20. Bite Your Tongue

"One cannot think well, love well, or sleep well, if one has not dined well."

- Virginia Woolf.

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Arthur only waited a short while after Merlin had exited before leaving his tower room. He half expected the door to be locked when he tried it even though he knew the boy hadn't locked it behind him. He was even more shocked to note the absence of a guard on the stairs outside, but he wasn't going to complain about it. He shut the door to his room – a room that suddenly seemed quite warm and inviting with the fires and lingering echo of Merlin's presence compared to the dark, cobweb-strewn stairwell – and ventured downward.

Directly below his chambers was another room, the door standing open on sagging hinges. Curious, he stepped inside.

It was dusty and cold, shrouded in shadows and neglect. Boxes, crates, and a few mice-chewed sacks sat in a forgotten pile in the center, as if the chamber had once been used for storage but even that had long ago been abandoned. Around the edges sat broken shelves and musty, old trunks. Crumbling tomes and cracked jars and pots molded on a few of the shelves and a strange sort of faded energy seemed to linger in the room, almost as if the very air had a scent.

Arthur stood there for a moment, puzzled, before it hit him – this was a sorcerer's workroom!

He sucked in a harsh breath and took an involuntary step backwards on pure instinct.

Magic! Evil! flashed through his mind, in a voice very much like his father's, and yet he found himself moving no farther. The room was dark and chilled and very strange – making the hair on the back of his neck stand of its own volition – yet it didn't feel…evil. Just different – unknown – something he didn't understand, and perhaps a little sad.

It confused him.

Still, it wasn't his purpose in going out into the castle, so he withdrew from the odd chamber and continued down the steps.

He wandered for a while once he left the tower – partly because he didn't know where he was or where he needed to get to and partly to test the length of his metaphorical leash. Would he gain a guard trailing him if he roamed? Would he be stopped and sent back to his room? Would anyone question him or care?

None of those things happened, however. Servants scurried out of his way and the occasional citadel guard he passed eyed him shrewdly but none spoke or left their posts. After an hour he felt confident that Alfhild had spoken truth in this thing at least – the castle was his to explore (within reason,) though he had no doubt that would change instantly if he were to step out of line. But he could work with that – he was a prince after all. He knew how to play within the rules of nobility to get what he wanted.

Rounding a corner, he caught sight of a familiar face.

"Um…Linus!" he called, having to think for a second to recall the timid servant's name. The man jerked his head up in surprise and he froze, his arms loaded down with wood. Arthur strode down the corridor until he was facing him. "I desire to speak to the castle steward."

"The Steward, your highness?" Linus squeaked, his face paling.

Arthur frowned at his reaction but didn't comment because he had to maintain the public role he was trying to play. "Yes. You will take me to him," he ordered.

"Yes, my lord," the man replied quietly. "Just…just one moment please, your grace." The trembling servant dashed into a door and Arthur heard a muffled clatter, then Linus reappeared, his arms now empty. "This way, my lord."

The prince followed Linus through two corridors and down a winding staircase until they arrived at a solid oak door that gave off an imposing air.

"This is the Steward's office," the man whispered, as if afraid his voice might carry to the man inside and he would be found guilty of shirking his duties.

"Thank you, Linus. You may go," Arthur said in a gentler tone now they were alone and the nervous man rushed off. He watched until the servant was out of sight before rapping sharply on the door and then pushing it open without waiting for a reply.

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"BOY!"

Merlin flinched and looked up from the corner of the kitchen he was scrubbing at the screech that carried across the busy room, knowing it was directed at him. That was his name now – that or slave or brat or something usually worse.

Bearing down on him, skirts swishing as her very presence seemed to part the chaos around her, was Olga – the head cook – a woman who's tongue and wooden spoon were even sharper than Molls's had been.

"Steward wants ya!" she snapped, invading his space. "NOW!" she screamed when his aching, cramped legs refused to start moving immediately, delivering a harsh kick to the shins. Then she turned away and hollered back into the madness, "Midge! Get over 'ere an' finish the brat's chore!"

