"I sold my soul to a three-piece,
And he told me I was holy,
He's got me down on both knees,
But it's the devil that's trying to hold me down."
- Hold Me Down, Halsey
WARNING: Non-con begins in this chapter, so read at your own discretion.
The bolt. The bolt in the door. The bolt in the door just—just clicked, just snapped, just locked—locking him in, Agravaine was locking him in—he couldn't get out he couldn't get out he couldn't get out—he was trapped here and he couldn't escape and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't move and he couldn't speak and he couldn't think, and he couldn't look away from the cloak, its mud-spattered hem still hanging inches from the floor—and he couldn't—he couldn't breathe, and he couldn't—he couldn't—something in his throat, there was something in his throat—heavy and acidic and—bile—and he reached on instinct for his own neck, hands fisting around the rough red kerchief wound round it, but there was no stopping the viscous, vile liquid flooding into his dry mouth—and he tried to push it down, push it back, but it wouldn't go anywhere, and it wouldn't do anything but sit there on his tongue, and it choked him—God, it choked him—and he couldn't breathe, and every time he tried, the air got lost on the way to his lungs, catching and snagging on the razor edges of his own terror because Agravaine had locked him in and why had Agravaine locked him in and he couldn't get out and he couldn't escape and—
The heels of boots clacking against stone. A blurry face in front of him—no, a little bit above him, with the mouth twisted into a frown and a crease between thick, dark brows—and a voice he didn't know calling his name—Merlin!—Merlin!—Merlin!—and a hand—a hand on his arm—warm, and firm, and just above his elbow—Merlin, are you all right?
"Are you—?" He could—he could speak again, suddenly—there was nothing in his mouth—and he wanted to spit just to be sure—but—and then he couldn't speak—the words replaced the bile behind his lips, sticking like tar everywhere they could—in the back of his throat and to the roof of his mouth and the tip of his tongue, because they didn't want to be said any more than he wanted to say to them, and he couldn't swallow them down and he couldn't cough them up, and then, all at once, they broke free, and tumbled full-tilt from his tongue. "Are you going to take me to Arthur?" His insides burned the instant he'd said it, and he wondered how soon the rest of him would burn as well.
"Take you to Arthur?" Agravaine repeated, and stepped back a little—the furrows in his forehead deepened and his large hand still hovered, a little hesitantly, around Merlin's arm, but he made no move to close the gap—and then something like comprehension entered his eyes, and his brow cleared. He shook his head, dark hair dragging down his cheek. "No, Merlin. Your secret is safe with me, I promise you that."
Merlin's heart thudded. Your secret is safe with me. Your secret is safe with me. I promise you that. Your secret is safe with me. I promise you that.
Sincere. He thought maybe Agravaine might have even meant it.
So where's the catch?
"I—I use it only for Camelot," he blurted, because fear made him brave, or as brave as a man like him could be. "Only for Arthur. You must believe me."
"I do," Agravaine said—no hesitation in his voice, in his eyes, in his face. No second thoughts. Oh, gods, he really did mean it. "Come now, Merlin, sit down. You really don't look well, and I'm afraid we have something even more pressing to discuss."
Arthur, Merlin thought, and he couldn't breathe all over again.
Agravaine ushered Merlin hastily across the room to the desk, his touch light but seemingly everywhere—just the slightest brush from the tips of his thick fingers, all along the warlock's shoulder, his spine, the small of his back.
It didn't occur to Merlin to move away, or protest the contact—he made it to the chair with the cloak still draped over the back, and dropped down gratefully into it, shaking legs finally receiving a rest.
Agravaine didn't sit down.
"Arth—Arthur?" Merlin smothered a cough into his hand, and forced himself to sit up straight.
Agravaine whipped round to look at him, so quickly his cloak swirled out around him in a great dark eddy—there was something suddenly, inexplicably sharp in his gaze. "I beg your pardon?" he said, and it sounded like a challenge.
"Arthur," Merlin repeated, as clearly and loudly as he could—Gaius had been getting on him lately for "mumbling". "You said—you said this was to do with Arthur." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
"Oh." Agravaine relaxed—and Merlin couldn't think why the mention of his nephew had gotten him so riled to begin with—he'd just have to put that away for later—he'd been doing that a lot lately.
Agravaine rounded the desk, and lowered himself into the empty seat waiting on the other side with a quiet sigh. "Yes. Arthur." He shook his head, lips curling up into a small, grim smile. "I can't think how you've remained at court all this time. At his side. How you've managed to deceive him, Merlin."
