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Entry tags:
Merlin - Sorcerer [3/3]
Title: Sorcerer
Genre: Gen, Angst, Friendship, Future!Fic
Rating: R
Length: ~18,300 words
Spoilers: Through the end of Series 3
Warnings: A bit of violence, a bit of angst, a bit of injury.
Synopsis: Magic is revealed and the ban repealed, but is Merlin now no more than a title?
Author’s Notes: For the wonderful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sinka, who bid on me at the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
help_japan auction. This ended up far more Gen than I originally planned, but there’s plenty of angsting and such, so hopefully you will find it acceptable. *g*
Disclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
Arthur had assigned a line of men to protect their border the moment the legion had appeared; this was in addition to the increased guards and patrols in place since the first attack and meant quite a few men were already engaged in battle by the time Merlin reached the field. Arthur was there, of course, with Leon and Percival at his side and Elyan serving as scout. He turned to Merlin a raised his eyebrows at his attire, but said no word.
“Are you ready for this?” Leon asked instead.
“I think so,” Merlin replied with as much of a decisive nod as he could manage. He tried to think about everything Arthur had told him, which walls to place where and whether or not it was possible to sweep the entire challenging army from the field without taking out their own men.
His concentration was shattered when a blast landed at his feet, four strides short of hitting its mark. The dirt and grass flew into the air though there was no weapon to be found, no trace of what had impacted. It did not take a genius to know it was the other sorcerer, testing his limits and seeing how close he could get.
Merlin retaliated and sent out a fireball of his own. He could see the damage but knew that he too was short of target. He stepped closer of his own accord, two strides and nearly a third, his own magic welling up in him to finally press out against what had been invading his space for far too long.
Arthur caught him though as he raised his hand, flinched away at what Merlin knew to be eyes that glowed the same colour as his fingertips, and told him, “Forget everything I asked before. Just try to survive.”
“He’ll kill you,” Merlin said, and knew it to be true as soon as the words left his mouth. The sorcerer wanted him dead, wanted Arthur to suffer and perish for what his father did even more than the legion wanted the Camelot stronghold.
“Well he’s going to make a fair try at you too, so don’t let it happen,” Arthur replied blithely.
“He has to get through me to get to you,” Merlin shrugged, as though his life was not on the line, as though this was one of their random quiet moments of old.
He was not sure what else Arthur had to say at that. He was certain there were words, possibly encouraging but more than likely a bit derogative as well, but the ground shook beneath his feet and a wave of power washed over him causing him to take a physical step back.
He cocked his head to the side, finding the other sorcerer amongst the combatants on the field, knowing he was trying to intimidate, trying to make Merlin doubt himself and leave an opening to exploit, trying to make him lose before the battle even had a chance to truly begin. Merlin smiled. He had gone up against fairies and trolls and Sidhe and Nimeuh herself. He had fought skeletons raised from their graves and armies that could never die. This man was nothing, and all his posturing had just showed Merlin the validity of that fact.
He let his power out from its carefully formed prison, let it guide his actions to its whims, feel and react far better than he could if his mundane mind had a chance to think things through. He felt fire at his fingertips and raw energy in his hands. His voice called upon spells he had barely glanced at, and they came to fruition and bowed to his will. A sword glinted before him and his staff flashed in turn, shattering it to a thousand pieces and sending the wielder flying into darkness again and again.
The other man with his flamboyant robes looked unsure of himself for a moment and Merlin pressed the advantage, formed shield after shield to stop the barrage lobbied at him even as he burst forth with volley after volley of his own. The rest of the world faded away, until he only saw, only felt the challenger before him.
He called to the man as he felt the wall he pressed up against weaken, told him that this did not need to end in death, only defeat. The barrages continued to come even as the man replied that the two were one in the same and that he would have Arthur’s head as prize and hang it in Camelot’s walls upon his victory and that nothing would stand in his way. Merlin very calmly reminded him that he was wrong as Merlin himself stood in his way and he would not pass so long as he drew breath.
The man grinned and Merlin really should have expected something given that he could feel his enemy’s power draining and that there was no reason for him to be so smug unless he had something else up his sleeve, some other tactic that Merlin had yet to suss out.
There was a shout, not in the language of old that they had been using thus far, but in the same tongue Merlin heard inside the castle walls on a daily basis. His staff was knocked from his hand and he barely had time to glance at the behemoth that bore down upon him before the wind was knocked out of him and he found himself face first in the loamy earth.
He turned, dagger at the ready, to find not a man in the blues and blacks of the other army, but Arthur in his reds and golds. “Get down!” Arthur shouted, which Merlin thought was a bit redundant given that he had yet to push himself up from the ground.
Arthur pressed him further though, covered his body with his own, and Merlin felt the impact of a blow, heard the chink of a sword against armour, and then heard a roar like no other. He squirmed and pushed against the weight that held, knowing that the sorcerer was still a threat and that his prize had practically handed himself over to him. He finally freed his head enough to glance up, and he saw the behemoth again, only this time his attention was held by Percival, who met sword with axe and easily tossed another interloper to the side while he focused on his goal.
He could feel the sorcerer try to search for his power, try to regain his magical footing for another attack and knew he would have no better opportunity to end this than now. He had no idea where his staff had ended up and could only count on the power within his own two hands to settle this once and for all. Then again, he still held the dagger in his hand, so he was fairly confident he had all the tools he needed and more.
“Off of me,” he grunted, but Arthur barely moved. “He’s coming for you, you idiot, now let me do my job and protect you,” he ground out and shoved with all his might.
He realized later that some of that might may not have been physical strength when Arthur ended up on his arse a good distance away, but it was enough for him to clamber to his feet get his bearings. Arthur, of course, had to prove that the title of “idiot” was well and truly his as he charged at the sorcerer, blade in hand, ignoring Merlin’s protests at the futility of the action.
The sorcerer, of course, dismissed him with a word and sent him flying into a well-placed tree. It was only after Arthur lay there, dazed and disarmed, that the sorcerer realized just who he had at his mercy and advanced to finish the job. Leon stepped in front of Arthur, sword at the ready even as he handed the king his dirk, and Merlin made his move.
The sorcerer whirled about as he sensed Merlin’s attack, blue and green flames held in the palm of his hand, but there was not enough room for him to shift and throw it at Merlin as ready as he had been to set Arthur alight. The fire still burned through the chain links of his hauberk as the sorcerer reached and grappled with Merlin instead, knocked off balance by a well placed shoulder to the abdomen. Merlin realized then that he held an advantage the other man most obviously did not as he had spent years training with Arthur and the knights, even if only in jest and fun, and knew enough about physical combat to gain the upper hand against someone who relied solely on his metaphysical abilities to sustain him.
The man kicked and flailed but could not land his marks and did not know how to use his greater size and weight against Merlin’s far slighter form. He got in one lucky roll though, and ended up on top of Merlin, right hand raised and beginning to glow with a characteristic flame while his left hand sought purchase on the slick links of metal to steady himself. Merlin saw his opening and took it, the blade slicing deep and driving upward, the flames flickering out with the dying man’s last breaths.
