Chapter Text
It is a simpler task by far to reconcile the fact that Merlin has magic than the fact that Merlin is, in the most technical sense, a lord.
A Dragonlord, but so far as Arthur can tell it still seems to count. Or so say the old records–what precious few survived the purge. Perhaps laid aside in the distant past and forgotten due to the sheer banality. Cracked and fraying treaties, covered with dust and smudges of drool where his ancestors must have fallen asleep upon them.
Ethyllt Pendragon, son of Cynan, son of Rhodri, in accordance with the wishes of his father, Idwal, who named Siôn of the Dragonlords a Lord of Deheubarth, and oh it is endless. Apparently Arthur and Merlin’s families have been friends and allies for untold lengths of history, from before they kept records at all–and just this morning Arthur had mashed his smelly socks in Merlin’s face.
In Arthur’s defence, if Merlin does not wish for smelly socks rubbed in his face, he should clean them, which is still his job, no matter how poorly he does it.
That is a thought, though, Arthur cannot help but admit. It feels forbidden, even long past the age where he needs to fear his father looking over his shoulder. Merlin, he mulls, a lord.
Lord Merlin.
An amusing thought, in that abstract way. He couldn’t have land, of course. The poor citizens have never done anything to deserve the mismanagement that Merlin would no doubt inflict on them–and besides all of that, Deheubarth has long been lost to Essitir, since before either of their father’s time or their father’s time, so there isn’t an ancestral home for Arthur to give even if he wanted to.
Which he doesn’t. Clearly.
Hah, Arthur thinks–Merlin in a castle. Well, in any castle other than Arthur’s.
Although Merlin doesn’t not deserve a title, Arthur twistily thinks, thumbing through the pages of the tatty treaties. His eyes water from the motes of dust that swim through the air. Maybe there is some ceremonial position that might keep Merlin close–not that he should be missed should he go away, but Merlin leaving the citadel is simply not an option. He is like a particularly tenacious burr. Snagged tight on every thread of Arthur’s life, so that removing him would really be too much trouble. It is a matter of plain sensibility, and nothing more.
Royal Cupbearer? That’s half of Merlin’s job anyway. Standing and staring vacantly with a pitcher, only to snap to attention just long enough to pull a funny face at Arthur when he least needs the distraction. The other half of his job seems to be eating Arthur’s food, so maybe The Royal Poison Taster?
It takes no time at all to be swept unwillingly back to the horrific memory of Merlin gasping for breath, his face going even paler than usual. Ashen. Lips blue. His fingers cold and his pulse thready and weak under Arthur’s shaking hands. He can never forget it; it haunts him with grotesque clarity even all these years later.
Perhaps not a poison taster, then.
Court Sorcerer makes some degree of sense, as impossible as it is to wrap his head around it, but… as much as Arthur has grown used to the idea of magic being a force for good as well as evil, Camelot is not quite there yet. Geoffrey is helping with the history and slow legalities of changing the laws, hence Arthur wasting a perfectly good spring afternoon buried to his eyeballs in paperwork.
No. Someday–maybe even some day soon–but not yet.
Something properly humiliating would be nice in the meantime. Arthur hasn’t gotten him back into those horrible servant robes in ages, no matter what threats he makes. The hat, Arthur remembers, a mean grin finding his face for all that he is alone in the gloom of the records room.
A new wardrobe would be befitting for a man of Merlin’s station, should he become officially titled, as he is owed. If the wardrobe is supplied by his lord and king, it is only duty. If the wardrobe is a bit silly, it is only tradition.
Yes, Arthur thinks, there is some potential here.
***
“Royal Bard?” Merlin baulks at him, his mouth unflatteringly agog. He holds one of Arthur’s tunics in one hand, a pile of dirty dishes in the other. His hair is getting longer than usual, with a little shadow of beard coming in, and bruises under his eyes from poor sleep. Run ragged–and not even by Arthur, who has long since given up hope of competency. “I don’t know any music!”
“I know,” Arthur says gleefully, rubbing his hands together and wondering if the hat will be pointy this time. He has already informed the tailor that nothing was too much, no expense too great or dye too lurid. “It’s a prestigious position, Merlin! Say thank you!”
Merlin does not say thank you, choosing instead to merely stand there in the middle of Arthur’s chambers gaping. He sets the plates down on the table with a clatter, then muffles a scream into Arthur’s tunic.
“I can’t do another job,” he swears, long seconds later after he’s done with his caterwauling. “I’ve got you, and Gaius, and you–”
“You’ve said me twice,” Arthur points out.
“And I’ll say ‘you’ again! You, you, you! You’re more work than three men!”
“How’s your poetry?” Arthur asks, crossing his arms. “History? Being a bard is more than just tavern songs, you know.”
“I’ll tell Gwen on you,” Merlin threatens, “see if I don’t.”
“Oh stop complaining.” Arthur rolls his eyes, settling behind his desk. He finds a quill, twisting the feather in his hand as he observes Merlin’s crisis. “You’ll obviously not be required as my manservant anymore–”
“You’re firing me?” Merlin throws the tunic at Arthur’s face. It lands with a limp fwoosh of air. “After everything?! I thought you didn’t care about the magic, you absolute ass –”
“I don’t,” Arthur protests, sputtering as he drags the tunic off his head. “Well, not anymore, anyway. No, you’re being promoted. Which of us here is being an ass!?”
“Still you!” Merlin shrieks.
“You’ll chronicle my greatness,” Arthur says, cheeks pinching from how large his smile grows, “and write poems of my deeds. Good poems,” he clarifies, thinking vaguely for the sanity of some distant descendant of his finding the awful limericks Merlin is sure to attempt first. “Nice ones. Perhaps you will sing for the court, won’t that be fun?”
