Chapter Summary: "That's the last bloody time I listen to anything you suggest, Merlin." Merlin and Arthur spend the day toiling away in the fields. Arthur's unimpressed.

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Farmers, and Fields Full of Potatoes

Chapter Two: The Fields

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"Merlin, this is the most exhausting thing I've ever done," Arthur whined, throwing his… uh… oh, who cares what the blasted thing was called? Throwing his farmer-style-ground-digging-tool to the ground and collapsing onto a sod of earth soon after.

"Honestly – it's only half way through the morning; I don't think I've ever been this tired," he went on, attempting to scrub some dirt off his face and succeeding only in adding more. "And I've trained the knights!"

"Yeah, well, this is what farming is all about," Merlin replied, huffing a little as he shook his fork (farmer-style-ground-digging-tool) free of the loose dirt and got ready to plunge it down again. The oxen were waiting to be attached to the plough, but the ground was hard enough that Arthur and Merlin needed to go through with the forks first to loosen the hard-packed dirt, otherwise they would just end up with a mess of earth and no neatly ploughed lines and they'd have to start over.

Well, all that was according to Merlin at least, but Arthur wasn't sure how much he should trust the dark-haired boy's instruction on this.

"And just remind me – how is it that you know so much about farming?"

Merlin rolled his eyes, exasperated. "For the fiftieth time – I grew up in a small village, you twit. Everyone farmed."

Arthur huffed. "Well, you neglected to mention how exhausting it was."

Merlin rolled his eyes again and turned his back on the prince, jabbing at the ground with his fork to shake the loose earth free and continue churning.

"Well, at least now you'll have more of an appreciation for your food, now that you know how much hard work goes into growing it."

There was no verbal response from the blonde; instead, Merlin heard a huffing sigh followed by a soft flumping noise, and he turned to see Arthur flopped bonelessly on the ground, arms flung out to the sides and eyes closed.

"Arthur, these fields aren't going to plough themselves," Merlin said, exasperated. "Get up."

"No," Arthur replied childishly, not even opening his eyes.

Merlin levelled a stern frown at him. "You know what Gwen said – you can't call yourself a farmer if you're not actually going to farm."

"Well, then, I won't be a farmer," Arthur said cheerfully, grinning at his wit and still not looking up.

Merlin glared at him exasperatedly. "Well what will you be then, because you need to be something and you can't be an eloped Prince living with his not-yet-wife and his once manservant."

Arthur cracked open an eye and glared. "Once manservant?"

Merlin grinned. "Of course. I just said you can't be a Prince, didn't I? Well, people who aren't Princes don't have manservants."

Arthur narrowed his eyes at him, trying to work out how serious he was.

"Merlin, go and get me a drink," he said, testing the waters.

Merlin grinned cheerfully, leaning on the handle of his fork.

"No," he said simply, and Arthur scowled at him.

"Whatever," the Prince said, dropping his head back down and closing his eyes again. "Didn't actually want a drink anyway."

"Right," Merlin snorted, he himself thinking wistfully of a nice cold glass of water or a lovely juicy apple. "Well, if you're so well hydrated, then you've no excuse to be lying about. Up."

Arthur opened his eyes again, a vaguely incredulous expression on his face.

"That sounds suspiciously like an order," he said, his eyes narrowed.

"Well done!" Merlin praised enthusiastically, turning back to his dirt-turning. "You can give them as well as pick them. Now all that remains to be seen is if you can take them."

Arthur blinked at Merlin's back.

"You... you can't order me about, Merlin!" he said, half laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

"See – I can, actually," Merlin said, enjoying himself far too much and keeping his back to Arthur so that his grin would go unseen. "You have no idea what you're doing here – I'm the one who knows how to farm. So if you want this whole farmer lark to work out for you, you've got to do as I say. I'm the expert here."

Arthur stared at him blankly.

"Heaven help us," he said woefully.

...

A considerable while later, Merlin managed to convince Arthur to get back up and pitch in again with the sod-turning, earth-churning, back-breaking work.

He would have liked to be able to say that it was because Arthur overcame his temporary bout of childishness and decided to pitch in again, but really, it was because Merlin had said, "You know – Gwen's roasting a chicken for dinner tonight. I'm sure if I tell her how hard I had to work, she'll give me first call on the wings. Guess I get both of them tonight."