The sorcerer collapsed atop Merlin, a dense and unmovable weight that slowly drained slick warmth across Merlin’s hand, stained his skin and made the tunic he wore beneath his armour stick uncomfortably to his skin.
Just as Merlin thought he may well suffocate there as the battle waged on around him, the weight was lifted with an audible squelch and discarded at his side with a muted thump. He breathed deep and free while he could, opened his eyes to let his spotted vision focus not on elaborate silks but on grimy metal instead. He found his fingers being prised from the hilt of the dagger, one by one, the messy thing driven into the ground beside him, not useless, but no longer a threat until he needed it to be once more.
Hands were on him now, and a voice that sounded a thousand miles away demanded, “Are you all right? Are you injured?”
He could not answer, not yet, not when he was still trying to catch his breath and gather his strength to wipe out the opposing army. He feared he had used too much taking out a single man though, barely able to raise his head let alone wash the field clean of intruders.
“There’s blood, is it his?” It was another voice, and he knew he should recognize it, but it was far too much of a bother.
“Merlin!” the first voice shouted, suddenly crystal in its clarity and far too near. “Are you injured?”
He pushed against the hands, felt them fall away as the remnants of his magic surged and he heard a single voice mutter, “The glowing is a bad thing, right?”
He sat up, arm nearly giving way beneath his own weight, and expected to look out at a raging battle, ready to yell at whoever was fussing with him to get back to it, that there were far more important things to worry about than a single man knocked down when there was still a legion to be dealt with.
Instead he found the remnants of that legion dissipating, the tatters of an army fleeing with what little they had left. Men in blue lay scattered about the field, dead or dying, while men in red strode about and rounded up the survivors. There was the odd echo of steel here and there as minor squirmishes were decided and someone made a final lunge hoping to take down one more of the enemy before they surrendered to their own death but, for the most part, the battle was over.
“How?” he asked. His voice felt raw and overused though he could barely remember saying anything at all. Spells came to him unbidden, and he knew as they pressed against his mind that he must have spoken them to release them, and wondered just how many he had called upon to accomplish his task.
“We’re just that good,” Gwaine replied as he sat down heavily beside him. He tried to act bold and nonchalant, but Merlin could see the way his eyes flickered towards the blood, darted about as he sought out any potential wound.
“Well, that, and you took out a fair number on your own on your way to their sorcerer,” Lancelot added with far more honesty. He gestured behind him and Merlin found multiple unconscious bodies, all in a neat line, and more than one scorched as well as bleeding.
“Oh,” he said, a bit anticlimactically. He raised his hand to scratch at his head as he tried to sort that out, but was stopped by the searing pain in his arm.
The motion, of course, did not go unnoticed by the people gathered around him. “What’s wrong?” Arthur demanded, suddenly so much closer than he was before.
Gwaine and Lancelot pulled at the buckles of Merlin’s hauberk, peeling the chains off slowly to expose the stained shirt below. “How much of this is you?” Gwaine asked as he tugged the sodden fabric free from his side.
“None, I think,” Merlin answered honestly. “It’s just my arm, really.” He turned his head to the side to look down at the mess for the first time. His sleeve was burnt in the precise pattern of row after row of chainmail, and he had a fair idea that the skin beneath it bore the same marks, only in red instead of black. His abdomen was stained with the other man’s blood, though he knew there were bruises waiting to blossom beneath the surface. Surprisingly enough the wound from the arrow had not reopened, so at least there was that.
His reassurances were apparently not enough for Arthur, however, who drew the dagger from the dirt and sliced through the patterned fabric at his shoulder to reveal the damage below.
“Hey, that’s mine,” Merlin protested weakly.
“No, it really is not,” Arthur smiled without humour. He tucked it into his belt with practiced ease and it was only then that Merlin realized where he had seen it before. That raised all sorts of questions, such as why a king who could not be bothered to speak his sorcerer’s name would still want him armed and protected, and why that same king dug through the various herbs and flasks in the pouch at Merlin’s side and asked, “Do you have anything in here to treat that?”
Merlin shook his head. “Not unless you want to burn the flesh down to the bone, or possibly make it explode.” Arthur’s hands froze and then he very carefully tucked everything back into place.
“Sire, why don’t you return with him to the castle to have that treated?” Leon suggested with only a hint of a smirk. “You took a nasty blow to the head and should have that seen to as well.”
Merlin noticed the thin trail of blood along Arthur’s hairline and the secondary one from just behind his ear and wondered if that explained the man’s newfound sense of caring. However, he had not yet been brained with a tree when he gifted Merlin with his own dagger, so perhaps there was something more at play that he had not yet discerned.
Arthur looked across the field at the utter destruction that still needed to be dealt with and sighed. “I could clean that up for you,” Merlin offered, and he was certain he could if only he could keep his eyes open. He was beginning to believe Lancelot and his suspicion that excessive magic tired him out.
Arthur looked at him doubtfully and said, “You could barely clean my rooms on a good day, somehow I doubt this is within your abilities now.” Instead of realizing he had just issued Merlin a challenge, he continued, “Tell you what, you stand on your own two feet and maybe I’ll let you clean my hauberk when we get back to the castle.”
He held his hand out and pulled Merlin upright, but staggered to the side when Merlin easily pushed against him and stepped forward into the lingering chaos of the field. A few whispered words later and the enemy men were corralled into a neat and possibly glowing paddock, the scorch marks erased from the trampled grass, and Arthur’s armour shone as bright as though it had been polished by the smith himself only moments ago.
Merlin turned and grinned knowingly at Arthur’s astonishment. Unfortunately, he only had a moment to enjoy it though before the edges of his vision turned to grey and he felt all the strength leave his body, beginning at his knees. He felt hands upon him once more, this time guiding him back down to the ground he had just struggled up from. Before he closed his eyes and gave in to the weight of exhaustion that surrounded him, he swore he heard a very familiar voice mutter, “Stubborn sod.” He was gratified to hear another voice, just as familiar and just as close, chide, “Yes, you are, sire.”
He did not remember the trip back to the castle, but there must have been one as he next awoke to a room lit by the light of the setting sun. He blinked to clear his vision, only to blink again as he took in his surroundings. He was in his room, his old room, propped up by pillows atop his tiny cot, only things were so moved about that he could barely tell up from down. Then again, he could barely keep his eyes open even now, so perhaps his exhaustion still played a role.
“Ah, good, you’re awake!” a voice boomed far too loudly to his left. He turned his head slowly in that direction, feeling every muscle he had ever pulled or twisted from his neck down to his toes protest the action.
“Arthur?” he verified, uncertain if his eyes were deceiving him. It looked like him, down to the small cut on his temple and the smarmy grin on his lips.
