aleathiel | Fic: The Hazel and the Honeysuckle.

Title: The Hazel and the Honeysuckle.
Fandom: Merlin
Paring: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: PG
Summary: A Merlin retelling of another Arthurian legend.
Words: 3322

AN: Written for the

tamingthemuse prompt "Hide and Seek".

Huge thanks to

drjenny88 for betaing.

Now

Night is drawing in and they are no closer than they were at dawn; even if they are closer, there is no way of knowing it. They’ve barely seen a soul all day, merely a brief glimpse of another search party in the early afternoon.

“This is a waste of time,” Merlin grumbles, as he unrolls blankets from the pack he carries and looks around for the best place to lay them.

Arthur, who has been hacking back some of the undergrowth, turns and glares at him. “It’s not your place to decide that. We are doing this as a favour. It’s the right thing to do.”

Merlin disagrees with that, too, but he knows that anything he says will only lead to another argument. Instead, he says, “Come sit down,” and sets about organising their food for the evening.

Then

“But why doesn’t your father have to go?” Merlin protested, as he repacked the trunk for the fourth time. Arthur stood by his shoulder, glowering every time Merlin creased one of his precious coats, never failing to point it out.

“Because he’s the king,” Arthur explained, with the air of someone speaking to a very small child. “He has to stay here and rule the kingdom.”

Merlin personally thought that Camelot would be perfectly fine for a while without its king at the helm, but he was wise enough not to voice this opinion aloud.

“No, look,” Arthur exclaimed, interrupting his thoughts. “You’ve done it again! This lace is expensive, Merlin!”

Merlin looked over his shoulder at Arthur, before refolding the shirt. “It would be much faster, sire, if you packed this yourself.”

Arthur threw himself down into a high-backed chair by the fire and sighed. “It would, yes, but only because you are such an incompetent manservant. That, and the fact that your purpose is to pack for me.” He paused. “So that I don’t have to. What’s more, you are a servant and I am a prince; you’re going to keep doing it over and over until I’m happy.”

Merlin wished he wasn’t being so carefully supervised. He could pack the chest immaculately with the aid of magic.

“Yes, sire,” he muttered, the words barely audible, hoping that the sarcasm in his tone wasn’t apparent.

Arthu either didn’t notice or – more likely – chose to ignore it.

“Have you packed your own things?” Arthur asked, idly plucking at the pile of cloaks that were spread over the table. “Hmm, I really don’t think I’ll bring this one. It doesn’t do anything for the colour of my eyes.”

His eyes. Merlin rolled his own. Sometimes he didn’t know whether to take Arthur seriously or not.

“Okay,” he agreed. “That one stays here. Not that anyone is likely to be looking at your eyes at someone else’s wedding.”

“You never know,” Arthur yawed. “And, besides, there’s always someone worth dressing up for. Not that you’d understand that concept at all” He looked pointedly at Merlin’s brown trousers and slightly stained shirt.

“This is the best I come,” Merlin replied, hands spread, bowing mockingly. “I am, as you keep reminding me, only a servant, so I don’t have a vast wardrobe of luxurious clothing. I’ll probably be wearing that hideous hat, unless you come up with an alternative outfit.”

Arthur pulled a face. “I’ll get you some clothes. I’d rather not have you parading around in that thing. Makes Camelot look a bit… idiotic.”

Merlin smirked. He gestured to the wooden trunk. “I’m done with this attempt, sire, if you’d care to come belittle it.”

Now

It’s cold as they settle down beside each other, backs against one another, knees drawn up to their chests. Merlin has rested his head on one of their packs, but it’s lumpy and there’s something digging into his cheek even though he’s sure there’s nothing pointy in the bag.

“Stop wriggling,” Arthur admonishes.

“I’m cold!” Merlin growls back. “And I’d like to point out that I didn’t sign up for a camping trip.”

“Well no, but I don’t think anyone was expecting this when we left Camelot, were they?”

They are silent for a long moment and Merlin wonders whether Arthur is going to sleep, but the prince’s breathing hasn’t yet sunk into that regular pattern Merlin has come to recognise as his sleep, so he dares to speak again.

“Do you think we’ll actually find them?” he asks, softly.

Arthur is quiet for a moment before replying, “Us, specifically? I don’t know. But someone will – there isn’t anywhere they can hide that Marc’s men won’t find them. He will hunt them down wherever they go.”

Merlin shivers.

