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“I’m not stupid you know.”
Seated on a small stool in front of the fireplace in Arthur’s chambers, Merlin looked up from polishing Arthur’s boots as his master spoke. It was late in the evening but Arthur was sitting behind the desk, reorganizing the papers that Morgana had rifled through in her most recent coup of Camelot. He had paused in the effort a while ago and sat in reflective silence until now.
The manservant thought about making a sarcastic remark but decided against it when he saw Arthur’s stern expression. “Never said you were,” Merlin replied.
“And yet your actions say otherwise,” Arthur said. He pointed to where the marvelous sword from the stone now lay in a new scabbard on the table with the rest of his armor. “Where did you get that sword?” he asked.
Merlin’s fingers scrunched the polishing cloth in surprise and felt his eyes widen before he could school his expression into its usual clueless servant look. His stomach swooped and he had to swallow the rising lump back down his throat before he could begin to stammer an explanation. “I- I didn’t,” he said. “It was lost and I… just found it in that stone when gathering herbs for Gaius one day. Researched it after I got back and learned the legend.”
Arthur’s brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as Merlin groped for the threads of his concocted story about Bruta’s ultimate test of a worthy king. It had been a far-fetched tale but at the time Merlin had spun the words, it was the only way he could think of to restore Arthur’s confidence in himself as a leader after being betrayed and deposed as ruler of Camelot yet again.
“Stop lying to me,” Arthur interrupted. He hadn’t shouted, hadn’t even used a commanding voice. Instead his voice was quiet and thick with emotion, as if trying not to cry. Merlin stopped his attempts to think up the rest of his cover story. Could it be… Was this the moment Arthur had figured out the truth? He’d had his hopes dashed before though and so refrained from confessing his greatest secret yet again. Waiting for Arthur to say what he really thought he knew.
“Sire?” Merlin prompted.
The young king closed his eyes tightly. “It’s a magic sword and you put it in that stone,” he declared with utter certainty. Opening his eyes again, he glared down at Merlin. “I asked where you got it. We were on the run. In enemy territory and being pursued by Agravaine’s army. Where did you get a magic sword in all of that?”
Merlin said nothing. His heart in his throat. What could he say? The truth had slipped Arthur’s notice yet again. The magic of the event being attributed solely to the sword instead of to Merlin. Realizing what Arthur meant wasn’t a relief to Merlin. It never was comforting to know he’d have to keep the secret of his magic from his best friend yet again. Why couldn’t Arthur just see the truth on his own?
All Arthur had figured out was that Merlin was a liar. A liar with an illegal magical object he’d tricked his king into wielding. Merlin figured it was better than being revealed as a liar with magic at the heart of Camelot. Well, if Arthur wanted the sword to be magic instead of Merlin, then Merlin could give him that version of events.
He cleared his throat but couldn’t meet Arthur’s gaze as he spoke. He resumed polishing the boots just for something to do with his hands. “Um… Remember I said I grew up the caves near Ealdor? Well, sometimes I could find old or lost relics in those tunnels. Probably travelers stashing contraband as they crossed the border between Essetir and Camelot until they could return for their belongings. Sometimes though, the items were never reclaimed. I’d find the same bundles lying in one spot or another for years. The sword was one of those items.”
Arthur made a small hum to convey he was listening. Merlin continued. “You’d lost faith in yourself, and I didn’t know how to make you believe again. I had every confidence that with your leadership the citadel could be retaken and our friends rescued, but you wouldn’t take up the mantle. So I…” he paused, looking for a nicer term for the subterfuge, but there was no avoiding the simplicity of his deception.
“I lied,” he confessed. “I lied to you. I lied for you. For Camelot. Because I needed you to see what I always see in you every day.” He looked up at his king and willed him to see the love and loyalty behind his actions. Arthur sat rigid but nodded once.
Merlin took it as a good sign that Arthur was still willing to hear him out and so he put the finishing touches on the new version of events. “While you slept, I went back to the caves and got that sword. In the right hands, it cuts through any obstacle. I guess it deemed my intentions worthy enough because I was able to set up the whole scene with it in the stone. All that remained was to convince you that being able to free it meant you were a worthy king, restoring your confidence. And it sort of doubled back on itself as a test. The sword wouldn’t have moved if your intentions with it were ignoble. I only made up the part about Bruta being the original owner. You really did earn it with your own merits, Arthur.”
Tapping his fingers on the arms of his chair, Arthur considered Merlin’s words. “What would you have done, if the sword didn’t move after all?”
He couldn’t help himself; Merlin needed to lighten the mood. “Told you that the real test was whatever shape the clouds were when you tried to pull the sword out.”
Arthur exhaled sharply through his nostrils which Merlin recognized as a stifled laugh. He smiled, encouraged. “Really, Arthur, I would have said or done anything to make you king again. Camelot is where you belong. It’s your destiny.”
Arthur was brightening up, Merlin could tell, but the king tried to remain serious. “You still took me for a fool with that dumb story,” he said. “And now I’ve wound up with something magic right in my room.”
Merlin nodded, not denying the accusation. “It’s only a sword, sire. You use one every day. And you yourself remarked how well it served in battle. I’m sure this one can’t hurt you any more than an ordinary weapon could.”
