Chapter Text
All of Camelot quivered under the Wolf Moon.
The high, bright voices of her people reflected off stone and snow, piled high from storms earlier in the month, melting and refreezing, fanged icicles dripping from every eave. Work stopped at midday, when all went to their homes and closed their shutters against the day to rest for what was to come.
As the city held its breath, so did Arthur. He climbed the tallest tower and waited for dusk, for night, for moonrise and the tidal pressure in his bones to crest and crash. Bowstrung, he waited, as close to the sky as any man could be and pushing closer still, head back, eyes fixed on the winter sunset pink and orange stippled with small deep, blue gravel-stone clouds. There would be no cover tonight to shield them from the moon, and Arthur smiled to nothing and no one but himself and to the sky.
"You know, the position of royal watchman is highly respected. Are you trying to insult him with your gawking?"
And Morgana, come either to fetch him or to throw him off the tower.
Good mood unimpeded, Arthur swept out his arm to call her to his side. Furs clutched around her against the chill, she approached, and they passed a few companionable moments together.
"Isn't this so much better than going mad cooped up indoors until it's time?" Arthur asked.
"No, it's bloody freezing out here."
But she smiled, so she was being contrary just for the sake of it. As a prince, and her a lady, Arthur could not give her the bullying little nudge with his shoulder which his soul suggested he should do: but through an adolescence together surveilled every second, they had an entire dictionary of ways to be stiff and proper at each other, so Arthur laid a hand on the merlon between them and tapped his finger a few times, and she more or less got the message.
The golden evening light loved Morgana: it bathed her only in its best, a healthy glow to battle back the wanness of those weary, ashen days after the Yule fires burnt themselves out. She wore warmth with her usual grace even as it transformed her and gave Arthur the courage to ask:
"You'll join the run tonight?"
She angled herself away from him and drew folded arms inward in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. Arthur's heart sank.
"It's Wolf Moon; what choice do I have?"
"No harm would come to you."
"There are greater consequences." But before Arthur could ask her meaning, she said, "No, I'll be there. Perhaps not where Uther wants me to be, but there nonetheless."
"I'll find you after the procession."
Down below, the evening bell rang, a deep resonance that shivered through the walls and the air and the people and into Arthur's ribcage.
"There's your cue. Good moon, Arthur," Morgana said.
A feeling welled in him sometimes—mostly the times he was able to leave Morgana's company without having to flee for his dignity—that each time he walked away from Morgana would be the last he ever saw her. With that weight upon him, he looked over his shoulder before descending to the hall below; she stood very alone against the open sky, a smallness about her despite the perfection of her posture; and Arthur should not leave her. But then she turned too, raised a sharp eyebrow, and shooed him, so he went.
Each moon, the king hosted one or two of his lords. He heard their concerns; he celebrated them, flattered and intimidated them in turn as required to keep them in line, and, when the pack all came together, the guest renewed the oaths of fealty or alliance which kept them under Camelot's protection. But Wolf Moon was sacred: a time for beginnings, for family, and not for politicking, even to Uther Pendragon. It was under Wolf Moon that Camelot's knights swore themselves to king and country, and each and every citizen of Camelot, young and old, weak and strong, came together as one.
Wolves lined the path from the steps of the citadel to the city gates down the winding royal road, beyond the tree line. Some sat in solemn observance of tradition; some danced in place; some paced along the line, barely holding onto their control. And down the aisle formed by their bodies came the knights of Camelot, led by their prince.
Arthur set a swift pace, too-aware of the empty place beside him where Morgana was not (she was meant to walk a pace behind but never had and never would): and where the final royal knight in the procession passed, the wolfpack fell in behind him.
When Arthur passed beneath the shadow of trees, he broke into a run, and his people followed. They raced through the forest, a river of bodies roaring and rapid over hollow and hill and stone, barks and yips of pure joy leaping through the air shining and silver, foaming in their hurry, carving the land to suit them as they went.
In a too-short half-mark, they reached the ritual place at the center of the forest. Arthur knew not its history, just that his father had conquered it from some less-deserving creature as soon as he came to power in Camelot's pack and had not razed it but taken whatever power it held for himself—so it must not be magic. The moon set high and gleaming above in the circle made by the trees, the jewel in a heavenly crown. Here Arthur had been knighted, and here his king awaited.
The pack filled in the space, and a quiet fell: the quiet of a crowd, massive and breathing with absence, whispering without voices, stinking of life and all its processes. One by one, knights climbed the stone altar beneath the moon and prostrated before the king, submitting until he bade them rise and join the ranks below the altar, until Arthur came last. He looked around the clearing and even from on high could not find Morgana.
With the whole world watching, Arthur bowed to his father as he had every moon since he gained his knighthood at fifteen: eyes closed, belly scraping the rock. If he put his ears back, if he showed his throat, Father would lecture him the next day about weak and groveling leaders whose packs ripped them apart; if he looked his father in the eye or failed to lower himself, the king would provide him an example of what happened to alphas who disobeyed their king.
But it was Wolf Moon, and no one would curse the new year with rebellion or rejection, and Arthur had learned well what was expected of him, and Uther loved his son, so Arthur bowed for only a minute perhaps, until his father touched his nose to his brow and let him stand at his side. And there, the king rose up a magnificent howl of triumph, the voices of his pack shaking the forest entire.
As the last echo of their howl rang through the circle, the business of procession concluded, and the revel began. Father leapt down from the stone and the pack parted for him, allowing him to pass. Arthur, however, joined them.
The forest teemed with life, with places to explore and new scents to discover, here among strangers who all smelled of family. Arthur greeted everyone he saw, though some did shrink from him, who recognized him and were afraid. Wherever Arthur went, he looked around for some sign of Morgana: her lovely silver-white shape, her pale green eyes, the sharp snap of her teeth at whatever displeased her:
And it was this hunt that led him padding cross an empty streambed which in spring would flow with snowmelt and climbing the mossy bank on the other side, where he lifted his nose to taste the air—which abruptly smelled of nothing, in a world which made no sound.
The wind changed.
There was something unright about the black wolf watching Arthur from the other bank where he'd just been. Golden-eyed, whip-thin. Too long of snout and limb. Among the trees, he might have been a shadow thrown by a wholly different creature—or, from the angle of the light, by Arthur himself.
But for each uncanny feature, for each un-lupine beast the king had ordered driven from Camelot lands, this creature had a scent when the wind blew now from behind him, and it was one Arthur knew well. It was new earth; it was sage and thyme, crushed, clinging to fingertips; it was hot, the scent of steam inhaled from the trembling surface of water, so close it caught in the throat, aspirated, choked.
Arthur had never seen him; Arthur knew him. It couldn't be, and wouldn't be beneath the sun. But it was Wolf Moon now, and Arthur's pack was somewhere in the woods, going on without him, while Arthur stood frozen as a deer, naked paws on the leaf litter, naked fur beneath the white moon, too exposed away from the safety of the brush—because he was a fool who charged in, because he was the apex predator in these woods, until he wasn't.
The shadow moved. A sinuous flow, living black blotting out light where it pooled in the snowbanks and frosted brush, the beast left the streambank. It stalked forward.
Arthur sank back. He stepped when the shadow stepped; they circled each other, Arthur slunk low, the shadow still upright—head cocked, curious. And whether it was curiosity or something else, the shadow broke their stalemate: he nosed forward, the tip of him brushing the fur of Arthur's brow.
Later, Arthur would blame anything but fear. Call it instinct, call it the unknown, some spirit gripped him when the shadow touched him: he took all that coiled something within him and sprung it: he was off like a shot, startled and game-flushed.
