Find the Time in My Face - Merlin - Arthur/Merlin
Title: Find the Time in My Face
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 4427
Rating: PG-13
A/N: The title comes from the quote, “My evening visitors, if they cannot see the clock, should find the time in my face.”
Summary: When the king from a foreign kingdom visits Camelot, Arthur and Merlin have to be on their best behaviour to impress him. For Merlin, this stirs up some old resentment.
The tension in the castle has been so thick all day that Merlin has hardly been able to focus. Servants scuttle back and forth, clinging so closely to the walls as they complete their difficulties that even Gwen and Merlin - whose pasts have trained them to notice such people - find them invisible. The other occupants of the castle, rowdier and boisterous after weeks of travelling, make more than enough noise to compensate for what little is lost from the servants. This noise, however, is not half as comforting. The sound of their chatter and laughter makes sparks dance around Merlin's fingers, waiting to be unleashed, and it is only Arthur's restraining presence that stops him from doing something stupid.
"Come on now, Merlin. You know better than that," Arthur scolds, though the strain in his voice suggests that perhaps he is considering the possibility of simply letting loose Camelot's most dangerous weapon upon the visitors. The peace they've found with this kingdom is tenuous at best: Merlin doesn't trust them, not for a moment. Neither, it seems, does Arthur.
"Are you sure I can't just turn them all into toads?" he asks mournfully as he watches King Edmund laughing with his men in the courtyard as they survey the castle and apparently find it wanting. He reminds Merlin of Arthur before they'd become friends: an insufferable prat who badly needs to be taken down a notch or two.
"No toads."
"I can do other animals too. Name your poison."
"No magic at all," Arthur tells him sternly. "They need to return to their kingdom with good will towards us - and knowing better than to pick a fight."
He wants to intimidate them with the wealth and glory of Camelot so that the possibility of waging war against them won't even cross Edmund's mind. Merlin knows that it is a good strategy and an endless improvement on sending innocent armies out to die, but he still can't pretend to like their presence here in Arthur's castle - in his home. The magic that courses through his veins begs to be unleashed, but he knows that it isn't an option. To call down his wrath upon them would be a challenge, and while, sure, he's pretty certain that he could crush them there will be more where they came from. Besides, he knows that his magic is not supposed to be used for crushing people purely because he doesn't like them. If that were the case then Arthur would never have survived long enough for them to become friends in the first place.
"I need you to be on your best behaviour while they're here. They need to know that I can control you."
Merlin snorts in response, because he's sure that Arthur knows as well as he does what a ridiculous notion that is anyway. Nobody who's been around them for more than two seconds would believe that Merlin is under Arthur's 'control' in any way shape or form. Never has been; never will be. Uther had yes-men: Arthur's advisors have a little more bite.
"Merlin, this is important," Arthur coaxes. His voice turns wheedling and Merlin knows that in a moment or two the tone will drop until it is low and gentle. Pleading. Arthur's commands may mean nothing to Merlin, but his pleas do. When he asks nicely there is nothing that Merlin can refuse him. "I need them to fear Camelot itself, not only you."
Merlin could say that there is very little dividing the two these days: all the power of the Old Religion ties him to the very earth of Camelot, and the strings of destiny will keep him at Arthur's side until the world ends, but he holds his tongue on the matter. Arthur tends to scold him whenever he starts to talk about fate or coins or any such nonsense. Sometimes, when he's in a good mood, he'll roll his eyes and shove Merlin's shoulder, accusing him of sounding like the old dragon. "I shan't cause any trouble, sire. You needn't worry."
"Good," Arthur answers, clipped and short. He doesn't stop to chat for any longer, and Merlin feels a pang of nostalgia for the days before the crown landed upon Arthur's head. They could talk back then. They had time. Now time is short and Arthur has too many responsibilities to waste precious moments on meaningless chatter with a former servant. As Arthur leaves, Merlin's gaze filters back to the window. He can still hear jeering from the men outside and a heavy sense of unease refuses to lift from his shoulders. He can hardly wait for their visit to be over.
*
Ridiculously expensive displays of wealth are apparently one of the best ways of intimidating the competition: there are more banquets in one week than Merlin cares to keep up with. He'd start avoiding them altogether if Arthur hadn't already had a 'conversation' with him about how his attendance was mandatory: Arthur's conversations these days seem to involve absent-minded reminders. Merlin turns up all the same and politely takes his seat at the royal table. He's next to Gwen, thankfully, and she looks just as reluctant to be there as he feels.
"I feel like I'm on display," he murmurs under his breath to her, leaning close half-way through their meal so that only she can hear him. Arthur is distracted, telling Edmund some prattish tale or other: Merlin thinks that he's boasting about the unicorn he killed so many years ago, and the thought makes him bristle. Arthur knows better than that now. Arthur is better than that now.
"I think we all are," Gwen answers stiffly. Like him, she is far from comfortable at these events. This is not their world: it belongs to people like Arthur and Morgana, not to those who grew up with dirt under their fingernails and with their muscles straining from good, hard and honest work. They're impostors. "We have a role to play, Merlin. Arthur says it's important."
Merlin snorts air through his nose. "Arthur says a lot these days. He's not the one being shown off like a shiny new sword."
