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leashy_bebesTitle: The Kissing Bough (1/1)
Pairing: Merlin/Gwaine (background Arthur/Gwen too).
Rating: PG
Summary: Future fic - the first truly peaceful winter of Arthur's reign, and Gwaine introduces Merlin to a new tradition.
Word Count: ~1500
Notes: Anachronistic berry-plucking tradition is anachronistic. Shh. Gwaine was years ahead of his time. Also, unbeta'd, so feel free to point out glaring typos etc
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Yule is only a matter of weeks away, and the celebrations are already well underway. The mood in the castle is good, a fine summer and admirable harvests promising a comfortable winter for all. The hall is strewn with holly and greenery, garlands made by gaggles of pretty noblewomen hanging side by side with the simpler green plaits favoured in the lower town. The fires blaze in every occupied room and fat candles burn merrily in the hallways.
This, the third winter of Arthur's reign promises to be the best yet. He took the throne as the leaves turned from green to a blaze of yellow and red, so they spent the first winter consolidating power, with only the most essential ceremonies observed. A royal spring wedding had buoyed the people and the remainder of the year had gone well, but the winter had been viciously cold. Arthur and the knights spent most of it overseeing the transfer of food to the outlying villages. This year, things are good, the people are happy and the kingdom is peaceful.
Merlin remembers when he first arrived in Camelot, wide-eyed and constantly amazed even as he was constantly afraid. He used to think feasts were the best thing in the world, and was always annoyed if Arthur decided to leave early. He never thought he'd get tired of them, but it's different being court sorcerer. He has to sit at the high table for a start, and it makes him realise why Arthur used to want to leave early so often. Merlin's spent so long deflecting attention and scrutiny that being the focus of so much of it feels unnerving.
Some things never change, though. Arthur still makes him wear ridiculous ceremonial outfits – apparently there is a uniform of sorts for court sorcerers, from back in the days before the purge. Merlin is not at all sure about the prevalence of stars and crescent moons. It's all rather suspect. So yes, Merlin still has to wear stupid clothes, Arthur still grumbles and drinks a little too much (if he can get the drinks unnoticed past Gwen). And Gwaine always flirts with the prettiest ladies. Merlin doesn't think he goes home with nearly as many of them as court gossip would have people believe. Not since he became a knight anyway, and started having to hang around to face the aftermath.
Gwaine catches Merlin's eye from across the room and raises his goblet in a friendly toast. Merlin smiles back at him and Gwaine tilts his head as though he's trying to signal something to Merlin. Then someone passes between them, obstructing Merlin's view and by the time they're gone, Gwaine's attention has been hooked by a fellow knight, and Merlin supposes whatever he was trying to say will have to wait. Sometimes the two of them have slipped off from feasts like this with a flask of mead and got horribly drunk in some corner of the castle. They inevitably catch hell for it from Arthur the next day when they're both haggard and useless, but it's always fun. Merlin likes the kitchens best, warm and informal. Gwaine has even managed to charm Cook, which Merlin thought an impossible feat, so they get the best of everything.
But Gwaine likes it best on the battlements, sprawled on his back so he can see the stars. Sometimes he tells absurd – and knowing him, probably true – stories about his life before Camelot that have Merlin struggling to breathe for laughter, but sometimes he's a wistful drunk. Memories of sleeping under those same stars, of living his life on a whim come spilling out, and he sounds like he misses it the way Merlin would miss magic. He sounds like he itches to live that life again. Sometimes Merlin wonders why Gwaine stays in Camelot.
Merlin loses sight of Gwaine in the crowd though, so he's alone and relatively sober when he slips away a little while later, heading for his chambers. That's another thing that's changed. Such luxury. Sometimes he's still surprised by it, by the softness of his bed, the warmth of the fire, the shelves of books to rival Gaius's. When he lets himself in there's a flagon of water on the table, and a tray of sweets. Unbelievable, to think that he now has a manservant who knows his habits as well as he once knew Arthur's.
