/^\\THE FIRST/^\\

Day One

He woke up to a shock of pain as a knee slammed into his side and tumbled him out of bed, hitting the side of his face onto the hard, compact ground. Merlin cradled a hand to his cheek, tasting the metal of blood in his mouth and watched Osric scramble for his clothes. The sounds of a battle could be heard outside. The clash of metal and the guttural cries carried easily through the open cut-holes, covered by wooden grates on the side of the hut.

Merlin simply stayed on the ground and watched Osric join the combat, wrenching the door open, sword in hand. It had been three years since Kanan swept in to rule Ealdor as his own. The start of those years proved to other raiders what Kanan and his men were capable of. The rest were quiet in comparison, his life as Osric's prize had been rather content, if Merlin didn't do anything to anger him. The discernible sounds of violence were too much of interest for Merlin's curiosity. He wanted to see which way the tide of battle went. He quickly gathered the blanket around his naked frame and rushed to peek through the grates.

He couldn't comprehend what he was seeing at first. He was expecting another group of raiders, the same leather armoury and black eye masks. Instead, the gleam of metal blinded him, and Merlin began to understand that these weren't raiders that had invaded. These invaders were soldiers, or knights—an army. A man on horse raced by, the flutter of a red flag caught his eyes, yet the symbol was indistinguishable amongst the movement of victory. There was no doubt about who would lose as Kanan's men were decimated. Merlin could see Kanan on the ground, the flow of blood running away from him. It was chaos.

Merlin startled away from the window as Osric flung open the door and slammed it shut behind him. He could see the streaks of blood on the raider's shirt and arm, most of the blood was probably Osric's. Both of them knew the outcome of today's battle and they stared at each other not saying a word; Merlin internally questioned the raider, 'what are you going to do now?' In return, Osric watched him, wondering what he wanted to do with his prize. One certainty Merlin had about Osric was his possessiveness.

Osric's decision was made clear as the raider stalked forward and grabbed Merlin by the arm. Merlin eyed the sword in Osric's hand with the apprehension of an oncoming demise. He almost let out a plea when the raider dragged him to the bed, pushing him to get on top. The action would have been usual if the circumstances had been different. Merlin tried to sit down; except he was forced to stand as his arm was yanked upwards. He reeled from realization as Osric opened the window shutters above the bed. They were escaping and Merlin didn't have a choice but to follow along. Osric was actually taking Merlin with him.

Merlin collapsed naked onto the ground, his blanket thrown down onto him as Osric aggressively told him to move aside. He barely avoided getting crushed, rolling away with the blanket in tow. He had even less time to cocoon himself when Osric ran for the hills towards the forest, his hand clenched tightly on his arm. Merlin allowed himself to be dragged along. If he needed to escape, he could later on when he had the chance. He could use his magic to distract the raider and make a run for it.

Osric yanked on his arm whenever Merlin would almost trip with the blanket beneath his feet. He could feel the joints pull and scream. They were almost to the top of the hill, to the sprouting cover of trees, when Osric screamed out in pain. Merlin had heard the whistle of the arrow before he saw the fletching sticking out of the Osric's back. The raider's body swayed before falling back onto Merlin. The momentum caused him to lose his balance, and they roughly tumbled downwards. He lost the blanket early on allowing the grass to freely prick his skin, while new aches and pains were added onto his body.

When everything stopped, Merlin found himself looking at the cloudless sky, the weight of Osric's body on his legs. His heart ricocheted in his chest as he scrambled to get the weight off him. Merlin could see the arrow was protruding at a different angle. The puncture point seeped red. He stood unsteadily on his legs, looking down at Osric.

Merlin couldn't feel anything for his former master (or partner)—whatever Osric wanted him to be. He felt guilt, not for Osric's death, but the lack of feeling for a man that was three years of his life. He admitted he wasn't treated badly, as long as he didn't do anything too wrong. Yet a companionship of three years-he thought it should produce some sort of feeling: anger, grief, or even joy.

Of course, he was reminded by the increasing sound of thunder that someone had won today's battle, and to the victor goes the spoils. Merlin turned around to see a galloping steed carry its rider towards him. The image the man made was remarkable, and would stay with him, even if this army were to be defeated in its campaign of war. There was a gleam of blood-streaked armour rapidly arriving upon him, with a crossbow in one hand and the other in the reins. His hair was the colour of the sun, and his handsome face spoke bravery, authority, and pride.

