Second installment! Oh, and just to be clear, there will be NO Arthur/Gwen in this fic. Because the chemistry between them is about as reactive as a soggy sock. In other words: NOT VERY! There may be some onesided Gwen/Merlin, but that's just canon, so. That doesn't mean she won't be part of things, though!
2.
Arthur fought valiantly to keep the smile from his face, as he tried to maintain his regal composure while navigating the meandering streets of Camelot lower town. It wouldn't do for the peasants to think that the royalty was occasionally cheerful, or did anything other than sitting until their butt's grew numb looking pretty. Although, if he said so himself, he was rather good at sitting and looking pretty. Hell, he could standor even walk about, and still manage to look pretty. But, as Merlin had often commented rather dryly, there was slightly more to being a Prince than mincing about in shiny things.
He came to a hesitant halt, gazing down at the worn, dusty cobbles beneath his booted feet. To the East the sun crawled laboriously over the horizon, permeating heat into the sleepy chill of the dawn, banishing the ghosts of the dissipating blanket of night. A slight mist hung persistently in the air, the moisture clinging to the Prince's clothes and adorning his hair and skin with a glistening sheen. A slight frown marred Arthur's sunny disposition as he thought of his manservant, and he shivered, sorely feeling the absence of his fur-lined cloak.
It had been on precisely this spot, so many chaotic months before, that he and Merlin had exchanged words and blows that forged a destiny. He sighed, and glanced about the deserted street. The world had seemed so full and foreign then.
Tell me, Merlin. Do you know how to walk on your knees?
Arthur huffed sharply, wincing as the memory of his own arrogant words rebounded accusingly in his mind. The most maddening thing about his manservant was that he had an uncanny ability to rile Arthur's previously almost non-existent conscience. Now every time he engaged in activities bordering on what Merlin had deemed 'royal-prickery' he got his manservant's sarcastic voice reprimanding him with such phrases as 'well that wasn't very mature now, was it?' or 'oh sure, pick on the unwashed masses, because owning soap totally makes you superior. Prat.' Even the incident just moments ago, the slight hurt and disapproval in Merlin's eyes as he stood dripping pathetically in the unforgiving courtyard had tied Arthur's stomach in knots. But dammit, teasing the boy was just so irresistible!
I warn you. I've been trained to kill since birth.
Really? And how long have you been training to be a prat?
You can't address me like that.
Oh, sorry: how long have you been training to be a prat, my lord?
The Crown Prince sighed melodramatically, feeling the sting of the barb echoing across the expanse of time and the snickering cobbles. He moved reluctantly on down the street, away from the past, and turned down a disheveled alleyway that used to lead to the smithy, lost in thought. Which was rather an odd place for him, Arthur Pendragon, notorious book-hater with an allergic reaction to common sense, to be lost in.
Merlin had been so different from anybody else he had ever met before. And not just because of the fact he stuck out more than a sore thumb wearing a fruity hat and doing the can-can. No. Cunningly concealed beneath the stumbles and the goofy smiles and the pudding-bowl hairwas something complex and intangible. Merlin was a servant who even as he bowed refused to defer, who defied and surprised Arthur at every turn until the Prince found himself quite dizzy with confusion. He was disrespectful, foolhardy, a terrible seamstress and sometimes downright infuriating, yet Arthur was still as drawn to him as he had been upon their first meeting. The squall of Merlin's grey eyes whispered tantalizing mysteries and hidden truths that maddened and frustrated the Prince. And, inexplicably, scared him a little sometimes too.
In the space of just a few weeks of service, Arthur's disposition towards Merlin had shifted seamlessly from annoyance, to amusement, to fondness, to friendship and then further, deeper, until he had been willing to jeapardise his life and his entire Kingdom to save this seemingly unremarkable, unnoticeable boy. The suddenness and intensity of the shift still unsettled Arthur a little. Sometimes I think I know you, Merlin. Other times…Other times? Other times he thought he saw Merlin's eyes flash gold in the darkness.
There's something about you, Merlin. I can't quite put my finger on it. Well, if Arthur's finger had been just about missing the metaphorical 'it' when he had first met Merlin, then his finger was probably horribly lost somewhere in the South Pacific by now. He felt little closer to understanding his enigma of a manservant, even after two years.
"Ah, bugger." He cursed eloquently, shaking his head vigorously to rid it of these sappy sentiments "Stop thinking, Arthur, you idiot, you know it doesn't agree with you." And now he was talking to himself. Great. Bloody fantastic.
He ducked under a shallow wooden outcropping which overshadowed a crude, rough hewn oak door in the side of a building. He hesitated for a moment, straightening up and brushing some of the morning dew from his shoulders. He avoided this place as often as possible; it was cowardly, he knew. But it had been on his Father's orders that Gwen's Father had died. He knew she did not blame him, simple trusting creature that she was, but he saw the lingering pain in her eyes and felt the shadow of her grief weigh across his shoulders like a shroud. The price of his loyalty to his Father, and all the transgressions that entailed, was heavy.
He steeled his nerve and curled pale fingers around the calloused iron latch, lifting it as softly as possible and shouldering the heavy door as it shuddered open with a weary creak. He slipped inside and wrinkled his nose as the fading scent of smolder and copper and ash mixed distastefully with that of musty linen. He glanced briefly about, gaze settling upon a bent figure in a rough yellow cotton dress, crouched by the fireplace.
