For the love of Merthur

Arthur made a distraught little noise upon recognising his visitor. Just that. A brief, wet, squelching whine that was almost instantly quelled.

"Arthur? What…" Merlin immediately closed the door behind him and discreetly released the tendrils of his magic far and wide to find answers. It found none. None but the drunken prince, hugging his tabletop like a drowning man. "Arthur, what are you doing?"

"M'thinkin," he mumbled thickly. "P'ondering. C'ontemplating. Mmmulling."

"Oh boy," Merlin said under his breath. "Care to share the fruit of your reflection, Sire?" he asked lightly as he placed an unassuming and, hopefully, nonthreatening hand over the very pretty flagon of exotic wine that the envoy from Byzantium had brought amongst the cartload of presents for King Uther and his court. A potent brew, apparently.

"What are you doing here?" Arthur muttered, his heated cheek still very firmly stuck to the table. "Thought you were having a little… chat with Lord Whatsisface?"

"Lord Julian?"

"Lord Julian Fucking Apollo Coriolan," Arthur corrected pettily.

"Ah." Huh. "Is his middle name really Apollo?" It would've been justified, because there was no denying the man in question was excruciatingly handsome. And rather statuesque in build.

A dark, drunken (and very rude) curse was Arthur's only reply.

"I was actually discussing the use of a remedy that might help Gaius with his bad cold. It turns out His Lordship is very knowledgeable in cures and restoratives."

"Oh His Lordship, eh?"

"Ye-es, he has travelled extensively and been able to study the practices of many a place," Merlin said, quietly going about tidying bits and pieces around the room. "He has collected many herbs and roots and he has some scrolls he thinks I should look at. He promised to show me a few things tomorrow."

A wet snort spilled from Arthur as he pushed himself to a slightly more dignified sitting position, that almost overbalanced into a tumble from his stately seat.

"Oh he wants to show you his thing for sure," the prince muttered, a bitter twist to his sullen mouth.

Ah. Alright. This was new.

"I very much doubt it," Merlin said patiently as he reached to take the sloshing goblet from Arthur's hand. "I think we've had enough of that very nice Byzantine wine, Sire."

"No-o," Arthur whined as he cradled the goblet against his chest and glared at Merlin's whereabouts. Gods, how much of the stuff had he imbibed?

And more importantly, why?

Arthur was always so cautious around drink. He drank with his fellow knights, partook in banquets, toasted merrily with everyone as the situation required, but Merlin knew that he was prudent with his intake. As the heir to the throne and the son of his exacting father, he had been trained in the underestimated yet critical art of engaging in diplomatic libations. In fact, one of the first things Merlin had been taught as manservant and cupbearer to the prince was how to pour his drinks and mix his wine with the right amount of water (an amount which was definitely more than Merlin himself would find enjoyable).

And yet here, one whiff of Arthur's breath told Merlin that the spiced wine had been consumed hardly (if at all) diluted.

"Go away," Arthur sulked, still cuddling his cup. "Leave me to my inoss… my interss… my introshpection."

Merlin stifled a smile at the fractious yet oddly adorable prince. A tipsy Arthur was a rare sight indeed. Merlin reached out a hand and placed the back of his fingers over Arthur's brow, just to make sure no fever was involved.

"Leave me be," the prince said in a small voice, eyes now brimming with untold emotions and conflicted dampness.

"I just want to make sure you're all right," Merlin informed him as he finally managed to gently pry the cup from the clumsy but grabby hands. "I think you should retire to bed, my Lord."

"And I think you should fuck off, Merlin," Arthur groused as Merlin laboriously hauled him to his feet.

"I most certainly will. As soon as we've put you into bed."

Something undetermined (but no doubt derogatory) was mumbled.

"Come on. That's right," Merlin encouraged. Then, "Nonono— Gods, why did you have to drink yourself into a stupor?" he griped as the prince sagged unhelpfully in his arms.

"You like him," Arthur hissed accusingly.

"And who are we talking about now?"

"Fffucking Apollo."

"Ah," Merlin replied eloquently as he staggered under the limp, disarticulated weight of his prince.

"What does he have that I don't?"

"What?"

"I'm taller than him."

"Uh… I don't think—"

"And I'm a better warrior than him."

"I guess he would— whups, sorry," Merlin said as Arthur collapsed face first onto the bed. "Are you alright there, Sire?"

"He's nothing special," the pickled prince muttered into the pillow.

"Well, he's a Byzantine envoy and he's travelled a long way to meet you and your father," Merlin argued as he rolled the prat right side up.

"Yeah, because I'm special. Not him."

