Chapter Text
Arthur resents his father so much for this that he hasn’t even the words to voice it. It forms as a low, yowling kind of sound. Or it would, if he weren’t very well-versed in the behaviour that Uther expects of him. And vulgar noises like that would only cause problems. Scandalously so, in front of others. He’d be licking his wounds for a long time after.
So, he settles for a grim expression; acknowledgement, but no agreement. His agreement on the matter is irrelevant anyway, all that matters to the King is that Arthur does as he’s told. And the Prince is sure that his father takes pleasure in it; keeping Arthur at his heel, knowing how it must goad him as an Alpha. Arthur is never gladder, than in moments like this, for his designation. He cannot imagine a life under Uther’s rule as an Omega, even as a Prince. He’d bet anything he has that Morgana has had the same thoughts.
It simply doesn’t bear thinking about.
And so, he retires for the evening, snapping at his manservant and firing him shortly after, growling to himself as he paces and sheds his clothes himself, and dresses for bed, and tries to sleep.
As if to truly drive home the fact of how perfunctory Arthur’s reluctant acceptance really was, it takes barely two days for the first to arrive.
“Truly, pretty things.”
Arthur is very careful not to show on his face how he recoils from Uther’s words. They are pretty, the Omegas brought to parade before him. Handsome individuals, but frightened. Most of them. The ones who aren’t turn Arthur’s stomach further, for they’re either far too close to heat to be dragged anywhere, or far too interested in connecting with the throne.
Arthur isn’t stupid. He knows that mating him would raise any Omega into a life unlike any other. They’d be crowned Queen with him, when his turn came. They’d be royalty and treated as such. Lavished with gifts and luxuries, never want for anything. He knows that this appeal will make it difficult for him to ever truly know whether they would care if it were him or some other Prince they were thrust off to, so long as they got the throne and the riches and the comfortable life.
He has known since before he even presented, that he will not mate or marry for love. But Uther has been unable, even after so many years, to truly crush that hope under the heel of his boot. Arthur, like any other noble, will be mated for alliance, for strength, for Camelot. He will have a Queen who will bring skills or smarts or allies to his reign that deepen the foundations and prosperity of his kingdom. He knows that.
But he will guard, however secretively, the tiny flicker of hope in the deepest shadow of his chest, that he will find love with whoever ends up at his side. It’s irrational, undesirable, and would greatly anger his father if he ever suspected. But it is the one true thing he has that is his and damn it he will keep it safe.
One such unafraid lad is eyeing him, tall and dark and brown-eyed, and Arthur cannot deny that he is attractive. The line of suitors curtsey low before the throne, first to Uther and then to Arthur. That dark head rises quicker than the others, gaze again catching on him. Each Omega is ushered forward, announced, and offers a wrist in an archaic display, for Arthur to scent.
It sickens him, but it would be a grievous insult to refuse any of them, or to show displeasure. Uther may not spend a thought for what happened after their visit, but Arthur would. And he would rather die than be a reason they were punished when they left Camelot. He does as he is bid, swallowing down the defiance, and meeting each scent. More than one hand trembles under his nose, and he makes very sure to temper his regal expression with as much gentleness as he feels he might get away with.
The lad who’d caught his eye thrusts his wrist so close that Arthur has to draw away an inch, lest he touch the lad. He is bold, which appeals to Arthur, but his scent and mannerisms do not. It feels false, a performance. And while that’s precisely what they’re all engaging in; a giant performance, there is such a thing as overdoing it. Arthur smiles politely as he draws away again, but the smell of treacle sticks stubbornly in his nose.
The visit and the meal and the polite refusals drag on for a great length of time. There is great talk of education, lineage, accomplishments, penmanship. Uther is at least unperturbed no man or woman is chosen. It was, after all, the first of several batches, as he so put it, leaving Arthur indignant at the insulting phrasing. There will be more to come, and the choice isn’t one to take lightly.
Arthur lies awake that night and wonders bleakly how long he will be allowed to turn suitors away before the choice is no longer dressed as truly his own.
The answer is; a month.
Arthur counts the days, the visits. It becomes his ritual, as though keeping close track will stave off the inevitable; Uther simply losing patience and choosing for him. It’s all that keeps him sane, until the day he stumbles across something else that might.
Uther had hinted that he was picky, that morning. He didn’t come right out with it, in a way where his words could not be misconstrued, but in his usual backhanded manner where his point was clear but his words mild. Arthur is in a rotten mood. One of the squires is a touch too slow at his job, and Arthur’s temper must have an outlet.
There is a dark kind of satisfaction, one he usually knows he shouldn’t feed but does today, in watching the young lad race with the heavy wooden target across the training ground. Two knights laugh with him as he launches daggers with more force than necessary and calls out that the lad is still too slow.
