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In the Eye of the Beholder	By : lolo313750 Category: M through R > Merlin (BBC) > Merlin (BBC) Views: 5171 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, the BBC, or any characters herein. I make no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-In the Eye of the Beholder
- 1
In the Eye of the Beholder
            “I want you to go muck out the stables.”
            “What?” Merlin asked, looking up from the breastplate he has been polishing for the last hour.
            “You heard me,” Arthur replied, not even turning to face Merlin as he continued to stare out the window onto the courtyard below, “they’re filthy, have been since the tournament, and it’s high time someone gives them a good once over.”
            “Oh and that someone just happens to be me?”
            Arthur twisted his head around with a chuckle, “For once Merlin, you’ve actually got it right.”
            Rolling his eyes heavenwards with a sigh, Merlin rose from his seat, armor abandoned, and slumped out Arthur’s chambers. Trudgingly making his way through the castle’s winding staircases and endless hallways, Merlin presently found himself before the stables.
            Arthur was right about one thing—the stables reeked.
            Last week was the midsummer tourney and Camelot had been abound with knights and squires, Lords and Ladies, and common folk from all over the kingdoms. Every day crowds had gathered en masse to behold gallantry at its finest as the land’s bravest squared off against one another. The highlight of the festivities was the joust, which, to the great surprise and wonderment of absolutely no one, Arthur won. Merlin had to admit though, it was a spectacular bout—Arthur, riding against Sir Guynere of Brittany, lanced his foe square in the chest, having blocked his opponent’s blow with his shield. The crowd roared in admiration, not least among them the Crown Prince’s manservant.
            That night a feast was held to herald the Prince’s victory and to bid adieu to the visiting nobility. All throughout the night the great hall shook with boisterous merriment; the wine flowed mercilessly into every goblet and before long even Uther was pink in the cheeks, clapping along to a rather bawdy ballad sung by one of the minstrels. At the evening’s end Arthur practically had to be carried up to his room, arm slung drunkenly over Merlin’s shoulder. After tossing him (reverently, of course) onto the bed, Merlin begin working off Arthur’s boots as the inebriated Prince giggled to himself, head rolling across satin pillows.
            “Do you—hic—see me? I was bloody brilliant out there!”
            “Yes Sire,” Merlin sighed as he finally wrenched the boot from the royal foot, “it truly was something to behold.”
            “I mean, Sir Guynere was all ‘rawr,’ and I was all ‘swish’ and—” Arthur (attempted) to extrapolate, half-sitting up on an elbow as he haphazardly swung his imitation-lance of an arm about.
            “Yes, yes, you were wonderful,” Merlin said, gently pushing Arthur back down and flinging a blanket over him. “Now get some rest.” He turned to leave, but as he reached the doorframe, Arthur sat back up in bed.
            “Merlin...”
            Merlin turned, staring back through the darkness, discerning little else but the luminescent crown of blond hair atop Arthur’s head. “Yes Sire?”
            For a long moment the Prince was silent and Merlin half suspected that he had fallen asleep, but just as he was turning once more to leave a whisper crawled out from amongst the shadows of the bed. “Do you really think I was wonderful?”
            Merlin couldn’t help but grin, “Of course Arthur, you’re you.”
            The next morning, after having been unceremoniously (and, might he had, rather rudely) roused by Gaius, Merlin found himself standing with the crowd gathered in the castle courtyard next to a rather hung-over Arthur as the court bid farewell to the departing guests as they rode out on horseback.
            If only they had taken their mess with them. Then Merlin wouldn’t find himself standing mid-calf deep in, well, horseshit. He had been working at it for the better part of two hours, endlessly scooping piles of manure onto a cart until it nearly burst, only to wheel it out to a field, dump it, bring it back, and fill it up once more. He was developing an acute pain in his back, as if someone had placed a boot between his shoulder blades and was slowly extending their leg at the same time they grabbed his arms and pulled them backwards. No matter how often he straightened up and took a break to stretch (which, after the two hour mark seemed like every five minutes) Merlin just couldn’t seem to work the ever-tightening knot out of his muscles.
After what seemed like an eternity the stables were, finally, all cleaned out, but it was as if all their filth had been transferred to Merlin. His boots were caked over entirely and the bottoms of his pants legs were rancid with grime. The fabric of his shirt beneath his underarms was soaked through, and the back clung uncomfortable to his skin. His forehead was red and prickled with sweat, and his hands were practically black. All together he made a pretty lamentable sight, and he received no shortage of pitying glances from guards and maids alike as he made his way back through the castle up to Arthur’s chambers.
