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“Arthur,” Merlin says, in the sort of cagey tone he only ever uses when he’s after something. Arthur rarely hears it, truth be told, but when he does, it usually means that Merlin has spent two days in the tavern at the most inopportune of moments.
It’s never anything good, at least. Which is why Arthur regretfully sighs and raises his head from the countless letters he still needs to read and answer. One page sticks to his cheek, and he puts it back down impatiently. All the while, Merlin shuffles in the doorway.
“What, Merlin?”
“I’ve something that I need to discuss with you,” Merlin says, and shuffles some more for good measure.
Arthur groans. “Can it wait, Merlin?”
“Well. Maybe. I suppose it can. I’m not—well, yes. It can wait. Really, it has been waiting—”
“Sit down,” Arthur says, and motions him down the chair. Merlin grimaces but takes the seat opposite Arthur, still reluctant to meet Arthur’s eyes. It’s this, more than anything else, which concerns Arthur—Merlin is evasive, no doubt, but he’s never worried. Not about Arthur, whom he merrily disobeys ten times before breakfast.
“It really can wait, though,” Merlin tries.
“I’ve already lost my concentration. Whatever it is, Merlin, it can’t be so bad that you’re running away from saying whatever it is. Tell me.”
Merlin swallows. “I am—that is, it’s two things. Actually.”
“Is there someone bothering you?” Arthur asks, and leans forward. “If it’s one of the knights, Merlin, you know you can tell me—you know that I trust you, don’t you? Or if you’ve seen something—”
“No, it’s not that,” Merlin says. “Honestly, Arthur, I know that I can trust you—it’s just… I don’t know how to begin.”
“By telling me what you are trying to tell me, Merlin, I think that ought to be a good start.”
“You know,” Merlin says, as if the words are suddenly pouring out, even though he still can’t quite look Arthur in the face, “that I have always considered you my king, don’t you? Even when your father—what I mean to say, I’ve followed you. I always have, and I always will, regardless of—of what you say, or do. I’ll be here, and everything I am, everything I could possibly ever be—it’s in service to you.”
Arthur stares at him. “Are you ill, Merlin?”
“What? No!”
“Then whatever are you going on about?” Arthur asks, in exasperation. “Merlin, I know. I know, alright? You don’t have to tell me this. I value your opinion more than anyone’s—foolish though it may be, at times. It’s because you’ve been loyal and honest, always. You know that I know.”
Merlin swallows. “Right. But I’ve not—there’s something I’ve done for you, in the past, and possibly in the future, if you’ll allow it, and I—”
“What do you have in your hands?” Arthur asks, because there’s something peeking from underneath the table, and he didn’t think Merlin was holding anything when he came in. He furrows his brows and stands up, and Merlin shoves back as if being burnt.
He’s holding a single flower, red as the knights’ cloaks. Merlin meets Arthur’s eyes, shocked.
“Gerbera daisy,” Merlin says, a little stunned.
“I’ve never seen one like that before,” Arthur notes, because he may not know much about flowers, but he is well-versed enough in nature to recognise the plants from around Camelot. It’s an essential skill for anyone who may need to survive outdoors. “Did you pick it?”
“I—in a way,” Merlin says, and stands up so fast that his chair scrapes the floor loudly. He winces, and stares down at the singular flower in his hands once again. “It’s—I must’ve forgotten. I need to go, Arthur, sorry!”
He races out of the door, and it falls shut with a loud thud behind him. Arthur stares at it, and decides to let the matter go. If Merlin still needs to tell him something later, he’ll get around to it—he always does. Merlin is impossible to wrangle answers from, sometimes, so Arthur refrains from trying.
He sighs, and returns to his letters.
~*~
If anyone were to ask Arthur what Merlin does in his free time, there is very little chance they’d get a serious answer. There is a careful balance maintained between them, in which Arthur and Merlin are merely King and manservant, and any suggestions of a personal relationship will be met with derision from both sides. Even the slightest hint of Arthur knowing any sort of personal information about Merlin is met with stern denial.
Merlin is the closest friend that Arthur has ever had, but that’s not something to be acknowledged. And for his part, Merlin is as insolent as he’s ever been, and pretends that he could never be friends with “a stuck up royal prat”, in Merlin’s own words.
It works for them—or rather, they made it work for them for the seven years that Merlin has been in Camelot.
Arthur does know what Merlin does on a day-to-day basis. He’d probably have known that regardless of how much he likes his manservant, considering they spent a large amount of every day together. He knows Merlin likes to sleep in, which is the reason he’s often so late in the mornings, and goes to bed late. He knows that Merlin spends most of his lunch break in the forest, both for Gaius’ herbs and for his own amusement. He knows how much time Merlin spends on his lessons from Gaius, and how much he moans about having to learn the names of all bones in the human body.
In fact, it’s a little ridiculous how much Arthur knows about Merlin’s schedule. Which is why he is so blindsided by the news, when it comes.
“He’s what?”
Gwen stares at him, Arthur’s dinner still in her hands. It’s still hot enough that he can see the steam above his dish—a rare sight, because Merlin usually gets distracted when bringing Arthur his meals, and he ends up having to eat it lukewarm. It figures that Gwen is better at this than Merlin, even now that she’s not a maid anymore.
“Erm,” Gwen says, and bites her lower lip. “I said he’s still in the forest? It’s only, I think he’s still doing the flower thing, and apparently it’s grown quite big—I mean, there’s all these people asking for flowers.”
“What flower thing,” Arthur says flatly.
Gwen blinks. “The—flowers. Haven’t you noticed?”
Arthur has not, in fact, noticed. The idea that Merlin has a new routine—something that Gwen is clearly aware of, and Arthur is not—is off-putting, and he shoves aside that thought.
“Merlin has duties in this castle,” he says, if only to avoid having to say that no, he did not know. “I expect him to bring me breakfast, lunch and dinner. Without exceptions. Not to say you’re not lovely, Guinevere, but Merlin—”
“I understand,” she hastens to say, and quickly places dinner in front of him. “If I see him when he comes back, I’ll tell him to see you.”
Arthur grumbles, and Gwen quickly leaves. The door falls shut loudly, and Arthur eyes his dinner with sudden distaste. A flower thing? He eyes his table, and notices the beautiful deep red carnations in the vase. He has no recollection of them, but he supposes Merlin must have placed them there.
He runs his finger along one of the petals, soft as satin, and tries to remember when Merlin came in with flowers.
~*~
“It’s merely a pastime, Arthur,” Gaius says, watching as Arthur paces up and down his chambers. “He’s been doing it for several weeks now. And truly, he keeps bringing home the most marvellous flowers—some that I haven’t even seen grow in Albion before.”
“Flowers,” Arthur repeats dubiously. “Merlin is out… selling flowers.”
“The cornflowers sell especially well,” Gaius says.
Arthur crosses his arms. “And why is he doing this, exactly?”
Gaius’ smile hints at something secretive. “You know Merlin, Sire. He sees something beautiful, and he wants to share it with the world. Some of the townspeople picked up on it, and asked him to bring them some, next time. It grew far more popular than he thought it would, I suppose.”
“Right,” Arthur says.
The door creaks, and Merlin walks in. His arms are filled to the brim with flowers, and two baskets hang on his arms.
“Arthur!” Merlin exclaims as he sees him, his face barely visible over the thorny roses that are scratching his chin. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” Arthur says sternly. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”
Merlin has the decency to look slightly sheepish. “Well—I did already finish my chores for the day, and I only went to pick the lilies, but there were so many flowers that I wanted to go back for a second round, because I’ve some bouquets that would pair lovely with the lilies—”
“Did you forget that you’re my manservant?” Arthur demands.
“Oh, don’t be a clotpole,” Merlin says. “It’s not as if I’m resigning.”
“Resigning!”
Merlin continues, “So. Did you like your own flowers?”
The red carnations. They didn’t smell like anything, but Arthur did like them—the colour of Camelot, and as a sign of Merlin’s friendship. And now that he knows of the flower business, he’s certain that Merlin put some thought into it.
But he watches Merlin put down his flowers, carefully and gently, and he finds himself snapping, “I didn’t see any flowers.”
“Oh,” Merlin says, and Arthur watches his smile fade. “Right. Of course.”
“Well, I thought mine were lovely,” Gaius says, and eyes Arthur. Arthur’s shoulders sag, and he ignores the way that Merlin’s lips tilt.
“Of course you did,” Merlin says, as if Arthur hadn’t done anything at all. “Yours were herbs.”
“My favourite,” Gaius proclaims.
“I expect you to be back at your actual job tomorrow, Merlin,” Arthur says, and brusquely walks past Merlin. He catches the faint whiff of a wild, sweet scent, and forces himself not to think about it.
He doesn’t look back.
~*~
Merlin is indeed back, late with breakfast, as usual.
“Do you want me to dress you, my lord?” he asks, a touch more polite than he usually would. It’s the only sign of how he feels about Arthur’s misstep yesterday.
“The red tunic, please,” is all he says in answer. Merlin goes about his work quietly, his fingers working as deftly as always. Arthur doesn’t think about the soft caresses and the feel of Merlin’s nails against Arthur’s skin. The touches last barely a fraction of a moment anyway, but Arthur has always been aware of Merlin.
He still smells like flowers, and Arthur holds his breath.
“Well, I suppose you look passable,” Merlin says, and scrunches his nose at Arthur. “I should order some new tunics for you. This one’s getting faded, and there was a rip in that blue tunic you wore last week. I stitched it up, but I think it might rip in other places too, soon.”
