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amythystluna! [1/3]
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merlin_holidaysTitle: The Very Important Quest
Recipient:amythystluna
Author:angstslashhope
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: ~25,000
Warnings: Veg*n warning: Gory death of animals within. Also taxidermy. (These two warnings are unrelated.)
Summary: On a Very Important Quest, Arthur and Merlin share clothes, beds, bathwater and secrets.
Author's Notes: Dearamythystluna: I hope this wee story fulfils your hopes for banter, quests and unintentional ice skating. Happy reading! (Also, please pass on any warm fuzzies to my awesome betas and cheerleaders: E, D, C & N!)
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavour.
Arthur’s woken by the sound of his curtains being dragged open, and it brings him to consciousness with a vague sense of confusion until he realises it’s because the sound isn’t accompanied by Merlin’s usual chirped greeting. He recognises the sound of footsteps scuffing against the stone, though, and he cracks an eye open at last, squinting in the direction of the window.
Merlin’s facing away, standing over one of the enormous chests that holds Arthur’s clothes, and the set of his shoulders is odd.
“What are you doing?” Arthur mumbles without bothering to lift his head, still prone on his belly with most of his face pressed into the pillow.
Merlin’s body jerks, somewhere between a wince and a startle, at the sound of Arthur’s voice. “Nothing,” he says. “The usual.” Merlin’s voice is scratchy, and he turns around to walk towards Arthur with the same shuffling gait Arthur heard before. “Are you awake, then?”
“Yes, no thanks to you,” Arthur huffs, flopping over onto his back. His bedding slips down and the air is cooler than he expected; he fumbles with sleep-heavy hands to drag the blankets back up over his bare chest. Merlin watches the movement and seems to get caught in a blank stare. It gives Arthur the opportunity to notice that his eyes are bloodshot.
“What’s wrong with you?” Arthur asks sharply, and Merlin blinks, meeting Arthur's eyes instead. “Are you actually unwell, or have all the years of dropping yourself on your head finally caught up with you?”
Merlin’s face twists in a grimace. “If it’s blows to the head we’re talking about, I think that you should worry far more about things catching up than me,” he grumbles half-heartedly. When he bends over to pick up one of Arthur’s discarded cushions off the floor, the movement seems to take more effort than it really ought to.
Arthur snags another cushion from his bed and throws it. Merlin teeters when it hits him but manages to straighten again without mishap. He looks at Arthur with an injured expression, rubbing his head. “Ow,” he says.
“I hardly think a cushion merits an ow, Merlin,” Arthur tells him, sitting up and swinging his legs out of the bed. “Where’s my breakfast?”
When Merlin blanches—mouth twisting again—Arthur’s inkling turns into full-blown understanding. He lets a smirk sweep over his face, and saunters over to where Merlin’s standing with the cushion clutched to his belly, head uncharacteristically bowed.
Arthur claps a hand onto the back of Merlin’s neck, and he almost stumbles forward with the force of it, unsteady on his feet. “A bit too long at the tavern last night, was it?” Arthur asks loudly.
“Not my fault. ’S those bloody knights of yours,” Merlin mutters, wincing.
“Merlin,” Arthur begins expansively, letting go of Merlin’s nape after one last squeeze and strolling over to the window. “I don’t know why you insist on besmirching the honour of such noble men in the name of excusing your own excesses.” He peers out into the white-stoned glare of the courtyard, curling his toes on the cold floor.
Behind him, Merlin snorts. “This is Gwaine we’re talking about.”
Arthur’s mouth twitches and he can’t help but huff in understanding, though for some reason the thought of the two of them carousing on into the night—a wilfully irresponsible Gwaine encouraging Merlin to get deeper into his cups—isn’t as amusing as it really ought to be.
And that’s a hint of unpleasantness that Arthur really doesn’t want to have creeping into his morning routine. This is, after all, the only time of day when he can just forget the weight of responsibility that he knows will bear down on him as soon as he steps outside his door. Merlin’s blithe disrespect and self-importance has become something Arthur finds supremely comforting.
It's the thought of Merlin and Gwaine—or any other of the knights; they’ve all been as thick as thieves of late—gleefully sharing company in Arthur’s absence sends a needle of insidious ill-feeling into his thoughts. He shoves it away irritably and turns his back to the window.
“That’s no excuse,” he says, more harshly than he means to.
Picking through Arthur’s clothes, Merlin doesn’t even look up, but Arthur notes his shoulders tense. That, too, is comforting in its own way—a process they’re both familiar with—and surely Merlin takes some comfort in it as well, otherwise he wouldn’t have stuck around for so long.
“Get on with it, will you?” Arthur adds irritably. “And have a maid fetch some breakfast.”
Even looking slightly green about the gills, Merlin manages to get Arthur dressed competently enough, though he’s a terrible conversationalist during it. He lets Arthur carry on expounding on how wonderful he feels after a full night’s sleep without a single retort. When the maid brings a tray of steaming food—why it's never steaming when Merlin brings it, Arthur wants to know—he allows Merlin to sit on the chair opposite, and, despite how mouth-watering it smells, pushes over his generously-laden plate of bacon.
By the time Merlin’s put away more than half of it, he’s starting to perk up again, responding to Arthur’s comments on his eating habits with barbs of his own. Arthur’s quite thoroughly enjoying himself until there’s a knock on the door. At Arthur’s acknowledgement, his father’s manservant steps in. Arthur’s heart drops like a stone in his chest at the sight of the man’s grave face, but the servant only says, “Sire, the King is asking for you.”
Merlin is silent and still; Arthur barely glances at him as he pushes away from the table. He’s only half-finished his breakfast, but he’s not hungry anymore. “Clean this mess up, will you Merlin?” he instructs. Merlin meets his eyes and gives a tight nod.
Arthur’s not wearing his cloak, but he might as well be; a heavy weight drags behind him all the way to his father’s room, cinching around his throat.
*
Uther has never been a talkative man, and the periods when he’s verbal are becoming shorter and further between. A few muttered words in the space of a half-hour see Arthur lingering by his side, neglecting the morning’s duties. The thought that this might be the last opportunity he has to speak with his father weighs solid and heavy in Arthur’s throat during every visit, and the longer he looks at his father’s sunken, pale features, the more Arthur’s recollection of the proud, stern man Uther used to be recedes. Part of Arthur wants to leave, wants never to return to this room to witness this slow wasting. He beats that feeling back down, scathing.
At last Gaius arrives, giving Arthur a sedate and faintly sympathetic look from the door, and Arthur feels a guilty relief. He suspects that Gaius engages in conversation—such as it is—with Uther as well, and the knowledge makes Arthur grateful and resentful all at once. As Arthur rises, Gwen steps in through the door as well, a stack of clean linens balanced in her arms. More maids shuffle in behind her, bearing pails that are steaming faintly, and Arthur chooses to beat a hasty retreat rather than witness his father’s bath along with all the other humiliations of his condition. Gwen smiles slightly at him on his way out, and he grasps her wrist briefly, out of the sight of the others; their wordless greetings and farewells have become comforting rituals.
When Arthur gets down to the practice field, it seems obvious that none of the men had expected him to join them—Sir Leon is overseeing the sparring of most of the newest knights, those called in from their noble households in the past few months—while the rest of them, layabouts that they are, are lounging in the grass near the equipment tables. Naturally, Merlin is sprawled amongst them, an even more audacious shirking of duties. Knights fulfil their duties by choice, but servants are under obligation.
Merlin has always behaved as if the prerogatives of a knight apply to him in that respect, though. More often than not Arthur finds it amusing, but this time, seeing the group of them talking and laughing amongst themselves instead of working makes his jaw clench in irritation. Perhaps if Arthur were not feeling like the kingdom were moments from collapse, he would be more tolerant of this moment of leisure, but as it is he can barely restrain himself from shouting.
The sight of Merlin in particular—head thrown back in laughter as if he hasn’t a care in the world—makes something unpleasant clench in Arthur’s chest. It shouldn’t feel like betrayal—not when Arthur himself has been making such an adamant show of carrying on like he’s not bowing under the pressure of it all even when they’re alone—but it does. How dare Merlin exhibit such careless joy. Arthur thought he understood.
But Merlin’s obliviousness is something Arthur can take advantage of now, as he strides forward. Merlin is leaning back on a braced arm. Arthur hooks a foot around his wrist and yanks, sending Merlin to the ground on his back with an oof.
The other knights, Gwaine, Elyan and Percival—Lancelot is dutifully on the field with Leon, at least—scramble up, standing uneasily.
“Perhaps if you’ve nothing better to do, you could go help muck out the stables,” Arthur suggests to them, “unless you’d prefer doing drills until suppertime?”
Gwaine looks like he’s going to speak, but a glare from Arthur snaps his mouth shut again. The three of them sketch inept bows—it’s amazing they’ve learnt any sort of honourable swordsmanship at all—and turn tail onto the field.
