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Merlin looked down at the pitcher in his hands.
Small ripples fluttered across the blood-red surface in his trembling hands, distorting his dim reflection on the surface. He could see enough to make out his pale face, his sunken eyes, the dark swipe of hair across his forehead. The firelight from the candles in the dining hall danced along the ripples of the wine, bouncing off the golden walls of the pitcher.
He imagined a time not so long ago, where he stood in front of a crowded dining hall holding a goblet of wine much like the one he held now. He imagined saluting Uther, then downing the wine in one breath. His chest went cold at the thought. It had felt like another time, long ago. Before. He couldn’t imagine raising this pitcher to his lips now, drinking the fiery, sweet liquid, feeling it burn as it passed his throat and settled in his stomach…
“Merlin.”
Merlin looked up, startled. The crowd was suddenly too loud. The chatter of the dinner guests and the clink of forks and knives on plates was deafening. Merlin’s stomach rolled as the overpowering aroma of the roast pig entered his nostrils.
“Merlin!” The voice sounded again, and Merlin’s gaze found Prince Arthur. It was late in the night and Merlin could tell that Arthur was feeling the effects of the wine. His cheeks were ruddy and flushed and his crown was slightly askew. Arthur had clearly been indulging. Not that Merlin blamed him. This was a very boring feast, filled with lengthy speeches and politics. Merlin wished he were allowed to drink as well. He glanced down at the dark, warm wine in his grasp, unease settling deep in his stomach. Well, almost.
Arthur raised his eyebrows and held up his wine goblet, giving it a meaningful shake.
“Oh!” Merlin said softly, stepping forward to fill Arthur’s goblet.
“If this goes on for much longer I’m going to have to fake being poisoned,” Arthur muttered to Merlin as he leaned in close to pour the wine.
The pitcher slipped in Merlin’s grasp and wine splashed across the table. Dark red liquid seeped forward like a blood stain, soaking into the table covering. Guests cried out and rose from their seats and the wine stretched across the table towards them.
“Merlin!” Arthur cried, leaping up from his seat.
“I’m sorry, sire. I’ll– I’ll clean it up,” Merlin grabbed a cloth and tried to wipe the growing stain. His hands trembled. The red stained his palms as it soaked through the thin cloth. Another servant rushed forward to help him.
They had attracted the attention of the rest of the crowd at this point. The talking and eating around them came to a pause as the guests looked over at the scene. Uther looked over, his eyes glinting dangerously as he began to rise from his seat. Merlin’s ears burned and he ducked his head.
“Just a mistake, father,” Arthur said, interjecting before Uther could say anything. Merlin could hear a slight slur to his words, but he didn’t dare look up. “I bumped into Merlin as he was pouring wine. My fault.”
Uther gave a small nod, his eyes narrow as he looked between Arthur and Merlin. He sunk back into his seat and resumed his conversation with his guest. Gradually the chatter in the hall resumed to its former volume.
“Thank you, Arthur,” Merlin muttered as he mopped the last of the wine off the table.
Arthur just rolled his eyes, but Merlin didn’t miss the way his shoulders sagged in relief or his eyes returned to Merlin’s in a quick concerned glance.
A week later, there was another banquet. Camelot did seem to have a lot of those.
This one was for Sir Ivan, Camelot’s newest knight. He’d just passed his final test against Arthur earlier today. Surprisingly, it was a fairly even match between the two. Merlin would never say it to his face, but Arthur was rather good with a sword. Ivan had held his own quite respectfully, dodging and parrying all of the blows Arthur sent his way. Admittedly, Merlin didn’t know much about swordcraft, but he was impressed by the skills of both men. Watching them fight was like watching a carefully choreographed, if more deadly, dance.
Merlin smiled as he recalled the fight. To win his place as a champion of Camelot, Ivan had performed a very neat disarming maneuver, which sent Arthur’s sword flying across the practice grounds and quivering in the mud. Merlin loved seeing the prince knocked on his royal backside every once in a while. It was good for him.
Merlin stood on the edge of the party, watching Arthur with his knights. He was content to remain out of the way, a bystander to the festivities. Once, maybe, he would have liked to join in. But now, Merlin glanced down at the pitcher in his hand nervously, he was content to watch and serve.
As Merlin was reflecting on just how much of his life he spent standing holding wine that he wasn’t even allowed to drink, Arthur waved him over. Careful not to spill any of the wine, Merlin walked over to Arthur and the ring of knights.
“Merlin!” Arthur said as he approached, waving his goblet. He was drunk, clearly. His hair was messed up and his face was flushed. The top button of his shirt was undone so Merlin could see the edge of his collar bone. “Give my fine knights here a refill, and pour yourself a goblet too while you’re at it.”
“Oh, uh, no. Thank you, sire,” Merlin stammered. He began to fill Sir Leon’s goblet.
