.
.
The gentle nature of the kiss is something to be admired, perhaps even reveled.
Arthur often found himself communicating with pushy movements, jarring and rough-housing, and Merlin went along with it as much as a chicken-limbed man could.
He does enjoy this. The roll of fingers encouragingly against Arthur's scalp once teeth and lips pull away, and instead of chasing it like he so wishes to do, Arthur stays put.
This can't last. Not here.
Arthur's lower lip partially sucks into his mouth. The last lingering taste of sugar and Merlin.
While he may have glared otherwise at the shove by Merlin, this time Arthur grins and chuckles. He reaches up and put a hand over Merlin's token, feigning to check the tie.
"Couldn't possibly lose now, could I?" Arthur calls in return.
The rain turns to a light drizzle, but the sun pierces through the overcast enough to shine down on the field. The announcer comes over the speakers, alerting everyone of the match, and that it would only be a matter of minutes. Arthur remains in the tent to keep dry for the time being, occasionally turning his shoulder. It's starting to feel better, but letting it tense would do him no good in the round.
Finally, he's called out.
"Our tournament champion, Sir Arthur, shall now compete for the ultimate prize—the throne of Albion!"
A shudder passes through him. He has to remind himself this is all an act, because if not the idea of competing would have gotten to him.
Arthur steps back into the grassy area, drawing his sword in preparation when he witnesses a man already standing across from him. Older, a few streaks of grey hair by his ears. Coal-dark eyes stare right at Arthur as if examining him.
How the man carries himself is enough to indicate that he knows what he's doing, 'actual knight' or not. It's not a battle position, but more for show, much like how Gwaine would fight when he knew his opponent was not even close to his remarkable skill.
A flare of defiance throbs in Arthur's chest as he bows his head in greeting.
"—against our star knight, Sir Daniel von Blumenthal!"
Both men fall into position, expecting, waiting. The signal goes off to start the match, but neither of them lunge forward.
Instead, at the same time, they take a step to their right, sizing the other up. Arthur knows it's an examination for a weak point; a place where he could disarm Arthur quickly and smoothly to get this over with. But unlike this man's thinking, Arthur won't make it that easy.
Arthur pulls his left arm back, shield coming off to the side, and apparently it's the cue Sir Blumenthal needed. He comes at him, his mobility fluid and easy all while holding a great strength.
He aims for Arthur's shoulder, but at the last second, it's blocked with Arthur's own sword. The clash of metal echoes in the rain, the grating sound of them sliding apart as Arthur pushes him away. He quickly sidesteps to aim a blow at Sir Blumenthal's side.
Skilled footwork and equally timed blows, most of which are deflected. The match goes on like this. It's hardly dull; they move around each other with a new-found thrill for the challenge, seeing as it's now a real competition. Despite this, Arthur grows impatient, his mind more on the egg he has to acquire, and his opponent seems just as ready to end this.
It's when the men pause that Arthur lunges, the full moon circles he has been swinging coming to a sudden end. He clashes with Sir Blumenthal's sword but the man staggers back, and Arthur takes advantage to swing again.
This time it hits pauldron. When he yanks away, Arthur spins out of the way of another sword, his own colliding forcefully with the vambrace covering Sir Blumenthal's arm.
The sound reverberates, and perhaps it's out of the pain or shock, but the older man drops his sword-arm. Within seconds, Arthur presses his blunted sword against Sir Blumenthal's chest.
"Incredible! Sir Arthur of Camelot has won! He is King of Albion!"
Arthur lets out a ragged breath, features showing his relief for a brief moment before he sheathes the sword. His head turns, and as it does, Sir Blumenthal takes a knee down.
"My king," he says in a low monotone. Arthur clenches his jaw.
It's pretend.
Arthur watches him grab his sword, and then offers his hand silently. He studies him a moment before taking it, the handshake firm.
"You have quite the experience of swordfighting. Tell me, how did you learn?" Sir Blumenthal asks, and Arthur's lips pull faintly in the corner.
"I've been training since I was a boy. Family skill."
