Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"No, you don't understand," Leon groaned, burying his face in his hands. "None of you have been in Camelot as long as I have. You have no idea what you're up against."

"I agree with Leon," said Lancelot, and by all the gods was Leon grateful he had at least one comrade with an ounce of good sense. "There's nothing we can do."

"Mates, the tension is so thick you can cut it with a sword," Gwaine argued, his voice remarkably steady considering the amount of ale he'd already consumed. "I can't live like this!"

"You're just going to have to, or leave," said Leon. "It's always been this way, since the day Uther appointed Merlin as Arthur's manservant."

Percival gaped, setting down his tankard. "But wasn't that years ago?"

"About nine years now, yes," Lancelot confirmed. "Not long before I first came to Camelot. At first I thought they were—" he glanced sideways at Mordred, clearly censoring his language for the youngest of their party, "you know, involved, and just remarkably bad at hiding it."

"You wouldn't be the first," Leon grumbled. A night out at the tavern was supposed to take his mind off the stresses of his day-to-day life, not the least of which was watching the king cast painfully besotted looks at his servant when he thought no one was looking. 

Gwaine let out a low whistle. "I thought that myself when I first ran into the pair of them, but lord that's a long time."

"Why are we even discussing this?" asked Elyan, who had remained quiet as if hoping for the conversation to blow over.

"Because," said Gwaine with the wild grin that suggested he was about to do something insane, "it's about time someone gave them a kick in the pants, eh?"

"Are you," Leon said slowly, a headache beginning to pulse at his temples, "suggesting that we, the knights of the round table, sworn protectors of Camelot, meddle in the personal life of our king in order to get him together with his manservant?"

"Aye," said Gwaine, raising his tankard in a mock salute, "couldn't have said it better myself."

"Wait," said Mordred, already a bit drunk and clearly only just catching up to the conversation, "you mean Arthur and Merlin aren't courting?"

Gwaine, as Gwaine was wont to do, made the whole thing far more complicated than it needed to be, even going so far as to invent a betting system. "Here," he said, placing his empty coin pouch on the table. "We'll each add one gold piece to start, then we'll draw straws to see who has to go first."

"First?" asked Mordred, still extremely confused. Leon wanted to pat the poor boy on the head and forbid Gwaine from ever speaking to him again.

"Well yes, we can't all be hounding them at once or they're sure to notice," said Gwaine calmly, as if anything that had come out of his mouth in the past half hour had been remotely logical. "Whoever draws the short straw will have two days to execute his brilliant plan, and if he fails, he'll add five coins to the bag and we draw straws again."

Lancelot fixed Gwaine with a stern look. "Is this all because the barkeep banned you from dice after the last brawl you started? Because you could have just asked to play cards."

"No," said Gwaine, looking every inch the noble knight, "this is because Merlin is the best friend I've ever known and I want to make him happy."

Low blow, Leon thought, because they all knew Lancelot would do anything for Merlin. As would Percival. And Elyan. Even Mordred, though Merlin had never seemed to like him much, seemed ready to die for him at a moment’s notice. Leon himself had a certain soft spot for the servant—and god help him, he was putting a coin in Gwaine's pouch the same as the others. 

"It's absolutely not going to work," Leon maintained as Gwaine waved over a barmaid and asked for six stalks of straw.

Of course, he drew the shortest one.

Ah, well, he thought morosely as his comrades heckled him, at least he had the advantage of observing Arthur and Merlin's odd relationship for far longer than the others. Perhaps he could use that information to his advantage and end this idiotic bet before it went too far.

“Sir Leon?”

“Yes, sire?”

Arthur stared down at his desk, at the patrol reports and ledgers the knight had delivered, as well as— “I believe you’ve given me this by mistake,” he said, holding the book of poetry out to Leon.

“No, indeed, sire,” said Leon respectfully. “I thought it might help with your studies.”

“With my—” He cut off, remembering that idiotic excuse Merlin had given weeks ago. “Right. Of course.”

“I hope you will find it useful,” said Leon with a bow. “Will that be all, sire?"

“Yes, you are dismissed.” Arthur maintained his composure until the door shut behind him, then leaned back in his chair with a groan. Honestly, Merlin was the worst thing that ever happened to his reputation.

He looked back down at his desk, glancing from the stack of reports to the book. With a mumbled curse, he flipped open the cover and scanned the first page. His eyes caught on the word heart, then flower and eternal. 

He slammed the book shut and seriously considered flinging it into the fire, but at that moment Merlin entered the room without knocking, as usual. “You made a right mess of your armor during training today. Honestly, you could at least try not to look like a hired ruffian mercenary—” He cut off, eyes narrowing. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” said Arthur, folding his arms over the book.

“It’s not nothing. You’ve got that face.”

“What face? This is my normal face.”

“No, it’s your I’m hiding something embarrassing and possibly dangerous face. Out with it, what have you done?”

