IV.

DECEMBER

The exact moment was vague, but after his mother meeting Will, the butcher's son would join them some Sundays for dinner. In the beginning, conversations were awkward and tense; no man had paid such attention to one of Hunith's children before, as Merlin was her eldest, she didn't know how to show approval or otherwise. Will was a good man and kind, enduring when Hunith fell into uncomfortable silence, easily conversing, genuinely praising how fine her little home was. Though so small, the house was loved and well taken care of. Once even Will's father had come to visit introducing himself to Merlin's mother, and that one time, Merlin had faltered at the doorstep; uncertain, a bit fearful of the future and heart beating a bit faster. He was no seer, but he was rather certain of what would come, of the question Will one near way would ask.

Afterward, Merlin would walk with the butcher's son back toward the city center, side by side, a shoulder occasinally bumping into his own. Will talked teasingly when they met on the market, laughing or leaning in like for an embrace. But then he'd lay a hand briefly on Merlin's upper arm or waist, and they would slip into an alleyway and he let Will kiss and touch him where he wanted, strong firm strokes down his back and arms through the fabrics.

Because he knew. Knew how the man's thoughts trailed and the world worked and although Will was a butcher's son, Merlin was a mere servant. By allowing him this, in the long run Merlin's family wouldn't have to go by merely a servant's pay and the small coins that his mother sometimes managed to gather.

Sometimes the butcher's son sent an extra piece of meat with him, to take to his mother at Sundays. He disliked it, though it fed his family and, anyway, Will wouldn't let him refuse such a gift. Merlin didn't want his family to depend on charity - on him allowing the butcher's son kiss him in the shadows of a dirty lane - but he knew there was little choice now and he wasn't emotionless: every time he met the butcher's son his heart felt a bit warmer and maybe, hopefully this feeling could push away all those he shouldn't have.

His mother never asked aloud, but she probably knew.

()()()

"It's your birthday soon, isn't it?" Will said once after pulling him into the shadows and kissing him. It was cold: rare snow had begun to fall, the streets slowly being covered in a white blanket, and Merlin wore practically all the clothes he owned to keep out the chilly winds that found all crooks and turns of the street.

"Yes." He would turn seventeen in five days. He didn't even ask how come Will knew: maybe his mother had told him.

"We should marry."

Merlin's stomach twisted, but the reaction went unnoticed; the light was too dim for them to properly be able to see each other's faces. "We could start our own business, have a family, take charge of our lives," Will continued. "You wouldn't have to be a servant anymore."

He could say, 'I'm too young,' though he'd soon be too old for that excuse.

He could say, 'I'm not ready…I can't - we've not known each other for that long…' but, then again, it was far too late for him now to turn his back on Will. He'd lost all chance to meet someone else, fall in love and marry them. It was too late, when he allowed Will to touch and kiss him. He felt no more worthy, no cleaner than the wenches in the lower town. He could never… never. (Arthur.) ... All else was … impossible.

He could say, 'I do not wish to leave them, I live a fine life anyway' but it wasn't really true, his back constantly aching and hands dry and rough, would that change if he married Will? Would his life have fewer burdens, or more?

He wanted to say, 'I'm in love with Arthur Pendragon as well as you, Will, and I can't - I don't want to choose' but such words were empty and useless. No one would listen to and believe them. Even if they did the words would only bring pain and misery; it was better with silence, it was better to hold William's hand and let the man lead him away.

Merlin looked down at his feet. "…Mother has to approve first," he said at length, despite the fact that she already had, for she had little other choice. It was usually how things turned out, when a poor family's youngster was courted. Especially if there was no father to complain.

"Don't worry," Will murmured and kissed him again, trailing down over his jaw. "It'll turn out wonderful, I promise." His father had probably made all plans already and Hunith couldn't deny this chance of giving her son a home and husband and food everyday on the table. She thought, everyone would think, it would bring safety and happiness and everything would be all right.

"I'll make you happy."

The cold was bothering like an itch, constant and out of reach. Will buried his fists as long as he could underneath Merlin's jacket, savouring the heat.

()()()

"My mistress wants to grand celebration this year. There's so much to be done. Tomorrow two servants will come to help with the preparations," Gwen said, pulling out a pan from a cupboard. "Make sure they don't ruin the kitchen while I'm not here, Merlin."

The Pendragons liked celebrating. After Leon's birth there had been a large dinner, unfamiliar people coming to visit, laughter and clinkering glasses – Merlin had spent that whole day in the kitchen and the day before on the market, as they seemed out of everything. When Mordred turned fourteen there was twice as much work to do, errands to run, the house had to be spotless on her big day. The boy was showered in attention and gifts, which he didn't seem too happy to receive, his face darkened in a frown (the family pretended not to notice). The girls were given similar treatment when they grew, though they were much happier at the attention.

