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After a few dozen chats with the Great Dragon, actual live snakes emerging from a shield, and the omnipresence of Gaius’ arched eyebrow, Merlin has more or less come around to the inevitability of destiny and resigned himself to a lifetime of rescuing a spoiled prat of a prince from the myriad of people and creatures who want him dead.
The fact remains, however, that Merlin doesn’t actually like Arthur.
The first time they met, Merlin thought spoiled, bullying git, and not much else. The second time he was amused by Arthur’s sheer awfulness, took great joy in making him fall over his own feet, and fervently hoped never to see him again.
Sometime around Merlin drinking poison for him and what Merlin privately refers to as The Flower Incident, he reluctantly upgrades his default setting from ‘utter loathing’ to ‘mild to moderate irritation with a strong side of resentment,’ but the word like never enters the equation.
It’s strange, because in all his life Merlin can’t ever remember not liking someone. He got along with everyone back in Ealdor including the people who thought he was rather odd (which, if he’s being honest, was most of them). Since he came to Camelot he’s taken an instant shine to Gwen, has a terrified sort of respect for Morgana, and adores Gaius like the father he never had.
He can’t even bring himself to dislike the Dragon, cryptic bugger that he is, because no amount of useless riddles and vague threats can overshadow the fact that Merlin is friends with a dragon.
Arthur, though.
Arthur is rude and bossy and insufferable. His standards are nigh unreachable despite the fact that Merlin knows he doesn’t actually care about the state of his chambers so long as he can see the floor. He mocks and he pesters and he’s always grabbing at Merlin’s ears like Will used to grab Alice’s curls when they children, and the one time Merlin points this out Arthur’s cheeks flush unattractively and Merlin ends up mucking out the stables until well past dark.
Which is another reason to dislike Arthur: for someone so concerned with Merlin’s propriety, he apparently never bothered to look into the official duties of a royal manservant.
Luckily, Merlin takes the initiative to do so himself. Late that night he drags himself, still covered in horse-dung, to the library and follows Geoffrey around until the man shoves a dusty looking handbook of etiquette into his arms and pushes him out the door. After ripping out the pages that might detract from his perfectly valid and reasonable argument (he’s pretty certain Arthur wouldn’t actually make him warm his bed, but he sees no reason to risk it), he presents the book to Arthur the next morning with his best impression of obedience and subservience:
“Ha! You will find no mention here of stable mucking, chamber pot cleaning, or target practice.” He restrains himself from sticking out his tongue, but only just.
Arthur blinks owlishly at him from his bed. (Another reason: Arthur is not a morning person, yet he demands Merlin be at his chambers before dawn just for the sadistic pleasure of it).
Eventually, Arthur seems to decide that Merlin is not an apparition likely to disappear and allow him to sleep off his hangover. He pushes himself onto his elbows, sheets pooling around his lap. “What,” he drawls, and what likable person drawls, “are you on about this time?”
Merlin shoves the book under his nose helpfully. “My duty roster. You’ve been lying to me about it for months to take advantage of my innocence and naiveté of court customs.” At least, that was what Morgana had said when she found him in the stables the night before, his tunic stained with horse manure and muttering under his breath in a manner that likely constituted high treason.
Arthur raises one eyebrow as if that’s supposed to intimidate Merlin, but Merlin hasn’t lived with Gaius for months without developing some immunity.
“You’re right.” Merlin nearly crows with victory before remembering that Arthur never concedes defeat, and he’s almost certainly being led into a trap. “On the other hand,” Arthur continues silkily, “I am the crown prince and you are my subject, so I can order you to do whatever I want and you must obey. Official manservant duties or no.”
This, Merlin thinks, is a rather unfair loophole. Technically, he could just magic Arthur into doing his bidding, but he wouldn’t abuse his power like that. Because he isn’t an unimaginable prat.
“Speaking of orders, I think I could do with a bath. Fetch the water, would you?” Arthur is smirking at him, and Merlin mentally calculates how many days in the stocks he would be sentenced to if he whacked the prince’s fat royal head with the book.
“It’s morning,” he points out reasonably, instead. He can’t say he really understands royalty, for all that he spends the majority of his time among them (and isn’t that a vile thought), but he’s pretty sure bathing before one actually does anything is a level of stupidity that transcends class divisions.
“Well then I’ll just have to take another this evening after training. With fresh water, naturally.”
Merlin really does whack him over the head this time. Or he tries to, anyway; Arthur’s got reflexes like a cat and Merlin spends the bulk of the day in the stocks being bombarded by rotten tomatoes until he mutters a fervent wish that they would all just disappear and they do. The bemused guards let him out not long after and Merlin tries to look as innocent and non-magical as possible.
His reprieve is short-lived, as he still has to lug the buckets of water all the way up to Arthur’s chambers that night and polish armor while Arthur expounds on the idiocy of hitting the crown prince with a book about royal etiquette.
Privately, Merlin agrees: his spell book would have done a lot more damage.
**
Luckily, revenge comes swiftly.
That night Uther, Morgana and Arthur are enjoying their weekly family dinner, during which each participant attempts to feign finding each other’s company moderately tolerable and Merlin and Gwen hover unobtrusively (or not, as the case may be) and refill wine goblets with alarming frequency.
This dinner was doomed from the start as the cook was late bringing the meal, citing the mysterious disappearance of all fruits and vegetables in the castle and lower town. Merlin coughs and looks politely curious and Uther’s hand clenches around his goblet.
Uther and Arthur exhausted the topic of training before the meal even arrived and were forced to move onto debating the best methods for sword sharpening, a topic Merlin thinks they have a rather impressive amount of opinions about since as far as he can tell neither of them have ever once sharpened their own swords. By the time dessert finally arrives the sun has gone down, Merlin’s wrist is cramping from all the wine pouring, and Arthur’s ability to behave like a decent human being, always rather tenuous under the best of circumstances, has long since been exhausted.
After the third time he suggests, not at all offhand, that Morgana and Sir Owain have perhaps been seeing a lot of each other lately, and wasn’t it interesting that the knight was wearing a purple token during the last tournament, Morgana calmly lays down her silverware, pats her lips with a napkin and fixes Arthur with a steely glare that makes Merlin take a full step back into a wall.
Even Arthur has the presence of mind to look alarmed.
“How was your hunting trip yesterday, dear brother?” she asks, her tone sickly sweet. Merlin’s ears perk up and he steps back towards the table so quickly a bit of wine spills from the jug he’s holding. Gwen rolls her eyes at him and steadies his hand.
“I don’t know what you mean - I spent yesterday judging the competitions at the town fair.”
“How odd - I could have sworn I saw you, Sir Owain, and Sir Galahad galloping into the forest with your crossbows. But of course, if your royal duties called for you to be in the lower town, you must have been.” Morgana smirks, and Merlin thinks that her smirks are far more becoming than Arthur’s.
“Is this true, Arthur?” Uther demands. “Did you, yet again, go galavanting off instead of fulfilling your duties?”
Arthur, the poor sod, was starting to resemble one of the tomatoes Merlin was pelted with earlier that day. “I - that is,” he muttered. Merlin decides to put him out of his misery.
“If I may, sire, Prince Arthur was so inspired by all the townspeople’s hard work that he decided to go on a quick hunting trip to round up a few boars to roast. I believe you were planning to hold a feast in the lower town two nights hence as a celebration, right sire?”
Uther is staring at Merlin with the expression one might have if manure suddenly began speaking. “....yes,” Arthur says through gritted teeth. “That is what I planned to do.”
Merlin catches Gwen’s eye and quirks his lip - in for a penny, in for a pound. “We’re all so very excited about the dance,” he continues. “Especially since you offered to lead it off with the winner of the hog show.” Morgana breaks into a fit of coughs and Gwen rushes forward to pour her more wine.
This, Merlin thinks, is why he puts up with Arthur day after day. Not for destiny, like the dragon thinks, or friendship, like Gaius does, and certainly not for whatever Gwen thinks that made her blush and stammer until she walked into a column the other day. No, it’s for the moment when the vein on the crown prince of Camelot’s forehead threatens to burst and his hand grips his goblet so tight it looks like it’s about to shatter.
Merlin is tempted to keep going, but if that goblet actually does shatter Uther will probably cry sorcery, which will end well for absolutely no one.
Instead, Merlin sets an example for his master and exercises benevolence, gently prying the goblet out of Arthur’s fingers to refill it, beaming all the while.
