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for @merthurmicrofic ļø±"enemy" ļø±1190 words ļø±also filling @merlinbingo square "arthur's chambers"
a special thanks to @haloud for helping put together this plot bunny
tw: off-screen attempted sexual assault
It was with no small amount of satisfaction that Arthur returned from Whitespire two days earlier than expected. The assignment to check on Camelot's northernmost outpost mid-January had been a punishment in all but name, and Arthur was happy to have it over with. All for daring to suggest during a council meeting that if Camelot's knights raided their subjects' homes searching for evidence of sorcery and found none, perhaps they could compensate the damage to property and means of livelihood. Mouths were fed with spinning wheels and yokes, after all. And when Arthur had dared argue the point instead of silencing at the first sign of his father's displeasure, well. He was shortly ordered thereafter to ride out to Whitespire, and anyone he took along would be punished as if they had directly defied the king.
But now that was past him and Arthur sighed with exhaustion as he entered his chambers, not caring that he tracked sleet inside. His cloak was soaked, his fingers numb from the winter storm that raged outside. Just short of a blizzard, but not by much.
A sharp bang made Arthur jump, and he turned to see Merlin burst into his chambers and close the door quickly behind him. Excellent, this saved Arthur the trouble of finding him. Merlin made the best fires, with the kind of warmth that filled the entire room, and if Arthur was lucky he could convince Merlin to indulge with him in a different kind of warmth as well. "Perfect timing Merlin, I'm freezingā"
Merlin startled like a frightened rabbit. He spun and pressed himself against the door, fingers splayed flat against the wood. His lips parted, but no sound came out save breathless pants.
Arthur took him in. His tunic was wrinkled, torn along the neckline, and the scrap of fabric Merlin called a neckerchief was conspicuously absent. On that pale neck Arthur saw a mark of familiar red, for he knew all too well the way Merlin's skin quickly turned pink when laved at with lips and teeth. But the most damning evidence was the way Merlin's wide eyes trembled with a fear Arthur had never seen him bear before.
His blood turned as cold as the howling winds outside.
"What happened." There was no sound save for Merlin's shallow breathing. "Merlin, what happened? Who did this?"
Still no response. Arthur's hands shook, his heart pounding as if in the midst of battle. He took two quick steps forward, and then saw Merlin's eyes squeeze shut as he tried to flatten himself against the door behind him.
Arthur went perfectly, utterly, still. "Okay, justā just come here and sit down. Please." He prayed Merlin heard it was a plea, not an order.
But then Merlin's eyes opened, and while he still said nothing, he obeyed. Arthur fought the urge to pull the chair out for Merlin, instead holding himself with a white-knuckled restraint to remain in place. Merlin folded his arms over his chest, and Arthur's chest ached to see how he was trembling. "Didn'tā didn't think you were back yet," Merlin whispered.
"Rode through the night to beat the storm." Arthur was desperate to keep him talking, for some hint of direction. "Merlin, Iā"
Now it was his turn to close his eyes, shuddering. He could no more calm himself than could a dog once it caught the scent of its hunt. "Youā you don't have to say anything, alright? I'llā I'll go deal with this." He would have his answers, one way or another. He would turn the castle upside down until he learned who hadā who had laid their handsā who had violatedā
It didn't matter. Arthur would solve it. And then he would either cast them out for the storm to take them, or he would throw down his gauntlet and duel as was his right. It was fortunate he hadn't even removed his armor and sword yet, so this could be dealt with all the quicker.
But when he took a step towards the door Merlin lunged at him, grabbing onto his arm. "Arthur, no, stop, you can'tā"
"Can't?" Arthur sputtered incredulously. "I bloody well can."
Merlin shook his head frantically. "You need to listen, you don't understandā"
"I don't need to understand," Arthur seethed. "I've seen enough. I don't care what you have to tell me or what you've done to think this is justified, I am the Prince, and there is no one in this castle who will not answer to meā"
Arthur's mouth slammed shut. He realized, at the same time Merlin's eyes dropped down, that there was only one person whose authority superseded Arthur's. A person who would be bold enough to allow or even encourage the abuse of a servant, even when Camelot law prohibited it. A person who could breathe new law for any infraction that displeased him.
He was so foolish to not foresee this. So prideful to think his father's attention would be focused on Arthur's growing confidence and proclivity to challenge, and not the man that had grown steadily closer to his side. Had dumbly relied on Uther's practice of turning a blind eye to whomever Arthur chose to bed as long as it resulted in no bastards or undue favor. Had lied to himself, calling it mutual convenient pleasure, and nothing more.
Arthur had tasted that lie until he could swallow it no longer, and had resolved to do something about it before he was unexpectedly dispatched to Whitespire. And here lay the price of his folly.
He let out a slow, even breath. "Alright. Alright, Merlin. Just stay here, and catch your breath. I'll be back."
"Noā"
"He will want to know I've returned," Arthur said, keeping his voice as steady as he could manage. He slowly put his hand over Merlin's where it clutched at his arm, and squeezed gently when he saw Merlin did not pull away. "I will inform him that I've completed the assignment without incident. That is all. Go ahead and make a fire, and I'll return with some food and water." He pried Merlin's fingers from his arm, soft, holding onto them like he would to help a lady off of her horse. "Bar the door behind me. When I return, I'll give three knocks, so you'll know it's me."
