by GR Griffin
“Ic æalá Ŏu.” His voice was low and serious.
Impatience reached its ultimate climax, and he couldn’t resist obliging to the enticing atmosphere. Without warning, Arthur grabbed the druid and drew him closer like a wild, untamed animal. It took a hell of a lot of unnecessary energy to suppress the groan sitting at the back of his throat. Their mouths moulded together in a burnishing kiss.Resisting the urge to throw his hands into his blonde locks and destroy all of his hard work preparing him for the ritual, Merlin agitatedly scraped his nails over the unpainted shoulders. Arthur’s chuckle vibrated against their lips. Their lips intensified the silent conversation, wrestling furiously against each other. Then it all became more frenzied and passionate. Arthur’s tongue deviously slid over his lips, awaiting access. Incapable of holding in the small moan of pleasure, Merlin parted his lips. Right at that moment, Arthur’s tongue ignited an insatiable fire inside the cave of his mouth. Merlin gasped unwillingly, diving his hands into his hair desperately.
The pair of them broke the kiss suddenly, panting for unwanted but necessary air.
“Arthur-“ Merlin breathed, traces of doubt beginning to rise in his voice.
Then like the fate of the world depended on it, Arthur silenced him with his mouth. Shut-up Merlin, shut-up and let me kiss you his lips cooed. The kiss dwindled into a languid, exploratory pace. Arthur smiled against the lips; a dizzy flutter overpowered his senses. He was too content to notice how Merlin stiffened, becoming less and less responsive. He didn’t register the shift until the lips stopped moving completely, drawn into a thin closed line. Resignedly, Arthur took a step backwards. The pair dwelled in an uncertain silence. Merlin was unreadable and unbearably impassive. Arthur sighed in painful realisation that perhaps they wanted different things; perhaps Merlin had only kissed him to return the favour, or satisfy his needs on this important night. It sounded like one of the stupid, selfless things Merlin would do. Merlin had always put Arthur first. The fact that his face was giving nothing away unnerved the blonde further.
Before Arthur could apologise or try to figure out the enigmatic druid, Merlin’s eyed flashed ochre. The smudges of blue paste on his skin, induced by their recent intimacy, tidied themselves up into presentable lines; his tousled and dishevelled hair neatened itself obediently. The edges of Merlin’s lips hinted at a soft smile as he admired the man’s appearance. Then Merlin made his way towards the door and left briskly without any words. He exited so quickly that for a moment Arthur was unsure if he had ever been here, or if the kiss had been real. Furrowing his eyebrows, he felt bewilderment wash over him.
He stood there for a few moments, drenched in silence, confusion and a ridiculous aching in his chest. Reaching towards his lips, he brushed his fingers over them pensively.
♦☼♦
It was Gwenevere who eventually broke him from his trance. She entered the room cautiously at first; almost quiet enough to be dismissed as a figment of the imagination. Gazing up slowly, Arthur gaped at the beautiful woman. She was dressed in a long white gown, a contrast to her cinnamon skin. Sparkling jewels decorated her dark black curls, her glowing face anointed in a similar blue paste. He offered her a weak smile, walking towards her. Gwenevere bowed her head gently in response.
It was then Arthur noticed the navy blue cloak in her hands.
“Merlin made it himself.” Gwen said with a smile, allowing it to drape down in her hands. “It’s made from silk of the North, and laced with the hair of a unicorn.”
The navy cloak shimmered with a magical hue; the material was light and dexterous. It had a delicate hood, beautiful embroidery was revealed around the front, with gold and red threads creating a captivating pattern beneath the hood and seeping outwards. Two golden buttons were sewn on each side of the front, just below the hood to secure the cloak. It was a work of beauty, and Arthur wondered where Merlin had found the time to make this yet alone get all the material for it. Gwen fastened the hooded cloak to him.
“The clan are waiting for you.”