“I suppose a little extra frivolity can’t hurt,” Uther says in a deeply doubtful tone. “But remember you’re a representative of the crown.” Arthur nods stiffly. “And Arthur? If I ever find out you’ve left your assigned duties without permission again, there will be punishment.”
When the meal finally ends, Uther sweeps out of the hall without a backward glance. Morgana smiles wickedly at Arthur and pats Merlin on the shoulder as she follows, and Gwen curtsies to no one in particular before scampering gracefully after her.
Arthur glowers. Merlin snags a piece of meat from his plate and chews obnoxiously.
“You told her,” Arthur says, his voice low and furious.
“I did no such thing,” Merlin lies.
“Is it your goal in life to humiliate me at every opportunity?”
Merlin can’t help but roll his eyes. “Honestly, Arthur, it’s one evening spent with the townsfolk. I think you’ll live.”
This was evidently the wrong thing to say, as Arthur’s nostrils flare in the way that Merlin has come to learn bodes poorly for any breakable objects in the vicinity. Arthur stands abruptly, his chair scratching horribly against the stone tiles His eyes flash dangerously and he leans so close Merlin can smell the sweet wine on his breath.
“Get out of my sight, and don’t come back until you can prove to me why I should allow you to remain in my service.”
Merlin stares at Arthur, confused. His tone was ominous, and it certainly sounded like a threat, but Merlin can’t quite work out what part is supposed to have him shaking in his boots. He’s halfway back to Gauis’ chambers when it dawns on him: Arthur actually thinks this stupid, degrading job is something he would be willing to fight for. As though Merlin’s life wouldn’t be complete without the honor of scrubbing the sheets Arthur manages to soil on a disturbingly regular basis.
The thought is so galling that Merlin has half a mind to stomp up to Arthur’s chambers and inform him just how much of an ass he is, but his magic is thrumming angrily through his veins in a way that’s reminiscent of the time he accidentally exploded a suit of armor after Arthur had ordered him to muck out his stables for the third time in a week.
In the interest of keeping his head attached to his shoulders, he storms into his room and yanks out his magic book from where he stashed it under his bed that morning. With a ferocity that nearly tears the pages, Merlin flips to the end of the book, just behind the page he’d been perfecting a spell to clean all the chamber pots in the castle on, and scrawls:
Reasons Why I, Merlin, Loathe Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future Arse
The process is surprisingly cathartic; by the time he falls asleep his hand is cramping and he’s managed to get down seventy three.
**
The feast turns out to be one of Merlin’s best ideas since coming to Camelot. Granted, his other bright ideas included drinking poison, listening to an overgrown lizard, and saving Arthur’s life, so there isn’t much competition for the title.
Morgana gives Gwen the night off and Arthur’s refusal to talk to Merlin means he can’t assign him any new chores, so he’s free to pick Gwen up at her house at sunset and walk over with her. The town is utterly transformed – the boar and two stags Arthur and the knights slayed are displayed on long tables that must have been brought from the castle and surrounded by a generous helping of fruits and cheeses from the castle kitchens. To Merlin’s delight (and subsequent regret), there are also kegs upon kegs of mead and ale and no responsibilities in sight.
The pen that usually holds Norma’s prized pigs has been turned into a makeshift dance floor, and the fishmonger is playing the lute and singing off-key. Arthur is there to uphold his end of the bargain Merlin struck for him, looking casually regal in a light shirt and breeches. He smiles charmingly at Norma as he leads her onto the dance floor to begin the festivities in earnest.
“It’s funny,” Merlin says. “He almost looks like he’s not completely insufferable.” Gwen slaps him on the shoulder and passes him some mead.
“You do like him, deep down,” she says.
“Not even in the deepest caverns of my soul,” Merlin replies cheerfully, but since nearly every sentient being he’s met since arriving in Camelot has insisted he and Arthur are bonded by destiny, he’s given up arguing the point too vigorously. He does, however, make a mental note to show Gwen his list to see if he left anything important off.
As they walk around the town they pass a girl not much younger than Merlin himself who he recognizes from the bakery with the sweet pies Arthur loves. She’s offering to paint designs on the townspeople’s faces with colored clay, a tradition Merlin remembers fondly from Beltane festivities at Ealdor. “Do you want one?” Merlin asks Gwen, and blames the homesickness for the hopeful lilt in his voice.
“Only if you get one to match,” Gwen says with a smile. By the time they each have a messily painted sword on one cheek and a dragon on the other, Merlin’s had enough mead to drag a blushing Gwen towards the dance floor.
“Do you even know how to dance?” Gwen laughs in his ear as he swings her about haphazardly.
“No!” he says, and pulls her in for an inelegant dip. She giggles and tries to guide him into following her footwork, but the mead is warm in his stomach and Gwen eventually settles for hopping out of the way of his feet as much as possible.
They’re both out of breath and panting when Gwen pulls him in close and whispers in his ear, “Arthur’s watching you, you know.”
Merlin turns and catches Arthur looking at them from the edge of the dance floor, arms crossed and something fervent in his gaze. For a moment Merlin forgets his anger and smiles cheekily at him. Arthur bites his lip and turns back to his crowd of adoring fans.
“Probably brainstorming more ways to make me miserable. ‘Merlin, muck my stables and feed my dogs and go be bait for the big magical monster trying to kill me today, won’t you.’”
Gwen’s breath is hot in his ear as she whispers, “I don’t think that’s the face of a man thinking about chores.” Before he can ask her what she means by that she tries to dip him, and they wind up in a tangled mess on the ground, surrounded by laughing townsfolk and unable to stop giggling long enough to pull themselves up.
Merlin catches sight of Arthur again as he’s stumbling to his feet, and if Merlin didn’t know better he’d think the look on his face was nearly wistful.
**
“Explain to me one more time how this destiny thing works.”
The dragon sighs, his breath singing Merlin’s eyebrows slightly. “You and Prince Arthur will unite Albion and return magic to the land,” he says dully.
Merlin considers this. “But we don’t actually have to be in the same place to do that, do we? I mean, it can’t be that hard to unite the land through, say, letter-writing, can it?”
The dragon looks like he’s strongly considering eating Merlin to spare himself the trouble. Merlin makes a mental note to bring some food from Arthur’s plate next time he comes to stave off any such homicidal tendencies.
The problem with that plan, though, is that he has no idea when he’ll next be able to pilfer food off of Arthur’s plates, since it’s been three days and Arthur still isn’t speaking to him. And yes, technically Arthur did order him to come back once he’d learned his place, but if he’s really waiting for that, he’ll be waiting until the sun burns out of the sky and the dragon might starve. And Merlin has the feeling that the smell of a rotting dragon carcass would suffocate the entire city, which someone really should have considered before chaining a giant dragon up beneath a castle in the first place.
But back to the matter at hand.
“What if I find another prince, a better one! Bayard’s got seven sons, I’m sure we can borrow one of them for this destiny lark.”
“The Hands of Destiny have been in Place long before Your Time, Young Warlock. You can no more change them than you could stop the tide.”
Merlin’s fairly certain he could stop the tide, given the right motivation, so he chooses to take this as tacit encouragement.
He’s still considering the finer points of this plan (he’s quite sure Morgana would cheerfully assist him in a prince-swap, although Uther may be harder to convince) when he rounds the corner to Gaius’ chambers and walks straight into something large and irritatingly muscular and falls onto his arse.
Dazed, he rubs his forehead and looks up to see Arthur mirroring him, sprawled out on the ground across from him in a distinctly un-princely fashion.
Merlin stares.
Arthur stares back.
“I, uh, came to see Gaius for a tonic,” Arthur says at last, eyes shifty.
Merlin smirks.
Arthur scowls.
“In the middle of the night? He’s an old man, Arthur, you shouldn’t be rousing him for every whim–”
“Shut up, Merlin.”
Merlin does, and instead channels his energy into grinning as obnoxiously as he can manage. Arthur ignores him and pushes himself to his feet, brushing off his clothes.
“I’m going hunting in the morning and I will require your services.”
Reason 37: Arthur is physically incapable of apologising. Merlin’s pretty sure if he ever tried to say the words, his vocal cords would rebel and he would end up choking on his own spit, a rather ignoble end for a prince. Still, for someone who is wrong as often as he is, it’s a devastating personality flaw.
