Merlin: Real Friends Help You Move the Bodies (PG-13)
Title: Real Friends Help You Move the Bodies
Author: Mad Maudlin
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Arthur, Merlin (gen)
Spoilers: 1x01 "The Dragon's Call"
Warning: AU
Summary: The honor of a bastard may not be worth much, but it gets them through.
A/N: This is third in my Bastard AU, following You Can Pick Your Friends and Getting to Know You.
Real Friends Help You Move the Bodies
by Mad Maudlin
It was long past midnight when Merlin slipped through the corridors, and yet the castle was still abuzz with activity. Understandable, seeing as a witch had nearly assassinated the princess a few hours ago, but it made sneaking about about a thousand times harder. Especially when people kept recognizing him and stopping to commend him on his bravery and wits and various other imagined virtues, even people who hadn't been anywhere near the feast.
He should probably be grateful. Nobody had noticed the magic, and King Uther's effusive gratitude probably meant he'd approve of Gaius keeping Merlin around as an apprentice. Princess Morgana had even smiled at him, which had softened her too-perfect features and made Merlin's heart go tumbling around in his chest.
But then again, he was also meant to be keeping his head down, and by down Gaius probably hadn't meant under the table with the princess. Which sounded so much more salacious than it had actually been, and Merlin really hoped that was the only reason Arthur was avoiding him.
Well, okay, for certain values of avoid. Arthur certainly wasn't chasing him around to shake his hand, like some people, but also struck Merlin as much too cool for that sort of thing. More worryingly, Arthur had disappeared in the confusion surrounding the death of "Lady Helen," after spending the evening as the royal cupbearer, pouring wine for Uther with a thinly-disguised scowl. The king hadn't seemed to notice or care that his servant had vanished, but it made Merlin nervous, even though he knew he had nothing to be nervous about. Maybe Arthur had hurt himself when the spell made him collapse into sleep. Maybe he'd just seen a chance to ditch his duties for the rest of the night. Maybe he'd skived off to go steal the wine he'd been talking about, which he'd kind of, sort of invited Merlin to share with him (more like dared, actually). Presumably the invite was still standing, disappearing act or not.
So Merlin had armed himself with a basket of leftovers from the feast, food the cooks had been eager enough to press onto him, and asked around until somebody admitted to knowing where Arthur slept. People had given Merlin odd looks and short laughs, and the odd nasty smile that faded when Merlin just raised his chin and waited for an answer. Now he was snooping through the lower levels of the castle, past store rooms and disused armories and the grainery and who knew what else, counting off the doors and holding his guttering candle high in the long shadowy places between the torches. Merlin couldn't imagine anyone else coming down here, maybe ever-obviously Arthur liked his privacy.
There was light seeping around the cracks of the door he'd been told about, one set at an odd angle in a little corner niche, almost invisible. Merlin decided to knock, just in case Arthur had forgotten about inviting him and was having a wank or something. "It's me," he added. "I brought food."
"Yeah, okay, sure," Arthur called from inside, and Merlin took that as the best he was going to get under the circumstances. He flipped the latch and stepped inside, leading with the basket.
Arthur was at his side in an instant, shoving the door shut again and putting his weight against it. The first thing he asked, in a low, breathy voice, was, "So why didn't you say you're a sorcerer?"
Merlin's heart stuttered. "I-er-what?" he said, brain jammed on the words.
"I saw what you did," Arthur continued; in the dim candlelight his eyes glittered strangely. "With the knife. You made it slow down so you could get to Morgana in time."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Merlin was surprised he could even string together that whole sentence without his voice breaking.
"I watch the knight practice throwing," Arthur insisted. "Sometimes I'm even the target. I've seen how knives move and it's not like that. And your eyes-they were glowing, weren't they? All yellow and stuff. I could see it from where I fell."
It had suddenly grown difficult to swallow, and Merlin couldn't take his eyes off Arthur's small, strange smile. They were standing so close together, Arthur practically pressing him into the door, and Merlin might've been the taller of the two but something about that smile made him feel like he was caught in a trap. "Is that what you thought you saw?" he asked.
"That's what I know I saw," Arthur said.
"And are you going to tell anyone?" Merlin asked.
Arthur blinked. "Are you joking?" he asked, as if Merlin were simple. "D'you want to get your head cut off?"