Instantly, a spindly little lad of maybe ten, pale and sandy-haired with a cleft lip, darted over. He took the grungy scrub-brush from Merlin, who had finally managed to climb to his numb feet, the child trying his hardest to avoid Olga's flaming gaze.

"An' don't miss any spots like last time!" she snapped before stomping away.

Merlin gave the boy a tiny, sympathetic smile before creeping out of the room to do as ordered, clinging to the edges and keeping his head down.

The warlock had quickly learned two things about Ulethien Castle since he'd been brought there. One was that thanks to the cruel Steward (to whom the king had turned over practically all power regarding daily, domestic affairs) it was not a pleasant place to work and live as a servant. Punishments were easily earned and harshly delivered, and the people who scrambled throughout its halls night and day keeping the ignorant nobels' lives running smoothly existed in constant worry and fear.

The second was that those very same servants had learned well the brutal lessons taught by their masters. There was an obvious and rigidly maintained tier of status in this household and that mercilessness trickled down it from top to bottom. Those with any sort of power lorded it over those with none, and rare were the ones who spoke or acted with even a sliver of kindness. The heavy, abysmal atmosphere of the castle had soaked into all of them, and even the people not inclined to cruelty had been beaten into silence, too afraid for themselves to risk a helpful word or thought toward Merlin, the very lowest of the low on that social ladder. Either way, it left Merlin to survive on his own – the others were too scared to help him or else took their own delight in his torment.

Midge was almost the only exception. Merlin's unexpected arrival had actually elevated the poor lad's position from rock bottom to only second lowest, and the kid was beyond grateful to have another around to share his chores, sparing him the worst of them. And Merlin could hardly blame the boy – the chores he'd been slaving at for the last four days had been truly awful.

Shivering, Merlin stole on silent, bare feet through the oppressing castle until he found himself outside the same door he'd been brought to when he first arrived, a door he'd faced often in the days since. He tried to be brave, to remember Arthur's words to him from earlier that morning, but the curses and bruises of the rest of the day pulsed stronger, smothering them out, and he couldn't stop his hand from trembling as he raised it to knock.

"Enter!" the source of his current nightmares ordered.

Merlin swallowed thickly before pushing on the heavy wood.

The Steward stood before the flaming hearth, leaning on the edge of the solid desk and glaring at Merlin as though he wanted nothing more than to skin him alive. Probably he did, the boy thought fearfully as he shut the door carefully behind himself – the Steward liked his privacy while doling out pain – and slunk on wobbly legs into the center of the room. He kept his gaze glued to the wood beneath his grungy toes, but he could still feel the man's eyes drilling into him as several long minutes dragged by. And the worst part was Merlin didn't even know what he'd done this time, what rule he'd broken or failure he was guilty of.

"What is so special about you, boy?" the man suddenly growled. "How is one disgusting, little slave worth so much fuss?"

The words were so unexpected, not at all what Merlin had been bracing to hear, that his eyes darted up in surprise.

"Never look at your betters!" the Steward raged, surging forward and delivering a harsh blow to Merlin's face. Instantly, Merlin squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head again, preparing himself for more pain to come.

Strangely though, it didn't. Instead, the horrible man stepped back and crossed his arms.

"Remove your tunic," he ordered coldly.

A horrible sense of déjà vu washed over the young man but he knew better than to resist by now. With pained movements, he pulled the ragged cloth from his arms and then over his head, gripping it tightly in boneless fingers as his newly exposed skin prickled in the chilly air. As before, when he'd first come here, the man circled him, studying with satisfaction the reality of slavery, writ in red and purple on his flesh.

"You're nothing but an ugly slave, scarred and skin and bones – one foot already in the grave! How can he even care? Why should he?" he ranted, nostrils flaring with more than just his usual fury over badly done chores. The man was vividly angry, and Merlin was beginning to suspect the cause.

Arthur.

Arthur had talked to the Steward.

Merlin blanched at the thought, silently cursing his well-meaning but stupid master.

Suddenly, one of the Steward's beefy hands shot out and clamped down on Merlin's thin shoulder, his sausage fingers digging purposefully into a barely-scabbed lash mark that wound across the top of it and down to mix with the others decorating his back. The boy clenched his teeth to hold back a moan of discomfort as he was dragged forward, his face shoved right into the Steward's own.

