Chapter Text
It would not be the worst week of Merlin’s life, but it was certainly one of the stranger ones.
It all began with the arrival of Sir Reiman, a knight that previously served in Essetir, under the late King Cenred. As the king’s personal manservant, Merlin had spent two weeks running around the palace, ensuring everything was ready for the visit. See, Arthur was particularly nervous for this visitor, because the hope was that Sir Reiman would abjure Essetir and join the league of Camelot knights.
Sir Reiman had a reputation not just for stabbing and punching, but for an almost prodigious acumen for military strategy. That, alongside a reputation for noble behavior, made him quite in-demand. And Arthur had heard through the grapevine that Reiman was looking to renounce his kingdom and set up shop elsewhere. So naturally, an invitation had been extended.
Merlin knew this was important to Arthur—in his first few years as king, it became clear to the young Pendragon that he needed better advisors. More… aptitude, on his side. The old curmudgeons of Uther’s council were less and less helpful each year that passed. Stubborn and slow and only growing more frequently ill and weak as they aged into oblivion—these traits were not suitable for an intelligent, well-prepared council.
Personally, Merlin had no issue taking on more servant responsibilities if it meant endearing Reiman to Camelot. Merlin was a big supporter of the idea that Arthur should have a diverse council of smart, creative talent. Secretly, and a bit selfishly, Merlin also hoped that a better council may also bring fresh ideas regarding that pesky little magic ban.
Of course, Merlin could always try his hand at revealing his magic to Arthur and seeing if that may affect the ban—but honestly? The pressure was too much.
Merlin knew that the mages of Albion waited patiently for Emrys to bring magic back to the land, but the idea of trying and failing?
Well, that might kill him.
So Merlin was procrastinating, trying first to help Arthur surround himself with new advisors. If Merlin could ensure a better council, it would increase the odds of success. It was sad if he thought about it too much. Maybe a bit cowardly, too. But Merlin couldn’t risk a failure of this magnitude. How would he be able to face the druids? Freya? All of the people he owed a better Camelot, a better Albion?
Sir Reiman was step one in a multi-step plan.
And when had Merlin’s plans ever gone his way?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Your rooms are just through here,” Merlin explained civilly as he led the visiting knight through the halls. “Shall I leave your bags by the bed or atop the dresser?” Please don’t say dresser, don’t say dresser, don’t say—
“Oh, please don’t trouble yourself,” Reiman said quickly, a smile on his face. “You needn’t wait on me hand and foot. I will tell the king of your helpfulness either way.”
This was a relief. Merlin’s old injuries had been acting up again, what with all the physical labor he’d been putting in to make the castle perfect for the visit. He could feel his old serket sting, well, sting, whenever he stretched his back lifting something over his head.
“As if the king would ever believe that,” he snorted, setting the bags down by the foot of the bed, making sure to smooth the sheets anyway. “I’m not usually so helpful with visitors.”
Reiman’s laugh was startled, but delighted. “Why is it I am receiving special treatment, then?”
Merlin grinned toothily. “Trying to butter you up,” he admitted.
“I see. King’s orders?”
“Not really,” he confessed. “Really, I am the one who wishes for you to enjoy your stay, so that you might…”
“Stay in Camelot? Join the knights?” Reiman guessed acutely, his eyebrows raised but a smile on his face.
“Exactly,” said Merlin.
“And why is that?”
“I have my reasons,” the servant hummed noncommittally.
Reiman looked him up and down in that slightly impressed, appraising way that strangers often regarded Merlin. “You’re quite the character, Merlin.”
The warlock smirked. “I’ve been told.”
“Say, I know that the king is busy until lunch… might you give me a tour of the citadel? I’d hate to be cooped up in here when I could learn more about Camelot from someone who won’t exaggerate accomplishments.”
Merlin barked out a laugh. Oh, he liked Reiman already. “Nobles do tend to do that, don’t they?”
Reiman groaned, running a hand over his dark braids. “You have no idea,” he complained. “I’ve already been courted by Mercia and Nemeth, you know.” Merlin raised a brow—he did not know that. “Each visit was days of stuffy noblemen doing nothing but bragging. Why either kingdom expected me to join their ranks after that is beyond me.”
This was perfect. Reiman wanted to be treated casually—something Merlin usually did instinctually anyway. Merlin was born for this job.
