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The rooster irritatedly honked twelve—lunchtime—which made it entirely unacceptable that Merlin had not yet brought the lunch. It was a simple concept, one that somehow continued to escape Arthur's wayward servant, even after all these years.

Of course Arthur could very well call for another servant to bring him food, but it was the principle of the thing.

Donning his jacket, stomach growling, Arthur hiked down the winding staircases from his tower, marched across half the castle and then up the two subsequent staircases all the way to Gaius's apothecary.

The wooden door nearly splintered as he banged it open shouting, "Merlin!"

Near the fireplace came a commotion as a guard shot up from the cot and promptly fell out of bed to the flagstones, clutching his bandaged head. Gaius, who'd been labeling jars with a dripping quill, tutted at Arthur and went to help the man up.

"My apologies," Arthur said in more reasonable tones. He recognized this good fellow as one of the men who guarded the King's chicken coop, who had been injured in the line of duty. The guard nodded, then put a hand to his forehead, wincing as he settled back into his resting place.

Arthur went and gave the next door gentler treatment. He peered into Merlin's small room and found it empty. The sheets had been left in a heap as if Merlin had left in great haste, the shutters had been thrown wide letting in the crisp winter air and festive sounds of the upper town getting ready for the week's holiday market, which only served to remind Arthur that the Yule tournament was in two days' time and here he was spending his precious time hunting around for a servant.

Kicking aside a shirt that lay before the door, he stepped entirely inside the room. Merlin's socks were strewn everywhere, most with holes at the ends. Merlin had large feet, Arthur had noticed.

"Messy, messy," he murmured, going to the bedside. He examined a carved dragon figurine perched on the low table beside a well-thumbed book that looked centuries old, pages barely glued to the bindings.

"Sire," Gaius said and Arthur turned from his musings.

"I'm searching for Merlin," said Arthur.

"As I heard, sire."

"He didn't bring me my lunch," he said, feeling a tad sheepish saying it.

"He is not here, my lord, but I assure you I will send him right away when he returns."

Gaius didn't elaborate, and not for the first time Arthur noted that the man was very tight lipped. It was a good trait in a king's physician but this general reticence was not currently doing Arthur any favors as far as tracking down a miscreant manservant.

"I swear, half the time I'm coming to find him instead of the other way around. It's just not right."

"I can hardly disagree with you, sire."

Arthur rocked on his heels. Gaius, meanwhile, seemed to be waiting for him to leave, but Arthur waited right back for further information.

After a lengthy pause Arthur finally burst out with, "Well where is he then?"

Gaius didn't answer immediately. Instead he moved past Arthur and began to tidy the room, picking up the old book on Merlin's side table and tucking it into his robes but leaving the socks.

The silence stretched. Arthur began to wonder whether there was something he should know. Was Merlin out of sorts? Had he fallen ill and Gaius was hesitant to tell his employer? Merlin sometimes withheld important information, no matter how many times Arthur told him it was his duty as prince to ensure the happiness of his subjects, and that included hearing the problems of Merlin himself. In response Merlin always called Arthur a gossip, and they left it at that.

"Gaius, you can be honest with me," Arthur pressed. He'd been in a meeting with his father all morning so hadn't seen Merlin since breakfast. He tried to think back - had Merlin seemed ill? Unfortunately Arthur couldn't remember anything of the morning except the generous bowl of grapes he'd enjoyed.

"I'm sorry sire," Gaius said, finally meeting Arthur's eyes. "I believe he's...at the tavern."

Arthur's worry and goodwill dissipated immediately. "The tavern."

"Yes," Gaius doubled down. "But I am quite convinced he should be back any moment and when he is I'll tell him—"

Arthur gritted his teeth. "No need. I will go and retrieve him myself."

Gaius sounded alarmed as Arthur made to leave. "Sire, I think it instead best that—"

But Arthur didn't hear the rest of it, as he took the stone steps in twos and threes, and was quickly down the tower and down the front steps. He crossed the courtyard and then the drawbridge within moments, and in a blink was making his way into the upper town.

Arthur had been known to visit the tavern on occasion. In fact, he had fond memories of one cool autumn night a few months back when he'd joined the knights for a game of dice and a couple of flagons of the good stuff before the roaring fire. There was subsequently a fine lager named after him, in honor of the round Arthur had bought the entire tavern when he had lost the game, after which Merlin had had to near carry him home. Arthur's recollection of that night had been one of laughter, good beer, and the warmth of Merlin's neck as Arthur pulled him close.

Today the bar fell silent when Arthur darkened the doorway just as the cock crowed twelve-fifteen in the afternoon.

"This is… nice," said Arthur, alarmed at the change the interior had undergone.

Red ribbons of the Yule persuasion adorned the back of chairs, knotted into elaborate bows. Clusters of silver bells festooned every corner of the room. When Arthur glanced up, it was to find a festive sprig of mistletoe had been hung with care in the doorway. If there was anyone who doubted what time of year it was, despite the mulled cider being hawked on every street corner and despite the wintery frost that gilded each and every breath, that doubt would have left them at the tavern door.

Three men who had been speaking quietly at the bar looked up at Arthur's entrance, drinks paused halfway to lips. Two rough sorts who had been gambling at the far table let their dice fall without so much as a peek to check Fate's work.

"Greetings," said Arthur, squinting into the eternal dusk.

The lone barman drying a glass with a rag gave Arthur a pleased bow. "Prince Arthur! What brings his lordship to my stoop this fine December's day? Perhaps you come in search of some Laughter and Libations? For of both we have plenty."

Arthur recognized it for the slogan it was. The barman was bent on advertising his establishment to any and all who would listen, as if the business of the only tavern in the citadel depended on it.

Arthur dallied in the doorway. "Sadly both will have to wait until a future time. I've come in search of my manservant."

The man stroked his chin in thought. "Which servant would that be? The ruddy lad trying to grow a mustache? If so, he left half an hour ago, without leaving so much as a coin I might add."

"No," said Arthur, not sure which of Camelot's many servants that might be. "My— Merlin. I've no doubt you'd know him on sight. He's a frequent customer of yours." When the man looked uncertain, Arthur held a hand an inch above his own head. "Yea high. Blue eyes. Built like a scarecrow?"

The man frowned. "Merlin…hm. Apologies, sire, he may have come here once or twice, but not for a long while. Not so's I could recognize him."

This was a strange turn indeed. Arthur was certain the man must know him, he had it on good authority from Gaius, and in fact from Merlin himself, that Merlin was always going down to the tavern.

"Are you quite sure?" Arthur pressed.

"Very sure. And I certainly haven't seen him today."

Arthur frowned. Did Merlin patronize the tavern under a different guise, in a state of shame for his uncouth and lunch-ruining ways? Unlikely. "Is there some other tavern that I've not heard of?"

The barkeep stood straighter. "Not on my watch. The Rising Sun is the only place for any merry maker, reveler, and soul in need of safe harbor to find companionship in a drink. The finest ale in town we have here," and, as if Arthur needed to be further convinced not to take his business elsewhere, "Laughter and Libations, sire."

"Yes, quite." Arthur didn't question the man's honesty, but a small part of him did wonder if this wasn't a case of peasant solidarity and if Merlin wasn't hiding behind the bar. "If you do happen upon Merlin, tell him I hunger for my midday sausages." He said the last bit loudly toward the bar, just in case.

The barkeep bowed. "Yes, I will carry out your wishes should he patronize my humble establishment."

Arthur turned to go, and promptly ran straight into the broad chest of a man just entering.

"Pardon me," the man said, attempting to step around, but then he did a doubletake as he recognized Arthur. He snatched his cap from his head. "Sire! I— begging your pardon."

"It's no problem," Arthur assured him.

"It really is an honor, sire—" the man said, blushing furiously. "I have a tapestry of your likeness above my bed, you know. Not for any particular reason, of course. I just am a— a big fan, I suppose is one way to put it—"

When you looked past the dirt, the man actually seemed about Arthur's age, which made this statement less unfortunate.

"That's very kind of you," said Arthur. "I am also a fan of your people. I mean to say, the peasants of Camelot are quite important to me you know."

"I do, sire. I am honored to hear it. I'll just be getting out of your way now."

However, what should have been an easy interaction became muddled as he and the man attempted to move out of one anothers' ways. Limbs became entangled, elbows knocked against the doorframe. "I—dreadfully sorry," said the man, looking understandably mortified.

"It's really no trouble," said Arthur. "I'll go first."

"Of course," said the man, leaning back and away but not removing himself from the doorway.

Mysteriously he still couldn't wedge his way out, and the man didn't seem to be moving. Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I have business elsewhere," he said a bit tersely despite his efforts to remain genial.

"I seem to be stuck," said the man.

Arthur again tried to slip out in the small space available. However, try as he might to forgo any further jigging with this large peasant, Arthur's feet seemed rooted to the spot. Stranger still, the other man seemed to be struggling as well. Arthur, who had never had such a problem with a doorway, put a staying hand to the man's arm so that the man stopped fighting to free himself. They were pressed very close.

There came a chuckle from inside the tavern. "I see you've found that won't work."

They looked to the barkeep as one. "Excuse me?" said Arthur.

"You're held where you are until you appease it." At first Arthur had no idea what the man was rambling about until he noticed that he was looking somewhere above Arthur's head. Arthur looked upward as well, and realized he was standing just under the sprig of—

"Mistletoe." His mouth flattened in displeasure. "You must be joking."

"It's tradition," shrugged the barkeep. "And tradition demands sacrifice."

"Sacrifice?" gulped Arthur's companion.

"Of a metaphorical sort. You know what they say about mistletoe. Imbued with powerful, er," the barkeep paused here, undoubtedly realizing who he was speaking to. Carefully avoiding the word "magic," he instead finished, "jolly country customs."

The white berries of the mistletoe seemed to glow malevolently, a trick of the light. Arthur indeed knew what they said about mistletoe. In fact he had fallen prey to these so-called jolly customs before, when he had been thirteen and forced to kiss the teenaged daughter of a noblewoman visiting from South Umbria, who'd been two feet taller than him at the time.

He looked swiftly up at the peasant to see if his unwitting companion also was aware of the old wives' tale. By the interesting shade of mulberry he was turning, and how his eyes were locked onto Arthur's mouth, he clearly was.

"Surely such lowly customs don't apply to royalty," said the man with feeling.

"The mistletoe does not know class or wealth. It holds powers greater than all of us," said the bartender sympathetically, as if the mistletoe had just secured itself to his doorway on its own.

"Be that as it may, I am being kept from my royal duties and shall take my leave—" But Arthur found his boots were stuck in place, due no doubt to the sucking kind of mud rife in these unpaved parts.

"Please do," said the large man pressed close. "I would also not want to keep you from your important duties."

Arthur shoved him a bit roughly but to no avail. "You truly have a mud problem," he said, glaring at the barkeep with an understandable amount of accusation. "Please expend some of your considerable profit on a bit of hay."

"A kiss," said the barkeep in response, which stopped Arthur in his already unmoving tracks.

"You can't be serious."

The barkeep, who by now must have polished nearly every glass in the bar, continued polishing, looking apologetic. "There's no arguing with the mistletoe."

Arthur raised another eyebrow. "Are you truly claiming this pagan, er, custom is binding? You expect me to believe ancient magics—" the bar gasped as one and Arthur waved a hand "—a figure of speech— require that I kiss this—" he waved to the man half a foot from him. "This gentle peon? To appease some spirits or what have you?"

"Aye."

"Well...That's ridiculous."

He looked to the other men in the bar for moral support. They had of course abandoned their pursuits entirely to watch this bit of theater unfold. They nodded in agreement but didn't move to protect their prince's honor.

The barkeep spread his hands as if to say well I don't make the rules. "Be that as it may."

Unfortunately a crowd had begun to gather on the road, passersby slowing to witness this scene. Arthur rolled his eyes. "Just. Fine. Anything to move on from this infernal doorway."

He turned and looked up at the peasant, who had begun to sweat.

"Er, I'm alright thanks," said the peasant in tones which in other circumstances would have earned him a few afternoons in the stocks. He had his ratty jacket slung over an arm despite the cold, Arthur noticed. He'd already taken it off before this interaction had begun, ready to enter the cozy tavern which smelled of hops and wood smoke and pine boughs even here from the doorway.

"You heard the man, it's tradition," said Arthur, squaring his shoulders, not quite able to believe where the day's events had led him. If only Merlin had done the one small task of bringing his repast, Arthur could be swaddled in his quilts for his post-lunch doze. "Let's just get this over with."

The man looked wretched, twisting his cap in his hands, greatly embarrassed. "Sire, it would be an honour. Truly, you couldn't imagine what an honour. It's just that I have been mucking out the donkey stables all morning. I would advise you not to get close. I mean, closer than you already are." His gulp was audible.

"It is kind of you to think after my sensibilities," said Arthur. "But the markings of your occupation are of no concern to me."

With every passing moment it became more imperative that he must kiss the man, as more and more people were gathering to watch. It would not do for Arthur to appear to turn his nose up at the good people who tilled his land and tended to his stables. In fact, Arthur was quite fond of some peasants. He had friends who were peasants! Merlin being one of them. Although currently he was sorely pushing the limits of what friendship entailed.

Arthur should probably make a statement, try to get ahead of this narrative.

He turned and said loudly to all assembled, his voice carrying. "All work is equal in my kingdom. I thank you for your contributions, peasant!"

There was a smattering of applause at this declaration.

The man looked a little ill at this. "Very noble sentiments, my lord. You are as just and kind as I have always dreamed." He was looking at Arthur's mouth again, distractedly. "However, the smell is what I refer to. I would caution you to stay back."

"I assure you, you will not be executed for this," Arthur said grandly. He gestured above him at the mistletoe and smiled generously toward the now sizeable crowd. This earned him a somewhat wilder round of cheering, and a well-placed 'huzzah!'

"Make no mistake, I serve the kingdom at his lordship's pleasure—" the man's voice broke on the word and he seemed to need to steel himself before soldiering bravely on. "And with that in mind, I must inform you that the donkey stables hadn't been mucked in three days...and I haven't washed in longer than that." He attempted to lean back and away but did not manage much distance. "I had a mind to wash this morning but I had run out of kindling to heat my fire, meaning my bath water would have been ice cold. I wish now I had braved it, so as not to offend your nose. I do apologize sire, for not in my wildest imaginings would I believe I'd have the chance to— Would that I had a leaf of mint to freshen my breath—"

Arthur grasped the man firmly by the shoulder, as he had so many times to steady a man's nerves before battle. "Calm yourself. You have labored for my kingdom for many a year, doing such truly horrible work, and for that you have my gratitude. Your worry for my sensibilities reveals a kindness about you that I greatly admire. But let me assure you, no man is beneath me. Er, beneath my favor. Especially a fine man such as yourself. You, sir, are as worthy of my kiss as any."

The man looked starry eyed, which Arthur took to mean his speech was working.

"So, with that in mind," he continued. And, a bit quieter added, "and due to my desire to leave this place immediately," he tipped his face up. "I must insist that you let me kiss you."

The man's face had really gone quite red, but his resolve had clearly weakened. Arthur truly looked at him, noticing his brown eyes filled with sincerity. His curly blond hair that matched the stubble-rough jaw. His mouth that Arthur was bound by some barman's words to kiss with his own. And kiss him he would. If he failed to do so, Arthur would surely suffer the gossip of his people for weeks. No, that would not do. Their gossip could be quite incisive, Arthur knew from experience.

"Although I am your prince," he said, turning to the crowd at large to deliver this final proclamation, "I value your life and your dignity as my own. I would as much bestow a kiss upon you, good sir, as I would a visiting princess."

That had come out a bit more lecherously than he had intended, if the man's expression was to be believed, but the deed was done and Arthur would stand by it.

"I thank you kindly, my lord," murmured the man. "However, you are my prince and my respect for you surely forbids me to—" He was leaning in a bit though. There was indeed a faint earthy smell emanating from him but it wasn't entirely unpleasant.

"Likewise my respect for my people, of whom you are a representative, demands I grant you my kiss—" Arthur tipped his head up, waiting for the other man to do his part.

"I truly must protest—" murmured the man.

Arthur's eyes fluttered closed, and—

"Arthur!"

Arthur's eyes shot open and he turned quickly at the familiar voice, to see Merlin elbowing his way out of the crowd. Merlin, who was red in the face and glaring daggers.

"Unhand him," he uttered, voice trembling, finger pointing at Arthur's doorbound companion.

Arthur barked out a laugh. "He would rather I didn't have him in hand at all," he assured Merlin. "Besides, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you!"

This drew a puzzled look from Merlin. Despite Merlin's unfair treatment of Arthur's wellbeing at the noontime, Arthur was quite pleased to see him. He could feel the beginnings of a fond smile tugging at his mouth, so he replaced it with a look he hoped was more reproving in nature.

"Tut tut," he scolded. "Gaius told me you've been at the tavern since after breakfast."

Merlin scoffed. "I have not."

Arthur rolled his eyes, throwing a smirk at the donkey-mucker, glad to have an accomplice. The peasant smiled uncertainly back as Arthur drawled, "Had too much ale this morning, Merlin?"

"It sounds like you've been on the ale yourself," Merlin retorted, then added an insouciant "my lord" when the crowd all choked in alarm at his sass. He looked anew at the way Arthur's hand was still on the mucker's shoulder, which Arthur didn't allow himself to withdraw under the scrutiny. Merlin frowned. "What on earth are you doing anyway?"

"Well, this fine fellow—" he paused. "In fact, what is your name?"

"Jerkin."

"Jerkin?" Arthur looked at him askance. "I thought you said you dealt in donkeys."

"My father was the vester," said the man with a sigh, as if he'd had to explain this a million times in his lifetime and his allegiance to Camelot alone was all that led him to tell it one more. "He had a good business, and traveled peddling his vests in a large cart led by—"

"Donkeys," Arthur finished, understanding.

"Well-guessed, my lord. I was the boy who walked behind."

Arthur turned to Merlin to continue explaining. "Jerkin here happened to walk in as I was walking out, and we've found ourselves caught in the doorway. The curse of the mistletoe~" he wiggled his fingers, drawing laughter from the crowd. He preened, just a tad, although Merlin gave him an unimpressed look, then sent an equally unimpressed look up at where the mistletoe hung. Arthur noticed the small, unassuming plant again seemed to cast an unearthly glow despite the pale afternoon sun. He blinked. For his part, Merlin looked even more surly.

"Mistletoe," he said darkly, and glared over at the bartender. "Take it down."

"See here," the man laughed. "We do this every Yule. It's tradition."

"A bit of fun," agreed another man from inside the pub. "I had to kiss the crumpet lady just last Tuesday, and she's me aunt!"

Merlin snarled and the mistletoe seemed to shrivel under his gaze, which, given the amount of glare, Arthur would too.

"Look," said Jerkin, still standing closer to Arthur than any man (except for Merlin) had any right to and still smelling of livestock but in a sort of good way. "I just came round for a jug of the Prince's Pilsner—" he seemed to remember he was speaking to the beer's namesake, and corrected, "—for a drink, that is. I've been up to my knees in you-know-what all day and this is not what I had in mind when I came to the tavern. I swear I hadn't planned to kiss him," the man, confusingly addressed Merlin, as if Merlin's opinion was the one that mattered here.

"You should be so honored," said Merlin in his most petulant tones.

Arthur frowned. "Merlin!" Merlin's behavior reflected on Arthur himself, and this childishness was getting embarrassing. Feeling more emboldened now that Merlin was here, and somewhat argumentative, he said, "Well I was planning to kiss him."

"You— you were?" Merlin looked crestfallen.

"Yes! Why shouldn't I keep with tradition?" Arthur cast a grin around at the resulting wolf-whistles. At least he could offer his people some entertainment.

"I mean, if you'd really like," said Jerkin. He seemed finally put at ease by Arthur's kind intentions as he stood a little straighter. "It would be an honor."

"I'm sorry but you shall do no such thing."

"Merlin, this doesn't concern you."

Merlin seemed to come to some sort of internal decision. "It is my duty to protect the prince."

