Chapter Text
“Argh. And Lord and Lady Falerent are coming with their daughter. Good God, that woman is a nightmare. Two years ago she actually tried to spike the-- Merlin are you even listening to me?”
Merlin started, turning away from the window and almost dropping the dagger he’d been (mostly) pretending to clean into the bath water. He swivelled and put his hands behind his back, offering a very intelligent, “Hmm?”
Arthur narrowed his eyes at him, straightening and dropping the collar he’d been trying to unbutton.
“Merlin,” he said with slow enunciation, tilting his head to the side with his ‘I’m trying very hard to be threatening about this very very serious business’ register… which usually implied it was anything but. “I don’t think you’re giving this matter its due diligence.”
Merlin scoffed, throwing the polishing rag over his shoulder. “What’s there to be concerned about? It’s a banquet. And you’re the Prince Regent. It’s going to be an entire evening of women from all corners of the kingdom fawning all over you and singing your praises. It hardly sounds like a hardship.”
Arthur huffed, throwing his hands in the air like Merlin had just spat and danced the quadrille on his grandmother’s grave -- a bit overdramatic, but alright.
“It’s horrible. I have no desire to court any of these women. And the mothers are the worst -- God, the mothers,” Arthur shuddered, a shadow of what was assuredly deeply-stored trauma flickering through his eyes. “They keep ganging up and throwing their daughters at me, and the ones trying their bloody hardest to win the games are always the worst to put up with. And it’s not just the banquet. The bloody midsummer queen has the solstice day all to herself. You have no idea what it’s like, you’re never here-- speaking of, why aren’t you visiting Hunith this year?”
“Oh,” Merlin said, turning back to the assortment of weapons on the table and grabbing a new one to polish so he could keep his face hidden from sight. He didn’t want to take chances, he had a habit of flushing beet-red faster than Gwaine could say ‘tomatoes’ around Arthur these days. “She isn’t in Ealdor this midsummer. She’s visiting relatives.”
It’s not like he could tell Arthur he was staying for him. That would just make the prat’s head grow to the size of an ox’s… and it still had to fit a crown. It was kind of imperative for the whole midsummer thing -- or so he’d been told.
It was the first festivity since… the Morgana debacle, and things hadn’t quite settled yet. His mother had even written to say she too thought he should stay this year. Apparently, Arthur needed him now more than ever (as if he wouldn’t be dead a hundred times over if it hadn’t been for Merlin already). To be honest though, Merlin was more hesitant than usual to leave his prince’s side. It seemed that homicidal sorcerers and (in)conveniently placed bloodthirsty beasts had been multiplying faster than rabbits in heat for the past couple of months.
Just last week he’d had to deal with this crazy witch who’d decided to try summoning and binding ‘the great Emrys’ to her cause. He still didn’t know where she’d gotten that spell from -- though he suspected Morgause. She’d wanted him to use his wicked wiles to bewitch the prince regent and bend him to her will… in more ways than one. She might have been a succubus. Yeah… that… had been awkward.
And Merlin didn’t even want to think about that incident with the toads a few weeks before that. (He still blamed Frank for that one -- which was incidentally why he was inventorying Arthur’s weapons)
Things were worse than usual… and it was getting harder to hide the bruises from Arthur.
“It’s not like it’s your first time through this though, and you survived before,” Merlin pointed out, changing the subject back before Arthur could dig too deep into his reasons.
“Well, it was different before.”
“How so?”
There was a pause, making Merlin frown and set the axe down. He turned back around to glance at Arthur. The prat had grown silent and was looking at the bed hangings with a little overmuch intent, hands thumbing idly at the hem of his shirt.
Merlin waited, raising a brow in inquiry.
“Morgana… used to enter for me. She took pity -- or she didn’t want to have to hear me complain about it, I guess.”
Merlin felt his mouth drop open in a silent ‘oh’. He was an idiot for not having thought of that. Of course Morgana would have been involved -- he’d just never actually been here for it before, so it never crossed his mind. All the retellings he’d received later on had been more focused on the people’s celebrations, not the royals’. He bit his lip, feeling sheepish.
“Well, you’re in charge now, you know. That’s what being regent means. You could call it off,” Merlin tried, a little softer than before.
Arthur shook his head.
“My uncle says it’s necessary. Camelot is vulnerable right now, and I need to show our enemies I’m just as capable of taking charge and leading my people as my father was.”
