Author's note: I just wanted to say another thank you to everyone who's reading, and add that listening to Yann Tiersen (especially the track 'La Valse d'Amelie' for orchestra, 'Déjà loin' and 'La Plage') was a huge inspiration on my part and helped me write. Just thought it'd be fitting to listen to at the same time as reading.

While I'm at it I'll add a second note. After the third chapter I was asked a few quite important questions: Why does Sophia act like she does (or really, why is she so mean?), why is the Will/Merlin relationship working as it does?

On Sophia: she acts kind of like a brat and dislikes servants in general, because of her upbringing and her personality, she's "learned" that 'lower people' aren't as worthy, and she's kind of lonely, craving attention (I think I mention part of this somewhere as Merlin's reflections on her character) she never really gets and then she resorts to pranking/hurting people as it is a chance at least to gain a reaction..
On Merlin/Will: To begin with I've made Merlin 'quieter' than in the show, more shy and obedient... He's more careful but also in a more vulnerable position. Though Hunith's always trying to be strong Merlin is the only stable source of income they got and a servant's pay isn't much. It's a class society so he can't exactly become what he wants and earn a lot. Will clearly wants him and if Merlin accepts that, his family will in the long run fare a bit better, they wouldn't have to live by a servant's pay alone. Besides, Merlin has feelings for Will which is a big factor in how he acts (regarding Will as well as Arthur).

It's all really more complicated than that, but this was the simplest, shortest explanation I'd come up with right now.

Now back to the story!

()()()

V.

1624
JANUARY

There was so much work and he couldn't be excused from any chore. It was difficult - his mistress expected him to do it all without complaint, without flaw; Gwen would shout for him to see to the children or go to the market or run to the apothecary for more thyme; Will wished for him to visit his home ("Our home", the man had said, "our future") sometime - and still Arthur wanted him in the studio ready to sit model for hours. Nobody in the house could get to know about the painting. It would be made in secret and sold to sir Cenred without anybody but Arthur seeing it. The thought was both incredibly relieving and saddening at the same time. Maybe one day, Merlin would've liked to look at the finished painting, at his own face, just to see how Arthur had reflected him through the brush, but he was also incredibly fearful of such a prospect and knew that he'd probably never see it. It was better that way.

He slept as little as physically possible.

It was good he rested on the top floor. Once figuring out which steps in the stairs that creaked so he could avoid them, he could sneak down at early morning and find Arthur waiting for him in the studio, and at night, after finishing the other chores, he would linger for hours frozen on the chair, back and hands aching and eyes watering at having to have them focused and open for so long, no one in the house noticing.

His mother began to wonder why his visits to her were so brief. He'd looked away when she asked, murmured something about much more work and much to do and that he was given little time for anything else, and silently wished he'd be able to look her in the eye and tell her the truth.

(Would he ever be able to, or forever have to tell lies?)

()()()

It was raining heavily for the second day in a row and once again Merlin had to hang the linen in front of the fireplace to dry. The whole family was gathered in the living room; the elders sipping at hot tea and fine red wine and quietly making conversation, the young ones playing with a set of fine wooden toys. Mordred sat with the former, casting occasional glances at the laughing youngest girls' faces and the toys in their hands, but didn't move. He was too old for that now but at heart, he still probably wanted to be childish and carefree. Morgana sat beside him, face scrunched up in concentration as she stared intensely on the knitting she was making.

Merlin tried not to listen, feeling like it was intrusive to do so, like listening by doors and spreading his master's words where they shouldn't be, but it was hard not to when Gwen wasn't present; she was back in the kitchen preparing dinner, he heard the clanging of pots and pans and the chopping sound of a knife. Without her brisk orders or kind talk in his ear, he couldn't help but lean in and focus on Arthur's musky voice almost like it was a lullaby. Lord Uther's voice was harsh and cold, the lady's soft and smooth, and they sounded like in control but Arthur's was pleasant and Merlin just couldn't help himself.

"Have you heard?" they were saying and Merlin shivered as he realized what they were talking about. He'd heard the whisperings at the market the day before and not wanted to believe them.

"Yes, I could hardly believe it, he was such a respectable man," the lady said and her husband took a deep sip of his goblet of wine, grimacing as he said, "Those magic scum mustn't be tolerated. Pay heed, sons, if you ever meet a sorcerer it is best to run them through before they have any chance to speak, they would only use their foul ability and enchant you. They're all decievers."

"I'll remember that, father," said Mordred though he sounded rather small and maybe a bit afraid of the prospect of killing people, because he wasn't yet fifteen years old and had never seen a man die, had never wanted to and never would.