“I still have dozens of tunics,” Arthur says, and looks down at the one he’s wearing. It still looks fine to him.
Merlin hums. “You’re a king. You can’t go around walking in the same tunic over—people would talk. Don’t worry about it, Arthur, I’ll talk to Gwen.”
“Fine,” Arthur says, and crosses his arms, feeling a little self-conscious about it now. “Do you—should I change?”
“Well, you don’t have any ceremonies planned. It’s fine, Arthur, truly. The fade is only at the seams, and I doubt anyone is going to be looking at you so carefully today.”
“Except you, that is?” Arthur asks, dryly.
Merlin grins. “I’m always looking. I dress you.”
There is no real reason for the heat in Arthur’s cheeks, but it’s there nonetheless. He turns away from Merlin, and inspects the breakfast. The two sausages are cold, when he pokes them experimentally, and he sighs.
“Merlin.”
“You wanted to get dressed first!”
“You’re a moron,” Arthur says, and picks up a piece of bread. “Come on, you’ve a busy day ahead, haven’t you? Polishing my sword and my armour, and I doubt my chambers are going to clean themselves.”
Merlin sighs. “Fine. I just need to deliver some potions for Gaius, but I’ll be back right afterwards. Oh, and don’t forget—the speech, for—”
“Yes, yes, I didn’t forget the speech,” Arthur says. “Out with you. I need you to take your lunch with me, we need to discuss—”
“I know,” Merlin says, in exasperation. He has one foot out of the door already, but then turns back, his eyes flitting towards the flowers on the desk. “I should—throw out the carnations, shouldn’t I? They’ll be wilting soon, probably, and since you don’t like them—”
“I never said I don’t like them,” Arthur says. He feels oddly protective of the carnations now. “I said I hadn’t noticed them.”
Merlin shuffles. “Oh. Alright. So should I—”
“Just leave the flowers, Merlin,” Arthur snaps.
Merlin smiles. “I’ll make sure to cut the stems today, my lord,” he says. “It’ll keep them alive for longer.”
~*~
It becomes the sort of thing that they don’t talk about.
There are several such topics—subjects that they have, without discussing it at all, come to a mutual agreement about. Arthur’s courtship of Gwen and, consequently, the abrupt ending of that same courtship. Merlin’s frequent visits to the tavern. Arthur’s early-morning visits to his father’s tomb, when he feels particularly unfit to be king. Merlin’s love life, including the fact that, apparently, he’d once loved and lost someone.
It’s not that Arthur prefers it this way, but the price of not having to talk about his deepest doubts and fears with Merlin is that he can’t ask for details that he longs to know, either. And it’s not even that he doesn’t want to talk to Merlin, but he… can’t.
Merlin slips out to conduct his flower-y business, and Arthur pretends that he doesn’t know about it. There are new flowers in Arthur’s vase every so often, in varying shades of red, and Arthur doesn’t pay them any attention when Merlin is around.
When Merlin leaves for the night, Arthur runs his fingers over the petals, and tries to guess the names of the flowers.
Arthur isn’t entirely sure why this is a thing they don’t talk about—he thinks Merlin wants it that way, as it is, but he doesn’t know how to bring that up either—except that maybe Arthur’s annoyance when he found out about Merlin’s new pastime has made Merlin feel awkward about it. There’s no real way to acknowledge it.
As it turns out, that only makes matters more difficult, because Merlin’s budding enterprise keeps growing—much like a weed.
~*~
Arthur loves days like these—the soft glow of the sun in the morning, when the dew still sits on the grass and the wind kindly blows through Arthur’s hair every few minutes. Nothing can go wrong when a day is being so nice to him, he thinks distantly, and feels utterly content as he watches the knights practise two-hand fighting with each other.
Merlin is sitting on the grass beside him, clearly uncaring of the grass stains on his trousers. Arthur suddenly wonders if Merlin washes their clothes at the same time—if Arthur’s undergarments are thrown in with Merlin’s neckerchiefs. In his mind’s eye, he pictures Merlin, on his knees next to the washtub, his sleeves rolled up. Or perhaps Merlin washes all his tunics in one go, and so he would be nude from the waist up, as he whistles a familiar tune, his hands carefully scrubbing Arthur’s tunics—
His cheeks flare up, and he glares at the sun. It’s clearly warmer outside than he imagined it to be.
“What are you doing,” Arthur says flatly, looking down at Merlin. His manservant hasn’t said anything in a long time, which is rather unusual for him. Normally, when he allows Merlin to hang around the knights’ training, Merlin talks his ear off.
Today, Merlin is playing with several dandelions, as bright as the sun. “I used to make flower crowns of these, when I was a child. I was wondering if I could still do it. I forgot how to put them together, and I was thinking of when my mother showed me.”
“Why would you want to make a flower crown?” Arthur asks in exasperation.
“So I could crown you King of the Prats,” Merlin returns cheekily. “They’re beautiful flowers, don’t you think? They stand for happiness and hope, you do know. And some people consider them to be harbingers of love.”
“Flowers have meaning?” It’s not entirely beyond the realm of the possible, of course, but Arthur finds himself staring at Merlin’s perplexed expression—the one that means that he thinks that Arthur is further removed from reality than Merlin considered possible. Arthur feels oddly foolish upon seeing it. He knows that roses are typically given to someone who one fancies, but he’d rather thought it was an anomaly.
Merlin gets to his feet in one fluid motion, and puts the dandelion behind Arthur’s ear. It’s too unexpected for Arthur to respond, and he blinks. He raises his hand to touch it, and carefully strokes the petals, but doesn’t remove it.
“They do to people like me,” Merlin says, quietly, as if he’s sharing something secret. “Not so much to you, I think.”
“Why not?” Arthur demands.
“Because it would require you to have a special and secret message to send to someone,” Merlin says, and grins. “And we both know that you’re too much of a prat to ever be quite that thoughtful and sensitive. It’s fine, Arthur—you’re a practical man. It suits you.”
“I can be,” Arthur says, “sensitive.”
Merlin tilts his head. “Maybe,” he says, and plucks the dandelion from behind Arthur’s ear. “Maybe I really ought to make you that dandelion crown. It would look nice in your hair, I think. All golden.”
“I’m not a girl, Merlin.”
“Right,” Merlin says, and bumps their shoulders together. “No crowns for you, then.”
Arthur feels oddly disappointed.
~*~
His relationship with Guinevere is an odd one. He considers her to be a friend, and sometimes, he thinks about what she could have been if they had pursued a romantic relationship. Arthur thinks he could have been content with her.
Gwen is the one who had ended his courtship, effectively. Arthur is still not quite sure what the reasoning behind her decision was, but he had respected it. There had been a trace of both grief and—oddly enough—relief that came with the decision, and Gwen had made herself scarce for several weeks, but when she reappeared, it was as if things had never been different.
They are, though. It’s one of the things that Arthur cannot quite explain to Merlin. Merlin, when he’d learnt of what had happened between them (and Arthur does not know how Merlin had learnt that, actually), had tiptoed around Arthur, and in vague terms told him that he could maybe convince Gwen to try again.
Arthur had told him to stay out of it, and that’s how that became a subject that they don’t discuss.
If he had known to put it into words, though, he still thinks that Merlin would not understand. He respects Gwen, and he loves her, but he thinks his love might have been too distant for her. It’s not a love that burns, a love that he cannot live without. He is content both ways, to be with her or be without her—and whatever part of his heart she had broken, it’s nothing that cannot be mended.
Merlin could never understand, because Merlin loves unreservedly. Undoubtingly. There is no distance in Merlin’s love, and no mistaking his loyalty. Merlin does everything with his heart, and Arthur doesn’t think that he would ever understand that Arthur is more careful with his affections—that he can have them, and also withdraw them if they are not wanted. That doing so will not break him.
Arthur is practical, in that way. He is also able to recognise that being able to withdraw, sometimes, means that he simply has to ignore his affections until they go away. That is the way it worked with Guinevere, in the end.
It’s not working that way with Merlin, but then again, Merlin has always been something of an oddity in Arthur’s life. It’s no real surprise that he would be different in this way, either.
It does mean that Gwen understands this part of Arthur more than Merlin. It has pulled them together as much as it has pushed them apart, this pragmatism. A deep understanding that there are some things that can be chosen, and some things that can’t.
She is his friend, and she is more than a servant after she came so close to being queen, and she is the one who has no patience for Arthur’s missteps even when Merlin—out of plain loyalty, Arthur thinks—will ignore them.
~*~
“You should give him more time off,” Gwen says, and it’s so unexpected that Arthur almost trips. She is a blacksmith now, rather than a handmaid, and three swords rest in her arms. She doesn’t even buckle under the weight.
“Erm,” Arthur says, and frowns. “Who?”
“Who?” she repeats. “Merlin, obviously.”
“Time off? Why would Merlin need more time off? If he needs something—or if he’s in some sort of trouble—”
Gwen sets down the swords and leans against the wall. They’re the only ones in the hallway, but that doesn’t mean that Arthur wants to have a conversation about Merlin in the open.
“He won’t ask you for it, because he thinks you disapprove,” Gwen says. “But his flower stall. It’s really doing well, you know. And there are more people coming to ask him for his flowers—they’re even approaching me, did you know?”
