Author's note: Here we are – another fic! This is all the fault of a book I read a couple of years ago and recently remembered when watching the motion picture version: 'Girl with a Pearl Earring'. It got me thinking and eventually writing this, dedicated to my OTP, sort of anyway. I've tried not to copy 'Girl with a Pearl Earring' straight off, but I've still used it as a base for setting. (If anyone who've read/seen it and thinks this just is too much of a replica, please share your thoughts with me.) Some characters are in smaller/bigger roles than we're used to in the 'Merlin' series and some have also been changed in age, how they're related to each other and so on. I've been chewing on this story for awhile – began sketching the first scenes in mid-2010 or maybe even earlier. Sometimes it takes many months for some of my stories to grow from initial idea to working chapters. (Sometimes they never make it from initial idea.) So I'm glad I've come this far. As I'm writing this I'm not fully finished with the ending, I have two ideas of what could happen (right now leaning toward a not-so-happy but more plausible ending). I never said anything about writing happy-go-lucky fics. (Actually I'm not very good at writing stuff like that.) I've tried not to make any characters act out of themselves…too much, anyway. I might've have played around with them a bit.

Note on the title: I titled this story the last thing I did. It's incredibly tricky, you know, a fitting title to any kind of art. I could start a monologue now on the subject but I'll try and keep it short. The word 'mynele' is Old English for 'desire, longing' which is an incredibly important, perhaps the main, theme of this story. The reason I chose the Old English word is that I wanted the connection to the original Merlin series and magic – the majority of the spells (if not all of them) in the series are spoken Old English, which I here portray as the language of the Old Religion (as opposed to the 'new religion', Christianity, with its Latin as language). Does that make it any clearer?

This is not betaread.

Warnings: SLASH. This is an AU story – I'm placing our beloved (and some maybe less loved) 'Merlin' characters in an unfamiliar setting and timeline. It's also a quite angsty story and deserves a strong T rating. I considered making it higher: though there are no explicit sex scenes as such, there are descriptions bordering on adult content and almost non-con. Please tell me if you think I should mark this with a higher rating. As earlier stated, this contains slash, so please STAY AWAY if you're below the age of consent or cannot stomach any hint of homosexuality!

Setting: An AU 17th century England because we're in a city named Camelot (what other city could I chose?), though it's physical appearance is different from in the series, to begin with bigger and the Pendragons doesn't live in the castle as royalty (Uther is a lord but not king). I won't specify where Camelot is located, really. Also some aspects of society have been changed/modified (like how same-sex relationships are viewed) but there's still a class society with sharp bounds, and witch burnings are not uncommon. Magic and the Old religion are mostly prohibited and punishable by death (or banishment) and viewed with contempt.

Pairings: Merlin/Will [from episode 10 'Moment of Truth' season one], Merlin/Arthur, Uther/Ygraine. Other pairings will appear long- or short-term, both with and without consent. Of characters, there will be many, and I hope you can figure out the family relations yourselves.

Genres: Romance, angst, drama

And feedback is love!

()()()

Mynele (Desire)

()()()

I.

1623
MARCH

"It wasn't meant to be this way," his mother said, like it would soothe him, make up for future pains and deem the situation a bit better, a bit less heavy on his shoulders and in her heart.

It's never meant to be this way.

But there was little else to do – they had no other family to do work for them and earn the tiny coin; not since his father's death. It had been the lack of proper food or the sudden cold illness, or perhaps both – just like that, in a heartbeat, he'd been gone, vanished, like a candle blown out by a sudden gust of wind. The thought of the man still brought tears to Merlin's eyes – the loss was so recent it stung in his heart every time his father's name was uttered.

Merlin wanted to plead, 'Mother, please, isn't there some other way?' or murmur 'Maybe I could (use my gift)…' But he didn't. He could not conjure up bread and water from thin air, could not create gold from rock, he'd already tried behind closed shutters and the gods decided it wasn't his place to play being them equal. And if he as much as suggested it, his mother would be so angry, so worried, crying 'Merlin!' admonishingly: for the law forbade his very existence. According to it he'd be turned in, to be punished, executed. He hated being hidden, but he had no choice. A fact which his mother reminded him of every day, drilled into him since infanthood. It was the only thing he was truly sure of in this world: keep the gift a secret no matter what. Sharing it is dangerous.

"But the city center?" he asked, despairingly. That's where the richer, wealthier families lived, their ways different from those of usual commoners. Strangers, all of them. The laws felt even stricter there, the surveillance on lower class people harder whenever they stepped into range of the spyglass. "I don't want to go to."