His reprimand is on his tongue when the target rolls away, and that’s where he finds him, one boot firm on the disk to hold it down as cerulean eyes flash at him from under the ugly tangle of dark hair, with something that ignites across his chest.
He can taste him on the air, so striking is his scent. And it’s not even anything special; herbs and woods and something only a touch like the way the air smells after thunder. Yet it catches Arthur’s breath, lodges it in his throat, and he meets the entirely disrespectful expression with a dazed moment of surprise.
The exchange is automatic; he meets wry words with sharp reprimand, trading them like steel meets steel on the field. He finds himself furious, growling down the Omega with threat in his tone. The lad unbelievably stands his ground, clearly slow in the head, and an entirely separate heat blooms fiercely in the recesses of Arthur’s abdomen.
He has him put in the stocks and marches off looking every bit a Prince.
Inside, he is unrecognizable. The entire landscape within himself has shifted. He is plagued, until the minute he falls asleep, with intangible, infuriating traces of something he knows he’s smelled before, in Gaius’s ministrations of his wounds over the years.
It’s a great mountain, the task of banishing the younger man from his mind. He clears his nose with steam and bath oils and the smell of leather. But still, it seems to ghost around him as he pushes on stubbornly. He has not time to think of peasants, even impetuous ones, while dealing with a search for his future Queen.
But every figure who curtsies and offers their wrist is compared, against his bidding, with a shock of unruly dark hair, eyes as dark blue as night lakes, cheekbones as sharp as if they’d met the whetstone.
Uther is angry as the latest group of suitors are turned away, that much is obvious from the dark tang of iron in the room, leaking even through the poultice-packed bindings Gaius prepares to shield the King’s scent from those not in his inner circle. He berates him like a child, accusing him of distraction, of failing to take his duties as an heir seriously.
Frankly, Arthur finds it ridiculous to think he should have found the person he will bring to the throne in such a meagre amount of time, but it’s clear Uther is impatient. Arthur thinks that is why, when the lad who’d riled him so in the citadel shoves him from the path of the dagger thrown at yet another of those tedious suitor dinners, Uther punishes him by finally filling the position he’d been so happy keeping empty.
Merlin.
That's the name of the frustrating lad, who’d goaded him and disrespected him, and saved his life from a sorceress’s cursed dagger and been rewarded with the job of Arthur’s personal manservant.
Arthur snaps at him at every opportunity. Throws things at him, thrusts task upon task on him in an attempt to break him in like a stubborn horse or at the very least dim his incongruously fierce lack of respect and decorum.
Merlin barks back. It seems bizarrely that he is welded of a steel ill-fitting for someone of his station, his wit sharp and delivered fast as a whipcrack, his complaining needling under Arthur’s skin and piercing his temper like he knows exactly where it lives. Arthur begins leaving his windows wide open even as the weather cools, because his chamber stinks of herbs and thunder and it is far too much to take when Merlin is dismissed and Arthur is left in the heavy quiet of the night.
He is angry by default these days, baring his teeth more often than he ever has before. He can only be relieved that since the disaster that was the last group of Omegas brought to meet him, Uther seems not yet inclined to recommence the meetings. Arthur is sure he would find it difficult to hide his frustration at the endless parade, the droll listing of education or inane chatter the meetings bring.
It is freeing, even if it means being saddled with the hopeless case of Merlin; clumsy, untidy, useless at his job. It’s weeks, almost months, before they have anything close to a civil conversation. It occurs suddenly and strangely, as Merlin is petting the mare in the stall next to Llamrei as they ready for a hunt.
His nose notices first, his head rising from his saddlebags, turning in surprise at the unfamiliar little tickle of primrose. Merlin, in typical fashion, abandoning his job to give attention to the beast who’d nickered at him, his breath a gentle huff. It isn’t the first time Arthur has been forcefully reminded of Merlin’s designation. He’s always aware of it, just absently these days, the way you get used to walking in wet boots and forget about it for a while, even while your feet squelch and your toes go numb. Every now and then, a moment rears his head and reminds him who the man now perpetually trailing behind him is.
It feels so out of place, that he speaks before he thinks.
“Mallow.”
A dark head stills, then turns to him, blue eyes snagging his. Like equals, not like a servant.
“I beg your pardon?”
Arthur feels his mouth twitch.
“Oh, you beg, do you?”
That familiar deep scowl is back in place, his gaze turning flinty, and Merlin spins back to the horse as though Arthur hasn’t spoken. And he almost responds with something sharp, the way he’s used to, the way they always do. But Merlin’s hand rises to stroke the ears of the normally skittish horse, and when she allows it, the sweet little floral note from before returns.
“Her name, the mare. It’s Mallow.”
Merlin doesn’t turn around again right away, but his hand pauses its path down the grey dappled neck.
