The Twin Thrones
by Angelike Riddle (eos-rose)

Part One: Just Your Imagination

Arthur had presence of mind enough to wait for Merlin to set the tray of bread and sweetmeats on the table before pinning him to the wall with all the force of his maddening frustration, taking full advantage of the younger man’s muffled gasp of surprise to plunder that pretty mouth the way he’d been imagining all morning. The long hours since those first teasing kisses, with which his lover had so coyly coaxed Arthur into wakefulness, had been an agony of unmitigated arousal. Hunting that morning had been a miserable affair. Saddles were not designed with consideration for the discomfiting passions of youth. It was something of a marvel that he hadn’t managed to squirm his way into a decidedly un-princely heap under his horse’s hooves.

If he didn’t know better, he would say King Ban and his hellish progeny were bound and determined to prevent their guest from ever finding satisfaction—in the two weeks since he and his delegation had arrived in Benwick to discuss the renewal of trade agreements, not once had any liaison gone uninterrupted. It was a good strategy, Arthur supposed darkly as Merlin arched into him with a kittenish mewl, because at this point he would make just about any political concession if only he would be allowed privacy enough to debauch his manservant properly. Heaven knew the boy needed it, needed the reminder of just where he belonged after so many days of catering to the juvenile whims of the blushing young Prince Brat and his similarly Merlin-enraptured delinquent cousins.

Licking into his friend’s mouth the way Arthur knew drove him wild, he tasted honey and cinnamon—evidence of the fact that Merlin had been sneaking sweets again, insatiable glutton that he was—and felt his blood heat with the sure knowledge that this was his. After barely more than two months, the change in their relationship was still a little new and a lot amazing.

“Oh,” Merlin breathed, eyes wide and blown as he bent his head back to expose the long column of his supple neck in open invitation.

The small squeak of pleasure-pain when Arthur latched on his neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave a mark (let Prince Brat comment on that, if he dared!), sent a thrill straight to Arthur’s groin. He loved the noises Merlin made under his ministrations, loved how he couldn’t silence his desire even when he tried. He wanted to make him whimper, make him scream—loud enough that the cries would echo down every corridor of this gods-forsaken castle and leave no one with any doubt about who Merlin’s master was. In the interest of diplomacy, Arthur would permit his lover to charm the courtly children with his easy-going smile and innocent exuberance, but his generosity was not infinite.

Hard sucks and bruising bites gentled into soft nibbles and softer kisses peppered along a jutting collarbone (how someone who ate like such a pig could remain so disgustingly skinny was a mystery beyond comprehension). Arthur slipped his hand up Merlin’s tunic, smirking against skin when Merlin jerked and quivered when as Arthur’s cool hand met the hot flesh of his of his belly.

“G-God!”

“You can call me Arthur,” he laughed, grinning wickedly at Merlin’s huff of annoyance before capturing his lips in wet apology and then promptly dropping to his knees.

“So,” Merlin said, “your knee-walking seems to be coming along okay.”

Arthur laughed again. “And you’re still pants at it. Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of opportunity for practice once I’m done with you.”

Now, one thing that must be understood about Merlin was that he had a very sensitive bellybutton. Arthur discovered very early on that massaging over and into the small dip of his navel with one attentive finger could bring Merlin’s cock to full hardness in minutes—and laving at the area with his tongue could reduce Merlin to a heaving, sobbing wreck in thirty seconds flat. He had a suspicion that if he kept at it long enough, he could make his lover come through that alone. It was a theory worth testing.

“Ar-Arthur…”

“You’re such a tease,” Arthur commented with affected nonchalance, pausing just long enough to secure Merlin’s erratically thrusting hips. Eager fingers clawed at his shoulders, trying to cajole him into more harder faster. A sorely neglected cock was rubbing insistently under Arthur’s chin, but Arthur ignored it. This was too much fun.

“Wh-Who’s a t-tease?” Merlin’s astonishment was too cute. Briefly, Arthur pondered informing Merlin that he seemed to have begun mimicking Gaius’ miraculous acrobatic eyebrows, but thought better of it. Bringing up Gaius (or any parental figure, for that matter) tended to kill the mood.