He pours himself a drink and curls up on his bed with one of the books of magic he and Arthur had retrieved from deep in the vaults. Merlin never thought he'd have reason to be grateful for Uther's hypocrisy, but apparently not every magical artefact Camelot found or stole during the purge was destroyed. Merlin has learned a lot, and there is still a lot left to discover. Before he gets far though there's a knock at the door.
"Come in," he calls, and it's Gwaine who enters, a broad smile on his face.
"You escaped, then?" he asks.
"Just," Merlin says with a welcoming smile, beckoning him inside.
Gwaine crosses the room to perch on the edge of the table, picking a sweet from the platter and popping it into his mouth with an air of satisfaction.
"I like this time of year," he says, in that way he as, as though the conversation's been ongoing.
"Too cold for me," Merlin says with a shrug.
"Good job you have a nice warm fire then, isn't it, Court Sorcerer?" Gwaine teases. Arthur always says that only Merlin can make honorific sound less respectful than Gwaine.
Merlin unapologetically wraps a blanket more tightly around his shoulders and says, "Yes it is."
Gwaine laughs softly and Merlin's always liked that about him, that he can laugh at people without mocking them. Merlin watches Gwaine look around the room, but he's not sure what causes the low chuckle.
"What?"
"What's that?" Gwaine asks, tilting his head towards the door.
Merlin looks, confused for a moment. Then he spots the green half-globe hanging just inside the doorway which has obviously caught Gwaine's attention. It's strung with ribbons and pine cones, a sprig of mistletoe laden with round white berries hanging in the centre.
"Oh, that. Pretty, isn't it? It's called a Holy Bough, it was a gift from the druids. They cut the mistletoe with a golden blade and catch it before it hits the ground so it stays pure, or something."
"Mmm-hmm. And do you know what it's for?"
"Decoration?" Merlin suggests.
Gwaine laughs and hops down from the table to stand closer to the bough, looking up at it. "Not quite. Here, come and take a closer look."
"At what?"
"Here," Gwaine insists, and curious, Merlin gives in, crossing to stand next to Gwaine, looking up.
"What am I looking at?" Merlin asks.
"Well, when I say looking... They're also called Kissing Boughs."
"Oh, really?" Merlin asks, and suddenly Gwaine's whole air – that there's some great joke afoot which Merlin hasn't quite understood yet – makes sense.
"If a couple find themselves standing under it they're supposed to kiss," Gwaine goes on. "It's a blessing of sorts, I think. And one berry gets removed with every kiss."
"I see," Merlin says slowly. "And what's the protocol when someone's lured underneath it by a drunken knight?"
"Ah, well, you see, I'm not drunk," Gwaine says, with his most charming smile.
Merlin has a reply all lined up but then Gwaine touches the side of his throat and the words won't come. Gwaine's expression is challenging but his eyes are warm and his smile softens as he closes the distance between them. The kiss is soft for long moments, until Merlin touches his fingertips to Gwaine's jaw. Then there's a tense trembling second before Gwaine makes a soft noise and wraps his arms around Merlin's waist. The kiss quickly becomes more urgent, thorough, but still indulgent, still with that edge of mirth that characterises Gwaine in all but the most serious situations.
He tastes good, sweets and wine and smoke, heady. Before Merlin knows it he has his fingers tangled in the soft fabric of Gwaine's surcoat, hanging on tight to him, and he realises the embarrassingly breathless, hungry little noises are coming from his own mouth. When they part, Gwaine peppers little kisses across his lips, his hand curving warm and calloused around the back of Merlin's neck.
Without taking his eyes off Gwaine, Merlin reaches up and plucks a single berry from the mistletoe hanging from the middle of the Holy Bough – or Kissing Bough, or whatever it is – and tosses it towards the fire. Then he whispers a spell and sends the bough floating to hover over his bed instead, turning to give Gwaine a challenging look. Gwaine laughs and takes Merlin's hand.
