. Anything.’ Merlin’s waist fit into the crook of his arm. Merlin shivered, muscles taut beneath the slow stroke of Arthur’s thumb, caressing his skin through the thin Coptic tunic that he wore beneath his mantle.
‘I remember the moon,’ Merlin said at last. ‘It was full that day.’
‘And the lake,’ Arthur added. ‘Our fire beneath the trees. You sleeping next to me, prick hard as you rutted against my thigh in your dreams.’
(They’d been young men once. There were a million ways Arthur’d imagined broaching this topic. This wasn’t one of them.)
Merlin’s eyes flashed with defiance. He tried to turn in Arthur’s hold.
‘You were awake,’ he accused. ‘You could have stopped me if you wanted.’
‘Yes,’ Arthur replied. ‘But d’you know what I wanted more?’
‘Don’t ask ridiculous questions, Arthur. You know very well that I don’t read your thoughts.’
He hauled Merlin by the arms, taking advantage of Merlin’s surprise to pin him down to the bed by the wrists, heart pounding in tandem as they stared wide-eyed at each other, still lost in the epiphany that this was happening at last. They weren’t circling the unspoken anymore.
‘I wanted to fuck you,’ Arthur whispered, ‘shove your face down into the dirt by the shores of the lake and take your willing, pliant body, spill my seed deep inside you. I would have left marks. All of Camelot should know what we are.’ He spoke mere inches away from Merlin’s trembling mouth. Christ, that mouth. It was indecent, impertinent, indolent all at once, and Arthur wanted it screaming his name.
Merlin’s smile was dark.
‘Indeed?’ he challenged. ‘Why didn’t you?’
‘In case you’ve forgotten, I am-was-trying to be a good a married man.’
It happened so quickly; Arthur barely had time to register it, let alone react. There was a clap of thunder, magic, perhaps, then he’d found himself flat on his back on the cold stone slabs, head ringing from the impact.
Merlin reappeared in view, mantle in disarray. He straddled Arthur’s waist, bulge rubbing right against Arthur’s tented breeches. Arthur hissed, hips bucking upwards to try and chase the friction. Merlin bent over, took Arthur’s lower lip between his teeth and tugged. Licked at the corner of Arthur’s mouth.
‘I saw you first.’ It came out in a fierce whisper. Arthur had never known Merlin to be possessive, of all things, but he’d never known Guin to be unfaithful or Lancelot to be disloyal, so maybe he wasn’t the astute judge of character he’d thought himself to be. He turned his head to the side just so, meeting Merlin in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss.
‘What now?’ he breathed out, when they finally drew apart.
‘If no one has any objections, I think I’d like to ride you. Here on the floor.’
Arthur chuckled. He wasn’t going to think about what this would look like when viewed in the wan morning light.
‘Nope, no objections from the king. Carry on as you were, Your Excellency.’
The Starbucks on High Holborn is crammed full of university students during peak hour. It’s a pity, because Merlin’s rather taken with the décor, which ranges from psychedelic beanbags to frosted glass vintage lamps. The ambience is delightful but it’s difficult to ignore the incessant chattering of excited freshers.
Anyway, he doesn’t have to stay for long. There’s a roar of engines, then a stunning black Harley pulls up just off the pavement in front of the café. ‘Llamrei’ is painted on the gleaming sides of the bike. Merlin lets an indulgent smile onto his face. He’s waited for this moment for whole centuries.
The door chimes upon Arthur’s entry. He draws attention all at once, from college girls to SNAGs, waltzing in there with his leather jacket slung over a shoulder and a ponytail of the reddest hair Merlin’s ever seen.
Merlin moves. Nimueh’s gaze is heavy on his back as he walks purposefully over to Arthur, looking for all the world like a clean-cut law student with his neat hair, textbook, satchel, sweater vest.
‘Hello, Arthur,’ he says, then tries and fails not to laugh as Arthur looks at him sharply, then does a double-take, then another again until it cannot help but become awkward for the poor man.
‘Sorry,’ Arthur says, covering his mouth with a hand, a tell of his discomfiture that he’d kept from a lifetime ago. Merlin’s throat constricts at the familiar sight. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’
‘No,’ Merlin says, visibly confusing Arthur further, ‘but perhaps you’ll like to.’
‘Uh-’
‘My name’s Merlin.’
‘Wait, really?’
‘Quite unfortunately.’ He pulls out his driver’s licence.
‘Damn. I thought I had it rough. I mean, Arthur Penydraig’s one for the books.’
‘That is rather terrible, isn’t it? Would you like to complain about it over a cuppa?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
The world is ending, Nimueh says.
Let it, Merlin replies.
Theme: Fantasy AU
Title: A Time of Kings
Author/Artist: nouvellebrielle
Warnings: Uh, mostly worksafe, except for one bit that comes up to a mild R. And um. Minor character genderswitch (there are many evil women in Arthurian legend and ... a lot less evil women in Saiyuki Gaiden). And anachronisms. But that's nothing that new. Oh! And character death. Because, yeah. Arthurian legend.
Pairing(s): Tenpou/Kenren, background Kenren/Goujun, Kanzeon/Tenpou, Kanzeon/Jiroushin
Notes: A mishmash of Gaiden and Arthurian legend. Beta done by the amazing avierra, thanks for the fantastic job as always, hun! My hands touched this last so any mistakes are mine. Lastly, voting for Kenren.
The fields of Camlann are stained red by the rising dawn. Merlin steps beyond the canvas of his tent, dew soaking the cloth of his calfskin slippers. His glasses slip down the bridge of his sweat-slicked nose. Never has Albion experienced such a summer as this. Arthur and he, they haven’t discussed it but they both understand that it bodes ill for battle.