Sir Blumenthal nods, sternly. "I'm impressed," the knight says, and Arthur tips his head in gratitude. He gets the feeling the older man isn't impressed often.
He releases Arthur's hand and reaches into the pocket of his uniform, presenting out a card.
"I had these on me in case anyone's interested, but in this case I'm the one interested in you. I run a local company, one that teaches fighting techniques and history on weaponry for faires like this. We also give demonstrations and help with some film groups in the area. If you're looking for a job, feel free to call that number there."
Arthur takes the small white card and peers down at it.
While he doesn't know what film groups are or what exactly these numbers mean, it's a respectful offer. Even if he hasn't worked a day in his life.
"Thank you," Arthur responses before tucking it in the pocket on his trousers. "I'll keep it in mind."
Sir Blumenthal gestures behind him, smirking. "Looks like they're wanting to start your ceremony."
.
.
His eyes had been drawn to the hypnotic-slow, inward pull of Arthur's lip.
Merlin had almost forgotten to go through with the shove. Wanting unconsciously a longer, more thorough savour of fleshy pink.
Though clearly with playful intent, Merlin's shove turned out to be a tad rough ("horseplay," his memories tell him. It takes the greatest amount of self-control to not wince at the painful quality of them; rather, one in particular, where Merlin slapped the back of Arthur's head with a leather glove and watched in undisguised horror as Arthur knuckled his hand into said glove, sending his manservant a cruel beginnings of a smirk before walloping him across the back of the head).
He shoots him a semi-apologetic look when Arthur nearly stumbles off his balance. Nearly.
A soft chuckle floats out from Arthur's mouth, clouding a puff of visible breath to cold air.
The unoffended, spirited grin is all Merlin needs to believe that this can be done. That they are close. That his king can win, a ridiculous title and glory to behold, but also that a life can be saved.
One of Merlin's kin.
The irony of a male Pendragon saving the life of a magical creature is not to be taken lightly.
Arthur's fingers clasp firmly over the grey-blue neckerchief on his arm, knowing full well it would not unknot or slip free easily. It's a kindhearted motion, almost tender. At the brash, confident declaration, Merlin shakes his head at him a bit, trying to quirk his lips downward to conceal the growing, affectionate smile.
He catches sight of one or two faire-goers nearby glancing between him and Arthur's departing back with some mild interest, and Merlin decides to ignore them, closing his dripping umbrella.
A little drizzle never harmed anyone, especially if used to the country. It always rained in some parts, come hell or high water, or blinded with the thick fog. If Arthur got his hands on a car of all things, there was no bloody way Merlin was letting him drive through fog.
The speaker-announcement of 'Albion' works a prickle of awareness, snapping Merlin's attention to the center arena, where the "actual knight" and Arthur are in ready fighting stances.
At the signal, they size each other up, frozen in place. Sunlight glinting off their armor.
Merlin's eyes spots the bracer still to Arthur's wrist and feels a swell of relief in his gut that Arthur had not fought him about wearing it. Precaution, that's all.
Until he can prove that… whoever it is capable of magic, if they have been the same person to donate the egg, does not have intentions for any interference.
Whoever had made the first move, Merlin did not catch, distracted by his thoughts. He claps on encouragingly, more habit from times-past than actually assuming Arthur would notice—of course he wouldn't. An "actual knight" was focused on his battle, not the crowd.
Merlin's ears pick out the harsh clanging on impacting metal, even beneath the roar of the others surrounding the tournament. A panting Arthur tilting his sword to the fallen man, expression impassive. Wait, he did it?
He did it!
Merlin whoops as loudly as he manage, punching a fist in the air as the crowd goes ecstatic at the mention of their new king.
King. Arthur is a king again.
At some rubbish faire.
What were the gods even playing at anymore? Merlin's grin spreads wider.
The rest of the competitors file near a low-level stage on one of the ends of the grassy arena, as the officials assemble there.
"Before the crowning of our new king, now may I introduce this year's Queen of Albion! Charlie Bradbury!"
Oh hell. Merlin laughs aloud, clapping twice as hard as his new friend bows her head, hair pulled back and a tiara sitting neatly in red hair.
