metrops | ( once and future king. )

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( once and future king. )

an arthur pendragon open post

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[ birthdays aren't something arthur is particularly fond of anymore. after the events of last year ... he'd rather not acknowledge the anniversary of his birth at all. unfortunately, being the king that he is, and having the court that he does, it isn't easily forgotten or overlooked. he shouldn't expect any less, the attempts in the days prior to liven his spirits, the efforts of the knights to rouse him with sword and joust alike. it just won't be the same, not without his father. there's a integral part of arthur missing from the day now, and it's a part of him he'll never get back. isn't it his fault, despite what everyone tries to reassure him? his father was wounded protecting him because he failed to protect himself -- how much had he had to drink that night? he can't remember -- and his father died because he resorted to the likes of sorcery. there's nothing he can do to change that. he may be his father's son, but he isn't his father. he never will be. ]

[ he does expect, of course, that merlin will be as useless as always, whether it's the anniversary of his birth or not. there's part of arthur that feels comforted by this, because at least some things never change. it isn't anything he would ever admit, but he's glad to have at least one constant in his life -- one constant annoyance, one constant bumbling fool he can't seem to get rid of (and, honestly, wouldn't want to; no one really compares to merlin, somehow). arthur might find him charming if he weren't such an idiot all the time -- or, maybe, his complete lack of any skills whatsoever is charming in a way that no one else could ever pull off. if merlin were, indeed, anyone else, arthur would have fired him ages ago. and yet ... merlin is merlin, and so he remains, a loyal friend, a lazy servant, predictable as always but still sometimes surprising, in ways that make arthur question if there is actually more to merlin than he lets on. ]

[ the light of the sun leaks into arthur's bedroom unwanted. he can hear the bustle of preparation for the day's celebration from outside the window. he protests the sun, the excitement, the general existence of merlin anywhere near him. perhaps, he manages to protest the whole morning away, as if it knows exactly how much arthur dislikes it. the afternoon, he fears, will be worse, and far more torturous than having to put up with merlin all morning -- but merlin insists there's something gravely important to be seen in the woods and that only arthur should see it. arthur can't imagine what merlin is possibly going on about, but he follows mostly out of curiosity and a desperate need to get away from the castle and the overwhelming attention he'd be sure to receive there. let them have their fun in his name, let them celebrate their king in his absence. arthur would rather they be merry without him than be miserable with him. ]

[ it isn't long before arthur questions if merlin even knows where they're going, impatient and unsatisfied by the lack of anything interesting or even vaguely out of place. the woods are as they always are, if not quieter today as if to pay respects to the king before him, despite the bloodshed and misery their boughs have seen, the many lives felled on their roots. arthur nearly refuses when merlin tells him to close his eyes -- what thing of grave importance would require his eyes to be closed before seeing it? and why should he do anything merlin says when merlin never does anything he says? -- but eventually he sighs and complies, allowing merlin to direct him from behind, just this once. he makes to certain to insist it won't ever happen again. ]

[ they stop, and arthur can't tell where they are. his eyes open. he stares, slightly baffled, slightly touched, mostly suspicious. ] Merlin. [ it sounds accusatory, as it usually does when something is merlin's fault (which is usually always). he can't quite make out what this whole thing is supposed to be, the set up of some kind of picnic in the middle of a clearing overlooking a lake. merlin couldn't have possibly... ] What -- [ he gestures in front of him ] -- is this? [ he might look impressed if he wasn't too busy looking disturbed. ]

[ the modern age is curiously baffling. despite the fact that arthur grew up in it, there are things that he finds himself particularly inept at. smartphones, namely, are an invention arthur hates, unlike literally everyone else around him who isn't above the age of sixty. he feels like an old (old, old) soul trapped in a young man's body, like he isn't of this era, and yet he knows that he is. he must be. he knows his date of birth, the fifth of april in the year nineteen hundred and ninety, and still -- he doesn't feel like he belongs here, in this time, in this place of modern conveniences and technological marvels. if he didn't know better, if he didn't understand the advances of science and technology, he might call smartphones and televisions and cars the works of some kind of sorcery. but even the thought (the word sorcery) is ridiculous. who does he think he is, some medieval king? ]

[ he's heard the jokes before, was notoriously known as king arthur in college for his reputation of holding round table study sessions and his seemingly innate ability to lead any group project to victory. still, he isn't actually a medieval king, despite how the nickname might have stuck at one point. then again, as the son of the english prime minister, he might as well be royalty -- or the closest thing to it without actually being part of the royal family. a noble, he thinks, if this were anything like the days of yore. which, of course, it isn't. this is the twenty-first century and arthur should really get with it already. all his friends think it's strange how much he dislikes phones and computers despite understanding their necessity. he still uses them, he just wishes people weren't so codependent on the internet or the little voice that talks to them on their phone. whatever happened to human-to-human contact? he knows he sounds like an old fogey, like someone's grandpa, but he likes to think he just appreciates the simpler things in life -- going outdoors, handwriting letters, not relying so heavily on google and apple to dictate his life. ]

[ his friends frequently tell him he should just go live at a renaissance festival, if he enjoys cutting himself off from everything modern so much. (when he can, he prefers candles to electricity, except in the winter when even he admits it's a blessing to have heat.) most of the time, he ignores what his friends have to say -- they mean well, but they don't really understand. arthur doesn't either, to be honest, but he does understand his fondness for the summer home his father owns out in the country, not too far from a small town, where no one knows who he is and doesn't particularly care. sometimes, he feels like he dreamt about something like this, but he can never quite recall when, or if it was a dream at all. it feels almost like a memory, when he spends his days in the gallant halls of his father's newly renovated manor, though arthur wishes it was more like the original, without all the conveniences of electricity and wifi and central air conditioning. ]