He cleared his throat softly "Good morrow, Guinevere."
"Oh my-" There was a resounding clang and the clatter of falling pots and pans, and Arthur, chivalrous as he was even when grumpy in the mornings, hurried over to help her restore order "Drat. Thanks-" her brown eyes widened as she beheld the intruder, and she scrambled to her feet, stuttering "Your Highness! You startled me!"
"My apologies." He said, courteously enough but a little formally. There was an uncomfortable silence. "I came to collect my order?"
Her features brightened in comprehension, and she nodded enthusiastically "Yes, it's all here, just as you requested. Follow me." she led him over to the workbench in the far right corner of the room, stammering vague apologies as they navigated their way past looms and reels of cord, and arrays of different coloured fabrics hanging from low ceiling beams.
"Your business as a seamstress is prospering, I hope?" he asked awkwardly, and her answering smile was a little strained.
"Oh, yes. Well, I get by, anyway." She disappeared behind a screen, and quickly re-emerged, proudly cradling a neatly folded pile of material "I went to the merchant you suggested and found some really lovely material, see?" She rubbed a thumb across the fine cerulean texture of the main garment fondly "Ocean blue to bring out his eyes." Arthur raised his eyebrows at her distant smile as she seemed to forget herself for a moment, and found himself oddly irritated by it. A raw, sickly heat pooled in his stomach, like some kind of writhing creature, and he clenched his fists and swallowed thickly "Oh! I mean…" Gwen quickly recovered herself with a flush "well i-its…suitable for dress wear but not above his station."
"They're perfect." He said softly, taking the bundle from her, admiring the neat stitching, fine embroidery and soft texture of his purchase. "Thank you." Guinevere was a competent seamstress; and they would fit Merlin perfectly, although it had taken a lot of stealth and a bungled attempt to measure his manservant's waist to ensure that. It wasn't a gift, he told himself firmly. Just a courtesy. A perk. A bonus for a job well done.
Gwen smiled and tilted her head a little, and said boldly "It's really very nice of you, sire."
"Nice?" Arthur repeated suspiciously, the word rolling off his tongue like it was a dirty concept. She clasped her hands and hesitated.
"I-I mean…for you to commission these. For Merlin. I know they'll mean a lot to him."
"Is that so?" he said, vaguely, a little pompously "I merely required some suitable attire for my manservant so he doesn't look like a three week old haystack for once. The caravan from Baldor arrives today, you know."
"Yes." She nodded fervently, and in her eagerness chose her words rather carelessly "Yes, but it will be like you are officially acknowledging your attachment to him."
There was a long pause, and Arthur's eyebrows nearly hit the roof.
"I don't know what rumours have been circulating around the staff, Guinevere-"
She blanched violently "No, no, Lord no!" Arthur grew amused as she floundered and blushed a fierce shade of red "Like…like he belongs to you, I mean. Oh God!" Arthur thought his eyebrows were somewhere in the stratosphere by now "No, n-not like that…but…that his services…that you two are…friends?" she finished, lamely, thoroughly distressed.
He considered her for a moment before drawing out a guarded "I…see."
"Well, I'm sure you're busy." She said hastily, shepherding him towards the door "T-Thank you for your patronage, sire."
She looked thoroughly relieved as he smiled winningly and pushed the door ajar "It's fine work. I will be sure to recommend you to members of the court." She flushed with pleasure, though still very winded by her recent enthusiasms. He inclined his head slightly as he left "Good day." Odd girl, he thought. Nice. But odd.
Alone in the street once more, as Camelot stirred and the distant rumblings of people going about their daily work petered through the growing light of day, Arthur frowned down at the innocent bundle he held in his arms.
I know it'll mean a lot to him. Guinevere's words of moments ago drifted back to him, and he let out a long, slow breath as he tried to fathom just why he had made the compulsive move to commission the damn things in the first place.
It wasn't a gift. It wasn't. And even if it was, so what? Merlin was his aide and, dare he voice it, his friend. And a long-suffering one at that.
As Prince of the realm, Arthur had never been particularly close to anyone before. Not with his Father, that faceless foreboding figure that had haunted the empty doorways of his childhood, who both loved and resented his son with a fierce and threatening passion. Nor with Morgana, his onetime ally hunting unreal creatures in the long grass, who had quickly ascended to that exclusively femenine world of dresses and silks and sickly sweet smells. Nor with the endless sea of nameless monochrome dwellers, who bowed and scraped and parted the way as he approached. No. He lived bound to his seclusion in a gilded cage of priviledge, and he had hated it.
Until Merlin came.
Merlin with his careless honesty, his haphazard smile and easy laughter. Merlin who remained fiercely loyal not due to fear or duty, but because he somehow actually liked Arthur. Merlin who would throw down his life for so brashly for a Prince he barely knew, who would drink knowingly from a poisoned cup of wine, and get himself thrown in the stocks to salvage his master's dignity. Merlin who looked at him like he knew him, and like it didn't matter that Arthur wasn't perfect.
Merlin, the gawky dimwit who wouldn't get the hell out of Arthur's head.
I know, no Merlin/Arthur interaction in this part, but I needed to sort Arthur's thoughts up until this point first. Meh. Comments are appreciated!