This was written for my bestest best friend ever in the whole wide world, Sami~ =DDD Her birthday was last Monday, and this was (the largest part of) her gift. ^_^ Please enjoy. =D

Darkness and Light

"Come on, Merlin, keep up."

A great din of blundering and clanking rose from behind them, buried somewhere in the trees. Some of the knights winced, and there was more than one smirk concealed behind a hand. Arthur's grin, however, lay proudly for all to see, splitting his face to reveal the gleaming white of his perfect princely teeth. So what if Merlin was scaring away all the game? This was far more entertaining.

A pale face broke through the trees, flushed and sweating. A great mound of packs—all hung with food and extra weaponry, you know, the heavy things—rattled from atop Merlin's hunched back.

He bestowed upon the Prince a single withering look; Arthur's grin only widened.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Merlin huffed.

Arthur sauntered over and planted his hand firmly on Merlin's shoulder. His manservant buckled beneath him. "Why, yes," the Prince affirmed cheerfully. "Yes I am."

With a roll of his eyes, Merlin muttered, "Prat."

"Now, now." Arthur slid his hand from Merlin's shoulder and turned away, strutting pointedly to the front of the party. "I think it would be in your best interests to refrain from using such offensive language. You do remember what put you in this position in the first place, don't you?"

The glance Arthur threw over his shoulder was quick enough to catch the red seeping into Merlin's ears. He allowed himself a small smirk.

Continuing through the trees, the hunting party buzzed with quiet conversation. Arthur might've protested, but they weren't likely to catch anything with Merlin along, anyway, so why not have some light conversation to pass the time? His father had given them three days for this trip, on Arthur's request. There would be plenty of time for hunting later.

And so, the party crashed and clanked haphazardly through the trees, laughing and joking and generally screwing off. It was for such a reason that Arthur hardly noticed when the trees and underbrush began to thin, and in fact noticed no difference at all until he stepped out from beneath the forest canopy and had to squint against the sudden bright light. A plain of grass was spread before him, rolling on quiet hills all the way down to a short cliff that disappeared into a pool of water. A long and narrow lake slithered between the mountains rising on either side, radiant sunlight glinting from its surface.

"Since when was there a—" Merlin yawned. "—a loch here?"

"A what?"

"A lake, I said a lake."

Arthur fixed him with a disapproving look. "No, Merlin, I heard you. You said loch. What the hell is a loch?"

"How should I know?" Merlin puffed, staggering forward to stand at Arthur's side. "I didn't even say that."

"Did too."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Shut up!"

With a smirk, Arthur turned away, casting another look around him. "Well," he shrugged, "this is as good a place as any to stop for lunch."

Murmurs of approval issued from the hunting party before they all dropped their things and flopped onto the pliant grass. Merlin made a point of dropping his burdens with a particularly loud crash; Arthur made a point of berating him for denting the armor.

After all the food had been distributed, the disgruntled manservant disappeared, grumbling, down the hill. Arthur followed him, already smirking as he thought of all the clever insults he could toss Merlin's way. Because, really, just eating was boring, but eating and insulting Merlin was just bundles of fun.

The tall, lanky boy plopped onto the strip of sand by the waterside and began to devour his food. In between violent bites, Arthur could catch some of the words that Merlin muttered under his breath—all of them somewhere along the lines of "spoiled Prince," "needs a hobby," and "prat."

Arthur, of course, settled quite comfortably beside the unhappy boy. "Had quite enough of rambling psychotically, Merlin?" he jibed.

"Had quite enough of toying with my discomfort, sire?" Merlin shot back, not missing a beat.

"Of course not," Arthur assured him, and judging by the flat expression on Merlin's face, he was very assured.

"You know, Arthur, one of these days I'm going to wise up and leave you wallowing in your own filth, and it'll get so bad you'll be begging me to come work for you again, but I won't because you're a prat and I hate you."

"Merlin," Arthur sighed, "do you know how many people would want to be my servant? Who would work for me willingly, without all the backtalk? I could very easily sack you right this second and save myself the trouble of your insolence."

"But you won't, because then who would carry your piles of clothes back to Camelot?" Merlin's smile was so innocent, it was evil. "No real man would carry so many different shirts with him on a three-day trip through the forest."

"And yet, I've defeated how many knights in battle before?" Arthur reached over and plucked a grape from in front of Merlin, popping it in his mouth before Merlin could utter a word of protest. "Besides," he continued, mouth full, "I never know what I'll want to wear."

