Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He has memorized these castle halls after over a decade of service to the crown. He glides effortlessly between main walkways and servant’s corridors like a ghost in the dead of night. A skill he has, but rarely uses. No, apparently he only sneaks around for Merlin, of all people.

There is room in his life for a little excitement, and he never allows too much. Ever since a certain clumsy fool stumbled his way into the life of a young Prince Arthur, he’s seen a dramatic increase in excitement. Now that King Arthur had taken the throne, the excitement grew ever worse. He doesn’t like it—rarely participates in it. He prides himself on being a rather serious man. Yet, Merlin could be incredibly persuasive with those sad eyes, so here he found himself, skulking about the castle like a common thief.

He stops at each door Merlin marked down, setting a scroll on the floor just outside, and then crossing the name off of his list. Rinse and repeat, until he gets to the last name on the list.

Arthur Pendragon.

There are guards posted outside. This is the king’s room, after all, but they only smile when he steps forward, the final, largest scroll in his outstretched hand. One guard cracks the door and slips inside, following the plan. He returns with a nod, and they all breathe a sigh of relief.

“Best be off,” one guard advises.

He dips his head. “Of course, my lord.”

“There will be hubbub in the morning."

He bows, though he knows he is the only one who does so. Regardless of what Merlin might think, there is certainly a time and place for professional courtesy. “There’s always hubbub where Merlin is involved,” he grumbled, and the guards laughed.

“Have a good night, George.”

Merlin’s morning was going well. Everyone had a private, conspiratorial smile for him in the castle. He always just grinned right back, feeling confident in his plan.

When he arrived at Arthur's chambers with his breakfast in hand, he was unsurprised to see several disgruntled councilmen standing in the hall right outside, arguing with the guards who would not let them in.

“What’s all this?” Merlin asked, playing coy.

The night shift guards hadn’t changed over yet, and they were duly relieved by Merlin’s presence. “Is that the king’s breakfast?” one asked, though the answer was obviously yes. Guard shift changed after breakfast—these two were well acquainted with Merlin’s wake-up schedule. They were putting on a show for the councilmen. Merlin noted that the council members standing before him were of the easier type. Lords Bram, Holen, and Ferian. Always a trio to make a fuss, but they had the overall good of Camelot’s citizens in mind.

“Yes,” Merlin said, bowing his head respectfully at the councilmen. Maybe he was overcompensating, but he didn’t need anyone putting up a fuss today. No, today was a day for Merlin to try his best to blend in, to stay on the periphery. “Is anything the matter, my lords?”

“You’re going to wake the king?” Lord Ferian asked hopefully.

“We must assemble the council,” Lord Bram pushed.

“Save for Lord Perrin,” Lord Holen added. “And we must assemble by the ninth ring of the bell tower!”

“If we believe it’s true.”

“Which we do.”

“You do. I’m waiting for the proof they promised.”

Merlin cocked his head, feigning confusion. “Apologies, my lord, but what is the purpose for such haste? The council isn’t meant to gather for another two days.”

“Things have changed,” Lord Holen explained. “There was a scroll left outside each of our rooms. We came past several of our council members chambers on the way here, and we saw scrolls left by their doors as well.”

“It’s urgent,” Lord Bram emphasized. “The king must be notified.”

Merlin nodded sharply. “I will wake the king and inform him at once,” he said in his most deferential tone. The councilmen may be well used to the way Merlin treats Arthur and the knights in such a casual way, but he didn’t want to risk offending them, and certainly not this morning.

He slipped inside, winking at the two guards as the lords reluctantly shuffled off.

“Merlin!” Arthur looked up from his desk, surprised. He then looked behind himself, out the window. “Gods, it's morning already?”

“Did you sleep last night?” Merlin asked as he set the tray down at the table, sure Arthur wouldn’t want it anyway. Arthur was already too distracted to answer, so Merlin went on, a little louder. “I should tell you, there were a few councilmen outside, calling for a meeting this morning. Apparently, there was a scroll left outside their rooms…? They didn’t tell me much else, aside from specifically not inviting—”

“Lord Perrin?” Arthur finished the thought. “Yes, I’m aware.”

Merlin did his best to look innocent. “What’s going on, Arthur? What are you reading?”

Arthur beckoned Merlin to the desk, so he rounded it, leaning over Arthur’s shoulder. “Do you see this?” the king gestured to the parchment, now unfurled. “I thought I heard someone slip out of my room last night. I hurried outside, but the guards were awake and alert, and assured me that no one had come by. But when I looked around, I found this.”

Merlin pretended to read it as he leaned forward, but he knew it by heart. “This is a lot,” he summarized.

Arthur nodded. “I’ve been reading it over and over all night. It’s… it’s foolproof. I didn’t want to believe it, but the evidence is overwhelming.”

Merlin leaned back against the windowsill; Arthur turned his chair to face him, parchments still clutched excitedly. “Give me the summary,” Merlin requested.

“Someone, who managed to sneak into my chambers last night, is a genius.”

Merlin cocked an eyebrow, trying his best to tamp down the smugness that threatened to overtake him. “Oh? How’s that?”

“This letter is about Lord Perrin. He’s a Mercian spy.”

Merlin was surprised by Arthur's gleeful excitement on the subject. “Lord Perrin? The councilman?”

The king nodded. “Yes. Do you see how long this letter is? This details every single person involved in Perrin's and how they are involved. Look—they even rolled these notes into the scroll,” Arthur shoved the smaller pieces of paper into Merlin’s hands. “Actual evidence, messages sent between Perrin and a few members of my staff. Read them. They’re locations. Times. If this is all true, then Lord Perrin has been taking detailed notes of shift changes, the whereabouts of me and my knights. And he’s been reporting back to Mercia.”

Merlin made his eyes wide. “Is the palace compromised?”

Arthur grinned. “No. That’s the most impressive part.” Impressive? Ah, gee. “Whoever it is that wrote this, that did this, intercepted the messages, and tricked Perrin with fake ones!”

It was, of course, an ego boost to hear Arthur so enthralled, but Merlin hadn’t been expecting such a response. “How do you know it’s all true?” he asked instead, trying to regain control of the conversation.

“We’ll find out,” Arthur said, a cheeky smile on his face. “The mystery writer finished the letter by saying if we have any holdouts, proof will be provided in the council chambers at the ninth bell. They request the council be gathered.”

“If the lords outside your room were to be believed, the entire council has received this same letter,” Merlin supplied. “Shall I call for a summons anyway, sire?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, distracted again as his eyes scanned the parchment once more. He had this distant, almost delighted look in his eye, and he pored over the words like they were scripture. Merlin quickly and quietly left his chambers, suddenly overwhelmed.

Outside, the new guards had taken over command. As he walked away, he heard the guards starting a new conversation.

“Did you hear about the letters? The spy?”

“Of course I did, the rumor mill started early today.”

“I heard no one knows who wrote them.”

“Oh please. Everyone knows, Stekan.

“Who was it?”

“Ha! Who do you think?!”

Arthur had no idea how the anonymous person solved it. Honestly. Sure, they laid out all the evidence, but how did they gather it? How long did it take? What made them suspect there were Mercian spies in the castle in the first place? And how were they going to prove it, like they promised?

As the ninth bell tolled in the distance, Arthur looked at the gathered council. A dozen restless noblemen, all with varying opinions on how to run the kingdom, were displaying a rare show of unity. The Knights of the Round Table were there as well, too curious to sit it out after the gossip started spreading around. Arthur didn’t deny them entry to the show—but what if nothing happened? It wasn’t as though Arthur knew who the writer was, after all. It could just be a trick, something certain councilmen clearly believed.

Arthur was seated in his usual place, with Merlin standing a few paces behind. He’d been acting particularly subservient today, but the king hadn't had the chance to ruminate on it until now. He thought he recalled Merlin calling him “sire” in his chambers, but he had been so distracted by the letter that he hardly noticed. Maybe he should check in on him later. It had been a long time since the word “sire” was said with anything other than sarcasm or derision.

Just when Arthur began to think that this was all some scheme, that he may have been wrong to be so impressed with the detective skills of the anonymous scribe, the doors slammed open. In the doorway stood Lord Perrin, heaving for breath, shaking with rage.

The lord’s wild, wide eyes landed squarely on the king, and he strode forward. There was madness in his eyes, and in his foolhardy action. “You! he bellowed at the king.

Perrin didn’t make it far, and he managed to seem surprised when Leon and Percival intercepted and detained him. Arthur watched, pretending to be disinterested, but hiding anticipation. The writer had promised proof—and while Perrin certainly did act like a man possessed, this wasn’t enough to arrest him for espionage.

Luckily, Arthur needn’t have worried. Whatever the writer put in action clearly worked, as Perrin struggled in his confined hold. “You took it!” he shrieked at Arthur. “You stole it! It’s mine! Give it to me!”

Arthur shared a confused look with Leon and Percival as they tried to keep him still. The way Perrin thrashed and fought against them was useless, especially considering there were guards by the doors, and Gwaine and Elyan standing nearby if needed—not to mention the king himself, armed and patient.

“What did I steal from you, Lord Perrin?” Arthur asked, cocking his head. This earned him the result he’d been after, as Perrin grew more hysterical and furious.

“I should have known you’d take it from me!” he shouted. “Of course you'd want immortality, but you cannot have it! It’s mine it’s mine it’s mine it’s mine!”

“What on earth are you jabbering on about?” Arthur asked, pulling out his signature disgusted, haughty expression.

“My amulet! I need it! I need it!”

“Of course, your amulet,” Arthur parroted sarcastically. “Care to enlighten me?”

“You are a fool, Pendragon!” he screeched. “You think it will reverse your aging?! It will only work for me! It was enchanted for me!”

Well, if that wasn’t self-reporting, Arthur didn’t know what was. He saw his knights sharing a bemused look. “Lord Perrin, you are under arrest for treason. Both from trying to attack your king and by harboring an artifact of magical origin.”

“I need it!” Perrin screamed again, beyond reason. “Bayard will have your head! I’ve been sending him messages! Keeping track of your movements! Camelot will die at Mercia’s hand!”

And there it was. “I will happily add the charge of espionage. Sir Leon, Sir Percival, take this betrayer from our sight.” They dragged him kicking and screaming from the room. Arthur turned to Gwaine and Elyan. “I need you to send out the knights to arrest his accomplices. Lord Ferian,” he called to one of his trusted councilmen. “Will you show my knights the letter with the names?” Ferian nodded, pulling the scroll from the folds of his council robes.

The letter identified a seamstress, a kitchen maid, and a farrier from the stables. The knights dispatched quickly, and the council dispersed. As the councilmen left the room, they each stopped by Arthur’s seat to offer a mix of congratulations and apologies for not noticing there was a rat in their midst. Arthur certainly wasn’t one to judge, since he had been none the wiser himself.

Someone had known, and Arthur had not.

When the council members had all gone, Arthur turned to Merlin. “I wonder how they did it.”

“How who did what?” Merlin asked, clearly just now tuning in.

The king rolled his eyes. “The writer! They proved it. Somehow, they knew Perrin would come bursting in here at the ninth bell and give himself away! It’s so strange, because they didn’t write anything about a magical amulet.”

Merlin hummed in acknowledgement. “I suppose that raises one concerning question,” he noted, but Arthur had no idea what he meant. When Merlin noted his blank expression, he continued, “if neither he nor you have the amulet, who does?”

Ah, right. Merlin could be soberingly clever. “And why did he think I had it…” Arthur mused rhetorically. “I’ll find someone to search Lord Perrin’s chambers for the amulet. I’d hate to assume it’s in someone’s clutches if it turns out he dropped it between the bed and the wall.”

“Like how you always lose the vault keys behind your headboard?”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

Merlin laughed. “I’ll go check them,” he volunteered. “If anyone can find a missing object in a palace room, it’s a servant.”

Arthur smiled at him. Merlin was brilliant, as usual. “Thank you,” he said.

Merlin gawked at him. “Did you just say thank you?” Arthur’s face became red. “Who are you and what have you done with the king?”

“Shut up, Merlin!”

“Already used that one, sire. You’re losing your touch.”

“Why, you little—”

Arthur catapulted from his chair and lunged at Merlin, who scurried backward out of his way in the nick of time, cackling. “Too slow, sire.”

That was how Merlin should say “sire.” Arthur couldn’t help the smile that overtook him. Merlin paused, looking at Arthur with slight confusion. Of course, the king used this to his advantage, as he lunged once again. Merlin yelped and tried to run away, but Arthur was faster. He caught Merlin from behind, wrapping his arms around his servant’s torso. Merlin squealed as Arthur used his tight grip to pull Merlin to him, the man’s back hitting Arthur’s chest. Arthur then squeezed tighter and leaned back, taking Merlin with him, his feet lifting from the floor. Naturally, Merlin started kicking his legs furiously.

“Put me down!” he screamed, but he was laughing breathlessly the whole time. Arthur let himself have a wide, infatuated smile, knowing Merlin couldn't see it. If Merlin could see that smile—one which he must hide quite often in his presence—then his servant might realize how besotted Arthur was with him, how much Arthur wanted more with him, more of him, more, more, more—

Merlin's heel found Arthur's shin in one particularly aggressive kick and the king was startled out of his daydreaming, dropping Merlin instinctively.

“Ha!” Merlin called over his shoulder, grinning smugly all the way out of the room as he ran. Arthur sighed dreamily in his wake, flopping back down into his chair. He was helpless! Whenever Merlin was around these days, Arthur couldn't stop himself from getting carried away.

They'd known each other a long time, and recently Arthur thought that maybe, finally, life was calm enough for Merlin and himself to finally act on their unspoken... thing. But every time he tried to take down some of their barriers, Merlin slipped away. Arthur could feel it in the air each time Merlin walked out of a room. There was something stopping him, and Arthur feared more and more that maybe Merlin didn't feel the same way.

What if all this time, he was wrong? He had been so certain that Merlin was... at the very least interested! The idiot was always running into imminent danger for him, always offering pre-battle encouragement with those big doe eyes, always expressing his undying devotion for his king—Arthur was nearly certain that these were not the actions of a purely platonic friend.

But something kept Merlin pulling away. Sometimes the man seemed like a stranger, and Arthur couldn't help but think Merlin didn't like him after all. He still held out hope that he was wrong about this, but what else could explain the distance he still felt between them?

His mind went back to the letter, to Lord Perrin, to that writer. Arthur hadn't been distracted like that for a long time. He hadn't had the chance to ruminate on his nerves and potential heartbreak—his mind had been far from Merlin for once. Maybe it wasn't time to let this go, not yet. Arthur could do with a longer distraction.

Merlin was growing concerned. The sun was setting, and he hadn't seen Arthur since the council meeting in the morning. He knew that the prat hadn't stumbled into danger—Merlin had long since cast a sneaky little spell that went up like an alarm when that was the case. No, Arthur was fine and healthy, just mysteriously absent.

He knew Arthur would have to be back for dinner at some point, so he made sure to keep the amulet on him. That stupid, age-reversing amulet that started all of this several months ago.

When Merlin pushed the doors to Arthur's chambers open with his back, balancing his dinner platter and wine pitcher, he heard the angry scribbling of the king's quill, and groaned internally.

See, knowing (and being obsessed and in love with) a man for so many years lends one a certain understanding of the little things. Arthur had three scratching quill sounds that Merlin had learned to read. There was the soft but consistent scratch, which meant he was in a good mood, focused on his task and On a roll. Then there was the rough, halting scratch, which meant he was tired and had a headache and needed Merlin to oh-so-subtly get him to take a break while thinking it was his own idea. Finally, there was the loud, fast scratching, the rarest of them all. This meant that Arthur was irritated, sometimes downright pissed, and whatever he was writing was probably heated and hasty.

“What did the parchment ever do to you?” Merlin jested as he set down Arthur's dinner on the table. The king looked up from his desk and sent Merlin a quick, familiar smile that made his heart flutter, but frustration sank back in.

“No one knows anything! Or if they do, no one will tell me!” Arthur whined, letting his head fall onto his desk with a thunk.

Merlin sighed. “You always say that food helps you calm down and think clearly,” he remarked, not very subtly.

Arthur nodded, standing from the desk. “Yes, I do, don't I?” he said distractedly, walking to the table and sitting down. Merlin poured him some wine.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offered softly. He didn't want to overstep with Arthur; it often felt like he was constantly walking a fine line between their wonderful, fulfilling friendship and total ruination. He never knew when Arthur was in an accepting mood, and it made it hard for him to know when to offer support and when to keep his mouth shut.