“The one and only,” the king in question replied.
He had been sitting in a chair at the side of the tiny cot, but stood now and stretched. Merlin watched him, but could not help the confused, “But you hate me, why would you waste your time here with me?” that fell from his lips. He moved to rub at his eyes, and felt his arm erupt in a level of pain he did not ever remember having had experienced, and really would have preferred it to stay as such. He was wearing an oversized tunic of some sort, and prodded at it to see just how heavy of a bandage he wore beneath his sleeve.
A scuff on the floor told him Arthur had turned around again, and Merlin half-listened as he said, “Hate you? Why would you... Of course I don’t hate you!” followed by a huffed, “Stop poking at that and listen to me!”
He found his hands taken away and placed in his lap, Arthur’s grip solid around his wrists. He followed the line from the callused and scarred hands up arms several shades darker than his own, across a layer of fine red fabric, and finally up to a slightly worried looking face with eyes that seemed to bore into his own. But that also did not make sense because eyes did not bore. They did not do much of anything other than see. Well, blink maybe, look around on occasion, and close. Closing his eyes seemed like a good idea. It would block out the annoying light and may have the benefit of allowing him to sleep and maybe, if he was lucky, things would make sense when he opened them again.
He wondered if he had spoken any of that aloud as the worried expression turned to one of amusement as Arthur told him, “No, you are not allowed to sleep again and, really, how hard did you hit your head because I do not remember you even falling.”
Merlin shook his head and watched the colours of the room briefly blur, only to right themselves in the same lack of sense. “Just tired,” he insisted. “Did a lot. Well, I think I did a lot. Seemed like a lot at the time.”
“You did do a lot,” Arthur agreed. His grip on Merlin’s wrists loosened, and eventually released to pat the hands now folded neatly in Merlin’s lap. “But let’s get back to the hating you part.”
Merlin made a face. “It’s not like I want you to hate me, it’s just you seem determined to do so and I’m not sure what to do to make it right again,” he explained in what he thought was a fairly logical manner.
Arthur ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. “How about you listen for a moment and see where that gets you and then we can go from there?” he suggested. He sat down heavily in the chair he so recently vacated and Merlin had the suspicion that whether he wanted to listen or not would make no difference as Arthur was determined to talk.
“I don’t hate you,” Arthur repeated after taking yet another calming breath. “Why would you think that I did?”
“Well, there was the whole imprisonment thing, the taking my room and my home away thing, the sending me away thing, the wanting nothing to do with me thing, and the not even being able to say my name but calling me ‘sorcerer’ like a curse thing,” Merlin ticked off on his fingers. He raised his eyebrows as far as he dared without risking a worse headache than he already had and silently dared Arthur to comment.
He got the headache anyway when Arthur spluttered for a moment before he found his words and near shouted, “I lifted the ban on magic for you! I gave you a title and rooms fitting of your new role as Court Sorcerer! I fired you as a servant seeing how you were to have far more important things to see to from now on!” Arthur leaned back in his chair and looked to the ceiling, to the multitude of books and shelves that had somehow appeared, and then finally back to Merlin. “I did, however, avoid you as much as possible,” he admitted with far less fervour.
“Why?” Merlin asked, needing to know this possibly more than anything else. Maybe it would also help explain why he was supposedly gifted with things that felt like punishments instead; the intention seeping through the presentation.
He half expected Arthur to shy away, to suddenly have some pressing court business that needed to be attended to now and only now and to have the issue brushed off to the side never to be dealt with again. Instead, Arthur offered another sigh, this one far more heartfelt than the last. “I needed time to sort things out, to make sense of something I thought of as evil for so long so obviously being used to do something good. I needed to think things through and figure out how you hid for so long and how much of everything that has been accomplished over these past years has been from my own hard work and strife, and how much has simply been from you,” he shrugged as if it were nothing when it was so clearly something so much more.
“It was from you, all of it,” Merlin insisted. A little sheepishly, he added, “I just sort of helped along the way.”
Arthur quirked his lips and said, “It’s that help I was trying to make sense of. How I never saw it, and how it did so much I might not have been able to accomplish without it. I started to resent the fact that I could not tell your accomplishments from my own. By then I had pushed you far enough away that it was simple enough to keep you there and to not have to think about any of this at all.” He paused and glanced away for a moment before he reluctantly forced himself to look at Merlin again. “When I started to come to terms with it, it seemed you had moved on to your new role with your open stories of magic and barely a thought about me. I thought maybe it would be better that way, at least for a while – separate the sorcerer from the king and the friend from the colleague.” He finished with his hands folded before him, looking as contrite as Merlin had ever seen him.
“You didn’t know how to get back in,” Merlin guessed. In a whisper that was purposefully loud in the quiet of the room, he confided, “You could have asked; might have saved us both a lot of headaches.”
Arthur snuffed out a laugh. “Probably,” he agreed. He sat up a bit straighter in his chair and asked, “So, Merlin, Sorcerer of Camelot, what do you say about renewing a friendship with your King? Picking up the pieces and seeing what we can make of them?”
“One piece. One coin; two sides,” Merlin corrected, remembering what he had heard far too long ago. At Arthur’s questioning look, he explained, “Something a ridiculous and often cryptic and pompous creature once said to me. He was kind of like you, really, now that I think of it.”
Arthur swatted him playfully on the shoulder, and then quickly apologized at Merlin’s wince and hiss of pain. “Think we can come to terms?” he asked with his head just slightly bowed, looking up through his lashes in a way Merlin knew meant he was unsure, but hopeful.
“Think we already did,” Merlin replied, and was rewarded with a full grin for his troubles. He looked around his former room, now all cramped with extra shelves piled high with scrolls and books. “What’s all this then anyway?” he asked.
“Get your lazy arse out of bed and I’ll show you,” Arthur teased.
He stood and offered an arm, but Merlin was reluctant to take it. “Not lazy, tired,” he corrected. “And injured. Don’t forget injured. Not even going to ask how I got here. One moment I was showing you up and the next I am here. Must have been hurt worse than I thought.” It made a sort of sense, at least to him. Until proven otherwise, it was his story and he was sticking to it.
Arthur, of course, was determined to do that proving. “You fainted; fainted like a little girl,” he said gleefully. It was either Merlin’s stormy look or the memory that he was talking to someone who could throw him clear across the room and then some with nary a whisper as he quickly conceded, “Then again, few little girls take out half a legion single-handedly and go one on one against a sorcerer that can shoot green flames from his fingertips, so there’s that.”
Merlin made a face anyway and said, “So, after I...”
“Fainted,” Arthur helpfully supplied.
The face became a full on glare. “After I succumbed to my injuries and exhaustion, you decided it to move me from the larger chambers – which I have to admit I did not really like anyway – to my old chambers, but to shove as much stuff in here with me as possible?” he asked in confusion.
“Not quite,” Arthur replied. “Get up and I’ll explain,” he prodded, already moving towards the door.
