III.
JULY
Keeping his gift secret was difficult. If he didn't use it, even for the simplest thing like levitating an object an inch above the ground or smoothing out creases to save time ironing, the power tended to burst. It had happened once at home. His mother always stressed his gift must be kept hidden no matter what – he'd refrained from using it for over two weeks. His whole body had ached, his head pounded heavily, and no remedies seemed to help. Finally, like a dam bursting the force had simply broken free, smashing several pots in the room he'd been standing in, to his mother's displeasure and worry.
He could use the gift at night, when the house was asleep and quiet. Then he'd lit and unlit the single candle by the bedside with it, or attempt creating shapes of light from thin air, just to be rid of the tension. All had to be done in complete silence. During the day, he could quicken his chores a bit using it, but he was often in the presence of Gwen – and if things were done too quickly and, perhaps, too well, it would seem suspicious. (Not that anyone complained when the stubborn spots of wine of Lady Ygraine's fine jacket disappeared without a trace.)
Sometimes his gift tended to react instinctively. When he was emotional or angry or tired, it could do things for him, like it had a consciousness which realized that using magic subconsciously to do his chores would make life a little easier – once he'd found that the tear in Morgana's dress collar had mended itself overnight, without any sign of extra thread. (Not that Gwen complained: she'd never think of magic, only assumed he was very handy with needle and thread, and from that morning on he was responsible for the mending too.)
He forcefully had to hold the magical instincts back, concentrate on it with all of his being to hinder disaster from happening. When serving the family yesterday a glass had been knocked over by one of the children and he had to quietly chant Don't! Don't! to not freeze the object in midair, save it, do something. It fell and shattered into a thousand tiny shards and as he'd sweeped them up later, Sophia was chanting apologies in the background under her mother's disapproving stare.
Nobody suspected anything like magic. What reason would they have to do so?
()()()
"Will you not come with us for a ride today?" Uther asked his son, who was sitting in the living room reading a book.
It was somewhat surprising, Merlin thought, that the men appeared to have so little work to do. He didn't know much about the world outside Camelot, but even he had heard rumours about worry and battles in the North, so if it was demanded the eldest son were to fight, it wouldn't surprise him. Though it could be the family was rich enough to bribe their way out of such matters, thanks to Arthur's paintings. Merlin wasn't sure, for at the market one could come upon fine but lifeless paintings that even he could afford, provided he stored away all the pay he received for two or three weeks – not that he had any desire to do so – but Arthur's paintings must be much more costly than that.
"Not today, father, I'm afraid; I'm not in the mood and need to write some letters. Why don't you take Mordred?"
"Very well, then. Mordred! Come downstairs, son."
Merlin heard their voices through the hall, falling to the kitchen where he was working on dinner. Arthur's voice, husky, warm, seemed much louder than Uther's though softer, yet more dominant. It was also more pleasant to listen to. Merlin couldn't get enough of it, no matter how many times he told himself that it was wrong and precarious and only would get him into trouble.
(But what harm could there be in only listening?)
The newest family member's arrival had made almost no changes with their habits. The girls played, inside or outside by the street, or were given lessons in writing, house-holding and sewing; the father left often with his eldest sons.
When the man wasn't out of the house, Merlin avoided him; the man's grey eyes still glared at him warningly every time they passed each other in the corridor; Merlin always reacted a bit too late with bowing his head in respect. There was contempt there, distrust. Gwen knew how uncomfortable Merlin was around the man and she'd said, almost reassuring him: "Everyone fears Uther Pendragon. I cannot see what appeal there is to him in the fine lady's eyes, except the obvious. But I shouldn't talk like this…not of my mistress! Merlin, go fetch some water for me!" before hurriedly returning to chopping vegetables.
Lady Ygraine spent her time with the youngest children. A wet-nurse was always present to take care of Leon, but the child was impatient and loud and screamed through the days. Sometimes through the nights too: the tiny lungs producing a sharp ringing sound which made its way through the ceilings and floors and woke Merlin in the middle of the night, making him unable to go back to sleep. The babe also produced very much more dirty linen and more work. The hours Merlin now spent with the laundry and other such duties were endless and the time he had to do the market rounds shrank. It disappointed him; he liked wandering through the city, see so many faces and smile and for a moment not feel like a servant.
Will wasn't happy when Merlin hadn't time to linger and talk with him when buying meat. Over the weeks, they had built a friendship and the beginnings of something more; Merlin had more than once caught Will's stare lasting on him which made him both uneasy and anticipating.
"We're out of thyme again," Gwen muttered searching through the shelves. "Merlin, hurry and buy some. There is a guest coming today so you must wash up a bit, just look at you!" The chiding tone reminded him a bit of his mother's.
"All right." He heaved himself up, drying his face. It felt warm after having leaned over the boiling laundry water all day. "What guest?"
