Function of π (part 1)
Title: Function of Pie
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur, but not scand
Wordcount: 12,000
Spoilers: 2nd series.
Summary: a few prompts mixed into one - Arthur's getting sick of pretending not to notice Merlin's magic, Morgana and Gwen are secretly badasses, and Merlin has to serve Uther for the day.
A/N: this is written for the camelot_fleet prompt fest, for cat_77. in the same universe as two of my other ridiculous stories Kingdom Under Siege and Best Day, but not directly related. Please bear with me here, for I know not what I do.
master fic post
A kingdom is only worth as much as the sum of its parts.
This is a story of parallels. A great warlock finds his beginnings just as a great king comes into his own. A motherless son feels the boundaries of his previously unquestioned prejudices while a country lad learns to fit his jutting bones into too little skin. A balance is to be struck, but the beauty is often in the process, the music in the shifting of cogs.
The future king, future uniter of lands, was complaining about his bathwater.
"I never thought I'd say this, Merlin, but this water is far too warm." One gangly wizard-cum-ill-mannered-manservant looked up with an expression more questioning than contrite. "One might even go as far to call it scalding."
Arthur took the pitcher of water from his nightstand and poured a demonstrative stream of cool into hot, and proved his point effectively by way of sudden steam.
Merlin stood jerkily (oh the limbs!) in shock.
"You know, Merlin," the prince continued. "I've remarked that only when my life is in danger do you finally take notice - otherwise there's no getting you to heed my instruction."
"I'd suggest you wait to bathe," Merlin recovered sagely. He looked intensely at the tub, and Arthur quickly glanced out the window. When an appropriate amount of time had elapsed, in which he gathered his emotions and flattened them into something like impatience on his face, he looked back.
"What do you want me to do about this?" Arthur motioned with a hand to his person, covered as it was in only a low slung towel and battle sweat. Merlin's dragging look was confirmation (the 12th today) of a theory Arthur'd been months in developing. Bath time was an entire category unto itself due to the sheer amount of hip area and chest exposed (independent variables h and c, respectively). Thankfully, Arthur had been schooled in thorough and systematic research, such that he might conduct this type of strenuous longitudinal study, a study which had begun just around the time he had visited Merlin's home village and he had noticed the excited breath Merlin had drawn when Arthur had teasingly rubbed his foot on Merlin's face. Since that night, Arthur's findings had been gratifyingly conclusive. Oh the glory of being right!
There was, of course, the possibility of researcher bias, which was why, once he'd found a soul he trusted other than said manservant (Lancelot?? Maybe he could expend some knights to track him down.) he would have a second, less biased opinion to review his carefully recorded data.
A moment later, when Merlin went to fetch fresh clothing for the night's banquet, Arthur surreptitiously toed the water - warm to tepid in a matter of seconds, an impossibility to be duly noted in the musty notebook Arthur had hidden in the trunk at the end of his bed. With these thoughts as to Merlin's possible guilt on both the count of sorcery and lust alike, Arthur said nothing, choosing to bide his time until he had decided upon the wisest moment to confront his not-so-sneaky manservant.
In the meanwhile, three events occurred simultaneously:
By the time Merlin had managed to get Arthur bathed and dressed, Arthur was the square root of patient and variable c had reached the daily mean in each of its three subgroups (dependent variables glances, skin to skin contact, and the more difficult to quantify category reactions denoting surprise or embarrassment when skin-to-skin contact was instigated by Arthur himself; these situations had to be intermittent so as not to raise notice)
At long last, Arthur shrugged himself into his jacket without the aid of Merlin's hands, hands which were instead occupied with needlessly, albeit comfortingly, adjusting the lacings at the neck of Arthur's tunic and he said: "What of Gwen?"
Merlin paused in his adjusting, smoothed one hand across the jacket shoulder in thought, and continued down the arm. Arthur raised his forearm to allow Merlin to fasten delicate cuff links at each wrist.
"She's relieved," Merlin told him. "Relieved and managing Morgana's affairs admirably, making sure her mistress has everything she could desire, but she's still worried, considering…" Arthur noted Merlin's downcast gaze. He clapped him on the back of the neck briefly, too hard maybe, before ridding himself of Merlin's hands with a step to the door.
"Feast, Merlin," he informed. "Yet another chance to either confirm or disconfirm the rumor that you're an inattentive servant."
"I only wish to live up to your expectations," Merlin replied.
"Cheeky," Arthur admonished.
Arthur strode out the room, Merlin matching him step-for-step. The halls were chilly, and torches luminous in the dusky light from intricate stain-glass windows.
"The crown prince is always right, after all," Merlin said.
"Sometimes being right is not the reward one would hope it to be," Arthur said. They'd rounded the first bend, out of sight of his chamber door, and he halted his gait. Merlin fought inertia, and stumbled, and then looked a question to his prince.
"Candles, Merlin," Arthur said, matter of fact, as if he had not engineered the situation. Merlin grimaced.
"Oh, yeah, right, I'll just-" and jogged the way they had come.
Arthur took his opportunities as they presented themselves. He too retraced some of their steps, enough to peer round the corner in time to see Merlin jerk the door open. Merlin did not enter, to Arthur's chagrin: instead, he whispered something, blinked minimally, and then pulled the door closed once again.
It was Arthur's turn to jog, sprint really, to arrange himself in the position of impatient nonchalance that his manservant found him in. Merlin's blue eyes did not meet Arthur's when he said: "You were right. They'd not been extinguished, but I've put them out."
"See, it's not always a blessing to be right," Arthur said. They continued down the halls boots amplified by flagstones, voices too, as their shadows chased to catch them up. "Sometimes it's a burden."
The Lady Morgana entered the hall moments after Arthur had, and the applause was at least two-fold. She seemed to steel herself once before crossing the threshold, and a second time when Arthur's father reached to clasp her hand in greeting. The guests lauded her in standing ovation until she smiled regally at them and seated herself in an elegant arrangement of cream silks.
Guinevere moved in behind her. At this, Arthur came back to himself, noting the juxtaposition of Merlin, standing off where Arthur could just see him, a twitchy thing just at the corner of Arthur's field of vision as if to purposely distract, and Gwen who was composed, still and elegant as befitting her station and despite the toughening work of the forge.
Uther remained standing and waved the party seated.
"Good people of the court," He said. The noise cut abruptly. "The recent tragedy has reached a happy conclusion - the lady Morgana, my ward and dearest friend, has been returned to us. It is with heavy hearts that the people of Camelot endured the week's aftermath of the vile sorceress' attack on the kingdom, followed shortly by that of the Great Dragon, and although it would be a disservice to those suffering to pretend that all is now well, it is to be sure that Lady Morgana's return has brought hope in the aftermath of a dark time. And so I declare this night a celebration of this joyful event!"
Arthur barely touched his wine that night, which was just as well for Merlin was less attentive than usual, if that was indeed possible; Merlin spent the majority of the feast shifting against a column and every once and a while Arthur caught him staring at Arthur's neck with an intensity that would have been frightening save for two factors: 1) Arthur was the crown prince, so had little room for fear and 2) theory #2 which simply put, stated Merlin of Ealdor, manservant inefficient, was desperately in lust with the prince of Camelot...
Arthur therefore knew that he had nothing to fear, because his powers of logic and deduction were such that he could say with 95% certainty that the null hypothesis (namely that Merlin did not harbor such primal yearnings for his body), was not correct. His tutors had taught him maths for just this reason, to employ in testing his theories and analyzing the data gleaned from careful observation, so Arthur was quite confident that his methods and thus his conclusions were sound.
There was, obviously, some room for error, but Arthur had also the upper hand of knowing this manservant personally, and of making observations that only he, the object of Merlin's possible affections, could know.
Anyways, Arthur did not drink his wine, because he spent the entire evening fielding comments and thinly veiled questions meant for Morgana. He was a skilled politician, never showing his emotional response to the somewhat heavy-handed and greasy commentary of the visiting and domestic nobles, and landowners, who all wished to know Morgana's whereabouts and possibly feel out any weakness of the court at Camelot. Arthur sat at her right hand, sometimes pressing his left arm as if by accident to Morgana's right in show of support, and cut in as often as he could with cool and eloquent replies.
In this manner, the evening passed, and it was to his great relief when he could finally see Morgana making as if to retire that he took his own leave.
"To bed, my lady," Arthur told Morgana. Morgana met his eyes, vaguely, and Arthur tried to hold her gaze, as if to somehow convey, silently, that she could trust him.
"If you have anything you need," he began.
"Your arrogant assumption of being able to offer anything warms me, my lord," Morgana said, with veiled humor. Arthur grinned, rakishly he thought.
"I promise you I can," he said. "But you yourself make assumptions; I was merely going to offer up the services of my manservant, for I myself am too busy with affairs of the kingdom."
"Merlin," Morgana said. And she looked momentarily lost, ill, even. But then the look was gone, and she turned away. "Your manservant can probably offer you more than me, anyhow." And this time Arthur was truly scandalized in that oh-my-god-stop-it kind of way, with a must-you-make-gay-jokes-in-front-of-my-father style shiftiness that always seemed to make Morgana laugh, wearing a just-because-you're-gay-doesn't-mean-we-all-are sort of facial expression.
"Merlin!" he shouted. His father glowered his way. Merlin jumped from his literal post, where he seemed to have been nodding off (Arthur had been watching the slow slump of shoulders and then relaxation of knee joints for the past 2 minutes and 35 seconds approximately) and straightened in confusion. His eyes found Arthur's, and then looked to Morgana who was laughing.
"I will take my manservant-" Arthur began, and then sputtered at Morgana's renewal of laughter.
"I will take leave with my manservant," Arthur amended. This was suddenly out of hand. "To my chambers-" Morgana actually looked like she was about to cry with mirth. Arthur was offended, yet pleased to see her laughing after a near week of that drawn expression. Uther glowered up at them, over his roast and potatoes.