Now Arthur was going to become twenty, and settle down in his own home, his own household. At least that was expected of him. All kinds of rumours filled the street - he was a well-known artist and son of an influential man, after all – about his past and present, about the great spectacle waiting at the Pendragon mansion, about his future. Whenever that unknown girl Arthur was betrothed to (though that subject had never been brought up in the house, so it could simply be empty talking) was mentioned, Merlin turned his head, not wanting to listen anymore.

Naturally, Will had heard about it and laughed; "She's probably as spoiled as he is!" – Merlin, pulling a face, uncomfortable, had looked away, not beeing able to laugh with him.

()()()

Will was a good man, but he also was getting impatient, and Merlin felt it in his touches in the alley, fiercer than they had to be. He'd lower his hand to the curve of Merlin's back and press him close, so that he felt the bulge of Will's crotch through layers of clothing press against his abdomen, and the kisses were long and deep. He'd take Merlin's hands and place them on his sides, attempting to make him return the touches, and he did, responding by pressing back.

The touches weren't always repulsive.

The man leaned in close, breathing heavily: he had spoken about marriage again, about sovereignty and breaking free. Merlin had listened, smiled sadly, repeated an old excuse, "...One day…not yet…too young", feeling lost. How could he choose? He didn't want to choose, between leaving and leaving.

"I'll make you happy, Merlin," Will had promised over again, all these words, fallen into his lap: it was all words and no real guarantee, but Will's words were passionate and almost true. "I'll make us happy."

It should've been such an easy choice. But it wasn't.

()()()

For the first time in months he wasn't going alone to the market; Morgana, stubborn like her father, had pleaded to go with him and lady Ygraine had given in. Why, he was unsure, but at least it wasn't Sophia. The girl was not very talkative, but her eyes regarded everyone and everything curiously, including himself. Her face twisted in revulsion when they went to the meat stalls, and Merlin wondered again why she had wanted to come.

"Why hello, if it isn't the birthday child!" Thomas greeted.

Morgana looked surprised.

Merlin ignored the man's remark. He didn't want to be reminded. "Some beef and ten sausages, please."

"To celebrate?" the man winked. "I shall have to tell my son to get a proper gift for you."

When the man turned to fetch the meat, Morgana looked up at him, asking, "It's your birthday?"

He had never bothered to tell anyone and it's not like it mattered, anyway; no one in the house would ever ask for such irrelevant information. "In a few days."

"Are you going to have a feast?"

He smiled, shaking his head. "I doubt that."

"Can I give you a present?"

I barely know this child, but she still cares, Merlin thought, both bemused and surprised at the girl's honesty. There was no hint of disdain or scorn. In a way, Morgana reminded him of Freya. "You don't have to bother," he said. "It's not a very special birthday."

Morgana thoughtfully chewed her bottom lip. "That's what Gwen said too when I asked about hers."

Thomas returned, the meat fine and rich, and he packaged it quickly (he had gotten into habit of letting Merlin inspect the meat every time, unlike with Gwen, who had simply waved a hand at what she wanted and then not spared it a second thought).

"Have a good day, Merlin," he said, eyes clear, much like his son's. Had Will told him anything about the times they sneaked into the alleyways, hiding from the rest of the world? Did he know? Had he spoken with Hunith, made plans?

"Likewise."

The man winked (an uncanny impression of his son). He's talked with Mother, Merlin realized with emergent dread, he's talked with her.

()()()

The last three days before the Pendragons' feast, everyone was busy. One of the servants temporarily hired – one girl and one boy – was terribly slow, and Merlin had to tell him almost word-by-word what to do (during the first hour the boy had already broken two plates). Food had to be prepared, the house properly cleaned, the finest old silverware taken out and polished. Various deliveries were made and among the apprentices coming in the stead of their masters bringing goods, Will had come, newly fallen snow in his hair. He talked to Gwen as he unloaded, greeted the lady Ygraine (who was scrutinizing the servants' work) politely, and turned to Merlin with a wide smile, wondering if they had time to talk.

"Not right now, it's very hectic," Merlin muttered, flickering to look at Gwen who stood impatiently in the doorway. "Maybe I could..."

The housemaid's brow knotted. "Merlin, don't stand there chitchatting! Come and help Gilli in the kitchen before he ruins it completely!"