"Sir Cenred of Escetia. He is a respectable man and has been friends of the Pendragons for decades. Now hurry up!" Her words were stressed, Go now!, and made him frown a bit, curious at the unfamiliar name thrown at him.
He was herded out of the back door.
It was nice meeting the apothecary again, though it took awhile for the man to recognize him. He was, after all, quite old. Gaius was talkative and spoke not ill but humoured words about practically every family in Camelot when working, and Merlin got to hear some details about sir Cenred by innocently asking about him, not mentioning the visit. "Oh! I know of him. Petty little bastard, that's what they say," Gaius said and tapped his chin. "Be wary about him, he is like a snake, slithering from your grasp all the while. Oh, here you are. The thyme. I shall put it on the book."
"Why, is he dangerous?" Merlin asked, putting the purchased herbs in a pouch. "Thank you."
The old man squinted at him beneath bushy eyebrows. "Men like him are always dangerous to those unguarded." The look was maybe supposed to mean something, a message.
Merlin nodded carefully, still not having gotten his whole answer but Gwen had told him to hurry, so he couldn't talk any more.
When he asked Gwen for an explanation of the old man's words, she stiffened, as if terribly insulted. Then she lowered her voice, like afraid of being overheard. Instead of talking around the subject as she usually did, she put it short and blunt. "You haven't heard about all the poor naïve boys and girls he's tricked into his bed and then half of which he's left with his bastard children? Well. Now you have. Do not mention a single word of it in front of the Pendragons, do you understand? Their friendship is…brittle, but very important. The mistress hates money-trouble and sir Cenred helps avoiding that, thanks to master Arthur's wonderful paintings."
"I'll be careful. I won't say anything," he promised, not looking forward to meeting this man at all.
()()()
Sir Cenred's appearance matched the descriptions. When his lips turned upward with faked glee, there was something dark about it and the way he behaved around Gwen was revolting, the suggestive words, his sneer. Also young Morgana and Sophia probably had an idea what he was on about, judging by their wide eyes and nervous laughter. Luckily, Lady Ygraine interrupted him (calmly and unfazed, never frowning) and suggested they go to the parley, sit and have a glass of wine.
Merlin went to get the wine. While the lady of the house wasn't so fond of it, Uther liked to drink it to his meals and they were never short of it. He located four glasses, polished them with a towel and put them on a tray, while Gwen filled a pitcher. She still looked uncomfortable. "I'll go," Merlin offered and she just nodded.
The four were discussing something apparently deeply, not noticing him when he stepped into the room. He wasn't often in here. The walls were decorated with various portraits of people and places he'd never seen for real (and never would), and heavy curtains in red, silver and gold. The floor was covered by rich carpets, some imported from foreign lands, pure luxury: the fabric itself of that hanging on the wall must have cost a fortune. The gentlefolk with their beautiful layered skirts, glistening pearls, rich shoes and fine gaud embroided jackets completed the picture. Merlin would've liked showing the image to his sister if he could.
When he began pouring the wine in the glasses, sir Cenred looked up, and Merlin shivered at being studied so closely by those cold, lecherous eyes. "When did you get another servant?" the man asked Uther.
Arthur's eyes flickered briefly. Something like discontentment crossed his face, but it simply could've been Merlin's imagination.
"A few months ago," Uther answered. "But he is no one of importance."
The man stared at him fascinated and Merlin, unaccustomed to such attention, accidentally spilled red liquid at the table, slouching over the brim, his grip of the porcelain slipping. "I'm terribly sorry, sirs, mistress," Merlin stammered, attempting to wipe up the mess with a towel. Uther frowned at the embarrassed servant, looking like about to berate him for his stupidity, but remained quiet at his wife's sharp look. The seconds of silence following were worse than being yelled at.
"Inept, perhaps," sir Cenred said, reaching out and stroking Merlin's thigh - Merlin wanted to recoil, violently, but couldn't - "but rather pretty, isn't he, Arthur?"
The artist didn't reply.
"Merlin. You can go. Wash this up later," Lady Ygraine instructed briskly and he left, thankful to be out the man's reach. His skin felt like branded, the unwelcome touch lingering for hours afterwards.
Arthur's gaze followed him: face stony, eyes stormy. Sir Cenred's words burned in his mind. Rather pretty (dangerous to those unguarded, tricking those girls to bed) that new servant, isn't he? echoed and remained, unwanted, unwelcome, and impossible to stop thinking of.
He stayed in the kitchens, helping Gwen tidying up, not leaving the room until he was sure sir Cenred had departed from the building.
()()()
The morning was colder than usual this time of year, the sky clouded. It had rained during the night and the streets were not yet dry. When on his way to the well for fresh water for the cooking today, Merlin was surprised to see Will. His apron was clean now, and he had a small package with him which he was to deliver.
