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i.
He wasn’t running, because running would’ve looked undignified with arms full of sodden fabric. His neckerchief was slowly slipping from around his neck – he hadn’t had time to secure it before he rushed from his bedroom that morning. So he was walking – fast – with a bundle of Arthur’s laundry. Laundry that should have been ready to deliver, clean and dry, to Arthur’s chambers about three hours ago. Laundry that included Arthur’s favourite shirt. Arthur was going to flay him alive.
Merlin tried not to look harried. He suspected it wasn’t successful. It was as he was walking, then, his face concealed by the mountain of laundry he carried before him, that he got an earful of the conversation two women were having in front of him.
“He’s so gentle.” One of them said, letting out a wistful little sigh. “He didn’t get angry at all.”
The other woman laughed. “If he was anyone else, you would’ve been in serious trouble.”
“I know, I know, I’m bad at my job. But he isn’t like the others.”
“What, like Ser Llewyn and his ever-swinging fists?”
“Don’t even joke about that! No, he’s nothing like Ser Llewyn. He didn’t even raise his voice, and he helped me pick up all the apples I’d dropped!”
“He got his hands dirty? To help a servant?”
“This is what I’m telling you!”
Merlin peered over the red fabric that mostly concealed his view, trying to make out who was talking – and who they were talking about. Though Camelot didn’t mistreat its servants, there weren’t many men in the castle that were known for being particularly gentle, especially to servants that made mistakes.
The bruise on his jaw still ached. Arthur had clocked him with a boot, yesterday. Usually Merlin was better at dodging.
The women he recognised, Martha and Jayne. Jayne mostly worked in the kitchens, but Martha was a handmaiden, and spent much more time around the knights and their wives than most. Merlin liked her – she was clever and funny, and when she got drunk she was mildly treasonous.
“Why can’t every man be as considerate as him,” Martha continued, “Life would be so much easier. I wouldn’t have to worry about being perfect and polite all the time.”
“Ah, a man like that only turns up once a generation.” Jayne said. “They’re a rare breed.”
Leon, maybe? Merlin knew he didn’t have a cruel bone in his body. But Martha had served Leon before, surely she wouldn’t be so surprised that he was nice. And he tended to be terse with servants – though Merlin privately believed that was just Leon’s tendency to be awkward around strangers.
Ah. Maybe she was talking about Lancelot, and she wasn’t talking about a recent encounter.
That made sense.
But then she opened her mouth again, and said:
“Do you think Merlin would let me switch places with him, so I can serve the prince all the time?”
Jayne laughed. “I don’t think you’d make much of a manservant, Martha.”
Merlin tried not to drop the laundry. His footsteps faltered, surprised, and he very nearly tripped over his own feet and directly into the wall. But he kept his balance. And the laundry.
Merlin was pretty sure his brain had slowed to a stop. There was no way they had been talking about Arthur. That was – it was ludicrous. Even the idea of Arthur deigning to help Merlin pick up something he’d accidentally dropped was laughable. Arthur wasn’t gentle to servants. He was brusque, and outright rude, and had a temper to match his father even on his best days.
He faltered in place long enough for Martha and Jayne to disappear around a corner, and to convince himself that he’d misinterpreted their conversation. Then, remembering that he was still in very real danger of the stocks, should he fail to return with Arthur’s shirt, he finally did take off running.
By the time Arthur would usually wake up, everyone in the kitchens was talking about Martha’s apples.
--
When he made it to Arthur’s chambers, Merlin could tell that Arthur was in a good mood. Not that it made much of a difference for Merlin’s poor frayed nerves, but at least he wasn’t at high risk of being clobbered.
Arthur had half-dressed himself, hair still a mess and belt looped lazily around his neck while he searched his wardrobe. He was dishevelled, in that dashing devil-may-care way that only Arthur seemed able to pull off, his strong, broad back stretching the thin linen of his nightshirt. Merlin kept his footsteps soft, and placed Arthur’s breakfast gently on the empty table. Arthur cocked his head.
“You’re late.”
“Only because you’re picky about shirts.”
Merlin barely dodged the brooch that flew at his face: he was pretty sure Arthur had just grabbed the nearest heavy object. “You know, that was a gift from—”
“Shut up, Merlin.”
Without bothering to answer, Merlin took Arthur’s shirt from the top of the pile of laundry and handed it to the quietly irritated prince. Arthur took it, without thanks, and pulled it clumsily over his head. It ruffled his hair even further, and Merlin’s hand itched to reach up and tame it.
He knew from experience that Arthur’s straw-coloured mop was a lot softer than it looked.