Arthur waited for further protest, but after a strained pause Merlin nodded. His trembling had subsided. Arthur dropped his hand. And then, finding he regretted it, leaned in to press his lips to Merlin's forehead, cradling the back of his head as he did so.
He had never touched Merlin like this outside the cover of arousal, but found it a sweet taste he immediately craved. Arthur pulled back regretfully. "I'll be back," he echoed, hoping Merlin could hear the promise in his words.
Then he turned away before he could grow any more heartsick. His armor was still cold from the winter storm, sword still dutifully sheathed by his side.
Uther Pendragon did not know what it meant to be his son's enemy, but in the coming months, he would learn.
I'm halfway through KrimsonRogue's video on the Age of Scorpius, and I can't stop thinking about how much the central conceit of the entire book, the Scorpio Code, does not work. Krimson points out again and again that until the reveal of Zodiac Turning the enforcement of the Scorpio Code seems to serve zero benefit, and then even after learning about the Code, it still doesn't work-- becuase you're not preventing people from realizing their powers through emotional supression, you're creating a powder keg by abusing and threatening them where they will be constantly terrified and furious-- which are emotions!!!
And it also doesn't make logistical sense, because we see Rieka whipped as a child for showing fear that she'll be hurt (circular), so clearly children aren't exempt from the Code. Are babies? If a two year old Scorpio falls and scrapes their knee, are they executed if they start crying? Also, does no one realize that not displaying emotion is not the same thing as not feeling emotion, which seems to be the important element here to using Zodiac Turning powers? You'd think that the neurodivergent author who intended the Code in part as a commentary on neurodiversity would get that!!!!
All of this to say that I am so fascinated with why Milo insists on having the Code in his book, when it clearly creates more problems than it solves. I think it's because he clearly wants to write a story about a person being silenced and oppressed, and their expression of emotion is where they derive power (see all his tags about this is a book about female rage, oppressive religious governments, and neurodivergency). Which sure, that's a common relatable premise. But then Scorpios should be the lowest class, not the fucking leaders!!! Scorpios should be feared for their potential of Zodiac Turning and strictly regulated and oppressed because of it!
(Not to mention that still doesn't solve the problems of how are you supposed to stop people from feeling emotions entirely, not just not expressing them... maybe if Scorpios were constantly medicated or sedated? Maybe their power is not sourced from feeling emotions, but a certain language or ritual that was stolen from them? But no, then it couldn't be about hashtag female rage.)
I just find the insistence on this clearly broken story element really interesting, which makes me curious about why Milo clung to it so harshly, and how did he justify any of it internally. I don't believe someone who spent all this time thinking about his paracosm wouldn't ever consider what enforcement of the Code looks like, or how expressing emotions aren't the same as feeling them... but maybe he's l got levels of cognitive dissonance I can't understand.
I've talked before about the possibility that someone else besides the Knight (or at least the one we know) made the Dark Fountain connected to Dess's disappearance, but that was just speculation with no real evidence. However, during a conversation elsewhere, someone pointed out something to me that might prove this idea
I decided to go and check, and they (while wrong about Asgore saying it "outright") may be right about that. Asgore's wording is a little vague, but ā going of his eyes and arm ā he can only be talking about his arm hair. You'd think this would be referring to it being different colors in the Light World and Chapter 5's Dark World, except Asgore's arm hair is the exact same color in both: E4BA00
One of three possibilities:
One, Asgore is a tetrachromat that can distinguish shades of yellow better than most people. I guess I can't disprove that, but that seems like a stretch.
Two, this is a genuine, out-of-universe mistake. Admittedly, quite possible, but I'm not sure how it would happen. It'd probably be easier to select all the pixels with the same color and recolor them all than it would be to only recolor the hair on his head and face, especially as it's not continuous. And it'd have to be a consistent mistake given every sprite of Asgore in the Dark World has it.
Three, Asgore doesn't mean it's different from the Light World, but that it's different from the last Dark World he was in, like Susie's Dark World. His vague wording may be an intentional misdirect.
This could be potential proof of the old Dark World being made by a different than the Knight. That said, I feel the need to point out that's not necessarily the case, as it seems that the different lighting is the result of different wills and not just different people. Under (for example) Dess Knight, Dess could've made the fountain before becoming the Knight, so her will changed and that's why the lighting is different.
However, this evidence does prove the Dark Fountains were made by completely different wills at least, and that itself can be considered evidence they were made by different people (arguably, that Dess Knight example could still kinda mean they were made by different people "from a certain point of view.")
this is such a good point! asgore noticing the change in his arm hair of all things is such a weird line esp when his arm hair color is exactly the same as his light world sprite. the only thing i can conclude from why this line exists is to point us that it's a dark world created from a different person (which we know is kris) from the person that created the dark world (a long time ago).
i also personally think it's evidence that the chapter 2 dark world was NOT created by the knight and was once again kris, despite what asgore thinks. twice now in the narrative we've been told that dark worlds take on different colors depending on their creator, but chapters 1-5 dark worlds, other than susie's, show a consistent color palette for the main crew.