They led a simple life here, in the small corner quarter of Camelot. It was here the poorer families resided and the streets were constantly muddy and littered with children who had nowhere else to play and the beginnings of smoke coming out of the doors. But now, after bad crops and harsh winter, food was scarce, many inhabitants fell ill, and with the raised taxes they simply needed a more steady income. Sometimes when no one else was available Merlin's mother, Hunith, acted physician, but it was not well paid. Often her kind heart could not stand the sight of feverish children and weakened friends and she helped them anyway, payment or no. Kindness was sometimes rewarded with an extra piece of bread, some stored-away vegetables, or roughly woven fabric to warm when snow fell thick and cold; sometimes with a simple thank you; nothing but words put in her hands. Words cannot pay for food or taxes. Words cannot support a family.

Going to the center of Camelot, possibly permanently, away from his mother, his friends (albeit they were few), away from living where it was all familiar – the thought was so frightening, so wrong.

"I know." Hunith looked at him sadly, and took his hands.

"But what about you, mother? You'll stay here?"

Before she could reply, he already knew the answer - yes. Of course. She was old, not as strong as she used to, having raised a family and carried many burdens. Merlin was young and healthy, many years ahead where he could work endlessly almost to the brink of torture. The choice was obvious, and the Pendragons had no room for nonworking people in the household. They needed the money. His mother needed the money, and his sister needed them. They would depend on him.

Merlin sagged like an invisible hand was pressing him down.

"I've already arranged it with Lady Ygraine and lord Uther, that you may come visit me every Sunday. If you do well they will pay five copper coins per day." It was meager, but better than nothing.

"I'll give you the pay," he promised, quietly, "when I come home."

When I come home. The words felt heavy and foreign and he wanted to take them back as soon as he'd said them; he didn't want to leave this place, this was his home.

"Don't. It's yours."

"You need it more than I do! They'll give me a roof over my head and food for the day…You'll have no one else. I won't let you and Freya starve!" His voice broke in a slight tremor at the end of that sentence, as realization hit him, a spear in his chest: he was going to leave, and had no idea when, if at all, he would return. It wasn't unknown that servants and serving-girls maintained their job and status for life, for always a lower part of the community, for always worthy the least, for always bound to serve. He didn't want to be a servant!

The woman smiled, sadly but kindly, and he feared it would take weeks or months before he saw that smile again. "You will need it one day, Merlin, much more so than I," she said, softly, like he was a child of ten years old and not sixteen.

"But, I don't want to leave, I really…Mother…"

"I know. I know. I would have wanted something better for you. But they are a respectable family, rightly so, and you shall be treated well."

She had already helped him pack everything this morning; right after Lady Ygraine herself had left. The lady had come to see everything was in order. Hunith, knowing such a revelation would only cause Merlin to fidget and worry, hadn't let him know why such a wealthy striking lady (dark blonde like what he imagined gold to look like, blue beautiful layers of skirts, rustling as she walked with powerful strides) had come to this poor area of the city until afterwards. The lady Ygraine had come alone, unescorted, her husband at home working and the children looked after by the housemaid. However, with another little one on the way more servants where needed. Some would say it was lucky, that such a fine family would look here, at these dirty streets, for a servant.

Merlin hated it. It didn't matter that the Pendragon family was respected and had a good reputation. None of those words mattered. He'd heard stories on the market about what happened sometimes to servants in such rich houses, and he shivered at the thought, chest wrenching. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave.

()()()

"You really have to go?" his sister Freya bemoaned when Merlin gave her the news. She was merely seven years old, bright and innocent yet so wise; she saw and understood so much more than she usually let on, and more than she should know. Had she been his age, she probably would have been the one ending up working as a servant. It was in general easier for a girl to find such a position in a household.

"I'm beginning tomorrow. I'm really sorry, Freya." Trying to make up for having to leave her, he hugged her, and the girl looked troubled. She had never been alone before: Merlin had always been there if Hunith had to go out for errands. Now, she'd have to make it on her own, and it was difficult for her.

"But you'll come visit right?"

She was scared and trying to hide it.

Merlin hugged her tightly, her thin frame felt tiny against his own scrawny one. "Of course I will. As often as I can." At least when he wouldn't be sleeping under the same roof as her anymore she would have a bit more to eat at every meal and some more blankets to warm beneath.

()()()

When he walked past, neighbours turned and looked at him, shaking their heads pitifully. Young Merlin had gone and become a servant-boy; that would be the talk for the rest of the week. Yet they didn't scoff, for it could very well happen to their own son or daughter; it was no laughing matter.

