[fic] The Ivy Crown, 2c/9

[da_ya_ri]

"Well," Leon's voice said from behind them, when the silence had long since become uncomfortable. "That's..."

He sounded just as flabbergasted as Merlin felt, and he didn't blame Leon when he broke off after searching for words for a moment. Lancelot just shook his head and raked a hand through his hair as though he had been faced with something that would take him weeks to understand. Arthur stood with his hands on his hips and was looking up at the wall in front of them, fixing his gaze on a glint of glass that might have been a window near the top. He didn't seem to notice the innkeeper's anxious eyes on him—Merlin could see the man's hands clench and unclench at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to fidget nervously.

Last night had been a comfortable reprieve from sleeping on bedrolls, and the lavish breakfast that the innkeeper had presented them with in the morning had restored the rest of their spirits. Something about their conversation on the evening before must have earned Arthur the innkeeper's trust, because it only took a few careful inquiries until he offered to take them to Sir Ricbert's mansion. The man's gratitude had been almost palpable when he'd led them out into the crisp spring morning, like being able to show a few travelers what had upset the entire village of Treffynnon so much was a relief in itself.

The sea had been an ever-present roar in their ears as they'd advanced through narrow roads; Arthur's assessing gaze had traveled across the clusters of houses, and Merlin had seen him nod to himself a few times. The village looked much like the inn—plain but well-kept, and Merlin had almost been able to see the gears turn in Arthur's head as he concluded that the villagers must be marvelous farmers indeed, if they managed to sustain themselves with what they grew on their hilly fields. He'd known then that Arthur would do everything in his power to ensure that whatever business had frightened the people so much would be cleared up, but he'd kept the thought to himself, ducking his head to hide the smile that had made Arthur so uncomfortable the evening before.

Peasants had come out of their houses to watch them pass through their village—sure, they'd formed clusters on doorsteps under the pretense of just stopping by their neighbors' for a chat, but the curious, slightly wary gazes that followed their group told another story. Arthur had rearranged his features into the mask of inquisitive politeness that Merlin often saw him wear in council meetings. Leon and Lancelot had drawn a little closer, careful to keep their expressions blank of wariness. Gwaine was the only one who didn't seem bothered by the palpable tension that had marked their trek up the cliffs to the dead vassal's mansion. He'd just smiled jovially at the villagers, nodded at whoever held his gaze for too long, and generally seemed to quite enjoy the morning's stroll to the seaside.

In fact, he was still smiling, although the salty breeze whipped his hair around his face and partly obscured his expression. He looked thrilled rather than as baffled as Merlin felt, and his grin widened when Merlin met his eyes.

"Amazing, isn't it?" he said quietly, for Merlin's ears alone as he gestured at the mansion in front of them. "I've never seen so much ivy in one place."

"Can't argue with that," Merlin muttered, his gaze helplessly drawn to the house again as well. Its silhouette had looked strangely bulky from afar, but Merlin had just blamed it on the morning sun, which was only just beginning to climb up above the roof and had highlighted the house from behind as they'd walked up the narrow path to the cliffs.

The mansion was covered in ivy. Merlin guessed that it wasn't actually that large, just an unusually spacious house built on an outcropping of rock at the seaside—but the ivy made it look bigger and imposing, like the entire building had been wrapped in a dark green blanket. The leaves rustled softly in the morning breeze, and Merlin felt himself shiver, unable to shake off the feeling of something tall and invisible and inexplicably magical hovering in front of him. The ivy was everywhere, hiding the masonry from view as though the house itself were made of green leaves. The only places that the twines didn't reach were the windows, little islands of glass amidst a sea of green, reflecting the still-soft light of the sun.

"And this just... grew?" Arthur asked after a long silence, his voice incredulous, although he'd probably guessed at the answer already. Merlin was sure that everyone knew what he was referring to, but Arthur still waved a hand at the house, the gesture looking a bit lost. His gaze had traveled downwards and was now fixed on the innkeeper, but Merlin noticed that he didn't turn around to face the man properly. He didn't seem to want to turn his back on the house, Leon and Lancelot both had their hands resting on their still-sheathed daggers, and only Gwaine seemed pleasantly impressed rather than wary at the sight before them. Whatever strange power was responsible for this, the others appeared to feel it too.

"I know it sounds impossible, sir, but it did," the innkeeper said. He sounded rather apologetic, like he feared that Arthur would take back his promise of Camelot's support, now that he'd seen the situation for himself. "Sir Ricbert died, and the next day his family were gone and the house looked like this."