Shaking himself, Merlin turned away and let Arthur put his own damn shirt on, doing his habitual straightening of the room. While neatening pillows and lining up shoes, Merlin was searching – discreetly, not that Arthur was paying enough attention anyways – for anything hidden, anything dangerous, anything magical that hadn’t been put there by himself.
After a few years of his quiet routine, Merlin might have begun to think himself paranoid, but he’d found curses and scrying charms more than once, so the habit had stuck. It’s not paranoia if you’re right, he thought wryly.
“You’ve got the kitchen women thoroughly infatuated, by the way.” Merlin commented, clearing out the ashes of the long-dead fireplace. Arthur huffed.
“Were they not already?”
“Careful. If your head gets any bigger I’ll have to have all your helmets bashed into a new shape.”
“What have I done to fascinate them this time?”
“Helped Martha pick up her apples.”
“Is that a euphemism, Merlin?” Arthur draped himself over a chair, flicking idly through the pile of fresh correspondence on his desk. “If so, it’s not a very good one.”
“It’s unlike you to be humble, sire.” Merlin replied. The fireplace was clean. “I’d have thought you’d enjoy boasting about the nice thing that you did for someone. Or is admitting that you’re not entirely selfish just too difficult?”
“Watch your mouth. I can and will have you flogged.” Arthur bit. Merlin met his eyes, briefly. There was irritation, but no genuine anger. Merlin decided he was probably bluffing.
“Still,” He said, trying not to let the genuine confusion leak into his tone, “I don’t know why they’re all deluded into thinking you’re nice to your servants.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly nice.” Arthur said, picking up a bread roll and weighing it in his hand, “To servants that know how to do their jobs.”
He was still shaking crumbs out of his hair two hours later. Arthur’s throwing arm was really something.
ii.
The more he listened, the more Merlin began to realise that the other servants in the citadel had a very different image of Arthur in their heads than he did. At first, it was easy to dismiss: Merlin spent the most time with Arthur, so of course he knew him the best – and knew the most about him.
But over time, he started to realise that Arthur didn’t just act differently around Merlin – no, it was beginning to seem like he deliberately treated him worse.
For instance:
Merlin didn’t always squire for Arthur. In fact, he knew that Arthur actively disliked it when he did, wanting to give the opportunity to the young wannabe knights. Merlin encouraged this. He wasn’t going to be a knight, after all, and the teenagers that Arthur selected to polish his armour, or brush down his horse, or hand him his lance, were always elated to be offered the opportunity to squire for the Crown Prince.
And on those days, it meant Merlin could take a few hours off to watch the jousts.
He always ended up in the same spot: Gwen would wave him over, because Gwen was his best friend, and he’d sit beside her, two seats down from the Lady Morgana. Because the Lady Morgana was Gwen’s best friend.
It was fun, though, when Uther wasn’t in attendance. Those were the days that the three of them could speak freely, and tease each other, and forget that Gwen and Merlin should probably be hanged for daring to speak so informally with the ward of the King.
Those were the days that Merlin would watch Morgana and Gwen dance around one another, and try not to let his gaze fall too wistfully on Arthur’s distant blond head.
It was one of those days, the third day of a tournament thrown for a visiting noble that Merlin had already forgotten the name of, that Merlin ignored Gwen’s hushed conversation with Morgana and watched Arthur’s squire help him into his armour.
The squire couldn’t have been older than sixteen –only a little younger than Merlin remembered being when he first stepped foot in Camelot – and was clearly terrified of making a mistake. Even from a distance, Merlin could see the way he checked, double-checked and triple-checked that Arthur’s breastplate was buckled, and how he hesitated before touching him.
It was almost funny. Merlin had lost his fear of putting his hands on the Prince years ago. In fact, he’d developed an almost ruthless efficiency when it came to putting Arthur’s ridiculously complicated armour on. He didn’t hesitate to wrestle him into submission, some days, fixing his armour with practiced ease and little gentleness.
Of course, that usually earnt him a swift kick to the head, once Arthur was seated on his horse. And, who knew, heavy metal boots tend to leave a mark.
But this squire – even though Merlin had clocked about fourteen obvious errors – was faced with an endlessly patient Arthur. Merlin thought he even saw Arthur’s mouth move, correcting the shaky-handed mistakes of the young squire. And, when he mounted his horse, Arthur didn’t kick the boy, or yell at him, or insult him for his shoddy work.
Instead, his mouth moved in a ‘thank you’ that Merlin decided he’d imagined.
Gwen poked him on the shoulder. “You’re staring.” She said, hushed. Beside her, Morgana let out an involuntary snort of laughter. Merlin tried not to be insulted.
