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The view from the floor is not as boring as one might think.
One witnesses a lot from the floor. Heavy things. Forgotten things. The constant shifting of balance as people shuffle about.
Merlin’s Boots, for example, have witnessed a lot. From the stone floors of the citadel to the mossy earth of the forests, there is very little of Camelot to which these Boots have not been privy.
Merlin’s Boots, or simply, Boots, as Merlin so affectionately refers to them when no one is around to poke fun at him (‘Hello, Boots,’ he’ll sometimes greet when he dons them in the morning), have been a silent observer of many a foible and heroic deed in the several months since making the trek from Ealdor.
Trudging through dense underbrush on a hunt. Sprinting through the halls of the castle in pursuit of assassins. Tripping up stairs and over unseen roots. One keeping regular watch of the door from Merlin’s bedroom floor (when they’re not obscured by Merlin’s scarves and various discarded belongings) and the other keeping a close eye on the loose floorboard which contains Merlin’s spellbook and other assorted contraband. The boy must really find a safer hiding spot. Most of that floorboard’s contents could level the city if mistreated.
Boots are so often the first to recognise the need for movement. Taking steps before the mind even processes the danger. Merlin’s Boots, in particular, pride themselves on a quick reaction time. If only they could get the rest of Merlin’s body to follow suit, it would save everyone a lot of trouble.
‘Will you stop manhandling me?!’
‘What– that’s– I’m not– manhandling you–’
‘You are! You’re manhandling!’
‘I am not!’
‘You are! You manhandle me all the time! You’re a manhandler!’
The Boots cannot see how Arthur’s cheeks turn pink, but they can imagine it just fine.
‘I am not a– That’s not even a word!’
‘Well, if the boot fits, you’ve probably manhandled it on!
‘Will you stop saying manhandle?!’
‘Well, stop doing it and I won’t have to keep saying it!’
‘Stop being a stubborn idiot and I won’t have to keep doing it!’
‘Arthur, I’m fine.’
‘You’re not fine, I can see your ankle swelling from here! Now will you just sit down already and let me have a look?’
After much huffing and jostling about, Merlin finally relents and drops heavily onto the boulder onto which Arthur was trying to, yes, manhandle his servant.
The bandits had swarmed in from the trees and Merlin had darted for cover immediately, whispering the usual spells of distraction and interference in the form of broken tree limbs and curiously hot sword hilts. A bandit sneaked up on him while he was thus preoccupied and managed to catch him off guard. His Boots regretfully did not see it coming either, because they were pointed in the same direction as their wearer, as boots tend to do. Merlin thankfully turned just in time, but tripped on a root while dodging the swing of the ruffian’s nasty looking cudgel.
Arthur, of course, noticed him limping after the skirmish was resolved and thus was born the ‘manhandle’ debacle.
The prince removes the right Boot carefully, and it reluctantly relinquishes its protective hold over the swelling joint as it’s pulled away. From its new position atop the boulder next to Merlin, it witnesses the almost tender way Arthur examines the injury, turning it gingerly and prodding it with delicate fingers to gauge its severity, even apologising softly when Merlin winces and jerks in his grip.
It’s inconceivably gentle, so unlike their usual repartee. So, inevitably, Merlin makes some comment about Arthur going soft, and Arthur picks up the discarded Boot, which abruptly has another fascinating shift in perspective as it sails through the air and collides with Merlin’s head.
There are more forest floors after that, and catacombs, and ancient ruins, and an unfortunate incident knocking over a compost bucket in the kitchens. Merlin’s Boots smelled terribly of cabbage for days after that one, even worse than after a spell in the stocks.
‘Sorry, Boots,’ Merlin laments as he scrubs at the leather yet again, careful not to wear the already weakening hide too thin with the brush. He sounds so genuinely regretful that his Boots don’t mind when the soap leaves their patina all filmy.
Then comes a snivelling little cretin named Cedric, and Merlin’s Boots find themselves caked in manure and thinking that the cabbage really wasn’t so bad. And then there’s the anxiety of a thief running amok possessed by an ancient evil sorcerer, and a confrontation that brings aching vulnerabilities to the surface, and an exhausting effort to finally trap the wicked soul back in its cursed amulet.
Worse than that though, is the way Merlin’s feet drag through the whole ordeal.
One can usually judge Merlin’s moods by the buoyancy of his steps. Whether he’s springy or stomping, playful or sulky.