Swallowing-hard, Arthur met her eyes slowly. The ritual was going to be a test of his heart, of his soul. It was up to Albion herself to decide whether Arthur Pendragon was worthy of becoming one of her people, whether he could truly belong in such a perfect world. Lifting the hood slowly over his head, Arthur felt a wash of anxiety surge through his body. Part of him had this frequent fear that the ritual would go wrong, or that suddenly there was a unanimous decision to stop it. The woman beside him noticed the tension in his body and reached out her hand comfortingly. Arthur took it hesitantly, wanting more than anything for Merlin to return. It was no surprise to him that he didn’t. Merlin was not only Emrys, but the future leader of Ealdor.
The pair of them left the preparation room, the warmth of the Ealden sunset trickled over Arthur’s bare chest. There was a calm breeze raking through his golden hair and toying with the cloak behind him. It whispered in that foreign tongue his magic was now drawn to. It was comforting, slowing his erratic heart. As he walked, Gwenevere beside him loyally, his eyes met the crowd of people ahead. The whole of the Ealdor clan were standing before him, eyes open, accepting of him. The orange sun seeped over their heads, morphing them into silhouettes. Nearing the edge of the crowd, Arthur felt a swell of awe enshroud him as the silhouettes morphed into focus. Even Will, who Arthur could see in the corner, appeared to be moderately tolerant of this event. Whether it was for the celebrations or for the actual ritual, Arthur was unsure.
Then suddenly Gwenevere left his side with a bow of her head, falling into the crowd of druids, and Arthur couldn’t help but feel he was drowning in a sea of people surrounding him. The druids surrounded him, giving him no room for movement. He tried to remain calm, not wanting to give any indication that he was not ready for this. Zelina brushed her hands over his cloak, rather inappropriately. Nonetheless, Arthur cast her a courteous smile that was small enough to be misinterpreted as a twitch of his lips.
The second druid reached out and lightly touched his shoulder. A cloud of magic hovered around him, making him feel dizzy, skin tingling. The next druid made the same gesture whilst moving out of his path. And then they were all moving away from him in perfect unison, as if he were magnetised, creating a narrow clearing for him to walk. The walk had to be meticulously timed, he recalled Merlin’s lecture about it. His eyes gazed over the druids, reassured and comforted when he noticed Gwaine was standing a few feet from him, hand outstretched. He began taking calculated steps towards the plateau; an encouraging smile dusted Gwaine’s face as he passed him.
At the end of this long procession, Arthur could see three figures standing on the plateau beside the Crystal Cave. Hunith, Balinor and Merlin. A silence hung over the clan, watching his procession towards belonging, towards everything. Closing his eyes for a moment, Arthur softly traced the necklace around his neck. His mother. He prayed she would be watching him with proud eyes now, praying for Albion to accept him forever into this beautiful land full of beautiful people. Mother. Thank you for showing me the light, for never leaving me. Opening his eyes, Arthur reached the plateau gracefully.
Arthur obediently fell to his knees, head bowed. Merlin had been rigorous in explaining the ritual process to him. Every gesture made had to be honourable and respectful, or the chance of rebirth would not bless him. Gently, Hunith pressed a hand to his shoulder and lowered the hood. He met her eyes cautiously, graced with her affection. She reached for his hands, lifting him to his feet silently. With that, she took a step backwards and clasped her hands together, obviously making a silent blessing. Balinor took a step forwards, and addressed him. Arthur didn’t dare look at Merlin, afraid his emotions would take hold and distract him.
“Arfuera, are you prepared to abide by the laws and rules of our kind, to love and respect the people, and embrace Albion?”
A little startled, not even the rehearsals with Merlin could have prepared him for the actual ritual; Arthur attempted to clear his throat. For a moment
he was frightened his voice would not sound, and the whole of Albion would laugh at him.
“I will, Folctogan.”
Arthur foolishly allowed his gaze to drift to Merlin whilst speaking, studying the enigmatic eyes, the soft smile on those lips. He couldn’t help but return the look, amusement bubbling inside at the memory of their first rehearsal. Folctogan; and you can’t just say ‘yes’. This is a serious question, requiring more thought than that. You must answer with ‘I will’; you are pledging yourself to the people. Understand? The druid was looking over at him, a swell of joy bursting from his features, obviously sharing the memory. However, there was a detectable trace of trouble in the crinkles of his eyes, and the corners of his mouth. Arthur averted his attention back to Balinor, not wanting to think about what could have caused this trouble in the druid. He greatly feared it was the events that had occurred prior to the Eftboren.
