Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1149224.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Merlin_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Mordred/Arthur_Pendragon_(Merlin)
  Character:
      Arthur_Pendragon_(Merlin), Mordred_(Merlin), Morgana_(Merlin), Merlin_
      (Merlin), Morgause_(Merlin)
  Additional Tags:
      Future_Fic, Not_Canon_Compliant, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence,
      Alternate_Ending, magic_already_revealed
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-04-02 Words: 6240
****** Fields of Gold ******
by dentedsky
Summary
     Arthur is King, has rid Camelot of Uther's magic ban and has made
     peace with the Druids. He somehow learns of his fate of dying at
     Mordred's hand though, and secretly (and pigheadedly) sets out alone
     to kill Mordred while he is still young and not yet too powerful.
     Arthur, however, is not the only one finding his fate distressing.
     Mordred has been in love with Arthur since he first met him as a
     child in Camelot.
Notes
     This was a fill for kinkme_merlin that I wrote anonymously back in
     2010. I kind of forgot about it LOL but it's now posted here... it
     never really got finished.
     It's a future fic that deviates from original canon (Mordred is still
     alive and Morgana is on the side of Light).
There’s this dream: it’s of a teenage boy standing in a field of barley. This
hair is so dark that it is almost blue where the sun hits it. He’s turned away
– but then he looks over his shoulder, lips parted. His profile accentuates his
long, dark eyelashes. Despite the sun upon him, his skin is pale and his lips
are pink. His fingers twitch as he turns his head further over his shoulder to
look at Arthur behind him.
Arthur knows he is standing in the field. Despite the sun and the beauty of
this dream, there is a horrid sense of dread. It is like Arthur knows that he
is about to die and for the first time, even after many duels and battles, he
is afraid of death.
Then Arthur awakes to his kingdom, and the dream is just that – just a dream.
 
                                    . . . .
The clatter of the court: parchment ruffling, goblets clunking on the table,
quills scratching and the deep rumble of men arguing. Genuinely the women don’t
talk though they are there, quiet and assessing. Arthur keeps his chin down.
His crown is heavy and his gauntlets are too, though the weight of them is
something he is long used to, in the way that he is used to his kingship over a
land full of magic. It didn’t always used to be: when his father reigned there
were no sorcerers that would not have met with the executioner’s axe. But now,
it is so different. Morgause strides into the room and he lifts his head.
“How is she?” he asks as she comes to his side, and the muttering of the court
peters out as they see their king’s attention is elsewhere.
She looks at him with pained eyes and shakes her head.
After the session with the court is over, King Arthur attends to Morgana’s
chambers. No spell has quelled her restless nightmares, not even the bracelet
Morgause had given her all those years ago. Morgana is tossing and turning in
her sleep, wrists bare as they are flung against her pillows, a cheek pressed
into her pillow and she squirms, muttering, eyes moving behind eyelids. Arthur
purses his lips and looks to Merlin, who stands to the side. There is an
expression of pain on his face far more pronounced than Arthur would like to
see.
There was a time when Arthur thought himself in love with Merlin – hells, he’d
even thought himself in love with Morgana, once, when he was a much younger
man. He had fallen for his queen, too, for many years. But she was gone now;
Lancelot had stolen her away. As she left on her horse, she had not looked
back.
Now though, there’s a lingering thought for Merlin who in his adulthood is
handsome and wise. He had always been a brave man. Arthur feels he should
always give Merlin credit for that. Merlin says, softly, “It has been many
moons since she fell into this sleep, my king – “
“She will wake,” says Arthur, stubbornly. Merlin swallows and his eyes are
watering. He doesn’t believe, he is losing hope – this Arthur knows and this
Arthur refuses to feel himself.
 