“Mallow.” he repeats, when the moment is growing awkward and Arthur is out of things to do to delay their leave – not that he was doing that, certainly not, and if he were, it wouldn’t be so bloody Merlin could pet a damn horse.
The mare makes a little sound as though in agreement and presses her nose into Merlin’s chest. The way he laughs – soft, surprised, as if he hadn’t expected a bright moment in his day – curls gently under Arthur’s skin like a soothe.
“She’s normally averse to being ridden.” Arthur offers, trying to dig back some of his usual sneer, “But if you’d rather ride than walk, you can try your luck.”
It’s derisive, or almost, anyway. There’s enough edge that it sounds like a challenge. Merlin does turn then, looking to him as though trying to work out if he’s being mocked. Arthur considers steering it that way, to safe ground. He knows how to mock Merlin, to trade barbs and snap and bully. Merlin knows how to do it, too. He doesn’t know how to be anything else, with him. He doubts Merlin knows either.
He gestures to the tack hung on a nail behind the stable door.
“I don’t have all day to wait, though.”
Merlin looks at him a moment longer, brow furrowed but not so deeply as usual; speculative, gauging him for a punchline. He supposes it must feel like an obvious one, a servant being given a castle horse for a short hunt. He lifts a brow; he cannot help but dig at him.
“Scared of horses, Merlin?”
That earns a snort, and surges the servant into motion, and Mallow is ready in less time than Llamrei has ever been. He knew Merlin was taking too long on purpose. When he shoots the idiot a glare at the realisation, Merlin’s face does something new. He hides it, ducking his chin as he takes a breath and swings his leg over Mallow’s saddle, standing in the stirrups and easing slowly down into the seat. The mare flicks her ears at him, looking entirely bored, as though telling him his caution is absurd. Merlin slowly reaches out a hand to lay it between her ears, and she butts up into his palm.
For a second, it’s as if Merlin forgets their animosity, because he turns shining eyes Arthur’s way, his face doing that new thing again; softening and reforming into something young, something pleased, his mouth tugging in a smile Arthur has never seen before.
He’s seen Merlin, sometimes, smiling at other staff or people in the citadel and lower town. When he’s not right by the Prince’s side, when Arthur wasn’t involved in the conversation. But not like this, not looking almost vulnerable and human, not smiling so small and pleased and at Arthur. The eyeroll and throaty huff Arthur responds with are delayed only by a beat, but he’s not positive that his usual firm frustration is properly conveyed. Because as he clicks his tongue to Llamrei and she leads them out into the courtyard and towards the gates, the faintest ghost of that smile seems to linger at the corner of Merlin’s mouth, and Arthur isn’t as annoyed at Mallow for behaving for Merlin, of all people, as he should be.
The arguing returns before they even reach the forest proper, and the next day it's as if it never left; the barking, the growling and shouting. All the familiar landmarks of their interactions. The days settle into it again, but a week goes by and Arthur realises that the edge is duller. He’s still put on edge, he still strikes with steel, and Merlin still holds his ground and gives the same back in spades, insolent and infuriating and disrespectful enough that Arthur could really put him in a cell, if he felt like it. But something is different. Arthur can’t exactly place it, his mind jarring him every so often with the memory of Merlin’s gentle way with Mallow, the smile that felt so out of place and strange, and eventually realises that thinking about it too long makes him feel unsteady.
So, he doesn’t think about it. He barks orders, he overworks the lad, he insults him, and somehow, somewhere along the line near the mark of six months into Merlin’s service, he trades chuckles with him, knocks shoulders with him, thumps him on the arm in moments of delight. Merlin’s scowls begin to take different paths. Or maybe Arthur is just finally learning them. Their landscape changes, subtly and then noticeably, and eventually they are trading barbs to make each other laugh, snapping to make the other smirk. It isn’t as annoying as Arthur expected. Even if Merlin breaks every rule and all the etiquette in the world. Arthur will forgive him, mostly, because he finds there’s a bond growing there, built on disrespectful honesty, incongruently mean jibes, and the way that Merlin flashes his teeth when he grins. He notices the way that Merlin’s scent develops a comfortable undertone of honeysuckle, steady and warm beneath his familiar mix of herbs. He takes it as a good sign, Merlin showing himself more fully, even if he’s the worst manservant Arthur’s ever come across.
They face threats to the throne, to his people, and Merlin unlocks something new in Arthur’s chest each time he elects to follow as he usually does, Arthur’s shadow. Ignoring Arthur’s refusals, ignoring his orders to stay back, ignoring even what little of his Alpha command accidentally leaks into his voice sometimes when danger has him on high alert. Merlin responds very poorly when that happens, and Arthur is wracked each time with guilt he cannot voice.
