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When Arthur is born, he cries for three days straight, and nothing that Gaius or the wet nurse can do will soothe him.
“He misses his mother, sire,” says Gaius—the only one who has dared to mention Queen Ygraine since her passing. Uther stares down at the boy in the crib, his own eyes red-rimmed with grief.
“He’ll have to learn to do without her,” he says.
+
Perhaps that’s where it starts. Without his mother, Arthur is passed from nurse to nursemaid as he grows, and from nursemaid to tutors when he gets old enough. His father is always there, distant but commanding, and Arthur seeks out the scraps of his approval like a rat in a maze, scouring the citadel in search of satiety.
He doesn’t cry anymore. There is always someone who has more need of sorrow, just as there is always someone who has more need of bread, and a prince must learn to think of his people before himself. Instead, he makes the best of what he has. A handshake here. A backslap there. On the day he wins his first real tournament, there is an entire banquet hosted in his honour, and Arthur dines out on his father’s applause for months before the cupboard runs bare.
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Then, Merlin comes to Camelot.
He has the look of a starveling, all long limbs and bones, but compared to Arthur, Merlin has never known a day of hunger in his life. Arthur hates him at first sight; the way the flesh meets at the juncture of his throat and the base of his thumbs, the teeth-bruised, tender meat of him. Hates the way that Merlin can somehow make him want—not his smiles or his wit or his shining eyes but his generosity, the picture of largess where Arthur has only crumbs.
In this way, love takes him like a famine, never a feast: an insatiable hunger. For every night spent devouring Merlin’s mouth, his hips, his thighs, he spends another morning hungry for more, another day dreading the prospect of starvation. Merlin feeds him with clumsy fingers, portioning off what parts he can, but Arthur wants to consume him utterly; to tear into him with teeth and tongue till there is nothing left, and has to be careful not to take too much. Even in repletion, he never seems to have enough.
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And then: the magic. Merlin, standing over the body of a man who has tried to kill him, one hand outstretched and the gold still fading from his eyes.
“You’re a sorcerer,” Arthur says. The word tastes like ozone and ashes, like the consequences of his own greed. “You lied to me.”
“Not on purpose,” Merlin says, trying to smile. There’s blood on his teeth, his mouth, a dagger in his shoulder that was aimed at Arthur’s heart. “Things got a little…complicated.”
Arthur should banish him—of course he should. He can learn to do without the strange, small kindnesses doled out like sweetmeats; the unlikely seasoning of truth that flavours Merlin's speech. It will be a slow weaning, but a necessary one; a spiritual fasting.
But there is Merlin, looking up at Arthur with dark eyes that reflect the same monstrous appetite, the shame of wanting something that cannot bear to be wanted, and Arthur is tired of the waste of doing without; of tasting only the bitter and never the sweet. What good is denying oneself if it’s being offered to one freely anyway?
“Don’t,” Merlin rasps, naked and hungry as Arthur has ever seen him, “don’t send me away.”
“I won’t,” Arthur promises—his turn to be generous—and it's worth the years of guilt and avarice for the feast he makes of Merlin’s smile.