Chapter 4
Arthur awoke with his nose buried in Merlin’s dark curls, his manservant’s leg wrapped around his own. Feeling the familiar internal panic at the way his heart stuttered and his face warmed, Arthur slowly unwrapped himself from Merlin’s unconscious grasp (yeah, that’s it, he’s unconscious so he doesn’t know what he’s doing, naturally), praying to every god out there that he not wake up before Arthur could remove his arm from under where Merlin lay. Relief settled his beating heart once he was free from his compromising position, his manservant sleeping peacefully with one arm still stretched out to where Arthur had slept. Arthur ran a hand through his tangled hair and let out a ragged breath. He told himself this was no different from sleeping pressed together when they camped outside, sharing body heat to keep out the cold, but even he didn’t believe the excuse. This would simply have to be another one of those moments that he had to push to the back of his mind – for his own sanity’s sake.
In this moment, the king’s stomach would voice its upset by rumbling intently, and Arthur realised that neither of them had eaten since breakfast the previous day. He looked back at his sleeping manservant, and, concluding he would probably sleep for a bit longer, decided he would have time to go downstairs and pick up some breakfast.
It was still early morning, but coming downstairs Arthur could see a few tenants sitting by the tables with a plate of breakfast (and some outliers lying across three chairs pulled together, still sleeping off the effects of drink from last night). He walked up the bar where the hostess –Mrs. Farah– already stood polishing metal plates. She smiled brightly when she saw him.
“Good morning! Slept well?” she beamed, looking pointedly to his tousled hair. Arthur grunted, patting down the mess in an effort to look more presentable. Merlin would probably have laughed at his pitiful attempt.
“Very, thank you, Mrs. Farah,” he then replied politely.
Mrs. Farah somehow did not look surprised that he knew her name. She only gave him that same smile that suggested she could see right through him. He squirmed where he stood and averted his eyes to peek into the kitchens behind her where another woman stood by an oven. She removed two perfectly round loaves from it with her apron, placing them in a basket nearby. The smell soon hit Arthur, making his mouth water.
“Hungry?” Mrs. Farah asked, pulling him out of his bread-induced stupor.
“Yes, I would be very grateful if I could request some breakfast for myself and my companion?”
“Fancy lad, aren’t ya?” Mrs. Farah laughed heartily. “Alright, your highness!”
Arthur laughed along, thinking how she had actually hit the nail right on the head.
“Nieve! Prepare two plates of some bread and–” she turned to Arthur, “goat’s cheese alright?” he nodded, “–with some goat’s cheese, and, actually, see if we have any grapes left after last night for His royal politeness!”
Arthur could hear a light chuckle echoing along with the clatter of metal from the kitchen. He smiled sheepishly at the pleasant hostess. She was leaning against the bar with one hand on her hip, her bright eyes inspecting Arthur in a way that somehow did not feel scrutinising nor threatening. She was certainly in the right business, the way she was able to make people feel at ease. Arthur for some inexplicable reason felt like he could trust her – or at least trust that she was not interested in selling them out to the highest bidder at first chance.
“So what are you two handsome lads doing in these parts?” She asked curiously.
“Just passing through.” It wasn’t entirely a lie; they were passing through – in search of something else. “Actually, I was wondering if perhaps you could help us? We seem to find ourselves a bit lost and don’t actually know entirely where ‘these parts’ are.”
Mrs. Farah let out her booming laugh again, and this time Arthur couldn’t even find it in him to feel embarrassed. This woman with her bright eyes and upbeat voice made it feel like they were somehow laughing together rather than at him.
“I thought as much yesterday when I saw the utterly lost expression on your companion,” she did not seem to notice how Arthur’s face fell for a second before he caught himself. “You’re by Elowen’s Keep, just a day’s ride from the capital.”
Arthur tried to visualise a map of Essetir. The capital of Essetir was in the southern part of its land (too close to Camelot’s borders for comfort), so surely they could not have drifted too far off their course. Thinking back to when he and Leon had mapped out their route, he tried to remember if he had seen the name ‘Elowen’s Keep’ along the path. He could barely make out a vague memory of a painted tower labelled as ‘Elowen’.