“Why do you always assume I’ve done something?”

Merlin raised his eyebrow in a way Gaius would have been proud of, then made a lunge for the desk.

“Merlin!” Arthur yelped as they grappled for the book. “Attempted theft from the king is treason!”

“It’s not theft if I plan to give it back,” Merlin argued, rounding the desk. Arthur’s chair tipped back on two legs and in his distraction, his grip on the book loosened. With a victorious cheer, Merlin scurried away, flipping open to a random page and studying it. Arthur closed his eyes, preparing for the worst.

“Sire,” Merlin said slowly, and Arthur could hear the insolent grin in his voice, “what are you doing with a book of love poems?”

Truly, what had Arthur ever done to deserve this?

“Alright there, Merlin?” Merlin looked up with surprise to see Sir Leon standing over him.

“Oh, is training over already? Or do you need something repaired?” He hadn’t been paying much attention, seated on the grass with a whetstone in his hand and a sword across his lap, though he’d long since gotten distracted from sharpening it.

“No, his majesty has given us a short break and I was just wondering whether you’d brought a spare waterskin.”

Merlin nodded to a pile of skins to his left. “Help yourself.” Any other servant would probably have lept up to provide the king’s senior knight with whatever he required, but none of the knights expected Merlin to be a normal servant anymore. He considered Leon a friend, so he was glad when the knight settled next to him with his drink. “How are your arms?”

Leon huffed an exhausted laugh. “If I could still feel them, I would tell you.”

“He’s in a right temper today,” Merlin noted, watching Arthur from across the field and hoping he wouldn’t come this way. “Sorry, that’s probably my fault.”

“How so?”

“I caught him with a book of love poems yesterday.” He couldn’t help the grin that broke over his face. “I never intend to let him live that down, mind you, so your training sessions might be a bit strenuous for a while.”

“Come now, Merlin,” said Leon tiredly, “do you really have to torment him about it?”

“Well, someone’s got to keep his head from getting any bigger than it already is,” said Merlin, hurriedly returning his attention to the sword in his lap when Arthur turned in his direction.

“I’d have thought you’d appreciate that he’s taking an interest in his poetry studies,” Leon pressed.

Merlin stifled a laugh. “Oh, yes, it’s charming. I hope Gwen is fond of poetry.”

“Gwen?”

“Yes, Gwen.” Merlin shot the knight a confused look. “Why else would he be reading love poems, if not in an attempt to woo her?”

Leon stared at him exasperatedly for a moment before shaking his head. “You know what? I give up,” he grumbled, stoppering the waterskin and getting to his feet. “It’s like trying to have a sword fight with a mountain, I told them it’s hopeless but does anyone ever listen to me? No. Stupid Gwaine…”

Merlin stared after him, wondering if he should be worried.

As he dropped his five gold pieces into the betting pouch later that night, Leon considered that perhaps the poetry incident had been an attempt to cover up something far more sinister. It was exactly the kind of nonsense Merlin often spouted when he'd been saving them all with magic, but at the time Leon hadn't thought to consider it since Arthur was there. He was sure that he was the only one who had made the connection that Merlin was a sorcerer (a conclusion supported by the fact that Merlin still had his head on his shoulders despite the ongoing magic ban) but perhaps those two had some other ridiculous reason for creeping around the castle.

"Poetry lessons," Gwaine chuckled, delighted at Leon's failed attempt. "Certainly sounds like code for something else, doesn't it?"

The other knights joined in his laughter and Leon sighed. As the eldest, he sometimes felt like the caretaker of several extremely rambunctious children. "If only it was, then we wouldn't be in this situation."

"Aye," agreed Gwaine, "but Merlin and the princess are terrible at emotional expression, so here we are."

As he held out a fistful of straws, Leon wished luck to whoever drew the shortest; they were going to need it.

Chapter Text

"Where have you been?" Gwaine asked blearily when Percival finally returned to the barrack room they shared. It was a rare night that Gwaine was there before him, but Percival had an important task to fulfill.

"Cutting the sleeves off of the jacket and tunic Merlin wore today," he replied.

Gwaine squinted up at him. " Why?"

"Because I did the others earlier when he was out gathering herbs for Gaius, so I had to sneak in and do those last ones after he fell asleep."

"Alright," said Gwaine, drawing the word out, "but why are you destroying Merlin's clothing?”

"Because I drew the short straw last night."

"I'm not seeing the connection here," said Gwaine after a moment.

"Well, you see," Percival explained as if speaking to a very small child, which was often a good course of action when Gwaine was drunk, "Merlin's bulked up lately, hasn't he? You must have noticed."

"And you think hacking off his sleeves will, what, make Arthur suddenly unable to keep his hands off him?" 