Despite that, the men are ready for what is to come; Knights of the Round Table interspersed with bakers and blacksmiths and boys. Hardly the stuff that legends are made of, but Camelot has little control over her fate these dark days.
Retrieving his staff, he makes his way across the encampment to where the king's tent sits, Pendragon colours fluttering in the crying wind. Merlin tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ears and wishes he’d remembered to pack Arthur’s favourite brew before the trip.
The guards admit him without question. Within, Arthur has already awoken. The king sits clad in black leather hide, a preference that the other knights deem ridiculous but which Merlin secretly understands.
(‘Why on earth would I wanna go clanking around with chainmail chaffing at my crotch? Stop waving the padding around, Merlin. It sure as hell doesn’t make things better. But what would you know. You get to go around in your awful wizard rags. Which you need to wash. I can smell your very magical person from the other end of the castle.’)
Arthur’s black hair hangs loosely in his eyes as he stares down into his empty goblet, a man haunted by his burdens and-just perhaps-a little too much wine.
'I see you're up early as always,' Merlin remarks. Behold, the greatest king to walk and ever walk these lands. Mark the slouch of his shoulders, the dark bruises beneath sleepless lids. Hear the creak of mortal bones, grinding slowly to a halt.
Arthur looks up at Merlin.
'Is it time?' he mutters.
Merlin draws back the tent flap to let in the vengeful sun.
'Yes, sire,' he says.
Arthur scrubs a hand over his face. It’s plain as day to Merlin; Arthur’s tired.
'Good,' he says hoarsely. ‘Let’s get this over with. I miss my bed already.'
‘And your servant girls, no doubt.’
‘Oh, no doubt.’
He straightens up to his feet, wobbling at the knees before the weakness melts away from his bearing. For a second there, Merlin sees the young prince Arthur once was, free like the vast summer sky and belonging only to those he chooses to give himself to.
(‘C’mon, Merlin. You know what I mean. Cerdic’s realm, and it’s just beyond those hills. I wanna see it for the heck of it...no, the men won’t miss us if it’s just a quick peek. We’ll be back before the Table gets its knickers in a twist-yeah, you really don’t take much convincing, do you?’)
But when Arthur steps out from beyond his tent every inch of him belongs to his people, and Merlin's heart, carved from stone, shatters along with the blare of trumpets. The mournful cacophony of the weeping trees are not lost to him in the noise. He knows what they know.
Today, Arthur is going to die.
Once upon a time (although, really, it’s only been thirty odd years, but time does fly when it passes in the company of mortals), there were two boys, a kingdom, and too much opportunity.
But before that, there was coincidence (or a few).
Arthur hadn’t been present for Merlin’s grand entrance into Camelot. What he knew he’d heard from the matronly kitchen staff, who’d never missed the opportunity to regale him with their latest pickings from the grapevine: Merlin had arrived at the doorsteps of the castle one stormy evening, when the chill of winter's frost lingered in the steely bite of the draughts on the stone corridors…
The servants had just finished laying out the tapestries when there was a frantic pounding on the door near the kitchen hearth. The cook took him in, poor soul, trembling in his sodden peasant drabs, fed and clothed him and asked for him to be put to work.
Then it turned out that Merlin was gifted with extraordinary clumsiness. He had a penchant for breaking the dishes. Ruining the royal stew. Setting the kitchens on fire. He ought to be in the stables, the cook argued. So Merlin was sent thus. He was just about to report to the stable-master for duty, in fact, when the crown prince and his retinue returned back from a hunt, bearing a boar for a feast, and logs for the evening fire.
Later, no one would be certain how it happened; Llamrei, ever faithful mare, reared her head as she bucked against an invisible hand. The prince, caught by surprise at such unprecedented behaviour, struggled to calm her to no avail, and would have crashed upon the snow in an ugly fall had a small lithe figure not darted out to snatch the reins from his fingers and steady her against his shoulder with a smooth murmur and a pat or two.
Arthur looked down upon his rescuer, a pale-faced boy of not more than fourteen summers, with features that were too pretty like a girl’s but with angles to his jawline that hinted at a blossoming youthful masculinity. It was a noble face, fine and delicate like the courtiers that pay homage to Uther, and at sharp contrast to his servant’s garb. Arthur found his interest piqued.
'You have a name, boy?' he asked, reaching for his purse to pay his gratitude.
The boy nodded.
‘Wanna tell me what it is?' Arthur leant over to press the silver into a sweat-damp palm. It was shockingly cold to touch and Arthur felt the stirrings of pity as he took in the threadbare tunic on the boy's shoulders, the minute trembling of his frame with each gust of northerly wind.
The boy finally spoke. 'It's Merlin,' he said, voice jittery in his throat, and Arthur's mind was made up.
'Merlin. And I'm Arthur.' He extended his hand in invitation. 'You have my thanks. Listen. I kinda need assistance in my chambers-ah, not quite what it sounds like, don’t fret. My pageboy’s been dismissed; it seems that he mysteriously contracted the pox although how or wherefrom I really couldn’t say…'
‘I need a smoke,’ Arthur says. Beneath him, Llamrei, blessed with longevity by the Old Religion, paws at the earth with her hooves and shakes out her glorious mane.
Merlin throws him a wry glance. Truth be told, Arthur isn’t the only one struggling with such base desires, but they ride at the head of Camelot’s army on its slow march towards Mordred’s banners. It’s nothing Merlin can’t fix but he isn’t sure whether Arthur’s statement is rhetorical or not.
