Someday Out Of The Blue, Part 1
Title: Someday Out Of The Blue
Pairing/Characters: Arthur, Merlin, Gwen, Knights
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Words: 2469
Disclaimer: Don't own, not making profit
AN: This was written for this prompt at kinkme_merlinbefore series 4 aired. First published here.
Summary: The day Arthur is crowned, he names Merlin his Court Sorcerer. Merlin didn’t know that he knew.
There’s a perfectly legitimate reason why Arthur wants to be crowned king in his armour. Seeing him armed, always ready to defend his people, is sure to make citizens of Camelot feel safer in this troubling times. Still, Merlin can’t help feeling cheated. He’s stuck polishing armour - beautifully made, he notices, but clearly meant for show and not for battle - on what is essentially the most important night of his life. And it’s all Arthur’s fault.
When he’s done, he collects all the pieces and carries them to Arthur’s room. Arthur himself isn’t there - he must be still arranging the details of the ceremony with Geoffrey and the council. Merlin leaves to overlook the preparations, and not, as the cook put it, to stick his nose in places it doesn’t belong.
The entire castle is buzzing with activity, kind of like a beehive after a long winter. By the looks of it, the feast will drag on well into the night, and judging by the amount of wine and ale, it’s not likely there’s going to be a single person left sober this evening. Clearly, if anyone wanted to attack Camelot, tomorrow would be the perfect day - everyone will be too hungover to care.
Merlin wanders to the main hall. The Round Table occupies the entire main section, and almost groans under the weight of food and decorations. Each seat has a little wooden plate, carved with the name of the knight to be seated there. Merlin reads them all. The knights closest to Arthur’s place are the ones he knows best; Sir Leon at Arthur’s left hand, with Gwaine beside him. Lancelot is at the second place at Arthur’s right side.
The chair between them is empty.
He’s a little bit surprised. It must have been left that way on purpose - he doesn’t think someone would neglect such an important place. Maybe it was meant to be a surprise then, and he wonders who’s going to be seated there. Gwen perhaps, and the thought makes him smile.
When he asks a passing maid, she just shrugs and carries on, replacing the candles so that each is fresh and new. Everyone is busy, so he leaves, not wanting to disturb them. It would be nice to have something to do, he thinks, here in the castle where he could talk and chatter and laugh with everybody else. Instead he needs to walk back to wait in Arthur’s empty chambers.
He leans against the window, watching the courtyard, and tries to think - about the future, and destiny, and about Albion, united. But his minds refuses to cooperate. Everything just seems so huge, so unbelievable. Before, he used to truly believe that when Arthur became king, things would be different. He knows that for sure, now, but different doesn’t always mean better. It’s not the goal they have all been working for - it’s merely the beginning of something new. And Merlin, despite his best efforts, is scared.
Work helps. He cleans the fireplace, although someone has already done that earlier, and restocks the logs. Then he lays out clothes for Arthur to change into, because while the armour is pretty impressive, it can’t be very comfortable. He polishes the buttons of Arthur’s favourite red jacket, his shoes, and the coronet he used to wear as a Crown Prince, even though it will be years since somebody’s going to need it again.
And then there’s Excalibur.
Arthur never leaves it alone; when it’s not buckled at his belt, Merlin has to watch over it. But now it’s right here, lying on the desk, the blade gleaming and razor-sharp.
Merlin picks it up gently. He’s never been good with swords - or any other weapons that he can’t wave around and use magic with, for that matter - but Excalibur has always felt familiar and natural in his hand. It is strangely warm, vibrating with energy, the golden patterns almost glowing; he wonders if anyone else ever noticed.
Arthur’s footsteps can be heard in the corridor, becoming steadily louder, and Merlin hastily puts the weapon away. He stands up straight, the picture of an obedient manservant, but isn’t much surprised when Arthur frowns at him.
‘You aren’t wearing that, are you?’ he asks.
Merlin looks down.
‘What’s wrong with my clothes?’ he says, puzzled. He made sure to wash and repair them beforehand.
‘Nothing, except they’re hideously ugly.’ Arthur slumps down onto his throne-like chair, grinning. ‘But don’t worry, I had the seamstresses prepare something more acceptable.’
Merlin has to fight back the urge to say something unpleasant.
