Chapter One: The Prat and the Idiot
"Merlin!"
Arthur Pendragon, crown prince of Camelot, was furious. He was, in fact, more enraged than he had been in years. A month since his unfortunate encounter with the Questing Beast and his almost-healed wound was still giving him trouble, more than he wanted to admit. In spite of Gaius' salves and ointments, assiduously rubbed into his neck, arm, and shoulder every night by Merlin, it was still painful and his range of motion was still limited. At practice with the knights that morning he had performed miserably–at least by his and Uther's standards–although everyone else seemed to be impressed with his swordsmanship. A few curt words from his father had set him steaming, although he kept his expression impassive and his manner casual until he reached his bedchamber. Only then did he allow himself to fling open the door violently in a fit of temper.
"Merlin!"
Where the devil was his blasted manservant? Never around when he needed him. Always appeared when he wasn't supposed to. No deference at all towards a prince of the blood. A clumsy oaf who tripped over his own feet. Hadn't Arthur ordered him to have all of last week's clothes laundered and brought to his...
"I'm here, sire," came the quiet response from the other side of the massive bed, where the manservant in question was folding Arthur's freshly washed shirts and gingerly adding them to the impressive pile of clothing resting on the embroidered coverlet. The very sight of him was an immediate balm to Arthur's evil humor, although he never would have said so for the world. As angry as he still was, he felt the knot in his stomach beginning to loosen. But there was no reason to admit this, so, instead, he stomped over to the table and lifted the empty flagon he found there, waving it threateningly in Merlin's general direction.
"Merlin, you idiot, don't I always tell you to keep this full? I'm thirsty!"
"Ask nicely," Merlin replied with just a hint of a grin as he carried a pitcher, filled with water, from the night stand to the table.
For all their unspoken friendship and camaraderie, Arthur was not going to put up with any insolence today.
"You still don't get it; I don't have to ask nicely," he said acidly, although he lowered his voice and his tense muscles relaxed a little. He drank the water Merlin poured for him and then collapsed into a chair, where he sat staring gloomily at nothing, drumming his fingers on the table. Merlin returned to his pile of folded garments, which was now beginning to resemble the Tower of Babel, and picked up where he had left off.
"God, Merlin, what's all that dirt on your knees?"
The young man refused to take notice of Arthur's critical glare.
"Soot," he replied cheerfully as he shook out one of Arthur's voluminous nightshirts. "I cleaned the fireplace, like you asked. But I've washed up, look!" And he held his hands toward the prince, palms outward, to show that they were clean.
What's Uther said to him now? he wondered, stealing a glance at Arthur's stormy visage. It was plain to see that there would be no talking to him while he was in this frame of mind, so Merlin simply went on with his work.
Arthur's foul mood began to dissipate as he gazed at the oddly endearing features of his irritating manservant (those elbows, those ears!), who, oblivious to the prince's regard, continued to fold garment after garment. The pile was beginning to teeter dangerously and Arthur snickered at the sight.
"That's horrible Merlin, you'll have it all on the floor."
"Oh, s'all right, the floor's clean,"
"Just make two piles, you–"
"Idiot," Merlin supplied helpfully as he shifted half of the clothes to make a second heap.
"I was going to say lazy git, but idiot will do," Arthur replied in a conversational tone.
Merlin further divided the piles into three.
"That wasn't so hard, was it? Honestly Merlin, if you can't do anything without being told how..."
Merlin looked up, a faint flush on his thin cheeks, but his expression changed when he saw Arthur wince with discomfort, clutching his upper arm. The laundered clothes were abandoned as Merlin walked quickly to the prince's chair and began to gently massage Arthur's shoulder and neck. The prince's heavy jacket was in the way and Merlin removed it.