They ran far and wild, until fire pumped in Arthur's veins and lungs over air and blood, until every other forest noise disappeared beneath his thudding paws and pounding breath and the whistle of the wind. Arthur ran low to the ground, ears pressed back to his head, a golden streak through the silver snow, and if he crossed the path of any other wolf than his shadow, they were less to him than ghosts.
And like a shadow, the black wolf kept pace. Exhilaration nipped Arthur's heels, drove him faster and bolder, but never the black wolf's teeth, though a few times he did draw close enough—to snag Arthur's tail, or to trip him up, or to, with one great effort and the proper timing, leap forward in a burst of strength and throw his larger body onto Arthur's and have done with it, send them both tumbling over the earth, take Arthur in his speed and still him, and be victor.
Arthur's pride would never allow it, not by merit and never on purpose. But his strategic mind, clicking away even in the animal bliss of running, caught each of his own mistakes, each moment the black wolf might have seized if he were more used to the hunt.
That bright mind would wonder, from this night and each one after, how it might have been to stumble and be caught.
But Arthur was quick and clever, and he drew further ahead, and he twisted himself beneath a fallen tree so low his belly scraped the ground, and he burst into the clear on the shore of a frozen lake. Shaking with exertion, flanks heaving, he pricked his ears. There were no paws but his, crunching faintly on the old snow.
He looked over his shoulder, back at the tree line. To one side of the clearing, a rock face closed him in, deep blue in the night. The brush was thick here—pitch black and so tangled no wolf could navigate it, except where it had been crushed as consequence of some long-ago storm. Arthur strained his eyes for his shadow. When he ran, it was like flying; he had no body, a thing of joy so crystal clear everything else came for once into focus. Now he was still. He'd never hurt so bad in muscle and bone since those very first childhood days of training. He'd patrolled these woods deeper and fiercer than anyone ever had, but this clearing and lake were strange to even him. There was a scent he couldn't want and a need he hadn't known and a wolf who wasn't out there in the night, who had let him go.
And he was alone.
Arthur threw back his head and howled.
**
The lovely shifting belonging darkness of sleep yielded not easily. He struggled, for a moment, to make sense of the blocky, familiar shapes of his furniture which were not at all slender trees or tumbling stones or hollows filled with yellow gorse clinging to his pelt. Arthur rolled in his sheets, turned to face the wall, and pressed his forehead to the icy stone.
Had he even had time to dream? He had limped home alone long hours after the pack had returned each to their homes, when the first grey of dawn lined the hills. He'd fallen into bed in fur; he needed four-legged dreams. In slumber, his body had betrayed him and forced him back into the shape of a man, who could hardly run at all.
"Good morning, sire."
Someone had committed an unforgivable act of treason: they had stabbed their prince, right through the eyes, blinded him for ever. Even with his back to the windows and an arm thrown over his face, the whole world still glowed red through the backs of Arthur's eyelids. Morning had come, which was standard, and Merlin had woken him, but in a way which was not. There was no banging of doors or furniture or armor, no chatter, no—God forbid—whistling: only the sun and a sort of quiet which might have been peaceful except for the absence of all that was good or familiar.
"You know, Merlin, I think you only avoid the pack every moon for your own sadistic morning pleasure," Arthur groaned. But when he dared to squint his eyes open and glance over his shoulder at the villain, the Merlin before him appeared not at all well-rested or, indeed, very pleased. Pale, eyes red-rimmed, he waited stiffly beside Arthur's dining table with his hands behind his back.
Arthur forced himself into a sitting position. The covers fell from him to pool at his waist, and he shivered. His robe hung on the back of the wardrobe, and any half-decent manservant ought to have it waiting, even warmed before the fire; so, by nature, Merlin did not move at all and stayed where he was with the same tragic look on his face.
Pressing his thumb and forefinger to his eyes to relieve the pressure, Arthur tried to bring his mind to order. From the sniper's angle of the sun, shot bullseye into Arthur's skull through the gap in his curtains, it couldn't even be midday. Servants were granted a half-day after the full moon, let alone princes, so whatever Merlin wanted had better be good, or there would be consequences as soon as Arthur could muster the necessary energy.
"All right, out with it," he said, waving at Merlin. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, sire."
"Don't lie to me. At least, not so blatantly. It's insulting."
Don't worry, if I want to insult you you'll know. Or perhaps, Yes sir, of course sir, only very sneaky lies from now on, sir. Arthur waited patiently for his prescribed dose of insubordinate mockery. It never came.
Under the moon, he could howl and howl, though he rarely did; he could summon a cacophony but hear only the missing notes. It was too late to howl now; it was too early to clear it from his throat. Merlin would never answer him, anyway, not for all Arthur's bullying or wooing.
Unsettled, unmoored, Arthur pushed himself to the edge of the bed and stood without so much as testing his weight. For his hubris, he nearly pitched forward, catching himself only at the last second on the bed hangings. Merlin started forward, hands outstretched, eyes enormous, but froze when Arthur shook his head and his shoulders back, and stretched.
"Are you—are you okay?" Merlin asked hoarsely.
"Fine. Sore. Wolf Moon—you know."
He didn't; Merlin had never spent a Wolf Moon or any other with Arthur, with Camelot. But Arthur threw out the waspish remark anyway, because his head hurt, and he'd little sleep, and a strange wolf chased him last night only to decide he did not want him after all.
Every muscle in Arthur's lower body spasmed, burning and tight, as he walked the few feet to retrieve his robe and threw it carelessly over his shoulders without bothering to do it up. Staying still would be worse, so he forced himself to make a circuit back to the bed, to the fireplace, then to the table, until he could almost move as normal again. All the while, Merlin watched him, saying nothing about how Arthur toddled like an old man, nothing about stupid pups with paws bigger than their brains, nothing about rushing to Gaius to lick his wounds.
Something cold and green tickled Arthur's nose beneath the smell of breakfast; Arthur wanted it to go away. He wanted Merlin to go away as well, actually, until he could fetch his usual self, and not distract him with so much useless heavy worry.
"What, did you chase the wrong tail last night?" Arthur needled—but, then, Merlin actually flinched. Eyebrows raised, Arthur continued, "Well, never fear, I'm sure she'll forgive you. It happens to us all."
And, robe still hanging open, he took the few extra steps to give Merlin a manly clap on the shoulder. He didn't hit him very hard, but Merlin swayed beneath it—back, slightly, then forward, more, very near to leaning on Arthur, very near to touching him. Almost without thinking, in the thrall of some lingering instinct, Arthur swayed forward too, to scent him, only to rear back with a burning in his nose. He sneezed, then pinched his nose, then shook his head and goggled at Merlin. How could he stand it?
Merlin always smelled a bit like the herbs he fetched and prepared for Gaius, but presently he reeked so strongly of spearmint Arthur's nose actually felt cold just from a whiff of it.
"Good God, did you roll in it? Rub it on your clothes? What does Gaius have you doing?"
"There was an accident," Merlin said.
"Well, next time you cause an accident, clean yourself up!" Arthur knuckled at his nose to stave off another sneeze, eyes watering.
"Right."
On rare occasions, Arthur was forced to consider the possibility that Merlin might be angry with him. The thought was almost impossible, but not quite: Arthur knew he could be what some would call a bit full of himself (though he was also very often correct to be so), and though Merlin had an unconquerably good humor and an attitude which rivaled Arthur's own, he also had feelings that could sometimes get hurt. Just to be sure, Arthur quickly cataloged the last several days of their interactions and judged himself unimpeachable. Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, except for last night and the shadow.
