"Nervous, sire?"

"Shut up, Merlin." Arthur braces his hands on the edge of the battlements, watching as the first of four royal parties ride down the road towards Camelot. He hadn't been nervous, but his ears are still burning from Father's words. Now he's got a prickly knot of unease settling down in the pit of his belly. It's hard enough living with Father at times; having five kings all in the same hall…. "Listen, I expect you to conduct yourself with a measure of decorum, Merlin, and I am aware you know how to, so don't act otherwise." He turns and jabs a finger at the young man's face to emphasise his point. "And under no circumstances are you to be exercising your…talents."

Merlin arches his eyebrows, but he nods agreement, giving a little bow from the waist. He almost appears as though he was raised by a noble instead of a barn cat, scrubbed up and brushed down and in his uniform. Excepting, of course, the hat. Arthur's not seen the hat since that first unfortunate night, and he's quite certain it'd ended up as kindling.

"Who's this arriving?" Arthur asks, jerking his chin towards the approaching party. He knows the answer, of course, but he's also quite certain Father will string Merlin up from the north tower if the fool boy gives offence to one of the dignitaries.

"King Alined of Deorham," Merlin replies unhesitating, leaning his arms against the battlements, smirking a little at the surprised glance Arthur throws at him. "I had to take lessons as a child too." He nudges Arthur with an elbow and points; there's another entourage coming from the east road, large enough not to be any happenstance travelers. "And that, I imagine, would be King Olaf of Anglia. Doesn't he have a daughter?"

"Oh, yes, and if you value your hide, Merlin, you'll keep your gaze on the floor and hands in your pockets." Arthur's heard rumours about the beauty of Princess Vivian…and the protectiveness of King Olaf as well. If he believes even the least of them, then the man is not to be trifled with. He takes a deep breath and straightens up, rolling his shoulders. "I have to go to the square, stand with Father to greet them," he says, then faces Merlin, holding his arms out. "Good?"

Merlin reaches up to fix his collar, then tugs at the bottom of hem of his vest to straighten it. "There. After you, sire."

Directly into a potential serpent's nest.

How wonderful.

Princess Vivian is indeed as beautiful as she's rumoured to be.

However, beauty is as beauty does.

Arthur's never understood that saying as well as he does after having only a single conversation with the princess. He steps out of the guest chambers, holding the door for Guinevere to join him, then closes the door. For a moment, they're both completely silent, staring at each other, then both of them start laughing, hastily muffling their voices with hands and sleeves so their lady guest doesn't overhear. "Maiden's mercy, she's worse than Regeane," he remarks, leaning back against the wall. He would gladly take an entire sennight of Regeane's company over this little shrew.

Guinevere presses her fingertips over her mouth, shoulders trembling with repressed laughter. "She's…certainly a unique individual," she manages to say with a straight face, though her voice wavers with humour.

He drops his head back against the wall, still grinning. "No matter what happens, Guinevere, do not allow Lancelot anywhere near her. I've yet to see his chivalry fail him, and I'd rather not see it fail now." There is no provision in the knights' code which prohibits a woman from challenging a knight; he wonders if there's one to prohibit a knight from challenging a woman.

"Of course, sire," she agrees, still giggling.

Shaking his head, he straightens up and heads down the corridor towards his chambers. As he walks, he says a silent prayer for Morgana; she's to be seated next to Vivian at the feast tonight. He's not sure who he needs to pray for more: Morgana, that she'll have the strength to restrain herself, or Vivian, that she might be lucky enough to not earn the complete and utter enmity of Morgana. Speaking from personal experience in such matters, he'd sooner face another Questing Beast.

The sooner she's out of Camelot, the better.

Morgana wonders what it is about Arthur that seems to simply draw trouble the way flesh draws flies.

If it wasn't for the fact that the peace of the five kingdoms is at stake, she would relish every second of a besotted, lovestruck Arthur making an utter fool of himself. However, she would far prefer it if he was mooning over the actual object of his affections and not that…wretched harpy of a princess.

