Disclaimer: BBC Merlin? I didn't invent that. What are you talking about.

If you find any spelling mistakes, point them out! It'll be like... hunt-for-the-typos. Yep. I just made reading this story like, waaaay more fun for you than it was two sentences ago.


Merlin mentally made a note to enchant Arthur's clothes to unbearable itchiness, when he got the chance, but thought better of it, reasoning with a roll of his eyes that it would likely only cause the Prince to order them to be washed, again. The man could stand up to a dozen bandits, a score of over-sized magical pests, and sorcerers by the dozen, but once something threw his royal self into discomfort, Arthur was a whining mess. Not that Merlin ever complained, except for the occasional mutter to Gaius; Merlin knew that it was his job to help the man grow into a great king, and he conceded that a small itching spell was not the best possible way to get him there. And really, he had enough to do.

Speaking of fussy Princes and overbearing work, Devon appeared beside him, suddenly, slapping a big hand across his narrow shoulder blades, making Merlin nearly drop the boy's large pack. "Come on, then!" he repeated for the ninth time in his too-loud voice. He sprung away, at once, dashing off to admire the view from another stained-glass window.

Arthur had made it clear that Devon was to be sleeping on the far end of the castle, and the trek was killing poor Merlin. "It's warmer," Arthur had said, as he always did, but of course meant very well that he wanted to see as little of the visitor as possible whilst in his chambers. So along Merlin trudged, the weight of his Destiny as heavy as ever.

When they finally reached the door to Devon's rooms, Merlin shifted the pack onto the floor with as much grace as he could muster, removed the grimace from his face. "Well, call if you need me, I'm only-"

"Is this it?" Devon marched to the spacious bed and threw off the covers in one sweep, landing them in a clump on the floor. "This is barely enough for me, never mind a barmaid or two! Do you people have no sense of..." He searched for the word, eyes bearing down on Merlin.

Feeling the pressure of the gaze, he spoke up, jovially: "'Decency'?"

The boy snapped his fingers in the air with a flourish. "That's it! Honestly!" He kicked up the covers at his feet, which promptly slumped down again."You've got to do something about it."

"I can... try and f-" The Prince's gaze suddenly whipped up to meet his own, and Merlin remembered that he had to do anything the boy asked for. "I mean- Presently. I'll go and fetch one right now, my Lord." Grateful for the chance to get out of there, he walked perhaps a little too briskly to the door. However, his long fingers had barely alighted on the iron handle before the Prince spoke up, again.

"You're supposed to say 'your Grace,'" he said, volume suddenly not as overpowering as before, "And you haven't been excused."

Merlin spun, annoyed, but complacent. "Apologies, your Grace," he said, "I shall, with your permission, go and retrieve a larger mattress?"

Devon stepped over the heap of downy covers and strode right up to the servant, shoving his round face into Merlin's personal space once again. "Permission not granted."

At this, Merlin's blood began to race, a sign he always counted on that told him the situation was quickly becoming less safe.

"Your... Grace?" He inquired, resisting the inclination to pull awkwardly at his neckscarf.

"Listen to me, now. I get to tell you to do whatever I want, and you have to do it." He whispered with a sneer.

"Of course, your Grace," he replied promptly, keeping the worry just barely out of his voice.

The boy pushed him, palm on his chest, hard into the door. The iron door handle crashed into his hipbone, and Merlin winced.

"Too small for a barmaid, perhaps," came the whisper at his neck, pulling him back to the increasingly bad situation before him. "But you're kinda skinny."

Before Merlin could say anything, Devon clamped a hand around his mouth, and pressed forward. "No yelling allowed." He stated firmly.

Large hands pulled at Merlin's jacket, sliding it off the servant's bony shoulders. The Prince wound his hands behind Merlin's neck and impatiently yanked on his scarf. Giving up, he shoved it out of his way, and pressed his lips below it to Merlin's collarbone. Merlin gasped in shock, unsure whether to risk whispering a spell with the boy so close. His scarf kept getting pushed higher and higher out of the way, when suddenly all motion stopped.

"What's this?"

Merlin tried to see what Devon was looking at, but suddenly he remembered the only thing it could be: Arthur's ring. He'd tied it to one of his shirt laces beneath his scarf for safekeeping, and had completely forgotten about it.

"This isn't yours," The boy said confidently, "Where did you get this?" His dark eyes scanned Merlin's face before narrowing his gaze. "You stole it!"

Before thinking, Merlin blurted, "I did not!"

"Of course you did! Prince's manservant, I'm sure you didn't earn a token like this. Lousy scum!" He taunted, childishly. However, as childlike Devon was, he was definitely in a position of power, and right now, it was he who had the higher ground.

Merlin heard the melodic scrape of steel against steel, and tensed as he saw a small dagger come into view. Devon set it against his chest, but pulled back sharply, cutting his shirt lace and catching the ring. He leaned in close, again, and whispered harshly, menacingly, "If you tell, I'll be sure to let Arthur know that you steal from him."

Merlin made a noise of protest, but it was muffled in the act of Devon crashing his lips up to his own. The more he struggled, the more Devon's strong arms held him in place, and the more the dagger and door handle bit into his skin.


Author's Note: dun Dun DUN! THE PLOT THINKENS. Also: Oh my gosh, you guys! Thank you so much for all the story alerts (also, feedback is greatly appreciated!) It really is the fodder of more chapters. ^^