The Druid's Gift [Arthur/Merlin - PG - 2800]

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Title: The Druids' Gift
Author: malu_3
Pairing(s): Arthur/Merlin
Prompt: 20 - The Druids present Arthur with a magical Yuletide log. When he burns it, something curious happens to his manservant. Not that Arthur's complaining.
Word Count: ~2800
Rating: PG
Contains (Highlight to view): INCLUDES SPOILERS *Tipsiness. Bossiness. Puns. Magical compulsion to tell the truth.*
Disclaimer: Merlin characters are the property of Shine and BBC. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Inspired by various Roman, Pagan and early Christian solstice and Yule Log traditions (here horribly mashed together for ease of shipping use). Thanks to D for the brainstorming.
Summary: In which Arthur learns that, while Druids may be elusive and mysterious, when it comes to gift-giving they go the whole log.


On AO3


The Druids' Gift

Arthur understands the importance of having the Druids as allies. However, he's not sure he will ever understand the Druids themselves. Sixteen months and at least half a dozen invitations to attend various celebrations in Camelot with nary a reply and now…this.

As soon as they've gone, he gives into his curiosity and approaches the elaborate litter of woven evergreen boughs, holly and bright rowan berries. He lifts a corner of the cloth covering its contents.

"This is…Merlin, is this wood?"

Merlin shambles up, humming one of the Druids' odd tunes, and peers over his shoulder.

"Oh, very good, my lord. Can't put anything past you."

"The mysterious Midwinter gift we had to endure all that tedious chanting for is neither meat nor mead, nor some…special artifact, but a lump of wood."

"I believe," Merlin says, swaying heavily against him, "the proper term is 'Yule log'."

Arthur pushes back, steadying Merlin on his feet. "I don't care what it's called, you great winesop, I want to know what it's for."

Merlin snorts, swaying in again with a jabby elbow and an idiotic grin. "And just how much have you had, hm? It's wood. You burn it."

"Yes, thank you, Merlin – I hadn't planned on eating it!" Arthur says, exasperated. He grabs Merlin's arm, figuring keeping firm hold of him is the simplest option. "But what I meant was, I have wood. Camelot has plenty of – stop sniggering! – wood. What's so special about this…Eulogh…that they rode all the way down from Strathclyde in the depths of winter to give it to me?"

At this Merlin's expression sobers. "Honestly?" He shrugs. "I've no idea. But I do know that for them it's a gesture of goodwill. 'We trust you won't go back on your word and toss us on the pyre now,' sort of thing. A bit like you gifting fancy daggers at treaty signings."

"I'd rather have a new dagger," Arthur mutters.

Merlin's face brightens. "Oh, and Aglain said you must burn it all on its own, in a clean hearth, and that once it's lit you mustn't let it go out until it's burnt down to ash."

"Aglain?"

"Tall, dark and handsome. First one in the door."

Arthur rolls his eyes, suppressing a spiteful comment on Merlin's penchant for anyone who looks at him twice and isn't trying to kill him at the time. "I don't recall him saying anything of the sort."

"Well, not said said, but…you know." Merlin flaps his free hand around his temple and gives Arthur a nodding version of the constipated look that means it's one of those 'Emrys' things they don't talk about because it's still too awkward.

It's one thing to find out your manservant's a sorcerer, quite another to discover that he's got Druids, dragons, and all manner of other magical beings either hanging off his every word, acting like he's some precious, rare flower, or trying to tell him what to do.

And it's not that Merlin's not special, but Arthur likes to think he knows, more than any of them, about who Merlin is or isn't, and he isn't someone who enjoys being the center of attention. Nor does he like being told what he must and must not do. Except by Arthur, of course.

"Ah," Arthur says. "And you… Do you trust this Aglain?"

Merlin nods.

"Well, as I don't see the harm in spending a cold night beside the fire…" Arthur releases his hold on Merlin and twitches the cloth aside. It looks like an ordinary birch log, albeit from a very old tree, the pale bark shaggy and deeply fissured. It's the length of his arm and about as thick around as one of his thighs.

"Hold your arms out for a moment, would you? In front of you. Palms up."

"Why?"

Arthur hefts the log up from its nest and deposits it in the cradle of Merlin's elbows. "So you can carry this to my chambers."

"But – "

"It'll help steady you on your feet. Plus, I'm the… What is it they called me again? Ah, yes, the Sol Invictus. The Unconquered Sun can hardly be seen carrying his own wood."


* * *


"It won't…Arthur, I'm sorry. I think it's too big. Or too wet. Without proper kindling, I'm not sure I can – "

"It's birch," Arthur calls from his bedchamber. "Birch burns well no matter how green. Plus I've seen you get a decent blaze going in a blizzard. Perhaps if you – "

"You wish me to make it snow in your rooms, my lord?"

"No. Honestly, Merlin. Sometimes it's a matter of wondering, not if, but how many times you were dropped on your head as a child." Arthur tosses his cloak in the direction of the wardrobe and strolls towards his private dining chamber.