"Ow!" Arthur muttered, the corners of his mouth turning down in a characteristic grimace, but the light pressure and soothing rhythm calmed him and eased the soreness. He felt better, much better. He supposed that he really should be grateful to Merlin, awkward, clumsy Merlin, for helping to relieve the tension that had been building in his mind and muscles ever since Uther (what? has he forgotten that I almost died four weeks ago?) had spoken sharply to him in front of the knights on the training ground. He leaned back against the chair and sighed, gesturing for Merlin to continue, and peered up at his young servant's face as he worked. It was difficult to deny, he thought with vague amusement, that Merlin ranked high on the adorable scale–certainly Morgana and Gwen, not to mention other females in the castle, were always making such a fuss over him, as though he were a homeless puppy. In fact almost everyone in Camelot, with the probable exception of Uther, seemed to be quite besotted with him. At the moment he was looking particularly adorable, his brow furrowed slightly with concentration, blue eyes focused beneath his fringe of straight black hair, a light sweat beginning to dew his brow, high cheekbones, and upper lip.
Merlin swiped the pink tip of his tongue across his upper lip to wipe away the tiny beads of sweat and Arthur gave a start as though someone had pinched him. His eyes fastened on a streak of soot along the edge of Merlin's jaw and he repressed the urge to wet his fingers with his own tongue and wipe the soot from that milky skin. He felt a warmth fan out across his own face and, unexpectedly, his mouth went dry. Where, he asked himself, was this coming from?
And then, all at once, everything was spoiled.
"Oh, Ar...sire, I forgot to mention...your...the king sent a messenger asking to see you in the audience hall, just before you came in."
"What!" Arthur's fist crashed down on the table and he pulled himself to his feet, his bad temper effectively rejuvenated. Merlin wisely backed away toward the bed, and took refuge on the other side of it.
"You idiot!"
"He, erm, said he wanted to see you and Gaius..."
"Why didn't you tell me immediately! Sodding idiot," he added as he reached for his crimson jacket and shrugged himself into it.
"I'm sorry Arthur, I...forgot," came the answer.
Typical lackadaisical behavior...so typically Merlin.
"You haven't been at the ale, have you Merlin?"
Merlin mimed shock and outrage before shaking his head and suddenly Arthur had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.
"No...I just forgot to tell you."
"And why is that, may I ask?" Arthur drawled as he kicked off his muddy boots and reached for his indoor ones. Merlin shrugged, but gave the prince an apologetic look.
"Because you didn't look well, sire. It just went out of my head, sorry. Anyway, an audience with the king was probably the last thing you needed."
"Unconscionable..."
"What?"
"You really need to work on your vocabulary," Arthur muttered. "If you want to keep your job."
Merlin had emerged from behind the great bedstead, but as he walked past Arthur the prince aimed a light cuff to the back of his head.
"How can I remember any fancy vocabulary if you keep batting it out of my brain?"
"Oh shut up, Merlin," Arthur said on cue, but this time there was amused affection in his voice. "I'm off to see Father, then. Since you did such a nice job on the fireplace, can you remember to bank the fire properly?"
"If ...if my memory is still intact, sire."
Arthur groaned and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, but couldn't prevent a smile from spreading across his lips. It was impossible to stay angry with Merlin for long, he was just too, well, cute. Not to mention that he had risked the wrath of both king and prince because he had seen that Arthur was in distress. Merlin walked past him again as he returned to the mountainous piles of clothing and Arthur restrained himself from ruffling the spiky black hair, a gesture of mildly scornful affection he lately had taken to making whenever Merlin was least expecting it.
Then he saw that the boot in his hand was the one with the rat hole in it (Bloody Merlin! He forgot to mend it!), and with a huff of exasperation he flung it across the bed. There was a squawk, the towers of folded clothes toppled over, and Merlin was suddenly buried beneath an avalanche of laundry.
"Prat," came a muffled complaint from the heap on the floor.
"That's Prince Prat to you," Arthur replied, grinning as he headed for the door, his third-best pair of boots in his hand. He heard a little crow of laughter from Merlin as he emerged, hair tousled, from the pile of clothes, and his grin widened. "Now clean that mess up, take out the rubbish, and be back here after dinner, or I'll have you wash that lot all over again."