‘Try to focus, Sire,’ he murmurs. ‘I’d rather not have to scrape you off the battlefield because of withdrawal symptoms. Mordred would have a field day.’ His own words burn in his ears. It’s one thing to joke about death, another to joke about the inevitable. Merlin doesn’t know how to balance them both without feeling like he’s picking at fresh wounds.
‘Oi.’ Arthur’s tone is a cross of amusement and annoyance. ‘It isn’t my fault that Mordred’s such a charmer.’
‘But it is my liege’s dalliance with his half-sister that has led to this-ah, how shall we put this delicately-minor inconvenience?’
‘Okay, okay. I get it. You have my permission to stop the censure.’
‘Your poor knights, having to suffer on account of your brilliant moment of splendid dipsomaniacal stupidity.’
Arthur turns to glare at him, half-outraged, half-incredulous. Merlin likes pushing his buttons, in more ways than one. He isn’t going to stop now. This is a face to remember for eternity. ‘I’m just saying,’ Arthur says, with great self-righteousness, ‘it isn’t like Morgy went out of her way to explain our family relationship to me, yeah?’
Merlin snorts. It’s an unexpected sound to herald Camelot’s greatest battle with, and he can feel the surprise radiating from the men behind him. Not a bad thing, he decides, and lets himself smile more easily. Uplifting their morale is going to be a challenge; Arthur has a natural charisma, Merlin is willing to admit, but even he’s hard pressed to come up with a good motivational speech this time.
(‘Right. So. Boys. There’s a giant, well, giant, see, and it’s right up there on the top of the mountain. Now. What say we-oh, why on earth do you need to know that, Percy? It’s Snowdon, all right? Mount Snowdon? Mountain Snowdon? Snowdon the mountain. One of ‘em, anyway. The point is, first one up to fell the giant, well. Wins. That’s it, really.’)
They come to a halt just before a steep valley. Arthur’s eyes are narrowed as he scrutinises the enemy front. He’s every bit as bright as Merlin had hoped (but will never concede). It’s taken him all of one look to tell that something’s heinously wrong.
Merlin can feel it too. But he’s cheating, of course.
‘What’s causing it?’ Arthur asks. Merlin can see the fingers of Arthur’s sword hand twitching. Either he’s unsettled enough to want the comforting weight of Excalibur in his palm, or his need for his pipe has gotten greater.
‘Morgan,’ Merlin says, without further elaboration. He doesn’t know how to describe Morgan’s magic in words that Arthur will understand, unless he sticks to the choicer terms in the king’s colourful vocabulary. Anyhow, her name alone is sufficient explanation. Arthur’s expression darkens.
‘Hell,’ he mutters. ‘She won’t leave it be until she’s torn me into pieces herself, is that it? Crazy bint.’
Merlin can’t bring himself to correct his king, so he doesn’t.
Not her, the wind whispers its warning. Merlin tells it to hush.
And Nimueh’s voice responds, floating in the blank space between mental consciousness and physical hearing.
Told you, didn’t I? You’re in too deep.
Had she always been this irritating? Merlin cannot recall anymore, the same way he cannot remember being a boy in the caves near Lake Glaslyn, playing amongst the magic until his eyes absorbed the colour of the amethysts growing on the wall.
Nimueh sounds impossibly smug. Merlin bites his tongue to keep from frowning.
What’re you going to do now, pretty boy?
It would be kind of you to provide some assistance. Merlin’s reply is a trifle testy.
No can do. Already he wields Excalibur. Now it’s up to you to show me what he can do.
He’s fully capable of showing you himself.
She laughs. It grates on Merlin’s nerves and he scratches at the back of his neck and tries to appear calm. Arthur is watching him, he notes in dim realisation. It won’t do to let the façade slip. Arthur doesn’t need any more on his plate and a psycho-sadistic fence-sitting sorceress is an entire buffet on her own.
How interesting. She’s smiling. He can tell. Word of advice, pretty.
No thank you.
Give him his pipe. You’ll regret it if you don’t.
Merlin’s chest clenches. He draws a shaky breath, squeezes his eyes shut to prevent a lapse in control over his power. The earth trembles. Trepidation. He’s never had a good grip on his temper.
Arthur’s by his side in an instant. Right by it. Their wrists brush as he takes the reins from Merlin’s slack fingers.
‘Focus,’ Arthur says, face troubled, eyes concerned, and it’s too much all at once.
Merlin looks away. It’s no effort-it shouldn’t be any effort-for him to spirit Arthur’s pipe from his tent and into the king’s fingers.
It leaves him exhausted anyway.
Merlin can’t-doesn’t like to-remember his first meeting with Nimueh. She’s an infuriating sort, the kind of woman that both attracts and repels him at once. She may be older than he, but he’ll one day learn more. Know more.
A sorceress that never left her lake to seetouchtastesmellfeel for herself. Whatever she had to offer, Merlin would take and go. Or so he’d thought, but oftentimes, whenever he could spare a moment to leave Arthur’s side (without Camelot catching the plague or Albion being assailed by generic medieval mythical monsters-these moments were precious few and far in-between), he found himself back at Glaslyn.
Coupling with Nimueh was rudimentary. That wasn’t to say that she wasn’t skilled in its various acts, but to Merlin it was mere collateral; an acceptable exchange that didn’t disadvantage him beyond limits and yet gave access to her useful albeit cryptic pearls of wisdom.
Which was why he was surprised to show up one autumn’s morning-after tourney season and Arthur’s having a lazy lie-in for once instead of training the men-to find the elderly Geoffrey of Monmouth, honorary court historian, in the greedy embrace of the lecher of the lake.