“I did not,” Arthur answers, and frowns. “I don’t see—”
“Arthur. He can’t do three jobs at once, and he likes those flowers. I know he’s been your manservant for a long time, and I know how much he loves to work for you, but have you ever considered what he could be to you, if he wasn’t your manservant any longer?”
Gwen’s expression is meaningful, her eyebrows almost up to her hairline as she glances at him. Arthur toys with his mother’s ring on his little finger, and eyes her hesitantly.
“I’m—why wouldn’t he be my manservant?”
She crosses her arms. “He is making far more money in his own enterprise than he makes as your manservant, Arthur, I know that for a fact. And he’s already turning down more customers because he doesn’t have the time. He’s not even on the marketplace!”
“I can give him a raise,” Arthur says, and wonders when the last time was that he’d raised Merlin’s salary. The servant’s wages aren’t usually his responsibility, but he realises that Merlin might very well be making the same amount of money he was when he first came to work for Arthur, and that is unthinkable.
“That’s not the point, Arthur,” Gwen points out. “Either Merlin can pursue this seriously, or he has to give it up entirely. And just—if he isn’t your manservant, he can just be your friend. I mean—there wouldn’t be this much of a social gap between you. Well, there’ll always be a social status difference, obviously, but if he doesn’t directly work for you—well, you understand what I’m saying.”
Arthur doesn’t really understand, but Gwen has a dark hue to her cheeks, and she can’t entirely meet his eyes. “But he likes being my manservant,” he says, because if Merlin quits his job with Arthur, it would mean… so much less time together. “He’s absolutely horrible, of course, but I—we like it that way.”
“You should discuss it with him,” Gwen says, soft. “Of course he likes being your manservant—but Arthur, I rather think that has more to do with you than with his job. Just—you should just talk about it.”
That’s difficult, now that the flowers are on the official list of subjects that Arthur can’t bring up. But Gwen’s words have stirred something anxious and dark inside his chest, and he thinks he might not be able to calm himself unless he does talk to Merlin.
“Alright,” he says, more to himself than to Gwen. “I will ask him.”
~*~
He doesn’t bring it up for two days. But on the third day, his flowers—which, admittedly, had started to wilt a bit—have been replaced before Arthur has even woken up, and he knows that it’s Merlin who comes in quietly to change them when they start to droop, and that it is Merlin who picks a new variety of red flowers for Arthur to ignore in front of him.
The sight of the marigolds, the red and gold combining, has Arthur feeling particularly calm. As has become his habit, he brushes his fingers over the petals, and admires the bright red. These are the same colour as the Pendragon cloak, and the addition of the gold has Arthur believing that Merlin picked them with Arthur’s history in mind.
They might be his favourite yet.
He draws back his hand when the door creaks, and Merlin walks in with his breakfast tray. His fingers suddenly feel burnt, and Arthur coughs loudly and walks over to the other side of the table.
“Ah, Merlin. You’re on time, for once.”
Merlin furrows his brows, setting down the plate with too much force. The cutlery rattles loudly on the plate, and Arthur raises his eyebrows.
“You’re up early,” Merlin says, and narrows his eyes. “What are you up to? Are you feeling ill?”
“I get up early.”
“No, you really don’t.”
“Well, maybe it’s a new habit,” Arthur says. “And really, you’re the one who is supposed to wake me up in the mornings, Merlin. So, if anything, you really only have yourself to blame for getting to my chambers too late.”
Merlin tilts his head, and then he strides over to Arthur. Rudely, he puts a hand on Arthur’s forehead to check his temperature. Arthur swats him away, and Merlin relents easily. They’ve had too many tussles for Merlin not to be aware of how that will end for him.
“What’s this about?” Merlin asks.
“Do you,” Arthur asks, tentatively, and doesn’t know how he plans on wording this until he says the words, “Do you like being my manservant, Merlin?”
“Do I like it?” Merlin repeats, incredulously. “My lord?”
“It’s a simple enough question,” Arthur says, and adds, “Because if it’s not to your liking, now that you have other options, I’m sure I can easily find someone else who isn’t so late in the mornings. And who doesn’t bring my breakfast cold every morning because they are out picking flowers.”
“You’re such a prat,” Merlin says. “I will have you know, I brought your breakfast at the same time even before—”
“A ringing endorsement of your skills as a manservant, to be sure,” Arthur bites back.
“You didn’t seem to have problems with any of it before now!”
“I didn’t realise that apparently, Merlin, there were so many better things you could be doing with your time!”
“Like what?” Merlin asks, heatedly. “I know what you think about the flowers, and I know you think it’s ridiculous, but I’ve been doing everything I normally do for you, and if you think I’ve been slacking, Arthur—”
This is not how Arthur had wanted to discuss any of this. Somehow, he always ends up arguing with Merlin, and he ends up saying the wrong things, and they insult each other until one of them storms out. He is just so aggravating, always so ready to throw back anything that Arthur might have to offer.
Toe to toe, always.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Arthur says, and sighs. The fight has drained from him, and it leaves him exhausted, even in the early morning.
Merlin eyes him warily, as if he doesn’t trust Arthur’s refusal to insult him back. “What, then?”
“You enjoy it, don’t you?” Arthur asks. “Going into the forest to find the flowers, creating the bouquets, finding the right flowers for people to take—and from what I’ve heard, you’ve a talent for it, too. You find flowers that haven’t been seen in decades, and the ones that are common, you have the prettiest versions, is what people tell me. You enjoy it.”
Merlin rubs his arm. “So?”
“You are running yourself into the ground, going on as you have,” Arthur says, and Merlin just stares back. The lack of denial is enough confirmation—Merlin will whine and complain day and night about his duties, but he always sees them through. The only time that Merlin will not prattle on is when he actually has trouble keeping up, Arthur learnt early on.
“I do it because I want to,” Merlin tells him. “The flowers, they are—part of me, more than you realise.”
Arthur nods slowly. “So you should actually do it, rather than try and do two things half-heartedly.”
“What?”
“Gwen was right,” he says, and sighs. “I see how much care you put into the flowers, Merlin. So you should quit your job as my manservant, I suppose. Now that you’ve found another suitable way to earn a livelihood—a way that is far more suited to you than this one, let’s be honest.”
“Are you firing me?” Merlin sputters.
“No! I’m merely—freeing up a significant part of your time for a job you clearly want to pursue. You don’t have to stay out of mere loyalty to me, Merlin.”
Merlin crosses his arms. “And you’re to decide that for me, then?”
Mostly because Arthur can’t bear to have Merlin come to the conclusion on his own. Besides, Gwen was right. It would be selfish if Arthur continued to have Merlin work as a manservant when he could be doing better—could be doing more. It’s not right to hold back a friend.
“Apparently, since you can’t decide it for yourself,” Arthur says.
“Fine,” Merlin says, and throws up his hands. “You know what, Arthur? Fine. Have it your way. We’ll see how long you last by yourself.”
“I’m sure I’ll thrive,” Arthur says.
“You utter pillock,” Merlin snarls, and turns on his heels to leave.
The silence is a startling contrast, and Arthur looks to the cooling breakfast on his table. The vase of marigolds stares at him judgingly, and Arthur turns it so the heads of the flowers face the other way.
“You’ve no idea how complicated the situation is,” he tells the marigolds, and runs a hand over his face.
Reduced to talking to flowers.
~*~
He likes to think that he made the right choice, in doing what he did. It is odd to survive without a manservant, and all the other servants are scrambling to keep up with Arthur’s habits in the absence of a new permanent manservant.
The marigolds still sit in Arthur’s vase. They have shown no sign of wilting yet, but Arthur makes sure to check them each morning, and has the water changed regularly. He has no idea how to care for flowers, but he already has a severe lack of Merlin’s presence in his life—he’ll be damned if he leaves the marigolds to die.
Merlin sets up a place in the market, Arthur learns through the knights. Apparently, the number of customers keeps growing drastically. Merlin is still apprenticed to Gaius, though—yet another pursuit he hasn’t given up on, although he has significantly less time to drop off potions to Gaius’ patients.
Of course, Merlin still lives in Gaius’ spare room, and it means Arthur still runs into him from time to time. Apparently, Gwen’s comments about them being only friends after Arthur dismissed Merlin as his manservant are patently untrue—Merlin hurries out of his way whenever he sees him, and Arthur doesn’t have the time to run after him.
But sometimes, he sees Merlin with his bouquets in arm, talking to his customers and friends and always, always, looking up to the window in Arthur’s room.
Arthur just has to find a way to talk to Merlin.
~*~
“So this is where you conduct your business,” Arthur says, and stares at the wooden market stall that Merlin has set up. He’s not even looking at Arthur, as he gently strings his flowers together.
“Go away,” Merlin says. “You’re scaring away my customers.”
“Your customers,” Arthur repeats, and wants to reach over the stall to muss up Merlin’s hair, but refrains from showing so much affection in public. “I don’t see any.”
“Because you’re scaring them,” Merlin says, and cuts off the stem of a bouquet of lilies.
“I’m hardly scary.”
“I don’t know, Princess,” Gwaine says, coming up from behind Arthur. “You’ve your sword, and you’ve clearly inherited that scowl from Uther. If I didn’t know any better, I thought you were bothering our Merlin.”
“Look, Arthur,” Merlin says, and now he looks at him, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he leans on his stall, “You’re the king. I might be aware that you’re, at best, a cabbage-head with delusions of grandeur, but they’re intimidated.”
