Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sound of the whip cracking rings out clearly in the air, and the wheels of the Camelot Stage creak and rumble down the grit covered road stretching out over the dust.
Merlin stows his coach gun down the side of the seat, and clambers up on top of the roof. As the landscape opens out into the wide plain where Camelot can be found, he sits atop the stage and looks out over the yellow plains, and the blue skies, and feels like he's coming home.

When Merlin spots the marker telling them that they're close to Camelot, he swings over the side to perch by the window.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, when we git over these here hills, we'll be nearly at Camelot City. Finest place this side of Chicagie – heck – I'd say finest place in the whole darn country! And we've managed it without getting' shot full of more Injun arrows than a porcupine's got quills.”

Merlin grins at the passengers – not many since the stage is going to Camelot and it’s full of goods any way - and turns away to scan the surrounding plains.

He spots movement in the very corner of his eye, and shouts over, “Here, Tyr, mind pickin' it up a little? No time to delay, this here's dangerous country and we're sitting on some mighty fine cargo.”

He hauls himself back up to the roof and plonks himself down, makes sure his shotgun's in easy grabbing distance and just enjoys the feeling of rolling on straight towards home. It's not been an easy ride today – 23 miles of bumping along, and 5 of those were at a gallop when they were spotted an Indian raiding party. It'll be good to get back, for sure. They'll be in Camelot before nightfall, and Merlin's planning on not moving for a long time.

The stage pulls over the crest of the final swell, and he can see Camelot laid out ahead, all the wooden buildings looking like a little kid's toys instead of peoples' homes. The theatre rises all white and shining in the centre, like a beacon drawing them on.

The sound of the stagecoach echoing along the main street summons a fair sized crowd out towards the Golden Garter theatre, which is the final stop for the stage.
Sheriff Leon makes his way out of the crowd, and hollers, “Here they be! Let's give 'em a nice peaceful welcome, huh?” Every man in the crowd points his pistol in the air and shoots at the same time, and Merlin jumps up top with a smile for the people he doesn't know so well and a wink for those he does. Arthur Pendragon gets the biggest scowl he can muster up, of course.

Merlin grabs a hold of the topmost package and starts rattling off a list of the cargo they're carrying, darting to and fro on top of the coach. In amongst the leathers and ammo they've got gingham, calico, silk and fine coloured ribbons for the ladies, the confections that could last the journey and tonics for the townsfolks' aches and pains. There's hats from Cincinatti, worn by all the favourites of the concert halls, the most beautiful artificial pearls and glass jewels all the way from Manhattan, and the finest cigars they could get their hands on.
Merlin feels good, knowing that he helps brighten living all the way out here by bringing back a little life, bringing back a little luxury.

When he's finished his little pitch he supervises the passengers unpacking themselves fom the coach and leaves it to Tyr to organise unloading. He swaggers into the saloon of the Golden Garter, revelling in the knowledge that for this one time he's important enough to get excited about. For now he's angling to get his sarsaparilla paid for.

“Well, fellas, let me introduce y’all to these nice folks that’ve just arrived in town!”

Arthur’s sitting at his usual table, eyes shut, hat pulled down and arms crossed, when he hears a very familiar voice calling out across the room. It’s his (not quite) favourite person, back in town after a blessed week of quiet. It seems it’s too much to ask for Arthur to have the chance to finish his drink and his card game in peace.

“Say hello to my Uncle Gaius, who runs this place in between patching people up - keeps the Golden Garter in style and ready for the cream of Camelot City to dine. A very good friend of mine I’m glad to say, even if he is a relative. And over here’s Agravaine, dressing swanky today old man? A veritable prairie rose I think you’ll all agree.”

Arthur sinks down in his chair. He knows what’s coming, and he’s never humoured the idiot and he sure as hell ain’t startin’ now.

“But what am I sayin’? I ain’t introduced you to the most important man in the room yet! He’s sharper than any showman and he’s certainly smarter than he looks, believe me. The sheriff even answers to him, and he’s got 27 notches in his gun - even if they’re mostly squirrels - I say to you now, I’m glad to tell you that he’s a very good friend… of a friend of mine. The one and only Arthur Pendragon!”

Arthur stands up, tries to snatch back his hat from Merlin’s clutches, and settles for glowering at him when the idiot grins at him and dances away. When Merlin plonks his skinny ass down in Arthur’s chair, he takes the opportunity to drag it away to a different table and gets Leon to throw him another, shaking his head at Merlin all the while.

Merlin just ignores him and swaggers over to the bar, “Let’s wet our whistles, drinks on me boys!”, then falls straight on his behind. Making a spectacle of himself as always.

Arthur sits and shuffles his deck over and over until Merlin’s stories get too idiotic for him to ignore… so he decides to go over to the bar and take advantage of his generosity (stupidity).

Merlin’s in the middle of insisting that there had been at least a hundred Indians pouring down the hill after them while they rode hell for leather, desperately trying to escape;

“You can even check the back of the coach for all the arrows - there’s more stuck in there than a porcupine’s stickles. Yessir, I’ve had plenty excitement this trip. They came down that hill a-howlin’ like souls in torment. Why, must’a been about a hundred of ‘em.”

Behind him, Cedric holds up 5 fingers and the men around them start guffawing. Merlin frowns, “Ain’t no laughing matter, boys.”

“Heck, Merlin, I’d hate to have a war party that big on my tail,” Arthur can’t help saying, injecting enough sincerity that Merlin doesn’t immediately catch on.

“Well, Pendragon, I think you’re the only person besides myself with a sharp enough draw to bring that coach in.”

Arthur just blinks at that and stares at Merlin, trying to find a hint of mockery in his compliment.

“Of course all that called for some mighty rapid shootin’. I thought my gun was goin’ to curl right up it was so hot. Almost had to hold the muzzle between my feet! Yup. Must’ve killed about thirty of those painted varmints before they got discouraged.”

He doesn’t seem to notice Cedric standing behind him holding up two fingers and sniggering away, but Arthur glances in the mirror behind the bar and sees Merlin’s eyes harden before he slowly turns around and fixes his eye on Cedric, who’s still obliviously sniggering away.

He taps Cedric on the shoulder to get his attention, but when Cedric realises what’s happened he yelps something about the horses and bolts.

He’s almost at the door when he’s stopped in his tracks by a whip wrapping itself around his face and pulling him up short, the handle held by Merlin.

Merlin pulls the whip towards him until Cedric is forced to meet his glare.

“How many of those Indians do you reckon I shot, Cedric?”

Merlin’s voice is low and dangerous. Cedric gulps audibly before replying with a meek, “About thirty, Merlin.”

“That’s better. Next time I’m talkin’, keep your hands in your pockets you slimy excuse for a sewer rat.”

The thing about Merlin, Arthur thinks as he adjusts his britches, the thing about Merlin, is that he seems all clumsy and funny and harmless right up until you cross him, and then he gets this look in his eye that tells you it’d be a bad idea to go any further... and that look is the thing that makes Arthur try in every way he can to rile him up, because for some reason he’s always liked it turned on him.

Merlin might be careless with the truth, to put it kindly, but underneath the soft exterior he’s hard as nails.