so like maybe i am just missing something major but i do not understand the resistance to the idea that all the dark worlds were created by kris??? like post chapter five with asgore's monologue people seem to be jumping to really convoluted theories, wheras i think toby meant for us to understand it quite simply:
we know kris created the chapter 3, 4, and 5 dark worlds, we see them do it. we don't see kris create the chapter 2 dark world, but they sure do leave in the middle of the night to do something with their knife.
i think the vital piece of information comes from chapter 4, where for the first time we see confirmed someone else make a dark world: susie. her dark world has a different color palette than kris', and ralsei explains that dark worlds take on the intent of their creator (or something along those lines-- i couldn't find the exact phrasing while writing this post, so if someone could please drop it i'd be much obliged)
but apart from susie's dark world, every single dark world has had a consistent color palette for the gang's main outfits. making it look visually different for susie's i think is pointing us directly to the fact that all the other dark worlds have been made by the same person.
so now in chapter 5 people are thinking that the chapter 2 dark world was made by someone else, who was also the same person that made the dessapearance dark world... but i think the game means for us to understand very simply that it's always been kris. asgore just doesn't know that.
follow up: i'm also seeing a lot of theories saying that since a black sharp was found at the scene of the fountain that opened "a long time ago", that means that the knight existed then, and therefore dess can't be the knight.
first: asgore never says he saw the knight, and presumably that would be a pretty big clue as to what happened that he wouldn't withhold. he knows a fountain was opened "a long time ago," a black shard was found at that fountain, and a similar black shard was found in the computer lab.
second: we are assuming asgore is right about everything!!!! when we know for a fact he's operating missing a lot of information: he doesn't seem to know about the other fountains or that undyne was captured, we don't even know how much he knows about the shelter. his conclusions drawn from his observations may very well be wrong.
similarly, queen says that the knight made the chapter 2 dark world-- but later admits that she never met the knight. implying that she didn't actually see the knight make the dark world, she just assumed the knight was the one that did it. she spends the whole of chapter 2 unaware of the Roaring, and her actions are based around the assumption that anyone can create a fountain and the Lightners are just being selfish.
toby certainly means for us to gather information from what the characters say! but i don't think we should just... take what characters are saying as fact, especially when it's based on incomplete information.
so like maybe i am just missing something major but i do not understand the resistance to the idea that all the dark worlds were created by kris??? like post chapter five with asgore's monologue people seem to be jumping to really convoluted theories, wheras i think toby meant for us to understand it quite simply:
we know kris created the chapter 3, 4, and 5 dark worlds, we see them do it. we don't see kris create the chapter 2 dark world, but they sure do leave in the middle of the night to do something with their knife.
i think the vital piece of information comes from chapter 4, where for the first time we see confirmed someone else make a dark world: susie. her dark world has a different color palette than kris', and ralsei explains that dark worlds take on the intent of their creator (or something along those lines-- i couldn't find the exact phrasing while writing this post, so if someone could please drop it i'd be much obliged)
but apart from susie's dark world, every single dark world has had a consistent color palette for the gang's main outfits. making it look visually different for susie's i think is pointing us directly to the fact that all the other dark worlds have been made by the same person.
so now in chapter 5 people are thinking that the chapter 2 dark world was made by someone else, who was also the same person that made the dessapearance dark world... but i think the game means for us to understand very simply that it's always been kris. asgore just doesn't know that.
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I just wanted to tell you that your merthur microfics always absolutely blow me away. Every one of them is *chef's kiss* perfection. Thank you for sharing them.
thank you so so much <333 i enjoy writing them and i'm glad you enjoy reading them!!!!
The shrill scream of Arthur's ringtone woke him up. He was still half-blind with sleep when he reached over and fumbled for his phone. "Hello?"
"Arthur?" The whisper was high, breathy. "S-sorry, Iā I forgot what time it was, I d-didn't want to wake you, sorryā"
Arthur blinked, yanking the phone away from his ear to check the contact name. He remembered, now, there was only one person's contact that would ring through at all hours. Lit up underneath the numbers reading 2:27 AM, was Merlin.
Adrenaline shot through Arthur, chasing away all fatigue. "What's wrong? Where are you?"
Like instinct, so many terrible visions shot through Arthur's mind. Merlin, trapped on some clandestine mission and bleeding out from an injury, Merlin, about to walk into a fatal operation he had been ordered to undertake, Merlin, hurt so horrifically that he could do nothing but call out for helpā
"I-I'm at my flat," Merlin said. "I'm fine. I just- it just won't stopā it won't stop it won't go away I don't know what to doā"
"Baby, you're not making any sense," Arthur quickly said, fighting to keep his voice even and calm. He was already to his feet, mindlessly throwing the light on, grabbing whatever clothes he could find. "Breathe for me, tell me what's wrong."
Merlin's spoke next in a rush, like he was forcing everything out on the same exhale. "I just needed it so bad it's been so loud in my head, so loud, and I know you asked for space and I didn't want to bother you so I couldn'tā but Gwaine said it wouldn't be wrongā that you said we were taking a breakā and it just wouldn't stop, and I just wanted, not to be with someone, just to submit, to make all the noise stop. So I-Iā I went back to Knights."
A cold chill twisted in Arthur's stomach as he took in Merlin's words. Merlin had done a scene with someone. But Arthur knew he had no right to the way those words made him feel ill, for he was the one that said he did not know if he could continue this path with Merlin, that he couldn't face being around someone that had lied to him so completely. That he would reach out when he was ready to see Merlin, not the other way around.