"It is not," Arthur said, with feeling.

"It is." Merlin turned on Jerkin. "Arthur is a kind and wonderful prince. A kind and wonderful man."

It was Arthur's turn to start blushing. How had the day brought them here.

Merlin was not done. "He is pure of heart, one might even say innocent—"

"Hey!" Arthur interjected.

Jerkin spoke over him. "I know that. And I respect him for it."

"That doesn't change the fact that your prince offered himself to you," Merlin trembled at this. "And you denied him. You laughed in his face."

"I wouldn't say laughed—" Arthur started but was cut off by Jerkin, who looked like he'd had about enough.

"I would be happy to kiss him," he said, grabbing Arthur by the shirt lapels which were still unlaced as Merlin had shirked his duties of re-dressing Arthur after Arthur had taken his pre-lunch nap.

"It is too late for that," said Merlin, trying to elbow his way in between them. "This slight against the prince cannot be borne—"

Arthur gently shoved Merlin away so he wouldn't do anything untoward like bat at Jerkin with his weak fists. "But bear it you shall."

"I must protect your innocence—!" Merlin said.

Arthur put a hand on Merlin's chest, easily holding him back. "All this talk of my innocence is all well and good in a rhetorical sense but unfounded in actual fact, I assure you." He cast a glance at the many (many) fine ladies, young and old, who seemed to be eying him skeptically.

Jerkin continued speaking only to Merlin. "I see you're upset. And I understand how you must feel. I did not intend to give slight against the crown but it seems I have." He turned to Arthur and gave a bow as well as he could stuck in the doorway. "My lord, how can I make this right, so I can prove I meant not to besmirch your honor, and so I can go and have my drink?" The second item, Arthur surmised from his hopeful expression, was the most important to him.

"A duel!" someone shouted from the crowd.

Merlin blinked, looking from Jerkin to Arthur and back again. "Ah, let's not go quite that far..."

"Yes, a duel! As in stories of yore!" said an onlooker, clutching his Yuletide shopping with fervor.

"Look there," a mother said to her small child, pointing. "That's the savior of the prince!" The child looked up at Merlin in wonder. 

Merlin glanced helplessly to Arthur, who gave a minute shake of his head.

Merlin, who somehow always managed to misunderstand the most obvious of non-verbal cues said, "OK, a duel, then."

 "What." Arthur and Jerkin said in unison. They shared a look of incredulity, true fellow feeling.

Merlin looked around at all those in attendance and then, clearly resolving himself to the idea, unknotted his neckerchief and dropped it to the ground. "A duel," he repeated. "As the rules of the situation dictate." He nodded to Jerkin and gestured to the bit of fabric, which might as well have been a solid steel gauntlet so ominous did it lie. "Go on, pick it up."

"Um," said Jerkin. He looked to Arthur for some direction, but Arthur only shrugged, uncertain himself. Merlin had a million fine qualities, and one of them was his dogged determination. In all the years Merlin had been at court, Arthur had never known him to stand down from a challenge. It was admirable, it was often amazing, leaving Arthur wondering at how deep Merlin's well of courage ran, and in this case, it was unfortunately working against them all.

Jerkin addressed Merlin, "But, why—"

"I have no choice but to challenge you," said Merlin. "So go on, pick it up."

The neckerchief lay sodden in the infernal and omnipresent mud between them. They all stared at it. At this point, the crowd was going wild, and Arthur began to suspect Jerkin might be the only sane one here. The man looked to Arthur again, who could only shrug once more.

"I suppose by rules of chivalry…" he said, trying to find a way around this unforeseen turn of events. "By the rules on which our kingdom is based, I suppose it would be dishonorable to stand down when a man has challenged you—"

They all squinted, uncertain the rules applied here.

"Pick it up," Merlin said, sounding like he was warming to this idea, growing more certain by the moment. "Do it."

Arthur made a final try. "Merlin, you haven't dueled a day in your life."

Merlin looked at him steadily. "I've never had good reason til now."

Arthur's face heated. Merlin just said these things and didn't realize what he sounded like.

The crowd was still waiting for Jerkin's answer. Meanwhile, the three of them stared at one another. They seemed to have worked themselves into a knot that Arthur could see no way out of. Merlin could not back out now, seeing as he was the one who had thrown down the initial challenge. Jerkin could not back out for fear of insulting his own honor and Arthur's along with it. Arthur, meanwhile, could not step in should he appear to flout the chivalric code.

Jerkin, coming to the same conclusion apparently, sighed as he bent down and plucked the neckerchief from the mud puddle, using only two fingers so as to touch it as little as he could. There was a collective gasp from the surrounding crowd of what seemed to be the entirety of Camelot as he held it aloft.

"I accept your challenge."

The crowd went bonkers, clapping and howling as if it was the Yule tournament already not the middle of a Saturday at the holiday market.

"Name your time and place," said Merlin really getting into it now.

Jerkin shrugged.

"The Yule tourney!" said the barman. Arthur had no doubt the man was anticipating great financial gain, regardless of the duel's outcome.

"Now hang on," Jerkin said uneasily. "I'd rather there be no audience. There're bound to be thousands at the tournament..."

"What you want doesn't matter," said Merlin. He jerked a thumb Arthur's way. "I fight for his honor."

"Great," sighed Arthur.

"And the kiss?"

They all looked to the barkeep, whose expression was entirely too hopeful.

"There will be no kiss," Merlin said.

"But there must be," said the barkeep, gesturing upward, still on about the mistletoe.

Jerkin looked a question at Merlin, as did the barkeep. Arthur, somehow no longer in charge of the situation, also found himself turning to Merlin, who seemed somewhat disgusted by the whole situation. Instead of complaining more, however, he sighed, and then surprised them all by grabbing Arthur by his shirt and pulling him in close. Then, he kissed him.

Merlin did this with the same sort of confidence Arthur experienced when he told Arthur to 'Watch out!' and Arthur dove away just as rocks fell, like they had gotten out in the nick of time somehow.

When Merlin pulled back he said, "there's your kiss," confusingly addressing this to the mistletoe. Then, he turned his eye-daggers on Jerkin. "See you on the field." Without giving Arthur, frozen in place, a chance to respond, he stomped away.

"Wow," Jerkin said in his wake. "Can't wait."

Arthur, unsure what had just happened, cleared his throat. "Bad luck, mate," he said, hoping it conveyed that there were no hard feelings between them and that Jerkin shouldn't worry he would lose his head for this.

Jerkin nodded and shuffled his feet a bit. Then a look of surprise crossed his face. He easily stepped out from the doorframe, as did Arthur. His feet had come unstuck.

"Right," said Arthur, and they all quickly departed.

The buzz of the crowd grew louder in their wake. When Arthur cast a look back over his shoulder he noticed the mistletoe's glow had dimmed, and wondered how such an unassuming bit of plant had caused so much trouble.

Morgana found out, of course. At supper that evening she sent Arthur a dark look as the dish of herbed rolls was placed between them, but when Arthur tried to ask what she could possibly be angry at him for she merely took a large bite of bread and chewed without answering, feigning ladylike sensibilities of not talking with her mouth full despite how she usually had no such qualms.

When Merlin emerged from behind his hiding-pillar to refill Arthur's wine, Arthur pulled him down by the collar to whisper harshly, "This is your fault! Morgana clearly blames me for putting your life at risk, even though you're the idiot who put yourself in the situation in the first place!" He couldn't help but notice Merlin was now at mouth level. Arthur was reminded very vividly of the kiss that Merlin had given him just hours before, the confidence of Merlin's mouth against his own. He let Merlin go, swiftly turning his thoughts away.

Merlin merely looked disappointed in him as well, quite unfoundedly so, and filled Arthur's goblet only half full of pinot and then refused service afterward, no matter how many times Arthur gestured to his cup over the course of the meal.

It was no matter. Even if everyone was annoyed at him, Arthur was going to dedicate himself to doing his actual job as representative of Camelot. Rather than settling squabbles with his servant or his sister, Arthur turned his full attention to making nice with the visiting prince of Rheged, Erik.

Prince Erik had arrived with his father and mother that afternoon. Theirs was the first of many processions of knights who would be fighting in the Yule Tourney, and plenty more royalty would be joining for the many-day celebration.

Erik was well-dressed with dark hair that swept romantically across his forehead, giving him a ne'er-do-well aspect that Arthur remembered from the one time they had met when they were both fourteen or thereabouts. 

"You know I haven't been to Camelot since that time when I was a boy," Prince Erik said. "And yet the moment I stepped foot in the courtyard it was like I had been here only yesterday."

Arthur was pleased Camelot had made such a mark on him. "Do you recall jumping in the lake?"

Erik laughed. "Yes. You wanted to watch the entire tournament but I convinced you to sneak off. We spent the afternoon trying to dive cleanly into the lake from that tree without a splash. There were quite the number of frogs underfoot," he told Morgana, who laughed along, ignoring Arthur entirely.

Arthur remembered trying to catch them, and failing quite spectacularly as the frogs slipped away easily leaving him and Erik snorting water in laughter.

They'd only gone back to the castle once the clouds had rushed overhead and it had gotten chilly. They'd been scolded by Arthur's nursemaid for running off and nearly giving her a heart attack, and didn't they know wild boars were loose in the forest? They'd been bound together by their age, and the understanding of the often secluded life of a King's only son.

"I'd like to revisit that lake," said Erik, clearly thinking as kindly of those halcyon days. "I remember it quite fondly I admit."

"You know, I've often wondered how you have been," Arthur admitted. It was a bit forward of him to say, but this truly felt like being reunited with a good friend, despite how short a time they'd known one another.

"And I you." Erik seemed to hold eye contact with Arthur for a beat longer than necessary. "I always asked Father to take me back here, but you know." He smiled politely.

"Of course," said Arthur.

The people of Rheged had not visited since, due to the intervening skirmishes between their kingdoms, which had taken out a great portion of each of their armies. The fighting had finally ended last year with the signing of a somewhat uneasy peace treaty, but a peace treaty nonetheless.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Anyway, this year's Yule Tourney shall be great fun. It's a wonder that I was so weak in my youth, allowing myself to be dragged away like that. This year will be different — I'll be in the stands rooting for my men the entirety of the day."

"To my recollection we beat you in the tournament that year, it's probably good I didn't let you stay to watch the defeat."

"Well remembered," said Arthur. "But I have trained this year's knights, myself, so things will be different."

"I too have trained our knights myself. I look forward to testing my strength against your own," Erik said, a mischievous look on his face. "I'm most looking forward to the joust. It is my poorest combat sport, I must admit, but it's always been a favorite of mine to watch."

Arthur was surprised. "I find that hard to believe."

"I would never deceive you, my prince."

The way Erik pronounced their mutual title like it was forged in solid gold would send shivers up any man's spine, so Arthur could not be blamed. He took a fortifying sip of wine (or tried to anyhow — his goblet was empty). Erik was attractive, but more than that, had a charm Arthur had rarely encountered in those who oft relied solely on power and money to get their way. He was a bit too familiar, while remaining courteous, like he and Arthur shared a long life of secrets.

"Frankly I find that quite surprising," Arthur said, setting his goblet beside his plate. "That you rarely take up a jousting pole."

Erik smiled at him over the rim of his own goblet — his full goblet, Arthur noticed — and asked, "And why's that?"

"You have the upper body strength for it, for one."

"That's very kind of you to notice. I must say, I'm better handling a sword." The man smiled blithely, giving the impression of a double meaning that Arthur was surely imagining. "And are you to take part in tomorrow's festivities?"

"No, but my servant is." Arthur had forgotten this for a blessed minute.

"Your servant?"

Conversation around the table went quiet. Morgana was once again looking at him with disapproval. Erik's father, King Magne, looked to Uther for confirmation. Uther just looked furious. "What's this!"

Arthur sighed inwardly. "Yes father. My manservant, Merlin," he clarified just for the benefit of those not yet familiar with Merlin and his shenanigans, or in fact his father who often forgot Merlin's name and just called him 'the boy.' "Has found himself in the position to—ah—prove himself to the kingdom."

"Prove himself?" Uther glared at one of the pillars, which didn't happen to be the one Merlin was lurking behind. "Nonsense. There is no reason for a serving boy to take up arms in the tourney. Servants have nothing to prove, and it would make for terrible entertainment besides."

"Now that you mention it," said Erik. "I've just heard something about this. A servant of my own recounted what he had witnessed this afternoon, something about a duel taking place for the love of Camelot."

Arthur tried to warn Erik to cease his story immediately but Erik was clearly not a mind reader.

"Yes," he said. "If I recall correctly, a man insulted the prince—"

"I'd heard he left Arthur's reputation in tatters," Morgana agreed with mock sympathy, drawing a snicker from behind a different pillar.

Uther smiled dangerously. "Then we shall have him hanged."

Arthur put down his knife carefully. "I wasn't insulted, Father—"

"Apologies, 'rebuffed' is the word being used around town."

"I'd hardly say rebuffed either—" Arthur was trying, and failing, to control the trajectory of this rumor. He might as well stop now, though, for it was clearly too late.

"—then a servant intervened to defend Arthur's honor." Erik smiled. "It was very heroic. Everyone is talking about it."

"You heard incorrectly then," Arthur said loudly. "I was merely recognizing and respecting the pagan customs of my people. In adherence to a quaint country tradition, I was asked to give an offering. Discussion ensued, and Merlin ended up begging me—" Arthur ignored Merlin poking his head out from around the pillar to make an aggrieved face at him "—to allow him to act as a representative of my person during our most impressive tournament. I simply granted him his humble request out of an abundance of respect for my people, and the kind peasant I had just made the acquaintance of will be joining him." He felt a bit more cheerful as he took a forkful of stewed cabbage and smirked at Merlin, whose current expression threatened one of his two-day sulks.

Morgana raised an eyebrow. "So you admit you're allowing Merlin to risk himself for you, life for limb?"

Arthur had no good response to that but to glower at her. Was it too much to ask for a bit of sibling solidarity? "The tournament is a fight to first blood," he equivocated. "So one would argue I am allowing Merlin to take part in an honored and beautiful display of chivalry. He became entangled in a misunderstanding and I am helping him out of it. In fact he should be thanking me."

"By dueling in front of hundreds of people," said Morgana.

"Yes."

Uther waved this away. "Then he shall be hanged. Honestly, Arthur, there can be no reason to sully the eyes of our people with those untrained in sport."

"I must insist we avoid the rope, Father," Arthur said, struggling to sound disinterested rather than distressed to once again be the only thing standing between Merlin and the noose. "Merlin is a simpleton, you know that. "

Morgana countered by starting in on the subject of royal decorum and one's duty to one's people. "Supporting the people in your charge means not putting them in harm's way. Or making any other advances upon their person," she gave Arthur a knowing look at this, and Arthur concluded she must also have heard about the kiss.

Of course she knew what had happened. She had spies everywhere. Arthur gave Gwen a suspicious look but she avoided his eyes, making herself busy filling Morgana's wine to the brim which only stoked Arthur's annoyance as he could do with some wine himself.

Arthur's eyes sought out Merlin but found he was wisely still hidden from view. Arthur wondered once more why he had been gifted with such an afflicted manservant who only served to distract him when he should be slaking Arthur's thirst and being otherwise immaterial, not embarrassing him in front of friend and foe.

"But what if royalty played the unwitting party and any action taken was of a subject's free will?" he questioned the room, thinking of how Merlin had taken him so firmly in hand and kissed him briefly but quite deftly by no fault of Arthur's own.

None of the others in attendance seemed particularly interested in this philosophical rejoinder, nor in addressing any of Morgana's points.

"King Uther, I think it kind that your son allows servants to stand on their own two feet so they may do a service to Camelot by laying down their lives for her glory," said Prince Erik. "Very respectable." He murmured that last part so that only Arthur could hear, his knee brushing Arthur's under the table.

"A tournament brimming with knightly courage, with one lone duel between peons. Interesting, very interesting." Uther said, steepling his gloved fingers. "I suppose it shall make for a good comedic break between acts. Arthur, the boy may take the field."

"Thank you, Father."

"It is quite unusual," Prince Erik's father, King Magne, commented. "Your son shows himself truly to live up to his reputation as ‘the flower of Camelot’ as they say. Gentle and growing only in the sunshine."

Arthur hesitated. "Do they say that?"

"Why yes. That is how you are known to all of Rheged."

"Well," said Arthur. "That’s...that’s excellent."

King Magne then launched into a story of a duel he had once taken part in as a young lad over the honor of his now wife, Queen Eleanor, who, seated beside her husband dressed in the finest blue silks, smiled patiently through the whole telling as if she had heard this story forty times at least since the occurrence of the events on which the tale was based.

"Your servant must care for you a great deal," said Erik quietly, turning from the conversation of their parents.

"Or one might believe the opposite," said Arthur. "For Merlin has resisted all attempts on my part to teach him how to wield a sword or even swing a mace. So I am uncertain how he thinks he will manage come the tourney."

Merlin emerged then, probably eavesdropping, with a tray of desserts. Leaning in close as he placed the mini trifles between Arthur and Erik, he said, mouth hot near Arthur's ear, "Well then you'll just have to teach me tomorrow." He receded once again to make himself unobtrusive behind a potted plant.

"I myself shall be interested to see the outcome of the duel," said Arthur.

Erik nodded with good humor, eyes on Merlin. "He will surely be killed."

Arthur couldn't help but notice that when Prince Erik later gestured for more wine, Merlin left them both dry.

Arthur woke the next morning to an empty room. The embers in the hearth had not been stoked this morning, and had gone nearly out. The room smelled lightly of smoke, a mere memory of last night's fire. Arthur rubbed his feet together to warm them up, but it did little good.

He sat up. The room was still cast in half-light, the curtains drawn, and no steaming bowl of clear spring water at the vanity for him to carry out his morning toilette — wetting his face with a hot, damp cloth, soaking his cuticles in rose water from the yearly shipment from far-off Persia and finally freshening his breath with charcoal-mint paste. He wouldn't know even where to find such things even if he had taken it upon himself to do so.

Struggling from his nest of sheets, he staggered over to the armoire and exchanged his night shift for a pair of trousers and a fresh shirt. He bent and put on his own socks and boots, lacing them with annoyance.

For the second day in a row he found himself going to fetch Merlin instead of the other way around.

This time he paused at the high tower instead of straight up busting the door open, and so became party to a queer sort of conversation that was passing between Merlin and Gaius on the other side.

"—glowing, Gaius, a powerful kind of detainment charm—" said Merlin quite audibly.

"Ancient tradition holds that it can only be broken with a kiss—the plant is a parasite, Merlin, and thus feeds off the energy of those in love."

"In love? Then why would I have gotten Arthur out of—"

Arthur started, hearing his name.

"—love is a figure of speech, any kiss will do of course or we'd have hundreds stuck in doorways every Yuletide, never able to get free—"

Arthur surmised that this was a strange sort of botany lesson. He had perused his share of ancient texts, and knew that much knowledge was recounted as metaphor and allegory. He raised his fist and pounded the door decisively.

The conversation within descended into shushing whispers before Merlin flung the door open.

Arthur leaned against the doorframe crossing his arms. He took in Merlin's pinstripe nightshirt, ankle to neck. When he met Merlin's reddening face he said, "Hi."

"Hi," said Merlin. He had a set look on his face despite the blush like he was ready to stand his ground.

"I came to see how you were doing—" Arthur began.

Merlin's mouth dropped open. "Really?"

"—preparing for your ultimate demise tomorrow," Arthur finished, and Merlin's expression went sour. He promptly shut the door in Arthur's face.

Arthur pounded once more. "Also where is my breakfast?"

He found it in Erik's rooms. Or a suitable replacement, at least.

"Might I impose?" he asked, when Erik answered the door to his chambers. "It seems my servant has cast aside his duties to prepare for the Tourney."

Erik threw the door wide, giving him a sunny smile. "By all means."

The room was bright, the curtains pulled back and knotted expertly to reveal the busy courtyard below. It was a fine morning.