But Arthur sent him another smile, and kicked the chair catty-corner to his own at the head of the table. “Sit down,” he said, a request disguised as a command. Merlin obliged, and when he sat there patiently, Arthur made a big show of rolling his eyes as he pushed the dinner plate toward Merlin. “Eat some of this, I can't possibly finish it.”

Arthur had been doing this more lately, and Merlin didn't know what to think about it.

It was nice, eating with him, talking with him—well, everything with Arthur was nice. Especially lately, so Merlin pushed the plate back toward Arthur. The king pouted, but then his mouth opened in a little "o" shape when Merlin took a fork and dug in, only having moved the plate to be shared between them.

"So," Merlin said after he swallowed his first mouthful. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing! Everything. One thing in particular."

"Eloquent as always, my lord."

Arthur snorted and reached for the pitcher of wine. Unconsciously, he began to pour the wine into another goblet as he spoke. "I spent the day trying to figure out who the anonymous writer was. But I've hit an obstacle."

Merlin raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised at two things: one, he had not been expecting Arthur to remain so interested in the writer's identity, and two, Arthur had just poured and passed him a goblet of wine, like he wasn't the literal king of Camelot.

"What obstacle?"

Arthur huffed, running a hand through his hair. "It seems that no one in the castle knows anything about it! Maybe some do, and simply don't want to tell me, but either way, I've learned nothing all day."

Merlin frowned. This was all a bit... unexpected. Sure, he knew that Arthur and the councilmen would read the letter, but he had expected them to take over from there. Claim the rooting out of Lord Perrin and his treachery as a personal victory, maybe advertise their success to the townspeople. He had not expected a whole day to pass where Arthur was still wondering who wrote the letter. Content, even so, that Arthur would never find out anyway, Merlin offered a placating smile. "I'm sorry, Arthur. Some things will always be a mystery."

Arthur stood abruptly, startling his servant. "Not this thing," he shot back. "I am not going to let this stand. I need to find the writer."

Merlin felt queasy. "Why is that so important to you?" he asked calmly as Arthur sat back down, still restless.

"Because if not for their interference, Mercia would know everything! Perrin sat in every council meeting for months. He lived in these very halls—there's no telling the volume of what he knew, or thought he knew, at least. This person, this anonymous writer, stepped in! They did a grand service to their kingdom. Not only did they see what the rest of us could not, I am in their debt." He looked at Merlin with serious, pleading eyes. "You have to understand why I want to find them. They're brilliant!"

This was... a lot to hear, but Merlin couldn't fend off his discomfort at Arthur's determination. "Find them for what, Arthur? To thank them?"

"Or reward them, or hire them—I don't know! I haven't thought that far ahead."

Merlin shook his head. "That's all good and well, but Arthur, you're forgetting the biggest part. This person could have signed their name, but they didn't."

Arthur folded his arms over his chest. "So?"

"So, they didn't sign their name because they didn't want you to know who they were.”

Arthur shrugged as though this were inconsequential. “Maybe they thought they would be in trouble. But it’s quite the opposite. Say, do you think you could ask the servants if they have any clue?” his face brightened with the idea. “It seems as though the laundresses know things before I do.”

The conversation had soured Merlin’s mood, which allowed him to be bold. “No thanks, Arthur.”

The king blinked, stupefied. “What does that mean?”

“It means no, dollophead,” said Merlin, standing from the table, his appetite gone. “I am leaving it alone, and honestly, Arthur, so should you.”

Arthur stood too, looking at Merlin like he was something incomprehensible. “I’m not asking much,” he defended.

“That isn’t the point,” Merlin said, a hand on his hip. “The writer would have taken credit if they wanted credit. Their behavior implies that they want to be left alone.”

“Then why do it at all?!” Arthur asked, his voice rising. Merlin lamented the telltale signs of a fight. “Why not just let Lord Perrin report to Mercia without interfering? What would be the point?!”

Merlin gaped at him. “Defending their kingdom isn’t enough?”

“Now it is you who doesn’t see the point.”

“Definitely not!” Merlin fought back with a sharp laugh. “Are you seriously saying you don’t believe anyone would try and help you and Camelot without some kind of… compensation?”

“Well, yes!” Arthur fired back. “The writer took the time to solve this before coming to the council, so obviously they wanted my attention. Why else would they do that instead of reporting their suspicions to me or my knights the moment they occurred?”

“Maybe they know that their suspicions are never taken seriously.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Okay, it was well past time to shut up now. Merlin looked away harshly, squirming out of Arthur’s angry, ceaseless gaze. “Nothing. Look, I have to go. I promised Gaius I would run out to the woods to gather some primrose for a patient he’s treating tomorrow.”

Arthur was not happy with Merlin’s sudden excuse to leave, but Merlin couldn’t quite tell what he was thinking. “You’ve hardly eaten anything,” he commented dryly, the words clearly a placeholder for something else.

Merlin replied, equally stoic, “if that will be all, sire…?”

It was clear Arthur had more to say, but he snapped his jaw shut, and his expression was shuttered. “You’re dismissed.”

Merlin escaped into the hall and took a deep breath. The guards gave him sympathetic looks, but he ignored them. They were well used to seeing Merlin leave this room in a huff.

He wasn’t lying about needing to be somewhere else—he had his… ahem, second job to work tonight. Rumors spread about a winged beast stealing animals from Camelot farms to the south. The work of Emrys was never done. Of course, telling Arthur about his magic was just as laughable as telling him that Merlin was the writer.

As he made his way through the castle to leave, he cursed as his hand brushed the amulet in his pocket. Great, just great. He’d grown so distracted fighting with Arthur that he forgot to hand it over. He couldn’t do it now—it would be too suspicious. Hanging on to a magical artifact for an entire day? Probably not the best idea. So he decided instead to make a detour in town.

Walking the cobblestone streets, Merlin stopped at a familiar house and knocked. The sun had barely set, so he didn’t feel too bad disturbing him.

The door swung open, and Merlin was face-to-face with a very unimpressed man.

“Hello George,” Merlin greeted sweetly, but the servant held his hand up in Merlin’s face.

“Allow me to stop you there,” George said, cavalier as usual. “I’ve already played my part in this. I thank you for what you’ve done for Camelot, but I do not want to be involved any further.”

Merlin wilted, but he didn’t give up. “I haven’t had the chance to thank you properly for delivering those letters for me.”

“And there is no need. We are even now.”

“I wanted to give you a gift, to show my appreciation,” Merlin said, carefully pulling the amulet from his pocket. George gasped and grabbed Merlin by his jacket collar, yanking him inside the house with surprising strength.

“What are you doing with that?!” George hissed, his voice quiet. “Perrin's amulet? Are you mad?”

“Relax,” Merlin said, trying his best to offer a calming smile. Judging by George’s look of displeasure, it hadn’t had the desired effect. “The amulet isn't your gift. I’m giving you the gift of recognition.”

At this, George’s eyebrows popped up. Merlin knew how to get the man interested. “Recognition for what?” he asked, still uneasy.

Merlin rolled his eyes. Wasn’t it obvious? “The king wants this amulet found,” he explained, holding back the bitter comment of how he wants me found even more. “If a certain, well-to-do servant gives this to His Majesty, having found it somewhere… well, the king might be grateful.”

George’s eyes glittered with want. Merlin knew well how the man desired nothing other than service to his king, and recognition for said service. “What if…” the man hesitated. “What if the king thinks I am a part of this? With magic it’s…” George winced, “complicated.”

“I know,” Merlin said softly, placing a light hand on George’s shoulder. “But this will be fine. Believe me. The king already thinks it might be lying about in the castle, and no one is more thorough in cleaning every nook and cranny than you.”

After some more hemming and hawing, George finally took the amulet. “Alright. But if anything goes wrong—”

“I’ll fix it.”

“Like you always do?”

Merlin blinked at him, surprised. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you don’t,” George replied with a snort. Before Merlin could reply with some insult, his fellow servant had turned away. “Have you eaten?” he asked stiffly over his shoulder. “I still have dinner on the table.”

Merlin’s stomach grumbled, having abandoned his previous dinner opportunity, and George’s house smelled of thyme and parsley. But he was not one to push his luck with George, especially considering the myriad of ways he’d helped him over the last few months, so he shook his head. “Thank you, but I should go. I have to… collect herbs. For Gaius.”

“Mmhm,” George muttered, rolling his eyes. Faster than Merlin could react, George had shoved a roll of bread in his hands. “If you’re going to spend your evening ‘collecting herbs,’ you’ll need some sustenance. Honestly, Merlin, how you’ve lived this long with your horrendous self-care habits, I’ll never know.”

Looking down at the roll, Merlin smiled. “You’re a lot like Arthur, you know.”

George’s back straightened immediately, and he looked at Merlin, aghast. “I-I would only be so fortunate to be anything like our esteemed king.”

“You are,” Merlin stressed, heading for the door. “I would know—I’m the only one who can put up with either of you.”

George’s glare could level the kingdom, so Merlin kept his snickering to a minimum as he stepped outside. But he’d only managed two steps when George called after him. “How am I like the king? I mean… if I were. Hypothetically.”

And though Merlin readied himself to tell him that what they had in common was an inability to show they care without being pompous and insulting about it—he stopped himself at the glimmer in George’s eye. After everything the servant had done to help Merlin expose Lord Perrin, he deserved something kind. So Merlin smiled gently at him.

“You’re both very brave,” he said truthfully. “And you’re both very dedicated. Arthur should be proud to have a servant like you in his castle.”

George turned red as a rose, and though some sort of babbling defense nearly escaped his tongue, he held back with only a nod, and a convenient slamming of the door.

Merlin’s grin remained as he snuck through the streets, readying himself for whatever battle awaited him tonight. And you’re both obnoxiously pompous, he added to himself.

Chapter Text

Arthur was supposed to be interested in the crime that had been committed—not in the person who solved it. That’s really where Merlin’s foolproof plan had fallen apart. Had Arthur reacted normally to the situation, everything would have been perfect.

Of course, Arthur never did what Merlin wanted him to do, did he? No, the pigheaded royal prat was more likely, every damn time, to do the opposite of what Merlin hoped.

It was funny, in a cruel way. He did this one completely magic-free! Merlin had written everything down, rooted out Perrin the old-fashioned way, and what good had it done him? Very little. Arthur doted on this mystery writer, which would be flattering if it weren’t so damn annoying. Merlin wasn’t against the idea of Arthur complimenting his brilliance—something which Merlin had in spades, regardless of what Arthur may have said on the subject in the past. What bothered him was that Arthur wouldn’t let it go, and Merlin couldn’t let Arthur find out it was him.

If Arthur knew Merlin was the mystery writer, then he’d take a second look at the evidence. Suddenly, maybe Lord Perrin wasn’t as guilty as Arthur thought. After all, Merlin was always wrong in Arthur’s book. No matter how often Merlin was right, the king never seemed to notice.

Arthur, I have a bad feeling about this!

Shut up, Merlin.

Arthur, there are bandits ahead, I know it!

Shut up, Merlin.

Arthur, you’re under an enchantment!

Shut up, Merlin.

Arthur, the kingdom will literally be destroyed if you do not heed my warning!

Shut up, Merlin.

Over and over again. A decade of service. A decade of… friendship? A decade of Merlin being in love with the stupid royal toad and hoping for even the smallest reciprocation. A smile, a kind word, a compliment. But for a decade, he heard the same thing, over and over.

Shut up, Merlin. That was always the way, wasn’t it?

How was Merlin expected to understand the way Arthur had been treating him lately? The king had been gentler, softer around the edges, more kind, more grateful. The warlock knew there was something there, something Arthur was offering if only Merlin took it, but he couldn’t. Because every time Arthur smiled at him, every meal offered or moment shared, all Merlin could hear was ten years of

SHUT.

UP.

MERLIN.

No, Arthur could not find out that Merlin was the writer. He’d probably set Perrin free, let him back on the council. Merlin couldn’t risk Arthur’s lack of faith in him ruining the kingdom, he just couldn’t.

Merlin walked to Arthur’s chambers with his breakfast, deciding whether “wakey wakey eggs and bakey” would be worth the inanimate object hurled at his head. But when Merlin reached Arthur's hall, the night shift guards looked at him guiltily.

“He's not in there, is he?” Merlin asked, his voice resigned in defeat. The guards nodded sheepishly. “Let me guess, he left to continue his little investigation?” They nodded again. Merlin sighed, and after a moment to collect himself, he offered the breakfast platter. “Someone should enjoy it,” he remarked as he passed it to a guard.

That was just as well. Merlin had been hoping to beg off to help out in town today anyway. George’s neighbor was moving out of Camelot and selling all of her furniture—Merlin knew that she could use some help packing up her house. Maybe now he’d have enough time to run to a scribe to get some flyers made to post around town. But before Merlin could turn on his heels to go, one of the guards stopped him. “Merlin?”

“Yes?”

“The king is very determined to find his man,” the guard warned, the other wide-eyed with agreement. “He isn't going to drop it.”

Merlin chewed his bottom lip. “I know,” he complained. “I'll work on it.”

Arthur waited patiently, albeit awkwardly, in the seamstress's small cottage, listening to the sound of gossip and laughter in the other room. He sat in one of her wooden chairs, his legs falling asleep, but he remained as patient as could be.

He was not letting this go, and so he stayed up half the night again, this time to think of a better plan. Apparently going around to random people and asking if they knew anything was not the brilliant idea he thought it was. Arthur changed tactics, tried to focus only on who might actually have been involved, when an idea struck.

In the letter, the writer mentioned intercepting those messages they provided with fake ones, so that Perrin would be none the wiser. He knew the notes were being smuggled out by a maid, the only member of Perrin's posse that they could not find.

Arthur thought on it, and a theory arose. If the writer he was looking for intercepted the messages, and the maid had time to flee the kingdom before Perrin's arrest, what if that meant a deal had been struck? What if the writer somehow got the maid on their side instead of Perrins's?

This led Arthur, early in the morning, to speak to the steward, who directed him to Guinevere, who knew every maid in the castle.

Guinevere had not been pleased.

“You cannot be serious, Arthur.”

Arthur had been offended—he'd only asked a simple question. “I'm very serious,” he had said defensively. “I need to find the mystery writer, and if I can figure out when and how they got the maid to flip, I'll be one step closer.”

Gwen had looked at him with that pinched, disappointed expression she donned especially for the king. “You're saying you haven't any idea who wrote the letter?”

Arthur blinked in surprise. “No, that's why I'm—why are you saying it like that? Do you know who it is?”

Guinevere smacked a hand to her forehead in unending frustration. “You can be unbelievable sometimes, Arthur. Truly.” She sighed, and wiped her hands on her apron, before stilling them thoughtfully. “The seamstress…” she mumbled to herself.

Arthur had many follow-up questions, but he decided not to push his luck. “What seamstress?” Did she mean the traitorous one in the dungeon?

“I suppose I might know something that can help you,” she said, with a sigh that told Arthur the last thing she wanted to do was help. “The maid, the one who worked for Lord Perrin, her name was Rosalind. She was very friendly with all of us, until one day. She snuck out one night, and none of us thought much of it, except, she was different after that. Distant. She wouldn't speak to any of us, only Mer—that's besides the point.”

Arthur was beginning to understand, though it was clear Gwen was keeping things from him. “Where did she go that night?”

So here he was. Sitting inside the seamstress's cottage, waiting for her to finish up with her client.

When the two women reemerged, the client had a dress slung over her arm, and she startled at the sight of the king. Clearly the seamstress hadn't shared with her that the king of Camelot was the visitor waiting in the main room. Arthur awkwardly nodded to her, but she scurried from the house like it was on fire.

“Not too popular with the ladies?” the seamstress teased. Arthur was surprised by the woman's gall, but he welcomed it.

“Leida, I wanted to thank you for taking the time to talk to me,” Arthur said in lieu of a response.

Leida smiled beatifically, walking into the kitchen and opening her cupboard. “It's not every day the king of Camelot shows up at my doorstep,” she said over her shoulder. “Who am I to turn away such an important guest?”

She poured two glasses of water and took them to her small table, pulling out a chair for Arthur, who took it awkwardly. “Right, well, I'm looking for someone. Someone I believe you may have met.”

Leida took a long sip from her glass, sitting down across the table. When she set it down, she smacked her lips leisurely, like she had all the time in the world. “The writer?”

Arthur was taken aback. “Yes. How did you…?”

“I worked with him very closely,” she said, batting her lashes in pride. Arthur took victory in the reveal that the writer was a man—that narrowed it down some. “I knew of his plan to write everything down. I helped him.”

“You helped him write it?”