"You will serve his bratty highness at the feast tonight, and any other feast he wishes!" he seethed, spittle flying from between his teeth right into Merlin's eyes. "But I'm warning you, slave, if you drop anything or spill anything…if there's even a morsel out of place… If you dare to look up from the disgusting floor you belong on, glance at anyone besides the boots of your wretched prince… If you so much as breathe the same air as my king, you will be flogged to the point these injuries will feel like kisses from a maid! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

Dazed, terrified, and feeling just a tiny bit giddy for the fact that Arthur had obviously won his round with the evil man, Merlin nodded emphatically.

Just as suddenly as he'd been grabbed, the boy was released, the Steward shoving him hard to the ground.

"Wash!" he spat, gesturing to a bucket of water Merlin had failed to notice before. "When you finish, put this on and report to your mongrel of a master," he added, throwing a faded, yellow tunic onto the servant's lap. "Much as it pains me to see good water and cloth wasted on trash like you, I will not send your filth into the presence of the king – I've served too many years for that to besmirch my name! But I say again slave, you are nothing, and nothing belongs to you. You wear that only for feasts, and if I find you've sullied it, you won't walk for a week!"

Knowing full well his threats were not idle, Merlin crawled hastily to the bucket and dunked his head in, shivering with more than just cold as he scrubbed at the dirt that seemed to have imbedded itself into his hair and skin. When his hands and chest were pale once more and the water in the bucket black as tar, Merlin scrambled to his feet, snatching up his new tunic in one hand and the bucket and his dirty, old one in the other, before bowing awkwardly – eyes firmly on the Steward's boots – and fleeing from the room.

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The sun had long ago dipped below the mountains, and the fire in his hearth was fighting back the creeping shadows as Arthur sat waiting for Merlin to appear.

Two weeks ago if his servant had been late arriving to ready him for a feast, he would have been annoyed and perturbed, cursing the boy and his habitual lateness. But now he was just alarmed and a tiny bit terrified.

What if they wouldn't let Merlin come?

What if he'd inadvertently landed his friend in more trouble?

What if he was forced to attend this miserable farce of a feast…alone?

He'd finally decided his servant wasn't coming and he could stall no longer – was despondently pulling random garments from his wardrobe and pondering how one was supposed to put them all on – when he heard the slap of bare feet on the steps outside and his door burst open, a breathless Merlin rushing in.

Arthur broke into a grin – he couldn't help it. He had no way to articulate the relief that coursed through him at the knowledge that he wouldn't have face this ordeal alone, and the assurance that Merlin wasn't lying beaten and bleeding somewhere because of his foolishness.

The boy skidded to a halt and crouched over, sucking in deep breaths as he braced his fists on his thighs, but Arthur thought he was smiling slightly. His hair was wet, the skin of his hands and face scrubbed clean, and he wore a fresh tunic, though nothing else about his sorry state had changed.

"You're late," the prince said, still smiling broadly as he crossed his arms.

Merlin's response was to tilt his head up slightly and stick out his tongue.

Arthur laughed, feeling ten pounds lighter, and then wrapped an arm around his friend's skinny neck. "Come here, idiot," he said, rolling his eyes and pulling him over, attacking his dripping and already hopeless hair with his knuckles.

Merlin squirmed out of his hold, batting his hands away and glaring before glancing at the mess of clothing Arthur had created on his small bed. He turned back to Arthur with confused disbelief spread over his face as he gestured to the pile.

"I was having trouble…choosing, okay?"

Merlin looked back at the mound of formal clothing, all of which seemed to be variations on the same theme – dark maroon and black, Tharennor's colors – and rolled his eyes. With skillful hands he quickly extracted a complete outfit from the tangled disaster and then proceeded to help Arthur dress.

"Are you all right?" Arthur asked a bit later, lacing up his own tunic while watching Merlin shake and smooth the dark cape he'd dug from the depths of the trunk. He couldn't help but notice the way the young man's hands trembled, or how he was favoring his left arm though he was obviously trying not to show it. And he almost missed the dirt that had covered his friend, because now he had an excellent view of every cut or bruise that littered his skin.

