To a Wild Rose (2/3)

Chapter 2: A Magician's Secrets

“Why do you not like the house?”

It was Arthur's third week at Chatsworth, and he supposed that he had made some progress. During his stay, he'd written Princess Maria a full piece of parchment, describing the house. It was probably not as grand as the castle she lived in, but he was sincere when he wrote that he wished she could be here to see it. It had been a week without rain, and that alone put him in ridiculously good spirits. He wrote about that too.

He didn't write about the face that watched him every night whilst he slept, and he didn't mention the fact that his stable boy deserved a good thwack on the head. Merlin called him 'Marquess', but made it sound like a damn insult every time the title rolled off his tongue.

In that respect, there was no progress. None whatsoever.

Merlin was mucking out a stall while Arthur watched. “Because, Marquess, I just don't.” He paused to look up from his work. “Must I need a reason?”

“Why must you be so vile to me?” Arthur asked, with arms crossed. “I've done nothing to you. You could at least try to be a little bit pleasant.”

Merlin said nothing.

“...Is it because the house is haunted?” Arthur asked. He was of the opinion that ghosts certainly didn't exist, but perhaps Merlin would be of a different opinion. No, Merlin would most likely be of a different opinion because he consistently disagreed with Arthur on everything possible.

Merlin flinched.

“You saw, Marquess?”

Arthur straightened up. There was no ghost, but judging by Merlin's reaction, he definitely thought there was one, “Yes, I saw,” he said with a nod. “Every night he comes to me and he watches me. Even when I latch my door.”

“Latched doors don't mean anything to ghosts, Marquess. You of all people should know that very well.”

“What do you mean me of all people?” Arthur demanded. “What have I done?” He would have shook Merlin if he hadn't reeked so obnoxiously of horse manure.

To which Merlin just shrugged, “Perhaps you haven't done anything, but the ghosts don't know that.” His lips curled in a faint smile.

“There are no ghosts.” Arthur crossed his arms again. “It's probably just someone's idea of a joke.”

“So says the youngest person living in the house. Your logic's a bit crass, Marquess. Somehow, I expected better of you. You've had schooling, of course. Probably the best the Duke could give you.” Merlin raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

It was not a good feeling, being told he was stupid. “You--” Arthur bit his lip. “It's better than blaming everything on a ghost who doesn't exist.”

“So the ghost doesn't exist,” Merlin sounded superbly amused. “Even if you've seen him with your own eyes, every night. Else why would he come and watch you?”

“Well, obviously they don't.” Arthur turned away from him, “I'm going for a ride. Where's Laurent?”

“Turn right, the third stall.” Merlin waved his hand vaguely. “If you'd like to ride into the woods, I'll join you.”

--

Merlin rode bareback, and Arthur had to admit he had good form. His horse was a gentle brown mare that Arthur didn't think suited him very well (considering what he knew of Merlin). But perhaps Gaius was right, Merlin was better with horses than he was with people. Arthur started Laurent at a slow clop. It was a little awkward, because he was used to riding alone, and better company could be desired.

Still, Merlin wasn't so bad if he was quiet. In fact, Arthur could almost venture to say that he was pleasant.

“You look like you've never rode with a saddle before.”

“I haven't,” Merlin shook his head. “I don't think Rhys would wear a saddle willingly, at any rate. I barely convinced him to wear a bit.”

“I thought Gaius said you had a way with horses.” Arthur remarked mildly.

“I don't force him to do anything he doesn't like, Marquess.”

Arthur bit his lip, but stayed wisely silent. They'd rode into the woods now, and he fell back a little to let Merlin take the lead. Laurent whinnied at this, as if he was displeased.

“Merlin.”

Merlin glanced back at him, “I love it here,” he said unexpectedly, “I come here to avoid your father, the Duke.”

“...My father?”

“He's come before, you know.” Merlin smiled a little smile to himself, “He knows well not to follow me here, as I'm the only one that knows these woods.”

Arthur saw an opportunity. He took it, delicately. “Has my father ever...come here with company?”

“Of the most despicable sort,” Merlin shuddered. “Duchess Caroline Cavendish. Lady Josephine Henry. Are they your father's mistresses?”

“I'd rather not know that.” Arthur privately shuddered along with him, except that he was disciplined enough to hide it. Duchess Cavendish and Lady Henry were both aristocrats with plenty of what his father liked best—wealth. But how Uther Pendragon could have possibly overlooked the snag that both of them had husbands...that remained to be seen.

For once, Merlin agreed with him. “Me too.”

It felt nice and Arthur almost made the mistake of smiling at him.

