H (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} derryere) wrote,@ 2009-05-02 00:47:00 |
|
I have stopped resisting. I'd say this is the last time, but, seriously, who am I even kidding by now? THIS WILL KEEP HAPPENING NO MATTER WHAT.
Fandom: it appears I am your bitch.
the way out is through | R | 8900 words | Written for![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
kinkme_merlin. Prompt: Arthur/Merlin. When Arthur and Merlin go to drop Mordred they are followed by Uther's knights and all the druids are massacred and the three have to run with a bounty on their head.
BETA'D BYscifijunkie, THE LANCE TO MY DRE, WHO PEERS INTO THE SOUL OF MY FICS AND TELLS ME TO ADD MORE COMMAS. And a bedroll.
(end)
And, as is the custom, a song. Two songs. One to go with the fic, and one to go with the feeling of HSKJDFHK WEEKEND, SHIT, THAT'S AWESOME!
Fandom: it appears I am your bitch.
the way out is through | R | 8900 words | Written for
kinkme_merlin. Prompt: Arthur/Merlin. When Arthur and Merlin go to drop Mordred they are followed by Uther's knights and all the druids are massacred and the three have to run with a bounty on their head.BETA'D BY
scifijunkie, THE LANCE TO MY DRE, WHO PEERS INTO THE SOUL OF MY FICS AND TELLS ME TO ADD MORE COMMAS. And a bedroll. - the way out is through
- Prompt: Arthur/Merlin.
When Arthur and Merlin go to drop Mordred
they are followed by Uther's knights
and all the druids are massacred
and the three have to run
with a bounty on their head.
*
He can hear himself breathe louder than he hears the clang of metal in the background. It's as though he's sitting there with his head in an iron tank filled with his own heartbeats--and he's looking through minute indents in the armour of it, looking down and noting the frightening things about the forest floor. Blood pooling on shallow leaves of shrubberies, a robe drooping off a neat row of unmoving ribs, his own fingers tight in a shirt and shaking--pushing at the man's chest, grunting, letting small jests of magic flow through as if to collect the life from the surface of his skin. But it's not there, it doesn't work, there's only a distinct lack of anything within the limbs so he moves on to the next. Clutching at necks, scratching, trying to find a trace of the living as more fall down and it's like scooping water out of a sinking boat with your bare hands, the water leaking even between your own fingers as you go.
Someone pulls at him, roughly, and he lets go of a dead arm, defeat. Arthur hauls him up, is yelling at him, a splatter of blood diagonally splitting his face in two. His sword is still out, dark, half-directed at the collection of warily unsure knights on the other side of the path. They won't touch Arthur, but they'll twist their fingers around the necks of any other form of life, Merlin is sure.
The child is clinging to his leg, shaking, and Arthur shouts some more. None of it registers, so when Arthur pushes him in the direction of the woods, he just does what the panic tells him to and grabs the child around the chest--holds him under his arm like a bag--and runs, through the trees and away, Mordred's dark head bobbling along, the child's little breaths hitching high in his throat.
*
Arthur finds them at dawn. They're hiding inside a hollowed tree. Merlin is awake, eyes wide and scared in the dark, staring out at the forest. Mordred is asleep against his chest, curled tightly into himself.
Out of breath, Arthur peers in and looks at the two for a long time before collapsing against the trunk--sliding down to the floor, closing his eyes. The grip he has on his sword slowly, slowly loosens as his consciousness flickers away.
*
They started walking somewhere around the afternoon. Arthur just got up, walked away, and Merlin simply followed--tugging along a blank and silent Mordred by the shoulder of his sleeve.
He doesn't know where they're going. He doesn't think Arthur knows either. They're all still covered in mud, in blood, and the apprehensive sense of confusion hangs between them solid and angry. Arthur is desperate for something to blame, Merlin can tell, and so the first words he says are,
"You can go home." It comes out croaky and weak, so he tries again, louder, "You can go back. We'll--we'll be fine, Arthur. You don't--"
Arthur turns around, abruptly, and Merlin takes a staggering step back when Arthur grabs his wrist. He lifts it up, holding on so hard Merlin feels his bones gnash together, and gives it a little shake at eye-level.
"I saw you," he hisses, glancing at Merlin's fisted hand. "I saw you." When he lets go, it's with force, with a push.
Merlin stands where he's left, silent. He rubbing at his wrist. Mordred looks up at him, the blankness giving away to a vague question.
"Keep walking," Arthur briskly commands from ahead, and the child falls into step sooner than Merlin does.
*
Mordred stops at some point. They're following the path of a stream and he pauses, supports himself on a tree, and at first, Arthur thinks he's just catching his breath. But then the child's arm gives way, and he half hits his head against the trunk before falling to the ground. Merlin, behind him, manages to catch his limp frame before he slid down the slight incline and straight into the running water.
Reluctantly, they make camp.
They don't have food and Arthur is too exhausted to hunt, his armour still too heavy and hot on his shoulders, so they get a fire going for no other purpose than to keep away the bugs. Perhaps for a lack of anything else to do, too.
Mordred sleeps on a heap of cloaks and jackets next to them. Merlin wrings out the wet shirt he used to clean the child's dirty face on the ground behind him, then pulls it back on--wrinkled and damp.
Arthur feels irrationally and wildly angry. He itches to get out of his armour but can't reach back far enough. He doesn't know what to do next. He doesn't even know where they are.
He pokes at the fire with a stick.
"You should . . ." Merlin starts, glancing up at him, a clear and wary peace offering. "Should clean yourself. You've still got . . ." he gestures at his face, vaguely.
Arthur stares at him, swallowing and choking on a tremble of fury. "Do not," he says, voice breaking with restraint. "Do not speak to me."
