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merlin_holidays2010-12-23 09:09 am
merlin-hols.livejournal.com) wrote in merlin_holidays2010-12-23 09:09 am
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Happy Merlin Holidays, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
emeraldsword!
Title: A Moving Target
Recipient:emeraldsword
Author:chicaintcheap
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: ~7000
Warnings: Brief violence and some blood, and some possible spoilers for series three.
Summary: Canonverse AU. The story of a prince and his assassin.
Author's Notes: Not really much to say; emeraldsword, I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
- - -
Merlin
Before Merlin leaves for Camelot, he is given four things: a book that he can write in to have his words appear in an identical book back at home, a seal of nobility forged with magic, his late father’s favourite necklace, and a poisoned dagger with which to stab the prince through the heart.
- - -
Arthur
He’s the skinniest man that Arthur has ever seen on the training field, so thin that it’s a wonder he hasn’t collapsed under the heavy armour and the strong gusts of wind.
“Are you lost, boy?” Leon asks him, getting to him before any of the other snickering knights can. From a distance, Arthur watches – the newcomer, he’s all childlike eyes and cheekbones and jet-black hair, shoulders slouched slightly like a peasant’s, but he stands tall, almost taller than Arthur, when he looks back at Leon.
“I’m here because I want to become a knight,” he says, voice unwavering.
The snickering grows louder and Arthur steps forward, skeptical. “Only those of noble birth can be knights.”
The man – a boy, really – looks at Arthur defiantly, and holds up a scroll, hand shooting straight out; but Arthur doesn’t miss the slight shake in his arms. The boy is nervous. “My seal of nobility.”
As it turns out, he is indeed of noble blood, but not from a family that Arthur has heard of. He claims that his name is Merlin, third son of Balin, and Arthur decides that he’ll bring it up with Uther, see if he recognizes the name.
Either way, Arthur doubts that he’ll last more than a week.
- - -
The first test that the trainees are given is always the same – a quest that appears to be perfectly simple, and one that is rather favoured by the court physician; to retrieve a petal from the Mortius flower.
Merlin is the first to make it back, and when he hands over the flower, and his eyes catch Arthur’s, something flickers in them, something distant and begrudging.
- - -
After Merlin has bested the rest of the trainees in the next three tasks, Arthur decides to hold off on mentioning his family name to Uther; instead, he marches straight to Merlin’s chambers, surprised to find him hunched over a book. Merlin whirls around, looking scared, then outraged, then reluctantly gives Arthur a small bow as if he’s remembered who he is.
“Sire.”
“Come on,” Arthur says, ignoring the title. “Outside. Enough of the silly quests, I’m teaching you basic training.”
- - -
Merlin
He’s come to his chambers to find that his book is open to a page with When will you do it? written in his mother’s handwriting. He frowns, hoping that she isn’t wringing her hands and losing her hair with concern for him; she’d never wanted him to go in the first place. He writes back just one word.
Soon.
Before he has a chance to see if there’s a reply, there’s someone knocking his door open, and he spins around, heart leaping to his throat. Arthur is standing there, looking smaller than Merlin remembers, now that he’s wearing a white linen shirt rather than his regular armour. The shirt is open at the front, and Merlin can see a series of scars, the skin there jagged and knotted. He wants to ask where they’re from.
One moment, he’s standing there gawking and contemplating about Arthur’s chest of all things, and the next, he’s in the training field, struggling to keep himself from slipping in the dewy grass as Arthur swings a wooden sword at his head.
“Come on, Merlin, you’re not beating a carpet,” Arthur barks at him.
“Where are the others?” Merlin yells back, taking a few steps away, and moving so he can keep pace with Arthur as the prince begins to circle him, staring him down like a hawk watching its prey.
“They’re far above your level in basic combat,” says Arthur, and Merlin grips his sword, feeling anger well up in his chest. “You think you’re so clever, yet you can’t even hit a moving target.”
“I can hit you,” Merlin grits out, striking forward, with the intent of leaving bruises, making him hurt.
He feels the sweat drip down the side of his face, feels a cramp forming in his side, feels his knees begin to shudder underneath him with each step, and he knows without a doubt that Arthur is right. It’s funny, really – all he needed to do to kill a man is raise his hand and whisper a word or two of the old religion. With that sort of power, he’d never had to learn how to wield a sword aside from the most basic and simple steps. Yet now, as he feels the sharp pain from Arthur’s strikes, the bruises and the welts, he feels utterly powerless.
He’s spurred onward with a brief fantasy of knocking Arthur off his feet and beating him, killing him right there, watching that obnoxious smirk fade from his handsome face to be replaced by a grimace of pain, and then the twist of his mouth as he begs for his life, just as so many of Merlin’s kin had begged for theirs under the king’s tyrannous rule.
If only, Merlin thinks, as he moves too brashly, too abruptly, and – rather than taking Arthur by surprise as he hoped he would – he’s the one who ends up being knocked off his feet.
Arthur has him pinned down with the tip of the sword to his throat, and Merlin has an inane moment of terror where he wonders if Arthur knows who he really is, if he’s known all along, and if he’s going to kill him then and there.
Instead, Arthur’s sword leaves his throat, he can breathe again, and he finds himself staring up guilelessly at an extended hand. He grips it and Arthur pulls him to his feet in one smooth movement; Merlin can see the muscles in his arms strain through his shirt.
“Not bad,” Arthur says, clapping him on the back. “But you’ve got a lot to learn. Put these back.” He tosses the practice sword at Merlin’s chest and turns, and Merlin just stands there, breathless.
- - -
Arthur
As the sun rises, Arthur climbs out of his bed and looks out his window, at the training field that’s empty save for a lone, lanky figure, swinging one of the wooden swords at a practice dummy. Arthur leans on the windowsill, the corner of his mouth lifting as he watches.
When he’d first seen Merlin, he’d seen a weak, overzealous boy who didn’t know the first thing about being a knight and had far too much wit for his own good. Now he sees someone who is completely malleable, completely ready to be molded into a great fighter; as he watches Merlin hit the dummy, circle around it, and then whack it again, repeating exactly the steps that Arthur had taught him in training, he sees the determination and talent, and he sees himself.
It’s still an hour before training starts when he arrives on the field. Merlin is still there, and when he spots Arthur, he stops, bows briefly, almost mockingly, and tosses aside the practice sword before he stoops down to pick up his canteen. He’s taken off his shirt and his entire body is glistening with sweat; in the sunlight, Arthur thinks that Merlin’s body is all long, smooth lines and lean muscle under ivory skin. His dark hair is swept back out of his face, shockingly black compared to his pale skin, and his face is just like the rest of him, clean lines and smooth skin.
“Sire?” Merlin says, snapping Arthur back to reality.
He doesn’t even bother to comment on the fact that the honorific always sounds like an insult when it comes from Merlin. He is a bit embarrassed that he’s been caught staring, and derails anything that Merlin might say by nodding his chin at the silver around Merlin’s neck. “What’s that?”
“This? It’s – ” Merlin pauses, holding the pendant between two fingers. His eyes darken and Arthur wonders why he sounds so distant when he says, “It was my father’s.”
When he picks up the practice sword again, he hits the dummy with a vigor that he hadn’t had before.
- - -
Merlin
Another two weeks pass. The messages in his book get increasingly impatient, and he begins to ignore some of them; he’s told them enough times that he’s simply biding his time, making sure he fully gains the prince’s trust before he makes his move and takes his life. He convinces himself that he wakes up each morning and goes to the training grounds because he’s waiting for the day he can enjoy the look of surprise that’ll cross Arthur’s face when he delivers the fatal blow.
He wonders why now, after he’s bested one of his fellow trainees in hand-to-hand combat and knocked him to the ground, and looks up to see Arthur watching, eyes crinkling as he nods in approval, he enjoys that look just as much.
When he accompanies Arthur into the lower town and sees Arthur pardon a poor farmer from paying taxes, he feels something warm settle in his chest as he watches the old man clap a thankful hand on Arthur’s shoulder before his wife invites them to dinner to express their gratitude. Merlin is expecting Arthur to laugh off their request – it’s a ludicrous idea, for a prince to dine with some peasants, but he accepts, shocking Merlin into silence and reluctant approval.
- - -
Before all of this, before he’d even come to Camelot, Merlin had been taught to hate the entire kingdom of Camelot. He’s lost his father to the king, his people have been hunted down like animals and slaughtered without trial or mercy, and Merlin’s dreamt for months of the day he’d hold Arthur’s life in his hands.
But now, when he hears Arthur speak, he doesn’t wrinkle his nose in disgust. When he sees Arthur train, he doesn’t look for imperfections so he can laugh to himself. When he sees Arthur don his crown, he doesn’t clench his hands at his sides.
