Merlin first meets the Prince Arthur during the summer of his tenth year, visiting Silverpine.
The estate of Silverpine is beautiful. It lies in the province of Brechfa, nestled in the low mountains that divide Brechfa from Ascetir. The valley holds mostly gardens and pasturage for the sheep that are the estate's primary source of income; the lower slopes are terraced and given to apple and pear orchards which make cider and perry. Beyond that, the mountains grow wild, forests of pine trees which give the estate its name, with unexpected meadows filled with flowers. There's a spring-fed lake near the manor house, clear and perfect, and there are caves tucked away in the mountains, too. It's a small holding by most standards, but it's deep enough to hold secrets.
Merlin is given near free run of the place, and though a part of him always aches for his mother, he finds he can breathe here in a way he couldn't in Ealdor. His memories of his birth village have grown vague and fuzzy, but he remembers people turning away from him and his mother, remembers other children fleeing from him, remembers a distinct feeling of coldness and distance from everyone around them. Not here.
Lionel and Evaine set chores for him, of course, and he had to attend lessons with Leon, but whereas Leon learned swordplay and combat skills, Merlin didn't. He had no need of them, given that a bastard couldn't be a knight as per the King's Code. It suits Merlin perfectly fine. He has no desire to be a knight. He's far more content spending his days climbing the fruit trees in the orchards, wrestling with the pups in the kennels, and practicing his magic in the secret caves and groves in the forest. Mum had sent him a book of magic, a gift from his great-uncle in Camelot, and he keeps it hidden in a small cave that only he knows of. He's never even shown it to Leon, liking to think of it as his own private magical sanctuary.
It's a fine spring day when he first hears word of the Prince's visit.
The Prince is to become a squire next spring alongside Leon, even though he's two winters younger, so the King finds it wise to allow his son the chance to become acquainted with his soon-to-be fellows and one-day subjects. Which meant the Prince was to be fostered at Silverpine for the summer. Apparently, it's a great honour, one that Lionel and Evaine can't refuse lest they rouse the King's suspicion. Anyone else would be honoured.
Merlin's furious.
He loves summer, loves the feeling of the earth growing rich and ripe around him, loves spending the long days outdoors, indulging in what he knows will be his last summer of carefree play with Leon before they move their household to Camelot for Leon's squiring. And now, now it'll all be spoiled with some arrogant little princeling hanging about. No magic. It's only a summer, but to a boy of ten winters, it's akin to telling a bird 'no flying.' He hates his cage already, though it hasn't yet been shut around him.
He sprints from the manor house in a fury, fleeing to the forest. He weaves around the pine trees to his yew. It's the only yew tree in the wood, and it is old, so very, very old. Merlin wonders if perhaps the yew was here first and the rest of the forest grew up around it. He doesn't think it's impossible. Every lord of Silverpine has left it untouched, and even in the frenzy of superstition and persecution of the Purge, Lionel had ordered it left alone. Yew is for warding, protection, and Merlin feels safe in the deep forks of its enormous, twisted branches, listening to its slow thoughts and deep pulse. He presses his brow to the ridged bark and breathes in the clean, pure forest air.
He's not sure how long he sits there, folded in the cradle of three spreading branches, but soon enough he hears the sound of Leon coming to him, tripping and stumbling through the undergrowth, newly clumsy. Despite his fouled mood, Merlin smiles. Over the winter, Leon had grown rawboned and lanky, and unused to it, he constantly falls over himself, careening off-balance and tipping into things. Colts' Years, Lionel had laughingly called it. All young men went through it and eventually grew out of it.
"Merlin!" Leon calls from the knotted roots of the tree, tilting his head up. "Merlin! Are you going to come down, or do I have to come up to you?"
A part of him desperately wants to see Leon try to climb up with his new long, awkward limbs. However, knowing better than to trust his off-kilter balance, Merlin reluctantly uncurls and clambers down onto one of the low, drooping branches that comes so near to the ground he can sit upon it and brush the grass with his toes.
Leon walks over and sits beside him; his feet are flat on the ground. "Look, it's just for this one summer. Then he's going back to Camelot."
"And then we'll go to Camelot," Merlin points out unhappily. He's torn about that. Half of him misses his mother, aches to see her again and have her hug him and call him her little bird, as well as meet his mysterious great-uncle of his who apparently practiced magic once, who gave Merlin his book. The other half of him wants to never leave Silverpine and its cool lake and secret caves and comforting forests, to never set foot in Camelot where the King would snip his head off like a daisy if he knew about Merlin's magic. He wishes his mother could come to Silverpine but knows she can't. It's one thing for a lord to keep his natural child in his household, especially another son, but to keep his mistress under the same roof as his lady wife... Even if there isn't a whit of truth to it, the lie is his protection and he cannot risk it.
"I know, and if I could change it, I would," Leon says. "But I can't. These things are expected of me, and I can't just say no."
Merlin glances at his brother sidelong, smirking. "I know you can't, and you're a wretched liar, too, Leon. I know you want to be a knight. You've always wanted to be a knight." It's been Leon's ambition to be such since the day they met, eight winters old. A knight doesn't break promises.