Gwaine wakes up slowly at first, then jerks into awareness when he feels hands combing through his hair. He’s alone in the stagecoach… except for a couple of Indian squaws who’re pulling at his suit and generally looking at him like they’re about to steal his hat to make into one of them head-dress things. That won’t be happening; Gwaine spent near $30 on this hat. Well, that’s what the asking price was.

He flashes his best grin at them, the one that allows him to escape almost any situation, especially those involving threats to his hat’s well-being, and wriggles out of the coach.

They seem to be outside some kind of theatre - the sign says “The Golden Garter” and there’s a huge poster advertising a new actress come to town, due to perform tonight. That’s good, Gwaine’s timed his arrival well, then.

There’s an old fellow outside wringing his hands, and he calls out to Gwaine, “Hey, is there a young lady in there?”

“Nah, just me - had a nip too many out of the old hip flask and slept all the way from G’want.”

“Aw heck. I’m expectin’ an actress. Name of Gwa-nney. Somethin’ like that anyways.”

That sounds a hell of a lot like Gwaine’s name. Somethin’s startin’ to smell a little funny.

“Say, did you put an advertisement out or somethin’?”

“Sure did. Not many young aspiring actresses in this town, I can tell you.”

Well, the thing is that Gwaine’s arrived in this two-horse town in response to an advertisement looking for an entertainer, which Gwaine most definitely is. “Aw, heck” indeed.

“Howdy. My name’s Gwaine, and I reckon I’ll have to be your entertainment this evening.”

Merlin’s waiting at the bar for Will, when Pendragon swaggers up and plonks himself down next to him.
“Pining for your Lieutenant, Merlin?”

Patronising little… “No actually, I’m waiting for Will,” he says with a smirk, because any mention of Will usually has Arthur heading for cover. Sadly, that doesn’t seem to work today.

Still… Merlin is curious about where Lance is, since he usually comes and meets the stage.

“Say, speaking of the Lieutenant, where is he? Usually sticks around to say hello.”

“Ha, knew it. He’s up at the fort I think, been there about a week.”

Suddenly, through the door comes a crowd of folk, two of them covered in mud and blood and bruises. They gasp out something about a war party ambushing them on a trail and stagger to the bar, downing the booze as soon as it’s handed to them..

“They jumped us up at Eagle Pass, us and a couple fellas from up at the Fort. That Lieutenant and some other boy.”

(The sudden expression of panic on Merlin’s face makes Arthur’s heart seize in his chest.)

Merlin claps a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Which Lieutenant?”

“Du Lac, I think. They got him alright, got him good.”

“A good clean shot in the heart? Did he suffer?”

“Hell, I don’t know, we just came 10 miles and I ain’t got time for no stupid questions.”

“You got time for all my stupid questions if you’re the no-good son of a bitch who left Lance in the dirt to die like a dog,” Merlin growls, before storming out of the saloon and swinging himself up onto his horse.

Merlin’s about a mile out of town before he hears the hoofbeats coming up behind him, and he whips his head around to check who it is.

With a strange burst of relief, he recognises Arthur, and slows down so as he can catch up.

“I don’t need your help, you know.”

“Well, I wanted to give it to you anyway.”

They come upon the Indian camp a few miles out into the woods, and having agreed that Arthur would scare them off whilst Merlin rescued Lance, they waste no time before riding in, guns blazing. Arthur hits a couple, and Merlin takes out a couple more before galloping over to where he can see Lance tied to a tree.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just- could you untie me?”

Merlin blushes and starts fumbling with the knots, then gives up and uses his knife to cut right through them. The expression of dizzy gratitude on Lance’s face had made him feel all fluttery for a moment.

He helps Lance up onto his horse then hops up behind him, clinging to Lance’s uniform.

When they’re a good couple of miles away, Arthur asks, “Why’re you on the same horse instead of taking one of those Indian ponies?”

Merlin snuggles into Lance’s back before replying, “It’s cosier this way!”

Arthur frowns all the way home, and he’s not going to think about why. He doesn’t care what Merlin gets up to with that big lug nut.

Merlin settles himself down by the bar. Gaius’s been excited about this evening ever since he got that letter telling him that this new actress was on her way - although he’s been inexplicably antsy about it all afternoon, muttering things about lynchings and hangings and ruination. Merlin put it down to pre-show nerves.

Finally, the band in the corner strike up, and Gaius scurries onto the stage.

“Gentlemen and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to introduce to you now, the toast of New York… Miss Gwaine Green!”

After a couple of minutes delay, a leg sticks itself out from behind the curtains with very little finesse, and it’s followed by a figure that’s best described with the word “broad”. The… woman… on stage has apparently chosen to wear some kind of veil over her face, but even it can’t hide the stockiness of her legs and the thickness of her arms.

Beside Merlin, Lance mutters, “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

Pendragon just says, blunt as anything, “Well she ain’t very good looking.”

“That’s not all she ain’t.”

“I’ve got two wonderful arms, I’ve got two wonderful lips, I’m over twenty one and I’m free…”

At the sound of the rough, oddly deep voice emanating from the stage, a bewildered and increasingly angry muttering fills the room, but it quickly turns to laughter as Gwaine plays it up, starting to prance around the room. He even deposits one gentleman who tried to pinch his ass on a billiard table.

Unfortunately, the charade comes to an end when an overly enthusiastic trombonist snags Gwaine’s scarf and reveals his rather ebullient facial hair; he just didn’t have the heart to remove it.

It takes Merlin and Arthur an hour of pouring him liberal amounts of whisky (and discouraging Gwaine from making increasingly crude jokes) to calm Gaius after his (admittedly narrow) escape from lynching. They’ll have to pull something really good out of the hat next time if Gaius wants to keep up business.

When Merlin rouses himself up the following afternoon and strolls down to the saloon, he’s met with a group of men looking more lovesick than a teenage girl in a Shakepeare play. Heck, the looks on their faces’d make a dog feel ill, and that’s coming from a man that’s practically made a career out of pining.

“Say, what’s got you fellas looking so ill?”

Leon starts and looks round. “Oh, it’s nothin’ worth bothering about, Merlin-”

“Morgana! Morgana Le Fay…”

At Will’s heartfelt outburst all of them sigh in chorus, and it’s damn near the spookiest thing he’s seen all day.

Gwaine swaggers up behind him.

“Merlin! I’ll take it upon myself to explain things to your good self. Now, in light of last night’s events-”

Gwaine’s unabashed grin sparks a low grumbling from the group at the table. He winks at Merlin, and whispers, “if it wasn’t for the beard they would’ve loved it.”

“Oh, I’ll bet.”

“Well, anyway. I… encouraged these upstanding gentlemen to keep filling up Gaius’s saloon - in my new capacity of bar tender, seeing as my actressin’ job didn’t last - by agreeing to tell ‘em about my mad, passionate affair with the belle du jour of Chicago.”

“And who would this fine dame be?”

“Oh Merlin, I’m sure you’ve heard of the lady - you can see her on the prow of an ancient ship, in a gambler’s cameo, hell, in the dyin’ embers of a campfire you’ll see her sweet face.”

“And?”