"Doesn't she look lovely?"
He gazes to his side, as Gilda appears, hand lightly touching his shoulder and a proud look in her eyes as she stares right ahead to the stage. "It suits her... in a silly, Charlie way."
"Queen of your heart, I expect," Merlin teases her gently.
Spots of colour kiss her cheeks, as she nudges his side.
"Hush up and watch her crown Arthur."
.
.
Arthur hears the announcement with his head snapping 'round in bewilderment. And sure enough, there in front of him on stage, is Charlie herself.
He makes his way up on the platform, smiling. She peers over at him, taking his arm courteously.
"Should I start calling you Aragorn or something, because you were amazing!" Charlie says, excitably. When Arthur raises an eyebrow, she raises her own.
"Lord of the Rings? Seriously? Nothing?"
He gives a hint of a head-shake. She sighs, patting his forearm in sympathy.
"You're breaking the rules of larping, man."
Arthur accepts his lack of knowledge this time, knowing this is not the place to ask what on earth she's talking about with all the people watching. Instead, they assume their roles when Charlie is handed a larger crown, and Arthur lowers to his knees.
For a moment, a smirk flits over Charlie's pale features as she glances the crowd, but her professionalism returns as she nobly lowers the crown onto the crest of Arthur's hair.
"Lords and Ladies, I give to you… King Arthur of Albion! Long live the King!"
A shudder-shiver grips at Arthur's spine, a cold seeping in as his heart races. It's not real. It's not right. But what he sees behind his eyelids is the draped red fabric, the gold sigils in the citadel's great hall, and when his people—his people applauding and beaming.
As the chanting goes on, increasing, Arthur's chest tightens. He can't tell if he's rejoicing, or beginning to panic, needing to get off from this stage as soon as possible.
Arthur opens his eyes and looks up at Charlie, rising back on his feet with their hands grasping.
"You alright?" she whispers, eyeing him.
"Yes," he lies, keeping hold to one of her hands and facing the crowd. "A crown suits you."
She wrinkles her nose adorably, preening under the attention. "Doesn't it?"
.
.
She doesn't need to tell him twice. Merlin loses sight of Arthur somewhere near the crowd gathered within the tournament arena.
He lifts on the toes of his buckled boots, pushing his hands down flat on the wood fence.
Gilda notices him scanning his eyes towards the stage, and nudges him again, this time gesturing with a finger. Arthur already on his way up the low-level stage, taking his place beside Charlie.
Something in the way he holds his shoulders tightly to himself reads confusion, and when Merlin sees Charlie moving her mouth, he holds down a bark of amused laughter. Merlin wonders vaguely how much of the current time Arthur could be educated on, popular culture and American language usage, if he spent an hour alone with her.
The gold crown in Charlie's hands looks nothing equal to anything to Camelot's time.
It's stout in height and lined with maroon-colored velvet, arranged with large, imitation blue and green and red gems. On Arthur's head, it could have been made of dung for all Merlin cared. Because nothing could mar the true value of what had been Arthur's kingship.
He deserved much more than this.
More than a fake crown under a faked identity to a fake title ceremony, with a Merlin who was less Merlin than he should be, and more pretending desperately to be what he once was.
At the declaration over the speakers from the announcer, Merlin cups his hands around his mouth, chiming in, "Long live the King!" and hearing everyone else follow suit, roaring and clapping loudly from where they stand.
Gilda yells, "Long live the Queen!" grinning to Merlin and he repeats it with her, cold hands stinging with burning warmth from clapping.
Excitement floods out from every person surrounding the crowd, contagious. The emotion buzzing and dancing along the air, invisible.
One of the officials, the one from earlier who displayed the dragon's egg, carries out the clear glass box. They hand it to Arthur.
"Thank you all for attending this year's tournament!"
As soon as the spring-green egg is in sight on stage, Merlin's heart thuds harder in his chest.
All of his instincts scream for him to get it to safety. He races for one of the entrances of the arena, sneaking around the few stragglers watching as their new King and Queen bow to everyone before descending the stage.