The boy laughs a little and shrugs his shoulders, the movement sitting odd and gawky on his changing frame. "Yeah, I do. Can't help it, I guess." He slings his long arm around Merlin's shoulders. "Here, think of it this way. When I'm a squire, that means I'll be with the Prince all the time. And when I become a knight, too. Maybe we can change his mind, you and me."
"What, about magic?" Merlin scoffs. "Like anyone raised with the King as a father is gonna change his mind about magic."
Leon shrugs again. "Never can tell, you know. You changed my mind."
"You were eight."
"And Prince Arthur's only two-and-ten. Do you think that Father still thinks all the same things he did when he was two-and-ten?"
Merlin picks at a whorl in the bark. "No," he mutters.
"Alright, then." Leon stands up and dusts off his breeches; they're inches too short for him, as are his shirt sleeves. "C'mon, Merlin. Just give him a chance. Try to be friends with him. Maybe he's not much like the King at all."
"Mayhaps." He doesn't budge from his perch.
Propping hands on his hips, Leon smiles at him and says coaxingly, "You know, you are ten winters now. Father said you could have one of the pups from the spring litter when you were ten. I'm sure he'll let you pick now, knowing you're upset."
Merlin laughs and leaps off the branch, running to catch up to Leon. "You might be a wretched liar, but you're a good manipulator when it takes you to be."
"Of course I am, living with you. It's a necessity if I want you to do anything, since you seem to enjoy being contrary just for the sake of it."
"I am not!"
"Whatever you say, little villain."
He shoves against Leon's side, tipping him off-kilter. "Stop calling me that, it's silly!"
Leon grins from his sprawl on the grass. "Alright, villain."
Merlin does get his pick of the spring litter, as Lionel promised him. The wolfhounds of Silverpine are huge, shaggy grey beasts with loping gaits and wiry fur. Fully grown, they stand near waist-level on a man and will hunt near any game, wolves included. After careful consideration of the tumbling balls of grey fluff, he chooses a small hound-bitch he names Allegra. For a while, he manages to forget about the upcoming royal visit as he spends his days learning the finer points of rearing a dog from the kennel master, keeping Allegra near to him as often as allowed; the Lady Evaine did not allow dogs inside the manor house, as they made her sneeze something fierce.
The Prince wouldn't arrive until after Midsummer, and he'd only stay a month. Merlin's glad of that, at least, for Midsummer is when he goes out into the forest to the old yew tree and greets the Old Ones, those who had no voices but for the susurrus of leaves and the sigh of wind and the burble of water, no form but for those of stone and sea and sky. He pours a libation of perry brandy on the roots of the yew and conjures an entire swarm of butterflies in all hues of colour from his hands to hear the forest around him shiver in delight.
He tries to hold onto that feeling when the Prince arrives. It's raining, which seems fitting to him. Not a hard rain, scarce more than a light mist, true enough. The Prince comes with two knights as his guard and an escort of Silverpine's guardsmen, who are all chosen by Lionel.
Merlin stands around the edges of the courtyard, sulking back as far as he dares with one hand curled on Allegra's collar. It's more comfort to him than restraint for her; she's obedient and stays when he tells her.
At two-and-ten, the Prince is only two winters older than Merlin, two younger than Leon. His hair is so fair it almost looks white, the palest gold that Merlin's ever seen, the only thing that's at all remarkable about him. He hasn't come into his own Colts' Years, yet, though, from the look of him, riding comfortably in the saddle of his richly caparisoned pony. He halts in the courtyard, a stable boy darting forward quick to take the reins, and he dismounts with some grace.
"Sir Lionel, Lady Evaine." He inclines his head respectfully to Lionel, then takes Evaine's hand and kisses her fingers. "I thank you for your hospitality."
"We are most honoured to have you with us, Prince Arthur. Silverpine welcomes you," she replies with a smooth curtsey.
"Prince Arthur. Kay, Bevidere," Lionel greets the Prince's guard, and the knights salute him from their saddles. "May I present my son, Leon? He'll be squiring with you in Camelot next year."
"Leon." The boy extends a hand and clasps his forearm.
"Prince Arthur." Leon is inches taller than the Prince; Merlin smirks a little.
He isn't introduced, not officially, anyways. He doesn't mind it. There's something haughty about this white-haired little princeling, a prideful tilt to his chin, an arrogant lilt to his tone, that prickles Merlin. He grips Allegra's collar tightly.
"Well, Leon, I'm sure your parents have else to do than stand around with us, so tell me, what do you do for fun here?" Prince Arthur asks.
Leon beams at that, and they leave the courtyard, heading out behind the manor house and in the direction of the lake. In the heat, the cool water is a blessed relief, and they often make a game of trying to catch fish with their hands. Merlin follows a pace behind, listening with half an ear as Leon tells the pale-haired boy about going hawking in the outer fields if the weather held.
Abruptly, the Prince stops walking and turns to face Merlin with a scowl. "What are you following us for? Don't you have duties to attend to?"