And, most cruelly, when Arthur felt sick with fear from the depth of the deception, what he had seen Merlin do, that Merlin should not wait for him.
But none of that mattered now. Merlin had done a scene with someone else, and now he was calling Arthur in the middle of the night, voice trembling with panic. Arthur's free hand curled into a fist. "Did they hurt you? Did you safeword?"
Arthur knew Knights prided itself on high standards and a zero-tolerance policy, but he still wasn't able to relax until the next words tumbled from Merlin. "N-no, no, I didn't, he did. I t-told him to keep going, but," Merlin's voice hitched. "He said he could tell I wasn't into it. Gave me his number and told me to call him to figure something out that worked for the both of us."
Arthur ignored the sick twist of his gut at the knowledge that Merlin had caught the attention of a dom who was clearly interested. Merlin's strangled sentences, his trembling voice, all of that spoke to a drop. But why was he alone if he had done a scene, why was he dropping so horriblyā "Did he give you any aftercare?"
A pause. Then quieter, because even in this state Merlin knew he had broken the rules. "I didn't let him."
Arthur couldn't hold back his curse, and then a second later he heard Merlin let out another sob. "I'm sorryā I knowā but I couldn'tā I didn't want him, just youā"
"It's okay," Arthur quickly soothed. "It's okay."
He dragged a hand over his face. Merlin had called him, Merlin wanted no one but him, Merlin needed him. Against the totality of it all, Arthur found that he could not give a fuck that Merlin had lied to him.
"Baby, I'm going to come over now, alright?" Arthur said, gentle. "If you don't want me to, I need you to tell me. Take a breath and think about it for a moment."
He heard Merlin's shuddered breath, uneven, but deep. Arthur waited, chest aching with pride that Merlin still trusted him enough to listen, even now. His heart hammered as he waited for Merlin's response.
"ā¦please," Merlin whispered.
"I'm on my way," Arthur said, and launched himself out the door.
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 maimedā
There was a tremendous groan, and Arthur's eyes shot open just in time to see a large object slam against the opposite wall. His captors left him, turning to the gaping hole ripped open in the warehouse wall, shouting and and grabbing their weapons. Arthur's vision focused enough to see who was stepping through the makeshift entrance.
Merlin.
Merlin who two days ago had been trussed up and hanging from Arthur's living room under the reinforced steel beam, tipped back with the dreamiest smile on his face, a look of utter contentment that gave Arthur a surge of pride nothing else could ever match. Merlin who Arthur had insisted stay the night, because they had never done suspension bondage before, and Arthur wanted to keep a close eye on him and make sure he didn't drop. Merlin who Arthur drew a bath for in the morning, massaging out the sore muscles and putting lotion on the rope bruises, and treating Merlin to a home cooked brunch for being such a good boy the night before. Merlin who had seen Arthur off with a kiss on his cheek and a reminder of their date on Friday, and Arthur had been so full of joy and satisfaction and pride and love that he immediately left for a run in an attempt to burn off the lingering high.
And then Arthur had been knocked out, and woke up handcuffed to an iron pipe in an abandoned warehouse. And now Merlin was here, gun on his hip, fire at his fingertips, taking a man's life without even a blink.
It all happened rather quickly after that. So quick that Arthur did not notice there were several men dead until his eyes fell on their unmoving bodies, all of them his captors. And maybe there were others with Merlin as well, a bearded man carrying a submachine gun, a wiry one with a sniper rifle, checking the bodies for signs of life with the casual efficiency of trained operatives.
But all he could truly understand was Merlin, who rushed towards Arthur with a cry that did not match the savagery he had just displayed.
"Arthur! Oh, godā" He knelt in front of Arthur, fingers trembling as they reached out. "You're awake, goodā can you hear me? It's alright, I'm here, it's over nowā"
Merlins' hands were feather-soft as they ghosted over Arthur's bruisesā and oh, Arthur knew the technique. He knew what lay beneath the black tactical vest that Merlin wore and the heavy belt on his hips, the love bites and rope burns. He knew every pliant inch of Merlin's body under his touch.
But, as he met eyes that were still flickering with gold, it seemed he did not know Merlin at all.
āYeah, Iām still going to stay. Tomorrowās the day, andāā
āThat sounds more like a reason to go.ā
āI know, but itās already well gone midnight, and Iāve been drinking.ā
āIāll come get you. All you have to do is ask.ā
āYou wouldnāt get here until dawn.ā
āI donāt care.ā
āI know.ā
Forehead pressed to the cool, black window-glass, Arthur closed his eyes and smiled. After the chaos of the evening, the shouting and the accusations and the old familiar wrench of disappointment, his fatherās house now was quiet, near to peaceful. He had Merlinās voice tight and fierce in his ear. Arthur hated to worry him but could revel selfishly in the second-order effects: in being protected, even from afar.
āIāll be heading back first thing tomorrow. Home before youāve time to miss me,ā Arthur said softly.
Merlinās sigh came through the phone receiver like the rustling of sheets, like the intimate friction sound of a hand stroking down an arm, like they might be together and touching and not needing to speak at all.