"Well, no," Merlin said, trying not to let his knees give out with sudden relief. "Hence the not telling you bit."
"But it's brilliant!" Arthur protested, and gave Merlin a friendly smack on the arm. "A warlock living under Uther Pendragon's own roof! He even thanked you! I had to leave the room before somebody asked why I was laughing!"
So that's where he'd got off to. Merlin wasn't sure if he ought to be relieved or a little bit worried. "So you're not going to say anything?" he asked, just to make sure.
"Of course not," Arthur said, still with a mad grin. "Even if the look on the old ass's face would be priceless...I mean, it's not even a joke if he knows."
"It's not a joke at all," Merlin said. "You're talking about my life here."
Arthur blinked, and Merlin was quite sure that meant he'd just now realized that. "I know that," he said peevishly, and he backed away from Merlin with his shoulders slightly hunched. "And I'm serious when I say I'm not going to tell anyone. Promise, on my honor and all. Not that the honor of a bastard is worth much, but it's all I've got...well, that and a load of wine."
Now that Arthur wasn't crowding him quite so closely, Merlin was able to get a good look at the rest of the room. It seemed to be the shabby treasure trove of some very incompetent thieves. The furniture was plain: a bed that took up most of the room, a small cupboard with a missing door, some planks balanced across stacks of bricks to make a sort of table. But every level surface and the windowless walls were covered in the oddest bits and bobs: broken jewelry, scraps of brightly-colored cloth, ceramic dishes with chips in their glossy glaze. There was even a bent fork sticking out of a dented goblet full of smooth river stones, while glossy quills protruded from the end of a tarnished candlestick. And tacked to the odd slope of the ceiling was a shabby tapestry of a dragon in flight,with a moth-eaten hole right where its eye should've been.
It was the oddest little room Merlin had ever been in, but he decided he liked it. "Nice place," he said, setting the basket on the bed. "Very unique."
"It's supposed to be a cupboard," Arthur said, like it was a point of pride. "Haven't spent the night in the servant's quarters in years."
"And they just let you move in here?" Merlin asked. He watched Arthur open up the wine cask with a dull, broken dagger. "I mean, nobody said anything?"
"Oh, they said lots of things," Arthur declared gustily. "But for the king to punish me, he'd have to admit I exist, so there's not much anyone else can do. I mean, they can shout and slap me and give me extra chores all they want, it's not like I care."
He dunked his cup in the cask and took a long drink of wine, and Merlin, after a moment, did the same. It was strong and sour and red, and when it dribbled down Arthur's chin it made him look a bit like some blood-drinking barbarian until he wiped it down with his sleeve. Merlin was no judge of wines, but he couldn't complain about the instant warm rush. "Good wine."
"It's shit wine," Arthur said, and took another deep drink. "This is what they save for the end of the feast, when everyone's either gone home or is too drunk to care."
"I thought you said you were nicking the good stuff," Merlin protested.
"Well, I lied," Arthur said. "Bastards do that. Get used to it."
Merlin rolled his eyes. "Well, fine. See if I share the food with you, then."
Of course, the moment he remembered the food, Arthur snatched it out of Merlin's reach and rifled through for the best bits, and attempting to wrestle for it would've only spilled wine everywhere. For a while they just ate and drank, plowing through the contents of the basket in short order-bread, apples, cheese, and joints of cold meat, everything that had been left on the serving trays and wouldn't end up in tomorrow's soup. Arthur seized on a piece of beef and gnawed on it as happily as a dog with a bone, while Merlin picked at a sweet bun, trying to figure out what felt off about the whole situation.
Eventually he figured it out: this felt normal.
"So you're not more freaked out by the magic thing," Merlin said. "Just to clarify."
Arthur swallowed loudly. "Should I be? I mean, you're not going to turn anybody into a newt, are you?"
"I don't know how to turn anything into a newt," Merlin said.
"Well, there you are," Arthur said, gesturing with a bone. "If you do turn anybody into a newt I'll howl bloody murder and deny we ever had this conversation, but otherwise you keep your head and I have something over on the Old Ass." He paused. "Unless it's him or Morgana, I mean. That you turn into things. Then you can hide under my bed."
