Chapter Text
There is a certain fact of life that newcomers to the capital city of a kingdom such as Camelot must realize for themselves, which is the extent of the peculiarity of nobles’ motivations and thought processes. Even those who are accustomed to the way a fiefdom is run would soon realize that the whims of an individual lord really have nothing on a concentrated population of nobles in the political epicentre that is the royal court.
Court life is so unnecessarily complicated, Merlin remembers having mused one day amidst a shower of rotten produce while waiting for his punishment — two hours in the stocks — to run its course. Why can’t people just say what they mean? Back home, people were both honest and open when conveying words of praise and criticism alike. It’s in direct contrast to the weighty existence of social etiquette and royal edicts that are unwritten (and in many cases, also unspoken) yet heavily implied to be as official as they come.
One such royal edict is unusual in that it is technically unofficial, having been… well, casually suggested by the prince and, er, implicitly accepted by virtue of King Uther’s inaction on the matter. But it’s still treated as seriously as an official edict, courtesy of the Crown Prince’s eminent ascension to the throne. It’s just that people are more tight-lipped about this one, since it’s unofficial and all. After all, who knows if the king will think out of nowhere, “Hm, today I feel like that’s treason.”
But as a new resident of the citadel of Camelot, Merlin was blissfully unaware. All he knew at the time was that there’s an endless number of these social rules and facts of court life he must learn as the Prince’s new manservant, and that one of them is Arthur’s frankly mind-boggling penchant for being incredibly well-liked among the residents of the capital, including the lower town — in direct contrast to the king, Merlin would dare suggest — while simultaneously fending off more attacks on his royal person than the king himself ever has, if the hearsay is to be believed.
Merlin would have dismissed it all as idle gossip if not for Gwen, of all people, acknowledging the validity of the rumors. Even then, the complicated expression that appeared on her face, as if she didn’t know whether to be frustrated or amused or concerned, gave Merlin the hunch that he would be better off not poking his nose into that particular business of Arthur’s.
Merlin still remembers being thrown into the castle dungeons for trying to punch the prince. He wasn’t even in there long enough to fall asleep before the jangling of keys alerted him to the presence of the guard.
"You're to be let go."
“Wait, already?”
The guard stared at him. “Er, yes.”
Merlin was so relieved that he didn't notice the faintly impressed and admiring look on the guard's face under the veneer of impassivity. "Thank you, Gaius!" he had said aloud, brushing hay off of his trousers.
"No, thank Prince Arthur," the guard muttered.
"Huh? Why?"
“Why what? I didn’t say anything.”
Merlin frowned at him, but the overwhelming urge to not put more of his foot in his mouth had won over his curiosity and propelled him out of the prison cell. Consequently, that brief conversation had been forgotten in lieu of going to find Gaius and getting his first talking-to of many to come.
But even after finally remembering that event a month later, Merlin still can’t make heads or tails of what the guard had said. Was he one of those people who look up to the prince so much that they think rainbows shine out of his arse? If so, the guard must've assumed that the Prince deserved all the credit for pardoning Merlin and letting him out of the dungeons. But Merlin knows better.
Gaius is the best.
Not long after Merlin had the dubious honor of being appointed as Arthur's manservant...
Another of the strange social norms of the nobility consists of charging at each other on horseback and breaking long sticks on purpose. In other words: jousting tournaments. Before Valiant ever set foot in Camelot, there were several days' worth of training per week, for not just the knights but the horses as well. On one of these days, Merlin goes to get Arthur's horse from the grassy area where it’s being tethered.
The groom, a young man with curly brown hair, looks up as Merlin approached, and upon recognizing him, his expression creases into an ugly sneer. “It’s you.”
Puzzled, Merlin wracks his brain for anyone he could possibly have already offended in the short amount of time he’s been in Camelot, which… could possibly be quite a few people, now that he thinks about it. Damn it, he should’ve remembered to give that lord the tonic after making sure he’s heard the instructions on how he’s supposed to take it.
"Sorry, I don't believe we've met?"
The groom moves past him towards Arthur's horse and lets out a soft, derisive "Ha!" as he passes Merlin. Then louder, "Don't even remember those you've screwed over, do you? I was helping the Prince by being a moving target."
At Merlin's look of realization, the boy shakes his head and untangles the rope connecting the horse to the post. "You snatched the opportunity to become his manservant right out of my hands."
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but I saw your face,” Merlin says slowly. “You were terrified.”
“A gut reaction,” the boy says dismissively. “Anyone would be terrified of getting a knife thrown at them, but the prince is a master of hand-to-hand combat. I knew what I was getting into.”
What on earth was he talking about?
"You don't even know, do you?" the boy says disbelievingly. "Let's put it this way: have you never thought about why your… sparring session with the Prince in the marketplace lasted as long as it did? The guards should have restrained you as soon as you became a threat to the Prince. Yet your fight destroyed half the stalls in the area and the guards only stepped in once the Prince himself knocked you down." He lowers his voice and steps closer with the reins in his fist, face darkening. "You think you're so special, but I know better. The Prince was only indulging you. He's just like that. Just because the King personally appointed you doesn't mean you're deserving of it."
Merlin frowns and replies firmly, "I believe there's been a misunderstanding. I never wanted this."
The boy scoffs. “You’ve already secured a position as the Prince’s manservant. What else could you possibly want?”