It takes all of a week for Merlin to decide that Arthur Pendragon is the biggest prat in all five kingdoms and would benefit enormously from a good lashing with a riding crop.
It isn't just that he's a pompous, arrogant upstart with more ego than sense, it's that he is just annoying. Merlin can't quite put his finger on it exactly, but something about the Prince just chafes him entirely the wrong way. There are times when there is nothing he wants to do more than find the nearest suitably heavy object and smack it right across that golden head.
One would think that after Merlin helped him with Knight Valiant and that enchanted shield of his that he'd get some kind of respect, the smallest smidge of gratitude, or at least some attempt at an apology. Instead, Arthur just gets a smugly pleased way about him whenever he gives Merlin a list of duties every day. And there are quite a lot of them.
He's hardly a stranger to physical labour. Lionel had trained with him for hours and hours with quarterstaff and knives, and before that, he had his own little duties to attend to in Silverpine before being allowed to play. But what Arthur demands of him is certainly excessive. Granted, Merlin does use his magic to get a large part of it done, but if he didn't, he likely wouldn't finish before moonrise every night. It's ridiculous, and he has the very distinct impression that the royal prat is trying to run him off somehow.
If Leon had known, he could have warned the Prince about trying to engage Merlin in a contest of wills.
If Prince Prat wants to be rid of Merlin, he'll have to bloody well work for it.
The training sessions are the prince's main tactic. And they very nearly work, too.
"Come on, Merlin!" Arthur drawls, circling around him, slashing at the air with a dulled practice blade. "This is meant to be good practice, and I'll hardly get it with you just standing about!"
I wouldn't be standing about if you didn't insist on this ridiculous damned outfit, Merlin thinks, getting awkwardly back on his feet in the padded, dented practice armour. He picks up his own dulled blade with a scowl. He's hardly of use with a sword. He's never been of use with a sword. Give him his knives or his quarterstaff, he would take the perfect golden prince in a bout anytime. And the armour. He hates the armour. It's heavy and awkward and makes moving his arms difficult. He's never sparred in anything heavier than a gambeson.
"Do I have to wear this?" he asks instead, swatting aside the Prince's sword when Arthur taps it atop his helmet. Maiden's mercy, this is almost worse than the first day with the damned tourney practice; he'd gone limping home bruised stem to stern after those bouts. Perhaps he should have just let Valiant's serpent-enchanted shield bite the Prince. It'd serve him right for not clearing the ego out of his ears every now and again to listen.
Arthur laughs as he circles around him. "I'd rather not kill you just yet. I'm certain Leon wouldn't be happy with me. Now come on!" He raises the sword again and comes at Merlin with it.
He manages to block the first two blows, and then Arthur turns neatly and lands a ringing blow against the side of the helmet. Merlin staggers back a step and falls on his arse, feeling as though iron wings are buffeting the inside of his skull. He'd seen it coming, but he couldn't get the damned sword up in time.
Arthur plants the tip of the blade into the ground and folds his hands over the pommel, leaning over to smirk down at Merlin. "You're braver than you look. Most servants collapse after the first blow," he remarks.
For a moment, he gives serious thought to giving the royal arse a thorough routing with his quarterstaff. It'd certainly be satisfying, if nothing else, but he tamps down on the urge. If the arrogant twit couldn't be bothered to ask him for a proper bout, then Merlin wouldn't give him one. Instead, he takes off his helmet and chucks it at the Prince's shins.
Perhaps Leon is right about him being contrary just for the sake of it.
"Will you be escorting the Lady Morgana to the feast tonight?" he asks, hoping to get the Prince's mind elsewhere. It's not hard to do, actually. Bit like dangling something shiny in front of a small child.
Arthur arches one brow, resting one boot on the helmet Merlin threw. "No, Father will. She's his ward, after all, and it's her natality." he says.
"What have you gotten her?"
"A dagger." A laugh leaps from Merlin's throat unbidden, and Arthur draws upright, insulted. "What's wrong with that?"
Merlin snickers as he flops back on the grass, letting his aching everything rest. Even with the salve that Mother had given him for his aches and bruises, he still hurts. "You don't know her very well, do you?"
The Prince kicks one of his legs. "I've known her longer than anyone!" he counters, scowling down at him. "What's wrong with a dagger, then? And what makes you think that you know her so very well, anyways, Merlin?" There's a subtle gleam of warning in Arthur's tone. For all he likes to act indifferent towards the Lady Morgana, he is inclined to be protective of her. Any young knight unwise enough to admire her too overtly within the Prince's hearing is courting extra training rounds and long-distance patrols.
"Gwen and I are good friends," Merlin answers, putting pointed emphasis on her name. "A maidservant is expected to know her mistress, and young women speak to each other more openly. I asked her." He could've laughed at the look of dawning surprise on the prince's face, as if it has never actually occurred to him to perhaps speak to the one person Morgana spent more time with than anyone else.
"Ah. Well. Did you and Leon conspire on it, then?" Arthur asks.
"Yes."
"What is it?"
Merlin smirks. "Oh, wouldn't you like to know."
Again, Arthur's eyebrows lift. "Tell me, Merlin. Do you know how to walk on your knees?" he asks, pulling the sword up from the ground and prodding Merlin's middle with the tip, just hard enough to hurt.
