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Horseplay is what Merlin's mother used to call what he and Will got up to with the other children after seasonal celebrations, when they were allowed extra sweets or a cup of cider and the freedom to run wild through the village long past bedtime.
Horseplay is what Gaius calls the various scrapes and misunderstandings Merlin is constantly getting into with visiting nobles and handsome strangers he meets in the woods (or, admittedly, the tavern, though he does not spend nearly as much time there actually skiving off as anyone seems to think).
Horseplay is what Arthur calls all the pushing, pinching, nudging, grabbing, shoving and general manhandling he indulges in with Merlin on a near-daily basis.
As none of this involves actual horses—save for tangentially, when Arthur pounces on him for some perceived failure in the stables—Merlin thinks he can be forgiven for hoping that knife play might not involves actual knives.
In fact, after all the lascivious looks and other innuendo they were subjected to before passing out—drugged, as he now realizes, by the cider the so-called shepherdess had offered them—Merlin even entertains the thought that "knife play" could be some awkward and terrible euphemism for man-on-man action, as in he and Arthur getting their cocks out and making friendly while she watches, which would be embarrassing, but not entirely unprecedented.
But, alas, no. It seems their captor means playing with actual knives of the particularly dainty, vicious, throwing sort that may not kill you right away, but will assure you bleed out, quite possibly in numerous pieces. She even has a horrible ditty about it, which she croons as she straps Merlin to the wheel.
"Will you lose a limb, or will you lose your life? What will you gift to the Gleeman's wife? Will it be a toe, a thumb, an ear? Which are the bits that you hold most dear? Will it be an ear, a thumb, a toe? How many pieces before you go?"
Even more horrible than the song, though, is the look on Arthur's face as he realizes just who the woman really is, and what she intends him to do. So much for trying to give him a half-decent birthday.
It had started, as with so many of their misadventures, with good intentions.
Merlin, attempting to distract Arthur from another birthday spent in Broodsville and Sadtown, mournfully gazing out of windows and over-indulging in drink, had suggested a pilgrimage to Lake Ogwen. It was said to be the final resting place of the great warrior, Bedwyr the Thicc, and bathing in the waters was supposed to ensure vigor and luck in combat.
"I hear there is good hunting along the way," Merlin added, for the kicker.
Arthur snorted, looking up from the rat's nest of scrolls on his desk. "And what would you know of that?"
"I know that Percival would never lie about food." Merlin grinned, and didn't stop until he saw the hint of a smile on Arthur's face as well. "But I'll pack a nice picnic, just in case."
"Very well. It's not like I'm making any progress with these garrison reports."
"Leave them with Leon. He loves that sort of thing."
"Really?"
"Mm. Anything with numbers and lists—lists, especially. He's an expert list-maker." Merlin clucked his tongue, adding, "Some king you are, ignorant of the natural talents of your men."
Arthur pushed up from his chair, eyes narrowing. He had something balled in his hand, likely just a crumpled scrap of paper, but Merlin didn't want to risk it. He darted towards the door as Arthur said, "Shall I tell you what I know of your natural talents, Merlin?"
"Oh, too many to name, I'm sure!" Merlin called out as he simultaneously ducked and opened the door—a signature move he was quite proud of—and slipped out into the corridor. "Meet you in the stables in an hour!"
* * *
The weather was fine and, after the first uneventful day, the hunting was good, especially since Arthur left Merlin out of it. He kept darting off into the underbrush as they made their way along the forest path. By dusk he had bagged three brace of plump feathery things that, wonder of wonders, he even deigned to help pluck and spit-roast. All Merlin had to do was tend the fire, help with the eating, and listen to Arthur expound upon the strange tracks he had noticed when he'd doubled back to collect his snares.
"The feet are small and very round, no toes or claws, almost like…well, the tip of a walking stick."
"So we're being followed by a lame old man?"
"Not unless he has no feet. That's just it, Merlin, it was just the stick marks, but in striding pairs. What creature has sticks for legs?"
"A peg-legged deer?"
"Don't be silly, Merlin."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Merlin mumbled, nibbling the last juicy bits off a wee drumstick, then tossing it onto the coals.
"If you're done stuffing your face, bank the fire and get over here. It's been a long day and I want to make an early start up the mountain tomorrow."