Merlin looked at Will apologetically, and the young man looked back in sympathy. "I'll be waiting by the well for a while…"

"I'll see if I can come," the servant said, smiling a bit and then giving Will a caring look. "But if I don't appear, don't linger too long all right? You'll catch ill."

Gwen's impatience was turning into true frustration. "We don't have all day!"

Merlin found it difficult to tear his gaze away from Will's face.

()()()

The butcher's son still waited by the well almost an hour later, jumping on the spot to preserve warmth. At seeing him, cloaked and with a cap over his head, Will hurried up to Merlin and embraced him, arms like a shield. The street was empty, people not wanting to be outside in this chilly weather, yet, Merlin felt like being watched. Lips pressed against his, wetly, hurriedly.

"I've spoken with Father," Will said happily. "He's agreed."

"I haven't had time to speak with my mother yet," Merlin murmured. There was a future there, embedded in Will's hands and he could follow, find freedom, be happy. Be out of a house where he had nothing to say, no protests. They could have a life, freedom, the choices would be theirs. When looking into Will's earnest eyes, he was a fool to even hesitate.

"We should meet this Sunday," Will said, taking Merlin's hands and squeezing them. "Make plans. I want it beautiful and grand; we must invite everyone we know."

There was nothing more to say, but Merlin's heart felt like breaking, like he were a child and someone had pushed him out of his dreams and trampled on them. Despite the aching, the yearning in his chest, he leaned into the embrace in affirmation, letting Will kiss him.

"Happy birthday, by the way," Will murmured. He smuggled something into Merlin's hands.

It wasn't until when he was standing by the gate to the house and looked up, as he saw a shadow between the curtains in one of the windows, staring right back down at him: Merlin's heart leapt in startled fear. (...Arthur - why are you looking at me like at a ghost?)

()()()

A small package rested on the bedding as he later that night crept upstairs to sleep. It looked insignificant, wrapped in brown old cloth, but there was a piece of parchment atop of it with messy scrawling which caught his attention as he lit a candle by the bedside.

Merlin had never been educated as such, but his mother had learnt him a bit how to read – mainly in the tongue of the Old Religion so that he could read the old texts. It took awhile to decipher the text, both the handwriting and written language so unfamiliar.

'Happy birthday Merlin - Morgana' it read. He was surprised at the sweet gesture of the girl which he barely knew. Gingerly he opened the pack. A pair of gloves lay inside. They were knitted and had a few flaws, obviously done by a person learning the skill and not a proper craftsman. He wondered, as he put them on (they were a bit too large), if Lady Ygraine was aware of Morgana's gift. Lord Uther probably wasn't. He was not the kind of man to let his children bestow gifts upon mere servants. It'd be best never letting him know.

He began wearing the gloves everyday he could. It was wonderful not having to have freezing hands anymore. He even managed to say thank you to the girl when lord Uther wasn't looking.

()()()

Will had given him a cap for warmth, for which Merlin was very thankful – though snow was rare, winters in Camelot tended to be harshly cold - and a blue neckerchief. The butcher's son obviously couldn't afford anything too expensive, but the man was full of whispered promises of better and more and future, and Merlin trusted him. They might never become rich like nobles, but would one day be better off than Hunith had ever been; Will kept promising like dreaming and Merlin hadn't the heart to object or disbelieve.

They met that Sunday, his mother, Will and Will's father. Freya played shyly in the background with some wooden toys (still unsure about the men - she was young, but had enough insight to understand that their presence meant something important, significant to her brother and possibly herself). Instead of parting ways after dinner, they lingered to talk. Will had grabbed Merlin's hand, holding it firmly atop of the table. A sign which no one could ignore.

Thomas insisted they would have a proper marriage, held at a beautiful place just outside the city with plenty of people invited. He liked grand and the best of things; rich food, fine new clothing, everything prepared in time and done by the best.

Merlin could have done with just Will's father, his mother and a priest to bless them, because it hurt slightly and felt so strange to think that soon Will would be his husband and he might not work in the Pendragon's household anymore and everything he'd gotten to know the past year would fall away, into the past, a memory, and nothing would be the same. Nothing would ever be the same.

He didn't have much dowry. What was there to inherit? They owned no land, no cattle, just a tiny bit of silver and linen. He'd already talked to his mother about giving much of it to Freya anyway. He had long ago promised himself to allow Freya live a much more carefree and safe life than he ever had, without having to work day in and day out in another's house or marrying out of desperation. He'd make her happy, no matter the cost.

When the butcher and his son had left, Hunith took Merlin's hands. "I'm very proud of you," she said. "He is a good man."

"Yes," Merlin said, not having any more words.