Ah. Agravaine said. Of course. Merlin tried very hard not to roll his eyes.
…He might have been a tad unsuccessful.
“And letting a bevvy of girls throw themselves at you is just the thing to achieve that?”
Arthur huffed, puffing out his chest.
“You don’t know the first thing about what it takes to be king, Merlin -- the kingdoms need to know I'm eligible. This kind of stuff is important. It’s politically intelligent.”
Merlin sighed and turned away again, not really having it in him to deal with Arthur when he got like this. He would just start spewing his uncle’s words, letter for letter. Sometimes he didn’t even realise he was contradicting himself.
Arthur was amenable to almost anything if Agravaine had counselled it, never mind that Merlin had been here every step of the way, saving the prat’s life almost on a daily basis, providing valuable advice and constantly acting in his best interest. None of that mattered, why would it? Agravaine said so.
This supply route might be more dangerous, but it’ll compensate us greatly in time and income, Agravaine said so. This tax might be hard on the people now, but they’ll come out of it better prepared for economic austerity, Agravaine said so. This Kingdom may have some questionable morals, but it’s outlawed magic and its aiding ability is reassuring, Agravaine said so.
It made Merlin want to pull his hair out... and set Agravaine's on fire.
He sighed, biting his lip and trying to put his frustrations aside. Sometimes he just wanted to damn it all to high heavens and tell Arthur the truth. Shout it from the tops of the battlements. Make him understand the lengths he’d gone for him -- the things he had done. But he would never be able to appeal to Arthur’s better nature if he went about it from a place of aggravation. Hmm -- Aggravating. Agravaine. That probably meant something.
“Maybe… you could get someone to enter for you again? That way you knew you wouldn’t have to spend the whole solstice with someone completely awful,” he tried, glancing back at Arthur.
Arthur hummed absently, fists closing around the hem of his shirt. Then he blinked and shook his head, and the doleful daze seemed to vanish from his face.
“You know, that’s not a completely bad--” he cut himself off with a splutter as the shirt and chemise he’d been trying to remove at the same time somehow got caught and stuck around his neck. “--Merlin! Leave the bloody arms and get over here.”
Merlin looked at the prince regent before him -- the God-chosen man to lead the whole of Albion into deliverance, the once and future king of legend -- as he failed to successfully dispose of a single item of clothing -- alright he should be fair, it was two (but still) -- and honestly had no idea how he managed to stifle his laughter. He should be given an award, stronger men would have caved.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Of course not, sire. You know I would never dream of it.”
“You know I can still send you to the stocks, right?”
“But then who would untangle your big head from your shirts?”
“Merlin,” Arthur growled, wrestling with the fabric.
“Stop, stop! You’re going to tear it,” Merlin chided, walking over and stilling his arms.
“Good! Then you can mend it as part of your punishment for mocking the prince regent.”
“Hold still,” Merlin said, rolling his eyes. He worked the shirt gently free, disentangling it from the under chemise, and got to the root of the problem -- buttons that’d gotten caught at the base of his skull, in the hair, because he hadn’t bothered to untuck them. He slid his hand under, untwining and releasing the fabric, and watched with slight fascination as the same downy hair bristled under his touch, hen-flesh forming and spreading.
Arthur ducked from under the shirt as soon as he felt himself free, stepping away and clearing his throat, the tips of his ears reddening.
Merlin was meanwhile reminded that a shirtless Arthur meant a half-nude Arthur -- and also one who was about to lose even more articles of clothing -- so he gulped and glanced away, rushing back to his polishing station to let Arthur sort the rest out himself. Not that he’d never undressed Arthur completely for baths before -- and helped him bathe -- but… it had started to feel different a handful of months ago now, a bit less impersonal, and he’d been pulling away more and more. Arthur hadn’t really mentioned it, so it just sort of evolved from there, and now Merlin simply hung around the room in case… Arthur needed... something.
It wasn’t that Merlin didn’t want to touch him anymore, or even see that much of him (he’d never cared about that before -- he’d always known Arthur to be very attractive and pleasing to the eye), but now… he sort of did? More than usual, anyway. Which he knew sounded a bit silly and contradictory, but it wasn’t, alright? It made complete sense. Complete.
He heard rustling from behind him and knew that Arthur was removing his trousers. Which made his cheeks feel conspicuously hot. He focused his attention on the table, perusing the veritable arsenal. There was the noise of water moving and parting, and the dull thud of Arthur sitting back against the tub.
