ten points to the bastard prince

tagged by @schweetheart. thanks!

my words were: king, rain, smile, banner

king:

Arthur held up a hand. It was a gesture of peace. Of good faith. To stop the flow of Tom's frantic explanations and, perhaps, offer mercy. But Gwen had watched the last king raise his black-gloved hand up high against a white sky: for the attention of a black-hooded man: and make a fist to tell the axe to fall. She bit her lip so hard she tasted iron.

rain:

The rain did not seem to bother Nimueh. She had cast off her outer layers, arms and shoulders bare and blue-white like a drowned body.

smile:

Arthur laughed, and when Merlin dared glance at him he was wearing the boyish smile Merlin remembered from the day they met. At least any frostiness from their lingering argument had thawed; but there was a very real chance the Questing Beast ended that smile for ever with a single bite, and Merlin could think of little else.

banner:

“All this time and you still won’t talk to me?”

The girl drapes herself over a broad, flat stone, her head pillowed on her folded arms. Below the water, Freya knows, her legs are kicking lazily swathed in gauzy golden silk. Her face, sweet with mischief, is tilted up to catch the sun on her pale cheek.

Freya pulls her knees tight to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins. The afternoon warmth ripples all across the lake’s unclouded surface and sloshes through Freya’s veins or what passes for them now. In some part of her the clinging ribbons of the girl’s skirt billow to and fro and Freya wants to snag them, pull them, tangle her up, just because she can.

The other Sidhe never talk to Freya. She is beneath their notice, outside their realm, neither flesh nor spirit: more like the sunlight than the water or the lilies or the mist. But Lady Sophia is an exception, nosy and pestering; and Freya, who never had much company in life and certainly never the company of fairy ladies, hasn’t mustered the courage to answer her endless questions.

“Well, you’re not very nice,” Freya reasons, and at the sound of her voice, Sophia perks up.

“It’s not very nice to ignore people, either,” Sophia teases. “So, what’s your name, rude girl?”

“...Freya.”

Eyes twinkling, Sophia holds out her hand, palm down, for a kiss.

Exile – Season 12, Episode 15 – Finale

“Welcome, everyone, to the final episode of season 12 of Exile. And what a season it was: from seeing inevitable champions fall to unlikely heroes rise, this has been a journey none of us will soon forget.”

Merlin bounced his leg, sheathed tighter than he’d prefer in his suit trousers, and tried not to roll his eyes at Kil’s dramatics. Of course the producers sat him right behind that little asshole, Mordred. The fact that he was sitting here at all instead of in a cell somewhere made Merlin wish they were back on that stupid goddamned island, somewhere the cameras weren’t looking.

“Typically, our first questions go to the season’s victor—and what a victory it was.” Kil gestured to Gwen, across the semicircle of contestants from Merlin and looking radiant in a light blue dress, sweetheart neckline, her curly hair loose and free around her sweet face. Not to mention the sparkling engagement ring newly adorning her finger.

Kil went on, “But, given the circumstances, I think it might be best to start with the breaking news. All right with everyone?”

“Please, Kil, go ahead. I understand completely,” said Gwen.

“Thank you. Arthur,” Kil said his name warmly, like everyone didn’t know he was a cold-blooded reptile beneath that television-ready white-toothed grin. “Truly, we’re all so glad to see you here in good health.”

Merlin trailed his fingers along the berry-bushes and new blossoms followed in his wake. It wasn't the season for berries, but Arthur was well ahead of him and would never notice. Ever since the spell he'd cast in Ealdor, Merlin couldn't help but reach for his magic again and again in small ways everywhere he went, only taking his next breath when he felt the world reaching back.

As boring and distasteful as hunting could be, Merlin would be lying if he said he wasn't pleased to be out of the castle. Work had been relentless ever since his return from Ealdor; kings, it seemed, had an endless amount of papers to organize and meetings to schedule and speeches to compose, and where any regular sort of king might have employed secretaries and scribes to do half that work, Arthur had only Merlin.

Arthur had declared he wanted quail for his supper, so he went out to catch himself one. This was the first hunting trip they'd taken since Arthur's coronation, and there could hardly be a lovelier day for it. The sky was a clear, searing blue; summer still lingered in the world, the scent of warm earth glowing all around them, yet a gentle breeze cooled the air on every breath.

They'd been out since late morning. No quail had yet shown themselves, but Merlin was getting the impression that Arthur, mighty hunter he was, was not looking especially hard. He hadn't ordered Merlin to go out beating the bushes, and he hadn't taken so much as a sporting aim at any of the harvest-fat squirrels or pheasants idling in the trees and brush. More or less, they were out for a stroll, if not precisely arm-in-arm the way he might have strolled with Will when skiving off work. Like a sort of woodland creature himself, Arthur would range and then return to Merlin's side, and his palpable relief at the freedom of the day was wearing off on Merlin.

So it was a fine day, and Merlin was in a fine mood when he wandered into a particularly mossy glade and was hit in the face with a miracle.