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Chapter Text

Nobody touches Arthur. That's so well known it's practically a law; you don't just go around touching the Crown prince. So who did that peasant think he was, coming up to him and giving him a lecture over throwing knives at Morris, and…

His pride isn't hurt in the slightest, not from someone so insignificant.

No, nobody touches Arthur.

____________

When his son is born, Uthers face is stony, holding in the greatest war of emotions of his life, as his wife lies dead and his son's cries echo around the chamber. Even then, Uther does not weep, for great kings do not show such weakness in front of others. He takes his son in his hands with the last gentleness he has left in him.

"Cradle his head, Sire," the midwife reminds him quietly, sounding nervous. He understands, for he has been….volatile, in these past wretched hours. "Babies need support there."

Uther nods, and holds the head, arms stiff and awkward, and he examines the child. Five fingers on each hand, and a healthy, strong pair of lungs that wail. In his wrinkled, infant way, he even resembles Uther, which pleases him greatly.

He loves the child more than anything he has ever seen, a tidal wave force rather than the slow bloom of his love with Ygraine. The force is a bittersweet one. She lies dead beside him even as this new life screams its displeasure in his ears. He wishes that he felt nothing. It would be better if he could purge his heart out and never feel again, than to have his heart ripped into pieces.

Moments ago he had cursed the world, had told himself he should never seek out magic for anyone the way he had for Ygraine, and that he would never love another such as he has loved her. But even now he knows he would do anything for Arthur, violate any principle to ensure the boys future.

It's shameful, the softness love brings upon him. He only hopes his son will be better than he. Arthur will rule with a stronger hand, not weak to these draining emotions that plague his father. Uther will teach him better. He will make him strong.

"You will be a great king one day," he says to the child, holding out a finger. The child grasps it firmly, fingers small and chubby.

Arthur halts his wailing for a moment, and he smiles. In that moment, he does not resemble Uther, he is someone else entirely. And Uther does not weep.

______________

Arthur holds a training sword the moment he can walk. His pudgy little hand barely fits around the wooden stick, and it is nearly as tall as he is, but he holds it nonetheless, with such a grip strength that the servants often struggle to get it away from him.

His first word is "up," as he reaches out grabby hands, pleading eyes asking for anyone to lift him up to rest his soft golden head on their shoulder. He is held by many servants, who cannot resist his pudgy cheeks and his sweet squeaky voice.

The king checks on the boy near obsessively, ensuring he is sleeping and that he is properly fed.

“Would you like to hold him, Sire?” asks the nursemaid upon the king's fifth visit of the day, fretting over the child's wellbeing and snapping at anyone and everyone.

“No, no. That is a task for his mother,” the king says. The nursemaid is silent, unsure what to say. They both know that role will never be filled. “He’s getting too old for that anyway. Come, Arthur,” he says to the child on the floor. “I’ve brought you several new training items.”

He murmurs in gibberish.

“That’s right. Now, do not break these." The boy had broken every training item he brought, in the typical way of small children. "You must learn to take care of something without breaking it. It's about discipline, you understand.”

Arthur looks up at him, not much looking like he understands, and throws his toy ball across the room. He tries again to reach for his father, but Uther waves the training sword a bit, and that catches his attention. He grabs the stick and holds it.

Uther turns to the nursemaid. "How is he eating and sleeping? Does he need anything from me?

"He is well, Sire," she says. "Though he does ask for you often."

"Hm." Uther looks at the boy, who is swinging the training sword around his head. "He ought to start formal training soon. See to it that a tutor is found, and that knights are assigned to his sword training."

"Yes, Sire."

________________________

They begin his training the following day. He is taught by Sir Galahad, Sir Dinadan, and Sir Bedeviere. They're excited to have him, jumping over themselves to teach him. Sir Galahad has the best stories to tell, and he says every word if it is true.

"The Golden knight dashed away, having solved the troll's riddle and finally, he climbed the tower to save the princess... but then! On the way down, they encountered trouble. The troll had followed, and and he had to sacrifice his life for hers!"

"No!"

"...But he lived."

"How?"

"Hm? I don't know, I forgot that part, Sire."

“Tell me another!”

“Have I told you the one where the Golden knight, this same knight who was terrifying to behold, and braver than no other, mind you-- he who tamed the dragon, who quieted the wolves howling with only a mean glance--”

“You told me those already!”

“How about the one where he redirected the river's flow with only his sword?"

"Stop telling him tales and teach him something useful, like how to hold a sword properly,” says Sir Bedeviere. “Come here, young prince."

Arthur runs over eagerly and stands before Sir Bedeviere. "You take it in your hands like so," instructs Sir Bedeviere, taking up his own claymore in two sturdy hands. Arthur fumbles with his own training sword, and the knight steadies his hands, moving them until he is in the correct stance and grip.

"There. You're a natural."

Arthur gazes at his strong hands, entranced by the scars across them, the remainders of battles won, no doubt, with glory and honor for Camelot. Probably slaying all sorts of beasts and evil sorcerers and the like, just like the stories.

Of course, as the prince, he's going to be the leader of these knights one day, have many adventures and bring more glory to their land than anyone before. Perhaps he will even rid the land of evil and magic forever, and then his father would be pleased and would pat him on the head and say 'good job, Arthur.'

Arthur swings the sword in an arc, testing it, and thinking of his great future. He’s definitely going to do big things to prove himself worthy, protect the lands from the forces trying to destroy them and things like that. He will even end their squabbles with Caerleon that his father often speaks of.

"What age do you think father will let me go to join the war?" He asks. He's not totally sure of what they're fighting, except that it's their enemies and magic and things like that, horrid evil things that keep Arthur awake at night. Caerleon is full of evil sorcerers too, so he’s heard.

"Hope you never have to," says sir Bedeviere solemnly. "It is my hope that you will only need to patrol the borders, never go to war yourself."

"Oh, he's only trying to frighten you, Sire," says Sir Galahad, scratching his chin. "I'm sure you'll bring glory to Camelot in time. I will bring many tales back from the battlefield myself in the fall!"

"You're leaving?" Asks Arthur. Sir Galahad nods.

"In a week, on the king's orders. I'm going to be out there taking heads, slicing down our enemies and protecting the people of Camelot from harm!" he gestures dramatically, ever the storyteller.

"And what about you?" He asks Sir Dinadan, who nods enthusiastically. "And you, Sir Bedeviere, will you be going?"

"Yes," says Sir Bedeviere quietly, still looking at his hands. "I will."

"Will you be bringing back some heads?"

Sir Bedeviere says nothing, only sighs. Sir Galahad is the bravest knight ever, Arthur decides, but Sir Bedeviere is, perhaps, a bit of a coward, that he doesn't want to go out and kill anybody at all. What kind of knight is that? But he is a knight and Arthur doesn't want to embarrass the man by saying so.

"A dozen heads of our enemies would suffice," Arthur says, but it doesn't seem to cheer him up. "But don't be disappointed in yourself if you can only manage one or two."

"I'll get a dozen and one," laughs Sir Galahad.

Sir Dinadan elbows him. "Plenty of tales for you as well, Sire, I know how you love your songs and stories. Never a silent moment with this one, hm?" He smiles patiently, the soft and kind smile he always aims at Arthur. He's got to be the nicest man Arthur knows, and sir Galahad the bravest.

Arthur grins. These are great knights indeed. He’s going to be just like them one day.

Well, except for Sir Bedeviere.

____________

He begins tutoring the same day. A scrawny man doodles into his room, adjusting his shirt and holding a large leather book.

"I am your new tutor, Callow," he says.

"Hello," says Arthur, looking him up and down in excitement. "What is a tutor? And why do you have such a weird looking nose? And why is that book so big? I can read, you know," he fires off rapidly

"Is that so? His Highness told me you were having some trouble reading, and I'm meant to help."

Arthur blushes at being caught in a lie. "Yes, well… I'm probably going to be good at it very soon."

"No doubt, my lord," he says, nodding. They sit at the desk. The tutor pulls out a massive book, worn and made of red leather. He drops it into Arthur's arms, and Arthur nearly drops it to the floor for its weight. The thing is like a brick.

"Now, we will begin with a lesson on reading and writing, and then we will begin our unit on Camelot's history. Afterward, we will take a break for lunch, and then go into the basics of our agricultural system, exports, and rankings. Then, dinner, and then we will go into--"

He far prefers the knight training to that stupid book.

"I want to do swords, not a economics lesson."

"You do not 'do' swords," says Callow. "And it is an economics lesson, not a economics lesson. Do not speak like a peasant, you are better than that."

He sighs, and prepares to daydream for the entirety of the incredibly pointless lesson.

____________

"And the knight then drew the sword, throwing himself in front of the others to protect them from danger, and--!"

The boy's eyes are wide, enraptured.

“When I grow up I'm going to be just like the Golden knight!"

"Nobody can be just like him," says Sir Bedeviere from the bench, where he is polishing his sword. "He's not real!"

"He is so," says Sir Dinadan. He winks at Arthur. "Trust me, you'll be like him, I can see it in your eyes."

____________

Arthur plays outside with some of the village boys, with their hoops and sticks, and sometimes their small, carved figurines. They play mock-tourney, hitting one another with sticks. The guards are never far behind him as he plays, and he can tell it makes the other children nervous around him. They make sure to never insult him or say the wrong thing, and they leave at the first sign of upset from Arthur. They don’t want to upset the kings son. He gets tired of it fairly quickly, but he doesn’t know how to explain to them that they're being too friendly, because it’s a ridiculous complaint to have. Still, it makes him bored of the games, especially as they allow him to win every time.

____________

His father watches him train, sometimes. Arthur always seems to fumble, when he's watching. It is not different today, as he swings his sword at a shield held by a servant, missing the target's center again and again, his face growing hot as he continues to fail. He doesn't need to look to see that his father is fixing him with that same look as always, the one that says he's not trying hard enough, needs to be pushing himself more. Later, perhaps, his father will take him aside to explain how he could be trying harder, and how the kingdom rests in his hands. He hates when he does that, it leaves him feeling small and useless, and those nights he cries into his pillows. Worse, though, is when his father does not yell at him, and only looks at him from afar, too disappointed to even bother. Those days make Arthur feel like nothing at all.

____________

Arthur likes to eavesdrop once in a while. He’s small enough to wedge himself into corners and listen in to the castle gossip. He doesn’t always like what he hears, when people don’t think he’s listening.

He spots his tutor in the hallway, chatting with his manservant furtively, and stands in a corner to listen in, staying a distance back.

"--never wants to do his lessons, only wants to train. He used to want to play, but I think the king must have told him he’s too old, or something, you know how he is."

“Hasn’t he got about a billion toys in his room?”

“You know it’s no substitute for a real friend, for a child that age,” sighs his manservant. "I still think he’s too young to be training with swords. He's under quite a bit of pressure, he should be doing the things children do at that age, like--"

"Doesn't matter what you think, we’re paid either way so I'm happy to leave the brat to it."

He swivels his head, but does not see the small golden head peeking around the corner.

"Don't say that, anyone could be--"

"Come on, I'd never say it to his face. You know that. And he is a brat."

“Yes, I admit that. He’s terribly rude to me. The other day I was putting away his socks and he took all of them right back out just to spite me. I think he--”

Arthur decides he doesn’t want to hear any more of that conversation. Perhaps he is rude to his servants, but what of it? They're paid, aren't they, and if they hate him so much they can simply work elsewhere. He's the prince, he has the right to do whatever he pleases with his socks. He never thinks he will get used to that. The way that they are with him versus when they're away. It gives him an empty feeling in his stomach, like he’s hungry, but for what he does not know.

If he had a real friend, he would protect them with his sword, like the knight in the stories, and the two of them would have all sorts of adventures together. He's sure one day he will, he's naturally charming. But as it is, he does not have any true friends. He sometimes spends time with nobles children his age, and with Morgana, but she’s outspoken about what a pompous brat she thinks he is and he’s none too fond of her either. She comes over with her father sometimes and spends half of the time clinging to the man's leg. And she’s a girl, she can’t be a true friend. He's going to go on and do great things and kill beasts and sorcerers, and she will be inside doing girly lady things.

He slips away, out of the castle and through the streets, and finally to the edge of the city. He wants to be alone. He goes to play in the mud outside, to practice. He pretends his stick is a real sword, and the mud is the slopping blood of some great beast that he must slay.

He plunges the stick into the mud again and again, and on a particularly deep stab, he loses his balance and falls over. Wet, cold mud seeps through his trousers.

This, combined with the rest of the stress of the day, finally brings him to tears.

He is sitting by his stick crying for only a few moments when someone places a hand on his shoulder. He jumps, wiping his eyes and hoping it isn't his father who has witnessed him crying like a weakling.

“Where is your mum, little one?”

“I don’t have one,” he sniffles. She frowns, eyes going soft and sympathetic.

He smiles at her. He hasn't had his hand held since he stopped being tended by a nursemaid. It's soft and warm, and he holds on tighter.

“What about your papa?”

He points to the castle in the distance, and her mouth falls open.

A band of horses rides up with purpose, his father among them with a glint in his eye. She drops his hand like it’s burned her, and takes a step back from him.

“Majesty,” she says, immediately dropping into a bow. His father lifts Arthur up on his horse, and he waves a hand toward the woman. The guards go to speak with her, probably to ask what happened, but she looks utterly terrified as they approach. Arthur turns away.

They are quiet on the way back. Finally, they reach the castle, and his father takes him aside to his chambers so he can properly yell at him. At least it's not in front of everyone, this time.

“What were you thinking, running off like that?”

“I wasn't far from the castle,” he mumbles, unconvincing even to himself.

“It's childish! You're too old for this sort of behavior. And another thing, you do not let people touch you. There are assassins and sorcerers everywhere, waiting for their opportunity, you foolish boy."

His heart thumps fast. Was that woman earlier truly a sorceress? She didn't seem too evil, but perhaps it was her tricky ways. He knows that they can look and act just like normal people. “Do you think that woman was a sorceress?”

“Either way, she is a peasant, meaning she has no right to lay hands on the prince. She may have wanted to kidnap you for ransom, or worse. There are many who will get close pretending to be a friend, only to use you for political advantage."

"How do you know when they're pretending or when they're not?"

"You must always assume that they are. That is not to say you should deprive yourself of company, but do not let it make you vulnerable. We simply have to use people to our own advantage." His father sighs. "Do not run off again, or the consequences will be severe."

____________

Arthur picks at his food at dinner. They eat rich, flavorful food every day, and he always likes it. By all means, the servant who refills his cup at a near neurotic pace, and the one placing a variety of little candies on his plate, should make him happy. To them, it's all about keeping him happy, all the time. They walk on eggshells around his temper, his tantrums, and his demands.

Sometimes he wonders if there's something wrong with him, that he's discontent even with all this. He stares at the candies in the bowl, and none are the ones he likes best, for he has told no one his true favorite. If he had, they would be there immediately. He wants to earn it, like he does with his swords training, his father's approval. Some things are special because they are uncommon.

He jolts out of his thoughts at the sound of his father's voice. "There is a meeting tomorrow. I expect you to attend.”

“Will it be boring?” he asks. He has never been to a meeting. “What will I have to do there?”

“You are only there to listen. When you are there, do not slouch."

"Yes sir."

"And do not hug them, like you did with the Mercian representative. You are here to listen only."

"Okay."

"And you will not speak. You must hold your tongue."

"Okay" he says, dejected.

"I understand that these things do not come naturally to a child," he says. "However, you are not only a child, you represent the future of Camelot. Others are led by their basest desires, but you must rise above all the petty things of common people to successfully rule."

He isn't sure he's above petty things at all. In fact he doesn't even know if he wants to be the king, if he's not allowed to slouch or talk or hug.

"What if I'm not?"

"You will be," he sighs, standing again and walking to the window.

Arthur does not understand, but he obeys nonetheless.

“We will meet with representatives from Caerleon. This meeting is to gather information without giving any away. Don't speak to anyone before or after either."

"Why's that?"

"We can’t trust anyone. If there is one lesson that sticks in your head, let it be that. Anyone can betray you at any time."

"What about people you love?" he asks quietly. He trusts his father more than anything.

"Don't love anyone, either, if you can help it. Haven't you heard a thing I've--" he runs a hand down his face. "We aren’t like them, Arthur,” he says, sweeping a hand out to gesture at the sweeping land of Camelot. “We are better. No exception."

“You don't have any exceptions?" Arthur can think of lots of things he thinks are exceptions, at least for him. He trusts the cook, because she gives him biscuits, and he loves his father more than anybody. "Not anything?"

Uther doesn’t look at him, or seem to hear him at all.

"Your tutor told me you have been distracted in your lessons. You must take your studies seriously, even if you do not enjoy them," says his father. "When I am gone, all of that will be yours, and you must know and respect every part of it."

"Yes, father," he says, chastised. "Though I don't see the point, I'm good with the sword, and I'm already intelligent, what does it matter if I know astronomy, or the specifics of trade roads, or any of that? It's not as if people will come in asking about it."

“That is an interesting question.” He says it in a disappointed tone, one he often takes with Arthur. Arthur braces himself for a verbal lashing, but his father only looks at him thoughtfully. “What do you think a good leader does?”

“I--”

“Don't answer, I want you to think about it first. Sit with that as long as it takes."

It’s such a strange interaction that Arthur really does think about it for the rest of the day. He finds that though he thinks of many answers, he has none that satisfy him.

____________

Young Lord Abelard is the child of Lord James, who is visiting for the meeting. He's not exactly pleasant, a bit loud and brash in ways that make Arthur want to hide behind his fathers legs, but that would not be received well. He is no coward.

Abelard extends a hand and they shake. "What do you say to an alliance, Sire?"

"Er," he says. He remembers the manners he and his father went over. "I humbly accept."

"Perfect. Now shall we take a stroll?"

Arthur looks back at his father and Abelard's father, who wear matching amused expressions. "Can we go outside?" He asks.

"Yes," says his father. "But do not leave castle grounds, and be back before afternoon, I’d like you to be at the meeting to observe, and I've still got training for you this evening."

He wants to complain at that, because he's sick of training and lecturing and tutoring all day long, but he nods. He's fairly excited about Abelard’s appearance, because… Arthur doesn't exactly have any friends his age, and he would like to have some people to talk to and play with. He prays he doesn't mess it up.

The two of them go to the wall. An old, hunched man goes by, carrying a bundle of sticks. He has no shirt on, likely a ward against overheating in the day's hot sun, and his back is covered in scars. Arthur stares.

"Look how odd," Abelard says, laughing. "He looks absolutely wretched."

"Don't be rude! What if he got them from war and adventures, bringing glory to Camelot?"

"That fellow? He was whipped for doing crime. I saw it."

"You did?" Says Arthur, feeling as though he has sucked a lemon. That sort of thing twists his stomach, it's scary. He doesn't think he'll ever be used to seeing floggings. Morgana cries every time. He used to cry too, but his father said he's not allowed anymore, so he's trying to hold it in better these days. A prince cannot be weak. He doesn't have to watch executions, at least, he needs some more time to get braver before he's allowed to see those.

"I saw it. It was bloody. If he didn't want that he shouldn't have done the crime, though, it was his own stupid choice. There's always a choice, when it comes to crime," he says in the voice that shows he's likely speaking his father's words.

He's not sure whether he agrees or not, but it sounds sensible enough and Arthur wants a friend, so he goes along with it.

"What did he do?"

"Hiding a sorceress in his house. They were gonna kill him, but he's so old they decided to have a bit of mercy. Killed the sorceress though, burned her face off."

"Good," says Arthur, shuddering. He's terrified of magic. He supposes he shouldn't feel sorry for that old man, because the scars are a reminder of his evil deeds, so people know not to bother with him or they'll be corrupted. He had never considered it that way before, that a scar could mark a noble knight for his glorious deeds, but could also mark his foe. At least he can rest easy knowing it was deserved. He watches that scarred man hobble past them.

"Ugly cripple!" Shouts Lord Abelard right away.

"Criminal!" shouts Arthur. "Perhaps they should have executed him, too. Someone so marred by evil is of no use to a great society like Camelot."

"Absolutely, Sire, you are so wise. Er, what does marred mean?" asks Abelard.

"It means," he sniffs haughtily, "Well, I don't know. I imagine it means something like… useless, or… or terribly ugly."

He doesn't know. He has only heard the phrase from his own father.

"Naturally you're right. In fact, I believe I heard it used in that sense recently."

Arthur is almost certain he hasn't, and that he's only soothing Arthur's ego. He keeps glancing at Arthur for his approval, every time he speaks. How disappointing. It looks like he is the same as the rest, seeing Arthur as an opportunity for status elevation and nothing else. Still, he appreciates the company. This is the best he can hope for in a friend, and it's likely for the best that their relationship is so clear cut. Don't trust anyone.

“Its near time to go back.”

“I'll be at the castle for a few weeks, so if you'd like, we can continue our alliance," says Abelard, too eagerly.

