Merlin had danced all night, staying awake till sunrise with the other druids who had the energy to do so. It had been a long walk back to the cave in the morning, but he'd been beyond grateful for the lack of sun reaching the room in the cave he was sleeping in. Although with how tired he'd been, he probably would have slept through midday sun with the knights training right next to him. It was a good thing he'd had a day of rest before he needed to return to Camelot.

Thankfully, he had rested enough, because Arthur had not been shy in heaping chores upon him when he returned. In a few days, Camelot was to hold its own celebration of a good harvest, this one in the form of an open tournament.

Traditionally, only knights were able to compete in the tournaments. There were two exceptions: the Decennial Tournament–a tournament held every ten years with no rules‒and the Harvest Tournament. Although perhaps it would be more accurate to say tournaments, plural. There was the normal tournament for knights and also a lower circuit that was open to anyone.

Typically the lower circuit competition was made up of guards, although sometimes an odd commoner or fifth son of a fifth son from another kingdom would compete. Winning the lower circuit tournament would result in knighthood. It was an honour fought for fiercely. A guard would otherwise have to save the king's life to be awarded a knighthood.

Because this was a festival, the tournament ran on a points basis, allowing everyone to compete in the different competitions rather than half the competitors being eliminated in the first round. There were a few rounds of traditional sparring, but successive levels started limiting weapons. With each competitor competing every day in multiple events, it was a lot of work for the servants.

However, this year, Merlin would have less work to do since Arthur wouldn't be competing in the tournament. His father wanted him to host it this year; a duty Arthur was not happy with. "It's going to be so boring," Arthur complained. "I have to sit on the dais and watch people do all the fun fighting. Do you have any idea how dull it is to watch when you can't partake? The whole point of a tournament is to fight!"

Merlin ignored him.

"I've been competing every year since I was ten and my instructors decided I was skilled enough to make it through the first round." Arthur smiled at the memory. "Looking back, they may have just agreed to stop my pestering. I certainly came nowhere near winning. And now I have to sit and watch again."

"Don't forget you have to give a speech as well," Merlin said.

Arthur groaned and dropped his head to the table.

"I've already written it for you. It's on your desk when you're ready to face your responsibilities." Merlin pretended not to hear the muffled denials of ever being ready. "I've got things to do in town before the evening rush. I'll send someone to clear away your supper."

Arthur merely flapped a hand in dismissal.

As Merlin was walking out of the blacksmith's shop, he heard an unexpected voice call his name. He turned in surprise. "Gwaine?" he whispered harshly, marching over to yank the idiot into the shadows. "What are you doing here? We both know Uther banished you."

"As if he's going to find out," Gwaine replied with a scoff. "I could march into the throne room and the old fool probably wouldn't remember my face."

"But Arthur would."

"He wouldn't tell. You heard him; he tried to get me to stay."

Merlin shook his head. He knew it was no use. "Why are you here? Is something wrong?"

"Wrong? No." Gwaine flipped his hair. "But I can't resist a good tournament, and Camelot has some of the best. Besides, an important part of armor is the visor." Gwaine smiled wildly as Merlin shook his head some more.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?"

"I was hoping you could help with that."

Merlin thought for a moment. Gwaine couldn't stay in the library again. It would be best to keep him out of a tavern. The cave was too obviously magical, and he still wasn't sure what Gwaine had figured out for himself. "It won't be perfect, but I know a place."

"So long as I can lay out a bedroll on a flat surface, I'm sure it'll be fine."

When Merlin showed him the abandoned house on the edge of town that served as a shelter for refugees, Gwaine looked like he might rescind that statement. But true to his word, he tossed his pack onto the straw mattress and threw himself after it. Feet propped up on the wall, arms behind his head, he grinned at Merlin.

"I'm not expecting people," Merlin said as he checked the supplies in the cabinets, "but if anyone comes in, show them the ring I gave you and they'll trust you. Of course if they don't know what it means, then it's up to you and your acting skills."

"Say, is our friend Lancelot competing?" Gwaine asked.

Merlin chuckled. "He convinced a friend of his to come to Camelot to compete in the lower circuit, and his friend agreed to compete only if Lancelot did as well. I've been avoiding his whining all week. It's nearly as bad as Arthur's. I can't wait to meet this Percival to tell him what a terrible deal this was."

Despite all of his dread, Arthur was actually enjoying himself. With Merlin standing beside his chair, they kept a running commentary on the matches. After two years of being his servant, Merlin knew enough terminology to not get lost. Arthur was able to evaluate his knights outside of a training environment, and Merlin provided commentary on the matches and the friendly banter that might be happening on the field between knights:

"This is for that sweet roll you stole from me yesterday. Yeah? Well, this is for pushing me into the river on our last patrol!"

Or hypothetical thoughts in the minds of the guards that he knew:

"I wonder what Amara's doing right now? Is she watching me fight? Does she like my legs?" or even, "Block, counter, strike. Block, counter, strike. This should be a dance. Block, counter, strike."

As ridiculous as it was, Arthur admitted that he would have a hard time watching Sir Stephen fight from now on without picturing him trying to dance with a tree.

One knight in particular caught Arthur's eye. "Merlin, who's the knight with the green horse on their crest?"

"I think it was a Grem-something. Why? Do you want me to check the registry?" Arthur nodded and Merlin hurried off. When he returned, he held the list in his hand. "Sir Gresham Pelinore, from High Cliffe. Fifth son of Lord Yoriac," he read off. "Is something wrong?"

"I've never seen his crest before. I'm assuming he doesn't serve in the capitol."

"Correct."

Arthur rubbed his forehead. "It must be that. Thank you, Merlin."

But now Merlin was suspicious. Arthur had a point. He had never heard of this knight before. For that matter, he hadn't heard of the estate. He asked Sir William about it over dinner.

"That estate was raided and burned down in a terrible fire many years ago. No one from the family survived. Why do you ask?"

"Do you know how many sons the lord had?" Merlin asked instead.

"The genealogy book would have record of it. No, check after you finish eating. I will not have you getting food on my books. Why the questions anyway?"

"Something Arthur noticed at the tournament. Apparently there was a fifth son who survived the fire and lived to become a knight." Merlin stuffed the last piece of roll into his mouth. "But if that's wrong..."

"Then there's an imposter," William finished. "I would beg you to be careful, Merlin."

"When am I not?" he replied with a cheeky grin.