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Merlin’s got more pressing issues to worry about than his appearance.
There’s the matter of keeping his magic a secret, for one. Survival is key to accomplishing all the rest of the mess that is his life. Making sure Arthur doesn’t croak comes in close at second, and then a distant third are the pesky but persistent feelings Merlin endures in regards to the prince, the ones that verge dangerously close on a territory one may call romantic.
He’s well practised at juggling all three by now, of course. The first two demand more of his attention on a regular basis, while the third he so routinely ignores and avoids and denies that he’s generally got himself convinced most days that it doesn’t exist at all.
(Most days.)
So yeah, he thinks, as he skids into Arthur’s chambers with supper only a half hour late—considering the banshee he destroyed today who was on a mission to claim Arthur’s soul and the fact that he managed to keep Arthur blissfully unaware of the entire affair, he’s got plenty to worry about as is without factoring in the conversation he overheard in the kitchens.
“Ah,” Arthur deadpans upon seeing him, “I was beginning to hope you were dead.”
“Nope,” says Merlin, depositing his tray on the table before him, “still very much alive. Sorry to disappoint.”
“—Seeing as you’re dismally late,” Arthur continues. He picks up a drumstick and frowns. “Oh, what a treat. You’ve not only made me wait for my food, but you’ve made sure it’s cold. You really are pressing for a raise, aren’t you?”
Merlin reaches for his goblet and knocks it by Arthur’s feet. “Whoops, sorry.” Arthur throws his hands up before ducking down to retrieve it; Merlin uses the diversion to warm Arthur’s food with a flash of his eyes. “It shouldn’t be cold,” he says as Arthur sits up, slamming the goblet on the table. “Brought it straight from the oven.”
Arthur picks up another drumstick and points it at Merlin to retaliate, then looks at it, bewildered. Merlin fills his cup with wine, steps back and clasps his hands behind his back with a hospitable grin. Arthur glares at him as he bites into his chicken.
Merlin takes it as permission to move onto the rest of his chores. Arthur talks at him as he eats, mostly about a ruling his father made during court that he perceives to be unfair, and Merlin nods and replies sympathetically at all the right pauses, but his mind is elsewhere, replaying the words he’d overheard earlier between Mary, one of the cooks, and her servant Henrietta.
The two had been scrubbing dishes, backs turned as Merlin snuck into the kitchens and haphazardly threw together a plate of food for Arthur—and alright, maybe he was running a bit later than he was giving himself credit for, if they were already done cooking for the night and onto the washing up.
“Caleb or Martin?” one had asked the other.
“Martin.”
“Martin or… Jakob?”
“Ooh, Jakob.”
“Jakob or Merlin?”
He’d jumped upon hearing his name and thrown an alarmed glance over his shoulder—but neither had noticed him there. He scrambled to finish up, knowing what game they were playing, knowing what they were going to say, and not at all wanting to hear it.
A pause as Henrietta considered. “Merlin’s cute,” she said at last.
“He would be,” conceded Mary, “if not for those ears.”
There it is.
Henrietta snorted as Merlin made for the door, cheeks flaming. “Poor thing. They’re quite tragic, aren’t they? Maybe he was cursed as a baby.”
It’s certainly not the first time he’s heard a comment to this effect. Far from it. Every variation of insult has been drilled into him from a young age to effectively drive home the message that his ears are oversized and unsightly and how incredibly unlucky he is to be saddled with them. There was Mabel, a sweet girl who asked him in all earnesty when they were five if he was able to fly. At age nine, Roger, more intentional in his cruelty, announced to the children of Ealdor that Merlin got stuck on his way out of his mum—lovely conversation that had been, when Merlin went home and asked his mum what it meant. Rabbit ears, dinner plates, jug handles—he’s heard it all. He ought to be immune to it.
So why does it still hurt every damn time?
Arthur’s still babbling, unaware that he’s talking to himself. Strangely enough, Merlin can’t recall the prince ever mentioning his ears, despite the thrill he so clearly derives from antagonising Merlin (his “hope you were dead” comment being a prime example).
“You’re right, Merlin.”
Merlin starts, looking over from the wardrobe. “I am?” There’s still a faint ringing in his head from the banshee; he knocks his knuckles against his skull when Arthur isn’t looking, trying to shake it loose.
Arthur sighs. “I can change things when I’m king. Until then, I’ve just got to endure it.”
“Oh. Yeah. Absolutely.”
Arthur comes to stand by him. He’s really rather easy to please, so long as Merlin keeps him fed.
He quirks a smile, eyes tripping over Merlin’s face. “You’re not a terrible listener, you know.”