Arthur, he thought, a silent plead: Once I marry I will never see you again… Merlin didn't know how to cope with that, he liked having the man near, his presence in the house and his husky voice down the corridor; it was a constant, a security. The man with his quiet knowledge of the servant's magic but no fear: the man never regarded him with fear. No one ever had – not even his mother. (There were these moments when she'd glance at him with wide uncertain eyes and he could see fear in them, of his powers, the magnitude of them he himself didn't know: she trusted him but not his magic).

He was so used to it now, too used to simply let go.

"I'm happy for you," Hunith kissed his cheek. "Now, off you go. Isn't there a feast tomorrow at the Pendragon house?"

"Yes, there is," he said. He'd almost had to plead to the Lady to visit his mother today; things were so busy, and though she definitely didn't like it, the kindness in her eyes gave her away as she let him go. "Arthur is turning twenty…" His voice trailed off, his slip making Hunith frown; his voice had ended in a sigh, a longing for something … else, more, different ... something. He shouldn't have said Arthur's name: it betrayed too much.

"Yes, I should go. I'll see you soon, mother."

()()()

Clinkering glasses, fine silvery, rich food and gaud beautiful dresses mixed with the voices in the grand salon; so many faces Merlin had never seen before. A few he remembered from Mordred or the girls' feasts but none had been like this; all the colours and lights carried through the evening and the night. There was no moment to breathe because he constantly had plates or carafes being pushed into his hands with the order to look proper and serve the people; Gwen was a flurry somewhere in the kitchen and his mouth watered at the smell of all the food. He wondered what it all tasted like.

Arthur had the seat of honour by the right short end of the large table, and they were cheering for him and presenting various gifts: silken fabrics, foreign decorated china, pieces of beautiful and often exotic art, weaponry gleaming in the candlelight. One of the visitors had given him a steed with thick black coat. Merlin knew because he had, through the window, seen them go outside; it was a beautiful animal and Arthur's eyes shone as he spoke his thanks. He smiled one of those rare real smiles, which warmed the servant's heart to witness even out of the corner of his eye.

The feeling didn't last long - as Uther began to speak, Arthur's face turned into that mask again which was difficult to read, briefly glancing toward the servant and Merlin looked away, gripping the handle of the jar of wine he was holding harder, wincing under the strength of those blue eyes.

"...Congratulations, congratulations," the tall dark-haired man by the left side of the table said, his voice strong and thick. He looked to be about Arthur's age, but his face was bearded and eyes twinkling merrily and he never ceased to make pleasant jokes; he made everyone at the table enjoy themselves. The man had winked flirtatiously at Gwen, but it hadn't been a dangerous look, nothing forced at her and the man had fallen back into conversation with another guest: Merlin sensed he didn't have to fear this man like he did sir Cenred.

The man had kept sending him lecherous looks all night.

"Yes, a toast is in order! A toast to Arthur Pendragon, the magnificent."

"Magnificent, Gwaine? I thought you were the only man worthy such a title, according to yourself?"

"Oh, but I'm an enigma."

"That I shall never question."

The wine flowed like water. Merlin had once again to go back to the kitchen and fetch more when sir Cenred began to speak.

"I've heard you finished another painting. For von Bayard, wasn't it? Good man." Everyone at the table murmured and nodded in agreement. "I expect it to have been eye-catching. Have you begun making a new portrait?"

"Not yet," Arthur answered shortly.

"You should make me another painting, Arthur, after all you're an excellent artist, and I'd very much appreciate one," sir Cenred suggested with a smirk, and Merlin was so shocked when the man suddenly grabbed him, pressing his side close to the man's body, that he dropped the tray he was holding. It clattered to the floor along with any other conversation or sound on the table, falling into silence and Merlin's face burned as everyone's gaze turned towards them. The man held him firmly in place, his smell sharp of smoke and alcohol and those hands were cradling places of his body he wanted no one to touch; he felt ill and wanted to run, heart beating furiously.

"Me and a merry company – this pretty servant maybe. How it would gladden me to be able to look at such a sweet face every day."

It sounded so mocking and people at the table looked away in an awkward way but underneath it, there was a demand. The man was rich and powerful, more so than the Pendragons, and though they didn't speak loudly of it they were having more and more trouble making the economy go on together. A single painting of Arthur's sold to this man could keep them well fed for another year or more. It was too good an opportunity to pass away, and if they refused, who knew what trouble the man could cause the family?

Uther sent his son a sharp look.

"Perhaps," was all Arthur said after a pause and not until then did Cenred let the servant go. Like a frightened hare, Merlin scrambled back, picked up the tray and hurried back to the kitchen. His hands wouldn't stop trembling.