Arthur’s own cock wept at the thought. He’d grown accustomed to regular sex. The dry spell needed to end. He had approximately an hour’s break for luncheon before one of those dratted nobles would decide to come looking for him. He fully intended to use his time wisely. The famine was over!

“You are.” Arthur punctuated this with a definitive jab of his tongue into Merlin’s bellybutton. “Have you been torturing me on purpose?”

“I d-don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“No? So you haven’t been tormenting me like some sort of fey creature, wrapping me in your spell only to dance out of reach each time I try to catch you? Don’t think I haven’t seen you making eyes at me during meetings—licking your lips, making those lewd gestures with the wine goblets...” The terrible wretch seemed to find Arthur’s anguish amusing. Bastard even had the gall to wear his second pair of trousers (the ones so obscenely tight around the rear that he was sure Hunith must have ordered them destroyed years ago) and using his “clumsiness” as an excuse to bend the fuck over during Very Important Meetings. It was more than a little upsetting that Merlin seemed to be handling the situation so calmly. More annoying than the cruel taunting were the times when Merlin seemed to look right through him, like he wasn’t even there—and didn’t even have the grace to scowl when Princess Jolecia cozied up to him and did the pouty, batty-eyelash thing. Merlin liked sex, too; Arthur knew he did! So why was he the only one going crazy here?

“I’m—” Arthur sucked hard at the small depression, flicking his tongue just so. Merlin whimpered pathetically. “—s-sorry!”

“Are you really?” Arthur asked, not believing him for one second. Vindictively positioning himself so that his breath was lightly ghosting over spit-slick skin, he peered up through his lashes to survey his handiwork. Hands clutching desperately at the tapestry at his back with white-fisted determination? Check. Chest rising and falling erratically? Check. Pink lips swollen and abused from useless efforts to bite back moans? Check. One manservant on the verge of swooning like an overwrought girl? Double check. Merlin was glaring unhappily down at him, but was too far gone to form so much as a word of protest at Arthur’s strategic withdrawal. Arthur patted himself on the back and counted this as a win. It was fascinating to see how sensitive Merlin was to his touch, how easily Arthur could shatter him to pieces. No one else had ever broken Merlin apart like this, he was sure of it. Merlin was as clay in an artist’s hands: malleable and ready to be shaped as his master saw fit.

None of his previous lovers had responded quite like this. Then again, he hadn’t been so much interested in giving pleasure as taking pleasure. With Merlin, it was different. There was no sense in denying it, much as he might like to.

Arthur leaned in to press his lips back to Merlin’s exposed belly, the gesture more fond than ravaging this time. Long fingers combed through his hair in reply, and he didn’t have to look up to know Merlin’s expression had softened into something unnameable.

“Arthur—” Merlin began, but naturally someone decided to knock on the door at that exact moment. Arthur groaned and buried his face in Merlin’s belly.

“Maybe,” Merlin started in a low whisper, “they’ll go away if we don’t answer it?” He didn’t sound confident.

The knocking began again, more persistent this time and accompanied by the earnest tones of Merlin’s young admirer: “Prince Arthur? Merlin? Are you there?” Arthur gritted his teeth and rose to his feet, mollified to see his own irritation mirrored in Merlin’s pinched expression.

Resigned, they sighed in unison.

“Your swain is here to fetch you.”

“He’s twelve,” Merlin pointed out with an exasperated roll of his eyes as he attempted to put himself to rights and hide his undiminished arousal. He made sure his neckerchief covered the forming bruises. Shame, that. “You can’t seriously be jealous of a twelve-year-old.”

“Merlin? Are you in there?”

“Just a moment, Your Highness!” Merlin called out. And, in a hushed hiss for Arthur’s ears only: “You’re the one who blackmailed me into playing court jester for the children. Don’t be a prat just because your effort to humiliate me backfired!”

