Rheged Part 3
Rheged Part 3
“Gwaine… I just… I don’t know that it’s such a great idea. I mean it’s lovely and everything but…Arthur. He’s sort of turning a blind eye to us at the moment but…”
”Merlin…” Merlin turned his head on the pillow and gazed limpidly at Gwaine. It usually worked. “And don’t try those cow eyes either. It’s not up to him who I marry, or you marry, or anyone marries…”
“Well…actually…”
“We’re not important enough,” Gwaine dismissed and rolled onto his side to face him, all the better to direct the force of his will at his road-weary, shagged-out lover.
Merlin hadn’t even managed to wash the grime of the road from his body before Gwaine was there in the room with him, throwing out his manservant, backing him up against the wall of his chambers for a desperate, yearning kiss. Which led to a slow, erotic removal of his clothes and then a desperate fuck bent over the side of his mattress. His wonderful, soft feather mattress which was now moulding ecstatically to the bruises and aches on his body. The fuck had both helped and made things worse, he thought ruefully; relaxed his muscles no end, but his poor arse…already aching from days on horseback…
‘Aw…Is your little bottom sore?’
Merlin blanked that old surge of nostalgia with automatic and brutal efficiency. Those days were long past.
“Merlin? Are you even listening? I’m trying to be romantic.” Merlin mmmed an encouraging sound, eyes delightfully closed at last. “Merlin!” He jerked back from the slow, drifting slide of sleep. “Look, he’s doin' his best to mend fences properly with the Druids, isn’t he? And he wants a relationship with Rheged? He has to show he’s happy to accept the Old Religion too. So he can’t reject a custom like that, can he?”
Merlin sighed inwardly.
It made sense, he knew. But Arthur was Arthur. He wasn’t sure Gwaine still quite understood what that meant. The idea though… the idea of being married… wanted that way so much, that someone like Gwaine would want him for good...
Once, years before, he’d longed for it with Freya, but a marriage of fugitives, with the responsibility of their fate in his hands would have been very different from this - what Gwaine was offering. A union of equals in their different ways, both with a role to play in the new Camelot and the new Albion.
And yet…it seemed like tempting fate…provocation... rocking the boat when things were going fine. Or as fine as they could be.
He turned his head, looking sadly at the bathtub standing empty near his bed. Bran hadn’t managed to even begin to fill it before being hustled out the door by a ferociously horny Gwaine. He’d protested loudly of course, for effect, while all but cooing over them as he was propelled from the room.
Merlin often thought that if his mother had been a man, and extremely sarcastic, she’d have been not unlike Bran.
‘Go on Merlin! Don’t be such a big …girl!’
He closed his eyes again, his lips turning up slightly in a kind of sad smirk. He missed it bitterly, that strange, close relationship with Arthur, when Arthur had trusted him and treated him like dirt in equal measure.
He sat up slowly, wincing. There was a lot to do before he could actually sleep, and he was running away. He knew it, and so did Gwaine. He closed his eyes, sighed, and opened them again, turning his head to look down at the naked man lying beside him.
Gwaine looked unhappy and brooding, and it made Merlin feel appallingly guilty; that he’d basically taken Gwaine’s excited, romantic suggestion that they tie their lives together formally, and picked it apart. He sighed again.
He’d been at court too long, he thought; around the Pendragons for too long.
He reached a hand down and stroked Gwaine’s smooth upper arm.
Gwaine looked lovely, stretched out in Merlin’s bed, long hair tangled, sweat still glistening on his slender, well-muscled torso. He was a man who could charm and bed just about anyone he wanted and before Merlin, he generally had… yet, here he was, offering everything - his heart - to Merlin.
He’d been desperate when he’d barrelled into Merlin’s rooms, muttering about months with just his right hand, and having to watch Arthur and Gwen floating around in a haze of smug unity.
Just the idea that Gwaine, who could have anyone, had waited for him…
“I need to think about it. Is that alright? Can you give me a bit of time?”