He supposes he would like that. Abelard is friendly enough, to his face, and Arthur’s been thinking he wants some people around to skive off tutoring and training with, even if he doesn’t exactly like Abelard as a person. He's sure Abelard doesn't like him much either, but it’s not about that is it? They both benefit, don't they? Abelards father gains favor with Arthur's father, and Arthur has a playmate. Everyone wins.

He hates Abelard. He hates throwing rocks together, and Abelard's snivelly, mean voice. He wishes that there were someone out there like him. With a mirror soul to his, someone strong where he is weak. Abelard is not that, no one is, for Arthur's weakness is for him to bear alone. Abelard is the best he's going to get, though.

"So. Friends, then?"

"Hm? Yes, allies."

"Right," he sighs. "Allies it is.”

________________________

"The treaty with Caerleon didn't last, and your father managed to salvage a part of the peaceful zone along the river, as both kingdoms needed it for trade,” says Callow, in his scholarly drone. They’ve been at this lesson for hours. “It provides a large part of Camelot's food supply that cannot be grown within the kingdom. This truce area still remains--"

"Why don't we just invade?" He asks, exasperated. His father is always speaking of it, like he wants badly to do so. Arthur agrees, he's heard of how they treat people over there, and he reckons that if Camelot expanded those people would be grateful to be citizens here rather than there. "We would gain territory, and then we could do our own trading."

He plays with the edges of the blue leather book, bored. He liked the descriptions of the war more than this aspect of it, trade routes and things are so dull compared to strategy. Strategy is what is needed, in these times of strife.

"It would likely create a full out war again, and Camelot would need to--"

"We could win a war." They'd been at war with Caerleon before. They could save all those people, and make Camelot bigger besides. It's common sense.

"It's more complicated than that."

"I don't want to hear it if it's complicated." He accidentally rips off the corner of the page, and looks up guiltily. Callow looks back, stern.

"Come on. You were plenty happy to practice swords earlier, why not this?" His tutor pushes the parchment back toward him.

"This is boring. And I'm good at sword fighting" he says haughtily. "They say I'm a natural at that."

"The fact that you struggle with writing means it's even more important that you practice at it."

Who cares about reading and writing, he's attended meetings on grain production and all, but it seems to be something that concerns commoners, lowly peasants mundane little lives. Nothing befitting of a prince like him, he wants to have adventures and lead knights and go to war. He certainly doesn't want to put up with this snobby tutor who is always this side of too patient, saccharine sweet in the way that all the servants adopt around him. There are more important things.

"Bring out the maps again, I wish to research battle strategies."

"Sire, I insist that you gain a well-rounded knowledge of the trade routes and the--"

"I don't have to put up with you, though. I'll tell my father you were bothering me and he'll get me a new tutor who understands that we are in the midst of a war on magic and our enemies, there is no time for this inane domestic research! I do not need to know how to farm, I am not a farmer, I do not need to know how to build roads, I am not a builder."

"You are a prince. You will oversee the farmers and builders. All of this is to your benefit, Sire."

Everyone calls him Sire, a term for authority, but treats him like a baby nonetheless. Callow has been his tutor for some time now, and Arthur has tried every manner of bothering him, but the man is stoic and deadpan no matter what, refusing to rise to any insult to defend himself. It's always a laugh trying to get a rise out of the deadpan man, but he can be quite irritating at times with his steadfast insistence that Arthur study. He doesn't know how to be rid of the man, or to force him to quit and get a tutor that's easier to manipulate.

"I could tell my father you've done magic in front of me," he says, a new idea dawning on him as he remembers the creepy old man. "He would get me a new tutor then."

Callows face goes white. "You mustn't," he says, so quietly Arthur almost misses it.

He grins, excited at the way that finally seems to scare him, and how he's taking Arthur seriously now.

"I must. Then I will never have to study this tripe again!"

Callow slams the book and stands, the chair screeching against the floor like a scream in a room that suddenly feels far too silent.

"You understand why you cannot go around making those kinds of accusations, don't you?"

He turns up his nose. "Why shouldn't I? I'm the prince, I should do whatever I--"

"Have you witnessed an execution?"

"Not yet. But father says I get to watch one soon," says Arthur. He's not sure why Callow is so upset. He knows he was only jesting, the same way as he does every day to try and get out of doing any work, playfully threatening the staff until they let him do what he wants and promise not to tell his father. They know he wouldn't actually do any of the things he threatens, this isn't one of those kingdoms where the nobles can treat people however they like. For goodness sake, they're not slaves, if they wanted to leave they could quit at any time. He's not sure what they have to complain about.

"You're only a child. You don't understand what you do," he says sadly.

"Don't call me a child, I'm nearly twelve," he snaps, feeling small and confused, and knowing that when you are confused you must not show it, you must double down so that they know who is in charge.

"Yes, Sire."

"...Are you going to tell my father? I command that you don't, understood?"

If his father knew he had falsely accused someone of sorcery, he would be so angry.

"Yes Sire," says Callow, voice ringing hollow somehow, as if something important had been taken out of him completely, and Arthur wants to demand that he fix it immediately or face consequences, but he can't even vocalize what is missing.

"Leave me," he says. "I do not want any more lessons tonight."

Callow bows and closes the door behind him, leaving Arthur alone. Good. Perhaps he will finally back off a bit on the other lessons and let him focus on important things, like the safety of their great kingdom against evil. The stupid foolish tutor, wasting prince Arthur's valuable time on reading up on grain supply when there's so much else at stake, doesn't he see that they must defend Camelot first and foremost? There are lives at stake, he's only trying to do the right thing and save everybody.

Still, it's… quiet, now. He's alone at last, but he senses that there has been an irreparable shift in his and Callow's relationship. Though it's what he wanted, perhaps he shouldn't have gone about it that way.

Arthur doesn't want to sit idle, thinking about the exchange that had felt loaded with things he was missing, like an undercurrent of a turbid, icy river where he could not see the bottom. He nearly goes after his tutor to apologize, but he waits, and then it has been too long, the heat of the conversation has cooled down and set, and it is done. Whatever it is.

He stands, unable to stew in it anymore, and runs outside. He wanders the path until he reaches the spot on the East wall where he and Abelard sit when he is at the castle.

Someone else is there already. It looks to be Sir Bedeviere, his slowly greying beard highlighted at the edges by the bright sun, like spun gold.

He sits down beside him, curious. Privately he wishes Sir Bedeviere were not here, so Arthur could sit alone, but it's almost like being alone now, with how quiet and still he sits. Sir Bedeviere is silent, staring out at the distance, like he sees something there that is terribly interesting. Arthur whilst his head around, looking for what it could be.

Finally, he asks. "What are you doing?"

"Just sitting."

"Doing what?"

"Sometimes I like to come out here and listen to the sounds."

Arthur listens, straining his ears. "I can't hear anything."

Sir Bedeviere holds a finger to his mouth, gestures to his ear and then points out at the horizon.

Arthur listens again, straining his ears for whatever sound has the old man so captivated. There are some bird sounds which are not entirely unpleasant, he supposed. The sounds of townsfolk chattering and the clopping of hooves and wagon wheels up and down the streets. What's so special about this?

“I don’t hear anything!”

“Exactly. It's the sound of peace, Sire. Peace and quiet.”

"We're not going to be at peace for long," he says. "Sir Galahad says--"

"Sir Galahad is young and untried. Any stories he tells are just that-- stories."

"Well you never want to tell me tales of battle and glory, or anything."

"There aren't any." He sighs. “One day you’ll find, Arthur--”

“Prince Arthur.” His father told him he must always correct his inferiors on that point.

“Prince Arthur. One day you’ll find that it is far more difficult to wage peace than war.”

Arthur sits there, waiting for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. Must have gone back to listening to his… peace sounds. Whatever. Arthur isn't like that, he's going to be a true warrior, who doesn't cry at the sight of a flogging, who can… tame dragons, and quiet wolves with only a glance. And who orders executions of evildoers with a wave of his hand. And he will have a million friends. Yes, that's who he will be, when he's grown up.

____________

He plays chess with the Lady Morgana, when she comes to visit. They discuss all sorts of things when they play. He knows that his father secretly sort of wants him to marry Morgana when he's older, unless he finds a girl who is a suitable match to expand Camelot's lands, but Arthur isn't all that interested in girls. She's more like a cousin or a sister, anyway, or what he imagines those to be.

"My father is thinking of sending us to war with Caerleon," he tells her excitedly, expecting her face to light up in excitement to expand the kingdoms reach.

"Why?"

"For one, it would increase our land." She looks unimpressed, so he continues. "And they're evil, of course. They make their women stay inside and they beat their servants senseless, and I heard that they're sending magical spies to Camelot to take us over from the inside because they're greedy for our supplies. Check, by the way," he says proudly, moving his knight.

She moves her queen to take his knight. "Sounds a bit like Camelot."

"No it doesn't. We're civilized here," he says, offended on Camelot's behalf, and he moves his king.

"I don't get to roam around outside playing with swords like you," she says. "And… didn't they flog a servant for stealing just last week? And you cried, watching it."

"That's not the same," he says quickly, skimming over that last part, because he's trying to get over that whole crying business. "That's--"

"Besides, Camelot is trying to take Caerleons land too, it's not as if they're the only ones invading."

"Only to civilize them," Arthur says, rolling his eyes.

"I, for one, don't want to go to war."

Morgana's father is a warrior, he will likely explain it all to her at some point, how this is a good thing for Camelot. She doesn't know anything about anything.

"You wouldn't be the one going." She can be so foolish. Arthur gets it, because he's studied war strategy and he's basically a master tactician by now.

"I know," she says sadly, and moves her queen. "Checkmate."

____________

He spends an hour or two with Abelard again at the East wall when his father is around for more meetings and planning, sneaking some of his favorite candies for the two of them.

He's about to proclaim that they're his favorites, but he stops himself. Remembering what his father said about the dangers of trust, he reminds himself to be a bit more secretive about these things, lest someone find a way to use it against him. For all he knows, Abelard is a sorcerer. Can children their age be sorcerers? He's not sure. He's been a fool, sharing food with Abelard, any of it could have been poisoned.

His father would have remembered. Arthur would be a terrible leader if he doesn't even think of things like that. He remembers that question his father posed, quite some time ago.

"What do you think it means to be a good leader?” he asks.

Abelard thinks for a moment, popping a candy in and chewing. "You've got to take the reins and order people around a bit. You've got the most control of anyone, you are already a fine leader, truly the best, Sire."

Is he? He supposes so. He's learned to hold his tongue, he has control of his sword and his voice for public speaking, and he's certainly got control over the servants and nobles in the castle, he can get them to do whatever he likes with a bit of coercing. Everyone falls at his feet.

"...And besides that, you're dignified. That's the most important thing, keeping your dignity about you. You've got charisma, you hold the rooms attention like no other, and--"

Arthur waits, but he doesn't stop waxing poetic about Arthurs virtues. He cuts him off, changing the subject. "I've got to be back soon, I'm supposed to practice writing." He looks out over the wall, where the hill slopes and you can see the lower town, where peasants mill about, children playing stick and hoop, their mothers chatting over lunch. Arthur can't remember the last time he went down there and played stick and hoop. He's too busy learning control and discipline and astronomy and things. "Do you ever wish…"

"What's that, Sire?"

"Do you ever wish you could skip your writing practice?" It's not what he had intended to say. A passing impulse, nothing more.

"Generally, yes. However, one must be well read and articulate, in this world. We wouldn't want to grow up fools and be like that lot," he says, gesturing out to those peasants. "Not exactly good company, not like you and I."

Arthur imagines himself a peasant, for a moment. He wouldn't want to be out there with the pigs and horses, stinking of manure, that's for certain.

He wouldn't ever want to be one really, he tells himself. Even if he could get out of writing practice and other responsibilities, he would have to give up his fancy soaps and the tailored clothing his father gives him each year. Even if he would be free to speak his mind with his peers and play whenever he likes and laze about doing god knows what instead of being useful, he would have to be around a bunch of bumpkin idiots. And he would feel guilty for shirking his responsibilities. It wouldn't do. Arthur isn't meant to be carefree.

“Yes,” he says, "I heard they sit around drinking all day long."

"I heard-- oh, it's that old man again."

They throw some pebbles at him, for the fun of it.

The old man turns and looks at them. "You children had better watch who you bother," he says.

"Why's that, cripple?" Abelard shouts.

"There's an old saying, that which you do to others will be returned to you."

"Sure," Arthur laughs, lobbing another stone. "As soon as I start harboring sorcerers, I'll take your word. Wouldn't want all my sorcerers getting burnt up. I’m the prince, what are you going to do to me?"

He throws another stone. The man catches it.

"She was my wife," he roars, and for a moment his face is furious, as if he's about to lob it back at them. He must think better of it, for he turns and walks off quickly. They laugh as he goes, but it bothers Arthur more than he lets on. He doesn't mention it, because he doesn't think Abelard would really understand.

Arthur wonders if he had known she was a sorceress before the burning. He had been running on the assumption that the man was an active participant, because his father always said they only arrest the guilty, but… well, if you live in a place with your wife, of course people would think you were guilty, just for being there.

Arthurs stomach squirms with discomfort. He's not behaved nobly. And for what? To impress this ally of his? He could probably kick Abelard in the head and he would still be nice to him, because he's the prince.

But throwing the rocks was pretty fun. It hadn't really hurt the man, not that he could tell. It was only a bit of fun, that's all. It's his right.

He can see the river in the distance, and he remembers that old story, the Golden knight who redirected the waters. He nearly turns to tell it to Abelard, but he stops himself. Abelard would find it childish, believing in that sort of thing. Arthur isn’t sure he even believes it himself, that someone could be so strong and brave. But he hopes it’s real. He wants to grow up so strong he can crush Camelot's enemies in his bare hands, and so smart he will always know what is right and wrong.

____________

Morgana is always with her father, and he's so kind with her, swinging her around, playing games of horse, and joking at the dinner table, the two of them holding hands or making up little handshakes together. Arthur cannot stop watching them. His own father sits far from him, distant, his cold blue eyes piercing. He's never swung Arthur up onto his shoulders, and look how he turned out. It’s horribly inappropriate. She's too old for that! Far too old!

So when her father leaves for the border to go to battle, he's not as upset for her as he probably should be, even as she cries. She’s too old to cry, and he tells her as much, which only makes her glare at him and retreat to her chambers.

He can imagine it's an awful feeling, but he's a bit smug at the idea that he will be gone for months and Morgana will have to learn how to be more of an adult like Arthur, maybe learn to hold her tongue and stop needing so much attention all the time. It’s simply not fair that she should require so much love. A feeling scratches in his stomach thinking about the pair of them, something he cannot quite describe, but that makes him want to tear the two apart on purpose, while simultaneously drinking in every moment between them for himself. It’s a complicated feeling, and it makes him outrageously angry.

So, when Arthur sees a letter arrive for Morgana, he manages to take it from the servant delivering it, claiming he will give it to her personally. He takes it, goes to his room, and reads it in private. He plans to give it to her afterward, naturally, but he’s curious of what it might say. Perhaps it’s a letter telling her to be strong in his absence.

It's a long, personal letter. He talks about how bored and tired he is at war. He says he has a wound, but not to worry about it because it's only minor, and that he may be gone for some months. Standard details of his days out at the border, nothing exciting. He skims through.

Then, he spends the rest of the letter telling her how beautiful she is, how very much he loves her and misses her and how proud he is of the wonderful young woman she's becoming. He says not to worry for him out there, he's safe, and they will always find their way back to each other for he loves her above all else, and… he tells her it's alright to be upset. He wishes he could hold her like when she was small, and that as soon as he’s home he will give her the biggest hug imaginable.

Arthur reads it all, and reads it again, and he's gripping the paper hard enough to crinkle it. He smooths it out, and reads it yet again, pretending he is Morgana and he has a father who is so very proud of him just for existing, without having to do anything to earn it.

He doesn’t give the letter to Morgana. He keeps it in his drawer, and reads it from time to time. No, he isn't proud of it. It's awful that he does this. It's not his letter, it's not his love to receive, but he doesn't care.

That feeling inside him claws in his stomach and digs in its nails to his insides.

____________

A group of knights ride in, come back from battle, and Arthur goes out the front of the castle to see. They're dirty, their horses weary from the travel and many of the knights in bandages. He sees one man he recognizes, and runs up to greet him.

"Sir Galahad! You've returned!"

"I have," he says, not turning.

"How was the battle, have you tales? And where are the heads you promised so long ago?" He jokes. Sir Galahad does not laugh, does not turn a sunny grin on him as he once had, when telling his stories and laughing, teaching Arthur what it would take to be a warrior. Instead, he turns lethargically, as if he is in a dream, only halfway in his surroundings. He's dirty, and he looks exhausted to his very bones. He blinks, as if only just seeing Arthur, and he smiles a heavy, rueful smile.

"I have no tales for you, Sire," he says, ruffling Arthur's hair, and he goes on his way. "Nothing you'd like to hear."

"Hey! Come back!" he calls, disappointed. Sir Galahad does not turn back.

Arthur sighs. It seems he has become as boring as Sir Bedeviere.

____________

He's afraid, the first time he's present for an assassination attempt on his father.

His father is scolding him when it happens, in front of the knights. Arthur is sitting with his head down, waiting for it to be over, his training sword still in hand, when she throws the door open and throws Uther into the wall. The knights jump to action, surrounding her. Arthur is up in a heartbeat, his training sword held high and ready to strike, but.

The sorceress turns to him, her eyes wide and she looks so… human. She looks just like anyone else he’s seen, cheeks round and pink. He’d thought there would be something in her face or her eyes that looked evil, but there isn’t, there isn’t anything but wild fear and the welling up of tears, and he drops his weapon.

"Wasn't expecting such a large audience," says the sorceress, and her voice is high pitched, like she's not much older than Arthur herself. "I'll have to come back another day, won't I?"

"I…I.. I…" he stutters, unable to reach for the weapon, or to move, frozen.

She takes the opportunity, grabbing his lanky frame and holding a blade to his neck.

"Let him go,” says his father.

"You think me a fool? He is the only thing keeping me alive. I need promises. You will allow me to live, and to leave this place."

"So you can come back and attempt another assassination?" He raises a brow. Arthur is weeping, tears streaming down his cheeks. He can’t help it. He's never been able to help it.

"Yet, if you let me leave, your son will survive the night." She holds the knife to his throat. "Well?"

Uther thinks for a moment, his eyes flickering between Arthur and the sorceress with something dark and deep set in them. Finally, he responds.

"No."

Arthurs heart sinks, though he knew this would be the outcome. He knows without a doubt that his father values Camelot over any individual life, including his, but it is only now that he realizes what that means. He would rather lose an innocent life than let a guilty one go free, protecting Camelot and it's king over all else.

It is this moment that Arthur sees his fathers strong hand for what it is, and the sacrifices he must make for his kingdom. And in this moment he respects his father more than ever.

"I understand," says Arthur quietly, looking into his father's eyes, the last thing he will ever see, for he is weak, weak, weak. If he had raised his sword and swung she would be dead, if he had not failed earlier that day he would not have been here at all but still on the training field. It is his fault that it has come to this, and he must suffer the consequences.

She presses the blade up under Arthur's chin. Then, she stiffens and twists against him, and brings the blade around her back, where it connects with something heavy. Something wet and warm drips down the back of his shirt. The blade falls to the ground with a clatter, and finally he turns to look back.

The sorceress lies on the floor, head two feet from her body. Sir Bedeviere stands behind her, holding a sword covered in… in bright red, real life blood.

"Are you all right, Sire?" He asks softly, and Arthur does not answer.

His father looks him over and then leaves. Arthur sits in his shame. He had told Sir Bedeviere he would be a great hero, told his father he would one day be a great king, but he has failed to even apprehend a sorceress. He couldn't even speak, much less fight. He needs to grow up.

Something drips onto the carpet. "You're hurt," says Arthur. That must have been what the sorceress blade had connected with.

Sir Bedeviere shrugs. Arthurs stomach sinks. He's mucked up everything. He's let Sir Bedeviere get stabbed in the stomach for him, and his father hates him now, he's never going to stop being disappointed over this, and--

“I know what you’re thinking,” says Sir Bedeviere. “The king could see me behind you, he knew I was going to strike. He’d have never let you come to harm."

"I wasn't scared," he says immediately.

"It's alright if you were," he says gently.

Arthur nods, but he's not really paying attention. Its time for him to get serious about this. He can't let this happen again. He needs to show his father what he's capable of, not as a person, but as a prince who rules with an iron fist.

Sir Bedeviere crumples over, then, blood dripping through his chainmail, and Gaius has to collect him.

____________

They burn her the next day. There are three burnings side by side, the assassin, a sorcerer and another sorceress caught for stealing. Normally Arthur is ushered away by a servant before the burning begins in earnest, but today his father grips his arm tightly, forcing him to stay and watch.