"If we could stick to the matter at hand," Merlin interjected sharply, and dug his fingers deep into the cushioned armrest, a tiny groove appearing in the lush velveteen fabric—if he closed his eyes, Arthur's face swam to the forefront of his mind—shocked, shattered, features frozen in his grief, the way he'd looked when Morgana had made her first open bid for the throne—he could not bear to let Arthur hurt like that again—could not bear to be the one who caused him that hurt this time.
"All these years, and Arthur's never discovered," Agravaine said, so softly it sounded almost as if he was speaking to himself. "You must have much practice in keeping secrets."
More than I ever wanted. Merlin didn't say it.
"You must understand the difficulty in keeping such secrets," Agravaine waited until Merlin met his eyes before he continued. "You must understand the difficulty I will have, in keeping such a secret."
Oh, so here it was—now they came to the heart of it—it wasn't about Arthur at all, was it? It had never been about Arthur—Agravaine only wished to know what he could get from this—every bit the self-centered, supercilious lord he'd seemed the day he arrived in Camelot.
"What do you want?" Merlin demanded tiredly—and a little flatly, truth be told.
Agravaine looked at him and—and laughed. "Think on it a moment, Merlin. I'm sure you can figure it out." He settled back in his seat with a small, satisfied smile still twisting his lips; there was nothing in his face, and nothing in his voice, that could even begin to explain the meaning in his words.
"—I don't—" Merlin shook his head. "—I don't know what you're—"
"Don't you?" Agravaine countered quietly, and stood from his seat—he strode, every step steady and measured and deliberate, over to Merlin. He leaned down slowly, bent at the waist, and took Merlin's chin in his hands. He kissed him.
Merlin didn't move—he didn't—he didn't know what to do—he could taste the rich, red wine from the feast on the other man's lips, feel the other man's broad fingers, warm on his face, the seat underneath him, the thick velvet of the armrest scrunching beneath his own clenched fingers, but it didn't—it didn't make sense—it couldn't be real—Agravaine's other hand slipping downward, fumbling momentarily with the thin, fraying hem of Merlin's worn tunic, and wide fingers skimming lightly over the bare skin beneath, but it couldn't be real—Agravaine's tongue, hot and wet, clashing fiercely with his own, but it couldn't be real—Agravaine's body against his, pressing ever deeper into him, but it couldn't be real, it couldn't be real, his fingers sliding easily down the naked, slick skin of Merlin's chest, but it couldn't be real—the heel of his open hand grinding into Merlin's groin—
—it was real, and the revelation jolted him, and he—
"NO!"
Merlin shoved Agravaine away—magic, or brute force, or some strange, adrenaline-fueled mix of both—he didn't know, he couldn't tell, and he didn't care to.
He pushed himself to his feet, stumbling slightly in his haste. "Don't touch me." He lifted a hand, palm out, fingers spread, in silent challenge. "Don't you ever touch me like that again."
"If I am to keep your secret," Agravaine said, a strange sort of smile playing about his lips, "I do deserve some form of recompense." His gaze flicked down, roving slowly—lecherously—over Merlin.
"No," the warlock repeated, hand still out and a sudden, furious heat flooding him—his insides writhed, like a nest of maddened snakes, at the mere thought. "I will not be used like that. You will keep away from me."
"Forgive me, Merlin," Agravaine raised his eyebrows, but his odd little smile never once wavered. "I had no idea you were so eager for Arthur to know of your…" His smile grew a centimeter. "…abilities."
Merlin froze.
"I had hoped," Agravaine continued—and no, it wasn't a smile, and it never had been—it was a smirk, sharp and vicious and so, so satisfied, "we could come to an agreement upon this, Merlin. I'm only sorry I was so mistaken."
—you must understand the difficulty I will have—in keeping such a secret—
Everything made sense now, and Merlin forgot how to breathe.
"No matter," Agravaine's voice was quiet, yet it seemed to carry to every corner of the vast room. "It will be easy, won't it, to rectify this misunderstanding?"
"—No—" Merlin's upraised hand began to shake. "—no—you can't do this—you can't—"
"I'm afraid," the words held an air of utmost solemnity, but the smirk still clinging doggedly to the corner of his lip belied it, "I can see no other option, Merlin."
"Arthur won't—" his knees had taken up the trembling now, too, so badly he could scarcely stand. "He won't listen! He won't listen to you! He trusts me!" The statement gave him strength, and he found he could stand a little straighter, having said it.
"Oh? And who do you think he trusts more?" Agravaine stepped closer. "A lord of the court? His last blood relative? The one who's been there for him since that heartless tyrant he called father went senile?" His smirk slipped, twisting into an ugly, savage snarl. "Or his poor, bumbling, silly little muck-up servant who can't even shine his boots right?"
