Fic: Misrule [Merlin/Arthur/Gwen/Morgana]
Title: Misrule
Author: kalichan
Rating: PG-13
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Merlin/Arthur/Gwen/Morgana
Word Count: 3905
Summary: car·ni·val·esque: adj. \ˌkär-nə-və-ˈlesk\. 1.: suggestive of a carnival. 2.: marked by an often mocking or satirical challenge to authority and the traditional social hierarchy. 3.: a term which refers to a literary mode that subverts and liberates the assumptions of the dominant style or atmosphere through humor and chaos, the origin of which is traced to the medieval Christmas-time festival, the Feast of Fools, where the world is turned-upside-down and ideas and truths are endlessly tested and contested.
Warning(s): None.
Notes: This story was written for peskywhistpaw in the 2010 camelotsolstice challenge, (originally posted here) and I'm reposting it on my journal because that challenge sorta imploded. This story is a complete departure from anything else I have ever written or am likely to write in the future: peskywhistpaw seemed to want something tonally similar to the show, with no explicit sex, angst, or distant future stuff -- so knowing me as y'all do, you can see this was quite a challenge. It was written for the Prompt #2: Christmas is coming to Camelot. It’s up to our heroes and/or heroines to make sure that everything runs smoothly. (Cue monsters and possibly epic adventures. Bonus points for nobody else realizing anything is amiss, as the heroes/heroines are running around crazily preventing mayhem). I didn't manage to fit in any monsters, but I tried my best to make this a lighthearted S1/S2-style romp, which avoids both tooth-rotting fluff and wrist-cutting angst, as requested. I hope you enjoy!
Beta credit: A special thank you to D. who always helps me find my way.]
Water splashed over his boots and, not for the first time, Merlin found himself wishing he owned more than one set of clothes. But there was nothing for it, a servant to a prince must go into the darkest places, must face the most horrific challenges, must rise to any and all occasions put forth before him by his lord… even if said lord was a bit of a git who, for some reason, hadn’t yet learned to bathe himself.
“Damn it, Merlin, that last bucket was too hot, are you trying to burn all my flesh off? That’s it, isn’t it? You think your future king would look better with half his skin melted away.”
“Oh yes, sire, it’d give you that lovely ‘I’ve fought a dragon and lived’ look that so many of the old kings liked to affect.”
“Merlin? Shut up and scrub my back.”
Merlin sighed, and went to it, the brush’s coarse handle working over his calluses, while the fine bristles on the other end were scrubbing the future king of Camelot into gentle cleanliness. Why it always seemed to work out that the fellow with only one set of clothes got the rough ends of things, while the fellow with two buildings full of clothes got the soft side, Merlin wasn’t sure, except that life was just incredibly unfair. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before Arthur rose from the scented water of the deep bath he was in, and stood, covered almost modestly by the foam. Merlin poured another bucket of water over his prince, to rinse away the soap, and was met with another yelp of exclamation.
“MERLIN!”
“What?” Merlin said innocently.
“That was ice cold, you idiot!”
“Well, you did say it was too hot before.”
“Oh, and of course, the only possible answer if something is too hot is to make it as cold as possible… is that right, Merlin?”
“I thought so, sire.” Merlin knew the grin stretching the corners of his mouth was bordering on demonic in its glee, but there was honestly nothing he could do about this. Not that he was trying very hard.
“You are truly useless, Merlin. You give new meaning to the word. If there is a realm where all things exist in their true forms, then surely you are there with a little sign saying 'useless' hanging off your nose.”
“Just as you say, my lord. Would you like me to dry you now?”
“Yes, Merlin, that is what is traditionally done at this stage of the process. And don’t forget any of the cracks this time; I was itching for hours last week.”
“You know, sire, one could say that a grown man should really know how to wipe his own arse.”
“Well, then, Merlin, from the smell of you, I think it’s pretty obvious you’re no grown man.” Arthur smiled in that annoyingly smug fashion that he had, whenever he thought he’d completely decimated Merlin in their ongoing battle of wits, and Merlin contemplated throwing something at him, or emptying another ice-bucket over his head, but realised this would probably not end well for him. He settled for rolling his eyes ostentatiously instead, before going over to the hearth, where Arthur’s clothes were warming in front of the fire.
“Arthur?”
“What?”
“Why are you wearing this stuff?”
Arthur lifted an eyebrow. “You want me to go to the feast naked?”
“There’s no surcoat, no vest, no fine silks and velvets… except is this a kerchief trimmed with real gold?”
Arthur gave a long-suffering sigh. “It’s Yule, you clot.”
“Right…? So, a costume party, then, and you’re going as… me?”
“Merlin, were you actually raised in the forest by wolves? I mean, really--” but then Arthur’s brain caught up to his mouth, and he stopped short on what had clearly been intended to be a lengthy and colorful diatribe on Merlin's ancestry and upbringing, as he realized he’d just insulted Merlin’s mother, of whom he was actually quite fond. Frankly, Merlin quite enjoyed watching him squirm. “Yule,” he went on hurriedly, clearly deciding to pretend that the previous sentence had never happened, “is when we have the bean feast. Everyone has cakes and ale, and we all dress as peasants, and when some minor knight or whatever draws the bean, they get to be the Lord of Misrule, and we all have to do what he says. Or she; last year it was Lady Griselda. And they pick a Queen of Love and Beauty, and then on Twelfth Night, there’s a joust.”