Arthur looks down to see Merlin staring up at him, jaw clenched with either obstinacy or anger: Arthur doesn’t care which. He nudges Merlin’s side with the toe of his boot. “Get up. If you haven’t brought my armour, it’s the stables tomorrow for you as well.”
“As well?” Merlin lets escape, pitch high and outraged. But at least he has the wisdom to close his mouth before any other unpleasant-chore-garnering retorts escape.
Arthur’s armour is laid out on one of the nearby tables, and he feels immediately calmer and just a little contrite for giving in to his irritation. Merlin helping him into his chain mail soothes him a little more, as if the heavy enclosure of it will prevent his mood from escaping further out of his control.
“How is the King?” Merlin asks softly, when Arthur has been motionless and quiet for a few minutes. It’s as if he’s picked up on Arthur’s calmer mood from that alone, and Arthur wonders how he ever doubted Merlin’s perceptiveness.
“As well as he was yesterday,” Arthur says. Merlin catches his eye briefly, giving Arthur a small, rueful smile as he finishes tightening the buckles of Arthur’s vambraces.
“Your sword, Sire,” Merlin says, presenting it to Arthur laid across his open hands.
“About time,” Arthur gripes, taking it and buckling it on himself.
“Arthur,” Merlin says, “go easy on them.”
And just like that, Arthur’s ill-temper clenches tight again. “Things are not easy, Merlin,” he says sharply. “I don’t see the value in pretending they are.”
Merlin’s lips press tight and he takes a deep breath. Arthur heads him off at the pass: “Those stables won’t muck out themselves.”
Merlin’s glare is all the more annoying because it’s rich with the weight of all the arguments they’ve had about this before; if he were just being lazy and resentful it would be easier for Arthur to brush off. As it is, he feels the weight of Merlin’s gaze between his shoulders as he heads onto the field.
*
Arthur shouldn’t be surprised that Merlin brings with him a distinct odour of manure when he finally barges into Arthur’s room that evening. He’s at least had the courtesy to half-heartedly scrub his face, and his hands are clean, which is just as well, as he’s about to put them all over Arthur’s clothes.
Merlin keeps his head down, as if unfastening Arthur’s tunic requires the deepest concentration, and Arthur finds it hard to look at him—instead he stares intently at the far corner of the room over Merlin’s shoulder. He feels weary enough from the day of teeth-gritting tension that he can’t really tell if the stilted silence is because Merlin’s being stand-offish, or if he’s just as tired as Arthur is.
Though, it’s probably a mixture of both. By the time Merlin’s done undressing him, Arthur is suitably mollified, and when Merlin turns away to let him climb into the bath, Arthur decides that he’s had enough of silence and it’s time for a peace offering.
“You know, Merlin, it’s been a while since you’ve smelled so foul.”
Somewhere out of sight, the sound of Merlin fussing with Arthur’s clothes ceases. “It’s been a while since you’ve had me muck out the stables,” Merlin replies at length, tone neutral.
It’s as close as he’ll get to confronting Arthur about his belligerent moods of late, which have been helpful in controlling a kingdom still reeling from a thwarted coup, but rather less of a boon to Merlin in the everyday. Arthur sinks down lower into the water, drawing his knees up. The temperature is exactly as hot as he likes it: almost too much with the first immersion, but rapidly soaking down to his bones.
Merlin’s tidying noises start up again, and Arthur eases up again to reach for the washcloth. As pleasant as the water is, he scrubs himself down perfunctorily, and by the time he levers himself out again—Merlin hurrying forward, fumbling with his drying sheet—the temperature is still reasonably warm.
Arthur takes the sheet from Merlin and wraps it around himself. Merlin stands a few paces away and looks at him warily.
Arthur sighs. “Go on, then,” he tilts his head towards the bath. “I assume you do know how to bathe yourself.”
Merlin’s brow tightens—but with a familiar air of amused provocation that lightens the weight sitting in Arthur’s chest.
“Unlike you, I was taught how to care for myself at an early age,” Merlin says.
“And I’m sure you do. Care for yourself, I mean,” Arthur replies. “Daily.” He lets a hint of a smirk curl his lips, lending the innocuous words a more salacious meaning before he continues breezily, “Which, I suppose, explains your wretched punctuality.”
Arthur’s smirk blooms as Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up. Arthur knows—and doesn’t resent, which is saying something—that Merlin believes the two of them close, but often it seems as though in Merlin's mind Arthur lives on some sort of pedestal of chaste nobility. It gives Arthur a thrill to trot out comments that he suspects Merlin thinks unbefitting him. He’s not popular with his men for nothing: many nights spent in inns and around campfires immersed in indecent conversation have seen to that.
In fact, discovering this new thing that managed to make Merlin’s jaw drop like a scandalised maiden has probably been one of the best things to happen since Morgana. Especially as it’s particular to Arthur; he’s seen how companionable Merlin is with Gwaine, and there’s no way Merlin’s ears could be still delicate after this long.
“Don’t—” Arthur commands when Merlin starts reaching for Arthur’s sleeping clothes. Merlin stops abruptly and stares as Arthur walks towards him. “I can dress myself.” Arthur picks up his hose and pokes his finger into Merlin’s back—the extent to which he’s willing to touch Merlin’s filthy clothes—and manages to propel him towards the bath. “Get in.”
For all that he can dress himself, Arthur feels no urgent need to; instead he snags the pitcher of wine and a goblet from the table and sprawls out naked on the fur in front of the fire: the heat could dry him off. Behind him he can hear Merlin’s faint grunt of exertion as he lowers himself into the bath, and the dulcet splashes as he washes.
Arthur props himself up with his elbows behind him, stretching out to get the maximum heat coverage. Merlin builds a good fire. It’s too hot and bright to stare right into the flames, so instead Arthur lets his eyes slip half-closed and watches the wetted-down hair on his legs and belly slowly spring back to dryness. By the time he’s drained the goblet a second time, Arthur’s feeling very relaxed indeed. He’s not entirely sure how long he’s been sprawled there, but the sound of Merlin’s splashing has become more incidental than purposeful.
Arthur glances over towards the tub. Merlin has indeed finished washing, but instead of getting out he’s stewing in there, sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees. His hair is drying in bedraggled tufts, and it makes his ears stick out even more than usual.
Arthur would say something about them—point it out, just so Merlin’s aware of how ridiculous he looks—but he caught Merlin’s stare when he first turned around, and Merlin flicked his eyes away instantly, shifting his troubled gaze to the other end of the tub.
“Shall I toss some herbs in there with you? Maybe a potato or two? I doubt there’s enough meat there to feed anyone,” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow.
Merlin purses his lips and slants Arthur a look without bothering to face him. “No.” He unwraps his arms and stretches out his legs again, wincing a little like it pains him. “You can light a fire under me, though.” He cups his hands around his upper arms and rubs briskly. “It’s cold.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Yes. Bath water does that, strangely enough.” He shifts his weight to yank the drying sheet from under him, then bundles it up and holds it aloft, miming that he’s about to throw it .
Still, it takes a feinted toss before Merlin finally understands Arthur’s intent; then he scrambles to his feet in the bath, catching the sheet when Arthur throws it and only just preventing it from falling in the water.
He’s naked and standing right there, so Arthur looks him over, to measure the full lay of the land, as it were. There’s always an element of surprise when he glimpses Merlin without clothes. His clean-shaven jaw and odd, fey face make him look still as young as the day he arrived in Camelot, but his limbs aren’t as skinny as his baggy clothing tends to suggest. They’re not even as skinny as when Arthur first saw him naked—not that Arthur keeps track of how many times he has, of course—but lean with spare, wiry muscle.
The hair on the rest of Merlin’s body is as dark as the hair on his head, and when Arthur’s view is obscured by the sheet passing briskly in front of it, Arthur remembers himself and looks away again. He fills another goblet of wine then feels abruptly too bored to sit upright savouring it; he gulps the entire thing down in a few mouthfuls and then flops onto his back in the fur.
He keeps his eyes sullenly closed. A new, odd mood teases at the edges of his relaxation. The fur tickles against Arthur’s neck and Merlin is making clothing noises again. The wine makes Arthur’s senses reel like drunken dancers in the warm dark behind his closed eyes.
“Arthur.”
Arthur slits his eyes open. Merlin—dressed again—is crouched next to him, looking down into his face, expression somewhere between solemn and fond. Arthur doesn’t want to look away from it, but doesn’t want to acknowledge it either, so he settles for no response at all, just continuing to stare back impassively through sleepy eyes.
Merlin rests his hand lightly in the crook of Arthur’s elbow—just his fingertips, really—and says, “How the mighty have fallen,” in a low voice, barely above a whisper and rich with amusement.
Arthur swings his other arm up to bat bluntly at Merlin’s head, but Merlin catches Arthur’s wrist before the blow lands, and then the next thing Arthur knows is that Merlin is threading his limp hands through the sleeves of his nightshirt. It happens too fast to protest, really, so instead of fighting, Arthur just closes his eyes again. At least that way, later on, if Merlin brings up the fact that he dressed Arthur like a babe, Arthur can pretend that he didn’t notice anything of the sort happening.