āThatās not possible,ā he said.
āItās only that I donāt feel right leaving without even seeing him tomorrow,ā Arthur replied.
āYou donāt have to make excusesānot for me, and definitely not for him.ā
It might have been a rebuke if it werenāt said so gently, and if they hadnāt had that exact conversation a hundred times before. Arthur nodded, rolling his head against the window where it lay, even though Merlin couldnāt see him.
āI love you,ā he said.
āI love you too. Sleep well, okay? Call me back if you need to, whatever time.ā
āI will.ā
āOkay. Goodnight.ā
āGoodnight.ā
Still, a heartbeat passed before either of them could stand to hang up; but Arthur steeled himself and did so, bolstered by his commitment to being home again before supper tomorrow. He could stand one more night after all heād stood before. Whatever Merlin feared, Arthur had changed in many ways, and mostly through him. His father did not hold the same absolute power over Arthurās head and heart that he once had.
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 oneās 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. Utherās hairāwell thinning at this point, steely gray as long as Arthur could remember itāstuck up in the back as if heād been running his hand over it non-stop. He looked tired and old.
āPlease sit,ā 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.
āYou know, I blame myself,ā said Uther.
āFatherāā
āPlease, justālisten.ā
Arthur folded his arms tightly across his body, so tense in posture it pulled his shoulders inward. Heād 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 Arthurās 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.
āI 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.ā 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. āI was the one who pushed you, yet when confronted with the man you have becomeāproud and upright and willing to fight for your convictionsāI react poorly. And I am sorry, Arthur.ā
āWaitāwhat?ā
The tension slipped from Arthurās shoulders like a too-large coat, the sort a son might throw on to playact at being his father. He leaned across the space heād 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.
āYou are my son,ā Uther said. āIf 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.ā
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 wouldnāt see it? Utherās 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.
āHe will. He already has,ā Arthur swore damply, with a manly sort of sniffle. āAnd I will. Too. I promise.ā
āGood. Thatās good.ā
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.
āOf course, you will have the wedding here at the house,ā said Uther briskly. āYou 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 valueā¦ā
Arthur would not be needing to call Merlin again that night. His phone could stay in his pocket, the one opposite the ring box heād been carrying for weeks. Tomorrow was Arthurās birthday, and for the first time in his memory, his father had gotten him something he truly wanted.
It wasn't surprising that Merlin's attire hadn't come up as of yet. Merlin's life had been thrown so upside down recently that for a while he could scarcely acknowledge what his own name was, let alone give space for aesthetic concerns. From the moment his crew had been called out to check in on a man passed out along the riverbanks, expecting a drunk, and finding instead a very familiar blonde head and aquiline nose, Merlin's heart had both frozen and exploded, caught high in his throat and never settling back down.
There was Arthur's confusion, and Merlin's joy, but there was also grief and anger and panic and a change that Merlin had spent his centuries praying for and now that he was here, entirely did not know what to do with. He hated the fear in Arthur's eyes when a car drove by on the road, the sorrow when he read through Merlin's history books, the insecurity when he quietly asked Merlin what he was to do in a world that no longer needed kings.
So Merlin's mind is understandably distracted as he dresses, pulling on an oversize sweater that was a gift from a coworker, his favorite flowy maxi skirt, a loose scarf for the early fall chill. And really, it was Arthur's fault too, for he had something to say about the ring in Merlin's lip and the length of his hair and the size of his platform boots, and yet nothing about his dress. But when they left Merlin's terrace house with Arthur charging out the front door and insisting that Merlin was lagging behind, as always, Merlin thought no more of his clothes than what he always wore off-duty.
And how could he, when it felt like the sun had finally returned after an endless winter? He knew the terror of being a man out of time, he saw it reflected so clearly in Arthur's eyes. He was prepared to protect Arthur against it all, to feed him the world in bits and pieces, morsels he could swallow.
Arthur didn't want a morsel. He was wide-eyed at indoor plumbing and email and matcha lattes and antibiotics and travel documentaries and Duolingo and breadmakers. He insisted Merlin take him to the local cafe, the thrift stores, the library, the high-end shops, the parks. He was ravenous (at times literally, when anything containing the taste of vanilla or citrus was involved) to take in the world that fate had thrust him back into.
Merlin could never deny his king anything. Every time Arthur smiled at some new flavor or appliance or disease now neutralized, Merlin felt the sun reflect its warmth on him, too. And it was impossible not to smile back.
Even when he was being a brat.
"Get the one with pine-apple," Arthur orders, looking over Merlin's shoulder at the pastry display. While Merlin's spell smoothed Arthur's Brittonic into modern english, words that didn't exist in his time sometimes came out a bit misshapen. "And three mack-a-rooms."
"Macaroons. And you didn't even eat the ones I bought last time."
"Those tasted odd. Like chewing on a sprig of wheat."
"I told you you wouldn't like pistachio. It's not my fault you couldn't resist the fact that they were bright greenā"
Merlin had first managed to coax Arthur out of his house and into a public place with the promise of food finer than even the most extravagant feasts in Camelot. Ever since then, he hadn't had a single weekend without Arthur demanding some sort of confectionary. And while that certainly had its upsides (Arthur's delight at the taste of passion fruit and the sugary crumbs on his fingers when he insisted Merlin try a piece and the tranquil mornings as they sat the park and every so often Merlin would turn his head and Arthur would already be looking at him, and how long had he beenā?), Merlin wasn't looking forward to seeing how Arthur would handle the dentist in the event of a cavity.