Merlin didn't answer. He was frowning, fingering the worn patches of the velvet and poking his fingers through a few of the holes that riddled it, glaring at the material as if the garment had personally offended him.

"Merlin!" Arthur called again, and this time the boy finally jerked his head up and around. "Are you all right?" he repeated his question.

Merlin shrugged it away, not bothering to answer, then stepped forward and pulled out Arthur's hand for the first time that evening.

Not right, Merlin traced onto his palm. Deserve better, he added, before poking a finger through the old cape once more, his face sad and dismayed.

"So do you," Arthur replied, sorrow stealing once more into the room as he glanced down at Merlin's still filthy feet.

The boy curled his scabbed toes, obviously self-conscious, and stepped forward, throwing the cape around his master's shoulders and fastening it. Then he returned to the wardrobe and pawed about for a minute before holding up an object in triumph. He stood there, twirling the thin, gold circle around his finger absently as he eyed Arthur up and down, a mock critical expression plastered to his face.

"Give me that," Arthur groaned, marching over and snatching up the accessory that could barely be called a crown. Grumbling, he jammed it down onto his head. "So, do I pass?"

Merlin smiled for a moment and nodded, but then he sobered and tugged on Arthur's hand once more.

What going do?

The prince sighed, feeling the weight and worry and fear he'd been trying to ignore for just a few moments settled back onto his shoulders, but he looked his friend right in the eyes as he spoke. "What my far too loyal, sometimes wise but always an idiot manservant told me to do – bluff."

The boy nodded solemnly then spread Arthur's fingers again. For Camelot, was traced carefully onto his palm. Arthur felt a surge of fondness and pride.

"Yes," he agreed. "For Camelot. And thank the heavens I'm a better liar than you, or we'd be lost before we even started."

Something unreadable flashed through Merlin's eyes, but all he did was give a silent laugh and a little grin, before gesturing out the window to the faint stars that were beginning to shine.

"You're right," Arthur said, insides clenching with renewed worry. "We should get going."

Quickly, they left the tower room and made their way down to the main castle. Arthur's thoughts were in turmoil, and he felt a bit sick as the moral code he held so close to his heart warred with his love of and determination to protect his people. He'd already made his decision, but that didn't stop the roiling in his gut, the second guessing, the shame and sorrow and a smidgeon of fear…

And it didn't stop him from noticing Merlin, for the boy was changing as they strode to the Great Hall that Arthur had located earlier. With each step, as more servants and nobles and guards appeared to populate the halls, Merlin withdrew. Gone was the cheeky, cheerful manservant. Instead his shoulders rounded, his head bowed, his eyes found the castle floor and refused to rise. Worry and…something else replaced the teasing and mirth of just minutes before, and his friend dropped back, walking a pace behind him – like a proper servant should – his trembling hands clasped tightly behind his back. For the first time since this ordeal had begun, it completely and brutally hit Arthur that while he himself had been made a political prisoner, Merlin had been made a slave, an object of derision and disgust in the eyes of nearly everyone they passed.

More than that, Arthur realized, the young man was frightened. Frightened, humiliated, fully expecting some amount of pain, and about to be put on display in his worst moment in front of an entire enemy court. Chagrined, Arthur recalled that Merlin had tried to explain this very thing earlier that morning in his chambers, but the prince hadn't listened, or understood, because he had once again failed to think of anything other than his own needs.

Arthur stopped, turning to face the servant who almost walked right into him since he still hadn't looked up from his feet.

"Merlin, I –" he began, wanting to tell him he was sorry, or not to be ashamed because Arthur was proud to have him there, at his back, serving him, or give some other probably useless pep talk because he couldn't stand to see that defeated and terrified look on his cheerful friend's face, but he was interrupted before he even got the chance.

"Prince Arthur," a firm, cool voice echoed down the hall. As he whirled, Merlin practically jumping to hide behind his cape, the prince saw King Alfhild approaching, a women and two girls as well as a passel of servants trailing in his wake.