“Well, my sweet Merlin, in this case she happens to be the loveliest singin’ dancin’ star of them all… Morgana Le Fay.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of her.”

This inspires a rapid grumbling from the men at the table, all of whom are staring at him.

“What?!”

“Merlin, you’ve travelled farther than most people in this town and you’re saying you ain’t heard of the most beautiful woman in this whole country?”

“Well, when you say it like that-”

“What you’re forgetting, gents, is that any time Merlin here has an intelligent thought, it curls up and dies of loneliness.”

Hell. Merlin should’ve known that his good luck wasn’t going to last.

The man at the back, who’s been sitting with his head tipped back and his hat pulled over his eyes, suddenly straightens up and confirms that yes, it is Merlin’s least favourite person in the world - Arthur Pendragon. Of course he had to be here, brooding silently in the shadows and passing judgement on Merlin every time he spoke.

“We’ll just have to educate him on Morgana’s many merits, won’t we!”

Arthur meets his eyes with a smug kind of challenge, and Merlin curls his lip in response.

“Sure thing, fellas - I do love hearing about Gwaine’s escapades.”
“Well, to start with, to see her you’d think she was Cleopatra or Helen of Troy come to life - she could give any society beauties a run for their money. Lips like sin and hair as dark as night, with the most beautiful curl to it. And her smile, boys!”

“I should think we’ll all be dreaming of her tonight.” As he speaks, Arthur catches Merlin’s eye and holds it. Merlin tries hard to quash the urge to punch that smug pout right off his pretty face. No good cowardly sonofa-

“I think I’d die of happiness if she ever came to town.”

“You’d be dying of something else, I’m sure, the way she fills up all that silk and brocade. Finest figure you’ve ever seen on a woman.”

“She’s like a star in the heavens…” Daegal looks towards the ceilings with such an addlepated look on his face that Merlin’s sure he’ll fall off his chair, and he does when Gwaine thumps his hand down on his shoulder.

“She’d eat you right up, kid, sure as shit. Here, I heard on the grapevine that we’d be gettin’ cigarette cards with her picture on ‘em soon enough.”

“Oh boy, I’ll be hopin’ and prayin’ for one of them, yes sirree!”

“I’ll be sure to get my hands on ‘em, next trip,” Merlin chirps.

“What was that Merlin? You’ll be sure to get your hands on her? Why, ain’t that frowned upon by the police and such?”

“Shut it Pendragon, you know I didn’t say-”

“But hey! If anyone can get their hands on Morgana for a little show it’ll be Merlin, won’t it boys?”

Merlin can feel his eyes widen as they all look at him, expectation in their eyes.
Damn Pendragon and his games, he can never resist the idiots looking like that.

“Why, of course I can boys! When’ve I ever let you down? Don’t say nothin’, Pendragon... I’ll just nip over to Chicago and bring her back, shall I?”

He punctuates the last sentence with a kind of desperate, hopeful grin, praying that they’ll laugh and tell him not to bother… but all he gets in response is a pleased murmur rippling through the group, and Will beams at him before Pendragon sticks his oar in again.

“Well, that’s settled then, ain’t it? Merlin’ll set off tomorrow and fetch us back the greatest beauty of the modern age.”

“A real gentleman wouldn’t be hankering after a woman dressed like that.”

“A real gentleman eh? What, like you?”

“Yeah like me. Me or…”

“Or… Lieutenant Du Lac by any chance?”

“Yeah like him! He’s more of a gentleman than you in any case.”

Merlin’s been bickering with Pendragon all morning about this Morgana disaster, because Pendragon is an infuriating clotpole when he wants to be, and with this he’s like a dog with a bone. It’s unfortunate that when you’ve known somebody for this long, they tend to know all your weak spots.

When they walk into the Golden Garter, he spots an opportunity to change the subject and grabs it with both hands;

“Hey, Pendragon, do you really think I can do it?”

Merlin's spotted Uncle Gaius in the Golden Garter, whiling away the afternoon beside the bar. Pendragon swaggers in behind Merlin, hat cocked and leather waistcoat as obnoxiously tight as usual. He looks at Pendragon as insolently as he can, daring him to say something prattish in front of Gaius, who is Pendragon's godfather and treats both of them with the same kind of twinkly-eyed indulgence and hard-assed intolerance of bullshit.

“Why of course I do, Merlin!”

“I- Well, that's... mighty kind of you.”

Huh. Pendragon looks almost... nice, for a second, disregarding the permanent smirk. Weird.

“Hey, Gaius, you know as well as I do that nothing’s impossible for Merlin. Didn’t he just save the stage from a hundred savage Indians? And he saved that pretty-boy Lieutenant, twice no less. Besides, you gave the boys your word you’d get Morgana here. And your word is sacred, Merlin.”

Arthur gets up and goes towards the bar, and Merlin scrambles to follow him.

“Do you really have that much faith in me?”

“Hey, now. You gave your word, and I trust that… About as much as I do a blind rattlesnake with a brand new button on his tail.”

Merlin feels proud for about two seconds-

“Well, Arthur- hey, wait a minute! Why you no-good four-flushin’-”

“You talk too much.”

“You know, you’re worse than a great big splinter right in my finger… You’re unwanted by me- by everybody. I’d do without you for the rest of my natural born life if I could.”

“Well I can do without you very well, Merlin, about as well as I can do without an overturned canoe.”

“Pendragon, you could go as far as Texas and I wouldn’t miss you. I’d certainly never ask for you to come back, you mean old son of a bitch.”

“God, I just can’t get away from you-

“I know, I’m like a fly drawn to shit-”

“Hey, now, you half-pint feather head-”

“-I know some things are indispensable, like a buck or two, but if there’s one thing I can do without, it’s definitely you Pendragon-”

“-you’re like a tack inside my shoe-”

“-you’re a dagger in the back!”

“-heck if you’ve got any charms at all, they certainly ain’t bewitchin’ me-”

“Well, you’ve a face no one’d paint!”

“I got the darn’dest itch in me to be as far away from you’s I can get!”

“You’re a knot-head!”

“Troublemaker!”

“Prat!”

“Unreasonable, stubborn, unfeeling little-”

“Traitorous cowardly piece of-”

“Bone-head!”

“Clotpole!”

“Hey, hey come back here Emrys, you idiot! That ain’t even a real word!”

When Merlin arrives at the theatre (about a hundred times the size of the Golden Garter, and covered in shiny gilt and cherubs and such) he’s told that for one he’s just about missed Miss Le Fay’s show, and for another the only place he’ll squeeze in is standing up at the back of the balcony. Merlin tells the ticket vendor that he’ll take what he can get, and makes his way upstairs, only to find that he can’t see a thing over all the hats. Merlin certainly ain’t short, but after an age of shuffling about and craning his neck, all he can see is a head of dark hair hidden under some sort of feathery headdress and a body that’s certainly very shapely, but also squeezed into pink satin corsetry and about as many feathers as the hat. She… seems… to be as beauteous as Gwaine had told them.

She obviously merits all the adulation and the fame, but she’s not really doing anything for Merlin other than the sheer spectacle, so he rocks back onto his heels and listens to the rest of the songs. When the show’s all finished he slips through a side door, intending to find Morgana’s dressing room and request in his most charming manner that she accompany him to Camelot.