You're wrong, Merlin wanted to say—he wanted to yell, wanted to shout, wanted to scream, but the words wouldn't come, and Agravaine—
—Agravaine was right.
Arthur trusted Merlin, he did—expected him at council meetings, and asked his opinion afterward, entrusted him with keys and kingdom secrets servants shouldn't even know existed, dragged him along on quests and hunting trips and rescue missions, looked to him for advice, laid himself and his feelings bare—oh, yes, Arthur trusted Merlin, but—
—but he trusted Agravaine more.
Agravaine could go to Arthur—he could do it—walk right back into the feasting hall, ask him for a word—pull him away from the festivities, break the news, and Arthur—
Arthur would believe him.
Because he trusted Agravaine more.
And Merlin—
"Wait."
—Merlin didn't have a choice.
Merlin stepped forward—and his legs wouldn't stop shaking and his hands wouldn't stop shaking and he didn't have a choice and Arthur trusted Agravaine more and he couldn't stop shaking and Arthur trusted Agravaine more and he didn't have a choice—
"If I do this," he said slowly, and every word burned, and his own voice came from a long way away, "you won't tell Arthur. Swear that to me. Swear it."
"My lips," Agravaine's awful smirk returned, wider than ever—he leaned so close, Merlin smelled the sweet wine still on his breath, "are sealed."
"Then—" He didn't have a choice he didn't have a choice Arthur trusted Agravaine more he didn't have a choice. "—I will do it."
He couldn't stop shaking and he didn't have a choice and Arthur trusted Agravaine more and he didn't have a choice and lord of the court and last blood relative and poor bumbling silly little muck-up servant and can't even shine his boots right and he didn't have a choice.
He kissed Agravaine.
Just a smooth, weightless brush of lips on lips, and he tried to leave it at that—hands fisted at his sides and head turned away—and he prayed it would be enough, but a heavy hand clamped down and cupped the back of his head—pressed him deeper, dragged him closer—Agravaine's mouth crashed furiously against his, in a sharp, scorching collision—he jerked backward on instinct, but behind him stood only cold stone, and something inside him twisted up so tight, it hurt—and Agravaine didn't let up—didn't slow down—only pushed him harder—he retaliated—reflex, automatic, uncontrolled, unintentional—kissing back with a little too much teeth.
Agravaine's hand slipped out from under his head—so suddenly he held in a hiss when his skull struck the wall—strong fingers closed around his arm—forcing him fast against the wall—his pulse picked up speed at the new position—he forgot how to breathe all over again—and Agravaine's other hand dipped lower, grinding down between Merlin's legs—he ducked his head, lips grazing down Merlin's jaw—the curve of his neck, the hollow of his throat—teeth dragging, unexpectedly gently, along his collarbone—his fingers never stilled, squeezing and rubbing and pushing with an almost feverish intensity—a shade of force behind the touch now, as he rammed his hand in—oh—
A thrill shot through Merlin, sudden and staticky and so strong, he actually shuddered, eyes slipping closed—oh, God, that was—he couldn't help it—he moaned aloud, long and low—he slid a little farther down the wall—he melted under Agravaine's touch—
Agravaine.
Merlin's skin burned against the smooth, cool stone of the bedroom wall—fire flared to life in his stomach, every inch of him consumed by heat—and warm, wet lips, pressing against his ear, and a sultry whisper, just loud enough to hear—oh—so you do like it a bit rough—don't you, Merlin—and the flames gave a great roar inside him—sparks shot up into his throat—and he ground his teeth together, and hissed at the man in front of him.
"Get. Off. Me."
"You must be careful," Agravaine pressed a quick kiss to Merlin's earlobe, "one might think you'd never experienced the…" He drew back, and paused a moment, lips curling into a smile, "…pleasures of the body before."
The slightly sensual emphasis on the word made Merlin flush, and he turned his head away, cheek hot against the wall—and Agravaine must have noticed, because he could see, from the corner of his eye, a thick dark brow arching up.
"Haven't you?" Agravaine pulled his hand up to grasp Merlin's chin, tugging upward, forcing them to lock eyes. "Pretty little thing like you—I'm sure the stable boys can't keep their hands off you—to say nothing of the knights—"
"Arthur's knights are honorable men!" Merlin snarled—he pushed off the wall, pushed out against Agravaine—how could the lord be so bold as to even suggest—? Scorching rage seared his throat at the thought. "They would never—not unless I—!"
