[fic] The Deceived Heart, 1a/1
Nov. 28th, 2010 09:31 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
da_ya_riTitle: The Deceived Heart
Fandom: Merlin BBC
Rating: very light R
Word Count: 12,269
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: sleepwalking, brief violence
Spoilers: mentions of 1.07; takes place between S1 and S2
Summary: Merlin thought they were just going on a regular hunting trip, but of course Arthur finds a sorceress to annoy, and she puts a sleepwalking curse on him. Figures that it's up to Merlin to find a way to lift it.
A/N: Happy birthday,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
diluted_thought! I hope you like your present! ♥♥ (YAY, I can finally post this! XD; <333) Sleepwalking fascinates me so much, I just had to write a fic about it eventually. Additionally, I am once more cursing LJ's post limit. xD That said, have fun reading! ♥ (Also, this was sort of inspired by the beautiful, amazing poem The Waking by Theodore Roethke.)
It's the sort of thing that he can already see himself tell his grandchildren about, gathered close around his armchair next to a roaring fire on a cold winter's night. But on second thought, maybe the story of how the first thing Merlin did one autumn morning was to give his sovereign liege a concussion—albeit by accident—is not really the stuff of legends after all.
True, he manages to catch a single glimpse of Arthur's face when he makes to leave his room that morning, his golden hair unruly over blue eyes that look strangely glazed; but by then it's too late to stop the swing of the opening door. It smacks into Arthur's forehead with a sickening crunch, and the prince stumbles back, nearly falling down the steps into Gaius' room and only just managing to steady himself with a hand on the wall.
"Bloody ow!" Arthur yells, clutching at his head and squinting up at Merlin with a mixture of astonishment and rage. "Shit," Merlin breathes, bounds down the stairs and pushes Arthur down to sit on Gaius' bench with firm hands on his shoulders.
A quick glance to the side confirms that Gaius is already making his rounds—Merlin realizes that he'll have to deal with this on his own as he unceremoniously tugs Arthur's hands away from his forehead and leans closer to inspect the skin, dutifully ignoring the cursing. Arthur is still in his night shift and the soft woolen breeches he wears to bed; he must have rushed here as soon as he woke up.
"—too dense to wait until you're not half-asleep anymore before opening the damn door!" Arthur rails, although Merlin isn't really listening anymore in favor of poking at the still sleep-warm skin beneath his fingers. Arthur flinches back, but if the collision with the door had been as hard as it sounded, his forehead would be bruising already. The skin is merely reddening a little, going hot under Merlin's touch, probably in a belated reaction to the pain.
"I'm sorry, sire," Merlin replies testily, mostly to placate the prince as he wets a rag in the bucket of cold water Gaius left on the table for him to wash with. If he'd been half-asleep before, this whole incident was enough to jolt him quite awake by now. "Maybe you should have knocked first, as you're always telling me to."
Arthur huffs indignantly as Merlin places the damp rag on his forehead and tips his head back so it won't slide off again, but doesn't reply, choosing to elaborately grimace in pain instead. He still looks a little pink, and Merlin turns away to hide his eye-roll, convinced that it can't hurt that much anymore—he knows he only would have had reason to worry if Arthur had kept a carefully straight face.
"What are you doing here at this ungodly hour, anyway?" Merlin asks as he dries his hands on his breeches, making a beeline for the bowl of porridge Gaius has left for him to find on the hearth. He hungrily scoops a spoonful into his mouth, grateful to find that it's still warm—although the first snow of the season hasn't fallen just yet, the mornings are already as cold as if autumn had already proceeded well into winter.
"The hour is perfectly reasonable for people who aren't worthless layabouts—," Arthur begins, but then he stops as abruptly as if someone had put a silencing spell on him. Merlin frowns and turns back around to face him, and stops mid-chew.
Arthur is staring at something just above Merlin's left shoulder, his eyes losing their focus as a puzzled frown begins to form on his forehead. To Merlin's annoyance, the wet cloth slides off his face to land in his lap, but Arthur doesn't seem to notice.
"What am I doing here?" he murmurs, almost to himself; he lifts a hand to his head as though it's still aching, dazedly looking towards the door and then back to Merlin as if retracing the steps that have brought him here. He's probably about to pledge momentary insanity and claim that Merlin's supposed mental affliction is catching—and really, it's just unfair that Merlin has to be the butt of early-morning jokes on top of having to put up with the prince's twisted sense of humor in broad daylight.
"Very funny," Merlin retorts when he's swallowed his mouthful, mildly annoyed that Arthur can't even wait for him to strengthen his wits with breakfast before having a laugh at his expense. "I can hardly contain my amusement. If the whole crown prince thing doesn't work out, you could always apply for a position as the court jester."
He watches, unimpressed, as Arthur's stupefied stare travels across the workbench next to him like he's seeing it for the first time. "Shut up," he replies, rather belatedly, starting to look a little wild and also very much confused. He makes quite a picture, sitting in a ray of morning sunlight with tufts of disheveled golden hair sticking up at ridiculous angles, still in his night clothes and a well-faked, lost expression on his face.
"I was in bed," Arthur says vehemently, as if trying to convince some higher being that might be listening. "I went to bed last night— I slept, I know I did, and then you smashed a door into my face and I woke up."
He turns his accusing gaze on Merlin, like it's his fault that his brain is addled (which it very well might be, after that blow to the head); Merlin stops chewing again at the look on Arthur's face, starting to frown as well. Arthur isn't joking, he realizes with a start—the alarmed, maybe even slightly frightened glint in his eyes is real, and Merlin swallows with some difficulty before asking, "Did you hit your head really hard last night?"
"No," Arthur snaps, raking his fingers through his hair and making it stick up even more; he scrubs a hand across his face as though hoping to wake himself up again, but all traces of sleepiness are gone from his features. "I just went to bed— I lay awake for a while thinking of that woman we met—"
Merlin grimaces at the memory, the previous day's events rushing back into his mind, unbidden; trust Arthur to find a malevolent sorceress even in that tiny, run-down tavern they'd stopped in for a short lunch during their prolonged hunting trip. Well, she probably would have let them be, if Arthur hadn't tried to chat her up because she'd also happened to be rather pretty.
He shakes his head to clear it of the memory of her enraged face, refocusing his gaze on Arthur. "Well, you drank rather a lot of wine at dinner," he replies, and deliberately doesn't add 'since your father didn't dignify the stag we brought home with more than a disapproving look because its antlers were too small to look good on a wall'. "Maybe you're just hungover?"
Arthur snorts, his face regaining a bit of its usual color; Merlin hadn't noticed how pale he'd gotten, looking from the workbench to Merlin and back again in a somewhat desperate attempt to make sense of it all. "I can't really tell how much of my headache comes from last night's wine anymore," he retorts with a pointed look at the door to Merlin's room.
Merlin smiles at that, ducking his head. "Sorry about that, really," he says, a little sheepishly. "Does it hurt badly?"
Arthur absently peels the wet cloth off his thigh to place it on the workbench. "I've had worse," he replies loftily, at last sounding more like himself; now that he's made most of whining elaborately while Merlin was disgruntled, he's free to do a complete turnabout and wave his concern away when it becomes genuine. Not entirely convinced, Merlin leans forward, reaching out a hand to brush the disheveled fringe from Arthur's face to check for bruising one last time.
Arthur surprises him by flinching back, clearing his throat as he turns his head away. "I'm fine, Merlin, stop fussing," he says brusquely, although his face still looks unusually flushed. But he stands up before Merlin can even open his mouth to protest, blinking and putting a hand on the table to steady himself when his head seems to protest with a twinge of pain.
"If you're sure," Merlin replies doubtfully, lowering his hand back to his side. Normally he'd just crowd into Arthur's space and take a look at his forehead anyway, but there's something strangely cornered in Arthur's eyes, a tightness in the set of his shoulders that warns Merlin off.
