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Prompt: hey there! i absolutely adore your writing! i have reread them for the 3rd time since i found your fics! if you have time or any desire to do this at all i had a prompt for you! picture this! small moments in which merlin (and the knights obviously) protect arthur! they've seen him at his most vulnerable, merlin more than the others so i thought it would be so interesting and a good read (although everything you write is a good read) -bonk
“I would like,” Arthur declares as the gauntlet falls to the ground for the fifth time, “to talk to the man who invented these and why he designed them to be so bloody difficult to put on with one hand. What, does he imagine I’m supposed to detach my own hand and put it in front of me? At least some of this is made with the understanding that ‘oh, a man’s only going to have one hand when he puts this on. Surely, it would make sense, then, to design it to be easy to do with only one hand?’”
“The compromise,” says the empty tent which should be empty, this is his private tent, which should be private, which means it should be empty, “for ensuring it won’t fall off when you need to stay on.”
Arthur freezes, shame and mortification flooding his face to the tips of his ears as he hears Elyan’s voice behind him. He opens his mouth, trying in vain to come up with something to say to save face, make an excuse, blame Merlin—Merlin isn’t here, you idiot, you can’t blame him when he isn’t even here—when Elyan’s hands take the gauntlet from the ground.
“I remember having the same conversation with my dad,” Elyan says as if he didn’t just stumble into the Crown Prince pouting like a child who couldn’t put his shoes on the right feet, “when he was demonstrating how to put the armor on and he needed someone else to come and help.”
“Why didn’t he let you help,” Percival asks—great, how many people are here to witness his shame?—“if you were supposed to be learning?”
“I was a shrimp of a sprog,” Elyan says wryly, “I’m pretty sure the breastplate was the size of my torso and head and arms.”
Percival snorts as he begins to fix the sloppy buckles at Arthur’s back. Part of him wants to snap that they’re fine, to leave them be, but he had the importance of fixing one’s armor on right drilled into him when he was barely old enough to heft a practice sword. “Did that mean you couldn’t lift it off the ground?”
“Oi! I’ll have you know I was plenty strong as a boy, just ask Gwen.”
“So then what was your excuse?”
“Gwen used to hide behind them when we played hide-and-seek,” Elyan says, slipping Arthur’s wrist between the metal and leather, “I was to make sure she wasn’t hiding and distracting me while Father was teaching us.”
“Did that work?”
“Oh, enough for me to learn what I needed to when I was that old.”
Percival grins. “So not at all, then.”
“We got the basics,” Elyan defends, reaching to fix the other gauntlet, “and then we successfully got my father to start looking for us instead of demonstrating while running around with his armor half fixed on.”
Percival laughs again and Elyan laughs too, shaking his head.
“It was almost worth the lecture we got, just to see Gwen running around with a breastplate over her shoulder like a turtle and my father chasing after her.” He adjusts the last strap and moves on to making sure the fingers fit right. “After that, he made sure to bring only one piece at a time. That was when I asked about doing it with one hand.”
He looks up at Arthur as he speaks, moving the glove carefully.
“My father told me a story about a man who bragged that he could put on and take off all of his armor with one hand. He was bragging in front of a group of older knights and one of them stood up and tugged on one of the straps.”
Arthur swallows. “What happened?”
“Oh, the whole thing fell off of him, all over the floor.” Elyan chuckles. “He made sure to have someone help him every day after that.”
The mental image of an entire set of armor falling off just like that is enough for Arthur to laugh too. He feels Percival tuck one last thing into place over his shoulder and nod.
“Thank you.”
“It’s our pleasure, sire,” Elyan says as he nods and steps away, “and our duty to ensure you’re safe.”
“Best not tell anyone else about that story, then,” Arthur grins as he picks up his sword, “lest they start getting ideas.”
“Oh, I’m the blacksmith,” Elyan says. “I’m the one with all the ideas.”
“Should I be worried about giving you my armor, then?”
“You? Never, sire, but perhaps some of the other knights should.”
“These wouldn’t happen to be the knights that snuck into the quarters and stole your food, would they?”
“I’d prefer not to answer that question, sire.”
Percival laughs, a loud and booming thing. “And they think that Gwaine’s the one they need to watch out for.”
Arthur has never realized how much the stench of ale isn’t necessarily the strongest smell in the world, but it gets absolutely everywhere.