“Good God Merlin,” Arthur scoffed as his servant swung the door shut behind him, “I told you to muck out the stables, not roll around in them.”
“But it just look like so much fun, I couldn’t resist,” Merlin snarked in return as he pulled out a chair, planning full well to throw himself into it.
“Oh no you don’t,” Arthur lunged forward in a rush, grabbing the chair and effectively blocking Merlin from it, “you’re filthy.”
“And exhausted,” moaned Merlin, “do you know how much crap I literally had to put up with down there? I feel like my arms are about to fall off.”
“Tired or not, I won’t have you sullying my good chair, not when you’re looking like,” Arthur gestured vaguely at his servant’s overall sorry state, “that.”
“Fine,” sighed the Sorcerer, throwing his arms up in exacerbation, “I’ll go wash up in my room then.” But before he had taken two steps Arthur held up a hand.
“Stop. A bowl and rag won’t suffice. Here,” Arthur nodded his head towards a corner of the room where an ornate wooden dressing screen had been set up, behind which steam was gently rising, “you’ll use my bath.”
Merlin eyed the screen for a long moment, as if in wonderment. It was, of course, the same dressing screen that had always been in Arthur’s room. Carved from a rich, deep mahogany, it consisted of four panels that swung out on hinges, the barest of gaps between each board. For a minute all Merlin could do was cock an eyebrow in confused bewilderment as he glanced continually between Arthur and the screen. “You drew me a bath?” He asked finally.
“No,” Arthur smirked, “I drew myself a bath, but with things as they are I’m willing to sacrifice it to the greater good. I can’t have you walking around like that, what will people think?”
“Aw, you know I don’t care what people think about me—” Merlin begin as a wide grin broke out across his face, but Arthur quickly cut him off with a sharp laugh.
“Not you, I don’t care what they think about you, but how will it look if people think I let my servant walk about in such a deplorable state?”
“Aren’t you sweet, always looking out for my best interest,” Merlin smirked sarcastically.
“Come on then,” Arthur clapped his hands and gestured once more to the screen, “in you go.”
Merlin made his way around the screen and was greeted by a large, copper tub, filled nearly to the brim with steaming water. On a small plate set next to the tub was a small bar of soap. Merlin couldn’t remember the last time he had a proper bath (it had been, admittingly, quite a while). Tentatively dipping a finger into the water he found it hot, but not unpleasantly so, and the thought of his sore muscles submerged in the warm bath made him shiver with relish.
“Toss your clothes over once you’re out of them,” Arthur called from the other side of the screen.
“What’re you going to do with my clothes?” Merlin worryingly asked as he began to struggle off his boots nonetheless, snaking his arm around the screen to place them on the other side.
“Oh I just thought I’d try them on and parade around town to see how the other half lives. What do you think? I’m going to have them washed, or burned, as the case may be.”
“You’re going to wash my clothes?” Merlin asked incredulously as he wormed out of his tunic, torso undulating as the fabric caught around his forearms. “That’s…sweet of you.”
“I’m not going to wash them myself,” Arthur scoffed in not unkind derision, “I’m going to have them washed. By someone else.”
“Still,” Merlin continued, untying the strings of his trousers and letting them fall around his ankles before bending over and picking them up, “it is awful kind of. Not just the clothes, but the bath and all.” For a moment Arthur said nothing, just cleared his throat with a series of muted coughs. At length he answered, almost as if to himself.
“Yes, well, you are my…friend. It’s the least I could do.”
Merlin grinned wide, his teeth shining white against his otherwise dirtied visage. “Aw, Arthur…”
“Just shut up and get in the bath already!” Arthur shot back.
With a chuckle Merlin tugged his scarf from around his neck and tossed it over the screen with the rest of his clothes. He could hear Arthur gathering up his garments on the other side of the screen as he gingerly stepped into the tub. For a second he just stood there, calves and knees submerged as he slowly acclimated to the heat. As he gently started to lower himself down he heard the chamber door swing open and Arthur shout back,
“And Merlin? Don’t get water all over my floor or you’ll be mopping it up.” And with that the door swung shut.
Frozen mid-bend, Merlin gazed down at the water level in the tub. His knees were bent at a forty-five degree angle, his butt having barely broken the surface of the water, and still the tub’s contents were already threatening to spill out onto the floor. Looking about himself quickly, Merlin looked for a bowl or bucket with which to siphon off some of the water, but found none.