"Take him to my chambers where he will CLEAN THINGS. Ugh, goodnight my lady."
Arthur stood and bowed stiffly, kissing her hand, which was shaking with the force of her laughter. She also stood, and Arthur said "Father." and they went their separate ways.
"Merlin!" he snapped his fingers, just to see the curl of disgust at Merlin's mouth, and left the room, leaving behind the din of the hall: clanking of cutlery to dish, conversations becoming more voluble as the wine flowed.
Back in his rooms, Arthur staggered to and fro to pretend at inebriation. It was for this reason: Merlin had a tendency to knock things when he was tired, and sure enough, tonight he tipped articles of armor and a dish from the table at three separate times. In each instance, however, the object was inexplicably back where it had been originally positioned in the blink of an eye.
"To bed, my lord," Merlin said.
&&&
Arthur was graphing the week's data in his room at his picnic bench. Although no degree of scholarship was actually available, his father would have been disappointed not to have a bluestocking of a son - it was not only on the battlefield that he must excel, he must also hone his mind, knowledge to parallel his strength.
Arthur gave the impression of being utterly absorbed in his work, brow furrowed and lips slightly parted, which was why Merlin began to shine a chest plate with some sort of demonic spell he sometimes used to do chores when he thought Arthur wasn't looking. Arthur's hand clenched at his quill in a mixture of frustration and curiosity.
He was currently using a medieval-style compass to make certain that his pie charts were concentric, and Merlin was making a show of working over some chain mail by hand, the metal pooled in his lap where he sat cross legged by the foot of the bed, his fingers wrapped in oil cloth, worrying at every link, while another rag rubbed at the aforementioned armor just to his side, as if an entity of its own. Arthur made sure to keep his eyes averted. Charts. Graphs. Right.
He snuck another glance.
Arthur wondered if this was how Merlin had gotten by in life, if this was why he was so apparently clumsy yet somehow still managed to get through the day uninjured. Arthur was someone who believed in work ethic; a man was only as strong as his dedication to an art. His father had instilled this value in him, and so Arthur was accustomed to rewarding a knight for his efforts, and failing all those who took the easy road.
He was not sure how this code of judgment applied to one such as Merlin, Merlin who could enchant a rag to do the work of one man, and then turn away and concentrate fully on his own work. Was the question really the amount of effort a man put into his work? Was the end product not so important, so long as true dedication was exhibited in the process? If that were true, Merlin did not pass the test.
Or was it more important that success was achieved? In this case, did the means justify the ends? Was it most important that Merlin did his work well, that he cleaned more armor, and thoroughly, even when it was seemingly effortless, a mere annoyance to him? And, following that line of reasoning, should Merlin be more punished than a knight should? For a knight might try and fail sometimes just as Merlin only sometimes did his work well, but in Merlin's case the failure was apparently just a result of laziness. Anyways, it was confusing to consider.
Merlin hummed a few notes discordantly. Arthur's first thought was to chuck something at him. He chucked something at him.
"Poor impulse control," Merlin noted, tossing the boot right back at him, with his actual hand, thankfully. It knocked off of Arthur's calf and was lost under the table.
The thing about Merlin was he was just so deeply stuck in his own head sometimes. Imagine what he could do if he were paying attention…
Arthur had also been taught to search out strength, to expose it to benefit the kingdom. An army whose captain allowed a free agent like Merlin, who was strong, yes, but also a sorcerer whose general mood was distracted and untrained, was probably irresponsible.
But Merlin was brave, there was that of course. Who came to Camelot, who came to Camelot, despite all the laws against magic? Maybe he was a touch slow...
A servant arrived at the chamber door to announce the arrival of Sir Bedevere, a burly knight who had become head of the guard since Sir Leon's unfortunate passing. There came a clanging as Merlin cut the spell, the metal crashing every which way and Merlin jumping up, stepping all over the high quality chain mail. Arthur's jaw was tense as he greeted the knight at the door.
They left the room, passing a slew of guest chambers, with Merlin trailing behind them. Sir Bedevere was the quiet sort, not politely joking as Leon had been, and Arthur had to stop drawing comparisons. His men died all the time, it did not do to lose himself in useless emotion.
The day was fine, with fat cloud puffs in the sky, visible as they passed each window. The sounds of the courtyard came muted from far below. Just as they passed the last door near the west tower, giggles poured forth. It was Morgana's chambers, in fact. The three men smiled at the innocent expression of joy, to varying degrees of condescension.
"Girls," Arthur remarked. "Probably going on about the latest hair ornamentation."
Sir Bedevere nodded.
There was a loud clanging sound, as if a plate, or perhaps a bottle, had been knocked to the floor, and a clink-clinking as it rolled across the stone floor, and then a pause, but nothing seemed to have broken. The laughter started anew, harder this time.
"I guess Gwen doesn't have a lot to do," Merlin said, mock wistfully. They turned a corner, out of earshot. "No armor to clean, no boots to shine. Just a life of makeup and bath time."
Arthur sighed, making a show of indulgence. "I'll take it into consideration, Merlin."
Merlin got all bright about the edges. They continued down a curving stairwell, and Arthur's voice cut up into the ceiling as he said to Sir Bedevere: "I'll not have anyone saying I have an unhappy servant."
Arthur was to take brunch in the gardens with Sir Bedevere, but first the two went to check the grates by the back wall, those that had been blown outwards by numerous explosions of unknown origin. Merlin split off towards the kitchens, and after the two had finished crunching about in the gravelweeds and poison ivy that protected the grating, growth fed mostly by the recent drizzly weeks, they went to the large tree that was an often-used spot for meetings.
Arthur could make out Merlin just running back with a wicker basket loaded with food. He was hustling across the back lawn towards where they sat at the edge of the apple orchard, his scarecrow figure bouncing along, boots squelching in the the moist grass. The supplies jumped about in the basket in time with his springy footsteps, and his pace was almost painfully slow to watch, despite the reach allowed by his lanky bone-structure.
"Merlin, stop faffing about!" Arthur called. He looked to Sir Bedevere, who was regal even on their spread blanket as befitting a knight of Camelot, bearded and noble, 5/3rds Arthur's age. Bedevere was no Sir Leon, but he would do.
"He's increased his speed, really," Arthur told him conversationally. "Once he stopped getting lost that is. Although he still takes about twenty-five percent longer than other servants."
"MERLIN!" he yelled again. Merlin did not increase his pace, although it's possible he tried, and when he finally reached them, sunlight played havoc with his entire, sweating self, positively flinging shadows into the hollows of his cheeks, and then at the ground when Merlin bent over struggling to breathe and effectively blocked out the entire sun. Arthur watched, looking up and pleased from his cool seat on the checkered blanket. Merlin dropped the basket and then collapsed next to it, breathing hard. He leaned back on his hands, and looked up at the sky, catching his breath.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Arthur said pointedly. Merlin just looked at him, and then closed his eyes for a second. Arthur gestured impatiently at the basket. "Our food!!"
"He has these little outbursts," Merlin told Sir Bedevere. The knight looked uncertain. He reached for the basket, saying 'Sire,' but Arthur caught his hand, and pushed it slowly away. He looked again to Merlin, who sat up. Merlin opened the basket, and began removing plates and cutlery, turning to the knight.
"It's best to look him full in the face," Merlin told Sir Bedevere. "And whatever you do, don't break eye contact; it's a dominance thing."
He calmly went about unpacking the food, as Arthur sputtered in the fresh light.
Of course it was a dominance thing! Arthur was the prince, and the kingdom thrived on order of the monarchy, on a very steady hierarchy! Arthur went to explain this in very logical terms, but instead only near shouted, "I am the prince!" and Merlin favored him with a condescending purse of the lips. Their gaze held. Arthur was the first to look away, and then scowled back at Merlin. Merlin smiled cheekily. Sir Bedevere chuckled at this interplay between master and servant, and Arthur would have frowned at him as well if he weren't suddenly so caught by the sight of Merlin's smile evolving into something quite soft, quite tender.
Arthur shook himself.
"Merlin, where's the mead. I thought I told you Sir Bedevere and myself would be taking a full lunch. What sort of 'full' meal is complete without mead? Why that makes it practically empty."
Sir Bedevere schooled his features this time, because Arthur obviously meant business. Merlin ducked his head a little, in mock deference. His cheek in font of Arthur's knights, those little moments of familiarity, was always strangely touching, like he was staking some kind of claim. Arthur was conversant in entitlement, being the Prince and all. At the same time, Arthur really did want that mead.
"Merlin, have you been in the cellars again..."
"You know I don't take alcohol well," Merlin frowned. "And I was going to tell you, the kitchen is fresh out. They had loads just last week, but somehow it's all been drunk, and no one knows by whom."
Arthur was not one for secrets. He made it his business to know all that passed in the castle and town, and any disparity in information irked him. He would have to leave it for later, though. He commenced talking with Sir Bedevere about the individual knights, discussing strategy and what might be expected of the captain of the guard, and all the while Merlin picked at some cheese, and fed a half-loaf of bread to some birds.
Ah, the busy life of the prince. They went back the way they had come, past the market crowding with merchants and teeming with loose chickens clucking around ankles, and through the exterior gate. They went all the way back up to Arthur's rooms, depositing Sir Bedevere somewhere along the way. It had been a rather content start to the day.
As he walked through the despicable mess that was still left over from the day before, he somehow managed to avoid all objects scattered across the floor, despite the impossibility. He knew that if he looked down he would see each shirt and every boot sliding just minimally aside, Merlin nudging each with a starburst of magic so that his prince might be saved from his own clumsy footwork. He experienced an edge to his previous feeling of easiness.
"Merlin!" he shouted. He whirled to where Merlin stood by the closet.
