Once. Just this once, Arthur wanted a hunting trip that involved nothing but that. Hunting. Never mind impressing foreign princesses, attacking unicorns or fussing over sacred shrines, hunting was a primal instinct, used to divide the men from the boys in their quest for dominance over an arrow. It was in his blood, he was a born hunter.
'It's in my blood' He boomed smugly over his shoulder to Merlin, '…I'm a born hunter'. 'A born killer, you mean?' an obnoxious voice replied, jolted slightly by the soft movement of hooves beneath him. Arthur snorted loudly; 'As if you've never killed anything before? Must I remind you of the rat? That certainly wasn't alive when you forced it down my throat' 'Excuse me, I did not force it down your throat! You were hungry, you wanted food, you should be thankful I got you anything at all!' Merlins affronted tones had suddenly drifted closer to his ear than expected and he twisted rapidly in his saddle to find himself riding side by side with his disgruntled servant; he mimicked 'Excuse me, I don't wish to ride with a hypocrite!' 'Tough luck, you brought me! I would've happily stayed at home!' 'Moaning again, Merlin? There's a surprise!' 'If you weren't the King…' Arthur shot an amused look at his friend and teased 'you'd what? If I wasn't the King, what would you do?' Suddenly, the servants eyes glinted mischeviously as he shot a sly look at his master; 'Well, if you weren't the King…I might just have to go and do this!' And with that, he dug his heels into the horses side and began galloping hastily into the distance , calling 'see you on the other side, Arfur!' as he went. Arthur grinned childishly as he gripped the reigns of his own horse tightly, forcing his steed to canter towards the blur ahead of them with a shout of 'not if I see you first, Merly!', laughing as he rode.
When the two men had finally caught up with each other in the clearing, panting and exhausted they slid from their saddles and sunk down heavily into the long grass, Merlin's grin almost wider than his face. 'What are you so happy about?' He shrugged innocently and smiled 'oh nothing, just…I beat you…' 'Ha! You did not beat me, I clearly got here first…' 'No, I beat you.' 'You did not!' 'Oh yes, I did…' 'No, you didn't…' 'Children, please!' Both men started suddenly, as a cheerful voice burst into the clearing. Arthur's sword swung in front of him as he leapt to his feet, glancing round in alarm. 'Oh put the sword away, Arthur, it's only us…' Gwaine continued, casually dismounting his own steed and gesturing lazily to the rest of the knights before continuing; '…the Knights you keep heartlessly abandoning to go gallivanting off with Merlin? Ring any bells?' The King sent a scowl towards his men before muttering 'Oh, shut up Gwaine'. Tossing his hair back, the Knight simply raised his eyebrows towards the sniggering servant and added 'I hope you did beat him, Merlin' before winking and striding off to relive himself.
Most people assume that all sorcerers hate fire. Well…all sorcerers that've heard of Uther Pendragon anyway, but for Merlin; fire fascinates him. The way it can scold the sharpest sword, brighten the darkest room and effortlessly crumble anything it touches. It was the first spell he learnt as a child; to hold a flame in one hand and a bucket of water in one hand, releasing steam from his window and almost stopping his mothers heart. And now, watching Arthurs battle-touched face melt into the soft light of the flame, Merlin smiled proudly at the memory, his head tipping softly onto the warmed log behind him. One by one the Knights slumped where they sat, finally giving into the lathargic energy emmited from the fire until only Merlin and Arthur remained awake, gazing heavy eyed into the dying flames. Suddenly the King shifted across the circle to sit beside Merlin, his cloak fluttering drangerously across the hot pile of logs as he walked, saying nothing but simply offering a tired smile to the servant before relaxing into the grass.
'Merlin…' Merlins foggy mind struggled to surface as the soft whisper reached his ears. He was slumped sideways against something incredibly soft and incredibly comfortable, tucked companionly into its curve and was stubbornly reluctant to move. 'Merlin!' The silvery voice shook him again, and with a hushed grunt, he grudgingly opened his eyes and lifted his head. The soft pillow he'd imagined in his half-concious state raised up slightly as the pressure subsided, and, although it took him longer then he'd cared to admit, considering the obvious outline of the man beneath him, he finally realised where he'd fallen asleep, and hurriedly backed away in shock. 'Merlin!' There it was. That voice again! But upon realising that it was not an irate Arthur, berating him furiously for treating him as his own personal matress, was not Gwaine, making crude innuendos towards the pair and grinning smugly, Merlin stood up slowly, ears practically twitching at the sound. He whispered a soft 'hello?', carefully bending down to retrieve Arthurs sword from his side until a sharp 'don't!' startled him into standing again. This time the voice was urgent, reprimanding even, yet soft and sweet in his memory. With an almost endless turn, Merlin rotated elegantly in the darkness, and prepared himself, yet again, to face his Freya. Stepping carefully away from Arthur and the cooling fire, he began to jog softly over to the gleaming lake, eyes desperately searching for any trace, any sign of her in the water until he reached its edge. With a hesitant glance at the group behind him, he crouched down on the embankment and touched one hand to the glistening water in front of him, a gently 'Freya?' ghosting his lips.
Cold. Why is it so cold? Arthur's bleary eyes forced themselves open against his will, determined to find the source of his sudden chill, mend it immediately and let him go back to sleep. But all he found in the first few seconds of waking was a fuzzy pile of cooling ashes, a smooth curve of flattened grass and a curious urge to rub his shoulder. Allowing himself a lazy stretch, he heaved himself up slightly, glancing up at the adamantly bright orb hanging in the sky above him, and turned to find his water skin. And stopped. Merlin was stood, no, splayed out against the inky backdrop, face turned away him, arms spread wide, illuminated and glowing in the moon light, feet rocking ever so carefully over the edge of the steep cliff joining the embankment. Below him, the previously calm lake was thrashing widely, each wave crashing noisily against the shore, no longer still and gleaming, it was black and hungry, almost cavenous in the night. Arthur's heart jolted at the look on the his friends face. Fear. . His feet managed to shake themselves awake and the King began to run desperately toward the lake, short calls of 'Merlin!' 'Merlin, stop!' echoing in the silent clearing around him. His boots pounded the grass heavily, his breath seemed to catch in chest. He blinked. And Merlin fell.
His back arched gracefully as his shirt billowed around him, his feet curving right over the grassy edge, falling. Tumbling. Flying. Gone.