Warmth bloomed across his face even as the light breeze cooled his skin. Birdsong rang clearly in the fresh air and Arthur breathed in deeply, savoring the peace he found lying alone on the imagined shore. His eyes were closed and his body relaxed, sinking and melding into the earth beneath him. He wished he could sink into the bowels of the earth to be reborn again in the spring, to break through the topsoil and unfurl new leaves towards the sun. To bloom in the hot summer months, fade in the autumn chill, rest for the long winter cold, and back to beginning in the spring. Renewal. Life itself follows the cycle, as does man; sowing seeds into fertile soil for the Mother to birth the crop. The crop sustains the people and at the end of its usefulness is given back to the earth to fertilize new soil for new seeds. Life, death, rebirth, repeat. Arthur longed to feel the cycle around him, to feel his own usefulness. It was only here, in this place, on this shore somewhere he'd never seen in waking hours, that he felt the earth breathe beneath him. He felt the pleasure of the flowers that came from bees, their hands gently coaxing the buds to completion and coming away sticky with nectar to make honey, bearing the pollen they sprinkle while they fly home to create fields of new flowers to pollinate next spring. He felt alive.

The sound of shuffling stones alerted him to the presence, but his eyes remained shut, face towards the sky. "Once again we find ourselves alone together, Morrigan."

"Pity," the voice said, "I had hoped to be alone by myself."

Arthur couldn't help the way the corners of his mouth curled into a lazy smile. "That's no way for a dream-being to speak."

"I am not a dream."

"Aren't you?"

The earth beside him shifted as Merlin laid down beside him, close enough for Arthur to feel the heat of skin between them. They remained quiet for a time, listening to nature living around them, hearing each other's breaths. Arthur was content.

"Why are you here again?" Merlin asked him.

Arthur turned himself to face the other man, his eyes opening to see the ever-present frown on his face. "It is my escape."

"What are you escaping?" Merlin seemed impatient. Arthur wondered why this seemed to matter to the man.

Arthur turned his face away again, closing his eyes. "Myself, mostly."

He offered nothing more on the subject and Merlin didn't ask. Instead, Arthur said, "I learned from a druid woman how to make bread today. She treated me like a child."

"You are a child," Merlin said quickly.

Arthur laughed. He sat up and Merlin followed. "She treated me like I was her child. She treated me with gentility and love. She expected nothing of me but to have the patience to learn and the grace to accept the inevitable mistakes in doing so." He pointed across the lake, far away into the mountains, Merlin's eyes following the extension of the gesture. "Out there, I have no mother. Out there, I am not an individual. And yet it is there that I must return, to the most dismal and empty life in existence."

Merlin was quiet beside him, but Arthur knew his next question before he spoke it into existence.

"There is no love in it. There is no freedom. I was born into shackles wrought from expectations, and there is no key to unchain myself, nor any tool sharp or heavy enough to fight my way through. I am thoroughly, and completely bound to my predetermined destiny."

"You akin yourself to a slave."

Arthur laughed again, this time without humor. "I am a slave, one surrounded by lavishness and luxury, but a slave just the same. And a whore to be bought by the richest and strongest competitor. A slave and a whore; a sorry excuse for anyone's son."

Merlin was quiet again, and Arthur left him to his thoughts.

"Time to rise, Pendragon," Merlin said.

Arthur opened his eyes to darkness. For a moment he was frightened, not knowing where he was but all too quickly he remembered his position. The previous evening rushed to the forefront of his mind; the wet heat, the friction, the need. The crushing, bitter disappointment. Not Merlin then, but Emrys.

"I know you're awake, Pendragon. Sit up."

Arthur did as he was bid, but trepidation churned his stomach at the tone Emrys used with him. He was always commanding, his voice and demeanor befitting of the greatest king, and twice as hard as the finest steel. Although he had always been somewhat harsh with Arthur, this time he sounded agitated. Arthur tried to recollect what he may have done to cause such outright animosity towards himself - birthright aside - and came up empty. He gripped the furs tightly, trying not to let his nerves show.

"You disobeyed me."

Arthur's brow knit together in confusion.

"Did I not tell you that I would know if you had touched yourself? I remember expressly forbidding it, and yet your tent smelled of release almost as soon as you left it."

Suddenly indignant, Arthur opened his mouth to protest but felt his throat close around the words as Emrys hissed, "Silence! Do you think this is a game, Pendragon? Do you find testing me to be wise? I've tried to be patient with you, I've given you every opportunity to prove my ideas about you were wrong. But what you did was born of spite, and I cannot allow it to go unpunished."

Something metal clamped securely around Arthur's flaccid length and he hissed at the coolness of the device on his sensitive flesh. He immediately attempted to slide the device from his member, but that only served for it to tighten around him. He knew his eyes were blown comically wide with anger and fear, but Emrys had rendered him unable to make a single sound.