“I do not have delusions of grandeur,” Arthur protests. “I was just—wanting to look at your flowers. Is that not allowed?”
Merlin blinks at him. “Arthur, you’ve never gone to the market. Not in all the years I’ve known you. And you certainly wouldn’t go down here for flowers.”
“I am,” Arthur insists. “I’ve—found myself in need of flowers. So.”
The heat of Gwaine’s surprised gaze burns Arthur to the bone, but he ignores it in favour of staring at Merlin’s perplexed expression. Merlin swallows heavily, and turns back to his flowers. “As a gift?”
“Sure,” Arthur says.
“I see,” Merlin says, slowly, and narrows his eyes. “I wasn’t aware—never mind.” He perks up, wringing his hands and smiles. “Well, I can certainly help with that. I’ve several options, but the foxgloves are already reserved for someone else.”
Arthur has no idea which ones the foxgloves are, so he doesn’t particularly care. He eyes the several bouquets and singular flowers that Merlin has lying around. “How about those?”
“The dahlias?” Merlin asks, and gingerly places them in front of Arthur. They are a soft pink—the same shade of pink as Merlin’s lips, but he doesn’t think about that—and they aren’t at all very noticeable in between the other flowers Merlin has. “Do those work?”
“Well, they’re—pretty,” Arthur manages, and feels the heat rise to his cheeks.
There is more of a bustle around him, now that Arthur is appraising the flowers. Someone passes him, the novelty of the king visiting the marketplace clearly faded, but Arthur has no attention for anything but the gentle fold of the dahlias in Merlin’s hand.
“They are,” Merlin says quietly. “They’re a good choice, my lord.”
Arthur nods, and takes the bouquet from Merlin’s hands. Merlin’s fingers feel as soft as any petal could, and Arthur stares down at the dahlias. There are six or seven of them, neatly wrapped with a thin rope. The stems are cut.
“Right. So. How much do you want for them?”
Merlin’s smile is tight, and Arthur thinks that it might not be good for Merlin to be sitting in the marketplace for these long morning hours—the sun gives his dark hair an almost bluish hue, and his cheeks are already slightly red.
“They’re for free,” Merlin says, and tilts his head. “For you.”
Arthur protests, “That’s ridiculous. You ought to be paid for your labour.”
“Well, I started to find all these flowers while in your employment,” Merlin points out. “So I think I’ve already been compensated. Although you really ought to raise the servants’ salaries, my lord.”
“Won’t you just let me pay you for the flowers?” Arthur asks.
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dare,” Merlin says, and offers him a cheeky grin. “Really, Arthur, it’s fine. I wouldn’t want to take your money for the flowers. Consider it a gift.”
“You’re a terrible businessman,” Arthur tells him flatly.
Merlin shrugs. “I’m not doing it for that.”
Arthur opens his mouth—to ask him what he is doing it for, then, or why he insists on sitting out here with his flowers, and why Arthur cares so much about these flowers—but Gwaine pushes past Arthur, and picks up a bouquet of light blue flowers that he doesn’t know the name of.
“I know a girl who would love these,” Gwaine says, and grins. “Or I am sure I’ll meet a girl who will, anyway.”
Merlin laughs, and the moment passes.
~*~
The new flowers—the dahlias—sit in another vase, because the marigolds are still doing rather well.
In fact, Arthur isn’t really quite sure what to do with the flowers. He has no idea if they need light or shadow, if they need the warmth of the sun or the shade of the castle, and when he needs to cut the stems. Or if stem-cutting is something he is supposed to do with all flowers, actually.
The person he can ask is no longer in his employment, and when Arthur asks another servant, all he gets is a stammered, “My lord, I’m not sure—I suppose I can go and find out, my lord, but—”
Arthur dismisses him, and only feels the tiniest stab of guilt for the perplexed expression the servant wears. It’s not his fault, of course, that Arthur wants these dahlias taken care of. He doesn’t know their meaning—doesn’t know if they have a meaning—and he doesn’t know if Merlin likes them.
That seems of the utmost importance, these days. That Merlin likes them.
“Why are you staring at the flowers?” Gwen asks, when she catches sight of him.
“Is that not what they are meant for?” Arthur asks, waving his hand at her. He commissioned a few new swords from her, for Percival and Gwaine, and she drops them on his desk.
He is supposed to be writing a speech—there is a tournament coming up, which is always good for business. He knows that distantly, but now, all he can think is the many knights who will travel here and who might buy Merlin’s flowers, and then Merlin will be even busier in collecting his flowers, and who knows if Arthur will even catch the merest glimpse of him. “Or so I’ve been told, at least. That flowers are here to brighten life.”
“Yes, but not nearly everyone stares at them so intently,” Gwen tells him, and crosses her arms. “What have the dahlias done to you, Arthur?”
“Do you think Merlin likes them?” he asks. If anyone were to know what flowers Merlin likes best, it would be Gwen.
Unfortunately, she frowns at him and takes the chair next to him. “They’re from Merlin, right? Why does he need to like them?”
“He must like them,” Arthur says. “Or he wouldn’t have chosen them.”
“I suppose,” Gwen says slowly.
“I should figure out which ones he likes best,” Arthur mutters, and drops his head on his arms.
Gwen pokes him in the arm. “Are you planning on wooing him, then? With his own flowers?”
“Would it work?”
“Well,” Gwen murmurs, and smiles. “Normally, I’d say that it’s a bit obnoxious, really, giving someone back their own flowers to start a courtship. But for you, I think it’s rather sweet. And I don’t think Merlin would mind.”
“I have barely seen him in two weeks,” Arthur tells her. “I’ve little faith in your advice, Guinevere. He didn’t want to quit as my manservant, so I had to nearly sack him—”
“Oh, Arthur,” Gwen says. “If he really wanted to stay on, you should’ve just let him. If it’s that much more important to him than his flowers—”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said,” she interrupts him, and sighs. “Arthur, you’ve been mad for him for years. I thought this might be a good way to—become something other than what you’ve always been. But if this worked for you, if he wanted to be here—well, you shouldn’t force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do.”
“But that’s what I did when he was my manservant,” Arthur says.
“No, that’s what you both pretended he was doing,” Gwen says gently. “Ask him back, then, if it’s making both of you so miserable.”
“But the flowers.”
Gwen pats his back in sympathy. “You haven’t lost him, you do know. You should simply be honest with him, and I’m sure, if you were just to talk to him about this—”
“I’ll try,” Arthur says, and knows that he won’t. There’s clearly another topic that he missed that they don’t talk about—a topic that he has been lying to himself since he has known Merlin, and which has been prickling under his skin for a long time now.
They don’t talk about them.
“He misses you,” Gwen says, and rises from her chair.
“I’ll go and see him.”
That one is not a lie.
~*~
The marketplace is as busy as ever, but Merlin doesn’t seem bothered by it. He makes conversation with one of the visiting knights for the oncoming tournament, and the knight makes a show of admiring the bouquets. Two or three women stand in front of his stall, picking up several flowers and discussing them between themselves.
“—worthy of any gentile lady, to be sure,” the knight is saying, when Arthur comes within hearing range. “Or any gentile sir.”
“I’m sure anyone who receives these will love them,” Merlin says, utterly unaware of the knight’s appreciative glances. Arthur wishes he wore his armour, and grasps for a sword that is not there.
“Merlin,” he says, rather loudly, and doesn’t miss the fleeting smile on Merlin’s face before he settles in a more neutral expression. The knight stares at Arthur, clearly uncertain if he is recognising the king or someone else entirely.
“My king,” Merlin says, and at that, Arthur easily manages to get the best spot to watch Merlin’s flowers. There are only a few red ones, but as always, the flowers are beautiful. There are a surprisingly great many shades of blue and purple, and Arthur carefully picks up one of the smaller bouquets.
“King Arthur,” the knight says, and inclines his head in respect. “Such an honour to meet you in person—”
“Please save it for the tournament,” he says, curtly. “I’m here for Merlin’s flowers. It’s one of his few talents, you see, so it really deserves all of my attention, clearly.”
“I suppose you’re really glad that someone else is helping you into your armour, tomorrow?” Merlin challenges.
“Tremendously,” Arthur sighs, and puts back the bouquet. “Finally someone quiet and respectful—someone who appreciates the armour and what it stands for, and who doesn’t give me the wrong helmet.”
“One time, that was one time—”
“I could barely see, Merlin—”
“It’s not my fault your head’s too big,” Merlin says. “I’m glad you found such a talented new servant, then, my lord. Can I ask, please, who has the honour of having pillows thrown at them in the morning?”
“Well,” Arthur says, and coughs. “I’ve not yet chosen a suitable replacement for all of your tasks—”
“If you just asked—” Merlin says.
“—Ask you what, Merlin?” Arthur interrupts, because he can’t ask Merlin back. His pride won’t allow it. “Perhaps, really, I ought to ask you what this bouquet means.”
Merlin’s expression sours, but he picks up the bouquet Arthur points at carefully. It’s one of the few yellow ones, interspersed with brown and red flowers, not nearly as bright as the other bouquets Arthur received. “These are called lady’s mantle,” Merlin says, his voice somewhat lower than usual. “They stand for comforting love. To let someone know you’re thinking of them.”
“A beautiful meaning,” the knight says, looking between Arthur and Merlin.
“Indeed,” Arthur mutters. “I’ll take them, then.”
Merlin stares at him. “Are they not a little—well, doesn’t that bother you?”