Gwaine’s expression softened at once, too quickly, Merlin thought with amusement, but then Gwaine had long since worked out a Strategy To Manage Merlin, or so Elyan had once drunkenly confided.
At last he got up and wandered to the bowls of water set on a table near his clothing cupboard, spelled them to the perfect temperature,and wearily began to wipe the grime and sweat and semen from his body before carefully beginning to shave off the light beard scruff he'd grown on the road.
But he couldn't stop worrying at it.
He thought nervously that their best hope if they really did it - tried to wed- would be Gwen. He’d always hoped that somehow she could change things, work her own magic on Arthur to loosen his suspicion of Merlin’s power. Of course even Gwen had changed quite a bit over the years; become more … more queenly as time and the war went on. It had been happening even before she and Arthur married really; she hadn’t been the giggling, tongue-tied girl he’d conspired with for quite some time. But Merlin could understand that. How difficult must it have been, to be a peasant preparing to transform into a queen? And, she’d still been his friend, even after she settled perfectly into her role, and he was still just a servant; she’d still treated him like a confidante at times, shamed Arthur into treating him a bit better. His magic had been...a bit of a blip on the road for them, but she’d forgiven him his years of lies and never turned her back on him. And she’d never shown any disapproval of his relationship with Gwaine.
He chewed on his lip as he wiped himself down quickly and efficiently, trying to prepare himself mentally for the evening ahead. To focus.
Bran had told him what was still expected of him: that he must report to the king before the evening's banquet, where he would meet with the delegation from Rheged.
And actually, much as he was dreading another stiff, awkward audience with Arthur, the thought of the feast afterwards really excited him, though he’d have sworn when he all but fell off his horse at the main door, that nothing could have done that tonight. In truth he hadn’t exactly been sleeping well during his embassy to the Druids.
This was Rheged though… a kingdom which had never veered from the Old Religion; where magic had always been honoured and nurtured. How would that be?
The thought of it propelled him into the fine clothing laid out for him on his chair, watched all the time by Gwaine’s warm, lustful eyes.
How much they may know, these men of Rheged? And they might even share some of it with Merlin, if they didn’t view Arthur Pendragon’s pet sorceror, as a traitor to his people.
Merlin sighed and pulled down his tunic, guts beginning their uneasy, nervous grind at the prospect of explaining to Arthur the outcome of his less than triumphant embassy to the Druids.
He’d made progress, yes, far more progress than he’d personally expected to make in such a short time, and he’d learned so much, talked long into the night. But he knew that wouldn’t be enough.
The Druids, like everyone else, had factions; those who held to peace, learning and gentleness in all things, and those who’d become so embittered by Uther’s genocidal campaign that they’d lost that innocence, and now completely mistrusted and loathed the Pendragon line. And much as it pained Merlin to admit it, that suspicion was justified; Arthur had his own terrible guilt to bear regarding the Druids. But the king was so determined… so determined still to make amends, even after Mordred’s ultimate betrayal.
They’d called him Emrys, all the time - ignored his repeated insistence that his name was actually Merlin, which had irritated him to no end - but they never explained the significance of it beyond the idea that everyone was depending on him. Merlin knew they were still holding back vital information; things that they said he would find out in time. It was incredibly frustrating, incredibly frightening to realise they thought he was special when he knew he wasn’t really. But he’d learned a lot, even so.
To Arthur though, who expected everything now, who wanted these loose ends quickly tied, another flank secured, Merlin knew his successes would appear trivial. And he could hardly recount his campaign to Arthur, as Arthur could recount his own battles… How could he describe the insanely ambitious magic he’d performed, to impress the Druids?
He hadn’t even known himself when he tried, if he could manage it, but he found the thing that seemed to awe them most was doing magic without words, just thinking the thing, willing it. It was something he’d always been able to do under extreme pressure but it had been almost…unconscious. With his growing strength, he was finding that it was easier and easier to control, but the trouble was, he could still never quite tell when it wasn’t going to work as predicted.