Someone runs to the pyre, perhaps her sister or her lover, and her eyes are filled with the same frenzied fear. How undignified, that they wouldn't let fate be. She's a criminal. She hurt people. She tried to kill him and his father. What use is it to fear what is inevitable? To try to save someone from the fire?

Her skin begins to catch fire and she's screaming and Arthur isn't sure about this anymore.

"That's sort of harsh, isn't it?" Asks Morgana, who has deigned to join them. "One of them was only caught for stealing."

"Even that one must burn. She is a disruption to the systems of Camelot, if she steals with magic she can do far more. Arthur and I saw the evidence of that last night." He motions to the assassin, hung up on the pyre.

He supposes it makes sense, but he can't bear to watch, she's disintegrating, bits of her floating up with the smoke and fire and an intense smell and it's horrible, like hellfire itself climbing her skin.

He forces himself to watch. She must burn for some ten minutes before she passes out, from the smoke or the pain he does not know.

Arthur throws up in his mouth, but manages to swallow it so his father doesn’t see, so he isn't disappointed at Arthur's weakness. He is going to have to order executions someday, it will not do for him to be squeamish. Hes done crying. He's done being afraid.

His father bends down to speak to him, and Arthur thinks he might pat his head, hold out his arms for comfort at what they've just witnessed, seeing the sickness in his son's face. He prays that he can't see it, because he doesn't… he doesn't need any of that, he's done needing his father's love. But there is no need to worry, for his father only looks at him sternly.

"This is how you run a kingdom," says his father, and he turns from the balcony to go back inside.

____________

"Want to go throw rocks by the wall?" Asks Abelard.

"I don't have time," Arthur says. He has to train. He cannot disappoint.

____________

"Lady Morgana will be staying with us from now on."

Her father has died. He can hear her crying through the wall, and there's no one there to comfort her. Arthur doesn't want to, he's probably the worst person for it, but he has to. He peers into her room. She is weeping.

"Are you alright?" he asks quietly. She jumps, startled, and then wipes her eyes. He comes further into the room, to the edge of the bed. "Father says you're staying with us now."

She nods. "My father. He went to battle and he never received reinforcements," she cries. "He asked for them, he never…"

Oh. Arthur doesn't know what to do. He half reaches for her, but thinks better of it.

He clears his throat. "He was a brave man. And kind. He was… proud of you." She says nothing, and he knows he's botching this, she needs something else, but he doesn't know what.

He remembers something. "I'll be right back."

He runs to his chambers and digs through the drawers. It's right where he left it. He can hardly bear to part with the thing, he's read it hundreds of times now. But Morgana needs it more than him, he's her father for god's sake. He brings it down to her room.

"This is a letter from him."

"From where? It never reached me."

"It got mis-sorted," he lies. "And then they found it the other day, and, er, g-gave it to me to give to you, but I forgot til now."

She reads it, looking at the words with such an intensity that he half expects her anger, for her to lash out because he kept it from her. But she looks at him and her eyes are once again shining, and she hugs him so hard his bones creak.

"Thank you," she whispers. "This means the world to me."

"It's nothing," he murmurs, guilty at the attention. "Please let me know if I can do anything for you."

"Actually, I've been meaning to ask... are you alright, Arthur?" She asks. "You've been different, lately. I want us to be, er, there for each other, alright? I know something's on your mind."

He opens his mouth, because he wants to share it with someone, all of it. He wants to share how afraid he is, how he can't be king if it means what he thinks it means. He's weak on the inside and he's going to ruin everything. He wants to be picked up and held like when he was small, but no one touches the prince, no one, he is on his own. He wants a friend, a confidante, someone with a matching weakness on their souls and someone who is strong where he is weak. He wants his father to care for him the way others father's do, with pride in their eyes, and he wants his father to scream at him for his mistakes the way he deserves. He wants to not want anything at all and to be as strong as he's trying to be, pretending to be, because he fears he may never ever be strong at all.

It's not the time to share those thoughts. She's lost her father. And he cannot have anyone knowing his weakness.

He remembers that question, the one his father had once posed.

"What do you think it takes to be a good leader?" he asks.

"Well, er," she sniffles. "Being there for people, I suppose, when they need you."

It's such a small answer, nothing to do with real leadership. But he nods thoughtfully, like he agrees, because she's just lost her father, and it's not the time.

____________

Arthur grows up. Restraint, discipline. That is what it is all about. Don't indulge too much, don't seek out other people, only train to become a warrior, a leader. Someone worthy. He holds his tongue in meetings, even when he disagrees. He holds his pillow to his chest at night, softer than any human touch he encounters as he trains, as he shakes hands in meetings.

He is not like other children, with their two parents who dote, he is a prince, a future king. His own father does not hold him the way he does Morgana, for she is not a prince. Arthur sees that other children are treated differently than him, but he is not jealous. He isn't. Those people can trust one another, but he can trust no one. He isn't the same as them, he is better. Or, he will be. His father won't even look him in the eye, he is still unworthy.

This is his duty. If he were coddled, he would not grow, would stagnate, become lazy and soft. He must work to be the very best, and that means he cannot be like the rest. He is better. He is exceptional. He does not need to be picked up on his fathers shoulders or swung around, or to be held in the arms of a mother, only the embrace of armor on his skin as he trains to protect Camelot. He does not need friends, only allies to ensure his kingdoms future. He throws himself back into training, hitting the sword held by his servant, again and again and again.

He becomes the fittest warrior, the strongest fighter and best swordsman. He studies tactics and strategy, and strategizes with his father over how to manage the increasing numbers of assassination attempts. And he finally begins to see that look that he craves, the flash of approval in Uthers eyes from across the table.

____________

He plays with his old training sword for the last time, and jabs it hard into the mud. It's more of a stick than a sword by now anyway. Enough childish things, he doesn't need it any longer. He's a man now, he's decided. So there. That's that. He turns back and looks at it one last time, his favorite stick, worn and chipped from all those games of mock-tourney, lancing at the other boys and messing around. He doesn't want it anymore.

He turns around and leaves it there.

Chapter Text

When Arthur's father tells him to invade the druid camp, he knows better than to argue.

____________

Arthur looks around, seeing that the raid has gotten wild, out of control. It is his men who are acting the part of death bringers, attackers of peace, rousing people in the night only to strike them down, their wives and children. His father's voice whispers in his ear that they move like people, speak like people, but they are different, evil. Still he cannot let them die in their own homes, it may be the right thing to do in his fathers eyes, but he can't. How can it be right when their blood is spattered across the leaves and he sees them shivering on the ground in deathly stillness?

And there is a boy, at the Druid camp, eyes wide, shining with tears, Arthurs own distorted face reflected back in the whites. Arthurs mind is screaming he’s only a child, look, he’s afraid, the same as you, and at the same time he is remembering the sorceress who looked so innocent that day, only to turn around and hold a blade to his throat. He holds his blade still and then brings it back to his side. The boy falls anyway, struck by an arrow from behind, his wide eyes going dull as he falls to the ground.

On the way home, while the others are merry with bloodlust sated, Arthur is silent. Thinking.

Can there be great heroes, like the knight from those stories, who were noble and strong, never faltering? The one who tames the dragon, quiets the wolves howling with only a mean glance, and who changes the river's flow with his sword? Who helps those in need, who is always strong enough to stop injustices? Can such a thing exist?

And then, disgusted with himself, for he is none of those things, he decides to simply tuck it all away, in his head. There is blood spattered on his hands, now. He must carry on, try not to think about it, lest he see those wide, haunted eyes every time he sleeps.

________________________

"Arthur, you have to cut back on your training schedule. You're exhausting the knights and yourself." Morgana says, on Arthur's seventh consecutive hour of bow training.

He's hitting the dead center of the target nearly every time, but not every time and it's not enough.

"That's none of your concern."

"Isn't it? I worry for you."

"Father assigned the training schedule and--"

"I shall tell him to cut it back."

Morgana is more Uther’s child than Arthur ever could be. Uther loves her more than Arthur, it's obvious in the way he tolerates her talking back, he never raises hand nor voice to her and never calls her weak for crying.

"Yes, he would only hear it from you," he says, more bitterly than intended. "If I asked, he would only send me out again."

"Come on, don't be dramatic. You're his pride and joy."

"Thank you for your concern." It seems all he's really good for is disappointing. His father had given him a dressing down only this morning, because he had slept late and missed practice due to a pounding headache. He had never gotten a word in edgewise, to explain his reasoning, but he supposes it doesn't matter. A ruler cannot miss his duties for any small reason, he knows that. He will have to try harder. He cannot listen to Morgana, she does not know what it is to lead. He turns back and continues his practice.

His knights despise him a bit, he knows it, for he works them hard. And when he is in a mood he doesn't hold back, he beats them all with swords of wood and steel alike, over and over and over until they are cowed and asking for mercy and they are as weak as he feels. His head still throbs around the temples, headache growing stronger. Good. It is practice for battle.

____________

They'd executed a sorcerer that morning. Arthur doesn't much care to attend the burnings or beheadings, instead he's out with his knights, doing target practice on a servant. It's only a bit of fun. Arthur wouldn't actually hit him. He's too good by now. And that's not Arthur being cocky, he knows his aim is perfect, for he's spent the last days mastering it and wants a bit of time to show off. Everyone else knows it too.

Besides, if Morris truly hated working for him, he could simply quit and work elsewhere. Nothing could be too bad, if he's still got food coming to him and a bed to sleep. Morris has to pretend to like him when he's around, just like everybody else has to.

Someone walks up, right into his way, and steps on the shield so Morris can't pick it up. It's a peasant, wearing the most ridiculous outfit, and had he been a noble Arthur might have had a few things to say to him. The man doesn't get out of the way, or step off the shield and apologize for intruding, as Arthur had expected. Arthur looks him up and down, waiting for him to do something. He's got a quiet dignity about him, something odd and ethereal that Arthur can't quite pin down. Arthur smirks, knowing he's likely approaching because he's impressed at Arthur's throwing. He opens his mouth to brag a bit, before demanding his shield back, but the peasant cuts him off.

"Hey, come on, that's enough," he says.

"What?"

"You've had your fun, my friend."

"Do I know you?" He asks, though he knows the answer. He's certain he's never seen him in his life, but there's something so familiar about this fellow, like he's seen him in a dream, or something.

“I’m Merlin,” he says.

This man holds out a hand as if to shake, but Arthur doesn't even look at it. A prince doesn't shake hands with a commoner, and this one is being publicly disrespectful.

"So I don't know you."

"No."

"Yet you called me friend."
Arthur sees an opportunity. It is rare that he is disrespected to his face, he can make this a teaching moment.

"Or I one who could be so stupid."

"Tell me, Merlin, do you know how to walk on your knees?"

____________

Though it is satisfying to have the man thrown into the dungeons, he leaves the interaction feeling a bit wrong-footed, like he's done something wrong and has been called out on it. But he was only having a bit of fun.

Afterward, the knights he had brought along stood back, laughing. He whirls on them, fuming, ready to punish anyone with even a smile on their face. He stalks off.

"Should someone go after him?" One asks quietly.

“I’m not touching that,” another mutters, and they laugh again. Arthur stiffens his shoulders, straightens his back, and keeps walking.

Never have a friend who's such an ass, hm? Indeed. He's embarrassed at losing his temper in public like that. Arthur thinks he got so angry because it's true, in part, he doesn't have any friends. But damn if that peasant knows anything. Nobody touches Arthur. That's so well known it's practically a law; you don't just go around touching the Crown prince. So who did that peasant think he was, coming up to him and giving him a lecture, and… at least he'll have learned his lesson. His pride isn't hurt in the slightest, not from someone so insignificant. No, nobody touches Arthur. He's not going to give the man even a second more of his thoughts.

________________________
Oh, so he's supposed to start taking the opinions of cretins on the street, then!
________________________
When he tells some peasant to walk on their, knees, they’re supposed to do it. If he jumps, they should say ‘how high.’ This is how these things work, everyone has their place!
________________________
Perhaps he is thinking about it a little, after all.
________________________
He sees him again, and is pleased, ready to goad him, get him worked up so he can fight him like he wants to, show who is the superior between them since he seems not to know his place. It's so easy, picking on peasants. He'll have him flat on his back in five seconds.

"How's your knee-walking coming along?"

"Look, I've told you you're an ass, I just didn't realise you were a royal one. Oh, what are you going to do? Get your daddy's men to protect you?"

For a moment he freezes, remembering Sir Bedeviere and his face as he crumpled, a sacrifice for Arthur that he could never repay, and he wonders if this Merlin knows, somehow, what Arthur is guilty of. But that is impossible. It is an insult, that is all, he knows nothing. Still, it fuels his rage.

"I could take you apart with one blow."

"I could take you apart with less than that."

“Come on, then. I warn you, I've been trained to kill since birth.”

“Wow, and how long have you been training to be a prat?”

That gives him pause. This Merlin had been disrespectful before, but now he knows who Arthur is, all that should change. He must truly have a death wish.

“You can't address me like that.”

“I'm sorry. How long have you been training to be a prat, My Lord?”

Arthur is going to show him what exactly it is he’s been training for. He backs him into the market stalls, high on the gazes of the townspeople and his knights, and knocks Merlin to the ground. Then, Arthur begins making mistakes. Odd mistakes, stepping into a box and getting his mace tangled in hooks at the market stalls. Then the fool trips him, and begins swinging Arthurs own mace at him, causing Arthur to fall over backwards.

His face burns, having not only failed to impress upon this stranger how superior he is, but having been totally humiliated by what has turned out to be a peasant. The guards go to pick Merlin up, and Arthur stops. Though his pride would rejoice in the man being taken back to the dungeons, something inside, him something deeper, knows that would not be right.

“Wait. Let him go. He may be an idiot, but he's a brave one. There's something about you, Merlin. I can't quite put my finger on it.”

He's rarely beaten in combat even by his own knights, and even if it was likely luck, he finds that being beaten is… exciting. There's something strange about this boy, and though Arthur doesn't exactly want to see him again, he doesn't want to throw him in the dungeons again either. It's only fair, he had started the fight, he had lost, this strange man shouldn't suffer for his decision.
At least he doesn't have to see him again. That will be the last time he's humiliated like that. He’ll keep an eye out, though, in case he gets a mind to do anything else foolish.

____________

There is a disaster of a banquet, and then, just like that, he has a new manservant.

Well, at least he can spare Morris now, just like Merlin wanted. Because he has a brand new target.

____________

The thing is, Merlin is a terrible manservant. Nothing about him makes sense. And everyone seems to like him more than they like Arthur!

He sees the pitying looks people throw Merlin when Arthur practices swords and maces on-- er, with him. Merlin gets along with everybody, Morgana's maidservant Gwen, Morgana, who for some reason makes a point to befriend his type, even Arthur's own father likes the boy, and he doesn't like anybody! Is Arthur the only one who can see that he's totally incompetent? If Arthur were so poor at his own duties, he would be disowned!

But he’s the prince, he reminds himself. He can do things Merlin could never. Like… read, probably, and not smell like manure, and he’s definitely smarter and braver and wiser than a servant could ever hope to be. So there's no reason that Gwen’s eyes should have begun following Merlin rather than Arthur, and no reason that Arthur's food should be served colder when he's been rude to Merlin, or that the stableboys should tell him his horse tack has miraculously go missing after he has an argument with Merlin.

He's ranting to Morgana about it and she doesn't seem to care a bit.

"Sounds like you’re jealous."

"Why would I be jealous of someone like that?"

"People like him. He's considerate. Not like some people," she says pointedly.

"I only wish I could utterly shirk responsibility like he does."

Perhaps he is jealous, in that sense. That he has to work so hard, and it comes so easy to people like Merlin. He had only just moved to Camelot, and had gained a place to stay, a highly respected job, the love of everyone in the castle, all in the span of only a week. He doesn’t even seem to appreciate it, spends his time slacking off like he's waiting to get fired!

"I've talked with him. He only does that because you assign him far too much. Gwen never needs to skip work, because I ask her when it's too much."

"How hard can it be to polish boots a few times a week?" He asks incredulously. "He's late every day!"

"Gwen is late sometimes too, because she needs time to herself. A servants life is difficult. You wouldn't understand, you're not a woman."

"Neither is Merlin!"

"Not a servant, then."

"Neither are you!"

"I don't know, Arthur, if you didn't want my advice then you shouldn't have ranted to me for an hour about it, and yes, it was an entire hour, look how the candle has burned down. Don't go annoying Gwen about this either, she'll be more tolerant than me, but she will enjoy the show far less."

He throws up his arms in frustration, and leaves her to it.
______________

He sees Merlin speaking with Gwen, and the two of them look at him, then away, and Merlin laughs with her. Arthur doesn’t mind it, of course, he can’t stop people from talking. This castle is a gossip mill if there ever was one, though he isn’t privy to much of it. People stop talking when he enters the room. Its ironic, he muses, that in a castle he will one day inherit, he is the outsider. But they are respectful to his face, if not behind his back, and that is all that matters. It doesn’t bother him at all.

____________

Merlin accuses a knight of cheating in the tourney, and it turns out to be false, and… what is Arthur supposed to do but sack him?

A knight wouldn't lie, they are trained into duty and honor. A servants word is worth little, as they might use it to try and gain status, ruin someone higher up for their own gain. That's what his father says. It’s not fair. He knows that Merlin is telling the truth, but it does not matter.

He sacks him. A man's honor is the most important thing in the world, and his has been damaged. How can he lead men into battle if they think he’s a coward? If he dies from those snakes, he dies. He is Camelot’s tool, and a damaged tool is nothing at all.

____________

Okay, he hires him back on.

____________

He nearly sacks him three more times that week.

____________

Merlin remains absolutely awful at his job. He constantly skips work to go to the tavern, and when he comes in, he's bruised, or too hungover to work, sleeping on the job.

“Get into a bar fight at the tavern?” he sneers, looking at Merlin’s newest bruise. “Suppose I should have come to expect it from your sort.”

He throws a chalice at Merlin’s head and he yelps. Its a wonderful way of getting frustration out, and he doesn’t have to feel bad because Merlin really does deserve it. He really ought to be paid less. Who does he think he is, coming in a half hour late and looking like he hasn't slept a wink! How has his father let him continue working at the castle?

“My sort?” asks Merlin testily.

“Backwater peasants.”

“There was more class in Ealdor than I’ve ever seen in this castle,” he mutters. “And half the population there is chickens.”

That startles a laugh from him. This is half the reason he has not sacked Merlin for good. He catches him off guard, at times like these.

"Better start your chores, lest I behead you like one of your chickens," he says, hoping to frighten Merlin into obedience, but he only steals a grape from Arthur's breakfast plate and begins assembling his wardrobe at a glacial pace.

This imbecilic manservant is driving him mad.

Yet he sits and tries to concentrate on some work he needs to do, and cannot for the life of him stop thinking about Merlin. He's frustrated himself to the point of distraction.

"How long can it possibly take to put away three shirts?" Arthur says, and Merlin's head snaps up from where he sat on the floor, no doubt in his own world as he often is, distracted from his work.

He truly is the worst servant ever. Arthur runs through this rant in his head multiple times a day, repeating itself over and over. Never on time, always daydreaming, always going off to the tavern and not returning 'til morning. Not to mention how entirely disrespectful he is.

Merlin rolls his eyes at him, as if illustrating his point.

"I saw that," Arthur narrows his eyes. "Muck the stables."

"But I have to--"

"--Do whatever I say or I'll sack you? That's right."

Arthur turns on his heel and walks out the door.

"Have it done before dinner, I need you to attend me. And...wear the hat."

The look of hatred on Merlin’s face makes him smirk on his way out. He doesn’t understand how things are in Camelot, the stupid country boy, but he will learn quickly that no one defies Arthur.

________________________

He doesn't wear the hat to dinner, and is entirely noncompliant for the remainder of the night. Arthur believes a lesson is in order. He sends him to the stocks the next day.

"On your knees," he tells him gleefully as he places him in the wooden device.
He watches Merlin in the stocks, being pelted with tomatoes. His eyes are shut, and his face drips red, but there's still something, something naturally dignified about him even as he is pelted with tomatoes, and it infuriates Arthur to no end.

Finally, he lets him out, after hours.

"Someone threw a melon at my head. I could have died!" complains Merlin, sporting a large bruise. "And I think they got one of my hands, my wrist hurts--"

"I don't care, and if you think this means you'll get time off work, you're wrong," he scoffs. "Suppose that means you won't defy me again."

Merlin fixes him with a look that tells him he absolutely plans to defy him again. He's got a piece of tomato in his hair, and the eyes of a warrior.

The peasant isn’t so bad… for a peasant. He still probably stinks like manure and has ridiculous teeth, as Arthur had suspected. But he's got an inner strength to him, in his own unfathomable way.

____________

A disease spreads, and Arthur is forced to do the dull task of searching every damned room in the castle for evidence of sorcery.

"I can't search the entire kingdom."