"This device will serve as a reminder for you today. It won't allow you to come and it won't come off until I allow it. If you even attempt to disengage it beforehand, it will continue to tighten rather painfully. I suggest you deal with the discomfort rather than risk your manhood, since you're going to be aroused for the next… hmm, 8 hours? And since you cannot be truthful with me, you will go without your voice as well." Arthur felt the air move as Emrys bent to speak quietly into his ear, his breath tickling the small hairs on Arthur's temple. "Test me again, Arthur, and see what I can come up with."

As he moved away, Arthur felt a dull throbbing in his lower belly and going straight to his cock. The magic from his eye lifted and he had just enough time to see a brown pant leg disappear through the tent flap before Freya brought him breakfast and told him he'd be working on needlepoint for the day. Joyous. Arthur had never picked up thread in his life and realized Emrys probably knew this and wanted to make sure he was thoroughly miserable. He ate slowly, attempting to delay the inevitable for as long as he could before trudging behind Freya to the seamstress tent. Inside he was surprised to see a large number of those working were men and quickly became ashamed. He had been taught that needlework was a woman's job, but as with all things, the druids saw it as a community task.

The blonde who greeted them sniffed the air around Arthur before wrinkling her nose in distaste. "That won't do, you'll stench up the whole camp at this rate! Mordred!" Arthur looked up with his cheeks ablaze to find his friend trying to keep a grin from his face as he set aside the tunic he was mending. "Take him down to the river to have a wash," she told him, and turned back to Arthur and said, "if you attempt to return without having done so I'll turn you out on your arse!"

"Yes, ma'am," he attempted to say, but his mouth formed the words without sound.

"Ah, another thing, Forridel," Freya remembered. "Arthur is mute for the day at Emrys' request."

The woman, Forridel, turned sympathetic eyes to Arthur. "Oh, poor dear. Well don't worry, you're just as useful to me without a voice, probably more so. Now off with ya!"

Mordred took Arthur by the elbow, leading him from the tent and past the edge of the camp into the forest where they followed a well-worn path through the brush to a tributary. Arthur could hear the rushing of the larger river somewhere in the distance, but the brook before them babbled soothingly. Arthur ran his fingertips through the frigid waters before scooping some up to splash his face. Once his face was dripping he removed his shirt, folding it neatly. The once crisp, white fabric was yellowed beneath the arms and collar from sweat, and Arthur knew no amount of pressing would remove the wrinkles embedded in the fabric like memory. His trousers weren't much better off, but at least whatever filth they held was kept hidden by the dark color. Arthur wished for clean clothes, but given the circumstances, he was lucky he was being treated as fairly as he was. He wasn't about to ask for more.

Saving himself the humiliation of revealing Emry's punishment, Arthur removed his boots, rolled his trouser legs up, and waded into the water. Unable to submerge himself, he settled for scrubbing his scalp with his fingers, and his underarms and undercarriage with a scrap of cloth Mordred procured for him. The cold water tempered his arousal for which he was thankful, and he felt immensely better after washing the grime from his person. Mordred, seeming to understand the need for Arthur to be left to himself, sat quietly on the bank until he was finished. When Arthur looked at him, he couldn't help but see how similar he looked to Merlin. They both had raven-black hair, blue eyes, and plush lips, but Merlin's eyes were brighter while Mordred's held a deeper hue. Merlin was leaner, almost gangly in body where Mordred was well-balanced and sculpted with muscle from hard labor. Mordred held an air of calm and in contrast Merlin seemed rather volatile with his energy. Not even to mention Merlin's frankly gigantic ears which framed his long face rather humorously. Mordred was much more pleasing to gaze upon, but there was something about Arthur's dreams that made him curious about Merlin. Was he real? How would it be possible for Arthur to dream of a real person he'd never met? Perhaps he was just a face Arthur had seen in passing which his subconscious recalled for a companion within his lonely mind.

Lost in his musings, he didn't realize he had begun to stare until Mordred smiled warmly at him. "Something on your mind, Arthur?"

Arthur startled, opening his mouth to respond before remembering it would be in vain. He closed his mouth and shook his head, water droplets flinging from the wet ends of his hair. He made his way out of the river, his feet picking up sediment as he trudged to his boots. They made their way back to camp in companionable silence, knocking shoulders occasionally. Arthur was glad for Mordred's presence; he didn't know how he would fare without the man's tentative friendship, and he was disheartened at the thought of leaving him. Arthur thought of Will and his cooking, and baking bread with Hunith. He allowed himself to think of the life he could have as a part of them and the pain lodged itself in his throat, forcing a soundless cry from him and he was thankful for a moment that Emrys had taken his voice. It allowed him to grieve in silence.