“Oh, come on, Merlin,” Arthur said, fighting back a burp. The scent of wine wafted into Merlin’s nostrils. Merlin fought back a gag as he continued serving the circle of knights. “It’s a party, let loose!”
“Someone has to carry your drunken ass up to your chambers later,” Merlin retorted, swallowing around the lump that was forming in his throat. It was a feeble attempt at a joke and, judging by the slightly out of focus glance sent his way, Arthur knew it too. The crowd was too loud, the knights were standing too close. Merlin took a hasty step backwards.
His nostrils burned from the smell of the wine. His mouth was dry. Merlin tried to swallow again but it got caught in his throat. Heartbeats pounded in his ears. He had to get out of here. Merlin could not stand the closeness of the knights and the sickly sweet scent of alcohol from their breaths for one more second.
“Merlin, wait–”
With a hasty bow towards Arthur, Merlin ducked his head and backed away. He saw Arthur’s brow wrinkle, the disappointment flashing in his blue eyes, before he was swallowed up by his circle of knights once more.
Merlin stomped into the room behind Arthur, sending droplets of water scattering across the floor. His boots were soaked to the bone, not that Merlin could tell anymore. His toes had gone numb some time ago.
It was a cold and fruitless hunt. Arthur and Merlin had rode out at dawn that morning, while the morning frost still covered the grass in a thin white blanket. The sun had come out, melting the icy dew, but the temperature remained below freezing. Only one deer made an appearance, and it was scared away when Merlin accidentally slipped on a patch of melting ice. After that, they had spent most of the day crouching in the icy mud behind fallen trees. Merlin started to worry he would permanently lose feeling in his extremities.
“Come join me by the fire, Merlin,” Arthur said as he began to fill two goblets of wine.
“What?” Merlin asked, watching Arthur. An uneasy feeling spread through his limbs. Arthur was going to give him a goblet of wine. To drink.
“You need to warm up,” Arthur said. He handed Merlin the goblet. He walked over to the fire and sunk into one of the cushy arm chairs. Merlin remained where he was, staring at the goblet in his numb fingers.
“Well, come on.”
Obediently, Merlin walked over to the fire and lowered himself into the armchair next to Arthur’s. The warmth immediately washed over his tired and frozen limbs, oozing straight into his core. The armchair was the most comfortable thing he had ever sat in, but Merlin hardly noticed. He was staring down at the goblet. The dark red liquid sloshed gently inside, reflecting gold and pink from the fire that crackled in the hearth. The smell of alcohol and grapes wafted up to his nose.
“It won’t bite, Merlin,” Arthur chided before taking a generous swig of his own wine. “You act like I’ve never given you a drink before.”
“Well,” Merlin said, his throat was dry. “You haven’t.”
“Drink,” Arthur said, glancing meaningfully at Merlin’s full goblet. “It will warm you up.”
Merlin nodded and raised the goblet to his lips. He paused. Arthur drank this wine, he reminded himself. This wine was safe . But he couldn’t quite make himself believe it. Still, he could hardly just sit there with a full goblet of wine all night. Steeling his nerves, he took a small sip.
Arthur was talking again, but Merlin didn't hear what he was saying.
It was stupid. Merlin had faced countless dangers in his short time with Arthur. He’d faced enchantresses. He’d faced evil knights with magic shields. He marched alongside Arthur on every dangerous adventure, equipped with nothing more than the clothes on his back and his magic. He’d been burned, beaten, threatened, starved, and pelted with rotten fruit. He survived every single day in Uther’s anti-magical regime, every day risking discovery and death.
So why couldn’t he drink one stupid goblet of wine?
The warmth of the fire was suddenly stifling. Merlin tried to regain his breath but his breathing was shallow and fast. His neckerchief, normally a welcome weight on his neck, was suffocatingly tight. His lips tingled. His throat began to close. That horrible itchiness that began on his tongue spread through his body, down his throat and to his fingertips. Merlin’s hands fidgeted, scratching at his hands and wrists. He tried to swallow but the lump in his throat wouldn't let him.
“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice cut through the dull roar in his ears.
Merlin flinched. “Yes?”
“What’s up with you, Merlin?”
“I’m fine.”
“Come on, you can tell me.”
“I said, nothing’s–”
“First you freak out at the feast, then you avoid me all night at Sir Ivan’s party. And tonight you’re acting like a frightened mouse. Is it something I did?”
“What? No–”
“‘Cause you can tell me if it was. Was it Morgana? Have the other noblemen been treating you right? I can go talk to someone–”
“Fine!” Merlin snapped, eager to stop the torrent of words. And Arthur said that he talked a lot. “I’ll tell you.”
Arthur looked over at Merlin with a grin of satisfaction. He shut his mouth and waited for Merlin to speak.