“No, I helped him solve it,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I may not be Camelot's royal seamstress,” the title said with no dearth of bitterness, “but I am good at what I do. The writer needed my help. I assume you know what happened?”

Arthur looked away, briefly, schooling his expression. It wasn't something he wished to advertise, after all. “I know that the maid, Rosalind, was smuggling Lord Perrin's message out of the castle, to the farrier. Guinevere told me that Rosalind came to you one night, and her behavior changed completely after that. I just want to know what happened so that I can find the writer.”

Leida hummed thoughtfully. “You want to find him? Why? He was only trying to help.”

Arthur perked up. “Will you tell me who he is?”

“I'm afraid I never saw his face,” Leida said brusquely. “But I can tell you what happened that night, if you'd like to know.” Arthur's face must have spoken for itself, because she laughed. “Well, it didn't start the night that Rosalind came here. The writer visited me a week before with a proposition. He told me that there was a seamstress in the castle who was involved in a spy ring, led by Lord Perrin.”

“When was this?” Arthur asked.

“Oh, a little over a month past?” she tried to recall. Arthur bit his tongue, holding back his shock. Even a seamstress from the lower town knew about Lord Perrin's treachery when he didn't. And the writer had been working on this for longer than Arthur realized.

“He needed a trap, sire,” she continued as though it were obvious, “to catch Rosalind. In the dead of night, he shows up on my door with an enormous palace laundry basket full of maids’ aprons. He told me that there was a traitor in the castle, and that he needed my help. He could not trust the royal seamstresses, because one of them was a spy. This seamstress had apparently been sewing political secrets into a maid’s apron, and that maid was getting them out of the castle. The writer had fake messages in the traitor’s handwriting, including messages for the maid herself to come to my house. Not that she knew whose house it was, mind. And it worked like a charm.”

Arthur held a hand up for her to pause. “But how did you give it to her if you didn’t know who she was?”

“That’s why the writer needed a seamstress. I sewed that same note into every apron. Only one maid would be looking for undetectable notes sewn within her aprons! The others would never notice—unless you’re already in the habit of taking apart your clothes by the seams and sewing them back together,” she remarked with a smirk.

“Fair point,” Arthur mumbled. “It’s brilliant. Rosalind must have come here then, thinking Perrin wanted to meet her here.”

Leida nodded. “Yes, and instead of Lord Perrin, she met the writer and myself.”

“What happened?” Arthur asked. Rosalind was likely dangerous, packing weapons or running back to Perrin to tell him everything.

At this, Leida sighed. “I can’t help any more, I’m afraid. The writer spoke to her in the back, and I couldn’t hear them. They reemerged an hour later, and Rosalind walked right out. The writer thanked me for my help, and that was that. I didn’t see him again, my lord.”

“But you saw the writer’s messages?” Arthur pressed. “He gave me the notes he intercepted, but I have no idea what he sent to Perrin’s Mercian contact in their stead.”

“That was the only one I saw, sire. Like I said, he let Rosalind leave, so whatever happened after that night, he must have been the one sewing the fake messages into her apron.”

Arthur was lost. “What could they have been talking about?” he mused out loud.

Leida inched closer. “If you want my opinion, sire, I think that he and Rosalind struck a deal. I don’t know what he offered that made the maid change her loyalties, but there must be a reason she’s the only one of the four involved that was gone before the letters were delivered.”

Arthur agreed. The way it looked was that the writer promised Rosalind her freedom by way of warning if she traded sides. He may have offered even more, but Leida didn’t know. The king wondered if the writer had money with which to pay Rosalind—that could narrow it down even more.

Politely, Arthur thanked Leida for her help, and made to leave. He was no closer to finding the writer, but he was even more surprised and impressed. The writer had been intercepting these messages for a month. A lot more work went into this than he’d realized.

“One thing,” Arthur commented, one foot out the door as the realization struck. “It has always been obvious this writer is from Camelot given his astounding loyalty. You worked with him to sew those first notes. You must know who he is.”

Leida dipped her head. “I do.”

“So? Who is he?”

She was still smiling calmly, but she said, “I’m afraid I cannot say, Your Majesty.”

Arthur was stricken. “Why not?”

“Because I know he does not want his identity involved,” she said with a shrug. “He’s really helped out my business ever since I assisted him. I cannot pay back such a kindness with betrayal. I do hope you will not command me to, either.”

“I won’t,” Arthur swore, though he was grinding his jaw in discontent. It wasn’t his style of ruling to have his people fear his command, so he wouldn’t force her to. It wasn’t the right way to do things—Merlin had actually been the one to teach him that. “Thank you for your help, Leida.”

“Of course,” she said, bowing her head respectfully.

He is having a wonderful day. He should know it won’t last, but right now, he is feeling great. He’s outside, the weather is beautiful, and Merlin is too busy to rope him into anything.

This is, of course, when he runs directly into King Arthur in the courtyard.

His arms are full of flyers, and upon collision, the flyers scatter to the ground. Not that this is what bothers him—no, he has just mowed down the king of Camelot! This is terrible! His life is ruined! It’s all over! And to think—he’d always imagined that Merlin would be at fault if he were ever fired! But now he’d be lucky not to be executed!

“I am so sorry, Your Majesty! My deepest condolences! I have made a horrible, costly mistake!” he whines as he helps the king to his feet.

“George!” says the king, and he is… laughing? “Everything is quite alright.” Oh. Oh. Of course.

“You are ever so gracious, my lord,” he replies fondly, lowering his head. It is because his head is lowered that he sees the king—the king!—crouching to the ground to pick up the flyers that he had dropped. “Sire! Please, allow me!” he says, scandalized.

The king is still smiling as though something is funny, and he acts as though he does not hear his protests, gathering the flyers before the servant’s body reacts. He places them in the man’s hands. “Looks important,” the king says, generous and kind as always! He loves his king, he truly does.

“Oh!” he remembers the amulet. “Your Majesty, I have something for you. I found Lord Perrin’s age-reversing amulet.” The king’s eyes widen. “I have it here; I had planned to seek you out after lunch, but the fates had a different plan today.”

He takes the amulet from his pocket. It is wrapped in a cloth, and he hands it to the king. “You found it! I’m in your debt, George.”

“Of course not, sire! I would never ask that you—”

“It’s an expression, George, lighten up,” the king says with another laugh. He is beginning to see why His Majesty gets along with Merlin so well. “I’ll let you get back to whatever you’re doing with those flyers.”

He bows low, a couple of flyers sliding to the ground as his torso curves down. He flees quickly, unwilling to embarrass himself any further.

“Wait, George!” Arthur called after the man, but he was gone. Figures. That man was skittish as a newborn foal. Arthur was glad, not for the first time, that Merlin had been chosen as his manservant. He’d hate to have someone so deferential and respectful following him around all day. It would be so dull. No, he was perfectly happy with Merlin and his whirlwind attitude. More than happy, in fact.

Arthur bent to collect the few flyers that escaped. Certainly George wouldn’t really miss a few, but he still wasn’t going to let them litter the courtyard.

He glanced down at the flyer and felt something familiar stirring. He shook his head—this investigation was starting to get to him. He read the flyer, nothing too interesting. Someone was selling their furniture before they left the kingdom, fairly standard. But then it hit him like a blow to the head.

The handwriting. The big looping letters, the short “i”s, the curved “t”s. Whoever wrote these flyers was the mystery writer!

A bright, excited laugh slipped past his lips. He turned right back around and sprinted into town, inspired by the new lead.

He made his way to the address given on the flyer. His citizens parted like the sea where he marched, sensing the king’s determination, unwilling to stand in his way. He flew through the streets with an air of certainty that sent everyone scattering.

Arthur knew he was at the right place when he arrived, because there was a table and chairs sitting outside, a middle-aged woman set upon a dresser, swinging her legs casually. The woman did not notice the king’s approach, distracted as she was by a conversation with someone inside.

As he neared closer, the woman called something into the house, and the response was an intimately familiar sound—a mischievous, bright laugh that Arthur would be able to recognize beyond this life and the next. And there he was, Merlin, walking outside, hoisting a desk and setting it down gently.

“That’s the last of it,” Merlin said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing his forearms. Those muscular forearms, born from years of scrubbing floors spotless, almost always hidden away under jacket sleeves. Arthur paused, his mouth dry. He had to physically shake himself out of it. He was not here to ogle his manservant like usual, he was here to find the mystery writer.

“Your Majesty!” exclaimed the woman, noticing him at last. Merlin whipped around in mild surprise, an eyebrow raised.

“Hello,” Arthur said awkwardly. He wasn’t expecting Merlin to be here, and while seeing Merlin was always a pleasant thing, his servant seemed adamantly against Arthur’s investigation. He wasn’t sure how to ask about the writer of the flyers without Merlin getting annoyed with him, and he really didn’t want to fight. “I… um, I ran into George. He dropped these,” Arthur handed the woman the flyers.

She smiled at him, and graciously accepted them with thanks, though whether she actually wanted them or she just found it rude to dismiss the king, he didn’t know.

“I was thinking,” Arthur began, choosing his words carefully in Merlin’s presence. “The scribe in the castle is getting older. I am very impressed by the quality of writing on these flyers. Might you tell me where I can find this individual? We may need an extra hand soon.”

Fortunately, Merlin didn’t seem to see through Arthur’s lie, maybe because he had clearly been lost in thought. Arthur hoped it wouldn’t matter either way, Merlin wouldn’t have expected Arthur to recall something as specific as the handwriting of the writer.

“Benedict?” Merlin offered. “He’s very talented. We’re old friends.” Arthur lit up. Was the mystery writer this “Benedict” Merlin spoke of?

“Where can I find him?”

“His house is two doors down from the blacksmith—but you won’t find him there right now,” Merlin told him. “He’ll be at the tavern, having lunch.”

Fantastic. “Thank you,” Arthur said, mindlessly grabbing Merlin’s hands in his and squeezing them before bounding off. “I’ll see you at dinner!” he called over his shoulder, leaving a slack-jawed Merlin and a giggling woman in his dust.

Arthur’s mind was solely set on finding Benedict. Could he be the writer? Certainly he was a writer, and Arthur was certain the handwriting matched. It had to be him.

The king crashed into, rather than entering, the tavern. Heads shot up at the door flying open, and upon seeing their king, everyone’s heads shot back down to their food and drink. They probably hadn’t expected the royal to come sprinting inside, and Arthur was just fine with them ignoring him. He paused by a table, where the men looked up at him in awe.

“Excuse me,” Arthur asked, clearing his throat. “Do any of you know where I can find a man named Benedict?”

Too startled to speak, one of them raised a shaky finger and pointed across the tavern. Arthur followed his gaze to a young man sitting at a corner table by himself. He would have known it was him whether he had help or not; the man was scribbling away with a quill, a stack of parchments on the table beside him.

Arthur sauntered toward the table and plopped himself across. The scribe’s head raised, unaffected, and he looked at his king.

“Well, hello sire,” he said, rather casual, before looking back down at his parchment. It made sense that he was friends with Merlin.

“I know it was you,” Arthur said without hesitation.

Benedict’s head slowly rose again, a challenge. “What is it I’ve done, Your Majesty?”

The king pulled the original letter out of his cloak, placing it on the table facing Benedict. “This is your penmanship, is it not?”

The scribe looked between Arthur and the parchment once before frowning in defeat. “Alright, fine. Yes, it is my writing. But those are not my words. I was paid to rewrite it, sire.”

“Naturally,” Arthur sighed, his chin falling against his palm, propping himself up. “Allow me to guess: you’re not going to tell me who paid you?”

Benedict narrowed his eyes. “He hasn’t told you? Still?”

“The writer?” Arthur guessed. “Of course he hasn’t. All I’ve learned is that he’s a man, and that he’s rather good at sewing.”

The man across chuckled. His expression softened, and Arthur felt suddenly strange under his gaze. There was something akin to pity in Benedict’s dark brown eyes, but there was more than that.

“My king, I truly am sorry I cannot give you what you want. Everyone has been talking about it, you know. Everyone knows about Perrin and the writer and the letter and the council meeting—all of it. The rumor mill has been very busy.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “I swear that it’s the most efficient system in Camelot. If only I could channel it for good, and not my own embarrassment.” He leveled a stare at Benedict. “So everyone knows then that I’m searching for him?” A nod. “And that I’m not going to punish him? That I’m looking for him because I’m grateful?” Another nod. Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, perplexed. “Then why won’t he come forward?!”

The scribe stared at him a long while, long enough for Arthur to grow uncomfortable again. Maybe Benedict was a sorcerer reading his mind, because the king felt like he was being analyzed.

Finally, the scribe spoke. “I think perhaps, sire, that the reason is personal.”

“I know, I know, he has a very personal reason not to talk to me, I’ve heard it already.”

“No, my lord. I mean personal for you. The writer is not staying away because they’re shy, they are staying away, because you know them.”

That was unbelievable. Why would anyone who knew him stay silent like this? All of his friends would have just told him without anonymity, and his enemies would have easily gloated about it to him.

At his silence, Benedict added, “there’s a reason I think that. You should be thinking about it too. Why would someone hire me to do this? People pay me to write because they cannot. So why would someone, who has already written an entire exposé, pay me to rewrite it?”

Arthur understood. It made sense, even if he couldn’t see how the whole thing was possible. “They’d pay you because someone on the council could recognize their handwriting. I might recognize it.”

Benedict gave him that pitying look again, and this time Arthur wanted to throttle him. But the man was kind as he said, “It might not be someone you have any relationship with. It could be anyone!”

“Except you already know who it is,” Arthur reminded him in his irritation. “You’re giving me a hint, but you won’t just say a name?”

“I promised him I wouldn’t,” Benedict replied firmly, a fist on the table. “He does… so much. And he asks very little.”

Great, what was that supposed to mean? Arthur bit back a sigh, conflicted over everything he’d learned. “Allow me to pay your tab,” he offered inflexibly, “in thanks for your help.”

Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out his coin pouch, and as he did so, the amulet was dragged along with it. The chain had become tangled in the pouch strings, and Arthur gasped, dropping it onto the table, its cloth covering from George left behind in his pocket.

“What is that?” Benedict exclaimed as Arthur quickly ripped the amulet free and shoved it back inside his pocket.

“It was Perrin’s,” Arthur confessed. “An amulet, one that Perrin claimed reversed his aging and gave him immortality. I haven't figured out what it has to do with his espionage yet, but it's illegal either way."

"If you don't know how it's involved, how did you come across it?" Benedict asked curiously.

Arthur barked out a laugh. "The writer. Again. I don't know how he knew about it, or what exactly he did, but the amulet was his proof. You wrote a dozen copies of that letter, so surely you remember him promising us proof at the ninth bell the next morning."

"I wondered what he would do," Benedict mused. "I asked him, of course, but he didn't tell me. What happened with the amulet? The kingdom gossip hasn't alluded to it."

Arthur sighed, running a hand over his face. "I don't know what he did, or how he did it. Somehow he had convinced Perrin that I stole his amulet, and he had gone half mad! He was ranting and raving about me stealing his 'immortality.' I don't know what made him think I had it—other than the writer orchestrating something, of course. But no one had stolen it from him anyway; one of my servants found it, presumably in the castle."

"Interesting," Benedict said thoughtfully. "I assume Lord Perrin has not been very forthcoming with information about it then?"

Well... maybe he would be, if Arthur had thought to ask him. His face heated in embarrassment. He'd been so focused on the identity of the writer that he hadn't considered the amulet could be a clue—hell, maybe Perrin would know something about the writer himself.

The guards warned him that Perrin had ceased being talkative, and that he hardly reacted to his meals being brought to him. This was a far cry from the impudent man who had run ranting and raving into the councilroom only yesterday morning.

Arthur approached the cell that Perrin was in with his two captured accomplices. He set his torch on the sconce to illuminate the prisoners, making the seamstress and farrier startle and turn away.

Perrin, or who must have been him, sat against the wall, unmoving, his cloak held tight around himself. Arthur could see no flash of skin, only a cape with a human-shaped silhouette. He didn’t react like the others, so Arthur tapped on the bars with his ring, the sound a clang that rang through the dungeon.

“Perrin,” Arthur called. The man still did not stir; the seamstress and farrier tried to look small. Arthur didn’t need them anyway. “Perrin,” he repeated, “now would be a perfect time to speak to me. I will not be coming down here again.”

Reluctantly, the man shuffled in his seat. “I have nothing to say to you,” came his voice, husky and different than Arthur recognized. The king narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the dark at any glimpse of the traitorous councilman.