"Destiny and chicken," she repeats, shaking her head as she walks up a hallway, Celeste trotting along beside her on a silk lead. She finds that moving about helps her mind to work, and she prays Merlin's had luck in discovering the spell and how to undo it. "Maiden have mercy on you, Arthur. If we make it through this unscathed, I will clearly have to educate you on voicing affection."

Hearing said voice, she glances down the adjoining corridor and bites her lip on a smirk when she sees Arthur strolling idly towards the stairs with that nauseating expression on his face. He's followed closely by Leon, whom Merlin has no doubt given the delightful duty of keeping the prince from making a public spectacle of himself, and the tall knight looks as though he wishes that he could drag Arthur out to the courtyard and dunk his head in the fountains until he comes to his senses. Or perhaps just hold him under until the bubbles stop rising.

Once they're out of sight, she tugs lightly on Celeste's lead, deciding to double back and return to her chambers. Princess Vivian believes dogs to be filthy creatures not meant to be kept indoors. Celeste is aware of Morgana's dislike of Vivian and emulates it. So, to keep the peace, she'll keep plenty of space between both bitches.

"Oh, I know, I know, love," Morgana coos as she unclips the lead from Celeste's collar, the hound giving her mournful eyes. "It's only until the treaty is signed, and then she'll be packed off to her own kingdom. Once she's gone, we can all go out on a picnic together, and I'll ask Merlin to bring Allegra for you to play with, my word on that." She kisses the top of Celeste's shaggy head, then leaves the chamber, closing the door.

As she starts in the direction of Princess Vivian's guest chambers—she'll keep Her Majesty occupied for a time, at least—the sound of Guinevere's voice reaches her ears, unwontedly harried, and overriding her, Vivian's sharp, biting tone. Frowning, she hurries towards the source, comes around a corner, and stops dead in place, mouth dropping open.

Oh, no. Maiden, Mother, and Crone, no.

Vivian is striding down the hallway at a brisk pace, making directly for Arthur's chambers. In her nightgown. And nothing else. She's barefoot. Guinevere is trailing after her with utmost distress writ on her face, obviously trying to stop her. "As if I should care for the opinions of a serving girl!" Vivian snipes, wrinkling her pert nose as though she'd smelt something unpleasant. "My lordly love does not care what I wear, only that I am near to him, my heart's delight."

It's a good thing Morgana hasn't eaten breakfast yet, or she surely would've been ill.

"Princess Vivian!" she exclaims, forcing her tone into one of jovial excitement, and Vivian halts in surprise, turning to look at her curiously. "How wonderful to see you, my dear. I was just coming to visit your chambers, to see if you would…care to view the palace gardens with me."

"I don't like gardens, but even if I did, I could not, for I have to see my beloved. It's written in the stars, he and I, together. Vivian and Arthur. A love for all time."

Out of Vivian's view, Guinevere makes a face as though she's just bitten into something rotten; Morgana heartily empathizes with the sentiment. Still, she forces herself to smile and nod. "Oh, of course, of course, and how not, such a dazzling beauty such as yourself? However, might I offer you a touch of advice?" Morgana asks, then gestures Vivian closer and leans in conspiratorially. "Having known Arthur since my youth, I have learnt his tastes as well as my own, and though you do indeed look stunning, your majesty, Arthur would truly go weak in the knees to see you attired as the future queen you are, his future queen."

Vivian cocks her head and smooths a hand over her nightgown thoughtfully, then nods, beaming eagerly. "Yes, yes, of course. You're absolutely right."

Morgana nods encouragingly, putting a hand on her shoulder and gently guiding her back the way she came, gesturing fervently to Guinevere with her free hand. "So return to your chambers with Guinevere and allow her to dress you, and I'm certain that your…love…will be unable to resist you."

"Indeed, he shan't! You have my deepest thanks, my lady. Come, girl! My lord awaits me!" Vivian declares, striding back down the corridor.

"Right away, your majesty," Guinevere replies, then turns to stare imploringly at Morgana, hands spread in a helpless gesture.

Mind scrambling, Morgana points towards the east wing and mouths Arthur's name, then jabs a finger at Vivian's rapidly retreating back and then towards the west wing. It's a very large castle, excellent for avoiding one another, and though it's hardly a foolproof plan, it'll allow her the time to find Merlin.

