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A prompt for you if you don't mind. Golden Era Merlin fic. Merlin is 30(ish) now but he's been through a lot and he didn't stop trying to do things even when he was healing from injuries. So he gets a staff and uses it as a walking stick. People notice that he stops limping on bad days. He has to explain to people that just because he stopped limping doesn't mean he can stop using the stick, that the stick is the reason he stopped limping. He's irritated by the people who are rude about him using a mobility aid when he's so young (council members and visiting nobles and knights who aren't usually in Camelot). His friends have got his back though. – anon
"Oh, here," one of the servants says to him as he approaches the kitchen door, platter for Arthur balanced on one hand, "let me hold that for you."
Merlin goes to offer her the tray, pausing when she instead reaches for his cane. "Er, what are you doing?"
"The walking stick, let me hold it while you carry that up. I'm happy to follow!"
"Why would you hold my walking stick?"
The servant tilts her head to the side. "Would it not be easier to carry the platter with both hands?"
"Yes, but it would be easier to walk with my walking stick."
He can see the moment that realization dawns on her face and mortification quickly follows. She scrambles and stutters her way through an apology, complete with a fumbling bow. "Forgive me, My Lord, please, I—I meant no offense, I didn't mean to—"
"It's alright," Merlin says, seeing how earnest she is and indeed, how unintentional her hurt was, "it is forgotten."
"Of course, My Lord, let me get the door for you?"
"That would be most helpful, thank you—what was your name?"
"Sigyn, My Lord."
"Thank you, Sigyn." She holds the door as he makes it through, platter balanced expertly on one hand. "If you would accompany me to the King's chambers, I could use some help with that door as well?"
"Certainly, My Lord." She follows behind him, her hands folded behind her back. He can see her shooting glances at his walking stick out of the corner of her eye but she's much better at decorum than he was, so she keeps any questions to herself. She opens the door to Arthur's chambers after a swift knock. "Anything else, My Lord?"
"No, that will be all, thank you Sigyn."
She bobbles a curtsy and turns back down the stairs. Merlin shakes his head as he sets Arthur's breakfast down on the table. Arthur glances up with a frown.
"Something wrong?"
"No, no, nothing at all."
2.
He's walking past the training grounds when a blur of movement comes hurtling toward him and he has just enough time to step back before a practice lance whistles past him.
"Sorry! Sorry, M'Lord," one of the squires—probably the one who let go of the lance too early—says in a rush, stumbling past him, "I didn't see you there, it was an accident!"
"No harm done—your name?"
"Malachi, M'Lord."
"No harm done, Malachi, just be sure to keep a grip on that thing, mm?"
"Yes, M'Lord, I will, I—oh." Malachi looks down to see he's picked up Merlin's walking stick instead of the javelin. "Sorry, M'Lord, I don't know who left this lying around."
"Ah," Merlin says quickly when the squire turns to holler at the rest of them, "that's mine."
"Yours, M'Lord?"
"Yes."
"Are you injured in some way, M'Lord?"
Merlin chuckles ruefully. "Truly, where aren't I injured, I'm afraid, Malachi. Perils of the job. You understand."
Malachi laughs too, but more out of politeness and the air of someone who isn't quite sure what the joke is. "Perhaps you should—I don't mean to pry, M'Lord, but perhaps you should be with the physician still?"
"Oh, no, I'm never going back there if I can help it." He waggles his fingers. "If you just give me back my walking stick, I'll be good to go."
The squire doesn't outright refuse, but Merlin has to put a bit more steel into the following now, please, and even then he looks reluctant to let him go. It takes Gwaine's stern barking order to get the squire scampering back to the training field. Gwaine shoots him a look, one that's clearly a thinly veiled am I to trounce this prat thoroughly that he's seen so many times with Arthur. Merlin just shakes his head and motions for them to continue.
I'll be by later, he sees Gwaine mouth and he smiles.
3.
The walking stick clatters to the floor.
Merlin raises an eyebrow and turns his gaze on the three children who peer out from behind the corner of a shop, one with a twig clutched in hand.
"Why did you do that?"
"Sorry, Court Sorcerer, we didn't mean to."
"That twig doesn't look like it'd be good for much else and you were very deliberate in how you swung it," he says, not unkindly, "so, why did you do that?"
They mutter amongst themselves for a moment before the one with the twig shoves another. They stifle a wince and look up at Merlin. "It's a joke from a story, Court Sorcerer. You knock away a walking stick and someone falls over."
Merlin tilts his head. "That doesn't seem like a very funny joke to me. Does it sound like it would be funny if someone tripped you?"
"No, Court Sorcerer."
"What's going on?" Leon, ever the embodiment of patience, comes over in his billowing red cape and all the children immediately stare up at him in awe. Merlin feels some level of offense that he isn't regarded with such awe, no, he gets his walking stick knocked out of his hands, but the rest of him is just happy Leon's here. "Merlin?"
"My walking stick was knocked over as a joke and these three are kindly explaining to me why it is funny."
Leon frowns. "That doesn't sound very funny to me."
"It isn't," the other one without the twig says quickly, "sorry, M'Lord. Sorry, Court Sorcerer."
Leon kneels down. "Let's not do that again, alright? It would be unfortunate if someone got hurt when you were only trying to make a joke."
The other two nod furiously but the one with the twig points at Merlin. "But he isn't old. And he isn't hurt. Why does he need a walking stick?"
"I need a walking stick so that I don't get hurt," Merlin explains as he picks it up, "just like you wear good shoes so your feet don't get hurt."