“I’ll have to pick some clothes for you, of course,” Arthur mused from behind, water sloshing against the sides of the tub. “Something more… distinguished.”
Merlin frowned, pivoting to shoot Arthur a glare. Thankfully, his burgeoning indignation was enough to suffuse the tendrils of warmth worming their way around his stomach at the sight of a golden and resplendent Arthur lazing about nude in a tub.
“What? What’s wrong with my normal banquet clothes?” he asked with a hint of suspicion, old memories of a ridiculous hat and a much more insufferable Arthur climbing their way to the surface.
“You can hardly expect to sit by the king’s side all evening in your ratty shirt and patched trousers.”
“...What?” Merlin blinked, and then because once didn’t express his befuddlement enough, “What?”
Arthur raised his brows and made a vague gesture towards the end table, pinching his fingers in the air. Merlin rolled his eyes, moving to fetch him the soap.
“What do you mean, sit? I don’t sit -- I never sit. I wait on you all night and make sure the entire kingdom doesn’t find out how much of a prat you are when you’ve no food in your belly.”
“You’re particularly slow on the uptake this morning, aren’t you Merlin?” Arthur jibed as Merlin dropped the soap into his waiting hand.
He pursed his lips at Arthur and crossed his arms, keeping his gaze very purposefully above the water’s level.
“The midsummer queen must look queenly,” he said with a smirk, winking at Merlin.
Merlin felt his jaw drop. He stared at Artur, blinked, stared some more, and then finally, like the delayed rumble after the initial flash of lightning, his mouth overcame the shock and kicked into motion, spluttering for all it was worth, “Arthur, you can’t be serious. Me? W--what? Are you out of your mind? You can’t just-- I’m not-- This is not what I was talking about. What are you even-- I meant Gwen! Gwen! Remember her!?”
He thrust his hands into the air, trying to demonstrate how very ridiculous this plan was to Arthur, because there was no way he could seriously be considering--
“I’ve put Guinevere in charge of the organising party,” he somewhat mumbled, holding his arms out of the water to lather them with soap. “She won’t be available. You’ll do.”
“Arthur,” Merlin said, trying very hard to control the urge to reach forward and dunk Arthur’s head under the water. His fingers twitched. “I don't know if this has somehow skipped your attention but -- I’m not actually a girl.”
Arthur scoffed, waving a hand in the air.
“Debatable.”
Merlin squawked -- he did not screech, no matter what Arthur said, because he was not, in fact, a girl.
“Besides, it doesn’t matter. There are no official rules about these things. Nothing prevents you or any other servant from entering,” Arthur continued, in a perfectly reasonable tone. Someone ought to tell him that what he was suggesting was anything but.
“Other than common sense, you mean -- who would willingly want to put up with you?” Merlin grumbled, ducking out of the way when Arthur shot an arm out of the tub to splash bathwater at him. “I just scrubbed these floors.”
“Oh, how terribly inconvenient for you, Merlin. I do apologise,” Arthur drawled, a wicked glint in his eye. “I should strive to have all your best interests at heart, after all, you have mine.”
Merlin’s left eyelid twitched. He blew his cheeks out, narrowing his eyes at this very very exasperating man. This man with his stupid blond hair and his stupid blue eyes and his bare stupid muscly chest, glimmering wet and lathered with that special orchid soap he always made Merlin get. Never mind that those specific orchids had been a gift from a foreign dignitary and were only in bloom for the first three months of spring… and nowhere near the five kingdoms. But Arthur had liked them -- and the soap was very pleasant -- so Merlin… Merlin had gotten them. Every month he went out on the fields behind the castle, he sat, he focused and he pulled. He pulled across the forest, across the land, across the seas and across the ether, and he gathered an armful of those little blossoms, honey-sweet and lily-white. And he made the soap. Because Arthur had asked. And Because Merlin was an absolute fool -- one that could deny him nothing.
He sighed, shaking his head once -- an expression of defeat.
“I’m not wearing a dress.”
Arthur hummed, cracking a smile -- a very smug, very infuriating, smile.
“Arthur,” Merlin stressed, pointing menacingly at him. “I am not wearing a dress.”
Arthur said nothing, the smirk spoke for him. Merlin gritted his teeth and turned his back on him. If he thought he was getting his way, he had another thing coming.