"I'll keep that in mind," Merlin said. He could sort of understand hating the king, the man who'd declared him a bastard and doomed him to a servant's life, but at first he couldn't think of any reason Arthur might hold a grudge against the crown princess...except, of course, that if nobody had known Arthur was a bastard, he would've grown up to be crown prince.
Strange to think of the boy reclined on the pillows, currently picking his teeth, as a future king of Camelot. But then again, compared to some of the nobility he'd met, Merlin supposed they could easily do worse.
Arthur gave up on his teeth with a small frown. "You know, speaking of your head and keeping it, why'd you even come to Camelot?" he asked.
Merlin shrugged and swallowed. "My mum sent me. She knows Gaius from...somewhere. Guess she thought it would keep me out of trouble."
Arthur asked, "Did she know about the whole...?" and mimed a sharp chop at his neck.
"Well, obviously, not," Merlin said. "I wouldn't have known if I hadn't showed up on execution day."
"Oh, there isn't any execution day," Arthur said. "The Old Ass just lops heads off whenever he feels like it. I should know, they always make me watch."
"Make you watch?" Merlin echoed. "Why?"
Arthur gave an exaggerated shrug. "Hell if I know. Maybe they're afraid I'll kill the king in his bed some night if I don't have the fear of the headsman in me."
"Seems a little excessive," Merlin said, only the word came out sounding like ekshesiv instead. Maybe he was drinking the wine a little fast.
Arthur, at least, looked just as loose and flush as Merlin felt. "So where'd you learn it?" he asked around his meat. "The magic, I mean. In your little village, whatchacallit, Eeler?"
"Ealdor," Merlin corrected. "And I didn't really learn it. It just sort of...happens."
"Liar," Arthur said, with a wild stab of his finger. "That's not how it works. It's like saying you were born a juggler or something."
"It's true!" Merlin protested. "I just do it! Half the time I didn't even know I was doing something weird until the screaming started!" He flopped backwards and felt the bed turn slowly beneath him. "It's like, it's like having one arm tied behind my back."
"Being magic?" Arthur asked.
"Not being magic." Without raising his head, Merlin found a crumb of cheese stuck in a crease in the blanket and dropped it into his mouth. "Only it turned out not everybody in Ealdor liked the idea, and I didn't have anywhere else to go."
Arthur belched loudly, but followed that up with a fairly sympathetic, "Damned if you do and damned if you don't, eh?"
"Reckon I'll get used to it eventually," Merlin said.
"Well, hell, you can get used to anything if you live with it long enough," Arthur said.
Merlin didn't remember much of the conversation after that; between the alcohol and the lack of windows, time got slippery on him, and when the last candle went out he recklessly conjured a light so they could see where their cups were. When he woke up, the room was dark, and he felt sicker than he could ever remember, and he was laying across something bony and distinctly breathing.
"Arthur?" he whispered into the darkness, testing his ability to speak without vomiting.
Arthur whimpered.
"Arthur, what time is it?"
"No talking," Arthur mumbled back, his voice buzzing against Merlin's jaw. "Sleep now."
Gaius was probably looking for them. Possibly also whoever gave Arthur his orders. It had been past midnight when Merlin found Arthur's room and they had talked for hours. He probably ought to leave.
"I ought to leave," he said.
Arthur swatted weakly at his back. "No talking," he slurred, and within a few minutes he'd started snoring again.
It was sorely tempting to stay there in the warmth and darkness, listening to the slow beat of Arthur's heart next to his ear. But now that he was properly awake his body wasn't going to let him go again without a fight, and so he slowly disentangled himself from Arthur's lanky limbs and negotiated his way to his feet. It was entirely possible that he was still a tiny bit drunk. chamberpot, he thought, first off, then amended that to, any convenient shrubbery, and then facing up to Gaius, who might possibly show leniency and let Merlin have a lie-in the rest of the day.
And, you know, the sun might set in the north. One could hope.
But before he left, he couldn't resist one last reckless thing. He conjured a dim light (very dim) and rummaged through Arthur's horde until he found a piece of parchment, a manuscript page or something, written so densely on one side that it was nearly illegible. Probably Arthur only took it because of the gold leaf pressed into the borders. On the back side he wrote with his finger, and the marks appeared where he willed them-he could wipe them away at will, too, if Arthur got annoyed.
Looks like the better man won. Next time I'll bring the wine. Warlock's honor worth more than a bastard's?
