Bear-faced cheek

Summary: It was supposed to be THE grand commission. A celebration of his leadership, dedication, physical prowess and wit. A painting to end all paintings: King Arthur, brave, strong, regal ... gorgeous... It was going to be great. So how the hell did THIS happen!? Two/three shot.

Characters: Arthur, Merlin

Rated: T

Bear-faced cheek

* ͡ ͼ ͜ ٭ϿϾ٭ ͜ ͽ ͡ *

'It is said to have the body of a lion, the wings of an eagle, and the...face of a bear. . .' - Arthur Pendragon, crown Prince of Camelot

* ͡ ͼ ͜ ٭ϿϾ٭ ͜ ͽ ͡ *

Transporting the King's breakfast may not be considered an act of crucial importance by many. Of importance, certainly, but not of crucial importance. That would be to any old run-of-the-mill layperson. To Merlin, and to a lesser extent those who were acquainted with Arthur's usual operations and general attitude of a morning, the word crucial was at least a little bit important. Ensuring that the meal was delivered swiftly, and in as close to one-piece as possible was quite simply a matter of life and death.

Or that was how it felt sometimes. Certainly in terms of Merlin's day, and any potential of his having time to himself during it. Conveyance of said meal was also exceedingly trying.

Camelot woke with the sunrise. While the idle nobility continued to languish in their beds, the army of servants, squires, washerwomen and tradesmen bustled about their daily tasks with gusto. Avoiding them with a heavily laden platter was, understandably, not easy.

Merlin however, had it down to an art.

Bidding good morning to any and all he passed, King Arthur's manservant ferried his precious cargo around and between his fellow servants, dodging around them, evading obstacles and keeping track of every last grape. Faced with two of the castle's numerous maids carrying a rather large and dusty curtain between them. He ducked below the ladies' load, fluidly handing off Arthur's platter to George as the ever perfect pillar of servitude passed to the ladies' left, only to take it back without missing a step as he came up on the far side and continued on along the corridor to the King's chambers.

If only he could be so graceful in all things.

A few feet from Arthur's door he passed Sefa, exchanging a shy smile with the Queen's maid as he went. Gwen must already be up if Sefa was on her way out of the royal chambers. It was rare for Camelot's Queen to sleep later than the sunrise. Once a peasant girl, always a peasant girl etc.

Grinning to himself at the thought of Gwen fending Sefa off from mending her gowns, or scrubbing the floors, he swapped the breakfast platter into one hand, balanced it, and opened the door without knocking.

The royal pit was empty. That ought to have been cause for concern on any normal day, but today the sight did nothing but wring a slight huff and an eye roll from Merlin as he crossed the chambers to set the King's breakfast on the table.

Early morning wrestling had been unnecessary these past few mornings, and it seemed that today would not break the new habit. Secretly, Merlin was disappointed. Manually dragging Arthur out of bed of a morning was the only time he got to drag Arthur anywhere with impunity. Perverse as it seemed, it actually felt like beating Arthur in a physical fight, which was refreshing on a good few levels.

In the soft light of the newly risen sun filtering in through the tall windows, Arthur stood in his nightshirt, red cloak buckled about his shoulders, crown resting upon his brow. On top of his old sword trunk, waving his unknown magical sword at the ceiling.

Merlin lightly shook his head and tutted.

Arthur was impervious to criticism, striking pose after heroic pose. "Nice of you to knock, as usual" he projected either at Merlin or the oh so threatening ceiling held at sword-point above.

"Still at it?" Merlin queried, setting the platter down on the table with a slight clang and a clatter as it slipped from his fingers and lost a slice of ham to the floor. Without a word he picked it up, dusted it off and put it back where it had fallen from.

Arthur selected a new pose, one hand on his hip and a frown on his face before answering. "You wouldn't understand, Merlin. If this isn't just right, I could end up looking like a fool."