“Oh,” said Merlin. “This is like that holiday last spring, where you had to wash the feet of all those beggars?”
“Pentecost, you dimwit."
“And I had to pre-wash their feet for you?”
“Well, of course.”
“And that last one fainted, from your sheer magnificence, apparently, or you know, from hunger, because they probably needed food, more than getting their feet washed, and you decided I would do as a substitute?”
“Yes, Merlin. I remember. I was there. Unfortunately. Tell me, do you ever wash them yourself?”
“I think you enjoyed it. I think that this whole thing is a clever plot, orchestrated by you, because you’re secretly some sort of pervy foot-fancier.” Arthur threw the sponge at him, but Merlin managed to duck and avoid it. “Seriously, Arthur, do you honestly think all this rigmarole keeps you nobles humble or whatever it’s meant to do? Not that you seem worried about it most of the time.”
“No,” said Arthur. “But I think people are probably less likely to revolt, if you give them a brief turn on the top of the wheel.”
“That sounds a little… cold.”
“It’s court,” Arthur said, “of course it is.”
***
“Ow, my tooth! What is in this thing?”
At the cry, Arthur's head spun round to center instinctively on Merlin, who he'd allowed to sit below the salt at the feast as a special favour, because he was still sort of sorry about the whole 'raised by wolves' thing. Merlin had, apparently, just bit into a cake - Arthur silently swore himself blue - and was pulling --of course-- the sodding bean out of his mouth.
Somewhere next to him, Morgana - her beauty annoyingly undimmed by the blouse, bodice and skirt that she'd probably modeled on Gwen's, except that Gwen didn't usually dress in fine silks -- was laughing. “Oh, this is rich, Arthur, look!”
“Shut up,” he said, hoping his father wasn't paying attention, as he tried to sign to Merlin to stop talking. Merlin, of course, was oblivious. “Maybe he can just... put it back.”
“But why should he?” she said, smiling in that maniacal, intense way that always meant trouble. She rapped her goblet with her dagger, and it chimed. Everyone stopped talking. “My lords and ladies,” she called out in a ringing voice to the table at large, “someone has drawn the bean.”
Arthur put his head in his hands, as all eyes swung down to Merlin, who was sitting about as far away from the head of the table as one could be, while still in the same room.
“Wait, it's inside the cake?” Merlin said, spitting it out onto the plate, where it landed with a clatter. “You didn't tell me that, Ar-sire.”
Uther looked at Arthur meaningfully in a way that indicated they would be having a long, probably painful conversation later about why exactly his manservant had a seat at this feast. Then he cleared his throat, and said grudgingly, “It seems we have a Lord of Misrule.”
“I... I'm sure someone else could have it, sire,” Merlin said hopefully. “It wasn't in my mouth long at all, and I don't really--”
“Merlin,” Arthur hissed, “shut up.”
Uther shook his head in disbelief, and then gestured to the seat beside him. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Take your seat, boy.” He looked over at Lord Pellinore, and added, “Clearly, we'll have to content ourselves with substandard festivities this year.”
Arthur winced, as Merlin tripped over his own feet on his way towards the dais.
“Have I really got to wear this, this thing?” Merlin asked, when they were safe in Arthur's rooms, after the most agonizing bean feast Arthur had ever experienced had finally drawn to a close. He looked up at the crown of alternating donkey's ears and peacock feathers that was currently perched on his head at an alarmingly askew angle.
“Yes,” Arthur snapped. “Surely your ears are large enough to anchor it properly.”
“Speaking of ears, did they really lop two sets off of some poor donkeys to make this?” Merlin asked, his voice vaguely terrified.
“Yes. Sadly you weren't around when it was made, or they could have used yours.”
“Don't be such a prat, Arthur, I didn't do this on purpose. You could have warned me!”
“If you weren't such an ignoramus, I wouldn't have had to!”
“Why are you so bent out of shape about the whole thing, anyway? Why's it better being ordered around by Lord Whatshisface than me?” He sounded almost... hurt.
Arthur shuddered as he recalled the complete lack of dignity he'd displayed as he tried to convince his father that they could just redo the whole thing, or better yet just cancel it. At the point when his father nearly summoned the guards to escort him out, he'd had to give up. “It just is, Merlin, all right? Now, get out. You'll have to think of what to do to entertain the court over the next few days.” He sighed, and then added, “Try not to embarrass me.”
There was exactly as much chance of that, he knew, as there was of a pig suddenly flying by his window.
***
When Merlin entered the chamber he shared with Gaius, he was greeted by a rap on the head that nearly sent his ridiculous (and cruel to animals!) crown flying across the room. “What?” he said mulishly. “What've I done now?”