And, okay, yeah—Merlin had a point. When the children’s governess had taken an unexpected leave of absence shortly after their arrival, Arthur had offered Merlin’s temporary services, ostensibly in the spirit of promoting good will between Camelot and Benwick (everyone knew that the way to the heart of Ban was through his children). He had also implied that he just might possibly let slip a few comments referring to certain embarrassing incidents (one of which may have involved a dress, a bucket of rotten produce, and his father’s prize stallion) within Gaius’ hearing if Merlin didn’t make nice with the children and cater to Arthur’s whim. But, really, he had only wanted to extract a laugh or two from Merlin’s efforts. He’d never thought that the children would take such a shine to Merlin, or that Queen Elaine would so gladly accept Merlin’s assistance. And if he’d had even an inkling that Prince Brat would try to appropriate his manservant, Arthur would have kept Merlin securely attached to his hip (or locked in his quarters). That he now couldn’t withdraw his offer of Merlin’s services without seeming a cad was fast becoming an unbearable dilemma. Illogical as it was, Arthur was starting to harbour a grudge against not only Prince Brat for making off with his manservant at every turn, but also against the whole of the royal family for accepting his offer in the first place.

Arthur collapsed into a seat at the table, wincing as the fabric of his trousers pulled uncomfortably tight against his groin. At least he wasn’t the only one in dire straits; Merlin was walking rather stiffly toward the door.

“Hello, Merlin!” Prince Brat said, beaming brightly when Merlin let him in. The boy was cute, Arthur had to grant him that: all ginger curls and emerald eyes and quirky dimples. He was short, though, and skinny—scrawny, even. Arthur had never been that pathetically scrawny. He bet the boy couldn’t even lift a proper sword yet. And he had freckles. The freckles, at least, weren’t cute. At all. In fact, they were positively un-cute.

Arthur pasted a friendly smile on his face when Prince Brat’s eyes slid in his direction. “Prince Hector,” he greeted. “I thought Lady Evaine was taking your cousins and yourself on a picnic this afternoon?”

Prince Brat’s grin widened—and dear gods! Was he blushing? “She is. But I was hoping, with your permission sir, that Merlin might be permitted to join us? I remembered that he’d said he’d like to catch a glimpse of the sea—and, well, since we’re heading that way—” With every sweetly spoken word, the standoffishness in Merlin’s stance lessoned while the tension between Arthur’s shoulders grew.

Merlin’s eyes were half-hopeful and half-remorseful. “Please, sire,” he said. “I’ve never been to the sea before. I’d like to go.”

Wistfully, Arthur watched the last vestiges of his chance to finish what he’d started go up in smoke. It was going to be just him and his right hand this afternoon. Again.

“Oh, very well,” he said grudgingly. Something fluttered in his chest when Merlin smiled warmly, mouthing a wry apology. “Just promise me you won’t let him near the water. Blundering fool that he is, he’d probably end up trying something idiotic and drowning himself.”

A snort met this announcement, which Arthur countered with an imperious frown. Merlin was unimpressed.

“I’ll take good care of him,” Prince Brat agreed, nodding enthusiastically. It was a close call, but Arthur managed to refrain from throwing down a not-so-metaphorical gauntlet when the winsome little worm took Merlin’s hand in his to tug him out of the room and down the corridor. Any day now the brat would be asking Ban to offer for his servant as part of the negotiations. Arthur could not guarantee his self-restraint would hold then.

What would Uther say when Benwick declared war on Camelot because Arthur murdered their prince for trying to steal away a lowly servant?

Arthur didn’t look forward to that conversation.

With a disgruntled growl, he poured himself a fortifying goblet of wine, threw it back in record time, and was just about to do something about the lingering tightness in his trousers when Princess Jolecia appeared.

It was official. Ban was trying to kill him.

When Arthur next saw Merlin, his hair was suspiciously damp and his clothes had been changed. Arthur shouldn’t have been surprised. Idiot that he was, Merlin clearly couldn’t resist the lure of danger—and the chance to spite him, never mind that his concern had been honest, regardless of tone.

