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His concentration slips a little, lost in the cacophony of sounds and colours and the sheer number of people present. He’s therefore unsurprised when he hears his name. It could all be his imagination after all.
Gwen stills at his side, and the herald’s words finally register in Merlin’s brain.
‘Merlin, the Court Sorcerer.’
There’s a surreal moment of existential dread when every face in Camelot - those that know him and those that notice what everybody else is focusing on - turns towards him, expectant.
Merlin just stands there.
After a moment of silence, the herald clears his throat.
Merlin stands there.
Gwen breaks their half-embrace and pushes him forward, towards the throne, towards Arthur, who’s looking at him with a carefully blank expression. His feet move on their own accord, and he follows unthinkingly, kneels down at Arthur’s feet, kisses his extended hand.
The low murmur of voices grows steadily louder. Merlin stands up and joins the knights and vassals.
The crowd around him starts moving towards the Table, probably to begin feasting. Merlin wants to go, too, but his body refuses to obey.
Somebody’s hands push at his back, directing him towards the empty chair next to Arthur’s. He sits dumbly, along with all the knights, mind still completely blank.
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