[ still, it's nothing without people to fill it, halls too wide and rooms too numerous for just one person -- so arthur invites his friends for the summer, just so the manor won't feel so empty. he doesn't really expect them to come, given how far away it is from anything considered civilization that they're used to. arthur grew up in london, but he's never really been that fond of it -- maybe it's too metropolitan for him, too many people, too much traffic, too many lights. there aren't exactly woods in london, either, which arthur feels like he craves. he's always felt holed up in the city, with hardly a sight to see that wasn't built by man. innovation is certainly something to be marveled, but mountains, forests, rivers, rolling hills and sweeping valleys -- the natural beauties of england seem more like home to him than anywhere else. luckily for his friends, though, there's a major city about an hour away from the manor if they get too bored or restless. ]

[ the third day of the summer, arthur finds himself wandering the town closest to the manor alone, feeling an odd sense of comfort from the barely paved roads and the rustic architecture. maybe they've never had the money to do extensive renovations, or maybe they don't want to pave and build over the ruralness, the historic feel of the town. arthur can't blame them, really. it's probably the sign outside the coffee shop that gets his attention more than the coffee shop itself -- he doesn't really need any coffee in the middle of summer, but he feels almost compelled to go inside. somehow, he thinks, it isn't the sign after all, but the barista himself that truly draws his attention. it's like deja vu, an almost overwhelming sense of familiarity about him -- merlin, reads his nametag. his friends would surely joke they were meant to be, arthur and merlin, and arthur would surely punch them. it's arthur and guinevere, anyway, you prats, he'd tell them. ]

[ and yet -- he can't help but feel drawn to him, like they've known each other for ages and arthur's just forgotten. it doesn't make any sense; arthur never forgets a face. there's only a few other people in the shop, already tended to and satisfied. arthur stands far enough back from the counter to make it look like he's considering something, but mostly he's trying to discreetly figure out where he could possibly know merlin from. eventually, he steps closer, a shrug to his shoulders. he hasn't accepted defeat, but he's accepted that staring isn't going to do him any good. ] You know, I'll leave it to you. Surprise me, Merlin. [ hearing merlin's name in his own voice nearly startles him, frustrates him in a way he can't describe. it's like an itch he can't scratch, the feeling of knowing and not knowing simultaneously. surely, it's nothing. but what if it is? ]

( he's been waiting so long for arthur, he never thought he'd just show up at his door.

time keeps passing, and merlin passes around with it -- every thirty years or so, gathering up his few select possessions and heading out in whatever way the breeze takes him. for a man with an unchanging face, it's best to avoid striking up curiosities, and he supposes that it's fitting, too, because no place will ever be home the way camelot was. if he closes his eyes, he can still imagine the scents of the gaius' home remedies cooking in a cauldron just outside his bedroom door, or he can feel the bright sun fitting his face through king arthur's bedroom chambers, the way the modern sun doesn't ever seem to shine quite as brightly.

but it was all long, long ago. the seasons keep changing and merlin loses sight of time, for a man not plagued by sleep, not fearing the chase of death, only ever ashamed to admit that he was the downfall of the very thing that gave his long, miserable life promise. there doesn't go a day when merlin doesn't think about him, about the adventures they shared and the ones that were robbed from them. he tries hard not to think about the end of it all, about pushing his forehead against arthur's in a fit of pitiful sadness, feeling the life of his escape through him and travel on his way back to avalon. once and future king, of course, but even the promise of arthur's return doesn't stop the heartbreak from being real, doesn't change the fact that merlin indirectly murdered his destiny, and more importantly, his best friend.

he keeps moving, keeping a cat for company in most places he goes -- the coffee shop was her idea, merlin insists, frequently sharing conversations with her that he wouldn't otherwise have, because any normal person wouldn't believe the whispers of magic from his fingertips, the fairytales that were, at one point, the reality of his life. when camelot was around they at least accepted that magic existed. people forgot, somewhere along the line, that magic is as natural as the trees sprouting from the ground, or the rush of a riverbed into the ocean. still, he keeps it quiet, keeps it sure, buys his shop with money he earned through the other years of working endlessly -- as always, he uses his magic for arthur, and arthur alone.

maybe that's a small stretch. very small.

when arthur was reborn, merlin felt a tugging on his heartstrings that couldn't be properly named -- he knows it now, though, upon watching him walk into his shop, because he gets the same feeling again, his heart pining for one that used to be apart of him, his eternal best friend, which the fates of death and life couldn't separate for too long. i'd wait it all again, he thinks, looking at him, watching him. every hour of doubt, every second of sadness, every time he had to bury a friend while remaining immortal -- it was all worth it to see him again, as dashingly handsome as merlin can remember. the times have not always been kind, of course, but he couldn't forget arthur's face if he tried -- every bone in his body, every twist and turn of his muscles. merlin remembers all of it, remembers the hug of his armor against him, suited and a perfect fit, remembers letting his fingers linger where they shouldn't, speakings words that were surely out of line for a servant, but arthur allowed him to speak them, anyway. because, at the end of his days -- at least, merlin is pretty sure -- they were friends before they were anything else. arthur, a king, and merlin, a servant. best friends.

he aches when he sees him, eyes wide and welled up with the tears he hasn't thought to shed in a thousand years. it hurts, to gaze upon his mighty figure, and remember the painful things, the way merlin held him as he died, sobbed hideously on his shoulder until he was all dried out, and then a little bit more. arthur has always been more than a friend, more than a king. he is the king, the once and future, the end to all conflict and the bringer of peace.

more than that, he's merlin's soulmate, his destiny. merlin yearns to touch him, to wrap his arms around his neck, to breathe him in and wonder if he smells just the same as he did. )

Wha -- O-Oh -- oh, yes, of course.

( he stutters, the trance broken. his name on arthur's mouth makes him shudder, the hairs on his arm stood up, and he has to wonder for a minute just what he remembers, until he glances at the name tag he has at his chest. it breaks his heart, in a way, but he sucks it up because that's what he's good at. the sound of his name keeps echoing in the empty containers of merlin's ears while he busies himself with arthur's coffee, the cat kilgharrah coming up to sit at merlin's counter. )

Could I -- sir, I mean. A name? To... write on the cup, all that coffee business.

