Best Day
Title: Best Day
Rating: PG
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin-ish, and although it's not mentioned it will always be a bit of Gwen/everybody
Word count: ~8,691
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: There are secrets and then there are secrets, and not one of them can be told to Arthur.
Spoilers: kind of wedged around 2x07-2x09
A/N: written as a Merlin Santa gift for robot_rawr. Title and some lyrics are quoted from Taylor Swift - Best Day. Betad with love by shifty_gardener. And crazykookie made me the awesome graphic at the end. Semi-compatible with creepy_secret's Uther, King.
master fic post
Best Day
1. All About the Courtyard
Of all the facts Merlin has gathered about the court at Camelot, there is one secret that he has never discovered. This secret remains known to only the king and the court physician, and both parties believe to varying degrees that it ought to be kept thus.
Highlight the following hidden line of text for the magic reveal: Uther has a fake hand.
King Uther and Gaius never speak of this secret directly. Oh no, the walls at Camelot have ears, so to speak, sentries posted in every nook who watch for those who might compromise the security of the stronghold that is Camelot. Camelot is an entity in and of itself, and in this particular instance, the King's secret, were it to be known, could be deemed a risk.
No, the two speak of it under the guise of other problems.
"We must be vigilant, Sire," Gaius warns. To which Uther responds, hand cupped almost delicately around the broken shards of Nimueh's egg: "Will I never be rid of her?"
Arthur has taken to wearing gloves like his father's, and it is one of these gloves that is tossed at Merlin's head one morning in Spring.
"What was that for?" Merlin asks, distracted. Arthur's boots are clacking behind him, the circular sound of the prince pacing his chambers, but Merlin does not turn. Instead he remains shoulder-deep in the wardrobe, yanking each of the prince's tunics from their hangers with partial disgust. "This is horrific, Arthur."
"They're just insects, Merlin," Arthur says, all affected disdain. "We've faced giant beasts - Afancs for god's sake - to be afraid of moths is just downright ridiculous." There is a considering pause. Then Arthur continues: "Well, I suppose you've only ever just stood there."
His sharp tones are clear, although Merlin's mind has been muddled for the better part of a week. Merlin walks with his arms full of tunics to the window, puts the shirts down, and then begins to shake each violently into the sky.
"Maybe you've occasionally tried to distract things so I can kill them," Arthur concedes. The fabric rumples and flies in the morning breeze and there's the sound of a goblet being drunk down behind him, and a healthy pause. Merlin runs fine cloth through his fingers and then beats it against the stones.
"I don't just stand there," he says. At this a moth suddenly escapes from one shirt, dusty brown and as big as Merlin's ear, and flies at his face. Merlin yells in surprise and quickly drops the shirt out the window in self-defense. The moth flaps off, unconcerned.
He finally turns, just as the prince throws his head back and laughs. Merlin looks back to the pile of shirts, the more hesitant for the attack, away from the dirty dishes on the picnic table, away from the ashy fireplace.
"My point exactly," Arthur says. The sound of his voice fades as he makes his way into the adjoining room. "I'll expect you to get that for me, Merlin. Ha! Scared of a bug."
Merlin grimaces and leans back out the window to see the shirt pooled on the flagstones two stories below, where he'd dropped the mirror only last week. It seems like it's been longer. He has finally made up his mind to go retrieve the shirt, when a passerby calmly collects it and folds it into his basket. Walks away. The country boy in him cannot help but experience a scintilla of victory for peasants everywhere.
He rehangs the clothing that hasn't been eaten through, checking each tunic systematically and with a mind miles away. The sheer amount of blue and red tunics that Arthur owns is frankly appalling, given he only ever wears his two favorites. Merlin had wondered that the prince's shirts were quite similar to his own until, on his last trip home to Ealdor, he'd found out that the town tailor kept up with the current trends in royal fashion.
Memories of Ealdor remind him of his mother, and these thoughts invariably lead him back to one recent, unsettling revelation. However completely oblivious he is to King Uther's mechanical digits, it cannot be said that Merlin is not perceptive, not quick to cotton on, as it were. It is the most recent of court scandals that has got him thinking, here in Athur's chambers, clutching absently at one of two well-worn garments, the blue one, blue like the sea when he'd stood outside the labyrinth. The labyrinth. That Merlin is attracted to those with magical ability becomes clear after this latest incident, the one with the troll, but it should have been obvious much sooner, that time with Anhora and the poisoned goblet, or with Sophia, Nimueh....
He finally came to this conclusion last week, when he'd first entered Lady Catrina's chambers. He hadn't been able to help the flush of a smile that spread his face, despite the manner in which the woman was slurping rotted fruit, and the feeling spread subtly, as it always did, warming him from within, until it felt like a full body blush. The troll had jumped from where she crouched, guiltily, straightened to a more womanly composure, and Merlin's hearing had fuzzed just that small bit with magic. A pull that was not physical attraction, but a more elemental longing.
He is two parts relieved at this revelation, and one part irked that perhaps all those smiles he's gotten in return from the assortment of admittedly evil women weren't necessarily due to his looks. His jutting cheekbones. His sooty lashes. But when the manifestation of the Lady Ygraine reveals that Arthur was born of magic, Merlin is all parts destroyed; his Big Gay Crisis was for naught, so many sleepless nights which could have been avoided had he been privy to this missing piece of information.
The endearing eye rolls when any other servant would have been sacked by now, an unnecessary grip on his shoulder when he's deserved a dismissive frown, and the additional glances when Arthur has everything else in the world to occupy his thoughts. Yes, evidence has fallen into place since this realization. Even Arthur's displeased admission: "There's something about you, Merlin...I just can't put my finger on it" is explained. The attraction is there, no doubt - they've grown to admire one another - but the compulsion was there from the first. Like to like, his magic is just seeking to merge.
A sudden warmth at his back surprises Merlin from his ruminations. He tenses, only to relax when he finds that of course it's just Arthur, reaching imperiously over Merlin's shoulder for the aforementioned blue tunic.
"You could have just asked," Merlin mutters. But it is useless, he knows, and it is agonizing. I will never be rid of it, he thinks, as Arthur stands too close for two seconds too long, and Merlin stiffens once again until the moment passes.
"Help me into this," Arthur says. Merlin turns and Arthur is standing just behind him, so he takes a half step back with resolve, fights a smile that threatens to break, and helps the prince change one shirt for another. He is mindful of lacing and all of the touches that he should avoid in the meanwhile.
--
Concurrently, across the courtyard, King Uther has just arisen from a particularly deep sleep. Each morning two principle servants see to it that their king is dressed and fed in a silence so complete that they are but a mere extension of his whims. The king need but twitch a finger towards a goblet for it to arrive at his hand. He rarely speaks to them, never looks at them, and only feels their presence during the buttoning of the royal jackets. Shortly after, the servants fade out through cracks in the walls. This allows for deep and meditative introspection, the staple of a healthy and balanced morning.
On this day, King Uther walks from table to window in a stupor of waking that has yet to be interrupted. He lays a hand on his writing desk that is windowside, save during the winter when droughts might wet and damage the leaves of parchment upon it. It is near sacred, and the sole place left untouched by the servants.
The diary of King Uther is a fatty tome of a book, sheath upon sheath of expensive vellum, bound with twine and a fancy cover of studded leather. The king, pragmatic and paranoid to a fault, knows he can write nothing of great importance as it would be tantamount to leaving state secrets lying about, and blackmail. Uther has great need of this book, for however unbecoming it is for a king to prattle on about nothings, even kings need an outlet somewhere. It has become his only true friend, and he thinks of it fondly when bored in public. Due to this need for secrecy, whenever Uther is penning flourishes upon the page he is able to record only the most trivial of matters - matters which can not be used against him by his multitude of enemies, matters which will not end him with poison in his food and a dagger in the back.
So it is, and this morning Uther has a lot to say in the way of nothing in particular. There is a drizzly rain on the horizon and white bright clouded skies directly overhead with brief puffs of wind. He opens his stained glass window momentarily to peer slyly, mock-curiously, at the courtyard below, like a prowling cat unsure what this satisfaction means, or even if he should be experiencing it. There are peasants and vendors alike milling about already, though it is only one hour past day's first light, and Uther allows himself some pride that his people are a dedicated and industrious folk.
His gloved hand presses the window those few inches shut, and he seats himself at his writing table, taking preemptive pleasure in the practice and catharsis of writing. He opens the book and smooths the pages like they are the flanks of his best steed, and he dips his quill in the ever-present pot of ink at his left. Begins an inch under the last entry, in a flourish, scrawling:
Yesternight was the feast of St. Matthias. The banquet was raucous and tasteful both, and it was with greatest pride that I oversaw the festivities. Aside from some rather queer dreams this night I awake with a clarity of mind and spirit that I have not felt since Bernard made mention of his suspicions regarding his highly-unmagical birth. Damned female knight of no connection to my court! I can only hope that I am blessed with such faculties when I reach a more advanced age, this astuteness of mind. The court physician performs checkups, though I am not at liberty to write when and what he does so as not to leave information for possible spies and enemies, but let it be said that, am I not met with some unusual circumstances that finish my life, Gaius has professed that I could likely live to the old age of five and sixty. I take much exercise and specific care of dietary needs - one chicken, one bread loaf, and a cauldron of soup at every sitting - and have that to thank for the good health that I find myself in. I imbibe not but the finest wines of the region and this helps to balance the fires of my spleeny humors.
What else of note...this past week I have had the pleasure of throwing three citizens into the stocks, thereby teaching them invaluable lessons of obedience to their masters and king as well as providing great amusement to the folk in the upper town. The villagers throw only rotted fruit and the refuse of inedible vegetable parts, so there is no danger of causing a food shortage in this constant use of the stocks. One of these unfortunates was that afflicted nursemaid of Bernard who takes it all in stride, possibly yet another sign of her illness. However I may feel an odd disliking of the elderly woman she did save Bernard's life, and I shall not go back on my word. It was she who spoke to me in the armory before the duel with my beloved's long-since deceased brother, the black knight Tristan du Bois, but I say too much.