But he categorizes all of that as problems for Future Merlin, who's doing better than he has in quite some time, and right now Present Merlin is only concerned about enjoying his fruit tart. There's a peaceful silence as they leave the bakery, walking over to the park they often visit.
A pair of young men approach them, and Merlin barely notices before one steps in front of him, deliberately, and knocks his shoulder into Merlin's chest.
The tart splats against Merlin's favorite sweater, smearing custard and whipped cream.
"What the fuā" Merlin whirls, expecting to see a pair of sniggering teenage boys. But no, these are men in their mid-twenties, looking at Merlin not with juvenile amusement, but with disgust.
"It's no more of an embarrassment than you already were," one of them spits. "Either dress like a man, or take your freak ass homeā"
He stops talking. Arthur's stepped forward, closer than most people are socially comfortable with. "What is the meaning of this?"
It's not a question. The other man is taller than Arthur, and clearly thinks that gives him an advantage. "What are you, his boyfriend? You into that, you sick fuck?"
Merlin's seen enough of Arthur's body language to know that he's about to throw a punch. He doesn't stop it.
Arthur hits hard, not just with his arm muscle, but with his body weight too, the way a boxer would. The man's head whips to the side, momentum nearly knocking him off his feet. Arthur aimed for the jaw, not the noseā which means the man instead goes down, out cold.
The other man for half a second looks stupid enough to charge at Arthur, but then his pants fall down around his ankles. He tries to take a step forward, and instantly falls down, not quite catching himself fast enough to avoid smacking his face against the cobblestone.
Arthur's got the look in his eye that indicates he'd like to deliver them to the police station himself, but people are already starting to give curious looks from a distance, and memory spells always leave Merlin with a migraine. "Come on," he hisses, grabbing Arthur's wrist and quickly dragging him away.
Arthur waits until they've ducked into a little grove at the park to gently pry his wrist free, although his face is all thunder. "They should be arrested. They assaulted youā"
"Technically, you're the one that assaulted them," Merlin points out. Arthur still didn't quite grasp that dueling wasn't an acceptable practice to resolve disputes. "It's not worth the trouble."
"They were worse than Saxons," Arthur retorts, aghast. "Utterly barbaricā" And then he quiets, jaw working in the way such that Merlin knows something more is coming, something uncomfortable. "Iā¦ I don't understand. What was it that made them target you?" Then, before Merlin can try to distract him from the crucial detail, "They said you didn'tā¦ dress like a man?"
Merlin goes to cross his arms over his chest, until he realizes his sweater is still covered in custard. "They're just knobheads. Theyā¦." Merlin chews his lip, catching the cool metal of his ring. Thinking about what words he can say that wouldn't reveal more than he was ready for. "They think of dresses and skirts as woman's clothes, and don't think men should wear them."
"I see."
Merlin can't read anything in Arthur's face, and it's making his pulse quicken. "Did youā¦ did you not wonder, before now? About what, what I wear?"
"I've seen plenty a wizened elder in a tunic. At first I assumed you were merely dressing your age."
Merlin rolls his eyes, but his hands still uneasily fidget by his side. He knows Arthur's deflecting. "But then?"
"I assumed things were different now." Now it's Arthur's turn to avoid Merlin's eyes, putting his hands over his pockets and looking out over the park. With the soft breeze, the background shrieks of children laughing, the melody of quiet conversation, Merlin could almost close his eyes and imagine himself back home. Almost. "Many things are."
"Things are different," Merlin says. "Most people used to think like those two men. Now there are a lot fewer of them."
Arthur nods, still looking over the park. Merlin watches the clench in his jaw, and waits. "Youā¦ you never wore women's clothes in Camelot. Did you want to?"
"Never occurred to me. It didn't untilā" He swallows down the word hundreds, doesn't want the reminder of how much time there is between himself and everyone he's ever loved. "āquite some time had passed. And then I started, and," he shrugs, aiming for casual, "'s comfortable."
"As in more convenient?"
1500 years, and Merlin's still never braced for when Arthur's gaze zeros in, all of the attention of a hunter finding the weak spot. Like he can see where the edges of Merlin's defenses don't quite line up. Merlin takes a deep breath. "I can change my body however I wish. I can be a man. I can be a woman. I can be a bird, a cat, a snake, I once spent two decades as an oak tree. Trying to make myself match those around me only made me more aware of how different I was. So eventually I justā¦ did as I pleased."
He's watching Arthur so carefully, looking for a twitch, a frown, anything that indicates he's stumbled too far, where not even Arthur's innate compassion can understand him. He wouldn't be upset, as long as Arthur wasn't cruel about it. He's long since learned to take whatever scraps he can salvage.
But after a moment Arthur just nods, looking back at Merlin. "I'm sorry about your sweater." He takes a step to Merlin, gingerly grabbing the hem to inspect the fabric. "Do you think it can be cleaned?"
Merlin's gaze darts around to make sure no one's looking their way, and then his eyes flash gold as the stain on the sweater disappears. "Good as new."
