Chapter 3: Resolution
Merlin is beautiful.
These words–unspoken, naturally–popped into Arthur's head as he and Morgana crossed the dining hall on their way to speak with the castle steward. Uther's absence required them to oversee the activities of the castle's senior staff, and neither of them was looking forward to a talk with Master Aelred. The steward's main focus at the moment was renovation of the tapestries on the walls of the Great Hall, and Morgana muttered that if she heard one more complaint about moths or the inferior workmanship of foreign weavers she was going to be sick.
A number of servants were busy lowering the dining hall chandelier, in order to clean it and replace the candles that had been reduced to stubs by frequent use. Arthur could see Merlin amongst them, precariously balanced on a stool (for pity's sake, Merlin, watch what you're doing!), dust in his hair and smudges of dirt on his face and hands. He looked singularly un-beautiful at the moment, but the thought stayed in Arthur's mind as he and Morgana walked past. The massive iron chandelier reminded him of the first time Merlin had saved his life, and of how annoyed he had been when the king conferred the position of prince's manservant upon this odd, unknown boy with whom he had already experienced two confrontations. He remembered how he and Merlin had glanced at each other with undisguised displeasure and apprehension before simultaneously turning away. But even then (although he had refused to admit it at the time), his eyes had noted the pleasing combination of pale skin, black hair, clear blue eyes and lissome frame–even as his brain registered frustration at having this ill-mannered savior foisted off on him.
"What on earth is Merlin doing here?" he mumbled, more to himself than to Morgana. "It's not exactly part of his job."
"Arthur, for pity's sake, Merlin can do as he pleases when he's not working for you," Morgana replied in icy tones. "Does he need your permission to walk, talk, sleep, and breathe?"
"As a matter of fact, he does," Arthur retorted, expecting Morgana to laugh, but instead she gave him the sort of glance a mother might give to a naughty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Several of the servant girls were giggling appreciatively at something Merlin had just said, and Arthur scowled as Merlin smiled back at them.
Ignoring the piercing look that Morgana shot in his direction, Arthur continued across the dining hall without pausing, and he did not see Merlin turn his head to watch him, nor could he have guessed the words that were running through Merlin's mind.
Arthur is beautiful.
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"I think Arthur will come to his senses eventually," Morgana said to Gwen over her shoulder as she stood before her mirror. "I mean, it's obvious that Merlin hardly has time for a secret life, let alone a lady love."
"I don't know how Merlin gets any sleep," Gwen murmured as she set Morgana's midday meal on the table. "And I don't know how he finds time to eat. Honestly, when he turns sideways he's practically invisible."
"Yes," Morgana replied absently as she smoothed the heavy silk fabric of her new gown, admiring the tightly fitting bodice, the full skirt flowing outward at the waist. "Perhaps we should have Cook make him some pastries before he disappears altogether."
"I think he's quite nice-looking," Gwen said, shaking out a napkin. "Everyone thinks so. Sir Edgar's wife has been trying to catch his eye for ages now."
"No!" exclaimed Morgana in horror, throwing herself into her chair. "Not that promiscuous creature! She's put so many horns on Sir Edgar's head that he might as well be hanging on the wall downstairs with all of those antlers and other hunting trophies. A year or two ago she was even bragging about having had Arthur. If she so much as lays a finger on Merlin, of all people, I'd be happy to order her banished from court."
"Oh...Sir Edgar's been giving him the hot eye as well," Gwen continued airily.
Morgana burst out laughing. "Poor Merlin! Such an object of desire and the poor boy is totally oblivious! Arthur has nothing to worry about."
As Gwen turned away, still smiling, Morgana gave her a keen look.
"You're much more cheerful this afternoon, Gwen," she remarked. "The letter that came for you just now–that wouldn't be from Lancelot, would it?"
Gwen's dusky cheeks flamed red and Morgana raised one eyebrow.
"Oh, it wasn't much, just a note," Gwen stammered, but her face was glowing. "He never says when he'll come back to Camelot, but it's...I like knowing that he's thinking of me...I mean, of us."