They took their time with breakfast, which was easily procured from Erik's manservant whose name Arthur learned was Fred. Erik bid Arthur to avail himself of a platter of warm breads and strong cheeses while he himself tucked into the pickled eggs, a man after Arthur's own heart it seemed.

"These are quite good," Arthur said, after eating three slices of buttered rye with different cheese varietals. "We've only crumblier cheeses in Camelot, like soft blues or herbed cheese spread and whatnot. I've rarely had the pleasure of this firmer stuff."

Erik sipped at his coffee. "That one you have there was aged in a cave system and left to ripen for fifteen years. Let me know your favorites and I'll have Fred send for a couple more wheels."

"Cheers." Arthur sipped at his own coffee. "So, have you any bets for the tournament?"

Erik sat back with his cup, thinking. He was dressed comfortably, his black shirt sleeves pushed up to the elbow, and his jacket slung over the chairback. "I know the merits of my own men well," he said. "But I cannot make any wagers without knowing the competition."

Arthur nodded. "Wise words. Well, we both know about Mercians." They shared a mutual chuckle at this. Both of their armies had faced Mercians in battle a time or two, and Arthur had no doubt that Erik had also studied Mercia's often brutal tactics exhaustively. And probably Fred had paid closer attention during his lord's meetings than Merlin did.

"Let us hope their tournament style is more honorable than on the battlefield," Erik said. "Regarding the other kingdoms, I have observed that the knights of Kent, on the other hand, have quite an elegant style. I am greatly looking forward to witnessing their showing."

Arthur nodded. "I had the pleasure of welcoming them to last year's tourney. I can confirm that they give the sport great respect."

"Most excellent. But of course I would believe my own men to be the finest."

"Well that goes without saying."

Erik smirked. "Thank you for the compliment, my prince. I am glad you also think my knights the finest."

"You twist my words," Arthur said, smiling back.

Erik laughed, and Arthur relaxed a bit more. However he had missed out on the habitual tete-a-tete with Merlin this morning, he found it was good to speak to another prince out of the watchful eyes of their fathers, and he was pleased to find that Erik was even less formal in this private setting. He seemed to share much of Arthur's world view, namely a love for his own kingdom and a strong enthusiasm for the sword. The connection he had once felt with him, it seemed, still remained.

They spoke more on the next day's festivities, Erik asking, "And who of your men would your lordship suggest I place my money on?"

"Well, Leon is brave and true," Arthur said immediately. "My finest man. Sir Gwaine, you may find, is a true rascal. He lived his life on the run before we shaped him up, and this background means he is able to find a way out of any tight situation, including on the battlefield."

Erik looked alarmed. "He was not a noble before you knighted him?"

"Ah, that is a matter of some contention." Arthur finished his coffee and Fred stepped forward immediately to replenish it.

"Contention with the King?"

"Yes."

Arthur was gratified that Erik moved on quickly, perhaps noting Arthur's reservations about speaking ill of his father.

"And the others? What of that large fellow I've seen practicing on the training field?"

Arthur nodded, spearing a sausage with a fork. "That would be Percival. He is quite strong and taller than many men. He is quick however, of both footwork and mind. He should not be underestimated. Nor should Elyan, who has proven himself to be exceptionally calm in the face of danger and who has become a dear friend. They all have, in fact."

Erik nodded. "Brothers in arms."

"Yes. I like to think of them as such."

"Your pride in your men speaks volumes," Erik said. He then told Arthur of his men as well, and they compared notes on each man's merits until the cheese had run out and the coffee cups had been refilled and drained thrice. It felt time to get on with the day.

"Tell me," Arthur said before leaving. "What's the word around the castle this morning?"

Fred appeared alarmed. "My lord?" He looked to Erik then back to Arthur.

Erik smiled, looking somewhat bemused, but said nothing.

"Well, my lord…" Fred cast about for an interesting tidbit. "All are excited for the Yule Tourney."

"Indeed," said Arthur.

"Many a rich noble has arrived in their finery. Lady Fragola arrived an hour ago with her hounds. They are dressed in couture vests nicer than many a lady's gown. Seen them with my own eyes. They are quite well-behaved and well-bred, all are saying it."

Where here Merlin would have nattered on about the dogs until lunchtime, Fred politely said no more, subsiding to the window where noise of the pre-tournament festivities was underway.

"Well, this breakfast has been quite excellent," Arthur said a moment later taking the last sausage for the road so to speak, dripping in mustard. "I've never had so much food stay where it's meant to."

"My lord?" Fred asked, uncertain if he was being addressed again.

"On the plate," Arthur clarified. He said to Erik, "My experience with servants these past years has been that they like to play tricks and filch my meats."

"Fred," said Erik with some humor. "Prince Arthur seems to value your opinion as a knowledgeable member of the serving class. What say you to this accusation?"

"I have never heard of such behavior," said Fred immediately, then froze. "But your lordship's word is always good and correct. Although I have not witnessed this behavior myself, I have no doubt in what you say." He could not completely hide his distaste however, at Arthur's implicit assessment of his station and character.

"Tell me," Arthur said as he went to the door moments later. "Have you seen Merlin?"

"Word is he has gone down to the armory, sire," said Fred, polite but his mien markedly chilly, which oddly made Arthur like him.

"Perhaps Merlin is taking the upcoming duel seriously after all," Arthur mused, pulling his jacket on. "I had better check on him."

"That's kind of you to do," said Erik, his smile amused as he also stood.

"I thank you again for letting me interrupt your breakfast."

Erik nodded. "Perhaps this afternoon you might escort me to the holiday market. I would welcome a tour of your delightful town."

"It should be quite fun," Arthur agreed. "We'll invite Morgana. And you'll have to try some of the wafers. They're a local delicacy, my favorite, cooked right in the fire with an iron press."

"I look forward to it."

Arthur nodded, then left, heading in the direction of the training fields where Merlin surely was in need of his aid. As the representative of Camelot, that is.

He found Merlin in the armory, laying into a straw dummy with a longsword.

"I would have thought you'd be busy with Prince Erik—" he gave the dummy a whack. "And his shiny buttons." Another whack.

Arthur leaned against a shelf of helmets, watching Merlin for a time. He had depressingly poor form, and his breath was coming out in visible puffs as he bounced around on the balls of his feet on the near-frozen ground. 

"His buttons were quite shiny, weren't they?" he responded at last. "Do you think his manservant cares for him enough to see to polishing them?"

Merlin's mouth turned down and he hit the dummy harder this time, which caused him to stagger back. He looked at his sword in disgust, as if the weapon he'd chosen from the knight's wall of blades was the problem.

Arthur stepped away from the helmets and grabbed a wooden pike, which he twirled around his wrist. "Need some help?"

"No."

Arthur stabbed the dummy clean through the chest, and then replaced the pike in two deft movements.

Merlin smacked the dummy again twice. "I wouldn't want to keep you from your royal pursuits."

"Oh don't be like that." Arthur came up beside Merlin and adjusted his sweaty grip on the sword hilt with a gentle hand to his wrist. "I have a servant to train in the art of the blade, and only a day to do it in."

"Sounds like a lost cause," said Merlin quietly, pulse beating against Arthur's palm. Arthur dared to look at Merlin from up close. The moment felt different, new, seeing as Arthur was the one attending to Merlin instead of the other way around. Merlin's lips looked very red in profile, as Merlin bit them, looking down at the sword trying to get it right.

"And when have I ever backed down from a challenge?" Arthur asked, a beat late, caught up in a quick memory of yesterday again. The kiss and how Merlin didn't seem phased, while Arthur was finding it hard to keep the thought from his mind.

This seemed to appease Merlin, who stepped away but gave another, less angry jab at the dummy, hitting it square in the chest this time.

"That's the spirit. Now, let me see your parry."

"Surely you're joking." Merlin grimaced. "I don't even know what a parry is."

"I wish that you were joking. How many years have you attended practice? Have you not picked up at least a sense of the footwork after observing the knights for hours on end?"

"You think I've been paying attention to their footwork," said Merlin slowly.

"Well what in god's name have you been paying attention to then?"

Merlin gave him a pitying look but did not answer.

Arthur shook his head. "Come, let's take this equipment outside where there's more space—"

"—and an audience—"

"—and I'll show you how it's done."

Merlin gestured to a modified rust bucket that served as a training helmet. "Should I put this on or…"

Arthur shook his head and led him out onto the field. "Not just yet. You can hardly walk as it is, and you're only wearing the chestplate."

Merlin smiled for the first time today and said slyly, "I thought you said you liked my knee walking?"

"Remember that, do you?" Arthur elbowed Merlin as he led the way to the training field where a few knights were already practicing in pairs to prepare for the next day's fight.

"What have I gotten myself into?" Merlin muttered.

"How about you do some of that knee walking now?" Arthur said to distract him, because the worst thing a man could do before a fight was lose confidence. He stepped forward, drawing his sword slowly and deliberately and deftly knocked Merlin to a proper genuflect. "There, that's the way you should be greeting your prince every morning."

"You wish," Merlin winced, more at the sodden grass probably than from any real pain. "You could warn me next time."

"I pulled my sword in front of you!" Arthur said. "Very obviously and deliberately!" He turned away to let Merlin recover his dignity but whirled and met Merlin's sword with his own a second later.

"Good reflexes, sire," Merlin said with some cheek, his arms quivering with the effort of holding back Arthur's blade.

Arthur tutted. "Drawing a sword when a man's back is turned, how unchivalrous of you."

"And yet you anticipated it."

Arthur was pleased to see some humor returning to Merlin's general demeanor. He led Merlin through a few swings of his sword and then pressed forward so their blades sang near to sparking. "You forget I have the measure of you," he breathed.

"Oh yeah? Well, I still have some tricks up my sleeve," said Merlin, and Arthur promptly found himself on his backside in the grass, having tripped over...over a rock possibly.

"Lucky coincidence," he said, but found himself full on grinning as Merlin looked delighted, and helped him up.

"You've become a better teacher, you know."

The first time Arthur had taken Merlin out onto the field had been a travesty, but maybe the blame for that didn't lie solely on Merlin.

"Yes, well. Maybe you've just become a better student."

"Maybe." Merlin rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smirk there at the edge of his mouth. The slight against his questionable skills hadn't hit with the same intention it seemed.

"Oi!" They turned, Merlin releasing his forearm, to find Gwaine waving lazily at them from the edge of the field.

Over the past ten minutes, quite the gaggle of spectators had formed to watch Arthur and Merlin's training session. Some townspeople, and a smattering of visiting knights and ladies, milled about the sidelines, excited for some pre-tourney entertainment while the honeyed notes of a lute twanged in the distance, setting a festive tone.

Arthur found himself only slightly regretful that all and sundry had witnessed his tumble, which seemed to have given rise to some laughter from the knights, a core group of whom were lounging in the grass, gossiping like stable boys instead of training.

"Haven't you anything better to do than admire your prince?" Merlin called.

"Oh Prince Arthur, his eyes are blue like the cloudless skies," Gwaine simpered in loud falsetto.

"His hair like spun straw made gold!" returned Elyan coquettishly.

Arthur went over. "Have I really a group of men who've nothing better to do than lie about singing songs of my greatness? What of the tournament? Have you really such pride to think you can beat all of Mercia, Kent, North Umbria, South Umbria, Cornwall, and Rheged without practice?"

"We are doing our studies," Percival said, then looked to Gwaine. "Tell him."

"Tomorrow," said Gwaine. He held up a small book, which was a surprise to say the least.

"Tomorrow?" Arthur prompted, eying the book, which he doubted had anything to do with a glorious display of knightly valour.

"Tomorrow, at the tournament." Gwaine smiled roguishly. "There will be ladies."

"Quite," said Arthur. As of this morning the town was full nearly to the brim of visiting nobility, knights, and their entourages, hailing from the north to accompany King Magne as well as other kingdoms all around, six in total, making for a truly intercultural event.

"And ladies are the goal here." He emphasized this as if Arthur was not aware.

"You think poetry will be enough?"

"Of course. Ladies love poetry, regardless of tongue or custom."

Arthur smirked around. "To make up for your ugly mug? What say you, Sir Elyan?"

Elyan inclined his chin. "Sire you are my prince and I cannot but agree with you. His mug is ugly."

Gwaine shook his silky hair and they all laughed. He threw the book at Elyan, who caught it mid air and began spouting some nonsense about birds fluttering their pretty wings and stars twinkling in lovers' eyes.

"It does not say that. Give it back."

"Of course it doesn't say that," Elyan laughed. "You think I can read? I was raised a blacksmith by trade."

"I can't either," Percival said more earnestly. "Gwaine, you'll teach me some good poetry, won't you? I haven't had the eye of a woman for anything other than my body for some time. It's getting tiresome."

Gwaine took pity on them. "I couldn't leave my brothers hanging," he assured them. "I'll give you a honeyed tongue to lure any beautiful ladybird who flutters by."

They exchanged high fives. Gwaine opened his book and began to read aloud as the others listened on studiously.

Arthur returned to Merlin, who had ignored the entire exchange in favor of going through the footwork Arthur had taught him with some notable improvement, holding the sword out straight and unmoving as he did so.

"Well done," Arthur said. "Perhaps you're not a lost cause after all."

"While you've been chatting about women, I've been here trying my best to do Camelot proud," Merlin said. "It's like you don't care about whether I die."

"Nonsense. I've seen weaker men than you survive multiple frays. Not to mention the countless times I've seen you manage to survive the most dangerous of situations. Although just how you continue to avoid death I could not say."

"But this is different," said Merlin, looking worried. "There are rules. And last night you agreed with Prince Erik that I would probably be killed."

Arthur sighed. "You're not going to be killed. I doubt your fight will last longer than two minutes and somehow you will muddle through it, you always do."

"Well, maybe you can show me how it's done," said Merlin. "Holding a sword, I mean." He accompanied this with a fluttering of his eyes that was frankly alarming. "You are the expert."

"That is clearly true," Arthur said with some hesitancy.

"You have such poise. And your hands are so strong," Merlin continued.

"Also true..." Arthur was chuffed that Merlin was finally taking an interest in the fine art of swordplay, truly, but he was a tad suspicious at this recognition of his skills. Merlin was not given to compliments.

"Well, then, can you show me?" Merlin asked, fumbling the sword a little.

"I've shown you a hundred times already."

"Not like that." Merlin was giving him big doe eyes now. The last time he'd found himself faced with that look, Arthur ended up agreeing to Merlin's argument that laundry need only be done once a month instead of once a week. It was truly dangerous.

Against all better judgment, Arthur stepped forward anyhow, drawn in as if by an invisible force. "Show you?" he asked.

Merlin nodded. "How to handle a sword." He grabbed Arthur's arm, which no one else on this earth would dare do, and pulled it around his own torso.

Arthur adjusted his stance, bringing his other arm around so that both his hands were gripping Merlin's on the hilt.

"Like this?" Merlin asked in a strange and innocent tone.

"Mm," said Arthur, face feeling hot. It was overheating from the excessive practice out under this wintery sun with no servant to bring him his customary flagon of water, because he was too busy teaching said servant how not to be killed.

He noted how Merlin's hair was dry and sun warmed against his cheek as Arthur pressed closer to adjust their overlapping fingers against the hilt.

"It's easy, one-two lunge," Arthur said, in a voice low so only Merlin could hear, taking Merlin through the motions.

They repeated the movement two more times, until Arthur abruptly stepped back.

"You've got it," he said.

"Have I?" Merlin asked, sounding out of breath.

"Good enough. Now let's try a riposte."

Merlin rolled his eyes and hefted his sword again.

"You do know what a riposte is, right?" Arthur said, nudging Merlin's right foot with his boot and adjusting his elbow so it wasn't sticking out like a stork's wing.

The next move, Merlin overcompensated and nearly fell on his face.

"I was joking about the knee walking."

Merlin struggled to regain his footing once more, having trouble with the chestplate that was made for broader men. At this point a fine rain had begun to fall, like a mist catching the rays of sun that peeked through the clouds and exciting small rainbows on the lawn.

They practiced in silence for a few minutes, the only sound their swords clashing.

"Thanks." Merlin was beginning to look somewhat tragic, especially now that sweat and the light drizzle was damping down his hair.

"You look like a drowned ferret," Arthur told him, not unkindly.

"That's heartening." He managed to avoid being thwacked by Arthur's sword.

Arthur finally threw his hands in the air when Merlin asked for the third time about what if the opponent came for his backside.

"No one is coming at your backside!" Arthur said. Merlin did not look convinced. "Jerkin seemed an honorable man."

"He stole my neckerchief."

"You threw it down for him to pick up!"

"It was symbolic. As a fellow peasant he should know I don't have many spares."

"As a fellow peasant he is probably not familiar with rules of gauntlet throwing. He probably thought it was only polite to keep it." Arthur sighed. "Look, he didn't even want to fight. You practically forced him into it."

"For you," Merlin said, petulantly. "I did it all to save you!"

Arthur scoffed. "Be that as it may. I rather like him. In fact, I haven't decided yet who I'll be cheering for—"

And promptly he found himself on his back again, the wind knocked out of him.

When he could draw in a breath finally he struggled onto an elbow. "What in the hell was that!"

"An accident, sire," said Merlin.

"Obviously! The mud these days is intense!"

"I think I've had enough training," Merlin said over his words, dropping his sword to the ground.

Arthur scrambled to his feet. "I highly doubt that."

Merlin however began shucking his armor onto the wet grass with no mind to the fact that he would be the one polishing the rust off later.

"Well, how did I do?" His expression was hopeful.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Let's just say my initial assessment was correct."

"And what's that?"

Arthur clapped him on the shoulder. "I'd rather not say."

"Wow. Just— wow."

"Keep your spirits up, Merlin. Morale is everything when it comes to dueling. Hey, where are you going?"

But Merlin was already off, nodding to the knights who were studiously memorizing couplets about flowers ad nauseum.

Arthur took lunch with a group of visiting nobles who were looking to garner favor with Uther. He then oversaw a minor treaty being signed between a lord and his neighbor whose dispute just couldn't wait a day or two.

He was so busy he barely had time to think about Merlin and his potential bad mood, or what Arthur's next moves should be to coax him out of it. He was far too busy, of course, to think about yesterday, and the surprise kiss. Or how now, going forward, forever, there was always that possibility that at any moment a similarly surprising kiss could happen again. He vowed not to spend his life waiting, and moved on with his day.

Once he had finished a quick debrief with his father that was aimed at reminding Arthur of the whys and hows and heretofores of entertaining their royal guests, he was free to retire to his chambers. He was at the desk, scribbling a quick missive, when there came a quiet rap at the door.

Arthur looked up, quill doubtless leaving an ink splotch where it had paused. "Enter."

Merlin poked his head in.

"Ah, Merlin." Arthur sat back, replacing the quill in its pot, quite glad to see him.

Merlin held up a scroll like an apology. "I brought your speech for tonight's feast. I think it's pretty good but of course cross out anything you'd like. Do you want it now or are you currently occupied?" He craned his neck to look around the room quite unsubtly, as if someone might be sitting right outside of his eye line. In the armoire, perhaps, or on Arthur's bed.

Arthur tipped back in his chair, stretching. "Don't be a fool, come in."

Merlin did. Arthur accepted the scroll.

"Thank you. I'll read it over this afternoon." But the truth was, after all these years Merlin had become quite an excellent writer and well-versed in penning the customary praises of Camelot and her people. Arthur rarely needed to make any additions.

Merlin didn't depart, instead idling near the fireplace. "Also," he said. "I remembered that your hearth needed tending to? It was quite full last night when I lit the fire. I thought maybe I would clean it out now?" He held up a small broom and dust bucket with a vaguely hopeful expression on his face.

"Ok..." said Arthur, somewhat amused by this sudden show of servile attentiveness. He wondered whether Merlin was feeling guilty over his curt dismissal of Arthur at the end of that morning's training.

He watched as Merlin knelt down with his dust pan. He cast around for some conversation.

"Isn't it funny how those from the kingdom of Rheged bow with their left hand behind their back instead of their right hand?"

Merlin snorted. "I can't say that I've noticed." He scooped some ashes into the bucket.