Since the unfortunate circumstances of last week in the hall, Bernard has been recumbent and sycophantic, quite unlike himself, and it is worrisome. Finally have ceased the dreams of the day not long ago, when my totally not metal hand near got away from me, moving faster than my intention towards Bernard, grasping the sword I did not know I'd drawn to clash with Bernard's. With the help of the physician and a surprise monologue from the feeble-minded nursemaid, there should be no trouble in this area in the foreseeable future, but there may come a time...no. Looking out the window now, across the courtyard, I can make him out in the window being dressed by the dowdress herself, and it is possible that he looks ill.
Today I shall have my best pair of boots seen to. It is enough that I know which pair I speak of; I daren't write it.
God have mercy on our souls,
Uther, King
--
It is something akin to a headache, this attempt at keeping Arthur at arm's length, especially when all he wants is to do the opposite.
Merlin's primary duties for the day are to de-moth Arthur's clothing, stand by as Arthur instructs his knights, serve Arthur his lunch, accompany Arthur to a meeting of lords, and finally prepare the prince for a dinner with his father and Morgana. The four or so hours of free time between tasks he spends in bed, as there are few places he can go on break and this is the most private.
"Headache," Merlin mutters one of these times as he passes Gaius by, en route to his little room.
"Really?" Gaius looks up from decanting a solution. There is an interested silence, just a moment, and then Merlin's metaphorical arms pinwheel as he tries to find balance at the edge of a sudden, surprise precipice.
"Augh," he backtracks. "I mean, not a headache at all. Did I say headache? I meant...bruise on my left elbow..."
"Is that right?" Gaius still looks interested. Merlin is a shit liar.
"Please don't drill into my skull."
"I'd rather see you comfortable than not," Gaius says. "But if this is your wish, then so be it."
He turns back to what he is doing, but Merlin is not convinced. He seeks refuge in his book of spells.
The rest of the day is one extended moment of tension. It is brisk out of doors while he organizes the particolored lance poles and shields. Arthur drills his knights with a mixture of patience, strength, and restraint, and at each break in training stalks over to where Merlin stands and makes conversation in the form of orders.
"Do remember to fix the tip of this lance, Merlin," the prince says by way of greeting. "Did you see how Sir Leon completely owned Sir Kellin in the last round? And the trick he did with the shield. Do you know what kind of strength it takes to remain standing after an attack like that? He's really one of Camelot's best."
Now that Merlin knows what to look for, Arthur's weakness is obvious. This is no physical ailment, but instead something far more dangerous. The prince smiles at him far too often, for one, as he's doing now, sunlight dancing off his crazy teeth. He makes time between upbraiding and testing Merlin to seriously consider what Merlin has to say, while making an amount of eye contact far too intimate for their respective stations.
He should not be listening to Merlin speak at all, in fact. Not having grown up in court, Merlin has not realized this until now, and it is horrifying. Arthur does not even know that it is his magic that draws him to Merlin.
All this runs through his mind as Arthur stands there, hair and brow slick with sweat, gesticulating to the knights and then gazing at Merlin in turns, and it's Merlin's job to protect him from it.
"Are you feeling alright, sire?" Merlin asks, interrupting Arthur mid-observation. The other frowns.
"Quite well."
"No odd...thrumming? Notable heat fluctuations?" Merlin hedges, motioning uselessly to the prince's chest region, where Merlin usually feels the magical draw the most.
"Is there something I should be aware of?" the prince asks him. He takes a squishy step towards Merlin and Merlin smiles brightly.
"No, nothing at all, sire," he says, backing up an equal amount. "Oh, look at the time, I've got to go."
"What! Merlin!" Arthur cries behind him, but Merlin shouts a "Gaius needs me!" behind him, and rushes off across the grass as quickly as he can to go cower in his room.
When he returns to serve the prince's lunch an hour later, he finds Arthur of a caustic disposition. Merlin keeps his features schooled in a pleasant smile and Arthur glances at him queerly from time to time as he slices viciously at his steak. Merlin steps back to lean against the wall.
"Haven't you anywhere to be?" Arthur finally bites out around a huge mouthful of meat. Merlin wonders if the prince's eyes will ever flash gold, hopes accidental pyrotechnics are not on the menu for those conceived by magical means, and shakes his head quickly. "Not off to help Gaius again?"
"No," Merlin shakes his head once more.
"Then dress me for today's meeting. And don't think you're getting out of it - If I'm to be bored out of my mind, you shall be as well."
His dialogue is one-sided as Merlin draws the red chemise from its hook in the closet and turns to where Arthur has already divested himself of jacket and navy tunic. Merlin's magic surges that bit, drawing him towards Arthur, but he manages to control himself, if only just. At the last second, thankfully, Merlin tips over the table leg and onto the remains of the food, thus hindering his unwilling attempt on Arthur's person.
"What is wrong with you today, Merlin?" Arthur shouts as Merlin staggers back. He rips the soiled shirt from Merlin's grasp and throws it behind him, out the window as it happens, and Merlin sadly watches it go.
"Nothing, I just, feel under the-" Merlin witters as Arthur advances upon him.
"You've been acting strange all week," Arthur says, and shoves Merlin into a sitting position on a bench. Instead of angry, though, he looks repentant. "And I know that you were probably shaken by the unfortunate occurrences of last week, I was as well I admit, but it's time to put that behind us. Thanks to you, my father and I are no longer at odds. I've realized the error of my thinking."
Merlin wants to respond, he really does, but for Arthur's own good he stands and backs towards the door a few steps. Arthur frowns, vulnerable, and then his face shutters.
"It is not my place to judge such things," Merlin says with a half-hearted smile. Arthur turns his back to him. He waves Merlin away as he dresses himself, and then stalks out of the room, expecting Merlin to follow.
The meeting that follows is grueling, as not only Arthur, but the rest of the king's men, seem on edge. The king, by extension, begins to look stormy, and his suggestions become orders, increasingly severe. At one point he gets so worked up that he pounds the table once, solidly, with his right fist. He then stills in surprise, fingers jerking erratically for a moment, and hastily returns to the subject at hand. Merlin favors gazing out the small window near the ceiling rather than at Arthur for the entirety of the meeting, Arthur whose eyes search out Merlin's each time he allows himself to gaze in the other's direction.
Trying to keep relations with Arthur distanced is against Merlin's very personality; never before has he stayed from what he feels in his gut to be true. He watches as Arthur goes from confused to vaguely irate by the time the day's ended. This is like levitating keys all over again as Arthur stalked the room searching for the noise. He has counted, and at this point he is not only hiding one big secret, that of his magic, but three more rather large points of interest: he is more than a little desperately enamored of Arthur; he is not actually enamored of Arthur, it is in fact the pull of their twin magics; Arthur may or may not realize but he is also being drawn to Merlin, unwillingly and unconsciously. Merlin is starting to think that perhaps King Uther is correct in thinking that magic does more harm than good. By dinner time he has all but succumbed to exhaustion.
Supper is a protracted affair. Servants from the kitchen serve the food, but Merlin must stand by and be at the ready to refill the royal goblet. This is the one duty that is near impossible for a lad such as Merlin to carry out; it involves lurking in a darkened room while the king, the prince, and the ward make slow conversation, the mood vacillating between smug and tense, and standing by, attempting invisibility while the smell of fresh bread tickles at his nostrils.
Arthur's mood is surly, made worse as the Lady Morgana verbally prods at him for the entirety of the meal. She is no doubt curious as to the cause of his tantrum, but despite her sly questions and overly sweet observations, gets no closer to sussing it out by the end of the hour, to the point where she becomes fractious herself. The king downs five goblets of wine and casually finishes off a bowl of fruits. Arthur wastes an entire chicken with his fork, but eats little.
The only moment of note is when the king casually tells Arthur he ought to keep a firmer hold on some nurse woman. Merlin has been staring carefully into the middle distance so as not to break into an inappropriate bout of giggles in the near-silent dining hall - the awkwardness has reached such levels - so only catches the tail end of the remark. He can only guess at the meaning of this by Arthur's look of annoyance.
"I'm not sure to whom you're referring, father," Arthur responds.
"Ah, my mistake," the king says over his goblet, and the subject is dropped.
It feels like days by the time the meal reaches its conclusion. Morgana has nettled the king and his son to demonstrate her annoyance with the both of them, and then sweeps off in a swishing of cream skirts. Merlin stands at slouchy attention as Arthur bids his father goodnight. They exit the hall together, shoulder to shoulder, and Arthur sighs.
"At least walk behind me when my father can see us," he says. Merlin falls a step back, but then rushes to catch up so he can ask:
"So who was that woman your father mentioned?"
"Listening, were you?" Arthur squints at him. "I wouldn't have expected, seeing as your mouth was slack the entire meal and you filled my glass only once."
"You hardly drank anything!" Merlin felt pressed to point out. Unfair!
"But to answer your question, I have no idea which woman my father was referring to," Arthur says.
They walk the halls in silence after that. Merlin tries to think of which women Arthur fraternizes with on a regular basis, but can only come up with the two: the Lady Morgana and Gwen, one of whom was seated in the very room when the question was posed, and surely Uther would not question his son about the hired help. Arthur's answer has confirmed, in fact, that there are so many women he is seeing that he does not know which one his father meant.
There is a weird fizzling feeling at his palms, so Merlin rubs them against his britches, but this only creates a crackling static. Arthur glances his way in alarm.
"Are you quite alright?" he asks. Merlin smiles dopily as a cover, and nods. They reach Arthur's doors and Merlin is about to open them but Arthur places a hand on Merlin's arm. Merlin stops mid-reach and breathes in deeply, then steps back with some concerted effort.
"That will be all, Merlin," Arthur mutters, and in a breath is through the door and Merlin is alone in the hallway.
2. Strategic Retreats and Where to Find Them
The next morning, Uther deems it strategic to retreat to his chambers for a long drink by himself and generally to keep out of the way of Morgana. Morgana had had that look about her the night before, all tight lips and a knowing frown - yes, best not to cross her.
Uther sits back and thinks of his kingdom. Camelot is a pre-industrial masterpiece, and it's all his. He works tirelessly each day to tweak and adjust the workings of his realm, dealing with all manner of concern, and cradles it in his dreams each night. His shining thing.
His leather-studded companion piece is where he has hidden it: under two scrolls and a non-descript almanac. Granted this is out in the open, but it is much more than Merlin ever attempts - Merlin, a firm believer in the tactic of hiding in plain sight, usually just puts his magic book on the table.