Merlin made a point of grumbling as he tended to the fire, but only for show, so Arthur wouldn't notice how happy he was. When it was just the two of them sleeping rough, Arthur insisted on sharing a bedroll, claiming that they could take turns on watch just as easily huddled back to back—or back to front, like spoons—and there was no point in freezing their bollocks off alone.
"I'll take first watch," Merlin offered as they settled themselves on the bedroll. Arthur was very bossy and particular about arranging their cloaks and blankets, but if he was patient, Merlin could usually regain his share of the covers through stealthy tugging once Arthur was asleep.
"Very well," Arthur yawned. "Wake me if there's trouble."
"I promise you, sire, no footless man or peg-legged deer will get the jump on me."
The chuckle this earned him was well worth the poke in the ribs and the fond, "Hush, you idiot."
* * *
The trouble began the next day as they were fording a stream. Arthur lead the horses across without incident, but when Merlin followed with the supplies, he tripped and took a tumble into the water.
The current proved stronger than he was expecting, and he only just managed to save himself by grabbing hold of a fallen tree, then Arthur's outstretched hand. Their supplies, however, were lost, carried off downstream.
"Where on earth did that come from?" Merlin sputtered once he was back on dry land.
"Your clumsiness, you mean? I'm not sure it would be polite to answer that."
"No, not…Arthur, surely you saw how the water just—" He attempted to show, with his hands, how the current had surged, surrounding him.
"Merlin."
"What?"
"Are you saying that the stream attacked you?"
"Once you put it that way, yes. That's exactly what it felt like."
Rolling his eyes, Arthur slung an arm around Merlin's neck and gave him a shake. "Come on. Better go find some wood, get a fire going so you can dry off."
"But—"
"Off you go. Chop-chop."
"What about you?"
"Seeing as you've gone and drowned our picnic, I thought I'd see about catching some fish."
* * *
The fishing went well, the drying off not so much. A storm rolled in after lunch and proceeded to follow them up the mountain. When the going got too precarious, they left the horses with fodder in the shelter of a cave and continued on foot.
By the time they reached the lake, nestled in a high pass, they were drenched and footsore, too weary even to appreciate the beauty of the spot.
Arthur located Bedwyr's memorial stone, which he dutifully read and draped with an offering of sodden wildflowers—the bread and mead being lost to the stream—before wading into the lake.
Merlin joined him, as he was already thoroughly soaked and—while he didn't exactly require luck in combat, given his magic—he would take all the extra vigor he could get. Especially for the journey home, with a no-doubt sullen, cranky king.
"Arthur, I know this isn't—" he began, but Arthur cut him off with a gesture.
"It is what it is, Merlin," he said, then dove underwater. For a moment Merlin held his breath, past misadventures and future worries bleeding into the present.
But Arthur resurfaced before true panic set in, flinging lake weeds, hair plastered to his handsome, grinning face. "See, I feel better already."
Merlin didn't have the heart to tell him that he sensed no magic in the water—that, as near as he could tell, Ogwen was just another chilly mountain lake, pretty and remote enough that men had seen fit to saddle it with legends.
He shook his head, wiggled a finger in his ear. "What was that you said? Thank you, Merlin. Best birthday ever, Merlin. Without you my life would be—"
"Much less annoying!" Arthur cut in, giving Merlin a splash in the face for his troubles.
* * *
They had planned to try and make it back down to the cave before dark and camp there for the night. However, as they were wringing out their clothes, Arthur spied a light flaring in an old bothy along the shore.
"Ah, now there's a welcome sight! What do you say, Merlin, early to rest and early to rise? The horses will be fine until morning."
"What about us?" Merlin cautioned. "Could be bandits, or witches. Even ghosts."
"Perhaps it is old Bedwyr himself," Arthur teased. "In which case, I'm sure he won't mind sharing his fire with such distinguished pilgrims. Don't be such a worrywart, Merlin. We'll have a proper look first; any sign of trouble we'll head straight back down to the cave."
They trudged along to the bothy, skirting the edge of the lake. Arthur did his whole military scouting routine, complete with ridiculous gymnastics and incomprehensible hand signals. When he finally gave the all-clear, Merlin was honestly confused whether he was going to find wild animals or a wounded pilgrim in need of aid.
As it happened, it was neither. Sat beside the hearth was a bright-eyed woman of indistinct years, draped in skins and motley cloth, whittling away at something while a joint sizzled on a spit.