"I can't stand by and watch our kingdom die!" Barks Uther. Arthur tenses, cowed. These days the only time he speaks with his father is when he's being berated, and he can't remember the last time they had a simple conversation. They've been in crisis after crisis.

He goes to search, knowing it will be like any other time, that by the time he's done he will be shivering with exhaustion and, try as he might, there is a good chance he will return empty-handed to the wrath of his father.

When he gets to Merlin’s room, hes about ready to stab himself to get out of it, because he's been at it for hours and he knows Merlin of all people isn’t a damned sorcerer. He can barely fold Arthur's laundry. From the state of his room, it looks like he doesn’t do his own laundry either. It explains a lot about Merlin’s cleaning style.

He goes to his father with no evidence of sorcery anywhere, a failure again.

"Cordon off the lower town," says his father.

"Why?"

"That's where most of the victims are."

He argues, and regrets it immediately, seeing the look in his father's face, sunken, dragged down. He is not doing this because he wants to. Uther makes difficult decisions for the good of them all, he shouldn’t doubt that. He only wishes it were as easy for him as it seems to be for Uther.

"Decisions must be made for the whole, at whatever individual sacrifice is necessary. This is why we mustn't think of the individual."

Arthur's mind, traitorous, immediately goes to the individual. To that face that haunts his nightmares, a little boy in a Druid camp, and he shakes the image away.

He has to protect the rest of the city, those who have not yet been harmed. Arthur is not naive, he knows that sacrifices must be made for the greater good. Arthur holds the weight of it in his heart, those deaths. But it is for the greater good of Camelot. It is a lesson he still must learn.

His father accuses Gwen of sorcery. Morgana argues her innocence, says there's no way a servant would be a sorceress. She can talk to his father in ways he never could. She's always been braver than him, in that way. And Merlin confesses that he's the sorcerer. It's ridiculous, of course, he's not the sorcerer. He truly must be mentally diseased.

Arthur goes to him, puts an arm around him and tries to talk their way out of this. Because Arthur may be muscular and skilled on the battlefield, he's not strong like Morgana, on the inside. That look Morgana had when Gwen was dragged away could not be held in his own eyes-- if he held that grief he wouldn’t be able to stand up to his father over it, he wouldn't be able to take it, to do anything. It would drain something permanent taken from deep inside him.

He and his father are different in that way, he thinks. If Arthur died for Camelot, Uther would regret losing an heir but would not shed tears, for the well-being of the many is worth the loss of one. Arthur doesn't know if he has what it takes, to be strong that way, for if their roles were reversed he doesn't know that he could sacrifice a single person that he loved. So, he loves no one. That way no one will ever know his weakness, for he will have none.

Yet when he looks at Merlin, wide eyed and confessing to crimes be did not commit, Arthur's weakness eats away at his insides.

The good of the many, the cost of only one. It's simple maths isn't it? So why does it feel so wrong, every single time? Arthur is not his father. He cannot bear to lose a single one.

And when he does manage to save that fool Merlin, he breathes a sigh of relief. He may be an awful servant, but Arthur would not stand idle and watch him die.

____________

“You really ought to look over those grain reports," says Merlin.

“Hm? Oh, those. It’s no matter.” His fathers given him busywork, likely to keep him from going on another unauthorized hunting trip. "I'm going on a hunt instead."

“Its--”

“If you’re going to say important, don’t bother. It's not as if you’d know, would you?” he laughs. “If you could read I’d have you do it for me. I'm only required to attend strategy meetings.”

"'Not required' doesn't mean it's unimportant."

"Hm. I tend to disagree."

They're quiet for a moment, and he assumes Merlin has gone back to dusting, but he speaks again.

“I can, by the way," Merlin says.

“What are you on about?"

“I can read. Started teaching myself awhile back, its pretty useful for helping Gaius. His eyesight is going a bit. I can do maths too.”

“Oh really, do tell me about your rich education," he says sardonically. "What’s eighteen times forty?”

He’s cheating a bit, he himself couldn’t do that one off his head, but he’s certain a peasant fool like Merlin couldn’t--

“Seven hundred and twenty.”

Arthur blinks. He's no idea if that is correct, he had chosen numbers at random. He stares at Merlin, looking for any tell of a lie, but he only looks at him. "How about twelve times twelve?"

"Hundred forty four."

"And eight times six hundred and two?"

"Four thousand eight hundred and sixteen, alright, now quit asking me pointless questions to distract me from the fact that you’re going to skip this meeting to run about in the woods!"

He makes a mental note to bring this up again, because he's not sure if Merlin is trying to change the subject because he knows it's odd he can do maths like that, or because he doesn't know it's odd. Merlin is looking at him expectantly. Right, the meeting.

"Father only cares if I'm at the defense meetings. That's my forte, the strategic side of things. Not…" he waves his hand dismissively, "that."

The meeting isn't important, really. It's some sort of grain dispute, something to do with trade road land, he can't think of anything more dull. And he deserves a break, he and Merlin have been traipsing around with the knights for weeks on patrols.

"I don't care about grain or whatever it is, Merlin. I trust those things will be handled without me."

"...Perhaps you should care."

"What?"

"You heard me. Maybe it's boring to you, but someone you know could be going hungry, or… or what if someone you cared about couldn’t sell grain anymore because of the outcome of the meeting?'

"That would never happen," he scoffs.

"Not to you, but what about the rest of us, hm? I couldn't get to the road last week because there was a brigade coming through, as if they alone own the road!"

"Did you bring this up simply to complain about the brigade? I don't control everything in Camelot, you know."

"I just mean they could have gone some way besides the only road to the market, by the time I got there there was no more eggs," he sulks.

"Whatever. You can't have trade roads or farms or any of that if we don't have walls and warriors defending it all, and that's where I come in."

"And you can't have warriors without farm eggs to feed them and roads for them to walk on."

Arthur isn't interested in day to day happenings like that. It all seems terribly insignificant. He prefers to swoop in and save the day, as he's done for Merlin more than once, which, by the way, he could stand a bit more appreciation for.

Merlin seems to think he's a terrible person, sometimes, but other times he looks at Arthur and says he believes in him in ways no one ever has. It's all confusing. Not to mention that, as of right now, he thinks Merlin might be some sort of secret maths genius.

____________

Arthur and Morgana bicker. She turns away, and goes to Guinevere, all smiles all of a sudden, getting… really closer than is entirely appropriate, and for a moment he wonders if… but no, they couldn't be. It would be entirely inappropriate for a master and servant to have such a… he won't even consider it, the two of them are close, that's all. A pang of regret spikes through him as he sees Merlin approach.

The two of them could never be like Morgana and Guinevere. Arthur takes his duties far too seriously to be with someone of a low standing, much less Merlin. Morgana, once again, can do things he cannot, for she is not shackled to responsibility as he is.

"Buy me a drink and call it even?" asks Merlin, speaking of their latest escapade where Merlin had helped him and gotten nothing from it.

"I couldn't be seen buying my servant a drink," he says, eyeing Morgana in the corner where she is pouring one for Guinevere.

It's different for them. Guinevere can pursue anyone, Morgana can do whatever she likes in this castle and Uther will never mind it. They're not like him. He can't buy his servant a drink, he can't think of him as anything, not a friend, not… anything.

He looks over at Merlin, In another life, maybe they’d have been friends.

____________

There is a boy, and he is a sorcerer, and he is a child.

His eyes, they’re wide and wet, and Arthur can't… he can't…

He smuggles the boy, Mordred, from the castle and he can't even bring himself to be sorry for it.

It seems he's defying his father more and more, these days, cracks in his ever present armor. Weakness in his soul. He tells no one of his weakness, only trains until it seems to go away, only to return in the night when he is all alone. Should be have let that boy go? They always return, desperate for vengeance. It could be his end, trusting that boy not to destroy him against all signs.

If the boy returns as an adult, a sorcerer, Arthur will kill him. He needs to wait until the boy is at least culpable for his crimes. That's what he tells himself, anyway. His weakness festers deep inside, and there are times it feels like everyone can see it, in the way his father speaks to him when he inevitably fails, the way he can't seem to do anything right.

____________

He bursts into his room in a dark mood after training, internally chastising himself over everything he did wrong today, from taking too many breaks to forgetting to do extra endurance training. And he's soaking wet from the day long storm.

Merlin sits on his bed, holding a small plate. He opens his mouth to yell at him for sitting on the princess bed, but then he notices that Merlin is holding a small sack.

"What's that?"

"Eat your dinner first. I've had a bath run for you."

He's a bit wrongfooted at that, his waves of upset receding. His old servant had set out his dinner too, of course, but only at his command. And, looking at the plate, it has all his favorites.

"What's this?"

"You're always more upset on rainy training days, so," he holds out the plate. "Brought you a little extra."

Arthur's mouth opens and closes again. He hadn't told Merlin that those were his favorites, hadn't commanded him to get them from the kitchens or to run his bath with the extra scents. He'd just… done it.

"So how was your day, Merlin," Merlin asks himself in a completely inaccurate mime of Arthur's voice. "Oh, it was fine, I hurt my shoulder a little. How, you may ask? I was doing the usual… talking to dragons and saving prince Arthurs life from those who seek to do him harm," he says dramatically.

Arthur laughs despite his mood. It’s ridiculous to picture Merlin doing anything of the sort. "You make yourself out to be such a loyal knight. If you were truly loyal, I suppose my socks would be put away."

"I know you don't mind them out."

And he's right, Arthur really doesn't. He wonders when his servant had fathomed him out so thoroughly. Merlin winces, grasping his shoulder.

"How did you really hurt your shoulder?" He asks.

"I… bruised it on the doorway when I was carrying your bathwater up."

He laughs. Merlin jokes around a bit more, talking about this and that. He takes his dinner and his bath. Finally, he settles into bed and realizes that somewhere along the line he's lost his bad mood entirely.

Perhaps Merlin is not as incompetent as he seems at first glance.

____________

Lord Abelard is visiting for the upcoming meetings regarding Caerleon, and Arthur decides he ought to spend some time with him while he’s at the castle. It's good to keep up relations with landowners, and the two of them have known each other for long enough it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Abelard is a valuable asset, and time spent with him is an investment in Camelot’s future. Besides, he wants an excuse to go to the markets, as they've gotten new wares in after the recent festival.

Abelard is as desperate for Arthur's approval as he remembers, constantly bringing up the good old days and the long relationship between them, which he seems to remember as more intimate than it actually was. He’s the same as ever, complimenting everything Arthur does, which does wonders for his ego. However, he soon begins to regret his decision. As much as he is amused by Abelard, he despises the glares Merlin points his way every time the man speaks.

"Remember when we used to sit up there on the wall and shout at the old creepy man? Those were good times, oh, to return to our childhood days, boyhood friendships blooming anew," he croons. It's the fifth time he's mentioned boyhood friendships in an hour. "Don't you remember?"

"No," he lies.

"C'mon, the one with all those hideous scars and the deformed head? And the--"

"Alright, yes," he says between clenched teeth.

Merlin whips his head over so fast he might have broken his neck. Arthur groans internally, certain he will never hear the end of this. He can hear it now, Merlin nagging him incessantly about how could he be so cruel to an innocent old man, and whatever self righteous nonsense. The thing is, he already knows it's awful, alright? But it's not as if it's doing any harm. The old man can't hear them.

He coughs, embarrassed. "I hardly think it is the time to reminisce on such things, though, Lord Abelard."

"Has he been around? I have a mind to keep a lookout for him. I'll bet he haunts the place still. You always had the cleverest things to shout at him, Sire!"

He wants to laugh it off and move on to allowing Abelard to compliment every single thing about him. But Merlin is still looking at him, he can see from the corner of his eye, and he would be ever so judgmental over such a conversation. But, Merlin is cruel to him all the time, it would be hypocritical of him to be upset that… and besides, it's not hurting anyone! He's only having a bit of fun at no one's expense. He can do whatever he wants, he's the prince!

He turns on his most charming laugh. "Yes, I admit it. He was strange to walk around in daylight with his face so scarred, no one wants to look at that."

"Exactly, the least he could do is wear a hood, the wretch! His face haunts my very dreams."

Arthur laughs again, and wonders if his laugh doesn’t sound wooden. "Come, let us discuss other things. My servant will take your bags."

"Can a scrawny thing like that carry them?"

"He's a servant, he can take it."

He snaps his fingers, and Merlin, for once, complies quietly.

He wants to show off the best of Camelot a bit. He already tires of Abelard’s constant need for attention, and his false compliments. But he is an investment, and Arthur wants him on his side in the meeting, he reminds himself. It's not about either of them as people, it’s about what they an do for each other. Just like any relationship.

They decide to go to the markets and see the exotic wares. He eyes a small one he is interested in, then recalls that he left his coin purse in his chambers. That won't do. The seller would recognize him and give him the item, but he will look like a fool if he has no money.

He leans over to whisper to Merlin. "I didn't bring any coin. Merlin, you buy it."

"I…"

"Come now, I'll pay you back. Are you that stingy?"

"It's just that I need to buy food this week, too. And last time you forgot to pay me back."

"It's only a few pence."

"To you, it's only a few pence. In fact, I--I’ve been meaning to bring it up," he hisses, lowering his voice to nearly nothing, "I would like a raise in pay."

He laughs at that. "For what? You hardly do anything around here. If anything I should pay you less, the way you come in late after spending all night at the tavern. What do you need more money for?"

"I'd like to start saving."

"Going to buy yourself a castle in the countryside?"

"I'm worried I don't have enough to make it through winter."

He scoffs. He's talking like they don't take good care of him, like he's one of those servants in kingdoms that mistreat their lowers or make them go without pay.

"You've got food to eat, a bed to sleep in tonight. What is there to worry about?"

"I've got to have a bed tomorrow, and the next day, you see," he explains like he's talking to a small child.

"You worry too much. I'm not raising your pay."

"But--"

He holds up a hand. He's getting irritated with Merlin thinking he can get his way. Arthur is the prince and what he says goes, not what a ridiculous codswallop of a servant thinks.

"No. That's my answer. If you want a raise in pay, take on more work. Put your knees into it, eh?"

Merlin looks furious for a moment, but he drops it. "I'm not buying your overpriced trinket."

"Even after I so bravely slew the Bastet only a week ago?" He says loudly, and people around him look up in admiration, as they always do when he speaks of his heroic deeds.

He turns to Merlin, expecting the same expression, but is met with a dark look.

He turns away, and promptly trips on Merlin’s outstretched foot, falling to the dust.

He takes him aside by the arm.

"Why do you insist on humiliating me? In case you hit your head, you are my servant."

"I'm not like George, if you want my respect you'd better earn it."

"Respect is my birthright."

"You were born with the right to have people kneel. You weren't born with the right to make them like it, Arthur."

"Prince Arthur."

“Prince Arthur,” he spits like it’s a curse.

“I'll put you in the--"

"Put me in the stocks then. Go on, make me get on my knees, that'll make me respect you, won't it?" He snaps.

"I can sack you."

"Do it then."

They stand there, at an impasse. Arthur is not going to do it, and Merlin must know that.

"If you have so little respect, you are free to leave," he hisses.

"Good," Merlin says, and walks out the door of the shop.

Arthur stands there in the silence, breath caught in his throat where he had planned a scathing retort. He had actually walked out and left. How dare he!

Arthur follows him.

"Hey! What’s all this about?" He tries. Perhaps he has gone too far, somehow.

"Nothing," says Merlin. "I don't get a say. I'm only a servant, I can take it."

He recognizes the reference to what he had said earlier, and a twinge of guilt runs through him. "I didn’t mean it like that. A prince has to keep up appearances, he has certain ways he expects things, that's just… diplomacy," he says, trying to get him to understand.

"I know," Merlin says, small. "It's just not how we are, usually."

He opens his mouth to say that how they are, usually, is not appropriate, and that he really has let it go on too long, but he can’t bring himself to say it.

They go back into the shop, and Abelard calls Merlin over to carry something for him, a heavy vase. Rather than pass it to him, he tosses it into Merlin’s arms, where it slips to the ground with a crash. Abelard turns on Merlin with the same intense rage Arthur has seen many a time in his fathers eyes.

"You dropped it!" He yells at Merlin. "Useless cur! Your type can never do anything right. I'll have you thrown in the dungeons and flogged, you hear me?"

Lord Abelard is disciplining an underling, which is certainly allowed. And if it were anyone else, he would allow it. But Merlin... He's different from the others, he may be clumsy and a little arsehole, but he's ever so clever and good, he doesn't deserve to be threatened over something so minor. Abelard’s face is beet red, and he spits as he speaks, it's something Arthur has never seen him do. But Merlin is being remarkably resilient. If Arthur didn’t see him every day, he wouldn’t even realize he was upset. He’s keeping composed as if he sees this sort of behavior often. Arthur can't imagine when, people don't ever act like that in Camelot, it's not polite. Still, even Merlin has his breaking point, and Abelard has begun threatening him with far worse than what he is used to with the stocks.

He thinks about it diplomatically. If Arthur defends Merlin, it will be at the sake of his own rapport with Abelard, and he may lose some respect from his peer, something valuable in upcoming meetings. But if he does not stand up for Merlin, he fears he will lose something more important.

He has a choice here. There is always a choice.

"No need to speak to him that way," he says, stepping between them and bocking Abelard’s view of Merlin. "He may be a bit of a dunce, but I was the one who dropped it. I shall pay for it."

He will talk to the seller about bringing payment later, as Merlin certainly doesn't have enough on him to spot for it. Abelard turns to him, finally stopping the stream of vitriol he had aimed at Merlin, and his face goes from a threatening, angry thing to the cloying one Arthur recognizes.

"But, Sire, I saw him--"

"You aren't arguing with the Crown prince, are you?" He asks loudly. Several people in the market stop to stare. Odd, they had averted eye contact when Merlin was being yelled at.

"Of course not," Abelard says hastily. "I… was mistaken."

"Apologize to my servant, and all will be forgiven," he says with a smile.

"Apologies, er…"

"Merlin."

"Apologies, Merlin."

Merlin nods, and it seems he's not at risk of crying anymore, which is a relief. Arthur doesn't look at him, as he doesn't want his concern to show through in front of others. He signals to Merlin that he should wait outside. Abelard seems especially volatile at the moment, and he would rather not have to look after Merlin while he settles things.

“I don’t know why you defend that filth over your old friend,” he says. “He’s the very sort we would have thrown rocks at, once. Hopefully the ones at the meeting will be more polite.”

Arthur sees the situation for what it is, then. He himself might not exactly enjoy these meetings, but he wants to keep people safe. Abelard would have sentenced Merlin to a flogging without a second thought. He’s still that child who throws rocks at passersby, and Arthur doesn’t want someone like that at any meeting in Camelot. He doesn’t want someone like that around him at all, or around his servants.

“Lord Abelard, it occurs to me that your presence is not needed at this meeting.”

“Sire, I--”

“In fact, it might be best if you went back to where you came from.”

Abelard is quiet for a moment. “Your father invited me.”

“I will let him know you were ill and could not make it.”

“Over a servant?” Arthur doesn’t answer. Abelard’s face goes red. “You treat a friend this way?”

“An ally. I hope I can still count you as such, being that my father and yours are still aligned.”

“Alright, I’ll go home,” he hisses, finally allowing his rage to show through his simpering mask of politeness. “Your father isn’t paying for new friends anymore.”

Arthur tells the shopkeeper he will send a servant with payment come morning, and he goes outside. Merlin trots up beside him. “What were you talking about?” he asks.

“Nothing. Let’s go home.”

“Is he--?”

“I said let’s go. God, you’re nosy.”

Arthur and Merlin go home.

When they are in their rooms, he hasn't even gone five steps inside when Merlin reaches out to with arms open wide, a grin on his face. Arthur backs up. “What was that?” he asks.

“A hug?” He blinks. “What you did for me today was—"

“Merlin, I don’t know what they do in your backwater village, but in Camelot, a servant does not touch the prince,” he says, putting gravitas into the words in hopes that Merlin might finally take him seriously for once, but of course he wouldn’t, he’s likely about to argue over it and then insist on touching him whenever possible. Arthur will only have to deal with it, a pity, he thinks as he waits for the arguing to begin. A terrible pity.

Merlin only rolls his eyes.

“Fine, prince prat,” he says, fondness in his voice. He turns and begins his nightly duties, cleaning the fireplace.

Oh. Well, that’s fine, then.

“...But you could, if you dared,” he says, opening his arms just in case.

Merlin scoffs and continues cleaning, not even turning around to look and see where Arthur stands with his arms foolishly out. His cheeks burn, and he wonders what mad idea had gotten into him. He hasn't needed affection like that since he was a young child, and he certainly doesn't now.

Arthur goes to bed, and dismisses Merlin early.

His father isn’t paying for friends anymore. And that suits Arthur just fine.

Chapter Text

Arthur's face burns as he and Merlin make their way back to his chambers in awkward silence. It's not the first time he's been yelled at in front of an audience and it's unlikely that it will be the last, but his father doesn't usually lay into him the way he did today.