The slosh of the tankards the next table over and the clanging of the tray as the barmaids bring the old ones in and the fresh ones out, the ringing and roaring of the boots as the rowdy customers only get rowdier, and above it all, the lingering persistent stench of ale.
It doesn’t even have much to do with the tankard in front of him. The tavern owner’s daughter, a sweet young thing who spends most of her time in the kitchen and upstairs and not down on the bar floor, has made apple cider today for the festival. Arthur had gladly accepted a tankard of that instead and paid her personally for it, smiling at the sparkles in her eyes and the way she’d eagerly said he could have as much as he wanted.
Gwaine had slapped him on the shoulder and called him a charmer.
But that had been when they’d first arrived, when the night was still young enough to be called the evening and Gwaine was at his shoulder. Now he has no idea where Gwaine is, although the smart coin is on the middle of whatever raucous celebration is happening in the corner over there.
His hands itch and he flattens one to the tankard and the other to the table, trying to stop the ache. His hand sticks immediately to the table and he grimaces, peeling it off and wiping it on his tunic. His hand slides off the tankard, clammy with sweat. Why is he sweating? It’s not that warm in here and fall is in full swing. There’s a draft coming in from the door, shouldn’t he be cold, if anything?
The draft reaches its fingers down the back of his collar and he sits up more, doing his best to fight it off. There’s something sickly sweet coming from a few tables over. It looks like someone’s had too much ale and promptly brought up their stomach. He takes a sip of the cider to try and distract himself and the flavor rips across his tongue.
It’s good, but it’s almost too good. Too rich. There’s too much spice in it.
Another clang as tankards crash together and he ducks, trying to hide his head. A flash of metal in the candlelight and his head jerks up, muscles tense, but there’s nothing.
There’s nothing.
He looks back down at the table.
“Arthur,” a voice says, distant and bubbling, “Arthur, look at me.”
Arthur looks up, amidst the din and chaos of the tavern, and sees Gwaine. When did he get here?
“Arthur,” he says again, and he sounds urgent, is something wrong? “Arthur, let go of the tankard, you’ll bust it open.”
He looks down. Oh. He’s gripping the metal so tight his knuckles are turning white. He tries to let go. His hand won’t respond.
“I can’t,” he tries to say, “I can’t let go.”
His mouth doesn’t respond.
“Right,” he hears Gwaine mutter, “let’s get you home.”
Strong hands, hands stronger than he’d ever admit, pry the tankard from his fingers and leave a set of coins that thud against the inside of his head. An arm loops around his shoulders and ushers him toward the door, dodging the spray of ale and the smell it carries.
A wave of cold and they’re outside, walking up the path. It still smells like ale. Gwaine is at his shoulder. Does Gwaine smell like ale? He doesn’t know anymore, everything smells like ale.
“Sorry,” Gwaine says, bubbling distantly again, “didn’t realize. I wouldn’t have left you on your own for so long.”
“Realize what?”
“How much it was.”
“Shouldn’t be,” he manages through a cotton tongue, “shouldn’t be too much. ‘M a prince, should be fine.”
Gwaine is quiet for a moment. When he thinks he’s forgotten, he says: “it’s because you’re a prince that it’s too much.”
“What does that mean?” He would sound much more intimidating and powerful if he weren’t leaning on Gwaine to get him back to the castle.
“It means that even when there’s one of those incredibly lavish feasts or tournaments or whatever, you’re always in a bubble. Not just anyone can come up to you, you’re…you’re in a world of your own.”
He doesn’t want to be. He wants to serve the people, that makes him just as much their servant as they are his.
“And it’s great that you think that,” Gwaine says, kinder than he normally sounds for Arthur, “but that doesn’t mean you don’t need moments to adjust to it.”
“Okay.”
Gwaine nods. “Come on. Let’s get the rest of the ale off you, you might be able to rest a bit more.”
Gwaine doesn’t smell like ale.
There’s a speck on the corner of Uther’s throne. He should tell someone to clean it off.
“Let me make myself perfectly clear.”
It’s the servant’s job to notice things like this, not his. But if he’s noticed it, maybe that means they aren’t doing their jobs.
“If you interrupt me while I’m speaking again, I will have you flogged.”
No, that’s not fair, the servants have so much to do. And normally, no one can see this part of the throne because Uther is sitting in it.
“If you insist on defying me again, I will have you thrown in the dungeons.”
