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Morgana was, Arthur reflected, probably the bravest person he knew.
“Absolutely not,” Morgana said. Despite her words, she kept a courtly tone that was perfectly deferential. Only someone who spent the better part of their formative years running away from her sharp tongue and sharper teeth - and she could deny it all she wanted, but Morgana had a troublesome biting stage as a child - would see the tightly controlled fury behind the calm front she presented to the king.
The king was far less composed; Uther’s gaze had sharpened into a warning glare. “This is my will, Morgana. It is not for debate.”
“It may be your will, my lord, but it is my life,” Morgana retorted. “And I won’t see it traded away like a sack of grain.”
Arthur moved a piece of roast boar around on his plate, watching his father surreptitiously. A vein started pulsing down the center of Uther’s forehead. Ah, hello, old friend.
“All our lives - and your many comforts - are a result of the prosperity and safety of this kingdom,” Uther said. “As such, when Camelot calls for aid, we all must do our duty!”
Morgana finally abandoned her veneer of calm. “And why is it that my only value to Camelot is to get married off to some horrible old vulture of a man?! He’s three times my age, he could be your father - “
“The earl has a hundred knights ready to march in Camelot’s defense.” Uther interrupted. “And we cannot create more noble sons out of thin air to swell our own ranks, as you very well know.”
“Ah yes,” Morgana said dryly. “The nobility. The only people ever known to know how to swing a bloody sword.”
Arthur smothered a laugh despite himself. Uther glared at him.
“You can’t tell me there aren’t other young men practically wetting themselves at the thought of joining Camelot’s glorious army,” Morgana continued. “Not to mention that true sons of Camelot would fight harder to protect the kingdom than knights from half the world away!”
“Only nobility can join the knighthood,” Uther said. “You know the law.”
“You’re the king!” Morgana said. “If it’s your will - “ she dropped her voice in a terrible imitation of Uther - “then it’s not up for debate. Change the law!”
“Enough!” Uther thundered. He slammed a fist on the table, hard enough to make the plates rattle. “Were the earl not arriving so soon, I would have you thrown in the dungeon to regain your senses!”
“Please do,” Morgana scoffed. “Maybe a sallow complexion and the stench of rotted straw would put the man off of this ridiculous notion of marriage!”
“Morgana,” Arthur cut in, and she sat back in her chair with a huff. Arthur repressed a sigh; there had been talk about her eventual marriage before, but even to Arthur’s ears it had sounded far away, a distant inevitability that could fade into background noise if only they ignored it for long enough. Uther always found fault in potential suitors; this one was too ambitious, this one not ambitious enough, or the man’s family was unsuitable, or his holdings too unstable. To Morgana’s point, Earl Hatherfast was old - and twice widowed, with only a daughter out of his second marriage to secure his line - and if the first wolves of war weren’t sniffing around the borders of Camelot, Arthur was sure Uther would never have entertained the man’s suit.
“Father,” Arthur started, keeping his tone as diplomatic as he knew how. “Perhaps there is some value in what Morgana has to say.”
Uther pointed his steak knife down the table. “If you mean to tell me how to manage my - “
“I wouldn’t presume to know better than you, Sire,” Arthur said. “But there are men - they’re not nobly born, but they serve honorably as guards and watchmen. I’ve trained them myself, and they aren’t without skill or value.”
“Their value is as guards and watchmen,” Uther said. “We need knights. Not even your training could elevate a lowborn man to understand the code of honor we need to defend our kingdom.”
Arthur frowned. “You’ve said yourself there’s no one better to make knights than me.”
Uther waved a hand. “Your skill is undisputed, Arthur, but even the finest potter needs workable clay.”
“You have a point, Father,” Arthur said. He looked apologetically at Morgana. “He has a point.”
Morgana’s glare was as sharp as a knife point. “Now you’re just making excuses. Must not be as good a ‘maker of knights’ as you think!”
Morgana was a harpy, Arthur decided. Brave or not, that kind of slander was uncalled for. “I’m exactly as good as I think. Maybe better!”
She scoffed, and Arthur leaned forward in his chair. “I am!”
“An easy statement to make, Arthur, when -”
‘Enough,” Uther interrupted. He took a long pull from his wine, wiping the royal mouth with the back of his hand. “Morgana, stop antagonizing Arthur. And Arthur, stop letting her.”
“As if anyone just lets me do anything,” Morgana sneered, and she pushed back from the table and stalked across the room, settling against the window with a huff.
“I am, though,” Arthur muttered, and Morgana’s eyes snapped to him with the kind of malicious glee he associated with the hunting dogs right before they took down a stag.
“There would be one way to prove your prowess, Arthur, and see if someone outside the nobility can rival a knight,” Morgana said. She turned to Uther. “My lord, of course I will bow to your will - “
An incredibly unlikely statement if Arthur ever heard one -
“- but if you feel any affection for me as your ward, perhaps you would grant me a bargain.”
Uther’s face softened just a fraction, in the way that only happened with Morgana. “Name your bargain. I will consider it.”
“If Arthur, maker of knights, can train a lowborn man to your satisfaction and prove we can strengthen our defenses from among our own, you will release me from this marriage agreement.”
For a moment, the crackle of flames from the hearth and distant rumble of the courtyard were only sounds in the room. Arthur frowned, studying Morgana’s face. It wasn’t though he hadn’t had the thought before - Perrin, the guard assigned to Uther himself, had been one of Arthur’s most promising trainees, and the only man who’d ever bested Sir Percival in a wrestling match. Watching the man extend a hand to Percy to pull him to his feet, the other knights crowding around to slap his shoulder, Arthur had wished to see what Perrin could do if given the opportunity for knighthood. And it wasn’t just one or two of the guards; there were dozens with quick wits and skills that far surpassed the spoiled, soft noblemen’s sons. If he could give only the most deserving, the hardest working men of Camelot the opportunity to raise their stations, change their stars, all while securing Camelot’s future … Arthur’s heart clenched.
“If the king agrees, I’m up for the challenge,” Arthur said suddenly. Morgana released a tiny breath; surprised. “I can choose a man now. And I’ll start the training in the morning, if it pleases you.”
Uther leaned back in his seat, passing a hand across his chin. “I choose the man.”
Morgana’s entire body tensed. “What?”
“I choose the man,” Uther repeated. “And you have three months.”
“Three months?” Arthur blinked. “Father, a knight’s training begins in childhood as a page - I’ll need more time than -”
“Time, like our army, is in short supply,” Uther said mildly. “The earl is set to be in Camelot by the equinox. Therefore, you have until he arrives to train the man to my satisfaction.”
Arthur thought hard. If Perrin pushed himself, especially in his mounted combat, he could be serviceable in that time. Rough around the edges, but no worse than the current crop of noble sons currently serving their squireship. “Agreed. Father, if I may suggest - “
But Uther was pushing to his feet, strolling to the window next to Morgana. Arthur hurried to follow him, chest filling with dread as Uther undid the latch on the window, swinging it wide and pointing -
“Him.”
Morgana’s face was a peculiar shade of white. “Uther, please -”
Arthur opened the window next to where Uther stood, following his father’s outstretched finger to see a weedy, narrow scarecrow of a man hurrying down the castle steps. As they watched, he tripped on apparently nothing, lurching down the last few stairs, arms windmilling wildly as he fought to keep his balance. Arthur watched in a sort of detached horror as he caught himself on the shoulder of a passing washerwoman, nearly pulling her down as he went. She started shouting at him and the man cowered, hunching into himself as he skittered backwards, obviously babbling apologies as she shook her fist at him. Giving the washerwoman a wide berth, the man crossed the courtyard in long strides, hurrying out towards the lower town in a jangle of awkward limbs.
“You can’t be serious,” Arthur said. Uther turned to give him a flat look.
“And yet, I am. Three months. And if that man can’t best another knight in the joust or with the sword, Morgana marries Hatherfast. I am decided.”
With that pronouncement, Uther marched back to the table and returned to his roast boar.
Morgana stared at Arthur, a horrified look on her beautiful face. And Arthur, damn his own eyes, could never find himself to resist a maiden in distress. Even if that maiden was a harpy who had bitten him as a child.
He turned away and headed for the door.
–
Merlin did his best to keep up with the little girl zig-zagging her way through the crowded streets of the middle town. She’d burst into Gaius’ rooms shouting about her mother through choking sobs, and Gaius had thrust his medical satchel into Merlin’s hands. “See to it,” his master had instructed. “Go quickly, and I’ll follow. Mend what you can until I arrive.”
The little girl turned a corner, dipping out of sight and Merlin doubled his pace. He’d only been Gaius’ apprentice for a few weeks - he didn’t really know if the herblore he’d memorized would do much to help, but if nothing else he could at least assess the situation to be ready for when the physician arrived.
He spotted her again just as she ran up to a crofter’s hut, nestled between a bakery and a row of closed-up shop stalls. The little girl threw the door open and hurtled inside, and Merlin rushed to follow her, his side stitching painfully. He stepped in just as a flash of green light erupted out of the relative gloom of the interior, illuminating a young woman as she healed her own burned hand.
Merlin stumbled to a halt, knocking into a table painfully with his hip. The woman looked up at the noise and let out a breathy shriek.
“Enid! I told you not to fetch the physician!” The woman backed away, her soot-streaked face screwed up with fear. “Sir, I beg you, I don’t use it normally, I swear I’ll never - “
“Wait,” Merlin interrupted. He held out his palm and summoned a handful of little glowing orbs of pure magic, making them chase each other in a lazy circle. “You’re safe. See?”
The woman sagged with relief. The little girl flew to her side, burying her face in her mother’s skirts. “Thank the gods. I thought - “
“Never mind,” Merlin said firmly. “All I care about is if you’re still hurt.”
“No,” the woman shook her head, still looking a little dazed. “And I wasn’t lying. I don’t use it, not ever, but there was a spark that caught, and I didn’t think, I just went to smother it …” She trailed off, lifting her hand to show the shiny patch of freshly healed skin.
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay,” Merlin grinned. “Because I’m not a fully trained physician yet, and I couldn’t have done what you did without magic anyway.”
Her smile was hesitant, but at least she’d lost the wild terror in her eyes. “That’s a pretty trick. What is the incantation?”
Merlin shrugged, a little embarrassed. Apparently incantations were a thing sorcerers were supposed to do, according to Gaius and his terrifying eyebrows. “If one is stupid enough to reveal oneself as a sorcerer at all,” his master had said, cuffing Merlin lightly around the head.
To cover his discomfort, Merlin gave a mental nudge to the orbs, sending them spinning over to hover over the woman’s palm. She sighed, letting them run around her fingers. “They are beautiful. Do they -”
The door, which had drifted shut behind Merlin, snapped open again. Merlin jumped and snatched his hand closed, extinguishing all of the orbs just as an out-of-breath blond man appeared in the doorway.
The man blinked, squinting into the relative dark of the hut before pointing in at them with a gloved finger. “You. With me.”
He saw them , Merlin stared at the man, unmoving. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman stiffen in terror, cowering at the sight of the newcomer. And he thinks she did it. He could feel his magic rear up inside of his chest, coiling down his limbs like a cat spoiling for a pounce.
“You, boy. Did you hear me?”
“It was m- what? Boy?”
“Yes. You. Now,” the man said, gesturing with an imperious hand that, Merlin noticed, wasn’t holding a sword or other instrument of torture. In fact, the man’s handsome face was irritated, not furious or fearful.
“What?”
“Are you stupid?” The man snapped. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyebrows bunched together as if Merlin were the worst kind of burden to bear. “Of course you’re stupid on top of scrawny -”
“Hey!” Merlin said, indignant.
“- but none of that matters because you have to come with me. Now.”
“Why?”
The man dropped his hand, glaring at Merlin. “Because Morgana is a harpy.”
“Who?”
“Oh, for the - come on!” The man marched forward, seizing Merlin’s wrist in a firm grip. “Don’t you know who I am?”
A prat was the first thing that popped up on Merlin’s tongue, but he managed to keep his mouth shut. Somehow, antagonizing the man - who had at least two stone on Merlin and was wearing a sword on his waist - who may or may not have seen something magical occurring seemed like a poor choice.
“I’m Arthur Pendragon.” The man raised his eyebrows at Merlin’s helpless silence. “The prince. Crown prince. Of Camelot?”
“Oh gods,” Merlin said faintly.
“Exactly,” the man - Prince Arthur - said. He tugged on Merlin’s wrist. “And you’re going to do exactly what I say.”
Merlin snuck a look back at the woman, pressing herself into the wall of the hut with her daughter trembling beside her. Protect them. Whatever he wants, do it.
“Well then, Your Majesty -”
“Highness,” Prince Arthur interrupted. “‘Your Majesty’ is only for the king, you dolt.”
“Your Highness, then,” Merlin snapped, forgetting himself for a moment. The prince’s face took on a strange, half-disapproving, half-amused expression. Merlin cleared his throat. “I mean, what do you want me to do?”
Prince Arthur tugged on his wrist, and Merlin stumbled after him. Once outside, the prince released him and jabbed a finger back towards the castle. “I’m training you to be a knight.”
“A what?” Merlin yelped, just as Gaius, puffing and red faced, turned the corner.
“I beg your pardon, Sire,” Gaius said, his voice coming out in a wheeze. “You can’t mean Merlin.”
“Is that your name?” The prince didn’t wait for Merlin to answer before turning back to Gaius. “And unfortunately, yes, I do mean Merlin.”
Gaius wheezed at him again, a rough exhale of disbelief mixed with a laugh. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Merlin is my apprentice, he’s not -”
“Trust me, I don’t believe it either,” Prince Arthur interrupted grimly. “But it’s out of my hands. The king decided it must be Merlin.”
“What must be Merlin?” Merlin demanded. “Er, I - what about me?”
The prince’s unimpressed blue stare swung back towards Merlin. “My father,” he said icily, “has decided that I have three months to train you to be a knight. His intentions are not to be questioned; his will is simply to be obeyed.”
“Of course, Sire,” Gaius said. He’d regained his breath, but still had a bewildered expression pulling his eyebrows into even more impressive gymnastics than usual. “But Merlin isn’t nobility. He can’t be a knight.”
“And my lack of nobility is the least of all reasons I can’t be a knight,” Merlin added. The prince made a face that said he quite agreed with Merlin, his eyes lingering on Merlin’s arms and chest in a highly insulting way.
“The king made his choice,” Prince Arthur started, but he paused, face going thoughtful. “Though … Gaius, he’s your apprentice, you said?”
“Yes, Sire.”
The prince started to smile. “Then perhaps, there’s a way out of this mess. Come with me.”
“But the patient -”
“False alarm,” Merlin said in a rush. “Barely any harm done at all. She’s fine!”
Gaius frowned at him, but the prince clapped once. “Come. We’ll see my father straightaway.”
–
“- and surely you couldn’t have known that the man you selected was in fact, Gaius’ apprentice,” Arthur said, trying to inject as much persuasion into his voice as he dared. “And surely, in your wisdom, you wouldn’t deprive Gaius and the people of Camelot of medical assistance. I haven’t begun the training, so choosing another -”
“You seem quite sure of my thoughts, Arthur.” Uther said mildly. “But make no mistake. I do not care who this boy is.”
“But, Father - “
“The fact is that I expect you to fail.”
Arthur stopped, a little stunned.
“Because,” the king continued, “I am proving a point. Knights are made of different stuff than the average man. There is more to serving as a knight than brawn and sinew -”
“Yes, but those things are important too!” Arthur said. “Give me Perrin. In three months’ time, you’ll see that -”
“Peace, Arthur,” Uther rumbled in a tone that suggested anything but. “You will train this boy, and you will fail. God knows I’ve let you and the Lady Morgana get away with enough out of my affection for you, but there are harsh lessons you both need to learn. Only the nobility become knights, and Lady Morgana will marry for the good of the realm.” He spared the peasant a glance, the first since Arthur had entered the room with Gaius and the apprentice trailing behind him. “There’s no real reason to even try, but if you must, I give you leave to proceed.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur could see the boy - Merlin? - fidgeting a little, wringing his hands in a slow, anxious twist. Arthur clenched his jaw, dipping his head into a bow.
“Yes, Sire.”
Merlin trotted out at Arthur’s heels, a few steps ahead of Gaius. He at least had the good sense to wait until the heavy doors of the great hall had shut behind them before speaking again.
“Well, Sire, thanks for the interesting morning, but it looks like the adventure’s over!” He sounded cheerful, and it made Arthur’s mood even worse.
“Nothing is over, Merlin.”
“But the king said you’d fail. He practically told me to not even try. I can’t be a knight!”
Arthur spun on his heel, getting into Merlin’s space and making him nearly stumble back into Gaius. “Of course you can’t! Look at you! A light breeze would blow you away.”
Arthur wasn’t expecting much of a response - usually peasants were smart enough to allow him to have the last word, if they spoke to him at all - but to his surprise, Merlin flushed a deep red and glared at him. “I’m tougher than I look. I could take you apart with - “
Perhaps it was the shock of Merlin talking back, or the lingering mortification of his father’s dismissal, but he found himself twisting Merlin’s arm back to force him into a half-crouch. He could feel the other man trembling with the strain of his muscles, twisted painfully against Arthur’s grip; almost distantly, he could hear Gaius’ protests. He ignored the physician, all his focus on Merlin. “I dare you to keep talking,” Arthur breathed. One more jerk and he could dislocate the man’s shoulder, break his arm -
“Is this part of the training, Arthur?”
Morgana’s voice broke through the roaring in Arthur’s ears. He dropped Merlin’s arm and stepped back. “Morgana.”
Morgana had one of her Court Smiles on; the slightly widened eyes and sweet curve of lips worked wonders on the toughest of warriors, the stuffiest of lords and, apparently, on weedy, insolent physician apprentices. Merlin was bowing to her clumsily, his strained arm held stiffly at his side.
“Milady.”
“You’re to train with Arthur? What’s your name?”
“I’m Merlin, milady. And - the king said -”
“The king wants us to fail,” Arthur broke in. “I’m sorry, Morgana.”
“Then prove him wrong,” Morgana said. “You said it yourself, you can train - “
“Look at him. Really look,” Arthur said flatly. “I’ll bet he can’t even lift a sword.”
“Don’t listen to Arthur,” Morgana addressed Merlin directly. “You’ll try, won’t you?”
Merlin’s face was doing something complicated; his eyes, bluer than Arthur had originally realized, were darting between Arthur and Morgana, a mix of anger and regret.
“Morgana, I know what this means for you.” Arthur blew out a sigh, suddenly feeling wretched. “And I wish there was a way I could get you out of -”
“There is a way,” Morgana interrupted. She turned back to Merlin, taking his hand. “The king wishes me to marry Earl Hatherfast in three months’ time. The earl is a noble man, to be sure, but he does not hold the keys to my happiness. All our marriage would do is allow Uther access to the earl’s force of a hundred knights.”
“Morgana,” Arthur hissed, “that information is not to be shared.”
“As if Merlin and Gaius are a risk to Camelot’s safety,” Morgana retorted. “Merlin, the king knows I do not wish to be married to Hatherfast and has given me one chance at clemency. If Arthur - if the prince can train an ordinary man, if he can train you to become a knight, he proves that we don’t need the earl’s hundred knights when men of Camelot can be called to our defense if we must call for aid. I would be free.”
Merlin appeared to be doing his best impression of a fish; mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
“It’s a lot to ask, I know,” Morgana pressed on. “But I am throwing myself on your mercy.”
Arthur could pinpoint the moment Merlin broke under the force of Morgana’s cow eyed damsel-in-distress routine; the peasant’s face was open in a way that most courtiers learned to correct as children, far before the political intrigues of courtly life could take advantage.
“My lady, I don’t want to get your hopes up. But I’ll do the best I can,” he slid a glance at Arthur, some of the anger from earlier still obvious on his face, “if the prince will still have me.”
“He’ll have you,” Morgana assured.
“He doesn’t have a choice,” Arthur grumbled, but he sighed at Morgana’s glare. “Merlin, is it? Be ready at first light at the armory. I’m sure we have some mail small enough to fit you.”
–
“He’s a royal prat, Gaius! Did you hear that, “‘Merlin, is it?’” Merlin put on his best “I’m a posh clotpole” voice, working the pestle against the comfrey roots viciously. “As if he didn’t know my name, after almost pulling my bloody arm off - “
Gaius caught his hand gently, pulling the mortar away. “These will be no good to anybody if you pulverize them into useless pulp, Merlin. I’ve taught you that much.”
“And there’s much you have left to teach me!” Merlin said. “It’s not fair!”
“No one is arguing that, Merlin.” Gaius set the mortar down with a sigh. “But there’s no escaping your destiny, it seems. And to that end, you’ll need to be careful. More careful than you’ve been since you arrived.”
