A Merthur Of Crows

For all of Uther's lectures that Arthur was his sole heir to an energy empire and thus a prime candidate for a nine-figure ransom, Arthur had never taken his warnings seriously. Much less after the explosive fight last Christmas and subsequent loss of contact. Arthur had a job as a personal trainer, was going to school at nights to become a physical therapist, and the only indication of the exorbitant wealth that remained in his name were the quarterly trust statements that still reliably arrived via Royal Mail.

Fate was mocking Arthur. For his hubris, he now listened to his kidnappers consider if they should cut off his ear.

"Daddy still hasn't responded to the ransom request," one of them snarled. It was hard for Arthur to focus his vision with a swollen eye. "The deadline was two hours ago."

"He doesn't think we're serious," other man responded. He twirled a serrated blade in his hand. "Let's send him a present with our new demands."

They turned to Arthur, and he had not yet been beaten enough to be numb. "Don't," he choked out, useless. One hand gripped his hair, yanking his head back. The blade pressed against his cheek, and Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw.

He could be brave. He would not scream, and he would not beg, and surely his boyfriend (if he ever saw him again) would still find Arthur acceptably handsome even maimed—

I just bound what is essentially THE Merlin continuation/ fix it fic also know as 'And Like the Cycle of the Year we Begin Again' and I am so happy with how it turned out! It’s my first time trying a keyhole cutout style cover and it was a bit of a challenge with the faux leather, but I think in the end it came together. I do wish I would have seen Beth’s Binderys video on which glue to use so that your endpapers (dye ink) don’t bleed but ohh well I still love them! If anyone has any other tips on that particular issue I am all ears! 

Being Arthur’s manservant means that Merlin has had lots of practice resisting temptation.

He doesn’t let his touches linger when he dresses Arthur or helps with his armour. He doesn’t wrap Arthur in his arms when Arthur is having a bad day, or try to shut him up when he’s being particularly infuriating with a press of lips. He doesn’t trace Arthur’s scars with gentle fingertips, or let their hands brush when he offers Arthur a sword, or lean into the few touches that Arthur initiates himself.

Arthur wouldn’t want it, Merlin tells himself. And, when that’s not enough, It’s not your destiny. Each desire to touch, Merlin carefully packages away and tucks away somewhere where it won’t taunt him. For a decade, though he’s faltered at times, he has never given in.

Until now.

The grass is cold and damp beneath them. Avalon is only down the hill, fog covering its waters like a burial shroud. Arthur’s breathing has gone ragged, and his gaze, though pained, is knowing.

It’s too late.

Just hold me, he asks.

And if Arthur is asking, he wants it. If Arthur is dying, destiny doesn’t matter.

A man—Merlin, presumably—beams up at him, a young white dragon perched on his shoulder. Text next to his photograph reads: “Historically, white dragons symbolised hope and renewal. Aithusa was born just this week, right as we began to introduce dragons back into Cairngorms National Park. I know not many of us believe in portents and omens anymore, but I can’t help seeing her birth as a good sign.”

A smile quirks Arthur’s lips, despite wanting to frown at the knowledge that Morgana neglected to tell him exactly who she was working with on this dragon reintroduction initiative.

“You didn’t tell me he looks like that,” Arthur says, and sets the magazine down with a flourish.

Morgana barely glances at him, despite the fact that she shoved the magazine into his hands in the first place.

“I didn’t think you’d be interested, seeing as you were far too busy with your royal hospital visits and royal derby attendances and royal Instagram posting—“

“He is of interest,” Arthur interrupts, because he has no desire to hear Morgana gripe about his schedule for the umpteenth time. “Invite him for tea.”

Morgana’s head snaps up. “Did you just give me an order?”

He winces. “Er…you should invite him. If you like.”

Morgana rolls her eyes and takes a surprisingly violent sip of coffee. “Why don’t you do it? It’s not as though he’ll turn down an invitation from the King. Not many people would.”

“But you actually know him, Morgana,” Arthur definitely-does-not-whine.

She snorts. “All this because you think he’s fit.”

“I do not—“ Arthur’s face burns. “I—respect his contributions to wildlife conservation! After all, we can’t very well be Pendragons if the country is dragon-less.”

“A ploy to keep public favour, then,” Morgana tuts. “I knew it.”

“You are my very worst relation. Well. Worst living relation,” Arthur amends.

Morgana grins, baring teeth Arthur swears are sharpened, and stands.

“He’ll be round tomorrow at four,” she says breezily. “I thought this might happen.”

Arthur’s jaw drops. Her heels click into the distance.