Pursing his lips in frustration, Arthur glared daggers across the courtyard at Merlin, who was grinning, impish and vivacious, as he taunted the baffled Lionel with some admittedly impressive slights of hand while his cousin (none other than Prince Brat) and Bors the Younger (Lionel’s elder brother) laughed uproariously. If Merlin noticed Arthur’s eyes on him, he showed no sign. Fool. Arthur had half a mind to march across the courtyard and throttle him. Merlin didn’t know a damn thing about the perils of riptides or any of the other nameless threats that lurked beneath the sea’s surface. He had no business tempting fate. Trouble followed him quite enough as it was.

“M’lord? Are you well?”

Unfortunately, his ambassadorial obligations demanded that he pay special courtesy to those he effectively meant to woo, which meant that dislodging Princess Jolecia from his arm in favour of dragging a lowly servant into a private corner for a good scolding was out of the question. That she seemed inclined to seize every opportune moment to cling to him like a limpet had been annoyingly precious at first, when the habit had still been fresh enough to get a rise out of Merlin. Now it was just plain annoying.

“Not at all, m’lady,” Arthur said with the most charming smile he could muster. The girl practically swooned. “I was merely contemplating the possibility of reinstating the official position of Court Jester in Camelot. I fear my idiot manservant’s talents are being wasted.”

The princess’s lips curved sweetly as she peered in the direction of Merlin and her younger relatives. Merlin was in the process of retrieving his supposedly “disappeared” neckerchief from one of Lionel’s ears to thunderous applause from his young charges. “Yes,” she nodded with a twinkling laugh, “he is a bit of a fool, isn’t he?”

“Indeed.” Arthur mentally ground his teeth, but his smile was still firmly in place when she turned back to him. “Shall we continue on to the stables? I have heard m’lady has a passion for horseflesh to rival my own.”

“Oh, yes, let’s!”

He honestly had nothing to do with the bizarre events that led to Princess Jolecia’s royal curls becoming caked in horse manure. But he would have been lying if he claimed anything other than vindictive joy at the sight.

In the end, Arthur never did get the chance to make his displeasure with Merlin known. He tried, he really did, but the moment he attempted to broach the subject that evening, Merlin got this glint in his eye and launched into a shocking elucidation outlining (in filthy, explicit detail) how fiercely he had yearned for Arthur that day; how he’d stripped down to his skivvies and lain belly down in the warm sand with the sea lapping around his ankles; he he’d wished Arthur was behind him, over him, fucking into him while the sand rubbed and burned and got into ridiculous places and—

And then Merlin just happened to recall that he had agreed to accompany some of the servants of Ban’s household to a small gathering that evening in order to perform a little reconnaissance (“Servants have eyes and ears everywhere, Arthur. They probably know which issues the king is ambivalent toward and which will require more delicate treatment better than Ban himself!”). The fiend was looking much too pleased with himself as he beat a hasty retreat.

At that point, Arthur was too glossy-eyed with lust to care overmuch about an illicit swim. He just wanted to get laid. Was that really too much to ask?

The next morning Arthur had a plan.

It had become abundantly clear that if he didn’t take bold action, he would be remaining hopelessly chaste for the duration of his stay in Benwick, and that was simply unacceptable. He was so strung-out that he’d soiled his sheets the night before like some shamefaced adolescent. Any more of this torture and he’d be bending Merlin over the table in the great hall during dinner, and damn the consequences!

Now, let it be known that Arthur did not command the most disciplined and lethal band of knights in all of Albion just because people were intimidated by him (as any sensible person should be, proving once and for all that Merlin had all the sensibility of a turnip) or because he was the best fighter (which he was) or even because he was the king’s son (though that didn’t hurt). No—what gave him his edge was one thing and one thing only: strategy. He had a natural affinity for it. On the battlefield, being capable of reading the nuances of a situation, gauging the possibilities, and responding accordingly needed to be instantaneous and reflexive.

