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It was really all Sir Wynston's fault.
*
"What sort of name is Wynston anyway?" Arthur looked at Merlin consideringly. "He isn't from your village, is he?"
"No," said Merlin, plucking fitfully at the seams of the shirt in his hands. "There's no one of noble blood in my village."
Arthur sighed, quietly but with as much of his body as he could manage. It was one thing to have the worst manservant in the history of Camelot, it was quite another when that servant failed to appreciate a finely-crafted jest. If he didn't know better, Arthur would suspect that the people of Merlin's village had asked him to leave on account of being rubbish at absolutely everything — but Arthur had been to Ealdor of late and Merlin's mother, at least, seemed to like Merlin quite a bit.
"I should like you to attend Sir Wynston," Arthur said, watching Merlin's pale hands. He was going to ruin that shirt, and it was Arthur's fourth-favourite red one.
That made Merlin raise his head at last. "Wynston?"
"Sir," reproved Arthur.
"Sir?" Merlin repeated doubtfully.
"Wynston."
Merlin gazed at Arthur with stupidly large eyes. "What?"
"Merlin. Do you remember the part where you are my manservant and must do my bidding?"
"I think so," Merlin said. There was a curve to his mouth which suggested insolence.
"Well," continued Arthur, "my bidding is that you attend Sir Wynston, preferably today, preferably at once."
"Why should you want me to do that?"
Arthur rolled on to his back and stared at the canopy in consternation. "You should not question the crown prince." He rolled off the bed and pulled the shirt from Merlin. The stitching along one seam had come loose and it gaped like an old wound. There were darker patches on the material where the sun had not been able to reach.
"Mend this," Arthur ordered, passing it back. "And go and see if Wynston wants you for anything."
"Sir Wynston," Merlin corrected, and ducked out of the room when Arthur launched a bread crust in his general direction.
*
On the morning of Wynston's final challenge, Arthur had found him talking to Merlin. They looked a pair, standing over by the pavilion; Wynston was tall and dark, his skin almost as fair as Morgana's. And although he had claimed he wished to emulate the most noble crown prince, there were no similarities that Arthur could see. In fact, Wynston was nothing like Arthur at all.
"Merlin," Arthur said later. "Please tell me he isn't another commoner in disguise."
"How should I know?" Merlin said.
"You were talking to him," Arthur pointed out, adjusting one of his vambraces. Wynston had knocked it, a happy accident.
"He came over to talk to me," Merlin said. "I don't know anything about him."
"Hmm," said Arthur.
After that business with Lancelot, Arthur made sure the court archivist checked the veracity of anyone putting themselves forward to be a Knight of Camelot. Wynston apparently really was a third son of Sir Harald of East Anglia, although at the time Arthur had thought his fine birth would come to naught — the man had looked too delicate to withstand proper combat. Wynston's shoulders were broad but they were thin, like his arms and legs and neck. Perhaps he had been a fighter of note in East Anglia, but Camelot had different standards. Camelot had Arthur.
And Arthur, who had learned his lesson when it came to trusting aspiring knights, had Merlin, who would observe Wynston closely and report back. Granted it was like setting a chicken to watch a fox, but at least Merlin wouldn't lie to Arthur if he found anything of interest.
("What am I looking for?" Merlin had asked when he brought back the shirt, perfectly mended. He must have taken it to Guinevere.
"You are not looking for anything. But if something should happen to catch your eye, say, an enchanted shield or a box of beetles —"
"You think he might be a sorcerer?"
"No," Arthur said with what he felt was great patience, especially when Merlin was staring at him like that. "I think he is a son of a noble house and deserves your every courtesy. And careful attention.")
It wasn't that he had any particular reason to distrust Wynston. He had passed Arthur's challenges and been accepted as a knight. He seemed honourable and skilled with a blade, and certainly he was eager. And yet there it was, clear as day and just as undeniable: Arthur did not trust him.
*
The day was tending towards dusk when Merlin finally returned, hurrying up to him in the hallway outside Arthur's chambers.
Arthur peered at Merlin closely as they went inside — he was looking strangely untidy. His hair was even more disordered than usual, his cheeks were flushed pink, and his clothes —
Dropping his sword on the table, Arthur folded his arms and stared. "Merlin."
"Yes?"
"What have you been doing?"
"Uh, tending to Sir Wynston?" Merlin said. His kerchief was askew and he hadn't bothered to fix it. Arthur continued to stare; he felt as though he could do nothing else.
