Chapter Text
Merlin glared at the horses in front of him and wished, for the thousandth time, that there was a way he could speed up the whole bloody trip without getting burnt for it. He knew that they were nearly there from what he’d overheard from the scouts reporting back to Arthur, but still, he was feeling quite put out by the whole trip, and feeling even more put out by his reasons for feeling the way he did.
He usually liked getting out of the city, after all: he liked horses, he liked the forest, and he always slept deeper and better under the stars, and, so long as he had a moment to himself to conjure a nice, thick layer of moss beneath his bedroll, he even managed to sleep more comfortably camping out than he did at home on his own miserably hard mattress. Only, this was no camping trip. It wasn’t even a hunting trip, which he still could have enjoyed, for all that he loathed the senselessness of it all.
Oh, no. This was Merlin’s least favorite sort of trip.
Diplomacy.
And diplomacy, in this case, meant Uther, because, as Arthur put it, it would be an insult if the King didn’t come himself. He’d stood before his fireplace and lectured Merlin for the better part of an hour the day before they’d left, saying “Merlin, it’s absolutely imperative that you don’t mess this up. This isn’t just another castle we’re visiting, it’s the castle of the High King of Wales, ruler of Powys and Gwynedd both. So, while we’re there, you must keep your mouth shut, and do your job to the best of your abilities, such as they are, and strive to avoid the High King’s notice. You’ll have the journey there to practice, since my father will be riding with us.”
Merlin had tried to retort that if Arthur was so concerned about him coming along, he ought to bloody well let him stay home with Gaius, but Arthur wouldn’t hear any of it; he’d only waved his hands and said “Oh no, I wouldn’t dare leave you here alone, Merlin. Who knows if there’d even be a Camelot to come back to if I did? Besides, the High King doesn’t have any heirs, and he’s growing older; he may change his will and deed some of his land to Camelot if this trip goes well. This is too important for me to be distracted; I can’t have someone along to serve me who I don’t trust, even if there are dozens of servants who’d be more competent than you even on their worst days.”
And so, that was that; Merlin had found himself being dragged along, and he wasn’t happy about it.
He wasn’t, even if he couldn’t stop himself from grinning at Arthur having admitted to trusting him.
But that grin faded quickly once they actually left the citadel; having Uther along meant that Merlin was riding in the back of the procession, rather than up front with Arthur. It meant that he had to swallow every complaint and joke he thought up, even the ones he knew would have Arthur and even Leon laughing in spite of themselves, and, worst of all, he had to sleep in the corner of the camp instead of curling up beside Arthur’s bedroll in his tent ‘for warmth.’
Merlin rather thought he hated Uther more for depriving him of that sleeping arrangement than he did for his attitude on magic, and that had him feeling even more put out, because it was a reason that ran altogether too near to The Thing He Wasn’t Admitting To, Even To Himself.
So, all in all, Merlin thought he was having the worst week of his life, which made it only natural for things to get even worse.
* * *
Merlin couldn’t help but let out an awed little gasp when they crested a hill and caught their first glimpse of the castle, and was rewarded by joint proprietary glares from both Arthur and Uther, who were probably offended by the idea that anyone would dare to appreciate a castle that wasn’t Camelot in their presence, but really, the fortress was quite impressive. It stood tall at the center of a large dry-moat stuffed full of sharpened flame hardened spikes, and it sprawled out in dark grey stone, with curious spiraled towers, and something about it tickled at the back of Merlin’s brain, even though he knew he’d never been in this country before.
Merlin gave Arthur a vague, apologetic sort of smile, and the Prince turned away from Merlin and continued to confer with the King. Merlin resolved to put any thought of the castle’s strange familiarity out of his mind, and think over his duties again, when Uther put up a hand and called a halt.
“Be polite, be courteous, but above all, be wary. This is not Camelot, and the High King has always kept sorcerers,” he instructed them all, “so keep your guard up.”
Then the King signaled them forwards again, and Merlin was so distracted by the idea of Uther willingly putting himself in arm’s reach of sorcery that he moved about in a sort of daze as they made their way over the drawbridge and into the stables, where the reins were taken from Merlin, and all of them that came from Camelot down to the last servant were ushered into a receiving hall.
He was so dazed that when the High King called out a warm welcome in a booming bass voice that Merlin felt in his chest and drew Uther into a stiff one-armed hug, the shocking familiarity of that voice startled him into crying out, incredulously, “Vors?” when he knew he really ought to have stayed quiet and fled at the first opportunity, and every eye in the room turned on him in various degrees of outrage, shock, or embarrassment.
Before Arthur could take him to task, the High King— Vortigern, why couldn’t anyone have mentioned his name, curse it all! Merlin wanted to know— pulled himself out of Uther’s awkward embrace, and his glare was the harshest out of everyone’s, but only for a moment.
Then, registering what—who— he was seeing, the High King's face split into a radiant smile, and his shocked laugh rang out through the hall.
“Little Bird!” he cried, charging at Merlin and sweeping him into an embrace far warmer than the ritual gesture he’d given Uther. He pressed a quick kiss to the side of Merlin’s head and said “My falcon has returned to its roost at long last!”
And then he was issuing orders that sent every servant in the room scurrying, and Merlin knew that the gossip would be spread long before anyone from Camelot was told what was happening. “Ready the rooms next to mine, you know the ones; tell Cook we shall have a week of feasting, not three mere nights! Tomorrow she is to serve a suckling pig, but tell her tonight she may bake apples and may use all the honey and spices she likes to do so— I know how dearly you love them, Merlin— and be quick about it! Oh, Uther, such a gift you have given me!”
Then, before Merlin could utter a word, Vortigern seized him round the waist and lifted him up onto his shoulder the way he had when Merlin was still a child— and Merlin wondered how on earth he still managed that, after well over a decade of growth on Merlin’s part, and age on the King’s— and swept out of the room, with Merlin casting apologetic glances over his shoulder at Arthur, who looked a bit like he’d been beaten round the head.