“George,” he says faintly, “fetch the tailor. And draw up a file on Merlin Emrys, if you have the time.”

“I always have time, sir,” George says, and vanishes.

Arthur glances at the magazine. Merlin’s eyes practically twinkle on the front page.

“Dammit.” George will also need to draw up a file on the optics of a homosexual King.

Perhaps Arthur should’ve asked him to fetch the jeweller, too.

Arthur's cheek smarts as he pushes through the doors to his rooms. He shouldn't be surprised; he knew to expect his father's anger after defying orders so blatantly. Really, he's lucky that all he will be left with is a mild bruise—which will no doubt develop a throbbing yellow-purple ache in the coming days, but be easily explained away as a result of sparring with the knights.

Arthur is gearing up for a, in his humble opinion, very well-deserved session of brooding at his desk when a metallic clatter cuts through the droning in his head, alerting him to another presence in the room. He tenses, previously-unfocused eyes honing in on his manservant's bustling frame.

He had, impossibly, forgotten Merlin, in the space between leaving to meet with the king and now.

Last time they’d seen each other, Merlin hadn’t had claws or horns or even a single scale. Arthur hadn’t started screaming yet, but even so Merlin was careful not to touch Arthur’s skin when he examined the scarlet ribbons tied ‘round each of his wrists, making sure they weren’t too tight. Tiny golden runes, glittering in the candlelight, embroidered the edges up and down. Idly, he scraped one with a claw, tracing the rune of binding.

“These aren’t shackles,” Merlin said softly, because the closeness of the room asked it of him. “You’re completely free to move within these walls, you just can’t, um, attack anybody, or run away.”

Arthur watched him with lidded eyes, golden lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His red-bow mouth twisted to say, “I’m your prisoner. I know how it works.”

“Not my prisoner,” Merlin corrected, then winced. “Sorry. I’m speaking for you, so I’m sure the elders will come around quickly.”

With his head tilted just so, Arthur’s golden hair fell across his forehead and concealed the rosebud bruise tender beside his eye. The candles flickered madly, heat and light and dance.

“Your word has more weight than my family’s sins?” Arthur murmured.

Gods, Merlin hadn’t seen him in ages, and now they were so close together, Arthur’s hands curled around the side of his cot and holding on as he leaned forward. His white shift gapped as it draped with his movements, revealing his collarbones, his sternum, his breast. Sweat dewed at the hollow of Merlin’s throat where his own collar was fastened high with a garnet pin.

“People listen to me here,” Merlin said.

With a hum and a final sweep of his eyes up and down Merlin’s face, Arthur retreated, settled himself back against the wall with his arms loose atop his thighs, as if, by virtue of being in a castle, he must be lord of this chamber. That rich scarlet silk was so lovely decorating the delicate structure of his wrists: imagine how it might look crossing his biceps, around his ankles, the thick spanse of his thighs, his lovely throat—

“How novel for you,” said Arthur.

Merlin swallowed to clear his watering mouth, with its sharp points for biting. “Is there anything I can bring you? Meals will be delivered twice a day, but I could—more blankets, or books or something, if you wanted.”

Gold, jewels, hoarded things.

Arthur pretended to think about it, his thumb pressed to his pointed chin where his bottom lip made a shadow. “I’ll allow it,” he said. “Go on, Merlin. Find some way to entertain me.”

Outside Arthur’s room, the air hit bracing cold, and Merlin gulped deep breaths, back against the door. Fumbling, the tiny golden scales dusting his cheeks itching with his blush, Merlin locked Arthur’s chamber with a spell only he could pass. Until the dragon elders came to a decision, Merlin couldn’t do a thing to jeopardize their trust—

He had to be careful, lest temptation be the end of them both.

Merlin doesn't remember why he awoke. There was a reason, he was sure, to not follow the voice he heard. The same reason why he and Arthur were in these woods for the first place, his purpose slipping like gossamer from his fingers.

But now reason fades away as he sees Arthur standing by the water's edge. He turns to Merlin, wearing just his breeches and a white tunic, feet bare in the earth. Even under the pale moonlight, his skin shines golden. His lips curve into a soft smile, the way they only do when there's no one else around.

"Merlin," he says softly. Merlin's eyes track the bob of his throat as Arthur speaks. "Come here."

"What are you doing?" Merlin asks, but he's already obeying, caught in his sun's orbit. Arthur's smile grows as Merlin approaches, and he holds out a hand, beckoning.

"I want to show you something."

Merlin frowns. What on earth could Arthur want to show him, in the middle of the night, deep in the woods? What on earth are they doing here—?

"Oh, don't give me that face," Arthur teases, and catches Merlin's wrist as soon as he's within reach. A hand curls around his skin, hot like a brand. "Just trust me."