Gwen’s been feeling absolutely topsy-turvy all evening. It’s only a few months ago that Miss Le Fay engaged her as her lady’s maid, and now that Morgana’s leaving for the bright lights of New York and Europe, she’s out of a job - she can’t afford to travel as far as NYC let alone all the way across the Atlantic. It’s not even just the job; for the most part, Morgana’s been an almost perfect employer. Gwen would like to think that they’d become friends, even, despite the fact that Morgause’s presence - and then absence - had instilled in Morgana a kind of yearning for bigger, better things.

She’s just walked out of the door one final time, and as she’d swayed out, looking as untouchable and gorgeous as ever, she’d casually thrown over her shoulder that everything in the room belongs to Gwen now. Every single bit of costume jewelry, every scrap of lace and silk and satin, every feather and ribbon and bustle… It’s all Gwen’s. She doesn’t think she’s ever owned a silk dress in her life, and now she has a dozen. Her head spins. Leave it to Morgana to make her departure as dramatic as possible for everyone involved.

Gwen, as a rule, doesn’t think about bettering herself - it’s not in her nature to seek fame or fortune - but tonight she thinks that maybe she’s been given a chance for something more, and suddenly she’s filled with the desire to feel, just once, what Morgana feels on the stage. She runs her hand over the dusky satin of tonight’s costume and with her other begins struggling with her buttons.

The feathers feel wonderful against her skin, a new, exciting luxury, and a blush rushes over her face as she stares blindly into the looking glass and imagines the heat of the stage lights. She draws breath and begins singing. Her voice isn’t like Morgana’s, has none of the deep, warm, rich tenderness that brings men running like dogs in heat, but Papa always said she had a nice sort of sound, and she flatters herself that she has a kind of pleasing warmth when she sings. She’s a lit match next to Morgana’s roaring fire, but that doesn’t matter when Morgana’s not here.

She’s getting to her favourite bit of the song, the part that always makes her laugh, when a knock on the door startles her and makes her turn round-

The door swings open and a tall, skinny looking young man stumbles in clutching his hat in his fists, and stops stock still when he sees her standing there in all of Morgana’s finery. Their blushes probably match, a detached voice in her head considers; then all of a sudden time smacks into the two of them and they both start flailing and apologising.

“I am so sorry, so sorry ma’am-”

“Oh lord, I thought I’d locked the door, I do apologise sir, just let me change out of these things-”

Gwen darts behind the painted screen and presses her hand to her eyes. This evening just isn’t going well. She breathes in and resolves to assist him, since he doesn’t seem the type to have a violent hankering for maidenly virtues… The fact that he’s easy on the eyes helps too.

“Um, is there something you wanted? I mean, can I help you - with anything - I mean-”

“Oh, gosh Miss Le Fay, I guess I just wanted to ask you a favour-”

“Oh, well, what is it? I’m sure I’ll be able to help - wait, you think I’m-”

“Really?! Heck, they oughta add kindness beyond measure to your famous attributes, ma’am. Oh heck, excuse the language!”

That’s all it takes to turn Gwen’s blush into a scarlet beacon, because she’s seen Morgana’s “famous attributes” many, many times, but she’s never had anyone, let alone a man, mention them to her face.

The young man takes Gwen’s mortified silence as an indication to continue;
“Well, I guess it’s like this, ma’am. I come from a town called Camelot, situated over in South Dakota, and my friend, who runs the Golden Garter theatre, he’s told to be a personal acquaintance of yours and certainly a great admirer of your talent. He and my fellow townsmen expressed a desire to have you put on a show… I volunteered for asking you, and all I can say is that it’d make many folks in Camelot very very happy if you was to come along and sing for us.”

Gwen can’t speak; can’t make herself admit his mistake or force a word past her sudden longing to go with him, to be the one having an adventure for once. She’s not Morgana, she’s not Elyan, she’s the one who stays behind and makes things comfortable. Gwen doesn’t do grand plans or excitements.

The man sighs.

“I’m guessing it’s not worth your time to come with us. Great big star like you? What’ll you do in Camelot? I’ll leave you to your… preparations. My name’s Merlin Emrys, by the way. Thanks for your time, Miss Le Fay.”

What possesses her, she’ll never know-

“Wait! Merlin, Mr Emrys, wait. I… I’ll come with you. I’ll come to Camelot.”

Merlin keeps himself from gushing at Miss Le Fay for about half an hour into their journey to Camelot, and he honestly only lasts for that long because she seems so shy, utterly unlike the picture Gwaine had painted - although her beauty is certainly irrefutable. Even so, Merlin had been picturing some sort of Ice Queen, with green eyes and pale skin and hair as dark as his. This woman is not what he’d expected at all to be honest, but she really is pretty, and seemingly kind to the point of madness.

He decides to alternate between sitting up top with his shotgun and sitting across from Miss Le Fay trying to entertain her a little, because other than Indian ambushes there’s nothing to see along this route but livestock and plains rolling on interminably.
On his first attempt, he stumbles his way through yet another grateful speech, and she responds with a stuttering dismissal. The next time, they make stilted conversation for a while before he awkwardly bows out and makes a strategic retreat. Third time turns out to be the charm - Miss Le Fay asks him what Camelot’s like, and this is a subject Merlin can draw out for days. He doesn’t notice the look of alarm on her face when he mentions Gwaine, “the old friend of yours I mentioned yesterday!” or the realisation that dawns in her eyes when he starts talking about Lieutenant Du Lac, or the mixture of resignation and nausea that passes across her features as he recounts the excitement of the townsfolk at the prospect of her visit.

Still, by the time they’re nearing journey’s end, conversation has become much easier between them, and Merlin’s satisfied that they’re firm friends. It’s going to feel so good seeing Pendragon’s face when he gets off the coach with none other than Morgana Le Fay.

Merlin’s chock full of nervous excitement, as he watches the band tune up. Last he saw Morgana, she was vomiting from nerves round the back, but that’s probably just because she’s in a new place, right? Anyway, she looked as gorgeous as ever, so he’s not worried. Much.

Finally the curtain rises, and Morgana steps onto the stage. She’s trembling all over as she hesitantly walks on, which gives her feathers a nice effect, but doesn’t really make Merlin feel any more confident. He wolf-whistles as she looks out at the audience, but that makes her look like she’s about to vomit again, so he stops and thinks desperately of a way to cheer her up a bit-

He’s too late, though, because amidst the appreciative murmurs, the band have started playing and it’s time for Morgana to sing.

She starts out awful quiet, and Merlin has to strain to hear her over the instruments. He looks around at Gwaine, who looks stunned into silence, and Merlin smirks at the idea that him actually getting Morgana Le Fay has shut Gwaine’s mouth for once, although the beginnings of a smirk seem to be lurking which is a bad sign.

Merlin glances around the rest of the saloon - he can see a roomful of smitten faces, and everyone seems to at least appreciate her looks even if they can’t hear her singing - even Pendragon. Huh.

And… and Lance too, although she is very pretty so Merlin can’t really blame him.