Arthur's heart did a funny little jerk. Merlin couldn't have heard about that, could he? Could people really be talking? Sure, it was possible he'd been seen or heard, but a wolf running on Wolf Moon was the most natural thing in the world—what sort of rumors could there possibly be?
Except—well—most alphas would have turned and fought.
It was one thing to run and quite another to be chased. There were certain implications regarding the pursuit—ones Arthur hadn't thought of once last night, with the moon in him and the shadow behind him, calling him, filling his lungs with sweet herbs and making him...want. But that didn't mean others wouldn't draw conclusions if they knew. If they saw him dancing with a stranger. It didn't mean others wouldn't lose respect for him or question his ability to lead them. It didn't mean Merlin wouldn't...
Panic punched its way through his throat like an awl. Worse still, Merlin chose that moment to turn away from him. He tucked his chin, mouth tight at the corners, eyes hidden.
Arthur seized the first object at hand—a roll from his uneaten breakfast—and hurled it at him. It struck him in the temple and bounced away.
"Hey!"
Righteous indignation shook Merlin from his dark mood, and relief swept through Arthur. Nothing broken, then: nothing irreparable. Everything was fine. Arthur was fine. Merlin was just being dramatic.
Arthur said, "Quit sulking. I've told you a hundred times that growing up lone doesn't mean you shouldn't join Camelot's pack now. Every other servant in the castle and peasant in the town runs together under my father. There's no reason to make yourself miserable over it every month."
Things were that simple, weren't they? Run with the pack, and you will never be lonely? Arthur rubbed at his chest, which hadn't stopped aching.
Merlin rolled his eyes and fetched Arthur's projectile from the floor. "Which of the two of us is the miserable one? Sit down before you fall over."
Arthur very much did not take orders from the likes of Merlin, but his breakfast was getting cold, and if sausages didn't help his headache then it might as well kill him. He did not care to ponder the fact that his sausages had survived the trip from the kitchens in Merlin's dastardly clutches or what it might mean.
But then Merlin did not commit his usual treachery and drop himself into the seat at Arthur's left hand, just stood awkwardly by and picked at the roll—Arthur's judgment painted itself all over his face, but then again, Merlin was the one who cleaned those floors—curled in on himself as if anticipating a blow.
"What did happen to you last night?" Merlin asked, just as Arthur was about to demand of him the same information.
"Overexerted myself," was his short reply.
"Really? That's all? Because you do nothing but exert yourself all over your men every day, so I have a hard time believing you can't handle a little run."
"When nosy servants receive answers to their audacious questioning, they should count their blessings and shut up."
"Yeah, but I'm more concerned about answers to the very insightful and relevant questions, actually."
Arthur palmed his knife and sliced into a small, hard winter apple. "Tell me what you've heard to make you so concerned, and perhaps I'll give you more gossip for the kitchen girls."
He infused his words with all the scorn he could muster, but nothing provided for the fact he was bargaining with a servant. His father would be appalled. Arthur was appalled, and blamed his behavior firmly on his shadow, who would have to be found if only so Arthur could give him a piece of his mind: who would hopefully never be found, so Arthur would only be left behind the once, and better for it.
"I didn't have to hear anything," Merlin said mulishly. "You can't see yourself; you look like something fished out of a lake a fortnight gone. Something happened you're not telling me."
Arthur cut the apple into very even sections, set to savor it, for the kitchen must near the last of the fruit stores as winter wore on. "You must have heard something, or else you would not have woken me so early, knowing what day it is."
"Oh, that was because the king summoned you, is all."
Arthur's hand spasmed and sliced deep across the pad of his thumb. Merlin yelped and yanked off his neckerchief to stem the bleeding, but Arthur, speechless with rage, refused to let him get close; he grabbed his goblet, thought hotly of throwing it also at Merlin's stupid head and really giving him something to think about: but instead Arthur just gulped the last of his wine rather than waste it, slammed down the cup and the knife, and hied himself off to judgment, leaving Merlin in the dust.
**
Father braced his knuckles on the thick, notched wooden table and leaned forward. It had been many years since he could truly look down at Arthur, but somehow, nevertheless, Arthur always felt small in his presence.
Eyebrow raised, Father fixed Arthur with a look that might have been indulgent on a different man.
"Well, out with it," he said.
Unsure what to make of the instruction or his father's good mood, Arthur just said, "Sire?"
"Was it that Lancelot? I did warn you," Uther wagged a finger, "Only alphas from proper bloodlines are capable of harnessing their power for a different master. But you insisted on your little menagerie."
"Lancelot is an honorable man, whatever his bloodline."
"Who, then?" As quickly as it had come, Father's patience vanished. He stood up straight. "If you've made a mess with someone important, you should have come to me immediately. Where did you leave the body?"
"What body? Father, what are you talking about?"
"You didn't kill him?"
The temperature of the room plunged several degrees. Arthur took several very deep breaths. The pack alpha, supposedly, could hear a rabbit's heart from a mile away, and Father wouldn't take kindly to the racing of Arthur's.
"I received a report this morning that my son, the crown prince, allowed himself to be separated from the pack last night by an alpha male, a stranger not of this pack. Now you tell me that you failed to defeat this wolf?"
"There was no contest. He poses Camelot no threat."
"You spoke to him?"
"Not with words. But I could tell—he was merely curious but knew better than to join the run. A loner. He likely won't appear again."
"And you are in the habit of entertaining the curiosity of trespassers?"
"Father, I–"
"If he had attacked when he had you alone, what then?"
"I would have defeated him. And had I been felled, he would have made thousands of enemies for no gain at all. No one has ever taken control of any territory by defeating a pack's second in command."
Uther's fist struck the table. "You are my son!" he thundered. "Enemies of Camelot seek to use you to destabilize this kingdom. You are not this simple—how many times have you seen the cost of allowing strange creatures to infiltrate our land?"
"I know, but–"
"I expect a little restraint from you, Arthur."
Arthur swallowed; his throat clicked. "Yes, sire."
"You are dismissed. And Arthur?"
"Sir."
"Next time I hear of this black wolf, I expect to see his pelt. Am I understood?"
"Of course, Father. I understand."
At last, Uther turned his back on him. Arthur measured his steps carefully as he left the hall, though every strained and straining muscle in him wanted to run. He shouldered through the heavy oak doors, kept his head high past his father's guards. Then he stopped short, because there in the corridor paced Merlin, hands behind his back, steps harried as he wore a track between two tapestries. He reached the far end of one—a fox hunt in an emerald field, the russet creature writhed on the end of a triumphant lance—and whirled, saw Arthur, and jumped.
Merlin rushed to Arthur, who took his elbow and turned him around, marching him around the corner and out of earshot of the guards.
"Are you okay?" Merlin asked.
"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Ummm?" Merlin gestured wildly in the vague direction of the hall and, scowling, Arthur swatted down his hand.
"It's none of your business. Don't you have anything better to do than loiter around bothering the guards? Some people actually do their jobs, you know."
Words too harsh, perhaps, for the frost-brittle version of Merlin who had woken Arthur that morning, but it was too late to take them back. Blessedly, though, Merlin just made one of his usual pinched faces at Arthur and opened his big mouth.
"Oh, that's right, since I don't do my job, I guess I just won't carry messages for you in the future, hm?"
"Merlin."
"Stupid Merlin, he can't even remember more than three words, oh well! The prince will surely manage anyway without such a–"
"Merlin!"
"What?"
"Do you have a message for me?"
"Oh. Morgana was looking for you."