"I don't think he's a sorcerer," Merlin added helpfully.
"Just ordinary then, was he?" Arthur snapped. He was — there were things that were just not done, Arthur thought, and he was the prince, his manservant needed to be above reproach. And he had always disliked servants getting above their station, it only led to trouble in the court and — he was very, very angry.
"Same as everyone else, probably," Merlin said, seeming pleased with himself. "Well, same as other nobles of course. Not servants."
Arthur's jaw was beginning to hurt where his teeth were clenching together.
"I thought you'd be pleased," Merlin said warily.
It seemed too much, suddenly, to say he was not pleased. "I want a bath," Arthur said instead. "Arrange it."
By the time Merlin came back, dragging the tub near to the fire and dismissing the servants who had brought up the water, Arthur's surge of temper had fractured into something less certain.
He stood quietly as Merlin undressed him; as Merlin's nimble fingers unbuckled the clasps of his vest, Arthur reached out and tugged the skewed kerchief back into place.
Merlin smiled at him sheepishly. "Fell asleep in the field," he said.
"The field?"
"When I was spying — watching Wynston practice." Merlin slipped around behind him to tug Arthur's vest free. "Sorry," he said. "I kept an eye on him most of the time."
Arthur remembered, then, how he had walked down to the town earlier that afternoon: how nice the weather had been, the hazy scent of early summer spreading into every corner of the castle. He pictured Merlin dozing in the balmy air and the new grass, waking up rumpled and warm.
"It was a pleasant afternoon," he replied at last. "I should have liked a nap myself."
The rest of his clothing came off efficiently, and Arthur lowered himself into the water feeling as though he were washing clean a long day.
*
It soon became clear to Arthur that he needn't have worried about Wynston putting his hands on Merlin. Wynston's tastes apparently ran in a far more elite direction, and Arthur, who recognised at once the gleam of interest in Wynston's eye, could not really blame him. This sort of thing happened a lot.
Wynston was very proper about it: he said nothing untoward and showed Arthur every respect. Arthur was prepared to keep on ignoring the silent offers being sent his way until one morning by the stables, when Wynston touched him.
Arthur looked at the hand on his forearm in some shock: this was not proper. This was, in fact, bordering on insult.
Heat flared abruptly, and he pulled his arm away. He jerked his head to indicate Wynston should follow as he stalked to the back of the building, a little away from the thoroughfare where they would not be disturbed by anything other than passing rats. Then he backed Wynston against the wall and shoved a hand down Wynston's trousers.
Arthur got it over with quickly; it was only a mutually satisfying arrangement and nothing that needed any thought. Afterwards, when they were both still dazed and breathing heavily, he allowed himself to take what he really wanted, leaning into Wynston's body until his field of vision narrowed and all he could see was a high, flushed cheek and dark hair, cropped short over the curve of a pale ear.
*
Near midday Arthur stopped at the rooms held by Gaius. Merlin let Arthur in and then he and Gaius stood back and looked at him with matching expressions, oddly innocent. Arthur suspected that they practiced it when he wasn't around.
"Gaius," Arthur said, by way of greeting.
"Sire," Gaius replied.
"Merlin," Arthur added.
"What are you doing here?" Merlin said curiously, and Arthur exchanged an exasperated look with Gaius. Really, the worst manservant the kingdom had ever produced.
"I had a strange thought I might eat luncheon," Arther replied. "If that accords with your schedule, your highness."
Merlin sighed in a long-suffering manner—which was clearly ridiculous — but he followed Arthur back to his chambers and then went to fetch food from the kitchens.
"What's that on your jaw?" Merlin asked just as Arthur forked a large piece of pork into his mouth.
"What's on my jaw?" Arthur asked, though perhaps the pork got in the way because it sounded more like "Whosomuhaw?"
Merlin seemed a little revolted.
"It's red," he replied. "Like a bite. Or a bruise."
Arthur scraped some pieces of meat around the dish.
"Does it hurt?"
"Yes, Merlin," Arthur said. "I am in terrible pain. Perhaps you should go away so I might expire in peace."
"I don't think I can; the king would banish me," Merlin said, and started haphazardly folding some of the clothes lying on the floor.
"And you'd rather stay in Camelot than give me a moment's peace," Arthur returned, pushing away his empty plate with an approaching sense of contentment.
"Definitely," Merlin said.