He tosses the stick into the fire, rises to his feet, and disappears beyond the trees. Farther down the stream, as far as he dares to go, Arthur cuts through the straps of his armour with a frenzy that leaves him short of breath and weak. He washes in the cold stream, scrubbing caked mud from the nape of his neck and dried blood from his face.
*
Arthur catches a few small rodents and roasts them over the fire. The dry smell of it is what wakes Merlin up, hungry and nauseated all at once.
They each eat with their eyes cast to the ground, either shamed or lost or estranged. The child seems the most restless of the three, and every now and then he'd put down his meat, eyes flickering from Merlin to Arthur, to someplace behind him--as though hearing a sound.
Merlin keeps his eyes down, and pulls the shield of wavering magic closer around them. He barely knows what he's doing. It's the best he has.
When there finally is a rustling, a distinct squeaking of leather boots over twigs deeper in the woods, Arthur freezes. Merlin, for the sake of it, joins him. They wait, breathlessly, for something to happen.
Nothing does. The footsteps die away, muddled voices in the distance disperse, and then it's all silence again—the river, the rustling canopy. The clicks and snaps of the fire.
Arthur shoots him a quick, sharp glance.
Merlin still keeps his eyes down.
*
The nights are cold, but manageable even without a fire. The child drowns in Arthur's cloak when he sleeps, and Merlin—meekly covering himself with his own jacket, shivers so badly the shakes are very nearly felt through the ground itself.
On the third day, Arthur wakes with a start.
He glares into the darkness of the woods, digging fingers into the dirt for a lack of something to hold on to. The knights are surrounding them, just beyond the circle of trees at the centre of which the three settled the evening before. The armoured men walk, carefully, vulturing around and scanning the ground—as though hunting down a scent in perpetual cycles, unable to place it exactly.
They don't look up at the upright Arthur, barely three yards away. They don't even think to glance at the small makeshift camp in the little clearing.
"Doesn't make sense," says one of the knights to another, voice low and cautious. "It's—They should be—"
"Yeah," replies the other, stranding straight and looking around him—eyes gliding over Arthur, not registering, without even the barest recognition. "It's weird."
*
Arthur's disappeared. Merlin hopes it's because he's hunting down something, found a track of a deer and lost track of time. All the same, the morning is long and uncertain, and he sits with Mordred by the fire—scraping the remains of last night's dinner off the bones, gingerly handing them to the child who accepts and chews in a nervous silent.
There's something different about him. Merlin's not sure what it is. He rests his elbows on his knees, hands holding onto his arms, the bridge they make supporting his head. Frowning, he watches Mordred eat. And when the child glances up, insecure under the scrutinising look, his eyes are clearer then Merlin's ever seen them before. The glazed over expression is gone. The irises, before a sharp blue, are muddled with brown.
"D'you . . ." Mordred starts, unsure, reaching his cupped hand with bits of meat out to Merlin, "d'you want some?"
With a weak smile Merlin shakes no. Somewhere between Camelot and here, the Druid boy's begun to meld back into just a kid. The magic's been shaken up like dust, and now it's settling. Merlin feels infinitely sad for this.
Arthur comes back at noon, dragging a bloody boar in his wake. Merlin rises to meet him, half walking half running, meaning to helping with the weight. But when he approaches, Arthur lets go of the animal, matching Merlin's pace in a mirroring stride toward him. The suddenness of it makes him waver in his step, pause, the twisted features of Arthur's face scaring him into stumbling backwards.
Arthur doesn't hesitate. He grabs Merlin by the collar, hauls him up and real close and demands in a hiss, demands to know why, why—
"—Can't they see us? Why the fuck, Merlin, can't they see us?"
"I—I don't—"
Arthur shakes Merlin, hard, making him clutch to his arms for balance.
"The truth," he says. "Or I swear, Merlin."
"I'm—it's just—" He swallows down his frantic heartbeat, briefly closing his eyes before, "I'm just trying to keep us safe."
"How?" Arthur asks, voice low.
"How . . ." He exhales small, nervous breath. "What?"
"How are you doing it. How." Arthur's face screws up in an ugly display of determination, so close his breath is fast and hot on Merlin's chin. "Say it. I want you to say it."
Merlin clenches his jaw. With this feeling of his chest rising up his throat he doesn't trust his mouth to hold back any wayward emotions, lungs or entire hearts fighting their way out. He takes a shaky, steadying breath and Arthur has to say it again, twist his fists tighter into the fabric of his shirt and tell him to say it, damnit, before Merlin can look him in the eye and quietly announce that,
"Magic. They can't see us because I'm doing magic."
Arthur lets him go. Merlin immediately steps back, wiping his sweaty palms on his shirt.
He's not prepared for it when Arthur's fist hits him across the face. The force of the punch makes him swagger and fall to the ground, awkwardly landing on his elbows.
He looks up at Arthur, astonished and flushed with part embarrassment, part anger. Arthur is just a mix of variations on fury, breathing heavily through his nose. He returns Merlin's glare for a moment longer then turns, walks back to his boar, and drags it back to camp.
The animal is old, and was probably half dead even before Arthur killed it.
*
The stream takes a curve deeper into the woods.
They won't follow it, and so this is the last day by the water.
Arthur shoots Merlin quick, unnoticed glances as they wash their shirts. The armour they drag along in a makeshift sack of his cloak, and now it rests between them on the embankment—a gauntlet, a shoulder pad spilling to the muddy ground.
Merlin's cheekbone is a mess of purples and yellows, his eye hidden in a dark shadow of ill colours.
Arthur douses his shirt in the water one last time, wrings it out, makes it into a wobbly ball and gingerly reaches out—pressing the cold fabric to Merlin's face.