Leon steps forward quickly, throwing an arm around Merlin's shoulders. "Ah, Prince Arthur, this is Merlin, my half-brother," he introduces.
The boy's pale eyebrows lift. "Oh," he says with some distaste. "I see."
No. Merlin doesn't like him a bit.
He tries to make friends with the Prince. It's not an easy thing to do. Merlin's very skin itches sometimes, holding in his magic so often, constantly biting his tongue to keep from mentioning it, and it does no good for his mood. He sulks. It doesn't help that the Prince has this ever-present air of superiority about him, as if he is so very better than they are and only deigns to share his company. He doesn't know how Leon stomachs it, but perhaps that's because most of it is saved for Merlin. Even if he is a knight's son, he's still a bastard and therefore lesser company. Merlin has still never grasped how it is that the circumstances of one's birth makes any such impact on their worth as a human being. That riles him, too, curdling in his stomach like soured milk.
So he sulks and spends time teaching Allegra to course game.
Like a lymer on a blood-trail, though, the Prince seems to scent out Merlin's dislike of him and makes another pastime of taunting him whenever Leon's not within earshot.
It comes to a head three days before the Prince is due to return to Camelot.
"Aw, come on, don't run away," the pale-haired boy drawls when Merlin makes to leave. They're sitting on a slope near the lake, and Leon's further down by the water, seeing if it was too cold to swim; summer or not, it could get frigid. "What's the matter? Have I hurt your feelings? Shall you go cry in your mother's skirts now? Or is she not here?"
Merlin grits his teeth and whirls to face the other boy. "Don't speak of my mother," he snaps.
The Prince bares his teeth in a grin. "No? Why? Do you miss your mummy?"
He thinks for the briefest of seconds if it'd be worth it to give him donkey ears. A royal ass, indeed. Instead, Merlin clenches his hands behind his back to contain the magic tingling in his fingertips and snipes back, "You don't know me or my mother. Don't think you do, mewling little princeling."
A flush rises in his face like wine in an alabaster cup. "Better a princeling than a whore's unwanted get."
A retort leaps to mind—at least my mother is still alive—but his own magic chokes it off, probably saving him from doing irreparable damage. So instead, he does the next most satisfying thing. He lowers his head and charges the prince.
The boy grunts at the impact, and Merlin bears him down hard. They roll over and over in the grass, swearing and thrashing. One of the prince's arms tries to get around Merlin's neck in a chokehold, and he sinks his teeth into the limb hard, biting the exposed flesh where his sleeve rides up. The boy yowls in pain.
"Merlin!" Leon's arms wrap around his middle, hauling him away from the Prince by main force until Lionel strides over and seizes him by the collar, yanking him right off his feet.
"What in the name of the gods is going on over here?" he thunders.
"He bit me!" the pale boy exclaims in a fury, spots of colour standing out on his cheeks. There's a bright red impress of teeth on his arm, already starting to bruise.
"He called Mother a whore!" Merlin shouts back.
"Enough!" Lionel sets him down hard on his feet, sword-callused hand gripping the scruff of his neck. "Will you disgrace the hospitality of Silverpine?" he asks of Merlin, hard and intent. "He is our guest, and that means you are responsible for upholding the rules of hospitality, none of which include throttling visitors, no matter what was said."
Merlin ducks his head. "Yes, my lord," he murmurs, voice small; the Prince smirks.
"And you, Prince Arthur." Lionel's stern dark gaze falls on the boy, and his smug look gives way to one of surprise. "Will you offer insult as well, to Merlin and to me? Speaking of things you know nothing of?" he asks in a stern, foreboding tone.
The Prince opens his mouth, closes it again. "No, Sir Lionel," he replies with awkward ill grace, cowed.
"Very well. Now. Boys your age squabble. I did the same with other knights when we were squires as well. Aye, even your father," Lionel adds with a pointed look down at the pale-haired boy. "We will mark this up as such and leave it there. It will not happen again. Will it?"
There's a round of muttered negatives from all three of them. Lionel nods. "Good. Prince Arthur, accept our apologies on behalf of House de Galis."
"Yes, of course. It…it was a…misunderstanding," the Prince says awkwardly.
Merlin nearly rolls his eyes. He imagines that's about as close as the pompous little brat got to saying 'sorry' like a normal person. Lionel's hand tightens on the nape of his neck, and he gives a stiff little bow, forcing a passably cordial tone. "My apologies." You snaggletoothed, white-haired little wretch.
"Good," Lionel repeats. "Now, come with me, highness, and we'll have your arm looked at." They walk back up towards the manor house together.
"Merlin…" Leon says.
"I'm sorry!" he exclaims helplessly, then turns and heads towards the trees, Allegra trotting at his heels. He heads directly for the yew tree, climbing up as high as he dares into its branches. It doesn't rise above the tops of the pines, doesn't even come close, but he knows Leon's afraid of heights and won't pursue him. Allegra sits on her haunches at the roots and gazes up at him.
"I hate him," he mutters, digging his nails into the bark hard enough to push slivers under his skin.
The wind eddies past him, whispering through the leaves, and it sounds for all the world like laughter.
He wishes he understood the joke.