Author's note: 29/05/2022

Sorry this has taken me so long to get back to! It has been an utterly wild year.

I hope you are all well and safe, and that you enjoy this chapter.

And if you would be so kind, please review!

Thanks,

NifflersAndBooks136


CHAPTER FOUR

"Wait here, please."

Merlin sat on the nearest ornate chair, suppressing a sigh. He had been at Kensington Palace for all of ten minutes, and he had already somehow annoyed the head butler. Well, it wasn't exactly HIS fault that he didn't know his way around the place. Since he'd moved to London several months before he'd been working with Guias in Buckingham Palace and hadn't really had the time to have a look around the other palaces. Besides, he thought to himself, his leg jumping nervously, I'll probably be out of here before I learn anything about this fucking maze.

But even Merlin had to admit that Kensington Palace was beautiful. Situated at the Notting Hill end of Hyde Park, the red-brick building had been built during the seventeenth century, and since then the Palace had grown and expanded around several courtyards. An apartment complex for the great and the good, Merlin thought grimly. As well as being The Prince of Wales' official residence, Kensington Palace served several members of the dynasty. It was a crowded building, and Merlin had the unpleasant sensation of being consistently watched. But at least the gardens were nice.

"Mr. Emrys, please follow me."

Merlin looked up. Another footman, dressed smartly in tails and a stark white collar waited a few feet away. Merlin had not heard him approach, but he stood, clutching his leather folio a little tighter. The man extended a gloved hand towards an arched doorway, and Merlin went through ahead of him. They passed through a long corridor and across a courtyard. Although Merlin had spent the previous afternoon setting up his office here, it was a clumsy jumble of rooms and corridors that he still did not recognise. The high red-brick walls omitted any sight of the public park beyond, even though Merlin could hear the sounds of civilians and traffic in the far distance. Another world indeed.

"This way, sir." They had arrived at yet another staircase, and Merlin ascended it reluctantly. He had had yet to meet with his new boss and had been less than pleased to hear that The Prince of Wales had wanted to meet with him that afternoon to see how the list of suitable candidates was coming along. The footman spoke again, and Merlin was dragged from his thoughts. "As you know, sir, when we arrive at His Royal Highness' study, I will knock and enter without waiting for a response. We will then step into the room, turn to face His Royal Highness, and bow from the neck. I will announce you, and His Royal Highness will beckon you forward. You go to him and bow again before shaking his hand. Is this clear?"

"Yes." Merlin could not be bothered to say that these protocols had been drilled into him by Guias immediately upon his arrival. The footman's tone was condescending, but Merlin figured that could just be the fault of an accent that had never wanted for anything. He had already inexplicably alienated one butler; he did not need to alienate more staff just yet.

The footman's knock was sharp, echoing down the corridor. If he were less of a sceptic, Merlin would figure that he even saw one of the portraits jump. The door opened, and Merlin followed the footman inside.

The future King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland sat behind a large oak desk, with his feet propped up on the surface in front of him. He looked annoyed, but not startled. His hair, as gold as any crown, was tussled in a way that Merlin was sure was intentional. Next to the footman, Merlin bowed his head for a moment. When he looked at the prince again, he was surprised to find the prince's cool eyes looking at him watchfully.

"Your Royal Highness, I present Mr. Merlin Emrys."

Slowly, Arthur swung his long legs onto the floor. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a black sweater over a grey T-shirt. He looked almost normal. Almost. He stepped around the desk, and Merlin stepped forward as Arthur extended his hand. He went to Arthur, bowed again at the neck, and shook the prince's hand. The skin of Arthur's hand was soft, softer than Merlin had expected, but his grip was firm and authoritative. Merlin glanced up and caught Arthur's eyes peering at him again, and he thought he saw something flash behind them. But before he could look again, Arthur had dropped his hand and stepped away, gesturing towards the couches and chairs that had been arranged in front of the desk and before the empty fireplace.

"Mr. Emrys," He said, his voice curling around the words like a vine. "Please sit. You can leave us."

The final words were directed at the footman. If the footman were surprised by the abrupt dismissal, he did not show it. "Sir." He bowed and was gone.