“Why would it?” Arthur says. “No, I’ll take them. Are you going to let me pay this time, Merlin, or are you still as obstinate a merchant as you were before?”
“They’re a gift, my lord,” Merlin says, and he smiles again, but it’s more—bittersweet, and a little forlorn, and Arthur doesn’t know entirely what to make of it. “To you, for whatever purpose they suit.”
Arthur blinks, but then takes the flowers as they’re offered. “You’ll come, tomorrow?” he asks, clearing his throat. “I know that you’re—but I would like to see you, nonetheless.”
“I’ll come,” Merlin promises.
A weight that Arthur didn’t know was on his shoulders is lifted. If Merlin is coming to the tournament, and if he will cheer for Arthur as he always does—well, whatever this argument is cannot last that long. Merlin is always on his side, and that has not changed.
“You,” Arthur says, suddenly, and turns to the foreign knight. “I’m sure you have some sword practice that you must return to. If you are to fight me in the melee, you’ll need all the experience you can get. Ask for Sir Gwaine.”
The knight swallows, and inclines his head. Within a second, he’s across the marketplace, and Arthur ignores the victorious surge in his stomach. When he turns back, Merlin has his eyebrows raised at him. “Why do you insist on chasing away all my customers?”
“Are you accusing your king, Merlin?” Arthur asks mildly.
Merlin sighs. “On you go, Arthur. I know for a fact that you’ve a council meeting right after lunch, and if you don’t want to be late—”
Arthur curses, and sprints back to the castle, the lady’s mantle still in hand.
~*~
The sound of swords clashing and shields splintering is one familiar to Arthur. He sits in his tent, pulling at the strap for his arms. The armour sits a bit too tight around his shoulders, but he can’t really reach, and it already took him far too much time to put it on.
He wants Merlin back.
His sword—not Excalibur, which he thinks too precious to blunt in these tournaments—falls to the ground, improperly fastened as it is, and Arthur grunts.
“Need a hand?”
Merlin has opened the flap of the tent. The sunlight falls on his hair, and it illuminates the particles of dust in the sun. Arthur inhales sharply at the sight of him—the new blue tunic, a bit richer than the ones he always wore as Arthur’s manservant, and the basket on his arm, full of flowers.
“You’ll need to free your own, first,” Arthur grumbles, and Merlin chuckles, dropping his basket at his feet and making his way over to Arthur. The way that Merlin fastens his clasps and loosens the armour around his shoulders makes it easier to breathe, and the familiarity threatens to overcome him.
“It’s a good thing I came to visit you before the tournament,” Merlin murmurs. “They haven’t helped you into your armour for seven years, Arthur. There’s a knack to this, you know.”
“I just wanted you to pursue something you want to do,” Arthur says.
“I know.”
Merlin works in silence, and they both listen to the occasional bout of laughter or the sharp gasps of excitement that come from outside.
“Any knights to look out for?” Arthur asks.
Merlin shrugs, and takes a step back to admire his handiwork. At long last, Arthur feels comfortable again in his armour, and he rolls his shoulder to make sure he can. The movement is much freer, and he’ll be more agile for it.
“No one who is nearly as good as you,” Merlin says, honestly. “Perhaps some who play a little dirtier, but I’ve seen you beat far worse cheaters. The victory will be yours, Arthur.”
Arthur takes his sword. The weight feels a little off in his hand, but he’ll adapt to it in the ring. His first opponent is Elyan, and he knows exactly how to beat his knights. He twirls it, and Merlin grins in response.
“Why did you come?” Arthur asks.
“Oh!” Merlin reaches inside the flower basket. “I’ve made something for you. Do you remember—the dandelions? I just—well. I figured it out.” He picks up a flower crown, the dandelions colourful and vibrant in his hands. Merlin hesitates. “You don’t have to accept it, of course, because I know you think it’s silly, and I know you can’t fight in it, but for after—”
“After I win,” Arthur says. “I’ll wear it after I win.”
Merlin’s smile is brighter than the dandelions.
~*~
It’s closer than Arthur would like, but he does win the tournament. And when he does, he takes the dandelion crown and solemnly places it on top of his own head, rather than his crown. The knights of Camelot cheer him on, and Gwaine raises his eyebrows knowingly.
It doesn’t matter, does it? Arthur is elated with both his victory and the thought of Merlin, weaving a golden crown for him, and he catches Merlin’s eye and grins.
Unfortunately, the day ends, and Merlin does not come back as his manservant.
He has several bouquets in his chambers, now, and he has ordered another servant to find him more vases. He has a plan, although it’s not concrete yet.
One way or another, he’ll have Merlin by his side.
~*~
“Back again?” Merlin asks, eyeing Arthur strangely as he approaches his market stall. “Was something wrong with the pink hydrangeas?”
“No,” Arthur says. The pink hydrangeas are still blooming beautifully in Arthur’s chambers, along with all the other flowers Arthur has come to get this week. They stand next to the marigolds and the peonies. “I’m here for another bouquet.”
Merlin’s smile is a little crooked. “I’ll be out of business, with you here all the time.”
“Maybe if you let me pay for the flowers,” Arthur suggests. “I’ve heard it does tremendous good to the entrepreneurial spirit.”
“I can’t let you pay,” Merlin says, and sighs. He picks up another bouquet—red flowers, again, with a white edge around them, Arthur notices with some delight. He has flowers of various colours, now, mostly because Merlin seems to have less-vibrantly coloured flowers on hand, these days. The red ones remain dearest to him, however. “I kept these separate for you. I wanted—well, they’re some of my personal favourites.”
Arthur gently picks up the flowers from Merlin’s hands. “They’re lovely.”
“I think so,” Merlin says quietly. “They’re called sweet williams. I just—I couldn’t have given them to anyone else, really.”
“What do they stand for?”
If Arthur has learnt anything, it’s that Merlin puts thought into the language of flowers. It’s difficult to tease the meaning from him, sometimes, but Merlin usually delivers. And he believes in it, Arthur knows, even if Arthur can’t quite take it seriously—but Merlin believes it, knows the language that these flowers speak even better than he knows his own heart.
Merlin’s hand still hovers over the other bouquets. His voice is hoarse. “Gallantry. Admiration, passion, and a lovelorn hero.”
“I hope I’m not a lovelorn hero,” Arthur says, and wrinkles his nose at the bouquet.
“I think it’s rather reaching to say you’re any kind of hero at all,” Merlin says. He clearly tries to be cheerful, but it’s falling a bit flat. “The number of times I’ve seen you fall on your arse—”
“So you do think I’m gallant?”
“That is not what I said,” Merlin says.
Arthur waves the sweet williams at him. “I think you did, although not with your own words.”
“There’s not enough flowers in the world to tell you you’re a prat,” Merlin tells him, but his ears are a bit red. Arthur grins at him, and presses the flowers to his chest when Merlin reaches back for them.
“They’re perfect, Merlin,” Arthur says, and thinks about the flowers that have taken over his chambers. It’s a nightmare for the newest servant responsible for maintaining his household, but it’ll all be worth it when Merlin sees—when he learns that Arthur knows, and that he appreciates the flowers. That he appreciates Merlin.
“No, they’re not,” Merlin says miserably, and his shoulders sag. “Arthur, I know that—they’re yours to do with what you will, of course—but keep those, won’t you?”
Arthur blinks. “Yes, of course.”
“They’re for you,” Merlin adds insistently, and now his cheeks are a flaming red too, but his eyes are solemn. “I grew them—I mean, I picked them for you. They’re yours.”
“I’ll guard them with my life, Merlin,” Arthur says, grinning widely.
Merlin smacks his arm. “Clotpole.”
“Cabbage-head,” Arthur returns.
“Royal prat.”
“Useless excuse of a flower merchant.”
“Arthur!”
~*~
It’s nearing the end of summer.
Arthur typically enjoys these days, as he always has. As a child, he was always out of bed with the sun, much to the chagrin of his tutors and his maid. These days, Arthur likes to sleep in when he can, but these late summer mornings always set his blood racing like nothing else.
There is nothing that can beat a ride in the golden glow of the sun in the early morning, and when Arthur wakes up, the chill in the air is still present. The castle is barely waking up, with only a few servants wandering the halls, and Arthur sneaks out to the stables. Llamrei neighs when she recognises him, and Arthur takes the opportunity to saddle her himself.
It’s freeing in the way that little else is, these days. There’s always an array of guards and knights hounding his steps, when he leaves Camelot, and even with his closest knights, it can be suffocating. Arthur regrets the scolding he’ll get from Leon when he returns, but it’s all worth it to be alone for a couple of hours.
Or—not alone, as it turns out. A sound in the bushes has Arthur on edge. There’ll be few bandits this far in the forest, but there might be a few opportunists who would take the chance to take whatever gold he has.
“Who goes there?” Arthur says, and raises Excalibur towards the bush.
Merlin’s head pops up from the other side. “Arthur?”
“Merlin?”
“What are you doing here?” Merlin says, glancing at Arthur in askance.
Arthur bristles and gets off Llamrei. His mare takes the opportunity to nuzzle Merlin’s face, and Merlin pats her absently. Arthur says, “I’m taking a ride. That’s all.”
“This early, without anyone else?” Merlin says, frowning at him. “Arthur, you know that’s irresponsible. You’re the king, and if something were to happen to you—”
“Spare me the lecture,” Arthur says sourly. “I’m sure Leon will tell me. It’s only for an hour or so, and I wouldn’t be gone for long. Besides, that’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it. I don’t see you here under the guardianship of a dozen knights.”