"Right," Arthur says, to no one in particular, and coughs. He seems almost flustered, although Merlin has no idea why. "I'll just—"
He gestures vaguely at the door, gives Merlin a curt nod and decisively crosses the room. He's probably still unsettled from waking up here instead of in his room, Merlin thinks, watching Arthur go despite the instinctive urge to stop him; sure, walking in one's sleep is not unheard of, but Arthur has never done it before in the nearly two years Merlin has been serving him.
Only when the door closes behind the prince does Merlin realize that Arthur didn't ask him to come along to help him dress.
***
The rest of the day passes like any other. After a slightly belated breakfast, Arthur seems to be back in good spirits, appearing to have forgotten all about his nightly adventure, if the renewed vigor with which he drills his knights is anything to go by. And so Merlin doesn't mention the whole thing to Gaius when the physician stops by the training grounds to send him into the woods to collect herbs. The autumnal chill permeating the thick stone walls of the castle has resulted in a rapid spread of sore throats and runny noses—apparently Gaius wants to restock his supply of cold remedies in time for the onset of the year's coldest season.
Merlin spends most of the afternoon letting the dew from the undergrowth slowly soak into his boots as he bends down to pick peppermint and sage, sucking in the cold, clear air in deep, refreshing breaths when sweat starts to bead on his forehead. He's always loved this season, the slow, unhurried transition from bright, sweltering summer heat into the icy, permeating hush of winter. Fog collects on the fields in the mornings, retreating back to the edge of the forest at sunrise but never quite dissipating, hovering in the shadowed spaces beneath the trees as if lurking in wait. The air gradually grows colder, but it's a crisp, cleansing sort of cold, not yet the brutally icy atmosphere of winter.
He used to help with the harvest in Ealdor, felling long, proud stalks of crops with the practiced (if, in his case, slightly clumsy) sweep of a scythe and digging turnips out of the ground before it freezes. Collecting herbs is the next best thing, though, and Merlin stays in the forest until late afternoon, watching the sun turn the fog into glittering, otherworldly clouds of mist, and by the time he returns to the castle he's almost forgotten about his and Arthur's strange encounter.
On the next morning, Merlin bounds down the stairs into Gaius' room just in time to see Arthur close the door behind himself, still in his sleeping attire once again, with the same vacant look in his eyes that Merlin had seen the day before.
"Bugger," Merlin says, instinctively lowering his voice so as not to wake Arthur. It's obvious that he's asleep; his blue eyes seem oddly dulled, the usually vibrant color glazed over with a silvery sheen. His movements are slower than normal, although not by much—he pauses for a moment before he begins to cross the room with steady steps that are only slightly uneven.
He seems to be heading for Merlin's room again, unseeing eyes passing over Merlin without any hint of recognition. With a quick downwards glance, Merlin notices that Arthur must have put on his boots in his sleep this time, and apparently took a detour through the fields or the gardens. The leather is matted down with wetness, damp streaks criss-crossing his trousers up to his knees as though he's been wandering through grass heavy with dew.
Merlin has heard it said that sleepwalkers can die of shock when woken too suddenly, but although yesterday's encounter with the solid wooden door didn't kill Arthur either, he still hesitates for a long moment. He reaches out to touch Arthur's shoulder, briefly noticing how cold his skin feels even through his shirt—he really must have gone outside then, in nothing but his thin night clothes—and finally gives him a gentle shake.
"So it wasn't a one-off thing," Merlin states carefully, when he's coaxed Arthur down from his initial shock at once again not waking up in his bed.
He's raided Gaius' cupboard for a small mug of the strong ale he stores there, grateful for his mentor's absence as he'd thrust it into Arthur's hands and watched him down it in one big gulp. Arthur started shaking with cold as soon as he woke up, as though his body had been indifferent to the temperature while asleep, and he didn't even protest when Merlin dragged his blankets from his bed to bundle them tightly around the prince's shoulders.
Arthur doesn't reply. He still seems shell-shocked, and hasn't moved from where Merlin pushed him down to sit on the bench in much the same way as yesterday; but this time, Merlin sat down beside him after pouring a little of the ale for himself. His shaking has abated and he doesn't look quite as pale anymore, but he still can't seem to stop his eyes from returning to Gaius' door again and again, obviously hoping that whatever happened to him will make sense if he only stares at the passage he's taken for long enough.
There are small sprigs and bits of dried leaves in Arthur's hair, as if he's taken a detour into the woods in his sleep. Merlin unthinkingly reaches over to brush them away, combing through the soft golden strands, and idly watches the way they gleam between his fingers in the morning sunlight that has finally managed to creep over the windowsill. Predictably, Arthur twitches away after a moment, but Merlin just tuts at him and yanks at an errant strand of hair in reproach until Arthur stills again and lets him pick out the last of the twigs.
"This can't happen again," Arthur says at last, his voice rough with disuse and the last vestiges of sleep. "The crown prince of Camelot can't be seen roaming the castle in his night shift, Merlin."
Merlin bristles, immediately realizing whom the reproach in Arthur's voice is really directed at, although Arthur even added his name to make it sound like the whole thing is his doing. "It wasn't your fault, you insufferable— person," he quickly amends, when Arthur throws him a sharp look, "you were asleep."
Arthur scoffs, still refusing to look Merlin fully in the eye, and Merlin reluctantly lets his hand drop although he'd very much like to yank Arthur's head around by his hair to force him to meet his gaze. It's not like anyone even saw him walking around at night—if he had encountered even a lowly guard, they surely would have at least stopped him to ask if he was all right, and that probably would have woken him up. But Merlin still understands his distress, although Arthur made it here undisturbed. He is certainly no crown prince of anything, and he still doesn't like the idea of bumbling off to God knows where in his sleep, not knowing where he might wake up, especially if it just started completely out of the blue like this.
"I'll look through Gaius' books," Merlin continues after a moment; this time, Arthur does turn around, if only to level a dubious glance at him. Merlin straightens up, trying to look like a competent physician's apprentice. "You go ahead and have something to eat, and I'll meet you in your chambers if I find anything."
Arthur's jaw tightens in that familiar way that means he's suppressing a smile, but Merlin counts it as a victory anyway, since the shaken, hollow look melts out of his eyes, too. "So you're suggesting I fetch my own breakfast," Arthur deadpans, taking great care to sound suitably scandalized, and Merlin breathes out, feeling relief lessen the tight, uneasy feeling in his chest.
"Well, I'm certainly not sharing mine," he replies defensively, getting up and moving over to one of the numerous bookshelves so Arthur won't see his grin. It wouldn't do to give off the impression he's getting soft or anything.
Arthur scoffs at that, and Merlin hears the bench creak as he rises and shrugs off the cocoon of blankets. "I don't even want your breakfast," he points out, but Merlin notices that he's already halfway to the door—apparently the mention of food reminded him of just how long it's been since last night's dinner. "And you'd do well to eat it yourself, it might help you to put on some meat. You're not allowed to freeze to death this winter because you're too skinny to sustain any warmth at all."
Merlin dutifully waits for the door to close before sticking out his tongue at the wooden frame, and turns back to the bookshelf.
He distractedly eats the bread and cheese Gaius left for him while poring over thick tomes filled with lists of herbs and recipes for potions, but it's not long until he digs out his magic book from beneath the floorboards of his room. It's almost ridiculous how used he's grown to the way Arthur keeps getting into magical trouble wherever he goes, so Merlin feels vindicated in assuming that this ailment is the result of sorcery as well. He props it up on the impressive pile of books he's made on the desk, leafing through the pages while he finishes off the glass of warm honeyed milk from the hearth.
Half an hour later, he shuts the book again, sighing deeply and feeling oddly betrayed. He found sleeping spells, spells to rouse someone from a magic-induced sleep (he memorized that one just in case, although he's rather sure it won't work), and a lot of rather disturbing enchantments to influence someone's dreams. But sleepwalking isn't mentioned even once, at least not in connection with magic. One of Gaius' books had a short paragraph, though, something about how this strange affliction has mostly been witnessed in people going through a time of mental turmoil, as though even sleep can't make their minds let go from whatever is troubling them.