There was a long silence. Arthur broke it by stepping over to a side table. "Could I interest you in some scotch? I know a wonderful place in Edinburgh, just by the station. They sometimes open up just for me whenever I pass through on my way to Balmoral."

Merlin nodded, "Thank you, Sir."

"You had best call me Arthur—you've no doubt been treated to copious stories about my affairs and sex life, I believe we are a bit beyond formal titles." The words did not come across as humorous, but instead resigned. Merlin realised with a jolt how true they were. What was it like, Merlin wondered, to live in a world where your private life was so well-known by the people around you?

"Not that much, I'm afraid." Merlin accepted the tumbler that Arthur held out to him.

"You're afraid?" Arthur raised an eyebrow at Merlin and Merlin felt himself colour; he had not thought how the words would come across.

"I beg your pardon Si—Arthur. I only meant that in my professional capacity I have not had time to learn about your—I mean, I plan to be studying up—only—only to the extent that it will assist me to—"

Arthur chuckled, interrupting Merlin's stuttering response. He sat opposite him. "I only mean to jibe, Merlin. I know that my father has sent you here to spy on me. What are your instructions exactly?"

Merlin was taken aback. No one had said anything about spying on Arthur. "I—nothing, sir. I was told that I was here to oversee your acquisition of a wife."

Arthur wrinkled his nose at the phrase and frowned slightly. There was a large rectangular window to his left, and he looked outside, arm dangling lazily over the arm of the sofa, fingers carelessly wrapped around his own glass. Unsure of whether he was being flirted with or scolded, he stared resolutely at those hands.

"In truth, there is not much to know." Arthur said, "I'm no saint, but what has been covered up by the Palace is hardly scandalous—if it were someone else doing what I do, that is."

What I do. Fuck. Arthur talked about his sexuality as if it were some habit or flaw, something to be seen and squashed quickly. Merlin set the glass down on a coaster in front of him and reached for his folder. "Si—Arthur, would you like to see how the list that Buckingham Palace has compiled is coming along?"

Something shifted in Arthur's expression, and he took a sip of scotch before he replied. "I suppose I must—although a fucking executioner's warrant might be more pleasant."

Without replying, Merlin handed Arthur the stapled pages of the file that had been delivered to his office that morning. Arthur set down his own glass and leafed through them. After a moment, he let out a snort, and turned the page around to face Merlin. "Are you kidding me? Lady Vivienne Brody? Is my father's Private Secretary quite well?"

Merlin bristled at Arthur's tone. "Sir, Guias is only doing as he is told as a result of your actions. If I recall, you agreed to this bizarre and medieval undertaking."

He had said too much. Arthur's eyes flashed. "Bizarre and medieval, you say? Merlin, have you ever been asked to hide who you fuck, who you love because they're the wrong gender? Have you ever been asked to lay on some woman like she's a goddamn mare and you're some stud selected to breed with her? No? In that case, keep your unfavourable opinions to yourself. You have no idea what you have walked into here."

Merlin's response came before his thoughts did. "I understand more than you think." He snapped. "In any case, although I do as I am told, I thoroughly disagree with how you speak about your future wife. It is the twenty-first century—what is this Palace doing, thinking that women are shop-window mannequins whose only purpose is to breed? Being married off? It's a wild request, and yet Sir Guias is doing his best to meet it because of the bizarre demands of your family."

For a moment, Merlin thought that Arthur might sack him there and then. But he only scowled and looked down at the papers in front of him. "The Crown must come first." He said, almost to himself. "The Crown must always come first."

oOo

Merlin could not help but feel utterly disgusting, doing what he was doing. He imagined Helen, the daughter of Zeus and Leda, presented as a trophy to be won amongst a horde of suitors. How had she felt, sitting in that hall, surrounded by men who cared for little more than her beauty? But he knew that he had very little choice; if he did not perform the job, somebody else would. The Monarchy operated in another time, another place, and it would continue to do so without him, just as it had always done before him.