“Are you well?” Arthur asked, worried that the man had taken sick. Traitor or not, he deserved humane treatment while a prisoner of Camelot.

“No,” the man grumbled, the rough voice coming through again.

“I shall fetch Gaius to tend to—”

“I’m not sick!” the man interrupted. His throat sounded like he swallowed gravel, and in his outburst, he stood. Arthur still could not see his face, but Perrin crossed the cell and threw back the hood of his cloak. “I am old!”

Arthur couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped when the firelight illuminated Perrin’s face. The forty-something man who had been in his council for years had changed drastically overnight. His face was covered with wrinkles, dry and flaking. His eyes had sunken in, and his black hair had gone a brittle gray, completely gone on the top. He didn’t look old like many of his councilmen were old, he looked ancient.

“Perrin… how old are you?” Arthur asked.

The man scoffed, but seemed to consider it. Finally, he answered, “I am one hundred and twenty six years old. I’ll be dead this time tomorrow.”

That was a surprise. “Why did you ever take it off?” Arthur asked him, his curiosity taking over.

Perrin scowled, looking away. “I cannot wear it while I sleep. When my body is at rest, the amulet works too well. My age will regress to far younger than I desire. You wouldn't allow a child into your inner sanctum, so I am forced to hide the amulet in my chambers while I sleep.” He leaned forward, eyes predatory, and Arthur leaned back. “Do you have it? The amulet? I need it! Give it to me!”

There was the Perrin that Arthur had been expecting. Desperate, aggressive. But anything Arthur had planned to ask him was lost in the face of his change. True, Arthur knew the amulet reversed the effects of age, but he had not expected Perrin to be so old. Nor had he expected the certainty with which Perrin forecasted his imminent death.

Still, Arthur could not just hand over the amulet. He knew nothing about it—and if Perrin was truly as old as he said, then it was past his time anyway. With slight sympathy, Arthur shook his head. “It was never found,” he lied.

Perrin fell to his knees and let out a wail. Arthur felt a pang of guilt. He was not a big believer in execution as a punishment for a crime, though his father had been. Treason, even sorcery, did not warrant such a permanent solution. But Perrin’s death would be natural, it was the amulet that was not.

“He lied to me!” Perrin babbled, still howling like a grieving mother. “That servant lied to me!”

Servant? “What do you mean, Perrin? Who lied to you?”

“He said you were in there! He said! He said!”

Arthur’s mind was whirling, but Perrin was hysterical, so it was difficult to get information from him. “Who said?” Arthur demanded, his body pressed against the bars.

“He said! He said!”

“Perrin!” Arthur snapped. “I cannot help you if you do not tell me.”

The disgraced lord took in deep breaths to calm himself down. “He lied to me,” he muttered, repeating himself but far calmer than before. “He must be the one who took it.”

Suddenly, Perrin swooped forward, his arms slipping between the bars and grabbing Arthur by the collar unexpectedly. “He cannot have it!” Perrin hissed, his breath rancid so close to Arthur's nose. “You must take it from him, and bring it to me!”

Arthur fought the instinct to pull himself away, just needing one very quick question answered. “Who took it from you, Perrin?”

“George! The serving boy that turns down my bed and brings my breakfast!” Perrin squawked. Arthur finally yanked himself from the traitor's grip, more in shock than anything else. Perrin kept going. “He came to my chambers, half past eight bells like he did every morning. I could not find my amulet after I was dressed, and searched frantically for it. He told me that you had been in my room, that you had been at my mirror!”

Perrin’s hands came up to the long wispy hair that still sprouted from his head, moaning like a ghost as he curled his fingers into fists. “How did he know?” he cried hopelessly, falling to his knees in the cell. “How did he know?!”

There was no reasoning with a man in his state, Arthur understood, so he backed away. He abandoned Perrin to his self-imposed madness. It was out of sympathy that he spoke to one of his guards at the end of the dungeon hall about moving the other two prisoners to a different cell. Accomplices or not, they did not deserve to be around such an unstable man—especially if he truly would pass away from the effects of age sooner rather than later.

Perrin had given him some important information, despite the sickness of his mind. If Perrin was to be believed—a feat hard enough on its own—then it was George that planted the idea in his head that Arthur was the one to steal his amulet.

George? Perrin was half out of his mind. He couldn’t possibly mean George. But Perrin sounded so sure, and it would explain how the traitor wound up in the councilroom accusing Arthur of theft.

The more he thought about it, the more sense it made. The servant must be involved somehow. If George knew where Perrin had hidden his amulet—behind the mirror, apparently—then he would know what to say to scare Perrin like that.

The writer had promised evidence at the ninth bell, and George had sent a man whose composure only seemed to fail when that amulet was involved straight to the entire council, by implying that the king might have found it. If George served Perrin often, as the lord implied when he noted the servant's punctuality, then George could realistically learn Perrin's moods and triggers. He must have known that Perrin would lose his mind and go straight to the councilroom to brazenly get his amulet back. Arthur concluded that George must have been hired by the writer like Leida and Benedict.

But... Arthur paused in his train of thought, his feet freezing in a corridor halfway back to his chambers. What if...?

The direction the writer left for the councilmen was to gather at the ninth bell. That worked around George's usual schedule.

How did the writer discover the amulet? They would have had to witness Perrin taking it on or off—which, by the traitor's admission, happened only in his chambers. Who better than a servant to arrive a little late one night and see something they weren't meant to?

Or to arrive a little early one morning, like a certain eager young man he knew?

Oh gods. Arthur's head spun, and he practically stumbled inside his chambers once he arrived, ignoring the concerned glances from the guards.

The writer could have just hired George like he did the others. There was an explanation for everything, Arthur was sure.

But he couldn't rule out the possibility.

What if George was the writer?

He sighs contentedly as he lies in bed. He is happy, this has been another productive day! One for the books! He had embarrassed himself in front of His Majesty, but King Arthur was ever generous and kind. And the king remembers his name!

Even though he is happy, he finds he cannot sleep. His mind keeps thinking about Merlin. Merlin, Merlin, stupid Merlin.

He has this feeling in his chest, it is most confusing. The thought of Merlin usually irritates him, but now it is doing something else. He feels... concern.

Get ahold of yourself, George! he scolds. Merlin is annoying! He always will be. It is not my job to fret over the wellbeing of someone so... bad at their job!

Well, bad at one job at least. He can't speak for Merlin's other career—he knows as much as every other servant in the castle. He knows not to pry, and to point in the wrong direction when questioned.

But you know what he does, George's annoying conscience interrupted. And loathe as you are to admit it, you do not dislike him, as you pretend. You think he is a hero.

Too far, George!

Really, George? Is it too far? You know that threats do not simply disappear into the night. Not without his assistance. All of the time. Admit it, you respect him.

He shakes himself out of it. Once one starts arguing with themselves, it's best to just shut it down for the evening.

Oh well, the pesky conscience persisted. At least Merlin hasn't put us in any more trouble, right George?

On that we agree, George. All of this writer business is behind us.

Chapter Text

Merlin whistled as he walked down the corridor to Arthur’s chambers. With the king’s dinner in hand, he was practicing the conversation he intended to have with Arthur in his head.

This required a delicate touch. He couldn’t just say “hey, Arthur, you have to let this mystery writer thing go.” That hadn't gone over well the first time. The man was stubborn as an ox—even if he was a very cute ox. There was no reasoning with Arthur sometimes.

Tonight was apparently one of those times.

Merlin pushed the door open with his back, balancing Arthur’s ever-elaborate dinner tray in his expert arms. “I hope you’re hungry!” Merlin called out as he turned around, announcing his presence. “I think that Cook is trying to fatten you up.”

Arthur was at his desk, writing furiously. Merlin graciously bit back a beleaguered sigh—the second day in a row that Arthur was losing his cool behind the desk. Clearly this ‘writer’ business was not going away on its own any time soon.

“Arthur,” Merlin repeated, slamming the food down on the table, finally earning the prat’s attention. His head flew up and he looked at Merlin with wide eyes, registering his presence for the first time.

“Merlin!” Arthur said in surprise. “How long have you been here?” Was it treason to strangle the king?

Ignoring the question, Merlin put a hand on his hip. “Please tell me you aren’t still wasting your time rooting out that writer.”

“It isn’t a waste!” Arthur snapped, defensive. “You just don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand? Please, enlighten me,” Merlin said testily.

“You don’t understand how important this is!”

“Because it’s not important!” Merlin snapped. “Good lord, Arthur! Let it go!”

Arthur stood suddenly, rounding the desk and walking right up to Merlin. Usually, this closeness would send Merlin’s face flushing and legs wobbling, but he remained firm. “‘Let it go’?” the king repeated, aghast. “How can I, Merlin? How can I let this person waltz around the kingdom unrewarded? Unacknowledged? Unthanked?!”

Merlin almost screamed you usually do! but his temper fizzled out. He couldn’t slip up like that—especially since it was now very clear to him what happened that afternoon with Benedict.

“You lied about Benedict this afternoon,” Merlin said, more of an aloud realization than an accusation. “You didn’t want to hire him at all. He had something to do with your aggravating investigation.”

Arthur looked away, a little guilty, but his gaze quickly returned, arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. “Yes, he did. And I knew if I mentioned the writer around you, you’d have just been angry and unhelpful.”

“Believe me, you haven’t begun to see how 'angry and unhelpful' I can be.”

“I've certainly seen my fair share of your idiocy,” Arthur barked back, beyond furious now. “You know why I want to find this writer, Merlin? Because it would be nice to have someone with a modicum of intellect around me for once, instead of uneducated, stupid servants!”

“Wow, is that one aimed at just me? Or would you like to yell that one out loud in front of the laundresses too?”

“Get the hell out.”

Merlin took a startled step back. “What?”

Arthur was seething, his hands balled into fists like he would strike. “I said get out. Or are you deaf as well as useless?”

The warlock bit his tongue to keep from exasperatedly repeating the word ‘useless,’ figuring it wouldn’t help his case. Instead, he took a deep breath in through his nose and composed himself. In the face of Arthur’s cherry red fury, Merlin stiffly bowed. “Sire,” he said stiffly in the way of farewell, turning around and hurrying out.

Out in the hall, Merlin didn’t stop to make small talk with the guards, opting to make a beeline for the courtyard.

He needed to let off steam after that disastrous conversation, and had heard rumblings of a large group of bandits near the Essetir border—perfect for some target practice. Arthur was certainly not the only one who liked to fight and exhaust his way through his emotions.

Merlin slipped into the stables and readied his mare, galloping at a thunderous pace. The wind blew his hair all over the place, and as the ground was shredded beneath his horse's hooves, he felt some of the tension drain from him.

Arthur was impossible. He wasn't letting this go, and Merlin was being pushed to his limit. There was something cruel and ironic about the way that Arthur doted on the writer's skill and intellect while still clearly thinking Merlin was an idiot.

Merlin knew he wasn't a fool, as Arthur believed him to be. He knew that he was smart, and confident, and brave, and strong. Would it kill Arthur to see him that way?

As he rode through the woods, he thought back on their recent situation. Up until all this writer business, Arthur had been growing kinder. Softer around the edges, more gentle. It had been enough to make Merlin question if maybe Arthur wasn't as far away from him as he thought, but how could it be so? It had to be Merlin’s own wishful thinking, inventing a version of the man he was hopelessly in love with—a version where Arthur could love him back. But most days it seemed Arthur didn't even respect him, let alone like him. Sometimes Merlin wondered if they were even friends, despite all they had been through together.

He knew Arthur's temper had likely gotten the better of him back there, and that Arthur probably didn't mean to say such horrible things. But the king’s actions always reflected that same sentiment; that Merlin was an uneducated fool.

The bandits were dispatched in the blink of an eye that night, tied to the trees with rope knotted in a bow, like a present. Merlin had half a mind to leave a note and actually sign his goddamn name, but he went slinking off into the shadows to find another fight to win.

He is getting rather tired of being thrust into the middle of Merlin and His Majesty's quarrels. The two fight like the old married couple they appear to be, and more often than not, George is the one forced to hear Merlin's complaints! As though the man has any right to complain about his king. Shameful!

Admittedly though, over the years, he has grown rather used to Merlin's flippancy regarding title. Though he himself would never stoop so low, he can see the benefit to Merlin's world outlook. This is why it comes as such a surprise when he sees Merlin, rather early in the morning, looking as though he never went near a bed, asking yet another favor.

“You want me to attend Arthur today?” he asks, blinking in shock.

Merlin is not his characteristically aggravating self today, and George is upset. The man does not rise to the particularly dissatisfied tone, opting instead to look at the wall just past him. “If it isn't too much trouble,” Merlin amends, “and I can take over whatever duties you had to do today, I just…” he trails off.

He is unused to Merlin in such a meek form. So unused, in fact, that he recklessly agrees to attend the king and tells Merlin to get some sleep.

Though he loves his king, he is often a bundle of nerves around him. Still, he steadies himself outside of the king's chambers, a proper breakfast on a trolley. The evening guards raise their eyebrows at the veritable feast, and he grins. He is proud of how much better he is at his job than Merlin.

He enters silently, wheeling the breakfast to the bed. His Majesty should be pampered by his servants, after all, and he wishes to provide his master such a service following the king's kindness in the courtyard yesterday.

He pulls open the curtains gently, and he sees the king stir, eyes still screwed shut. That is quite alright; he is very patient! He will wait and allow his king to wake naturally. After a moment or so, the king moves again, letting out an exaggerated huff. He must stifle a laugh—oh, how funny His Majesty can be! Yet he remains silent and steady.

The king's eyes finally blink open, a hint of confusion melting into disappointment when his gaze focused. “George,” Arthur said with a tired sigh, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. “Should I even ask?”

He hadn't thought of what to tell him about Merlin, for Merlin had not been forthcoming with his reasons to stay away. “Apologies, sire,” he says with a dip of his head. “Merlin did not provide me with a reason for his absence—though I’m certain it was urgent, Your Majesty,” he says with a small smile. Merlin was likely off doing important things, after all.

“And I’m certain it wasn’t,” the king grumbles, and he graciously pretends not to hear.

He feels eyes following him with sudden interest as he lays out a cloth napkin on the king’s chest. His Majesty pushes himself upright, but unlike the last time he served him, the king does not wave off the breakfast in bed.

“Say, George,” the king says to him, “you’ve lived in Camelot a long time, have you not?”

“Over a decade of service to the crown, my liege,” he says, and his chest puffs in pride.

“You’ve developed some good instincts here, then?”

What a strange question! Though, of course, he is flattered to be addressed by the king at all. “I suppose,” he says, unsure. “I always know when a rug needs to be changed, or a curtain needs to be repaired, and let me tell you, sire, everything I know about brass—”

“That's great, George,” the king interrupts, “but I meant instincts about people. You’ve served many noblemen and ladies over the years, I assume.”

“Well, yes,” he admits, “though they are all delightful!”

The king does not look as though he believes him, and he wilts. But George truly believes this—those of noble blood may be stuck in their ways at times, but they have earned a certain amount of stubbornness by nature of birth, haven’t they? It is his joy to serve them.

“What about Perrin?” the king asks unexpectedly. “You served him repeatedly, did you not?”

He nods. “Most mornings,” he confirms. “He was not a very warm man, but he was polite enough.”

The king looks disappointed by this answer, and the servant suddenly feels like he failed a test.

“Perrin never… struck a nerve?” the king presses.

He really tries to think back on it. “Not that I can recall, sire,” he says, sad to disappoint again. “I must admit, I do not have the instincts about men with ill-intent that Merlin so infamously has. I am deeply remorseful over that, in fact, and—”

“Wait, wait, slow down,” the king held his hands up, looking at him with no shortage of surprise. “What was that about Merlin?”

Now he is confused. Why does His Majesty sound so lost? He is the man who spends the most time with Merlin, surely he knows the basic tenets of the man’s personality. “Do you mean… Merlin’s instincts, sire?” Maybe he just misunderstood the king, that must be all. “As I’m sure you’re well aware, no one can spot a snake in the grass as quickly as Merlin. The palace staff is beyond grateful for his instincts in such matters. I can certainly understand your desire to have him as your manservant, sire. He is an asset to our staff, and a credit to this kingdom.”

In the wake of such praise, he found himself surprised. It was not as though the man did not respect Merlin, but he hardly knew how much until it all came tumbling out in front of the king. The king looked just as surprised as he was, so he decided to bring this interaction to a close.

“Of course, at other times, he can be quite aggravating, can’t he?” he jests. The king lets out a laugh, and he is so excited that he has made His Majesty laugh! What an auspicious day!