“You know, Merlin, sometimes I can't decide if you are simply suicidally stupid, or just stupidly suicidal. Which is it, do you think?”
Merlin looked at Gaius blankly. “What do you mean?”
“The bean, Merlin, the bean! How could you take one of those cakes? Have you no sense?”
“First of all, no one told me that the bean was in the cake! Second of all, why is this such a big deal? So, the nobles of Camelot have to be pranked by a peasant for a few days - probably do them all good.”
Gaius shook his head. “Do you know where this tradition comes from, Merlin? They mimic it now, with no real power behind it, but it comes from the Old Religion. The bean-king, the Lord of Misrule - he's supposed to be a sorcerer, so that once a year, on the longest day, magic is permitted to overwhelm the natural order, for good fortune in the coming months.”
“Oh,” said Merlin. “Well. They lucked out this year, then, didn't they?” When his teacher stared at him in disbelief, he went on. “Relax, Gaius, they don't know about me! It's not like we're going to tell them.”
“I'm very much afraid, Merlin, that we won't have to. You will have to be even more careful than usual. Don't let the slightest hint of magic escape you, however much it tries. And it will try.”
“I won't.”
“It will be harder than you think, but you must succeed. Because,” Gaius said slowly, “you should also know that at the end of the twelve days, the land demands the blood of the true bean-king, so that the natural order may flourish once more.”
“What?”
“Yes, Merlin. They used to let them pick the means... gallows, fire, or knife.”
“Oh,” said Merlin. “Well, that's just... great.”
***
Arthur couldn't quite decide what the worst point of the next few days was. The moment when Merlin had declared that all the lords and ladies of the court should exchange clothing, so that he was prancing around in Morgana's green velvet frock was definitely a strong candidate, only slightly mitigated by the sight of his father dancing in Lady Griselda's voluminous skirts.
Or there was the moment when, not satisfied with putting him in a dress, Merlin had picked Guinevere, his Guinevere to be the Queen of Love and Beauty, instead of one of the noble ladies, which was something Arthur had wanted to do himself someday, to see the stars in her eyes for him when he announced her name. Instead, his bloody manservant got to do it, which meant that not only would he get the credit for an idea that he'd clearly stolen from Arthur's brain somehow, but also that he would get to sit next to her at the tournament, instead of being in his proper place, which was obviously helping Arthur on with his armor, and not abandoning him to the assistance of some hapless fool of a squire.
To add insult to injury, as soon as Merlin had helped a blushing, incandescent Gwen into her chair, his harpy of a foster-sister had announced her intention, enthusiastically endorsed by the jumped up Lord of bloody Misrule, to enter the joust as well, and Uther had simply laughed and raised no objection. So now, there was the possibility - Arthur would admit this to himself, if no one else - that if Morgana were having a really good day, he wouldn't even be the one to get the kiss and the rose from Gwen at the end of the joust.
Also, somehow, the evenings after the feasts and the dancing and bloody holiday cheer were just really, really long and boring, without Merlin about to throw things at, to tease, and to eat mince pies with. It was making Arthur unbelievably irritable.
And then there was the actual worst thing, which was the fact that, while Merlin seemed to be keeping the court well entertained, and well lubricated (probably helping with the entertainment bit), Gaius, Arthur had noticed, simply looked more and more nervous as the evenings progressed. It was almost as if he were afraid that Merlin might explode, which Arthur supposed was entirely possible, given both what Arthur's tutors had told him long ago about the Yuletide festival, and what Arthur most definitely did not know about Merlin, and thus could plausibly deny if anyone asked him.
In the future, he decided, he was simply going to keep Merlin chained to the back of his chair at all times, which would cut down on the trouble he was able to get into. Probably.
Morgana came and stood next to him. “Why are you so grumpy?” she asked. “I think you look adorable in my dress.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. I like your arse in my breeches, by the way. Very... rounded.”
She hit him in what was ostensibly meant to be a playful way, but really hurt quite a lot. Then, “He's doing a fine job. Much better than Lady Griselda.”
“Lady Griselda spent the whole holiday trying to get my father in bed with her, making everyone walk backwards, and fart in three part harmony. Almost anything would be an improvement.”
“Don't be such a sour-puss. Are you really that worried I'm going to beat you in the tournament?”
“In your dreams. And don't think I'm going to go easy on you just because you're a girl.”
“Ha,” she said. “Last time we jousted, I beat you soundly.”
“We were twelve. I've grown since then.”
“We'll see,” she said ominously, and then smiled.
Arthur looked at her. “Why are you doing this anyway?”
“I never had the chance before,” Morgana said. “Merlin doesn't care how outrageous I am, so I can now. Why should I let you boys keep all the fun?” She looked over at Gwen, and Arthur saw her eyes glint. “Besides,” she added, “the reward seems very high this year.”
“I didn't realize you thought so,” said Arthur grimly.
Morgana arched an eyebrow at him. “And I didn't realize you did either. I'd rather thought you were too busy glaring at anyone who looks askance at Merlin.”