“I’m not the king of Camelot.”
“No, but you’re—” Arthur stumbles. “You can’t even fight. If someone found you here, and they wanted to rob you—”
Merlin laughs. “I can handle myself.”
“I sincerely doubt that, Merlin.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Merlin says amiably, and holds up his woven basket. “I’m sure all the bandits will be looking to rob a commoner with his flowers. They would strike fear in the hearts of all other thieves and highwaymen.”
Arthur perks up. “You’re gathering your flowers!”
“As always, very astute, my lord. Your powers of deduction are unparalleled.”
“I’ll come with you,” Arthur decides. If he learns where Merlin gets his flowers from, he might be able to pick some by himself for Merlin. It’ll be a nice addition to the bouquets he already has—his won’t be as nice, of course, but surely Merlin will overlook that.
Merlin, however, seems less taken with the idea. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” Merlin says, and clears his throat. “Because you ought to go back, Arthur. Leon will be worrying, and if you don’t make it back, he’ll raise the entire castle to look for you. And I’ll be gone for several more hours, probably, so you can’t stay out here with me anyway.”
“I doubt that.” Arthur inclines his head towards Merlin’s basket. “It’s overflowing as it is. You’re clearly nearly done.”
“You really should go back.”
“Don’t give commands to your king,” Arthur says, and plucks the basket off of Merlin’s arm. “You pluck, I hold. Although I suppose you were moving to a different area entirely, weren’t you? There’s hardly any flowers here.”
“It’s a long walk,” Merlin says, and reaches for the basket. Arthur holds him off quite easily. Merlin’s stronger than he looks, but Arthur is a knight of Camelot. “And I’m sure you have other things you’d rather be doing. You don’t even like the flowers.”
“Yes, I really would have come to get your flowers daily because I don’t like them,” Arthur points out, his tone flat. “And we can take Llamrei, Merlin. She can carry us both. It’ll save you some time. I’m sure Gaius would appreciate that, if you don’t.”
Merlin deflates. “It’s rough terrain.”
“She’s bred for hunting,” Arthur says. “I rather think she can handle a slow hike through the forest. Come on, you can sit in front of me and hold onto the flowers.”
With the battle clearly lost, Merlin gets on the horse. Arthur breathes him in as he settles against him, and loses focus for a moment—Merlin’s smell is flowery, again, but he also smells of soap and of something else entirely.
They don’t make much conversation, for a while. Merlin is tense, but soon he leans against Arthur as he gives directions. Arthur lets Llamrei follow the trail, mostly, and Merlin doesn’t say anything to contradict him, and they wander quite a while.
He should return to Camelot, probably. But Merlin grows pliant in his arms, and the ride is the most peace that Arthur has had in months. The birds chirp above their heads, and the sun occasionally peeks through the canopy, creating beautiful patterns across Merlin’s arms.
“Arthur,” Merlin murmurs, when they must’ve been riding well for an hour.
“I’m beginning to believe you’ve no idea where to get your flowers,” Arthur says, mostly as a joke. “Perhaps you’ve picked all of them for the summer—”
“Arthur!” Merlin shouts, and Llamrei bolts as an arrow comes flying.
It’s too sudden, and with Merlin in front of him, Arthur loses control—Llamrei makes a sudden move, and Arthur flies off. He hits his head against the ground, and he can’t see anything but white spots in front of his eyes for a moment. He hears Merlin shout again, and Llamrei neighs loudly—
Arthur sits up, only to see an arrow floating right in front of his eyes. He stares at it, shocked, and then it falls to the ground, as if it had never been coming for him at all. His gaze finds Merlin’s—gold, beautiful, but gold, they are gold—eyes, and then Merlin drops his hand abruptly.
“What,” Arthur says, and scrambles to his feet.
“Bandits,” Merlin says gravely, and runs his hand over Llamrei’s manes in an attempt to calm her down. “Arthur, your sword—”
“What about the sword?” Arthur yells at him. “You’ve just—”
“Used magic—”
“—saved my life—”
“Well,” Merlin says, and smiles awkwardly. “I do both with far more frequency than either you or I would want.”
Another arrow comes flying, but Arthur manages to duck out of the way. Excalibur lies next to the road, and he jumps towards it. His sword won’t protect him from any flying projectiles, but he feels safer with it in his hand, anyway.
The bandits come charging at the same time, four in one time. They come from Arthur’s side, and he raises his sword to meet the first man’s strike. He’s a clumsy fighter, clearly, and Arthur has him down with a single parry. The second bandit takes his place immediately, and he’s far stronger.
“Wáce ierlic!” Merlin shouts out, and the other bandits are thrown back. Arthur doesn’t have time to consider it, though, and pushes back his own opponent. The fight is done in four moves, and it would’ve been three if Merlin hadn’t distracted him.
He whirls back around. “You are going to tell me everything—”
“Watch out,” Merlin snarls, and throws up his hand again as another arrow thuds into a tree. It missed Arthur by only a hair, and he veers back to the undergrowth, where the last bandit must be hidden. “Arthur!”
Another arrow comes flying. It’s only Arthur’s instincts that have him ducking in time. Llamrei neighs loudly, and Merlin yelps in pain. Arthur can’t turn around—can’t help him, not without putting them both in danger. He throws Excalibur at the bushes, aiming for where the arrow came from.
He hits his target. The bandit yells, and his body falls, rustling the shrubbery. Arthur wastes no time and turns back around, taking the three steps to where Merlin has fallen. Llamrei is bolting again, her flank bleeding—the arrow must’ve scraped her, but the injury isn’t too deep.
It’s Merlin who concerns Arthur.
He’s fallen with his head against a tree, and his eyes are closed. He has fallen a little awkwardly, and Arthur curses, falling to his knees to hold Merlin. Merlin makes a noise, but he’s clearly lost consciousness—he is pale, and when Arthur presses his fingers against the back of Merlin’s head, his fingers come back red.
“You utter moron,” Arthur whispers. “You absolute fool. We’re attacked by bandits, and you get injured falling off a horse? I’ll never let you live it down, Merlin. I swear, you really ought to wake up, so I can make fun of you properly.”
Merlin doesn’t wake up. Arthur shudders, and runs his arm over his forehead. It comes back sweaty, but that’s the least of his concerns.
He tries to remember what to do in case of a head injury, but he comes up blank. Shock, he guesses absently, or something else entirely that has Arthur useless in the face of Merlin’s wound. He takes Merlin’s neckerchief and presses it against the wound as gently as he can, binding it around his head, and then gently raises Merlin from the ground.
Llamrei neighs at him, but Arthur puts a hand on her nose. It’s an awkward move, because he’s still holding Merlin, but she is in need of comfort, too. “I need you now,” he says, solemnly. “I know you’re in pain, girl, but we need to get back home. Can you do that?”
There’s no answer, obviously, but she calms down a bit. Arthur sighs in relief, and his eyes find Merlin’s abandoned flower basket on the grass. The flowers have fallen out, slowly being blown away by the wind. Some of the flowers have been trampled over by Llamrei.
He gets Merlin on Llamrei’s back, and makes haste back to Camelot.
~*~
“A concussion, likely,” Gaius rules, peering at Merlin’s injury. Arthur sits next to the bedside, his hands both wet and bloody—Gaius had needed to clean Merlin’s blood-soaked hair to see the injury properly, and Arthur had volunteered.
“But it’s not life-threatening?” Arthur presses.
Gaius eyes him. “No, not necessarily, sire. It can be dangerous, of course, a head wound, and I’ll need to keep a close eye on him—sometimes the bleeding can be internal, you see, and that’ll complicate matters. But the wound itself seems rather superficial, so at most, we should be concerned about the blunt force trauma.”
Arthur sits back, relieved despite himself. In light of Merlin’s injury, he hadn’t allowed himself to think about anything else. Even now, he wishes Gaius had anything else for him to do, just so he could distract himself a little longer from the glaring truth.
Merlin is a sorcerer. A flower merchant with magic.
“When will he wake up?” Arthur asks, trying to calm his beating heart.
“I can’t say, sire,” Gaius says. “Hopefully, soon. If it lasts for longer than a day, the concussion might be more serious than I think. Even so, he’ll be confused when he wakes up, and he might not entirely remember what happened.”
Arthur swallows. “Send for me when he wakes up,” he demands, and raises from his chair. “No matter what time it is, Gaius. I want to be here when he gains consciousness.”
“Sire, are you quite sure—”
“Just do it,” he says, and walks away.
~*~
His own chambers mock him, suddenly. The vibrant array of flowers remind him of Merlin at every turn, and he leaves his own chambers just to be rid of the sight of them. Leon does chastise him, but it’s far more gentle than it normally would be—everyone saw him, running into the castle with Merlin in his arms.
They think he’s on edge because of Merlin’s injury. Arthur is on edge for a lot of reasons.
He stays out until far later than he usually does. He takes dinner with the knights for the first time in months, and he doesn’t miss the glances in his direction. There is no avoiding the fact that he has to return to his chambers sooner or later, although he chooses for it to be later.
It’s long past dusk, when he finally undresses himself for bed. The numerous flowers aren’t as visible, but he closes his eyes, regardless. If he forgets enough of today, maybe he can forget entirely—
But he can’t forget, and his sleep is restless.
~*~
For the first time in months, he is woken up by Merlin.