“I’m careful, Gaius.”
“We’d barely met before you were performing greater works of magic than this castle has seen in twenty years,” Gaius said dryly. Merlin made a face.
“So I was supposed to let you fall?”
Gaius ignored that. “Prince Arthur will be watching you closely. You’ve lost any anonymity or protection your status as simply my apprentice would have given you. You must take this seriously.”
Merlin sighed. “I am, Gaius. I just wish … I won’t be able to win a sword fight, let alone knock anyone off of a horse with a stick. Lady Morgana will have to marry that nobleman, and I’ll have wasted a season of working with you being beat up by that bellend - and for what? So the king can prove a point?”
“Perhaps,” Gaius said. “Though, take heart. There is some honor in taking on considerable odds to help another person. Even if,” he added, sounding a little sorry, “the task at hand is … insurmountable.”
“Thanks, I think,” Merlin said.
Gaius turned to face him, and Merlin blinked in surprise at the look in the old man’s eyes. “No matter how you want to prevail, Merlin, promise me you will not use any magic to your benefit. Not to be stronger, or faster - no magic at all.”
Merlin thought of the icy terror he felt when he’d thought the prince had seen the little orbs of light at the crofter’s hut, when he’d imagined he and the woman who’d healed herself put to the sword for defying the king’s law.
“I promise.”
–
Merlin couldn’t be any worse, Arthur thought grimly, if he tried.
The first week was to be expected; Arthur put him with a small group of squires learning to handle a waster, a wooden sword heavy enough to mimic the real thing. The field master had them pair up, putting Merlin with the tallest, burliest lad, Lord Leodegrance’s eldest son.
Merlin dropped it on the lad’s foot after two seconds.
As a group, the squires almost seemed to like pain; the rights of passage of the first black eye, the broken noses, the raw skin from hours of sweat and chafing in mail - those all were wounds the squires bore with delighted pride. Arthur remembered the feeling: thinking you were invincible, suffering a few blows to prove your mettle, the thrill of delivering a good strike for the first time. But Leodegrance the younger didn’t seem to think Merlin’s clumsiness translated into a badge of honor.
The lad was fifteen, and big for his age; he stood nose-to-nose with Merlin with twice his bulk. So when he shoved Merlin, the other man went down. Hard.
“Leo!” The field master, Sir Fredrick, barked across the training field. “Touch only with the waster.”
From his position off of the field, Arthur watched as Merlin staggered to his feet under the weight of his chainmail and armor. Leodegrance didn’t offer a hand up; the moment Merlin was mostly upright, the squire swung the waster right across Merlin’s ribs, sending him crumbling back down again.
Sir Fredrick had made his way closer to the pair, and Arthur half-expected one of the field master’s famous example strikes against Leodegrance - a good way to learn humility, Arthur knew - but instead, he just nodded. “You telegraphed the hit, Leo. Don’t spend as much time on the backswing; use your center to generate the power for the blow instead of the momentum.”
“Yes, sir,” Leodegrance bowed his head, looking for all the world a courtly young squire heeding his master’s command, and not some bully dispensing dishonorable blows.
On the one hand, Arthur understood. Sir Fredrick hadn’t voiced his displeasure in so many words when Arthur had shown up a week ago with the peasant in tow, but his opinion had been writ large all over his face. The man had trained knights for a decade; Arthur was certain schooling a lowborn like Merlin was just shy of insulting, not to mention completely bewildering. In addition to Sir Fredrick’s personal feelings on the matter, the knight wouldn’t go out of his way to chastise a nobleman’s son on behalf of a commoner, if he wanted to keep his favor and position.
On the other hand, this was meant to be a learning-rich environment, and Arthur was nothing if not a dedicated teacher.
“Leodegrance,” Arthur called. The movement of the other battling squires on the field paused, and all eyes swung around to the prince. He selected a spare waster from the rack, testing its balance with a quick flick of his wrist. “Demonstrate to me you understand Sir Fredrick’s point. Attack.”
The lad looked nervously between Arthur’s face and the waster. “Sire?”
“Don’t telegraph, that’s what he said. Come on, attack!”
Leodegrance hesitated for a breath longer, before drawing his shoulder back and -
With a lunge and a twist of his hand, Arthur had the lad disarmed and stumbling backwards, nearly tripping over where Merlin was still sprawled on the grass. Arthur tutted, tucking the blunted point of the waster under the cross of the squire’s practice sword and flipping it away. “I believe Sir Fredrick told you not to spend so much time on the backswing. You should not require a twist here -” he tapped the lad on the pauldron, “so much as a tightening of the abdomen -” he punctuated with another tap to the plackart, “that you follow through with your shoulder. Do you understand?”
Red-faced, the squire nodded.
“Good. Again.”
“Sire?”
“Am I not speaking English?” Arthur snapped. “Get your weapon and attack.”
He made Leodegrance try four more times, each time finding the easy opportunity to make the boy’s waster spin away from his grip. Internally, Arthur admitted that he was trying hard to follow the instruction; the last attempt was nearly flawless, if not weak from the strain of being soundly disarmed over and over again.
“Mark me, all of you,” Arthur called. “You’ve been given an opportunity. Don’t waste it with squabbling among you. Your duty here is to protect your homes and holdings, and above all, your people. Listen hard and improve.”
He nodded to Sir Fredrick, who nodded grimly back.
“And you,” Arthur said, pausing at the peasant’s side. “Get up.”
“My apologies, Your Highness,” Merlin said. He rolled up onto all fours, then awkwardly pushed up into a wobbling stand. “I wasn’t sure how long you’d be showing off. Thought I’d take advantage of a rest while I had one.”
“You were trounced by a fifteen year old,” Arthur pointed out. “Make all the fun you want, but he would have killed you if this was an actual battle.”
“Fifteen? That lad’s the size of a cave troll,” Merlin said. He had a line of dust down the side of his sweaty face, from where his cheek had hit the ground from Leodegrance’s shove. Arthur guessed he’d have a bruise, too. “About the intelligence of one, too.”
“Weren’t you listening to me?” Arthur said. “You’re just as subject to petty squabbles as the children. And, of everyone, you should be listening the hardest! You know the least of everyone here - you’re worse than a child, you’re a beanpole with sticks for arms and sawdust for brains.”
Merlin rolled his eyes. Arthur gaped; no one rolled their eyes at royalty. Only Morgana ever got away with -
With unexpected speed for a peasant, Merlin lurched forward to bring his waster up in a diagonal strike. Arthur blocked the blow automatically, his mind still a step or two behind. Merlin’s strike had all the force of a baby lamb kicking its heels, and he almost fell over again after meeting the counterstrike, but he’d surprised Arthur. None of the other squires had achieved that.
“Pathetic,” Arthur said, just for the pleasure of watching Merlin’s cheeks burn a bright, furious red under the sweaty grime. “You’re telegraphing the hit worse than Leodegrance, and with half his strength.”
“I’m trying,” Merlin gritted out. “Forgive me, Sire, for not -“
“You know what would help?” Arthur interrupted. “A few laps around the training field.”
“What?!”
“It’s a time-honored way to build the strength. Three laps, I should think,” Arthur said pointedly.
The look Merlin sent him was pure hate, but he obediently set off on a slow jog, clanking with every step.
–
Everything hurt.
Merlin groaned a little, but stopped when even that made his lungs ache in new and interesting ways. Whimpering hurt too, but that didn’t stop him.
“Merlin, come. I’ve prepared a salve with henbane and hemlock you can use after a soak,” Gaius’ voice came through the open door to Merlin’s tiny room. “If you fall asleep like that you’ll feel ten times worse.”
“It’s been a week of torture,” Merlin whimpered. “A week. How am I to do this for three months?”
“Think of it this way,” Gaius suggested. “It’s only two months and three weeks, now.”
“For a court physician, your bedside manner leaves so much to be desired.”
“Bath. Salve. Then sleep,” Gaius said.
It took a few more minutes of wallowing before Merlin heaved himself up and into the main room, hobbling behind the screen Gaius had set up around their washbin. He took an embarrassingly long time to struggle out of his shift, and lifting his legs to step into the tub was agony, but the steaming water was a soothing relief. “ Hǣtan ,” he muttered, biting back a groan of pure pleasure as the water heated even more with the golden touch of his magic.
“Merlin!” Gaius snapped, unseen on the far side of the screen.
“Gaius,” Merlin whined back. “No one is here.”
Even the rustling of books or whatever Gaius was fussing with sounded judgemental. “May I remind you of that last time you performed your … gifts and thought you were alone, at the crofter’s hut?”
“Oh, gods, it may have been kinder had he executed me then,” Merlin muttered, wincing as he shifted in the bath.
“Merlin, you must -!”
A crisp knock on the door interrupted Gaius, and Merlin shrank back into the tub as he heard the physician cross the room to answer it. “Morris, hello. Are you well?”
“I am. The prince sent me to find the new squire, Merlin.”
“Did he? I’m surprised - I thought the prince just finished with Merlin’s training for the day. It seems perhaps a little misguided to not allow the boy to rest.” The reproach in Gaius’ voice warmed Merlin’s insides, even as he bristled against being referred to as ‘boy.’ A week of spending time among actual boys - though they were largely built, well, quite large - and Merlin didn’t feel like he belonged to that word anymore.
“I don’t question His Highness,” the man - Morris - answered primly. “Is he here?”
“He is,” Gaius said. “Though as his physician, I must say Merlin is undergoing prescribed care. King Uther has given me leave to treat my patients as I see fit, so Prince Arthur will need to wait.”
“His Highness requested Merlin’s presence immediately,” Morris said. “And that was nearly a candlemark ago. I searched half the castle before coming here. I had no idea the trainee wasn’t quartered with the others - nor, I daresay, did the prince realize. It is highly irregular.”
“The entire situation is irregular,” Gaius said dryly. “Report to your master that I shall send Merlin once he has had his rest.”
“But - “
“Good day, Morris.”
Merlin heard the door being firmly shut against the manservant’s spluttered protests. “Thank you, Gaius.”
“Of course, my boy,” Gaius appeared around the side of the screen, holding a little glass bottle and a drying cloth. “That Morris is a good man. Highly dedicated - some may say too dedicated - to his work, but he does tend to overthink his own importance as manservant to Prince Arthur. I find it healthy to balance his nature every now and again with little things like reason and compromise.”
“Always on the job, aren’t you, Gaius?” Merlin said wryly. Gaius merely raised an eyebrow and deposited the bottle and cloth on a low table next to the tub.
“The work of a physician rarely stops, Merlin. Despite this strange detour you’re on, don’t forget you are still my apprentice. This is your future, too.” Gaius disappeared again around the screen. “And don’t dawdle. Physician’s orders or no, the prince will likely still want to see you later today.”
All the same, Merlin lingered in the bath until the water finally cooled around him, feeling the most peace since he’d started the thrice-blasted training. As the sounds of Gaius’ puttering grew more distant, Merlin chanced another spell.
“Hælan,” he breathed, and watched in delight as a soft shimmer of gold pulsed through the bathwater like a tiny wave. Everywhere it touched his body, Merlin felt his muscles relax, hurts and cuts soothed away into dull aches. “I love magic,” Merlin muttered to himself. He almost felt good as new, and finally ready to leave the comfort of the bath.
Merlin was nearly done with the drying cloth when he heard Gaius’ workroom door slam open, followed by the sound of well-made boot soles clacking smartly against the flagstones.
“Merlin!”
Merlin nearly fell over. “P-Prince Arthur?”
The prince didn’t have Morris’ scruples of waiting to be invited inside, nor did he have Gaius playing defense. In a few short strides he was around the changing screen, glaring at Merlin.
Merlin, who was entirely naked save for the drying cloth he had clutched around his hips.
“Your Highness,” Merlin squeaked. He coughed, helplessly aware of the heat rising in his cheeks. The shock of the situation helpfully kept other things from rising - even though the prince was more handsome than Merlin was all that comfortable with, especially semi-nude. “Sorry - Your Highness. What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.” The prince didn’t seem to notice Merlin’s embarrassment - but he did notice Merlin’s lack of clothing. He appraised Merlin’s chest and arms as if he was a potential buyer at the horse market; Merlin half-expected Prince Arthur to check his teeth next. “No wonder you crumple with every blow, Merlin. Have you no meat on your bones?”
He seized Merlin’s upper arm in one hand, squeezing the muscles there. “Really, Merlin. You must eat more. Venison and coney in a good rich bone broth builds strength, though,” he added, looking doubtful, “it isn’t some miracle potion. Ah well. Every little thing will help, I suppose.”
“Excuse me - “
The prince ignored Merlin’s protest. “My manservant tells me you’re here under Gaius’ care. However, you look relatively hale to me.”
Merlin took a moment to curse magic - the bruises and scrapes had all washed away under the healing charm on the bathwater - before hitching the drying cloth even tighter around his waist. “Physician’s orders, Sire.”
“Whatever,” Prince Arthur scoffed. “What irks me, Merlin, is that you aren’t quartered with the other squires and knights. Then, when I send Morris to fetch you, he takes half the day only to be denied. And then, I spend my valuable time coming to find you myself. Do you see my point, here?”
“That Morris isn’t very good at his job, Sire?” Merlin tried. The prince glared.
“My point,” he jabbed a finger at Merlin’s chest, “is that I’ve been given the impossible task to turn you, the human version of a piece of soggy toast, into a knight, and you can’t even be where you’re supposed to be when I need to find you. I require you to be accessible at all hours for training. We don’t have time to waste - and a prince’s time should never be wasted.”
Prince Arthur turned on his heel and left without another word; Merlin gaped after him for a moment, before scrambling to pull his clothes back on. By the time he stumbled out from behind the screen, the prince was striding back into the room with two servants on his heels.
“Good, you’re dressed. Where are your things?”
“My things?” Merlin repeated.
“Yes. The steward is setting aside chambers for you with the other men.”
With horror, Merlin remembered the book - the book of spells - hidden under his bed. Though, hidden was a loose term; it was stuffed inside a spare shirt and piled under dirty hose, less from a stealth standpoint and more because Merlin couldn’t be bothered to clean his room. “Sire, I’m still an apprentice here, Gaius needs me -”
“Gaius lived a long time without an apprentice, he’ll manage,” the prince said. “For the next three months, you’re mine.”
“Two months, three weeks,” Merlin said without thinking.
Prince Arthur’s face was thunderous.
–
The new quarters were the smallest of the knights’ lodging, and to Merlin they seemed like a palace.
The antechamber was half the size of Gaius’ entire workshop, fitted with a brazier in one corner and a small, sturdy-looking table and chairs. There were two doors off of the antechamber; one led to a small sleeping quarters for the squire Merlin certainly didn’t have, and the other to the main bedroom.
“It’s not quite to the standard we would give to a knight, but,” the steward fussed with the bedding, misreading Merlin’s gobsmacked expression. “I understand the circumstances are a bit unique. All of the other squires are quartered with the knights they serve, but as you are without a master, I didn’t think it hurt to put you here.”
“This is much more than I ever dreamed of. It’s enormous!” Merlin said. Aside from the bed - which was a beautiful four poster thing, topped with blankets and pillows and a mattress filled with fresh straw - the room boasted another table (why would anyone need two tables in one living space?) a large cabinet for clothes, a changing screen and wash bin, and to Merlin’s eternal delight, a fireplace.
The servants had bundled Merlin’s things together with little care, and hadn’t seemed to notice the pile of laundry under his bed. Unlike the steward, who was treating Merlin like a real knight prospect, it seemed that some of the serving force of Camelot were more annoyed with Merlin’s temporary promotion. Thankfully, their annoyance and subsequent half-hearted attempt to move his things played in his favor. The magic book remained undisturbed.
Merlin was stroking the blanket appreciatively as the prince strode in.
“Sire, I believe all of your wishes have been fulfilled,” the steward said, bowing to the prince. “As requested, I’ve sent a set of his shirts and trousers down to the seamstress for measurements. The new garments will be ready within the week.”
“Hang on,” Merlin said. The prince looked at him with a little frown.
“You know, Merlin, it’s customary to bow to your prince. And, not to argue as he’s improving your station.”
Merlin bent awkwardly at the waist, trying to mimic the steward’s movement. “Not that I’m not grateful, but what’s wrong with the clothes I have?”
“Nothing, if you’re a physician’s apprentice,” Prince Arthur said. He sounded impatient, and Merlin fought the urge to interrupt with another protest. “But as a squire - or whatever you are, since you didn’t earn a squire’s title properly - you represent Camelot and my squires and knights don’t dress like,” he waved a hand, wearing a face like he’d just smelt something unpleasant, “you.”
Prat. Prat. Prat! He’s awful. “Thank you, then, I guess,” Merlin muttered.
The prince sent him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m not putting you into a funny hat. I could, you know. And striped leggings with bells around the ankles. You’d make a better jester than a warrior, certainly.”
“The only flaw in that plan, Sire, is any wit may go right over your head,” Merlin said. “I would hate to vex you.”
“And yet, here you stand,” the prince said, voice dry. “You’d be terrible. Especially as I do believe they still behead jesters for presuming their princes witless.”
Merlin blanched, and Prince Arthur sighed.
“Enough. Settle in and meet me on the jousting field in a half hour.”
“Jousting?” Merlin spluttered. “But - I thought we were done for today!”
“Done training physically,” Prince Arthur said. “But every moment spent not honing some skill is wasted. But this will be good entertainment - we’ll watch the knights train, and you’ll tell me as many flaws and strengths as you see.”
He delivered this as if he was offering Merlin a very special treat. Merlin suppressed a groan.
–
“He’s not any better,” Morgana murmured, watching Merlin barely fend off his opponent. Arthur had caught her watching the training sessions from the berfrois in the full sun one too many times over the last month, and finally relented. He’d ordered a covered pavilion set up especially for her use.
Arthur watched as the squire with Merlin - the thirteen year old son of Sir Tristan, Marc - got his waster between Merlin’s legs and sent the older man sprawling to the ground. “Morgana, it’s been three weeks. Marc’s been training for this since birth. The fact that Merlin was standing as long as he was is a victory in itself.”
“Uther wants Merlin to beat a knight , not a squire,” Morgana said. Her maidservant reached over and squeezed her hand. “Is there no way to hurry along with his training?”
“Not without killing him,” Arthur said grimly.
Moving Merlin to the knights’ quarters almost seemed a bit pointless - sure, Arthur knew where to find the man, but the amount of time Merlin spent inside his new lodging was negligible. Arthur had him up before dawn in the training field, and he knew Sir Fredrick usually didn’t release the squires until well after dark. It was clear Merlin was exhausted. Just last week, Merlin had fallen asleep astride the horse Arthur selected for his training; had the beast been anything less than a docile mount fit for children, the peasant would have been bucked off in a heartbeat.
On the field, Merlin stood back up and dropped back into a fighting stance. Arthur watched him with grudging admiration. “Lesser men would have quit by now,” he said.
Morgana looked at him. “Is that … respect? From Arthur Pendragon? For a peasant?”
Arthur scoffed. “I respect peasants.”
“Of course you do,” Morgana said, in a tone that suggested exactly the opposite.
Whatever Arthur wanted to say to Morgana died on his tongue - Merlin had used Marc’s same tripping maneuver against him, and this time it was Marc who went down. Morgana cheered, rising with her maidservant and hurrying down to the training field.
“Morgana!” Arthur hissed, but she was already at Merlin’s side and clutching his hand.
He slumped back into his seat. It felt cruel watching Morgana get her hopes up, when there wasn’t a chance in heaven or earth that Merlin would be able to defeat a real knight by the equinox. But it felt equally harsh to disabuse her of any solace she found in the face of her fate.
A small group of squires had gathered around the field, watching Morgana say something obnoxiously earnest to Merlin. One kicked at the ground, obviously in a foul temper.
“Bloody Merlin,” the boy, Drustan, said. “Not only is he the prince’s project peasant, now he’s got the lady Morgana fawning over him.”
Before Arthur could make his presence known, Leodegrance the Younger cuffed Drustan up the head. “Be respectful.”
“Right,” Sir Ellias’ boy, Piers, sniggered a little. “It’s not the lady’s fault her champion’s got the reflexes of a fat toad.”
Arthur smothered a laugh.
“I wish Lady Morgana would congratulate me on a strike well made,” Drustan grumbled. “Sir Pellinore just tells me he expects me to succeed. Old Merlin barely needs to stand on his own two feet before every royal is falling over themselves to tell him what a smart boy he is.”
“I wonder if they tell him good boy when he uses the privy,” Piers mused. That got a laugh out of the other boys, including Leodegrance.
“Hope he enjoys his praise,” Leodregrance said. “We’ll knock him down a peg or three, won’t we, lads?”