Which, to be totally honest with himself, it still didn’t. Occasionally.
But most of the time … well once, trying that magic with the Druids, he’d thought the power would destroy him in wielding it . But he’d amazed himself in the end. And it had been good, healing.... using his magic again for peace, rather than destruction.
He couldn’t exactly share that euphoria with Arthur though, not when the king viewed magic as he now clearly viewed Merlin… as a weapon he mistrusted, but may need to utilise.
Merlin bit his lip and clenched his fists, preparing himself.
It was ironic; when he’d started as Arthur’s manservant he couldn’t have cared less if Arthur got annoyed with him, if he thought he was crap at his job, because he didn’t really want to be a manservant for anyone. But now…now he desperately wanted to show himself worthy of the role he’d been given; the trust Arthur had shown in him.
It was all so different.
And he’d wanted this, hadn’t he, for all those years? That Arthur should finally see him for who he was; appreciate that he was more than a loyal clown, the worst manservant in the world, who even so sat up all night to write his speeches so Arthur would see he had a brain?
And now he had respect. He wasn’t still in exile, he wasn’t in the castle dungeons; he was on Arthur’s council at last after being discounted and mocked and overlooked for so long. Gaius had ceremonially given him his seat at Arthur’s right hand at the new Round Table; Gwen sat on his left. And Arthur was meeting his destiny, acknowledged by the major kingdoms of Albion as the inspired leader they needed to survive the savage war machine of the Saxons.
But right now… right now Merlin wished that he still had that stupid feathered hat, just so he could stick it on his head and maybe get Arthur to mock him - smirk that superior, triumphantly wicked smirk. Find the prattish prince; the disdainful, arrogant, almost-friend he’d first known, rather than the distant, serious, careful king he was about to meet.
“He’s just flesh and blood, you know.”
Gwaine’s voice cut sharply into his self-flagellation. Merlin could hear the edge to it. But he was aware that Gwaine veered close sometimes to resenting Merlin’s continued focus on Arthur, even after Arthur had reacted so badly and still so warily to his magic.
Not, Merlin supposed wearily, that he and the king had been that close even before that, what with Arthur’s ever deepening reliance on his wife and his knights. He’d lost the last of his innocence after Arthur regained Camelot for the second time and married Gwen. After that, Merlin had been forced to see painfully - and Mordred’s time at Arthur’s side had confirmed it - that for all they’d been through together, for all he’d done for Arthur, and for all the moments Arthur still let him in, still let him see he cared, he would always essentially be a servant in his eyes. And however often he’d been proven right, Arthur still trusted others rather than listening to him.
Morgana, Agravaine, Mordred; it had seemed to become more and more belittling, more undermining, more threatening as the stakes raised each time. Only his magic had given him worth or status, in the end. He’d grown up a lot since then. Let go of stupid ideas of equal friendship between princes and peasants.
Unless they fell in love with you of course, he thought wryly.
Well… it had worked for Gwen.
He shook his head impatiently.
This was beyond ridiculous. He needed to get a grip.
Arthur had restored magic to the kingdom hadn’t he? Fulfilled Merlin’s greatest, most hopeful dream? Trusted him enough, even as a servant, to accept Excalibur, honed by the breath of a dragon, pulled at Merlin’s urging, and with his secret magic, from stone? He’d listened to Merlin's advice sometimes. He’d kept him by his side always, until his magic was revealed. He’d cared a lot in his own way.
Merlin drew a deep breath and managed a cheeky grin for Gwaine.
“I know. ‘S just… he’s probably expecting I’ve brought a paper with every Druid’s allegiance written in blood.”
He’d go to Arthur, endure his distant disappointment, then hurry to the banquet. And after…well maybe, if he had the energy, there could be time with Gwaine as well, to remind himself that he was still young, still a man, still flesh and blood and bone.
He kissed Gwaine goodbye in his bed, left his room quietly, and set out for the king’s unofficial quarters in the West Wing of the castle, where he worked and occasionally slept when he wasn’t with Gwen.