“Merlin,” he snaps, but Merlin stares at the flowers instead. In the light of morning, they’re as beautiful as they were when Arthur first got them—they are lively and vibrant, and they seem even more alive with Merlin here, curling into his direction.
“Arthur,” Merlin breathes, and his eyes flutter.
Any anger Arthur might’ve felt is immediately overshadowed by concern. He throws the blankets off and strides over to Merlin, forcing him to sit down. Merlin winces, pressing his fingers gingerly to his own head.
“I ordered Gaius to tell me when you woke,” Arthur says, and brushes Merlin’s hair out of his eyes. “You shouldn’t be up.”
“I needed to,” Merlin says, and presses his lips together. “Arthur, I needed to.”
“You remember, then,” Arthur murmurs.
“I was going to explain.” Merlin smiles weakly, and rubs his forehead. “I couldn’t sit and wait, I needed to—well, I’m not sure, now. I don’t think my head’s ever hurt this much, and I can barely string two sentences together.”
“You can’t do that on a good day,” Arthur tells him, and kneels down Merlin’s side. “Careful—Gaius didn’t have to stitch that wound, but I’d rather not take any risks.”
Merlin stares at him. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re one to talk,” Arthur says, and huffs. “I’ve no idea what to make of you, Merlin. Every time I think I understand, you prove me wrong.”
“Keeping you on your toes,” Merlin mutters, and closes his eyes. “What are—the flowers?”
“Where else would I keep them?”
Merlin sighs. “You said they were a gift. I was—I assumed you were giving them away. To Gwen, I thought, first, but she said she hadn’t—so I wasn’t sure. And I wasn’t here, so how was I to know if you—if there’s someone who caught your eye.”
“Moron,” Arthur says, and rises to his feet again. “You should go back to bed. That wound will take a while to heal—”
“No,” Merlin protests, and swats at Arthur’s arm. “No, I’m just… a little exhausted. But I really need to talk to you. I can’t go back to bed without explaining to you, Arthur, I swear—I’ve been waiting seven years to tell you—”
“You were going to tell me, then,” Arthur says flatly. “I suppose that is good to know. Now, Merlin, I’d love to talk, but you’ve currently got a hole in the back of your head, if you hadn’t noticed—”
“I’ve a spell for that,” Merlin says, wincing. He raises his fingers to touch his injury gingerly, and makes a pained expression. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I’ve a spell for that.”
“Which is it, you have one or you’re pretty sure you have one?”
“I have one,” Merlin says.
“And you can,” Arthur waves his hands vaguely, “do that, when you’re like this?”
“I’ve done it before.” Merlin closes his eyes again, and exhales loudly. “Ge hailige.”
Arthur can’t see Merlin’s eyes, but he imagines them to be the same colour of shining golden they were in the forest—powerful, unnatural. He shivers, despite himself, and Merlin slumps forward.
“Did that do anything?” Arthur demands.
Merlin sniffs, and presses his fingers to the back of his head again. “I think so. The headache isn’t entirely gone, but it’s not so bad. It’s more like I’ve gone for three rounds in the tavern, rather than made acquaintances with a tree.”
Arthur snorts. “Well, I suppose that’s handy.”
“It is,” Merlin says, quietly. “It saved your life more than once, as it is. You’ve this horrible tendency to get hurt, and you’re not nearly as lucky as you seem to think you are.”
Arthur opens his mouth to respond, but then Merlin stands up, and three purple hyacinths fall out of his sleeve. He stares at them, and Merlin stares, too.
“You really do keep those everywhere, don’t you?” he asks.
Merlin groans and picks up the hyacinths. They are oddly fragile in his hands, and Arthur sits back down.
“I really don’t,” Merlin says, a little miserably. “They keep showing up. They’re a byproduct of the magic, Arthur. I don’t actually go out and search for flowers—they’re tied to me. They respond to strong emotions, and I’ve been—feeling strong emotions for a while, I suppose.”
Arthur frowns, and inspects the flowers more closely. “They’re—the language,” he realises. “The flowers translate your emotions.”
“It didn’t use to be this way,” Merlin complains, but he’s remarkably gentle with the hyacinth. “I could go around, no problem, using spells left and right—and then, suddenly, these flowers came with them. I didn’t know what to do—most of them aren’t even native to Albion, and I’m quite sure a few of them aren’t even supposed to bloom in this season.”
“But the sweet williams,” Arthur says, and in response, looks at the many, many flowers he’s amassed. The meanings they hold. “And… the stock flowers. Lasting affection, you said—and the lady’s mantle.”
“Comforting love,” Merlin reminds him. “And the dahlias—commitment, you know. Even the marigolds—despaired love. And the ones that you didn’t like, the—”
“The carnations,” Arthur says.
Merlin smiles and looks away. “Love and affection. It seems most of them turned out that way. And now—for you, the purple hyacinth.”
“What does that one mean?”
“Regret,” Merlin says, and leans over to put the stems in Arthur’s hand. “And forgiveness.”
Arthur’s heart beats fast, but he lets Merlin pull away his hand. The hyacinth’s stem is rough in his hand, and he curls his hand around it. Merlin’s eyes follow his every move, and Arthur breathes out.
“You are presuming a lot,” he says, far more calmly than he feels. “You used magic.”
“I’ve been using magic since the day I was born,” Merlin says, and shrugs. “I’ve not used it against you, Arthur, unless it was with good intentions. I can’t—I wanted to tell you. I almost did, but I couldn’t find the words. It was a secret for too long for me to be able to tell you.”
“The gerbera daisy,” Arthur remembers. “You were trying to tell me, then.”
“That’s the first flower that ever came,” Merlin confesses.
Arthur breathes out. The flowers around them stand out all the more starkly, and Arthur tries to remember all their meanings. Most are about friendship and love, and Arthur folds and unfolds his hand, uselessly kneading the hyacinth as he does so.
They are beautiful. He’s always thought so. And Merlin’s magic made this—involuntarily, and all from Merlin’s heart. This is not a sign of corruption, nor of anything evil. Arthur knows that Merlin speaks the truth, and he swallows.
“Tell me, Merlin,” he says, slowly. “What, exactly, did you try to achieve? Why did you come to Camelot, even when my father—after what my father did. Merlin, why are you here?”
Merlin looks him in the eye. He nods, mostly to himself, and cups his hands. He brings his hands to his mouth, and he whispers something that Arthur can’t hear. Another gerbera daisy appears, red as the first one.
He lays it before Arthur. “Loyal love,” he says, a little wryly. “I couldn’t leave, Arthur. Not as long as you’re here.”
Arthur falls forward, the edge of the table pressing into his stomach uncomfortably. The distance between him and Merlin seems unfathomable, suddenly, and he can’t accept it. So he kisses him, and Merlin’s hand worms itself into Arthur’s hair, and then he kisses back.
~*~
Early morning comes, and with it, grey clouds and the pattering of rain.
Merlin is unbearably thin in Arthur’s bed, curled up with his face pressed in the pillow. Arthur sits on his chair, watching him slumber peacefully.
It doesn’t make anything easier. In fact, it only makes things far more difficult. He slowly taps his fingers on his desk, making as little noise as he can, willing a solution to come to mind. The gerbera daisy still lies in front of him, right beside the hyacinth. Loyal love. Regret. Forgiveness.
A chamber full of love messages, and Arthur has no idea whether to trust his heart or his mind.
A knock on the door disturbs him. He looks towards Merlin in reflex, but Merlin just mumbles something incoherent and shifts, pressing his nose even further into the pillow. Arthur can only see his forehead and his dark hair at this point, and a surge of affection overcomes him. He quickly rises to his feet and opens the door, only to see Gaius.
“Sire,” the physician says miserably, and wrings his hands. “I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where Merlin is?”
Arthur presses a finger to his lips and steps into the hallway, gingerly closing the door behind him as he passes Gaius. Arthur ignores the frown that Gaius sends his way, and leans against the cold wall opposite his bedchambers.
“He’s sleeping,” Arthur says. “He came to me after he woke up. He’s still rather weak, and it’s—I thought it best not to make him walk across the castle.”
“Understandable, sire,” Gaius says, and eyes Arthur’s door. “If I could just check on him—”
“He performed… a healing spell on himself,” Arthur says, and takes some grim satisfaction in the way that Gaius stiffens. Arthur looks at him solemnly, and Gaius meets his gaze calmly. Arthur continues, “The wound shouldn’t be an issue anymore, if Merlin has practised that spell as often as he told me he has. Although something tells me you might want to check, regardless.”
“Sire,” Gaius says, and swallows. “Arthur.”
“I can understand why you kept it secret, Gaius. I understand that it must have come down to being loyal to my father or keeping Merlin alive. You consider him to be your son—I understand, I do.” Arthur straightens his shoulders. “I don’t understand why neither of you felt like you could come to me when I became king.”
“The laws are still in place.”
Arthur inhales sharply. “Do you think I would have executed him? Merlin?”
There’s a tense silence, and Gaius slowly shakes his head. It strikes Arthur how old Gaius is, now, old, and slow, and afraid. Afraid for Merlin’s life. “I couldn’t take the chance. Not when it comes to him.”
“I’m not quite sure what to do,” Arthur tells him, and drops his head. “I know now that both you and Merlin are quite capable of keeping this a secret, but with the flowers—and I can’t ignore my laws for one man, Gaius, even if that man is Merlin. I won’t be a hypocrite.”