He realises suddenly, around a campfire on one such pursuit of a threat, that Merlin has charmed his First Knight enough that Leon considers him an ally. It’s subtle, but it shows in the way Leon eases to the moss beside them both, the way he no longer hedges his words with Merlin within earshot. They almost move as three, when Arthur leads his small band into skirmishes, into tracking wayward bandits and magic users who have shown themselves to be a threat.
Arthur trusts few people truly with his life. Leon is one. Morgana another. Merlin makes three. He knows each of his men would die for him, but it’s quite another consideration as to who he would willing place his life into the hands of.
The realisation that Merlin has worked himself above those men is startling, frightening. The established camaraderie between them is stilted for days while Arthur grapples with it. Merlin sulks, snapping his teeth over any and every perceived slight or minor inconvenience, and Arthur can do nothing but weather it, because he does not know how he’d even explain his temporary retreat from their friendship. And it is friendship; that’s the other side of his realisation. It is no longer just him and his servant, but him and a man he’d entrust his life to, a man he’d consider his friend.
A man whose scent is now as familiar as his own, whose primrose notes of joy Arthur is now deeply versed in. There aren’t many people he can so accurately read on scent alone. Some are easy to guess, of course, anger scents differently on everyone but is usually recognisable. Threat is always something sharp, typically acidic. Defiance something hot or stinging. Comfort and ease, loyalty and affection light, fragile, or sweet. Woodsy, sometimes. In a general sense, he’s always been good at that. He should be, his father drilled it into him relentlessly as a child, declaring it a vital skill. And it is. But few people can he guarantee he’s able to read, would bet his life on knowing. Even Morgana sometimes catches him by surprise, if rarely. He knows his father’s, had to, to survive his wrath growing up. He knows Leon’s, better even than he knows Morgana’s.
It’s uncomfortable to think he might know Merlin’s best of all. But at least he can blame it on the hours they spend together every day, his entire schedule accompanied by the servant. He deliberately avoids thinking about the fact he’s never known any previous manservant that well. Or that knowing an Omega’s scent so intimately is a very different matter.
But yes, Merlin is a friend. An ally, and a loyal one, for all their fighting. He has offered up his life for Arthur’s on more than one, horrifying, occasion. And he shows no remorse when Arthur rages at him after, either. He shows no regard for his status or even his own designation, still, and in the hidden chambers of his own soul, Arthur comes to understand that he is grateful for it. He hates to admit it, but he is growing, under the level of challenge and brutal honesty Merlin throws his way.
Approaching a year as Prince and manservant, their bond is stronger still. It is no longer a question whether Merlin will follow Arthur into whatever he heads towards. Where Arthur goes, Merlin goes. Merlin now laughs more than he scowls, and Arthur feels more worthy of his title with every month that passes. Merlin once tells him, in a moment of particular peace by a dying campfire, that he believes Arthur will make a great King. Better than his father. It’s treason, to speak like that. But Arthur barely feels the sting to his lineage, so stunning and fragile is the feeling that slides loose in his chest at the brief, hushed murmur.
It is what Arthur has been raised for, what he dreams of when he dreams of his reign beginning. To be a good King. To bring peace, prosperity, and contentment to his people. To hear words of faith in him, particularly from the one man he believes would never say it if he didn’t think it true, is exhilarating in a way he cannot name. Their ever-growing landscape shifts a little again.
Uther brings up Arthur’s lack of Omega not long after, and while Arthur’s day is instantly soured by the conversation, he no longer feels such a search to be ridiculous. If he is to be the great King that Merlin expects of him, then he will need an equally great Queen, and better to have the time to teach them how than to be thrust on the throne without that preparation. As much as it galls him, he feels he’s grown enough in a year to better understand the importance.
At least, he considers, as he sits stiffly in his chair awaiting the first new group of woefully underwhelming prospective suitors, he has Merlin attending to him at the banquet table, familiar steady scent calming his nerves at such an important meeting.
He had thought he knew all of Merlin’s scent, by now. But after the fifth Omega offers a wrist for him to meet, he realises that the sharp little thread of peppermint is not, in fact, a commonality amidst the visitors, but emanating from the man keeping a respectful distance somewhere behind and to the right of him. It isn’t an entirely unpleasant element, but there is a quality to it that makes Arthur tense as he draws away, flicking his gaze and failing to have enough of a view to find him without an obvious turn of his head.
He sits through the remaining scent offers, none of which even rouse his interest, before he is able to curl his fingers to draw Merlin in to refill his goblet. The minty tang grows a little stronger with his approach, still subtle but definitely there. Merlin won’t meet his eye as he tries to silently ask- something. If he’s alright. If something is wrong. Merlin gets funny feelings sometimes about people, or situations they are headed into. Arthur likes to mock him for it, but he’s not stupid enough to ignore it when it has proven useful more often than he would have wagered.
