Everybody Wants Merlin: Chapter 2
Arthur was pacing restlessly when Merlin returned with the heavily laden tray, which he set down with a thump that was a bit louder than necessary.
"We hunt after the midday meal," he said shortly, not looking in his manservant's direction. Arthur's voice was now subdued and his face was slightly drawn, and paler than usual; his fair hair was every which way, as if he had just run his fingers through it with exasperation. Merlin, who put all of this down to the strain of having sent Gwen into exile, and the loss of that exceptional knight and trusted friend, Lancelot, made an attempt to look sympathetic.
"I'll fetch your hunting gear, then," he said in an encouraging voice, and backed out of the room. Arthur turned and glanced at him as he left, and Merlin noticed that it was a rather strange look, as though his mind had been befuddled with too much drink and he was trying not to show it.
In all honesty, it wasn't difficult to feel sympathetic towards Arthur at this moment. He was a new king, regarded with near-veneration by his knights, but still seen as an untried youth by the rulers of neighboring kingdoms. It was plain that he felt doubly betrayed, first by the finest of his knights, and then by a sweet-natured, kind, and pretty woman who had been a friend for years, and for whom he harbored feelings of genuine affection. On the other hand, Merlin was certain that Morgana had had a hand in both "betrayals," and he couldn't help but be angry with Arthur for having sent Gwen away so precipitously. Why hadn't the pigheaded prat allowed her to stay in Camelot, even if he had to cast her off as his future queen?
On his way back to the armory, Merlin made a concerted effort to avoid any of the young servant girls, not wishing to end up on his back yet again, face to face with a situation involving (his) dubious consent. When the curvaceous Lady Matilda—oh gods, no, not a noblewoman—smiled at him in the main hall and beckoned him over, he made a hasty gesture to indicate he was on the king's errand and fled unceremoniously. If he were to be found in a compromising position with a member of the nobility…well, the stocks would seem like a pleasure jaunt by comparison to the punishment he might face.
Just to make certain that it was really and truly a spell that he was dealing with here, and that it only affected persons under a certain age, Merlin paused in the vicinity of Lady Adela, a now-faded beauty who had, perhaps three decades ago, been the toast of Camelot and a good deal more besides. (Elderly knights always glanced knowingly at each other when she passed by them, but Morgana, in the days before her defection to The Dark Side, had been wont to refer to her as "that grumpy old bat.") Lady Adela turned her sharp, grey eyes in Merlin's direction, and he gave her what he hoped was a winning smile. To his profound relief, she simply looked down her nose and turned away with an audible sniff, clear evidence that females past their first bloom were not swayed by the enchantment that seemed to be afflicting young girls.
There was nothing, mused Merlin, that he could do except determine—perhaps with Gaius' help—precisely what this spell was, and how to counter it. Until then, he would make a concerted effort to avoid every damsel in the castle. Fortunately, the heavens seemed to take his side in the matter, for they opened up and deluged the courtyard with rain the moment he stepped outside. Almost everybody made a mad dash for shelter, and Merlin was able to slink into the armory, retrieve Arthur's hunting kit, and re-enter the main hall without attracting any notice. Sodden with rainwater, he made his way up the stairs and ran smack into Gwaine and Percival, who were standing in a window embrasure, watching the storm turn the courtyard into a sea of mud.
"All right, Merlin," Gwaine said companionably, slinging an arm across his friend's shoulders. "His worship got you running about like a rabbit, has he?"
"No, not really," replied Merlin, his mind half on the spears, boots, and leather gauntlets he was clutching to his chest. "He's, well, he doesn't seem quite himself. I suppose it's—you know."
"I suppose it's his guilty conscience, for sending Guinevere away," snorted Gwaine, never at a loss for words when it came to his opinion of the ruling class. "It's hard on Elyan as well, and none of us think all that much happened between her and Lancelot. I mean, they were kissing, right? But nobody ever said they were fucking. And it isn't as if Arthur's never kissed another girl, is it?"
"Merlin must know," Percival said, inching closer and brushing the back of Merlin's hand with his fingers. "Well, hasn't he?"
"I…I wouldn't know," said Merlin staunchly, drawing his hand away. "He, erm, doesn't talk to me about those things."
"Speaking of those things," Gwaine murmured, and suddenly the arm about Merlin's shoulders tightened. "There's a band of traveling minstrels who'll be at the tavern this evening…fancy a little trip to the lower town, once his worship lets you go for the night?"
His voice had gone all soft and gravelly, and he drew the back of his hand, the knuckles hard and unyielding, down the side of Merlin's face. Merlin flinched and some of the royal hunting gear went clattering to the floor.