Percival shrugged. "It's always worked for me." That was assuming that Merlin didn't immediately magic his sleeves back on, but he didn't mention that as it wasn’t his secret to share. He simply hoped Merlin's magic talents were limited to lighting fires and hurling things at attacking bandits.

With a snort, Gwaine dropped his face back into his pillow. "At least we'll all have a nice view tomorrow, then."

“Rise and shine!”

Arthur groaned, turning his face into his pillows as Merlin threw open the curtains, letting the morning light stream in.

“Shake a leg,” Merlin continued, mercilessly stripping away Arthur’s blanket. “Up and at ‘em!”

“Alright, I’m awake,” Arthur snapped, clinging to his pillow as Merlin tried to snatch it away as well. “What is the matter with you this morning?” He squinted up at his manservant, who was glaring at him with his arms folded across his chest. His very bare arms. “And what are you wearing?”

“My favorite tunic,” Merlin said icily, “which seems to have lost its sleeves overnight, along with every other tunic I own and my jacket.”

“So what you’re saying,” said Arthur, pointedly not looking at Merlin’s biceps, “is that someone sabotaged your clothing.”

“Yes.”

“That sounds highly unlikely.”

“It does, doesn’t it,” Merlin deadpanned. “Who would do such a thing? Certainly not the spoiled prat who told me yesterday that I desperately need to practice my needlework.”

Arthur did recall saying something of the sort after Merlin did a shoddy job of mending a pair of breeches, but— 

“You can’t possibly think I would do something that petty.”

Merlin merely raised an eyebrow, which somehow amounted to a lecture of every single petty thing Arthur had done over the years. All he said was, “Of course not, sire. You have training with the knights in an hour.”

He didn’t say another word as he served Arthur breakfast and helped him into his armor, but Merlin had a pointed way of making Arthur feel his silences. For as much as Arthur complained about Merlin’s near-constant chattering, it had become a part of his morning routine to listen to his manservant run through his schedule for the day, complain about the chores he had to do for Gaius, or share the latest gossip from the kitchens. This silent, surly, sleeveless servant was not a part of his routine, and that was the only reason that the pale expanse of Merlin’s bare arms set him on edge as the servant helped him into his armor. Yes, the only reason. 

By the time they arrived on the training pitch, Arthur’s mood was as bad as Merlin’s. At first, his knights seemed not to notice, too busy noticing something else.

“Merlin,” said Elyan, his eyebrows raised, “that’s a new look for you.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Merlin replied tightly before turning to Arthur. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll just be practicing my needlework.” Without waiting for a response, he stalked over to his usual place at the side of the training grounds, sat down, and pulled the pieces of his beloved ratty brown jacket from the bag slung over his shoulder.

Someone let out a low whistle and Arthur’s attention snapped back to his knights—and the appreciative looks several of them were directing toward his manservant. “Wonder what else he’s been hiding,” Gwaine muttered, then seemed to realize his mistake. He turned to Arthur with wide eyes.

“Unless you have any other commentary, Sir Gwaine,” Arthur gritted out between clenched teeth, “we will commence training, and you’ll be partnering with me to start.”

Arthur couldn’t very well beat himself for allowing his gaze to wander to Merlin—bent over his task, the fine, wiry muscles of his arms tensing with the tiny motions of his needle—throughout the morning. He could, however, take out his frustration on any knights he caught doing the same.

Not because he was jealous. He was merely annoyed that his best warriors were so easily distracted. That was all.

“So,” said Gwaine as the knights trouped, battered and bruised, into the armory a few hours later, “that didn’t work.”

“It kind of did,” Percival argued, struggling to get his chainmail over his head with arms that felt like unbaked dough. “Did you see Arthur’s face? He looked ready to eat Merlin alive.”

“That’s how he always looks at Merlin,” Leon pointed out tiredly. “The king will spend the next few days in a rage of repressed lust, then everything will go back to normal.”

“It was a good try, Percival,” said Lancelot comfortingly, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You actually got Merlin to show some skin, that’s an accomplishment in itself,” added Elyan.

“If I didn’t think Arthur would run me through, I would—”

Percival clapped a hand over Gwaine’s mouth. “There are children present!”

“You do know I’m not actually a child,” grumbled Mordred.

Percival yelped, shoving Gwaine away and rubbing saliva off his hand. “He bit me!”

Through the door of the armory came the unmistakable racket of Arthur and Merlin arguing at the tops of their lungs. Percival decided to gracefully accept his defeat.

Chapter Text

After the Sleeves Incident, as they'd taken to calling it, the knights agreed to wait a fortnight before drawing straws again. It wouldn't be fair, Leon had reasoned, to send anyone else into the lion's den while the scent of blood was still in the air. They'd all had a good laugh at that imagery, but as Mordred stared down at the short straw in his hand, he felt that having his limbs viscously ripped from his body was a highly possible outcome.

Literally. He knew what Emrys was capable of.