“Aren’t you worried I’ll embarrass you, sire?” Merlin says, because if he’s not going to get an apology he may as well drag out Arthur’s discomfort as long as possible.
“Always, Merlin. Luckily, there will be no witnesses.”
Merlin glares half-heartedly, slapping away Arthur’s hand and pulling himself to his feet. Arthur is always worse around other knights; on his own he’s just a few shades short of tolerable. Plus, Arthur getting his head out of his arse means Merlin might not be responsible for the end of civilization and the Dawn of Darkness, or whatever the dragon was going on about.
“What did you do to your eyebrows?” Arthur runs a thumb over the singed hair, his own brows furrowing. (Reason 23: Arthur’s always touching Merlin, like he thinks manservant means personal play toy).
“One of Gaius’ potions exploded,” Merlin lies smoothly, because unlike Arthur, he’s really quite good at it.
“You see what happens when I leave you alone? Honestly.” With one final swipe of his brow Arthur stalks off and Merlin is left with the infuriating feeling that Arthur thinks he’s doing Merlin some kind of favour by allowing him to return to his service.
**
Merlin’s single best-guarded secret is not, in fact, his magic.
All things considered, he’s been a bit lax with that information: Gaius, Lancelot, that one stableboy who did something with his tongue that made Merlin levitate a horse.
No, his best-guarded secret is something far more serious and this, he thinks, Arthur might actually execute him for.
See, Merlin isn’t actually bad at hunting.
He’s not particularly skilled at it by any means, but he grew up in a poor village with no father; he does know the basics of how to catch food and survive.
Plus, you know, magic. It does come in handy.
It’s just, Arthur doesn’t hunt for survival. Arthur hunts for feasts, and for glory, and to impress his father. And butchering a rabbit so that his mother will have something to eat isn’t quite the same as treating an animal’s life like some sort of sick game.
(For those keeping track, this is Reason 44)
So maybe, on occasion, Merlin participates in some mild sabotage. When the animal is particularly cute, for instance, or when Arthur is tracking a boar and there’s no one else here, so Merlin is going to end up shouldering the carcass all the way back to Camelot. For noble reasons such as these.
“Are you completely incompetent?” Arthur asks the third time Merlin manages to scare the beast away. Merlin adopts his most guileless expression, and he knows something is wrong because Arthur just rolls his eyes and cuffs him over the head.
He doesn’t even throw his crossbow at Merlin.
“Are you feeling alright?” he chances, chasing after him. Arthur glares. “It’s just, the boar went the other way.”
“Thank you, Merlin. I have been trained at tracking since I was six years old and have been leading hunting parties since I was twelve, but I need my manservant, who couldn’t catch a turtle if it was dancing in front of him, to tell me which way the two hundred pound boar just charged off in.”
Merlin sighs; there’s just no point in trying to be helpful.
Arthur stops at the edge of a lake, and the way he won’t quite meet his eye makes Merlin wonder if this hadn’t been his intention all along.
Which is ridiculous: did he really think Merlin, let’s go on a long, dull and miserable hunting trip would sound more appealing than Merlin, let me apologize for being a prat by taking you for a refreshing swim to escape this stifling heat?
Royalty, honestly.
He’s stripping down before Arthur has a chance to order him to take off his armour and ignores Arthur’s squawk of protest to dive headfirst into the cool water.
As boys, Will and Merlin used to sneak out to a watering hole not far from Ealdor on especially miserable summer days. They’d kick and splash and try semi-jokingly to drown each other, and then float on their backs while Merlin made the water dance in the air. Will was always awed by his magic, always coming up with different ways to use it to cause mischief.
Merlin slides his hand over the slimy water floor and thinks that’s what he misses most about home - the chance to use his magic without lives and the fate of a kingdom at stake; shifting clouds into obscene shapes to make a friend laugh instead of raining down pain and destruction on his own kind.
When he finally comes up for air and shakes his head like a wet dog, he catches Arthur watching him from the shore. One arm is suspended in the air where he started tugging his armour, an odd expression on his face that Merlin can’t quite place.
“Really, you can’t do anything by yourself,” Merlin teases, finding his footing on the slippery waterbed and climbing out of the lake. Arthur jerks back to life and sneers.
“If I relied on your help, Merlin, I’d be sleeping in my armor most nights,” he says, but he doesn’t protest when Merlin bats his hands away and brings his own dripping ones up to his breastplate. Practice has made him a bit of an expert and he divests Arthur of his armour efficiently. Arthur’s eyes track his hands, flicking down Merlin’s nude body for a moment before he turns away and yanks off his tunic.
Merlin rolls his eyes; he’s spent endless hours tending to Arthur’s naked body, dressing, undressing, even bathing when Arthur is feeling particularly vindictive, but it’s just like Arthur to turn away from Merlin’s. He has no delusions; he knows he’s not built like a knight, but then, he doesn’t have to be.
Reason 92: Arthur is quite vain. And not in an endearing way like Morgana, but in a way that makes Merlin want to shatter every mirror in Camelot if it means Arthur will stop messing with his hair and just go to the bloody feast already. (It does, however, make him especially vulnerable to comments about his appearance, and Merlin exploits this weakness at every opportunity.)
Duty completed, he jumps back into the water and swims out a bit, giggling underwater as he scatters a school of fish. He hears Arthur splash in behind him, and when he comes up for air he finds himself shoved back under mercilessly.
Merlin kicks out viciously at Arthur’s chest, but strong hands stay firm on the top of his head. Changing tactics, he wraps one arm around Arthur’s thigh and yanks; there’s a gratifying shout and then Arthur is submerged in the water next to him.
“Why you little,” Arthur starts when he breaks the surface of the water, but Merlin just laughs and shoves him back under, using a bit of magic to hold him steady before using Arthur’s chest to kick off and swim away.
Arthur catches up with him easily and they wrestle in earnest: Arthur’s stronger, but Merlin isn’t afflicted with any of that pesky honour that’s beaten into the knights and he fights dirty. Arthur chokes out a laugh when Merlin bites his hand and pushes Merlin away from him, a strange smile on his face.
“At least I know I don’t have to worry about you getting caught by bandits,” he says, ruffling Merlin’s hair. Merlin takes this as the concession to his superior skill it’s clearly intended as and slaps his hand away.
“You would worry? I’m touched, Arthur.” Arthur scoffs, but the tips of his ears redden as he kicks himself onto his back, arms crossed under his head. After a moment Merlin follows suit and together they float, shoulder to shoulder, and watch the clouds.
**
A few weeks later Arthur informs Merlin, in a typically snotty voice, that his pillows are not fluffy enough, and isn’t there something he can do about that?
Merlin very politely and with as much deference as he can muster points out that their initial fluff was probably squashed under the weight of Arthur’s giant head, and accepts his sentence to the stocks with good grace.
He’s not been there an hour before Arthur releases him, muttering something about Merlin being behind enough on his chores already and he can’t afford to laze about all day.
Merlin’s retort is swallowed up by sudden chaos in the town square as a man falls off a ladder only to find himself suspended in midair. Merlin has a moment of panic, looking at his own hands like they’ve betrayed him, before he sees the young woman who works at the bakery in the lower town, and who painted his cheeks at the town feast standing across the square, arm outstretched and a horrified expression on her face.
Merlin frantically gestures at her to run, but it’s too late. By the time she turns on her heel to flee she finds her path blocked by a handful of citizens who pin her arms behind her back and present her to the crown prince like a slab of meat.
To his credit, Arthur looks taken aback for a moment before recovering himself and ordering her escorted to the dungeons. Before they go, he puts one arm on a guard’s shoulder and says “Gently,” in a tone that brooks no room for argument.
That night when Morgana is shouting wildly at the king to see reason, Arthur stands straight and calmly explains that the girl had done no harm, and surely she didn’t deserve execution for saving a life. He reasons that they will be creating enemies of her family and friends, of her fellow citizens, and sowing seeds of fear instead of justice. He proposes alternate sentences - more just, less final.
Seeing Arthur match his father’s blind hatred with cool logic is the first time Merlin truly sees the great king he could grow to be.
(Reason 112: Just when Merlin is ready to give up the whole destiny thing as a sadistic prank made up by a deranged lizard, Arthur goes and does something that almost makes Merlin believe in it again.)
