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“Sire.” Merlin’s voice startled Arthur from the other end of an empty corridor.
Arthur rolled his eyes, expecting whatever came next to be something comically impetuous. At a very wise and very experienced thirteen years old, Arthur had never known anyone to be quite so infuriatingly defiant as Merlin, the physician’s apprentice.The boy was certainly odd – he was a lot more sensitive than Arthur was used to, sure – but no one else seemed to mind. No one else, however, had to deal with Merlin constantly challenging them, or calling them a prat all the time.
“What is it, Merlin?”
Merlin drew back, a little put out by Arthur’s tone. Good, Arthur thought, swallowing down a small bubble of guilt before it could tug at his conscience.
“As you know, the tournament is coming up,” Merlin began, only to be interrupted.
Arthur balked at him. “Did you imagine I would forget?”
“Let me finish,” Merlin huffed, his face pinching in some way Arthur couldn’t read. He then untied his red neckerchief and hesitated for another moment before extending it out. “I wondered if you might consider wearing my token… is all.”
“Your what?” Arthur’s response came quickly, and the sheer surprise made him laugh. “You seriously think I, the crown prince of Camelot–” The harder he laughed, the redder Merlin’s face became. “Your token? As if you’re some kind of maiden. Oh, this is rich– And why would I do that, Mer-lin?”
“You don’t have to be an arse about it,” Merlin snapped out at last, and the laughter froze in Arthur’s throat. Before he could say, wait, I didn’t mean it like that, Merlin already stormed off.
That moment hung in Arthur’s mind for the rest of the day, and he could think of little else save for whatever that feeling was in Merlin’s eyes that Arthur failed to read. Did he really want Arthur to take his token? Truly? As though he were some sort of maiden, and Arthur the object of his affection? Surely there had to be some kind of rule against that – there was no way any other knight of Camelot would carry another fellow’s token...
Was there?
He found himself imagining Merlin’s red neckerchief tied to his lance, an image that disturbed him less and less as time passed. He even came to think of what it would feel like to have Merlin cheering for him in the stands, giving him encouragement from a distance…
It was images like these that filled his head as his horse reared back, throwing him to the ground. His vision went white when the back of his head struck something hard. In the next moment, he fell unconscious.
When he opened his eyes next, they were blinded by the morning sun pouring in through the rich, Pendragon-red drapes of his quarters. Upon dragging himself from the bed and dressing in a fully updated wardrobe, he would soon find his body had somehow matured. His arms were thicker now, stronger, and they filled his sleeves more than he remembered. And his face! All along his jaw was course to the touch. In the mirror, he could see that he had the stubble and the form of a fully-grown man.
What in Camelot is happening?
The day became stranger when he emerged from his quarters to find everyone around him treating everything as if it were particularly normal. They bowed, made space for him, called him “your Highness” without a trace of the confusion that Arthur felt.
If there was someone who would talk to him straight, it was Morgana. When he found her, however, she, too, didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary.
Arthur, however, couldn’t quite look at her; she had somehow become a whole grown woman in the time between that day he fell off his horse and now.
“You wouldn’t believe the day I’m having,” he said to her once he regained the use of speech.
“Try me.”
“Do you remember… erm… that day I fell off my horse?”
“You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Arthur.”
Arthur huffed. “Well, it was yesterday for me,” he rushed out, irritated to have to even explain it. He spoke impatiently and quickly, growing more exasperated with each word. “I was thirteen. Merlin tried to offer me his token. I got on a horse. I fell off the horse. And now…?” He gestured down at himself. “I couldn’t have hit my head that hard, could I?”
Morgana’s response was a deadpan silence as she took the story in, which she ultimately concluded with a small, lopsided smirk.
“Dear brother. Do you mean to tell me you’ve the maturity of a thirteen-year-old boy?”
“Yes!”
“I do think I remember that fall,” Morgana went on, unphased. “I don’t believe Merlin ever spoke to you after that, come to think of it… At least, not on purpose.”
That pinched expression on Merlin’s face as Arthur laughed… He must have really hurt Merlin’s feelings. “Alright. So? What? I’m King now?” he asked. Coming into his own without having to work for it might not be so bad. He could just forget about Merlin. That was apparently years ago, anyway…
“And a fine one at that.” Morgana’s tone was patronizing but affectionate. Arthur chose to bear it. At least she would answer his onslaught of questions getting him up to date.
It seemed the people were happy. He apparently lifted the ban on magic when he inherited the throne, and magic users (Morgana included, it seemed?) were able to practice openly. There was tension at first, but after some time, the people of Camelot warmed up to the change.
Arthur and Morgana both cleared their schedules so that she could give him some extra guidance. Together, they walked the castle grounds, talking about all that had changed in the past decade and a half. When he asked to see his knights, she brought him to the training grounds.
“And him?” Arthur gestured to a solemn knight who stood separated from the rest. His posture was different, relaxed and yet guarded. Arthur liked the look of him.”Who is he?”
“Who’s he?” Morgana echoed. “You’re kidding. You really must not be feeling well.”
“I mean it, Morgana.”
“Only your prized Knight Lancelot.”