But Arthur isn't in a state of mental turmoil, at least not that Merlin knows of, and he thinks he's gotten pretty good at reading the prince's moods—even those he doesn't want Merlin to know about—during the past two years. The paragraph also informed him that sleepwalkers usually perform activities mirroring their daily pursuits when asleep, but Arthur didn't do that either. As far as Merlin can tell, he just took a random walk through the castle grounds before coming back to his room just as he had done the night before.
He downs the last of his milk, once again recalling the empty expression on Arthur's face, the sluggishness of his movements that was so at odds with his usual decisive, alluring grace. The vacant, glazed look in his eyes still sticks uncomfortably in Merlin's memory, strengthening the nagging suspicion of magic being the cause of the whole thing. He's seen a similar look in Arthur's eyes once before, when Merlin had broken from the cover of the trees just in time to see his prince calmly walk into a lake in full armor, and the memory still makes him shudder inwardly.
Arthur's eyes had been red then, just a brief, sudden flash, but clearly visible in the light coming in through the windows of his room when Merlin had implored him to listen. He frowns, staring sightlessly at the table as he remembers the silver he thought he saw in Arthur's eyes earlier. Then the memory of their encounter with the sorceress two days before rushes back into his mind, and he thinks, oh fuck.
***
It hadn't even been a real spell, at least none that Merlin recognized, because the sorceress hadn't switched to the foreign and yet familiar rise and fall of the language of magic to tell Arthur what exactly she thought of him and his advances. The situation had been too bizarrely funny for Merlin to realize what was going on right away—right then, he'd been perfectly content to lean back and watch Arthur's charm backfire in a rather entertaining way.
The prince's gaze had zeroed in on the dark-haired woman as soon as they'd entered the tavern, and Merlin had just heaved an exasperated sigh when he made a beeline for her table, bowing to her rather courteously and asking if she'd allow him the honor of paying for her goblet of wine.
True, she had stared rather incredulously, and anyone else would have taken the hint and backed off; but predictably, Arthur had refused to back down from what he must have viewed as a challenge. He'd sat down in the chair next to hers, waving over one of the serving girls to order a large lunch for three, with Merlin unhappily trailing after him.
In hindsight, the long, hard, searching look with which the woman fixed Arthur does seem rather strange; even then, Merlin had thought that she almost seemed to try to read his mind. She'd simply ignored Arthur's flattering comments about how well and fresh she looked even after having traveled all day. When Merlin had finally sat down, she passed a quick, inquiring look between them that rapidly moved to understanding (though what she'd understood, Merlin has no idea even now).
Then she'd spoken for the first time, in a clear, commanding voice, and said, "Why do you go to such lengths to deny yourself that which your soul craves?"
To which Arthur had replied, gallantly, that his soul only craved to be of aid to lone travelers who also happened to be the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen (and boy, has Merlin heard that one before).
The woman had stared at him for such a long time that Merlin started to feel slightly uncomfortable, but Arthur had been oblivious to her intense scrutiny. He remarked about the beautiful weather (a rather annoying autumn drizzle), surreptitiously mentioning the majestic stag they'd been tracking all morning (Merlin had managed to startle a few rabbits out of hiding when he tripped over a root for the umpteenth time, but they hadn't seen any other game all morning). He praised the extraordinary lunch they were brought (overcooked meat swimming in some broth of questionable nature), and interspersed his chatter with the occasional flattering comment on the woman's silky black hair, sky-blue eyes and flawlessly white skin (which, well, Merlin couldn't argue with that, since she really was beautiful).
"I do not understand," the woman had finally said, interrupting Arthur mid-sentence, and passed another lingering look between him and Merlin, this one slightly confused. "Why are you wasting your charm on me, when I am not the one who holds the key to your heart?"
Then Arthur, searching desperately for just the staggering sort of compliment to finally crack her icy veneer, had leaned over to whisper (although Merlin had been perfectly able to hear even from the other side of the table) that she did hold the key for something else entirely.
It might have been his uncharacteristically crude choice of words that angered her, or even just his persistence. When Merlin had lowered his palm from where he'd slapped it to his forehead in commiserative embarrassment, the woman had risen from her chair, drawing herself up to her full height to tower over Arthur in outrage. Her hair had flown beautifully as she tossed the thick strands over her shoulder, her eyes had still looked extraordinarily blue even under the dark loom of her eyebrows, and Arthur had just stared at her open-mouthed, apparently struck silent with the effect his words had had.
He'd ignored Merlin's mutter of, "Arthur, I think we should go," and didn't even seem to feel the not-so-gentle tug on his sleeve. The woman ignored Merlin too, as well as several other guests who had stopped eating and drinking to stare, and pointed a slender white finger at Arthur, hand quivering slightly with the force of her anger.
"You are a foul-mouthed pig as well as a blind oaf!" she'd exclaimed, her voice carrying quite conveniently in the silence that had quickly descended on the tavern like a quiet, impenetrable curtain. "You are too preoccupied with deceiving your own heart to see what's right in front of you!"
Merlin had finally succeeded in kicking Arthur in the calf until he rose from his seat as well, but the prince wouldn't budge when Merlin tried to steer him towards the door. It had been too late, anyway; the woman had taken a deep, dramatic breath, flinging her hair back again.
"I curse you, Arthur Pendragon," she'd intoned in a deep, dramatic voice (even then, Merlin had briefly wondered how she knew Arthur's name, since they'd been trying to stay incognito), "I curse you in your unseeing arrogance, so that you may continue wasting your time denying your soul the counterpart it seeks, but shall roam the lands in your hours of rest, doomed to retrace the path of the one your heart holds dear until you open your eyes!"
In the permeating hush that followed, Merlin had finally managed to drag Arthur through the room and out into the rain, kicking the door shut behind them.
Arthur probably didn't even realize she was a sorceress; it had been quite clear from his scandalized expression that he'd written her off as a madwoman. But Merlin had felt the sudden crackle of magic in the air, and tensed instinctively at the answering surge of energy in his blood, ready to protect or lash out if she so much as breathed a word of magic in Arthur's general direction.
The woman's gaze had briefly flickered to him as if sensing his unspoken threat, but she hadn't made any move to chant a spell. She'd simply looked at him with satisfaction in her eyes, holding Merlin's gaze until the door had shut between them.
Merlin sighs again, refocusing his mind on the present with some difficulty. They'd just been hunting, for heaven's sake, but of course Arthur had had to turn the whole thing into one of his crazy, life-threatening adventures by pissing off random sorcerers who'd been minding their own business. He's just lucky that sleepwalking isn't quite as life-threatening as the antics he usually gets up to, Merlin thinks sourly, and goes back to his room in search of his coat.
***
Merlin makes a quick detour to Arthur's chambers to tell him that he hasn't found anything yet but feels he's close to discovering a remedy, and cites the necessity of seeing Gaius as the reason why he absolutely has to have the rest of the day off. Arthur looks doubtful but gives him his leave anyway, and even refrains from reminding Merlin that he'll have to catch up on his chores the next day. It's another sign of how much the whole matter is bothering him, although it started merely two days ago, and Merlin can't help feeling slightly guilty when he crosses the drawbridge and heads for the forest.
The walk to the tavern doesn't take nearly as long as Merlin had thought it would; apparently he's faster when not weighed down with hunting gear, a packed lunch, and an extra coat for Arthur. It looks far more inviting coated in sunlight than in rain, tucked into the edge of a small clearing surrounded by tall trees. Their leaves have already changed color to various shades of brown, yellow and red, although there are still a few specks of green resisting the onset of autumn.