Morgana was making her way back to the pavilion, stopping the squires’ conversation as they bowed low to her, murmuring respectful greetings. Arthur shook his head. He remembered being a squire, of course - no wonder Merlin’s treatment was stinging their pride. The knights they were squiring for were hard but fair; Sir Fredrick was even harder, and less effusive with his praise. Even Arthur tried not to congratulate one boy more over the other, knowing how small hurts festered within their competitive spirit, or worse - how word got back to their noblemen parents, and how Uther would chastise him for making Lord So-and-so or Sir Whomever upset at playing political favorites.
“He’s in good spirits,” Morgana said gaily, taking her seat again.
“Wonderful,” Arthur said. He rolled his eyes. “That’s really all there is to knighthood. A good attitude.”
–
Merlin jerked awake, inhaling ice-cold water as he jackknifed up in bed.
“Rise and shine, Prince’s project!” Leodegrance’s voice was unmistakable, even as Merlin choked and gasped for air. He blinked water out of his eyes, scrambling to free his feet from soaking sheets. The squires must have carried one of the water troughs in from the stables outside; his entire bed was drenched.
“What the -” Merlin coughed, and the boys descended into another rattle of laughter.
“Isn’t it true that most peasants have fleas?” Leodegrance said. “If you’re going to be mucking about with royalty and members of the court, we mustn’t have you stinking like a pig sty!”
Merlin finally got free of his bedding; there was so much water sloshed on the floor, he slipped and half-fell back into bed as the squires howled their amusement. Merlin’s magic boiled in his veins; it would be so easy to send them flying across the room, or pin them to the ceiling and listen to their sniggering turn into screams. It would be so satisfying after weeks of petty torment -
“That’s the coordination we’ve come to know from Old Merlin,” Piers crowed. “Makes sense you’d overbalance, with a pair of ears like yours!”
“Do your lords know you’re out of bed?” Merlin asked. His throat felt scratchy from coughing up the water, and his mouth tasted brackish. They probably took the trough right from the horses and he resisted the urge to spit.
“Probably not,” Leodegrance shrugged. “Why? Going to run to your betters and squeal, piggy?”
Merlin stared at the boy; so this was the fine example of nobility Uther was so obsessed with protecting. Hate rose in his chest, nearly as choking as the water.
“He might tell the prince, mate,” one of the others muttered, and Leodegrance’s face became dangerous.
“He won’t dare,” Leodegrance said coolly. “Right, Merlin? Because you might be the prince’s little pet project; you might even bend over for him -”
Whatever remaining air Merlin had in his lungs punched out of him in a rush.
“- but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your dirty little mouth shut.”
“Or we’ll do it for you,” Piers added. “Actually, better yet, you might as well leave now. You’re just embarrassing yourself.”
Only years of fear, paranoia and training kept Merlin’s magic from leaping to the surface of his skin and crackling like hot oil on a pan. He held himself still as the boys retreated from his chambers, two of them lugging the trough away to hide the evidence of their hazing. It wasn’t until their voices had drifted into silence down the corridor did Merlin turn and thrust an open palm to the banked fire in the grate, pent-up magic causing flames to leap up the fireplace and blacken the hearth.
The fire was still crackling hot in the grate when Merlin heard a timid knock on the door. “Sir - um, Merlin? Are you awake?”
It was Morgana’s maidservant. Merlin shot a quelling look towards the fireplace before hurrying to the door.
Gwen blinked at him. “You’re … all wet.”
“I am,” Merlin agreed.
“On purpose?” Gwen asked, sounding doubtful.
Merlin sighed, and opened the door wide to invite her inside. Gwen followed him through the antechamber into the bedroom, where the puddle had spread to cover nearly half the floor. Her wide eyes took in the sheets and coverlet hanging half-off the bed, sopping wet.
“What happened?”
Briefly, Merlin recounted the attack. “They’re just - they’re stupid boys,” Merlin said. The anger came rushing back, and he fought the urge to press his knuckles into his eyes against the sudden surge of tears.
Gwen looked as though she was about to say something sympathetic or comforting, but seemed to change her mind after looking at his face. Merlin was absurdly grateful; any hint of softness would certainly make him cry, and that on top of the humiliation of being taunted by a pack of pubescent boys would be too much to bear. Instead, Gwen suggested they find some mops and sawdust. “They may have done you a favor,” Gwen said brightly. “Not all of these floors get so thoroughly cleaned more than once a year.”
“You don’t need to help me,” Merlin said, following her to one of the servant’s supply halls. He half wished she would leave - the mess would be gone in the span of a heartbeat with magic - but on the other hand, her friendliness was a welcome relief between the horrible squires, the prince prat, and the relentless Sir Fredrick. “Anyways, it’s not even dawn. Why are you even out of bed?”
Gwen glanced over one shoulder, and spoke in a low voice. “My lady gets nightmares, sometimes. Gaius has a draught that helps a little, and I heard laughter from down here as I came back from his rooms.” She brightened up again, and shoved a bucket of sawdust into his arms. “And of course I’ll help.”
Together, they made quick work of soaking up the extra water, shoveling the sodden sawdust back into the buckets to be dumped in the midden. Merlin dragged all of the chairs in his living quarters over in front of the fire and they draped the wet sheets across them to dry.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you, actually,” Gwen said. She wrung out the corner of a blanket into her bucket, looking up at him through a curtain of dark lashes. “Lady Morgana speaks about you often. Her spirits have been so low ever since the king made his decision about her marriage, but ever since you began your training my lady has some hope. She’s very grateful for your efforts.”
“Selfishly, I do wish the king had chosen anyone else,” Merlin admitted. “But I feel even worse when I think about her. I know I’m not very … I’m not exactly knight material.”
“Definitely not - oh, I mean, just, you know,” Gwen’s blush was obvious from the firelight. “What I mean is you’re trying . And Lady Morgana isn’t the only one who’s noticed.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Well,” Gwen tucked a curly strand of hair behind one ear. “I’ve a brother - Elyan. He’s a blacksmith like my dad, so he’s been around swords and lances and axes all his life. Elyan can use them all as well as any knight. It’s not fair that he isn’t allowed a chance to protect the kingdom, or improve his station, just because he’s the son of a blacksmith and not some lord or earl.”
“Well,” Merlin said, feeling awkward and somehow even worse. “If only Elyan had been chosen. Then, Lady Morgana would be free and he’d get his dream.”
Gwen shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe the king chose the right person after all, despite himself.”
Merlin had no idea what she meant by that. He brushed his wet hands against his equally damp trousers and sighed. “Well, thanks for the help, Gwen. Nothing left to do now but wait for it all to dry.”
Gwen touched his forearm. “Good luck, Merlin. We’re rooting for you.”
–
There was no one Arthur trusted better than his first knight, Leon.
Leon had the unfortunate happenstance of being the fourth son of a duke. All three of Leon’s older brothers had small armies of children of their own, so there was scant chance that Leon would ever inherit his father’s titles or holdings. Unlike others in his position, Leon never seemed dissatisfied with the hand life gave him.
Arthur remembered their training together vividly; Leon was calm where most of the pages were scared or excitable to be training alongside their prince. He hadn’t tried to curry Arthur’s favor with flattery or worse, by letting Arthur beat him. Leon’s father was one of Uther’s closest advisors, and Leon was the first person the king had ever encouraged Arthur to befriend. Before long, Arthur couldn’t imagine a more loyal and steadfast friend or a more strategic and capable knight.
“So?” Arthur prompted. Leon watched the training field carefully, his expression giving nothing away. “What do you think?”
“He’s quick,” Leon said finally. On the field, Merlin was pulling himself back up into a standing position after being knocked down again . As they watched, he demonstrated the quickness Leon saw by hopping backwards from his opponent’s swing. “And he keeps showing up. That’s admirable.”
“But beyond that?” Arthur asked.
Leon shook his head. “Arthur, there’s no one better at training than you. I can’t tell you anything you haven’t already seen and analyzed.”
They stood together in silence for another moment, watching Merlin attempt to meet the squire’s volley of thrusts. Movement in the berfrois caught Arthur’s eye - for a moment, he thought maybe Morgana had snuck back to watch the training, forgoing the pavilion - but instead he saw two men studying the field intensely. Arthur jerked his chin in their direction.
“Who are they?”
Leon shaded his eyes with one gloved hand. “Ah, those two. Have you not seen the spectators before, Sire?”
“My seeing and analyzing is apparently too focused on the squires,” Arthur said wryly. “Spectators, you say?”
“Indeed.” Leon said. “I’ve noticed they started appearing a fortnight ago. Only when the squires train. Sometimes as many as a dozen, but mostly only a few. And those two,” he nodded at the pair, “have been here nearly every day.”
“I don’t recognize them,” Arthur said.
“It is unlikely you would,” Leon said. “They’re lowborn. That man, with the shorn head - he’s Tom’s son.”
“The blacksmith, Tom?”
“The very same,” Leon nodded again. “And the other is Gallic, I think. I don’t know what brought him to Camelot, but the guards have kept an eye on him since he started showing up. Seems harmless.”
“Why are they here?”
“For him,” Leon said simply. “For Merlin.”
That Arthur could see; the two men were watching Merlin’s fight, muttering to each other and pointing. The blacksmith’s son brought his fists together - like he was holding a sword, Arthur realized - and demonstrated some movement to the Gallic fellow. Arthur glanced back at Merlin; sure enough, if Merlin had parried with that exact move, he would have put young Piers on the defensive with the next stroke. Instead, he continued to move steadily backwards, barely fending the lad off.
“I don’t understand,” Arthur said. “A visiting Gaul and a blacksmith’s son have nothing to do with a physician’s apprentice.”
“Save the fact that he was given an opportunity that I imagine they would wish for themselves,” Leon’s face was inscrutable as always when Arthur looked at him. “It certainly hasn’t escaped the knights’ notice that a common man has joined their squires. It’s been the gossip of the taverns across the citadel; I wouldn’t be surprised if most of the county knows about the Prince’s Project.”
“The Prince’s Project?” Arthur said, incredulous. That phrase tickled his memory; perhaps he’d overheard the squires talking about it.
Leon shrugged, a hint of a smile making his reddish-blond beard twitch. “Not the most clever name, I grant you, but it seems fitting. Gods know you aren’t usually so attentive to the squires’ training. In fact, the men have started to ask when you’ll be back to work with us knights instead.”
“I doubt you’ll let them grow soft in my absence,” Arthur said. On the berfrois, the two men winced; sure enough, Merlin had gone down yet again on the field. He struggled back up to his feet, in the slow way Arthur knew was the result of screaming muscles. “It must be painful, to see someone else doing what you wish you could. And doing badly,” he added, feeling a little rotten even as he said it. It wasn’t Merlin’s fault, Arthur supposed. He hadn’t asked for this.
“I don’t know, Sire,” Leon said. Arthur followed his gaze; the pair in the stands were clapping softly at Merlin’s recovery. “I rather imagine Merlin is giving them hope.”
Now that Arthur knew to look for them, he started noticing the spectators congregating during Merlin’s training. As Leon said, the Gaul and the blacksmith were there nearly every day; another frequent visitor was a bearded man who often carried a flagon and shouted praise and obscenities with equal delight. Arthur recognized a handful of familiar faces from around the castle, like stablehands and kitchen’s boys.
Some of the other knights started to join as well. Sir Pellinore was the first - Arthur noticed his squire, Drustan, looking a little pale under his master’s scrutiny - followed by Sir Kay, Yvain and Bors. They were little better than the lowborn viewers, obviously watching Merlin more than their own squires, cheering and groaning in turn.
“This is becoming a spectacle, Sire,” Sir Fredrick said. “Can’t you discourage this behavior?”
“Consider this an opportunity,” Arthur suggested. “There will be worse distractions on the battlefield, Fred.”
Arthur could hear the older knight grind his teeth. “All the same, Sire. It’s bad enough the peasant is pulling more of my attention - and yours as well - from the squires’ training. It isn’t fair to neglect their development because of -“
“Because the king hand-selected this man?” Arthur interrupted. “It is untraditional, I understand, but he’s -“
“Hopeless, Sire.” Fredrick said bluntly. “You’ll forgive me for saying so, but I imagine Your Highness appreciates honestly. If I gave that boy a real sword he’s more likely to kill himself with it than an opponent. He’s a good listener, I’ll grant you that, and he’s gotten in some lucky blows here and there, but I’ve had him for a month. He’s not getting much better. Certainly not enough to hold his own.”
“That is unsettling indeed.”
Arthur and Sir Fredrick turned around at Morgana’s cool voice, Sir Fredrick immediately dropping into a low bow.
“My lady, I don’t mean to trouble you.” Sir Fredrick said. “I appreciate your concern for the trainees. I assure you that most of the lads - the noblemen’s sons - are performing admirably. Some even better than expected.”
It occurred to Arthur that Sir Fredrick - and most people, in fact - didn’t understand why Merlin was in training. Aside from Gaius, Arthur hadn’t told a soul. Morgana had confessed to her ladies’ maid, certainly, but Arthur thought it was a matter of national importance not to let on Camelot was worried about its defenses. He’d brought Merlin to Sir Fredrick with no more context than “the king wants him to train for knighthood,” and left it at that. The man would have no idea why Morgana was so invested in a commoner.
He might even draw unsavory conclusions, Arthur thought grimly. Blast Morgana and her never-ending lack of infuriating, unsettling behaviors.
Case in point, Morgana’s gaze had gone icy. “I am not concerned about the noblemen’s sons. Why isn’t Merlin progressing?”
“Lady Morgana speaks, of course, on behalf of young hopefuls everywhere,” Arthur cut in hurriedly. “You see, my father made a wager. With Lady Morgana. And me. If Merlin can pass muster, then other common-born lads can attempt to win their own knighthoods to better serve the realm.”
Sir Fredrick didn’t say anything for a beat, studying Morgana’s face first then Arthur’s. “Sire,” he said finally, “may I speak candidly?”
“Of course.”
“It is well known that not all of the knights come from old, wealthy families,” Sir Fredrick was speaking slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. “In fact, say, Lord Leodegrance. I believe your father granted him a holding just ten years ago. I also believe it is quite small, and not entirely as profitable as one may like. In fact, I think His Lordship may have half-beggared himself to buy a charger and sword for young Leo.”
Arthur understood where Sir Fredrick’s line of reasoning was headed, but Morgana frowned, crossing her arms. “I’m certain Lord Leodegrance’s finances will recover come tax season, Sir Fredrick. What does it matter when it comes to Merlin?”
“My Lady, say you win the wager. Say young men from across the kingdom can come and win their spurs and say their oaths. Now, what does that do to the standing of men like Lord Leodegrance, when the space between a common man and a landowner is allowed to shrink in such a way?”
Arthur watched as Morgana understood the implication, her irritation boiling over into incredulity. “You’re saying that pride and status are enough to dissuade the nobility from allowing good, strong, capable men from serving their king and country?”
“All I’m saying, my Lady, is that it’s hard to wield an unbalanced weapon, and the nobility are to the king what the blade is to the hilt.”
The older knight bowed deeply to them both before turning back to the field. Morgana fumed after him.
“Of all the petty, self-serving -”
Arthur thought about pointing out that Morgana’s self-serving plan was currently making a peasant to get himself slowly pummeled into pulp, but thought better of it. “I agree with you, Morgana. It isn’t right, nor does it uphold the code of chivalry. But it is politics, and Father needs the court to operate smoothly.”
“That’s all fine and good, but Uther was making all that noise about honor and chivalry being some innate quality of a nobleman, but these boys are sneaks and bullies without any concerns of repercussions or consequences -”
“Morgana, what are you talking about?” Arthur asked.
“I’m talking about the cruel tricks they keep playing on Merlin,” Morgana said.
“Beating someone when you’re better at fighting than they are doesn’t make you a sneak or a bully.”
“How about dumping a pig’s trough of filthy water on their heads while they sleep?” Morgana said archly. “Does that uphold the knight’s code?”
“Again, Morgana, what are you -”
“Gwen told me,” Morgana said. “Almost a week ago. The squires nearly flooded his rooms, and that Leodegrance was the ringleader. She spent nearly half the dawn helping Merlin clean up the mess. He wouldn’t tell her everything, but Gwen’s overheard enough of the vile things they say to him when they think no one can hear - they certainly have been tormenting him.”
Across the field, Merlin was in line with the other squires, following a series of drills under Sir Fredrick’s direction. Even as Arthur watched, Leodegrance made an extra-wide swing and his waster smacked into the back of Merlin’s knee with an audible clang, causing the man to stumble forward and nearly fall. Sir Fredrick turned towards the sound, and issued a sharp reprimand for Merlin to get back in line.
“Arthur,” Morgana said. Her voice was soft and small, in a way Arthur hadn’t heard since they were children. “He’s trying to protect me. I hate that he’s suffering because of it.”
–
Merlin had fallen into the habit of taking off as much of his armor as he could manage in the field. It gave the double benefit of ridding himself of the hateful stuff as soon as possible, as well as putting as much distance as possible between him and the rest of the squires on their way to the armory and the knights’ quarters. He had no desire to spend more time with them than absolutely necessary; and he missed the relative peace and quiet of Gaius’ chambers. A few moments alone in between chaos and falling into exhausted sleep was a welcome respite.
“Merlin.”
The prince was crossing the field towards him, and Merlin’s arms were full of vambraces and pauldrons. So much for a respite. He gave a little half bow, nearly dropping his gorget in the process.
“I’ve been thinking,” the prince said.
“A dangerous pastime,” Merlin said without thinking himself. The prince leveled him with a look, but blessedly didn’t take the bait.
“I’ve been going about your education all wrong.” Prince Arthur said instead. “You aren’t a squire; you don’t have their foundation, and you don’t serve a knight. Half of the learning is in the service, after all.”
To Merlin’s surprise, he plucked the teetering gorget out of Merlin’s grip and held out his free hand for more. Nonplussed, Merlin gave him another loose piece of armor. “Does everyone get assigned to a knight?”
“Everyone who becomes a knight themselves does so,” Prince Arthur started walking back towards the castle, and Merlin fell in a half-step behind him. “I squired for Sir Hector, myself. He promised not to take it easy on me just because I was the prince, but I didn’t believe him. I’d compare notes with Leon to make sure we were getting the same tasks, and came home with the same kinds of bruises. Hector was true to his word - and sometimes, he was even worse than Leon’s master. I loved him for that.”
Merlin wanted to point out how mental that was, but the prince was acting a degree more human and Merlin didn’t want to ruin the moment. For his luck, the prince would decide he needed to run more laps.
“Don’t misunderstand me - I still want you to train with Sir Fredrick. What he does is important. He is my stand in for the squires; I drill the knights, keep them sharp and consistent. They need to follow my lead in battle, after all.”
The sun had dipped behind the castle as they walked, backlighting the warm white stones and throwing marvelous shades of sunset around the practice fields. The beauty of the summer evening made the near-normal conversation with Prince Prat feel somehow magical, surreal.
“So am I to be assigned to a knight?” Merlin ventured.
Prince Arthur snorted, shattering Merlin’s fanciful illusion of magic summer nights and common civility. “Heavens no. There’s no man I dislike enough to saddle with you for the next two months. However,” the prince’s face did something odd, showing an emotion Merlin couldn’t decipher. “I haven’t been fair to you with this … wager, or whatever it is. You’re my responsibility. You’ll squire for me.”
“What?” Merlin squawked. The prince shot him a dark look.
“It’s a great honor, you know,” he grumbled. “A high favor. I’ve had to dance around a dozen offers from great lords to take on their sons.”
“So why me, then?”
They had reached the armory; Merlin’s plan to miss all the squires had gone beautifully, and the wide space was quiet except for their footfalls and the sputtering of newly-lit torches. Prince Arthur set Merlin’s armor down carefully on a nearby table, seemingly deep in thought.
“There’s something about you, Merlin,” Prince Arthur said finally. “I just can’t put my finger on it yet. And as my squire, you’ll have my full attention. Perhaps then I can figure you out.”
That sounded ominous.
–
Being the squire to the prince wasn’t at all what Merlin thought. Honestly, he didn’t know what to expect; the other squires had talked about running messages, cleaning armor, taking care of their masters’ horses, and other chores that seemed to have very little to do with learning swordplay or throwing axes or the other bloodthirsty things knights seemed to like to do. Merlin had shown up at Arthur’s door just after dawn as requested on the first day, only to be shown to the prince’s own heavily-laden breakfast table.
“Sire?” Merlin said blankly.
The prince waved a hand at the mouth watering spread. Fresh bread with clotted cream, a trencher of pork and vegetables next to a mug of beer - a veritable feast. “Eat. You need your strength, and I don’t trust you to know how to feed yourself.”
“Hang on,” Merlin said, but decided against feeling offended. The thin porridge that made up the majority of his diet was nothing to defend against roasted carrots and gravy.