As well as the ones they shared, the king and queen, like all royal couples, had their own chambers, because their separate schedules could require them - particularly Arthur - to receive visitors and come and go at all hours. Gwen had Arthur’s mother’s old rooms for her own use, which showed, Merlin thought again, how very much Arthur loved and trusted her. But, Arthur and Gwen slept in the same chambers more often than not, in Arthur’s old rooms; the ones Merlin had known so well. Sharing a bed that often was unusual for royalty apparently - or so Gwaine said - but Merlin supposed it proved their closeness and comfort with each other.
The guard outside the king’s door looked at Merlin sideways as he knocked, but Merlin was used to that now, even if it still stung …that half superstitious fear in their eyes after years of being told magic was the epitome of evil. And all that fear was now directed at him.
He straightened as the door opened almost at once, and the king’s manservant, William, nodded coolly, as he slipped outside and away. It was to be a private audience then.
Merlin took a deep breath, and entered, the weird familiarity hitting him at once, because the layout of the rooms was very similar to Arthur’s old chambers.They could indeed be prince and manservant again. Except then, he hadn’t knocked.
Arthur was standing by the window, leaning against it, gazing out, arms folded across his broad chest. He was dressed casually in a loose red tunic and simple trousers, barefoot, not ready for the banquet at all.
For all his years of struggle and leadership, he looked young and golden and as he turned to face Merlin, oddly brooding; Merlin’s prince and king clashing.
"Merlin." Arthur inclined his head briefly, in greeting. He was frowning.
Merlin carefully returned his restrained nod. “Your Majesty,” he said soberly. And oh, he thought for the millionth time, things had certainly changed.
‘Arthur,’ the conversation went in his head, ‘There’s kind of good news and bad news…’
But what emerged was, nervously, “Sire. I’ve made some progress…”
Arthur waved him to silence.
Merlin opened his mouth again, then closed it, waiting for a signal. He loathed this.
Part 4
“Gwaine… I just… I don’t know that it’s such a great idea. I mean it’s lovely and everything but…Arthur. He’s sort of turning a blind eye to us at the moment but…”
”Merlin…” Merlin turned his head on the pillow and gazed limpidly at Gwaine. It usually worked. “And don’t try those cow eyes either. It’s not up to him who I marry, or you marry, or anyone marries…”
“Well…actually…”
“We’re not important enough,” Gwaine dismissed and rolled onto his side to face him, all the better to direct the force of his will at his road-weary, shagged-out lover.
Merlin hadn’t even managed to wash the grime of the road from his body before Gwaine was there in the room with him, throwing out his manservant, backing him up against the wall of his chambers for a desperate, yearning kiss. Which led to a slow, erotic removal of his clothes and then a desperate fuck bent over the side of his mattress. His wonderful, soft feather mattress which was now moulding ecstatically to the bruises and aches on his body. The fuck had both helped and made things worse, he thought ruefully; relaxed his muscles no end, but his poor arse…already aching from days on horseback…
‘Aw…Is your little bottom sore?’
Merlin blanked that old surge of nostalgia with automatic and brutal efficiency. Those days were long past.
“Merlin? Are you even listening? I’m trying to be romantic.” Merlin mmmed an encouraging sound, eyes delightfully closed at last. “Merlin!” He jerked back from the slow, drifting slide of sleep. “Look, he’s doin' his best to mend fences properly with the Druids, isn’t he? And he wants a relationship with Rheged? He has to show he’s happy to accept the Old Religion too. So he can’t reject a custom like that, can he?”
Merlin sighed inwardly.
It made sense, he knew. But Arthur was Arthur. He wasn’t sure Gwaine still quite understood what that meant. The idea though… the idea of being married… wanted that way so much, that someone like Gwaine would want him for good...
Once, years before, he’d longed for it with Freya, but a marriage of fugitives, with the responsibility of their fate in his hands would have been very different from this - what Gwaine was offering. A union of equals in their different ways, both with a role to play in the new Camelot and the new Albion.