"Yes, sire?" Merlin asked. His arm was outstretched, palm first. Arthur looked pointedly at the hand. Merlin waved it, a little 'hello.'
"I don't even know what to DO with you Merlin!" Arthur said. Merlin lowered the arm. He scooped up some dirty clothing.
"You could give me the day off?" He hid the clothing in a drawer.
"Better yet-" Arthur was about to suggest some sort of menial labor, but at that moment, something serendipitous occurred: there came a knocking at the wooden door, and it turned out to be someone who did, in fact, want to take Merlin off his hands.
"Yes, what tis it?" Arthur called.
"Sire, your father requires the aid of your manservant," a boy said, peering into the room.
"Merlin." Arthur wheeled on him.
"Don't look at me, sire."
"Well get to it then," Arthur said. "Maybe he'll take you for good, I'm getting tired of your mess."
"My mess!"
"Now, Merlin."
Only when Merlin had left did Arthur remember that Merlin, most obvious sorcerer in the land, was to be attending his father, most obvious opponent of sorcery, without Arthur to make sure everyone looked the other way. Really, it always seemed up to him to make sure that Merlin stayed well out of harms way, either physically or socially. In a recent squabble with bandits in some part of the forest, he had counted five times he had shouted to Merlin to watch his back, yet he continued to narrowly missed being shot through by five separate arrows. Really, it was a wonder that he hadn't died long ago, the first day in Camelot. Arthur had nearly beat him himself. And now this, Merlin's insouciance sharing a space with a strict code of etiquette in the presence of the king. It did not bode well.
Even so, Arthur waited a bit, blandly hoping some other solution would present itself. Little birds twittered by. He had work to do. After glaring out the window with burgeoning resolution, Arthur jogged down the corridor after his servant - more a burden than a boon was right.
When Arthur entered the King's royal office, the guards clacked to attention. At the far end his father stood by his chair, and Merlin was slouch-standing, obviously ill at ease, a ways away. Uther's gaze bored into Merlin's forehead, as Merlin averted his eyes. At least Arthur's comments had made some impression - one does not make eye contact with the king, for god's sake Merlin.
"You're not too ill to carry out these tasks?" Uther asked. His tone could be mistaken for sympathetic, but set of his mouth belied this conjecture.
"Ill? Afflicted?" Uther operizationalized.
"Yes, sire," Merlin answered. "I mean, no, sire!"
"Is that so," Uther said, dryly, as if missing his dear friend King Olaf, or others who were currently absent who might see the satire that was his life. As it was, the silence was thick, like the chunk of lard Arthur's father consumed at the midday meal.
"You have shown my son great dedication," Uther said. Arthur went to Merlin's side, and stood respectfully. "And you have shown some courage. Arthur."
Arthur looked to his father.
"My head servant has taken ill. And I'm sure that you can do without this one for the day. I'll have him hanging tapestries and also attending to me while I discuss sales and distribution with the chancellors. It shouldn't be too hard, nothing a mediocre servant couldn't carry out."
That evening, Arthur took his meal with his father, just to keep an eye on Merlin, lest he do anything that might warrant a public burning.
&&&
Arthur was not tired. No, never. Although during the meeting with the chancellors and staff his chin did nod down quite a bit and he could only pay attention by rubbing at his eyes and shaking himself a bit. It was true that he had spent a good portion of the night considering the possible ways in which Merlin could magically out himself in front of his father, but then maybe he was getting sick. It was all this rain, it had to be. He opened his eyes again. Whoops, he couldn't even remember closing them.
The man at the table with the largest jacket collar, popped near to his chin, spoke about something. Luckily, Arthur was skilled at quick inference. Leathers, straps, oil...ah! Falconing! He nodded his approval when his father gave his own nod of assent to the man's fiscal plan. From the corner, Merlin's dark hair was visible, bony face intriguing in the shadows. Arthur looked to his open book, and subtly scratched a tick under the heading "prolonged eye contact". When he glanced up again, Merlin was looking on, still, and Arthur pulled a face. Merlin smirked, and then receded behind the stone.
By lunch time Arthur was ready for a nap. He returned to his chambers and ordered this of a passing servant, but Merlin showed up in his place, not tentative in the least as he traipsed through the door, upsetting a bench and near tossing the dishes on to the table with a loud clatter. He'd been let off for a portion of the morning. He was embarrassingly pleased, probably just relieved. Merlin's special gifts had not made an appearance just yet, not in front of so many court officials.
And sword practice had resumed. It had nothing to do with Arthur, so he wasn't going to watch, nope, not looking.
Nevermind. It was impossible not to watch. He looked down the tower at the small figures of Morgana and her handmaiden as they beat at each other with swords.
Arthur maintained that if there was anything magic in this kingdom aside from Merlin, it was his bedroom windows; the two seemed to overlook every sort of malfeasance occurring in the proximity of the castle, like glass for scrying. If he himself were a baddie, Arthur would probably take cover somewhere, rather than preforming dark deeds in direct line of vision of the Prince's bedchambers, but...well...
Regardless, sword practice was back on now that Morgana had been returned to them. No one was supposed to know about this ongoing combat training, so of course Arthur was privy to it. He basically did know everything going on in the castle.
From what he could make out from his bird's eye view, Gwen herself seemed hesitant, where before she might have charged at her lady full-tilt, letting out a mighty roar and quite at home in trousers and mail, but from what Arthur could see from this vantage point near the east tower, which afforded him a generous view of the pasture past the hedges, a rarely used space not visible from most other positionings, Gwen appeared reticent, and Morgana was using the care to her advantage. She whapped Gwen in the side with the flat of her blade and Gwen let out a little shriek that carried all the way to his ears. Magical windows.
"Lording over your kingdom, sire," Merlin quipped. Arthur turned only his head, but maintained his posturing, arms crossed, leaning against the stone. Merlin continued on: "Keeping a dragon's-eye view? Although there's no trouble afoot, keeping watch on principle??"
"Hard to keep that wit in check all day, was it?" Arthur said dryly. He finally went from window to bed, where he began removing his boots. "No, the girls are at it again. Morgana's winning, by the looks of it."
"And Gwen was improving!" Merlin said, and ignored Arthur's quiet comment about Merlin being one to talk about improvement. He took a turn at the window. "And looks about to rain...think I should tell 'em, give a holler?"
"We can't let on that we know. Or have you forgotten?" Arthur went to sit at his table, and spread some paperwork before him. Also, he cut himself a piece of cherry pie.
He was the keeper of so many secrets. Every day was spent shuffling his facts dependent on which person he was speaking to currently, like picking and choosing what tunic to wear, but at least he had Merlin for that. He sliced another piece of pie, wrote something down in the log before him, and then ate the slice, in that order.
This pie was actually extraordinary. Third most magical thing in the kingdom! He should keep a list of these things, as well.
He continued his work, scritching out facts and figures and then blotting errors when he made them, and his mind was thoroughly being exercised. And after this, he should begin consolidating this week's data on Merlin, his side project of sorts. He was just sprinkling powder to dry up the ink, when he heard a rumpling sound behind him.
He pretended to stretch in his chair, and used to the movement for a quick glance Merlin's way. As expected, the long form was slouching against something, the door of the closet, looking into it. Arthur could just glimpse a few tunics whirling around inside, animated.
Merlin was bored, that much was clear. But really, before Arthur had had Merlin he had never noticed servants' whereabouts in the rooms, had never felt self-conscious in his own chambers, like he was entertaining a guest constantly, rather than going about his business.
Arthur moved his chair, the legs groaning against the floor. Merlin jumped, and slammed the closet door closed.
Arthur took another forkful of pie. "This is really rather good," he remarked, mouth full. "For god's sake, come eat, I've left you a piece."
Merlin cleared his throat, but didn't move closer. He obviously had issue with something, he always did.
"Speak."
That was enough, Arthur knew, to elicit some response. He turned from his pie, and his scrolls of pie charts, and raised his eyebrows expectantly at his servant. Merlin looked down, away, screwed up his mouth, and said carefully: "It's just, are you sure you should eat the whole thing?"
Arthur was, again, caught off guard. What- Oh.
"Of all the things!" he exploded. A bit off cherry spattered a scroll, and he rubbed at it with his thumb. He waved his hand in a gesture of disbelief, while also considering whether or not he should wipe the digit on his trousers, or just suck it clean. Perhaps if he allowed a minute's time, during which he distracted Merlin...But no! He was the prince and could do anything he pleased! So he licked his finger. Merlin looked uncertain.
"It's just that, you've been looking kind of sick at times, as of late, and I thought, maybe it's all the food. You know, the meat and the cheese and now with the dessert, they're all rather rich!" Merlin was babbling, as was his wont, but Arthur would set things straight.
"I am merely removing slices of the pie to create a physical representation of the graph I have here describing rye sales in the lower market," Arthur explained, turning fully in his seat, patience written clear cross his fine features. He gestured to the scrolls. "It is a scholarly pursuit.
"And if I've looked at all sick, it's been due to the, hm, let me think, kidnapping of my sister-" When Merlin went to correct him on this moot point, Arthur frowned him silent. "And this business with the dragon that has burned half the castle, left it half in ruins just this past week? It somehow lit the stone. Do you know how difficult that is to achieve, Merlin? And, more importantly, how did it get out? We're all wondering. My father thinks it was done by sorcery, of course. But really, I'd have to agree, if there's ever been anything more obviously sorcery-"
This drew Arthur up short. He looked into the deep recesses of the pie tin. Cherry goop slid down the sides that he had not yet spoon-cleaned. It must have been sorcery. There was only silence behind him.
It couldn't be. No. He clenched his jaw, and fought to retain composure, for the both of them.
"-And rye distribution." He cleared his throat. "As we can see from this pie, that, as you've so sweetly noted is missing all pieces but one, you will note that rye distribution is dismally low..."
