A/N: Welp...this sure was a long time coming. Trust me, these "original plot" things are kicking my butt. The first of an original "episode style" arc is now here! Written with much love and annoyance, by yours truly. Hope you all are having a fabulous fall! I'm excited for Halloween. Candy and cosplay, y'all. Thank you so, so, so much for the support! Know that I read each and every review and I appreciate each and every one of you! You guys are the actual best and I owe a lot to you. Thank you! 3 Enjoy. :)
Summary: The soulmate words were seemingly the one form of magic Uther Pendragon could not best. Merlin has never wanted hers; they are sure to be a great deal of trouble on top of being a warlock. After all, soulmarks are a type of magic, and she has eight.
Spoilers for BBC's Merlin, Seasons One-Five
Warnings: Slight Angst, Multiple Canonical/Non-canonical Character Deaths
Dear Lancelot,
Thank you for your most recent letter, and your promise to write me if you hear any news of Morgana. Both mean a lot. It's been a while since she disappeared with Morgause—a month, maybe—but I still feel like I saw her only yesterday. At the same time, I feel as though she's been gone for years.
You asked how Gwen and Arthur were; their relationship is taking the stress reasonably well, from what I understand. They are both still grieving for the loss of Morgana, though, and we ride out in search parties more days than not. No one in court will say she is dead, but that's how they behave, all the same. It's…draining, to say the least. Leon has been taking over some of Arthur's training responsibilities so that Arthur can lead the searches, but I'm not sure how long he can keep that up on top of his other duties, especially since some of the more rowdy knights are getting restless. The raids for magic-users that Uther sent out monthly have been repurposed into search parties, and a good few of the men don't like it. Leon is exasperated, and he tries so hard to help run things that he never considers his own well-being.
You're wonderful for letting me load off so many of my problems on you through my letters, and you give wonderful advice. All the same, I still miss you. I was wondering if we could plan a picnic or somesuch just beyond the borders of Camelot and meet up. It wouldn't be for a while, though. I need to be here to support Arthur, Leon, and Gwen. Not to mention Gaius.
It feels like it's been forever since I've seen you, and I could honestly use a day off, but I suppose it will have to wait until I can leave Arthur on his own for a day. He calls for me so much now that I'm afraid I'd be sorely missed.
I hope to hear from you soon.
Stay safe.
Merlin
Merlin sighs and puts down her quill. The candle on the desk is almost burnt down. It's the middle of the night, and she can't sleep, so her go-to is writing to Lancelot.
Her eyes feel like they have sand in them. She grimaces, grinding the heel of her palm into her eyes. Merlin is exhausted, moreso even than Arthur or Leon. She's just tired, and when she tries to sleep, all Merlin can see is the look on Morgana's face as she dies.
Merlin folds up her letter and addresses it. She'll take it to the tavern tomorrow. She collapses on her bed with a groan. The delegation from Forgais arrives tomorrow, including Omarr the king, and his son Osmund.
Merlin wishes not for the first time that the annual visit from their kingdom, a coastally centered area, happened at some other point in the year. But they are convinced that tradition must be followed, and Uther is in no shape to stop them. Arthur will have to represent Camelot on the pretense that Uther is ill.
He is ill, Merlin thinks. Just…not the kind of ill that Omarr will assume. And if he decides to push the matter….well, she doesn't really want to see the end result.
The upside is that Omarr is relatively friendly to magic, compared to the Five Kingdoms (the giants of Albion) and some of the other ruled lands. The downside is that 'relatively friendly' translates to 'only kill the particularly evil-looking ones'. Which could be much worse, of course, but Merlin isn't really sure how they judge which ones look evil. And Uther and Omarr always manage to get into quarrels over the issue, too. Hopefully Arthur will have the sense to leave it alone.
There will be time to deal with that tomorrow, she decides. Now…her time is best used trying to sleep.
She dreams of fire, red and crackling and filling the air, and a child screaming.
"Rise and shine, soulmate mine!"
"Ughhhhhhh."
Merlin frowns, turning away from the curtains to give Arthur an offended look. "What, you didn't like my rhyme?"
"How long did it take you to think that one up?" The crown prince glares back from his bed.
"Not as long as it would have taken you," she shoots back cheerfully. "Come on, get up! The Forgaians will be here in a few hours."