“I am a great singer,” Merlin defends himself, flopping down to sit on the side of Arthur’s bed. Completely improper, of course, but less so if he is a lord. There are a lot of things Merlin does that would suddenly become more acceptable with the aid of a title. All of his various abuses of the Royal Personage would become slightly less treasonous.
If Arthur were still a young man who was afraid of his father–which he isn’t– he might say that if Merlin is a lord they might be proper friends. The kind who can say it out loud instead of keeping it unspoken, buy each other drinks, maybe even going so far as to spend time together not as a master and servant.
“You’re alright,” Arthur admits. Said singing is hardly great: mostly loud, and always when drunk. “The point is, Mer lin, that you will no longer be in charge of my socks, and my chambers might actually be properly clean for once. You’ll have a title–”
“A title?!” Merlin gasps, clutching a hand to his chest like an outraged maiden. “You're having a laugh, no–”
“And a new room,” Arthur barrels on regardless, “and a new wardrobe–”
“I can’t afford a new wardrobe!”
“You won’t have to, your magnanimous king will–”
“Like hell he will,” Merlin says, launching a pillow. If Merlin’s aim with a bow was half what it is with a pillow then Arthur might knight him instead. Alas, it is not.
“Too late,” Arthur informs him, dripping with mock sympathy as he lobs the pillow back with a vicious overhand. Merlin falls back into the duvet with a yelp. “You’ve an appointment with Ava. Oh, and you’re running late, isn’t that terrible. You know how Ava feels about timeliness.”
Ava feels strongly about timeliness, is how she feels, and all Merlin feels for Ava is terror. Arthur has never been entirely certain as to why, but Merlin’s early days in the castle were tumultuous at best, so any number of things might be the cause. The seamstress has given up on kitting out Arthur properly, but she’s also been feeling the sting of losing her favourite doll to dress ever since Morgana decided to live in the woods and use twigs for grooming and spiderwebs for clothes.
“Ava?! I thought you said you weren’t cross,” Merlin says, scrambling up.
“I’m not,” Arthur says, with just enough sincerity to soothe any lingering suspicion. “You’re already technically a lord. Dragonlord. I checked! That’s true without me doing anything. I can’t give you your land back, even if you wanted it. Take it up with Lot if you have an issue–”
“What land?” Merlin asks, halfway to the door.
“Your family and mine,” Arthur says, somehow embarrassed, even though there is no cause to be, “we used to be friends. Allies. Your land was to the south, before–”
“Before,” Merlin fills in.
“Before,” Arthur agrees, clearing his throat. “I won’t have layabouts in my court, though,” he sieges on, unrelenting under the assault of the awkwardness of one of their families largely slaughtering the other, “so you’ll–”
“Sing for my supper?” Merlin raises an eyebrow in an uncanny imitation of Gaius.
“Quite so,” Arthur agrees. They stand there like ninnies, smiling at one another for what feels like an eternity, until Arthur feels his face start to flush from some unknown emotion. “Say hello to Ava for me,” he says, laughing brightly as Merlin swears, flinging himself out of the door and onto the mercy of the tailor.
Merlin is certain to come back in something entirely ridiculous.
Maybe it will have bells on it.
***
To Arthur’s great disappointment, Merlin looks much the same when he returns, if slightly more traumatised.
“She says it takes time to create art,” he whispers to Arthur in explanation, back straight and posture perfect–as though Ava is looming right behind him. Ha, Arthur thinks, loom. He shall have to remember that. “So… what do I do now?” He looks over the expanse of Arthur’s chambers with new eyes. “Who is going to pick up after you? Will you starve to death if I don’t bring you breakfast?”
“Actually,” Arthur says with insulting cheer, “there are many people in Camelot who can walk up stairs. Some of them don’t even trip and leave half a goose behind for Leon to trip on–”
“That was one time,” Merlin protests, dragging a chair away from the table and settling across the desk from Arthur, picking through his papers without so much as a care. “What are you doing?”
“The brewers again,” Arthur says, loaded with meaning.
“Oh,” Merlin tsks, understanding immediately, “let me see.”
Arthur hands over his papers with no protest, letting his chin rest upon his crossed arms as he lays his head low. Merlin’s pale fingers flick quickly through the pages before reaching for a quill. Confidence has never been something he has lacked. Arthur watches his fingers, thin and tapered, with clean nails that must be attributed to working in a clinic more than any virtue of Merlin’s.
Maybe he’ll learn to play the lyre, Arthur thinks, although the notion seems less and less like a jest as he watches neat letters take shape under nimble hands.
***
Arthur merrily invites himself to Merlin’s first fitting.
He is the king of Camelot, so he is allowed. Gwen also invites herself, and she is Gwen, so she is also allowed.
“I don’t know,” Merlin moans from behind the changing screen where he is hiding, because he is a giant girl.
“Chin up,” Ava instructs him. Over the very tip-top of the screen the very tip-top of Merlin’s head straightens up with a jerk as he hastens to obey. His hair has started to curl as it grows. “How does His Majesty feel about gold?” she asks, and Arthur tears his eyes away from the way the light catches in Merlin’s hair like a crown.
“Yes?” he says. Gold? He had told Ava to spare no expense, after all, he should not be so surprised.
“Blue?”
“Yes,” he says more firmly.
“Red?”
“Yes,” he says a third time, picturing the way Merlin had looked in Arthur’s old quilted jacket during his coronation. Wait, no, he is distantly aware, this is supposed to make Merlin look a fool, not like, well, like that. “On second thought,” he says, “maybe green?”
“Oh, this green would be such a lovely colour on Merlin,” Gwen gushes happily, flipping through reams of fabric and pulling out one the colour of a rich forest, “you are completely right!” She passes it around the screen for Ava to judge, practically squirming in joy as it is taken. “Then again, almost every colour would suit Merlin, wouldn’t it?”