Leaving the note on Arthur's chest, Merlin tottled unsteadily out of the room.
Author: Mad Maudlin
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Arthur, Merlin (gen)
Spoilers: 1x01 "The Dragon's Call"
Warning: AU
Summary: The honor of a bastard may not be worth much, but it gets them through.
A/N: This is third in my Bastard AU, following You Can Pick Your Friends and Getting to Know You.
Real Friends Help You Move the Bodies
by Mad Maudlin
It was long past midnight when Merlin slipped through the corridors, and yet the castle was still abuzz with activity. Understandable, seeing as a witch had nearly assassinated the princess a few hours ago, but it made sneaking about about a thousand times harder. Especially when people kept recognizing him and stopping to commend him on his bravery and wits and various other imagined virtues, even people who hadn't been anywhere near the feast.
He should probably be grateful. Nobody had noticed the magic, and King Uther's effusive gratitude probably meant he'd approve of Gaius keeping Merlin around as an apprentice. Princess Morgana had even smiled at him, which had softened her too-perfect features and made Merlin's heart go tumbling around in his chest.
But then again, he was also meant to be keeping his head down, and by down Gaius probably hadn't meant under the table with the princess. Which sounded so much more salacious than it had actually been, and Merlin really hoped that was the only reason Arthur was avoiding him.
Well, okay, for certain values of avoid. Arthur certainly wasn't chasing him around to shake his hand, like some people, but also struck Merlin as much too cool for that sort of thing. More worryingly, Arthur had disappeared in the confusion surrounding the death of "Lady Helen," after spending the evening as the royal cupbearer, pouring wine for Uther with a thinly-disguised scowl. The king hadn't seemed to notice or care that his servant had vanished, but it made Merlin nervous, even though he knew he had nothing to be nervous about. Maybe Arthur had hurt himself when the spell made him collapse into sleep. Maybe he'd just seen a chance to ditch his duties for the rest of the night. Maybe he'd skived off to go steal the wine he'd been talking about, which he'd kind of, sort of invited Merlin to share with him (more like dared, actually). Presumably the invite was still standing, disappearing act or not.
So Merlin had armed himself with a basket of leftovers from the feast, food the cooks had been eager enough to press onto him, and asked around until somebody admitted to knowing where Arthur slept. People had given Merlin odd looks and short laughs, and the odd nasty smile that faded when Merlin just raised his chin and waited for an answer. Now he was snooping through the lower levels of the castle, past store rooms and disused armories and the grainery and who knew what else, counting off the doors and holding his guttering candle high in the long shadowy places between the torches. Merlin couldn't imagine anyone else coming down here, maybe ever-obviously Arthur liked his privacy.
There was light seeping around the cracks of the door he'd been told about, one set at an odd angle in a little corner niche, almost invisible. Merlin decided to knock, just in case Arthur had forgotten about inviting him and was having a wank or something. "It's me," he added. "I brought food."
"Yeah, okay, sure," Arthur called from inside, and Merlin took that as the best he was going to get under the circumstances. He flipped the latch and stepped inside, leading with the basket.
Arthur was at his side in an instant, shoving the door shut again and putting his weight against it. The first thing he asked, in a low, breathy voice, was, "So why didn't you say you're a sorcerer?"
Merlin's heart stuttered. "I-er-what?" he said, brain jammed on the words.
"I saw what you did," Arthur continued; in the dim candlelight his eyes glittered strangely. "With the knife. You made it slow down so you could get to Morgana in time."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Merlin was surprised he could even string together that whole sentence without his voice breaking.
"I watch the knight practice throwing," Arthur insisted. "Sometimes I'm even the target. I've seen how knives move and it's not like that. And your eyes-they were glowing, weren't they? All yellow and stuff. I could see it from where I fell."
It had suddenly grown difficult to swallow, and Merlin couldn't take his eyes off Arthur's small, strange smile. They were standing so close together, Arthur practically pressing him into the door, and Merlin might've been the taller of the two but something about that smile made him feel like he was caught in a trap. "Is that what you thought you saw?" he asked.
"That's what I know I saw," Arthur said.
"And are you going to tell anyone?" Merlin asked.
Arthur blinked. "Are you joking?" he asked, as if Merlin were simple. "D'you want to get your head cut off?"
"Well, no," Merlin said, trying not to let his knees give out with sudden relief. "Hence the not telling you bit."