King Uther flips through his past entries idly, reviewing the random pages he stops at, until growing bored and loops out the latest innocuous anecdote:
The nursemaid and Bernard were squabbling this morning in the corridor as I returned from breakfast. The closeness between the two is unfitting for a young man and a nursemaid such as she. Threw her in the stocks again, and then berated Bernard for allowing such mouthy behavior from a serving wench.
--
The following days fade into each other and Merlin attempts to differentiate between attraction and actual attraction...tries and fails. It's near impossible to feel out the delineation of a power that has so rooted itself in his being, his mind and emotions. But he knows that he must, for his sake and for Arthur's.
Never before has lurking around the prince's chambers been so unappealing; until now he's spent the time dallying over minor chores in order to profit from the temperature that is always favorable (cool in the summer, warm in the winter) and the bonus of inevitably shared meals, and yes engaging in interested banter with the prince, but now the conversation is taut, the silences semi-provocative.
"What aaare you doing with that boot?" Arthur demands as Merlin puzzles over the dirt stuck in the heel, picking at it with the sharp end of a small hammer.
"It's working, isn't it?" Merlin demands back, bits of rock becoming dislodged. He has never done this by hand.
"Your learning curve is really something to be wondered at," Arthur says. "A gradual rise, I suppose, but thrice as lengthy as the normal servant's."
Merlin ducks his head instead of answering. What can he say? The only two options seem a) yes I am this stupid or b) I do this stuff by magic the majority of the time so when you're here watching me, and it appears I've never done it before, it's because I actually haven't.
Or he could just shout 'you actually were born of magic!' as a distraction, but he knows somewhere instinctively that this is not wise. Not wise at all. His mouth turns downward.
"Oh come off it, Merlin," Arthur says, and sits on the bench next to him. "You're taking offense rather quickly these days, and frankly I find it pathetic."
"Yeah," Merlin agrees. Arthur just looks at him.
On top of the stressful encounters, there has not been need to save the Prince's skin as of late, no sneaking to the rescue on foot or horseback, no desperate journeys to the dragon's keep to bargain out answers in the dark of night. He has been getting the same scant hours of sleep each night, but sans glory. So much for destiny.
Hang on, there's an idea. So Merlin takes it up with the dragon, just to be sure.
"Merlin, do you really think I'd propose that sort of alliance between you and the young Pendragon?" the dragon asks him with a disdainful yawn. "Haven't I told you that one side attracts the other? And that only together can the coin exist?"
Merlin holds his torch aloft instead of punching the wall like he wants to. Face pulled down frowny: "There are so many ways to have taken that statement, I'm not really to blame that I thought..."
"You thought to take the crown as your own," The dragon tells him, not without some laughter behind the words. Some mocking. "The prince's heart as your own."
Merlin, accustomed lately to being emo, persists: " :( "
"That Arthur can never truly belong to any one thing but Camelot is but the truth. What rights you have to Arthur are determined by your twin magic, but the meaning stops there. One cannot choose his..."
"Destiny, yeah, got it," Merlin grumps. They've grown accustomed to one another, he and the dragon - no longer does he expect the straight answer he'd demanded nearly a year ago, and he knows to anticipate a conversation lasting half a minute at the most. Their average to date is twenty seconds. Merlin has this growing idea that the dragon's mind has gone a bit damp down here in the cave; two decades of circling about on a chain is certainly cause for a touch of madness.
The dragon flexes its mottled wings and looks down with a reptilian face that scarily resembles Merlin's own: "That your path lies together is so, but the attraction goes no further. Arthur will be in want of a wife. See to it that he chooses wisely."
Merlin identifies this as a non-sequiter, a depressing one at that, and thus not worth pursuing. He retreats.
--
Understandably, as he is under quite a bit of pressure of saving the prince from himself without actually telling him about the magical magnetism that he has fallen prey to, when he meets Freya the cat woman he just sort of goes for it. He comes on, admittedly, a bit strong, offering to run off with her, leave Camelot for good, live by a lake even though he's now afraid of lakes and has vowed in fact never to set foot in one again.
After her death, Merlin shuts off for a time. Lines Arthur's boots in a row, pair after pair all the same. Cleaning is tedious business, but this labor Merlin decides to do manually from now on, magicless because it's proving a bit of a curse to be honest, and Arthur could barge in at any- Oh, here he is now.
Merlin can feel Arthur's gaze, imagine the thoughtful pout of bottom lip as he is surveyed. Arthur seats himself beside Merlin on the flagstones, and leans into him that bit. Merlin stares on gloomily.
"Something's been upsetting you, hasn't it?"
Arthur's need to cure Merlin seems as arrogant as the rest of him, can be translated as feel better so you can tend to me. His words can be interpreted in so many ways, and Merlin wonders how much credence he should attribute to what Arthur actually says. Assuming has gotten him stuck here as it is, time to see things for what they truly are.
The headlock sparks hope, the noogie some irritation, but Arthur's fond look caps it all and Merlin wants to shout 'don't you see what you're doing??' He has been living a double life, and at this moment, when he's almost allowed himself to run away from this, is the last time he wants Arthur to be sitting next to him, cross legged and entitled, choosing to reach out while all Merlin can do is suffer it and hold his tongue. And to make it worse, the haze of his magic is spread thick like butter, a tentative and happy feeling.
At about now, Merlin desperately needs to talk to someone. Someone normal. Someone who is trustworthy and possibly understands his predicament, even if he can't go into detail.
He finishes his chores with minimal wreckage to show for it. For the first time since he's had his realization, he allows himself a few manly shoulder bumps with his prince who is still hanging around the room, and there is an impish grin all but pasted to Merlin's emaciated face. He needs to eat something, this is getting ridiculous. Even a strategic neckerchief can't play down this level of bony. When a maid brings Arthur's afternoon meat platter, Merlin snags all the sausages off Arthur's plate, one by one, and shoves them in his mouth all at once.
Grease is coating his fingers, and Arthur seems overly pleased. The grease spreads all over his palms by way of nervous hand wringing underneath the table while Arthur pretends to sharpen a dagger and the sausage smell is all-pervasive and-
"I'll be going now," Merlin says. He abruptly stands, almost knocking the bench over behind him.
Arthur favors him with a frown befitting someone with one decade under his belt rather than two, and something along the lines of: "It is I who dismiss you, Merlin." But Merlin bows ridiculously, tries to smile and say something offhanded like "Wouldn't want to keep Gaius waiting" and avoids any physical or visual contact on his way out. "Again?" Arthur growls as he retreats.
He needs to talk to someone normal. Disinterested, yet informed.
Such a person is by the pump, bucket at the ready, lovely in her lavender dress, the one with flowers embroidered on the bodice. Gwen's smile is a troubled one when she sees Merlin, as if Merlin's appearance has not yet pulled her completely from her thoughts.
Merlin answers her with a crooked smile of his own and fiddles with his coat sleeves as she finishes her pumping. The grey of the afternoon is dull overhead and he can smell rain. Unfortunate memories of another rainy day a few months past and Merlin is all athrum with power. He nearly prays to delay the storm. Nimueh.
Gwen is speaking to him: "My lady has grown distant as of late. Perhaps she feels she can no longer trust me?"
Merlin blinks at her. They begin the walk back through the courtyard together.
"Have you given her any cause to lose trust?" Gwen says no. "Then it is not so," Merlin assures her. "She said the dreams that wake her every night are worsening."
Gwen shakes her head. Not since the lady knight, since Morgause, she counters.
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't Gaius tell you?" she asks. Merlin shakes his head to clear it. Gwen is always a little difficult to concentrate on, like her words haven't been properly put in quotations. All those without magic, in fact. Something to think about.
Morgause gifted my lady with a bracelet that would stop her nightmares. It seems to have worked. And ever since I feel she has been growing further from me.
"I've got the opposite problem," Merlin says, feeling the usual flush at such thoughts. He lowers his voice as they enter one walkway. "Arthur thinks he cares, but in actual fact he does not."
"But that's ridiculous, Merlin!" Gwen stops. "He went to Ealdor for you! We all did!"
"But he was compelled to, Gwen."
"What, like...like magic?" She looks unconvinced.
"I can't really explain it, but-"
Gwen's reply is cut short by a guard marching towards them. "Merlin. Prince Arthur desires you in his chambers."
3. Casual Observation
In the space of the following week, the king's diary becomes more and more accustomed to the following genre of sentiments:
There has been the most notable of changes in the Bernard/Nurse dynamic: a quite commendable repartee was overheard by the guards in the third-floor hallway in which Bernard told the lanky nurse to go muck out the stables if she was going to act so skittish, and the nurse...complied. A surprising and welcome event. Bernard was dumbfounded.
and:
A stony silence has fallen between Bernard and his woman. It is amusing to watch.
and then:
During the bimonthly tourney, the nursemaid went to adjust Bernard's mail as it had been loosened in the last round. Bernard tried grab her arm and the nurse, characteristically jumpy for one so deranged, literally turned heel and ran off in front of a throng of onlookers, leaving the confounded participant shamed in front of competition and spectator alike. A real squire was called to make the proper adjustments, but the damage was done. Bernard is learning a valuable lesson.
But on the last day of the week is written a message more ambiguous, most likely topical:
What the devil is going on in this court!
Here's what's going on in court:
The knights are executing routines A-F in their repertoire with Arthur looking on intently; a wicker basket of wooden spoons is upended at a market stall, knocked by an adolescent's careless upswing; back at the castle Gwen and Morgana discuss nothings by the window, at least three hand-gathered bunches of wild flowers arranged on the tabletops and at the armoire; the head cook has all but lost his head trying for the right combination of berries to make the king's birthday tarte; and near the north tower there is an onslaught of sparrows due to wind change. Noblemen gather in the map room awaiting Uther's arrival with bated breath and half-formed ideas of what direction the meeting might take. Dark clouds crowd in overhead.
The castle expels the lanky form of Arthur's servant just as Arthur himself sweeps Sir Hale's feet from beneath him with a broken broom pole on the training grounds. He clocks the knight on the back of the head for good measure and then frowns at all of the others.
"Let that be a lesson to you all," Arthur intones a warning. The knights look on impassively. They exhale as one, relieved, when Merlin trots up to their leader.
The expected reprieve is slow to come, however, not unfolding before them as it normally does when Arthur is in a black mood and Merlin arrives on scene. This is what happens instead: Merlin puts his hands on his knees to catch his breath, while Arthur turns half away from him to smile an exasperated smile at some invisible audience rather than the knights themselves, hands at his hips.