He gets it. Really, he does. His magic is a scary, formidable thing and it is a weapon that other nations fear. He's okay with the concept of being feared if it helps to foster peace, but he is not okay with the way that these strangers look at him, dark and mistrusting.
Gwen reaches for his hand and squeezes it for a moment. Her palm is warm and reassuring and he turns his hand over where it rests on his chair so that their fingers can hold on tightly. Despite all other changes that may happen in Camelot, Gwen remains constant: he knows that her heart remains steady, loyal and sweet regardless of the other changes made in their lives. She forgave him years ago for the secrets he kept from her; once his magic was out in the open it seemed pointless for them to hold grudges.
They don't speak, and he's only cast out of his moody thoughts when he realises that he's being discussed further along the table: it's Gwen's alarmingly strong squeeze of his hand that alerts him. His head jerks up, pretending that he's been paying close attention all the time, and he sweeps his hand over his forehead, pushing his black hair out of the way even though he knows that there is no way that it will ever stay tamed for him.
"... terribly powerful, of course," he hears Arthur saying. "He grew up in one of the outlying villages. A small place, you know - small people."
"How charming," Edmund responds. The sound of his voice is strong and majestic. Merlin wonders if they're trying to out-king one another. "A real diamond in the rough. You are extraordinarily lucky that he wound up in your courts."
"Luck has nothing to do with it," Arthur sniffs. "He believes it's 'destiny'. As it is, I'm not inclined to disabuse him of that notion." He laughs at that, and it isn't a good sound; Merlin looks down, pretending to be focused on something else entirely. That laugh is not the laugh of his friend, and he wishes that now was a suitable time to yell at Arthur. Arthur met the dragon too before they released it. He knows the future that it spoke of and the path that they walk together. He knows that the idea of destiny is nothing to be laughed at and yet here he is doing exactly that.
If Merlin had been anything less than an incredibly kind individual, maybe he would start considering turning Arthur himself into a toad instead of focusing his wrath on any of their visitors.
"He doesn't mean it," Gwen tells him, speaking under her breath. "You know what he's like."
"Yeah, I'm beginning to get the picture," Merlin says. He imagines storming up to his chambers, packing his bags and leaving. Let's see how well Arthur's kingdom serves him without Merlin at his side. The rage and the need to do it are so strong that he can't help but stand up abruptly, letting go of Gwen's hand.
"Merlin, what are you doing?" Arthur asks, and even if he manages to hide most of his emotions behind an easy-going smile there's still a burst of tension lurking beneath it. "Sit back down - we haven't finished yet."
"I have, my lord. I'll be in my chambers if you need me," Merlin answers, leaving his seat and walking along the long tables spread in front of him towards the door. The dark cloak he wears - seemingly a must-have for sorcerers, though he only wears it on formal occasions and is thankful that he doesn't have to wear a hat as well - spills behind him like it's made from flowing water.
Arthur doesn't call out for him to make him stop and in a way he's glad for that. He knows that Arthur is only saving face, unwilling to be rejected or ignored in front of these men he is attempting to impress, and he thinks that for once Arthur is showing an uncommon amount of sense. Perhaps they'll make a decent king out of him yet, though Merlin's in a bad enough mood that he's beginning to doubt it.
He can feel the magic crackling through his blood as he makes his way through the castle's corridors, and when he reaches his chambers - that used to, so long ago, belong to Gaius - he slams the door firmly behind him. This place is his home, his sanctuary, but damn if he feels welcome here in Camelot these days. He wishes that they could rewind everything, every single second, back to their first few peaceful months as friends. Life had been good then - dangerous, stressful, secretive, but good. Arthur had looked upon him as a person, as a friend, but his eyes have changed since the crown was placed upon his head. They've had to.
And Merlin knows that, he understands that, but he doesn't like it. Not at all and not for one second.
He's only given privacy for an hour at most: long enough for Arthur to play the perfect regal host, but it's clear that Arthur had slipped away as soon as he could politely do so. By the time he reaches Merlin's quarters and steps inside - doesn't bother to knock, never does, because he's the king and apparently knocking is something that kings don't do - all semblance of politeness and manners have been washed firmly away. In their place there is red-faced rage. "You really do have some sort of dire mental problem, don't you Merlin? I'd say it was the magic but I've met plenty of other sorcerers who seem halfway sane. Do you have any idea how you made me look, storming out like that?"
"If all it takes to ruin your prestige is for me to leave a dinner early, then you've got far greater problems than me," Merlin replies sulkily. He puts down the book of magic he'd been angrily reading since he came here and stands up, crossing his arms over his chest. His formal cloak has been discarded and left to hang at the corner of the room. He feels more normal now, wearing his old clothes, even though Arthur remains dressed in ridiculous finery. The golden crown still encircles his head, a reminder of all that has changed in the past few years.
"That's hardly the point. They need to know that I have you under my control: that you are loyal to me. There can be no room for doubt in their minds. "
"Then you shouldn't talk about me like that. Not right in front of me, you stupid prat," Merlin snaps at him. It's different when Arthur talks about him to his face - because then he knows he isn't serious. It's all a game. "It may be my destiny to look after you, but that doesn't mean I like it. Or you. Maybe next time I'll just let one of your enemies get a good shot in. After all, I'm a 'small person'. I probably won't even understand the danger you're in until it's too late. What a shame, eh?"