Arthur's strange brand of luck must have rubbed off on Merlin, because when he pushes through the creaky door of the tavern, he immediately collides with the black-haired sorceress.
"Oh, damn," she says, doubtlessly recognizing him, but doesn't resist when he crowds her back into the room—rather more rudely than he'd have liked, but he can't let her get away. She looks different from before, her hair tangled into a messy bun on top of her head, dark circles under alarmed eyes as she backs away from Merlin, giving him a restless, wary once-over.
Merlin folds his arms across his chest, quickly surveying the room—but aside from the innkeeper and a serving girl who flees into the kitchen when he meets her eyes, they're alone. He tries to glare at the sorceress, which is sort of hard, given the defeated look on her face, and says, as imperiously as he can, "Two days ago you put a curse on my friend. In the meantime we've both come to the conclusion that sleepwalking isn't funny. Now undo it."
She blinks at the lack of heroic bravado in his words, but then closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, as though the volume of his voice is giving her a headache. "Sleepwalking, huh," she mutters to herself, then shrugs and gives him a resigned look. "I can't undo it," she says, quite simply. "He has to lift the curse himself. Besides, I don't even remember that evening, so I can't do the dirty work for him now."
Merlin frowns, the wind momentarily taken out of his sails. He can only repeat, incredulously, "You don't remember?"
"I was completely sloshed," she says, mournfully eyeing the door; Merlin shifts his stance to obscure her sight of the only way out. "What did I say?"
"You—um—you doomed Arthur to 'retrace the path of the one his heart holds dear', or something like that," Merlin answers, feeling a bit silly repeating the pompous words, now that her speech has lost its refined undercurrent.
"Oh," she says, rather blankly, and gives him a long, searching look; it reminds Merlin of the one she'd fixed Arthur with when he'd first addressed her, and he barely resists the urge to shuffle his feet. "Oh, you poor, sad bastard."
Merlin ignores that, trying to remember as much of her curse as he can instead. "So I have to— what?" he asks, recalling something about deceived hearts, soulmates, and stupidity. "Find his true love and take her to him, to make the sleepwalking stop?"
Now it's the woman's turn to frown, confusion slowly edging its way into her expression. "Are you blind as well as stupid?"
"What?"
"Nothing," she says, watching him with a new, calculating gleam in her eyes. "You see, I usually just weave magic traps like this for my enemies to fall into, but I find it's a nice pastime to place my curses on idiots who are too stupid to see what's right in front of them. More entertaining, you know."
"That is not helping," Merlin points out, annoyed; overall, he thinks the situation is getting rather out of hand. He thought he'd just bully her into lifting the curse and have the whole thing over and done with, maybe throw his weird druid name around for good measure. But now he just feels silly, standing in an empty, run-down tavern in the middle of the woods trying to intimidate a hungover sorceress.
The woman just sighs, rubbing a tired hand across her forehead like she's still feeling the headache from two days before. "So," she says, rather conversationally, if also with a slightly resigned undertone, "are you going to turn me to stone or conjure some monster to eat me or what?"
Merlin considers that. "No," he answers lamely, because even when putting the curse on Arthur, she hadn't been out for his life but rather his supposed blindness, whatever that might mean—and she appears to be rather harmless overall.
She seems to sense his hesitation, and shoulders her way past him and out the door before Merlin can so much as blink. Sighing heavily, he follows her outside into the brilliant sunlight, watching as she mounts a small, rather haggard-looking horse he hadn't noticed before, seeming intent on leaving, now that he's done interrogating her.
"Besides, you might want to think about leaving Camelot," Merlin informs her as she turns the horse towards one of the forest tracks leading away from the clearing. "Magic tends to be sort of frowned upon around here."
"You're one to talk," she mutters, just loudly enough for him to hear, and gently nudges her horse forward with a slightly scuffed boot.
It would have been more dramatic if she'd kicked the animal into a mad canter. Merlin watches their slow progress across the clearing, thinking that the whole situation was rather ridiculously anticlimactic and a complete waste of time. He isn't really any closer to helping Arthur out of this weird mess, since he has no idea whatsoever where to even start searching for the sort of lady who'd overlook his arrogance, his stubbornness and the rest of his annoying characteristics and graciously agree to being his true love.
The horse stops briefly to tug a bunch of reddened leaves from the nearest tree branch. Then it begins the long trek up the forest track its rider has chosen, tail swishing errantly to chase stray flies away, and soon they've disappeared beneath the canopy of trees, the sound of hoofbeats on grass fading into the distance.
***
Merlin returns to the castle in the early afternoon, feeling rather useless after his unsuccessful talk with the sorceress, and immediately puts his excess energy to good use by getting into a prolonged argument with Arthur that lasts for the rest of the day.
Finally, after threatening to put Merlin in the stocks for the supposed impropriety of what he's suggesting, mysteriously reddening whenever Merlin points out that it's perfectly normal for manservants to sleep close to their masters, and generally making an ass out of himself over nothing, Arthur agrees to let Merlin stay in the unoccupied antechamber next to his room. Merlin knows he's so heavy a sleeper that he probably won't hear Arthur get up, but he resents the idea of being in his room on the other side of the castle while Arthur sleepwalks down narrow staircases and across the uneven flagstones of the courtyard. But Arthur would never let him live it down if Merlin let his concern show, and so he makes a show of gloating over his victory while he hails a passing servant and orders up Arthur's dinner.
The argument must have exhausted Arthur's stubborn streak—or maybe he's just too preoccupied with the thought of where he might wake up the next morning—because he doesn't protest further when Merlin makes a show of dumping a bundle of blankets on the unused bed in the small room next to his own. He just looks at something to Merlin's left, his face still a little flushed, and absently tugs at the claw-shaped pendant hanging from his necklace, as though to jolt himself out of his thoughts with the bite of leather into his neck.
The sight makes Merlin's fingers itch, and so he allows himself a moment to survey his new—if temporary—lodgings. The room looks more like a broom closet than a space designed for someone of normal height to occupy; the narrow bed barely fits into one corner, with a small cupboard that looks like it might fall over any moment squeezed into the other. The sky outside tiny window near the ceiling is dark, clouded over and not even scattered with stars.
He busies himself with lighting candles and stoking the fire in Arthur's room, studiously ignoring Arthur's uncharacteristic silence until the servant returns with a plate piled high with food. The he sits down next to Arthur, watches him polish off an impressive helping of roast venison, and stares at the honeyed bread for a few minutes until Arthur lets out a soft chuff of laughter and shoves his plate across the table into Merlin's reach.
Merlin grins, feeling the inexplicable tension between them ease ever-so-slightly until the silence has grown comfortable rather than oppressive. He eats slowly, savoring each drop of honey and picking every fallen crumb off the plate, the sticky sweetness distracting him from the short glances Arthur keeps shooting him, almost as if he doesn't want Merlin to notice. It could just be a trick of the flickering candlelight, but Merlin thinks he sees him swallow repeatedly, although his mouth can't be dry with how often he reaches for his goblet, taking deep draughts of water as if to calm himself. Merlin gives a mental shrug and ignores the inquisitive thread of concern weaving its way through his thoughts—Arthur is probably still mad at him for quite literally shouldering his way into the antechamber for the night.
He lifts the last piece of bread to his mouth, pausing briefly to lick stray drops of honey from his fingers—as sweet as it is, it gets everywhere—and watches Arthur's eyes go wide and dark, his throat working around a dry swallow. Pausing in the middle of sucking honey off his thumb, Merlin offers the bread to him, but Arthur just shakes his head, face closing down with sudden discomfort as he pushes his own plate away.
When Merlin lies in bed that night, listening to the wind howling around the battlements, he realizes that Arthur looked disappointed just then, strangely hopeless, even. Which makes no sense at all, Merlin thinks firmly to himself, once again ignoring the instinctive concern for his prince's well-being. If he'd wanted that last piece of bread after all, he just should have asked for it, Merlin concludes, and pushes his head deeper into the lumpy pillow in an attempt to get more comfortable.