What he does think about Arthur, what he thinks about at night, as he moves his hand between his thighs, what he feels is treacherous. He feels his will slip away until he’s struggling to remember why he’s even here in the first place.
A week goes by, and Merlin thinks that he’ll be relieved of his duties when an assassin disguises himself as a knight and hurls a knife at Arthur’s back.
No, Merlin thinks, and it’s the only thing he can think of before he sprints forward and throws himself at Arthur; it isn’t easy, as he’s quite a bit lighter, but he succeeds nonetheless, pinning Arthur to the grass, and looking up to see the knife embedded harmlessly in the practice dummy.
For a few minutes, it’s nothing but white noise as the knights and guards come running forward, grabbing the assassin and hauling him off to the dungeons. Merlin doesn’t even realize that he’s still on top of Arthur until there’s a large hand on his hip nudging him off. Arthur sits up and stares at him, cheeks red and golden hair askew. “You saved my life.”
Merlin swallows and jerks his head, eyes not meeting Arthur’s.
Then Arthur is pulling him to his feet and his hand is heavy on his shoulder. “I won’t forget this,” he tells him, hand squeezing before it drops and he leaves.
I won’t, either, Merlin thinks.
- - -
Arthur
When they celebrate Merlin’s knighthood, Arthur is surprised to find Merlin sulking about in a corner, looking surprisingly becoming in chainmail and the scarlet cloak wrapped around his shoulders.
He offers Merlin a drink and laughs when he accepts far too quickly and downs the goblet in one long gulp.
“Was your father a knight?” He asks, reaching out and taking Merlin’s necklace in his hands. Merlin fixes him with a hard stare, blue eyes growing angry, and he drops the necklace.
“Not quite,” he says. “He did serve the king, though.”
“Is he…?”
“He passed away when I was a boy.”
Arthur nods, but chooses not to offer any apologies. Instead, he holds out his hand, and says, “My mother’s ring.”
- - -
Merlin
Merlin looks at the engraved gold band and he feels his expression soften as he says, honestly, “It’s beautiful.” He looks at up at Arthur, taking in the sweep of blond hair over his brow, the distant, dark blue eyes, the line of his jaw, and he carefully asks, “How did she…?”
He wants to know if Arthur has been told of the true conditions of his birth – Merlin has come upon that particular piece of information thanks to the druids’ physician, who had once worked as Uther’s physician and adviser. He wants to know if Arthur knows of his own father’s lies and treachery, and he’s waiting for an answer with bated breath when Leon comes up to them, hopelessly drunk, and sloshes his drink down the front of Merlin’s shirt.
After that, there’s a bit of a scuffle – mostly from Leon, who’s far too drunk to realize that he’s making a scene. He’s escorted back to his chambers and by the time he’s gone, Merlin has forgotten what he’d wanted to ask Arthur, because the alcohol is settling in his stomach and he feels warm and content, like he can say anything he wants to say.
He finds himself on a balcony, overlooking what seems like all of Camelot, and Arthur stands beside him, resting his elbows on the smooth marble. For a moment, Merlin has an absurd thought – that he could toss the poisoned dagger into the nearest lake and let it be damned, let the entire mission be damned. He imagines himself standing beside Arthur, prince and knight, and it’s the ridiculous thought that encourages him to take Arthur’s hand and press a kiss to the late queen’s ring.
“This is beautiful,” he says, lips resting against Arthur’s knuckles. “And you – you are, too.”
Arthur throws his head back and laughs, and it’s a sound so becoming that Merlin takes his face in his hands and brings their lips together. Arthur’s tongue finds its way into his mouth and he tastes so sweet that Merlin pulls him against him until there’s not an inch of empty space between them.
- - -
Arthur
He takes Merlin to his chambers and hardly kicks the door shut before he shoves Merlin onto the bed and climbs on top of him. He lifts his arm as Merlin tugs off as his shirt, and then he pulls the sheets of chainmail off of his knight, throwing them aside impatiently.
Arthur moves down Merlin’s body, kissing him through the thin cloth of his shirt, holding him down with his hands on his hips, then presses the side of his face against the bulge in his trousers, brings one hand down to squeeze. Merlin’s hips buck under him and Arthur undoes his belt and pulls off his breeches, licking his lips when the tip of his cock hits the corner of his mouth.
“You want my mouth on you?” He asks, breathing hotly against Merlin’s inner thigh. He presses a kiss to the soft skin there, looking up to find that Merlin’s propped up on his elbows, watching him, lips parted. His tongue darts out and he licks his lips before he nods, and Arthur doesn’t hesitate to wrap his lips around the glistening head, moving his head down and swallowing.
Merlin gasps and shifts under him, and moans out Arthur when his cock touches the back of Arthur’s throat.
Arthur brings his head back, drags the tip of his tongue along the underside, and kisses the head before he sits up and crawls atop Merlin again, taking his arms by the wrists and holding them down as he nudges Merlin back down into a lying position before he kisses him.
Merlin’s lips part easily under his, mouth soft and hot and eager and Arthur pushes his shirt up, shoves the cloth up under his arms and strokes one of his nipples and swallows his groan. Their kiss turns wet and filthy just as Arthur begins to rummage for a container of oil, pouring a generous amount onto his fingers and rubbing them together before he grips Merlin’s knee and pulls drags it up onto his shoulder.
“Have you done this?” He asks, pulling back to mouth under Merlin’s jaw. Merlin nods, and Arthur feels a brief flare of jealousy, squeezing Merlin’s nipple again, before he pushes himself back into a sitting position, taking Merlin’s hand to spread the oil among their fingers. “Open yourself up for me,” he murmurs.
Merlin’s eyes go wide and his cheeks redden, but then the side of his mouth quirks up and he says, cheeky as ever, “Yes, your highness.”
- - -
Merlin
He brings an arm above his head, arching his back as if to display himself, and trails his other hand down his stomach, feeling as if his skin is going to burn under Arthur’s gaze. He wraps his hand around his cock, feeling the wetness left behind by Arthur’s mouth, and tugs, sighing and eyes fluttering closed – this feels all too familiar, touching himself as he thinks of Arthur, except now it’s actually happening, and it’s better than he could have imagined.
When he breaches himself with a finger, he hears Arthur let out a long, rattling sigh, and opens one eye to see that Arthur is touching himself, eyes fixed on where Merlin’s fingering himself, looking very much like a starved man who’s been presented with a feast.
Merlin lifts his hips off the mattress and begins to pant, now sliding two fingers in and out of his body, bringing them out for a moment to circle his entrance. Arthur makes a strangled sort of noise and pulls Merlin’s hand aside, knocking his thighs apart and rocking his hips forward.
As the slide of Arthur’s cock in and out of his body falls into a fast rhythm, Merlin lets his head fall back, turns it to the side and weakly moves his hips in small circles, just to hear Arthur gasp. Arthur begins pressing open-mouthed kisses up his throat, licking at the skin there as his hold on Merlin’s knees begin to loosen until Merlin lets them fall to the sides on their own accord, spreading himself completely.
They’re pressed together from the hips up, Arthur resting his chin on Merlin’s shoulder, face turned slightly to the side so he can keep pressing lax kisses to his neck as he fucks him. Every time Arthur moves his hips just so, Merlin can swear he sees stars, and when Arthur takes his cock and tugs, he comes messily between them. His limbs twitch where they lay and he feels warm all over, particularly when Arthur takes his chin between two fingers and turns his head toward him. Their eyes meet, and Merlin feels something break inside him when he sees how warm Arthur’s eyes are. He lets his jaw drop and they share another messy kiss before Arthur’s thrusts become hard and desperate and unrestrained. Merlin swallows his pants until he moans and his hips still, body relaxing and softening when he comes.
They both gasp as Arthur’s cock slips out of him, and his come is hot and slick, dripping down his arse and between his thighs.
As Arthur settles on top of him, breathing into his ear the word stay, Merlin can’t do anything but nod stiffly and try not to think of the dagger hidden under his floorboard.
- - -
Another message comes to him.
We are growing impatient, Emrys.
It isn’t from his mother – he can feel that this was written tumultuously, and he recognizes the handwriting as Mordred’s.
He writes back the same thing he’s been saying to his mother.
Soon. I’ll kill him soon.
And he shuts the book before he falls into a fitful sleep.
- - -
He’s lost count of all the opportunities he’s had to kill Arthur – a colourless, odorless draft in his wine, a convenient ‘accident’ during a tournament, a knife to the throat after they’ve made love. Besides, he’s come to learn that he isn’t the only one interested in taking the prince’s life and toppling the kingdom of Camelot; there have been numerous attempts on Arthur’s life, at least half a dozen in the last month alone.