"You're being an idiot," Arthur sighs at him, as if that is in any way an acceptable apology. It isn't. Not for a second. Merlin's temper only darkens. "I was playing along. That doesn't mean I really believe that."
"Yeah?" Merlin asks, managing to make that single word sound like a cruel accusation. "I thought you'd grown up since we met. Now it's like you're still that prat throwing daggers for 'moving target practice'. You're the king, Arthur. Grow up."
Arthur makes a spluttering sound as indignant air whooshes out of him, and he draws himself up in an attempt to look exceptionally regal. It might have frightened anyone else, but Merlin is far beyond that. He always has been: it's hard to be frightened of someone when you know that you could dissolve them to dust and sprinkle them on the air with a single wave of your hand.
"Remember when we used to be friends?" he says before Arthur can launch into a self-righteous rant. "Me, you, Morgana, Gwen? What happened to us?"
"We 'grew up', Merlin," Arthur huffs. "I became king; you became a sorcerer."
"I have always been a sorcerer. You just didn't know it."
Arthur doesn't dignify him with a response, only changing the topic instead. "Will you be on your best behaviour for the rest of the week? I can't afford any more displays like that."
"I won't embarrass you, if that's what you mean," Merlin replies stiffly. He tells himself that he's glad when Arthur finally leaves, but the air is thick with unspoken regrets and heavy sadness.
*
He does as is required of him for the rest of the visit, playing the role of pet sorcerer with a sense of resigned ease. He does not leave the banquets until a nod from Arthur indicates that he is free to do so. He makes a show of asking Arthur in Edmund's presence for permission to leave the castle to walk through the woods, or for a decision on what robes he is to wear that day. The hints of a smug smile on Arthur's face whenever he gives an answer is enough to tell Merlin that he is doing the right thing, and from time to time he can't help but smile himself at this show of fake submissiveness. He wonders if even the members of this foreign court are able to accept what they're seeing. He doubts it, really, but royal life has always been about illusion and acting. He's learnt that much over the years.
He keeps his eyes on the ground as he walks along the stone corridors of the castle, his mind so far away that he has almost walked into Edmund's ridiculously broad chest by the time he looks up. He finds himself confronted by the foreign king without his entourage and his eyebrows rise. "Are you lost?" are the first words out of his mouth. Admittedly, they're not exactly fit for a king, but Edmund doesn't seem altogether bothered.
"I don't think so," he answers. He has a nice accent, warm and trickling and nothing like what Merlin is used to hearing in Camelot. It carries a smile with it. "Are you?"
"I live in the castle, sir. Even I am unlikely to get lost in my own home." He crooks a self-deprecating smile, forcing himself to play into the role of country oaf that Arthur has drawn for him, but Edmund's face becomes oddly serious.
"Are you sure that this is truly your home?" Edmund asks. "I have heard how King Arthur speaks of you, Merlin, as I am told that you have too. Were you to return with me tomorrow, you may rest assured that you will be provided with the status and riches that you deserve."
Merlin understands, suddenly, why they are alone for this meeting without the heavy weight of bodyguards behind Edmund or the soothing presence of Gwen at Merlin's side. This is a conversation for the two of them only. "Are you inviting me to come with you?" Merlin asks - and he has to admit, secretly, that he's tempted. There is a selfish spark in his belly that wants to go, so badly, whenever he thinks of Arthur's recent behaviour. If Arthur does not believe in destiny then perhaps Merlin should throw the dragon's words aside as well.
"I wouldn't dream of being so blunt," Edmund says, a sparkle in his eye and a smile on his face. "However, if you ever choose to visit my kingdom you will be well cared for and quarters will be provided - and you won't have to deal with a king who refuses to acknowledge your true worth."
It's that last one that is truly tempting, because there is nothing at all wrong with Merlin's living conditions here in Camelot, and he has no doubt that Arthur would 'upgrade' him if he asked for it. The prospect of having someone who respects him as his lord, however, is one that makes his mind swirl with happy what ifs. He could do it; Arthur couldn't stop him. He could swap sides and watch as Camelot falls.
He could do so much to make this kingdom crumble.
He won't. He would never.
"Thank you for your extension of hospitality," he says - and he hates talking like this, trying to pretend he's one of 'them', "but I have no plans on leaving Camelot in the foreseeable future. I live here. I want to live here. Arthur can be a prat at times, but he's a good king: he is not a faultless one, but nobody is." And, yes, perhaps many of Arthur's faults fall into the 'endlessly annoying' category, but at least they are far from the 'ruthless psychopath' stage. Arthur is an irritating man at times, but not a murderous one.
Edmund's eyes, distant and calm, study Merlin for a few moments like a chess opponent searching for a weakness. Merlin offers him nothing.
Eventually Edmund gives a weak smile, and an accepting nod. "The offer stands nonetheless, my good man. I remain convinced that your skills would be better appreciated under me than under Arthur."
Merlin can't help but smile in wary resignation. "I have no doubt that that would be true," he says, holding Edmund's gaze. Edmund seems like a good man, a good king, but he is not Merlin's king and therefore no offers can truly entice him.