He enters the room and hears Merlin quietly shut the door behind them, finally alone. Still, Merlin says nothing, and the silence grows between them. He has half a mind to order him around a little, throw things at him, anything to shuck this feeling of powerlessness. He turns, expecting some look on his face that will validate these desires, but Merlins face holds something he cannot quite identify.

"Sorry," he says.

"For what?"

"That you had to see that. Not exactly the view you want of a prince, is it."

"Standing there while you're punished for doing what's best for Camelot? That's exactly the view I've got. I thought you were very brave out there."

"It wouldn't have been quite so bad if he hadn't tripped as he was standing up." Arthur doesn't even know what he had tripped over, it was like some invisible force had taken his feet from beneath him. That had really set him off. When his pride was hurt, that's when he got the angriest.

"Yeah," says Merlin, with fleeting purse of his lips. "Too bad about that."

________________________

Arthur is exhausted. He's brushed shoulders with death before, but never quite so closely as this. Being bitten by that thing was meant to be his death, it had only been by the grace of medicine that he had pulled through. He feels every bit like he's still dying, his body pushed to it's limits struggling to keep him going.

Merlin comes into work pale and sallow, as if he's had to do anything these past few days besides hand things to Gaius, or whatever it is he gets up to when Arthur is out of commission. God, he hates Merlin sometimes. What does he know about being tired?

"You look tired," he says, half joking and half prying for information he can use to make fun of him. "Can't imagine why, seeing as my floors are unswept and my clothes arent laid out."

He only shrugs. For some reason, it irritates Arthur. He grabs his shoulder and Merlin makes a small, choked off noise,seeming to snap out of whatever funk he was in to rip himself out of Arthur's grip with a strength Arthur didn't know he possessed.

"Sorry, got a bit of an injury there," says Merlin.

"Strained yourself trying to do dishes?" he teases.

"Something like that. Hurt in the line of duty, eh? Like you." He gestures to the bite marks from the Questing Beast, indented deep.

"Indeed," Arthur laughs, and Merlin laughs, and his bad mood recedes again. Hurt in the line of duty, as if Merlin knows anything about that, the things Arthur has to do for his people and the sacrifices he has to make. "We arent so different really, are we, Merlin?"

"Suppose not," he says, bending stiffly to begin cleaning the fireplace.

He throws a chalice at Merlins head playfully, and Merlin only turns to him, betrayed, eyes wide and watery, and suddenly Arthur is in a memory, at a Druid camp at fifteen years old staring at a little child he is about to kill.

He shakes it off, and pulls up the covers so he doesn't have to look at him.

____________

He keeps seeing Merlin and Morgana together. Always touching each other and giggling, or gazing seriously into each others eyes. He doesn't know what it is theyre always talking about in hushed tones, stopping abruptly when he enters the room. What do they have to talk about? Its not as if Morgana is all that interesting, and neither is Merlin, so where do they get off spending all that time together? Merlin is his manservant, and Morgana is doing this to spite him!

He sulks past Morgana's room, where he can hear them laughing, and he keeps going. Doesn't even matter to him. Nothing touches Arthur.

____________

Arthur overhears things, sometimes. He's a quieter step than people realize, when he's not projecting his footsteps, swaggering to keep up his image of a powerful prince. When he's alone, and when he takes off his armor, his footsteps are quiet as a mouse.
And he hears things not meant for his ears.
Outside the granary, two voices, one hushed and the other rising in a panic.

"Stealing," says a familiar voice, Gwen.

"No one will notice it’s gone." Merlin. Arthur frowns. Which if them is stealing? And why?

"I… I don’t want to pry, but… well couldn’t you buy it? I mean, if your wages are like mine, it’s enough for bread, at least.”

So it is Merlin who is stealing. Arthur waits for him to defend himself, but he doesn't.
He's quiet. "I don't have the money."

"Arthur is paying you, isn't he?” Her voice goes cold. "Because if he isn't, I can speak to my lady Morgana about it. She would tell the king."

Arthur silently takes offense. He had thought he was on good terms with Gwen, how could she think so little of him?

Merlin scoffs. "You've seen what the king does any other time we bring up an issue. Besides, you don’t really think Arthur would do that, do you?"

“I don’t, but you know you can never be quite sure. Like that noble last week, he seemed so kind at first, and as soon as the king left the room…”

“I remember.” Arthur waits for more, wondering who they’re referring to, and realizing there must be a great deal that happens at this castle of which he is unaware. “But I put a stop to that, and… I mean, it’s Arthur.”

“You’ve put up with worse.”

They are quiet for a moment. Arthur is burning to know what they’re talking about, but any time he demands something directly of Merlin, it seems to only make him stubbornly silent, and Gwen would only clam up nervously.

"Anyway, my mother is older than she used to be. She needs money, much more than me. I can go without for awhile, steal here and there."

"Have you asked for a raise in pay?"

"I tried telling him, once. He said I have food and a roof over my head, and I should be grateful."

"He doesn't understand how it is, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care. Hes your friend, maybe if you explained…"

"I won't grovel. He loves to remind me that he thinks I'm just… " He laughs, then goes quiet for a moment. "Sometimes I wonder if he'll ever really understand."

There is always a choice. But, if he thinks about it, what is that choice? Between the possibility of arrest and execution and slow death by starvation? After all, he was stealing to feed himself and his mother, a worthy cause. It's Merlin, for gods sake.
He goes back to his chambers, suddenly aware of the down pillows and silk sheets, the gilded decorations on his furniture, and he burns with shame.

That evening, Merlin brings his dinner.

Arthur stares at the heaps of sausage and eggs, the necessary meal to feed him after a long day of training. He can see Merlin out of the corner of his eye, on his knees, scrubbing the fireplace out. He just doesn't know what to do about it. It's how things are, and there's no changing it.

____________

"Hold on, Arthur, alright?"

Hold on, he thinks sluggishly, hold on to what?

There is a pressure on his hand. He turns his head to look. His limp hand is clasped tightly between Merlins. He cant close it, too cold to feel, to move. He opens his mouth to try to apologize, because in that moment it feels like the most devastating thing on earth that he can't even feel Merlins hand.

He passes out.

Arthur wakes up slowly, to the feeling of fingers gently moving his neck. Whoever it is presses on something painful and Arthur makes a noise of pain. He blinks, panicked, but it is only Merlin.

"Merlin?" Arthur says groggily, blinking up at him. "What happened?"

"You killed it."

"Head hurts," he groans, trying to sit up. Merlin places a hand on his chest, and Arthur lies back down, staring at the hand. Merlin snatches it away.

"Does anything else hurt?"

"No," he says, embarrassed. He's better than this, he shouldn't be hurt. He looks at Merlins hands, wondering if they would wander his skin once again, looking for his every weakness and flaw. They were gentler than he deserves, making an amateurs mistake, falling off his horse. He stares at Merlins hands some more, wondering if they will come and touch him some more. But... he shouldn't. It's not right. For a peasant to touch the Prince.

"Stop treating me like I'm dirt," says Merlin. "I know you think I'm some... stupid country boy, but I'm a physicians assistant, and if you have another injury I need to know. Otherwise you'll collapse on our way back, and as irritating as you are I don't want that on my hands! Or, you can make your own way back. See if I care."

"No one talks to me that way,” he says halfheartedly.

"No one is me.”

He’s right. There is something different about Merlin. Arthur supposes that he could make an exception for him.

"I took a hit to the stomach." Arthur closes his eyes. He looks almost peaceful like this, despite the sickly pallor.

"Should've just said so," he grumbles, and sets about removing Arthur's armor. “I’m going to have to look at it.”

Merlin jostles him, which is odd, because no one is meant to touch Arthur that way. The only one who presses into him checking for wounds is Gaius, and its...well, let's say it's quite different, when instead of an old man it's a man his age with large, slender hands roaming all over. Not that he's thinking anything inappropriate! No, it's only that… he's not ever touched quite like this.

Merlins hands skim a bruise and he flinches.

"Sorry," they both say at once.

"I don't think you're dirt," says Arthur quietly. Merlin shrugs.

Merlin helps him to the horse. They are silent on the way back.

“Alright back there?”

“I’m fine,” he snaps.

Upon their arrival into the castle, a servant meets them at the gate.

“The king has requested your immediate presence, sire,” says Sofia, bowing low.

Arthur nods and winces at the motion. He doesn't want to be reprimanded, but he is sure he will be, quite publicly. He's failed, and gotten hurt to boot. He cannot be of service to Camelot this way, and he's brought shame on his father. But he understands that this is necessary.

Merlin scoffs. “Arthurs presence? Why, so he can scream at an injured man for sneaking out to save peoples lives? Bugger off.”

Arthur pipes up. "Tell him I will arrive shortly."

“No you won’t,” Merlin commands. Arthur glares, and he glares back, hands on his hips. Sofia shifts uncomfortably at the display, and clears her throat.

“My orders are to bring-”

"Tell the king that Arthur is getting medical assistance, and the physician's assistant sent you away. He’ll understand.”

Arthur stares. All of them know that he won't understand. He'll be angry, likely at Merlin even more than Arthur.

Before Sofia can reply, Merlin has dragged Arthur away toward Gaius’ chambers.

"I should go see him. He'll be angry if I don't."

"Excuse my treason, but fuck Uther.” Arthur blinks. No on had ever said that particular sentence within his earshot. “You're hurt, and the last thing you need right now is him publicly humiliating you. It's bad enough that no one seems to have a problem with it happening on a regular basis."

Arthur bristles at that, because Merlin doesn't understand his relationship with his father, how to a king, his country must come first. Arthur needs to be yelled at for his mistakes, the humiliation is what motivates him to be better.

"He's only trying to discipline me to-"

"Save it. Look, we're here."

"Merlin,” Arthur croaks. Merlin turns back. “Thank you for your help today. Really." He reaches out to clasp Merlin's shoulder. Merlin only nods, and goes to his room so quickly its as if hes running away.

Arthur has a long time to think, lying there.

Merlin had helped him avoid his fathers wrath. That wasn't kindness for show, the simpering, tight smiles and polite words that others put on to gain Arthur's favor, because what could Merlin have gained from that besides a night in the dungeons, an angry king coming after him instead of Arthur? No one has ever, in all his years, stood up for him against Uther.

And he and Merlin aren't close, half the time he spends intentionally bothering Merlin for fun. Merlin may have risked his life for Arthur before, but only because he's a prince, it's not the same. Merlin had done it because… well, Arthur can't pinpoint a good reason, except that he must be as utterly kind as everyone seems to think.

____________
Gaius comes in to check him over, looking at the abrasions over his bruised back and stomach. Nothing terribly serious, but bad enough that Gaius has kept him for monitoring for a few hours in case they become major internal bleeds. Serious enough only to be embarrassing. Sir Bedeviere is there too, having his old wounds tended to, as his years of service have given him a bad back.

“Will it scar?”

“Almost certainly,” says Gaius, apologetic. "At least this small one on your back. Merlin must have missed it, it's in an odd spot."

He sighs, dejected. He cant believe he’d let it knock im out like that, hes supposed to be a role model and he had passed out!

“Its just that I’d rather not be mocked and judged eternally for falling off my horse.”

“Im afraid not. Still, I doubt your knights would dare to mock you.”

He wasn't referring to the knights, but he doesn’t want to explain that to Gaius. He's marred, now.

“No one would bother you over a thing like that, earned in battle.” Sir Bedeviere glances over. “Means you fought for something and won. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Sire.”

Arthur nods, and he lies back down so Gaius can apply his remedies. He thinks back on his day.

Beasts touch him and foes, but only on the armor. Merlin had been a foe at first, in his own charming and irritating way, but Arthur supposes the two of them are something else now. He can still feel the tingle of where his hands had examined him for injury, the softest touch he's felt in ages.

It could have just as easily been Merlin getting hit over the head. He's fragile, scrawny as he is, and clumsy. Arthur will have to protect him. Those damned sorcerer's won't get their way, Arthur thinks, pulling out the maps to pore over them that night. Arthur is going to defend Camelot for whatever evil they have planned.

His knights come to visit him, later, and he's suprised by that, somehow. There was a time such a thing would have seemed ridiculous, his knights trained through fear of his wrath. Perhaps it means Arthur is too soft on them. Or perhaps these are made of stronger stuff, some force that binds them all together.

"Oi, we've warded off the king for a bit. At least til tonight."

"How did you--"

"We simply gave a full and factual account of what happened. Emphasis on your heroism, of course, and how lucky you were to come out with only minor injuries. One would think you have a guardian angel."

"His angel must be working all day and night, with the danger the prince gets in," says Gwaine.

"Yes, he must," mutters Merlin. "And probably gets about as much appreciation as mud."

Gwaine laughs. "You're right. I can see it now, Arthur praying," he clasps his hands dramatically and adopts an irritated look, "oh guardian angel, thank you for saving me, but couldn't you have done it faster, and I think your aim was a little off, you'd better practice a bit more and--"

"Just because I'm hard on you all in training does not mean I disvalue your service," mutters Arthur, and finds that he does sound as irritated as Gwaines imitation. "These are things you must practice at, to--"

"We know, Sire, we're only joking." Gwaine nudges Merlin and gives him a meaningful glance.

"I know," he says, sounding defensive even to himself. He shuffles, trying to get comfortable, and winces, unable to stop a small noise of pain.

"Okay, visiting time is over." Merlin herds the others from the room. They wave, and promise to train even while he recovers.

"Playing nursemaid, instead of cleaning my room," he teases.

"You can be such an ass," he scoffs. "Don't think I'm smart enough to treat you, even now?"

"You're the smartest person I know," says Arthur, too tired to lie.

"You're so ridiculous."

"I'm serious. What's sixty two times forty?"

"Two thousand four hundred eighty," he answers. "Why?"

"See? No one can do maths like that. How do you do it?"

"I don't know, I've always been able to. Its intuitive. Is it so unusual?"

"Yes," he says, with emphasis. "You're an odd duck, Merlin. I've never met anyone like you."

"Good. Means you can't ever replace me."

"I could replace you with Morris, he's far more competent." He winces again, and Merlin frowns.

"Do you need more bruise balm? Gaius says you're to take some things for the pain, as well."

"No, I'm fine," he says. It's a minor injury all things considered, and he wants to get out of here, back out there and train some more, as a tourney is coming up and his father will want him to compete. Not to mention that the knights need him to lead them. If it hurts, he will simply deal with it.

"No need to act the part of the strong prince here, you can tell me if it hurts."

"I'm not acting. I am--"

"Arthur." he gestures around the room. "We're alone. Just us. You don't have to hold it in all the time, alright?"

Merlin reaches out to hold his face, gently tilting his chin up so they're looking at each other. He’s looking at Arthur with a look no one gives him, something unidentifiable and fond behind his eyes.
"...I need tincture."

"There it is. I'll fetch it."

Merlin turns to get it, and Arthur watches him go, and… For once, Arthur does not want to hide away behind his carefully constructed armor. He wants all those things he said he had left behind in childhood, that his father had told him were worthless. He wants to be a liability. He’s safe, here.

Oh.

This isn’t good.

____________

After his little realization that feels like a really rather large realization, Arthur tries to dissuade himself, take it back. He couldn’t love Merlin. It wouldn’t work between them. Merlin isn’t interested like that. Arthur is busy, and he’s skittish and unavailable, and Merlin has said many times that he thinks he’s an ass, and besides that, Arthur is terrified. Of what could happen to him if he lets himself feel these things, and faces it head on rather than pressing the feelings into a corner of his mind that he doesn't touch.

He wants to call it another facet of his weakness, but it doesn't feel like it makes him weaker. When he’s fighting or training or sitting in his chambers with Merlin, those are the times he feels strong, but he still… wants, things, that aren't befitting of a prince. Gentle things that he thinks of when he's alone, like hands stroking his hair, and lips on his face.

He doesn’t know what to do with all of it. He can’t ask these things of Merlin, it wouldn’t be chivalrous or appropriate, and he has no idea if Merlin would ever feel the same, especially as Arthur hasn’t ever exactly treated him kindly. He’s never been able to manage his heart, that seems more full of emotion than he knows what to do with. He doesn’t much like to be touched, but he wants Merlin to hold him properly, the way others do, and he wants to taste his breath, and… and other things.
____________

He might have drunk too much. A bottle held in his hand, he himself is held in Merlins arms, as his mission of the past hour had been to surreptitiously move closer and closer until Merlin would suddenly find himself holding Arthur, without a mind of how such a thing could have happened, but accepting it nonetheless and probably taking blame for it on his own shoulders.

(As it went in reality, though, about a quarter hour into this exercises Merlin had gotten a look like he was holding back laughter, opened his arms, and told Arthur to get on with it already.)

Yes, he might have drunk far too much. He hardly ever imbibes like this, but he figured he was safe to, given his company. He had thought he would be able to restrain himself, as usual, but it's proving difficult. The drink is making him bolder, more honest than usual, and he knows he will regret it come morning, but now he does not give a damn, sitting around the fire with his knights. He cannot seem to stay away from what he wants. He is so proud of them. He says so, more than once. He's fairly sure theyre talking about sex, and he joins in briefly, but gets distracted by Merlins shirt once again. He scoots further into Merlins lap and sniffs at him. It doesn't smell like manure at all, and Arthur wonders why he ever had that idea to begin with.

Merlin is rubbing his back, and isn't that pleasant? He goes to move away and Arthur protests, reaching up with grabby hands until Merlin concedes and allows him to lay his head on Merlin's chest, so Merlin can stroke his hair. It is heavenly. He wishes they could do this all the time, but his father would not approve of Arthur being petted by a servant. Nor would he approve of the extremely vivid daydreams Arthur has been having about married life. Those will go with him to his grave. No, he tells himself firmly about ten times a day, you will not fall in love with Merlin, you do not care about Merlin, because it would bring only devastation and weakness upon you.

"Merlin?" He says. "Bed."

"What?"

"Tired. Carry me." He does the grabby hands again, certain that it has had some effect.

"Or what?" he asks

"Or stocks," Arthur says.

"Oh, whatever. Like you'll even remember this tomorrow. Look, what's that?" He points into the darkness, and Arthur looks, because if there is danger he will fight it. Assuming he can stand, that is.

Merlin scoops him up, easier than Arthur thought it would be. He's stronger than he looks.

"Goodnight," he calls out to the knights, for he feels extremely fond of them at the moment, enough that he nearly tears up. "Merlin'so strong," Arthur says, snuggling into his shoulder. Merlin lays him down in the tent, terribly gently, and Arthur tries to sit up urgently to tell him something important.

Merlin sighs. “What’s that you said?”

“Don’ go away,” Arthur slurs. “I don' want to sleep.” He clutches Merlin's shirt weakly, trying to lift it. "Let me pet you."

Merlin does that thing he does, where he doesn’t let Arthur touch him too much, where if he gets too close he’s rebuked. He supposed it’s a gentle rejection, that perhaps it’s Merlins way of saying they aren’t that close yet, or that he doesn’t want to touch him as much as Arthur thought. Arthur doesn’t like it much, he’s become rather dependant on touching Merlin, a guilty pleasure he indulges far too often. But if Merlin has his limits, Arthur will respect them; he only wants that if it goes both ways.

“Go to sleep.”

“No,” he says, even as he falls back onto the bedroll.

“Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin says sternly, in the angry voice he sometimes uses that sort of thrills Arthur with how disobedient it is, like perhaps Merlin knows something Arthur doesn't, a loophole that means that in fact Merlin is his master and he is Merlins servant, “If you’re a good boy you’ll go to sleep right now.”

Arthur abruptly stops his noble efforts at sitting up. He wants to be a good boy. “I’m a good boy,” he whispers.

Merlin yawns. “An excellent boy.”

Arthurs face goes hot. The combination of the knights raunchy talk earlier and Merlins typical attractiveness have got him feeling...things. Arthur would get on his knees for him now, he thinks, if he weren’t so drunk. He vows to remember all of this tomorrow and think about it more then.
____________

Hes come to expect and tolerate Merlins little touches, the way he occasionally shakes him awake or nudges his foot. It doesn't make him jump anymore, to feel it, but he does notice it intently every time Merlin rests his bare skin against him.

So it is very obvious when this changes, for seemingly no reason. Merlin doesn't want to touch him, not anymore. He gets an odd way about him, and sort of… stops reaching out, ever. When Arthur sits expectantly, waiting for him to knock their shoulders together as usual, he just doesn't. Arthur places himself in prime positions to be accidentally brushed against or knocked into, but Merlin doesn't. Arthur even gets desperate enough to initiate, once in awhile.

He casually tugs at Merlins shirt, and Merlin yanks it back down right away.

"You don't want to look at that," he says, with the strangest tone, mouth quirked into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He laughs, like he's telling a joke, but for the life of him Arthur can't figure out the punchline.

Listen as well as you fight, Merlin had said. What does that mean, anyway? He frowns at Merlins back, wondering what he's supposed to be listening for. Merlin is an enigma, and Arthur can't help but think he's missing something crucial.

