"Mind your footwork."
"I am," Arthur grits out, shaking the sting out of his wrist where Merlin had landed a blow with the end of his quarterstaff. Not nearly as hard as he could've, of course, but enough to smart.
"No, you're not. It isn't like wielding a sword, Arthur. You've got to be more mindful of your balance," Merlin explains. To prove his point, he spins neatly on heel and swats the prince across the backs of his thighs with the staff, making Arthur leap away with a small yelp. "Again."
With the weather warming, they've been spending more time outdoors, and after some persistent nagging on Arthur's part, they've begun sparring again, though it's also become training as well, Merlin teaching Arthur the finer points of using a quarterstaff, and Arthur educating Merlin on using a sword without injuring himself. Both of them have improved, but Merlin's yet to win a sparring match with a sword, just as Arthur's never won one against him with a quarterstaff. When using their weapons of choice, they always end on a draw.
Arthur swings towards his head—again, as though he's using a sword, unbalanced. Merlin ducks beneath the blow and sweeps the prince's legs out from under him with a neat swipe of his staff. Arthur goes to his back hard, and Merlin plants the end of the quarterstaff against his chest, pinning him neatly. "Mind your footwork."
There's an enormous burst of laughter from behind them, and a gleeful young voice exclaims, "It seems I've arrived just in time!"
Merlin whirls on heel, raising his staff on reflex, and is confronted with the sight of five riders at the edge of their clearing: four men and a young girl. She's the one laughing, and the sound seems entirely too large and raucous to come from such a small body. The men wear surcoats of dark blue emblazoned with a white phoenix over leathern armour, and they bear small smiles of their own, though they seem more amused by the girl than Arthur.
"Bellegere?" Arthur gets to his feet, abandoning his quarterstaff as he crosses the clearing towards them. "What in the hell are you doing here?"
The girl jumps down from the saddle and immediately runs to embrace him, flinging her arms around his waist, unheeding of the sweat and dirt, and even more surprisingly, Arthur hugs her back despite scarce showing open affection otherwise. "I promised you I would come to foster at Camelot for a summer, did I not?" she asks once she releases him.
Merlin realises this must be Arthur's cousin, the one he writes to so often. They don't look much alike, with her straight black hair, dark eyes, small and slight, and he hadn't realised she was quite so young, either, perhaps two-and-ten. Curious now, he plants his quarterstaff in the dirt and leans against it, observing.
"Uncle Agravaine didn't send a missive," Arthur observes in a pointed tone, arching an eyebrow at her.
She folds her arms and raises her chin a touch. "What Father doesn't know shan't harm him," she replies loftily.
"Bellegere!"
Immediately, she props both fists on her hips, glaring up at him with a ferocious scowl, and Merlin rescinds his earlier opinion. She looks very much like her cousin. "He's never at Snowgate, so he's hardly going to give much notice to my absence! And it isn't as though I have absconded in the middle of the night on my own. I left a letter with the steward to give to Father, if he bothers to return at all this summer, telling him that I was going to Camelot and that I was taking my guard with me, and we would return come summer's end, before my natality." Her glower lessens, and a pleading note creeps into her tone. "Please, cousin, let me stay. I'm going slowly mad sitting at home, on my own, doing nothing but watching the crops grow. I cannot stand it another day longer."
Arthur is quiet for a long moment, arms folded over his chest as he gazes down at the girl, fingers drumming against his arm. Finally, he exhales a long breath and puts hands on his hips. "Very well," he accedes at last, then holds up a hand when Bellegere grins. "However, we are going to send a letter back to Snowgate telling your mother and father you've arrived here in one piece and have been permitted to stay, and if they should send for you to return home, you will go without fuss, understood?"
Merlin doesn't think she listens to a word he's saying, fit to wriggle right out of her skin in elation, and she flings herself forward once again, hugging him tightly around the waist. "Yes, yes, yes, I promise, I promise! Thank you, Arthur! See, this is precisely why you're my favourite cousin."
"I'm your only cousin."
"Semantics."
Arthur chuckles and ruffles her hair, then frowns once more, raking his gaze over her. "And just what on earth are you wearing?" he asks.
Too busy being amused by the exchange, Merlin hadn't given much attention to her attire, but now that he is, he understands what Arthur means. Bellegere is wearing a frayed tunic and jerkin which both appear too large for her, cinched at the waist with a belt, whilst her breeches seem too short, not to mention homespun. None of it looks fit for a noble lady, with the exception of her boots, which are made of fine leather and clearly the only thing actually her own.
"Oh, these aren't mine. I took them from the steward's sons." Bellegere makes a face as though she's just bitten into something rotted at the dinner table. "Mother had another of her fits and took away all my trousers again. She says I need to start wearing gowns and gave me a riding dress," she replies with utmost disdain, lip curling.
"What's so wrong with that?" Arthur asks in a mirth-choked voice.
"It's orange and it has ruffles. I look like a grouse."
Merlin turns his head into his elbow and bites his sleeve to keep from laughing aloud, muffling a snort against his arm.