He doesn’t think Merlin would say anything, though: even though Merlin is chuckling under his breath now as he manoeuvres the shirt over Arthur’s head to drag it over his shoulders and down his chest. Even though Arthur is sure he’s not imagining Merlin’s hand rubbing his belly briefly—like he really is a colicky babe—and murmuring, “There, Your Highness.”
Merlin will instead let this sit, quiet and unspoken, between them.
*
Two days later and Arthur is feeling very little warmth towards Merlin at all. He has woken late, has had to dress himself, and has had to stick his head outside to shout for a maid for a full five minutes before one comes running. She curtseys in response to his demands for breakfast, and Arthur tears through the food with all the grace of a rabid dog. Some of his irritation is appeased by violent chewing, at least.
By the time Arthur stomps all the way to the physician’s chambers, he’s already missed the first duties of the day, and is finding himself questioning just why he’d stopped ordering Merlin to muck out the stables in the first place. The sound of agitated conversation from behind Gaius’ door turns a bit of Arthur’s irritability—the bit that was twisting unsettlingly in his stomach—into self-righteous annoyance. Merlin’s not shut up here on his death bed: he’s just typically disorganised.
When Arthur bursts into the room, Gaius and Merlin stop talking immediately to look up at him. Gaius is standing by his work table with his hands on his hips, and Merlin is in the middle of the room, halfway to the door, with his travelling pack at his feet. He looks startled by Arthur’s unexpected entry, but when he sees Arthur notice the pack, his eyes narrow mulishly.
“Merlin,” Arthur greets with dangerous cheer, strolling towards him. “Should I assume you’re on your way to my chambers to fulfil your duties? Because you ought to know—” He stops directly in front of Merlin, just half a pace too close for comfort, looking directly into Merlin’s stubborn face. “You’re at least two hours late. And—” Arthur nudges the pack by his foot without breaking his gaze. “—You won’t be needing this.”
“Sorry,” Merlin says breezily. “Apprenticeship duties call. Gaius is sending me on a mission.” Merlin doesn’t step away from Arthur’s looming, just smiles the challenge right back into Arthur’s face.
Arthur glances over at Gaius. “Is this true?”
Gaius makes a face as if he ate something unpleasant and regrets it very much. “I’m afraid so, Sire—”
“Send someone else,” Arthur commands, turning away as if this conversation doesn’t even merit his time. Which it doesn’t. Merlin isn’t going anywhere, and that’s that. “Merlin, hurry up, you’re needed in the armoury.”
“He can’t send someone else. Only me,” Merlin blurts out before Arthur makes it halfway back to the door.
Arthur shoots a skeptical look in Gaius’ direction, but the old man says nothing to counter Merlin’s words. Arthur turns back to face Merlin fully, folding his arms over his chest.
“Is that so.”
Merlin nods firmly. “The forex flower. Very rare. Only grows on the slopes of the Northern Mountains, on the western side, and only effective if it’s culled during the first snow of the winter.”
Arthur lifts an eyebrow at Merlin’s defensive tone. “And you’re the only one who can pick it.”
“I’m the only one who’s trained in how to find, identify and cull it, yes,” Merlin says, drawing himself up. “Training someone else would take too long; we’d miss the harvesting window.”
Arthur looks to Gaius again. “Just what value is this plant to Camelot?” He thinks of his father, of course—he has faith that Gaius has tried everything he can to heal Uther, but there’s still a stubborn little spark in him that refuses to believe that his father’s mind is weakened, gone; surely this is a malady that can be cured by one of Gaius’ seemingly miraculous remedies.
“It is known for its effectiveness in fighting off the worst symptoms of wet lung fever, Your Highness,” Gaius says at length. “Which we’ve heard caused a fatal epidemic in King Olaf’s kingdom last winter. It’s not unheard of for such an illness to be borne along trading routes. If Merlin can obtain this flower, then we may well be able to save many lives this winter.”
Gaius’ gaze is fixed on Arthur, and Merlin’s is too; they’re both watching him keenly. Arthur feels an unpleasant twist of resentment. He wants to petulantly deny them, demand that Merlin stay, but if Gaius’ fears are founded then there is far more at stake here than making sure Arthur has someone to entertain him after a difficult day.
“You intend to travel alone?” he asks Merlin, skeptical. “To the Northern Mountains. In the snow.”
Merlin’s gaze is shifty; it darts from Arthur to Gaius to the door, and then back to Arthur. “If it’s that dangerous, I thought maybe I could take someone with me. Perhaps Lancelot, or Gwaine—”
“No, that won’t do at all,” Arthur cuts him off abruptly, and then begins to pace; he hadn’t meant to speak so quickly, so he distracts them from it with the purposeful movement. “Lancelot is needed here, and Gwaine is the reason he’s needed here—no, he certainly couldn’t be trusted on such an important mission.” Merlin doesn’t say anything, just watches as Arthur strides and blusters. “No, there’s nothing else for it.” Arthur stops in front of Merlin again. “You can’t be expected to undertake such an important mission on your own, Merlin; you’d be a block of ice on a hillside and half of Camelot dead in their beds. No, the only option is for me to accompany you.”
Merlin’s mouth twitches, and as expected, his expression turns put-upon. “There’s no discouraging me,” he declares before Merlin can even open his mouth. “Pack my bags and ready the horses.” And he jogs out of the room before Merlin or Gaius can say another word.
*
Arthur doesn’t exactly relish leaving the contained warmth of the castle for such an extended, boring mission—one not even dangerous enough to merit him wearing armour—and especially not right when the year is waning into winter. Even so, it’s not just because he’s wearing ordinary riding clothes that Arthur feels lighter and lighter with each mile they ride out of Camelot. He pushes aside the guilt of that by critiquing aloud how long it took Merlin to prepare his things, the poor form of his seat in the saddle and just how disappointed Arthur is to be leaving the autumn kitchen fare for Merlin’s fireside cooking.
“Admit it, Arthur,” Merlin says in response to the last, his tone implying that Arthur’s rambling criticisms have affected him not a whit. “If you had your way, you’d be eating my rabbit and bean stew for every meal.”
“Your rabbit,” Arthur scoffs after a moment, recovering badly.
Merlin glances over at him, his expression almost pitying. “Oh, because I suppose that the palatability of the rabbit is entirely dependent on who kills it, and has nothing to do with who dresses and cooks it.”
“You know, it’s the strangest thing, Merlin,” Arthur says, his tone wondering. “Sometimes you say things that almost seem to make sense.”
Merlin laughs and nudges his heels into his horse’s sides, speeding up to a trot that takes him past Arthur—almost as if he thinks this is his quest and Arthur should be merely trailing after him. Which is so utterly ridiculous that Arthur doesn’t know how to begin to address it, except by spurring his own mount to an even quicker pace. He stands up in the stirrups and glides neatly past Merlin’s terribly jolty clip, allowing himself a grin as the wind smoothes over his face and Merlin makes a choked sound of indignation behind him.
Then Merlin’s horse snorts and canters past, and Arthur crouches lower in the saddle and kicks after him, and they race their way into the forest.
Ordinarily Arthur would be reluctant to run the horses unless strictly necessary, but the days are short at this time of year, restricting their daily travel time, and it’s not exactly a perilous mission. Racing Merlin on and off throughout the brief afternoon is perfectly reasonable when they’re in no danger of needing to run for their lives.
It’s also reason enough to settle down to camp early: they might as well give the mounts as much rest as possible for the next few leisurely days of riding, and give Merlin opportunity to set up camp while it’s still well light.
They settle in the forest—they’ve nearly ridden all the way through it, but there’s no telling if it’ll rain or not, and it’s easier to string up oilcloths amidst the trees than out in the open—and Merlin spends some time clearing a space in the thick carpet of fallen leaves, exposing the rich, damp soil below to build a fire into. His hands are stained dark from the earth by the time he rocks back onto his heels, and he leaves a smear of it on his forehead when he ineptly wipes the back of his hand across his brow.
Arthur finishes tying off the oilcloth and approaches. “Firewood, Merlin, before it gets too dark to see any,” he instructs, using his foot to nudge closer one of the stones that Merlin had picked up as they wandered on foot to find the best place to camp. “I’ll finish here.”
It’s getting darker quickly: the sky is dimming beneath a low, fleecy blanket of grey cloud. By the time Arthur looks up from setting the stones into the fire pit, the gaps between the dark, bare trees are softened by the white haze of a rising mist. The air feels damp on Arthur’s face, his neck already uncomfortably clammy with it, and he quickly hauls their packs and their saddles under the canopy of the oilcloth. When the damp turns to a cold wet prickle against his cheeks, he hurriedly unties the knots he just secured, rearranging the canopy into a tent—if it’s going to be heavy fog instead of outright rain, then the wet will be coming from all sides. A tent might be crowded, but it’ll protect them from the worst of it.
When Merlin returns with an armful of wood, his head is bowed and hair bedraggled; he shoots Arthur an unhappy look as he kneels down before the fire pit. The light has faded enough in the time that he’s been gone that Arthur can’t even tell from looking at it whether the wood is dry or not.
