Merthur One-shots

Promises

Summary: Arthur has newly become king, and Merlin learns his place in the new regime.

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Merlin smiled softly down at the head pillowed in his lap. Arthur’s face was peaceful as he dozed, the bridge of his nose reddened from the sun. Ablaze with the golden light of the late summer afternoon, the little clearing was dappled with shades of emerald and umber and saffron, each steady sigh of the breeze a caress across their warm skin. Somewhat unusually, the sorcerer had shucked his brown leather coat and it lay discarded by the horses alongside their packs. While Merlin’s mount chased a butterfly, Arthur’s sweet tempered palfrey, Llamrei, grazed happily upon the abundant grass by her hooves. 

The man in question sighed in his sleep, fingers twitching where they lay curled on his own belly as he dreamed. Merlin massaged the spot between Arthur’s brows with the pad of one thumb in an effort to ease away the small furrow which had inhabited the spot nigh on constantly in his first month as king. Arthur wore his kingship well in public, but Merlin knew the absence of his father was proving a heavy weight in private. The young monarch seemed to be at war with his own memories: the king who’d reigned as a tyrant always at odds with the father he’d revered for so long.

Now more than ever, Merlin was glad of the changing nature of their relationship. These past  few months had seen their bond deepen even further than either of them had dreamed possible, initiated somewhat incongruously by Arthur’s proclivity for tension headaches and Merlin’s own insatiable urge to make him feel better. Day to day, little had changed: the pair still barbed at one another more often than not, thinly veiled insults and physical prodding making way for occasional tenderness in private. The night of King Uther’s death at the hands of an assassin from across the sea, Arthur had allowed Merlin to hold him as he cried. 

Thinking back to that painful evening only a few weeks previously, Merlin brushed the hair reverently from Arthur’s brow, his magic skimming the smooth skin like a benediction. This stolen afternoon had taken a great deal of planning and subterfuge, aided by the shrewdness of Morgana, the sweetness of Gwen and Arthur’s entire inner circle of knights. Thanks to their efforts, the king and his manservant had a few precious candlemarks in which to luxuriate. Of course, the others assumed they’d hunt, or fish, or visit a tavern - Arthur had a reputation to protect, and dozing in the sun with the man he’d been forever destined to love hardly lived up to the image most possessed of a battle tried warrior. 

Absentmindedly, Merlin’s eyes flared and a simple flutter of his fingers gathered a flurry of daises from the ether, his fingers dancing as they weaved themselves slowly into a crown of flowers. A few stray blooms fell to settle in Arthur’s fair hair, and a single brief glance downwards revealed Arthur himself awake and watching the spectacle. His eyes were the blue of the sky above them, and Merlin found himself pondering whether they were always this bright or whether they had taken on the joyful hue of the day. He smiled down at his king, never pausing in his work. 

“Are you putting flowers in my hair?” Arthur asked suspiciously, taking the opportunity to stretch like a cat; his long arms stretched overhead and his back arched from the forest floor. With a sigh of contentment he settled again with his brows quirked in amusement. “I’m not a girl, you know.” 

“What? Really?! You’d think I’d have noticed that by now, wouldn’t you? I guess I really am an idiot,” quipped Merlin in response, tangling the fingers of his free hand with Arthur’s own. “I wanted to make you a crown myself, that’s all. Or my magic did, really. Your gold one is nice but I think daisies will suit you better,” he added with a conspiratorial wink. 

Humming noncommittally, Arthur pushed himself gracefully into a seated position, his long legs tucked underneath him. His eyes were alight with interest as he watched the daisy chain taking shape as if of its own accord, and Merlin’s heart seized with momentary delight; the sun was at its zenith, and it burnished Arthur’s golden hair and crowned him with its molten glow.