.
.
The egg.
Arthur managed to forget about it thanks to the bemusement of glimpsing Charlie up on stage, for distractions. This is a real dragon egg. Unless Merlin was somehow mistaken, which Arthur severely doubts, an age-old creature he imagined to be eradicated was now being placed in his hands.
Charlie looks unimpressed by it, but says nothing and instead continues to engage with the crowd as Arthur takes the glass container, nodding dumbly.
His eyes linger on the luminous eggshell, fingers clenching their grasp on the box. He needs to get this to Merlin. If not simply so the Dragonlord can take it into his care, but to keep it from Arthur himself.
Dragons were fierce beasts that lived to wreak havoc, and the Great Dragon did nothing to change his opinion. Arthur believed them to be extinct, yet here he is, holding one in his own hands.
Arthur can practically hear Uther's spitting, infuriated words of how they should all be destroyed, and it only makes Arthur want to get the egg to Merlin faster.
With thanks given, Charlie and he both leave as the clapping dies. The few faire-workers on stage with them congratulate before directing them back towards the stairs.
"So… you win a swordfight against a knight and all you get is a lousy glass egg?" Charlie says. "It's like they were trying to clean out the storage tent."
Arthur gives a strained chuckle, his eyes going between her and the box. "I'm sure I'll manage to find a use for it."
"Maybe you can bribe Leon to let you out of your chores," she counters. The sly twinkle in her eye mixed with the dripping tone has him wondering how exactly she knew. Arthur huffs with a long-suffering eye roll. Remembering the bet certainly does not elevate his mood.
"Doubtful. Once he's won, he will hold it over my head for as long as he can."
"Oh, I'm sure."
Arthur motions her to go down the stairs before him, cradling the glass box under his arm as he follows. Charlie peers over her shoulder at him as her feet hit the ground.
"Well, you're the King now, dude. I believe you can tell your boytoy what happens or not. Unless he's in charge in your relationship. Still haven't figured out which one of you to believe."
He halts on the stairs, eyes widening. "My what?"
"Boytoy. Boyfriend. Partner. Manservant? I don't know, pick your term."
Her eyes flicker to his arm, right to the grey-blue token tied around his armour.
"Besides," she adds, her tone light and airy and far-too innocent for Arthur to feel at ease as he heads towards the fence. "Umbrellas only block the view from one side."
Arthur is stunned into silence, his lips parting faintly as Charlie winks and quickly make her way towards where Gilda. He allows himself a moment of embarrassed terror, his heart thudding in his chest, but swallows back the heat creeping up his neck.
He adjusts the grip on the egg container, bringing himself back to the present, and Arthur scans the crowd for Merlin.
.
.
The gathering crowd disperses in small bands, either for the inner arena to greet the other tourney competitors or for the faire-grounds.
Merlin watches from the ground below as Arthur shakes his head, alone but appearing unsettled, and looks around.
Is it really that shocking to Arthur? Winning the tournament? Or is it just sinking in?
He whistles, a short and piercing note, finally getting Arthur's attention. A bright grin flashes up to the other man.
You did it, Merlin finds himself mouthing, a bit too far for Arthur to hear him properly.
The glass box in Arthur's hands slowly lowers down to be cradled in Merlin's outstretched hands. Merlin draws it to his chest and he almost staggers back, not from the weight, not from any physical reaction to untouched magic, but from the immediate jolt of relief.
When the egg is finally out of his reach, Arthur sucks in a deep breath.
His task is done and now it's Merlin's duty. Even if Arthur's involvement is far from over. For now, he allows himself to not think about it and instead focus on unhooking the straps of his armour.
They head for the fenced off portion of the grassy arena, matching strides. Merlin wants to be far from any strangers, any curious eyes, now that he has the dragon's egg in his possession.
"Thank you," he speaks up, glancing at Arthur removing the armour and the mail on his own. "Really." The sincerity practically radiating off of him.
"You're welcome."
"I'll wait here, while you—" Merlin says, tilting his chin to the borrowed equipment, plus sword.
