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In Merlin’s dream, Arthur was tied to a whipping post.
It was a muggy summer day, just a little past noon, and the world was empty. Arthur’s blond hair shone like a shaggy halo in the sunlight, his blue eyes squinting at the sky. In thick, itchy rope, his hands were bound to the wood post in front of him, raised above his head like a crude caricature of prayer. Inexplicably, he was naked. Chest heaving, neck red and moist with sweat, he tried in vain to wrench himself free from the bonds. Sunlit sweat – or tears – glimmered down his temples, slipping down the creases of his knees, his arms. Not that he could move, but the ground was patchy with dry dirt and sparse grass, somewhere outside the castle’s stables. The middle of summer.
In Merlin’s dream, a blanket seemed to have been draped over the earth, muffling every sound. No birds, insects, or rushing wind. No faint thunder of galloping horses or hoarse shouts from sparring knights, weapons slicing against one another. Arthur’s cries and grunts of resistance against his bonds were muted. He opened his mouth and all that came out was silence so thick you could touch it.
And his feet were aching; he kept shifting his weight on them, rubbing one sole against the other leg to massage the pain of standing for so long. The beginning of a painful sunburn was already blooming on his back and shoulders. He thrust his body backward, hoping to yank his hands free. But the attempt only irritated the skin of his wrists more. His shoulders screamed.
However long he’d been there, it didn’t seem like anyone was coming for him. Nobody seemed to notice he was gone. He tried for a little while to escape by himself – a lot of useless tugging, attempts to untie himself, and throwing his body against the wood post thinking it would snap. It didn’t.
“Somebody help me!” he finally screamed, though there was no scream to accompany it. He mouthed the words, strained his throat, his useless vocal cords. A vein bulged in his temple as he shouted, kept shouting, thinking maybe if I keep trying, I’ll be saved.
It didn’t work.
Arthur slammed his body against the whipping post, but all it did was make him bleed and hurt more.
His skin was burning with splinters and scratches and fresh sunburn. He arched his back, tried to stretch, tried to soothe his aching muscles. His dick sagged between his sweating thighs. Arthur looked at it uselessly before shutting his eyes. Sweat and tears married upon his face.
The sky did not crack open and flash with divine wrath. An unseen predator did not flicker into view and unleash violence. There was no visible threat. One moment, Arthur’s body was slouched and still, and the next moment a fierce crack, like that of a whip, broke through the air and connected with Arthur’s right shoulder.
It was the sound of the crack that shocked Arthur more than the pain. After all his screaming in this muted world, the only thing that had sound, that had power, was something that wanted to hurt him. Brilliant red blood spilled forth from the wound almost immediately. Arthur’s body recoiled from the pain, but his head quickly shot up and looked around to see his attacker. There was nothing, no one.
The invisible weapon cracked again and sliced Arthur on his waist, dragging a long, semi-deep wound from his hip down the side of his thigh. Arthur lost all sense of the royalty and bravery with which he always held himself. Anguish and pain choked his throat. He vomited up a scream that would have scared everyone in Camelot if they could’ve heard him. Warmth dribbled down his chest and leg, burning like liquid sunlight. He cursed and tried to find the source of the violence.
Nothing, no one.
It started again with more intention, as if the first two blows were just testing the waters. Invisible whips searched and found every inch of Arthur’s exposed, vulnerable back. They bit and tore like savage animals at the meat of his thighs and the tender skin of his ass. Sharp, angry pain sprouted immediately from each area of abuse. But a secondary, burning sort of feeling rolled like fire across skin after the initial pain subsided. He turned his head to the side, and the whips found his face. He turned the other cheek; the pain found him there too. A blow aimed at his shoulder caught his mouth at the end of its arc, taking with it a small chunk of skin from his bottom lip. Arthur shut his eyes tightly and bowed his head to protect himself. That was all he could do. He screamed into silence, terrified, enraged, exhausted. Droplets of blood circled his body and turned the dirt dark.