If the king’s mood is strange for the rest of the morning, he does not notice. He made the king laugh! He made him laugh!

Arthur paced his chambers after the servant left. George was deflecting. He couldn’t possibly have meant all that he said about Merlin. Merlin had terrible instincts! That was why Arthur never listened to him! No, George must have felt Arthur getting too close to discovering his identity as the writer. That’s alright—there was more that the king could do.

It was time for drastic measures.

“HAS HE LOST HIS DAMN MIND?!”

Guinevere cringed at Merlin’s raised voice, but it was clear she wholeheartedly agreed. “How did you not know about this?” she asked him, arms crossed over her chest.

Merlin pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. He was seconds away from burning the castle to the ground. Hell, he didn’t have to do that—he just needed to go out of town for a day or so and the kingdom would be in ruin.

He had spent the morning blessing the fields of Camelot’s farmers. He did this about once a month, just to cure the crops of any diseases or rots that might have crept in. Over the years, he had gotten rather good at magic involving nature, so Camelot had not found themselves in the throes of famine since Arthur killed that unicorn. When Merlin came back around lunch, he was surprised to find all of the servants bustling about, readying the castle with alarming speed.

He found Gwen at the water pump, and she told him of the newest way Arthur had lost all sanity.

“This is a horrible idea,” he grumbled, taking one of Gwen’s buckets from her grip to help. “I should have been the one to wake him this morning; maybe he would have mentioned something about it and I could have stopped him.”

Gwen had grown rather good at reading Merlin’s moods, and her eyebrows rose in realization. “You’re fighting,” she concluded.

“Yes.”

She gave him a pitying smile and nudged his arm with hers as they walked through town. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Merlin thought about it for a moment. He really didn’t want to tell her the real reason—Arthur calling him stupid didn’t need to be public knowledge—but he could tell her some of it. “He’s gone completely off the handle,” Merlin complained. “He is obsessed with finding the mystery writer.”

“You.”

Merlin blinked, surprised at her bluntness, but nodded. “Yes. Me. And since I don’t want him to know, he’s been getting angry with me about it. I know he wants me to be more helpful in finding the writer, but how can I help him?”

“You could tell him the truth,” Gwen pointed out.

Merlin laughed. “Right, because that would go over well.”

Gwen frowned, but didn’t argue. Instead, she added, “I still don’t know how all of that equals the two of you fighting.”

Merlin ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know… I’ve been tired lately, lots of late nights, you know? Maybe it’s my fault—I’ve been irritable. Cranky. So when he insulted my intelligence, I got a bit… testy.”

He didn’t understand the stare that was leveled at him. “Please tell me that was a bad joke,” Gwen said, her voice suddenly serious. Merlin didn’t know how best to respond, and just stared at her mutely. She let out a sigh that expressed her exhaustion with Arthur and Merlin’s antics. “Merlin, if Arthur made a comment about your intelligence, then you have every right to be ‘testy.’”

“He… means well.”

“Then he should act like it!”

Merlin sighed, just as exhausted as Gwen. Yes, maybe Arthur had gone a little too far this time, but he hadn’t said anything Merlin didn’t already assume Arthur believed. Of course Arthur thought he was dumb—that was the whole reason for the anonymity in the first place.

“Well, Arthur is certainly the fool today,” Gwen changed the subject, much to Merlin’s gratitude. “I cannot believe he is offering a reward. All to catch you.”

Merlin snorted. “I do see the humor in it, believe me. Offering a reward is a horrible idea. People are going to take advantage of it, he should know that!”

“Oh boy,” Gwen said, freezing in place. They had just entered the courtyard, and Merlin nearly dropped Gwen’s water bucket. “Taking advantage indeed.”

People were lined up outside the castle, the steps full of a massive crowd. It was busier than Merlin and Gwen had ever seen, and they’d been host to many feasts full of obnoxious nobles. The difference now seemed to be a matter of income. Everyone flooding the courtyard now were commoners—regular citizens of Camelot.

“How much money did Arthur promise as reward for the writer?” Merlin asked, casting a glance at Gwen.

She sighed. “Let's just say it is enough to feed a family of four for a year,” she told him. Merlin’s eyes widened. “I’ll sneak in the side entrance,” she decided, looking over to the undercrofts lining the square.

Merlin gestured toward the front of the crowd, where poor Sirs Leon and Percival were trying to keep everyone from just charging inside. “I’ll go see if they need any help.”

Giving Gwen her bucket back, Merlin wove his way through the crowd of people, toward the castle entrance.

“Please, make a single file line!” Leon was shouting, sounding just as exhausted as Merlin felt. “You will all get a chance to see the king!”

Merlin managed to snake his way up to Leon’s side, casting Percival a sympathetic glance as he had to bodily block a few stubborn young men from bursting inside.

“I didn’t realize we were hosting a circus tonight,” Merlin grumbled into Leon’s ear. “Do you need some help?”

Leon glanced at Merlin, a troubled look in his eyes. “No, you don’t have to—this crowd is beyond help, Merlin,” he told him, a frown twisting his face into a bitter expression.

Despite what the knight told him, Merlin knew that this was a situation he could aid with some subtle tricks of his. He turned to the crowd. “Everyone quiet!” he shouted over the din, his words leaving his throat with a little magic attached. The crowd immediately fell silent. If someone were to look very closely, they would see a nearly translucent shimmering of gold leaving Merlin’s mouth like a breath on a winter’s day. “You will all get into a line, and come inside one at a time! And you will act as the people you are, not the animals you are behaving like. Is that clear?” The crowd muttered under their breath, some likely more annoyed than others, but there was a collective sense of assent. “Good.” Merlin turned to Leon. “They’re all yours,” he said with a small smile, registering Leon’s relief for only a moment before he made his own way inside.

Merlin wasted no time as he passed the winding line of people that were inside. The line was as good a guide as any for where the king must be, as Merlin followed them like a river to its source. It was clear after only a few corners turned that the line stretched from the throne room. Merlin nodded at people as he passed, and the general response from those in line seemed to be sheepishly looking away. It took Merlin a moment before he realized the reason why.

These assholes all knew Merlin was the writer. Or at the very least, they suspected it.

Merlin was nearly at the throne room when he did a double-take, passing a familiar face.

“Benedict?! What the hell are you doing here?”

The scribe grinned at him, apparently not feeling the same guilt as everyone else. “Oh, hello Merlin! Have you heard? The king is offering the mystery writer a chest full of gold! I’m trying my hand, like everyone else,” Benedict gestured at the people in line around him, all of whom avoided Merlin’s gaze.

The warlock sighed, already sick of this new development. “Yes, I’ve heard, Benedict. Haven’t you already spoken to the king about your part in this?”

Benedict shrugged. “Yes, but maybe I can convince him I was lying. It’s quite a lot of money, Merlin. I don't know why you don't want it.”

“Unbelievable,” Merlin muttered to himself, shaking his head, leaving Benedict behind without a goodbye. He stormed up to the throne room doors, shut and guarded by four castle guards. Merlin stood in front of them with his hands firmly on his hips, a disapproving frown. “Are you going to let me through?” he asked, though it was rhetorical. The guards needed only share one glance with each other before acquiescing with a look of sympathy. Great! Who in the whole kingdom didn’t know Merlin was the writer?!

Oh, right. Arthur.

The guards opened the doors for him, which was probably for the best, since Merlin had planned to do so with excessive force. But the way he stomped into the room could not have gone unnoticed by any shred of the imagination.

Arthur was seated on the throne, a woman Merlin recognized from town standing before him. The scowl that Arthur offered at Merlin’s hasty entrance could have withered every plant in the castle, but Merlin wasn’t chastised.

“Pardon my manservant’s manners,” Arthur told the woman through gritted teeth. “He has none.”

Merlin gave Arthur his best fuck-you grin, all teeth. The woman’s gaze landed on Merlin and she stiffened, looking suddenly nervous. “I’m so sorry,” she said, directly to Merlin who wanted to melt into the floor. “I shouldn’t have…” she trailed off, then whirled back on the king. “I lied. I didn’t write it. Good day.” She scurried out of the room faster than Merlin had stormed in, leaving Merlin and Arthur alone.

“What did you do to intimidate her?” Arthur asked, dumbfounded. “She looked downright scared!”

Merlin ignored this—because really, how could he answer that?—and instead glared at Arthur. “You must be out of your damn mind if you think this is a good idea. Are you really going to waste your time listening to every single down-on-their-luck citizen that wants the absurd amount of coin you promised?! Honestly, Arthur!” The king opened his mouth to argue back, but Merlin wasn’t done. “And you think I’m an idiot? Do you honestly believe the mystery writer will be content to just wait in that insanely long line out there for a chance to speak to you?”

“He might!” Arthur fired back, standing from the throne. “He pushed me to do this. I will find out who he is, Merlin, whether you’re happy about it or not!”

“Gods above, Arthur, what’s next? Are you going to have the staff wait on everyone out there? Perhaps invite them all to a feast in the writer’s honor?!”

For once in his life, Merlin had been a genius. Arthur grinned as he entered the Great Hall that evening, the entire room bustling with life.

A feast, thrown for the writer! And everyone who had waited in line that morning was invited.

Admittedly, his attempt at forcing George from the shadows failed. True, there was still a chance that George was not the writer, but Arthur was sure it was him. It must be. The man was incredibly loyal, dedicated to Camelot, intelligent, thorough, and well connected. He would know how to sew, would have been most likely to uncover Perrin’s amulet and treachery after serving him every morning, and he would need to hire someone to write for him—George often kept notes and schedules for the councilmen. The anonymity made sense too, because George was perhaps a little overly obsessed with title and station. He hadn’t come forward yet because he likely didn’t think it was his right to receive credit for something so important.

Arthur had hoped that the reward money would be enough to get George to fess up, but as far as he knew, George had gone about his usual work day. A feast would ensure the servant’s presence, for he would be working it.

The truth was, though Arthur’s intention with the reward had been just to incentivize the servant, it had morphed into something else. Something a bit more clever. And it was Merlin and his irritating stubbornness that gave him the idea.

When Merlin came into the throne room, a temper tantrum at the ready, Arthur realized that while money is a good motivator, anger is a better one. Merlin had been so upset with Arthur after their argument the night prior that the king didn’t think his manservant would grace him with his presence all day. But when Merlin heard about Arthur’s clever scheme, his anger overtook him and sent him straight to Arthur once more. If it worked with Merlin, maybe it would work with George! Arthur could frustrate him enough to lose his cool and blurt it out.

And how could he do that? By making George set up and work a last-second feast, directly serving a hoard of people impersonating him and trying to take credit for his work!

It was cruel, but it was brilliant. And when it was over, he’d apologize for the ruse and the work, and reward George properly. But if George was determined to be stubborn, then Arthur would match it.

Admittedly, the feast already seemed a bit unruly. He did forget that his guests were not quite used to such fineries, and there was an air of chaos about the Great Hall. There was far more food and wine on the floor than usual, and the crowd was rather… loud.

The servants were trying to take it in stride, but they were unused to such rabble so early into the celebration. Food was being thrown, ale was being sloshed, and yet the sun hadn’t even yet started setting.

Arthur’s eyes scanned the room for George, who he found ducking beneath a thrown chicken leg. The servant straightened, rolling his shoulders. Arthur bit back a laugh; it was funny to see the man ruffled, since he so rarely was.

The king made his rounds, speaking briefly to some of his guests, but never letting George wander far. He narrowed his eyes as he noticed a behavioral change from when he was nearby to when he walked away. When Arthur was close, all wine stayed firmly in their cups, but the moment he moved away, it would slosh on the floor, and sometimes on the palace servants themselves. It was rude enough that Arthur considered interrupting the festivities to make an announcement about the messiness, but wasn’t the whole point of this feast to rile George up? He would find some other way to make it up to his staff after George fesses up.

The moment Arthur was waiting for finally came. The feast had been going for about an hour, and Arthur was getting tired of all of the people coming up to him and trying to convince him they were the writer. It was clear none of them were, but he had to keep up the ruse, feigning interest in their lies. He heard the sound of a loud shatter ringing through the Great Hall, bringing his attention to George, who appeared to have dropped a large serving platter of food. A man stood guiltily beside him, and the servant’s face was growing into a new, deep shade of red.

Naturally, Merlin was there in an instant, waving off the man who must have crashed into George and stooping down to clean up the mess. After a moment, George broke himself out of his incensed trance and joined Merlin on the floor, gathering the pieces of the broken plate as Merlin scrubbed the mess left by the food.

The party had gone back to normal, ignoring the mess, but Arthur watched the two servants like a hawk. Gwen had joined them; she placed a hand on George’s shoulder in a comforting manner, but the man flinched and stalked away, spine rigid as he slipped out of the Hall. Gwen moved to follow him, but Merlin put his hand on her arm, and went out to follow George himself.

It was time for Arthur to take his leave.

Leaving Leon with the instruction to wrap the feast up and send everyone home, Arthur tried to catch up with the two servants. Out in the hallway, he caught the faint sound of footsteps retreating in the distance and followed them.

Arthur made sure to stay silent and stealthy as he tracked Merlin through the halls. After a while, it was apparent that George was storming off toward the servants’ quarters, likely in search of some peace and quiet given that everyone else was still at the feast.

“George, wait!” Merlin called as he caught up to him. Arthur looked around the corner and then threw himself back, flattening himself against the wall. The servants had stopped in a dim-lit corridor, away from prying eyes. Not away from the king’s prying ears, though, as he remained hidden just around the bend. He crouched to the ground so he could peer around the corner and see them. George had stopped, twirling to face Merlin, a look of obvious irritation on his face.

“What, Merlin? How can I help you now?”

Merlin ignored the dig. “Are you alright? I know it’s been a stressful night—”

“Are you serious?” George asked, his eyebrows rising in incredulity. “You must be jesting. What is the matter with you?”

Merlin was still calm, which Arthur found unfair. His manservant had been rather irritable and hot-tempered around him, so why was he so patient with George? Was it—no, it couldn’t be. But maybe… did Merlin know that George was the mystery writer?!

“George, I know it’s been an odd few days, but I promise—”

“Don’t you dare!” George hissed, uncharacteristically upset. He was clearly a man at the end of his tether, and for the first time Arthur wondered if he really had gone too far. “Don’t you dare tell me that His Majesty will get over it. You cannot possibly still be so naïve!”

“George…”

“No!” the man shouted angrily, hands balled into fists. “I have had enough! And believe me, Merlin, I am not the only one! Do you know what Guinevere said to me, just before the feast? She said that it was clear every single person in that room knew the identity of the writer! And yet, they all lined up to try for the credit anyway!”

Merlin nodded in understanding. “Well, Arthur promised the writer quite a lot of money, I would imagine that it would draw a crowd.”

George’s eyes widened, and for a moment, Arthur genuinely believed that the typically meek man was about to throw a punch. “Are you kidding me?! That is far from the point, Merlin! Those so-called ‘guests’ are brutes! The whole lot of them! That they’d even want to take credit for something they haven’t done is bad enough!”

Finally! Arthur thought, mentally cheering. George was going to admit that he was the writer at last! Arthur’s plan was working.

“It’ll be alright, George,” Merlin promised, his voice nearly pleading. “I know they're messy and a little rude—”

“Oh please!” George cried. “The knights are messy. The noblemen and ladies can be rude. These people are animals!” He held up a hand to silence Merlin's immediate defense. “It is not because they are commoners, Merlin, it is because they are… they are… clotpoles!”

Merlin blinked at him in surprise. “That's… that's my word.”

“And it is rather fitting! Merlin, these people are supposed to be our friends! They, better than the knights and nobleman, know what it is like to have your actions go unappreciated! How dare they try and take credit for something they did not do! They understand better than anyone else what that feels like!”

George had all but implied that he was the writer! Arthur was smiling victoriously from his hiding place.

“It isn't personal,” Merlin said soothingly. “It's purely financial.”

“I don't care!” George shouted, stomping his foot. Here it was, it was coming! He was finally going to say—“gods dammit, Merlin! Why can't you just put us all out of our misery and tell Arthur the truth! Just tell him that you wrote it!”

Wait… huh?

“It's not that simple.”

“How so?!” George asked, running his hands through his hair feverishly. “I am at the end of my rope, Merlin! Just tell His Majesty that it was obviously you and be done with it!”

Merlin barked out a laugh. “Like he'd ever believe me! It's for the best that he doesn't know I'm the mystery writer, George, you must trust me on that.”

Arthur felt faint.