While he ate, Prince Arthur laid out his strategy for training. Merlin would take breakfast every morning with the prince, where they would outline their tactics for each day. After breaking their fast, there was an hour of strength practice, where Merlin would presumably lift heavy things to become better at lifting heavy things. Then, two hours of riding, a break for lunch, followed by two hours of weapons training with Arthur, and then the usual training with the other squires. Dinner would be a debrief of the day, and the hours before bed would be reserved for tasks like cleaning armor and sharpening swords.
“Some of my knights have volunteered to help you,” Prince Arthur said. “Naturally, I have many demands on my time and cannot spend every hour of every day working with you. I trust you will give my men the same respect you give me. Well,” he amended. “Respect for your betters is something else we may need to teach you. Your impertinence is … impressive.”
“A compliment and breakfast?” Merlin managed around a mouthful of bread. “Sire, I’m honored.”
“Not a compliment,” Prince Arthur pointed down the table with a fork, dripping a little gravy onto the dark wood surface.
True to his word, Prince Arthur had another obligation that morning and didn’t accompany Merlin to the strength practice. Instead, he left Merlin in the (frighteningly large) hands of another knight - Sir Percival. The man was roughly the size and shape of a castle, with arms so broad that apparently no chainmail had ever been made large enough to contain them.
“Sir Knight,” Merlin said cautiously. The man quirked an eyebrow at him, and shrugged.
“Call me Percy.”
For all of his frightening stature, Merlin found Percy to be a quiet man. He gestured Merlin into position and only spoke when he had to, small corrections and grunts of approval. Though Merlin felt like all of his muscles may collapse, Percy’s small nod at the end of the hour felt better than any of Sir Fredrick’s sessions with the squires.
He didn’t see the prince again until he returned, freshly bathed and exhausted, to the royal chambers. Another feast had been laid out, and Prince Arthur was already working through a cut of venison.
Merlin paused in the doorway after being let inside by Morris. The prince was frowning down at a document, a forkful of venison hanging in midair seemingly forgotten. The firelight caught his jaw with a becoming glow; even the lines of tension around his eyes couldn’t diminish the otherwise strong loveliness of his face.
Oh, Merlin knew it was a terrible idea to oogle one’s monarch. He also knew that the prince’s personality wasn’t even the least attractive thing about the man - the whole beheading of sorcerers was pretty much the worst attribute he could think of - and that had the prince been aware of Merlin’s scrutiny, he’d probably be out running laps again. But Merlin was tired, and even the unending parade of handsome knights he’d been working with all day hardly held a candle to the prince’s objective beauty.
Finally - aware the longer he stood there, the creepier he became - Merlin cleared his throat and bowed when Prince Arthur looked up at him.
“Ah, Merlin,” Prince Arthur set the document aside. “Sit.”
He’d barely taken two mouthfuls of his own dinner before the prince started grilling him on the day’s activities. He seemed satisfied with Merlin’s account, though his gaze kept skipping back over to the document at his elbow. Half-curious, and half-hoping for a break to get back to his truly magnificent meal, Merlin gestured to the parchment.
“Something serious, Sire?”
The prince sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. You’re not the only one in training, Merlin. The king wishes me to read a proposal from Lord Agnethius about grain distribution and taxes for the river country before it comes before the Council tomorrow and I -” he seemed to remember who he was talking to, and sniffed in a haughty way that must have been taught to all bluebloods from birth. “It is above your understanding, Merlin.”
“Right,” Merlin agreed, spooning more broth over his potatoes. “It isn’t like I lived in a village that had to pay taxes, or depend on our lord’s grain stores when summer crops were lean. However could I comprehend?”
There was a half-breath of a moment where the prince might have looked chagrined, but it could have also been the play of firelight on the man’s stupidly-perfect face. “Being governed is much different than being the one doing the governing.”
“Of course, Sire.”
Merlin’s agreeableness seemed to annoy Prince Arthur. He made a mental note for the future - though, perhaps everything about Merlin annoyed the prince. “If you’re going to be so difficult, here. You try making sense of this mess.”
He flung the parchment across the table. Merlin rescued it before it fell onto the platter of roasted fish and spent a few minutes reading. “Well, first of all, it seems a little absurd to levy a tax this high for what - road maintenance? - for a village on the river. It’s literally called Riverside; I’d imagine most of their traffic comes by water, right?”
“You can read?”
“‘Course,” Merlin shrugged. “My mum taught me. She apprenticed under Gaius an age ago - that’s how I came by the position myself. The river?” he prompted.
“The network of the king’s roads does connect to that village,” Prince Arthur said.
Merlin frowned. “So? If the concern is feeding the people when most of the fish they catch is sold or traded or collected as tax already -” he glanced down at the remnants of the trout he’d just been enjoying - “then why not divert some of the money for road maintenance into grain? The people are kept healthy, the fish keep getting caught and brought to tables like this one, and who cares about a few more potholes over the course of a year?”
The prince was studying him in a way that made Merlin want to fidget. He hastily took a swig of his ale just to give himself something else to focus on.
“So, if you were me,” Prince Arthur said finally. “Is that what you’d argue in Council?”
Merlin considered it. “Does this Agnes fellow -”
“Agnethius -”
“Whatever,” Merlin flapped a hand. “Would you consider him an easy person to work with?”
Prince Arthur narrowed his eyes. “I won’t speak ill of my father’s advisors.”
“Ah, so he’s a prat too, then.” Merlin decided. The prince’s eyes narrowed even further, but he didn’t argue. “So were I in your royal boots, I’d approach him before Council. Butter him up, talk about how wonderful his plan is, and then get him to think it’s actually his idea to give Riverside a tax break and hang the king’s road for a year.”
The prince’s expression didn’t change. “But then Lord Agnethius is credited for having the idea.”
Merlin snorted. “I guarantee you that no one in Riverside will care who thought up the plan. They’ll all be appropriately grateful and loyal to the crown. And,” he added. “You said your dad -”
“The king, Merlin, for heaven’s sake,” Prince Arthur snapped.
“Yeah, him. You said he gave you this to read, which means he already knows what old Aggie’s planning to share. It’ll be clear to him that the only thing that’s happened between now and then was you got involved. I’m certain His Majesty the King, our glorious leader -”
“ Mer lin -”
“- will be smart enough to read between the lines,” Merlin finished. Something about the excellent food - and lovely strong ale - made his mouth seem to want to keep talking, no matter how irritated the prince was looking.
Or not looking. The prince now wore a thoughtful expression. “Why would you take that route?”
“Like I said, Sire, I grew up in a village where men of power decided if we would go hungry or if we would flourish,” Merlin said. “Brute force would never work, but a kind word of flattery often went a long way. My mum always said you catch more flies with honey, though I never understood the metaphor. Seems like a waste of honey, to me.”
The prince took the parchment back without further comment. Merlin finished his meal happily, the sounds of the fire and the scratch of Prince Arthur’s quill keeping him company. Finally, the prince set the quill aside.
“Another aspect of knighthood is political savvy and court etiquette,” Prince Arthur announced, apropos of nothing. “Though you aren’t entirely inept, it’s clear to me you require additional instruction. We shall add this to your list of training; you will attend me at dinner in this matter as well.”
Merlin hid his smile behind his bread. “Of course, Sire.”
–
If nothing else, Arthur was pleased at the way Merlin was filling out, at least. A steady diet of good rich food for a fortnight plus nearly two months of consistent exercise meant he was a little more broad of shoulder and chest. His face had lost that pinched, hungry look that all peasants seemed to have, and if Arthur looked hard enough he could see the definition of muscle along his arms and back.
Merlin clearly had a brain on him, though it baffled Arthur how someone could be so intelligent and so idiotic in equal measure. He talked back when he should be silent; he was introspective where most would be muddled; he could spot openings in swordplay faster than most of the knights, but was hopeless when trying to take advantage. Arthur had him calling out his findings - “left shoulder,” Merlin would shout, and sure enough, Leon had left himself defenseless - but even then, Merlin couldn’t seem to coordinate his flailing limbs with any sort of purpose.
For all of his many faults, Arthur’s men had taken a great shine to him. Percy and Leon didn’t have squires presently and seemed to adopt Merlin as their own. Yvain had gone as far to say that Merlin had a heart like a lion, the highest compliment Arthur had known him to give. The respect clearly went both ways; it rankled that the peasant seemed to treat the other knights with twice the deference he gave Arthur.
He would be lying, though, if Arthur said he didn’t enjoy Merlin’s strange brand of teasing humor. There was even a part of him that liked that Merlin gave him a hard time.
Not that he’d ever tell anyone.
Arthur came down to the training field one afternoon to find Leon and Percy learning comfortably against the berfrois, watching Merlin and a handful of men going through a series of drills with wasters under Yvain’s direction. It took him a moment to place who the other men were.
“Leon,” Arthur said. “Why are there commoners in my training field?”
“That’s Gwaine,” Leon said, ignoring the question completely. “I suspect he’s got nobility in his lineage, with how well he handles a blade. And ‘tis a shame Elyan comes from the lower town,” he nodded at the man in the middle, whirling his waster with utter competence, “because he’d be a force as a full knight. Same with Lancelot. Apparently, he traveled here from Gaul because, and this is a direct quote, he heard so many ‘tales of the renown of knights of Camelot.’ I think he was disappointed to learn he couldn’t just volunteer to join us.”
“Leon,” Arthur repeated. “Why are there commoners in my training field?”
“There already was a commoner in the training field,” Percy said. “What’s a few more?”
Yvain gestured for the Gaul, Lancelot, to come forward and try his luck. As Lancelot attacked, Yvain started to call out to Merlin with instructions on the defense, before he had to stop talking and concentrate on keeping Lancelot at bay. Percy let out a low whistle.
“If the king had picked him, I’d say you would win the wager,” Leon agreed.
Arthur let out a short breath. “But the king didn’t pick him. How’s Merlin?”
“Better,” Leon said. “Not much, but better. Stronger, for sure.”
On the field, Yvain put his waster up with a winded laugh, and Lancelot bowed deeply in response. “All right, Merlin,” the knight called. “Give it a go.”
Merlin slumped. “I’m sure Elyan would prefer to go next, Sir Yvain?”
Elyan perked up, but Yvain shook his head. “Merlin, you’re the one we’re meant to be training, and Elyan needs my help ten times less than you do.”
“Sir Yvain -” Merlin started, a low whine in his voice, and Arthur suddenly saw red.
“All of you, leave us,” he barked. Yvain looked up in surprise, but ducked into a bow as Arthur marched onto the field. Merlin watched with a look of bewildered surprise as the others left the field hastily, leaving them alone.
“Sire, what - “
“I need you to take this seriously and stop wasting everyone’s time,” Arthur snapped.
“I am taking this seriously!” Merlin said. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t!”
“Oh really. It seems to me like you’re as useless and defenseless as day one!”
“I’m not - “
“Yes, you are,” Arthur interrupted. “And what’s worse, you’re approaching this like a chore and not a privilege. I don’t know how long those other men have been here, sniffing around for the faintest chance at what’s been handed to you , but they would do anything for the opportunity you have and they’re actually skilled enough to do some good in this world.”
Merlin stared at him, color rising in his cheeks, but Arthur wasn’t finished. “When this whole mad scheme began, I was annoyed that Father chose you. Now, I’m furious that Father chose you. All you’re good for is being used to make a point, instead of changing things for the better.”
“Fuck you,” Merlin said.
Arthur drew back. “What did you say?”
“You heard me,” Merlin said. He was shaking, the movement making his armor shift and clink. “I came to Camelot to keep my head down and learn a trade, not to try and change the bloody stars. Your father, you, Lady Morgana - you’re all playing with my life and you blame me for not rising to the bloody occasion?”
“This is what I’m talking about,” Arthur hissed. “Being a knight means rising to the occasion - “
Merlin lunged. He’d tried this before, Arthur realized, but at least now the man had a little more power behind his movement. Arthur didn’t have a waster, but he was wearing his sword; he dodged Merlin’s attack, drew and smacked the flat of the blade against Merlin’s practice sword. He knew how the reverberations through the wood would sting and sure enough, Merlin dropped it with a hiss.
“I had higher hopes for you,” Arthur said. The anger had drained as quickly as it had built. He sheathed his sword and left the field.
–
Merlin’s fury kept at simmering even as he dragged himself over to where Sir Fredrick gathered the squires, and all throughout the practice. He got a couple of strikes in spite of himself; it felt uncomfortably good to throw his entire might behind a swing and hit something, even if he wasn’t able to pummel the true source of his anger.
After the session Merlin pried off his pauldrons, freeing his shoulders and working on the buckles of his gorget.
Stupid Prince Prat, he thought savagely, tossing the metal collar to the ground and moving to his plackart. High hopes, my arse. He’s been waiting for me to fail all along, just like all the others -
He struggled out of his chainmail and threw it on top of the dusty pile, fuming at it. A small part of his mind protested - he was going to have to clean the armor anyway - but at the moment he didn’t care.
“You’d think with all your special treatment, you’d know how to handle your equipment with a little more care. But then, you’re just a stupid peasant, aren’t you?”
Merlin ground his teeth, and turned to see Leodegrance, Piers and Marc standing behind him. All three were still clad in their own armor, holding their wasters and smirking. “Leave me alone.”
“I heard you’re training with the blacksmith’s son,” Piers said. “Is that true? Are we to expect more lowborn folk to come crawling out of the woodwork to hang at our bootstraps?”
“Elyan’s twice the man you are, and a better swordsman,” Merlin said shortly. He stooped to pick up the chainmail; the tip of Leodegrance’s waster caught on the sleeve and twisted it neatly out of Merlin’s hands.
“Oops. You dropped it again,” Leodegrance said.
Merlin stood up straight and glared. “Bugger off. I’m not in the mood for unimaginative taunts from little boys.”
Whatever Leodegrance had been expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. “Why, you filthy little peasant -”
Merlin threw up his hands. “I get it, I’m a peasant. You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you don’t know your place,” Leodegrance said. He twirled the waster, drawing Merlin’s attention to it. “And I think - as the men who will be future knights of the realm and not dirty gutter-dwellers - it’s up to us to remind you where you belong.”
The first swing didn’t come from Leodegrance, like Merlin expected. Marc aimed low for Merlin’s knees; he hopped backwards just in time to miss it, but Piers was right behind with a blow that caught Merlin in the stomach. The air rushed out of his lungs all at once and he choked on air; the next strike from Leodegrance made him crumple to the ground. One of the squires kicked him hard in the back of his thigh, and Merlin wished he’d kept his armor on. He pulled his arms over his head in a feeble attempt to protect his face.
The blows kept coming.
–
“Sire.”
“Yes, Morris?” Arthur didn’t look up from his plate. Merlin was meant to arrive at any minute; Arthur was uncomfortably aware that his words might have been a touch harsh earlier. He would apologize once the man arrived for their dinner. Surely Merlin wouldn’t hold on to a grudge with a royal apology, and they’d start fresh tomorrow. Arthur had already cleared his duties so he could give his full focus to Merlin’s training.
Now he just needed Merlin to show up. Arthur supposed he could grant him a little clemency for being late; Arthur had been, perhaps just a little, kind of a bore.
“Gaius asked me to deliver a message. Merlin is indisposed.”
Arthur looked up. “Indisposed how?”
Morris inclined his head. “I am unsure. I can find out, if Your Highness wishes to know.”
Arthur pushed back from the table. “No need. I’ll go by the knights’ quarters now. There’s something that cannot wait for tomorrow.”
“Sire, Gaius mentioned that Merlin may not be recovered by tomorrow. He mentioned Merlin may be unavailable for at least the remainder of the week.”
A thread of worry started to unspool in Arthur’s stomach. “Where is he?”
The path down to the physician’s quarters was familiar; Gaius had lived there all of Arthur’s life and had been the constant companion to the little hurts and sicknesses of Arthur’s childhood. Arthur made his way down by muscle memory alone, trying to think of what could have happened under Sir Fredrick’s watch that could take days to heal. Maybe Merlin fell down the stairs to the armory?
Whatever Arthur had expected didn’t prepare him for the view behind Gaius’ door.
The physician was bent over a man sitting shirtless on a cot, dabbing a strong-smelling ointment on a nasty-looking abrasion that was still oozing blood. It took Arthur a moment to register Merlin’s dark hair and telltale ears.
“What in the hell happened?”
Gaius and Merlin jumped, Merlin letting out a hiss of pain. Gaius set down the ointment and strode around his workbench, taking Arthur’s elbow with a surprising lack of deference and steering him back towards the door. “Sire, Merlin needs rest - “
“I need an answer,” Arthur shook off Gaius’ hands, staring at the patchwork of bruising and bandages around Merlin’s bare skin.
“This is the handiwork of the other squires, Sire,” Gaius said. His voice held a touch of accusation. “The blacksmith’s boy found him on the training field and brought him to me. I had to drag the story out by threatening to bring the tale to the king’s justice, but Merlin finally told me.”
“Who?” Arthur asked. Something was tightening around his lungs.
“Gaius, don’t,” Merlin said. He’d shifted around on the cot to face them, and Arthur sucked in a breath.
“Whoever did this will never be a knight,” Arthur said. Merlin’s face went even more pale against his black eye, his features rendered half-unrecognizable against the mottled and bruised skin.
“Prince Arthur -”
“There is no honor in this,” Arthur said. He didn’t recognize his own voice. “I cannot put someone in a position to protect my people if they would do something like this.”
“His armor was off, Sire,” Gaius put in helpfully, and Merlin glared at him.
“Weren’t you saying something about getting more water, Gaius?”
The physician huffed and turned back to Arthur. “Please be swift in whatever questions you have, Sire. Merlin will be fine, but he requires rest and additional tending. I will be back shortly.”
In the silence following Gaius’ exit, Arthur and Merlin stared at each other. Finally, Merlin dropped his eyes and sighed.
“I won’t give you their names. They’re prats and bullies and I’d like nothing better to see them tipped face-first into a midden, but you can’t ruin their futures over this. They’re little better than children and they’re just doing what they’ve been taught all their lives.”
“It was Leodegrance, wasn’t it. And Piers, most likely, he does whatever Leo says. Maybe Marc and Drustan, too?”
Merlin’s good eye flinched, and Arthur reconsidered. “Maybe not Drustan, then. Good lad. I’d thought him more susceptible to pressure from his fellows.”
“Promise me you won’t do anything rash,” Merlin said. “I did a lot of stupid things at their age, things I regret.”
Arthur bit back the questions - he was terribly curious to know what a peasant boy could have done that caused him to want to be so merciful now. “I’m the prince. I don’t do rash things.”
Merlin’s face spoke volumes, even with one eye slowly swelling shut. Arthur sighed.
“There will need to be a punishment,” Arthur said. “They may be boys, but they are meant to be held to the highest standard. But,” he said, watching Merlin’s face. “They will be allowed to continue their training. I will not forget their actions, and I make no promises they’ll all earn their spurs. But, they will be given the opportunity to try like all the others.”
“Thank you,” Merlin said.
Arthur crossed the room and dropped onto the cot next to Merlin. The motion of the cot taking Arthur’s weight made Merlin wince, hands flying up to his bandaged ribs. Arthur froze, watching the color drain out of the other man’s face again as sweat broke out across his brow from the pain.
“Merlin,” Arthur started, unsure of what to say next. ‘I’m sorry’ felt hollow; ‘how dare they’ was pointless. Instead, he seized the wet cloth Gaius had left draped across the rim of the water basin and started to dab away some of the blood the physician had missed.
“Sire,” Merlin protested, flinching away.
“Sorry, did I hurt you?”
“No,” Merlin said. “It’s just - you’re the prince.”
Arthur rolled his eyes and scooted forward, careful not to jostle the cot again. He took Merlin’s chin in a gentle grip and resumed his ministrations. “I do hope you’ll never have to find out, but on a campaign, I’m not a prince. I’m another warrior doing battle alongside his men, fetching water, setting up camp and sometimes - gods forbid - an amatuer physician myself. No matter the outcome of this whole experiment, you’re one of my men now. Let me do this.”
At that, Merlin was quiet. There wasn’t much that Gaius hadn’t already tended to, but Arthur cataloged the hurts all the same. A split lip, the black eye. A cut on his forehead - it was shallow, but still oozing blood like head wounds were wont to do - and the scrapes down his left side, wrapped neatly in Gaius’ bandages.
As he worked, Arthur’s rage turned sour and started to taste quite a lot like guilt. If Uther hadn’t picked Merlin randomly from a crowd … if Arthur’s pride hadn’t forced the issue of training any man into knighthood …
“Merlin,” Arthur said. “Why don’t you quit?”
For a moment, the only sounds in the room were the crackle of flames in the hearth, and the quiet sounds of castle life bustling away just outside the thick walls of the physician’s chamber. Then Merlin blew out a breath.