“Gwen,” Merlin protests, though they can all hear the smile in his voice, “have you mixed us up again?”
“Oh pish,” Gwen laughs, pulling the curtains back to let in more light. The spring is a gentle one, the weather fair without fail. She resettles a vase of flowers, and the pleasant scent wafts through the air in a soft reminder of serene meadows.
Ugh, Arthur thinks, feeling sullen and left out, like a child.
“What do you think?” Merlin asks nervously, stepping out from behind the screen. Ava, a petite vulture lurking at the edges of the room, huddles with Gwen, their heads bowed low together as they stare. “Is it awful?”
He doesn't look funny, is Arthur’s first, slow thought. It creeps over him like the inescapable light of dawn. A dim sort of awareness set upon by the clarity of a new day. There are no bells or offensive colours. No patterns or girlish lace. Ava has woefully misunderstood. He’s not even buried in fabric like a monk.
What there is is an expanse of rich, dark blue, cut longer than his usual working tunics and more like those of a scholar. Split in the fashion of a surcoat, and belted with a strip of fine metal plates prettily embellished with what Arthur suspects are actual gold and gemstones. They twinkle at him in a way that feels mocking. From Merlin’s shoulders drop a–well, Arthur isn’t sure what to call them. It’s not a cape, it’s not quite sleeves. They split as well, like petals from the flowers Gwen had moved. The inner lining flashes a brighter fabric like a secret, pearlescent in the sun streaming in from the windows.
It is trim, and well fitted, and shows off the breadth of Merlin’s shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. The length of his legs, which suddenly don’t seem so knobbly-kneed as usual. Instead of coltish he looks sleek, instead of pinched he looks carved, instead of Merlin he looks like–like–
What has Ava done?
He looks–
No, it is too horrible to even put name to, even in the sanctity of his own mind.
A hot knot of something grows under his heart, blistering and foreign. His stomach twists into knots.
“You look so beautiful!” Gwen says, her eyes misty. “Or handsome, I mean, if you don’t like beautiful, it’s only that you do look so beautiful!”
“Aw,” Merlin says, grinning shyly. He brings a hand up to flutter around the fastenings, not actually touching. Arthur’s eyes dart from one place to the next. None of it is bad. Not a single bit to make fun of. The opposite of bad. There is probably a word for it, but all Arthur’s mind is capable of producing is a tinny hum. “It seems like too much. Not even Arthur wears things like this.”
“We’ve given up on him,” Ava says boldly, speaking on behalf of every seamstress in the kingdom. “The king may wear his sleeping shirts and muddy boots all about the castle if he chooses.” Which is the first laugh of the day, for if Arthur ever has muddy boots it’s Merlin’s fault. She pokes his shoulder with a sharp command to stand up straight. “You’ll ruin the lines. No slouching.”
“You don’t really wear your sleeping shirts outside, do you?” Merlin asks suspiciously, as though he hasn’t been dressing Arthur for years.
“I’m the king,” Arthur says grumpily, swallowing around the stone that has settled in his throat, “I can wear what I want.”
“What about what I want?”
“I’m the king,” Arthur repeats slowly, since Merlin is being particularly thick, “and so you can also wear what I want.”
“Yes,” Gwen placates them like a pair of children, “and what Arthur wants is for you to wear this.” She says it as though the words carry some great weight of meaning to them; but if they do at least Merlin is as lost as Arthur is. He smiles gormlessly at Gwen in that way of his that really means ‘I don’t know what to say, so I won’t say anything at all in hopes that eventually you forget you were awaiting a reply’.
“Perhaps my lord might choose some jewellery to go with. Some tasteful accents are just what is needed to complete the vision. I have arranged for Hywel to attend us shortly,” Ava says. Her voice is bland, and Arthur realises at once that she must be punishing him for being the least fun royal to dress in all the five kingdoms. So what if Arthur likes to be comfortable? He has formal clothes, he just doesn’t see the point of wearing them to the training pitch. “And Cynddelw, of course,” she carries on, naming the cordwainer.
“Of course,” Arthur says dizzily.
“What?” Merlin says, head snapping up, eyes wide. “Surely there’s no need for that–”
It is a whirlwind after Hywel arrives, made all the worse by Cynddelw. At any given time four to six hands are on Merlin, poking and prodding as he looks increasingly lost. He sends a soulful look to Arthur, pleading for intervention, but all Arthur can do is sit.
Stunned. Staring.
Merlin shines like the north star on the darkest night of the year.
Gwen pats Arthur’s arm in consolation, but he barely even feels it.
***
“Looking good,” Gwaine whistles, sidling up towards Merlin with a swagger in his step. He tosses an apple up, catching it in his palm with a smack. “Did you rob someone?”
They sit on the edges of the training pitch, one of the hunting dogs snoring away under the rough hewn bench. Arthur mindlessly sharpens his sword, ignoring the world at large with supreme dedication and not thinking about how fetching Merlin looks even one single bit.
“I didn’t rob anyone,” Merlin says, plucking listlessly at his new lyre, which Arthur had also given him, because Arthur is clearly ploughing headlong into his hereditary Pendragon Madness stage of life with just as much dignity as his father before him. And so young, too.
And yet here they are. Merlin, draped in silk, and Arthur, a hollow shell of a man. Victim of his own hubris. Funny, he had thought. Silly, he had laughed. Now who was laughing? Not Arthur.
“I’m the new court bard?” Merlin sounds out carefully.
“You seem unsure,” Gwaine points out, taking a crunching bite, “and yet you have a lyre.” He points an obnoxious finger at them, waggling it.
“Arthur,” Merlin says darkly in explanation, glaring daggers at him. Well, he corrects himself, if there is any such thing as vividly blue daggers that are a soft shade of sapphire, set off even more than usual by their very fine cloak pin.