Merlin isn’t quite sure why he uses his magic to save Arthur’s life each time; he wonders if his people would be ashamed of him for using his gifts to save the man who would have him killed if he knew. Yet he feels compelled every single time, and doesn’t know whether it’s because Arthur is his, he is his to have and his to kill, or whether he thinks that if Arthur were to die, he would die with him.
- - -
Sophia arrives in Camelot in a flurry of lashes, golden silk, and chestnut-coloured hair that falls over her shoulders in curls. Merlin instantly hates her, hates the way she titters at Arthur and keeps pretending to fall over so he’ll catch her in a show of chivalry.
He couldn’t be happier to kill her when she makes an attempt to drown Arthur. After her body has disintegrated, Merlin throws himself into the water, barely registering the freezing water, the burning in his chest, the stinging in his eyes; he isn’t thinking of anything but Arthur’s limp body sinking like a rock.
When he’s managed to pull Arthur onto the shore, he hovers above him, surprising himself when he hesitates and watches Arthur’s chest, which is frighteningly still.
He literally had to do nothing and the prince would die. Camelot would fall and Merlin would return to his people a hero.
He isn’t really sure why he, even as he thinks of this, tilts Arthur’s head toward him and breathes the life back into him.
He lets out a shuddering sigh of relief when Arthur’s eyes open – for a moment, he’d wondered if he had let Arthur stay breathless for too long, if he had inadvertently killed him, and he watches Sophia’s enchantment leave them.
“Arthur – you. You fucking idiot. You almost died.”
Arthur has the nerve to cough up a mouthful of lake water before he smirks up at Merlin. “Almost.” Merlin’s mouth drops and Arthur laughs, wheezing and coughing the entire time. “Funny, isn’t it? Every time I almost die, you’re right there. You’re always - Merlin, are you crying?”
“No, it’s – it’s the lake water, you prat, I had to dive in to save your fat arse, remember?” When Merlin tries to laugh, the sound comes out terribly weak and broken, and he just leans forward to press a kiss to Arthur’s brow before he can make an even bigger fool of himself.
- - -
Now, Merlin realizes how foolish he was to think that this could have lasted. He has lain with Arthur several times since the night of the celebration, and he’d begun to believe that his people had forgotten what they had sent him there for, because he nearly has.
It was a ridiculous notion to entertain, Merlin thinks, as they are surrounded by a group of cloaked figures, each of them bearing the mark of the druids. He wants to blame Arthur for this, blame him for thinking it would be a good idea to leave the kingdom without any bodyguards, but Merlin knows that there is only one person here to blame.
“Well done, Emrys,” Mordred hisses, his face twisted into an ugly smirk. “You have brought him right to us.”
“You will be rewarded greatly for this,” another figure says.
Merlin feels sick to his stomach and feels like he might actually be throw up when Arthur turns toward him and stares at him – he doesn’t look angry or betrayed as he should. He looks resigned. Broken. Merlin wonders, When did he begin to look so broken? Was it before or after he broke me?
He wants Arthur to hit him, to pull his sword out and try to bargain for his life with Merlin’s, to at the least yell at him, to call him a series of obscenities, but Arthur merely asks quietly, “What are they calling you?”
“Arthur, I – I’m sorry.”
Arthur merely shakes his head, looking at Merlin as if he doesn’t know who he is.
“You have made us wait,” Mordred says, and Merlin looks up, glad for a reason to not have to meet Arthur’s eyes. “I have questioned your loyalties more than once, Emrys.”
“Well, you’ve got him,” Merlin snaps, clenching his fist at his side. He feels the magic flow down his arm, collecting in his hand. “Now what?”
“Now,” Mordred says, reaching at his side and pulling out a dagger. It is identical to the one Merlin had taken with him to Camelot. “You kill him. In front of us.” Merlin’s mouth drops and Mordred looks furious. “You will kill him, now. I want to hold his heart in my hands before we send him back to Uther in pieces.”
- - -
Arthur
Arthur isn’t sure what he’s more surprised by – the fact that Merlin is in fact yet another assassin, or the fact that Merlin lifts his arm, shouts something in a foreign language, and sets everything around them ablaze. He’s vaguely aware of the men around them yelling, and he can feel Merlin’s hand enclosing around his and pulling him away from the chaos, further into the forest. Moments later, ahead of him, he hears Merlin cry out and stall for just a second – enough for Arthur to get ahead. He isn’t sure why, but his hand doesn’t leave Merlin’s, and they keep running, because it’s the easiest thing for them to do right now.
Once they have put enough distance between them and the druids, Merlin turns toward him, chest heaving, face streaked with sweat, and asks, “Are you alright?”
Arthur knocks him out.
- - -
Merlin
He wakes up to feel a series of aches – first, the pounding in his head, where he’s sure he’s getting swelling, second, the sharp pain in his arm where Mordred had flung his dagger at him, third, where his wrists, somehow bound, chafe and sting, and finally, the worst of all, the ache in his chest.
“Arthur,” he chokes out, feeling as miserable and pathetic as he’s certain he looks. “Arthur, you’re alright, thank god,” he gushes, saying the first thing that comes to mind when he sees Arthur crouched by a fire. Arthur glances at him, then looks away, eyes cold. Merlin decides not to ask why he’s been tied up. He knows he could use his magic at any moment to undo the rope, but he figures that Arthur wouldn’t be too pleased with that.
“What are you doing?” He asks, when he knows he should be apologizing, offering explanations, defending himself in some way. But nothing of that sort comes to him, and he feels himself stiffen when he realizes that Arthur is holding Mordred’s dagger in the flames. “Arthur, what – ”
“Shut up,” Arthur says, walking forward. He kneels beside Merlin and rips his sleeve aside, fingers trembling with what Merlin assumes is anger. He uses a damp cloth to scrub at the wound in his arm and Merlin cries out as his fingers dig into the open flesh.
“Fuck! Stop, what the hell – ” Merlin’s eyes grow wide when Arthur picks up the dagger, which is glowing red. “No, no, please, do-” His words are lost to a shriek as Arthur presses the flat side of the blade to the wound, and Merlin thinks that he is too far gone to really feel the pain, but he can smell the burning flesh before he passes out again.
- - -
When Merlin awakens, he is unbound, and his arm is wrapped up in what looks like the hem of Arthur’s shirt. He feels the dull, throbbing ache and sits up slowly, groaning, feeling dizzy. He looks up to see Arthur sitting across from him, his sword and Merlin’s at his sides, ready to be picked up if he were to need them.
“You,” Merlin starts, struggling to stay upright. “really are a bastard.”
“Didn’t want the wound to get infected,” Arthur says dully, eyes blank and staring at the flame.
“I could’ve healed it myself, dollophead!”
Arthur doesn’t react to the insult, which, coming from Merlin, is really more of an endearment, and Merlin thinks that that was perhaps the wrong thing to say.
“You have magic,” Arthur says, voice low and accusatory.
Merlin doesn’t look away, even though Arthur isn’t meeting his eyes. “Yes.”
“You were sent to Camelot to kill me.”
“Yes.”
“You were ordered to get close to me and then kill me?”
“Arthur – ”
“Were you?” Arthur asks, voice rising sharply.
Merlin can only shake his head, desperately hoping that he can see his side of things, can see that this is just as bad for him as it is for Arthur. “I was,” he says, wishing his voice hadn’t cracked. If anything, it only seems to infuriate Arthur further.
“Were you told to sleep with me too, then? To really seal the deal? Get me when I was weak?”
It feels like a slap in the face. “No! No, I –”
“And all those times you saved my life – was that to get on my good side? To win my favour and make sure I really trusted you?” He’s yelling now and Merlin stares at him, beginning to feel resignation. After all the secrets he’s kept, after everything about himself he’s had to hide, he’s exhausted. He feels decades older than his twenty years, he feels as if he’s been cheated of everything he’s had, and he feels a sudden surge of anger towards Arthur.
“This happened,” he begins, voice quivering. “because of you.”
Arthur laughs at that, harsh and bitter. “Did it, now?”
“Your father has lied to you about your mother’s death,” Merlin tells him, relishing the look of shock on Arthur’s face. It feeds him, keeps him speaking. “Uther once embraced magic – he sought out a sorceress to grant him and your barren mother an heir.”
“How dare you speak of her that way?” Arthur asks, standing up. Merlin scrambles to his feet as well, slightly relieved to see that Arthur has left the swords on the ground.
“Your mother gave her life in exchange for yours. You were born of magic.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’re one of us, Arthur.”
That earns him a swift punch to the face and he falls to the ground, clutching his cheek, feeling as if the back of his eye is about to burst.