"Have you noticed that they reuse the same coffee grounds? When I breakfasted with the prince this morning his servant poured hot water through the same filter time and again instead of replacing them as we do here."

"I wouldn't know. I haven't had the pleasure of dining with a person from Rheged."

"And— Merlin will you stop brushing so hard, you are making clouds."

Merlin calmed his brushing and the soot began to settle.

Arthur watched his tense back, feeling like he was in danger of angering a bear yet unable to stop his poking. "And wouldn't you say Erik is the perfect gentleman? Do you think it is all people from their land or the Prince especially?"

"You know, I don't think I need to hear more about Erik," Merlin said pleasantly enough, but with an edge. 

"Is that so?"

"I'm just a servant. It is not my place to comment on royalty." Merlin dumped more soot into his bucket.

Arthur went to the window, looking down at the hustle and bustle in the courtyard below. "You know, Merlin, it has been nice to have a new friend. I would like to see you socialize more as well, get to know some of our guests. You are somewhat of an ambassador, after all, what with your being the second in line."

He heard Merlin pause his sweeping, interest piqued despite his dedication to being in a bad mood. "In line for what exactly?"

"In line to be Head Servant, of course." Arthur turned to find Merlin staring.

"It works like that?"

"Well how else would it work?"

Merlin was slack-jawed, as if he'd never considered the prospect of upward mobility. When Arthur only looked very unimpressed, and rightly so, at Merlin's alarming lack of knowledge of the workings of the castle, especially given said prospects, Merlin moved on. "Anyway, I hardly think Erik wants to talk to me."

"I meant spend time with those of your station. What about this Fred fellow?"

Merlin pursed his lips. "I have all the friends I need, thanks."

"Do you though?"

"I am second servant in waiting or whatever you called it, aren't I? I'm quite popular."

"Your lack of deference to titles is frankly appalling. I've always thought so."

Merlin smiled as he rose from the fireplace with a full bucket, hearth now startlingly bare. 

"Come." Arthur clapped his hands together. "We're off to the Yule market. I'm in the mood for some entertainment."

Merlin's eyes brightened, not able to disguise his love of a good romp, no matter the destination. "I mean, yes, but I thought you had 'duties' to fulfil." He emphasized duties, as if Arthur had been known to make these up. "Nobles to enchant. Why do you need to go to the market?"

"To buy you new socks, of course." Arthur felt quite pleased, standing from his desk. "And you can leave the bucket."

Merlin followed him out the door and down the hall. "What's wrong with my socks?"

Arthur walked backward a certain number of steps as they talked, managing to turn just in time to avoid falling down the stairs which he jogged down. "They're full of holes," he called over his shoulder. "It's truly a disgrace. Given a man of your social standing one would expect well-darned socks. But I doubt you even know how."

"Maybe I could ask Gaius," Merlin said, drawing a laugh from both of them at the idea. "Or perhaps I could wear those stocking thingies."

"If you are referring to the style that is apparently all the rage in Mercia, yes I noticed, yes they are ridiculous, and yes please do." The juxtaposition between delicate stockings and the inherent terrifying nature of the Mercian warrior made the recent fashion even better. No one dared laugh at them.

"On second thought, no thank you," said Merlin. He gave Arthur a look. "How do you know my socks have holes in? Have you been going through my washing basket?"

Arthur avoided answering the question, as they had just made it out the drawbridge. He waved as he caught sight of Gwen, and then Morgana. "Ah, there they are." Erik appeared, followed closely by Fred who walked just behind Erik in a very official, far less slouchy manner than Arthur's own servant.

Merlin slowed beside him, shoulder knocking his. "Oh, I thought—"

Arthur looked a question his way, still out of earshot so thankfully the Prince and Morgana didn't hear when Merlin said, "I thought it was just going to be the two of us."

"Be nice, Merlin."

"I am nice." Arthur gave him a look. Merlin rolled his eyes. "Ok, I'm nice to some people. But point taken, I'll be friends. Although why it matters I wouldn't know, I'm just a servant," he muttered so only Arthur could hear as they finally caught up to the group.

Arthur smiled between them all, full of cheer on this pleasant, sunny afternoon. "Shall we?"

Morgana led them down the high street. The Yule market was chock full of people sampling the local delicacies and buying their friends and family New Year's presents and generally having a grand time.

The stalls were bedecked with streamers and bells. Boughs of holly and evergreen hung above doorways and filled the air with the clean, piney scent of the holiday season. The bakers were making fresh biscuits in their outdoor ovens, and every bird-on-a-stick roaster was out hawking, so the air was run through with woodsmoke, a pleasant, charred aroma of hickory and grass.

Their party walked past the places Arthur had known since he was a child: the miller who peddled his bags of fine, white flour, the broom-maker stitching a push broom and whose wares hung by the dozens from the rafters of her stall, the cobbler who had proudly designed a specific style of boot for the knights of Camelot. Fred silently blinked around at all the finery and nearly stumbled over a barrel that overflowed with chestnuts.

"And how was training this morning?" asked Erik, and looked faintly alarmed when Merlin answered instead of Arthur.

"It was good, thanks. Arthur is an excellent fighter. I can only hope to do him proud in the ring."

Erik smiled at Arthur. "It is wonderful to see that your servant loves you well."

"Ah. Ahahaha," was Merlin's only response, before he receded into the background.

All were in a grand mood, perhaps most of all Arthur, who was undeniably pleased to have Merlin finally at his side as he should be. Ever since yesterday things had been amiss between them and he was happy to put it behind them.

Normally it was just he and Merlin wandering around town, enumerating the concerns of peasants for the royal roster and doing unofficial but no less fun miscellaneous royal duties such as helping ferriers name their newborn foals. 

Arthur greatly enjoyed making the rounds, bestowing his presence upon his people with Merlin following next to him giving opinions on everything, nattering on happily about the goings on of daily life, and generally being at his side in case Arthur should need moral support, a helping hand, or someone to be kidnapped in his stead. The usual manservantly style duties which were also, Arthur privately thought, the markings of a true friend.

Gwen soon pointed out her house to Erik, and he made kind comments about its quaint thatching and begged a quick lesson at the blacksmith's forge where Gwen spent half her days.

"Can I touch it?" he asked hopefully, hand hovering near the anvil where Gwen had just shown them how to hammer out a small dent in a knight's shin-guard as an example. The metal was now smooth although still cherry red.

"Please do not," Gwen said, looking ready to grab the water bucket.

After that they tipped a few coins to the pig runner, joining the crowd of people cheering at the racing hogs who were happily slopping around the pen without clear objective.

Arthur took this opportunity when Merlin was distracted by the show to test his reflexes. He jabbed Merlin in the middle.

"Hey!"

"If Jerkin goes for your side, I need you to be prepared!" 

Merlin elbowed him, which wasn't that different to what he was already doing seeing as they were all stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the crowd. "He is not going to get that close." 

"He'll have a sword. He's at least twice as large as you."

Merlin smiled. "Yeah, but I'm wily." 

Arthur was uncertain which pig won and it appeared no one else could decide either, and the crowd only ceased jeering and shouting for a rematch when it was revealed they were in the presence of royalty, so the win went to Morgana who was, while not first in line for the throne, still the eldest, a captivating woman to behold, and, most importantly, a known hog racing enthusiast.

Presently they arrived at Merlin and Arthur's favorite wafer maker and they watched him pour batter in his wafer presses. Closing them tight, he set the presses directly in the coals where he turned them at intervals, knowing from many decades of his trade when the perfect wafer could be released from the iron jaws onto a brown paper. This he topped with all manner of edible decoration.

Morgana was presented a wafer piled high with spiced nuts and honey while Arthur opted for blackberries and cream. Gwen chose her customary apple-cinnamon and custard and Merlin took his country-style, with chestnuts and nutmeg. Erik, surprisingly, took a more cautious route and asked for only raisins.

The wafler paused at this final order, with his wooden spoon uncertainly hovering over the many other toppings. "Might I recommend a rosewater and cinnamon wafer? It is quite popular with the wafer-hesitant."

"I thank you sir, but you heard correctly, just raisins. Nothing fancy for me."

"To every man his taste, I suppose," said Arthur, feeling very wise as he said it, and accepting in the face of so bold a choice. He ate a mouthful of thin, crunchy wafer wrapped around juicy winter berries, and licked the dripping cream from his thumb.

It was gratifying how vocal Erik was about his appreciation for the craftsmanship of Camelot, remarking on the woodworkers with their impressively smooth and curved chairs, and on the jewelers who set small bits of crystal into the hilts of knives and other blades.

Morgana seemed especially taken with him, but not as perhaps Uther might hope, as she took him by the arm and spoke to him of local affairs facing tradesmen of fabrics.

"My lady, I commend you for your worry for the simple folk of trade. But whatever problems they have, imagine them threefold in the kingdom of Rheged. Fine silks have not found their way up north, where the journey is long and arduous for wagons."

This was the first Arthur had heard of such problems with trade. He had assumed that Rheged had enjoyed continued prosperity and even a boom in trade that Camelot was not a part of due to the unmentioned years of strife between the two kingdoms.

"If you have no access to fabrics, however did you come by your fine jackets?" Morgana asked.

"I am pleased you noticed. I had them sent by a special envoy." Finishing off his wafer, and declaring it "fit for a Prince" bringing forth chuckles from all, Erik nodded to the next stall. "And what is this artistry?"

When he looked to see what was next, Arthur's stomach dropped. Countless racks of tapestries, large and small, in alarming colors and styles, hung from the eaves of the stall. But it was their subject matter that was appalling.

"This is my favorite booth, and I believe it shall be yours as well," said Merlin to Erik.

Erik began to examine the tapestries, and Arthur watched as realization dawned. He looked to Arthur, not able to keep the smile from his face.

"Yes," said Arthur, to his unasked question.

The elaborately and often garishly woven tapestries featured one subject alone: Camelot's royal family. 

The weaving woman appeared, finishing off a wafer herself. "Sire!"

Arthur nodded. "Madam."

"What an honor to speak directly to my muse. I hope my work is to your liking. See here, a new depiction." She pulled a blue tapestry from the rack, a five-footer at least, to reveal an intricate pattern of whorls and squiggles depicting wind or snow perhaps, and in the foreground Arthur himself, rescuing children from the jaws of a slavering wolf.

"It's very...striking," he said, which seemed to please her.

He didn't look at Merlin who had clapped a hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing. Erik inspected another tapestry, which showed Arthur astride a snow-white steed, raising his sword towards the sun.

"The gods truly gifted you skill with a loom," he said kindly.

"And what finer way to thank them than to commemorate the Pendragon lineage?" she said.

She had been selling her portraitures on this same corner since Arthur was a babe. The tapestries themselves were quite popular as they served not only as decoration but also as blankets, insulation, or even fuel for the fire during the cold winter months.

Gwen was admiring a detailed portrait of Arthur wrestling a bear. Even though Arthur himself hadn't posed for it, he was embarrassed that Gwen, along with other ladies, might be alarmed by his shirtless form.

"Such effort you have gone to," he said to the woman. "When, ah, when do you think your work will be done?"

"Not until my dying breath. These restless hands need to create."

"Ah, I thought as much." Arthur cast around for a way to extricate them from this particular corner, and his eyes fell on a ramshackle tent behind the stall, a ways back. "Ooh, what is that delight?"

Erik followed his gaze. "What indeed! It looks positively necromantic!"

The wonders of the tapestry tent were quickly left behind as they went to explore this strange structure that Arthur had never seen before.

The tent was darkly fabricked, with a wooden plank above the door upon which the name "Ethel the Illuminatrix" was emblazoned in dripping red that looked still fresh. Images of the dark arts and old crones draped in cobwebs were summoned to mind. 

"It looks to be a fortune teller's hut," said Morgana, pointing at a smaller sign reading "Your future, illuminated, 5 coins apiece."

"That's a steep price," Gwen said. 

Arthur, who rarely bought a loaf of bread himself, could only take her word for it. He wondered who was able to pay such a price.

"I am quite interested in knowing my destiny," said Erik. "And I can hardly imagine even further amusement after this afternoon of wafers and pig gamboling. I must say, I am quite jealous of your Yule market for having a soothsayer."

"There usually isn't, I myself have never seen it before today," said Morgana. "Gwen?"

Gwen tipped her head. "No, mi'lady. I have not. Perhaps it was erected overnight, having accompanied the latest wagons of merchants and entertainers?"

It was true, Camelot had nearly quadrupled in population over the past two days. There were thousands of faces Arthur had never seen before and would never see again. It would be near impossible to keep track of all the extra merchants who may or may not have procured the proper warrants. 

Taxation was a difficult business, Arthur could say that from years of trying to extract pennies from people who were already near destitute. He wouldn't blame a traveling trickster woman to hike up her prices and try to avoid notice back here off the main road.

Or they could be avoiding notice for more obvious reasons. Fortune telling veered dangerously close to sorcery, although Arthur doubted anyone would be stupid enough to actually practice magic in broad daylight like this in the middle of Camelot, which boasted the most notorious anti-sorcery laws in all of Albion.

He read the dripping sign again, feeling a shiver go up his spine. "Erik, if it's a tale you want, I know of an elderly raconteur who works in the linens department who can spin a yarn about anything you'd like, off the cuff —"

Morgana stepped toward the doorway. "Come now, Arthur, don't be frightened."

A pallid servant drew the curtain the moment Morgana's hand fell upon it. "Welcome to Ethel's den," he said with solemnity.

"What is she in the business of illuminating, do you think?" Merlin whispered.

Arthur shrugged. "Destinies and whatnot? It looks quite dark inside so I think it is certainly something metaphorical. Come."

Merlin grinned. "I already know my destiny, thanks. Also I have business to attend to elsewhere."

Luckily the others were talking amongst themselves. Arthur drew Merlin away.

"But—" he said. "I'm your business."

Merlin dusted something invisible off Arthur's shoulder. "Business for Gaius," he said. "I need to get some herbs." Classic Merlin, always working his second job instead of prioritizing his first.

"But—" Arthur was now imagining the rest of his afternoon differently, and didn't like it as much. "But it's more fun with you there!"

"The town could easily fall into grave danger without my important and inexhaustible efforts to ward off evil. You know that. Have fun with Erik."

"Prince Erik," Arthur corrected in a sullen tone, he could hear it himself.

"Yes, I'm glad you're spending more time with friends of your rank." Merlin said it only slightly pointedly.

Arthur put his hands on his hips but Merlin was immune by this point and had an annoying way of patting Arthur on the arm and leaving without so much as a backward glance so Arthur was left looking like the idiot gazing after him.

"Arthur, are you coming? Or are you actually scared?" Morgana said it kindly, which rankled. Doubtless she recalled the times Arthur had quite understandably been frightened by Uther's bedtime tales of craggy witches that dwelled in disguise within Camelot's walls.

"I'm not frightened," Arthur gritted out, refusing to continue watching as Merlin disappeared into the crowd, and followed Morgana into the tent. His mood was considerably dampened. "Just doubting the qualifications of this Ethel."

When he walked in, they found the hut inhabited by a wizened woman, not actually covered in cobwebs but close, seated in the semi-darkness as torches flickered in their braziers. She was quite diverse of fabric and attire, and from her neck dangled many gold chains encrusted with gems of dubious legitimacy. Her glittering eyes were barely visible under the heavily feathered brim of her hat.

"Ah, I knew you'd come," she said with a small cackle.

"Of course you did," Gwen muttered and Arthur had to hide a snort of laughter.

"Come, take a seat and let the Illuminatrix shine a light upon your future."

"Ooh, what fun. I'll go first," said Morgana. 

She took a seat across from the old woman. Between them was a large, craggy crystal from which emanated a blue glow—obviously from some flame she must have hidden, or perhaps due to a cleverly placed mirror refracting the light. Also on the table was a pack of well-worn tarot cards and a cracked human skull, leering and half full of coins.

The woman shuffled the deck of cards thrice and fanned them out toward Morgana. "Draw five cards, my dear."

Morgana did so and Arthur found himself leaning forward to peer down around her shoulder with the rest of their group. However, the cards were so aged and well-thumbed that he couldn't make out any of the designs.

"Interesting, very interesting," said the woman. She took the cards one by one and Morgana looked on in rapt attention. She had always gone in for this sort of thing, but Arthur had to admit that this mystical atmosphere did make it easier to believe. He admired the woman's daring walk along the line that separated simple smoke and mirrors from a place on the pyre.

"What do you see?" Morgana breathed.

"I see a forest," said Ethel.

"The forest around Camelot?"

"No, it is a forest some ways away." She turned the second card. "Ah, you've pulled the magician card. Often this represents a wise man or a teacher, but you also chose the fool. I believe these two cards speak of the same young man, both a fool and a philosopher of sorts. Do you know anyone like that?"

Morgana thought about it then shook her head.

"Well you will come to know him soon enough, I have no doubt. He plays a large part in your life. And here I see a dragon," she pointed to another worn card.

"Metaphorical I'm sure," said Arthur but he knew Morgana and Gwen must too be thinking of the dragon who had broken free from beneath the castle, whose existence had only been a legend until it had nearly burned the castle to the ground.

"Oh dear," said the woman ignoring him as she examined the final card.

"What is it?"

"This card, the high priestess."

"Yes?"

"I see a woman. Her name begins with the letter M perhaps? Very charismatic and wise. She may change your life but one cannot say if it will be for the better. I would suggest you avoid anyone of that description should you wish to keep your life unchanged."

Morgana looked considerably less excited as she sat back. "My name begins with M."

The old woman, however, did not expand on her comment, just shook her head. "The cards have no more to say at this time."

Morgana thanked her a bit sourly, and Gwen dropped coins into the skull from the purse she carried for her.

"Gwen, your turn," said Morgana, but Gwen shook her head with a smile and withdrew back into the shadows.

The woman did not comment, just gestured to Arthur to sit on the low stool across from her, which he did.

"Well," he said, not introducing himself, interested to see what fortune she may tell him without the preconceived notions or politesse afforded the royal name. "What of my future?"

Instead of reshuffling the cards she put them aside, ducking her head to instead stare intently into the crystal. It was clear in parts, cloudy in others. Arthur found himself leaning in a bit to see what she could see but saw nothing. All an act, although she acted well, for after a long moment her eyes widened as if she had witnessed something very alarming and she looked up at him with a smile. "Ah, I see great things for you. A crown."

Arthur nodded. She had clearly guessed his identity from his clothing and company he kept.

She waved her knobbled hands over the crystal and stared into it for a time. "Yes, I see a glorious future, blazing bright, followed by a great battle—"

She said some more things about this battle until Arthur cut her off as respectfully as he could. Of course he took very seriously the prospect of losing men in war, but this version of his future could be that of any prince, and so was almost redundant in its vague details. If she was going to weave him a tale he at least wanted one he hadn't heard before.

"I am wondering after more...ah...interpersonal matters, if you will?" he asked hopefully. He could almost sense the laughter Morgana held back at this, but he refused to look over his shoulder.

"Ah, you wonder after your future queen?" Ethel didn't quite look at him but squinted just past his shoulder, smiling as if she could see this theoretical woman in the very room at this moment. Arthur's small, joking hope that this Illuminatrix had some true gift of sight waned even more.

"Not...as such," he said, wishing suddenly he were alone in her tent so he could speak more brazenly. "Just generally. Any news of, ah. A good friendship—or romance—I suppose—will do. Not specifically a queen."

"Ah," she said. And the sudden, piercing quality of her gaze was enough to rekindle his small belief in her powers. "You speak of a certain subject." She gave him a wink with one scary eye then returned to the crystal. "Yes...yes. I see it clearly now. A great romance, built on sweeping devotion that follows one to the very brink of death. And of course, this involves a passionate consummation followed by many more—"

"All right, thank you. You don't need to see that much," said Arthur curtly, hoping she had turned her third eye away before witnessing anything private. He jumped to his feet. "I thank you madam." He waved for Gwen to deposit the requisite coins into the skull, and despite his embarrassment felt a certain buoy in his spirits that hadn't been there moments before.

Erik was last to step forward. He sat and she took his hands in hers, pulling them close to her face to read the lines in the dim light, the coiling smoke from the incense heavy and doubtless not helping the low visibility.

