Chapter Text
Being Crown Prince Arthur of Camelot’s manservant would probably feel like the honorable position it’s supposed to be if it didn’t feel so much like being his forsaken babysitter.
Because why on earth is Merlin trudging through the frigid woods right now, behind an entourage of knights—none, by the way, with any manservants of their own—cold and exhausted? Though Merlin knows he’s really the only protection worth having, Uther—who supposedly tasked him with this excursion—could not have been concerned about Arthur’s safety, considering this entire party is full of well-trained knights.
So why is he here?
He’d been scrubbing Arthur’s armor clean while Arthur lay back on a flat bench, panting as he caught his breath. Training had been particularly grueling today. Not that Merlin had been watching Arthur sweating and shining in the sun, obviously. But what he did see made him grimace and happy that, among all his duties and destinies and such, at least he wasn’t expected to endure heavy metal armor and swing a sword around.
“The hunt tomorrow,” Arthur managed through pants. “You’re coming with me.”
Merlin scrubbed hard at a spot of grime on the chestplate. “I thought after the last hunt, sire, I wasn’t expected to join you on more of these.”
“It’s three days,” Arthur continued, ignoring Merlin entirely. “We leave at daybreak. Make sure you pack my heavy sleeping gear—it’ll be cold.”
Merlin put down the chestplate with a clang on the nearest table. “Sire, I really don’t think it’s a good idea,” he hedged.
Look, a hunt with him and Arthur alone was no problem. But these big, performative hunts with all the knights of the realm? Merlin would rather muck the stables for an entire fortnight than endure that. Besides, Arthur was acting as if last year’s hunt—when Arthur had nearly taken a boar’s tusk to the leg because he and Merlin were laughing too loudly and distracted—wasn’t enough reason for them both to agree he shouldn’t be dragged along to these things anymore.
“It’s three whole days, Merlin,” Arthur whined childishly.
Merlin scoffed. “Didn’t you have your coming-of-age ceremony last year? I think you can survive three whole days without your manservant at your beck and call.”
“Merlin, please.”
“Arthur, no.”
“My father insists,” Arthur had finally said, hoisting himself into a sitting position and looking hard at Merlin. “He said it reflects poorly on the Crown if I’m seen without a manservant on royal outings. Said I looked like an unwashed stable boy last time.”
And so, Merlin is here to carry out critical duties: providing clean clothes, fluffy sleeping mats, and all the other hundreds of pounds of finery loaded on his poor mare’s back for the Prince of Camelot.
Merlin has dismounted for her sake, leading her through the brambles and wild roots of the forest in the general direction of knightly chatter. Not much hunting going on there, Merlin thinks to himself with a scoff. Not if they’re talking loud enough to wake the dead.
He crests a small hill and comes across a clearing, wherein the knights are sprawled out and lounging in the setting sun. Some have shucked off bits and pieces of their armor. The horses are tied to the nearest trees, huffing impatiently for dinner. Merlin’s lips press into a frown. It seems they’ve found their campgrounds for tonight, and it’s Merlin’s turn to make the preparations.
“Merlin!”
He turns, and there’s Arthur, face glowing with exertion and blood, a young deer carcass slung over his shoulders. He looks thrilled, even as Merlin grimaces at the bloodshed.
“There you are. You sure took your time,” Arthur says, and though he clearly tries to sound cross, the big grin on his face betrays his true feelings.
And sure enough, Merlin can’t stay grumpy all that long either, not when he’s looking at Arthur smiling at him like that, like the deer was good enough, but now that Merlin’s seen it…
Merlin shakes his head free of that train of thought. The prince is simply high on his usual post-hunting glory. That smile has nothing to do with Merlin.
“Apologies, sire,” Merlin drawls. “I was busy tending to the pack horse you’ve decided to turn into a royal wardrobe. She sends her regards, by the way. Likely to trample you in your sleep.”
Arthur wipes a streak of blood off his cheek with the back of his wrist. “Tell her she can get in line.”
“Behind me,” Merlin sniffs, tugging a little on the mare and stroking her neck when she snorts indignantly. “Isn’t that right, Turnip?”
Arthur eyes the horse. “You named her Turnip?”
“She picked it, actually.”
Arthur stares at Merlin like he’s insane, and Merlin only grins back with the inside knowledge of that day mucking the stables a few months ago, where, bored out of his mind, he sneakily cast a speak-to-animals spell and enjoyed a rather stimulating conversation with all of Camelot’s horses. Turnip, it turns out, is quite the gossip.
“Right,” Arthur says slowly. “Well, if you could get my sleeping mat ready and then help me prepare dinner and, oh, also take off my armor, it’s wearing on me, and don’t forget the water for—”
It’s an indeterminate amount of time later when Merlin collapses on a pile of soft dirt. He hasn’t even had a moment to prepare his own sleeping mat between all of Arthur’s tasks, and the sun has long set, casting the party in darkness and sapping the woods of any warmth. The only heat and light come from the fire at the center of the campsite, warming the dinner that’s mostly now in the knights’ bellies.
Lying there, Merlin’s own stomach growls loudly.
“Merlin, you haven’t eaten?” asks Arthur as he licks his fingers clean of the stew Merlin helped prepare.
Merlin shoots him a withering glare from the ground. “Haven’t had a chance to, yet, Your Highness, what with feeding you and your merry band of armored oafs.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow, entirely unbothered. “You could’ve just said no.”
“Tempting,” Merlin says. “But then who would keep you upright at all, sire? Certainly not your own two feet.”
Arthur considers that for a second, then shrugs and gets to his feet. He wanders over to the pot by the fire, muttering something about how useless Merlin is, and ladles a fresh helping of stew into his own bowl.