Merlin quashed a smile at the childish remark. He was going to have so much fun tomorrow reminding Arthur just what a rambling, drunken arse he had made of himself. He was going to have months of teasing material by the time Arthur fell asleep tonight.

"His eyes look like puddle water," the prince then noted, a satisfied but wobbly smirk on his flushed features as Merlin peeled him out of his tunic.

"Do they? They seemed grey-green to me."

"Zactly! Dreary colour. Terrible colour."

"I thought they were rather nice, intelligent eyes," Merlin prattled perversely as he wrestled the boots off Arthur's feet.

"Of course you would, wouldn't you?" Followed by a string of mutterings casting aspersions on Merlin's mental acuity, powers of observation and rampant lust for some reason.

Meanwhile, Merlin went on undressing Arthur. Then he fondly arranged the pillows behind him, feeling the heat and affronted misery coming off his inebriated prince. Sometimes, he found the amount of love he carried for Arthur was unfair. Sometimes… Well, sometimes he just felt blessed to be able to stand by his side and take care of him in all matters big and small. He would obviously rather rip his own tongue out than admit it out loud, but he could no more deny the sweet ache of his feelings than he could grow feathers and fly.

Probably. He'd never tried.

He was at this familiar and dreadfully tender point in his thoughts, tucking Arthur in for the night as he went, when the prince, who apparently had been following his own chaotic train of plastered thoughts suddenly grabbed his face and drew him up close.

Almost close enough to kiss.

Merlin was about to make light of the uncomfortably delicious situation, but Arthur's gaze was a little wild and oddly entreating.

"Don't go with him," Arthur breathed, voice hoarse yet commanding. "I'm… I mean, my… That is, I really… My eyes are blue," he eventually managed on a desperate splutter.

"So they are," Merlin replied gently, daring to touch a hand to Arthur's heated cheek. "And a very pretty blue, too. The prettiest in the land." Which was, alas, deplorably true as far as Merlin was concerned. Arthur's eyes were blue flecked with constellations of azure and ultramarine. He could lose himself in those eyes. He already had.

"And I'm blonder than him," Arthur went on, fingertips absently doing obscene things to Merlin's sense of duty and honour.

"You are," Merlin promised softly.

"Don't go to bed with him. Please."

Al-right.

"I wouldn't," he promised.

Especially as Lord Julian was clearly enamoured with his aide Nicodemus who also happened to be a powerful mage and a gifted seer. It was on Nicodemus' impulse that they had made the long and fraught journey to Camelot — to meet the foretold Once and Future King and confer with the 'Great Emrys'.

"I promise you Lord Julian has no designs on my virtue," Merlin murmured to the lovely but woefully shitfaced prat.

"That's what you think! He's no fool, he can see how pretty you are. How nice and… crafty… and funny…" Arthur's warm, spicy breath ghosted over him, intoxicating to Merlin in a way that had nothing to do with how much wine the prince had imbibed. "The truest friend and companion a man could desire." Then an upset frown creased his brow. "He can't have that. He can't have you," Arthur insisted, his hands awkwardly possessive on either side of Merlin's face, squishing his cheeks with loving fervour. Then Arthur seemed to run out of momentum, and he leaned his forehead against Merlin's. "Just…Tell him you're mine," he said weakly.

Oh the delightful pain that wrung Merlin's heart at those words. If only. If only he dared.

"I am yours," he agreed on a murmur. "I'm your manservant, aren't I?"

"Yes," Arthur said quietly, a mess of emotions brewed in the too-shiny blue eyes. "Yes, you are." Then with more intensity, "Sometimes it feels like that's not enough."

"Oh you want me to be your friend, now?" Merlin teased lightly, resorting to this old joke to shield them both from the bluntness of Arthur's cup-induced delusions of frankness

"You are my friend," Arthur announced, seemingly dredging up the admission from the innermost sanctum of his proud soul. "It's not right. And it's not what I want. But it's the truth."

Gods, could the clotpole be anymore sweetly hurtful?

"And I want you… to want to be by my side," the lost prince spelled out laboriously.

"Well, you know me. I'm apparently the self-sacrificing type," Merlin tried with a little smile. "And I have nowhere else I need to be."

"So… do you promise to always be mine?" The gleam of desperate longing in Arthur's wine-earnest eyes was gouging Merlin's heart out of his chest.

And Merlin saved himself with the only defence at his disposal — pained humour.

"Only if you promise to be mine in return?" was all he had the nerve to say.

Arthur closed his eyes, sighed a long tired breath. He released Merlin and leaned back against the pillows, seemingly exhausted.