"Don't look so glum, Mordred," said Elyan, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "It's only five coins lost."

"Are you so sure I'll be losing?" Mordred quipped, mustering his confidence.

"That's the spirit," laughed Percival.

"I'm going to bed," said Leon, waving over a barmaid and handing her a coin for his unfinished drink.

"Me too," said Mordred, eager to return to his room in the castle. He needed time alone to think.

He was eager for any opportunity to prove his loyalty, both to the king and to Emrys. What better way could there be than to give them both what they clearly wanted more than anything—each other? Maybe, Mordred even dared to hope, if Merlin allowed himself to express his feelings for Arthur in any way other than zealous overprotectiveness, he'd stop seeing Mordred as a threat.

Easier said than done. He would never admit it to the other knights—he got enough of the kid brother treatment already, thanks—but Mordred had very little experience with romance. What with growing up on the run, watching everyone who had ever cared for him die, and eventually learning to hide the powerful magic he was born with, he'd never had time for the kind of escapades he heard the other knights discussing when they thought he couldn't hear. There had been Kara, but although his heart still ached when he thought of her, Mordred couldn't really count that as experience. One youthful infatuation did not qualify him for this. The relationship between Arthur and Merlin was utterly incomprehensible, too vast and complicated to describe.

Well, Mordred thought as he stared at the low guttering flame of his candle, Merlin might not be fond of him, but Mordred thought they were similar in more ways than they were different. No matter how selfless the great Emrys was, he must crave recognition. Everyone did, didn’t they? 

Barely a moment had passed since Merlin left, after helping Arthur dress for the day and insulting him over breakfast, before there was a hesitant knock at the door. “Enter,” said Arthur, smiling when the door swung open to reveal his youngest knight. “Ah, Sir Mordred. What can I do for you?”

“Sire,” Mordred bowed. “It’s not about me, exactly; I wanted to talk to you about Merlin.”

That got Arthur’s full attention, though he feigned nonchalance. “What about him?”

Mordred shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I know you… care about him a great deal—” Arthur snorted, but Mordred plowed on, hands clasped behind his back, “—and I couldn’t help but notice he’s been a bit tense lately.”

“What is your point, Sir Mordred?”

“Sire, if I may make a suggestion,” Mordred took a deep breath before continuing, “perhaps you ought to do something to, you know, show your appreciation?”

Had it been anyone else, Arthur would have laughed them out of the room. Wasn’t letting Merlin keep his job despite his utter ineptitude enough appreciation? But this was Mordred, who had always had an absurd level of interest in Merlin despite Merlin’s equally inexplicable dislike of him. If the notion weren’t completely absurd, Arthur might think the boy was infatuated with his servant.

“Very well,” he said curtly, ignoring the irritation prickling beneath his skin, “if it will put your mind at ease.”

Mordred smiled uncertainly and left with another bow.

Merlin stormed down the corridor, chasing the flash of chainmail. He whipped around the corner and shoved Mordred unceremoniously against the stone wall.

“What did you say to him?” he demanded.

“Who?” Mordred stared at him, flat blue gaze unreadable as always. Merlin resisted the urge to set him on fire.

“Arthur. He tried to give me the day off.”

Mordred blinked. “And you… don’t want the day off?”

“As if you don’t know,” Merlin snarled, “that today is petition day and Arthur relies on my advice with peasant issues.”

“But—”

“Whatever you’re planning, it won’t work,” Merlin vowed. “Even if you’ve somehow broken his trust in me—”

“Merlin, what—”

“I will always be by his side, whether he wants me there or not.” He swallowed hard against the threat of tears, refusing to show weakness. “I won’t let you hurt him.”

“For the last time,” Mordred burst out, breaking Merlin’s hold and pushing him away, “I'm not going to kill Arthur! Or you, for that matter, no matter how much you hate me. Is there nothing I can do to make you believe that? How many times do I have to prove my loyalty?” He turned on his heel and hurried away, fists clenched at his side.

Merlin stared after him for a moment, chest heaving, before taking off toward the throne room. Like hell was he letting Arthur get rid of him on petition day of all days.

Growing up in a druid camp, privacy had been in short supply, especially with half the group being able to speak directly into Mordred’s mind without having to be near him. Whenever he needed to clear his head as a child, he’d snuck away into the forest and tucked himself into a thicket of underbrush or the gnarled roots of an ancient tree. The elders would find him hours later, fast asleep and curled up as small as possible.

The citadel of Camelot had no groves to disappear into, but on the days that Mordred felt more like that little boy than a brave knight, he crept down to the armory and tucked himself between the shield rack and the wall.

The worst part was that he couldn’t even blame Emrys for distrusting him. In his heart, Mordred felt certain that he would never betray Arthur, never wish him harm—but hadn’t Morgana once been the same? He still remembered that flame of righteous anger that had burned within her when they first met, but the last time he’d seen her, she’d been as cold as stone. And he’d turned against her, driven a knife into her side. Why shouldn’t Merlin believe he might betray Arthur in the same way.