“I am nothing like you,” Arthur shouts above him, and Merlin wonders if he’ll kick him while he’s down. But he just keeps yelling. “I would never lie to somebody who cares about me. I’d never hide things from them or betray them or take them somewhere to be executed. I bet you’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you? You’ve always thought you were terribly clever, haven’t you?”
“I’m not lying,” Merlin says through gritted teeth. He licks around inside his mouth, making sure that none of his teeth have come loose. “I was meant to kill you before any of this happened. Months ago. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear the thought of you dying.”
Arthur scoffs and turns his back to him, and Merlin sits up on his knees, unable to stop speaking. “I’m sorry that you were involved like this,” he says, hoping that he can say everything he needs to say before his voice breaks. “You never deserved this. But your father has wronged so many of us, more than you know. He has rounded up everybody of magical birth he could get his hands on and had them slaughtered. He has had druid children drowned, he’s had people burnt alive, he’s had people pulled apart, he has shown us neither mercy nor humanity.”
Arthur looks at him briefly over his shoulder. “I’ve heard enough,” he says, voice distant.
“He had my father killed,” Merlin says, and Arthur stiffens. “My father was a good man; he served the king loyally only to see all of his kin murdered at his hands. Can you imagine what that feels like?”
“To be betrayed? Yes, I think so.”
Merlin pretends he didn’t hear that. “I’ll leave if you want me to. You’ll never see me again, I swear it. But please – when you become king, don’t rule in the same way your father has. Don’t let this harden your heart; you’re meant to be a great king, Arthur. To bring peace to these lands and be wise and just.”
“Yes.”
Merlin’s heart begins to pound. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, I want you to leave.” Arthur looks at him, and his face is colder than Merlin has ever seen it. “Get out of my sight.”
- - -
He supposes that it makes sense – that the dagger that Mordred had thrown at him would be identical to his in every way, including the fact that it had been coated in poison beforehand, the kind that didn’t begin to take effect until hours after it had entered the bloodstream.
As Merlin falls to his knees, already quite a distance away from Arthur, he thinks that his last regret is that he hadn’t told Arthur, I care about you, too.
- - -
Arthur
He had started moving back towards Camelot when he’d realized that Merlin had left his sword with him. He knew that he didn’t need to care at that point – Merlin had already taken so many things from him – his heart, his ignorance, his blind loyalty for his father, his hatred towards magic. Taking a sword from him probably wouldn’t be too great of an insult, but he doesn’t want to find that Merlin’s gone off and gotten himself mauled by an animal and left defenseless.
As he’s catching up with him, he remembers that Merlin is a bloody sorcerer who doesn’t need a sword to defend himself, curses him again, and decides to give him a good thrashing once he finds him.
- - -
When he does find him, Arthur feels his stomach drop and his heart leap to his throat. He drops the sword and sprints forward, shouting Merlin’s name as he turns him over and tries desperately to pull his eyelids up, see if he’s at all conscious.
“Merlin! Merlin, you complete idiot! Don’t you dare go off and die like this – not after you’ve lied to me and betrayed me and left me on my own.” He stops speaking and slaps Merlin on the cheek, lightly, then rougher. “I mean it. You don’t get to die before I give you a proper thrashing. And at least a week in the stocks.” He tries to laugh, as if Merlin will laugh with him. “Merlin, come on. Wake up.”
- - -
Arthur hasn’t cried since he was a boy and had broken his arm after falling out of a tree. But now, as he moves his hands over Merlin’s skin, cleaning off the grime and sweat and traces of blood, he thinks he tears up a bit. He kneels by his side, takes Merlin’s face in his hands and rubs his thumbs over his cheekbones, over his nose, across his brow, committing the feel of his face to memory. Merlin stays unmoving underneath him, skin cold and chest nearly still.
“Sire?”
Arthur gasps and leaps to his feet, whirling around and brandishing the dagger at the newcomer. He lowers it when he sees that standing across from him is an old man, who he can’t name, yet recognizes. The man sees him and nods, a pleased sort of look coming over his face.
“Pardon me; we aren’t in Camelot, are we? But old habits die hard, or so they say.”
“Do I know you?”
“Of course you do,” the old man says, smiling sagely. His eyes look to the side. “I served your family for many years.”
“You were – you were Gaius. The court physician,” Arthur says, gaping when the old man nods. “You – you’re dead!”
“Clearly, I’m not,” Gaius tells him, indignant. “Really, I’d hoped by now that you would have learned not to believe everything your father tells you.”
Arthur stammers out something, but Gaius cuts him off with a hand held up. “Tell me something, sire – what could have possibly happened to make you this sad? I believe I haven’t seen you cry in…it must have been thirteen years. If my memory serves me correctly, you’d broken your arm.”
Arthur just keeps staring at him, stunned. “It’s – it’s my friend. He’s dying.”
“Is he, now?” Gaius asks, having the gall to sound amused. “He does look a bit clammy.”
“You think this is funny?”
“No, I merely think you are overreacting. May I see him?”
Before Arthur can answer, Gaius has stridden forward and gently pushed him aside, crouching down beside Merlin and pressing his head to his chest. “His heart still beats.”
“Barely.”
“Yes, but enough to tell us that there is still time,” Gaius tells him gently. “Now – I’ll help your friend, who is in fact a very dear friend of mine as well. But I’ll have to use magic and your father won’t like it; so I’ll have to ask you to keep this between us.”
Arthur manages to smile back.
- - -
Gaius has gone, vanished in a flourish of wind and mystery and magic, and Arthur hasn’t left Merlin’s side since. He is lying beside him, face pressed to his shoulder, seeking comfort from the soft breath against his ear, the only indication that Merlin still lives.
He stiffens when he realizes that the breath is gone.
“No, no, no, you can’t – ” he starts, sitting up and grabbing Merlin by the shoulders. He chokes back a sob and turns his head to the stars. “You awful, lying, incompetent bloody old man, you didn’t help at all!”
“Arthur, please, stop yelling. You’ve given me enough of a headache today,” comes a groggy voice from under him.
Arthur gasps and pulls his hand back from Merlin’s shoulders, only to grab them again and drag him up for a rough embrace. Merlin coughs against him weakly, and grapples at his arms, finding them in the dark and squeezing.
“It’s alright,” Merlin whispers once Arthur’s shoulders begin to tremble. “I’m perfectly alive. Do you think, erm – do you think I’ll still have to spend a week in the stocks? That’d be a bit humiliating for a knight, I mean – ”
“Merlin.”
“Shut up?”
Arthur pulls back and shakes his head, then brings Merlin toward him to kiss his cheekbones, then his eyelids, then his jaw, the corner of his mouth, and finally on the lips. He rubs his hands down Merlin’s arm, only to have him hiss and cringe back. Arthur winces.
“I’m sorry about the – the whole dagger thing. Erm.” Arthur mumbles, looking down.
“Don’t be,” Merlin tells him. “It might have slowed the poison, really.”
Arthur’s eyes widen. “The poison?! Is that why you were off dying? I thought you were dying from…I dunno, something stupid, like a broken heart.”
Merlin stares at him. “I - what? Who…who even thinks of that?”
Arthur flushes, thankful that it’s probably too dark for Merlin to see. He tries to change the subject. “We should find some place to sleep, it’s starting to get cold, and – ” Before he finishes the sentence, Merlin raises his hand and his eyes flash gold and there’s a fire before them, washing them over with heat.
Merlin clears his throat, sheepish. “Er. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No,” Arthur mutters. “No, you shouldn’t have. But what you said…about my mother. My birth, everything that my father’s done - it’s funny. You’ve been lying to me this entire time, yet you’re the most honest person I’ve known.”
“I’ll never lie to you again.”
“Merlin – ”
“I know I need to earn your trust back, but you need to know that I’ll never lie to you. I never wanted to hurt you – alright, perhaps I wanted you dead at the very beginning, but…erm, I’m not making this much better, am I?”
“No, you really aren’t.”
“Right. Look, I haven’t got anything to give, except for what I’ve already vowed to give you as a knight – my loyalty, my strength, my devotion. And I just…I want you to take this too, so you know I really mean it.”
He holds up the pendant at the end of his necklace, eyes so wide and earnest that Arthur merely smiles and hooks his finger through the necklace, feeling surprisingly calm – he feels something settle between them, and he knows already that he’s always trusted Merlin with his life and he always will. When Merlin says that he won’t lie to him again, he believes him with all his heart.
He knows already that he can’t take the necklace, so all he does is tug on the chain gently, pulling Merlin toward him until their lips meet.
When they break apart, Arthur says, “You won’t be in the stocks for a week. It’ll be two.”