"You look tired," he said. "Let me help with that."
Merlin objected stubbornly that he wasn't a weakling who couldn't carry some water, but Will lifted one of the buckets anyway, not listening.
"If they see you come back to the house with me they'll get suspicious," Merlin said as the butcher's son fell into step with him.
Will laughed a bit. "They'll probably not recognize me at all. Don't worry. That kind of people wouldn't recognize themselves if they didn't look into the mirror every morning."
That made Merlin chuckle. However, Will's mood shifted, as he looked the servant over. It was difficult to read what he was thinking. "You have dark rings under your eyes, your shoulders are constantly slumped. They're overworking you." He sounded concerned.
"It's fine, just a lot to do now when lady Ygraine has delivered."
Will had with no doubt heard about the family's newest addition through all the gossiping on the street. He'd more than once said how much you learned by simply standing behind a counter – the people willing to throw a word against someone else were innumerable.
"The lady isn't unkind and Gwen is very helpful," Merlin added, not wanting Will to believe he was complaining about the lady. She was, what he had seen, rather kind and thoughtful, though they rarely interacted – she didn't deserve anyone's criticism.
"An odd lady she is," Will mused. "People yet wonder why she married that man, when her father could have ensured her something better, from a social point of view anyway – and probably economically, come think of it. It's with good reason people wonder!" There was a slight scorn in the tone.
Merlin chose not to comment.
"Well then. Here we are," the butcher's son said as they stopped by the gates. "I must go now." Before he walked away, he laid an arm across Merlin's back and leaned in, a half embrace which was over as soon as it started, so Merlin hadn't a chance to speak up. There was a ghosting breath across his cheek, the hint of stubble, a musky quite pleasant scent and then just cool air against his skin.
Merlin's heartbeat was suddenly quick in his ribcage, almost painful.
()()()
He hadn't meant for it to happen. If he could turn back time then he would go to this exact moment and re-do everything. But it happened swiftly, before he had been able to formulate a thought and hinder himself.
The lady was out with some friends for once and the children had gone with her. Only Arthur and Uther were in the house, the latter to reply to letters and read in his study and Arthur was like a shade, moving from place to place without a certain goal. The man appeared to have little to do, and Merlin wondered why he hadn't gone out to socialize or take a ride or whatever men like him did, why he wasn't in the studio before a canvas, but never asked. He'd never spoken with the man, probably wouldn't either. They were as different as night and day.
He was cleaning the hall. The children had left a mess and it was dusty in the corners – proper and loyal as she was, Gwen sometimes traipsed with her duties, tired and older than she really was. The hall was a very beautiful room, high in the ceiling, but its size was muted by dark colours and heavy furniture. A handful of ornamental objects stood upon a table on the right side of the door, in need of polishing. He lifted one up, turning slightly toward the light from the window.
Then by mistake he knocked over the green vase with the handle; it fell, tumbling through the air and without a thought he caught it, his magic pulsating in his hand as he reached out, grasping nothing.
The object hovered frozen in midair, time not functioning properly around it. And then Arthur stepped into the room.
He stared.
Merlin stared back. Mute. All air rushing out of his lungs like they had been stepped upon. His whole world shriveled to fit into this room, point focused on him, on Arthur, the vase still frozen.
Oh god, he thought. Oh god. He was going to be fired and dragged away like a criminal and executed and dead and he would never see his sister get well again, oh god no, Arthur had seen his magic.
The blonde man didn't speak, at all, just looked at him with very blue eyes and so many emotions swirled there: confusion, pity, fascination, dread. The look was terrifyingly intense. Merlin gripped the piece of cloth so hard the knuckles whitened.
The vase still hung there in midair, frozen by Merlin's horror.
"Say something," Merlin said at last, "please." Drawing it out would only be painful.
Like snapped out of slumber Arthur flinched and glanced at the open door, beyond which his father was working, oblivious. Unknowing. He could yell Sorcerer! and call for soldiers and men could come crashing into the house, grab Merlin, take him away. He could tell his father, have the man rushing out of the study, incredulous and angry. He could take up a weapon, his sword, anything, and run Merlin through in blind shock and rage without having need to feel guilt. There was so much he could do and Merlin felt, just like when his mother gave him the news under the May sun, when he walked down the stairs to never return, hopeless in the hands of fate.
"There is nothing to say."
()()()
He was going to be turned in. Merlin was sure of it. Any minute now. Just wait. Any moment, through the door; armed men, pitchforks and torches, Sorcerer! Sorcerer! being cried through the streets, the hallways, the anger and disappointment, Arthur's heavy angry stare.
There was nothing.
Just like it had been for the last four hours of staring at the door, apprehensively; Merlin was fretting too much to be able to focus. Why was no one coming? Why hadn't Arthur yelled at him, demanded he'd leave at once? Why had…? Why hadn't…?
