Work Text:
Merlin whistled to himself as he hurried through the castle corridors. It was a wandering, happy sort of sound, slipping in and out of recognizable melody. He carried a neatly folded crimson cloak and a pile of clinkling bits and pieces of armor on top like a wedding cake. For once, Merlin didn’t mind his heavy burden or how awfully early he’d been forced out of bed.
Today was special. It was the start of Camelot’s annual jousting tournament and though Merlin would never admit it to Giaus or anyone else, he was quite excited.
He loved the way everyone got all dressed up, (well, even more than usual) how banners flicked crisply in the wind and golden coats of arms flashed in the noonday sun. It was Merlin’s job to stand just on the sidelines and assist Gaius while he attended to any injuries. From that vantage point, Merlin could taste the kicked up dust, hear the knights’ ragged breathing and spot a frenzied glint in the horses’ liquid brown eyes.
He liked the comforting thrill of being close enough to the danger and excitement while never being expected to actually get involved. The adrenaline rush minus anyone attempting to murder him for once.
Merlin climbed another set of stairs, passed a window where he paused for a moment to watch the men erect crimson colored tents and continued to the door of Arthur’s chambers.
He pushed it open with his shoulder calling out as he did so, “It’s me! I brought your armor and I promise I didn’t forget anything this time.”
Merlin stopped as he took in the empty bedroom and the muffled voice leaking from the little adjoining closet
.
“Go away Merlin.”
Merlin let out a little humorless laugh. Of course. On the one day he got to have a bit fun Arthur had found something to be moody about just to spoil it. Merlin took a fortifying breath and then another for good measure, determined not to let him.
“But, uh- Your Highness, I’ve come to get you ready for the big tournament. That’s kind of my job... “
“I said, go away.”
That’s when Merlin heard it, a strange, jerky stiffness fraying the edges of Arthur’s customary annoyance. He seemed - unbelievably - at the verge of tears.
Merlin froze, mouth falling open. This was new. Merlin had seen and been subjected to many of the Prince’s foul moods, but they were always of the stoic, walled off variety. It honestly hadn’t occurred to him that Arthur was capable of crying.
He felt deeply wrong-footed. There was no script for this. He knew that Arthur would probably rather die, rather endure all variety of torture than be seen in such a state. He also knew that he should probably do what he was told lest he end up in the dungeons for, what was it? The third time this week.
And somehow yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave.
“Arthur? Are you alright?”
“Christ Merlin for once would you do what you’re told?”
It was probably meant to sound off hand, but Arthur’s voice betrayed him. The emphasis was in all the wrong places, a skipping, syncopation of grief.
Merlin took that as an invitation, crossing the room to find Arthur sitting with his back to the closet door. The prince swiped furtively at his eyes when he saw Merlin approaching and looked pointedly away.
Merlin sat down at a respectful distance and waited in what he hoped was companionable silence. He toed the cloak and armour across the floor between them.
“Brought you your things” his voice carefully neutral.
Arthur glared at him through red eyes “Do you want me to throw you out? I think we’ve established by now that I’m fully capable of trouncing you.”
Merlin shrugged. “You could. Or you could tell me what’s the matter.”
“Why the hell do you care?”
That gave him pause. Why did he indeed? Objectively he had every right to hate the man. Arthur was heir to the throne that had tried to crush all magical creatures under its boot. He was a bit of a bully himself. And pretentious as all hell. Merlin could count on his fingers the number of times Arthur had thanked him for his daily labours, and the numbers dwindled significantly if sarcasm counted as a disqualifying factor.
And yet -
Arthur did seem halfway decent when he thought no one was looking, or when the danger was too immediate for his pretensions to matter anymore.
And Merlin had observed too many interactions between the Prince and his father while tucked invisibly into sconce in the wall. They spoke to one another like a general to his soldier in the relative privacy of their home. Arthur always straight backed, at attention. He always looked so lost, like a little boy and it hurt Merlin’s heart, to witness a love that conditional.
