.

.

"Myrddin…"

It's more of a whisper than a proclamation, bubbling crimson out of Sir Anthony's lips.

A smear of colour to his greying, unresponsive features, and those laurel-green eyes darkening away to coal-blood pupils. Arthur wipes Odin's son's blood off his gleaming, steel sword, using the end of his cape. The huge stains merges with Camelot red.

He feels nothing for a man willing to engage in combat, and seeking Arthur's on demise.

It's war.

Cornwall—Odin's kingdom—falls within several days of invasion, into chaos and soot. Dead bodies litter the streets, a number of Camelot's knights among them. They gather their men's corpses for burning, removing personal tokens and sigils. Those items will burn on the pyres back home—in memory and in reverence for courageous lost souls.

It's fire and bloodshed.

Arthur witnesses his father strike down Odin in a mighty feat. At the time, they are deep within one of the lower-level corridors.

Odin wheezes out, dark red fluid splattering his mail and plum-coloured tunic. He grips at his open-wide wound, crumbling to his knees, moaning helplessly as Uther's foot pushes him to the ground. Uther's knights roar in their heartfelt victory.

He's left there, bleeding out on the flagstones.

Arthur walks around him, with a vacant expression, staring down.

"My son… tell me…" Odin begs, wheezing between his breathes. His thickly bearded jowl quivers in effort to not cry out, to not damn them all the hell.

Perhaps he should be.

"He is gone, King Odin," Arthur finds himself answering, this time with genuine feeling. He grasps his sword's pommel. "For this, I am sorry." Odin stares up at him, dumbstruck. His hand goes limp, dropping from his gushing wound.

Arthur takes pity on him, raising his weapon above his head and jamming his blade through Odin's heart.

.

.

The dungeons are plastered in filth. He can smell the excrement.

Camelot's knights discover cells and cells of prisoners and traitors. Arthur narrows his eyes in suspicion at the group of muddied servants huddling around, muttering to each other and giving worried looks. He marches within the dingy, shadowy holding-cell, yanking aside a terrified woman and hearing the others protest.

It's a boy, hardly sixteen-name-days. He's in their centre of their attention, his wide-eyed, drowsy gaze unblinking.

Arthur has never seen a pair of eyes so empty.

"Please, sire…" one of the women speaks up, coming forward. She yelps as Sir Bertrand smacks her rump with a nasty grin and tells her to hush up now. Somewhere in another cell, there are noises like retching and hellish shrieking.

With an animal-skin glove, Arthur grabs the boy's chin, turning his face to examine him more closely.

He's beautiful enough for a child, his little pink lips plump with fat. His skin rosy and milky pale under the grime. The boy is rather pitifully thin, and indicating signs of mistreatment with healing bruises on his neck and left cheek. (A kitchen boy? A stable boy?…)

Arthur's fingers pinch down, as the boy thrashes out of his hold, skittish.

"Speak your name," he orders. Arthur then frowns at the pointed, blue-eyed silence. "Are you defying me, boy? Speak."

"He is Emrys, m-my lord."

Another older woman flinches away, head ducking, as Sir Alynor raises his gauntlet to strike her. Arthur sends him a warning glare until it falls. "What's the matter with him?" he asks a bit more softly. She only shakes her head in bemusement, hands wringing together.

Arthur instructs the rest of his father's knights to investigate what remains of the dungeons, hauling out these servants.

They'll all be put to the sword before nightfall, at King Uther's behest.

Arthur's nostrils fill with a weakened scent, almost like a hot, sweet pheromone. There's something about this boy. Something Arthur cannot quite put his finger on. It takes a long-stretching moment, but he recognizes it underneath the dirt and stale, watery urine.

He's an Omega.

Arthur feels his own cock twitch on instinct, stiffening in his trousers. He leads Emrys out, hearing no protest or whimper.

.

.

Uther appears overjoyed at the news.

"Is this him then?" he demands, nearly barreling aside Arthur as they stand under Cornwall's smoking, towering gates.

"… Father?"

"Odin's slut. The peasants have been speaking of him imprisoned." Uther's bare fingers clasp harshly at Emrys's thin, dirty face, eerily mimicking as Arthur had in the dungeons. The difference in this being the pure look of horror on the boy.

Arthur's stomach coils in revulsion.

"Magnificent. I have been granted the spoilers of this war, after all," Uther says, his delight unwavering.