Then

Once Merlin had stealthily repacked with magic, and Arthur had provided him with clothes he deemed respectable enough to represent Camelot, they had set off, with eight knights and twelve other servants in tow.

“Sire?” Merlin asked, once he’d checked that all their - Arthur’s - belongings had been carefully stowed and had mounted his horse with difficulty. “How far is it?”

Arthur, who was already trotting merrily in circles around the courtyard, grinned at Merlin’s obvious discomfort. “About eight days’ ride. We go as far west as we can and when we run out of land we’re in Cornwall.”

Eight days? Merlin tried to smile but he suspected that it was more of a sickly grimace. He’d never ridden for eight hours before; servants generally walked.

The journey was going to make him extremely sore. He wondered if he’d packed any of that salve Gaius had given him. It was intended for use on Arthur’s shoulders after too many hours at the practice field, but would surely be helpful in this situation too.

Then Merlin imagined Arthur’s reaction if he asked him to rub it into his arse, and burst out laughing.

“Well, I’m glad you’re in a good mood,” Arthur commented dryly as Merlin encouraged his horse to catch up with the prince.

“New place, new people; a royal wedding. What reason is there not to be pleased?” Merlin replied with a grin.

Arthur grinned back. “I guess I shouldn’t tell you that they’re dreadfully dull, then? Or that you’re going to spend days loitering at the edge of the hall during banquets, waiting to see if I want anything. Or that the real reason that my father isn’t coming is that he knows how boring the next few weeks are going to be and he’d rather I suffer than himself?”

“You always know how to spoil my fun!”

Arthur shrugged nonchalantly. “You never know, maybe something unexpected will happen, just this once.”

Now

When they wake everything hurts. Their hair and clothing are damp with morning dew and their bodies are cramped sleeping on the rocky ground in the cold air. Merlin thinks with longing of the days of civilised camping they’d experienced on their original journey from Camelot - camping with vast tents, portable furniture and actual bedding.

“Stop moaning,” Arthur tells him before he’s even opened his mouth. “I’m a prince and I coped with sleeping rough. You’re…”

“…just a servant. Yeah, I’ve got it.” Merlin finishes for him. And despite his irritability, he can’t help but smile at Arthur when Arthur smiles at him.

They strike west – or what Arthur tells him is west – through the forest. The undergrowth is thick and tangled and Merlin is almost certain that the fugitives didn’t come this way, but he’s just the manservant after all, so he follows Arthur as the prince hacks down brambles with his sword.

“So,” he says, after they’ve been clambering through the bushes for over an hour and the sweat has darkened the hair at the back of Arthur’s neck. “What exactly are we going to do if we do find them?”

He doesn’t point out the fact that they are making so much noise that even if the fugitives are ahead of them they’ve had plenty of warning to run.

“We’re going to bring them back to the king,” Arthur says confidently and his tone is firm, dissuading argument.

“You don’t think…” Merlin begins.

“No.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say,” Merlin protests.

Arthur stops and looks over his shoulder and his eyes are burning hot with emotion. “Yes,” he says. “I do. And the answer is no, so stop mentioning it.”

Then

Tintagel Castle was beautiful.

More beautiful than Camelot, even, part of Merlin though treacherously. It was perched high on the cliffs overlooking the sea, its towers soaring high and unspeakably delicate, yet exuding an air of strength, its terraces descending gradually in rows like a maiden’s petticoats.

“Yeah, it’s lovely,” Arthur said, when he caught Merlin’s eye. “Pity its inhabitants aren’t as attractive.”

Merlin grinned back, and followed his prince through the gate.

They were settled in a guest wing; Arthur informed Merlin that it was a place of honour, as he was visiting royalty. There were rooms enough for the servants, with extravagant chambers for Arthur’s knights, and a whole suite of rooms for Arthur himself.

Merlin wandered around, poking his head in every room, and finally came to a stop in the centre of Arthur’s reception room, at something of a loss. “Where do I sleep?” he asked.

Arthur grinned his widest, most mischievious smile, and Merlin began to feel wary.

“At the foot of my bed, in case I need anything in the night. Like a proper manservant.”

Merlin didn’t blink. “You are kidding.”

Arthur’s grin became wolf-like. “Actually no. There’s a pallet in the cupboard. You can roll it up and stow it away during the day.”

Unimpressed, Merlin stomped over to the cupboard and retrieved the pathetically thin mattress. “Oh good,” he said.