"Are you really so inexperienced?" Agravaine drew back to look at Merlin, a gleam in his dark eyes. He put a hand to Merlin's chest, driving him back into the wall. "Am I truly to be the first to teach you the…satisfactions…" His hand slid back down, rubbing anew at Merlin's groin. "…of the flesh?"
Merlin spat at him—he probably would have cursed the man into oblivion otherwise, which would have made everything about a thousand times worse. "I don't want any 'satisfaction' at your hands."
"You should know better than to make promises you won't be able to keep." Agravaine shoved his hand inward—suddenly, sharply—and the—the pressure—
Merlin sucked in a breath—his insides buzzed, demanding more—he bit down on his bottom lip, teeth tearing so viciously into soft pink flesh he began to bleed, and clenched his teeth together, pressing the palm of his hand flat to the wall—the polished, even stone against his skin grounded him, for a moment, and stiffened his resolve. He would not find pleasure in this. He would not find pleasure in this.
The touch glided upward now, tugging light but insistent at the waistband of his trousers—he tensed—no—the word tumbled reflexively from his lips, little more than a strangled gasp—stop—don't—but Agravaine didn't—he didn't stop—not until he had his hand down the front of Merlin's pants, and even then, he didn't stop—he thrust his hand, hard, into Merlin's cock—too hard—Merlin stifled a cry—it hurt—he hadn't expected it to hurt so much—and Agravaine kept going—he just kept going—his first two fingers shifted and slid—slid up inside Merlin—he didn't know if it was pleasure or pain or some awful blend of the two, but he'd never felt anything like it, and he couldn't keep quiet anymore, and he didn't know what sound he made—a moan, a yell, a whimper, a wordless, desperate plea for it to just stop—he didn't know, but he knew Agravaine's fingers were—invading, defiling, polluting, profaning, spoiling, violating, ruining—if this went on—if this went on, Merlin would be—nothing—and that was all he knew—his magic blazed in his veins—aching to burst free—but he couldn't—he pushed it down deep, and locked it away—he couldn't—he didn't have a choice—Arthur—Agravaine would tell Arthur—and Arthur trusted Agravaine more—
"Shh." Agravaine bowed his head to put his mouth back on Merlin's, and licked away the blood beading on the warlock's bottom lip. "Hush now, Merlin, there's no need for all that noise."
Thick fingers twisted and curled inside Merlin, and he couldn't keep back a gasp—and he didn't know if the fire within him was borne of fury or a different sort of heat altogether—and he hated it—
"I've told you to keep quiet, and I expect you to do so," Agravaine hissed, and his fingers stilled—and Merlin didn't know if that was better or worse or somewhere in between, but another sound slipped from between tightly clenched teeth—and he hated it.
"Do you think you can be quiet for me, Merlin?"
And something—
—invaded, defiled, polluted, profaned, spoiled, violated, ruined—
—something inside Merlin broke.
"Not this," he whispered, as stinging tears turned the whole world blurry. "Please, not this."
—nothing—
"Would you prefer I bring this to Arthur's attention?"
"No," Merlin bit his lip again, to keep it from trembling. "No—can't you—can't you find another way—something else—anything else—not this—not this…please…" He blinked, to keep the tears from brimming over.
"This," Abruptly—painfully—Agravaine pushed his fingers upward, "is all that I want."
And Merlin—
—lord of the court last blood relative poor bumbling silly little muck-up servant can't even shine his boots right invaded defiled polluted profaned spoiled violated ruined—
—Merlin didn't have a choice.
Because Arthur trusted Agravaine more.
"Where the hell were you?!" Arthur made sure to shut the door before he said the words, turning sharply on his heel to fix his servant with a glare—somewhere behind him, wood collided with stone in a deafening symphony, but he couldn't bring himself to care about the noise, not when Merlin just stood there in front of him, looking as soused as could be, dark hair mussed and blue scarf horribly awry, eyes distant and dazed—for gods' sakes, he wasn't even trying to defend himself! Even Merlin couldn't be such an insubordinate idiot as to think nothing of sneaking off from the coronation, to imbibe, no less! Really, Arthur should just leave him in the stocks the whole night through—it would serve him right—but word would get out, and Gwaine would likely murder him, or at least give it an impressive go.
The thought of the rebellious knight pulled Arthur firmly back to the matter at hand as he recalled—
"Even Gwaine managed to stay sober!" He emphasized the man's name and strode across the room, halting in front of Merlin. "Doesn't that tell you something? Of all the nights for you to pull this!"