And yet…it seemed like tempting fate…provocation... rocking the boat when things were going fine. Or as fine as they could be.
He turned his head, looking sadly at the bathtub standing empty near his bed. Bran hadn’t managed to even begin to fill it before being hustled out the door by a ferociously horny Gwaine. He’d protested loudly of course, for effect, while all but cooing over them as he was propelled from the room.
Merlin often thought that if his mother had been a man, and extremely sarcastic, she’d have been not unlike Bran.
‘Go on Merlin! Don’t be such a big …girl!’
He closed his eyes again, his lips turning up slightly in a kind of sad smirk. He missed it bitterly, that strange, close relationship with Arthur, when Arthur had trusted him and treated him like dirt in equal measure.
He sat up slowly, wincing. There was a lot to do before he could actually sleep, and he was running away. He knew it, and so did Gwaine. He closed his eyes, sighed, and opened them again, turning his head to look down at the naked man lying beside him.
Gwaine looked unhappy and brooding, and it made Merlin feel appallingly guilty; that he’d basically taken Gwaine’s excited, romantic suggestion that they tie their lives together formally, and picked it apart. He sighed again.
He’d been at court too long, he thought; around the Pendragons for too long.
He reached a hand down and stroked Gwaine’s smooth upper arm.
Gwaine looked lovely, stretched out in Merlin’s bed, long hair tangled, sweat still glistening on his slender, well-muscled torso. He was a man who could charm and bed just about anyone he wanted and before Merlin, he generally had… yet, here he was, offering everything - his heart - to Merlin.
He’d been desperate when he’d barrelled into Merlin’s rooms, muttering about months with just his right hand, and having to watch Arthur and Gwen floating around in a haze of smug unity.
Just the idea that Gwaine, who could have anyone, had waited for him…
“I need to think about it. Is that alright? Can you give me a bit of time?”
Gwaine’s expression softened at once, too quickly, Merlin thought with amusement, but then Gwaine had long since worked out a Strategy To Manage Merlin, or so Elyan had once drunkenly confided.
At last he got up and wandered to the bowls of water set on a table near his clothing cupboard, spelled them to the perfect temperature,and wearily began to wipe the grime and sweat and semen from his body before carefully beginning to shave off the light beard scruff he'd grown on the road.
But he couldn't stop worrying at it.
He thought nervously that their best hope if they really did it - tried to wed- would be Gwen. He’d always hoped that somehow she could change things, work her own magic on Arthur to loosen his suspicion of Merlin’s power. Of course even Gwen had changed quite a bit over the years; become more … more queenly as time and the war went on. It had been happening even before she and Arthur married really; she hadn’t been the giggling, tongue-tied girl he’d conspired with for quite some time. But Merlin could understand that. How difficult must it have been, to be a peasant preparing to transform into a queen? And, she’d still been his friend, even after she settled perfectly into her role, and he was still just a servant; she’d still treated him like a confidante at times, shamed Arthur into treating him a bit better. His magic had been...a bit of a blip on the road for them, but she’d forgiven him his years of lies and never turned her back on him. And she’d never shown any disapproval of his relationship with Gwaine.
He chewed on his lip as he wiped himself down quickly and efficiently, trying to prepare himself mentally for the evening ahead. To focus.
Bran had told him what was still expected of him: that he must report to the king before the evening's banquet, where he would meet with the delegation from Rheged.
And actually, much as he was dreading another stiff, awkward audience with Arthur, the thought of the feast afterwards really excited him, though he’d have sworn when he all but fell off his horse at the main door, that nothing could have done that tonight. In truth he hadn’t exactly been sleeping well during his embassy to the Druids.
This was Rheged though… a kingdom which had never veered from the Old Religion; where magic had always been honoured and nurtured. How would that be?
The thought of it propelled him into the fine clothing laid out for him on his chair, watched all the time by Gwaine’s warm, lustful eyes.