Arthur doesn't laugh, though his shoulders are shaking with it, and he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. When he's once more in control of himself, he lowers his hand and clears his throat. "I'll see to it you have some clothes," he says at last. "If nothing else, I'm certain one of the pages or squires will have something of measure for you. Come on, let's return to the citadel."
At a gesture from Bellegere, the four men who'd accompanied her dismount and start walking their horses towards the city, one of them leading her sturdy pony as well. Merlin falls into step beside them, allowing Arthur and Bellegere to walk ahead of them. Had it been anyone else, he might've been at least a little stung to be so easily forgotten, but the sight of Arthur so happy more than makes up for it, and he knows they've not seen each other in near two years. So, rather than embitter himself over it, he listens to them talk as they walk back towards the gates.
"I'll put you in quarters down the hall from my chamber, and you'll need a bath and proper attire before you're shown to court," says Arthur, an arm around her shoulders. "And if Father should ask, then you will say absolutely nothing about your… absconding. I'll tell him it was my idea to bring you here and I convinced Uncle Agravaine to agree and merely forgot to inform him of it, alright? It's only a stroke of luck for you that they don't speak to one another, or we'd surely be caught out."
"Will he put you in the stocks?" Bellegere asks gleefully.
Arthur tweaks her hair. "No, he shan't, you little beast, and I'd appreciate you keeping such suggestions to yourself."
"So that's the prince, then?" asks the man walking nearest to Merlin. He's a big man, shorter than most but built like an ox, his grizzled red beard shot with grey. "I've heard of him."
Merlin nearly asks what exactly he's heard but holds his tongue, knowing he's being tested. "You've just seen more than most ever do," he replies instead.
The man grunts. "As have you," he says with a nod towards Bellegere.
He holds out a hand. "Merlin of Silverpine."
"Roland of Snowgate." The man has a grip like iron, his hands well-callused. "So, what are you if not a noble?"
"I'm the prince's manservant. And you're the captain of her honour guard, I take it?" Walking this close, he's noticed Roland bears a silver braid on the collar of his surcoat which the other three lack. Hardly a surprise, too, for the other three appear to be green as summer grass, likely fresh from training; one doesn't even look old enough for his voice to have changed yet. It makes him wonder about this Agravaine.
"Aye, I am."
"Well, Captain Roland, I'll tell you this. The Rising Sun has the strongest ale and the liveliest gaming tables, the Cockerel has the best wine and stew, and the Pavilion has the loveliest…garden," Merlin explains, gesturing in the appropriate directions with his staff. "The guardsmen's quarters are just there."
Roland chuckles as they enter the palace square; an ostler comes to take their horses. "Right, then. You have my thanks, lad."
"Of course."
Arthur's voice rings in the square. "Merlin!"
Roland's eyes flicker slightly, and he claps a hand against Merlin's back. "Mind the young mistress, won't you? And watch yourself, too. She's a stubborn one."
Merlin smirks. "Oh, I've plenty of experience there." Shouldering his quarterstaff, he climbs the stairs and hastens to Arthur, who's waiting at the foot of the interior staircase with Bellegere. "Yes, sire?"
"Merlin, show my cousin to her chambers and see to it her belongings are moved there promptly whilst I arrange for a more suitable wardrobe," Arthur says with another amused glance at her pilfered attire, then touches her shoulder. "I'll see you shortly, beastie. No running off." With that, he leaves them.
Immediately, Bellegere turns to eye him up and down like he's an enemy she's taking the measure of before engaging him in open combat, eyes slightly narrowed. In the brief moments of her evaluation, Merlin weighs his own options, accounting for what little he'd seen of her in the clearing and how Roland spoke of her, and decides to treat her just as he does Arthur. So, he clasps his hands behind his back and eyes her right back, brows raised slightly and saying nothing.
She bears it about as long as Arthur would've. "Well?" she barks, propping small fists on her hips. "Aren't you going to show me to my chambers?"
"Are you going to move?" he retorts, mimicking her tone. "You are standing in front of the stairs, m'lady."
Blinking in surprise, she glances over her shoulder at the staircase. "Oh. Well, then. Go on," she orders, taking a step to the side.
Merlin gives a small, sardonic bow. "My everlasting thanks." He ascends the stairs two at a time, as he always does, hearing her smaller boots follow him up. The skin between his shoulders prickles from the weight of her stare. Without waiting to see if she's keeping up with him, he heads in the direction of Arthur's chambers, deciding which room to put her in. Not so distant as to be dismissive, yet not too near to overhear anything…inappropriate.
"You know you're supposed to walk behind me, don't you?" Bellegere asks as she hurries alongside him.
"I do," he replies.
"You're not a very good servant, are you?"
"No, not really."
"Why are you Arthur's manservant, then?"
"Because the King is quite a single-minded man." Merlin turns down the corridor, walks to the third door, and opens it. "Here is where you'll be staying. Prince Arthur's chambers are just further."
Bellegere walks into the middle of the room, turning in a slow circle to survey every inch of it. "It'll suit," she says at last, using that same haughty voice Arthur likes to use when he's trying to be regal and aloof.
"Pleasant to know. As soon as your cousin returns with clothes, you'll have a bath."
She pivots on heel so sharply her hair fans out behind her, eyes narrowed, a flush creeping up her neck. "You do not tell me what I will or will not have."