It is in the shape of a diving bird, and Arthur had bought three varieties of them with different colourful sets of radiant gems. A songbird, a swan, and a falcon; one in bronze, one in silver, and one in gold.
Hywel had been beside himself with joy.
That doesn’t even account for the bevy of rings, the new boots, the scarves, the tunics, the trousers and cloaks, the hoods and gloves. The… underthings. Arthur now has been cursed with the knowledge that Merlin both has and wears braies, which of course he must, but Arthur had never had to think about it before, and now he can think of little else.
There hadn't even been anything special about them. Linen, undyed. Wool for cold days. Perfectly ordinary, and yet his mind spins. Obsessed. Consumed.
He had been in a fugue state, clearly. He’d woken up and the deeds had all been done, courtesy of someone else at the helm of the ship that is Arthur. Someone who has difficulty saying no, apparently, and thinks that Merlin needs fourteen rings.
Arthur doesn’t even have fourteen rings, not to mention that neither of them even have fourteen fingers with which to use them. Well, unless you counted them as shared, which Arthur did not. Fingers or rings–either which way.
Merlin had squawked in mortified protest, but Arthur had paid him no mind, too busy feeling both numb and on fire all at once. He was even now still doing his absolute best to pay Merlin no mind at all, in fact, merely carrying on as normal.
If normal is taking turns staring unblinkingly at Merlin for long minutes at a time and then refusing to look at him at all, that is.
“Bard, huh?” Gwaine hums. “It’s a better job than your last one. I didn’t even know you knew how to play. That’s fun though, and you must be good if Princess here made you the court bard. Come on, give us a tune!”
“Alright,” Merlin says, suddenly in much better cheer. The ensuing noise is not what the most charitable man in the world might call music, and even Gwaine, who is stalwart in his devotion to Merlin, covers his ears halfway through. “I’ve also been working on a poem,” Merlin says, after he has finished and the dog has long since run away. “Would you like to hear it?”
“No,” Gwaine answers, which is more than Arthur can manage.
“It’s about Arthur,” Merlin smiles, knife bright. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to hear a bit?”
“Come on,” Arthur finally has the wits to order, leading Gwaine towards the pitch and leaving Merlin behind on the bench, “maybe you can put me out of my misery.”
Once he has taken some distance from Merlin, he is able to breathe again, forgetting for a moment all the wretched torment of the past days. One gasp of sanity in a world gone mad. When he next turns around it will merely be his skinny manservant in his tatty old scarf and stupid hair again. There will be nothing appealing about him at all, with a shirt that has a dried vegetable stain on it from where a little girl got him dead centre in the stocks. He’ll still look all of fourteen years old from some backwater, and Arthur will have a laugh over having ever thought otherwise.
He flips his sword around in his hand, taking a bracing breath. When he looks back, Merlin remains there, still perched on the bench, lyre across his knees. His gaze is turned up towards the bright sky, watching the clouds pass by and savouring the sun kissing his skin. He closes his eyes, and even at this distance Arthur can see the rise of his chest as he takes a deep breath of the fresh air. His eyelashes fan across his pale face like charcoal and a smile curls upon his full mouth. And of course he is still in his new finery, which stirs around him in the breeze like ripples of sparkling water. He is dazzling. Picturesque like something out of an ancient fae story.
Arthur aches to rip the lyre off of his lap and lay his head down instead. Would Merlin card those elegant fingers through his hair? Perhaps Arthur should have a portrait done, he thinks feverishly, or a tapestry. Would Merlin prefer a tapestry?
“So. What’s wrong with you?” Gwaine asks, after several moments of this silent staring go by. Arthur blinks his dry eyes. Merlin waves.
“I wish I knew,” Arthur sighs, reluctantly dragging his sword up and into position for the bout, but not before he waves back like a lovesotted idiot. When Merlin beams at him in reply, Arthur’s heart does a fluttering sort of dance in his chest, like a whole forest’s worth of butterflies have been set loose within his rib cage.
***
“What rhymes with prat?” Merlin asks. He’s idling at Arthur’s shoulder during the midday open court, voice low as he mutters in between the petitioning nobles. Observing for inspiration, which is his only duty now. It seems to drive him mad with boredom, although Arthur doesn’t see how his situation would be improved by doing the exact same thing but holding a pitcher and leaning against the wall, which was the exact state of things a sennight ago. Gwen keeps everything orderly in spite of Merlin’s constant interruptions–a better seneschal Arthur cannot imagine. “I have splat, and rat. I really think there’s something developing here.”
“You’re getting worse somehow,” Arthur whispers back, judiciously not mentioning that ‘fat’ is right there. “Do I need to fire you again?”
“I thought you said you didn’t fire me–” Merlin teases, before going suddenly still. Staring out into the thin crowd, his eyes narrow with a sharp focus. It is not a busy day, and they are nearly finished.
“What is it?” Arthur asks, peering. Is there trouble?
“Who is that man? I swear he’s following you!” Merlin glares at an old man, thin wisps of white hair sprouting at his temples, the rest of his head covered with a floppy ochre hat. Arthur recognizes this man–Arthur had hired this man.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he lies, as Gwen ushers the last petitioner forward. He prays they speak swiftly. Alas, she turns out to be Lady Beatrice, who is ninety if she's a day, and moves like she has another ninety years to spare. Arthur does something that if he were not a king one might call fidgeting, but since he is a king it is not.
“No,” Merlin says, his miserably clean and well shaped booted foot tapping an anxious rhythm on the stone floor, “I’m really good at this part of the job, actually. If he’s not following you, I’ll eat his ugly hat. No, I’m going to go talk to him.”
