Chapter One
It's the incoherent shouts that draw him to his window; the gunshot is what has him pushing through the screen, rifle loaded and tucked under his arm. The wood bangs against the side of his cabin as the crazed yelling is fashioned into curses and death threats – more bullets pierce the night. He whistles lowly, raising the barrel of his gun. Those are from revolvers, made for killing people, dirty things with metal colder than the hearts of men. His trigger is warm. He smiles slightly, chewing on the tip of his tongue.
There's the desperate thumping of footsteps against sod, and then the men burst from the darkness. One is metres ahead of the others, and he runs with urgency – a silhouette behind him raises a gun once more to shoot. His aim is off – it slices through the air and is lost. He shakes his head, as if disappointed, and then snaps the safety off. Both the first fellow's hands are empty. You don't shoot at an unarmed man.
He waits a few more seconds for the party to grow closer, and then he fires a shot into the air. The sound echoes through the clearing, a roar, deafening compared to their measly pistols. He aims just over the predator's heads, enough to send them sprawling, hands clamped on their ears. He lowers the barrel, running his fingers over the grooves and leaning heavily on the doorframe. The chasers climb onto stuttering feet, and take off in the direction they came, guns hanging limply at their sides. The other man skids to a halt, head spinning wildly to find the source of the sound. Eventually, his eyes land on the figure in the doorway, and he stares, motionless.
The sound of crickets chirping pulses through the silence.
"Are you gonna come in?"
The man outside jumps, face concealed by the night. He smirks at him, placing his gun just inside the door. "I did just save your arse. You could at least show your face."
Warily, the young gentleman steps into the light, and the first thing he notices about him is the colour of his hair. It's the colour of sand, but not the sand of the West. Of the East, where the ocean roils mercilessly against the shore and the wind tastes of salt and sea lavender.
The rest is simpler. He's strong, supple with muscle, like someone familiar with mining; his skin is tanned and his hands are calloused; and his eyes are blue, much like his own, but more innocent – empty of experience.
"What's your name then?"
The blonde clears his throat, standing taller. "It's Arthur."
"Arthur who?"
"Uh, Arthur Pendragon?"
He laughs. "You're not sure?"
"No, I – "
"Come inside."
He pushes the screen back open, revealing a worn wooden door, swinging his rifle over his shoulder as he does so. Arthur remains outside, bewildered. "I said come in. I don't bite."
Clenching and unclenching his fists, he takes a step forward, following the stranger into his cabin. Only then does he take a proper look at the man – he's taller than him, his hair black as soot, hat tipped back on his head. He holds himself loosely, lanky arms swinging as he steps around a dusty table. His eyes are a ghostly blue, full of mirthful conflict. Arthur frowns as this stranger shoots him a smile – it's almost mocking, and he can't help but wonder why his manner is so casual. He just shot a rifle into the air and sent several men running, didn't he?
Then again, he did just save his life.
"Why… did you do that?"
"They were shooting near my cows." He sets down two mugs and moves over to a banged up stove. "No coffee. Tea?"
"… Sure."
With a swipe of his hand, the gas erupts into flame, swarming the hob in an array of oranges and blues. He sets a brass kettle on it, before turning back to Arthur.
"Why did they chase you?"
The blonde's cheek darkens at the question, and he stares at his hands, sheepish. "I… needed a horse. I wanted to go further east but… they caught me almost as soon as I mounted."
"You're a poor thief." The cowboy chuckles, spooning tea leaves into a pot. "Why didn't you just kick the stepper into a gallop?"
His face reddens even further, and he picks at the grain of the table absent-mindedly. "I…"
The kettle whistling saves him for a few moments, and the taller man becomes occupied with pouring the water into the teapot. Stirring, he silently observes the colour, huffing contentedly when it takes on a deep brown.
"Milk?" he asks lackadaisically, eyes never leaving the water as he splashes the tea lazily into the mugs. "It's fresh. Milked the cows this morning."
"Yes, please."
When they're both set with tea, two cups of swirling cream and sepia, the cowboy slumps into a chair at the table, itching the back of his neck. "Spit it out then."
"What?"
"Why you didn't ride away."