Arthur trailed off. The silence was thick, and he definitely wasn't hungry any longer. If he were to peek at Merlin's face, he knew, with a feeling like looking down over the ramparts at the town far below or like hanging by his fingertips over a bottomless chasm, he would find it pale and drawn, that general wear-and-tear look Arthur had assumed was worry over Morgana, worry over the destruction of the town....
"Hadn't you better go attend the King?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, Arthur," Merlin said. And then he left, and Arthur didn't dare record anything further, not in the grain annals and not in his own researcher journal, lest he catch himself lying by omission.
&&&
For quite a long while Arthur had felt just that bit uncomfortable around his father, ever since he had grown strong enough to be of use to the kingdom, ever since the moment he had been old enough to fail his king and it would mean something. He had to be strong, had to be brave, sought to embody those attributes set forth by the laws of Camelot, to be the very quintessence of the knight in shining armor. Well, Merlin would manage the shining bit, and together they would prove his father proud.
But for just this past year he had been aware of the need to protect another person's place in the castle, this person, of course, being his manservant, ever since the moment Arthur had put together the pattern...not the pattern emerging from Merlin's not-so-sly magical acts, but the pattern that Merlin could not keep his mouth shut around the king. Talking back to the king would land you in more or less the same place as committing acts of sorcery. The list Arthur kept of close-calls was exhaustive and, accordingly, depressing.
So with this new knowledge Arthur had accidentally stumbled upon, that Merlin may or may not have been involved in the partial destruction of Camelot, and other crazy stresses Arthur found himself under, it was understandable that he be a bit nervous, a bit peevish. He would not allow Merlin to be alone in the King's presence, so Arthur left the practicing of the knights to Sir Bedevere as further training, and joined his father, chancellors, and his erstwhile manservant in the hall, for a long day of bookkeeping.
Researcher's Log
0900 Subject has met with the King once again, in accordance with supplemental duty to the crown. He is so far not exhibiting any of the usual signs of slovely comportment or inattention. But it is still early.
1015 False alarm. The subject raised a hand to straighten a fur throw across the back of the throne where it had slipped down, but I, at my natural defensive state, jumped to my feet, drawing my father's attention. To his inquisitive look, I feigned a leg cramp. Better safe then sorry, of course.
1130 In hindsight, this may have been a horrible idea. Never before have I spent so much time in my father's presence. I don't believe he has noticed my hanging around as anything other than studious - this scientific notebook just one of many spread across the table before me - and so I hide in plain sight. Only once so far have I had need to create a diversion (a coughing fit of a length that might allow the subject to finish his transporting a goblet from one side of the table to the other just to the side of my father, sans mains).
1320 I took lunch with my father, the subject in question serving the both of us as per usual during joint dining. There is a bit of confusion, now that he belongs more to the King than myself, but it is only for today, so all will go well, so long as I take preventative measures as I see fit until this evening.
1430 Hands have never been so problematic. Every time he raises them it seems as though he might lift something, or do any other stupid thing I may have caught a glimpse of over the past year of his being in my service, but of course 93% of the time he actually does move something, but manually.
1440 Subject is looking sleepy. He has been plucking grapes, one by one and just...floating...from behind my father...
1515 Wrangled Sir Ullad into creating a diversion. The King is looking suspicious.
So nervous was Arthur, that he gave up counting and recording the many moments Merlin's gaze strayed to him, distracted in the late evening light filtering in through stained glasses of the great hall, distracted when he was at his most vital position, stood behind the kings left shoulder, exposing his secret self for all to see.
"Arthur, haven't you the guard to change, and a patrol to run?" His father finally asked him.
1550 King seems to wish for my absence...Would it be wise to-
"Arthur," his father said again. Arthur looked up, and then stood. He gathered his things in silence, and the chancellors all stood to bow, and then continued their quiet discussion of rations and water purification.
Arthur bowed his head to his father, who quickly dismissed him with a tight smile. Finding no words to excuse his remaining within eyesight for any longer, Arthur made one last, final attempt to convey some meaning, something anything to Merlin, by way of eyebrows and sternly-set mouth, but Merlin only smiled distractedly and gave a little wave. Arthur wanted to kill something.
He used the patrol as excuse for a mini-hunt. It wasn't raining as such, but the sky was slate above him when he went to the stables, some sort of static clinging to the crushed velvet of his doublet.
He ordered his steed and crossbow be readied, and in the space between checking the perimeter of the market area and sending orders for sandbags near the lake (they'd been experiencing an unnatural amount of rainfall this season) he shot a brace of hare and ordered it taken to the kitchens.
Not having Merlin around did allow some time for introspection. Something Arthur was probably lacking in. To his disappointment, he missed his targeted fox although it had been a close miss, but this turned out to be good, as what he had taken for a fox was actually one of his father's dogs, speeding through the grasses. He ordered that that, too, be taken back, this one to the makeshift kennel where the hounds were kept, and decided enough was enough, he had spent enough time away from the situation at hand that he might return and not arouse suspicion.
At the tail end of his ride, he came upon the Lady Morgana and Gwen, taking a walk near the forest's edge.
He dismounted, and led his steed to graze while he went to say hello. The two looked rather content, the fresh air good for a woman's constitution.
"Morgana," Arthur nodded to her. He then turned to her handmaiden, and nodded in an unaffected manner. "Guinevere."
"Arthur," Morgana said. "We were just heading back to dress for supper."
There was something about the two of them, perhaps the few leaves in their hair, or the dirt at their fingers. There was so much that Arthur turned a blind eye to around these parts, he really was quite benevolent.
"You've got something-" Arthur touched his own mouth, just at the side, and Morgana made a very female noise of surprise. Gwen rushed forward and wiped at her mistress' face with an embroidered handkerchief.
"It was red," Arthur said, and shrugged. "Perhaps lip tint? Anyhow, I thought I'd stop by and ask after your health."
If there was anything Morgana hated, it was being called frail. Arthur could imply this with the best of them, and indeed used this skill now to needle Morgana into being her old self.
"I assure you I am quite well, Arthur," Morgana said. She smiled, an employer of sarcasm before the term really existed. "Gwen, let's be off. We've got delicate and ladylike matters to tend to."
Arthur returned the smile, his much more sincere.
As she passed him, Gwen stepped close for a moment, and Arthur caught the scent of something sweet, tangy and distinctly Gwen. He was reminded of that moment before, in the tent, when he had kissed her for no reason other than that he had wanted to. Now here they were again, knee deep in the tall grasses of the field, with skies grey overhead and a static feeling to the air. And he didn't know the first thing about her. When Gwen had backed away, he looked to his hand, and saw that she had pressed something into it.
"Ah!" said Arthur, pleased. "A rabbit's foot!"
"For luck." Gwen's eyes sparkled in the low light. "Whenever you might need it."
"It is...still fresh," Arthur said. He pocketed the foot, and then wiped the hand on his trousers. "How considerate of you."
Gwen smiled, softly in the light, and then followed Morgana away, catching her up and then racing her back to the castle. It began to drizzle, and Arthur took his time adjusting the saddle of his steed, watching them go. He finally remounted, and galloped to the stables.
And there were beasts in the castle. Of course there were. It was the manner in which Arthur was made aware of this, and by whom, however, that came as a surprise. He had been stroking Hengroen, giving him a complete rub down with a curry comb and then brushing him off with a softer brush, slicking sweat and bits of mud from his flanks and legs. He ran a hand down the horse's leg, and pulled it up to pick chunks of hay and field muck from his hoof. Hardened dirt came away in chunks; a job well done.
From the slate light of the stable's entrance, partially obscured by cold swirling of dust clouds, Arthur caught a glimpse of a figure. His senses jumped to alert in a fraction of a moment, but when he really looked, he saw no one. Perhaps it had been a trick of the eyes.
"Show yourself," Arthur said, the force of the crown in his golden voice. This was met with silence, and Arthur rubbed dust from where it was settling on his eyelashes. The musty smell of the stables was in his nose. He heard a heavy breathing.
And then at long last, none other than Sir Leon struggled valiantly into view! He clung tightly at the door frame in a desperate attempt to remain standing.
"Sir Leon!" Arthur roared. There was nothing that compared to this upsurge of emotion when he saw that one of his men, one of his dearest friends, a brother in arms, had lived to breathe this day. Arthur had given him up for dead, burnt to a crispy mess by dragon's breath. And that even one of them had survived! Statistically speaking, fourteen men compared to one large beast of a dragon....three to survive, that beat the odds considerably....Arthur was, incidentally, quite pleased at both the fact of the return of his dear friend and the impossibility of the event.
Arthur began in questioning the man, and handed off the reins of his horse to go help the man stand, subtly of course. He clapped Leon softly on the torn sleeve, and wrapped an arm fondly around his shoulders, but left it there, supporting Leon's weight. Leon resisted momentarily, but his eyes began to fall closed. Arthur's happiness gave way to concern.
"Beast, sire," Leon said, finally forcing words between ragged breaths. "In the castle."
He could say no more. Sir Leon allowed himself to be led out of the stables, leaning heavily on Arthur for support, and even managed to walk by Arthur's side for a moment while Arthur shouted for aid - rain pattering down on them all running dirty rivulets down Leon's cheeks - but the relief of being home, intermingled with complete and utter hunger, caused the older man to swoon at Arthur's side after a minute, felled on the last leg of his journey.
"Good man, Leon," Arthur said into the knight's dirty curls. He held him strong as a host of knights clackety-clacked in double-line formation to hoist and carry their recovered brother from his prince's arms.
They marched back into their stronghold, and Arthur shouted orders, seemingly at random, and the battle for Camelot was once again underway. He went to find his father.
part two
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur, but not scand
Wordcount: 12,000
Spoilers: 2nd series.