"Sire," Merlin gasps out as Sir Hale struggles to his knees. Concussion, pershmushin, that's what Gaius always says.
"Wha 'tis it, Merlin," Arthur says. "What could possibly be so important that you had to run all the way out here in your considerably weakened state? Or was your flimsy excuse for your behavior during the tourney all a lie as well?"
"You know I'd never-" Merlin began, but Arthur cuts him off.
"Expect me to believe you? I'd say not. I've known from the start that you're a rotten liar, I just never expected you'd so blatantly do it anyways."
The knights stand their ground because that is what they have been taught to do in a fight, and also because any quick movements might interrupt what is shaping up to be some pretty decent gossip. Especially as the prince's manservant is known to rise to his full height in the face of accusations rather than back down like other servants.
"Oh is that how we're finally going to talk about this?" Merlin says. "You big bully." And, in front of the whole group of Arthur's men, he pokes Arthur in the armored chest. He makes a face as his finger stubs off of the metal of Arthur's mail, but the damage is done. In the space of seconds, Arthur has grabbed Merlin's wrist, jerked him around into an arm-lock, and shaken him roughly. He crowds in even closer to pronounce a litany of very frightening, very thinly-veiled threats, which the knights have heard before in various combination, but never before with such heavy implementation of the present and past perfect, and surely never all at once.
Merlin blanches to a shade even pastier than usual and struggles at the grip. When it becomes clear that Arthur won't be letting go any time soon, he stills stiffly in a half bent position and says, "I've come with word from your father. He wishes to speak to you in the throne room."
Arthur does not let go and neither does he answer. He glares down at the back of Merlin's neck. Merlin spends some time examining a muddy patch of trodden grass, and looks up briefly to their audience. Sideways!Sir Leon twitches his fingers in what might be a small wave of solidarity.
Arthur is breathing in his ear. The air is fraught. He finally says, "What is it that you're so afraid of?"
Despite the fact that they've been worked to exhaustion, the knights hold their precious collective breath to better hear Merlin's response.
"Trepanation, for one," Merlin offers, imagining Gaius' scary face. Arthur squeezes his arms again. He finally sags. "I can't, Arthur."
Arthur makes a sound of disgust and relaxes his grip. Merlin's long limbs disentangle themselves from Arthur's and he stumbles away. The knights are all watching on with carefully neutral expressions and Arthur is rubbing at his chin, eyes averted.
"I give up," Arthur says and frowns at the ground. He then looks up, at the knights who jump to attention, and yells, "Practice is over."
He then walks off the field, flinging the broken broom from him as he goes. Merlin watches him go.
There is something of a stunned silence; the prince is not one to call off practice, not for anything. Be it rain, shine, or sleet...The knights watch Arthur's tiny figure stomp off, and then the whole lot of burly, hairy fighters spend a moment looking downcast and confused.
"Er," Merlin says, feeling as if he has let them all down.
"We only just started thirty minutes ago," Sir Bruce says, breaking the quiet. No one makes any move to go.
"This is true," Sir Leon says.
He then steps out to where Merlin is, turns to address the men. "True that Prince Arthur has told us we may go...But what knights are we who shirk practice because our lord is in something of a mood?"
There is a stirring in the ranks, a shout of 'Hear, hear!' along with some clanking of armor as fists are raised. Sir Leon gathers rhetorical steam.
"What knights are we who grow lazy when our lord needs us to be strong?" he shouts. Sir Owlen growls a throaty "cowards!" Merlin notes that many of the men begin to look crazy about the eyes. He quietly begins to retreat.
"What knights are we who eat when we are not hungry!? And give up when the going is tough?!..."
Merlin rushes off after Arthur while Sir Leon is shaking violently, impassioned, just after Sir Hale has pointed to the growing bump on his head and bellowed, "This! THIS is a MARK of HONOR!"
He trots off across the grass, thin arms goose bumping in the blustery day. He's got to talk to Arthur.
--
Uther sits for a long while in his grand, oak bedroom chair before he writes the following line in his journal:
Absolutely nothing of importance is happening today.
It is, in fact, becoming a hectic day for all at court. Uther has removed himself from the public eye after telling Gaius "That will be all" apropos of nothing. Driven by a strong conviction and attention to fealty for the remainder of the practice, the knights follow the orders of the second in command, Sir Leon, and although he is never to receive adequate thanks for the services rendered this day on the training field and then during the changing of the guards at the east and north gates, it is important to note that the job he does is superb.
In her chambers, Morgana opens her jewelry boxes, sets out each of her thirty-four necklaces in front of her mirror, and arranges the strings of gems by color. She takes care in choosing which to wear for tonight's dinner with some visiting lord, and then selects the earrings to match. Pearls. It is always white with her as of late, at least in the presence of the king, and she's made an unconscious choice to do her part to drain that much of Uther's coffers in ordering at least one gown a week in the finest ivory satins.
Gwen festoons her lady's tresses with plumeria. Morgana blushes her hollowed cheeks with powder and Gwen lays cool hands upon her neck. Morgana adjusts her bracelet. Two sets of footfalls of differing speeds pass in succession.
Despite the echoed sounds of running, Arthur strides into his chambers a moment before Merlin has caught up to him.
"You are fast, I'll give you that much, Merlin," Arthur says. He rubs a hand over his eyes.
"I've got long legs," Merlin points out. He continues on, oblivious to Arthur's sudden distraction: "Look, I didn't mean to make you angry."
"This has got to stop, Merlin," Arthur says. He walks to the open window and stares out into the near-drizzle. Merlin stays where he is, holds his hands behind his back. "Something's been off with you and I'd like for you to be honest with me so we can put things behind us. It's all your fault, you're a particularly different kind of annoying as of late. And now Morgana is angry with me-"
"Again, might I add," Merlin says, in attempts to warm the room with some humor. At Arthur's look, he raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
"My knights are suffering the brunt of your stupidity," Arthur says, as if it isn't his own fault. "And my father..."
"What of your father?" Merlin shivers a bit, and Arthur shuts the window reflexively.
"He," Arthur says. "He called me something strange this morning. Then he dismissed me."
"Strange, how?" Merlin asked. This is not as serious as he'd been expecting.
"Like he'd forgotten my name," Arthur says, and frowns. "But no matter. What I'd like to say is you really are the most useless servant I've ever had!"
"How many have you had exactly?" Merlin asks. "I mean, just saying, if I'm only worst out of three or so I can handle that, but if you've had - "
"Will you just shut up!" Merlin shuts up. "And stop smiling like that, you look like an-"
"Idiot, I know, you've told me," Merlin says. The problem with Arthur, is that when he's angry at Merlin, Merlin's magic goes all happy, basking in the attention. It's sick. "Arthur. I know I'm just a servant-"
"Finally you admit as much."
"But there are some things I cannot say. For my own reasons."
Arthur is clearly not expecting this. He looks hurt, and then worried, and then stony. He turns his back on Merlin; as always, his actions speak just as loudly as his words.
"I understand."
"No, I don't think you do," Merlin says. He goes to him and stands, fidgeting. "I want to tell you. I'd like to tell you. But right now I just can't, I think it's best if I, I'll tell you soon, it's not that." He's watching Arthur's profile, and Arthur is listening. He finishes lamely: "It's really not that important."
"If you say so," Arthur replies.
"Really, I'll tell you later. Tell you when..." Arthur turns and stops him with a look. His hair is standing up in all the wrong directions from when he took off his helmet, and his eyes are forgiving. Merlin smiles an apology. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and Merlin does not flinch.
"I'm glad you're here, Merlin," Arthur says. Traitorously, Merlin is suddenly and positively glowing with magic, like a sword that's just been burnished. Subcutaneous is the best way to describe it, and would be fitting imagery had Merlin had a pound or two of fat on his gangly frame.
It is another one of the myriad moments that have harnessed Merlin to Arthur for good. This is unfortunate, because Merlin's magical ability is growing by the day and Arthur has not been properly warned.
Their gazes hold for a long while.
--
When Gaius stops by to perform his diurnal checkup, King Uther is allowing himself a private moment of smugness at having completed all of the drafts necessary to negotiations in next week's meeting. He looks forward to seeing the kings from the five surrounding kingdoms, especially King Olaf with whom he's spent many a visit indulging in manly bouts of wrestling, gloves on of course. Obviously he cannot write such personal anticipations, so instead writes:
It's five pm, it's getting cold, I've got my big coat on...
he raises a fist and rests his chin on it. The moments pass. Then:
Bernard's got an excellent father, his strength is making him stronger. God shines on Bernard's lovely mother, inside and out she's better than I am...
At a feeble rapping at the door, Uther says 'enter' and Gaius peers in the doorway. Uther moves a finger and a page boy slinks from somewhere and rolls each of the drafted treatises and ties them off with incarnadine ribbon. Uther nudges the journal to the back of his desk.
"Ah, Gaius," Uther says. The page boy is gone the next moment, and Gaius approaches with his toolkit, set to tinker.
Gaius works in silence, and Uther wonders after his son and his ward, and of course his kingdom. After an interminable amount of time, Gaius has finished his usual duties, and hands Uther back his glove.
"I'll send Merlin up with more oil," Gaius tells him. He stands, and Uther reaches to his much-treasured book, but the physician turns back at the last moment. "Sire."
The king draws his hand back almost guiltily. Gaius looks to the book, having caught the motion, and something about his look makes Uther think that he's been found out. Could he know??
"What is it, physician?" Uther asks. A lone eyebrow elevates.
"I wanted to ask after your health. Last week's upset with the prince is sure to have come as an unwelcome shock."
"That will be all, physician," Uther says. There is rage building, not at the old man, but at the reminder of his near failings.
"Yes, highness," Gaius responds. He bows his way out as much as his arthritic joints allow.
Uther stands, grabs the journal, only to slam it down on the vanity and turn away.
It's self-indulgent, that's what it is.
Motionless, he carefully empties his mind of whatever impending rage threatens his person, and only then allows himself to relax. He stops again, however, as his reflection moves at him from across the room, nary a warble in the expensive glass to mar the image of his imperfection. The hand scritched into a fist by his side. He hides it in his vest. He is under control.
Before he can reconsider, the king turns in a whirl of capes to where he'd discarded the journal, opens it and grazes the pages so virginal and crisp with the leather-covered tips of his fingers.