When they returned from the river, Forridel gave Arthur an approving sniff before setting them to work. Arthur was anything but a natural and the blonde ended up spending the better part of the morning teaching him simple stitches which did not lessen the puncture wounds in the pads of his fingers. Forridel wasn't as outwardly patient as Hunith, but Arthur sensed amusement and care beneath her sarcastic and sometimes derisive dialogue. She didn't coddle him by any means, but ironically her jeers lessened the sting of his predicament and several times he let out silent bouts of laughter. Arthur decided he liked her. By the time Forridel deemed him ready to stitch up a torn tent piece, his fingers were raw and speckled with pinpricks of blood which she told him not to smear on her fabrics lest he wished to wash the linens as well as sew them. Arthur only smiled and held out his hand expectantly, ready to put the lessons to good use. The work was a bit crooked, the stitches unevenly spaced but close enough together to hold against wind and rain. Forridel didn't outwardly congratulate him, but handing him a pair of pants to sew was proof enough that he'd impressed her.

"Sew those up and they're yours, along with this," she said, throwing a dark purple tunic at him.

Unable to catch the garment without losing his needle and thread, Arthur let it hit him square in the face. It slid down slowly, revealing his raised eyebrow, scrunched nose, and pink cheeks to which Forridel let out a giant guffaw. Thankfully, she refrained from throwing more pieces at him for the duration of the afternoon. Arthur skipped the majority of lunch - only having a bit of fresh bread because he wanted to eat as much of Hunith's baking as he could before he was forced to leave - so that he could continue to work. Sewing, it turned out, was not as hard as he'd thought once he got the hang of it, and it was the perfect distraction from the issue pressing itself against the seam of his trousers. The monotonous repetition of stitches was soothing, the motions like the waves on a beach, and Arthur was entranced. He wondered again about Merlin. Who was he? What kind of talents did he have, what hobbies? But most importantly, was he even real? Whatever he tried to switch his mind to, it always came back to his raven.

A voice woke him from his musings. "'Ello, Arthur!"

Arthur looked up to find Will standing before him, looking sheepish. His mousy brown hair was wild and his cheeks were tinged pink. " I hate to bother you, truly, but I've run into some trouble. Normally I'd have Forridel fix me up right but, she ain't in at the moment is she?"

Forridel found him back in the tent, sewing Will's tunic. One of the few horses the druids kept had thought his lovely new red shirt was a big apple and decided to have a taste, tearing the collar of the garment and subsequently causing a commotion when Will thought he'd been attacked. He'd come to the tent looking for a more experienced seamster or seamstress, but with all the rest out for lunch, Arthur was more than happy to take the job immediately. That is how Forridel found them; Will sat in the corner covering his naked chest with his arms like an adolescent girl in a night dress while Arthur silently mocking him as he mended the shirt. After taking the piss out of Will, she examined Arthur's work.

"Impeccable," she said. "It's almost like you've been sewing for two days instead of the one! Get out, I can't have people slacking because they think you'll do their work for them. Out with you then, out the both of you!"

Will hastily threw the shirt over his head and pulled it down to cover himself. Honestly, Arthur thought he had nothing to be ashamed of. His chest was broad and defined, and the hint of his belly gave him a softer appearance than that of Mordred or himself. Just because he preferred men doesn't mean Arthur didn't appreciate a little suppleness. The only thing stopping women from fawning all over Will was his winning attitude, but Arthur knew the man was hardened from his experiences, much like Freya. Most of the druids were happy and content, but those two stuck out like sore thumbs with their pessimism. Arthur supposed he couldn't blame them for it, he had no idea what they may have gone through to stay alive in his father's kingdom. He'd learned from Mordred that Will and Emrys grew up together in a small village just shy of the border that marked Uther's domain. They had been citizens of King Cenred, but the hatred and fear of magic had penetrated the land for miles outside of Uther's political reach. No doubt Emrys had grown up having to keep his magic a secret which explained why he harbored such strong feelings for Uther personally, even though he was born almost two decades after the Great Purge. Arthur didn't blame Emrys for his mistrust in himself, nor the hate he had for his father. How could he? All these people wanted to do was live in the open without fear and prejudice, but instead, they were hidden away like bastard children because of one man's fury at himself. It wasn't fair. Having lived among the druids and seeing their kindness, their compassion, their acceptance of all human life, made Arthur hate Uther too. What right did one man have to slay thousands of people for one individual's lack of foresight? Arthur knew he should stop that line of thinking or else he'd never be able to face his father objectively again, but he couldn't help feeling wounded for them. They had done nothing wrong. They had only lived, and how can they be slaughtered for that?