*
"Merlin," Arthur began as they trod carefully through the wood. He had been preparing this little speech for the best part of the day and as a result, it had been a poor hunt: they had caught nothing at all. It would have been shameful if Arthur had not been too busy to think about it. "You do know that if a noble, if someone, wants you to do something you do not wish to do, you may refuse."
Aloud, in the cool air of the wood, that sentence did not sound as clear and commanding as it had in Arthur's head.
"Does that mean I can refuse to wash your disgusting socks?" Merlin said over his shoulder.
Arthur glared. "Your disgusting socks, sire."
Sometimes when they went hunting, just the two of them, it almost seemed as though Merlin were listening to the trees more than Arthur. He kept tilting his head slightly and gazing into the deep green shadows, like an oddly elusive bird.
"What I mean is," Arthur continued, hoisting his crossbow out of the way of a persistent fern, "if, suppose, someone of a higher rank than you wanted you to do something of, say, a personal nature, and you did not wish to —"
Merlin had turned around to face him now and was looking at him with an unusual patience.
"I'm not talking about following orders, of course. But should you find yourself in a position which, that is, was personal, you see —"
Arthur cleared his throat. This was dreadful. It was all falling to pieces. He wished abruptly for a stag to jump out at them, or a deadly beast of some kind, but there was only Merlin, who was still listening and for once not smirking, not saying anything at all.
He tried again. "If someone wanted you — something from you — you would not have to give it to them, even if you thought it would make them grateful or — or happy."
"Is this about Sir Wynston?" Merlin said after a moment.
"I speak of general matters," Arthur said.
Merlin adjusted the pack on his shoulders. "Because I thought you and he —"
"No," Arthur said swiftly.
Merlin quirked an eyebrow at him. There was always the faintest strangeness in his face, something in the line of his bones and the curve of his eyes; there were times where Arthur couldn't tell what he was thinking or feeling in the smallest part.
"Though even a crown prince of Camelot may make an impatient decision," Arthur allowed. "Once. He would not make it twice."
"I'll keep that in mind, sire," Merlin said.
*
Several days after the latest terrible escapade involving magic and threats to the kingdom, Uther proposed a feast to celebrate. The court reacted to this with the fervour only fear could produce, and so spirits were high, if somewhat uncomfortable.
Arthur was dealing with it by enjoying the most excellent wine which Guinevere — dear Guinevere — kept pouring into his goblet at his request. The noblewoman on his left ("Lady Something" he had decided to call her), was laughing into his shoulder at anything he said, even when he told her apologetically that she rather smelt like goats. Morgana, sober and sharp-eyed on his right, delivered withering looks every time Arthur opened his mouth. Uther had already gone to bed.
And somewhere down the long side table Sir Wynston was ensconced in a passel of knights and was staring at — Arthur slowly followed his line of sight — Arthur's very own manservant. He had been right after all: Wynston wanted Merlin.
"Oh ho! That is just the outside of enough," he declared. Lady Something snorted and Morgana stood up.
"If you've not got anything coherent to say, my lord," she said lightly, "perhaps you should be in your bed. I am certainly retiring to mine."
Arthur had several cutting things to say to this, but Wynston was still watching — nay, leering — at Merlin and that took precedence. Presumptuous knights were not permitted to go laying hands on any of Arthur's things. He was the crown prince! Heir to the throne! And a righteously noble protector of the weak and insolent, which clearly described Merlin. Arthur knew his duty.
"If I had a gauntlet," he confided to Gwen, who was placing a jug of wine alarmingly far down the table, "I should issue a challenge here and now."
"Perhaps there is one in your chambers, my lord," Gwen suggested. "You could look for it."
Arthur pointed a finger at her in agreement and got gracefully to his feet. The table wobbled unexpectedly.
He made his way down from the head of the room. Gwen watched him go with what was obviously reverence; how Morgana had managed to find such a nice maidservant was a very great mystery. And they seemed to so like one another, as if like had any place in a relationship of service.
"Merlin," Arthur said, reaching out to grasp a lean elbow. It felt good and familiar in his hand; inside he felt the warm glow of success. He paused to give a very speaking look to Sir Wynston — there was no need to make a scene before he very properly taught him a lesson — and said, "My bedchambers."
"Erm," said Merlin. "What about them? Sire."
"I need something from them. You shall help me find it."
It was extremely loud within the hall, with many of the court still carousing. Arthur was pleased to leave it for the cool, dark corridors beyond. Merlin's fingers were dry where they rested on Arthur's hand, still curled around Merlin's elbow.
