Chapter 3: part 1
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Of course Merlin got in trouble. Such behaviour could not be forgiven. He was the son of a man of God and he was expected to behave like it. The hiding was worth it though. He sat on his bed that night, his stomach deprived of dinner and his backside throbbing, but he was smiling. He flexed his hand and didn't mind the mild pain.
"That prat had it coming," he whispered to no one.
The next day, no one teased him. No one said anything about his common background or his sense of dress. No one made any remarks regarding his ears or his hair or anything else. They gave him a wide birch and he preferred it that way.
It couldn't last long of course.
He was sitting on a step leading to the church and eating his lunch when Valiant bounded down the steps and kicked his lunch box over. His lunch went flying, landing around his feet. He watched his apple roll away and stop, only to be pecked at by birds.
He looked up at him, insults sitting at the tip of his tongue. He never got the opportunity to retaliate though because just as Valiant lifted his fist, as if to strike, he lay flat on his back on the ground with Arthur staring down at him.
"Wha-? What did you do that for?" He exclaimed, hands balling into fists at his side.
"We're not doing that anymore." Arthur said simply.
"He hit you! You let him hit you and now you're going to defend him?"
Merlin was just as incredulous. He looked up at the boy, took in his stoic expression, every bit the royal even with his bruised cheek.
"We're not messing with him anymore," he said again softly and slowly as if talking down to a child.
Valiant picked himself off the ground and gave Arthur a death stare before turning and stomping off. He paused a few feet away and looked back.
"Are you coming or not?" He demanded.
"Not," said Arthur taking a seat on the step, "go on without me."
Merlin watched the exchange with apprehension and morbid curiosity. It registered with him that Arthur might have saved him from Valiant only to torment him himself. He watched the other boy from his peripheral view and took him in. It was the first time he had the opportunity to just look at him. Short curly red hair replaced the blond locks he was accustomed to. His face was round and soft with youth with an obscene amount of freckles dusting his cheeks and nose. His eyes were still blue but watered down, like someone had added a dollop of white paint to the cornflower colour that still plagued his dreams.
He watched him fidgeting with the collar of his shirt, pulling at the obnoxious lace frills.
"Don't you ever get hot in all those clothes?" Merlin dared to ask.
"Yes, but it does not matter," he let his gaze linger on what Merlin wore; "some of us take pride in our attire."
Merlin looked down at himself. He wore a pair of pale brown shorts, which were admittedly too small for his long legs, and a white button-up shirt with no sleeves. He looked around at the few children milling around outside and noted that most of the boys were dressed like him. Only Arthur wore such rich colours; burgundy shorts clashing with a lilac shirt with red trimming on the cuffs.
"You look like a desert I'd have for tea," Merlin tried and failed not to laugh at Arthur's expression. His cheeks went an endearing shade of pink that travelled all the way up to the tips of his ears.
"Well…well…at least I don't have the ears of a mule," he exclaimed hotly.
Merlin, feeling brave now, tugged lightly at the pink appendages peeking out of curly red hair.
"Are you sure about that?" He laughed.
Arthur punched Merlin's shoulder but there was no heat in it. Merlin laughed harder and soon so did Arthur. And was just like that, in the heat of India with the sound of children playing, Merlin found his friend again.
It's not that Arthur stopped being a prat overnight. He still took to waiting for Merlin outside the church every morning and making rude comments about his appearance. The difference was that after a few quips, he would fall easy into a monologue about what his evil nanny made him eat for tea or the new toy his father sent him, or any other inconsequential thing running though his mind. It was as if, by hitting him, Merlin had passed some test; shown himself worthy to be Arthur's confidant.
Merlin found himself smiling at nothing in particular, humming old songs from his past and one time, though he would deny it, giggling. He was happy, for the first time in a long time, he was content. He relished his time with Arthur. He loved playing explorer with him, getting lost in fields of sugarcane. He loved spending afternoons in his attic, sucking on ice cubes as he read; feeling Arthur's eyes on him as he sat with his own book on his lap.
Sometimes they would go to Arthur's home, but not often. It seemed like more of a museum than a home. Art and sculptures alternated along the walls and heavy curtains draped the walls behind them so that very little light fed the rooms. The carpets we a deep maroon and the high ceilings painted gold. The first thing he noticed was the staircase winding down from the top floor to the foyer; railings painted gold to match the ceiling. It was not a house but a mansion; big, impressive but incredibly cold.
Arthur's nanny would arrange for Merlin to sleep over and he knew the days his mother agreed were Arthur's favourite, though he would never admit it. One evening they took all the tablecloths from the giant cabinet in the dining room and sheets from all the guestrooms in the house and made a blanket fort in Arthur's room. They light candles and made a little world for themselves where mean nannies were not allowed.
It was in that candlelight that Merlin looked at his best friend and felt a piercing pain rake his body. It was as if his love was a physical thing, too big and daunting for his little heart to take. Arthur lay down next to him and fought sleep, cheeks pink and eyes red. They had talked about his mother; how she died in childbirth and his father had never been the same. How he could count on one hand the number of times he spent more than a week with him; always with someone else there as if he was scared to just be with him. Merlin held him as he sobbed, patted his back awkwardly and tried to think of something comforting to say. In the end he had waited for the tears to dry and then challenged him to a game of chess that he purposely lost.
He prayed hard that night; cast out a wish into the universe. Please, he begged, please let him stay with him in this life.
But the gods are cruel and destiny is unforgiving.
He was ten when Arthur's father sent for him. He was to return to London and attend the same boys' school his father had and his grandfather before that. He stood on Arthur's porch and watched as his trunks were piled onto the waiting carriage. The horseman stood all in black, brushing his mare's mane, and Merlin felt it was appropriate. He wanted to be strong; he'd lost Arthur before, he knew what it felt like.
He would not cry.
Arthur did not bother with any restraint. Tears fell relentless down his face. He stood a step below Merlin; hands balled into fists and face downturned.
"It's going to be horrible. I don't want to go," he whimpered.
His nanny stood by the horseman, tapping a rhythm into the gravel. She looked up at the grey clouds hanging over head and told Arthur to wrap it up.
"I will write you every day. I promise," Arthur whispered, "you are the only friend I've ever had."
He looked at Merlin then, and the hold that Merlin had threatened to shatter. He nodded, knowing he did not have the right words.
"One day you can come to London, or I will come back. This is not goodbye. It's just, see you later." Arthur reached out and folded Merlin's tense body into a hug. Merlin could smell the scent of his soap coming off him; something not unlike cinnamon. He knew he would think about the smell every time he went to sleep until he saw him again.
And he would, he promised, he would see him again.
He stood waving well after the carriage carried Arthur away. Only when he could no longer hear the wheels of the carriage or the horse's gallop, did he sink to the ground and let the sky cry for him.