The next morning Arthur was awake when Merlin came round to rouse him, but pretended not to be. He got up as commanded and munched casually through his breakfast while Merlin puttered and chattered. Then they dressed him and headed out for a tour of the walls.
Arthur looked over the guards and made suggestions about how better for them to perform their rounds. He inspected a decaying of the plasterwork on a far corner of the castle. He double-checked the game stockroom to ensure the autumn meats were coming in on schedule.
He trained his knights, the habitual clanging of metal and quick panting breaths through armored slits a soothing ritual. He pushed himself a bit harder than average, going past exertion and into fatigue, so that he'd have an excuse to act tired. Merlin chided him for mussing up the polish on his gorget.
He stood through his father's meeting about the border troop deployments. He most determinedly remained the dutiful, attentive son he'd always been. Mentions of sorcerers were met with a casual answer and without so much as a flinch. He kept Merlin busy meanwhile with chores to prevent stress.
He had lunch.
More inspections, this time in town. A tavern was being rebuilt from where it had lost a doorway to a beast's attack. The barkeep had chased the clawed thing away with a griddle, for which he was to be commended. Sometimes Arthur could write off the incessant attacks on Camelot as character building; they certainly had the best trained bar brawls around.
He picked out a nice looking roll of fabric from the market, thinking Gwen might want to make herself a new cloak for the oncoming cold months. He promised a pittance fee extra for delivery; he wasn't going to haul the heavy thing back himself, he was a Prince for crying out loud.
He returned to the castle and checked on the condition of one of his favorite horses, who had cracked a hoof on a rock during a frantic chase. The stablemaster had sanded out the trouble nicely and given a good massage to the leg to stave off muscle strain.
He stopped in to warn one of his knights that, if the rumors were true, it wasn't anyone's business who he might enjoy the company of in a private corner or a spare bedroom, but under the dining hall table was really pushing the boundaries of good taste, as well as hygiene. The knight was appropriately contrite, so Arthur didn't add any punishments.
He ate dinner. In his bedroom, since he didn't really want to look at the dining hall table just yet.
He settled in to read a good book. Father had purchased the collection of a deceased scholar for the archives, at a reasonable though handsome sum. The writing style was a bit difficult to pace through, but the bits about Roman combat were worth the effort. He'd have to ask Geoffrey what a phalanx was, though.
He mocked Merlin for not getting around to making the bed until he was ready to lie in it. Together they got him undressed and he stepped into his sleeping pants behind the dressing curtain. Merlin banked the fire and wished him a good night, which he replied to with a grunt.
He rolled onto his side, punched his pillow into a comfortable position, and relaxed, waiting for sleep to come.
A few hours later, he got up with a sigh, crossed to the fireplace, and held out his hand. "Ligfýr arwe."
The torrent came rippling up in golden fire, shattering into the stonework, the embers leaping up to meet it. The fire rolled up into a merry burn again.
"All right," he said to no one. This wasn't going away.
The next breakfast was much harder. Merlin was nervous chattering, probably still glancing over his shoulder constantly for an unknown sorcerer attack. Arthur couldn't figure out a way to tell him there was no danger, false alarm, without bringing up just why he knew this. He chewed through his morning meats systematically, to have a reason not to talk. Merlin didn't seem to notice.
The next meeting with his father was torment incarnate. There'd been a stray warlock cursing peasants in a village, and he'd been captured and brought into Camelot for execution. Uther was very, very pleased. Ever oversensitive, he picked up on Arthur's less than enthusiastic mood and confronted him later. "You mustn't allow yourself to feel for those who cast magic, Arthur. They wouldn't feel for you."
"I know that, Father," Arthur said carefully.
"I don't think you do," Uther pressed. "Too often you have shown compassion to those who deserve none. It may be an admirable trait in a common man, but not in a King."
"Of course, Father," Arthur said carefully.
"You must cultivate a firmer outlook."
"I will try, Father."
"See that you do."
He had to pause in the hallway afterwards to let his breath catch up. He held up a hand to watch it tremor, surprised.
He worked both himself and his men hard that afternoon, taking out the tension in adrenaline until all that left was a warm aching exhaustion, and many bruises. The men decided this was a punishment for the unnamed knight's incident with the table, and glared him down in unison. The knight cowered as much as he could without moving.
Merlin translated this as Arthur fretting over the mysterious sorcerer assassin getting away. "I bet he's not even in town anymore," he mused aloud, trying to soothe his Prince's mood. "I bet he took his one shot, figured he'd shown his hand, and ran for it. Dunno why he'd even try to target me, anyway. Waste of his time. He's probably off trying to kill someone more impressive somewhere else."
"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur muttered, rubbing a sore shoulder. He shook off Merlin's following attempt to massage out the stiffness.
Too late it occurred to him that agreeing would've been the perfect way to put Merlin at ease without saying anything about his own troubles. He let out a curse, and then had to apologize to Gwen, who'd been passing by on the stair.
He stopped into the archive to return the book to Geoffrey, and to say he thought he might explore the stacks and find himself another one. No, he didn't need any help, he'd just rifle through. He wandered into the far back where he thought the less public things might be housed, and flipped through a few, looking for any fragments of strange language. He found some in Normanic and one with bits in Pictish. That was about it.
On the way out he asked Geoffrey what a phalanx was. The answer was impressive. He asked Geoffrey to draw him up a diagram.
He caught the knight in the small courtyard, out in the open and everything. He ordered five laps around the castle.
He had dinner with his father and Morgana in the dining hall. It was an interesting experience, fluctuating between difficult to conceal amusement and/or disgust, wondering if there might be stains on the floor, and a nervewracking anxiety that spiked up every time his Father so much as glanced in his direction. He was a lousy conversationalist.
Merlin puttered quieter that evening, his mind too busy to talk. Arthur tried to read his new book. It was harder, somehow, for Arthur to concentrate with Merlin quiet than Merlin talking. Eventually he chased him out with threats of massive chores if he didn't just get out, now Merlin.
He crouched by the fireplace and watched the wood hiss gently.
He held up his hand and examined the fingers. No burns, the same calloused skin as a week ago. He squeezed the fingers in his other hand experimentally. Bone solid underneath. Nothing else hiding beneath the surface. He checked every knuckle just to be sure.
He held it out to the fire. "Ligfýr arwe."
Fire, sparks and brilliance, smashing and crackling on the wood.
He inspected his hand again. No changes. Fingertips slightly warmer to the touch but cooling quickly. The tingle under the skin, pulsing all through him with his heartbeat, faded slowly.
He held his hand with the palm pointed up in front of him, in no particular direction. "Ligfýr arwe."
The shower of flame exploded in every direction and he had to scramble out of the way cursing. His shirt caught fire and he removed it and beat it out. What was left of the sparks sizzled and died out on the stone floor.
He went to bed and curled up in the covers, tucking his head next to his hand where he could look at it in the limited moonlight coming through the curtains. It was still his hand.
"Ligfýr arwe," he couldn't help but whisper, and then had to get out of bed quickly and dump his washing bowl - which Merlin had forgotten - over the mattress. Small favors from incompetent servants, he thought with a minimal annoyance.
Come to think of it, what was a magic script doing in Merlin's bedroom?