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Don't Lose Your Head Over It: A Merlin RP (SevenxKawa)

â??I expected that,â? Uther said, voice warm with something that was like pleasure. Oh, he thought it was beneath him to be friends with a servant as his son seemed to be, his pride rarely took it (Gaius was different, of course, and a free man now), but he liked to hear that his boy was good, fair to his manservant. Heâ??d be a good king for peace times one day.

Not yet, of course. Uther still had, for the sake of his son, a few good years in him left, to give him time to learn more and grow a little older. Youth was dangerous, youth and power more so.

Mismatched eyes remained on the youth as he wandered over to the fire, his own clothes just as bright. Obnoxiously colored tights accented the slim muscles in his lanky limbs, and Uther enjoyed simply watching. The boy was a funny little thing, but Uther could see how Arthur had grown fond of him, why he had run off to help that little farming village outside their borders. It was hard not to like a young man that smiled like that, all in the eyes without even a hint of censure, even in front of the king.

â??Mail, boy,â? he reminded gently, the fingers of his left hand tapping against the edge of the table. Oh, he could remove it himself easily, nothing like the bracer which gave him pause, but having the ladâ??s fingers pluck along his torso would be a blessing in its own. He smiled again, that same thin, reserved thing that seemed to have no place in a face as lined and hard as his own. â??And then you are free to return to Gaius.â?
 
It had, of course, occurred to Merlin before, how silly he must look wandering back and forth between the fire and the king especially while dressed in the gaudy crimson uniform - but the warlock had long ago learned to take things in stride and had thus also learned the fine art of ignoring the niggling voice that was his pride. It was a simple and humble view on life that allowed Merlin to be repeatedly put into the pillory with a stupid grin on his face and to nod and accept it with good humour whenever sour words were thrown in his direction - which seemed to happen more often in Camelot then it did in the village.

Merlin returned to the king's side then and he reached out for the end links of the chainmail; it had taken him a few tries to figure out how to maneuver the mail off of Arthur in the beginning, but after pinching his fingers in the loops enough times, he had learned a way to quickly remove the blasted thing. Gathering the edge onto his fingers, Merlin began to slide his hands up to lift the mail up and as he did so, it struck him that he could feel the king's torso against his knuckles and he found himself acknowledging how surprisingly solid the man was - of course, the king was a warrior. It was a fact that Merlin had never forgotten, but it seemed more relevant right then when he could feel the decades of work through the thin material of the shirt underneath.

He made it up to pectoral height before he met the king's eyes again; he needed him to raise his arms, of course, to remove the chainmail, but making a request of the king seemed strange.

"Arms up, please, sire?" he tried, because really, he wasn't so clear on the rules for this sort of thing.
 
Merlinâ??s knuckles skimmed along his skin, causing him to close his eyes again. And, again, the boy had no idea of the effect he was having on the older man.

It had been a very, very long time since he had the luxury of time.

He was enjoying the light touches so much that he forgot to raise his arms for the dark haired boy currently and unknowingly making his muscles quiver. There was something to be said for slow, subtle touches, even if the other half had no idea of his pleasure. Ah, well. Utherâ??s eyes fluttered open, taking in the boyâ??s bright blue eyes (they made his face, that and the way the skin crinkled at the corners, Merlin would have laugh lines early in life) and lifting his arms as asked.

It was a shame, such a shame, that the young man didnâ??t understand what Uther was hinting out in his smiles and his wandering fingers. Once the mail was off, the king acted more overtly interested. His long fingers, the ones that had been resting on the wood, traced along the boyâ??s cheekbones while his hands were full of mail. A terrible shame; he would have liked to make those pale lips the same color as his costume.

â??I will ask for you again later in the week,â? he said, no sound of hesitation in his voice: after all, what the king said, happened, or heads rolled. Fingers calloused with too much use traced along the shell of one of those ridiculously huge ears and the king smiled. â??Do watch Arthur for me. I like to know he has a loyal set of hands and eyes, if not agile ones.â?
 
At some point during the process, the king's eyes had fallen shut, and Merlin quietly regarded the other man for a long moment as he stood motionless with his chainmail up around his chest - and the warlock had to admit, right then, he looked uncharacteristically peaceful. For a time, he wondered what the king was thinking about to bring about the placid expression, but then he was lifting his arms and allowing Merlin to clumsily finish the job of stripping away the chainmail. Like Arthur's, the mail felt heavy - but the piece in his hands was dull-looking, it no longer held the glimmering silver of recently made armor, but rather the grey hue of something careworn, something that had been around for a long time and had undergone abuse and foul weather.

He wondered if the king had ever fought in the mail he was holding.

Eyes were open again, and Merlin had just been sorting out the armor when he felt warmth on his face; his eyes darted up and he discovered that the king's hand had reached for him, and fingertips were stroking down his cheekbone with great care.

"Sire?" Merlin asked, but if there was more to the question, it didn't make it out into the open; instead, Merlin could only stare at the king because his voice failed him when the fingers moved to run over the ridges of his right ear, a motion that immediately had the warlock's eyes going just a touch too wide before he took a few steps back, nodding his head in stunned agreement.

"Yes sire. I'll -" Merlin said, searching for words and only able to finish with a lame:

"-i'll do that."