And when all his words fail and the girl burns, Arthur says nothing when Merlin turns his head from the window and wipes his cheeks. After the last embers of the flames have gone out, Arthur sits at his table and pours himself a goblet of wine while Merlin stokes the fire, still hearing the girl’s father’s cries echoing in the courtyard.
He hadn’t even known her name before Uther sentenced her, but she’d baked pies and smiled at him and painted a dragon on his cheek and now she’s ashes on the ground. Merlin’s eyes burn from the firelight and for a moment he could swear he could see her face in the flames, but he can’t tell if she’s screaming or laughing.
“Get away from there,” Arthur orders. There’s a familiar tinge of irritation in his voice that jerks Merlin back to the present. His face feels unnaturally warm and his knees ache from kneeling on the floor, and he realizes he must have lost himself in the flames for several long minutes.
He stands and comes to pour Arthur more wine. It’s only when Arthur’s hand clasps his elbow firmly that he even realizes his arms are shaking. “My father,” Arthur says in a hollow voice, “is not a man easily reasoned with. And there are limits to my influence.”
Given the day’s events Merlin rather thinks that’s stating the obvious, but he can’t bring himself to tease. Arthur is looking at him with fierce intensity and his eyes betray a hint of concern and maybe even fear. He seems to be searching for something in Merlin’s face, but Merlin has no idea what. After a long pause, he sighs and lets go of Merlin’s arm. “You may go, Merlin,” Arthur says, and it sounds almost gentle.
Merlin hesitates for a moment, then sits down across from Arthur and pours his own goblet of wine, which earns him an incredulous smile for his nerve.
**
Hidden in all the drivel, the dragon does occasionally say something useful, and Merlin figures he may have a point about his destiny being to transform Arthur from a complete prat into a reasonably adequate human being.
It’s a daunting task, but Merlin has always liked a challenge.
He decides that the brief glimpse of Arthur’s (typically well-hidden) nobility and kindness deserves some sort of positive reinforcement. And maybe, just maybe, he wants to rid Arthur’s face of the haunted look he’s had since they watched the execution. However, since Merlin has only just stopped flinching when he goes near the fireplace, he has no interest in broaching the topic directly, which is how he ends up sneaking around the castle in the wee hours of the morning.
Two days later, he walks in on Arthur already awake and eyeing his pillows suspiciously.
“Breakfast, sire? I’ve brought sausages.” Sausages always distract him. If Merlin ever writes a handbook about how to deal with royalty, he’ll title it How to Avoid Beheading by Serving Breakfast. Then again, with that title it’d be a fairly short book.
“Merlin. My pillows are fluffy.”
“Glad to hear it, sire,” he says, intent on laying out the silverware properly.
“Merlin. These are not my pillows.”
“Oh? Look, there’s bacon too.” There hadn’t been bacon, but Merlin hadn’t spent his entire day off practicing conjuring food for nothing.
Arthur sighs the sigh of the long suffering, which Merlin thinks is rather rich coming from him. “Where did you find these pillows?”
Accepting that pillows trump breakfast in the royal hierarchy (and mentally filing this away for future use), Merlin replies, “You wanted fluffier pillows, so I got you fluffier pillows. I’m getting the hang of this servitude thing.”
“But where? You couldn’t have bought these on your wages, and if you had you’d probably have just kept them for yourself. Tell me.”
Merlin adopts his best sorcery? What sorcery? face. Apparently Gaius was right that it needed work, because Arthur just narrows his eyes.
“Well, you weren’t satisfied with pillows fit for a prince, so I did you one better.”
There is a long pause then, and Merlin takes the opportunity to steal a sausage because they’re getting cold by now, and imminent execution is no reason to waste good food.
“You. Tell me you didn’t steal my father’s pillows.”
“I prefer to think of it as reappropriating them, sire.”
The look on Arthur’s face truly is priceless, and is probably worth getting beheaded to see.
A minute passes though, and instead of hardening into fury, Arthur’s face collapses into mirth. Merlin spares a moment to lament the sanity of the prince, and wonders if this means the dragon will let him kidnap one of Bayard’s sons now.
Arthur tackles him onto the bed with surprising speed and shoves him headfirst into the pillows, breathless with laughter. “You are. The worst. Manservant. Of all. Time.”
Merlin thinks this is a bit unfair because he’s pretty sure Arthur’s enjoying his gift, but he’s also smiling for the first time in days so he decides not to mention it.
(Later, Arthur lectures him at length about royal property, grubby peasant hands, and the definition of treason, but there’s a glint in his eye that tells Merlin it’s all for show. Incidentally, this is Reason 29: hypocrisy, but this time, Merlin can’t quite bring himself to be annoyed by it.)
**
A fortnight later, Merlin fishes Arthur out of a lake, catches a cold, and thinks, this destiny thing cannot possibly be worth the amount of trouble it’s brought me. Arthur, oblivious to the heroic lifesaving that precipitated the cold, glares at him every time he sneezes as though it’s a personal insult.
“Would you stop that?” he finally explodes after Merlin recovers from a coughing fit, still wheezing pathetically.
“I’m sorry, is my dying distracting you, my lord?” Arthur scowls at him and then slumps slightly.
“You’re not dying, idiot. But if you’re going to be this much of a nuisance just go back to Gaius. You’re even less helpful than usual when you’re sneezing all over my armour.”
Gaius sighs when he sees him and shoves something foul down his throat. Merlin is asleep before he hits the pillow.
When he wakes, Arthur is looming over him like some sort of pompous, arrogant, looming thing, and Merlin’s brain feels like it’s been wrapped in cotton.
“You had a fever,” Arthur says accusingly.
“Sorry?” Merlin hazards when it becomes clear that Arthur is waiting for a reply. For someone who never gives them, he sure does like receiving apologies frequently.
Arthur huffs and shoves some water at him. “You’ve been sleeping for two days. I’ve had to get a replacement, and he’s put everything back where it belongs, including the stuff you stashed under my bed and yes, I did know about that. I can’t find a thing.”
It’s probably the residual illness that’s making this conversation impossible to follow, so Merlin just squints at Arthur. “Oh.” It’s a pity; it took him months to perfect his organizational system.
Arthur sits on a chair and puts his feet on Merlin’s bed, like he’s planning on doing something horrid like stay. “As it turns out, I’ve become accustomed to your particular brand of incompetence.”
“Um.”
Arthur peers at him. “Did that fever addle your brain? Moreso, I mean.”
Merlin musters up a glare which only increases the pounding in his head. “Why are you here?” he rasps out. “Your armour can’t need polishing that urgently.”
Arthur fidgets with the lining of his tunic. “I was just making sure you hadn’t died,” he says in his most haughty tone. “I can’t have people thinking I mistreat my servants.”
Gaius bustles in before Merlin can point out that he does mistreat his servant, and quite frequently at that. Gaius continues the trend of scolding Merlin for being sick, as though it’s something he planned in order to skive off work, and makes him drink more disgusting potions before patting him on the head affectionately.
As he falls back asleep he notices Arthur hasn’t moved from his chair and is flipping through one of Gaius’ books idly.
By the time Merlin is recovered enough to return to service Arthur’s chambers are nearly unrecognisable.
“Good morning, sire!” he announces, pulling a tunic from the wardrobe and dropping it on the floor to give the room some character.
Arthur’s head jerks up and he pulls the blankets above his waist, looking rather hunted.
“Did you get a new window?” Merlin asks, squinting against the streams of early morning sun.
Arthur coughs and sits up with a half-hearted glare. “Three maidservants spent the better part of yesterday afternoon scrubbing off the boot polish you managed to coat half my wall with the day you tripped over the rug.”
Actually, Merlin had thrown the bottle of boot polish quite intentionally at Arthur’s thick head when he demanded his fireplace be cleaned for the third time in two days. Luckily Arthur’s back had been turned and Merlin’s aim remained abysmal. Although the way Arthur’s eyes are narrowed suggests he may have some suspicions.
“Look, I brought you a sausage,” Merlin announces, and throws it in the general direction of the bed. It lands on the floor a foot away, and they both stare at it.
Arthur collapses back into his pillows with a groan, but Merlin’s fairly sure he’s smiling.
“Up and at’em!” he says, and Arthur does as bid.
**
It’s inevitable, really, that everything should come crashing down around him. He just always hoped he would be a bit more conscious when it did.