“Well,” Arthur said, and then had no idea what to say after that, so he took another drink instead.
“You should let us all know when you've decided what you want.”
“Um,” said Arthur. “Can't I want it all?”
“Oh,” Morgana said knowingly, “it's like that, is it?” She kissed him fondly on the cheek. “I suppose we could all learn to share.”
“We never did before,” Arthur said.
She grinned. “That was toys, Arthur. This is people. Besides, Gwen and Merlin ought to be considered too; they might not take being fought over as well as your tin soldiers did.”
This was an intriguing thought, but Arthur refused to think too much about such an optimistic solution. “I suppose it might work. If we all live.”
Morgana hit him again. “Lighten up,” she ordered him. “And dance with me. And stop staring at Merlin as if you'd like to eat him. People will notice.”
“I doubt it,” he said, but he did as he was told anyway, even though dancing in a skirt was very difficult, and he couldn't imagine how any of the girls managed it.
***
It was the eleventh and last day, and Merlin didn't know why Gaius had made such a fuss about this whole Lord of Misrule thing. It was quite a lark, actually. For the first time, he could see what the attraction was in being King, and having everyone obey your slightest whim. Power had never meant much to Merlin - after all, what was the point in having people bow and scrape to you, when you knew to the core of your being that you only had to raise your hand to flatten them to a wall, or rain lightning bolts down on their heads? But that was power that he had to hide and keep secret, not this tumbling, gleeful, whimsical madness that made people smile.
It was... fun. He hadn't been sure about it at first, but it had really grown on him. In a way, he would miss it when it was gone.
Gaius came up to the dais, where Merlin was sitting next to the king's throne, with Gwen's chair on the other side of it, waiting for them to arrive and the tournament to begin. “Merlin,” he warned in a low voice, “be careful.”
“I'm fine, Gaius,” he said. Really, he was getting pretty boring with this constant vigilance bit.
“Your eyes are glowing.”
“I'm fine,” he repeated, with a bit more force this time.
“You're feeling the power,” Gaius said more urgently. “It's making its last ditch attempt now. Don't give in. It wants you to use it--”
“Right,” Merlin snarled, cutting him off. “I get it.” Gaius stepped back a little at that, and somewhere inside himself, he felt a twinge of remorse. The king entered the arena, with the Queen of Love and Beauty beside him. For a second, it seemed to Merlin, that it was an older Arthur who walked there, with Gwen at his side, who acknowledged the shouts and applause of the crowd before taking his seat between the two of them, sorcerer and queen on either side.
He shook his head to clear it. Gwen smiled at him. “I don't think I thanked you, Merlin,” she said, when she realized Uther was simply ignoring her presence the way he did with anyone who wasn't of noble birth. “This has been... amazing.”
He nodded. “It's been my pleasure,” he said with a grin. “Who are you cheering for?”
“I think I'm meant to be impartial,” she said.
Merlin squinted at where the competitors were lining up, their helms in their hands. Among them, Morgana certainly stood out, and he could see that there was a lavender ribbon tied round her arm that matched Gwen's dress exactly. He nodded at it, and said, “Really?”
Gwen blushed.
Then Arthur rode into the ring, last by virtue of his rank. Merlin noticed he was wearing an identical ribbon. He fought off a surge of jealousy that made his eyes burn. Gwen nudged him. “You're not jousting,” she said, “but I've got one for you too.” She pressed a ribbon into his hand, and he smiled, warmed by her kindness. “Look,” she added, “what he's got tied underneath it.”
Merlin realized what he hadn't noticed before: that Arthur was wearing an ordinary, red cotton kerchief tied underneath the ribbon. It looked extremely familiar, and for a second, his heart leapt up into his mouth, with the sheer shock of it. He imagined Arthur creeping into his room to steal it, and he grinned, and waved at Arthur, who did his best to ignore him.
“I thought they were supposed to ask first?” he whispered to Gwen.
“Well, traditionally,” she whispered back. “But then he'd actually have to talk to you about it, wouldn't he?”
“Fair point,” Merlin conceded.
***
Things will unfold as they usually do in Camelot.
Merlin will be tempted to use his power lightly - power corrupts, after all -- but he will resist until Arthur is threatened, at which point he will use magic to intervene. Blood will be spilt, some of which will be Merlin's, which will actually be lucky, because the land - generous for once - will be content with that for now, though it may demand the life it's owed later.
Merlin will very carefully not think about that.
With some fast talking, they'll be able to convince Uther that he didn't see anything at all, and Arthur will conveniently become unconscious at just the right time. Gwen will give both Arthur and Morgana their kisses, though technically neither of them will have won. Arthur and Merlin will return to their usual, silent accord, in which certain things are known but not spoken of, kept on ice for a day when things that are now hidden can be revealed. Merlin will not get his kerchief back, though he will know where it is, in the box where Arthur keeps his precious, secret things.
After it's all over, things will return to normal, or as normal as they ever are in this corner of Albion. The natural order will triumph once more. And if servants and masters do occasionally stray from their proper places in the nights to come, well, the dark will keep their secrets.
