[ The forest is a never-ending source of mad creatures to plague Camelot, so they've ridden out again, the prince and his manservant. It's a warm day, compared to Camelot's usual mildness, and by the time Arthur's taken a sword to all the oversized white grubs that are this week's concern, he's already sweating in his plate. But it's not like that's unusual — and it's not as though he's responsible for his own laundry. ]
Now we just have to find the mother.
[ It's a bit grim — Gaius has warned him she wouldn't be happy about him killing her nest of toxic grubs, and she's already killed a couple of patrolling knights, and they're not actually disposable, so he will not underestimate the creature's danger. The tales of her hideous insectoid form and Gaius' dire proclamations would probably leave him a little nervous, if Arthur were at all the sort to get nervous. But no: he's the prince of Camelot and he's defeated a dragon, so an angry bug isn't anything to worry about.
Still, she isn't likely to return here until dusk, with food for the babies, and that sort of ruins the battle momentum, leaves them with an awkward afternoon pause as the sun beats down. Normally it's a lot of danger all at once, and all the boring bits are taken up traveling there and back (he's tied up their horses a ways away, because if they get eaten then the two of them will be returning on foot.)]
Speaking of mothers.
[ Slightly stilted segue, Arthur not the best at making casual conversation with his inferiors. (Sorry.) But he has sort of been trying, lately. Perhaps it's Gwen's influence. ]
How is Hunith? Planning on a Yuletide visit?
or door number two
[ For a moment after Arthur wakes, he doesn't open his eyes, the way he used to on those rare lazy mornings that he was allowed to indulge his penchant for a lie-in, on those days when Merlin didn't upsy-daisy him out of bed and into the yard. It's an optimistic stillness, like he might drift off again. ]
" Authorities are saying the woman with the sword was unable to be apprehended, and further investigations are ongoing as to what, exactly, this means for—"
[ The crisp voice of George Alagiah is unrecognizable to Arthur, as is the music of the News At Six, so it lends a sort of surreal feeling to his awakening. And it's not the only strange noise: the distant sound of traffic through the wall is like nothing he's ever heard before. Eventually he has to open his eyes just to work out whether or not this is some strange dream.
Except you can't dream in death, and he remembers—
Arthur's hand moves, finds the place where Mordred's sword entered him, remembering the pain — though it's a misty memory, as though his brain is trying to spare him reliving that excruciation. There's no blood — there's no wound — there's no armor, and the room around him is nothing like his chambers in Camelot, and there's so much going on in his head that he just falls back on old habits and bellows: ]
Merlin!!
Edited (mm yes starting with a html fuck up delicious) 2017-12-03 11:40 (UTC)
door one?! maybe door two will come soon, watch this space
[The moment this battle turned out to be more disgusting than originally thought, Merlin regretted his insistence on coming along. Not that he had a choice, but he'd made his usual puffed-up speech about protecting Arthur and been summarily brushed off and sent to prepare the horses anyway, and now...
Well, it's gross, is what it is. It's damned sultry out, and Arthur has been dispatching fat wiggling things since lunchtime, which has not made Merlin very excited about dinner. Gaius' own murmured side comments to him and him alone about the magic this creature no doubt possesses weighs less heavy on him at the moment, with the brood mother absent for the next few hours.
And after all that, the grubs and the heat and the awful gooey sound of grub killing, and Merlin having to go back to the horses to lug the supplies back here since they'll probably be out here all evening—Arthur asks him something about his mother?
What?]
Really? That's what you come up with? [He's tired! And sweaty! Don't make smalltalk at all, sire!! Here, Merlin heaves a pack of supplies off his shoulder onto the ground.]
You've been picturing all those things with my face on them, haven't you?
I told you, Merlin, I only do that when you're being particularly annoying.
[ Though he wouldn't wish the grubs on his worst enemy, pulls a grimacing face of disgust at the idea of a mass of Merlin-faced slimy worm insects. ]
Eugch.
[ What he wouldn't give for a hot bath right now, while someone (Merlin) cleans off all his armor. And his sword, which is looking a bit... coated. He wipes it on the grass. ]
Perhaps I'm simply making sure of her welfare. She's been a good friend to Camelot.
[He's complained for much of this particular outing, but not without good reason (he thinks)! It is, again, very disgusting to watch. They're going to smell like warm grub guts for the rest of the day, he can tell...
But. Alright. Small talk.]
...My mother is doing alright. Ealdor isn't very interesting compared to Camelot, most of the time. [When they're not dying or being raided to hell and back, it's very peaceful there! Picturesque.] If she's planned anything, Gaius probably knows more than I do...
[ Arthur graciously refrains from pointing out that a large majority of the time Merlin absolutely is being annoying... mostly because he's too hot to squabble.
Speaking of. as Merlin talks, Arthur crosses to the pack and finds the relief of the waterskin, sort of trying to drink and wash his face at the same time, though he's not too careless with the water. ]
You should invite her to Camelot.
[ That has a proclamationy feel to it, and he softens it: ]
If you like.
[ There's going to be s feast! Someone will probably try to murder him! Good times. ]
[Camelot is like the least safe place for anyone in a 50 foot radius of Arthur during feasts. His dear mother who deserves the world will have to stay in Gaius' chambers until all the assassins, because there will be plenty, are dealt with.
Merlin watches Arthur dump water on himself for a moment, nonplussed. This guy...]
You think so? I'll ask Gaius about that, too.
[...] If she comes, she'll have probably knitted you something and you're going to have to wear it.
