Archive of Our Own

Arthur dips a finger into his ale, then pinches the candlewick before him, extinguishing the flame. It's habit by now, as is the rake of his hat and the whiskers he grows in before coming ashore; the less people see of his face, the better. Especially here in Camelot.

The first sip merely wets his tongue; the first swallow clears the road dust and dampens the stench of the city. It takes five or six more before he can actually enjoy the taste of the stuff. Many things have gone to the dogs since Agravaine took the throne, but Mary's ale—thankfully—is not one of them. Content for the moment, he settles into his chair, listening to the banter around him.

"Who's the new wench, Mary?"

"You keep your eyes in your head now."

"It's his hands she needs to watch out for!"

"Rest easy. She's too skinny for my tastes."

"The mouth on her though. And those eyes…"

"Eyes? What use is that between the sheets? A man can't fill his hands with eyes, Ebor. Now, Miss Mary here—"

"Fie! You'll be filling your hands with your own tanned arse if you don't mind how you go. And flattery won't buy you ale, lads. Let's see some more coin or away you go."

Arthur grins into his beaker. Here is another thing that hasn't changed: no matter who sits the throne of Camelot, Mary is still queen in her tavern. She's clearly still taking in strays, too.

Arthur turns his attention to the young woman they'd been discussing. At the moment she's all elbows and hips, using them liberally to create space for herself as she moves between tables, but he catches glimpses of her face. She is fair-skinned, though her cheeks are flushed. Her cap has slipped back, exposing a sweaty fringe of dark hair that matches her thick brows. Strong features—nose, cheekbones, lips, chin—and yes, there is something about her eyes.

Arthur shifts in his seat to gain a better view and, once he starts watching, it is hard to look away. It's not just the color of her eyes—a fine, bright blue—but the keenness of them. Without making it obvious, she is studying everyone in the tavern, and not just their faces, but hands, boots, cloaks. She's keeping an eye on the windows and doors, on the passage that leads back to the kitchen and outbuildings, and on the stairs that lead to the rooms above.

Clearly, she is no mere serving wench, and not just because—as Arthur also realizes during his prolonged observation—she is no wench at all, but a man in disguise!

The next time the young man draws near with a fresh flagon, Arthur waves him over. He puts a coin on the table and holds out his beaker. He waits until the pour is finished before lifting his eyes.

"Trying to avoid the king's press men, is it, lad?" he says, looking the young man pointedly up and down. "Or should we all fear for our purses? I warn you, Mary does not take kindly to thieves."

The lad gawps at him for a moment, cheeks growing even redder, then scowls at him.

"What's it to you, pirate?" he hisses, banging the flagon down on the table.

Arthur chuckles, but he glances about to make certain no one else is within earshot before replying, "You have me there. I wonder, what is it that gave me away? These are new boots; the coat and hat I borrowed off a grain merchant just this afternoon."

The lad snorts. "Borrowed, you say?"

Arthur grins. "Indeed. He'll have them back by morning, none the worse for wear. Now go on, tell me. I'll even make it worth your while." He slides another coin beside the first.

The lad eyes them, the corners of his mouth twitching, before picking them up and slipping them into some hidden pocket in his skirts.

"Pull me onto your lap."

"What?!"

"You heard me," the lad says, now openly smiling. "And better make it look good. We're being watched." He jerks his head towards the table of rough, burly men Mary had given the warning to earlier.

"If the lady insists," Arthur murmurs. Then he raises his voice, announcing, "And there'll be more of that if the cup is sweet enough…here, give us a proper taste!" as he reaches for the lad's hips.

The young man squeals but comes willingly, throwing his arms around Arthur's neck. He's heavier than he looks, but he fits nicely in Arthur's lap, and beneath the pong of old tallow and ale is a richer, earthier scent that he does not mind in the least.