It’s one of those rare, gentle moments that throws Merlin for a loop, so accustomed he is to Arthur keeping him at arm’s length, pretending that he doesn’t possess an ounce of kindness. Although he has not in fact been listening, Merlin smiles back, struck by the way the flames in the fireplace play off the tones of Arthur’s hair (ignore avoid deny).
Then Arthur reaches over and tweaks his ear.
Merlin gawps. After a long moment he shoves Arthur in the chest, hard.
Arthur stumbles back from the force of it, then scoffs a shocked laugh, confused by Merlin’s sudden anger. “What the hell was that?”
“Prick,” hisses Merlin, seething. He knows he’s overreacting, but he can’t help it: Arthur just dumped a vat of salt directly on the wound that is his ego.
“Merlin,” Arthur objects, but Merlin snatches the empty platter from the table, sending the chicken bones flying to the floor, and storms out before he can finish.
It isn’t hard to follow Arthur’s line of thinking: of course Merlin’s a good listener; with ears like that, how can he not be? It’s not original by any means, but it’s humiliating nonetheless. He storms to Gaius’s chambers and shuts himself in his room, feeling as though this is the very final straw.
When he realises he’s still got the platter clenched in his fist, he magicks it clean, magicks it spotless and shiny until he can see his reflection in it. He sits at his desk and stares at himself for a long time.
And he concocts a plan.
#
One moon cycle later finds Merlin sat at his desk once more, gazing into his platter-mirror. It’s the time it took for him to grow his hair out, shaggy and curling around his ears. His hair hasn’t been this long since he was a child. As an adult he finds it much more convenient to keep it cropped close to his head, out of the way as he works, but this is step one to his grand plan. The decoy.
He looks from his reflection to the spell book open before him.
Time for step two.
The first spell he tries changes the shape of his ears completely, making them narrow and pointed. Too noticeable.
The next spell shrinks them down to half their size. Merlin panics when he realises the sounds from Gaius puttering around outside in his workship have grown fainter. He changes them right back.
He tries spell after spell, and finally settles on one that doesn’t change the fundamental size or shape of his ears, but rather pins them back a bit flatter to his head. He turns his head this way and that, examining them, not wholly displeased. He gives his hair a good ruffle and decides the change is subtle enough that no one will be suspicious. His hair really does cover them a good amount. He’ll be shocked if anyone notices.
He dresses for the day, something like a stone settling in his stomach every time he catches a glimpse of himself. He doesn’t want to change his ears, is the thing. Doesn’t want to care enough about what people say to let it affect how he sees himself.
But if this one inconsequential change is what it takes to get people to shut up about them, he figures it’s a small price to pay.
Gaius is focused on a new batch of medicine he’s brewing and barely glances up as Merlin collects his breakfast. Fair enough. The point is for no one to notice, anyway.
He’s strangely nervous as he sets off down the corridor to start his day. What if the hair’s not enough of a distraction? What if someone accuses him of using magic? What if he’s somehow gone and made his ears even worse? What if—
He walks smack into Diana, one of Morgana’s handmaidens.
“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t see you there—”
He kneels to help scoop up the swatches of fabric he knocked from her hands, and meets Diana’s eyes as he hands them to her. She smiles coyly.
“That’s alright. Thanks, Merlin.”
Her eyes linger just a bit too long before she darts off, blushing.
Huh.
Gwen rounds the corner next with a basket of laundry.
“Good morning, Merlin,” she says, then does a double take. “You look nice!”
“Oh. Er, thanks.”
By the time he reaches Arthur’s chambers he’s wracked with cautious relief. If the looks he’s getting this morning are any indicator, then his ridiculous plan is working.
Arthur is snoring with the curtains drawn round his bed. Merlin opens the windows to let in the fresh air and yanks the bed curtains open with a pep in his step.
“Rise and shine!”
Arthur groans. He rolls to his stomach, burying his face in pillows.
“Up you get.” Merlin plucks his clothes from the wardrobe and tosses them to the foot of the bed. “You’ve got breakfast with your father in a quarter hour.”
Arthur grumbles something indecipherable, shifting in the bedsheets. His bare back is slicked with sweat. Merlin fights the urge to let his eyes follow the curve of his spine down to his rump.
He comes to stand at the side of the bed, crossing his arms and peering down at Arthur, because he knows it drives him mad when Merlin stands over him like this. Sure enough, Arthur peeks out from his pillow to scowl up at him.
Then he blinks. His frown melts into confusion.
After a good minute of staring, he rasps, “What’s wrong?”
Merlin pauses, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
The nerves return as Arthur’s eyes rove over him. He twists around to slowly sit up. “You look—off.”
