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“Surely you ought to be more experienced with this,” Merlin tells him. “You are a knight of the court, are you not?”
Mordred tries to ignore the way his skin burns under Merlin’s hands, even through layers of clothing. (Is his face as crimson red as it feels? Why, precisely, had he sought out Merlin’s tutelage when being around him, much less in direct physical contact, makes Mordred feel so…out of sorts?) “I’ve danced before, certainly. The ladies of court make for lovely partners.” He lets out a particularly shaky breath, praying Merlin does not notice. “I’ve simply never followed before.”
Merlin’s eyes flash with something almost inscrutable. (Well, to be truthful, Mordred may not recognize the emotion they contain, but he’s seen that look on Merlin quite a bit, lately.) “There’s no shame in letting another take the lead for a time, you know,” he says, squeezing the hand clasped in his a bit too tightly. “Learning to take direction is rather important for a knight, after all.”
Are they still speaking of the same thing? Mordred isn’t quite so sure.
“That said, I suspect you would make quite the leader, should you be given the opportunity,” Merlin continues; with words like that, Mordred really would have expected Merlin to loosen his grasp and actually let him lead, as least as far as dancing goes, and yet Mordred cannot extract his hand from the vice grip Merlin has on him. (What a fitting metaphor, truly, since Mordred cannot exactly extract his heart from Merlin, either, it seems.) “It’s truly a shame. You do have so much potential…”
“I suspect you’re no longer speaking of dance, Merlin.” There’s no hope of working his way out of Merlin’s hold, so Mordred simply stops fighting. Whatever exactly Merlin is referring to, Mordred’s likely to go along with it. (Curse his foolish heart.)
Merlin fixes him with yet another peculiar, unreadable look. “I was speaking of the kingdom, though I must admit that I wonder what exactly you thought I was speaking of.”
There’s no way to answer that in polite company, is there? Is Merlin truly curious, or does he just revel in watching Mordred squirm?
Mordred really should keep his eyes on Merlin, or at least ahead of him, but it grows harder and harder to focus. He instead casts his eyes to the side, watching where the sunbeams dance along the castle wall.
“Languishing as a squire is a terrible fate for someone of your caliber,” Merlin says, ignoring Mordred’s lack of an answer. (Or perhaps expecting it. Can Merlin read his thoughts? He is a mage, after all.) “I thought of taking you on as an apprentice, but you’d be stuck in much the same position.”
This, now, is a conversation they’d had several times, usually ending with Merlin expressing doubts in the king’s ability, and Mordred would be lying if he said he didn’t agree from time to time. Perhaps he’s just tired of being overlooked, of being viewed solely as a child mooching off of his uncle’s throne. Perhaps it would be better for him to take Britannia for himself…
Ah, but those are just flights of fancy. The idea that Mordred would act upon such a thought is reprehensible.
“It’s quite alright,” Mordred mumbles, though all too suddenly it seems today is one of those days where it doesn’t feel quite alright. “I’ll work my way up soon enough. No need for anything drastic.”
Merlin grins, and his grip on Mordred loosens just enough to spin him once—ah, right, they are practicing a dance, Mordred had honestly forgotten. “I was hardly suggesting anything drastic. Merely expressing sympathy for your current situation.”
Strange. Mordred suddenly feels far more dizzy than that spin warranted.
“I…” Goodness, he feels oddly out of sorts. “I appreciate your sympathy.”
He intends to leave his response at that, truly; for all of his occasional bouts of fantasy, he really does intend on ascending the ranks by his own merit. But despite himself, he finds another sentence bubbling up from his lungs, through his mouth, and out into the open air: “If I find myself in need of your aid, however, I will gladly let you know.”
Merlin grins, that same strange look returning to his eyes, and Mordred struggles to process the situation—speaking without intending to, all this talk of leading and following—before Merlin steps backwards, pulling Mordred along with him and—
Mordred finds himself falling backwards, landing with a thud on the stonework below him, hand still clutching Merlin’s. (Was he always in this spot? And when had the daylight faded into night?)
“For a knight, you certainly are ill-balanced, at times,” Merlin quips. “Perhaps it’s best if we continue this another day.”
He pulls Mordred to his feet—goodness, Merlin is deceptively strong, it seems—and brings Mordred’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back before finally releasing his grip. “Rest well, my little knight,” he murmurs before retiring to his own quarters.
How strange. Apparent hours of practice spent following, and yet he feels more sure of his skill in leading than before, as though that was the sole focus of his lesson.