Arthur had not met Merlin's eyes as they went through the various candidates. Three had been shortlisted; daughters of nobility who would be obedient and suitable. Merlin was torn between pity and revulsion for his new boss. From a technical perspective, Merlin supposed that Arthur was just as caught up in and trapped in his role as his future wife would be. He imagined Arthur as a fly in a spider's web, twitching occasionally, but with little choice or range of motion, its path already set. I understand more than you think, he had told Arthur. And he did—to some extent. He had dealt with being dismissed, or even outright rejected. Rejected. This final thought made his heart sting—the reopening of an old wound. His father, Balinor, had not spoken to him in seven years. Not since Merlin had told him that he was gay.

But this rejection, as painful as it was, was not an ancient royal dynasty. Still, Merlin wondered why Arthur did not tell his own truth. At university, and before his failed stint in basic training, Merlin had studied Politics. He knew that the Monarchy was essentially pointless. Although royal prerogative—the powers of the Monarch—still technically existed, Merlin could only imagine the outrage that would emerge if King Uther decided to appoint whoever he wished as Prime Minister. Arthur was part of a dying breed—a breed that survived through its tenuous relationship with the media, and its careful deployment of public relations. But the percentage of people who did not believe that the Monarchy was necessary was on the rise. Merlin thought of the old argument thundered by republicans. The Monarchy was a tourist trap, yes—but France had no monarchy, and The Palace of Versailles made the country far more in tourist revenue than Buckingham Palace ever could. He wondered, not for the first time, how this old and feudal system had been allowed to continue in a modern world. But it could not continue for forever—but surely, Arthur telling the world, Arthur ruling with a male consort at his side, could help to change that, to preserve the important linage that the Monarchy represented?

Merlin said none of this to Arthur as they forged ahead through their strained deliberations. As dusk fell over the city outside, Merlin gathered up his list—written on one of those striped Pukka pads that had several different tabs running down the length of it—and stood. Holding the Pukka pad and his leather folio in front of him with his hands clasped, he bowed his head at Arthur. "Sir," He said, "I will see to it that invitations for meetings are sent out tomorrow and will come back to you with a schedule. Additionally, I will see to it that briefs for your appearances this week are sent to your offices."

Arthur was still sitting down. He had had no scotch after the initial drink but had worked his way through several cups of coffee. The final one rested in his lap, Arthur's hands curled around the mug. He made no indication that he had heard Merlin. Merlin stared at the prince for a moment, wondering if he should prod him for a response. He decided against it, and with a murmured 'sir,' he turned to make his way across the room.

"Do you smoke?" The question reached Merlin as his hand reached for the door. He turned.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you smoke?" Arthur had definitely spoken. Merlin shrugged.

"Socially. When I was at university, I drove my friends mad—preaching veganism and healthy living, and then bumming their cigarettes every time I had more than one pint."

In the dimming light, Merlin thought he saw the corner of Arthur's mouth curl up into a smile. Arthur stood. "I know you haven't had a pint, but would you care to join me for a stroll onto the High Street?"

"Are you allowed to leave?"

Arthur shrugged. "It's a palace, Merlin. Not a prison. Well, it's not supposed to be a prison. Not technically."

"I—" Merlin had been looking forward to going home. He lived between Holloway Road and Archway and had been looking forward to crossing Green Park in the dark and finding his way into the tube. But there was something in Arthur's tone that stopped him. For a moment, he fought against himself. He barely knew this man; who was he to suggest that there was anything in his tone that suggested anything? But before he knew what he was saying, he heard himself speaking. "Sure. I can go with you."

"Excellent. I am going to go and find a jacket—can you inform my detail that we are going?"

Merlin nodded wordlessly as Arthur turned and left through another door—presumably one that went into the rest of his apartment. Pulling out his work phone, Merlin dialled the security team to inform them. As they were only going to the High Street, they would need little detail—someone to trail behind them in plain clothes, there in case any problems arose. A moment later Arthur reappeared. He tossed something to Merlin. A quilted Barbour jacket. When Merlin looked up at Arthur with a question in his gaze, Arthur shrugged.