He grabbed for a guisarme, examining the hook for make and shape. It didn’t seem to have been made by the royal blacksmith, though it did look silvery enough. Could use a polish. He retrieved the discarded rag from his shoulder, giving it a new shine.
“What’s gotten into you, anyway? You’re never this zealous about the weaponry,” Arthur piped up again, a note of bemusement in his voice.
Merlin turned, guisarme in hand. Good weight, well balanced.
“Is this one silver?”
"What? I don't-- Maybe? Why do you care?”
“I’m just… inventorying,” Merlin said, testing the guisarme on one hand. Still decently manoeuvrable.
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“You never know when you might need to spear a chicken.” Arthur blinked. Merlin tapped the hook with his finger and added, this time to himself, “or a prat.”
“I heard that!”
Morning shone bright and high on Camelot. The sky was blue and clear, with not a cloud in sight. Birds chirped and flew, flapping their wings with glee and relishing the fresh breeze that cut through the cloying summer heat assailing Camelot. Everything gave the impression of a nice and peaceful day -- it was anything but.
“Oi, you! Boy! Come here,” A portly moustached noble called out, snapping his fingers.
Merlin grimaced, looking around. A flustered maid scurried out of the hall ahead of him, and to his grave dismay, he realised he was the only other servant around. He slowed to a stop, turning gingerly to face the noble.
“My Lord?”
The portly man waddled forward, face red and puffy in the summer heat. His wife and daughter remained behind, the former fanning herself with a flowery hand-fan and the latter looking around with an affected air of gracefulness. Their manservant wobbled at their backs, loaded with so much luggage that Merlin would have expected him to go splat like a bug at any second.
“Take us to our bedchambers, boy. I’ve had just about enough of you servants’ incompetence!” he thundered, flashing his hands about.
“Ah,” Merlin uttered, adopting a contrite tone. “The guests are taking residence in the west wing, my Lord. I’m afraid you might’ve taken a wrong turn.”
“No, no. We’re to stay in the king’s wing. Now go find us a room!”
“I’m sorry, my Lord,” Merlin tried again, forcing a smile. “The Prince Regent has specifically requested that all guests be housed in the west wing. There are no available chambers in the east wing at this time.”
The noble’s face seemed to tinge a few shades darker. His wife behind him gave a forceful shake of her fan, setting her mouth in a hard line. The daughter huffed and turned on her heels, pushing past the servant who struggled to keep hold of all the cases.
“Silinda dear, wait!” The man cried out, waddling back to his wife.
“Now look what you’ve done, Lord Falerent! I told you we should’ve come sooner. If you don’t find us a room near the Prince’s quarters--”
Merlin let out a breath of relief and took the opportunity to slip away undetected, hugging the wall and disappearing around the corner of the closest corridor. He’d been dealing with nobles the whole bloody morning. They’d been arriving in droves for the last couple of days, all for the midsummer feast. The whole castle was in a state of uproar. The servants were in a flurry, scampering this way and that way, beating the tapestries and replacing the rushes in the guest quarters, clearing the chimneys, polishing the silver… Even the kitchens were deadlier than usual.
Merlin almost took a flying pan to the back of the head retrieving Arthur’s breakfast this morning. And that old crone Audrey managed to smack him on the posterior with her rolling pin of hellfire. His buttocks still smarted. At least he didn’t have to get the eggs this morning. He had the most unpleasant feeling Frank was cooking up a new one. Its stink-eye had been over-pronounced of late.
“Hey, Merlin,” A familiar voice called over from the stairs, making him halt in his step. “The Prince Regent’s summoned everyone to the great hall, even us servants,” Clance said, beckoning him over.
“Did he say why?” Merlin asked, joining him under the arched pillars.
Clance shrugged, turning to walk with him. Hmm. Probably some feast announcement, Merlin reasoned. They climbed the stairs and made their way through the corridors, joining the other servants as they filed into the great hall. The nobles were already in presence, forming orderly rows before the dais at the head of the room.
Merlin made his way through the crowd, slinking into place at the fore, next to Gaius and just behind the knights. Gwaine and Elyan were exchanging words at the front, but Merlin couldn’t hear them over the low hubbub in the room. Lancelot caught his eye and sent a soft smile his way, nodding his head. Merlin returned it easily, stomach warm with affection.
“What’s this about, Gaius?” He murmured to the side, looking up at the dais to see Arthur on his throne and Gwen standing beside him, looking very much a vision in her formal lavender dress.