“You missed dinner.” The voice was soft but so unexpected that Mordred nearly clocked his head on a shield. Sir Lancelot was peering down at him with a kind half-smile. “Have you been down here all day?”

“Nearly,” said Mordred, voice cracking from disuse.

To his surprise, the older knight settled down on the floor beside him, resting against a shield emblazoned with the Pendragon crest. “Is this about Gwaine’s hare-brained bet?”

Mordred twitched one shoulder in a stiff shrug. “I didn’t really expect to succeed.”

“I highly doubt any of us will. For all their good qualities, Merlin and the king are two of the most stubborn men I’ve ever met.”

Mordred hugged his knees against his chest.

“The bet isn’t what’s bothering you, is it?” said Lancelot. “It’s Merlin.”

“He… doesn’t like me,” Mordred mumbled. 

Lancelot hummed in sympathetic assent. “Merlin is one of my dearest friends. I would trust him with my life and I trust his judgment on most matters, but,” he studied Mordred’s face, “when it comes to defending Arthur, he can be incredibly single-minded.”

Mordred tensed. “You know, then? Why he hates me so much?”

“I don’t think he hates you; I don’t know if he has it in him to truly hate anyone, no matter what they’ve done. And you haven’t done anything.”

“Yet.”

Lancelot raised his eyebrows. “Are you planning to commit regicide, then?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Then I have no reason to think of you any differently than I do the other knights.” He stood and offered a hand to Mordred, pulling him to his feet. “As far as I understand, prophecies aren’t set in stone, and no man should be punished for crimes he may one day commit.”

Mordred managed a weak smile, blinking back tears. “I appreciate that. Thank you.”

Lancelot clapped him on the back. “Don’t mention it. And you don’t have to go along with everything Gwaine suggests, you know.”

Mordred chuckled, stretching his stiff limbs. “It’d do us all good to succeed. I’d certainly have a more pleasant go of it if Merlin spent more time snogging Arthur and less time glaring at me.”

“You’re probably right,” Lancelot laughed. “Well, you’ve still got another day until your deadline. Put your skills of youthful fancy to work.”

“I’m not a child,” Mordred protested weakly, but his thoughts were moving in a different direction. He might not have much youthful fancy, but he did possess a skill that none of the other knights had. He’d have to be careful of course, but he’d seen Merlin use magic within the walls of Camelot dozens of times without being executed. It couldn’t be that hard not to get caught, right?

Merlin adjusted his satchel over his shoulder, metally ticking down the list of herbs Gaius had asked him to gather, but the sight of a hooded figure entering the woods ahead of him drove his task from his mind. Keeping his footsteps as silent as possible, Merlin trailed the figure, ducking behind a tree when they turned to look back. Merlin caught a glimpse of a sharp nose and ice-blue eyes—Mordred.

Curiosity sharpening into suspicion, Merlin followed as close as he dared until Mordred stopped in the midst of a thicket and plucked a few leaves before moving on. It took Merlin a few minutes to find the fresh green of the shoots that had been plucked, immediately identifying the plant as witch hazel.

What was Mordred up to?

It was nearly midday by the time Mordred returned to the citadel, Merlin on his heels but as far as he could tell, unnoticed. His herb satchel was empty, which Gaius wouldn’t be happy about, but Merlin had bigger problems. He’d taken careful note of every plant Mordred had collected, and while none were outright poisonous on their own, many had magical uses. He couldn’t very well accuse Mordred of sorcery; even if the word of a servant was worth as much as the word of a knight in the eyes of most of the court, Mordred could easily expose Merlin for the same crime. Besides, Merlin still had enough of a conscience that the idea of sending one of his own to the pyre made him ill.

So, as usual, it fell to Merlin to protect Camelot against a magical attack. 

Brushing past Gaius, he hurried to his room and pulled his magic book from its hiding place beneath a loose floorboard.

“Let me guess,” said Gaius irritably from the doorway, “you’ve discovered some threat to the king’s safety and until I help you find a solution, you’re going to be useless for anything else.”

“Yes,” said Merlin, rifling through his pages. “We should have a few hours at least, based on the number of components…” he rattled off all the plants Mordred had gathered and they began the arduous task of searching their collection of highly illegal books that Arthur turned a blind eye to because of how often they’d come in handy.

Hours later, when Merlin had almost despaired of finding the spell before Mordred could put it into action, Gaius brandished a scroll beneath his nose. “I believe this is it.”

Merlin snatched the parchment away and scanned the instructions of the spell. “Yes, these are exactly what Mordred had! What is it for?”

“It appears to be a potion that forces the drinker to speak only the truth for a short time,” said Gaius, “though what use Mordred might have for it, I have no idea.”