“The old tower?”
“Precisely! The tower of dear dead Princess Elowen.”
“Who?”
“You haven’t heard of Princess Elowen?” Arthur shook his head, and Mrs. Farah smiled excitedly. “Around 100 years ago, the youngest daughter of King Lot ‘the Unconquered’ took up residence in the old tower in spite of the cold and dreary conditions to keep watch during the invasion of the Jutes. Then, using her magic, she would send warnings to her father when the invaders passed her Keep. Due to her kind heart and courageous spirit, King Lot managed to defeat the Jutes and protect Essetir for coming generations – indeed, the current King Cenred is his direct descendent. However, when the king went to the tower to retrieve his daughter, he found that she had perished from sickness brought on by the conditions of the tower the same day as his victory. In his grief over his beloved daughter, he closed off the tower and named the surrounding area ‘Elowen’s Keep’ to honour the noble sacrifice she had made for Essetir.”
“Though I don’t recommend going to the tower now, it’s mostly a pile of rubble that’ll fall on your head if you go too close.” The other woman (Nieve?) came out from the kitchen with two plates of warm bread, runny cheese and even with a small handful of soft red grapes. Arthur’s stomach growled.
“We are actually trying to locate some other ruins,” Arthur explained, strategically holding off on running upstairs with the breakfast to check on Merlin in order to see if he could gain some insight into which direction they should go from here. “Do you know the ruins of Lugh?”
Mrs. Farah suddenly got an apprehensive look in her eyes which drastically contrasted with her sunny demeanour. “We do. But it’s not a place we townsfolk take lightly.”
“What do you mean?”
“The ruins are full of hidden dangers,” Nieve supplied. “Old magical traps concealed by a thick mist covering the ground which is rumoured to slowly drive normal people insane.”
“But you know where it is?”
“We know which direction you must go,” Mrs. Farah said hesitantly, clearly not wishing her new visitors to come to any harm. The sentiment warmed Arthur. “But the road itself can only be revealed by magic.”
Arthur stared down at the wooden surface of the bar with knotted eyebrows. Swallowing hard, he tried to ignore how his stomach still clenched at the mention of magic. With the absence of any solid meals, he could feel the nausea threatening to make the delicious breakfast still sitting temptingly in front of him unappealing. He didn’t want his mind to conjure up the image of Merlin sleeping peacefully with his nose pressed against the crook of Arthur’s neck - didn’t want to allow his consciousness to make the association. After he managed to calm his stomach, he looked back up to his hostesses and smiled gratefully.
“Thank you for the information, and for the breakfast, Mrs. Farah,” Arthur inclined his head in a bow-like nod. “Miss Nieve.”
“Oh, I am actually also Mrs. Farah.” Nieve corrected, chuckling a little at Arthur’s confusion. “'Farah' is a surname we took. So I am Nieve Farah, and this is Maris Farah.”
“So you’re related?” Arthur could not see any familial similarities between them. Whereas Nieve was pale and thin, with a sharp face and straight nose, Maris was muscled with a soft rounded face and a darker complexion closer to Guinevere. Indeed, Arthur would sooner have guessed Maris was related to Guinevere and Elyan than to Nieve.
Maris did not laugh this time, but rather smiled softly at Nieve.
Immediately Arthur wanted to slap himself silly.
“Oh…”
“She’s my wife. My other half,” she said, wrapping her arm around Nieve’s waist, before turning back to Arthur with that knowing smile. “Speaking of, how is yours doing by the way?
“My wife?” Arthur asked, confused.
“Your Merlin.”
Arthur’s face instantly reddened. “That’s not–! We’re not–! It’s not like that.”
They only levelled him with a not unkind stare that perfectly conveyed their scepticism. Flustered and completely thrown, Arthur could only mutter some more thanks before grabbing their breakfast plates (by now the bread had cooled, but nevertheless looked crisp and delicious) and walking hastily towards the stairs with the Farahs following him with their eyes.