“And are you willing to share your soul and heart with the people, live among us and in times of darkness fight for justice?”
Bowing his head nobly, Arthur replied.
“I am willing, Folctogan.”
Balinor smiled, bowing his head towards Arthur.
“Then Arfuera, Albion welcomes you with open arms into its home. You are now a son of Ealdor, part of the people.”
♦☼♦
The celebrations began swiftly after the ceremony, in the midst of the Ealden forest. The trees and shrubbery were alight in their stunning bioluminescence, which was further enhanced by druid enchantments. Small orbs of entrancing light danced in the air around, softening the complexions of people, and removing the sharpness of their surroundings. Everything was lulling and completely absorbing. Time seemed to slow and allow all to relish in this festival of rebirth. A large group of druids were dancing around a large fire, others were admiring the tranquillity of the night, and some were talking avidly to each other. Arthur Pendragon was one of the few who remained seated, isolated and seemingly content with his own company.
Naturally, druids came over to congratulate him. There were a few faces Arthur could finally put names to; even the Elders had come to speak with him for a few minutes, without hostility. However, to Arthur’s disappointment Merlin had miraculously vanished the moment the ritual was over. Perhaps the kiss really had been a step too far out of line, and pushed the druid away. Confusion swathed the blonde man. He had truly thought it was reciprocated in some way. Obviously, he had thought wrong. He gently traced his fingers over the silk cloak draping from his back, warmth filling his heart. It was a beautiful item of clothing; one that he was sure could never be forged or made the same again.
He watched the clan, a sense of belonging hanging in his chest. It had been a long, long time since he had felt this comfortable, this at home. These were his people now; the world he had left behind was nothing but a memory of corruption, pain and turmoil. His mind drifted to Morgana, and a wash of regret overpowered his body, prickling his eyes. She was trapped in the Camelot’s sticky web of lies and deceit. She had magic, and yet it was hidden from her in the hope it would protect her. Arthur wanted nothing more for Morgana to be here, to join him in Ealdor. But nothing could be that simple, or easy. Perhaps now he was a druid, he could persuade the Elders to let her stay? Clasping his hands together, Arthur bowed his head slowly. He was unsure how long he had sat like that until he was interrupted.
“So,” the voice Arthur’s ears had been craving all bloody night finally arrived. Admittedly, it was a little erratic in tone. ”You’re looking fantastic.”
Merlin perched beside the newly proclaimed druid clumsily on the mossy tree branch, almost missing his seat. He was incapable of hiding the pride and joy spewing from his navy eyes. Surprised by the brashness of Merlin’s behaviour, and his words for that matter, he studied Merlin’s gait. Something was definitely amiss here. Merlin seemed rather relaxed, too relaxed and open. His position was comfortable (practically slumping down onto the log). The eyes were bordering lazy, his cheeks flushed and blinks slightly elongated. Then Arthur spotted the lilac concoction in a cup weaved from leaves resting in his palms. Chuckling knowingly, deep and raw from his throat, Arthur shot the younger man an inquisitive look.
“What on earth have you been drinking?” he grinned, studying the entrancing liquid.
“’Mmm, ‘s really good Arfur.” Was all Merlin supplied rather uselessly, his content expression amused Arthur.
He held the drink out to the blonde, and carefully Arthur took a sip of it. At first the warm liquid tasted of rich fruits and smelt of the mellow flowers around them. Then emerged a trace of that distinguishable bitterness, which was surprising due to their location. He took another sip to confirm his suspicions. It seemed even the druids were capable of brewing drinks laced in alcohol or some sort of magical equivalent. Onlyfor special occasions though, that much was obvious by the affect the weak drink had on the man beside him and the fact he had never seen anything like it in his six months of being here. Funny. Merlin seized the thatched leaves back hastily; momentarily afraid Arthur was going to drink it all. The relieved look on his face when he saw there was still some left tickled Arthur’s lips.
