Different perceptions
Title: Different perceptions
Author: gonrie
Rated: PG
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Unfortunately, I don’t own the Merlin shows. (If I did, there would have been a lot more scenes with Merlin in Arthur’s bed!)
Summary: Uther frowns because his son is hiding a smile behind his hand, his eyes mischievously meeting his manservant’s; they seem to have forgotten both their place as well as their status.
Note: Thank you to the wonderful i_ate_your_cake who did an incredible job at betaing this fic! You win at life hon!
It’s not about the peasants; one claims to have lost his sheep to his neighbour while the other one argues he was working in the field at the time.
It’s not about the fact that he can hear his counsellors murmur their displeasure regarding the inadequate behaviour of the boors.
It’s not even about how he’s completely wasting his time over this trivial quarrel.
Uther frowns because his son is hiding a smile behind his hand, his eyes mischievously meeting his manservant’s; they seem to have forgotten both their place as well as their status.
The countrymen are disagreeing quite loudly and Uther wants to massage his forehead. One of his advisors interrupts their dispute and Uther’s eyes return to Arthur.
The bumpkin boy, Merlin, is whispering something into his son’s ear and he sees Arthur biting his bottom lip. The servant’s eyes light up at this.
Uther glares in their direction but neither seems to notice.
Although he didn’t manage to capture their attention, others take on his facial expression; it’s quiet for a moment and Uther switches his attention back to the peasants. Their faces are open and curious. The glances of his advisors upon him, though discreet, are questioning.
Uther is searching for words, but he is not about to reprimand his son for-for trifling amusement in front of the court. He can do that in private.
Finally, he looks toward his son one more time, the warning all too clear in his eyes, and Arthur straightens up. Uther clears his throat, “Carry on.”
The complainers resume their stories and Uther holds back a sigh.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Albert is new to the royal house. The steward has decided to engage him and for his first day, he must clean the floor. This is, however, a bit complicated seeing as they are in the middle of April and it is raining everyday.
So each time someone tramples with dirty boots on the ground he has just cleared, he holds back a scowl. Albert knows it wouldn’t matter one bit if he asked nicely for them to watch for the wet floor please. They would either report back to the steward and he would lose his job on his first day or he could even end up in the dungeon for his impudent suggestion.
That’s why, when he’s finally given a small break to eat lunch, he stops dead in his track upon hearing “-kill you to watch for mud? It’ll take me days to clean those stains!”
Albert turns toward the half open door at the end of the corridor, his curiosity getting the best of him, and he quietly steps forward.
“All the more to step into them in that case,” Albert hears; the voice not exactly familiar but it perks something into his head. It sounds amused and smug. “They say practice makes perfect and it’s not like you don’t need the improvement.” A snort and then, “Stop complaining and be grateful.”
“I should be grateful? For having to wash your dirty brogan, again!?” The male voice sounds extremely annoyed. “Arthur, it’s the fourth time this week! Is it that difficult for you to avoid stepping into dirty pools? Even I knew that at the age of two!”
“I must admit small miracles happen sometimes,” The smug-amused voice continues, and it’s only then that Albert can finally replace it. The annoyed voice had been calling this male voice - Arthur. The smug-amused voice belonged to the prince.
Someone was talking back to the prince.
Albert doesn’t manage to hear the rest; their voices rush past his ears over his mental chant of “Someone is talking back to the prince, someone is talking back to the prince, someone is talking back to the price, someone is-”
Then a tall figure storms out of the chamber, the tips of his ears red and his face not hiding his irritation at all, murmuring about “royal prats” under his breath. Albert is clearly ignored and the other boy disappears from view as he stalks down the stairs.
Albert lets out a shaky breath, trying to calm his poor heart. The boy was clearly suicidal, calling his highness the prince a prat and talking back to him and-
He was about to go back to his business and own his way when the prince walked out of his room; a smile on his lips, his eyes shining brilliantly and his body radiating with accomplishment.
Not exactly the picture of what Albert had in mind. He does not seem a bit enraged or in a dark mood. Albert is again ignored but it isn’t something he hadn’t anticipated.
What a first day.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Mathilda has been working as a seamstress in the castle for as long as she can remember. She was here when the queen died, she has seen the king change and she has watched the young prince grow up. She’s a quiet aged woman and she doesn’t like to meddle in gossip.