Merlin risked a glance in Arthur's direction, and it was hard to judge his reaction of the older man's words. The jaw was set strong, shoulders tense, but he sounded calm and controlled and not shaken. "Have they proved him guilty?"

"Of course," Uther barked and took another thick sip of red wine.

Merlin wondered if Arthur ever had seen a man die, if he'd fought and killed and seen death, if he'd been sent to battles sometime and managed to escape unscathed, if he'd witnessed the execution of sorcerers in the past, or if he'd always lived in the safety of this house.

()()()

The day after when he went to the market, the air was filled with the stench of burned flesh and the echoes of screams of pain.

()()()

The first two days Arthur never painted anything. Never lifted the piece of charcoal to draw the first aiding lines, just stood there before there easel and looked at him. Mostly he was silent; sometimes making adjustments to Merlin's pose, how he held his jaw or at what angle he should bend his neck, if at all, how to settle the folds in the red neckerchief with a tear in its end.

The third day, Merlin came down an early morning to find the studio unlocked but empty. The corner was dramatically changed: gone were the table and the map. The chair stood lonely and without the fur on it, and a heavy dark tapestry hung on the wall. For the first time, the canvas on the easel wasn't covered. It looked so white and plain, it was so strange that on that white linen a picture of living colour could be brought to life, held fast and admired. Hesitantly, not able to help himself, he reached out a hand to touch it. The texture was strange, unfamiliar to his fingertips.

"It's difficult, you know, drawing the first few lines."

At hearing the voice, Merlin drew back sharply. Arthur didn't scold him, just walked up to stand by his side. "They never seem to do what I want them to," the artist continued. "But I think today is a good time."

And when Merlin took seat, Arthur lifted the piece of charcoal, staining his hands with the dark material. The sun through the windows was bright and Merlin fought to keep his eyes open and unblinking for as long as possible; he was painfully aware of how long time he saw there and that he needed to go down to the kitchen and help prepare breakfast soon, else Gwen be cross with him.

"No, don't lose your focus. You need to keep looking at me."

His back tensed as he did as he was told. It was slightly easier to keep his gaze steady when Arthur's face was partly hidden by the canvas, but wavered every time the man looked up. After an hour of silence, the artist paused, and then drew back his hand. "There's something…" he murmured to himself, eyes flickering between the canvas and Merlin.

"Part your lips. Just a little."

Swallowing, Merlin parted them. They suddenly felt dry and quivered slightly and he felt so vulnerable sitting there, quiet and wide-eyed before the man. Parting his lips like that wasn't…it wasn't right. It wasn't appropriate. It was wrong to sit there with parted trembling lips with a man looking at him so piercingly. It was so wrong and the thought of Will flashed in his mind, making him want to sob. It was so wrong and he wanted it - to be looked at like that was both frightening and exciting, and never wanted Arthur to look away, yet, he wanted to run. (Was this unfaithfulness? If he found out, would Will be disgusted and throw him away, never want to see him again…?)

"Moisture them."

Nervously, he darted out his tongue. It was difficult to breathe and his hear beat so fast. If this was how Arthur would paint him, exposed and lonely, he wanted to flee forever. The blue eyes held him capture. They were staring transfixed at his face. He wished he had the power to leave.

"Again."

Blinking in attempt to get rid of the tears beginning to build up in his eyes, Merlin slid his tongue across his lips a second time.

"Pull down your tunic and jacket by the shoulder."

'No,' he wanted to cry, 'I can't … please.' His hand hesitated and stilled. He couldn't…He couldn't. Arthur saw his fear and put down the tools in his hands, walked over calmly and when the man's hand ghosted near his skin as it was revealed, Arthur pulling at his tunic, Merlin shuddered and shut his eyes. Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn't he paint him like a servant, with a piece of cloth and a bucket in his rough hands, facing away, anything but this?

"Wet your lips again and look at me like you did before."

Wantonly, a dark little voice whispered in his mind and he shivered. How many hours, weeks, months would he have to endure before it was over?

()()()

"He's barricading himself in the studio again," Merlin heard the lady a few days later, in the hall speaking with her husband. The lord made a pleased noise at the words. They were discreet about it, but they were running out of money: the newest addition to the house craved more and their resources to feed all hungry mouths were beginning to wear thin. "I hope he's working on a new painting."

Merlin hoped she would never find out that her wish was coming true.

()()()

FEBRUARY

"You're so distracted. Is something wrong?" Will asked, filling the pail and handing it over, and Merlin shrugged. Warm sunlight beat into his back and thought the air was chilly, seeping through his cap, his cheeks were flushed.