Author: kalichan
Rating: PG-13
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Merlin/Arthur/Gwen/Morgana
Word Count: 3905
Summary: car·ni·val·esque: adj. \ˌkär-nə-və-ˈlesk\. 1.: suggestive of a carnival. 2.: marked by an often mocking or satirical challenge to authority and the traditional social hierarchy. 3.: a term which refers to a literary mode that subverts and liberates the assumptions of the dominant style or atmosphere through humor and chaos, the origin of which is traced to the medieval Christmas-time festival, the Feast of Fools, where the world is turned-upside-down and ideas and truths are endlessly tested and contested.
Warning(s): None.
Notes: This story was written for peskywhistpaw in the 2010 camelotsolstice challenge, (originally posted here) and I'm reposting it on my journal because that challenge sorta imploded. This story is a complete departure from anything else I have ever written or am likely to write in the future: peskywhistpaw seemed to want something tonally similar to the show, with no explicit sex, angst, or distant future stuff -- so knowing me as y'all do, you can see this was quite a challenge. It was written for the Prompt #2: Christmas is coming to Camelot. It’s up to our heroes and/or heroines to make sure that everything runs smoothly. (Cue monsters and possibly epic adventures. Bonus points for nobody else realizing anything is amiss, as the heroes/heroines are running around crazily preventing mayhem). I didn't manage to fit in any monsters, but I tried my best to make this a lighthearted S1/S2-style romp, which avoids both tooth-rotting fluff and wrist-cutting angst, as requested. I hope you enjoy!
Beta credit: A special thank you to D. who always helps me find my way.]
Water splashed over his boots and, not for the first time, Merlin found himself wishing he owned more than one set of clothes. But there was nothing for it, a servant to a prince must go into the darkest places, must face the most horrific challenges, must rise to any and all occasions put forth before him by his lord… even if said lord was a bit of a git who, for some reason, hadn’t yet learned to bathe himself.
“Damn it, Merlin, that last bucket was too hot, are you trying to burn all my flesh off? That’s it, isn’t it? You think your future king would look better with half his skin melted away.”
“Oh yes, sire, it’d give you that lovely ‘I’ve fought a dragon and lived’ look that so many of the old kings liked to affect.”
“Merlin? Shut up and scrub my back.”
Merlin sighed, and went to it, the brush’s coarse handle working over his calluses, while the fine bristles on the other end were scrubbing the future king of Camelot into gentle cleanliness. Why it always seemed to work out that the fellow with only one set of clothes got the rough ends of things, while the fellow with two buildings full of clothes got the soft side, Merlin wasn’t sure, except that life was just incredibly unfair. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before Arthur rose from the scented water of the deep bath he was in, and stood, covered almost modestly by the foam. Merlin poured another bucket of water over his prince, to rinse away the soap, and was met with another yelp of exclamation.
“MERLIN!”
“What?” Merlin said innocently.
“That was ice cold, you idiot!”
“Well, you did say it was too hot before.”
“Oh, and of course, the only possible answer if something is too hot is to make it as cold as possible… is that right, Merlin?”
“I thought so, sire.” Merlin knew the grin stretching the corners of his mouth was bordering on demonic in its glee, but there was honestly nothing he could do about this. Not that he was trying very hard.
“You are truly useless, Merlin. You give new meaning to the word. If there is a realm where all things exist in their true forms, then surely you are there with a little sign saying 'useless' hanging off your nose.”
“Just as you say, my lord. Would you like me to dry you now?”
“Yes, Merlin, that is what is traditionally done at this stage of the process. And don’t forget any of the cracks this time; I was itching for hours last week.”
“You know, sire, one could say that a grown man should really know how to wipe his own arse.”
“Well, then, Merlin, from the smell of you, I think it’s pretty obvious you’re no grown man.” Arthur smiled in that annoyingly smug fashion that he had, whenever he thought he’d completely decimated Merlin in their ongoing battle of wits, and Merlin contemplated throwing something at him, or emptying another ice-bucket over his head, but realised this would probably not end well for him. He settled for rolling his eyes ostentatiously instead, before going over to the hearth, where Arthur’s clothes were warming in front of the fire.
“Arthur?”
“What?”
“Why are you wearing this stuff?”
Arthur lifted an eyebrow. “You want me to go to the feast naked?”
“There’s no surcoat, no vest, no fine silks and velvets… except is this a kerchief trimmed with real gold?”
Arthur gave a long-suffering sigh. “It’s Yule, you clot.”
“Right…? So, a costume party, then, and you’re going as… me?”
“Merlin, were you actually raised in the forest by wolves? I mean, really--” but then Arthur’s brain caught up to his mouth, and he stopped short on what had clearly been intended to be a lengthy and colorful diatribe on Merlin's ancestry and upbringing, as he realized he’d just insulted Merlin’s mother, of whom he was actually quite fond. Frankly, Merlin quite enjoyed watching him squirm. “Yule,” he went on hurriedly, clearly deciding to pretend that the previous sentence had never happened, “is when we have the bean feast. Everyone has cakes and ale, and we all dress as peasants, and when some minor knight or whatever draws the bean, they get to be the Lord of Misrule, and we all have to do what he says. Or she; last year it was Lady Griselda. And they pick a Queen of Love and Beauty, and then on Twelfth Night, there’s a joust.”