“I suspect it’s the midsummer games’ announcement,” Gaius whispered back, inclining his head towards the dais.
Gwen stepped forward, the rays of light from the stained glass windows alighting on her skin and bathing her in sunshine. Arthur raised a hand and immediately the hubbub died down, as if that small gesture had cast an unescapable spell upon the room’s occupants.
“My Lords and Ladies, I’d like to thank you all for gathering here this morn. We’ve called this session to deliver some exciting news on the Midsummer feast,” Gwen announced, voice ringing melodiously across the hall. “The organizing party has determined that this year… the midsummer queen will be chosen by lyrical ability. We will host a poetry contest!” Gwen revealed, spreading her arms out in delight.
Whispers echoed across the hall. Some very excited, some very unnerved. Merlin… gaped.
“The winner will be chosen by the knights, as is custom, and will have the honour of being crowned by our own Midsummer King, the Prince Regent Arthur Pendragon,” Gwen glanced back, giving a small bow of her head. Arthur returned it, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “To enter, you must submit a minimum of three stanzas and place them in the vase.” She gestured to the side, where a small table had been set with a ceramic floral jar on top. “We bid you all good luck! And may the midsun shine gayly upon you.”
There was a round of applause. Merlin stared. He stared at a radiant Gwen, her smile brighter than the sun and a good deal warmer as well, and then at the gathered crowd of nobles and knights, complete with a snickering Gwaine, a soberly amused Leon and a besotted Lancelot, and thought, how the hell am I going to do that?
And then he concluded that there had to be something very wrong with him. It was the only explanation. Why -- oh why -- was he still considering doing it?
He glanced at Arthur and was momentarily surprised to find him already looking his way. The smirk tugged harder at his lips. Merlin glared.
Arthur had better give him a day off after this-- no a day wasn’t enough. A week! A whole fortnight, hells! He couldn’t believe he was still going through with it.
“Gaius,” Merlin bewailed later that noon, thumping his head on the table. “What am I going to do? I can’t write poetry.”
Gaius carried on scrubbing his leech tank, completely ignoring Merlin’s extremely pressing conundrum. Rude. A sudden idea made Merlin jerk his head up, hope blooming in his chest.
“Do you think I can pilfer one of Geoffrey’s anthologies? No one would know. I could get it from the library tonight and copy down just a teeny little poem. I’d have it back to its place by morning, and I’d have something worthwhile to put in that bloody jar!”
“Merlin,” Gaius admonished, levelling him with a disapproving brow. Merlin cringed. “Geoffrey would know. Not to mention most nobles have either dabbled in or studied poetry at some point in their lives. The likelihood of you choosing a poem that no one recognizes is abysmally low. That’s the quickest way to ensure being disqualified. Not to mention it completely defeats the spirit of midsummer.”
Merlin deflated, sagging his shoulders.
“Then what do I do? Arthur wants me to win this thing,” he grumbled, picking at the wooden table’s splinters.
“Write.” Gaius shrugged.
Merlin frowned at him, flinging a splinter his way. So much for being of help.
He found Gwen late in the afternoon, running into her on one of the lower castle corridors while he was helping the other servants carry new rushes to the great hall.
“Gwen!” he called, hurrying over to her side.
“Merlin,” Gwen greeted, pausing to offer him a brilliant smile. “How are you?”
“Fine-- well, busy. It’s pretty hectic,” Merlin said, indicating at his armful of rushes. Gwen nodded in agreement, glancing down at the overflowing jar of Globe Thistle and Balloon flowers she was carrying. “I’ve been meaning to ask for your help, though. You see-- Because you can’t enter, uhm… Arthur asked me to--”
“Oh Merlin, that’s wonderful!”
“Huh?”
“I’m sure you’ll do great,” she assured him, shifting her hold on the jar so he could lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. He blinked, mouth opening and closing as she started to move past him.
“No-- but, wait! I don’t know anything about poetry!”
“Just write from the heart, Merlin! You’ve got this, I don’t doubt it for a second.”
“Wha-- but-- Gwen!?” Merlin cried out, flustered and flailing, but she was already rounding the corner, lavender skirts fluttering out of sight. He huffed, gawking at the now empty corridor.
He tried Lancelot next.
He was helping the knights get unharnessed in the armoury after the last practice rounds of the day, removing the cuirass from around Lancelot’s chest when he asked, “Lancelot, what do you know about poetry?”