( she meows after him, as if asking is this him?, while merlin in turn sends her a look, not now!. the cafe has an older feel to it, the frozen melted wax of candles lining every available surface while fresher candles burn atop, ancient looking books covering bookshelves and shelves in every corner of the room, with titles like magic of old and ancient runes. even the coffee machine looks like something crafted in another time, alchemy symbols etched into it in a rustic and worn way. still, merlin knows his way around the machine and gets to it, swirling levers and knobs around the contraption, feeling it whir silently to life. while his back is turned to him, he cries. silently, but it's still there, the drops of his tears hitting th bronze of his coffee maker.

the once and future king. the future is now, it seems, and with arthur will come the rest of it -- camelot, and the days of old, and for the first time in a long time, merlin will finally be able to go home. )

[ there's something in the way merlin looks at him, surprised and terrified and joyous all at once, that slams into him like a train at full speed. it nearly takes the breath out of him, makes his heart race in wonder of why it seems like merlin is staring at him like he's a ghost. it doesn't really make sense, of course, the way merlin looks at him as if he's someone else, or maybe someone who once was -- they're still strangers, aren't they? except, some part of arthur knows they aren't, they can't be, not when he feels his chest tightening, his heart swelling, like he's just been reunited with someone he hasn't seen in a very, very long time. the sound of merlin's voice drags him back to reality, and arthur has to laugh off the absurdity of the whole situation. ]

You don't want my number instead? [ it's a joke, of course, though arthur gets the distinct feeling he wouldn't mind giving his number to merlin, anyway. he shakes his head, a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. maybe it's just warm in here, even for a day in the middle of summer, or maybe it's merlin making him feel warm, like he's home somehow. the atmosphere of the shop surely reminds him of the places he sees in his dreams sometimes, places he feels existed in some distant time. they're tangible, almost, like they're more than just dreams, like he knows these places. it's absurd, really; dreams always feel real while they're happening, don't they? and yet -- it's that same feeling of nostalgia, of familiarity that arthur gets now, observing the smaller details of the shop: the books, the candles; the air of sorcery, if he had to give a name to the subtle hint of magic sending a chill down his spine and keeping his hair standing on end. then again, maybe merlin is just going for a harry potter vibe and everything arthur might be feeling is just misinterpretation. ]

[ he still can't shake the feeling that they know each other, somehow, from somewhere -- somewhere that isn't here (or london, for that matter), though that doesn't make much sense, either. maybe he's from camelot, he jokes to himself, inside the safety of his own head. it would sound ridiculous to say out loud, even as a joke. camelot doesn't actually exist -- it's all just stories, myths, legends. the fact that they're named arthur and merlin has to be a coincidence. arthur knows for a fact he wasn't named after the legendary king, anyway; it's a family name, passed down the line from his grandfather to him. my father's name was arthur, he can hear his father saying. he would've been proud to know you, son. he can't imagine merlin was named after the legendary sorcerer, not unless his parents hated him. it has to be some kind of nickname, right? an inside joke that stuck for far too long. surely, there's a reasonable explanation for all of this. ]

Arthur. [ he says, finally, and it sounds odd to him to say it when it feels like merlin already knows. it could just be he's heard about him in the news -- to hell with paparazzi, honestly -- but it feels like more than that, like there's a side of arthur, a secret side, that only merlin knows, because arthur hasn't even figured it out yet. ] My name, I mean. For the cup. [ there's a silence that follows while arthur waits, filled only by the the busy noises of the espresso machine. he notices the cat, then, and wonders why he hadn't noticed before. that can't be sanitary, he thinks, but he doesn't say anything about it, just exchanges a glance with the animal that seems to convince him his suspicions are correct. why he feels validated by a cat, he isn't sure, but -- ]

Sorry, this might sound a bit mad, but... [ he gives merlin another once over, wishing he could explain the sense of deja vu he gets every time he looks at him. ] Do we know each other? I mean -- I feel like we've met before... [ the problem is, arthur meets so many people so often, he can't always keep them straight. maybe merlin is the son of one of his father's friends, or a friend of their friend. there's no telling, really. they could have met anywhere, probably years ago, since arthur hasn't been to this part of the country in years. ]

[ it's just -- with a name like merlin ... arthur would remember that, wouldn't he? surely, he'd remember merlin's face, too, his eyes especially. he would know those eyes anywhere, such a piercing and brilliant blue, like a lake he can't put a name to or the sky on a clear spring morning. but it's more than just the name, the face -- it's a place ... a time, almost. ] ... somewhere. [ it's mostly an afterthought, almost a question, as vague images of things that were or will be or have been float through the back of his mind, too distant to be tangible. maybe, he thinks, he should leave after this, but there's something about merlin keeping him here, rooted to this coffee shop, too curious about who merlin is to leave it alone. ]

( arthur, yes, he should think so. as if he could ever forget. there is something serendipitous about their second first meeting going over a lot smoother than the first, though maybe that's due to the fact that merlin has had a lot more time to consider his feelings in long depth, and arthur doesn't happen to be bullying anyone, which makes the whole ride a little smoother. well -- sort of. he is still facing the makeshift coffee machine and crying, which doesn't really bode well for smooth sailing -- come on, merlin. you've been wearing a smile for an eternity, surely now that it doesn't feel fake you aren't about to drown in your tears. he forces himself better, maybe a touch of magic to make sure his eyes aren't wet and red when he turns back around to face him with a pleasant, if mysterious, smile lining his lips.

he's not sure how to get reused to looking upon this godly figure, the king of camelot and his best friend, a man he's somehow learned to miss ever more with every passing day, instead of getting used to the absence. he feels complete -- although he wishes he could hug the king, and cry on his chest, and worship words of devotion and immeasurable loyalty into the soles of his feet -- yet he minds his distance, grabbing one of their disposals cups and a permanent marker, and coyishly grinning at him, setting to his masterpiece. the machine crackles and hisses behind him, really much more of a show than it ought to be although it fits in with the rustic feeling of the cafe, whirring around like some medieval tavern, primitive to starbucks and the like. little does anyone know it's entirely run on magic, merlin with his honed in abilities shaped and sculpted over the years, that magic really is just like breathing to him now -- second nature, entirely invisible.