"This way," Merlin kept saying, as though Arthur were a recalcitrant hound. "I thought you said royalty did not drink themselves into their cups."
"Sir Wynston is a very poor bedmate," Arthur responded.
"And this made you drink far too much wine?" Merlin was using that voice of his, the one that meant he was laughing without showing it.
"I am just warning you." Arthur jabbed at Merlin's ribs. "Poor. Abysmal."
They'd reached his chambers very quickly, and Arthur sank down onto his lovely, lovely bed.
"Well, that will teach you to go trysting with one of your knights, I expect," Merlin was saying, as though he knew anything about trysting or having knights or, indeed, anything at all. He was tugging on Arthur's boots, and Arthur suddenly remembered his mission.
"Merlin," he enunciated carefully, for Princes did not mumble. "Fetch me my gauntlet. I shall teach that lecherous cur a lesson."
"Don't you think it's best you do that in the morning? I think he's already gone to his rooms."
Arthur thought this over; it did seem to make sense. How rare for Merlin to make sense! But then Arthur had discovered Merlin could be very surprising.
"Don't go," he said then. It did not quite sound like an order.
"I'm not sleeping on the floor," Merlin's voice drifted back to him.
"Wynston's rooms," Arthur clarified.
"Prefer my own bed," said Merlin, and then he closed the door, and the quiet drew Arthur down to sleep.
*
The following morning Arthur was so appalled at himself — at his hazy recollections of the evening — that he got up and dressed for training without lingering in his bed or calling for breakfast.
Fortunately, it still being dim outside, the rest of the castle's inhabitants were blessedly sparse. He had no audience save for a few servants and a sleepy guard as he dragged his feet through the basic stances of sword combat.
Later, when he was waiting for his horse to be saddled so that he might ride out across the isolated fields to the east, Morgana arrived, dismounting from her horse and surveying him critically.
"I hardly expected to see you before nightfall," she said, drawing a gloved hand softly over the horse's nose.
"How happy I am to surprise you," Arthur replied.
"I do feel sorry for Merlin."
This, Arthur felt, was both preposterous and confusing. "Feel sorry for your own servant," he said. "Or rather, don't. If you had any sense of discipline —"
"Discipline!" Morgana exclaimed.
"Discipline," Arthur continued, "you would take Guinevere in hand."
He was about to go on with his explanation of why, with a few side remarks on the proper maintenance of the master-servant relationship, but Morgana only smiled at him sharply and swept away on a river of green velvet.
Her remark, however, lingered on, nibbling away at his concentration as he made his way across the fields and all the way back to the battlements, where he stood, at last, to take in the sight of Camelot below, busy and sprawling, gilded by sunlight. Granted, he thought, a servant's life was perhaps not always an easy one. But then no life was easy, even when it was strengthened by wealth and position, by power. Responsibility carried a heavy weight. And Merlin had food, lodgings, a highly-desirable position in the court and certainly enough clothes to make a mess with, going by the state of his room. To look at Merlin, to be around him, was not to see dissatisfaction or unhappiness. Arthur thought he would know, if that were true.
"S'cold up here," said Merlin, appearing at his shoulder. Arthur sighed.
"Let's go inside," he said. "And I hope you made a fire in my chambers."
*
"So does this mean Wynston is safe from your wrath?" Merlin asked him, his eyes bright.
"Shut up," said Arthur.
*
"Jousting," Uther declared as midsummer approached, wet and warm, the orchards ripening. "Followed by a feast to celebrate the tournament and honour the victor." He looked over at Arthur as he spoke.
It so happened that jousting was not a skill beloved by Arthur, who preferred the honest quarters of sword and shield, but he did not let that stop him from being the best in the kingdom. It was not a matter of pride, but necessity.
A weak king took his first steps as a baby, Uther would say.
*
Arthur watched the initial rounds of the tilting with a keen eye.
Wood splintered with a crack as Sir Edgar landed a heavy blow against Sir Dougal, forcing Dougal to heave sideways and drop to the ground. The crowd cheered loudly. Edgar pulled up and made a small bow to the throne, looking pleased with himself and pleased, too, with the weight of Morgana's eyes upon him — Arthur raised a sardonic eyebrow in her direction. Every second knight fancied himself to be under the special gaze of the Lady Morgana at these events. They never guessed that she wanted to be out there with them, with a lance and a horse, the churned mud.
Some people, he mused, simply did not know when they were making fools of themselves, all for the sake of a bit of pointless romance.