Merlin’s body protested the movement, but he did as he was told anyways, likely from far too many years of taking orders from the same person giving them to him now. He pulled back the blankets to find that he still wore his trousers from the battle, but that he well and truly did not recognize the tunic. He wondered if it was another random clothing gift as he tried to push himself into a standing position, reluctantly accepting Arthur’s assistance when it seemed his muscles alternately locked or turned as soft as preserves, with no rhyme or reason as to what did which when.
The few steps it took him to reach the door steadied him quite a bit, and he probably could have made it down the short flight of steps on his own had Arthur let go, but the king seemed reluctant to do so and Merlin really was not complaining right now.
Before him he found Gaius’ workroom as expected only, much like his own room, with a few notable differences. The tables and stools and shelves were in the right places, but Gaius’ old cot had been replaced with a much larger bed. It could very well have been the same one as the room he had been given before and, of course, was currently bedecked in the various startling shades of blue Gwen had previously insisted upon. There was also a proper armoire, the table that had been at his original bedside, and a locked trunk that he could only guess what it held though, given that the Sidhe staff lay across it, the contents were likely not quite commonplace.
“Arthur?” he asked in confusion.
He looked to his one time, and hopefully future, friend to find him looking right back with what could only be called a hopeful expression upon his face. “Gwaine may, possibly, have indicated that you abhorred the official advisor chambers, and it was clear how much you favoured these chambers,” he shrugged with forced nonchalance. The action meant he had to let go of Merlin, but he stayed close enough that Merlin felt the fabric of his shirt rustle at the movement.
“Did he now?” Merlin smiled.
Arthur cleared his throat only somewhat nervously and said, “Yes, and both Lancelot and Guinevere confirmed this assessment.”
“Well, I would hate to prove them wrong,” Merlin said, fighting to keep the smile from getting bigger. He then realized what Arthur had originally called his dour little room, and asked, “Wait, official advisor chambers? Those? With the dark and shadows and hidden away from everyone?”
Arthur simply shrugged again. “It’s not like my father ever had a lot of use of his advisors, and he rarely listened to the anyway. I think the last one left several years ago, really.” He paused and looked around the room, hands on his hips. “So, my Court Sorcerer, is this acceptable? You keep the Physician’s chambers given that you have shown an interest in continuing that trade as well, and a lock will be added to the door that leads to your once hovel and now private library for some of the more obviously magical texts. We have, of course, added a few additions given your new station, but I hope you see them as improvements because, really, they are.”
“Station?” Merlin asked dubiously. “I have a station?”
Arthur pursed his lips, but it looked more like he was attempting to hide a smirk than anything else. “Traditionally, prior to my father’s purge of all things magical, the court sorcerer served as a trusted advisor to the king. I can think of no one so trusted as the man who has saved my life on countless occasions,” he intoned with far more formality than was truly necessary. He let the smirk loose though, as he added, “Even if he did lie horrifically while doing so.”
“I lied to protect you!” Merlin protested. He resolutely did not pout. Legion-defeating sorcerers did not pout in the face of their king.
“And yourself,” Arthur pointed out, which was valid enough for even Merlin to admit. A little more serious now, Arthur asked, “So, what do you say?”
Merlin took in everything on offer, both the obvious and the far more subtle, and tried to school his face into as much of a solemn expression as he could muster as he said, “I do believe I must accept.”
Arthur’s shoulders seemed to sag a bit as the tension drained from him. “Excellent!” he commented and clapped his hands. “Now, first order of business as the official Court Sorcerer and Advisor to the King, is to tell me how I am supposed to get those men out of that glowing little cell you put them in. No one has the foggiest idea and it is probably not wise to simply build a prison around it.”
Merlin gulped. “They’re still there?” Night was rapidly approaching and the paddock was not that large. He could only imagine both the conditions and the furore by now. “I can set them free if you prefer,” he offered, hand raised to do just that.
“No, take your time,” Arthur waved him off, and it was then that Merlin realized he found the whole thing humorous. “They attacked the crown; they can sit and stew until you are well enough to come with me in the morning if need be. Leon and Percival have been throwing them bits of bread to see if it makes it through the bars. I think it’s a bit of a game now, really.”
“Leon and Percival?” Merlin blinked. It did not seem quite their preference to do such a thing.
“Well, it was Gwaine’s idea – I think he got them started with a promise of a flagon of wine should they hit the men who he says originally tried to attack you,” Arthur admitted, which seemed far more likely. “That reminds me, I believe I owe Gwaine a drink... and possibly a flogging.”
Merlin blinked again. “A drink because?” he prompted.
“He was correct in the assumption that you would prefer these chambers and an explanation as to my recent behaviour,” Arthur said a little sheepishly. Bolder now, he added, “And the flogging because of the attitude with which he presented his opinion.”
That actually made sense to Merlin’s tired little mind. Gwaine was fiercely loyal, but decorum was never his strong suit. He found a solution to the impasse going on between Arthur and himself, and implemented it in the best way he knew possible, likely with verbage not quite appropriate for one’s supposed sovereign. “Don’t flog him, he was only doing what he thought was best,” Merlin requested.
Arthur bobbed his head in reluctant agreement. “And I will not give him drink as the man surely can find enough on his own, so I suppose a simple thank you and a reminder of proper etiquette will have to do.”
Merlin doubted either would matter to the knight, but if Arthur desired it, it would not hurt to let him have it. Of all the options, it was the least likely to end in bloodshed or time in the dungeons. He was about to agree just for the sake of saying something, but was stopped by a yawn that he swore made his jaw make the most interesting of noises.
“Go to bed,” Arthur ordered. He gestured to the blue monstrosity in the corner and not the little cot up the steps. “I assume an actual real mattress would be more comfortable than that thing in your library.”
Merlin had a feeling that the “thing” as Arthur called his cot, would be gone by the time he next awoke. Despite his exhaustion, he hesitated, certain there were more things to do or more things to say. He had received so many answers in such a short period of time, and he feared letting the opportunity pass him by when there was so much more they could say, so many more explanations to be given, if only he could focus long enough to remember them all.
“There will be time enough later,” Arthur promised him as though reading his mind. “I plan to have a long rule, and you have just accepted a position at my side.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Merlin agreed, far too pleased with something he knew he may at times regret in the future.
Arthur shoved him towards the bed only to catch him when he stumbled. The king shook his head good-naturedly and made a show of tucking his sorcerer in beneath the layers of coverlets. “I will have a meal sent around for when you are capable of eating it and not using it as a pillow,” he promised. He turned to leave, but looked back over his shoulder to say, “And Merlin? For all those times I did not know to say it, thank you.”
Arthur closed the door behind him, but Merlin liked to believe that he had seen his sleepy smile and heard his whispered, “You are welcome.”
End.