"You mean, of you," Morgana said severely. "Well then, I'm glad to see you looking so pleased. It's a great improvement over this morning. Now if we could just find someone for me to be so silly about, all of our problems...well, most of them...would be solved. Life just isn't fair."
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"Here Merlin," Gaius said smiling, as he deposited a parcel of heavy, dark cloth in his young friend's lap.
Merlin looked up from his reading. He had been engrossed in his book of magic for well over an hour, and for a moment his eyes wore that deer-in-the-torchlight expression of total confusion that Gaius and others found both amusing and endearing.
"Gaius...what's this?" His fingers picked hesitantly at the heavy fabric.
"I asked Gwen to cut it down for you," the physician replied placidly. "It's been many years since I was able to wear it. And to be perfectly honest, it wasn't my style. But it should look quite appropriate on you.'
Merlin stood up and shook out the folds of fabric. It was a long shirt, almost a tunic, of black velvet. There was no embroidery, no ornament, but the garment was well designed and surprisingly elegant for something so simple.
"Well, try it on," Gaius said impatiently, and Merlin obediently pulled his red shirt over his head and struggled into the new one. It fell heavily from his shoulders but was quite comfortable, and he reached for his neck scarf.
"Oh I think we can dispense with that disgraceful rag; no need to spoil the effect," Gaius said gruffly. "Well, it suits you far better than it did me. Have a look."
Merlin dropped the neck scarf and peered at the wavy glass of the old mirror propped against the wall. Everyone said that black made you look thinner, so he did in fact appear almost fragile; but the black velvet made his pale skin glow like alabaster and darkened his eyes to a midnight blue, the richness of the fabric softened his angles; the overall impression was one of ethereal grace.
Then he stumbled over Gaius' footstool and the impression of grace quite disappeared.
"Very good," Gaius rumbled approvingly. "You can wear it on special occasions. Or when you're called upon to wait on the high table while court is in session; you know how Uther puts such value on the appearance of his household servants. But you are not to wear that wretched neck cloth with it, do you understand?"
It took a moment for Merlin to remember his manners and thank his friend and mentor profusely.
Gaius waved away the thanks.
"It was doing no good at all sitting in my clothes chest," he said jovially. "So you can wear it this evening and see what Arthur thinks. We can always have the Pendragon crest sewn onto it if he feels that would be more fitting."
Privately he felt sure that the crown prince would approve of Merlin's appearance, whether the shirt bore the Pendragon crest or not. Arthur had never once commented on his manservant's looks, but Gaius had seen the way his eyes rested on him when he thought no one was looking. Merlin was generally self-effacing and never tried to call attention to himself but his innocent demeanor, his virginal quality, whether he was in fact virginal (which Gaius, by this time, very much doubted) or not, were part of his charm.
Although he had never thought of himself as an arbiter of masculine fashion, Gaius suddenly felt remarkably pleased. He was just doing his bit to get the prince and Merlin back on good terms, he said to himself as he watched his young charge head for the worktable, still clad in the unaccustomed finery.
Merlin reached for a basketful of vegetables, only to be stopped by Gaius' bellow.
"Oi! Merlin! Put your work clothes back on before you start on the beets–do you want stains all down the front of your new shirt?"
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"Sword practice tomorrow," Arthur said curtly.
Merlin stifled a groan and reflected that this was probably Arthur's notion of the best way to ease his current bad mood: whacking stupid, clumsy Merlin over the helmet with his broadsword before knocking him flat with a blow to the shield.
"Followed by mace work, no doubt," he muttered and was rewarded by the barest hint of a chuckle.
Merlin realized that it had been more than several days since he had seen Arthur really smile. Oh, he had seen the social smile that Arthur displayed when the king held court, and the casual smiles with which he greeted acquaintances and fellow knights, but not the brilliant, heartfelt smile–or even the sarcastic, mocking smile–that Merlin had become accustomed to witnessing in private. The white flash of the prince's grin, displaying a set of decidedly pointed eye teeth and accompanied by a narrowing of those sky blue eyes, was something he had missed, along with the caustic remarks that often accompanied it.