“Is that not too wet to light?” Arthur asks as Merlin begins to methodically lay the fire.
Merlin shrugs without looking up. “Dry enough,” he says, and leans right down, cupping his hands with the flint into the bed of tinder and bowing his upper body over to shelter it. His head’s so low it looks like he’s telling the wood a secret, and Arthur huffs out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding as the tinder flickers alight. Merlin whips his hands out of the way with a hiss, shooting a wary look up at Arthur as if he expects to be reprimanded for it.
“Food, Merlin,” Arthur reminds him; the fire is sending merry tongues of flame up around the wood Merlin gathered, but there’s no telling how long it’ll last against the increasing volume of water in the air. “Hurry up.”
“Thought you didn’t care for my cooking,” Merlin says, rising to his feet and going to dig for his pack inside the tent; instead of crawling into it he crouches over awkwardly, arse in the air.
Arthur waits until Merlin has come back to the fire with the cooking pot before answering. “If it’s a choice between your stew and starving…”
Merlin snorts and shakes his head, not looking up from his work. The dark is seeping in more rapidly, now, and Merlin squints and leans in closer to the fire to see properly as he adeptly chops a couple of potatoes with what seems to be an alarmingly sharp knife. Arthur watches for a moment until he can’t stand the dread of expecting Merlin to slice one of his fingers off, then goes to see to the horses.
By the time the fog has turned into definite drizzle the fire is clearly losing its battle against it; Merlin’s expression is grim as he nurses the meal, stirring the pot and poking at the coals constantly. His damp hair is plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck, and he looks even paler than usual.
“Come on,” Arthur says decisively. “I’m sure it’s hot enough to eat.” He digs into Merlin’s pack for their bowls, then thrusts them under Merlin’s nose; Merlin doesn’t respond with a scowl but a sigh, his shoulders drooping.
Luckily Arthur had got the tent up early enough that the ground underneath it is merely damp rather than sodden; they sit on their wrapped bedrolls to eat, perched just inside the opening so they can catch the last of the light. The stew is warm enough, but the pulses are gritty and the chunks of potato still a little crunchy. Arthur doesn’t comment on it, and Merlin is silent beside him; they both stare out into the gloomy twilight as they eat. The dwindling fire starts to hiss as if issuing a final complaint, and steam rises faintly from the dying coals, immediately merging with the solid-looking fog.
Once they’ve eaten they hurry to arrange the tent, racing the nightfall. With the saddles needing shelter as well, it’s very close quarters, so their bedrolls end up flush against each other. Arthur supposes that’s for the best anyway—the damp air is decidedly chilly, and when he shrugs off the heavy wool-and-fur of his cloak and tugs off his gloves with his teeth, the cold rushes in to bite at him.
He can’t help but make incidental contact with Merlin, both of them moving around in such a small space. When the back of Arthur’s hand brushes Merlin’s arm, he realises something is odd. He grabs a fistful of Merlin’s sleeve to confirm, and finds that it is, indeed, soaked through. Merlin makes an indignant noise, but he’s shivering. Clearly his jacket is not as good at fending off moisture as Arthur’s cloak.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, scolding. “Is there a reason you’re still wearing wet clothes? Don’t tell me you didn’t bring any more.”
“Of course I brought more clothes,” Merlin says indignantly. He tugs himself free, and refuses to look at Arthur as he continues in a mumble, “I’m wearing them.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Right, well, get out of them.”
Merlin whips his head around to stare. “What? I’ll freeze!”
“You certainly will if you stay in them, wet as they are.”
“I’ll get under the blankets.”
“And soak them too? And how do you think they’ll dry being rolled up all day tomorrow?” Arthur throws his hands up, exasperated. “Honestly, Merlin, have you no survival instincts at all?”
Merlin crawls away from him then sits at the end of his bedroll, hunching over to pull off his boots.
“Merlin,” Arthur says.
Merlin ignores him, not even turning around.
“Merlin.” When Merlin still doesn’t respond, Arthur huffs and crawls towards him. Merlin doesn’t even have a chance to take his second boot off before Arthur’s grabbing handfuls of his shirt and yanking it up out of his belt. Taken by surprise, Merlin just squawks and flails; the abruptness of it makes him lose his balance, but Arthur’s still determinedly pulling the shirt off so Merlin doesn’t have the freedom of movement to brace himself. Instead, he falls onto his back, making it much easier for Arthur to keep pulling the shirt up and over his head.
“What—!” Merlin splutters, still throwing his limbs about ineffectually. “You—stop it!”
The second shirt is nearly as soaked as the first, and Merlin’s skin under it is icy against Arthur’s glove-warmed hands. Merlin finally gets himself together enough to fight back when the shirt is halfway over his head; Arthur backs out of the way of his kicking legs. He has to wait until Merlin’s promised to calm down before he can move back in to help, and with a few strategic tugs, Arthur frees him from the predicament of having his arms stuck in the air and face wrapped in wet cloth.
Bare-chested, Merlin finally manages to sit up, scooting backwards and away from Arthur, watching him with profound distrust. Arthur watches him right back, working hard to keep his expression unmoved instead of showing the amusement he’s feeling. When Merlin gives a violent shiver, Arthur looks pointedly at his sodden trousers.
And that causes the scandalised expression that Arthur is becoming so fond of; it’s even harder work not to laugh in delight. When Arthur kneels up as if to shuffle towards him, Merlin yelps, “All right, all right!” and begins fumbling with his laces.
Arthur sits back to watch, luxuriating in his victory, taking Merlin’s every indignant huff and mutter as the spoils he deserves.
Of course, it’s only when Merlin’s managed to shuck his trousers down to his ankles that he realises he’s still got one of his boots on, and this results in a exclaimed curse and further fighting of wet cloth as he hunches over to wrestle it off.
His bare back is startlingly white in the near-dark of the tent, and Arthur thinks that bending over that awkwardly shouldn’t result in such a graceful curve. With all of Merlin’s lively griping, Arthur feels as if Merlin’s skin should be warm with the heat of his irritation, but when he reaches out to run his hand down the arc of Merlin’s spine it’s to find he’s just as clammy-cold as before.
Merlin jolts at the touch, and Arthur jolts an instant later, heart in his throat, his thoughts catching up with his actions moments too late. But he can’t withdraw; the unspoken rules of their play forbid it.
Merlin, paused in his boot-wrestling, looks over his shoulder at Arthur. His expression is more curious than affronted, though there’s still an overt wariness to it. Arthur, at a loss for words, just looks back at him. He doesn’t know what to do with his hand—motionless now on Merlin’s back. He wants to move it: he nearly twitches with the unwonted urge to explore the cool, smooth expanse of Merlin's skin.
“Are you planning on skinning me as well?” Merlin asks after another moment. His tone is unflustered—if a little hoarse.
Arthur can finally move; he smacks his hand down on Merlin’s back with a little more force than a friendly pat merits. Merlin cringes away from it and it shakes the weighted look from his features, replacing it with more familiar disgruntlement. Arthur’s sure that the fluttering lightness in his own belly is entirely relief.
“Only if you don’t hurry up and get into bed,” he says, at last withdrawing and busying himself with taking his own boots off. Once that’s done, he kneels up to tie the opening of the tent closed, and when he turns back around Merlin’s finally managed to get himself into his bedroll. In the dark, Arthur can just make out the curled-up lump of him beneath the heavy blankets, damp clothes draped over the saddles at his head.
Arthur crawls into his own blankets. His own extremities feel numb from the cold now, and while the enclosed space of the tent will warm up with their combined breath and body heat in an hour or two, even fully clothed he finds himself shivering a little.
As soon as he stills, he can hear Merlin’s stuttering breath, and though Arthur can’t see past his own nose, they’re close enough that he can feel Merlin shuddering beside him.
Arthur sighs, refusing to feel guilty. Merlin certainly would wind up colder sleeping in wet clothes than getting under his blankets dry. Still, Arthur extracts his arms from the cocoon of his blankets long enough to throw his heavy cloak over the top of Merlin’s blankets—though, on second thought, it’s big enough to cover two men, so Arthur wriggles a little closer and drapes it over both of them.
Merlin doesn’t comment, though he does roll over to face Arthur and squirm closer. In the dark, Arthur doesn’t realise just how close he is until Merlin’s icy nose brushes against his cheek. Arthur untucks his hand again and brings it up to cup experimentally over Merlin’s ear. Merlin’s noisy breathing halts for a brief moment. As expected, that ridiculous protuberance is colder even than his nose was, and his wet hair is practically frozen.
Merlin sniffles pathetically and Arthur sighs, tugging the cloak up higher. The fur collar glides sleekly over their faces until Arthur tucks it above their heads. The enclosed pocket of air soon warms, and sleep comes to Arthur like waves drifting back and forth in a rising tide, washing in at the same pace of Merlin’s easing shivers.