“Whatever it is, it can’t be good,” replied Merlin, tossing the scroll to the table. “Arthur is planning to dine with the knights this evening; Mordred might try to spike his drink. I have to stop him.”

“And then you’re going to gather those herbs for me,” Gaius called after him.

Arthur had barely taken his seat between Sir Mordred and Sir Leon when Merlin burst through the door.

“Honestly, Merlin,” he sighed, “I offer you a day off and you refuse, only to shirk your duties the very next day. I will never understand you.” In truth, he was relieved to see his manservant. It hadn’t escaped his notice that when Merlin disappeared for hours of days on end under the pretext of gathering herbs, he often returned bruised and pale. He seemed unharmed this time, if frantic and out of breath. 

“Don’t drink that,” Merlin gasped, pointing at the goblet in Arthur’s hand.

Arthur peered down at his wine. “Why? Is it poisoned?”

“It’s—not exactly.” Merlin’s glare shifted to Arthur’s left. Mordred stared back, unblinking.

“Merlin?” Arthur prompted.

Merlin ignored him, intent on Mordred as if trying to convey something of utmost importance without uttering a word. The other knights glanced nervously between them until Mordred suddenly snapped, “Oh for the love of the goddess,” and snatched the goblet from Arthur’s hand, gulping down the wine before anyone could stop him.

“What the—”

“I mean no harm to anyone in Camelot,” Mordred declared, still holding Merlin’s gaze. “My loyalty is to Emrys and the Once and Future King. My greatest wish had always been to find somewhere to belong, and I believe Camelot will become that place under King Arthur’s rule. Is there anything else you wish to know?”

Merlin opened his mouth, glanced around at the gathered knights, then narrowed his eyes at Mordred without a word.

“Because I’m trying to help you!” Mordred said, knocking the empty goblet off the table. Arthur caught it before it hit the floor, wondering what the hell was going on, then figured he might as well ask. 

“What the hell is going on?”

Lancelot clapped a hand over Mordred’s mouth. “I’ll take him to Gaius, sire, just in case there was something harmful in that drink.” He bodily dragged Mordred from the room, followed closely by Merlin.

Baffled, Arthur turned to his remaining knights. Leon’s face was buried in his hands, but the others were trying with varying degrees of success to hide their amusement—with the exception of Gwaine, who made no attempt to curb his wide smile.

“Do I even want to know?” Arthur asked.

“Probably not,” said Percival.

“So,” said Elyan when they reconvened to draw straws again, “are you going to tell us what your brilliant plan was?”

“Please don’t,” Leon protested. “I want plausible deniability.”

Mordred grinned sheepishly, avoiding Lancelot’s exasperated gaze. “Doesn’t matter what it was, since it didn’t work anyway.”

Despite being five coins poorer, Mordred felt lighter than he had in years. Merlin had smiled at him—just once, briefly, after the truth spell wore off—and Mordred would be riding that high for weeks. He could understand perfectly why the kind was so besotted with him, although—

“You know,” he said, holding three straws out to the remaining knights, “I’m not sure Arthur even knows he’s in love with Merlin.” So maybe the truth spell wouldn't have worked after all, he didn’t add.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Leon solemnly. “But as I’ve mentioned several times, nothing we do is going to make the slightest bit of difference.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Gwaine, reaching for a straw.

Chapter Text

The other knights were going about this the wrong way, Elyan knew. For all their cajoling and sneaking around, none of them seemed to have the slightest grasp of romance. Even between two people who had known each other and obviously harbored feelings for each other for years, a relationship didn't change from platonic to romantic with something as simple as a poetry book, or a lack of sleeves, or whatever the hell Mordred had been trying to do. Elyan knew better than to discount the importance of proper courtship.

Fortunately for him, he happened to be related to the only person Arthur Pendragon had ever seriously courted.

"It was best when we could get out of the citadel," Gwen told him, busily embroidering the bodice of a dress for some noblewoman or other. "Arthur doesn't get many chances to be free of the mantle of king—or prince, as he was at the time. Once, he took me on a picnic to a lovely clearing by the river, and I'd never seen him look so at peace." She paused in her work to shoot him a wry smile. "That was the day I realized our relationship wouldn't work out."

"Why?" Elyan bristled, mind filling with a hundred things Arthur could have done to drive her away.

She rolled her eyes. "Calm down, you don't have to defend my honor. It was just something he said: he told me that he sometimes dreamed of running away and becoming a farmer."

Elyan smiled at the notion. "That strikes me as something you'd find charming."

"Very," she agreed. "But the very next thing he said was that he would take Merlin with him, and I don't think it even occurred to him to take me, too. It was as if he had this whole imaginary life planned out in his head—but in his dearest fantasies, it was Merlin by his side, not me." She smiled softly. "He looked so content, thinking about being just Arthur, not a prince, living with Merlin as equals."