He strides purposefully forwards, only to come to an ungainly halt as Arthur grabs his mantle. Today he is bedecked in a resplendent green–that very same one that Gwen had chosen–with golden needlework along the edges so fine you needed to be dangerously close to Merlin to make out the pattern of woodland. A hunting chase is depicted in the corners, a hare fleeing a wolf. It is lined with sable fur and Arthur wants to push his entire face into it and learn if it smells like Merlin yet. Instead he only grips it tighter, knuckles going white as Merlin tries to tug himself free.
He does not tumble straight into Arthur’s lap, but it is a very near miss, with much shouting and scrambling as well as a hand coming perilously near to the actual royal jewels. Arthur struggles to hold him back while simultaneously attempting to kick him, neither of which works very well. “Let go, what are you doing?” Merlin hisses at him, finally growing a sense of shame now that a harried Gwen is shushing the two of them, her appalled face saying more than any words ever could.
“Lady Beatrice,” she says, “a moment.” Her little feet are deceptively quick, darting up the stairs and standing before them in no time at all. They disentangle like the innocent parties who have never had so much as a thought of misbehaviour that they are. “What on earth is going on?”
“That man,” Merlin says lowly, leaning in, hair mussed from their tussle, “has been following Arthur all morning, and yesterday as well. I think he’s up to something, and I was going to go check, but Arthur–”
“Tattler,” Arthur accuses, red faced.
“Wait, Sir Alwin?” Gwen says flatly, interrupting them. “Is that what this whole fuss is about? Of course he’s following Arthur, he’s a portrait artist.” She stares at Merlin until he sullenly nods, and then does the same to Arthur, king or not. “Now settle down, Lady Beatrice has been waiting for hours. Children, she mutters, turning away.
The court resumes with an awkward quiet, little titters of laughter and gossiping starting up. Lady Beatrice approaches, and Merlin leans down to whisper, somehow closer than ever. The soft fabric of his mantle brushes against Arthur’s cheek like a caress. “Portrait, hm? Now, let me think. What rhymes with vain?” he asks.
“Pain,” Arthur whispers back, since that is all he is capable of feeling. “Disdain, insane–” He turns to greet Lady Beatrice with a smile that feels waxy on his face. “Ah, Lady Beatrice, please. Speak your mind.”
“Complain,” Merlin says under his breath, pretending to busy himself by smoothing down the wrinkles of his clothes, “shame, birdbrain–”
“You’re really reaching there, Merlin,” Arthur says, not at all staring at the way the gold thread glistens, catching the light like sparks of fire. Gold suits him well. Arthur swallows, his fingertips itching to reach out and touch, futilely hoping that someone is listening to Lady Beatrice, because he certainly isn’t.
His father had always denied that awful old rumour that the Pendragon line carried actual dragon blood in their veins, but now Arthur wonders. Gold, gold, gold. It fascinates him. A glittering lure.
He curls his aching hands into fists, and tries to pay attention to anything other than Merlin, who is still watching Sir Alwin with keen eyes.
It is not until hours later, long after court has ended and they have been fed and watered that things escalate in a direction Arthur had not anticipated.
He had hoped, however faintly, that he would grow used to the sight of Merlin dressed in something other than rags. With time, Arthur’s new strange affliction would be at least tempered, he is sure of it. What he had not been prepared for was the fact that after a long day, once they had retired to Arthur’s chambers, that Merlin would take off the clothing.
Just the outer layer, but still. It is ruinous to Arthur’s good health–his heart is racing like he’s been at drills for hours. Is he sweating? He sniffs surreptitiously at his armpits.
Merlin lifts his chin, showing off the long line of his neck, which instead of looking skinny and awkward wrapped up in one of his old scarves looks elegant and refined with a drape of green and gold. Deft hands come up to undo the cloak pin–glinting with a Pendragon red garnet–which has been valiantly holding everything together, revealing the slim lines of Merlin’s body. His shirt is cut to fit indecently closely, and Arthur spends a moment missing the baggy old ones that had used to offend him so much.
They would be better than this–at least for his heart rate.
“I asked you a question,” Merlin says, folding his mantle more carefully than he ever treats Arthur’s things. He sets it down gently over the back of a chair, patting the soft fabric with hypnotic little passes of his fingers as he awaits a reply.
Arthur does not picture those same fingers making those same steady strokes on anything or anyone else.
“What?” he says dumbly, blinking stars from his eyes.
“I asked you since when have you wanted a portrait done,” Merlin repeats. “You said no when Geoffrey suggested it last time. Told him he could shove a paintbrush up his–”
“I did not,” Arthur denies. There is no need for that sort of language.
“I was there.” Merlin grins, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Maybe that’s what I should write a song about, would serve you right.” He collapses into a chair like all of his strings have been cut. “When are you going to give up on your stupid bard joke anyway? You can’t actually think I’ll be any good at it, even if I did practise, which I’m not–”
“Oh, we can all tell you aren’t practising,” Arthur agrees.
“Everyone is staring at me lately–”
“That’s not why,” he retorts, before he thinks any better of it. He shuts his mouth with a click, but it’s far too late to unring that bell. It would be far kinder to his sanity for Merlin to remain ignorant of his effect on people. People like Arthur.
“It’s the clothes, isn’t it?” Merlin sighs.
Damn it all. Here goes the last shred of Arthur’s peace. Merlin is certain to be insufferable over it. As relentless in his teasing as always, but this time with the ammunition to destroy his target utterly and to the core.
“I look ridiculous, don’t I?” Merlin sighs again, his head thudding against the table. Thud, a second time, then thud, a third.
It’s good he’s not looking at Arthur’s face, he distantly thinks. For it is sure to be twisted up into a tangle of disbelief, relief at the near miss, more disbelief, and then a heaping measure of more disbelief on top of that. Merlin looks any number of things in the new clothes, but ridiculous cannot be counted among them.