"I had to give it a try, didn't I?" Edmund says - and when he pats Merlin's shoulder as he begins to depart, Merlin can't help but wonder how different his life might have gone if his mother had sent him to Edmund's realm instead of Uther's.
*
When the visiting men finally depart, Merlin is there to wave them off. The castle returns to normal: the nervous fear fades from the shoulders of the servants and everyone sheds their 'best behaviour'. Camelot comes to life once more and Merlin feels the warm buzz of magic inside him glow in response like a dragon unfurling its wings. On the afternoon after they have left he climbs to the tallest point of the castle where he can look out across the town and the surrounding countryside. The tops of the trees are a bright, fresh green at this time of year: alive and looking to the future.
He isn't expecting anyone to join him up here, but at the same time he isn't at all surprised when the door opens and Arthur walks out onto the battlements: he's never surprised by Arthur, not any more. It's like he can feel him at all times, consciously or not. Merlin isn't sure if he likes it, to be honest.
"I hope you're not up here sulking," Arthur says, talking as if everything is alright between them. Maybe it is. Merlin isn't sure.
He doesn't turn around and his eyes remain focused on the green countryside in the distance, the lolling fields that represent his past and the roots that Arthur had spoken so disdainfully about. He hears it as Arthur moves closer until they are standing side by side, surveying the kingdom.
"Edmund asked me to come with him," Merlin says - and he hadn't planned on confessing such a thing to anyone, never mind Arthur, but it comes too naturally to stop it. "More or less, anyway. He implied that I should."
He feels the prickle of Arthur's gaze on the side of his face but he doesn't look around. He doesn't think that he's ready to look Arthur in the eye just yet.
"You didn't go," Arthur observes. It sounds almost like a question. It sounds like 'why?'
"I belong here," Merlin sighs. He's said and thought those words so often that he thinks they ought to cease to have any meaning. "You're an idiot, Arthur. I hate you half the time these days, but I belong here. It's my destiny."
"I don't want you to hate me," Arthur says. The words stick on the air, painful and halting. His hand hovers near the small of Merlin's back - Merlin can feel it - but he doesn't dare to touch. Nothing is easy between them any more. Nothing is casual. "I don't want..." He trails away and doesn't bother to finish his sentence. They both have an entire lifetime of frustrated dreams.
"I don't think it matters too much what you want, d'you?" Merlin observes. He chances a glance towards Arthur and finds that the king is watching him, his eyes young and lost. He looks away again, sharply, and holds his breath for a moment too. "I don't want to hate you either. You just make it bloody difficult to like you sometimes."
He's rewarded with a shove of Arthur's hand at his shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance, and they both smile. "You're not allowed to talk to me like that. I'm the king."
"That never stopped me before."
"If you were anyone else I'd have you killed."
"No, you wouldn't," Merlin says, a touch of warmth and respect invading his voice: Arthur is not his father.
He can meet Arthur's gaze now, staring into his eyes, and he feels like he can still see the prince in there: his prince. "No," Arthur echoes, "I wouldn't."
The moment freezes and it is like time has slowed down: Merlin wonders if his magic has come out to play, but the air doesn't tingle with the charge of power. It is just him, and just Arthur, and just them. Time has not only slowed but has gone into reverse, and they are young again, free again. When Arthur reaches for him, fingers skimming against his cheekbones, Merlin doesn't flinch away. He leans into the cautious touch instead, every twitch of his body language whispering, this is okay, this is alright, this is fate.
He kisses Arthur in the end when it appears that Arthur's courage fails him. Joined lip-to-lip, Merlin's eyes fall closed and he can only wonder why they didn't do this years ago.
*
"King Edmund wants to visit again," Merlin tells Arthur, lounging in the king's bed as he reads through the letter that was hand-delivered this morning. The letter is written in exquisitely decorated hand-writing that Merlin finds difficult to understand, and he feels certain that there is absolutely no need for anywhere near that many long words in one short letter.
"Tell him to bugger off," Arthur answers, still on the other side of the room near the fire and apparently unwilling to come to bed just yet. Night has fallen outside and Merlin's in the mood for a tumble before he goes to sleep so he's willing to wait. In the few months since he finally took to Arthur's bed, he's become used to the king's nighttime quirks. He avoids sleep like death. "I'm not going to give him a second shot at poaching my sorcerer."
"Yours, eh?" Merlin sinks further beneath the sheets after placing the letter at his bedside. "You sure about that?" Of course Arthur is sure - he is Arthur. Merlin also suspects that their recent behaviour, glued to each others' bickering sides, will have served to confirm any notions that Arthur has about who Merlin truly belongs to.
Arthur looks away from the fire, over his shoulder back to him. The flames cast his smile in a wicked glow and with his golden hair they make him look more magical than Merlin could aspire to be. He smirks and stalks back towards the bed, power and authority laced in every step. "Of course I'm sure, Merlin," Arthur teases, crawling onto the mattress and to Merlin's side in a most unkingly way. Their lips meet, light and casual, and Merlin wonders when they got so used to this - to them - that they don't have to relish each kiss. He likes it. Normality. "It's our destiny, remember?"
And as Merlin's arms draw Arthur close and they fall into the night together, Merlin knows that their destiny is something neither of them will forget again.
