Chapter Text
Magic could be their best friend and at times, their worst enemy. It was a part of them yet foreign to their human body. As powerful as a lightning bolt or as weak as a fire flint, magic had its merits as well as its miseries.
Hunith had taught her child how to cope with his misery; how to keep his agony at bay. She also knew that growing up had been the easier part. Now that her child was a young man, she feared there was little else a mother could teach a son. He needed a father now, more than ever.
“…My dear, Gaius," she writes, "I turn to you, for I feel lost and alone. It is every mother’s fate to feel her child is special and yet, I would give my life that Merlin were not so. Ours is a small village filled with taunts and I fear what will become of him, here. He needs a hand to hold, a voice to guide, someone to help with his gift as well as the wretched sadness that it will bring…”
Gaius stopped reading her letter and stared at the doubled words, “…wretched sadness…” The term sparked memories before the great purge. He recalled his own youth. He also recalled the patients he had treated and the books he had read. One book was by Taliesin. The most powerful wizard of his time, Taliesin also had been the most tormented. Ages before, Taliesin had written of a “…wretched sadness…” in his journals.
As Merlin stood at his new bedroom window while mesmerized by the splendor of Camelot, Gaius rose and retrieved one of his forbidden books, hidden behind a stone in his wall.
"Neuropathy, I suffer," Taliesin had written. "Like shards of metal waging battle against my loins' desire. In my youth I cried out, in wretched sadness or in more wretched madness, denied another’s touch. Years of fear have wrought a numbness, my need for love suppressed. Now, age has offered its carnal release and still my sadness writhes. No offspring will mourn my passing, no immortality with continued name. Soon, I will leave this cursed life to those who think, gifted."
A physician, Gaius knew that all men of magic suffered the affliction and in proportion with their powers. Weaker wizards had whined of ants in their breeches while others confessed an annoying itch. Stronger sorcerers had said they tingled and stronger still claimed light pricks. Calamine, he had prescribed and when available, aloe vera extract. Both had soothed the senses well enough to allow each a limited degree of carnal knowledge.
Gaius then looked toward the steps. Hunith’s son undoubtedly had powerful magic for her to fear a "wretched sadness." As he stared at the door, his face grew long and somber. Little else he could do for the boy, except help to keep him alive in Uther Pendragon’s kingdom. Gaius suspected that Merlin soon would cry out like Taliesin, in sadness or in madness, desperate to know another’s touch.
Merrily they came, laughing and gossiping, to tend their waking ladies. Prince Arthur knew that the maidservants poured into the square, each dawn. A ritual for the virile young warrior, he eagerly rose and cracked his window. Standing, hidden behind his painted glass, he watched the elegant procession pass.
There were tall ones, short ones, slim ones, others pleasingly plump, a few too fat for his taste. His eyes always searched out one, in particular. Honey-baked skin and long shimmering curls, she seemed to wake the sun, itself, and spur it to shine a brighter day. Of all the maids parading below, he considered her, by far, the most pleasing to watch. Each morning, he lost his eyes to her graceful stride while his hand crept inside his sleeping breeches…
The procession always passed too soon and a running straggler or two never held his window attention. Completing his ritual, he moved to his bed while lowering his breeches from his morning's sleep-awakened bulge. Honey-baked skin still fresh in his mind, he fell backward and resumed his stroke.
Gruffer voices soon would drift through his window and he knew the menservants were coming. His own once included. A fortnight ago he could stroke at his leisure, after two embarrassing interruptions had taught his old servant to become one of the male stragglers. His new manservant, a straggler by nature, had yet to interrupt him.
Suddenly, Arthur stifled an annoyed cringe. So much for luck, he thought, as he cast his eyes toward the ceiling and pretended that no one was entering. Surely, his new idiot would give him the same respect that his old idiot had given him and quickly leave.
Merlin didn’t. Instead, he stood stock-still in the servant’s entrance, and stared.
Apparent to Arthur, this bold new imbecile also was a voyeur. Neither giving ground, Arthur grew determined to make him go -- with a shock show. Exaggerating his motions, he stroked himself much faster while maniacally pounding and bouncing his hips against the bed. When the idiot still would not leave, Arthur slowly raised his head and gazed upon him. Through sex-darkened eyes and with a lick of his lips, he asked, sarcastic, “Then, do you wish to join me?”