Merlin fills his cup and retreats, the perfect image of a good servant, and something in Arthur goes with him, leaving him unbalanced. Something is wrong, even if he doesn’t yet know what. It is a torturously slow affair, as though Uther had requested the new matchmaker bring her dullest, most boring Omegas to their table. Even their voices, even the ones dripping clear interest, are a drone in Arthur’s ears. He hums when feels appropriate, nods along to tales of skill, but his mind is several feet behind him, concerned about the appearance of a new smell on Merlin.
If he’d been less distracted, he’d have noticed how bizarre that was. Might even have caught the way his father’s jaw twitches minutely when Arthur’s contributions to most topics fail to meet his expectation. When at last he is unshackled from his seat, Arthur bids a swift exit, unsurprised to find that Merlin has disappeared already, despite not being dismissed.
He finds him coaxing a new flame in the hearth in Arthur’s chambers. He doesn’t look up as Arthur strides in, doesn’t comment as he usually would on the way the door swings loudly shut behind him. He does flash a smile when the Alpha nears, the warm orange of the fireplace dancing over the angles of his face when he tips his head. Arthur’s growing concern dwindles as quickly as the new fire grows.
Now that he’s here, he isn’t sure at all how he means to address his concern. One can’t just ask a servant why his scent suddenly has a new addition, let alone an Omega, nor reveal the knowledge that he knows Merlin’s scent so absolutely. Or thought he did.
“You’re not falling bloody ill, are you?” is what he settles for, a safer place to approach from.
Merlin gives him a funny, amused look.
“Why would I be falling ill?”
And Arthur suddenly loathes this habit, every question met with a question, prying instead of a simple, instant answer. He doesn’t truly loathe it, secretly he rather enjoys being asked after, having someone want to understand his mind. He never did, before. But Merlin had brought with him the possibility, and Arthur has rather gotten used to it. Likes it, even.
But it is terribly inconvenient, right now.
“You seemed off, during dinner.”
Merlin says nothing, turning back to tend to the fire that absolutely no longer needs his attention. So, there’s something, at least. Arthur isn’t imagining it. His mind races, seeking possibilities. One of his funny feelings, and he would have told Arthur right away. He is staunchly loyal and protective of Arthur’s wellbeing. Perhaps he’d known someone there, perhaps had a history with them. Perhaps he found the archaic practice of Omega parades as distasteful as Arthur. Perhaps-
Arthur stops cold as a chill rushes up his spine. Merlin noticeably stills, sensing the change. Or scenting it. His head twitches in an aborted motion, as though he’d made to look to him and stopped himself. The wary coil of basil finds Arthur’s nose. He makes the small noise automatically, of reassurance, but Merlin’s tension only softens a little.
The thought of Merlin being hauled to play suitor makes a greasy unease bubble low in Arthur’s stomach. The parades of lords and ladies that come to Camelot are voluntary, or at the very least an offered opportunity to gain greater status and a certain security or win a much sought-after tie to the Crown. But not everyone is royal, nor even nobility. There are less reputable ways to find yourself in a matchmaker’s service. Those of lower birth do not always have a choice in the matter. It isn’t so much an honour as it is sometimes their best option. Matchmakers are known to pay families for their Omega children if they have... certain appeal. And Merlin.... Well, Arthur isn’t stupid. He’s aware, as any Alpha with half a brain would be, that Merlin is not unappealing.
Arthur’s heart clenches, at the thought of Merlin; sold to a matchmaker or forced into the clutches of one by poverty or family misfortune, what he might have had to suffer through before escaping. He speaks highly of his mother, when he mentions her at all, but he’s never said anything of his father. The urge to reach out burns, but he’s very aware of the way the air between them has honed an edge, and he can’t bear the thought of making the blade cut either one of them. He curls his fingers into his palms to keep them from crossing the distance.
“Merlin?”
The dark head bows further, and Arthur can’t stand it.
“You don’t have to tell me anything about it,” he assures, and he’s acutely aware of the inappropriately gentle way his voice comes out, “but if... If you’ve. If you’ve been in a matchmaker’s employ before and don’t want to attend me for the duration of the parade, I’ll arrange for someone else to take over that duty.”
For a heartbeat or two, nothing happens. And then Merlin’s face lifts incredibly slowly, and his stark dark eyes meet Arthur’s from under his mess of hair. Arthur feels the ground steady a little better beneath his feet at the way Merlin looks at him. Something vulnerable, something new and raw, floats behind the wary gratefulness in his gaze. A tiny but reassuring burst of his usual honeysuckle drifts up between them.
There is a fleeting moment where it feels almost as if something else has entered the room with them, a gentle presence, foreign and yet familiar. It winds its way around him, leaving a ghostly impression on his skin. Merlin looks like he is about to say something but changes direction a second later. Chooses something safer. Arthur knows the feeling.