Maybe he can just scrub the speck away with his tunic. Won’t take more than a moment if he can get away. Then the servants won’t have to worry about it.
“Is that understood?”
“Y-yes, my lord, perfectly.”
“Good.” Uther turns to him, a thunderstorm barely contained in a mass of creaking leather. “Arthur, anything to add?”
He swallows through a dry throat and shakes his head. “No, Father, nothing.”
Uther nods and turns back to a cowed and quiet council, continuing to read off the decisions he’s made that he expects them to agree to. There’s something wrong with the buckle on his right glove. It’s not straight. It needs to be polished, too, some of the metal has started to corrode right where the leather strap goes. Every time he moves his hand, the stain is exposed. That should be polished too. Maybe he can—
“Sire,” a low and much friendlier voice murmurs, “would you mind terribly explaining this set of maps to me?”
Arthur turns, seeing Lancelot a few paces back, holding a set in his hands. He motions to a quieter spot in the room, away from the main meeting. Arthur glances at Uther, then at Lancelot. He stretches his neck out to see what Lancelot’s holding. He frowns. It’s just a set of hunting maps.
He glances at Uther and moves back, squinting at them again. “They’re of the regular hunting grounds, what do you need explained?”
“There have been reports of bandits raiding in these areas, claiming they’re out of food.” Lancelot offers the maps again. “Some of the patrol men think it would be worth investigating here.”
Arthur opens his mouth to respond when he sees Uther turn and look for him. He freezes, drawing himself up taller and folding his hands behind his back.
Uther turns and looks at him. “What are you doing?”
“My apologies, sire,” Lancelot says, swooping in front of Arthur and bowing low, “I finally procured the maps the prince requested for tracking this group of bandits and I asked him to ensure they were the correct ones. My sincere apologies for the interruption.”
Uther looks at the maps, nods, and waves his hand.
Lancelot turns, still between Arthur and the King, and holds them out again. “You were saying, sire?”
“…we should start looking here,” Arthur says, pointing to a ravine, “that’s the most defendable spot.”
“Very good, sire.”
“Thank you,” he whispers, hidden behind the folds of Lancelot’s cloak.
“Of course,” Lancelot whispers back, “any time.”
It’s so…small.
He binds the feet first, tearing off the strips of cloth and tying them carefully around the ankles. Then the knees, to ensure it will be easier to maneuver once he’s done. Then the wrists, tied to the sides of the hips to keep the cloth in place and the weight even when it’s picked up. The elbows, then, across the chest, and finally around the head.
He steps back, prepared to pick up the wood laid next to him, when he just looks at it again.
It’s so small. Barely longer than two saddles laid end to end. It’s so small there, on the forest floor, white sheet with little flecks of dirt on one side. He takes the end of one of the last strips of fabric and knots it around the head one more time, just to make sure the cloth will stay in place.
Whether it is to offer dignity or spare himself, he doesn’t know.
Another quiet thud and he looks over. Leon stands up, having collected the last of the pyre, and gestures to Arthur’s pile of wood.
“I’ll take that, if you please?”
Arthur just nods, looking back down at the white figure as Leon hefts the wood. He can hear it being placed, can hear the quiet grunts as Leon makes sure everything is secure. When all is quiet again, he hears footsteps and the cleaning of a throat.
“Ready for you, sire.”
Right. Now is not the time to lose his nerve. He takes a deep breath and leans down, scooping the figure into his arms and turning. It’s so small. It’s too small.
He lays it down atop the pyre and steps back. Leon wordlessly holds out the flint and steel and he takes it, stepping forward and setting it alight.
Together, they watch as the body goes up in flames.
Leon speaks first. “It wasn’t your fault, Arthur.”
He swallows around the lump in his throat. “It was. I should’ve been more careful.”
“You were fighting for your own life,” Leon corrects gently, “there was only so much you could’ve done.”
“I’m Crown Prince of Camelot,” Arthur spits as the fire crackles, “I should be able to do more.”
A pause, then a firm hand on his shoulder. “Even you can’t stop death, Arthur, no man can.”
Unbidden a snarl rises and he whips around, almost shoving Leon away. “Then why is it that I can order it without anyone to stop me?”
He glares at the fire, daring the smoke to sting his eyes. It does and does so with glee.