Arthur just shook his head slightly, probably to rearrange his thoughts, and took a deep breath as at least a few of the puzzle pieces seemed to fall into place. "You said something about a traveler yesterday?"

The innkeeper nodded, obviously relieved that Arthur wasn't turning and walking away, but continued to try and get at the heart of the matter. "Mighty strange chap," he replied. "I almost didn't believe my eyes when I saw him. He was clad all in green."

Arthur's fingers froze in the act of running through his hair, and he slowly dropped his hand, abruptly turning to the man so that his back faced the mansion. Merlin tensed, his gaze zeroing in on the gently swaying leaves behind Arthur—but nothing happened, and then his mind fully caught up with the innkeeper's words.

"Green?" Arthur repeated slowly, and an image flashed in front of Merlin's mind's eye—the feasting hall filled with courtiers, knights, and servants, and the strange visitor who had disrupted the evening's lifted mood.

He still remembered the permeating feel of magic billowing off of him in waves when he'd introduced himself as the Green Knight, the chasm of time that had seemed to stretch endlessly behind the calm veneer of his eyes. Merlin hadn't forgotten the man's challenge, but he'd discarded it into a dusty corner of his memory since Uther had turned him away. He still remembered how Gaius had pored over an old book of fairytales and songs for days afterward, but he'd never talked to Merlin about whatever he was looking for, and Merlin hadn't asked.

"His boots, his trousers, his tunic and vest—everything was green," the innkeeper confirmed, oblivious to the tense look that Merlin exchanged with Leon when their gazes met behind the man's back. Lancelot kept his eyes on the house, his brow furrowed in wariness and dawning realization. Next to Merlin, Gwaine sucked in a slow breath through his teeth as though he had just remembered the Green Knight as well, and Merlin suddenly recalled that Gwaine had talked to him, had drunk with him at the knights' table before he had voiced his challenge.

"Was he armed?" Leon asked into the silence. Merlin frowned, trying to dredge up more memories—there'd been an axe, hanging from the man's belt and covered in twines of ivy much like the ones they were looking at right now. But as far as Merlin remembered, the blade had been dull and rusty, covered in moss, and only when the Green Knight had drawn the axe later did it shine as though freshly polished.

"I don't know, sir," the innkeeper said, sounding a bit mystified by the question. "I only saw him from the window as he was walking up to the manor." He motioned helplessly towards the ivy, as though to say that it certainly hadn't looked like this then. "We found Sir Ricbert in the woods a week later, not five furlongs from the village. He looked like he'd set out to travel a long way—he was dressed in hunting gear and had a bedroll with him."

Arthur frowned at that, and Merlin saw him open his mouth like he was going to ask something, but the innkeeper didn't notice. His eyes were fixed on the house in front of them, and he took a deep breath, obviously fighting off an image only he could see. "He'd been beheaded."

Even Gwaine flinched slightly at that, startled out of his contemplation of the gently rustling leaves. Leon and Lancelot exchanged a wary glance, and Merlin noticed that Leon's hand was inching closer to his dagger again as if on instinct—Merlin didn't blame him. As early as it was, the sun was already warm on their backs, casting a golden, rosy shimmer over the sprawling cliffs and the sea beneath, but he still felt chilled.

It was out of the question that magic was at work here in some way—the silent thrum of energy that permeated the air around the house told him as much—but it was unlike anything he'd ever encountered before. The Green Knight himself hadn't seemed like a sorcerer to him even when he'd disrupted their feast at Camelot, and this just confirmed it. Decapitation seemed like a fairly non-magical way to get rid of an opponent, even if the twines of ivy had grown at a preternatural speed and had scared the whole village.

"Our local physician took a look at the body before we buried him," the innkeeper said, looking back and forth between them as though to gauge their reaction. He seemed anxious again, but Merlin knew that Arthur wasn't going to abandon his plans of helping the villagers, no matter how many more strange facets the man was going to add to this puzzle. "And there wasn't a scratch on him, other than his severed head. It was the strangest thing," he added, thoughtfully now. "Our physician was mystified. He said it looked like Sir Ricbert hadn't fought back. There weren't any other wounds, just that single stroke from a heavy, probably two-handed weapon, like a broadsword or perhaps an axe."

