Work Text:
Lord Edran was holding the tourney in the lower field outside the village. A small affair—hardly any of the renowned knights (who counted in their number Sir Gwaine and Sir Leon) would appear. Everyone knew that Edran only held the tourney to spite Lord Roland, who had boasted the entire winter of the days of jousting and feasting that would follow his successful bid for Camelot’s throne. But Roland’s army had foundered in the spring thaw at the hands of a coalition led by King Bayard who, although too weak to claim the throne for himself, had no wish for an upstart noble on his very border to proclaim himself King of Camelot.
It had been merely another in a long list of defeats, dutifully recorded by the scribes, and sighed over by the general populace who only wished an end to the years of strife and turmoil that had followed Uther Pendragon’s death. Pendragon had died without an heir, and winning the throne of Camelot had since been the goal of every petty noble, avaricious king, and grasping warlord in the land. None had succeeded.
There were rumors, of course, whispered about the hearth on a winter’s evening, that Ygraine Pendragon had given birth to a son on the very night of the battle that claimed her husband’s life. In her terror that the child would be murdered by Uther’s enemies, she had left the babe on the doorstep of a peasant’s hut before fleeing into the darkness to seek refuge with her mother’s kin in the far north. But in times of war, orphans were sadly too common a sight, and although many a woman had looked on the foundling boy she and her husband had taken in to help with the work on the farm and thought Could he be…?, they all proceeded to smile at the ridiculousness of the notion that the gap-toothed, poxy child mewling insistently for his supper could possibly be a prince.
Merlin, whenever he considered the idea, thought it far more likely that if there had been a child, it had been stillborn. Else for sure Queen Ygraine would have kept it safe beside her, counting on the help of her brothers, Agravaine and Tristan, to raise the child to manhood when he would be ready to take the throne. For all knew that no love had been lost between Uther and Ygraine’s father, who may well have been behind the war that took Uther’s life.
But for the most part, Merlin did not concern himself with such matters. He spent his days traveling about the land in a rickety cart, painted a bright yellow and green, dispensing small charms and potions and keeping the true extent of his magic concealed.
His father, Balinor, thought such work beneath the son of a Dragonlord and scoffed at him. Merlin had tried to explain that he enjoyed helping those who were sick or troubled, that it gave him a feeling of being close to the land and her people, that he loved being out under the open sky, watching the country unfold before his eyes. His father wanted him to come to the aerie and live there, to study the arts of the dragons. Merlin hated it in the aerie, hated the reptilian scent that filled every corner, and the way the dragons’ eyes would track him, intense and unblinking. Kilgarrah was the worst, with his cryptic words, watching him like an owl about to pounce on a mouse. And so he refused and kept to the roads, content in his solitary wanderings.
That afternoon he had drawn his cart to an unclaimed section of grass next to the tourney field and joined the merchants hawking their wares. He had just sold a potion to a woman complaining of stomach pains when he glimpsed the boy—well, perhaps boy was the wrong word, for he could only be a few years younger than Merlin himself. The youth, then. He wore ill-fitting livery that proclaimed him the squire of one of the knights. His face was dirty, hair unkempt, and he was much too thin. He was staring at an array of swords that a smith had spread out on a blanket. They were not well-made swords, but the squire had an expression of intense, almost painful longing on his face. And then he recollected himself and dashed off through the crowd towards the tents of the knights.
Later, gathered around the field with the rest of the spectators, Merlin saw the young squire again. He followed his master, struggling with the heavy lances and shield. And after the joust, which his master did poorly in, being unseated on the second pass, the knight took his frustration out on the squire, cuffing him round the head and shouting. A momentary passion of anger took Merlin, for he hated this show of cruelty, but then the two were lost in the millings of the crowd.
“What knight was that?” Merlin asked the man next to him, who replied that it was Sir Kay, a knight whose strength was not matched to any great intelligence or courage, in his opinion.
In truth, Merlin then forgot about the incident in the excitement of the joust. How often had he not seen similar cruelties? And though he did what he could to prevent them, it was impossible to stop them all. Besides, it was a regrettable fact that most knights did not treat their squires well, and Sir Kay’s behavior would not be remarked as unusual among them.