In his mind's eye, he pictures one of those large, horny toads found at the edge of ponds and lakes, taking in air and puffing itself out to make itself seem larger and more frightening that it is. In other words, a bluff. "You're dressed like an urchin and you smell like a stable. You'll have a bath before you go anywhere, or you'll like as not be taken for a scullery maid and put to scouring pots in the kitchens," he replies, putting hands on his hips to imitate her earlier posture. "And speaking from personal experience in such matters, trust me when I say you'd rather have the bath, if only for the sake of your fingernails."
Bellegere continues to glare at him for another moment, but then she relaxes, her angry flush receding. A smile plays around her mouth; inwardly, he knows he's made the right decision in his handling of her. "You said your name was Merlin?" she asks, bounding over to sit on the edge of the bed, swinging her booted feet off the floor.
"I didn't, nor did you ask, but yes, it is. Merlin of Silverpine," he answers with a smile of his own. "And you are the young Lady du Bois."
She scrunches up her face in displeasure. "Don't call me that. My mother is Lady du Bois. I'm not a lady."
"You appear to be one to my eyes."
Bellegere folds her arms, scowling at him. "Just because I am a girl doesn't mean I'm a lady, Merlin. Ladies are supposed to wear gowns and gossip and embroider," she explains as if speaking to a particularly slow-witted simpleton.
Merlin snorts loudly, earning a look of surprise from her. "You must not know a great many ladies, then," he replies, thinking of Morgana in her mail and armoured corset, running one of Kanen's brigands through with her sword, of Evaine on her knees in the gardens, removing an infestation of weeds with a vengeance, hands blackened with dirt up to the wrists. He wonders if Bellegere has ever met Morgana; he'll have to tell Arthur to introduce them.
The girl eyes him dubiously, perhaps wondering if she's being mocked in some way, but rather than say aught of it, she changes subjects instead. "I saw you sparring with Arthur. I've never seen anyone best him in a match before," she says, sounding truly fascinated now.
"I've only ever bested him with the quarterstaff. I'm scarce more than useless with a sword," Merlin replies in amusement. "Though I can still throw a knife better than he can. It's the only blade I can wield with more skill."
"Show me," she demands in a happy, eager way.
Chuckling, he slides one of his wrist knives out into his palm, flicking it around neatly to proffer her the hilt; Bellegere turns it over in curious fingers, tracing a fingernail over the engraving on the flat of the blade. She presses the pad of her thumb against the edge and winces when it draws blood, though she doesn't seem overly bothered by it, sticking her thumb in her mouth. "Easy," he remarks, holding out his hand for it back.
She places it in his palm. "How do you keep it up your sleeve that way?"
Merlin turns back his sleeve to show her the sheath strapped around his wrist. "There's a catch here. I have others, but I shan't tell you where I'm hiding them," he replies with a wink, and she grins, raking her gaze up and down him curiously. "Kindly don't say anything about it, though. Strictly speaking, I'm not meant to have them, but Arthur allows me to keep them as long as they are kept private. Now, if I am not permitted to address you as Lady du Bois, might I be allowed to call you Bellegere?"
She ponders that for a long moment. "You may," she replies at last, lofty as any highborn lady. "You call my cousin by his name as well. You aren't meant to."
Merlin shrugs and spreads his hands. "I do a great many things I'm not meant to do. All you need do is ask my brother. I'm quite the villain."
That earns him another of those guffawing laughs which sounds far too huge to come from such a small chest, and Merlin can't help but to laugh as well, taken in by her effervescence. Her laughter halts abruptly when someone knocks at the door.
However, it's only Arthur, closely followed by Guinevere. Merlin smiles. If anyone can manage this contrary little girl, it'd be Gwen; she has a set of clothing folded over one arm, hung neatly so they wouldn't crease. It looks to him like the livery a young nobleman might wear, nothing orange or ruffled in sight. "Wonderful to see you're capable of getting along with someone other than your brother, Merlin," Arthur drawls, though there's a genuine gleam of humour in his eye. "Cousin, this is Guinevere. She'll be looking after you for now. I have to attend court with my father today, so you settle in here, get yourself tidied, and we'll make a day of it tomorrow, yes?"
"Alright."
"Excellent. Merlin, with me."
As they walk down the corridor, the sound of Bellegere's strident tone follows them, insisting that she is not a lady, do not address her as such. Merlin hides a smile as he falls into step beside Arthur, not behind him.
This is going to be an interesting summer.
On the nights when Merlin stays in Arthur's chambers, he takes his dinner with the prince, avoiding the cook's notice by smuggling his portions onto the tray after her back's turned and hiding the second goblet in his coat. The real trick is to get the lot of it up the stairs to Arthur's chambers without either spilling or dropping anything. He's become quite adept at it.
Arthur straightens at his desk when Merlin walks in. "Is that supper? Excellent, I'm ravenous."
"You always are. Stewed venison," Merlin announces as he takes the cover off the dinner tray and sets out the wine, taking the second goblet from his coat, carefully wedged under his arm so he wouldn't drop it. "So, your cousin seems…pleasant."