‘Not much of a lady, are we?’ he asked mildly. He wasn’t jealous, just uncomfortable with the sudden development. Arthur didn’t know about these impromptu visits and Merlin wasn’t convinced that Monmouth was any good at keeping counsel.
Nimueh smirked, but withdrew her claws. Monmouth was stammering his apologies, but Merlin dismissed them with a slight smile. If he was going to do Merlin the favour of entertaining the insatiable witch, then so be it. There were only benefits to be had.
‘I was hoping that you’d come, actually,’ she said, voice delighted.
Merlin raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘I’m not interested in joining your fun, sorry.’
‘My, presumptuous, aren’t we?’ She chortled. ‘I can still change my mind about showing you my sword, you know.’
Merlin clapped politely. It was the done thing, wasn’t it? ‘Congratulations,’ he said, with great solemnity, ‘you’ve finally figured out how to grow one for yourself.’
She smirked, even as Monmouth swallowed in nervousness. ‘Mouthy as always,’ she purred, ‘that’s why I’ll always find you adorable, my pretty.’
Merlin made to retort, but Nimueh chose that second to flick her wrists towards the lake. It bubbled, foamed, did a couple of things that appeared so historically significant that Monmouth chose to inscribe it into his history book-with added pomposity and after editing out most of the innuendo, of course.
Fireworks were nothing to Merlin. Nimueh was one for the theatrics, and it was always less impressive once you knew how it was done.
He was far more interested in what she had to say next.
‘For your precious Arthur,’ she drawled. ‘Don’t just chuck it into your collection of nonsensical oddities, yes? It’ll help him be king of Albion for just that much longer.’
‘He’s neither mine nor precious,’ Merlin said, but it was half-hearted. This wasn’t the first time they were having this argument.
Nimueh scoffed.
‘No?’ she mocked. ‘Then your future eye is clearly short-sighted. Try getting a prescription for those.’
The sun beats down over their heads in unrelenting waves. It’s nearly midday and Mordred’s army is festering. Rather literally. The stench emanating from their ranks is foul, leaving a sour taste in Merlin’s mouth as he tries not to hurl his meagre breakfast back up along with a hearty dose of bile.
‘Can’t believe this,’ he hears Gawain complaining, the young knight leading his horse in restless circles, ‘we haven’t even begun, and they already smell dead.’
‘Quiet,’ Bedivere says, golden, beautiful, and every inch the bureaucratic nobleman he’d been in Arthur’s court before his decision to take up arms. It was a move that had invited scorn from the other courtiers of his station, but Merlin watches him watch Gawain, the boy he’d raised from youth, and thinks he understands. What does Bedivere see, he wonders, when he watches Merlin watch Arthur? Does anyone even notice?
They must have noticed.
Arthur is antsy. He’s champing at the bit, Merlin realises. It’s good and bad in turn; Arthur only ever truly feels alive when he’s living on the edge but Arthur isn’t young enough to live on the edge anymore.
Age has caught up with his liege. Merlin takes in the grey at Arthur’s temples and conceals a sigh. They’ve had quite the run and he’s never had to consider the unflattering position of being alone once Arthur moves on as mortal men are wont to do.
Merlin isn’t ready.
‘Ready?’ Arthur asks, because he has the unfortunate tendency to be contrary, even unintentionally. Behind them, Camelot’s finest cheer. ‘Let’s go put Mordred out of his misery. Even he can’t be enjoying the summer’s perfume of a thousand rotting corpses.’
‘That’s exactly what they are,’ Merlin says. ‘A resurrected army. Morgan’s only become lovelier since her banishment.’
‘Tell me about it. I’ve no idea why you were so enamoured with her.’
‘Please speak for yourself, Sire. I was merely suspicious of her ways-’
They’re interrupted by a loud wail from Percival. ‘Sire, Owain won’t let me ride next to him into battle.’
‘Who would?’ is Owain’s incensed reply, ‘you’re always flinging your arms and legs everywhere like a monkey-’
‘Why’s it matter? You’re so short, they wouldn’t hit you anyway-’
‘Who’re you calling short-’
Merlin’s lip twitches. He looks at Arthur, who, well, for want of a better word, laughs. And laughs, and laughs, and laughs, until he’s gravitated, somehow or another, to the centre of all attention again. It’s the nature of kings to be selfish that way, Merlin thinks, but some kings are loved for it while others are hated.
It’s obvious which category Arthur falls within.
‘Galahad,’ Arthur calls, when he finally catches a breath. ‘You’ll ride with Percival to lead the left flank. Encircle towards the enemy’s rear but wait till we make first contact before coming in strong.’
‘Yes, my liege.’
‘And…’ Arthur runs a hand through his short crop of hair, expression considering. ‘I’ll lead the main attack myself, with Merlin’s ranged support. Ranged, Merlin, I’m emphasising this for the last time. You aren’t in anything remotely considered armour. Bors…Kay. You boys lead the right flank and I’ll…’ he trails off. Merlin doesn’t miss the sudden darkness that flitters over Arthur’s face before vanishing just as quickly as it came. He blames it on Lancelot, on Guin, even on himself, for failing to stop Arthur from making his fatal mistakes.
‘Fuck, My Lords,’ Arthur is saying, face filled with a rare regret. ‘To put it bluntly, we’re in this shit because of me. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’
There’s a long, drawn silence.
Gawain’s the first to tap his fist to his heart in a gesture of loyalty but it is soon mirrored by the knights that surround their king. It’s foolish. It’s also the first time in countless millennia that Merlin allows himself to do something as human as hope.