"Come, come!" she crowed. Her eyes were lined with blue-black paint; the roots of her hair, where visible beneath her cap, were a rich red-brown. "Weary pilgrims, is it, caught out in the storm? And such pretty ones, too. Come warm yourselves by the fire. There is plenty of meat, if you are hungry." She gestured at the hearth. "Poor Jenny, slipped and shattered her leg on the scree slope. Waste not, want not, eh?"
"Thank you, my good woman," Arthur said in his best court voice while Merlin resisted rolling his eyes, "but we wouldn't rob you of your feast. If we might just share your fire…"
"Nonsense!" The woman chortled. "You dishonor her, and me, if you don't partake. There's fresh bread, too, and a bit of cider. You two look like you could do with warming on the inside as well as out."
* * *
She claimed she was a shepherdess out of Everwick, that she often used the bothy as a shelter on a foul night. And while her gaze was strangely keen and her wit on the bawdy side, Merlin was grateful for the warmth and the food, especially for Arthur's sake, as he was a nightmare on an empty stomach.
It was only as Merlin downed the last of his cider—felt the sudden, swooning drowsiness that warned of more than mere satiation—that he thought to wonder where the rest of the woman's flock was. They had not seen any sheep all day, not even off grazing in the distance.
This was also when he noticed the two tall, slim poles towering over the rest of the woodpile in the corner, the strange tattoos peeking from her sleeves, and the thing she had been whittling.
It was not a block of wood, but an apple. And her knife was not the ordinary, rustic sort a shepherdess might carry, but a wicked, double-edged blade.
He tried to warn Arthur, but his tongue was heavy, and he could not move his hands. As he slipped under, the woman began to whistle a merry tune. The last thing he saw was her grinning face, peering down at him.
"Nighty-night, poppet. Best rest up for the big show!"
"Will you lose a limb, or will you lose your life? What will you gift to the Gleeman's wife? Will it be a toe, a thumb, an ear? Which are the bits that you hold most dear? Will it be an ear, a thumb, a toe? How many pieces before you go?"
It's not the absolute worst predicament they've found themselves in, but it might be the oddest. They are in a rank underground chamber, part of an old watercourse. There are a few lit sconces scattered about, but visibility is not ideal for what amounts to a potentially lethal game of target practice.
"Hurry, Arthur, before they—"
"Shut up and let me concentrate!"
The knives, as the Gleeman's wife had explained, are under a powerful enchantment. There are nine in all. Thrown, they can sever the magical bonds holding Merlin to the wheel. If Arthur tries to use them in any other manner—or does nothing—they will turn on him, taking him apart piece by piece.
And as if all this isn't enough to be going on with, there is also the fact that the Gleeman's wife has blasted open the seal on a channel connecting the chamber to the lake, and now water is pouring in.
Merlin vows that, if they both survive this, he'll let Arthur spend all future birthdays moping—and drinking—as much as he likes. Just so long as it is in a safe, warm, dry location free of crazed circus assassins.
"Now there's a finale worthy of a king," she cries, hopping up onto her stilts as the water reaches her feet. "A real show-stopper! Odin's job done and revenge for my husband's murder, all rolled into one. Such a pity it is playing to an empty house."
Arthur throws the first three knives in furious succession. The first partially severs the strap holding Merlin's left wrist; the second embeds itself agonizingly close to his right. The third glances off his boot and falls into the rapidly rising water.
The Gleeman's wife jeers him, blowing a raspberry. "So much for the great Pendragon aim! You'll have to do better than that, sweetheart, or you and your pretty poppet here will be taking your final bath together."
Arthur swears, but otherwise ignores her, picking up the next knife.
Merlin is the one who notices her teetering off to one end of the chamber, opposite where the water is coming in. From the stilts, she vaults herself upward—so there must be a ledge or an upper passage—then drags the stilts up after.
"There's a way out," Merlin calls, just as Arthur lets loose. The wheel judders from the force of the throw but it is a wide miss, the tip of the knife buried a good foot from Merlin's hip.
"Damn it, don't distract me!"
"No, don't you see? That's perfect. Just throw the rest like that and get after her." He'd expected the Gleeman's wife to stay and watch until the bitter end, but now there's a chance. He thinks he might be able to break free on his own, but only if he can use his magic, and for that he needs Arthur to leave.
"Don't be an idiot, Merlin. I'm not leaving you."
"I'll be fine. Think I can work this arm free."
"Hold still."