Arthur chuckles as he pours a measure of wine for them. "She can be ornery," he accedes.
"Not at all like you, then?"
That earns him a flat, unimpressed glance, but then he smiles and shrugs one shoulder. "Fair enough. It's not been easy for her, that's all. Uncle married later than most nobles do, Aunt Thea is some years younger than him, and they've not…" Arthur hesitates slightly, brows drawing together. He rubs his thumb against the ring on his forefinger, tapping his nail against the band. "They've been wed for near five-and-ten years now, and Bellegere…."
He doesn't finish, shaking his head, but Merlin understands well enough. That many years with only a single child, and a girl, no less. From what he'd learnt drinking with Roland at the Cockerel that afternoon, Agravaine is scarcely ever within his own home, and the lady of the house isn't always…well. However, judging by the way Roland said it, Merlin suspects her ailments are more mental than physical. For the most part, Bellegere is left to her own devices. It sounds a painfully lonely life.
"What do you think of her?" Arthur prompts, changing topics.
"I think she's proud," Merlin says slowly as he walks around the prince's chamber, snuffing the majority of the candles. "Largely because she has little else. Lonelier than she'd admit. And angry as well."
"Angry?"
"Quite." Merlin notices the puzzled expression Arthur wears and sighs, walking back over to the table and stopping behind the other man's chair. "She's angry at her father for never being present, she's angry at her mother for being unwell and unable to bear another child, and she's likely angry at herself as well for not being the son and heir her father wants and for being unable to be the daughter and lady her mother wants. All in all, I believe the only person she isn't angry with is you, and that is because you're likely the only person in her life who loves her in her entirety."
"Oh," Arthur says, his voice rather small. "What makes you believe you know so much of her?"
Merlin leans over the chairback to plant a kiss atop Arthur's head. "Because I know you, and she is very much like you. Only less of a clotpole, of course," he adds with a chuckle. When he doesn't get an eyeroll or a jest in reply, Merlin reaches down and places a hand on one shoulder, squeezing gently. "If you wish to do well by her, then say nothing of it. She's much too proud to admit to any of it, and then she will be angry with you, which sounds a terrifying prospect to me," he admits.
Arthur snorts into his wine, smile returning. "You've no idea." When Merlin tries to walk past his chair, intending to sit down, he hastily sets the goblet aside and wraps both arms around his waist, tugging sharply.
Merlin squawks as he lands in Arthur's lap, nearly upsetting the dinner tray. "What are you doing?" he laughs. The blond doesn't answer, only hums happily as he noses at the nape of Merlin's neck, blowing softly into his ear. It makes him shiver in delight, and a knowing smile creeps across his face when Arthur's fingers play over the hem of his tunic, sliding underneath. "Oh, you prat, I thought you were ravenous."
"Mm, it can wait."
It's a good thing that Merlin rises early in the mornings, Arthur muses. If left to his own devices, he could sleep 'til midday, and yet Merlin is able to wake almost before the birds do, it seems. Whilst waking up to cool sheets isn't something Arthur enjoys, for once he doesn't mind, given that Bellegere decides to wake him herself by sneaking into his chambers and taking a running leap onto his bed.
Arthur lets out a string of words one should never say in a lady's hearing when her sharp knees dig into his back. "Those are my kidneys, Bellegere. I will thank you to get off them," he groans out.
"You promised me the day. The sun has risen, the day has begun," she points out as she clambers off the bed.
"How did you get in here?"
Merlin's cheerful voice cuts in. "I let her in."
Arthur squints in the unfairly bright sunlight as he sits up, making out the slightly bleary figure of the other man. Merlin is setting out breakfast at the table, having helpfully brought a second, smaller portion for Bellegere. "I've taken the liberty of clearing your schedule today, so you may spend it with your cousin," he says in that damnably cheerful voice of his; he winks at Arthur when Bellegere isn't looking, too busy making short work of her breakfast.
Arthur makes sure her gaze is elsewhere before sliding out of the bed, hastily tugging on his trousers. "You couldn't have warned me first?" he murmurs in an undertone as he dresses.
"Where's the entertainment in that?" Merlin chuckles, holding out a coat for him. "Don't worry, I'd have put you in your smallclothes before she saw anything." He wriggles his fingers. "So, if you are to be occupied with your cousin, does that mean I have the day off?"
Arthur cuffs him lightly on the ear, smirking. "Not at all. I'm certain you'll be able to keep yourself busy," he replies.
"Prat." Merlin steps back and turns to face Bellegere, giving an exaggerated flourish of a bow, making her snort. "I'll take my leave, then, shall I? You can leave the tray, I'll be back to collect it later. Enjoy yourselves and kindly stay out of trouble."
Arthur shies a grape at Merlin's head, who hastily ducks it and leaves the chamber, his laughter fading down the corridor. He casts an appraising look over Bellegere whilst he eats. "I see you've found more appropriate attire today." Matter of fact, he's quite certain those are his clothes, or had been a few years ago. He hadn't grown into himself until he was nearly knighted, going from the shortest of the squires to the second tallest behind Leon in the course of a year. It suits her well.