Merlin had never been to this part of Camelot. He'd been to the marketplace countless times, but beyond these were the mansions and grand houses where the wealthy population of the city lived and the area was mostly considered off-limits to the average citizen. There was nothing they could seek there but trouble.

It took less than half an hour to walk there and locate the house which he from now on would live in. The buildings on each side of the street loomed above him: tall, intimidating stone, large shadowed windows, people flickering by, perfectly folded coats and prosperous red-blue-golden dresses. He was glanced at oddly: with his brown clothing and awkward shyness, he didn't fit in.

The Pendragon mansion – it had to be considered a mansion – was impressive and huge, made of grayish white stone which only seemed to emphasis the two previous statements. It was so grand that he had to simply stare. The entrance was marked by two pillars, and at the moment, the door was open, and four children were outside it, on the lawn which stretched from the door to the street, surrounded by some bushes.

There were three girls and one boy, the latter being the eldest of the group, with raven-dark hair. He was twelve or thirteen years old, having lost the plump stomach of a child yet he was not a teenager, shoulders broad but limbs thinned like stretched out from quick growth. He was forcefully swinging a wooden sword back and fro, fighting an imaginary foe. Two of the girls were blonde, one had hair of midnight: they seemed more interested in passing a ball between them in game than watching their brother.

Four children, Merlin thought wide-eyed, and a fifth one on its way?Why had his mother decided to send him to a family of this size? All he could see for a moment in his mind's eye was a never-ending pile of linen to wash and floors to scrub (muddy little feet constantly running around never giving it a moment's rest), and felt a bit ill to the stomach.

At seeing him standing there uncertain and wavering, one of the girls shot up from her seat, eyes wide. She looked like only three years old and her blonde hair was held from her face with a red headband. She tugged at the hem of one of her sisters' blue dress to get attention and suddenly all activity stopped. The toy ball bounced down onto the stone on the ground by the entrance door, rolling away from the children and Merlin had to stop it with his foot to keep it off the street.

The boy stopped his play and put the makeshift wooden blade in his belt like it was real. "Are you the new servant?" he asked.

"Yes. That's me." Unfortunately, Merlin added in his mind. He hoped the boy wouldn't be that much of a trouble. He had strangely cold blue eyes.

"We were told to watch for you. We have to tell Guinevere. Sophia, you can go," said the boy, obviously in charge. One of the dark blonde girls, maybe nine years old, shook her head still staring at Merlin disdainfully and the second oldest sister spoke up, wild black locks bouncing on her shoulders.

"I'll go, Mordred." She disappeared into the shadows of the house.

"So your name is Mordred?" Merlin asked, trying to strike up conversation.

The boy looked at him with eerily pale eyes, and huffed a bit, haughtily, chest puffing out. "Yes. This is Sophia and Morgause. Morgana is the oldest of the girls, though she's only ten - never do remind her of that because then she gets cross."

He smiled kindly. "I'll remember that. I'm Merlin."

"Arthur's out with Father hunting, they like to do that, well, whenever he isn't locked up in his studio that is – always too busy to be any fun. Mother usually doesn't go with them, she has better things to do, she says," Mordred continued like he hadn't heard, or cared, and Merlin frowned a bit at hearing that – another son? Five to be six children? At least the upside today was that lord Pendragon was out. That meant he didn't have to face the man, who was spoken of on the street as ruthless, conceited and menacing with a very strong voice. Merlin did not look forward to that meeting, and was glad that as a servant, it was natural to be given orders from the mistress of the house rather than the master.

"Oh. Who's Guinevere?" he asked curiously.

The girl Sophia began to speak, skewering her nose up like smelling something truly unpleasant. "She's the other servant." The last word was spat, something foul. Merlin felt his neck burn, embarrassed: even the little ones looked upon servants as something lower them, something dirty, and he wanted nothing else but to turn away for ever and run. "I don't like her," Sophia continued haughtily like only a child can; "She hit me once, when I tried borrowing Mother's combs. Mother nearly threw her out the house. Servant never beats us." It was like a warning: Try it on me and I'll show you! Silently, Merlin reminded himself to never give Sophia any reason to be angry with him. There was probably no limit to what trouble she could cause at his expense.

Before he could say any more, a woman appeared in the doorway. Her skin was tanned like she had been out in the sun for hours on end and her face was marred by a constant frown, hands and nails worn, and a sort of tiredness lay over her eyes like a sheet. She looked considerably older than she probably was.