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Word Count: 4427
Rating: PG-13
A/N: The title comes from the quote, “My evening visitors, if they cannot see the clock, should find the time in my face.”
Summary: When the king from a foreign kingdom visits Camelot, Arthur and Merlin have to be on their best behaviour to impress him. For Merlin, this stirs up some old resentment.
The tension in the castle has been so thick all day that Merlin has hardly been able to focus. Servants scuttle back and forth, clinging so closely to the walls as they complete their difficulties that even Gwen and Merlin - whose pasts have trained them to notice such people - find them invisible. The other occupants of the castle, rowdier and boisterous after weeks of travelling, make more than enough noise to compensate for what little is lost from the servants. This noise, however, is not half as comforting. The sound of their chatter and laughter makes sparks dance around Merlin's fingers, waiting to be unleashed, and it is only Arthur's restraining presence that stops him from doing something stupid.
"Come on now, Merlin. You know better than that," Arthur scolds, though the strain in his voice suggests that perhaps he is considering the possibility of simply letting loose Camelot's most dangerous weapon upon the visitors. The peace they've found with this kingdom is tenuous at best: Merlin doesn't trust them, not for a moment. Neither, it seems, does Arthur.
"Are you sure I can't just turn them all into toads?" he asks mournfully as he watches King Edmund laughing with his men in the courtyard as they survey the castle and apparently find it wanting. He reminds Merlin of Arthur before they'd become friends: an insufferable prat who badly needs to be taken down a notch or two.
"No toads."
"I can do other animals too. Name your poison."
"No magic at all," Arthur tells him sternly. "They need to return to their kingdom with good will towards us - and knowing better than to pick a fight."
He wants to intimidate them with the wealth and glory of Camelot so that the possibility of waging war against them won't even cross Edmund's mind. Merlin knows that it is a good strategy and an endless improvement on sending innocent armies out to die, but he still can't pretend to like their presence here in Arthur's castle - in his home. The magic that courses through his veins begs to be unleashed, but he knows that it isn't an option. To call down his wrath upon them would be a challenge, and while, sure, he's pretty certain that he could crush them there will be more where they came from. Besides, he knows that his magic is not supposed to be used for crushing people purely because he doesn't like them. If that were the case then Arthur would never have survived long enough for them to become friends in the first place.
"I need you to be on your best behaviour while they're here. They need to know that I can control you."
Merlin snorts in response, because he's sure that Arthur knows as well as he does what a ridiculous notion that is anyway. Nobody who's been around them for more than two seconds would believe that Merlin is under Arthur's 'control' in any way shape or form. Never has been; never will be. Uther had yes-men: Arthur's advisors have a little more bite.
"Merlin, this is important," Arthur coaxes. His voice turns wheedling and Merlin knows that in a moment or two the tone will drop until it is low and gentle. Pleading. Arthur's commands may mean nothing to Merlin, but his pleas do. When he asks nicely there is nothing that Merlin can refuse him. "I need them to fear Camelot itself, not only you."
Merlin could say that there is very little dividing the two these days: all the power of the Old Religion ties him to the very earth of Camelot, and the strings of destiny will keep him at Arthur's side until the world ends, but he holds his tongue on the matter. Arthur tends to scold him whenever he starts to talk about fate or coins or any such nonsense. Sometimes, when he's in a good mood, he'll roll his eyes and shove Merlin's shoulder, accusing him of sounding like the old dragon. "I shan't cause any trouble, sire. You needn't worry."
"Good," Arthur answers, clipped and short. He doesn't stop to chat for any longer, and Merlin feels a pang of nostalgia for the days before the crown landed upon Arthur's head. They could talk back then. They had time. Now time is short and Arthur has too many responsibilities to waste precious moments on meaningless chatter with a former servant. As Arthur leaves, Merlin's gaze filters back to the window. He can still hear jeering from the men outside and a heavy sense of unease refuses to lift from his shoulders. He can hardly wait for their visit to be over.
*
Ridiculously expensive displays of wealth are apparently one of the best ways of intimidating the competition: there are more banquets in one week than Merlin cares to keep up with. He'd start avoiding them altogether if Arthur hadn't already had a 'conversation' with him about how his attendance was mandatory: Arthur's conversations these days seem to involve absent-minded reminders. Merlin turns up all the same and politely takes his seat at the royal table. He's next to Gwen, thankfully, and she looks just as reluctant to be there as he feels.
"I feel like I'm on display," he murmurs under his breath to her, leaning close half-way through their meal so that only she can hear him. Arthur is distracted, telling Edmund some prattish tale or other: Merlin thinks that he's boasting about the unicorn he killed so many years ago, and the thought makes him bristle. Arthur knows better than that now. Arthur is better than that now.
"I think we all are," Gwen answers stiffly. Like him, she is far from comfortable at these events. This is not their world: it belongs to people like Arthur and Morgana, not to those who grew up with dirt under their fingernails and with their muscles straining from good, hard and honest work. They're impostors. "We have a role to play, Merlin. Arthur says it's important."
Merlin snorts air through his nose. "Arthur says a lot these days. He's not the one being shown off like a shiny new sword."