In Merlin’s dream, Arthur was abused for hours. The sun had begun to dim, retreating toward the horizon. His body arched, recoiled, flinched. His voice strained as he tried to keep his pain to himself, but the effort did not last. He might have screamed for hours, so his throat could burn to match the rest of his body. Nobody heard him. Soon his energy left him, and Arthur slumped forward, just letting the pain do what it wanted to him. He was powerless to stop it. Dried blood caked his lips, almost sealing them shut.
The rest of the violence continued in silence, when it was too dark to see the blood anymore.
Merlin woke slowly into a quiet room. Fresh from the dream, panic swelled inside his chest. No sound. Was he still dreaming?
Arthur snored next to him in bed, his mouth slightly parted. As mundane (Merlin might even say annoying) as the sound was, it pacified him. He saw that Arthur’s lip was unscathed. Slightly chapped, but as pretty always. The threat of danger was retreating, the dream already starting to fade. But something compelled Merlin to reach his hand under the covers and touch Arthur, just to make sure.
He caressed Arthur’s chest, finding it smooth except for a few patches of hair. Then, slowly, trailing his hand down to his belly. No blood, no wounds. Just the steady rise and fall of slumber. Merlin moved a little closer and let his hand venture over Arthur’s hip, caressing his ass, then back up to his thigh. Up and down his leg. Just hair and soft skin. At this point, Merlin could barely remember he’d dreamed at all. He was all swallowed up in the reality of this quiet little morning, exploring Arthur’s body without intention or purpose. Just because he was there, touchable and soft and safe.
Arthur mumbled something, and Merlin glanced up at him. Arthur’s eyes were open but cloudy with sleep. He said Merlin’s name and it came out slurred, romantic.
“Go back to sleep,” whispered Merlin, moving his hands up Arthur’s pale shoulders.
“Can’t, now.” Arthur seemed to sober up a little, seeing Merlin’s expression – desperate yet awestruck, hungry yet contained. “’m very awake.”
Merlin smiled. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You’re right. I’m not.”
Merlin dipped his head to kiss the skin where Arthur’s jaw met his neck. He let his hand follow its heart and wander between Arthur’s legs.
“I had a strange dream before you woke me up,” said Arthur. Merlin kissed his chest, telling him to continue.
“I was put in the stocks,” said Arthur, “and people were throwing rotten potatoes at my head.”
“It’s much worse in real life, believe me,” quipped Merlin. His hand was now working in rhythm on Arthur’s cock, making Arthur shudder out a breath in both tension and relief.
“What were you dreaming about?” Arthur asked breathlessly.
“Can’t remember.”
Arthur grinned slyly, heat rising to his face, and met Merlin’s eyes. “Weren’t dreaming about me, then?”
Merlin could hardly picture the dream he’d had. He could conjure up an image of rope, maybe, and the sensation of being scared, but the dream had slipped away so fast he couldn’t make it out. Merlin always used to have vivid dreams – nightmares, usually – that would stick with him for years. But these days, with Arthur closer than ever and the threat of deadly peril at an all-time low, the nightmares just didn’t stick anymore. Like nothing could penetrate the bright, beautiful reality that Merlin lived in now, with Arthur by his side, in his bed. All the bad stuff just slid off him like water.
Merlin jerked Arthur faster, whispering to him, good, good, there you go, come on, love, there you go, until Arthur’s eyes scrunched tight, and he came nice and good and hard.
Merlin wiped a little bit of sweat from Arthur’s temple and then kissed him there.
“I don’t need to dream about you,” he said, smoothing back Arthur’s hair. “I have you all the time, don’t I?”
“Much to my displeasure,” said Arthur.
Merlin scoffed. “Much to mine. You smell like you really were pelted with rotten potatoes.”
“You’ll help me bathe, then, will you?”
Merlin glanced down at his own crotch. “Not till you return the favor.”
Arthur shucked the blanket to the floor and rolled on top of Merlin. His bare skin caught the light streaming through the bedroom, and Merlin thought he looked radiant, golden. Smelled like an animal, but still. Beautiful and safe, like a dream.