An axe. Merlin released a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, taking a second to glance over at Gwaine, who was looking at the house again with an air of vague astonishment, rather than the odd, sinking feeling that was spreading through Merlin's veins. The Green Knight had been wearing an axe, rusty though it had appeared to be at first, and it was too much of a coincidence to be explained away.

Merlin wiped his suddenly sweaty hands on his trousers and inhaled deeply, wondering why he felt so dismayed at the possibility of the strange visitor being their adversary in this. It wasn't like he'd even talked to the man at the feast—but somehow, his mind just refused to wrap itself around the idea of the Green Knight being evil. Which was kind of not making sense at all, considering the fact that he seemed to have murdered Sir Ricbert and scared the hell out of an entire village, but then again, Merlin's mind had a history of not making much sense.

Arthur was talking to the innkeeper, he realized dimly—words of reassurance that Merlin had heard often enough to recognize them even without listening closely. His voice was pitched low, and he took care to meet the other man's eyes, letting him feel that Arthur had listened closely to everything he'd said and would try to figure out the best course of action. Not for the first time, Merlin wondered if Arthur knew how he looked when he did that, when he made an effort not to talk down at frightened peasants but to reassure them, to rekindle the lost spark of faith in their liege. The innkeeper didn't even know who Arthur was, but he was looking at him with slow-dawning, barely concealed hope, the invisible weight of wariness lifting from his shoulders with every word. They had met barely a day ago, but the man was already seeing the king Arthur would be one day, not only in the hearts of his people but also in name.

"We won't keep you any longer," Arthur said, clapping him on the shoulder with an air of finality. "We'll take a look around, but feel free to go back to brewing that fantastic cider you graced us with last night—wouldn't want to keep you from that."

The innkeeper laughed, surprised, and Merlin saw him straighten up when Arthur's hand lifted from his shoulder. The apprehension wasn't gone, but it seemed pushed back behind the new determination in his eyes—Arthur's words had broken the fear's clutching grip, instilling in him the kind of assurance that Merlin knew so well from the battlefield. Nevertheless, he seemed glad of the chance to get out of the mansion's looming presence, and made his way back down the cliffs to the village after promising to prepare field rations for them.

Merlin blinked at that, but none of the others seemed surprised; apparently it had been decided beforehand that they wouldn't stay another night at the inn. Which made sense, in a way, since they had a lot of ground to cover until they'd checked all the dead nobles' lodgings—there was no time to lose, given the fact that they might also need to hunt down the Green Knight if he did indeed turn out to be the one responsible.

Shaking his head slightly, he roused himself from his thoughts, and listened as Arthur told them that they would split up and take a closer look at the house. He followed on instinct when Arthur and Lancelot started to walk around the side of the mansion, following a trail that had been worn into the sandy ground by many feet before. The grass in the front yard had obviously not seen a scythe in several weeks, and Merlin felt the chilly wetness of morning dew slowly seep through his trousers as he followed the knights into the house's shadow. On the other side, Leon was trying to keep up with Gwaine, who approached the ivy at a brisk pace and didn't seem at all afraid or even wary; Merlin even saw him lean close to a window to peer into the abandoned room behind.

Then he rounded the corner after Lancelot, and the mansion's bulky frame blocked Gwaine and Leon from view. Merlin took a deep breath, shivering in the sudden chill—the morning sun had warmed his back before, and now it seemed doubly cool in the shadow cast by the house. Lancelot was advancing slowly through the high grass, keeping away from the ivy with his hand resting near the dagger on his belt. Merlin caught his eye for a moment and felt reassured by the wariness he found there—at least he wasn't the only one who was mildly apprehensive about this. Then he looked past Lancelot to Arthur and caught the tail end of a glare that must have been leveled at him for some time—belatedly, Merlin realized that Arthur probably hadn't wanted him to come along as they rounded the mansion and tried to make sense of all the ivy.

But now he was already there with them, so he figured he might as well prove that he could be useful in this, no matter what Arthur thought. Another deep breath later, Merlin took another step through the moist grass, but this time he ventured closer to the ivy-covered wall.

The masonry was blocking the breeze from the sea, but the leaves in front of him still stirred and rustled as though moved by a gentle wind. Up close, the thrum of magic was even stronger, an impossibly alluring, muted hum that reverberated through Merlin's bones like the sound of a bell. Even the air seemed different, tasting of the sweet-sharp, wild energy that Merlin had seen in the Green Knight at the feast. He had worn it like a cloak, and now whatever he had done to Sir Ricbert had spread it across this house, coated the very ground he was standing on and permeated the air in his lungs.

