Trials | Merlin FanFiction (Merthur)

Chapitre Treize

A/N: This chapter contains Smut.

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"Mercia," Arthur said, and sat down heavily on the bed. He was still wearing his mail, his coif pushed back and his forehead and hair soaked with sweat. Merlin hadn't waited for the practice to end, just charged onto the field and grabbed Arthur's hand, dragged him back to their quarters.

"I think so," Merlin said, and he was still shaking, could smell the dirt from Ashgillian's cell like it had seeped into his skin, into his clothes. "He said that men in red and blue--Aelfric's men, it must be, and Mercians. He described the crest they wore perfectly. "

"It explains everything," Arthur said, and it did, it really did.

Merlin hesitated, then came to sit next to him on the bed.

"Now I know," Arthur said, after a long time. "Aelfric is in league with Mercia." He sighed. "It doesn't change anything."

"It changes something," Merlin said, and he had no great love for Uther but watching Arthur's anguish at his father's enmity was worse. "Uther wasn't really--it wasn't really him."

"They could not have made him believe it, if he didn't already think it," Arthur said heavily, and stood up. The mattress creaked in relief as his weight left it. "And now we have two enemies, not just one."

He clapped Merlin on the back, and headed for the door. Just before he left, he turned to look at him.

"And Merlin? Well done," he said, sincerely, with a small, smug smile. "I knew you could talk to him, if you tried." Then he was gone.

Merlin flopped back on the bed and laughed weakly at the ceiling. Arrogant ass.

The winter went on, and but like winter always did, it slowly, reluctantly, inevitably came to a close.

At Imbolc, Arthur held a ceremony and formally ceded the Druid lands to Brydain, making him a baron of Camelot and giving him near-total autonomy in his rulings. The fact that this was already more or less the situation did nothing to dim the enthusiasm of his audience, who saw Arthur bow his head respectfully to Brydain, acknowledging his loyalty and service, and went wild with cheers. Then they broke out the last of the ale.

The feast lasted for two days, and it seemed like half the people within a two days ride came to Warleggen to celebrate the coming of spring and the investiture. Arthur spent the two days judging contests of arms without ever picking up a sword himself, which for him was practically sloth. Merlin finally got the chance to catch up with Morgana and Gwen for the first time since he'd seen them escorted to safety following their flight from Camelot.

Morgana was wearing breeches and a quilted vest, and her hair was cut short. Arthur almost fell over his feet when he first saw her, and both he and Morgana gave Merlin equally cutting glares when Merlin couldn't stop giggling. She carried a knife on her hip, and some of the restless, edgy tension that Merlin had always sensed about her was gone.

Gwen was wearing one of Morgana's old gowns, the ruby color flattering her dark skin, and she could stand straight without flinching, her smile as wide and sweet as it ever was. Lancelot couldn't take his eyes off of her. Morgana whispered to Merlin over her cups, smiling a terrifying smile, that there might be a hand fasting before Beltane.

After the festival was over, and most of the drunken revelers had returned to their own villages and towns, Arthur began sending out scouts, looking for news of his father's movements and to survey the nearby landscape. With the snow retreating the weather warming, it was the season for armies to be on the move, and Arthur had no intention of being caught unawares by his father. The men slept lightly now, armed even in their tents, and Arthur began to coordinate the preparation of horses for the knights, and supplies for men on the march.

It was a week before the festival of Ostara and Merlin was sitting on the grass watching Arthur fight. The weather had finally started to warm, after a winter of some of the worst storms that anyone could remember. Merlin had said at one point, wrapped tightly in a blanket and his cold nose buried in Arthur's shoulder, listening to yet another blizzard howl outside in the night, that maybe the land itself was responding to Arthur's exile.

Arthur had laughed, bumping Merlin's nose as his chest moved, and replied that his father would probably take a little more defeating than some frozen water in the sky, but Merlin could tell he was pleased at the thought.

The men had come a long way in a very short time, and Arthur was very vocally pleased with their progress. They might still not be a match for his father's army, with the small but disciplined legions that had been training together for years, some before Arthur was born. But they were disciplined enough, and Arthur--when he wasn't enjoying hitting Merlin in the head with a sharp stick, Merlin thought dryly--was an excellent taskmaster, fair and careful but ruthless and personally almost indefatigable, and the men had responded. They fought hard, shrewdly, and once or twice even Arthur was surprised and taken off his guard.

Merlin shadowed Arthur, constantly alert for another attack, and Arthur rolled his eyes and mocked him thoroughly for it but did nothing to prevent Merlin from pushing people away if they brushed too close. They didn't talk about Uther if they could help it; they didn't speculate about Mercia. With no information, Arthur pointed out, there was nothing to do but wait, so they only talked about plans, concrete plans: if there was enough fodder for the horses, if there was enough bread for the men, if there were enough swords and shields and knives and bows and arrows for the whole army, blacksmiths to repair them, herb women and cunning men to heal them.

And at night, Merlin would push Arthur back against the bed and smile mischievously at him, say "How may I serve my lord," in his most obsequious voice, and take Arthur into his mouth while Arthur was still breathless and red-faced with laughter.

After all that, it was almost an anticlimax when the scout rode into camp.

Arthur was sparring with one of the knights, several more pairs matched off around him. Lancelot was watching with interest, along with Brydain and some of his men. The drumming of hoof beats interrupted them, and Arthur drew back, pushing his coif off his head and scrubbing a hand through his sweaty hair.

"My lord," the man called, and Merlin knew what he was going to say even before he was off his horse. "Your father's army is on the move."

Arthur sheathed his sword with quick, controlled movements , and grinned tightly.

"Good."