"No...everything's fine," he said, wanting to explain but unsure how, that everything was wrong; that he both hated and loved sitting on a lone chair caught by Arthur's wonderful gaze and hear the faint sound of a brush against canvas, enveloped in the smell of colours, that he loved Arthur so badly though the man was still a stranger and causing him so much pain. He shivered though having a coat heavily draped on his shoulders. It had stopped snowing yesterday.

Will leaned close over the counter and kissed his sharp cheekbone, the man's stubble coarse against his skin; it felt nice and homely and made him smile. Briefly the man paused, scrunching up his nose. "You smell of linseed oil," he muttered, astounded.

Merlin avoided his eyes. "I'm cleaning my master's studio; the smell must've stuck in my clothing."

Will looked at him critically, frowning slightly, but nodded. Maybe he was still thinking about those rumours. Maybe he was wondering and one day would ask.

(He made sure to wash his tunic and jacket carefully that evening, scrubbing the fabric thoroughly and drowning it in soapy, sandy water, to get rid of the smell. How long would he be able to hide what was going on behind the closed doors? How long would it be before Will or his mother realized? How long before Uther or Ygraine Pendragon knew and word was spread like wildfire, again, through the city?)

"It's not true," he had said on this very spot, lying into the face of a man he one day hoped to be trust himself with fully. How could he ever do such a thing? It hurt so much to be a liar; he didn't want to build his life out of it, but without keeping things secret and hiding and looking away, he couldn't survive. It hurt to think of it, but truth was he had been taught to lie as soon as he began to speak. (Keep the gift a secret no matter what. Sharing such things is dangerous.)

"I don't like it," Will muttered. "I don't like you having to work for the Pendragons. They're a nasty bunch. The rumours still haven't died."

"It takes a long while until they do," the servant said trying to ignore the sting of the words. "It always does."

"I want our marriage to take place as soon as spring returns. I've heard people at the market say things about us; about you...I wish you'll never have to hear it. The marriage would quiet them down."

Of course they were talking. He was a lowly servant in a rich household, and gossip loves all folk involved with rich people. And he'd stepped into their lives young and innocent and got caught in their web within weeks and now sir Cenred wanted his portrait. Everyone knew what happened the last time Cenred was painted with a servant. (No one had seen her for years: her fiancé had refused to marry her, and her illegitimate child was unnamed and forgotten.) Gwen had talked of the girl after Arthur's birthday feast, knowing that once sir Cenred had asked such a thing, directly or not, it was an order and Arthur would be a fool trying to refuse. Gwen had looked at him almost pitifully and patted his arm in attempt to console him but Merlin had been confused and humiliated. Back then, he hadn't known that it would come to this. Back then, he'd thought there was some other way.

He didn't need to hear to know what they were saying.

"Just be careful, all right?" Will said.

"Of course," Merlin answered. "Don't worry."

The man embraced him. "Good. I trust you."

()()()

Sometime in mid-month be found himself counting the days. He knew that the last painting had taken nearly a year to finish. One thing he knew, he couldn't bear it for a year. However, he wasn't sure how to ask – or even what to ask. (How long will it take before you let me go? Will you complete this painting and then forget me?) If he should. A proper servant wouldn't, but then again he had never been a very good servant, never wanted to be one at all.

It was difficult to find the opportunity. When in the studio, Arthur required silence and if he were to speak, Merlin would lose his pose. The first few times he tried, the man just made a shushing motion with his hand and shook his head. Eventually, the servant forced his legs to move and approached him before the man left the room to retire one late night, the sun half set behind Camelot's rooftops. He should be downstairs scrubbing the floors.

"How long will it take?"

A beat passed before he recieved a response.

"The painting? I can't answer. Rome wasn't built in one day," Arthur said slightly amused and Merlin blinked, not understanding the meaning of those words fully, but understanding enough.

"I…I need more time for my other duties," he tried feebly, though it wasn't what he had meant to say, wanted to say.

The man's words seemed so plain and simple and in his word, they were, but he wasn't a servant and could never understand Merlin's worry and fears. Had the man even ever felt fear? "It takes the time it takes. I cannot force a painting onto the canvas, just like a farmer can't force the crops to grow; it takes time to be ready for harvest."

Merlin decided to be honest. "I don't know for how long I can do this."

"Your marriage."

He lifted a startled gaze at the man, wondering how he had found out: Merlin certainly hadn't told him. The man's face was a calm façade, but his eyes swirled with emotion and it was clear now, he didn't like the thought of Merlin taking another man's hand. He looked away. Why was this so difficult? Why did everything have to be so hard?