He had brought up a hand before he could second-guess himself; somebody hissed his name from behind him, he wasn't sure if it was Arthur or Lancelot, but then his fingers brushed against a dark leaf and it didn't matter anymore who had tried to hold him back. An invisible current swept through him and he stumbled, bracing his hand on the wall hidden behind green twines—dizziness swirled through his head, and he briefly closed his eyes against the answering surge of energy that crested up in his chest. It felt like whatever magic had wreathed the ivy was calling to him, beckoning him, although where, he did not know.

The leaf was smooth and cool under Merlin's fingers, and it would have looked like any other leaf of ivy if it hadn't been for the faint, almost invisible light it gave off; Merlin wouldn't have noticed it in the bright sunlight, but now, in the shadow behind the house, he could see that the ivy was glowing. It seemed to soak up what little light reached the wall, and the leaf beneath his hand was cool, but not as cool as it should have been after having spent the entire night in darkness. There was no dew on it either, just little bright green veins that curled through the glossy surface and almost seemed to move under his touch for a second, a slight twitch not unlike a friendly hello.

"This is—," Merlin started, and coughed when his voice came out hoarse. He still felt unhinged, strangely imbalanced just because he was touching the silky-soft texture of the dark green leaf beneath his fingers, and he lowered his hand with some difficulty. "All this ivy didn't grow naturally. It's magic. I can feel it."

There was a short, somewhat baffled silence, only broken by the incessant rustling of the leaves on the wall—Merlin thought, somewhat hazily, that it sounded like a swarm of birds fluffing their feathers in preparation for a long flight. Lancelot quickly glanced back and forth between him and Arthur before averting his gaze with a distinct air of slight embarrassment, like he'd just caught himself listening in on a private conversation.

Then the rest of Merlin's mind, the part that was not still half dazed, caught up with him, with what he had just said, and he felt his hands grow cold and clammy in a way that had nothing to do with the morning chill. It was tempting to just keep his eyes on Lancelot, who seemed to find his boots intensely riveting, but his gaze drifted on its own accord until it landed on Arthur.

Arthur was staring at him with an expression Merlin didn't think he'd ever quite seen—shock, disbelief, even anger, but although he seemed on the brink of shouting at him, no sound came out when he opened his mouth. He looked at Lancelot, sidelong, tension wrought into his very stance like his body was unconsciously bracing for a fight. Merlin could tell that Lancelot felt the weight of Arthur's eyes on him, since a slow flush crept up his neck, but he didn't look up, and Arthur's gaze snapped back to Merlin. He shook his head, just slightly, like he still couldn't believe Merlin's audacity, but his shoulders drooped a little before he abruptly turned and walked away.

Merlin looked after him in silence, suddenly feeling heavy and tired. Arthur was striding along the side of the house at a brisk pace, his back resolutely turned to them, but Merlin knew he hadn't imagined the flicker of stunned revulsion in Arthur's eyes just before he'd turned away.

He inhaled deeply although it felt like his lungs had shrunk to half their size, but he had no idea what to say anyway, and so he didn't fight it when his breath left him again in a rush. Lancelot gave him a slightly pained look, and Merlin tried to tug a smile onto his face to assure his friend that it didn't matter, that he hadn't expected anything less.

Lancelot didn't seem fooled, but at least he didn't reach out to rest a comforting hand on Merlin's shoulder, although Merlin knew he wanted to. He inclined his head in acknowledgement instead, briefly looking up at the looming, ivy-covered wall with undisguised wariness, and made to follow the path that Arthur's steps had cut through the swaying grass.

After a second, Merlin followed. He could feel the first tell-tale tightening of stubborn frustration in his chest, and he fought to keep his face blank, knowing that right now, he couldn't allow it to get the better of him. Arthur wouldn't listen to him anyway, not with the furious, offended disbelief Merlin had seen in his eyes, and they were still too close to whatever strange magic had enfolded the mansion in ivy.

He swallowed the knot of frustration in his throat, lengthening his stride to keep up as Arthur rounded the corner towards the back of the house in front of them. For now, he had a prince to protect.





In retrospect, Merlin thought that the rest of the morning passed in almost the same kind of silent treatment Arthur had given him during those first two weeks.