Gwen found him sitting in the workroom practically attacking the linen, and asked if there was anything upsetting him, else he'd not be so violent. He shook his head, didn't answer. His magic – Arthur knew of his magic.
Why was there nothing and no one at all reacting at this discovery? Where were the angry cries, the swords of the city guards being drawn? Where were the ringing, chaotic bells, the armed guards, their spears, their voices shouting in his ear? Was this Arthur's way of torturing him?
He'd said, 'There is nothing to say.' Merlin was unsure if he could hope that meant, '…Because I shall keep your secret.' No man kept a secret guarded without demand for explanation, without expecting equilibrium, not without payment in return of such a dangerous pledge. Not a servant's secret. Never a servant's secrets. Servants were meant to be obedient and perfect, not meant to hide anything from their masters, not meant to be breaking the law.
He was never been meant to be a servant. He's not a very good servant, Merlin reflected quietly; his heart is never in it, he doesn't dedicate himself like Guinevere. His loyalty does not lie with master or lady Pendragon, not with their youngsters, not with their family crest.
Arthur. Those damned dreams, slipping through the day, through his heart. Arthur, they always whispered, through his trembling bones when he couldn't sleep, the dreams lingering; and Will, he sometimes thought, longingly, body warm at the name: but never Pendragon, never.
"Merlin."
The dreaded words. A single uttered word of attention. "Yes?"
"Master Arthur wants to speak with you," Gwen said. She had no idea what was going on, but she looked at him concernedly, like asking 'What have you done?'
The torment had to be over.
()()()
"I am going to ask some questions and you will answer. Truthfully. No lies. Calling for the guards is easy, but I have pondered what I saw, and there was no evil transpiring."
Merlin nodded mutely.
"Why do you use…?" Arthur gestured with his hands, emphasizing words not even uttered. He didn't dare in this house, under this roof.
"I was born like this. I can't help it. It was instinct." The excuse felt worthless and it was difficult to explain. He'd never told anybody about his secret. Never revealed himself like this - it felt so private, it was maybe even worse than being touched, sir Cenred's hand burning on his thigh.
"I thought they were only myths," the blonde man murmured, leaning back into the chair when the information sank in, I was born like this, with this power – "No real sorcerers have been caught for years. Decades. Maybe even centuries: the records are quite clear. Only people with petty powers, unable to do any real harm (never escaping the dungeons or the hangman). What I saw today, you just reacted…you didn't speak a spell or enchantment. Didn't do anything but turn around. You just…" His words died, half-way out of his throat. Your eyes, the man looked about to say, your eyes glowed golden.
Merlin inhaled, exhaled sharply. "I know."
"And it's always been like that?"
"Always."
"That's dangerous. Such power could be misused, sought after by people for their own gain."
"Yes. I know."
"Be careful. I henceforth forbid you to use your…gift…" – the word seemed difficult to say, tongue twisting – "…unless it is truly necessary and if possible not even then. You must control yourself better. Next time it might not be me who happens upon you." Next time. Next time.
He isn't going to give me in, Merlin thought, overwhelmed and dazed. He's not going to. "You're not going to have me executed?" he asked silently, surprised. Why would a man with such a close hand to the law protect him like this? It felt surreal. A dream.
"Why would someone like you, who probably can do more than I can guess or imagine, in the blink of an eye do all work need to be done and more – why would you scrub the floors of another's home and wash their linen day out and day in for months, without complaint, get your hands dirty and rough? Would you watch after children they do not know and run errands for strangers you call your masters? Would someone evil do that?"
"…I suppose not," Merlin said, weakly.
"Be careful. You might not always be as lucky as you are now."
()()()
He was still alive. He was still walking, not condemned, and still breathing.
The initial few days after the incident with Arthur and his gift, he had been on edge, not really believing it was true. The conversation had been so bizarre, too affirmative to have been real. But the rest of the world carried on as was normal: there was no change in the house, in Sophia's glares, Uther's distrust, Gwen chattering. There was no change in washing and cleaning and running errands and no one sent him second glances on the street.
Once that fact had been established – he was alive and would stay that way - Merlin finally could sleep without worried dreams. He slept through Leon's screaming and the footsteps padding below for the first time in weeks, and greeted the following day vigilant and well-rested.
Arthur openly continued to treat him like the lady Ygraine did: sparing him little more than a glance when he was in the same room, but doing so without scorn. However, the blonde man's eyes were intense; it was like he was observing him to see if he used his gift, if he really was careful, if he was dangerous. They didn't speak much. The boundary between master and servant were yet too sharp, and none dared to cross it. Merlin began to wonder what exactly Arthur thought of him – was he just a servant? Something else? Was there trust, or distrust, now when his gift had been revealed?
His magic made everything more complex than they should have been.