()()()

"There are rumours running all across town," the butcher's son said quietly, pulling him closer and looking at him carefully, the day afterward when Merlin was running errands at the market; "about sir Cenred, you and a painting."

"And you believe them?" Merlin asked, heart pounding faster; how many knew and what were they saying and would they forget soon? Having people giving him double glances and headshakes made him uneasy and a bit frightened, and knowing why they were doing it made it all worse.

Will shook his head candidly. "Not if you say that it isn't true."

"It's not true," Merlin murmured, wishing he could believe it himself, the man had practically demanded it and Arthur was the artist, not him; he was the one to decide in the end, and Merlin feared what would happen. "It's not true," he repeated, and Will believed him. If only he could scream across town that it wasn't true and that they all were wrong.

()()()

It was the last evening before the New Year, the sky clear, dark and star-filled. The wet-nurse had finally left the house and Gwen had finally stopped complaining: the servants were quiet and tired, but the family was gathered around the fireplace sharing stories and laughter, and Merlin longed to go home and share a joke with Freya.

Was it even his home anymore? He'd started to...forget. The feeling of coming to the house to the smell of his mother's cooking; how it was to play at the street and be happy and carefree as Freya asked him to spin her around again holding her hands; how the food had tasted and the street looked like, the chattering neighbours and dogs barking in the distance. It was all blurring away. He knew this house better than he'd ever known his own. Was this home now? A pack and a thin mattress at the attic? The studio which he so carefully dusted and cleaned, the only place where he could admire from afar and be unwatched, undisturbed, alone?

When the oldest son stopped him in the corridor, he was surprised and a sense of dread began to form at the bottom of his stomach. "Put those away," the man said, gesturing at the linen and Merlin put them in the cupboard in the hall obediently. When the man began to walk up the stairs, the servant followed, the third step creaking loudly and from outside he heard the echoes of the children playing, the sound faint like a memory; the rest of the house was covered in a strange kind of stillness, sounds and action muffled. His mind was figuring out what was happening, but his heart didn't want to believe it.

The studio looked differently. The corner wasn't empty anymore. There was a finely carved chair; the table had a parchment and quill on it; the map was up on the wall. But there were no carpets or curtains and the scene looked incredibly empty and emotionless.

"Sit down."

He did. The chair was comfortable and covered partly with a very soft-looking white fur, but with Arthur studying him so closely he resisted the urge to touch it.

"Take up the quill, rest your left hand against the table, like you're writing a letter."

Merlin was glad he'd been taught how to hold the quill properly. Desperate to focus at anything else but the man's gaze, he lowered his eyes. A few meaningless lines were written on the parchment. The handwriting was neat and delicate, the opposite of his own uncertain one; each letter was a piece of art, its own little world, and he wondered if it was Arthur who had written it.

"Shouldn't I be scrubbing the floors, polish the windows or mending clothing?" he asked.

Arthur's face was serious, but he sounded slightly amused. "You want to be portrayed with a cloth and bucket in your hands, like a servant?"

"It's what I am."

The artist simply shook his head, and the conversation seemed to mean nothing, falling away.

"Lift your head. No, a little more. Look at me, like you're thinking of the person you're writing the letter to." (To who? he wanted to ask. A friend, a family member, a lover?)

He didn't want to, god, he didn't want to, and tried to suppress a shudder at the thought of just what was happening, he didn't want to think of it. He managed to raise his gaze enough to look at Arthur. The man stared right back with those blue, studious eyes. It would be easier to think that he was an object of fascination and Arthur was merely judging how to get best angle for the light to fall onto his face but Arthur wasn't looking at him like that. The man was looking at him like he was a person and would with his coloured brush attempt convey whatever he saw, with true emotion, and Merlin found it difficult to breathe.

"No. Put down the quill. Let your arms fall down your sides. Turn your head…a little more to the left."

Merlin did. His yet unwashed, rough hands felt so heavy and he wanted to rest them a bit in his lap. His shoulders ached.

Arthur continued to stare at him, gaze getting unfocused; maybe he was looking at him with such clearance nobody ever had, or was dreaming away and seeing something entirely different. Then, the man broke the stare, turned to the empty canvas and Merlin swallowed hard, briefly closing his eyes. This was it and he couldn't run away, couldn't escape.

"Merlin, look at me," Arthur said, in that quiet almost dangerous way and he opened his eyes again to look at the artist. The room was incredibly silent. Could the man hear how hard his heart was beating?

"You know what I'm doing to do."

"I'll be still," Merlin whispered.