Merlin is on his knees before the hearth. He's folded nearly in half, all scrawny backside and peeved face, neck contorted to look back at him. "I was suggesting you stop mucking about with that taper and light the log with your…" Arthur leans against the archway and waggles his fingers at his temple in an approximation of Merlin's earlier gesture.

"Oh."

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes. In fact, it seems quite fitting, given who it's from."

Merlin straightens up, blowing the taper out and setting it aside before lifting a hand towards the hearth. "Forbærne!"

For a moment nothing happens. Then, with a hissing, popping sound, the log bursts into flame.

"What the – " Merlin scrambles back, pushing to his feet.

"What've you done now?"

"Nothing! Simple fire spell, like you asked."

"Then what are you squawking about?"

"Don't you hear the…" Merlin pauses, looking from the hearth to Arthur and back again, then vigorously rubbing at his ears with an odd expression on his face.

"Fleas bothering you again?" Arthur jokes, but Merlin doesn't seem to hear him. Slowly, he lowers his hands to his sides, expression easing into one of the warm, sleepy-eyed smiles that never fails to lift Arthur's spirits. At the moment, however, it's also unsettling, as Arthur has no idea what's causing it.

He walks towards Arthur, still smiling, murmuring something that Arthur can't quite catch.

"Merlin, what is it? Are you quite all right?"

"No. No I'm not. I should be, for all the pieces are in place at last, but…" The smile fades as Merlin heaves a sigh. "I suppose weeds are drawn to the sun the same as the rest, and greedy for their share of the light."

He lifts a hand. Arthur resists the impulse to shy away, saying, "Is this the wine talking again, or have we moved on to Druid riddles?"

"No. Arthur, I – " Merlin shakes his head and stumbles back, nearly clipping himself on the edge of the table. Arthur thinks he catches a flash of gold in his eyes. "Oh gods, what am I… More wine, my lord? Cheese? Fruit? A bath? No, you had that earlier. Candles, that's what we need!" He grabs for one of the candelabra on the table, inspecting it. "Lots more candles. Fresh ones. And this silver's in a state. I'll just… Yes."

And with that Merlin slams the candelabrum down and flees.


* * *


He's not gone long. Arthur's barely shucked his boots and settled himself by the – admittedly quite lovely – fire to puzzle over Merlin's behavior when the door bangs open.

Merlin's face is a rather astounding shade of pink, and he looks as if he's caught a cramp. He's clutching a trug full of candles and is trailed by no less than five other servants bearing an assortment of cleaning supplies, jugs of wine, and platters of fruit and cheese.

"What is the meaning of this?" Arthur says, craning his head this way, then that to try and catch his manservant's eye as he rushes about lighting candles from the birch log and placing them around the room.

"Out with the old, in with the new. Night into day. Must make everything shine."

"Not that I'm complaining, but…now? Really?"

"I'll gladly explain in a – yes, yes, set it down over there, quick as you can! No, that's a lie. I won't. Explain gladly, that is. But I will explain, because I can't help myself right now and…mmph!"

Merlin claps a hand over his mouth, gesticulating wildly with his other arm. The other servants hasten to set everything down as directed and get out. The two youngest, Arthur notes, can barely contain their mirth.

Once they've gone, Merlin lifts his hand. He sucks in a breath, then intones, "And so the seeds of light shall be sown, turning night into day, washing away the stain of the old year and the lies on men's tongues. And as he is radiant, you must reflect his glory, thus increasing the lengthening of days and quickening of the world."

Arthur gapes at him. "Meaning?"

Merlin scowls at the hearth, then sends Arthur a pleading look. "Meaning that log is…Arthur, it's worse than Trickler and the Great Dragon combined."

"It's magic, you mean? Is it dangerous?"

"In a sense, yes. And no, not dangerous. Only…inconvenient. For me. You shouldn’t be affected."

Arthur makes to rise. "Shall I smother it?"

"No!" Merlin shakes his head. "You mustn't. It would bring misfortune on the kingdom. Just please, sire, if you value our friendship, please don't ask me any more questions. Insults, commands, grisly hunting stories – all good. Or better yet, ignore me. Yes, just sit there, enjoy your wine and ig– "

"Merlin."

"Yes, Oh Radiant One?" He says it without a hint of irony, all while looking at Arthur with those desperate eyes.

"Shut up and polish my boots."

Merlin grins, looking relieved, and gives Arthur an enthusiastic thumbs-up before going to collect the boots. Arthur's left staring at the fire, wondering what Merlin's so afraid of saying. Not to mention why, as far as Arthur's concerned – and for as long as he can remember – ignoring Merlin is never really an option.


* * *


For a few hours, all is well. In fact, it's almost like old times. Arthur lounges by the fire, musing aloud between swallows of wine or bites of fruit while Merlin tackles various chores. The only difference is that Arthur tells him he's allowed to use magic and pays much closer attention than he would have in the past, surreptitiously watching Merlin work.

He's surprised to see that Merlin doesn't "cheat" nearly as much as he would have expected. He only uses magic for things like stubborn stains and surfaces too high to reach, or where another pair of hands is needed to shift something while he cleans underneath.

