Just a little something I wrote last night literally moments before I went to sleep. I spent pretty much the whole night last night getting some outlining done, and I was just totally and completely fed up and done with outlining and summaries and pre-writing shit, and I just needed to actually write, so this is what came of that feeling.
Disclaimer: Don't own Merlin, just borrowing the characters to keep myself from setting things on fire.
They Didn't Know
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The people of Camelot remembered Arthur as kind, brave, fair, courageous, just, remarkably handsome, and a plethora of other vaguely true things, after his death.
But they had never really known Arthur in life. Not like Merlin had.
They didn't know about the way he would cluck his tongue during training when a rookie made a rookie mistake that would cost them their life on the battlefield if not corrected shortly.
They didn't know about the journals he'd kept since he was just a boy, at first an assignment from a tutor, and then a habit he wouldn't have broken even if he could, often spending many hours lost with a quill to the paper to record his personal thoughts.
They didn't know about the nights he would sneak out of the castle, with only Merlin at his side, to look at the stars, lost in the magic and awe of it for hours on end as they painted pictures above them in hushed tones, the world so fragile around them that they were afraid they would break it with too much volume.
They didn't know about how, every year on his birthday, the anniversary of his father's death, he would get just a little too tipsy and confide in Merlin stories of his boyhood, of rare moments spent in bonding with his father, and how he wished he'd had more time with him in his later years to do just a fraction of the bonding they had done when he was younger.
They didn't know about the way his hands would linger, fingers burning with something he would never allow himself to want in broad daylight, whenever he cuffed Merlin on the back of the head or neck in a teasing sort of manner, thinking, for the good of the kingdom, that what he wanted most of all didn't matter.
They didn't know about the way he doted on the puppies after birthing season, always checking their progress and picking one or two every year that would be more suited for domestic life rather than tracking or hunting, and introducing them to the castle personally, making sure they would be welcomed by the proper people and settled in quite comfortably.
They didn't know that he liked extra salt with his dinner whenever away from the kingdom, but extra pepper when he was back home again.
They didn't know that he had a strong stomach, yes, but he threw up if he became too stressed or nervous, a reaction he had never quite learned to control or suppress, which made for too many messes in his younger days before Merlin had really known him, and too few once he became king and had grown accustomed to all the stress he was under.
They didn't know that he would lend Merlin his cape on too chilly nights when they were out on quests or patrols and Merlin had neglected to pack extra blankets, and he didn't want him to freeze or anything.
They didn't know about the way he would run his fingers through Merlin's hair when it was being particularly unruly, always under the ruse of a playful ruffle, always letting his fingers jut the hair upward, so as to give it some hold and drive each of them just a little bit crazy.
They didn't know that he tasted like cinnamon by mid-morning, sweat by mid-afternoon, and bliss by mid-evening.
They didn't know that his eyes reminded Merlin of clear blue skies and perfect spring mornings, full of fresh air and watery depths.
They didn't know that, after a bath, he would sometimes run his hands over his scars, his eyes distant as his fingers traced out their stories, some still painful even though they were long healed.
They didn't know that, when he allowed himself to want anything at all, he just wanted his father back, most days. He just wanted to be prince again, and have his father be king and he just… he longed for the simple days when the fate of an entire kingdom didn't rest on his shoulders alone.
They didn't know about the way he would plant fluttering kisses up the inside of Merlin's arms and wrists in the gentle, loving moments between the chaos that normally surrounded them and their relationship.
They didn't know that, on those nights when Merlin spent the entire night in bed with him, Arthur would whimper in his sleep if Merlin left his grasp for even a second, the endearing whining ceasing only when his face was nuzzled into Merlin's neck once again.
They didn't know about the three cups of tea he drank every evening between the time his training and meetings finished for the day, and before he went to bed.
They didn't know that the smiles he allowed himself in public were usually faked for the sake of his people, never really reaching his eyes in the way the genuine ones did that Merlin could only seem to coax out of him when they were tucked away from prying eyes and court members.
They didn't know that his favorite horse was named Biscuit, after a dog he'd had, and had been quite fond of, as a child.
They didn't know about the four-leaf clover he kept pressed between the pages of a book he hadn't read in years now, pulling it out for good luck before an important battle or tournament or meeting—if only out of habit than the true belief that it would bring him good luck, in later years.
They didn't know that, sometimes, he talked to his deceased parents, seeking their guidance and counsel in a world that would never actually allow them to reply. On clear nights, he often liked to believe that they could actually answer him, if he had only listened closely enough.
They didn't know—would never know—how much Merlin had loved him, how much he had loved Merlin in return.
Sometimes, it seemed as though the people had never really known their king. And by the time any one realized it, it was much too late to start trying.
*.*.*.*.*