"I used to wonder how you always got even the worst stains out of my clothes," Arthur grumbles. "Do you want to head home? We don't have toā¦."
Merlin rolls his eyes. "I may not be a man, but I'm not a damsel. I don't need coddling after losing my tart."
"Well," says Arthur. He lets go of the sweater, but he doesn't step back. His hand moves slowly, courageously, to Merlin's hand hanging by his side. Their knuckles brush. "If you ask nicely I might be persuaded to split my pastry with you."
Merlin slowly curls his hand around Arthur's own, and watches as Arthur's cheeks turn pink. His gaze doesn't stray from Merlin's however, and Merlin thinks he'll never meet a braver man. "Even the macaroons?"
"Don't get greedy," Arthur retorts, and pulls Merlin along into the light of day.
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It wasn't surprising that Merlin's attire hadn't come up as of yet. Merlin's life had been thrown so upside down recently that for a while he could scarcely acknowledge what his own name was, let alone give space for aesthetic concerns. From the moment his crew had been called out to check in on a man passed out along the riverbanks, expecting a drunk, and finding instead a very familiar blonde head and aquiline nose, Merlin's heart had both frozen and exploded, caught high in his throat and never settling back down.
There was Arthur's confusion, and Merlin's joy, but there was also grief and anger and panic and a change that Merlin had spent his centuries praying for and now that he was here, entirely did not know what to do with. He hated the fear in Arthur's eyes when a car drove by on the road, the sorrow when he read through Merlin's history books, the insecurity when he quietly asked Merlin what he was to do in a world that no longer needed kings.
So Merlin's mind is understandably distracted as he dresses, pulling on an oversize sweater that was a gift from a coworker, his favorite flowy maxi skirt, a loose scarf for the early fall chill. And really, it was Arthur's fault too, for he had something to say about the ring in Merlin's lip and the length of his hair and the size of his platform boots, and yet nothing about his dress. But when they left Merlin's terrace house with Arthur charging out the front door and insisting that Merlin was lagging behind, as always, Merlin thought no more of his clothes than what he always wore off-duty.
And how could he, when it felt like the sun had finally returned after an endless winter? He knew the terror of being a man out of time, he saw it reflected so clearly in Arthur's eyes. He was prepared to protect Arthur against it all, to feed him the world in bits and pieces, morsels he could swallow.
Arthur didn't want a morsel. He was wide-eyed at indoor plumbing and email and matcha lattes and antibiotics and travel documentaries and Duolingo and breadmakers. He insisted Merlin take him to the local cafe, the thrift stores, the library, the high-end shops, the parks. He was ravenous (at times literally, when anything containing the taste of vanilla or citrus was involved) to take in the world that fate had thrust him back into.
Merlin could never deny his king anything. Every time Arthur smiled at some new flavor or appliance or disease now neutralized, Merlin felt the sun reflect its warmth on him, too. And it was impossible not to smile back.
Even when he was being a brat.
"Get the one with pine-apple," Arthur orders, looking over Merlin's shoulder at the pastry display. While Merlin's spell smoothed Arthur's Brittonic into modern english, words that didn't exist in his time sometimes came out a bit misshapen. "And three mack-a-rooms."
"Macaroons. And you didn't even eat the ones I bought last time."
"Those tasted odd. Like chewing on a sprig of wheat."
"I told you you wouldn't like pistachio. It's not my fault you couldn't resist the fact that they were bright greenā"
Merlin had first managed to coax Arthur out of his house and into a public place with the promise of food finer than even the most extravagant feasts in Camelot. Ever since then, he hadn't had a single weekend without Arthur demanding some sort of confectionary. And while that certainly had its upsides (Arthur's delight at the taste of passion fruit and the sugary crumbs on his fingers when he insisted Merlin try a piece and the tranquil mornings as they sat the park and every so often Merlin would turn his head and Arthur would already be looking at him, and how long had he beenā?), Merlin wasn't looking forward to seeing how Arthur would handle the dentist in the event of a cavity.
But he categorizes all of that as problems for Future Merlin, who's doing better than he has in quite some time, and right now Present Merlin is only concerned about enjoying his fruit tart. There's a peaceful silence as they leave the bakery, walking over to the park they often visit.
A pair of young men approach them, and Merlin barely notices before one steps in front of him, deliberately, and knocks his shoulder into Merlin's chest.
The tart splats against Merlin's favorite sweater, smearing custard and whipped cream.
"What the fuā" Merlin whirls, expecting to see a pair of sniggering teenage boys. But no, these are men in their mid-twenties, looking at Merlin not with juvenile amusement, but with disgust.
"It's no more of an embarrassment than you already were," one of them spits. "Either dress like a man, or take your freak ass homeā"
He stops talking. Arthur's stepped forward, closer than most people are socially comfortable with. "What is the meaning of this?"
It's not a question. The other man is taller than Arthur, and clearly thinks that gives him an advantage. "What are you, his boyfriend? You into that, you sick fuck?"
Merlin's seen enough of Arthur's body language to know that he's about to throw a punch. He doesn't stop it.
Arthur hits hard, not just with his arm muscle, but with his body weight too, the way a boxer would. The man's head whips to the side, momentum nearly knocking him off his feet. Arthur aimed for the jaw, not the noseā which means the man instead goes down, out cold.