"You're Merlin?" she asked, more kindly than any of the children had. He nodded hesitantly, fingers gripping tighter around the bundle he carried with him, the few possessions he owned. They felt suddenly very heavy. "Come with me. I'll show you around the house. Mordred, keep an eye on your littlest sister while I go."

As it was, the lady Ygraine was upstairs resting, leaving Guinevere or Gwen as she preferred being called, in charge of the children. Obviously they were old enough that she might leave them for a time without watcher. Gwen looked like she needed some proper rest.

She showed him first to the kitchen, leftward from the hall (beautifully decorated with paintings, family portraits and white pillars, red curtains with golden embroidery in them hanging from the ceiling all the way down to the floor). The room was larger than the whole living area of Hunith's home, right now littered with pots and knives. Beyond it laid another room (dark murky-coloured wood, dank, drenched in the smell of soaps and sand) where washing would take place, and a generous pile had already gathered in the corner.

"Through that door there's a small garden. The canal is right beside it and the water is clean enough this part of town for washing, so you'll only need to fetch water from the well down the street for cooking."

Merlin nodded. It'd take at least the quarter of an hour to get to the well and back, so the river's proximity was a pleasant surprise. "Washing, fetching water and running errands on the market will be your duties to begin with," Gwen continued, and cast a displeased glance into the workroom. "We are very much behind the schedule, look at all that linen." She put her hands together, satisfied when Merlin understood it all clearly. "Then, when master Arthur returns, he'll show you the studio."

The studio. Merlin knew he was to clean that room making it look like nothing had been touched and wondered idly how come Gwen wasn't doing it. She didn't seem irresponsible or indolent.

"Well then. My mistress will be down for supper. You can start putting the linen in water to soften it up, then you'll follow me to the market."

"Where do I put my things?" Merlin asked.

Gwen showed him up three sets of steep stairs – the study and kitchen was on the first floor, the sleeping chambers and the studio on the second - to a small loft with low ceiling, forcing Merlin to bend down unless he'd hit his head. There was a tiny window, dusty like the rest of the room – he'd have to clean up later. It appeared the window had stuck which he too had to fix, because attics had the habit to grow uncomfortably hot when summer sun gazed at it for a whole day.

"Put your pack over there," the woman pointed at a corner. "I sleep in the cellar, so you will have some privacy." Not that there would be much time to it. The room had no lock and keys, but it was expected, and Merlin knew that even his personal things wouldn't be personal for much longer. The lord and lady of the house all had right to search them through if they suspected he was stealing silver and spoons.

He didn't have many things with him: his mother had reminded him to bring two rough shirts to work in, one red and one blue, so he could wear one and wash the other, thus always wear clean clothes. Hunith always said it was important to make a good impression like that. Otherwise, there wasn't much: a simple cloak for the snow and rain, a brown cap, and of course the neckerchiefs he always wore. He didn't own any gloves. He also had one of his most precious memories of his father, a wooden toy carved in the shape of a dragon which his father had given him when he was five years old, placed at the bottom of the package. A memory to make him feel less lonely.

He wished he had ended up in a household where his prayers of the Old Religion would be allowed, but it was already too late, and his mother had warned him to only pray in silence when no one could see or hear. Preferably not even then. People with power tended not to have leniency.

()()()

Assuming he knew enough to begin working, Gwen left to finish the last preparations of supper. Merlin sighed and climbed down the stairs, to the workroom. He located some pitchers and went outside to gather water. Quickly he went about his task and put the water and dirty linen in a large tub. Before he'd left, Hunith had reminded him of a hundred little details of housework, and he remembered that he couldn't begin the washing at once, it had to soak first to get properly clean.

There was doors opening and closing, voices down the hall. He could not see them, but he assumed that the oldest Pendragons must have come home. From the kitchen, he heard scrambling, footsteps, pots and pans slamming and Gwen's voice, impatient. "No, the food isn't finished yet. Do not touch it! Look at your filthy hands! Mordred, go wash them at once." The boy whined but at Gwen's threat of telling his father made him quiet, and Mordred's feet reluctantly padded away. Merlin looked up from sorting the linen when the servant girl materialized in the doorway, wringing her hands in her apron.

"Come on," she said and handed him a pail. "We have to go to the market before mid-day. That's when you get the best pieces."

When they went through the hall, both Uther and his son had already left it.

()()()

The market was so very recognizable, with its sounds and people milling about, his heart felt heavy at seeing it, not knowing when or if at all he'd be able to walk through it alongside his mother or Freya and talk freely and laugh. Gwen was friendly, but many years of stress and work had made her serious and quiet. The overhanging smell of meat, blood and salt was almost dizzying, yet comforting; Merlin could recognize several salesmen, including the butcher he and his mother used to buy from when they could afford the luxury of meat. Gwen steered him away, deeper into the market, to an unfamiliar stall with an unfamiliar man in it. The bench was bloodied as was the man's apron.