It couldn’t be true. This had to be a joke—maybe they knew Arthur was secretly watching them and were pulling his leg. It could just be revenge for Arthur’s sudden elaborate feast. And yet, George seemed upset, and there was doubt that the stiff servant was any good at acting. George was far more flustered and bold and angry than the king had ever seen him, and it felt pretty real.

But if they weren’t having him on, then they were telling the truth. Which meant there was a possibility that Arthur had spent the last three days searching for his own manservant.

George wasn’t letting it go. “Well then, if he doesn't believe you, why not have everyone line up to corroborate it?! Every servant in the castle, and every ruffian currently in the Great Hall for that matter, could easily tell the king that it was you! Mostly because everyone else already knows that! it is so obvious!”

Merlin was clearly shocked by George’s new confrontational approach. “It's not obvious—”

“Not to the king, certainly. Nor to the knights and other noblemen. But to everyone else… come now, Merlin, you cannot think the rest of us are so unobservant!”

This was a little offensive to Arthur, who wanted to argue that there was no reason for the common citizens to be any more observant than the bloody king himself. However, regret soon tamped down his defense as he remembered that he was obviously as unobservant as George implied, if Arthur didn’t realize it was Merlin the entire time.

“Fine!” Merlin snapped, agreeing at last. “Look, George, I'm well aware that everyone knows. Those so-called ‘ruffians’ who lined up to confess today couldn't even meet my eye. It has become increasingly clear that the only people in the kingdom who haven't figured out I'm the writer are Arthur and his circle of friends. Of course the council members haven't the faintest idea either—but aside from Arthur, none of them much care.”

George scoffed. “If you understand that everyone knows, then why is it you cannot simply inform our excluded king?”

“Because he won't believe me, George. He never does.”

“But I already told you—”

“Yeah, yeah, the whole kingdom could back me up,” Merlin said flippantly, waving his hand through the air. “Doesn't matter. You are highly overestimating the king's opinion of me. Arthur doesn't trust my ideas or my instincts. He thinks I’m an idiot.”

George laughed in disbelief. “You two are thick as thieves,” he argued. “There are very few people that could get away with speaking to His Majesty the way that you do. He must hold you in some respect. I’d always believed…” he looked away, and cleared his throat. “I believed you were friends.”

“And yet, he thinks every word out of my mouth is a fool's cry for attention,” Merlin said with a roll of his eyes.

Arthur was flooded with shame so strong he almost gave away his presence in the hall. It took every ounce of his training to remain still and silent as he heard how Merlin—the writer—saw himself through Arthur’s eyes. It was definitely not befitting of a king. Worse, a king who purported to be in love with him!

This was not right. Arthur had been opening up, he’d been trying to get their relationship to progress. This wasn’t how Merlin was supposed to feel, and it was all Arthur’s fault.

“That's not true,” George said stubbornly.

“Isn't it? Just yesterday he called me unhelpful, uneducated, useless, and stupid. Arthur genuinely thinks that I am an imbecile.”

Arthur had to take a slow, deep breath to keep himself calm. He had said horrible things. Careless, cruel things. It was slowly dawning on Arthur that he’s been ruining his own chance to be with Merlin because of his horrible behavior. His temper, his insecurities, his cowardice—they have all been souring his relationship with Merlin, and their future together. Arthur hadn’t even noticed.

As if George could hear his thoughts, the man replied, “the king just lost his temper. He can’t truly think so little of you.”

Merlin sighed, a tired and weary sound. “George, I’m going to let you in on a little secret of mine, simply to prove to you why I can never tell Arthur I’m the writer. But you must promise me never to tell anyone else, lest I lose my ability to do what I’m going to confess.” Confusion interrupted George’s frustration, and he nodded. “Right. You’ve been here longer than me—have you noticed a change in the king’s hunts over the years?”

His hunts? Where was he going with this?

“As a matter of fact,” George said with a somewhat fond expression, “I have seen a rather strong decline in injuries and incidents. It’s been such a relief for us not to worry so often about His Majesty’s health and safety, and that of his knights.”

“Right. This is because I always know when we’re walking into danger long before anyone else. We're in danger on our hunts quite a lot, so this is a fairly good skill to have. The problem is, Arthur doesn’t know that I have this great instinct, so he doesn’t take advantage of it. According to him, I have the opposite ability, which is to always be wrong.

“Every time I say, this is a trap, or I have a bad feeling about this place or there’s literally bandits down the left path, let’s go right, Arthur does the opposite. He will always go left. And it wouldn’t sting so much if I weren’t right every damn time! I’m not exaggerating, George. I am actually right every time, and my evidence of this is the very progress you described. You were right to point out the sparser ‘injuries and incidents.’ I’ve learned how to use Arthur’s distrust of my word to my advantage. If I tell Arthur I'm nervous about the path on the right, suddenly he’ll take that one. You get what I’m saying?”

Arthur’s jaw hung as far as George’s, both equally stunned. “You… you’ve been keeping His Majesty out of danger by telling him it’s coming from the other direction?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point of the story. The point is that I can depend on Arthur doing the opposite of what I say so consistently that I’ve turned it around to everyone’s advantage. And it is because of this that I find absolute certainty in the fact that if I told Arthur that Lord Perrin was a spy, he could never be convinced it was true. But I didn’t think my usual trick would work. Could you imagine? ‘Hi Arthur, you know who definitely is not a spy?’ It just wouldn’t have the same results. So that's why I went with the 'anonymous writer' schtick.”

George was silent for a moment, soaking it all in the way Arthur was. Arthur wanted to contest everything Merlin was saying, but he couldn’t. Merlin was right. Arthur’s head was filled with memories of Merlin’s warnings and funny feelings—things that Arthur stubbornly ignored. He just never realized how often.

His manservant had been waiting patiently for George to get his bearings. When the man finally did, he looked bewildered. “Merlin… that’s awful.”

Merlin startled. “It’s not ideal,” he said in a qualifying way.

George shook his head. “No, it is awful. It’s downright awful! I always… I never…” The man was liable to pull his hair out, so he took a deep, steadying breath. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way.”

“I’m not sure if that’s true,” Merlin replied, and Arthur felt his already beaten heart bleed. “I may be right most of the time, but Arthur has other reasons not to trust me.”

Other reasons? What other reasons?

George folded his arms over his chest. “You’re referring to your second job?”

Second job? Arthur wondered. Was he not paying Merlin enough? He could give him a raise, or stop making him muck out the stables—

“What do you know about that?” Merlin asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion, taking a measured step back.

George sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in a very Merlin-like gesture of annoyance. “Here we go again. What did I just tell you about the staff’s observational skills?”

Merlin laughed a little at that, but it was obvious he was nervous. “And what you’ve observed is…?”

George rolled his eyes. “Merlin, why is it that everyone in the kingdom knows that you’re the writer? Why do you think so? You only involved a handful of people in your scheme, so how did everyone else figure it out?”

Merlin opened his mouth to answer, but after a second he snapped it shut. “I-I don’t know.”

“Maybe you are an idiot,” George grumbled, but his voice had a hint of fondness sneaking through. “Everyone knows you handled Lord Perrin because everyone knows how you handle just about everything.”

“Yes, but in what way do they—”

“Magic, Merlin!” George declared, throwing his hands up in defeat. “We all know about your magic!”

Arthur almost laughed in his hiding place. Magic? This conversation was both disorienting and ridiculous.

“Keep your voice down!” Merlin hissed, eyebrows furrowed. “And who is ‘we?’”

“Good gods, Merlin. Everyone. Everyone without noble blood, at the least. How else would everyone just assume you were the writer? It’s not as though I’ve been spreading it around! Leida is far too grateful for the word-of-mouth you’ve provided for her business to ever spill the truth, and Benedict may be rather selfish, but he would never betray you. Everyone knows Merlin, because it is obvious.”

“It isn’t—”

George rolled his eyes. “Whenever there is a magical threat or monster, you disappear. You return, often dirty or injured, and miraculously, the threat is gone! Coincidences do not happen that often.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes. “Give me one example.”

“Let’s see… the knights of Idirsholas, the Great Dragon, the griffon—to name a few.”

Merlin scoffed, just as Arthur did from around the corner. Now he knew they were talking nonsense, because Merlin hadn’t been the one to stop any of those things!

“Morgana was the one who got rid of the knights, remember? Arthur slayed the dragon and Lancelot slayed the griffon.”

George laughed, a hand on his stomach. “Do you think you sound convincing when you say that? Because you don’t. Morgana had already turned against Camelot then, and it was she who lit the fires in the first place. You weren’t the only person to notice the Lady’s treachery. Several servants saw both you and her enter the crypt together, so it isn’t difficult to imagine what happened.

“As for the dragon—you don’t really think that no one saw him fly away, did you? He was a massive winged beast, but when you came back with His Majesty, we kept our mouths shut, because we figured you probably wanted people to think the dragon had been slain. There are theories, you know, about your heritage. Rumors that the Dragonlord you sought was actually your father. And judging by the look on your face now, I’m going to assume the rumors are fair.

“And the griffon? Well, that was early days, but several servants heard you and Sir Lancelot speaking in the hall before he left. You both admitted it, and word got around. It was one of the first times we learned to mind our business as far as you and your… extracurricular activities were concerned.”

Merlin was clearly at a loss for words, and Arthur waited for denial, laughter, something, but he stayed quiet for far too long. When he finally spoke, Arthur felt light-headed. “So everyone knows I’m a warlock. How… how have I not noticed? The druids always know what I am, and I’ve always been able to tell.”

George scoffed pridefully. “The servants of Camelot are far better with discretion than the druids, bowing and calling you their king.”

“How do you know about that?!”

“Nevermind that,” George said dismissively, “the point is that we know. Haven’t you noticed that the laundresses will wash your clothes for you after your… tavern trips… without being asked? Or how Cook will send extra meals the day after we catch you limping back into the city?”

Merlin ran a hand over his face. “Oh gods. This is so embarrassing.”

George finally looked sympathetic, and placed a stiff and awkward hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Not more embarrassing than the finest knights of Camelot being ignorant to it. Strange, how the people who spend the most time with you have no idea how useful you truly are.”

Merlin looked away in discomfort, and though Arthur’s thoughts were running a mile a minute, guilt shot its way through him once more.

“Yes, well…” Merlin trailed off, looking down at his hands. George sighed, and gave him one final smile.

“You should get some sleep,” the servant said, his voice kind. “His Majesty will likely have another plan to find the writer tomorrow, so we must all be well-rested.”

“I’ll try to stop him,” Merlin promised, and the king flinched at the exhaustion in his manservant’s voice. “I certainly won’t let him punish all of you for my secret. I’ll handle it.”

“I wish you luck,” George replied, dipping his head. “You will be getting some sleep, right? Not, you know, clocking into your other job?”

Merlin rubbed the back of his neck, still unable to regain eye contact. “Well, there’s been murmurs of an ogre terrorizing one of the southwest settlements—”

“Yes or no, Merlin.”

“I’ll get an hour in,” he promised, turning around to walk away before George could protest. “Maybe even two!”

“Don’t sound so proud!” George called down the hall after him, but Merlin was gone. The servant sighed for a final time. “For the most brilliant man I’ve ever met, he sure is a fool.”

When he arrived back in his chambers, Arthur leaned against his doors the moment they closed, feeling breathless.

Merlin had magic? Merlin was the writer? How could it be true?!

And yet, it was. It had to be. Gods, that’s what everyone he’d spoken to meant. His mind cycled through his interactions with his citizens over the past three days.

“You're saying you haven't any idea who wrote the letter?”

“You want to find him? Why? He was only trying to help.”

“He hasn’t told you? Still?”

“The writer is not staying away because they’re shy, they are staying away, because you know them.”

“He does… so much. And he asks very little.”

All along, they had meant Merlin. Arthur’s Merlin, the bumbling fool who tripped over his own feet and hid behind bushes. Stumbles that provided distractions, bushes that concealed glowing eyes and muffled spells.

Arthur managed to trudge over to his bed, sitting down and burying his head in his hands.

Merlin was a sorcerer. Or… a “warlock?” That was what Merlin had called himself. Was that the same thing? Arthur was clueless as to the intricacies of magic and its users. This was made worse by George’s mention of Merlin being heralded as the king of the druids. Merlin? A king? Unlikely.

But all of this was unlikely.

As Arthur attempted to fall asleep, unwilling to confront Merlin so soon, he was kept up by his thoughts. Strangely though, it was not thoughts of Merlin’s crime and betrayal that kept him up. It was something else Merlin had said.

“Just yesterday he called me unhelpful, uneducated, useless, and stupid. Arthur genuinely thinks that I am an imbecile.”

Needless to say, Arthur didn’t find much respite that night.

Chapter Text

Merlin knew that it would be unfair to ask George to cover for him with Arthur again, so he carried the king’s breakfast upstairs the morning after the feast.

He was tired and run down. After all that had happened, he couldn’t help but regret the whole affair. Had Merlin known how much Arthur would throw himself into the search for the anonymous writer, he’d never have done it. Magic, no magic—what did it matter? The one time Merlin didn’t place himself above the law was the time that it blew up in his face. Figures.

When Merlin pushed his way into the king’s chambers, he startled the very much awake king, who was sitting with his legs dangling off the foot of his bed, clearly lost in thought.

“Merlin,” Arthur said in a way of greeting, his gaze drilling into Merlin. The warlock shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable under the attention, especially given their recent fights.

“Arthur,” Merlin parroted, setting his breakfast down at the table. The king continued to stare, and Merlin held his temper at bay. He had come in here with a plan, after all. “Listen,” he began, taking advantage of Arthur’s attention, however confusing. “I don’t want to keep arguing with you, alright?” Merlin confessed, arms crossed over his chest. “It makes it much harder to do my job if I’m avoiding you all day. But, that being said…” he steeled himself, taking a deep breath. “I do have to try one last time to implore you to stop all of this effort to find the writer. I know that it’s important to you, but yesterday was a disaster, and everyone on staff—”

“I’m done,” Arthur interrupted at last, his eyes finally drifting away from his manservant. “I’m dropping it.”

Merlin was pleasantly surprised, a soft smile of relief spreading across his face. “Thank you, Arthur,” he said earnestly. “Believe me, you’ll feel better in the long run.”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur muttered, his gaze now firmly fixed on the floor.

A little bit of guilt crept up Merlin’s spine at Arthur’s defeated slump. He took a tentative step toward him and placed a gentle hand on the king’s shoulder. Arthur’s head snapped up to look at Merlin, who proffered a reassuring grin. “Look on the bright side,” Merlin said playfully, an olive branch, “now you won’t have to shell out all that gold.”

Arthur seemed unable to help the bark of laughter that left his mouth, and he looked at Merlin with an unfathomable expression. Before the warlock could think on what it meant for too long, Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed. “What’s that?” he asked, his hand reaching up to Merlin’s jaw. His fingers stopped, hesitant, but Merlin could feel the ghost of his warmth tickling the fine hairs on his face.

Merlin knew immediately that he was referring to the bruise along his jaw. He had, in fact, found the ogre that he mentioned to George last night, and the fight got a little physical. Great for blowing off some steam.

“Oh, I tripped going up the stairs,” Merlin told him, a frequent and familiar lie. “You know me, clumsy and useless,” he joked, turning to the wardrobe to get Arthur’s clothes for the day.

He’d managed only a step away when he felt a firm hand grip his forearm. Merlin stopped and turned his head back to the king, an eyebrow raised. Arthur was looking at him with another expression that Merlin couldn’t decipher.

“You’re not.”

“I’m not what?” Merlin asked, his tone still teasing. But whatever Arthur’s expression was, it was rather serious.

“You’re not clumsy and useless,” Arthur repeated Merlin’s words, and the servant felt himself go a little red.

Since when did Arthur choose not to insult him? Merlin was determined to bring a lightheartedness to their conversation, so he put his hands on his hips. “I’m not clumsy? Have you met me?”

It worked, as it brought a small smile to the king’s face. But whatever this seriousness was, it did not abate. “Maybe you’re clumsy,” Arthur acquiesced, “but you aren’t useless.”

“Thank you?” Merlin replied, uncertain.

“I mean it,” Arthur reaffirmed emphatically. “I know that I…” he trailed off. Though Merlin waited a beat for him to continue, Arthur couldn’t seem to find the words.

Merlin narrowed his eyes. “How much did you drink last night?” he asked, suspicious. Maybe all that wine at the feast addled his brain; that would explain Arthur turning down a chance to insult him.

“I didn’t—ugh!” Arthur’s hand was in his hair, and Merlin could tell that he was ripping it out from the roots. He was frustrated; Merlin had no idea what was going through his head today.