 
 
It is later in the evening when Arthur visits Morgana again. Merlin is asleep
on the covers beside her, not touching, but even in sleep Arthur can see
Merlin’s want. His fingers are curled in her hair.
Morgana moves her legs under the sheets and Arthur comes closer. He pushes her
fringe away from her sweaty brow.
In a move so sudden it scares Arthur, Morgana’s hand flashes out and grabs
Arthur’s wrist. Her eyes are wide open. She bares her teeth.
“Do you see it?” she whispers harshly.
Arthur barely breaths. “See what?”
“Do you see the field of barley? Do you see the field? Do you see him Arthur?
Do you see!”
She inhales through her mouth, air rattling in her throat like a pile of bones.
Her eyes roll in her head and her grip loosens. “Do you see?” she asks again,
quietly. Then she lets out a sob.
Arthur catches Morgause in the counsel room the next day. He dismisses everyone
but her. “I keep dreaming – “ He stops.
She looks at him, patient and unmoving.
“There’s a boy. No – a young man in a field. I keep dreaming him.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Fear not, my king, it is not a prophetic dream.”
“And yet Morgana is restless in her sleep, and she says these words.”
Morgause blinks a little at this. She is much older now than she was when
Arthur first met her – she has lines on her face and a streak of grey hair at
her temple. Her eyes are as golden brown and unfathomable as they always were.
She lifts the folds of her long, red dress and steps forward once, then folds
her hands in front of her.
“How do you feel, when you have this dream?” she asks.
“Dread,” he answers.
Merlin had once given him a key on a chain. It was during those years when
Arthur was still a prince and had considered himself in love with his then
manservant. He pulls it from his tunic and holds it tight. He wishes the metal
would bite into the skin of his palm but it does not; it has always been
smooth. But he has never found out what the key is supposed to open.
“There was a time,” Morgause tells him steadily, “where your future was written
in the stars. I tried to break the prophecy, for it meant doom for all of us.”
Arthur’s eyes sharpen on hers. “Prophecy?”
“Has Emrys not told you?”
Arthur narrows his eyes. It’s been about three years now since Morgana and
Morgause came to him and swore fealty to their new king, but still Arthur has
issues of trust. Not just with Morgause but with Merlin and Morgana, too. They
have betrayed him in the past in their own way – what’s to stop them from doing
it again? They swore an oath, but is that enough?
Arthur is careful with his answer. “Merlin told me I will rule Albion.”
Morgause nods. “And you are so close, my lord.”
Arthur waits, but she says nothing more, for a long time. They are locked like
this.
“The prophecy says,” Morgause starts again, “that Morgana and Mordred – “
Merlin chooses that time to burst into the room, and he stops and looks between
Morgause and Arthur in slight panic. Then he stares at Arthur’s hand, where he
is holding the key tight. Arthur drops it back behind the lacings of the tunic.
Merlin looks to Morgause once more. “Leave,” he commands, with the authority of
the High Sorcerer of Camelot. Morgause nods slightly, then does as she is told.
The slam of the door as she leaves is like the closing of Arthur’s decision – a
decision he was not, until that moment, aware he had made.
 
Arthur faces his friend properly. “Please don’t be offended when I ask you
this, Merlin.”
Merlin presses his lips together, and nods.
“Do you trust Morgana?”
Merlin nods again, without hesitation. “The question is not – “ He stops and
closes his eyes, pained. Merlin has been in this painful way since Morgana’s
continued sleep. Arthur misses the times when he would smile, laugh, roll his
eyes and retort in his usual, surly way. It seems like a lifetime ago and
perhaps it is – Arthur is going on twenty-seven Summers old and his younger
years are long gone. “The question is not whether I trust Morgana,” Merlin
continues, “but rather: does she trust me?”
“And what about me?” asks Arthur.
Merlin’s brow creases in confusion, and a little more of that hurt comes over
his face. “Of course you can trust me.”
Arthur smiles and snorts, shaking his head. Oh, how he misses Merlin like this.
“No Merlin,” says Arthur, rolling his eyes. He walks over and puts a hand on
the man’s shoulder. “Should I trust Morgana?”
“Oh,” says Merlin. “Well, that is entirely up to you, Arthur.”
“And the prophecy?” He throws it into the conversation, hoping it will hit like
a knife to the target.
Merlin’s eyes go wide. “What about it?”
“Have you read it?”
The sorcerer shakes his head. “The Great Dragon told me of it.”
“What did he say?”
Merlin wipes a hand over his eyes and turns away. “I don’t know. Oh god, Arthur
– promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
 
