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I had a whole post drafted about how this bad of a headache would probably send non chronic pain people to the hospital but it turns out that this bad of a headache has sent me to the hospital too, so.
I had a whole post drafted about how this bad of a headache would probably send non chronic pain people to the hospital but it turns out that this bad of a headache has sent me to the hospital too, so.
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A crow's caw foresees it all, the dark omen echoing among the trees. Llamrei hits a hoof into the hard ground, but she's too well trained to break stance further.
Arthur pats her on the neck, grateful for the patience and a bit sorry for dragging her out of her stall for this fruitless hunt. Autumn, he has to admit, has well taken over the woods and hidden away all the game, and is now in the business of dragging the sun below the horizon as quickly as it can.
In the echoes, another voice rises in snaps and hisses. Arthur turns slowly towards it, already expecting the lunch wine and sore defeat to have shortened a few knights' tempers into barbs against friends for a lack of better targets.
He only has time to see the horse whip fall, from up high above Sir Udolf's shoulder to down heavy unto Merlin's raised face.
The resounding crack of leather against flesh scares several birds into flight; perhaps the crow with them, all ruffled in righteous offense.
Llamrei follows the orders of his thighs and turns around, and Arthur docks, pulls and releases with his eyes never straying from their target.
Udolf yelps like a bitch when the arrow buries itself in the trunk of the tree at his back, having flown neatly between his face and his once again lifted arm.
Arthur is not as good with a bow as he is with his sword, but he has honed the skill in his hunts. Pity.
When Udolf turns his way, he is pale as snow; when he sees who took the shot, he grows green.
"You strike a man of Camelot again-" Arthur speaks simply, in an even tone that disturbs no bird, "-and I will not miss."
Udolf was Agravaine's man before his treason. He came to Camelot on a chance to prove himself when Arthur took over Tintagel's lands and posted his own men in the castle.
He has lost his chance to the King's mercy, and by the look in his eyes he knows it.
At the horse's side, Merlin has gathered himself to all four and is pushing himself to one knee. George of all people has reached him already and offers an arm for him to stand, though he's waved away out of nothing but personal dislike, Arthur assumes.
On his feet, the man stumbles a step further away from Udolf's horse before looking up at the knight.
The contempt on his face is well seen even from a distance, as is the angry stripe marking from the temple down the cheekbone all the way to the corner of the upper lip, where the back of Merlin's wrist presses hard and is stained red.
Only tyrants kill above the law, without trial, in anger. Arthur tells himself so again and again, letting Llamrei turn them away from the scene and lead him from patch to patch of late season mint as the sun sets on a finished hunt.
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Itâs a door. Made of sturdy oak but rough workmanship because the carpenter clearly wasnât going to bother putting too much refinement in a storage room door at the very top of a tower where no one of importance would ever see it. The craftsman didnât know at the time that the place would one day also serve as a bedroom.
Merlinâs room.
Ergo, Merlinâs door.
Well, no, it is also a little bit Arthurâs door, because it is situated within Arthurâs castle, and so in fact, it is very much Arthurâs door too. The same way that Merlin is Arthurâs. Manservant. Arthurâs manservant.
A suspicious sound filters through the door, bringing Arthurâs attention back to the delicate matter at hand.
Then, more distinct, another moan. Hoarse and indecent in its abandon. Belonging to a manâs manly chest that Arthur already loathes.
It is followed by a chuckle, spilling free and amused from the aforementioned manservant. A sound Arthur has always cherished most secretly â most intimately. A sound that should, in all fairness, belong to Arthur too.
Then there are indiscernible murmurs, coming through the wood, full of cheek and light teasing.
Then another more theatrical moan, positively obscene now, but punctuated by a startled gasp and a curse.
The leather of Arthurâs gloves squeaks as his fists tighten involuntarily.
âMERLIN?â Arthur calls disingenuously as the door that belongs to him flies open under the blunt force of his unsubtle jealousy.
Both Merlin and Gwaine look towards the doorway from the crude little bed â the former surprised, the latter smug as shit.
Merlin straightens, hands sleek with the rubbing oil he was mercilessly applying to Gwaineâs rumpled shoulder.
âYou bellowed, Sire?â he asks dryly.
Yessss, finally a @merthurmicrofic prompt I can use! đ
prompt: door
word count: 289
A crow's caw foresees it all, the dark omen echoing among the trees. Llamrei hits a hoof into the hard ground, but she's too well trained to break stance further.
Arthur pats her on the neck, grateful for the patience and a bit sorry for dragging her out of her stall for this fruitless hunt. Autumn, he has to admit, has well taken over the woods and hidden away all the game, and is now in the business of dragging the sun below the horizon as quickly as it can.
In the echoes, another voice rises in snaps and hisses. Arthur turns slowly towards it, already expecting the lunch wine and sore defeat to have shortened a few knights' tempers into barbs against friends for a lack of better targets.
He only has time to see the horse whip fall, from up high above Sir Udolf's shoulder to down heavy unto Merlin's raised face.
The resounding crack of leather against flesh scares several birds into flight; perhaps the crow with them, all ruffled in righteous offense.
Llamrei follows the orders of his thighs and turns around, and Arthur docks, pulls and releases with his eyes never straying from their target.
Udolf yelps like a bitch when the arrow buries itself in the trunk of the tree at his back, having flown neatly between his face and his once again lifted arm.
Arthur is not as good with a bow as he is with his sword, but he has honed the skill in his hunts. Pity.
When Udolf turns his way, he is pale as snow; when he sees who took the shot, he grows green.
"You strike a man of Camelot again-" Arthur speaks simply, in an even tone that disturbs no bird, "-and I will not miss."
Udolf was Agravaine's man before his treason. He came to Camelot on a chance to prove himself when Arthur took over Tintagel's lands and posted his own men in the castle.
He has lost his chance to the King's mercy, and by the look in his eyes he knows it.
At the horse's side, Merlin has gathered himself to all four and is pushing himself to one knee. George of all people has reached him already and offers an arm for him to stand, though he's waved away out of nothing but personal dislike, Arthur assumes.
On his feet, the man stumbles a step further away from Udolf's horse before looking up at the knight.
The contempt on his face is well seen even from a distance, as is the angry stripe marking from the temple down the cheekbone all the way to the corner of the upper lip, where the back of Merlin's wrist presses hard and is stained red.
Only tyrants kill above the law, without trial, in anger. Arthur tells himself so again and again, letting Llamrei turn them away from the scene and lead him from patch to patch of late season mint as the sun sets on a finished hunt.
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