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Lancelot had been right: Arthur was only a prat most of the time, rather than all of it. The distinction was a fine one, but it must have made a difference as Arthur had not yet been transfigured into a warty toad (well, okay, there was that one time—but Merlin had turned him back right away and Arthur didn’t even remember it, so that didn’t count) or been served up as a nice, tasty shish kabob to the unnervingly friendly dragon that kept pestering him with nonsensical babblings involving “coins” (mostly because the dragon insisted that human’s gave him indigestion).
Conversely, Merlin had only been thrown into the dungeons once (where he’d made such alarmingly good friends with the rats that Arthur had spent the next week storming around in fluffy slippers while one very baffled cobbler dealt with all his mutilated boots) and the stocks thrice (Merlin wouldn’t have minded a few more times, but once Arthur realized that his “insolent councillor” had transformed what was meant to be punishment into some sort of bizarre no-handed fruit-juggling circus routine that had garnered a loyal following of clapping youngsters and more than a few appreciative kisses from harried mothers, his royal enthusiasm diminished drastically). Merlin was also executively fired every Tuesday, but he was always rehired again by Wednesday, so that detail was practically negligible.
Nearly three months and neither of them had been permanently altered or maimed. Not bad.
Alright, perhaps he was being a smidgeon melodramatic.
Arthur was the most arrogant and exasperatingly stubborn man to ever plague Merlin’s existence, make no mistake, but buried deep underneath that harsh conceit was a good heart. However dismissive of the servants, obnoxious with his friends, or mocking toward his newly appointed court magician, the inherent nobility of his nature always shone through when it really mattered.
When the Lady Morgana’s handmaiden had been falsely accused of slipping a love potion to a visiting lord, Arthur had been the one to untangle the terrible plot to disguise the poor girl’s near-rape. When Merlin had intercepted a slow-acting poison intended for the king, Arthur had taken a small band of knights racing through the night to retrieve the rare flower that would revive him. When a winged beast had terrorized the countryside, Arthur had faced down the creature with a determined glint even as his own knights cowered away. And when Merlin’s own mother had bowed before the throne, pleading for Camelot’s aid on behalf of a village not even within his domain, Arthur had taken in Merlin’s pinched expression with one searching glance before commanding the action that would simultaneously save Ealdor and incite a war with the heartless King Cendred.
Arthur had even eaten Hunith’s awful porridge without complaint. For that alone, Merlin was inclined to forgive the worst of his faults. If Merlin was honest with himself, he might even say he’d come to like Arthur. Mostly.
“I hate you,” said Merlin between dry-heaves, eyes watering wretchedly as he fought swayed on his feet and swallowed back the sour taste of bile—lunch had tasted much better going down.
“It’s hardly my fault that you have a weak stomach.” Merlin glared, eyes flicking pointedly from Arthur’s gruesome, muck-caked face, to the ignobly dripping Excalibur, and finally to the grisly remains of the monster-of-the-week splattered in every direction of the small clearing. What part of don’t cut off its head or it’ll explode had Arthur not understood? Arthur had the good grace to look abashed. “Well, okay, it might be a little my fault. This time. Possibly.”
Merlin enjoyed a short-lived moment of gratifying vindication before another wave of nausea swept over him. Stumbling weakly, he fell against the trunk of a nearby tree, dug his fingers bracingly into the rugged bark, and tried not inhale too deeply or think about the rancid monster gore plastering down his hair, oozing down his cheeks, soaking through his clothes—
Oh. There went the last of his lunch. One of these days he was going to manage to keep his food down, where it belonged. This sensitivity issue was getting a little ridiculous. His stomach had been troubling him almost from his first day in Camelot and hadn’t improved much since. Oh, there had been a brief period when it had appeared that he was recovering, but then there had been that whole fiasco with the poisoned chalice and then the sickness was back as strong as ever. If he ever got his hands on Nimueh that witch was going to burn.
“Hey.” A warm hand (thankfully sans-glove) landed on Merlin neck, rubbing softly as he shook and trembled. “You know it can’t be normal—how frequently you’ve been vomiting, that is.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“What do you care?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” sighed Arthur, voice low and frustrated—though the comforting touch remained. Merlin heaved again, knees buckling, and only the arm that hastily wrapped around his middle prevented him from landing in his own bile. “Have you spoken to the physician?”