A mixture of taunts and cheers erupts from the tables nearby. Some of the men bang their cups on the tables. Arthur tips his hat in acknowledgement, then uses it to shield their faces, as if he's aiming to steal a kiss. For a moment he thinks the lad actually might—his gaze lingering on Arthur's mouth, his lips pursed and slightly parted—but at the last instant he tucks his face in beside Arthur's.

"Nothing gave you away," he whispers, "save for the fact that earlier one of our guests promised me twice what you did just now to keep an eye out for a man of your exact description, and he said you were a pirate."

Arthur starts, burgeoning arousal giving way to a shiver of unease.

"A famous one, even," the lad goes on, "or was it infamous? I always get those two mixed up."

"I warn you—" Arthur begins, tensing to push the lad off his lap, but he clings ever tighter, squirming to keep his place in a most distracting manner, and it seems Arthur's traitorous, sorely-neglected cock is more than willing to be distracted.

"Calm yourself, rogue," the lad says, lips at Arthur's ear. "I mean you no harm, and neither does he. He merely wishes to talk."

"About?"

"Cabbages. And, um…pickled eggs, I think? Says he's come into a large supply and would rather they not go to the Crown."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Arthur snaps, and whether it is more down to nerves or thwarted lust he couldn't say. "Get off me and go tell him I am here."

"Tch. Somewhere private. I thought that would be obvious?" The lad pulls back, but keeps his arms around Arthur's neck. He looks so flustered, so concerned despite his outrageous cheek that, despite his misgivings, Arthur gives a curt nod.

The smile he receives in return is blinding. The lad plucks the hat from Arthur's hand and places it back on his head.

"Up we go then. Follow me."

Arthur is halfway up the stairs, still clinging to the stranger's skirts, before it occurs to him that he never got to drink the second beaker of ale he'd paid for—also, that he is achingly hard and, unless the lad is a halfwit or complete innocent, he probably noticed.

He is beginning to think he should have listened to Morgana and stayed away from Camelot until they were ready to make their move.

Once they gain the upper landing, the young man pauses, keeping Arthur behind him as he checks that no one is about. Then, with a hand gesture and a tip of his head, he guides them to a green door halfway down the passage.

He mutters some sort of password, so Arthur is fully expecting to be met by the mystery man the lad had mentioned; instead, the lad pushes the door open and ushers Arthur into a room that looks as if a gale has blown through.

"What is—" Arthur gets out before the lad whirls about, claps a hand over Arthur's mouth, and raises a warning finger to his lips.

"Sorry, sorry," he whispers, eyes wide, "just give me a moment to make sure we're truly safe."

Arthur nods, instinctively resting a hand at his right hip, where he carries his mother's knife. He's expecting the lad to search the place. There are several chests and cupboards large enough to hide a man and, given the state of the room, they certainly aren't being used as intended!

Instead, after the lad releases Arthur, he raises his hand in front of him, palms out, and starts muttering. Dust motes—no, sparks, golden sparks—dart and coalesce before his hands. All the lanterns in the room flicker and Arthur feels a subtle shift in pressure, as if a storm is brewing. The mass of sparks grows larger, denser, swelling into a familiar shape before bursting and bathing the room in a golden glow.

Arthur stands, stunned, as the glow fades. Magic. Not a password, not a search—not a conventional one, at any rate—but magic. And not just any magic, if his senses haven't deceive him, but something unique and powerful. Beautiful, even.

The lad draws a deep breath. "All clear. No one has been through. I'll just let—"

"What do you mean?!" Arthur cuts in, gesturing at the mess. "Clearly the place has been ransacked."

The lad gives a sheepish smile. "No, I assure you. It's just me. I was in a hurry when I got dressed, and sometimes my magic—"

"About that…"

"Yes?"

The word sounds like a warning. Arthur knows the polite thing to do would be to drop this line of questioning, but he's not feeling the least bit polite.

"Just now, when you—" Arthur waves a hand in the air. "Was that my flag? My jolly dragon?"

"Your dragon?" the lad scoffs, picking his way towards the far corner. "It might have been a dragon, I'll grant you that, but I don't know why you'd assume it was yours. Seems presumptuous, even for a pirate."