                                    . . . .
Merlin will hate Arthur for this, but Arthur had made his decision. He stands
in Morgana’s room, with Morgause, and in the light of the moon shining through
Morgana’s open window, asks Morgause the question and Morgause answers with:
“It is Mordred’s destiny to kill you.”
“But you said – “
“There’s no reason his destiny should not fail,” she tells him sharply. “I was
not supposed to come to serve you, my lord. I am trying to break the lines that
bind us. Morgana was supposed to be your enemy and yet here she is.” She leans
over Morgana’s sleeping form and brushes her cheek with her knuckles. “She is
yours, now.”
Arthur hums. “As you are one of Camelot’s ladies, you are bound to honour my
wishes.”
Morgause closes her eyes. “And what is it you wish?”
“For you to tell me where I can find this prophecy.” He feels anticipation
building hot under his skin.
Morgause straightens and looks at him steadily. “On the Isle of the Blessed
there is a church. When the high priestesses resided there they guarded an
ancient scroll known by many names. The most notable of those names, was the
Prophecy of Emrys.”
Arthur nods, grateful for her honesty. “And Mordred – where can I find him?”
Her mouth opens slightly in surprise. She blinks the emotion away. “I know
not.”
 
                                    . . . .
Do you see him? Do you see him the field of barley?
 