He missed it when Merlin raised both eyebrows and began moving about the room picking up strewn clothing in favour of brandishing his sword over his head and gurning at the ceiling a moment. Satisfied, Arthur sheathed his sword at his hip. "On second thoughts, you would. Is that my breakfast?" He hopped down from the trunk and padded across to the table in a gait suspiciously like a strut and began picking at the platter.

Merlin left him to it, engaged in hunting under the bed for a stray sock.

For five days now this had been the norm. As soon as the sun was up, Arthur was wide awake and bouncing like an excited child. He would leap out of bed, shove his flaking old trunk over to the window behind his desk and scramble up on top of it to begin striking poses. It was the best place to see himself in the mirror apparently...

Not that it really mattered: whatever the pose, he still looked like a prat in Merlin's humble opinion.

Sitting back on his feet, Merlin began balling up the captured sock in his hands. It was all to do with this 'commission' Arthur had decided on. Something about giving Camelot a lasting image of their King and his eternal dedication to their protection. Or a monument to Arthur's ego, however one wanted to look at it.

Harold of Mercia was due to visit Camelot. He would be arriving that very day, in fact. Despite being described as 'of Mercia', the man held no real standing anywhere. He was a painter, responsible for some of the reportedly rather splendid works decorating Bayard's fortress. They were so pleasing to Mercia's sovereign that Harold had been gifted some land (a little corner somewhere nobody else really wanted) as well as a generous heap of gold in return for them. Uther had been a great follower of Harold's work also, though he had never commissioned anything himself, and even Gaius had been banging on about it as though it were the best thing since toad paste. Naturally, Arthur could barely contain himself at the thought of being immortalised in such a renowned person's work.

Being a serf, Merlin really couldn't see what all the fuss was about. He had never had much by way of contact with '~*the arts*~' beyond getting an occasional sidewards glance at those Uther had kept shut up in the vaults, and that Arthur likely had no idea he now owned. He had certainly never had time to sit and form an opinion on them. Art in general or as a concept was not something he would call himself familiar with.

His own artistic ability had never developed beyond the odd ham-handed charcoal smudge on parchment accompanied by a child's notion that they were picture perfect renditions of himself and his mother, and their little house, or maybe rabbits and grouse, and other randomised denizens of nature. His mother still had some of them; squirrelled away in he special things box as mothers were expected to do. It had to be through obligation that she kept them as they truly were awful.

He cocked his head in quiet thought.

Will had once drawn a picture of the village scarecrow that turned out to be downright horrific. Terrifying as it was, and likely due to the fact that it had made Merlin cry, a fact that Will in all his capability as a six-year old boy had decided was hilarious, the thing had kept turning up on Merlin's pillow every night for a week as if by magic until he had screamed himself hoarse and refused to sleep. Eventually Hunith had burnt the monstrosity in the fire and told Will's mother about her boy's antics. Merlin had to admit that he had felt a lot better knowing the thing had been committed to fiery destruction, ironic as that now seemed, and also that Will had been made to stand in a corner in silence for upwards of an hour because of his mischief. As much as seeing Will get into trouble had never delighted Merlin, that time he had been beside himself with glee simply because it could not be more deserved.

Also, even now he couldn't look at Slim Edward in the same way. Rotting and hung up on his pole to this day, he was probably even creepier now than he had ever been. Quite a feat in an inanimate object.

So his experience of art was a tad lack lustre, and likely coloured by his troubled past. The idea of Arthur's being immortalised in paint didn't strike him as particularly exciting. He couldn't help but feel a little dubious about the whole thing, not to mention thoroughly underwhelmed.

It wasn't that he didn't like looking at pictures, or that he was unable to appreciate something pretty when he saw it. The decorative and informative paintings of plants and flowers and phases of the moon, and the intricate knot work that graced the pages of his magic book were absolutely beautiful, and he thought so every time he looked at them. It wasn't that he had some ingrained hatred of all things painty that were not connected to magic.

It probably had something to do with Arthur's insistence that he be slaying the Great Dragon in the thing. In terms of this, anyway. It was not going to appeal to him at all.