For all that the vicious assault on his sex life differed from the usual battle scenarios, it was also very much the same. Once he’d made up his mind to launch a counterattack on the forces of evil keeping him celibate, it all fell together rather quickly. A few carefully placed questions here, some mild flirting there, and he was ready.

His good humour might have come across as slightly maniacal. Merlin looked decidedly nervous all through breakfast and dragged his feet through his morning chores, shooting Arthur wary looks whenever he thought Arthur wasn’t paying attention. His expression was mulish when one of the servants under Prince Brat’s command arrived to see what was keeping him. Arthur tried to feel guilty for worrying him, but failed.

Merlin would forgive him. He always did.

Luncheon that day was a family affair—that is, it consisted of Ban, his brother, their wives and children and Arthur. Possibly this was symbolic of an invitation to the family, but beyond seating Arthur across from his daughter, Ban gave no indication of interest in his current marital status. Princess Jolecia simpered in his direction. Merlin—who, it was understood, would always serve his master during meals—had the gall to smirk at Arthur’s misfortune as he poured the wine.

“It’s not too late to have you sacked,” Arthur grumbled lowly, not meaning a word of it.

“Of course not, sire.”

Then, because Arthur was feeling wicked and saw no reason to avoid embarrassing his cheeky servant, he grabbed Merlin’s wrist as he started to pull back. “Merlin, I have been meaning to speak to you,” he said loudly enough to catch the attention of his neighbours. He grinned inwardly, putting on an outward show of long-suffering. “You seem to have forgotten that whatever your other duties, you remain my servant. I have borne your incompetence patiently, but do you know what I found when I decided to spar with Sir Bors this morning?”

Arthur paused for effect.

Merlin blinked.

“Mud in my chainmail.” Sir Bors and King Ban emitted derisive grunts, expressing what they thought of such carelessness. Arthur glowered, enjoying the way Merlin’s mouth dropped open, making a remarkable impression of a fish.

Awful servant though he may be, one thing that could be said for Merlin was that he was always careful with Arthur’s armour. Very careful. Careful bordering on obsessive, actually. A few months past, Merlin had seen firsthand the consequences of poorly kept metal and the corrosive power of rust. It had been a gruesome spectacle—and Merlin had been close enough to the tourney field to taste blood. Communing with Arthur’s armour became a compulsive itch in Merlin’s routine after that.

The point, of course, being that Merlin would never have left his mail unattended. Ever. This was why Arthur had taken particularly perverse delight in smearing the dirt into the links that morning, all the while looking forward to seeing his friend good and riled. They hadn’t had a proper row in ages, which was a shame because Merlin really was something to behold whilst caught in the throes of sputtering indignation.

Unfortunately, here and now wasn’t an appropriate time or place to indulge in manservant-baiting. If he let Merlin’s mouth run away with him, he would be forced to have him punished or risk losing face, neither of which were tolerable outcomes. Not to mention the fact that Merlin could be as vindictive as any girl and pressing his luck too far would result in a case of blue balls that even a return to Camelot might not be able to cure.

“You’re lucky there was no rust.” Well, okay. Arthur couldn’t help himself. Surely a few jibes were warranted? No one would buy his act if he sugar-coated it. He had a reputation to maintain.

“But, sire!” Merlin was positively outraged. Blood was pooling in his cheeks, flushing down his neck in a most becoming manner. Arthur, having conducted several highly scientific investigations into the matter, knew just how far down that blush extended. “I would never—”

Arthur suppressed a grin.

“I’m sure you did not intend to risk my life in your carelessness, but such behaviour really cannot be borne.” Arthur turned to Queen Elaine with an apologetic nod and the woeful smile of the long-suffering. “I hope my lady will not be put out if I offer instead one of the maids, who is in service to a member of my delegation, while I attempt to correct my manservant’s deplorable work ethic.”

“Not at all. It is, of course, your right to discipline him as you see fit.”

“Very good. I will have the girl report to you early this afternoon. As for you, Merlin, I have gone through the trouble of compiling a list of chores that most urgently need to be seen to.” Arthur procured a small scroll of parchment from the inner pocket of his coat and waved it in Merlin’s direction, who accepted it with a pinched scowl. “Forgetfulness does not justify negligence.”