“Oh,” said Merlin. “This is like that holiday last spring, where you had to wash the feet of all those beggars?”
“Pentecost, you dimwit."
“And I had to pre-wash their feet for you?”
“Well, of course.”
“And that last one fainted, from your sheer magnificence, apparently, or you know, from hunger, because they probably needed food, more than getting their feet washed, and you decided I would do as a substitute?”
“Yes, Merlin. I remember. I was there. Unfortunately. Tell me, do you ever wash them yourself?”
“I think you enjoyed it. I think that this whole thing is a clever plot, orchestrated by you, because you’re secretly some sort of pervy foot-fancier.” Arthur threw the sponge at him, but Merlin managed to duck and avoid it. “Seriously, Arthur, do you honestly think all this rigmarole keeps you nobles humble or whatever it’s meant to do? Not that you seem worried about it most of the time.”
“No,” said Arthur. “But I think people are probably less likely to revolt, if you give them a brief turn on the top of the wheel.”
“That sounds a little… cold.”
“It’s court,” Arthur said, “of course it is.”
***
“Ow, my tooth! What is in this thing?”
At the cry, Arthur's head spun round to center instinctively on Merlin, who he'd allowed to sit below the salt at the feast as a special favour, because he was still sort of sorry about the whole 'raised by wolves' thing. Merlin had, apparently, just bit into a cake - Arthur silently swore himself blue - and was pulling --of course-- the sodding bean out of his mouth.
Somewhere next to him, Morgana - her beauty annoyingly undimmed by the blouse, bodice and skirt that she'd probably modeled on Gwen's, except that Gwen didn't usually dress in fine silks -- was laughing. “Oh, this is rich, Arthur, look!”
“Shut up,” he said, hoping his father wasn't paying attention, as he tried to sign to Merlin to stop talking. Merlin, of course, was oblivious. “Maybe he can just... put it back.”
“But why should he?” she said, smiling in that maniacal, intense way that always meant trouble. She rapped her goblet with her dagger, and it chimed. Everyone stopped talking. “My lords and ladies,” she called out in a ringing voice to the table at large, “someone has drawn the bean.”
Arthur put his head in his hands, as all eyes swung down to Merlin, who was sitting about as far away from the head of the table as one could be, while still in the same room.
“Wait, it's inside the cake?” Merlin said, spitting it out onto the plate, where it landed with a clatter. “You didn't tell me that, Ar-sire.”
Uther looked at Arthur meaningfully in a way that indicated they would be having a long, probably painful conversation later about why exactly his manservant had a seat at this feast. Then he cleared his throat, and said grudgingly, “It seems we have a Lord of Misrule.”
“I... I'm sure someone else could have it, sire,” Merlin said hopefully. “It wasn't in my mouth long at all, and I don't really--”
“Merlin,” Arthur hissed, “shut up.”
Uther shook his head in disbelief, and then gestured to the seat beside him. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Take your seat, boy.” He looked over at Lord Pellinore, and added, “Clearly, we'll have to content ourselves with substandard festivities this year.”
Arthur winced, as Merlin tripped over his own feet on his way towards the dais.
“Have I really got to wear this, this thing?” Merlin asked, when they were safe in Arthur's rooms, after the most agonizing bean feast Arthur had ever experienced had finally drawn to a close. He looked up at the crown of alternating donkey's ears and peacock feathers that was currently perched on his head at an alarmingly askew angle.
“Yes,” Arthur snapped. “Surely your ears are large enough to anchor it properly.”
“Speaking of ears, did they really lop two sets off of some poor donkeys to make this?” Merlin asked, his voice vaguely terrified.
“Yes. Sadly you weren't around when it was made, or they could have used yours.”
“Don't be such a prat, Arthur, I didn't do this on purpose. You could have warned me!”
“If you weren't such an ignoramus, I wouldn't have had to!”
“Why are you so bent out of shape about the whole thing, anyway? Why's it better being ordered around by Lord Whatshisface than me?” He sounded almost... hurt.
Arthur shuddered as he recalled the complete lack of dignity he'd displayed as he tried to convince his father that they could just redo the whole thing, or better yet just cancel it. At the point when his father nearly summoned the guards to escort him out, he'd had to give up. “It just is, Merlin, all right? Now, get out. You'll have to think of what to do to entertain the court over the next few days.” He sighed, and then added, “Try not to embarrass me.”
There was exactly as much chance of that, he knew, as there was of a pig suddenly flying by his window.
***
When Merlin entered the chamber he shared with Gaius, he was greeted by a rap on the head that nearly sent his ridiculous (and cruel to animals!) crown flying across the room. “What?” he said mulishly. “What've I done now?”