*
Part 2
Recipient:
amythystlunaAuthor:
angstslashhopeRating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: ~25,000
Warnings: Veg*n warning: Gory death of animals within. Also taxidermy. (These two warnings are unrelated.)
Summary: On a Very Important Quest, Arthur and Merlin share clothes, beds, bathwater and secrets.
Author's Notes: Dear
amythystluna: I hope this wee story fulfils your hopes for banter, quests and unintentional ice skating. Happy reading! (Also, please pass on any warm fuzzies to my awesome betas and cheerleaders: E, D, C & N!)Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavour.
Arthur’s woken by the sound of his curtains being dragged open, and it brings him to consciousness with a vague sense of confusion until he realises it’s because the sound isn’t accompanied by Merlin’s usual chirped greeting. He recognises the sound of footsteps scuffing against the stone, though, and he cracks an eye open at last, squinting in the direction of the window.
Merlin’s facing away, standing over one of the enormous chests that holds Arthur’s clothes, and the set of his shoulders is odd.
“What are you doing?” Arthur mumbles without bothering to lift his head, still prone on his belly with most of his face pressed into the pillow.
Merlin’s body jerks, somewhere between a wince and a startle, at the sound of Arthur’s voice. “Nothing,” he says. “The usual.” Merlin’s voice is scratchy, and he turns around to walk towards Arthur with the same shuffling gait Arthur heard before. “Are you awake, then?”
“Yes, no thanks to you,” Arthur huffs, flopping over onto his back. His bedding slips down and the air is cooler than he expected; he fumbles with sleep-heavy hands to drag the blankets back up over his bare chest. Merlin watches the movement and seems to get caught in a blank stare. It gives Arthur the opportunity to notice that his eyes are bloodshot.
“What’s wrong with you?” Arthur asks sharply, and Merlin blinks, meeting Arthur's eyes instead. “Are you actually unwell, or have all the years of dropping yourself on your head finally caught up with you?”
Merlin’s face twists in a grimace. “If it’s blows to the head we’re talking about, I think that you should worry far more about things catching up than me,” he grumbles half-heartedly. When he bends over to pick up one of Arthur’s discarded cushions off the floor, the movement seems to take more effort than it really ought to.
Arthur snags another cushion from his bed and throws it. Merlin teeters when it hits him but manages to straighten again without mishap. He looks at Arthur with an injured expression, rubbing his head. “Ow,” he says.
“I hardly think a cushion merits an ow, Merlin,” Arthur tells him, sitting up and swinging his legs out of the bed. “Where’s my breakfast?”
When Merlin blanches—mouth twisting again—Arthur’s inkling turns into full-blown understanding. He lets a smirk sweep over his face, and saunters over to where Merlin’s standing with the cushion clutched to his belly, head uncharacteristically bowed.
Arthur claps a hand onto the back of Merlin’s neck, and he almost stumbles forward with the force of it, unsteady on his feet. “A bit too long at the tavern last night, was it?” Arthur asks loudly.
“Not my fault. ’S those bloody knights of yours,” Merlin mutters, wincing.
“Merlin,” Arthur begins expansively, letting go of Merlin’s nape after one last squeeze and strolling over to the window. “I don’t know why you insist on besmirching the honour of such noble men in the name of excusing your own excesses.” He peers out into the white-stoned glare of the courtyard, curling his toes on the cold floor.
Behind him, Merlin snorts. “This is Gwaine we’re talking about.”
Arthur’s mouth twitches and he can’t help but huff in understanding, though for some reason the thought of the two of them carousing on into the night—a wilfully irresponsible Gwaine encouraging Merlin to get deeper into his cups—isn’t as amusing as it really ought to be.
And that’s a hint of unpleasantness that Arthur really doesn’t want to have creeping into his morning routine. This is, after all, the only time of day when he can just forget the weight of responsibility that he knows will bear down on him as soon as he steps outside his door. Merlin’s blithe disrespect and self-importance has become something Arthur finds supremely comforting.
It's the thought of Merlin and Gwaine—or any other of the knights; they’ve all been as thick as thieves of late—gleefully sharing company in Arthur’s absence sends a needle of insidious ill-feeling into his thoughts. He shoves it away irritably and turns his back to the window.
“That’s no excuse,” he says, more harshly than he means to.
Picking through Arthur’s clothes, Merlin doesn’t even look up, but Arthur notes his shoulders tense. That, too, is comforting in its own way—a process they’re both familiar with—and surely Merlin takes some comfort in it as well, otherwise he wouldn’t have stuck around for so long.
“Get on with it, will you?” Arthur adds irritably. “And have a maid fetch some breakfast.”
Even looking slightly green about the gills, Merlin manages to get Arthur dressed competently enough, though he’s a terrible conversationalist during it. He lets Arthur carry on expounding on how wonderful he feels after a full night’s sleep without a single retort. When the maid brings a tray of steaming food—why it's never steaming when Merlin brings it, Arthur wants to know—he allows Merlin to sit on the chair opposite, and, despite how mouth-watering it smells, pushes over his generously-laden plate of bacon.
By the time Merlin’s put away more than half of it, he’s starting to perk up again, responding to Arthur’s comments on his eating habits with barbs of his own. Arthur’s quite thoroughly enjoying himself until there’s a knock on the door. At Arthur’s acknowledgement, his father’s manservant steps in. Arthur’s heart drops like a stone in his chest at the sight of the man’s grave face, but the servant only says, “Sire, the King is asking for you.”
Merlin is silent and still; Arthur barely glances at him as he pushes away from the table. He’s only half-finished his breakfast, but he’s not hungry anymore. “Clean this mess up, will you Merlin?” he instructs. Merlin meets his eyes and gives a tight nod.
Arthur’s not wearing his cloak, but he might as well be; a heavy weight drags behind him all the way to his father’s room, cinching around his throat.
*
Uther has never been a talkative man, and the periods when he’s verbal are becoming shorter and further between. A few muttered words in the space of a half-hour see Arthur lingering by his side, neglecting the morning’s duties. The thought that this might be the last opportunity he has to speak with his father weighs solid and heavy in Arthur’s throat during every visit, and the longer he looks at his father’s sunken, pale features, the more Arthur’s recollection of the proud, stern man Uther used to be recedes. Part of Arthur wants to leave, wants never to return to this room to witness this slow wasting. He beats that feeling back down, scathing.
At last Gaius arrives, giving Arthur a sedate and faintly sympathetic look from the door, and Arthur feels a guilty relief. He suspects that Gaius engages in conversation—such as it is—with Uther as well, and the knowledge makes Arthur grateful and resentful all at once. As Arthur rises, Gwen steps in through the door as well, a stack of clean linens balanced in her arms. More maids shuffle in behind her, bearing pails that are steaming faintly, and Arthur chooses to beat a hasty retreat rather than witness his father’s bath along with all the other humiliations of his condition. Gwen smiles slightly at him on his way out, and he grasps her wrist briefly, out of the sight of the others; their wordless greetings and farewells have become comforting rituals.
When Arthur gets down to the practice field, it seems obvious that none of the men had expected him to join them—Sir Leon is overseeing the sparring of most of the newest knights, those called in from their noble households in the past few months—while the rest of them, layabouts that they are, are lounging in the grass near the equipment tables. Naturally, Merlin is sprawled amongst them, an even more audacious shirking of duties. Knights fulfil their duties by choice, but servants are under obligation.
Merlin has always behaved as if the prerogatives of a knight apply to him in that respect, though. More often than not Arthur finds it amusing, but this time, seeing the group of them talking and laughing amongst themselves instead of working makes his jaw clench in irritation. Perhaps if Arthur were not feeling like the kingdom were moments from collapse, he would be more tolerant of this moment of leisure, but as it is he can barely restrain himself from shouting.
The sight of Merlin in particular—head thrown back in laughter as if he hasn’t a care in the world—makes something unpleasant clench in Arthur’s chest. It shouldn’t feel like betrayal—not when Arthur himself has been making such an adamant show of carrying on like he’s not bowing under the pressure of it all even when they’re alone—but it does. How dare Merlin exhibit such careless joy. Arthur thought he understood.
But Merlin’s obliviousness is something Arthur can take advantage of now, as he strides forward. Merlin is leaning back on a braced arm. Arthur hooks a foot around his wrist and yanks, sending Merlin to the ground on his back with an oof.
The other knights, Gwaine, Elyan and Percival—Lancelot is dutifully on the field with Leon, at least—scramble up, standing uneasily.
“Perhaps if you’ve nothing better to do, you could go help muck out the stables,” Arthur suggests to them, “unless you’d prefer doing drills until suppertime?”
Gwaine looks like he’s going to speak, but a glare from Arthur snaps his mouth shut again. The three of them sketch inept bows—it’s amazing they’ve learnt any sort of honourable swordsmanship at all—and turn tail onto the field.
Arthur looks down to see Merlin staring up at him, jaw clenched with either obstinacy or anger: Arthur doesn’t care which. He nudges Merlin’s side with the toe of his boot. “Get up. If you haven’t brought my armour, it’s the stables tomorrow for you as well.”