You will mourn, Ambrosius, the trees caution. Merlin shuts out their voices and listens, instead, to his name on Arthur’s lips.
Arthur is smirking at him. Mouth curled upwards, dark and sensual, inexplicably compelling.
‘You may,’ Arthur says grandly, ‘have the honour of starting this war. Make it more than a wee bit of puff, will you?’
‘Will a bang do?’
‘A bang will do nicely.’
Merlin raises his staff. It rains fire from the heavens because, well. Nimueh doesn’t have a monopoly on the dramatics.
The upside of having a court sorcerer was that one’s coronation ceremony tended to be a rather one-of-a-kind, never-seen-before brand of unique.
The downside of having a court sorcerer was that one’s coronation ceremony tended to be a rather one-of-a-kind, never-seen-before brand of unique.
Arthur wasn’t impressed. He was, actually, rather terrified and unwilling to admit it. This, in turn, led to his irritation with the source of his discomfort, which so happened to be the aforementioned court sorcerer. A pity, since anyone with a half-functioning mental capability would realise that taking out one’s fear-induced anger on the only magical being in town was akin to being very, very stupid.
Arthur’d had enough of being stupid for a day.
‘I don’t even know what that says,’ he hissed, jabbing an inconspicuous finger in the direction of the very, very intimidating stone in the middle of Camelot’s market square.
‘Oh, you mean the squiggly inscriptions? Don’t worry too much, I suspect few people would be able to read it, if any. Roughly, it means something like, rightful king, please come here and pull the rather large and obvious sword out so we can all heave a sigh of relief and go back home.’
‘Funny.’
Merlin was squinting. He’d left his glasses back in his chambers again. Arthur was going to have to have a word with him about climbing all those flights of stairs while blind as a bat.
‘It stopped being funny once we starting baking in the sun, Arthur.’
‘Don’t see why you’re complaining. Have you seen what I’m wearing?’ In addition to his rather hard quandary-no pun intended, really, this was serious-Arthur had been forced by their rather officious chamberlain into robes of the most garish purple. And if there was one material he couldn’t pull off, it was ermine.
‘I don’t know, Arthur,’ Merlin was saying with a considering air, ‘don’t you think it’s highlighting your personality in rather honest terms?’
‘Don’t say it.’
Merlin, as per normal, ignored his command.
‘I mean, it really does scream ‘obnoxious git’ at the top of its voice-’
Arthur groaned. ‘You’re such an arse. See if I ever pack your tower for you again.’
Merlin’s smile was sweet. Dangerously so. ‘I don’t recall ever asking you to.’
‘I do it for your own good and you know it.’ In the midst of the crowd of commoners, Arthur’s knights had started on their attempt to pull the sword out of the stone. It was a rather lovely sword, Arthur had to give Merlin that, although he had no idea from whence it came, or why Merlin decided that it would be a brilliant idea to jab it into a boulder that definitely hadn’t been in the square before.
‘This…is…sorcery!’ Percy grunted as he exerted all his force on the sword. It didn’t even budge an inch.
Arthur turned to Merlin, exasperation only mounting when it became evident that Merlin was enjoying himself immensely.
‘It doesn’t take Sir Percival long to notice these things, does it?’ he murmured, amused.
‘I still don’t want to do this,’ is Arthur’s grudging reply.
Merlin glanced heavenwards in despair. ‘Then you leave me with no choice, Sire,’ he said mournfully. He raised a hand towards the skies. An odd wind picked up. The leaves seemed to rustle with laughter at Arthur’s plight as a single, conspicuous beam of sunlight descended upon the shocked prince.
The crowd fell silent.
Placed on the spot, Arthur had no choice but to step up to take his rightful place. Hand on the encrusted hilt, boot braced upon the stone, he pulled and the sword slid out to blinding brilliance in the light. Arthur hefted it skyward-it seemed like the thing to do-and it sang as it sliced through the air.
One by one, his people fell to their knees as they hailed their newly crowned king. Merlin was the last to kneel in supplication. His head was bowed in a semblance of subservience, but his eyes were wicked as they gazed upwards to meet Arthur’s.
They were a dark, hot violet. Arthur was struck by a sudden, unbidden want.
And the wind roared in jubilation, carrying Merlin’s whisper for his ears only.
‘Beyond Albion, sire,’ was what he said.
Morgan le Fay is a taint on the glassy surface of the Old Religion. Merlin knows magic, understands it fundamentally-oh, for goodness sake, he is magic, for the most part. Comparatively, she is part human, part fairfolk, and the darkness in her magic shocks even him.
Kill her, he hears Nimueh say, deadly serious, wholly. She cannot be allowed to return to Avalon or your Arthur will never have peace in his resting place.
For once, they are in complete agreement. It’s momentous. Merlin is rather sure that it’s a first.
A mist has settled over the fields, obscuring most of Merlin’s vision. This makes him uneasy. He cannot distinguish Arthur from the silhouettes that offer him occasional glimpses through the opaque air like a phantasmagoria of dream images. He doesn’t bother lifting his staff. There is only one way to undo Morgan’s spell and he’s more than glad to see it done.
He finds her on the edge of an overhanging plateau, surveying the battle from her vantage point.
‘That wasn’t hard, was it?’ she says to him, although from the way she whirls around, she hadn’t anticipated his arrival.
Merlin isn’t in the mood to humour her.
‘My lady,’ he greets, more out of habit than politeness. ‘Shall we proceed with matters?’ He has a list of errands to run on this glorious day, and she’s stalling him so as to speak. The earth has volunteered to help him with some of them, but there’s still the matter of the golden throne and the half-finished spell he’s left behind in his tower that really must be completed by the end of twilight.