“Well then, follow me,” he said with a cheeky smile. “I’m far more likely to humble and insult than I am to brag.”
“A match made in heaven then,” Reiman had a spark of mischief in his eye, and Merlin knew that Camelot was the perfect place for a man like him. This would be easier than he thought.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Arthur drummed his fingers on the table. Sir Reiman was late for lunch, and it made the king nervous. Arthur had been too busy running around to greet the knight when he arrived. Merlin insisted that he would get Sir Reiman situated, and expound on Arthur’s apology for being absent.
In hindsight, Merlin may not have been the best choice for an upstanding servant to greet the knight. Gods, he’d probably insulted Reiman almost immediately. Arthur groaned, his face hiding in his hands as regret filled him.
The Knights of the Round Table waited at the table with their king, the only other guests at this lunch. “He’ll be here,” Leon soothed. “It’s hardly been much time since he was supposed to arrive.”
“Yes, but Leon, the only person he’s spoken to so far is Merlin.”
The table understood immediately. Gwaine snickered, Elyan elbowed Gwaine in the ribs, and Percival shook his head disappointedly.
“And in different circumstances, I’d be inclined to agree with your reservations,” Leon said, glaring at his unhelpful brothers in arms. “I know Merlin can be a bit… polarizing. But Sir Reiman is a knight first, lord second. He will be far more used to Merlin’s attitude than our typical nobleman visitors. Besides,” he sent the table a pointed look. “Merlin has been the picture of a perfect servant these past few weeks, readying everything for the visit. He wouldn’t ruin things in the first hour.”
“Not intentionally,” Arthur muttered stubbornly.
Before Arthur could add any more, the door to the hall entered, and in walked the two people in question.
“—and that’s when I realized that it had actually been a raccoon the entire time!” Merlin continued loudly. Sir Reiman burst into uncontrollable laughter, doubling over and clutching his stomach.
“Of course it was!” the knight squealed. “Gods, only you, Merlin!”
“Um, welcome,” Arthur interjected awkwardly. Merlin and Sir Reiman both turned to the group, a little surprised. Had they truly been so engrossed in conversation that they hadn’t realized they were at their destination?
“King Arthur!” Reiman exclaimed, dropping to one knee. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Arthur held up a hand, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Formalities are unnecessary,” he waved him off. “You may call me Arthur. I see that my manservant has given you a taste of his typical punctuality.”
Merlin rolled his eyes at the admonishment, and Reiman only laughed once more. “Ah, but it is my fault, Arthur,” he admitted. “Merlin told me we needed to head back a while ago, but I was having a bit too much fun. Say, have you ever bet on a chicken race?”
Arthur blinked. “I cannot say that I have.”
“Then you are sorely missing out,” Reiman said good-naturedly as he sat at the table. “This is a veritable feast, Arthur! You needn’t pull out all the stops for me, you know.”
“I am… learning that,” Arthur replied. Reiman was even better than expected. Arthur was waiting for a sharp-minded, brusque noble. What he got instead was someone far more casual—a perfect fit for the Round Table.
Merlin, meanwhile, had broken away and returned with a water pitcher, dutifully rounding the table and filling everyone’s goblets. Arthur saw Reiman frown as Merlin silently filled his, his pinched expression focused on the servant. Bothered, Arthur realized, by Merlin's switch in demeanor. Merlin noticed this, and intentionally spilled some water on Reiman’s lap.
“Oops.”
Reiman burst into laughter again, before Arthur could insult Merlin for his clumsiness. The king felt his heart grow warmer as he understood. Merlin was not merely acting as court jester for Reiman’s amusement—rather, in perfect Merlin fashion, he had endeared himself to the visiting warrior. And though Arthur would never tell Merlin this, an unspoken but very official requirement of joining Arthur’s inner circle was to respect and favor the king’s wonderful manservant.
All the tension from before lifting, Arthur turned his gaze to Merlin. “Will you sit down already?” he commanded testily, his usual pompousness masking his fondness. The expectation had been for Merlin to serve, but Arthur was far happier at the change in situation.
Merlin, who knew Arthur better than anyone should, smirked playfully and feigned confusion. “Me, sire? A lowly peasant, sharing your meal?”