“His pauldron isn’t tight enough, it’s going to throw him off.” Merlin said, trying not to sound concerned. But no, he hadn’t needed to be: as he walked his horse over to the battlegrounds, Arthur fixed his armour himself.
Unheard of.
Gwen gave him a look. “You’ve got the afternoon off, can’t you at least pretend you’re not still thinking about Arthur?”
Merlin didn't dignify that with a response.
Morgana leant over. “So, are we placing bets?”
“No point,” Gwen said, examining the competitors, “Arthur’s going to thrash them all.”
“Ah, you’re no fun.” Morgana sat back in her seat, groaned. “I wish I could compete.”
“Maybe we should introduce a women’s gauntlet.” Gwen suggested. “It would be a great way to, ahem, express some old grudges.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be referring to my long-held desire to hit Lady Adeline over the head with a very large and heavy stick?”
Merlin bit back a laugh. “You’d never persuade Lady Adeline to wear a helmet.” He said, “She couldn’t bear to deprive the world of her sour face for even a moment.”
Morgana and Gwen both laughed. Morgana sobered a little. “Still, I’m sure even Arthur can’t be enjoying himself, knowing he’s always guaranteed to win. It’s never a fair fight, I don’t know why he still bothers to compete.”
“Ah, for Arthur it’s not about winning.” Merlin said, absently. Both women looked at him.
“What?” Morgana said, “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Arthur?”
Merlin blinked. “I thought it was obvious.” He said. “Arthur just uses the tournaments as an excuse to figure out where his men are going wrong, and help them improve.”
The looks of confusion didn’t abate. Merlin couldn’t hide his surprise.
“You must know that Arthur cares about his knights more than he cares about himself, he doesn’t exactly hide it.” He said. “Why do you think I’m sat up here and not down there, squiring?”
Morgana’s expression had morphed from confused to thoughtful. “He’s always been dutiful, but,” She winced, “I thought he just enjoyed making sure everyone knows he’s the best.”
“The day one of his own knights beats him in combat,” Merlin said, “Will be the proudest day of Arthur’s life.”
Gwen smiled. “Once again, Merlin proves he knows Prince Arthur better than anyone.” She said.
Merlin just glanced between Gwen and Morgana, pointedly, and satisfied in the way that Gwen's cheeks darkened.
Inside, though, he was still thinking about how kindly Arthur had treated that young, faltering squire. When Merlin had been sixteen – without the lifetime of experience that squire had, even – Arthur had beat him, and shouted him down when he made even the smallest mistake. Of course, Merlin had eventually just started shouting back, but that was irrelevant.
He wondered if it was because the squire was highborn, and Merlin was… not.
But the thought that Arthur would treat him differently because of his birth status didn’t sit right. It didn’t fit, not with everything that Merlin knew about Arthur, not with how Arthur thought about the world.
Disquieted, he sat and watched as Arthur beat his competition in a deliberate, gentle way, that only Merlin could see.
And he wondered what made him so different from them.
iii.
He couldn’t even blame it on the magic.
Not that Arthur knew about his magic, but some days Merlin would lie on his small, hard bed and wonder whether it made him different, in some subtle but instinctive way, and Arthur treated him differently because he could tell that Merlin was – evil? Wrong? Cursed?
That was, of course, until he actually paid attention to the way Arthur treated sorcerers, and realised quickly that even magic couldn’t make Arthur cruel.
It was a cold morning when he woke up to the sound of hushed voices from outside his door. Gaius’s familiar grumble wasn’t unusual, but the soft-spoken tone of Arthur’s voice was. With some effort, Merlin hauled himself out of bed and, without attempting to tidy himself up, opened his door to find out what they were talking about.
Arthur was sat in Merlin’s usual seat, his nose in a book. Merlin wondered whether he was hallucinating.
But no. Arthur and Gaius both glanced up as Merlin entered the room, Arthur looking mildly flustered but Gaius – as always – unbothered. Arthur moved to snap the book shut, but Gaius put his hand on the pages, holding it open. “He may be able to help.”
Arthur scoffed, but there was less heat behind it than usual. “What can Merlin do to help?”
Gaius just raised a brow. Arthur shut his mouth.
“Good morning. What are you doing here?” Merlin said, trying to make sense of the scene in front of him. Arthur scowled.
“Why should I have to explain myself to you?”
Merlin raised a brow. He’d learnt it from Gaius.
“There’s a beggar in the marketplace selling charms and I was wondering – not that it’s any of your business – if there was a way to prove that she’s not a sorcerer.”
“You – what?”
“I said—”
“No, I heard you, I’m just going to need more information than that.”