Merlin finally spoke—finally—and that was absolutely not relief rushing through Arthur—his servant's silence had not been eerie or concerning, no, it had been wonderful and refreshing, and—
"Sire," Merlin stepped forward, and unfastened Arthur's cloak, "I wasn't—I didn't have any—"
—and he had the nerve to deny it?!
"No?" Arthur demanded. "Then where were you?"
"I—" Merlin bit his lip—caught in the lie—and looking almost surprised by that, like he'd actually thought he could get Arthur to swallow anything less than the truth. "—I'm sorry, Sire, I—it won't happen again." He tugged the cloak from Arthur's shoulders, and flung it onto the bed—the unmade bed—a halfway decent servant would have at least tried to tidy things up before the feast—and a halfway decent servant wouldn't have left the feast to get drunk, either.
Arthur pressed his lips together. "See that it doesn't."
Merlin only nodded, and set about undoing the clasps in his ceremonial mail.
"Well, I do hope you enjoyed yourself," Arthur added bitingly, "because I expect you half an hour early tomorrow with an additional breakfast. I'll be dining with the Lord Agravaine first thing to discuss the situation in Tintagel," he explained, "which I mentioned yesterday," pointedly, at the servant's bewildered look—honestly, did the man never listen to him? "Three times."
Merlin didn't even have the grace for one of his sheepish smiles. "A-actually, Sire, I need to—"
"I don't want any of your excuses, Merlin," Arthur broke in, a bit sharply, and held up a hand to silence the sudden stream of protests. "And I'll have none of your usual languishing tomorrow, either."
"No," Merlin said, a little louder this time, "no, that's not—" He'd completely left off loosing Arthur's armor, but his fingers never quit the metal links—all at once, he drew himself up and dragged in a breath, oddly as though steeling himself, and continued. "I need to tell you something."
"I'm well aware you are going to be hungover come morning, and I don't feel a jot sorry for you." As he spoke, Arthur gestured impatiently for Merlin to continue with his mail—it was far too late for all this nonsense, and the sooner he collapsed into his bed and forgot the entire night, the better—but the servant wouldn't look at him anymore.
"No, I—I don't—it's—it's Agravaine—he—" Merlin stopped, swallowed, and reached for his scarf, tangling his fingers up in the rough blue cloth. "—he—" He stopped again.
Arthur rolled his eyes—at this rate, he wouldn't be getting to bed until sunrise. "Spit it out, Merlin." Impatience edged his tone—a bit more than the situation necessarily demanded, he knew, but he was too exhausted to regret it. He scrubbed a hand roughly over his tired eyes, and stifled a groan as the silence stretched on—why couldn't the idiot just say whatever the hell he was getting himself so worked up for—?
"—he's worried about you."
Arthur dropped his hands, and lifted his head to look at Merlin. "…What?"
"Agravaine—Agravaine's worried about you." Merlin still wouldn't look at him—kept his head down as he resumed his work on the armor, quick fingers leaping from buckle to buckle with the haste of much practice. "Asked me to make sure you were all right."
"He did?" Doubt flooded Arthur at the words—of course he knew Agravaine cared for him, in his own sort of strange, Agravaine-ish way, but his uncle had made it clear to all that he was not an affectionate or demonstrative sort of man—down to business and straight to the point, that was his way, no talk of feelings and such—which suited Arthur just fine, of course, but the thought of Agravaine expressing his concern so freely—to Merlin, of all people—the two had never quite taken to each other in the way Arthur had hoped they might—above all, he just couldn't get his head around the idea that they'd had a properly civil conversation. About his own wellbeing, if Merlin was to be believed.
Then the doubt washed away in a strong deluge of sudden warmth.
What on earth had he ever done to deserve the respect, the regard, the loyalty Agravaine had shown him since he'd become regent? Even on the days when duty weighed too heavily upon him, and he thought he'd surely crumple and collapse beneath the burden, he could always count on his uncle to stand with arms out, ready and willing to bear it with him. Truly, he had done nothing to warrant the allegiance of such a great man.
"Thank you, Merlin," he said impulsively, his previous irritation receding rapidly in light of the servant's report, "for telling me this. I will be sure to set his mind at ease."
Merlin smiled—it looked slightly strained, maybe the wine was beginning to wear off—and pulled the coat of mail up over Arthur's head. He took the armor, and laid it carefully over the bare stand in the corner, before he spoke again.
"Glad to hear it, Sire."
Notes: WHOAKAY do you know how much SHIT this chapter gave me I literally had to beat this fucker into submission with a fucking STICK just to get it written. Also I realized like right after I finished that Agravaine sticks his fingers in dry, but I didn't care enough to change it. also I have written Arthur's POV a grand total of once, so dear God, please go easy on me.