Lancelot’s eyes widened a fraction as he looked down at him, mouth opening and closing in sheepish silence.
“Well… I suppose as much as anyone. You write about someone or something you hold dear and you… uh, make it rhyme.”
Merlin narrowed his eyes at him, working at loosening his pauldrons.
“Have you ever written any?”
“I…” He darted his eyes around, surveying the other knights surreptitiously. They all seemed to be rather absorbed with their own affairs, removing gauntlets and shedding cloaks and whatnot. Gwaine was whistling one of his well-known bawdy tunes. Percival was putting away his much-beloved sleeveless hauberk. Elyan was wrapping the straps of his scabbard. “...may have,” he murmured, making sure the answer reached only Merlin.
A chorus of loud guffaws let them know he’d been most unsuccessful.
“Oh Lancelot, the romantic. How could we ever doubt you?” Gwaine said with mirth, striding forward to thump Lancelot on the back.
“I’ve read some of those poems,” Elyan joined in, cracking a blinding smile. “Lancelot’s a regular old Catullus. Or so my sister says.”
Lancelot flushed and stepped back from Merlin to slip his hauberk over his head.
“I need your help, Lance! Arthur wants me to enter this midsummer thing, but I don’t know how to do…”--Merlin gave a very detailed exemplifying wave of his hand--“poetry. What do I do?”
Lancelot sighed and dropped the hauberk on the bench, righting himself to face Merlin. Finally. Someone willing to help -- bless Lancelot.
“Well, what do you like about Arthur?”
“What. Do I like. About Arthur,” Merlin echoed, trying to make sense of such words.
“Yes. What are his finest attributes, in your opinion.”
Merlin blinked, his brain reeling inside his head. It came up empty. Yeah, Arthur had no redeeming attributes. None. He was a prat. Through and through.
“Is that a trick question?”
Lancelot let out an amused breath of air, shaking his head.
“Come one, Merlin. Surely you can think of one.”
“...He’s… uh, fit?” Merlin tried, shrugging his shoulders. Lancelot raised his brows. “...He can be stupidly brave, I guess -- emphasis on the stupid -- and he’s honourable, most of the time,” Merlin added, racking his brain for more… positive points. “He’s honest… and… dutiful?”
“Yes, go on.” Lancelot nodded, all encouragement and support.
“Well… I guess his hair’s a nice colour, especially when the sun’s shining on it… and his eyes are a pretty shade of blue--” Merlin’s mouth finally caught up with his brain and he clamped it shut, giving a harsh shake of his head. His cheeks warmed. “This isn’t working. You’re no help.” He waved Lancelot off dismissingly and turned to the other knights. “What about you lot? Leon?”
But the older knight was already ducking his head out of the armoury -- and had he quickened his pace? Traitor.
“Percival?” He tried, putting on his best pout.
Percival grimaced and patted a giant hand over Merlin’s shoulder on his way out, offering a, “Sorry, Merlin. I’m not too good with the written word.”
He turned to Elyan.
“I’m a blacksmith’s son, don’t ask me.” He shrugged and followed Percival out the door.
Merlin sighed, running a hand over his face. He had to have something by tomorrow afternoon, or Arthur would kill him. What -- in all heavens -- had possessed Gwen to choose poetry? It’s like people were purposefully setting out to make his life more difficult.
An arm wormed around his shoulders, settling heavy and warm against his back.
“Don’t despair, Merlin,” Gwaine purred in his ear. “I'll help you… under one condition.”
“This was a great idea!”
“I know!”
“You-- you--hic-- you’re a genius, Gwaine,” Merlin declared solemnly, thrusting his tankard at him. It spilt a little, a few droplets of wine landing over the wrinkled sheet of paper. Oops. He let out a giggle.
“Well, I don’t like to brag.”
“You do,” Merlin protested, shaking his head and hiccuping on a guffaw. “But that’s alright, you were completely right this time.” He reached forward and tapped Gwaine on the nose with the feathered end of his quill.
Gwaine sneezed.
“What-- what rhymes with swine?” Merlin wondered, pulling back to drum the tip of his quill against the page.
Gwaine put on a grave air of pondering, scratching his scruff. He raised his tankard to his mouth and took a deep swig, slamming his empty mug down on the tavern table when he was done.
“More wine?”
“Ohh that’s a good one,” Merlin snickered, jotting it down next to the others. “Gwaine, you’re a genius. Have I--hic-- have I told you that?”
“...Not nearly enough!”