"Hello, Guinevere," he said, eyes smiling.

Gwen greeted the man politely and said, "Thomas, this is Merlin. He's the new servant and will be running market errands from now on." Awkwardly, Merlin nodded his head, eyes unwillingly drawn to the man's reddened hands and clothes.

The usual butcher that Hunith used to buy from always greeted his customers with a clean apron and knife.

"I see," Thomas said cheerfully, turning to the boy; "What then would you like today, Merlin?"

Gwen answered in Merlin's place, kindly but briskly, a bit stressed: there was no time for chitchat. "Three pounds of pork and one pound of tongue." As he prepared and packed the order, Thomas assured Merlin that they sold the best quality meat in Camelot, though Merlin wasn't acutely listening.

Later, when walking home, Merlin's steps felt weighty – he wanted nothing else than turn away from the street leading to the Pendragon home, away from it forever, back home to his mother and hand her the pail full of pork. They hadn't had meat for months.

()()()

The rest of the day fell into a rhythm of pulling down, folding, pulling down, folding all the clothes that had been hung out to dry by Gwen earlier. Then he took it into the workroom to iron it. When nobody was looking – one good thing was that people usually avoided servants – his eyes glowed gold briefly and all creases smoothed out perfectly by an invincible hand, without him having to move. He'd already stopped wondering where he'd learned tricks like that. It was a dangerous risk and Gwen appeared in the doorway mere seconds later, startling him and making his pulse speed up, and he decided not to do something like that again.

He wouldn't eat with the family (only get the leftovers along with Gwen), but he helped set the table and managed not to break any porcelain despite Sophia's impatient stalking nearby and his natural clumsiness. She'll get over it, he thought to himself in attempt to calm down, sensing the girl's angry gaze. She's just a child. She'll get over it.

Lady Ygraine came down as Gwen announced supper was ready, the kitchen smelling of smoke and freshly chopped vegetables and roasted meat, making Merlin's mouth water. The lady didn't speak, just gave him a look and a nod, which he supposed meant that he'd passed the test of the first day. Her husband Uther joined her – he was a tall man with blonde-turning-gray hair and an air of authority around him, he wasn't a person you wished to get cross with. His eyes were the colour of iron, and there was an old scar across his forehead; like a forbearing warning, making him look more dangerous. He barely spent Merlin a glance.

Their older son Arthur was nineteen, three years his senior. When seeing him now Merlin spotted both the mother and the father in him; tall and broad-shouldered, golden-haired, a strong jaw. Though he was stern-looking there was softness around his mouth and eyes that suggested he wasn't as ruthless as his father. His eyes were a clear blue, like a piece of the sky. He reminded more of Lady Ygraine than anyone else. His hands were rough: not the hands of a man who sat back idly and watched.

Gwen led him back to the kitchen. "I'll serve them," she said, filling a pitcher with wine. "You can tidy up here." What she meant was, Be quiet now and do not bother the gentlefolk.

At least tidying and putting the kitchen into order wasn't as heavy as bending and folding and lifting all that linen.

()()()

It was difficult to fall asleep that first night. The ceiling above his head was crooked and gave the illusion of falling down on him. There was small bedding – a thing he hadn't had at home, thought bitterly – but the straw mattress was thin and hard, and he couldn't get comfortable, shifting all the while. The wood in the walls, the floors, the ceiling creaked, from below he sometimes heard hushed footsteps and voices, a child waking up in the middle of night, every sound in the house was new to his ears. He couldn't lie still and relax.

So this is it, he couldn't help thinking, no light at all seeping through the tiny window by the end of the bed. I am really going to stay here.

()()()

The keys rattled loudly in the lady's hands. She opened the door, leaning against it for support and rested her right hand on her well-swollen stomach.

"This is the studio. Your job is to clean it thoroughly without moving anything. Arthur will need to use it in less than three hours, so be quick about it."

Merlin nodded and looked around the room. One wall was entirely made of windows: finely aged glass, carved wood and colourings adorning the edges, letting in fresh light. In the corner there was a silent scene and though he'd never seen any of the paintings done by Arthur himself, he assumed that the corner, with its empty chair and littered parchments and ink quills on the table, was where the current painting was taking place. The wall behind the corner was yellowed and a map of a land Merlin never had seen hung onto it quite vacantly. Next to the door two wooden chests were placed, one of them open and half-empty. An easel stood at the centre of the room covered with a large piece of cloth. Merlin had an urge to cross the room and lift it to see what was below, but didn't dare.