Morgan regards him coolly. Ambition is a terrible thing, Merlin thinks, noting how it has consumed her completely, leaving nothing behind but an empty husk and a mad searing in her eyes.
Arthur is nothing like her. Merlin doesn’t believe that he’s ever been more grateful for anything in his life.
(‘It’s not that I’m complaining or anything, Merlin-just listen. Correct me if I’m wrong, but do I really need another patch off Rience’s lands? I mean. He’s stopped bothering Guin’s old man and I feel kinda sorry for all the territory we’ve been snipping off his borders-wait. What d’you mean, prime land for wine production?’)
Morgan attacks him first. He meets fire with ice, lightning with earth, wind with a void of nothingness. It plays out exactly as he expects.
Ah, well. Perhaps not exactly.
Morgan’s knife is a flicker of silver in the black light of the mists. Merlin doesn’t dodge in time, is so used to being cared for by humans that he’s forgotten what they’re capable of.
Careless, careless.
There’s a wrenching pain across his gut-that, in itself, is a surprise too-and he isn’t sure which spell of the Old Religion he uses then, except that it’s rage-fuelled, implodes Morgan from the inside, and causes it to rain in red droplets all over the valley.
Panting, Merlin rolls on his back, scrambling to pack his innards through the gnash on his belly. There’s magic within him yet and it’ll heal; therein lies the problem with immortality. It’ll heal, whether or not you want it to.
Nimueh? He tries to reach her thoughts, but is met with silence.
It’s quiet, too quiet, like the world is grieving. Merlin doesn’t let himself dwell on it. There’s business at hand and until he sees it for himself, he’s not going to believe it. Arthur’s always lived harder than anyone else.
(‘Y’know, this is probably your best idea yet. And that’s truly saying something, since the whole swimming with the selkies shebang turned out rather spectacular, yes. No complaints about that one. But dragons? Honest to goodness dragons? You’ve outdone yourself this time, my good lord high sorcerer. Now. Move over, will you, and tell me how to fly this damn thing.’)
The mist dissipates and the rain lets up. Merlin staggers to his feet to hunt for his king.
The first time Arthur saw Guinevere, he was being received in her father's hall as a champion of Carhaise.
Merlin noticed it straightaway, of course.
Leodegrance’s daughter was fair like no mortal he’d ever seen before, and it was obvious that Arthur was enamoured. This, however, was no rare occurrence with Arthur, who had many a time before sworn eternal passion towards each newest object of his current desires. If there was one thing his king had truly mastered, it was the art of sentiment.
For the best, Merlin decided. If nothing else, it would be an effective way to put the Morgan le Fay fiasco out of Camelot’s minds. Following on with that train of thought, it would only be wise to see where Arthur stood on the subject of matrimony.
'You're embarrassing yourself, sire,' Merlin pointed out in a whisper, ever-helpful especially when he knew that Arthur wouldn’t take well to his opinion. 'I think there's some spit on your chin.'
'No, really, thank you for the running commentary, Merlin.'
Merlin had to hold back a burst of mirth at Arthur’s glower. He only grew more triumphant when he noticed the young king wiping surreptitiously at his mouth in the event that Merlin really was right. Arthur was in a good mood, though. Overall, anyway. He turned to share a moment of amusement with Merlin, who quickly met it with an unreadable smile.
'But you are lucky, Arthur,' Merlin commented. 'Her beauty really is beyond all reason.'
Arthur turned his attention back to the lady. Her hair, fair like snow, was twisted at her nape into a long braid and her tunic was virginal white, as was her skin. The circlet upon her brow was gold-gilded. Merlin could see what Arthur saw-it was easy to admire the way she tipped her chin just so as she spoke to her ladies, regal as the queen Leodegrance would undoubtedly wish for her to become.
But stern. Too stern, too serious for Arthur, ultimately. Arthur, who, as far as Merlin knew, couldn’t keep a straight face at the slightest provocation or joke, even if his life depended on it-which it sometimes did, particularly when Uther was involved.
Merlin was happy for Arthur, of course. Happiness was mandatory when it came to these kinds of situations. But he didn’t have to like it.
'Are you jealous, Merlin?'
Arthur was teasing, but only partially so. He was sharp-Merlin had only begun to understand just how well Arthur could read him-and there was a purpose behind his question.
Good thing then, that Merlin knew Arthur like the back of his hand.
Arthur’s expression was priceless as he registered the affirmative hum that Merlin let slip on purpose.
'She is to follow us back to Camelot?' Merlin asked, in all tactless insolence because he liked to pretend at a semblance of humility whenever it suited him fine, but he was also aware that Arthur had never, ever called him out on insouciant behaviour. No, that would be a bit rich, coming from this king.
'Well, yes.’ There was a frown tugging on Arthur’s lips. Confused, just the way Merlin wanted him to be. ‘I think that's the general idea in the cards at the moment.'
'And will you be wed?'
Arthur started and stared at Merlin in open amazement. 'What's gotten into you?' he remarked, clearly unable to fathom why his normally oneiric manservant had chosen this banquet of all times to develop an inquisitive streak.
Merlin shrugged in that dismissive way of his that never failed to rankle.
'I'm merely curious, Arthur, don't take it to heart, please, but she is lovely.'
And, of course, now Arthur would have to ask. But of course, Merlin had been ever so careful to never so much as even pay the least inclination towards the women of the castle. It would only be natural for the unsurpassable gossip that was his liege-Arthur could put the fishmonger’s wife to shame-to have a burning urge to know what it took to gain Merlin's attention.