“It’s your decision.” Gaius’ hand has dropped from the door to Arthur’s chamber, and now he pats Arthur’s forearm in support. “Merlin will stand by you, no matter what you do. But if you send him away from your side, I don’t think he would go. I don’t think he could do that.”
“I don’t think magic is evil,” Arthur says. “But I also think I cannot legalise it—not without serious thought, and without considering all repercussions. Too much evil has befallen Camelot because of magic. No more, Gaius. No more. Not without a way to protect my people.”
Gaius nods. “Can I go in to check his injury?”
Arthur waves his hand towards the door. “If you want.”
Gaius reaches for the door, and it clicks open softly. He takes one step, and then turns back to Arthur. “You must know, Arthur, that there have been many times where he wanted to tell you. If not for me, he would have told you far sooner. But I’m an old man, and your father was my closest friend for a great many years, and he killed a great many people who deserved better. You are a better king than your father ever was, but I see much of him in you, too.”
“I won’t hurt Merlin,” Arthur says.
“Much like your mother, too,” Gaius adds, and smiles. “Neither of them were hypocrites, either.”
With that, Gaius disappears into the chambers, and the door falls shut. Arthur stands by the door for a moment, but he can’t hear anything inside. It must mean that Merlin still sleeps, and Arthur doesn’t want to be here when Gaius returns, so he makes his way down to the training grounds.
He thinks he desperately needs to whack a training dummy around for an hour or two.
~*~
It’s not really a surprise that it’s Merlin who comes to find him after Arthur has spent his morning in the most intensive training exercise he’s followed since he was seventeen years old and Uther wanted to teach him a lesson after a particularly abrasive comment. He’s moved on from training dummies to several knights, but he’s scared most of them away.
Not Percival, though. Percival is his favourite knight, now, Arthur considers gloomily, steadfastly holding the shield and letting Arthur hack into him. He takes vicious pleasure from the way that Percival’s knees bend whenever Arthur hits him particularly hard.
“Arthur.”
Merlin stands safely on the sidelines, biting his lower lip. He’s tugging at his sleeves subconsciously, and Arthur lowers his sword at the sight of him.
“How are you?” he asks. He can’t help the formal tone that his voice has taken on, the odd uncertainty that has crept into his every word. Merlin is not who he was a week ago, and they are both aware of it.
Merlin offers him an insecure smile, and takes the steps closer. “I’m fine, thank you. Gaius gave me a clean bill of health.”
“I’ll take my leave, my lord,” Percival says, looking between the two of them. If he knows what to make of their interaction, it doesn’t show, and Arthur feels a surge of gratitude for his quietest knight. Percival leaves the shield on the grass and walks away, towards the group of knights further down.
“You’ve been taking good care of the flowers,” Merlin says quietly. “I didn’t tell you yesterday, when we—well. Who would’ve guessed you had a green thumb, my lord.”
“Don’t call me that,” Arthur snaps, and takes a deep breath. Merlin looks down at the unexpected outburst.
“Arthur,” Merlin says instead.
“I’ve no idea what to do with you,” Arthur says, a little desperately. “I can’t hurt you. I won’t. And I can’t send you away. So what would you have me do, Merlin? If you were in my place, and I loved you, and you were a sorcerer—what would you do?”
“I’m not you,” Merlin says, and swallows. “It’s not my decision, Arthur. It never has been.”
“It’s your fate.”
“That’s always been in your hands,” Merlin says easily, and exhales. He picks up the shield that Percival abandoned, and raises it high. “Why don’t you stop thinking about it, and go back to this?”
Arthur stares at him incredulously. Merlin has assisted him in sword practise more times than Arthur can count, but it’s always been a game—a way for Arthur to tease Merlin, to see how far Merlin would let him take it. Arthur would never seriously ask Merlin for this.
“You were injured only yesterday,” he reminds him.
Merlin shrugs, and the shield bobs up with the movement. “And I used magic to heal myself. As I’ve been using it for seven years, now. You’re allowed to be mad, Arthur. I never wanted to get in between your loyalties and your laws, but I can’t help being what I am—who I am. And magic is who I am. So. Hit me.”
“No,” Arthur says resolutely.
Merlin’s eyes grow dark. “Hit. Me.”
Arthur’s sword is falling down on the shield before he even knows it is. Merlin grunts, not expecting the blow, but he stays upright. Arthur stops immediately, waiting.
Merlin nods, and Arthur hits him again. And again. His arm is tired from the weight of the sword, but he can’t help it. He keeps striking Merlin, and Merlin takes it better than he ever has—no complaints, no biting remarks. Arthur keeps hitting, harder than ever, and Merlin defends silently.
And isn’t that the way it always goes?
Arthur drops his sword, and it falls on the ground. When he looks down, the grass is interspersed with purple—the hyacinths, he realises. Merlin’s regret.
Merlin lowers his shield, and stares at the flowers, too. “Not again,” he mutters, and falls to his knees to pluck them. After a moment, Arthur bows down too, and picks a single hyacinth. The purple is richer than it has any right to be, and its sweet scent hits Arthur’s nose.
“It’s not going to be easy,” Arthur says slowly, and confusion flits across Merlin’s expression. Arthur continues, “But it is the right thing to do. Merlin, you are the least corrupt man I have ever known. You wear your emotions on your sleeves, and you create flowers out of nothing. You are not anything that is wrong in this world. You never could be.”
Merlin blinks at him. “Does that mean—are you saying—”
“It is going to be an uphill battle,” Arthur warns him. “It’ll take years to convince everyone that magic has a place in this world. And we have many enemies—the legalisation of magic will mean that our chances of being attacked are very high, at first, before we rebuild the trust. And I don’t even want to think about what our allies will do. If we do this, it might mean war, Merlin. It isn’t something I can take lightly.”
“I know,” Merlin hastens to say, and winces. “I don’t want you to do this for me, Arthur. I’ve always tried to avoid—”
“I know, and you were wrong to do so,” Arthur says, and pulls Merlin up. “But I trust you. And I’ve always known that magic can be used for good—I should have done this earlier, Merlin. It shouldn’t have taken your flowers to show me how beautiful magic can be.”
“Arthur,” Merlin says, and fumbles with the hyacinths. “If you were me—a sorcerer, and I loved you, my king—what would you do? If you were just told everything you ever wanted to hear?”
Arthur’s heart beats fast. “I would kiss you,” he says.
Merlin’s arms come to rest around Arthur’s neck, and Merlin presses their lips together. Arthur pulls him even closer, and ignores the hyacinths that tickle his neck. Merlin smells just as sweetly as the flowers do, in any case.
~*~
Arthur’s chambers distinctly smell of flowers, and he thinks that even if a maid were to thoroughly clean it for an entire day, he wouldn’t be rid of it.
He sort of likes it, though. Merlin jokes that they are building a forest, with Merlin’s inability to stop making flowers and Arthur’s unwillingness to let him sell any. All of Merlin’s flowers belong to Arthur now.
Besides, Merlin’s control has improved drastically. According to Merlin, it’s because he’s no longer repressing all his emotions. If you were to ask Arthur, he would say it’s because Merlin no longer has any need to be pining after him like a lovelorn girl.
“Is it too late to go back to selling flowers?” Merlin asks wistfully, staring at the bouquets littering Arthur’s chambers. The rambling rose has even spiralled its way up to the wall.
“Yes,” Arthur tells him, and squeezes his hand as he tugs him along. “We’ll be late for the council meeting if you don’t hurry.”
“You can go without me,” Merlin says.
Arthur yanks at him. Merlin falls into his chest. “Whatever would I do,” he drawls, “Without my manservant in attendance, when I tell these old tarts that we’ll be legalising magic again? I need a reminder of why I’m doing this, Merlin, or I’ll surely lose all resolve in the face of the debate that I’m about to go into.”
Merlin’s fingers run through Arthur’s hair. “I should make you a dandelion crown again,” he says. “One worthy of the Once and Future King.”
“I’m serious, Merlin,” Arthur says, and softens. “I need you there.”
Merlin presses a kiss against Arthur’s cheek, too fleeting for Arthur to respond to. “I know. I’ll be by your side, Arthur, I promise. I always will be.”
“This will take years,” Arthur reminds him. “Are you certain you are ready?”
“As if I were planning on going anywhere else,” Merlin says, and Arthur knows that no, Merlin would never leave. Not if Arthur made him, and not if there was still a chance to see this through. Arthur’s chest swells, and he lets go of Merlin’s hand.
“Let’s go change the course of history, then,” he murmurs lightly.
Merlin smiles, and cups his palms together. His eyes glow golden, and a daffodil appears in his hands. He tucks it behind Arthur’s air, his fingers gentle.
“It’s not a crown,” Merlin says, “But it’s a sign of fortune to come. You were destined for great things, Arthur. We’ll do this together.”
Arthur reaches up to stroke the petals. “What does this one mean, then?”
“Mutual affection,” Merlin says, and smiles brightly. “Desire, love, and sympathy. But it can also stand for a new beginning. A rebirth.”
It fits, Arthur decides, and locks eyes with Merlin. What they are setting out to do means the end of an era, and the beginning of a new age—a time in which Merlin will no longer have to hide. A world in which magic will shine again.
As the flowers grow and bloom, so will magic.
“The rebirth of a kingdom,” Arthur says, and exhales. Merlin smiles, a joyful and bright thing that lights up his entire face—he is the very reason that Arthur can do this.
This is merely the beginning.