This gets him a jumpy hiss at first, but he doesn't take away his hand until Merlin takes it over for him, holding the shirt to his face with a quietly muttered thanks.
Arthur gives a nod, a tight one, and dares not to look up as he sits back—takes off his shoes, and lets his feet dangle over the edge of the bank, the streams and whirls of the water passing under the arch of his foot, between the tunnels of his toes.
*
"Is he all right?" is the first thing Arthur says on a morning as they travel along the outskirts of the woods.
Merlin looks up in question. Arthur glances toward Mordred, whose shoe got caught on a root and he's trying to get it free, to catch up with them.
"He's . . ." Merlin sighs, rubbing his hand to his brow. "You should talk to him."
"Why?" Arthur asks, but Mordred is already running towards them—falling into pace between the two taller men, glancing up at them with a wavering smile of hello.
*
There's no more forest to hide in. Early in the evening they're forced to make camp on the edge of the woods, peering out into the fields ahead—at the plums of smoke coming from chimneys in the distance.
Merlin looks thoughtful, tugging at the grass by his feet. Mordred is having a whispered swordfight with two twigs, stabbing at each one of his hands with quiet exclamation of feigned agony. Arthur plays with a small piece of his armour, distractedly.
"We should sell it," he says, replying to a thought. When Merlin frowns at him, he clarifies, "My armour. We could sell it. Use the money."
Merlin looks at him. Mordred furrows his brows at the armour with a boyish, almost wistful expression.
"All right," Merlin says. "Yeah. That's a good idea."
Mordred's grip on his twigs loosens. He doesn't notice when they limply fall to the grass. Arthur almost wants to nudge the child with a foot, thinking it somehow to be encouraging or whatever emotion he thinks would help.
"We should keep north," Merlin tells them, a while later. "Beyond the wall, they . . . " He looks down, keeps looking down as he adds, "They'd have him. That's where he should be."
Arthur doesn't ask how he knows this. He's surprised when, before they to go sleep that night, Mordred fidgets next to him by the fire and asks in a conspiring whisper,
"He's talking about me, isn't he?"
The boy looks up, worriedly, and Arthur isn't sure how he hasn't noticed before—the child's eyes are now a light brown. Not a trace of blue to be seen.
*
Merlin steps out from wide-apart standing trees into the feeble morning atmosphere, into the low mist that ghosts over the surface of the meadow. He walks through the high weeds to the village and has taken with him the sack of armour.
*
They wait rather impatiently, neither accustomed to this state of passiveness or to the exclusive company of each other. So when Mordred strays off for a while, scurrying along the bushes but never out of sight, Arthur does not say anything of it. He comes back with berries collected in a pocket he's made of his shirt; lifting the edge up, the valley of fabric making for a little hammock.
"So," Arthur awkwardly starts when Mordred offers him some of his berries. "How old are you, anyway?"
"Nine," Mordred tells him, quickly glancing up—nervous, eager. A child. "How old are you?"
"Twenty." Arthur smiles slightly, nicking another berry from the boy's shirt. "Twenty and one within the next sunrise, actually."
Mordred nods, almost to himself. Then, on an intake of a breath, "You're the prince though, aren't you?"
Arthur pauses. He looks at the child, properly, and wonders how much of Camelot he remembers—how much of himself he is right now, of whatever he was before.
"Yeah," he says eventually. "I suppose I am."
"Cool." Mordred flashes him a feeble grin, as if unsure whether he's allowed to even say this.
Arthur huffs a quiet chuckle. With a sideways glance he says, "I know," and tries very, very hard not to feel sad or far away from home or as if nothing will ever be the same again.
When Merlin comes back, he has a small pouch of coins and Arthur's cloak now wrapped around two overly thin bedrolls. He's still holding on to one vambrace, though, and says he couldn't sell that one. Later, settling in for their last night in the woods, Arthur catches him pressing it into Mordred's hands with a casual shrug and a mutter.
The boy's expression flitters from confusion, to realisation, to complete and utter joy. He slips it onto his forearm, and it's so big it slips right off. So he pushes it back, higher, wears it on his upper arm—close to his shoulder, and trots around with a make-pretend sword when he thinks neither of them is watching.
*
The next town is a bigger one. They will try an inn tomorrow, but for now the open fields will have to do.
"Mordred said something," Merlin says as the night draws close, rubbing his hands by the fire. Next to him, Arthur gives the slightest hum of acknowledgement.
"Something about today," he continues, cautiously glancing at the other man. "I don't know, really. He just . . ."
Arthur closes his eyes. The smile that shadows the corners of his lips edges into something harsher, something a bit more pained. Merlin almost immediately regrets bringing it up.
"Dun' have a gift," he tries to quietly amend, quirking an uncomfortable smile at Arthur. "Bit short notice, wasn't it?"
For a moment, it's as though Arthur is about to laugh at this. But instead of amusement, the breathy huff turns into a grimace on his face, his closed eyes screwing shut with ugly lines pulling his features together. He's trying hard to keep it that way, to keep the sobs far from the surface, but one or two escape—almost silently—only noticeable in the hitching about his chest, the shudder climbing up his spine as he drops his head between his shoulders.
"Hey," Merlin tries, voice dropping to a whisper. He half turns to Arthur, awkward in how to hold himself, what to do next. "Hey, come on, it's . . ." He reaches out, placing a hesitating hand to Arthur's shoulder, squeezing.
Arthur stays curled into himself a long time. Merlin doesn't let go of his shoulder. He slides closer, hand sliding to curve around the nape of Arthur's neck, thumb rubbing patterns in an attempt at something soothing. He doesn't know what he's doing, is aware that maybe this isn't the kind of touch he should be giving, but pulls the man closer all the same.