Merlin laughs at that and Arthur grins, squeezing his hand, and telling him everything without saying anything.
Recipient:
emeraldswordAuthor:
chicaintcheapRating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: ~7000
Warnings: Brief violence and some blood, and some possible spoilers for series three.
Summary: Canonverse AU. The story of a prince and his assassin.
Author's Notes: Not really much to say; emeraldsword, I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
- - -
Merlin
Before Merlin leaves for Camelot, he is given four things: a book that he can write in to have his words appear in an identical book back at home, a seal of nobility forged with magic, his late father’s favourite necklace, and a poisoned dagger with which to stab the prince through the heart.
- - -
Arthur
He’s the skinniest man that Arthur has ever seen on the training field, so thin that it’s a wonder he hasn’t collapsed under the heavy armour and the strong gusts of wind.
“Are you lost, boy?” Leon asks him, getting to him before any of the other snickering knights can. From a distance, Arthur watches – the newcomer, he’s all childlike eyes and cheekbones and jet-black hair, shoulders slouched slightly like a peasant’s, but he stands tall, almost taller than Arthur, when he looks back at Leon.
“I’m here because I want to become a knight,” he says, voice unwavering.
The snickering grows louder and Arthur steps forward, skeptical. “Only those of noble birth can be knights.”
The man – a boy, really – looks at Arthur defiantly, and holds up a scroll, hand shooting straight out; but Arthur doesn’t miss the slight shake in his arms. The boy is nervous. “My seal of nobility.”
As it turns out, he is indeed of noble blood, but not from a family that Arthur has heard of. He claims that his name is Merlin, third son of Balin, and Arthur decides that he’ll bring it up with Uther, see if he recognizes the name.
Either way, Arthur doubts that he’ll last more than a week.
- - -
The first test that the trainees are given is always the same – a quest that appears to be perfectly simple, and one that is rather favoured by the court physician; to retrieve a petal from the Mortius flower.
Merlin is the first to make it back, and when he hands over the flower, and his eyes catch Arthur’s, something flickers in them, something distant and begrudging.
- - -
After Merlin has bested the rest of the trainees in the next three tasks, Arthur decides to hold off on mentioning his family name to Uther; instead, he marches straight to Merlin’s chambers, surprised to find him hunched over a book. Merlin whirls around, looking scared, then outraged, then reluctantly gives Arthur a small bow as if he’s remembered who he is.
“Sire.”
“Come on,” Arthur says, ignoring the title. “Outside. Enough of the silly quests, I’m teaching you basic training.”
- - -
Merlin
He’s come to his chambers to find that his book is open to a page with When will you do it? written in his mother’s handwriting. He frowns, hoping that she isn’t wringing her hands and losing her hair with concern for him; she’d never wanted him to go in the first place. He writes back just one word.
Soon.
Before he has a chance to see if there’s a reply, there’s someone knocking his door open, and he spins around, heart leaping to his throat. Arthur is standing there, looking smaller than Merlin remembers, now that he’s wearing a white linen shirt rather than his regular armour. The shirt is open at the front, and Merlin can see a series of scars, the skin there jagged and knotted. He wants to ask where they’re from.
One moment, he’s standing there gawking and contemplating about Arthur’s chest of all things, and the next, he’s in the training field, struggling to keep himself from slipping in the dewy grass as Arthur swings a wooden sword at his head.
“Come on, Merlin, you’re not beating a carpet,” Arthur barks at him.
“Where are the others?” Merlin yells back, taking a few steps away, and moving so he can keep pace with Arthur as the prince begins to circle him, staring him down like a hawk watching its prey.
“They’re far above your level in basic combat,” says Arthur, and Merlin grips his sword, feeling anger well up in his chest. “You think you’re so clever, yet you can’t even hit a moving target.”
“I can hit you,” Merlin grits out, striking forward, with the intent of leaving bruises, making him hurt.
He feels the sweat drip down the side of his face, feels a cramp forming in his side, feels his knees begin to shudder underneath him with each step, and he knows without a doubt that Arthur is right. It’s funny, really – all he needed to do to kill a man is raise his hand and whisper a word or two of the old religion. With that sort of power, he’d never had to learn how to wield a sword aside from the most basic and simple steps. Yet now, as he feels the sharp pain from Arthur’s strikes, the bruises and the welts, he feels utterly powerless.
He’s spurred onward with a brief fantasy of knocking Arthur off his feet and beating him, killing him right there, watching that obnoxious smirk fade from his handsome face to be replaced by a grimace of pain, and then the twist of his mouth as he begs for his life, just as so many of Merlin’s kin had begged for theirs under the king’s tyrannous rule.
If only, Merlin thinks, as he moves too brashly, too abruptly, and – rather than taking Arthur by surprise as he hoped he would – he’s the one who ends up being knocked off his feet.
Arthur has him pinned down with the tip of the sword to his throat, and Merlin has an inane moment of terror where he wonders if Arthur knows who he really is, if he’s known all along, and if he’s going to kill him then and there.
Instead, Arthur’s sword leaves his throat, he can breathe again, and he finds himself staring up guilelessly at an extended hand. He grips it and Arthur pulls him to his feet in one smooth movement; Merlin can see the muscles in his arms strain through his shirt.
“Not bad,” Arthur says, clapping him on the back. “But you’ve got a lot to learn. Put these back.” He tosses the practice sword at Merlin’s chest and turns, and Merlin just stands there, breathless.
- - -
Arthur
As the sun rises, Arthur climbs out of his bed and looks out his window, at the training field that’s empty save for a lone, lanky figure, swinging one of the wooden swords at a practice dummy. Arthur leans on the windowsill, the corner of his mouth lifting as he watches.
When he’d first seen Merlin, he’d seen a weak, overzealous boy who didn’t know the first thing about being a knight and had far too much wit for his own good. Now he sees someone who is completely malleable, completely ready to be molded into a great fighter; as he watches Merlin hit the dummy, circle around it, and then whack it again, repeating exactly the steps that Arthur had taught him in training, he sees the determination and talent, and he sees himself.
It’s still an hour before training starts when he arrives on the field. Merlin is still there, and when he spots Arthur, he stops, bows briefly, almost mockingly, and tosses aside the practice sword before he stoops down to pick up his canteen. He’s taken off his shirt and his entire body is glistening with sweat; in the sunlight, Arthur thinks that Merlin’s body is all long, smooth lines and lean muscle under ivory skin. His dark hair is swept back out of his face, shockingly black compared to his pale skin, and his face is just like the rest of him, clean lines and smooth skin.
“Sire?” Merlin says, snapping Arthur back to reality.
He doesn’t even bother to comment on the fact that the honorific always sounds like an insult when it comes from Merlin. He is a bit embarrassed that he’s been caught staring, and derails anything that Merlin might say by nodding his chin at the silver around Merlin’s neck. “What’s that?”
“This? It’s – ” Merlin pauses, holding the pendant between two fingers. His eyes darken and Arthur wonders why he sounds so distant when he says, “It was my father’s.”
When he picks up the practice sword again, he hits the dummy with a vigor that he hadn’t had before.
- - -
Merlin
Another two weeks pass. The messages in his book get increasingly impatient, and he begins to ignore some of them; he’s told them enough times that he’s simply biding his time, making sure he fully gains the prince’s trust before he makes his move and takes his life. He convinces himself that he wakes up each morning and goes to the training grounds because he’s waiting for the day he can enjoy the look of surprise that’ll cross Arthur’s face when he delivers the fatal blow.
He wonders why now, after he’s bested one of his fellow trainees in hand-to-hand combat and knocked him to the ground, and looks up to see Arthur watching, eyes crinkling as he nods in approval, he enjoys that look just as much.
When he accompanies Arthur into the lower town and sees Arthur pardon a poor farmer from paying taxes, he feels something warm settle in his chest as he watches the old man clap a thankful hand on Arthur’s shoulder before his wife invites them to dinner to express their gratitude. Merlin is expecting Arthur to laugh off their request – it’s a ludicrous idea, for a prince to dine with some peasants, but he accepts, shocking Merlin into silence and reluctant approval.
- - -
Before all of this, before he’d even come to Camelot, Merlin had been taught to hate the entire kingdom of Camelot. He’s lost his father to the king, his people have been hunted down like animals and slaughtered without trial or mercy, and Merlin’s dreamt for months of the day he’d hold Arthur’s life in his hands.
But now, when he hears Arthur speak, he doesn’t wrinkle his nose in disgust. When he sees Arthur train, he doesn’t look for imperfections so he can laugh to himself. When he sees Arthur don his crown, he doesn’t clench his hands at his sides.