It was obvious, now, that Morgana's spell had not been designed to ignite the passions of young women only. Percival had never shown the slightest interest in boys or men, before; he was strictly one for the ladies. And Gwaine—well, he had always had a tendency to flirt with anything that lived and breathed, and if Merlin had ever been willing…but now it appeared that he wanted to move past the flirtation stage, whether Merlin was willing or not. And it wasn't likely that either of the knights would want Merlin to shag them. It was far more probable that they would want to—
"Here, you," protested Percival, shoving Gwaine aside and draping his own large arm round Merlin's neck. He was wearing his armor, and the press of his vambrace against Merlin's nape was not particularly pleasant. "I was thinking of taking Merlin out to the horse pasture tonight. You know, show him the new colts." He began to fidget, as if some portion of his hauberk, below the waist, had suddenly become too tight. "It's about time Arthur gave you a proper horse, Merlin, you—"
"Geroff," muttered Gwaine, pushing the much taller Percival so vigorously that he nearly stumbled. "You don't care about that, do you Merlin?" He crooked an elbow round Merlin's waist, one hand resting, almost casually, on his hip. "You come with me, and I'll—"
"Ahem, Merlin." Arthur's crisp, cold voice, dripping with sarcasm, cut Gwaine off in mid-sentence. "I'm delighted to see you remembered to fetch my hunting things. Now, if you'd just get a move on, perhaps we can head out before nightfall."
The young king was standing in the open doorway of his bedchamber, one hand on the massive wooden doorframe, fingers (as usual) tapping impatiently, eyebrows raised.
Merlin, who had been standing stock still, aghast at the dark hunger he saw in the eyes of the two young knights—both of whom were so much stronger than he, and he would never be able to fight them both off without using magic!—scooped up the fallen hunting gear and dartedaway from them into the king's chambers, hoping Arthur didn't think that he had been flirting, or that he really wanted, erm…because the gods only knew, he didn't.
He hesitated in the doorway until Arthur's hand shot out, took him by the scruff of the neck, and dragged him the rest of the way inside.
"You're drenched," said Arthur accusingly, staring, as Merlin dripped rainwater onto the stone floor. "You haven't let the leather get wet, have you?" He eyed the gauntlets, boots, and jerkin in his manservant's arms with suspicion.
"No, sire," replied Merlin truthfully. He had protected the hunting accoutrements with just a little spell, but there was no reason to even hint at this fact. "Should I help you with your boots?" He set them down by Arthur's bed and waited.
The young king was gnawing at his lower lip. "Take those off," he rapped out tersely, gesturing at Merlin's soggy garb. "I'll lend you one of my things for the time being." He tossed a slightly worn but still perfectly serviceable linen shirt in his manservant's general direction.
Merlin complied, wriggling out of his soaked shirt and then fumbling at the laces of his breeches. He stumbled a little as he kicked off his boots, knocking against the table and rattling Arthur's breakfast dishes. It was cold in the high-ceilinged room, and a damp wind blew threw the open window; he curled his arms round his chest, realizing that he must be a sight, standing naked and shivering in the middle of the royal bedchamber, covered with goosebumps, his still-wet hair sticking out in all directions like the spines of a hedgehog. He reached for the shirt, and stumbled for a second time, over his abandoned boots.
"Merlin," said Arthur sternly. "Have you been on the cider?"
"Hardly," replied Merlin, scowling. (Why did Arthur always have to think that he was drunk?) "Do you think you could add to your munificence by lending me an old pair of hose, or something?"
"Right," murmured Arthur dryly, but he made no move to do so, instead pulling off his own richly dyed short tunic, and sorting through piles of shirts in his clothes chest for one of the simpler garments he usually wore in the field. "We'll both need something else to wear, if we do go hunting…that is, if the weather clears up. Even if it doesn't, I wouldn't mind riding for a bit; I need to get out of here, clear my head."
"Fine," Merlin said bleakly as he shook out the crumpled shirt. "If you don't mind your leathers getting soaked. And you know as well as I do that we won't find any proper game in this downpour."
"You mean, you wouldn't be able to," the young king replied with a touch of smugness, crossing the room, clad only in his breeches, and peering out of the window. "I can find game in any weather, thanks very much. I'm shocked by your lack of confidence in me."
"I never said it would be impossible to find something," grumbled Merlin, still attempting to find the hem of the shirt. "But who wants to wrestle a sopping wet boar? Yeah, yeah, I know, you can catch anything, anything that moves." He stepped gingerly across the cold floor towards Arthur's wardrobe in the hope of finding a spare set of breeches or hose, and was taken completely by surprise when Arthur said, "Even you," and took a flying leap at his startled manservant, knocking him onto the bearskin rug by the hearth.
"Got you!" Arthur sang out triumphantly as he pinned Merlin flat.