"Arthur," Merlin tries again, his mouth going dry. He swallows, like there's something sticky clogged in his throat. "What are you—"

"I know what you want, Merlin," Arthur says. "I know how you look at me."

“Arthur,” he says, and his voice cracks.

“Mer-lin,” Arthur replies, and the tone of his voice makes Merlin want to flip him the bird, but—

But there’s something hesitant and awkward and stupid beneath it, beneath Arthur’s usual dickishness.

His voice grows softer, more stilted with sincerity. “I—don’t want to rule over a kingdom where you’re—where you’re not welcome.” He’s staring at his hands. Merlin feels an entirely different urge now, one that doesn’t involve his middle finger, but instead his mouth. “And I want—to give Morgana a chance.”

Merlin swallows, that old familiar guilt twisting at the thought of her. “She still might not… come back.”

“I know,” Arthur says quietly. “But I want to do this regardless.”

Merlin can’t stand it. He has to touch him.

Arthur sucks in a breath at the first brush of Merlin’s hand to his face. He can feel a light graze of stubble against his callouses, and strokes a helpless thumb across the softer, exhaustion-bruised skin beneath Arthur’s lashes.

Arthur closes his eyes. Merlin presses their foreheads together, overcome.

Merlin finds Arthur slumped over his desk, dead asleep.

The sun has long since set and the candles are nearly spent, but he’s able to make out the contents of some of the pages that have been spread before Arthur: fledging battleplans from Leon annotated by Arthur’s familiar script and inventories of men and supplies. At the center of it all, one of Arthur’s many maps. His hand rests atop it, as though he fell asleep tracing their route.

The horrible sense of dread that Merlin has been harbouring since Mordred fled writhes, but he pushes it down. There’s nothing more to do about Mordred right now. Now, always, what matters is Arthur.

He shakes Arthur’s shoulder gently. “Arthur.”

Arthur lets out a muffled groan.

“Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

Arthur opens one bleary eye, then forces himself to sit up. There are traces of ink on his cheek.

Perhaps another time, Merlin would tease him for it. Right now, though it’s endearing as ever, his heart is too heavy to make light of any of this. The pages before them are a reminder of the hourglass hanging over Merlin’s head and the steady, unstoppable fall of its sands.

“I can’t go to bed,” Arthur says, sounding just as bone-tired and weary as Merlin feels. “We ride for Camlaan in two days.”

The name sends a chill down Merlin’s spine.

Oblivious, Arthur continues. “If we aren’t prepared, we will leave Camelot defenseless. This is our only chance to drive Morgana back. My people–”

“You won’t be any use to your people if you don’t rest,” Merlin says firmly.

Arthur shakes his head, even as he lets Merlin guide him out of his chair. “I need to finish.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Merlin says.

That seems to break Arthur from his single-minded stupor. He frowns skeptically. “You’re going to take care of the Saxons.”

Yes, Merlin thinks. I will do anything within my power if it keeps you safe.

“I’m a man of many talents,” he says instead.

Arthur huffs, amused despite it all. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

They’re quiet as Merlin gets Arthur into his sleep clothes and into bed. He’s just blown out the last of the candles and has a hand on the door when Arthur speaks.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he says. His voice is heavy with exhaustion, but there’s no mistaking the sincerity behind it.

Grief strikes Merlin like a lance. Arthur will never know what it is to live without Merlin, but in two days, Merlin may very well have to learn what it is to live without Arthur. If his magic isn’t powerful enough to bend fate and destiny to his will– if he’s not enough to save Arthur–

No. No, Arthur will be fine. He has to be.

“Sleep well, Sire,” Merlin says, and if Arthur notices that his voice is a bit thick, he doesn’t say anything before Merlin slips into the corridor.

@merthurmicrofic prompt: pages

Saw the prompt… and this little gem decided it needed to come out. 😅

It should’ve been more than a bruise.

Arthur knows the speed, the swiftness of a lance at that range. He’s thrown enough of them himself, struck down stronger men and larger beasts from further distance, caused heavier armor and thicker hide to buckle and fold, watched muscle rend and rip as duller spears tore through it like table knives through tender roast. He’s watched Merlin apply pressure to triaged soldiers, blood seeping spitefully through his fingers, knowing nothing can be done. He sees the split that should be in his skin instead on his manservant’s pale face as Merlin tends to the mottled black and green and yellow flesh over Arthur’s heart with trembling hands, the mask finally cracking under the weight of the lies that built it. 

Arthur feels his words pierce a deep sharp hole in his chest where the blade should be.