It was obvious at first glance who the ladies were – the Queen and two of the royal princesses, those deemed old enough to attend this feast. The Queen was quiet and pale, her blonde hair done up in intricate braids that wound about her head to hold an unadorned crown in place, and she was dressed in an elegant but simple gown of brown and green. She seemed timid, rather sickly and frail. The younger girl – maybe eleven or twelve Arthur guessed – was her opposite in coloring – thick, dark hair hanging down her back in a single plait – but the same in temperament. She half hid from Arthur behind her mother, shy and uncomfortable.

Arthur noted this information in an instant, glancing over them and filing it all away for contemplation at a later time before quickly moving on to the person he was most interested in – the older daughter who had to be the Princess Bodil, his intended "betrothed."

There was no doubt she was beautiful – blonde hair like her mother, pulled up in a lose style, wearing a dress of pale blue that exactly matched her eyes. Her features were delicate and her skin smooth. But those eyes, her face…it showed nothing of what the girl was thinking, who she was beyond her perfect appearance as a princess – her countenance a total and impenetrable mask.

If Arthur was being completely honest, he'd rather hoped the princess would be evil – cold and heartless and a little bit deranged, like her father, because that would make what he was about to do to her so much easier to stomach. But seeing her, even with her blank mask of an expression, he just saw a girl, and for the millionth time that day his certainty in his decision wavered.

And then the King stopped before him and spoke once more and Arthur's resolution returned.

"Arthur Pendragon," Alfhild reiterated, a sneer barely hidden in his voice as he glanced behind Arthur, eyebrow raised mockingly. "And disgusting shadow."

The prince's teeth ground together and he actually felt Merlin shudder behind him. The king noticed as well, laughing as he reached out to grab Merlin's spindly arm and drag him into the open.

Merlin was shaking from head to toe, pale and sweaty as the merciless king pulled him by his injured arm, but he kept his eyes firmly stuck to the floor, posture unresisting and subservient. Once he was where all could see, the center of attention for the quickly growing throng, Alfhild released him, wiping his hand pointedly on his very fine garments.

"Standards have truly sunk low in Camelot, my dear Prince, if this is the quality of your personal servants," said the King grinning easily to the crowd of nobles and other servants that had collected around them, attracted by the spectacle. The gathered people laughed hesitantly, as though not exactly sure how they should respond considering Arthur was meant to be their guest, and yet here was their king not-so-subtly attacking him.

Anger burned inside of Arthur, hot and terrible, but he forced himself not to react, not to do anything more than fist his hands.

"It is well Uther has sent you to us," the contemptable man continued as the nervous laughter petered out. "That Tharennor may save Camelot from its wretchedness and bring nobility back to the throne. But let's not dwell on filth and unpleasantness," he said, scoffing at Merlin's quaking form once more, and it took everything Arthur had not to launch himself at the arrogant monster, for so many reasons. "I trust we're here for a celebration, my prince?"

There was an edge to that last question – a threat and a reminder – complete with a very pointed look in Merlin's direction that warned Arthur his answer had better be the correct one…

"I look forward to it," Arthur replied, truly hoping no one could tell the words that made him nauseous had been pulled from between his gritted teeth.

"Excellent!" King Alfhild cried, suddenly jovial as he turned away from Merlin like the boy had never existed. Without another word, he swept past and into the great hall, the rest of the royal family following, though Arthur noted both the Queen and Bodil threw quick glances his direction. The prince swore there might have even been a flicker of curiosity on the princess's impassive face.

The rest of the nobles and royal servants rushed by and Arthur's rage doubled as he observed the disgust, the sneers, the hatred with which they all looked at Merlin, steering around him in a wide berth and acting as if his presence as Arthur's servant at the banquet was a personal affront to them.

"Curse this bloody country where even the people are frozen!" Arthur muttered, not really caring if any of the still thinning crowd heard him as his rage boiled over and he was unable to contain it any longer. Steaming, he waited until all had entered the Great Hall, then turned back to his manservant.

"Merlin," he said quietly.

The boy didn't move.

"Merlin," he tried again, "please look at me."

Eyes still firmly directed to the floor, Merlin finally responded, shaking his head quickly.