And then he was leaving the king's chambers as hastily as he could manage without actually running from him; he moved through the castle grounds and into the spire where the castle's physician would undoubtedly be fast asleep by now, working off the effects of the celebration. Merlin managed to make it to his own quarters without knocking anything over and he sat down on the edge of his bed and stared grimly at the blank wall opposite him.

The king had been touching him; if he thought about it, he could still feel the fingertips against his ear, and it caused him to lean his head off to the side, rubbing the shell of his ear against his shoulder like he had a bad itch. He wasn't sure what had just happened, aside from that singular fact - the king had been touching him, very gently, and telling him to watch Arthur. It left Merlin wondering what he had done or what he had missed, wondering if maybe there was some sort of code that he wasn't familiar with that the king had been trying to communicate to him.

Or maybe he had been testing him, or trying to make him nervous? That was possible after all, wasn't it?

Merlin frowned; it wasn't a terribly common expression for him but he did it anyways and then laid back on his bed to stare at the ceiling instead, trying to work it out in his head.

Unfortunately, he didn't get too far - it was late and as it turned out, Merlin was far more tired than he had initially believed; he fell asleep, red tights and all.
 
The morning air was sharp in his nostrils, carrying the smell of grass and metal. It was a lovely, crisp autumn morning, the sort that was cold but not too cold, especially with layers of cloth and mail. Light from a sun that hadnâ??t fully risen yet was diffuse, though that would change shortly. Arthur took a moment, arms akimbo, his gloved fists pressing into his hips, to take in the peaceful, beautiful morning, the way the training field was laid out in perfect order. One of his knights stepped past him, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

Time to go wreak loud, sweaty chaos.

There was something about being with a group of men that got into Arthurâ??s skin. He wasnâ??t quite sure what it was: he was just a little louder (well, maybe more than a little), puffed out his chest a little more and tortured the servants just a little more. It was all in good fun, at least, thatâ??s what he told himself after commanding Merlin to pull on mail and pick up a sword.

Besides, after that time in the village, Merlin should be thanking him for giving him a few pointers. Unfortunately, those pointers usually came when he had the tip of his sword against his chest.

Maybe thatâ??s where the name came from.

He certainly wasnâ??t holding a grudge, no, not at all, even if Merlin, who he thought was his friend (when no one else was watching), was keeping something from him. Arthur was a prince, above such petty things. And if Merlin found himself in armor instead of at the sidelines more often, well, it was just a matter of coincidence.

And something about being with a group of men, all laughing and jostling each other, made him smile to his manservant. â??Merlin!â? he called, gesturing over with an apathetic flip of hand. â??Youâ??ll be helping me warm up.â?

At the edge of his vision, he saw flash of red. That wasnâ??t entirely surprising, being that red was one of the colors of Camelotâ??s crest, but this one had a certain, familiar movement to it. Arthur turned his golden head that way, seeing, as he had expected, his father making his way down to the training grounds, and his smile spread. Perfect. Maybe if Merlin made a fool of himself (as was his habit), his father would give up on whatever he had planned for his friend.

Arthur had a guess, a cold, skeletal thing that sent shivers down his spine, that whatever Merlin was keeping from him, he wanted to keep from the king. Putting the two together more often was a good way to get whatever he was hiding discovered.
 
Merlin had seen it coming, of course; Arthur tended to get a certain look on his face and a very particular tone to his voice on the days when he was eager to hit one thing with another thing. He had become used to the expression just as he had become used to being dragged out to the fields, armed, and told to move around a bit - some days, the prince would bring along his men, and that generally meant that the warlock was going to be hit harder than usual. Something about being around the other knights caused Arthur's aggression to increase two-fold and Merlin could only assume it was the urge to prove his worth, to make it clear why he would one day be directing them - even royalty had low self-esteem days, he supposed.

Of course, that never eased the soreness that Merlin would inevitably feel the next day after being tossed around and battered by Arthur, but at the very least he was becoming more practised and familiar with the movements each time they did this - he had come to memorize the other man's movements, the way he swung and held his sword, and the spots he favoured hitting. As a result, Merlin had begun to develop muscular reactions in an attempt to avoid each strike, and each time he was getting just a little closer to actually having it get called a battle, rather than a slaughter. He had yet to land a blow on the prince, but he held onto the idea that one day soon, he would manage to do so, and perhaps he would even earn a mite of respect from him in the process.

Weighed down by the chainmail and looking vaguely like a man going to the chopping block, Merlin stepped forward from the line, but he had been expecting it anyways - he didn't get put into armor just to stand around and watch, after all.

"Warm up is what we're calling it now, is it?" Merlin asked, tilting on his helmet and dragging his sword along the ground behind him as he stood out in front of Arthur; he noted that the prince was temporarily distracted, and a quick look through the visor of the helmet told Merlin that the king was present, and he felt his stomach twist suddenly and strangely.

He couldn't recall seeing the king during practise before - but then, Arthur had to have gotten his aggression from somewhere, so it was only natural that the king would enjoy watching this sort of thing, especially if he had any sort of idea what kind of a fight it was going to be - that was to say, the sort where the one side was pathetically skinny and utterly useless with a blade.

He forced himself not to look at the king a second time, instead focusing on Arthur and grimly wondering if this meant the prince would hit him even harder.
 
Uther had come alone and crownless.