When he swims back to awareness for the first time since returning from the Isle of the Blessed, tossing Gaius on his pallet and crawling his way up to Arthur’s rooms to ensure he hasn’t managed to get himself killed in his absence, he sees Arthur, dressed in his nightshirt and arm in a sling, sitting in Merlin’s bedroom reading his magic book.
For a moment the sight is so incongruous that he shakes his head a few times in an effort to jar sense back into reality. Sadly, this only serves to alert Arthur that he’s awake.
“Number 64: He nags like a fishwife,” Arthur reads, eyes glinting dangerously in the pre-dawn light.
Merlin decides this is probably an unpleasant dream (and the number of dreams he’s had recently involving Arthur makes him wonder if he’s like some sort of infectious disease that Merlin’s contracted and can’t shake) so he says, “Oh, so you do know how to read.”
“I do not chew with my mouth open,” Arthur hisses, and Merlin really, truly understands the phrase incandescent rage for the first time in his life.
“Only when you eat venison,” he replies in what he thinks is a very mature and conciliatory manner.
“I should have you strung up on the turrets by those ridiculous things you call ears.”
The thing is, Arthur looks furious, and a little insane, and certainly like he might actually follow through on his oft-mentioned threat to feed Merlin to his hunting dogs, but he hasn’t called the guards, and if Merlin squints a little he might say that Arthur looks just the tiniest bit hurt.
Which is to say, Merlin wonders if perhaps his legendary egotism might have led Arthur to stop at the sight of his own name and somehow overlook the fact that the carefully curated shrine to all of his many faults and failings was written in a book of magic.
Unfortunately, he can’t quite work out a subtle way to ask that question without giving the game away.
“Um. What, um. How come. Why are you here.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow. “My manservant and the Court Physician vanished while I was recovering from the brink of death, then you came wandering into my rooms in the middle of the night looking like a reanimated corpse, hit me on my injured shoulder until I woke up and promptly fainted in my arms like a damsel.”
Now that he mentions it, Merlin’s memories of the previous night are starting to return. “Nudged. I nudged you on your mostly healed shoulder, just to make sure you weren’t dead. You have a habit of trying to kick off and it’s really a lot more trouble than it’s worth to bring you back.”
“Evidently,” Arthur says, peering at him with an unreadable expression. Merlin belatedly remembers he’s supposed to be diverting suspicion, and tries to muster up his most idiotic grin in response.
“I suppose it would have killed you to let me sleep in the royal bed just this once instead of lugging me all the way back down here.”
If he didn’t know any better, and if Arthur hadn’t once lectured him for an hour about the scientific improbabilities that led to the blushing gene being wiped from the Pendragon line, Merlin might have thought Arthur turned just the tiniest bit pink.
“I was bringing you to Gaius. Hard as it is to tell given that you normally look and behave as though you’ve never seen daylight, but you look like death.” He leans in close so Merlin can smell his breath, rotten from days of fever, and he tries not to turn away. “But when we got here I found Gaius and your mother unconscious and looking almost as ill as you, which begs the question what exactly have you been up to, you little weasel.”
Merlin thinks this would be an excellent time to pass out again, and so he does.
In the morning Arthur is gone, his magic book is tucked safely under the bed where it belongs, and Merlin is half-convinced the entire conversation was a fever dream.
He spends the next few days tending to Gaius and his mother and avoiding Arthur as much as possible. When he sees his mother off later that week with a hug and a promise to be careful, Arthur is waiting for her at the stables with an old, reliable mare for the journey home. Merlin watches him carefully, trying to gauge the likelihood that he’s about to be rounded up and beheaded as soon as his mother is out of sight. Arthur meets his gaze but says nothing.
For a fortnight they tiptoe carefully around each other; Arthur is still recovering and spends a great deal of time attempting to sneak out of his chambers to go hunting. Merlin occupies himself by memorizing various incantations to make himself fireproof and enlisting the Great Dragon to help him practice.
Eventually all the long stares and contemplative looks start to get on Merlin’s nerves, so after a particularly successful visit to the Great Dragon which leaves him only mildly scorched (and it must be said that the Dragon seems unnervingly eager to assist Merlin in these experiments) he brings a plate of sausages up to Arthur’s room at midday, flops down on a chair and says, “So about the book.”
Arthur stills and does not turn to meet Merlin’s expectant gaze.
“Look, all those things I wrote, I didn’t -- well I did mean them, but I didn’t mean for you to read them. At least, not all in a row like that. Maybe more spaced out.”
“Shut up, Merlin.”
“It’s just, you’re not planning on executing me, are you? Because Gaius would probably be very sad, or at least annoyed, and given how often you find yourself in mortal peril you shouldn’t anger the Court Physician.”
Arthur does meet his eyes at that, looking supremely unimpressed. “That’s your pitch? ‘Don’t kill me or else at some nebulous point in the future Gaius might let you die?’ Has Gaius agreed to this plan? I’ve known him a lot longer than you have, and he had a lot more hair before you showed up. I think he’d be well shot of you.”
This is probably true. “Well you would miss me. Who would you torture? And no other manservant will bring you as many sausages as I do.” That’s mostly because Merlin conjures them out of thin air, but since he’s still not entirely sure what Arthur does and does not know, he keeps this to himself. Arthur is trying to glare imposingly, which is ruined by him biting down a smile.
“You really are the most idiotic person I’ve ever met and I have no idea how you’ve managed to survive this long, but I have no intention of executing you.”
Merlin narrows his eyes, sensing a provision.
“Murder, on the other hand. I could drop your body in a lake and no one would be the wiser.”
“Everyone would know it was you.”
“Only because you give me so very many motives, Merlin. Now go make yourself useful and draw me a bath.”
**
So things carry on with what passes for normal in Merlin’s life, with a few rampaging beasts and angry sorcerers and one talking goat who, as Uther understands it, breathed fire and was heroically impaled by Arthur’s sword before he could destroy a village. Merlin had sworn never to divulge the true story, which is that the goat’s mate had left him for another goat with more prominent horns, and after a long afternoon of bleating Merlin had introduced him to a new goat and felt quite pleased with himself until Arthur pointed out through gritted teeth that they were both boy goats, you idiot, and Merlin had replied that mating isn’t everything, Arthur, they look quite smitten, and Arthur had choked on air and not spoken the whole ride home, but it’s not Merlin’s fault he didn’t get to do any heroic impaling on this quest.
Anyway, Merlin only had cause to add another seven points to his list of reasons he hated Arthur in the past week, which was a new record, so things were going rather well before the mad sorceress interrupted a Pendragon Family Dinner with an army of reanimated suits of armor and one very large snake.
She blathers on for quite a while and Merlin’s sure it’s all very serious and important but the giant snake is sort of distracting, so he’s not really sure what her motive is.
“And now, Uther Pendragon, you too will feel the loss of the one you love most,” the sorceress sums up helpfully, as if sensing that her snake had rather usurped her focus.
And then a lot of things happen in very quick succession:
The snake rears up (and oh gods it’s even bigger now)
Arthur pushes Merlin out of the way and raises his sword
The sorceress lifts an arm made of fire
Merlin grabs a handful of Arthur’s tunic in his left hand and yanks (with a little magical assistance) hard enough to force Arthur to stumble and fall behind him
Merlin steps forward and raises his right arm and -
Arthur tackles him from behind and the two of them wind up in a heap at the sorceress’ feet, her fireball pelting harmlessly over their heads and into the wall behind them.
The sorceress blinks at them for a moment, nonplussed, as Merlin tries to elbow the prince in the groin and Arthur manages to sit on his neck, one hand plastered against Merlin’s mouth. Morgana uses the confusion to stalk up behind the sorceress and hit her over the head with a wine goblet, and as she falls the suits of armor all collapse like puppets with their strings cut with a horrible clamor. Merlin bites down on Arthur’s hand, hard, and then squeaks when Arthur pokes him vindictively in the eyeball.
On the whole, it is not the most dignified affair.
Unfortunately, the great bloody snake did not vanish when his mistress was knocked out. Merlin tries to use a spell to restrain it, but Arthur keeps one hand over his mouth and uses the other to restrain his arm. The two of them continue wrestling on the ground while the guards attempt to impale the snake without coming within ten feet of it and Uther stands off to the side of the room yelling orders that mostly boil down to just kill it already.