***
Part 2
Fandom: Merlin BBC
Rating: very light R
Word Count: 12,269
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: sleepwalking, brief violence
Spoilers: mentions of 1.07; takes place between S1 and S2
Summary: Merlin thought they were just going on a regular hunting trip, but of course Arthur finds a sorceress to annoy, and she puts a sleepwalking curse on him. Figures that it's up to Merlin to find a way to lift it.
A/N: Happy birthday,
diluted_thought! I hope you like your present! ♥♥ (YAY, I can finally post this! XD; <333) Sleepwalking fascinates me so much, I just had to write a fic about it eventually. Additionally, I am once more cursing LJ's post limit. xD That said, have fun reading! ♥ (Also, this was sort of inspired by the beautiful, amazing poem The Waking by Theodore Roethke.) It's the sort of thing that he can already see himself tell his grandchildren about, gathered close around his armchair next to a roaring fire on a cold winter's night. But on second thought, maybe the story of how the first thing Merlin did one autumn morning was to give his sovereign liege a concussion—albeit by accident—is not really the stuff of legends after all.
True, he manages to catch a single glimpse of Arthur's face when he makes to leave his room that morning, his golden hair unruly over blue eyes that look strangely glazed; but by then it's too late to stop the swing of the opening door. It smacks into Arthur's forehead with a sickening crunch, and the prince stumbles back, nearly falling down the steps into Gaius' room and only just managing to steady himself with a hand on the wall.
"Bloody ow!" Arthur yells, clutching at his head and squinting up at Merlin with a mixture of astonishment and rage. "Shit," Merlin breathes, bounds down the stairs and pushes Arthur down to sit on Gaius' bench with firm hands on his shoulders.
A quick glance to the side confirms that Gaius is already making his rounds—Merlin realizes that he'll have to deal with this on his own as he unceremoniously tugs Arthur's hands away from his forehead and leans closer to inspect the skin, dutifully ignoring the cursing. Arthur is still in his night shift and the soft woolen breeches he wears to bed; he must have rushed here as soon as he woke up.
"—too dense to wait until you're not half-asleep anymore before opening the damn door!" Arthur rails, although Merlin isn't really listening anymore in favor of poking at the still sleep-warm skin beneath his fingers. Arthur flinches back, but if the collision with the door had been as hard as it sounded, his forehead would be bruising already. The skin is merely reddening a little, going hot under Merlin's touch, probably in a belated reaction to the pain.
"I'm sorry, sire," Merlin replies testily, mostly to placate the prince as he wets a rag in the bucket of cold water Gaius left on the table for him to wash with. If he'd been half-asleep before, this whole incident was enough to jolt him quite awake by now. "Maybe you should have knocked first, as you're always telling me to."
Arthur huffs indignantly as Merlin places the damp rag on his forehead and tips his head back so it won't slide off again, but doesn't reply, choosing to elaborately grimace in pain instead. He still looks a little pink, and Merlin turns away to hide his eye-roll, convinced that it can't hurt that much anymore—he knows he only would have had reason to worry if Arthur had kept a carefully straight face.
"What are you doing here at this ungodly hour, anyway?" Merlin asks as he dries his hands on his breeches, making a beeline for the bowl of porridge Gaius has left for him to find on the hearth. He hungrily scoops a spoonful into his mouth, grateful to find that it's still warm—although the first snow of the season hasn't fallen just yet, the mornings are already as cold as if autumn had already proceeded well into winter.
"The hour is perfectly reasonable for people who aren't worthless layabouts—," Arthur begins, but then he stops as abruptly as if someone had put a silencing spell on him. Merlin frowns and turns back around to face him, and stops mid-chew.
Arthur is staring at something just above Merlin's left shoulder, his eyes losing their focus as a puzzled frown begins to form on his forehead. To Merlin's annoyance, the wet cloth slides off his face to land in his lap, but Arthur doesn't seem to notice.
"What am I doing here?" he murmurs, almost to himself; he lifts a hand to his head as though it's still aching, dazedly looking towards the door and then back to Merlin as if retracing the steps that have brought him here. He's probably about to pledge momentary insanity and claim that Merlin's supposed mental affliction is catching—and really, it's just unfair that Merlin has to be the butt of early-morning jokes on top of having to put up with the prince's twisted sense of humor in broad daylight.
"Very funny," Merlin retorts when he's swallowed his mouthful, mildly annoyed that Arthur can't even wait for him to strengthen his wits with breakfast before having a laugh at his expense. "I can hardly contain my amusement. If the whole crown prince thing doesn't work out, you could always apply for a position as the court jester."
He watches, unimpressed, as Arthur's stupefied stare travels across the workbench next to him like he's seeing it for the first time. "Shut up," he replies, rather belatedly, starting to look a little wild and also very much confused. He makes quite a picture, sitting in a ray of morning sunlight with tufts of disheveled golden hair sticking up at ridiculous angles, still in his night clothes and a well-faked, lost expression on his face.
"I was in bed," Arthur says vehemently, as if trying to convince some higher being that might be listening. "I went to bed last night— I slept, I know I did, and then you smashed a door into my face and I woke up."
He turns his accusing gaze on Merlin, like it's his fault that his brain is addled (which it very well might be, after that blow to the head); Merlin stops chewing again at the look on Arthur's face, starting to frown as well. Arthur isn't joking, he realizes with a start—the alarmed, maybe even slightly frightened glint in his eyes is real, and Merlin swallows with some difficulty before asking, "Did you hit your head really hard last night?"
"No," Arthur snaps, raking his fingers through his hair and making it stick up even more; he scrubs a hand across his face as though hoping to wake himself up again, but all traces of sleepiness are gone from his features. "I just went to bed— I lay awake for a while thinking of that woman we met—"
Merlin grimaces at the memory, the previous day's events rushing back into his mind, unbidden; trust Arthur to find a malevolent sorceress even in that tiny, run-down tavern they'd stopped in for a short lunch during their prolonged hunting trip. Well, she probably would have let them be, if Arthur hadn't tried to chat her up because she'd also happened to be rather pretty.
He shakes his head to clear it of the memory of her enraged face, refocusing his gaze on Arthur. "Well, you drank rather a lot of wine at dinner," he replies, and deliberately doesn't add 'since your father didn't dignify the stag we brought home with more than a disapproving look because its antlers were too small to look good on a wall'. "Maybe you're just hungover?"
Arthur snorts, his face regaining a bit of its usual color; Merlin hadn't noticed how pale he'd gotten, looking from the workbench to Merlin and back again in a somewhat desperate attempt to make sense of it all. "I can't really tell how much of my headache comes from last night's wine anymore," he retorts with a pointed look at the door to Merlin's room.
Merlin smiles at that, ducking his head. "Sorry about that, really," he says, a little sheepishly. "Does it hurt badly?"
Arthur absently peels the wet cloth off his thigh to place it on the workbench. "I've had worse," he replies loftily, at last sounding more like himself; now that he's made most of whining elaborately while Merlin was disgruntled, he's free to do a complete turnabout and wave his concern away when it becomes genuine. Not entirely convinced, Merlin leans forward, reaching out a hand to brush the disheveled fringe from Arthur's face to check for bruising one last time.
Arthur surprises him by flinching back, clearing his throat as he turns his head away. "I'm fine, Merlin, stop fussing," he says brusquely, although his face still looks unusually flushed. But he stands up before Merlin can even open his mouth to protest, blinking and putting a hand on the table to steady himself when his head seems to protest with a twinge of pain.
"If you're sure," Merlin replies doubtfully, lowering his hand back to his side. Normally he'd just crowd into Arthur's space and take a look at his forehead anyway, but there's something strangely cornered in Arthur's eyes, a tightness in the set of his shoulders that warns Merlin off.