“I wouldn’t be able to repay that kindness.” Merlin answers, his voice barely a whisper, but the tone is heavy with unsaid things.
Arthur feels relief shape his smile.
“You wouldn’t have to.”
It is tedious, to suffer through the next parade a week later without even the comfort of Merlin nearby, and Uther’s patience is notably thinner than it was last year. The matchmaker seems not to notice, her face bright and understanding as she packs up another group and sets off again with the amused promise to return. Arthur holds his head a little lower than his pride would like and is grateful that the gesture staves of his father’s potential tirade.
He hauls Merlin on a hunt the next morning, and neither of them mentions how thin an excuse it is to be free of the castle, just for a few hours. They weave through trees with no care for their footing, and Arthur is pleased that Merlin seems himself, the steady scent of honeysuckle and herbs floating around him like a cloak.
When he laughs, loud and gleefully, Arthur cannot even be properly infuriated at his own tumble over a hidden knot of tree root. He holds his weight on his palms and glares ineffectively up at the cackling manservant and forgets just for a moment that a Prince should not fall over and certainly should not stay grounded nor allow a servant to laugh at him, that an Alpha should not allow it of an Omega. Merlin laughs like he is free, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his eyes glittering sapphire. The length of his pale neck catches the sunlight, and he almost seems to glow in his mirth. One sharp little canine peeks over his bottom lip as he valiantly tries to bite down his grin and tries to calm himself. Merlin offers a hand when he pulls himself together enough and tugs Arthur to his feet with an invisible strength the Prince has long since stopped being surprised by. Primrose meets his nose, joyful and sweet. The unease of the other day melts fully away from its perch on Arthur’s ribs.
He shoots down several geese on their way back, if only for appearances’ sake.
Somehow, he survives the next three rounds of Omega parades without having to cow to the King and is granted a reprieve in the form of the matchmaker writing to tell them of a new round of sourcing potential suitors. She invites the Prince to write her back, should he think of any particular qualities she should be looking for. Arthur stares down at a blank stretch of parchment much of that evening but cannot fathom what to tell her.
He is free, for a time, to return to his life and duties with the elation of emptier evenings to spend as he likes. And Merlin comes along, of course. Because they’ve long stopped pretending Arthur will do anything without his shadow, if said shadow is not required to assist the Court Physician. They’ve slipped back into that easy rhythm Arthur has come to rely on. They argue constantly, bicker over things that don’t require it, and it is pleasant to pretend, for a while, that the matchmaker’s promised return doesn’t hang over them both.
The first time Merlin bares his teeth at someone who isn’t Arthur, it all comes crashing down. They’re walking through the market, something Arthur likes to do to remind his people that he is still just a man, albeit one with a silver circlet, which he leaves in his chambers. The breeze is dancing pleasantly through his hair and tugging at the birds’ nest of Merlin’s. They bicker still, but quietly and with much less bite than usual. It wouldn’t do for Merlin to be seen being blatantly disrespectful, but the man toes the line at times anyway. It’s never been said, but Arthur is suspicious that perhaps his people enjoy seeing someone match him without backing down. Uther would have his head, of course. So, word must not get back to the King of any poor behaviour.
He is thanking the comfitmaker for the careful way she wraps his purchase in a cloth when he feels something crack through the air. He turns suddenly, startling the people nearest to him despite the polite distance they leave around him. Merlin.
Where is Merlin?
He lifts his head higher, sweeping around in a crescent to spot him. And there, with his collar caught in the fist of a man not quite as tall but thrice as broad as the waifish servant. The crowd parts like mice, fleeing his path as he strides towards the sight with a roar of heat ignited under his skin.
“What is the meaning of this?” he bellows, and every head, Beta, Omega and Alpha alike, drops low at the sound.
All but one. For Merlin is still - even while clenched in the stranger’s hold and tugging backwards with his teeth bared and chest rumbling with that scratchy approximation of a growl that Arthur has only ever heard in jest - perpetually immune to Arthur’s anger. The stranger turns to Arthur, and his face turns a little green around the gills when he realises who is approaching.
“My lord,” he greets in a rush, inclining his head further, “I was just-”
“Release him at once.”
Arthur’s voice is barely above a growl of his own, the sudden thrum of adrenaline making his blood sharp, his nose picking out the man’s scent and burning brighter as he is recognised as an Alpha. Merlin stumbles inelegantly backwards when he’s suddenly released, and the smouldering scent of old grass bleeds into Arthur’s nose. He is wise enough to close his mouth and cut his growl, but Arthur fears the damage may already have been done.