“Oh, I want to quit. It would be so easy, but …” Merlin trailed off, looking up into Arthur’s face. “Arthur, I can’t.”
“Why not?” Arthur asked. At some point, he’d set down the cloth. He kept Merlin’s chin cupped in his hand. “It’s not that you haven’t shown your mettle.”
“It’s not that. It’s,” Merlin sighed again. “If I quit now, I’m proving everyone right. Your father, the squires, Sir Fredrick - hell, even Gaius, and he cares for me. Maybe it’s stubborn pride, and I’m making everything harder on myself for no good reason, but … no. Maybe I just want to rise to the occasion.”
There was another beat of silence, and all the words Arthur couldn’t bring himself to speak hung heavy on his tongue. Before he could find the right way to say them, Merlin shrugged his uninjured shoulder with a grin. “And, if I quit, I can’t help but think I’d be proving you right too, and that just feels wrong at this point.”
Arthur dropped his hand, fighting back the urge to smile. “Why? I’m often right. Very nearly always!”
Merlin rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say. Now, how do you manage to get your helmet on when your head is so big?”
“I’ll have you know my head is the perfect size,” Arthur said in his best lordly tone.
“Naturally,” Merlin agreed. “Why, perhaps we ought to get the Royal Measurer down here to take note of the shape and size of your Royal noggin. Put it in the record books and almanacs, so that all may compare their heads to the perfect specimen. I can almost hear the criers now … ‘heavy may be the head that wears the crown, but hear ye all, it is of wonderful proportions!’”
“Merlin,” Arthur said, “you’re a very strange person.”
“That’s why my head isn’t in the almanac,” Merlin sighed again, this time in that pleased way he got when he found himself especially funny. Arthur wondered for a moment when he’d started cataloging Merlin’s moods and tells.
“There is one thing you’ve already done that’s proved everyone wrong,” Arthur said. Merlin turned to look at him again with a little frown.
“And what’s that?”
“My father sought someone he thought would fail, thinking that not only was this man supposed to be too weak of mind and body to succeed, but somehow his failure was going to prove that only the nobility have the honor needed for the role. I know Father expected the poor sod to give up within the week. No one expected you to stick it out this long, Merlin, including me. And it may be stubborn pride, but there’s honor there, too.”
Merlin was watching him steadily, in a way Arthur couldn’t quite describe. Instead, Arthur reached out to clasp Merlin’s uninjured shoulder as gently as he knew how.
“So. Take tomorrow to rest. We’ll see what we can do the rest of the week that won’t bother your injuries.”
“No,” Merlin said, that look still on his face. Arthur felt like the other man could see to his bones. “No, I heal fast. I’ll see you on the field tomorrow.”
—
“Block, block, and - now, Merlin!”
Merlin shoved the waster forward with all his strength, finally tapping Elyan in the ribs. The blacksmith stumbled, sitting down hard and flopping backwards.
“Well done, Merlin!”
Merlin pushed his helmet off, grinning down at Elyan as Sir Leon and Lancelot jogged over. Lance gave Elyan a hand up, and tapped his waster against Merlin’s. “That was quite passable indeed!”
“Passable works for me,” Merlin said. His breath felt ragged with the effort, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “It doesn’t have to be pretty, it just has to work.”
“No one will ever accuse your swordplay of being beautiful, mate,” Elyan said, but he was grinning too.
Sir Leon nodded, bringing his sword up to demonstrate. “If you kept your wrist more straight, here, that block could have led into a better lunge and preserved the power. But I do say, Merlin, that was your best yet.”
Merlin tried to mimic Sir Leon’s hands, fumbling to keep his wrist from twisting at the weight of his waster. “Bit tricky, that.”
From across the field, Gwaine called over from his position lounging under Lady Morgana’s otherwise vacant pavilion. “It’s all in the wrist, right Merlin?”
The lascivious grin that accompanied the statement made Merlin roll his eyes and Elyan choke back a laugh. Sir Leon sighed, his twitching red beard betraying his smile. “That’s enough, Gwaine. And Merlin, Arthur sent word he wants you to meet him at the stables after we finish here.”
Merlin rolled his shoulders, wishing he could join Gwaine in the shade and take even the quickest break. Ever since the incident with the squires, Arthur had seemed to both soften and harden with Merlin; he felt less like an unwashed peasant when they spoke, but Arthur seemed more driven to fill every crack in Merlin’s education with additional training and strategy and strengthening.
Ah well. At least the food was just as good as ever, if not better.
“Another lesson at the joust, Merlin?” Lance asked. Merlin bit back his instinctual groan after seeing the look of pure longing on the other man’s face. Lance and Elyan usually hid it well, but their desire to be in his place was always at the back of his mind when they met him for training. With the rigorous schedule the prince had set, Sir Leon had asked them to train with him on the regular to spare the knights for their other duties; at least, that’s the explanation he gave. Merlin suspected the first knight had different opinions from the rest of the peerage about who should and shouldn’t be allowed to earn their spurs, nobleman or not.
Instead of the complaint he wished to give, Merlin swung the waster experimentally again. “I suspect so. I wish you could train with me there, too.”
“Lend us a horse and we’d help Merlin with jousting, too,” Elyan said to Sir Leon. The knight shrugged.
“I’ll ask Arthur. We could certainly use extra hands.” Sir Leon reached over to take Merlin’s waster. “But in the meantime, best get going.”
“Right,” Merlin sighed. He waved at Gwaine and turned towards the stables.
The royal stables were inside the walls of the citadel - the horses there were too valuable to keep with the rest of the court stock. But the mounts for the guards and workhorses were stabled just around the side of the castle from the training grounds, next to the fields and the first thickets of Camelot’s forests. Merlin liked the stables; the earthy smell of the horses and the scent of polished leather made him nostalgic for the rustic comforts of Ealdor. Though, Ealdor only had five horses and mules in the entire village; the great stone-and-wood stables of Camelot held nearly six dozen.
Arthur had been meeting him near the entrance to the stables, where an obliging stable boy usually waited with Merlin’s docile practice mount, an aging courser with no real interest in the cantering and quick turns and general dashing about knights were prone to do on horseback. Merlin had a soft spot for the lazy old thing, even though it was hard to perform to Arthur’s satisfaction with such a reluctant mount.
Today, however, Arthur was alone. He looked up as Merlin approached, holding a leather halter in his hands.
“Finally. Come along, Merlin.”
Obediently, Merlin fell in step with the prince and followed him back towards the castle, using the small outer gate and entering the cool shade of the citadel walls.
“Aren’t we jousting today, Sire?”
“We are,” Arthur said. Merlin wasn’t sure if he was being mysterious on purpose, but something about Arthur’s short responses had an air of anticipation.
“Then why are we going back to the castle?”
“Do they teach you to prattle on incessantly in your village?” Arthur asked, a hint of a tease in his voice. “Or is that an innate skill you alone possess?”
“You haven’t heard of the Great Prattlers of Ealdor, Sire?” Merlin said, as seriously as he could. “Why, we’re known across Albion; I would have figured a fine, cultured prince like yourself would have heard of us, what with our fame and all.”
Arthur let out an unprincely snort, but continued his path through the courtyard without further comment. Merlin contented himself with his temporary break from holding a weapon and enjoyed the bustle of townspeople going about their usual business.
When he realized they were almost to the royal stables, Merlin frowned. “Did they move Myrtle?”
“Myror,” Arthur corrected. “You have been riding Myror -“
“Myror is a name for a ferocious warhorse,” Merlin argued. “Myrtle is the sweet old man who would rather fall asleep standing up.”
“And no,” Arthur finished, apparently pursuing the strategy to simply ignore Merlin. “Myror, for all of his respectable career, is too old to serve as a proper mount for a knight prospect.”
If the larger stable outside the citadel walls was clean and functional, the royal stables were spotless and nearly as elegant as the castle itself. Stable boys in livery snapped to attention as Merlin followed the prince down the main center aisle, but Arthur didn’t stop to give any orders. Instead, he wound his way towards where his horses were kept, in the finest boxes towards the center of the stables.
“This is Llamrei,” Arthur pointed to a tall gray horse on one side of the aisle, “and this is Hengroen.” The second was a large blood bay, who looked up from his hay and nickered at their approach.
“Okay,” Merlin said politely. He eyed Llamrei; she eyed him back, full of equine suspicion. He swapped his attention to Hengroen, who seemed like the friendlier of the two.
“And this,” Arthur gestured to the stall next to Hengroen, “is Hersus.”
Hersus could have been Hengroen’s twin, aside from the tiny white star between his kind dark eyes. He reached his head over the stall door eagerly, snuffling at Arthur’s hand and looking for treats.
“Same sire as Hengroen, different dam,” Arthur said. “I would have kept him for myself, but he doesn’t quite have the same fire as Hen. Still, he’s excellent stock.”
Nonplussed, Merlin extended a hand towards Hesus’ soft nose, letting the stallion lip against his palm. “He’s pretty.”
“Pretty-“ Arthur started in a huff, and he threw up his hands. “He’s a warhorse.”
“A pretty warhorse,” Merlin agreed. “One can be warlike and pretty at the same time.”
“Unlikely,” Arthur said. Merlin gave him a look; he couldn’t exactly point out the obvious irony of that statement coming from Arthur. If he did, he’d be forced to explain the way the prince’s hair caught the light and gleamed a burnished gold, or how his body was the perfect weapon of muscle and grace, or how Merlin so admired the pale blue of his eyes, or how Arthur possessed the prettiest pair of full, red lips Merlin had ever seen on a man.
He cleared his throat.
“Right. Anyways, Arthur, I’m enjoying meeting all of your horse friends, but -“
“Hersus is yours now.” Arthur said.
“ -aren’t we supposed to be - wait. What?”
The prince leaned back against the stall door, idly scratching at Hengroen’s cheek. “I’m giving Hersus to you.”
“No you’re not.” Merlin said. His fingers stretched back out to Hersus’ velvet nose unconsciously. “He’s worth more than what I’d make in half a lifetime. I won’t borrow him from you.”
Arthur made an annoyed sound. “Most men would give their left arms to have a horse as fine as this. And even you wouldn’t be foolish enough to refuse a gift from your prince.”
“But -“
“And you wouldn’t be borrowing him, Merlin, he’s yours.” Arthur continued. “He suits you. Strong enough to carry you to a victory in a joust, but all together too sweet-spirited for most knights. I would have given him to Morgana now that he’s fully trained, but she has four horses already.”
Hersus pushed his whole head into Merlin’s hands, no longer begging for a treat as much as much as asking for affection. Merlin rubbed the heel of one palm against the little white star on Hersus’ forehead, and the stallion leaned his weight into the touch with a contented huff.
“Besides,” Arthur said. “You ought to get something out of this whole ordeal. I … I recognize you didn’t ask for this. Consider Hersus my royal appreciation for your valor and chivalry in wanting to come to the aid of someone who needs you.”
There was a short pause, with the soft noises of horses eating hay and shifting in their stalls filling the silence between them. Merlin’s heart pushed at the boundaries of his chest; grouchy Arthur he could handle. Irritated Arthur, frustrated Arthur, bored and imperious Arthur - Merlin had spent the last two months building up both a tolerance and fondness for them all. But soft Arthur, stroking the neck of his warhorse; sincere Arthur, catching him in an unwavering blue gaze; gallant Arthur … Merlin had no defense against him.
“Arthur, whatever is a physician’s assistant going to do with a horse like this?” Merlin asked, but couldn’t find it within himself to step away from the horse, or from Arthur.
The prince shrugged. “Probably braid daisies into his mane and give pony rides to small, unwashed children, knowing you.”
Merlin laughed, and tugged gently on Hersus’ forelock. “Seems right for braiding, actually. And must the small children be unwashed, or do clean ones get a ride too?”
“Oh, I suppose, but they must wait in the back of the line,” Arthur said. “But I’m afraid all these hypothetical street urchins must wait their turn. First, let’s see how he goes for you.”
Merlin had forgotten the fine leather halter in Arthur’s hand, and nearly fumbled it as Arthur tossed it to him in an easy underhand throw. It was quality work, with decorative rivets connecting the crown and cheek pieces. One side had HERSUS embossed - Merlin realized Arthur must have commissioned the halter specially, and turned it over in his hands. The other side read MERLIN.
“Let me guess - that’s pretty too?” Arthur drawled.
Merlin blinked a few times, fighting back the smile that threatened to take over his face. “Very pretty, Sire. Very pretty indeed.”
–
“You’re still dropping that left shoulder,” Arthur said. He took a sip of ale and continued. “I know you’ve only been riding him for a week, but I hope you know that Hersus feels it when you drop your shoulder. He becomes unbalanced, and that’s why you’re feeling so unbalanced and find the lance so unwieldy. I think you’re trying to keep a straight line down the tilt and overcompensating with your -”
Mercifully, Arthur’s lecture on Merlin’s various failings was interrupted by a soft knock on the door.
“Sire, pardon the interruption.” It was Gwen, hair tied back and woven with flowers. Merlin could recognize Morgana’s hand; he’d seen them braiding flowers into one another’s hair in the pavilion in between training sessions. “My lady would like to beg an audience with you.”
Arthur waved a hand, his mouth full of chicken. “Whenever has Morgana stood on ceremony? Tell her to come hungry, we’ve plenty of food.”
Gwen hesitated, glancing at Merlin.
“Oh, right,” Merlin said. He stood up, dusting bread crumbs from his tunic. “Sire, I’ll leave you to -”
“My lady really wanted to talk to you both. Especially Merlin,” Gwen said. “Not that she doesn’t want to speak with you , Sire, she just was quite clear about talking to Merlin. Not that she doesn’t already talk to Merlin, quite often in fact -”
“I’ll stay, then,” Merlin said, cutting her off as kindly as he could. Gwen shot him a quick smile and dropped a perfect curtesy before hurrying back to the door.
Lady Morgana arrived so quickly that Merlin suspected she had been hovering in the corridor, rather than waiting for Gwen to come retrieve her. She was lovely as always in a long gown of Pendragon red velvet, but her face was pale and her mouth was set in a tight line.
“I understand you use the supper hour to discuss your strategies, so I won’t interrupt for long,” the lady didn’t hesitate, sitting down in the chair Gwen pulled out for her. “And please know that however you answer, Merlin, you will have my eternal gratitude for what you’ve already done.”
Arthur frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Lady Morgana ignored him. “The hope you’ve given me these last few months has been invaluable, but I watched the moon rise this evening and realized we’ve only two fortnights until the equinox and Earl Hatherfast’s arrival. I would be a fool not to consider -” she stopped, and Gwen squeezed her shoulder from her place at her mistress’ elbow. Lady Morgana took a deep breath. “It would be foolish not to prepare myself for marriage. So I ask you - both of you - is there any hope of success?”
Merlin opened his mouth just to shut it again. He glanced at Arthur, surprised to find the prince’s eyes already on him. He found he could read Arthur’s expression as if he were speaking aloud, and he gave a tiny nod to the question he saw in the other man’s face.
“Morgana,” Arthur said. His voice was gentle. “Father stacked insane odds against this wager. I won’t give you false hope. Merlin is doing all I ask of him but the chances are high he won’t be ready in time.”
The lady took a quick breath. The line of her mouth turned miserable, and Merlin’s heart twisted guiltily.
“But there is something about Merlin,” Arthur continued, turning to look at him again. “I can’t quite put my finger on it. So I urge you to prepare yourself for a marriage to Hatherfast, but perhaps … hope for the best?”
Lady Morgana didn’t say anything else, just nodded. She rose, dipped her head to them both, and left the chamber. Gwen sent an apologetic glance over her shoulder before she hurried to follow.
That night, Merlin couldn’t find a comfortable position on the soft straw of his mattress. Lady Morgana’s pained and frightened face seemed printed on the backs of his eyelids, with a horrible feeling of guilt and pity and sadness mixing in his stomach.
If only there was a way I could succeed overnight.
No sooner had the thought drifted across his mind than Merlin sat upright in bed. There was a way. His magic, which had hummed dormant and quiet in his veins after weeks of constant exhaustion and supervision, began to churn and swirl. He could picture the spells now, the incantations springing to attention like Arthur’s eager hunting dogs. Strengþu would line his muscles with steel; spōwan would make him quick; rihte would make his aim true. Merlin could taste the words on his tongue, guessing he wouldn’t even need to say the incantations out loud.
Gaius had made him promise not to use magic, though. It would be dangerous … but so was simply existing in Camelot as a sorcerer. And he’d promised Gaius he wouldn’t use magic to his benefit … but this wasn’t for Merlin. He’d be using his magic for Lady Morgana to save her from a loveless marriage. He’d be using his magic for Lance and Elyan and Gwaine, good men who were kept from their destinies by a fluke of birth. He’d be using his magic for Arthur, who took on a hopeless case and gave everything he had to give Merlin a fighting chance.
As a test, Merlin picked up the small metal cup that sat next to the bed. Rihte, he thought, and felt a thrum of power thrill through his body. Taking aim, he threw the cup across the room through the narrow gap from the half-opened door leading to his antechamber. It sailed through the air before landing perfectly in the tiny basket near the hearth that held the flint for the fire; the basket didn’t so much as wobble as the cup tumbled home.
Never in a thousand years could Merlin make that shot on his own. He grinned in the dark, flopping back onto his pillows.
Tomorrow was going to be different.
–
Of course, Merlin started off slow. He’d already been managing to get a hit in here or there; a tiny improvement wouldn’t be immediately obvious. The biggest difference was Sir Fredrick didn’t yell at him quite as often during that first day of small magical assists.
By the fourth day, even Lance was starting to fight back against Merlin in earnest, brow furrowed in concentration.
By the six day, Merlin disarmed Leodegrance in under two minutes.
Sir Fredrick actually clapped him on the shoulder, looking pleased. “Merlin, I’d say you hit your stride. What’s changed?”
Panting, Merlin twirled his waster with Arthur’s signature little wrist twist. “I don’t know if anything’s changed, Sir Fredrick. More like I’ve been under the finest tutelage in Camelot for nearly a season, and the lessons are starting to stick.”
“No one likes a suck up,” Sir Fredrick said, but he grinned. “Whatever it is, keep at it. You’re halfway decent.”
With his rise from mediocrity, the other squires started to warm to Merlin. Drustan had decided he and Merlin were now friends and had started helping Merlin take off his armor after training, chattering away about anything and everything a thirteen-year-old boy would find interesting or important. Even Marc and Piers had mumbled an almost-apology for the hazing, though Merlin had never learned what kind of punishment Arthur had decided on for the culprits. Leodegrance remained standoffish, but that just gave Merlin even greater pleasure when they were paired up and he could put the boy on his arse.
On the eleventh day after their usual breakfast, Arthur walked with him down to the training field before Sir Leon arrived. The air was starting to crisp with the first whispers of winter, and the woods surrounding the castle were showing hints of gold among the canopy of thick green leaves. Merlin could see Arthur’s breath coming in tiny silver clouds; he imagined Arthur may still taste of the scones with honey they’d shared at the breakfast table, and shivered with a thrill of longing.
“Cold, Merlin?”
“A little, Sire, but I imagine that won’t last long,” Merlin said. “What with the horrible, grueling exercise Sir Leon and Sir Percy are about to torture me with.”
“No Percy or Leon today,” Arthur said. “And no wasters. I think it’s high time we try blunted steel.”
Spending time alone with the prince wasn’t a novelty anymore. Between the meals and the training, Merlin had spent more time with Arthur than with anyone else in Camelot, save Gaius. Even so, the prospect of being the sole recipient of Arthur’s focus and attention didn’t fail to send that thrill racing through his stomach and down his thighs.
Ignoring the feeling, Merlin buckled the strap on his helmet and picked up the blunted sword.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
They circled one another. Merlin caught the quickest flicker of motion before Arthur attacked, bringing up the sword with a whisper of magic in his mind to make himself stronger and faster.
Ever since integrating his magic, Merlin at last understood why the other knights and squires seemed to love swordplay. He felt strong and confident, spells sliding into his mind and through his body unconsciously and perfectly as needed for each block and parry. This was what he was meant to be - a creature of magic, effortless and instinctual.
Merlin and Arthur danced around each other, Arthur testing all of Merlin’s usual weaknesses. He had to concentrate not to let his magic take over - he still had to be cautious not to be too good, too quickly. Stumbling backwards from one such blow, Merlin only just recovered his footing before Arthur pressed his advantage again. The prince wasn’t going easy on him.
After one particularly spectacular crash of blunted steel on blunted steel, Arthur started to laugh. He wasn’t laughing at Merlin; instead, Merlin got the sense that Arthur was simply enjoying the fight.
“You’re a crazy person, you know that, right?” Merlin panted out, and Arthur grinned at him fiercely.
“On your guard!”