"I thought you might get cold."

oOo

Arthur preferred Camel Lights, which Merlin had not expected. Surely someone like him would be a Marlborough fan, if not a fan of something altogether more exclusive. The methanal cooled his tongue as they made their way towards Kensington High Street. He had heard somewhere that the government planned to ban methanol in cigarettes soon.

They made their way past Wagamama's and T.K. Maxx— "Did you know it's called T.J. Maxx in the States?" Arthur told him as they walked past. "I'm not sure why." Surprisingly, nobody turned to look at them. But then, nobody ever expected to see someone famous, and Arthur kept a baseball cap drawn low over his face. His jeans were worn and faded, frayed at the hem. His shirt was grey, featuring Darth Vader holding a lightsabre. He did not look anything like the glossy photographs that magazines so coveted. Except perhaps he did, Merlin reasoned. There was something in the sharp line of his jaw, and the pout of his lips—oddly full for a man's—that spoke of something old and aristocratic. But the light was dim, and the nicotine had gone to Merlin's head, making him feel a bit fuzzy and sick. Maybe he was wrong. To distract himself, he looked around until something caught his eye.

"The Goat is a strange name for a pub."

Arthur followed his gaze. A Greene King pub stood across from them, aglow in the shadowy evening. Its sign showed a picture of a its namesake, a goat.

"Shall we go in?"

Merlin looked at Arthur, surprised. "Won't you get recognised?"

Arthur shrugged. "Not if we're careful. Besides, I don't want to go back yet."

Merlin again felt that strange tug, duty verses what he inexplicably knew about Arthur and why he needed this. Wordlessly, he nodded, and the two men darted across the street and into the pub. It was an older pub, with familiar dark wooden panelling and lamps that omitted an orange glow. No music played, but the place was abuzz with the familiar hum of patrons holding warming pints.

They found a table in the back, and Arthur sat so he faced the wall, and Merlin sat facing the room.

"I feel bad making you pay." Arthur said, as Merlin got up to go and get the first round.

"Oh, don't worry." Merlin shot back, grinning at Arthur as he edged between their table and the one next to them. "I was going to record it tomorrow as a 'work expense.'"

He did not catch Arthur's reply as he made his way to the bar, leaning against it. He ordered two pints of larger and brought them to the table. Arthur was frowning at something on his phone but put it away as Merlin sat down.

"What's up? Are more places picking up on that story?"

Arthur shook his head. "Not really—no, I was looking at political news. The Prime Minister is a fucking idiot sometimes."

Merlin raised an eyebrow at this, although he did not disagree. The Prime Minister—a dark-haired man with more money than sense—often found his way into the papers for unfavourable reasons. But this was not what had caught Merlin's attention. "I thought you were supposed to be politically impartial. Or a Tory."

Arthur smiled. "Liberal Democrat, actually. And I am politically impartial. In public. But I am educated, and I do know what an idiot looks like."

Merlin, who was taking the first sip of his pint, snorted into the foam. He put it down and wiped the foam from his nose. It smelled pleasantly bitter.

The tension from earlier dissipated as they made their way through a first pint, and then a second. Arthur was, Merlin had to admit, as charming and funny in person as the press presented him to be. He laughed easily, and his genuine smile revealed a dimple that cameras rarely captured. As Merlin came to the end of a third pint, he felt a strange hollow settle in his stomach. He could have happily stayed there until closing and gone on with Arthur into the wilds of a night in London. But he had work the next day, and he had to get home. He said as much to Arthur.

"Where do you live?" Merlin told him. "That's not too far—let me call you a car." Merlin tried to protest, but Arthur put a hand up to stop him. "No, no. Let me. Honest. It's nothing."

Merlin supposed that to somebody like Arthur, it would be nothing. He swallowed his objections with the final dregs of his pint, and he and Arthur stepped back onto Kensington High Street. The car was waiting at Kensington Palace, and neither man could be bothered for it to wind its way through London traffic. Arthur pushed his hands deep into his coat pockets. He inhaled deeply, and Merlin felt that he was bracing himself to say something that he had held onto for a long time.

"You were right, you know, earlier."

"Oh?"