It was chance (or so he thought it at the time) that brought him a week later to an inn along the road in the midst of a torrential downpour. Feeling utterly wretched and miserable, Merlin decided to seek lodging indoors for the night, and in the stable, as he brushed down his horse, he noticed a shield resting against the further stall. The shield bore Sir Kay’s insignia, and when Merlin entered the common room, he discovered that Sir Kay was indeed there, a large flagon of ale in hand, holding forth with (entirely spurious) tales of his courage and daring-do.
His squire was not to be seen but perhaps a half-hour later, he appeared, drenched to the bone and shivering, with word that the village smith would not repair Sir Kay’s lances for less than twenty coppers. Sir Kay’s face darkened.
“And they’d not need to be repaired had you taken proper care of them, as you ought!” he snapped, swinging back his fist, but his squire ducked back out of reach, face pinched and sullen. Sir Kay lurched upright, but then thought better of it given the amount of ale he had consumed, and subsided, ordering the squire to go see to the horse.
Merlin, leaning against the wall in the shadows, felt conflicted. He should confront the knight, but that would mean revealing the extent of his powers. He was half-a-head shorter than Sir Kay and with his slender frame, Sir Kay would think it a good joke if Merlin challenged him. Only once he began incanting spells would the knight take him seriously. And then everyone else in the inn would realize that Merlin was not merely a hedge wizard but a sorcerer of considerable power. And it would not take long for that news to spread. Every lord and king wanted a warlock at his beck and call and many had no qualms about employing unsavory methods to achieve that end. He would be hunted up every mountain and through every wood were he to reveal himself.
The countenance of the squire returned to him, and he shifted uneasily. But no—better to remain quiet and be on his way in the morning. The squire looked to be a capable lad—surely he would tire of this treatment and find his way to better work.
In the dead dark of the night, when only a strip of moonshine lighted the way for revenants to walk upon the earth, he was roused by the sound of yelling. He could make out little—“stupid, worthless…told you…sleep outside…don’t deserve…” and then a choked-off cry of pain. It was too much, and he ran into the corridor, just in time to see a hunched figure stumble down the stairs. He hesitated, part of him desiring only to force Sir Kay into a cowering corner, but the squire—he could be badly hurt. So he followed and came out into the yard to find him slumped on the steps, cradling his left arm against his body.
He started when he saw Merlin, eyes widening, but Merlin said swiftly, “'Tis all right. I came only to see if you needed help.”
“Go away,” the squire snapped, defensive. His lip was bleeding, cheek swelling into a bruise.
“Come now,” Merlin said gently and started to reach out to touch him, but he flinched away. So Merlin let a hum of magic thrum into his voice, the same that he used to settle his horse or a stray dog begging for scraps. “Don’t be afraid. Tell me your name.”
“Arthur,” he mumbled, relaxing and letting Merlin look at his arm. Merlin conjured a small ball of light that hovered over his palm, but Arthur remained calm, still held under the sway of the magic. The wrist was either broken or badly sprained, and Merlin lost his thread of stillness, unraveling into a snarl of fury.
But when he rose, cursing Sir Kay, intent on making him pay for his actions, Arthur caught his sleeve and begged him to stop. “Please—please, don’t,” he whispered. And Merlin read in his face the expectation of more abuse that would only grow worse if Kay was provoked. For Merlin would not be there, the next time. And this thought drove the words out of his mouth:
“You shall stay with me.”
Arthur shook his head.
“Yes,” Merlin insisted. “You cannot stay with him. Whatever threats he has spoken to you—”
“I want to be a knight!” It burst out, and Arthur flushed, looking away.
“Arthur—”
“I can do it! I practice with his sword, and I’m better—better than him.”
“And how think you to practice with a broken wrist or worse?” Merlin demanded.
“I want to be a knight,” Arthur repeated dully, curling protectively over his arm.
“I will help you then,” Merlin promised, willing to say anything to keep Arthur from returning to Kay. He prickled when Arthur shot a disbelieving, scornful glance at him. “My magic is more powerful than ought you have seen before, I wager. If I set my mind to making you a knight, you shall become one.”
It was likely the pain and exhaustion, more than any faith in Merlin’s words, that made Arthur nod his head. And so Merlin found that one had become two, and that he needs must make room for Arthur’s small bundle of belongings in his cart, and find some more food to start putting a little meat on Arthur’s bones.