Reiman bristled, and Arthur regretted the tease. Of course the visitor thought Merlin was being truthful. That idiot always made him look bad! “Ha ha, very funny,” Arthur said in a dry, unamused voice. Then, rather childishly, Arthur threw a grape that hit Merlin square in the forehead. “Sit.”
Merlin let out a beleaguered sigh, sitting in the empty seat next to Reiman. “As you see, the king has no manners,” said the ornery little shithead. Reiman gave them both an appraising look before understanding dawned on him, and he relaxed back into his seat.
“So,” Reiman began thoughtfully. “Camelot is not a… traditional place, is it?”
Arthur wasn’t sure the best response for this, but decided on honesty. “I would say that’s fair,” he allowed. “I try to rule this kingdom with fairness and respect.”
“Sad, isn’t it?” Reiman remarked. When he was met with the knights’ confused faces, he elaborated, “that ‘fairness and respect’ are not commonplace tradition in a kingdom.”
Hearing it from Reiman filled Arthur’s chest with pride and warmth. “Yes, it is sad. But I hope for Camelot to one day be a model for other kingdoms to follow. I wish to have people close to me who agree with these values.”
Reiman nodded seriously. “Tell me more.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Merlin pulled the fresh sleep tunic a bit too roughly over Arthur’s head so he would muss up his hair.
“Ack—Merlin!”
“Sorry, sire. Looks like your head is too big to fit through the hole! Either we have to humble you, or we’ll just have to stretch the shirt out.”
“I’ll stretch you out, you little—” Arthur cut himself off as Merlin darted away from his reach. Arthur lunged after him, and sent them both toppling to the floor. Merlin cackled in glee, having landed on his back beside the king, who landed on his face. Still, he was grateful that Arthur’s attention was on the floor, because the royal prat missed the way Merlin’s face contorted in pain. When he fell, that same old serket sting that had been bothering him sent an arrow of pain upward from the base of his spine. “I bet you think this is funny,” Arthur grumbled as he stood back up, reaching an arm down to help his servant.
“Very funny, sire,” Merlin said, hoping the tussle was enough excuse for his red face. He’d never told Arthur of his pain before, and he wouldn’t start now.
Arthur rolled his eyes, but Merlin delighted in the tenderness he could see through the king’s stony exterior. Arthur paused thoughtfully, before meeting Merlin’s eyes with sudden intention. “I wanted to thank you, for this morning. You clearly made Sir Reiman feel very comfortable, and I’m certain he likes it here because of you.”
Merlin smiled, soft and genuine. He knew he couldn’t tease now, not when Arthur had his rare moments of perfect-handsome-kingness. “Well, I did try the rigid-spine approach, but it was obvious he didn’t like it. Did you know Reiman has already gotten a sales pitch from Nemeth and Mercia?”
It was clear Arthur did not, as his eyes widened. “Gods, they acted that fast?”
Merlin shrugged. “Doesn’t matter that they beat us to the punch if Reiman likes us better. And trust me, he did not like their approach.”
“So that’s why you took him to see chicken racing?”
“Hey! Don’t knock it until you try it, my lord.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“I know,” Merlin agreed with a beaming smile. Arthur chuckled as he climbed into bed.
Merlin made his final rounds about the room, gathering the laundry into a basket, closing the curtains, and snuffing the candle. When he got to the last one, at Arthur’s bedside table, the king’s arm darted out to grab Merlin by the wrist.
“You’re good with people,” Arthur stated. Merlin blinked—it took him a moment to realize he had just been complimented. Worse so, when Arthur added, “what would I do without you?”
“Probably be naked and late to everything,” Merlin teased, but it was soft. “And you’d be miserable without me.”
“Yes, I think I would.”
Merlin blinked repeatedly, his brain short-circuiting. But Arthur’s expression had not changed, he was still calm and patient. The lack of retraction or defense or embarrassment may have been the best part about it all.
“Well,” Merlin began, his voice low. “It’s a good thing you’ll never have to find out. I’d be lost without you, so I’m not going anywhere.”
Maybe, if Merlin were braver, he’d stay. He’d wordlessly crawl into Arthur’s bed and let the king wrap his arms around him. For once, Merlin really did believe this was true—that Arthur would want him, that they’d slip into something new without needing to put words to it.
But Merlin still had his secret, and so he pulled away, albeit gently. Arthur only looked at him contemplatively, not disappointed.