“Arthur?” Merlin called sheepishly, listening for any sound of reply. When nothing but silence answered, he held his flexed hand just above the water’s surface and intoned quietly,
“Regradrum.” Instantly the level of the water dropped by a third, and Merlin was able to lower himself fully into the tub.
Good God but it felt glorious. Almost immediately his muscles began to soften and relax and he sunk lower beneath the water, drawing his knees up close until he was able to sink down until just his nose rose above the water. Eyes shut tight and upper body submerged, Merlin could feel all the stress and ache of the day melt off of him. Long seconds ticked away as he lay below the surface, unwilling to rise again until it was absolutely necessary. Even when his lungs began to burn and tighten within his chest he resisted, but a sudden noise jolted him from his reverie. With a start his head shot out of the water, water running down from his hair in rivulets, obscuring his vision and blocking his ears.
“Hello?” He called, wiping quickly at his eyes before blinking them open. The room was silent, save for Merlin’s slightly rushed breathing. Lean as far as he could, he was unable to see beyond the screen, and though he briefly considered standing up to attempt to see over, the thought of leaving the luscious warmth of the water proved too frightful. Concluding that it must has just been his imagination, Merlin released his grip on the rim of the tub (having never been fully aware that he was gripping it in the first place).
It was only now that Merlin took stock of his current state (or lack thereof) of cleanliness. True, he had worked up a considerable sweat while mucking out the stables, but there was more than enough dirt and grime to prove that this bath was sorely needed. To be fair, rinsing off with a bowl only got you so far, and what with Gaius hounding him about even the tiniest use of magic, well, Merlin had to clean what he could when he could.
He drew the line, however, at soap. Growing up soap was more of a fable than a reality, something done up Ladies of the court slathered themselves in, not something a farm boy would ever have access to (or even want, given the chance). Still, he did give the bar of soap on the floor a cursory glance, even went so far as to pick it up and sniff it (what was that? flowers?), but he stopped short of actually using it. For all he knew it was a trick placed there by Arthur so he could mock him at some later moment (in front of Morgana and Gwen most likely) for smelling like a girl. Well, you had to get up pretty early in the morning to pull one over on the likes of him, Merlin thought proudly to himself, placing the soap back down and scooting the dish a comfortable distance away.
There was still the matter of washing up though, but from experience Merlin knew that warm water would serve just fine (especially with a whole tub of it). Cupping his hands together, he first splashed generously on his face and neck, rubbing till the droplets that well back into the tub turned from brown to clear. His hair was a different matter, and after several attempts at running his fingers through it, Merlin finally gave up and settled for repeatedly dunking his head beneath the water, shaking it vigorously as he did so.
It was astounding what a difference clean hair could make; Merlin felt like a new man, fresh and full of spritely energy. He lay back, resting his shoulders against the rim as he propped his feet up on the opposite side of the tub. With one hand he happily splashed the water about, resting his head against the other, allowing his fingers to lazily curl strands of hair. He stayed like this for some time, perfecting the practiced (though seldom enjoyed) art of relaxing. Eventually the water, which at the bath’s beginning had been near scalding, sending up thick curls of steam, began to grow warm, then tepid. It was at this point that Merlin began to look about the tub for a towel, only to realize that there was none. Desperately scrambling onto his knees he turned circles in the tub, water splashing dangerously high up the sides, head twisting all about. With no other options available to him, Merlin finally rose to his feet, wrapping his arms around his chest as the comparatively cold air hit his skin. Now nearly shivering as drops rose and fell across the hills of his ribs before draining down the flat plane of his abdomen, only to be lost in the thick forest of black hair above his groin, Merlin considered just how upset Arthur would be if, only as a truly last resort, he were to roll about on his bed in a last ditch attempt at drying himself off. Just as he was about to take that first fateful step out of the bath, Merlin heard the chamber door swing open and shut as footsteps entered the room.
“I brought you a towel, figuring you might like one,” Arthur quipped nonchalantly, tossing the towel over the top of the screen. Grateful hands flung out to grab it and Merlin hugged it close to his body, drying himself off rapidly before wrapping the towel tightly around his waist and stepping out of the tub. “Did you enjoy your bath?” Arthur smirked as Merlin came out from behind the screen, still shivering slightly despite his best efforts.
“Lovely, truly. Can I have my clothes?” Arthur seemed at first to not hear the question, lost in thought as he stared just past Merlin at the screen, or rather at—
“Right, clothes,” Arthur came to all of a sudden, snapping his fingers as he spun on a feel and made his way to his wardrobe. “Yours are still being…dealt with, so you’ll have to do with some of mine. Though I shudder to think what state they’ll be in when I get them back, seeing as you didn’t even use soap.”