He grins and grins, enamored in his own ludicrously unpleasant imaginings as the survivors are rounded up, beheaded, slain, hollering for mercy.

.

.

The return to Camelot isn't soon enough.

Uther waits for the physicians to properly examine the Omega, for injuries and health, before he's allowed into Uther's bedchambers. The reports will come. For now, Uther shut them in and locks the entry-doors, forbidding anyone to disturb him.

The boy smells like roses and warm oil. He's clean for once, dressed only in a loose, flimsy nightshirt.

Too-short material does nothing to conceal his lack of cock nestling in dark curls of pubic hair or his round, lily-white buttocks.

Uther's mouth waters.

"Legs apart," he growls out, shoving Emrys on his back. Uther fumbles with his breeches, yanking out his already thickened Alpha prick, its bulbous head gleaming wet with pre-cum. He slicks his fingers, jamming two into Emrys's opening with obvious enthusiasm, scissoring and preparing him.

It's just as an Omega cunt should be—heat, gripping on tightly as Uther fucks in, roughly slamming himself against Emrys's soft, opened thighs. His swollen, red balls snug against that little arse. Uther intends to be done with this quickly, bonding for his show of dominance, claiming the Omega as it was decreed in territorial urges.

To kill an Alpha was to claim his property, and that meant his Omega as well. Uther didn't need to love the boy to own him and fill his belly with heirs. Certainly, Odin would have seen common sense in that.

He killed Odin, and Uther would have his prized Omega—completing the bonding ritual and fucking him into his heat cycle.

Except… something's wrong.

The longer this goes on, the more Uther suspects it. The boy remains listless, disinterested in features and quiet breathing. No sign of a heat trigger. No call of the bond. He's nothing more than an unwilling body underneath him.

Uther's rage intensifies when he hears the knocking. He's barely knotted.

"The court physician wishes to speak to you," a guard informs him.

"He can wait a moment longer," Uther bellows, He glares outright at Emrys who continues staring vacantly towards the ceiling, lips pressing together. "What's the matter with you? Straighten yourself up. There's a guest. Get yourself a rag, boy—you're disgusting."

When Gaius finally enters, Emrys waits in a chair, head bowed. Uther paces in front of him, fingers clenching themselves.

"Forgive the intrusion, my lord—"

Uther snatches onto the back of Emrys's neck, throttling him slightly.

"Why the hell is he not reacting to anything? Look at this, Gaius!" he says, turning a dangerous shade of reddish-violet. An enlarged vein thudding visibly on Uther's temple. "The only thing he does is breathes! He's a damned mute!"

Gaius nods.

"He's in shock, I'm afraid. The bond with his mate has been severed most recently—it is natural in many known cases." Emrys is released, hunching over and silent as ever as Gaius approaches them. "Given time, the boy will begin to speak again. But that's not why I'm here, sire," the court physician announces, grimly. "He's already withchild."

Uther's dismay reveals itself into a cruel laugh.

"Can't you DO anything about it?"

"I beg pardon, my lord?"

"Yes, the bastard in his belly… you need to RID of it, are you not listening?"

Gaius lifts an eyebrow. He says in utmost sternness, "That would be … ill-advised. This would appear to be the first time he conceived, and to force his body to terminate the child may result in irreversible damage to his womb."

Uther's lip curls in response.

"That doesn't explain why he refuses to be bonded."

His temper explodes when Sir Leon is pulled into the conversation, and Arthur leans guardedly against the wall.

"Sire, the prince delivered the last blow to Odin as he was dying. I saw it. It was a mercy killing."

"Which means the boy's true Bond-mate would be Arthur," Gaius points out, and all eyes are on him. Including Emrys's. Arthur ignores his father's cursing and sudden temper tantrum, removing himself from the situation, going down the corridor.

He bites the inside of his cheek hard until Arthur tastes damp, slick blood.

.

.

The first time Arthur touches him, the boy's eyes flash gold like the sun—and Arthur knows he has to protect him.

.

.

He's "used goods" according to Camelot's king, but Arthur doesn't force Emrys to bond with him. They will consummate when they feel like it's beneficial to each of them, he insists, with Emrys already carrying a dead king's babe and in a frail state of mind.

Myrddin, Myrddin… Myrddin

It's the last thing Sir Anthony—Odin's son—called out in pleading before his death.

Arthur speaks the name in passing, one evening before he leaves Emrys to rest in their chambers. Admittedly, he's never witnessed the colour drain from someone's face so completely. The boy appears dizzy as he sits upright, gobsmacked.