By morning, all the berries are gone.
Pairing: Merlin/Gwaine (background Arthur/Gwen too).
Rating: PG
Summary: Future fic - the first truly peaceful winter of Arthur's reign, and Gwaine introduces Merlin to a new tradition.
Word Count: ~1500
Notes: Anachronistic berry-plucking tradition is anachronistic. Shh. Gwaine was years ahead of his time. Also, unbeta'd, so feel free to point out glaring typos etc
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing.
Yule is only a matter of weeks away, and the celebrations are already well underway. The mood in the castle is good, a fine summer and admirable harvests promising a comfortable winter for all. The hall is strewn with holly and greenery, garlands made by gaggles of pretty noblewomen hanging side by side with the simpler green plaits favoured in the lower town. The fires blaze in every occupied room and fat candles burn merrily in the hallways.
This, the third winter of Arthur's reign promises to be the best yet. He took the throne as the leaves turned from green to a blaze of yellow and red, so they spent the first winter consolidating power, with only the most essential ceremonies observed. A royal spring wedding had buoyed the people and the remainder of the year had gone well, but the winter had been viciously cold. Arthur and the knights spent most of it overseeing the transfer of food to the outlying villages. This year, things are good, the people are happy and the kingdom is peaceful.
Merlin remembers when he first arrived in Camelot, wide-eyed and constantly amazed even as he was constantly afraid. He used to think feasts were the best thing in the world, and was always annoyed if Arthur decided to leave early. He never thought he'd get tired of them, but it's different being court sorcerer. He has to sit at the high table for a start, and it makes him realise why Arthur used to want to leave early so often. Merlin's spent so long deflecting attention and scrutiny that being the focus of so much of it feels unnerving.
Some things never change, though. Arthur still makes him wear ridiculous ceremonial outfits – apparently there is a uniform of sorts for court sorcerers, from back in the days before the purge. Merlin is not at all sure about the prevalence of stars and crescent moons. It's all rather suspect. So yes, Merlin still has to wear stupid clothes, Arthur still grumbles and drinks a little too much (if he can get the drinks unnoticed past Gwen). And Gwaine always flirts with the prettiest ladies. Merlin doesn't think he goes home with nearly as many of them as court gossip would have people believe. Not since he became a knight anyway, and started having to hang around to face the aftermath.
Gwaine catches Merlin's eye from across the room and raises his goblet in a friendly toast. Merlin smiles back at him and Gwaine tilts his head as though he's trying to signal something to Merlin. Then someone passes between them, obstructing Merlin's view and by the time they're gone, Gwaine's attention has been hooked by a fellow knight, and Merlin supposes whatever he was trying to say will have to wait. Sometimes the two of them have slipped off from feasts like this with a flask of mead and got horribly drunk in some corner of the castle. They inevitably catch hell for it from Arthur the next day when they're both haggard and useless, but it's always fun. Merlin likes the kitchens best, warm and informal. Gwaine has even managed to charm Cook, which Merlin thought an impossible feat, so they get the best of everything.
But Gwaine likes it best on the battlements, sprawled on his back so he can see the stars. Sometimes he tells absurd – and knowing him, probably true – stories about his life before Camelot that have Merlin struggling to breathe for laughter, but sometimes he's a wistful drunk. Memories of sleeping under those same stars, of living his life on a whim come spilling out, and he sounds like he misses it the way Merlin would miss magic. He sounds like he itches to live that life again. Sometimes Merlin wonders why Gwaine stays in Camelot.
Merlin loses sight of Gwaine in the crowd though, so he's alone and relatively sober when he slips away a little while later, heading for his chambers. That's another thing that's changed. Such luxury. Sometimes he's still surprised by it, by the softness of his bed, the warmth of the fire, the shelves of books to rival Gaius's. When he lets himself in there's a flagon of water on the table, and a tray of sweets. Unbelievable, to think that he now has a manservant who knows his habits as well as he once knew Arthur's.