“Your father could see the ghost, you know.” Merlin glanced at him. “Of course, just like you, he insisted that the ghost didn't exist.” He nudged his horse's side. “Let's go back, Gaius will have my head if I don't have you back in time for lunch.”

This was the second time that Merlin had mentioned Gaius doing him bodily harm. But he put that aside for a moment. Arthur turned Laurent around and rode beside Merlin this time, instead of behind him. “My father could see the...ghost?” He asked, before he could help himself.

Merlin's mouth twitched, “I thought you said there was no ghost, Marquess.”

–

“I heard you spent all morning riding with the stable boy.” Lancelot closed the door quietly behind him. “How was it?”

Arthur nibbled listlessly on a biscuit. “He still hates me, but I think we're making progress.”

“You sound optimistic,” Lancelot said, sinking into a cushioned chair. “That's refreshing.”

“Thank you, I think.” Arthur glanced towards the window. “I need your honest opinion.”

“Are you chasing a lost cause with the stable boy?” Lancelot tilted his head, “Yes, both Gwen and I think so. We're your voice of reason, you know.”

Arthur rubbed at his forehead, “Sometimes, you two are a little too reasonable. I like to dream. There's just something about him.” He shook himself quickly, “But it's not that...it's about the ghost.”

“What ghost?”

“You know,” Arthur waved his hand, “the one that I keep telling you about.”

“Where you thought it was me?” Lancelot blinked at him, “I don't see the big deal about this, Arthur...a ghost is a ghost. It floats around. It's not going to hurt anyone. At least, I don't think.”

“So you can see it then?”

“Of course not, I'm just saying...if there really was.” Lancelot looked at him, like Arthur had gone a little bit insane. And maybe his young master had, with the stable boy to turn his head. “I'll stand guard outside your room tonight, Arthur.”

“Merlin says my father could see it.” Arthur mused idly as he stood up.

“And Merlin hates you,” Lancelot reminded him kindly. “Which probably means he's not telling the truth. Honestly, we'd hear about it if the Duke of Devonshire was seeing things.” He too, got up and walked over to where Arthur stood. “I think you're in need of a very long nap. And I really don't think it's wise to be in his company for too long. You're starting to sound a little insane.”

“Merlin's not making me insane,” Arthur protested, “He's just...” and then he faltered.

Lancelot looked at him with pitying eyes, “I'll fetch you some mead.” He said.

–

It only took Arthur a little while to find the stable this time, so Merlin's plate of leftovers was not ice cold, but lukewarm by the time he got there. It took him another few moments to find the winding staircase that led up to Merlin's loft. One thing that hadn't changed throughout the week was that the stable was always silent.

Arthur wondered how Merlin could stand it. Granted, the stable wasn't as big as the house itself, but even with Gwen and Lancelot to talk to, everything seemed to swallow him up. He couldn't even begin to imagine having no one to talk to. Maybe the ghost didn't even come here, which was why Merlin felt safe.

The door to Merlin's room wasn't exactly closed, and Arthur almost dropped the plate.

Merlin was stooped by his bucket completely naked, running a wet cloth over his pale chest. He was so pale that Arthur thought he practically glistened. His clothes were in a pile by the trunk near his bed. Arthur quickly averted his eyes.

“Merlin, for these types of activities, you should at least close the door.” Arthur mumbled red-faced to the floor.

Merlin did not look all that shocked to see him, dipping the cloth into the bucket again after fixing Arthur with a long look, “If anything, I think you should stop dropping in unannounced, Marquess. If I don't leave my door open to let the air in, the loft will reek.”

Arthur refused to look up. “Still...”

“If you would, Marquess, don't enjoy yourself too much. I'll be decent in a couple of minutes.”

–

But the warm flush in Arthur's cheeks would not go away, even long after Merlin was decently clothed. He sat on Merlin's bed, watching Merlin pick at his food. They sat close enough so that their knees touched, but Arthur doubted that Merlin noticed.

“Merlin.”

Merlin chewed delicately on a piece of sausage. “Yes?”

“Does the ghost ever come here?”

“For someone who thinks ghosts don't exist...” Merlin smirked faintly at him, “I don't understand you at all, Marquess. But for your question, yes. He does, often.”

“I don't think I'm that hard to figure out.” Arthur told him truthfully as he set a friendly hand on Merlin's shoulder. “You're the one that's determined as ever to give me headaches.”

“Do I really?” Merlin's smirk slipped a little. “But you have everything, Marquess.” For the first time, he looked forlorn, alone, almost ashamed. “A ghost that people don't even believe in, that's all I have.” He stood up, and put the plate of food (once again half eaten) on top of the trunk. His steps seemed uncertain and heavy, like an old man's.