()()()
AUGUST
It was inevitable, introducing William to his mother. It was a busy market day but Thomas excused his son when Merlin arrived, this time accompanied by a dark-haired woman with similar features to his own, whose gaze flickered (worriedly, knowingly, not ready but accepting the inevitable) between Merlin and the butcher's son. Merlin had no choice but lead Will to the crook of the street, where there were less people and they could talk.
Will was happy to meet the woman, charmingly smiling and bowing like she was a noble, before smiling up at Merlin, standing very close. He liked to talk, overlooking Hunith's hesitation and awkwardness: he knew how to interact with people. It was also then, as Merlin felt the expectation laced within the kindness of Will's eyes focused upon him, he began to fear, realizing the implications of that one look.
Hunith realized it too, without doubt.
After Will had to leave (a hand briefly on Merlin's arm, auburn eyes twinkling, "I'll see you soon"), Merlin lingered a bit longer, not wanting to go back to the house.
"Do not worry, mother. You won't lose me," the boy mumbled.
But her face was sad, old, as she took his worn hands (skin rough, nails broken) into her own. She didn't look him in the eye as she spoke, and that hurt the most. "I already have, Merlin. I lost you the moment you became a servant."
()()()
Then Freya fell ill. When he came to visit the same week as meeting his mother on the market, the girl lay feverish and frail wrapped in blankets and at seeing her, he panicked, dropping to his knees by the bedside.
"Mother?" he asked, weakly. "How long has she been like this?"
"Four days." None of the herbs had helped. She had an accident when playing with some other children on the street, cutting her leg. The ground was dirty and she'd not told Hunith for over a day, too stubborn, not wanting to worry her, gone on with her play. And then the fever had set in, her eyes misty and limbs weak.
"I could try…" He gestured with his hands, pleadingly.
"Merlin…" his mother sighed. "That's dangerous." (That's dangerous: Arthur looking at him, concernedly, People would seek that kind of power for their own gain.)
"Please. Let me try." He looked up at her with large eyes, earnest, upset, "Please, mother. She's my sister. You and she are all I've got. Please, I have to…" Try, let me try.
Hunith went to close all the shutters and locked the door.
Merlin put his hands on either side of Freya's head. He knew no words, no spells to weave; only the pure power within his blood and, reaching for it with a purpose he called it forth. It obeyed, his eyes golden, tendrils of energy burning paths through his blood. It filled him with purpose and energy and life, and many would have winced in fear at such a feeling, but he embraced it gladly.
There was no immediate change, but his mother refused to let him try again. When he left a few hours later, Freya still hadn't woken up.
()()()
It was agonizing having to wait another seven days until seeing his sister, to know if she was all right, if she even was alive. His mother had said she would stay at Freya's side all time and not go down to the city market unless in dire need of something and they hadn't met by coincidence at the marketplace a single time. Merlin was constantly troubled and distracted, and for the tenth time that day, Gwen scolded him for slacking when mending the clothing and nearly burning the meat and then slightly cutting his own finger when chopping vegetables, droplets of red falling onto the work surface.
"Merlin! Focus. This mistress will be livid if she finds you're ruining the food."
"I'm sorry. I have a lot on my mind."
"So I notice. But a servant never let their thoughts divert them from their work." With a sigh, she took the knife from him. "I'll finish this. Clean your hands and go see if you can take in the linen instead. Don't stain anything!"
The sun was fairly low on the sky, reflecting like glass on the canal. Lifting down and folding linen was an automatic task and trying to keep his thoughts from his family, he looked at the water with its passing boats. Normally it would have been calming, but now he only grew more stressed.
He had to see her.
Next morning, when he was sent down to the market, Will spotted his frown and asked what was wrong: he was the only thing close to a friend Merlin had now, and he didn't hesitate much to reveal the truth.
"I will go check on both her and your mother," Will said, a promise, "after my duties today."
No promise came without a cost, no deal existed without payment. Merlin didn't want to be indebted to anyone, but Will's tone posed no room for objection. "Thank you," Merlin said instead. "It means a lot."
"I know," the butcher's son said with deep understanding. "The family is the most important thing, isn't it?"
"Yes. Definitely."
Will laid a hand on his arm, almost guiding, trying to move him closer. "Are you in a hurry back to the house?"
Merlin swallowed, seeing that look again – did Will want what he seemed to? – the thought was frightening, yet, somehow tempting, part of Merlin wished to know how it felt like being desired by another, their body close to his own - "I'm afraid I can't linger anymore; I have made a mess of myself this week as it already is. Gwen will be mad if I'm late again. I'll hurry to be back tomorrow," he said.
The butcher's son carried the distinct odor of blood and the smell of an overworked man, but beneath it was a musky sandalwood and mead-like scent – almost … pleasant.
"I'll be waiting."