Chapter Two: A Disclosure
It had begun to rain outside and the sky was overcast. Uther's audience hall was dark and chilly, with candles in sconces providing the only light. The torches that usually provided brightness were absent, and there was no fire in the enormous hearth. As Arthur walked the length of the room towards the throne he realized, to his dismay, that his third-best pair of boots were now too tight and far too stiff, not having been rubbed with oil or wax in a long, long time. (Merlin! I ought to thrash him.) He could see that the only other people present were his father and Gaius, their heads bent, deep in conversation. The king raised his face as his son approached.
"Ah, Arthur!" he said in tones that were almost jovial. The prince hid his surprise beneath an automatic smile and waited.
"I've been talking with Gaius about your recovery...I am really very pleased."
Like you've ever let me see it, Arthur thought to himself as he continued to smile.
"I think perhaps it's time we held a banquet to celebrate–and also, to honor Gaius for his remarkable cure. His book claimed the bite of a Questing Beast is fatal, but he never gave up, even when everybody else had."
"Of course, Father," Arthur began but Gaius raised his hand and spoke in a low voice.
"If you'll pardon my interruption sire, it was not I who cured the prince."
Uther raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"But Gaius, who else could have done it?"
The corners of Gaius' mouth lifted and he actually chuckled.
"It was young Merlin who healed him."
Arthur rocked back on his heels and caught his breath, and now both of Uther's eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead.
"Merlin!" exclaimed the king, skepticism evident in his voice. "Surely you're joking, Gaius. That gawk of a lad who's always getting underfoot? Surely not."
"Merlin is a clever student sire, difficult as it may be for you to believe. He has learned a great deal from my books and from watching me work. It was he who found the reference to...to tincture of, ah, lobelia, and he who prepared it for the prince."
Arthur released his breath in a sudden whoosh, but neither the king nor the physician noticed. Uther was smiling in bemused appreciation as he clapped Gaius on the shoulder.
"Merlin! Well, who would have thought it?" he chuckled, truly jovial now. "It was my opinion that his only ability was to entertain the populace in the stocks. Well, well! This gives me a thought, Gaius. If the young man is so gifted, perhaps he should be assigned to you on a full time basis. You could use a proper apprentice...we're neither of us as young as we used to be, eh?"
"No!" Arthur exploded without thinking.
Both men turned and stared at him.
"I...I meant, he's my servant, you gave him that position."
The beginnings of a frown appeared on Uther's face.
"If the boy has a talent for medicine, don't you think we owe it to Gaius, and to ourselves, to let him develop it? Good physicians aren't easy to come by. It shouldn't take long to find you another servant–and a more reliable one, no doubt."
He's mine! thought Arthur possessively, but aloud he only said, "It's taken a lot of time to train him and he knows how I like things. Anyway, I've gotten used to him; he's been helpful, and now it seems he's saved my life. I don't see why he couldn't work with Gaius in the afternoons–every other day perhaps–or during his time off."
"I'm sure he'd appreciate your suggestion," Uther replied drily. "Any servant would be only too delighted to work during his time off."
Arthur opened his mouth to offer another argument but this time was interrupted by Gaius.
"My lord, my lord, I think the prince may be right."
Arthur shut his mouth in astonishment.
"Merlin's an intelligent boy; it shouldn't be difficult to instruct him for a few hours a week, at least for now. And I believe he's serious in his desire to watch out for the prince. He has a good eye for trouble, I've noticed it before."
A good eye for trouble! Arthur snorted to himself. You mean he's good at getting into trouble...
"So I believe he should remain at Arthur's side," Gaius finished.
...and good at getting me out of it I suppose, Arthur was forced to admit to himself.
Uther's eyebrows had gone back to their normal position, but now he raised one quizzically and looked from his son to his physician.
"Very well," he said, although he was clearly puzzled by the resistance to his idea.
Arthur breathed a barely audible sigh of relief.
"May I be excused, Father?" he asked politely, itching to get away. If Merlin hasn't fixed that boot I'm going to pummel him to a pulp. I'm going to...
"Feeling tired are you?" Uther said brusquely. "Very well, off you go."
Arthur bowed his head, then turned and strode from the chamber, as quickly as his uncomfortable boots would allow.
Chapter Three: Another Disclosure, and Then Some
"What on earth, Arthur?" Morgana asked.