Summary: a few prompts mixed into one - Arthur's getting sick of pretending not to notice Merlin's magic, Morgana and Gwen are secretly badasses, and Merlin has to serve Uther for the day.
A/N: this is written for the camelot_fleet prompt fest, for cat_77. in the same universe as two of my other ridiculous stories Kingdom Under Siege and Best Day, but not directly related. Please bear with me here, for I know not what I do.
master fic post
A kingdom is only worth as much as the sum of its parts.
This is a story of parallels. A great warlock finds his beginnings just as a great king comes into his own. A motherless son feels the boundaries of his previously unquestioned prejudices while a country lad learns to fit his jutting bones into too little skin. A balance is to be struck, but the beauty is often in the process, the music in the shifting of cogs.
The future king, future uniter of lands, was complaining about his bathwater.
"I never thought I'd say this, Merlin, but this water is far too warm." One gangly wizard-cum-ill-mannered-manservant looked up with an expression more questioning than contrite. "One might even go as far to call it scalding."
Arthur took the pitcher of water from his nightstand and poured a demonstrative stream of cool into hot, and proved his point effectively by way of sudden steam.
Merlin stood jerkily (oh the limbs!) in shock.
"You know, Merlin," the prince continued. "I've remarked that only when my life is in danger do you finally take notice - otherwise there's no getting you to heed my instruction."
"I'd suggest you wait to bathe," Merlin recovered sagely. He looked intensely at the tub, and Arthur quickly glanced out the window. When an appropriate amount of time had elapsed, in which he gathered his emotions and flattened them into something like impatience on his face, he looked back.
"What do you want me to do about this?" Arthur motioned with a hand to his person, covered as it was in only a low slung towel and battle sweat. Merlin's dragging look was confirmation (the 12th today) of a theory Arthur'd been months in developing. Bath time was an entire category unto itself due to the sheer amount of hip area and chest exposed (independent variables h and c, respectively). Thankfully, Arthur had been schooled in thorough and systematic research, such that he might conduct this type of strenuous longitudinal study, a study which had begun just around the time he had visited Merlin's home village and he had noticed the excited breath Merlin had drawn when Arthur had teasingly rubbed his foot on Merlin's face. Since that night, Arthur's findings had been gratifyingly conclusive. Oh the glory of being right!
There was, of course, the possibility of researcher bias, which was why, once he'd found a soul he trusted other than said manservant (Lancelot?? Maybe he could expend some knights to track him down.) he would have a second, less biased opinion to review his carefully recorded data.
A moment later, when Merlin went to fetch fresh clothing for the night's banquet, Arthur surreptitiously toed the water - warm to tepid in a matter of seconds, an impossibility to be duly noted in the musty notebook Arthur had hidden in the trunk at the end of his bed. With these thoughts as to Merlin's possible guilt on both the count of sorcery and lust alike, Arthur said nothing, choosing to bide his time until he had decided upon the wisest moment to confront his not-so-sneaky manservant.
In the meanwhile, three events occurred simultaneously:
- A very drawn Lady Morgana was dressed by her maid
- King Uther sent yet another host of knights in search of the known sorceress and kidnapper Morgause.
- One haggard form limped from a nearby clearing in the direction of the castle. This soul had little energy to do so, but an even stronger will to urge him onward
By the time Merlin had managed to get Arthur bathed and dressed, Arthur was the square root of patient and variable c had reached the daily mean in each of its three subgroups (dependent variables glances, skin to skin contact, and the more difficult to quantify category reactions denoting surprise or embarrassment when skin-to-skin contact was instigated by Arthur himself; these situations had to be intermittent so as not to raise notice)
At long last, Arthur shrugged himself into his jacket without the aid of Merlin's hands, hands which were instead occupied with needlessly, albeit comfortingly, adjusting the lacings at the neck of Arthur's tunic and he said: "What of Gwen?"
Merlin paused in his adjusting, smoothed one hand across the jacket shoulder in thought, and continued down the arm. Arthur raised his forearm to allow Merlin to fasten delicate cuff links at each wrist.
"She's relieved," Merlin told him. "Relieved and managing Morgana's affairs admirably, making sure her mistress has everything she could desire, but she's still worried, considering…" Arthur noted Merlin's downcast gaze. He clapped him on the back of the neck briefly, too hard maybe, before ridding himself of Merlin's hands with a step to the door.
"Feast, Merlin," he informed. "Yet another chance to either confirm or disconfirm the rumor that you're an inattentive servant."
"I only wish to live up to your expectations," Merlin replied.
"Cheeky," Arthur admonished.
Arthur strode out the room, Merlin matching him step-for-step. The halls were chilly, and torches luminous in the dusky light from intricate stain-glass windows.
"The crown prince is always right, after all," Merlin said.
"Sometimes being right is not the reward one would hope it to be," Arthur said. They'd rounded the first bend, out of sight of his chamber door, and he halted his gait. Merlin fought inertia, and stumbled, and then looked a question to his prince.
"Candles, Merlin," Arthur said, matter of fact, as if he had not engineered the situation. Merlin grimaced.
"Oh, yeah, right, I'll just-" and jogged the way they had come.
Arthur took his opportunities as they presented themselves. He too retraced some of their steps, enough to peer round the corner in time to see Merlin jerk the door open. Merlin did not enter, to Arthur's chagrin: instead, he whispered something, blinked minimally, and then pulled the door closed once again.
It was Arthur's turn to jog, sprint really, to arrange himself in the position of impatient nonchalance that his manservant found him in. Merlin's blue eyes did not meet Arthur's when he said: "You were right. They'd not been extinguished, but I've put them out."
"See, it's not always a blessing to be right," Arthur said. They continued down the halls boots amplified by flagstones, voices too, as their shadows chased to catch them up. "Sometimes it's a burden."
The Lady Morgana entered the hall moments after Arthur had, and the applause was at least two-fold. She seemed to steel herself once before crossing the threshold, and a second time when Arthur's father reached to clasp her hand in greeting. The guests lauded her in standing ovation until she smiled regally at them and seated herself in an elegant arrangement of cream silks.
Guinevere moved in behind her. At this, Arthur came back to himself, noting the juxtaposition of Merlin, standing off where Arthur could just see him, a twitchy thing just at the corner of Arthur's field of vision as if to purposely distract, and Gwen who was composed, still and elegant as befitting her station and despite the toughening work of the forge.
Uther remained standing and waved the party seated.
"Good people of the court," He said. The noise cut abruptly. "The recent tragedy has reached a happy conclusion - the lady Morgana, my ward and dearest friend, has been returned to us. It is with heavy hearts that the people of Camelot endured the week's aftermath of the vile sorceress' attack on the kingdom, followed shortly by that of the Great Dragon, and although it would be a disservice to those suffering to pretend that all is now well, it is to be sure that Lady Morgana's return has brought hope in the aftermath of a dark time. And so I declare this night a celebration of this joyful event!"
Arthur barely touched his wine that night, which was just as well for Merlin was less attentive than usual, if that was indeed possible; Merlin spent the majority of the feast shifting against a column and every once and a while Arthur caught him staring at Arthur's neck with an intensity that would have been frightening save for two factors: 1) Arthur was the crown prince, so had little room for fear and 2) theory #2 which simply put, stated Merlin of Ealdor, manservant inefficient, was desperately in lust with the prince of Camelot...
Arthur therefore knew that he had nothing to fear, because his powers of logic and deduction were such that he could say with 95% certainty that the null hypothesis (namely that Merlin did not harbor such primal yearnings for his body), was not correct. His tutors had taught him maths for just this reason, to employ in testing his theories and analyzing the data gleaned from careful observation, so Arthur was quite confident that his methods and thus his conclusions were sound.
There was, obviously, some room for error, but Arthur had also the upper hand of knowing this manservant personally, and of making observations that only he, the object of Merlin's possible affections, could know.
Anyways, Arthur did not drink his wine, because he spent the entire evening fielding comments and thinly veiled questions meant for Morgana. He was a skilled politician, never showing his emotional response to the somewhat heavy-handed and greasy commentary of the visiting and domestic nobles, and landowners, who all wished to know Morgana's whereabouts and possibly feel out any weakness of the court at Camelot. Arthur sat at her right hand, sometimes pressing his left arm as if by accident to Morgana's right in show of support, and cut in as often as he could with cool and eloquent replies.
In this manner, the evening passed, and it was to his great relief when he could finally see Morgana making as if to retire that he took his own leave.
"To bed, my lady," Arthur told Morgana. Morgana met his eyes, vaguely, and Arthur tried to hold her gaze, as if to somehow convey, silently, that she could trust him.
"If you have anything you need," he began.
"Your arrogant assumption of being able to offer anything warms me, my lord," Morgana said, with veiled humor. Arthur grinned, rakishly he thought.
"I promise you I can," he said. "But you yourself make assumptions; I was merely going to offer up the services of my manservant, for I myself am too busy with affairs of the kingdom."
"Merlin," Morgana said. And she looked momentarily lost, ill, even. But then the look was gone, and she turned away. "Your manservant can probably offer you more than me, anyhow." And this time Arthur was truly scandalized in that oh-my-god-stop-it kind of way, with a must-you-make-gay-jokes-in-front-of-my-father style shiftiness that always seemed to make Morgana laugh, wearing a just-because-you're-gay-doesn't-mean-we-all-are sort of facial expression.
"Merlin!" he shouted. His father glowered his way. Merlin jumped from his literal post, where he seemed to have been nodding off (Arthur had been watching the slow slump of shoulders and then relaxation of knee joints for the past 2 minutes and 35 seconds approximately) and straightened in confusion. His eyes found Arthur's, and then looked to Morgana who was laughing.
"I will take my manservant-" Arthur began, and then sputtered at Morgana's renewal of laughter.