Arthur faltered. “She doesn’t speak our language, not well.” He said. “And she’s only about ten years old. I brought one of her charms for Gaius to examine. I want to know whether it was real sorcery – forgive me for being unwilling to execute a child that doesn’t know what her crime even is.”
Merlin blinked. There was such… righteous anger on Arthur’s face, an anger that buried itself in his eyes and that Merlin had often felt in his own heart. It made him feel – something he couldn’t identify, something soft and warm, something that wrapped itself around Arthur and tucked him safely into Merlin’s foolish heart.
“Of course I’ll help.” Merlin said. “Do you have the charm, Gaius?”
Gaius tossed him a small charm bag. It wasn’t like any that Merlin had ever seen before, made of the sort of delicate, royal-blue fabric that usually cost a fortune. Not that Arthur would know that. “Is she from the East?”
“I think so.” Arthur said, turning once more to the book he had open. “Supposedly, every man in the East practices sorcery.”
Merlin laughed. “You must know that’s a myth.”
“What?”
“They just grow different herbs.” Merlin said, weighing the small bag in his hands. “There are as many sorcerers in the East as there are in Albion. The people there just have different knowledge, and different plants. Unfamiliar doesn’t mean magical.”
Arthur looked up at him. “I didn’t say it did, Merlin.” He said. “Which is why I want to make sure this beggar wasn’t using magic, and this is just a misunderstanding.”
Merlin frowned. The charm bag he held – it was simple, and friendly, but it was indisputably magical. He was sure, unless Gaius had managed to twist the truth, that Arthur knew it too. But Arthur kept reading, his handsome brow furrowed in concentration.
It was endearing.
“How did you meet her?” Merlin asked. Arthur didn’t look up.
“Guard duty. She was,” He hesitated, “She tried to sell a charm to Leon. If it had been anyone else—”
If it had been anyone else, she probably would have been executed on the spot. To be naïve enough to try and sell magic to a knight of Camelot… Merlin’s heart ached for the poor girl.
“Where is she now?” He prayed the answer wasn’t ‘the dungeons’.
Arthur hesitated. “Leon’s.” He said. “We wanted to keep her somewhere warm and dry until we decided what to do.”
Oh, Arthur. Merlin fought a smile. “You didn’t tell anyone else about her?”
Arthur scowled. “Who would I tell?”
“Morgana would help.” He said.
“She’s too much of a bleeding heart,” Arthur dismissed, “She’d do something rash and get us all in trouble.”
What, like hide the child, and search for a way to illegally save her?
But Merlin didn’t comment, sliding onto a wooden stool and taking a book from the pile beside Arthur. He opened it, ignoring the way Arthur’s eyes followed him, and started to read. “You could just send her away,” He said, “The King would never find out.”
“Careful, Merlin. That was almost treason.” Arthur said. Then, after a moment, “If I send her away, there’s no guarantee she’ll find somewhere safe. Camelot isn’t the only place that might be hostile to a child from the East.”
Merlin thought about it. “The druids might take her in.”
“Out of the question. I don’t want her to actually become a sorcerer.”
“The druids aren’t technically—” Merlin sighed. “My mother would probably look after her.”
“Your mother?” Arthur looked up from his books, expression complicated. “She would shelter an accused sorcerer? That doesn’t speak her language?”
Merlin glanced at Gaius. He could tell Gaius was thinking the same thing as him – if there’s any person in Albion qualified to look after a possibly magical child, it’s Merlin’s mother. Not that they could say that to Arthur. Instead, Merlin said,
“Ealdor is across the border. She’d be safe there.”
Arthur hesitated, and closed the book he’d been reading with a grim finality. “It’s the best solution we have.” He said. Merlin could almost see the war being fought behind Arthur’s eyes.
-
As it turned out, the child was the single most adorable creature that Merlin had ever seen. She sat on the end of Leon’s bed, watching them with wide, wary eyes, and Merlin had never been so grateful that it was Arthur and Leon that had found her, not one of Uther’s knights.
She didn’t speak, timid and confused, but she responded when Arthur knelt before her and offered her his hand. She smiled at him, wide and dimpled, and held his hand with a tight grasp. Her hand was so small, in Arthur’s own large, callused fingers, but he held her so delicately. Arthur was quiet, and gentle, with the girl, and Merlin found himself thinking that one day, Arthur would be a great father.
Merlin stood a short distance away, worried about frightening the girl, but tried to communicate with her in that way the druids did: hoping that a language barrier could be crossed with magic.
We’re not going to hurt you.
Her eyes flickered to his, wide and surprised. Her hand tightened around Arthur’s. I know. He’s been kind. They gave me shelter and food and water.
It’s dangerous to sell your charms in Camelot. You should keep them hidden.
