Em poured all of his frustration into beating Arthur's Nature-damned rugs. He pictured the finely woven Mercian rug as Arthur's smug face. The thick red one was Jarl, and the blue runner Thorn's backside. He beat the rugs until his sides heaved and tears of frustration pricked in his eyes. He had strung the rugs up on a line in the back courtyard where he sometimes took the dogs to play. Even now, Pike, Trout, Sionnach, and Bandit tussled in the dirt with Holt. Beckett let the kid out from work early. Seeing the scruffy kennel boy wrestling with a royal hound worth its weight in silver was an amusing sight. It certainly distracted Em from his frustration with the prince.
How dare that conceited, pompous son of a murdering psychopath ask him about his scars! Perhaps he only wanted to mock Em. Feign concern, and then tell all his knights friends about the skinny serving boy with the big ears and funny scars. Em did not spend almost two weeks under Jarl's whip and Thorn's knives just so he could tell the story to anyone who felt they had the right to know. He might owe Arthur his labor and time (and magical protection, according to the dragon), but Arthur had no right to Em's story or his suffering. As someone whose people had been systematically murdered and oppressed over the past two decades, Em felt he at least deserved the right to keep his past private. It did not interfere with his work or pose a threat to the prince in any way.
Arthur could shove his questions where the sun didn't shine, for all Em cared, just so as long he never asked them again.
"Arsehole," he muttered.
"Are you done yet, Merlin?" Holt called.
"I am," Em said, giving the blue rug one last whack with the carpet beater for good measure.
"Can you show me how to fight?" Holt stared at his bare feet, fidgeting nervously.
Em broke into a huge grin. He felt a sudden tug in his heart when he realized how much Holt reminded him of Daegel and Mordred, with his big hopeful eyes and skinny frame. "'Course I can, nitwit. Ain't that what I said I was gonna do?" he said in that Camelot peasant way. His mother and Adelina occasionally spoke to each other in Common that way. They came from the same region in Camelot.
He found two sturdy sticks in the woodpile. Em preferred sparring staffs, but he did not want to go to the training grounds in fear of running into Arthur. He showed Holt how to grip the staff and deflect blows. They focused mostly on form, with Em constantly adjusting Holt's footwork and hand placement.
"It may not seem important now," he said to the younger boy, "but in a fight it's handy if the basics are second nature to you. You can just focus on your opponent." He found himself reciting the advice Ruadan gave him all those years ago.
Holt clumsily deflected a blow from Em. "This is harder than I thought," he panted.
"I thought so, too, when Ruadan first started showing me—" Em cut himself off. "When my neighbor started showing me how to fight. He was a soldier in Cenred's army."
"Ain't he a bit of a bastard? The king, I mean, not your neighbor."
"He's a tyrant. His men pressed my brothers' da into service for the army, and left my mother a widow with two young children to care for," Em said.
"That ain't how it's done here in Camelot, if it's any comfort to you," Holt said. "Folks join up willingly. Army pays better than fighting, so they go to make their fortunes."
"Would you ever join?"
"Me? I ain't no fighter. Naw, I'm happy here with my dogs. A position in the Royal household pays better than any job I could get in the Lower Town, anyway, an' it would break my mum's heart if I took up soldierin'."
"So you live with your family in the Lower Town?"
"Yeah, in a side street off the marketplace. Our cottage's small and rundown, but that's every peasant's house, I reckon." Holt looked at Em nervously, as he did not know much about the older boy's background. With a wry smile, Em nodded in agreement. His hut at home was miserable, with drafty walls and dirt floors and a mud-and-straw roof.
Holt deflected another blow, but continued talking. "It's me, Mum, an' a gaggle of sisters. Four of 'em, each one more annoyin' than the next. My dad went to war an' never came back, too. Mum's an herbwoman an' midwife. She needs my pay, though, 'cause what she makes ain't enough. What about you?"
Em startled at the question. "I'm from a small village in Essetir. It's me, Ma, and two older brothers. Will and Gilli aren't too bad." He paused as he thought about what life might have been like if they remained in Ealdor. "We have a plot of land my ma inherited from my brothers' da. My ma's friend, her son Gil and his wife and children help us farm it. I was the third son and I didn't want to be a farmhand, so I came to join my uncle and study under him."