kilgharrah mewls expectantly, and merlin tuts his tongue, taking out a quick dish and splashing some milk inside. it should keep her occupied while he raises an eyebrow at arthur, scribbling on the cup. )

Know each other? Hm. ( of course, i'd know you anywhere, i'd know you blind, i'd know you in sickness, i'd know you anytime you leave my life and every time you find your way back in. i'd know you anywhere.

he doesn't say anything like that though, thankfully saved from his own thoughts by the dying machine, signifying the end of the coffee making process. merlin smiles politely, ) Hold that thought. ( before busying himself over the machine, collecting the coffee while still being mindful of the drawing he's just placed on arthur's cup. he tops it off with cream elegantly designed on the top, setting it on the counter before sliding it over to him, the name "king arthur" written in the middle of a castle landscape, a rushed drawing job, complete with an impressive looking knight situated on top of a horse. )

There we have it. One coffee, sire. ( his grin shines a little bit brighter, hands flattening on the counter while he watches arthur keenly, somewhat taken aback at how familiar he is, how nothing has really changed within him. still a heart of gold, merlin knows. still trying to make his shoulders look broader while he sits, to attend more authority.

still handsome. painfully, unfairly so. )

As for knowing each other... must've been in another life, I'm afraid. I'd surely remember a face like yours.

[ there are days when arthur regrets his decision to marry elena, days when he looks at guinevere from across the hall and wonders if he should have pushed harder against his father. should he have married for love? should he have stayed true to himself, instead of giving into his father's demands? is this what is truly right for camelot? he can't say. no one can, really. only time can tell if the unhappiness arthur feels, the dissatisfaction, will pass or if he has made a grave mistake. what good is a king if he's unhappy? what good is arthur if his unhappiness turns him into his father? but i don't love her echoes in his mind every time he fakes a smile, every time he shares a glance with his father, knowing that his union with elena is built on a lie. but uther doesn't care about love. he's proud of arthur for making the right decision, even if arthur isn't proud of himself. how can he be when he looks at elena and sees right past her? ]

[ there are nights, of course, when he regrets it, too. nights when he lies awake thinking of guinevere and the life he hopes she'll find without him, nights of restlessness and frustration that make him want to do something stupid (would it be so bad to be with guinevere, if no one knew? but, no, he could never do that to her, condemning her to the likes of a common whore -- he loves her too much to be that selfish, and he knows her too well to think she would ever agree, even for one night). then, there are the nights he spends with elena, most of which result in nothing. elena is kind, understanding (and he's noticed something distinctly different about her since she last came to camelot) -- he might even go as far as saying she's beautiful. but she isn't guinevere. she never will be. there's no passion in the way arthur makes love to elena, there's only expectation. the pendragon line must continue. it wouldn't be a true union without a child to show for it, anyway, but arthur wouldn't want to burden elena with a child he's not sure he'd know how to love. why would he want to bring another life into this world purely for the sake of duty? ]

[ and yet, through all of this, somehow ... somehow merlin has been a constant source of reassurance and guidance. arthur would be decidedly more miserable without him, despite how miserable merlin is at actually doing his job. arthur isn't sure what it is, but he's begun to see merlin in a different light, like maybe there is more to his bumbling and his foolishness. he's been the only person arthur's had to call a friend, though he could never express as much out loud. princes and servants aren't supposed to be friends, or much of anything, but merlin has always been more than just a servant. uther would never see it that way, would always believe merlin to be expendable if anything bad were to happen to him -- but he doesn't know merlin like arthur does. behind all the laziness and general idiocy merlin posesses, there's an extreme loyalty arthur can't quite comprehend, a faith like nothing he's ever known. maybe arthur was just destined to fall in love with his servants; maybe it's fate that leaves his gaze lingering when merlin isn't looking, that keeps him up knowing what might be, that insists merlin stay with him one night. ]

[ elena has gone to visit her father, accompanied by some of camelot's finest knights. arthur attempted to protest he go with her, but she'd been very insistent he stay behind. maybe he should have argued more, convinced her as her husband he should be the one by her side, but he can't deny the time apart is refreshing. he assumes it's the very reason she'd wanted to go without him in the first place. if he were her, he would have insisted on the very same thing. consequently, his chambers are empty that night, aside from merlin, whose company arthur craves now more than anything. he craves some part of merlin he's never known, the secret part of him that no one else can know, that no one but arthur should ever know. he craves to know what merlin feels like inside and out, and it's a craving he knows is inappropriate but he can't be bothered to care. he's allowed one happiness, one selfishness, after giving up his true right to be happy. ]

[ is there anything else, sire? becomes nothing more than an echo as he stares at merlin, eyes searching him as if he does truly have all the answers in the world, as if he is more than what he lets on. merlin is many things, but the only thing arthur wants him to be now is his. he reaches out to draw them closer, a hand settling at merlin's neck in a way he's never dared before. his heart pounds against his chest, for a moment afraid that this is already a mistake -- but arthur has never been a coward, so their lips touch in a collision of grace and wanting, in a moment of hesitance and desperation. never has arthur wished so badly something could last forever. ] Stay with me.

( he tried to stay unassuming in the question between elena or guinevere -- really, an ultimate question between doing what's right, and doing what's in your heart. it's not his place to turn a son against his father, a prince against the king, and so he tries his best to stay quiet, even if he has some strong emotions towards whatever's inside of arthur's heart -- strong emotions towards the crucial role of arthur's happiness, his well being. it doesn't matter if he's in love with the prince, or if he has been since he'd first became his servant. what matters is arthur's happiness, what matters is what arthur wants, even if it isn't merlin.

except, arthur doesn't follow his heart. he marries politically, and it breaks merlin's heart to see his broken, holding a diplomatic hand against elena's and reciting his vows, crowning her. merlin's stomach is sunken in the entire time, and he's not sure it's entirely because arthur is unhappy -- it is, perhaps selfishly, because while it wasn't possible before, it's beyond that now, for merlin to ever have -- what, arthur? the future king? he knew he never had a chance, that idle daydreams of destiny and love were only to be daydreams, and that if his goal in life was to protect arthur, then it would have to end there. a prince would not be caught with his servant -- surely not arthur, either, the most handsome man in camelot, whose heart belongs entirely to gwen. merlin finds himself jealous, sometimes, watching how desperately he stares at the back of her head, watching guinevere and lancelot flirt in their soft way. he wonder what it's like to be loved by arthur, but his wonder couldn't ever measure up, truthfully. a prince's love -- that's something he'll never know, this lifetime or the next.