But they’re only protection charms! And they’re not very strong ones… She looked saddened, slightly. Merlin was relieved they could understand each other at all, though.
Arthur was frowning at the floor. “How do we tell her we want her to leave with us?” He asked, glancing up at Leon. “If she doesn’t know what’s happening, we’re little better than kidnappers.”
Merlin hesitated. “I speak a little of her language.” He said. Arthur startled.
“You?” He said, incredulous. “Merlin, you can barely read your own language.”
“Trust me, sire.”
Arthur stood, scoffing. “By all means,” He said, gesturing, “I’d love to see your linguistic talents in action.”
Merlin swallowed, hard. His lips moved in the vague shape of a spell he only half-remembered, hoping it would actually work and that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself. He knelt in front of the girl, and when he opened his mouth, the words weren’t in a language he knew.
“It’s not safe for you to stay in the city.” He said, seeing the way the child brightened at the familiar tongue.
“But I need to make money.” She said. “Cities are good places for trade.”
Merlin glanced at Arthur. His mouth was agape, watching the interaction with blatant shock.
“Do you have any family?” Merlin asked the girl. She shook her head. “And you have no money, and nowhere to stay?”
Her expression sprung back to a smile. “I have magic!” And, before Merlin could stop her, the girl opened her palm and several glowing, illusory butterflies sprung from her hand. They fluttered around the room for a moment before disappearing into ember-like sparks.
Merlin sucked in a breath. The little girl was beaming, eyes flickering between their faces, clearly expecting praise. He forced a smile. “That was beautiful! Did someone teach you that trick?”
She nodded.
Merlin looked at Arthur. His jaw was tense, his face ashen. Leon looked hesitant, hand resting uselessly on his sword: they all knew he wasn’t going to point a blade at a little girl, sorcerer or no.
Arthur struggled for a moment. “Did she mean to do that?” He asked, at last. His voice was weak.
“She did.” Merlin said, deciding to be honest. “Until she came to Camelot, magic was the best way for her to make a living.”
Arthur took a moment to accept that. His eyes softened. “If we get her to Ealdor, she won’t have to use magic anymore.” He justified. “She can grow up normally.”
Merlin tried to pretend that didn’t sting. Instead, he looked at Arthur for a long, proud moment. “You’re better than your father, sire.”
“Treason, Merlin.” Arthur warned, absently.
Merlin turned back to the girl. “We want to take you to a place you’ll be able to grow up safely.” He said. “You won’t have to sleep on the streets, and you won’t have to sell charms anymore.”
She agreed.
Before Leon rode out of the citadel to take the girl to Ealdor, Merlin slung a protection charm around her neck: one he’d made himself, one stronger than any she’d ever seen before.
He didn’t think Arthur noticed him do it. He didn’t mention it, so he couldn’t have noticed.
Instead, as they watched Leon’s red cloak retreat into a blob on the horizon, Arthur commented, absently, “She was rather sweet, wasn’t she?”
iv.
Maybe, Merlin realised, Arthur was just courteous with women.
After all, he saw Arthur throw bitch-fits at his knights all the time, and he’d always been willing to square up to dissenting noblemen – and the whole court had seen him clash with his father more than once. With women, on the other hand, Arthur was always a perfect gentleman. It didn’t seem to matter whether they were a beggar or a princess, he would turn on the charm regardless.
So, Merlin thought, Arthur treated him badly because he wasn’t a woman, and Arthur had been raised to treat only women with such good manners. There, that sounded like a reasonable explanation.
This idea was hindered by the fact that there was, of course, one woman in Camelot that Arthur didn’t treat with perfect respect.
In fact, it was quite the opposite.
“Good morning, Morgana, you look perfectly haggard today.”
Morgana’s expression twitched as Arthur sat himself opposite her at the breakfast table. “I could say the same about you.” She said, taking a delicate bite of her food. “It’s barely nine in the morning and you already stink like a pig.”
Arthur scoffed. “That would be because I’ve been training all morning. Because I actually contribute something to the running of this kingdom.”
“So, you admit that you smell?”
Arthur, the adult crown prince of the wealthiest kingdom in Albion, stuck his tongue out. “At least I did something useful with my morning, instead of spending hours making sure my hair is perfect before I leave my chambers.”
“Oh, please, I’m not half as vain as you are.”
“You’re twice as spoilt, though.”
“I don’t need my servant to coddle me.”
“And I don’t throw a tantrum if my clothes aren’t made of silk.”
“No, you’ll throw a tantrum for something far more minor—”
“You can’t talk to me like that—”
“I’ll talk to you however I—"
“Please.” Uther interrupted, already despairing, “All I ask is to eat my breakfast in peace.”
“Sorry, father.”