Arthur opened his mouth to insist but stopped short, his thoughts from earlier returning full force. This was not Merlin being stubborn, this was Merlin being afraid. Perhaps…perhaps the boy had been forbidden by someone holding terror over his current life from following this particular request.

"If you can't look at me, Merlin, at least listen, okay? I'm going to go in there and grit my teeth and play along – the dutiful, happily betrothed prince – even if I'll be picturing running Alfhild through with a rusty blade the entire time. You are going to go in there and hold yourself with honor as my servant, the only one I would ever wish to have at my side. And then, we are both going to rededicate every moment we can to finding some way out of this wretched and insanity-plagued land. All right?"

Arthur waited…what felt like ages but was really only seconds…and then ever so slowly, Merlin's head rose, just slightly. The prince watched with not a little pride as the younger boy's shoulders straightened faintly, his breathing steadied, and he finally lifted his head so Arthur was looking into his eyes instead of his shock of messy, black hair. Determination plastered across his still too-pale face, Merlin met his gaze and nodded quickly, then hastily looked back down.

"Good," Arthur replied, clapping his friend gently on the shoulder. "Now, let's get this over with."

The Great Hall that they entered felt foreign and strange, not at all like home. A bank of glass windows filled one side, just like Camelot, but they were plain and frosted over from the cold. The ceiling sat lower than what Arthur was used to and the stone of the walls was a deep grey – together their effect was to leave the prince feeling as if the chamber was shrouded in darkness and shadows, despite the triple fireplaces at the front that roared with flames. Along the room's walls hung tapestries interspersed with antlers and shields on display. It all felt old, weathered, worn-down – as if countless ages and lives had passed by in this chamber, not all of them pleasantly.

On the floor, three long tables filled the space, the head one raised slightly on a dais running across the room while the lower two followed the chamber's length, loudly chatting lords and ladies standing next to them, waiting for the invitation to sit, while around it all servants scurried in and out, laden down with platters and dishes.

One empty spot remained at the head table, on the far left side beside the princess Bodil.

"Into the fire…" Arthur couldn't help muttering as he steeled his resolve and stepped up to the table. Merlin disappeared for a moment as Arthur found his place behind the empty chair, waiting with the rest of the room for permission from the king to be seated. His worry spiked until he noticed the boy reappear, clinging to the shadows of the room while he kept his head meekly bowed, his hands oddly empty.

As the king stepped forward and a hush fell upon the hall, Arthur sent up a silent plea to any listening god that they both might have the strength to endure this night.

"Lords, ladies, and noblemen of Tharennor's honored court," King Alfhild spoke, his voice calm and cutting. "Even though the snows have unfortunately sealed our pass this winter season, our country's bounty and prosperity remain," he said, gesturing to the feast spread out before them. "A tribute to our great planning and foresight, as well as our wealth and prosperity."

It took everything Arthur had not to openly scoff at those blatant lies. Unfortunate that an avalanche the king himself had ordered had sealed off their pass, isolating his country? A country that according to every lesson on foreign relations Arthur had ever studied was not actually wallowing in wealth and food and prosperity?

"And how fortunate it is that our honored guest managed to arrive before the mountains chose to isolate us! For it is my great delight to announce that King Uther of Camelot has seen fit to entrust us with his only son for the season, that he may be schooled here in a court of authentic royalty."

Arthur forced himself to look away from the king, down to his hands that were gripping the back of the chair in a white-knuckled clasp – made himself remember promises and lives at stake and a trembling boy staring fixedly at filthy toes behind him – willed himself not to react, not to speak up, not to rush over and throttle the lying, two-faced mad-man of a king.

"And it is our hope – King Uther and I – that much more than training and education might come of this trust. That a union of both a political and personal nature will be formed, between Prince Arthur and the Princess Bodil."

Restrained whispers and twitters floated up from the rest of the hall and Arthur glanced over to see the king smiling, an expression that only served to send chills creeping up the prince's spine.

"Yes, it is my pleasure to announce their official courtship, with the hope of another feast in the spring – to celebrate not just the melting of the pass but their betrothal and marriage – the joining of two kingdoms."