The lady didn't say anything more and turned to leave, closing and locking the door behind her. Of course she locked: her jewelry rested in there, unguarded. Like it was possible for him to run off with them.

Now he just had to figure out how to clean without actually moving anything a single inch. How could he be sure to place the objects back to where they belonged? Gingerly he put down the bucket, watered a cloth and approached the table. The quill looked very fragile and he pressed the cloth against it for a short second before lifting his hand again. Then he moved back seven, eight steps and looked at the scene closely. Nothing seemed to have changed. The shadows fell onto the right places. To make sure it was exactly as before, he looked at everything from different angles and used thumbs, hands and even arms to measure their position from the edge of the table.

For the next two hours he walked repeatedly back and forth to judge how the objects on the table were placed, carefully use the cloth to slowly polish away the thin layer of dust that had settled. It took a lot longer than he first had thought, for such a small scene – the folded piece of fabric was especially difficult; if he moved it any way the folds wouldn't lay back the way they were before. He had to find a more effective way to do it. Now just pressing the wet cloth against it had to do.

He considered using magic, but glanced at the door able to hear every sound below (Gwen was scolding Mordred for not washing his hands again) and shook his head. He rather liked his head where it was.

()()()

The next few days settled into a sort of steady, never-ending pace. He grew more used to his duties, though he still was unsure how to act around both his master and mistress. Uther was not around much, often out with fellow men his status or his son (training with the sword in the fields, and riding, Gwen said) whenever Arthur wasn't painting, alone and uninterrupted upstairs. No one dared to disturb him.

The lady, on the other hand, faltered a bit every time he encountered her in the hallways. Merlin was always polite, but she didn't speak much. The pregnancy made her absent-minded, and she often retired to the soft shadows of the sleeping chambers.

It was hard work, carrying and heating the water and stirring the cloth-filled tub, and his front was drenched to the skin and his back ached. Watching over the children wasn't really one of his duties but he did it anyway, as Gwen often latched them onto him when he'd just finished another chore and she was weary. Both Sophia and Mordred had proved to be stubborn and at first refusing to listen to him: Morgana, the eldest girl, and Morgause, the youngest, were easier to handle, as they understood that he was in charge whether they wanted it or not. Also, he was to help Gwen with supper and scrub the floors in the evenings so that they would be clean and smell freshly the next morning.

The only peaceful place in the house was the studio – no one was allowed there except for him and the man who worked there. Not even master Uther ever came in there, what Merlin had seen anyway. Arthur never was there when Merlin was cleaning, and the man had never spoken to him. He still was thinking about cleaning the windows, he was no artist and didn't know how their minds worked, but the light would change and he didn't want to be fired because of destroying a painting by ruining its scene. But he was unsure how to ask such a question when Arthur was so hard to reach.

Walking down to the market was a nice change of setting. The air was always fresher outside the workroom or stuffy kitchen. The first three days Gwen followed him, directed him where to go and how to order, but after that left him to his own. This gave him a chance to finally relax. Not completely, but a little. He walked slowly, taking in the sights again, and stopped briefly by stands with people he knew, like the old butcher, who greeted him happily, and an elderly lady who sold tulips. They had already heard from loquacious neighbors about his employment at the Pendragons' and didn't comment on it, but their expressions were enough to know what they were thinking.

Tomorrow he'd be able to visit his mother, as he'd been promised to once every week. It was always busy in the house, and he'd not be able to stay for long – but he longed so much for it that he had some trouble concentrating, almost walking into the stand he had been sent to.

"Hello Merlin," Thomas the butcher's kind, cheerful voice interrupted his musings. "How nice to see you again! What would you like today?" He always asked like that, even if very well aware that it wasn't for Merlin but the Pendragons to eat.

"A leg of mutton, please."

"Is there a feast tonight?" the butcher smiled. "William, son! Come help me."

From the back of the stall a young man appeared – Thomas' son: they shared the same brown eyes and auburn hair. His face was somehow pleasing to the eye, slightly plump and soft, and there was a hint of stubble along his jaw. He was maybe eighteen years old, with broad hands, and a not much cleaner apron than his father. Somehow, to Merlin, if felt like the butcher had staged it all just to make the two of them see each other, but passed the thought off, as it sounded ridiculous.

"Mustn't that have been the best pork you have ever eaten, Merlin?" Thomas asked about his last purchase, and Merlin shrugged, speaking in honesty.