He gets it. Really, he does. His magic is a scary, formidable thing and it is a weapon that other nations fear. He's okay with the concept of being feared if it helps to foster peace, but he is not okay with the way that these strangers look at him, dark and mistrusting.
Gwen reaches for his hand and squeezes it for a moment. Her palm is warm and reassuring and he turns his hand over where it rests on his chair so that their fingers can hold on tightly. Despite all other changes that may happen in Camelot, Gwen remains constant: he knows that her heart remains steady, loyal and sweet regardless of the other changes made in their lives. She forgave him years ago for the secrets he kept from her; once his magic was out in the open it seemed pointless for them to hold grudges.
They don't speak, and he's only cast out of his moody thoughts when he realises that he's being discussed further along the table: it's Gwen's alarmingly strong squeeze of his hand that alerts him. His head jerks up, pretending that he's been paying close attention all the time, and he sweeps his hand over his forehead, pushing his black hair out of the way even though he knows that there is no way that it will ever stay tamed for him.
"... terribly powerful, of course," he hears Arthur saying. "He grew up in one of the outlying villages. A small place, you know - small people."
"How charming," Edmund responds. The sound of his voice is strong and majestic. Merlin wonders if they're trying to out-king one another. "A real diamond in the rough. You are extraordinarily lucky that he wound up in your courts."
"Luck has nothing to do with it," Arthur sniffs. "He believes it's 'destiny'. As it is, I'm not inclined to disabuse him of that notion." He laughs at that, and it isn't a good sound; Merlin looks down, pretending to be focused on something else entirely. That laugh is not the laugh of his friend, and he wishes that now was a suitable time to yell at Arthur. Arthur met the dragon too before they released it. He knows the future that it spoke of and the path that they walk together. He knows that the idea of destiny is nothing to be laughed at and yet here he is doing exactly that.
If Merlin had been anything less than an incredibly kind individual, maybe he would start considering turning Arthur himself into a toad instead of focusing his wrath on any of their visitors.
"He doesn't mean it," Gwen tells him, speaking under her breath. "You know what he's like."
"Yeah, I'm beginning to get the picture," Merlin says. He imagines storming up to his chambers, packing his bags and leaving. Let's see how well Arthur's kingdom serves him without Merlin at his side. The rage and the need to do it are so strong that he can't help but stand up abruptly, letting go of Gwen's hand.
"Merlin, what are you doing?" Arthur asks, and even if he manages to hide most of his emotions behind an easy-going smile there's still a burst of tension lurking beneath it. "Sit back down - we haven't finished yet."
"I have, my lord. I'll be in my chambers if you need me," Merlin answers, leaving his seat and walking along the long tables spread in front of him towards the door. The dark cloak he wears - seemingly a must-have for sorcerers, though he only wears it on formal occasions and is thankful that he doesn't have to wear a hat as well - spills behind him like it's made from flowing water.
Arthur doesn't call out for him to make him stop and in a way he's glad for that. He knows that Arthur is only saving face, unwilling to be rejected or ignored in front of these men he is attempting to impress, and he thinks that for once Arthur is showing an uncommon amount of sense. Perhaps they'll make a decent king out of him yet, though Merlin's in a bad enough mood that he's beginning to doubt it.
He can feel the magic crackling through his blood as he makes his way through the castle's corridors, and when he reaches his chambers - that used to, so long ago, belong to Gaius - he slams the door firmly behind him. This place is his home, his sanctuary, but damn if he feels welcome here in Camelot these days. He wishes that they could rewind everything, every single second, back to their first few peaceful months as friends. Life had been good then - dangerous, stressful, secretive, but good. Arthur had looked upon him as a person, as a friend, but his eyes have changed since the crown was placed upon his head. They've had to.
And Merlin knows that, he understands that, but he doesn't like it. Not at all and not for one second.
He's only given privacy for an hour at most: long enough for Arthur to play the perfect regal host, but it's clear that Arthur had slipped away as soon as he could politely do so. By the time he reaches Merlin's quarters and steps inside - doesn't bother to knock, never does, because he's the king and apparently knocking is something that kings don't do - all semblance of politeness and manners have been washed firmly away. In their place there is red-faced rage. "You really do have some sort of dire mental problem, don't you Merlin? I'd say it was the magic but I've met plenty of other sorcerers who seem halfway sane. Do you have any idea how you made me look, storming out like that?"
"If all it takes to ruin your prestige is for me to leave a dinner early, then you've got far greater problems than me," Merlin replies sulkily. He puts down the book of magic he'd been angrily reading since he came here and stands up, crossing his arms over his chest. His formal cloak has been discarded and left to hang at the corner of the room. He feels more normal now, wearing his old clothes, even though Arthur remains dressed in ridiculous finery. The golden crown still encircles his head, a reminder of all that has changed in the past few years.
"That's hardly the point. They need to know that I have you under my control: that you are loyal to me. There can be no room for doubt in their minds. "
"Then you shouldn't talk about me like that. Not right in front of me, you stupid prat," Merlin snaps at him. It's different when Arthur talks about him to his face - because then he knows he isn't serious. It's all a game. "It may be my destiny to look after you, but that doesn't mean I like it. Or you. Maybe next time I'll just let one of your enemies get a good shot in. After all, I'm a 'small person'. I probably won't even understand the danger you're in until it's too late. What a shame, eh?"