“I don't think I have everything.” Arthur spoke idly to the ceiling.

“When the Duke passes then.” Merlin laid down again, “You'll have this house, and then you'll have everything.”

Arthur glanced at him, “I also have to become the king of Spain. You forget that,” he added dryly. “I'm betrothed to a Princess.”

Merlin's lips twitched just slightly as he tilted his head. “With such high aspirations, I fail to see how trying to make nice with me is productive. I'm certainly not going to get you the Spanish throne. Hopefully, your darling princess will procure that for you. Is it Princess Cristina?”

“Do you have a problem with me trying to be nice to you?” Arthur had to ask after a very belated pause. It was a question worth asking. “And no, it's not. It's her sister Maria.”

Merlin shrugged. “You don't know what you're asking me,” he evaded, turning his face away from Arthur. “And Maria's too old for you.”

That Arthur did not expect. When he looked over, Merlin had curled himself into a ball again. The mattress was lumpy in some places, and thoroughly uncomfortable, but it was all right after a while and Arthur was certainly spoiled. He lay there staring at Merlin's back.

“Sure it is. It's a simple question. Are you jealous of Princess Maria, Merlin?”

“I'm not jealous.” Merlin, if not jealous, did certainly sound miffed. “...I'm just saying she's old.”

“The whole of Spain would be appalled.” Arthur said.

“Lucky me, you're hardly the whole of Spain, Marquess.” Merlin rolled around to look at him, and their faces suddenly too close, Merlin's eyes were too bright, like two blue moons shining in the dark.

“I don't understand you, Merlin.”

“You're not meant to, Marquess.” For the first time, Arthur saw Merlin smile, shy, uncertain. Captivating. “You don't even believe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your world, Marquess, it's an unforgiving one. It's full of useless wealth, people masquerading their true intentions. You'll one day marry a Princess, perhaps become the king of Spain. Crowns are heavy, you might break your neck. Your world will never allow you to be like this ever again.”

Arthur barely registered that Merlin had closed the distance between their faces and was tracing a finger along Arthur's cheekbone. It was certainly not the first time that Arthur had been touched like this, but this was the first time his spine shivered. “My world sounds pathetic,” he said. He didn't really think so, but Merlin needed this answer to keep going, Arthur thought.

“Because it is,” Merlin said.

“What's in your world, then?” Arthur reached for Merlin's other hand. To his surprised, Merlin's thin fingers curled readily around his own.

“There's this blasted house. The horses, this godforsaken room, Gaius.” Merlin took his hand away from Arthur's face, “There's the ghost, too--” He broke off abruptly.

“There's something else too, isn't there?”

Merlin shifted his eyes.

“I can't stand you, but there's you, Marquess.”

Arthur had to blink twice, but his cheeks flamed before his mouth could react.

“Oh.”

Merlin's lips were too red, too close. It was as if time had stopped, when he tilted his head a little to lick at Arthur's mouth. After Arthur recovered from the initial shock, he cupped a hand under Merlin's jaw, feeling the merest hint of stubble prickling at his skin. Perhaps he'd wanted this too, all along, the world that held him prisoner did not allow him to ask for it. Maybe that was what Merlin meant.

Merlin made a little sound in his throat, it sounded a lot like 'move' and Arthur moved, even though he was unsure of how to move. But somehow, Merlin had him pressed against the wall.

“I...”

Arthur found one arm curled around Merlin's neck and Merlin had his other hand in a death grip—hard enough for him to feel his bones cracking.

Merlin's world was one that Arthur knew nothing about. But still, that didn't make the world any less tantalizing and he was already halfway lost within the labyrinth of come-hither eyes and a serpent tongue.

“Merlin, Merlin...it's all right.” Arthur kissed his cheeks and his throat, soothing a scar that he couldn't see. And suddenly, Merlin was limp against him. Arthur guided his head to the lumpy pillow and smoothed back his hair. “It's all right.”

Merlin looked at him, his face very pale. “Marquess...”

Arthur laid a finger on Merlin's bruised lips. “Arthur. I want to be Arthur now.”

“Arthur.” Merlin spoke his name, tasted it as if it was the name of a god. “You should go. The ghost...it will be angry with you if you don't leave my room.”

“Does the ghost...ever hurt you?” Arthur asked him.

“No, not me.” Merlin shook his head, “He'll never hurt me. But you...he hates you. You and your father both.”