“You know I’m not that dirty and I—wait, how did you know I didn’t use any soap?”
Arthur stopped mid-rummage, frozen with his back to Merlin. Clearing his throat as he turned, tunic and trousers in hand, he let a cocky grin spread across his face.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He asked, grinning wider at Merlin’s dumbfounded expression. “I can smell you from here. I don’t know what your mother taught you, but here we use soap to clean ourselves off.” Arthur tossed the clothes to Merlin with a chuckle, who, somehow, managed to grab them without letting his towel slip down too far. “Now get dressed, we’re going on a hunt in half an hour. Oh and Merlin,” Arthur paused in the doorframe, arms braced on either side. Merlin looked up from the pants leg he was unceremoniously attempting to shove his foot into,
“Yes Sire?”
“Don’t forget to empty out the bathwater.”
* * *
            It had not been Merlin’s week. At all.
            Arthur had had Merlin running practically ragged all week. He was accustomed to being tired after a day of serving the Prince, but not the bone-aching fatigue he’d been experiencing these past few days. It was as if Arthur had suddenly and inexplicably lost all ability to complete even the simplest of tasks without Merlin’s help. Merlin, help me with my armor, won’t you? Merlin, come here and cut up my roast. Merlin, do be quick, I need you to carry my sword to sparring practice. Not that Merlin minded terribly spending so much time around Arthur (truth be told it was probably the only thing he enjoyed about being a royal manservant) but at the rate Arthur was having him work he would be dead from exhaustion in a matter of days. He already woke an hour before the rest of the castle to prepare and serve Arthur’s breakfast, but now the Prince was keeping him well past his usual hour. Now, after having tidied the chambers and turned down the bed, Arthur would have Merlin attend him while he read, instructing him to stand next to, or even lay upon, the bed, sometimes for over an hour, just in case an urgent need should strike the Prince while he lazily leafed through musty history books.
            And quite a few wild fancies had struck the Royal Prat recently; if Merlin wasn’t running all the way to the lower town to fetch a vase that had earlier struck Arthur’s fancy, he was searching high and low for Gaius so he could prepare a balm for a sprained muscle, only to inevitably be told that said vase isn’t actually as nice as he’d originally thought or that the muscle in question had worked itself out in the end. It was almost as if Arthur were trying to be rid of him, which was ridiculous, because if that were the case he wouldn’t have Merlin following him around like a lost puppy from dawn till dusk.
            On top of everything else, the scullery maids had lost his scarf! A day or two after his bath a serving girl came knocking on Gaius’s door, arms loaded with Merlin’s folded effects. He had rushed worried, grinning thankfully as he unburdened the girl, but, rifling through his clothes, he noticed something was amiss.
            “Excuse me,” he called, stopping the girl just as she was to cross the threshold, “I think you’ve forgotten my scarf.” The maid turned, wide-eyed apprehension plain across her face,
            “Pardon me my good sir, but we received no scarf.”
            “No, but you see, you did, because Arthur took all my things and them to you a few days ago.” The maid cast her eyes downwards, obviously reluctant to speak against the Prince’s servant.
            “I’m terribly sorry, but we only got the trousers and tunic,” she stammered hurriedly before departing with a curtsy. Merlin rolled his eyes in exasperation; he was certain that some clumsy pair of hands in the scullery had mislaid his scarf, for he was certain he had tossed it to Arthur, and it wasn’t like the Prince to be forgetful about even the least significant of matters.
            “Merlin?” Merlin looked up from his clothes, which he had been attempting to refold, and peered at Gaius. “Why did Arthur have your clothes?”
            “Just…never mind Gaius.”
            So, in addition to running around on Arthur’s wild goose chases, Merlin had had to do so practically half-naked! True, he had a second scarf, but it’s not like he could very well wear a blue scarf with a blue shirt, and Arthur never failed to point out when Merlin wore his red tunic multiple days in a row.
            “Merlin, for the love of Camelot, that’s the third day now you’ve worn the same shirt, it’s starting to reek like the stables,” Arthur groaned in exacerbation, waving a hand in front of his face in an exaggeration fashion. “Run back up to your room and change this instant. Oh and Merlin,” Arthur reached out across the table and seized an empty water jug, “be a pal and fill this up for me will you. But not from the castle’s well, the taste has been off these past few days. Run down to the lower town and fill it up there.” Arthur grinned wide as Merlin strode forward obediently and took up the jug (with only minimal sighing).