Will used to take a quick pause in his work to greet him, also when Merlin was buying fish on the other side of the plaza. Always having an eye out for him, looking, waiting. Always present in the corner of Merlin's eye.
"I know."
He patted the servant's arm comfortingly as goodbye. "I'm sure your sister will be all right."
()()()
Normally, no one but himself climbed up to the tiny attic, leaving him alone there, as it was empty except for a few old boxes stored there, with things no one had use for anyone but they hadn't the heart to throw away.
His pack had been torn open, its contents spread over the floor. At his sight, his heartbeat picked up, growing hot in startled panic. He owned little, and couldn't easily replace any of his possessions. Dropping onto his knees, breathing deeply to attempt to calm his hands, he began collecting the items. The clothes were wrinkled and the shirt stained with mud, but none were missing. He checked through all of his belongings to be sure.
But the wooden dragon, his only physical memory of his father, was gone.
Nowhere in the pack, he checked twice, thrice; he opened the nearby storage boxes despite knowing he wasn't allowed to, but it wasn't there. Perhaps it was childish, perhaps it was a silly weakness to be so attached to an inanimate object, but something in his chest cracked and his eyes watered.
(He could so clearly remember, it'd been a sunny September day and Balinor had just come home from a trip to the market; Merlin was bouncing on the stairs by the door, rushing up to the man when he rounded the corner; he'd shrieked with laughter as his father put down the package he'd been holding to meet the embrace, lifted him up and spun him around. It was a happy fraction of a moment and he clung to it; his father's strong hands beneath his arms, and his voice husky and kind. "Here, I have a gift for you, son."
With wide eyes Merlin had accepted the wooden toy, staring at it and then his father unwaveringly, silently like compensating something. Then his face had broken into a wide grin and he gave all those thank you's and hugs that his father could have suffocated him them.
The man died three weeks later from a wound, he'd been in a fight and the other man had had a knife; Merlin didn't know the details, but remembering hanging by the handle anxiously, scared, alone, and his mother's tears. He remembered the silence laden with grief and how Freya and he were embraced by their mother, how people glanced and no one said anything directly and he remembering trembling horribly when Hunith murmured; "He's sleeping now.")
()()()
The next morning, as he cleaned the studio, carefully and slowly, he let the measurements and details and how the light fell through the windows occupy his mind fully and push away the tears. Crying would make no difference.
()()()
Will had news for him and he worked quickly to serve another customer while Merlin waited near the stand, anxious, uncharacteristically hurriedly dismissing everyone as soon as they had bought what they'd come for instead of listening to their chatter. But there was relief and assurance in his expression.
"Your sister is fine. She has recovered almost completely."
Merlin smiled wide, in pure relief. Whether by magic or not, Freya had healed. The thought warmed his heart immensely. "Thank you, Will," he said. "For letting me know."
By the look on Will's face he expected something in return and Merlin's heartbeat, which had dropped in respite by the good news, quickened again, nervously this time. It was so obvious what the butcher's son wanted and he felt unsure of what to do, what to say. The answer was clear in his head, a whisper, Will's auburn warm eyes meeting his own.
He couldn't stay here pondering options. What to or not to do. A hand came up to rest on his upper arm, clasping it firmly.
"Merlin," Will said quietly, a husky tone glimpsing, and Merlin looked at the sun to determine how much it had shifted – for once, things were calmer at the house, and he had more time at the market. There was time and Will looked at him with those fervent eyes: and everything felt like it was a little too late. Just because his mother had said that he was lost to her already. He was in another world now, separated from her, from Freya, everyone.
He hated being indebted to people.
"Come with me," Merlin murmured, and led the butcher's son away from the marketplace, to the corner of a crooked alley. Will briefly washed his hands in a bucket of water behind the stand as his father came to take his place.
He didn't need to say much – when understanding, Will was more than willing and ran his hands over Merlin's body. Merlin didn't complain nor verbally give admission, as the young man's hands glided down his side, the curve of his back, his flat stomach. He shivered: a tremble which Will mistook for one of pleasure. He pressed closer up against the servant's body. Merlin tried to like it, but his thoughts strayed to straw-blonde hair and blue eyes and made it only painful, a sharp tug in his chest, making him gasp and shut his eyes tightly.
(Betrayal? Was this it? Was this betraying? ...Arthur didn't ... and he would never... What did it matter anyway in a world such as this?)
Will's breath ghosted across the shell of his ear, his cheek, his temple. He was so close, too close, but Merlin's voice died in his throat, he didn't stop him. He owed Will this, for letting him know his sister was all right, he did, he did - but didn't want to. Every touch implicated so much more, and it made this so difficult. He was lost now, to another world; he knew that as a butcher Will wouldn't let their stomachs be achingly empty; yet, the words, the whispers of what happened to youngsters acting like this, like him, refused to leave his mind. He wasn't a…
Nobody had ever touched him like this before. He'd never allowed it before. (…Cenred's hand on his thigh, burning, the man's unwelcome grip, his leer, the cold eyes - the memory penetrated his skull and for a moment he was afraid William could see it.)