Arthur was beautiful when he fought. He was always beautiful, but especially so now, with the first rays of sunlight darting over the treetops and - Merlin squinted, suddenly dazzled by the arrival of the rising sun lancing through the eye slits in his helmet. In the moment that his concentration broke, he felt Arthur’s foot hook around his ankle and he went down, hard.
“Merlin!” Arthur sounded ebullient. He pulled Merlin to his feet and pounded his shoulder in celebration. What a stupid knight thing to do - that was surely going to bruise - but in the moment Merlin didn’t care, smiling back at the prince. “That was amazing!”
Merlin pulled off his helm. “Thank you, Sire.”
“I’m serious,” Arthur pressed, though Merlin had been sincere. “You’ve proven to be one of the most capable students I’ve ever had. If you fight like that for my father, Morgana is saved and we can change the law for knighthood. Elyan, Lance, the others - they’ll have a chance.”
Pride simmered in Merlin’s chest. “I’m only doing what you taught me, Arthur.”
“Yes, well,” Arthur drew the back of his hand across his forehead, mussing his sweat-darkened fringe. “I’m quite proud of this Prince’s Project.”
Merlin wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. Absurdly he felt like he might cry, or shout, or both. He couldn’t quite look away from Arthur’s face, aware almost distantly that he was leaning towards the prince, caught in his orbit.
“You know, this may be the strangest thing that Morgana has ever set into motion,” Arthur said. “And that’s saying something. I understand she’s quite beautiful, and her beauty does seem to inspire many men to do many strange things.”
Merlin blinked. “What?”
Arthur shrugged. “I imagine you already know that becoming a knight doesn’t make you eligible to court her, but I don’t blame you for bending over backwards to help her all the same.”
“You think I want to court Lady Morgana?”
Arthur frowned. “You don’t?”
“No!” Merlin said. “She’s nice and all, and the - “ he made an abstractly curvy gesture with his free hand - “is, you know, but I … she’s not my type.”
Arthur snorted. “Right.”
“I’m serious,” Merlin said. It seemed terribly important that Arthur understand. “I only agreed to help her because I felt bad for her. It’s rotten; no one ought to marry someone they don’t love.” He realized that was a ridiculous thing to say to a crown prince, who would no doubtedly marry for political gain and political gain only, but he pressed on. “But she’s not someone I’d like to pursue.”
“Because she’s nobility?”
“Because … she. The whole -” he did the curvy gesture again. “That doesn’t really … do it for me.”
Arthur frowned at him again, and Merlin could pinpoint the moment the prince caught his meaning. “Ah. I see.”
“Right,” Merlin said, relieved.
“Either way,” Arthur said. “She owes you a great debt of gratitude. As do I - I don’t often have the opportunity to help my father see the world a little differently.”
Merlin couldn’t help himself; he snorted. “That’s one way to put it. Is it so hard to just say the king is wrong?”
“Yes,” Arthur said seriously. “But anyways. Now that things are starting to come together from your training, I think you deserve a little time off -”
“Thank all the gods!” Merlin crowed.
“- from swordplay,” Arthur finished, looking a little smug. Merlin scowled at him. “Let’s get Hersus and Hengroen. I want to see if this new wave of competency covers the joust as well.”
–
“It’s been some weeks since you dined with us, Arthur,” Uther said. “It’s an unexpected pleasure.”
“For me as well,” Arthur said. Truthfully, he’d meant to eat with Merlin as usual in his chambers; but Sir Percy had mentioned that a handful of the knights wanted to visit the Rising Sun to celebrate Merlin’s recent successes, and it seemed cruel to deny them. And though Merlin and his knights could certainly enjoy the pub, Arthur knew he’d catch hell if Uther found out he’d skipped yet another meal with the king in favor of mead and ale with his men.
“Pray tell, what has kept your attention all this time?”
Arthur glanced across the table at Morgana. “I’ve been working with the man you selected, Father. For the knighthood wager.”
Uther’s eyebrows dipped slightly. “The knighthood wager?”
“Yes. You chose Gaius’ assistant -”
“Oh that.” Uther chuckled. “I’ll admit, Arthur, I didn’t think you would still be dallying with such nonsense. How is it going?”
In his peripheral vision, Arthur saw Morgana open her mouth and hastened to speak before she could. “There have certainly been challenges, Father, but he’s doing rather well.”
“Rather well?” Morgana scoffed. Arthur glared at her, willing her to shut up. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t. “I saw Merlin beat half the squires and hold his own against Sir Percival just yesterday. I daresay he’s going to prove you wrong, my Lord.”
Arthur winced. Sure enough, the king’s face went stormy. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Morgana,” he said. “And if I recall, I did say he needed to best a knight in both the sword and the joust, not just hold his own.”
“He will,” Morgana said.
“He might,” Uther said. “Or, he might show his true colors as a lowborn peasant, good for many things but not for taking on the protection of Camelot.”
There were many things Arthur could say to his father: that Merlin was brave, that he was savvy about the matters of state that made Arthur’s head feel wooly, that he was funny and irreverent and honest and honorable. The fact that he was now showing great promise with the sword and even greater confidence on Hersus’ back was the least of all Merlin was.
But Arthur didn’t say those things. Morgana baiting the king into a pissing match was foolish; Arthur letting on how much he respected Merlin or what influence the man held over him was downright dangerous.
Instead, he just nodded. “I look forward to the demonstration, Father, and your judgment.”
As he left the dining hall, a familiar group of figures caught Arthur’s attention out of a window. Merlin was waving farewell to Percy and Leon, and hurrying deeper into the courtyard. He took a left away from the entrance leading to the knights’ quarters, heading instead towards the royal stables. Arthur chuckled, and quickened his pace.
Arthur heard Merlin before he saw him, humming and crooning to his horse. He had a good voice, melodic like how he spoke and in an unexpected high and clear tenor tone.
“Coddling the warhorse again, Merlin?”
Merlin jumped, and Hersus’ head popped up in mild alarm. Both man and horse settled when they realized it was Arthur, Hersus returning to a state so relaxed his lower lip drooped. Merlin resumed currying with a handful of clean straw, attacking a bit of dried mud Hersus must have acquired in the field during the day.
“Good evening, Sire.”
Arthur sat down on a chest of horse blankets, arranging his limbs comfortably. “You sound mostly sober.”
Merlin chuckled. “As if Sir Leon would let the Prince’s Project get drunk the night before training.”
“Every day is training,” Arthur pointed out. Merlin made a face.
“Precisely. I was allowed two mugs of ale only, though Gwaine kept trying to top up my cup when Sir Leon wasn’t looking.”
“Gwaine was there?” Arthur asked.
“And Elyan, and Lance. A handful of the others, too.”
“Elyan has the backswing of a giant,” Arthur said. “And Lance is one of the most technically perfect swordsmen I’ve ever seen.”
“No compliments for Gwaine?” Merlin said.
“Courageous to the point of foolish recklessness,” Arthur said promptly, and Merlin laughed.
“You’re right, as usual.”
“They’re good men,” Arthur said. “I don’t want to put more pressure on you - Morgana is doing enough of that for an entire army of would-be knights - but I hope they’re able to try and earn their spurs. I’d sleep more soundly at night knowing they would stand for Camelot’s defenses.”
Merlin hummed. “Then sleep soundly, Arthur. If the need came, you know you could count on them. Whether or not they officially swore their vows.”
“And you?” Arthur asked.
Merlin finished Hersus’ flank, and tossed the bit of hay down. He picked up Hersus’ tail and started finger combing the ends, picking apart knots and pulling out bits of bramble. “Do you have to ask?”
Arthur didn’t. Instead, he leaned back against the stall door, comfortable in the earthy scents of the stables, warm and quiet. The next thing he was aware of was Merlin’s hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him awake. “You took my advice to sleep soundly quite literally,” Merlin said.
Arthur heard the note of fondness in the other man’s voice. He wrapped it carefully inside of his mind to be examined later. “How long did I -”
“Maybe half a candlemark,” Merlin said. “Not long.”
“I know you think I’m pushing you hard -”
“Because you are,” Merlin said.
“- But I’m pushing hard, as well.” Arthur finished. It felt safe in the stables, like he didn’t need to watch every word for a political misstep. “I’m tired too.”
Merlin dropped down on the chest next to Arthur. There was hardly room for them both; Merlin was a solid, warm weight pressed nearly shoulder to knee. Hersus put his head over the stall door and lipped at Merlin’s hair.
“Tomorrow,” Arthur said. “I’ll excuse the knights from training, and we’ll take a break from the sword. I can’t in good faith let a day go by without working on some aspect of your trial, but perhaps we can work more on your riding. We’ll go for a hunt.”
He felt as much as saw Merlin nod, the chest creaking a little as their weight shifted. “Shall I inform Morris, Sire?”
For a moment Arthur was seized by the desire to be selfish. He let the moment stretch, and leaned into the feeling. “No. We needn’t worry about an entourage.”
–
Hersus and Hengroen seemed to delight in the change of pace; as soon as they turned away from the familiar path towards the tilt, both destriers were itching to be given their heads. Merlin saw that Arthur had no problem sitting Hengroen’s excited sideways hops; as Hersus made an aborted attempt to charge forward, Merlin had to grab a fistful of mane to keep his balance.
“Easy, Merlin,” Arthur said. “Remember - follow with your seat.”
Merlin eyed Arthur’s seat - and all those years of training and lunging and waving a sword gave him such an excellent seat at that - and tried to emulate the prince’s posture.
The road through town finally reached the citadel walls, and the yawning overnight guards opened the gate to make way. As it closed behind them, Arthur tossed a bright smile over his shoulder. “Do you think you can handle a bit of a gallop?”
Merlin looked down, long enough to incant stæġ in his mind and to hide the golden glow of his eyes. Immediately, his body felt rooted in the saddle. “If you think you and poor old Hen can keep up.”
Arthur’s smile turned devious, and without another word Hengroen sprang forward. Merlin cursed and put his legs to Hersus’ sides to follow.
The morning slid into midday like a dream; after the gallop across the fields, the horses cooled under the shade of Camelot’s familiar woods. They followed the king’s road further than Merlin had ever traveled, talking about training strategy and which advisors fell asleep in council meetings, about the cook’s new recipe for pheasant, and the way Leon had a soft spot for the lowborn, would-be knights. They found a little deerpath deeper into the woods and took it; Arthur seemed in no hurry to actually hunt, and Merlin didn’t remind him.
They stopped at noon. Morris had packed a lunch and two flagons of good ale in their saddlebags, and the tiny clearing they found was sunny enough to be warm in the late fall air. Arthur reclined almost fully at the base of a tree, nursing his flagon, and the horses took full advantage of the fine, thick carpet of grass to graze.
“Do you hunt often?” Merlin asked. “Like this, I mean.”
Arthur huffed a laugh. “Like this? Hardly ever. Morgana, Gwen and I will sometimes go riding, but Morgana usually wants to practice the sword in secret, so I don’t consider that as relaxed as this … hunt.”
“Lady Morgana uses a sword?” Merlin asked, though he wasn’t particularly surprised. He imagined that, if King Uther would allow it, the lady would best the other knights in battle on her own and so save herself from the looming marriage. The reminder of the wager made a small bloom of guilt unfold in his stomach - they could have been training - but it was hard to worry in the cocoon of the clearing, warmed by sun and full of food and ale.
“Actually, she uses a sword quite well,” Arthur said. “Gwen too. I imagine she, like Elyan, learned much about handling a blade from their father.” He paused, and slanted a glance at Merlin. “I thank you not to tell others about Morgana and swords.”
“What swords?” Merlin said innocently.
Arthur toasted him with his flagon. “Exactly.”
Somewhere nearby, Merlin could hear the sounds of running water. It made for a pleasant white noise, accompanied by birdsong and the occasional rustle of some small creature making its way through the underbrush.
“Let’s say you succeed,” Arthur said suddenly. “Would you consider continuing your training? Trying to earn your spurs?”
Merlin thought his answer would be automatic, but that was before his magic became as integral as his armor or his sword. He plucked at his chainmail as he thought. Once - only about two and a half months ago - he thought the mail shirt was like a stone tied around his neck, unbearably heavy. Now he hardly noticed the weight. The steady diet of hearty food and constant exercise had changed his body; the steward had delivered a new set of clothes just last week, cut larger to accommodate the muscles Merlin never thought he’d have.
“If Camelot called for aid,” Merlin said finally. “I’d want to answer. I’m not sorry that your father picked me, not anymore.”
“Me either, to my everlasting surprise.” Arthur said.
Merlin resisted the urge to throw a piece of bread at him. “That said, I came here to be a physician. Gaius has lots to teach me.”
“A healer instead of a warrior,” Arthur said. “Or, a warrior healer.”
“I could join you on the battlefield, patch up your men,” Merlin suggested.
Arthur settled more comfortably against the tree. “Gaius is a respected advisor to my father. He’s a man of learning, and I suppose he’d pass all that wisdom down to you. You’re not without some innate knowledge already. Perhaps one day, a long time from now, obviously, when I’m king -”
Whatever one day would be - and Merlin desperately wanted to hear the end of that sentence - was interrupted. A hart burst into the clearing in a flurry of hooves and antlers.
The sudden cacophony of movement startled Arthur halfway to his feet, and Hengroen reared at the same time Hersus darted sideways. The line picketing the horses to their lead wrenched free. Merlin felt a cold rush of panic and fear as Hersus realized he wasn’t tethered, the whites of the horse’s eyes rolling in terror as the hart darted past him.
Without thinking, Merlin reached out his hand as if to seize the trailing lead rope connected to Hersus’ bridle.
Stillan! sped across Merlin’s mind - the incantation made the lead rope freeze obviously in midair. Merlin snatched it but the magic must have made it brittle. As Hersus lunged away, the line snapped. The horses crashed into the undergrowth in a panicked gallop.
The hart was gone; the horses already lost to the dark thicket of forest around them. Merlin could only hear his own harsh breathing, and the ring of a sword leaving its scabbard.
He turned.
“Your eyes,” Arthur babbled. “Your - the rope stopped. It shattered - your eyes.”
“Arthur -” Merlin tried, but the prince wasn’t listening.
“You - you’re a sorcerer!” Arthur said.
It was all Merlin could do to get his own sword free fast enough to block the furious attack Arthur unleashed. The months of muscle memory kicked in faster than Merlin’s brain, parrying automatically. The force of Arthur’s blow nearly made his arms buckle; again, without thought, Merlin’s magic rose to line his muscles with steel. As it happened, Arthur was staring right into Merlin’s face as his eyes glowed gold.
–
Merlin had magic.
Merlin was a sorcerer.
Merlin had betrayed him.
Arthur could hardly think of anything else, pressing Merlin back towards the trees surrounding the tiny glade. There was hardly enough room to maneuver, but Merlin kept blocking him all the same. Without his helmet on, his eyes were so obvious; glowing every few seconds as he parried and danced out of Arthur’s reach. With each rush of gold, Arthur felt his heart break a little more.
The pain in his chest made him sloppy. As a squire himself, Sir Fredrick and Sir Hector had warned Arthur about emotion - it could be a strength, but it could turn just as easily into a weakness. Something hot was stinging at his eyes, making him lose focus. Even as Merlin blocked his next lunge, Arthur realized he left his entire right side stupidly unprotected.
Those golden eyes darted sideways, seeing the opening.
Arthur braced himself for the pain.
Instead, Merlin stepped backwards, bringing his sword up in defense. Arthur let out a roar and charged forward again.
It happened a few more times; an absurd mistake, Merlin noticing and backing off. The knowledge that Merlin could have wounded him three times over ignited a fury in Arthur’s blood unlike any other anger he’d ever felt. Hell, Merlin could simply have looked at him with those glowing eyes and stopped his heart.
“Come on!’ Arthur snarled. This time, he deliberately left a gaping hole in his defense, a perfect line from Merlin’s sword to his soft, unarmored underarm. Again, Merlin’s eyes snapped to the opening, noticing it in that clever way Arthur only wished that all the squires would. And again, Merlin simply met his sword in another block, letting the opportunity pass him by.
“Hit me!” Arthur half-screamed. “Why won’t you make the bloody strike, sorcerer?”
Merlin stumbled back, face shiny with sweat and maybe something else. “Because, you absolute moron, I don’t want to hurt you!”
“Why not?”
“Gods help me, right now I don’t know,” Merlin gritted out. He crouched in the ready position, body visibly shaking from the strain of the fight. Arthur put his arms wide, that rage swimming like poison in his stomach.
“Last chance.”
“For who?” Merlin shot back. “For me? Before you finally stop fucking with me and run me through? Or are you just waiting to tire me out, and then you’ll run me back to Camelot and the pyre like a good little prince?”
“Stop trying to bait me,” Arthur hissed.
Merlin shook his head. “I’m not. And I didn’t think you needed baiting - I have magic. Why won’t you make the strike, Arthur?”
Arthur felt like his chest was being crushed by the weight of his armor. He thought for a wild moment it was sorcery, but of course it wasn’t. “Because I don’t want to hurt you either!”
He wasn’t prepared to say it aloud, and by Merlin’s gobsmacked expression it was clear he wasn’t expecting to hear it. Arthur shook his head a few times. It wasn’t right. Merlin was a sorcerer. Merlin had been lying to him for weeks. Merlin’s life was, by law, forfeit.
Arthur swung his sword with a roar.
The blade bit deep into the young elm next to Merlin, sinking an inch into the bark with the force of Arthur’s arm.
“Arthur?”
Arthur kept his eyes trained on the sword. Sap had already started to bead around the cut, looking horribly like blood. “Leave Camelot. Now. I won’t pursue you.”
“Arthur, I - “
Whatever else Merlin was about to say was lost. He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly stock-still in Arthur’s peripheral vision, and then Arthur heard it. The unmistakable high, thin whine of an arrow in flight, followed by a hiss and a thud as the bolt hit the dirt just a few feet past them.
An explosion of noise shook the small clearing. A dozen or more men, screaming and waving weapons, crashed through the undergrowth towards Merlin and Arthur. Three more men, mounted on horses and one holding a crossbow, came charging up the deerpath behind them.
The only advantage they had against the bandits was the thickness of trees around them; Arthur noted the men were coming in two columns, forced by the dense underbrush to follow one another. It was barely an advantage, though; it was still immediately five against two, with reinforcements waiting just behind the first wave of attackers.
Arthur seized the hilt of his sword and tugged, but it was stuck fast inside the tree trunk. His flash of panic was interrupted by Merlin calling his name; Arthur looked up to see Merlin tossing his sword over and caught it just as the first attacker reached him.
In tournaments, during a melée, Arthur had always had the ability to see his own fight without tunnel vision; even as he dealt with his opponent, he could track the battles of the other men, note weaknesses and strengths, predict the outcomes of the other fights and mentally prepare how he would handle his next match. So, while dispatching the leading bandit and yanking the first horseman to the ground as he rode by, Arthur watched Merlin.
Merlin had darted behind Arthur, snatching his sword from the tree as easily as drawing it from a sheath, accompanied by a flash of golden eyes. It seemed whatever veil of secrecy he’d maintained until that point was well and truly gone; he was wielding magic like another man would fight with any other weapon.
Next, Merlin fended off a man holding an ax, twisting his sword arm to spin the ax out of the man’s grip. Another eye flash, and the man dropped like a stone, tripping the next who followed him into the clearing. The third man hopped neatly over his fallen predecessors, swinging a rusted sword with nasty precision - which Merlin blocked, a golden-eyed glow making his sword cut through his opponent’s like butter. He followed that with a knock of his sword hilt to the man’s head; and that was right, it was Arthur’s own sword with a Pendragon-red ruby inlaid into the pommel as ornamentation, looking at home in Merlin’s hand. In the midst of battle, Arthur had nearly forgotten they had swapped blades.
The next several minutes was a roar of battle noise, shrieking horses and the clang of steel. Arthur’s opponents lay in a bloodied heap around him, and he blinked sweat out of his eyes in readiness for the final attack.
It never came. Merlin hissed a word, and the heaviest branch from the elm tree behind them cracked and fell - no, swung - into the remaining men, knocking them back hard into the thicket of trees behind them. As if an invisible giant was swinging the branch like a club, it pivoted back to knock the remaining two horsemen from their saddles, sending their horses skittering forward in fear.
Arthur barely had time to marvel at this most blatant display of magic before Merlin made a fist, a golden shimmer appearing around the reins of the terrified horses to stop them within arm’s reach. “Arthur!”
He seized the reins of the horse closest to him and swung up, barely finding the stirrups before the animal exploded into a gallop up the deerpath. Echoing hoofbeats told Arthur Merlin was just behind him, and he let the horse have its head.
–
The bandits’ horses tired quickly from their mad dash through the woods; by the time the deerpath intersected with the king’s road, Arthur’s stolen mount had slowed to a nervous walk, eyes rolling and nostrils flaring. Behind them, Arthur could hear Merlin and his horse drawing ragged breaths.