Pushing that thought to one side, Merlin decides to take matters into his own hands, and hisses up at the stage, “Sing up ma’am! Sing how you did it in Chicago!”

He doesn’t expect what happens next.

Gwen’s having an awful time. Really genuinely awful, and she’s whole-heartedly regretting the decision to come here, which might be the reason she responds to Merlin’s good-natured shout by yanking off her hair-piece and bursting into tears;

“I’m not Morgana Le Fay! My name’s Gwen Smith, not that any of you will care... And even if I was she couldn’t be paid enough gold to come to this town, and I should know since I was her maid for nearly a year!”

Of course, seeing as the patrons of the Golden Garter have now been swindled twice in as many weeks, an uproar starts and people start shoving each other and the furniture. They’re only stopped by Merlin firing his pistol into the air several times, although that doesn’t actually get any of them to shut up.

Gwen has sunk down into a miserable heap in the middle of the stage and pretty much given up on trying to look in any way sophisticated or dignified, so when Merlin puts his arm around her she just sobs into his jacket whilst the bickering and arguing goes on around her.

Eventually, a tall, dark haired man in a navy uniform stands on a table and yells at everyone to be quiet, and Merlin looks at her (along with everyone else, Lord Almighty) and asks, “Why’d you do it, lady?”

She just looks up at him and shrugs, sniffing pitifully.

“I guess… I’ve been looking after Morgana all these months, and it’s natural for a girl to get a little jealous, right? And you gave me a chance to experience a little bit of Morgana’s world, so I took it. Oh, I’m so sorry Merlin!”

Merlin looks quite startled to have another shoulderful of weeping woman, but he pats her awkwardly until she’s calmed down a bit. When she peeks out at the room, she’s greeted by a room full of nervous faces, and it almost makes her cry again-

“Right, gents. Let’s sort this out.”

“Uh, that’s Gwaine, entertainer turned bar tender. He knows you- I mean, Morgana.”

“I say that there’s no harm done here- shut up! Let me finish my piece, damnit. There’s no harm in what Gwen’s done, except maybe a little wounded pride for all of us. Heck, she’s probably feeling the worst out of all y’all, ain’t that right sweetheart?”

Gwen nods meekly - she’s not sure where this is going or if she’ll like it but if this man’s trying to help she won’t say no.

“So… what we’ve got here is an actress, even if she isn’t Morgana, and a town in need of an actress. See what I’m getting at?”

Instantly Gwen can feel a hundred hopeful pairs of eyes staring at her and she gulps tremulously.

Gaius turns his wrinkly, benevolent old face on her and asks, “Gwen, would you want to stay here? As yourself, I mean.”

“Gwen?”

Merlin looks so hopeful, and so do the audience, so Gwen just shrugs her shoulders and says yes. Anything if she can get off this stage and into some proper clothes.

The morning after Morgana- or rather, Gwen's, debut performance, Merlin turns up at the Golden Garter with two ponies and a grin that could light up the entire town. No wonder Lieutenant Du Lac is smitten, she thinks, and unconsciously frowns a little. Merlin's face falls before she remembers herself and smiles back.

He chatters excitedly whilst he helps her up onto the pony's back, then all the way down the street, then all the way along the dirt road out of town. She interrupts a particularly intense rant on the subject of Arthur Pendragon's many bad qualities with a pointed, “Where, Merlin, are we going exactly?”

“Ah. Well, it's sort of a surprise? I just thought that if you're going to be staying you might want to see this. It's just over this little stream here.”

She's about to try and wheedle it out of him when they cross over the stream and she's met with the sight of a little woodsmans cabin. Merlin turns to her with another blinding grin, and she smiles weakly back.

“It used to be Uncle Gaius's, back when he was prospectin' fer gold. Of course he never found nothin' so ain’t nobody come down here but… well, me, in years, but I thought... I just thought that it'd be nice for you to have a place of your own. And it's nice for me to have a friend that ain't known me since I was missin' teeth.”

“Oh Merlin... It's so sweet of you, honestly, but... it's a little bit... dirty?”

“Well, that can be fixed with a little bit of sweepin'-”

“I think it's going to take more than a broom to fix this up, sweetheart.”

Two days later, Merlin collapses in the little armchair by the hearth and drops his broom on the floor in exhaustion. It feels like he'll never be able to move again. Gwen's the sweetest woman he knows, excepting his mother, but Lord Almighty she can nag. Merlin's done more housework in the last two days than he has in his whole life.

They'd started off by tossing all the furniture they couldn't salvage outside. Merlin had been charged with chopping it all up for firewood, then fixing up the half-decent furniture whilst Gwen had swept and scrubbed the whole damn cabin from top to bottom. Once that was done, Merlin had whitewashed all the surfaces as Gwen washed and mended the curtains, then they both set about polishing and sweeping and generally prettifying until finally Gwen had announced that the cabin was fit for living in. In Merlin's humble opinion it had been just fine before, but what does he know? Women are odd creatures.

Gwen justifies it when he moans by proclaiming that the place needed something called “a Woman's Touch”. Merlin just shrugs and says, “Well, it's been thoroughly touched now.”

Arthur feels like the happiest man in Camelot as he swaggers through the door into the saloon. His heart is full and the sky is blue and he’s finally found a woman he can love. Life sure is lovely today.

He nods to Gwaine, sprawled by the bar, and tips his hat to the old menfolk huddled around their cards, and he’s about to take his usual seat when he spots old Geoffrey painting the most beautiful picture he’s ever seen - it’s Gwen, in the same outfit as she’d worn that first disastrous night. She looks utterly enchanting. Geoffrey has clearly poured his heart and soul into this masterpiece, and he’s captured such an air of warm loveliness in her skin and her eyes and her smile that he feels as if the woman herself is standing before him. He straightens his tie and yanks at his waistcoat, smoothing a thumb over his favourite leather holster as if it’s a lucky charm.

Arthur casts a look behind him, to see if anyone’s close enough to eavesdrop, but the only person paying him any attention is Gwaine smirking away at the far side of the bar, too far to hear if he whispers.
Arthur fiddles with his tie and clears his throat, and hesitantly begins the speech (it’s NOT a poem, it’s not) he’d thought of earlier. He’d written it down and clumsily memorised it, and yeah, maybe the rhyming’s a little off in places, but a man’s got to be given a chance to express his feelings through the modicum of verse, dang it.

“Ahem. I- no, my love is, or rather, my heart is higher than a hawk… My love is deeper than a well...”
He’s getting into the rhythm of the words now, and he squares his shoulders and tips his hat back further on his head. Just wait until the real Gwen hears this, she’ll be tripping right into his arms, hopefully wearing that delightful little pink number. The colour really brings out her eyes.

“I’m thinking, in a little while, my love and I’ll be doing very well.”

He catches Gwaine’s eye across the room, who appears to be choking on his own laughter, and scowls before continuing with his magnum opus.

“An owl is giving me the eye - shut your mouth Gwaine, it’s called poetry - the wind is blowing me a kiss… I shouldn’t be at all surprised if I were only dreaming all of this.”