Knowing he was only threads away from losing his temper as King Alfhild kept talking, Arthur deliberately tuned him out, turning to study the girl next to him instead.

It unnerved him that he was unable to read her. The girls he knew were full of feelings. Morgana was a ball of fiery emotion – passionate, volatile, and a little unsteady if he were being honest. And Guinevere – sweet Guinevere – wore her heart on her sleeve and her convictions just as strongly. They were alive and vibrant, bright sparks in his life, and it made Bodil seem so cold and contained by comparison. Her father was manipulating her for his own desires just as much as he was Arthur, and yet she gave away nothing of how this might make her feel.

He might not have any intention of actually marrying her if he could help it, but Arthur realized if he was to have any hope of making this ruse work, he was going to have to get to know her, find a way to crack her shell, reach the person beneath the façade. And he supposed he might as well start that night…

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Merlin was trembling - only partly from the cold – after his encounter with the king. Never in his life had he felt so helpless or feared someone so much. Even Uther – whom he hated on a regular basis – didn't cause him such terror. His life might be under daily threat from the elder Pendragon should his secret be discovered, but he had still always known that Uther couldn't really do anything to him unless he allowed it. His magic was meant to protect Arthur and he would do it, even to the point of protecting him from his own father.

But, for the first time in his life, his magic was unusable. He was completely at this cruel king's mercy and totally powerless to protect either himself or Arthur. One stupid mistake – something as small as a spoon dropped on the floor – and the king could order his head lopped off and he would never be able to prevent it.

Trying to keep his fear somehow under control, Merlin trailed behind Arthur into the hall. He resisted the desire to look around, survival keeping his head bowed and his eyes on the flagstones. They moved to the head table and as Arthur took his place behind his seat, Merlin angled his head just enough to use his peripheral vision and observe the other servants.

There, at the side, was the serving table. The kitchen staff would bring food and drink to it and then those servants working in the hall would distribute it to their masters – at least that's how it worked in Camelot. Who knew how this insane kingdom did things. Still, there were servants coming and going from it so Merlin decided it was as safe a place as any to start.

Completely self-conscious of his ragged, filthy appearance and the collar that shouted his lowly status to the entire hall, Merlin forced himself to approach the serving table.

You're here for Arthur. Arthur needs you, he repeated over and over in his head to give himself courage.

The other servants shifted away from him as he came to the table and he had to shove the hurt down as he reached for one of the pitchers of wine, but a small hand suddenly shot out and slapped his away. Startled, he forgot his orders and glanced up, confusion plastered on his face as he met the angry and almost fearful eyes of a young serving girl.

"No!" she snapped, her voice trembling. "You won't poor wine for my mistress!" she said, taking the pitcher herself and holding it tightly.

Shaking his head, Merlin tried to explain that he had no intention of serving her mistress, whomever she might be, gesturing toward Arthur and then himself, but the girl – little more than a child actually – still adamantly refused to let him take a decanter, slapping his hands away each time he tried.

"The king's speech!" an older, male servant swept past, hissing at them and making desperate shooing motions. "Hurry! To your places!"

The girl turned and rushed to stand against the wall behind the royal table, and feeling lost and once more afraid, all Merlin could do was bow his head and follow, hands conspicuously empty.

Throughout the evil king's speech, Merlin clenched his fists as he silently fumed – at the lies, at the audacity of the man, at the casual cruelty and insults toward Arthur. He wished he could look up, see his master's face and read how the prince was taking all of it, but he didn't dare. Finally, the monarch finished and applause broke out as chairs scraped and all the nobles were finally able to take their seats. With that cue, the servants waiting against the walls around the room stepped forward ready to serve their masters, and nervously, Merlin moved with them, though he still had no idea what he was to do.

"Merlin!"

At Arthur's hissed call, he risked just barely raising his eyes and saw that the other young man was waiving him forward, trying to do it discreetly from below the table. He inched up to where Arthur could talk to him softly, but refrained from meeting his eyes.

"I need a goblet and some wine," the prince said quietly, looking grumpy and perplexed.

