A/N: OH MY GOD I'M SO SORRY FOR THE DISAPPEARING ACT. Ahem. School completely destroyed me and I signed up for the Merlin Big Bang on LJ, so I've been working on that, and I'm in the middle of job hunting and...-hangs head in shame- I am very, very sorry, lovely readers. For not updating in two and a half months and for not responding to your reviews. I am a terrible person and I promise I will try to do better this time! So, to make up for it, I give you two chapters for the price of one, and another two over the course of the weekend. I will really try to bang out the rest of these chapters as soon as possible. I'm in the home stretch of this semester so after the beginning of May fics will take close to top priority, and hopefully I will finally be able to finish this. Enjoy!
Warnings: Er, minor character death, pre-slash/slash/if you really want to read it as just friendship ignore that one part and have at it. Also, probably a great many inaccuracies considering feudalism and feudal-era England.
Disclaimer: Two and a half months later and no, I still don't own anything.
20. Rupture—breach of peace or accord; the tearing apart of tissue; a breaking apart or state of being broken apart
The night that Arthur is meant to marry Lady Vivian ends in fire. The marriage is meant to bring an end to the war that has shuddered its way through both of their lands, a reluctant union to try and heal what has been broken. But there is treachery afoot, and not everyone is as honorable as the Pendragons—(honorable does not mean good, Merlin always has to think when he places the word next to Uther Pendragon. Good men are not always honorable, and honorable men are not always good, and Uther is the second. Arthur, though, is both)—and the end of the ceremony is interrupted by a whisper of cloth, a cry, the clash of steel and the roar of brave men dying and the crackle of flames.
Uther Pendragon is dead and Arthur abandons the castle in order to save his men.
Camelot burns.
In the study of the manor of one of the lords—his lords, now that his father is dead, he must remember that—Arthur paces. A map is spread over the desk and he glances at it from time to time, hoping to see that it will have somehow changed, that it will reveal to him something that he has missed. The candle is burning itself down into a pool of wax and soon he'll have to summon a servant to bring him another, or else call it a night and turn in.
As if summoned by the thought the door opens. He half turns, long enough to recognize the figure that slips in, and then turns away again, striding to stand in front of the window. Slowly the dark room brightens behind him; he can see the shadows cast on the wall.
"You'll ruin your eyesight, squinting in the dark all the time."
He shakes his head, turning on his heel. "My eyesight is the least of my concerns, Merlin."
The servant shrugs. "Nevertheless, you're not going to do anyone any good if you go blind at twenty-five."
"If I live to see twenty-five," he mutters under his breath, ignoring the sharp look that Merlin gives him.
"Have you thought of anything?" Merlin says, the tone in his voice saying that he's going to gloss over the muttered comment because it isn't worth acknowledging, and Arthur almost smiles. Then he shakes his head, sighing, and comes to sit at the desk, burying his head in his hands. A plate slides itself under his nose and he glares down at the offering of cheese and bread, glares at Merlin—who just gives him a raised eyebrow and a toothy smile in response—and then he lifts a piece of bread, tearing into it with more violence than necessary. Merlin takes this as a response to his question and hums a little, leaning on the edge of the desk. The impropriety doesn't bother him, although it probably should. It has never bothered him, though he can't put a finger on why. For as long as Merlin has been his servant, once they've been out of sight—or, mostly out of sight—all the barriers of rank have dropped between them. They keep up appearances in public, but even then, he treats Merlin closer to a knight or bailiff than a servant.
"What about the king?"
He takes another bite of bread and scowls at Merlin. "An amusing thought, Merlin. The king would only concern himself with the feuds of his nobility if he thought we were conspiring against him. But we are free to conspire against each other as much as we like. Oh, I'm sure he will…fine Olaf for murdering one of his Dukes, but he won't trouble himself any further than that. He can't risk choosing sides between his own nobles, lest the rest of them turn against him." He shakes his head. "No, there is no help from the king."
"Isn't he supposed to be pledged to come to your aid or something like that?"
"I always forget what an idealist you are, Merlin."
Merlin clenches his jaw, frowning. "You come to the aid of your knights, when they ask for it."
He props his elbow on the table and his head in his hand, too tired to keep holding it upright without support. "Yes, because the knights are our major source of military support. If we didn't support them in strife then we would have no military when we needed it."
Merlin folds his arms. "And what about the villages you give aid to?"
He sighs. "Do you happen to recall how many times I had to persuade my father to give that aid? Do you remember how many times I went against his word in order to do so?" Though Merlin doesn't say anything, Arthur can see in his face that yes, he remembers. "Just because I happen to believe that a noble is entitled to help all those under his rule, that doesn't mean the rest of nobility shares the same feelings. That is part of why we were at war with Olaf. His attempts to expand are purely greed—he wants to expand his military power, his political influence, and his treasury. While we are protecting our people and our lands."