still, he can see arthur's shoulders sag with each day of forced pleasantries, the lady elena and her odd habits making his patience and happiness wear thin. of course, merlin can read him like a book, not that he's being subtle with his feigned smile, his too harsh handhold on elena's hand. he knows his prince, knows the genuine smiles from the fake ones, and he wishes that he could help -- even with a small glimmer of the old, happy arthur, merlin would count himself lucky. but the prince is always quiet when merlin tends to them, and merlin always leaves his duties early because the prince and princess' room is surely no place for a servant late at night. he hates it when elena thinks to help arthur dress, hates to miss the few, small joys he allowed himself when drawing his fingers loosely across arthur's chest, lining his palms against broad shoulders, and almost pressing his lips to the back of arthur's warm, sunkissed neck. the time spent serving him gets shorter and shorter every day -- merlin never thought he'd miss it, and yet he does, misses waking arthur up in the morning and bickering with him throughout the day, misses being his punching bag for sparring, misses bringing him meals in the evening and offering him guidance. it's just not his place, anymore, and as arthur's mood falls so does merlin's -- because he's incapable of happiness when his prince is upset. that's just how it is.

this day has been a small blessing, old habits brightening merlin's mood, when he doesn't have to mind himself around elena and can offer arthur his genuine self. he hates how easy it is to love him more and more with every passing moment, and hates himself for allowing this kind of pain inside him, loving a married man, loving a married prince. the question is mostly posed as a formality, merlin expecting some snarky answer to gawk and laugh at, but what he gets -- well. arthur's lips are heaven, even if they're gentle and unsure. he smells like expensive perfumes merlin sometimes spills on his hands, like the wilderness and outdoors, like something ephemeral, captivating, and he's warm -- or he makes merlin feel warm, his insides melted and suffocating inside. it takes merlin a moment to realize he isn't living in one of his thousands of fantasies -- that arthur, arthur kissed him, with some ridiculous order resting on his mouth, stay with me, because merlin would never leave his side, if he asked. his eyes fluttered shut with the kiss in question, but they pop open once arthur separates them -- his cheeks are rosy red, eyes wide, lips parted in something like shock.

is it because he lusts for gwen? merlin has to wonder. one servant isn't the same as another, and surely not him -- a long time companion of arthur's, and a man, no less. is it a joke? his heart sinks.

( even if it was, it wouldn't matter. his duty is to serve arthur, and if arthur wants to kiss him a hundred more times and pretend it's gwen -- well, merlin certainly won't complain. the wound probably won't feel so great with the reprise of arthur's kisses, anyway. ))

Arthur. ( arthur not my lord. he's never been good with his royal manners, anyway. ) Are you being cruel to me, now? You know how I -- ( does he know, though? is it possible? merlin bites back the words at his mouth, eyes glancing at arthur's boots which he really should be shining. a hand moves up and wraps around arthur's wrist, but he doesn't pull him away. couldn't, even if he were being crueler than morgana now -- merlin, in many ways, is just as desperate to touch him as he is. he doesn't mind the circumstance -- he tells himself he doesn't, at least. )

[ the days without merlin have been quiet, to say the least. under any other circumstances, it might be appreciated, but arthur finds himself wishing for more and more excuses to have merlin by his side, to have merlin wake him in that obnoxious way he does, to have merlin be with him at every turn of the day. maybe he's become too dependent on him, but mostly he just misses having someone to talk to -- and occasionally throw something at. elena certainly doesn't have merlin's charm (if it can even be considered charm and not dumb luck and idiocy); they go riding together when arthur isn't in council meetings or training with his men, but arthur finds himself bored more often than not. he never thought he'd miss merlin's jokes or any of his other oddities -- but perhaps it's the need for formalities around elena that makes arthur miss merlin the most. merlin has never quite grasped the concept of treating arthur like a prince, but it's exactly that irreverence, the intolerance on most occasions, that leaves arthur feeling empty, yearning to be just arthur instead of my lord. ]

[ at least he can count on merlin for one thing. there's a hint of a smile at arthur's lips when merlin speaks his name. it's a relief to hear it, and not from his father. it lights something in him that can't be named, a fire of passion he never wishes to put out. there's guilt in it, he knows, for he'll never feel this way about elena -- but there is some small reassurance in knowing she'll never feel this way for him, either. it doesn't make it right, but when has choosing merlin ever been wrong? ]

Merlin. [ it's gentle, almost, like he's speaking to a scared child. it isn't at all like it normally sounds, ripe with condescension; for once, it sounds like he cares (he always has). ] When have I ever been cruel to you? [ unappreciative, maybe, but never cruel. merlin would surely have said so before if he thought that were true. he rests his forehead against merlin's, closing his eyes just for a moment. he can feel the subtle thrum of merlin's pulse under his fingertips, a rhythm that makes him feel more alive than he's felt in months. ] I've missed you, that's all.

[ it's not all, exactly, but it's as much as arthur's willing to admit. how can he say i want you out loud? even if he is a prince, there are some things he knows he shouldn't want, merlin included. his father would have a fit if he knew, if he ever found out arthur was consorting with his servant like this. arthur's sure uther would call it sorcery, that merlin of all people must have enchanted him -- but it's ridiculous, the idea that merlin could ever be a sorcerer, or that he would ever enchant arthur. for what reason? for what gain? truthfully, he wouldn't need to, anyway. whatever arthur feels for him is as real as merlin's hand at his wrist, cementing them together, and it has been since before this night. ]

[ it's merlin's downcast expression, the way he says you know how i and arthur assumes he meant to say feel, that has arthur hesitating once more. why would merlin ever feel anything for him? he doesn't ask. maybe he can't bear the thought of knowing he isn't alone in these feelings, in this attraction -- it's far more dangerous when it's mutual, after all, isn't it? is he afraid of what this might be? of what they might become? he can't say. merlin has always been a source of comfort, of safety, in a way, even if merlin would be more likely to accidentally stab him with a sword than protect him with one. but he's always been there, no matter what, no matter the peril, and that's the kind of courage arthur has always admired about him. he can't imagine either of them running from this, not when they've faced worse together, but -- ] You have my permission to leave, if you'd rather.