“You know, Merlin, sometimes I can't decide if you are simply suicidally stupid, or just stupidly suicidal. Which is it, do you think?”
Merlin looked at Gaius blankly. “What do you mean?”
“The bean, Merlin, the bean! How could you take one of those cakes? Have you no sense?”
“First of all, no one told me that the bean was in the cake! Second of all, why is this such a big deal? So, the nobles of Camelot have to be pranked by a peasant for a few days - probably do them all good.”
Gaius shook his head. “Do you know where this tradition comes from, Merlin? They mimic it now, with no real power behind it, but it comes from the Old Religion. The bean-king, the Lord of Misrule - he's supposed to be a sorcerer, so that once a year, on the longest day, magic is permitted to overwhelm the natural order, for good fortune in the coming months.”
“Oh,” said Merlin. “Well. They lucked out this year, then, didn't they?” When his teacher stared at him in disbelief, he went on. “Relax, Gaius, they don't know about me! It's not like we're going to tell them.”
“I'm very much afraid, Merlin, that we won't have to. You will have to be even more careful than usual. Don't let the slightest hint of magic escape you, however much it tries. And it will try.”
“I won't.”
“It will be harder than you think, but you must succeed. Because,” Gaius said slowly, “you should also know that at the end of the twelve days, the land demands the blood of the true bean-king, so that the natural order may flourish once more.”
“What?”
“Yes, Merlin. They used to let them pick the means... gallows, fire, or knife.”
“Oh,” said Merlin. “Well, that's just... great.”
***
Arthur couldn't quite decide what the worst point of the next few days was. The moment when Merlin had declared that all the lords and ladies of the court should exchange clothing, so that he was prancing around in Morgana's green velvet frock was definitely a strong candidate, only slightly mitigated by the sight of his father dancing in Lady Griselda's voluminous skirts.
Or there was the moment when, not satisfied with putting him in a dress, Merlin had picked Guinevere, his Guinevere to be the Queen of Love and Beauty, instead of one of the noble ladies, which was something Arthur had wanted to do himself someday, to see the stars in her eyes for him when he announced her name. Instead, his bloody manservant got to do it, which meant that not only would he get the credit for an idea that he'd clearly stolen from Arthur's brain somehow, but also that he would get to sit next to her at the tournament, instead of being in his proper place, which was obviously helping Arthur on with his armor, and not abandoning him to the assistance of some hapless fool of a squire.
To add insult to injury, as soon as Merlin had helped a blushing, incandescent Gwen into her chair, his harpy of a foster-sister had announced her intention, enthusiastically endorsed by the jumped up Lord of bloody Misrule, to enter the joust as well, and Uther had simply laughed and raised no objection. So now, there was the possibility - Arthur would admit this to himself, if no one else - that if Morgana were having a really good day, he wouldn't even be the one to get the kiss and the rose from Gwen at the end of the joust.
Also, somehow, the evenings after the feasts and the dancing and bloody holiday cheer were just really, really long and boring, without Merlin about to throw things at, to tease, and to eat mince pies with. It was making Arthur unbelievably irritable.
And then there was the actual worst thing, which was the fact that, while Merlin seemed to be keeping the court well entertained, and well lubricated (probably helping with the entertainment bit), Gaius, Arthur had noticed, simply looked more and more nervous as the evenings progressed. It was almost as if he were afraid that Merlin might explode, which Arthur supposed was entirely possible, given both what Arthur's tutors had told him long ago about the Yuletide festival, and what Arthur most definitely did not know about Merlin, and thus could plausibly deny if anyone asked him.
In the future, he decided, he was simply going to keep Merlin chained to the back of his chair at all times, which would cut down on the trouble he was able to get into. Probably.
Morgana came and stood next to him. “Why are you so grumpy?” she asked. “I think you look adorable in my dress.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. I like your arse in my breeches, by the way. Very... rounded.”
She hit him in what was ostensibly meant to be a playful way, but really hurt quite a lot. Then, “He's doing a fine job. Much better than Lady Griselda.”
“Lady Griselda spent the whole holiday trying to get my father in bed with her, making everyone walk backwards, and fart in three part harmony. Almost anything would be an improvement.”
“Don't be such a sour-puss. Are you really that worried I'm going to beat you in the tournament?”
“In your dreams. And don't think I'm going to go easy on you just because you're a girl.”
“Ha,” she said. “Last time we jousted, I beat you soundly.”
“We were twelve. I've grown since then.”
“We'll see,” she said ominously, and then smiled.
Arthur looked at her. “Why are you doing this anyway?”
“I never had the chance before,” Morgana said. “Merlin doesn't care how outrageous I am, so I can now. Why should I let you boys keep all the fun?” She looked over at Gwen, and Arthur saw her eyes glint. “Besides,” she added, “the reward seems very high this year.”
“I didn't realize you thought so,” said Arthur grimly.
Morgana arched an eyebrow at him. “And I didn't realize you did either. I'd rather thought you were too busy glaring at anyone who looks askance at Merlin.”
“Well,” Arthur said, and then had no idea what to say after that, so he took another drink instead.