How much they may know, these men of Rheged? And they might even share some of it with Merlin, if they didn’t view Arthur Pendragon’s pet sorceror, as a traitor to his people.
Merlin sighed and pulled down his tunic, guts beginning their uneasy, nervous grind at the prospect of explaining to Arthur the outcome of his less than triumphant embassy to the Druids.
He’d made progress, yes, far more progress than he’d personally expected to make in such a short time, and he’d learned so much, talked long into the night. But he knew that wouldn’t be enough.
The Druids, like everyone else, had factions; those who held to peace, learning and gentleness in all things, and those who’d become so embittered by Uther’s genocidal campaign that they’d lost that innocence, and now completely mistrusted and loathed the Pendragon line. And much as it pained Merlin to admit it, that suspicion was justified; Arthur had his own terrible guilt to bear regarding the Druids. But the king was so determined… so determined still to make amends, even after Mordred’s ultimate betrayal.
They’d called him Emrys, all the time - ignored his repeated insistence that his name was actually Merlin, which had irritated him to no end - but they never explained the significance of it beyond the idea that everyone was depending on him. Merlin knew they were still holding back vital information; things that they said he would find out in time. It was incredibly frustrating, incredibly frightening to realise they thought he was special when he knew he wasn’t really. But he’d learned a lot, even so.
To Arthur though, who expected everything now, who wanted these loose ends quickly tied, another flank secured, Merlin knew his successes would appear trivial. And he could hardly recount his campaign to Arthur, as Arthur could recount his own battles… How could he describe the insanely ambitious magic he’d performed, to impress the Druids?
He hadn’t even known himself when he tried, if he could manage it, but he found the thing that seemed to awe them most was doing magic without words, just thinking the thing, willing it. It was something he’d always been able to do under extreme pressure but it had been almost…unconscious. With his growing strength, he was finding that it was easier and easier to control, but the trouble was, he could still never quite tell when it wasn’t going to work as predicted.
Which, to be totally honest with himself, it still didn’t. Occasionally.
But most of the time … well once, trying that magic with the Druids, he’d thought the power would destroy him in wielding it . But he’d amazed himself in the end. And it had been good, healing.... using his magic again for peace, rather than destruction.
He couldn’t exactly share that euphoria with Arthur though, not when the king viewed magic as he now clearly viewed Merlin… as a weapon he mistrusted, but may need to utilise.
Merlin bit his lip and clenched his fists, preparing himself.
It was ironic; when he’d started as Arthur’s manservant he couldn’t have cared less if Arthur got annoyed with him, if he thought he was crap at his job, because he didn’t really want to be a manservant for anyone. But now…now he desperately wanted to show himself worthy of the role he’d been given; the trust Arthur had shown in him.
It was all so different.
And he’d wanted this, hadn’t he, for all those years? That Arthur should finally see him for who he was; appreciate that he was more than a loyal clown, the worst manservant in the world, who even so sat up all night to write his speeches so Arthur would see he had a brain?
And now he had respect. He wasn’t still in exile, he wasn’t in the castle dungeons; he was on Arthur’s council at last after being discounted and mocked and overlooked for so long. Gaius had ceremonially given him his seat at Arthur’s right hand at the new Round Table; Gwen sat on his left. And Arthur was meeting his destiny, acknowledged by the major kingdoms of Albion as the inspired leader they needed to survive the savage war machine of the Saxons.
But right now… right now Merlin wished that he still had that stupid feathered hat, just so he could stick it on his head and maybe get Arthur to mock him - smirk that superior, triumphantly wicked smirk. Find the prattish prince; the disdainful, arrogant, almost-friend he’d first known, rather than the distant, serious, careful king he was about to meet.
“He’s just flesh and blood, you know.”
Gwaine’s voice cut sharply into his self-flagellation. Merlin could hear the edge to it. But he was aware that Gwaine veered close sometimes to resenting Merlin’s continued focus on Arthur, even after Arthur had reacted so badly and still so warily to his magic.