As if that counted as actually delivering a message! Arthur made a scathing noise and shoved at him, who had the temerity to shove back, both his hands planted on Arthur's shoulder and giving him a heave, so of course Arthur had to grab him and really show him what a heave looked like: Merlin scampered down the stairs and out into the courtyard, Arthur on his heels and shouting—slow from his rough night, or else the brat wouldn't stand a chance—and out under the white sky, the cloying stench of spearmint mixed with open air in every breath in Arthur's lungs, and it was rather nice, really.
**
Years ago, Morgana's arrival in Camelot had put Arthur beside himself with joy. Yes, he'd been told, she was grieving, and she was a girl and an omega and thus no proper companion, but none of those warnings had penetrated his young mind. Finally, another child his age! Father always told him all of Camelot was their pack, but to Arthur all he understood was that he was only allowed to run with Father, that he couldn't join the other pups until he was a squire, at which point all the good games would be done already. Morgana, surely, would change everything.
And she did. They were different as night and day, but, though Uther never said a word and rose in such fury when Arthur dared to ask that he never mentioned it again, they knew each other immediately by scent as brother and sister. This revelation, to any two less lonely children, might have torn everything apart. But, though cruel and unexpected and always, always unspoken, it was a bond that was theirs alone. Begat by their father, yes, but wholly apart from him as it grew.
Uther was not fond of their bond. Morgana learned just how unladylike it was to tease, how ridiculous to charge through the halls with her brother's sword and helmet, screeching she'd slay the ugliest beast that had ever threatened the kingdom. Arthur learned to be ashamed at how he let a woman order him around, just how weak he was that he couldn't even bring his omega sister in line.
The king was not an ignorable man, to his son least of all. But such was Arthur's love for Morgana that, sometimes, he found a glimmer of the absurd in Uther's tirades; for no matter how many times he was berated, nothing about Morgana shamed him, so, this once, Uther must be wrong about Arthur's inadequacy.
Then came the day Sir Barth presented the king with a selkie pelt as a trophy. Frozen beside the throne, stiffened to stone by the long petitioning hours he'd stood through, Arthur had watched the proprietary slide of Uther's hand over the slick fur. When Arthur was a pup learning to control his change, he would spend hours at a time clinging to his wolf shape through days and sickle-moon nights, even as his flesh writhed on his bones, even when his muzzle almost begged for mercy with human tongue. Sometimes Uther would observe him. Sometimes, Uther would stroke a hand down his back. Good, Arthur.
Morgana proclaimed before the entire court that there was no honor in trophies stolen from creatures who couldn't fight back. The king confined her to her chambers for a moon as punishment—only the first of many to come. And that night, when Arthur went to check on her, she barely even looked at him. She only curled her lip and said, "I should have been the alpha and you the omega."
There was little confiding in each other after that. No defense of her Arthur offered was ever sufficient; none of his own resistance to their father's extremes, such as lies told about what was a wolf and what was not, held a candle to her own. Nothing of him could possibly be enough for her, because if she was Uther Pendragon's alpha heir, the throne would not pass to her in the way of men. She would challenge him and take it in the way of wolves.
**
"Well? Out with it," Morgana said.
Arthur's head ached. "Stay your knives, mistress. I've already had one interrogation this morning."
"Oh yes, I'm sure Merlin was very eager for all the details of your mystery man."
"Not Merlin."
Morgana's lip curled, not unlike the gargoyles who guarded the west wing, and just as carved from stone. "Ah. Happy hunting, then."
"No," Arthur snapped back, far too quickly. "There's no need for that–"
"Need rarely has anything to do with your father's orders."
"–I'll likely never see him again anyway, he'll have moved on by the next moon, if he hasn't already."
"That's too bad. You might've finally found someone who gets as much enjoyment out of rolling in the muck as you do."
"What did you want, Morgana?"
Arthur sighed the words, knowing the answer was likely: this. To scratch and scratch at this place where something of Arthur's escaped her claws and disappeared beneath the brush.
"You are alright?" she asked, though, and even softly, enough to make him guilty for his unkind thoughts.
"I'm unhurt," he waved off, crossing her room to yank flimsy curtains across the windows, fighting against the stabbing light. She folded her arms as he passed her.
"Really. And you knew nothing about this wolf before you went frolicking off with him?"
"What do you want me to say? It was Wolf Moon—it was instinct, or something. I just knew..."
Arthur let the sentence die, or rather, he killed it swiftly and without mercy before he said anything else idiotic in Morgana's presence, like that he had known the shadow wouldn't hurt him—which wasn't even true—or that he'd wanted to play—which was, and was humiliating.
"Anyway," he tried to salvage, "There was something familiar about him."
"Uther was quite thorough in questioning the men. The entire pack was accounted for last night. No stragglers," Morgana pointed out.
Arthur didn't trust the quietness of her voice, and he turned hastily around. His hip knocked into some ornament on her shelf, and he had to lunge for it to keep it from smashing. Her chambers were always like this, full of delicate, appropriate things she hadn't chosen and full of oddities she had, and him with the habit of breaking the latter—the things that actually mattered.
"He was just passing through. He's moved on by now," Arthur repeated, more firmly than he felt.
"I believe you, but Uther might be more difficult to convince."
"It doesn't matter. It's the truth."
Morgana sighed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, a very old move that never failed to render Arthur very young and stupid and insignificant. But before Arthur had to say anything more, or perhaps prove her frustrations right and storm out in a huff, she made the rare decision to go easy on him.
"Well, that's too bad. I would have loved to meet whoever has managed to get under your skin so easily. We could swap notes."
"Harpy."
It was close enough to a dismissal, her detente, but Arthur lingered. Drifting before her shelves, he ran fingertips over a small, tin keepsake-box engraved with the seal of Gorlois. Morgana made no movement in the corner of his eye, just measured him, the same calculating countenance upon her.
"There would be one among Camelot's number not accounted for," she said. Arthur's lips pressed into a tight line.
"Lone wolves among us are certainly accounted for. Their right to solitude does not extend to immunity from suspicion. Far from it."
If Gaius did not vouch for Merlin, and if Uther did not value Gaius's opinion so highly, Merlin would have been driven out long ago. And, to Arthur's constant irritation, he would likely have gone rather than fall in line.
"Come to think of it, I've never seen Merlin's wolf shape," Morgana said.
"I have, a time or two, while traveling." Uncomfortable, Arthur walked back to the window, his hands clutched behind his back, and stared at nothing, just the curtains he had been the one to close. "He bears little resemblance to the beast I saw last night. Much smaller, and I doubt he could sustain that sort of run. Put it out of your mind, Morgana."
"What of his scent? Anything familiar there?"
"I hardly go around sniffing my servants," Arthur responded stiffly, having sniffed Merlin that very morning.
Morgana outright laughed at him, which brought an angry flush to his face but at least distracted her from her fishing.
"Oh please, Arthur, you would stay a wolf every single day if it would get you out of talking to people. I am certain you are intimately aware of the scent of the man who spends half his time in your bedroom."
Painfully aware of the blush that remained, in the way of generals Arthur executed a strategic retreat from a battle which could not be won.
**
The task fell to Arthur, after a week of being himself out of sorts as well as witnessing this maddening intermittent skittishness in Merlin, to devise an excuse to get them both out of the citadel and able to relax for a while.
The sun reached its peak golden and glorious, a sort of day that made Camelot's white towers gleam and Arthur with them, puffed up in his pride for his city and his people. He had the sense Merlin found him quite insufferable in these moments—he spoke often and loudly of preferring rainy days, which Arthur knew for the evil deception it was—but Arthur had a fine touch of warmth on him after all the snow and was in too good a mood to care about Merlin being surly.