The warlock gently placed his hand over Arthur’s and pulled it away from his hair. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, keeping the king’s hand in his, brushing his thumb soothingly over Arthur’s knuckles.

Arthur looked down at his hand in Merlin’s, and so Merlin bit back a sigh of disappointment as he pulled away. But to his surprise, Arthur’s hand chased his the moment Merlin let go, strong and calloused fingers intertwining. He looked up at where Merlin stood in front of him, and yet again, Merlin was struck by Arthur’s unreadable gaze.

After a moment of patiently waiting with a calm and open expression, Merlin was rewarded by Arthur’s words. However, they were the last thing he was expecting to hear.

“Why are you still here?”

Merlin froze, his mind registering Arthur’s words. Hurt began to sink in, and Merlin pulled away. He folded his hands together behind his back and blinked back tears that threatened to fall. He had thought… it didn’t matter what he thought! Every time he felt Arthur stitch his heart back together, the king went ahead and broke it again.

“I’m sorry, sire,” Merlin said to his boots, backing away. “I don’t…” he let out a long breath, fighting his heartbreak and his exhaustion. “I don’t know what you want from me,” he finished in a quiet, broken voice.

Merlin wasn’t willing to stay and be insulted further, nor was he willing to let Arthur fire him—something he feared more and more these days. So, he whisked himself out of the king’s chambers before the royal prat had even registered his servant’s words.

The door was already closing behind the warlock when Arthur realized what he’d just said.

“Wait!” he called, stumbling to his feet, but it was too late. He buried his face in his hands, feeling desperation and shame in equal amount. “Why are you still here?” Arthur mocked himself, to no audience. “What is wrong with me?!”

Arthur’s mind was racing a mile a minute, and though his heart fought over how to feel after learning Merlin’s secret, he couldn’t find that feeling of betrayal he expected. Rather, it felt more like it was Arthur who owed Merlin an apology. According to Merlin’s private conversation with George, Arthur had been exceptionally cruel to him.

Why would Merlin trust Arthur with such a secret if he felt Arthur didn’t trust him in turn? The king had honestly no idea how much he had hurt Merlin with his words, nor had he been aware of the extent of his contrariness when Merlin warned him of danger.

A pounding on his chamber doors woke him from his spiraling thoughts. Arthur went to open it and was greeted by a pale-faced Leon.

“Is everything alright?” Arthur asked quickly, taking in Leon’s harried actions.

“It’s Perrin,” Leon told him, much to Arthur’s surprise.

“Is he dead?” Arthur assumed, but Leon shook his head.

“He’s missing. It seems he’s escaped.” The king’s eyes widened, a bit disbelieving. The man had been ancient, after all, so Arthur had assumed he’d pass away in the dungeon. Leon continued, “his accomplices are still in the cell—he vanished when they were asleep.”

A thought occurred to him then. “Send some men to check the vault for the amulet. If Perrin is in fit enough shape to travel…”

“Already done, sire. The amulet is gone.”

“Good man,” Arthur praised his first knight despite the ill news, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “This is terrible, but we can try and intercept him. Send out a search party, ” Leon nodded, and quickly disappeared back down the hall.

A man of Perrin’s advanced age wouldn’t be able to slip away; he could barely walk. But if he had help, and that little helper managed to procure the amulet, Perrin would be a healthy man in his forties.

This was bad. The writer—Merlin, he still had to remind himself—intercepted Perrin’s notes to Mercia, but Perrin himself knew far too many Camelot secrets after his months in council meetings. If the man got to the border, all would be lost. The castle would be vulnerable to Mercian infiltration.

He should have just destroyed that stupid amulet! But no, Arthur had allowed himself to get wrapped up in solving the mystery of the writer, despite the actual writer begging him, day in and day out, to move on. Now the king’s single-mindedness had put the entire kingdom at risk.

The more he lingered on the thought, the worse the situation seemed. Perrin knew everything. Enough certainly to give Mercia the chance they’d been waiting for to attack and officially declare war.

What could Arthur do? He didn’t know the first thing about Perrin! He’d spent all his time since the man had been ousted worrying about the writer—he’d only spoken to Perrin the once.

Then, it struck him like lightning. There was someone who knew everything about Perrin, who had hunted him down once before, and who had the… ahem, skillset to hunt him down again.

Arthur was awash with surprise as he realized how sure he was in this. A certain peace and calm came over him as he thought about Merlin taking the reins. He may not know much about Merlin’s power, but by writing that letter, hadn’t the servant already proved himself? Gone beyond, even? If there was anyone that Arthur trusted to take care of Perrin, it was the writer, after all.

It was time to prove to Merlin that Arthur trusted and respected him. Because he really did. He’d never been more sure of anyone in his life.

Of course, Arthur’s plan to finally let Merlin see how much he trusted him would go by much smoother if the man wasn’t so ahead of him all the damn time.

Though Merlin had left his chambers only a few minutes before Leon arrived, the warlock had seemingly disappeared. And though George had commented the night before that Merlin often performed a “second job,” it was only hitting Arthur now just how common it was for Merlin to go missing. His instincts were something to be lauded, if he really had gone after Perrin so quickly.

Arthur shouldn’t have been surprised to find that Merlin was already after the man since Arthur hadn’t exactly made a habit of asking Merlin for the help he can so easily provide. Merlin seemed to help simply because he could, because he wanted to. And gods, Arthur was already in love with the man, but it seemed to triple with every new detail he learned.

Just how much had Merlin done for him? How much had he missed over the years?

He looked everywhere, but Merlin had vanished. It was hitting Arthur then that he was rather out of the loop, so to speak, when it came to Merlin’s “second job.” Since he’d always assumed his wayward servant was laid up in the tavern, he wasn’t sure where to begin his search.

But there was a subset of Camelot citizens that claimed to be a little more… perceptive.

“George!” Arthur shouted the name down the hall when he spotted the servant. George startled, but straightened quickly.

“Sire,” George greeted politely. “Is there anything you require of me?”

Arthur came close so he could speak in a low voice. “Have you seen Merlin in the past hour? It’s urgent.”

George tilted his head as though confused, but Arthur caught the look of anxious guilt in the man’s eyes. “I’m not certain that—”

“I know, George,” the king confessed, his voice quieting even more.

“You… know, sire?”

“I know. About all of it.”

“I’m not sure I understand—”

“Merlin. The writer. The warlock. I know,” he hissed out, glancing around furtively for any eavesdroppers.

This was not the best way to reveal the information, as George grew pale as a ghost. He also glanced around, perhaps expecting guards to rush him for aiding and abetting a criminal. “Your Majesty, please, I beg of you, do not execute Merlin for his transgressions, he has done so much for—”

“I won’t hurt him! I couldn’t,” Arthur admitted. “Rather, I believe I owe him an apology. And a promotion. But that’s neither here nor there—Perrin has escaped and I’m certain that Merlin is in pursuit. I only wish to help him, George. You must believe me.”

George narrowed his eyes, far more casual than his usual behavior around Arthur. “You swear that he will not be harmed?”

Arthur took a deep breath, gazing into George’s eyes with all the sincerity he could muster. “I would swear it on the soul of the one I love most, but that person is Merlin. Even if the man held a sword up to my throat, I know I could never fight back. Hurting him would kill me.”

George stared back, unblinking. Finally mollified by Arthur’s words, he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I believe you, my lord. Of course I do, it was just…”

“You wanted to protect him,” Arthur supplied easily. “I understand. In fact, I’m grateful for it. If it was anyone asking other than me…” he trailed off. Did he mean that? Did he want George to commit treason on Merlin’s behalf?

Why must it be treason for Merlin to do his job? To fight for his kingdom?

Arthur shook his head. “There will be changes around here,” he said simply. “As soon as I can discuss it with Merlin. But until then, I need to find him.”

"Merlin does not need your help, my lord." Arthur knew George was being serious by the fact that he did not scramble to assure he meant no offense. "He is incredibly capable. If you truly wish to help him like you say, then you should know that. I know that your intentions are pure, but racing after Merlin while he's... ahem, working, will only ensure that he continues to think you don't trust him."

"That's..." he wanted to say ridiculous, but George's unexpected wisdom sank in. Arthur had told Merlin he was a fool—and meant it, more times than not—and as thus, Arthur had positioned himself as Merlin's nanny. Merlin had to sneak away and keep secrets to protect Arthur and Camelot, so it was reasonable to assume he'd be good at it by now.

“I might have a better way to help, then,” Arthur decided, straightening his back. “You're right, George, Merlin has it handled. While he's gone, I need you to do me a favor.”

George smiled. “Of course, my lord. How can I help?”

Sometimes, Merlin wondered how he ended up in this life. Take now, for instance. He used to be a simple farmer in a small town, using his magic to perform small blessings on their crops. Never too much—wouldn’t want to be dragged off to a makeshift pyre or sold into Cenred’s service.

Now, however? He was escorting two Mercian criminals back to the citadel, casting spells left and right. Moving branches and brambles out of his path, smoothing out uneven ground, making the trees shift around him. Most of these spells were unconscious; Merlin had grown too old and tired—and sure, powerful—to keep his magic caged up when it could be helping.

He should have known that his kindness and generosity would bite him in the ass. It usually did, but Merlin was a sucker for a wobbling lip and a sob story. And that’s precisely what Rosalind had given him when he caught her at the seamstress’s house a few months back.

Merlin had needed her help for his plan to work. Once he’d learned that a maid had been smuggling notes out of the castle and set that trap with the help of Leida the lower town’s seamstress, he had taken Rosalind aside and talked to her. They came to an understanding that evening—Rosalind wasn’t particularly taken with espionage anyway, so the deal was that she would leave her apron (and Perrin’s note for the day) beneath Arthur’s laundry, the same time every day. Merlin would take the apron, burn the note, and replace it with his own, being sure to mimic Perrin’s handwriting. He sewed it inside, and Rosalind would take it to the farrier as though she were unaware that Merlin was sabotaging her boss’s nefarious plan. Her reward for double-crossing was that Merlin sent her on her way before he had his letters delivered to the council members. This was his mistake. See, he’d hoped that offering Rosalind her freedom had been enough, but he was a fool. And now she was spotted slipping into the woods with a cloaked man who was certainly Perrin.

Great. This is what he gets for being nice.

His magic picked up the trail, and it only took a speed spell and a tracking spell to find both Perrin and Rosalind, not far into the forest. It had been all too easy to capture them, casting a silent spell to knock them unconscious long enough to tie their hands. He couldn’t tie their legs (what was he supposed to do, carry them back?) so instead he held a sword to their backs, moving quickly as he could. They were gagged, of course. Merlin could only take Perrin’s angry shrieking and Rosalind’s hurried defenses for so long, after all.

He made sure not to let Perrin and Rosalind witness any magic, and for good measure, he planned on performing a memory twisting spell once they were in Camelot. He couldn’t erase their memories of the easy capture, but he could make them think someone else had found them. The issue was getting that person to agree. He’d already asked far too much of George, so that was out of the question. Benedict had seemed rather happy to take credit for the writing when Arthur offered the reward of gold… maybe he’d take the credit if Merlin asked.

When Merlin reached the first gate into town, he straightened his shoulders. Over the years, he’d won over the assistance of every guard on duty at the gates. They always let him through, and managed to keep a certain level of discretion.

Merlin gazed up at where they stood and waved, but they looked down on him with apprehension.

“Is something wrong?” he called up to them, confused by their demeanor. Typically the guards would take over when Merlin was escorting criminals, but they hadn’t moved.

“You should go to the throne room,” one guard called back, looking somewhat apologetic.

Merlin raised an eyebrow, continuing to ignore Perrin’s muffled protests. “With… them?” he asked pointedly, gesturing to the bound people ahead of him. The guards knew Merlin couldn’t take the credit for this! They’d been helping him for years!

“Trust us,” another shouted from his perch. Merlin didn’t, but he grumbled to himself and acquiesced anyway.

Marching the spies through the lower town was as easy as expected. Merlin didn’t much care if any average citizen noticed him with the two prisoners—at least not until they were in the heart of the city. George might have had a point when he said everyone knew about Merlin’s extracurriculars, because no one batted an eye.

When Merlin reached the gates of the citadel, this was when he knew something was wrong. He looked up at the guards of the gate and realized instantly that they were going to say the same thing as the other ones.

“Hey Merlin!” one hollered before he even spoke. “You should head to the throne room!”

This time, he narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

The guards shared a look. “Just… trust us.”

What is happening right now?

“...Alright,” Merlin hollered back, confused but trusting of the guards. Still, even as he began to lead the spies through the city proper, he was anxious about these directions. If he led Perrin and Rosalind right into the throne room like both sets of guards instructed, wouldn’t Arthur find out? Or see it for himself? These guards were his friends, and much like the guards inside the castle, they’d always been on Merlin’s side. He trusted them enough to do what they asked, confusing as it was.

Still, he spent the walk through town glancing around uncomfortably. Merlin was never so visible, and never so close to the castle. But it seemed that he was worried for no reason, because every glance he received was either a guilty one from one of the attendees of the feast the night prior, or it was a simple, unbothered smile. Hardly anyone seemed surprised at all to see Merlin with Lord Perrin, which corroborated more of what George had told him. Everyone did know, didn’t they?

Merlin prodded his prisoners inside the castle, but they were not free from the stares. The staff all looked up and smiled encouragingly as Merlin made his way to the throne room.

He paused briefly outside the doors to the grand chamber, glancing at the guards. “Is the king in there?” he asked, and they each shared a look, like they weren’t supposed to say. Merlin sighed. “Could you deliver the prisoners to him, then?”

“Oh, certainly not,” said one, shaking his head emphatically. “You must.”

“I must? Can I ask why?”

The guards had no answer forthcoming, as the two of them pulled open the large doors. What Merlin saw made him gasp.

Inside, the council was gathered at the Round Table. Extra chairs had been gathered to fit not only the entire council, but also the knights of said table, and a few more surprising guests. Not standing behind the council members, but instead seated, were Guinevere, Leida the seamstress, Benedict the scribe, and George, of all people.

And here was Merlin, escorting two bound and gagged prisoners.

“Um…” was the intelligent response out of the warlock’s mouth. “Sorry, it seems like a bad time,” he continued in that fumbling way. “I’ll just—”

“Please sit, Merlin,” Arthur interrupted. He gestured to the sole empty seat, directly to his left. Merlin blinked, uncomprehendingly. Though there were servants sitting around the table, it felt strange to him.

It was also not lost on him that the specific servants that were seated was rather telling of what was happening, but he clung to his denial best he could.

“What about…” Merlin trailed off, gesturing to Perrin and Rosalind.

“Ah, of course,” Arthur said, far too calm and unsurprised for the situation. “Sir Percival, if you may hand them off to the guards outside?” he requested of his knight nearest the door. Percy nodded and took the prisoners from Merlin, giving the warlock a warm smile. It had the desired effect of putting him more at ease, but it was incremental. “Come, sit,” Arthur repeated, pulling the empty chair away from the table. Merlin saw no excuse, so he stiffly made his way to the king and sat.

Arthur was to his right, and Gwen was to his left. She smiled at him as he sat down, squeezing his knee.

No one spoke, but everyone stared at him with varying emotions. The knights all looked kind, if a bit guilty, and much like the councilmen, there was a hint of awe in their eyes.

“Sorry, am I supposed to say something?” Merlin asked, fidgeting under the attention. “Is this about Perrin? Because I found him, tied up already, left outside by—”

“No you did not,” Arthur said simply, no irritation or condemnation in his voice. He smiled coolly, as if he was not about to turn Merlin’s day on its’ head. “You caught them. It makes perfect sense, considering you’re the writer.”

Though Leida, Benedict, and George’s presence should have made this obvious, Merlin still felt his heart drop to his stomach.

“What? That’s-that’s crazy! D-do you even hear yourself? Me? The writer? I-I can hardly string together a sentence! How would I figure any of that out?”

Arthur was unmoved by Merlin’s panicked excuses. “I’ll admit, it took me far too long to realize it,” the king continued as though Merlin hadn’t spoken. “But it makes perfect sense, in hindsight. Who better to notice and thwart a traitor on the council than the man who does everything around here? It takes someone brilliant, and selfless, and loyal as all hell to do something like this. I can’t think of anyone that describes better.”

Brilliant? He’s joking, right? Merlin couldn’t help the laugh he let out. “Ha! Good one, sire.”

Arthur frowned determinedly, as did every single other person at the table. “It is the truth, Merlin. In fact, we have finally found something we all agree on. Commoner and noble alike.”