"Yes, alright." As he goes, a sweep of exhaustion rolls through Arthur. He smiles to himself.
He's tired, physically, and that is all for the time being. Arthur relishes in the ache of strained muscle, the sting that travels up his neck whenever his shoulder moves, because it would go away. Give it time, two days at the most, and Arthur would be fine. The idea is relaxing.
Merlin leans slowly back to the fence, as Arthur vanishes to the competitor's tent. His hands on the clear, glass box.
They have to get the egg home, safely. And Arthur, as well.
Perhaps then…
("There was a mark there, I saw. Three broad lines running in the same direction. Almost reminded me of… I dunno, a Celtic symbol, probably.")
Merlin's jaw tightens. God help them all.
He kneels down, shouldering off his bag and opening up the drawstring, hoping the case fits in his bag.
His mind wanders a little, disconnected from what his hands are doing, before Merlin notices a pair of legs in front of him. "That didn't take you long," he says, and then hesitates when it registers that the legs were covered in raggy denim, not costume trousers.
The rage-deep voice is not Arthur.
"Cocksucker—"
The next realization is something particularly hard struck him across Merlin's left cheek.
It's the shock of a sudden impact, his face snapping away and his head reeling back onto the wet grass. Merlin's vision spins a few heart-pounding seconds behind his eyelids.
Gentle hands ease him upright when Merlin reopens his eyes. Gilda absently brushes a hand over the top of his head before grasping his shoulders.
"Leon? Leon, are you okay?" she asks, voice frantic.
"Fucker got away," Charlie swears loudly, breathing hard. Her tiara is skewed on her head like she has gotten into a violent exchange, her pale face livid and rosy.
"Egg…" he groans, jerking forward, even with Gilda holding onto him.
"Still here, dude." Charlie gestures with the tip of her shoe to his lumpy bag. "I grabbed him by collar before he could try it— and where the HELL is security around here?"
Despite the bone-sharp ache to Merlin's face, he aims a silent, thankful look to her before slumping against Gilda's knees.
He needs a moment, just one, to shut away everyone else and collect his bearings. As heartening as it is to have Charlie feel all the resentment and anger he doesn't have, and the willow-slender fingers purposefully stroking his hair, as if seeking to in some way comfort him.
Like Gwen comforted him, sweet and good-hearted Gwen, who embraced him the morning Gaius passed in his sleep.
She rocked Merlin on the floor of the workshop, without her guards or Camelot's knights present, or the anxious flutter of her handmaidens beyond the doors. Without her levy of royal jewelry, or the symbol of her crimson, brocaded gown. Gwen embraced him, dark ringlets unpinned.
The soft shift of her old flowery, lavender dress to his cheek. Her lips pressed to the shell of Merlin's ear, murmuring the assurances to steady him as noisy, whimpering sobs racked him, his arms latched tightly around her as her hands rubbed his back.
And Gwen would always be there for him, as time went on, as each of their friends met their inevitable fates.
He sat with her in her chambers that starless night, forehead nuzzling to her age-wrinkled hand, grinning through unshed tears. Thanking her for all she had done for Arthur's dreams for the kingdom, for all she had done for Arthur and for Merlin himself.
Being the friend Merlin never thought he deserved, a loving and tender sister, a loving wife and a true queen.
His eyelids quiver, and Merlin forces down the onslaught of memories, and the faintest sting to his closed eyes.
Tears aren't enough to awaken ghosts. Camelot or Albion, or even Guinevere.
He needs… a moment.
.
.
There are only a few stragglers left returning their equipment, and Arthur takes their praise with quiet, polite composure. By then, it's getting late.
He twists himself and stretches his arms. Yes, this feels much better. It seems only a couple days since he last wore armour, but Arthur expects some thousand years would tire him out.
What he doesn't expect is Merlin laying on the ground with Gilda and Charlie surrounding him.
Arthur halts outside the tent, expression fading to confusion. The wristguard on Arthur's wrist feels far too heavy against his skin.
Has the other magic user come?
After years of worrying over Merlin, knowing when he's disoriented is a skill Arthur mastered.