"Right," Arthur says, to no one in particular, and coughs. He seems almost flustered, although Merlin has no idea why. "I'll just—"
He gestures vaguely at the door, gives Merlin a curt nod and decisively crosses the room. He's probably still unsettled from waking up here instead of in his room, Merlin thinks, watching Arthur go despite the instinctive urge to stop him; sure, walking in one's sleep is not unheard of, but Arthur has never done it before in the nearly two years Merlin has been serving him.
Only when the door closes behind the prince does Merlin realize that Arthur didn't ask him to come along to help him dress.
The rest of the day passes like any other. After a slightly belated breakfast, Arthur seems to be back in good spirits, appearing to have forgotten all about his nightly adventure, if the renewed vigor with which he drills his knights is anything to go by. And so Merlin doesn't mention the whole thing to Gaius when the physician stops by the training grounds to send him into the woods to collect herbs. The autumnal chill permeating the thick stone walls of the castle has resulted in a rapid spread of sore throats and runny noses—apparently Gaius wants to restock his supply of cold remedies in time for the onset of the year's coldest season.
Merlin spends most of the afternoon letting the dew from the undergrowth slowly soak into his boots as he bends down to pick peppermint and sage, sucking in the cold, clear air in deep, refreshing breaths when sweat starts to bead on his forehead. He's always loved this season, the slow, unhurried transition from bright, sweltering summer heat into the icy, permeating hush of winter. Fog collects on the fields in the mornings, retreating back to the edge of the forest at sunrise but never quite dissipating, hovering in the shadowed spaces beneath the trees as if lurking in wait. The air gradually grows colder, but it's a crisp, cleansing sort of cold, not yet the brutally icy atmosphere of winter.
He used to help with the harvest in Ealdor, felling long, proud stalks of crops with the practiced (if, in his case, slightly clumsy) sweep of a scythe and digging turnips out of the ground before it freezes. Collecting herbs is the next best thing, though, and Merlin stays in the forest until late afternoon, watching the sun turn the fog into glittering, otherworldly clouds of mist, and by the time he returns to the castle he's almost forgotten about his and Arthur's strange encounter.
On the next morning, Merlin bounds down the stairs into Gaius' room just in time to see Arthur close the door behind himself, still in his sleeping attire once again, with the same vacant look in his eyes that Merlin had seen the day before.
"Bugger," Merlin says, instinctively lowering his voice so as not to wake Arthur. It's obvious that he's asleep; his blue eyes seem oddly dulled, the usually vibrant color glazed over with a silvery sheen. His movements are slower than normal, although not by much—he pauses for a moment before he begins to cross the room with steady steps that are only slightly uneven.
He seems to be heading for Merlin's room again, unseeing eyes passing over Merlin without any hint of recognition. With a quick downwards glance, Merlin notices that Arthur must have put on his boots in his sleep this time, and apparently took a detour through the fields or the gardens. The leather is matted down with wetness, damp streaks criss-crossing his trousers up to his knees as though he's been wandering through grass heavy with dew.
Merlin has heard it said that sleepwalkers can die of shock when woken too suddenly, but although yesterday's encounter with the solid wooden door didn't kill Arthur either, he still hesitates for a long moment. He reaches out to touch Arthur's shoulder, briefly noticing how cold his skin feels even through his shirt—he really must have gone outside then, in nothing but his thin night clothes—and finally gives him a gentle shake.
"So it wasn't a one-off thing," Merlin states carefully, when he's coaxed Arthur down from his initial shock at once again not waking up in his bed.
He's raided Gaius' cupboard for a small mug of the strong ale he stores there, grateful for his mentor's absence as he'd thrust it into Arthur's hands and watched him down it in one big gulp. Arthur started shaking with cold as soon as he woke up, as though his body had been indifferent to the temperature while asleep, and he didn't even protest when Merlin dragged his blankets from his bed to bundle them tightly around the prince's shoulders.
Arthur doesn't reply. He still seems shell-shocked, and hasn't moved from where Merlin pushed him down to sit on the bench in much the same way as yesterday; but this time, Merlin sat down beside him after pouring a little of the ale for himself. His shaking has abated and he doesn't look quite as pale anymore, but he still can't seem to stop his eyes from returning to Gaius' door again and again, obviously hoping that whatever happened to him will make sense if he only stares at the passage he's taken for long enough.
There are small sprigs and bits of dried leaves in Arthur's hair, as if he's taken a detour into the woods in his sleep. Merlin unthinkingly reaches over to brush them away, combing through the soft golden strands, and idly watches the way they gleam between his fingers in the morning sunlight that has finally managed to creep over the windowsill. Predictably, Arthur twitches away after a moment, but Merlin just tuts at him and yanks at an errant strand of hair in reproach until Arthur stills again and lets him pick out the last of the twigs.
"This can't happen again," Arthur says at last, his voice rough with disuse and the last vestiges of sleep. "The crown prince of Camelot can't be seen roaming the castle in his night shift, Merlin."
Merlin bristles, immediately realizing whom the reproach in Arthur's voice is really directed at, although Arthur even added his name to make it sound like the whole thing is his doing. "It wasn't your fault, you insufferable— person," he quickly amends, when Arthur throws him a sharp look, "you were asleep."
Arthur scoffs, still refusing to look Merlin fully in the eye, and Merlin reluctantly lets his hand drop although he'd very much like to yank Arthur's head around by his hair to force him to meet his gaze. It's not like anyone even saw him walking around at night—if he had encountered even a lowly guard, they surely would have at least stopped him to ask if he was all right, and that probably would have woken him up. But Merlin still understands his distress, although Arthur made it here undisturbed. He is certainly no crown prince of anything, and he still doesn't like the idea of bumbling off to God knows where in his sleep, not knowing where he might wake up, especially if it just started completely out of the blue like this.
"I'll look through Gaius' books," Merlin continues after a moment; this time, Arthur does turn around, if only to level a dubious glance at him. Merlin straightens up, trying to look like a competent physician's apprentice. "You go ahead and have something to eat, and I'll meet you in your chambers if I find anything."
Arthur's jaw tightens in that familiar way that means he's suppressing a smile, but Merlin counts it as a victory anyway, since the shaken, hollow look melts out of his eyes, too. "So you're suggesting I fetch my own breakfast," Arthur deadpans, taking great care to sound suitably scandalized, and Merlin breathes out, feeling relief lessen the tight, uneasy feeling in his chest.
"Well, I'm certainly not sharing mine," he replies defensively, getting up and moving over to one of the numerous bookshelves so Arthur won't see his grin. It wouldn't do to give off the impression he's getting soft or anything.
Arthur scoffs at that, and Merlin hears the bench creak as he rises and shrugs off the cocoon of blankets. "I don't even want your breakfast," he points out, but Merlin notices that he's already halfway to the door—apparently the mention of food reminded him of just how long it's been since last night's dinner. "And you'd do well to eat it yourself, it might help you to put on some meat. You're not allowed to freeze to death this winter because you're too skinny to sustain any warmth at all."
Merlin dutifully waits for the door to close before sticking out his tongue at the wooden frame, and turns back to the bookshelf.
He distractedly eats the bread and cheese Gaius left for him while poring over thick tomes filled with lists of herbs and recipes for potions, but it's not long until he digs out his magic book from beneath the floorboards of his room. It's almost ridiculous how used he's grown to the way Arthur keeps getting into magical trouble wherever he goes, so Merlin feels vindicated in assuming that this ailment is the result of sorcery as well. He props it up on the impressive pile of books he's made on the desk, leafing through the pages while he finishes off the glass of warm honeyed milk from the hearth.
Half an hour later, he shuts the book again, sighing deeply and feeling oddly betrayed. He found sleeping spells, spells to rouse someone from a magic-induced sleep (he memorized that one just in case, although he's rather sure it won't work), and a lot of rather disturbing enchantments to influence someone's dreams. But sleepwalking isn't mentioned even once, at least not in connection with magic. One of Gaius' books had a short paragraph, though, something about how this strange affliction has mostly been witnessed in people going through a time of mental turmoil, as though even sleep can't make their minds let go from whatever is troubling them.