He left the field as the squires ran in to help their masters, almost at once spotting the thing he was searching for. Merlin was holding the bridle of a very nervous stallion, seemingly trying to calm it as it threw its head and skittered sideways.
"It's alright," Arthur could just hear him saying as he approached.
But the horse jerked fitfully and Merlin was knocked back into the mud with a loud squelch. Arthur strode over as the onlookers laughed; he gripped Merlin's thin arms tightly.
"You are the most clumsy manservant I have ever had the misfortune to know," he declared once Merlin was standing upright.
Merlin shook out his hands and sleeves. "It's because I try so hard to please you, sire," he said piously, bits of mud falling off his tunic.
"There, now," came a voice from somewhere on the right. Arthur recognised it as Sir Wynston. "You cannot fault the boy for striving to win your favour, my lord," he continued, his voice full of good humour. Clearly, Wynston was afflicted in some way and could not see the wicked expression on Merlin's face.
"I could have you flogged," Arthur murmured, low enough for only Merlin to catch.
"Flog a lowly servant for trying to win your favour?" Merlin mused. "That seems harsh."
"As if you have ever had an interest in my favour," Arthur scoffed.
Merlin's eyebrows lifted a little. Arthur glanced away, felt immediately foolish and looked back again.
"Clean yourself and prepare my horse," he ordered. "And mind you do a better job than that."
"Forgive me, sire," Wynston said as Merlin disappeared into the bright swathe of pavilions, muddy and unbowed. "My steed can be unpredictable, and I asked your servant to assist me. He is very good, very careful at his work."
"Hmm," said Arthur and inclined his head, a non-committal response he had learned from his father.
"And where did you find him?" Wynston asked, resting a lazy hand upon his belt.
"He travelled here from afar," Arthur said after a moment's consideration, remembering that grinding his teeth would only cause an ache in his head.
*
It was a near thing, in the end. Arthur took a glancing blow to the shoulder even as he knocked his final opponent to the ground. It throbbed harshly as he threw down his broken lance and raised one hand, victorious, to the roaring crowd.
His father nodded at him in satisfaction, a small smile passing over his lips, and Arthur felt it had been a good day. Not so bad as he had feared.
This time the feast was wreathed in warmth and good cheer. Arthur folded an arm in with Morgana's and escorted her to the Great Table. The food was rich, the buffets laden with summer fruits and fresh-cooked meats, pies and sweet pastries and cheese, and after the last course had been cleared and more wine brought in, the courtiers and guests turned their attention to talking and squabbling with one another, the knights telling tall stories to anyone who would listen.
Arthur argued lazily with Morgana and jested with some of his men, idly passing the time until he could leave and find some rest. Now and then Merlin would catch his eye and Arthur would have to fight down the urge to make a stupid face; Merlin had that way about him, he made people feel as though they were sharing some private amusement, just the two of them.
At last he fell into an interesting conversation with Sir Wynston about the defensive tactics used in East Anglia.
"I had wondered, my lord," Wynston added, "if I might beg your servant's assistance with my armour. The smith in the town is new, I hear, and I am not sure the problem is so drastic as that. It would take only an hour or two."
"I am not in the habit of sharing my servants," Arthur replied.
"Indeed not, sire," Wynston agreed. "And in the ordinary way I should not ask, yet I have had difficulties finding one to take the appropriate care and your man does his work well." Wynston smiled at him, dark-eyed, honest and handsome. "I should consider it an honour, my lord."
"I'm afraid that will be impossible," Arthur said, in a tone of voice he hoped conveyed regal aloofness as well as the swift journey to the dungeons he could deliver to Wynston, should he choose it. "I require Merlin's services this evening." He took a drink from his cup; the wine was sweet and heavy on his tongue. "All evening," he added.
A certain understanding swept over Wynston's face and Arthur raised his cup again, attempting to block out the sight.
*
The light through the windows was grey and speaking of rain when Arthur woke. He lay still for a time, testing the soreness in his shoulder and going over the previous day: Wynston, he thought darkly. He remained there indulging vague thoughts of violence until Merlin arrived, not bothering to knock and carrying a tray of food.
Arthur rose and stripped off his nightshirt, dipping his hands into the cool water of his basin. He drew wet hands across his face, his tired eyes and neck and then swiped away the drops as they ran to his chest.
Merlin was looking a little pink when Arthur turned and reached for the clothes that had been laid out on his bed.