They walked two miles' distance from the city until they reached a small travelers' waystation within the woods—a place for wolves and men to see to their transitional needs, with a place to store or retrieve clothing and a rain barrel for washing. Merlin chattered the whole way like his voice could scare off Arthur's game and like cursing them both to a boring hunt would be the sweetest victory imaginable, which for him it likely was.
"We might've at least brought the horses. Then I could actually get some intelligent conversation."
"You're being absurd," Arthur cut in at last.
"I'm being absurd? You're the one who decided to go off on a hunt without bows or spears. I suppose you think all the creatures of the wood are just giddy to lie down in front of your sword and let you–"
"It is obviously," Arthur lingered over the word with the most pompous, tongue-curling emphasis he could muster (considerable), "not that sort of hunt."
Merlin made a face. "You know, my liege, if you wanted to go for a little stroll in the woods, you can just say so. It may not be very alpha of you, but believe it or not, it's not a crime..."
Heat prickled on the back of Arthur's neck, but—he worked his jaw side to side—Arthur ignored it. Merlin was just being his usual irreverent self: this was not a true challenge.
Determined for once not to get distracted with bickering, Arthur held his tongue and removed his cloak and sword, stowing them in the chest provided at the waystation.
"What on earth are you doing."
"Preparing for the hunt."
"I—oh. I don't think that's a good idea."
Merlin took a step back, brows furrowed all serious-like. Arthur rolled his eyes at him.
"I don't care how scrawny you are, Merlin. I won't make fun. Now come on, we haven't got all day."
"Right! We haven't. Heavens, look at the time. We should really be getting back–"
"Merlin!"
Arthur fixed him with his most serious princely look, then pulled his shirt off over his head. When he could see again without fabric in the way, Merlin was staring out into the trees, not looking at him.
"It really will be alright," Arthur cajoled.
No response. With a heavy sigh, Arthur finished disrobing and slipped into his fur. At least on all fours, he could easily catch Merlin if he started legging it. He walked around Merlin to sit in front of him again, looking as expectant as a wolf possibly could. After a minute or two, Merlin ruffled his own hair, muttered something to the sky, and finally gave in.
"All right, fine. Just...don't watch, okay?"
Arthur turned his back, exaggerating the motion. Only Merlin would cling to his modesty among werewolves. But he wouldn't be Merlin without his little quirks, so Arthur did as he was bid, and happily.
Shifts were typically instantaneous—the simple exchange of one shape for another. Arthur had heard stories (around campfires, in whispers, one squire to another) that this was not the case for druid shapechangers: that their unnatural acts required the breaking of bones and the splitting of skin, each new form paid for inch by excruciating inch, drop by excruciating drop.
Merlin took too long to change. That was a fact. Arthur held his breath as seconds then minutes slipped by. His shoulders rounded, weight in his haunches like he might need to spring. With cowardice he knew in those thumbscrew moments that he would hear some horrible crunch, a wet snap, something twisted to give awful logic to Merlin's longstanding reluctance to join his pack, and when he did, he decided he would simply run until he could hear no more, and pretend he never had, for the rest of his life.
But only birds sang in the trees; no other sound was heard for miles; no other traveler on the road or hunter in the woods. Perhaps Merlin was making Arthur wait for a lark. Perhaps he'd forgotten how to undress himself and needed a minute or two to figure it out again. Stuck in a trap of his own making, back to Merlin and the road and bound by his idiotic desire not to upset his friend, Arthur pondered how long he should wait before checking if Merlin had simply left him there, though surely had would have heard him walk away.
Arthur shifted his paws. He needed to run, needed a task to swallow his mind. If he howled, would Merlin be called to answer, wherever he was within earshot? What would Arthur do if the answer was no?
But still he stayed, waiting for Merlin's signal. Days filled as they were with the sort of business requiring thumbs and tongues, Arthur rarely enjoyed companionship with other wolves outside of full moon nights. Even training with his men, who were prevented from turning every mock battle into a wrestling match only by the tatters of their own dignity and Arthur's own iron will, he stood apart from them, and they left their fur behind with their maneuvers once the day's training was done.
Every instinct lay closer to the surface to the mind and senses of a wolf: which is to say, the promise of Merlin and an unbroken afternoon exploring the woods, showing him the best places to hunt and the most interesting scents and the safest, warmest dens, had him perilously close to giddiness when Merlin finally barked.
Arthur whirled around and padded toward him, ears forward, tail up—though he hardly needed to approach for it all to fade, as something was obviously, deeply wrong.
Merlin hunched on all four paws, spine bowed as if in great pain and hiding it. An unnatural ripple slid over him, a sure sign his form barely held, and Arthur winced in sympathy, knowing well the nausea and vertigo which came from settling incompletely. And when Arthur stretched out his neck to sniff him or lick his muzzle, to welcome and reassure him, instead of sniffing back or laying down as a vassal should, Merlin flinched violently away, slamming himself into the waystation's rain barrel and sending it careening over himself as Arthur jumped back.
Soaked to the bone, Merlin shivered in the sunny afternoon, and when he tried to shake himself, he staggered again, back legs barely supporting his weight. Arthur bounded to his side, paws sliding on the new mud, and braced him with his flank until he steadied. Then, without moving, he changed skins. Wet fur rubbed unpleasantly on bare skin; wet dog was all he could smell. But he had greater concerns, like Merlin thrashing out from under his arm with a strength Arthur would not have thought him capable. Arthur let him go a few feet only as he retrieved his cloak from the chest.
Slowly, hands raised, Arthur approached Merlin again to drape him with the fabric, chafing to get him dry and warm. "Steady on, there. We'll try again on a waxing night, yeah? Nothing to–"
Merlin made his disagreement known with a growl and a snap of his jaws an inch from Arthur's hand. He pulled away again, dragging Arthur's cloak along with him in an ungainly train he could not dislodge though he raged at it, grabbed it in his jaws and shook it as you'd shake a rabbit to break its back. Still half-draped in red, he turned pale yellow eyes on Arthur and curled up his lips, all fang.
Of course: he'd made Arthur look away while he changed the first time. "Why didn't you say so," he said stupidly, and turned his back. He took the opportunity to, at the very least, look less stupid by fiddling with the clothes chest and even pulling on his trousers.
Merlin regained his skin much quicker than his other transformation. When Arthur turned, there he was, every familiar inch of him: still soaked, naked but with Arthur's cloak pulled tight around him, mutinous beneath his curling hair. He no longer shook, though surely he must be colder without his fur.
"Go on, then. You've always said I was afflicted—gloat, jubilate, whatever your ego requires."
"Don't be so dramatic," Arthur snapped back, as if it weren't Merlin's natural state.
"I told you this was a bad idea."
"If you train yourself, you will grow stronger; it's perfectly normal for pups to struggle in one direction or the other–"
"I am not a–"
"And you had no alpha to teach you growing up, so–"
Merlin stalked toward Arthur, and Arthur twitched on instinct for the sword he hadn't donned—and so he was only Arthur when Merlin stopped, chest to chest with him, nose to nose with him.
"So, what?" Merlin said, very softly. "Is that your role, now?"
Arthur held very still. Barefoot like a child, oh-so-aware of the hairsbreadth angle he must lift his eyes to meet the gaze he dared not break, his breath came shallow: he thought about baring his throat. The smallest twitch; a tilting of the chin. A release of tension more than an exercise of muscle and will. Simple. Easy.
This close, even a weak human nose ought to catch his scent—there, beneath hair and stale rain was something else, something just as wet but hotter, something like–
Ears ringing, Arthur turned his back once more instead. If Merlin stabbed him in it, he'd deal with it then.