What he does think about Arthur, what he thinks about at night, as he moves his hand between his thighs, what he feels is treacherous. He feels his will slip away until he’s struggling to remember why he’s even here in the first place.
A week goes by, and Merlin thinks that he’ll be relieved of his duties when an assassin disguises himself as a knight and hurls a knife at Arthur’s back.
No, Merlin thinks, and it’s the only thing he can think of before he sprints forward and throws himself at Arthur; it isn’t easy, as he’s quite a bit lighter, but he succeeds nonetheless, pinning Arthur to the grass, and looking up to see the knife embedded harmlessly in the practice dummy.
For a few minutes, it’s nothing but white noise as the knights and guards come running forward, grabbing the assassin and hauling him off to the dungeons. Merlin doesn’t even realize that he’s still on top of Arthur until there’s a large hand on his hip nudging him off. Arthur sits up and stares at him, cheeks red and golden hair askew. “You saved my life.”
Merlin swallows and jerks his head, eyes not meeting Arthur’s.
Then Arthur is pulling him to his feet and his hand is heavy on his shoulder. “I won’t forget this,” he tells him, hand squeezing before it drops and he leaves.
I won’t, either, Merlin thinks.
- - -
Arthur
When they celebrate Merlin’s knighthood, Arthur is surprised to find Merlin sulking about in a corner, looking surprisingly becoming in chainmail and the scarlet cloak wrapped around his shoulders.
He offers Merlin a drink and laughs when he accepts far too quickly and downs the goblet in one long gulp.
“Was your father a knight?” He asks, reaching out and taking Merlin’s necklace in his hands. Merlin fixes him with a hard stare, blue eyes growing angry, and he drops the necklace.
“Not quite,” he says. “He did serve the king, though.”
“Is he…?”
“He passed away when I was a boy.”
Arthur nods, but chooses not to offer any apologies. Instead, he holds out his hand, and says, “My mother’s ring.”
- - -
Merlin
Merlin looks at the engraved gold band and he feels his expression soften as he says, honestly, “It’s beautiful.” He looks at up at Arthur, taking in the sweep of blond hair over his brow, the distant, dark blue eyes, the line of his jaw, and he carefully asks, “How did she…?”
He wants to know if Arthur has been told of the true conditions of his birth – Merlin has come upon that particular piece of information thanks to the druids’ physician, who had once worked as Uther’s physician and adviser. He wants to know if Arthur knows of his own father’s lies and treachery, and he’s waiting for an answer with bated breath when Leon comes up to them, hopelessly drunk, and sloshes his drink down the front of Merlin’s shirt.
After that, there’s a bit of a scuffle – mostly from Leon, who’s far too drunk to realize that he’s making a scene. He’s escorted back to his chambers and by the time he’s gone, Merlin has forgotten what he’d wanted to ask Arthur, because the alcohol is settling in his stomach and he feels warm and content, like he can say anything he wants to say.
He finds himself on a balcony, overlooking what seems like all of Camelot, and Arthur stands beside him, resting his elbows on the smooth marble. For a moment, Merlin has an absurd thought – that he could toss the poisoned dagger into the nearest lake and let it be damned, let the entire mission be damned. He imagines himself standing beside Arthur, prince and knight, and it’s the ridiculous thought that encourages him to take Arthur’s hand and press a kiss to the late queen’s ring.
“This is beautiful,” he says, lips resting against Arthur’s knuckles. “And you – you are, too.”
Arthur throws his head back and laughs, and it’s a sound so becoming that Merlin takes his face in his hands and brings their lips together. Arthur’s tongue finds its way into his mouth and he tastes so sweet that Merlin pulls him against him until there’s not an inch of empty space between them.
- - -
Arthur
He takes Merlin to his chambers and hardly kicks the door shut before he shoves Merlin onto the bed and climbs on top of him. He lifts his arm as Merlin tugs off as his shirt, and then he pulls the sheets of chainmail off of his knight, throwing them aside impatiently.
Arthur moves down Merlin’s body, kissing him through the thin cloth of his shirt, holding him down with his hands on his hips, then presses the side of his face against the bulge in his trousers, brings one hand down to squeeze. Merlin’s hips buck under him and Arthur undoes his belt and pulls off his breeches, licking his lips when the tip of his cock hits the corner of his mouth.
“You want my mouth on you?” He asks, breathing hotly against Merlin’s inner thigh. He presses a kiss to the soft skin there, looking up to find that Merlin’s propped up on his elbows, watching him, lips parted. His tongue darts out and he licks his lips before he nods, and Arthur doesn’t hesitate to wrap his lips around the glistening head, moving his head down and swallowing.
Merlin gasps and shifts under him, and moans out Arthur when his cock touches the back of Arthur’s throat.
Arthur brings his head back, drags the tip of his tongue along the underside, and kisses the head before he sits up and crawls atop Merlin again, taking his arms by the wrists and holding them down as he nudges Merlin back down into a lying position before he kisses him.
Merlin’s lips part easily under his, mouth soft and hot and eager and Arthur pushes his shirt up, shoves the cloth up under his arms and strokes one of his nipples and swallows his groan. Their kiss turns wet and filthy just as Arthur begins to rummage for a container of oil, pouring a generous amount onto his fingers and rubbing them together before he grips Merlin’s knee and pulls drags it up onto his shoulder.
“Have you done this?” He asks, pulling back to mouth under Merlin’s jaw. Merlin nods, and Arthur feels a brief flare of jealousy, squeezing Merlin’s nipple again, before he pushes himself back into a sitting position, taking Merlin’s hand to spread the oil among their fingers. “Open yourself up for me,” he murmurs.
Merlin’s eyes go wide and his cheeks redden, but then the side of his mouth quirks up and he says, cheeky as ever, “Yes, your highness.”
- - -
Merlin
He brings an arm above his head, arching his back as if to display himself, and trails his other hand down his stomach, feeling as if his skin is going to burn under Arthur’s gaze. He wraps his hand around his cock, feeling the wetness left behind by Arthur’s mouth, and tugs, sighing and eyes fluttering closed – this feels all too familiar, touching himself as he thinks of Arthur, except now it’s actually happening, and it’s better than he could have imagined.
When he breaches himself with a finger, he hears Arthur let out a long, rattling sigh, and opens one eye to see that Arthur is touching himself, eyes fixed on where Merlin’s fingering himself, looking very much like a starved man who’s been presented with a feast.
Merlin lifts his hips off the mattress and begins to pant, now sliding two fingers in and out of his body, bringing them out for a moment to circle his entrance. Arthur makes a strangled sort of noise and pulls Merlin’s hand aside, knocking his thighs apart and rocking his hips forward.
As the slide of Arthur’s cock in and out of his body falls into a fast rhythm, Merlin lets his head fall back, turns it to the side and weakly moves his hips in small circles, just to hear Arthur gasp. Arthur begins pressing open-mouthed kisses up his throat, licking at the skin there as his hold on Merlin’s knees begin to loosen until Merlin lets them fall to the sides on their own accord, spreading himself completely.
They’re pressed together from the hips up, Arthur resting his chin on Merlin’s shoulder, face turned slightly to the side so he can keep pressing lax kisses to his neck as he fucks him. Every time Arthur moves his hips just so, Merlin can swear he sees stars, and when Arthur takes his cock and tugs, he comes messily between them. His limbs twitch where they lay and he feels warm all over, particularly when Arthur takes his chin between two fingers and turns his head toward him. Their eyes meet, and Merlin feels something break inside him when he sees how warm Arthur’s eyes are. He lets his jaw drop and they share another messy kiss before Arthur’s thrusts become hard and desperate and unrestrained. Merlin swallows his pants until he moans and his hips still, body relaxing and softening when he comes.
They both gasp as Arthur’s cock slips out of him, and his come is hot and slick, dripping down his arse and between his thighs.
As Arthur settles on top of him, breathing into his ear the word stay, Merlin can’t do anything but nod stiffly and try not to think of the dagger hidden under his floorboard.
- - -
Another message comes to him.
We are growing impatient, Emrys.
It isn’t from his mother – he can feel that this was written tumultuously, and he recognizes the handwriting as Mordred’s.
He writes back the same thing he’s been saying to his mother.
Soon. I’ll kill him soon.
And he shuts the book before he falls into a fitful sleep.
- - -
He’s lost count of all the opportunities he’s had to kill Arthur – a colourless, odorless draft in his wine, a convenient ‘accident’ during a tournament, a knife to the throat after they’ve made love. Besides, he’s come to learn that he isn’t the only one interested in taking the prince’s life and toppling the kingdom of Camelot; there have been numerous attempts on Arthur’s life, at least half a dozen in the last month alone.