However, as Arthur gazed upon him, he grew as stock-still as Merlin. He saw an expression that he knew would haunt him, forever. On Merlin’s face he read a starving need to accept his offer yet denied by a torment that seemed to cry out for death, itself. Arthur struggled for words to say, for questions to ask but Merlin already had lowered his starving tormented eyes and in great anguish, he eased out.
Then running, until his lungs ached and his legs collapsed, Merlin dropped to the ground beneath the forest canopy. Exhaustion had always camouflaged and cloaked the daggers stabbing at his loins. Why had he stared, he reproached himself, knowing the price he would pay.
The ache in his lungs and legs started to ease, exposing his agony, again. He sat lotus and turned his face toward the heavens. Soothing fingers that drew figure-eights upon his thighs, he closed his eyes and listened to the forest. He heard a summer wren’s lovely song… gentle breezes coaxing leaves to add music… lesser creatures lending backup vocal. Small rays of sunlight filtered through the trees and danced in warm tune, waltzing upon his face…
Merlin relaxed and let the symphony of the forest dull his daggers, like his mother had taught him.
Noontime, Gaius heard a shift in the normal street noise. In fact, he heard no noise. He went to his window and looked out. The Lady Morgana and her maidservant, Guinevere, were passing through. Everyone had stopped their normal activity to curtsy, bow or stare… After all, the king's ward had a beauty unmatched and always so splendidly dressed, Gaius thought, when suddenly his door burst open.
“Gaius! Come quickly!" Prince Arthur beckoned for the court physician to follow. "Morgana dropped a sword on her foot and severed three of her toes!”
Gaius gave another casual glance out his window and then slowly moved toward his eating table. “Go place her toes in a bucket of cold water," he instructed. "I will be there, shortly, to sew them back on.”
Arthur stared at him, dumbfounded. He continued to stand near the door, watching while Gaius sliced bread, apparently to make lunch. He wondered if he ever would rattle the unshakable old man. Since early childhood, he had tried. At five years old, he jumped out of cupboards or broom closets. Boo! His teenage years brought a more imaginative set of pranks -- blue dye in Morgana’s sleeping potion that blued her mouth for a week, animal blood on a faked sword injury or a strong laxative in his father’s muscle draft. Denied attention by a king’s busy schedule, Arthur found Gaius to be more a father than his own. Foiled, again, by the crafty old surrogate, he vowed, “next time.”
“Sire,” he counseled calmly while he sliced. “Have you considered that, perhaps, you’re getting a bit too old for your little pranks? I would hate to read the parable of a young king who summoned his knights to defend his kingdom but none came, because they all thought the attack was a joke.”
“Speaking of jokes, have you seen my manservant,” he asked, changing the subject to the true reason he had come. He moved to sit at the table in hopes that an offered sandwich would afford him the opportunity to ask questions. Instead, he got a condemning brow for his insult.
"Arthur," he counseled further, “you must remember that Merlin was raised in the countryside. Our customs are a bit strange to him but he's learning them as fast as humanly possible. In fact, he's solicited help from Morgana’s maidservant, to better tend to your needs.”
“Guinevere,” he said her name with a smidgen of jealousy that Merlin might be stealing his sunshine. But then, why such sadness, he still wondered and proceeded with his probe. Standing opposite the table, he asked, “Gaius, is Merlin happy here, in Camelot?”
Gaius appeared unshaken, again, although the question sparked the wretched sadness in his mind. Arthur must have noticed it, too, he reasoned, but casually inquired, “Why do you ask?”
“Um,” he hesitated, trying to avoid the embarrassing details. “Um, Merlin reported to my chambers this morning, looking rather… glum.”
“Perhaps, he’s missing his mother and his home,” Gaius offered. “In the future, I’m sure that you’ll do your part to make him feel welcome. A little respect and patience certainly would help.”
Reluctantly, Arthur nodded. He doubted if homesickness explained the acute torment and anguish he had seen on Merlin's face, that morning. Feeling foiled, again, he exhaled, “I‘ll try.” Leaving, he accepted the old diplomat’s answer as no answer, at all. "Thank you, Gaius."
"Ah, Guinevere." Arthur acknowledged her from his desk while putting aside his quill.