Arthur did not want to admit the way his chest had warmed at what Maris had said.
‘My Merlin.’
~~~
When Arthur walked into their room again, Merlin was only just waking up. Slowly, he sat up in the bed, sluggishly looking at his surroundings with scrunched eyes. He blinked thrice, his addled mind trying to take in and process what was going on. Then he turned and looked at Arthur, who throughout this morning charade had stood still, leaning against the door and looking at him with an expectant eyebrow, and finally his mind caught up with his memories. Suddenly very awake, Merlin jumped out from the bed and stood (slightly swaying) to face Arthur, his mouth opening and closing without being able to form any words or excuse while his eyes flitted from the bed to Arthur back to the bed again.
Arthur’s smile faltered a little as he watched the bumbling fool stand there barefooted and with his hair still standing in every direction. ‘He looks so much like my Merlin right now.’
Arthur carefully placed the plates down at the table.
“Never thought I’d see the day you’d lose your voice, Merlin,” it was of course not true; Merlin had been almost too quiet ever since– ...But Arthur longed for some normalcy, longed for this silent shadow to return to be Merlin, even as his body tensed as if he were staring down his greatest enemy. “Honestly, stop gaping like a fish out of water and use that mouth for something a bit more useful.” Arthur heard the innuendo as soon as the words had left his mouth, and with forced casualness said, “Eat.”
Merlin’s mouth shut with an audible clack, and he slowly padded towards the table. As he approached, Arthur was again hit with the feeling that he was being pursued by a predator, someone who wished him harm, instead of his barefooted manservant seeing what’s for breakfast. Instinctively, Arthur’s muscles clenched as if preparing for a fight, and his eyes momentarily darted to where his sword belt sat leaning against the bed frame. If Merlin noticed his eyes wandering, he gave no indication other than sinking into the chair with the same hunched frame that was supposed to make him appear less threatening by conveying total submission to Arthur – really, the submission a servant was expected to show his king. Seeing Merlin all of a sudden acting like a perfect servant, Arthur felt unreasonably irritated; yes, this was how a servant was supposed to act, which means that it was the absolute opposite of how Merlin was supposed to act.
Was ‘his Merlin’ really gone after all?
The table all of a sudden seemed much too small; Merlin had very long legs no matter how much he tried to curl himself into a ridiculously lanky ball, Arthur would no doubt end up knocking against his knees if they were to sit together. He instead grabbed his plate (a bit too aggressively in his lingering irritation if Merlin’s slight flinch was anything to go by) and plopped down onto the bed where he immediately began digging into the bread and cheese he had longed for the entire morning.
Merlin didn’t move, either to follow or to eat anything. Arthur glanced up from his plate at steady intervals to observe the eerily quiet servant. His head was bowed again, revealing where his hair curled upwards at the nape of his neck –almost scandalously bare without his neckerchief on, Arthur thought– and staring down again at where his hands were folded in his lap. Arthur stretched his neck to glance at Merlin’s hands and frowned when he saw the anxious servant meticulously picking the skin around his fingernails – a bad habit he had evidently failed to kick. The fingertips were already raw with fresh blood, gathering under the offending nails.
Arthur sighed, pushing down his own irritation. “Eat, Merlin.” He repeated, a bit more softly.
Merlin still jumped at the sound of his voice, but quickly regained his composure and nodded. Finally, he picked up some of the grapes and popped them in his mouth. Arthur was glad then that he had left Merlin the plate with the most grapes on it.
‘I thought you were supposed to be taking care of me.’ he thought with an exasperated shake of his head.
He placed his empty plate down on the bed and stared at his manservant-turned-sorcerer, his forehead creased infinitesimally with thought, while said sorcerer absentmindedly placed grape by grape to his lips, sucking them into his mouth with an audible shlop – yet another bad habit his clumsy fool had picked up, which more often than not ended either with Arthur smacking him over the head once the noise grated his nerves thin, or with a grape lodging itself in his throat, consequently forcing Arthur to save him from choking to death. Arthur was transfixed on the motions, nearly hypnotised by the movement of Merlin’s pale lips on the grape. He realised eventually as the repeated noise certainly grated on something in Arthur, that in this case he was leaning more towards the first eventuality.