Now, Merlin knew how much Arthur loved the wings – especially the way Gwen did them – but even he was surprised by how quickly the blonde man was on his feet, fork in hand and half dug into the earth.

And now the sun was setting, they'd finished loosening the dirt, they'd run the oxen down the fields (that had been an interesting experience), and they'd decided to get a head start on the planting and get a few potatoes in tonight, before heading home to collapse at the dinner table.

"So, tell me again – why potatoes?" Arthur asked, stuffing one messily into a hole and covering it up again before moving down the neatly ploughed line to dig another hole.

"Because," Merlin said from the next row over, "they're hardy, so they won't fail if we get some frosty mornings; they store well, so we won't have to worry about winter; they're plentiful, so we can sell them at markets and trade them for other vegetables; and they're Gwen's favourite."

Arthur considered this for half a second, and nodded in acceptance, covering his most recently planted potato with a layer of dirt.

"I'm just glad we only have to do this once," he said, mentally groaning as he bent again to put in another tuber. "I should have become a farmer years ago. Aside from this one bit, it's going to be easy."

"Ah..." Merlin said, in that tone of voice that Arthur had long since learnt meant You're not going to like this.

"That's... not exactly how it works," the once-manservant said, a little hesitant, and Arthur frowned a little.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "We plant them, they grow, and then we dig them up and eat them. Simple."

"Yes, that's true, but there's a little more to it than that..."

Arthur straightened and glared over his shoulder, his expression a clear Tell me, and tell me now.

"Well, we have to make sure that the dirt is always kept topped up," Merlin said in a rush, as though saying it quickly would make it less bad. "The potatoes grow near the surface, so we have to add more dirt each time the plant gets higher, through the whole season, or we'll only get six or so potatoes out of each plant, and that wouldn't be enough to both feed us and to sell."

Arthur looked incredulous, and vaguely dangerous.

"Do you mean we have to come out here every week and do this?" he demanded, gesturing wildly to their expanse of fields and bending over dramatically to mime the backbreaking work they were currently doing.

"Um..." Merlin said, and Arthur knew it was about to get worse. "Well, not every week, no. It needs to be done every three days or so and, considering how many plants we're going to have and how much time it will take us, we're... going to need to do it every day."

"Every day!" Arthur repeated, his voice sounding more similar to thunder than to a normal human.

"It's what a farmer does!" Merlin retorted loudly, refusing to take the blame for this when the whole bloody thing had been the Prince's idea.

"Are you telling me that every single thing we eat – every vegetable; carrots, onions – have to be reburied every three days!"

"Ah... no," Merlin said, hesitant again. "Just... ah... just potatoes."

Arthur stared at Merlin for a very long moment.

"So basically," he said, "out of all the plants we could have farmed, you chose the one that was the most work."

"I wouldn't put it quite like that," Merlin defended, and then quailed a little under The Look that Arthur threw at him. "Ah, yes. That is correct."

Arthur viciously pointed a dirt-encrusted finger at his best friend.

"That's the last bloody time I listen to anything you suggest, Merlin," he said crossly, then turned back to his row and buried a potato with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

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AN: Saturday afternoon, as promised! Poor Arthur; all his dreams of an easy farmer's life, shattered.

And yes, you actually do have to add more dirt to potatoes every three days or so to make sure you get the best crop out of them. I've only ever grown them in my backyard, mind, so I don't know how actual farmers go about it, but, oh – it's so worth it. Potatoes are possibly the best food on the planet.

On a slightly-but-not-entirely unrelated note, I have discovered cranberries. Dude. Cranberries are awesome. I've got a 500 gram pack of them that I've been munching on whilst typing, and I've actually eaten nearly half of them by myself. (*Checks shiftily for younger sister who will be cross I've left her so few*) They're a very good writing food. Stuck for the right words? Take a break – munch a cranberry. I can almost guarantee that inspiration will hit.

Hm. Clearly I'm hungry. *Goes hunting*

Up Next: "No, Merlin, we are not keeping it." Merlin and the dog looked up at Arthur with matching expressions of such woeful sadness that Gwen aww'd in sympathy and rushed forward to pet both of them on the heads.