But Arthur didn’t ask. His countenance grew dark with an emotion that Merlin couldn’t decipher the reason behind. It threw him off in a way few things did anymore.
‘Sire?’
‘Is there someone, Merlin?’ he asked suddenly. Now, this, Merlin didn’t see coming.
He delayed his reply by fussing with Arthur’s wine goblet. He spilt half of it on the table, but for once, Arthur made no comment. The king’s impatience was evident, knuckles white as he gripped at the arms of his seat, but Merlin was hard-pressed to care. Not when Arthur had made things so much more complicated for him.
There was a fifty-fifty chance that he would hit upon the right answer, see. That much was obvious. What Merlin didn’t like was not knowing which one Arthur wanted to hear. When it came to the King of Camelot, Merlin was supposed to be the go-to authority. This was unacceptable, to say the least.
'No, sire,' Merlin said in the end, 'not in the least.'
He didn’t miss the way Arthur refused to look at him for the rest of the feast.
The battle is over and Arthur is nowhere to be found.
The fields of Camlann have been painted with the blood of fallen knights (and bakers and blacksmiths and boys). But it’s their banner-the Pendragon banner-that flutters proudly in waves of red and gold.
Merlin runs.
He sees the knights first, standing in a circle at the top of a hill. Someone is crying. He recognises the anguished noises as belonging to Gawain. He’s soon joined by others.
Merlin wants to leave. He walks over instead, the knights with their tear-streaked faces parting mutely to show him what he’s already seen in countless nightmares.
Arthur is, for want of a better word, broken. Merlin catalogues the injuries in silence; ribs, legs, internal haemorrhaging. He’s almost entirely severed from waist down. It’s the work of the monster that lies not ten feet away, garbed in Mordred’s colours.
The beast is dead. He never was that human anyway.
Merlin schools his face into a deliberate blank. It’s not enough and Arthur sees.
‘Look at you,’ Arthur says (gasps), ‘putting up a brave front like that, just for me. I must look like shit.’
‘Quite,’ Merlin agrees, sliding easily into their age-old banter as he sinks to the grass next to his liege. ‘You’ve seen better days, for sure. I can’t imagine any of the servant girls wanting anything to do with your infamous lower half anymore.’
‘Aw, shucks. Really?’ Arthur’s mouth wobbles into a grin. It’s harder for Merlin to copy it. ‘You’ll have to do then, if that’s my lot in life.’
‘You flatter me.’
‘You’re full of it.’ Something softens in Arthur’s eyes, already clouding over. ‘Don’t make that face, damnit. It’ll be okay.’
‘Perhaps you should stop talking now.’
The knights are begging him to heal their leader. But Arthur silences them with a glance. He won’t beg, thank the gods, since Merlin can’t deliver.
It’s Arthur’s time.
‘Hey,’ Arthur mumbles. ‘Think y’could get me one last smoke?’ His voice grows steadily softer as he drifts further away from Camlann and his men. Merlin looks into his eyes and sees the shores of Avalon reflected in them.
Merlin doesn’t say a word more. He conjures the pipe up, takes a deep lungful of smoke, then leans over to press his mouth to Arthur’s.
Arthur parts his lips. They share his last breath.
When Merlin pulls away, the King of Camelot has passed on.
I’m sorry, he thinks he hears Nimueh say, but he doesn’t acknowledge her condolences, mind already pressing towards setting Arthur’s affairs in order. He needs something to channel his anger towards, and there’s the matter of hiding Arthur’s throne, returning the sword to Nimueh, putting Gawain in charge of the impending Saxon invasion.
He also wants to go to sleep-already knows the perfect apple tree-but that will have to wait.
‘Bedivere,’ he says, ‘if you could kindly take Excalibur and go down to Glaslyn…’
He’ll wake again when Albion needs him.
There will be no again. Next time, Merlin’ll tear the world asunder first.
Arthur swept a hand over his eyes, shielding out the light from the overhead candelabras in his bedchamber. It was a grey day in Camelot, the smoke from Guin’s bonfire still choking in his memories. He needed to stop thinking about her, needed to focus on what was looming on the horizon ahead, but Morgy’s treachery hadn’t even been half as painful as this was and Arthur couldn’t stop fixating on the better times before.
He’d never expected it to hurt-after all, he wasn’t the pinnacle of fidelity-but this was Guin they were talking about, and Lancelot, two of his closest and dearest despite everything. He’d closed an eye, indulged in his own exploits, but now all of Camelot knew and how the hell was Arthur supposed to clean their mess up?
Fucking idiots.
A phantom gust of wind picked up in the room. He heard the door click as it was bolted shut. There was only one person who would enter his chambers unannounced.
His mattress shifted with the weight of another. Arthur shifted over from the centre of the bed to give Merlin some space.
‘You’re glad,’ Merlin said, matter of fact.
‘Do I look it?’
‘Not outwardly, but I know there’s relief somewhere in you.’
It was true. Galling, but true. Arthur was glad that they’d gotten away, that Lancelot had had the chance to play the hero and rescue Arthur’s wife from the execution her husband had personally overseen.
‘We knew it would happen this way. We even told Gawain about our plans, knowing that he would be unable to resist informing Lancelot.’
‘Gawain’s hardly older than a kid,’ Arthur muttered. ‘We shouldn’t have exploited his feelings.’
‘He’s feeling guilty now,’ was Merlin’s factual reply, ‘but it’ll pass. He’s young yet and Bedivere takes good care of his charge.’
