Work Text:
It was difficult for Merlin to put a name to the emotion that bloomed in his chest each time he saw her. It spread inside him, making his fingers warm. He watched as she would traipse down the stone halls of Camelot, the frills of her white dress bouncing with each step. Her movements were dainty yet measured; her arms looked no thicker than a tree branch yet she could easily swing the sword that was sheathed by her side.
He was her teacher and advisor. He was the court magician, the fresh blossoms of spring, the melodic lilt of a summer’s flute on the balmy breeze.
The other knights regarded him with varying levels of welcome and suspicion. Merlin was a creature of whimsy, unconcerned with the chivalry that bound most of these other men here. In turn, some of them treated him like a stranger, while others seemed to think of him as an amusing guest. He was not too bothered by their opinions on him. Most of them were friendly enough for him to drink and make merry with when it mattered.
Merlin reckoned that as a decidedly non-human being - an incubus, or whatever the people would have liked to call him - he was more than capable of responding socially to others. He knew which names to bring up to coax Lancelot into talking about his unfortunate romantic exploits, which buttons to push for Gawain to lose his temper when he was drunk, and the exact words to say to evade Bedivere’s scrutiny.
But he never knew how to compose himself with Artoria Pendragon.
She walked with him by the harbors of her kingdom, her blue eyes as bright as the glimmering ocean as she talked about her day. She told him about the baker’s place down by the road, the large catches that the fishermen had enjoyed these few months, and about a field just on the outskirts of the city filled with green grass and snow-white flowers that she thought he might enjoy. After all, walking with Merlin always felt like she was taking a stroll through a garden.
Merlin laughed. The gesture came easily when he was with her. “That sounds very nice,” he said.
“Doesn’t it?” Artoria nodded, seeming pleased with herself. “We could go sometime.”
“I’d like that.” Merlin cast his gaze to the distance, watching the workers mill around the docks. It was odd to realize that he had meant what he said. It was a mockery, a poor imitation of human emotion, but the desire to see those fields with her was genuine.
“We’ll make time,” he found himself saying. Artoria looked at him curiously, and he worked his face into a smile again, as humans did. “I’d like to see those flowers in bloom, before the seasons change.”
Artoria beamed. “Me too!”
She was yet young, but her fate had long since been sealed the instant he witnessed her pulling the sword from the stone.
Though Merlin had warned her with apprehension that it would neither be an easy nor happy path, she had decided then that he would make her a king. It was only a matter of time before she ascended to the throne. There would be a coronation ceremony, and a loud celebration that would last throughout the week. Artoria would shed the petals of her dress for the colors of royalty, and don a suit of armor more befitting her position then.
It would not hurt, Merlin thought, to take a day off to wander the fields.
He still had the luxury of watching her gather up ivory flowers in her hands, joy coloring her face whenever the wind blew wildly over the plains, pushing strands of blond hair into her eyes. She was a child, and he believed it right to let her be one in the little time that she could.
That nameless emotion bubbled up in him again as he nodded and agreed to skip one sword-fighting lesson with her. It filled the cavity of his chest with the memory of spring. He felt it, but did not understand what it meant. He could only approximate the feelings of people at best.
Merlin watched Artoria, her face bright with excitement at their promise.
There was something very dear about the sight of her.