            “Yes Sire.”
            After a quick jaunt up a few flights of stairs Merlin found himself back in the court physician’s chambers. Gaius was currently out collecting herbs in the market, so Merlin set the empty jug down on his workbench as he made his way to his room to change his shirt. With mournful resignation Merlin tore his scarf from off his neck and tossed it onto the bed along with his tunic before sliding another up and over his head. He had to admit that the blue fabric appeared much cleaner (not to mention the lack of olfactory offences) but his neck felt bare and vulnerable with nothing wrapped around it. Tugging his tunic up his shoulders, Merlin gazed out of his window into the courtyard far below. The few people milling about were obscured by the haze of heat rising off of the roasting cobblestones. Camelot was in the throes of a sweltering summer, and those who could afford to do so stayed indoors during the peak hours around noon. The market in the lower town would be packed though, with people trying to buy their daily good as quickly as possible. Merlin didn’t even want to think about the lengthy queue that would be waiting round the well.
            “Fetch me some water Merlin, oh no, don’t take the easy route and get it from the castle spigot, no, trudge all the way down to the lower town, wait for nearly an hour in the blistering heat, then haul it back up to the castle. Off you go, like a good lad,” Merlin intoned under his breath as he descended the stairs from his room into Gaius’s chambers and grabbed the jug from the table. However, upon reaching the door he paused, an idea having just occurred to him. Throwing a cursory glance around the room, Merlin brought his hand to hover over the mouth of the empty water jug.
            “Agwandius.”
            Merlin braced his arm against the sudden weight of the not-so-empty jug as he smirked in satisfaction to himself. He then made his way back down through the castle, awaiting Arthur’s astonishment when he saw just how quickly Merlin had accomplished his task.
            It was not, however, Arthur’s astonishment that greeted the young Sorcerer upon entering his master’s chambers.
            Under normal circumstances, Arthur would have heard the door swing open as Merlin stepped in, but given his current condition it would be a wonder if, the castle itself falling down around his ears, he even glanced up. The Prince was standing by the window, back to the door, with his arm outstretched, veins ascending from amongst the mass of muscles as he braced against the wall. His trousers had slipped down past the round globes of his buttocks to bunch together mid-thigh, while he worked furiously at himself, his hand jerking back and forth in frantic flight. His head was bent sharply down, intent with focus for the task at hand. And around Arthur’s neck, wrapped so tightly it must have been practically smothering him, was Merlin’s “missing” scarf.
            For an interminably long time Merlin just stood and gaped in wracked confusion, unable to process exactly what he was beholding. What little instincts he possessed roared for him to turn tail and run down to the lower town well as quick as he could, but for some inexplicable reason Merlin found himself rooted to the spot. Heat rose up the back of his neck and spilled red across his cheeks as he took in the site before him. His heart beat so profoundly against his ribs he was certain they could audibly crack and alert Arthur to his presence. Try as he might to force himself to flee Merlin was unable to turn his gaze from the exposed tableau of flesh between the bottom hem of Arthur’s tunic and the rumple of his britches. Caught as it was in the afternoon sun slanting in through the window, the skin seemed warm and golden, the soft yellow fuzz of hair ablaze. It was all he could do to stop himself from striding across the room and cupping one of those pert mounds of flesh. Merlin’s pink tongue darted across his parched lips as he swallowed hard, his throat tightening against a cough that threatened at any moment to escape.
            Suddenly, Arthur twisted his head towards his shoulder, burying his face in a fold of red fabric as he stifled a breathy moan with Merlin’s scarf. The Sorcerer’s body went rigid with fright, petrified that he would be spotted, but the Prince’s eyes were shut tight in private ecstasy. His lips parted gently, like petals opening to the first rays of daylight, and Merlin could just make out the tip of his tongue, suspended in the cavern of his mouth as if transfixed. With deliberate grace he took a piece of scarf between his teeth, twisting the fabric with his bite as he drew a small portion into his mouth. By now Merlin’s pulse raced like a lost chariot, the blood deafening in his ears. He was mesmerized by Arthur’s desperate ministrations; his body felt hot, the skin beneath his tunic beginning to prick with the first drops of sweat, but this was nothing compared to the exquisite pressure building in his groin. The confines of his trousers created an acute discomfort and if he didn’t do something about it soon he was certain he was either going to burst or faint.