Merlin waited, as the man neared him and Osric. He was uncertain about the knight. He must have made an image himself: a nude, skinny male baring nothing but bruises, standing at the bottom of a hill beside the dead body of a raider. If the crossbow suggested anything, this man was most likely the one to have killed Osric. Merlin wondered if he should consider this man his 'saviour.'

The horse slowed to a trot as it came closer, before it stopped a few feet away from him. No words were spoken between them. The man gave him a cursory glance as though he was nothing, before settling on Osric. Merlin looked down at himself and couldn't miss the red handprint on his upper left arm—a forming bruise that would fade away eventually.

He went to touch Osric's mark, and found the man's blue eyes were swiftly moved back to him, as though he was a danger to be assessed. Merlin tracked the man's eyes as they moved over him more observantly. They were taking note of his bruises, the handprint, and whatever else raiders, soldiers, iand/i knights would look for. When the examination was done with, he was still watching Merlin and he found himself disconcerted by the stare. The man's eyes gave nothing of a leer. In fact, they were almost dismissive.

There was an irrational anger growing within him. He'd like to think of it as an unachieved rebellion working to spread throughout his mind and body. If this man thought these bruises were nothing—what did he know?

"You could have hit me," he said in a stern tone.

He must have sounded like a petulant child to the 'saviour.' Instead of the expected awe of surprise, Merlin found himself receiving a guffaw, which tumbled into mocking laughter. His simmering anger re-etched carved memories: the raiders that had him strip, made him bark like a dog, mewl at their feet, lick their boots, and act like their stupid pet, before Osric would take him away laughing with them. He'd be thrown into bed with mirth, then taken likewise, called him a good boy—because that's what he was, is, am, supposed to be.

Merlin was furious, wrath coursing through him that charged his body forward to throw a punch. Of course, the knight was on his horse and Merlin could only get his thigh. But then he grabbed him to bring him down to his level, and they both fell to the ground. Merlin only got two uncoordinated strikes of his hand, though he wished he got five, before the man easily pinned him to the ground. The knight was obviously more trained in combat than a village boy could ever be. Merlin was delighted to fight him tooth and nail, until two separate hands held him still between them, lifting him up, and roughly dragging him away. Beyond his fury, he barely heard the knight say, "Wait, let him go." The command made his rage subside a little. His rebellion withdrew altogether as the two hands on either side loosened, but had not yet released.

Merlin stilled, thinking his moment of irrationality was going to get him killed. The knight's leather-clad hands tipped his chin to meet his eyes; obviously not a mere knight, but a commander perhaps. He felt himself still even more, beginning to see something in those eyes. It riled him, but not enough to unleash his control. He could only be thankful that his magic didn't make a presence. The man repeated the same instruction to his men, and took his hand away as he stepped back. Merlin felt himself drop to the ground on his knees and arse. The man continued to view him with that look, and Merlin had to turn away with a muddle of emotions stirring within. He would call the look pity, and say that he didn't want it, but he'd never received it before.

He watched the proceedings of the village from his window, the ruckus of his bed left unattended. The sun was starting to set, and the bodies of the raiders were being piled on the outskirts, ready to burn before predators were attracted. The view of the fire was blocked by the amounts of tents erected around the village. A wall of soldiers and knights encircled the small village of Ealdor, a rest stop before the war campaign continued in full force. Merlin thought the numbers would be bigger if a kingdom would go to war with another, not fifty armed men.

Over the last hours, Merlin learned that the army belonged to Camelot, and the man he had raged against was their prince—Prince Arthur of Camelot. Thus to say, Ealdor had a new king. Merlin and the other villagers weren't sure what to make of Prince Arthur's declaration when he gathered them to the village center. Instead, they stayed silent looking at one another and waited.

It was strange knowing your home was yours. None of the knights and soldiers took over their homes, though a few optimists did offer their hospitality in recognition of their freedom. The rest of them, including Merlin, were still wary about the invaders. Of course, Kanan's former dwelling was commandeered by the Prince: a home that belonged to a town, more so than a village. Its construction was at Kanan's demand shortly after his take-over. In that sense, it was fitting for the royal to use that lodging.

A knock on his door jolted him from his thoughts. There was a soldier at his door, possibly a knight. "The Prince requests your presence." Merlin stared perplexed at the man before mumbling out an agreement. He recalled the Prince's pompous and arrogant posture (that laugh and that look), and imagined this was less of a request and more of a demand.

"Can you give me a few minutes?" He didn't know what his Highness wanted, but he thought he might as well prepare himself.