“Of course, sire.”
But stood behind Arthur, Merlin could see the scowl on Morgana’s face, no doubt mirrored by a furious expression on Arthur’s own. Looking up, Merlin met eyes with Gwen, who was fighting a smile.
Arthur twitched in his chair.
A moment later, Morgana winced. Her glare darkened.
Arthur grunted in pain. He shifted slightly in his chair, preparing to retaliate, and then—
“If you kick each other again, neither of you will be getting any dinner!” Uther pronounced, slamming his fork onto the table. “You are not children.”
Merlin bit his lip, trying not to laugh. It wasn’t worth the trouble he’d be in, he told himself.
“Sorry.” Arthur muttered. Then, quieter, “She started it.”
“As if.”
Uther didn’t bother to respond.
--
Morgana and Merlin were – friends, he supposed. He hoped. It was the height of impropriety to be caught even talking to one another, so Merlin often found himself sneaking around after hours like a clandestine lover, trying to spend even a short amount of time with her.
Thank goodness for Gwen, then, who enabled their nonsense.
She let him into Morgana’s chambers without batting an eyelash, watching with an expression that was almost pleased as Merlin tossed Morgana a book.
“I stole this one from Gaius.” He said. “It’s mostly about scrying, but there was some information in there about dream divination, and an interesting paragraph about priestesses – I think it should be useful.”
Morgana slumped against her headboard. “Thank you, Merlin.” She said. “Will Gaius notice that it’s missing?”
“Not unless he goes looking for it.” Merlin said. “Which probably won’t happen. If it does, I’ll be cleaning out the leech tank for the rest of my life.”
“You’re a saint.”
“Not even close.” He sat on the end of Morgana’s bed, studying her face. “Things are… good?”
She smiled. “Things are excellent. Magic is – it’s amazing, Merlin. I’m so glad I’ve got you here to teach me. I don’t know what I’d do otherwise.”
“You’re clever,” Merlin said, “You’d be just fine with or without me.”
Morgana laughed. “Nonsense.”
Merlin looked at her for a long moment. “One day, we won’t have to hide, you know.”
“You mean when the princely idiot is on the throne?” Morgana said, sardonic. “He’s just like Uther. Why are you so sure things will change?”
“You know as well as I do that he’s nothing like Uther,” Merlin said, “Do you really think I’d risk so much to keep him safe if I thought he’d put me to death for something I can’t change?”
Morgana’s smile was soft. “I think you’d do anything for him, Merlin,” She said, “But not because he’s going to bring the magic back to Camelot.”
“Why, then?” Merlin said, confused. Morgana reached forward and flicked him on the forehead. “Ow.”
“Because you’re in love with him,” She said, “And he’s in love with you. Why do you think he acts like he does around you?”
“Acts like what?” Merlin frowned, “Insulting and belittling me, ordering me around, using me as target practice, assigning chores that weren’t part of my job in the first place, forgetting even the most basic manners when I’m doing things for him, being so endlessly infuriating—”
“Arguing with you, like an equal.” Morgana said, raising a finger, “Using any excuse to involve you in whatever he’s doing during the day, even though it’s not your job. Seeking you out even in rooms full of people. Trusting you with his secrets. Letting his guard down around you. And yes, bullying you, because this is Arthur we’re talking about, and he’s a prat to the people he loves because he doesn’t actually know how love is supposed to work.”
Merlin stared at her. “I’m not sure you and I are entirely on the same page.” He said. Morgana laughed, loud and bright.
“You’ll figure it out eventually, Merlin.” She said. Merlin couldn’t be too unhappy with her, though, because Morgana was happier than he’d seen her in a long, long time.
v.
Maybe, Merlin thought, Arthur treated him so badly because he knew he could handle it.
It was the simplest solution, and the one that Merlin was beginning to believe was the case. If it wasn’t because he was a servant, and it wasn’t because he was magic, and it wasn’t because he was a man, it must be because Arthur knew that Merlin was tough enough to take it.
The only problem was that Merlin knew what Arthur looked like when he was bullying someone tough, and that was because he did it to his knights all the time.
He didn’t call them petty names and squabble with them over tiny, pointless things. Not like he did with Merlin.
Arthur’s new recruits were all tall and strong, but they were still green around the gills and entirely too respectful of the Crown Prince. Watching from the side-lines, where Arthur had ordered him to ‘stay put and finish your mending’, Merlin could see that Arthur was unhappy with them.
“William.”
“Sire.”
“Hit me.”
“Sire?”
“You’ve got a sword in your hand, haven’t you?” Arthur swung his own sword in an easy loop. “I’m wide open. Hit me with it.”