Merlin glanced up – he couldn't help it – and noticed that sure enough, Arthur's place lacked a goblet or anything from which to drink. Anger flashed inside him again, cataloging one more slight against his master, but then the princess sitting next to Arthur spoke for the first time.

"Do you not wish to share with me?" she asked quietly. "It's custom for couples and those that are courting to drink from the same glass."

Suddenly, the little maid's earlier insistence that he not serve her mistress made sense. Out of habit, Merlin looked over at the princess but then quickly ducked his head when she caught his eyes. Holding his breath, he waited, head low, completely unsure what would happen, what she would do to him, for this most heinous crime of looking royalty in the eye. Arthur's stumbling out an apology saved him, drew her attention away, and he gratefully retreated when the prince waved him backwards to safety again.

Merlin withdrew, but his thoughts were churning. The princess seemed innocent enough, but that didn't excuse the fact that Arthur was being deliberately set up to fail. The customs for a feast in Tharennor were apparently very different from those in Camelot, and multiple people had to have known this but no one had bothered to inform either Arthur or himself about anything. This whole charade was simply another way to make Arthur look the fool – the backwards and uncultured prince with only a clumsy, ignorant slave to serve him.

It would continue like this all night – Arthur tricked into one cultural insult or personal embarrassment after another, with no one to help him except Merlin who was limited to glaring at the blasted floor – unless Merlin stopped it.

Taking a deep breath, the boy made a choice. To help his friend survive this evening with dignity intact, he would have to deliberately disregard the Steward's threats. It wasn't even a hard choice – Arthur's needs would always come before his own – it was just a costly one. So, fully knowing that he would pay for it later, he squared his shoulders and raised his head, determined to observe everything and ease his master through this outrageous experience.

It wasn't easy. He still stumbled, he still messed up, and he was well aware he drew the disgust and contempt of many of the servants working around him. At one point, he caught a glimpse of the Steward himself, standing in the corner overseeing his scurrying kingdom of frightened workers. The promise of extreme pain and punishment he read in the scowl the man sent his way almost made his resolve falter, but he forced himself to ignore it. Merlin was motivated and he was stubborn – he had to be – and so he continued his work and his observations, trying to push the fear to the back of his mind.

In Tharennor, he learned, guests washed their fingers between every course in little bowls of water that sat before each place, and it was his job to replace Arthur's bowl with a clean, freshly filled one as soon as the previous had been used. And there were plenty of other odd customs no one had told them about, besides the sharing of goblets by couples and a need for sparkling clean fingers. Each course was begun with a moment of silence and thanks – Merlin earned some particularly evil glares when he dropped a dish during the first one. He also quickly learned that here no dish or piece of cutlery was to be used for more than one course. Before the feast was halfway through Merlin felt like he'd traversed the length of the hall a thousand times bringing dishes to Arthur and taking soiled ones away.

Still, it did help that Arthur was so obviously trying to adjust as well, not poking fun at him or laughing at his clumsiness as usual. The prince was doing everything he could to divert the attention of the hall, to the point Merlin realized his master had been mostly silent, forgoing banter and conversation.

When he was supposed to be pretending to court a princess…

Merlin sighed, resisting the urge to bang his head against something. That would just cause a bruise, and he was fairly certain he had enough of those coming from the Steward after he escaped this travesty of a celebration for flaunting the man's orders. No need to add to them himself.

So the next time he approached the prince, bringing Arthur his fourth course – boiled turnips and onions in some sort of strange sauce – Merlin purposefully bumped up against his friend.

"What?" Arthur whispered, jaw tense and posture ridged in a way that told Merlin exactly how much he longed to be anywhere else.

Merlin nudged his head just a fraction in the princess's direction as he placed the plate before him, but Arthur just gaped at him dully.

Talk to her, you dunderhead! Merlin shouted in his head as he nodded again, more exaggerated this time.

"Oh…" Arthur muttered. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes – he was going to be in enough trouble – Merlin bowed his head and returned to his job, gathering up the soiled finger-water and dishes from the last course.

Arthur cleared his throat and Merlin felt him shift toward the Princess.

And then Prince Arthur, master of courting eloquence, opened his mouth and started his wooing with, "Lovely weather, isn't it?"