"You are Myrddin…?" Arthur replies, eyeing him as Emrys' stunning blue eyes fill with moisture.

His mouth opens, and what issues out is but a croaking sob. He cries noisily and hysterically, bright and flush-faced, hugging his arms around Arthur's shoulders until they sink together on the bed. Arthur's lips press little, comforting kisses into Myrddin's sable hair and his forehead.

.

.

Uther passes away come winter. The physicians assure him it was during his sleep, and with very little discomfort.

The castle seems lighter.

Magic pulls at Arthur's veins and his bones, summoned on by his and Myrddin's deepening bond. Myrddin no longer cries for long periods of time, or gazes at nothing and no one. He walk about the bedchamber, assisting Arthur in putting on and removing his training armour. He's getting better at it with slow practice.

It may be hush around them, but cheerful. Arthur takes to teasing him a little about his technique, appreciative of the rare, shy smiles Myrddin bestows on him. As he's adjusting his pauldron, Arthur jerks his head up at a surprised, loud gasp from behind him.

Myrddin's hands fly to the ever-growing curve of his stomach, holding onto it and staring down in astonishment.

"What is it?… What's happened?" In a panicked stumble, Arthur races over, grasping Myrddin's forearms.

"It's kicking, Arthur."

The words are soft and raspy, but they're from Myrddin's lips. His beautiful, warm lips that Arthur finds himself drawing to, pressing his mouth back against Myrddin's eagerly, sighing out.

.

.

When Myrddin can summon his thoughts, he explains.

King Odin sought out his small village, following the rumours of an Omega warlock.

In Ealdor, Myrddin's mother never spoke of his father. But the truth of it, Balinor had been on the run, and he fell in love with Hunith. He had been no Omega, but indeed a warlock. She gave birth to Myrddin shortly after his vanishing—an Omega warlock by his own right.

Odin promised to shower the village with riches and protection, in exchange for leaving his home and officially becoming his Omega Bond-mate.

He sought power against his enemies and more heirs, and knowing this, Myrddin gave himself over to Odin. The promises did not go unfulfilled, but Myrddin never saw his mother again. Life in Cornwall had been miserable, being shut indoors behind heavy draperies and followed by guards who leered after him, touched him without permission.

It was Sir Anthony who chased them off, protected him. Eventually, Myrddin fell in love with the Alpha prince. His kindness and his generosity. Odin coerced him into a breeding position, but it was Odin's son who placed the babe inside him.

Myrddin had only discovered it right before Camelot invaded, and King Odin threw him in the dungeons as punishment.

"You felled them both," he says aloud, meeting Arthur's eyes as they lounge on the pillows. No trace of betrayal.

"… I did," Arthur says dully, tracing a hand devotedly over Myrddin's bare hip. "I felled your lover."

"You have been good to me, Arthur. You are my lover," he corrects him, smiling widely.

His teeth are bucked and he tastes like apricots and honey, when Arthur smiles and kisses him, shifting him down. Garments tossed aside in their hurry, Arthur's breeches and Myrddin's leaking smallclothes. His nightshirt hikes up in Arthur's hands, exposing his dark nipples. Milk-heavy teats. Myrddin's round, heavy belly is perfect but in the way. Arthur crawls between his legs, easing them apart further and exposing his little, pink Omega cunt.

He licks inside, tongue slicking his channel. Feeling Myrddin clench down and groan in arousal. Arthur reaches down, jacking himself one-handed. Dear lord

"Let me…" he says breathlessly, positioning and rubbing his cockhead over his entrance.

Myrddin squeezes his thighs in, nodding and breathing harder as Arthur grinds himself, never penetrating. He switches the angle, pressing up and fucking against the underside of Myrddin's heaving, swollen belly. When he feels Myrddin shudder and moan beneath him, so close to his release, Arthur brings them what they need.

.

.

The sunlight is warm, and the water's surface is peaceful. Myrddin wades and floats in the pond, naked, eyes shut.

He doesn't remember the last time he's enjoyed being outside.

Myrddin's entire body feels unfamiliar and massive. He would like this babe to make up its mind about if it's staying or going. Gaius says he's only seven months, and honestly, Myrddin doesn't want to get any bigger than this. His back has been aching for hours and his muscles keep clenching in his lower regions.

There's splashing coming towards him.