Merlin had suggested, on walking in that first day and finding Arthur pulling faces and posing in his night shirt atop his trunk that he just have Harold paint him that way. Arthur had not been amused. Neither had he the courtesy to even consider the suggestion, so Merlin had just worked hard on detaching himself from the whole thing.

"I'm going to need you to polish my armour." Arthur told him flatly through a mouthful of ham. "And I'll need a shave." He set a finger on Merlin who still sat in a contemplative heap beside the royal bed, "and you had better sharpen my razor properly this time. I do not need a repeat of the Aldenbury incident."

The expression on Merlin's face was difficult to discern as a wince did battle with a grin across it. No, a repeat of that wouldn't do. As funny as it was watching Arthur try to make a speech while the whole village stared at him as though he had face-planted a hedgehog.

Arthur gave one of his 'yeah, you see?' nods. And went on, "When Harold arrives, I want you to ensure that he has everything he needs. His every whim will be your concern, seeing as you'll be serving him throughout his stay."

"Me?" Merlin jabbed a disbelieving finger at his own chest.

Arthur nodded. "Yes. You."

"Why me?"

"Because, Merlin, I want Harold to feel that he is valued during his stay in Camelot. You are my manservant, for my sins, and as such I hope that he feels well cared for knowing that you are attending him."

"Riiiight. So..." Merlin threw Arthur a cock-eyed look, "you're saying I'm good at my job?"

With a loud scrape, Arthur pulled out his chair and collapsed into it as though under a ton weight. He drew his platter to himself in order to properly engage his breakfast. "That's pushing it a bit. You're an acquired taste. Once Harold gets used to you, I'm sure he'll be able to appreciate that you're meant to be a gesture of respect."

"Alright. And who's serving you while you're busy respecting Harold?"

"I have already requested George attend me this week."

… That was said in faaar too nonchalant a manner.

"I thought he looked unusually smug just now."

"He's promised the utmost diligence during his time serving me."

Merlin grinned. "I'm sure he has."

"Yes. Well." Arthur propped one elbow on the table and rested his cheek in his hand. "He'd better not get too used to it. He's not staying." He plucked up a grape and threw it at Merlin that it bounced off the servant's hair, "as much as I hate to say it, I've gotten used to your way of doing things – your total lack of attention to detail and respect are part of my day. I don't want George lurking around here tidying up properly or folding my clothes competently for any longer than necessary. I'm not sure I can bend my mind around the idea of my chambers being less of a mess when my manservant has finished cleaning them."

"I'll make sure I put things right when I get back."

"See that you do. In the mean time, I still need my armour polished. And I want a bath before Harold turns up."

"Wow, you are going all out."

"Shut up, Merlin... why has this ham got fluff on it?"

And the morning progressed normally, without incident.

When Harold finally arrived later that afternoon, it was to as warm a welcome as any visiting royal. Arthur had all of his most trusted knights assembled on the steps, Guinevere beside him. He had even ordered Merlin to go and get scrubbed down, or dunked in the horse trough, whatever was quickest and most effective, that he would be relatively tidy when the legendary painter arrived.

Exactly what he should have been expecting, Merlin had no clue. Earlier on George had accosted him by coincidence in the laundry room while he was in the process of running his blue tunic through a mangle. He had considered wearing his faded old purple tunic seeing as it was his rattiest and most likely to get up Arthur's nose when he been explicitly instructed to look 'halfway presentable'. In the end that had seemed a bit too petty. Arthur really did want to impress Harold. Anyway, George had accosted him and started banging on about paintings and statues belonging to the Romans and made by great artisans. Eventually it had dawned on Merlin that George knew an awful lot about art, mainly in order that his cleaning of it should not be sub standard.

Bored by the third mention of columbarian urns in a very short space of time, Merlin had nodded absently and acknowledged his position in life as a thoroughly uncultured swine and invested himself in mangling his shirt once more.

Art really did hold very little interest for him. Probably due to Will's evil scarecrow, but remembering that thing inevitably made him picture it in his head, so he tried to force himself not to and of course only made it worse.

His mind was wandering.