Gwen nods, then quickly hastens to catch up to Vivian.

Once the two are out of sight, she has to retreat into an alcove, press her brow to the cool stone wall, and screams into her teeth. This is absolutely ludicrous. Once this debacle is over, she is going to demand Arthur give her a damned medal of valor. A flash of red fabric breezes past her. Snapping upright, Morgana lunges out, snatches the back of Merlin's collar and neckerchief, and yanks, earning a strangled yelp from him. She heaves him out of the main corridor into the alcove beside her, holding up a hand to forestall any outrage on his part. "Princess Vivian has been enchanted as well," she declares.

"What? Oh, no," Merlin groans, scrubbing a hand over his eyes.

"Indeed. I saw her in the corridor just now. She was going to visit Arthur's chambers to declare her love for him. In her nightgown," Morgana adds, and Merlin makes a strangled whimper in his throat, grabbing at his hair. "It's only by the gods' mercy I convinced her not to, but she's quite determined to make her statement to her 'love.' I have Guinevere staying close to her to keep her from creating a spectacle, but she won't be deterred for long. She's quite a single-minded little shrew. Please tell me you've found something in your books."

"I have. Oh, I have," Merlin sighs, sounding exhausted and nearly ready to weep. "There are over 600 love spells to be found in my books, near a quarter of which involve a lock of hair. If we guess wrongly in which enchantment was used, there are quite a wide variety of consequences, none of which are the slightest bit pleasant, and a few could actually end up in death."

Morgana closes her eyes and resists the urge to turn around and beat her head into the wall until her headache lessens. As she briefly wonders if it would be at all feasible to bind and gag Vivian in a cupboard until the treaty is signed, a thought rises into her mind. "Merlin?"

"Mm?" He sounds just as despondent, hands covering his face.

"The one who threads an enchantment can unthread it, no?"

"Except in the cases of some greater magics, yes," he mumbles.

She takes his wrists and tugs his hands away from his face. "Then why do we not confront this Trickler and demand he undo the spell?" she prompts, and his eyes widen, lips parting in shock. "You and I together can overpower him, and he cannot declare against us without revealing himself."

Merlin clasps his hands around hers, grinning. "If we were not in the corridor, I would kiss you," he says gleefully.

She rolls her eyes skyward, swatting at him in exasperation. "Oh, hush, you'd do no such thing. Quickly now, the treaty is to be signed at the feast tonight, which means we have only a matter of hours."

"Then we do this now."

Trickler isn't hard to find. He is in the antechamber of Alined's chambers, no doubt biding his time until it came time for him to reap the fruits of his magical labour. "Ah, if it isn't the beauteous Lady Morgana!" he greets her warmly, giving her a most charming smile; he gives no attention to Merlin at all. A fool indeed. "My master is currently in the council hall if you've need of audience with him, I could certainly escort you there."

Morgana smiles right back at him, the same smile she gave to noblemen who had the audacity to try and court her. "Oh, no, no, thank you. I seek an audience with you."

He gives his strange little giggle. "Oh? And what might this lowly jester do for you, O gracious lady?"

"Will you not sit and speak with me?" she asks with a gesture towards the table, holding his eye. Magic tingles along her skin, and the chairs slide back of their own accord. A dangerous gambit, perhaps, but one she has confidence in. A servant accusing another servant is one thing, but the king's beloved ward being accused of sorcery by a common jester of another king's court, and during peace talks, no less?

Trickler's face goes the rather sickly colour of old porridge, throat working as he swallows.

Acting as though he'd accepted her invitation, Morgana seats herself at the table and interlaces her fingers idly before her; Merlin edges closer to stand just at the edge of her vision. "It has come to my attention, you see, that Prince Arthur…hasn't quite been himself. Nor has the Princess Vivian," she says, keeping her gaze steady upon the jester. "It is a situation that simply must be corrected with all urgency, you see. It would be most unfortunate if their conditions upset the signing of the treaty, wouldn't you agree?"