When Arthur looks up, it's into the fire first. Merlin's hand slips from his neck down his back, where it stays.
"Your eye looks better," Arthur tells him, hoarsely, a while later.
"Yeah," Merlin says. He doesn't have much more than that.
"I'm—" Arthur stops himself. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay." Merlin is close, and brings a hand up to the side of Arthur's face, trying to turn it to him. But Arthur won't move, is fixed on the fire, jaw clenched. So Merlin comes to him, resting his forehead against his cheekbone with a frown and whispering, "It's okay," and, "It's okay," again and again against the skin before he tilts up and places a careful, shaky kiss to the hollow of his cheek.
*
That night Arthur comes to Merlin. He shuffles through the grass, mindful of the young boy sleeping in the space between them, and silently slides up to Merlin's warm body. Merlin slowly wakes, rolling to his back to squint at Arthur with murmured confusion. Arthur gives him the space, then shifts, moves to lie on top of him—leaving no question as to what he means by this.
He stays still, supporting himself on his forearms—planted on either side of Merlin's head—and lets Merlin catch up bit by bit. He looks down at the quickly sobering face, carefully watching the play of emotion as they flicker through Merlin's mind and then easily reflect in his eyes, in the way they widen and then darken, the way his breath speeds up to match Arthur's.
When, at length, Merlin's arms come up to circle Arthur's neck, Arthur drops his face to Merlin's shoulder with a shuddering sigh.
It's not complicated: Arthur moves his hips in small, grinding circles against Merlin's, quietly and minutely gyrating onto each other without too much noise, desperate for anything and at the same time all too conscious of the child they would not wake just a few yards away.
It's easy. Arthur licks at the lines and folds of Merlin's neck, panting on the wet skin and Merlin clings on—one leg coming up to twist around Arthur's calf, rubbing up and down in time with their rhythm. Arthur comes first, hissing and burrowing deeper into the curve of Merlin's shoulder, holding on as close as he can. Merlin continues to shift under him, one hand coming down to Arthur's hip, pressing him harder to himself as he rolls his hips up and eventually get there when Arthur bites down on the skin at the top of his throat—under his jaw, on the jut of the arching bone.
Arthur goes back to his side of the camp before the sun is up. Not far from him, Mordred hums something in his sleep, rubbing the back of his hand vaguely about his face.
*
The towns are filled with people, and Merlin can't hide them from everyone. So they buy some cheap wool paint at a market and sit behind a tavern, using the bucket of rainwater to dye Arthur's hair black.
Mordred hollers in laughter when, after the fourth try, Arthur comes up with half the paint on his face, dripping down his neck. His hair droops down over his eyes, wet and dark, and even Merlin can't help but stifle a snort at the sight.
Arthur swears revenge on all his disrespectful little minions, and Mordred falls off the crate he's sitting on, clutching onto his stomach—he's laughing so hard.
Merlin just dunks Arthur's head back into the bucket.
*
Mordred, Arthur decides, is far too much of a mouthful.
"Like Arthur's so great," the boy mutters from his high station on Arthur's back, cheek resting against the back of his neck—too tired to walk at the end of the day.
"Stop moping," Arthur tells him, hitching the boy higher up his back. "It's done. From now on, you shall be known to all as Dre, and that is that."
"That's a stupid name," Mordred says, trying to sound serious but is too sleepy to convey his earnestness.
"Is it not a stupid name, young man," Arthur insists. "I came up with it, and therefore it is nothing short of brilliant. Is it not, Merlin?"
"Of course," Merlin says, grinning around a mouthful of apple. "And since you're so keen on the brilliance of nicknames, Arthur, I think it's only fair you should get one too. Don't you think, Mordred?"
Mordred murmurs a half-asleep agreement. Merlin smiles and takes another bite, smug.
Arthur glares. "No," he says, decisively.
"How about Arty?" Merlin moves close, brushing his shoulder to Arthur's. "Arfur? Tur-tur?"
"You're lucky he's not awake enough to hear you," Arthur says, most certainly not amused. "I'd kill you if he picks up on that horridness you call a sense of humour."
Merlin's smile widens and he leans in, just a little. "Or, how about we call you . . ." he says, and Arthur can smell the apple on his breath as he makes another suggestion, low and filthy, whispering it in his ear.
Arthur flushes. Merlin laughs loud enough to start Mordred awake for a small moment, before the boy dozes off again, eyes drooping close, drooling on Arthur's shirt.
*
In the shadow, propped up against a tree, Merlin watches Arthur and Mordred hit each other with sticks.
Arthur calls it Teaching The Kid How To Handle A Bloody Sword (A Lesson For Life And Don't You Look At Me Like That Merlin You Know It's Tue), and Mordred calls it wicked awesome.
Arthur takes it too seriously at first, which frightens Mordred just enough to bite back some tears when he forgets to block and Arthur tells him that, See, now you're dead. Do you want to be dead? No. Then block, Dre, block.
It takes a whack to the back of Arthur's head by the hand of Merlin, and a hushed conversation on the ethics of children and kindness and such to get Arthur to soften a little. Now when Mordred strikes a good hit, Arthur catches the stick under his arm and crumples to the floor, staging a dramatic and noisy death.
Mordred continues to triumphantly stab him in the chest as he lays there, tongue out, feigning dead until Arthur can't stay still anymore and barks out a laugh, tackling the boy to the ground—holding him down until he cries out a laughing Uncle.
Arthur jumps to his feet, arms up over his head in victory, showing his magnificent person to Merlin—comically flexing his muscles, pulling odd faces to go with it.
Merlin claps his hands in mock appreciation, and swallows down the wave of affection that thuds up his chest.