"Oh, and that didn't come out girly at all—"

"Shh!"

Arthur put up a hand, listening intently. He thought he'd heard a noise—a pebble shifting, or the water lapping at the shore, or something. Hadn't he?

"Y'know, Arthur, you can't just act like you heard something to make me leave you alone—"

"Merlin, will you shut up?"

There it was again; a gurgling noise, like a figure moving through the water. An image came to mind of an assassin, clad in black, slipping through the water with a knife clutched between his teeth. And that cliff could conceal almost anything...

Arthur stood up slowly, putting a finger to his lips and gesturing for Merlin to follow. The cool steel of his sword was comforting to the touch, though the rasping sound of the blade sliding from its scabbard set his hair on end. Moving toward the cliff, the sounds of lapping water became more and more distinct; the Prince couldn't tell if it was because he was getting close, or because the figure was moving more. He pressed on, blade held before him, eyes burning as they begged him to blink.

Arthur reached the cliff, craning his neck to peer into the water. There was nothing to be seen; he leaned furthur out, searching for a better angle, but there was nothing.

There was nothing in the water, but it was still moving.

The hairs on the back of Arthur's neck stood on end. Instinctively, he peered down into the water, but his sight couldn't penetrate far into its dark, murky depths. The movement he saw could have been anything, or just the current of the water.

That is, until a great yellow orb blinked open from below. It lurked low beneath the surface, fuzzy and dim in the gloom; but it glowed gold with an ethereal light, and the very center was a slit of charcoal black.

Arthur started. It disappeared.

"Arthur," Merlin hissed, and the noise was far too loud in the silence. "Arthur, what is it?"

"Shh! Merlin!"

But the orb had reappeared, gleaming bright and angry just beneath the surface, and around it were masses of blue-green scales that shone in the sunlight. The orb rose sharply from the water, and was revealed to be an eye, wide and angry and flaming, set in the socket of a great serpent. As it rose from the depths, water snaked down its scaly back, weaving between its large, lethal-looking spines. It opened its mouth wide, and the world suddenly erupted in a rasping, screeching, roaring din. It was like a thousand harpees had let loose, like each and every molecule in the air was screaming in agony. Arthur staggered back, ran into Merlin, and the two of them tumbled to the ground.

At the sound, the knights came running, swords drawn. At the sight, they stopped short, gaping.

"Get back to Camelot!" Arthur cried as he struggled to his feet. "Run!"

The knights hesitated, eyeing the monster.

"Go!" Arthur pressed. "That's an order!"

The crowd of men waited a few moments, looking at Arthur, perhaps expecting him to change his mind. But when he said nothing, one by one, they took off running. Soon enough, Arthur found himself alone.

He turned quickly from the empty field, to the creature leering at him from the water. It was still, looking him up and down, almost like it was sizing him up. He grimaced and brandished his sword; the serpent reared sharply back with a snort.

"Don't provoke it," a voice murmured behind him. Arthur whipped around; Merlin was there, wide eyes trained on the beast.

"Merlin, what are you doing here? I told you to run!"

With a small smile, Merlin answered, "You know me, Arthur. I never listen to you."

The prince didn't know what to say.

Arthur didn't realize he was studying Merlin's face until it changed, going from sheepishly loyal to shocked and alarmed.

"Arthur!" he cried, but before Arthur could even turn, he felt a sharp blow to his back. He couldn't tell what it was, but it hit hard, and he felt his mind wiped blank like a town by a flash-fire. His side burned; he felt dizzy, and all he registered was the warm trickle of something down the back of his leg, and the cool, soft texture of something familiar on his face, and the blur of green and blue. There might have been a voice, too, and perhaps the words were familiar to him; but Arthur could feel them slipping away, further and further from his grasp.

Something blocked his vision—a voice at the back of Arthur's head said "foot"—and he struggled to turn over, to look up at the thing that he knew would identify this...person...?

Finally, he was on his back, and his vision was a blur of vibrant blue, laced with something white. The figure blocked some of the blue, with unruly brown hair and a red bit of fabric and flashing gold eyes. The person's hand rose up before him, and the gold in his eyes became so bright it was all Arthur could see... But then it all disappeared, and Arthur was left in the dark.