As he watches, Arthur notes that Merlin's more efficient like this, too. More – not graceful, per se, as he's still a scurry of limbs and odd facial expressions – but pleasing to watch. Like a warrior skilled with both sword and fists who seamlessly blends the two in a fight, instinctively using the tool that will serve him best in each moment.

When he finishes one task, Arthur assigns him another. Any guilt he feels at enjoying himself is tempered by the knowledge that, at least for now, this is what Merlin wants.

"Shut up and wash the windows."

"Shut up and dust my trophies."

"Shut up and plump the pillows."

The candles burn low. The wine dwindles. Arthur's chambers are cleaner than he's seen them in years, yet still the log burns brightly, giving off a pleasing scent. Still Arthur's eyes are drawn to Merlin and, time and time again, he meets the pleading eyes and parted lips with some fresh demand.

"Shut up and…wash your face."

"…sort my socks by wool weight."

"…turn that helm more to the left."

"…help me finish this cheese."

He's reaching. He knows it. But while earlier, at the feast, he'd been careful not to muddle his wits with drink in front of his guests, now he sees that he's imbibed the contents of one jug and a goblet's worth from another. He struggles up out of his chair and over to the chamber pot, saying, "Merlin, fesh…fetch me a nightshirt, will you? I think I need to lie down."

After relieving himself, he doesn't bother putting himself back together but makes his way behind the changing screen, kicking off his trousers and shrugging out of the jacket and layered tunics Merlin had insisted he wear, rather than the usual mail.

"No armor," he'd said. "No weapons. Arthur, a good many of them still know you only as Uther's son, as the man who violated their sacred sites, who stole from them and put their children to the sword. You must show them the man you are today."

Arthur leans against the wall, running through the evening in his mind, trying to decide if he'd struck the right tone, made the right impression. The alliance with the Druids isn’t just about atoning for past sins, after all, but forging a true working bond between magic users and non-magic alike, setting an example that Camelot's people can follow now that the laws have been changed.

"Do you think… I did all right, didn't I?" Arthur peers out from behind the screen to find Merlin walking towards him, nightshirt in hand. He's got that sleepy-eyed smile on again. "Earlier, I mean. How did I do? Damned hard to tell what Druids are thinking. For me. Obviously not for…oh bollocks. I forgot I'm not supposed to – Merlin! What're you doing?"

Merlin ambles right past the point where he'd normally wait, eyes averted, to hand Arthur his nightshirt. Before Arthur can stop him, he squeezes in behind the changing screen.

"Apologies. You must be exhausted, poor thing," he murmurs, taking Arthur by the shoulders. Arthur hastily balls his discarded tunic in front of his groin. "But you were splendid tonight, everyone thought so. That speech you gave about the Druid boy… Arthur, I'm so proud of you."

Arthur gives a terse nod, hoping that it will suffice as thanks, and that Merlin will release him before something truly awkward happens. He's used to back slaps and bear hugs, sometimes an arm flung round his shoulders, but not anyone deliberately touching him like this, resting their hands on his bare skin. It's warm, rather nice and – along with the bold way Merlin's eyeing him up – awfully confusing.

Merlin, however, seems oblivious. He slides his hands up and in, lifts them, then strokes back out, smoothing his palms across Arthur's shoulders. It's as if the words have been waiting to get out, and touching Arthur is somehow easing their passage.

"You always turn heads, no matter where you go, but I love that moment when they see that you are more than a pretty face or a deadly sword, that this…this brilliance goes all the way through."

"Merl– "

"Sometimes," Merlin rushes on, giving his shoulders a firm squeeze, "it hurts how much I love that moment. I have to distract myself by drinking or playing the fool, or flirting with anyone who'll indulge me, else I might..."

And this, this right here is another thing they don't talk about, because Arthur's never known how to start. And if this is what Merlin's been avoiding…

"Might what?" he whispers, fingers clenched tightly in the wadded fabric. He tries focusing on the wall just behind Merlin's right ear.

Merlin sways in, close enough that Arthur can feel his breath. One exhalation, then two, wine-scented and warm against his skin.

Then Arthur remembers the Druids' gift and Merlin's rules – all his blather about the sun and weeds and the dawning of new days. And while it doesn’t exactly make sense, he thinks he might be starting to see.

"Never mind," he says, turning his head so his cheek's resting against Merlin's. "Don't answer that. Just, shut up and…

"Merlin, we've another hour at least 'til that damn log burns down. How about I try and tell you how important you are to me – without resorting to plant metaphors – and you try showing me what you want to say."


* * *


In the castle's guest quarters, Aglain uncorks a bottle of mead that was set aside long ago, on the day Arthur Pendragon was born. Each of the Druids fills his or her horn and lifts it high.

"To the seeds of light, and the light of truth!" they cry. "To the return of the sun, and the lengthening of days!"

They all drink. As Aglain lowers his horn, he sees one of the younger men nudge his companion, saying, "To the lengthening of the king, eh?"

They leave off snickering when they see Aglain's watching. He smiles serenely and lifts his horn again, tipping it in their direction.

"Lucky Emrys," he says, waggling his eyebrows. "And long live the king."

This time everyone's laughing as they chorus, "Lucky Emrys, and long live the king!"


* end *