She doesn't look away from him as she speaks. It's one of the few tricks she's bothered to learn from Uther, the art of staring down one's opponent unblinking until they begin to crack beneath the pressure. Some are sturdier than others. Trickler is not. However, of the reactions she'd expected from him, an attempt to physically attack her hadn't been very high on the list. The nervous darting of his eyes is all the warning she has. Trickler lunges forward, going for the sword that Alined has left upon the table. Decorative or not, the blade will still be sharp.

Merlin, however, is faster.

In a motion too swift for her to even follow, he snatches the dagger from his belt and slams it point-first into the tabletop through Trickler's wrist, pinning him neatly. The man lets out a strangled squeal of pain not unlike a baby rabbit caught in the falcon's talons. "Longsword is a bad option in close quarters," Merlin says in a near-conversational tone, leaning in and keeping his weight pressing on the blade. "Now, when I pull my blade, you are going to bleed. Quite a lot. So many veins in the wrist, I'm afraid. However, if you go to the physicians' quarters directly, you will live. Of course, my mother and uncle could always be…preoccupied."

Trickler whimpers, clutching at his arm.

"You would not believe the week I've had," Merlin continues. "Having to manage the Prince, mind the King's temper, all the preparations needed for this…it's near unfathomable, true enough. My patience, such as it is, is worn quite thin. So I will tell you once. Princess Vivian and Prince Arthur. The enchantment. Break it."

"My master…he will kill me," Trickler stutters out, voice strangled with pain. His entire body trembles, yet he strains to be still and not struggle, wound himself deeper.

"What do you think I will do to you?" Merlin grips the hilt of the dagger tighter, twisting it just the slightest bit. Morgana can hear the blade grinding against bone. The weaselly man bites his sleeve to muffle another squeal. "There are many other kingdoms. Choose one of them. Before you leave, however, you will break the enchantment. Or I will break you. Do we have an understanding?" he asks, and Trickler nods jerkily. "Excellent. Now I suggest you run." He yanks the dagger out with a sharp jerk of his arm—there is indeed quite a gush of blood—and immediately, the strange little man clasps his other hand over the wound and flees the room.

Once the door swings shut, Morgana leans back in her chair, exhaling a breath she hadn't realised she held so long, and tilts her head up to stare at Merlin in silent accusation.

Merlin only shrugs, using the edge of his tunic to wipe the blood off the blade.

Well…whatever works, she supposes, then smirks. Jealousy truly does bring out the worst in some people.

Everyone breathes easier once the last of the royal parties depart Camelot, and it is no surprise that the celebrations continue on for a long time afterwards, many toasts are made in honour of the treaty, and despite their many visitors, there is no shortage of spirits to be found in the great hall. It isn't long before near the entire hall is halfway in their cups, laughing and jesting amongst each other, a few even singing. Normally, Arthur would gladly count himself amongst the well-inebriated, especially once Father orders one of the best casks brought up from the cellars. Tonight, however, he finds the heat and noise an almost physical weight against his skin, making him near nauseated. He endures, however, remaining seated at Father's side until it's polite for him to excuse himself, then makes a hasty retreat from the hall.

It's still early enough in spring for the nights to be cool, and he breathes in deep as he emerges outside, grateful for the dark and quiet. Still, it's not quite private enough to suit. He knows precisely where to go for that. There's a small orchard in the palace gardens, only a dozen trees, but they're all lovingly tended and bear an abundance of fruit. When he was a boy, one of his favourite things to do was to try and 'steal' apples without alerting the gardeners, and Morgana used to put their blossoms in her hair. Looking up at the neatly trimmed trees with small, unripe fruits, he smiles to think what Lady Evaine might think of this courtly idea of a working orchard.

"There you are. You know, you're going to miss the good wine," Merlin's amused voice says from behind him. "What are you doing out here?"

Arthur shrugs, reaching up to brush his fingers over the leaves of a low bough. "I'm not quite in the mood for revelry tonight. And I'm certain Father's still none-too-pleased with me at the moment, so it's best to let his temper cool before sharing his company overlong. Wine doesn't help in that matter, either."

That earns him an amused snort. "True enough." He wanders into Arthur's vision, walking over to lean back against a tree trunk; his lips curl slightly, looking around the orchard. Arthur wonders if he's having the same thoughts. "How do you feel?" he prompts.