"How many times do I have to tell you not to stand so close to the fire?" Arthur said.
"I've never heard you say that," Merlin replied, but he shifted away to tap his fingertips on the table and follow the whorls of the wood grain with quiet concentration.
"What news from the castle?" Arthur asked after he had pulled up his breeches.
Merlin's expression grew mischievous. "Someone spent four hours in the stocks yesterday and it wasn't me."
"That is news." Arthur looked up and a fleeting smile passed between them.
"And I heard from Mairwen —"
"Who is Mairwen?" Arthur interrupted.
"She cleans your father's chambers," Merlin said censoriously, as though this were obvious. Arthur shrugged and fastened his laces.
"Well, Gaius says it's true, anyway: Lady Ardith is with child, although I don't know that I'm supposed to tell you."
Arthur snorted. "I'm sure the lady and her husband's squire are very happy to have the good news."
"Her husband's squire?"
Arthur raised a brow at him and Merlin looked faintly scandalised.
"What's the matter, Merlin," Arthur said bracingly, "don't you know how it is with the nobility? Some of them keep their squires very close."
"Yes," said Merlin immediately. "Well, no. You don't even have a squire."
"No, I have a manservant."
Merlin stared.
"Not like that," Arthur returned. "Obviously." He coughed and sat down to pull on his boots. "I didn't mean to shock you."
"You didn't," Merlin said. "I know all about country matters."
Arthur fumbled his boot and had to begin again. "And I thought you so innocent," he said.
"When you live in a village with animals right outside your door —"
"Ah. Yes, well, people do things a bit differently to animals, Merlin," Arthur said dryly, his heart skipping in an odd counterpoint to the conversation. "Sometimes."
He glanced up to see if Merlin was embarrassed but there was no sign of anything but that familiar tint of amusement. Did nothing frighten him?
"I once knew a squire who thought animals had it the right way," he went on teasing, sharply dissatisfied with amusement and wanting something else. "He had a notion that you should do one thing and do it well."
Merlin reacted as though princes divulged shockingly intimate details all the time. His mouth quirked with what could have been indifference, although his cheeks were flush with colour as he turned away to set out the breakfast dishes.
"There's soup for breakfast," he said amid the soft clanging of the plates. "And some bread and salted beef, ale, and fresh plums."
"Good," said Arthur, feeling famished.
*
There were many idiots in the world, Arthur decided. One of them was Sir Dougal, who had arrived at the training fields insisting his jousting injury did not bother him and then proceeded to vomit all over Sir Edmund's boots. Arthur still felt a little ill at the memory as he looked down onto the courtyard. He rolled his shoulder carefully, pushing at his own, slight injury with his fingers; it formed a dull ache. Beyond the window flitted small birds in lean colours of grey and brown, and he watched them idly as he tried to rub heat into the muscle.
He was interrupted when the door flew open and Merlin rushed in, furious or excited or simply late: it was difficult to tell.
"Did you suggest to Wynston that I was — that we — I'm not your bed-warmer!" Merlin shouted. Oh. Furious, then.
"Did I suggest you weren't my bed-warmer?" Arthur repeated scathingly, making a face he hoped looked more like confusion than guilt. "I hardly think —"
"Arthur! Half the castle thinks you . . ." Merlin gestured something with a quick hand.
"Sorry, Merlin; I don't understand idiot hand language."
Merlin pressed his lips together. He really was quite disconcerted. Arthur took a moment to lament the lack of wine in his rooms quite strongly.
"Half the castle seems to think you make me — do things. With you."
"Then they are idiots also!" Arthur said expansively. "I wouldn't make you; what sort of man do they think I am!"
He replayed the last sentence and inwardly cursed himself in as filthy a manner as he knew how.
"I think you're missing my point," Merlin said.
"You don't have a point. And why were you talking to Wynston anyway?"
Merlin put an exasperated hand on his head and dragged it back over his face. That was probably why his hair was always so inconceivably messy.
"Because I am a servant and he is a noble and you are a giant prat! You sent me to spy on him! He thinks we're — I don't know, friends! What should I say? Sorry, Sir Wynston, but Arthur's gotten bored now he's had you —"
"Had!" Arthur exclaimed. "In his feeble imagination! And you really cannot speak to me like that."
"Apparently I can, because you have me in your bed every night," Merlin retorted, and Arthur felt heat flood his cheeks. A powerful silence fell over the room.