            “Merlin…”
            Merlin’s head snapped up as he refocused on Arthur. The patch of cloth, now darkened with saliva, had slipped from the Prince’s mouth as the Sorcerer’s name had tripped out Arthur’s lips. Merlin’s chest tightened and his head grew light and lush; he feared he was going to collapse. Could he really be thinking about…me? he wondered, petrified by false promise as he rallied in vain against the hopeful convulsions of his hands. Lost as he was in anticipated fancy, Merlin did not notice the gradual relaxation of his fingers around the stem of the water jug until the entirety of the container collided vociferously with the stone floor, regurgitating its contents in a wide, wet circle.
            Arthur spun wildly around, stuffing himself back into his britches with haste as he tugged them up around his waist. Merlin stood as if made of stone, unable to draw the slightest breath in between his parted lips. Arthur glanced rapidly between the disgorged jug and his agape manservant, all the while color rushing steadily to his cheeks till they nearly matched the hue of the kerchief wrapped round his throat.
            “How long have you been standing there?” Arthur demanded as he crossed the room in accelerated strides. Merlin, freed from his lapidification, stumbled fearfully backwards until his back met the unyielding resistance of the chamber wall. Arthur closed what little distance remained between himself and his servant until their faces hovered mere inches apart. Breath rolling heavy from flared nostrils, the Prince placed his hands on the wall on either side of Merlin’s head, effectively blocking any hope of escape. Merlin could feel the exhaled warm as it hit his face with staccato rhythm. “Were you spying on me?”
            “N-no!” Merlin stammered out, attempting in vain to slip from the human cage Arthur had constructed around him, “I was just—”
            “Just spying on me,” Arthur retorted, arms weaving along the wall as Merlin squirmed within their confining embrace. He was painfully aware of the distant between himself and the golden-haired Prince; his heart strained against his chest, skin flush with palpable heat. It would be so easy to fall forward, to press his body against Arthur’s—it was so terribly close. Was he even breathing anymore? His throat seemed sealed shut, mouth hung open like an empty cave as his eyes roamed guilty across the seam of Arthur’s britches, alighting but for a moment on the ever-present mound of flesh that refused to let its presence be ignored. Darting his eyes quickly upward, lest his shameful attention be noticed, Merlin took in the rapid rise and fall of Arthur’s chest, heaving but a hair’s breadth from his own. What would it feel like to be trapped beneath such strength, to allow it to crush him completely? Fire rolled across his face, he lifted his head as if to lift his own thought back into the realm of reality, when once more a swath of color caught his eye.
            “I wasn’t, I…is that my scarf?” Merlin stopped fidgeting and instead locked eyes with the Prince, finger pointed accusingly at the cloth wrapped snugly against his neck.
            “What, this?” Arthur attempted a nonchalant laugh as he began to edge away from his manservant, “no, I, um, I found it…in town! I thought it went well him my tunic and—”
            “Is that so?” Merlin cocked his head to the side quizzically as he stalked forward, maintaining the minimal distance as Arthur retreated, “because my scarf, you know, the one I was wearing the other day, went missing. The scullery maids said it never made its way to the laundry. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Merlin smirked satisfactorily as Arthur halted abruptly, having collided with the chamber’s far wall. The Sorcerer braced his arms on either side of the Prince, fencing him in. A subtle ache developed in the tips of his cheeks; he could not resist the heady effects of power which played across his face, revealing nearly the entirety of his dentition.
            Arthur looked as if taken by fever; from the base of his neck a rose-tinted pallor crept nearly to his brow, which pickled with heavy beads of sweat. His gaze roamed senselessly, alighting on everything and nothing. It scanned every surface of the room, as if entreating for some egress to magically, miraculously, materialize. They tumbled along the expanse of Merlin’s frame, sweeping wildly from his feet to his crown. Then, suddenly, his lids fell heavy as Arthur shut his eyes with determined resolution. To a slow count of five he drew in breath, letting it out with the same languidity, much as a man might do moments before facing a battle or pyre. Then, opening his eyes, he fixed his friend’s two blue orbs with his own, and grabbing his face, kissed him.
            In all his years of life Merlin had never truly realized that touch could hold such delicacy. The hands that gripped the nape of his neck, the fingers that enwreathed themselves in the wisps of black hair, held such contradictions of sensation. The slender digits were hard with muscle, their hold iron-like; years of gripping a sword had stripped them of even the barest shred of weakness. The calloused pads that rubbed against Merlin’s flushed skin belied a lifetime of training, of exertion, but the soft palms, the tender backs, spoke of a life of lavish luxury. The lips that entreated against his own were silk, flowing like clear water through cupped hands. But the force that crushed them together was almost frightening--it was the same strength that had once killed men. How odd, the symmetries of love and death, the thinnest of lines, the swiftest twist of the wrists the only thing that separated the two.