Arthur groans, pushing his face into his pillow. "I forgot."
"No, you didn't. You just wanted to forget," Merlin corrects him, pulling his bedcovers off.
"Hey!" Arthur makes a grab for them and misses.
"None of that, let's go!"
An hour later, Arthur is dressed, fed, and ready, but he still isn't happy about it. Not that she expected anything less.
"It just doesn't feel right," he complains to Merlin. They are standing on the steps to the castle, where guests of equal standing to the king are traditionally greeted. The rest of the retinue is still scrambling, but Merlin has managed to get the prince into position. Everything else isn't her problem until five minutes before the delegation arrives—then she will decide that everyone needs to get their act together and corral them just in time.
If Gwen was still Morgana's maid—and unofficially running half the palace—they would be slightly more in order, Merlin muses, but her curly-haired soulmate is off in Uther's chambers trying to convince him to eat. Merlin will have to make do.
"What doesn't?" She asks.
"This! This whole thing. Standing in for my father." Arthur rubs a hand over his sword hilt absently. He looks a bit more disheveled and uncomfortable than a crown prince is supposed to, but Merlin mentally dismisses it. Chances are no one else will even notice.
"You're doing your duty," she reminds him. "While the king is ill—"
"I know, Merlin, I know! I just feel like…something is going to go wrong," Arthur says uncomfortably.
"Welcome to my life," Merlin replies dryly. "While we're switching our usual positions on the matter, shall I ask if your knees are knocking from fright, or…" she peers around, licking a finger and holding it up to test the air. "…is that just the wind?"
"Oh, shut up, Merlin."
"What could possibly happen, Sire?"
"I said shut up!"
The greeting of the visiting royalty goes smoothly. King Omarr accepts Arthur's apologies for Uther's absence graciously, if with a slightly puzzled air. Prince Osmund, who is around eight, looks horribly nervous for no reason that Merlin can ascertain. The royals and the rest of their escort are ushered into their rooms, and Merlin takes a ten-minute break in the midst of the hustle to dash down and leave Lancelot's letter at the Rising Sun. It will be the last opportunity that she has any semblance of time until the Forgaians are long gone.
The castle is the busiest it's been since Morgana's kidnapping, and all the citizens of Camelot are putting on a good show of being cheery, even though the shadow of her disappearance hangs over them like a heavy cloud.
Merlin makes her way back through the palace, heading to the guest wing, where the Forgaian royalty should be settling in nicely. This section especially is full of life, servants ducking around each other expertly as they carry fresh sheets, curtains, candles, dishes of fruit, and luggage.
Merlin takes a moment to be relieved that Arthur didn't think to make her carry bags. Haha, yes. Free from the slavery of suitcase delivery.
However, as the crown prince's personal servant, she should take the time to make sure the foreign royalty have everything they could possibly need, on top of all her other duties. Merlin is even accustomed to acquainting the guests' own servants with the workings of the palace if the Camelotian head servant, Ilkim, doesn't bother.
All too often, the man shirks his job, but even though Merlin has complained that Gwen could more efficiently run the royal household than Ilkim might ever dream, Arthur refuses to do anything, citing it his father's place to dismiss or hire such important servants.
The dumb prat. Merlin wishes he would just figure out that he is, in fact, in charge here, and just do things already.
The young warlock rounds the corner into the guest wing at a fast clip, her mind on her thoughts, only to come to an abrupt halt in an attempt not to slam headfirst into—
"Aaaagh!" Prince Osmund cries, his eyes going wide. He slips from his own sudden halt in momentum and lands firmly on his behind.
"Hup!" Merlin waves her arms to regain her own balance. "Sorry, your Highness!"
Osmund recovers swiftly from his moment of terror and glares at her with all the gravitas an eight-year-old sitting on the floor can muster. "Sorry? Sorry? I'll show you sorry, you—you wench!"
"Language, your Highness!" Merlin gasps out without thinking.
"Language?" The young prince gives her a strange look, still sitting on the floor like he's decided it isn't worth getting up. Merlin recognizes the look of someone who figures they'll just manage to fall over again anyway, so they may as well save themselves the trouble.
"Well—" She thinks fast. Merlin can't exactly say You're eight! Therefore swearing is bad! "No royalty should swear! It's really not suited to your station. It could make an awful impression on people."
He narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Really? Like what?"
"Well, um, they might assume you were a—a blacksmith, or something."
"A blacksmith?" Osmund's eyes widen.
"Yup!" Merlin decides. "Or a stable-mucker-outer!"
"No!" He gasps.
"Yes!" She declares triumphantly. "So you don't want to go around calling people wenches, right? Especially lowly servants who are just trying to help, right?
The eight-year-old nods vigorously. "Right!"
"Good. Now, you'd better stand up before somebody else gets here and wonders what you're doing on the floor." Merlin offers him a hand up, smiling.
Osmund sighs. "I guess. I'll probably just fall down again, though. I bet people think I'm a…a floorscrubber or something because I'm so clumsy."
"Nah, they don't," Merlin reassures him cheerfully. "They'd only think you were a floorscrubber if you act like one! You don't seem like a floorscrubber to me."
The prince eyes her warily, and then takes her hand to stand back up. "Well, you don't seem like a lowly servant to me."
"Thanks, I guess." Merlin huffs out a laugh. "Well, I'm sure you have things to do and places to be! It's not every day you get to visit a new kingdom."
"Oh. Yeah, I—I forgot." Osmund tenses up visibly. He darts a couple glances around, as if looking for something lurking in the shadows.
"Are you alright?" Merlin frowns, looking around as well. Nothing is hiding in the corners of the well-lit hallway.
"Uh—I have to, um, go. You're dismissed!" Osmund looks behind him, and sprints back down the hallway and into his room, slamming the door behind him.
"So much for not being a lowly servant," Merlin mutters to herself.
Well, strange anxious prince aside, she herself has things to do and places to be. Running interference for half the castle is hard.
After being yelled at by Cook Audrey, Arthur, the head of the stables, Arthur, the linens supplier, Arthur, the head of waitstaff, and Arthur for the next several hours (although not exclusively in that order), Merlin is ready to do some swearing herself. Arthur has been incredibly tense, and is taking it out on her in lieu of yelling at the King of Forgais, with whom he is trying to review a treaty.
Meanwhile, the various divisions of servants around the castle are trying to settle in an entire delegation, before serving up a lavish banquet to celebrate their arrival.
Merlin herself is a personal servant, answering technically only to Arthur, or to visiting royalty of the same rank or higher. Gwen fell under the same umbrella before Morgana's disappearance, but has now taken over as Uther's personal servant. Only the members of the royal household have servants devoted entirely to them, which has somehow always landed Merlin and Gwen at the top of the chain of command.
The only other with quite as much power is Ilkim, the head servant, who is constantly mismanaging everything, if he even bothers to try and manage it at all. Gwen had a habit of keeping things mostly organized when she wasn't attending Morgana, but now her time is fully monopolized by Uther.
That leaves Merlin with the unfortunate task of trying to run things smoothly. She has to make sure the kitchens know how many people to feed, who in the delegation will attend the banquet, and who will be feeling ill or travel-weary and need their dinner delivered to their rooms.
She needs to confirm that rooms are chosen for the correct number of people in the party, and that clean linens and fresh water are ready and available for use. The waitstaff have to be informed of how many people must be served at the banquet, and whether the visitors' personal servants will wait on them, as Camelotian personal servants do, or whether waiters must be supplied.
Merlin also has her own duties, like getting the visiting servants in touch with their counterparts in the castle, keeping Arthur mostly calm, and redirecting any potential yelling to her so that no one blows up at each other.
Needless to say, it's exhausting.
The banquet, however, is the last straw.
Merlin has managed to keep everything on track up until nearly two-thirds of the way through the welcoming banquet. Arthur is presiding at the head table, shoulder to shoulder with King Omarr. The conversation has stuck to trade and hunting, and even preferences in weaponry. All relatively safe topics. Merlin is waiting on Arthur, and Omarr's personal servant, who is waiting on him, isn't as much of a snob as many are. They've exchanged several eye rolls and stifled snickers at their respective rulers.
The crowd of nobles, knights, and ladies from both kingdoms are intermixed at the tables, conversing freely as they enjoy the delectable spread. Prince Osmund sits on his father's other side at the head table, still looking like he thinks someone is going to bite his head off at the slightest opportunity. Merlin sees Leon's parents, Lord Gervaine and Lady Meliane de Bouclés, a table or so down, easily making small talk with various other members of the nobility.