He liked the sound of having a prized knight at his own table. “Right.”
“Oh, and there’s Merlin,” Morgana added.
Sure enough, there he was, having fully come into his own body. He, too, filled his clothes out much better now than he had drowning in fabric at thirteen. He made his way across the training pitch to visit with Lancelot, the very knight in question.
Arthur couldn’t help but think, I should have accepted his token, and as the thought crossed his mind, Lancelot pulled Merlin into a warm, gentle embrace.
Arthur felt his cheeks flush.
“What’s that nonsense?” he asked, leaning in closer to Morgana.
“What do you mean, nonsense?” Morgana asked, her tone coy and confident. “The two of them are engaged.”
“What?” The statement startled him out of his coy confusion and he suddenly felt a little foolish. “That’s allowed?”
“And why shouldn’t it be?” Morgana asked, a brow raised high.
Arthur frowned. It was no wonder Merlin had been so hurt when Arthur laughed… What was he supposed to do now? Just accept a reality in which he had pushed Merlin away, a reality where he could have had him, but he drove him into someone else’s arms? His stomach churned and he felt jealousy and anger wash back over him. There was no way he could ignore this feeling in his chest, a feeling that told him he’d been so much more than a fool to laugh at Merlin – to scoff at his token, offered to him so tenderly… Even if Lancelot was his most prized knight, Arthur couldn’t sit back and let this happen.
So, he challenged Lancelot to a duel.
“My Lord, I will not fight you,” said Lancelot.
“If I win,” Arthur began, but fully lost his steam when he saw the look of contempt on Merlin’s face. His nostrils flared and he stood up straight, grounding his feet once more. “If I win,” he said again, “then Merlin will give me his token.”
“What?” Merlin crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m engaged, Arthur. Absolutely not.”
“Do you refuse?” Arthur directed the question at Lancelot. A prized knight certainly couldn’t turn down a duel issued by the King, could he? Merlin and Lancelot exchanged looks, and after a silent moment, Lancelot nodded and stepped forward.
“As you wish, my Lord.” His face was dutiful and solemn, though Merlin’s expressed rage.
The duel was to be an honorable joust, set to take place in an hour. In that hour, Arthur could think of nothing but the contempt he saw in Merlin’s eyes. It wasn’t petulance, irritation, or even pinched nerves. The look in his eyes reflected real anger – the kind of anger reserved for people who could never change.
Was that what Merlin thought of him? Was that the kind of King Merlin saw when he looked at him? Despite how much he had changed Camelot, bringing back magic…
But he hadn’t done that, had he? This Arthur who ruled this Camelot was someone else, a different man with different memories. This Camleot was a different kingdom than the one he knew. And the man Merlin knew had made fun of him at thirteen. How had all this gone so wrong? Was there no going back?
And how was a man with only thirteen years of experience going to defeat his most prized knight? Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.
Well, it was too late to back down. Having donned his armor, Arthur hoisted himself up onto his horse and realized immediately that he had calculated his balance based on his thirteen-year-old body. He was not practiced in a man’s form, and he sent himself flying over the other side where his head struck the ground, and his vision went white, then black.
When he opened his eyes again, Merlin was the first to appear. He was thirteen years old again, frowning, and tending to the bleeding on his head. He breathed a breathy laugh of relief. Merlin frowned and looked away.
They were in Gaius’s apartments, surrounded by poultices and medicines and potions, but no one else.
“Merlin,” Arthur said, deliriously relieved to be in his own body. Merlin said nothing. He stood up instead, cleaning his bloody towel wordlessly. “Merlin, look at me.”
“I don’t want to,” said Merlin.
Right. He may be back in his own body, but he had still laughed at Merlin and hurt his feelings.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. That got his attention. Merlin glanced over, and Arthur began to pull himself upright. “For being such an arse.”
“I didn’t know you knew the word sorry,” Merlin muttered, returning to Arthur with a tied off poultice, holding it to his head.
“And I didn’t know you really were such a girl.”
Merlin went cold again. He dropped the poultice in Arthur’s lap and began to walk away.
“No, wait, Merlin, I–” He got up onto his feet, but regret came quickly as his vision blurred and he fell back onto his rear. Merlin returned to guide him back onto the bed, and Arthur groaned. “I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant… You know, it’s a bit odd, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” asked Merlin, tucking Arthur in with a threadbare blanket. “You’re a bit of a prat, but…” Merlin shrugged. “You’re different than the rest.”
Was he? Arthur reached up to take Merlin’s hand.
“If you still wanted me to wear your token…”
Merlin giggled. It may have been the cutest thing Arthur had ever seen. “I’ll have to reconsider my offer, Sire.”
“Well, don’t think too hard.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be trying to win my favor?”
“You wouldn’t like me as much if I did that, now would you?”
“Prat.” He said it affectionately. A term of endearment. All of Merlin’s endless needling was beginning to make sense now… Arthur took a risk and sat up to kiss Merlin, a quick peck on the lips.
Merlin gave a shy smile and pulled off his neckerchief to tie it around Arthur’s wrist.
“Next time, stay on your horse,” he teased.
The end.