She had come across her childhood friend and frequent antagonist, slumped in a window embrasure and staring out over the misty courtyard in an obvious fit of pique.
Arthur glanced up at her, but there was no spark of battle in her eyes and she sounded genuinely concerned.
"The king wanted to take Merlin away...put him in service with Gaius," he muttered.
It was Morgana's turn to raise her eyebrows at him.
"You didn't agree, I hope," she began accusingly.
"No of course I didn't," snapped Arthur irritably. "I need Merlin...he's an idiot but he helps me to get on. I think I'd die of boredom if he left, if he weren't here," he added reluctantly.
"Well, Gwen and I would die of boredom if he were shut up with Gaius all day, pounding herbs and stirring elixirs," Morgana said decidedly. "I don't know what we would do without him. Why, only the other day Gwen said that Merlin was like a breath of fresh air come into this stuffy, tedious old place."
"That doesn't surprise me. You girls...always listening to those stupid troubadours and minstrels' songs droning on about sapphire eyes like pools to drown in, raven hair, skin like ivory, blah blah blah.."
Oh, no, here we go again; Merlin's right, Arthur can be such a total prat; no, a complete arsehat! Morgana's lips tightened and her foot began to tap the stone floor.
"For your information, my lord, we enjoy Merlin's company. He talks to us like another human being. No bowing and scraping. No silly flattery. I thought that was something even you appreciated. But no, I suppose all you want is to drag him off on those interminable hunting trips, and force him to practice sword fighting with you so that you can beat him, and have him follow behind you wherever you go. Gwen and I simply like Merlin for who he is; we're fond of him, both of us."
"You mean because he's a sweet, innocent country boy?" Arthur asked at his most sarcastic.
"What?"
"Innocent. Country. Boy."
Morgana raised her voice. "Arthur Pendragon, are you accusing me, or Gwen, of wanting to ravish your Merlin?"
"I suppose a boy of his charms would appeal to you. I wouldn't put it past you, you or Gwen, to try to work your feminine wiles on him. Well I won't have it. And what do you mean, my Merlin. I don't exactly own him, I mean he's not a serf or anything."
Arthur was prepared for a fight but to his surprise Morgana simply gave him a broad smile before spinning on her heel and walking away.
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Shortly before dinner Arthur took his bad mood into the courtyard, where he perched on a low wall to give the matter of Merlin some consideration.
This morning in his room, that desire to touch Merlin, to reach out and put a hand on him. Where had that come from and why? Arthur was not given to much introspection, or at least he hadn't been before Merlin came into his life. He was a person of action, deep thought was something he rarely indulged in, but he was indulging in it more and more lately. And this unexpected desire...to touch Merlin? Arthur had always regarded himself as extremely masculine; he was a warrior after all, with a warrior's body, and blond good looks that consistently drew attention from the ladies around him (except, of course, for Morgana). He had proved his masculinity a number of times, with several of the more discrete ladies of Camelot, and he had enjoyed it. He took pleasure in the sight of a beautiful woman–even Morgana when she wore that skimpy purple gown–and although he had never forced himself upon any of the servant girls the way some noblemen did, he hadn't complained when more than one pretty kitchen wench had come–of her own free will–to his chamber at night, in the past. So...why this yearning to feel Merlin's skin under his fingers? There had been a time or two, he admitted to himself, when he had wondered what it would be like if Merlin was a girl, but damn it! Merlin wasn't a girl, and Arthur didn't really want him to be a girl. He liked the companionship, the jokes, Merlin's sly good humor. And, come to think of it, the way Merlin's dark lashes hovered above the clear blue of his eyes when he helped Arthur on with his armor, or dressed him in the morning...and, bloody hell, undressed him at night. When he thought of Merlin now, what came into his mind was the way his servant's awkwardness often give way to an angular grace, the slimness–almost delicacy–of his body in those drab, depressing clothes, the charm of his smile, the pale creaminess of his skin.....bloody hell! Was he truly imagining Merlin in his arms? Without those drab, depressing clothes? Good God...did he actually want him like that?
Yes, his instinct told him intractably. He actually did. And it had taken the threat of Merlin's removal to make him realize this.