He pours himself a drink and curls up on his bed with one of the books of magic he and Arthur had retrieved from deep in the vaults. Merlin never thought he'd have reason to be grateful for Uther's hypocrisy, but apparently not every magical artefact Camelot found or stole during the purge was destroyed. Merlin has learned a lot, and there is still a lot left to discover. Before he gets far though there's a knock at the door.
"Come in," he calls, and it's Gwaine who enters, a broad smile on his face.
"You escaped, then?" he asks.
"Just," Merlin says with a welcoming smile, beckoning him inside.
Gwaine crosses the room to perch on the edge of the table, picking a sweet from the platter and popping it into his mouth with an air of satisfaction.
"I like this time of year," he says, in that way he as, as though the conversation's been ongoing.
"Too cold for me," Merlin says with a shrug.
"Good job you have a nice warm fire then, isn't it, Court Sorcerer?" Gwaine teases. Arthur always says that only Merlin can make honorific sound less respectful than Gwaine.
Merlin unapologetically wraps a blanket more tightly around his shoulders and says, "Yes it is."
Gwaine laughs softly and Merlin's always liked that about him, that he can laugh at people without mocking them. Merlin watches Gwaine look around the room, but he's not sure what causes the low chuckle.
"What?"
"What's that?" Gwaine asks, tilting his head towards the door.
Merlin looks, confused for a moment. Then he spots the green half-globe hanging just inside the doorway which has obviously caught Gwaine's attention. It's strung with ribbons and pine cones, a sprig of mistletoe laden with round white berries hanging in the centre.
"Oh, that. Pretty, isn't it? It's called a Holy Bough, it was a gift from the druids. They cut the mistletoe with a golden blade and catch it before it hits the ground so it stays pure, or something."
"Mmm-hmm. And do you know what it's for?"
"Decoration?" Merlin suggests.
Gwaine laughs and hops down from the table to stand closer to the bough, looking up at it. "Not quite. Here, come and take a closer look."
"At what?"
"Here," Gwaine insists, and curious, Merlin gives in, crossing to stand next to Gwaine, looking up.
"What am I looking at?" Merlin asks.
"Well, when I say looking... They're also called Kissing Boughs."
"Oh, really?" Merlin asks, and suddenly Gwaine's whole air – that there's some great joke afoot which Merlin hasn't quite understood yet – makes sense.
"If a couple find themselves standing under it they're supposed to kiss," Gwaine goes on. "It's a blessing of sorts, I think. And one berry gets removed with every kiss."
"I see," Merlin says slowly. "And what's the protocol when someone's lured underneath it by a drunken knight?"
"Ah, well, you see, I'm not drunk," Gwaine says, with his most charming smile.
Merlin has a reply all lined up but then Gwaine touches the side of his throat and the words won't come. Gwaine's expression is challenging but his eyes are warm and his smile softens as he closes the distance between them. The kiss is soft for long moments, until Merlin touches his fingertips to Gwaine's jaw. Then there's a tense trembling second before Gwaine makes a soft noise and wraps his arms around Merlin's waist. The kiss quickly becomes more urgent, thorough, but still indulgent, still with that edge of mirth that characterises Gwaine in all but the most serious situations.
He tastes good, sweets and wine and smoke, heady. Before Merlin knows it he has his fingers tangled in the soft fabric of Gwaine's surcoat, hanging on tight to him, and he realises the embarrassingly breathless, hungry little noises are coming from his own mouth. When they part, Gwaine peppers little kisses across his lips, his hand curving warm and calloused around the back of Merlin's neck.
Without taking his eyes off Gwaine, Merlin reaches up and plucks a single berry from the mistletoe hanging from the middle of the Holy Bough – or Kissing Bough, or whatever it is – and tosses it towards the fire. Then he whispers a spell and sends the bough floating to hover over his bed instead, turning to give Gwaine a challenging look. Gwaine laughs and takes Merlin's hand.
By morning, all the berries are gone.