“Oh.” Merlin gives a weird laugh. “Well, I’m fine.”
He looks around for something to distract him, hoping Arthur will drop it, and picks up a scuffed pair of boots.
But he feels Arthur’s eyes follow him around the room. He climbs out of bed a minute later, and when Merlin glances at him, he’s still staring, perplexed.
“Something is different,” he says, sounding unsure.
Merlin tugs his hair over his ears, growing red. How the hell is it that Arthur of all people can tell? He’s notoriously thick; blessedly unobservant when it comes to Merlin.
He fidgets with the boots he’s still holding, then says, “I’ve got to go help with breakfast. I’ll see you…”
He trails off, gestures uselessly to Arthur’s outfit on the bed. Arthur watches, unreadable, as he makes his escape.
#
Arthur stares all throughout breakfast, to the point that Uther notices, to Merlin’s mortification; and when Morgana sweeps in, gives Merlin a once over and declares, “You’re looking handsome today, Merlin,” Arthur scoffs and turns to scan him once more, as if the remark offends him.
It goes on like this all day. During training, during the council meeting after. Merlin’s only reprieve from Arthur’s scrutiny is when he goes to fetch supper, and that’s when he runs right into Henrietta.
“Oh,” she says in surprise when Merlin reaches around her for the potatoes. “Merlin. I nearly didn’t recognise you.” She gives him a look that he can only read as approving, and he gladly escapes back to Arthur’s chambers.
Arthur pushes his platter aside, though. He leans his elbows on the table, frowning at Merlin.
“Seriously, what is it? Something about your—face.”
Merlin shrugs, avoiding his eyes. “It’s just my hair.”
Arthur sits back and crosses his arms. “I suppose,” he says doubtfully. “You’ve been growing it out for a while.”
“Yeah, now no one has to look at my ears sticking out like a circus attraction, “ Merlin mutters.
Arthur pulls a ridiculous face. “What?”
“Nothing,” he blurts, wishing he could un-say the words.
“What on earth is wrong with your ears?”
Merlin stops at that. Peers at him in disbelief. Arthur’s being completely sincere.
“They’re enormous,” says Merlin plainly.
Arthur’s frown deepens.
Merlin studies the sharp points of his cheekbones; the clean lines of his jaw and chin (ignore avoid deny). He waits for a follow-up insult, but Arthur simply shrugs, dismissing the matter completely, leaving Merlin astounded.
#
Gaius wears his stern face as Merlin fixes them each a bowl of stew.
“Anything you’d like to tell me?” he poses when Merlin settles across from him.
Merlin pretends to think on it. “No,” he says innocently, and tucks into his meal.
Gaius sighs. “Merlin. Need I remind you that magic oughtn’t be used for one’s own vanity?”
A wave of guilt washes over him. “I know that,” he mumbles, for he does. The results of his experiment speak for themselves, though. Consensus overwhelmingly points to the fact that people like him better this way.
The next day finds Merlin derailed by a malevolent gnome. He returns from the forest on edge, having completely forgotten about the matter of his ears until Diana stops him in the corridor.
“Hi Merlin,” she says sweetly. He smiles in return. She bites her lip, then reaches into her handbasket and comes out with a cornflower. Merlin grows hot as she tucks it into his scarf against his throat. “Matches your eyes.”
He watches her hurry away, vaguely flattered, although something about the interaction rings as uncomfortable. Why is it he feels he needs her approval in particular—or Henrietta’s or Mary’s, for that matter?
He continues onto Arthur’s chambers, flustered, and gets started tidying up. By the time Arthur returns from his training session, Merlin’s caught up in scrubbing the flagstones.
“Young Cassian is getting the hang of things,” Arthur reports, chucking his dirty tunic to the ground.
Merlin glares at the offending tunic before resuming his task. “Took him long enough,” he quips. “He finally puzzle out which is the pointy end of the lance?”
Arthur snorts, but chides him nonetheless. “Watch it, Merlin, that’s a knight you’re insulting.”
Merlin wrings out his rag into the bucket, gets to his feet, popping his aching knees. He glances over and sees Arthur’s giving him an odd look. Arthur comes to stand before him, gaze somewhere below Merlin’s chin. Merlin swallows and purposefully doesn’t look at Arthur’s bare chest. He remembers the flower just then, realises it must be what’s caught Arthur’s attention, and colours.
For a moment nothing happens. Then Arthur reaches out, plucks the flower from Merlin’s scarf, and, in a motion that robs Merlin of his breath, tucks it behind his ear, instead.
“That’s better,” he murmurs.
He looks at it a moment longer, then meets Merlin’s eyes, and they simultaneously snap out of this shared suspended moment, breaking apart awkwardly.