‘I always dress like that,’ he says reproachfully.
‘Exactly. But you now have appearances to keep.’
‘I don’t see,’ says Merlin, ‘how cleaning your room when you’re king is going to be different than when you were a prince.’
‘I’d imagine it is a greater honour.’
‘Really? Then you should try it yourself,’ Merlin grumbles.
Arthur shoots him an eyebrow-arched look of haughty indignation.
‘I,’ he says pointedly, ‘am soon going to be the king. One would think you might learn some respect.’
‘Well, excuse me your soon-going-to-be majesty, but one would think you might learn how not to be a prat.’
‘Merlin. Shall I remind you that your place in this castle, specifically your place at the stocks, is now entirely for me to decide?’
‘How lucky I am, then, to have such a wise and benevolent king,’ Merlin says, deadpan. Arthur smirks and Merlin smiles at him, because despite everything, he really thinks he’s lucky.
For a moment they look at each other, and there’s something strange in Arthur’s face, some unknown quality. But then he clears his throat and stands up.
‘Enough chit-chat, Merlin, I have to get prepared.’
‘Yes, sire.’
The routine is pleasantly familiar, and Merlin thinks he could do it in his sleep. Arthur is rigid, a faraway look on his face, while Merlin smoothes and tightens and buckles, quickly and efficiently. His mind flashes to the first time they were doing this, both angry, Arthur glaring all the time and he himself confused and irritable. So much has changed; and yet again, so many things have stayed the same.
Soon after he finishes readying Arthur, there’s a polite knock at the door.
‘Enter,’ Arthur says.
A servant scurries in, carrying a basket of colourful fabric, and drops a respectful curtsey.
‘Sire,’ she says, leaves the basket and disappears again.
‘Ah, there they are. Official robes of the servant of Camelot,’ Arthur smirks, and Merlin stops dead in his tracks to pick them up.
‘I’m not wearing the hat,’ he says flatly, and sincerely hates the look on Arthur’s face.
‘I’m your king, Merlin, you’re wearing what I say you’re wearing. But not,’ he silences Merlin with a raised finger, ‘the hat. At least not this time.’
Merlin glares.
***
Part 2
Pairing/Characters: Arthur, Merlin, Gwen, Knights
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Words: 2469
Disclaimer: Don't own, not making profit
AN: This was written for this prompt at kinkme_merlinbefore series 4 aired. First published here.
Summary: The day Arthur is crowned, he names Merlin his Court Sorcerer. Merlin didn’t know that he knew.
There’s a perfectly legitimate reason why Arthur wants to be crowned king in his armour. Seeing him armed, always ready to defend his people, is sure to make citizens of Camelot feel safer in this troubling times. Still, Merlin can’t help feeling cheated. He’s stuck polishing armour - beautifully made, he notices, but clearly meant for show and not for battle - on what is essentially the most important night of his life. And it’s all Arthur’s fault.
When he’s done, he collects all the pieces and carries them to Arthur’s room. Arthur himself isn’t there - he must be still arranging the details of the ceremony with Geoffrey and the council. Merlin leaves to overlook the preparations, and not, as the cook put it, to stick his nose in places it doesn’t belong.
The entire castle is buzzing with activity, kind of like a beehive after a long winter. By the looks of it, the feast will drag on well into the night, and judging by the amount of wine and ale, it’s not likely there’s going to be a single person left sober this evening. Clearly, if anyone wanted to attack Camelot, tomorrow would be the perfect day - everyone will be too hungover to care.
Merlin wanders to the main hall. The Round Table occupies the entire main section, and almost groans under the weight of food and decorations. Each seat has a little wooden plate, carved with the name of the knight to be seated there. Merlin reads them all. The knights closest to Arthur’s place are the ones he knows best; Sir Leon at Arthur’s left hand, with Gwaine beside him. Lancelot is at the second place at Arthur’s right side.
The chair between them is empty.
He’s a little bit surprised. It must have been left that way on purpose - he doesn’t think someone would neglect such an important place. Maybe it was meant to be a surprise then, and he wonders who’s going to be seated there. Gwen perhaps, and the thought makes him smile.