"Well," said Merlin after a tense moment, twining his hands together, "Not really, of course. Hah! Gossip."
And that was when Arthur kissed him.
*
Arthur escaped from the audience with his father as soon as was practicable. The page which had summoned — had interrupted — him escorted Arthur back out of the hall and bowed him through the door, leaving him alone in the corridor with a thundering in his ears.
He'd kissed Merlin. Oh, he had. Actually put his mouth right on Merlin's mouth. And he thought Merlin might have been amenable to kissing him, too, when the knock at the door had made them startle apart.
Arthur turned down the corridor and forced himself to walk at his usual pace as he returned to his chambers, mindful of his position and the attention it drew. He could not be seen to hurry.
He thought perhaps he should have allowed it, should have demanded that personal indulgence of himself just that once, when he opened the door to find Merlin gone.
*
This was all Wynston's fault.
And Arthur's. It was Arthur's fault, too.
*
Arthur did not see Merlin all afternoon, nor did he seek him out. Instead, he organised a hunting party for the following morning, played a vicious game of checkers with Morgana, told the minstrels to cease their infernal wailing, and sharpened his swords in the armoury, where the light was dim and quiet and reminders of his station were all around him.
The party set out before dawn. Merlin had apparently got word of the hunt and invited himself along, for there he was, scuffing along not ten paces from Arthur, his shoulders hunched against the cold morning air.
At the edge of the woods he came closer and hesitantly reached out, looking at Arthur's crossbow and pack. Arthur handed them over and stepped away into the tall trees.
The hunt went well: a brace of rabbits and then, slipping through the oaks, a stag with a fine flourish of antlers. Above them the sky flared with colour, an orange sunrise burning in the east.
Despite their success the way back was unnaturally hushed, until finally Arthur decided something must be done. He opened the door to his rooms and said:
"You did not attend me last night."
"I was helping Gaius with something."
Arthur let this sink through him, feeling very foolish and very tired.
"I understand," he said, dropping his coat upon a chair. "I — made a mistake, yesterday. You may be sure I will not impose —" He broke off, quietly, feeling the sharp edge of his humiliation, and an unexpected disappointment.
"I didn't think it was a mistake," said Merlin. "Well, whatever you said to Wynston, that was — but the — after that."
With more attention than was necessary, Arthur peeled off his gloves and laid them atop the coat. "It was unexpected," he offered, and Merlin shifted towards him, just a little.
"Bit surprising."
"I've been told I can be — impulsive."
"Reckless is a good word."
Arthur held himself still and rigid as Merlin came nearer and then they were in front of one another, faces close and downturned and on the threshold of something, until Merlin tilted his head and pressed his mouth to Arthur's.
It was careful at first, a soft hesitation; Arthur breathed in against the kiss and let Merlin pursue it. Then Merlin made a soft noise and Arthur found he could not slow for gentleness; he gripped Merlin tight, manhandling him toward the bed and down onto it, kissing him, pushing him back amongst the pillows, the dark reds and worn ivory. It was as though a fire had been lit inside Arthur's head; he wanted everything at once — the bare column of Merlin's throat, his capable fingers, his narrow hips, and things Arthur had only imagined.
Merlin was kissing him still with lips barely parted, brief, keen, breathless kisses that made Arthur's head swim with how much more he could have — he wanted the taste of Merlin, wanted his mouth, his tongue, wanted the texture of every word Merlin had ever spoken to him.
"Mmmh," he grunted, sucking at Merlin's bottom lip, tilting his head to move the kiss upward, trying to get Merlin to open for him. He slid a hand up Merlin's throat. "Let me," he muttered against Merlin's mouth.
"Stop telling me what to do," Merlin laughed shakily.
"Not like you listen," Arthur said, sliding greedy fingers under Merlin's shirt instead. The skin was warmer there. "You never listen. But you want this."
"Yes," Merlin breathed out and that made it alright, that Merlin wanted this too, wanted it even though there was so much of Arthur he didn't like.
Merlin touched long fingers to Arthur's face and traced them slowly down until they met Arthur's mouth, one finger curling over his lip and touching his tongue inside.
"Arthur," Merlin said. There was a tremble in his voice. Arthur sucked the invading finger into his mouth slowly, drawing it up to the fine knuckle and letting it go.
"Take your breeches off," Arthur said quietly.
*
Every time Arthur pushed down his hips would give a little jerk and pull up again, and so it was slow, the way he pressed Merlin's cock into his own body.