____________
He begins paying attention. Merlin comes in late, comes in bruised, with stories that don't quite line up. Initially, Arthur only wants to find out what's going on with him, but he starts cataloguing other things too, trying to...fathom him out, he supposes. And he gets a variety of facts about Merlin, things that delight him, like the fact that Merlin tugs on his ears when he's nervous, and… things that disturb him. His boots are worn to the point where he has to periodically stop what he's doing and reattach the bottoms. He scarfs down food at such a speed that if Arthur looks away for only a moment, he misses the entire process.

It's concerning, to say the least.

He goes to speak to Morgana about it. When he reaches her door he can hear people talking behind it, but not Morgana. It's Gwen, and someone. Perhaps another servant. He recalls then that it is Saturday, which is when Morgana likes to go on a walk through town. Incidentally it is also when the servants do a deeper cleaning of the rooms and change the sheets, so there are likely several people in there, none of which are Morgana. He sighs and goes to leave when he overhears them talking.

“Oh, the whole castle is talking about it.”

He stops, listening, wondering what exactly the whole castle is talking about.

“He is a bit of a treat for the eyes, isn't he?” giggles Gwen.

Arthur perks up. Perhaps theyre talking about him. Does Gwen have a crush on him?

“Well, too bad Merlin has eyes for no other than… you know.”

“I wouldn't be so sure.”

Merlin?! This is about Merlin? And who is it he has eyes for, anyway? How ridiculous. Not that Arthur cares, but… Merlin doesn't have time to be going off after someone romantically, he's got to do his job, and besides, Arthur needs to approve of this mysterious person first.

“Can we focus? I was in the middle of a story when I was so rudely interrupted. Anyway, where was I?"

"The Princes armor was--"

"Right. The Princes armor was damaged and he came in here acting like a child who didnt get his way, looked like he couldn't wait to dump all that work on us and left in such a hurry I couldn't get a word in edgewise.”

He goes stiff.

“Hey,” says a voice angrily, “Don't talk about him like that. He's under a lot of stress."

“You don't have to worry, Merlin, he’s not here, he cant sack us for talking."

"I'm not worried for my job."

"We've all seen how he treats you, I bet you've got stories of your own."

“I do have a story,” he says, and Arthur nearly leaves, then, but keeps still. He wants to know what Merlin will share. Will it be an account of his chores, a tale of how the awful Prince was so embarrassing that he had to be put in the stocks like a peasant?

"Out with it! We want to hear!"

``We were in the woods, after he had killed a monster, and I lost my canteen. On the ride back, he gave the rest of his water to me."

He recalls that. They were out in the forest, again, chasing a beast. It was a hot, dry day, and Merlins canteen had ripped open on a branch. Initially Arthur had only laughed at him, but as the day wore on he had felt guilty and handed over his own canteen. He hadn't thought Merlin would even remember it, so insignificant it was in the scope of the rest of the day-- hell, that same day he's pretty sure he had saved Merlins life, so he's not sure why Merlin has such a reverent, soft tone of voice when talking about a canteen, of all things.

"We wanted an exciting story," groans one of the servants. "Not… propaganda."

"See, Merlin, he wouldn't do that for just anybody. This is why we say what we say, about you and--"

"Lets change the subject," says Merlin hastily, a strange note in his voice. "How about the weather lately?"

He leaves then, and returns later that night when he's certain Morgana will be there, and her room will not be so full of gossipers.

“I have to talk to you about Merlin,” he says upon entering. She smiles a strange, bitten back smile. “What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing, nothing. It’s just that it makes two of you.”

“What does that mean?” he demands.

“Merlin was in here bragging about you for ages yesterday. Won the tourney, did you? As if we weren’t all sitting in the stands watching.” She scoffs, but seems giddy. He can feel the blood rushing to his face.

"Well. I was thinking I should do something nice for him."

"What's brought this on?"

"I've been noticing…things. I don't know that he's doing well. I want to show that I care, in some way."

"Maybe you ought to talk to him about it first."

Like hell is he doing that.

"Like hell am I doing that."

"Don't ask for advice if you don't want any!" She scoffs.

So much for Morganas help. He still has no idea what to do. He's on his own, it seems.
_________________________________

A dragon is attacking Camelot, and Arthur is alone.
Arthur is alone, he is always alone in the end, when he's fighting these horrific creatures that threaten Camelot. It is the way of things. He tells everyone to get back, to get away, because he cannot protect them and fight at the same time, not with something so unpredictable.

He deals a blow to the dragon, but by now he has put together enough pieces to see that, regardless of what anyone tells him when he wakes, he was not the one who slayed the beast.

Arthur falls unconscious, and when he wakes he knows it to have been a dream, but… he swears that in that moment he saw Merlin there, taming the dragon.

________________________

They're on the hunt for a sorcerer, again, who may or may not exist. He had argued with his father over it for ages, but his word was final, so here they are. They'd gotten the order to leave just after returning form another wild goose chase for a sorcerer, and Gwaine hadn't even gotten to fix the tear in his pants leg from the last one before they were heading out again. It's more and more frequent, these days.

"This seems dangerous," says Merlin, always the coward in times like this. "Didn't they say this one can throw fire? What can you do to counter that?"

"Shield the prince from harm."

"Come now, you don't think I would shield you first?" asks Arthur. "Give me some credit."

“The mark of a good knight is willingness to lay down his life for his king, the mark of a good king is willingness to lay down his life for his knight," recites Percival.

"That's very good, where'd that come from then?" asks Merlin.

“I would like to propose an alternate saying," announces Gwaine before he can answer. "The mark of a knight is to be willing to lay down his life for his king, the mark of a good king is to never make him do so, and to let him frolic to the tavern with his friends, and that way none of us have to die today, and the good Sir Gwaine can sit down and mend his pants!"

“Nice try,” Arthur says, but there's no bite in it. He’s so tired, some days, he thinks he looks just like old Sir Bedeviere. He doesn't want to be here either, because it seems to him that the sorcerer was on his way out of Camelot and they should let him be, spare their resources, but he cant tell them that. If one of them dies or is injured, he can't let them know it was for nothing, on the whims of a king that doesn't care for their lives.

Shortly after, they make camp.

The sorcerer attacks their camp, naturally. Merlin, like an idiot, throws himself in front of Arthur and is hit by a ball of fire, bringing him to the ground. Arthur manages to chase the sorcerer into the woods, where he vanishes. When he returns, Merlin looks perfectly fine, though his clothes are a bit burnt, and that alone brings relief.

He and Merlin go off to find places to put rabbit traps, splitting up. Arthur sees something move. He calls out to the man, but he only turns, startled, and throws a ball of fire toward Arthur. Arthur is able to brace with his shield and avoid injury. He falls to the ground and begins to stand, keeping the shield over most of his body, and he gets behind a tree to strategize.

When he peers out from his spot, what he sees makes him stop.

Merlin must have seen the light from the fire and come toward it, because he is here in the clearing, fighting the sorcerer. And he doesn't have a sword, he's using… magic. There's no way around it, it is sorcery.

The golden light shines from Merlins eyes and he takes the hit with some invisible shield, then swings back with a fire of his own. It's dangerous. It's call and response, swordplay with fire, parrying and striking like a dance between them. He's never been so terrified of magic as he is now, nor so in awe of Merlin, his sheer finesse and raw power as he strikes a killing blow, then steps back, turning his head in that awkward way of his to see if anyone saw.

He must surmise that no one has seen, because he quirks his face into a little smile, and heads back toward the camp.

He's a sorcerer.

He could do a great number of things about it. He could send dogs after him, have him put in the dungeons, and have him… have him put up on a pyre and… have him…

No, he won't even think it. If Merlin went to the pyre Arthur would go with him, like so many people he's seen throw themselves into the flames, like that old scarred man flogged for his wife.

Arthur's been harboring a sorcerer too, hasn't he. He wonders if this is the universes way of punishing him for throwing rocks as a child, and he nearly laughs aloud at such a bizarre thought, at a time like this. He must think fast, they'll wonder why he hasn't returned, soon. He thinks as he continues out into the woods and places the rabbit traps.

If Arthur must choose between pleasing his father and having Merlin alive, there is no choice to be made. There is no question about it. Arthur has seen nothing at all, and no one will find out otherwise. All he knows is that he must have Merlin by his side, regardless of his secrets, and he knows without a doubt that Merlin will not betray him.

He sees now what his father meant, about trust. If he were looking upon the situation from the outside, he would be cursing his own stupidity and blindness, the inevitability of his downfall. To trust another person is to put ones life in another's hands. And yet, Arthur does. He does, and he doesn't regret any of it. So he'll keep this secret.

Merlin must hate his father, he realizes all of a sudden. He's not sure how to feel about that. On the one hand, it's Merlin, he wouldn't do anything truly treasonous. On the other, he is obviously powerful, he had just killed a man with fire.

He goes to Merlin that night during dinner, prepared to ask where he went, demand an explanation.

"Can I speak with you about something I saw earlier?"

"Of course, Sire," says Merlin. And that… for some reason, does it. The fear on his voice, the honorific. He's tense, like he's preparing for the worst.

He trusts Merlin even if he doesn't tell him everything. He's long known Merlin doesn't tell him everything, the way he comes home all bruised and scraped with weak explanations. His face is illuminated by the fire, and his eyes shine gold even without magic in them. He's holding a cup of soup that looks ready to slip from his hands.

It's Merlin, who, until an hour ago, he had trusted with his life, with everything. What has changed, really?

God, the casual treason of it all, how easily Arthur has sink into these thoughts, as if they were simply waiting for him.

But Merlin had a choice. There's always a choice, isn't there? He chose to do magic, for whatever reason.

But he chose to protect Arthur and his knights with it, he had fought that sorcerer and kept him from their camp.

But he lied, and… and that's it, isn't it, what Arthur is truly upset about. Arthur had thought he could trust him, more than anyone else, that he could give Merlin anything and everything of himself and let Merlin hold a bit of his burden, but Merlin hadn't shared everything in return. His father was right in that respect, you ever truly know anyone, and Merlin is an enigma more than ever before. So many moments run through his head in a new light.

Everyone wants something, no one is ever a friend to royalty for no reason. What does he want? Had this happened before? How blind had Arthur been, not to notice? Had Merlin already become corrupted by magic, or was there time to save him, bring him back before he was consumed by it entirely? How stupid could he be, to decide to do such a thing? He can't imagine Merlin doing it for any evil reason to begin with.

Arthur can see it all now, Merlin, the idiot, learning magic in an attempt to be stronger because he's never been any good with a sword. Some well intended, noble reason like that, thinking he couldn't be lured in by the evils of sorcery, and thinking he could stop when he needed to.

But Arthur does know him, in a way. He's Merlin. He threw himself in front of the sorcerer for Arthur just today. He can't be corrupted by magic, he's still his idiotic, brave self.

"I... I saw that you laid out rabbit traps," says Arthur. "Well done."

"Oh. Right," breathes Merlin, relief flooding his features. "It's nothing. My job, isn't it?"

He goes back out, pretending to look for more firewood, pretending he has just found the sorcerers body in the woods where he must have immolated himself with his own fire, so they can go home early. Like nothing's changed at all.

---------------------

"The water tastes stale," Arthur complains lightly. Merlin turns to him, face stormy.

"I didn't lug that water for a mile and half for you to call it stale."

"I'm only telling the truth. Don't be so sensitive," he says easily.

"I have had enough of your ingratitude. Can't you show a little appreciation for all I do?"

Of course, that's when the sorcerer jumps out, hands raised. Arthur stand immediately, stepping in front of his servant and drawing a sword. There, that will show Merlin who ought to be grateful.

But when the sorcerer begins to mutter, Merlin is the one who shoves Arthur, knocking him to the ground and charging at the old man.

It's a whirlwind, but between himself and the knights they take him down. One of his knights, Adrian, sustains a bad burn across his stomach, and lies there breathing roughly.

Merlin still seems irritated and on edge, even as he treats Sir Adrian's wound, and it's… confusing. How is Arthur supposed to show his gratitude and care if not through protecting others? How is he supposed to protect someone who insists on throwing themselves into danger? It could have just as easily been any of them lying there. Any of them might have died. The boy is only eighteen, young and healthy one moment and fading away the next. Arthur sits stone faced, wondering how he would tell Adrian's parents what happened to their boy, so nearly still a child. He may not last the journey home, or make it through the night. All of them, so fragile, and all of them under Arthur's authority. Every time they are hurt or killed, it is Arthur's responsibility, and here Merlin is, no more than a servant, trying to kill himself.

He sits on it during the ride home, stewing and becoming angrier and angrier.

"Alright, what is it?" Merlin asks when they reach Arthur's chambers.

"You know what," Arthur whirls on him and snarls. "How could you do that?"

"What, save your life?" Merlin's hands clench at his sides. "Only you could make this something to yell at me over."

"Because it was boneheaded."

"Seriously, everything I do is wrong to you! I bring you meals and clean everything and come with you everywhere, without a chance to even sit down all day even for a decent meal, and I'm tired all the time," he hates how his eyes water. "And I save your arse and it's still not enough for you!"

Arthur's jaw works angrily and he collapses into a chair, facing away from Merlin like he can't bear to look at him.

"You are dismissed."

"Arthur, wait-"

"Dismissed," he hisses, lifting a hand. He doesn’t even look at him.

He leaves, and Arthur goes to his father to give the report. His father is… disappointed, to say the least.

"You may have lost a knight and did not even find the sorcerer. What a waste."

"Yes, father."

"What was his name?"

"Sir Adrian," he says, and his voice goes high at the end. "Is his name. He is not dead." Yet. It would not be the first time he has lost a knight, but he would be the youngest. Every time it keeps him up at night.

"You must forget his name," says his father.

"That is callous even for you," he snaps.

"I don't mean to to be cruel, Arthur," he says. "What I tell you is to protect your heart. A king makes difficult decisions. We are not like them. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he says quietly.

"Now, let us continue our debriefing. I am incredibly disappointed in your actions today."

He continues, loudly so, for nearly an hour, and Arthur fights back tears as he leaves the room. He can't even go to Merlin about it like usual; it seems everyone is disappointed in him today.

He goes into the halls, and nearly runs smack into Sir Galahad.

"I heard what happened today. Do you want to talk about it? I was on my way to the armory to put away a few things."

They sit in an alcove, off to the side. Arthur isn't sure where to start, or if he even wants to. He's not shared something like this with anyone before, besides Merlin, but now it is about Merlin, and he isn't sure who to go to.

"Remember when you used to tell me those stories about the--"

"The Golden knight," he says. "Yes."

"I wanted to be great, like that, and save people. That's what being a knight is, isn't it? Or a prince. I fear I make a poor one."

"You think that's what being a knight is all about?" He asks curiously.

"Well, I know that's not all, but…"

"I forget, at times, how young you still are." He sighs, and sits back. "Tell me, what has happened to get you in such a mood?"

Arthur tells him. About feeling helpless to help Sit Adrian, helpless to understand Merlin or to be a man the way his father wants. All but the bits about sorcery, of course, and he's sure Galahad knows he's leaving something out, but he doesn't pry.

“I want to save everyone. I don't see how he doesn't appreciate that, and today he said he's exhausted with everything he has to do, I want to make it up to him somehow, I try and save his life, he jumps in front of me instead. I try to gift him a better position, he turns it down. How am I supposed to save anyone that way?"

"Perhaps you can't do it that way."

"But I can't even show him I care about him properly."

"Most of life isn't saving people. I, for one, wake up in the morning and make breakfast for my wife, and sweep the floors."

"Make a fancy meal? That's your suggestion?" He says skeptically.

"Usually we have plain oats and a cup of water with it."

"Ah."

"Ive done it every day for twenty years. Anyone can cook a nice meal once, especially when it will impress someone you want to impress. The difficult thing is getting up to do it when she's angry with me, or me with her, or I'm in a rush to get to work, or I'm tired. She doesn't say thank you, because it's… plain oats. It's not a favor, it's simply our routine. Love is a task, like sweeping. The best way to love somebody is the be there all the time."

"You make it sound so mundane. I don't have time between everything to make breakfast and sweep, I've got more important things to do. I hardly have time to eat myself."

"Then take time. These mundane moments are not empty spaces between your life. They are your life. Now, I have to go and attend my duties, Sire. It was nice speaking with you."

He paces the halls, alone now. He could check on Sir Adrian, but Gaius gets irritated with him when he goes to check on someone more than once a night, says he is disturbing their rest. So he paces.

Perhaps Sir Galahad has a point. Merlin has seemed exhausted of late, and he's said he wants a raise more than once. But this whole business about love… Arthur isn't sure. He thinks of the time Merlin had spoken well of him, over the incident with the canteen

His emotions get the better of him and he finds himself outside Merlins door, hand poised to knock.

He does, only once, then goes inside, deciding that he needs to see Merlin, angry as he is, and know that he is in fact alright.

It is dark inside, and he can only hear Merlins voice as he comes in. "What? Here to argue some more even though I didn’t-”

“Shut up. I don’t want to argue.” Arthur clears his throat. “I wanted to tell you to bring plums tomorrow for breakfast.”

“Of course.”

“Wipe that look off your face.”

“Got it.” The look remains unwiped.

That makes Arthur snap, anger and betrayal and disappointment and fear all wrapped together into the next steps he takes, striding forward to loom over Merlins bed, because this has gone on long enough, whatever it is.

“Got it, sire,” Arthur snaps, crossing the room to stand over the bed. “You are my subordinate, I am your prince. Address me with respect.”

Arthurs hands clench by his sides.

“I respect you,” he says quietly, the words falling raw in the darkness of the room. “You’re my prince, my only loyalty is to you.”

Arthur looks away, his rage falling to reveal what had been beneath it all along. Of course Merlin respects him. Arthur knows, somewhere, that he is not evil, could not be corrupted. He does not fear Merlins magic, nor his heart. That had never really been the issue had it? Merlin is the only one who seems to respect him, in some ways. Arthur's problem comes from within himself. He does not deserve this respect, and Merlin is right not to confide in him, for he does not deserve his trust. He's failed as a leader at every turn. Perhaps he isn't cut from the same cloth as his father, doesn't have what it takes to have a strong hand, to protect what is his. He deserves none of it, and although he knows that trust is the mark of a weak leader, he craves that Merlin would trust him, and that he could give the same in return.

Perhaps these cravings are why he failed today, as he has before, to protect. He's weak, something wrong and small within him that makes him need. Merlins always the first to remind him of his mistakes, but the first to believe in him too, and he's never sure what to expect from the man. Does Merlin condemn him? Does he forgive him?

"I'm going to hold your hand, if that's-"

"Yes," Arthur says immediately. He's been desperate for it.

Arthur fumbles for him, reaching blindly out to touch. He hits something, and Merlin hisses in pain. Arthur is again wrongfooted. He had been injured and, not for the first time, told no one. Or perhaps he had only kept it from Arthur. He curses himself again, once for not checking him over and asking if he was alright, and again for feeling betrayed that Merlin hadn't trusted him enough to tell him even this.

"You're hurt," he says. "Bring it out into the light, I'll look at it."

"It's nothing, I had Gaius look at it already."

Dismissal again. How is he supposed to trust Merlin when he won’t let him? How is he supposed to go about this? He’s never done it, and it’s like a tentative dance, trying to care but not know ing how, for someone so distant. Perhaps Merlin doesn’t know how to trust either.

"Take the day off tomorrow."

"And deny you your plums and my sparkling company?" He says playfully, like they are simply talking as usual. "I must decline."

Arthur stays still as if entranced, and they stay there, holding hands, Merlin not daring to move closer, nor to pull away.

“You can say it,” Arthur says at last.

“Say-?”

He hesitates. He could ask about Merlins magic, but he can see that it's not the time. Not yet.

“Say you told me so. I shouldn't have blamed you. It was my fault, today.”

His father had yelled at him. He could never even be angry for it, because he was right.

“It was no one's fault."

"Why did you get in front of me? You didnt even have a weapon, you could- that was so stupid," Arthur hisses, voice quivering.

“You know how I feel about you,” he’s acutely aware of the heat between their hands. “I respect you.”

“If you had any respect you would call me by my title, and follow simple directions.” it's not true. He's met many a man who would grovel before him and slit his throat the moment he turned his back. Merlin would do neither, God knows why, God knows he hasn't earned it. He has every reason to quit, and to go as far from Arthur as he can get.

"If I don't?”

“I’ll… stocks, for you.” Arthur brushes deliberately against Merlin's wrist, careful not to press the injured area again. It's an empty threat. He hasn't been put in the stocks for probably a year, now.

Arthur removes his hand from Merlin's grip, and walks slowly to the door, dragging his feet, as he doesn't want to return to his bed just yet.

“Plums,” Arthur calls awkwardly, pausing in the doorway. “Don't forget.”

"Plums,” Merlin agrees, and Arthur closes the door behind him.