Arthur would understand that gesture, must have, because it meant this wasnâ??t quite a king and his subjectâ??s interaction, but father and son. The two were pretty poor at the latter, but the father tried. Sometimes. He himself had never quite learned how to be a good father and sometimes the young man in front of him, with the cocky smile that reminded him of his own when he was young, was a stranger.

The need to prove himself, though, to his father, his king and his men, was not strange at all. That he could share with his son.

That, and the joy of watching a seasoned fighter tear into a complete amateur.

Uther leaned forward, his forearms against the old wood of the fence between spectators and fighters. His son was the center of attention on the verdant grass, laughing with his knights as his manservant stepped forward. The boy was a sapling, a spiney weed compared to his son and his knights, all ears and legs and awkward motion. Some dark, cruel thing in him, the part that never got a chance to see the light of day now that he no longer saw battle, chuckled in anticipation and he smiled, running the tip of his tongue along his teeth.

A pleasure, indeed.

â??Indeed.â? Arthur rolled his shoulders back, making sure his father could see exactly how healed he was; after all, neither Pendragon wanted to show weakness. Uther himself would be horrified if Arthur should know that he had cried over him and, as far as he was aware, no one was foolish enough to mention the escapade. â??I figure you might have a better chance, Merlin. Iâ??m still a bit weak.â? He glanced back, catching Utherâ??s eye. â??Maybe youâ??ll last long enough that I wonâ??t have to stretch after this.â?
 
Though the king had said nothing, Merlin could still feel the man's presence like a cold chill that had set itself directly into his spine - it left him straightening up more than usual, arching his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the feeling, but finding it refused to fade. The overall effect was that Merlin felt more uncomfortable with the situation than usual; not only was he outmatched by a fighter with years more skill than he had - after all, Merlin had been handling rakes and shovels when Arthur had been using bows and swords - but the king was also present.

He was, of course, there to watch Arthur - that was what father's were meant to do, pay attention to their sons and share common interests, even if the common interest happened to be beating him half to stupidity.

Merlin nearly sighed behind the helmet, but managed to hold it in as he watched Arthur roll his shoulder and prepare himself to begin the beating just as Merlin mentally prepared himself for the same thing - he wasn't about to fool himself into believing that any physical preparation beforehand would make him any more capable of fighting Arthur. He would probably hurt himself trying to stretch out in chainmail anyways.

The warlock's mind went through a series of possible responses in an instant, several of which were sarcastic or even mildly insulting, and it was followed up by a brief moment of considering his magic just so he could knock Arthur over once or twice and make it abundantly clear that he wasn't so useless as all that - but they were all thoughts that he squashed before they could ever be considered being made a reality.

So Merlin continued to follow Gaius' sound advice - he didn't do anything stupid. Instead, he remained silent, standing at the ready - or as ready as he could be, given his reedy form and inexperience with this sort of thing.
 
Slaughter was a wonderful name for what Arthur did to his manservant.

The boy lasted maybe ten seconds, from Arthurâ??s first move (a quick lunge forward that had started from a lazy, loose posture) to on his back. He should have been on his back in the first few strikes, every one of them a perfect mix of power and grace (by the book, though; that was the problem with learning in the training room and not on the field), but Arthur had been toying with him, drawing the massacre out and only cutting the thread of battle when he was good and ready.

For his part, Merlin did surprisingly well. Arthur hit hard: terrible, shocking blows that must have sent the energy up into the boyâ??s arms to rattle the bones, but he hadnâ??t dropped his sword. It wasnâ??t fair, really. Not only did the boys differ so much in training (Arthur had been holding a sword since he could walk, as every son of a warrior king should) but his son was a stronger, sturdier build. Watching his boy take down someone so totally was a good way for him to start his day.

â??Good, Arthur,â? he said, a hint of something that was almost warm in his tone. The shade of affection made his son duck his golden head, hair so much like Igraineâ??s brushing across his forehead. Arthur hadnâ??t even broke a sweat. â??But you must be careful to not underestimate your opponent. Men like your manservant can be very fast, even for you.â? He rather thought the advice was given gently, but Arthur did that annoying little tic he had tried to beat out of him, chewing on his tongue as he bowed with a â??yes, sireâ??.

â??Perhaps you should join us, sire,â? he added, almost challenging, but not quite. Uther smiled, a thin, crooked thing. â??It would be good for us to see an older warrior fight.â? Almost a challenge. Any more, and Uther would have to bring him in line. Might have to, anyways. A certain amount of pride was allowed, no, necessary for a crown prince. But not towards the king.
 
Merlin had known what was coming before it even began, so he prepared himself for the worst and decided the best thing he could do was try very, very hard not to drop his sword. He was, at least, successful in that endeavor as Arthur swung the sword with the brute strength that came from the very core of him; the first one landed a solid strike to the arm, the next to the hip - Merlin tried to move back with the blows, but his inexperience was his downfall because walking in armour was bloody difficult.

He managed to last for several more strikes, each one ringing against the chains and plates of armour and making his skull ache, but it was roughly the eighth hit when Merlin went down, because the sword struck against his chest and Merlin felt the weight of all of his own clothing, the chainmail, the armour, and the hit press up against the aching wound on his torso and sent him staggering from the sudden shock of pain. Another hit came after, and the world flipped and left Merlin laying in the grass, staring up at the sky.

Well, he considered, at least it was a nice day out.