“Of course,” Merlin grumbled. “Gaius said it’s probably just the change in diet upsetting my system.” It was a sound theory. The druid conclave was on the edge of the sea, so much of his former diet had been comprised of fish rather than the red meat favoured by the king’s table. Also, the use of sugars and spices had been a good deal sparser—the druids were people of faith, preferring simplicity to excess in most things (they had their petty indulgences, but food was not one of them). Such rich foods as those he was now presented with were still strange to him. “He said I’d adjust eventually.”
“Ah,” Arthur hummed, “and when was this?”
“A little more than a month ago.”
“No improvement?” Merlin shook his head reluctantly. “Well, then, I’ll speak to the kitchen staff about specially preparing meals to better suit your needs—”
“Oh, please, there’s no need to trouble anyone!”
“—and you,” Arthur continued in a tone that brooked no argument, “will see Gaius again immediately after we return to Camelot. Surely there is something more to be done. This is beyond ridiculous. I won’t have druids declaring war on me just because the brainless magician they decided to saddle me with couldn’t handle his food.”
“Arthur—”
“You will obey me in this.”
Merlin ground his teeth. “Yes, sire.” To think he had honestly believed he would have any more control over his life in Camelot than he’d had among the druids. So much for being an All Powerful Warlock with A Great Destiny. It seemed he was doomed to spend the rest of his days being bossed around like a misbehaving child.
Arthur would never know how close he came to being named King of the Toads when he dared to pat Merlin on the head and ruffle his hair with a deliberately patronizing “that’s a good boy!” Only vertigo that struck at precisely that moment spared him. Merlin settled for vomiting on the prat’s boots.
“Come on, then,” Arthur said with an aggravated groan. “The river isn’t too far from here. We’d best wash off this filth before you throw up something important. Like a lung.”
The horses weren’t all that impressed with the stench. It was just as well that Arthur had negated the idea of riding to the river in favour of not soiling the saddles (the castle leatherworker had injured his arm a week ago, so replacing them would have been troublesome), because Merlin would have surely found himself unhorsed well before they had reached their destination. Arthur’s destrier was well-trained enough not to resist when his master approached. Merlin’s normally placid mare, however, pitched such a fuss that Arthur had to step in and lead both equines by their bridles all the while keeping the one hand braced at the small of Merlin’s back. Clearly he wished to be able to react quickly should Merlin suffer another bad spell. Bubbling fury dimmed to mild irritation.
Insufferable arse though he may be, at least Arthur cared.
When they reached the river, Merlin managed to suppress his gag reflex long enough to help Arthur shrug out of his armour (he did not envy the poor sod tasked with scrubbing at the crud already drying into the crevices of the chainmail) before stripping naked and plunging into the water. Arthur followed at a slower pace, first taking the time to procure a spare set of clothes from his saddlebags.
Merlin was blissfully rinsing his mouth out and finally feeling himself again when a large hand settled lightly between his shoulder blades, over the mark of Awen, the three rays of light, inked into his skin there. It had been his first tattoo, but by no means the last.
“Do all your people have these markings?” said Arthur. His voice sounded strange. A small smile played at Merlin’s lips. People were always a little astonished by the markings. He had forgotten that Arthur had never seen him bare like this before.
“They’re not really my people,” Merlin disavowed, because however much the druids wanted to claim him, he had only ever been his own person, “but, yes, the druids do all bear such markings.” He glanced over his shoulder and grinned when he saw the frown of concentration on Arthur’s face. His amusement faded a little when it sunk in that Arthur was, obviously, just as naked as Merlin himself—and that nudity suited him. All the heroic quests Arthur insisted on dragging Merlin out on had done well for him. He had a body so fit even the gods would be jealous.
Ashamed of his own thoughts, Merlin averted his gaze and studied the water lapping around his waist with renewed interest. It was a struggle not to shiver when Arthur’s curious fingers traced over the symbols trailing down his back. “What do they mean?”
Wetting his lips, Merlin said, “Many things. Not everyone has the same markings. Some are universal, some are specific to rank within the order, some are definitive of bloodlines.” Arthur demanded he explain each symbol as he pointed it out and Merlin rattled off replies on automatic, thankful for the distraction the lesson provided from the touch of those deft fingers. He hoped the coolness of the water in comparison to the heat of the warm July sun was enough to explain the gooseflesh pebbling his skin. If he had been less occupied with trying to hide his own shameful desires, perhaps he might have noticed the increasing urgency of Arthur’s probing.