"Not at all, sire."
It might be his imagination, but he thinks the corner of the Prince's mouth twitches up. "Would you like me to teach you?"
He grins with all his teeth and swats the flat of the blade away with his vambrace. Aching though he might be, Merlin gets to his feet. "You're certainly welcome to try it."
The King doesn't spare anything for the Lady Morgana's natality. There are performers of all ilk, a feast that could make strong men weep, and gifts in all size and shape. Merlin, in his splendid new position of royal servant, is required to stand attendant the entire time, cradling a jug of wine and making sure the Prince's cup didn't run dry. Again, he has the brief, flickering temptation to use his magic and sour the wine into vinegar. He'd learnt that trick when he was four-and-ten.
Merlin glances around the hall, picking out the knights he knows, idly counting the different colours of ladies' gowns, and spotting his brother amidst the lot. As one of the higher-ranking nobles, Leon is attending as well, sitting with his fellows. He shifts his weight slightly, envying Leon the chance to sit down, and curls his aching toes against his boots. It'd be lovely to go and join them. The stuffed goose looks spectacular...
"Merlin," Arthur hisses under his breath, and he glances down. The Prince levels an unimpressed look at him, tapping one finger against the side of his empty cup.
Rolling his eyes, he reaches over to fill it, and as he leans down, he murmurs, "Careful with the wine, sire, because if you think I am going to drag you to your chambers if you overindulge, you are quite sorely mistaken."
Arthur arches one brow. "You'll do as you are told."
Merlin tilts his head in response. "Perhaps."
Shaking his head, the young man turns away and instead strikes up conversation with the King. Taking advantage of the distraction, Merlin carefully backs up from the table and shuffles sideways, making his way to the other side of the table where Lady Morgana is seated. Her gifts have all been cleared away and taken back to her chambers, which is likely where Guinevere is, and she's watching the tumblers perform with rapt attention. "Enjoying the entertainments, my lady?" he says quietly.
"They certainly are very talented. How is being a royal servant treating you?" she asks.
Merlin hums. "What price would I pay for upending a pitcher of wine over his head?"
"Ah, that well?" She chuckles softly and glances up at him, propping her chin on her fist. "You know, I did not see a single gift from Silverpine, nor do I recall speaking to your brother at all tonight."
"No?" he says, assuming a tone of perfect innocence and an expression to match.
"Why, Merlin, have you forgotten to get me a gift? I believe I shall fair perish from despair," Morgana says with a teasing smile.
"Why, Lady Morgana, how could you ever think such a thing of me?" Merlin replies in the same lilting tone of voice, lips twitching. He turns slightly and nods his head towards Leon, standing a few paces away from the King's table with said gift: a wolfhound pup, squirming eagerly at the end of a braided silk lead. He'd taken the opportunity of the performing tumblers to quietly slip away and return unnoticed with it.
Morgana lets out a delighted gasp and opens her arms without thought for her gown. Leon drops the lead, and the pup bounds forward eagerly. The guard standing nearest to them gives a belated start, grabbing at his sword hilt, but the dog only springs to her arms and laps at her face with a long red tongue. "Oh, Merlin, she's beautiful!" she exclaims joyously, scratching the pup's ears and kissing its furry head.
"Her name's Celeste, and she's been brought up indoors, so she'll behave herself," he chortles, stooping to pick up the end of the lead. At six months, Celeste is near half her full size, long-toed paws promising further growth. The mental image of the King's ward appearing at court with a Brechfa wolfhound amidst the other ladies and their trembling lapdogs still makes him laugh.
Merlin had sent a letter to Silverpine months ago, and Lionel had sent one of his pages back in reply with a newly-weaned pup from the latest litter, her dam one of Allegra's littermates. He had conspired with Gwen, too, to procure an old gown of Morgana's so the pup would know her scent, and with Lady Evaine in Silverpine, he had been able to rear Celeste in the townhouse. He had fitted Celeste with a new collar before the feast, a wide band of fine leather studded with seed pearls; it's much like the ones that other courtiers adorn their lapdogs with, only much larger.
"Daresay the best gift I've ever received, Merlin. Thank you. And you as well, Sir Leon," she adds, glancing over at the tall knight; he salutes her with an amused laugh. She loops the end of the lead around one wrist and feeds Celeste small cuts of venison from her plate, giggling as the rough tongue curls around her fingers.
Arthur's face is a study in confusion and dismay when he sees Celeste. The King's eyebrows lift, an somewhat bemused glance thrown in Leon's direction; however, he looks at Morgana's pleased, beaming face and gives an amused chuckle, shaking his head. Merlin catches his brother's eye and mouths 'I told you so,' grinning smugly. Leon had doubted the wisdom of their gift ever since Merlin proposed the idea. Rolling his eyes, Leon waits until Morgana isn't looking and makes a rude gesture with one hand before returning to his seat.
Quietly, he sidles back around to his post at Arthur's side, reaching over to refill his cup. Merlin notices the prince casting a puzzled glance at him, brows knitted slightly, and he raises his own in turn, giving a neat little bow with everything but deference in his expression.
To his surprise, Arthur actually smiles, chuckling under his breath.
He's not so bad when he smiles, Merlin thinks absently and resettles the wine jug in the crook of one arm. If only he weren't such an ass.