The child looks down at the twig and throws it away. Leon nods approvingly. "Now, why don't you three run along while I help our friend back to the citadel?"
They nod and scamper off. Leon watches them go before he stands up, coming to stand at Merlin's side. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Leon. Let's go."
4.
The visiting noble takes one look at him and scoffs. "You know, if you wanted to have a Court Sorcerer, you could have one without the pomp and circumstance."
Arthur turns his head in that slow way where really he's giving the person a chance to take back their words. "Excuse me?"
The noble, deep in his cups already, gestures sloppily at Merlin. "The staff really isn't necessary. You could just dress him up if you wanted something to look at."
Merlin's grip on his walking stick tenses slightly. Arthur looks as if he's about to order the noble to be dragged off to the dungeons already when Lancelot speaks up.
"I am glad your injuries have not prevented you from joining us this evening, though if you request things brought to you, I assure you no one here will begrudge you them."
The noble squints at him. "What are you on about? Had too much to drink, have you?"
No, but clearly you have, Lancelot's face says before he smooths it into a diplomatic smile. "Your glasses, My Lord, I couldn't help but notice them. I can assure you that no one in Camelot will think poorly of you because of your eyesight."
The noble paws at his face as though remembering he wears glasses. After he finds them—which takes much longer than it should—he takes them off, squinting at them, before narrowing his eyes up at Lancelot. "Now you listen here. I can see perfectly well with these, I don't need any of your so-called generosity."
"Of course," Lancelot demurs instantly, inclining his head, "it is reasonable for us to presume that you have equipped yourself so that you may carry out your duties and wishes without interruption."
"R-right," the noble stammers, clearly caught off guard.
"After all, is that not the mark of a fine man who knows himself?" Lancelot reaches for a goblet. "To be able to understand precisely what it is he might need, and to know his circumstances so intimately that he may find it?"
"Yes, yes, of course."
"Then to you, My Lord," and Lancelot looks over at Merlin, "and to Merlin, who keeps us safe from things we could otherwise allow to pass unnoticed."
Arthur and the rest of the knights follow his toast, which the noble adds a little too late. Merlin looks over at Lancelot with a single nod of thanks.
Lancelot winks over the rim of his goblet.
5.
"It's a good thing he has magic, otherwise I'm not sure what use he would be. He was a lousy servant."
"If he's already using a cane at his age, what will we do when he gets older? We'll have to replace him entirely!"
"He's just doing it for attention, haven't you noticed? There are days where it just hangs over the crook of his arm, he's not even limping!"
"If you ask me, it's a ploy. A way to get us to lower our guards so that he can slip right under our noses. Have to watch out for these sorcerers, you know."
Arthur finds him sitting on the edge of his bed, looking down at the handle of his walking stick. He closes the door quietly, coming to sit next to him, offering a warm and sturdy shoulder to lean against.
"It's alright that I use this," Merlin asks in a quiet voice, "right?"
"Yes, Merlin, it's more than alright. If you need it, you should use it."
"But I don't always need it. Sometimes walking isn't a problem."
"But you still want to use it, right, because then it makes sure that walking remains not a problem."
"I know, I know, I just—" Merlin takes a deep breath and it comes out a little shakier than either of them would like. "How am I supposed to protect you when I can't bloody walk?"
"You protect me the same way I protect you," Arthur says, turning his chin with a gentle hand, "by doing your best. You've shown that you don't need to be a great fighter or a great battle tactician to fight the magic that would come for me or for Camelot. You don't need to put your comfort aside for that. Well, any more than you already do."
"…thanks."
"Of course, Merlin," Arthur says softly, wrapping his arm around his shoulders, "now, who's made you upset?"
A chuckle. "What, do you want a list?"
"Yes."
"Arthur!"
"Merlin."
+1
"Camelot will fall," growls the nameless sorcerer of the month who hasn't gotten the idea that Camelot is no longer actively pursuing magic users, aiming what looks to be a poor imitation of a sword in the direction of the patrol, "and I will use its bones to build my throne!"
Bone throne. How garish.
Arthur barks a command and the knights draw their swords, holding out his hand to steady his horse. "You don't want this fight. Camelot has no quarrel with you."
"Silence! I will not allow your pretty words to dissuade me!" He begins to raise the… thing above his head in what is probably supposed to be a threatening way. "Not when I've come so far, not when I am so close to triumph!"
The knights ready themselves for what was probably going to be a big blast of concussive magic that blows them back almost twelve yards, throwing their limp bodies against the trees like ragdolls as their swords clatter to the ground, mangled bits of shrapnel. There was probably going to be a thunderous clap as a shockwave emanated from the source of the blast, sending out a piercing ray of blue light that near blinded them. It was probably going to be very, very impressive.
Oh, wait, that's what Merlin did.
He sighs as the would-be conqueror dissolves into a dust cloud, his cloak and ruined 'sword' lying in tatters on the ground. He picks his walking stick back up from where he'd struck the ground and fastens it back to the saddle.
"You'd think they'd get a little more creative."
When no witty response comes to his quip—which was an excellent one, thank you—he turns to see all of them staring at him with a little more than stunned silence.
"What?"
"Have you just been able to do that the whole time," Gwaine asks eventually, weakly gesturing to the walking stick, "or was that…new?"
"I'm not sure I should tell you."
"I'm choosing to believe that it was the stick. That's the much less scary option."
"Less scary than underestimating me?"
"Whoa, whoa," Gwaine says, quickly wheeling his horse out of the way when Merlin teasingly aims the end of his stick in that direction, "point that thing somewhere else!"
Merlin just chuckles as they resume riding. He can't give up all of his secrets, can he?