“Yes, sire,” said Merlin in a tone that very much suggested that by “sire” he did, in fact, mean “you great toad-spotted blaggard!” or something similarly insolent. Then he unrolled the parchment with an angry jerk, blinked at it, looked at Arthur, blinked down at the scroll again, and finally settled for staring at Arthur with a mixture of astonishment and disbelief. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound issued forth.

Arthur patted himself on the back. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d managed to render the cheeky bastard speechless (without occupying that mouth with other, more mindless, pursuits, that is). “Let us hope,” he said coolly, quirking one brow in challenge, “that henceforth you will attend to your master’s needs with greater diligence. You will not like the consequences if I have to speak to you of this again.”

Merlin nodded, swallowing thickly.

“Excellent!” Arthur exclaimed, turning a blinding smile on Princess Jolecia, who choked on her wine in surprise. “Oh, dear! Are you quite all right?”

She coughed and spluttered.

Merlin spent the duration of the mid-day meal fidgeting uselessly and blushing every time Arthur so much as twitched in his general direction. Prince Brat sulked and pouted until his mother banished him to his rooms in exasperation.

It was shaping up to be a wonderful day.

Being the absolute girl he was, Merlin emitted a high-pitched squawk when Arthur threw open the door, grabbed his arm in a vice-grip, yanked him into the room he had been impatiently lurking in for more than a quarter of an hour, and attacked his parted lips with only a huskily growled “You’re late!” as warning. Merlin was stiff with shock for a few worrying moments before he melted in recognition, fingers fisting in Arthur’s shirt in welcome acknowledgement. There was something like relief in the gesture.

Arthur wondered who else Merlin could have possibly thought would be accosting him in an abandoned corridor; especially when he’d made his intentions so explicitly clear previously. Something protective and cold pitted in his stomach. He made a mental note to compel Merlin into some lessons in self-defence, because if frozen compliance was how Merlin could be expected to react to a stranger’s surprise attack on his virtue, then he had good cause for concern.

His cross musings did not last long.

Quite suddenly Arthur found himself pinned to the door in a mirror of his own passionate assault on Merlin from the previous day. Ye gods. Merlin sucked Arthur’s tongue into his mouth in full earnest, and Arthur lost all ability to think of anything but that sweet suction and the aggressive press of his lover’s lanky body crowding demandingly close. Arthur would never admit how much he liked it when Merlin took control.

“Prat,” Merlin chuckled with a playful nip at Arthur’s bottom lip. “Riling me up with that blatant lie in front of everyone—making it clear that I was yours for the day. Luring me to an unused wing of the castle even the servants don’t venture into with that filthy note. You have some nerve.”

The note had been a stroke of genius really.

Merlin,

Upon the third hour past noon you are to meet me in the western-most corridor beyond the old fourth floor chapel. You have been most derelict in attending to your master’s needs. I require the following:

A good, proper snog. I want it wet. I want my tongue so far down your throat that you can’t breathe. And I want you begging for mouth on my cock. Those perfect lips never look prettier than when they’re stretched wide around me. They were made for cock in your arse. I’ll bet you’ll be tight for me. It’s been so long. But don’t worry—I’ll work you open for me, first with my fingers. One, then two, then three. Maybe, if you’re suitably compliant, I’ll give you four. And then, just to make sure you’re good and ready for me, I’ll give you my tongue. By the time I come inside you, you’ll be so dizzy with pleasure that you won’t even remember your name.

In the future, I should prefer not to have to go to these ridiculous lengths to get a little relief. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement beneficial to the both of us, yes?

—A.P.

P.S. Bring oil.

Arthur would forever treasure the memory of Merlin’s frazzled, glassy-eyed expression upon seeing those words. Truth be told, he’d been nervous about that letter and had worked his way through many sheets of precious paper in crafting his proposal before accepting that Merlin had no head for subtleties and only making his meaning inescapably plain would yield the desired results. They both ran the risk of a scandal should anyone else ever discover it, but he trusted Merlin would dispose of it safely.