"How do you have an uncle in Camelot if you're from Essetir?"
"Ma's from Camelot. She met my brothers' da when he came to her village to trade. He moved her out to Essetir when they married."
"Makes sense." Holt hesitated. "So, uh, you seemed to go a little crazy on the rugs. You good?"
Em forced a smile and dealt a blow with more force behind it. His grin became real when Holt deflected it perfectly. "'Course I am. That was good!"
The boys kept at it until both of them dripped sweat. They parted with a handshake and the promise to have another sparring lesson tomorrow. Holt took the sticks home with him for safekeeping. Em dropped the hounds off at the kennel first before going back to the courtyard to haul the rugs back to Arthur's chambers.
Leon lounged on his luxurious feather mattress, which felt heavenly after a long bout of training. Arthur wanted the knights in tiptop shape, as the prince had just received word from his father that a Mercian delegation would be coming in a few days. When knights from another realm visited Camelot, the two kingdoms' knights usually engaged in informal sparring sessions to size each other up. Many referred to the Knights of Camelot as the best in the Albion. Arthur wanted them to actually be the best in the realm. Being the best meant countless training sessions, high qualifications, and endless patrols.
Despite Arthur's young age, Leon greatly admired his commander and prince. He was a brilliant strategist, warrior, hunter, and leader—
"Leon!" He heard someone pounding on the door.
Sighing, Leon stood up on his aching legs and made his way to the door. He yanked it open. A certain prince stood in the threshold.
"I need advice, Leon," Arthur said.
Leon inclined his head. "Come in, my lord."
"So you upset your servant?" Leon inquired after hearing Arthur's account of pissing Merlin off.
"Yes! And I am…" Arthur hesitated. "I am not sure how to mend the relationship. There must be a certain element of trust between master and servant, you know. I can't have the boy who scrubs my chamber hating my guts."
"Of course not, sire. So you wish to soothe the boy's… hurt feelings?" Leon chose his words carefully.
"It doesn't matter if his feelings are hurt. I just need him to be able to do his job. He can't do that if he's upset."
Leon hid a grin. "So this is more for your sake than his."
"He's only a servant," Arthur said with more force than necessary. As if he needed to make himself believe it.
"Apologize," Leon said.
"Apologize! The boy would not let me hear the end of it—"
"My lord, apologize for prying into his personal life. That's all you need to say. The boy will cool down on his own. I remember when you were that age, you needed to go off on your own and burn off some steam. Kids don't hold grudges for long."
"He's not a kid."
"He's fifteen. He is most definitely a kid. You wouldn't even let him join the knights as a squire, yet."
Arthur looked pensive. "I suppose that is true."
"Besides, he's a peasant from a farming village whose been thrown into an unfamiliar city. Oswald told me Merlin did not even know his uncle before moving in with him. So he's in an unfamiliar place with no friends and practically no close relatives. He's under a lot of pressure as being the personal manservant to the prince. His scarring implies an unfortunate past as well. I'm surprised his reaction was as mild as it was. Treat him gently, Arthur."
Arthur scoffed at Leon's words, but his eyes shone with a new light of understanding.
Em was unrolling the last of the rugs—the blue runner—when Arthur barreled into the chambers. Em looked up at him, eyes hard.
Arthur opened his mouth. Em expected biting sarcasm, or a comment about him being as sensitive as a girl. Instead, the prince said, "I apologize for prying into your personal life. I will refrain from asking questions in the future. What has happened to you has not prevented you from performing your duties, so I have no need to know." With that, Arthur turned on his heels and walked out again. Were his cheeks reddening?
Em sat on the rug for a few minutes in absolute shock.
A/N: Here I am five months later. Oh my gosh, it has literally been forever. I feel I owe you an explanation. I will keep it short. Basically, I lost a close family member and took a break from writing to focus on healing and processing my grief. I am easing myself back into writing, hence why this chapter is so short. It did not do much plot-wise because I wanted to focus on the development of the relationship between our two boys, especially as Arthur tries to relate to Merlin/Em. Much love~