And what could he do about it? He imagined the shock and terror on Merlin's face if he should ever give way to his desire, fling him onto the bed, and even attempt to make love to him. He imagined the shock and fury on Uther's face if he should ever find that his son, his heir, lusted after his manservant. Then he imagined the shock of Merlin's lips against his own, how soft they would be, how warm, and he gritted his teeth with frustration, raking his hand through his fair hair until it stood up straight, like a crown, on his head.
There was no sitting still any longer. Jumping lightly to the ground, the prince headed towards Gaius' chambers. He might ask him for a sleeping draught, a bottle of strong wine, anything to keep his head from spinning so. Or maybe Merlin would be there, and they could talk, and then everything would be fine and just like it was before. In all likelihood, after all, Merlin found some female in the court attractive. Gwen, a fellow servant, so pretty, so sweet, so likeable and tenderhearted. Or even Morgana, whose dark-haired, pale-skinned good looks were not so different from his own.
Arthur halted just inside the door to Gaius' workroom, but there was no one to be seen. A fire burned on the hearth, the remains of a meal stood on the table, but there was no Gaius...no Merlin. However the door to Merlin's little room stood ajar, and Arthur, curiosity getting the better of him, tiptoed in.
Merlin's room, too, was empty.
It was even relatively tidy, Merlin for once having had the time and inclination to make the bed and sweep the floor. Something neatly wrapped in cloth sat on his bedside table. One flap of cloth had fallen to the side and Arthur could see that it was a book.
He knew that Merlin could read–surprising, really, for a boy of his humble background–and write, but what was this book? Crossing the room silently, Arthur pulled the cloth away, opened the heavy leather cover, and began to flip through the pages...
And then he stopped.
It was a book of spells.
There was no question about it. Arthur squinted at it warily, then went directly to the page marked by a simple slip of paper. There, on the page, was an ink and color image of a questing beast, and a reference, in cramped Latin text, to the only cure for it's usually fatal bite.
Merlin...using magic, using sorcery. Merlin, a sorcerer.
There was a small sound behind him and Arthur twisted around, one hand going to the hilt of his sword. Gaius was standing in the doorway, looking soberly at the book. A deep sigh escaped him and he raised his eyes to the prince's face.
"You knew, Gaius?" was all that Arthur could manage to say.
Gaius motioned for Arthur to sit, which was happy to do as he knees seemed to have turned to jelly.
"Yes I knew, sire," the elderly physician responded. He was clearly unhappy but he met Arthur's blue gaze directly, and did not lower his eyes. "I've known from the beginning. So if anyone is to be punished, it should be me. Not Merlin. He was born with that gift, and has never used it for anything but good. He could not tell you about it, but he has saved your life many times already, yours and your father's. He would give his life for you. He almost did, after you were bitten by that beast conjured up by the priestess–Nimueh–of the Old Religion. He went to her, offered his life in your place, brought the water from the Isle of the Blessed that cured you. Nimueh would have killed him then, but he was powerful enough, it seems, to destroy her first."
"But...a sorcerer..." The prince's voice trailed off into a near whisper.
"I know what your father has told you about the evils of sorcery," the old man went on inexorably. "And he's right, it has been used for evil and can still be used thus. But magic in and of itself is not evil, sire. It depends on how it's used, and who uses it. There has never been anyone more pure of heart than Merlin. But more importantly, it is his destiny to remain by your side, to protect you from harm, to see to it that you become king of Camelot in good time. And then...and then to see to it that you understand that his gift can be used to promote good: peace and prosperity for the realm, safety for you."
Under the physician's steady regard Arthur lowered his eyelids and tightened his lips to steady them.
"He...you know what my father would do," he murmured, "If. If he found out."
"Yes," replied Gaius steadily. "Yes I do know. I cannot dictate your conscience sire, but I can only beg you to say nothing. If you denounce Merlin you must denounce me. I once studied sorcery, as your father knows but chooses to ignore, and although it has been an age since I used it, I have not completely forgotten how. Merlin is like a son to me; he's the son I never had, and if he dies it is my wish to die as well."