End Notes: I wanted to subtitle this fic “In which boys are emo because they are incapable of talking about their feelings,” butthrenodyjones would not let me. *pout*
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Genre: Gen, Angst, Friendship, Future!Fic
Rating: R
Length: ~18,300 words
Spoilers: Through the end of Series 3
Warnings: A bit of violence, a bit of angst, a bit of injury.
Synopsis: Magic is revealed and the ban repealed, but is Merlin now no more than a title?
Author’s Notes: For the wonderful
sinka, who bid on me at the help_japan auction. This ended up far more Gen than I originally planned, but there’s plenty of angsting and such, so hopefully you will find it acceptable. *g*Disclaimer: I do not own this interpretation of the myths and am making no profit from this.
Arthur had assigned a line of men to protect their border the moment the legion had appeared; this was in addition to the increased guards and patrols in place since the first attack and meant quite a few men were already engaged in battle by the time Merlin reached the field. Arthur was there, of course, with Leon and Percival at his side and Elyan serving as scout. He turned to Merlin a raised his eyebrows at his attire, but said no word.
“Are you ready for this?” Leon asked instead.
“I think so,” Merlin replied with as much of a decisive nod as he could manage. He tried to think about everything Arthur had told him, which walls to place where and whether or not it was possible to sweep the entire challenging army from the field without taking out their own men.
His concentration was shattered when a blast landed at his feet, four strides short of hitting its mark. The dirt and grass flew into the air though there was no weapon to be found, no trace of what had impacted. It did not take a genius to know it was the other sorcerer, testing his limits and seeing how close he could get.
Merlin retaliated and sent out a fireball of his own. He could see the damage but knew that he too was short of target. He stepped closer of his own accord, two strides and nearly a third, his own magic welling up in him to finally press out against what had been invading his space for far too long.
Arthur caught him though as he raised his hand, flinched away at what Merlin knew to be eyes that glowed the same colour as his fingertips, and told him, “Forget everything I asked before. Just try to survive.”
“He’ll kill you,” Merlin said, and knew it to be true as soon as the words left his mouth. The sorcerer wanted him dead, wanted Arthur to suffer and perish for what his father did even more than the legion wanted the Camelot stronghold.
“Well he’s going to make a fair try at you too, so don’t let it happen,” Arthur replied blithely.
“He has to get through me to get to you,” Merlin shrugged, as though his life was not on the line, as though this was one of their random quiet moments of old.
He was not sure what else Arthur had to say at that. He was certain there were words, possibly encouraging but more than likely a bit derogative as well, but the ground shook beneath his feet and a wave of power washed over him causing him to take a physical step back.
He cocked his head to the side, finding the other sorcerer amongst the combatants on the field, knowing he was trying to intimidate, trying to make Merlin doubt himself and leave an opening to exploit, trying to make him lose before the battle even had a chance to truly begin. Merlin smiled. He had gone up against fairies and trolls and Sidhe and Nimeuh herself. He had fought skeletons raised from their graves and armies that could never die. This man was nothing, and all his posturing had just showed Merlin the validity of that fact.
He let his power out from its carefully formed prison, let it guide his actions to its whims, feel and react far better than he could if his mundane mind had a chance to think things through. He felt fire at his fingertips and raw energy in his hands. His voice called upon spells he had barely glanced at, and they came to fruition and bowed to his will. A sword glinted before him and his staff flashed in turn, shattering it to a thousand pieces and sending the wielder flying into darkness again and again.
The other man with his flamboyant robes looked unsure of himself for a moment and Merlin pressed the advantage, formed shield after shield to stop the barrage lobbied at him even as he burst forth with volley after volley of his own. The rest of the world faded away, until he only saw, only felt the challenger before him.
He called to the man as he felt the wall he pressed up against weaken, told him that this did not need to end in death, only defeat. The barrages continued to come even as the man replied that the two were one in the same and that he would have Arthur’s head as prize and hang it in Camelot’s walls upon his victory and that nothing would stand in his way. Merlin very calmly reminded him that he was wrong as Merlin himself stood in his way and he would not pass so long as he drew breath.
The man grinned and Merlin really should have expected something given that he could feel his enemy’s power draining and that there was no reason for him to be so smug unless he had something else up his sleeve, some other tactic that Merlin had yet to suss out.
There was a shout, not in the language of old that they had been using thus far, but in the same tongue Merlin heard inside the castle walls on a daily basis. His staff was knocked from his hand and he barely had time to glance at the behemoth that bore down upon him before the wind was knocked out of him and he found himself face first in the loamy earth.
He turned, dagger at the ready, to find not a man in the blues and blacks of the other army, but Arthur in his reds and golds. “Get down!” Arthur shouted, which Merlin thought was a bit redundant given that he had yet to push himself up from the ground.
Arthur pressed him further though, covered his body with his own, and Merlin felt the impact of a blow, heard the chink of a sword against armour, and then heard a roar like no other. He squirmed and pushed against the weight that held, knowing that the sorcerer was still a threat and that his prize had practically handed himself over to him. He finally freed his head enough to glance up, and he saw the behemoth again, only this time his attention was held by Percival, who met sword with axe and easily tossed another interloper to the side while he focused on his goal.
He could feel the sorcerer try to search for his power, try to regain his magical footing for another attack and knew he would have no better opportunity to end this than now. He had no idea where his staff had ended up and could only count on the power within his own two hands to settle this once and for all. Then again, he still held the dagger in his hand, so he was fairly confident he had all the tools he needed and more.
“Off of me,” he grunted, but Arthur barely moved. “He’s coming for you, you idiot, now let me do my job and protect you,” he ground out and shoved with all his might.
He realized later that some of that might may not have been physical strength when Arthur ended up on his arse a good distance away, but it was enough for him to clamber to his feet get his bearings. Arthur, of course, had to prove that the title of “idiot” was well and truly his as he charged at the sorcerer, blade in hand, ignoring Merlin’s protests at the futility of the action.
The sorcerer, of course, dismissed him with a word and sent him flying into a well-placed tree. It was only after Arthur lay there, dazed and disarmed, that the sorcerer realized just who he had at his mercy and advanced to finish the job. Leon stepped in front of Arthur, sword at the ready even as he handed the king his dirk, and Merlin made his move.
The sorcerer whirled about as he sensed Merlin’s attack, blue and green flames held in the palm of his hand, but there was not enough room for him to shift and throw it at Merlin as ready as he had been to set Arthur alight. The fire still burned through the chain links of his hauberk as the sorcerer reached and grappled with Merlin instead, knocked off balance by a well placed shoulder to the abdomen. Merlin realized then that he held an advantage the other man most obviously did not as he had spent years training with Arthur and the knights, even if only in jest and fun, and knew enough about physical combat to gain the upper hand against someone who relied solely on his metaphysical abilities to sustain him.
The man kicked and flailed but could not land his marks and did not know how to use his greater size and weight against Merlin’s far slighter form. He got in one lucky roll though, and ended up on top of Merlin, right hand raised and beginning to glow with a characteristic flame while his left hand sought purchase on the slick links of metal to steady himself. Merlin saw his opening and took it, the blade slicing deep and driving upward, the flames flickering out with the dying man’s last breaths.