"Ah, quite interesting," said the woman, tracing paths on his heavily scarred palms. "You have seen much bloodshed."

"It is part and party with my duty," said Erik, nodding.

"Well I am sorry to say this duty has not yet ended. The burden of your parents rests upon you. Heavy is the head that wears the crown." The crone suddenly fixed her piercing eyes on Erik gripping his hand tighter. "You know of what I speak. Beware."

Arthur noticed Erik looked rather pale as he thanked her, standing abruptly as Fred dropped coins into the skull.

Arthur couldn't help but sense the afternoon had soured after the mostly  unfavorable visions of the fortune teller. He felt oddly guilty that his had been so flawlessly perfect. In fact, he was glad Merlin hadn't been there to hear it as Arthur wasn't sure how he would have answered a direct question.

By mutual and unspoken agreement they began their ascent back to the castle for an afternoon that promised naps, baths, and other relaxation techniques. Gwen carried an armful of foxglove and violet blooms wrapped in brown paper purchased either by Morgana for her or for Morgana by Gwen, Arthur was never quite clear on these things, and Fred kept up admirably, arms heavy with the bags of Erik's many purchases.

Arthur indulged himself in a mug of hot cider, the juicy cinnamony heat puckering his mouth as he once again took in the festive cheer of the market. It was his favorite season, when people just seemed happy. No battles could be fought due to the weather and the early sunset, the land needn't be worked due to the frosts, so people focused on hearth and home. It was a time that meant long evenings by the fire, with your feet propped on a foot stool made from the hide of some majestic beast or other that you had slaughtered yourself.

Arthur shivered pleasantly against the frosty air, digging the hand that was not occupied with his drink close into his pocket, looking forward to heading back inside into the castle's warmth.

And then his eyes fell on Merlin.

"Merlin!" he called, only just stopping himself from waving like a lovestruck boy.

"Arthur," said Merlin, smiling. And for that moment it was perfect. Arthur's cheeks felt rosy in the frigid air, the sun was shining down on them both as Arthur neared Merlin, who looked so pleased to see him after such a short time apart, like they were two normal men not divided by class or circumstance about to meet up at the —

"The tavern." Arthur stopped in his tracks. "Merlin, really?"

Merlin looked around up at the tavern sign hanging cheerily above him as if he hadn't noticed. He raised his hands to quell Arthur's understandable disappointment. "This is not what it looks like."

"Oh really?" Arthur crossed his arms. "Because it looks like you're here skulking under the mistletoe!"

Merlin looked very taken aback by this observation, as if alarmed Arthur had sussed him out. Arthur always had been able to ferret out all Merlin's poorly concealed secrets. He gestured to the mistletoe that Merlin was clearly waiting near.

"Merlin, Merlin, Merlin." He shook his head. Morgana and Erik had come back his way to join him, and he gestured to Merlin. "My servant. The one who had urgent business 'gathering herbs for Gaius,'" Arthur quoted Merlin's very words back at him.

Merlin frowned. "I am gathering herbs for Gaius."

Arthur scoffed.

"So you deny that you're waiting for some poor drunkard to become entrapped?""

"Arthur!" Morgana scolded but Arthur was just getting started.

"And you deny that you're once again shirking your duties to hang out around the tavern? No you cannot, for I have seen it with mine own two eyes. After all your noble sentiments yesterday that you delivered upon the poor Jerkin, you are here under the mistletoe once more? After we shared a—" he couldn't say it. The memory was too gilded to be sullied, to be spoken of in this new reality. "Haven't you seen to embarrassing Camelot enough for one weekend?"

"Well if you'll let me get a word in, maybe I can explain!" Merlin gave him a severe look and, when he saw Arthur was content to just sneer at him for the time being, he said, "I am here on business with Gaius."

Arthur laughed at that. "Oh I highly doubt the court physician would bid you to find drunkards to kiss."

Merlin rolled his eyes, which drew a gasp from Fred, and rightly so. If Merlin were anyone else—

"That's not why I'm here, and if you weren't such a clotpole you would see that," Merlin said, because he wasn't anyone else. He was Merlin, who Arthur, god help him, would allow to call him any manner of names without condemning him to a life in prison. 

That said, doing so in front of the entire town which of course was gathering again quickly like flies on a honeybun was not a wise move. 

Merlin continued to glare at him. "And it does have to do with plants. Although not in the way you are accusing me. Honestly, Arthur, what do you think of me?"

"If what you say is true," said Arthur. "Then you have my apologies." It was hard to grit out, and he did so mainly for appearances, but he did enjoy the idea that Merlin was not here to drink and not here to kiss other men, er, people. Arthur had no idea who Merlin truly wanted to kiss, but he could be forgiven for assuming it was men, as women did not frequent the tavern and— Arthur's mind was awhirl. He really needed a lie down.

"Thank you," said Merlin sullenly.

Morgana frowned at Arthur. "Yes, thank you for seeing sense. See, here Gaius comes now."

It was true. They turned to look, and Gaius slowed as he saw the party. His face took on a somber expression which Arthur thought might also be a touch guilty.

"Hello, sire," he said, nodding to Arthur then the rest.

"Ah, Gaius, we were just discussing why Merlin is lingering around the tavern."

Gaius darted his eyes to Merlin. "Ah, I could not say, sire. I myself am just passing through to purchase some, ah, rosemary for a memory tincture as my stores had run out. It is pure coincidence that I have arrived here at this very moment, when I had no knowledge of Merlin's whereabouts. In fact, I believed him to be with you, sire, attending to your needs as he always should be."

Arthur turned a triumphant look on Morgana, and then a disappointed one on Merlin, who looked like he thought he was on the receiving end of poor treatment. This, when any other servant would be instantly clapped into the stocks regardless of feelings on rotten veg.

"If I may," came a voice.

They all whirled around. It was Fred. Arthur looked to Erik for confirmation that his tight-lipped manservant had volunteered to speak. Erik looked equally shocked, but waved for Fred to continue.

He cleared his throat and turned to address Merlin. "I am most disquieted by your flagrant abuse of your master. To shirk not only your duties to the Prince, but to Camelot itself. Never in all my long years have I seen such a blatant disregard for royalty and the respect that office deserves, as ordained by God himself."

Arthur nodded along in earnest, but Fred was not done yet.

"Your actions speak of a certain je ne sais quoi." He cast about for a term that would express exactly what he thought of Merlin's character, and landed on a Latin one that Arthur wasn't sure of the meaning but sounded appropriately dastardly. "A morologus. There, I have said it. You take the love of your master quite lightly, and, given your actions, I doubt you return it."

Arthur's nodding slowed at this saddening statement. Could it be so? He truly hoped not.

"This man spoke so highly of you!" Fred gestured to Arthur, who smiled uncomfortably. "He thinks more of you than you deserve. Saying all sorts of things I have only heard in poetry, about you, who are naught but a nugator ac nebulo."

"Well…" said Arthur, who may have brought Merlin's name up in conversation a couple times, but it hadn't been that bad. Had it?

"For shame," Fred concluded, voice aquiver. "For shame."

"For shame," Arthur agreed. "Thank you, Fred, quite well put." The man preened and Arthur pointed at Merlin. "And I shall speak with you later about your flagrant actions. I expect to see you at the feast tonight, but I will ask another servant to attend to me beforehand."

Merlin looked upset, and it was no wonder.

"You shall have Fred," said Erik cheerfully. "Fred is the finest a man could ask for."

"I have found that to be true," said Arthur, sending Merlin a quelling look. Merlin's lips flattened into a gratifying line of distaste. Yes, let him be jealous of Fred attending the master, see how he liked it when Arthur was served by other men. "I can be sure he will be there on time, and not in any way inebriated."

"I am abstinent," Fred agreed.

"Great," said Arthur, not quite as sold on Fred as he claimed to be but going with it for the jealousy angle. "Thank you, Fred, for that information." 

He gave Merlin one last look before striding away, leaving Merlin glaring in their wake.

"I don't want to hear it," he told Morgana, before she could even start in on how he should be treating Merlin right, or putting up with Merlin's clearly treasonous lack of affection for Arthur, the crown prince of Camelot who at least warranted some thought due to title, if not personal attachment. Had he not fought for Merlin? Had he not saved his life on at least three score occasions? Even the cook loved Arthur more than Merlin, and he knew he was a royal pain at times when it came to his meals.

Morgana took him by the arm. "Oh Arthur," she sighed. "I wasn't going to say anything." She nicked his cider.

Fred did attend to him that evening.

It was entirely uneventful—so much so that Fred really had no presence at all. After Arthur woke up from his nap he found an already prepared bath with almost but not quite the right amount of bubbles. As he sank in up to his neck, he tried to relax but could not get the memory of Merlin's tragic aspect from his mind, even though it was Merlin himself who had put himself in the situation. Arthur was truly too kind for his own good sometimes, Merlin himself had said it. He sank lower in the warm water, which was not quite as steaming as he was used to but still good.

"I took the liberty of shining your belt buckle," Fred said as he dressed Arthur efficiently in his best jacket, shirt, and trousers an hour later. His face fell at Arthur's chuckle.

Arthur smiled. "Pay me no mind, I'm laughing at a foolish joke I share with M—other servants," he said, waving away Fred's questioning look. "Thank you for your service to Camelot."

Fred's pride was restored and he bowed his way out.

Arthur made his way down to the feast, alone but in good spirits despite the recent upset in his personal cabinet. After tonight, if Merlin didn't do well at the one task of serving him food, Arthur might just have to banish him from the kingdom. Things were indeed looking grim for Merlin, he mused, and had a little chortle to himself.

Two hundred of Camelot's most important guests were just taking their seats when he arrived. There were women in brocade dresses, their floor-length skirts three times the size of their bodies. There were men with puffed sleeves and curled mustaches, looking in the foreign way. There was laughter everywhere and a chinking of bejeweled goblets as mead splashed between their cups to prove there was no poison, and thus no quarrel between the sometimes warring, however currently at peace, kingdoms. 

In short, all was merry, and Arthur took his seat between his father and Morgana.

The moment he did, he felt a presence behind him. It was Merlin, who silently stepped forward and filled his goblet with wine, then dropped a serviette most elegantly across Arthur's lap to perfection. He then stepped back, Arthur not acknowledging his actions and Merlin making his presence practically unknown. For once, as it should be.

"What a spread!" King Magne declared from down the table. "Isn't it quite a spread, Eleanor?"

"Indeed it is my lord," said the Queen, who appeared still quite sickly even in the golden light of the torches, candelabras, and grand chandelier bedecked with fine beeswax candles and flowers. "Prince Arthur, you may not believe it but ours is a humble land and we only eat larger game meat on the equinox and the solstice."

"I did not know that," Arthur said. "I am humbled to learn of your customs."

Upon the tables there were three whole roast elk, as well as many a charcoal roasted lamb. The innards of all were fried in herbed oils which, as the meal commenced, were quickly speared up by Uther's army of elderly advisors who declared offal to be the greatest of culinary delights.

"I thank you for the use of your servant," said Arthur, leaning to speak to Erik past Morgana.

Erik, who really was the most gracious of companions, only smiled. "Anything that endears myself to your lordship."

"Such a honeyed tongue," Arthur laughed, and leaned back in his seat to enjoy the buffet.

The feast was quite delicious. There were platters of roast root vegetables over which Arthur could pour the varied sauces. Crusty baguettes for the purpose of tasting every one of the compound butters. And saucissons lay coiled before him on a platter, an intestinal mound of greasy, blistered links. 

Whatever the cooks may say of him — grape addict, pickled egg fiend — sometimes Arthur just ate sausages.

"Have you recovered from your strop?" Uther asked suddenly.

Arthur paused with his hand on the handle of the gravy dish. "Pardon?"

"Morgana told me you were in a strop during your tour of the town. I had hoped you'd recovered so you might make a favorable impression on our guests."

Arthur directed a glare at Morgana who just raised an eyebrow.

"'Strop' is not the word I would use," he assured his father.

"Be that as it may," said Uther. "Remember your duty. You are to give the guests a good showing and do not let your personal feelings, whatever they may be, get in the way of courteous diplomacy. Be polite and do not show excess of humors."

It was not worth explaining to his father once again that Gaius had declared Arthur's humors to be in healthy balance.

Arthur let go of the gravy boat, which was promptly snatched by Morgana most impatiently, as if they were still children and it had been conceivable that he would dump the entire thing over his boiled goose.

He frowned again at her but only said, "Of course Father."

Uther turned to his left to continue speaking with King Magne.

"I'm only worried for your personal life," Morgana said, and Arthur was certain he could detect a hint of amusement at his expense.

She stood and floated away toward a gaggle of noblewomen laughing prettily beside the fountain of fruited wine. A band of dressed-up lutists had begun to pluck their strings with gusto, as a man in troubadour's gear staunchly declaimed a lyrical poem about courtly love and the comic entanglements a young lad may find himself in should he be struck by cupid's arrow.

This left Arthur to join the conversation to his right, where the sons of other visiting royalty were seated, most much older than Arthur himself and not the most interesting to talk to.

Erik moved his chair back a fraction to give Arthur better access to the conversation, and quickly found himself involved in one of the princes' tales of a hunt gone wrong last winter.

"The poor gentleman was covered in snow and was mistaken for a snow fox," the man laughed. "Almost shot to death by our arrows!"

"Rather large for a fox," Arthur noted.

"Then you haven't seen the true girth of a North Umbrian!"

Erik elbowed him and said to the listening men, "I am close to Arthur's stature, so by transitive logic you are accusing your host to be unforgivably short."

The eldest Prince of Mercia pounded the table. "Who said he was talking about height?" He cracked up, laughing bawdily as he was joined in by a roar of laughter from the others.

Arthur rolled his eyes at the good-natured jibe, his eyes seeking out Merlin's almost on instinct, so used to sharing unspoken jokes across the room. But when he finally spotted him, Merlin was standing against a wall, stock still and staring at nothing, jaw set, bearing a platter of wild grouse like any old statue. 

Arthur raised a flakey, pastry-couched crustard of egg and eel to his mouth — both ingredients freshly locally sourced from Camelot's esteemed chicken coop and the castle moat, respectively  — and turned back to the conversation. He noted that Erik looked altogether untroubled the whole meal, quite unlike the shocked look Arthur had caught on his face at the market.

Once the main savory courses of the dinner had been finished off, a symphony of servants brought forth the next course of pudding on silver platters. Wine-soaked cakes, marzipan tarts, berry compote topped with creams squeezed fresh from the teat of creatures great and small — the works. They took with them the platters of half-eaten carcasses, and Erik turned to Arthur again.

"Surely they are not throwing the rest of that away. It is perfectly serviceable."

"The servants may pick at the bones if they like," said Arthur. "I'm honestly not quite sure. Maybe it's for use in the stocks?"

Erik frowned. "Forgive me, I believe we live a humbler life up north. Yours is one of excess, I am amazed."

Once again Arthur was stopped by this. "Tell me more about life in Rheged," he asked plainly, for this surely fit under the cultural exchange his father had bid of him.

"A kingdom like any other," Erik said, picking up a macaron that oozed lemon curd. "Not interesting to speak of. You know, I am quite taken by your style of dance," he said, switching the subject quite quickly.

Arthur looked to where Erik was gesturing. Dancing had begun in the center of the floor as half those attending favored music to sweets.

"What say you of that handsome couple?" Erik asked, gesturing to a beautifully dressed man and woman with hair styled in the Kentish fashion.

"She is doubtless very beautiful," said Arthur tucking into an almond pastry next.

There was a pause that took on a queer sort of significance only after Erik asked, "And the man?"

"Lord Gilderoy of Aubergine, a fine equestrian, " Arthur said promptly, and did not share the gossip that the man had been rumored to find enjoyment in private sessions of coin collecting and spoke fervently on standardizing currency to all who would listen.

"He has a fine form," Erik said.

It was true, Aubergine was quite smartly dressed, a sense of detail that was probably useful when it came to coin collecting. And he was a good dancer, that much was clear to Arthur's only moderately practiced eye. But he doubted either of these characteristics was what Erik was referring to.

Arthur hesitated before saying, "I cannot deny that. He looks to have trained his body well. He's not ideal as a conversation partner unfortunately."

"That is not necessary for all things, but longterm yes I agree it would not be satisfying," responded Erik. "Areyou taken by anyone at present?"

Arthur cut a quick glance to him, and made sure Morgana was still out of earshot conversing with the ladies. "I have no understandings with anyone, no. Surely you would have heard of it immediately as it would spread to the corners of Albion."

Erik smiled. "I do not speak of formal engagements which are so often a simple alliance of families, I speak of the heart."

Arthur laughed and even to his ears it sounded a little awkward. He was always included in the knights' seemingly endless discussion of attractive women in the kingdom, but none ever asked Arthur directly about his attachments. Whether because no matter how close they all were, Arthur would always by virtue of birth be placed one unreachable step above, or perhaps it was something more inane, as if talking about a wife would jinx the entire Pendragon line depending on him marrying.

Sometimes the thought made Arthur's stomach turn.

"My lord?" Erik asked, tapping playfully at Arthur's goblet stem with his silver tarte spoon. Arthur was pulled from his thoughts.

"Did my father put you up to this? Because you can tell him to shove off."

"No, I assure you this is for my own curiosity."

Arthur took his time consuming a many layered walnut pastry which had been cleverly shaped into the likeness of a wild boar, before turning completely to look at Erik full on.

"To be honest," he said.

"Yes?"

He glanced around the room but did not find the face he was looking for. Perhaps Merlin was behind him, waiting to fulfill Arthur's next whim at the smallest gesture from Arthur. Or he had skived off his duties and was spending the evening with friends or at the tavern. Perhaps Merlin didn't care at all. Arthur cleared his throat. "It's nothing. What about you?"

"Me? I'm too busy with affairs of the kingdom for any entanglements unfortunately, let alone to take a wife."

"What? Like, too busy to take one ever?"

Erik grimaced and Arthur had asked it as a joke but he saw no disagreement in Erik's eyes. He thought back to what he'd seen earlier, and had wanted so desperately to know.

He hesitated, uncertain how to broach such a subject too forward for so new a friendship but Erik was still looking at him intimately and he felt he could ask.

"I cannot help but harken back to the words of Ethel," Arthur began, then clarified "—The Illuminatrix," as if they had found themselves in the smoky tent of more than one old crone that afternoon.

"Ah." Erik leaned back out of Arthur's space, taking a long sip from his goblet. "I believe your words were 'entirely misleading and unbased in the sciences.'"

Arthur also sipped his drink, a good, mulled wine, the type he always associated with the fifteen nights of Yule feasting. "I have no doubt she was a fraud. Be that as it may, it was your reaction that struck me. You seemed, forgive me for mentioning, nearly afraid at her words." He thought back to Erik's face turning white, as if he had seen a phantom from beyond the grave.

"No, no," said Erik, although his furtive glance around belied this claim. He seemed relieved to find none of the other princes listening in, as they all were instead watching in wonder as a jester began juggling flaming torches to the droning music of a hurdy-gurdy.

"Are you quite alright?" Arthur asked in a lower voice so that his father didn't hear, so that no one could hear. "I'm a loyal confidant and will take your concerns to my deathbed. You have my word."

Erik's smile was chagrined. "Do not burden yourself with concern," he said. "The ways of the kingdom are never smooth. You know this, I have no doubt. It is your kind intentions that touch me," he placed a hand on Arthur's knee, so as not to be seen by the others should they spy his gratitude. "I thank you for your concern," he said, looking like he dearly meant it.

And that was the last Arthur thought of the moment, as he heard Merlin, who had reappeared as if from the ether, cry out.

Arthur swung around to look toward the shout, and saw that Merlin was wobbling on his feet, a hand cast over his forehead almost theatrically.

Arthur jumped to his feet. "What is wrong with you?" There didn't seem to be any blood. 

His quick reflexes were all that saved Merlin a nasty bump to the head, as Merlin swooned, right into Arthur's arms.