She beams happily, stroking the sleeve of her tunic. "They're lovely, aren't they? Lady Morgana gave them to me, said they belonged to a former squire. She wouldn't tell me who, but look." She sticks out one leg with a snort, showing that her trousers, whilst loose on her slimmer frame, are barely tucked into her boots. "I am taller than he was."
Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes skyward. Definitely his clothing, then, and definitely Morgana's doing. Damned harpy. Licking the last remnants of breakfast off his fingertips, he pushes back from the table. "I have something for you, cousin."
Bellegere straightens in her chair, eyes brightening. "A present?"
"Yes, a present. I meant to send it to you for your natality, but seeing as how you wish to be so damnably stubborn," he says, arching an eyebrow at her, "I might as well give it to you. Stay there."
She bounces eagerly in her seat as he goes to the cupboard and unlocks it. There are only two objects in it, and only one is for her; the other is to be for Merlin, if things go accordingly. He takes out the handsome leather case and walks over to the table with it, aware of Bellegere's enthusiastic eyes on him, setting it before her on the table. "Here. Open it."
Near squirming, she flicks open the clasps, lifts the lid, and gasps softly. The interior of the case is lined with padded silk to protect its contents—a bow and a quiver of arrows. It's a short bow, such as a horseman might use. Or a young archer. It's made of white yew, tipped with ram's horn, the string braided horsehair greased with beeswax; beside it, the quiver is sturdy buckskin, holding a dozen arrows of birchwood, straight as a die and fletched with peacock, each one tipped with razor-sharp steel.
Bellegere takes the bow from the case. "Is it truly for me?" she asks in a small voice, cradling it like it might well dissolve into smoke should she treat it too roughly.
"Of course. I had them tighten the draw from your last one. You've been practicing, I trust?" he queries, sitting on the edge of the table.
She nods rapidly, running a fingertip along the bowstring, plucking it. "It's so beautiful, Arthur. Will you take me hunting with it?"
"Later. I'll take you down to the training field first, let you practice. Never go out with an untested weapon, you know that." Arthur reaches out and lightly tweaks her hair, making her swat at his hand. She's left most of it loose today, only putting in two small braids at the front to keep it out of her face; he wonders if she actually assented to Gwen braiding it for her.
"Well, then, let's go," she says, immediately springing out of her chair and snatching the quiver out of the case, slipping the belt over her head.
He chuckles as he follows her out of his chambers, watching her bounce on her toes as she walks. "Are you enjoying Camelot so far, cousin? Is it different from Snowgate?" he asks, thinking of what Merlin had said about her being lonelier than she would admit.
"Oh, yes. There are so many people," she remarks in surprise, eyes widening slightly. "After the training field, can we go to the guardsmen's quarters? I want to show Roland. He has been helping me maintain my archery practice at Snowgate, and he's promised to give me a training sword and teach me forms once I'm four-and-ten."
"If you'd like. Also, since when do you have your own honour guard?"
"Since last spring. Mother kept making a fuss over me going riding by myself, and she wanted Father to take Rabbit away from me, but I convinced him that I was old enough to have my own guard instead. I chose Roland for my captain, and he picked the others so he can train them himself," she chatters on, which makes Arthur feel somewhat better about this Captain Roland of hers.
"Rabbit?"
"My pony. He's grey and has long ears." Perfectly sensible. "Merlin told me he has a horse as well. The Hellion. Did you give her to him?"
Arthur snorts at the mention of that spotted menace of a horse. "No, no. The Hellion was a gift from his father. She's a lovely beast to look at, but she's the only creature I've met more ill-tempered than you," he adds, then winces as she punches his side none-too-gently. The topic does give him an opportunity, however, to pose a question that's been itching at him since last night. "So, tell me. What do you think of Merlin?"
"He's an awful servant," Bellegere replies, wrinkling her nose slightly, but she's smiling, too. "And he's better with a quarterstaff than you." Ah, he's never going to live that one down. "He's odd. I like him," she says decisively.
Arthur laughs and puts an arm around her shoulders. "So do I, beastie. So do I."
Merlin might keep his vigils during the festivals of the Old Religion, but there is one yearly celebration that he doesn't have to miss and is grateful not to, in all honesty—Arthur's natality.
By some stroke of luck, it seems the prince is actually fit to enjoy himself this year, as Arthur had always ended up brooding previous years. It's another example of his remarkable ability to be utterly contradictory—when he should be at his highest, all his self-possession and conceit slides away into a guilt-tinged sulk usually lasting the entire week. Merlin's never asked why; he doesn't need to. However, the presence of his cousin has done wonders for Arthur's demeanour over the summer. Perhaps he's finally learnt that despite the loss which accompanied him into the world, there are a great many people who are glad of his birth.
As the festivities wear on, set to last most of the night, Merlin lets his gaze roam over the great hall, seeking out familiar faces. There is Morgana standing with Guinevere, speaking with one of the female tumblers who'd just performed. There is Leon, sitting with the other knights and laughing over some jest. There is Lancelot, leaning against a column and speaking with Percival, one of the guards on duty in the hall. A frown tugs at his lips when he finally picks out Bellegere. It isn't hard to do, as she looks to be the only unhappy person in the hall. What is it with this family and their inability to be collectively happy?