Arthur had that same lost look in his eye now, like he was struggling to discover what exactly it was he had done wrong.
Merlin tried for a smile, “Well, for one, you have a tendency to thoroughly destroy your chambers when you in a mood and I’d rather save myself the trouble of tidying up your mess.”
But Arthur, discouragingly, did not rise to the bait. He just huffed, like, go figures.
Merlin scooched a few inches closer, since the Prince seemed disinclined to chuck anything at him.
“You’re … not looking forward to the games today?”
Arthur tensed, “They’re not games.”
Right. Of course. Prince Arthur of Camelot was too dignified for a game. Merlin counted out on his fingers, “Well… there are arbitrary rules and a score board and you get a pretty metal at the end if you win-”
“It’s serious business Merlin. It’s all politics.” He said politics the way others might say, ‘the poisonous adder I found curled in my chamber pot’.
“Uther really wants you to win then?”
Arthur gave a humorless laugh. “I have to win, because I need to show strength to Camelot as its future ruler, but I can’t win by too much against other knights of the guard so as not to make them look incompetent, but I have to absolutely trounce all the visiting warriors from Mercia except I can’t leave them with too many scapes and bruises because they might use that as an excuse to call foul play except there are a few visiting knights who I need to tie with because my father wants to make sure I still have the option to marry their sisters or daughters except I haven’t memorized their coats of arms yet!”
Arthur said this all in one breath and Merlin had to resist the urge to reach over and smooth a thumb over his eyelid to stop it from twitching.
Instead he just blew out his cheeks, “That sounds…”
“Excruciating!” It was like some sort of tap had opened, and all of a sudden the prince had plenty to say.
“I’ve always hated the tournaments being - put on display like that. Well - more than usual anyway. It doesn’t feel like real fighting, there's no point to it, it’s not like we’re defending anything except perhaps our own egos.
Everyone in the stands is just waiting for you to stumble so they can get a little thrill and the other knights are praying for you to slip up and my father-” He struggled to compose himself “It’s like he never blinks Merlin!”
There it was again, a slight hitch in his voice that Arthur couldn’t quite hide. The prince turned like he was suddenly very interested in the tree branches out his narrow window. He rested his cheek in his palm and used his pinky finger to quickly swipe away a tear. It was an efficient and practiced gesture and Merlin might not have noticed if he didn’t spend so much time, well, staring at Arthur.
Merlin felt clutched by a sudden inexplicable surge of protectiveness. It didn’t make sense, this was the royal prat, he had everything, everyone had to listen to him he was literally born with a silver spoon in his mouth. But he seemed incredibly vulnerable, sitting there on the castle floor and Merlin knew with incredible certainty that if he said something cruel in that moment, the prince would be a little bit ruined.
“Arthur,” he began, feeling as though he were edging out onto a lake of uncertain ice, “You don’t need me to list your various martial skills because they are many and they are terrifying.” This earned him a little huff and really, Merlin was too pleased, “But I won’t - think any less of you if you give the wrong knight a concussion or even loose one of the bouts. It doesn’t make you less capable and it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be proud to call you my king.”
Merlin hadn’t exactly meant to say the last part out loud, but as he spoke the words he realized that they were absolutely true. It hung between the like morning mist yet to burn away in the sun.
“Oh.” the prince said and he met his eyes. Merlin could practically see the gears grinding in his head, towards some kind of gentleness, he hoped. Then the spell was broken. Arthur smacked his arm,
“I’m not going to loose any of the tournaments you dolt!”
Merlin danced away, holding his shoulder in mock pain, “I didn’t say you were going to! I just said if you did-”
Merlin got a pillow in the back for that one. He honestly wasn’t sure how Arthur always seemed to have one within arms’ reach. Merlin began sorting through the pile of armor feeling rather pleased with himself and ever so slightly disappointed, for a reason he couldn’t name.