Arthur raised his head and stared back at the man he had known all his life.
"Gaius, I can't tell the king. I...won't tell him. I just wish..."
"You just wish, sire?"
"I just wish that Merlin had told me."
He saw that the physician's eyes were filled with relief but also with pity and understanding, so he got unsteadily to his feet and made his way outside.
Chapter Four: Together
Arthur was never quite certain how he was able to make it through dinner, which was an elaborate one due to the unexpected visit of some self-important dignitary from a neighboring kingdom. He spoke when spoken to, raised his goblet for all the toasts, and avoided looking at his father who was holding forth at the head of the table. He also avoided Morgana's questioning glances. The only thing he was keenly aware of was the line of servants standing directly behind him, their backs to the wall, in accordance with protocol. He knew that Merlin was there, next to Gwen, and he felt his presence acutely. When Merlin leaned over his shoulder to refill his wine goblet he felt his mouth go dry as it had that morning in his own chamber, but he said nothing and did not acknowledge him. He would wait until later to have it out with his manservant. In the meantime he sat politely, while to his right the dignitary's wife nattered on interminably about how difficult it was to find a good servant these days, and how her own maid had run off with some ne'er-do-well from Lothian.
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Not long afterward, making his way down the corridor to his room, only slightly unsteady on his feet after drinking a bit more than he should have, Arthur tried to piece together what he was going to say to Merlin, how he could confront him. When he reached his door he pushed it open silently and entered, closing it behind him without a sound.
The chamber was dim, Merlin of course having forgotten to light the candles by the bed or on the table. But there was a fire in the hearth with its carved stone hood, and there on the floor, sitting tailor fashion on the bearskin rug, was Merlin, Arthur's boot in one hand and a sturdy needle in the other. There was a soft ploc, ploc, ploc as he drew the needle and its waxed thread in and out of the thick leather. Although most of the room was in shadow there was just enough light for him to work by, the flickering firelight alternately highlighting, then softening, the angular planes of his face, oddly striking, strangely beautiful.
"Merlin."
Merlin gave a start and the boot went flying, nearly landing in the fire. Arthur bent and rescued it.
"You shouldn't startle me like that, no need for a burnt offering," Merlin said with a ghost of a smile. He was wearing a set of clean clothes, no trace of soot now, and had evidently just bathed for his damp hair hung limp and shining on his forehead and nape.
Arthur cleared his throat, tried for a sarcastic remark, and failed.
"If it got burnt, I suppose you could make it whole again," he offered, and then lapsed into silence.
Merlin said nothing but he raised his head and his eyes met Arthur's, his expression very grave and still.
"I know about you," Arthur said abruptly. "I found that book in your room, and then Gaius confirmed it. It's true, isn't it, you're a sorcerer, a warlock, or whatever it's called."
"Yes, it's true," the other said quietly. Arthur's hand came out and gripped Merlin's arm.
"Why couldn't you tell me, Merlin?" He spoke between his teeth.
Merlin's black brows drew together. "Tell you? How could I tell you, sire. It's a death sentence for me if anyone knows. Or I'd have to leave. One or the other. What was I supposed to do, if someone went to the king."
"You think...you think I'd tell my father?"
Merlin looked the prince straight in the eye.
"Won't you?"
"Well, think about it! No, wait, that's not your strong point, is it?"
Arthur grasped Merlin's other arm and rolled his eyes in exasperation.
"Brainless! I might have, once, before I got to know you, but now..."
For a moment Merlin looked almost amused. "Am I that irreplaceable?"
"You don't think I'd stand up for you?"
"Uther wouldn't care if you stood on your head for me."
Arthur completely ignored this attempt at humor.
"I'd never let him lay a hand on you," he said, very low.
If he had let himself, Merlin could have smiled at the possessiveness in Arthur's voice.
"But if you ever try to leave," he continued, gripping both of Merlin's arms and shaking him a little, "I'll tell everyone."
"God, Arthur," Merlin murmured as his head snapped back and forth. "Am I that irresistible?"
The shaking stopped and Arthur stared down at the dark head, the downcast eyes whose blue was faintly visible through the screen of black lashes, and rapped out, "Merlin. Look at me."