As is appropriate, she's been seated at a table with the youngest members of the peerage, girls of noble birth near her own age. Another year or two, they'd be playing games of courtship in earnest; some are making starts at it already, batting their lashes and making eyes at the young noblemen. Bellegere looks rather forlorn in their midst, watching the other girls flirt and giggle with something akin to longing. None of the young men pay her any mind, either. Because she is Lady Belligerent, loud and contrary and prickly as a thorn bush. Because she is very like her cousin, proud and clever and not terribly good at flirting.
Merlin takes a step closer to the table, leaning over to fill Arthur's cup. "You should see to Bellegere," he murmurs lowly as he bends down, keeping his voice pitched just so only Arthur could hear.
Arthur straightens in his chair, head turning as he looks for her, and Merlin can almost see the empathy on his face. He pushes back from the table and makes his way towards her table; Merlin follows him at discreet distance.
Bellegere visibly brightens at his approach, smiling at last even as the other girls all blush and giggle at the sight of Arthur, hardly able to look at him straight. "Are you enjoying yourself, dear heart?" he asks; she's the only person he ever addresses by terms of endearment. The names he calls Merlin don't quite fall under that bastion.
"I am now. Will you sit with me a moment, cousin?"
"Only if you promise me a dance at the next turn."
She wrinkles her nose but agrees, and he sits at the end of the bench beside her. Merlin leans back against the wall to observe, fighting his own mirth. He's seen Arthur do battle against impressive odds, all manner of beasts and foes, and yet he's not certain he's ever seen the prince quite so uncomfortable as he is surrounded by a gaggle of adolescent girls. He looks as though he'd sooner wrestle a rabid bear. Deeply amused by his unease, Bellegere shamelessly urges them on, eyes sparkling with mischievous glee. When she mentions the Questing Beast—Merlin had regaled her with the story at her behest, of course leaving out his own involvement—the resulting squeal is near-deafening, and they naturally beg to see the scar. Some are more insistent than others. Finally, flushing somewhat, Arthur loosens the ties of his shirt and eases open the neckline enough to reveal part of the mark.
"Prince Arthur," says one of the bolder girls out of the lot, "do you not have another scar you might show us?" She reaches out to touch his knee, just below an old, long-healed scar he'd earned when he was still a squire, which runs in a curved line up to his inner thigh.
Merlin turns around and presses his brow against the wall so he doesn't laugh aloud, biting his tongue near to the point of drawing blood.
"No," Arthur replies flatly, ears bright pink. He levels a glare at Bellegere. "It's not funny."
"Yes, it is," she giggles into her cup of well-watered wine.
By the time the celebration winds to a close, it's only a few hours before dawn, and a great many of the guests have drank themselves sodden, having to be half-carried out by their companions and servants. Merlin is one of the few still sober, though he's pleasantly warm from the perry brandy Arthur had given him earlier; of course, he is given the task of escorting the prince, who is most assuredly not sober, back to his chambers, an arm clamped around his waist to keep him walking in a straight line. He's only grateful that Arthur hasn't become so inebriated as to become overly affectionate with him, a common side-effect of the drink.
"Do you think he had fun this year?" Bellegere asks in a drowsy voice, walking at his other side. Her shuffling step is due to weariness, not wine, thankfully. "He doesn't always."
"Oh, he did, I'm certain of it, and I think we have you to thank for that. You make him very happy," Merlin replies.
She follows him right up to Arthur's door, having passed her own chamber, and watches as Merlin gives Arthur a nudge inside, turning him in the direction of the bed. Hopefully he'll be able to make it that far without help. "If I ask you something, will you answer me true?" Bellegere prompts, watching her cousin stagger away.
Merlin blinks and leans his back against the doorway. "If I can, I certainly will try."
"How long have you been bedding him?"
He opens his mouth, closes it again without a sound; Bellegere gazes up at him with her deep black eyes, waiting. "Would you believe me if I said I wasn't?" he asks at last, and she shakes her head, lips curling up.
"I shan't tell, if that is what you're afraid of. I know you must keep it a secret." She smiles warmly, glancing back into the chambers; Arthur's made it to the bed, sprawled face-down on the coverlet, snoring. "You make him happy as well. He's…lighter."
"Nobody else has noticed," Merlin observes.
At that, she gives a most unladylike snort. "Most people are idiots."
"True enough." He tilts his head back against the doorframe, realising that he's not yet answered her initial question. "Since early this spring, though we've been… tangled for some time before that."
Bellegere seems inordinately pleased with the knowledge, nodding sagely to herself. "Will you take care of him?" she prompts with a note of worry colouring her tone.
"I will," he murmurs.
"Good. He needs looking after." She glances up and down the corridor, though they're the only ones still awake and sober, then lurches forward and hugs him hard and tight. For such a slim girl, she has a ferocious grip, digging her fingers into his back and pressing her head against his middle. Merlin embraces her back, though not quite able to manage her compressive strength. Bellegere holds onto him for only a span of heartbeats, then quickly withdraws, stepping back and straightening out her jerkin. "Don't tell anyone I've done that," she mutters. "Goodnight, Merlin."