“I’m the prince,” he said, and did not tremble under Merlin’s heated gaze. “I have nerves of steel. And I believe there are better things you could be doing with your mouth than rambling.”

“Oh, yeah?” Merlin smirked, brushing a trail of teasing kisses along his jaw line. “Did you have something in particular in mind?” He slipped his hands up Arthur’s shirt and over his chest, one hand scraping roughly along sinewy muscle while the other teased over the sensitive scar tissue that marred his left pectoral in long deep lines, which spliced through his nipple and curved down his ribcage.

Against his will, Arthur shivered.

Merlin smirked. The impudence!

Arthur swallowed thickly, staring blindly across the room at the elaborate wardrobe dominating the far wall. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, which Arthur had initially found odd before realizing that moving something of such immense size would have been an endeavour hardly worth the effort. Now he was glad of its looming presence, of the calming distraction it offered as his lover exacted cruel revenge upon his person. He refused to fall apart due to mere kisses and a few well-placed caresses.

“On your knees.” The words were more a plea than a command. He really was in dire straits, wasn’t he?

Merlin opened his mouth to respond, probably with a comment that would get him thrown in the stocks under ordinary circumstances, but cut himself off when the sound of a soft feminine call echoed down the corridor, followed by the faint rustle of skirts and the opening and closing of creaking doors. “Prince Arthur? Are you here?”

Princess Jolecia.

Arthur cringed.

“So,” Merlin said balefully, “what exactly did you tell her when you left her earlier?”

“I didn’t say I was coming up this way to fornicate with my manservant, if that’s what you’re implying!” Arthur shifted guiltily. “I didn’t actually tell her anything. I just gave her the slip. One of the servants must have seen me come this way.”

“Arthur?”

She was coming closer.

Merlin pulled away, mutinous, but Arthur caught his arm before he could get too far and glanced meaningfully between him and the wardrobe.

“You must be joking.” His lover’s hushed tone was strangely plaintive, something wary flickering across his face, but Arthur was already hustling them both over the barren floorboards. Whatever Merlin’s grudge was against organized closet spaces would have to wait.

“Quick!” said Arthur, “there’s nowhere else,” and flung open the wardrobe. The both of them bundled inside it and sat there, breaths mingling, in the dark. Arthur held the door closed but did not shut it; for, of course, he knew, as every sensible person does, that you should never shut yourself up in a wardrobe.

His fingers found Merlin’s.

One of them had to be sensible.

“Arthur! Merlin!”

Morgana jerked awake with a start, heart fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird. She felt breathless, afraid, drowning beneath wave after wave of apprehension. The images in her dreams flashed before her eyes, refusing to grant her peace, even in waking.

“My lady?” Gwen said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. Placing her own hand over Gwen’s, Morgana breathed deep and forced herself to relax. It was odd that she should dream so vividly when she’d only laid down for a short mid-day nap, but it didn’t mean anything. It was just a dream, nothing to worry about. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” Morgana assured her with a strained smile. “Yes, of course. Just—just one of my nightmares. I’ll have to talk to Gaius about changing my dosage again.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“I—no,” Morgana said. “It was nothing. Just odd.” She laughed, a little wryly. “I hardly think this dream is a portent for the future. Somehow I doubt Arthur and Merlin will be climbing into any wardrobes to do battle with witches tyrannically ruling over the magical forests hidden behind moth-eaten old coats.”

Gwen snorted, startled, lips curling into a relieved smile. “Oh, no. Probably not.”

Shaking her head at her own foolish fears, Morgana grinned and reached for the embroidery basket she had earlier abandoned in favour of a short rest. There was no reason to worry. None at all.

To be continued...

This story has been completed at approximately 40,000 words, so updates will be regular. How regular will depend on (a) when I find time to login next, and (b) what sort of response I find in my inbox. But the second chapter will most certainly be out by October 2nd (this coming Friday).