“So the ghost is like you.” Actually, that was a possibility. He only saw a shadow of a face, he never saw the face. “Merlin, are you the ghost? Do you play the ghost because you don't have the courage to kiss me?”

“Marquess...” Merlin was horrified. “No! I'd never...”

That was the first time Merlin sounded remotely human. Arthur pressed a kiss to his temple and left in a daze. He still didn't understand Merlin, at all.

–

Lancelot and Gwen sat outside of his door on the floor, munching on a tray of strawberry tarts. Arthur paused at the top of the stairs, looking only partly scandalized, “...What's all this?”

“We're going to see if we can nab the ghost once and for all tonight.” Gwen informed him cheerily between tarts. “Are you going to join us--” She paused and then looked at him. “...Arthur, you've been at the stables again, haven't you?”

“I...erm.” He thought about lying. Was very nearly tempted, but finally nodded, “Yes, I was.”

“You should at least try to hide it a little.” She said, and Lancelot almost choked. Gwen hit him, and Arthur slid down against the wall next to them.

“Gwen--”

“Arthur, he's a stable boy,” she said, sounding very much like the mother he would have had, had she lived. “A stable boy that's not quite right in the head, not to mention. If it'd been a chambermaid...”

“Then I think Lancelot would have my head, quite certainly,” Arthur glanced over at his butler.

Lancelot gave him a look. A half joking look, but still a half dangerous look.

“See?”

Gwen crossed her arms, “Arthur, you know perfectly well what I'm talking about.”

“It's just for the summer,” Arthur said, wondering if he was being truthful or not. “When I get back to London...things will probably be different. He might be the ghost.”

He reached for another tart, and the three of them fell silent.

–

Lancelot and Gwen were both asleep, tumbled all over each other and Lancelot had a snore that could rock the dead. Arthur wondered how Gwen stood it. The strawberry tarts were long gone, and Arthur amused himself picking crumbs from the plate. Perhaps Merlin was the ghost after all.

He was bleary-eyed with sleep when the shadow floated up to him. For the first time, Arthur saw the shadow's face, it looked morose, lonesome.

“Why are you haunting this house?” The words slipped from his mouth in a whisper.

The ghost tilted his head.

“Why are you haunting me? Why do you hate my father?”

The ghost put one finger against his lips. Arthur flinched; he didn't feel any skin, but an ice cold gust of wind.

The ghost was gone.

–

“The ghost touched me.”

Merlin barely glanced at him, “So?”

“The ghost touched me.” Arthur said again.

“Marquess...” Merlin walked up to him and pressed him up against one of the wooden beams, “Ghosts can't touch people. So I'm not the ghost.”

“I know.”

Merlin paused. “You do...?”

“I saw his face. It wasn't yours.”

–

Uther dropped by unannounced the next week. He had company with him, a Lady Helen Cornwallis, who was really too nice to hang on his father's arm, or so Arthur thought. There was also the obligatory army of servants. The house felt stifled—even with a hundred rooms. And Arthur was glad that he wasn't in Italy with Lady Morgana and the handsome Lord Whitaker He kept waiting for Uther to leave, but it seemed that his father had no intention of doing so. Gaius's face was drawn and taut, and Merlin seemed to have a sixth sense about his father's presence because he hadn't been by the kitchen for days.

“And where do you think you're going?”

Arthur flinched. Uther had probably come down to yell at the cooks for not sending up the right bottle of mead to his quarters, but his father always had abysmal timing.

“...To the stables,” he said. “My stable boy hasn't eaten.”

Uther looked properly scandalized, “Arthur, he is a stable boy,” his tone was entirely unlike Gwen's, harsh and chastising. “You're to be Duke of Devonshire. This...is treason.”

“And this is Chatsworth, in the country, in the middle of nowhere,” Arthur told him, “Merlin needs to eat too...even if you hate him.” That part he hadn't meant to say, but apparently, it had an effect on Uther. His father's face paled ghastly white. It was a sight he savored, and then he slipped out into the night.

He found the stable when the food was still warm. Merlin's door was not closed, but unlike that one memorable time, he was decent.

“Arthur.”

“Sorry...I haven't been able to come that often.” Arthur offered him the plate. “My father is here. With company.”

“Ah. Who is it this time?”

“Lady Helen Cornwallis.” Who was a widow. So that wasn't so bad, but still, Arthur felt sorry for her. He laid down beside Merlin on the bed. “I think my father is scared of you.”

“...Is he?” Merlin looked mildly interested as he picked at his food, “I wonder why.”

“You probably know why,” Arthur said dryly, picking a piece of potato off of Merlin's plate.

Merlin shrugged, “I know magic.”