"I will take leave with my manservant," Arthur amended. This was suddenly out of hand. "To my chambers-" Morgana actually looked like she was about to cry with mirth. Arthur was offended, yet pleased to see her laughing after a near week of that drawn expression. Uther glowered up at them, over his roast and potatoes.
"Take him to my chambers where he will CLEAN THINGS. Ugh, goodnight my lady."
Arthur stood and bowed stiffly, kissing her hand, which was shaking with the force of her laughter. She also stood, and Arthur said "Father." and they went their separate ways.
"Merlin!" he snapped his fingers, just to see the curl of disgust at Merlin's mouth, and left the room, leaving behind the din of the hall: clanking of cutlery to dish, conversations becoming more voluble as the wine flowed.
Back in his rooms, Arthur staggered to and fro to pretend at inebriation. It was for this reason: Merlin had a tendency to knock things when he was tired, and sure enough, tonight he tipped articles of armor and a dish from the table at three separate times. In each instance, however, the object was inexplicably back where it had been originally positioned in the blink of an eye.
"To bed, my lord," Merlin said.
&&&
Arthur was graphing the week's data in his room at his picnic bench. Although no degree of scholarship was actually available, his father would have been disappointed not to have a bluestocking of a son - it was not only on the battlefield that he must excel, he must also hone his mind, knowledge to parallel his strength.
Arthur gave the impression of being utterly absorbed in his work, brow furrowed and lips slightly parted, which was why Merlin began to shine a chest plate with some sort of demonic spell he sometimes used to do chores when he thought Arthur wasn't looking. Arthur's hand clenched at his quill in a mixture of frustration and curiosity.
He was currently using a medieval-style compass to make certain that his pie charts were concentric, and Merlin was making a show of working over some chain mail by hand, the metal pooled in his lap where he sat cross legged by the foot of the bed, his fingers wrapped in oil cloth, worrying at every link, while another rag rubbed at the aforementioned armor just to his side, as if an entity of its own. Arthur made sure to keep his eyes averted. Charts. Graphs. Right.
He snuck another glance.
Arthur wondered if this was how Merlin had gotten by in life, if this was why he was so apparently clumsy yet somehow still managed to get through the day uninjured. Arthur was someone who believed in work ethic; a man was only as strong as his dedication to an art. His father had instilled this value in him, and so Arthur was accustomed to rewarding a knight for his efforts, and failing all those who took the easy road.
He was not sure how this code of judgment applied to one such as Merlin, Merlin who could enchant a rag to do the work of one man, and then turn away and concentrate fully on his own work. Was the question really the amount of effort a man put into his work? Was the end product not so important, so long as true dedication was exhibited in the process? If that were true, Merlin did not pass the test.
Or was it more important that success was achieved? In this case, did the means justify the ends? Was it most important that Merlin did his work well, that he cleaned more armor, and thoroughly, even when it was seemingly effortless, a mere annoyance to him? And, following that line of reasoning, should Merlin be more punished than a knight should? For a knight might try and fail sometimes just as Merlin only sometimes did his work well, but in Merlin's case the failure was apparently just a result of laziness. Anyways, it was confusing to consider.
Merlin hummed a few notes discordantly. Arthur's first thought was to chuck something at him. He chucked something at him.
"Poor impulse control," Merlin noted, tossing the boot right back at him, with his actual hand, thankfully. It knocked off of Arthur's calf and was lost under the table.
The thing about Merlin was he was just so deeply stuck in his own head sometimes. Imagine what he could do if he were paying attention…
Arthur had also been taught to search out strength, to expose it to benefit the kingdom. An army whose captain allowed a free agent like Merlin, who was strong, yes, but also a sorcerer whose general mood was distracted and untrained, was probably irresponsible.
But Merlin was brave, there was that of course. Who came to Camelot, who came to Camelot, despite all the laws against magic? Maybe he was a touch slow...
A servant arrived at the chamber door to announce the arrival of Sir Bedevere, a burly knight who had become head of the guard since Sir Leon's unfortunate passing. There came a clanging as Merlin cut the spell, the metal crashing every which way and Merlin jumping up, stepping all over the high quality chain mail. Arthur's jaw was tense as he greeted the knight at the door.
They left the room, passing a slew of guest chambers, with Merlin trailing behind them. Sir Bedevere was the quiet sort, not politely joking as Leon had been, and Arthur had to stop drawing comparisons. His men died all the time, it did not do to lose himself in useless emotion.
The day was fine, with fat cloud puffs in the sky, visible as they passed each window. The sounds of the courtyard came muted from far below. Just as they passed the last door near the west tower, giggles poured forth. It was Morgana's chambers, in fact. The three men smiled at the innocent expression of joy, to varying degrees of condescension.
"Girls," Arthur remarked. "Probably going on about the latest hair ornamentation."
Sir Bedevere nodded.
There was a loud clanging sound, as if a plate, or perhaps a bottle, had been knocked to the floor, and a clink-clinking as it rolled across the stone floor, and then a pause, but nothing seemed to have broken. The laughter started anew, harder this time.
"I guess Gwen doesn't have a lot to do," Merlin said, mock wistfully. They turned a corner, out of earshot. "No armor to clean, no boots to shine. Just a life of makeup and bath time."
Arthur sighed, making a show of indulgence. "I'll take it into consideration, Merlin."
Merlin got all bright about the edges. They continued down a curving stairwell, and Arthur's voice cut up into the ceiling as he said to Sir Bedevere: "I'll not have anyone saying I have an unhappy servant."
Arthur was to take brunch in the gardens with Sir Bedevere, but first the two went to check the grates by the back wall, those that had been blown outwards by numerous explosions of unknown origin. Merlin split off towards the kitchens, and after the two had finished crunching about in the gravelweeds and poison ivy that protected the grating, growth fed mostly by the recent drizzly weeks, they went to the large tree that was an often-used spot for meetings.
Arthur could make out Merlin just running back with a wicker basket loaded with food. He was hustling across the back lawn towards where they sat at the edge of the apple orchard, his scarecrow figure bouncing along, boots squelching in the the moist grass. The supplies jumped about in the basket in time with his springy footsteps, and his pace was almost painfully slow to watch, despite the reach allowed by his lanky bone-structure.
"Merlin, stop faffing about!" Arthur called. He looked to Sir Bedevere, who was regal even on their spread blanket as befitting a knight of Camelot, bearded and noble, 5/3rds Arthur's age. Bedevere was no Sir Leon, but he would do.
"He's increased his speed, really," Arthur told him conversationally. "Once he stopped getting lost that is. Although he still takes about twenty-five percent longer than other servants."
"MERLIN!" he yelled again. Merlin did not increase his pace, although it's possible he tried, and when he finally reached them, sunlight played havoc with his entire, sweating self, positively flinging shadows into the hollows of his cheeks, and then at the ground when Merlin bent over struggling to breathe and effectively blocked out the entire sun. Arthur watched, looking up and pleased from his cool seat on the checkered blanket. Merlin dropped the basket and then collapsed next to it, breathing hard. He leaned back on his hands, and looked up at the sky, catching his breath.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Arthur said pointedly. Merlin just looked at him, and then closed his eyes for a second. Arthur gestured impatiently at the basket. "Our food!!"
"He has these little outbursts," Merlin told Sir Bedevere. The knight looked uncertain. He reached for the basket, saying 'Sire,' but Arthur caught his hand, and pushed it slowly away. He looked again to Merlin, who sat up. Merlin opened the basket, and began removing plates and cutlery, turning to the knight.
"It's best to look him full in the face," Merlin told Sir Bedevere. "And whatever you do, don't break eye contact; it's a dominance thing."
He calmly went about unpacking the food, as Arthur sputtered in the fresh light.
Of course it was a dominance thing! Arthur was the prince, and the kingdom thrived on order of the monarchy, on a very steady hierarchy! Arthur went to explain this in very logical terms, but instead only near shouted, "I am the prince!" and Merlin favored him with a condescending purse of the lips. Their gaze held. Arthur was the first to look away, and then scowled back at Merlin. Merlin smiled cheekily. Sir Bedevere chuckled at this interplay between master and servant, and Arthur would have frowned at him as well if he weren't suddenly so caught by the sight of Merlin's smile evolving into something quite soft, quite tender.
Arthur shook himself.
"Merlin, where's the mead. I thought I told you Sir Bedevere and myself would be taking a full lunch. What sort of 'full' meal is complete without mead? Why that makes it practically empty."
Sir Bedevere schooled his features this time, because Arthur obviously meant business. Merlin ducked his head a little, in mock deference. His cheek in font of Arthur's knights, those little moments of familiarity, was always strangely touching, like he was staking some kind of claim. Arthur was conversant in entitlement, being the Prince and all. At the same time, Arthur really did want that mead.
"Merlin, have you been in the cellars again..."
"You know I don't take alcohol well," Merlin frowned. "And I was going to tell you, the kitchen is fresh out. They had loads just last week, but somehow it's all been drunk, and no one knows by whom."
Arthur was not one for secrets. He made it his business to know all that passed in the castle and town, and any disparity in information irked him. He would have to leave it for later, though. He commenced talking with Sir Bedevere about the individual knights, discussing strategy and what might be expected of the captain of the guard, and all the while Merlin picked at some cheese, and fed a half-loaf of bread to some birds.
Ah, the busy life of the prince. They went back the way they had come, past the market crowding with merchants and teeming with loose chickens clucking around ankles, and through the exterior gate. They went all the way back up to Arthur's rooms, depositing Sir Bedevere somewhere along the way. It had been a rather content start to the day.
As he walked through the despicable mess that was still left over from the day before, he somehow managed to avoid all objects scattered across the floor, despite the impossibility. He knew that if he looked down he would see each shirt and every boot sliding just minimally aside, Merlin nudging each with a starburst of magic so that his prince might be saved from his own clumsy footwork. He experienced an edge to his previous feeling of easiness.