                                    . . . .
It’s a week later when Arthur finally gets the answer to his question. By now
he is almost deathly afraid, though he refuses to show it. Merlin does not
notice his fear, as his own fear for Morgana overcomes him, and he sleeps with
her in her room, arms around her and face buried in her hair. There was a time,
many years ago, when Merlin was ready to kill her with poison. He cannot now,
but the guilt still lingers, just as his fingers linger on her brow, hair,
hands.
It’s Morgana who shows Arthur.
It’s a quiet afternoon when it happens, and there’s nothing special about the
day. Everyone is doing their duties and Arthur only means to come see his step-
sister briefly, to check up on her.
She grabs his wrist again, faster this time, as if she has been waiting a long
time for him to come to her. Her eyes roll under her eyelids, showing whites,
and then he sees the flash of gold.
He is suddenly slaughtered by the image of darkness. In that image is another:
of a wooden door, in a faraway place – and there’s a hanging sign above the
door. In worn gold lettering it says:
Crimson Angel Resthouse.
He knows Merlin will never approve. If anything, Merlin will want to go with
him. But Arthur doesn’t ask Merlin to come, and Arthur goes, just like that. He
packs his own things and he saddles his own horse and he leaves his own kingdom
and he feels a little like a coward for this decision but he’s resolute.
“You’re a great king,” Merlin had told him once, eyes full of love. Merlin will
serve no other king and Arthur hopes he will one day be forgiven for this:
leaving Camelot on horseback, riding into the late afternoon.
They’d fought in battles, side-by-side, Arthur with sword and Merlin with a
staff tipped with a glowing orb he’d stolen from the Sidhe. And now Arthur
takes his fear and leaves his home and goes into the lands that had been
Cenred’s kingdom, before Arthur had raged war and tore through, conquering for
himself. Arthur stops to water his horse at a stream close to the border.
There’s no reason to hide from people of these lands, because these lands are
his; but he hides his identity, for he does not want anyone to know their king
is out alone, travelling to a place to assassinate a teenage boy.
At the next town he lowers his hood just enough to ask for directions without
showing his face. After asking two townsfolk he finally gets an answer from a
blacksmith, who is packing up his work, set to head home. The Crimson Angel is
only in the next town, not quite hitting the heart of what was once Cenred’s
kingdom. Arthur, on horseback, now riding in darkness and sword at his hip,
arrives just after dark.
He pays a stable hand to tend to his horse and he walks into the tavern and
asks the innkeeper for a place for the night, paying for his stay. He also asks
this innkeeper an important question:
“I’m looking for someone named Mordred.” He drops a pouch heaving with coins on
the bench. “I’m willing to pay handsomely.”
The large man has a scar across his eye. When he leers Arthur notices he has a
tooth missing, too. “He has asked for no visitors.”
“Oh well,” Arthur shrugs loftily. “I’ll just be taking back my gold, then.” He
grabs for the pouch, but a meaty hand stops him.
“Well,” says the innkeeper slowly, acting as if he is considering his answer,
though it is a wasted act: Arthur knows he has won this.
Apparently Mordred’s room is on the second storey. He makes to move away but
the innkeeper stops him once again. “See them there?” He nods with his chin to
men at the back of the full tavern. They are all in dark leather and rusting
chainmail. One of the men is playing with his dagger. They are deep in
conversation, angry lines across their scar-ridden faces. “They was askin’ for
‘im too. You gots competition.”
Arthur smirks. “Then I’ll have to be quick, won’t I?”
He leaves and rounds the rest house, surveying the wall where it is best to
climb. The room he needs to enter is on the middle floor, and there’s soft
candlelight seen from one window. There’s a flicker, and the light is gone.
It’s almost too easy to do this; by this time tomorrow he’ll be back in
Camelot, a king on his throne, quiet in his victory. Perhaps no one will notice
he has left at all.
He scales the walls by finding his grip in the stones. The place is not well-
made like Camelot’s castle: finding crannies to hook his fingers into is easy,
as is the places he finds for his feet. He grunts a little though, and tells
himself to be silent. This operation takes stealth.
He makes it to the window, and he slows, keeps his breathing through his nose.
The window is open to let in the summer’s night air, and he pulls himself from
the ledge.
There’s a figure laying the small cot beside the window. It’s a man-child with
dark, curling hair spread against the pillow and a sheet covering him up to his
shoulders. In the mostly darkness Arthur can see the spread of dark lashes
against his cheek, the parting of soft lips in sleep.
Gently Arthur takes his sword, sliding it from this sheath. It makes a soft,
high noise in the otherwise silent dark. With a slow, graceful movement like a
cat preparing to catch a mouse he moves forward, and then strikes: knees on
either side of the boy’s hips and sword pressed to the boy’s throat, and the
boy startles awake on a gasp, wide, almond-shaped eyes staring right back up at
him – 
Stillness.
Mordred is gasping air, sharp metal pressed to his throat. But he makes no
other movement and Arthur fixated at the inhale and exhale of breath past the
boy’s plump, sweet lips. The feelings of want in Arthur are sudden and
incongruous. It is further emphasised by the darkening of the boy’s eyes, the
lowering of his lids – and Mordred pulls his hand from the covers and touches
the fuller of the sword with two fingers, sliding those fingers up the sword in
a movement like sex, and Arthur makes a small movement.
Mordred looks up into Arthur’s eyes and whispers his name:
“Arthur.”
The moment is broken as most moments are. There is noise behind the door: heavy
footsteps and grunting of men. There are men out there trying for stealth and
are failing; Arthur feels his hackles raise and he makes a quick decision:
In three swift, strong movements, he pulls Mordred to his body, falls them to
the floor (Mordred falling on top) and pulls them both under the bed. Half a
second later and men are piling into the room, filling it with their thick
bodies and light from their burning torches. Just below Arthur’s chin Mordred’s
face is turned up, gazing. Arthur doesn’t quite know what he is doing, but he
grips Mordred that little bit tighter, and breathes as quietly as he can.
Mordred parts his lips and Arthur presses his hand over the boy’s mouth. Don’t
say a word, Arthur urges, and Mordred nods, keeping eye-contact, as if he can
read Arthur’s thoughts.
 