Gorgeous, for one. Captivating. Beguiling, maybe. A lesser-willed man than Arthur might have already succumbed to Merlin’s frankly insulting new allure and made outrageous promises. Promises of the romantic sort. The devotion sort. The ‘would you like a whole wing of my castle, or will just a tower do’ sort. A more foolhardy man might have commissioned two portraits instead of the very sensible amount of one.
Arthur is a paragon of restraint.
“I do, then,” Merlin says to the table after Arthur fails to reply. He traces a fingertip along the patterns that the whorls of the wood make, sighing for a third time. “I’ll give them all back now that you’ve had your laugh at me–”
“No!” Arthur shouts, standing up so quickly that he whacks his knee against the underside of the table. It’s a hard enough blow that he jostles everything on the table–including Merlin, who jerks up with a start and a yelp, blinking wide-eyed as Arthur clutches his knee, hopping on the other foot like a fool.
“No,” Arthur says again, voice strained. He gingerly puts his foot down, wincing at the sting in his knee. “No need to give them back. I’m sure you’ll get used to them. Have you worn the black one yet?” It was the longest of the new robes; designed after one of the few illustrations of one of Merlin’s Dragonlord ancestors. Although primitive in technique, the illustration had clearly showcased a man in red who could only be a Pendragon shaking hands with the dark berobed Dragonlord–it had been small, and faded with time, but when Arthur had offered it over to Merlin, he had taken it with reverent hands. They had trembled, and not even Arthur could bring himself to tease over it.
He knew all too well what it was like to wonder at the family that you grieve never knowing.
“I, well, no,” Merlin admits. “Did you hurt your knee?”
“You should wear the black one,” Arthur says, ignoring the rest. “It’s like your ancestors' one, right? Maybe you’ll like it.”
It will also cover Merlin from right under his chin to his wrists and toes, which can only help, Arthur is sure. He’ll look dour, and reserved, and Arthur will be free.
***
Merlin does not look dour.
The black makes him stately in a way that turns even more heads than usual, despite it being an unseasonably dark hue for spring. It does cover him from head to toe, but Ava has taken liberties. Liberties, Arthur thinks, feeling more and more like an aghast old maiden aunt with every passing moment. Said liberties might incite a riot at the pace things are heading, though. There is silver threading worked through like bright splashes of starlight, so small that one might not notice them at all, save for the way they illuminate when struck by the sun. Arthur feels like an overworked guard dog following Merlin around the gardens and fending off sniffing nobles.
“Who was that?” Merlin asks, looking at the retreating back of Lady Cressita. “I’ve never met her before, have I? She was chatting away like we were old friends–”
“She’s addled,” Arthur says meanly. Then again, Lady Cressita had done more than be friendly; she’d put her hand on Merlin’s elbow, bold as you please, right there in the public gardens where anyone might see. “In the head. Best to just be kind to her and escort her to Gaius if she comes to you again.”
“How awful! She’s so young,” Merlin says, his blue eyes welling with compassion. Without a single thought of intending to do so, Arthur reaches out and touches his elbow, right where Lady Cressita had. Arthur’s palm strokes down the sumptuous fabric without any input from his brain. Merlin stares.
Arthur yanks his hand back like it’s been burned. “Where are we going, anyway?” he asks, desperate for a distraction.
“I’ve been following you,” Merlin says, his breath a little cloud of white in the chill of the early spring morning. He pushes his hair away from his face with a huff, two of his new rings glinting on his fingers. One has twin points of a crescent moon embracing a stone of such a fair blue that it is nearly clear, and the other is shaped like a dragon curling to rest. His chilled fingertips are the colour of the seashells Arthur had once collected on the shores of Tintagel as a boy. He wants to bite them.
Maybe Merlin needs gloves. Three pairs will do for a start.
“I’ve been following you in a loop around these gardens talking to every old woman who comes up to you for the past hour,” Arthur seethes instead, which is a far better use of his time. He can always bring the gloves issue up to Ava later, after all; she seemed to enjoy dressing Merlin as much as she ever enjoys anything. There is plenty of time before winter–a whole new winter wardrobe could be settled by then–
“You call that talking?” Merlin marvels, cutting off Arthur's train of thought. “I thought you were looking for a fight–maybe the knights are getting boring so you’re seeking out some new opponents. Why you want to fight little old ladies is of course beyond me, but I would never dream of questioning my lord–”
“That is not what is happening,” Arthur insists, grabbing Merlin by the wrist and dragging him along the path before Lord Merrek can come up and make another advance on Merlin’s virtue. The fabric is soft. His wrist is thin. Delicate. Arthur’s fingertips can touch each other like a bracelet, it is so narrow–and that’s a thought. Merlin could use a bracelet. Or five.
Arthur tries to give all of those thoughts the consideration they are due, which is none; but it is too late. This has all been a tremendous mistake, he acknowledges, mind whirling in dizzying loops. Perhaps it is not too late to reconquer Deheubarth after all. He’ll go in with an army, and Merlin can stay here until all the work is done. Then he will move into a bright new castle of his own, and they shall exchange letters from afar, and never set eyes on one another ever again, and Arthur will be sane once more. Yes, that’s exactly what he’ll do.
“How do you feel about running a castle of your very own?” Arthur asks enticingly.
“I’d rather eat a foot,” Merlin says, because he is occasionally–probably by accident–very wise.
“Fair,” Arthur concedes, “but consider this. I am your king, and can give you a castle if I want to.”
“Fine. I’ll just give it to Gwen, she’s brilliant at running your castle.”
“I have eleven castles,” Arthur brags, for it is true. “I’m sure she’d stop accepting after four or five, and then you’ll be stuck anyway. No, I meant the one in Deheubarth. Sure, Lot has it for now, but we could manage. It was your family’s home–”
Merlin stops dead in his tracks, catching Arthur’s hand in his own rather than letting it fall away as they stop. Birds sing overhead. His face is open and beautiful, his eyes watering as a smile comes to him–a soft, real one, as though Arthur has already gifted him the world.