Working methodically, Merlin had tidied Arthur's chamber with an uncharacteristic thoroughness. Now he knelt at the hearth and set a set a pot of wine with mulling spices on an iron trivet just outside of the fire's reach, and straightened up with a sigh. It was quite dark outside, and firelight shone off the leaded glass in the half-closed windows. The prince was sprawled on the bearskin rug in front of the hearth, propped up against several pillows and bolsters, reading through a recent inventory of Camelot's archives, courtesy of Geoffrey of Monmouth.
Although they had barely exchanged more than a few words, the silence between them spoke volumes...enough, Merlin thought wryly, to fill all of the shelves in Geoffrey's archives and then some.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Arthur fidgeting as his eyes ran down the long, curling sheet of vellum. There was little need to be surreptitious, since Arthur was refusing to look at him. Several minutes later, the prince set the vellum aside and shifted his gaze to the fire. Merlin moved closer, setting the heavy water ewer on the table near the hearth, but Arthur did not turn around, giving Merlin time to stoically admire the prince's imperious profile and the way the firelight brought out every shade of gold in the hair that clung to that shapely head.
Arthur is VERY beautiful.
It was beginning to look as though another day and night would pass without the two of them having anything resembling a normal conversation.
"Merlin."
Well, that was a good sign. It had been days since Arthur had spoken his name in that way, with the emphasis on the first syllable that implied either anger and exasperation or affection.
"Erm, Arthur?" Merlin tried carefully.
"Hmmnm." Came the absent reply.
"Sire?"
"Oh bloody hell, Merlin, stop calling me that. And pass me the wine, will you, before it boils over."
Merlin knelt at the hearth for a second time, retrieved the pot of simmering wine with the aid of a wadded-up piece of cloth, and poured some of the contents into a goblet. Having executed this maneuver quite deftly, he nearly spoilt it by knocking the goblet with his elbow, but made a spectacular save with one hand, righting the teetering vessel before the wine could spill.
"Ah, well done," muttered Arthur sarcastically.
"I caught it, didn't I? No mess this time."
"That's what manservants are for," Arthur replied with something resembling an evil grin; those pointed eyeteeth gleamed in the firelight and made Merlin want to smile, but he managed to keep his expression calm and serious.
"And now I suppose you'd like me to sweep your fireplace, polish your armor, exercise your dogs, and muck out your stable."
"I think those are all in line with the job description," Arthur said, yawning.
"And you can't sweep the fireplace because there's a fire in it, you idiot," he added a moment later, with an even bigger yawn.
"You're tired sire," Merlin said flatly, watching Arthur rub his eyes, and Arthur did not deny this.
It was unusual for Arthur to have difficulty sleeping. On the rare occasions that Merlin had been able to spend the night in his bed the prince had dozed off quite rapidly, after love, and had slept soundly until morning. He could remember only one occasion on which Arthur had tossed and turned restlessly until Merlin held him and caressed him to sleep–the night following their return from Hengist's fortress, and their rescue of Guinevere.
There had been, actually, one other time, when they had been out hunting and darkness had fallen. Rather than risk stumbling blindly along a forest trail–there was no moon–they had made a makeshift camp and huddled under a single blanket and Arthur's scarlet cloak for warmth. Sleep had evaded them, but when Arthur finally pulled Merlin to him, sliding his arms around his waist, Merlin had protested (halfheartedly), saying that they were too close to Camelot, that some passing townsperson might see them (or hear them), that it was too risky.
"Let me, Merlin," Arthur had whispered.
"But–"
"Let me."
Consequently, they had gotten very little sleep at all that night.
There was no real point in reminiscing about all of this and it was obvious, as well, that Arthur was not in the frame of mind to be reminded of such things. His duties completed, Merlin looked about the room for anything that might need clearing away, but the chamber was undoubtedly the tidiest that it had ever been.