~*~

Darkness—it was all Arthur saw. The air was utterly black, roiling and seething in the silence. Sharp tendrils of cold wriggled into his skin and crawled across his bare chest. Arthur couldn't tell if it was condensation or sweat that coated his brow.

As soon as he felt the panic rising, Arthur told himself to breathe. Just breathe, and he would get through it. He'd figure it out. He'd be okay. But the chill air rattled in his bones; the darkness hovered close, leering at him with its pitch-black eyes, its cruel black smile. Despite his best efforts, Arthur's breathing quickened, hissing through his tight throat. Droplets of water cackled in the distance—p-plunk, p-plunk, p-plunk.

Arthur soon found, as the panic made him restless, that he could not move; the urge to run was cruelly denied by the weight that had gathered in his limbs. His skin felt feverish, pulsing painfully in time with his racing heart. He soon became aware of a stinging, gnawing pain in his side—a wound if he'd ever felt one. Arthur wondered if he was imagining things, or if the dark and the cold had wriggled into his torn flesh and started to fester.

Almost as though from afar, Arthur felt his mind slipping away from him. Only some detached part of him was aware of the sharp, quick breath hissing from his lungs; it was someone else's muscles cinching tight against unknown horrors swirling around in the dark; the only word that broke through the panic issued, loud and hoarse, from lips that were not his own.

"Merlin... Merlin!"

But whose voice was that ricocheting off the walls? The sound seemed to multiply, until Arthur could hear a thousand children zipping around him, singing children's rhymes in derisive voices. He called louder, still not quite sure what he was calling for; the din around him only grew, tumbling about, deafening him. With increasing desperation, Arthur struggled to move, wriggling on the floor like a wounded animal, wondering why his throat felt like it was shredding and the children just kept getting louder. Breathing was becoming difficult, Arthur began to feel light-headed, his head spun and his vision began to blur, consciousness was being sucked away from him and it only made him more panicked and the voices just kept getting louder and he felt like his lungs were ripping out of his chest—

A light appeared, soft and blue; there was a face there, blue eyes calm as lips moved, whispered indecipherable nothings into the abrupt silence. The light flickered across his pale skin; he reached out a gentle hand to stroke Arthur's forehead—the hand felt cool, and he leaned into it instinctively. When the boy's brow wrinkled, something familiar in Arthur's chest gave a small lurch. He felt like he should recognize this man, but his identity lingered just beyond Arthur's reach.

A gentle hand was laid flat on his chest, and a soothing voice told him to relax. Arthur fell back beneath the reassuring hand. The blue light dimmed. There was a moment when Arthur's heart went cold, expecting more laughing voices and cold, cruel fingers; but then there was a hand smoothing his hair, cool but so much warmer than the dark, and he breathed a long sigh. The soothing voice quieted, barely more than a stir in the air; the sound changed to something slightly deeper and somehow far more piercing. It felt like the lilt of a spring breeze, and the quaking of rock deep below the roots of the mountains; like something lively and fresh whose core was older than the Earth itself. Arthur could not tell if it was delerium, or if the voice had lapsed into some strange speech the likes of which he'd never heard. He struggled to lift eyelids that he hadn't noticed he'd closed, and only succeeded enough to catch a glimpse of gold-laced blue, and a shining orb of light hovering behind a messy head of hair. A memory tugged at his fading consciousness, but Arthur could no longer fight his fatigue. He sank slowly and surely past the dim blue light, into a thrumming darkness.

~*~

The world was fuzzy when Arthur's eyelids drifted open. But it was a world he recognized—warm furs, soft mattress, feather pillows. His awareness widened slowly from the plush sensation of his own bed, and he took in the tidy room, the fire crackling in the corner. There wasn't another soul to be found.

The first thing Arthur felt was relief, a great wave of it sweeping through him like summer air. Then, confusion—what was he relieved about, again? He wracked his brain, searching for a clue, an inkling; but all he got was foggy images and a darkness, frigid and complete, drawing tight around his chest. His mind cringed away from it, so he let it drop.

Silence rested peacefully on the room, buzzing with warmth; the sun sank slowly outside the windows, lacing the sky with purples and reds, and the air with the vibrant orange of sunset. Arthur felt a deep-rooted pain in his limbs, almost as if he'd been training for hours before finally conking out. And maybe he had, Arthur didn't remember. But the pillows were soft and his body was warm beneath the blankets, and he found he didn't care much about how he'd gotten there.