“Er,” manages Merlin, as Arthur says stiltedly, “I’ll need a bath.”
He sweeps behind the changing screen with a sheepish pull to his mouth. And Merlin, as he so often seems to be doing lately, is left wondering what the hell just happened.
#
Ignore, avoid, deny. It’s second nature for Merlin, and must be for Arthur, too, for things are back to normal between them by morning, the only remaining evidence of the exchange the dried out flower, which Merlin presses carefully into a book to preserve.
As he executes his chores, Merlin continues to garner more female attention than he has in his entire life; more than he’s necessarily comfortable with. Mary gives him an extra bun when he fetches Arthur’s breakfast, just for him. Morgana insists he accompany her for a stroll through the gardens, during which Gwen flanks his other side, each of them clutching onto his arms.
Then there’s Arthur.
Arthur sits at his desk rifling through a stack of ledgers, and says casually, apropos of absolutely nothing, while Merlin is preoccupied pounding dust from the curtains out the open windows, “You know what they say about large ears.”
Merlin drops the curtains to pull his hair over his ears. “Leave me alone.”
Arthur gives a vague smile, attention still on his papers. He shuffles through them a moment longer, demeanor so entirely innocuous Merlin isn’t prepared for it; is caught completely off guard when he continues, “They say they’re often an indicator of a large… appendage.”
Merlin’s mouth falls open.
“I—I don’t know about that,” he splutters automatically, sure he must’ve misheard.
Arthur looks up at him then, raising an eyebrow with a smirk.
“I mean I—” He rushes to correct himself, realising he shouldn’t deny it. Arthur looks on, wickedly amused, as he stammers for an appropriate response to this completely inappropriate comment.
“No? Just an unfounded rumour, then?” Arthur’s eyes flick down quickly and back up.
“I didn’t say that,” Merlin protests.
Arthur just laughs, big, full laughter from his belly, so contagious that Merlin does, too.
The week goes on like this. An envoy from Gedref brings with them a basilisk, which Merlin defeats, and a handmaiden who seems to fancy Merlin, which annoys Arthur to no end. When the party leaves, Merlin is granted a single day of respite before an infestation of faeries overtakes the dungeons. This puts Merlin well behind, which annoys Arthur further. He skids into the prince’s chambers late with lunch to find Arthur has taken issue with a hole in his jacket, a dent in his armour, and the dulled blade of his sword.
“Perhaps if you cut your bloody hair,” he seethes, “you’ll be able to see what you’re doing.”
This is ridiculous given that Arthur’s own fringe is especially long right now, dusting in front of his narrowed eyes. Merlin’s hair is admittedly bothering him at this point as well, always getting in the way. He’s nervous to cut it, though, nervous someone will grow wise to his deception. The longer he goes on with this lark, the more sick of it he becomes. Everyone but Arthur sees an improvement, and it should be good for his self esteem, but ultimately it’s just confirmed that his natural looks simply aren’t good enough, which makes him deeply sad.
It comes to a head when Henrietta stops him in the corridor one evening, when Merlin’s outside the Great Hall.
“Hello, Merlin,” she purrs, lips curling. “A bunch of us are going to the tavern later. Fancy joining?”
She looks very pretty in an eggplant coloured dress, and she smells like lavender and stands quite close to Merlin, eyeing him interestedly, and it all serves to make Merlin irrationally livid.
“No,” he snaps, “no I do not,” and he spins on his heel and marches off to Gaius’s workshop.
He cuts his hair right then, chunks of curls floating to the ground, and takes up the platter which shows his reflection and changes his ears back. There’s no time to think on it, no time for relief or regret, for he’s due in Arthur’s chambers when he’s done feasting with his father, which should be any minute.
He’s turning down the bed when Arthur enters smelling of wine, humming under his breath. He sees Merlin and stops.
“Have a nice supper?” asks Merlin, coming over with his bedclothes.
He likes a tipsy Arthur. The prince tends to be more agreeable when drunk; less uppity. He lets Merlin peel his tunic off of him, pliant and warm, and emerges with a private, knowing smile, eyes roving while Merlin reaches for his sleep shirt.
Arthur steps in close, brushes his fingers along the shell of Merlin’s ear.
“There you are,” he says softly.
The tender words trigger a flutter in Merlin’s heart, one he can neither ignore nor avoid nor deny. He sways into Arthur’s touch. This time they let the moment linger, sharing a smile. Merlin doesn’t know if Arthur suspects the involvement of magic or if the hair decoy worked, and he doesn’t particularly care. All he knows is that as long as Arthur loves his ears, he can learn to love them, too.