The Dawning of a New Day

Christmas day for the Pendragons is always a private affair, a far cry from the feasting and revelry of the previous night. The three of them gather round the long table – Uther, Arthur and Morgana, all three sitting stiff and formal in their seats; five courses are served with silent austerity by the attendant servants who stand motionless against the walls. Their conversation is inconsequential and the meal quiet save for Arthur and Morgana’s inevitable sniping. Uther broods at the head of the table and the room is heavy with his reflective gloom, suffocating any hope of festive cheer. This is always the time when Igraine’s loss bites deepest even after all the intervening years, and so Arthur and Morgana step carefully and say little to him.

They part almost as soon as the meal is over and go their separate ways. Uther always retires to his chambers, where Gaius will already be waiting. They talk and drink together long into the night, not quite reminiscing – those wounds have yet to close and likely never will, and Uther will not speak of her – but creating a brief space where for one day titles and appearances mean nothing, and there is only the long history of their friendship stretching out behind them, an ease and a comfort.

Morgana spends her time with Gwen, sitting at the window sill in her rooms while Gwen brushes out her dark hair, plaiting and playing with it while they gossip. Morgana rolls her eyes and complains about Arthur, and Gwen laughs, commiserates, shares her stories of Merlin’s latest adorably hopeless escapades. They giggle and speculate and trade secrets while the sun sets and darkness draws deep outside.

Arthur always trains on Christmas, loses himself to the mindless routine of sword drills and the numbing ache of exertion; this is the time he keeps for himself and his thoughts, savouring the bite of the chill day alone. Each year he fights and he trains and resolves to become better, to become worthy. This is his tradition, his promise to himself.

 This year is different – this year he too returns to his chambers. Merlin is there, a pitcher of mulled wine and two cups laid out on the table, the fire burning warm and steady in the hearth. Arthur sits in his chair and sips his wine; Merlin leans against the wall, the fire’s light gold in his eyes, and does the same. They talk, laughter flowing easily between them, rich and genuine, and Arthur relaxes, lets the tension drain from his body. They slip into companionable silence and Arthur lets his eyes slide closed in contentment.

He hears the soft thud of a cup being put down and then something block out the soft glow of the fire. Arthur opens his eyes to find Merlin leaning over him, almost nose to nose, braced on the arms of his chair. Arthur tilts his head obligingly as Merlin kisses him.

‘Not going to sleep already are you?’ Merlin asks, grinning against Arthur’s lips.

Arthur snorts, grabs Merlin suddenly by the back of the back of the neck and pulls him down into his lap. His hand cards through short dark hair and Merlin hums pleasantly into his mouth, pliant and eager in Arthur’s arms, thumbs stroking tenderly across the sweep of Arthur’s collarbones.

Arthur holds Merlin tight and loses himself this time in the heat of his body and the sweetness of his mouth. He resolves that this will be his new promise, whispered in endearments between tangled sheets and urgent bodies; this will be his new tradition, the first of many.