But Arthur isn't in a state of mental turmoil, at least not that Merlin knows of, and he thinks he's gotten pretty good at reading the prince's moods—even those he doesn't want Merlin to know about—during the past two years. The paragraph also informed him that sleepwalkers usually perform activities mirroring their daily pursuits when asleep, but Arthur didn't do that either. As far as Merlin can tell, he just took a random walk through the castle grounds before coming back to his room just as he had done the night before.
He downs the last of his milk, once again recalling the empty expression on Arthur's face, the sluggishness of his movements that was so at odds with his usual decisive, alluring grace. The vacant, glazed look in his eyes still sticks uncomfortably in Merlin's memory, strengthening the nagging suspicion of magic being the cause of the whole thing. He's seen a similar look in Arthur's eyes once before, when Merlin had broken from the cover of the trees just in time to see his prince calmly walk into a lake in full armor, and the memory still makes him shudder inwardly.
Arthur's eyes had been red then, just a brief, sudden flash, but clearly visible in the light coming in through the windows of his room when Merlin had implored him to listen. He frowns, staring sightlessly at the table as he remembers the silver he thought he saw in Arthur's eyes earlier. Then the memory of their encounter with the sorceress two days before rushes back into his mind, and he thinks, oh fuck.
It hadn't even been a real spell, at least none that Merlin recognized, because the sorceress hadn't switched to the foreign and yet familiar rise and fall of the language of magic to tell Arthur what exactly she thought of him and his advances. The situation had been too bizarrely funny for Merlin to realize what was going on right away—right then, he'd been perfectly content to lean back and watch Arthur's charm backfire in a rather entertaining way.
The prince's gaze had zeroed in on the dark-haired woman as soon as they'd entered the tavern, and Merlin had just heaved an exasperated sigh when he made a beeline for her table, bowing to her rather courteously and asking if she'd allow him the honor of paying for her goblet of wine.
True, she had stared rather incredulously, and anyone else would have taken the hint and backed off; but predictably, Arthur had refused to back down from what he must have viewed as a challenge. He'd sat down in the chair next to hers, waving over one of the serving girls to order a large lunch for three, with Merlin unhappily trailing after him.
In hindsight, the long, hard, searching look with which the woman fixed Arthur does seem rather strange; even then, Merlin had thought that she almost seemed to try to read his mind. She'd simply ignored Arthur's flattering comments about how well and fresh she looked even after having traveled all day. When Merlin had finally sat down, she passed a quick, inquiring look between them that rapidly moved to understanding (though what she'd understood, Merlin has no idea even now).
Then she'd spoken for the first time, in a clear, commanding voice, and said, "Why do you go to such lengths to deny yourself that which your soul craves?"
To which Arthur had replied, gallantly, that his soul only craved to be of aid to lone travelers who also happened to be the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen (and boy, has Merlin heard that one before).
The woman had stared at him for such a long time that Merlin started to feel slightly uncomfortable, but Arthur had been oblivious to her intense scrutiny. He remarked about the beautiful weather (a rather annoying autumn drizzle), surreptitiously mentioning the majestic stag they'd been tracking all morning (Merlin had managed to startle a few rabbits out of hiding when he tripped over a root for the umpteenth time, but they hadn't seen any other game all morning). He praised the extraordinary lunch they were brought (overcooked meat swimming in some broth of questionable nature), and interspersed his chatter with the occasional flattering comment on the woman's silky black hair, sky-blue eyes and flawlessly white skin (which, well, Merlin couldn't argue with that, since she really was beautiful).
"I do not understand," the woman had finally said, interrupting Arthur mid-sentence, and passed another lingering look between him and Merlin, this one slightly confused. "Why are you wasting your charm on me, when I am not the one who holds the key to your heart?"
Then Arthur, searching desperately for just the staggering sort of compliment to finally crack her icy veneer, had leaned over to whisper (although Merlin had been perfectly able to hear even from the other side of the table) that she did hold the key for something else entirely.
It might have been his uncharacteristically crude choice of words that angered her, or even just his persistence. When Merlin had lowered his palm from where he'd slapped it to his forehead in commiserative embarrassment, the woman had risen from her chair, drawing herself up to her full height to tower over Arthur in outrage. Her hair had flown beautifully as she tossed the thick strands over her shoulder, her eyes had still looked extraordinarily blue even under the dark loom of her eyebrows, and Arthur had just stared at her open-mouthed, apparently struck silent with the effect his words had had.
He'd ignored Merlin's mutter of, "Arthur, I think we should go," and didn't even seem to feel the not-so-gentle tug on his sleeve. The woman ignored Merlin too, as well as several other guests who had stopped eating and drinking to stare, and pointed a slender white finger at Arthur, hand quivering slightly with the force of her anger.
"You are a foul-mouthed pig as well as a blind oaf!" she'd exclaimed, her voice carrying quite conveniently in the silence that had quickly descended on the tavern like a quiet, impenetrable curtain. "You are too preoccupied with deceiving your own heart to see what's right in front of you!"
Merlin had finally succeeded in kicking Arthur in the calf until he rose from his seat as well, but the prince wouldn't budge when Merlin tried to steer him towards the door. It had been too late, anyway; the woman had taken a deep, dramatic breath, flinging her hair back again.
"I curse you, Arthur Pendragon," she'd intoned in a deep, dramatic voice (even then, Merlin had briefly wondered how she knew Arthur's name, since they'd been trying to stay incognito), "I curse you in your unseeing arrogance, so that you may continue wasting your time denying your soul the counterpart it seeks, but shall roam the lands in your hours of rest, doomed to retrace the path of the one your heart holds dear until you open your eyes!"
In the permeating hush that followed, Merlin had finally managed to drag Arthur through the room and out into the rain, kicking the door shut behind them.
Arthur probably didn't even realize she was a sorceress; it had been quite clear from his scandalized expression that he'd written her off as a madwoman. But Merlin had felt the sudden crackle of magic in the air, and tensed instinctively at the answering surge of energy in his blood, ready to protect or lash out if she so much as breathed a word of magic in Arthur's general direction.
The woman's gaze had briefly flickered to him as if sensing his unspoken threat, but she hadn't made any move to chant a spell. She'd simply looked at him with satisfaction in her eyes, holding Merlin's gaze until the door had shut between them.
Merlin sighs again, refocusing his mind on the present with some difficulty. They'd just been hunting, for heaven's sake, but of course Arthur had had to turn the whole thing into one of his crazy, life-threatening adventures by pissing off random sorcerers who'd been minding their own business. He's just lucky that sleepwalking isn't quite as life-threatening as the antics he usually gets up to, Merlin thinks sourly, and goes back to his room in search of his coat.
Merlin makes a quick detour to Arthur's chambers to tell him that he hasn't found anything yet but feels he's close to discovering a remedy, and cites the necessity of seeing Gaius as the reason why he absolutely has to have the rest of the day off. Arthur looks doubtful but gives him his leave anyway, and even refrains from reminding Merlin that he'll have to catch up on his chores the next day. It's another sign of how much the whole matter is bothering him, although it started merely two days ago, and Merlin can't help feeling slightly guilty when he crosses the drawbridge and heads for the forest.
The walk to the tavern doesn't take nearly as long as Merlin had thought it would; apparently he's faster when not weighed down with hunting gear, a packed lunch, and an extra coat for Arthur. It looks far more inviting coated in sunlight than in rain, tucked into the edge of a small clearing surrounded by tall trees. Their leaves have already changed color to various shades of brown, yellow and red, although there are still a few specks of green resisting the onset of autumn.
Arthur's strange brand of luck must have rubbed off on Merlin, because when he pushes through the creaky door of the tavern, he immediately collides with the black-haired sorceress.