"But she's getting away!"
"Still, Merlin. Even your mouth, if that's possible!" He meets Merlin's eyes then, adding, "Please, the knives are getting…they feel warm. I don't think we have much time left. I can do this, but I need you to trust me."
It's the "please" that does it as much as the look on Arthur's face. Merlin hates seeing him like this, but he hates himself more for not being brave enough to put a stop to it before now.
He swallows his protests, takes a deep breath, and reaches for his magic. He won't use it unless he has to, but if it comes down to the choice of revealing himself or watching Arthur drown trying to save them…
"Go on then," Merlin says, putting a touch of the Dragonlord's command and confidence behind the words. "I trust you."
Arthur blinks, mouth falling open. Merlin thinks he can see the knives starting to glow.
"I trust you, you great dollophead!" Merlin shouts. "What, didn't you hear me? Has the stewed mess of cabbage you call brains started leaking out your ears? How long am I to be stuck up on this wheel waiting for you to gather your wits and—OW!"
"Oh, shush, it's only a scratch. I thought you said you trusted me?"
"You nearly took my ear off!
"Did not. Hold steady. Other side now."
"And again. You're nowhere near the straps. What are you—"
"Well, they do stick out a bit. Make a natural target, don't they, so you can hardly blame me."
"Am I bleeding? It feels like I'm bleeding."
"You'll live, Merlin," Arthur says. Merlin realizes that not only has he recovered his nerve—as well as his wit—but seems somewhat excited. His face is flushed, and there is a definite glint in his eyes. "Provided we get out of here while there is still air to breathe."
The seventh knife is in his hand now. He twirls it like he would a sword when he knows he's about to win—or die trying.
Merlin shivers. "Well, get on with it then!" he urges. Then, without quite meaning to, he adds, "And I fully expect you to kiss it better once we're back in the palace."
"I heard that." Arthur has a strange look on his face. Not a smile, exactly, but a smug sort of determination.
The seventh blade finds its mark, cleanly severing the strap at Merlin's right wrist. Throws eight and nine aren’t perfect, but near enough that, with a little subtle magic, by the time Arthur has slogged his way over, Merlin has freed himself from the wheel.
Together, they wade in the direction the Gleeman's wife had fled. The water is up to their thighs when Arthur spots a series of footholds carved into the rock. They scramble up and, after some initial stumbling about, banging into dead ends and tree roots, Merlin finds a passage that slopes upward, broadening into a proper tunnel. As soon as they spot a glimmer of light ahead, Arthur begins to run, and Merlin keeps pace, unwilling to let him out of his sight.
They burst out of the tunnel into dazzling sunlight. Merlin squints, looking around, holding an arm up to shade his eyes. Then, suddenly, he's being dragged to the ground.
"OUF! Arthur, what are you—"
"Get down, Merlin. Until we know the coast is clear."
Merlin stops struggling and flops onto his side with a huff. "But that's what I was trying to—"
"Also," Arthur cuts in, squirming closer and grabbing Merlin by the back of the neck. "This."
It is over before Merlin even knows it's happening. But his ear feels warm and tingly, and Arthur's face is very near.
"I didn't think it could wait until we're back in the palace," he says solemnly. "You might need that ear on the journey home."
"Oh, that's…" Merlin shivers as the kiss, and Arthur's words, fully register. "Good thinking. Thank you."
"Is it all better then?"
"Hrm." Merlin tilts his head, gently palpating the grazed spot. "You might need to do it again, sire. Several times, in fact. Perhaps spread over a wider area to, um, increase the palliative impact?"
Arthur snorts. But he tilts Merlin's face and plants a firm kiss on his lips, finishing it off with a very promising hint of tongue.
"That will have to hold you for now, I'm afraid," he murmurs as he withdraws. "We've a wily, murderous witch to pursue."
Merlin grins. "That's what I was trying to tell you," he says, working his arm out from between them and pointing down towards the lake. "She's just there, by Bedwyr's stone. Looks like she tripped as she was legging it—or stilting it, rather."
"Ha!" Arthur crows, springing to his haunches. "So she did. Good old Bedwyr, luck in combat indeed. Have to return with some proper offerings once this is sorted. Come on, Merlin, best go check she's truly dead."
Merlin watches Arthur bounding down the slope like an eager hound.
"Happy birthday," he says, shaking his head. Then he picks himself up, dusts himself off, and follows.