William, eighteen years old and built like a brick shithouse, swung at his liege lord with the most pathetic attempt at a sword-swing that Merlin had seen since Leon last tried to teach him self-defence. Arthur stepped backwards, well out of range.
“Come on,” He said, laughingly, “Hit me. You wouldn’t win against a woman with a swing like that.”
This time, William put some force behind it. Arthur knocked the blade away with his own, easily. He smacked William between the shoulder blades with the pommel of his sword, sending the lad face-first into the wet dirt of the training field. William clambered to his feet, fishing grass from his mouth.
Arthur sighed. “Men.” He said, talking to the group at large. Merlin pricked himself in the thumb with his sewing needle, and cursed quietly, not taking his eyes off of Prince Arthur, impossibly charismatic. “Battle – real battle – isn’t kind. It doesn’t allow for hesitation. It doesn’t care about the status of your birth, or about your titles, or about your reputation. I know you think that by being hesitant to hit me, you’re showing me due respect, but you’re only proving to me that you’re not cut out for warfare.”
The group was silent, watching Arthur with wide eyes on young faces. Merlin could almost see the moment that they sold their loyalty to the Prince forever. Arthur continued, “I’ve fought on battlefields. I’ve survived men much older and more talented than yourselves, men that wanted me dead, and from most of those encounters I’ve come out unharmed. I assure you – I can take a hit. Are you not insulting my abilities as a knight to presume that I can’t? Now, William,” He spread his arms wide, and dropped his sword. Merlin fought a smile. He’d seen this routine before, and those lads were about to get battered. “Hit me.”
This time, with a roar, William rushed at Arthur, sword raised. Arthur grinned, the feral, toothy smile he only got when he was in combat, and dropped low. He planted a swift punch to William’s stomach, and in a quick, smooth movement, sent the boy sprawling onto the floor again, sword landing with a dull thud on the soft, muddy ground.
Arthur held out a hand. “Good. Again.”
-
Merlin spent more time watching Arthur training than he did doing his mending, and the pile of torn breeches and shirts on his lap was lessening disturbingly slowly. He re-threaded his needle, face scrunched in careful concentration, watching out of the corner of his eye as Leon sat down beside him.
“How long has he been bullying them?” Leon asked, watching Arthur knock another young man into the mud.
Merlin glanced at the sky. “At least three hours.” He said. “And he won’t be done for another forty-five minutes, if I had to guess.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Leon glanced sympathetically at the pile on Merlin’s lap. “Why aren’t you doing that indoors? It’s freezing out here.”
It was. Merlin’s fingers were slightly numb, which made holding a needle nigh impossible. “Arthur told me to stay here.” He grumbled. “He’ll want my help when he’s finished with the rookies.”
Leon gave him a long look. After a moment, he turned away to watch Arthur interacting with his men. “He’s grown a lot.”
“I suppose he has.” Merlin watched Arthur help one of the lads upright, slapping him on the back jovially, and adjusting the boy’s grip on his sword. The boy looked up at him with stars in his eyes.
“I think we have you to thank for most of it.”
“What?”
“Before you arrived, Arthur was a spoilt brat.” Leon said, frank. “Don’t give me that look, you know it’s true. He’s always been… painfully dutiful, but he’s also always been arrogant and self-important.”
“I don’t think that’s changed.” Merlin huffed. Leon frowned.
“No, it has.” He said. “He’s willing to learn, now. And he’s become a brilliant teacher in his own right. You challenge him, Merlin. And honestly, I think it’s done him a lot of good just to have a… friend.”
Merlin frowned. “You’re his friend, Leon.”
“I can’t be what you are to him.” Leon said. “I never have. I wouldn’t want to be.”
“Not surprised. Cleaning out his chamber-pot is a thankless task, Leon, be grateful you’ll never have to experience it.”
Leon barked a laugh. “I’m unspeakably grateful.” He said. Then, fond, “I’m your friend too, Merlin. I hope that’s obvious.”
“It is.” Merlin grinned. “You know, a true friend would help me finish my chores—”
“Ah, I think I hear someone calling me. I have to go.”
Merlin laughed. “Bye, Leon.”
Leon just waved a lazy hand as he sped off, pausing only to say a few quick words to Arthur before disappearing in the direction of the keep.
Merlin watched as Arthur clobbered his young soldiers, quietly admiring the way his face was red, sweat-sheened, but still impossibly handsome.
+i
Eventually, Merlin realised that the only way to figure out what was going through Arthur’s brain was to ask him.