"Merlin?" Arthur said, arm tight around his shoulders as he lowered Merlin to the flagstones. He slapped Merlin gently on the cheek as others gathered round.

Merlin's lips parted, his breathing coming out in worried huffs, his cheeks red, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Good grief," Arthur said, and ran a finger down Merlin's neck to feel for a pulse.

"Is he dead?" a woman screeched. The music had entirely stopped.

"What is the meaning of this?" Uther semi-roared, keeping it down for the sake of the guests but clearly ready to go on a hanging spree at any moment should he find the slightest cause.

"Merlin, for god's sake wake up immediately or my father will surely kill you, extra dead," Arthur murmured, and Merlin's eyes fluttered open finally.

"Arthur?" he said in a dreamy voice. "My hero."

"You truly are a disappointment," Arthur told him, tone grave, as he helped Merlin to sit up in his arms. He got to his feet and grabbed a nearby servant and said, "Get him out of here."

"My lord." The servant nodded and grabbed Merlin promptly beneath the arms and helped him up. He began to lead him off with a firm grip. 

The party immediately resumed its verve and vigor, as if returning from a brief and strange pause. Arthur caught the servant by the back of the shirt before he went. "On second thought, take him to my chambers."

The servant barely blinked an eye at this and led Merlin away.

Merlin, Arthur gathered from three servants who talked anxiously at him all at the same time, had been badly alarmed when the jester had pivoted suddenly from fire-juggling to sword-swallowing. It was true. The jester now seemed leery of causing any more fainting spells and had timidly gone back to the torches for the rest of his act.

"I assure you, he is unhinged," Arthur heard his father saying to King Magne. "We gave him employment out of the goodness of our hearts, despite his many afflictions."

"Kind of you to employ such a weakling—"

Arthur stopped listening, and went to stand beside the other princes once more, trying with effort to be interested in what they were discussing. However, he found their conversation quite dull, and could not get on board with the conceit that catching ducks through the art of falconry was in any way comparable to the effort it took to hunt using a bow and one's own aim. 

He went to take a turn about the room, having fleeting conversations while sipping at his goblet until Erik drew him into conversation once more.

It was just past midnight when he and Erik stumbled out of the feast, arms about each others' shoulders and snickering about which royals had made fools of themselves for drink and which nobles would be having trouble sitting in the stands tomorrow due to epic hangovers.

"I thank you kindly for saving me from the arms of the duchess of...where was she from?" Erik slurred only a bit. He had a charming blush to his cheeks that reminded Arthur of the carefree boy he'd met so long ago. They rounded the corner toward Arthur's chambers.

"Kent," said Arthur, who had been bid by his father to memorize every name on the regional family trees and kingdoms from whence they hailed.

"Yes, Kent. It seems tales of your heroic deeds were not exaggerated." As they neared the door, they slowed. "We should beg off tomorrow."

"As you know, there's an important event happening tomorrow. Now what's it called?" Arthur pretended to think long and hard. "Ah yes, the Yule tourney, only the biggest, most important showing of knightly valour all year."

"I'm being serious. We could ditch the duties and head to our lake. What do you say?"

"Our lake," said Arthur, laughing as Erik went to clap him on the shoulder but missed and laid a gentle hand on the back of Arthur's neck instead, "can wait. Be honest! You are just afraid to witness the complete destruction of your knights at the hands of my men."

Instead of rising to this verbal challenge, Erik only sighed. They were stood in the moonlight, facing one another quite close. Through the haze of mulled wine, Erik's touch suddenly felt quite personal, and Arthur noticed he smelled of the evergreens found in northern lands.

"Tell me, Arthur," he said, voice quiet. "Does it ever feel like too much a burden?"

"A burden?"

Arthur may have been imagining things but he thought Erik looked a bit wretched. "I mean, have you ever felt so overcome with who you must be and what you must...do...that you would much prefer to leave unseen in the dead of night. Take on a new identity? Instead of the life of a prince become completely anonymous and live out your days in a lovely cottage further south eating soft cheese direct from the goat? That sort of thing?" His eyes had begun to shine with an idealistic sort of hope, like maybe they could just do it if he put it into words.

"Of course." Because that pretty much summed up Arthur's every day. On second thought, he added, "Except the cheese bit. You'll remember I prefer hard."

Erik ignored this salient point, swaying toward him so that Arthur had to stop him with a hand on the chest. "Then you come with me tomorrow." Erik said it in a rough whisper. Arthur suddenly didn't think that this was a theoretical conversation. "We only need a bag or two of provisions and each other. We could trust our feet, live life the way we were always meant to. None would be the wiser for at least half a day, and by then we'd have disappeared."

Before Arthur could find the words to respond, the door they were leaning on opened abruptly, causing Arthur to nearly fall over backward. Thankfully he had finely honed instincts and managed to catch himself on the door frame.

It was Merlin, limned in the firelight and tired around the eyes like he'd just woken. He was also quite surly by the looks of it.

Whatever Erik had been about to say, the moment had broken.

"Let us continue this discussion in the morning," Arthur said to him kindly. "I've business to attend to."

Erik looked to Merlin, then to Arthur. Finally, standing straighter, he seemed to pull himself together. One could almost believe he wasn't at all the worse for drink. "Forget I said anything. It was but a fleeting fancy, the words of a drunk fool. My father has always criticized me for being a dreamer."

"Then it is forgotten." Arthur gripped his arm before the man stepped away to leave. "And Erik?"

Erik turned, looking hopeful.

"You are a good man. What say you we go to our lake in two days' time."

"After the tournament?" Erik's tone was wistful. "I will hold you to it. Good night, Arthur." He gave a nod that seemed halfhearted, before making his way in the direction of the guest rooms.

They watched him go, Arthur only turning to Merlin once they were well enough alone. "Hi," he said, shoulder against the doorframe, attempting to appear casual. He looked Merlin over. "You look well." 

It was a relief, truly, Merlin looked in the peak of health, no sign of earlier illness that had caused him to faint to the floor like an autumn leaf.

"I tried to go back to my room, you know, but I was locked up here 'on order of the prince.' Care to explain?"

"After that fainting nonsense I had to make sure you would live through the night, didn't I? However, you seem no longer on the brink of death which I am glad to see."

Merlin snorted. "Thanks for your concern."

"I meant— I mean, you look good."

Merlin frowned.

"Oh admit it, you're absolutely fine. I once saw a servant nearly cut his finger off and still he managed to serve the roast duck." He paused but when Merlin just stared at him continued, voice rising, "that servant was you."

"Well, as you have noted I'm fine now. Thank you for your concern. I won't trouble you again." He went to shut the door but Arthur was too quick, even somewhat inebriated as he was and quite tired.

"Come now," he chided. "Haven't you been pleased to spend time alone in my warm and exceedingly comfortable chambers? I've seen you eyeing my pillows for years."

"Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"What do you want?"

At Merlin's downturned mouth Arthur sighed, and conceded. "Fine, you've caught me out. I wanted to have a word in private."

Merlin frowned further. "...Why?"

Arthur looked at him incredulously. "Before tomorrow? Your duel?"

"Oh. That."

Merlin turned and walked away into the room like he didn't care whether Arthur followed or not. Arthur felt like he was trespassing before remembering it was his own chambers and Merlin was a literal servant who should barely be even speaking to him, let alone moping around the prince's rooms not doing any chores like a mistress.

"I wonder sometimes if the excessive drinking affects your memory," said Arthur.

"You may have mentioned that theory before." Merlin's expression was sour as he took a seat at the end of the bed. It looked like he had taken advantage of the opportunity after all, as the quilts were kicked down to the bottom of the bed, a complete mess.

Arthur experienced a painful sort of fondness in his chest, an emotion that Merlin shouldn't conjure up in him but somehow always did. "You know, sometimes I wish you'd be more like Fred."

Merlin looked so quickly enraged that Arthur put his hands up in front of him as if warding off an attack. "I'm only joking." He waited until Merlin had reached to halfheartedly right the sheets. "Although Fred is not that bad."

Merlin stopped trying to tug the blankets to rights. "You know, why don't you ask Erik back instead. I'm sure he enjoys your jokes."

"All right, that's enough." He waited for Merlin to look at him, but when he didn't, exploded with, "What iswrong with you, Merlin?"

"Nothing."

"Lying doesn't become you. I'm used to you just saying anything that strikes your fancy, directly to my face."

Merlin scoffed. "And damn the consequences?"

"Exactly!"

Merlin looked at his face, not smiling but not looking angry anymore, which was progress. Arthur let him look. There was a warmth that spread through him and he wondered if Merlin felt it too. Or perhaps Arthur was worse for drink and had better turn in before making a fool of himself.

He suddenly remembered. "I have something for you."

He went to the trunk in the corner of his room and selected a sword, weighing it in one hand before tossing it to Merlin who, despite his supposed weakened state, caught it right way round with no trouble.

Merlin looked at the sword and hesitated before asking, "Is this a threat of some kind? Because normally when men attack you with a sword—"

Arthur scoffed. "I didn't attack you."

"Well, what do you expect me to do with this?"

"Use it. Tomorrow. I would rather you didn't die."

Merlin's face took on a complicated expression. "Is that an order? I suppose I'll try."

He stood and carried out a few of the one-two-thrusts as Arthur had so painstakingly drilled into him that morning.

"Make Camelot proud."

"Yes, yes," Merlin said. He examined the sword in the firelight, and Arthur fancied he might have seen a sheen of happiness in Merlin's eyes, not just the reflection of the firelight in the polished blade.

"Although you do realize I just fainted due to watching a man swallow a sword."

"I assure you this has been inside no person." Arthur amended, "Not swallowed at least. It has served me well in many battles and I hope it does the same for you."

"I don't need a sword, Arthur."

"Nonsense, every man needs a sword."

Merlin had an unreadable expression on his face. "Ok, I know to you a sword is man's finest creation, so I will accept this gift in the spirit in which it was meant." He placed it gently on the table. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Anyway, I know you were faking it."

"Faking what?"

"That whole fainting bit." He elbowed Merlin, who he knew was ticklish at his sides. "You just wanted to leave the feast."

"Hm," said Merlin, stepping quickly away, but there was a glint to his eyes.

Arthur's mouth dropped open. "You were faking?"

Merlin shrugged. "I was bored. You try and stand for hours on end staring at nothing. And to be honest I didn't want to watch as Prince Erik tried to manipulate you into running away with him, and what I saw just now only confirms my suspicions."

"He was joking."

"Anyhow, I felt it best for everyone that I made my exit."

Arthur snorted. "Some exit. After hearing about your deceit, I don't know if you deserve the sword."

"I do," said Merlin, trying to hide the large blade behind his back. "You have no idea how much I deserve this sword."

"You didn't even want it a moment ago."

"How dare you say that in front of my sword," said Merlin. "You're clearly the one having memory problems. You should get to bed."

"Fine."

After putting his sword in the umbrella stand by the door so he wouldn't forget it when he left, he stepped to Arthur to help him undress as per usual.

Arthur had had servants help him dress and undress since he was a boy. However, before Merlin, it was only to help Arthur from his outerwear like on evenings after they had returned from a fancy dinner which meant he had been wearing clothing with many buckles and lacings.

Merlin, who never did anything the way he should, would help him undress every night, even after a long and cozy evening of Arthur picking at a tray of snacks wearing just shirtsleeves while he pored over his paperwork, Merlin seated across from him reading whatever book he was on at the time, interrupting Arthur every five minutes and also getting up at intervals to tend to the fire.

As Merlin stepped in now, head bowed and hands going to the buckles of Arthur's jacket, Arthur had a brief, bizarre feeling that he should be the one helping Merlin out of his clothes and into bed, Merlin who had faked a fainting spell and left halfway through the feast, and who was somehow still the most amusing part of the eventful night.

"You missed quite a bit this afternoon," Arthur said, breaking the intimate quiet.

"Hm." Merlin didn't apologize and Arthur sighed.

"I spoke to that old woman."

Merlin's fingers hardly paused in their unbucklings and unlacings as he made quick work of Arthur's vest.

"The fortune teller?"

Arthur nodded. "Quite frightening actually, with a strange aura of spiders about her."

Merlin gave him a questioning look but didn't ask. Arthur raised his arms out, allowing Merlin to slip his jacket from his shoulders and let it fall in a heap on the rug.

"Yes," Arthur affirmed. Merlin also pulled his vest from him, something Arthur could easily do himself if Merlin was just going to let every item of his finery just fall to the floor in a heap instead of folding it over a chair or, perhaps, hanging it as he was paid to do. "She said she could see a bright future for me, and I am assuming Camelot."

"Of course."

Arthur cleared his throat, hazarding a look at Merlin before saying. "And she also said things about you."

"Me, huh?" He had begun to unlace Arthur's shirt. Arthur swallowed at the brush of Merlin's fingers on his neck, ghost touches.

"Or I believe so. Ah—I hope so."

"Good things?"

"Yes."

"Well that's good." With noticeable hesitation, Merlin reached down between them and unlaced the front of Arthur's trousers, which was not technically part of the job but not not part of it either, Merlin's breath on the side of Arthur's face hot before he sank slowly to the floor to work on Arthur's boots.

Arthur meanwhile pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it toward the laundry basket. It landed cleanly in, a mark of his long-honed aim.

Once Merlin had finished, Arthur stepped out of his boots and Merlin moved away and went to the bed, where he finished straightening the sheets and layered quilts as if he himself hadn't been sleeping there. He then turned one side of the blankets down and stood by the side waiting for Arthur to get in, a cool glass of water materializing on the bedside table as Arthur liked.

"You're being very reasonable," Arthur noted, feeling uncertain in the deferential silence. He pulled on his sleep clothes.

"I'm hoping you won't make me walk all the way back to my room," Merlin laughed. "I am quite ill as you know, and also this might be the last night I see before an early demise."

"You were faking."

"Well I might catch ill for real seeing as it is so cold in my tower. You've got the good one. Less leaky."

Arthur rolled his eyes and got into bed. "Other peasants would kill for a tower, you know." 

"I did recently install a nice tapestry I purchased at the market," Merlin said with a smirk, idling by the bed. "So I’ll let you know if that helps so you can get one of your own."

Arthur set to punching his pillow into shape and then lounged out, refusing to be distracted. "Well, hurry up and get in then." 

Merlin did.

It wasn't unheard of. There had been long nights spent talking that went into the early morning, and some when it was the dead of winter, and the occasional nights after a great loss when it seemed unbearable to be alone. They had shared a number of those. But those times Merlin had always waited until Arthur was nearly asleep to accept Arthur's invitation and crawl in, and was always up and working by the time Arthur awoke. Never like this.

Once Merlin had settled onto the other side of the bed, a silence fell over both of them. Arthur forced himself to relax, sinking only slightly toward the middle with the dip on Merlin's side of the bed. Things could so easily go wrong in his life, but this didn't have to be one of them.

"Are you afraid?" he asked, making his voice normal despite the silence of the room. "Of tomorrow's duel?"

"No," said Merlin immediately.

Merlin had blown out the final candle, so he could see Merlin's face only now and again in the flickering of the fire from across the room. Arthur curled an arm up under the pillow and briefly pressed his face to it like he had never felt anything so soft.

"Then you're stupider than I thought," he sighed. "The first thing to learn is it's ok to be afraid. And then to realize it will be fine anyway."

"That's very kind of you, but you've told me that hundreds of times. Tomorrow is hardly as serious as any of the frays we've found ourselves in."

It was true, they were usually shivering in bed rolls under the stars at this point, Arthur seeking out Merlin's eyes in the dim light of dying embers of their campfire as he tried to steel Merlin for the bloody battle they were sure to find in the days ahead. Here, now, sharing a downy quilt and secreted away in Arthur's tower room, it seemed hard to believe anything bad could ever happen.

"Ah but never have you had the chance to embarrass yourself so thoroughly. There are other ways to die than by physical wound, a man must think of his reputation." He said it with a wise tone of voice that had Merlin snickering.

"I have no reputation, don't be daft."

"You know what I enjoy about these talks," said Arthur, making himself more comfortable still, rubbing his feet together to warm them. "No matter how stupid I could conceivably seem, it doesn't matter."

"Why? Because I'm just a servant?"

"No. Because despite everything, you're loyal and would never say a word against me. In fact, that's what got you into this mess in the first place."

There was a quiet so long Arthur began to think Merlin had dropped off to sleep.

"That's true," said Merlin finally. "Ugh, however I'd like to think him a scoundrel, Jerkin is just a nice man. I hope I don't hurt him."

"I'm sure he can handle himself."

"I'm sure I'll be fine." Merlin took a breath. "But, ah, if you have any tips, I would love to hear them."

"I've found it helps to discover what you're fighting for, and hold on to that," said Arthur, with the wisdom of one who had looked down the enemy blade many times.

"What I'm fighting for. Got it."

"But don't worry too much," Arthur yawned. "That frightening woman today said we had things we would do together, you and I, and I doubt we can fit that all in tomorrow."

"You believe her, do you?"

"Yeah." Arthur mumbled in his pillow, feeling his eyes grow heavy. "So I'm pretty sure you'll live through it. You'll be fine."

"Fine," he heard Merlin repeat quietly. "I suppose fine is good enough."

"That's the spirit." Arthur fell asleep warm and at peace.

The next day rose bright and fresh. Arthur woke as he always did, on his stomach with his arms and legs spread akimbo, a position Merlin once likened to a squirrel free-falling from a tree branch onto an unsuspecting acorn. For the amount of time Merlin spent crouching in the underbrush picking herbs for Gaius, Arthur was not certain he naturally excelled in the art of observation.

Arthur slowly blinked awake, noting that Merlin was no longer beside him but assuming, as one would, that he was only temporarily absent and readying the breakfast. 

But instead of Merlin arriving moments later than agreed upon in their initial employer-employee handshake deal, out of breath in inexplicably good spirits, ripping open the curtains without care for waking Arthur gently, then tossing a platter of buttered bread onto the table but having forgotten the grapes — the usual — in bustled Morag Higgen-Higgleswo-Hildebottom or something similar, with an armful of Arthur's freshly laundered cloak and jacket.

"What's all this then," Arthur muttered into his pillow, struggling from his Merlin-grape fantasies. Once he had made sense of the shorter, squatter form of the woman in place of tall and impish manservant, he tugged the sheets up the royal person at a probably useless attempt at modesty.

"I'll be seeing to you today, sire," Morag whatsherface said, curtseying perfunctorily. 

"Ah, yes." Because of course Merlin wouldn't be attending to him this morning — he was instead in the armory, putting the straw dummy through its paces just as Arthur had shown him. That dummy had won more than half of the fights. Good lord Merlin had a long way to go still.

"Right," he said, sitting up further and blinking. He swung his legs to the ground and his feet hit the cold flagstones. "Of course. Thank you, madam."

She held out his clothing and he hesitated then took it behind the screen. He got into his underclothes, then breeches, and a red shirt, his favorite color and one that would show his allegiance to Camelot during today's tournament. As if anyone would have their doubts.

The goodly woman offered out his jacket for Arthur to step into and then attended to the laces while Arthur suddenly remembered Merlin would be wearing his blue neckerchief today seeing as he no longer had his red. Maybe Arthur should have chosen the blue shirt.

"If you don't mind my saying, my lord, you are not as excited by the upcoming battle as is usual for you." Morag's attentions were brusque and impersonal, which was the way a servant should be. None of Merlin's fussing with laces and smoothing of wrinkles across Arthur's chest nonsense, or the close intimacy of the night before. "Ain't that Merlin boy of yours taking up arms in your honor?"

"Not a battle," Arthur grumped, vanishing the thought. But it was true — if he was to be honest with himself, he was looking forward to this upcoming tournament with less interest than his usual. "Merlin's duel will surely be over quickly and with minimal injury to either side." 

"He'll be fighting against Jerkin of Donkey Muck, so's I heard." She patted Arthur on the shoulder. "Jerkin is the kindest man you'll ever meet. He never took a wife for he was so dedicated to tending to his donkeys. A fine man. You won't be seeing any bloodthirst from him."