“You’re sure, huh?” Arthur said in suspicion. “It’s magical. How can I justify wielding it? Magic is dangerous! What do those markings in gold mean? Probably some ancient curse.”
Arthur’s accusations of the inherent evils in magic made Merlin sure he’d done the right thing in not confessing his own powers tonight. After all this time, Arthur still reviled the subject of magic. Hunching his shoulders meekly, Merlin suggested, “You could ask Gaius to provide a translation, of course.”
“Hmm, true,” Arthur admitted.
“Can I just add,” Merlin said, “that one of your own, ordinary swords failed you on the day you held single combat with Queen Annis’s champion?” The whole of Camelot’s army had seen the moment when Arthur’s tried and true sword had become unbearably heavy. They could pretend it was Arthur buckling under the strain of ruling but everyone knew, deep down, that magic had interfered in the battle. Perhaps if Arthur had been using this sword, forged in a dragon’s breath, then no curse could have taken hold.
“I know that sorcery has tried to bring you down, again and again, Arthur. Gods do I know,” Merlin said. “But if you have something of the same on your side, something you’ve earned and made your own, that serves you instead of opposing you, then perhaps you’ll resist the next curse all the better. Why not this sword? It can protect you. It has protected you. And you can set it down any time.”
Arthur considered Merlin’s words and found no fault with them. And there was no denying that the sword from the stone felt special and right in his hands, unlike any sword he’d held before. He sighed and remarked, “Your wisdom is showing again, Merlin.”
Merlin blushed under the rare praise. “It’s a good look on you,” Arthur added.
“Thanks,” Merlin replied. He tucked his chin into his shoulder, nearly shrugging, as he looked back towards his master and asked, “By the way, what made you think I had anything to do with the sword being in the stone?”
Arthur reached for his goblet and took a sip of wine, leaning back in his chair before explaining. “My lineage,” he said. “I’m not in Bruta’s bloodline. My mother’s family, de Bois, is from across the channel. And my father came to rule Camelot by right of conquest, deposing the previous king and taking the throne for himself.”
Merlin felt a buzzing in his brain as the simplicity of Arthur’s logic washed over him. He thought he’d been so clever with that story about Bruta and had never stopped to consider what he knew of Arthur’s own family history.
He tried to backpedal all the same. “Well,” Merlin said, “I thought I phrased it so that the test was for a true king of Camelot and not just for Bruta’s heirs. Should have known that your royal dollop head would only hear the lineage part.”
“I’m not a dollop head. I am the son of a king,” Arthur said confidently, “born to bear the crown and all its responsibilities.” He took another sip of wine. “But it seems that every Pendragon of Camelot must be royal by our own strength, and not by any blood claim. Hopefully the battle for the throne is over and we’ll have peace in my time.”
Merlin nodded. “Marrying Gwen at the end of this week is a good start,” he smiled.
Arthur smiled too, a far-away look in his eyes as he thought of his bride. “Yes. It truly is.”
Rising from his stool, Merlin set the now highly polished boots on the floor by Arthur’s bed. He stood at attention, hands behind his back, to ask, “Will there be anything else, sire?”
“No,” Arthur shook his head and set the goblet back down. He refocused on the parchments in front of him.
Merlin hesitated for a moment, wanting to be certain of something. “Should I remove the sword from your chambers as I leave?”
Arthur looked to the sword in question, its hilt glinting in the firelight as the weapon lay still on the table. “No,” he said finally. “I’ll keep it at my side. As a reminder.”
“A reminder?” Merlin questioned.
“Of the faith and trust my people have in me as their king,” he said. “The sword might have momentarily convinced me as it emerged from the stone, but it was you, Merlin - you and all my loyal subjects - that moved me to action that day. I always want to remember that trust, strive to never break it, and continue to be worthy of it as long as I rule.”
Pride and love swelled in Merlin’s heart, and he felt his eyes pool with unshed tears. The royal prat Arthur had once been was far in the past. The promised future of Albion’s greatest king was coming closer every day, and Merlin could see plainly now the great man he’d known Arthur could be was sitting before him.
“Goodnight then, my lord,” Merlin said softly. He made a tiny bow and strode toward the door. The only destination in mind being his narrow bed in Gaius’s tower.
“Merlin?” Arthur called after him.
The manservant turned around and waited for his next command.
Arthur gazed at him, sky blue eyes shining with trust, and he said, “I know you did what you had to do in the forest out of desperation. You’re a good friend and a loyal servant. But please… from now on, no more lies.” He spoke with such earnestness, soft and uncommanding. The plea of his request cut Merlin’s heart more sharply than any magical sword.
Peace was finally dawning. The kingdom could begin healing from Morgana’s attack. His two best friends were getting married at last. The white dragon’s birth boded well for Albion. But the conversation tonight was proof that his magic had to remain a secret if he was to help Arthur in their shared destiny. There would come a day for the truth, Merlin was sure of it, but now was not the moment.
He put on a cheeky grin that he knew annoyed Arthur in the best of times and said, “Wouldn’t dream of it, sire.”