He didn’t exactly want to bring it up, but it was becoming more and more difficult to pretend it didn’t bother him when Arthur verbally berated him for being too slow to complete his chores (to which Merlin would respond with an equally acerbic comment about lazy princes, or wasted daylight, or once and future prats), or when he sported yet another bruise from an impulsively-thrown object. It was beginning to feel – unfair, like he was being singled out for not meeting some criteria he hadn’t even known he was supposed to fill.
So, as he was completing his evening routine, Arthur looking perfect as always in nothing but a night-shirt and breeches, expression peaceful in a way that only Merlin ever got to see, he said idly,
“You’re kind, to the other servants in Camelot.”
Arthur looked up from his book. “I am?” Then, clearing his throat, “I am. I wasn’t raised in a barn, Merlin.”
“You’re not—” Merlin swallowed. “You’re not kind to me.”
From behind him, Merlin heard Arthur’s book slam shut. “Do you want me to treat you like you’re just another servant, Merlin?”
Merlin hesitated. Something about the wording of that question tugged at his heart. “That’s not what I mean.” He grumbled, instead. “You could stand to treat me a little better. I’m not as tough as your knights.”
“I beg to differ.” Arthur responded. Merlin still refused to turn around and face him. “You’re a damn sight braver than most of them, if nothing else. And I’ve seen you take stab wounds and drink poison without flinching.”
“I thought being rude and spoilt was just who you are,” Merlin said, “But it’s not. It probably never has been. It’s just who you are when you’re with me.”
He finally did turn around, then, to find Arthur standing much closer to him than he’d expected. Arthur’s expression was tense, and maybe a little sad. “You really think that about me?” He said.
“I think you’re a great man,” Merlin allowed, “And you’ll be a magnificent King.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Merlin.”
“You deserve to hear it from me at least once.” Merlin paused. “You’re rude to Morgana.”
“What?”
“You insult Morgana all the time.”
“Yes, well, she’s my sister. It’s what we do.”
“Sister?”
“As good as—” Arthur scowled. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
“You should tell her you see her as a sister.” Merlin said, his smile teasing. “I think it’ll improve some things for both of you.”
“Why did you bring up Morgana in the first place?” Arthur grouched. “This is a very confusing conversation, Merlin.”
Merlin took a breath. “You’re a perfect gentleman to everyone,” he said, “You’re even kind to – to squires that make obvious mistakes and to sorcerers that don’t know any better. You’re gentle and considerate to every woman you meet and you’ve never been cruel to someone just because they’re not highborn. You bully your knights, but only so that they learn how to survive against a real enemy. You insult Morgana because she’s your sister. You’re wonderful, to everyone except for me.”
“Merlin—”
“I just want to know why.” Merlin said, finally. “I can’t figure it out.”
“God, Merlin, you really are an idiot.” Arthur said, before taking Merlin’s face in his hands and kissing him.
For a moment, Merlin stood frozen, Arthur’s lips on his own. His brain kicked back into gear, telling him firmly, this is what you’ve always wanted, and he finally reciprocated. Enthusiastically.
They kissed for a long moment. It could have been minutes, though it felt like hours, and when they finally separated there was a flush on Arthur’s stupidly sharp cheekbones. He smiled at Merlin, who smiled back, a little goofily.
Arthur laughed softly. “I’ve wanted to do that for such a long time.” He said.
Merlin, cleverly, said, “Oh God, Morgana was right.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I thought only eight-year-old boys bullied their sweethearts.”
“Even think about calling me sweetheart and I’ll put you in the stocks, Merlin.”
“I’ll take that into consideration.”
Arthur’s smile dropped, eyes flickering over Merlin’s face. “When I’m with you, I can be myself.” He said. “You and Morgana. And – I suppose – Guinevere. But mostly you.”
“Thank you?” Merlin managed. Arthur’s face scrunched into a scowl.
“You don’t understand. Look, I like it when we argue.” He said. “Before you, do you know how many arguments I’d ever been in? Maybe three – one with my father and a few with Morgana. I couldn’t argue with anyone else even if I’d wanted to. They all just gave in. And I’d never, ever, fought with someone about something as insignificant as clean clothes, or breakfast, or how many swords is too many swords for one person to own.”
“More than five is too many, Arthur.”
“No, it is—” He blinked. “My point is, I’ve never had a servant like you, and I wouldn’t want one other than you. A servant, that is. Or a… a friend.”
“Or…?”
Arthur pressed his lips together. “Or a lover.” He said. “Because I am, you know. In love with you. Quite badly, actually, Merlin, and I’m beginning to worry it’s rotting my brain.”
“Prat.” And Merlin reeled him back in by the collar of his very soft nightgown to press their lips together again.
He decided, quite firmly, that he didn’t mind so much that Arthur treated him so differently.
No, this was just for Merlin.
And he was perfectly content with that.