[ he isn't going to force merlin to stay with him. his request had been simply that -- a request, not an order. stay with me, he'd said, because he can't bear to be alone right now. even with elena sharing his bed, there's been a loneliness that creeps under his skin, a yearning for someone that isn't her and never can be. he isn't sure why it's now he longs for merlin to stay, to share his chambers, when before he was content to let him leave. maybe it's because he always had the opportunity then, and you only want something once it's taken from you. arthur can't let this opportunity slip through his fingers again, not when he's already given up guinevere -- and not when merlin is the one person who makes him happy over anyone else. hasn't he given up enough already? ]

( the way he says merlin's name aches, like the way two lovers say each other's names in heat -- arthur has never said his name that way before, and merlin knows, because he has each one of them cataloged, memorized in the rusty files of his brain. his lips are plump and red and god he's so close, he's closer than he's ever been before, and he just kissed merlin, too short and too fleeting for merlin to really make sense of the motion. i missed you isn't an explanation for a kiss, or why arthur's hands are on his neck, strong and soft and never wrong -- merlin can't make sense of it. can arthur really not stand one night without getting his cock wet? even that assumes too much, that arthur would ever actually fuck him, when he could have his choice of the servant girls, knowing it wouldn't take much to keep them quiet -- or even that arthur wants to fuck him in the first place. it could just be a kiss and a request, nothing else.

but merlin knows arthur, better than he knows himself definitely. he isn't cruel, just as arthur had said, he doesn't do things unless he believes in them with all his heart. a kiss, then, and his heart. is merlin being hopeful? perhaps it's because he's upset, and lonely, and unhappy -- perhaps it's because he seeks comfort from someone he knows, more than some stranger he still names wife. merlin supposed he can relate to that, or at least understand it, the same way he understands most of what arthur does and why he does it. they're two beings of the same whole -- every choice he makes is the same one destiny chose for merlin, too. )

Throwing things at my head is pretty cruel, sire. ( a joke, and his mouth spreads into a goofy smile, sire misplaced here for comedic effect. he wonders what the boundaries here are, if he could kiss arthur again or if he should wait for his lord's command -- he's never been good with mannerisms, of course, but he doesn't kiss arthur, either, something else stopping his path. nervousness, maybe, the ever-looming side effect of having a destiny he's trying to achieve -- he's as close to arthur as he could be, though, in ever sense of the word except the literal. surely kissing him, worshiping his arthur like the king he one day will be, won't get in the way of his safety. maybe this, too, is part of his destiny. )

I wouldn't leave if you asked me to stay. ( he says, expression softening from the plastered smile to something sweeter, more sincere. a side of merlin that is almost exclusively arthur's -- to have and take as he sees fit, to make well on or ignore entirely. his entire being is arthur's, despite how often he may act the opposite. he exists for him. ) Not just because you asked me, either. But I do have to wonder... why you're asking me.

( is sex implied? it wouldn't be bad, if it were, but merlin isn't sure what stay with me means, and he certainly doesn't want to say it, and have arthur react in disgust. merlin shifts, dropping his hands to his sides. immediately, he wants to reach out and touch him again, the way he's done countless times before when arthur hasn't been paying attention. )

[ arthur could have whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted, however he wanted -- if he wanted. but before all this, it was only ever guinevere (a few stray glances at morgana aside, when he was younger and stupider). it still is guinevere, it just ... can't be. there isn't anything arthur can do about that anymore. he gave up all hope of a happy ending the day he took elena's hand. he gave up love that day, too. duty over love, just as his father would have it. one day, you'll learn to love her, uther's voice echoes in his head, and arthur wishes he could believe that. he wishes he could learn to forget his feelings and be the husband she deserves -- at least if he could do that, she might learn to love him, too -- but the simple truth is he can't, not when his heart belongs to another, not when his heart has always belonged to another. ]

[ it was guinevere, yes, and perhaps some part will always be, some small piece of his heart reserved entirely for her when they share a knowing glance, a nod of understanding (this is how things must be, for the future of camelot, and he does truly wish her well, with whomever she chooses) -- but it's merlin he aches for now, and maybe always has, if he were wise enough to see it then. it's merlin he longs to be close to, yearns to touch, to feel, to be part of, for reasons he can and can't explain. then again, he's never truly been able to understand merlin, so how could he ever hope to understand what it is they have between them? trust, he thinks, has a great deal to do with it. who else would he trust more with his life, with his heart, with the very fabric of everything that makes arthur who he is? merlin has always astounded him with his loyalty. ]

You always duck. [ he jokes in return with a burst of short, low, warm laughter. it's true that sometimes his temper does get the better of him -- he can't count how many things he's thrown, usually in the morning when he's particularly grumpy. has he ever done so with true malice? he knows he hasn't, given the tone of their exchange, but it does make him reconsider throwing any future objects in merlin's general direction. and, anyway, he isn't always aiming for merlin's head, though arthur thinks it's certainly thick enough to withstand a few aimed projectiles. ]

[ the question of why, though ... it's difficult to find the words to explain. there's so much to say and yet not enough words to express it. his hands fall, unsure of himself, as he often has been these recent months. he doesn't quite know who he is or who he's expected to be or even, really, what he wants. merlin always seems to have the answers, for someone so idiotic -- sometimes, arthur feels like merlin knows him better than he knows himself. shouldn't he know why? ] You don't know? [ were his intentions not clear enough? ] I -- [ he doesn't quite choke, but he hesitates, running a hand through his hair. this was easier when their lips were together, speaking volumes more than arthur can find within himself now. he longs for that closeness again, the intimacy, the feeling of being whole, but he doesn't move to kiss merlin again, not yet. impulse never leads to the best outcome. instead, he diverts his eyes to some distant part of the room, wishing the answer was there and not standing directly in front of him. ]