He fixes Gwaine with the most milk-curdling scowl he can muster up and continues…

“And when I strut around like a Sonny-Jim, dressed in yeller and red…”

In all honesty he’s more likely to get hitched to Merlin than get caught dead in the combination of red and yellow, but it’s all he could think of that would go with;

“Folks’ll cry, ‘Take a look at him! He’s touched in the head!’” which admittedly isn’t the nicest way of professing his love, but perfection takes time! And Gwen’ll love it eventually.

He spins around and comes face to face with Geoffrey, and thinks hell, in for a dime, in for a dollar, and improvises using Geoffrey as a prop in his (surely) Shakespeare-worthy performance-

“(Geoffrey, I’m telling you) I thought that I would never fall! I laughed at others when they fell! (Heck, just look at poor old Merlin, pining away! Ha!) And here I’m falling (in a much more dignified manner of course), higher than a hawk, and deeper than a well.”

Gwaine leads the cheering, which is to say that Gwaine cheers, and Arthur feels all warm inside - he’s going to get his girl, he’s going to make his father proud.

He turns back to the painting and imagines himself standing next to a Gwen resplendent in lace and satin, joined in holy matrimony forever. It’s all he can do to stop from beaming at this girl he loves, as he sits down and props his feet up on the billiard table and gazes some more.

The day after he and Gwen had finished the cabin, Merlin winds his way down to visit her. He'd stayed on his momma's farm the night before, and having heard about “poor Gwen”'s ordeal, she'd made up a whole basketful of bread and meat and things.

When he arrives, Gwen's sitting on the nice little patch of garden outside the door and sleeping in the sun, beautiful face drooping in exhaustion. He snorts, loudly, and she wakes up with a confused “What?! Where-?”

“Hey, Gwenny! Look what my mother bid me bring you.”

“Oh my, Merlin. Tell her a thousand thanks! I hadn't thought to go to the store until it was too late yesterday.”

“Tell her yourself! I'm sure she'd love to have you round for a... whatever women do together.”

Gwen fixes him with a look – just like the ones his mother gives him, they'll be bosom friends in no time – and tells him that if he's going to come in he'd better do it fast.

“So Merlin, how long've you been in this sordid love triangle with Arthur Pendragon and Lieutenant Du Lac?”

“I, what?! Pendragon, me, love?! Where in God's name did you pull that out of, Gwen?!”

“The way you two look at each other is ridiculous, honestly!”

“Look, Pendragon is a privileged idiot, a coward and a waste of my time. And anyway, he’s a’hankering after you now, I reckon.”

“Don’t be silly, Merlin.” Gwen glares at him, but it isn’t really intimidating since her blushing takes the edge off.

“I ain’t joking, Gwen. He’s the richest man in this town anyway - his daddy owned just about all of the businesses around here, even the Golden Garter. You could do a lot worse, even if he is a prat.”

“I don’t care how rich he is or anybody is, Merlin.”

“Oh heck, Gwen, you know I didn’t mean it like that. Just, you know, if he likes you, he likes you.”

“Hmph. So you don’t like Arthur... but you are in love with the Lieutenant?”

“...”

“Come on now, you can tell me anything. Who am I going to tell? You're the only person I know round here!”

“He saved my life, last year. And I’ve saved his. A bunch of Injuns ambushed the stage and Lance – the Lieutenant – saved my life. And I guess you don't get through that without likin' each other, at least a little bit. And just last month me and Pendragon had to go after him and rescue him from an Injun war party.”

“Oh Merlin, that's so romantic!” Gwen gasps.

“Not really. I might be besotted with the man but he's not in love with me, no matter how much I might wish it so.”

“Well. Maybe if we got you out of those old leathers...” She looks consideringly at him.

“What d'you mean?”

“We'll go tomorrow, and we'll get you spruced up in no time. You'll be a knock-out, just you wait!”

Three days after meeting Gwen, wonderful Gwen, Arthur wakes up having had the most brilliant idea - he’ll take Gwen to the ball next weekend, at the Governor’s house in Mercia. (And then he will proceed to make her fall in love with him! If she isn’t already, of course.) He’s going to make her his princess, come hell or high water. Maybe they’ll have dinner beforehand. Chicken sounds about right.

He gets up whistling and breakfasts leisurely, then makes his way down to his office, smiling at nothing as he chews on an apple. His best suit is hanging up in the closet, just waiting for what will be the best night of his life since that first...
...in a long time.

Three days after Gwen arrives, bringing the most glorious sunshine into Lancelot’s life, he’s on his daily ride around the periphery of Camelot, looking out for trouble, when he’s struck by inspiration as to how to win the heart of the fairest maiden anybody’s ever seen around these parts. Dearest Gwen. She deserves to be wooed as nobody’s been wooed before, and Lancelot is the man who’s going to make that happen.

And the Governor’s ball in Mercia is where.

Gwen’s only just seen Merlin off down the road when suddenly Arthur Pendragon and the Lieutenant appear riding side-by-side, both looking despondently at the road beneath the horses’ hooves. She stands in the doorway watching them whilst their horses trot down the road, arms folded and mouth thin.

Finally, Arthur looks up and notices her, and the look of panic on his face is made doubly hilarious when it’s matched by the one Lancelot is sporting. They’re both clutching a wilting bouquet of flowers in one hand, which are thrust at Gwen when they both hastily dismount and stand in front of her, jostling each other from side to side.

She just manages to keep herself from blushing, and reminds herself that she’s an independent woman and has no need to act like a schoolgirl, even when handsome men turn up at her door with flowers and sheepish looks.

“Uh… Good morning Miss Smith. Me and the Lieutenant here both had the idea of coming to speak to you this morning, see how you’re settling in, that kind of thing.”

“Yes, that’s right… I do hope you’re well, miss. I guess it must be quite the adjustment from city life!”

Gwen feels like running away for about a minute before remembering her manners and inviting them in.

“Hey, this ain’t Merlin’s cabin!” Mr Pendragon exclaims.

“Yeah, it’s too… nice lookin’,” frowns the Lieutenant.

“It sure doesn’t look like it! Last time I was here it looked like-”

“Well, we cleaned it up a little,” Gwen blushes, then remembers her manners again.

“I can fix us some coffee, if you’d like, or maybe you’d prefer something stronger, well, not that I have anything like that, but it’s coffee or water I’m afraid-”

“Water’s fine, Miss,” Arthur interrupts.

“Oh do call me Gwen, both of you. I’d like to think of you as friends after your kindness in welcoming me here!”

Both men look strangely pleased at that, then frown and look at each other accusingly. Gwen decides to ignore it.

“Well, uh, Gwen, you should call me Lancelot then.”

“And me Arthur!”

She invites them both in, and they both make approving noises and talk in overly-interested voices about the new curtains. As he peers about, Arthur looks a little sad for a moment, maybe even a little nostalgic, but the moment passes as he turns a soft smile in her direction.

Whilst she’s fetching cups and pouring water, she can hear Arthur and Lancelot making friendly conversation at the table - or, it seems friendly anyway.

“Say, Lancelot, ain’t you needed back at the fort?”

“Naw, they’ll manage. Ain’t you got businesses to run?”