When he’s hurt, by injury of pride and sentiment rather than flesh, his stride grows shuffling and lax. And Arthur, unfortunately, has the ability to injure Merlin’s heart keener than any other. Merlin’s Boots become quite good friends with the cobblestones, never quite leaving the surface and instead scraping along with forlorn drudgery. The ache of Arthur’s distrust and mistreatment makes Merlin even clumsier than usual, so distracted by his wounded ego that he catches his toes on every uneven slab and kicks pebbles into his uppers.
Eventually, something has to give, and that something happens to be a buckle.
On a day in the week leading up to Yule, Merlin’s Boots sit in his lap, and cradled in his careful hands is a broken fastening, the brass snapped cleanly in two. It happened while he was cleaning out Arthur’s hearth; he caught the buckle on the iron grate as he turned to fetch the ash bucket and the torsion was too much for the brittle metal weakened by age and overuse.
He’s sitting there staring at it quite dejectedly from the floor when Arthur strides in.
‘Merlin, this might be too much for your tiny brain to comprehend, but typically a servant completes a task before sitting in the middle of the floor like a useless lump.’
‘My buckle broke,’ Merlin replies despondently.
‘What?’
‘On my boots. The buckle.’
‘Oh. Well, they’re getting ragged, any way. Just get a new pair.’
Merlin’s fingers tighten possessively over his Boots’ soles. ‘Oh, I’ll just get a new pair, shall I?’ His voice is acerbic, bleeding with leftover hurt gone too long unacknowledged. ‘Even if I could afford that, I love these boots. Yes, they’re falling apart, but they’ve served me well and I wouldn’t repay that so poorly by replacing them so easily. I would hate to cast them aside as if their loyalty meant nothing.’
The words are sharp enough that even Arthur can’t miss their not-so-subtle subtext. Merlin’s Boots can see the uncomfortable shuffling of the prince’s own pristine footwear, polished with care just that morning by his manservant.
‘Merlin, I–’
‘I have to finish this.’ Merlin gestures limply to the fireplace. Arthur, shockingly, says nothing and simply turns on his heel and leaves.
That night, Merlin sets his poor, ragged footwear neatly by his bed, with a perfect view of the doorway, and places the buckle fragments on his bedside table.
Hours after Merlin’s breaths have gone steady and sonorous with sleep, a figure creeps in and takes his Boots and buckle both.
Yule arrives, and the Boots are reunited with Merlin in the most surprising of ways.
As Merlin bustles around setting out an appropriately festive-yet-regal outfit for the feast, Arthur interrupts him and sits him down (on the prince’s bed, no less). From behind his back, he produces The Boots.
Merlin’s eyes widen, and his Boots would preen if preening were something boots could do.
Not only have all the buckles been repaired, but the whole of the Boots themselves have been resoled, mended, and polished to an immaculate shine by the castle cobbler.
‘Here,’ Arthur says, thrusting his gift forwards with hands that the Boots can tell are a little sweaty with nerves. ‘You were right. They’ve served you well. Stuck by you through many challenges. Were I to be shown such devotion, I would consider myself to be… very lucky. And vastly undeserving. I promise to recognise such loyalty much better in future.’
Merlin reaches out and takes up his Boots reverently, stroking at one of the lustrous straps with his thumb. It’s good to be reunited. Merlin had apparently believed his precious footwear to have been stolen, and in his distress had refused to find a suitable replacement, instead stubbornly wearing nothing but several pairs of socks layered up. His Boots, meanwhile, had spent several days being pampered, and thus feel a little sorry for all the hullabaloo and are eager to make up for it with a prompt return to steadfast service. Seeing as it’s getting colder and colder each day and snow is beginning to pile up outside, Merlin will need his Boots to look after him.
‘Well? Is it. I mean. Are they… alright?’
There’s a pregnant pause even inanimate objects can sense, and then Merlin is launching himself at Arthur in a messy collision of mouths and hands.
Merlin’s Boots topple from Merlin’s lap onto the floor and are quickly covered with hurriedly discarded clothing, but the they can forgive the oversight. With all these fresh repairs and gleaming new fastenings, they can handle a little more wear and tear. They’ll keep serving Merlin faithfully, will be around to witness the Golden Age of Albion from the polished stone of the throne room and the sun-drenched parapets.
And until then, the view from Arthur’s chamber floor will suit just fine.