"Considering that I was enchanted to imagine myself in love one of the most repugnant termagants in the kingdoms and very nearly ruined a peace treaty that's taken decades to forge? Well enough, thank you," he remarks, chuckling despite it not being all that humorous. Arthur tilts his head to eye his manservant curiously. "So, tell me, how did you get the Trickler to undo it?" The strange, ferrety little man had seemed quite terrified of Alined, and considering he'd vanished from Camelot in the dead of night without telling a soul, he still is.

Merlin gives that damnably sly smile of his and shrugs, toying with the hilt of his dagger. "I have my ways."

Chuckling, he reaches up to pluck one of the unripe apples and pelts it at Merlin, who ducks it with a laugh of his own. "You and your secrets, Merlin," he muses.

"Yes, yes, me and my secrets. Tell me, what was it like?" Merlin wonders, sounding genuinely curious now. "How did it feel, I mean?"

Arthur tilts his head back a touch, contemplating. "Strange. Have you ever had a dream so real it almost seems like being awake, and yet a part of you knows it isn't? And everything seems just slightly out of kilter?" he poses at last, and Merlin nods. "Quite like that. Not quite…real."

Looking upon it now, what he'd felt for Vivian wasn't at all like love, though in his ensorcelled mind it'd certainly seemed so. It was similar to sticking one's head inside a bell and pulling the rope, a great, reverberating clamour of false desire that'd driven out all else, reason included. It wasn't something quiet and steady like the slow growth of ivy up a wall, working into the spaces between the stones of the self until it was anchored so deep that removing it would surely do more harm than good and it becomes hard to remember a time it wasn't there at all.

"Arthur?" Merlin's gazing at him with puzzlement, head cocked and brow furrowed slightly, and Arthur realises that he's staring at the younger man. "What? What is it?"

Arthur doesn't answer, merely steps closer until he's right in Merlin's space, close enough to feel the warmth of him in the cool air. That strange fluttering sensation is back again, stronger now, like a flock of birds taking flight in his chest, the feeling of something being missing, and yet he knows it's so very close. He lets his gaze roam over the familiar sharp angles of Merlin's face, the mop of curly hair, those damn ears. Aware of Merlin's growing nervousness, Arthur places both hands on the sides of his neck, holding him in place.

His head tilts, their lips meet.

For a terrifying second, there's no reaction at all…and then Merlin's mouth moves against his, hands lifting to grasp his arms. Arthur makes a sound he's never made before, low in his throat. His lips part against Merlin's, who opens in kind, all gasping breath and darting tongues. Deeper and deeper, Arthur kisses him, pressing close as he dares, arms dropping to curl around Merlin's waist. The hollow part of his chest is full to brimming with light, and Maiden have mercy on him, it is glorious.

Merlin's hands flex, fingers digging into his arms, then slide up and press flat against his shoulders, pushing him away gently yet firmly. Arthur pulls back, letting Merlin retreat even as his heart sinks. The young man takes a deep breath, flushed, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. "You ran away from me," he accuses, staring at him, and there's an undercurrent of hurt there, a wound not quite healed.

Arthur lowers his arms, half-forgotten guilt tightening up in his chest. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. This isn't a conversation he wants to have out here, where anyone might see them. "Come with me," he says. "Please."

Merlin gazes at him for an agonizingly long moment, then nods.

The walk back to up to his chambers is both the longest and shortest walk of his life, and a part of him half-feels as though he's the condemned man walking to the gallows. Merlin closes the door and leans back against it, gazing at him, waiting. Arthur paces the length of his chambers a moment, raking a hand back through his hair. He's never been good at this, damnit.

"I ran from you," he begins at last, knowing he has to try. "I did, and you're right on that. I can't excuse it, but I…I didn't know what else to do."

Merlin's voice is soft. "You could've stayed."