He walks back and, without ceremony, drops to a crouch beside Merlin. “Here,” he says, offering it out. “Figured you’d just whine if I made you get up.”
Merlin blinks at the bowl, then up at Arthur. “You—poured this? Yourself.”
“Don’t make it a thing,” Arthur warns, already turning back to his spot. “I’m just trying to avoid your stomach growling loud enough to summon wolves.”
“Didn’t even know you knew how to serve a bowl of stew.”
That earns Merlin a half-hearted slap to his arm with a gruff, “Careful, or I’ll take it back and let you starve out of principle.”
But Merlin’s smiling as the heat seeps into his cold hands, and the stew warms him from the inside.
~
As the night deepens and the post-dinner chatter begins to lull the camp toward sleep, Arthur keeps his voice light, tossing around exaggerated stories to distract the others—and maybe himself. But his eyes drift back to Merlin, again and again, tracking every slow bite of stew. He tells himself it’s out of habit, that someone has to make sure the idiot doesn’t forget to feed himself. It’s Merlin’s fault, really, that Arthur ends up preoccupied like this. Sometimes he swears the man actually gives him more work than he takes away. Always hunched over, always running on fumes, always looking like a strong wind might knock him flat. It’s annoying how often he thinks about him.
“And then Lionel here damn well jumped out of his saddle at the sound of the wind!”
The knights cackle loudly, and in the distraction, Arthur once again sneaks a glance over at Merlin, golden in the firelight. He’s put his bowl aside and begun to set up his sleeping mat, and before really thinking, Arthur snatches the bowl and inspects it with a frown.
“You left half the portion!”
Merlin snaps his head over at Arthur, his expression rightfully quizzical, but Arthur isn’t worried about decorum when Merlin appears to be purposefully starving himself. “And you’re concerned about that because…?”
“Merlin,” Arthur sighs. He opens his mouth, about to explain why it’s absolutely vital that the prince’s manservant stay in peak condition—should danger strike, naturally—and, well, someone has to fill out those ridiculous formal tunics properly. Not that Arthur cares. It’s just… Merlin somehow makes them look less absurd.
And he’s halfway to finding the right phrasing when a war cry splits the air.
Then an arrow whizzes past Arthur, who immediately throws himself on top of Merlin, getting them low to the ground and rolling away from where the arrow spears the dirt. Arthur’s veins fill with the thrill of adventure, but he catches how Merlin’s eyes seem to flash—with panic, Arthur thinks—and now it’s not adventure he’s seeking, but Merlin’s safety.
Metal on metal clangs harshly around them as the knights spring up—unarmored, Arthur reminds himself sharply. He’s also unarmored, and there’s no time.
He grips Merlin’s wrist. “Where’s Tulip?” he demands, remembering that Merlin kept the mare nearby out of what Arthur assumed were sentimental reasons.
“Turnip,” Merlin corrects. But before Arthur can scream at him about priorities, he’s gesturing behind them and saying, “Tied off past those trees. She’ll come if I—”
He cuts off, oddly.
Arthur doesn’t have time to question it. “Then call her!”
Merlin turns and raises one hand—odd, almost like he’s about to whistle, but his fingers twitch in a way that doesn’t match the gesture. His eyes flash again in that way Arthur has come to understand as panic—
Wait, was that gold?
Before Arthur can ask, the mare bursts through the trees, snorting and kicking up mud.
The screams of men and the thud of bodies hitting the ground reverberate through the forest as Arthur scrambles off Merlin and hauls him upright.
“You know I can— hey!”
Ignoring his protests, Arthur hoists Merlin up onto Turnip’s saddle, smoothly hopping up after him and taking hold of the reins. Vaguely, he registers Merlin’s arms wrapping around his waist.
“This is faster,” he says, spurring the mare into action.
That’s when Arthur sees the campsite, illuminated by the glow of the abandoned fire. The massive pot of stew has been knocked over, steam hissing as it soaks into the dirt. Bodies are everywhere—some of his knights still fighting, some unmoving. Bandits, or something more organized, strike from the trees, hidden in the shadows and darkness.
Arthur freezes, watching as his men die for his sake. Turnip takes a hesitant step forward, unsure of where she’s being guided, and Arthur begins to urge her forward, into the carnage.
Until Merlin snaps the reins back from Arthur’s hands. “You idiot! We have to get away!”
Arthur’s jaw clenches. His hand instinctively reaches for a sword he didn’t strap on. He watches one of his knights—Lionel, maybe, or Elyan—go down under two attackers, scrambling to rise, only to be dragged back.
“They’re fighting for you,” Merlin hisses. “If you go in there and die, they would have fought for nothing.”
It’s sensible, of course, but it goes against everything in Arthur’s body screaming at him to fight, to stand by his men, to protect others. What’s the point in being royal if you’re not serving your people?
But then he hears one of them—Leon, clear as day—shout through the chaos: “Get out of here, Arthur! We’ve got this!”
Another clash of steel. A scream. Someone else calls out: “Protect the prince!”
They’re buying him time to stay alive. He just has to trust them enough to get back in one piece themselves.
He takes back control of the reins. “Hold on.”
This time, he lets Turnip turn and run—just as another arrow flies past dangerously close to both their heads.
They tear through the woods, ducking branches, leaping over fallen logs, the cold air slicing across their faces. Merlin’s grip on Arthur never lessens, his body fitting against Arthur in the saddle. In this near pitch-black darkness, hidden from the moonlight by the evergreen foliage above, Arthur swears that they’ll knock their heads on some stray branch or Turnip will trip on some errant root. But the ride is miraculously smooth, and Arthur is too focused on getting away to really question this good fortune now.