“Who gave you this?” he asked.
“Gawayneeee.”
Arthur rolled his eyes; of course Gwaine had sniffed out the beverages and given Merlin a heap of it because he found getting others more wasted than he was absolutely hilarious. His eyes roamed the celebrations around him and he spotted the rugged man dancing maladroitly with some members of the female clan to an upbeat Druid Gerwinde- improvised by the talented musicians of the clan. The pulse of this stylised dance was still disorientating to Arthur’s ears, no matter how many times Merlin counted the beats out to him over the past few months. The only thing he could latch onto was the repetitive, simplistic melody playing in unison octaves aside from occasional touches of harmonisation. A drone resonated beneath the merry tune and the pulsating drumbeat, giving it some element of key. Arthur had grown to like the simplistic, almost primal nature of the Druid’s music-making. It was far better than auto-tuned, over commercialised Barbie-dolls and topless Kens that was for sure. This music was authentic, the instruments crafted directly from nature and magic.
Beside Gwaine, Lancelot and Gwen were engaged in deep conversation whilst sipping their drinks. The whole scene reminded him of a teenage house party, a bizarre one at that.
“You’re finally one of us now.” Merlin exclaimed, eyes crinkling in mirth exaggeratedly at the notion.
“I guess so. Do I get a special magical name?” he asked teasingly, not aware of how close he was leaning towards the other man.
Merlin didn’t seem to care or notice their proximity; if he did Arthur didn’t detect any objection. His mind wavered foolishly back to the kiss before the ceremony. No. Merlin was under the influence of some strange druid drink. He was not going to persuade him to kiss him, no matter how irresistible those lips were becoming. Merlin squinted comically, lips twisting. Clearly he was trying to conceal his own amusement at something. He caught Arthur’s eyes mischievously, words misplaced due to limitless laughter.
“…h-how about…ha! Clotpole? Or dollophead?”
Arthur’s smile faded into an immediate deadpan.
“Merlin…” he began slowly, sarcasm oozing from that word alone. “What did we talk about? You trying to be funny-”
“-I shouldn’t.” Merlin interrupted sheepishly, a slight blush dusting his cheekbones.
Arthur raised his head with a grin, performing an elaborate nod.
“Exactly!” his voice couldn’t house any more of a patronising tone than it already was.
Draping an arm around the druid, Arthur shoved him playfully and gestured towards the drink.
“Now be a good friend and tell me where I can get some of that.”
♦☼♦
Merlin pushed him back before jumping onto his feet. Noticing the expression on the blonde druid’s face become one of poorly masked hurt, he s
mirked.
“No I’m not leaving you,” he outstretched his hand confidently. “I want to show you something.”
Hauling himself up to his feet with Merlin’s hand, Arthur was unable to contain the giddy, bubbly feeling inside – it was the drink, definitely the drink, oh how much had he had again? - expressing it in a wide, toothy grin. They stumbled for what felt like hours through the luminous forest, giggling as each of them frequently collided with obstacles that had appeared out of nowhere. Merlin was the only one aware of where they were actually going, well vaguely aware.
“Where are you taking me? Fiend.” Arthur slurred, breaking the silence that had hovered between them.
Smiling enigmatically, Moraþ floating through his bloodshot eyes, Merlin gestured towards the tree beside them.
“Let’s see if you’ve done your homework.” He teased, making his way up the tree daintily.
At a steady pace, Arthur followed, a little terrified and lightheaded. How far up were they going? Merlin was way ahead of him, weaving expertly between branches despite intoxication, using every part of the tree to his advantage with skill. It reminded him of their first meeting, climbing frantically out of reach from the Chimera. Only this time, thank god, they were not running away from any monsters. He was unsure how two drunk druids would be able to take on a predator of the forest. Besides, Arthur hardly felt energetic enough to walk yet alone climb, his limbs ached and weariness clouded over his system. Merlin was out of sight, submerged in the leaves far above his head. Narrowing his eyes to focus the corners of his fuzzy vision, he huffed.