"Goodnight, Lady Belligerent," he replies, and she makes a rude gesture likely learnt from her cousin. Grinning, he eyes her up and down. "You know…you're really quite clever."
Bellegere nods as she makes for her own chambers. "Yes, I know."
Agravaine never does send anyone to Camelot to retrieve his daughter. True to her word, however, after the feast of Lughnasadh, Bellegere returns to Snowgate. Before she leaves, she wrests a promise from Merlin that he will write to her as well and that when she is taller, he will show her how to use a quarterstaff well enough to best her cousin in a match.
Summer continues to ease down into autumn. Merlin relishes the shift between seasons, and there are times he goes riding outside of the city on his own just to breathe in the sweet smell of ripening hay and churned earth. He doesn't even mind accompanying Arthur on patrols to hunt the looters and raiders which always appear in flocks come harvest time. He, Leon, and Lancelot make bets on who can capture the most; by the time winter begins, he's earned nearly thirty silver from them. It's…fun.
The arrival of cold weather provides him with an excuse to stay in the castle more often, insisting the constant back-and-forth between the townhouse and the castle is bound to make him ill sooner rather than later. The cot in the antechamber of Arthur's rooms, however, remains empty and unused; Arthur's bed is far more comfortable.
"You know, if you keep staring at me, I shall begin to think there's something wrong with my face," Merlin points out after they've finished their supper, lacing his fingers together under his chin; the prince has continually gazed at him throughout the meal, head tilted slightly to one side.
Arthur doesn't rise to the bait, still eyeing him up, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He has that damn look about him again, a look which Merlin has recognised means he's plotting something. Which is never a good thing. For all his strategic and tactical ability, he has this bizarre, inherent ability to make even the simplest of plans go hideously awry in the most horrifying ways.
It makes Merlin nervous, rather rightfully so, he believes. "Shake your head, your eyes seem to be stuck. Why are you staring at me like that, Arthur?"
"Close your eyes."
Merlin arches his eyebrows, doubly nervous now. "I will not." He's learnt his lesson about closing his eyes around Arthur, especially with the prince's…unique and betimes wicked sense of humour.
Arthur raises an eyebrow right back, and they continue to gaze at one another for a long moment. Finally, he rolls his eyes skyward and pushes back from the table. "Very well. Be that way if you wish." He tugs at the chain around his neck, freeing it from his tunic; Merlin narrows his eyes. There's only ever one key on the chain, the one to the Hall of Portraits, but now another's joined it, a small, plain one. Arthur uses it to unlock a cupboard which Merlin knows full well is empty—or is meant to be, anyways.
"What are you doing over there?" he asks.
"Hush. You didn't want to close your eyes, you don't get to ask questions now."
"Prat."
Chuckling, Arthur takes something from the cupboard, nudges the door shut with his elbow, and returns to the table with whatever it is he holds, holding it behind his back. "Move your plate."
"What do you have?" Merlin asks, tilting his head to try and see behind Arthur, but the prince leans to the side, keeping it out of sight.
Arthur rolls his eyes skyward. "Will you just…?"
"Oh, alright." He slides his plate and cutlery aside, moving his cup as well, then folds his hands neatly before him, prim as any courtier.
Arthur sets whatever it is he holds down in the empty space provided.
He lets out a soft exhale. The book is bound in dark unadorned leather, the binding well-done and made to last. When he opens it, the pages are made of thick, expensive paper. And are blank. He rifles through them curiously, finding them all blank. "Arthur, what…?"
"You've made fair-copies of Cornelius Sigan's work. Perhaps one day someone will make fair-copies of yours," Arthur says, retaking his seat.
"Oh…." Merlin runs his fingertips over the thick leather, tracing the edge of the cover, then opens it again, turning the blank pages. There's a length of ribbon sewn into the top of the binding, an attached page marker. If it's looked after, it'll last for years upon years, just like the ones in his library.
"Merlin?" A thread of nervousness winds its way into Arthur's voice. Leant back in his chair, he looks the picture of ease, but he's tapping his thumb against the arm of the chair, ring clicking against the polished wood, and his other hand is raised to his mouth, subtly biting one knuckle, an anxious habit of his.
Merlin carefully sets the book to the side, then shoves out of his chair and crawls over the tabletop to Arthur. It's entirely needless; it likely would've been easier simply for him simply to stand up and step around. As it is, he scrapes his shin against the edge of the table. It's worth it, however, to hear Arthur's delighted laugh as he wraps his arms around Merlin, pulling him close. "It's lovely, Arthur, it's perfect. I adore it," he murmurs, punctuating his words with soft kisses all over the prince's face. "But I have to ask, what is it for?"
Arthur chuckles, tucking his hand behind the crook of Merlin's knee, tugging him closer. "Three years, and it took me questioning your damned brother to find out when your natality is," he remarks.
"Oh." Merlin flushes a little, ducking his head in embarrassment. "I…forgot?"
"Only you could forget your own natality, Merlin." Arthur kisses the side of his neck. "By my count, however, I still owe you two more years. What would you like?"