"What's going on?" Arthur demands, running over, his tone brisk.
He looks over the girls, noting the frustration and barely concealed anger on Charlie's face before he comes down to a crouch next to Merlin.
Gilda's eyes steady on Arthur, calculating how exactly he's going to react, but her demeanor gentle.
"Someone…" Gilda begins, fading off. Her tone bitter as she rests a hand to Merlin's head, fingers smoothing dark curls. And he feels the overwhelming urge to do it himself. "We were over there talking when we saw it happen. Bloody kicked him back as hard as he could, seemed like."
What?
He's back on edge within an instant. Arthur couldn't have been gone for no more than ten minutes, if that, and this happens.
His blue eyes fix on Charlie, Arthur's face beginning to mirror her anger. "Who? What did they look like? Is he still here?"
"No idea."
Time seems to have slipped out of reach, between being struck, and where Merlin leans against Gilda's knees.
But as soon as he hears Arthur's voice, Merlin's eyes fly open.
A sharp inhale of breath and then a hiss passes out of his lips as the bruising muscles in his face throbs. The pain would not last; it's there with him all the same, threading like a convulsing heartbeat.
This isn't supposed to have happened, none of this. (Then again, when did the turnings of the universe favour what Merlin wanted?)
(It didn't.)
He and Arthur are supposed to celebrate their victories, to join their new-found friends at this rubbish faire with smiling, joyous faces and warmth in their hearts, though it still feels so untried to Merlin in these late centuries. Arthur's supposed to stand straight and tall, with the pride of his accomplishments, smiling biggest out of all of them—not lowered to Merlin's level, to the rain-damp mud and wounded dignity.
Not with Arthur's blue eyes so gentle on him, his concern wordless.
It clenches at Merlin, that self-loathing; it tickles sour and disgusting at the back of his throat with a weak taste of his own bile.
It isn't Merlin that needs worrying about, or coddling.
They should be leaving. The dragon's egg is Merlin's, and no one else's but his. That responsibility hovers over him like the name of his dead father, and it's clearer now. Something as petty as physical violence isn't about to deter Merlin from the path he's destined to take.
A righteous, cold fury warps beyond Arthur's outer expression. He should be thinking without being clouded.
But says nothing as Charlie whacks her fists down at her sides.
"If he knows what's good for him," she growls out, "his ass will be long gone before I find him and—"
"Charlie, this isn't helping," Gilda says up to her, sternly. The redhead huffs, giving Arthur a pointed stare and crossing her arms rigidly. Gilda lets out a low gasp as Merlin starts to lift himself up out of the small, grassy patch of watery mud. She presses on one of his shoulders.
"No, Leon, please sit. I don't think you should…"
His magic longs to physically move her hand, to throw her off and allow it to aid him back on his feet.
"M'fine, swear I am," he mumbles out, head tilted down from everyone's view, legs shifting.
"Yeah, real fine. The guy friggin' trashed you, man." The blunt sarcasm in Charlie's tone is unmistakable but Merlin guesses that Gilda hushed her up because no more is said.
It was getting harder to talk with a swollen jaw, anyway.
Merlin wipes the dark ooze of blood from the corner of his mouth, leaving a long smear to the back of his hand. Panting out his open mouth, he reaches over and drags his bag back to him. Reaching out again and grasping at Arthur's wrist, attempting to heave up, not looking him in the eye before.
But Merlin does now, makes sure that Arthur can see the glare of determination in dark blues.
.
.
TBC...
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BBC Merlin isn't mine. So, this chapter ends on a very heavy subject. That's okay. This actually has a similar personal experience to mine and I want anyone to feel free to talk to me if they have concerns about this. The subject of homophobia/queerphobia is an incredibly serious one. I am at the point in my life where I can acknowledge I've been physically assaulted because of that hate and fear, and now I can work through my feelings about it. Merlin's experience and mine aren't the exact same thing, it's not - I promise I'm not using him as my mouthpiece (at least not about this, aha). But I did wanna open up to you guys about this, so thank you for listening and thank you for reading. I'll get another update going by next week for sure!