The sun was gone when Merlin stepped outside to be lead to Kanan's cottage—Arthur's lodging. Merlin had never been inside before, the women of the village confiding in him about less than pleasant experiences. If he shivered from their tales, he was allowed to.

The knight, who surprisingly introduced himself as Sir Bryce on the short walk there, opened the door for Merlin. The door closed behind him as he stepped past the threshold. The Prince was leaning against the dining table, looking out the window. Similar to Merlin's home, yet larger and covered with wooden shutters rather than grates. The place itself was fairly larger than his home. There even seemed to be a door leading to a separate room, which could only be the bedroom. In its appearance, it was also more lavish. (The luxury was probably nothing for the Prince). On the table was a small provision of bread, fruit, and meat. Merlin noted that it came from their stocks of food, or at least the raiders, so it belonged to Camelot's army now. More than half the food was stolen from other villages, Ealdor nicely in the center of them all. Most of the goods he had never tasted, watching Osric eat them, getting the flavour of the meals when his mouth was plunged with Osric's lips and tongue.

The Prince continued to sip from his goblet of wine, while Merlin obtusely studied the room. The man didn't do anything but drink from the goblet, as though he had nothing else to look at and nothing to do. Hadn't the Prince ask for him? Merlin was beginning to lose his patience when he was unceremoniously told to strip in that commanding tone. Shock was quickly overridden by his frown, irked by this man again. Arthur—prince or not, he was just a man—wouldn't even look his way. And it bothered him because Arthur was not giving hints to why he was here. Merlin could only think of that ugly laugh in the fields behind his hut. That Arthur had something he wanted to 'teach' him. Yet if this was sexual (if Arthur wanted him) he'd rather have the royal prat face him.

So, Merlin stood there not moving. He disobeyed. This lack of obedience caught Arthur's attention well enough. He turned, setting down his goblet on the table and quirked an eyebrow at him. "Did you hear what I said?"

The tone of irritation was one that Merlin didn't care for. He was looking at him now with annoyed acknowledgment. Merlin began to strip off his clothes, unashamed of the Arthur's eyes. Merlin felt that he was winning something when Arthur looked away, his conceited composure failing. So he easily complied with Arthur's clipped order to position himself at the table.

It took more time, before Arthur would come near him. The heat of a body was behind him as one hand pressed down onto his lower back and travelled up his spine, pausing after every small action he made. Merlin didn't understand Arthur's need to draw out this affair.

The hand was travelling down his spine when Arthur asked, "Why did that man try to run with you?"

The question was unexpected. Why did it matter? Merlin wasn't going to divulge about his relations with Osric, he wasn't in the mood to express his thoughts to someone who wouldn't care. "Can't ask him now, can you?" Merlin retorted softly.

Again, his response was met with silence. He'd let Arthur think what he wanted to think, and not give him anything more. All the while the man continued to examine the bumps of his spine, bones pressing outwards beneath the skin. Merlin wondered what he was trying to find. His body should say enough about his relations with Osric.

When Arthur's hand slid down between the cheeks of his arse, the movement was familiar, and Merlin felt he was back to accustomed expectations. He should have known that Arthur would subvert his common encounter, the surprise as he said, "You prepared yourself?" His finger pressed lightly into the minutes of preparation Merlin had readied moments before. Suddenly, Arthur's hands were no longer on him as he made a tiny step back.

"Yes," Merlin hesitated to say. The silence was becoming unnerving, and he wondered if he should say more, but Arthur returned in strength. His arse was fully pressed against and a hard line made itself recognized. He didn't even hear Arthur unlace his breeches. After that, the trepidation and silence made way for possession and noise. Merlin was bent over the table, hands gripping the sides, as Arthur took him from behind, digging his hips into the table-top's edge with every drive forward. It was quick and done expediently. When Arthur finished inside of him, he was left panting heavily onto Merlin's back, warming the skin just below the neck.

It was awhile before he slipped out and fixed his attire to proper order, while a wet liquid slid down Merlin's thighs. His hands trailed up Merlin's back once again. The fingers trailed to the side, settled on Osric's bruise, the form of a hand on his arm.

"Dress," Arthur commanded, stepping away from him.

Merlin eased off the table and got dressed. In the periphery of his vision, he watched Arthur pick at the array of food on the table, adding more wine to his goblet. The candle light easily showed the light sheen of sweat on Arthur's face, and his stance was more languid. He could feel his tunic sticking to his back, the wetness between his cheeks and the half-hard state of arousal in his breeches.

"My lord," he said with the quality of an insult, ungracefully bowing. Merlin didn't wait for a reply before he left the cottage.