Arthur follows him, kicking aside cushions and books and discarded clothing. The lad's babbling now, clearly nervous, and Arthur wonders if he's being led into a trap. "Who are you, really? Do I know you?"

The lad halts in front of a lacquered folding screen and looks back over his shoulder. Even in this dim corner of the chamber, his eyes stand out—that keen, mesmerizing blue—and Arthur finds himself in sympathy with the lout that had been so taken with them earlier.

"You can call me…ah, Morris. Wait here."

Arthur frowns as the lad slips behind the screen. It not his true name, clearly; it doesn't suit him at all. The only Morrises Arthur knows are a retired Bahamian pirate and a burly shipwright from the Western Isles. But there had been another, hadn't there, back when he lived in the palace? A lifetime ago, it seems now. Usually he tries not to remember, but there's something about the lad, about the way he'd looked at Arthur—challenging, appraising, but not unfriendly—that makes Arthur want to fathom him out.

A noise behind the screen shakes him from his thoughts.

"Morris, you say? Did you ever work at the palace?"

There is a loud snort, then a man steps out from behind the screen showing his hands, saying, "As if I would ever skivvy for such tyrants."

He is wearing a loose, practically sheer linen shirt and tight leather breeches; unless he has a weapon stashed in his boots—or his admittedly fine head of hair—he is no immediate threat.

"Gwaine the Greenblade," he says with a smile, sketching a bow. "And you are the one they call the White Dragon, are you not?"

Arthur acknowledges this with a nod, but keeps his hand at his hip and a wary eye on the folding screen.

"What's this about? Where'd the lad go? And how did you know where to find me?"

Gwaine gives Arthur the onceover, smile fading. "Straight to business then. Very well, but we can at least be comfortable." He crosses to the nearest chair, dumps the clothing strewn over it onto the bed, and settles in. There is a padded stool opposite, as well as the bed itself, but Arthur remains standing.

"Oh I have my spies, same as the Crown." Gwaine hooks a thumb towards the screen. "Speaking of which, the lad's in my room, pretending to be snoring off a bottle of rum, in case anyone's listening. I'm not exactly welcome in Camelot."

"That makes two of us."

The man's smile returns. "Yet I hear you can't keep away, which I find…intriguing. There are any number of safer, friendlier ports for a man of your reputation."

Arthur shrugs. "I'm partial to Mary's ale. What's your excuse?"

Gwaine chuckles, then his expression hardens. "I am partial to not being pressed to serve a mad, greedy king who makes war for the sake of his own wealth and glory while his people suffer."

"I don't understand." Arthur takes care to keep his tone even, disinterested. "Seems ever more reason to stay away."

Gwaine sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I did, for a time. But it got…I have friends here, you see. They've got friends, kin, people who rely on them. And who knows? Some day even I might fancy hearth and home and a pack of brats, and it might as well be where I've got people who can stand me for more than a night or two."

He's been speaking almost as if to himself, shifting in the chair, worrying a loose thread on his cuff, but now he stills, meeting Arthur's gaze. "Thought I'd best stop running away and start making a proper nuisance of myself."

"What good is it being fed and free if the people starve in chains?" Arthur says quietly, quoting Morgana. He had first heard it long ago, during a council session, back when Uther was alive. They'd always tried to reign in his zealotry when it came to witch hunts and taxes, and his sister had a flair for the dramatic. Neither of them had imagined, then, how much worse things could get, how literal those words would become.

"Yes. That too." Gwaine leans forward, elbows on knees. "It seems we have similar appetites, and I have something you might find quite…nourishing."

"The lad mentioned something about cabbages?" Smiling, Arthur strolls nearer. He can't bring himself to sit on the stool, as it is lower than the chair Gwaine occupies, so he leans against one of the bedposts. "I assume we're talking of the, ah, projectile variety?"

"Indeed," Gwaine says, grinning. "Fresh from the mines of Mercia. As well as the necessary spice."

"Spice?"