“Good night, my king,” Merlin said, nearly a whisper.
“Sleep well.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The next four days went by without a hitch. Reiman became fast friends with the knights (he had been rather delighted to learn that the majority of the Round Table were commoners) and Arthur himself.
But really? It was clear to everyone that Merlin was Reiman’s favorite.
Merlin was flattered to be so well-liked. According to the knights, this was unsurprising. They discussed it at dinner, one evening.
“Say, Reiman, how have you been finding the people of Camelot?” Arthur had asked him.
Reiman smiled judiciously. “They have given me a warm welcome, though I can’t help but notice that the welcome grows warmer when Merlin is around.”
Merlin laughed, thinking this was a joke, but the appraising looks on everyone’s faces scolded him back into silence. “That doesn’t surprise me,” Elyan said for the group. “Everyone loves Merlin.”
The warlock laughed again, this time with confidence. “Oh come now,” he said when he was met with the same unamused stares. “I don’t think there’s a single person in Camelot who I have not annoyed at some point or another.”
“I’d agree with that,” announced Leon, “and yet everyone loves you anyway.”
“Yeah! Merls is like everyone’s favorite person!” Gwaine chimed in. “He’s definitely mine.”
“He’s what now?” Arthur asked sharply, much to Merlin’s confusion.
Gwaine rolled his eyes. “My favorite person, princess, not the other thing.”
“What other thing?” Merlin asked, knowing he definitely missed something.
“Merlin is like… Camelot’s little brother,” Percival supplied, rescuing Arthur from having to admit where his mind immediately went. Merlin flushed red at the words, Arthur’s slip-up forgotten.
Still, Arthur pulled a face at Percival’s wording, which earned snickers from the knights around the table. Merlin was confused once again, feeling like he was missing something. Clearing his throat, Arthur glared at his men. “Yes, well, in Camelot we believe that everyone should be treated equally, regardless of status.”
“Ah, so that’s why I have to wash your socks, sire?”
“You do get paid, last I checked.”
“Not enough to put up with you, my lord.”
“You’re certainly being paid too much, if you ask me.”
Sir Reiman’s laugh at their argument reminded both Merlin and Arthur that there were other people still in the room. But based on the gleeful smile that accompanied his chuckling, Merlin couldn’t help but think that Reiman had officially made up his mind.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
On the fifth day of Reiman’s visit, everything went to shit. And it started, unsurprisingly to Merlin, with a hunting trip.
Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table were taking Sir Reiman hunting, in what was clearly a final effort to woo the man into their service. Unlike Merlin, they didn’t know that Reiman had clearly made his mind up already, so they wanted him to have one last chance to bond with them.
Naturally, Reiman was thrilled by the idea of a hunt. Merlin, who never was, was especially disappointed. After gathering all of the knights’ things—as the only servant, because Arthur expected Merlin to be Hercules, apparently—it was clear that Merlin was going to spend his day in pain.
The serket sting on his lower back woke him this morning with a burning that made the warlock briefly think his bed had burst into flames. He cursed himself—Merlin had been pushing it lately, and now came the consequences. His muscles were sore, overworked, and under-tended. In his defense, it was hard for him to reach his lower back to rub in a salve, because his shoulder injury from an old mace wound had also decided it didn’t like all of the floor scrubbing that Merlin had been engaged in recently.
What Merlin needed was a break. But how could he ask for that? Arthur would demand to know why, if he’d even think about considering Merlin’s request.
So Merlin found himself gritting his teeth as his mare moved beneath him, every step sending a bit of agony through the servant’s back.
Arthur and the knights were having a good time, better even than usual with Reiman's company. The laughter was louder and more commonplace, and Merlin couldn’t complain. They were scaring off all of the prey that Merlin usually scared off, so if it weren’t for his flareup, this would be a great trip!
They had been out for a few hours when Arthur finally called everyone to stop in a clearing to let the horses rest. Merlin, still in dutiful-servant-mode with Reiman around, made quick work of setting out the surprise picnic that Arthur asked him to plan. Merlin moved stiffly, grateful that everyone’s attention was elsewhere.
Almost everyone.
Merlin stared for a moment at the stack of plates he’d lifted from the pack, hit with a wave of dizziness as he had to straighten his back. His vision blurred, but he was able to snap out of it when a dark brown hand covered one of his own, forcing him to loosen his white-knuckled grip.