"All right, all right," Merlin grumbled, trying to free his arms. "You win. You're the greatest hunter ever. Now, if you'd just let me get up—" And then he stopped talking, because Arthur was looking at him quizzically, as if something had just now occurred to him and he wasn't certain what to do about it. Merlin pushed ineffectually at his shoulders, suddenly reminded that he wasn't wearing anything, and aware of the solidity of Arthur's thighs pressed against his own, the warmth of his skin and the breadth of the chest that was (save for the light dusting of hair between his nipples) so smooth beneath his palms.
Still frowning slightly, as though trying to think something through, Arthur slid one arm beneath Merlin's waist, and put his free hand into the damp spikes of his black hair, turning his face up. Then, as Merlin gawped at him in astonishment, he lowered his head and kissed him.
Merlin felt his entire body jump and flinch with surprise, but Arthur did not release him and simply went on with his kissing. His eyes were half closed, his expression was rapt and almost ecstatic as his lips and tongue investigated the fullness and soft contours of Merlin's mouth. Ah, of course—Merlin would have kicked himself if he could get his legs free—it was the spell! If it could make the phlegmatic Percival, of all people, want to shag him, surely it could have this effect on the young king of Camelot.
"I'd quite forgotten how pretty you are, Merlin," Arthur said, running a finger over the sharp, sweeping lines of his manservant's cheekbones, brushing his spiky fringe off his forehead, lightly tapping the bridge of his straight, slender nose. "I mean, you're a bit skinny, but never mind that."
"I'm not pretty," Merlin insisted, muffled, as Arthur nibbled at the arched cupid's bow of his upper lip. "Arthur, what are you doing?"
Arthur wouldn't be doing this if he weren't under some sort of enchantment…would he?
Spell or no spell, being in Arthur's arms was like nothing Merlin had ever experienced before, certainly nothing like those confusing, whirlwind moments with Editha and Alis earlier in the day. For one thing, he didn't fumble frantically, as the girls had; his hands were as sure of themselves as they were when he practiced with the sword or spear or bow. For another thing, he was—Merlin gritted his teeth—so much more beautiful, with the glint of clear blue beneath his half-closed lids, golden hair fallen forward over his brow, his bronzed cheeks lightly flushed, broad, muscular shoulders gleaming in the firelight. Somehow or other, he had managed to unfasten the front of his breeches, and now he took Merlin's wrist in a strong grip and guided his hand to where he wanted it to go.
"Ah!" said Merlin, helplessly, but he permitted Arthur's hand to show his hand what to do, then lay still for a moment, and let Arthur slide one leg between his. At this he felt his entire body tense, because he, himself, had become achingly hard and erect, and because he was afraid that Arthur was about to put something where he wasn't quite sure he wanted to receive it. But Arthur only fitted himself more snugly against Merlin, hip to hip (as they were nearly of a height), so that they could rub themselves together more easily, the burning heat of his cock sliding back and forth over Merlin's loins and the base of his stomach.
"I don't think we'll try that other thing, just yet," Arthur murmured as though talking to himself. "Next time, perhaps."
"Wh—what?" stammered Merlin, in a panic, wondering how Arthur could actually articulate anything at the moment; he himself was barely able to speak. "Other thing? What next time? Arthur! Oh!" he added with a whimper, as Arthur's large, well-shaped hand, the skin hard and faintly calloused from hours of swordplay, took him in a firm grip.
"Shut up, Merlin," the young king said happily, and bent down to engulf Merlin's reddened, swollen lips with his own.
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"I don't suppose," said Morgana, biting her lips with chagrin, "that you've noticed any sign of Arthur wanting to rid himself of that wretched Merlin?"
Agravaine turned and looked at her with an obsequious smile; really, she wished he wouldn't do that. She needed him—as her spy at court, her informer, a man her stepbrother was foolish enough to trust—but when he smirked at her in that way, it was enough to turn her stomach.
"Why, no," said Agravaine after a moment, looking surreptitiously around the shabby cottage interior for some place to sit down. "I can't say that I've even seen Merlin all morning. What sort of spell did you say you used on him?"
"I didn't!" snapped Morgana crossly, clenching her hands with frustration. (Honestly, the man couldn't be more dense at times.) "I didn't cast the spell on him. Just tell me whether you've noticed anybody behaving oddly…perhaps the stupid boy is in hiding and twenty-four hours won't do the trick after all."
"I'm certain that whatever spell you cast will be effective, my lady," murmured Agravaine in a conciliatory voice. He sat down on one of Morgana's rickety chairs, which promptly broke under his weight.
"I don't know," Morgana replied tersely, as Agravaine picked himself off the floor, covered with dust. "But if I can't rely upon you for information, I may need to go and see for myself."