"The family ate it. They didn't say much about it." He rarely got to taste anything but unflavoured leftovers that no one else wanted.

Feeling William's curious burning eye on him, Merlin repeated the order, trying to fight the blush rising to his cheeks. Somehow, the brown eyes constantly strayed back to him, intensive, when the young man worked: Merlin looked away and was glad when Thomas laid the mutton upon the counter, breaking the tension.

The meat presented was grayish at the edges and the smell was slight off; and for a moment Merlin thought about Sophia, the little brat, how she couldn't deserve such luxury every day on end, it wouldn't hurt to go without meat or fish for once: but then he bit his lip and changed his mind. It wouldn't do to get fired. "This meat is old," he said briskly. He wasn't used to speaking so overbearingly, but maybe it was needed. "I doubt lady Ygraine would be happy about that."

Where they testing him? he couldn't help thinking, briefly. Testing his…ability… his reaction, his person? The overhanging doubt made him swallow, but along it, he forced his nervousness away. Now was not the time, when they were studying him so closely with those very alike brown eyes.

The expressions on their faces appeared genuine. Thomas and William looked at him incredulously, and then the father chuckled from the back of his throat, bemused. "Of course, how could I not have noticed? Will, go fetch the parcel on the trolley."

The son frowned, eyes flickering between the butcher and Merlin, who stubbornly stood his ground. "But, wasn't that meant for…"

His father quietly looked at him (eyes like dark spicy tea) and with a shrug William sprinted off. When he returned he had with him a piece of high quality meat. It took a while, for Thomas readily talked when packaging, but eventually Merlin had in his pail what he'd come for. The sun had already passed more than he'd appreciate. Gwen would not be happy.

When he turned to leave, Merlin missed the knowing look passing between father and son; for the moment oblivious to what it would mean to him and his future.

()()()

When Sunday arrived, bright with the occasional cloud, Merlin's heart felt lighter than any other morning that week. He set to work as early as he could, to get it finished. Before running the market chores, he could visit his family. He hung out the clothes he'd washed yesterday to dry in the sun as Gwen bustled about, preparing breakfast. He had some time to sit outside and do the mending and watch the river flow, almost peacefully, the sounds of the city fading to the background. Several boats passed by, fully loaded so that water almost made its way over the brims, though the men steering them didn't appear bothered.

After having eaten, lady Ygraine gave him a verbal list of what she desired having bought that day and he was off, the weeks' pay secure in a leather pouch attached to his belt.

Freya had been waiting by the stair all morning and bounced up and down at the sight of him. "Merlin! Tell me everything! Is it a big house? Do they have children? Are they my age? Are they nice? Did you get to eat with them on silver tableware and wear fine clothes? Did you get to see-"

"Let him step inside, Freya," Hunith interrupted the child, amused at her antics. "How do you feel, Merlin?"

Tired. He was tired, like someone had dropped a full sack of grain on his shoulders, and wanted to stay here forever and forget about the Pendragons and the pail left by the doorstep, soon to be filled with fresh fish from the riverside, and just lie down here and sleep. "I'm fine. It's not that bad, really."

His mother took his hands, like she used to when she was worried about him and unsure of what to say. Her thumbs rolled over his palms. "Your hands are worn and rough…and it's only been one week. I have an ointment that will help." She went to fetch it, rummaging through a few cupboards containing the herbs and other items she used when going to help the poorer citizens as physician.

"It'll be easier later," Merlin said, smiling lightly like he usually did to cheer her up. "It's just they're after with all the laundry right now, having too few servants and so many children. After a while it'll get better."

"Here, mother." He held out the pouch.

She eyed him critically. "That's all your week's pay," she murmured, weighing the pouch in her hand before opening it and spilling the coins into her palm. Carefully she divided the amount, some for herself and Freya, the rest for Merlin. He began to object, but she silenced him, shaking her head. "No. I meant it when I said it; you will need it more than I. I have earned some of my own by helping the neighbors." With a tiny encouraging smile she put both the lighter money pouch and a small flask into his hands. She always refused doles of any kind, even when the butcher said he could spare a small piece of meat. Even from her own son, she declined most of it. Merlin didn't know if he should admire or pity his mother's stubbornness.

"Do you have long or must you go? Freya is eager to hear everything."