            Without him willing them to Merlin’s hands wound themselves into Arthur’s shirt, pulling the Prince ever closer, begging for contact, wishing to drown in him. Move, he shouted in his mind, but try as he might he could not bestir himself, powerless was he in his Lord’s grasp. Despite the burning, the unstitching of fibers and members within his lungs, Merlin refused to break the embrace, lest, as one who rises from bed in the early rays of day, he too shatter the dreamlike spell. When at last Arthur pulled away he drew with him a low, plaintive sigh as Merlin tilted forward desperately as if to taste a full grape held just out of reach.
            “Merlin,” Arthur whispered against the Sorcerer’s face, the words gossamer on his cheeks. Truly, a name had never held such meaning as it did when it fell from Arthur’s lips; it was at once question and command, declaration and confession, it was shame and joy in one breath. The Prince did not move, but held Merlin’s face, his eyes scanning the raven-haired man’s visage as he waited for an answer that words could not even begin to pronounce.
Like a drunk kept too long from the bottle Merlin’s body roared in need. Arms swept round Arthur’s waist, the gravity of their bodies proved too powerful and once more their lips crashed together. Arthur pressed down with resolute force and at length Merlin’s mouth surrendered against the siege. Never once releasing his Prince, Merlin slowly edged backwards, feet scraping roughly against the stone floor in a blind retreat.
And then they were falling, Merlin’s foot having collided with some unseen obstacle, tossing aside their already precarious equilibrium. For a moment he was weightless, bodiless, without end or consequence, passion made manifest as it crashed to Earth. But instead of unrelenting ground the back of his head was met with satin and velvet as he spilled onto Arthur’s bed. The weight of him was exquisite, and for a moment he wished the bed were stone so as to offer no succor from the delirious pressure slowly crushing him. It was only now that Merlin truly felt the heat of Arthur’s body as it enveloped him, coupling with his own fire until he feared the sheets would burst into flames. The Prince moved as if a man possessed, ripping at their clothes, those last, infinitesimal barriers that separated them. Balling a handful of shirt in a fist, Merlin felt himself rise inches off of the bed as Arthur pulled at his tunic. The shriek of torn fabric and the kiss of fresh air against his chest heralded Arthur’s victory in his quest to rid him of his cloth confines. Resting back on his knees, the Prince tugged his own shirt from his body before collapsing back onto the half-naked man beneath him, stealing what little breath remained as his mouth devoured Merlin’s swollen and bruised lips.
The familiar feel of his scarf against his neck now seemed wholly foreign as it danced across his collarbones, the tapered end dipping into the well at the base of his neck. But these were soon replaced by slick kisses as Arthur traversed the expanse of Merlin’s throat. A sharp nip of canines along his jaw threatened to break skin but succeeded in only eliciting a strangled grasp from deep in the Sorcerer’s throat. As a wolf responding to the cry of wounded prey Arthur attacked the juncture between Merlin’s neck and shoulder, conducting a breathy symphony with tongue and teeth. All the while his hands worked furiously at the ties of Merlin’s britches, clawing madly in blind anticipation.
Calloused pads brushing against the pointed tips of his hips caused Merlin to buck, his spine rising in undulating waves. Till now he had lain quiescent, far too consumed in perception—what was that scent, beneath the cloak of sweat? Oranges, from breakfast—but the polished palm now moving against the front of his trousers roused him to consciousness. His hands, like birds, flitted down the rippled valley of Arthur’s back, alighting momentarily upon his shoulders and the back of his ribs before landing on the taunt muscles of his backside. He pushed his fingers against the tight rim of Arthur’s pants, fighting for every inch of skin he revealed, every hair his knuckles brushed, but his gains were maddeningly few and far in between.
“Pants,” Merlin grunted, fingers fisting in Arthur’s hair so as to pull their faces together once more, “please.”
With the speed of an obedient servant Arthur snapped upright, deftly loosening the ties of his britches, letting them sink down his sculpted thighs to bunch around his calves before kicking them away. And so now he stood in all his naked glory before Merlin, beautiful as sunlight incarnate. True, over the course of their quotidian interactions Merlin had chanced to glimpse patches of taunt skin, tufts of golden hair, as he dressed him in the morning or else before the afternoon’s trainings, but never had he been graced with such visions as he now beheld. He never could have guessed at the strength the Prince’s body held, the broad shoulders and expansive chest, the solid midriff, the tight stomach. Yet such strength held within itself fragile delicacy; the tender, rosebud nipples, erect and pink, the soft curls of yellow that started as little more than wisps on Arthur’s chest but grew thicker and darker until they formed a veritable forest in the valley of his groin, crowning his radiant sex.