Immediately, he shakes his head. "Oh, no, no, Arthur, you don't have to do that. I've already told you that I don't wish to be treated like—"
"Like a courtier, yes, I know," Arthur finishes for him, nodding. "You've told me, but this isn't me courting you. You've given me gifts." He tilts his wrist, letting the light catch on his natality gift from Merlin: a small golden pendant in the shape of a sun dangling from a long sinew cord, matching the sunstone pin he still wears on his collar and replacement to the necklace Merlin had stolen from him. "Am I not permitted to do at least that much in return? So, tell me, is there anything you want?"
He drags his fingers through Arthur's hair, still able to smell the lavender oil from his bath. "No, nothing." There's very little he truly wants. He's always appreciated what he has, knowing there are others who lack so much. What he desires above all else is his freedom, the liberty to be the entirety of himself without fearing his own death. However, he knows it would only spoil their night, and he's content to wait for that anyways.
A thought occurs to him, and a smile creeps across his face. "Actually…there is one thing I'd care to have from you."
"They won't find it suspect, you dismissing them for the day?" Arthur asks. He takes off his cloak as he steps into the de Galis townhouse, shutting the door behind him. There's no smiling Elfgifa waiting to take it for him, so he folds it over his arm.
Merlin's waiting for him inside, sitting near the bottom of the staircase with Allegra sat next to him begging for an ear-scratch. "No. Leon and I give them days of leisure from time to time, usually when Leon is on long patrol," he replies with a smile. Nudging Allegra's head off his lap, he stands and extends a hand to Arthur. "Come. This way."
Arthur has been in the de Galis townhouse on only four occasions: when he spoke to Sir Lionel about the wraith, when he hid himself there during the tourney, when he sat vigil at Yule and made himself ill in the cold, and when he tried to keep rein on Aredian during his witch-hunt. He's never been there, however, when both Leon and the household staff are absent, and he's never once set foot inside Merlin's room. However, this is what Merlin has asked of him in lieu of another gift—one night together in his own bed, his own home.
"Out," Merlin orders, and Allegra trots out of the room, having followed them up. Once she's out in the corridor, he shuts the door and leans back against it, gazing at Arthur as he peers around.
The room isn't terribly large, but it suits Merlin, fits him just right. There are a few books stacked atop various surfaces, shelves bearing small, innocuous keepsakes, scattered bits of clothing. The bed is covered by a quilt, made of squares of fabric in various colours and patterns, scrap cloth. Instead of a lamp, however, there's a shining orb the size of a man's fist, giving off its own light. It reminds him uncannily of the light that'd appeared to him in the mortaeus caverns.
When Merlin notices his gaze, he steps closer, reaching out to touch it with one finger. Its light fades like a candle slowly burning out, and sat on the bedside table is a solid orb of clear glass. "Trick I developed myself. Useful for reading myself to sleep." Merlin sits down on the edge of the bed, running his hands over the quilt.
"Will you…?" Arthur gestures to the glass orb. "I liked that."
Smiling, Merlin reaches out to touch the glass again, and it illuminates from within, glowing with a soft blue-white light like a captive splinter of star.
"Do you know what this brings to mind?" Arthur asks, and Merlin shakes his head. "The caverns in the Forest of Balor, and the light you sent to guide my way."
The younger man's ears turn brilliant pink, a flush spilling down the sides of his neck; Arthur can't help but to kiss him. Hands at Arthur's waist, Merlin slides back onto the bed, drawing the prince up onto the bed and rolling over atop him.
It's different this time somehow, slow and sweet and almost painfully tender. Arthur's surrounded by Merlin, the warmth of his body and the wild smell of his skin, the humming golden presence of his magic pressed up against him in an intimate caress across every inch of his skin. He runs his hands up the span of Merlin's back, sweat-slick and overheated, feeling his muscles ripple and flex as he moves over Arthur, eyes blown wide and dark. The blue-white glow of Merlin's light-stone casts curious patterns across their skin. Arthur gasps, spine bowing, and Merlin's eyes spark gold behind his lashes.
Afterwards, Merlin sleeps deep and peaceful beside him, half-curled on his side with one arm and leg thrown haphazardly over Arthur. The light-stone glows softly from the table, the only light in the room. He strokes Merlin's curls out of his eyes, smiling softly. Like a wool-blind ewe, he muses. Despite the lingering haze of satisfaction, a chill brushes over his skin beneath the quilt, a frost-touched feather tickling along his backbone, and he knows that this respite of theirs, this period of grace, is coming to an end. They've not done all they're meant to do, and that destiny is coming for them whether they like it or not.
Please, he prays, drawing Merlin's warm, pliant body closer to him. Please, I beg of you, no more losses. Whatever I must do, whatever price I must pay, I will do it. I will give until I break if I must.
As if wakened by his desperate prayers, Merlin stirs against him. "Arthur?" he murmurs.
"Promise you'll stay with me," Arthur whispers fervently, lips pressed to curling black hair, smelling the clean, wild scent of him. "Promise. Don't leave me."
"I am here. I'm not leaving." Merlin reaches further around him, embracing Arthur with his entire body, like ivy twining around a tower.
"Always?"
Merlin nods, brow furrowing at Arthur's urgency. "Always and always."
Please, Arthur prays again, eyes closed. Please.