Eventually Arthur manages to disentangle his limbs from Merlin’s, stalks past the terrified guards and beheads the creature with one stroke. Merlin, who had stumbled after him to help, winds up with bright yellow snake guts spewed all over his front, which is definitely going on the list.
Uther is still trying to bring some semblance of order to the room, but Arthur does not wait for his father’s directions. “Merlin, my chambers. Now.”
Merlin trots after him obediently for once, as snake corpses are quite smelly.
“Would you like a bath, sire?” Merlin asks hopefully as the door to Arthur’s chambers closes behind them.
“What I would like is a manservant who is not a complete and utter what on earth are you doing now?”
Merlin blinks at him, tangled in his tunic. “I would’ve thought that was obvious,” he said, freeing himself and dropping the destroyed garment on the ground before rummaging about in Arthur’s drawers. “If you’re going to keep getting beast guts all over my clothes you’re really going to need to start paying me more. And how is it your clothes are never casualties of these attacks, anyway?”
Arthur pokes at the discarded tunic with his sword. “Maybe because you’re always in the damn way. Tell me, what exactly were you planning on doing back there? Irritating the sorceress to death?”
Merlin glares at him. “I was going to point out that killing you would be redundant, since a crown will never fit over your fat head and the kingdom will undoubtedly fall to ruin as soon as you try to take over anyway. Sire.”
Arthur looks murderous. “You can’t just - my father - I am not an invalid. I can take care of myself.”
“You were going to fight fire with a sword,” Merlin points out.
“Why do you even care? I’m an arrogant, greedy, bossy prat, remember?”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “Don’t forget overly sensitive. Really, are you still mad about the book?”
Arthur throws his sword on the floor with a clatter and Merlin winces, knowing he’ll have to polish that soon. “How many times do we have to have this conversation?” Arthur asks, quieter now and more plaintive. “I cannot protect you against my father. You must be more careful.”
Merlin is momentarily struck dumb. “But we’ve never had that conversation,” he says.
“Are you daft? I told you after that girl was executed, and when Will died, and when you tried to hurl your life away for mine after the Questing Beast, and last week when you gave yourself a tail for reasons that I still don’t want to know.”
“So you do know?” Merlin asks, just to be clear. “About the magic, I mean?”
Arthur stares at him like he’s a lackwit. “Of course I bloody know, half the castle knows! If blurting it out to the entire council wasn’t enough I read your damn magic book from cover to cover while you were busy spelling the ceiling different colors while unconscious. And the entirety of Albion doesn’t possess the number of sausages you bring me on a weekly basis, even though I know you know I like bacon better!”
“Well you never said,” Merlin says peevishly.
“I was trying to be subtle, an art you’ve yet to be acquainted with, you useless toad.”
Merlin thinks he ought to be offended by that, but a warm feeling is descending around his chest. “So you’ve known for ages then? And no one’s building a pyre for me?”
“I told you already, I’m not going to have you executed. Honestly, I thought you were only deaf when it came to orders, not everything that comes out of my mouth.”
Merlin beams at him sunnily, his snake gut stained clothes suddenly a distant memory. “Arthur, and I truly mean this – you may not be the single worst human being I’ve ever met.”
To prove the point, Merlin conjures him some bacon. Arthur looks mollified.
**
Two days later Merlin is stretched out comfortably on Arthur’s rug, sunbathing while armor and boots polish themselves.
“Do you want to die?” Arthur asks conversationally, shutting the door behind him. “Because that would explain a lot, and I assure you there are easier ways to go about it. Ask nicely and I’ll run you through right now.”
“Bad day at training?” Merlin asks, lazily twirling his finger to get at the dirt clinging to the soles of the boots.
“What if someone had been with me? How would you explain this?”
“If someone came in I would tell them your room has been infested with invisible elves. Everyone knows elves love housework. Then Gaius and I would spend a lot of time researching how to banish the elves and then do some complex made-up ritual with a lot of herbs and your father would thank Gaius and probably throw a feast in honor of his heroism.”
Arthur stares at him.
“Gaius says it’s more important to be detailed than believable.”
“That explains a great deal.”
“Besides,” Merlin says, feeling spiteful at the interruption of his perfectly pleasant afternoon. “No one is ever with you. You don’t have any friends but me.”
“So you think we’re friends then. Despite the 129 reasons you hate me.”
“162.” Arthur sputters indignantly and Merlin smiles. “It’s an ever-evolving list, Arthur.”
“I really don’t know why I don’t have you executed.”
“You think on that, I’m having a nap.”
It’s not really a surprise when Arthur drags him bodily off the ground and pushes him towards the door with an order to muck out his stables (the only chore which Merlin can’t use magic to complete, unless he wants to start a stampede) but it is disappointing.
**
“You know,” Arthur says in a deliberately light tone that always signifies great misery on Merlin’s horizon. Merlin stops in the middle of spitting out the pine needles and pebbles he’d half-swallowed on his way down the cliffside to eye him warily. “If you keep desperately trying to kill yourself for me, it’s going to be harder to keep up the facade that you don’t like me.”
Merlin sputters, outraged. He tries to get to his feet but Arthur shoves him back down viciously. “The facade-”
“Yes, Merlin, the facade. It means illusion, charade, fiction-”
“I know what it means!” He’s vaguely grateful Arthur stopped him from standing; he thinks he may have sprained an ankle. Or possibly both ankles. And every other bone in his body. “My undying loathing for you is not a facade, you arrogant twit, it is one of the very pillars of my personality, etched so deep into my soul it can never be erased.”
Arthur’s smirk grows even more dangerous as he wrests Merlin’s tunic over his head and inspects his torso for injuries. “Etched into your soul, you say? Why Merlin, I had no idea I meant so much to you.”
“Only because I’m forced to spend every waking hour with you. Besides, it’s hardly my fault you attract danger like a moth to a flame and constantly need me to rescue you.”
“Perhaps, but it’s certainly your fault when you decide to leap off a cliff in a misguided attempt to protect me.”
“I did not leap - ow, stop poking me! I courageously tackled your would-be assassin-”
“Off a cliff, you numbskull. That rib is definitely broken. Why didn’t you just use your damn magic to stop him? You have no problem using it in the middle of the throne room surrounded by a dozen guards and my father. Does it lose its appeal when you’re not under threat of imminent execution?”
Merlin pauses in his attempts to bat Arthur’s hands away from the sore parts of his body, which is pretty much the whole thing. “Ah. I think I forgot.”
Arthur stares at him incredulously, but at least his pathetic attempts at caretaking are momentarily abandoned. “You forgot about your magic.”
“No! I just forgot that you know now, so I can use it properly. That probably would’ve been easier.”
There’s a lengthy silence during which Arthur’s expression would be best described as livid.
“If you survive long enough to come of age we’re going to throw the biggest, most extravagant tournament this kingdom has ever seen, because it will be a goddamn fucking miracle.”
“Whatever suits your fancy, sire,” Merlin says agreeably. Arthur mutters creatively insulting and offensive things about Merlin for the rest of the day, but his hands are gentle as he binds his ribs and ankle and he bears his weight without complaint as they hobble back to Camelot.
**
The third time there’s a deranged magical bull let loose in the castle (and Merlin longs for the days when he could classify such events as the “first and only time a deranged magical bull was let loose in the castle”) Arthur turns to him and says, “How about we consult your Big Book of Treason first?”
Merlin is instantly suspicious since Arthur has never encountered a problem he would rather read about before stabbing with a sword. He agrees, though, since he’s pretty sure there’s a very useful spell in there that would halt any creature in its tracks, but he always confuses the incantation with the one for making a creature impotent, which experience has taught him tends to only make this sort of situation worse.
It should not come as a shock to him that as he flips to the page in which he helpfully scrawled “impotence NOT immobilization - very different,” Arthur says imperiously, “This is for your own good, Merlin,” and locks him in his bedroom.
It does come as a shock to him how long he spends throwing himself at the door before remembering that he has magic, however. When he finally does remember that minor detail (and mentally concedes that Arthur may have a point about his mental affliction), he lifts a furiously shaking hand and the door is blasted off its hinges before he can even utter a spell.
Gaius does not look up from his reading. “The prince went that way and you really will need to fix that when you get back, Merlin.”
He bursts into the Great Hall just as Arthur skewers the deranged magical bull through the mouth. Arthur grins at him cheerfully, waving the sword with the beast still attached.
“Ah, Merlin. You’re just in time, this sword needs polishing.”