Merlin cleared his throat, which was suddenly dry again. Until this moment, he hadn’t quite realized that he had been secretly wanting, needing , to tell someone about this horrible anxiety. He had enough secrets as it was. This was one he wanted off his chest. He closed his eyes and forced the words out. “It’s the wine.”
“What?” Arthur’s brow crinkled in confusion. “The wine?”
Merlin nodded. “It’s stupid, I know, but ever since– ever since that night, with the poison. I can’t– I can’t–” His cheeks burned. His ears felt hot. He couldn't even get the words out.
Arthur’s face softened. He reached a hand out and rested it on Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin flinched, his eyes still closed, but he didn’t move.
“Merlin, look at me,” Arthur said, softly.
Merlin opened his eyes. Arthur’s piercing blue eyes were staring right back at him. Merlin watched the steady cadence of Arthurs shoulders rising up, and then down. Up. Down. Up. Down.
“There is no shame in fear,” Arthur said, his voice soft.
“I don’t know why I feel this way,” Merlin said, his voice shaking. “It’s just wine.”
“Wine that nearly killed you,” Arthur said, with a rueful smile. “Hell, if it was me I wouldn’t want to drink it either.”
“But I’ve faced so much worse than this, and now I can’t even handle a stupid goblet of wine–” Merlin’s breathing quickened again. Seeing his distress, Arthur squeezed Merlin’s shoulder, grounding him.
“We don’t have to drink wine,” Arthur said. “Not unless you want to.”
Merlin swiped a hand furiously across his face. “I just wish I didn’t feel like this.”
“Then I’ll help you,” Arthur said with his crooked, cocky smile. “It’s just fear, Merlin, nothing more.” The smile fell from his face and he looked at Merlin straight in the eye.
Merlin nodded in return, swiping his still-frozen hands across his face. It was a relief, having the truth out in the open. Even if it was a small truth. Merlin had gotten so used to keeping secrets that he forgot that he could ask for help. That not all secrets needed to be kept.
Some small part of him had worried that Arthur would reject him for acting so cowardly. For being afraid of wine , of all things.
The suffocating heat relented, giving way to a warm comforting embrace once again. It seeped into his bones, tickling his shins as he slouched in the chair. Merlin relinquished the goblet as Arthur took it silently from his grasp, setting it aside with his own half empty one. Merlin smiled. If Arthur could accept this truth, this small cowardly truth, maybe, just maybe, he would be able to accept Merlin’s big truth.
But not tonight. Merlin felt his eyelids droop as Arthur began talking animatedly about something Morgana had said to him earlier. Arthur wasn’t ready yet, and frankly neither was Merlin.
They were at dinner.
It was not a feast this time, just a private dinner between Uther and Arthur. Though he normally didn’t serve unless it was a full feast, tonight Merlin offered to serve in place of another servant, Hattie, who fell ill. There was an illness spreading about the castle, and the servants had to fill in wherever was needed.
Merlin stood behind Arthur’s seat, holding a full pitcher of wine. The dark red liquid danced and bounced near the surface of the gold vessel. Food and drink were to be served as soon as the chef gave the order.
It happened quickly.
A servant rushed into the room, stumbling to a kneel in front of Uther. Uther’s face contorted to a mask of surprise, then rage.
“My Lord,” the servant said, breathless.
“Yes, yes, what is it?” Uther said, an irritated scowl deepening on his brow. “Speak up.”
“The taster, sire,” the servant stammered. “He didn’t show up. The food hasn’t–”
“What?” Uther said as he eyed the food and wine suspiciously. “Where is he?”
“He’s sick, my lord,” the servant said, ducking his head. “We haven’t been able to test the food or wine yet.”
Uther huffed in irritation. Then he turned to Merlin. “Servant. Drink from your pitcher.”
“What?” Merlin asked, forgetting all about manners when addressing the king. His stomach dropped to his toes. His heart began to race.
“Are you deaf, boy?” Uther said, a dangerous tone to his voice. “Drink from your pitcher.”
“Father, I’m sure it’s fine,” Arthur interjected, rising from his seat.
“I will not risk the safety of the royal family. Drink, boy.” His tone left no room for argument. Merlin knew he would have to drink.
“Merlin, you don’t have to–”
“No, no,” Merlin shrugged away as Arthur reached for the pitcher. “It’s fine.”
Merlin looked into his pitcher again, at the dancing red wine. The firelight bounced across the surface. He took a deep breath, and the pounding of his heart slowed slightly. The tingling that had begun in his fingers subsided.
This was just fear. He’d handled fear before, and he knew he would have to handle it again. This anxiety wasn’t something that would go away, but Merlin knew that he could beat it, each and every time.
Because Arthur was here. If something happened, Merlin knew the prince couldn’t resist a good death defying adventure to save his life. Merlin was safe.
With a salute to the king, Merlin raised the pitcher to his lips and drank.