Had hell frozen over? Did Merlin miss the flying pigs when he traveled through the streets with the prisoners? “What’s that?” he asked, his voice a quiet squeak.

“That magic should be legal again, and that you, Merlin, are the person we should consult.”

Was the room spinning? Merlin laid his hands flat on the table as a wave of lightheadedness overtook him.

Magic should be legal again.

Magic. Legal.

You, Merlin.

Merlin hardly noticed as his body shot up from his chair, hands shaking, all sounds muffled. He vaguely registered an arm around his shoulder, or the blurry image of everyone else standing too.

“—lin? Merlin? You must take deep breaths,” came a calm voice. Merlin was startled back into awareness as he noted that it was George who had spoken, who had their arm around him in a steadying motion.

Merlin did as he was bid, sending George a grateful glance that was only a little shocked. Everyone in the room looked on him with concern, which was most surprising to receive from the noblemen on the council.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said, turning to Arthur. After all, if there was anyone in the room he needed to apologize to, it was the king. “I wanted to tell you, honestly I did, but there was never—”

Arthur held up a hand to stop him, and Merlin brokered no argument, snapping his jaw shut immediately. “Actually, Merlin, there is a condition to the repealing of the magic ban. See, we had a meeting before you arrived to discuss the law change, and we all agreed that something needs to happen before we go through with it.”

Merlin swallowed anxiously. Arthur was claiming to lift the ban, and the warlock’s mind was swimming, unable to react normally. “And wh-what would that be?”

The smile Arthur gave him was pained, but adoring, and Merlin felt overcome by the open affection that wafted off of the king. “We all owe you an apology first.”

“What?”

“George, would you like to start? Then we can go around the table.”

“Again, what?!” Merlin tried once more, but he was ignored.

“I’d love to, my lord,” George replied with a brief bow to the king. “Merlin, I owe you an apology. I should not have lost my temper with you last night. And I could certainly improve at treating you kindly.” Before Merlin could interject with his usual mollifications, George turned to Gwen on his left. “Would you like to go next, Guinevere?”

There was no mistaking the mirth in her expression for anything else as she took in Merlin’s stunned demeanor. “Yes I would, George. Merlin, I am sorry that I have never come to you about your magic. I’ve suspected it these last few years, even seen some rather damning evidence of it, but I never said a word. I should have helped you, or at least let you know you were safe to come to me.”

“Gwen, that’s not in any way your fault—”

“Merlin? No interruptions please,” Arthur commanded with a mischievous smile. Merlin glared at him, though he knew he had no leverage. “Leida? I believe it is your turn.”

“Yes, of course. Merlin, I am sorry that I helped you in exchange for advertising. I should have helped you simply because you needed my help, and not asked for something in exchange.”

Merlin bit back a reply about how he was more than happy to help bring more business to her shop, but Leida raised an eyebrow as if daring him to speak, so he kept his mouth shut.

Benedict was next. “I apologize for joining that gaggle of opportunists yesterday. I know it didn’t really bother you that we all lined up to take credit, but I know it made your job harder. We’re friends, and I should have treated you like one.”

Beside the peasants, sat the council, who Merlin expected to skip over Arthur’s little game. Yet, they did not. One by one, the lords stepped forward to offer apologies, though some seemed far more genuine than others.

“I am sorry that I have spoken so poorly to you.”

“I apologize for having you sent to the dungeons when you were late to bring me my poultice last week. I now realize that the mysterious monster in the lower town did not get rid of itself that day, after all.”

“I’m sorry for that time I spilled wine down your tunic at a feast.”

“I am sorry about all the times I ignored you when you spoke directly to me.”

“Sorry for tacking on new duties when you were clearly busy. It’s less funny in hindsight.”

“I am sorry for shushing you in my library. Though, if you were quieter when you stumble in at all hours of the night—”

Gaius cleared his throat, the last council member. “Yes, thank you Geoffrey,” he said with a private smile for his ward. “Merlin, my boy, I owe you a rather large apology.”

Now this one, Merlin couldn’t abide. “No, absolutely not!” he cut in, folding his arms over his chest. “You have done so much for me, Gaius, I don’t want to hear it!”

The physician chuckled. “Unfortunately Merlin, though you flatter me, this is a condition of the legalisation of magic. So I heartily offer my apologies for all the times I pressed you to keep your secret. I should have advised you to share your burdens.” The smile Gaius gave him then nearly brought tears to the servant’s eyes. “You are surrounded by some rather wonderful people, Merlin. Perhaps we have not always treated you as well as you deserve, and that is our own fault and our own loss.”

“Aye,” Gwaine went next, his lip wobbling in a rare display of hurt and guilt. “Mate, I’m so sorry that I never noticed. I know that you had to keep your secret to stay safe, and stay in Camelot, but all the servants knew and I didn’t. I’ve always tried to be your best friend, but it’s been a bit one-sided, huh?”

“Gwaine—”

“Nope! No interrupting! We can talk later,” Gwaine told him, and Merlin sent him his most warm and forgiving look in place of words. He wondered briefly if it was a trick of the light, or if Gwaine was starting to cry.

“I’m sorry too,” Elyan continued. “Gwen’s all but implied it before, but I never let myself think of you as someone powerful. I’m sorry I didn’t see you before.”

“I am truly sorry as well,” said Percival, “because you have always been an incredible friend to me. When Lancelot died, you comforted me for days. But he knew your secret, didn’t he?” Merlin nodded after a moment’s hesitation. Percival snorted. “I thought so. I was losing my friend, and so were you, but you also lost one of your only confidantes. I should have been gentler. Kinder.”

“Merlin, I’ve known you a long time,” Leon said, the last in the circle, just to Arthur’s right. “So it stands to reason that I have much to apologize for. So I will simply say, Merlin, I am so sorry for any moment that I have not acknowledged all the work you must do in the shadows. See, we all spoke, and it is clear that you have been saving Camelot since the day you arrived. Beyond our apologies, we owe you much gratitude and indebtedness.”

Merlin gaped at all of them, overwhelmed. Everyone knew about his magic. And they all… didn’t care. No, not that, they cared, just not at all like he’d expected.

“I’d like to give my apology privately,” Arthur spoke, and everyone nodded in understanding. “Merlin, if we may adjourn to my chambers?” the king cast him a look of uncertainty, so Merlin nodded resolutely. With a flash of relief, Arthur turned to the rest of the table. “Thank you all so much for your input, and for your help. This meeting is adjourned. But I expect to see you all at the feast this evening?”

Though Merlin was still lost in the clouds, processing all that had happened, he felt Arthur’s hand on his lower back, guiding him out of the room. He thought he heard Gwaine wolf-whistle, but he was so out of it that he was probably imagining things.

Once in the hall, Arthur’s final words permeated the fog in his brain. “Wait, what feast? Arthur, we just had one and it was a disaster—”

“Well, yes, of course it was a disaster,” Arthur said, though his eyes were set ahead of them as they wound their way through the halls. “It was a feast for the writer, and the writer happened to be working it.”

Merlin felt his face heat up, and he was glad Arthur was not looking at him. “About that…”

Arthur let out a snort of amusement. “Yes, I finally understand why you were so against my mission to discover your identity.”

“Arthur, I’m sor—”

“Just let me apologize first, okay? Then you’ll know everything… and then you can decide what you want to say.”

“Alright,” Merlin agreed as they reached the king’s chambers, though he wasn’t happy about it. Arthur waited until the door was closed behind them, and Merlin had to admit he was far more comfortable in these intimate chambers than he was in the throne room.

Arthur took a deep breath, the two of them standing in the middle of the room. “Merlin, I am sorry. I am far more sorry than I could ever find time to express. For a lot of things. For all of the things that knights apologize for, and so much more.

“I’m sorry I made you feel unsafe in my kingdom. I’ve always had reservations about magic being an all-evil, corrupting force, but in my haste to be the king my father raised me to be, I kept those thoughts to myself. In turn, I must have hurt you dozens of times. How could you ever feel safe enough to tell me your secret? I’d never told you anything that would make you trust me with your secret.

“And I’m even more sorry for how I treat you,” Arthur continued with a stuttering breath. Merlin had to fight the urge to close the distance between them. “And I don’t mean how we joke and tease and fight—I love all of that, and I never want to lose it. I’m sorry for never believing you. For calling you stupid, for thinking you make up crazy stories, for all of the times I do the opposite of what you ask of me. I… I’m a coward, Merlin. I treat you poorly because it convinces me and everyone around me that I don’t have feelings for you. If I treat you like you’re beneath me… then… I don’t have to face how important you are to me, Merlin. But you are.

“And I’ve been… trying, recently. To be better, to be kinder, to be… worthy of you. Because Merlin I—I love you. I really do. You have to know that I think you’re brilliant, and I’m disgusted with myself that I have let you think my opinion of you is any lower. You are the best thing in my life, like you were handpicked out of my wildest dreams, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry!”

Merlin blinked. Arthur… loved him. He didn’t think Merlin was stupid at all—he was just an insecure, stoic prat!

Merlin crossed the distance and held Arthur’s confused, surprised head in his hands. “Arthur, I’m going to kiss you now,” Merlin warned him, point blank. Though the warning was followed with immediate action, as Merlin was a bit impatient himself.

The moment Merlin’s lips met Arthur’s, the king let out a surprised squeak that the warlock would have to give him guff for later. But it took no time at all before Arthur was kissing him back like a man starved, his hand desperately clutching Merlin by the waist, another hand scrabbling for purchase in Merlin’s hair. Merlin on the other hand, kissed the king languidly, his arms delicately, almost lazily, draped over Arthur’s shoulders.

When they pulled away, Merlin ran a hand over Arthur’s swollen bottom lip. “You are such a clotpole, Arthur. Goddess, I love you so much.”

Arthur had no verbal response, but the way he hoisted Merlin up into a kiss, forcing the warlock to wrap his legs around the king’s torso, was enthusiastic answer enough.

The king continued to hold Merlin that way even as they pulled back once more, content to carry the lightweight warlock to the ends of the earth this way. “Tonight, you will sit beside me at the feast. It will be small, because I know how you hate a fuss. Just you, and me, and our friends and confidantes. And I will feed you grapes and pour you wind and give you that chest of gold I promised.”

Merlin laughed, happier than he’d been in years. “What chest of gold?”

“For you. My mystery writer.”

“If you’ll remember, I believe I told you that the reward was absurd.”

Arthur pouted, and Merlin nearly leant forward to bite that pout when Arthur said, “but you deserve a reward, Merlin! Not just for what you did to root out Perrin, but for all the other things you’ve done and are going to tell me about!”

“Hmm… I can think of a better reward than a chest of gold,” Merlin hummed thoughtfully.

“Oh?” Arthur asked, but then he saw the implication in Merlin’s dilated pupils and playful smirk. “Oh. Well, who am I to deny my warlock his reward?”

Merlin growled, an inhuman sound, as he lunged forward and began pressing heated kisses to Arthur’s neck. Arthur gasped in obvious excitement.

“Y-you like that, h—nnnngh—huh?” Arthur panted out as Merlin slid his mouth across Arthur’s adam’s apple. “W-was it because I s-sssaid you w-were mine?” It was clearly hard to be suave when Merlin was figuring out what Arthur liked.

“Mmm,” Merlin’s noise was noncommittal as he continued to kiss up to the king’s jaw. “That too.”

“T-too? Oh gods, do that again.”

Merlin complied eagerly, licking a filthy circle around Arthur’s pulse. He pulled back momentarily to speak. “You called me a warlock.”

“A-and?”

“Not a sorcerer. A warlock. That’s correct.”

Arthur laughed, even if it was breathless. “Are you kidding me? Your proper title turns you on?”

“Like you’re one to talk, my king.”

Merlin felt that one. “Oh gods, I think you’re my soulmate,” Arthur said, somehow grinning widely while being so serious. The servant might have broken him, but he felt no remorse.

The guards outside the king’s chambers smile at him.

“Good morning George!” one says.

“He really means it this time,” says the other.

He smiles at them. They are right, it is a good morning. After four months of painful truth-telling, stressful meetings with allies, and tedious research, today is finally the day.

Merlin is being appointed court sorcerer. And magic is officially legal, but George is more excited about the former.

Everyone in Camelot already knows—dreadful gossips they all are—but today the law is official, and that is special enough.

If the councilmen’s easy acceptance wasn’t surprising enough, the entire kingdom came as a shock. But in the end, the popular reason made perfect sense. Apparently, overtaxing and underpaying your subjects while killing their friends and families all the time in what are both literal and figurative witch hunts, does not make you a very popular king. Compared to Uther, Arthur may as well have been handpicked by Avalon to rule the kingdom. Given Merlin’s recent confessions about prophecy and divinity, George is inclined to believe that this sentiment is also literal and figurative both.

He does not knock as he enters—they are asleep. They are always asleep when he arrives, the lazy louts!

He smiles as he wheels the breakfast tray by the bed. Even in the dim morning light, sun still obscured by curtains, he could see Merlin and Arthur, wrapped tightly together like every morning. Finally, he relents and opens the curtains.

“Good morning!” he calls cheerfully as he pours water from the pitcher into two goblets. Merlin jolts up, and His Majesty limply swats a hand like George is a fly. The usual routine! “An auspicious day, so I look forward to hearing no complaints this morning!”

“Uuuuuuuggggggghhhhhh.”

“That’s a complaint, Arthur. The man—” Merlin breaks off to yawn dramatically as he stretches like a cat. “The man specifically said no complaints.”

Arthur rolls onto his stomach, likely to prove a point, but his head twists on the pillow to stare sideways at Merlin. “That’s right,” he mumbles sleepily. “An auspicious day. Your auspicious day.”

He averts his gaze from his masters, knowing the king’s I-adore-Merlin eyes when he sees them. Which is quite frequently. But even as he prepares the plates, he hears them.

“Why are you looking at me like that? It’s not a big deal! Everyone already knows!”

“I’m looking at you, Merlin, because I like looking at you. Is that a crime?”

“No, but still lying in bed after your servant woke you up should be!”

“You’re biased.”

“Obviously! It is my mission to make George’s life as easy as possible, and that starts with getting up when he asks. Like a certain prat never did for me.”

“Why would I have wanted to get up when staying in bed meant you’d come closer to me, and touch me?”

“Arthur, George is right there!”

“So? He already knows how much I love you. Don’t you, George?”

“Not a doubt, sire,” George confirms happily. “And might we forgo the morning argument about which of you loves the other more? We have things to iron out in your schedules.”

“Fine,” Arthur says, disappointed. “What do we have first?”

“Well, sire, you’re greeting the noble families in an hour, and then there is the luncheon. You’ll have some time to get ready for Merlin’s ceremony after that. Might I suggest… the feathered hat?”

The king bursts into laughter, and George beams. Merlin groans. “I thought we agreed to give up on the jokes, George.”

“The king likes them,” he defends.

Arthur nods, finally sitting up. “I do, George. I really, really do.”

“Because all of his jokes are at my expense!”

“Oh come on Merlin, I know you love getting self-righteous and mad every time too. We all win.”

Merlin’s jaw drops in lighthearted offense. “How dare you? You think I enjoy getting mad at you?”

“Mm… yes.”

“You’re right.”

George looks away again, knowing the conclusion. Of course, he hears their kiss. As always, he gives them ten seconds before clearing his throat. “May I remind you that we are on a tight schedule today?”

“Merlin, his jokes may be my fault, but his new attitude problem is definitely yours.”

Merlin’s replying grin is wolfish. “I will not let someone serve me hand and foot like I’m some privileged dollophead! You know fully well that I wouldn’t let George serve us if he acted like a servant.”

“I see where you got all of your manservant skills from,” Arthur says dryly. Merlin chuckles, and makes to get up when the king grabs his arm. “Wait—at the luncheon, will you help me address the nobles? I’d really like your voice in the room.”

Merlin looks surprised, and his gaze is soft. “You don’t have to say that.”

“No, darling, I’m asking you. I really want your opinion when we speak to them.”

“You do?” Merlin’s voice is quiet, and Arthur takes his hand gently. He looks only in Merlin’s eyes as he raises the hand and presses his lips to it. They seem to begin a silent conversation, and George soundlessly slips out into the hall.

The guards look at him with raised brows, and George smiles. “They will be a little late,” he supplies.

“When are they not?” one guard laughs out.

He hums as he leaves, figuring he can get more done before he comes back to give them their second warning. See, he’s taken a page from Merlin’s book of tricks. He’s been waking them earlier than they know as of late, so that their moony, lovestruck staring doesn’t put them behind schedule.

The two of them are helpless without George, honestly.