Gathers the book to his chest and prays for absolution.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin-ish, and although it's not mentioned it will always be a bit of Gwen/everybody
Word count: ~8,691
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: There are secrets and then there are secrets, and not one of them can be told to Arthur.
Spoilers: kind of wedged around 2x07-2x09
A/N: written as a Merlin Santa gift for robot_rawr. Title and some lyrics are quoted from Taylor Swift - Best Day. Betad with love by shifty_gardener. And crazykookie made me the awesome graphic at the end. Semi-compatible with creepy_secret's Uther, King.
master fic post
Best Day
1. All About the Courtyard
Of all the facts Merlin has gathered about the court at Camelot, there is one secret that he has never discovered. This secret remains known to only the king and the court physician, and both parties believe to varying degrees that it ought to be kept thus.
Highlight the following hidden line of text for the magic reveal: Uther has a fake hand.
King Uther and Gaius never speak of this secret directly. Oh no, the walls at Camelot have ears, so to speak, sentries posted in every nook who watch for those who might compromise the security of the stronghold that is Camelot. Camelot is an entity in and of itself, and in this particular instance, the King's secret, were it to be known, could be deemed a risk.
No, the two speak of it under the guise of other problems.
"We must be vigilant, Sire," Gaius warns. To which Uther responds, hand cupped almost delicately around the broken shards of Nimueh's egg: "Will I never be rid of her?"
Arthur has taken to wearing gloves like his father's, and it is one of these gloves that is tossed at Merlin's head one morning in Spring.
"What was that for?" Merlin asks, distracted. Arthur's boots are clacking behind him, the circular sound of the prince pacing his chambers, but Merlin does not turn. Instead he remains shoulder-deep in the wardrobe, yanking each of the prince's tunics from their hangers with partial disgust. "This is horrific, Arthur."
"They're just insects, Merlin," Arthur says, all affected disdain. "We've faced giant beasts - Afancs for god's sake - to be afraid of moths is just downright ridiculous." There is a considering pause. Then Arthur continues: "Well, I suppose you've only ever just stood there."
His sharp tones are clear, although Merlin's mind has been muddled for the better part of a week. Merlin walks with his arms full of tunics to the window, puts the shirts down, and then begins to shake each violently into the sky.
"Maybe you've occasionally tried to distract things so I can kill them," Arthur concedes. The fabric rumples and flies in the morning breeze and there's the sound of a goblet being drunk down behind him, and a healthy pause. Merlin runs fine cloth through his fingers and then beats it against the stones.
"I don't just stand there," he says. At this a moth suddenly escapes from one shirt, dusty brown and as big as Merlin's ear, and flies at his face. Merlin yells in surprise and quickly drops the shirt out the window in self-defense. The moth flaps off, unconcerned.
He finally turns, just as the prince throws his head back and laughs. Merlin looks back to the pile of shirts, the more hesitant for the attack, away from the dirty dishes on the picnic table, away from the ashy fireplace.
"My point exactly," Arthur says. The sound of his voice fades as he makes his way into the adjoining room. "I'll expect you to get that for me, Merlin. Ha! Scared of a bug."
Merlin grimaces and leans back out the window to see the shirt pooled on the flagstones two stories below, where he'd dropped the mirror only last week. It seems like it's been longer. He has finally made up his mind to go retrieve the shirt, when a passerby calmly collects it and folds it into his basket. Walks away. The country boy in him cannot help but experience a scintilla of victory for peasants everywhere.
He rehangs the clothing that hasn't been eaten through, checking each tunic systematically and with a mind miles away. The sheer amount of blue and red tunics that Arthur owns is frankly appalling, given he only ever wears his two favorites. Merlin had wondered that the prince's shirts were quite similar to his own until, on his last trip home to Ealdor, he'd found out that the town tailor kept up with the current trends in royal fashion.
Memories of Ealdor remind him of his mother, and these thoughts invariably lead him back to one recent, unsettling revelation. However completely oblivious he is to King Uther's mechanical digits, it cannot be said that Merlin is not perceptive, not quick to cotton on, as it were. It is the most recent of court scandals that has got him thinking, here in Athur's chambers, clutching absently at one of two well-worn garments, the blue one, blue like the sea when he'd stood outside the labyrinth. The labyrinth. That Merlin is attracted to those with magical ability becomes clear after this latest incident, the one with the troll, but it should have been obvious much sooner, that time with Anhora and the poisoned goblet, or with Sophia, Nimueh....
He finally came to this conclusion last week, when he'd first entered Lady Catrina's chambers. He hadn't been able to help the flush of a smile that spread his face, despite the manner in which the woman was slurping rotted fruit, and the feeling spread subtly, as it always did, warming him from within, until it felt like a full body blush. The troll had jumped from where she crouched, guiltily, straightened to a more womanly composure, and Merlin's hearing had fuzzed just that small bit with magic. A pull that was not physical attraction, but a more elemental longing.
He is two parts relieved at this revelation, and one part irked that perhaps all those smiles he's gotten in return from the assortment of admittedly evil women weren't necessarily due to his looks. His jutting cheekbones. His sooty lashes. But when the manifestation of the Lady Ygraine reveals that Arthur was born of magic, Merlin is all parts destroyed; his Big Gay Crisis was for naught, so many sleepless nights which could have been avoided had he been privy to this missing piece of information.
The endearing eye rolls when any other servant would have been sacked by now, an unnecessary grip on his shoulder when he's deserved a dismissive frown, and the additional glances when Arthur has everything else in the world to occupy his thoughts. Yes, evidence has fallen into place since this realization. Even Arthur's displeased admission: "There's something about you, Merlin...I just can't put my finger on it" is explained. The attraction is there, no doubt - they've grown to admire one another - but the compulsion was there from the first. Like to like, his magic is just seeking to merge.
A sudden warmth at his back surprises Merlin from his ruminations. He tenses, only to relax when he finds that of course it's just Arthur, reaching imperiously over Merlin's shoulder for the aforementioned blue tunic.
"You could have just asked," Merlin mutters. But it is useless, he knows, and it is agonizing. I will never be rid of it, he thinks, as Arthur stands too close for two seconds too long, and Merlin stiffens once again until the moment passes.
"Help me into this," Arthur says. Merlin turns and Arthur is standing just behind him, so he takes a half step back with resolve, fights a smile that threatens to break, and helps the prince change one shirt for another. He is mindful of lacing and all of the touches that he should avoid in the meanwhile.
--
Concurrently, across the courtyard, King Uther has just arisen from a particularly deep sleep. Each morning two principle servants see to it that their king is dressed and fed in a silence so complete that they are but a mere extension of his whims. The king need but twitch a finger towards a goblet for it to arrive at his hand. He rarely speaks to them, never looks at them, and only feels their presence during the buttoning of the royal jackets. Shortly after, the servants fade out through cracks in the walls. This allows for deep and meditative introspection, the staple of a healthy and balanced morning.
On this day, King Uther walks from table to window in a stupor of waking that has yet to be interrupted. He lays a hand on his writing desk that is windowside, save during the winter when droughts might wet and damage the leaves of parchment upon it. It is near sacred, and the sole place left untouched by the servants.
The diary of King Uther is a fatty tome of a book, sheath upon sheath of expensive vellum, bound with twine and a fancy cover of studded leather. The king, pragmatic and paranoid to a fault, knows he can write nothing of great importance as it would be tantamount to leaving state secrets lying about, and blackmail. Uther has great need of this book, for however unbecoming it is for a king to prattle on about nothings, even kings need an outlet somewhere. It has become his only true friend, and he thinks of it fondly when bored in public. Due to this need for secrecy, whenever Uther is penning flourishes upon the page he is able to record only the most trivial of matters - matters which can not be used against him by his multitude of enemies, matters which will not end him with poison in his food and a dagger in the back.
So it is, and this morning Uther has a lot to say in the way of nothing in particular. There is a drizzly rain on the horizon and white bright clouded skies directly overhead with brief puffs of wind. He opens his stained glass window momentarily to peer slyly, mock-curiously, at the courtyard below, like a prowling cat unsure what this satisfaction means, or even if he should be experiencing it. There are peasants and vendors alike milling about already, though it is only one hour past day's first light, and Uther allows himself some pride that his people are a dedicated and industrious folk.
His gloved hand presses the window those few inches shut, and he seats himself at his writing table, taking preemptive pleasure in the practice and catharsis of writing. He opens the book and smooths the pages like they are the flanks of his best steed, and he dips his quill in the ever-present pot of ink at his left. Begins an inch under the last entry, in a flourish, scrawling:
Yesternight was the feast of St. Matthias. The banquet was raucous and tasteful both, and it was with greatest pride that I oversaw the festivities. Aside from some rather queer dreams this night I awake with a clarity of mind and spirit that I have not felt since Bernard made mention of his suspicions regarding his highly-unmagical birth. Damned female knight of no connection to my court! I can only hope that I am blessed with such faculties when I reach a more advanced age, this astuteness of mind. The court physician performs checkups, though I am not at liberty to write when and what he does so as not to leave information for possible spies and enemies, but let it be said that, am I not met with some unusual circumstances that finish my life, Gaius has professed that I could likely live to the old age of five and sixty. I take much exercise and specific care of dietary needs - one chicken, one bread loaf, and a cauldron of soup at every sitting - and have that to thank for the good health that I find myself in. I imbibe not but the finest wines of the region and this helps to balance the fires of my spleeny humors.
What else of note...this past week I have had the pleasure of throwing three citizens into the stocks, thereby teaching them invaluable lessons of obedience to their masters and king as well as providing great amusement to the folk in the upper town. The villagers throw only rotted fruit and the refuse of inedible vegetable parts, so there is no danger of causing a food shortage in this constant use of the stocks. One of these unfortunates was that afflicted nursemaid of Bernard who takes it all in stride, possibly yet another sign of her illness. However I may feel an odd disliking of the elderly woman she did save Bernard's life, and I shall not go back on my word. It was she who spoke to me in the armory before the duel with my beloved's long-since deceased brother, the black knight Tristan du Bois, but I say too much.
Since the unfortunate circumstances of last week in the hall, Bernard has been recumbent and sycophantic, quite unlike himself, and it is worrisome. Finally have ceased the dreams of the day not long ago, when my totally not metal hand near got away from me, moving faster than my intention towards Bernard, grasping the sword I did not know I'd drawn to clash with Bernard's. With the help of the physician and a surprise monologue from the feeble-minded nursemaid, there should be no trouble in this area in the foreseeable future, but there may come a time...no. Looking out the window now, across the courtyard, I can make him out in the window being dressed by the dowdress herself, and it is possible that he looks ill.