The prince was still yawning and rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles, so Merlin retrieved his wine goblet and set it on the table. Arthur watched him walk across the room, so slim and pale in his unaccustomed black, the refined but simple design of the shirt giving him the appearance of dignity (oh God, just wait until he trips over a chair leg). It was difficult to look at him and not want to touch him. Earlier, Arthur had stared from his window as Merlin crossed the dark courtyard, the ivory pallor of his face and hands in dramatic contrast with the black velvet of a garment Arthur didn't recognize, tiny bluish-white lights of fireflies circling above his hair. Arthur was not much given to poetry (he studied it out of a sense of obligation), but he didn't think he had ever seen anything more worthy of a poet's quill than his infuriating manservant crossing the paving stones on his way to bring him his dinner.**
"Merlin," Arthur blurted out before he could stop himself. "Just tell me if it's true. That you have a girl in the lower town."
When Merlin gawped at him, completely taken aback, Arthur regained a little of his composure, along with his authoritative air.
"Not, I suppose, that it's any of my business, but the servants were gossiping about it."
"Really?" Merlin raised his eyebrows. "What are they saying?"
"They're saying--oh, bloody hell Merlin, just tell me if it's true!"
Merlin bit his lip and Arthur steeled himself for an affirmative response. Then he realized that his impossible servant was actually suppressing a frown.
"No, it's not true, Arthur," Merlin said calmly. "There's no girl in the town, there's no girl anywhere. Where these people get their information I don't have a clue."
"Someone saw you with a--"
"I daresay someone did," came the quiet reply. "One night, not long ago, I took food to a young woman who was in need. Who was leaving Camelot to find a living in some other place. She's gone now and she'll never come back."
"But you didn't--"
"Arthur," Merlin said with a touch of exasperation, "I told you I tried to help her. Nothing else."
He sat down on a wooden chest and fiddled with an imaginary loose thread in the hem of his shirt. He usually tried, to the best of his ability, to be honest with Arthur. When the prince had confronted him about his magic he had confessed readily, had told him the truth. On the rare occasions that Arthur asked his opinion about something, his responses were straightforward. But he would not tell him the entire true, sad story of the Druid girl--not now, perhaps not ever. Arthur would not understand. It was too much to expect of him. All of his life he had been told that magic was evil. He had made an exception for Merlin, but it would be a long time before he came to see that magic, in and of itself, could be a force for good. That it could be the basis for feelings of kinship and affection between individuals blessed (or cursed) with its power.
"I'll take an oath, if you like," he said numbly, just wanting this conversation to end. "I'll swear that there is no woman in my life."
"Oh, it's all right," Arthur muttered, looking at the floor. "There's no need for that. I simply thought that you might like...might love...someone else, and I--"
"Arthur," Merlin said evenly, "I'm not going to lie to you. There are girls I've found attractive. I'm fully aware that there's a girl you find attractive, and there's no need to name names. As for the young woman I helped that night...I felt sorry for her, she was lonely and friendless. I didn't, erm, sleep with her, if that's what you're wondering. She's gone now, gone for good. It's true that she moved me. But the person I love, I think I've always loved, and will always love...is you."
Feeling quite drained of energy, he stood up, gathered Arthur's dishes onto a tray, and headed for the door.
Arthur had also risen to his feet, and as Merlin passed him he put out a hand and lightly grasped his upper arm.
"Erm, Merlin, I...that is..."
Merlin's blue eyes widened a little, but he said nothing and waited patiently.
"I, uh...Merlin, I'm...I'm sorry I've been such a...a prat."
The prince uttered the words with some difficulty and gnawed at his lower lip. He was clearly embarrassed, but he looked Merlin in the eyes as he spoke. There was a pause during which they stared hard at each other, and then Merlin took a deep breath and smiled disarmingly.
"Did I actually hear you say you were sorry?"
"Oh stop it, Merlin, you needn't rub it in," Arthur snapped acidly.
"Oh, didn't mean to."
"You know, you're not always the easiest person to deal with, Merlin."
"On the contrary, sire, I think I've been quite agreeable to anything you've asked of me–"
"Merlin, you idiot, will you shut up," Arthur groaned, tightening his grip.
"I don't suppose this means no sword practice tomorrow?" Merlin asked without much hope.
"No...we are definitely having sword practice tomorrow," came the reply.
"I thought you might say that," Merlin mumbled dejectedly.