"Stop ordering me about then," Merlin replied, his eyes narrowing, but Arthur could tell that he wasn't angry. And when he refused to look up, Arthur crooked a finger under his chin and lifted his face impatiently, scanning it for a sign, any sign. Then he saw one corner of his mouth quivering with the effort not to grin and with a sigh he bent over the lips that were so close to his own.
It was a gentle kiss, just a quick brushing of mouth on mouth, but he could feel Merlin's surprise, although he did not draw away.
"You would have died for me," Arthur managed to get out. "More than once. Am I that irresistible?"
This time Merlin did grin.
"Well no, you prat, but for the good of the kingdom..."
Arthur groaned out loud and crushed Merlin against him, seeking his mouth again. It was a fierce kiss this time, and Arthur realized at the back of his mind–with what little rational thought remained to him–that he was going a bit too fast. Merlin might have called him a prat, but he knew himself well enough to acknowledge his own tendency to dominate, to be forceful, to always want the upper hand, and he knew that he would have to temper his eagerness or run the risk of losing his prize. So the next kisses were all gentle and tender, and for a while undemanding, until he felt Merlin's lips open under his, and saw the expression on his face change, become soft and expectant. His own hand was clenched in Merlin's hair, the other resting against Merlin's hollow cheek. When he finally felt Merlin's hand in his own hair, Merlin's slender, wiry body acquiescent in his grasp, he drew away, stood up with an effort, and yanked Merlin unceremoniously to his feet.
What followed were several minutes of awkward mutual struggle to get Merlin out of his clothes; his own he disposed of with a rapid efficiency that surprised the young man so accustomed to dressing him. In the great bed Arthur was reminded willy nilly of those stupid troubadour songs he had complained to Morgana about, because Merlin's skin did indeed glow in the semidarkness like ivory and silk. He was nearly breathless with passion but he forced himself to take things in stages because Merlin, though clearly willing, was just as clearly inexperienced. He didn't want to frighten Merlin...his Merlin...nor did he want to hurt him, so for a long time he contented himself with running his fingertips lightly along the contours of a body he had never really seen, close up, before, feeling the ribs that were just visible beneath the pale skin, arms that were very lean but firmly muscled. When Merlin wrapped his arms around Arthur's neck and responded to him it was difficult not to lose control, but the years of military discipline, he supposed, enabled him to hold back while he maneuvered the other's limbs into an appropriate position. This done, he slid one arm around Merlin's waist, and proceeded as carefully and as gradually as he could, eventually settling into a slow and gentle rhythm. He heard Merlin catch his breath and felt him flinch a little, but he did not cry out or pull away, so he was encouraged to move faster, sliding one hand down from Merlin's waist to stroke him. Their harsh breathing turned to panting, then to moaning, and then, in a little while, to a shared cry of release.
The fire that Merlin, naturally, had not banked properly was nearly out when they made an effort to disentangle their arms and legs and unwind themselves from the linen sheets. Half asleep, Arthur was fuzzily aware that Merlin had slipped from the bed and was busying himself near the hearth, his outline only faintly visible in the reddish glow of the embers.
"Merlin..."
The fire sprang to life, and then Merlin was kneeling on the bed, wiping the sticky wetness from their bodies with a soft, damp cloth.
"You didn't do that with magic, did you?" Arthur gestured at the fire, his eyes now completely closed.
"Not telling," Merlin replied straight-faced, although Arthur could hear the laughter in his voice.
Arthur turned on his side and let out a deep sigh of contentment as he fished around, eyes shut, for the coverlet. Climbing into the bed beside him, Merlin pulled blankets and coverlet up over both of them. Then as he watched Arthur turning his face into the downy warmth of the pillow, relaxed and totally un-pratlike, it came to him that this was someone who had grown up with a distant father, a burden of expectations, and the complete absence of a mother's love and enveloping care. So he gathered Arthur into his arms, holding him tightly, his own face pressed against the top of Arthur's head.
"I love you, my prince," he breathed into the rumpled golden hair.
And from deep within his embrace came the sleepy growl, "I love you too...idiot."