He gritted his teeth and took it without complaint, though, determined not to cave under the strain now when he'd already made it through the past few months relatively unscathed. After choking down a quick early lunch at the inn, Merlin kept himself busy by rushing back and forth between their rooms and the front yard, and declined Leon's increasingly puzzled offers of help each time he passed through the tavern. By the time the others were done eating, their baggage was tied securely to the packhorse and the other horses, and after everyone shared a short laugh at Gwaine's expense, whom Gryngolet had thrown into the dust the first time he'd tried to mount, they rode out.

They followed a trail along the coast, and judging from how he had to squint against the sunlight, Merlin guessed that they were headed south-east. Treffynnon disappeared behind them as the coastline evened out, and by the time they entered a cluster of tall pine trees, the sound of the waves had gentled into a quiet rushing noise. Merlin had heard Arthur and Leon talk about the distance they were to cover today, and he knew that they were headed inland along the delta of the river in order to cross it at the first bridge they encountered. With a bit of luck, they'd sleep in another inn tonight, and Merlin rather hoped they would—the midday sun was fairly warm, but clouds were looming on the horizon, already threatening rain.

Arthur hadn't talked to him at all since the incident at Sir Ricbert's house, not even to order him to load up the packhorse, but maybe he'd guessed that Merlin would be falling all over himself to keep busy and cover the slip-up. In fact, Merlin thought somewhat morosely as he nudged his horse forward a little, the prince hadn't so much as looked at him all morning. It was like Arthur was pretending he didn't exist.

But for some reason, he kept looking at Lancelot—sharp, probing glances that bore into the knight's back whenever he didn't notice, as though Arthur were assessing a threat. It puzzled Merlin, but he knew better than to ask, especially now. And so he rode on in silence behind Leon and Gwaine as the sun climbed past its zenith and the forest thickened around them.

They stopped to rest with the sea far behind them. Although Merlin could still smell the salt in the air, he no longer heard the crashing of the waves when he dismounted and absently patted his horse's neck. A week spent mostly on horseback had done some good to drain the ache from his muscles that had settled there on the first day; by now Merlin was barely sore anymore, just a bit tired. The others had dismounted as well, and Gwaine was trying to lead Gryngolet down to the river for a drink, but the stallion ripped the reins out of Gwaine's hand with an arrogant toss of his head. He made his way down to the riverside at a brisk trot and drank deeply, and Merlin's gaze flickered back to Gwaine just in time to see him roll his eyes at his horse.

Gwaine joined Leon and Lancelot on the soft mossy ground, and the three of them started to unpack the field rations that the innkeeper had given to them, all the while refusing to accept the gold coin Arthur had been trying to press into his hand. He'd said that it was the least he could to do ensure they reached the next village, and even though he hadn't stated it outright, Merlin knew that he was still grateful, simply because someone had taken an interest in the strange occurrences at the village and had promised to investigate.

The memory made Merlin smile, at least until he straightened up from loosening his horse's cinch and his eyes came to rest on Arthur. The prince made no move to join the knights on the ground, although Merlin was sure he was hungry as well. He was looking back and forth between the three of them, with the same calculating, slightly dangerous gaze he had fixed Lancelot with all day. Then he suddenly looked at Merlin, his eyes dark and unreadable, and gestured towards the trees with a sharp motion of his hand.

"Merlin, a word," Arthur said, his clipped tone brooking no argument, and retreated into the forest.

Thoroughly baffled, Merlin just blinked at Arthur's back for a moment before he hurried to follow, tripping over a few fallen branches in his haste. Lancelot had stopped chewing on his piece of cheese and was glancing warily at the treeline; Leon looked like he was busy refining his newest method of pretending he hadn't heard anything; and Gwaine was grinning openly at Merlin, waggling his eyebrows for some reason.

Little twigs whipped into his face and got caught in his clothes when he followed Arthur into the quietude of the forest. His steps were almost muted by the soft carpet of moss and dried leaves that spread out beneath the trees—he jogged to catch up with Arthur, his heart pounding out an uneasy rhythm in his chest. He had no idea what Arthur wanted; at first he'd thought that the prince would simply tell him that he never wanted to hear Merlin mention his magic as casually as that ever again, but now, looking at the rigid set of Arthur's shoulders in front of him, he wasn't so sure anymore.

He fought to keep his face blank when Arthur finally turned around to look at him, eyes hard and so dark that they looked almost gray in the shady forest, and mentally braced himself for whatever hurtful words would get hurled at him now. What he hadn't expected, though, was for Arthur to lunge at him as soon as he got within arm's reach.