Arthur looked at him. “What?”

“I know magic.” Merlin repeated dismissively, “Your father knows that. He also knows that he's indebted to me. And he probably hates it that you bring me dinner.”

Arthur's mind was spinning a mile a minute, but it still came down to: “You...you know magic.”

“Very old magic.” Merlin said, “And only a little. But magic nonetheless.”

Magic. Arthur had read about it in numerous books. The world they were in now, there was no room for magic. Magic knew that, and had faded away. It was a wondrous phenomenon: historians revered it, scholars were puzzled by it, scientists hated it. It was unexplainable...and it just was. It was surreal, having Merlin tell him that he knew magic.

“...Can you show me?”

Merlin dropped his fork. “Your hand, Arthur.”

Arthur felt his hand settle between Merlin's own. His fingertips tingled, and then there was a flash of brilliant gold. An orb danced up to the ceiling and out of Merlin's window. Arthur just stared.

“This...isn't a circus trick.”

“Of course it isn't. It's also why I can see the ghost.” Merlin let go of his hand, “There are more ghosts, but this is the one that you can see. Ghosts are souls...the souls of people who have been wronged. Until they have somehow made peace with the world that betrayed them, they can't move on.”

“Did my father kill the ghost?” Arthur asked softly, “That's why I can see it, right? I'm his son.” Although most times he wished he weren't.

There was a brief pause, “Yes.”

“Did you know him?”

There was no answer, but Merlin tangled their legs together under the ratty covers and buried his face in Arthur's shoulder. “I saw him die.”

–

Uther did a very wise thing and did not ask Arthur about the stable boy again. The one time he did go for a ride with Lady Helen, he didn't say a single word to Merlin--Arthur had asked him about it. Of course his father and Lady Helen stayed clear of the woods, and they brought a picnic with them to eat by the river.

Uther had never done that with him or his mother.

And by the end of the week, Uther had his entourage of servants pack up his trunks and then he left. He spoke very little, and Arthur realized that he was carrying a limp. A rather noticeable one. Unfamiliar to the role of the caring son, the conversation had gone something like this:

“Father, you're limping.”

Uther had looked at him balefully.

“That's just your imagination.”

Arthur wanted to mention the ghost, to ask who Uther had killed, who he had wronged. But Uther was an old man, set in his ways, and Arthur knew that Chatsworth House was not exactly devoid of riding crops.

But the riding crops were all in the stable, and Merlin probably didn't let Uther near them. “I'm a little too old to be imagining things, don't you think?”

“You must be drunk, then,” said Uther, wincing painfully as he swung on his horse.

Arthur looked at him. “I'm not drunk. Besides, I don't think my imagination would be so persistent and imagine things that even you can see.”

“What are you talking about?” Uther narrowed his eyes.

“I'm talking about the ghost,” Arthur said boldly. “Merlin said you could see it because you killed him.” He wasn't as surprised as he could have been, at the fact that his father had killed someone. “I can see it because I'm your son.”

“And your head is just turned because of a stupid stable boy. That's the end of it.” Uther snapped disgustedly. He whirled off in a huff and Arthur watched him go. His father's face had been...ghostly pale.

–

“Uther limped,” Merlin said calmly that night as they lay together on his bed. “didn't he?”

“You...”

“Not me. I'd never hurt him.” Merlin shook his head, “Although sometimes I wish I could.” He had a bit of magic in his hand and Arthur watched it dance in circles on his palm. “But Old Magic's like that, once you've saved a man's life, you can't harm him. You're bound to him for the rest of his life. He can't harm me either.”

“If not you, then who?”

“The ghost.”

“But the ghost can't touch anything,” Arthur protested. “you said so yourself.”

Merlin shrugged again. He was sleepy, and his breathing was already starting to slow down, his leg rubbing lazily along Arthur's thigh.

“Wait...wait a minute. Are you saying that you're bound to my father by magic for the rest of his life?” Arthur couldn't even begin to imagine.

“No, just that I can't hurt him.” Merlin glanced at him. “What a horrible fate that would be. To be bound to Duke Pendragon.”

Emboldened by this, for he really did agree wholeheartedly with Merlin, Arthur asked, “Would it be not so horrible a fate if you were bound to me, then?”

“Maybe.” Merlin didn't exactly look at him as he answered, “I'd have to save your life first.”

–

Later, Arthur went to Uther's room, clear across the house—because he probably didn't want to remember how their summers used to be. It was a huge magnificent bedroom, even bigger than the one that Arthur had been offered the first night.

The room was spotless, except for the splotches of dried blood on the white sheets.