"Well, someone ought to," he said vaguely. "Now put your bloody trousers on, or do I pay you to daydream all day long?"
**
Arthur sought the counsel of the world's second-most expert on the matter of Merlin.
"Gaius, I have always valued your wisdom."
"You honor me, sire."
"You're an accomplished physician. You heal illnesses for both man and wolf, yes?"
"In the sense that they are one and the same. However, I find it practical in most cases for my patients to remain in their skin to be treated. Wolves are fairly awful at articulating their ailments, you see."
"If someone had an illness of—the form, or perhaps the soul, could you treat it? One that made transforming difficult, that is."
"I've never heard of such an illness, but I would make every attempt."
Arthur thumbed his chin. The late afternoon sun slanted across Gaius's shelves of bottled preparations, casting long ribbons of jeweled light. Arthur stared at them long enough that they striped the backs of his eyelids every time he blinked. Gaius was as a father to Merlin, right? Surely Arthur wouldn't be breaking a confidence to broach this topic?
"You've spent many moons with Merlin, yes?"
"Ah. He does prefer his solitude, sire. It's merely the way of some wolves, particularly alphas who have moved into new territory. Try not to worry overmuch."
"But you have seen his wolf form."
"I have."
"And do you not think it unnatural? His stature, his lack of coordination, his difficulty maintaining..."
"Your concern does you credit, sire, but Merlin's connection to his shape simply differs from your own. You've nothing to fear."
Arthur paused. He had one final query, but it stuck to his tongue. Unable to stand idleness anymore, he selected a bottle, ran his finger around the cork, studied the label like the words on it meant anything to him.
"Merlin is an alpha," he said eventually.
"He is."
"There aren't many alphas among the castle servants. Knowing one's place in the hierarchy is one thing, but the," Arthur fumbled the words, but it was only Gaius, so he was unlikely to be outwardly mocked for it, "nature of his tasks are such that I might expect..."
"Is it so strange?" said Gaius, full of his usual tender exasperation for wayward students. "If no alpha ever managed to bow to another, Albion would have ten thousand kings and none. Young wolves raised in strict environments often continue to find comfort and stability in support roles for their pack, rather than through their own independent dominance."
"Young wolves? So it is a phase," Arthur said.
"It can be, sire."
Now that tone was perilously close to sympathy, and Arthur was done.
"Very well. My thanks as always for your guidance, Gaius."
Gaius just inclined his head and said nothing more as Arthur swept from his chambers. He didn't notice for several more hours until he was very alone in the bed which had never felt too big before Wolf Moon that Gaius's insight in this case was deeply faulty, for Merlin had been raised in no pack at all, let alone a strict one.
He did not sleep that night; the puzzle was too great and too intricate to allow his mind to rest. For Arthur's own affliction, that he would change and one day finally be worthy was—fitting from the mouth of his physician—the very panacea he'd clung to from childhood. But for Merlin, who had after all been the subject of the conversation, the suggestion of inconstancy was unbearable. If submission in an alpha was a passing folly of youth, then surely one day, one day soon since Merlin became more a man and less a boy every time Arthur saw him (arms, chest, jaw, eyes), he would come into himself. And when that day came, he would leave, or at least no longer be Arthur's servant.
Arthur shed his skin. He laid down on the rug before the fire. He knew enough of hunting hounds to know how a dog behaved waiting for his master to come home. But these were his chambers, where only he was master, so this did not count at all.
**
So Gaius told him his state was natural, at least for a time. So say Arthur believed him. Never once had Arthur followed his appetites, sated them, and moved on to other things. He did not know how.
Arthur had killed the Bastet girl; his muzzle was red with her blood. It was not her fault she was cursed out of control of her change, and if he could have killed the sorcerer who condemned her he would have—but he did not have the sorcerer, and he did have a beast prowling his city, so he killed her. Arthur had killed the unicorn; he tore its throat and drank its lifeblood. In this world, there were predators and prey, and never could there be a creature who lived outside that continuum. It was the first lesson his father had taught him, when he was small and tender enough to be mistaken for the latter. When his world withered and died for his cruelty, he did what he must to break the curse, but he counted, still, the number he had killed and the number he had forced to suffer for his edification.
The world's lessons were never as clear as Father's. Arthur sat them but never knew if he learned them well and braced always for the hand across his cheek which was the consequence of failure.
**
As was its habit, Wolf Moon crept away from them, and Snow Moon rolled in. February then became March, and the frost broke to soak the earth; new buds, pink and green and white, unfurled shyly at the tips of every branch. The sun regained its confidence across the sky, and each day shadows swung their comfortable pendulum track from east to west, long to short to long again, and there were no black dogs in Camelot. Arthur came home from patrol where he had crushed fragrant herbs underfoot; he left his boots just inside his door and shouted at Merlin to get them clean, for God's sake.
Arthur's fury had him around the throat like a stinging vine. Even the best and most loyal of his men, pushed to breaking point, could be found muttering among themselves about the thorn in the prince's paw, who should remove it, and where else he could stick it (or could be found Gwaine, saying all this at the top of his lungs).
Chaste Moon waned away to new. The nights grew deeper at the slow blink of the lunar eye, but Arthur no longer let himself linger over dark patches and large dogs and half-caught scents on the wind. In the absence of evidence, Arthur force-fed himself his own rational excuses from the morning after, which had satisfied his father and Morgana not at all. There was no shadow; he was not Arthur's, and that silly nickname had to stop. He had an altercation with a harmless stranger unwisely traveling through pack territory on the full moon. He experienced a brief bout of lunacy. The stranger moved on, unlikely to return; and if he did, Arthur was nothing to him and he would depart again just as quickly.
Arthur's mood improved little as March drizzled into April, though, fully cognizant of his own shortcomings, he did at least try shutting himself up alone as much as possible rather than taking it out on others. Morgana and his knights mostly approved of this new tactic, but one person disapproved loudly, obnoxiously, and often.
Merlin provoked him by waking him early and bringing his meals late, by doing things wrong, aggressively and on purpose, because when Arthur yelled at him he had an excuse to yell back. It was that sort of thing that saw Arthur at his table bent over some reports he had finished reviewing for the third time an hour ago, straining his eyes in the dark and pretending to no audience but himself he was not waiting for Merlin to bring him dinner or any other thing. He thought perhaps he would not shout at Merlin's lateness this time and just be very quiet and stoic. That would serve the idiot right, really.
All his best intentions, sadly, did not survive Merlin's arrival, which he did rudely, by not knocking before opening the door, and by kicking it closed with his ratty old boot. He stomped over to Arthur without acknowledging him and, as Arthur sputtered, shoved his papers out of the way and dropped his dinner plate in their place.
"Get over yourself," he said tersely.
Arthur's eyebrows climbed to his hairline. "Oh, you give the orders now?"
"Yes. You've been abominable for weeks, and hunger does nothing to improve you." Merlin jabbed a finger at the plate. "Eat."
"I am your prince–"
Merlin snapped, "You're a pathetic little boy who's going to drive everyone away from him if you don't figure yourself out soon. There is a limit to people's patience and empathy that you'd do well to remember."
Something chill—a draft from the window, certainly—caught in Arthur's throat. He swallowed it without thinking, and it unfurled inside him, some rooting plant, some poison. His pen fell from nerveless fingers that he forced into a loose fist on the table to hide their sudden tremor—from the draft, you see.
"Eat," Merlin said, quieter this time. His face did something Arthur couldn't read. "The vegetables first, before they get cold."