She hopes that the shadows behind Arthur's and Omarr's chairs will hide her. Merlin would hate to be recognized by her soulmate's illustrious family while waiting on tables. The warlock's gaze travels down the hall. Everything seems to be going smoothly, and Merlin finally manages to breathe out the last of her anxiety over the visiting delegation. Perhaps with enough effort, nothing will go wrong after all.
The doors to the hall slip open. Four or five knights stumble in, obviously at least partially inebriated. Over the loud conversation, they go nearly unnoticed, but Merlin, who is standing with her pitcher of wine facing the doors, is immediately on edge. Those knights are the ones most involved in the troublemaking about the halt on magic raids. Their sudden appearance can't bode well.
They are laughing raucously, and she notices that none of them are wearing their cloaks. They must be off duty. One of them loses his grip on his fellow's shoulder and without the support, topples toward one of the tables. Horrified, Merlin watches the fall as if in slow motion. He collides with two of the nobles from Forgais, clutching at their tunics to try and stay mostly upright.
"Pardon me!" One, an older gentleman with a distinguished gray beard exclaims, alarmed.
"What d'you think you're doing?" The other cries. He is a younger, brown-haired man.
"Ahhhh, my sinceeerest apologies to you, sirsss," the knight slurs, grinning. He pushes himself off their backs and tries to execute a bow, but sits down rather abruptly.
"Look at the fool you made of yerself, Cerdic!" One of his companions guffaws, not seeming to notice the attention that is slowly starting to focus on them.
"Ssss'alright," Cerdic snickers. "They're just magic-lovers, anyway. If Uther were still in his right mind, we'd be out chasin' the bastards down, not havin' 'em over for dinner!"
His friends laugh in agreement. One of them takes a swig from a hip flask, before pulling Cerdic back up.
The hall is nearly silent. Leon has appeared from who-knows-where to intervene, the hall guards right behind him.
Arthur is as motionless as a statue, but Merlin can see his jaw tensing in anger. Hopefully he'll let Leon deal with it. While he's standing in for Uther, he can't be leaping into fights left and right.
"Gentlemen, I must ask you to leave," Leon says quietly, his hand hovering over his sword.
"Orrrrrrrr…what?" One, the strange light of intoxication in his eyes, dares to challenge the curly-haired senior knight. "You gonna send us to bed without dessert?"
"I must ask you to leave," Leon repeats dangerously. His hand closes on his sword hilt carefully. "This disorderly conduct is no way to impress our guests."
Cerdic snorts like a pig. "Hah! Like we aim t'impress these salivating magic-lov—"
Leon draws his sword and brings the hilt down on Cerdic's skull halfway through his sentence, knocking the sorry excuse for a knight out cold. Cerdic's compatriots quiet instantly.
Merlin silently cheers.
"I will not ask again. You have no place to insult our guests and friends while they are under our roof, and you will already face investigation if I have anything to say about it." He gives them a hard look. The hall guards haul Cerdic's limp body up, and remove him from the banquet room.
The drunken knights follow, still directing resentful glares at both Leon and the Forgaians. The hall remains silent, no one sure what to do. Leon shuts the doors to the hall quietly behind the retreating troublemakers.
Arthur, still seated in front of Merlin finally starts breathing again. "Quite right, Sir Leon. Thank you for your prompt defense of our esteemed guests. I will call them up for investigation of character."
Leon nods in deference, face carefully blank and disappears through the door himself. Merlin kind of wishes she could see him reaming out those knights. Leon, furious? Truly a sight to see.
Then again…she mentally reviews the look on his face. The loyal and steadfast knight is probably reaming himself out for not stopping the encounter sooner. She should probably find him as soon as possible.
Arthur turns to King Omarr, on his left. "My deepest apologies for the rudeness of my knights, your Majesty. I am ashamed that they wear the colors of the Knights of Camelot."
"Apology accepted. No hard feelings for a mistake by some of your knights, my friend," King Omarr replies, giving Arthur an approving nod. "Now, let's have some dessert!"
The tension in the air dissolves and the hall applauds appreciatively. Chatter once more fills the large chamber as everyone returns to their food before dessert actually can be brought out. Merlin fights the urge to give an almighty sigh of relief, scanning the room for any other sources of disturbance.