It doesn’t surprise her at first to see the young black haired man watch over her shoulder as she sew back a pair of black breeches. He is the prince’s manservant and she can clearly recognize them as his highnesses. The cut is small and easy to repair. He murmurs his thanks and is gone after that.
What surprises her is how he brings them back a week after. There isn’t any cut but it’s all incorrectly sewn back on the center of the left leg. She looks back at him perplexed; she has trained the new seamstresses and there is no one in here that could have messed up those shorts like this. He flushes under her gaze and quickly explains how the prince fell onto a rock during their last hunt and how he cleaned the wound and how the prince didn’t like the other breeches he bought into his pack and-
It’s enough to tell her what happened. He doesn’t finish what he’s saying, maybe because he understands that she knows. She looks at his blushing face again and then at his fingers; small red bits are showing on the tips, no bandage covering them.
The longer she takes to analyze him, the redder he becomes. She takes pity on him and pats the seat beside her. He looks surprised and she gave him a reassuring smile.
He finally joins her. “Could you show me your needle and your thimble?” Her voice is gentle and his shoulders finally relax a bit.
His thimble is a bit too small, especially for a beginner. The needle is also too large for this kind of clothes. She tells him this and he nods. Then she gave him the pair of shorts and scissor.
“Cut the string off and we’ll do it again,” she says, and his eyes reflect shock before he proceeds to follow her instructions.
He fidgets for a moment. “I-I’m not sure I should do it,” he stutters, meeting her eyes for a second before dropping his own back onto the breeches. “He wasn’t really happy.”
Instead of hearing anger or resentment in his voice, she heard something that came close to misery. It made her heart clutches a little.
“That’s why we’re going do to it together this time,” she tells him, giving him her thimble and a small needle. He nervously puts the thimble on his finger and she brings out a black string. He correctly attaches the string to the needle and then meets her gaze.
She instructs him slowly; he stings his fingers a couple of time but doesn’t complain, his concentration focused on the cloth. It’s fascinating to see someone put this much effort into something so trivial. It makes her lips curl upward.
“Be sure to make the cut as small as possible,” she tips, watching him stitch carefully. It brings back memories of teaching her son; it’s comfortable.
She hears someone sneer behind her, a mocking laugh. The boy stills suddenly, his focus gone and his face flushes anew. Mathilda glares at the newcomer, a stable boy looking scornfully at her new apprentice before noticing her gaze and turning back to his own business.
His concentration isn’t as present as earlier but he continues nonetheless. A minute or two after the incident, he stops and looks at his progression. “Those are his favourite shorts you know,” he says, his tone quiet and his eyes curling happily. “I hope I’m doing it correctly this time.”
Her eyes widen, surprised by the warmth in his voice and the fact that he knows such an insignificant detail. Probably seeing her expression, he splutters and the thimble falls on the ground.
“I-I mean,” He begins, voice louder and he swoops down to retrieve the thimble. “I don’t want to hear him complain again! I swear, if I don’t do it right, he’s going to make an excuse and make me sew a thousand things before he find it acceptable!”
She doesn’t know what to answer to this and fortunately, she doesn’t have to; the prince enters the room, every eyes on him before he looks into their direction and make his way toward them. “Merlin! Here you are.”
The boy, Merlin, narrows his eyes. “What is it now, sir?”
It is probably the most impolite tone she ever heard anyone use with royalty. She’s about to reprimand him on it when Prince Arthur snatches Merlin’s arm and makes him stand up. He looks at the shorts and then at the hand he’s holding.
“Didn’t I tell you to go and see Gaius earlier?” The prince says, his voice irritated. “And leave my clothes alone. We already all know you’re incompetent at sewing; you don’t need to make a spectacle of yourself.”
Merlin’s outraged face speaks volumes at the word ‘spectacle’ but before he gets a chance to say anything Prince Arthur is tugging him towards the door.
No one in the room says anything while watching the scene. Even once they are out of the door, they can hear them banter.
“Can’t you find normal hobbies, Merlin?” Prince Arthur voice resonates through the walls. “You’re such a girl sometimes.”
They hear someone gasp before an aggravated “Y-you!” is echoed and then nothing.
Then everyone returns to their work. Mathilda looks down at the shorts on the ground, and picks them up to finish the job.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Galahad has been a knight for a while now. He loves morning practices and understands that even though they are rough, they are absolutely necessary. Each new move and each new inch of muscle could make a difference.
But he also likes to walk around the castle on mornings such as this one. It had rained the day before and now the ground is soft and it smells good. It’s a refreshing way to start a day.