Reason 163: he’s a smug, arrogant, thrill-seeking idiot.
“I know this is hard for your puny peasant mind to comprehend,” Arthur says later that evening over a celebratory plate of bull meat, “but I did survive twenty years on this earth without you. I do not need you to wave your hands and make all of my problems disappear.”
Merlin stares at him from his spot on the floor where he’s been ordered to organize all of Arthur’s tunics by shade of red because the seasons are changing, Merlin, and I need my richer reds at hand for Midwinter.
Arthur waves a hand dismissively and amends, “Not the cleaning stuff, that’s your job. But if I’m to be King, you do have to let me fight some of my own battles.”
“But then you’ll die, and it’ll be a tossup between who sets me on fire first: the Dragon or your father.”
Merlin realizes the strategic error in that sentence somewhere between Arthur’s face darkening like a thundercloud and arriving in the caves, dragged by his ear.
“Ah, young Prince. I’ve been expecting you.”
To Arthur’s credit, the sight of the Great Dragon only throws him off balance for a moment. “What have you been telling him,” Arthur demands, still holding Merlin’s ear so he can’t escape.
“I’ve merely offered Merlin my wisdom and expertise when he requires it,” the Dragon says, which Merlin thinks is a frankly outrageous way to describe their interactions. Before Merlin can dispute this, however, Arthur lets go of him and stomps towards the dragon.
“So I have you to blame for this disaster?” Arthur yells, gesturing at Merlin’s general person. “What the hell was your advice - wave a sign in the king’s face saying ‘I’m a great bloody sorcerer, kill me next?’”
“I have told him the truth: that he must fulfill his destiny and keep you safe, or the world itself and all hopes for a prosperous future will perish.”
Arthur rocks back on his feet, stunned. “You told him - why - no wonder he’s so ridiculous!”
“Hey!” Merlin says defensively. “I’ve saved your useless hide -”
“I merely conveyed what I know,” the Dragon says, cutting Merlin off. He seems extremely eager to have a new person to talk to, which Merlin finds a bit offensive. “Like you, I am playing my part in the foretold destiny.”
“The idiot drank actual poison and jumped off a goddamn cliff because you’ve got him convinced that if I get so much as a nosebleed the entire world will be enshrouded in darkness for eternity!”
The Dragon blinks. “Ah.”
“Yes, ah.”
The Dragon turns to Merlin. “Young Warlock. I thought it would have gone without saying that in order for you and the prince to unite the kingdoms and bring peace to the land together, you must both stay alive.”
“I know that,” Merlin says, and then adds petulantly, “You try it sometime, it’s not that easy.”
“And I would have thought it goes without saying that you don’t trust dragons that have been imprisoned in the bowels of the castle,” Arthur says irritably, storming back up the steps without a backward glance. “Hurry up, Merlin, you still need to polish my armor tonight.”
Merlin glares at the dragon, betrayed. “To think I was going to smuggle you a goat next time I came to visit.”
The dragon has the grace to look a little repentant. “Perhaps I underestimated the sheer foolhardiness of young love.”
“Whatever that’s supposed to mean,” Merlin mutters, traipsing after Arthur.
**
“We are going on a quest to kill a chimera,” Arthur announces one morning a few weeks after the conversation with the dragon. He’s sitting at his desk, hands steepled under his chin and looking at Merlin intensely.
“Oh, wonderful,” Merlin says. “It’s been such an excruciatingly dull two days since we nearly died, might as well end that streak.”
“Half a dozen knights will accompany us,” Arthur continues as though Merlin hadn’t said anything. “You will not use your magic in front of them, unless you are under threat of imminent death. In that case, you will use your magic, preferably in a subtle way, to protect yourself. You will not risk your life to protect me, the knights, or any furry forest creatures that catch your eye. You will avoid cliffs, rivers, pits, and any other things that you can stumble into or off of. You will not use your magic to protect me unless I and all my knights are unconscious and incapacitated. Do you understand?”
“I’m not a child,” Merlin says, tossing Arthur’s dirty laundry into a corner of the room.
“No, you’re an imbecile without an ounce of common sense. Do you understand?”
“If I’m such a liability, why don’t you just leave me behind?”
“Because, Merlin, when I tried that you followed me, climbed up a tree to have a nap, and fell into our camp in the middle of the night.”
“I told you, there were pixies in the trees –”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, sire,” Merlin says in the most innocent and deferential tone he can muster.
Arthur surveys him suspiciously, then sighs. “Just try not to die, alright?”
To the surprise of absolutely nobody, the half dozen knights accompanying them are knocked out bare minutes into the battle. Merlin spares a moment to wonder if Arthur would be open to constructive criticism regarding their training program until the chimera lets loose another great gale of fire in his direction and he’s forced to throw himself behind a tree.
A chimera, Merlin’s research revealed, is a lion with a fire-breathing goat sticking out of its back, and a tail that ends with a serpent’s head. As it turns out, this combination sounds far more amusing than it actually is.
“Arthur?” he calls out. His voice wavers a little, which he’s pretty sure is due to the smoke and not any kind of concern.
“Yeah,” Arthur rasps. Merlin swings his head around to find Arthur hiding behind a nearby log, gasping for breath. He looks a bit frazzled, but Merlin supposes a three-headed beast that breathes fire is a bit frazzling.
Despite having far too many heads, the chimera seems to have very little in the way of brains and is currently stomping around in circles, blowing fire aimlessly at the trees. Eventually, though, it’s bound to find the right tree.
“I have an idea,” Merlin says.
“Oh, excellent, he’s got an idea,” Arthur says, voice dripping with sarcasm and a tinge of panic. “Let’s hear it then. Wait, let me guess: you’re going to throw yourself into one of its mouths as a human sacrifice.”
Merlin scowls at him. “I’m not that dumb, honestly. But sure, if you think you can do better you go back out there and try attacking it again, I’ll wait.”
For a few moments there’s no noise except for Arthur’s ragged breathing and the high-pitched squeals of the chimera’s goat-head. Then: “Fine,” Arthur says through gritted teeth. “What is your ridiculous plan.”
“Do you have a bow and arrow?”
“Are you – does it look like I have a bow and arrow? Have I ever, in the year you’ve known me, had a bow and arrow? You pack my weapons, you idiot, so unless you’re hiding one down your trousers –”
“You are extremely tetchy today.”
“Tetchy?” Arthur screeches, and the chimera lifts one of its heads in their direction.
“Get up a tree, now!”
Merlin scrabbles up the thick trunk gracelessly and feels Arthur coming up behind him. “Hurry up,” he says urgently, pushing at Merlin’s feet and Merlin can feel the heat of the flames beneath him.
“I didn’t mean my tree, you arse! We’re in a forest, there are hundreds of trees to choose from–”
“Don’t be so tetchy, Merlin,” Arthur says vindictively. It’s almost impressive that he can be this rude whilst fleeing for his life, and Merlin is definitely adding that to his list.
Merlin keeps climbing until the branches start to stagger under his weight, then drops down to a more stable perch. Arthur is crouching a few feet below him, looking down at the beast, which is now circling their tree. Merlin takes advantage of his distraction to edge as far away from the trunk as he can manage before the branch starts to creak.
“So, back to my plan.”
“If you say the words bow or arrow again, Merlin, I swear I will push you out of this tree and applaud when that thing eats you.”
Tetchy.
“What about a dagger?”
Arthur turns to look at him. “Yes,” he says suspiciously. “Why?”
“I know a spell to enchant the blade. It worked for Lancelot with the griffin, and I think it might work on the chimera too.”
“Lancelot?” Arthur repeats dangerously. “You were enchanting Lancelot’s blade?”
“Er, yes? Is that really what you want to focus on right now?” Merlin gestures down at the ground, where the chimera is trying to burn down their tree.
Arthur manages to get himself under control with what seems like great difficulty and pulls out his dagger. Merlin reaches out his hand and whispers, “Bregdan anweald gafeluec.” This time it only takes one try for the blade to glow bright blue.
Arthur eyes it a little curiously, but Merlin is surprised to see no trace of fear in his gaze. “And how exactly do you expect me to get close enough to the beast to stab it with a dagger without being killed first?”
“Ah, well, there’s going to be a distraction and then you’re going to throw it.”