“Where ‘is he?” one leader grunts through his fat mouth. Another cackles and
upturns belongings.
The third and forth thump their way towards the bed, the only furniture in the
room large enough for a teenaged boy to hide behind. Two sets of boots are
seen, and Arthur stares at them, wide-eyed, while in his arms Mordred shakes.
A small movement and then – 
A sword is shoved into the mattress with a ripping sound, the blunted end
breaking through and missing Arthur by half a foot. It is withdrawn slowly with
a metallic noise. One of the men singsongs, Come out, come out, wherever you
are. There’s guffawing.
Arthur looks at the boy in his arms. He pulls his hand away from Mordred’s
mouth and presses a finger to his own as a sign of silence. He braces himself,
shuffles a little, then springs to his feet, sword in hand.
The men in the room abruptly stop laughing and stare, wide grins falling into
grimaces of surprise and rage.
“Good evening gentlemen,” says Arthur, before vaulting over the bed and
attacking.
Arthur’s had plenty of practice with swords as prince and king, and is swift
and agile, with strength behind every slice and stab. The leader goes down and
the next gets his head chopped off before the leader’s body even hits the
floor. He guts the next one and cuts his throat, blood spraying from his
arteries and painting the wall. The last man is at the back of the small room,
cowering, his ghastly mouth a wound of fear and his eyes as wide as a spooked
horse’s. Arthur chops him into two parts by slicing from left shoulder to right
hip.
Arthur turns tentatively and looks over his shoulder. Mordred peeks from over
the bed, fingers gripping the yellowing sheets, and surveys the room, rapidly.
Then his large eyes are on Arthur, and staring.
“You saved me,” says the boy in a deep, husky voice. It sounds... odd, as if
disused for some time. He stands and walks around the bed, stride purposeful –
there is nothing tentative and frightened in the way he approaches. He comes
right up to Arthur – only a little shorter in height – and looks up into his
face. “I knew you’d come for me.”
Arthur frowns at this, confusion a cloud in his mind, before stepping away
abruptly. He glances to the side, not to look but to avoid the awkward
attention of this youth, and says, “We should go.”
From the corner of his eye, Mordred nods, then bends over the now messy pile of
thrown things – overturned bookshelf, unlit candlestick, cup and plate, fruit –
and grabs a pouch that is wedged under a cupboard. He pulls the long strap over
his head, straightens, then walks towards the window and looks out.
“Can you scale the wall?” Arthur asks him, from the safe distance across the
room. The boy is not wearing a shift for night time; he’s wearing a tunic
strapped with belts and leather trousers that are tight over his buttocks.
Arthur looks away to the bed instead. He says, “If you want, I can make rope
for you out of the bed sheets – “
Mordred slips on his boots and jumps out the window.
“ – Shit,” says Arthur. He runs to the window and looks out. Mordred is down on
the ground looking up. Even from this distance he can see Mordred is grinning,
wide. It makes his face look manic. Then his expression smooths over.
Come, my king, says a silky voice in Arthur’s mind. He starts. Please come. You
can jump, I promised I won’t let you fall.
Arthur swings himself over the sill, then lets go, bracing for the landing. He
makes it, landing knees bent and landing easily. Mordred grabs his hand and
gives him a smile.
Quickly, says the voice is Arthur’s mind, before more come.
 
 
 
Running is something Arthur is used to. Even running away is part of his life,
though tonight seems less about cowardice. He is still blown by his decision –
and the last night and day has been a strange play of decision making. He chose
to save his boy, this boy who still holds his hand, who is running just ahead
of Arthur, looking back over his shoulder every now and again to see that
Arthur is alright, that his king is safe. Trees whoosh past them, they are
running so fast. They vault over roots and fallen trunks, the ground his
fertile and soft.
Finally, after what seems like half the night, they stop in a small clearing.
There is ash in the middle where travellers had made camp and left.
Mordred nods, satisfied, then turns to Arthur, who is trying to slow his
breath. He feels sweat trickling down his temple and he is suddenly self-
conscious of the fact that he is sweaty and red, though it is still dark;
perhaps Mordred cannot see? Would it matter if he could?
Mordred himself is also breathing harshly from the run – at least, Arthur
assumes it is the run – as Mordred’s eyes are darkly blazing in the moonlight
as he steps forward. His movement is silky and controlled like a cat’s.
“Arthur,” he purrs, in that odd voice again, “Arthur.”
Arthur can’t move.
“You saved me,” says Mordred, and there’s a desperate, breathlessness behind
his words. It’s anticipation.
Arthur sees the boy is not so controlled after all. Mordred presses his body to
Arthur’s, breath against Arthur’s jaw and Arthur means to move away, but
Mordred loops his arms around his neck, holding him there gently. “You saved
me. I never thought – I could only dream – “
“Mordred – “
“Yes!” he says, eyes falling shut. “Say my name.”
“I don’t – “ and Arthur’s denial is cut off with a kiss. Mordred’s mouth is
plump and soft, like rare, ripe fruit. He pushes himself into Arthur’s body and
Arthur gives in, smoothing his hands over his waist and buttocks. Mordred
moans.
Mordred moves a little, suckling on Arthur’s lower lips, then dives back in,
slipping his tongue between Arthur’s lips and making small moaning downs,
keening, teasing Arthur’s tongue into his own mouth. He pulls away slightly,
brushing his lips against Arthur’s and says, softly like a secret, “Make love
to me.”
Arthur makes a pained noise and pulls away, Mordred’s arms falling from around
Arthur’s neck. “I think this is a bad idea.” He turns.
Mordred follows. “No,” he whispers. “No, my king, I love you.”
Arthur groans and rubs his eyes.
“I love you so much!” Mordred continues, his voice getting louder and louder
the more Arthur moves away from him. “I’ve always loved you, even since the day
you rescued me. I want you, badly – “
“Please stop talking,” Arthur tells him.
“But I – “
Arthur throws him a glare. “Don’t you think you’re coming on a little strong?
You’re only a child!”
Mordred stops, nostrils flaring. He glares and Arthur holds his gaze. “I
am not.,” he says. “And I do love you.”
“Oh god in heaven,” says Arthur, and moves away. “I’ll get a fire started.”
To his left, the ash on the ground suddenly springs to life. Arthur looks over
his shoulder and sees Mordred’s eyes turn from gold back to blue. The boy
throws him a sarcastic smile.
“Oh very good,” says Arthur. “Now sit down – “ he pats the log beside him “ –
and behave like a good boy.”
Mordred scowls, but complies, stomping over and sitting. After a minute he
pushes closer to Arthur daringly, his whole side pressed warm and accommodating
against Arthur’s.
 