He closed his eyes behind the helmet for a moment, privately sorting himself out; beneath the metal, his chest was on fire, but everything else was moving and bending like it was supposed to, so all in all things had ended well.

So far anyways.

As the ringing went away, Merlin became aware that there was conversation going on around him and he lifted his head to find two generations of Pendragon's issuing challenges to eachother - it wasn't a particularly comforting sight, especially since he was aware that Arthur was goading the King into taking his place.

Well, it wasn't every day one got their ass kicked by two members of the royal family, so there was that.

Despite his body urging him to do otherwise, Merlin pushed himself up off the ground and got to his feet; behind the helmet there was a flash of white, indicating that, regardless of the scenario, the servant was still offering up a particularly sunny smile.
 
Arthur continued to stare at his father, both men ignoring the sound of movement behind the younger Pendragon. He could see, in the background, Arthurâ??s servant getting himself up onto his feet, though the way he held his body told him the boy was hurt.

Yes. Very different men, indeed. Neither father nor son would have given away their injury, not in front of others where it was a sign of weakness.

And for that reason, Uther hopped over the fence, moving from spectator to actor, his cloak billowing out behind him in the crisp breeze of the early morning. â??Hand me your sword, boy,â? he said to Arthur, whose eyes widened. So he hadnâ??t expected his father to take the bait. If the youth hadnâ??t saved his sonâ??s life, he might have considered killing him, just to remind Arthur of how foolish it was to challenge a king. Even as s prince.

One of the knights scrambled off to get a helmet and plate for his shoulder, but he stopped them with a chop of his hand, taking in the reedy form of Arthurâ??s servant.

The boy was still there, still in armor that didnâ??t hang right on him. A complete amateur. â??At the ready,â? he said, one foot forward, holding his own sword out in his left hand, just like Merlin, the only two men he knew of that did so.
 
Merlin had risen, unsure of what to expect - though his mind threw in the image of Arthur suckerpunching him to the applause of the knights, the pièce de résistance of what had already been an outright slaughter - but really, this was much worse than that. On top of it, the King refused armour with the full knowledge that there was no risk of Merlin actually landing a blow; it would have been insulting if it hadn't been painfully true.

The king took his sword into his left hand; of course he did; the image of Uther Pendragon's mangled hand came into his head, the fingers all strangely long and a little thin-looking, especially bizarre on a man who made a point of never showing any sort of human trait, as long as he could help it.

The warlock stood in fighting position and, like the king, favoured his left.

Of course, Merlin had fought before he had met Arthur - but training was a very loose term for what he had done in the village; their weapons had consisted of what farm tools they had available at the time to defend themselves against bandits. The most Merlin could say for himself was that he was quick on his feet.

Well, and he could make things blow up if he wanted.

But he supposed it wasn't the sort of thing he should do right then, especially not while the king was in front of him and holding something terribly sharp. He just hoped Uther wouldn't aim for his neck.

He prepared himself, knowing how hard Arthur hit, and that he had learned it all from his father.

Just hold onto the sword.
 
Uther shifted his grip expertly, testing the balance of his son's sword. Good, very good in fact just as a prince's sword should be, but not perfect, not like the one he had fought with the day he took Arthur's place against that wraith. That sword had practically sang in his hand, even though he had allowed himself to fall out of practice (something he had rectified privately since that day). He had, of course, enquired after the sword a few days after the challenge, but it had disappeared, having been seen by no one other than himself and Gaius.

And Merlin.

That was right. Merlin had seen that sword, had been the one to present it to him. Another curious case that lead right to the young man

The youth did not respond verbally, but Uther could see the heavy resolution in his shoulders. It was just another Pendragon to throw him on his back. Arthur had stepped out of the way, a nasty expression on his face that fought with his more neutral prince's smugness. This was unexpected and his son honestly feared he'd hurt the servant.

Perhaps he'd learn not to challenge his father next time. Uther never backed away, even from his own son. Uther nodded to the boy, taking in those bright blue eyes from the darkness of the helmet, then struck.

He was not as fast as Arthur, not when he was twice his age and so much more careworn. His style was different, too, not as formalized, more given to feints and blows that walked the line of being almost illegal for dueling with honor. Unlike Arthur, after all, Uther had grown his own style in battle, in rain and mud and blood, without the benefits of being able to step back and take a rest when one was tired. The king pulled the sword to him and snapped his elbow out to catch the boy in the chin, his teeth gritted against the pain of old wounds.

It was much less than ten seconds in.
 
There had never been the chance for a real fight; the king had taken the sword in hand and weighed it, judging the blade and the feel of it, twisting it in his grasp once or twice, and then turning to him. Merlin had been prepared to be hit hard of course, but then he had seen the look on the king's face - it wasn't the playful expression of someone about to engage in a silly little practise fight, it wasn't the look of a man who would go easy because he was standing opposite to a sapling. No, it was the expression of a man who would treat every opponent the same: with extreme prejudice.

Uther wasn't as fast as his son, of course, that came with age and there was a good chance he didn't get nearly as much practise as the younger Pendragon, but when his strike did come, it came in at an angle, and it struck so hard into Merlin's chest that it forced his breath out. It was followed quickly by a painful elbow to the jaw that snapped Merlin's head back and, for the second time, knocked him to the ground, his helmet tumbling off and rolling around to stop at Arthur's toe.