Will didn't know. If he did, the fact did not stop him, didn't make him falter and touch him more tenderly. Will's hands were large and firm, and though they'd been recently washed, blood had stuck underneath the nail bands. They moved across and down over Merlin's body through the layers of clothing, stroking every lean curve, seeking to undo the neckerchief but, then, Merlin managed to move, pushing away the hands and shaking his head. He wouldn't give all Will wanted, not yet.
"I want to look at you," Will said, gaze lingering on Merlin's covered neck. He let his hands rest on Merlin's waist, and the heat of them penetrated the clothing, scorching his skin, his bones. Movements grew erratic and rough when Will shifted his hips, muscles contracting, and to feel the man's eagerness pushed up against him was slightly terrifying.
"Let me look at you, please, Merlin."
Again, he shook his head. Will was persistent: a pair of fingers stroking his jaw, lower, down beneath the fabric. But when Merlin allowed him to kiss him, he stopped asking and let the clothing stay closed. The man bit his lip in fervour, but Merlin swallowed the sound of pain, a bitter metallic tinge covering his tongue.
"One day, Merlin," Will murmured huskily as he withdrew slightly, "you won't hide anything from me."
The soft-spoken words, unhesitant, were like footsteps announcing the end was near. Merlin tried to shy away, but Will leaned in again, a forceful tongue against pliant lips and realizing that it was too late now, he gave in to the kiss.
()()()
"We need salmon and onion, and woolen yarn, so visit the spinner. Morgause has gotten that horrid cough again, poor child, so you need to go to the apothecary..."
It was yet morning, so Merlin looked at Gwen, surprised. He never ran errands that early; it would interrupt washing the linen. The housemaid continued a long list of duties and purchases, and by the end, added, "My mistress said you can visit your family after the rounds. They live not far from the marketplace, don't they? We don't need you back for a few hours."
Merlin frowned. He had never been allowed to be gone for such a long time, even less visit his mother in the middle of the week. "All right," he said gingerly, quickly folding the last shirt in a pile so it could be sorted into the armoire. "But why? It's yet early…and I'm usually never given permission to visit-"
"Don't ask questions." Gwen handed him a pail and a basket. "Go."
However he wanted answers, he didn't like being unknowing. A wave of realization hit him, and he paused in the doorway from the kitchen. "Is sir Cenred coming to visit?"
Gwen sighed. "Lady Ygraine is not comfortable with you near him, considering your last encounter. Just go now." She went back to work, picking up the linen he had folded, clearly dismissing him. No more questions.
()()()
His mother was surprised to see him that day, though glad. Her face was more relaxed than before, lighting up with a smile at the sight of him. "I suppose you know that Freya is well again?" were her first words when he arrived, pail full of fish.
"Yes. The butcher's son told me." He didn't elaborate, didn't want her to know (the alleyway, Will's hands, warm, fierce) for she would fret too much.
"He came to visit two days ago, telling me you were so worried. (Such a charming young man he is!) But why are you here? It's not yet Sunday."
He avoided the question, not wanting to talk about sir Cenred, and said instead, smiling slightly, "Am I not allowed coming to my own home and visiting my family?"
"Of course you are, Merlin." Hunith patted his cheek. "Freya is inside. She probably wants to see you."
()()()
SEPTEMBER
The warmest days of the year had come and faded and leaves had lost their lush green colour, creating a mat of red and brown by their roots. The wet-nurse caring for Leon still lived with them, sharing Gwen's sleeping quarters in the cellar, making the servant-girl mutter behind her back but within Merlin's hearing range – "She's always up and about, to give Leon the breast, then when she's asleep she snores like a bear, it's insufferable!" - The nurse was to stay for many months still, much to Gwen's agony.
Days were insignificant. But Merlin caught himself wishing for Arthur to acknowledge him (confront him, say a single word, anything, he could yell in anger over whatever), because it was becoming unbearable to be quietly watched all the time. All since the discovery and their conversation, he'd felt it like a pricking in his neck. If Arthur had nothing to remark on him or his magic, he could just leave him be, stop staring.
Deep in his chest, he feared that there was another, more carnal reason that the blonde man was watching (did he know about the butcher's son, the touches, the kisses Merlin now had granted him?) endlessly, driving him mad. He couldn't sleep at night.
"Will you stop it?" he muttered once, then, when Arthur stood in the doorway as Merlin was scrubbing the floor, finally having enough and daring to speak up when no one else was present. "Don't prats like you have better things to do?"