 
---
Midnight dreams should be quiet, but there’re not. They’re loud in the mind
like an army shouting, even when lying on a quiet forest floor. Arthur dreams
of someone whispering, harsh then soft, telling him things, dirty, ruthless, or
beautiful. He dreams of a hundred hands pulling bits of his clothes off, as if
his clothes are made of hundreds of little slips and rags.
His cock feels wet, warm and swollen. He groans at the heat, the desperate
feel, the quiet wish of wanting to come.
When he wakes he sees that Mordred has pushed his chaps down a little, and has
brought Arthur’s cock out from the folds of his clothes, and is suckling on it.
Arthur groans, awake now, pushing himself up on his elbows to watch as the
teenage boy enthusiastically moves his mouth up and down Arthur’s manhood. It
can barely fit, but Mordred takes it as far as he can, which isn’t all the way,
but it’s close. The boy’s eyes flick up Arthur’s body to his eyes, holds them,
then increases his pace, eyes going a little unfocused. Arthur feels the warm
heat, the wet suction of his mouth, the arousal of watching this teenager in
the half-light of dawn. He hears the call of a distant crow.
“Wait,” says Arthur finally, throat tight with lust. He gently pushes Mordred’s
head away, and then suddenly, violently, grabs him and rolls them over so
Arthur is on top, pushing him down into the grass and dry dirt. Mordred stares
up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown; lips red and swollen from sucking Arthur
almost-off.
Arthur breathes harshly. He wants to see Mordred’s skin, his flush, his ribs,
his penis and balls. He kicks Mordred’s thighs apart with his knees. With his
right hand he shoves the boy’s tunic up his torso and with the other shove’s
his trousers down a little, and Mordred gasps at suddenly being exposed. If
there’s a little fear in his eyes, Arthur sees it, and loves it, but still
watches for the tell-tale signs of too much fear.
Arthur’s lucky tonight: Mordred’s fear is wiped from his face and replaced by
animalistic lust as Arthur moves his face down towards his, and kisses him
passionately, open-mouthed and wet and hungry. Arthur’s right hand is still
shoved in the tunic, bunching it up past Mordred’s small, pink and perky
nipples, and his left hand grabs Mordred’s cock and strokes it, slightly rough,
up and down.
It’s enough to make Mordred whimper small noises into Arthur’s mouth and Arthur
reciprocates with deep throated groans.
It only takes a moment for Mordred to squirm in Arthur’s grip; so Arthur moves
his mouth away and sits back on his haunches between the boy’s spread legs, and
pulls Mordred off, until he’s coming, blushing, eyes closed and making small
hic-hic noises as come is ejaculated onto his own stomach.
Arthur takes a moment to touch himself, staring at the mess he’s made, overcome
by his desire and suddenly this boy on the ground, this half-naked boy, is all
he wants. He scrambles up the boy’s body, on his knees, and says:
“Open your mouth - ”
- and Mordred does immediately, wide. Arthur feels his orgasm coming, pulling
low and then finally – he comes strings and bursts of come, white-clear, over
Mordred’s face and chest, aiming for the boy’s mouth and getting some in, come
on his chin and neck. When his cock is mostly spent and down to half-hardness,
he drags the sensitive, wet head down Mordred’s chest and massages one nipple
with it, then pulls away a little to look at him, really stare in the half-
light.
Mordred’s body is covered with come: stomach, mouth, chin neck and chest. It
shines.
 
