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Merlin had been watching him all day.
Mordred had felt the sorcerer’s eyes tracking his movements as they patrolled the boundaries with the other knights, and as Arthur joined in the revelry of celebrations in the courtyard later in the day.
It was no surprise when the door to his chambers burst open that night and Merlin flew into the room, slamming the door shut with a flick of his eyes. Merlin’s eyes immediately sought out where Mordred sat at the small table and stalked over to him.
“Don’t touch him,” Merlin ground out.
Why must you persist in hating me, Emrys? Mordred sent out the words and felt them brush up against Merlin’s own brewing wall of magic.
“I suppose you remember how to use your voice, Mordred?” Merlin’s query dripped of condescension and Mordred remembered the first time they had met and loathed Merlin’s age, loathed his revered treatment in the castle despite only being a servant, loathed the way Merlin felt as if he had some claim over him because of these things.
“I can promise you I have no intention of harming Arthur,” reassured Mordred aloud, standing up suddenly, scraping the wooden chair across the floor. They were of almost equal height now.
“You shouldn’t be here, Mordred.”
“Haven’t you heard, Merlin, I’m a knight of Camelot now. I’ve sworn fealty to my king and his kingdom. What more must I do for you to trust me?”
You will never gain my trust. Merlin conceded and spoke directly to Mordred’s mind, in the process showing him the failed attempts to stop Morgana, and the only slight successes at saving Arthur from repeated harm. Too often had Merlin been scorned by premonitions and prophecies, but Mordred was going to be different, he had sworn it.
“You think you’re so powerful, Emrys, but how many times have you almost let Arthur die at your hands? How many times have you condemned him to death yourself only to save him at the last moment? And all without knowing how much you do for him.” Mordred was growing increasingly brash and even more angry as he built up his rage.
“I posses power you can’t even begin to comprehend,” whispered Merlin dangerously, the edges of his irises beginning to tinge gold.
Is that so? Mordred wordlessly sent out a blast of magic that pressed Merlin up against the stone wall, following close behind.
They each held their respective positions for several moments--Merlin speechless from the outburst and Mordred breathing heavily from the rage and exertion. Slowly, Mordred drew the magic back into himself and in an instant Merlin had flipped their positions, his forearm perilously close to Mordred’s windpipe as he kept him pinned to the wall.
“Don’t threaten me again, Mordred,” Merlin warned, and those were the last words they spoke for the rest of the night.
That night Merlin bent Mordred over that small table and fucked into him ruthlessly, thrusting punishingly again and again until Mordred cried out from the pleasure and pain. Merlin took his release and magicked them both clean. With a searing kiss to Mordred’s shoulder, temple, lips, Merlin withdrew from him and left the room.
The following week, Merlin didn’t throw a spare glance in Mordred’s direction, but he could feel the brewing magic every time he reached out with his own. But true to his word, Mordred stayed docile, becoming an obedient and respectful knight under the attentive tutelage of the older men.
Both men were alike in their regard towards Arthur. Mordred observed carefully every move upon the training field, every directive given in court, whereas Merlin listened attentively to every clang of metal sword on training mail with his eyes fixed on the armor to polish before him, to the numerous problems set forth during the unending council meetings. And at night Arthur left them both, returning to the lavish chambers he shared with Guinevere, his queen.
The second time Merlin came to him it was night, and the day had boiled up to high tensions between the king and his servant. This time Merlin knocked softly and waited to be admitted to Mordred’s chambers. He stood by the door for a while, but when Mordred laid a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, Merlin surged up to meet him in a passionate kiss.
Mordred knew this for what it was. Neither man could have what they wanted, and each shared their frustrations with the situation. But Mordred let all thoughts slip from his mind as Merlin brought his hands up to tug at the hem of his tunic, fingers brushing at the soft skin of his abdomen.
Merlin took his time that night, kissing a path from Mordred’s lips to his chest down to the juncture of his knee and back up again, all the while sending out tendrils of magic to caress the areas of flesh he could not reach. Merlin was drawn out and tender in the taking of his pleasure, and Mordred welcomed him in the valley of his legs, crooking one behind Merlin’s arse to draw him in deeper, cement him inside of Mordred’s own body. This was what it was supposed to be, thought Mordred to himself--being able to provide for Emrys--and he dragged Merlin down by the neck to capture his lips with his own.
Later, when Mordred had just started to cross from the land of the waking into the realm of dreams, Merlin curled into Mordred’s side, his warm breath falling in small puffs on Mordred’s bare shoulder as Merlin pattered his fingers across Mordred’s chest. It was then that Mordred was barely able to contain the thoughts that sought to be communicated, that ached of begging and wanton desire but were painfully withheld.
Love me too.
The next day, Merlin rose before Mordred and planted a small kiss to his temple before slipping out of the knight’s chambers. When Mordred inquired as to where the sorcerer was later that day, not seeing him in the armory, nor the training field, nor Gaius’ work area, he learned that King Arthur and his manservant had elected to go hunting for the day, alone. Anger fought with pain at the answer, and Mordred attempted to throw himself into his training, but made foolish mistakes and tripped squarely over Gwaine’s outstretched foot.
Mordred passed Merlin in the corridor later that night and cornered him into an alcove.
“Did you make up with your pretty little prince? Did you have to lie to him about the marks on your skin or did you use your magic to hide those from him too?” Mordred’s voice lashed out with bitter rancor as Merlin’s face fell into a cloudy anger.
“Not here,” Merlin hissed, and pulled Mordred by the arm into the nearest empty room.
“Despite what you obviously seem to believe, Arthur did not fuck me today. We went hunting, as we usually do, and he explained how idiotic he was being regarding the council matters discussed yesterday.” Merlin explained.
“He’s never going to love you,” retorted Mordred, still stinging from the day left alone. “Let alone fuck you.”
But Merlin didn’t react the way Mordred had hoped. Merlin’s face remained stoic, then morphed into a slight gaze of pity.
“My destiny is to keep him alive,” stated Merlin simply, but his words didn’t only encompass their king, but Mordred as well, in a desperate attempt to outwit fate, and Merlin himself, in the self-sacrificial way he conducted all affairs.
And so it went on. Merlin came to Mordred in all the empty silences of the night, when Arthur had once again pushed him away. Merlin never stayed the night. Each morning he slipped wordlessly out of Mordred’s chambers before the rising of the sun, and each day Merlin kept equal watch on both Mordred and Arthur, though while the latter was treated to the radiance of Merlin’s smiles, Mordred received a turned back and wary distrust.
They didn’t often speak during the nights they shared, too afraid of the secrets, emotions, desires that could emerge to risk anything other than the swirl of their joint magic creating a golden haze around them. They chose each other because they both could not attain what they both so deeply desired, and so in their nights they forged a compromise of unfulfilled promises and hopes written in each others’ skin.