“As well?” Merlin lets escape, pitch high and outraged. But at least he has the wisdom to close his mouth before any other unpleasant-chore-garnering retorts escape.
Arthur’s armour is laid out on one of the nearby tables, and he feels immediately calmer and just a little contrite for giving in to his irritation. Merlin helping him into his chain mail soothes him a little more, as if the heavy enclosure of it will prevent his mood from escaping further out of his control.
“How is the King?” Merlin asks softly, when Arthur has been motionless and quiet for a few minutes. It’s as if he’s picked up on Arthur’s calmer mood from that alone, and Arthur wonders how he ever doubted Merlin’s perceptiveness.
“As well as he was yesterday,” Arthur says. Merlin catches his eye briefly, giving Arthur a small, rueful smile as he finishes tightening the buckles of Arthur’s vambraces.
“Your sword, Sire,” Merlin says, presenting it to Arthur laid across his open hands.
“About time,” Arthur gripes, taking it and buckling it on himself.
“Arthur,” Merlin says, “go easy on them.”
And just like that, Arthur’s ill-temper clenches tight again. “Things are not easy, Merlin,” he says sharply. “I don’t see the value in pretending they are.”
Merlin’s lips press tight and he takes a deep breath. Arthur heads him off at the pass: “Those stables won’t muck out themselves.”
Merlin’s glare is all the more annoying because it’s rich with the weight of all the arguments they’ve had about this before; if he were just being lazy and resentful it would be easier for Arthur to brush off. As it is, he feels the weight of Merlin’s gaze between his shoulders as he heads onto the field.
*
Arthur shouldn’t be surprised that Merlin brings with him a distinct odour of manure when he finally barges into Arthur’s room that evening. He’s at least had the courtesy to half-heartedly scrub his face, and his hands are clean, which is just as well, as he’s about to put them all over Arthur’s clothes.
Merlin keeps his head down, as if unfastening Arthur’s tunic requires the deepest concentration, and Arthur finds it hard to look at him—instead he stares intently at the far corner of the room over Merlin’s shoulder. He feels weary enough from the day of teeth-gritting tension that he can’t really tell if the stilted silence is because Merlin’s being stand-offish, or if he’s just as tired as Arthur is.
Though, it’s probably a mixture of both. By the time Merlin’s done undressing him, Arthur is suitably mollified, and when Merlin turns away to let him climb into the bath, Arthur decides that he’s had enough of silence and it’s time for a peace offering.
“You know, Merlin, it’s been a while since you’ve smelled so foul.”
Somewhere out of sight, the sound of Merlin fussing with Arthur’s clothes ceases. “It’s been a while since you’ve had me muck out the stables,” Merlin replies at length, tone neutral.
It’s as close as he’ll get to confronting Arthur about his belligerent moods of late, which have been helpful in controlling a kingdom still reeling from a thwarted coup, but rather less of a boon to Merlin in the everyday. Arthur sinks down lower into the water, drawing his knees up. The temperature is exactly as hot as he likes it: almost too much with the first immersion, but rapidly soaking down to his bones.
Merlin’s tidying noises start up again, and Arthur eases up again to reach for the washcloth. As pleasant as the water is, he scrubs himself down perfunctorily, and by the time he levers himself out again—Merlin hurrying forward, fumbling with his drying sheet—the temperature is still reasonably warm.
Arthur takes the sheet from Merlin and wraps it around himself. Merlin stands a few paces away and looks at him warily.
Arthur sighs. “Go on, then,” he tilts his head towards the bath. “I assume you do know how to bathe yourself.”
Merlin’s brow tightens—but with a familiar air of amused provocation that lightens the weight sitting in Arthur’s chest.
“Unlike you, I was taught how to care for myself at an early age,” Merlin says.
“And I’m sure you do. Care for yourself, I mean,” Arthur replies. “Daily.” He lets a hint of a smirk curl his lips, lending the innocuous words a more salacious meaning before he continues breezily, “Which, I suppose, explains your wretched punctuality.”
Arthur’s smirk blooms as Merlin’s eyebrows shoot up. Arthur knows—and doesn’t resent, which is saying something—that Merlin believes the two of them close, but often it seems as though in Merlin's mind Arthur lives on some sort of pedestal of chaste nobility. It gives Arthur a thrill to trot out comments that he suspects Merlin thinks unbefitting him. He’s not popular with his men for nothing: many nights spent in inns and around campfires immersed in indecent conversation have seen to that.
In fact, discovering this new thing that managed to make Merlin’s jaw drop like a scandalised maiden has probably been one of the best things to happen since Morgana. Especially as it’s particular to Arthur; he’s seen how companionable Merlin is with Gwaine, and there’s no way Merlin’s ears could be still delicate after this long.
“Don’t—” Arthur commands when Merlin starts reaching for Arthur’s sleeping clothes. Merlin stops abruptly and stares as Arthur walks towards him. “I can dress myself.” Arthur picks up his hose and pokes his finger into Merlin’s back—the extent to which he’s willing to touch Merlin’s filthy clothes—and manages to propel him towards the bath. “Get in.”
For all that he can dress himself, Arthur feels no urgent need to; instead he snags the pitcher of wine and a goblet from the table and sprawls out naked on the fur in front of the fire: the heat could dry him off. Behind him he can hear Merlin’s faint grunt of exertion as he lowers himself into the bath, and the dulcet splashes as he washes.
Arthur props himself up with his elbows behind him, stretching out to get the maximum heat coverage. Merlin builds a good fire. It’s too hot and bright to stare right into the flames, so instead Arthur lets his eyes slip half-closed and watches the wetted-down hair on his legs and belly slowly spring back to dryness. By the time he’s drained the goblet a second time, Arthur’s feeling very relaxed indeed. He’s not entirely sure how long he’s been sprawled there, but the sound of Merlin’s splashing has become more incidental than purposeful.
Arthur glances over towards the tub. Merlin has indeed finished washing, but instead of getting out he’s stewing in there, sitting with his arms wrapped around his knees. His hair is drying in bedraggled tufts, and it makes his ears stick out even more than usual.
Arthur would say something about them—point it out, just so Merlin’s aware of how ridiculous he looks—but he caught Merlin’s stare when he first turned around, and Merlin flicked his eyes away instantly, shifting his troubled gaze to the other end of the tub.
“Shall I toss some herbs in there with you? Maybe a potato or two? I doubt there’s enough meat there to feed anyone,” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow.
Merlin purses his lips and slants Arthur a look without bothering to face him. “No.” He unwraps his arms and stretches out his legs again, wincing a little like it pains him. “You can light a fire under me, though.” He cups his hands around his upper arms and rubs briskly. “It’s cold.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Yes. Bath water does that, strangely enough.” He shifts his weight to yank the drying sheet from under him, then bundles it up and holds it aloft, miming that he’s about to throw it .
Still, it takes a feinted toss before Merlin finally understands Arthur’s intent; then he scrambles to his feet in the bath, catching the sheet when Arthur throws it and only just preventing it from falling in the water.
He’s naked and standing right there, so Arthur looks him over, to measure the full lay of the land, as it were. There’s always an element of surprise when he glimpses Merlin without clothes. His clean-shaven jaw and odd, fey face make him look still as young as the day he arrived in Camelot, but his limbs aren’t as skinny as his baggy clothing tends to suggest. They’re not even as skinny as when Arthur first saw him naked—not that Arthur keeps track of how many times he has, of course—but lean with spare, wiry muscle.
The hair on the rest of Merlin’s body is as dark as the hair on his head, and when Arthur’s view is obscured by the sheet passing briskly in front of it, Arthur remembers himself and looks away again. He fills another goblet of wine then feels abruptly too bored to sit upright savouring it; he gulps the entire thing down in a few mouthfuls and then flops onto his back in the fur.
He keeps his eyes sullenly closed. A new, odd mood teases at the edges of his relaxation. The fur tickles against Arthur’s neck and Merlin is making clothing noises again. The wine makes Arthur’s senses reel like drunken dancers in the warm dark behind his closed eyes.
“Arthur.”
Arthur slits his eyes open. Merlin—dressed again—is crouched next to him, looking down into his face, expression somewhere between solemn and fond. Arthur doesn’t want to look away from it, but doesn’t want to acknowledge it either, so he settles for no response at all, just continuing to stare back impassively through sleepy eyes.
Merlin rests his hand lightly in the crook of Arthur’s elbow—just his fingertips, really—and says, “How the mighty have fallen,” in a low voice, barely above a whisper and rich with amusement.
Arthur swings his other arm up to bat bluntly at Merlin’s head, but Merlin catches Arthur’s wrist before the blow lands, and then the next thing Arthur knows is that Merlin is threading his limp hands through the sleeves of his nightshirt. It happens too fast to protest, really, so instead of fighting, Arthur just closes his eyes again. At least that way, later on, if Merlin brings up the fact that he dressed Arthur like a babe, Arthur can pretend that he didn’t notice anything of the sort happening.