Arthur clinks his nails on the side of his mug, embarrassed. "Well…" He gulps as he watches the man's expression – he's looking at him expectantly, mouth twisting amusedly. He appears to be enjoying Arthur's discomfort. "I'm… not very good at riding a horse."
There's a moment of silence, and then a breathless laugh. Arthur's face grows vermillion once more. "Alright," he says, taking a large slurp of the tea. "I'll just have to teach you."
"Teach me?"
"You got anywhere else to be?"
"… No."
"Good. Your rooms down the hall, on the left." And with that, he takes one last gulp, leaving his drink half finished on the table. Hissing and quickly drumming his fingers on the wood, he stands, slapping his braces against his shirt as he does so. "I'm hitting the hay."
"Wait. Why are you offering me a place to stay?"
"You don't want it?"
"No I do, just – "
"I'll see you in the mornin'." His boots hit the floor heavily as crosses the room. Arthur stares after him, astonished, tea left forgotten on the table. His tongue lies thick and heavy in his mouth – his limbs ache from running – and now a strange man who herds cows and rides horses and drinks tea has told him to sleep in the bedroom down the hall. Hands shaking, Arthur runs a hand through his hair. He wishes he were back in the mines – he had his place there, he was strong, confident – but now…
He has to rely on the kindness of a stranger, like a stray cat hunting for scraps.
Chewing on his lip, he follows after him, shuffling his way down the hall. He's about to enter the room when the man stops, chuckling to himself. His head is down, hat low over his eyes. Arthur swallows thickly.
"What?"
He turns to face him, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. "I've just realised. I never told you my name."
The blonde blinks, relaxing slightly. He'd thought for a moment he was going to turn and tell him it was all trickery – kick him out onto the sand and leave him to the coyotes. "Oh."
"It's Merlin."
And then he swings round to face the door, and wanders, whistling, into his room.
The room Merlin's given him is opposite his own, and completely ridden with dust. There's a bed in the corner, and when he sits down it stiffens beneath him – it will have to be worn in, like a pair of shoes. Sighing, he kicks off his own worn boots, picking them up and gently fingering the holes. They'd seen much trouble in the last year.
There's a dresser as well, plain and empty, and Arthur places his shoes next to it. He doesn't have any clothes with him, but he'd only had a few shirts back at home anyway. His sister Morgana had always done the washing…
He turns to his left and finds himself staring back at him. The mirror is cracked, stained, but its frame has been cleaned – recently. It shines silver, and looks like the only expensive item Merlin owns. He wonders why it isn't in his own room.
Pulling off his shirt and hanging it over a lone chair, Arthur slips quietly into bed, punching the pillow a few times before settling. Crickets sing humbly outside, and there are a few howls and rustles, and if he closes his eyes, it almost feels like home.
As he lies there, Arthur takes a moment to reflect on the day. He had almost stolen a horse – his first ever felony – and he had almost gotten himself killed for it. The men had been burly; spit flying off their lips, and their guns had spun threateningly on their fingers. Never before had anyone aimed a gun at him. He'd gone hunting with his father sometimes, and had aimed a rifle, but never before had a bullet been so precariously close to knocking him through the ground and into the next life.
And then there was Merlin.
He had saved his skin, for no reason in particular (he didn't believe the cow story for a second) and then had made him tea and given him a bed for the night. Every once in a while, Arthur can hear the whinnies of horses and the soft mewling of cows, and he wonders why this cowboy trusts him so carelessly. He knows he isn't threatening, but Merlin couldn't possibly. He is large, muscular, and yet he doesn't intimidate this man. He hadn't for a second even suggested that Arthur might steal a horse, or shoot a bull – he had every faith in him to remain quiet and harmless.
Who is Merlin? Why did he talk more than cowboys are rumoured to – why did he smile more than he should? They're in Wyoming, where surely they should be drinking coffee, and yet he made tea.
It was all wrong. And yet, Arthur can't bring himself to care.
When Arthur finally does drift into a restless sleep, he dreams of tangy milk, blistering sunlight and delicate rifles. There is rotting wood and stained mirrors and rusting kettles, and there's a pair of cerulean eyes, clotted with mystery and a heavy past.
A/N I hope you're enjoying it so far. Especially you Anna! Let me know if there's anything in particular you want done with the story ^-^
-tapeandblades