Before Merlin could react, he was grabbed by the front of his tunic, whirled around, and slammed up against a tree. He gasped when his back collided with the rough bark, but the impact didn't really hurt—it just drove the air from his lungs, and it took him a moment to regain his breath, blinking dizzily. Up close, Arthur's eyes didn't look gray anymore, but very blue, and also very, very angry. A muscle was twitching in his jaw, and Merlin felt his breath on his cheeks, hot, sharp puffs of air that came as quickly as if Arthur had run all the way here.

"Are—you—mad?" Arthur hissed, pushing the words out through his teeth as though he would have yelled them if they'd been out of earshot of the knights. He shook Merlin, the knuckles of his fists digging painfully into Merlin's collarbones, and Merlin fought to keep his balance, his boots sliding unsteadily across the gnarled roots of the tree Arthur was pushing him up against.

"What—," he tried, but didn't get any further as Arthur shoved him back, still not letting go of his tunic. Merlin's head was knocked into rough bark, but he made no move to free himself of Arthur's grip—he hadn't even thought to bring up his hands in self-defense when Arthur had grabbed for him.

"What were you thinking, just announcing your— your magic to all and sundry like that!" Arthur snarled, his voice rising to a half shout that echoed slightly amidst the trees. "Lancelot was right there!"

He could feel Arthur's warmth, a smothering wave of heat even through his clothes, but even the twin pressure points of Arthur's knuckles near his throat dropped away in a momentary haze of shock as the puzzle pieces in Merlin's head suddenly clicked into place.

That was why Arthur had kept staring at Lancelot all day, he realized, with a surge of relief that was almost exhilarating—he'd thought Lancelot would turn Merlin in, or worse yet, breach the subject with Arthur on a quiet night in an inn. It all made sense now, and he couldn't have stopped the hope that soared in his chest even if he had tried—maybe the flicker of emotion back then hadn't been disgust after all, Merlin thought, maybe he just hadn't looked closely enough, although there was no mistaking the barely banked fury that was swirling through Arthur's eyes now.

Merlin exhaled shakily, his heartbeat loud and out of sync in his ears. His mind was utterly blank of coherence, his thoughts fleeting pinpricks of light that he fought in vain to catch, and so he didn't second-guess his words as he blurted out, "Lancelot knows."

Arthur stopped, just stopped, and didn't move or breathe or even blink for a long moment. "What?" he asked, his voice quiet and dangerously soft—Merlin could hear the shock hovering just out of reach in his tone, and of course awareness rushed back in now, and it was all Merlin could do not to bite down on his tongue in reproach for its carelessness.

"He's known for—," Merlin waved a helpless hand, although Arthur wasn't even looking at the gesture. "For a long time," he finished, breathlessly, his chest slowly caving in in a way that had nothing to do with how tightly Arthur was still gripping his tunic in both hands. He could see the shutters closing behind Arthur's eyes, and Merlin swallowed the lump in his throat with some difficulty, desperate not to let Arthur slip away again.

"Remember the gryphon?" Merlin asked, the question tumbling out just as unsteadily as his earlier confession. He didn't really think about what he was saying—he just wanted to keep Arthur here in this moment with him, close enough that they were breathing each other's air, now that he had managed to inch behind the prince's defenses without even realizing it. "Lancelot killed it, but I had to enchant his spear—gryphons are magical creatures, they can't be killed with ordinary weapons, and I had to help and he saw, but he promised not to tell..."

He trailed off. Arthur was staring at him, and while his face had been blank with shock before, his features were now hardening into the indifferent mask Merlin knew so well. The closed-off expression of tightly-reined emotions was so familiar that Merlin's breath caught in his chest, and he almost stumbled forward when he felt Arthur's grip loosen from his tunic, but something in the prince's eyes stopped him short.

Arthur let him go and stepped back, and Merlin watched helplessly as he swallowed down whatever else might have been hovering on his tongue, something indecipherable flickering through his eyes before he turned away.

Merlin slumped back against the tree, his breathing ragged and fast with the knotted ball of tension that had curled into his chest. He'd seen the way Arthur's hands had curled into fists as soon as he'd let him go, and if Merlin hadn't been so baffled by Arthur's reaction, he would have tried harder to hold him back. Sometimes, he wanted more than anything to break down the iron grip Arthur had on his control and find out what was simmering beneath, because for the first time it occurred to him there might be more lying in store for him than just anger.