*
At an inn somewhere, in a small but cheap room, they spend the night on a bed for the first time forever. The three of them together, Arthur on the left, Merlin on the right, and Mordred between them—the only one actually asleep.
Merlin's arm is slung easily, protectively, over the boy's—his eyes calmly looking at Arthur across the pillows. Arthur is looking back, not in question or searching for anything. It's a simple back and forth of gazes, each content with just seeing the other, see them see themselves and then not much else.
Arthur's hand reaches over, cupping Merlin's face—fingers at the curve of his jaw, thumb stroking soundly over his cheekbone.
Like that they fall asleep; sleep like they haven't slept for years.
*
When they run out of money, Merlin has no choice but to kneel by Modred's side and gently coerce, tug the vambrace off his forearm.
The boy clings on. He won't let go, he shouts and stamps and refuses to part with it, and then—when nothing else seems to work—he weeps, frustrated and flushed a blotchy, angry red.
In the end, it's Arthur who doesn't have the heart to do it. He takes the vembrace from Merlin, hands it back to Mordred, and says,
"If we're outlaws anyway . . ."
They steal a horse from outside a tavern, and gallop for five hours straight into hilly landscapes; Arthur with one hand on the reins, one arm around Merlin's waist, Merlin with two hands around the boy, who leans back against his chest—clutching the vambrace with a determined, yet still somewhat hurt, pout.
*
They happen on a city where a fair has unfolded itself over the streets and the squares with the loud promise of good times to be had. The colours and noises are intoxicating, inviting and thrilling before the audience even know what they're seeing, what the goal of it all is, and the unbothered confusion of the whole thing is comforting to all.
The three can't stay away, not even if they'd tried, even the oldest amongst them still barely a child himself. They walk down the streets in amused wonder, none of them ever having seen anything like this, laughing at the oddities and marvels of everything they come across.
In a tent, there's a man in weird dress walking on stilts. There are two little girls who can jump high and land on each other's shoulders, can flip back and then forth and joggle a ball all the while. From the steps where they sit, Mordred watches, fascinated, laughing around a mouthful of roasted chestnuts. Arthur and Merlin sit one step higher, Mordred in the space between their legs—not noticing (or perhaps not caring) that Arthur has a calm hand up Merlin's shirt, familiarly tracing slow circles to the small of his back.
*
Arthur takes care of the horse while Merlin makes a weak attempt at sword practice with Mordred. He's out of breath long before the child's even broken a sweat, and gets jabbed in the stomach too many times for it to be healthy.
He calls for a break, exhausted and sweaty, and collapses against the torn-down wall of an old hut. Arthur, sliding down next to him, makes fun—even though he's such an easy target it's barely even a challenge at this point. Merlin barely listens and tiredly rests his head against Arthur's shoulder, watching Mordred stab and swing at empty air in the distance—making accompanying whooshing sounds of swords, battle cries and triumphs. Then he finds a mole hill, gets distracted, and starts stamping down on that—jumping in the pile, inexplicably thrilled with the notion of elevation.
"We're not that far now, are we," Arthur says, voice reverberating where Merlin's face presses to his neck.
"No," Merlin says, tilting his head a bit, nudging the underside of Arthur's jaw with his nose. And for all the effort they've put into making sure this wouldn't happen, not like this, not right in front of the child and out in the open—the kiss transcends far too easily.
Arthur looks down at him, and Merlin tilts his head further up, and then it's already taking place. First lips, ghosting, brushing, then lightly nipping—kissing, trying for different angles and tentative tongues. And from there on there is just no stopping it, absolutely nothing to stop it, how they lick into each other's mouths, act out all the movements they've been thinking about with their tongues, dazedly in daydreams or at night—close, so close but barely touching, not allowing themselves for the situation, for the priorities and everything else that had to go first. But now they're latched at the mouth, biting at one another, quietly groaning into the wet skin of their lips whenever something's particularly good—exciting, thrilling and exactly what they want to feel at that moment, given to them, as quickly and effortlessly as that.
When they part, Arthur's hands are fists in Merlin's hair, Merlin's own hands fists at the sides of Arthur's shirt. They pant, catching their breaths, foreheads pressed together—exchanging brief, brushing touches of lips.
Eventually, Mordred pokes Merlin in the leg with his stick.
"Can we go back to swording now?" he asks, looking at the two with a vaguely disturbed, scowling expression.
Arthur lets go of Merlin's hair, gently flexing his fingers. Merlin smiles, presses a quick kiss to Arthur's lips, and makes to get up—brushing the dirt off his breeches.
As he follows Mordred back to the imaginary training field, he hears the child mutter to himself,
"Gross."
*
They've followed a wide river uphill and have taken rest by a pool of still waters, where the movement has stuttered to a momentary halt between a waterfall and the splitting of two meanders, when Merlin announces that they'll get there before the next sundown.
"Get . . ." Mordred frowns at his boots. "Get where?"
"Home," Merlin says. And then, "Home for you."
Mordred's eyes shoot up, wide and not-comprehending, and he quickly looks to Arthur—as though seeking for a disagreement. He finds none. Arthur simply glances down at the beginnings of his fire, mouth tight.
Mordred stands up. He kicks at Arthur's pile of twigs, scattering them, the starting smoke evaporating into the air—then stomps off into the trees. He gets as far as about ten yards before Merlin hurries after him, dragging him back, screaming and kicking, shouting about how if they're not his family anyway, if they're not his home, why the hell should he stay—why won't they let him go, stupid bastards, stupid, why won't they just leave him—
Arthur takes over swiftly and effectively, grabbing Mordred by the shoulders and giving him a firm, solid shake. The boy silences immediately.