He's supposed to protect these people. He has let Merlin down in a million small ways, and now he must make it up the same way. Starting with breakfast.

________________________

Merlin brings his plums, in the morning, and Arthur tells him he won't eat them. Merlin seems irritated at that, until Arthur tells him to sit, to eat with him instead of serving him. It's finer than Galahad's oats and water. He supposes he could get used to doing this everyday, Arthur passing bread over from his plate to supplement the plums. Merlin practically inhales the food, and it concerns Arthur, that he hasn't been eating properly, and that his complaints about a lack of money or food or time are greater than Arthur had realized. Well, he knows now, and he can help.

Merlin reaches for another plum and winces as his wrist hits the table. Arthur remembers the previous night, when he wouldn't let him look at it.

"Let me see your wrist," says Arthur, placing a piece of cheese on Merlin's plate.

"No," he says. "Er, I'm not supposed to unwrap it. Gaius' orders." He yawns.

He stands and begins gathering the dishes, and he looks pitiful, trying to balance the tray with his wrist in pain.

"Don't do that," says Arthur.

"Aren't you finished?"

"I'll get someone else to do it. Your only duty for today is to go rest." Arthur pauses, because he does want Merlin back here at some point to ensure he has dinner. "And to bring plums with you at dinnertime. I trust they will be the right type, this time."

Setting the dishes back on the table, he leans down close to Arthur.

"Can I?" Arthur nods, and Merlin pulls him into a hug, Arthur's head resting against Merlin's stomach. Arthur doesn't push him away, but heaves a sigh and brings his arms around Merlin's middle to hug him back.

When they pull apart, Arthur gives a jerky nod and Merlin beams, before taking off to his room to sleep the day away until dinnertime.

________________________
Arthur is snooping in Merlins rooms, waiting for him to return from herb gathering so Arthur can bother him, and maybe they can play chess or wrestle or something. Hes found some interesting items in here. He ought to tell Merlin to be more careful about where he keeps his magic things, because if anyone spent more than five minutes looking through the heaps of clothes and junk in Merlins floor, they would stumble over evidence of his treason. Arthur is nosily going through Merlins clothing when his eyes catch on a familiar book, sat by the bed. That blue leather one that he had avoided as a child, containing the dullest parts of Camelot's history, relations, and systems. He flips it open.

"Oh, I've been reading that one," says a voice behind him. He turns, and Merlin smiles. "I figured since I live here now I'd better get acquainted with the way this place works. It's pretty interesting, I'm nearly done with the section on our rivers. Did you know that when they send the grain down the Caerleon river they have to use special boats to--"

"Of course I know, I'm the prince," he lies, snapping the book shut. That information is just so incredibly useless, he doesn't know how Merlin can stomach it. "Want to play chess?"

"I've got chores for Gaius around here."

"I'll stay and keep you company."

"You'll be bored," he warns. "It's the leech tank."

"I won't."

He spends a bit of time watching Merlin go about his daily tasks, and he helps out here and there as they chat. It's nice. Not boring at all.

---

After that first day, he tries to make it a habit to be easier on Merlin. He stops throwing chalices at him, and starts carrying an extra canteen, as Merlin often seems hot and tired as they go about their days. Arthur helps with the grain bags, on occasion, putting his knees into the work, and they have breakfast together every morning, sitting across the table and brushing fingers as they eat from the platter.
---
Sir Dinadan is talking to Gwen. He's got that red, sweaty face that Abelard got when he was screaming at Merlin. The moment Arthur turns the corner, that look goes away, replaced by the pacified smile Arthur is used to recieving. He frowns, and waits for Dinadan to leave, then turns to Gwen.

"Are you alright?"

"Oh, yes, he's usually like that. Nothing new."

"I'll see him reprimanded during training."

"Don't worry about it, Sire," she says. "We handle it ourselves."

"We?"

"Usually myself and Merlin, but Sofia from time to time. He doesn't usually do much more than yell, and Merlin did something that caused him to stop raising a hand to anyone, though he won't tell me what."

"Raise a hand! We don't allow that here," he says, horrified. Had all of them been experiencing this, thinking he approved?

"That doesn't mean it doesn't happen. When a servants word holds no value, it's essentially allowed."

"Most knights aren't doing it," he says, defensive at the accusation in her voice, and uncomfortable with the guilt.

"Only takes one or two."

"Not anymore."

"Please don't be a hero over this."

"But--"

"If you get involved, there will only be backlash for us," she says quietly. He nods reluctantly.

Sir Dinadan. He can't believe he ever thought those stories were true, about that Golden knight, when the one telling them is going around harassing servants. Arthur considers going to his father, but thinks better of it. Instead, he goes to Morgana.

When he gets to her room, he is suprised to see Merlin also there, the two of them talking about whatever it is they talk about. He wouldn’t want to intrude, so he goes to the training field.

Arthur goes to the training field and gives Sir Dinadan a good thrashing, not holding back as they practice with swords, and then, finding him lacking, he tells him to run laps until Arthur says stop. He will find a more permanent solution later, one that ensures this behavior stops but that does not alert his father to the situation, as he would likely take a knights word over a servants.

Arthur ponders as he practices with the rest of the knights. His sword clashes with theirs, steel on steel, but his mind is elsewhere.

What does it mean to be a good leader, he asks himself again, that question he has never found a simple answer to after all these years. His father has likely forgotten he ever asked, by now. He has inadvertently allowed his servants to be mishandled, thinking naively that people would speak to them privately the way they presented themselves in front of the prince. Arthur wants to believe in justice as a reality, to believe in the glory of Camelot and all it's principles, but the keepers of justice are failing to uphold it. Who can he trust? Who among his men follows the principles of bravery and goodness that are essential to knighthood?

Arthur sighs, eyes wandering the training field. He spots Merlin at the edge of the field, lugging a bucket of water. It looks heavy, dragging in the dust as he goes.

------------

It's before dawn. Arthur is practicing a speech to the knights to boost their morale before training, explaining how crucial it is that they understand their weapons. Merlin, his sole audience, has interrupted at least seven times with yawns.

"The sword is a symbol of our strides--" Merlin interrupts again with a yawn-- "toward the future, the only thing protecting the kingdom from danger by striking down our enemies, anyone who might wish Camelot harm."

"--And you can use it to cut bread in a pinch."

"What?"

"It's a lovely sword, but someone with a heavy enough shovel could accomplish the same purpose of killing. Maybe you ought to revise that part of the speech."

"That's not the same; you don't train for years with a shovel," he says, offended. He hasn't trained day and night his whole life only for Merlin to call it the same as hitting someone with a shovel.

Merlin shrugs, and seems to ponder. "They're all just tools, aren't they, in the end. All metal and wood, just different shapes. Maybe there is no weapons, really, only tools."

"Maybe we shouldn't let you speak before the sun is in the sky. You sound delirious. Now go fetch some water."

Merlin brings back the pail of water and sets it out, and soon the knights begin to arrive. They train for several hours. Merlin watches, giving them cups of water and fetching shields and armor. He does so with an air of distance and respect that he never affords Arthur. Arthur supposes it makes sense, he doesn't know these new knights. His mind drifts to that Lancelot who Merlin had once brought, and he feels a twinge of regret.

One minute of free combat against Arthur, that's the requirement to qualify for basic knights training, and Lancelot had passed that test. It's not right, is it?

"Do you think commoners ought to be allowed to become knights?" He asks Merlin after training, when the knights have left.

"Yes," says Merlin immediately, likely thinking of the same event as Arthur. "I know a few commoners who are plenty willing and able. Perhaps even I could do it," he says, smiling that odd smile he gets, like he's got a little secret to himself.

"You? Last a full minute in free combat against me?"

"You don't think I could surprise you?" He lifts an arm to show his nonexistent muscles. "...You may be right."

Arthur continues hitting his shield, remembering how Merlin had managed to get one over on him in the marketplace when they'd met, and he imagines Merlin as a knight, wearing armor. It's a ridiculous image, even in his imagination the armor is overlarge and clunky.

"Let's give it a go," he says, tossing Merlin a sword before he can protest, and raising his own. Merlins eyes widen comically, and Arthur grins, ready to win instantly and tease him about it for days.

"D’you think Lancelot and Gwen were fucking?"

"What?!" That is not a question he expected.

"I dunno it seemed like maybe they had something there, but then I thought Gwen and Morgana might be…y'know, I don't know."

"Why are you wondering?" He had heard that Merlin was in love with Gwen, but that was from Morgana, who isn't reliable as she may also be in love with-- hold on, what is he saying? when did this castle become such a gossip mill, and --and then another interpretation occurs to him, "Are you in love with Lancelot?"

He doesn't mean it to come out so scandalized. He clears his throat, trying to cover for it, trying to feel bad for allowing Lancelot to leave if Merlins heart was truly taken by him.

"No! Why, were you?"

"Absolutely not!"

While he's reeling at this bizarre conversation, Merlin knocks his sword from his hand, and before Arthur can reach to grab it, he is being restrained, held around the arms and back in something not unlike a hug. His hands are pinned such that he struggles to free himself, and after a moment, stops trying, simply waiting to be released. His arms are wiry but strong, and Arthur's never really been held like this, like he's being taken apart without a single blow struck. He relaxes into the hold, warm and surprisingly firm, and--

"I was only wondering because she's been so morose since he left. I only wish there were something to be done for it all. He should have gotten credit for what he'd done."

Arthur can hardly pay attention to the conversation, too distracted by arms around him, something that he's not sure has happened since… he's not sure when. Something awakes deep within him that he did not know was alive, some long forgotten feeling of yearning. He remembers that he needs to answer.

"People don't always get the recognition for what they've done."

He finds himself mesmerized by something in the way Merlin is looking at him, the soft expectancy of his features, like he's waiting for something, knows something Arthur does not, though Arthur has no idea what it could be.

"It's been one minute," Merlin says quietly. "I'm not on the ground."

"I… no, you're not."

"Suppose that means I've made basic training to be a knight!" He hands back the sword. "I decline your offer, Sire. I'm a healer, at heart," he says, and winks.

Courage, fortitude, discipline. These are the things he requires in all his knights.

He looks at Merlin, who has gone to heft the water containers into place once again, and he knows.

Chapter Text

Merlin is preparing to give Arthur a bath. In his typical way, Merlins hands dance around the edges of Arthur, as if he were soaping a silhouette. Arthur sits still in the bath as he hovers, like he's waiting for something. Always so hesitant to reach forward and just touch him. It's like a twisted game, for surely Merlin knows Arthur's feelings, he seems to know everything. Yet he doesn't touch anymore. Arthur doesn't know what's gone wrong. He wouldn't force him, he could do it himself, or get someone else, but… is he so repellant? He had thought the two of them were friends.

"Why do you always do that?" Arthur asks, courage welling up in him at once.

"What?"

Rather than not wanting to touch, he sits there like he's waiting for something. Eventually, Arthur realizes he is waiting for permission.

"You always ask, or wait for permission, before you… You never ask before you do anything else. You do whatever you want and don't give a damn what I say about it, so why this? If you hate it that much there's no need to humor me. I thought we were past that."

"Arthur, I’m not going to just start touching you without permission," Merlin says.

“Why not?”

“You'd sack me for thinking about it."

It's a ridiculous reason. “Like you’ve ever cared about that.”

“I care about this,” he says, leaning closer, hands still hovering just moments from Arthur's skin, the steam from the water wafting up like his soul itself is escaping, reaching for Merlin. “You.”

Arthur swallows and his throat feels incredibly dry.

"You are so confusing," says Arthur. "I never know what you want from me, when you do that."

Arthur must be reading this right, as momentary permission. He takes a chance, moving just so to bridge the gap between them, his skin against Merlins palm.

“Just," Arthur takes Merlin's hand and guides up to rest against his wet cheek, simulating a caress, and his eyes flutter shut as he presses a kiss to Merlin's hand, the rough callouses and the lavender soap smell. “For a moment. I won’t ask you any more than that."

When he opens his eyes Merlin is staring, wide eyed, and his stomach drops. Pathetic, he thinks. He's made a mistake, and he's let his feelings ruin him all over again. Arthur shoves Merlin's hand away as if burned, and attempts to school his features into something less damning. He's got to fix this. He backtracks.

“I apologize, that was a one time lapse in propriety-”

“How long?” Merlin interrupts.

Arthur looks down, unable to continue bearing his gaze.

“Since always,” he mumbles.

“Always, always? Since we met?” his head whirls. "When I humiliated-"

“Yes, since that day you humiliated me in front of my friends in the marketplace,” he snaps.

"You were so mean, though!"

"I was trying to impress you. It doesn't- forget I mentioned it.”

“Absolutely not.” The stool squeaks against the floor as Merlin stands. "If I knew before, I'd have been touching you all the time."

He steps around and climbs into the tub, gingerly positioning himself across Arthurs chest, and they're face to face.

“Your clothes are getting wet,” Arthur says, not sure what the hell is going on. Merlin wobbles and he puts a hand in his hip to steady him.

Merlin brings his hand back to Arthurs cheek where it rested moments before, and brings the other hand to thumb across his lips and caress his eyelids.

“If you wanted this, all you had to do was ask,” Merlin breathes. "Ask me."

It seems too good to be real.

“Let's kiss,” Arthur blurts awkwardly, and then just sits there, not sure what to do next, lest he do it all wrong.

Merlin leans forward and presses their lips together softly, encouraging Arthur's lips to open and their tongues to move together. When Merlin pulls away, Arthurs mouth chases him, awestruck.

Merlin licks his lips, “I'd like to suck your cock, or... make love, or something. Thoroughly. In the bed, not here- because of ," he waves a hand "logistics.

“‘Make love?’” Arthur scoffs even as a smile fights its way onto his face, “You make it sound so tacky.”

“I am tacky,” Merlin says, grinning. “Unless you’re not ready for-”

“I am, dolt. Don't patronize me.”

“I would never, love," Merlin says, each word punctuated by a kiss to Arthurs neck. Arthur likes the sound of that. Love. "I just don't want you to think I'm doing this for sex, or..."

"You wouldn't," Arthur says quietly, as if telling it to himself. "I trust you."

He's not sure he's ever said that before, to anyone. Perhaps that's what he's been hungry for all this time.

Arthurs hands find the edge of Merlin's shirt and tug at it. Merlin tenses.

“I’d better keep this on,” he says casually, prying Arthurs hands off and placing them on his hips again.

“Why?”

“It’s-- I wish I could tell you.”

“You can tell me anything,” Arthur says.

"You won't like what you see."

"I'll be the judge of that."

“Alright,” he relents. “Just, don’t... “

Merlin tugs his shirt over his head and lays it beside the tub. The spatter of the sopping fabric hitting the floor echoes around the room.

Arthur takes it in and understands a lot of things all at once.

He's covered in scars, and had Arthur been eighteen he might have recoiled in disgust and laughed and thrown pebbles, and had he been ten he would have praised Merlin for bringing glory to their lands, had he been twenty he would have narrowed his eyes in suspicion, wondering what a man with so many scars might have been doing to earn them. Today Arthur is twenty eight, and he presses his fingers to a warriors sides, and all he can feel is hurt, caught between the weight of it matters, it must have hurt and you must have been so brave but it must have hurt you terribly and how could you do it alone, and it doesn't matter one bit, not to me, because he can see it in his eyes, that it matters to him in ugly, despicable ways, and not at all the ways that are true, or just, or good. And Arthurs mind goes back to so many moments that he might have been a bit less of a fool, too self obsessed and ignorant to notice.

He remembers throwing a rock at that old man and the way it hit his head, the way he turned and his eyes were wet, and he remembers you don't want to look at that, punctuated with a little laugh like it was only a joke--

God, what a wretch he's been.

Later he will wallow in it, think of all he has been and where to go from here, but he can see that in this moment he should not grovel for forgiveness or dwell in the man he has been in the past. Merlins eyes house a deep seated vulnerability, searching for the slightest doubt or disgust, and he refuses to give it. A leader must live in confidence, a leader must never show vulnerability, a leader must never trust anyone. But here is Merlin, wet eyes filled with an obvious terror, and his thin frame, his mind, body and spirit scarred.

“You’re hurting me,” Merlin says and Arthur loosens his grip but doesn’t remove his hands.

“Who did this to-”

“We can discuss it later,” he interrupts. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” Arthur says fiercely. “God, no, but- I’ve never seen- you never told me about any of this." He thumbs over a recent one, still pink from healing. "Fuck, Merlin, did you work while these healed? You never-” he rasps. “Did you think I wouldn’t care?”

Merlins hesitation breaks something inside him.

They've all changed over the years, and he thought Merlin knew that. Perhaps Merlin, too, had closed off to survive

“There’s a lot of things I can’t tell you yet,” he says carefully. “You have to trust me.”

“No, you have to trust me. I'm such an idiot, I knew something was going on but this… whatever it is, I’ll help you. Are these chain marks? And these are from an animal," he trails over the ones on Merlin's arms, horrified.

“I can’t tell you yet."

He nearly opens his mouth, ready to say why not, and I demand that you tell me immediately, ready to take on whatever man or beast has done this. But he holds his tongue. He holds his breath. He holds Merlin’s hips gently in his hands and he takes a moment to contemplate what Merlin is really saying, with his wide, pleading eyes. He looks frightened. Yet, he had said, not never. He simply isn't ready.

He thinks about all the times he suspected something was going on, but decided not to ask. All those times Merlin came in with a black eye that he had brushed aside as a fight at the tavern, all those days he has come in late looking miserable, and Arthur had… had thrown things at him, or taken out his own dresses by raging at Merlin, and all this time he had been protecting him from God knows what.

“It’s for me, isn’t it? Whatever it is, it was for me.”

Merlin hesitates, and nods, and Arthur exhales a trembling breath.

Trust. His fathers words echo in his head, and they fall heavy as stones. He doesn’t have to do anything, he doesnt have to trust anyone. But he does. He does trust him, and he wants to get close and touch each other all over, inside and out. Maybe that’s what it means to be a leader, or to be a person. He wants to know him, scars and all, he wants all of it.

He sits in the bath like a baptism, in the center of Camelot. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, thumping heavily. He lies there, stripped bare, and he trusts.

"I've ruined the mood, haven't I? " he says lightly, and Arthur sees the walls begin to go back up. He won't let that happen. “Are we...done here?”

"Only if you're tired. This changes nothing. You must not understand, I want you."

"You don't have to," Merlin says, voice cracking with Arthur's heart. "I know it's bad." Arthur hums in disapproval.

Something tells him that he should approach this tactically, speak like it’s no big deal, and make him feel comfortable about it. Because it doesn't matter in the slightest, at least, not in the way Merlin seems to believe. He’s beginning to think there’s nothing that could change the way he feels. It's a dangerous thought, but perhaps the real danger is denying it when it is patently obvious.

"As usual, you're wrong and I'm right. Do you know how many wet dreams I've had about you this week alone?"

"That was before you saw the-"

"Seriously, one would think you've never looked in a mirror," Arthur plows on as if Merlin hadn't spoken. "Take off your damned trousers and come here."

Merlin stands, tugging down his trousers and smallclothes, and Arthur pulls him into another sloppy kiss. Arthur runs his hands up Merlin's sides, over the ridged scars on Merlin's ribs.

"You'll tell me the truth, eventually?" Merlin nods. Arthur breathes in sharply. "Then let's go to bed," he says, the end turning up like a question.

They race to the bed, soaking the floor with bathwater along the way. Merlin lingers back and magics a container of oil when he thinks Arthur isn't looking, and finally, they tumble to bed.

Merlin sits leaning against the headboard as Arthur positions himself awkwardly between his thighs and looks at Merlin's body hungrily. Merlin shifts, uncomfortable.

"I'll close my eyes if it makes you feel better," says Arthur. "For the record, I really don't mind. Plenty of people have scars, it only means you fought for something and won."

"You don't even know what I did."

"I don't have to." Arthur wraps a hand around him and ghosts hot breath over the tip. He looks up and narrows his eyes, the face he makes when he's bracing himself to argue. "And I don't care what you say, you're objectively gorgeous. It's a widely discussed topic in this rumor mill we call a castle, so don't bother fighting me on this."

You don't have to close your eyes," he decides. "You can look."

Arthur smiles.

Arthur does look. Merlin encourages him, endearments falling easily from his lips as they go.

It's heavenly. This love has saved his life. This trust has built his kingdom. He can imagine no life without it. He's never done this before, not with anyone. He has never felt this much, his body and heart laid bare in front of another person, all of his most shameful hidden feelings, and he's not afraid.

Finally, Merlin says, strangled, that he's about to come, and there is a flash of light around the room as every one of the candles flares to life at once.

Arthur wipes come off his chin and flops down beside Merlin. No, he didn't see that, just like he doesn't see anything Merlin isn't ready for him to see. They have time. Now all he wants is a cuddle and a lie down with Merlin.

Merlin doesn't seem to understand this, however.