"But it's brilliant!" Arthur protested, and gave Merlin a friendly smack on the arm. "A warlock living under Uther Pendragon's own roof! He even thanked you! I had to leave the room before somebody asked why I was laughing!"
So that's where he'd got off to. Merlin wasn't sure if he ought to be relieved or a little bit worried. "So you're not going to say anything?" he asked, just to make sure.
"Of course not," Arthur said, still with a mad grin. "Even if the look on the old ass's face would be priceless...I mean, it's not even a joke if he knows."
"It's not a joke at all," Merlin said. "You're talking about my life here."
Arthur blinked, and Merlin was quite sure that meant he'd just now realized that. "I know that," he said peevishly, and he backed away from Merlin with his shoulders slightly hunched. "And I'm serious when I say I'm not going to tell anyone. Promise, on my honor and all. Not that the honor of a bastard is worth much, but it's all I've got...well, that and a load of wine."
Now that Arthur wasn't crowding him quite so closely, Merlin was able to get a good look at the rest of the room. It seemed to be the shabby treasure trove of some very incompetent thieves. The furniture was plain: a bed that took up most of the room, a small cupboard with a missing door, some planks balanced across stacks of bricks to make a sort of table. But every level surface and the windowless walls were covered in the oddest bits and bobs: broken jewelry, scraps of brightly-colored cloth, ceramic dishes with chips in their glossy glaze. There was even a bent fork sticking out of a dented goblet full of smooth river stones, while glossy quills protruded from the end of a tarnished candlestick. And tacked to the odd slope of the ceiling was a shabby tapestry of a dragon in flight,with a moth-eaten hole right where its eye should've been.
It was the oddest little room Merlin had ever been in, but he decided he liked it. "Nice place," he said, setting the basket on the bed. "Very unique."
"It's supposed to be a cupboard," Arthur said, like it was a point of pride. "Haven't spent the night in the servant's quarters in years."
"And they just let you move in here?" Merlin asked. He watched Arthur open up the wine cask with a dull, broken dagger. "I mean, nobody said anything?"
"Oh, they said lots of things," Arthur declared gustily. "But for the king to punish me, he'd have to admit I exist, so there's not much anyone else can do. I mean, they can shout and slap me and give me extra chores all they want, it's not like I care."
He dunked his cup in the cask and took a long drink of wine, and Merlin, after a moment, did the same. It was strong and sour and red, and when it dribbled down Arthur's chin it made him look a bit like some blood-drinking barbarian until he wiped it down with his sleeve. Merlin was no judge of wines, but he couldn't complain about the instant warm rush. "Good wine."
"It's shit wine," Arthur said, and took another deep drink. "This is what they save for the end of the feast, when everyone's either gone home or is too drunk to care."
"I thought you said you were nicking the good stuff," Merlin protested.
"Well, I lied," Arthur said. "Bastards do that. Get used to it."
Merlin rolled his eyes. "Well, fine. See if I share the food with you, then."
Of course, the moment he remembered the food, Arthur snatched it out of Merlin's reach and rifled through for the best bits, and attempting to wrestle for it would've only spilled wine everywhere. For a while they just ate and drank, plowing through the contents of the basket in short order-bread, apples, cheese, and joints of cold meat, everything that had been left on the serving trays and wouldn't end up in tomorrow's soup. Arthur seized on a piece of beef and gnawed on it as happily as a dog with a bone, while Merlin picked at a sweet bun, trying to figure out what felt off about the whole situation.
Eventually he figured it out: this felt normal.
"So you're not more freaked out by the magic thing," Merlin said. "Just to clarify."
Arthur swallowed loudly. "Should I be? I mean, you're not going to turn anybody into a newt, are you?"
"I don't know how to turn anything into a newt," Merlin said.
"Well, there you are," Arthur said, gesturing with a bone. "If you do turn anybody into a newt I'll howl bloody murder and deny we ever had this conversation, but otherwise you keep your head and I have something over on the Old Ass." He paused. "Unless it's him or Morgana, I mean. That you turn into things. Then you can hide under my bed."
"I'll keep that in mind," Merlin said. He could sort of understand hating the king, the man who'd declared him a bastard and doomed him to a servant's life, but at first he couldn't think of any reason Arthur might hold a grudge against the crown princess...except, of course, that if nobody had known Arthur was a bastard, he would've grown up to be crown prince.