His idea of a 'great artisan' as George had so eloquently put it, was very far removed from the physical form that came shuffling up to the steps.

Far from a towering expert of artistic excellence, Harold of Mercia looked more like somebody had boil-washed Geoffrey of Monmouth. He was a stooping, wizened creation, probably close to Gaius in age, who peered out of a wrinkled face through small, squinting eyes. In time it took him to be unloaded from the donkey-drawn wagon he had rolled in on, and shuffle unaided across the courtyard, he had adjusted his glasses at least twenty-three times and apparently still could not see through them.

From the look on Arthur's face, Merlin decided that the King was slightly more baffled than himself by this turn up.

Eventually Harold of Mercia shuffled to the foot of the steps and ground very gradually to a halt. He adjusted his glasses a twenty-fourth time, and peered up and about at the assembly above him as though trying in vain to work out which one was the King.

Arthur hesitated a moment, and opened his mouth to speak but looked unsure what to say. To his credit, he rallied, and plastered his best greeting smile on his face.

"Harold of Mercia." He opened his arms, likely to compliment his greeting, but also as likely in an effort to draw the painter's attention. "I welcome you to Camelot."

At the King's voice, Harold visibly jolted and gave a creaking bow.

"Thank you, Sire." He told the steps in front of him deferently, taking a stab in the dark as to exactly where Arthur was and missing quite spectacularly. "I an honoured to be here."

Then there was silence.

The knights shifted restlessly in an impressive collective motion. Arthur took a moment to be utterly lost as to how exactly he should proceed with this... unusual introduction.

At which point The donkey pulling the wagon decided to start braying rather loudly and persistently.

Gwaine pressed his lips together and tucked his chin to his chest against a smile.

Leon elbowed him covertly, but hard.

"It is an honour to have you here." Arthur told the painter suddenly, having formulated a plan of action, and descended the steps to shake hands with Harold.

Merlin rolled his eyes skyward and kept them there for fear that setting eyes on the great Harold again may send him the way of Gwaine.

Exactly what Arthur was saying to the man was lost on Merlin as they were conversing low tones. Harold could hear well enough then. That was... a bonus.

King and painter chatted for a while, Arthur having slipped seamlessly and likely unconsciously into his 'meet the public' mode, which involved much head nodding and looking interested and asking pointless questions. This went on long enough for Merlin to get fed up and begin twining his fingers in his tunic where his hands hid clasped behind his back. At his side, Gaius appeared ready to nod off.

Quite where Merlin's mind had run off to, he could not recall, but it came gallomphing back with a snap and a hop as Arthur clapped his hands together, exclaimed 'excellent!' and began ascending the steps towards Gwen.

The knights had been paying more attention to what was going on as they took the King's movements as cue to disperse, Gwaine at speeds better attributed to a red-handed burglar than a poised knight of Camelot.

Still with a satisfied grin on his face, Arthur gestured towards Merlin – a futile gesture as Harold didn't catch it at all .

"We will discuss it further at dinner. Until then, my servant Merlin will show you to your chambers. He will be attending you during your stay with us."

On hearing his name, Merlin gave a bow.

Arthur nodded his approval and held out his hand for Gwen to take. As they made their way inside the citadel, Arthur paused to brandish his favourite threatening finger at Merlin before walking on.

Gwen threw Merlin a sympathetic look tinged with more than a little amusement.

"Oh dear." She said very quietly, unable to suppress a smile.

Merlin valiantly fought off one of his own and simply nodded his head in enthusiastic agreement.

Once they were gone, he looked to his temporary master, Harold having called his name:

"You, boy. Oh, boy!"

… Well... sort of.

"Yep?"

Merlin hurried his way down the steps to meet Harold, who began grasping in the general direction of his arm.

He got a handful of tunic, satisfied that it was enough to be sure Merlin was attentive in the way he tugged on it to bring the servant down to eye level, and peered up through murky glasses adjusted a twenty-fifth time.

"You must help me with my supplies. Be careful! They are precious to me. I should not like to anger the King if I cannot complete his commission due to broken or missing tools."

