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"Why haven’t you appointed Merlin as Court Sorcerer yet? Hasn’t he done enough for you?"
It is late afternoon, and Gwaine has cornered Arthur in the armory. Leon and Percy are there too, hanging back and awkwardly considering the two of them.
This is not an unfamiliar refrain, coming from Gwaine. It has come from others, as well, although it has usually been presented with more subtlety.
“That is not your concern, Sir Gwaine,” Arthur says, laying his hauberk onto the bench. Some of the mail is a bit dingy. Since Merlin has pulled back a bit on his service duties, little things are changing.
"If you appointed him,” Leon offers, conciliatory, “he would be in a better position to help you shape the legislation around magic.”
Merlin is helping him with this regardless. Along with Gaius and Geoffrey and the council, they have been considering the shape these laws will take, and their political ramifications, for almost a year now. Since Merlin's revelation. Since Merlin had thwarted a bandit attack against Arthur in plain sight, in front of all of his knights.
The legal status of magic is now caught in a place of ambiguity, and Merlin is caught with it. Arthur has stopped punishing magic outright, so long as it is not used to break any other existing laws. But they are still hammering out the laws that will make magic legal, with appropriate restrictions. Appointing Merlin as Court Sorcerer, at least now, is out of the question.
Arthur answers, stiffly, “In regards to Merlin, I will make changes to his appointment as I deem fit.”
Arthur’s knights are loyal and well-meaning. But, unlike his father's knights, they are not, as a whole, politically-minded. Which of the nobles would be willing to see a household servant, let alone a peasant never truly qualified for royal service, on the council? Which of the servants, many descended from generations of royal staff, would be happy to see Merlin raised above them? Who amongst the castle, staff and nobles alike, did not now regard Merlin—previously accustomed to being overlooked by all—with suspicion and awe? Any shift in his position would need to be gradual, unsentimental, and carefully planned.
Gwaine scoffs, and Leon and Percy exchange a look.
Arthur understands, to some extent, their concern. In the year since his magic was revealed, Merlin has not been the same. He is fighting a war on multiple fronts. It is, Arthur imagines, probably tiring to bear the labor of three positions at once. Two nights ago, he witnessed Merlin staying up all night transcribing Celsus' De Medicina for Gaius, just to run to defend a farm from a manticore the next day, and finally to return to the castle in time for a meeting to work on the drafts of the new laws. That night, after serving Arthur his dinner, he had rushed out again to, as he said, work on tracking the stars from the Western tower.
“Sire…” Leon cajoles, but Arthur has run out of patience.
“Where is he, anyway? Isn’t getting me out of my armor his job?”
“It shouldn’t be his job!” Gwaine interjects. “He is a powerful sorcerer—according to Gaius, perhaps the most powerful sorcerer. And you treat him like a servant. It is no wonder…”
Arthur remembers a moment, two years ago, when he had been in conversation with some visiting noble about a border dispute. The noble and Arthur had been in a meeting chamber, Merlin off to the side with a pitcher of wine. He thinks of the man saying, “Now that we are alone, Sire, let us discuss…”
Arthur also remembers the moment, two nights ago, when Merlin had returned from fighting the manticore to bring Arthur dinner in his chambers. When Merlin had entered, the scullery servant at the fireplace had glanced up at Merlin, gasped, and fled, with her face gone white.
“I treat him,” Arthur states, “as I always have.”
--
In the early evening, when Merlin fails to show up with his dinner, Arthur begins to search for his servant. But no one seems to know where Merlin is. After checking at Gaius’, in the library, and at the stables, he begins, as a last resort, to mount the countless steps up to the top of the western tower. The farrier had said, “the sorcerer swung by, Sire, to check on Bessie, that sickly mare. Then he said he needed to get some air.”
Arthur wonders, “Why did he need air?”
“I couldn’t tell you, Sire. I promise, Sire, I can know nothing of the inner workings of any great sorcerer.”
Arthur had stared unblinkingly at the farrier for a moment, and then had remembered Merlin running away the other day after dinner, to track stars from the tower.
So now Arthur is panting, ascending the steps. If Merlin got up here by magic, by cheating…
He opens the door to the top of the tower, and there he is. Merlin is standing at the edge of the tower, bending low to peer closely at something on the parapet. He hardly looks like some great sorcerer. The cloak pinned around his shoulders and his worn shoulder bag, leaning against the wall, are filthy. Probably, he thinks, since he was cavorting with sick horses in the stables. His hair is mussed from the wind.
Merlin straightens up, turning to Arthur with wide eyes, then relaxes a bit. He is not looking at Arthur straight on, though, but somewhat off to the side. This, more than anything, sets Arthur off-kilter.