"Merlin!" he shouted. He whirled to where Merlin stood by the closet.
"Yes, sire?" Merlin asked. His arm was outstretched, palm first. Arthur looked pointedly at the hand. Merlin waved it, a little 'hello.'
"I don't even know what to DO with you Merlin!" Arthur said. Merlin lowered the arm. He scooped up some dirty clothing.
"You could give me the day off?" He hid the clothing in a drawer.
"Better yet-" Arthur was about to suggest some sort of menial labor, but at that moment, something serendipitous occurred: there came a knocking at the wooden door, and it turned out to be someone who did, in fact, want to take Merlin off his hands.
"Yes, what tis it?" Arthur called.
"Sire, your father requires the aid of your manservant," a boy said, peering into the room.
"Merlin." Arthur wheeled on him.
"Don't look at me, sire."
"Well get to it then," Arthur said. "Maybe he'll take you for good, I'm getting tired of your mess."
"My mess!"
"Now, Merlin."
Only when Merlin had left did Arthur remember that Merlin, most obvious sorcerer in the land, was to be attending his father, most obvious opponent of sorcery, without Arthur to make sure everyone looked the other way. Really, it always seemed up to him to make sure that Merlin stayed well out of harms way, either physically or socially. In a recent squabble with bandits in some part of the forest, he had counted five times he had shouted to Merlin to watch his back, yet he continued to narrowly missed being shot through by five separate arrows. Really, it was a wonder that he hadn't died long ago, the first day in Camelot. Arthur had nearly beat him himself. And now this, Merlin's insouciance sharing a space with a strict code of etiquette in the presence of the king. It did not bode well.
Even so, Arthur waited a bit, blandly hoping some other solution would present itself. Little birds twittered by. He had work to do. After glaring out the window with burgeoning resolution, Arthur jogged down the corridor after his servant - more a burden than a boon was right.
When Arthur entered the King's royal office, the guards clacked to attention. At the far end his father stood by his chair, and Merlin was slouch-standing, obviously ill at ease, a ways away. Uther's gaze bored into Merlin's forehead, as Merlin averted his eyes. At least Arthur's comments had made some impression - one does not make eye contact with the king, for god's sake Merlin.
"You're not too ill to carry out these tasks?" Uther asked. His tone could be mistaken for sympathetic, but set of his mouth belied this conjecture.
"Ill? Afflicted?" Uther operizationalized.
"Yes, sire," Merlin answered. "I mean, no, sire!"
"Is that so," Uther said, dryly, as if missing his dear friend King Olaf, or others who were currently absent who might see the satire that was his life. As it was, the silence was thick, like the chunk of lard Arthur's father consumed at the midday meal.
"You have shown my son great dedication," Uther said. Arthur went to Merlin's side, and stood respectfully. "And you have shown some courage. Arthur."
Arthur looked to his father.
"My head servant has taken ill. And I'm sure that you can do without this one for the day. I'll have him hanging tapestries and also attending to me while I discuss sales and distribution with the chancellors. It shouldn't be too hard, nothing a mediocre servant couldn't carry out."
That evening, Arthur took his meal with his father, just to keep an eye on Merlin, lest he do anything that might warrant a public burning.
&&&
Arthur was not tired. No, never. Although during the meeting with the chancellors and staff his chin did nod down quite a bit and he could only pay attention by rubbing at his eyes and shaking himself a bit. It was true that he had spent a good portion of the night considering the possible ways in which Merlin could magically out himself in front of his father, but then maybe he was getting sick. It was all this rain, it had to be. He opened his eyes again. Whoops, he couldn't even remember closing them.
The man at the table with the largest jacket collar, popped near to his chin, spoke about something. Luckily, Arthur was skilled at quick inference. Leathers, straps, oil...ah! Falconing! He nodded his approval when his father gave his own nod of assent to the man's fiscal plan. From the corner, Merlin's dark hair was visible, bony face intriguing in the shadows. Arthur looked to his open book, and subtly scratched a tick under the heading "prolonged eye contact". When he glanced up again, Merlin was looking on, still, and Arthur pulled a face. Merlin smirked, and then receded behind the stone.
By lunch time Arthur was ready for a nap. He returned to his chambers and ordered this of a passing servant, but Merlin showed up in his place, not tentative in the least as he traipsed through the door, upsetting a bench and near tossing the dishes on to the table with a loud clatter. He'd been let off for a portion of the morning. He was embarrassingly pleased, probably just relieved. Merlin's special gifts had not made an appearance just yet, not in front of so many court officials.
And sword practice had resumed. It had nothing to do with Arthur, so he wasn't going to watch, nope, not looking.
Nevermind. It was impossible not to watch. He looked down the tower at the small figures of Morgana and her handmaiden as they beat at each other with swords.
Arthur maintained that if there was anything magic in this kingdom aside from Merlin, it was his bedroom windows; the two seemed to overlook every sort of malfeasance occurring in the proximity of the castle, like glass for scrying. If he himself were a baddie, Arthur would probably take cover somewhere, rather than preforming dark deeds in direct line of vision of the Prince's bedchambers, but...well...
Regardless, sword practice was back on now that Morgana had been returned to them. No one was supposed to know about this ongoing combat training, so of course Arthur was privy to it. He basically did know everything going on in the castle.
From what he could make out from his bird's eye view, Gwen herself seemed hesitant, where before she might have charged at her lady full-tilt, letting out a mighty roar and quite at home in trousers and mail, but from what Arthur could see from this vantage point near the east tower, which afforded him a generous view of the pasture past the hedges, a rarely used space not visible from most other positionings, Gwen appeared reticent, and Morgana was using the care to her advantage. She whapped Gwen in the side with the flat of her blade and Gwen let out a little shriek that carried all the way to his ears. Magical windows.
"Lording over your kingdom, sire," Merlin quipped. Arthur turned only his head, but maintained his posturing, arms crossed, leaning against the stone. Merlin continued on: "Keeping a dragon's-eye view? Although there's no trouble afoot, keeping watch on principle??"
"Hard to keep that wit in check all day, was it?" Arthur said dryly. He finally went from window to bed, where he began removing his boots. "No, the girls are at it again. Morgana's winning, by the looks of it."
"And Gwen was improving!" Merlin said, and ignored Arthur's quiet comment about Merlin being one to talk about improvement. He took a turn at the window. "And looks about to rain...think I should tell 'em, give a holler?"
"We can't let on that we know. Or have you forgotten?" Arthur went to sit at his table, and spread some paperwork before him. Also, he cut himself a piece of cherry pie.
He was the keeper of so many secrets. Every day was spent shuffling his facts dependent on which person he was speaking to currently, like picking and choosing what tunic to wear, but at least he had Merlin for that. He sliced another piece of pie, wrote something down in the log before him, and then ate the slice, in that order.
This pie was actually extraordinary. Third most magical thing in the kingdom! He should keep a list of these things, as well.
He continued his work, scritching out facts and figures and then blotting errors when he made them, and his mind was thoroughly being exercised. And after this, he should begin consolidating this week's data on Merlin, his side project of sorts. He was just sprinkling powder to dry up the ink, when he heard a rumpling sound behind him.
He pretended to stretch in his chair, and used to the movement for a quick glance Merlin's way. As expected, the long form was slouching against something, the door of the closet, looking into it. Arthur could just glimpse a few tunics whirling around inside, animated.
Merlin was bored, that much was clear. But really, before Arthur had had Merlin he had never noticed servants' whereabouts in the rooms, had never felt self-conscious in his own chambers, like he was entertaining a guest constantly, rather than going about his business.
Arthur moved his chair, the legs groaning against the floor. Merlin jumped, and slammed the closet door closed.
Arthur took another forkful of pie. "This is really rather good," he remarked, mouth full. "For god's sake, come eat, I've left you a piece."
Merlin cleared his throat, but didn't move closer. He obviously had issue with something, he always did.
"Speak."
That was enough, Arthur knew, to elicit some response. He turned from his pie, and his scrolls of pie charts, and raised his eyebrows expectantly at his servant. Merlin looked down, away, screwed up his mouth, and said carefully: "It's just, are you sure you should eat the whole thing?"
Arthur was, again, caught off guard. What- Oh.
"Of all the things!" he exploded. A bit off cherry spattered a scroll, and he rubbed at it with his thumb. He waved his hand in a gesture of disbelief, while also considering whether or not he should wipe the digit on his trousers, or just suck it clean. Perhaps if he allowed a minute's time, during which he distracted Merlin...But no! He was the prince and could do anything he pleased! So he licked his finger. Merlin looked uncertain.
"It's just that, you've been looking kind of sick at times, as of late, and I thought, maybe it's all the food. You know, the meat and the cheese and now with the dessert, they're all rather rich!" Merlin was babbling, as was his wont, but Arthur would set things straight.
"I am merely removing slices of the pie to create a physical representation of the graph I have here describing rye sales in the lower market," Arthur explained, turning fully in his seat, patience written clear cross his fine features. He gestured to the scrolls. "It is a scholarly pursuit.
"And if I've looked at all sick, it's been due to the, hm, let me think, kidnapping of my sister-" When Merlin went to correct him on this moot point, Arthur frowned him silent. "And this business with the dragon that has burned half the castle, left it half in ruins just this past week? It somehow lit the stone. Do you know how difficult that is to achieve, Merlin? And, more importantly, how did it get out? We're all wondering. My father thinks it was done by sorcery, of course. But really, I'd have to agree, if there's ever been anything more obviously sorcery-"
This drew Arthur up short. He looked into the deep recesses of the pie tin. Cherry goop slid down the sides that he had not yet spoon-cleaned. It must have been sorcery. There was only silence behind him.
It couldn't be. No. He clenched his jaw, and fought to retain composure, for the both of them.