He waited for a while before he went back to the others, if only to allow his heartbeat some much-needed time to slow down. Then he followed Arthur's visible trail of broken twigs and stamped-down moss back to the riverside, and when Arthur once again refused to meet his eyes at all, Merlin was glad that he'd taken the time to compose himself.

But the thing that stayed with Merlin all evening, even more than the furious disbelief in Arthur's eyes, was the warmth of his hands where they'd been fisted into his shirt. It sounded stupid even to himself, but it gave him hope, to the point that he had to fight a smile whenever he felt the residual slight sting from the twin sore spots that Arthur's knuckles had left. His collarbones would probably bruise, but Merlin didn't mind. In a way, he almost wished for blueish marks to appear on his skin as a palpable testament to the fact that Arthur had touched him, for the first time in months. Even without stripping off his tunic to look, he could imagine the way his collarbones must be reddening, his heartbeat going faster under the soreness that slowly filled with blood beneath his skin. The thought was reassuring, that his body would remember the touch, harsh as it had been, that it would be cradled close for a time even if it took days or weeks until Arthur touched him again.

Still, he also couldn't forget the look on Arthur's face, the utter shock when Merlin had told him that Lancelot knew about his magic—he'd seemed almost too shocked for it to have been entirely genuine, like he'd wanted to mask a flicker of some other nameless emotion. For some reason, it was the same look Merlin had seen him cast towards Lancelot and Gwen more and more often during the past few months, something halfway between hopelessness and the dulled edge of remembered anger. But Merlin promised himself that he would do everything in his power to keep it from slipping into the resigned disappointment that had lurked behind the calm veneer of Arthur's expression when Gwen had said goodbye to Lancelot in the courtyard a week ago.

Merlin had no idea what he could do to prevent that, though, since he hadn't been brave enough to break through Arthur's defenses and get at the heart of the matter just yet. But if he hadn't known better—and he did—he'd have thought that Arthur was jealous.





If there was one thing Arthur hated, it was jealousy.

It wasn't worse than falling short of his father's expectations, and it didn't even come close to the feeling of losing a duel. All in all, Arthur mused as he carefully directed Llamrei across the crumbling stone bridge they'd been waiting for all day, he was rather surprised at how little it hurt. It was more like an incessant, slow burn beneath his skin, an itch he couldn't scratch, no matter how aggravating it became.

The worst thing about it was probably that Arthur wasn't used to it. Which was no excuse, really, but how was he supposed to have learned how to deal with feelings such as envy if he'd never found anything or anyone to be envious of? As strict as Uther could be, even his father had indulged him when he'd been a child, and as soon as Arthur had expressed the slightest interest in anything, it had been as good as his. Servants and fellow noblemen alike had done their best not to leave him wanting for anything either, and it had taken a long time—and a certain loud-mouthed manservant—until Arthur had realized that most of that had been done out of obligation.

As unfamiliar as it was to him, jealousy always settled deeply and clung stubbornly, too persistent to be dislodged from his mind even by going about his daily duties, like a thorn that he couldn't pull out, no matter how viciously he dug. He didn't know how to fight it, or how to even face it, because it held the looming, unfamiliar danger of being denied what he wanted. Which made no sense at all in the light of his conversation with Merlin in the forest, since the mere thought that he might want Merlin was plainly ridiculous, but not quite as ridiculous as the notion of being refused.

He knew Merlin, after all. He was loyal to a fault, and Arthur would have to have been blind and deaf not to notice the way he had stubbornly tried to work his way back into Arthur's good graces for the past few months. Rationally, he knew that it didn't have to mean anything that Lancelot had known the truth about him long before Merlin so much as thought of telling Arthur. But every time he tried to push the thought from his mind, he was met with clinging resistance and, if he was completely honest with himself, no small amount of hurt.

He knew Lancelot too, and he was well aware that the knight looked up to him far too much to ever take something from him on purpose. But given the fact that Arthur's stupid idiot of a manservant had practically shouted his sorcery across the cliffs, he couldn't let go of the foolish, nagging suspicion that Lancelot had earned a kind of loyalty from Merlin that Arthur didn't know how to inspire. He had already taken Gwen, after all, although without even meaning to. That had been inevitable in retrospect and hadn't really had anything to do with Lancelot, if Arthur was completely honest with himself. A discord had soured the air between Arthur and Gwen long before Lancelot had come back, a strange, imbalanced feeling of inevitable unhappiness lurking just around the corner, of something slipping from Arthur's grasp—something that he didn't know how to gather close enough to keep.