Well, there was Merlin's answer. And here was his lacerated, shivering heart kindly handed back to him, a little worse for wear.

He let himself sit on the edge of the mattress for a moment — to recover from the ordeal.

He was about to get to his feet, when Arthur's hand found one of his wrists and held it, forcing him to stay. Anchoring him like nothing else could. Arthur then slowly brought Merlin's captive hand towards his own cheek.

"If I had a choice… If I didn't already belong to Camelot… There is nothing I would want more than to be yours," he vowed, soft and broken.

Merlin was speechless.

And Arthur forged on.

"If I wasn't…" The princely forefinger drew a wobbly loop in the air "…who I am. If we were not so…" The forefinger now waved back and forth unsteadily "…unequal." Arthur blinked and wet his lips unsurely. "Would you have me?" he asked on a poignant croak.

Yes. A thousand times yes.

The answer and the feeling caught painfully in Merlin's chest.

"I… I think we should…" The rest of the reasonable words momentarily died on his lips as Arthur closed his eyes and leaned into the palm of Merlin's hand. A hand made rough and callused by the daily toil of a serving boy. And here were the prince's lips seeking to meekly brush against the base of Merlin's thumb. The soft, intimate gesture, so full of promise and longing, was too much to bear for Merlin. "I think we should keep this discussion for tomorrow morning," he said in a breathless rush. "When you're well-rested and sober. Sire."

Merlin then gently, very delicately, retrieved his hand from the sweetest trap ever.

"I have upset you," Arthur observed despondently. "You only ever give me 'sires' and 'my lords' when I've upset you."

"You know me too well, Your Highness."

Arthur gave a tired, damp snort. "Now you're just mocking me."

"I wouldn't dare." Said with an easy quirk of the lips. And there, just like that, Merlin had brought them back on a more familiar and more passable path. The one he walked every day, in thoughts simultaneously one step ahead and one step behind the man he loved, but never abreast.

Arthur rolled onto his side, trying to find a comfortable position as his eyes blurrily followed Merlin through the motions of closing down their day. Putting away the warming pan, making sure the chamber pot was clean and within reach, folding Arthur's still-warm clothes, patting the covers, snuffing out the candles. Letting the echoes of the incriminating, too-tender words die out, swallowed by the silk and velvet trappings of Arthur's power and status. All the little things to reset the clockwork of their improper, bristly and at times wildly intimate friendship.

Tomorrow would be another day. Merlin would do his best to forget he'd witnessed the longing because such notions were simply too fraught to entertain.

"I might hold you to it, you know?" Arthur's voice was raspy and drawling, tangled as it was in wine and sleep. "Tomorrow morning. You and I, having that long-overdue discussion."

"Goodnight, Arthur."

"Goodnight. Merlin."

This was supposed to be a quick, fun, jot-an-idea-down sketch and now here we are 26 hours of drawing and painting later... so now you have to look at all the different versions lol (including a winged and wingless version of Aithusa because I wanted to draw the trappings) ((some of which I've seen refered to as barding, but that term also seems to be used for proper horse war armor, so I thiiiink it can refer to both?))

Pushing away from the window, Arthur stowed his phone in his jeans pocket and meandered down the hall. Thick rugs muffled his footsteps, which had always creaked treacherously on the old wood when he was a boy, unable to sleep, sneaking out of bed and across the house to sit below that very window which had the best view of the stars stretching out in a great carpet above the woods behind the house. The rugs had appeared by the time Arthur made his first visit home from uni. This was due to the sudden lack of children one might be tracking by ear throughout the house, ever watchful, in one’s own way.

Arthur came to his childhood bedroom. Lamp-light glowed around the edges of the door, and Arthur pushed it open.

There was his father, sitting on the side of his double bed with dark red covers he had, very solemnly at the age of twelve, exchanged in the place of his old footie sheets. Uther had his hands clasped tightly between his knees, hunched over with his glasses beside him and his head bowed, but when Arthur came in, he straightened up. For a moment, they only stared at each other. Uther’s hair—well thinning at this point, steely gray as long as Arthur could remember it—stuck up in the back as if he’d been running his hand over it non-stop. He looked tired and old.

“Please sit,” Uther said.

Arthur sat with a foot or so between them, Uther towards the foot of the bed, Arthur towards the head. Despite the distance and their rough equivalence in mass, the give of the mattress naturally pulled them toward each other and forced each to sit stiffly to remain apart.

“You know, I blame myself,” said Uther.

“Father—”

“Please, just—listen.”