Merlin looks away, hiding a tiny smile. Arthur knows that smile, that one he gets sometimes, the one that says his servant is proud of some obnoxiously noble thing he has just said. (Secretly, whenever he sees that little smile, he feels proud to have made Merlin proud, which is a silly thing, isn't it? Wanting to make a servant proud of him?) Then Merlin looks back at him, the smile gone and something guarded in his eyes. "You keep saying we."
He frowns. "Of course I do. We. Us." He waves to encompass their surroundings. "Our people, our knights, our—"
"Yours," Merlin interrupts, and Arthur falters.
"What?"
"They aren't 'our' knights. They're yours. Your people. Your land. Your knights and your fief and your rule." Confused, Arthur looks at him in silence, and Merlin sighs. "Either you're using the royal plural—which you're not and it probably didn't even cross your mind to, because you're a pompous arse but not that pompous—or you're still thinking of yourself as sharing your leadership." Arthur flinches a little, realizing where he's going with this, and Merlin takes a breath before actually saying it. "Your father is dead." Arthur outright jerks, even though he knew it was coming, and Merlin ignores the glare he gives him. "You're the Duke of Camelot now. These are your lands and your people, not anyone else's. Not 'ours', though I appreciate the inclusion." Merlin gives him a little sly smile and Arthur just shakes his head at it. "Keep that in mind, Arthur. You are in charge. Olaf has no claim to this land, but you do. You have claim and you have right and you have the love for it that he doesn't even understand."
"I remember what I'm fighting for, Merlin," Arthur says, a little sulkily, and the servant gives him a winning smile.
"Of course you do. I didn't expect you to forget, but…you were betrayed, you were run out of your home, and you lost your father. After all that, sometimes the things you already know have to be said. You wouldn't forget them, but they might get…lost. And now they're not."
He stares at his servant, blinking. He always forgets how absurdly wise the other man can be sometimes. Merlin's smile relaxes into something softer, less teeth and less force and more fondness, more compassion, more pride. Arthur raises his gaze from that smile to Merlin's eyes and makes a smile of his own, reaching out to loop his fingers around Merlin's bony wrist. "Thank you," he says, and Merlin turns his wrist in his grip, maneuvering his own fingers in a mimicking position to wrap around Arthur's wrist.
"Any time," the man says, holding both his gaze and his wrist tightly.
The night before they leave to ride out to battle, Arthur knows that Merlin is watching him from across the room. For a little while, he makes no comment of it, instead copying the map in front of him in near perfect detail and plotting the route of their troop movements. Finally though, he lifts his head, shaking his hair out of his eyes, and glances over.
"What?"
Merlin looks at him, his expression unreadable. He is chewing absently on his bottom lip, his eyes far away, and though he is staring straight at him, Arthur has the feeling that he is seeing something else entirely. "Merlin?" He says, and now Merlin jolts, coming out of his reverie to stare at him.
"Mm?"
Arthur smiles a little. "You're staring."
"Oh." Merlin says, and tilts his head.
"What are you thinking about?" He asks. He knows the train of his own thoughts: armies, battle, war, Olaf, Uther dying on a stone floor, Camelot burning, himself leaning in to kiss Vivian and seal peace, (or is it Vivian? Vivian whose hair shortens and darkens, whose dark blue eyes lighten to pale misty green, whose curves sharpen, and he's not kissing Vivian anymore, he is kissing someone that he loves so much more than her—). He shakes his head, pulling out of his thoughts with a sharp inhale of breath, and he shifts, looking at Merlin, waiting for an answer.
"You," is the short response, and it makes him gasp again. Merlin grins at him, crooking a finger. "Come over here and let me cut your hair."
"What?"
"Come here and let me cut your hair," Merlin repeats, slower this time as though speaking to a child who doesn't understand, and Arthur scowls at him. "You look like a vagabond. You can't ride off to war looking like a vagabond."
Arthur gapes, then raises a hand to touch his hair, frowning. Sure, it's gotten a little long, but it's not that bad.
"The beard has to go as well. What kind of duke has a scraggly beard like that? You're not going into battle with that thing on your face."
Now Arthur touches his beard, which, okay, is maybe a little patchy and unruly, but he's sure it could be worse. He folds his arms. "At least I can grow a beard," he snaps, resisting the urge to stick out his tongue.
Merlin sniffs. "I could, if I wanted. Unlike you, however, I'm smart enough to know when something is not a good look for me. Now get over here. I'm cutting your hair and shaving your beard and I'm really not going to take no for an answer."
"It's my hair."
