King Arthur, he decided, was as blind as a newborn Wilddeoren. For to not see all that he had done for him was an affront to all that was good and right and holy in the world.
He moved silently through Camelot's main through-hall, as unnoticed and unremarkable as a wall sconce.
All those long evenings polishing King Arthur's armor and brassware and sword to gleaming perfection, without a word of commendation, was to be expected. After all, he was merely a servant.
A servant with Camelot's most dangerous secret.
He stepped out in the light of the courtyard, eyes squinting against the bright midday sun. He made his way to the training yard, where he knew Arthur would be pummeling some poor chap halfway to soiled breeches.
As expected, King Arthur was indeed in a sparring match, if battering the unfortunate boy—barely able to hold his shield aloft—could be called sparring.
He clucked his tongue; the relentless strikes upon the hard oak shield meant that the sword would need conditioning tonight.
Everything in him wanted to tell him. His very nature demanded that he confess it all and beg clemency for hiding it this long. Imagine, though, King Arthur's personal manservant, possessing magic? Magic at the very heart of Camelot, present not only in moments of great duress, but in everyday mundane tasks? Sometimes, it was in those daily tasks, removing a stubborn stain, say, or keeping the bathwater just the right temperature, that his heart almost failed him—for it made magic seem normal, and that just could not be in Camelot.
King Arthur's sparring partner wiped the sweat from his brow and pushed his hair back.
"Had enough yet?" Arthur threw him a challenging grin.
The boy, upon seeing Arthur's unbearable bravado, squared his shoulders. "That all you got? Your age is showing, old man."
He sighed. That was brave, and he had to admire him for that, but the poor chap will be regretting it come morning. He knew all too well what it was to be nothing more than glorified target practice.
Yet, the boy held on.
And indeed, by some trick of the eye, King Arthur stepped backward and tripped, the boy holding his sword over him, a wicked gleam in his eyes.
He almost laughed then, recalling another time when King Arthur ended up splat on the ground—unaccountably—after goading a certain manservant.
The boy, however, had celebrated prematurely. King Arthur, in a well-practiced maneuver, swept the boy's legs and jumped to his feet. The boy, surprisingly quick to recover his balance, held his shield up just in time to meet King Arthur's furious onslaught.
He shook his head. Truly, the boy Merlin was impossibly pig-headed.
How many times he had wished to tell King Arthur all he knew about Merlin. The temptation of having Merlin out of the way, so that he could become Arthur's personal manservant, was too much to handle at times.
To be the only one to ever polish King Arthur's brass, to have his collection of candleholders and dinnerware so luminous they could function as mirrors, almost made George salivate. The act of polishing had a meditative quality for him, healing in a way, and he could do it for hours on end.
And to be honest, Merlin's…irreverence toward the King irked him as almost nothing had ever done. It piqued his very sensibility, everything he's ever been taught about what it means to be a proper servant. There was nothing proper about Merlin. That alone had made George determined to reveal Merlin's disturbing secret more than a few times.
He had nearly spilled it all the day he first witnessed Merlin's magic. All three of them had been in King Arthur's chambers. King Arthur had his back to Merlin, ruminating (rightly so) on the many ways George was superior to Merlin as a servant.
Merlin, noticeably irritated, had looked upon King Arthur sitting at his table with his breakfast, when his eyes flashed gold.
George, startled, thought it merely a trick of the light. That is, until Arthur had bit into a sausage only to spit it out and declare that the inside was frozen still and how incompetent must his servants be that they couldn't get something so simple right?
George, who had taste-tested all of the food, knew that the sausages had been cooked to perfection. He had ensured it, for it was one of the few mornings he had be called in to service the King.
He stared wide-eyed at Merlin, aghast. And yet, it made total sense, for how else could this incompetent servant—if he could even deign to call him that—beat him out for such an esteemed position? It did a little to assuage his wounded pride.
He was about to warn King Arthur about Merlin's deception, when the King threw down the rest of the offending sausage and rubbed his face. "Never mind, I seem to have no appetite anyway," he said.
Like a switch had been pressed, Merlin took a chair next to Arthur and gently touched his shoulder. The presumption! George thought, his propriety sorely offended.
George then recalled rumors circulating around the castle about Morgana and the possibility of another invasion. Merlin was now speaking quietly to Arthur, words that only the King could hear, and the King seemed to be intent on not missing a single one.
Perhaps, another time would be better, George concluded. He left the room quietly, neither King nor manservant noticing his departure.
He never could find a good opportunity to tell the King. Not from lack of trying, of course. It's just that, every time he was ready to confess and to take on the consequences of abetting a sorcerer, some inconvenience occurred in Camelot, some sort of invading immortal army or magical creature that Gaius advised couldn't be defeated by sword yet Arthur insisted anyway. It became apparent very quickly that Merlin was somehow paramount in preventing the Kingdom from collapsing.
He was doing it for the good of the Kingdom, he had to remind himself nearly daily. To hold such a secret from his King and Sovereign was a gargantuan undertaking—a task worthy of accolades, of parades and honors.
The sparring finally came to an end. Merlin, as always, was on the ground. The King offered him a hand and Merlin accepted, albeit begrudgingly. George scoffed at this affront, the nerve, the gall. But Arthur couldn't wipe the beam off his face even as Merlin glared at him.
Again, George considered pulling the King aside for a quiet word.
However, as Merlin dusted himself off, the King assessed his servant for any sign of serious injury, quickly and expertly and unnoticed by Merlin. Satisfied, the King clapped Merlin on the shoulder and asked him, "Up for another tomorrow?"
Yes, he deserved to be recognized for his contributions for the betterment of the Kingdom, for it was truly a Herculean effort. At the very least, George deserved permanent polishing duty for not noticing the gleam of gold in Merlin's eyes, and the King, once again, intimately acquainted with the ground.