The sorcerer collapsed atop Merlin, a dense and unmovable weight that slowly drained slick warmth across Merlin’s hand, stained his skin and made the tunic he wore beneath his armour stick uncomfortably to his skin.
Just as Merlin thought he may well suffocate there as the battle waged on around him, the weight was lifted with an audible squelch and discarded at his side with a muted thump. He breathed deep and free while he could, opened his eyes to let his spotted vision focus not on elaborate silks but on grimy metal instead. He found his fingers being prised from the hilt of the dagger, one by one, the messy thing driven into the ground beside him, not useless, but no longer a threat until he needed it to be once more.
Hands were on him now, and a voice that sounded a thousand miles away demanded, “Are you all right? Are you injured?”
He could not answer, not yet, not when he was still trying to catch his breath and gather his strength to wipe out the opposing army. He feared he had used too much taking out a single man though, barely able to raise his head let alone wash the field clean of intruders.
“There’s blood, is it his?” It was another voice, and he knew he should recognize it, but it was far too much of a bother.
“Merlin!” the first voice shouted, suddenly crystal in its clarity and far too near. “Are you injured?”
He pushed against the hands, felt them fall away as the remnants of his magic surged and he heard a single voice mutter, “The glowing is a bad thing, right?”
He sat up, arm nearly giving way beneath his own weight, and expected to look out at a raging battle, ready to yell at whoever was fussing with him to get back to it, that there were far more important things to worry about than a single man knocked down when there was still a legion to be dealt with.
Instead he found the remnants of that legion dissipating, the tatters of an army fleeing with what little they had left. Men in blue lay scattered about the field, dead or dying, while men in red strode about and rounded up the survivors. There was the odd echo of steel here and there as minor squirmishes were decided and someone made a final lunge hoping to take down one more of the enemy before they surrendered to their own death but, for the most part, the battle was over.
“How?” he asked. His voice felt raw and overused though he could barely remember saying anything at all. Spells came to him unbidden, and he knew as they pressed against his mind that he must have spoken them to release them, and wondered just how many he had called upon to accomplish his task.
“We’re just that good,” Gwaine replied as he sat down heavily beside him. He tried to act bold and nonchalant, but Merlin could see the way his eyes flickered towards the blood, darted about as he sought out any potential wound.
“Well, that, and you took out a fair number on your own on your way to their sorcerer,” Lancelot added with far more honesty. He gestured behind him and Merlin found multiple unconscious bodies, all in a neat line, and more than one scorched as well as bleeding.
“Oh,” he said, a bit anticlimactically. He raised his hand to scratch at his head as he tried to sort that out, but was stopped by the searing pain in his arm.
The motion, of course, did not go unnoticed by the people gathered around him. “What’s wrong?” Arthur demanded, suddenly so much closer than he was before.
Gwaine and Lancelot pulled at the buckles of Merlin’s hauberk, peeling the chains off slowly to expose the stained shirt below. “How much of this is you?” Gwaine asked as he tugged the sodden fabric free from his side.
“None, I think,” Merlin answered honestly. “It’s just my arm, really.” He turned his head to the side to look down at the mess for the first time. His sleeve was burnt in the precise pattern of row after row of chainmail, and he had a fair idea that the skin beneath it bore the same marks, only in red instead of black. His abdomen was stained with the other man’s blood, though he knew there were bruises waiting to blossom beneath the surface. Surprisingly enough the wound from the arrow had not reopened, so at least there was that.
His reassurances were apparently not enough for Arthur, however, who drew the dagger from the dirt and sliced through the patterned fabric at his shoulder to reveal the damage below.
“Hey, that’s mine,” Merlin protested weakly.
“No, it really is not,” Arthur smiled without humour. He tucked it into his belt with practiced ease and it was only then that Merlin realized where he had seen it before. That raised all sorts of questions, such as why a king who could not be bothered to speak his sorcerer’s name would still want him armed and protected, and why that same king dug through the various herbs and flasks in the pouch at Merlin’s side and asked, “Do you have anything in here to treat that?”
Merlin shook his head. “Not unless you want to burn the flesh down to the bone, or possibly make it explode.” Arthur’s hands froze and then he very carefully tucked everything back into place.
“Sire, why don’t you return with him to the castle to have that treated?” Leon suggested with only a hint of a smirk. “You took a nasty blow to the head and should have that seen to as well.”
Merlin noticed the thin trail of blood along Arthur’s hairline and the secondary one from just behind his ear and wondered if that explained the man’s newfound sense of caring. However, he had not yet been brained with a tree when he gifted Merlin with his own dagger, so perhaps there was something more at play that he had not yet discerned.
Arthur looked across the field at the utter destruction that still needed to be dealt with and sighed. “I could clean that up for you,” Merlin offered, and he was certain he could if only he could keep his eyes open. He was beginning to believe Lancelot and his suspicion that excessive magic tired him out.
Arthur looked at him doubtfully and said, “You could barely clean my rooms on a good day, somehow I doubt this is within your abilities now.” Instead of realizing he had just issued Merlin a challenge, he continued, “Tell you what, you stand on your own two feet and maybe I’ll let you clean my hauberk when we get back to the castle.”
He held his hand out and pulled Merlin upright, but staggered to the side when Merlin easily pushed against him and stepped forward into the lingering chaos of the field. A few whispered words later and the enemy men were corralled into a neat and possibly glowing paddock, the scorch marks erased from the trampled grass, and Arthur’s armour shone as bright as though it had been polished by the smith himself only moments ago.
Merlin turned and grinned knowingly at Arthur’s astonishment. Unfortunately, he only had a moment to enjoy it though before the edges of his vision turned to grey and he felt all the strength leave his body, beginning at his knees. He felt hands upon him once more, this time guiding him back down to the ground he had just struggled up from. Before he closed his eyes and gave in to the weight of exhaustion that surrounded him, he swore he heard a very familiar voice mutter, “Stubborn sod.” He was gratified to hear another voice, just as familiar and just as close, chide, “Yes, you are, sire.”
He did not remember the trip back to the castle, but there must have been one as he next awoke to a room lit by the light of the setting sun. He blinked to clear his vision, only to blink again as he took in his surroundings. He was in his room, his old room, propped up by pillows atop his tiny cot, only things were so moved about that he could barely tell up from down. Then again, he could barely keep his eyes open even now, so perhaps his exhaustion still played a role.
“Ah, good, you’re awake!” a voice boomed far too loudly to his left. He turned his head slowly in that direction, feeling every muscle he had ever pulled or twisted from his neck down to his toes protest the action.
“Arthur?” he verified, uncertain if his eyes were deceiving him. It looked like him, down to the small cut on his temple and the smarmy grin on his lips.
“The one and only,” the king in question replied.