Then, finally, Arthur found the marking on his hip—the intricate curving lines that crossed in a peculiar display of symbolism that even Merlin had difficulty deciphering. But he knew one thing for certain, “Oh, that one,” Merlin laughed a little breathlessly, “is my own personal symbol, the symbol of ‘Emrys.’ There is no one else in this world with that particular mark. Never has been, never will be.”
“Is that so?”
Arthur’s voice was cool, dangerous. Merlin didn’t notice.
“Yes. Though, really, if they’d let me have my way, I would have had a falcon or something neat like that rather than a silly knot-work of incomprehensible runes no one even knows the meaning of anymore—”
“Are you sure,” Arthur interrupted, “that no one else has a marking like this? Nothing even remotely similar?”
Merlin frowned, baffled by the question, and shifted until he could properly make out Arthur’s face. He looked pale. Wane. Troubled, even. “Arthur? Is something wrong?”
“I’ve seen a mark like this before,” Arthur said, blue eyes boring into Merlin’s with shocking intensity. One large hand splayed over the jutting bones of his him, a coarse thumb stroking intimately over the marking in question. This time Merlin could not contain his shiver.
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it?” Arthur breathed. And then he was in Merlin’s space, holding him in place as he buried his face in Merlin’s neck, trailed his tongue over sensitized skin, and mouthed at him there, where the stranger he’d lain with all those months ago had sunk his teeth into him in the heat of passion. “I know this mark, too.”
“Oh,” said Merlin. “Oh.”
And then Arthur was kissing him (or maybe he was kissing Arthur) and he was crying and elated and horrified and hopeful and juggling a thousand other thoughts and emotions that left him exhausted and confused. All this time, the man he had only dared to think about in the privacy of his bedroom had been beside him. What did that mean? It had to mean something, didn’t it? Oh, it was all so strange!
“I was looking for you,” Arthur was whispering between desperate kisses. “You were so sweet that night, so beautiful. I couldn't get you out of my head. I've wanted to badly to reclaim you, make you mine. I sent messengers and emissaries everywhere I thought to look. I nagged at your Lady Vivian and Lord Tauren until they threatened to curse me, and then I nagged just a little bit more. But no one who knew would tell me and no one who would tell me knew. Gods, to think it was you...” Something familiar and hard rubbed against Merlin’s belly.
And that was enough to return Merlin’s senses.
He pushed Arthur away with a regretful sob, splashing backward in a desperate attempt to put some space between them. “We can’t do this,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Arthur looked stricken.
“Well, why the hell not?”
Taking a fortifying breath, Merlin met his one-time lover’s baffled expression. He’s wanted the truth. He’d wanted to know the identity of the man who had held him with such care. He’d wanted to know so badly. And now that he knew, he wished he could forget. “You don’t even like me,” Merlin murmured, swallowing thickly. “We hardly get along at all. You’re constantly baiting me—”
“Merlin...” Arthur reached out, as if to comfort him, but Merlin jerked farther out of his reach, determined to keep his distance. If he let Arthur touch him...
“No! No, you need to listen to me!” Merlin demanded, blinking back furious tears. “I can’t... If we couldn’t get along before, then why should finding out that you were the one who fucked me—” Arthur flinched. “—as part of a religious obligation change how you feel about me. You think I’m a child and a fool and you say so every day. You listen to my council, but only when it suits you. You drag me along on all your adventures, but only because you know your other advisers are more likely to let you get away with risking your skin if you have a sorcerer at your back. You show concern for me, but only as much as you do for any of your other subjects. I think you’re a good man, Arthur, but we’re not friends and I don’t see how us being compatible in bed should change that. Us, together, as lovers—it can only end badly.” Merlin sniffled. “I want to thank you for giving me a good first experience. I have cherished the memory of that night. Please... Lets not spoil what we had by doing something we’ll both regret.”
“Very well,” Arthur said, after a long silence, expression inscrutable. “If that is truly your wish, I will honour it.”
Victory had never felt more like defeat.
They finished washing in silence, not even meeting each other’s eyes when Arthur offered Merlin his reserve clothes, Merlin's original garb having been deemed unsalvageable whereas Arthur's had been spared from the worst of the earlier messy explosion by virtue of his chainmail. The dismal ride back to Camelot was the most terrible affair of Merlin’s life. Nature herself seemed to share his desolation, for sunny skies gave way to stormy tears soon enough.
He’d made the right decision, hadn’t he?
Now he knew why the identities of the King of the Forest and his virgin bride were never meant to be known. It hurt too much.