“I think we lost them,” Merlin said. Arthur twisted in the saddle to peer behind them and saw nothing but the quiet woods. He grunted in response.
The shadows lengthened as the day slid into twilight, golden sunbeams breaking through the tree cover along the road. Merlin had pulled up beside Arthur, their horses cooling slowly and relaxing as they continued back towards Camelot. Thoughts chased each other through Arthur’s mind. He’s a sorcerer. He saved my life. He’s a liar. He’s the most honorable man I know. It seemed impossible that so many disparate facts could be true at once.
As the woods started to look more familiar, Arthur guessed they were only an hour’s ride from the citadel. He slowed his horse’s walk even further. “Merlin, the bandits - that fight doesn’t change anything. You must leave.”
Merlin’s spine was stiff, and he wasn’t looking at Arthur. “I can’t leave. I won’t.”
“You won’t do anything sensible,” Arthur groused. This felt like familiar territory, finally. He could tease and poke at Merlin. “You won’t drop out of training. You won’t save your own neck. You won’t even stop having magic, for gods’ sake,” he paused, considering. “Could you, though? Get rid of your magic?”
Merlin’s posture, amazingly, got even more rigid. His horse pulled up its head in discomfort, and Merlin scrubbed one hand against its withers in apology. “Can’t. I was born with it, floating things into my crib before I could walk. Gave my mum the worst time, growing up. We were always afraid someone would find out.”
“Did anyone?”
“A few,” Merlin admitted. “Some of them didn’t care. Some of them did. We’re close enough to Camelot, that,” he paused, started again. “I left when it became apparent that Mum would be safer without her magical son around. Only went to Gaius because there was nowhere else to go.”
“From the frying pan to the fire,” Arthur said.
Merlin scoffed. “Like you know anything about frying pans and cooking.” He sobered again. “But yeah.”
“So that’s why you’re refusing to go? Because there’s nowhere else?” Arthur shook his head. “Except literally anywhere else in Albion would be safer for you.”
“Why do you care if I’m safe?” Merlin asked. He didn’t sound angry; just curious. And he was finally meeting Arthur’s eye. “Why aren’t I being dragged back to face the king’s justice?”
Arthur’s stomach did a terrible pinch at that - a pyre, his father’s favorite method, might take too long given the egregious nature of Merlin’s deceit. Perhaps Uther would decide speed was of the essence, and call for the headsman instead.
“I -” Arthur stopped, trying to organize his thoughts. “The king has context I do not when it comes to sorcerers. I was barely two weeks old when the purge began in earnest. It’s all I’ve ever known, and my father has his reasons - he’s explained them to me many, many times.”
“And?” Merlin’s voice was soft.
“Sorcerers are incapable of compassion,” Arthur started to recount his father’s favorite phrases. He’d heard them so often, at council meetings or the dinner table or in place of bedtime stories, it wasn’t hard to recite them. “Magic is a power stronger than steel or armies of regular men, and such power corrupts. It is unnatural and fearsome, and will ruin the peace with evil deeds, treachery, and murder. Even small acts of magic are a symptom of a disease, and the only way to save the kingdom is to burn the infection out.”
The words hung in the air between them, feeling much like an infection themselves.
Arthur knew what he wanted to say next, but the words felt heavier in some way he didn’t quite know how to process. “I won’t say that I don't see some truth in what he says. There have been sorcerers who have attacked everything I love with the intent to leave Camelot broken, but … I can’t apply those things to you.”
Merlin sucked in a breath. “Arthur -”
“I’ve spent the better part of my life judging the character of men. It’s part of everything I’ve been trained to do. Try as I might, I can’t find a single ounce of malice in you and I,” Arthur stopped, frustrated with the limited scope of language. He didn’t know how to articulate everything churning in his mind. “I can’t say why I trust you. I shouldn’t. It doesn’t make sense, but I do.”
“Arthur,” Merlin repeated, softer. Arthur swallowed hard.
“But if anyone else finds out, I wouldn’t be able to protect you. So I ask again - why won’t you leave?”
“What would Morgana do, if I left now?” Merlin said. “Or Lancelot? Elyan and Gwaine? They’re dedicated to being knights, serving Camelot. If I leave, I’m not giving them even the slightest chance. And, there’s you -” Merlin cut himself off with a quick intake of air, and Arthur turned to look at him.
“I won’t belittle your efforts, Merlin, but Morgana has already begun to prepare herself for the worst. It won’t be pleasant, but she will live with Uther’s decision for her marriage. And the men never had much of a chance to begin with. It may even be that removing any false sense of hope is kinder. And what about me, exactly?”
Merlin didn’t answer; he was back to staring straight ahead again, body full of tension. Arthur reached over to grab one of the reins, tugging their horses to a halt. “Merlin. What about me?”
“Arthur,” Merlin said miserably. “Arthur, you already know most of my secrets. It’s not fair for you to know them all.”
Once, as a boy, Arthur had watched a thunderstorm make its way across the citadel. He’d evaded a tutor to climb to one of the highest turrets, where there wasn’t glass in the arrow slits and he could feel the static energy of the storm around him, pressing against his hair and skin. A streak of lightning had struck one of the neighboring towers, throwing sparks against the metal flag pole and incinerating the flag with its Pendragon crest in less than a heartbeat. It was an explosion of light and heat and awe and fear, a palpable demonstration of how small Arthur was in the face of natural forces he couldn’t understand.
The answer came to him much like that lightning strike. Arthur felt like his insides had caught fire, heating up with a power he couldn’t name and the stunning simplicity of it all made his breath catch and stick in his lungs.
“Oh.”
That horrible fear had returned to Merlin’s face, like when Arthur had first seen his magic. As if this secret were as terrible and frightening and life threatening - Arthur supposed it was. “Please. Forget everything. I’ll train, I’ll likely fail, and you can forget I ever existed, but don’t send me away -”
Arthur slid out of the saddle, dropping the reins and reaching up for Merlin. The other man stuttered out questions, resisting as Arthur tugged at his surcoat until he overbalanced. Merlin’s horse skittered sideways as Merlin fell into Arthur’s arms, an awkward clatter of chainmail and sword belt and terrified, stiff limbs.
“Arthur,” Merlin repeated, and Arthur realized it wasn’t the first time Merlin had said his name. This close, he could see every line in Merlin’s eyes, smell his sweat and fear and skin, and feel the weight of him, solidly alive, beneath his hands. Suddenly his gloves felt too tight, and he released Merlin for as long as it took him to strip them off and throw them to the side.
Bare-handed, Arthur took Merlin’s face in between his palms. That was better - the side of his little finger was pressed up against the vein pulsing under the sharp cut of Merlin’s jaw, a strong beat rabbiting away beneath that too-pale skin.
“Merlin,” Arthur said, helpless, and he kissed him.
Merlin’s mouth opened immediately under his lips, an exhilarating new sensation of heat and wet and the blunt press of teeth. He surged into Arthur’s hands, his own fingers scrabbling at the gaps of Arthur’s armor seeking skin.
This wasn’t a foreign activity; though many were put off by the weight of Arthur’s crown, there had been a handful of brave ladies-in-waiting, a few visiting knights. Arthur had kissed many mouths, felt the heat of many bodies, found himself gasping and undone under many caresses. Those other partners may have even been more skilled, but as he licked inside the seam of Merlin’s lips Arthur realized he’d only ever been practicing for this. Everyone else had only existed so Arthur could learn how to coax out the hungry sounds Merlin made, to be strong and solid where Merlin was frantic.
Merlin’s back was against a tree. His chainmail was gone, tossed somewhere unimportant, and his tunic hitched up high over a startlingly white stomach. Arthur passed a rough hand down the trail of dark hair that gathered across his chest, broke on his sternum and wove again down beneath his trousers. Merlin choked out a moan, hips working unconsciously.
“You’re lovely,” Arthur rasped out against Merlin’s mouth. “And you aren’t going anywhere.”
Something about Merlin made Arthur horribly, hurtfully selfish. Even as he wrenched his own tunic up and over his head, even as Merlin scrabbled at his belt, Arthur knew that he should tell Merlin to leave, to run. It would be an easy story to tell back at Camelot, Arthur thought, biting a possessive bruise beneath Merlin’s jaw. There were bandits and they were overrun. Merlin died; Arthur escaped. But Merlin groaned, seizing Arthur’s hips and grinding into him, and selfish Arthur was back.
What a picture they must make; bloodied and winded, stinking of sweat and sex, frotting helplessly half-dressed against a tree. The mental image spiked Arthur’s blood. He seized a handful of dark hair at the nape of Merlin’s neck and pulled his head back to expose a long column of throat already littered with marks from Arthur’s mouth. Merlin gave a punched-out gasp of air and Arthur felt him throb against his hip.
“You’re going to make me - I’m going to -” Merlin choked out.
Arthur had barely enough presence of mind to thrust his hand beneath the half-undone laces of Merlin’s breeches and wrap his fingers around Merlin’s shockingly hot cock. The feeling of him, heavy and fat in Arthur’s palm was enough to tip Arthur over the edge.
He spun into ecstasy.
Distantly he felt some of his own spill splatter the fist he had closed around Merlin. Instinctively, Arthur tightened his grip and heard Merlin’s shout. Arthur forced his eyes open, knowing he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t watch this first moment, witness how Merlin fell apart, and oh, it was as spectacular as he’d hoped.
Merlin’s back arched hard off of the tree, throat working soundlessly and eyes wide open but blank. He came in a pulsing rush, mixing his spend with Arthur’s in a mess on his stomach and groin and Arthur had never seen anything so beautiful, so ridiculous.
They came down together, hands still on each other’s bodies. Gradually, Arthur became aware of birdsong around them and the soft sounds of their stolen horses cropping grass at the roadside.
The roadside, from which they were only steps away and in plain view.
“My gods,” Merlin said faintly. “What if someone had passed by?”
Arthur thought again of the image they must have made, and felt another thrill shoot through his groin. “They would have gotten a show, I imagine.”
Merlin half-laughed, half-groaned.
Arthur expected their disentanglement and clean up to be awkward, but strangely it wasn’t. Merlin’s tunic was already ripped at one sleeve; he tugged the material free and used the scrap of fabric to wipe the worst of the drying come from his stomach and Arthur’s hand. They helped one another back into their mail, more like fellow squires than prince and physician’s assistant-turned would-be knight.
Merlin took a long time adjusting Arthur’s chainmail to sit perfectly on his shoulders. “You said I wasn’t going anywhere.”
Arthur remembered, and blushed.
“Did you mean it?” Merlin asked. His eyes were still trained somewhere around Arthur’s chest, hands still restless on the chainmail shirt. Arthur reached up and captured his hands, feeling his blush getting hotter even as he wound their fingers together.
“I meant it,” Arthur said. “It would be the smart thing to do, Merlin, to run. I wouldn’t stop you from going, but I won’t ask you to leave again.”
“And this,” Merlin squeezed his hands. “Will it be … is this real, even if I’m magic?”
The words “of course” pressed at the back of Arthur’s tongue, but he made them wait. He’d taken his oaths kneeling at his father’s feet, kissed his signet ring. He’d rounded up other sorcerers - some dangerous, some scared and bewildered - without question. He hadn’t thought about sorcerers like he thought about Merlin.
“I can’t promise anything will change,” Arthur said softly. “At least, not for a while. And I have questions.”
“Of course,” Merlin said. “And I’ll answer them, if I can. But you’re not … mad?”
“I am certainly mad,” Arthur said. He realized he didn’t know exactly which definition he meant - probably both.
“Certainly,” Merlin snickered. He was finally meeting Arthur’s gaze, their hands still wrapped up together.
“If this … if what’s between us is to be, you cannot lie to me anymore.”
“I haven’t any more secrets to keep,” Merlin said simply.
Arthur lifted one of Merlin’s hands to his mouth and kissed the knuckle of his third finger - where, if Merlin were a lord, he might wear his own signet ring. He didn’t expect Merlin to understand the gesture, and half-hoped he wouldn’t. Arthur’s chest already felt too small for his heart, and the sensation threatened to overwhelm him as it was.
“Like I said, you aren’t going anywhere,” Arthur said. “Except with me, back to Camelot. We should keep going if we want to be home by dark.”
—
“Merlin,” Arthur said. They’d been riding in silence, a comfortable quiet that felt nearly as precious as the soft, plush taste of Arthur’s lips in Merlin’s mind. However, when Arthur spoke, Merlin felt an embarrassing rush of heat and affection hearing his name from Arthur’s mouth.
“Hm?”
“You’ve been at Camelot for nearly two seasons, undetected as a - a sorcerer.” Arthur pressed on, obviously still uncomfortable with the word. “Whatever possessed you to try and sneak magic under my nose like that?”
In the chaos of the last few hours, Merlin had nearly forgotten. The same rush of panic and sorrow built in his chest at speed, and he swallowed hard against it. “Hersus. I didn’t want to lose him.”
“Is that all?” A smile tugged at the corners of Arthur’s mouth, like he couldn’t quite believe Merlin. “You’d risk life and limb for fear of your horse? Merlin, he’s not a pet, for goodness’ sake, he’s a warhorse. He can take care of himse-”
“He was a gift,” Merlin broke in. He felt like his heart was being laid bare again, but the sensation wasn’t nearly half as terrifying as before. Now, he almost wanted Arthur to know, to understand the depths of his regard in the same way he sometimes felt the irrational, dizzying urge to leap from a high place even as he recognized to do so would be to die. “He was a gift from you. I couldn’t lose him. I hate that I did anyway.”
All of the teasing went out of Arthur’s face. He reached across the gap between their two horses to cup Merlin’s cheek again. He still hadn’t put his gloves back on - maybe they were lost for good - and the rasp of his callouses against Merlin’s skin sent a shiver through his core.
“Hersus knows where home is,” Arthur said. “I will be shocked if he and Hengroen aren’t back at the stables by the time we arrive.”
“You swear?” Merlin asked. He couldn’t keep the smile off of his own face; the pad of Arthur’s thumb traced his lip and left a trail of heat in its wake.
“I so swear,” Arthur said.
Merlin pressed into the touch, still embarrassed by the force of his own wants. “If they’re safe, then -”
Arthur laughed. “I should have guessed someone as impertinent as you would be a harlot,” he said, affectionate. “Merlin, what do you think the king will do when our horses are reported returning to the citadel, riderless? I’m surprised a search party hasn’t found us yet.”
Merlin pulled back, but not before turning his face into Arthur’s palm to press a kiss there. “Fine.”
Arthur’s gaze had turned molten at the brush of Merlin’s mouth. “I’ll need to report on the bandit attack once we arrive. You will attend me in my chambers later?”
The order was more like a question, or an invitation. Merlin resisted the urge to press the heel of his hand against himself, feeling shocked at the heat in his own body. “Of course. I am at Your Highness’ disposal.”
Arthur had barely dropped his hand back to his reins when they heard hoofbeats. Arthur loosed his sword in the sheath and Merlin mimicked him, pulse coming quick and hot. The riders came cantering around the bend in front of them, the signature swath of red Pendragon capes streaming out from around the shoulders of Sir Leon, Percy, Pellinore and Yvain.
“It’s the prince!” Sir Leon called.
Arthur explained the situation; the knights looked at Merlin with new respect as the prince described how Merlin handled six of the dozen or so brigands by himself. Sir Pellinore clapped Merlin’s shoulder. “Your dedication has served Camelot well already, Merlin. You have my thanks for keeping the prince safe.”
“He handled all the rest,” Merlin said, feeling a little uncomfortable under the praise.
“All the same,” Percy cut in. “You have all our thanks.”
Merlin caught Arthur’s eye and his chest constricted; the prince’s face was full of naked affection. “Well, someone’s got to keep his royal arse covered,” Merlin managed.
The knights guffawed; Arthur’s smile went wry and private.
–
Now that Arthur knew Merlin’s secret, he saw the magic everywhere.
Not overtly, of course. But since their skirmish with the bandits and watching Merlin’s magic fly out on pure instinct, Arthur could see the tiny changes in the other man’s body when he used it. An awkward step smoothed out, a lunge with a burst of extra speed, the tip of a lance snapping into perfect position at just the right moment. The sight of magic in use never failed to make his heart thump an extra, panicked beat until Arthur could remind himself - this was Merlin.
The knights didn’t notice a thing. Their fondness had blossomed into outright respect, and it warmed Arthur to see them embrace Merlin as one of their own. Yvain reiterated to all who would listen that Merlin was a lionheart, defending the prince and thereby defending the heart of Camelot. Every time this happened, Merlin would go bright red and mumble a deflection.
“I wish he’d stop,” Merlin admitted. While crossing the courtyard back into the castle after a long day of joust practice, Yvain had stopped to tell the story to a handful of merchants who had only paused on their way to bow to their prince. Merlin and Arthur had slipped away after a few minutes, retreating to the safety of the prince’s quarters for supper.
“Yvain is a good man,” Arthur said, “but were he not a knight, I swear he’d be the world’s most annoying minstrel. He isn’t one to let a good story die, not until he’s regaled everyone in the kingdom. Those merchants didn’t stand a chance.”
Merlin groaned and fiddled with his tankard. The remnants of their dinner lay on the table, where they’d remain until Morris came the next morning; Arthur had dismissed his manservant to focus on Merlin.
Merlin, who was magic. Who was powerful . Who could kiss like a man lit by fire from within, who burned hot and bright and consuming. He certainly consumed Arthur’s thoughts over the last two days.
They hadn’t touched one another in the same way since the forest, though Arthur craved it. He could see in Merlin’s heated looks - blue eyes, not gold - that the other man felt the same. As much as he wanted to rush headlong into more , Arthur also wanted to draw it out, slow and syrupy sweet. They only had a few more days until the equinox, a few more days where Arthur could forgo everything but Merlin with good cause.
“When you look at me like that, I can’t quite tell if you want to stab me or, stab -” Merlin faltered, the joke he was about to make falling quiet on his lips.
“There’s a lot that I want,” Arthur said quietly. “I just don’t know in what order I want it, or why.”
The words didn’t make sense to Arthur as he said them, but Merlin just nodded and slipped from his chair. He walked around the table and settled his hip against the arm of Arthur’s chair, their bodies not quite touching. Arthur imagined he could feel the crackling of magic underneath his skin, like the feeling of lightning striking somewhere close.
Merlin’s voice was also soft. “Do you want me to touch you?”
The words caught beneath Arthur’s breastbone, and wandered down his body sparking heat. Arthur swallowed. “Yes.”
“Do you want to touch me?”
“Yes.”
“How about …” Merlin’s hands stretched out, hovering over Arthur’s chest. “Here?”
Arthur caught Merlin’s hands and pressed them to his chest. Those hands could easily stop his heart. Every warning Uther ever gave about sorcerers and their wiles pressed against Arthur’s memory.
“Have you enchanted me?” Arthur asked. He wished he hadn’t.
Merlin didn’t look upset. “I hope so. Not in that way,” he added. His hands were sliding down, finding the hem of Arthur’s tunic, and slipping up again with bare skin on bare skin. “Just, in the normal way.”
The hands against his chest were maddening. Arthur slid his palms up Merlin’s arms, feeling the strength built over the last few months, and the power that Merlin had been born with coiled underneath. Merlin shuddered, and maneuvered his long limbs to be able to kneel in front of Arthur’s chair.
All that power, and still he knelt at Arthur’s feet.
Arthur groaned, and seized two fistfuls of Merlin’s shirt, hauling them both up and over to the bed. Merlin let himself be manhandled, falling backward onto the bed with a bounce.
“Merlin -“ Arthur started, feeling stupid with desire and and a little bit of delicious shame. He swallowed again. “I rather think I like the way you look on your knees.”
Merlin flushed, and from the way he was sprawled back on the bed Arthur had a clear view of the way his cock twitched in his trousers. “Safe to assume you also like the way I look on my back, Sire?”
The impertinence of the man! Faced with the debauched picture Merlin made and combined with his use of the honorific, Arthur felt all reason - and all desire to move slowly - leave him. “Remove your clothes,” he ordered. Or at least he meant to; what came out was a needy rasp versus a royal command.
“Can I …?” Merlin trailed off, looking unsure. Arthur had no idea what he was asking and just nodded. He’d give Merlin anything he wanted -
A flash of golden eyes, and they were naked.
The shock of it gripped Arthur’s lungs for a panicked half second. Once they’d returned from the forest, he’d made Merlin tell him about every instance he had used his magic, from cleaning his armor and healing his wounds to enhancing his fighting. Nothing on the list had been done directly to Arthur, at least not like this.
All that power, and yet Merlin lay trusting and exposed before him.
Arthur climbed onto the bed and kissed him.