"Oh, damn," she says, doubtlessly recognizing him, but doesn't resist when he crowds her back into the room—rather more rudely than he'd have liked, but he can't let her get away. She looks different from before, her hair tangled into a messy bun on top of her head, dark circles under alarmed eyes as she backs away from Merlin, giving him a restless, wary once-over.
Merlin folds his arms across his chest, quickly surveying the room—but aside from the innkeeper and a serving girl who flees into the kitchen when he meets her eyes, they're alone. He tries to glare at the sorceress, which is sort of hard, given the defeated look on her face, and says, as imperiously as he can, "Two days ago you put a curse on my friend. In the meantime we've both come to the conclusion that sleepwalking isn't funny. Now undo it."
She blinks at the lack of heroic bravado in his words, but then closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, as though the volume of his voice is giving her a headache. "Sleepwalking, huh," she mutters to herself, then shrugs and gives him a resigned look. "I can't undo it," she says, quite simply. "He has to lift the curse himself. Besides, I don't even remember that evening, so I can't do the dirty work for him now."
Merlin frowns, the wind momentarily taken out of his sails. He can only repeat, incredulously, "You don't remember?"
"I was completely sloshed," she says, mournfully eyeing the door; Merlin shifts his stance to obscure her sight of the only way out. "What did I say?"
"You—um—you doomed Arthur to 'retrace the path of the one his heart holds dear', or something like that," Merlin answers, feeling a bit silly repeating the pompous words, now that her speech has lost its refined undercurrent.
"Oh," she says, rather blankly, and gives him a long, searching look; it reminds Merlin of the one she'd fixed Arthur with when he'd first addressed her, and he barely resists the urge to shuffle his feet. "Oh, you poor, sad bastard."
Merlin ignores that, trying to remember as much of her curse as he can instead. "So I have to— what?" he asks, recalling something about deceived hearts, soulmates, and stupidity. "Find his true love and take her to him, to make the sleepwalking stop?"
Now it's the woman's turn to frown, confusion slowly edging its way into her expression. "Are you blind as well as stupid?"
"What?"
"Nothing," she says, watching him with a new, calculating gleam in her eyes. "You see, I usually just weave magic traps like this for my enemies to fall into, but I find it's a nice pastime to place my curses on idiots who are too stupid to see what's right in front of them. More entertaining, you know."
"That is not helping," Merlin points out, annoyed; overall, he thinks the situation is getting rather out of hand. He thought he'd just bully her into lifting the curse and have the whole thing over and done with, maybe throw his weird druid name around for good measure. But now he just feels silly, standing in an empty, run-down tavern in the middle of the woods trying to intimidate a hungover sorceress.
The woman just sighs, rubbing a tired hand across her forehead like she's still feeling the headache from two days before. "So," she says, rather conversationally, if also with a slightly resigned undertone, "are you going to turn me to stone or conjure some monster to eat me or what?"
Merlin considers that. "No," he answers lamely, because even when putting the curse on Arthur, she hadn't been out for his life but rather his supposed blindness, whatever that might mean—and she appears to be rather harmless overall.
She seems to sense his hesitation, and shoulders her way past him and out the door before Merlin can so much as blink. Sighing heavily, he follows her outside into the brilliant sunlight, watching as she mounts a small, rather haggard-looking horse he hadn't noticed before, seeming intent on leaving, now that he's done interrogating her.
"Besides, you might want to think about leaving Camelot," Merlin informs her as she turns the horse towards one of the forest tracks leading away from the clearing. "Magic tends to be sort of frowned upon around here."
"You're one to talk," she mutters, just loudly enough for him to hear, and gently nudges her horse forward with a slightly scuffed boot.
It would have been more dramatic if she'd kicked the animal into a mad canter. Merlin watches their slow progress across the clearing, thinking that the whole situation was rather ridiculously anticlimactic and a complete waste of time. He isn't really any closer to helping Arthur out of this weird mess, since he has no idea whatsoever where to even start searching for the sort of lady who'd overlook his arrogance, his stubbornness and the rest of his annoying characteristics and graciously agree to being his true love.
The horse stops briefly to tug a bunch of reddened leaves from the nearest tree branch. Then it begins the long trek up the forest track its rider has chosen, tail swishing errantly to chase stray flies away, and soon they've disappeared beneath the canopy of trees, the sound of hoofbeats on grass fading into the distance.
Merlin returns to the castle in the early afternoon, feeling rather useless after his unsuccessful talk with the sorceress, and immediately puts his excess energy to good use by getting into a prolonged argument with Arthur that lasts for the rest of the day.
Finally, after threatening to put Merlin in the stocks for the supposed impropriety of what he's suggesting, mysteriously reddening whenever Merlin points out that it's perfectly normal for manservants to sleep close to their masters, and generally making an ass out of himself over nothing, Arthur agrees to let Merlin stay in the unoccupied antechamber next to his room. Merlin knows he's so heavy a sleeper that he probably won't hear Arthur get up, but he resents the idea of being in his room on the other side of the castle while Arthur sleepwalks down narrow staircases and across the uneven flagstones of the courtyard. But Arthur would never let him live it down if Merlin let his concern show, and so he makes a show of gloating over his victory while he hails a passing servant and orders up Arthur's dinner.
The argument must have exhausted Arthur's stubborn streak—or maybe he's just too preoccupied with the thought of where he might wake up the next morning—because he doesn't protest further when Merlin makes a show of dumping a bundle of blankets on the unused bed in the small room next to his own. He just looks at something to Merlin's left, his face still a little flushed, and absently tugs at the claw-shaped pendant hanging from his necklace, as though to jolt himself out of his thoughts with the bite of leather into his neck.
The sight makes Merlin's fingers itch, and so he allows himself a moment to survey his new—if temporary—lodgings. The room looks more like a broom closet than a space designed for someone of normal height to occupy; the narrow bed barely fits into one corner, with a small cupboard that looks like it might fall over any moment squeezed into the other. The sky outside tiny window near the ceiling is dark, clouded over and not even scattered with stars.
He busies himself with lighting candles and stoking the fire in Arthur's room, studiously ignoring Arthur's uncharacteristic silence until the servant returns with a plate piled high with food. The he sits down next to Arthur, watches him polish off an impressive helping of roast venison, and stares at the honeyed bread for a few minutes until Arthur lets out a soft chuff of laughter and shoves his plate across the table into Merlin's reach.
Merlin grins, feeling the inexplicable tension between them ease ever-so-slightly until the silence has grown comfortable rather than oppressive. He eats slowly, savoring each drop of honey and picking every fallen crumb off the plate, the sticky sweetness distracting him from the short glances Arthur keeps shooting him, almost as if he doesn't want Merlin to notice. It could just be a trick of the flickering candlelight, but Merlin thinks he sees him swallow repeatedly, although his mouth can't be dry with how often he reaches for his goblet, taking deep draughts of water as if to calm himself. Merlin gives a mental shrug and ignores the inquisitive thread of concern weaving its way through his thoughts—Arthur is probably still mad at him for quite literally shouldering his way into the antechamber for the night.
He lifts the last piece of bread to his mouth, pausing briefly to lick stray drops of honey from his fingers—as sweet as it is, it gets everywhere—and watches Arthur's eyes go wide and dark, his throat working around a dry swallow. Pausing in the middle of sucking honey off his thumb, Merlin offers the bread to him, but Arthur just shakes his head, face closing down with sudden discomfort as he pushes his own plate away.
When Merlin lies in bed that night, listening to the wind howling around the battlements, he realizes that Arthur looked disappointed just then, strangely hopeless, even. Which makes no sense at all, Merlin thinks firmly to himself, once again ignoring the instinctive concern for his prince's well-being. If he'd wanted that last piece of bread after all, he just should have asked for it, Merlin concludes, and pushes his head deeper into the lumpy pillow in an attempt to get more comfortable.
Part 2
