Most boys Arthur's age would be out romping with girls, having a tumble or two, and getting lost in the headiness of the tavern mead.
But then again, most boy's Arthur's age weren't preparing to lead their first battle.
Most boys hadn't had a personal manservant since the age of five.
And no one else Arthur's age was the crown prince of Camelot.
The villagers and townspeople of Camelot were still out in the streets, despite the rapidly sinking sun. The annual troupe of acrobats and performers had just left town, leaving a wake of drunken excitement in their trail. This August had been exceptionally warm, but now they revealed in the comforting warmth, the buzz of amiable chatter enveloping the Citadel like a shroud.
But Arthur? Arthur did not partake in the festivities or share in the relaxed lull. Arthur had to worry about the barbarian invaders from Umbria that even now were making their passage towards the lower villages. Arthur was facing the eve of his maiden battle as Prince of Camelot. He would have his own men, his own strategies, his own victories, and failures. And all he had now was 15 years of royal training and a manservant named Merlin.
"Merlin!" Arthur bellowed, as much as a 15 year old could bellow, for the other boy, who was nowhere to be found.
At that moment, Merlin burst into Arthur's chambers with yet another steaming bucket of water.
"Just fetching the final pail for your bath, sire." Merlin's voice held the same ridiculous insolence as always, and Arthur watched as he clumsily went about his duties.
Of all the manservants he'd had, Merlin was by far the worst, but he didn't treat Arthur like a child or a god, but as an equal.
"One day you'll pay for that cheek, Merlin." Arthur's voice, on the other hand, was flat and somber, a mere imitation of the usually good-natured prince.
"I'd like to see that, sire," Merlin replied, his voice softer, but no less Merlin than ever.
Merlin helped Arthur bathe, using an old cloth to wipe away the stains of the day's work. As he picked up the cloth out of the cooling broth, water dripped in rivulets down Arthur's back, unusually defined for a young boy. Yet even as the suds were washed away and Arthur was stepping out of the bath, Merlin could still read the tension in every line of muscle.
"Sire." Merlin's voice was bereft of all cajoling.
"That'll be all, Merlin."
And Merlin left, retiring to the small personal spaces he occupied that adjoined Arthur's much larger chambers.
Arthur dressed himself with some difficulty, but did not immediately go to his bed. Instead, he watched from his elevated window the antics of the people, his people, in the streets below.
A young girl, awake long past when she should have gone to sleep, twirled in the middle of the courtyard, the exuberantly colored skirts flaring about her in a bell shape. Men of various ages, shapes, and sizes passed in and out of the tavern doors. Older boys and girls snuck off in twos to various dark corners and alleys.
The things they don't know.
Growing weary of carrying the weight of their lives in comparison to his own, Arthur padded over to his bed, extinguishing a sole flickering candle on his way.
As the room was plunged into darkness, Arthur pulled the covers tight around him, shivering despite the moist warmth that permeated the castle walls.
His racing mind was alive in the silence, yelling, whispering, speaking his every thought to him. The images of Camelot flashed by as they were replaced with the gruesome tales of war that the knights were all too happy to share with Arthur. No one had told them the dangers of molding such an impressionable young mind.
Finally, exhaustion overpowered Arthur's brain and he floated in an out of consciousness as he slept. At some point during the night, he was aware that he had spoken a word aloud, and his mouth still tasted of Merlin's name. He was starting to doubt himself and drift off to sleep once more when he heard the timid footsteps.
"Merlin," Arthur whispered again, but it was enough. Merlin strode over to Arthur's side, hesitating only briefly at the bed post before seeing Arthur's disconcerted face and continuing on.
Wordlessly, Merlin pulled back the covers just enough to slide gently into the bed space beside Arthur. It had been so long since Arthur had received any caring attention, and he jerked at Merlin's touch.
A hand on Arthur's arm.
It stayed there, without pressure, until the flaring nerve endings calmed and Arthur melted before the affection.
Now confident in his actions, Merlin again became the manservant, manoeuvering Arthur until their bodies were flush. Merlin's arms wrapped around Arthur's body, warm and surprisingly solid given Merlin's slight frame. Arthur could feel as Merlin's hot breath wisped across the nape of his neck, bristling the hairs there and sending a shiver through Arthur's skin. He closed his eyes again as he concentrated on each point of contact, the fiery burn of skin on skin.
"Sleep, Arthur." Merlin's voice ghosted across his ear, the words so soft Arthur would have discounted them, were it not for the goose bumps that remained on his arms.
And with those words, Arthur did sleep, and he didn't wake until morning, where he found himself still in Merlin's arms.
They each went about their morning routines as usual, but there was no lively banter or insults, as Merlin and Arthur both contemplated the day's coming events.
Merlin was just fastening the last buckle of Arthur's breastplate, fashioned especially for his small size. His eyes were lowered and his long eyelashes drifted across the pale expanses of sculpted cheekbones.
"Merlin." Arthur's voice was imploring.
"Arthur." Merlin responded, cautioning.
Arthur brought both of his gloved hands up to encapsulate Merlin's face, the leather rough against soft skin, and his thumb tracing wonderingly across the fine features.
Their world hovered on a precipice for one second, two. Then Arthur brought it crashing over as he drew Merlin's lips to his own. It was chaste and simple and they shared their morning breath and chapped lips and inexperience, but it told a story that neither one dared speak aloud, and it encompassed more declarations that could ever be expressed in mere words.
For Arthur was not most boys, and nor was Merlin.