Today I shall have my best pair of boots seen to. It is enough that I know which pair I speak of; I daren't write it.
God have mercy on our souls,
Uther, King
--
It is something akin to a headache, this attempt at keeping Arthur at arm's length, especially when all he wants is to do the opposite.
Merlin's primary duties for the day are to de-moth Arthur's clothing, stand by as Arthur instructs his knights, serve Arthur his lunch, accompany Arthur to a meeting of lords, and finally prepare the prince for a dinner with his father and Morgana. The four or so hours of free time between tasks he spends in bed, as there are few places he can go on break and this is the most private.
"Headache," Merlin mutters one of these times as he passes Gaius by, en route to his little room.
"Really?" Gaius looks up from decanting a solution. There is an interested silence, just a moment, and then Merlin's metaphorical arms pinwheel as he tries to find balance at the edge of a sudden, surprise precipice.
"Augh," he backtracks. "I mean, not a headache at all. Did I say headache? I meant...bruise on my left elbow..."
"Is that right?" Gaius still looks interested. Merlin is a shit liar.
"Please don't drill into my skull."
"I'd rather see you comfortable than not," Gaius says. "But if this is your wish, then so be it."
He turns back to what he is doing, but Merlin is not convinced. He seeks refuge in his book of spells.
The rest of the day is one extended moment of tension. It is brisk out of doors while he organizes the particolored lance poles and shields. Arthur drills his knights with a mixture of patience, strength, and restraint, and at each break in training stalks over to where Merlin stands and makes conversation in the form of orders.
"Do remember to fix the tip of this lance, Merlin," the prince says by way of greeting. "Did you see how Sir Leon completely owned Sir Kellin in the last round? And the trick he did with the shield. Do you know what kind of strength it takes to remain standing after an attack like that? He's really one of Camelot's best."
Now that Merlin knows what to look for, Arthur's weakness is obvious. This is no physical ailment, but instead something far more dangerous. The prince smiles at him far too often, for one, as he's doing now, sunlight dancing off his crazy teeth. He makes time between upbraiding and testing Merlin to seriously consider what Merlin has to say, while making an amount of eye contact far too intimate for their respective stations.
He should not be listening to Merlin speak at all, in fact. Not having grown up in court, Merlin has not realized this until now, and it is horrifying. Arthur does not even know that it is his magic that draws him to Merlin.
All this runs through his mind as Arthur stands there, hair and brow slick with sweat, gesticulating to the knights and then gazing at Merlin in turns, and it's Merlin's job to protect him from it.
"Are you feeling alright, sire?" Merlin asks, interrupting Arthur mid-observation. The other frowns.
"Quite well."
"No odd...thrumming? Notable heat fluctuations?" Merlin hedges, motioning uselessly to the prince's chest region, where Merlin usually feels the magical draw the most.
"Is there something I should be aware of?" the prince asks him. He takes a squishy step towards Merlin and Merlin smiles brightly.
"No, nothing at all, sire," he says, backing up an equal amount. "Oh, look at the time, I've got to go."
"What! Merlin!" Arthur cries behind him, but Merlin shouts a "Gaius needs me!" behind him, and rushes off across the grass as quickly as he can to go cower in his room.
When he returns to serve the prince's lunch an hour later, he finds Arthur of a caustic disposition. Merlin keeps his features schooled in a pleasant smile and Arthur glances at him queerly from time to time as he slices viciously at his steak. Merlin steps back to lean against the wall.
"Haven't you anywhere to be?" Arthur finally bites out around a huge mouthful of meat. Merlin wonders if the prince's eyes will ever flash gold, hopes accidental pyrotechnics are not on the menu for those conceived by magical means, and shakes his head quickly. "Not off to help Gaius again?"
"No," Merlin shakes his head once more.
"Then dress me for today's meeting. And don't think you're getting out of it - If I'm to be bored out of my mind, you shall be as well."
His dialogue is one-sided as Merlin draws the red chemise from its hook in the closet and turns to where Arthur has already divested himself of jacket and navy tunic. Merlin's magic surges that bit, drawing him towards Arthur, but he manages to control himself, if only just. At the last second, thankfully, Merlin tips over the table leg and onto the remains of the food, thus hindering his unwilling attempt on Arthur's person.
"What is wrong with you today, Merlin?" Arthur shouts as Merlin staggers back. He rips the soiled shirt from Merlin's grasp and throws it behind him, out the window as it happens, and Merlin sadly watches it go.
"Nothing, I just, feel under the-" Merlin witters as Arthur advances upon him.
"You've been acting strange all week," Arthur says, and shoves Merlin into a sitting position on a bench. Instead of angry, though, he looks repentant. "And I know that you were probably shaken by the unfortunate occurrences of last week, I was as well I admit, but it's time to put that behind us. Thanks to you, my father and I are no longer at odds. I've realized the error of my thinking."
Merlin wants to respond, he really does, but for Arthur's own good he stands and backs towards the door a few steps. Arthur frowns, vulnerable, and then his face shutters.
"It is not my place to judge such things," Merlin says with a half-hearted smile. Arthur turns his back to him. He waves Merlin away as he dresses himself, and then stalks out of the room, expecting Merlin to follow.
The meeting that follows is grueling, as not only Arthur, but the rest of the king's men, seem on edge. The king, by extension, begins to look stormy, and his suggestions become orders, increasingly severe. At one point he gets so worked up that he pounds the table once, solidly, with his right fist. He then stills in surprise, fingers jerking erratically for a moment, and hastily returns to the subject at hand. Merlin favors gazing out the small window near the ceiling rather than at Arthur for the entirety of the meeting, Arthur whose eyes search out Merlin's each time he allows himself to gaze in the other's direction.
Trying to keep relations with Arthur distanced is against Merlin's very personality; never before has he stayed from what he feels in his gut to be true. He watches as Arthur goes from confused to vaguely irate by the time the day's ended. This is like levitating keys all over again as Arthur stalked the room searching for the noise. He has counted, and at this point he is not only hiding one big secret, that of his magic, but three more rather large points of interest: he is more than a little desperately enamored of Arthur; he is not actually enamored of Arthur, it is in fact the pull of their twin magics; Arthur may or may not realize but he is also being drawn to Merlin, unwillingly and unconsciously. Merlin is starting to think that perhaps King Uther is correct in thinking that magic does more harm than good. By dinner time he has all but succumbed to exhaustion.
Supper is a protracted affair. Servants from the kitchen serve the food, but Merlin must stand by and be at the ready to refill the royal goblet. This is the one duty that is near impossible for a lad such as Merlin to carry out; it involves lurking in a darkened room while the king, the prince, and the ward make slow conversation, the mood vacillating between smug and tense, and standing by, attempting invisibility while the smell of fresh bread tickles at his nostrils.
Arthur's mood is surly, made worse as the Lady Morgana verbally prods at him for the entirety of the meal. She is no doubt curious as to the cause of his tantrum, but despite her sly questions and overly sweet observations, gets no closer to sussing it out by the end of the hour, to the point where she becomes fractious herself. The king downs five goblets of wine and casually finishes off a bowl of fruits. Arthur wastes an entire chicken with his fork, but eats little.
The only moment of note is when the king casually tells Arthur he ought to keep a firmer hold on some nurse woman. Merlin has been staring carefully into the middle distance so as not to break into an inappropriate bout of giggles in the near-silent dining hall - the awkwardness has reached such levels - so only catches the tail end of the remark. He can only guess at the meaning of this by Arthur's look of annoyance.
"I'm not sure to whom you're referring, father," Arthur responds.
"Ah, my mistake," the king says over his goblet, and the subject is dropped.
It feels like days by the time the meal reaches its conclusion. Morgana has nettled the king and his son to demonstrate her annoyance with the both of them, and then sweeps off in a swishing of cream skirts. Merlin stands at slouchy attention as Arthur bids his father goodnight. They exit the hall together, shoulder to shoulder, and Arthur sighs.
"At least walk behind me when my father can see us," he says. Merlin falls a step back, but then rushes to catch up so he can ask:
"So who was that woman your father mentioned?"
"Listening, were you?" Arthur squints at him. "I wouldn't have expected, seeing as your mouth was slack the entire meal and you filled my glass only once."
"You hardly drank anything!" Merlin felt pressed to point out. Unfair!
"But to answer your question, I have no idea which woman my father was referring to," Arthur says.
They walk the halls in silence after that. Merlin tries to think of which women Arthur fraternizes with on a regular basis, but can only come up with the two: the Lady Morgana and Gwen, one of whom was seated in the very room when the question was posed, and surely Uther would not question his son about the hired help. Arthur's answer has confirmed, in fact, that there are so many women he is seeing that he does not know which one his father meant.
There is a weird fizzling feeling at his palms, so Merlin rubs them against his britches, but this only creates a crackling static. Arthur glances his way in alarm.
"Are you quite alright?" he asks. Merlin smiles dopily as a cover, and nods. They reach Arthur's doors and Merlin is about to open them but Arthur places a hand on Merlin's arm. Merlin stops mid-reach and breathes in deeply, then steps back with some concerted effort.
"That will be all, Merlin," Arthur mutters, and in a breath is through the door and Merlin is alone in the hallway.
2. Strategic Retreats and Where to Find Them
The next morning, Uther deems it strategic to retreat to his chambers for a long drink by himself and generally to keep out of the way of Morgana. Morgana had had that look about her the night before, all tight lips and a knowing frown - yes, best not to cross her.
Uther sits back and thinks of his kingdom. Camelot is a pre-industrial masterpiece, and it's all his. He works tirelessly each day to tweak and adjust the workings of his realm, dealing with all manner of concern, and cradles it in his dreams each night. His shining thing.
His leather-studded companion piece is where he has hidden it: under two scrolls and a non-descript almanac. Granted this is out in the open, but it is much more than Merlin ever attempts - Merlin, a firm believer in the tactic of hiding in plain sight, usually just puts his magic book on the table.
