@merthurmicrofic | enemy | 780 ish words
It’s just typical, Merlin thinks, that he has yet to make a single friend but has already made an enemy — and a powerful one at that. The King’s son. The Prince of Camelot. How excellent.
The cold is seeping into his legs, his thin breeches leaving him ill-equipped for a night in the cells. His throat has been dry for a while, and he doesn’t know if he will get any water, or any food. Camelot, from what he has seen, does not seem to be the kind of kingdom where prisoners are treated with mercy.
Things could be worse, though. He has spent all of his previous nights sleeping on the floor, after all, and after the burning he witnessed he understands deeply exactly how dire the situation could be. The plan his mother had concocted out of desperate fear, the notion that he would be sent away for safe keeping, seems laughably ironic now.
There is a soft thudding, the sound of footsteps echoing through the cavernous dungeons. A guard, Merlin assumes, possibly with some water, or food, hopefully both.
“It’s all right,” someone says. “I am in no need of assistance. You may leave your posts.”
Oh shit, Merlin thinks, recognising the haughty voice of Prince Arthur, despite the lack of mockery in his tone. He really, really does not want to get beaten up, but he braces himself for violence anyway, standing up and holding his arms up in front of his chest, fists clenched.
Prince Arthur frowns when he turns the corner and sees Merlin. “What are you doing?”
“Defending myself,” Merlin replies, shoring up his stance.
“Defending yourself,” the prince repeats, as if it’s the silliest thing he’s ever heard. “Of course. From what, exactly?”
Merlin looks him up and down. “From you, obviously.”
“From me? What did you think, that I would fight a man being kept in a cell?”
Merlin does not relax his stance. The prince sighs. “God above. Look, Merlin, was it?” Merlin nods. “I was coming by to let you out.”
Merlin’s jaw drops, and his arms fall down to his sides, useless. “You were— what?”
“I spoke with Gaius. He assured me that what happened earlier will never happen again and that you are generally an intelligent and reasonable sort of lad, who will have learned his lesson by now.” His eyes narrow. “This sort of behaviour does rather contradict his point.”
“I’ve learned my lesson!” Merlin agrees, nodding repeatedly, a little manically. “Definitely, absolutely, will not happen again.” Prince Arthur looks at him, expectant, and Merlin realises his error. “Um, Sire,” he adds, smiling as brightly as he possibly can.
The prince looks up, exhaling sharply. What he is looking for, Merlin does not know. Maybe the aforementioned God Above, though Merlin is quite sure that no Gods, of the old religion or the new, exist in a place such as the one they are occupying.
“All right,” the prince says, producing a key. “I’m going to let you out now, but you must go straight to Gaius’ chambers. And you must not tell anyone of this.”
“Of course not, my lord. I know how to keep a secret,” he promises.
Prince Arthur pauses. He looks up, right at Merlin, as though he is looking through him, as though he can see right into his mind and pry all of his secrets out of him.
Merlin grins, trying to appear as non-threatening and guileless as he possibly can. “Not that I have any to keep,” he says. “Just, you know. Hypothetically.”
“Right,” the prince says, sounding as though he means the opposite. “Well this is not hypothetical. No one can know that I freed you.”
“Why is that?” Merlin asks, unable to stop himself.
“Because if anyone finds out I let you out, they will expect the same treatment, and then the whole kingdom will descend into lawlessness.”
“Ahh, of course. Secrecy sounds very sensible, if that is the alternative,” Merlin says. Prince Arthur smiles, and is transformed by it. His whole face seems to soften, and all of a sudden Merlin realises that they are of an age, that the prince can’t be much older than he is. And he’s gorgeous. Undeniably, obviously, startlingly gorgeous. Oh, Merlin thinks. Oh no.
The grating sound of metal upon metal disturbs his train of thought before it can become any more wildly inappropriate. “Go,” the prince urges, voice soft, low, “and do not end up here again.” He steps backwards as the door opens, and then turns, walking towards the stairs that will lead him out of the dungeon.
“I’ll try,” Merlin calls out, taking a deep breath of fresh (well, fresher) air.
“Try very hard,” Prince Arthur calls back. Merlin grins. Believe me, he thinks, I will.