He had been sitting in a chair at the side of the tiny cot, but stood now and stretched. Merlin watched him, but could not help the confused, “But you hate me, why would you waste your time here with me?” that fell from his lips. He moved to rub at his eyes, and felt his arm erupt in a level of pain he did not ever remember having had experienced, and really would have preferred it to stay as such. He was wearing an oversized tunic of some sort, and prodded at it to see just how heavy of a bandage he wore beneath his sleeve.
A scuff on the floor told him Arthur had turned around again, and Merlin half-listened as he said, “Hate you? Why would you... Of course I don’t hate you!” followed by a huffed, “Stop poking at that and listen to me!”
He found his hands taken away and placed in his lap, Arthur’s grip solid around his wrists. He followed the line from the callused and scarred hands up arms several shades darker than his own, across a layer of fine red fabric, and finally up to a slightly worried looking face with eyes that seemed to bore into his own. But that also did not make sense because eyes did not bore. They did not do much of anything other than see. Well, blink maybe, look around on occasion, and close. Closing his eyes seemed like a good idea. It would block out the annoying light and may have the benefit of allowing him to sleep and maybe, if he was lucky, things would make sense when he opened them again.
He wondered if he had spoken any of that aloud as the worried expression turned to one of amusement as Arthur told him, “No, you are not allowed to sleep again and, really, how hard did you hit your head because I do not remember you even falling.”
Merlin shook his head and watched the colours of the room briefly blur, only to right themselves in the same lack of sense. “Just tired,” he insisted. “Did a lot. Well, I think I did a lot. Seemed like a lot at the time.”
“You did do a lot,” Arthur agreed. His grip on Merlin’s wrists loosened, and eventually released to pat the hands now folded neatly in Merlin’s lap. “But let’s get back to the hating you part.”
Merlin made a face. “It’s not like I want you to hate me, it’s just you seem determined to do so and I’m not sure what to do to make it right again,” he explained in what he thought was a fairly logical manner.
Arthur ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. “How about you listen for a moment and see where that gets you and then we can go from there?” he suggested. He sat down heavily in the chair he so recently vacated and Merlin had the suspicion that whether he wanted to listen or not would make no difference as Arthur was determined to talk.
“I don’t hate you,” Arthur repeated after taking yet another calming breath. “Why would you think that I did?”
“Well, there was the whole imprisonment thing, the taking my room and my home away thing, the sending me away thing, the wanting nothing to do with me thing, and the not even being able to say my name but calling me ‘sorcerer’ like a curse thing,” Merlin ticked off on his fingers. He raised his eyebrows as far as he dared without risking a worse headache than he already had and silently dared Arthur to comment.
He got the headache anyway when Arthur spluttered for a moment before he found his words and near shouted, “I lifted the ban on magic for you! I gave you a title and rooms fitting of your new role as Court Sorcerer! I fired you as a servant seeing how you were to have far more important things to see to from now on!” Arthur leaned back in his chair and looked to the ceiling, to the multitude of books and shelves that had somehow appeared, and then finally back to Merlin. “I did, however, avoid you as much as possible,” he admitted with far less fervour.
“Why?” Merlin asked, needing to know this possibly more than anything else. Maybe it would also help explain why he was supposedly gifted with things that felt like punishments instead; the intention seeping through the presentation.
He half expected Arthur to shy away, to suddenly have some pressing court business that needed to be attended to now and only now and to have the issue brushed off to the side never to be dealt with again. Instead, Arthur offered another sigh, this one far more heartfelt than the last. “I needed time to sort things out, to make sense of something I thought of as evil for so long so obviously being used to do something good. I needed to think things through and figure out how you hid for so long and how much of everything that has been accomplished over these past years has been from my own hard work and strife, and how much has simply been from you,” he shrugged as if it were nothing when it was so clearly something so much more.
“It was from you, all of it,” Merlin insisted. A little sheepishly, he added, “I just sort of helped along the way.”
Arthur quirked his lips and said, “It’s that help I was trying to make sense of. How I never saw it, and how it did so much I might not have been able to accomplish without it. I started to resent the fact that I could not tell your accomplishments from my own. By then I had pushed you far enough away that it was simple enough to keep you there and to not have to think about any of this at all.” He paused and glanced away for a moment before he reluctantly forced himself to look at Merlin again. “When I started to come to terms with it, it seemed you had moved on to your new role with your open stories of magic and barely a thought about me. I thought maybe it would be better that way, at least for a while – separate the sorcerer from the king and the friend from the colleague.” He finished with his hands folded before him, looking as contrite as Merlin had ever seen him.
“You didn’t know how to get back in,” Merlin guessed. In a whisper that was purposefully loud in the quiet of the room, he confided, “You could have asked; might have saved us both a lot of headaches.”
Arthur snuffed out a laugh. “Probably,” he agreed. He sat up a bit straighter in his chair and asked, “So, Merlin, Sorcerer of Camelot, what do you say about renewing a friendship with your King? Picking up the pieces and seeing what we can make of them?”
“One piece. One coin; two sides,” Merlin corrected, remembering what he had heard far too long ago. At Arthur’s questioning look, he explained, “Something a ridiculous and often cryptic and pompous creature once said to me. He was kind of like you, really, now that I think of it.”
Arthur swatted him playfully on the shoulder, and then quickly apologized at Merlin’s wince and hiss of pain. “Think we can come to terms?” he asked with his head just slightly bowed, looking up through his lashes in a way Merlin knew meant he was unsure, but hopeful.
“Think we already did,” Merlin replied, and was rewarded with a full grin for his troubles. He looked around his former room, now all cramped with extra shelves piled high with scrolls and books. “What’s all this then anyway?” he asked.
“Get your lazy arse out of bed and I’ll show you,” Arthur teased.
He stood and offered an arm, but Merlin was reluctant to take it. “Not lazy, tired,” he corrected. “And injured. Don’t forget injured. Not even going to ask how I got here. One moment I was showing you up and the next I am here. Must have been hurt worse than I thought.” It made a sort of sense, at least to him. Until proven otherwise, it was his story and he was sticking to it.
Arthur, of course, was determined to do that proving. “You fainted; fainted like a little girl,” he said gleefully. It was either Merlin’s stormy look or the memory that he was talking to someone who could throw him clear across the room and then some with nary a whisper as he quickly conceded, “Then again, few little girls take out half a legion single-handedly and go one on one against a sorcerer that can shoot green flames from his fingertips, so there’s that.”
Merlin made a face anyway and said, “So, after I...”
“Fainted,” Arthur helpfully supplied.
The face became a full on glare. “After I succumbed to my injuries and exhaustion, you decided it to move me from the larger chambers – which I have to admit I did not really like anyway – to my old chambers, but to shove as much stuff in here with me as possible?” he asked in confusion.
“Not quite,” Arthur replied. “Get up and I’ll explain,” he prodded, already moving towards the door.