Oh no. That wouldn't do at all.

Merlin rinsed his brain of all sarcastic thoughts relating to Arthur's exercise in ego strokery and nodded obediently.

"Of course. I'll be careful."

"Good. Watch the eggs as well. There are a lot of eggs. The eggs are essential." To Merlin's great surprise, a broad grin broke over Harold's face. "Thank you, lad." He patted Merlin's arm and turned to begin shuffling back over to the cart. "... many, many eggs. Eggs, eggs. Eggs."

Taken aback at a show of manners, and a little unsure about the eggs and their effect on the man, whatever they were for, Merlin rolled his shoulders back and followed.

The week in which Harold of Mercia was honoured guest at Camelot was memorable for a number of reasons, not least because it was a peaceful one.

Despite being blind as a bat half the time, Harold's skills as an artist were not exaggerated. He would have Merlin prepare his materials (something which interested Merlin greatly, and explained why the man cared so much about his eggs. The yolks were an essential part of the paint mixture) while he instructed Arthur as to where to stand that the light was most dramatic. Then he would change his glasses to a pair less murky and much more useful than his usual pair that he bore a great sentimental attachment to, take up his brush and paint for hours at a time.

Merlin would watch over his shoulder as the picture took shape, marvelling at the wonderful detail appearing before his eyes.

Arthur almost buckled under the strain towards the end of the week, but his years of hunting had taught him how to stand very still for prolonged periods of time. Something he actually managed masterfully.

As a master, Harold was far from demanding. Beyond his duties of cleaning and fetching meals, all Merlin had to do was help him wash his brushes, and go to the market on a regular basis to top up the supply of eggs. That, and ensure Harold had a cup of weak ale and a seat by a roaring fire of an evening.

Harold seemed more interested in chatting to him than giving him chores, and he was rather an interesting speaker. The old painter had been all over the five Kingdoms in his time, and spent a tenure wandering over the sea in Ireland painting various royals.

So it was that by the end of the week, Merlin wandered into the kitchens to collect some supplies (namely eggs) for Harold to take with him back to Mercia, feeling fresh as a daisy.

George on the other hand, was just leaving and made a very uncharacteristic remark about wanting to crawl into a hole and expire. Merlin had stared after him with a baffled frown. George looked as though he had crawled out of a hole, or at least been dragged through a hedge backwards. And he had only been serving King prat for a week?

Some people just had no staying power.

Before Harold was to leave that day, he was to reveal the fruits of his labours to Arthur and Guinevere.

Beneath a cool, calm exterior of Kingliness, Arthur was positively bouncing. He had seen nothing of the painting all week and now he clearly could not wait.

His face when he saw the painting however...

Gwen gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

It was a masterful work: Arthur, bravely wielding his shining sword in the killing strike against Harold's impression of the Great Dragon was a wonder to behold.

Even Merlin, with all his anti-dragon destruction philosophy and total lack of artistic nouse thought it breathtaking.

So Arthur sent Harold of Mercia on his way with his praise, his gold, and a companion for the lonely and geriatric donkey.

All was well.

"Magnificent."

Arthur rubbed his hands together, like an anticipatory fly looming over someone's unguarded meal, and turned away from his grand commission. "We'll have an unveiling in two days time, before the whole court." He told Gwen with a bright smile plastered across his incredibly smug face. "Send word to Audrey. There will be a celebratory feast."

Gwen smiled and took her husband's waiting hand to be lead from the room, amused by his boyish behaviour.

Arthur paused to glance back over his shoulder at Merlin. "Have that moved to the Great Hall. Then come and sort out my chambers. George has made an absolute mess of things these past few days. I have no idea what's wrong with him suddenly."

Merlin refrained from mentioning that the effects of being badgered to within an inch of one's life by a pompous, demanding and overbearing ass of a King differed from person to person, and that he himself was just used to it. Instead he bowed with perhaps a tad more mockery than first intended. "Sire."