Arthur took a bite he barely tasted, then another. Slowly, Merlin circled the table until he stood behind Arthur, and Arthur paused, fork halfway to his mouth, then completed the act when Merlin did nothing. Until Arthur finished his greens, the only sound in the chambers was their breathing and the faint clink of utensil upon platter.
"The chicken next," Merlin said. His voice was so soft and so deep he might have spoken direct in Arthur's ear; and Arthur moved as if hypnotized, severed from some higher order of himself by the whiplash between Merlin's stark white diagnosis of him and this warmer, richer regard. He did not know what Merlin would do or say next yet was curiously disarmed and would not fight it.
What Merlin did next was put his hand on the cap of Arthur's shoulder.
"What happened to you?" he murmured. Arthur shook his head, and Merlin prompted him again, voice tighter: "Is this—is this about what happened at Wolf Moon?"
"No," Arthur said. The word came out thin, and he had to clear his throat to repeat himself. "No."
"Drink," Merlin commanded, so Arthur did, wine wetting his tongue, slipping down his throat to pool in his belly.
Thus refreshed, Arthur said, "Nothing happened at Wolf Moon. Things have just been stressful lately with the extra patrols. I will apologize to the men and...attempt to temper my actions in the future."
Merlin's thumb dug in hard to the meat of Arthur's shoulder. When he didn't speak, Arthur forced his drooping head from staring at his plate to look back at Merlin, whose face was solemn, bathed in candlelight. He was really quite lovely, and Arthur's throat squeezed again at the assessment in him. Merlin's opinion ought to matter little, but when Arthur thought about what might lie at the end, as Merlin warned him, of the patience and empathy Arthur took for granted, despair clouded his mind.
"Okay," Merlin said softly. "Finish your dinner."
So Arthur did, clinging to the simple instruction like a lifeline. He ate slowly, in small bites, but even so too soon the plate was empty. Arthur heard Merlin sigh before he moved to clear the table, at which point he would return the dishes to the kitchen, at which point he would return to his own bed in Gaius's workshop and not Arthur's, and Arthur would be alone with his thoughts.
Merlin reached over Arthur for his cup, close enough to feel the faint brush of heat from his body, and Arthur, breaking, grabbed his wrist.
Like many dogs, he did not know what to do with a thing once he had it.
"Merlin–"
"Arthur–"
Arthur stood, shoving his chair to the side as he did, and: Arthur had no idea what he was doing, but Merlin seemed to, which sparked some emotion Arthur had no name for in the back of his throat.
They staggered toward the bed and tumbled to the mattress. Arthur scrambled up to sit against the headboard, and Merlin followed him, fists clutching his clothing, as if unwilling to be separate even for a second.
"Arthur," Merlin sighed. "You insufferable...what am I going to do with you?"
"Touch me," Arthur commanded.
Pink dusted Merlin's cheeks; he smiled—the first of its kind Arthur had earned in weeks—that Merlin smile of his, ear to ear, and it transformed him, transformed the entire room. He sank forward, into Arthur's body, pressed their foreheads together as he plucked the strings from Arthur's shirt, as he spread the collar wide as it would go and took handfuls of Arthur's bare shoulders.
An awful noise ripped its way free of Arthur's chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, coughed out the last of it. His whole body heaved like an unbroken foal.
"Arthur!"
Gone was the easy bliss; the smile might never have been at all. Merlin tried to retreat, but Arthur fixed him in place, one hand on his hip, one hand twisted in his tunic.
"Are you okay? You sounded like you were getting stabbed!"
"Please. I've been stabbed before. Getting groped by the help is a slightly more..." He trailed off, losing the thread of his thought as Merlin's hands moved, leaving the part of Arthur that had adjusted to the weight and heat of touch to cup his neck, thumbs gentle right below his jaw, fingertips laced together at the back of Arthur's neck. Arthur pressed his lips together and reduced another cry to just a gush of air.
Merlin's face did something very embarrassing. Arthur was embarrassed for him, truly, and not because he'd essentially just admitted that he was...untouched. Chastity, he would have Merlin know, was a noble virtue, not that Merlin would know about either of those particular qualities.
"Just—don't stop. Please."
A shudder went through Merlin. He squeezed his eyes tight. Arthur dared to move in the moments between eyes closed and open; he rolled his palms over Merlin's hips disbelieving how the angles of him fit in the curved space he was capable of making. He'd never touched anyone like this. Merlin's shirt rucked up in the back where he slid against Arthur's knees. Arthur's fingertips glanced bare skin, so impossibly soft and warm sensation bled up through his veins, pooled in the dips of his elbows, crept closer to his heart.
"You are utterly–" Merlin groaned. He rolled his hips, which might have been deliberate, or just an attempt to improve his seat. Either way, it made Arthur's cock twitch. "–impossible."
"Everything is impossible for you," Arthur said.
Merlin glared at him; one of his hands left Arthur's shoulder for the territory which the wide neck of his shirt further dragged asunder by careless touch left vulnerable: he pinched Arthur's nipple viciously and made him yelp in a way he never had before, and afterward they took in each other's faces (one shocked with glee, one simply shocked) and something else shifted in place between them, a key fit to place.
They were all hands. Merlin clearly possessed some sort of agenda that Arthur was clumsily delaying or foiling entirely, but still Arthur didn't stop. Granted permission, greed endless, he hunted down every part of Merlin he'd ever taken notice of and several that he hadn't. The shadow of his collarbones, the faint furrows of his ribs, the veins of his arms—more muscled than Arthur had known—and every other tributary of a man's body he found on Merlin, and traced. When Arthur's quest led him wandering down the vee of Merlin's groin, Merlin rocked again, hard enough to grind against the front of Arthur's trousers. A prince should not be so easily defeated, but all he could do then was follow Merlin's lead, wherever it would take them.
He took them naked; he took them on their sides in the candlelight together; he took them slow and careful, shying over uneven ground, which is to say: he wrapped his hand around Arthur's and guided him to stroke them both: he said that's it, Arthur and so good, you feel so good, which made Arthur feel like he could conquer the world: he gasped just so when sword-calluses licked him, like revelation. Arthur couldn't stop kissing him, though his mouth bruised, berry-red, enough he fancied, delirious, that all would see him and know tomorrow, and he did not even fear it. When Arthur came, with desperate helpless flexes of his hips and a whimper in his teeth, Merlin praised him until Arthur stopped shaking his head no and took it.
A thunderbolt audacity lit in him, Arthur had the notion he might slide down Merlin's body and use his mouth, wet and eager and unhad and curious: but Merlin followed him over the edge too quickly for that, and this was not a night for regrets.
Merlin tumbled off his lap to lie beside him while they both caught their breath. Dimly, Arthur knew they needed to clean themselves up, but some of his joints had come unstrung somewhere along the way, so he wouldn't be the one going to the basin anytime soon. The blankets tugged as Merlin wriggled trying to get comfortable. Arthur's leg was left bare, pebbled in the draft, but he didn't fight for the covers back. He thought, furtive, in pieces, because if he strung the words all together at once it would be a confession: it would be nice if Merlin kept him warm instead; he could keep the coverlet, just if he'd throw his arms around Arthur, tangle their legs together, let Arthur lean back against his chest. How would it feel the whole night long? Now that Arthur had no hands on him, every bit of his skin buzzed, glutted, overfed. A field that faced a downpour after many weeks of drought still would not grow but flood, wash out and lie as fallow as before.
"Was that...good?" Merlin whispered in the dark. Enough moonlight filtered through the curtains that if Arthur matched Merlin and curled onto his side and faced him, each feature and expression would be clear as day. Summoning every bit of his considerable courage, Arthur did just that.