"Stuff that gives them a kick, you know, makes them truly shine on the palate." He mimes lighting a fuse. "You wouldn't want unseasoned cabbage. Very boring."

"Quite," Arthur replies, amused. Most smugglers he deals with are dull, taciturn brutes. This one seems like the sort he wouldn't mind having a drink or two—or a proper adventure—with. "And the pickled eggs? I assume those are also quite dynamic, on the palate that is, but more suited to, ah, close quarters—the sort of snack one might serve an old and very dear enemy?"

Gwaine lets out a belly laugh. "I like the way you think, my friend, but I'm afraid the pickled eggs are just pickled eggs. I've a great fondness for them, couldn't resist liberating a crate from the border garrison on my way past."

"The lad said—"

"He must have overhead me talking to Mary. I offered her several jars as a promise of sorts, that I'm good for the room and drink. I am a bit light on coin at the present, but I told her—and here's where you come in, I'm hoping—that I'd be coming into quite a lot of it before the week was out."

"Quite a lot?" Arthur says, arching a brow. The man has got some cheek, he'll grant him that.

"Ah, perhaps not quite a lot." Gwaine sizes him up. "A modest, amount, then. A fair price for the risks I've taken, and to cover my costs. A man's got to have a little something to warm him up on a cold night, else what's it all for, wouldn't you say?"

Arthur straightens up, eyes darting to the screen in the corner. "A little something?" he says hotly. "Look here, the lad's business is his own, but I'll not be paying for you to—"

"Whoa!" Gwaine cuts in, holding his hands up. "I only meant the rum. He's lovely and all, but it's not like that. Strictly comrades in arms, I swear on my life." Then, all smiles once more, he crosses his arms behind his head and leans back in the chair, splaying his legs. "Besides, do I honestly look like someone who needs to pay for company?"

"Apologies," Arthur says stiffly, averting his eyes from the display. It's much too warm in the room for the coat he's wearing. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and under the collar, attempting to pull the fabric away from his sweating skin.

"He said he'd got dressed in a hurry, and I thought, what with the state of the room and your…" He gestures towards the screen. "Clearly you have some sort of arrangement. You do pay him, do you not?"

"For information, my friend. Eyes and ears. Running messages, and a little interference with the king's men, when it's needed. Nothing on his knees." Gwaine chuckles. "But hey, no shame on the trade. I know some prefer it that way. Keeps things simple. A warning though, if Merlin's caught your eye. He's not—"

"Hang on," Arthur cuts in. "What did you just call him?"

"What's that?"

"The lad. His name, it's not Morris, but…"

"Merlin." Gwaine eyes him strangely. "At least, that's the only name I know him by."

"Merlin," Arthur mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. He begins to pace. "Merlin, Merlin, yes that's it, I remember now." The brash, gangling boy who'd dared stand up to him, taking him on in front of half the town; the brave, foolish boy who'd somehow remained awake when everyone else had fallen under the witch's spell, who'd saved Arthur's life only to disappear before he could be properly thanked.

And now Arthur has a very good idea why. Back then, it would have been madness for anyone with such great magic—and so little common sense—to remain in Camelot.

"Look, I don't mean to interrupt whatever is going on in there." Gwaine gets to his feet, gesturing at Arthur's head. "But do we have a deal?"

"Yes, yes," Arthur says absently. "I'll square your tab here with Mary before I go. The rest will be waiting for you when you deliver the goods. Do you know the Wyvern's Rest, just outside Stonedown?"

Gwaine snorts. "Do I? I reckon I know every tavern there is in the Five Kingdoms."

"Why am I not surprised?" Arthur stops in front of Gwaine, offering his hand. "Can you deliver in three days' time?"

"Shouldn't be a problem." Gwaine clasps his arm. "And now that our business is done, I'll leave you to your pleasure." He winks, tilting his head towards the screen. "Shall I send him back through?"

"Please." Arthur gives a curt nod, trying to ignore his rising flush.