“Let me,” Reiman said kindly, the others having a loud, argumentative conversation a few feet away. Reiman was regarding Merlin with curiosity, and a little bit of concern.
Merlin tried to wave him off, unsure of what had caught his new friend’s suspicion. “Thank you, but you don’t have to… I’m the servant here, right?” He attempted a joke, but it only made Reiman raise an unamused eyebrow.
“Since when?” was his response, and Merlin looked down at the ground in shame. The pain in his back made it hard to focus on anything else, and so he was surprised when Reiman’s gentle hand approached him again, this time to lift his chin softly. “Hey, I was joking,” he told Merlin, his eyes now confused and definitely concerned.
Shit. Merlin’s mind was clouded, and the guilt increased. Of course Reiman wasn’t being serious! It was just hard for Merlin to stay cognizant, and Reiman was still new, and—
“Merlin? Have I lost you? Are you alright?” Reiman snapped him out of it again. When Merlin looked back at him, he was alarmed to notice that their interaction had caught Arthur’s attention, who had peeled away from the others and was now walking toward them, his brows furrowed.
“I’m fine! Sorry! I just…” Merlin scrambled for an exit, scared that once Arthur joined in Reiman’s chorus he’d see right through him. “The horses! I should water the horses and pat them down, yes, the horses…”
Reiman’s mouth twisted in perturbation. “Are you sure? You don’t seem quite yourself this afternoon.”
“I’m sure! I’ll be back in a little while, you just enjoy the picnic!” Merlin channeled all of his cheerfulness into his voice.
Reiman was about to open his mouth to protest again when Arthur arrived. “Wait, you’re leaving?” he asked Merlin, confused as he heard the last few words.
“Yes, the horses,” Merlin said vaguely, gesturing toward them.
Arthur glanced at the animals skeptically. “But… we were all about to eat.”
If Merlin had not been so distracted by his pain, he might have heard the disappointment in Arthur’s voice. “Well, some of us have jobs,” Merlin went on to joke again, knowing it fell flat in the face of the mood the conversation had taken.
“You don’t have to work right this second,” Arthur argued back, but Merlin only shook his head, already backing away, in the direction of the horses.
“Of course I do! Why else would you have brought me?” This time, Merlin did not wait for a response, sending them both a placating smile before turning around completely and hurrying away.
Merlin didn’t look back, leading the horses out of the clearing swiftly. Well, as swift as one man can lead seven horses, anyway. He knew of a pond close by, further away than the stream, but more secluded.
It took a few minutes to walk there, but Merlin was grateful for the distance from camp. He allowed the horses to graze as he took a moment for himself, laying flat on his back in an attempt to straighten it and stretch his muscles. He slowly pulled his knees toward him, his feet flat on the grass. The movement in his legs gently pulled the muscles in his back, bringing him more pain, but he knew by experience that it would help it fade.
He repeated this a few times, until the pain was a dull throb. This wouldn’t help him forever, but it would assist him long enough to survive the outing and sneak back to his room. With a pained groan, he sat up, pulling his tunic off. Merlin laid down on his stomach, letting the warm sun hit his back. The relief was minimal again, but it allowed him to breathe easier.
After a few minutes, Merlin stood back up, figuring he should probably get to taking care of the horses like he’d said. Leaving his tunic off in the heat, he pat down their steeds and made sure they all had their fair share of drink on such a hot day.
Merlin sighed as he shrugged his tunic back on. He couldn’t divest his shirt in company, since his torso was littered with scars that he could never explain. This meant no swimming in the creek with Arthur and the knights, or taking it off in the heat of his outdoor chores with the other servants.
Before coming to Camelot, he hadn’t been ashamed of his body. He wasn’t even ashamed now, that wasn’t apt. Merlin did not find his scars ugly or disfiguring—rather, he carried them with some pride. Merlin was proud of the lean muscles that hid beneath his baggy shirts, and every burn and scratch and hurried stitch was only evidence of his devotion to his king and kingdom. There was nothing shameful about what he’d done, even if it was terribly treasonous. (Not to mention, some one-night lovers had found the scars rather… sexy.) It was simply that Merlin couldn’t show his scars without having to explain how he got them.
Sighing, Merlin led the horses back to camp, unaware of the noiseless presence lurking in the trees.