"Hm," Arthur said. He was somewhat mollified. It wouldn't be so bad if Jerkin emerged the victor, he supposed. He'd just prefer it didn't take place over Merlin's slowly rotting corpse. "Let us expect an excess of pacifism then."

"More's the pity," said Morag. 

She stepped back to give him a stern once-over, then nodded approval at his straightened shirt sleeves and impeccably tied laces. And so finding her work done, she nodded once in deference and gathered Arthur's dirty clothes and departed, leaving Arthur to pick at the plate of sausages she had placed beside a tub of dewey grapes, just the way he liked them.

It was a fine day, warmer than winter had any right to be with only small puffs of grey clouds sailing by. The stands were packed, and the crowds were already going bonkers despite it being just two hours into what was going to last well into the evening.

Arthur was seated in the high box beside his father, beneath the royal awning. The blowy breezes wafted warm smells of the pretzels and chicken from the vendors, and the hoppy scent of sun-warmed ale being bought and sold in wooden mugs.

Below him sat a row or two of rowdy knights from all kingdoms, fraternizing with the opposition now that they had already had their try at the field. The other nobles and royals were seated in this area, and Arthur gazed around feeling pleased at the peace his father had had a part in bringing to these disparate lands.

So far they had seen a reasonably fine showing for Camelot while also a fine showing for the visiting kingdoms. In fact, good fortune had graced each of the kingdoms, except for South Umbria which was much more interested in courtly love and feasting, and the knights seemed to still be enjoying themselves. The playing field, so to speak, was for the most part equal, and none were sore with grave defeat. 

All were in good cheer, the reds of Arthur's men mingling with capes and shields of all other colors of the rainbow it seemed, while the peasants cluttered the stands below the box seats in their earth tones. Yes, all was well, and if he felt on edge, it was surely just at the prospect of losing a manservant before the day was out, as the hiring process was a real pain.

"He is showing good form," Morgana said, leaning forward and engrossed in the current fight.

"Indeed," said Arthur, searching the stands for signs of Merlin. He did espy Gaius, who had been unfortunately seated beside the attractive yet intellectually boring Aubergine, who seemed to be giving the physician a tirade regarding gold standard vs the Venetian style of print money. Gaius was giving him the one eyebrow of disdain, refusing to be drawn in. Arthur knew Gaius to be a man who dealt only in herbs and who had no need for money in the slightest, living as sort of a kept man who wanted for nothing in exchange for his services to the kingdom as the only living physician, so Aubergine's breath was surely wasted.

"A fine day for sport," Elyan called up to Arthur. He had removed his helmet, sweat drying at his temples.

"A fine day indeed," said Arthur. "A pity your opponent let you off so easily! I was in the mood for a good show."

Elyan waved off his gentle jibe with a laugh, and returned to watching the field before them. On the hard dirt two men were locked in an intense knot of steel on steel on steel, ad infinitum, their footwork and armwork nearly too quick to make sense of, even to Arthur who had been trained to fight since birth.

"Yes, what a fine day," said King Magne. His wife looked less enthusiastic as she fanned herself and gestured to a passing servant to fan her as well. She may have muttered something to her husband about longing to return to the north as he assured her they would be home soon enough once this deed was done, but Arthur could not be sure and wasn't one given to eavesdropping. It was simply not preux.

"Remember last year there was a frigid rain?" said Morgana beside him. "What luck that it should be so sunny." She bade Gwen plait her hair up. Procuring pins from nowhere, Gwen began to do so, making interesting knots and Arthur turned away to find a more diverting conversational partner.

Erik sipped ale beside him, the white rose on his lapel bright in the sun. It was a nod to one of Arthur's favorite parts of the tournament when a man from each kingdom entered the arena and the last with a rose clinging to his chest won. It was brutal as it was beautiful, and gave Arthur many feelings.

Noticing Arthur's attentions, Erik smiled genially. "And how are you finding the fight?" His voice was just audible against the cheering of the crowd.

"Gathering nobility and sportsmen from every corner of Albion is truly a boon to our people," said Arthur. "There's truly nothing like a tournament to bring everyone to high spirits." He cleared his throat, realizing he had said all this during the impromptu speech he had delivered somewhat drunkenly the night before, and didn't fancy being thought a boor by his contemporary. He changed the subject. "Look how the peasants are enjoying themselves, I always think they deserve a bit of fun."

"Ah, the fine people of the earth," mused Uther from beside them, biting into his breaded chicken drumstick. "Toiling each day, sacrificing dignity so that I may dine on this bird."

He looked perhaps happier than Arthur had ever seen him.

Uther correctly interpreted Arthur's incredulous silence, dropping the cleaned bone to the ground. "I'm only joking. This chicken comes from God himself." 

Then King Magne said idly, somewhat pointedly, "King Uther, I find it strange your son is not fighting in the tournament. We have heard so much of his prowess."

"He chose not to, to not upstage his men no doubt." 

"How very kind of him. And I suppose it’s for the best. It would be a shame if something were to happen to him."

Arthur tuned out the fatherly sniping and turned his attentions once again to the field where a knight of Rheged was now engaging in some flashy swordplay.

Erik leaned in toward Arthur to say loudly over the cheers of the crowd, "He's one of our youngest, but shows much promise." They winced as the knight received a solid blow to the chest that knocked him down. "Bit of a showoff," Erik added. "Gets him in some trouble."

The next fight was on horseback, and Arthur whooped and cheered along with Erik for a man of Kent, who made a fine showing as he trotted his palfrey mare out into the arena, doing a circuit around the barricade and waving to work up the crowd. And work it up he did — the cheers rising to a roar as his thickly braided mane bounced in time with the gait of his steed. He was a true favorite, with good stage presence, this favor made only clearer when the North Umbrian opponent limped in on a middle-aged creature that was two hands shorter and wider than his opponent. It was a real jalopy, who certainly had enough strength for battle but fell far too short in charisma points to garner any praise.

Although the entertainment was varied as could be, there was little Arthur loved more than a good sword fight, and a true highlight of the day as it moved on toward noon was when Leon took the field.

He was facing off a man near his size who had a spike atop his helmet in the Mercian style. Leon took up the stance Arthur had drilled into his knights time and again, the one specific to fighting off a Mercian foot soldier in blade-to-blade combat should you be dehorsed and find yourself staring down a double handed longsword. Leon himself had helped design the opening gambit, spitballing late one night in a battle tent with Arthur, far from home, the flickering candles burning themselves down to stumps.

The fight began well for Camelot. Sir Leon showed the finest economy of movement so as not to give in to the well-documented Mercian tactic of rushing the opponent again and again so as to tire him out. Each rush, Sir Leon easily sidestepped then thrust his sword and stepped away, waiting for the Mercian to tire himself out.

Leon got in several good plays, as always relying on simple footwork that was effective instead of going in for the fancy stuff. The crowd was at the edge of their seats.

"He's a fine fighter," Erik noted, gratifyingly impressed.

"Yes, truly one of our best."

However, just as Arthur said it, the Mercian lunged and knocked Leon to his back on the hard-packed dirt.

The crowd took in a breath as one, near complete silence falling over the stands save the crinkle of the wax paper as onlookers grabbed handfuls of popped corn to shove into their anticipatory mouths.

The moment was tense. Arthur was surely not the only spectator who found his breath caught in his chest as Leon used nothing but brute strength to hold off the blade from slicing him through.

At the very last moment, when it seemed all was surely lost, Leon ceased shoving back and rolled off to one side quickly, causing the Mercian to fall forward flat onto his face now that there was no resisting force, narrowly missing impalement on his own sword.

The crowd went wild, it being clear now that Leon had baited the man into thinking he had the upper hand and then used this overconfidence to his advantage. 

"Yes!" shouted a younger of Arthur's knights who had surely never seen such a fine show. "What a twist!"

Next up was Percival. He wore Camelot's colors but would have been unmistakeable anyhow due to his unique style of armor. He was wearing his arms bare, at Gwaine's urging, no doubt. Gwaine who was currently trying out a sonnet on two women at once a couple rows below.

"Psst," Arthur said. "Hey, Gwaine." He threw a chicken thigh that landed square.

"Most uncouth sire," called Gwaine, brushing off where the chicken had hit and fixing his hair.

"Your man is on field," said Arthur.

When Gwaine turned to see that this was true he said, genteelly no doubt but with distraction, "Please excuse me, ladies," he jumped and began to cheer like a madman.

Percival looked heartened by this, turning to give a wave before beginning to circle his opponent. He was sure-footed and steady, and barely had the fight begun did he clock the opposing player firmly over the head with his sword hilt, and the knight fell. 

Percival turned to the crowd and gave a shrug.

"You weren't joking," said Erik.

Arthur laughed. "I hope there is not too much damage," he said, for that would make for an awkward situation considering death was not the goal at this specific gathering of kingdoms. 

After a minute of cheering that did not flag, the knight struggled to his feet and raised his sword weakly, giving Percival a nod.

"Semper paratus!" chanted a gaggle of the defeated knight's countrymen just below, which sounded quite similar to their battle cry as Arthur knew firsthand. However, they quickly went back to eating and betting so there was no quarrel, and in fact the felled knight and Percival walked off the field together, shoulder-to-shoulder, capping the first set of fights.

It was halftime, and so followed the minstrel show, a furious buzz of gambling on the upcoming matches, and a shuffling of seats as people tried to find better vantage points for the upcoming fights. The lines for the latrines were absolutely intolerable, and not for the first time Arthur was happy his father had installed a separate privy for anyone who had a title.

Erik stretched an arm out and let it fall across the back of Arthur's seat.

"Enjoying yourself?" Arthur asked.

"Very much so."

Arthur nodded, scanning the crowds near the edge of the ring.

"I haven't yet seen him," said Erik.

"Who?"

Erik gave him a look, but was stopped from answering when the snack jester came past with his candied nuts and flagons of ale to help refresh them after a morning seated in the uncharacteristic winter sunshine.

"Ah, it seems you need another drink," said Erik, gesturing to the jester for two.

"Why thank you." Despite his low-level stress about the upcoming duel — Merlin's, of course, as Arthur knew the rest of his men could handle themselves — he must admit he was having a fine time. It was good to have a companion other than Morgana, and once again he noticed the strange attention Erik paid Arthur as he handed him his new drink.

Arthur caught sight of Percival who came to take a seat beside Elyan. "Good work, Percival."

"Thank you, sire. I very much look forward to the upcoming duel."

"What, ah, what duel?"

Percival gestured, and Arthur followed his gaze to see Merlin struggling into his armor.

"He'll be fine," Elyan called up. "Merlin, always getting out of tight spots."

"And into them," Gwaine said. Arthur frowned at the aside and Gwaine gave him a roguish smile that Arthur ignored as he was surely missing something.

Arthur looked back to the field. He felt inexplicably out of sorts, perhaps because of the rude wakeup this morning and the cheerful sunlight and blowy faint breeze that brought the scent of wildflowers from the field, Arthur slouched in his chair, steepling his fingers and ignoring a third serving of the succulently fried chicken offered to him on a silver platter from an attendant — the chickens had been breeding at an alarming rate so it was imperative they eat as many as possible, reflected in the way the jester kept insisting until Arthur said no a fifth time — and he ignored the beer Erik had gotten him as well.

Presently, Jerkin ran out onto the field to some cheering. He was wearing very little armor Arthur noted with some incredulity, and Arthur wondered if this wasn't a testament to his poor opinion of the skills of Merlin, and by extension, Camelot's prince?

Arthur forced himself to chill out, knowing that the real reason for Jerkin being underdressed was most likely for lack of funds. He doubted Jerkin had an whole armory to pick from like Merlin did.

When Merlin walked onto the field moments later, the cheers took on a rather vindictive edge. It wasn't just Arthur's imagination. It was only natural that the audience size up the two opponents and choose sides.

From a purely physical standpoint it appeared that Jerkin, who was unfortunately quickly becoming Arthur's least-favorite peasant, did have the upper hand, whereas Merlin was thin and awkward, especially bedecked as he was in the ill-fitting armor. He seemed to be having trouble walking.

Arthur was used to sizing the fighters up as well, with a critical eye born of years of training his ranks of knights. He prided himself on unbiased assessment of strengths and weaknesses, of knowing the outcome of a fight from before it had started to a high degree of probability.

But somehow Merlin always defied the odds. Arthur hoped he would continue to do so today and not be killed in an embarrassing manner in front of the entire kingdom.

And Arthur's desire for Merlin to live was not just because the baths Merlin drew were hotter than any other servant managed, somehow overcoming the many flights of stairs the water had to be carried. And not only because the conversation during said baths was so amusing, as Merlin could always be drawn into a little banter as he washed Arthur's hair and Arthur played with the frothy islands of lavender-scented bubbles Morgana ordered specially from France and Arthur had Merlin nick in the afternoon hours when she was out on a walk. And yet again, not only because Merlin was funny and kind to Arthur, and in fact was one of the only people Arthur really trusted. Perhaps the only one, if he were being honest.

No, it was because it felt like they were only getting started. He didn't want Merlin to die in some mortifying manner, and become more of a laughing stock to all who knew him. No, Arthur wanted him to live out his long days as his servant, and perhaps one day to become even more—

Head servant. Yes, that was what Arthur hoped for him.

He blinked, coming back to reality, as the crier stepped forward.

"I present to you—" He unfurled a scroll. "Jerkin of Camelot, donkey herd!"

Jerkin raised his sword and the volume of the crowd turned up a notch. He smiled awkwardly and waved his sword around, probably never having been in the spotlight before. 

The crier consulted the scroll once more, "And his opposition, I present Merlin...of Ealdor?" 

There was a pause as the people tried to figure out where that was. 

"Ealdor in neighboring Escetir, a subject of King Cenred," continued the crier, which was followed, as was customary, by a series of boos that went on for a full minute at least. "And manservant to Crown Prince Arthur," cried the crier over the noise, belatedly discovering a second page to the scroll it seemed. The booing became interspersed with a number of confused cheers. So all in all a mixed bag.

In the center of the circle, Merlin took a jerky bow. From the stands someone threw a shoe.

After the display of nationalism had run its course, the crier said, "The duel was agreed upon as a matter of the prince's honor. That whosoever shall win the duel shall receive a kiss from his royal highness, son of the king of Camelot long shall he reign, Arthur Pendragon."

The crowd didn't know how to react to this, and Arthur quickly assured Uther it was an error of literacy on the crier's part rather than assuring his father that the kiss was something he had already received.

Uther waved him off, uninterested in Arthur's blathering as Merlin and Jerkin began circling one another. Arthur watched Merlin sizing up the much larger man with a determined look to his stance.

Jerkin jerked forward, nearly slicing Merlin's arm off. Merlin managed to evade him, dancing back and almost tripping over his feet.

From beside Arthur, Uther raised a fist. "Yes!" he roared. "Rend him limb from limb! Send him back to his heathen lands in pieces!"

Arthur didn't let his smile slide from his face, but it became a bit strained. Surely his father didn't wish to see Arthur's manservant torn apart by a giant oaf from the tavern, but for the sake of the people Uther was doing a very convincing job of pretending.

"Fight to first blood?" confirmed the crier uncertainly, more like a question, which brought some more booing from the bloodthirsty mob. "As per the rules of the entire tournament…?"

Uthur leaned over the rung. "Or let it end bloody," he said. "I will pardon you."

Arthur looked to him with alarm. "Father!"

"Er," the crier continued. He looked from Arthur and back to Uther, who had sat back and was attending to his chicken wings. "Blood," said the crier, to not undermine the word of the king but also not address the death part, a safe middle ground. "So, yes then, let's continue."

Arthur stood suddenly and hollered through cupped hands. "Merlin! Remember what I taught you!" He ignored the looks he got from the other people in the nobility, some of whom stood quickly as soon as they noticed it was Arthur who had stood, on the off chance that staying seated could be read as treasonous.

Down on the beaten dirt, Merlin nodded jerkily up at Arthur, and Arthur sat, somewhat put at ease.

Erik put a hand on Arthur's. "I beseech you, take a drink sire. It will settle your nerves."

"You are too kind," Arthur said distractedly raising his drink to his lips, watching as Merlin had some difficulty hefting the quite small sword. He put his drink down again however without managing so much as a sip, as Merlin once again was almost run clear through by Jerkin's unpracticed blade.

After the previous duels and jousts, this display was looking like a farcical play at what a child might think fighting was based solely on the epic poetry of bards. And yet it was proving to be the most tense fight of the day.

Merlin seemed unconcerned about the close brush with death, however, and swung around, wildly slashing with his sword.

"Watch your back, for god's sakes!" Arthur yelled.

Morgana sent him a look. "He'll be fine Arthur. Honestly. It's just sport."

Arthur gritted his teeth. "Of course he will." As if they hadn't both seen many fine men mauled by simply running while carrying sharp weapons.

"My word that's a fine sword," Erik noted, showing he was, of course, knowledgeable as they all said. "I am surprised at its finery for a member of the lower class."

"Yes, I gave it to him last night," Arthur said distractedly.

"...Ah. Really?" During the pause, Merlin managed a hit against Jerkin's sword and they both stumbled back. Erik said, "I suppose it is customary to provide a token to the man fighting for you."

"I suppose it is," Arthur said. He glanced to find Erik watching him and felt maybe his words had betrayed him. 

He looked back to Merlin, who was now running around with the gleaming silver spike of a sword, casting shame upon all of Camelot with his graceless swinging, his legs and arms working out of tandem despite the hours of practice and generational knowledge Arthur had bestowed upon him. The mucksman, meanwhile, stood back at a safe distance, watching with a degree of incredulity on his face.

When Merlin finally reached him, however by accident, Jerkin sidestepped, and Merlin flung forward onto the ground by his own velocity. Jerkin then stumbled in a pothole that had been left unpatched upon the field to add an element of chance to the thing. 

Arthur winced. It was like watching two children try and trip each other with sticks.

Just when it appeared that the gentle Jerkin would put them all out of their misery, sword swinging high above his head as Merlin remained sprawled on his back with the wind knocked out of him on the hard-packed ground, the crowd roaring at the impending kill, Jerkin tripped again (on what Arthur couldn't imagine — his own feet?) tumbling dramatically to the ground six feet away.

The crowd went absolutely silent.

Merlin sprang up, sword held clumsily in hand, jogged over and nicked the man on the arm.

He grabbed Jerkin's arm, lifting it so the referee could see that a drop of blood welled at the surface, barely clear from where Arthur was seated so high up, but it was quickly confirmed by the crier who ran onto the field shouting, "First blood! Victory goes to Merlin of Ealdor—er, and of Prince Arthur!"

The cheers became confused with the boos once more, and there was a lot of groaning from the majority of the crowd about lost money. Of course, Arthur imagined there must be one solitary peasant out there who could now count themselves among the nouveau riche.

"For love!" Merlin declared, struggling to his feet with sweat gleaming on his brow like the greatest of champions. "I mean— for the love of Camelot!!"

The audience cheered. This was a statement they could unreservedly get behind.

Arthur let go where he was gripping the railing with white knuckles, and fell back into his chair with relief, cheers loudest from the line of Arthur's men with whom Merlin had fought beside in times of life and death. In fact—

Arthur jumped to his feet, ignoring his father's frown, and began to stolidly clap with ultimate conviction. And like a wave, the rest of the crowd took up the clapping as well as it would not do to go against a prince's favor. 

Merlin, who had very likely never received a standing ovation before and was unlikely ever to be recognized for his bravery again, bowed solemnly before trotting off field-left.

Emotionally drained more than any duel had ever left him perhaps, Arthur collapsed heavily into his seat as the next fight was being announced, feeling as if he himself had narrowly escaped embarrassing and public disembowelment at his own hand. 

"I will take that drink now," he said, glancing Erik's way. Erik, who was giving him the strangest look. 

"My lord, I—" Erik seemed quite emotional. "I must say, the way you have honored your man, for in fact I have seen he is truly your man..."

Arthur was riding high on adrenaline, and, throwing caution to the wind said, "All right. You've seen through me." As Erik wasn't going to hand it to him, he grabbed for his flagon himself, but Erik's hand fell upon his, squeezing tightly, this side of painful. Arthur looked up at him in alarm.