"I can explain," Merlin stutters, "That was-"

"Don't." He holds up a hand. "You said you would tell me eventually; I'll hear it when it's time."

Merlin laughs manically, running a hand through his hair, and Arthur can't resist reaching out and placing a hand on his chest to calm him. He can't believe how easy it is now, to just touch. How far they've come.

"I need you," says Arthur quietly. They don't talk about it, just like the many other things they don't talk about. Maybe they don't need to talk about it now.

"No one polishes armour like me, eh?"

"More like no one else could do it as poorly without losing their job."

Merlin laughs and rolls over onto Arthur to mouth at his neck, and hold his hand. "Tomorrow, let's do this again."

"Yes, my liege," Merlin says seriously, and Arthur smacks him on the arm.

"Don't call me that," he mutters. "Put out the candles." Merlin moves to get up and Arthur holds him in place. "Merlin. Put them out."

He needs him to understand. He knows. There is nothing to fear.

Merlin waves a hand, and the room is dark. Arthur hums in approval and snuffles against Merlin's neck, obsessed with the idea that he can touch now, all over and for as long as he likes.

After some time, Merlin begins to cry. Arthur brushes his hair back from his face and shushes him. "I love you," he says.

"Sorry," says Merlin.

"What's the matter?"

"I used to lie awake and dream about this, it's all just overwhelming, I suppose."

Arthur suppresses the urge to make fun of him for dreaming about Arthur, because the thought of it makes him feel like a blushing girl, himself.

"Do you need some… some space?" he tries, dreading that the answer might be yes.

"No." He's quiet for a long moment. "I'm just thinking. What use am I to you, or to Camelot in this state? I'm a mess."

"Don't speak about my servant that way! You're a genius, for one. And powerful. And gorgeous. Look at you, turning me into some kind of sap. I want to call you a dunce and I can't even do it. You've enchanted me."

"You're ridiculous," he says, but he's smiling. His smile dims. "I have so many secrets from you. I don't want to. I want us to share everything."

Arthur waits for him to do what he always does in these moments, say something terribly wise and mysterious, but which leaves Arthur thinking for months after. He waits for Merlin to tell him something, anything that he can grab onto. But Merlin says nothing, only takes him into his arms and holds him there.

Arthur clings on for dear life.

______________________

There is a drought. These things happen, but of course his father thinks it is magic. They ration water, and from the terse conversations his father has been having, it is evident that the dry rivers have created tension with Caerleon.

His father brings him in to discuss how to proceed.

"We should meet with them, attempt to keep peace," says Arthur. "It's tenuous as it is, the drought will only worsen our relations."

Uther hums. "This drought could be a good thing," he says. Arthur blinks, confused.

"People are dying of thirst," he says.

"Sacrifices must be made. If Caerleon cannot receive goods from Camelot, we hold the advantage. We have more men and stores than them, so we could provoke them, make them attack first and use up all their supplies, then send in our men."

"You mean you want to intentionally sabotage the peace meetings."

"Precisely."

"We promised a treaty," he argues. "Our citizens will suffer, how will we get enough grain imports?" He knows little about the trade rivers but he knows that they cannot grow enough to feed everyone in Camelot on their own, the area is simply too populated.

"When we own the river space, we will begin moving in on the rest of the kingdom. Without the river they will be even weaker and we can take any land we need for agriculture," Uther dismisses.

Arthur cannot believe this. His father has had some callous ideas before, but Arthur has always seen reason in them, following the principle that a few must be sacrificed for the many. This, though, is beyond that. It does not seem to be for the good of the people, neither Caerleons nor Camelots.

"What good does this serve?" He asks, trying to comprehend how such a plan could be benevolent somehow, like there is a click in logic that will make Arthur understand.

"It will bring land and glory to Camelot," says his father.

Arthur nods, feeling slow, like he is removed from himself, this situation. He looks at his father and he sees him as he is, for the first time. In all the years he's seen his father order people killed, people Arthur knows, people who are innocent, in all the years of sending Arthur out to do impossible tasks and then berating him when he cannot complete them… his father has never sacrificed anything of his own. It's always been someone else taking the burden.

Uther looks at him with hard eyes. He's seen his father's face change over the years, warping with age and the weight of all he's had to do for what he believes is right. He thinks he looks less like his father each day.

"The meeting is in two days. I trust you will be ready."

Uther dismisses him, and he goes down the halls, toward the door of the only person he can trust with this decision.

When he arrives outside the physicians chambers, he hears quiet, urgent voices inside. Gaius and Merlin, whisper-arguing. He stops to listen. Perhaps he is not the only one disagreeing with his father today.

“You don't have to do it alone,” says Gaius. "In fact, I forbid it. It is too dangerous, the spell isn't stable, and it is very difficult even for an advanced sorcerer."

“I know the river routes. I remember every branch of the river like the back of my hand. I think it’s something to do with my magic, it can feel where the water is trapped underground. I'm the only one who can bring it back and end the drought. Camelot is my home. Same as you."

There is a sound of footsteps, and Arthur leaves his place by the door, sensing that it is not the time to interrupt. His mind swirls. He cannot allow this, any of it, can't lose Merlin and can't let his father sabotage the treaty.

Arthur goes to the balcony to think.

Caerleon is demanding too much. To bend to another kingdoms will supposes weakness, but to attack will induce all-out war, continuing the struggle that's been going on since before Arthur was born.

How can Uther claim to love Camelot and subject its citizens to such things for the sake of more land? Uther has always said it was about protection, glory, reputation, but Arthur is learning that the majority of people only wish for safety to live and work, to have their loved ones near. They have no wish for glory.

He cannot try to be his father, his father is no king nor noble knight, creating war intentionally in a time of drought. And so his father, who refuses to sacrifice anything of his own, will lose the one thing he cherishes: control over Arthur.

A servant is risking his own life to bring back the water, alone and with no glory to gain from it. That is the compass Arthur must use, if he is to be not only a great man, but a good one.

Perhaps protecting a kingdom is about farming, and water resources, and servant wages and tax laws and grain replenishment and maintenance of the castle walls, knitting and churning butter and trade routes and neighborly squabbles and how much business the tavern is getting.

And he understands, in that moment, all of it. That woman who threw herself into the fire, the old scarred man's grieved face, the soft way Sir Bedeviere looked out over the hills and slopes of Camelot. He understands what it means, after all this time.

Arthur stands at the balcony for a long while, looking out over the hills. It's quiet out, tonight. He can see it all from here, and when he holds his hands just right, its like all of Camelot is held there in them.

He wonders for a moment, how to hold it all. He wonders if it might slip between his fingers.

____________

Arthur isn't sure how to bring it up with Merlin. He had made it clear he wasn't ready to talk about his magic, and Arthur doesn't want to rush him, but he can't exactly let Merlin go and risk his life alone again now that he knows that's what he's planning.

He's in his room trying to figure out what to say, but it proves unnecessary. Merlin brings it up the moment he comes in.

Arthur listens to the tale, from the moment Merlin came to Camelot to his most recent plan.

"Why can't I come with you to bring back the water, then?" Arthur asks.

"You'll be in the meeting. The moon has to be at the perfect point for the spell to work, and we can't put off the peace talks or they might not happen at all. I know you're not happy about it, but I thought I should tell you, because I wanted to be honest with you."

"It would be safer if you waited for--"

He doesn't finish his sentence, cut off but the dangerous look in Merlins eye. He sighs. Merlin has never done what he says, no matter how reasonable it is.

"I only wish I could protect you properly. I always seem to muck it up, you've apparently been getting into trouble all this time."

"I don't need you to protect me," he says, and Arthur's chest clenches. "Just support me here, okay?"

“Can you ever forgive me?” he asks quietly. "I've treated you terribly so much if the time, and you've been…" the best friend he's ever had. The only person in this kingdom he can trust. The one who has been his silent guardian as long as they've known each other. "A good servant."

"I would do anything you command."

“I’m not commanding. I’m asking.”

"Then yes. Of course."

"I suppose I should say something that should have been said long ago." He gets to his knees, and looks at Merlin in the eyes, making sure he's listening. "Thank you."

"I'd never have done it any other way."

"You'll do your part with the water, then, while I'm at the peace talks. Come back and wait for me after the treaty meeting." He senses that Merlin is about to argue, and he continues. "Neither of us are doing it alone anymore, are we?" He asks softly, searching. Merlins face softens.

"Clotpole. You've always got me."

Arthur is gathered into his arms, and he feels like a ravenous creature sated at last, his heart a roaring dragon tamed, brought to his knees at last. In that way, Merlin is more powerful than anyone he has known.

____________

He goes to the servants quarters in the castle. There are things he must do before the meeting to prepare, and he has little time. When he arrives, the women are there in a large clump, sewing what appears to be blankets.

“I must speak with you all.”

“...All of us?” asks Gwen.

“Yes.”

Gwen looks around at them, and back at Arthur. “If I may, Sire… We're helping Mary make blankets, she’s got to meet her quota before the months end.”

“Ah. I will return later. When will you be done?”

“Er, well, we will likely be here all night, especially as we still need to clean dishes and clothing,” she says apologetically. “But perhaps if… Er. Nevermind.”

“Please, tell me.”

“No, it was inappropriate to even think it.”

“It is important to me.”

“I was going to suggest that… you might get more information from all of them if you were to, perhaps… sit with us and help,” she says. “They all talk more when they’re comfortable, you know, when it’s just the working women here to gossip.”

He supposes it couldn’t hurt. He doesn’t know how to weave or sew, but he’s certain he’ll get the hang of it quickly enough. “Alright.”

He puts the needle through the yard, and under. Easy. He sits back, triumphant.

“Good,” says one of the older women, “now do that again, and you’ll have your first row.”

His heart sinks. He looks around. “How many blankets are we making, again?”

“Two hundred,” says another woman.

He looks down at his half finished row of stitches. This is going to take all night.

They gossip as they work, and he sits and listens as he goes.

“He is sooo handsome,” says Euphemia, a younger woman who is terribly interested in all the young men and women of the castle, and has gone on about it for some time. Currently, she is on about Arturs very own manservant. “We all know that. But what really makes him special is his bravery! Oh, he’s so noble, we all adore him! And last week he saved me from--”

“Euphemia,” says Gregoria sharply, motioning to Arthur. They exchange several vague hand signals, having a silent conversation that he cannot begin to interpret.

Arthur doesn’t like how much goes on in this castle without his knowledge.

“Go on, I’d like to hear it,” he prompts, for what seems like the millionth time today. “Pretend I’m not even here. You will not be punished for anything said here.”

“Merlin helped me. Er. There are a group of knights, that are… vicious to their underlings and roam in their pack--”

“And who's breath smell like dogs.”

“We all know about them. They bully servants, usually only a slap if they’re displeased, and I had heard rumors of them preying on girls in the castle, and last year they were whistling and calling, following behind me, and… and one of them hit me,” her voice goes quieter, “And then Merlin came along and er, helped.”

She cuts herself off abruptly, likely to avoid incriminating herself or Merlin. Arthur thinks he recalls the time she is speaking of, as it was around that time one of his knights had come in with horrible, unexplained burns, and refused to speak a word of what had happened. He suspects he knows why she has given no detail to what exactly Merlin did to ‘help.’

He quieted the wolves howling with only a mean glance, he thinks.

He also recalls Merlin telling him he had a bad feeling about that knight, which he now realizes was probably Merlins attempt to tell him what was going on without saying it outright, knowing an accusation of a knight would only land him in the stocks. And Arthur had brushed him off. He wonders how many of Merlins ‘bad feelings’ had been much more.

"Sir Dinadan?" he asks, on a hunch. She nods.

"One of them, yes. Since then, we haven't been bothered by those men. But there are others. No one person can stop it all."

“Why wouldn't you tell someone?” asks Arthur.

“There is a chance that they would be brought to justice,” she admits. “But, greater still is the chance that no proof would be found, that our honor would be besmirched because everyone would think we had lied, and that they would have the opportunity to retaliate against us. We might lose our jobs, if it causes too much fuss, and… as you know, we can't simply leave these jobs and get new ones, it's not all that easy. I would rather survive and go on than risk such losses. What choice do we have?"

Arthur remembers those words, there is always a choice. But he is beginning to see that there may never be a choice. That others know that, too, and take advantage of it for their own gain, and that he himself has participated in this, ignorant perhaps, but complicit nonetheless. He's thrown chalices at Merlins head, he's not listened when he asked for a break or a raise, he's been purposefully blind to his concerns.

“I am here to listen. So, tell me honestly-- what else is a problem for you here? What would you like to see changed?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure the head servant has been underpaying me."

"My neighbor is terribly annoying and I think she's been stealing my cabbages."

“I find the positioning of the large trade road confusing. It seems to me it should be on the East side of the kingdom, since our imports come from there.”

“You’re only saying that because your house is to the West, you old hag,” laughs Edith. "I think we're all worried about the same thing-- what will happen with Caerleon, Sire?"

They look to him expectantly.

"I am going to push the treaty. However, that is another part of why I joined you all." The Caerleon representatives have arrived with their servants, and he knows how gossip flows around here. They've probably chatted with the Caerleon servants, probably been in the room as the representatives discussed matters, they may know merchants and traders who have traveled the river and sold wares and engaged in Caerleons customs. "What advice would you give that might lead us to peace?"

"Apparently, King Caerleon thinks it's rude when King Uther won't bow to him. So step one, don't be rude!"

As the night goes on, they tell stories and give him information on both his own kingdom and Caerleon, and with the help and guidance of the servants, he weaves a blanket, threads pressed close together in tandem, separate but forming together into a larger whole. He looks at his creation, content.

They take a break from the blankets to clean some clothing and dishes, and amidst the sounds of clattering, laughter, and splashing, he hears the peace in this moment. Eyes crinkled in laughter and casual conversation, the opposite of war. And it is glorious, and it occurs to him then, that this is the glory people fight for. People wage wars for the right to wash dishes, to laugh. He could laugh with how simple the answer is, the things he's spent his time avoiding so that he had more time to train with the sword.

By the time he goes, he is friends with each and every one of them. He is bone tired, and curses himself for all the times he complained that his garments or meals or baths were taking too long. There’s far more that goes into it than he had thought of. He simply hadn’t thought to look for it, to listen to what went on behind what he was shown.

"How did you like doing the laundry, Sire?" Asks Gwen afterward. "The ladies all liked having you there."

He liked them too. Edith is as funny as Merlin. Euphemia is sarcastic, subtle, like Morgana. Georgia is stern, but has a softer side in her own way, stuttering and soft like Gwen.

"I liked them. I'm surprised to see such personality in this castle, here I thought you and Merlin were the exception to a boring lot."

Gwen smiles softly. "They're the same as us," she says, chiding.

"I don't mean it like that. I only mean that I don't often get to see that side of people, except with… anyway. I'd… I'd like to come again, sometime."

"I think we would all like that, Arthur."

Perhaps there are a thousand Gwen and Merlin’s out there, relying on him to make decisions in their best interests. And tomorrow, he must advocate for them. He owes them that much. He cannot allow the meeting to go poorly, no matter what his father says during or afterward. He's going to find a way to stop the war, and find some way that Merlin won't need to bring back the water, and… and he has one night left to do it.

Merlin is waiting on him when he returns to his chambers, and they have dinner. When Merlin leaves him for the night, Arthur goes to the library. He finds an old, blue leather book, and he opens it.

He begins to read.

_______________

He attends the meeting, sitting at the head of the table and gazing down at the row of delegates and council. Guards stand behind them, and they watch warily. King Caerleon himself has come with the delegates."

"Prince Arthur. I am surprised to see you here instead of your father, in such an important meeting."

It is meant as an insult to his father, but he is not here to inflame old wounds. "He believed it would be a good opportunity for me to prove my capabilities in negotiation."

"We shall see," says King Caerleon.

King Caerleon bows, and Arthur bows back.

"Welcome, all. I hope that today will mark a new beginning for our kingdoms. I propose…" He clears his throat. "A new trade route system, expanding the peaceful zone along the river so that our kingdoms may rely on each others exports even in times of crisis. And I would like to call a permanent end to the wars between us."

He looks to King Caerleon, and to the story faces of the others at the table.

"We all want the same thing-- peace. Let us devote today to resolution."

The entire table is silent. For a moment, Arthur thinks he's said something wrong.

King Caerleon leans forward and steeples his hands on the table.

"Camelot doesn't do anything by halves, does it?" He says seriously. "Alright then. Let us hear your plan."

______________________

As he walks out of the meeting hours later, his hands are drenched in sweat. He spots Merlin talking to one of the servants from Caerleon, the two nervously whispering.

Merlin sees him and jumps to his feet.

"Well?"

"Hold on-- you first."

"I'm alive, aren't I? River's back. It likes me, the water came without much fuss. Now tell me, how did it go?"

"They changed about a thousand things in the proposal, and I have scheduled a months worth of further discussion, but… there is peace in Camelot!"

Merlin drags him off into the corridor and they… celebrate.

______________________

Word spreads fast, and soon all of Camelot knows.

There is one more person he must tell. "The meeting went well."

"Yes, father," he says carefully.

"We were able to come to an agreement."

"Yes, father." He stands straight, defiant. He is ready for whatever comes now.

His father closes his eyes and is quiet for several minutes, and when he opens them again, they are shining.

"You always did lead with your heart."

His stomach sinks. "I won't apologize for what I did, I--"

"Your mother was like that too. I always tried to persuade her, but once she got something in her head-l there was little I could do. I suppose you both possess some quality I do not, anymore." He pauses for a long moment. "I suppose I have failed you in that way. I could not replace what we lost. For that, I do apologize."

"Why are you speaking like a man on his deathbed?" His father never apologizes, as a principle. It is worrying to hear such a thing from his lips. He should be cursing now, yelling as he normally does, that Arthur has failed in another task.

"I know we do not always agree. But I will be gone one day, and it is important that you know, before then, that I am proud of the leader you have become."

"Th-thank you." He waits, but Uther only looks contemplative, not angry, his face never resolving into any one emotion. "You've taught me well."

"There are some things that perhaps cannot be taught." He pauses, and Arthur is prepared for a dressing down, a comprehensive list of every way he has failed to live up. His father's eyes soften. "...and yet you possess them in droves. You have something I do not, Arthur. When I go, youll be a fine leader."

His father reaches over and clasps his hand tightly.

A lump sticks in his throat. "What if I'm not?"

"You will be." And he says it with such conviction that Arthur nearly weeps. His father had lied, those years ago. He has one exception.

_________________________

Arthur and Merlin are celebrating the newfound peace in the lower town when a group of children approach.

"Would you like to try our game? It's called stick in the mud."

"Oi," Merlin says in faux offense. "Interesting title for the prince!"

"Not him," the child says. She points off to the side of the path.

Arthur turns, and there it is, his stick, his old training sword, after so many years. It's still stuck in the ground where he'd left it. Heart in his throat, he goes to it.

"Its a bit of a game,you see, we've been trying to get it out of the ground. Even Evelyn's big brother couldn't do it, and he's really smart!"

"So it's stuck deep?" asks Merlin. "You could always dig it out with a shovel."

"That's against the rules of the game. It's old wood, so it's fragile. Whoever can get it out without breaking it wins."

"Oh, a real challenge!" Arthur laughs. "We used to play a similar game in my day."

"In your day. Such an old man already," says Merlin fondly. "So, you want Prince Arthur to give it a go?"

"Yes!"

Arthur goes to the thing, and wraps his hands around it, and pulls. It does not come up immediately, but he can feel it shift in the ground just so. They're right, it's gone dry and fragile over time, and the wood creaks under his hands. He adjusts his grip, softer, more strategic, and he pulls gently. His hands move the wood patiently up from the ground, bit by bit, and it comes free.

He wields it in his hands, the old thing, remembering his days mock-fighting wars for glory and justice. His initials still grace the edge, worn and faded with age. It's still his, even after all this time.

.

.

.

.

.

Arthur as been king for two decades now. Each morning he wakes and he and Merlin have breakfast, and then meet at the round table. Then he presides over court squabbles to ensure a fair ruling. Then he will visit the lower town, if he has no more business to attend to. Merlin or his knights will fetch him and force him to take breaks for a few hours, and he will take a walk.

There is a place Arthur still likes to visit often, between council meetings, a place that has hardly changed in all it’s years. He makes his way across the courtyard, up the hill.

An older man comes up the path, waving at Arthur with one hand and carrying a bundle of sticks with the other. From here, Arthur can see the callouses on his hands that speak of hard labor, the sun kissed face from a day working in the fields. Arthur is growing older himself, eyes beginning to crinkle with crows feet. He holds his weight on railings and fences as he goes.

Finally, after his journey, Arthur finds himself on the East wall. He sits overlooking Camelot, it's birds flitting from tree to tree, the townsfolk chattering and the clopping of hooves and wagon wheels in the streets, pigs and chickens in the farms, and laughing children in the fields.

He closes his eyes, and he listens to the sounds of peace.