Upon entering his chambers she gave a respectful curtsy before asking, “You wish to see me, my lord?”
“Thank you for coming,” he prefaced, standing. “Please, have a seat,” and he beckoned them toward his dinner table.
“My lord,” she objected to the impropriety.
Again, he beckoned. “My dear, Guinevere, I’m in need of a chat. However, my topic may be of a rather delicate nature. If you choose not to speak on the matter, I will understand. But, please,” he appealed, while pulling out a chair for her.
A more gracious order she could not remember. The royal bully did have his charm at times, she thought, as she slowly sat. “A delicate matter, sire?”
“Yes. Concerning my manservant.”
“Merlin,” she asked, surprised by his topic.
“Guinevere,” he said her name, again, finding it pleasing upon his lips. Much more pleasing than the Gwen that Morgana called her. “I’m aware that you’ve been teaching Merlin his duties as a manservant. I also suspect that his quick proficiency with my armor can be attributed to you, being the daughter of a blacksmith.”
She quickly defended, “I meant only to help,”
“And I’m grateful,” he interrupted, implying no need for defense. Unwilling to sit, he paced alongside the table while often glancing into her honey-baked face. “Guinevere,” he said, again. “I’m further aware that teaching him equates to time spent. Can I assume that you’ve earned his friendship, and perhaps, his trust?”
“His trust,” she repeated with a wary objection.
Arthur readily sensed her caution and sought quickly to ease it. “To be honest, Guinevere, I’m concerned about him.” Despite his honest admittance he still read hesitancy on her face. “I grant you, Guinevere, that my initial introduction to Merlin was a bit… tumultuous. But since, I’ve come to find him quite likeable. Not to mention, he has a very endearing smile.”
Guinevere eased, somewhat, surprised that Arthur had noticed. “He does, doesn’t he,” she agreed.
Arthur continued, pleased that he was putting her at ease. “He's also very honest and sincere.”
“He is, isn’t he,” she agreed again, now smiling.
“And he won’t hesitate to say exactly what he thinks of me.”
Guinevere laughed. She was enjoying their private little chat. At the same time, however, Arthur was becoming embarrassed. Often glancing at her, he now felt that masturbating each morning while secretly watching her seemed somehow… wrong. Seeking excuse, he blamed his father. A sexually repressed tyrant who never discussed matters of intimacy or love with his son, all knew that Uther Pendragon would banish, if not hang, any female who dared to approach the prince. After all, the king had his royal bloodline to protect.
Guinevere noticed it all… his glances, how he constantly said her name and now, his discomfort. “Arthur,” she braved to ask, “Are you alright?”
“Um,” he hesitated and then he decided to use his shamed face to his advantage. Surely, such a delicate topic was cause for shame and he blurted, “Have you been sleeping with Merlin?”
“Sire,” she shrilled.
“The reason I ask, Guinevere,” he quickly explained, “is that Merlin looked so melancholy to me, this morning. I thought, perhaps, you’d broken his heart.” He speculated but he was relieved to hear her shrill. “When he reported to my chambers this morning, I feared that he would break down and start sobbing, right before my very eyes.”
Guinevere was not as blunt in her reply. She rubbed a hand about the table, absentmindedly noting its carved texture while she assessed the situation. She concluded foremost that Arthur had feelings for her. His constant glances and name-saying told her as much. She sought to put his mind at ease. “My lord, Merlin and I are just friends," she assured him. "While he has not mentioned a love life to me nor have I seen or heard gossip of one but I must admit, I’ve noticed this melancholy of which you speak. It seems to overtake him with little or no warning.”
“Have you concluded a cause,” he pressed.
“Which would only be speculation, sire. And that, I will not offer,” she said, while wondering if Merlin lacked an innate sexual virility or had even suffered some ghastly childhood injury.
“I understand,“ he nodded, accepting her answer. He nodded, more so, that her quick mind surpassed her physical fairness. Secretly, he vowed that his eyes would seek out another maidservant each morning, while he stood at his window. “Thank you, Guinevere. You’ve been most helpful.”
As she stood, curtsied and left, she thought how much the arrogant bully was changing. Not only was he showing compassion for his servants, herself included, but he might make a reasonably decent liege, someday.