“Do you really come up here to track the stars? Is that some magic thing, or is it something for Gaius?” Arthur huffs, rolling his eyes, “Or are you just trying to be mysterious? Really, Merlin, the stars aren’t even out yet!”
Merlin, at last, flicks his eyes to Arthur’s.
“Oh well,” he begins, “I just wanted a moment to think alone, I guess.”
Arthur pauses. He could take this opening. He could leave Merlin to contemplate the stars in solitude.
“What,” he says instead, walking to join Merlin at the edge of the tower, “were you looking at over here?”
Merlin sighs, and points to a line of ants crawling in a twisting parade across the parapet.
“Look at these ants. How did they get up here, so far up in the sky? They belong on the ground, in the dirt.”
Arthur looks at Merlin, then contemplates the ants, then glances again at the side of Merlin’s downturned face.
“Look, Merlin, if this is some kind of, uh, analogy about your situation…”
Merlin whips around, mouth twisted in humor, or indignation, “You think I’m an ant that belongs in the dirt?”
“No! I just thought…”
Merlin laughs, and Arthur finally relaxes. They look out over Camelot for a moment. The sky is starting to become gray, but there is still a golden band at the edge of the horizon.
“Look, about how the castle has been treating you…the council, and the servants…”
He doesn’t know where to go from here. He doesn’t know why he didn’t come prepared. He can’t say the castle will get accustomed to it, to who Merlin really is. To Arthur, everything about Merlin is so familiar. So well-known. And yet, even Arthur is not inured. If he is honest, he never has been.
Merlin saves him. “It’s not the castle I’m concerned about. How do you feel?”
Merlin turns to look at him, and Arthur considers him in return. Arthur thinks about that day in the forest a year ago, when they were ambushed, and Merlin used his mind to pull the limbs off a bandit. He thinks of Merlin’s face, covered in the blood he had spilled, hot and acrid. He looks at Merlin now, his blue eyes sweet and wide. His own feelings…this is a subject he knows he cannot look at head-on. It is something to be considered obliquely, and piecemeal.
There is, admittedly, awe and fear. But…he knows Merlin so well. Even his magic seems somehow familiar. It is a difficult thing, to know something so well, and yet to never be habituated to it, and to have no guards against it.
Trying to express this to Merlin would be futile, and perhaps cruel. He knows phrases in this language, but has no comprehension of how to translate the whole.
“I am…I’m adjusting.”
Merlin nods, and looks back towards the sky.
The sun is setting, and soon the stars will appear. It is getting cold. Arthur asks, “Are you going to contemplate the stars tonight?”
“No. Here,” Merlin leans down, digs into his bag, and then reaches over and hands Arthur something.
A small spark passes between their hands. Just a pinprick, but enough to ignite a smile on Merlin’s face. He cries out, laughing, “Oh, ow! You hurt me!”
Arthur knows he has. There is that. But Merlin is a live wire, and the sparks pass both ways.
“You’re the one who touched me, idiot.”
Merlin’s smile is gone, along with the light in the sky, but the glow in his eyes remains, as does the warmth in his cheeks. Arthur looks down.
It’s a roll of parchment, bent a bit from being stuffed into Merlin’s bag. He unrolls it, pressing it flat against the parapet. Lex Artorius de Artibus Magicis…
“It’s just a draft.” Merlin says, “Of the new laws, you know. I’m sure it will need lots of changes. You’ll want to run it by the marketplace guilds, for their thoughts on the permits. And who knows what changes the council will suggest…Sir Bleiddud, for one, has been quite adamant that we should consider the precedent set by Essetir regarding—”
“Merlin.” Arthur cuts him off. It is just a draft.
“I thought I should show the draft to you. Geoffrey thought we should wait until the council meeting tomorrow, but I thought you’d want to see it. I was going to bring it with your dinner. Oh, but…” He colors suddenly, grimacing, “it’s a bit past dinner, isn’t it?”
“Just a bit. Merlin…”
This is just a draft, but it is progress. He considers asking Merlin to step down as his servant, to focus on preparing the new laws. To focus on preparing himself for a change of status. This is the logical solution. But in practice, he thinks, feeling a bit operatic, that at this point in their lives such a change would be a potentially disabling blow.
So instead, he starts again. “Merlin, let’s look it over.”
Merlin starts a bit, swallows, and says, “Now?”
Arthur thinks about heading down to his chambers and calling a servant to bring a late dinner. He thinks about sitting with Merlin at the fire, looking carefully over the legislation, line by line. He thinks about drinking wine and arguing over the fine details until they have drunk too much wine to argue any more. He thinks about Merlin, eyes sleepy, unpinning the fibula of his filthy cloak and lying down on Arthur’s rug, to rest.
He makes a decision. “Yeah, let’s start now.”
The End