*
Arthur cried when Merlin probed at his wrist, and he hung his head, ashamed that he did so.
“No, ‘tis not a weakness,” Merlin told him and whispered a spell. Nothing happened. Frowning, he tried again. He could sense the magic seeping into Arthur, but then it simply disappeared and the spell did not work.
“I thought you said you were a great sorcerer,” Arthur commented snidely, and Merlin glared and fetched two sticks and some cloth to make a splint instead.
They camped in a field by a river, and Merlin chivvied Arthur into the water and handed him some soap. Afterwards, he attacked Arthur’s matted hair with a knife, ignoring his winces and loud complaints. When Merlin was finished, Arthur’s hair stuck up in spiky blond tufts, but at least it was clean. He ruffled his fingers through it, and Arthur scowled.
*
Arthur was very curious as to the contents of Merlin’s cart and spent a long time examining the potions and charms and spell books. He was clumsy with his arm bound, and accidentally dropped one of the potions. The glass bottle shattered as it hit the ground. Arthur went still, and his shoulders tensed as he looked at Merlin with an expectant, yet hopeless expression, like an animal caught in a trap that can only wait silently for the hunter to appear.
“Ah, no,” Merlin murmured. “No. I shall not hurt you.”
Slowly, Arthur straightened. He watched Merlin carefully after that, as though he were a strange puzzle that Arthur could not work out.
The next day, when Merlin asked him to curry the horse, he refused and sat down at the campfire, defiant. Merlin almost rebuked him, but then caught his tongue. Arthur was only trying to understand him. He had probably never been with someone who did not shout at him and berate him for failing to do his duties properly. So Merlin curried the horse himself and went silently about the other chores of the evening. He didn’t speak to Arthur, although he didn’t refuse him when Arthur hesitantly took a piece of bread for himself.
He was rolled in his blankets, dozing off, when Arthur whispered his name. “Merlin, I am sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“I know.” He eased onto his side. “Come here, then. Come here.”
Arthur burrowed close, shivers slowly easing as he grew warmer.
*
He learned that Arthur had been abandoned as a child and that a knight named Sir Ector had fostered him. He’d worked in the kitchens once he was old enough, and then Sir Ector’s son, Kay, had taken Arthur as his squire.
Merlin could well imagine the long succession of toilsome days, nights spent on a hard pallet, too little to eat, always getting his ears boxed when he didn’t move fast enough.
“None of them thought I could be a knight,” Arthur said, raising his chin. “But I will be.”
When Arthur went hunting and brought back a plump young hare, Merlin (who disliked hunting on principle) almost chastised him for it. But then he saw the hidden anxiousness in Arthur’s eyes, and so he praised him instead. Arthur gave him a brilliant smile, then ducked his head and scuffed his feet bashfully against the ground.
*
When the weather warmed, and they both grew hot and sweaty, Merlin stopped the cart by the banks of a lake. Arthur rushed into the water with a yell and spent the next hour trying to duck Merlin under with greater and lesser degrees of success. Later, as they lay sprawled on the grass, Merlin enchanted a feathery fern to tickle along Arthur’s ribs. Arthur tried to swat it away, but Merlin flicked his fingers and it danced out of reach, only to return a moment after until Arthur was almost crying with laughter and begging him to stop.
He relented at last, and they spent the rest of the day searching out strawberries in the thickets. That evening, while he was bending over to gather some wood for the fire, Arthur suddenly wrapped his arms around him in an awkward hug. “Merlin,” he said, happily content.
*
It chafed Merlin’s pride to go to his father for aid, but he had promised Arthur, and he could not afford a sword himself.
“Why do you want a sword?” Balinor demanded.
Merlin had intended to tell him about Arthur, but suddenly he did not want to, lest his father come with his dragons and sneer at Merlin’s rickety cart and question Arthur and intrude on the small world they had built. So he shrugged and said, “What does it matter?”
Surprisingly, Kilgarrah put in a word on his behalf, and not ten minutes later, he was walking away with a heavy pocketful of gold coins.
Arthur could not manage words when Merlin gave him the sword, but he gripped the hilt and the last scale of fear fell from him.
*
That night, Merlin dreamed of a throne, and a crown, and a kingdom.