He’s about to cross the training ground when he hears the clash of metal. He’s instantly on his guard. Hand on his sword, he advances towards the source of the noise.
Fortunately, it’s only Prince Arthur and his manservant. The prince only has his sword while his servant, Merlin, has complete armour on him.
And he’s also being massacred into the grass again.
The prince looks like he’s losing his patience, yelling him to “Get up, Merlin! You’re not made of straw!” and the boy struggles on the ground and is on his feet again. He’s able to counter five attacks before he’s on the ground again, sword falling out of his hand.
Prince Arthur slaps his hand onto his forehead, exasperation reflecting off his stance. “How many times do I have to repeat myself!? Don’t just dodge, counter it!”
Merlin opens his helmet, irritation clear on his face. “Well, if you stopped a second and let me have a chance to try and block it maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult!”
If anything, it seems to make the prince even angrier. “A chance? A chance!?” He takes his servant by his protected arms and hauls him up. “Do you think the enemy attacking you is going to give you a chance Merlin!? Do you think he’ll nicely wait until you put your shield correctly and for you to tell him to ‘please carry on?’.”
Merlin looks like a fish, his mouth wide open. The prince seems to calm down a little bit, sighing overdramatically. “I sometimes wonder what I’m going to do with you,” he begins, shaking his head. “You are always so, so-”
“Wonderful? A Saint for putting up with you?” Merlin says with a small sarcastic smile on his face.
“So awful at everything!” The prince finishes, his voice emphasizing the word and his eyes glaring daggers at Merlin.
He releases Merlin and shakes his head again. Merlin gives him a dirty look before his face changes from angry to unhappy. Galahad doesn’t notice if his prince has seen the change too but Arthur picks up the sword and places it in Merlin hands. He stands behind his servant, his arms encircling the skinny boy as he shows him how to moves correctly.
It’s intriguing to see how Prince Arthur wants to teach a servant to defend himself. He’s strict and disciplined when he teaches the knights but with his manservant, with Merlin…
It’s hard to describe the feeling. His stance seems protective around the boy, how he makes him move slowly forward with him, then repeat the movement again without a hint of impatience.
Galahad knows it’s not exactly important for peasants to learn how to defend themselves. Of course, during war time it may come as handy but he doesn’t think there is such a time coming forward now. Anyhow, the defence of the castle should be weighted on the knights’ shoulders. It’s why they were named knights after all. But seeing how much persistent the prince seems to be to enable his clumsy manservant master the sword, he’s beginning to worry if such a time maybe closer than he anticipated.
Someone clasps his shoulder and he turns to see Gawain smiling at him. “Good morning my friend,” Gawain says, turning to watch the prince and his servant as well. “Is he improving?”
The question perplexes him to the point where he cannot mask his surprise. Gawain notices this immediately and shakes his head. “Is it your first time seeing them?”
Galahad nods, gaze returning back to the two. The prince is now showing Merlin how to block a sword from his side using the shield. Gawain nods back. “I see.”
They watch a bit more before Galahad’s curiosity gets the better of him. “Does it happen frequently?”
Gawain’s smile is amused. “From what I’ve gathered, at least three times a week.” If he had been surprised before, it’s nothing compared to his astonishment right now. “But why? Merlin isn’t a knight and it’s not like he’s going to jump into a battlefield anytime soon.”
Gawain laughs softly, his eyes still rived on them. “I’m sure Prince Arthur will never let him come a mile near a battlefield,” Gawain says, and the two of them watch Merlin trying to par an attack and fail miserably. “But, I’m sure he has his own reasons.”
Galahad flashes him a confused glance but Gawain is already beginning to move away from the scene. He returns his gaze on them again and froze for a second; Merlin seems to be pouting about an injured wrist and Arthur is all but telling him to “Stop being a big baby,” and when Merlin tries to pry is arm away from the prince, he yells impatiently “Oh! Would you just let me see!” and grabs the wrist.
Merlin narrows his eyes at his aggressor but allows him to check his wrist. Arthur is still wearing a cross look but his hands are gentle. He takes Merlin’s neckerchief off and ties it on the wrist.
The scene leaves Galahad puzzled and before he can think anything out of it, Gawain is calling after him. He snaps out of it and turns to join Gawain, all the while hearing familiar voices bickering at each other again. After all, if Gawain thinks nothing of it, then he shouldn’t either.
- - - - - - - - - -