Fic: Miles from Nowhere
So apparently I can do short(-ish) when I limit the plot to one scene. Merci beaucoup to torakowalski for proper Brit-speak and many other things!
Merlin/Arthur
PG-13
~1’900 words
>> “Still running away from me?” Arthur calls out. <<
Disclaimer: Fake. Characters belong to the BBC and whomever. I’m merely taking them for a spin and promise to return them unharmed.
==============================
Miles from Nowhere
_________________________________
The innkeeper and his daughter appear a bit frazzled at finding themselves accommodating a royal hunting party instead of the usual round of villagers and weary travellers. Under normal circumstances, Arthur would have sent someone ahead, but the snowstorm took them by surprise and once they’d come upon the village, the inn was already in sight.
As long as the fire keeps burning merrily, Arthur is content. His boots are already beginning to dry, albeit his socks are still damp. He’ll change them later.
Due to the weather, only a couple of villagers have found their way into the inn, and they’re too drunk to pay much attention to Arthur’s men carrying the baggage from their horses up into the guestrooms. Each time someone enters the house, a cold burst of air sweeps through the taproom. In the kitchen, the daughter is moving pans and pots about to prepare a late dinner for them, and the innkeeper has assured them he’ll wake the stable boy to take care of the horses.
Arthur takes another sip of his warm ale, the jug heating his hands. After hours in the freezing cold, the comfortable atmosphere has turned his thoughts sluggish, his limbs heavy. He barely glances over when the door that leads to the guestrooms opens yet again and a tall man steps into the taproom. Even that short glance is enough, though. Suddenly alert, Arthur sits up rigidly straight.
It’s been seven years.
It’s been seven years, but even after all this time, he’d recognise that lanky frame anywhere. For a moment, Merlin is staring straight at Arthur, his eyes wide and scared. Then he turns sharply, weaving around Arthur’s knights to exit through the front door.
Arthur is out of his armchair instantly, nearly dropping his jug. He sets it down beside the fireplace before he follows, sparing a vague thought for the expression he must be wearing given how his men part for him without even one attempt to address him. He doesn’t think any of them recognised Merlin, not as instantly, as instinctively as Arthur did. “Stay here,” he barks out. “That’s an order.” Then he’s back out in the cold night, the only source of light being that shining from the inn’s windows into the courtyard. Snowflakes obscure his vision for precious moments before he blinks against them to catch sight of a figure heading towards the stables, towing two horses behind.
“Still running away from me?” Arthur calls out. The wind tears the words right out of his mouth, but Merlin must have heard them anyway. He stops dead on the spot, and Arthur uses the opportunity to close part of the distance between them.
“I never ran away from you.” Merlin’s tone is the same as it’s always been, stubborn and insubordinate. He turns slowly, and even in the scarce illumination, Arthur can tell that the sharp cut of his cheekbones is even more prominent, his face gaunt where it used to be angular. “Your Majesty,” Merlin adds after a pause that was most likely intentional. He bows his head, but doesn’t lower his eyes.
“Funny,” Arthur says. “Because you not running away from me is not the impression I got.” He takes another step closer. This time, Merlin retreats from him, walking backwards until he’s reached the stable’s shelter from the icy wind, tugging the horses along. One of them is Arthur’s stallion, its white coat standing out in the night. The horses press up against Merlin, wet from the snow, and he tries to suppress a shiver. His voice is firm, though.
“Well, excuse me, Sire. I preferred to make my getaway instead of being killed by your father.”
“Stop being so bloody formal,” Arthur bites out. He follows Merlin into the stable to find that once inside, the darkness swallows even the last trace of light from the inn’s windows. It’s silent for too long, the only sound that of the wind howling outside. Then Arthur can hear movement and a torch beside the entrance flares up. Of course Merlin isn’t anywhere near it.
“So you’re a stable boy now?” Arthur leans against one of the boxes, watching Merlin grab a handful of straw to wipe Arthur’s horse down. The stallion, usually ill-tempered around strangers, might remember Merlin from its days as a colt because it stands perfectly still, both ears perked up. Merlin appears entirely focused on his task, showing a devotion he never displayed when it came to polishing Arthur’s armour, and for a moment, Arthur finds it hard to draw another breath. He pushes away from the box.
“You’re wasting your potential.”
Merlin glances at him, his eyes dark, unreadable. The torchlight pronounces the dark circles beneath his eyes. “Am I?” His tone is cutting. “You know, it’s not as if there are too many opportunities for people like me.”
“There are plenty of opportunities,” Arthur says.
“Really.” It’s not a question, and Merlin never used to be this mocking, this… mistrustful. Arthur doesn’t ask what happened to him. He isn’t sure he wants to know.
Instead, he draws closer again, stepping up beside his stallion to pet its neck, watching Merlin over the snout. “Why didn’t you come back?”
Merlin doesn’t even pause in his steady motions. Neither does he spare Arthur a glance. “Why would I have?”
Arthur sucks in another silent breath, lungs twisting painfully. “I’m not my father, Merlin.”
“Yet you didn’t go out of your way to change things.” A flicker of a glance before Merlin moves down to the horse’s rear, straw rustling under his feet, and the subsequent sentence nearly gets lost in the racket of the wind tearing at the walls of the stable. “At least not about magic.”