"You're being an idiot," Arthur sighs at him, as if that is in any way an acceptable apology. It isn't. Not for a second. Merlin's temper only darkens. "I was playing along. That doesn't mean I really believe that."
"Yeah?" Merlin asks, managing to make that single word sound like a cruel accusation. "I thought you'd grown up since we met. Now it's like you're still that prat throwing daggers for 'moving target practice'. You're the king, Arthur. Grow up."
Arthur makes a spluttering sound as indignant air whooshes out of him, and he draws himself up in an attempt to look exceptionally regal. It might have frightened anyone else, but Merlin is far beyond that. He always has been: it's hard to be frightened of someone when you know that you could dissolve them to dust and sprinkle them on the air with a single wave of your hand.
"Remember when we used to be friends?" he says before Arthur can launch into a self-righteous rant. "Me, you, Morgana, Gwen? What happened to us?"
"We 'grew up', Merlin," Arthur huffs. "I became king; you became a sorcerer."
"I have always been a sorcerer. You just didn't know it."
Arthur doesn't dignify him with a response, only changing the topic instead. "Will you be on your best behaviour for the rest of the week? I can't afford any more displays like that."
"I won't embarrass you, if that's what you mean," Merlin replies stiffly. He tells himself that he's glad when Arthur finally leaves, but the air is thick with unspoken regrets and heavy sadness.
*
He does as is required of him for the rest of the visit, playing the role of pet sorcerer with a sense of resigned ease. He does not leave the banquets until a nod from Arthur indicates that he is free to do so. He makes a show of asking Arthur in Edmund's presence for permission to leave the castle to walk through the woods, or for a decision on what robes he is to wear that day. The hints of a smug smile on Arthur's face whenever he gives an answer is enough to tell Merlin that he is doing the right thing, and from time to time he can't help but smile himself at this show of fake submissiveness. He wonders if even the members of this foreign court are able to accept what they're seeing. He doubts it, really, but royal life has always been about illusion and acting. He's learnt that much over the years.
He keeps his eyes on the ground as he walks along the stone corridors of the castle, his mind so far away that he has almost walked into Edmund's ridiculously broad chest by the time he looks up. He finds himself confronted by the foreign king without his entourage and his eyebrows rise. "Are you lost?" are the first words out of his mouth. Admittedly, they're not exactly fit for a king, but Edmund doesn't seem altogether bothered.
"I don't think so," he answers. He has a nice accent, warm and trickling and nothing like what Merlin is used to hearing in Camelot. It carries a smile with it. "Are you?"
"I live in the castle, sir. Even I am unlikely to get lost in my own home." He crooks a self-deprecating smile, forcing himself to play into the role of country oaf that Arthur has drawn for him, but Edmund's face becomes oddly serious.
"Are you sure that this is truly your home?" Edmund asks. "I have heard how King Arthur speaks of you, Merlin, as I am told that you have too. Were you to return with me tomorrow, you may rest assured that you will be provided with the status and riches that you deserve."
Merlin understands, suddenly, why they are alone for this meeting without the heavy weight of bodyguards behind Edmund or the soothing presence of Gwen at Merlin's side. This is a conversation for the two of them only. "Are you inviting me to come with you?" Merlin asks - and he has to admit, secretly, that he's tempted. There is a selfish spark in his belly that wants to go, so badly, whenever he thinks of Arthur's recent behaviour. If Arthur does not believe in destiny then perhaps Merlin should throw the dragon's words aside as well.
"I wouldn't dream of being so blunt," Edmund says, a sparkle in his eye and a smile on his face. "However, if you ever choose to visit my kingdom you will be well cared for and quarters will be provided - and you won't have to deal with a king who refuses to acknowledge your true worth."
It's that last one that is truly tempting, because there is nothing at all wrong with Merlin's living conditions here in Camelot, and he has no doubt that Arthur would 'upgrade' him if he asked for it. The prospect of having someone who respects him as his lord, however, is one that makes his mind swirl with happy what ifs. He could do it; Arthur couldn't stop him. He could swap sides and watch as Camelot falls.
He could do so much to make this kingdom crumble.
He won't. He would never.
"Thank you for your extension of hospitality," he says - and he hates talking like this, trying to pretend he's one of 'them', "but I have no plans on leaving Camelot in the foreseeable future. I live here. I want to live here. Arthur can be a prat at times, but he's a good king: he is not a faultless one, but nobody is." And, yes, perhaps many of Arthur's faults fall into the 'endlessly annoying' category, but at least they are far from the 'ruthless psychopath' stage. Arthur is an irritating man at times, but not a murderous one.
Edmund's eyes, distant and calm, study Merlin for a few moments like a chess opponent searching for a weakness. Merlin offers him nothing.
Eventually Edmund gives a weak smile, and an accepting nod. "The offer stands nonetheless, my good man. I remain convinced that your skills would be better appreciated under me than under Arthur."
Merlin can't help but smile in wary resignation. "I have no doubt that that would be true," he says, holding Edmund's gaze. Edmund seems like a good man, a good king, but he is not Merlin's king and therefore no offers can truly entice him.