He doesn’t think Merlin would say anything, though: even though Merlin is chuckling under his breath now as he manoeuvres the shirt over Arthur’s head to drag it over his shoulders and down his chest. Even though Arthur is sure he’s not imagining Merlin’s hand rubbing his belly briefly—like he really is a colicky babe—and murmuring, “There, Your Highness.”
Merlin will instead let this sit, quiet and unspoken, between them.
*
Two days later and Arthur is feeling very little warmth towards Merlin at all. He has woken late, has had to dress himself, and has had to stick his head outside to shout for a maid for a full five minutes before one comes running. She curtseys in response to his demands for breakfast, and Arthur tears through the food with all the grace of a rabid dog. Some of his irritation is appeased by violent chewing, at least.
By the time Arthur stomps all the way to the physician’s chambers, he’s already missed the first duties of the day, and is finding himself questioning just why he’d stopped ordering Merlin to muck out the stables in the first place. The sound of agitated conversation from behind Gaius’ door turns a bit of Arthur’s irritability—the bit that was twisting unsettlingly in his stomach—into self-righteous annoyance. Merlin’s not shut up here on his death bed: he’s just typically disorganised.
When Arthur bursts into the room, Gaius and Merlin stop talking immediately to look up at him. Gaius is standing by his work table with his hands on his hips, and Merlin is in the middle of the room, halfway to the door, with his travelling pack at his feet. He looks startled by Arthur’s unexpected entry, but when he sees Arthur notice the pack, his eyes narrow mulishly.
“Merlin,” Arthur greets with dangerous cheer, strolling towards him. “Should I assume you’re on your way to my chambers to fulfil your duties? Because you ought to know—” He stops directly in front of Merlin, just half a pace too close for comfort, looking directly into Merlin’s stubborn face. “You’re at least two hours late. And—” Arthur nudges the pack by his foot without breaking his gaze. “—You won’t be needing this.”
“Sorry,” Merlin says breezily. “Apprenticeship duties call. Gaius is sending me on a mission.” Merlin doesn’t step away from Arthur’s looming, just smiles the challenge right back into Arthur’s face.
Arthur glances over at Gaius. “Is this true?”
Gaius makes a face as if he ate something unpleasant and regrets it very much. “I’m afraid so, Sire—”
“Send someone else,” Arthur commands, turning away as if this conversation doesn’t even merit his time. Which it doesn’t. Merlin isn’t going anywhere, and that’s that. “Merlin, hurry up, you’re needed in the armoury.”
“He can’t send someone else. Only me,” Merlin blurts out before Arthur makes it halfway back to the door.
Arthur shoots a skeptical look in Gaius’ direction, but the old man says nothing to counter Merlin’s words. Arthur turns back to face Merlin fully, folding his arms over his chest.
“Is that so.”
Merlin nods firmly. “The forex flower. Very rare. Only grows on the slopes of the Northern Mountains, on the western side, and only effective if it’s culled during the first snow of the winter.”
Arthur lifts an eyebrow at Merlin’s defensive tone. “And you’re the only one who can pick it.”
“I’m the only one who’s trained in how to find, identify and cull it, yes,” Merlin says, drawing himself up. “Training someone else would take too long; we’d miss the harvesting window.”
Arthur looks to Gaius again. “Just what value is this plant to Camelot?” He thinks of his father, of course—he has faith that Gaius has tried everything he can to heal Uther, but there’s still a stubborn little spark in him that refuses to believe that his father’s mind is weakened, gone; surely this is a malady that can be cured by one of Gaius’ seemingly miraculous remedies.
“It is known for its effectiveness in fighting off the worst symptoms of wet lung fever, Your Highness,” Gaius says at length. “Which we’ve heard caused a fatal epidemic in King Olaf’s kingdom last winter. It’s not unheard of for such an illness to be borne along trading routes. If Merlin can obtain this flower, then we may well be able to save many lives this winter.”
Gaius’ gaze is fixed on Arthur, and Merlin’s is too; they’re both watching him keenly. Arthur feels an unpleasant twist of resentment. He wants to petulantly deny them, demand that Merlin stay, but if Gaius’ fears are founded then there is far more at stake here than making sure Arthur has someone to entertain him after a difficult day.
“You intend to travel alone?” he asks Merlin, skeptical. “To the Northern Mountains. In the snow.”
Merlin’s gaze is shifty; it darts from Arthur to Gaius to the door, and then back to Arthur. “If it’s that dangerous, I thought maybe I could take someone with me. Perhaps Lancelot, or Gwaine—”
“No, that won’t do at all,” Arthur cuts him off abruptly, and then begins to pace; he hadn’t meant to speak so quickly, so he distracts them from it with the purposeful movement. “Lancelot is needed here, and Gwaine is the reason he’s needed here—no, he certainly couldn’t be trusted on such an important mission.” Merlin doesn’t say anything, just watches as Arthur strides and blusters. “No, there’s nothing else for it.” Arthur stops in front of Merlin again. “You can’t be expected to undertake such an important mission on your own, Merlin; you’d be a block of ice on a hillside and half of Camelot dead in their beds. No, the only option is for me to accompany you.”
Merlin’s mouth twitches, and as expected, his expression turns put-upon. “There’s no discouraging me,” he declares before Merlin can even open his mouth. “Pack my bags and ready the horses.” And he jogs out of the room before Merlin or Gaius can say another word.
*
Arthur doesn’t exactly relish leaving the contained warmth of the castle for such an extended, boring mission—one not even dangerous enough to merit him wearing armour—and especially not right when the year is waning into winter. Even so, it’s not just because he’s wearing ordinary riding clothes that Arthur feels lighter and lighter with each mile they ride out of Camelot. He pushes aside the guilt of that by critiquing aloud how long it took Merlin to prepare his things, the poor form of his seat in the saddle and just how disappointed Arthur is to be leaving the autumn kitchen fare for Merlin’s fireside cooking.
“Admit it, Arthur,” Merlin says in response to the last, his tone implying that Arthur’s rambling criticisms have affected him not a whit. “If you had your way, you’d be eating my rabbit and bean stew for every meal.”
“Your rabbit,” Arthur scoffs after a moment, recovering badly.
Merlin glances over at him, his expression almost pitying. “Oh, because I suppose that the palatability of the rabbit is entirely dependent on who kills it, and has nothing to do with who dresses and cooks it.”
“You know, it’s the strangest thing, Merlin,” Arthur says, his tone wondering. “Sometimes you say things that almost seem to make sense.”
Merlin laughs and nudges his heels into his horse’s sides, speeding up to a trot that takes him past Arthur—almost as if he thinks this is his quest and Arthur should be merely trailing after him. Which is so utterly ridiculous that Arthur doesn’t know how to begin to address it, except by spurring his own mount to an even quicker pace. He stands up in the stirrups and glides neatly past Merlin’s terribly jolty clip, allowing himself a grin as the wind smoothes over his face and Merlin makes a choked sound of indignation behind him.
Then Merlin’s horse snorts and canters past, and Arthur crouches lower in the saddle and kicks after him, and they race their way into the forest.
Ordinarily Arthur would be reluctant to run the horses unless strictly necessary, but the days are short at this time of year, restricting their daily travel time, and it’s not exactly a perilous mission. Racing Merlin on and off throughout the brief afternoon is perfectly reasonable when they’re in no danger of needing to run for their lives.
It’s also reason enough to settle down to camp early: they might as well give the mounts as much rest as possible for the next few leisurely days of riding, and give Merlin opportunity to set up camp while it’s still well light.
They settle in the forest—they’ve nearly ridden all the way through it, but there’s no telling if it’ll rain or not, and it’s easier to string up oilcloths amidst the trees than out in the open—and Merlin spends some time clearing a space in the thick carpet of fallen leaves, exposing the rich, damp soil below to build a fire into. His hands are stained dark from the earth by the time he rocks back onto his heels, and he leaves a smear of it on his forehead when he ineptly wipes the back of his hand across his brow.
Arthur finishes tying off the oilcloth and approaches. “Firewood, Merlin, before it gets too dark to see any,” he instructs, using his foot to nudge closer one of the stones that Merlin had picked up as they wandered on foot to find the best place to camp. “I’ll finish here.”
It’s getting darker quickly: the sky is dimming beneath a low, fleecy blanket of grey cloud. By the time Arthur looks up from setting the stones into the fire pit, the gaps between the dark, bare trees are softened by the white haze of a rising mist. The air feels damp on Arthur’s face, his neck already uncomfortably clammy with it, and he quickly hauls their packs and their saddles under the canopy of the oilcloth. When the damp turns to a cold wet prickle against his cheeks, he hurriedly unties the knots he just secured, rearranging the canopy into a tent—if it’s going to be heavy fog instead of outright rain, then the wet will be coming from all sides. A tent might be crowded, but it’ll protect them from the worst of it.
When Merlin returns with an armful of wood, his head is bowed and hair bedraggled; he shoots Arthur an unhappy look as he kneels down before the fire pit. The light has faded enough in the time that he’s been gone that Arthur can’t even tell from looking at it whether the wood is dry or not.