Arthur cocked an eyebrow at him, though it was far less impressive than anything Gaius could muster. "And there I was thinking you'd rather clean than join me on my hunt. I had forgotten just how much you love to hunt. How selfish of me. In that case you can saddle my horse and-"

"Clean your chambers, you said? Right." Merlin cut him off, watching with a neutral expression Arthur crowing his victory as he sauntered out the door.

And he was left to his task.

Moving the painting was easier said than done. With the overall size and weight of the thing, taking it to the Great Hall proved to be a task in itself. Either everybody was extremely busy, or there was a castle wide conspiracy of shirking going on and nobody had thought to let Merlin in on it. The other servants he passed were otherwise engaged, and most of the knights who would help were nowhere to be found.

So Merlin made his way across the courtyard, wondering exactly what Arthur would have to say if he saw his grand commission being carted about in a wheelbarrow.

It was an effective strategy, but could only work for so long. Meeting the griffin staircase called for something different. With a little quiet magic and a lot of grunting, Merlin managed to lump the painting up the stairs.

Arthur could have helped, not that he would. It was his painting after all. But today had to be the day he decided to hunt, didn't it? Merlin huffed at his own sarcastic and slightly caustic thoughts, and glanced about for somewhere to take a breather.

The hounds were barking down in the courtyard, winding themselves up. From the yelling accompanying the din, it sounded like Yniol, the young hounds-master in training, was having difficulty with them.

Strange. Some of the yapping didn't seem to be coming from outside.

Merlin craned his neck to see over the top of the painting, his heart leaping into his throat to see three of Arthur's hounds galloping towards him down the corridor towards the stairs. Aned and Aethelm were big dogs in themselves, but leading by a stretch was Cavall, Arthur's favourite and by far the biggest of the entire pack.

Arthur's favourite who got given all the best cuts of meat, the most diligent grooming and the most exercise.

Arthur's favourite for his skill at taking down quarry due to his sheer size.

Arthur's favourite punishment for Merlin when he demanded his manservant walk his dogs.

A dog that needed A LOT of exercise and got very excited about it, and very attached to those who gave it.

A very big, very strong dog that loved Merlin.

"Cavall, NO!"

The painting being so large, it was hardly a surprise to Merlin that he couldn't judge the precise moment of impact. He just knew it was coming and that there was no way he could put the stupid artwork down before he got a face full of dog.

He couldn't be sure what happened exactly, just that one minute he was struggling to find somewhere to put the bloody painting, and the next he was shoved bodily against the griffin statue, dazed and with a huge, bristling hound tugging on his sleeve and growling, two more sniffing around his feet, tails wagging.

There had been a painting of great value in his hands, and now there wasn't.

That painting was currently clattering down the stairs – a dead weight of heavy, brittle wood crashing and bouncing its way down stone steps. If it wasn't for the trail of destruction it left in its wake, Merlin could have held out some hope for the outcome of this situation. As it was, there was no hope in the path of splinters strewn all over the steps.

He shoved Cavall away, straightened, and threw out his hand. Too little too late as Arthur's grand commission met its ultimate doom with a crash and screech at the foot of the staircase.

The hounds raised their heads at the sad, sad sound, ears pricked. They observed the heap of matchwood lying at the foot of the stairs a moment without comprehension, and returned to sniffing around Merlin. Someone who did not share the luxury of their blissful ignorance.

Merlin stood, and stared, expressionless.

"Oh."

* ͡ ͼ ͜ ٭ϿϾ٭ ͜ ͽ ͡ *

Notes: I honestly can't remember if Merlin is any way artistically inclined in the show. If memory serves we are never shown anything explicit to that effect. I should be working on The Red Dragon. Chapter XI is posing some problems, as is Chapter VII of In all but blood which is sitting on my hard drive looking ashamed of itself. I wanted to get something up in the mean time as my time is going to be filled with a lot of revising, though stories will still be updated. This is the origin of that painting from The Red Dragon. The title is courtesy of my darling husband, who is also my official banter-checker. I said I'd write this for him :3

I was caught between categorising this as humour/drama and humour/tragedy.