Arthur heard the door open and shut, hinges creaking faintly. He turned his head and was met with the sight of his favorite neckerchief-wearing manservant.

"Ah, Merlin," he said cheerfully. His voice was quiet and a little hoarse from disuse. "Come to feed me breakfast, have you?"

"Well, sire, that might be a little strange, considering its nearly time for dinner." The smirk was audible in Merlin's voice, though he didn't turn around.

Arthur pouted. "That just won't do. I've just woken up, and now I want breakfast, and you, Merlin, are my manservant, so you're obligated to get it for me."

"I would disagree with you," Merlin sighed, "but it would do me no good. One breakfast in bed, coming up."

With that, Merlin dropped whatever he was doing and started walking toward the door. But something in Arthur suddenly started to panic—something in the back of his mind struggled to take control, and wriggling in the back of his throat was the overpowering urge to scream, "Merlin, don't go!"

But he didn't. Arthur just lay in bed and watched his manservant cross the room, as if in slow motion. Something in the way he moved, upright and proud, reminded him of before, something that wouldn't quite come to light... He had been different then, still upright, but rather than proud he'd been alert, noble, ready. He was a blurred figure standing in the sun, hand outstretched, eyes flashing gold as he faced a fearsome foe—

—eyes flashing gold as his cool hand rested on Arthur's chest, an inexplicable orb of light hovering behind him, hand cloaked in a warm, wet mist, and the sensation entered his wound, spread through his bloodstream, relaxed him and carried him into warm darkness—

"Merlin!"

The boy turned, and Arthur just stared, mouth open. He couldn't explain why he'd done it, why he'd said anything. Now Merlin looked confused, and Arthur was sure that he looked messy and crazed and afraid. But here he was, and now that Arthur got a good look at him, he saw it even clearer than before; it was almost as though Merlin's eyes were glowing gold right that second, as though his hand were glowing with an unexplainable light, as though he were really, truly using...

"Magic?"

The word drifted out and struck a wall of silence. Merlin's expression hadn't changed, but there was something in his eyes, something shocked and fearful.

"Merlin... Merlin, are you a sorcerer?"

His manservant blinked, jaw set; his gaze fell somewhere on the bed beside Arthur.

"Of course not, Arthur," he laughed, obviously trying to come across light-hearted, but the sound was stiff and false. "Don't be silly. Isn't it your theory that I would be too stupid to even know how to use it?"

Silence reigned for a moment, but Arthur was not a patient man; he struggled to pull the blankets off himself, and winced as he lifted himself from the mattress and onto the floor.

"Merlin." His voice was low, stern. "Don't lie to me."

The smile fell from Merlin's face, but he said nothing, he wouldn't look at Arthur.

Reaching him, the Prince laid a firm hand on Merlin's shoulder. "Merlin, please," he whispered, and he knew his eyes were sad as they searched for Merlin's, seeking his attention, seeking an answer. His manservant was tense beneath his touch.

It was true, then.

Without thinking, Arthur tightened his grip on Merlin's shoulder. "How could you keep something like this from me?" he spat. "I am your lord, your Prince, and you've been lying to me this whole time?"

"That's exactly it," Merlin murmured, and finally, his eyes rose up to meet Arthur's. Arthur was swept up in waves of deep blue, full of fear and bitterness and grief. "You're the Prince, Arthur. How could I tell you?" He shrugged Arthur's hand away. "How could I tell you, knowing who your father is? Knowing what he would do if he found out?"

It hit like a cold dagger driving deep into his heart. Merlin was right to be fearful. If the King found out, what he would do... Arthur didn't like to think about it. About what would happen, or about what already had.

Arthur took a step back. His eyes fell to the floor.

"I..." He stopped, unsure what he wanted to say. "I know...what my father would do. What the King would do. But Merlin... I'm not him. I don't know what I feel right now, I don't know what I would do, but... You've never tried to hurt me, and it would have been far easier to carry out whatever evil plot my father might suspect of you earlier rather than later... I don't believe that you can persecute someone simply for being something. I..."

Arthur fell silent. "I just...wish you could have trusted me."

A heavy silence fell; neither of them moved. Merlin was still poised by the door, all he had to do was reach out and turn the knob, leave the room, leave Arthur to wonder and to hurt. In fact, Arthur realized, he probably wouldn't even have to touch the door to open it. Maybe he didn't even need to use the door. But he didn't. Merlin stayed, and Arthur stayed, and both of them were silent.