“Is that not too wet to light?” Arthur asks as Merlin begins to methodically lay the fire.
Merlin shrugs without looking up. “Dry enough,” he says, and leans right down, cupping his hands with the flint into the bed of tinder and bowing his upper body over to shelter it. His head’s so low it looks like he’s telling the wood a secret, and Arthur huffs out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding as the tinder flickers alight. Merlin whips his hands out of the way with a hiss, shooting a wary look up at Arthur as if he expects to be reprimanded for it.
“Food, Merlin,” Arthur reminds him; the fire is sending merry tongues of flame up around the wood Merlin gathered, but there’s no telling how long it’ll last against the increasing volume of water in the air. “Hurry up.”
“Thought you didn’t care for my cooking,” Merlin says, rising to his feet and going to dig for his pack inside the tent; instead of crawling into it he crouches over awkwardly, arse in the air.
Arthur waits until Merlin has come back to the fire with the cooking pot before answering. “If it’s a choice between your stew and starving…”
Merlin snorts and shakes his head, not looking up from his work. The dark is seeping in more rapidly, now, and Merlin squints and leans in closer to the fire to see properly as he adeptly chops a couple of potatoes with what seems to be an alarmingly sharp knife. Arthur watches for a moment until he can’t stand the dread of expecting Merlin to slice one of his fingers off, then goes to see to the horses.
By the time the fog has turned into definite drizzle the fire is clearly losing its battle against it; Merlin’s expression is grim as he nurses the meal, stirring the pot and poking at the coals constantly. His damp hair is plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck, and he looks even paler than usual.
“Come on,” Arthur says decisively. “I’m sure it’s hot enough to eat.” He digs into Merlin’s pack for their bowls, then thrusts them under Merlin’s nose; Merlin doesn’t respond with a scowl but a sigh, his shoulders drooping.
Luckily Arthur had got the tent up early enough that the ground underneath it is merely damp rather than sodden; they sit on their wrapped bedrolls to eat, perched just inside the opening so they can catch the last of the light. The stew is warm enough, but the pulses are gritty and the chunks of potato still a little crunchy. Arthur doesn’t comment on it, and Merlin is silent beside him; they both stare out into the gloomy twilight as they eat. The dwindling fire starts to hiss as if issuing a final complaint, and steam rises faintly from the dying coals, immediately merging with the solid-looking fog.
Once they’ve eaten they hurry to arrange the tent, racing the nightfall. With the saddles needing shelter as well, it’s very close quarters, so their bedrolls end up flush against each other. Arthur supposes that’s for the best anyway—the damp air is decidedly chilly, and when he shrugs off the heavy wool-and-fur of his cloak and tugs off his gloves with his teeth, the cold rushes in to bite at him.
He can’t help but make incidental contact with Merlin, both of them moving around in such a small space. When the back of Arthur’s hand brushes Merlin’s arm, he realises something is odd. He grabs a fistful of Merlin’s sleeve to confirm, and finds that it is, indeed, soaked through. Merlin makes an indignant noise, but he’s shivering. Clearly his jacket is not as good at fending off moisture as Arthur’s cloak.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, scolding. “Is there a reason you’re still wearing wet clothes? Don’t tell me you didn’t bring any more.”
“Of course I brought more clothes,” Merlin says indignantly. He tugs himself free, and refuses to look at Arthur as he continues in a mumble, “I’m wearing them.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Right, well, get out of them.”
Merlin whips his head around to stare. “What? I’ll freeze!”
“You certainly will if you stay in them, wet as they are.”
“I’ll get under the blankets.”
“And soak them too? And how do you think they’ll dry being rolled up all day tomorrow?” Arthur throws his hands up, exasperated. “Honestly, Merlin, have you no survival instincts at all?”
Merlin crawls away from him then sits at the end of his bedroll, hunching over to pull off his boots.
“Merlin,” Arthur says.
Merlin ignores him, not even turning around.
“Merlin.” When Merlin still doesn’t respond, Arthur huffs and crawls towards him. Merlin doesn’t even have a chance to take his second boot off before Arthur’s grabbing handfuls of his shirt and yanking it up out of his belt. Taken by surprise, Merlin just squawks and flails; the abruptness of it makes him lose his balance, but Arthur’s still determinedly pulling the shirt off so Merlin doesn’t have the freedom of movement to brace himself. Instead, he falls onto his back, making it much easier for Arthur to keep pulling the shirt up and over his head.
“What—!” Merlin splutters, still throwing his limbs about ineffectually. “You—stop it!”
The second shirt is nearly as soaked as the first, and Merlin’s skin under it is icy against Arthur’s glove-warmed hands. Merlin finally gets himself together enough to fight back when the shirt is halfway over his head; Arthur backs out of the way of his kicking legs. He has to wait until Merlin’s promised to calm down before he can move back in to help, and with a few strategic tugs, Arthur frees him from the predicament of having his arms stuck in the air and face wrapped in wet cloth.
Bare-chested, Merlin finally manages to sit up, scooting backwards and away from Arthur, watching him with profound distrust. Arthur watches him right back, working hard to keep his expression unmoved instead of showing the amusement he’s feeling. When Merlin gives a violent shiver, Arthur looks pointedly at his sodden trousers.
And that causes the scandalised expression that Arthur is becoming so fond of; it’s even harder work not to laugh in delight. When Arthur kneels up as if to shuffle towards him, Merlin yelps, “All right, all right!” and begins fumbling with his laces.
Arthur sits back to watch, luxuriating in his victory, taking Merlin’s every indignant huff and mutter as the spoils he deserves.
Of course, it’s only when Merlin’s managed to shuck his trousers down to his ankles that he realises he’s still got one of his boots on, and this results in a exclaimed curse and further fighting of wet cloth as he hunches over to wrestle it off.
His bare back is startlingly white in the near-dark of the tent, and Arthur thinks that bending over that awkwardly shouldn’t result in such a graceful curve. With all of Merlin’s lively griping, Arthur feels as if Merlin’s skin should be warm with the heat of his irritation, but when he reaches out to run his hand down the arc of Merlin’s spine it’s to find he’s just as clammy-cold as before.
Merlin jolts at the touch, and Arthur jolts an instant later, heart in his throat, his thoughts catching up with his actions moments too late. But he can’t withdraw; the unspoken rules of their play forbid it.
Merlin, paused in his boot-wrestling, looks over his shoulder at Arthur. His expression is more curious than affronted, though there’s still an overt wariness to it. Arthur, at a loss for words, just looks back at him. He doesn’t know what to do with his hand—motionless now on Merlin’s back. He wants to move it: he nearly twitches with the unwonted urge to explore the cool, smooth expanse of Merlin's skin.
“Are you planning on skinning me as well?” Merlin asks after another moment. His tone is unflustered—if a little hoarse.
Arthur can finally move; he smacks his hand down on Merlin’s back with a little more force than a friendly pat merits. Merlin cringes away from it and it shakes the weighted look from his features, replacing it with more familiar disgruntlement. Arthur’s sure that the fluttering lightness in his own belly is entirely relief.
“Only if you don’t hurry up and get into bed,” he says, at last withdrawing and busying himself with taking his own boots off. Once that’s done, he kneels up to tie the opening of the tent closed, and when he turns back around Merlin’s finally managed to get himself into his bedroll. In the dark, Arthur can just make out the curled-up lump of him beneath the heavy blankets, damp clothes draped over the saddles at his head.
Arthur crawls into his own blankets. His own extremities feel numb from the cold now, and while the enclosed space of the tent will warm up with their combined breath and body heat in an hour or two, even fully clothed he finds himself shivering a little.
As soon as he stills, he can hear Merlin’s stuttering breath, and though Arthur can’t see past his own nose, they’re close enough that he can feel Merlin shuddering beside him.
Arthur sighs, refusing to feel guilty. Merlin certainly would wind up colder sleeping in wet clothes than getting under his blankets dry. Still, Arthur extracts his arms from the cocoon of his blankets long enough to throw his heavy cloak over the top of Merlin’s blankets—though, on second thought, it’s big enough to cover two men, so Arthur wriggles a little closer and drapes it over both of them.
Merlin doesn’t comment, though he does roll over to face Arthur and squirm closer. In the dark, Arthur doesn’t realise just how close he is until Merlin’s icy nose brushes against his cheek. Arthur untucks his hand again and brings it up to cup experimentally over Merlin’s ear. Merlin’s noisy breathing halts for a brief moment. As expected, that ridiculous protuberance is colder even than his nose was, and his wet hair is practically frozen.
Merlin sniffles pathetically and Arthur sighs, tugging the cloak up higher. The fur collar glides sleekly over their faces until Arthur tucks it above their heads. The enclosed pocket of air soon warms, and sleep comes to Arthur like waves drifting back and forth in a rising tide, washing in at the same pace of Merlin’s easing shivers.
*
Part 2
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Date: 2012-07-09 10:13 pm (UTC)http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c6M_6qOz-yw