"No." Arthur shakes his head, staring at the ground. "No, I couldn't have. I was wrong for it, and I hurt you in doing it. For that, I'm sorry, but I wouldn't change it. I wouldn't because if I hadn't, then I wouldn't have realised that what I felt wasn't some…infatuation, the temptation of something forbidden to me. It's why I let you leave for Silverpine. I didn't know if it was real, and I didn't want to earn your resentment." He pauses and rakes a hand through his hair again, frowning. "I shouldn't have kissed you like that, either, without knowing how you feel. I want you to know that you don't have to…reciprocate if you don't want to. I shan't force you to do anything, not in this, and you have my word on that. If it's no, Merlin, then tell me now. I'll understand, I—"

He doesn't get the chance to finish. In all honesty, he doesn't even recall what it was he meant to say because Merlin is pressed against him, hands clasped on his neck, his mouth seizing Arthur's. He staggers back against the unexpected assault, grunting as he collides with the bedpost. A painful twinge runs down his back, yet it's secondary to Merlin's presence, warm and eager, flush against him. "Merlin, what—I-I thought you wanted to talk?" Arthur gasps when Merlin's mouth slides away from his, tracking a hot, damp path over his jaw.

"Shh. Talk later," Merlin whispers hoarsely against his neck. He undoes Arthur's belt, sword dropping to the ground with a clatter. "Fuck now."

Eminently practical as always.

Afterwards, when they're both wrung out and wonderfully exhausted, Arthur cards his fingers through Merlin's sweat-damp hair; it's longer than he usually wears it, curling in charming profusion. "You know, I had planned to court you," he remarks, winding a lock around his fingertip.

"Mm, no," Merlin mumbles back, his eyes vague with pleasure.

"No?"

"No. I've seen you court those noblewomen your father steers you to, and I could never decide if I wanted to laugh or be sick," he says with a smile, resting his chin on Arthur's chest. "So the answer is no. I'm not a courtier. I never have been, and I never will be. I don't expect to be treated like one. I'd rather not be, to be honest."

Arthur smiles a little, not sure if he ought to be offended or not. He runs one finger along the length of Merlin's spine, sweat-slick and flushed. His smile fades, lips turning down. "Are you still angry with me? For going to the Pavilion?" he asks in a murmur. That was one of the things he'd meant to talk about before Merlin made his…convincing argument to do otherwise.

Merlin rolls onto his front and props himself up on his elbows, plucking absently at the sheets. "I wasn't ever…angry, exactly," he replies slowly, weighing his words. "Hurt, of a certainty. I was more upset with myself for letting you see. Will you tell me why, though?"

He sighs softly, tilting his head back on the pillows, staring at the bed canopy for a moment. He'd barely understood it himself when he'd gone running to the Pavilion. "I was…frightened, I suppose. I've never felt so much about one person. Or wanted so badly. I've never been allowed to want so much before. I didn't know what to do with all of it, so I tried to escape myself to get away from it. Some awful, wretched part of me said that I was betraying my father, betraying Camelot, because you're a sorcerer. I hated myself for it, all of it, even when I was there, but…I didn't stop, either. To be true, I don't even know why I went now, except perhaps to punish myself."

"For what?" Merlin frowns. "For desiring someone?"

It sounds absurd when he says like that, but Arthur nods. "Yes. I've never had something that was mine. Just for me and me alone," he explains, not certain how he can put it into fitting words. Hearing his own words and realising what he might've implied, he adds, "Not that you're mine, exactly. I didn't mean—you're not—"

Callused fingertips touch his mouth, silencing him. Merlin shakes his head slightly, lips curling up. "Clotpole," he murmurs. Leaning in, he presses soft kisses all over Arthur's face: temples and brow, cheeks and jaw, the bridge of his nose and the backs of his closed lids, the corners of his mouth. Arthur takes a trembling breath, throat tightening, an unexpected prickle of heat behind his eyes. If Merlin notices, he doesn't say anything, merely moves closer and rests his head against Arthur's shoulder, one arm curling over his middle.

Arthur's never fallen asleep with anyone like this—what'd happened with Tal didn't truly count, as he'd not so much as fallen asleep as passed out—and there's a near terrifying intimacy to it. Feeling Merlin's limbs go slack, heartbeat slowing, breath deepening and leveling out…it conjures an unexpected swell of tenderness in him. He slides his fingertips feather-light through black hair, letting himself relax into the bed, matching his breathing to Merlin's.

Sleep comes easier to him that night than it ever has.