Not, Merlin supposed wearily, that he and the king had been that close even before that, what with Arthur’s ever deepening reliance on his wife and his knights. He’d lost the last of his innocence after Arthur regained Camelot for the second time and married Gwen. After that, Merlin had been forced to see painfully - and Mordred’s time at Arthur’s side had confirmed it - that for all they’d been through together, for all he’d done for Arthur, and for all the moments Arthur still let him in, still let him see he cared, he would always essentially be a servant in his eyes. And however often he’d been proven right, Arthur still trusted others rather than listening to him.
Morgana, Agravaine, Mordred; it had seemed to become more and more belittling, more undermining, more threatening as the stakes raised each time. Only his magic had given him worth or status, in the end. He’d grown up a lot since then. Let go of stupid ideas of equal friendship between princes and peasants.
Unless they fell in love with you of course, he thought wryly.
Well… it had worked for Gwen.
He shook his head impatiently.
This was beyond ridiculous. He needed to get a grip.
Arthur had restored magic to the kingdom hadn’t he? Fulfilled Merlin’s greatest, most hopeful dream? Trusted him enough, even as a servant, to accept Excalibur, honed by the breath of a dragon, pulled at Merlin’s urging, and with his secret magic, from stone? He’d listened to Merlin's advice sometimes. He’d kept him by his side always, until his magic was revealed. He’d cared a lot in his own way.
Merlin drew a deep breath and managed a cheeky grin for Gwaine.
“I know. ‘S just… he’s probably expecting I’ve brought a paper with every Druid’s allegiance written in blood.”
He’d go to Arthur, endure his distant disappointment, then hurry to the banquet. And after…well maybe, if he had the energy, there could be time with Gwaine as well, to remind himself that he was still young, still a man, still flesh and blood and bone.
He kissed Gwaine goodbye in his bed, left his room quietly, and set out for the king’s unofficial quarters in the West Wing of the castle, where he worked and occasionally slept when he wasn’t with Gwen.
As well as the ones they shared, the king and queen, like all royal couples, had their own chambers, because their separate schedules could require them - particularly Arthur - to receive visitors and come and go at all hours. Gwen had Arthur’s mother’s old rooms for her own use, which showed, Merlin thought again, how very much Arthur loved and trusted her. But, Arthur and Gwen slept in the same chambers more often than not, in Arthur’s old rooms; the ones Merlin had known so well. Sharing a bed that often was unusual for royalty apparently - or so Gwaine said - but Merlin supposed it proved their closeness and comfort with each other.
The guard outside the king’s door looked at Merlin sideways as he knocked, but Merlin was used to that now, even if it still stung …that half superstitious fear in their eyes after years of being told magic was the epitome of evil. And all that fear was now directed at him.
He straightened as the door opened almost at once, and the king’s manservant, William, nodded coolly, as he slipped outside and away. It was to be a private audience then.
Merlin took a deep breath, and entered, the weird familiarity hitting him at once, because the layout of the rooms was very similar to Arthur’s old chambers.They could indeed be prince and manservant again. Except then, he hadn’t knocked.
Arthur was standing by the window, leaning against it, gazing out, arms folded across his broad chest. He was dressed casually in a loose red tunic and simple trousers, barefoot, not ready for the banquet at all.
For all his years of struggle and leadership, he looked young and golden and as he turned to face Merlin, oddly brooding; Merlin’s prince and king clashing.
"Merlin." Arthur inclined his head briefly, in greeting. He was frowning.
Merlin carefully returned his restrained nod. “Your Majesty,” he said soberly. And oh, he thought for the millionth time, things had certainly changed.
‘Arthur,’ the conversation went in his head, ‘There’s kind of good news and bad news…’
But what emerged was, nervously, “Sire. I’ve made some progress…”
Arthur waved him to silence.
Merlin opened his mouth again, then closed it, waiting for a signal. He loathed this.
Part 4