“I spoke to the hostesses,” Arthur interrupted Merlin right as he was about to place yet another grape against his lips.
“Mrs. Farah?” Merlin lowered the grape again, Arthur’s eyes dutifully following the descent before he caught himself and looked away.
“Both of the Mrs. Farahs, actually,” he peeked up at Merlin’s face, revelling in its confusion as if he had not been in the same situation only a few moments before. Enjoying the fact that he knew something Merlin did not. “Mrs. Maris and Nieve Farah.”
Merlin’s face lit up in understanding (having come to the right conclusion much faster than Arthur, to the king’s petulant dismay).
“Oh!” He smiled in such a way that Arthur’s stomach clenched – like there was an unspoken secret he was privy to which Arthur couldn’t grasp (one-upping him again). Like he once again could see something Arthur was not allowed to share in. A private smile Arthur longed to uncover, that gave him an urge to beg Merlin to tell him everything while simultaneously knowing he could say nothing. Arthur realised he had been distracted and not heard Merlin continuing to talk when he finally moved around on the chair to look at him. “So? What did you speak to them about? Outside of breakfast that is?”
“Yes, right,” Arthur cleared his throat to stall Merlin while he tried to regain his thoughts. The sorcerer only quizzically raised his eyebrow. “I asked if they could tell us where we are, and if they knew the way to the ruins of Lugh.” Merlin’s other eyebrow shot up in surprise.
“And?”
“Patience, Merlin, I’m getting there,” Arthur smirked, momentarily taking pleasure in seeing the annoyed frown return to his manservant’s face. Moreover, for some reason he wished to share the entirety of the conversation he had had with Maris and Nieve that morning. “They told me the story of ‘Elowen’s Keep’, the old run-down tower the district is named after. They said it’s only about a day’s ride from the capital, so by my calculations you didn’t beam us too far away from the route.”
Arthur froze at the same time Merlin did.
Merlin’s magic had remained an unspoken truth between them ever since the reveal by the ravine, an uncomfortable anomaly towering over their friendship and life together. And now Arthur had dragged it back into the light –casually even– and thus transgressed the unspoken and tentative understanding between them, laying them bare to the treachery of their dichotomous positions. Reminding them that they were supposed to be enemies. They were in unfamiliar waters which none of them knew exactly how to tread or navigate; should the slip-up be acknowledged or should they return to the peaceable yet fragile mutual ignorance?
For a moment they simply stared at each other with another foreign emotion somewhere between apprehension and awkwardness.
Merlin almost wanted to say something, to reassert his magic, to force them both to come to terms with its existence. To close this unbearable distance that the willful ignorance, the painful knowing and denial of Merlin’s magic, had created between them. But both were unable to approach it, to admit the new unfamiliarity which now haunted their interactions. They were like strangers trying desperately to recognise themself in the other. Merlin felt as though there was a string that had always tied them together, but which now was tense and strained by their distance, liable to snap if he tried to grasp it. He feared he would lose Arthur all over again. Forever this time.
So he said nothing.
He would have to wait until Arthur was ready. For Arthur to be angry with him. He felt almost as though he would rather face his anger than this unfamiliar awkwardness.
Arthur cleared his throat – he was moving on, increasing the distance between them. Merlin was staring down the ravine again.
“Right, uhm, so the ruins of Lugh should be somewhere close-by the Keep, but the road can only be found… well, it can only be found by…” Arthur hesitated uncharacteristically. “...by magic.” Merlin sucked in a breath like he had been stung. It felt as though every mention of magic by Arthur, every time he was forced to somehow recognise that Merlin was in fact magic, was against his will – like it pained him.
Like Merlin pained him.