"When you said that finding me a wife was medieval. It is fucking medieval. But I don't know what else to do." He turned his face to Merlin's, and for the first time Merlin saw the tightness in Arthur's face, how his eyes darkened. "I'm not saying that my father would have MI5 come after me if I told the world that I'm gay, but I am certain that it wouldn't be pretty. He is so obsessed with maintaining what we have. He still talks about the revolutions in the Twentieth Century. He talks about the Romanovs, and I think there's a part of him that genuinely thinks something similar could happen to us. Not the Communist part of it—but the uprising, the people. It is the opinion of the people that keeps us here, barely. It's the grannies who buy plates and mugs with our faces on, the gag bobble heads. The industry and celebrity of it all—I can't threaten that. My father—" Arthur broke off suddenly, looking ashamed and if he had said too much. He swallowed, and the words he was going to say disappeared. "Anyway, what I'm saying is that I don't want you to think I'm bad. I'm not bad. I try very hard not to be bad. But… I don't know." Arthur shook his head. "Something about three pints making me fuzzy."

They had reached the Palace courtyard. Merlin stopped and turned towards Arthur and was shocked to find him closer than he expected. A breath caught in his throat. The citrus smell of Arthur's aftershave washed over him, underlaid with a peppery scent that somehow made the citrus catch and hold. Arthur was looking at him intensely, and Merlin realised that he was waiting for a response.

"Oh—I mean, I shouldn't have spoken out of turn like that. I know there's a lot of royal politics—"

"No," Arthur cut in. "You were right. It can be barbaric if I'm not careful. And I want you to help me. I want to find somebody to trust, who I can respect and honour, and who understands what she is getting into. I may not be able to love any woman the way she might want me to, but I can at least be her partner. I don't want her going into this blind."

Merlin was struck by Arthur's intensity. "Okay." He said, "We can make sure that happens." Merlin wasn't sure that they could make it happen. Frankly, Arthur was standing so close to Merlin that he wasn't even entirely sure what his name was. A strange heat radiated between them—an electric surge that they both became aware of at the same time. Arthur glanced at Merlin's lips, and then held his gaze. Oh my God, Merlin thought, He's going to kiss me.

It seemed like the same thought had occurred to Arthur. Images flashed through Merlin's mind, and he became suddenly aware of a desire that went beyond the want for physical closeness. He thought wildly of Arthur's hands—strangely delicate, and very, very beautiful. Arthur leaned closer, and Merlin imagined those hands raking through the dark hairs on his chest, travelling lower—

A car swung into the courtyard, and the spell was broken. Arthur stepped back and smiled at Merlin. The smile was not unkind, but some mask had slid back into place.

"Well," Arthur said, holding out a hand. "Thank you for this evening, Merlin. It has been good to get to know you better as we will be working together so closely."

Merlin shook his hand. "And you, sir. I will make sure to let Buckingham Palace know of our shortlist in the morning."

A shadow had fallen over Arthur's face and so when he stepped back, his expression was unreadable. "Thank you, Merlin. Have a good evening."

Merlin stepped into the car, leaning back into his seat. As soon as he was away from Arthur, something in his chest loosened, but something that flirted with disappointment twisted in his gut. He gave himself a little shake. What was he thinking, almost kissing the heir to the throne? Surely he had misread the situation. Three pints wasn't that many, but perhaps the buzz had gone straight to his head. He didn't drink often, he reasoned, and so that had surely clouded his judgement. Nothing had happened that wasn't supposed to. By the time the car swung through Marylebone and past Euston Station, Merlin was convinced he had imagined the closeness, and exaggerated the freshness of Arthur's aftershave. He was being ridiculous.

But the alcohol had heated his blood, and by the time Merlin stood in the shower, his conviction had lessened. He thought again of the lines of Arthur's face—a face that for a moment, had been so close to his. Those hard and soft lines were a strange blend of feminine and masculine, but somehow they had been perfectly arranged in a way that would have made any supermodel faint. He thought of those hands, of that crisp citrusy and peppery smell. Heat that was not generated by the alcohol or the shower flushed through him, and his breathing increased.

He was so utterly fucked.