“I was merely trying to-”
Arthur ignores him entirely, his face turning for Merlin, cutting the man off dismissively. He rushes a swift, critical eye over him, but he seems physically unharmed. His pride has been dented, but that seems all.
“Merlin?”
The Omega brushes rough hands violently down his tunic and snorts aggressively as though to clear his nose as he throws a scandalously dark look at the offender. Arthur’s own look is a warning when Merlin meets his eye. The man holds a station above Merlin, it’s obvious from his good cloak and better boots. Merlin’s eyes are dark and angrier than Arthur has seen them in a very long time. Just as long has it been since he last tasted the thunder smell crackling from him. And it isn’t that Arthur doesn’t understand it. A good part of himself is even keen to tear the man apart on the field for laying hands on Merlin in such a manner.
“He was trying to haul me away,” Merlin finally answers, his eyes lowering as he seems to realise, they’ve an audience and he a role to play, “my lord.”
“Why?” Arthur’s question slices the dead silence in the crowded space.
There’s a clear threat there, that tells of severe punishment for hauling any Omega anywhere, let alone one under Arthur’s care. Merlin shrugs, catches himself. But he does seem a little more secure in himself.
“I don’t know, sire.”
Arthur can sense the impatience of the noble, coiling darkly into the air at being made to wait for a servant to answer first. And an Omega one, at that. It occurs to Arthur far, far too late that he’s given the man a serious insult. He works fast to try and soothe it, appalled at himself for his inappropriate reaction.
“What is it he’s done, Lord...?”
The man raises pale green eyes and looks only marginally mollified by Arthur’s wording of presumed guilt. Arthur ignores Merlin’s insulted mutter. The lord’s eyes turn just a touch smug. Perhaps the situation is salvageable.
“Barriger, sire.”
Bollocks. His father is an old friend of Uther’s. Arthur hasn’t seen the son since he was a child, but recognition stirs now. Uther will not be pleased.
“What’s he done this time, Barriger?” he leans an exasperated inflection to his tone, as though he is world-weary of Merlin’s antics.
And he supposes that’s not entirely untrue. If not entirely true, either.
“I caught him stealing, my lord.”
Arthur does glance to Merlin then, because of all the things he’d expected, theft wasn’t one. Merlin is a servant, yes, and doesn’t have any wealth to speak of, but he’s not a thief, and not driven by any desperate need to thieve. Merlin’s head twitches minutely, for he cannot appropriately refute the man unless asked, but Arthur sees it anyway.
“From whom?”
“The baker, over there, sire.”
Henry, for that’s the name that swims up from Arthur’s memory, Henry Barriger, gestures to a stall not far from where Arthur had been buying sweets. Merlin rarely does stray far, when there is a crowd. Arthur has seen the woman many times before, who stands behind her table with a fearful, worried expression on her face and averts her eyes when he turns to her. He searches his head for a name and is embarrassed to find none appears.
“Marion, sire.” comes the helpful little murmur, and Arthur ignores the sharp look Henry gives his servant.
Typical, of Merlin to know, even without raising his head, that Arthur needed reminding.
“I’m aware.” he snipes, more for show than anything, and he hopes Merlin knows that.
He raises his head and takes a step or two closer to the woman in question. She looks up when her name is spoken.
“Yes, my lord?”
He gestures to Merlin.
“This man, he stole from you?”
Marion’s gaze flickers over to Merlin, and then past him, and Arthur only just catches the direction, and it all makes sense; Merlin accused of stealing from a baker, with no stolen goods produced by the accuser. Two pups huddle behind the legs of those at the front of the spectators, eyes round and frightened and hurriedly dropped when Arthur spies them. A bread roll each, in hand. The older, a girl, slips it under her clothing and shifts the boy behind her, hiding. Arthur’s heart squeezes a little. Oh, Merlin.
“No, sire.”
Arthur turns back, raises a disbelieving brow at her, and she flushes and dips her head, but doesn’t take it back.
“Merlin didn’t steal anything from you?”
“No. He... he paid, my lord.”
Merlin wouldn’t have money on him, his wage day is a few days away and he often gripes about how it doesn’t last. It could very easily look to someone else like he’d taken food without handing over payment. Especially if, as Arthur suspects, with that knowledge and the way the woman shrinks into herself as though not wanting to be seen, he had.
“You are sure, Marion?”
She does look up then, her warm brown eyes filling with just a tiny speckle of courage. Her lips fold thin, not from disrespect, but from firmness.
“Yes, Prince Arthur. Merlin always pays.”
And Arthur cannot call her a liar, for what baxter would claim they’d received payment when they hadn’t? The opposite was far more likely, if they felt they could be convincing. No, this is loyalty. Marion is – again, he cannot prove it – claiming payment received so that Merlin will not be labelled a thief. Arthur almost smiles at her.