Merlin isn’t quite sure why he uses his magic to save Arthur’s life each time; he wonders if his people would be ashamed of him for using his gifts to save the man who would have him killed if he knew. Yet he feels compelled every single time, and doesn’t know whether it’s because Arthur is his, he is his to have and his to kill, or whether he thinks that if Arthur were to die, he would die with him.
- - -
Sophia arrives in Camelot in a flurry of lashes, golden silk, and chestnut-coloured hair that falls over her shoulders in curls. Merlin instantly hates her, hates the way she titters at Arthur and keeps pretending to fall over so he’ll catch her in a show of chivalry.
He couldn’t be happier to kill her when she makes an attempt to drown Arthur. After her body has disintegrated, Merlin throws himself into the water, barely registering the freezing water, the burning in his chest, the stinging in his eyes; he isn’t thinking of anything but Arthur’s limp body sinking like a rock.
When he’s managed to pull Arthur onto the shore, he hovers above him, surprising himself when he hesitates and watches Arthur’s chest, which is frighteningly still.
He literally had to do nothing and the prince would die. Camelot would fall and Merlin would return to his people a hero.
He isn’t really sure why he, even as he thinks of this, tilts Arthur’s head toward him and breathes the life back into him.
He lets out a shuddering sigh of relief when Arthur’s eyes open – for a moment, he’d wondered if he had let Arthur stay breathless for too long, if he had inadvertently killed him, and he watches Sophia’s enchantment leave them.
“Arthur – you. You fucking idiot. You almost died.”
Arthur has the nerve to cough up a mouthful of lake water before he smirks up at Merlin. “Almost.” Merlin’s mouth drops and Arthur laughs, wheezing and coughing the entire time. “Funny, isn’t it? Every time I almost die, you’re right there. You’re always - Merlin, are you crying?”
“No, it’s – it’s the lake water, you prat, I had to dive in to save your fat arse, remember?” When Merlin tries to laugh, the sound comes out terribly weak and broken, and he just leans forward to press a kiss to Arthur’s brow before he can make an even bigger fool of himself.
- - -
Now, Merlin realizes how foolish he was to think that this could have lasted. He has lain with Arthur several times since the night of the celebration, and he’d begun to believe that his people had forgotten what they had sent him there for, because he nearly has.
It was a ridiculous notion to entertain, Merlin thinks, as they are surrounded by a group of cloaked figures, each of them bearing the mark of the druids. He wants to blame Arthur for this, blame him for thinking it would be a good idea to leave the kingdom without any bodyguards, but Merlin knows that there is only one person here to blame.
“Well done, Emrys,” Mordred hisses, his face twisted into an ugly smirk. “You have brought him right to us.”
“You will be rewarded greatly for this,” another figure says.
Merlin feels sick to his stomach and feels like he might actually be throw up when Arthur turns toward him and stares at him – he doesn’t look angry or betrayed as he should. He looks resigned. Broken. Merlin wonders, When did he begin to look so broken? Was it before or after he broke me?
He wants Arthur to hit him, to pull his sword out and try to bargain for his life with Merlin’s, to at the least yell at him, to call him a series of obscenities, but Arthur merely asks quietly, “What are they calling you?”
“Arthur, I – I’m sorry.”
Arthur merely shakes his head, looking at Merlin as if he doesn’t know who he is.
“You have made us wait,” Mordred says, and Merlin looks up, glad for a reason to not have to meet Arthur’s eyes. “I have questioned your loyalties more than once, Emrys.”
“Well, you’ve got him,” Merlin snaps, clenching his fist at his side. He feels the magic flow down his arm, collecting in his hand. “Now what?”
“Now,” Mordred says, reaching at his side and pulling out a dagger. It is identical to the one Merlin had taken with him to Camelot. “You kill him. In front of us.” Merlin’s mouth drops and Mordred looks furious. “You will kill him, now. I want to hold his heart in my hands before we send him back to Uther in pieces.”
- - -
Arthur
Arthur isn’t sure what he’s more surprised by – the fact that Merlin is in fact yet another assassin, or the fact that Merlin lifts his arm, shouts something in a foreign language, and sets everything around them ablaze. He’s vaguely aware of the men around them yelling, and he can feel Merlin’s hand enclosing around his and pulling him away from the chaos, further into the forest. Moments later, ahead of him, he hears Merlin cry out and stall for just a second – enough for Arthur to get ahead. He isn’t sure why, but his hand doesn’t leave Merlin’s, and they keep running, because it’s the easiest thing for them to do right now.
Once they have put enough distance between them and the druids, Merlin turns toward him, chest heaving, face streaked with sweat, and asks, “Are you alright?”
Arthur knocks him out.
- - -
Merlin
He wakes up to feel a series of aches – first, the pounding in his head, where he’s sure he’s getting swelling, second, the sharp pain in his arm where Mordred had flung his dagger at him, third, where his wrists, somehow bound, chafe and sting, and finally, the worst of all, the ache in his chest.
“Arthur,” he chokes out, feeling as miserable and pathetic as he’s certain he looks. “Arthur, you’re alright, thank god,” he gushes, saying the first thing that comes to mind when he sees Arthur crouched by a fire. Arthur glances at him, then looks away, eyes cold. Merlin decides not to ask why he’s been tied up. He knows he could use his magic at any moment to undo the rope, but he figures that Arthur wouldn’t be too pleased with that.
“What are you doing?” He asks, when he knows he should be apologizing, offering explanations, defending himself in some way. But nothing of that sort comes to him, and he feels himself stiffen when he realizes that Arthur is holding Mordred’s dagger in the flames. “Arthur, what – ”
“Shut up,” Arthur says, walking forward. He kneels beside Merlin and rips his sleeve aside, fingers trembling with what Merlin assumes is anger. He uses a damp cloth to scrub at the wound in his arm and Merlin cries out as his fingers dig into the open flesh.
“Fuck! Stop, what the hell – ” Merlin’s eyes grow wide when Arthur picks up the dagger, which is glowing red. “No, no, please, do-” His words are lost to a shriek as Arthur presses the flat side of the blade to the wound, and Merlin thinks that he is too far gone to really feel the pain, but he can smell the burning flesh before he passes out again.
- - -
When Merlin awakens, he is unbound, and his arm is wrapped up in what looks like the hem of Arthur’s shirt. He feels the dull, throbbing ache and sits up slowly, groaning, feeling dizzy. He looks up to see Arthur sitting across from him, his sword and Merlin’s at his sides, ready to be picked up if he were to need them.
“You,” Merlin starts, struggling to stay upright. “really are a bastard.”
“Didn’t want the wound to get infected,” Arthur says dully, eyes blank and staring at the flame.
“I could’ve healed it myself, dollophead!”
Arthur doesn’t react to the insult, which, coming from Merlin, is really more of an endearment, and Merlin thinks that that was perhaps the wrong thing to say.
“You have magic,” Arthur says, voice low and accusatory.
Merlin doesn’t look away, even though Arthur isn’t meeting his eyes. “Yes.”
“You were sent to Camelot to kill me.”
“Yes.”
“You were ordered to get close to me and then kill me?”
“Arthur – ”
“Were you?” Arthur asks, voice rising sharply.
Merlin can only shake his head, desperately hoping that he can see his side of things, can see that this is just as bad for him as it is for Arthur. “I was,” he says, wishing his voice hadn’t cracked. If anything, it only seems to infuriate Arthur further.
“Were you told to sleep with me too, then? To really seal the deal? Get me when I was weak?”
It feels like a slap in the face. “No! No, I –”
“And all those times you saved my life – was that to get on my good side? To win my favour and make sure I really trusted you?” He’s yelling now and Merlin stares at him, beginning to feel resignation. After all the secrets he’s kept, after everything about himself he’s had to hide, he’s exhausted. He feels decades older than his twenty years, he feels as if he’s been cheated of everything he’s had, and he feels a sudden surge of anger towards Arthur.
“This happened,” he begins, voice quivering. “because of you.”
Arthur laughs at that, harsh and bitter. “Did it, now?”
“Your father has lied to you about your mother’s death,” Merlin tells him, relishing the look of shock on Arthur’s face. It feeds him, keeps him speaking. “Uther once embraced magic – he sought out a sorceress to grant him and your barren mother an heir.”
“How dare you speak of her that way?” Arthur asks, standing up. Merlin scrambles to his feet as well, slightly relieved to see that Arthur has left the swords on the ground.
“Your mother gave her life in exchange for yours. You were born of magic.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’re one of us, Arthur.”
That earns him a swift punch to the face and he falls to the ground, clutching his cheek, feeling as if the back of his eye is about to burst.