"…Yes," he said quietly. "My marriage." Both understand the meaning: if word spread of the painting and caused a scandal, Merlin would be the first to pay for it.

"The painting must be finished no matter what," Arthur said and it was the end of discussion, he couldn't protest and even if he tried to run away, Arthur would probably send city guards after him and have him sit there, all for the sake of an artist's brush and a single man's desire.

()()()

"Take some of that tea to the lady," Gwen said when stirring the stew. Lady Ygraine had gone to bed early three days in a row and no remedies seemed to help. She complained about sudden hunger and fatigue, but all adults in the house could tell what the signs meant. "She'll appreciate it. But lord, another one…We have enough mouths to feed as it is."

"So she's really…? Already?"

"Yes, already," the woman said and sighed, wiping her brow with a tired hand. "Now go give the tea to her before it grows cold."

Merlin felt a pang of sharp sympathy for them both, the exhausted servant girl and her weary mistress, for neither of their lives was easy, and no stories of how easily the luxury of every lord and lady's home flowed fit with reality. People from the outside could look in through the windows and dream, but no place made a true heaven. There were the hardships and the half-truths and things no one could get away from. All dreams have a price and sweet whispers full of promise would cost them something, some things they mightn't want to pay. William wouldn't want to see that, not yet: he was too confident and hopeful and Merlin knew few people who has such beautiful bright hearts. Will deserved a chance for happiness, even if it was meager.

"I'll set the table and fetch the girls and Mordred for dinner," he said before leaving the kitchen. Gwen was worthy some proper rest whenever she could get it. She just nodded in reply.

()()()

MARCH

"Show me your magic."

The servant flinched at the sudden request. The room had been silent for hours, and the sun was beginning to set, the sky glowing yellow and red through the windows. He was so tired, hands and shoulders exhausted, and his back felt strained for having to sit frozen in the same position for so long.

"I shouldn't," Merlin said quietly. There were no guards hanging by the door waiting to arrest him, but sorcery was still forbidden and the man himself had warned him strongy against using it. The demand both made him apprehensive: because he wanted, deep inside, to heed it.

"I wish to see it."

"Why?"

Arthur looked strangely ashamed but didn't answer. Merlin knew he shouldn't, that it wasn't a reasonable command, magic was outlawed and he should never have let Arthur find out about his gift in the first place, but Arthur was asking like he wanted to witness something beautiful and extraordinary and Merlin could clearly remember the awe shining in his eyes the first time Arthur saw him use it. He'd not looked down at him or through him, but at him, and though he'd been terrified it had also felt slightly wonderful. And now he could actually use his powers in front of someone and not be afraid, he could be appreciated for who he was. Arthur didn't seem to care he was a servant, a nobody. Maybe it was because he was an artist and looked at the world's shapes and colours, not its order.

(Could he one day show Will his magic like this, or would he have to live with him in half-lies and pretence? If he showed William his magic, would the man turn him away or let him stay?)

He reached out with his magic and it flowed around through his veins, a lively warm feeling a bit like fire in his blood and the candles flared to life and his hands glowed with power. It was a simple trick, he didn't dare do anything else; the windows weren't covered and they were in a house where anything could be heard, the walls thin.

The blonde man was all focused upon him, an unreadable expression in his eyes. Merlin shivered, but not from cold or fear.

"Your eyes," Arthur said, finally, the words like a blanket, hushed, crisp at the edges. He stepped closer: there was nothing hindering him. "Your eyes...they're beautiful." He put down the brush.

Merlin shuddered when the blonde man's fingers came into contact with his skin. It was nothing like the butcher's son touch; softer, like a ghost's; it could have been a memory.

The kiss was shockingly real.

"…Why…?" Merlin whispered, as their lips parted, the man's taste lingering in his mouth, it was sweet and gentle and something else than William's demands. It was a question, a hesitation, and that was what frightened him. "Why?"

"I don't know." The voice was hoarse and very near, near. "I...Merlin..."

Please, don't do this to me.

Arthur must have heard his silent thought, pleading; for when Merlin opened his eyes, the man was gone whether had he interpreted the servants pleading questioning eyes as rejection or fear. The easel stood exposed in the centre of the room, but when Merlin finally managed to move off the chair and over the threshold, he didn't look over his shoulder at the colour-covered canvas.

What should I do? Merlin thought in despair. Why can this feeling not let me go? Why did he have to ... I have to ... why...?

()()()

Later that night the artist lifted the brush and added a faint golden gleam to the boy's irises.