Merlin had known all along how his magic would hurt Arthur. That to him, Merlin was yet another person who had lied to his face and betrayed his trust. That he was to blame for the way Arthur’s voice quieted whenever his magic was mentioned. But… he could not have predicted just how much he would hurt in turn. His Once and Future King –his Arthur– had seen who he was, and he had denied him. Refused even to look at him as he was again. Merlin felt the invisible string between them tighten around his heart, the torturous constriction lacerating the flesh and spilling fresh blood whenever Arthur forced himself to say the word, pushing it out as though it were poison (and yet, in his typical, infuriating, noble way, trying to not let Merlin know it was hurting him).
Merlin smiled hopelessly at Arthur where he refused to meet the sorcerer’s eyes. He knew he had forfeited his friendship with Arthur the moment he revealed his betrayal. He only hoped that Arthur would not banish him, but allow him to at least remain as his protection. He could not leave now – his momentary weakness after the ravine, telling Arthur to leave him behind, would be the only doubt he would allow himself. Until the king himself put his sword (the only sword which could kill him) through his chest, Merlin would protect him. Merlin would do anything, endure his scorn or coldness, just so long as he could keep him alive. Hell, Arthur could put him in chains and keep him on a leash if need be, ‘just let me stay with you, you stupid prat.’
“I’ll find it,” Merlin asserted, the silent acknowledgement finally sending them over the precipice, past the point of no return. Arthur’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly, but, despite what he might believe, Merlin knew him too well to not see when the royal mask fell over his face again.
They were strangers now: a sorcerer and the king of Camelot.
~~~
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Arthur said graciously to Maris and Nieve when they came to say goodbye. In addition to breakfast, they had been given more supplies to replace the ones they had lost (or which remained with the Knights) as well as extra food and medicines for the journey. Merlin carried them in a fine leather satchel which Nieve had handed him with her soft smile – a stark contrast to Maris’ big bright smile as she filled the newly acquired satchel with various fragrant herbs and cheeses wrapped in a thick cloth.
Maris and Nieve now stood staring at the (physical and emotional) distance between them, their eyes simultaneously inquiring for answers and seemingly brimming with an unexpected understanding. They are way too inceptive, Merlin thought, squirming under their scrutiny.
“We were glad to have you,” Maris said sadly – like she somehow knew they would likely never meet this peculiar couple again. “Please come stay at our tavern again once you make it back from your mission.”
“Could we ask you for one more favour?”
“Well, customer service is our trade, so of course.”
“If a group of four men led by someone called Leon –and probably plagued by a long-haired hassle named Gwaine– comes here looking for us, please tell them to meet us by Elowen’s Keep, and to wait there for no more than three days before returning home.”
Maris smiled. “I will be sure to show them the way.”
As Merlin and Arthur were about to walk away, they heard a sudden commotion outside. A regular in the tavern, an old man with the largest moustache known to man who sat by a window table looked outside and tutted with disappointment.
“Here come them knights again.” He muttered to himself before turning back to his ale.
Confused, Merlin turned to Arthur, who matched his reaction. Their knights were in civilian dress, surely they could not have been recognised by a citizen of another land? Merlin hopped over to the window where the regular sat and looked out. The air froze in his lungs when he saw the black and silver colours of the Essetirian knights. They had come looking for them, knocking on or kicking in every door and demanding answers in loud voices.
When Merlin looked back at Arthur, the warning was clear in his face. His jaw tensed again.
“I’m guessing that’s not the group you lads are waiting for,” Maris commented. Arthur wanted to explain, or rather, come up with some excuse which would get them out of this pinch, but his first priority was getting Merlin and himself to safety – his first priority was always Merlin, even now.
However, when he looked at Maris and Nieve again, they did not look angry or suspicious. Rather, it looked like they had expected this, were prepared for it even. For a second Arthur believed that they had betrayed them and sent for the knights themselves, but this thought was immediately crushed when Maris hoisted open a hatch hidden underneath the bar, motioning for them to come forwards with that bright smile lighting up her face.