“I’ve always got businesses to run. You know, with all these war parties runnin’ around, I reckon folks’d feel a lot safer if you soldiers weren’t wasting money gallivantin’-”

“-So how are you gentlemen this morning?”

Suddenly, she’s struck by a thought - why not find out what Lieutenant Du Lac really thinks of Merlin whilst he’s here? She casts around for a way to get Arthur out of the way.

Gwen casually throws her shawl over the woodpile in the corner, then covers her mouth with her hand and sighs - “Oh dear. I’m afraid I’ve run out of wood! I’ll have to go out and chop some.”

Of course, both Arthur and Lancelot jump up and offer to do it for her. Gwen quickly shoves the axe at Arthur, who smirks at Lancelot and whistles as he walks out of the door.

Gwen turns to Lancelot, who’s suddenly a lot closer than he seemed before.

“Gwen,” he sighs, and then he tries to take her in his arms, which would ordinarily be very nice, but she’s here for Merlin, not herself...

She twists out of his grip and tries to think of something to talk about.

“It was very thoughtful of you and Arthur to drop in on us Lieutenant. That’s what’s so nice about Camelot of course, everyone’s so nice - I mean, the way you’ve all forgiven me after the spectacle I made of myself…”

She finds herself trailing off into nothing as Lancelot stares soulfully into her eyes.

“Anyone could forgive you anything, Gwen.”

The noise she makes could best be described as a squeak.

Lancelot dips his head and tries to kiss her, so she ducks and rushes over to the other side of the room.

“Merlin couldn’t forgive me, not about this.”

“Look, I don’t know what you think’s happening between Merlin and me-”

“I know nothing’s happening, Lancelot, but he’s in love with you, and I don’t want to be the one breaking his heart.”

“This is ridiculous. Merlin and I are nothing but good friends, nothing more, and it’ll never be anything more, so why can’t you and I be happy?”

“He’s been so good to me, Lancelot. I just can’t make him unhappy, even if it means me being happy - don’t you see?”

Lancelot moves towards her and in doing so the spurs on his boot catch on the shawl over the wood. It slips off, and they both look at it in silence. Lancelot clearly thinks that it was a ploy to get him alone - which it was, but not like that - and moves forward again, but before he can kiss her (and probably break her resolve) Arthur reappears in the doorway with an armful of wood. Upon seeing the already full stack across the room, he scowls and dumps it on the floor, then plonks himself down at the table and glowers at Lancelot.

Darn it, thinks Gwen. This plan really isn’t going well.

Lancelot asks Arthur about a mutual acquaintance, and they seem to be talking civilly again right up until Lancelot mentions a ball up at the fort-

“It’s on Saturday night, and I thought maybe you’d want to-”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been invited myself, and I kind of hoped you’d go with me Gwen.”

Gwen feels like a rabbit caught in a snare, and she quickly gets up to get another glass of water. Really not going well.

Lancelot smacks the table, albeit gently, and whispers furiously, “She’s going with me!”

Arthur looks him in the eye and drawls “I believe it’s customary for the lady to choose herself,” in what must be the tone that makes Merlin hate him so much.

“Couldn’t the four of us go together?”

Both men turn to her with identical expressions of confusion on their faces.

“Four of us?”

“Well, you, Arthur, me and… Merlin?”

“Merlin?”

“Well, he’s been invited too, and I’m not going if he’s not.”

Merlin slouches in his seat and yanks at his tie. “I hate this stupid suit.”

“Well you’ll have to grin and bear it, you look wonderful! Not that you don’t always, of course, not that I always go about thinking you look wonderful-”

“Well Gwen, I must say you look wonderful too,” Arthur interjects smoothly, casting a toothy grin her way. Merlin scowls fiercely.

“Yes, Gwen - you look absolutely beautiful,” sighs Lance. Merlin looks round at him, unable to prevent the frown that creases his forehead, and is greeted by Lance looking decidedly… slack-jawed? Merlin’s never seen a more adoring expression.

He swallows past the sharp lump digging into his throat, and asks Gwen up for a dance.

He’s not sulking no matter what anybody says.

Arthur’s been sitting here in this corner for at least a half hour now, and him and Lance are on two dances with Gwen each. Not that he’s been keeping a tally. Right now Lance is standing by the wall looking longingly at her whilst she dances with Merlin... The sight of them together makes Arthur queasy in a way he can’t quite explain. Well, at least he knows that Merlin isn’t likely to try and steal Gwen away.

When the band stops, Gwen’s eyes dart over to Lance and stay there, so that they’re both just gazing at each other like nobody else is there. Unfortunately for them, there are, and Merlin’s clumsy stumbling makes him knock right into Gwen, interrupting the staring. Arthur finds himself mentally applauding Merlin for that, however accidental it might have been. They all start making their way over to where Arthur’s sitting with the purses and shawls and jackets.

“Well, I’m all tuckered out! And I’ve got my whole dance card filled right up.”

“Merlin, you certainly have been a hit with the ladies this evening,” Arthur sneers.

Merlin’s face falls, and Arthur doesn’t admit to the surge of envy he’d felt whenever the myriad of simpering, flouncing girls had approached Merlin and his kind smile and long thin fingers, giggling and blushing prettily. He isn’t jealous of Merlin.

Merlin’s up dancing with Freya, the tanner’s daughter, and Arthur’s glowering at him, when Gwen finds herself looking at Lance again. He’s looking back at her, of course. She can feel the weight of his lingering gaze when she’s not looking, too, and it’s causing this frothing of regret and weakening resolve behind her ribs. She should have kissed him at the cabin. Or rather, she most definitely should not have kissed him, but the bone-gripping desire is still there. Just one touch, a press of lips would have been enough to carry her through. Maybe.

She’s about to look round for the third time in as many minutes when she feels the pressure of Lance’s hand on her shoulder.

“Gwen-”

“Yes?” She scolds herself for sounding so breathless, like a slip of a girl being asked for her first dance.

“Would you take a walk with me?”

“Um, yes, absolutely. Just let me get my wrap.”

She smiles up at him, unable to contain it as he turns towards the door.

It’s dark outside, the trees in the Governor’s garden swaying shadows against the sky. Lance’s eyes are bright in the darkness.

“Gwen, I know you feel as if Merlin has some sort of claim, but honestly, as I stand here before you and God and heaven - I have never promised anything to him or anybody else. Heck, there’s been nothing to promise.”

“I believe you, I do-”

“He’s strong, Gwen. Bravest person I know, and my best friend, so when I say I wouldn’t do this if I thought he couldn’t cope, I’m telling the truth.”

“I know, Lance! I just can’t hurt him, I can’t-”

“This is why I love you more dearly than I can ever say. You’re too kind, and I know that if I were more noble I’d be stronger than I am but I just want for us to be selfish, just this once-”

He finally shuts up when she gives in and kisses him like she wanted to yesterday.

Merlin’s standing by the door, waiting for Gwen, when he decides to peek into the garden and see what’s taking them so long. The sense of unease in his stomach flares into something sharp when he sees Gwen, silk dress bright and gleaming, cradled in Lance’s arms.Arthur can see the door the way he’s sitting, and it’s no accident. Ever since last night… Well, he feels mighty sore himself, but Merlin’s got to be feeling worse. Arthur’s known Gwen for all of a week, and Merlin’s loved Lancelot for at least a year now. The look of hurt on his face when he’d stridden out of the door had been painful enough that Arthur had gone and had a look out into the garden himself. He ended up feeling like a jilted bride for the rest of the evening.