King Uther flips through his past entries idly, reviewing the random pages he stops at, until growing bored and loops out the latest innocuous anecdote:
The nursemaid and Bernard were squabbling this morning in the corridor as I returned from breakfast. The closeness between the two is unfitting for a young man and a nursemaid such as she. Threw her in the stocks again, and then berated Bernard for allowing such mouthy behavior from a serving wench.
--
The following days fade into each other and Merlin attempts to differentiate between attraction and actual attraction...tries and fails. It's near impossible to feel out the delineation of a power that has so rooted itself in his being, his mind and emotions. But he knows that he must, for his sake and for Arthur's.
Never before has lurking around the prince's chambers been so unappealing; until now he's spent the time dallying over minor chores in order to profit from the temperature that is always favorable (cool in the summer, warm in the winter) and the bonus of inevitably shared meals, and yes engaging in interested banter with the prince, but now the conversation is taut, the silences semi-provocative.
"What aaare you doing with that boot?" Arthur demands as Merlin puzzles over the dirt stuck in the heel, picking at it with the sharp end of a small hammer.
"It's working, isn't it?" Merlin demands back, bits of rock becoming dislodged. He has never done this by hand.
"Your learning curve is really something to be wondered at," Arthur says. "A gradual rise, I suppose, but thrice as lengthy as the normal servant's."
Merlin ducks his head instead of answering. What can he say? The only two options seem a) yes I am this stupid or b) I do this stuff by magic the majority of the time so when you're here watching me, and it appears I've never done it before, it's because I actually haven't.
Or he could just shout 'you actually were born of magic!' as a distraction, but he knows somewhere instinctively that this is not wise. Not wise at all. His mouth turns downward.
"Oh come off it, Merlin," Arthur says, and sits on the bench next to him. "You're taking offense rather quickly these days, and frankly I find it pathetic."
"Yeah," Merlin agrees. Arthur just looks at him.
On top of the stressful encounters, there has not been need to save the Prince's skin as of late, no sneaking to the rescue on foot or horseback, no desperate journeys to the dragon's keep to bargain out answers in the dark of night. He has been getting the same scant hours of sleep each night, but sans glory. So much for destiny.
Hang on, there's an idea. So Merlin takes it up with the dragon, just to be sure.
"Merlin, do you really think I'd propose that sort of alliance between you and the young Pendragon?" the dragon asks him with a disdainful yawn. "Haven't I told you that one side attracts the other? And that only together can the coin exist?"
Merlin holds his torch aloft instead of punching the wall like he wants to. Face pulled down frowny: "There are so many ways to have taken that statement, I'm not really to blame that I thought..."
"You thought to take the crown as your own," The dragon tells him, not without some laughter behind the words. Some mocking. "The prince's heart as your own."
Merlin, accustomed lately to being emo, persists: " :( "
"That Arthur can never truly belong to any one thing but Camelot is but the truth. What rights you have to Arthur are determined by your twin magic, but the meaning stops there. One cannot choose his..."
"Destiny, yeah, got it," Merlin grumps. They've grown accustomed to one another, he and the dragon - no longer does he expect the straight answer he'd demanded nearly a year ago, and he knows to anticipate a conversation lasting half a minute at the most. Their average to date is twenty seconds. Merlin has this growing idea that the dragon's mind has gone a bit damp down here in the cave; two decades of circling about on a chain is certainly cause for a touch of madness.
The dragon flexes its mottled wings and looks down with a reptilian face that scarily resembles Merlin's own: "That your path lies together is so, but the attraction goes no further. Arthur will be in want of a wife. See to it that he chooses wisely."
Merlin identifies this as a non-sequiter, a depressing one at that, and thus not worth pursuing. He retreats.
--
Understandably, as he is under quite a bit of pressure of saving the prince from himself without actually telling him about the magical magnetism that he has fallen prey to, when he meets Freya the cat woman he just sort of goes for it. He comes on, admittedly, a bit strong, offering to run off with her, leave Camelot for good, live by a lake even though he's now afraid of lakes and has vowed in fact never to set foot in one again.
After her death, Merlin shuts off for a time. Lines Arthur's boots in a row, pair after pair all the same. Cleaning is tedious business, but this labor Merlin decides to do manually from now on, magicless because it's proving a bit of a curse to be honest, and Arthur could barge in at any- Oh, here he is now.
Merlin can feel Arthur's gaze, imagine the thoughtful pout of bottom lip as he is surveyed. Arthur seats himself beside Merlin on the flagstones, and leans into him that bit. Merlin stares on gloomily.
"Something's been upsetting you, hasn't it?"
Arthur's need to cure Merlin seems as arrogant as the rest of him, can be translated as feel better so you can tend to me. His words can be interpreted in so many ways, and Merlin wonders how much credence he should attribute to what Arthur actually says. Assuming has gotten him stuck here as it is, time to see things for what they truly are.
The headlock sparks hope, the noogie some irritation, but Arthur's fond look caps it all and Merlin wants to shout 'don't you see what you're doing??' He has been living a double life, and at this moment, when he's almost allowed himself to run away from this, is the last time he wants Arthur to be sitting next to him, cross legged and entitled, choosing to reach out while all Merlin can do is suffer it and hold his tongue. And to make it worse, the haze of his magic is spread thick like butter, a tentative and happy feeling.
At about now, Merlin desperately needs to talk to someone. Someone normal. Someone who is trustworthy and possibly understands his predicament, even if he can't go into detail.
He finishes his chores with minimal wreckage to show for it. For the first time since he's had his realization, he allows himself a few manly shoulder bumps with his prince who is still hanging around the room, and there is an impish grin all but pasted to Merlin's emaciated face. He needs to eat something, this is getting ridiculous. Even a strategic neckerchief can't play down this level of bony. When a maid brings Arthur's afternoon meat platter, Merlin snags all the sausages off Arthur's plate, one by one, and shoves them in his mouth all at once.
Grease is coating his fingers, and Arthur seems overly pleased. The grease spreads all over his palms by way of nervous hand wringing underneath the table while Arthur pretends to sharpen a dagger and the sausage smell is all-pervasive and-
"I'll be going now," Merlin says. He abruptly stands, almost knocking the bench over behind him.
Arthur favors him with a frown befitting someone with one decade under his belt rather than two, and something along the lines of: "It is I who dismiss you, Merlin." But Merlin bows ridiculously, tries to smile and say something offhanded like "Wouldn't want to keep Gaius waiting" and avoids any physical or visual contact on his way out. "Again?" Arthur growls as he retreats.
He needs to talk to someone normal. Disinterested, yet informed.
Such a person is by the pump, bucket at the ready, lovely in her lavender dress, the one with flowers embroidered on the bodice. Gwen's smile is a troubled one when she sees Merlin, as if Merlin's appearance has not yet pulled her completely from her thoughts.
Merlin answers her with a crooked smile of his own and fiddles with his coat sleeves as she finishes her pumping. The grey of the afternoon is dull overhead and he can smell rain. Unfortunate memories of another rainy day a few months past and Merlin is all athrum with power. He nearly prays to delay the storm. Nimueh.
Gwen is speaking to him: "My lady has grown distant as of late. Perhaps she feels she can no longer trust me?"
Merlin blinks at her. They begin the walk back through the courtyard together.
"Have you given her any cause to lose trust?" Gwen says no. "Then it is not so," Merlin assures her. "She said the dreams that wake her every night are worsening."
Gwen shakes her head. Not since the lady knight, since Morgause, she counters.
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't Gaius tell you?" she asks. Merlin shakes his head to clear it. Gwen is always a little difficult to concentrate on, like her words haven't been properly put in quotations. All those without magic, in fact. Something to think about.
Morgause gifted my lady with a bracelet that would stop her nightmares. It seems to have worked. And ever since I feel she has been growing further from me.
"I've got the opposite problem," Merlin says, feeling the usual flush at such thoughts. He lowers his voice as they enter one walkway. "Arthur thinks he cares, but in actual fact he does not."
"But that's ridiculous, Merlin!" Gwen stops. "He went to Ealdor for you! We all did!"
"But he was compelled to, Gwen."
"What, like...like magic?" She looks unconvinced.
"I can't really explain it, but-"
Gwen's reply is cut short by a guard marching towards them. "Merlin. Prince Arthur desires you in his chambers."
3. Casual Observation
In the space of the following week, the king's diary becomes more and more accustomed to the following genre of sentiments:
There has been the most notable of changes in the Bernard/Nurse dynamic: a quite commendable repartee was overheard by the guards in the third-floor hallway in which Bernard told the lanky nurse to go muck out the stables if she was going to act so skittish, and the nurse...complied. A surprising and welcome event. Bernard was dumbfounded.
and:
A stony silence has fallen between Bernard and his woman. It is amusing to watch.
and then:
During the bimonthly tourney, the nursemaid went to adjust Bernard's mail as it had been loosened in the last round. Bernard tried grab her arm and the nurse, characteristically jumpy for one so deranged, literally turned heel and ran off in front of a throng of onlookers, leaving the confounded participant shamed in front of competition and spectator alike. A real squire was called to make the proper adjustments, but the damage was done. Bernard is learning a valuable lesson.
But on the last day of the week is written a message more ambiguous, most likely topical:
What the devil is going on in this court!
Here's what's going on in court:
The knights are executing routines A-F in their repertoire with Arthur looking on intently; a wicker basket of wooden spoons is upended at a market stall, knocked by an adolescent's careless upswing; back at the castle Gwen and Morgana discuss nothings by the window, at least three hand-gathered bunches of wild flowers arranged on the tabletops and at the armoire; the head cook has all but lost his head trying for the right combination of berries to make the king's birthday tarte; and near the north tower there is an onslaught of sparrows due to wind change. Noblemen gather in the map room awaiting Uther's arrival with bated breath and half-formed ideas of what direction the meeting might take. Dark clouds crowd in overhead.
The castle expels the lanky form of Arthur's servant just as Arthur himself sweeps Sir Hale's feet from beneath him with a broken broom pole on the training grounds. He clocks the knight on the back of the head for good measure and then frowns at all of the others.
"Let that be a lesson to you all," Arthur intones a warning. The knights look on impassively. They exhale as one, relieved, when Merlin trots up to their leader.
The expected reprieve is slow to come, however, not unfolding before them as it normally does when Arthur is in a black mood and Merlin arrives on scene. This is what happens instead: Merlin puts his hands on his knees to catch his breath, while Arthur turns half away from him to smile an exasperated smile at some invisible audience rather than the knights themselves, hands at his hips.
