Merthur One-shots

Our Lips Are Sealed

Summary: After being dosed with a truth potion? No, they're not.

“Who the fuck calls you Emrys?” Arthur asks, so clearly annoyed.
“People of magic. Druids, mostly, but I’ve heard it from fae and leaders of the old religion. Jesus fucking Christ--” he dissolves into hysterical laughter, rocking as far forward as his bonds will allow. “What is in this shit?”

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Petula crosses her arms as the two men wake. The brunette on the left bobs his head up and shifts in his seat, a line digging between his eyebrows as he goes to stretch and finds he can't move his arms. The blonde on the right tenses in the shoulders. His eyes move behind closed lids, ears pricked, taking stock of his surroundings and imperceptibly twitching every limb to see what he can and cannot move.

"Arthur," the brunette says, voice thick. Right, then. The blonde is the prince. He yanks his arms to no avail. He opens his eyes wide to break the seal of sleep and stretches his jaw. Arthur continues to feign sleep. "Hey," he says, and scoots the chair sideways to bump against his companion. "Wake up."

"I am up, you oaf," Arthur says, and looks up at him through his eyelashes. "Where are we?"

"Do I look like I know?"

"Right, my mistake, you never know anything."

"Prick."

"Are you done?" Petula asks them, and they snap their focus to her as if they hadn't even realized she was there. She takes their silence as an answer. “Right. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Petula, and I am a priestess of the old religion.” Arthur’s jaw sets. The brunette looks her up and down. She doesn’t have to explain that bit, then. Good. She clasps her hands in front of her and smiles. “All I’m going to do is ask you a few questions.”

Arthur snorts with derision, the brunette narrows his eyes. 

“What kind of questions?” He asks.

“Simple questions. About Camelot, the King, your army. Tell me everything I want to know, and you’re free.”

“You’re terribly confident, witch,” Arthur says. “Confidence like that gets you lied to.”

“Oh, dear. You’ll not lie to me.”

“Or what?”

“Or nothing,” she says. “Why discuss punishment over what you’re incapable of?” They glance at each other. “Perhaps I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Do you see this?” She raises a little bottle with an oversized cork. It radiates green. “This is a truth potion. It was, formerly, used to vet students of the old religion. To ensure our priests and priestesses had no ill intent against their peers. They say that knights of Camelot are trained against torture. There is no training that can defend from this.” Arthur’s chest moves with his breathing. She can see his mind working behind his eyes. She wonders what he’s thinking. No doubt some variation of will this hurt, will this kill me, what can i do . The minds of royals are startlingly the same, and usually quite dull.

“Merlin’s not a knight,” Arthur says quickly. “He doesn’t know anything, he’s just a servant. You can do whatever you want with me as long as you let him go.” Petula raises her manicured brows. Interesting, she expected something a little more self serving.