When he asks a passing maid, she just shrugs and carries on, replacing the candles so that each is fresh and new. Everyone is busy, so he leaves, not wanting to disturb them. It would be nice to have something to do, he thinks, here in the castle where he could talk and chatter and laugh with everybody else. Instead he needs to walk back to wait in Arthur’s empty chambers.
He leans against the window, watching the courtyard, and tries to think - about the future, and destiny, and about Albion, united. But his minds refuses to cooperate. Everything just seems so huge, so unbelievable. Before, he used to truly believe that when Arthur became king, things would be different. He knows that for sure, now, but different doesn’t always mean better. It’s not the goal they have all been working for - it’s merely the beginning of something new. And Merlin, despite his best efforts, is scared.
Work helps. He cleans the fireplace, although someone has already done that earlier, and restocks the logs. Then he lays out clothes for Arthur to change into, because while the armour is pretty impressive, it can’t be very comfortable. He polishes the buttons of Arthur’s favourite red jacket, his shoes, and the coronet he used to wear as a Crown Prince, even though it will be years since somebody’s going to need it again.
And then there’s Excalibur.
Arthur never leaves it alone; when it’s not buckled at his belt, Merlin has to watch over it. But now it’s right here, lying on the desk, the blade gleaming and razor-sharp.
Merlin picks it up gently. He’s never been good with swords - or any other weapons that he can’t wave around and use magic with, for that matter - but Excalibur has always felt familiar and natural in his hand. It is strangely warm, vibrating with energy, the golden patterns almost glowing; he wonders if anyone else ever noticed.
Arthur’s footsteps can be heard in the corridor, becoming steadily louder, and Merlin hastily puts the weapon away. He stands up straight, the picture of an obedient manservant, but isn’t much surprised when Arthur frowns at him.
‘You aren’t wearing that, are you?’ he asks.
Merlin looks down.
‘What’s wrong with my clothes?’ he says, puzzled. He made sure to wash and repair them beforehand.
‘Nothing, except they’re hideously ugly.’ Arthur slumps down onto his throne-like chair, grinning. ‘But don’t worry, I had the seamstresses prepare something more acceptable.’
Merlin has to fight back the urge to say something unpleasant.
‘I always dress like that,’ he says reproachfully.
‘Exactly. But you now have appearances to keep.’
‘I don’t see,’ says Merlin, ‘how cleaning your room when you’re king is going to be different than when you were a prince.’
‘I’d imagine it is a greater honour.’
‘Really? Then you should try it yourself,’ Merlin grumbles.
Arthur shoots him an eyebrow-arched look of haughty indignation.
‘I,’ he says pointedly, ‘am soon going to be the king. One would think you might learn some respect.’
‘Well, excuse me your soon-going-to-be majesty, but one would think you might learn how not to be a prat.’
‘Merlin. Shall I remind you that your place in this castle, specifically your place at the stocks, is now entirely for me to decide?’
‘How lucky I am, then, to have such a wise and benevolent king,’ Merlin says, deadpan. Arthur smirks and Merlin smiles at him, because despite everything, he really thinks he’s lucky.
For a moment they look at each other, and there’s something strange in Arthur’s face, some unknown quality. But then he clears his throat and stands up.
‘Enough chit-chat, Merlin, I have to get prepared.’
‘Yes, sire.’
The routine is pleasantly familiar, and Merlin thinks he could do it in his sleep. Arthur is rigid, a faraway look on his face, while Merlin smoothes and tightens and buckles, quickly and efficiently. His mind flashes to the first time they were doing this, both angry, Arthur glaring all the time and he himself confused and irritable. So much has changed; and yet again, so many things have stayed the same.
Soon after he finishes readying Arthur, there’s a polite knock at the door.
‘Enter,’ Arthur says.
A servant scurries in, carrying a basket of colourful fabric, and drops a respectful curtsey.
‘Sire,’ she says, leaves the basket and disappears again.
‘Ah, there they are. Official robes of the servant of Camelot,’ Arthur smirks, and Merlin stops dead in his tracks to pick them up.
‘I’m not wearing the hat,’ he says flatly, and sincerely hates the look on Arthur’s face.
‘I’m your king, Merlin, you’re wearing what I say you’re wearing. But not,’ he silences Merlin with a raised finger, ‘the hat. At least not this time.’
Merlin glares.
***
Part 2