"Was it good for you?" he mirrored as well.
"Oi."
"What?"
"I asked you first?"
"Yes, well, I'm the prince."
"Yes, and princes ought to have manners."
Arthur shoved at him lazily, palm over Merlin's face, realizing his error too late, not until he had Merlin's long eyelashes, soft lips, the edge of a cheekbone beneath nervy fingertips, until he was prickling with it, the so-unfamiliar sensation of someone else on his skin.
Merlin batted him away but didn't stop there; he grabbed Arthur's wrist, twisted it, pinned it down against the mattress. His grip was loose; Arthur could break it if he tried. He didn't.
Held fast, Arthur blinked, and his thoughts slowed long enough to give Merlin's question the proper consideration.
"I don't think I've ever felt so connected to anyone in all my life. Or to myself," he said softly.
Merlin blinked back at him, eyes so huge and glittering in the dark, gemstone blue. His lips parted, all shock. Arthur swiftly realized that a simple bloody brilliant, thanks would have sufficed and thus concluded that he should, posthaste, locate a rock and dash his head in.
"Me neither. I mean. I feel the same," Merlin whispered.
Well that was okay then.
So they did it again, and again and again. Arthur's mood improved, and his friends forgave him, and when Gwaine squawked about what must have happened to correct him, Arthur was far too dignified to respond.
Now that the line had been crossed, they were free—duty-bound, really—to explore the whole vast world that lay beyond it. Whenever they could steal a moment (every morning, most nights, out on hunts, in the armory after training) neither could keep his hands to himself. And each time Merlin's hands carved up his stomach and his chest, each time Merlin's knees squeezed tight around his hips, each time Merlin gasped into his mouth, Arthur said to himself, I think I could do this for the rest of my life.
But however desperately true those words were, Arthur knew them to be impossible. As little as he thought of such things, he did have some inkling that men typically preferred a little variety in their couplings. Sooner or later, Merlin would bore of him.
Suddenly, Arthur's ears pricked to every gossiping whisper around him, between stablehands and kitchen maids, from his own men, a preoccupation with carnal acts that Arthur might once have judged from a distance but now came very close indeed—and he wanted to stop, sometimes, particularly when Gwaine had been going on for ages with the barmaid and Arthur's ears were burning, and ask what had gotten into them all. But they hadn't changed: Arthur had.
Preoccupied by Merlin, Arthur stopped staring at shadows and felt rather cleansed of his pathetic obsession. Some might say he'd only swapped out one for another, but this new fixation was only Merlin, who existed and was silly and could be touched, so Arthur felt only what shame was normal for not being a true alpha who took command and courted pretty girls; he left the restless shaken mourning for a thing that was not real behind.
One glowering afternoon in late spring, he spent forty-five minutes in the audience chambers standing behind his father and listening to Baron Auban drone on about his taxes and his herds and the expense of their upkeep and the delicacy of breeding season. The sun beat submission into the bricks outside, and heat seeped inward where there were no windows to grant it release, and sweat soaked Arthur's hair, and his tunic stuck to him, and he dared not shift his weight, and when the dispute was ended he left the chambers pink and gasping until he found Merlin, and Merlin found the breeze, whipped it through the trees until Arthur shivered, naked and cool.
And Merlin did not touch him all that much, not in ways Arthur became aware of through gossip he wasn't listening to; he let Arthur touch him even less. Arthur had not abandoned his principles so thoroughly as to be unconscious of his capacity to abuse his station, even though Merlin was not an omega or a beta. He watched Merlin closely for signs of unhappiness and never tried to take more than he was granted.
Occasionally, Arthur thought about what Father would say. With sorcerers and strange creatures and traitors, Arthur had borne witness to the light of disgust in Uther's eyes, and he wondered, mostly when his father was looking at him already, how that light would fall upon him, and if it would burn. He wondered this with the distance of someone wounded so badly the hurt no longer made sense to the mind and at last gave the body some unearned relief.
Alone together, Merlin sat in his lap or, if there was no bed, leaned on him against a wall or a tree. He put one hand on Arthur's shoulder and one hand on his cock. He stroked them together, head tipped back, mouth very pink and eyes very open, watching, always watching, Arthur as he took his pleasure. He let Arthur kiss him and sounded like bliss every time he did, so Arthur did suspect he was wanted in a way, and he kissed him as frequently as he could.
When he came, their release pooled together on Arthur's belly. Merlin's hands squeezed tight on him—too tight, almost painful, but Arthur never made a sound, too afraid Merlin would stop–and Merlin's gaze was so intense, so searing blue Arthur couldn't hold it. Once, ducking those eyes, Arthur drew his fingers through the mess on him, brought those fingers to his lips and tasted them. Salty and bitter, he might have been disgusted had his next taste not been Merlin's tongue on his. Like a man possessed, Merlin had devoured him, ate that taste of essence from his mouth, long hands fastened around Arthur's face—he pushed forward until they were lying flat, the careful distance between them vanquished. His whole chest against Arthur's, skin against skin, the hot buzzing came back, feeling under his skin like fireflies looked in a field, here and there, everywhere you looked but never all at once. He squirmed, unable to help himself, needing the friction to make it all real. Arthur came again like that, rubbed off against Merlin's hip as Merlin pulled his hair and bruised his mouth and his whole body sang and sang and sang.
Merlin came again too; he used his hand again, stripped himself fast, rough. It was the only one of their encounters in which Arthur thought Merlin might have lost control. He could barely fit that hand between them to work; his knuckles dug into Arthur's stomach with each stroke. He kept nudging their foreheads together, and his breath was hot on Arthur's face, until with a shudder and groan he tipped sideways, and fever-hot his cheek fell into the crook of Arthur's neck, and then there was his lips, and then there was his teeth: they closed around Arthur's skin and muscle but did not bite down—except a bit—and Arthur was holding his breath, and burning, and dreading, and wishing.
Merlin did not bite him then. In fact, as soon as he came he ran away, mumbling about many chores Arthur had not set him and others that could certainly have waited. Arthur stretched out and stared at his canopy. What had for the whole time of their dalliance been inevitable, when it arrived still ached, somehow.
The next night, Merlin banked his fire, turned down his blankets, undressed and redressed him, all while carrying on some light babbling conversation with himself about a litter of kittens had by one of the castle mousers. When in a moment of tactless desperation—blind, perhaps, and weak-legged and kneading—Arthur threw out a clumsy paw for him, Merlin dodged it, and that was that.
Hare Moon came and went, Arthur at the head of the pack when they brought down one buck for the night and another for the day. They threw a feast to celebrate their honored guests from Gawant. Princess Elena smelled like a lime grove and made Arthur laugh, and Merlin did not serve at the feast, and Arthur did not ask for him.
**
On two legs and on four, Arthur hunted. When he killed his prey, he slit it belly to throat and reached within that steaming cavity and took the hunter's prize. He ate of the liver and then the heart, and they sustained him, and he had of them their strength and vigor when next he hunted. With the gut he strung his bow; the bones became his knives, his buttons and his comb. Of the pelt he made his cloak, and the teeth he strung around his neck, and when the butchering was done he feasted until full. The remainder was dried for travel and winter. When he returned home the skull came with him. What remained was less than a carcass. All consumed.
In dreams, every hour was midday, and Arthur was in the courtyard of white brick with the sun above him. His shadow cowered beneath his feet, circled tight to him. He could not take a step to stretch it; he could not raise his arms to shield it; he could not lean any which way for seeing it. There was only Arthur, and the light, both things that reduced the shadow, made it weak.
He woke up very full with blood and offal fading on his tongue.