“Is that why you’re doing all of this?” he asks, voice wobbling. His smile only grows. His eyes sparkle more sweetly than any gem might dare aspire. “Digging through those old treaties after I told you about my father? A new position? You don’t need to give me my family’s castle–don’t go to war with Lot over it, that’s insane, clearly–but… you don’t need to do any of that,” Merlin says, clutching at Arthur’s hand.
He takes the opportunity to clutch right back without judgement.
“Or give me things like this, for that matter. Robes that Dragonlords used to wear.” Merlin gestures at his impeccable figure, and Arthur takes that opportunity to stare with impunity. “It means the world to me that you care about my family and yours. All that history that neither of us knew about,” he gushes, “and I want to learn it all, truly! And we will, together. But I am already happy here in Camelot with what I have, too. You never need to give me anything for that.”
“Ah,” Arthur says cleverly. That would be nicer, probably.
Merlin must never know.
“You!” Merlin shouts suddenly, both ruining the moment and mercifully sparing Arthur a reply as he points at Sir Alwin; who, in fairness to Merlin’s judgement, is hiding behind a bush, looking deeply suspicious. “I’ve had it up to here with you!” Merlin attempts to make a break for him, but Arthur holds him tight.
“He’s here on my invitation–” Arthur grunts, taking a sharp elbow to the gut.
“He’s been lurking around me,” Merlin swears, eyes wild, “not you! Whoever he is, he's not your portrait artist! Do you have any idea how many assassins I’ve foiled this year alone? It’s not even summer!”
Sir Alwin sends Arthur a pleading look, and for a moment he considers leaving the old man to the wolves. The wolves being Merlin. But no, it’s too cruel; the old man has done nothing to deserve such a fate. “He’s your portrait artist,” Arthur says through gritted teeth.
“That’s absurd,” Merlin says, going stock still in Arthur’s arms, “seeing as how I’m not having my portrait done.”
“Oh yes you are,” Arthur threatens. The only way out is through, he thinks, marching Merlin over to Sir Alwin, who has recovered well and is free of the bush. He bows, catching his hat before it falls right off of his head.
“Your Majesty,” he manages a greeting, “I see your…friend is just as you described.”
“Oh?” Merlin says, attitude spinning on a swivel as he alights with new interest, stopping his fighting entirely. He is a warm press all along Arthur’s side, leaning in with conspiratorial glee. “What did he say about me?”
Arthur catches Sir Alwin’s eye and makes a throat-slitting motion with his thumb.
“Ah,” the painter stutters, blinking rapidly as he looks between the two of them, praying for salvation that will not come, “merely that you are filled with such a, ah, bold spirit, of course! Yes, I see it now, like a, uh–” he falters, “like a–”
“Like a?” Merlin presses on without a shred of mercy.
“Dragon!” Sir Alwin comes up with eventually, gesturing grandly with his hands. He forces out a fairly convincing jolly laugh, for all that Arthur can see the beads of sweat forming on his temples. “Only suitable, of course, for a Dragonlord, isn’t that right?” His eyes flick to Arthur. Waiting. A drop of sweat breaks free, running all the way down to his collar. “Isn’t it?”
“Of course,” Arthur says, pinching the bridge of his nose as Merlin laughs. He is lit up with a richer joy than Arthur has seen in years, and it is hard to muster up much embarrassment in the face of it.
“Go on, what else?” Merlin goads, and Arthur resolves to forget about Camelot entirely and go live in the woods with Morgana.
***
The next morning, Merlin is dressed as usual.
And by ‘usual’, Arthur means in tatters again. His jacket is half-worn through, his scarf is more patches than scarf. His tunic doesn’t have the decency to skim his waistline and his belt is entirely limp and useless, seeming to serve no purpose at all. His proportions are all off. There is not a single piece of shining jewellery on him. An absolutely appalling lack of gems.
“What on earth are you wearing?” Arthur fumes.
“What about it?” Merlin asks, looking down over himself and finding nothing amiss. “I thought we talked about this? I don’t need all those things to be happy–”
“But what about my happiness?” Arthur rages. While horrific at first, he has quickly grown used to having a pleasing view with which to begin his day. The new gloves haven’t even been begun yet, nor the new bracelets. Not to mention the necklace. He’d had a plan and everything–not a complicated one, but even so. If Merlin has a necklace, he might very well wear fewer scarves and then Arthur can look at his bare neck anytime he wants. “And what about your portrait? You can’t sit for a portrait in that! Alwin has only just started the work.”
“I don’t need a portrait, either!” Merlin claims, which is nonsense.
“You do if I say you do,” Arthur says, crossing his arms and readying for a fight. “It’s…traditional.”
“Where’s your portrait then? Or Gwen’s? Or Gaius’s?”
“That’s different–”
“We live in the same castle, everyone knows what I look like–”
“But what about when you’re not here?”
“Are you sending me away?” Merlin asks, leaning against the table–deliberately nonchalant. He knows full well that if Arthur were to ever have done so it would have been when he learned about the magic, and thus he never will. It gives him an annoying confidence–somehow even more annoying than usual.
“No,” Arthur mopes, still in mourning for his lost view, his own secret hoard of treasure, “but–”
“Do you forget what I look like as soon as I leave at night?” Merlin asks, a smirk taking life at the corners of his mouth. He darts forwards to cover Arthur’s eyes with a hand. “Quick! What colour is my hair?” he laughs, ignoring Arthur as he swats at him. “Do you miss me when I go?”