He didn't like the idea of not knowing how to keep Merlin, though—he didn't like it at all. As angry as Arthur still was with him, he hadn't realized until now how much he'd still depended on the unshakeable certainty of having Merlin by his side. Until Merlin had told him that Lancelot had known about his magic for so long, it had never occurred to Arthur that the place to Arthur's right might not be as unquestionably occupied as he'd thought it was.

Llamrei suddenly tossed her head with an unhappy snort, startling Arthur out of his thoughts, and he realized that he'd been gripping the reins in white-knuckled fists in much the same way as he'd held on to Merlin's tunic earlier. He loosened his hold with a soothing pat to his mare's neck before nudging her forward into the forest on the other side of the river—by now, he was certain that they'd reach the next village before nightfall.

The forest was growing dark around them, the shadows lengthening in the twilight. He could hear Lancelot and Gwaine talking quietly in the back, but their voices were too low for Arthur to make out the words. Leon had spurred his horse into a brief trot earlier in order to get between Merlin and Arthur, putting himself in an ideal position to come to Arthur's aid and simultaneously give Merlin enough time to back away from a fight. Arthur knew that Merlin wouldn't let himself be ushered into the safety of the thicket surrounding the trail if they were indeed attacked by bandits, but he still appreciated the sentiment. He'd found himself grateful for Leon's presence ever since they'd set out from Camelot—the older knight followed wherever he led, and the constant, attentive vigil he kept over them was fairly reassuring.

For some reason, despite the tumult that his thoughts had been cast into ever since he'd spoken to Merlin in the forest, Arthur couldn't forget the look on Merlin's face when he'd touched the ivy and declared it to be magical. His eyes had not flashed gold like they had on that evening in his chambers, but for just a second an unearthly shimmer seemed to cling to him, a faraway glow that cast his angular features into sharp relief. It could just have been the shadows behind the mansion, but his eyes had been fathomless and dark when he'd looked up at Arthur and Lancelot, and Arthur recalled the effort it had taken Merlin to let go of the leaf, as though the ivy had been exerting an irresistible pull.

Merlin had appeared almost ethereal, his translucent skin alight with gold, and for just a second he had seemed tall, taller than Arthur had ever seen him, unselfconscious and utterly at home in the strange power that flowed through his blood. He'd also looked impossibly far away, a trick of the light that Arthur couldn't brush off no matter how hard he tried—for an endless, oddly panicked moment, Arthur had almost thought that Merlin would disappear, that he would scatter the encasing shell of his body without second thought to become one with the sizzling thrum of golden energy in the air.

Arthur had wanted to lunge forward, to grab Merlin's arm as tightly as he could and keep him there, but the moment had gone by unused. Merlin hadn't disappeared, and he'd met Arthur's gaze after only a moment of hesitation, but the memory still bothered him. He knew that Merlin wouldn't just leave, least of all because of a few currents of supernatural power weaving through the air around an ivy-covered house. But Arthur was well aware that he wouldn't know how to hold Merlin back if he ever did feel like leaving, and after their conversation in the forest, he had no idea if Merlin even wanted him to try.






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Comments

[cas74.livejournal.com]

I decided to leave my comments throughout as I read so that I don't forget anything!
I started reading last night and truly wish I had today off of work so that I could just read your lovely words! Sometimes I'm turned off when stories start with ominous intros that don't feature the characters I'm hoping to see, but the beauty of the imagery you created was breathtaking!

I love Gwaine in general, but it seems like he's always paired as a love interest for merlin which stops me from reading. Thank you for giving me gwaine fic that I can enjoy! His relationship with his horse is so funny, and I love the way he's trying to subtly help Arthur and Merlin make up even when he doesn't know why they are having issues. I'm so excited to see how you continue to write him on this journey!

Merlin, oh Merlin. My heart aches for him. I'm just waiting for him to loose his patients with Arthur! I think that's what they both need.

I'm loving Arthur! You are writing his conflicting feelings about both his father and Merlin so well! I feel for him so very much. I LOVED the scene where he pushed Merlin against the tree, so upset that Merlin talked about his magic in front of Lancelot. I was expecting him to be angry over Lancelot knowing before him, not because he was scared for Merlin. I loved his reaction so much!

Oh and Leon is amazing and a bashful Percival is perfection!