Finally, Arthur catches sight of Merlin walking in. He looks utterly miserable, in a way that Arthur’s not seen in years, and it makes that familiar pang of guilt clutch at his throat. Merlin looks up at the stage and what’s up there will only make him feel worse - he knows for a fact that Gwen’s singing some old love song, and Lancelot’s sitting at the front all gooey-eyed. That’s one of the reasons he was facing the door.

He gets up and walks towards him, just as he sees Merlin’s trembling hand reaching towards his holster-

“Hey, Merlin. Come with me?”

“Hell no, Pendragon, that ain’t gonna happen-”

Arthur really cannot be bothered arguing with Merlin tonight, so he scoops him up over his shoulder and carries him outside, kicking and squirming the whole way. He looks back over his shoulder and sees Gwen looking mournful and Gwaine looking alarmed. He salutes at both of them and carries on right out of the Golden Garter.

“Get off me! Get off! Put me DOWN!”

“Hey now, I’m only doing this so you don’t do something you regret. I’ll put you down if you stop acting like a trapped bear cat!”

Arthur deposits Merlin on a handy log when they’re down the road a little bit, and Merlin immediately deflates.

Arthur sits down next to him and tries to think of comforting things to say.

“You know, Merlin… No man is worth your tears. Not Lancelot, not anybody.”

“Don’t try to be comforting Arthur, it’s not one of your strengths.”

“Hey, I’m just trying my best. I could’ve loved Gwen too, you know, it’s not just you that’s had to give up on hoping.”

“I just thought that… maybe, I could have something. I thought I meant something to somebody for once.”

“You do Merlin, you mean something to lots of people. Hell, you mean a lot to me, and you know what we’re like.”

Merlin huffs out a quiet laugh. “I sure do. Sometimes I can hardly remember how this all started.”

“I remember. Ha, I… I never forgot it, Merlin.”

“...Yeah? I was so angry, you know. You just left, didn’t even leave a note. We were happy, weren’t we, and then all of a sudden daddy wants you to get hitched and I’m left alone in that big old cabin one morning.”

“I can’t apologise enough Merlin. I figured you just didn’t care any more, when you never called me out on it-”

“I always cared, you big idiot.”

“Merlin-”

“Arthur-”

The next thing Arthur knows, he’s got another armful of leather and lean muscle, but this time he ends up toppling backwards and landing on his back in the mud. There’s a beat of silence and they look at each other in surprise, then Merlin’s head flops down onto Arthur’s chest as they both break into laughter - and how is it that he’s gone so long without hearing this sound?

They can’t risk holding hands all the way to Arthur’s house, but Merlin contents himself with surreptitiously twining his fingers where Arthur’s shirttail has become unstuck. He tugs on it just to make Arthur turn round and wink at him, blue eyes warm and mischievous.

Their boots march on along the dusty road, eating up the yards as fast as they can until finally, finally, they’ve reached the front door. Arthur puts his finger to his lips, mouths “Alice” as he carefully turns the handle.

Once they’ve made it into the hallway, Merlin locks eyes with Arthur, then, throwing caution to the wind, bolts towards the stairs. Arthur’s probably not moved his bedroom in the years since he’s been here, and Alice has probably recovered from the last time he’d been here. She’s a tough woman and an even tougher housekeeper, but some things are meant for closed doors and Arthur’s hadn’t been. She’s not going to be fazed by anything, now.

Arthur curses and chases him up towards the second floor, where he grabs him round the waist and bears him to the floor.

“Hello,” Merlin breathes.

“Hello, idiot.”

“Prat.”

The words sound the same as they always have, and Merlin’s heart swells as he looks up at Arthur’s smug expression, which slowly dies away the longer they look at each other.

“I couldn’t bear to lose you again.” The seriousness in Arthur’s voice makes Merlin’s breath catch.

Merlin swallows. “I’ll just have to be yours until the day I die, then.”

“As long as you’re always you.”

“Who else could I be? Come on, clotpole, show me what I’ve been missing all this time.”

The next morning, Arthur leaves Merlin sprawled in the middle of his bed, snoring, and takes a long, slow ride into town - after leaving a note, of course.

The sunlight is brighter and more golden than he's ever seen it, and all along the roadside, the daffodils are standing tall and proud. Arthur's heart feels burst open in a way he's never felt before; he's spent so long suffocating these things that rear their head every time he sees scruffy black hair or skinny thighs in scuffed leather. Admitting to them, even into the shell of Merlin's ear in the dark of night, feels like shouting it into the Black Hills and hearing it echo over the whole state.

When he finally gets into town, he’s met by a huge kerfuffle outside the Golden Garter, and pushes his way through the crowd until he comes across Gwen. She’s sitting on a stool wiping her eyes, and holding a tear stained letter.

“Oh, heck. What’s happened, Gwen?”

“It’s the Lieutenant,” Gwaine answers. “He’s gone riding back to the fort, decided that the rift between Merlin and Gwen was making everyone miserable, and that seeing as he’s the cause, it’s better if he’s out of the picture for a while.”

Arthur rolls his eyes at Lancelot’s particular brand of chivalry, then gets on the road to chase after the lovesick fool. Noble, selfless idiot.

It takes about half an hour to catch up to Lancelot, by which time Arthur is decidedly not amused. He yells at Lancelot to stop, but he can’t hear him or isn’t listening, so Arthur’s forced to shoot his hat off, nearly resulting in bloodshed, and it generally all takes far too long before Lance can be persuaded to slow down.

“Hey! HEY! Wait up, kid.”

“Leave me be, Pendragon.”

“Now, don’t be like that Lieutenant. Just listen.”

“Fine,” Lance grinds out, handsome face twisted with repressed hurt.

“You know, all going well, Gwen’ll be getting married soon.”

“I’m very happy for you,” Lancelot looks like the words have been dragged out of him with a blunt spoon. “But did you really have to chase me all the way out of Camelot to tell me that?”

“Let me finish! ...If all goes well, and you come back with me. Any fool can see you and her are a real good match.”

“But… But what about Merlin?”

“Don’t worry about it. He got a better offer, soldier boy.”

Gwen looks utterly radiant in her white dress, and although she hadn’t managed to get a hold of her errant brother to take her down the aisle, she had a suitable replacement on hand who was all too happy to comply with her every wish. Lancelot looks more radiant than the bride, and every time he sees Gwen he seems in danger of collapsing in happiness.
Merlin gets all the second hand joy of seeing his best friends getting married and then catches the bouquet, although he insists on throwing it back because he’s “not the marrying type”. Gwaine gets all the first hand joy of a surprise guest in the shape of the real Morgana Le Fay, who swans around being wonderfully haughty, and ignores Gwaine until his one-sided flirting gets too insistent (then hauls him off somewhere quiet to do god-knows-what).

Arthur… Arthur just stands about being alternately unbearable and all kinds of sweet, which is just how Merlin likes him to be.