()()()

The image was burning in his temple, his breath, his every thought: Arthur's blue gaze fixed on him, his magic glowing; Arthur, moving in, closer, fingers slowly gently touching his cheek, trailing his cheekbones and lips, heartbeat irregular; Arthur touching him, the memory of a caress, so swiftly gone. Arthur, kissing him, a shock against his lips. Arthur, seeing his magic, golden eyes, wonder – Why are you doing this? – I do not know. I do not know.

Arthur's gaze had been so very intense. It was almost as if he knew what the servant felt and thought – for him, for him only. His voice, that husky alluring voice, strangled, "Merlin..." falling into nothingness until he heard nothing but the pressing silence – he'd never felt so alone.

He thought of Will and his kindness and the words people were throwing around and the uselessness of it all – Merlin's frame shook with tears. He didn't know what to do. What was right to do? Did it even matter? Suddenly his world was freer, but all his dreams were out of reach – the truth made him feel sick in the heart. Suddenly he had nothing to hide, he was laid exposed and it wouldn't matter what he did or didn't do anymore. He realized it now, with his magic and the painting and the upcoming marriage, it wouldn't matter, soon he'd be out of this house anyway and it wouldn't matter anymore.

Quietly, as faint ringing bells announced Midnight, Merlin sneaked out of the house and walked quickly to the tavern area. He found the butcher's son drinking and celebrating with some local merchants, singing in merry and gulping down cheap ale. Meeting Will's eyes and taking his wrist, Merlin led him outside, ignoring the whistles and drunken cries in their wake.

He took him to a deserted cold alley where they would be alone, and guided the man's hands to his hips, finally giving him what he so desired. Will's eyes were wide and dark, and when he realized what Merlin was doing, he leaned in to kiss him near the earlobe; face lowered near the servant's, his heavy breaths mingling with Merlin's quick, nervous ones.

Hands nimbly began undoing his clothing and he heard the clasp of a belt being unbuckled; Merlin tried to stop thinking. Will's hands eagerly explored, touched, fingers splayed on milky white thighs. There was alcohol on Will's breath, but it didn't matter, and he didn't speak. The man's moaning of satisfaction would never leave Merlin's ears, the sound low but unmistakable in the gloom. When he began thrusting hard and fast and fervently, it hurt – but Merlin fluttered his eyes closed and he thought of Arthur's fingers against his cheek, Arthur's tentative lips joining his own, Arthur's gaze (I don't know (why I'm doing this) but cannot let it go), and the warmth spreading through his body could've been pleasure.

Afterwards, (knees trembling, lingering touches – Will had refused to let go for many minutes, murmuring soothingly, warmly, "I love you" too close to disregard), Merlin wandered aimlessly, alone, through the sleeping town, hours passing by – his magic kept him warm now, he did little to hide it, suddenly not caring if he was caught. There was no reason to go back to the house and sleep. There was no reason in going to his mother's home, for she would ask so much, questions he wasn't ready to answer.

()()()

Gwen gave him a disapproving glare as he crept in through the back door, stumbling a bit from tiredness. "Where have you been?" she asked worriedly, not loud enough to disturb the still sleeping inhabitants of the house but loud enough for him to wince: "You disappeared and didn't come back last night."

His thoughts flashed back to William's hands (firm, warm in the cold air, seeking places no one else ever had) and self-consciously pulled at his jacket, hoping it covered everything, his skin – afraid that Gwen would see through his thin façade and realize. His skin smelled of another man, of his sweat, of his desire. He wanted to bathe and forget it all.

"I'm sorry," Merlin murmured, lowering his eyes. He couldn't think of any excuse. What she thought was visible (his tousled hair, reddened face, feeble attempts at hiding his neck), and she gave him with one long thoughtful look. It was sharp but not unkind.

"I hope you have gotten some rest, for there's still work to do."

It was as if she knew, had watched the alleyway and seen his naked legs and the man with him (eager and hungry-eyed), and Merlin's face burned in shame. Without answering, he went about the laundry, closing the door to the workroom so that nobody would see his eyes watering and heart beating so ferociously against his ribcage.

()()()

The following week felt slow, so slow and so little was happening yet he constantly longed for it to be over. His nights were restless. Will treated him no different from before, his words were sweet and kind and his actions hadn't changed, perhaps his feelings had intensified tenfold. Merlin felt twitchy and nervous, flinching at every loud noise; at every glance sent his way, every time Gwen sharply called for him to help with supper and every time there was footsteps falling down the corridor as the children rushed out to play and every time Arthur summoned him to the studio.

The blonde man maybe sensed his unease, but didn't know what caused it, couldn't know, and it was better that way. It was incredibly difficult to sit all those hours still and unmoving, forbidden to look away.