“I didn’t want to-” Allow for hope, Arthur doesn’t say. He leans to the left to stare at Merlin’s profile. Merlin’s head is bent, his lashes throwing feathery shadows on his cheeks. Arthur swallows around the tightness gripping his throat, his voice serious. “I had people looking for you, you know. Lancelot was gone for half a year, and even he couldn’t find you.”
“Lancelot?” Merlin looks up, something bright in his eyes. “Lancelot is back?”
“Yes.” A small part of Arthur hates Lancelot for inspiring the first sign of genuine interest from Merlin. He squishes it. “He came for the coronation. I knighted him afterwards.”
Merlin nods, but doesn’t comment. His eyes are downcast once more, but Arthur likes to believe that the line of Merlin’s mouth is less tense, an upward tilt to the corners. Arthur rests a hand on his horse’s flank to prevent unwanted reflexes and steps around it, reaching for Merlin’s wrists to effectively stop his motions. Merlin stills, the straw dropping to the ground, and Arthur decides to see it as encouragement.
“Come back to the castle with me.”
It takes several moments before Merlin lifts his gaze from Arthur’s hands to his face. His expression is one that Arthur can’t read, as if Merlin is desperately trying to hide. He never used to do that. “Why? So you can ditch me next time someone more respectful of your status sucks up to you?”
“I wouldn’t,” Arthur says.
Merlin snorts derisively, and the restraint Arthur’s been clinging to snaps. He pulls Merlin in, chests colliding roughly, and just as Merlin is about to protest, Arthur cuts off any words by covering Merlin’s mouth with his own. Their lips are cold and Merlin doesn’t immediately react, his body tense against Arthur’s. Maybe this should be Arthur’s clue to admit defeat, but he can’t. Not here, not now.
He can’t.
He lets go of Merlin’s wrist to slide his hand up into Merlin’s hair, the strands damp between his fingers. One of the horses whinnies softly. When Arthur tilts his head to adjust the angle of their kiss, Merlin suddenly relaxes against him, leaning closer and opening his mouth to Arthur’s tongue. Merlin’s free hand finds its tentative place on Arthur’s waist. A blind flare of triumph heats Arthur’s skin. He makes a satisfied sound that he would never admit to outside of this stable and takes what’s offered.
Merlin, because he’s Merlin, because even seven years couldn’t change that, pushes back, fighting Arthur for dominance where everyone else would give in. There’s a sharp sting of pain when Merlin sucks Arthur’s bottom lip into his mouth, Merlin’s fingers digging into Arthur’s waist.
For once, Arthur lets him take over.
They draw apart after a time Arthur can’t measure, his breath coming in short gasps. He can feel Merlin’s exhalations puffing against his cheek and opens his eyes to find Merlin already staring at him. Arthur swallows.
“I would not,” he repeats, embarrassingly soft.
Merlin’s eyes darken. He straightens, taking a step back, and it’s a conscious effort for Arthur to let him go even that far. “Why should I believe you? It’s not as if you-”
“You never gave me a chance,” Arthur interrupts. “You were gone before I could talk to you, and Gaius…” Arthur trails off. He isn’t surprised to find Merlin’s eyes fixed on him, hard and burning.
“You spoke to Gaius?”
“Yes. He claimed he didn’t know where you were.”
Merlin crosses his arms, retreating until his back collides with the flank of Sir Leon’s horse. His question is harsh, but he can’t quite cover up the shaky quality of his voice. “Was that before or after your father imprisoned Gaius for assisting a magician’s escape?”
Arthur manages to hold Merlin’s gaze for only a heartbeat before he has to look away. “You heard about that.”
“Only when it was already too late.”
Arthur nods and wipes his hands on his damp shirt, insufficient protection against the freezing air. He left his coat in the taproom. “I tried to free him, you know. I…” He lifts one shoulder before dropping it again, his eyes focused on the flickering torch. It’s true, yes. He did try. And he failed. The punishment consisted of two nights in the cell beside Gaius, having to watch as soldiers, their faces averted, led the old man away.
Maybe that’s when Arthur lost faith. Or maybe it was earlier, when Uther proved himself deaf to Arthur’s pleas to make an exception, just once. At this point, he doesn’t even know anymore.
“Yes,” Merlin says after a silence that seems to have lasted for decades. His voice is quiet, almost a whisper. “Yes. I heard about that, too.”
There are so many questions sitting on the tip of Arthur’s tongue, questions like, why didn’t you come back then, or why are you hiding here, in a village that’s less than a day’s ride from the castle? Why didn’t you offer your services to some foreign king?
In the end, he asks none of them. What he says is, again, “Come back to the castle with me.”
It’s not an order, but it isn’t really a question, either. When Merlin’s eyes find his, Arthur doesn’t look away. A particularly strong burst of wind tears at the roof, making the wood creak, and still they’re staring at each other, unmoving.
With a soundless exhalation, Merlin bows his head. The beginning of a smile curves his lips, and Arthur finds that he can breathe freely again. It might be the first time in seven years.
=== .finis. ===