Slightly dazed and bleeding from the mouth, Merlin took in a breath and mentally cursed Nimueh for having left a canonball sized hole in his chest; for an instant he wished he could blow her up a second time, then regretted it. He lifted his head then, gave it a shake that made his hair stick out and propped himself up on his elbows and gave a lopsided grin - complete with a bloodied lip - because, well, he was alive wasn't he?

And maybe knocked a little silly.
 
There was no chance that the dark haired youth would get up from that last blow, but Uther stepped back into a position where his sword was facing his opponent again, just in case. Unlike Arthur, who could still play at fighting, Uther was a grown man that had seen many a man he thought down jump up and spring for his throat. After a few moments, with no sound other than the boyâ??s breathing and Arthurâ??s foot stopping his rolling helmet, the king thrust his sword into the ground dismissively.

Something about the boyâ??s face, the bloodied lip and mussed hair and that silly grin made that dark feeling from before twist in Uther. He wanted to lick the blood off, to taste metal on the tip of his tongue and hear the youth moan as he took him just as roughly as he had downed him.

It was shaping up to be a good game.

Arthurâ??s eyes were down when he stalked over, taller than even his son. â??I do not want to see you engaging with an opponent that is less than your skill anymore, is that clear?â? he said, his face drawn. â??The day you become lazy is the day you allow some man to slip a blade into your chest. And I do not wish to replace you after all these years.â?

â??Yes, sire.â? The response was low, but not petulant. Good. Arthur took a tongue lashing well; respectfully, but not sullenly, not to lose the respect of his knights. Very good. Uther glanced over to his sonâ??s servant, feeling that nasty little shift in him again; it had been a long time since he had given himself any sort of play and Merlinâ??s odd, gawky looks were beginning to grow on him. Especially with those blue eyes and that bright little smile. â??Do send your servant to me, once you are done with him.â? Uther turned, cape swirling out behind him. He missed the ugly look that twisted his sonâ??s face for a moment, a worried expression that had him staring at the red of his fatherâ??s back.

Arthur was silent for a moment, then turned to his men. "Well," he addressed them. "What are you waiting for? We've got all day to practice. Let's go." He didn't even glance towards Merlin, as if he was sending his friend away to be executed and there was nothing he could do.
 
Merlin watched the king plainly for a few moments; his eyes didn't go to the sword in the man's hands, but to the man himself - after all, the weapon was just a means to kill, intention could be viewed on the face. So he looked at the king, unflinching, but not a particularly bold expression either - he was simply watching him.

Then the sword went into the ground, and Merlin had to assume he was being dismissed - or at least, that was the feeling he got, once the king had turned his back and Arthur had done the same. He could hear the prince responding to his father, respectful - but with a sort of undertone that Merlin had come to recognize as one that came up nearly any time the subject of his father was brought up. There was familial love between them, but it was a strange and dark thing that seemed bizarre to Merlin - but love nonetheless.

After a moment, Merlin began to get himself back up on his feet, but it was a slow process as he tried to sort himself out in the armour - which was currently creaking and sticking in some of the joints. Briefly, the warlock ended up on his front before he managed to gather himself up; during the process, Merlin could feel the king's eyes on him, followed by the - was it a request? A demand? Sometimes it was difficult to tell.

He got himself up onto his feet as the king swept away, and he was about to speak, but then Arthur was doing the same, leaving Merlin a looking a bit put out.

"Right." Merlin said, nodding to himself as the prince headed off into the fields with his knights; he scuffed his shoe against the dirt, "I'll just go then, shall I?"
 
Arthur turned only his head the bare minimum to take in Merlin, giving him a haughty look as if he hadnâ??t just been staring daggers into his fatherâ??s back (a phrase heâ??d never use around the man, probably make him go insane with paranoia). â??You should,â? he said highly, smirking. â??You have got to make sure my rooms are clean, muck out the stables and change the bedclothes for something warmer before you see the king. Iâ??m tired of freezing my feet off at night.â? He sniffed. â??And for goddsakesâ??, make sure you clean up some time today. You already smell like a stable.â?

He certainly wasnâ??t concerned. Not at all. And if he pushed himself harder that day, well, it was only coincidence.

God help Merlin if his father stayed interested in the boy.

----​

Uther spent his day as he had spent most of the others. There were disputes from nobles, taxes to oversee, long-winded speeches from men and women he cared little for. He received reports on the general state of affairs which were little different than the reports from yesterday.

It was a good thing, no doubt about it, but some days he feared the monotony kill him.

The king dropped his head, hands on the table as he leaned over. He was crownless again, finished for the day save for the never ending reading. Letters, complaints, new reports. One day, his eyes would fail him and that would be the reason he would have to give up the throne. Not death, not old age, but his eyes.

He heard the footsteps before the person knocked. His hand was near the sword at the table, but he didnâ??t reach for it, only looked up to see his visitor.
 
The sidelong look that Arthur sent his way was cold; it was a look he had been given by the prince before, but only when he had first met him - and seeing it again was strangely stinging. Of course, it was quickly followed up by Arthur's usual laundry list and an insult for good measure before he was dismissed, but instead of heading directly to do the assigned tasks - as he normally would - he returned to Gaius' cottage. Having left his chainmail and armour back in storage - neatly of course, he'd have to pick it all up, and the knights' later - he trudged up the stairs feeling a great deal lighter, but aching significantly more than he had been earlier that day.