“This leads to the basement where we keep our barrels of wine and ale. From there, there is another way out the back of the tavern, right in the direction of Elowen’s Keep,” she hastily instructed as Arthur launched himself across the bar, and Merlin (who had manners) hurried around to the other side. Nieve returned from the kitchen with three small torches which she lit over the perpetual oven fire. “Follow Nieve, she will take you to the door. I will distract the knights and keep them here long enough for you to escape.”
“Mrs. Farah,” Merlin’s voice was tight with appreciation that he would never have the chance or time to express. She understood anyway.
Still smiling, she picked Merlin up in a crushing hug despite him being a head taller than her. “That’s Maris to you.” Merlin nodded. Once Maris let go, Nieve gestured for Merlin to start climbing down the steep stairs, handing him one of the torches to guide the way.
Maris then held her hand out to Arthur, who grasped it as respectfully as he would the noblest knight.
“Take care of him,” she whispered. She did not point out the sadness that filled his eyes at her words; she could see right through it to the heart of the man. “YourMerlin.”
At that moment the knights of Essetir had moved to the tavern door, banging intently on the wood and yelling for them to open up. Arthur had not seen it be locked.
With a final nod to Maris, Arthur accepted the torch from Nieve and began climbing down after Merlin.
“Don’t go overboard,” Nieve chided Maris. “Remember we will still need a couple of barrels for next month as well. And don’t antagonise them, I would like to come back to the whole tavern. And a whole wife."
“Worrywart,” Maris gave Nieve a reassuring kiss. “Go on, before they knock over something and make a right ruckus!”
The hatch was closed after Nieve’s descent, leaving them to the darkness of the cellar, only illuminated by the three torches. Above them, they could faintly hear the jovial chatter of Maris welcoming the Essetirian knights and offering them a jug of ale while they talk. Nieve shook her head affectionately, then motioned for Arthur and Merlin to follow her.
The cellar was of a surprising size for a small tavern such as this, and Merlin was glad Nieve had come down to guide them once he realised the extent of the ale and wine barrels kept down here; the whole cellar was effectively a miniature maze. The door to the outside was obscured by a shelf of dried herbs and sacks of grain. With the help of Arthur’s shocking upper body strength (and despite Merlin fretting over Arthur not exerting himself too much lest he aggravate his wound further), the shelf was pushed aside enough for them to open the door and push through. A gust of wind pushed inside the crevice of the doorway, extinguishing the torches and replacing their light with the soft daylight coming in.
Once outside, Arthur cautiously scouted the area for other knight patrols or lone knights going for a piss or something of the sort. Satisfied that they would be able to make it to the edge of the forest where the line of trees would further shield them from the Essetirian knights’ peering eyes, they briefly turned back to say their final goodbye to Nieve. She stood in the doorway holding the extinguished torch against her chest with her signature soft smile.
“I hope you find what you are looking for, Arthur Pendragon.” Nieve smiled softly. Arthur startled, automatically suspicious if they had been part of a plot to capture them after all – but there was no malice in her eyes. Surely there were other explanations. Arthur’s final grace to the Farahs was to cease his questioning of their integrity and accept them as allies.
They turned to run towards the forest, keeping their heads low just in case.
‘Goodbye, Emrys.’ Nieve’s voice echoed in Merlin’s head.
Merlin stopped dead in his tracks and looked back to the tavern and the cellar door hidden among the tall grasses. The pale woman stood there still, clutching her torch and smiling at him. He wished they had more time; he wanted to say more, to talk to her more. There was something about Nieve, even something about Maris, something comforting which reminded him of his knights, a wisdom akin to Gaius’, with Gwen’s understanding. He longed for them all.
“Merlin! What are you doing! Come on!” His Arthur hissed from the forest’s edge. He could see his king was perched as if to run out again and grab him by the arm if he must.
Beseeching, Merlin turned around for one final time, searching for the answer to the question which hung heavy in his stomach: have I failed my destiny? Will Arthur ever forgive me? But when he looked back, he saw Nieve walking back inside the cellar door, the way illuminated by the light of her torch.