“You should let us all know when you've decided what you want.”
“Um,” said Arthur. “Can't I want it all?”
“Oh,” Morgana said knowingly, “it's like that, is it?” She kissed him fondly on the cheek. “I suppose we could all learn to share.”
“We never did before,” Arthur said.
She grinned. “That was toys, Arthur. This is people. Besides, Gwen and Merlin ought to be considered too; they might not take being fought over as well as your tin soldiers did.”
This was an intriguing thought, but Arthur refused to think too much about such an optimistic solution. “I suppose it might work. If we all live.”
Morgana hit him again. “Lighten up,” she ordered him. “And dance with me. And stop staring at Merlin as if you'd like to eat him. People will notice.”
“I doubt it,” he said, but he did as he was told anyway, even though dancing in a skirt was very difficult, and he couldn't imagine how any of the girls managed it.
***
It was the eleventh and last day, and Merlin didn't know why Gaius had made such a fuss about this whole Lord of Misrule thing. It was quite a lark, actually. For the first time, he could see what the attraction was in being King, and having everyone obey your slightest whim. Power had never meant much to Merlin - after all, what was the point in having people bow and scrape to you, when you knew to the core of your being that you only had to raise your hand to flatten them to a wall, or rain lightning bolts down on their heads? But that was power that he had to hide and keep secret, not this tumbling, gleeful, whimsical madness that made people smile.
It was... fun. He hadn't been sure about it at first, but it had really grown on him. In a way, he would miss it when it was gone.
Gaius came up to the dais, where Merlin was sitting next to the king's throne, with Gwen's chair on the other side of it, waiting for them to arrive and the tournament to begin. “Merlin,” he warned in a low voice, “be careful.”
“I'm fine, Gaius,” he said. Really, he was getting pretty boring with this constant vigilance bit.
“Your eyes are glowing.”
“I'm fine,” he repeated, with a bit more force this time.
“You're feeling the power,” Gaius said more urgently. “It's making its last ditch attempt now. Don't give in. It wants you to use it--”
“Right,” Merlin snarled, cutting him off. “I get it.” Gaius stepped back a little at that, and somewhere inside himself, he felt a twinge of remorse. The king entered the arena, with the Queen of Love and Beauty beside him. For a second, it seemed to Merlin, that it was an older Arthur who walked there, with Gwen at his side, who acknowledged the shouts and applause of the crowd before taking his seat between the two of them, sorcerer and queen on either side.
He shook his head to clear it. Gwen smiled at him. “I don't think I thanked you, Merlin,” she said, when she realized Uther was simply ignoring her presence the way he did with anyone who wasn't of noble birth. “This has been... amazing.”
He nodded. “It's been my pleasure,” he said with a grin. “Who are you cheering for?”
“I think I'm meant to be impartial,” she said.
Merlin squinted at where the competitors were lining up, their helms in their hands. Among them, Morgana certainly stood out, and he could see that there was a lavender ribbon tied round her arm that matched Gwen's dress exactly. He nodded at it, and said, “Really?”
Gwen blushed.
Then Arthur rode into the ring, last by virtue of his rank. Merlin noticed he was wearing an identical ribbon. He fought off a surge of jealousy that made his eyes burn. Gwen nudged him. “You're not jousting,” she said, “but I've got one for you too.” She pressed a ribbon into his hand, and he smiled, warmed by her kindness. “Look,” she added, “what he's got tied underneath it.”
Merlin realized what he hadn't noticed before: that Arthur was wearing an ordinary, red cotton kerchief tied underneath the ribbon. It looked extremely familiar, and for a second, his heart leapt up into his mouth, with the sheer shock of it. He imagined Arthur creeping into his room to steal it, and he grinned, and waved at Arthur, who did his best to ignore him.
“I thought they were supposed to ask first?” he whispered to Gwen.
“Well, traditionally,” she whispered back. “But then he'd actually have to talk to you about it, wouldn't he?”
“Fair point,” Merlin conceded.
***
Things will unfold as they usually do in Camelot.
Merlin will be tempted to use his power lightly - power corrupts, after all -- but he will resist until Arthur is threatened, at which point he will use magic to intervene. Blood will be spilt, some of which will be Merlin's, which will actually be lucky, because the land - generous for once - will be content with that for now, though it may demand the life it's owed later.
Merlin will very carefully not think about that.
With some fast talking, they'll be able to convince Uther that he didn't see anything at all, and Arthur will conveniently become unconscious at just the right time. Gwen will give both Arthur and Morgana their kisses, though technically neither of them will have won. Arthur and Merlin will return to their usual, silent accord, in which certain things are known but not spoken of, kept on ice for a day when things that are now hidden can be revealed. Merlin will not get his kerchief back, though he will know where it is, in the box where Arthur keeps his precious, secret things.
After it's all over, things will return to normal, or as normal as they ever are in this corner of Albion. The natural order will triumph once more. And if servants and masters do occasionally stray from their proper places in the nights to come, well, the dark will keep their secrets.