"Sire," Merlin gasps out as Sir Hale struggles to his knees. Concussion, pershmushin, that's what Gaius always says.
"Wha 'tis it, Merlin," Arthur says. "What could possibly be so important that you had to run all the way out here in your considerably weakened state? Or was your flimsy excuse for your behavior during the tourney all a lie as well?"
"You know I'd never-" Merlin began, but Arthur cuts him off.
"Expect me to believe you? I'd say not. I've known from the start that you're a rotten liar, I just never expected you'd so blatantly do it anyways."
The knights stand their ground because that is what they have been taught to do in a fight, and also because any quick movements might interrupt what is shaping up to be some pretty decent gossip. Especially as the prince's manservant is known to rise to his full height in the face of accusations rather than back down like other servants.
"Oh is that how we're finally going to talk about this?" Merlin says. "You big bully." And, in front of the whole group of Arthur's men, he pokes Arthur in the armored chest. He makes a face as his finger stubs off of the metal of Arthur's mail, but the damage is done. In the space of seconds, Arthur has grabbed Merlin's wrist, jerked him around into an arm-lock, and shaken him roughly. He crowds in even closer to pronounce a litany of very frightening, very thinly-veiled threats, which the knights have heard before in various combination, but never before with such heavy implementation of the present and past perfect, and surely never all at once.
Merlin blanches to a shade even pastier than usual and struggles at the grip. When it becomes clear that Arthur won't be letting go any time soon, he stills stiffly in a half bent position and says, "I've come with word from your father. He wishes to speak to you in the throne room."
Arthur does not let go and neither does he answer. He glares down at the back of Merlin's neck. Merlin spends some time examining a muddy patch of trodden grass, and looks up briefly to their audience. Sideways!Sir Leon twitches his fingers in what might be a small wave of solidarity.
Arthur is breathing in his ear. The air is fraught. He finally says, "What is it that you're so afraid of?"
Despite the fact that they've been worked to exhaustion, the knights hold their precious collective breath to better hear Merlin's response.
"Trepanation, for one," Merlin offers, imagining Gaius' scary face. Arthur squeezes his arms again. He finally sags. "I can't, Arthur."
Arthur makes a sound of disgust and relaxes his grip. Merlin's long limbs disentangle themselves from Arthur's and he stumbles away. The knights are all watching on with carefully neutral expressions and Arthur is rubbing at his chin, eyes averted.
"I give up," Arthur says and frowns at the ground. He then looks up, at the knights who jump to attention, and yells, "Practice is over."
He then walks off the field, flinging the broken broom from him as he goes. Merlin watches him go.
There is something of a stunned silence; the prince is not one to call off practice, not for anything. Be it rain, shine, or sleet...The knights watch Arthur's tiny figure stomp off, and then the whole lot of burly, hairy fighters spend a moment looking downcast and confused.
"Er," Merlin says, feeling as if he has let them all down.
"We only just started thirty minutes ago," Sir Bruce says, breaking the quiet. No one makes any move to go.
"This is true," Sir Leon says.
He then steps out to where Merlin is, turns to address the men. "True that Prince Arthur has told us we may go...But what knights are we who shirk practice because our lord is in something of a mood?"
There is a stirring in the ranks, a shout of 'Hear, hear!' along with some clanking of armor as fists are raised. Sir Leon gathers rhetorical steam.
"What knights are we who grow lazy when our lord needs us to be strong?" he shouts. Sir Owlen growls a throaty "cowards!" Merlin notes that many of the men begin to look crazy about the eyes. He quietly begins to retreat.
"What knights are we who eat when we are not hungry!? And give up when the going is tough?!..."
Merlin rushes off after Arthur while Sir Leon is shaking violently, impassioned, just after Sir Hale has pointed to the growing bump on his head and bellowed, "This! THIS is a MARK of HONOR!"
He trots off across the grass, thin arms goose bumping in the blustery day. He's got to talk to Arthur.
--
Uther sits for a long while in his grand, oak bedroom chair before he writes the following line in his journal:
Absolutely nothing of importance is happening today.
It is, in fact, becoming a hectic day for all at court. Uther has removed himself from the public eye after telling Gaius "That will be all" apropos of nothing. Driven by a strong conviction and attention to fealty for the remainder of the practice, the knights follow the orders of the second in command, Sir Leon, and although he is never to receive adequate thanks for the services rendered this day on the training field and then during the changing of the guards at the east and north gates, it is important to note that the job he does is superb.
In her chambers, Morgana opens her jewelry boxes, sets out each of her thirty-four necklaces in front of her mirror, and arranges the strings of gems by color. She takes care in choosing which to wear for tonight's dinner with some visiting lord, and then selects the earrings to match. Pearls. It is always white with her as of late, at least in the presence of the king, and she's made an unconscious choice to do her part to drain that much of Uther's coffers in ordering at least one gown a week in the finest ivory satins.
Gwen festoons her lady's tresses with plumeria. Morgana blushes her hollowed cheeks with powder and Gwen lays cool hands upon her neck. Morgana adjusts her bracelet. Two sets of footfalls of differing speeds pass in succession.
Despite the echoed sounds of running, Arthur strides into his chambers a moment before Merlin has caught up to him.
"You are fast, I'll give you that much, Merlin," Arthur says. He rubs a hand over his eyes.
"I've got long legs," Merlin points out. He continues on, oblivious to Arthur's sudden distraction: "Look, I didn't mean to make you angry."
"This has got to stop, Merlin," Arthur says. He walks to the open window and stares out into the near-drizzle. Merlin stays where he is, holds his hands behind his back. "Something's been off with you and I'd like for you to be honest with me so we can put things behind us. It's all your fault, you're a particularly different kind of annoying as of late. And now Morgana is angry with me-"
"Again, might I add," Merlin says, in attempts to warm the room with some humor. At Arthur's look, he raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
"My knights are suffering the brunt of your stupidity," Arthur says, as if it isn't his own fault. "And my father..."
"What of your father?" Merlin shivers a bit, and Arthur shuts the window reflexively.
"He," Arthur says. "He called me something strange this morning. Then he dismissed me."
"Strange, how?" Merlin asked. This is not as serious as he'd been expecting.
"Like he'd forgotten my name," Arthur says, and frowns. "But no matter. What I'd like to say is you really are the most useless servant I've ever had!"
"How many have you had exactly?" Merlin asks. "I mean, just saying, if I'm only worst out of three or so I can handle that, but if you've had - "
"Will you just shut up!" Merlin shuts up. "And stop smiling like that, you look like an-"
"Idiot, I know, you've told me," Merlin says. The problem with Arthur, is that when he's angry at Merlin, Merlin's magic goes all happy, basking in the attention. It's sick. "Arthur. I know I'm just a servant-"
"Finally you admit as much."
"But there are some things I cannot say. For my own reasons."
Arthur is clearly not expecting this. He looks hurt, and then worried, and then stony. He turns his back on Merlin; as always, his actions speak just as loudly as his words.
"I understand."
"No, I don't think you do," Merlin says. He goes to him and stands, fidgeting. "I want to tell you. I'd like to tell you. But right now I just can't, I think it's best if I, I'll tell you soon, it's not that." He's watching Arthur's profile, and Arthur is listening. He finishes lamely: "It's really not that important."
"If you say so," Arthur replies.
"Really, I'll tell you later. Tell you when..." Arthur turns and stops him with a look. His hair is standing up in all the wrong directions from when he took off his helmet, and his eyes are forgiving. Merlin smiles an apology. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and Merlin does not flinch.
"I'm glad you're here, Merlin," Arthur says. Traitorously, Merlin is suddenly and positively glowing with magic, like a sword that's just been burnished. Subcutaneous is the best way to describe it, and would be fitting imagery had Merlin had a pound or two of fat on his gangly frame.
It is another one of the myriad moments that have harnessed Merlin to Arthur for good. This is unfortunate, because Merlin's magical ability is growing by the day and Arthur has not been properly warned.
Their gazes hold for a long while.
--
When Gaius stops by to perform his diurnal checkup, King Uther is allowing himself a private moment of smugness at having completed all of the drafts necessary to negotiations in next week's meeting. He looks forward to seeing the kings from the five surrounding kingdoms, especially King Olaf with whom he's spent many a visit indulging in manly bouts of wrestling, gloves on of course. Obviously he cannot write such personal anticipations, so instead writes:
It's five pm, it's getting cold, I've got my big coat on...
he raises a fist and rests his chin on it. The moments pass. Then:
Bernard's got an excellent father, his strength is making him stronger. God shines on Bernard's lovely mother, inside and out she's better than I am...
At a feeble rapping at the door, Uther says 'enter' and Gaius peers in the doorway. Uther moves a finger and a page boy slinks from somewhere and rolls each of the drafted treatises and ties them off with incarnadine ribbon. Uther nudges the journal to the back of his desk.
"Ah, Gaius," Uther says. The page boy is gone the next moment, and Gaius approaches with his toolkit, set to tinker.
Gaius works in silence, and Uther wonders after his son and his ward, and of course his kingdom. After an interminable amount of time, Gaius has finished his usual duties, and hands Uther back his glove.
"I'll send Merlin up with more oil," Gaius tells him. He stands, and Uther reaches to his much-treasured book, but the physician turns back at the last moment. "Sire."
The king draws his hand back almost guiltily. Gaius looks to the book, having caught the motion, and something about his look makes Uther think that he's been found out. Could he know??
"What is it, physician?" Uther asks. A lone eyebrow elevates.
"I wanted to ask after your health. Last week's upset with the prince is sure to have come as an unwelcome shock."
"That will be all, physician," Uther says. There is rage building, not at the old man, but at the reminder of his near failings.
"Yes, highness," Gaius responds. He bows his way out as much as his arthritic joints allow.
Uther stands, grabs the journal, only to slam it down on the vanity and turn away.
It's self-indulgent, that's what it is.
Motionless, he carefully empties his mind of whatever impending rage threatens his person, and only then allows himself to relax. He stops again, however, as his reflection moves at him from across the room, nary a warble in the expensive glass to mar the image of his imperfection. The hand scritched into a fist by his side. He hides it in his vest. He is under control.
Before he can reconsider, the king turns in a whirl of capes to where he'd discarded the journal, opens it and grazes the pages so virginal and crisp with the leather-covered tips of his fingers.
Gathers the book to his chest and prays for absolution.