The more Arthur thought about it, the more Arthur realized the truth in his own words. He'd said it all without thinking, but really, when had Merlin ever tried to hurt him? Merlin stuck with him through every horrible trial he'd ever faced, helped him through all his troubles... Merlin was the person Arthur confided in, the first person Arthur went to if he needed to talk. He put up with Arthur's pride, but he never held back his opinions. Merlin was always open to Arthur, about everything. Everything but this.

And who could blame him, really? Arthur felt a great, cold pool of sadness in his chest, thinking that Merlin couldn't trust him enough to tell him something so important. But at the same time, what would he have done in Merlin's place? Arthur knew better than anyone that his father was a ruthless monster; the mere mention of magic in his presence, and the King went berserk. He was driven by fear and hatred. And, Arthur thought now, maybe misunderstanding, too.

But he thought of what Uther would do. If Uther found out of Merlin's magic, found out that it had been here all along, he would be furious. He would resort to torture—Merlin on a stretcher, screaming as it ripped his limbs from his body—and then he would deliberate coldly over which way was best to dispose of him—Merlin's broken body tied to a post, engulfed in leaping, ravenous flames; Merlin's bright eyes, panicked and so, so blue, drifting slowly downward into the deep, watery abyss—

Arthur reached out desperately, clutching Merlin's arm. The boy's face jerked up, blue eyes wide and fearful; but Arthur pulled him close, tucked him against his own chest, gripped him tightly in his arms.

"He won't find out," the Prince rasped through a throat half-closed with the onset of tears. He said it to Merlin, but it was mostly to reassure himself. "It'll be alright, I won't let him get to you."

Merlin pulled away, and his eyes were too bright, moisture pooling at the edges. "Arthur—"

But Arthur, at a loss for anything else to do, pulled him in again, planting his lips firmly on those of his sorcerous manservant.

Merlin started, nearly pulling away; but Arthur held him there, pressed further in, buried his fingers firmly in the fabric of Merlin's shirt. And, with a pliant moan, Merlin sunk into him. His lips were soft, more even than Arthur had expected. His skin was smooth and warm beneath Arthur's hand, and his mouth was hot around Arthur's tongue. Merlin's fingers burying in his hair had to be the most delicious sensation Arthur had ever felt, up until the point when Merlin's fingers wandered beneath the hem of his shirt and began tracing indistinct lines in his skin. He hummed, fingers slipping up Merlin's neck, beneath his neckerchief; the knot came away smoothly, and Arthur wondered for a split second if Merlin had something to do with it. But then Arthur's nose was buried in that neck, and the potent scent of summer and fire and magic washed over him, and he found himself nipping and sucking at the soft skin with that amazing smell, relishing the plaintive moans and whimpers issuing from Merlin's mouth.

Arthur gripped Merlin at the waist and tugged him forward, walking back toward the bed. Merlin followed without protest. With his manservant's hand working his shirt off slowly, and the other kneading softly in his hair, Arthur was shocked when he felt wood behind him. He stopped, pulled Merlin around, and pushed him onto the bed. For a moment, he let himself admire the look of him—body sprawled, lips swollen, hair mussed, eyes gleaming with desire. Moaning his approval, Arthur wasted no time in crawling atop him and planting his lips once more on Merlin's.

The two of them skittered back until Merlin's head rested on the pillow, and then Arthur's hands were down on Merlin's hips, putting pressure on them and crushing his into them until Merlin groaned and his cock was hard against Arthur's. Then his hands moved, working at Merlin's shirt while his hips started up a rhythm with Merlin's. Arthur put his tongue to use once more at Merlin's collarbone, earning himself more of those lovely sighs and moans.

Arthur pulled away, just for a moment, and barely an inch. His hot breath ghosted across Merlin's skin.

"Merlin," he whispered. He drew back a bit further, looking up into Merlin's glossy, half-lidded eyes.

"Merlin, you're safe," he huffed desperately, and landed a quick, hard kiss on the sorcerer's lips. "I won't tell a soul, you're safe." In his words, Arthur laced the unspoken but potent love he felt, that seared through his veins at this very moment, that poured from his blue eyes and into Merlin's.

Merlin's only answer was to pull Arthur back down and press their lips together, but it was perfect, firm and final. "Thank you," it said. "I love you, too."