"Then I'll finish my warning before I go." Gwaine claps his free hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Merlin's no whore, nor some dolly boy to be trifled with. The skirts are but one of his disguises. Helps loosen men's tongues, and keeps him safe from the press men."

"He has nothing to fear from me, I swear." He squeezes Gwaine's arm and leans in, adding quietly, "Whether on my ship or in my bed, like you, I only take willing volunteers."

Gwaine is chuckling as he goes, slipping behind the screen, and Arthur is left to pace once more.

"You wanted to see me?"

Arthur starts, whirling about as Merlin appears through the main door off the passage. He's breathing heavily and his cap is askew. One shoulder of his blouse has slipped down.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. Bit of a brawl kicked off downstairs. Mary thought it best to get rid of the louts before they attracted unwanted attention from the king's men."

Arthur curses, reaching for his knife. He'd meant to keep a low profile, but… "How drunk and how many?"

"Oh, no, no." Merlin plants himself in front of Arthur before he reaches the door. "It's all sorted now. Mary can mop up. You should stay out of sight, just in case. There's a way out down the back stairs and through the kitchen."

Arthur studies the young man, layering his memories onto the face before him. They are standing so close they are practically touching; if it weren't for the heels on Arthur's boots, they would be the same height.

"Eager to be rid of me, are you?" Arthur murmurs, arching a brow, and he is gratified to see how the young man blushes. "Or is it that you recall how things went the last time we fought, Merlin?"

His color intensifies, sailing right past a pleasant flush to an angry beet-red. He pokes Arthur in the chest. Hard. "So it is you."

Arthur captures his hand and kisses the back of it. "Arthur Pendragon, at your service." The move stuns the lad, if his expression is anything to go by. "Though these days, most know me as the White Dragon."

Merlin snatches his hand away, holding it to his chest as he takes a step back. "What do you want?"

"Shall I be perfectly honest?"

"You'd better be, if you don't want chucking out as well."

"When you first crawled on my lap, I only wanted a kiss…and whatever might follow after, if you were so inclined. Then, after I saw your magic and heard from Gwaine how you've aided him, I wanted to ask if you might be willing to help my sister and I retake Camelot. But then—"

"You would use me as a weapon, then, same as Agravaine," Merlin cuts in, face gone wooden.

"But," Arthur plunges on, reaching for the lad's shoulders and giving him a gentle shake, "when I realized—when I remembered—who you are, Merlin, all I truly wanted was to say thank you. You saved my life. At a time, perhaps, when it was not much worth saving, but still."

"Oh, I…" Merlin blinks, all the tension bleeding from his frame. "That's not…it was nothing. Instinct, really. Couldn't let someone just stab you like that when you couldn't defend yourself."

"Duly noted," Arthur says with a wry chuckle. Then, when Merlin doesn't pull away, Arthur draws him nearer, enfolding him. "I understand now why you fled, but I promise you, I am not my father, nor my uncle. In the Albion Morgana and I wish to build, magic will be welcome, but never for violence or greed. She says it should be for healing and protection, for helping with the crops—"

"Yes, oh yes," Merlin breaks in, clutching at Arthur's coat. "It is the very essence of the earth, of life, itself. In the right hands, for the right reasons—Arthur, it's…"

He trails off, shaking his head, eyes glistening.

"Beautiful," Arthur whispers, "like you." He brings a hand to Merlin's cheek and strokes it with his thumb. "I would never use you, Merlin. But I will take as much as you care to give."

Merlin swallows, studying him for a long moment. The tears never quite spill, but there is no denying that they are there.

"I don't suppose you still want that kiss?" he says at last.

"Very much so."

Merlin smiles, gaze dropping to Arthur's lips. "Let's begin with that, then, and after…"

"Hm?"

"Well, you are a pirate, are you not?"

"For now. Until we have what we need to reclaim the kingdom."

Merlin glances back up, eyeing him once more like the wench from the tavern. "Then I suppose, after you square things with Mary, you'll have to help me find my sea legs."