Arthur watched him unroll the pallet and lay it beside the bed. Merlin lowered himself hesitantly on to it, feeling the stone floor through the fabric, banging his knees every time he turned. “Ow!”

“You’ll have to learn to lie still,” Arthur smirked.

“Thanks,” Merlin replied, eyeing Arthur’s huge, soft bed reproachfully.

“No way!” said Arthur, horrified.

So Merlin didn’t mention it again.

Now

It is late afternoon, the sky just beginning to darken through the natural progression of the day, when it begins to rain. Merlin trudges along behind Arthur and tries to convince himself that he has had more miserable days than this one.

When they stop they can’t get a fire to light – well Merlin could but he’s not fool enough to do it in Arthur’s view – and so they have to eat cold food from their provisions and everything gets wet and sludgy.

They tie a waxed blanket to the protective branches of an oak tree above them to provide as much shelter as possible; this time, Merlin does manage to secure it and add some rigidity when Arthur moves a few paces away to relieve himself. Nonetheless, their camp is neither dry nor comfortable, and Merlin finds himself thinking of his pallet at Tintagel Castle with no small sense of irony. At least it had been inside.

When they curl up to sleep, they keep hitting each other with their elbows. The water is trickling in down the back of Merlin’s shirt and he’s shivering. He feels so very desperately far from home.

Then, with a sigh, Arthur slings his arm around him. “Come here,” he says roughly. “We’ll stay warmer if we’re closer together.”

They negotiate the positioning of limbs, trying to minimise bruising one another, until they are as comfortable as they are likely to manage. Merlin has his head on Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur’s arm is around Merlin’s waist. Their position is dangerously close to cuddling, Merlin realises, but he’s wise enough not to voice the thought – there’s no point in losing the only potential warmth he’s got.

In the end, they do both sleep, a little.

Then

King Marc of Cornwall was a huge beast of a man. He was tall, broad shouldered and wide bellied. His laugh seemed to make the rafters shake and the silverware jangle and never failed to cause Merlin to blink in surprise. Arthur’s teasing eyebrows danced at him from across the room.

The king’s bride-to-be was a contrast. She was said to be a famous beauty; Merlin thought that she was pretty enough, but she didn’t hold a candle to Morgana. Her pale hair was somehow insipid and her slim body was angular. She sat, at the side of the king, her eyes lowered demurely and her voice so quiet that Merlin saw Arthur have to lean in to catch her words when they conversed.

It appeared that she had no fire in her at all. Merlin almost felt sorry for her, so crushed by the overwhelming size and personality of her jovial lord-to-be.

Arthur had been right, of course, Merlin spent a lot of the evening hovering at the edge of the hall, watching the guests and waiting for Arthur to want something. To his delight, however, it seemed that Arthur wasn’t having a particularly good time either, although he was putting on a good show. Merlin knew the prince well enough to know that he was on his best courtly behaviour and that those smiles and laughs were carefully measured to compliment, not borne from any real humour.

When he had the chance, Merlin drifted close enough to listen in on the conversation. Arthur was trying hard to engage the future queen in discussion, complimenting her dress and asking about her gardens. Merlin had to suppress a snigger – he didn’t think Arthur would know a honeysuckle plant if it leapt up and bit him. He certainly didn’t have the knowledge to warrant a debate on the relative merits of planting in the sun versus the shade.

On Arthur’s other side sat the king’s nephew and the leader of his knights, a young, attractive man called Tristan. He and Arthur exchanged their views on hunting before comparing tournament titles – Merlin was proud to hear that Arthur was undoubtedly the better fighter, although, for once, Arthur seemed to be being relatively modest about his prowess. Perhaps, Merlin surmised, it was not the done thing to outshine the king’s own nephew in his own hall.

And then the king called for the food to be cleared and the musicians struck up a sprightly tune. The herald announced that the king and his lady would lead the first dance.

The lady, it turned out, danced much as she spoke, with some natural grace but no fire or zest. Her king’s hands were huge against her tiny waist and she appeared so fragile she would break under his touch.

When Merlin was on his way to fill Arthur’s goblet and passing behind the high table, where Arthur was making polite conversation with Sir Tristan, he saw the future queen glance up and towards them. For a second, clear across the room, he saw a light in her eyes.