Merlin gives him a slanted grin. "And I'm one of the people that has to stare at it. You're our fearless leader and you have to look your best." Arthur pouts his lips and drags his feet but he slouches his way over to his servant and stands in front of him. Merlin grins at him, grabs his wrist to jerk him a little closer, and then reaches one of his long limbs up to press gently on Arthur's shoulder, guiding him down.
"You've got to be kidding me," Arthur mutters, but allows Merlin to maneuver him down into a sitting position at his feet. He resists at first—his nobility rising up for a second and protesting the position of submission before a servant—but then he sighs and sinks to the floor at Merlin's feet.
"You trust me?" Merlin says quietly, and though he knows it is half-joke, he responds automatically.
"Yes."
He can practically feel Merlin's smile behind him, and then he feels the man's fingers card gently through his hair, massaging his scalp. He leans into the touch unconsciously, feeling knots of tension in his back and neck loosen. Merlin continues these motions for a few moments and then places his fingers at the base of Arthur's skull, straightening his neck. "Hold still," the servant orders, and then he hears the snip of scissors and feels the closeness of sharp steel to his skin. The sense of it makes him want to tense, but Merlin's thumb on the back of his neck and the slow stroke of it makes him relax again, closing his eyes. "Tilt your head forward," Merlin says softly, and he obeys. Little clumps of hair fall across his skin and Merlin sweeps them away.
"You're going to win," Merlin says, and it is just a whisper of breath across his skin.
"How do you know?"
"I just do. Intuition. You're a great man, Arthur Pendragon, and you will be victorious." The shish of the scissors stops and Arthur feels fingers go through his hair again, dislodging loose hairs and brushing them away. "Better," Merlin declares, pulling his hands away. (Arthur squashes down the noise of discontent that rises in his throat at the lost of contact.) "Turn around." He does, using his hands to leverage himself off the ground enough to turn without standing. Merlin tilts his head to survey him carefully. "Bangs first, beard second. Don't go jerking around," he says, picking up the scissors again. Arthur watches the scissors skim across his bangs, watches the threads of his hair that fall, slides his eyes down the slender fingers and up the thin wrist, along the pale expanse of forearm and up until he finds Merlin's face. The man's tongue is just poking through his lips, an expression of concentration, and his eyes are on his movements. When he is done, he glances down and finds Arthur watching; he grins lopsidedly and ruffles the noble's hair. "Done. Now, grab that chair and bring it close," he says, nodding to a chair at the table.
Arthur does it without hesitation, pulling the chair over and sitting in it, leaving a little space between them. Merlin shakes his head and hooks the front legs of the chair around his ankles, pulling himself closer so that there is barely any room between them. (Arthur swallows and hopes that Merlin doesn't notice.) Then he pulls over a bowl of water on the table closer and picks up a razor.
"Still trust me?" Merlin asks, with more blue than normal in his eyes, a reflection of Arthur's color. He doesn't say anything in response, just smiles and leans forward, turning his head to reveal the expanse of his throat. (It's Merlin's turn to gulp, and Arthur does notice.) Merlin reaches out and grasps his chin gently, turning his head; he dips his fingers in the water and drags them over his cheek and jaw, then dips the razor in. He takes a breath before placing the blade against Arthur's neck.
"Hold still," he whispers, and cannot bring himself to breathe as he draws the edge upward over Arthur's skin. (If Arthur can't breathe either, well, he has a blade against his skin and that's reason enough, isn't it?) Merlin's motions are slow and careful and steady, his eyes focused; he lifts the razor, rinses it off, and turns Arthur's head to reach the other side. Neither of them says a word, but Arthur is acutely aware of Merlin's fingers at the curve of his throat, of his thumb at his hollowed pulse point, of the sharpness of the steel against his skin, of his life literally in Merlin's hand.
Merlin lifts the blade and rinses it again, then takes a soft cloth and runs it over Arthur's skin, removing stray hair and remnants of water. (There is a tremor in his hands that was never there when holding razor or scissors.) He places the cloth on the table and sits back, clearing his throat and skirting Arthur's eyes. "Well then, all done. Much more noble now."
Arthur doesn't say anything, just sits forward, pressing into the space that Merlin has abandoned, reaching forward tentatively to take one of Merlin's hands in his own. Merlin stiffens a little but doesn't reject the touch. He does, however, avoid his gaze, at least until Arthur extends his other hand to cup his jaw and tilt his head up, forcing him to look. Finally, he does.
(They swallow in unison, their lips part for breath at the same time, they blink together, they fall into the patterns of connection without notice.)
"You're going to win, Arthur," Merlin says.
Arthur rubs his thumb across the sharp edge of Merlin's cheekbone. "Thank you, Merlin."
Merlin leans forward and Arthur falls in at the same time, and they rest their foreheads against each other.
"Any time," he whispers.
(Arthur knows he means it. He can hear all the promise in those words. And he knows that he will win.)
And on to the next!