Elyan's heart melted.

"I know," Gwen sighed dreamily. "Isn't it sweet?"

And that settled it. Elyan had always relished crossing paths with bards and storytellers, and his favorite tales were of star-crossed lovers. A king and his servant would be bad enough, but add in Merlin's magic and the laws of Arthur's kingdom, and it was enough to outdo the most heart-wrenching ballads Elyan had ever heard. "I am going to do everything in my power to bring them together," he vowed. 

"There's my brother, ever the romantic," Gwen laughed, "ready to ride forth in the name of love."

"Oi!" He protested. "You make me sound like such a bleeding heart."

"You are," she retorted. "I do hope you succeed, though. I'd like nothing more than to see them happy."

"Then you won't mind helping me?"

"Fine, but if you win the bet, I get half the winnings."

"Deal."

"Oh, and Elyan?" She added as he turned to go, "Tell Lancelot that he doesn't need to look like a kicked puppy every time we're in the same room. If he wants to court me, he should just ask."

Elyan wrinkled his nose; his sister's love life was a far less appealing topic than that of the king and his servant. "Fine, but I'm also telling him that if he ever hurts you again they'll never find his body."

"If you must."

“I don’t see why I have to come,” Merlin grumbled, hefting the luncheon basket higher on his shoulder. 

“Gwen specifically invited you,” said Arthur. “For some godforsaken reason she seems to enjoy your company.”

“Probably for the same reason you do,” Merlin quipped, securing the basket to his horse, then clambering into the saddle.

“Whatever gave you the idea that I enjoy your company?” Arthur snorted, mounting his own horse with considerably more grace. Merling merely grinned and urged his horse into a canter with no regard for the impropriety of a servant riding ahead of his master. It felt just like old times, when Arthur would drag him out of the castle to go hunting, just the two of them, and Arthur would complain about him scaring off the game. It had been a long time since they last left the citadel for purely recreational reasons, and Merlin could see Arthur’s shoulders relax as they passed the gates. He couldn’t even find it in his heart to be upset that it wouldn’t be just the two of them, because it had been too long since he’d spent time with Gwen. As much as he complained about being the odd man out, he was pleased to be included.

Gwen’s note had instructed them to meet her near the bank of the river, but although Arthur insisted they were in the right place, Gwen was nowhere to be seen. “She said midday, didn’t she?” said Merlin, squinting up at the sun directly overhead.

“Don’t be such a nagging fishwife, Merlin,” Arthur said, securing their horses nearby to graze. “Since when do you worry about being on time for things? Make yourself useful and lay out the food.”

“Demanding prat,” Merlin muttered.

“Heard that,” Arthur said without turning around.

Huffing, Merlin spread the blanket out over the flattest patch of ground he could find. He wasn't one to turn down a free meal, no matter the circumstances, so he kept his complaining to a minimum as he unpacked the basket.

The faint thump of horse hooves drew his attention; hopefully it was just Gwen, but Merlin had learned the hard way that his luck wasn't worth relying on. Arthur must have come to the same conclusion because his hand rested on the hilt of his sword until he caught sight of a flash of Camelot red between the trees.

"Sir Elyan," Arthur greeted with surprise. "What brings you here?"

"Delivering a message, my lord," Elyan replied, dipping his head in the best now he could manage without dismounting. "My sister sends her regards and apologies, but she will be unable to join you."

"Is she alright? Did something happen?" Merlin queried.

"We'll ride back at once to assist her," said Arthur, already reaching for his horse's reins.

"No!" Elyan almost yelped. "I mean, that won't be necessary, Your Majesty. She's fine, just, erm, dealing with rush order for an embroidered bodice."

"Of course," said Merlin. He knew all too well what it was like to rush around trying to prepare things for a noble who hadn't thought far enough in advance. "I suppose we'll have to meet another day."

He move to gather the dishes he'd laid across the blanket, but Elyan hurriedly continued, "I'm sure she'd rather you both enjoy the afternoon regardless."

"It is nice to be out of the castle for a change," Arthur conceded. "Would you care to join us?"

Elyan refused immediately. "No, thank you, my lord. I must be getting back." He turned his horse, sending an inscrutable smile over his shoulder. "It's such a lovely afternoon, do try to have a good time."

As the hoofbeats faded, eclipsed by the gurgling of the river, Arthur flopped down on the opposite side of the blanket. Without Gwen's arrival to prepare for, he was like a puppet with his strings cut, allowing his shoulders to slump and kingly persona to slip until it faded away. Merlin like him best like this: breaking bread with a commoner, dappled sunlight making his mussed hair gleam like spun gold.

Although he had been looking forward to spending time with Gwen, Merlin could admit to himself—in the deepest, most secret place within him, nestled in close next to his magic—that he was glad it was just the two of them. 