Strange to think of the boy reclined on the pillows, currently picking his teeth, as a future king of Camelot. But then again, compared to some of the nobility he'd met, Merlin supposed they could easily do worse.
Arthur gave up on his teeth with a small frown. "You know, speaking of your head and keeping it, why'd you even come to Camelot?" he asked.
Merlin shrugged and swallowed. "My mum sent me. She knows Gaius from...somewhere. Guess she thought it would keep me out of trouble."
Arthur asked, "Did she know about the whole...?" and mimed a sharp chop at his neck.
"Well, obviously, not," Merlin said. "I wouldn't have known if I hadn't showed up on execution day."
"Oh, there isn't any execution day," Arthur said. "The Old Ass just lops heads off whenever he feels like it. I should know, they always make me watch."
"Make you watch?" Merlin echoed. "Why?"
Arthur gave an exaggerated shrug. "Hell if I know. Maybe they're afraid I'll kill the king in his bed some night if I don't have the fear of the headsman in me."
"Seems a little excessive," Merlin said, only the word came out sounding like ekshesiv instead. Maybe he was drinking the wine a little fast.
Arthur, at least, looked just as loose and flush as Merlin felt. "So where'd you learn it?" he asked around his meat. "The magic, I mean. In your little village, whatchacallit, Eeler?"
"Ealdor," Merlin corrected. "And I didn't really learn it. It just sort of...happens."
"Liar," Arthur said, with a wild stab of his finger. "That's not how it works. It's like saying you were born a juggler or something."
"It's true!" Merlin protested. "I just do it! Half the time I didn't even know I was doing something weird until the screaming started!" He flopped backwards and felt the bed turn slowly beneath him. "It's like, it's like having one arm tied behind my back."
"Being magic?" Arthur asked.
"Not being magic." Without raising his head, Merlin found a crumb of cheese stuck in a crease in the blanket and dropped it into his mouth. "Only it turned out not everybody in Ealdor liked the idea, and I didn't have anywhere else to go."
Arthur belched loudly, but followed that up with a fairly sympathetic, "Damned if you do and damned if you don't, eh?"
"Reckon I'll get used to it eventually," Merlin said.
"Well, hell, you can get used to anything if you live with it long enough," Arthur said.
Merlin didn't remember much of the conversation after that; between the alcohol and the lack of windows, time got slippery on him, and when the last candle went out he recklessly conjured a light so they could see where their cups were. When he woke up, the room was dark, and he felt sicker than he could ever remember, and he was laying across something bony and distinctly breathing.
"Arthur?" he whispered into the darkness, testing his ability to speak without vomiting.
Arthur whimpered.
"Arthur, what time is it?"
"No talking," Arthur mumbled back, his voice buzzing against Merlin's jaw. "Sleep now."
Gaius was probably looking for them. Possibly also whoever gave Arthur his orders. It had been past midnight when Merlin found Arthur's room and they had talked for hours. He probably ought to leave.
"I ought to leave," he said.
Arthur swatted weakly at his back. "No talking," he slurred, and within a few minutes he'd started snoring again.
It was sorely tempting to stay there in the warmth and darkness, listening to the slow beat of Arthur's heart next to his ear. But now that he was properly awake his body wasn't going to let him go again without a fight, and so he slowly disentangled himself from Arthur's lanky limbs and negotiated his way to his feet. It was entirely possible that he was still a tiny bit drunk. chamberpot, he thought, first off, then amended that to, any convenient shrubbery, and then facing up to Gaius, who might possibly show leniency and let Merlin have a lie-in the rest of the day.
And, you know, the sun might set in the north. One could hope.
But before he left, he couldn't resist one last reckless thing. He conjured a dim light (very dim) and rummaged through Arthur's horde until he found a piece of parchment, a manuscript page or something, written so densely on one side that it was nearly illegible. Probably Arthur only took it because of the gold leaf pressed into the borders. On the back side he wrote with his finger, and the marks appeared where he willed them-he could wipe them away at will, too, if Arthur got annoyed.
Looks like the better man won. Next time I'll bring the wine. Warlock's honor worth more than a bastard's?
Leaving the note on Arthur's chest, Merlin tottled unsteadily out of the room.