“Now tell me Merlin,” Arthur drawled, fists enthroned on his waist with cocky swagger, “what’s wrong with this picture?” With great reluctance Merlin tore his eyes away to look Arthur in the face, tongue darting out across his lips with a painful swallow.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“Is that so?” Arthur smirked as he placed a knee upon the bed, hands making for the lip of Merlin’s pants. “Because I don’t think it is proper for a servant to be dressed when his Master must do without.” A wide grin breaking out across his face Merlin rose up on his elbows, pressing his lips to Arthur’s, as he lifted his hips. With two quick, practiced tugs Arthur had freed him, unfurling his trousers from off his legs before flinging them across the room. With one hand Arthur took Merlin’s purple-tipped head between thumb and forefinger, spreading the clear, viscous bead at the tip in slow circles, while with his other arm he wound round Merlin’s shoulders, pulling the other man in closer, refusing to relinquish his mouth. With gourmand appetite Arthur swallowed the plaintive, almost petulant, moans stumbling from Merlin’s mouth as he writhed beneath his touch.
At length Arthur released his servant; Merlin tumbled back down onto the bed, the thinnest of whines escaping him at the sudden lack of hands upon his body. Braced now upon his elbows, Arthur began to move against Merlin, hips cresting and falling in ever accelerating waves. Maddened by the acute friction, Merlin sunk his nails into the flesh of Arthur’s shoulders, dragging them down to the small of his back. The biting pleasure, the ripple of bliss ringed with the pain of too rough skin, too quick, too hot—his head lolled side to side, mouth twisting open to bite a handful of blanket, tearing at it with his teeth. He was dying, certain of it, body reduced to flesh rubbed raw, and he could no longer breath—when did he breath last?—when suddenly his entire body convulsed, muscles tightening impulsively, as heat burst out from within. Arthur continued to rut like a beast as Merlin shook, his stomach now wet with himself. His hair was damp with sweat and stuck to his forehead, eyes shut tight as he bucked faster and faster. And then they snapped open with a strangled cry, the blue of them striking as the veins of his neck rose and threatened to burst. With a few, final wild jerks Arthur spilled out onto the quivering body beneath him before collapsing into a mess of limbs and ragged gasps.
As his breath slowly returned to him Merlin took in the world as it spun around him. Arthur nuzzled his face into the tender flesh of his neck, his nose nudging gently against the patch of purple bruise he had drawn to the surface only moment ago. The ceiling above them seemed miles away, seemed to be the arching gates of heaven, not some castle’s bare stone, for no mundane existence could hold all the glory he now felt. The particles of dust, caught in the ray of afternoon light that slanted in through the window were, in fact, angels dancing down to Earth, a benediction of love. A single tear welled up in the pool of his eye and as Merlin blinked it ran down his cheek to splash onto Arthur’s temple. Arthur lifted his face to look at Merlin, brow furrowed in concern. He took his cheek in his hand, his thumb rubbed at the corner of his eye, drying the wet streaks there. Merlin turned his face to press his lips against Arthur’s palm, staring up at the man who held such importance in his life.
“Thank you.” Merlin wanted to say more, wanted to thank him, not just for this, for what had just happened, but for everything, for all the things he had ever done and said, thank him for things beyond even his control and knowledge. He wanted to thank him for sunlight and colors, for laughter and the relief one feels after the first drink on a hot day. Thank him for the seasons and nightfall, for the tickle of whispers against your ear, for everything and nothing in particular. But before he could open his mouth Arthur had leaned down and placed a kiss upon his lips. It was soft and slow, it begged nothing but this, this quiet moment, this tender touch. Merlin had closed his eyes by the time Arthur finally withdrew; he felt sleep gently overtaking him as the warmth of Arthur’s breath brushed against his cheek.
“Merlin?” The words came feather-soft against his skin.
“Hmm?” He managed through the ever-darkening haze of drowsiness.
“Did you fetch the water like I asked?”
THE END
Notes
Hope you enjoyed it. This is my first Merlin fic. I'm new to the fandom, but madly, helplessly, in love. I'm also a bit of a prompt whore, so if you have a Canon era, Merthur fic you'd like to see, let me know in a comment and it just might happen. Thank you oh so much for reading.
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