Stepping into the cottage, Merlin made his way over to the enormous wooden table where Gaius always kept his stock of books and salves, and took a careful seat before he stripped off his shirt and began to unwind the bandaging across his chest. It took several laps around his torso, but when the material fell away, Merlin let out a hiss because a bit of skin came off with it and left him dropping his head into his hands.

He followed Gaius' instructions with the wound; the burn had gone deep enough to slough off skin earlier, and it had only been the physician's knowledge of medicine that had kept him from infection or worse - he could still clearly remember the first time Gaius had seen the wound. The look on his uncle's face had been - startling, because Gaius was a physician who had seen so much worse in his life, but something about the deep burn had given him a drawn look that had made Merlin feel just a little miserable at the time, so he'd taken to changing the bandages himself, much to the chagrin of Gaius who justly worried he might not do it correctly.

He cleaned himself off - Arthur had been right, he had already been in the stables earlier that day, and then tossed around on the ground for a bit, so he'd needed it - and then applied the salve and bandages, dressed, and left the cottage ignoring the ache. As he stepped into the sunlight, the pain gradually subsided - partly due to the cooling effect of the salve - and he spent the rest of the daylight hours running the errands that the prince send him on. That day in particular, there seemed to be an endless number of them.

It wasn't until quite late in the evening that Merlin finally finished - ending the day with the pleasant job of cleaning up Arthur's room - and it was only as he was stepping out of the prince's chambers that he remembered the last order of the evening, the one that had been uttered so casually, and followed by the toss of a cape.

He was meant to tend to the king again, then, as he had been told he would at some point that week, he just hadn't thought it would be quite this soon - and not just after having been thrown around by him.

But he did as he was told and made his way towards the King's chambers; like the night before, the warlock lingered outside of the door and mentally prepared himself before he knocked lightly. Also like the previous night, after opening the door a few inches, Merlin peered in carefully first and there would be the brief appearance of wide blue eyes from around the edge of the door before the rest of his reedy form followed. This time, lacking any red tights or armour, the servant was dressed only in his usual cottons, reds and blues and browns as he stood awkwardly in front of the king, fingers twisting together.

"Sire." he said, offering up a smile similar to the one on the field earlier that day, but he hesitated when it pulled on the break in his lip, and gently sucked on the cut for a moment, managing to still look terrifyingly cheery.
 
Blue eyes. Bright blue eyes.

Uther straightened, returning the boyâ??s smile with a thin one of his own. It was hard not to in the presence of those eyes: lovely, cheery things that seemed to contain not a shade of a care, even though he was currently standing in front of the man that had given him that colored chin and split lip.

â??Ah, Merlin,â? he said warmly, as if he hadnâ??t knocked him flat on his back earlier that day. His eyes flickered down to Merlinâ??s mouth, watching him suck on his lip. Not tonight, but soon, heâ??d do that himself. The ladâ??s lip would probably be healed by then, of course, but Uther could always cause a little bleeding himself. His smile widened predatorily. â??Careful, or you will break the skin again,â? he rumbled, absentmindedly placing a smooth river stone on the papers. There would probably be more bruises, all over the boyâ??s thin body, discolouring pale, smooth skin. Uther wanted to seek out every one, especially the ones he had made, and refresh the ladâ??s memory of the pain.

It really had been a long time since heâ??d brought someone into his bed, hadnâ??t it?

â??I was afraid Arthur would keep you working late into the night.â? To keep you from me, he thought, but didnâ??t add, not when his son would make that very clear to even Merlin in the coming days.

â??I had a question for you.â? Uther gestured for Merlin to come near as he sat down in a heavy, wouldnâ??t chair with a sigh. His short fight that morning had pulled the muscles in his wounded shoulder but he was too proud to go to Gaius for such a little thing. â??That sword you found for Arthur. The one you said Tom made. What ever happened to it?â? The king was slouched a little in his chair, his shoulders unevenly stiff.
 
The king offered up another of those tight little smiles that he did once in a while, and it still managed to unnerve Merlin, partly because he found himself imagining fangs behind it - even if he was unclear why. After all, he hadn't done anything to give the king a reason to prey upon him, though he frequently wracked his mind to see if maybe there was some detail he had missed and could never come up with anything.

But being personally asked in by the king two nights in a row had him a little worried; it left him wondering if maybe the king was just - sensing - there was something off about him. Maybe he was obvious. Maybe the king had found out about all of those other times, too, where he had been connected to strange things that had happened in Camelot.

Maybe he needed to do a better job of convincing the king that he was a complete idiot.

He was yanked out of his own head by the sound of the king's voice, surprisingly warm, and warning him not to open up the cut again; Merlin became aware of what he was doing then, and also that he was currently tasting the metallic tang of blood, so he stopped. He felt the cool air on the cut, and then he realized how nervous he must look. He considered that only men who had a reason to be nervous would look nervous, but then - he was sure the king was used to it, and everyone had secrets, didn't they?

"It was a full day," Merlin admitted, but then added brightly, "But just enough to fill the daylight hours, sire."

Of course, then came the movement of the king's hand, the beckoning of gloved fingers - the firelight glimmered off the leather - and Merlin again found himself approaching Uther Pendragon, just as careful as before, while the question was being asked.