Now

They have almost reached the coast itself now, and Merlin wonders what Arthur intends for them to do when they run out of land. Will they return to the castle and report that they had seen nothing, or seek out and another search party and confer with them?

Perhaps they would find a boat and set sail for Ireland. That was, after all, the queen’s homeland: it was quite possible that she would return there.

At least, now that they are close to the shore, the woods have thinned and they are able to walk side by side without tripping over errant roots or being attacked by wayward branches. Under other circumstances, Merlin might even have found the day pleasant, but he is damp and tired and any joy has long since been leeched from him.

Arthur’s replies are short and sharp whenever Merlin speaks, which seems unreasonable, since Merlin certainly wasn’t the one who’d wanted to get involved in this mission.

Arthur had said that it was their duty. He’d loaned his servants to the king and set all his knights to the task of locating the runaways. How could he not, he’d said to Merlin. King Marc was their ally, a friend to Camelot.

And so Merlin follows, hoping against hope that their search would prove to be in vain. He finds it hard to believe that something that brings such transparent joy could ever really be wrong.

On their fifth day out from Tintagel, they find Tristan and Iseult.

Then

The wedding had been lavish, as Merlin had expected; kings, after all, didn’t marry that often. That was the intention, at least.

The hall had been filled with roses, the silver polished until it sparkled, and the ladies wore fine gowns of rich, imported fabrics, jewelled rings adorning their fingers.

Merlin spent hours helping Arthur dress, lacing silk ribbons through tiny eyelets, smoothing out any crinkles in the velvet and arranging the fur collar.

Arthur was no help; he clearly hated the whole process and stood stock still, his arms stretched out rigidly, his mouth tight in a tolerant frown.

“There,” Merlin told him, finally.

“I’m done?” Arthur asked, barely moving.

Merlin looked up at him from where he knelt on the floor, having just fastened Arthur’s boots, which had been polished to a mirror-like shine. He leaned back on his haunches, taking in the full view.

“Yeah,” he said, almost speculatively. Then he grinned. “I guess you’ll do.”

There was a moment when Merlin thought the prince was going to stick his tongue out at him, before Arthur broke into a smile.

Now

Their return is sombre. Nobody speaks as the queen and her lover trail into the hall behind Arthur, guards at their heels.

King Marc isn’t laughing now.

He formally pardons Iseult, and she returns to her throne, white faced and trembling. The king takes her hand without looking at her and cradles it in his lap. Merlin is reminded of a dog on a leash.

Tristan is exiled.

He stumbles to his knees like a broken man, the weight of the sentence a crushing blow on his shoulders.

After he’s been taken from the king’s presence, Arthur approaches him, invites him to come with them to Camelot. Tristan barely nods agreement. Merlin wonders if he heard Arthur at all.

Arthur tells Merlin to get their things ready to leave and to inform the men that they will ride home in the morning. He says he’s going for a walk to clear his head.

“It’s raining,” Merlin protests, but Arthur goes anyway.

Then

The three days and nights immediately following the wedding were filled with feasting and dancing; the fourth night was quieter. On that night, only the honoured guests remained at Tintagel, and they gathered around the vast fireplace, telling tales and singing songs.

Late into the night, when the majority of the party had retired to bed, Sir Tristan, the king’s nephew, took up a harp and began to play.

Across the group, bathed in the glow of firelight, where she sat beside her new husband, the queen watched and listened, and Merlin could see the love shining in her eyes.

“This isn’t going to end well,” Arthur muttered darkly.

Now

“There are rules about who you can love,” Arthur says.

He’s just come in from the rain and he looks bedraggled and miserable, his hair slicked wet against his skin and rivulets of water running down his cheeks.

“Yes,” Merlin says, because it’s what Arthur wants him to say.

Then Arthur steps closer and puts one hand on Merlin’s shoulder. His desperation and misery shine in his eyes. It must be the rain Merlin can see on his face because it can’t be tears.

“There are rules,” he says again, and his voice breaks slightly.

“I know,” Merlin whispers back.

Arthur closes his eyes, and Merlin understands what it is that Arthur isn’t saying.

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

fortassetu.livejournal.com

My heart just broke.

...well, I've stopped flailing, at any rate. (Thank goodness - I almost broke my glass)

That was really beautifully written. I liked the way you put the then and now bits together...

Erm, I don't know what else to say because I love it so much.

I'm putting that into my memories. Is that alright?

From:

Fic: The Hazel and the Honeysuckle.

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