[ he sighs heavily, like a massive weight has suddenly lifted from his shoulders. the truth, then. ] I need you, Merlin. [ his glance returns to merlin's, as if somehow his greatest weakness gives him the greatest courage. ] Not just now, I always have. And, I admit -- [ he swallows, his throat dry, his chest heavy, heart racing, and drops his gaze to the scarf ever present around merlin's neck, his hands messing with it idly as if he weren't the crown prince of camelot and merlin wasn't his servant. he's dreamed of fields out in the country, a cottage for just the two of them, where no one knows his name and doesn't expect anything of him. he's dreamed of this, too, quiet moments alone with merlin in his own chambers -- but only one of them arthur intends on making a reality. as his eyes drag over the curve of merlin's chin, his lips, the bridge of his nose, he completes his thought: ] -- there's a love in my heart for you I can't ignore anymore. That's why ... I'm asking you to stay.

I'm just faster than you. ( which is said with merlin's jesting flair -- they both know that it isn't true, but joking around helps relieve some of the tension off of an otherwise serious conversation. which is only multiplied twofold when arthur mentions love, off on his own and without prompting, and merlin is sure his eyebrows have raised far off his forehead, his bony cheeks turning red from -- well, mostly just from shock. even his wildest fantasies would never involve this, something mutual shared between them. merlin's been all too aware of his emotions towards arthur since their first week together, where merlin had relented that he existed for one reason, and that was to stand beside arthur. he's always shone so brilliantly, so blindingly, but merlin would've never thought he'd have the opportunity to feel -- love like this, arthur saying secret words with some stutter or hesitance in his voice -- arthur telling merlin he has love in his heart, and it's strictly for the young warlock.

a ping of guilt with that thought, that arthur still doesn't know the full truth and he probably never will, because the right moment to tell him just doesn't exist. he can love merlin, maybe, but he'll never love him completely -- not when he doesn't know this huge thing about him, this defining feature for both their destinies. though, magic has never defined merlin, exactly -- of course it's made him who he is today, but when he uses his magic exclusively and entirely for arthur alone, it makes it... less merlin's magic, and more theirs. still, it's not an excuse -- and merlin is the master of excuses, but even he knows when he's pushing it. he'll have to tell arthur about it eventually, just -- not tonight. is it greed that keeps the words from forming on his mouth? probably. selfishly, he wants arthur all to himself, as he always has but knew he could never, except in early morning hours, when he could close his eyes and pretend that the hurdles between servant and prince weren't so difficult to climb.

they still are, though. a man of arthur's caliber shouldn't be with a man like merlin -- it doesn't make sense, just the same as arthur and gwen didn't, and maybe that brings some enlightenment to merlin while he thinks it, eyes wide and the words he wants to say still stuck on his tongue while he looks at arthur. the heart wants what it will, and of course it made sense to be in love with arthur -- charming, handsome, kind-hearted and good-willed -- but logic can't be applied to the heart. in that way, it makes sense for arthur to love him, too, just because it doesn't. if arthur wants him, says he needs him, why would merlin fight it?

he wouldn't. naturally he breaks out of the trance arthur's words put him in, the sound of the syllable love still lingering in his ear drums, and he wants to hear it one million more times, every day and every night, and take some kind of sick pleasure in knowing arthur will never love his wife the way he loves his servant. merlin smiles, nervous, his hands cupping arthur's cheeks while he curves in towards him, their noses touching in brief affection. still, merlin doesn't close his eyes, keeps them open and intense and entirely focused on arthur. )

"There is a love in my heart..." ( he repeats after him, humming thoughtfully after. ) In mine, as well. Within all of my heart. ( he does have rare bits of eloquence, and he's happy now happens to be one of those times, leaning in until they're a breath away. ) Until my last day, Arthur, I swear that much will always be the truth between the two of us. I am yours in every way, as I always have been.

( and he seals that oath with a kiss, confident and sure. )

[ there are a lot of feelings that come with hearing that gwen is pregnant. excitement, definitely, first and foremost -- he's going to be a father, why wouldn't that be cause for excitement of the utmost degree? but then there's fear, a sinking sense of dread, of doubt -- what kind of father will he be? will he be like his father? will he be good enough to raise a child? should he? then there's an underlying sadness to it all, somehow, inexplicably, because even after all this time, arthur still misses uther and he still wishes to make him proud. would he be proud? arthur hasn't forgotten the ghost of his father trying to murder gwen, the vitriol he'd spewed about arthur's reign and the decisions he'd made to make camelot better. it's been years since then, but the wound still remains, the insecurity, the feeling that he never will be good enough in the eyes of his father because he chose not to be like his father. ]

[ he wonders, in the quiet hours of the night, with gwen sleeping soundly next to him, if he'll set a good example for their child, if they'll look up to him and come to him for guidance, if they'll trust him, if they'll love him, most of all -- but more than any of that, he wonders if he'll be proud, or if he'll end up like his father, expecting too much and refusing to look change in the face, always afraid of the past coming to haunt him. except arthur has the one thing his father never had -- friends. arthur surrounds himself with people who make him stronger, who make him strive to be better because they are the ones worth fighting for. arthur won't let himself be afraid of the future, not when he has merlin and gwen and the knights at his side. even if arthur doesn't believe in himself or the kind of man he is or the kind of father he will be, he knows they will always believe in him and they will always see the goodness arthur can't always see for himself. ]

[ he expects a son, of course, but he can't say he's disappointed when merlin rushes out of his and gwen's bedchambers to wildly announce it's a girl, arthur, it's a girl! somehow, arthur is less stunned by the gender of his child and more so by the fact that his first reaction is to stop pacing and embrace merlin more enthusiastically than he ever has in his life. (he can count on one hand just how many times this has happened, but he supposes the birth of the next child of a pendragon should be cause enough for a hug, even from a king.) the next few moments are harder for him to remember, if only because they rushed by so fast -- merlin dragging him into see gwen, who still managed to look stunning regardless of the toils of childbirth; tears welling up in his eyes at the sight of his daughter (kings don't cry, except maybe just this once) -- but he could never forget the tiniest squeeze of his finger, the brightness of his daughter's eyes, the smiles that never seemed to leave anyone's faces. how could he not be proud? ]

[ a celebration is to be had all the next day, with grand feasts and a festival in honor of the new princess of camelot -- but for tonight, the entourage of servants and friends alike leaves them be, the king and queen and the tiny life they created together. arthur couldn't be happier. he's not sure he ever could. ]

She's going to need a name. [ arthur has her cradled in his arms, reverently, delicately. she's so small, he feels like she could break at any moment. and yet -- even just her tiny fist grasping his fingers seems like it could rival even percival's grip. for something so small, he knows she must be destined for much bigger, greater things. she's a pendragon, after all. ] Did we ever agree on one?