The sword - the one that Merlin had strengthened with the dragon's fire, the one that had been forged specifically for Arthur. The one that the King had got his hands on, because he had been so insistent on taking his son's place.

The one that Merlin had hurled into the lake.

Of course, he couldn't tell the truth - but he knew he couldn't lie either, he was terrible at it, and the King would see right through him.

"Sword?" Merlin asked, as dumbly as he could manage, one brow lowered; it was a look of worry, but it could likely pass as confusion, and he stopped just out of arm's reach of the king, because that felt safe - even if the man could probably still lunge faster than he could get started running, "Er. Yes. That one."

Think, Merlin.

"It was put into storage after the fight, sire. In amongst the other blades." Merlin said steadily, because - well, it was the truth, wasn't it? Just, a few hours after it had been put into storage, he took it to the lake.
 
Again the boyâ??s voice was high with that impossible cheer. Uther did worry the lad was damaged in the head: he couldnâ??t imagine that any man had that much good will in him. It was as odd as if Merlin had pulled on that hat and nothing else, danced a jig, then burst into flames.

Not quite as funny, though.

He watched the boyâ??s face carefully, looking for some sign of deceit. Storage. It would have gone there, but it hadnâ??t. Or perhaps it had, but someone had taken it, one of the guards or knights. Things in a castle as large as his went missing all the time. An absolute shame. That sword had been beautiful and now the maker was deceased, no longer able to create such blades. Utherâ??s temper was costing him even now.

â??I am afraid I have not found it again,â? he said, keeping the low, familiar tone. In his precense, Merlin was like a deer, skittish and ready to bolt at any moment. He had the urge to lure the boy in until he was close enough that the king could feel body heat again.

â??And you?â? He asked, gesturing the boy closer with a lazy wave of his hand. There were none of his normal, sharp movements here, not when the fire was warm on his aching limbs and he had a new mouse to play with. â??Oh, come now, boy. I wonâ??t bite.â? Much. Not yet. â??I want to see your chin.â?

The boyâ??s jaw was coloring nicely, dark in firelight, just like his eyes. Nearly the same color now, where his shadow blocked out a little of the fireâ??s glow. He bruised beautifully, Arthurâ??s servant did. Uther wanted to reach out and run his fingers along the injured skin, but he pushed down the urge, fingers tapping along the sturdy wood of his armrest as he stretched his legs out with a groan. Much too old to play games like that with his son.

Physical ones, at least.

â??Arthur seems oddly fond of you. Has he invited you into his bed?â?
 
Merlin was a little pleased with himself; it had taken time, but he had been experimented with the lying thing, and had gradually found a way around it - he didn't actually have to outright deceive anyone, he had learned. He just needed to tell the truth differently.

And apparently it worked, because the king's odd eyes flicked over him, taking him in and examining him for any lies, but he came away only sounding vaguely dissappointed that he wouldn't be able to find the sword again. Merlin had, after all, made sure of that.

"I'm sure it's floating around somewhere, sire," Merlin said earnestly, and eyed the crooking fingers before he came closer, moving towards the king as he was asked; he could feel his imagined radius of safety gradually getting smaller as he came within range of fingertips, then palms, and finally close enough that the king would be able to inspect him. Merlin hadn't looked in a mirror - he generally didn't bother with them if he could help it - but the soreness on his chin told him it was bruised.

Again, his eyes watched the king, observed his movements; he heard the gentle groan and watched the long legs stretch out and knew the king was aching from that morning's fight - and it was so very human that it made Merlin smile just a little more. The expression managed to cling on for a few moments after the question came, and then it very slowly faded at the corners, and gradually sank further down until it was more of a grimace, with Merlin's eyes slowly widening.

Invited him to his bed?

Merlin rolled the question around in his head again and again, inspecting it from every possible angle to see if there was something he was missing, if perhaps he had managed to hear wrong, or perhaps he had misinterpreted it somehow. He considered that the king may have meant letting him into his chambers to clean but - that seemed obvious. Really, there was only one thing the king could have meant by it, but Merlin didn't want to believe it was what he was being asked.

Paler than normal, Merlin managed to get out:

"Sire?"
 
As Merlinâ??s safety radius shrunk, Uther felt himself grow very aware of the boyâ??s proximity and took the time to examine him closely. His conclusion from the previous night hadnâ??t changed: Merlin was an odd mix of things that might be pretty on a face they fit and things that simply did not flatter anyone.

But those eyes. Uther couldnâ??t bring himself to stop looking at them for any long period of time. Arthurâ??s servant could have been hideous, covered in warts and open sores, and Uther would have still sought those eyes out. Fortunately for him, the entire package was â?¦

Satisfying.

And the way he spoke, so eager to please, made the king want to reach up with his gloved hands and tangle his fingers into the boyâ??s hair, pull him down onto his knees, and do things to him that he would never breathe a word of in confession. The bloodied lip was making the urge stronger, nearly a need, because it had been so long since he had last touched someone. In fact, the last one, a young man older than Merlin but so much more timid, had died in that unfortunate plague.

The king sat back, lacing his fingers in his lap, careful not to highlight the fact that half the fingers of one glove were nearly empty. He had always been careful to hide his deformities along with any other sign of weakness: to him, his right hand was like crying in front of his men or, worse, pulling a stunt like Arthur had when he was love-sick. Merlinâ??s beautiful eyes looked inward as if he really had no idea what his king meant, and Uther rolled his head to the side and smirked.