"Lost in thought, Pendragon?"

The voice behind him stopped Arthur in his tracks and caused a shudder to run down his spine. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply before opening them to darkness. The dirt masked the sounds of Emrys' footfalls but Arthur felt him creeping closer. It was like every part of him was attuned to the man; his skin tingled, the hair on his neck stood up, and his breathing became just shy of raggad. The warmth emanating from his body warmed Arthur's back more than the sun and he hated himself for it.

"What are these?" Emrys asked, coming to stand before him.

Arthur knew he was speaking of the clothes Forridel had gifted to him, so he opened his mouth to retort with the obvious. Nothing came out, causing the arousal in his belly to twist into shame. He did his best to glare at the man, raising an eyebrow to display the same level of sarcasm with which he would have spoken. Emrys chuckled before taking his arm,leading him to what Arthur presumed was his tent. When they got there, he took the clothes from Arthur's hands and forced him gently into a seat. Arthur's mouth watered as the scent of roasted meat filled his nose, and he suddenly remembered how hungry he was for skipping meals. When Emrys offered him a morsel, he ate from his hand without preamble.

"You did good work today," the man said. Arthur rolled his eyes and ignored the comment, instead opening his mouth to indicate the need for more food and causing Emrys to chuckle once again. Still, he complied and Arthur swirled his tongue around a russet potato boiled with rosemary and thyme. He hummed with silent satisfaction as Emrys went on. "In fact, you've done good work every day since you got here. Mordred was on your side from the first day, then you catch the affections of my mother, and now my best friend. You're humble, polite, hard-working - everything you expect a royal not to be. It's infuriating, really. Why can't you just be simple?"

Arthur chewed his next bite carefully, trying to make sense of what Emrys was saying. Was he being punished for being those things? But this didn't feel like punishment. It felt like an admission of sorts, but of what, Arthur had no idea. He cocked his head slightly, trying to convey with his body what he wanted to say.

"This would be so much easier if you were simple. Instead, I'm dealing with a prince who respects both my people and his kingdom, even under a corrupt King. You are not who I thought you were, Arthur Pendragon, and I don't know what to do with that."

Arthur swallowed quickly before turning his face to the ground. His face burned from the backhanded compliment, and he was ashamed to feel the fluttering of satisfaction in his stomach alongside his inflamed arousal. Soft hands cupped his face and tilted it upwards so that Emrys' breath puffed out onto his own lips. He licked them unconsciously, trying to savor the taste of his breath, craving the flavor of wildflower honey and mint. Emrys shifted himself closer and Arthur's eyes, though already sightless, slid shut. He was overwhelmed with the idea of kissing him that when chapped lips lightly caressed his own, it felt like he'd been plunged headfirst into an ice bath. He gasped without making a sound, but his intake must have drawn Emrys in because he pressed his lips more firmly to Arthurs, taking advantage of his open mouth to slip his tongue inside and run it along Arthur's own. Arthur kissed back tentatively, allowing himself to suckle at Emrys' tongue, to which Emrys retaliated by nipping his bottom lip between his teeth, wracking a pleasant shudder through Arthur's frame. He felt as though he was alight, his body heaved breaths as his cock ached within its confines. The metal band dug into his sensitive flesh, resulting in a heady and intoxicating mix of pain and rapture. His hips stuttered up of their own accord, seeking friction to alleviate him. Emrys plunged his tongue back into Arthur's mouth as he cupped him through his trousers. Arthur shook with need.

"Sshh, I've got you, Arthur. Just for tonight," he whispered into Arthur's mouth.

Arthur threw his head back when Emrys slipped his hand into his pants, taking his engorged cock in his hand and giving him a slow pump. Pre-ejaculate wept from the slit and he used it to ease the friction beneath his palm. The metal band pulsed each time Emrys passed over it, causing Arthur to groan. He was thankful he couldn't make any noise because he was sure he would have been begging by now. He clung to Emrys, his hands fisted in his soft tunic. He was so close to falling, but the metal ring wouldn't let him over the edge. He felt like he was going to explode. All at once, the pressure of the device was gone and Emrys removed his hand.

"Come," he commanded, and Arthur shot in ropes across his already soiled shirt with only Emry's voice to crash into.

And crash he did. He shook so badly his legs felt weak. He knew the other man had come as well when he heard the low moan and felt the stutter of his hips against his own. Emrys immediately stripped him of his thoroughly ruined garments and carried him to the bed with effort. Arthur let him, afraid that if he attempted to get there himself he would fall asleep on the dirt floor. He was already giving way to rest, the darkness tinged the edges of his mind in shadow. He was tucked under furs, fingers ran through his hair, and he succumbed to oblivion.