"I had to give it a try, didn't I?" Edmund says - and when he pats Merlin's shoulder as he begins to depart, Merlin can't help but wonder how different his life might have gone if his mother had sent him to Edmund's realm instead of Uther's.
*
When the visiting men finally depart, Merlin is there to wave them off. The castle returns to normal: the nervous fear fades from the shoulders of the servants and everyone sheds their 'best behaviour'. Camelot comes to life once more and Merlin feels the warm buzz of magic inside him glow in response like a dragon unfurling its wings. On the afternoon after they have left he climbs to the tallest point of the castle where he can look out across the town and the surrounding countryside. The tops of the trees are a bright, fresh green at this time of year: alive and looking to the future.
He isn't expecting anyone to join him up here, but at the same time he isn't at all surprised when the door opens and Arthur walks out onto the battlements: he's never surprised by Arthur, not any more. It's like he can feel him at all times, consciously or not. Merlin isn't sure if he likes it, to be honest.
"I hope you're not up here sulking," Arthur says, talking as if everything is alright between them. Maybe it is. Merlin isn't sure.
He doesn't turn around and his eyes remain focused on the green countryside in the distance, the lolling fields that represent his past and the roots that Arthur had spoken so disdainfully about. He hears it as Arthur moves closer until they are standing side by side, surveying the kingdom.
"Edmund asked me to come with him," Merlin says - and he hadn't planned on confessing such a thing to anyone, never mind Arthur, but it comes too naturally to stop it. "More or less, anyway. He implied that I should."
He feels the prickle of Arthur's gaze on the side of his face but he doesn't look around. He doesn't think that he's ready to look Arthur in the eye just yet.
"You didn't go," Arthur observes. It sounds almost like a question. It sounds like 'why?'
"I belong here," Merlin sighs. He's said and thought those words so often that he thinks they ought to cease to have any meaning. "You're an idiot, Arthur. I hate you half the time these days, but I belong here. It's my destiny."
"I don't want you to hate me," Arthur says. The words stick on the air, painful and halting. His hand hovers near the small of Merlin's back - Merlin can feel it - but he doesn't dare to touch. Nothing is easy between them any more. Nothing is casual. "I don't want..." He trails away and doesn't bother to finish his sentence. They both have an entire lifetime of frustrated dreams.
"I don't think it matters too much what you want, d'you?" Merlin observes. He chances a glance towards Arthur and finds that the king is watching him, his eyes young and lost. He looks away again, sharply, and holds his breath for a moment too. "I don't want to hate you either. You just make it bloody difficult to like you sometimes."
He's rewarded with a shove of Arthur's hand at his shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance, and they both smile. "You're not allowed to talk to me like that. I'm the king."
"That never stopped me before."
"If you were anyone else I'd have you killed."
"No, you wouldn't," Merlin says, a touch of warmth and respect invading his voice: Arthur is not his father.
He can meet Arthur's gaze now, staring into his eyes, and he feels like he can still see the prince in there: his prince. "No," Arthur echoes, "I wouldn't."
The moment freezes and it is like time has slowed down: Merlin wonders if his magic has come out to play, but the air doesn't tingle with the charge of power. It is just him, and just Arthur, and just them. Time has not only slowed but has gone into reverse, and they are young again, free again. When Arthur reaches for him, fingers skimming against his cheekbones, Merlin doesn't flinch away. He leans into the cautious touch instead, every twitch of his body language whispering, this is okay, this is alright, this is fate.
He kisses Arthur in the end when it appears that Arthur's courage fails him. Joined lip-to-lip, Merlin's eyes fall closed and he can only wonder why they didn't do this years ago.
*
"King Edmund wants to visit again," Merlin tells Arthur, lounging in the king's bed as he reads through the letter that was hand-delivered this morning. The letter is written in exquisitely decorated hand-writing that Merlin finds difficult to understand, and he feels certain that there is absolutely no need for anywhere near that many long words in one short letter.
"Tell him to bugger off," Arthur answers, still on the other side of the room near the fire and apparently unwilling to come to bed just yet. Night has fallen outside and Merlin's in the mood for a tumble before he goes to sleep so he's willing to wait. In the few months since he finally took to Arthur's bed, he's become used to the king's nighttime quirks. He avoids sleep like death. "I'm not going to give him a second shot at poaching my sorcerer."
"Yours, eh?" Merlin sinks further beneath the sheets after placing the letter at his bedside. "You sure about that?" Of course Arthur is sure - he is Arthur. Merlin also suspects that their recent behaviour, glued to each others' bickering sides, will have served to confirm any notions that Arthur has about who Merlin truly belongs to.
Arthur looks away from the fire, over his shoulder back to him. The flames cast his smile in a wicked glow and with his golden hair they make him look more magical than Merlin could aspire to be. He smirks and stalks back towards the bed, power and authority laced in every step. "Of course I'm sure, Merlin," Arthur teases, crawling onto the mattress and to Merlin's side in a most unkingly way. Their lips meet, light and casual, and Merlin wonders when they got so used to this - to them - that they don't have to relish each kiss. He likes it. Normality. "It's our destiny, remember?"
And as Merlin's arms draw Arthur close and they fall into the night together, Merlin knows that their destiny is something neither of them will forget again.