Gods, he’d never tire of this. The feeling of his skin on Merlin’s, the sounds Merlin made. Arthur pressed his hips down just to hear Merlin moan, and lost himself in the perfect friction of their lengths pressing together.
He could do anything to Merlin, Arthur realized. He could do anything and Merlin would let him. His teeth tugged sharply at a pale pink nipple; Merlin pressed himself up into Arthur’s mouth with a wordless cry. Arthur pressed a kiss of apology against the inflamed skin; as much as he needed to deserve the fealty of his knights, Arthur needed to deserve Merlin’s trust - with his life, his body.
As he kissed his way down Merlin’s chest, Merlin combed his fingers through Arthur’s hair, blunt nails scratching gently at his scalp. Every nerve ending felt connected to his prick. Arthur distangled himself gently, keeping his hands on Merlin even as he sat back on his heels. Merlin stared up at him, his face lust-drunk.
“Roll over,” Arthur said.
Merlin did, eager and clumsy. The press of the coverlet left a spider web of impression lines on his fair skin; Arthur traced them with his fingers, following them down towards a surprisingly plush arse.
“Don’t tease, Arthur,” Merlin gasped out. He reached backwards with an awkward twist as if to put Arthur’s hands where he wanted them, but Arthur caught his wrist, gently pushing his arm down and pressing it into the bedding.
“I’ll tease if I like,” Arthur said, certain. “And you’ll let me, won’t you?”
Merlin let out a hungry sound. “O-Of course, Sire. Please.”
“Can I trust you to keep this here?” Arthur leaned a little more pressure on Merlin’s wrist.
“Yes, Arthur, yes -“
“Good,” Arthur praised. “Because if I like the way you look on your knees, and flat on your back even more, I love the way you look like this.”
He released Merlin’s wrist - noting with delight that Merlin kept it glued to the coverlet - to knead at Merlin’s cheeks. Arousal, heavy and aching and wonderful, pulsed in the base of his stomach and he groaned at the sight, the feel of Merlin in his hands. Sliding his hands down further, Arthur nudged Merlin’s thighs close together, and spat.
Merlin jerked beneath him and moaned again, squirming his hips down into the bed for friction. Slowly, Arthur guided his prick into the tight, hot clutch between Merlin’s thighs. The head of his cock slid over Merlin’s bollocks, sending another wave of shudders through his body.
Arthur thought he was already feeling all the desire one could feel, but the feel of Merlin moving against him, around him, sent a bolt of lust ten times more desperate through his core. He couldn’t help but thrust harder, again and again. Gods, he wanted Merlin, couldn’t believe all of the stars that had to align in confused perfection to have a sorcerer naked and shivering with need beneath him -
A thought, dark and perfect, cut through the haze of arousal. Carefully, Arthur slid one hand up Merlin’s back and - slowly, giving him time to push Arthur away, or ask him to stop, or use the incredible power of his magic to freeze time or throw Arthur off the bed - Arthur wrapped his fingers around Merlin’s throat.
The sound Merlin made was ecstatic with pleasure.
Time seemed to hang still, and Arthur was consumed by the feeling of moving against Merlin, feeling his pulse flutter against his fingers. He tightened his grip infinitesimally, and Merlin cried out.
The fire in the grate across the room flared, and Arthur had the strange sensation of feeling Merlin’s bollocks twitch against his cock as the other man came in a pulsing rush. That lightning-strike feel, the way Merlin sobbed his pleasure, the feeling pressing against Arthur’s chest - he lost all sense of rhythm, hips thrusting frantically between Merlin’s thighs.
Sensation gathered at the base of his spine, too good and too bright. He released Merlin’s throat to seize his hips in both hands for better leverage, chasing the feeling until he tipped over into oblivion, prick pulsing and come spreading wet and messy across Merlin’s skin.
An age - or ten minutes, or two - passed.
“I need to breathe, Arthur,” Merlin’s voice was only a little muffled, and Arthur shifted sideways just enough to take his weight off of Merlin’s back. His heart flopped as Merlin readjusted them, keeping as much skin pressed together as possible.
“That was …” Arthur trailed off. “Well, I haven’t the words.”
“Hot.” Merlin supplied. “Intense. Infinitely repeatable.”
“Definitely repeatable.” Arthur let his hand drift around to Merlin’s backside, stroking the soft skin just above his cleft. “And then some.”
Merlin groaned a little. “Sire, tease all you want, but you wrung me out. Give me a few minutes, at least.”
“Sleep, now. We have all the time in the world,” Arthur said and dipped his chin to kiss Merlin’s brow, pressing the words like a promise into his skin.
–
To Merlin’s great surprise, there was an argument about who would help him prepare the morning of his trial.
“His Highness requested that I attend Merlin,” Morris said, voice as stiff as his posture. “I am, after all, manservant to the prince and as such, my skill in dressing and arming a man for battle is unparalleled.”
Sir Fredrick - who Merlin didn’t even think liked him at all, let alone enough to practically arm wrestle Morris - bristled. “It is my tradition to arm my squire trainees for their tests. Merlin has been under my tutelage; the honor is mine.”
“I can do it myself,” Merlin put in. “Or if you’re so fussed, help me together?”
Both Morris and Sir Fredrick turned to glare at him, and Merlin put his hands up.
“I have my orders,” Morris said.
“It’s just I think I’m meant to be on the field soon.” Merlin said.
“He is. Why isn’t your armor on?”
They all turned to look at the newcomer, and Merlin pushed down a shiver of heat at the voice. It was Arthur, ducking into the pavilion and letting the tent flaps close behind him. Morris dropped into a deep bow; Sir Fredrick ducked his head and took a step forward.
“Sire, you know my tradition.”
Arthur nodded. “I do. I thought it may not apply in this case.”
The older knight cast a sidelong glance at Merlin. “He is unusual” - and Merlin took a moment to wonder if he ought to be insulted by that or not “-but he’s been my project nearly as long as he’s been yours, Sire.”
“By all means,” Arthur waved a hand. “Morris, stand down.”
The manservant left in a huff, and Sir Fredrick set about arming Merlin. As he worked, Sir Fredrick gave what sounded like a recitation. “As you lift your sword today and all days, know that you so swear to live one’s life so that it is worthy of respect and honor by fair play. Never attack an unarmed foe, never charge an unhorsed opponent, never attack from behind. Live with nobility -”
And here his voice went a little gruff, as if speaking against his better judgment. “Exhibit self-discipline, obey the law, administer justice, and protect the innocent.”
As Sir Fredrick spoke, Merlin noticed Arthur mouthing along with the words silently. The atmosphere of the tent took on the feel of a church or a holy grove, and Sir Fredrick’s words were like prayers. With a start, Merlin realized Sir Fredrick was reciting the code of chivalry, as if Merlin were about to actually earn his spurs. These would be the words that Merlin would swear at the feet of the king, pledging his life and fealty, if he were to become a knight.
“Live with valor. Exhibit courage in word and deed, avenge the wounded, and never abandon a friend, ally, or noble cause. Live with honor. Always keep one’s word, always maintain one’s principles, avoid deception.”
Merlin caught Arthur’s eye; he tried to put all of his feelings - especially his remorse for his own deception even as necessary as it was - into his gaze. Arthur looked like he understood.
“Live with courtesy. Cherish life, be polite and attentive, and be respectful of host, authority, and women. Live with loyalty to sovereign, country, and the code of chivalry.”
Though he wasn’t reciting the oath back himself, Merlin felt something settle and anchor in his chest. He wouldn’t become a knight; wouldn’t kneel at Uther’s feet and speak these words. But Arthur … Merlin could say them for Arthur. He had already knelt at Arthur’s feet and he would do so again gladly to pledge his life and magic. Perhaps not in the throne room of Camelot, and perhaps not out loud, but here, holding his eyes and feeling each word like an incantation in his mind, Merlin could feel the oath settle into his bones like steel.
Sir Fredrick finished buckling a pauldron into place; Merlin finally broke Arthur’ gaze and turned to look at the older knight. His face was somber and proud.
“No matter the outcome of today, know these words. Remember your training. And for you especially, Merlin,” he added. “For gods’ sake, watch your left side.”
Overcome with fondness for Sir Fredrick, Merlin dropped into the best bow he could manage. “Thank you, sir.”
Sir Fredrick made a gruff noise and left the tent.
“I wasn’t expecting him to do that,” Arthur said.
Merlin turned back to him, nerves bubbling up again in his chest. “I didn’t think he had any regard for me at all, being as hopeless as I’ve been. Arthur, what if I -”
Arthur stepped forward and took Merlin’s face in his hands, effectively shutting him up. The kiss that followed a moment later was chaste and sweet. “You will be fine.”
A little breathless, Merlin leaned his forehead against Arthur’s. “Easy for you to say.”
“You will be fine,” Arthur repeated. He drew back just enough to pull something out of a pouch at his belt; without explanation, he pulled off one of Merlin’s gloves and fastened what looked to be one of his leather cuffs around Merlin’s wrist.
Merlin stared at it. “Arthur - “
“Come,” Arthur interrupted gently. He handed Merlin back his glove, and then his helmet. “It’s time.”
And so armed, oathed, and wearing the prince’s favor, Merlin entered the lists.
The trial was sparsely attended, but even the dozen or so spectators surprised Merlin. Of course, King Uther sat as judge and jury in the royal box, Lady Morgana at his side. Gwen hovered at her lady’s shoulder, sharing her anxious expression. But in the stands, Merlin saw Gaius sitting next to Elyan, Gwaine and Lance, the steward, a handful of the castle serving staff. A handful of the knights, including Sir Leon and Sir Percival, sat in full armor with their swords at their hips. Even the squires were present - including Leodegrance, who wore a mulish expression on his young face.
Arthur stepped out in front of the royal box and gestured for Merlin to stand next to him. Together, Arthur inclined his head while Merlin bowed, as Arthur had him practice the night before. “My lord,” Arthur said formally. “May I present to you Merlin of Ealdor. He comes before you today to seek your permission to fulfill the terms of our wager.”
The king barely sat forward, looking bored. “Granted.”
“Does my lord have an opponent in mind to test Merlin’s abilities with the sword?”
Merlin held his breath. Arthur had warned him that the king had the ability to pick from any of the knights - he could even pick Arthur, if he wanted. The handful Merlin had trained with were friendly; he didn’t know if all of the knights of the realm felt the same.
“Your first knight, Sir Leon,” King Uther said. “After all, he is the man you trust most to guard you. If Merlin can best Sir Leon, then perhaps he and others like him deserve the chance to stand at your back.”
Heart thumping wildly in his chest, Merlin bowed again at Arthur’s gesture, and followed him to the side of the lists. In the stands Sir Leon stood and made his way down to the field.
“I can’t beat Sir Leon,” Merlin said.
Arthur made an aborted movement, as if he wanted to reach for Merlin like he had in the pavilion. For a moment, Merlin wished he would.
“You’ve made it this far,” Arthur said quietly. “No matter the outcome, you have risen to the occasion. Remember the code? This is what it means to exhibit courage in word and deed.”
Merlin took a deep breath, and glanced back to the field. Sir Leon waited patiently, his helm in his hands. “All right.”
The king finally stood as Merlin squared off against Sir Leon, holding his sword so tightly his hands felt cramped. He met Sir Leon’s eyes through the eye slits in their helmets. The knight gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Begin,” King Uther ordered, and Sir Leon attacked.
The magic Merlin used to fight was now second nature. Arthur had drilled him in secret inside his antechamber, using wasters wrapped in wool to muffle the sounds indoors. Whatever mercy he’d shown on the day in the clearing was gone; Merlin had been treated to the full force of Arthur’s skill in a flurry of blows he could barely fend off even with the help of his magic. Now, with Sir Leon, Merlin was grateful for Arthur’s intensity over the last week - he didn’t even think before the magic was fueling his movements.
A parry here with a crash of steel on steel; a lunge. Darting sideways to escape the quick flick of a blade; searching for openings and seeing next to nothing. Sir Leon brought his sword down above his head, and Merlin thrust forward in the diagonal strike that once allowed him to send Leodegrance sprawling. Of course, Sir Leon was too good for that; though, even as he blocked the strike, Merlin heard the spectators cheering his name.
They circled each other, testing defenses. At one point, the tip of Merlin’s sword caught in a gap at Leon’s armor; the knight twisted expertly away from the blade before Merlin could score a true hit. Leon had taught him that maneuver, and Merlin fancied he heard the knight laugh even as he whirled away into his next attack.
It felt like they had been at it for hours, but in reality it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. Merlin felt sweat sliding down his temples. He crouched low under Sir Leon’s next swing, and feinted right. Again, the knight was too skilled to let Merlin’s bluff fool him, and parried.
But then, Sir Leon drove the tip of his sword down into the dirt, and dropped gracefully to one knee.
Merlin almost dropped his sword in shock.
“I am satisfied,” Sir Leon’s voice carried across the lists. “Gramercy, Merlin.”
“What are you doing?” Merlin whispered.
“You need to say you accept my surrender,” Sir Leon said.
“Leon!” The king’s bellow made Merlin jerk around to look at the royal box. King Uther was glowering down at them. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Say you accept my surrender!” Sir Leon hissed, more urgently.
“I, uh, I accept your surrender?” Merlin said.
With that, the knight stood and faced the king, pulling off his helm and bowing. “Your Majesty, I have been bested.”
“You stopped the fight without cause,” King Uther said.
Sir Leon straightened. “Sire, in your wisdom, would you say Merlin demonstrated the ability to withstand my efforts in battle just now?”
“Surprisingly so, but the fight wasn’t won ,” the king snapped.
Sir Leon dipped his head. “In my capacity as First Knight, in service to your son, the Crown Prince, I deem Merlin as chivalrous, honorable, and skilled. In accordance with the oaths I swore, I have surrendered this match.”
Merlin stared at him. The king threw up his hands.
“Fine, then. To the joust.” He glared across the stands to where the knights sat. “Sir Percival, ready yourself.”
Sir Leon walked back with Merlin to the sidelines where Arthur waited.
“Why did you do that?” Merlin asked.
“I meant what I said to the king,” Sir Leon said. “You’ve accomplished much in three months. More so than I or, I daresay anyone expected. And I don’t say this to slight you, Merlin, but if you could achieve this, I imagine a man who actually wants to protect Camelot as a knight and chooses to undergo the training could also achieve great things.”
“Did you put him up to that?” Merlin asked Arthur. The prince shook his head, a small, private smile on his face.
“Leon’s honor is without question,” Arthur said. “No one could convince him to do something he didn’t think was just.”
Merlin stared at the both of them, feeling a mixture of numbness and gratitude. Arthur sighed, exasperated. “Don’t just stand there like a gormless fool, Merlin. Get Hersus and prepare for the joust!”
Apparently, after being denied the opportunity to arm Merlin, Morris had busied himself with preparing Hersus. He waited with the bay stallion just outside the lists, with Drustan at his elbow with his arms around three lances.
“Merlin!” Drustan called. “Merlin, I’m your squire today. Isn’t that funny? Anyways, I like your horse. Did you know he looks a lot like Prince Arthur’s horse? I don’t remember if Prince Arthur’s horse has a star, but -”
“Ahem,” Morris said pointedly. Drustan fell silent, nearly vibrating with his excitement.
“Thank you, Morris. And thank you, Drustan. I’ll bet you do this all the time for Sir Pellinore, right?”
“I -” Drustan caught Morris’ death glare and just nodded, bouncing on his heels.
It only took a few more minutes to mount Hersus and walk him back to the lists, Morris and Drustan managing the lances behind them. Across the field Percy looked like more of a giant than a man, sitting astride the biggest horse in Camelot’s stables. The lance almost looked small in the knight’s massive, gauntleted hands.
In the center of the field, one of the page boys had taken position against the tilt with a flag held high. At the king’s command, the page dropped the flag and ran backwards out of the way. Merlin closed his legs around Hersus’ side and charged.
It took him a few moments to understand what he was seeing. Across the field, Percy’s horse wasn’t galloping, but trotting forward with frustrated little jigs to the side as Percy reined him in. The knight wasn’t lowering his lance; instead, he held it up higher with the point held skyward.
“For gods’ sake!” Merlin heard the king thundering from the stands.
Just like Sir Leon, Percy called “I’m satisfied! Gramercy!”
Merlin pulled hard on Hersus’ reins, murmuring an apology as the stallion raised his head in discomfort against the pressure of the bit. He managed to swing his own lance skyward. At least this time he knew what to say: “I accept your surrender!”
Moments later halted in front of the king, Merlin felt like King Uther’s glare was hot enough to boil Merlin alive inside his armor. It was harder to bow while in the saddle, but Percy managed it. “Your Majesty, I too deem Merlin -”
“Fine!” King Uther snapped. “Arthur. What’s the meaning of this farce?”
“No farce, Father.”
From his position astride Hersus, Merlin could see the top of Arthur’s head shining like burnished gold in the midafternoon sun. From a distance, it looked like a crown.
“Our wager was that I was to train a common man of your selection. I had three months. As you see, Merlin can handle a horse and lance, and engage in swordplay - skills he did not have last season. And our knights, sworn to uphold and protect Camelot’s laws and sovereignty, have weighed and measured Merlin to be honorable, noble, valorous and loyal. Merlin understands the code we need to defend our kingdom.”
In Merlin’s periphery, he saw Lady Morgana clutching at Gwen’s hands.
“If the men we have entrusted Camelot’s safety to deem Merlin worthy enough to surrender to him under the guidance of fair play …” Arthur trailed off.
The king seemed to sense where Arthur was going and scowled. “I require all but Arthur, Morgana and -” his glare intensified “- Merlin to leave. At once.”
When the stands were empty, King Uther looked back to Arthur. “You wish me to honor fair play and award you and Lady Morgana as the winners of our wager.”
“I do,” Arthur said.
“Despite how changing the law may upset the balance of the court?”
“I believe that the court will follow your lead, Father. Especially when they see the benefits of additional security across the realm.”
The king turned to Lady Morgana. “And you? Would you take this chance to deprive Camelot of a hundred knights?”
“A hundred knights with mixed loyalties,” Lady Morgana countered. Her face was wet with tears, but her voice was fierce with a mix of joy and hope. “I’d rather a dozen men with Camelot blood in their veins, than a hundred who may put Hatherford first.”
“And I have it on good authority that we have a dozen candidates already asking for the opportunity,” Arthur added. “Three in particular who could take the trials tomorrow.”
“Actual trials?” King Uther said archly. “Or will I watch a parade of lowborn men receive the surrenders of our knights?”
Arthur didn’t take the bait. “I imagine you will be greatly pleased by their showings, Father, if you let them.”
The silence stretched for a long moment, broken only the swish-flick of Hersus’ tail to dislodge a fly. Finally, the king sat back in his throne, lines of displeasure etched deeply into his face.
“I have one additional condition.”
“Father -” Arthur started, but King Uther cut him off.
“My condition is that the performance from today by no means counts as a true trial. Merlin is no knight, and if -”
“Agreed!” Merlin said, and Arthur spun around to glare at him at the same time the king did. Merlin had never seen much resemblance between father and son until this very moment. “Sorry.”
Arthur turned back to the king. “Agreed.”
King Uther glared at Merlin a moment longer before turning to Lady Morgana. “Attend me. The very least you can do now is help me think of something to say to Hatherfast when he arrives this week.”
Lady Morgana left the stands behind the king in a whirl of skirts, throwing Merlin a joyous, grateful look over her shoulder as she went, leaving Arthur and Merlin alone.
Merlin slid off of Hersus back, clanking as he landed. Arthur shook his head.
“It’s downright magical that you manage to stay mounted at all,” he murmured. Merlin grinned.
“You could say that. Arthur, the knights -”
“Leon told me,” Arthur said. “After the bandits in the woods, and hearing how you defended me. That, plus they almost all saw how hard you worked these last months. The knights agreed to do this on their own, no matter who the king called to oppose you.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” Merlin demanded, but it was hard to be mad when they’d won, Morgana was free -
“I thought it best that your bewilderment be genuine,” Arthur said airily. “Besides, you gave an excellent showing against Leon for the first part of the fight. If nothing else, you gave my father some semblance of comfort knowing you weren’t still the gangly, awkward creature tripping across the courtyard three months ago when he picked you.”
“Gangly and awkward?” Merlin repeated. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You were downright insulting then - I think you said a good breeze could blow me away.”
“I did,” Arthur said. “I was right, too. You didn’t have much in the way of power back then. Well,” he amended. “Aside from the sorcery.”
Merlin watched Arthur’s face - there wasn’t even a flicker of unease, just fondness and pride and something else Merlin didn’t understand, but desperately wanted to explore.
“Come,” Arthur said. “I’m certain the knights - and knights-to-be - are waiting to celebrate.”
He turned back towards the castle with a smile. And, like he always would, Merlin followed.