"Bandits," Arthur says lowly, urgently, pulling him to shore. He throws Myrddin's long, pattern-woven robe at him. They're far from dry, but rushing to hide in the trees. Tall men with face-masks and leathered hoods prowl, scattering, waving their swords and axes. Myrddin's back screams in ripping pain, and now his front, as well.

Arthur presses them up to the tree bark, covering Myrddin's gasping mouth with a palm. He looks around in vigilance and then in confusion as Myrddin grips at the top of his protruding belly with both of his shaking hands, moaning distressed.

Everything inside him feels like it's contracting, turning into unrelenting pressure. Stronger and stronger.

One of the bandits on horseback careens by, and Arthur grabs the reins, tossing the rider headfirst into the ground.

"Come on, Myrddin," he snaps, circling an arm around him.

Myrddin cries out instead through another stab of pain, one that jolts right between his legs, his still-wet thighs quivering. He shakes his head, face twisting.

"I can't… I can't."

"I'm not leaving you here, for god's sake—you're getting on the horse." Somehow, Arthur manages to lift them on the saddle. He clutches Myrddin securely to his chest and leads the horse into a gallop towards the outlying villages. They're not going to make it to Camelot at this rate.

Fear wrestles with Arthur as they ride on, as Myrddin's nose dribbles red fluid. Blood leaks from between Merlin's legs, patching a dark, glaring stain on his robe. He's barely conscious and ghastly pale when they reach a village, the sun beginning to set.

Arthur yells for help, climbing down with his Omega and following a midwife waving to him.

"You must remain outside," she insists.

But the magic cries for Arthur—Myrddin's own—howling around them, whipping up the wind and their clothing. Arthur can feel their bond strengthening in this, howling at him too, the sadness and the aching. In the hut, Myrddin screams himself hoarse, drenching with sweat, fisting the cot.

Arthur wastes no time. The second midwife who clucks her tongue in disapproval at him, and he glares back in challenge.

"Myrddin, I'm right here," he says encouragingly, repeating it, petting his hair and cupping their hands. Myrddin doesn't respond, screaming again loudly through the contracting waves of pain. There's still so much blood. The midwives whisper to each other, yanking away the ruined sheets.

One of them pushes Myrddin's legs into his hands, and another woman's hands reach into Myrddin, as if shifting the babe down.

"That's a good lad. Deep breathes now. She's coming out feet first—there's nothing you can do about that."

It's sluggish, difficult pace and agonizing, until Myrddin's gone red in the face. He's reduced to weakly groaning and panting, his body straining to push out. Myrddin arches up on his elbows with a curt, throaty yell, using every muscle, and Arthur witnesses the babe slip into the world.

She's bawling her lungs out, covered in mucus and Myrddin's blood, but seemingly healthy.

In a sense of terror and excitement, Arthur laughs high-pitched, clasping Myrddin's knee. "Oh my god, oh my god…" he babbles, caressing and squeezing Myrddin's exposed thigh when his Omega places his hand over Arthur's, knotting their fingers. "Look—look at her, will you… my god, you did it, Myrddin."

"G'nna after sleeping…" Myrddin complains in a whisper, exhausted.

He groans softly to Arthur's restless lips prying open his mouth, as his Alpha kisses him, over and over.

.

.

Her name is Drea.

She's the rightful princess to the lands that were once Odin's kingdom.

.

.

Myrddin's next heat rears up four months later.

He agrees to consummate their bond, even if Arthur had been unsure. He chooses to lie on top of Arthur, buckling down on his prick, tangling their arms. "You… better mark me," Myrddin breathes out against Arthur's mouth, almost commandingly.

Arthur chuckles and holds him closer, hips thrusting under Myrddin's bouncing arse. (He does fancy the idea.) Arthur's teeth clamp down on Myrddin's neck, keeping him still as his cock throbs, flooding his Omega cunt with seed. Myrddin goes limp, blissed-out. He lolls his head to Arthur's sternum, whimpering as Arthur's knot locks deep inside him.

Myrddin's irises glow a bright yellow-golden. His magic floods the chambers, invisible and racing along with Arthur's pulse.

This is their bond, Arthur thinks.

Magic and understanding.

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.


BBC Merlin is not mine. This is my entry for the Merlin Mpreg fest this year, and there's been some bumps and bruises, but we are here! And now it's time to move on to the next project! :) I don't got much else to say, aahahah. Any thoughts or questions on this are much, much appreciated! Thank you!