"I will not," Arthur says, voice clear and authoritative, "allow for this behaviour. Not here, not anywhere. You are not a baby. You will not behave like this, Mordred. Do you understand?"
Modred stares at him, shaken up, red-eyed and angry.
"Do you understand me, Mordred?"
The child nods reluctantly, scowling. Though it seems to be enough for Arthur, and he lets go with a sigh.
"Good," he says. "Now help me fix the mess you've made of the fire."
*
"This sucks," Mordred says, low and mumbling, when Arthur makes him learn how to skin a hare once they get the fire going properly again.
"This does not suck," Arthur explains. "This is the last time you'll get the chance to learn this, is what it is. So shut up, young man, and stop holding that knife so close to the meat."
It's only much later, after they've eaten, that the idea seems to get to all of them.
"This is the last time we'll sit like this," Mordred says, quietly, not looking up at either of the two men. Merlin reaches up instead, though, brushing the boy's dark hair out of his eyes—resting his hand on his shoulder, squeezing.
Mordred's frown settles in deeper than before.
Merlin's hand slips off, and he's quiet for a while before getting to his feet, announcing that he's going to wash by the fall, and for the two to behave.
Arthur watches him go. Then he turns back to the fire, turns back to doodling randomly lines in the ground with a twig. It takes him about five minutes of hesitation, of glances over his shoulder and then at the sulking child to say,
"I'll be back soon." And, "You're not to wander beyond that tree there, all right?"
Mordred squints up at him. "What tree?"
"That three. The one with the knob."
"That—What! No! That's not fair! At least give me until the rock."
Arthur considers this for a moment. "Fine," he says. "But no farther than the rock. Or climbing on it! I swear, Dre, if you slip off and break your neck I will—" he stops, catches on a breath, and has to quickly close his eyes before continuing. "Just don't do it, all right?"
"Yeah," Mordred says, and it doesn't sound like an answer at all.
"Yeah, what? Say it back to me, boy. Say it, what aren't you to do?"
Mordred sighs deeply. "I'm not to go past the rock or climb onto it, because if I slip off or break my neck you will—"
"Good," Arthur cuts him off with a strong nod. "Behave!" he adds as he walks back through the trees, pointing a commanding finger at the child.
"Whatever," he mumbles in reply, vaguely waving off Arthur with a distracted hand.
*
Arthur finds Merlin by the waterfall, using the water to rub the redness out of his eyes, the noise of the cascading mass to drown out the quiet sobs catching about his throat.
Arthur strips down and gets into the water, scaring Merlin by slipping two arms around his waist without warning.
Merlin is angry. First because Arthur left the child alone, then because he's doing this here, here, where Mordred might wander by any given moment and then because he's just angry, and sad, the feeble punches he throws to Arthur's chest weakening into just clawing at his shoulders, pushing, then pulling to, then just clutching on, holding tight and Arthur shushes him, tells him to be quiet and to calm down—not to worry, not to fret and not to worry, love, sshh now, it'll—it'll be all right, it'll be fine, love, it'll—
It happens quite unexpectedly. Against the embankment, half in the water, half out, and even though Merlin'd been withering against his fingers—arching into them, demanding more—when Arthur does it, when he complies and does it, it hurts too much. And Merlin tells him so, he pulls him close, won't let him move and tells him how much it hurts, how he wants to stop and Arthur tries to soothe him, run careful hands down his body and whisper that it'll get better, that it's got to be bad before it can get better and just a second, just—just a moment longer, Merlin, just—
It's so hot. So tight and hot and sad, and eventually Merlin does move—his litany of pain moves too, towards profanities and agreements, then nothing but Arthur's name, scrambling at his back, nails digging in and painting bright marks up and down, telling him to go faster, slower, harder and no, stop, but yes, harder and don't stop, do not stop, don't ever stop Arthur if you stop I swear I'll—Arthur, I'll—
*
The fire is dimming. Mordred had climbed the rock after all, had fallen from it after all, and had earned himself a small cut along the line of his hair, by his forehead—after all.
But he's sleeping now. He's fine, and sleeping, and Merlin sighs, wishing this didn't have to be—wishing it even harder than all those weeks ago, that first night when they hid out, muddy and bloody, on the inside of a hollowed tree.
"Come here," Arthur says, propping himself up on an elbow—looking at Merlin from his bedroll, on the other side of Mordred's sleeping spot.
"What?" Merlin whispers back, glancing at the child—incredulously—as if to make his point. "No, Arthur."
Arthur sighs, rolls to his back and says, "Don't be daft, Merlin. I won't do anything. Just come here."
Merlin looks at him through the darkness, the light of the fire wavering in its choice to illuminate certain corners of his face—shadows jumping to and fro along his features.
"Come on," Arthur urges, folding back a corner of the blanket.
Merlin complies, warily, carefully padding his way to the bedroll (Arthur’s turn to have the meagre padding). He's pulled down rather gracelessly, made to lie down, manhandled into a comfortable position—his back to Arthur's chest, Arthur's arms curling around him—hands resting safely under his shirt, fingers fanned on his skin.
"There," Arthur softly says then sighs as Merlin settles, his breath close to Merlin's neck. They quiet in movement together, calming into the nearness of each other and Merlin thinks it's quite nice like this—peaceful in a moment that shouldn't be just that. His mind quiets down along with it, and even if he's not aiming for sleep, isn't planning on resting quite that much tonight, it's a close thing with the heat of the loose embrace and Arthur's face pressed to the back of his head; lips brushing and aimless to the nape of his neck, nose fitting behind his ear.
When Arthur speaks, a rush of breath behind him, Merlin barely even notices at first. So he has to repeat it, lower his voice by Merlin's ear, ask again whether—
"Did I hurt you?"