"I wouldn't," said Erik. He was smiling, but his voice was very intent.

Arthur frowned and tried to pull his drink away but Erik gave him a minute shake of the head and looked down between them.

It took a moment to decipher that Erik was not threatening his person, but instead seeking to save him, and Arthur looked down to his drink as well.

"I greatly apologize," said Erik, a smile still pasted on his face, clearly for appearances, as Arthur could feel his hand shaking a bit where it was staying his own. "I find you to be an honest, just, and...and loving man. Your behavior today has only confirmed this for me. I beg you not to hate me. I have made some mistakes but I assure you they are not of my own making."

Arthur slowly raised his drink to his mouth as if to take a large gulp, and saw Erik's eyes widen. Then, Arthur pretended to spill the drink at the last moment.

"My word! I am well and truly soused and it is only midday!" he said loudly for the benefit of all around. The nobles just below laughed at him fondly, Camelot's golden lad, and he smiled at them all.

"Go," said Erik, laughing loudly along with him. "You are truly drunk on good beer and sport! Go clean yourself up — I will wave to the next victor in your stead."

Arthur had to do some quick thinking, his mind racing as Erik handed him the serviette that had come with his popcorn for Arthur to mop at his shirt. He leaned in to take it from him, and as he did so he said in a low voice, "If you are really serious, and if you need help, meet by Camelot's port-side gate in an hour. I will have someone meet you to help you out of your situation." 

This would be close to treason had he not guessed correctly, but Erik gave him a small nod.

"I thank you, Prince Erik," said Arthur louder, attempting to maintain his congenial tone when really his blood had run cold. He looked to his father who was none the wiser, practically elbow deep in a chicken bucket, and he nodded curtly to King Magne and Queen Eleanor, both of whom were watching Arthur too closely he now felt.

"I shall return," he said to them all. "Erik, ah, would you see if Morgana needs anything?" he said meaningfully, and ran off before he heard the response for fear of giving himself away.

He left the stands, mind abuzz as the crowd cheered for the next contestants.

As he rounded the path, leaving the tournament field behind, he caught sight of Jerkin, who was briskly walking up toward town, the back of his shirt dark with sweat. Arthur felt a welling of compassion for the man.

"Jerkin!" he hollered.

Jerkin stopped in his trudge, and turned. Upon seeing his prince, the man looked wary but bowed low, waiting for Arthur to reach him.

"Sire, I hope I provided adequate entertainment..."

"You did," said Arthur. "We all quite enjoyed it and you made a proper showing. I am proud to call you my subject."

Jerkin turned instantly red. "You are too kind my lord. I mean, my prince. My, ah. Well. I was just on my way to have that drink?"

"And you deserve it." Arthur smiled at him to quell his nerves. And after a moment wherein Jerkin looked longingly pub-wards, Arthur gripped his arm. "I mean it, thank you," he said, imbuing it with as much gratitude as he felt.

Jerkin looked uncertain. "For what, my lord?"

"For what you did. For sparing his life."

The man laughed. "I assure you it was not my doing—"

Arthur shook his head and squeezed the man's shoulder again. "Thank you. I owe you a debt of gratitude. Camelot owes you a debt of gratitude. Call on me any time, should you need anything at all."

"That's — I —" Jerkin looked almost faint. "I am honored, my lord."

"Now I bid you, go and have your drink, for you truly deserve it."

The man bowed so low his hat fell off and he turned to go.

A thought suddenly occurred to Arthur. "Wait."

Jerkin turned back with some visible dismay.

"Do you have two donkeys I can buy off you?"

Jerkin stared at him for a beat. Then, "Of course, sire."

"I need them for a— for a friend, you see," said Arthur. "Please bring them to the port-side gate."

"Now sire?" He looked toward town and back.

"If it is not too much trouble. He'll be there within the hour, and will need them post haste."

Jerkin took a deep breath and then stood straighter, clearly giving up on the idea of the tavern in favor of his greater purpose supporting the monarchy. "It shall be done presently, sire. When the rooster honks half-past, I shall be there waiting with donkey team in tow."

"Capital," Arthur said, then snapped his fingers. "Ah, and throw in a cart, will you? And two sleeping rolls. The journey shall be three days, and somewhat arduous."

"Yes, sire." Jerkin nodded.

"Oh and also bring back Merlin's red neckerchief, if you would."

"Sire." He left Arthur at the curt, precise march of a military officer. Now filled with purpose, gone was the somewhat fatigued twenty-something, existing paycheck to paycheck, and replaced with a buffed up version who shone in the light of Camelot's glory. Arthur made mental note to keep him in mind for future battles, when they needed good men such as the gentle mucker to accompany the troops and tend to the creatures in the caravan.

That sorted, Arthur took a deep and relaxed breath through his nose, shoulders back, filled with the satisfaction of a job well done. He clapped his hands together. "Right." There was one more order of business. He made his way to the armory.

He spotted Merlin back by the wall of shields, illuminated by a shard of golden light that cut through the small window, making gold the dust and bits of hay that floated in the air. Merlin was examining his vambrace, fiddling with the buckle, like he had begun to remove it but fallen into deep thought and hadn't followed through.

Arthur stepped fully inside. "You know, Merlin, you never cease to amaze me."

Merlin didn't look up or seem entirely surprised to see Arthur there, even though tradition clearly stated a prince should never shirk his tournament duties of giving the royal wave to each victor. 

Merlin unclasped the vambrace. "Thank you, I suppose."

"Oh come now," Arthur stepped forward and came to lean against the helmet shelf. "Don't be that way. You won! Somehow."

Merlin stood straighter, pasting on an expression that seemed very off, like he was trying to be enthusiastic but just for Arthur's sake. "I had to win for the kingdom. I said I would, and I did, and now your name is unbesmirched and life can go back to usual." All that sounded well and good, and yet Merlin had an edge of frown on his mouth.

"True," Arthur said, trying to get the measure of Merlin's mood. "You know, if this is about the terms of the duel— the crier had it wrong you know. The mistletoe has already been appeased." He gave a finger wiggle at this, which did not dislodge Merlin's frown.

"Already forgotten," Merlin assured him. He tugged his breastplate over his head and let it drop with a clatter.

"Oi," Arthur said as Merlin also unbuckled his hauberk and gave it similar treatment.

Merlin pulled the sword from its sheath and looked as if he was about to drop it too, but thought better of it when he saw Arthur's warning look.

He held it out instead. "Here."

"Keep it," said Arthur instantly, pressing a hand over Merlin's.

"But it's your special sword! Or if it is not, then why you keep it at the foot of your bed I cannot guess." Merlin gave him a look like he wasn't sure what strange behavior to expect from Arthur.

"It is special to me," Arthur said in a low voice. "And I want you to have it." It was not the time to point out that anything the light touched belonged to Arthur, especially anything belonging to Merlin. He hoped Merlin understood the gesture how Arthur intended it.

Merlin's cheeks colored, putting the sword back in its sheath at his side. "You can't just—"

"Can't what? I can do anything I want."

The words hung between them. Merlin seemed to be waiting for him to say something more. Arthur backtracked.

"You know, I don't expect anything from you. I mean, with the tournament, I know you were just defending my honor," Arthur tried again.

"Look, if you can do anything that you want, I can only assume if you're not doing something it's because you don't want to."

Arthur squinted at him, trying to follow.

Merlin picked up his jacket. "So I'll just —" He tried to move past Arthur but Arthur put up a staying hand between them and tried a third time to express his feelings.

"What you did today. Making a fool of yourself in front of all those people—"

"Hey!"

"Just for me..." Arthur looked down. " It was...well. To be honest, no one has ever done that for me and it was very, uh, touching." He hazarded a look up, and saw that Merlin's eyes had grown wide. "It was very chivalric of you, I would say. Some might even call it romantic. In a literary sense."

Merlin was staring at him. His eyes darted to Arthur's mouth, which was curving into a small smirk despite Arthur's efforts to remain genteel. "I mean," said Merlin. "It was no problem at all." He took a step forward. "I would do it again if it means that much to you."

"How very noble," Arthur said.

Merlin took another small movement closer. "Sire."

"Yes?"

"Now that you mention my bravery, I can't help but recall that I have not been given my payment."

"Hm. What payment is that?"

"You heard what the crier said. The terms of the duel were announced to the whole kingdom, so I believe it has become a contractual matter. I must politely request my reward."

Arthur crossed his arms across his chest, trying to appear unmoved as Merlin finally stepped up to him. "I thought you did it for honor."

"Honor should be rewarded," Merlin breathed.

"Well," said Arthur, daring to look Merlin in the eyes as he said it, "If you would permit me to bestow your winnings, then."

"Yes, I believe immediately would be best." Merlin's face was tipped just a bit down towards Arthur's, voice coming up as in question but the smile on his face was confident.

"As you are aware, I take great pains to keep to my word."

"I'm counting on it," Merlin said and Arthur stepped in to meet him.

Tipping his head up ever so slightly, he took Merlin's mouth in a soft kiss. Merlin gave a small gasp, like he hadn't been sure what Arthur was going to do until he did it, and pressed in closer. 

All was quiet, no tavern-dwellers or townspeople gawking this time round. Arthur greatly preferred this private, thorough iteration to the previous entanglement when Merlin kissed him chastely, however earth shatteringly, betwixt door and mistletoe.

Arthur found himself fisting his hand in that infernal neckerchief to drag Merlin close.

"Oh," Merlin said when they finally parted.

There came a loud and distant cheer as some knight or other doubtless knocked the rose from another man's chest plate. Merlin ran a hand up Arthur's chest, sending shivers over Arthur's whole being as he swooned inward at the promise of more.

"Why are you all wet?" Merlin asked.

Arthur jumped back, suddenly remembering his situation in a full panic. He grabbed Merlin's wrist. "Whatever you do, don't put your fingers in your mouth!"

"What!" Merlin looked alarmed, letting himself be taken by the hand to where a jug of water sat. Arthur dunked Merlin's hand in, which probably achieved nothing.

"Or mine for that matter," he continued blathering. Merlin would not survive a duel and the resulting public ridicule only to expire of poisoning meant for Arthur!

Merlin's eyes grew wide at the indecency of Arthur's comment, and even wider when Arthur promptly stripped off his shirt.

"Arthur," he breathed, a high blush on his cheeks.

"Covered in poison," Arthur said, tossing the shirt to the ground. "Absolutely dripping with it."

This truly spoiled the moment. 

"What!!" Merlin cried, and then began flapping around frantically, as if checking Arthur over physically could help if he'd already been poisoned.

"I'll tell you the story later but know that I was very brave throughout," Arthur said, preening a bit at Merlin's obvious worry. "As I said, please do not put your fingers in your mouth or you will surely die. Also, you should probably burn my shirt." 

He turned to the shelves nearby and found one of the freshly laundered shirts kept there for after training. 

He pulled it on over his head, and tucked it into his waistband. "We should be going, we have a kingdom to save."

It really said something that Merlin took this statement in stride, following Arthur out of the armory to head up toward the castle. In the distance behind them, the crowd of thousands roared in pleasure at whatever showing the knights were currently making. It was all background noise to the beat of his heart, blood pumping like he himself were about to go onto the tourney field.

"It was Erik, wasn't it," Merlin said darkly as they walked. "I knew he had it out for you. I might have gotten the details wrong, but I knew it. Honestly, I leave you alone for one morning and you go and get poisoned!"

"Nearly poisoned," Arthur felt bound to clarify, interrupting Merlin's rant. "And he is the one who saved me, in fact. He is a pawn of his parents, who bade him kill me. For what reason I can only guess at, but I would think it has to do with the treaty, which was probably a ploy to gain them access once more to Camelot."

Merlin did not look mollified. If anything, his expression grew more murderous. "He saved you? So he's in love with you. I could just—" he clenched his fists, the throwing-caution-to-the-wind look to his eyes that Arthur had grown to love.

"You most certainly shall not," said Arthur, grabbing him back by the shirt to stop him from turning to rush back to the tournament to challenge a second person to a duel in as many days. "I have arranged for him to be secreted away to a small cottage I know to be empty, deep in the forest by the border. But it is important that I be seen by servants at the castle so that there is no question where I was during this hour."

"But the tournament is still—" Merlin began.

"Must you continue to argue with your wise and crafty master?" Arthur asked rhetorically really. "I, as you can confirm, had too much to drink during the morning's festivities and have taken unfortunately ill and require bed rest. If anyone asks, it is important they hear from all castle staff that I spent the rest of the afternoon being tended to by my manservant confined to my chambers." He said this meaningfully.

Merlin was suddenly, inexplicably keen to get back to the castle. He picked up the pace. "Yes, let's be on our way. I think there's a bath you need drawn," he added archly.

Arthur wasn't sure if this was a euphemism or a real offer (to get rid of the poison, no doubt, which would actually be a wise move first and foremost) but either way. Arthur slowed his walking. "I must say, Merlin, this sudden enthusiasm for fulfilling your duties for which you are paid room, board, and a generous sum of a penny a week is quite pleasing to your master."

Merlin grinned at him, in too good of spirits to be baited and Arthur grinned back.

"Hurry up, sire," Merlin said. "You're too poorly to be on your feet."

They were now nearly to the castle gates, the portcullis had just come into view. As all and sundry were watching the event, the streets were deserted, save for the tavern. The goodly barkeep, whom Arthur now viewed with great warmth, suspecting he might be a puppeteer pulling at the strings of fate to make the world as it should be, was again stood just inside the door, unhurriedly drying a glass. He nodded to Arthur.

Arthur put out a hand, stopping Merlin. "Hold off one moment. Sir, do you have a scroll and a bit of quill I might have?"

He took the items from the barkeep and began to write a note against a barrel. "Fred, there's an unused cottage that once belonged to a tax collector before there was a sweeping anti-tax sentiment and he was subsequently hanged. You shall find safe refuge there. I've drawn a map on the back of this scroll. I suggest you leave the tourney immediately and pack your master's belongings. Transportation awaits you at the port-side gate. Disguise yourselves, tell no one, leave as soon as you are able and live a long, happy life."

The rooster honked two, which meant they had under an hour to pull this off.

He grasped Merlin's arm. "Take this quickly to Fred. Be swift and tell no one."

Merlin grabbed the parchment and sprinted off, fast as Arthur had ever seen him.

Arthur didn't waste time watching him go. He went to the tavernkeep. Not too close, though. He glanced warily to where the mistletoe still hung, deceptively small and unassuming for the problems it had caused. After all this, he wasn't going to be tricked.

"Sir," he said. "I'd like to first apologize for the ruckus my celebrity caused two days previous. It was quite uncouth, I should have honored your traditions and kissed the gentle Jerkin without delay."

"It is no problem," the barkeep assured him. "No problem at all. In fact I've seen a boom in business since. They're attributing to my establishment not only Laughter and Libations, but Love as well."

"In a chivalric sense, I'm sure," Arthur prompted.

"Of course, sire. Everyone is saying it."

"Glad to hear it. And on to my second order of business."

"Yes, sire?"

"I'd like you to prepare 10 meals, for immediate delivery, to-go. Make sure to wrap them tightly in waxed paper so they are able to withstand a three-day journey. Throw in a couple to-go growlers of the Prince's Pilsner, and transport them in a fine basket to the portside gate within half an hour. There you shall find a wagon, place that basket within the wagon, but do not linger."

"Consider it done, my lord." The man barely paused at this strange request, obviously accustomed to the ramblings and ravings of inebriated townsfolk, Arthur could only assume. Also, he had a mind for business and doubtless knew this would endear the prince to him for some time.

"Oh and barkeep?"

"Yes, sire?"

"Make sure it is a fine basket. Like the ones I enjoy using for picnicking, you know the sort."

"Aye, I am familiar. Although I'll have to go to the basketeer for that, sire."

"Whatever you need. Send me receipts and I'll reimburse you the cost and of course give generous payment for your efforts."

"It shall be done at this very moment, sire."

"And my third and final request."

The man turned back. "Yes?"

"The next time my bumbling fool comes in for a drink, it's on me." He flipped a coin and the barkeep caught it midair.

"Much obliged, sire," he said, ducking in through the door, into the cool darkness of the tavern, already yelling to the cooks about cutting off slices of their best smoked pig butt and did there still remain any of this morning's asparagus and fennel quiche or had the morning rush cleaned them out?

Arthur smiled to himself. Yes, that was all sorted.

"Now," he said, looking around. All was well. And as if things could go no better, Merlin was already rushing up toward him, faster than Arthur could have thought possible.

"Well?"

"He took the note, and is coming this way currently. He says he is much obliged and shall see that Erik is safely ferreted from the castle. His life is saved, all because of you." Merlin gave him that look, the one that usually meant he was finding Arthur very dear and Arthur would quickly have to disabuse him of this by sending him to muck out his own stables or run his dogs.

"Well then, all is right in the world," said Arthur, feeling embarrassingly pleased. "All that's left to do is hide ourselves away."

"I would have it no other way," said Merlin. As Arthur turned to lead them on, however, Merlin grabbed him once again by the jacket and he found himself under the mistletoe.

"Merlin," said Arthur wonderingly. Would he ever cease to be surprised by him?

"Oh no," said Merlin with fake dismay. "It looks like the curse of the mistletoe must once again be appeased." 

Arthur rolled his eyes fondly (Merlin was a poor actor indeed) and kissed him soundly without pause.

"There," he said, feeling dizzy with happiness. It took a moment to realize that Merlin was reaching above them and — snatching down the mistletoe like a madman?

"Merlin!" This time Arthur was less impressed with his gall.

Merlin looked furtive but did not apologize for his thievery. "I'll have to take this for further studies," he shrugged, pocketing it and walking away at speed.

"Really?" Arthur asked. Did Merlin really think that he needed a twig to get Arthur into his arms? Or was this another country person thing Arthur should go along with?

They went back up the curving road, while the awe-inspiring pennants of the castle flapped proudly in the breeze.

"Need I remind you that you are a reflection of the royal family!" Arthur said. "I can't have you thieving from the people!" He was forced to follow at an unprincely hustle if Merlin were to hear his full speech.

"I don't think they'll miss it." Merlin turned as he spoke, walking backwards. "And what about clothing?"

Arthur eyed Merlin's rough shift skeptically. It was still sweaty in parts from the armor and padding. "What about clothing."

"Do I get a new wardrobe? Since, as you say, I need to represent you well. This shirt has holes in it — someone stuck a sword through it at least once today — and I wouldn't want to reflect badly on 'the royal family.'" He raised his hands. "Your words. "

His eyes were so full of mischief, his smile just for Arthur, that Arthur was having trouble not pulling him into a manly hug right there in the middle of the road. Merlin's smile turned sly, attention so solely focused on Arthur that he didn't notice where he was walking and ruined the effect by tripping backwards over a rogue pig, at which point Arthur couldn't help but throw his head back and laugh.

Making no move to help him — it had always provided an inordinate amount of amusement witnessing Merlin's attempts to get himself out of scrapes, bungles, and pickles — Arthur allowed himself some pure and fond feelings toward his hapless, and often haplessly adorable, manservant.

As Merlin was trampled by the joyful piglet which writhed in his arms, mud squishing this way and that as Merlin tried to stand, the pigmonger emerged, shouting expletives in the common tongue. Merlin's face had gone red with embarrassment as well as the exertion of pig wrassling, and Arthur took a moment to reflect on the successful week: the pleasant time spent with his friends during the Yuletide, he and Merlin saving a handsome prince from a wretched fate and instead making all his dreams come true, and of course not one, not two, but three passionate embraces with Merlin. He truly hoped Merlin had stolen the mistletoe to ensure a repeat performance. He suspected he might have.

Merlin finally staggered to his feet, now absolutely filthy and perhaps in need of a bath as well. He waved the mistletoe around. "So, I was thinking of bringing this to Gaius."

Arthur's goodwill vanished. "Merlin! If anything my room is the one in need of Yule decoration!"

"I was only joking," said Merlin. He resumed walking beside Arthur with more of a bounce to his step, eyebrows suggestive. "I know just where to hang it."