So he stayed and talked, about the grand mansion and its green lawn; the pallid stonework and colourful rooms with their heavy tapestries and rich furniture; the large kitchen; the river gently lolling just outside the door. He spoke about Guinevere and the children and even mentioned the butcher and his son, but never of Sophie's heated hateful glances, or Mordred's haughtiness that one time he tripped in the hallway right in front of the boy and almost broke a pitcher. He described the studio with its silent corner and how he wondered the painting itself looked like. Freya was very happy and asked him to describe the house, the details in the hallway, the many-layered colours of the clothes the gentlefolk wore, and there was no envy in her eyes: only interest and curiosity.

"At least Guinevere seems very kind," Hunith said, relieved. "What about lady Ygraine and her husband?"

"I do not see them very much. The lady rests a lot because of her pregnancy, and the lord is usually out with his eldest, Arthur. I haven't seen myself as they're by the fields outside the city, but Gwen says they are training with the sword and horse-riding."

"Well, they are noblemen. It is hardly our business how they spend their time," his mother murmured. The sun had moved partly across the sky, shadows longer, and with a sigh Hunith laid a hand on his back and lead him to the front door. "You better go. You do not want to be late."

Merlin smiled, forlornly, as he hugged Freya in goodbye and the girl whispered like a secret question: "Can't you take me with you one day? I want to see the large windows in the house and meet Morgana and Sophia. Can't you?"

"Maybe one day," he said and patted her head, quietly thinking that it would never happen - Freya would soon enough forget the request anyway.

()()()

"You're late," Gwen observed when he arrived with a pail full of fish.

"I'm sorry. I lost track of time." Though he hated acting meek, he shifted his gaze to the floor and tried to look as apologetic as possible. Not only had he lingered at home, but when on the market, William had had some free time and attempted to make conversation with him when on his way from the fisher's stand. Merlin hadn't been able to just walk away from him.

"Don't be again. Wash your hands. Then you can go and scrub the outer stair. The physician will come to visit any moment, and master Pendragon probably as well, look at the time!"

He'd never met any physician before apart from his mother, so he had no idea whom Gwen was talking about, and to a servant like him it should not matter anyway. He did as she bid, ridding his hands off the smell of fish and smoke, before settling in the sun in front of the house, the bucket by his side. It didn't take long for the sun to start bothering him, a bead of sweat forming in the crook of his scarfed neck; but he would never open his shirt and bare himself that way, or take off the neckerchief he always wore. It made people…look, and it made him uncomfortable. The work grew perfunctory as his mind began wandering to unimportant things. He wondered if anyone would notice if he used his gift to hurry up this work a little bit…

After a while, the sound of hoof-beats echoed between the buildings, and Merlin looked up as they stopped just by the entrance, coming into view between the greenery. There were two horses, proud and quite beautiful; Uther was conversing with his son, who laughed at something as they dismounted. Their voices carried over to him, into the house – the door was open again, to let in fresh breezes. As if on cue, the girls and Mordred appeared, rushing outside. The latter ignored Merlin completely. Morgana was leading the littlest sister by hand, walking past without a glance but Sophia stopped for a moment, staring at him.

He met the girl's gaze steadfastly. When her father was present, she didn't dare do anything, but he could almost read her thoughts in those indigo eyes. His chest jerked a bit, a pain he couldn't explain, as he wondered why she hated him so much.

Then Sophia turned to her father smiling brilliantly. "Father, father! Have you bought the flowers you promised from the meadow?"

Both men exchanged knowing glances, and the elder nodded. "Yes, Sophia, we have. Now, let me take care of the horses."

Actually, he meant taking them to the stables, which Merlin knew were nearby but never been to himself. Gwen and he were only working in the house. There were two stable-boys but they never went up to the house, so Merlin never had a chance to meet them. (That time he'd said it out loud, Gwen had just commented, that "The less distractions there are the quicker you get the work done.")

"I can do that, father," the son Arthur said. It was the first time Merlin heard him speak, and his voice was soft though commanding as he said that, brisk and husky - Merlin shivered, wondering why he noticed things like that. Arthur twisted his head like feeling he was being watched and, for a short moment, met the servant's eyes. The man's eyes were very blue.

Finally his father distracted Arthur, and Merlin exhaled deeply. Dropping his gaze from the blonde man (the sunlight made his hair appear like a golden crown), he began scrubbing more furiously at the stonework. What was that? he thought, angry with himself - what was wrong with him today?

"Go on then, son. Come here, girls, tell me what you have been up to," the older Pendragons said, his voice so strangely warm and kind, not at all like belonging to a ruthless man; it took Merlin by surprise. "Mordred, I hope you have not caused your mother any stress." The children flocked around the man as they disappeared inside the house. Merlin finally dared to lift his gaze, but found that Arthur too had gone.

Somehow, it disappointed him; a nagging feeling at the bottom of his stomach.