“Very well.” he answers, and if there’s a note of approval in there, he hopes it’s subtle.
Barriger’s scent is sharp and flaring when Arthur turns back.
“A misunderstanding, then.” he says, his voice a little more clipped than necessary, “Perhaps you simply missed the exchange of payment.”
The visiting lord bristles.
“That simply isn’t true. I saw it with my own eyes.”
Arthur bites down the instant urge to raise a joking brow and smirk and clarify with ‘You saw the exchange?’ He spends far too much time with Merlin. Instead, he gives a genial smile and pretends the situation has been simply a minor misunderstanding, and not an aggressive overreaction, to save the man his pride.
“Marion assures us Merlin has paid. It must simply have been before you laid eyes.”
Barriger isn’t having it, almost violently shaking his head.
“She is merely covering up for his theft. There is a loyalty, you know, among peasants.”
Arthur is most aggravated by the way the man speaks and decides he has had enough of playing nice.
“You believe the woman would lie at the cost of her own income, to cover up for a man who wronged her, to her Prince?”
He is careful of the way his own voice sounds, but he watches the man realise the dangerous ground he’s treading. There’s an uncomfortably tense moment where he visibly reckons with his own instincts and pride before clearing his throat and lowering his chin a touch.
“No, my lord. I... must have been mistaken.”
“No harm done.” Arthur assures him magnanimously, shooting Merlin a withering glare when he makes a disagreeing noise.
“There is still the matter of his disrespect, sire.”
Arthur feels himself still. Here we go.
“Disrespect, Lord Barriger?”
The noble nods, his gaze linger on Merlin a little too long for his liking.
“He had his teeth on show, and perhaps you missed it in the confusion, but the racket he was making...”
Arthur swallows the sound that births in his throat. Takes a breath. And tries desperately for diplomacy.
“Perhaps, in the light of his innocence, one could understand him startling at the grasp of an unfamiliar Alpha. Merlin is still yet new to Camelot, and not quite familiar with all our allies.”
The man’s lips thin. It’s clear the view he holds on Omega’s submitting to any Alpha, noble or familiar or not, and Arthur is very displeased to see it. Eventually, seeming to understand he will not win this, he nods.
“Perhaps, sire.”
Barriger shoots one last, indecipherable dark look at Merlin before turning to leave. Their audience parts for him, and – sensing the spectacle is over – melt apart without looking Arthur’s way.
Arthur puts a hand on the servant’s shoulder and steers him back towards the comfitmaker, who hastily hands over his little bundle with a respectful nod, and smiles shyly at Merlin after. Is there nobody in this bloody kingdom the lad hasn’t charmed? As they step away, trying to reclaim the gentle stroll they’d been on before interruption, Arthur supposes it must be addressed.
“What is the cost,” he murmurs, deceptively pleasantly, “of two of Marion’s bread rolls?”
Merlin freezes, and Arthur knows he’s correct. When nothing in forthcoming, he sighs.
“Did you think I wouldn’t catch sight of them? I understand that pups are a... soft spot, for Omegas.” he knocks his elbow into him, to take the sting from it, “Even impetuous ones. But still.”
“Arthur, I...”
Merlin turns his face away, his expression closing under one of his stubborn frowns. And it's that, most of all, that spreads the fragile sort of feeling through his chest. Merlin is no thief, that much he’s absolutely sure of, so has either promised to pay in a few days, or traded something, to feed a pair of pups he must somehow have stumbled across mere feet from Arthur’s side. It’s... It’s Mallow, all over again. The sudden, forceful reminder that for all his fierce fire and sharp teeth, Merlin truly is the gentlest of Omegas sometimes. Arthur’s heart lurches offbeat. Merlin still won’t look at him, but his shoulders have softened, and something in Arthur’s own scent must have given him away.
“Their father has just passed.” he murmurs, studying his hands, or the cobblestone passing under them, “Their mother is struggling.”
Oh, Merlin.
“What paid you, then?”
Merlin flushes a little pink, dipping his head.
“Marion needs help with ovens on Sunday, while her wife is trading in the villages. I promised I’d stop by.”
Arthur snorts.
“You have a job; you do know that?”
Merlin’s jaw tightens.
“Yes, sire.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and knocks their shoulders together a little harshly.
“Such good luck that your day off aligns, then.”
Merlin does look then, when Arthur turns away, and even from the edge of his vision he can see the fond way the blue alights on his profile. It takes a lot more than he’d guess, to ignore it. He buys four rolls from Marion on their way back to the castle, and pays for six. Marion looks prepared to argue when he meets her eye, and while there is something in them similar to the spark that blazes bright in Merlin’s when they argue, she halts her tongue. She does give him a little smile, though, when she hands over the bread, and Arthur has to try harder than he’d have thought, again, to pretend not to notice.