 
 
Arthur awakes the next morning to sun shining through the leaves and branches
of the surrounding trees. Mordred is gone.
The tracks the boy left can be read easily – scuffed dirt and disturbed leaves
and grass – so Arthur knows that he hasn’t been gone for long. The path leads
him to the sound of a waterfall which Arthur follows to the edge of a hidden
fresh water lake.
He finds the boy wading naked in the stream, humming to himself, facing away
from Arthur and towards the small waterfall. The water just comes up to
Mordred’s hips and Arthur stops by the bank for a moment to appreciate the pale
expanse of skin in the sunlight and the curve of the boy’s arse that disappears
into clear, sun glinted water. Large, flat rocks line the pool.
Arthur clears his throat.
Mordred looks over his shoulder coyly, then turns to give Arthur a seductive
smile. His skin looks creamy and soft and his nipples are pink and hard from
the cool water. If Arthur didn’t know better he would have thought Mordred an
Undine out to catch Arthur and drag him to the bottom of the lake. 
Are you hungry, Arthur? whispers a voice in Arthur’s mind. Mordred’s large,
blue eyes drift to a flat rock near Arthur, and Arthur sees that there is salad
and a gutted and de-boned fish on it.
Arthur looks at him sharply. “You’ve been fishing?”
Mordred’s small smile is friendly and modest as he nods.
“But how?” asks Arthur.
Mordred puts his hand out, palm facing down towards the water. His eyes flash
gold and a fish flies up into his waiting hand. Another flash of gold and the
fish catches on fire, burning hot and momentary in his grip.
He sloshes through the water to the edge and places the cooked fish on a rock
behind the greens and raw fish, and Arthur sees that he has made a small
collection.
Rations for the journey, Mordred explains when Arthur steps closer. Then the
boy goes to the raw fish, cuts a bloodless morsel, puts a small white flower on
top and wraps it in a green leaf. He carefully hands it Arthur.
Arthur takes it gently. He throws Mordred a quick hesitant glance before
putting the entire thing in his mouth. As he starts chewing, the spicy flavour
from the flower comes through and the clean crisp taste of the leaf compliments
the fresh taste of the newly killed fish. He’d never bothered to eat fish raw
before as Camelot castle was not close enough to water for him to sample
uncooked seafood; but he now appreciates the soft, succulent texture.
Good? asks Mordred.
“Very. But I need you to talk to me properly from now on.”
Mordred blinks at him a little, looking disappointed. “I’m not used to talking
to people,” he whispers.
“I know,” says Arthur, understanding. “But you should get used to it with me.”
Something in Mordred’s eyes flash as he gazes up at Arthur wonderingly. He
smiles.
Suddenly feeling hot and uncomfortable, Arthur moves away. He takes off his
clothes and hangs them on an overhanging branch. The cool water looks inviting
and hasn’t bathed since Camelot. He can feel Mordred’s eyes on him, even as he
turns around and walks, naked, to the water’s edge. As he wades in he finds the
water as chilly as he imagines it would be. 
As soon as Arthur is in up to his hips Mordred moves over to him and puts his
arms around Arthur’s neck and leans up for a kiss. Arthur lets him and even
deepens it, sliding his tongue between the boy’s plump lips and tasting fresh
water and morning musk. Their wet bodies press together – thigh, groin, hips,
chest – and even in the cold water they’re growing hard against each other.
Mordred is making those small, breathy noises again and it’s making Arthur’s
heart beat faster. He smooths his hands down his back and over his buttocks,
fondling.
 