Arthur folded his arms tightly across his body, so tense in posture it pulled his shoulders inward. He’d been prepared for the both of them to spend a night licking their wounds, to have a grim but cordial breakfast, then depart with only familiar hurts. But if Father insisted on having him sit here and listen while he droned on about how clearly only his parental deficiencies could have produced a son as inadequate as Arthur, well: Merlin might get his deepest desire, and not in the way Arthur had intended to fulfill any of his short-term dreams: but Arthur’s relationship with his father, such as it was, would not survive this.

Uther took his silence for acquiescence, while Arthur only searched for ice to numb what he was sure was coming.

“I blame myself, because it was I who spent every day of your life instilling the values I thought would be important in your life. I molded you into a man who would stand tall, who would carry himself with a pride he deserved, to hold convictions and fight for them against all censure and opposition. Yet I...I have had hours to think, and perhaps all these thoughts I should have had sooner.” He rubbed his palms on the knees of the slacks he still wore at this hour, then took up his glasses and wiped at them, for something to do with his hands. “I was the one who pushed you, yet when confronted with the man you have become—proud and upright and willing to fight for your convictions—I react poorly. And I am sorry, Arthur.”

“Wait—what?”

The tension slipped from Arthur’s shoulders like a too-large coat, the sort a son might throw on to playact at being his father. He leaned across the space he’d put between them.

This whole time, the two men had picked their own spots on the walls to stare at instead of each other: old rugby trophies, a bookshelf that was half suspiciously-pristine textbooks and half well-thumbed mystery novels, tape-marks on the paint where Arthur had pulled down his childhood posters and left imperfects Uther had never even tried to smooth over. But their eyes met now, and if either had a wetness that perhaps exceeded the norm, well, they were both upright and proud and all the rest, and like gentlemen, would let it go unremarked.

“You are my son,” Uther said. “If a vulgar, communistic Welshman is going to make you happy, of course I ought to give my blessing. Of course. I hope one day you may forgive me for ever acting otherwise.”

And what was Arthur supposed to do with that, other than grab his father by the shoulder and pull him into a rough hug, and perhaps drip a tear or two on his expensive businesslike sweater, under circumstances where he wouldn’t see it? Uther’s hands came up to pat his back, at first almost delicately, but then firm, clutching, a man who had seen something irreplaceable and vital nearly crushed by his own carelessness.

“He will. He already has,” Arthur swore damply, with a manly sort of sniffle. “And I will. Too. I promise.”

“Good. That’s good.”

They disentangled themselves with much dignity, then assumed identical postures alike to the one Uther had worn when Arthur came in: leant forward, hands clasped, elbows on their knees. Done with the business of emotions, they once more ceased to make eye contact, which was right, and good.

“Of course, you will have the wedding here at the house,” said Uther briskly. “You young people are prone to desiring a more modern venue, but the gardens have been recently profiled, and even if tradition is to be eschewed the historical value…”

Arthur gazes at the not-quite-man stood before him. It had been naïve of him to picture Emrys as an old man, he knew this, but at the very least he had expected, well, a man. The creature in front of him does look like a man, at first glance, but when one looks more closely, little discrepancies start to pop up, warning that all is not as it seems. Those golden eyes that seem to glow in the half-light; the long, spidery fingers that appear to taper off into claws; the hints of two stubby horns poking out from the top of his head. No, this is no man. This is a creature of magic.

“So, will you come to Camelot with me?” Arthur asks, all of a sudden feeling rather small in the vast expanse of the cavern.

“Well, it is certainly an interesting proposition,” the creature says, slinking towards him. His feet drag soundlessly across the floor, and Arthur swears he sees the outline of a tail as he adjusts his torch. “But, pray tell, what is in this for me?”

The not-quite-man is almost level with him, and Arthur had clearly underestimated his size. The creature is a whole head taller than him, and his golden eyes are locked on Arthur, drinking in the young king’s appearance.

“Well,” Arthur stammers, internally cursing the druids for leading him here without properly explaining what he would be facing, “the druids did, er, mention the possibility of, well, a marriage proposal, but I see how absurd that is now, of course.” He hastily continues, praying that the torchlight does not reveal the rather unexpected rush of blood to his cheeks. “Naturally, I have already repealed the magic ban, and I shall have need of an Advisor on Magic, or some sort of Court Sorcerer if you would prefer…”

“No,” the not-quite-man says. “I shall take up your first offer. I shall be Queen.”

Arthur’s mouth opens and closes soundlessly.

Merlin chuckles softly as he takes in Arthur’s shocked countenance. The King is rather adorable like this, all things considered, and Merlin concludes that he is most certainly the most interesting man to have ever stepped foot in his cave, and perhaps the most beautiful one as well.