"-And rye distribution." He cleared his throat. "As we can see from this pie, that, as you've so sweetly noted is missing all pieces but one, you will note that rye distribution is dismally low..."
Arthur trailed off. The silence was thick, and he definitely wasn't hungry any longer. If he were to peek at Merlin's face, he knew, with a feeling like looking down over the ramparts at the town far below or like hanging by his fingertips over a bottomless chasm, he would find it pale and drawn, that general wear-and-tear look Arthur had assumed was worry over Morgana, worry over the destruction of the town....
"Hadn't you better go attend the King?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, Arthur," Merlin said. And then he left, and Arthur didn't dare record anything further, not in the grain annals and not in his own researcher journal, lest he catch himself lying by omission.
&&&
For quite a long while Arthur had felt just that bit uncomfortable around his father, ever since he had grown strong enough to be of use to the kingdom, ever since the moment he had been old enough to fail his king and it would mean something. He had to be strong, had to be brave, sought to embody those attributes set forth by the laws of Camelot, to be the very quintessence of the knight in shining armor. Well, Merlin would manage the shining bit, and together they would prove his father proud.
But for just this past year he had been aware of the need to protect another person's place in the castle, this person, of course, being his manservant, ever since the moment Arthur had put together the pattern...not the pattern emerging from Merlin's not-so-sly magical acts, but the pattern that Merlin could not keep his mouth shut around the king. Talking back to the king would land you in more or less the same place as committing acts of sorcery. The list Arthur kept of close-calls was exhaustive and, accordingly, depressing.
So with this new knowledge Arthur had accidentally stumbled upon, that Merlin may or may not have been involved in the partial destruction of Camelot, and other crazy stresses Arthur found himself under, it was understandable that he be a bit nervous, a bit peevish. He would not allow Merlin to be alone in the King's presence, so Arthur left the practicing of the knights to Sir Bedevere as further training, and joined his father, chancellors, and his erstwhile manservant in the hall, for a long day of bookkeeping.
Researcher's Log
0900 Subject has met with the King once again, in accordance with supplemental duty to the crown. He is so far not exhibiting any of the usual signs of slovely comportment or inattention. But it is still early.
1015 False alarm. The subject raised a hand to straighten a fur throw across the back of the throne where it had slipped down, but I, at my natural defensive state, jumped to my feet, drawing my father's attention. To his inquisitive look, I feigned a leg cramp. Better safe then sorry, of course.
1130 In hindsight, this may have been a horrible idea. Never before have I spent so much time in my father's presence. I don't believe he has noticed my hanging around as anything other than studious - this scientific notebook just one of many spread across the table before me - and so I hide in plain sight. Only once so far have I had need to create a diversion (a coughing fit of a length that might allow the subject to finish his transporting a goblet from one side of the table to the other just to the side of my father, sans mains).
1320 I took lunch with my father, the subject in question serving the both of us as per usual during joint dining. There is a bit of confusion, now that he belongs more to the King than myself, but it is only for today, so all will go well, so long as I take preventative measures as I see fit until this evening.
1430 Hands have never been so problematic. Every time he raises them it seems as though he might lift something, or do any other stupid thing I may have caught a glimpse of over the past year of his being in my service, but of course 93% of the time he actually does move something, but manually.
1440 Subject is looking sleepy. He has been plucking grapes, one by one and just...floating...from behind my father...
1515 Wrangled Sir Ullad into creating a diversion. The King is looking suspicious.
So nervous was Arthur, that he gave up counting and recording the many moments Merlin's gaze strayed to him, distracted in the late evening light filtering in through stained glasses of the great hall, distracted when he was at his most vital position, stood behind the kings left shoulder, exposing his secret self for all to see.
"Arthur, haven't you the guard to change, and a patrol to run?" His father finally asked him.
1550 King seems to wish for my absence...Would it be wise to-
"Arthur," his father said again. Arthur looked up, and then stood. He gathered his things in silence, and the chancellors all stood to bow, and then continued their quiet discussion of rations and water purification.
Arthur bowed his head to his father, who quickly dismissed him with a tight smile. Finding no words to excuse his remaining within eyesight for any longer, Arthur made one last, final attempt to convey some meaning, something anything to Merlin, by way of eyebrows and sternly-set mouth, but Merlin only smiled distractedly and gave a little wave. Arthur wanted to kill something.
He used the patrol as excuse for a mini-hunt. It wasn't raining as such, but the sky was slate above him when he went to the stables, some sort of static clinging to the crushed velvet of his doublet.
He ordered his steed and crossbow be readied, and in the space between checking the perimeter of the market area and sending orders for sandbags near the lake (they'd been experiencing an unnatural amount of rainfall this season) he shot a brace of hare and ordered it taken to the kitchens.
Not having Merlin around did allow some time for introspection. Something Arthur was probably lacking in. To his disappointment, he missed his targeted fox although it had been a close miss, but this turned out to be good, as what he had taken for a fox was actually one of his father's dogs, speeding through the grasses. He ordered that that, too, be taken back, this one to the makeshift kennel where the hounds were kept, and decided enough was enough, he had spent enough time away from the situation at hand that he might return and not arouse suspicion.
At the tail end of his ride, he came upon the Lady Morgana and Gwen, taking a walk near the forest's edge.
He dismounted, and led his steed to graze while he went to say hello. The two looked rather content, the fresh air good for a woman's constitution.
"Morgana," Arthur nodded to her. He then turned to her handmaiden, and nodded in an unaffected manner. "Guinevere."
"Arthur," Morgana said. "We were just heading back to dress for supper."
There was something about the two of them, perhaps the few leaves in their hair, or the dirt at their fingers. There was so much that Arthur turned a blind eye to around these parts, he really was quite benevolent.
"You've got something-" Arthur touched his own mouth, just at the side, and Morgana made a very female noise of surprise. Gwen rushed forward and wiped at her mistress' face with an embroidered handkerchief.
"It was red," Arthur said, and shrugged. "Perhaps lip tint? Anyhow, I thought I'd stop by and ask after your health."
If there was anything Morgana hated, it was being called frail. Arthur could imply this with the best of them, and indeed used this skill now to needle Morgana into being her old self.
"I assure you I am quite well, Arthur," Morgana said. She smiled, an employer of sarcasm before the term really existed. "Gwen, let's be off. We've got delicate and ladylike matters to tend to."
Arthur returned the smile, his much more sincere.
As she passed him, Gwen stepped close for a moment, and Arthur caught the scent of something sweet, tangy and distinctly Gwen. He was reminded of that moment before, in the tent, when he had kissed her for no reason other than that he had wanted to. Now here they were again, knee deep in the tall grasses of the field, with skies grey overhead and a static feeling to the air. And he didn't know the first thing about her. When Gwen had backed away, he looked to his hand, and saw that she had pressed something into it.
"Ah!" said Arthur, pleased. "A rabbit's foot!"
"For luck." Gwen's eyes sparkled in the low light. "Whenever you might need it."
"It is...still fresh," Arthur said. He pocketed the foot, and then wiped the hand on his trousers. "How considerate of you."
Gwen smiled, softly in the light, and then followed Morgana away, catching her up and then racing her back to the castle. It began to drizzle, and Arthur took his time adjusting the saddle of his steed, watching them go. He finally remounted, and galloped to the stables.
And there were beasts in the castle. Of course there were. It was the manner in which Arthur was made aware of this, and by whom, however, that came as a surprise. He had been stroking Hengroen, giving him a complete rub down with a curry comb and then brushing him off with a softer brush, slicking sweat and bits of mud from his flanks and legs. He ran a hand down the horse's leg, and pulled it up to pick chunks of hay and field muck from his hoof. Hardened dirt came away in chunks; a job well done.
From the slate light of the stable's entrance, partially obscured by cold swirling of dust clouds, Arthur caught a glimpse of a figure. His senses jumped to alert in a fraction of a moment, but when he really looked, he saw no one. Perhaps it had been a trick of the eyes.
"Show yourself," Arthur said, the force of the crown in his golden voice. This was met with silence, and Arthur rubbed dust from where it was settling on his eyelashes. The musty smell of the stables was in his nose. He heard a heavy breathing.
And then at long last, none other than Sir Leon struggled valiantly into view! He clung tightly at the door frame in a desperate attempt to remain standing.
"Sir Leon!" Arthur roared. There was nothing that compared to this upsurge of emotion when he saw that one of his men, one of his dearest friends, a brother in arms, had lived to breathe this day. Arthur had given him up for dead, burnt to a crispy mess by dragon's breath. And that even one of them had survived! Statistically speaking, fourteen men compared to one large beast of a dragon....three to survive, that beat the odds considerably....Arthur was, incidentally, quite pleased at both the fact of the return of his dear friend and the impossibility of the event.
Arthur began in questioning the man, and handed off the reins of his horse to go help the man stand, subtly of course. He clapped Leon softly on the torn sleeve, and wrapped an arm fondly around his shoulders, but left it there, supporting Leon's weight. Leon resisted momentarily, but his eyes began to fall closed. Arthur's happiness gave way to concern.
"Beast, sire," Leon said, finally forcing words between ragged breaths. "In the castle."
He could say no more. Sir Leon allowed himself to be led out of the stables, leaning heavily on Arthur for support, and even managed to walk by Arthur's side for a moment while Arthur shouted for aid - rain pattering down on them all running dirty rivulets down Leon's cheeks - but the relief of being home, intermingled with complete and utter hunger, caused the older man to swoon at Arthur's side after a minute, felled on the last leg of his journey.
"Good man, Leon," Arthur said into the knight's dirty curls. He held him strong as a host of knights clackety-clacked in double-line formation to hoist and carry their recovered brother from his prince's arms.
They marched back into their stronghold, and Arthur shouted orders, seemingly at random, and the battle for Camelot was once again underway. He went to find his father.
part two