Everything seems normal again, apart from that the common topic of discussion is probably how rude the knights were. At the head table, conversation has lapsed into riding and horsemanship.
Arthur gestures for more wine. As Merlin leans forward to pour from her pitcher, she glances down the table and frowns.
Prince Osmund is unnaturally pale, his fists clenched in his napkin. The boy taps his father on the arm, speaking quietly into his ear. The king looks slightly worried, but nods.
As Merlin returns to her former position, the heir to Forgais's throne slips off his chair and, accompanied by his servant, vanishes through the back door of the hall.
Arthur continues to talk with Omarr, completely oblivious.
Hmm. After a moment's thought, Merlin dismisses the occurrence. It's late for a young boy's bedtime, anyway.
As the banquet winds down, and tables are moved so that there is room for the guests to dance, Merlin relinquishes her waiting duties and follows Arthur across the room to the end of the room where those who are not dancing will congregate to make small talk.
"Arthur," she quietly beckons him away for a moment. "I'm going to let George take over my duties for a while. I need to go find Leon."
"Ugh. George? Really?"
"It'll be fine! He's the most competent servant in the castle."
"Yes, he is," Arthur mutters. "To a fault."
"Arthur!" Merlin protests. "Now is not the time."
"Yes, all right," Arthur agrees quickly. "I've never seen Leon that angry, and rightfully so. But try and hurry—don't think I don't know that you managed most of the setup. We need you here."
"Yeah, okay," she replies resignedly. So much for any sleep at a reasonable hour. Not that she'd be able to drift off anyway. "I'll come straight back."
"Good, you'd better."
Merlin finds Leon in the armory. He is sitting on one of the wooded benches, waxing crossbow strings with the utmost precision, his blue-green eyes fixed indelibly on his task.
She purposely lets her footsteps fall on the flagstones so that he can hear, but he doesn't look up. Merlin wordlessly sits beside him, picking up one of the unwaxed strings and a block of wax. She falls into the task with easy rhythm.
Waxing crossbow strings is a job usually meant for servants. If he wanted, Leon would never have to so much as touch a block of wax. Merlin knows this because she often does Arthur's strings if he doesn't have time.
The wax isn't sticky, but it does get ground into the pads of the fingers after a few minutes, and it takes scrubbing them raw to get it out. And even when being careful, the strings can leave thread-burns that stay for days. No one likes the job, even when compared with shining boots (the oil smells awful) or polishing armaments (with the constant danger of accidentally slicing yourself open).
Leon always waxes his own crossbow strings.
That's just the kind of person he is.
They sit in silence, waxing strings, for a long time. Merlin doesn't bother to keep track of how many she's finished. The pile of those that are left doesn't seem to get smaller.
Finally, Leon sighs and brings his head up, dropping his string onto the pile of those already waxed. Merlin follows suit, waiting. Their shoulders brush gently. She hopes he understands that the silent gesture means 'I'm here'.
"We take an oath," he says softly. "An oath to be chivalrous, and courageous. To protect the weak, to live with honor, to die with honor if we must. To remain loyal to that which we serve, and only to serve that which is just and right. We fight for the welfare of all, and accept that glory which we have truly earned, but despise reward. We guard the honor of others, and we do not lie. We respect others, keep faith, and eschew unfairness, cruelty, and deceit."
He is silent for a moment, then shakes his head.
"I took that oath when I was seventeen. There were many who doubted that I could remain true to it, and perhaps there were moments when I doubted myself as well. But I have done my best to fulfill that oath every day since, and I will do so until the day I die. The way those men acted…I have never been more ashamed in my life, Merlin," he admits.
"Leon…" Merlin sighs. "You know their type. They care only for the glory of battle and they see chivalry only in nobility. Their foolishness isn't your responsibility."
"Chivalry only in nobility," Leon muses, his eyes tired and deep. "While I was gone…that peasant knight. Lancelot, wasn't it? He killed a griffin, and they banished him for his trouble."
"Yes," Merlin says after a brief moment of hesitation. "I knew him."
"I sometimes think we would be better off with Lancelot the commoner," Leon says tiredly, "than the likes of Cerdic and all his kind."
Merlin leans into him. "I sometimes think you're right."