He definitely shouldn't speak like that to lord Uther's son. The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Arthur snorted. Amused. "You fascinate me, Merlin." He remembered his name? He'd never said Merlin's name before. "You're so quiet most of the time but then, sometimes, I glimpse what's beneath that, like the fire necessary to make iron. There's a lot going on in your mind. A lot that you hide."
He was surprised to hear such an honest, close-to-home description from those lips, and paused in his work, looking up. "…Why do you care? I'm … I'm just a servant. And you are…" A nobleman's son, a mystery, an annoyance (arrogant but kind, husky voiced, demanding but in a silent sort of way, handsome) never leaving him be – why should he care about a servant?
Merlin didn't know which words to choose.
"I've already told you. You're fascinating."
"So it has nothing to do with my gift?"
Cold silence met his words.
"You shouldn't speak so openly about that," Arthur eventually said.
"Only you would know what I'm talking about," Merlin countered.
"True." Arthur shifted, away from the doorway; there were footsteps in the hall: Gwen was returning, lady Ygraine speaking to her. They heard girls' voices drifting over; the children were squabbling again about something trivial. Morgause was wailing, setting off Leon too, the wet-nurse scrambling to soothe the infant.
Without saying anything more, not properly finishing the conversation, Arthur left, Merlin's shoulders sagging. The blonde man's shadow seemed to linger, forever burned into the wall, and Merlin kept his gaze fixed at it for several minutes, remembering exactly how Arthur's hands had moved while he talked and the crease above the knee in his trousers and his blue kind eyes, and he thought, terrified at the intensity of this feeling growing in his heart – God, no, please, no.
()()()
Will suspected something. He noticed the change in Merlin's posture and eyes, the way he shifted, gaze flickering when they kissed. "What's bothering you?" he asked quietly, pulling him aside into the nook between two stalls. "I can see it, don't try and deny it."
"Nothing."
"Your sister isn't ill again is she?" Will asked, genuinely concerned for the girl's well-being.
Merlin shook his head jerkily. "No. She's fine."
"Then what is it?"
"…Nothing. Just…A lot on my mind right now. Please, Will, leave it be."
Will slid an arm behind his back, soothingly. "I don't like seeing you upset. If there is something wrong, tell me. Is it the Pendragons? Have they done anything to you?" A hint of anger slipped into the tone, like a warning.
Have they done anything to you?
Merlin wanted to say (it was so difficult to explain) - They have done everything to me.
He smiled to put the man's mind at rest: "No. Don't worry. It's all right."
()()()
Sir Cenred came to visit twice that month. Lady Ygraine realized that it was impractical sending Merlin on errands for whole days, there was only so much he could do and in the house there was work to be done. After serving the food, he would draw back to the workroom and out to the back yard.
It was cold outside, but sunny, and they still could hang the linen to dry outside. When winter came they would have to hang it in front of the fireplace. The chilly air pierced his clothing, and he subtly raised his magic from within: warmth spread through his fingers like from an invisible flame. He relished at the small comfort as he continued to hang the linen.
"Oh, but isn't it the pretty servant? Where did you go? Your company was sorely missed," drawled a voice and before he could react, he was grabbed from behind. Rough sharp-nailed hands worked their way beneath his jacket and shirt, and Merlin protested violently, a coarse cry falling past his lips.
"Let go of me!"
"Stop struggling," Cenred muttered in his ear, kissing the skin. Merlin shivered in disgust. "It will be more fun if you concede." The man tugged at the fabric of his trousers, chuckling quietly. Cold hands, rough at the edges, came into contact with skin, the shock of it making him buckle. Merlin felt sick.
"Stop it!" He tried to punch the man, but his hand was caught, and god damn it, he wanted to burn and crumble the man that moment, do anything, anything, even if he'd get killed for using sorcery – he didn't know if he cared. He'd rather be executed than let the man touch him. "Stop! Let go!"
"Do as he says, Cenred."
The voice was very calm and commanding. In the doorway, unexpected, was Arthur, and though there was no weapon in his hands the tone he used revealed he wouldn't hesitate – again, he spoke: "Let him go."
Grunting, sir Cenred's grip lightened and Merlin stepped back, away from him, brushing into the stony wall of the house and it had never before felt so welcome. "Well, it wouldn't do to upset milord's delicate senses," the man said darkly, and with one last look at the servant he turned his heel and hurried past Arthur. The man in the doorway didn't stop him.
Merlin avoided looking at Arthur. His neck burned in shame having been seen like that. It felt even worse than the touches themselves. And causing such dislike between sir Cenred and Arthur only added to his humiliation. Most masters would be angered that a servant caused such trouble and have them thrown out of the house, onto the street, what did it matter he wouldn't have anything to live by?
Arthur didn't say anything. After a moment of looking at Merlin – who was desperately buttoning up his shirt and pulling at the hem, trying to hide forever, where sunlight wouldn't reach him - the man turned and left.