Mordred pulls away suddenly and walks the short distance over to the nearest
rock. He bends himself forward over it and spreads his thighs, exposing himself
to the sun and Arthur’s keen eyes. He looks over his shoulder at Arthur, his
expression heavy-lidded and wanton.
“Y-you can have me,” he says awkwardly, stammering. His buttocks and back of
his thighs jiggle a little as he spreads his legs wider. Arthur comes over,
stands behind and places both hands on the boy’s cheeks, using his thumbs to
spread them apart so Arthur can see.
Mordred’s hole is small, pink and hairless. Arthur stares at it a moment
longer, motionless, wondering for a moment if he could get away with it, if he
could – but the hole looks far too small for his sizeable manhood, and he
doesn’t want to hurt Mordred or himself.
He thinks it even looks too small for a finger, but he does try: using his left
hand to keep the cheeks spread, he pushes his right index finger into the boy’s
body. The first ring of muscle spasms, clenching around Arthur’s finger and
Arthur exhales shakily. It’s okay to do just one finger without lubricant, he
tells himself as he pushes in some more, feeling more of that tight, clenching
heat.
He pushes in further almost all the way when Mordred makes a small noise, like
a hiccup-moan. Arthur’s eyes travel over his bare back and rest on the back of
Mordred’s head. He’s tipped his head forward.
“Is it alright?” Arthur asks.
“Feels good,” Mordred manages, breathlessly.
So Arthur plays with the tight ring some more, pulling out a bit before pushing
again all the way in, to the knuckle. Mordred feels clean and tight and soft
inside, and looking down Arthur can see his small balls peeking out below his
cheeks. He pulls his finger out, pushes in, twists, stretches that little hole.
His own cock is fully engorged now, straining up out of the water. He steps
forward a little bit more and rests it against the boy’s left cheek, feeling
the heat from the skin. His member looks too large and red next to Mordred’s
pale bum, but this only excites him that little bit more – what would it be
like – how good would it feel – to have his cock slide into that tight, hot
hole?
Arthur twists his right wrist round so that the fingers of his right hand are
spreading him open, rather than his left. His right index finger stays inside,
hooked there like it doesn’t want to leave. With his left hand free he uses it
to rub himself. Using index finger and thumb to hold his dick, he slaps it
against the boy’s left cheek - slap, slap, slap - 
He pulls his finger out and rubs the thick head of his cock against the small
puckered hole, moving in small, tight circles, then slaps it with his dick.
“Please,” Mordred whimpers, looking over his shoulder and up at Arthur, a red
blush on his pretty face. “Please be gentle...” He swallows. “When you do it.”
Arthur freezes.
“Have you ever done his before?” he asks, voice gone deep with barely
constrained lust.
Mordred looks away. “Yes.”
Arthur forces himself to move away. He slowly pulls his hands and manhood from
him, stepping back in the water. “You’re lying.”
Mordred’s shoulders tense, but he says nothing. A virgin, then.
As if hearing Arthur’s thoughts, Mordred stands up, turns, and presses himself
back into Arthur’s arms. “I love you,” Mordred tells him, honest, looking deep
into Arthur’s eyes. “I want you to do it to me. Only you.”
Arthur looks down at him for a moment, then brings a hand up to cup Mordred’s
neck. He caresses the boy’s throat with his thumb, then pushes down on his
shoulder.
Mordred understands. He sinks to his knees in the water; his head and shoulders
stay above the waterline. Arthur grabs his cock and presses the head against
the boy’s mouth until it opens. Arthur’s cock slides over his tongue until it
hits the back of Mordred’s throat and he starts sucking on it. Arthur tells him
to relax his throat and Mordred obeys, allowing Arthur to slide it all the way
so Mordred’s deep-throating him. He slides it out, then back in. Then again.
When Arthur is about to come he gets Mordred to bend over the rock again. With
one had spreading the boy’s cheeks he uses his other hand to pump his cock
until his coming all over the boy’s pink pucker.
 
 
.end.
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