He heard Arthur mutter, "Don't be ridiculous," and then the grasp on his arm tightened further and he was pulled into a rough embrace. There was a crash as the tray and its contents went flying.
"Your fault this time," Merlin said somberly.
From the circle of Arthur's arms, he turned his face toward the door. The pupils of his eyes glimmered liquid gold and the bolt slid silently into place; the key turned in the lock.
As he turned back, his mouth encountered Arthur's and he allowed himself to be pulled down onto the bearskin rug.
The prince's eyes were closed and his kiss was insistent, his arms holding Merlin tightly against him. When the kiss ended–they were both gasping frantically for air–Arthur opened his eyes and as soon as he caught his breath he gave a sigh of contentment. This was what he had been missing for days: Merlin's lean, pliant body, his taste, his faint scent of woodsmoke, herbs, and one or another of Gaius' elixirs. But he wasn't going to capitulate too quickly–did he really want the aggravating, impossible, irresistible idiot to know how much power he had over him, magic or no magic?
When Arthur released his grip on Merlin's shoulder blades and lay back on the bearskin and pillows, breathing fast but not smiling, Merlin knew at once what was expected of him. It was plain that even if the prince had put aside his suspicions and his jealousy, his ego and his feelings were still bruised. Arthur, who (as the more physically aggressive of the two) was usually the one to initiate their lovemaking, wanted Merlin to woo him–he wanted to be seduced. Which was something Merlin had not really done before.
Merlin sighed inwardly as his fingers went to the laces of Arthur's shirt. Although he had been completely inexperienced the first time Arthur took him to his bed, and although their moments of privacy were few and far between, he had begun to feel a certain, tentative level of confidence. "I'm a fast learner," he had said to Arthur long ago, after suiting him up in his armor without making any mistakes. To an extent, Arthur's own expertise made it easy to determine what to do. Merlin now knew at which angle to turn his head so that their lips fit together perfectly, he knew how Arthur liked to be touched, he knew how to flatten his palm against the prince's chest, knew how to stroke him, and how to curl his fingers around him. At the moment, Arthur was looking through lowered eyelashes at a spot on the wall somewhere above his shoulder, but Merlin noted the quickened pace of his breathing as he smoothed the prince's fair hair back from his brow with his fingertips and ran those same fingers along the rim of his ear, before proceeding to brush Arthur's jawline and throat with his lips. His hands continued to unlace and unfasten, easing away cloth and leather, and then he paused for a moment, just to look.
Arthur's skin was a pale bronze in the firelight, his body broad at the shoulder and chest, narrow at the waist, beautifully sculpted and taut with muscle. In contrast Merlin was slightly built and the skin covering flesh and elegant bone structure was milky-white. Long-limbed and slim-hipped, he was too thin for the classical sculptor's canon but months of grueling (and humiliating) weapons practice with Arthur had given him a sinewy strength of which he was beginning to be proud. He had never given much thought to his own looks and it was enough for him, now, that Arthur found him beautiful.
"Mine," Arthur whispered with his eyes closed, but he still hadn't moved.
Returning to the business at hand, Merlin felt his own breath come faster; he sighed at the contact of their skin and savored the heat that built up between their bodies. Arthur lay quite still, so Merlin relaxed and let instinct guide his hands and mouth; logical thought was quite beyond him at this point anyway. Instinct seemed to be doing a good job, he realized some time later through the haze of his own desire, because the prince was gasping and trembling, and his head was turning from side to side on the pillow.
A moment later Arthur shifted his weight and rolled over, pinning Merlin securely beneath him. It was so sudden that Merlin could only blink owlishly with surprise. Arthur was still panting, but he was smiling as well, and Merlin half expected the word "Idiot!" to come bursting from his lips. Instead, the blond head came to rest against his shoulder, and then a set of rather sharp eye teeth lightly grazed his collarbone.
"My turn," the crown prince of Camelot murmured into Merlin's left ear.
** A vague reference to the Merthur "Fireflies" poem I posted on FanFic a while ago.
Feedback is very welcome. I need to know if I'm overdoing it before I continue.