“Never,” Arthur says, roughhousing in a way they haven't these past days. There’s some value to be found in being able to poke his fingers into Merlin’s side to make him yelp without worrying about upsetting the lines of his clothing or displacing a jewel. He digs in viciously, a loud, happy laugh right by his ear as he does, only for the moment to slip strangely sideways in Arthur’s mind, interrupted with the invasive thought that Merlin’s waist is still shapely–and it’s right there. Under Arthur’s hands is a shirt, and even though it is rough-spun and over-worn, under that shirt is a Merlin. He’s warm from the roaring fire, cheeks pink from laughing, and is still damningly attractive, even without the gold and jewels.
It is far, far too late, and now Arthur can never unlearn what he knows.
He lurches back and almost kills himself tripping over a chair, heart thudding and his feet flying. Between one blink and the next he is looking up at his ceiling, head ringing like a struck bell and his body aching in one giant, throbbing bruise. A bowl is still swirling to a slow stop where it has fallen.
There appear to be two Merlin’s, swimming together as Arthur rubs stars from his eyes. They hover over him with hands clasped over their mouths in shock.
“Are you alright?” the Merlins ask, leaning closer. Their faces are concerned, and, unfortunately for Arthur, handsome. Beautiful. The cheekbones alone are evidence of a higher power.
“I think I’m really not,” he says, swallowing roughly and closing his eyes as tight as he can. When he opens them again all is still the same, the world has not righted itself, up is still down, and Merlin is still the dearest sight from here until the sea. Further.
Well, at least there is only one of him now. A small mercy.
“I’ll get Gaius,” Merlin says, scrambling to his feet. “Stay right there, and don't worry, I'll get help!” And most bafflingly of all, he is still enchanting, even as he almost trips and falls himself in his clumsiness and eagerness to help, jacket all twisted round. He is sweet, Arthur thinks, and a better, kinder friend no one could ever ask for. There are none more loyal or fierce, none more worthy of praise.
Things are even more dire than he’d feared.
“No!” he gasps, rolling to his side and away. The last thing he needs is for anyone else to see him like this, and Gaius is as close to a father as Merlin has, now, and his mother is so far away. His childhood physician–the man who had given him the most uncomfortable lecture on the birds and the bees–will take one look at Arthur and have him made for a rake in an instant.
“Well at least let me look at your head, I think you’ve hit it–”
“No!” he shouts again. “No, no, you stay back,” he orders, holding up his hands like he’s warding off a trampling horse as Merlin gapes at him. He moves swiftly from worry to righteous ire. Spots of red bloom across his cheeks, and not even Arthur can much appreciate it when accompanied by the furious scowl that takes shape at the same time. “Just–you just stay over there. I’ll stay on this side of the table and you stay on that side, and we can all just forget about everything.”
Merlin sticks one foot out with great purpose.
“No,” Arthur says again, taking two steps back himself. “Merlin, think about what you are doing. I am your king–”
Merlin sets his foot down, taking a long stride forwards, and, to his great shame, Arthur scurries away like a mouse. Merlin stares in disbelief and Arthur stares back in futile hope that one of them will spontaneously combust. They are at a standstill. The air seems to crackle with promise. His heart thuds like a drum, his chest heaving. Outside the window the bell rings for the guard change, and Merlin lunges.
“What is wrong with you?” he shouts, feinting left.
“Nothing,” Arthur insists maturely, dodging with a wince as his head throbs. “What’s wrong with you?”
“You’ve been acting like a maniac for days now! No, actually, longer!” Merlin makes a grab for him and he scuttles backwards over his bed like a drunken crab, pillows flying. “Have you always been insane and I just never noticed?”
“If I have been, then this is all perfectly normal, so I don’t know what your problem is!”
“The bard thing was clearly your stupid idea of a joke–I thought I could just outlast you,” Merlin yowls, grabbing the soft red duvet that Arthur has thrown at him right out of the air, barely impeded. “Then the clothes! The portrait?! Then I thought maybe you were just being nice, but somehow I forgot you’re an ass!”
He dives for Arthur without a care for their harsh landing, only cushioned by the duvet. This time their roughhousing is less playful and more furious–or at least Merlin’s is. Arthur is merely trying to survive while touching as little skin as possible. A feat that grows ever more difficult as it puts him on the back foot, unable to fight back for fear of discovering any other new and appealing parts of Merlin’s anatomy. Arthur is the stronger of them in arm, and better by far at grappling, but it is very difficult indeed to grapple a man you cannot touch, and so it is no time at all before he is pinned–his heart stuck fast in his throat as Merlin’s warm weight settles in to stay. Blissfully unaware of Arthur’s depravity, Merlin’s legs are on either side of Arthur’s hips, knees clenching firmly in like he’s guiding a reticent horse.
Panic sets in, and Arthur shoves him with more strength than he means to, a thread of real upset veiling the room like a shroud as Merlin crashes down to land on his arse, legs akimbo and eyes wide.
“Are you,” he starts, struggling to shape the words. Outside of his chambers, Arthur hears the normal noises of the castle, unaware entirely as to the breaking of a heart. Merlin wets his lips. It takes him three tries to speak. “Are you afraid of me?” He pushes himself backwards on the stone floor, unable to get to his feet. His face is anguished long past the point where he might hide it, no matter how he tries, and Arthur’s stomach churns with guilt. “My magic, you’re–”
“No!” Arthur urgently protests, getting up and offering a hand to Merlin, who only moves back even further. He’s collapsed on the ground next to the chair that had almost killed Arthur earlier, looking especially tragic, making himself as small as he can. He’s white as a ghost. “That’s not it, Merlin–”
“Were you trying to do…what with all of this? Appease me?” He cannot even look at Arthur, twisting away. “Are you going to send me away?” His voice cracks. Meek. Meeker than Merlin should ever sound, all his earlier confidence in his place shattered.
“Never,” Arthur swears swiftly, but Merlin cannot seem to hear him over the sound of his own hitching breaths.
He curls up like a child, his brow pressed to his knees, and as Arthur reaches out to do something, anything –he vanishes into thin air.