Merlin sleepily closes his eyes, leaning back further into Arthur as an initial reply. "No," he says. Then, "Yes." Then, "I mean—it hurt. At first. But it's . . ." He puts a hand over Arthur's, on his belly, clinging on to a finger. "It was fine."
Arthur listens, is quiet for it, and says, "It'll get better." Then, "I mean everything."
*
Mordred wakes him with a small but urgent hand to his shoulder, shaking him insistently. Merlin blinks up with a murmured question, already half afraid something is wrong, but Mordred just shrinks back a little—sitting on his heels, stance uneasy even in the dark.
"I—" the boy tries, stops himself, then shoots his empty bedroll a glance. Glaring back at the ground, he whispers, "You're not naked under that or anything, right?"
Merlin lets his head drop back onto Arthur's arm with a relieved huff of a laugh, and says, "No, not naked, Mordred," as he folds back the blanket, shifting to make more space.
Arthur wakes for a small and gruffy moment, watching through squinted eyes as Mordred shuffles into the bedroll. He grumbles something about bloody nuisances, but pulls the fabric tighter around all of them nonetheless. He lets his hand linger on the child's forehead for a brief touch, brushing back the hair, feeling for the small cut he knows is there.
"G'night," Mordred says in the quietest of voices.
"Night," Merlin repeats in a mumbled reply, and Arthur grumbles some more.
*
The village is a collection of gardens, of wooden huts built up against the hill and hidden between the trees, catching light of day just enough for it to bounce off the thick and blurry glass of the windows. There's people walking up and down the ascending paths, greeting each other with a lilting accent and hitching baskets of ware higher up under their arms. A group of boys, about Mordred's age, are sitting on a fence looking appropriately bored; one of them is levitating three acorns with a disinteresting finger, making them swirl in the air in irregular patterns—then, with a sigh, he lets the three nuts hurl themselves at one of his friend's heads. Chuckling amusement ensues, and the victim rubs at his head—indignant before he clear and simple shoves the culprit off the fence. The child falls to the ground, laughter growing louder.
Merlin sees it. Mordred sees it. Arthur can't see any of it, and stares at the mossy path that rolls up a deserted hill, at a loss.
*
Mordred says no. He says no over and over and over, face red and wet and eyes swollen, clinging to a tree and refusing to move. He won't go, will not go, doesn't want to go. He wants to stay with Arthur and Merlin and why won't they have him, why are they making him go away and why are they leaving, he doesn't understand because isn't he good, doesn't he do what they tell them to and that time with the rock that was just that once, he just wanted to try but he promises, swears he'll be good, swears he'll do anything they tell him to, just do not go away, do not leave him here, he doesn't know these people and doesn't understand what they're saying and—he just wants to—weren't they having a good time, the three of them, didn't they make a good—?
Merlin kneels by the child, pries him from the tree—gently—and hugs him to his chest, muffling Mordred's continuous babble. He shushes quietly into his hair, wipes at the boy's face with his sleeve, and looks at him. He tries a shaky smile, tries to say something, but gets no further than a feeling of deep helplessness. So he sets his jaw, grits his teeth, takes a deep breath and presses one kiss to Mordred's forehead, letting the slightest bit of magic spill over.
Arthur, on his turn, doesn't know what to do with himself. He stands tall, frowning down and places a heavy hand on Mordred's shoulder. He says,
"Be good, kid,"
and that is that.
The lady that tries to drag the fighting, scrambling Mordred away from Arthur and Merlin isn't strong enough to hold on and Merlin and Arthur aren't quite strong enough to walk away just yet.
Mordred runs back, runs and runs and then latches himself around Arthur's middle, arms coming round and holding on, face pressed harshly to the man's chest. Arthur grimaces and can't help but curl around the little boy, pressing him closer, dropping his head and hunching lower to hide the twist of his face in the mop of hair.
"We'll come back," he promises in a hiss. "We will. We'll—we won't forget, okay, we'll—"
"Arthur," Merlin says, voice weak and unsteady and he tugs at his arms, gently trying to make him let go. "Come on, Arthur . . ."
But Arthur has a hard time letting go, and Merlin has to keep a firm hold on his arms from behind, has to pull him down the hill to where their stolen horse is grazing—to pull at his sleeve whenever he looks back, hesitating, still considering a what if, What If We Just . . .
No, Merlin says, and readies the saddle. He can still feel the cold pressure of the vambrace in the crook of his elbow, and his heart is aching and hating him, but it's still no.
It'll always have to be no.
*
Merlin stares up at the clear night. Where the vastness used to frighten him, now he wonders how long it'll take him to take it all in, and how big his eyes have to be to see it all with one glance.
The bugs keep a safe distance, out of the smoke of the fire but still hover low, the swallows swooping down overhead in a quiet warning for oncoming rains.
Arthur sleeps with his back to Merlin, and Merlin doesn't sleep at all.
*
It's been three days since they've been outside, holed up in their little room at the inn. Arthur is fucking Merlin, and even though they're facing each other Arthur's face is buried in Merlin's shoulder all the while, biting and grunting and telling him to tell him that—
"—it's as good for you, Merlin. Tell me it's good for you, I—fuck, tell me it's—"
Merlin gasps, breathless, digs his fingers deeper into the flesh of Arthur's ass and arches up.
"Yes," he pants into Arthur's ear, lips wet at the shell. "Yes, yes it's—oh god like—yes, like that, Arthur don't—"
When Arthur sleeps during the day, a ball of man unmoving under the sheets, Merlin lingers by the window, looking down at the busy street below. He thinks about times when he was happy, and how—despite the promises—things haven't been getting better for a while now.