Arthur’s head jerks up at the word ‘distraction.’ “Don’t you dare!” he growls and makes a grab for Merlin but he’s strategically placed himself well out of Arthur’s reach. With a cheeky smile, Merlin swings down from his branch, mutters the spell he learned after the cliff incident to cushion his landing, and drops to the ground a horse-length away from the chimera.
“Hello,” he says sunnily. As the goat-head of the chimera rears back to incinerate him, Merlin whispers a freezing spell.
The fire transforms into crystallized ice extending a foot from the creature’s open maw. The goat-head starts to choke on the hard ice in the back of its throat, throwing its head back and forth madly to dislodge it.
Merlin can’t help but watch in fascination, which gives the beast’s lion-head a chance to heave forward and dig its sharp teeth into Merlin’s shoulder.
Merlin barely has time to register the pain before the lion-head roars in agony, a dagger embedded in its haunches. Merlin blinks and sees Arthur standing behind it, resplendent in (perfectly polished) armor, the sun beating down on him, sword in hand.
The chimera is blind with pain and fury, stumbling about and shrieking in rage. “Bregdan anweald gafeluec!” Merlin shouts again, and Arthur’s sword gleams blue.
Arthur swings it down on the serpent head, beheading it in one smooth motion. As the beast collapses to all fours, he brings his sword down in its middle, plunging through its gut. The lion-head makes one last, forlorn cry, then falls to the side.
“That went well,” Merlin pants, holding his shoulder and feeling blood ooze through his fingers.
Arthur throws his sword on the ground so hard it bounces a little and stalks towards Merlin, looking for all the world like a predator cornering his prey.
Merlin backs up until he hits a tree. “Look, I know you’re mad about the distraction business but I don’t think I technically broke one of your rules–hmph”
He’s cut off by Arthur shoving him back against the tree, arms braced on either side of his head, and kissing him.
It’s not an altogether pleasant kiss. Arthur is sweaty, angry, and reeks of days of travel, burnt hair, and dead chimera and Merlin is pretty sure he’s not doing much better. He tastes blood on his lips and when he tries to run his hand through Arthur’s hair it gets tangled in a knot. Still, it’s a right-side better than getting lectured.
When Arthur finally pulls away Merlin makes a keening noise and immediately wishes he could take it back. “You smell awful,” he says in an effort to save face.
Arthur wrinkles his nose at him, his face so close Merlin can see his own face reflected in his eyes. “And you’re a bundle of roses,” he says hoarsely. His eyes scan Merlin’s face intently and then he turns away. “Go find the horses, we need to get my men back to Camelot.”
When the knights have been tended to by Gaius (no serious injuries, and they all conveniently woke after all the work was done, and Merlin really is going to have a word with Arthur about who he accepts as knights) and Merlin’s own injury cleaned and bandaged, he escapes to his room and pulls out his book.
#172: Terrible kisser.
Something cold and uncomfortable unfurls in his belly. He crosses it out.
#172: Extremely tetchy in life-threatening situations.
He nods to himself, satisfied.
As he waits for Arthur to return from updating his father, Merlin wanders aimlessly around Arthur’s chambers in search of something to do. He considers polishing his sword, which is covered in chimera guts, but reasons that it will only strain his injured shoulder. He could address the piles of laundry he’s stashed in a corner, but after Arthur had made a rude comment about the state of Merlin’s clothes a week before Merlin had vowed not to do any laundry until Arthur ran out of smallclothes. He could take down the dishes, but then he might not be here when Arthur returned.
Really, there was no option but to sit at the table and pour himself a goblet of wine. Or two.
When Arthur finally returns, Merlin is pleasantly tipsy. “Merlin,” he says, surprised. He shuts the door behind him. “I wasn’t expecting you here.” He doesn’t look particularly pleased by the surprise.
“That took forever. You were embellishing to make yourself sound more heroic, weren’t you.”
“I was giving my father a detailed account of the day’s events,” Arthur replies haughtily. Merlin raises a brow. “Of the events he needs to know about, anyway,” he amends. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“I’m plenty rested,” Merlin lies. He stands a little unsteadily and walks over to Arthur to begin readying him for bed.
“Look, Merlin. About what happened today, I was overcome-”
“By my dashing good looks and charm, I noticed.”
“By the heat of the battle and your unparalleled idiocy,” Arthur continues sternly, “and I acted rashly. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable or behave in a way unbefitting of my station.”
Merlin pulls back and looks at him closely. Arthur is looking everywhere but at Merlin, and his cheeks are slightly pink.
“All due respect, sire,” Merlin says, leaning close again. “But sod off.”
Arthur opens his mouth, undoubtedly to say something indignant about how Merlin is and is not allowed to talk to him, or else something idiotically self-sacrificing that will make both of them miserable. To shut him up, Merlin kisses him again.
Unfortunately, he misjudges the distance and their teeth clack together painfully. Merlin tries to make up for his lack of precision with enthusiasm and bites down a bit too heavily on Arthur’s lip and tastes blood again.
He steps back to regroup and catches Arthur looking at him with a small, soft smile. “Merlin,” he says, almost reverently. His hands cups Merlin’s jaw and tips his head up to look him in the eye. Then he moves so his lips hover just outside the shell of Merlin’s ear and Merlin shivers involuntarily as Arthur whispers, “You smell awful. Haven’t you had a bath yet?”
Merlin shoves him hard and Arthur falls back onto the bed, laughing. For a moment, Merlin considers storming out and leaving him there. But then he looks at Arthur properly, his face open in a way it never is when they’re in public, his eyes bright with mischief, and Merlin knows he would rather die than let Arthur go to sleep having had the last word.
Instead, he crawls on top of him and kisses him properly.
**
When Merlin wakes up the next morning it’s not yet dawn and there’s a fuzzy shape of a blonde head just inches from his own. He blinks a few times and Arthur’s face slowly comes into focus. His hair is mussed, his eyes half-lidded and there’s a sleepy smile on his face.
Merlin strokes his cheek once before his brain catches up to him and he realizes he’s just woken up in bed with the man who’s greatest joy in life is forcing Merlin to do terrible, demeaning chores at all hours of the day.
“Ugh,” he says, and rolls over, cursing himself for his idiocy for not sneaking out the night before.
“Ugh?” Arthur repeats, offended. “If this is how you treat all your bed partners, no wonder you sleep alone.”
“Oi, I’ve had plenty of bed partners, and I’ve never had any complaints!” Plenty may be overstating it, but Arthur doesn’t need to know that.
“Well, my apologies if I don’t measure up to your legions of sexual conquests,” Arthur says disdainfully, rolling onto his back and glaring at the ceiling.
“Ugh,” Merlin says again, pulling his pillow over his face. “You’re so sensitive. I was just groaning because I realized you’ll probably be ordering me to clean your fireplace or muck out your stables before I’ve even gotten dressed.”
“You’re thinking about your chores right now?” Arthur practically shouts.
“...aren’t you? You’re always thinking of terrible chores for me to do.”
“Not when I’m trying to shag you!”
Oh. “Oh.” This could actually work out quite nicely.
A few glorious minutes later, Arthur pulls his mouth off Merlin’s cock abruptly and eyes him with suspicion. “What - why are you stopping - keep going,” Merlin protests breathily.
“Are you just doing this to get out of your chores? Because if you are, I’m going to seriously reconsider executing you.”
“Oh for the love of-” Merlin scoots down the mattress so his face is level with Arthur’s. He waits for Arthur to meet his eyes and then says sincerely, “I will muck every stable in Camelot if you go back to what you were doing.”
Arthur grins in that smug way that always makes Merlin want to drive a fork through his eye, but he does get back to work and for once Merlin can’t bring himself to care.
**
Some time later, Merlin collapses against the (extremely fluffy) pillows, sated and content. Arthur’s calloused hand is stroking his hair and it feels rather lovely.
“Does this mean you’ll finally admit you like me?” Arthur asks.
“Absolutely not,” Merlin says serenely.
Arthur sputters indignantly and Merlin thinks that might be his favorite noise in the world.
Arthur’s face is a peculiar mixture of irritated, arrogant, and just a tiny bit doubtful, but his hand is still running gently through Merlin’s dirty, sweaty hair, almost unconsciously. Merlin feels a laugh bubble up to the surface as he leans over to kiss away that shred of doubt on Arthur’s face and he thinks to himself no, like isn’t the right word for this at all.
He feels Arthur start to smile against his lips and thinks maybe he understands too.