[gwen, on the other hand, had every confidence in Arthur's ability to be a good father, just as she had been about his ability to be a good man, a good king despite the shadow of his father. arthur was nothing like uther, he was fair and just, he was beloved by all of camelot because of it. and yet, she saw the fretful looks arthur sometimes gave the round of her belly, the way his jaw worked in concentration and she knew him. she knew that he worried, that he was afraid of who he might become, of what sort of father he will be.

she reassures him as best she can whenever he expresses any outward doubts. the people he surrounds himself with are a testament to who he is as a man, of how he will continue to be as a king, how he will be as a man, a father. and when the day comes, there is not one stitch of doubt about any of those things. oh, no there is barely room for anything other than what is happening.

it is not a particularly easy birth, it seems their child is a pendragon in her stubbornness. and by the time she arrives to the world, a scrawling bundle of life, gwen is exhausted. but moreover, she is happy. in love. the moment she holds their daughter (a surprise given arthur's confidence otherwise) in her arms, she is smitten. suddenly there is another person in this world that she would give up everything, her life to protect, to love, to be with. and it takes the rush of seeing arthur scramble into the room with tears in his eyes for her to let go of the baby in her arms, relinquishing her to arthur as the room is cleared out and gaius makes sure that gwen has all she needs, that she is truly alright.

mother and baby are both healthy but exhausted, being born is just as difficult as giving birth, it seems. and as arthur holds their daughter, she's already calmed down, already starting find it difficult to keep her eyes open despite the interesting new world around her, not that her eyes can truly focus on one thing yet.

gwen smiles at him, still breathless from every bit of this moment as he asks after their daughter's name.] You were quite convinced she was a boy. [ so they only really discussed boy's names. and well, gwen had a girl's name in the back of her mind, one she wasn't sure if he would like or if it would hurt him to suggestion it. her eyes lift to meet with his after looking at the delicate little girl in his arms.] I have one... [ she smiles gently, hopefully.] Ygraine.

Edited (formatttting? what is formatting?) 2015-12-19 17:31 (UTC)

[ there are a lot of things arthur never expected to happen in his lifetime. most, if not all of them, happened to involve a certain person named merlin. when they first met, the last thing on arthur's mind was the possibility of merlin becoming his new servant, because it was so far out of the realm of chance that it wouldn't have been worth thinking about in the first place. he hardly would have considered merlin for the job, but it wasn't exactly his choice, in the end. ]

[ and maybe, he thinks, the happenstance of it all was a good thing. merlin is an idiot on a good day and incompetent the rest of the time, but he has a good heart and a good head on his shoulders, whether he actually uses his brain or not. uther brought them together, technically, and arthur wonders if he should be thankful. he used to resent his father's decision -- a servant as incapable as merlin surely isn't worthy of a prince -- but, over time, he's come to realize how invaluable merlin is to him. unexpectedly, yes. a prince isn't supposed to have feelings for his servant. ]

[ and yet -- arthur can't help himself. he can't help the way he looks at merlin like he yearns for the light of the sun; he can't help the way he always wants merlin by his side, whether he needs to be there or not; he can't help the hidden smiles or the secret thoughts or the desperate need to tell him to stay instead of telling him to go. he can't tell him to stay, though; or, he could, but he's sure there would be questions. questions that would lead to untruthful answers, and he wouldn't want to put merlin in a position to lie for him, even if he knows merlin would lie a thousand times to protect him. ]

[ merlin lied to him for years, after all, so arthur knows firsthand how easy it is for him to hide the truth. it's been long enough, now, that arthur can't be mad at him anymore -- and, truthfully, he knew he couldn't stay mad at merlin forever, anyway, even over something as huge as i have magic. he still can't believe it sometimes, that merlin truly is a sorcerer. he's so unlike any sorcerer arthur has ever encountered, despite the initial deceit -- he's someone arthur would put his life in his hands, someone he would go to the ends of the earth to protect, someone he loves more than any person he's ever met. and it's that -- the feeling he gets when he's with merlin, the heart-swelling, chest-aching feeling that ever made him realize sorcery was never at play. merlin is the only person he's ever trusted with his heart, and arthur knows merlin would never use that against him. ]

[ it's more difficult, away from the castle and the constant threat of his father finding out, to keep his desires at bay. it's more difficult, in the middle of the woods, with nothing and no one around them except the trees and the occasional sound of wildlife, to look at merlin and not think i could kiss him. he thinks about how often he's thought of kissing merlin, and what that might say about him. what his father would say. none of it good, he can imagine. but his father's opinion has never mattered to him when it comes to merlin, and arthur's always done as he pleases for the sake of his servant. surely, this is no different (and, perhaps if he justifies it, it might make it less wrong, even if it feels right). ]

[ he isn't exactly sure how to go about it all, but the closeness they share in the tent provides an air of intimacy, merlin's hands already at his chest, smoothing out the fabric of his shirt. this part has always been arthur's favorite, this ritual of dressing, the casual intimacy they've shared even long before arthur realized what it was that he felt. ]

Merlin. [ his voice is soft, yet still commanding, demanding attention arthur knows merlin will always give. there's only a moment's hesitation after, followed by the gentle press of lips and a hand at merlin's hip. ] Thank you. [ he knows he doesn't say it enough. ]