*
Arthur inspects a lock of his hair that brushes about his vision whenever he ducks his head, lets it hang between his shoulders. The end is a faint brownish tint, and the rest is blonde again, just like it used to be.
He looks up at Merlin. The man is washing himself by the water basin, rubbing a damp cloth over his arms with movements of thoughts distanced by miles from where they are. Arthur says something about buying new dye, and Merlin hums in distracted agreement, not really listening.
He thinks about getting from the bed. About pressing against Merlin from behind, running his nose along that neck and smelling him, delighting in it, smiling into it and watching Merlin smile in return.
But the loss makes the stubbornness harden between them, and he is as glued to his side of the room as he is to these lands, is banned from others and bound to this life, this state of no fulfilment and confusion—of no constants, none, except for the line of Merlin's spine, the path of it which never changes. He watches at night, sometimes reaching out to trace it—sometimes not.
*
One morning Merlin wakes up, and Arthur is not there.
Although he reappears a few hours later with a small bag of paint powder, with the perfect explanation for it all, Merlin is not to be helped as he pushes the astonished Arthur against the door, shoves and hits him with unpractised fists, asking him in harsh tones what the hell he was thinking, how the hell did he think Merlin was supposed to react, waking up and finding him gone—what was he supposed to think, Arthur, and fuck, how—
"—can you be so fucking stupid? How can you possibly—go—"
Arthur kisses him, even as Merlin continues to protest into his mouth. He kisses and insists, holding on to the shaky Merlin, kisses until Merlin relents and kisses back, at once desperate and violent and short of breath.
They never make it to the bed. On the floor, the dirty wooden floor, it's a sweaty and slow affair. Arthur keeps two hands on Merlin's face, holding it, face a breath apart. They move in rolling waves of cautiousness, with a certain bottomless need balancing out the uncertainty rippling under the skin, the fear of doing it too quickly this time—of unintentional pain, of saying the wrong thing, of ruining each other and being left alone, completely alone once either realises how this isn't worth it. Can't be worth it, not really and they'd have to see how they'd be so much better off without the other, without the complications they bring into each other's lives, how they've messed it all up so bad and both wonder whether the other wishes they'd never met, that this would've never happened, that if they could, would they turn back and—
"Shut up," Arthur says when Merlin asks him this, quietly, the side of his lips moving over Arthur's chest as he speaks. "You're—No. Just . . ." He pulls Merlin closer, glancing down at him, "No."
*
Arthur beckons Merlin away from the window with a tug to the back of his shirt, making him walk backwards with a small little laugh. Arthur is sitting on the edge of the bed when Merlin turns to face him, a thin look of affection tilting his lips into a smile.
"What," Merlin asks, easily running his hand through Arthur's hair.
"Nothing," Arthur says, hands Merlin's hips, and noses the hem of his shirt up to place a small kiss below his navel.
*
Low by the shore, the wind is stronger than anywhere else. They wrap their cloaks closer around them as they walk down the sandy line littered with rotting wood and weed, occasionally looking up—peering out onto the stormy sea.
"Do you think," Arthur shouts over the noise of the waves, "d'you think we could go back?"
Merlin gives him a look. "To . . . you mean—"
Arthur frowns, shaking his head. "No, I mean—" He sniffs in the cold, staring at a seagull picking at a piece of flotsam, sharpening his beak on it. "I mean Mordred. I mean going back. Like . . . I said we would."
Merlin crosses his arms tighter at his chest. "Maybe," he says, kicking at a shell. "I don't know. Maybe he won't even . . . Where he's right now, he could forget that we . . ."
"Oh," Arthur says, and comes to a stop.
Merlin realises a few steps later, and has to turn to face Arthur, looking at him properly. "I mean," he adds, "we can always try."
"Yeah," Arthur says, swallowing with a nod that's more an uplift of a chin than anything else. "We can do that."
*
For the first time in months, the weather kind enough to allow for folding open the flaps of the tent and lying with their heads on the grass, looking up or sideways at each other, discussing the day or something they remember from before.
By now they've travelled with a caravan of restless people. With loose-tongued yet friendly mercenaries and solitary men banned from home, they've crossed some rivers and channels, have been back and forth and have seen so much in so little time, they're busting at the seams with it, bouncing the excitement off each other and revel in how what they find in the other mirrors their own sentiments exactly.
By now Merlin changes the colours of Arthur by running a hand through his hair, by touching careful fingers to his closed eyelids. He likes the browns and the reds, likes the hazels and the greens, likes to make freckles on his face by tapping all ten fingers in rapid movement down his face, mimicking a rainfall at the ends of nerves.
Still likes it best when he gets to change it all back, with a smile and a vague, soft sweep to Arthur's cheek, as if dusting off the surface.
"So," Merlin says after a long, thoughtful pause. "What next?"
"Soon," Arthur says, a playful smile about his lips as he turns to look at Merlin, "soon, this will have to stop. And we will have to go home, and fight, and do a lot of ugly things. Soon."
"Soon," Merlin agrees, touching his temple to Arthur's shoulder.
"Yes," Arthur says. "But until soon, until then, Merlin, love, we'll . . . we'll just . . ."
"We'll be good." Merlin's shifts, the hand playing with the collar of Arthur's shirt coming up to briefly graze the base of his throat. He looks up, lifts his heads to rest his chin on the shoulder instead, and adds, "We'll be brilliant."
And, as is the custom, a song. Two songs. One to go with the fic, and one to go with the feeling of HSKJDFHK WEEKEND, SHIT, THAT'S AWESOME!
- Mason Proper - Point A to Point B (aaahaha, "STEPHANIE, HERE'S SOMETHING YOU WAN'ED!")
- Fol Chen - Cable TV (this one's HOT.)