"I've told Gwen before that she can just come live in the castle," Arthur was saying through a mouthful of bread (his table manners really were atrocious with no nobles around to impress), "but she insists she'd rather stay where she is."

"You can't begrudge her that," said Merlin, thinking of his mother's tiny cottage in Ealdor. "It may not be grand, but that house is her home."

Arthur frowned, staring pensively out at the river. "I don't think I really understand what that's like. The castle is my home, but it's not just that. It's a workplace and a stronghold. It's practically a whole village in itself. It is mine, but not in the way Gwen's house is hers."

Merlin does what he always does when Arthur starts to fall into one of his moods. "Oh how tragic, the King only has a castle to live in. If only you had a cottage, all your problems would be solved."

Rather that snap back as he usually would, Arthur chuckled. "You know, I think I said something along those lines to Gwen in this same spot, once."

"Really?"

"I told her that I wanted to run off and be a farmer."

Merlin snorted at the mental image of Arthur trying to milk a cow. "As someone who grew up in a farming village, I can confidently say that you wouldn't last a day."

Arthur tried to scowl but the corners of his lips tugged up. "It was a stupid dream, naive. That was back when I was a prince, back when I thought Gwen and I might, you know, have a life together."

Merlin fidgeted, turning his face toward the river to avoid looking at Arthur. "I think it was a good dream."

"Maybe," Arthur conceded. "But then Father and Morgana turned up and saw me kissing Gwen, and she was almost executed for witchcraft."

Merlin winced. "That must have ruined the romance of the moment."

"Quite." Arthur's voice was odd, low in his throat, and when Merlin turned his head he was unsurprised to find Arthur's blue eyes fixed on his face with that odd, unreadable intensity that Merlin could never parse. "It was a shame; this is a beautiful spot."

"Right," said Merlin, glancing at the trees. "A far better place for a kiss than Gaius's sickbed."

Arthur blinked, his focused gaze turning bemused. "Huh? What does Gaius's sickbed have to do with anything?"

"That's where I was when Gwen and I—wait, did she never tell you about this?"

Any trace of relaxation was gone from Arthur's form as he sat us straight. "You kissed Guinevere?"

"She kissed me, actually," Merlin corrected, though he suspected it wouldn't make a difference. 

"When was this?" Arthur demanded.

"Years ago, when I drank from that poisoned goblet." Merlin explained, wondering if he ought to just cut his losses and make a run for it. "She thought I was dead, so when I woke up she was so relieved that she kissed me."

"She kissed you." Arthur was on his feet now, pacing the riverbank. "After all I went through to get that flower--I nearly died, my father had me locked in the dungeon— after all that, she kissed you. "

"I didn't mean anything!" Merlin tried, standing as well, vaguely hoping to calm the king before he did something rash—like galloping all the way back to Camelot and demanding an explanation from Gwen herself. "You don't have to be jealous."

Arthur froze. "Jealous? I'm not– why would I be–"

"It was just the one time," Merlin interrupted, "and I know for a fact she's kissed you loads more times than that so–"

"Merlin–"

"–and I don't like Gwen like that, so you don't have to challenge me to a duel or anything–"

"Wait, you think I'm jealous of you for kissing Gwen?"

The pure incredulity of his tone made Merlin pause.

"Based on your reaction, yes, that seemed like the most logical conclusion."

Arthur scoffed, the derisive sound making Merlin's hackles rise. "You never cease to astound me, Merlin."

And Merlin can't resist pushing, just to get a further reaction. "It's alright, Arthur, you can just admit it. You're jealous. That's a perfectly natural emo—"

Arthur darted forward, one arm knocking his legs out from under him, the other catching his back as he fell, and the rest of Merlin's words were drowned in a mouthful of river water. He surfaced with a splitter, blinked the water out of his eyes, and focused on a large stone just to Arthur's right. A slight nudge as Arthur tried to back away from the edge—yes, his boot caught the edge of the rock, his balance wavered, and Merlin surged up and snatched at Arthur's flailing arm, dragging him into the chilly water.

Elyan knew he was taking his loss harder than he ought, but he couldn't help but sulk. He'd created the perfect setup: tranquil scenery, a romantic meal, a few hours of privacy. He'd been sure the king and his servant would return glowing and united.

Instead, the pair had dripped their way into the palace, wet boots squelching on the stone floor, neither speaking to the other.

"To be fair, I think that ended better than my river picnic date with Arthur did," Gwen consoled. "At least no one ended up arrested for witchcraft."

Elyan winced; he hated reminders of what had almost happened to his sister when he hadn't been there to protect her, and he hated the reminder of what could easily befall Merlin if he wasn't careful. He'd survived this long, but if Elyan had noticed, someone else was bound to eventually.

Or, Elyan thought hopefully as he gave up his coins to the betting pouch, we'll end up with a crazy sorcerer as King Consort. Worse things could happen.