[Like, don't even dare not wearing whatever Rustic homemade sweater Hunith shows up with.]
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i wasn't sure when to set shit bc i've forgotten the entirety of s5
[ The forest is a never-ending source of mad creatures to plague Camelot, so they've ridden out again, the prince and his manservant. It's a warm day, compared to Camelot's usual mildness, and by the time Arthur's taken a sword to all the oversized white grubs that are this week's concern, he's already sweating in his plate. But it's not like that's unusual — and it's not as though he's responsible for his own laundry. ]
Now we just have to find the mother.
[ It's a bit grim — Gaius has warned him she wouldn't be happy about him killing her nest of toxic grubs, and she's already killed a couple of patrolling knights, and they're not actually disposable, so he will not underestimate the creature's danger. The tales of her hideous insectoid form and Gaius' dire proclamations would probably leave him a little nervous, if Arthur were at all the sort to get nervous. But no: he's the prince of Camelot and he's defeated a dragon, so an angry bug isn't anything to worry about.
Still, she isn't likely to return here until dusk, with food for the babies, and that sort of ruins the battle momentum, leaves them with an awkward afternoon pause as the sun beats down. Normally it's a lot of danger all at once, and all the boring bits are taken up traveling there and back (he's tied up their horses a ways away, because if they get eaten then the two of them will be returning on foot.)]
Speaking of mothers.
[ Slightly stilted segue, Arthur not the best at making casual conversation with his inferiors. (Sorry.) But he has sort of been trying, lately. Perhaps it's Gwen's influence. ]
How is Hunith? Planning on a Yuletide visit?
or door number two
[ For a moment after Arthur wakes, he doesn't open his eyes, the way he used to on those rare lazy mornings that he was allowed to indulge his penchant for a lie-in, on those days when Merlin didn't upsy-daisy him out of bed and into the yard. It's an optimistic stillness, like he might drift off again. ]
" Authorities are saying the woman with the sword was unable to be apprehended, and further investigations are ongoing as to what, exactly, this means for—"
[ The crisp voice of George Alagiah is unrecognizable to Arthur, as is the music of the News At Six, so it lends a sort of surreal feeling to his awakening. And it's not the only strange noise: the distant sound of traffic through the wall is like nothing he's ever heard before. Eventually he has to open his eyes just to work out whether or not this is some strange dream.
Except you can't dream in death, and he remembers—
Arthur's hand moves, finds the place where Mordred's sword entered him, remembering the pain — though it's a misty memory, as though his brain is trying to spare him reliving that excruciation. There's no blood — there's no wound — there's no armor, and the room around him is nothing like his chambers in Camelot, and there's so much going on in his head that he just falls back on old habits and bellows: ]
Merlin!!
door one?! maybe door two will come soon, watch this space
Well, it's gross, is what it is. It's damned sultry out, and Arthur has been dispatching fat wiggling things since lunchtime, which has not made Merlin very excited about dinner. Gaius' own murmured side comments to him and him alone about the magic this creature no doubt possesses weighs less heavy on him at the moment, with the brood mother absent for the next few hours.
And after all that, the grubs and the heat and the awful gooey sound of grub killing, and Merlin having to go back to the horses to lug the supplies back here since they'll probably be out here all evening—Arthur asks him something about his mother?
What?]
Really? That's what you come up with? [He's tired! And sweaty! Don't make smalltalk at all, sire!! Here, Merlin heaves a pack of supplies off his shoulder onto the ground.]
You've been picturing all those things with my face on them, haven't you?
[The only possible leap in logic, this.]
no subject
[ Though he wouldn't wish the grubs on his worst enemy, pulls a grimacing face of disgust at the idea of a mass of Merlin-faced slimy worm insects. ]
Eugch.
[ What he wouldn't give for a hot bath right now, while someone (Merlin) cleans off all his armor. And his sword, which is looking a bit... coated. He wipes it on the grass. ]
Perhaps I'm simply making sure of her welfare. She's been a good friend to Camelot.
[ Just let him make small talk!! He's bored!! ]
no subject
[He's complained for much of this particular outing, but not without good reason (he thinks)! It is, again, very disgusting to watch. They're going to smell like warm grub guts for the rest of the day, he can tell...
But. Alright. Small talk.]
...My mother is doing alright. Ealdor isn't very interesting compared to Camelot, most of the time. [When they're not dying or being raided to hell and back, it's very peaceful there! Picturesque.] If she's planned anything, Gaius probably knows more than I do...
no subject
Speaking of. as Merlin talks, Arthur crosses to the pack and finds the relief of the waterskin, sort of trying to drink and wash his face at the same time, though he's not too careless with the water. ]
You should invite her to Camelot.
[ That has a proclamationy feel to it, and he softens it: ]
If you like.
[ There's going to be s feast! Someone will probably try to murder him! Good times. ]
no subject
Merlin watches Arthur dump water on himself for a moment, nonplussed. This guy...]
You think so? I'll ask Gaius about that, too.
[...] If she comes, she'll have probably knitted you something and you're going to have to wear it.
[Like, don't even dare not wearing whatever Rustic homemade sweater Hunith shows up with.]
no subject
You're not serious.
[ Except it's obvious that Merlin absolutely is, and Arthur grimaces. ]
Listen, Merlin, I'm sure your mother's knitting is just- lovely, really. But I'm the crown prince! I can't be seen wearing...
[ Itchy embarrassing peasant clothing. Except he has enough tact, just about, to not actually say anything. ]
I'm sure she knows better than to waste her wool on me.