â??â??Into his bedâ??, Merlin,â? he repeated, closing his eyes. The boyâ??s confusion was nearly palatable, as if he didnâ??t even think Arthur capable of sex. Uther was very aware how young men were and had cautioned his son from when his voice had first started to break. He would have no bastard grandson attempt to cause problems for the proper line. â??You are an attractive young man. I simply wish to know if my son has had you first.â? Mismatched eyes fluttered open then tracked up to Merlinâ??s face, watching him.

"I am a jealous man, you know." If Merlin found Uther's pain humanizing, the man was completely human tonight. He shifted, shoulder in spasm, but he tensed the muscle so the boy would see no more than a brief tightening in his face. "I would hate to think he had his eyes on you first."
 
Merlin had imagined this meeting going several ways and roughly half of them had ended with his head detached from his shoulders while the rest were a mix of lighting fires, taking off the king's chainmail again, or being on fire. Of all the scenarios Merlin could have thought up - and he had a very broad imagination, it came with the territory - this particular one never, ever would have crossed his mind, not even in his most addled state.

The king had sat back, closed his eyes; he was repeating himself carefully, each word precise and striking like a hammer and Merlin even flinched - it made him grateful that the king wasn't looking at the time.

Of course, the warlock wasn't completely oblivious to - that - aspect of life. He had been told stories and given a very modest education regarding sex, told about the differences in girls and boys, how children were born, and how it was really quite natural - just that he probably shouldn't ever do it unless he marries the girl first, and really only if he wants a son out of it. It had made sense to Merlin and he had never really asked about it much after that, though his mother would occasionally ask him questions about the nice girl on the other side of the village and whether he thought she was pretty, because she watched him when he wasn't looking. He had smiled and told his mum that she was probably looking at his ears.

On occasion, however, Merlin would be caught by something - perhaps the way a skirt would move, or how sunlight caught on blonde hair, but nothing he considered terribly significant; they were about the same, he decided, as looking at the way water moved.

It wasn't until later on that he learned from his friend, Will, that sometimes it wasn't just boys and girls - it didn't seem odd to Merlin, it just hadn't ever occurred to him, quite simply because it was never really on his mind. Will had patted him on the back as he had a social revelation, and had carefully told him that he could always - you know, experiment. It hadn't occurred to Merlin until a long time after, what Will had been getting at.

That conversation came rushing back to Merlin right then, and he gaped at the king, cheeks going from ghostly pale to turning the colour of his own scarf in one sudden rush. Yes, the king was asking if he and Arthur were - he couldn't even think it.

And then there was the addition of that word, 'first' from the king - 'if my son had you first', 'had his eyes on you first', as though there was a second, as though -

- Merlin's eyebrows knitted in a gentle sort of worry; no, he was sure he was getting something wrong. He had to be misinterpreting; maybe he could pin this as an actual moment of stupidity on his part, rather than the fictional sort that he and Gaius often had to employ.

"He - hasn't -" Merlin stammered out, and blue eyes looked around the room, as though searching for something, any sort of clue as to what was going on, then they snapped back to the King, and eyebrows rose high. Attractive? Jealous?

The words were blurted out, lined with a desperate sort of confusion that pleaded for an explanation other than the one in his head,

"'Jealous', sire?" he asked, fingers clutching at the fringe on his scarf.
 
For people of Utherâ??s station (of which there were obviously very few in Camelot, but for nobles it was much the same), romance and marriage and intercourse were all very different from each other. The king had been lucky to love his wife, even though the two of them had been married before they had been given time to know each other. It was always luck in his mind, for that matter, because even though Igraineâ??s loss left him aching every day, not having her in his life would have been the greatest punishment. She herself had a never dipping mood, much like Merlinâ??s; the only time, in fact, that her bright smile had ever waned was when she couldnâ??t conceive the son Uther had craved.

God, he had been selfish. If he had jusâ??

No. It was Nimuehâ??s fault. She had tricked him, never letting him know that his wish could come with the cost of his beloved wifeâ??s life. He had paid the price and, twenty-one years later, so had she.

If he wanted just the ghost of his wife with him in bed, no one would fault him. But Uther would never acknowledge that every young man he had brought into bed had reminded him of Igraine in some fashion. That, like emotional displays, were simply things Pendragon men Did Not Do, capitol letters and all.

So for him, this little game was merely sexual, and sex as far away from romance (and certainly marriage) as possible. It had nothing to do with the fact that his bed was large and cold when he didnâ??t have the dissolution of his kingdom due to foreign threats, his sonâ??s death or magic to occupy his mind. It was entirely about an attractive young man and his desire to bed him.

Merlinâ??s face had gone an unattractive shade of red that the boy managed to make aesthetically pleasing, his brow scrunched in worry. Even the stammering was attractive. It made Uther wonderâ?¦ but no, not at his age? Maybe. The way he responded, it seemed as ifâ?¦ Was he so inexperienced?

â??I am sure you know what the word means.â? Uther kept his eyes on Merlin, pinning him with his eyes an expression that said nothing less than â??you are not leaving my sight until we have finished this dreadfully embarrassing conversation (for you only) or you have burned a hole through the stone floor due to your flushâ??.

Uther was an expert at talking in glances.

â??If not Arthur, has any man had you? Or have you been with women?â?
 
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