“How can I sentence men to die, make them die for me,” he shouts, “if I can’t command them to live as well? Why is it that I can make people die but I can’t make them stop?”
His voice cracks on the word ‘stop.’ Something in his chest cracks too.
“Why can’t it stop,” he hears himself saying, “why won’t it stop, why won’t it stop?”
“Come,” he hears quietly amidst his babbling, “shed your tears, sire, it’s alright.”
He buries himself in Leon’s arms as the fire smolders, small, small, so small.
He wakes up screaming.
“Arthur!” Merlin’s hands cover his shoulders, run across his frigid skin. “Arthur, Arthur, it’s me, it’s Merlin, you’re alright, you’re safe.”
His throat aches. His eyes burn in the darkness. He’s crying. He’s crying.
“Arthur, hey, hey, Arthur,” Merlin keeps calling, trying to coax him to look at him, “hey, it’s alright. It’s just me, just clumsy old Merlin. You’re not scared of me, right?”
Merlin? No, no, he could never be scared of Merlin. Merlin is safe, Merlin is always safe. Merlin is there when he needs him to be. He can be safe with Merlin.
“That’s right,” Merlin says softly, “you’re safe. You’re with me and you’re safe. We’re in your chambers, in the castle, right here.”
He blinks. His heart is beating like he’s been running for a year. Merlin lifts a goblet to his lips and he drinks. Water.
“Can you see the moon? It’s really bright tonight.” Merlin coaxes his head to the side, out the window. “See?”
It is very bright. His room is silver. There are breezes that flutter the curtains as the candles burn. He’s still crying.
“I like looking at the moon,” Merlin says, still talking in that soft and even voice, “because it’s always the same moon. I can look at it here and know that my mother is looking at it too, back in Ealdor.”
Merlin sets the goblet back on the table and crawls onto the bed next to Arthur, offering him a shoulder to lean against as Arthur stares out the window. Merlin is warm and solid against his back.
“I think I used to tell my mother I looked for faces on the moon. I’d see something that looked like a smile, or an eye, or a nose, and I’d describe it for her. And then she’d describe what she saw for me.”
The moon glows in the night sky, silver and still. He takes a deep breath in, and a deep breath out.
“One time she told me that we would never see exactly the same face because no two faces were exactly the same.” Merlin shifts behind him. Arthur reaches out blindly and feels Merlin take his hand. He squeezes. “But that’s alright, because we’d still be looking at the same place.”
A pause. Then Merlin leans closer.
“Can you see a face?”
Arthur squints. “Er…up near that big spot. That looks like a mouth.”
“Mm. Yes, I see it. With the two little spots as eyes?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a good one. It’s smiling at you.”
Arthur smiles back.
+1.
Uther’s not even the king anymore, Arthur thinks as he dodges another rock, why can’t these sorcerers at least attack me because of something I’ve done?
The sorcerer in question, however, seems to not be interested in the fact that Uther is dead—which, alright, fair enough—and hurls another boulder at them, despite Arthur refusing to fight back when he realized what’s going on.
“You royals think you’re so brave,” the sorcerer sneers, “cowering behind the bodies of men you throw at your problems so you don’t have to risk anything yourselves.”
I’m not my father, Arthur thinks as he sees his men still running to catch up with him.
“Do you know what it feels like to be scared?” The sorcerer steps closer. “To fear for every second of your life? As if it could be your last?”
“I do,” Arthur calls, trying to inject as much sincerity into his voice as he can, “perhaps not in the same way you do, but yes, I know what that’s like.”
The sorcerer scoffs. “I don’t think you do. Which is why I’m going to make you understand!”
Don’t like the sound of that.
Arthur opens his mouth to try and plead one last time when a bolt of energy hits him square in the chest.
He can hear the sounds of his men yelling out for him but the blood rushes in his ears and he can’t make out anything else. Panic grips his chest and squeezes his heart until it’s about to burst. He doubles over, shoving himself against the rocks and scrambling back.
This is fear, a voice whispers inside his head, this is true fear. What will you do now, little prince, when you have to be afraid and only afraid? Who will protect a frightened and panicked King who can do nothing for himself?
Memories.
Memories of kind hands and careful words and clever stories.
Memories of protective holds and promised favors and practiced comfort.
Memories of his knights, his brothers, his family.
Memories of his Merlin, his chosen, his safety.
My people will help me, he thinks amidst the panic, my people will help me as they trust I will help them.