Merlin’s body protested the movement, but he did as he was told anyways, likely from far too many years of taking orders from the same person giving them to him now. He pulled back the blankets to find that he still wore his trousers from the battle, but that he well and truly did not recognize the tunic. He wondered if it was another random clothing gift as he tried to push himself into a standing position, reluctantly accepting Arthur’s assistance when it seemed his muscles alternately locked or turned as soft as preserves, with no rhyme or reason as to what did which when.
The few steps it took him to reach the door steadied him quite a bit, and he probably could have made it down the short flight of steps on his own had Arthur let go, but the king seemed reluctant to do so and Merlin really was not complaining right now.
Before him he found Gaius’ workroom as expected only, much like his own room, with a few notable differences. The tables and stools and shelves were in the right places, but Gaius’ old cot had been replaced with a much larger bed. It could very well have been the same one as the room he had been given before and, of course, was currently bedecked in the various startling shades of blue Gwen had previously insisted upon. There was also a proper armoire, the table that had been at his original bedside, and a locked trunk that he could only guess what it held though, given that the Sidhe staff lay across it, the contents were likely not quite commonplace.
“Arthur?” he asked in confusion.
He looked to his one time, and hopefully future, friend to find him looking right back with what could only be called a hopeful expression upon his face. “Gwaine may, possibly, have indicated that you abhorred the official advisor chambers, and it was clear how much you favoured these chambers,” he shrugged with forced nonchalance. The action meant he had to let go of Merlin, but he stayed close enough that Merlin felt the fabric of his shirt rustle at the movement.
“Did he now?” Merlin smiled.
Arthur cleared his throat only somewhat nervously and said, “Yes, and both Lancelot and Guinevere confirmed this assessment.”
“Well, I would hate to prove them wrong,” Merlin said, fighting to keep the smile from getting bigger. He then realized what Arthur had originally called his dour little room, and asked, “Wait, official advisor chambers? Those? With the dark and shadows and hidden away from everyone?”
Arthur simply shrugged again. “It’s not like my father ever had a lot of use of his advisors, and he rarely listened to the anyway. I think the last one left several years ago, really.” He paused and looked around the room, hands on his hips. “So, my Court Sorcerer, is this acceptable? You keep the Physician’s chambers given that you have shown an interest in continuing that trade as well, and a lock will be added to the door that leads to your once hovel and now private library for some of the more obviously magical texts. We have, of course, added a few additions given your new station, but I hope you see them as improvements because, really, they are.”
“Station?” Merlin asked dubiously. “I have a station?”
Arthur pursed his lips, but it looked more like he was attempting to hide a smirk than anything else. “Traditionally, prior to my father’s purge of all things magical, the court sorcerer served as a trusted advisor to the king. I can think of no one so trusted as the man who has saved my life on countless occasions,” he intoned with far more formality than was truly necessary. He let the smirk loose though, as he added, “Even if he did lie horrifically while doing so.”
“I lied to protect you!” Merlin protested. He resolutely did not pout. Legion-defeating sorcerers did not pout in the face of their king.
“And yourself,” Arthur pointed out, which was valid enough for even Merlin to admit. A little more serious now, Arthur asked, “So, what do you say?”
Merlin took in everything on offer, both the obvious and the far more subtle, and tried to school his face into as much of a solemn expression as he could muster as he said, “I do believe I must accept.”
Arthur’s shoulders seemed to sag a bit as the tension drained from him. “Excellent!” he commented and clapped his hands. “Now, first order of business as the official Court Sorcerer and Advisor to the King, is to tell me how I am supposed to get those men out of that glowing little cell you put them in. No one has the foggiest idea and it is probably not wise to simply build a prison around it.”
Merlin gulped. “They’re still there?” Night was rapidly approaching and the paddock was not that large. He could only imagine both the conditions and the furore by now. “I can set them free if you prefer,” he offered, hand raised to do just that.
“No, take your time,” Arthur waved him off, and it was then that Merlin realized he found the whole thing humorous. “They attacked the crown; they can sit and stew until you are well enough to come with me in the morning if need be. Leon and Percival have been throwing them bits of bread to see if it makes it through the bars. I think it’s a bit of a game now, really.”
“Leon and Percival?” Merlin blinked. It did not seem quite their preference to do such a thing.
“Well, it was Gwaine’s idea – I think he got them started with a promise of a flagon of wine should they hit the men who he says originally tried to attack you,” Arthur admitted, which seemed far more likely. “That reminds me, I believe I owe Gwaine a drink... and possibly a flogging.”
Merlin blinked again. “A drink because?” he prompted.
“He was correct in the assumption that you would prefer these chambers and an explanation as to my recent behaviour,” Arthur said a little sheepishly. Bolder now, he added, “And the flogging because of the attitude with which he presented his opinion.”
That actually made sense to Merlin’s tired little mind. Gwaine was fiercely loyal, but decorum was never his strong suit. He found a solution to the impasse going on between Arthur and himself, and implemented it in the best way he knew possible, likely with verbage not quite appropriate for one’s supposed sovereign. “Don’t flog him, he was only doing what he thought was best,” Merlin requested.
Arthur bobbed his head in reluctant agreement. “And I will not give him drink as the man surely can find enough on his own, so I suppose a simple thank you and a reminder of proper etiquette will have to do.”
Merlin doubted either would matter to the knight, but if Arthur desired it, it would not hurt to let him have it. Of all the options, it was the least likely to end in bloodshed or time in the dungeons. He was about to agree just for the sake of saying something, but was stopped by a yawn that he swore made his jaw make the most interesting of noises.
“Go to bed,” Arthur ordered. He gestured to the blue monstrosity in the corner and not the little cot up the steps. “I assume an actual real mattress would be more comfortable than that thing in your library.”
Merlin had a feeling that the “thing” as Arthur called his cot, would be gone by the time he next awoke. Despite his exhaustion, he hesitated, certain there were more things to do or more things to say. He had received so many answers in such a short period of time, and he feared letting the opportunity pass him by when there was so much more they could say, so many more explanations to be given, if only he could focus long enough to remember them all.
“There will be time enough later,” Arthur promised him as though reading his mind. “I plan to have a long rule, and you have just accepted a position at my side.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Merlin agreed, far too pleased with something he knew he may at times regret in the future.
Arthur shoved him towards the bed only to catch him when he stumbled. The king shook his head good-naturedly and made a show of tucking his sorcerer in beneath the layers of coverlets. “I will have a meal sent around for when you are capable of eating it and not using it as a pillow,” he promised. He turned to leave, but looked back over his shoulder to say, “And Merlin? For all those times I did not know to say it, thank you.”
Arthur closed the door behind him, but Merlin liked to believe that he had seen his sleepy smile and heard his whispered, “You are welcome.”
End.
End Notes: I wanted to subtitle this fic “In which boys are emo because they are incapable of talking about their feelings,” but
threnodyjones would not let me. *pout*Live Journal
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