The other man for half a second looks stupid enough to charge at Arthur, but then his pants fall down around his ankles. He tries to take a step forward, and instantly falls down, not quite catching himself fast enough to avoid smacking his face against the cobblestone.
Arthur's got the look in his eye that indicates he'd like to deliver them to the police station himself, but people are already starting to give curious looks from a distance, and memory spells always leave Merlin with a migraine. "Come on," he hisses, grabbing Arthur's wrist and quickly dragging him away.
Arthur waits until they've ducked into a little grove at the park to gently pry his wrist free, although his face is all thunder. "They should be arrested. They assaulted youā"
"Technically, you're the one that assaulted them," Merlin points out. Arthur still didn't quite grasp that dueling wasn't an acceptable practice to resolve disputes. "It's not worth the trouble."
"They were worse than Saxons," Arthur retorts, aghast. "Utterly barbaricā" And then he quiets, jaw working in the way such that Merlin knows something more is coming, something uncomfortable. "Iā¦ I don't understand. What was it that made them target you?" Then, before Merlin can try to distract him from the crucial detail, "They said you didn'tā¦ dress like a man?"
Merlin goes to cross his arms over his chest, until he realizes his sweater is still covered in custard. "They're just knobheads. Theyā¦." Merlin chews his lip, catching the cool metal of his ring. Thinking about what words he can say that wouldn't reveal more than he was ready for. "They think of dresses and skirts as woman's clothes, and don't think men should wear them."
"I see."
Merlin can't read anything in Arthur's face, and it's making his pulse quicken. "Did youā¦ did you not wonder, before now? About what, what I wear?"
"I've seen plenty a wizened elder in a tunic. At first I assumed you were merely dressing your age."
Merlin rolls his eyes, but his hands still uneasily fidget by his side. He knows Arthur's deflecting. "But then?"
"I assumed things were different now." Now it's Arthur's turn to avoid Merlin's eyes, putting his hands over his pockets and looking out over the park. With the soft breeze, the background shrieks of children laughing, the melody of quiet conversation, Merlin could almost close his eyes and imagine himself back home. Almost. "Many things are."
"Things are different," Merlin says. "Most people used to think like those two men. Now there are a lot fewer of them."
Arthur nods, still looking over the park. Merlin watches the clench in his jaw, and waits. "Youā¦ you never wore women's clothes in Camelot. Did you want to?"
"Never occurred to me. It didn't untilā" He swallows down the word hundreds, doesn't want the reminder of how much time there is between himself and everyone he's ever loved. "āquite some time had passed. And then I started, and," he shrugs, aiming for casual, "'s comfortable."
"As in more convenient?"
1500 years, and Merlin's still never braced for when Arthur's gaze zeros in, all of the attention of a hunter finding the weak spot. Like he can see where the edges of Merlin's defenses don't quite line up. Merlin takes a deep breath. "I can change my body however I wish. I can be a man. I can be a woman. I can be a bird, a cat, a snake, I once spent two decades as an oak tree. Trying to make myself match those around me only made me more aware of how different I was. So eventually I justā¦ did as I pleased."
He's watching Arthur so carefully, looking for a twitch, a frown, anything that indicates he's stumbled too far, where not even Arthur's innate compassion can understand him. He wouldn't be upset, as long as Arthur wasn't cruel about it. He's long since learned to take whatever scraps he can salvage.
But after a moment Arthur just nods, looking back at Merlin. "I'm sorry about your sweater." He takes a step to Merlin, gingerly grabbing the hem to inspect the fabric. "Do you think it can be cleaned?"
Merlin's gaze darts around to make sure no one's looking their way, and then his eyes flash gold as the stain on the sweater disappears. "Good as new."
"I used to wonder how you always got even the worst stains out of my clothes," Arthur grumbles. "Do you want to head home? We don't have toā¦."
Merlin rolls his eyes. "I may not be a man, but I'm not a damsel. I don't need coddling after losing my tart."
"Well," says Arthur. He lets go of the sweater, but he doesn't step back. His hand moves slowly, courageously, to Merlin's hand hanging by his side. Their knuckles brush. "If you ask nicely I might be persuaded to split my pastry with you."
Merlin slowly curls his hand around Arthur's own, and watches as Arthur's cheeks turn pink. His gaze doesn't stray from Merlin's however, and Merlin thinks he'll never meet a braver man. "Even the macaroons?"
"Don't get greedy," Arthur retorts, and pulls Merlin along into the light of day.
"The people will be singing tales of the one-footed King of Camelot," Emrys said, in a sort of lilting tone that made Arthur both want to strangle him and break into a grin. "Long may he hobbleā"
"smile"
"Oh, hello Arthur," Gwen said, looking up from the pile of correspondence she was sorting through. "Did you manage to get a break from the council, or am I meant to be hiding you in here?"
Arthur's lips twitched into a smile. "If I said the latter would you allow me to squeeze into your closet?"
"Might find that a bit cramped, my lord," Gwen said with a smile of her own. "You'd have to go under my desk."
Feel free to join in! Find the words I provide in one or several WIPs, and quote a sentence or two that contain them.
Words: gold, fury, mock, storm.
Tagging: @bakerharrystyles @aemelia, @diaryofatrekker and @haloud āŗļø
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