Arthur let out a sigh. Fuck it. Tomorrow’s training would have to be postponed. The knights would understand. He was going to crawl up a tree and come down again only when feeling less pathetic.
‘Guess I still have the men,’ he said.
Merlin hummed in agreement. ‘Yes. Amongst others.’
Something in Merlin’s tone made Arthur open his eyes. Merlin was leaning against the four poster, temple pressed to the mahogany spiral as he stared out past the open window lattice at the endless night sky. He was gaunt, Arthur realised, when had that happened? Idiot was always on the thin side, but with his knees tucked to his chest, Merlin looked impossibly haggard, impossibly frail.
Arthur moved without thinking. He brushed his fingers against Merlin’s neck, earning himself a narrow glance.
‘D’you remember that time we killed the Afanc?’ he murmured against the shell of Merlin’s ear. Merlin turned his head away. Perhaps the gesture was done out of embarrassment. Arthur didn’t care. He knew that they were on the same page and that was the important part.
‘What am I supposed to remember?’ Merlin asked levelly.
‘Dunno. Something. Anything.’ Merlin’s waist fit into the crook of his arm. Merlin shivered, muscles taut beneath the slow stroke of Arthur’s thumb, caressing his skin through the thin Coptic tunic that he wore beneath his mantle.
‘I remember the moon,’ Merlin said at last. ‘It was full that day.’
‘And the lake,’ Arthur added. ‘Our fire beneath the trees. You sleeping next to me, prick hard as you rutted against my thigh in your dreams.’
(They’d been young men once. There were a million ways Arthur’d imagined broaching this topic. This wasn’t one of them.)
Merlin’s eyes flashed with defiance. He tried to turn in Arthur’s hold.
‘You were awake,’ he accused. ‘You could have stopped me if you wanted.’
‘Yes,’ Arthur replied. ‘But d’you know what I wanted more?’
‘Don’t ask ridiculous questions, Arthur. You know very well that I don’t read your thoughts.’
He hauled Merlin by the arms, taking advantage of Merlin’s surprise to pin him down to the bed by the wrists, heart pounding in tandem as they stared wide-eyed at each other, still lost in the epiphany that this was happening at last. They weren’t circling the unspoken anymore.
‘I wanted to fuck you,’ Arthur whispered, ‘shove your face down into the dirt by the shores of the lake and take your willing, pliant body, spill my seed deep inside you. I would have left marks. All of Camelot should know what we are.’ He spoke mere inches away from Merlin’s trembling mouth. Christ, that mouth. It was indecent, impertinent, indolent all at once, and Arthur wanted it screaming his name.
Merlin’s smile was dark.
‘Indeed?’ he challenged. ‘Why didn’t you?’
‘In case you’ve forgotten, I am-was-trying to be a good a married man.’
It happened so quickly; Arthur barely had time to register it, let alone react. There was a clap of thunder, magic, perhaps, then he’d found himself flat on his back on the cold stone slabs, head ringing from the impact.
Merlin reappeared in view, mantle in disarray. He straddled Arthur’s waist, bulge rubbing right against Arthur’s tented breeches. Arthur hissed, hips bucking upwards to try and chase the friction. Merlin bent over, took Arthur’s lower lip between his teeth and tugged. Licked at the corner of Arthur’s mouth.
‘I saw you first.’ It came out in a fierce whisper. Arthur had never known Merlin to be possessive, of all things, but he’d never known Guin to be unfaithful or Lancelot to be disloyal, so maybe he wasn’t the astute judge of character he’d thought himself to be. He turned his head to the side just so, meeting Merlin in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss.
‘What now?’ he breathed out, when they finally drew apart.
‘If no one has any objections, I think I’d like to ride you. Here on the floor.’
Arthur chuckled. He wasn’t going to think about what this would look like when viewed in the wan morning light.
‘Nope, no objections from the king. Carry on as you were, Your Excellency.’
The Starbucks on High Holborn is crammed full of university students during peak hour. It’s a pity, because Merlin’s rather taken with the décor, which ranges from psychedelic beanbags to frosted glass vintage lamps. The ambience is delightful but it’s difficult to ignore the incessant chattering of excited freshers.
Anyway, he doesn’t have to stay for long. There’s a roar of engines, then a stunning black Harley pulls up just off the pavement in front of the café. ‘Llamrei’ is painted on the gleaming sides of the bike. Merlin lets an indulgent smile onto his face. He’s waited for this moment for whole centuries.
The door chimes upon Arthur’s entry. He draws attention all at once, from college girls to SNAGs, waltzing in there with his leather jacket slung over a shoulder and a ponytail of the reddest hair Merlin’s ever seen.
Merlin moves. Nimueh’s gaze is heavy on his back as he walks purposefully over to Arthur, looking for all the world like a clean-cut law student with his neat hair, textbook, satchel, sweater vest.
‘Hello, Arthur,’ he says, then tries and fails not to laugh as Arthur looks at him sharply, then does a double-take, then another again until it cannot help but become awkward for the poor man.
‘Sorry,’ Arthur says, covering his mouth with a hand, a tell of his discomfiture that he’d kept from a lifetime ago. Merlin’s throat constricts at the familiar sight. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’
‘No,’ Merlin says, visibly confusing Arthur further, ‘but perhaps you’ll like to.’
‘Uh-’
‘My name’s Merlin.’
‘Wait, really?’
‘Quite unfortunately.’ He pulls out his driver’s licence.
‘Damn. I thought I had it rough. I mean, Arthur Penydraig’s one for the books.’
‘That is rather terrible, isn’t it? Would you like to complain about it over a cuppa?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
The world is ending, Nimueh says.
Let it, Merlin replies.