He hadn't done it like this before.
Why, he wondered, had no one ever said how it felt from this side? Beneath him Merlin watched with eyes half-lidded, his bare stomach taut and shivering between Arthur's spread thighs — why had no one said how it could hurt?
The sensation was extraordinary. He sank down, bit by bit, rubbing his cock with slick fingers and watching Merlin gasp and sweat and bite his lip to keep from speaking.
*
If Arthur had expected this, he might have thought it would be simply satisfying to have the chance to contain Merlin, to settle him in Arthur's bed and make sense of all his limbs, of his lips, of everything that continued to confound Arthur and reorder his life. But he had not expected. As always, Merlin had caught him by surprise.
Instead, something like anger began to prick at him after they had separated, a strange tension growing and seizing him between his ribs until Arthur wanted to spike himself and bleed it out.
"So you've not done this before," was what came out of his mouth.
Merlin looked over at him. "Not exactly."
"What a little innocent you are, Merlin," Arthur said, and he could hear the mocking edge of it.
"Being a prat is a full day's work for you, isn't it?" Merlin replied, though he sounded too languid to be offended. He stretched as though he'd found a warm patch of sun.
"I'd forgotten," Arthur continued, "what it was like with someone who didn't know what they were doing. Even the kitchen maids —"
Merlin lifted himself half-up and stared at Arthur closely.
"Just waiting for the right person, were you?" Arthur said. "Waiting for someone special."
"What's wrong with you?" Merlin asked. Anger was dawning upon him in that restrained way he had, a snake turning in on itself.
Arthur felt, stupidly, as though he might be shaking. "I don't know," he replied, aiming for unaffected. "Perhaps I'm just remembering why I don't bed servants. A whole kingdom for me to choose from," he went on, and no, he didn't sound unaffected now, not at all, "and here I am with you. My utterly useless manservant."
Merlin threw back the bedclothes and got up, unashamedly naked, standing long and lean as he grabbed up his shirt and folded it the right way out. Looking at him there in the soft daylight caused a sort of pain in Arthur's throat. That unbearable tension again, but it wasn't anger.
The clothes were muddling themselves in Merlin's abrupt hands, but he was going to put them on. He was going to walk out of here, wounded by Arthur.
"Wait. Wait," Arthur ordered, which naturally did not work at all. Merlin did nothing except burrow a hand into an inside-out sleeve.
He was, Arthur realised, stupidly, stupidly beautiful. Arthur moved as though compelled, went over to him and clasped his slim hips, warm skin under his fingertips, and he held on as Merlin jerked into stillness.
"I shouldn't have said — that."
"You don't know anything about me, Arthur," Merlin said angrily.
"That's not true," Arthur returned.
"And I'm not one of your servants who doesn't know any better and will let you treat them like — like anything," Merlin said. "Like one of your kitchen maids."
As if that wasn't clear to anyone who cared to look. And anyway, Arthur had not actually touched a kitchen maid in his life, and he said as much. He didn't even know any.
"Why would you?" Merlin replied. "They're just the people who keep your whole kingdom running."
"Merlin," Arthur said helplessly.
"What?"
"I . . ." He thought about what he could say. "I wouldn't choose any other," he said carefully. He couldn't. That was rather the whole point.
Merlin said nothing, just clutched his crumpled shirt. But he didn't pull away. Arthur bent a little so that he was breathing over the curve of Merlin's neck and shoulder and in a moment he turned his head and kissed him slowly, the white neck and the point of bone. He shifted slightly, daring to move to Merlin's side and then his front, and Merlin turned his head away but he let Arthur kiss along his throat and across his jaw, over his chest and down his torso, down, down. He let Arthur's palms smooth over his trembling thighs, and then he let Arthur kneel before him and suckle at his cock, lush and wet, tasting the heavy heat of him and savouring it with eyes closed, and at last Merlin let Arthur take him back to bed.
*
From a young age, Arthur had come to understand the way the kingdom and its politics worked. His life belonged to the sovereignty, not to himself nor anyone else. He would be the heir until he was the king, and when he was the king he would take a wife. His betrothal would be a matter of strategy and alliance. It was all to be expected. But while he had known for some time that he would not have a choice in marriage, he had thought that perhaps in love — well, he had been foolish.
Merlin was always making him see his own failings.
*
"You know, I don't think you can blame Sir Wynston for this," Merlin said later, his arm curled loosely over Arthur's stomach.
"Of course not," Arthur said graciously.