“I am nothing like you,” Arthur shouts above him, and Merlin wonders if he’ll kick him while he’s down. But he just keeps yelling. “I would never lie to somebody who cares about me. I’d never hide things from them or betray them or take them somewhere to be executed. I bet you’re really proud of yourself, aren’t you? You’ve always thought you were terribly clever, haven’t you?”
“I’m not lying,” Merlin says through gritted teeth. He licks around inside his mouth, making sure that none of his teeth have come loose. “I was meant to kill you before any of this happened. Months ago. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear the thought of you dying.”
Arthur scoffs and turns his back to him, and Merlin sits up on his knees, unable to stop speaking. “I’m sorry that you were involved like this,” he says, hoping that he can say everything he needs to say before his voice breaks. “You never deserved this. But your father has wronged so many of us, more than you know. He has rounded up everybody of magical birth he could get his hands on and had them slaughtered. He has had druid children drowned, he’s had people burnt alive, he’s had people pulled apart, he has shown us neither mercy nor humanity.”
Arthur looks at him briefly over his shoulder. “I’ve heard enough,” he says, voice distant.
“He had my father killed,” Merlin says, and Arthur stiffens. “My father was a good man; he served the king loyally only to see all of his kin murdered at his hands. Can you imagine what that feels like?”
“To be betrayed? Yes, I think so.”
Merlin pretends he didn’t hear that. “I’ll leave if you want me to. You’ll never see me again, I swear it. But please – when you become king, don’t rule in the same way your father has. Don’t let this harden your heart; you’re meant to be a great king, Arthur. To bring peace to these lands and be wise and just.”
“Yes.”
Merlin’s heart begins to pound. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, I want you to leave.” Arthur looks at him, and his face is colder than Merlin has ever seen it. “Get out of my sight.”
- - -
He supposes that it makes sense – that the dagger that Mordred had thrown at him would be identical to his in every way, including the fact that it had been coated in poison beforehand, the kind that didn’t begin to take effect until hours after it had entered the bloodstream.
As Merlin falls to his knees, already quite a distance away from Arthur, he thinks that his last regret is that he hadn’t told Arthur, I care about you, too.
- - -
Arthur
He had started moving back towards Camelot when he’d realized that Merlin had left his sword with him. He knew that he didn’t need to care at that point – Merlin had already taken so many things from him – his heart, his ignorance, his blind loyalty for his father, his hatred towards magic. Taking a sword from him probably wouldn’t be too great of an insult, but he doesn’t want to find that Merlin’s gone off and gotten himself mauled by an animal and left defenseless.
As he’s catching up with him, he remembers that Merlin is a bloody sorcerer who doesn’t need a sword to defend himself, curses him again, and decides to give him a good thrashing once he finds him.
- - -
When he does find him, Arthur feels his stomach drop and his heart leap to his throat. He drops the sword and sprints forward, shouting Merlin’s name as he turns him over and tries desperately to pull his eyelids up, see if he’s at all conscious.
“Merlin! Merlin, you complete idiot! Don’t you dare go off and die like this – not after you’ve lied to me and betrayed me and left me on my own.” He stops speaking and slaps Merlin on the cheek, lightly, then rougher. “I mean it. You don’t get to die before I give you a proper thrashing. And at least a week in the stocks.” He tries to laugh, as if Merlin will laugh with him. “Merlin, come on. Wake up.”
- - -
Arthur hasn’t cried since he was a boy and had broken his arm after falling out of a tree. But now, as he moves his hands over Merlin’s skin, cleaning off the grime and sweat and traces of blood, he thinks he tears up a bit. He kneels by his side, takes Merlin’s face in his hands and rubs his thumbs over his cheekbones, over his nose, across his brow, committing the feel of his face to memory. Merlin stays unmoving underneath him, skin cold and chest nearly still.
“Sire?”
Arthur gasps and leaps to his feet, whirling around and brandishing the dagger at the newcomer. He lowers it when he sees that standing across from him is an old man, who he can’t name, yet recognizes. The man sees him and nods, a pleased sort of look coming over his face.
“Pardon me; we aren’t in Camelot, are we? But old habits die hard, or so they say.”
“Do I know you?”
“Of course you do,” the old man says, smiling sagely. His eyes look to the side. “I served your family for many years.”
“You were – you were Gaius. The court physician,” Arthur says, gaping when the old man nods. “You – you’re dead!”
“Clearly, I’m not,” Gaius tells him, indignant. “Really, I’d hoped by now that you would have learned not to believe everything your father tells you.”
Arthur stammers out something, but Gaius cuts him off with a hand held up. “Tell me something, sire – what could have possibly happened to make you this sad? I believe I haven’t seen you cry in…it must have been thirteen years. If my memory serves me correctly, you’d broken your arm.”
Arthur just keeps staring at him, stunned. “It’s – it’s my friend. He’s dying.”
“Is he, now?” Gaius asks, having the gall to sound amused. “He does look a bit clammy.”
“You think this is funny?”
“No, I merely think you are overreacting. May I see him?”
Before Arthur can answer, Gaius has stridden forward and gently pushed him aside, crouching down beside Merlin and pressing his head to his chest. “His heart still beats.”
“Barely.”
“Yes, but enough to tell us that there is still time,” Gaius tells him gently. “Now – I’ll help your friend, who is in fact a very dear friend of mine as well. But I’ll have to use magic and your father won’t like it; so I’ll have to ask you to keep this between us.”
Arthur manages to smile back.
- - -
Gaius has gone, vanished in a flourish of wind and mystery and magic, and Arthur hasn’t left Merlin’s side since. He is lying beside him, face pressed to his shoulder, seeking comfort from the soft breath against his ear, the only indication that Merlin still lives.
He stiffens when he realizes that the breath is gone.
“No, no, no, you can’t – ” he starts, sitting up and grabbing Merlin by the shoulders. He chokes back a sob and turns his head to the stars. “You awful, lying, incompetent bloody old man, you didn’t help at all!”
“Arthur, please, stop yelling. You’ve given me enough of a headache today,” comes a groggy voice from under him.
Arthur gasps and pulls his hand back from Merlin’s shoulders, only to grab them again and drag him up for a rough embrace. Merlin coughs against him weakly, and grapples at his arms, finding them in the dark and squeezing.
“It’s alright,” Merlin whispers once Arthur’s shoulders begin to tremble. “I’m perfectly alive. Do you think, erm – do you think I’ll still have to spend a week in the stocks? That’d be a bit humiliating for a knight, I mean – ”
“Merlin.”
“Shut up?”
Arthur pulls back and shakes his head, then brings Merlin toward him to kiss his cheekbones, then his eyelids, then his jaw, the corner of his mouth, and finally on the lips. He rubs his hands down Merlin’s arm, only to have him hiss and cringe back. Arthur winces.
“I’m sorry about the – the whole dagger thing. Erm.” Arthur mumbles, looking down.
“Don’t be,” Merlin tells him. “It might have slowed the poison, really.”
Arthur’s eyes widen. “The poison?! Is that why you were off dying? I thought you were dying from…I dunno, something stupid, like a broken heart.”
Merlin stares at him. “I - what? Who…who even thinks of that?”
Arthur flushes, thankful that it’s probably too dark for Merlin to see. He tries to change the subject. “We should find some place to sleep, it’s starting to get cold, and – ” Before he finishes the sentence, Merlin raises his hand and his eyes flash gold and there’s a fire before them, washing them over with heat.
Merlin clears his throat, sheepish. “Er. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No,” Arthur mutters. “No, you shouldn’t have. But what you said…about my mother. My birth, everything that my father’s done - it’s funny. You’ve been lying to me this entire time, yet you’re the most honest person I’ve known.”
“I’ll never lie to you again.”
“Merlin – ”
“I know I need to earn your trust back, but you need to know that I’ll never lie to you. I never wanted to hurt you – alright, perhaps I wanted you dead at the very beginning, but…erm, I’m not making this much better, am I?”
“No, you really aren’t.”
“Right. Look, I haven’t got anything to give, except for what I’ve already vowed to give you as a knight – my loyalty, my strength, my devotion. And I just…I want you to take this too, so you know I really mean it.”
He holds up the pendant at the end of his necklace, eyes so wide and earnest that Arthur merely smiles and hooks his finger through the necklace, feeling surprisingly calm – he feels something settle between them, and he knows already that he’s always trusted Merlin with his life and he always will. When Merlin says that he won’t lie to him again, he believes him with all his heart.
He knows already that he can’t take the necklace, so all he does is tug on the chain gently, pulling Merlin toward him until their lips meet.
When they break apart, Arthur says, “You won’t be in the stocks for a week. It’ll be two.”
Merlin laughs at that and Arthur grins, squeezing his hand, and telling him everything without saying anything.