Try And Make Yourself

Arthur would never have though that teaching someone how to behave in front of nobility was such an arduous task, but then it's Merlin, so he shouldn't really be that surprised. But even so, surely it can't be that difficult? It's hardly as though there's much thinking involved.

They have one week left before the winter solstice, one week before the largest banquet that Camelot hosts all year, and Merlin is still getting it wrong.

Morgana and Gwen drop by regularly to help with how he's meant to address the lords and ladies that will be sat nearby him and they're making headway, Arthur must admit, but Merlin still tends to put his foot in it somewhat. It's not that's he doing it wrong, per say, but more that he's not doing it right – he forgets the correct term of address and when to use it, forgets where everybody is from though he's been told countless times.

But this is to Merlin as magic is to Arthur – something that he's never encountered before, not really, and he's been thrown in at the deep end. He's struggling, and every now and then Arthur can feel the warlock's frustration as he's quizzed and gets the answer wrong.

"I don't see why I need to undergo all this training anyway," he grumbles, inspecting one of the knives set out before him. There are five of them. "I mean, why can't I just be myself?"

"Because you're going to be in the company of some of the most powerful people in the kingdom, not to mention there's only going to one person between yourself and the King. You need to make a good impression," Arthur replies, in a patient tone that belies the number of times he's already had to explain this. He nearly has the answer memorised. "And since the person sat between you and my father is going to be me, I don't want to get caught in the crossfire when you inevitably mess everything up."

"I won't make a mess of this!" Merlin shoots back hotly, and his frown deepens. "Just give me a few more days and I'll be fine."

"A few more days and you'll still be cutting yourself with the knife instead of your food!" Arthur snaps, then immediately regrets it. He leans forward and drops his face into his palms, sighing heavily. He hears Merlin set down the fork at the other end of the table.

"I am trying, you know," the warlock says quietly, and Arthur nods into his hands.

"I know. I'm just worried that my father is going to see this as an excuse to demote you again. He's been fine with the idea up to now but it really wouldn't surprise me if he pulls this on us."

Merlin doesn't respond to this, but Arthur can feel the dejection coming from him. He scrubs at his face and sits up straighter, settling his chin on his hands.

"We'll just keep working at it, right? I mean, I kept practicing magic and it eventually just clicked. I'm sure the same will happen with you."

"Not likely," Merlin mutters but he picks up the outside knife anyway, a determined expression on his face, so Arthur pretends that he didn't hear.

"This knife is used for cutting meats, both raw and cooked, and is the sharpest on the table. Once finished with, if bloodied, it should not be laid on the table beside a woman. Instead, it should be placed out of sight on the other side of the plate."

"Not bad," Arthur replies approvingly, standing up slowly and walking across the room to stand beside his advisor. "You're proving me wrong, Merlin."

The warlock merely quirks a smile at him, and looks at his goblet.

"The goblet is used for wine, and if water is required, a servant will bring it in a small tankard. Water is not to be poured into the goblets."

Arthur watches carefully as he reaches out for the goblet and then winces as he picks it up, roughly and awkwardly. He takes Merlin's hand in his own and rearranges it on the stem.

"You need to be more delicate, hard as that may be for you. You need to appear graceful in the eyes of our visitors. That won't happen if you grip it like a five-year-old."

Merlin nods, because he really is trying and he's taking it all in even if he won't remember it all in seven days' time. He's doing his best, and Arthur can't ask more of him. Merlin was patient and helpful and encouraging when he was struggling with magic (and if he's still honest, he's still not getting it completely, but he's not letting on) so Arthur's doing the same now. He's trying to, anyway.

He's not sure at what point his fingers entwined with Merlin's, but it's something that's happening more and more often and it feels natural. He pulls them away almost reluctantly, feels the familiar tingle of their magic, and moves his hand to rest on Merlin's shoulder instead. It's more neutral territory, and he can still feel the thrum through the cloth.

"I take it you've decided what you're wearing?" he asks, relieving Merlin of his cutlery duties for a few brief moments, and the other man shrugs.

"I was kind of hoping that Morgana and Gwen would help with that. They seemed quite enthusiastic when I mentioned it yesterday."

"That's because they like clothes," Arthur grumbles, and he's not entirely sure what this hint of jealousy is – at first he thinks that it's Merlin rather than him, but then realises that Merlin has no reason to be jealous and immediately feels like an idiot.

He knows that Merlin's smirking without looking.

"You get final say," the warlock offers, and he nods curtly in agreement.

"Good man," he says gruffly and stands, slamming his hand down a few times on Merlin's shoulder in a way that is definitely not affectionate and is considering what to teach him next when his fingers brush the bare skin at Merlin's neck and he feels something – something gold and warm and tangible, and he jerks his hand away and stumbles backward. Merlin looks as shocked as he feels. He feels as shocked as Arthur feels, too.

"Um…" he begins, then fails, then suddenly his face clear and he blinks. "I understand court etiquette!"

Arthur says nothing, and realises that he probably looks like an idiot with his mouth hanging open and half-leaning on his bedpost. He shuts his mouth.

"What?"

"I understand it! Everything! What cutlery to use, how to dance with a lady, how to talk to a Lord, everything! Something must have, I don't know, transferred through the magic just then! I know what to do!" he exclaims, and his hands look dangerously close to flapping a little bit in excitement. "Or at least I think I do."

"Do you mean to say that you just learnt all court etiquette directly from me, via the magic?" Arthur asks shrewdly, and Merlin nods so fast that he's probably going to give himself a headache.

"I must have done!"

"So why the hell didn't you do it before?!" he groans, slumping and falling backwards onto the bed and Merlin winces, his head popping into view as he peers at the Prince from the table.

"I… didn't think about it?" he offers, and Arthur just grunts. "I suppose it would have been a lot easier for both of us, wouldn't it? You could have spent your time doing more productive things…"

"Yes, I could!"

Merlin falls silent then, and Arthur knows that he can feel the fatigue and relief coming from him. He's not trying to hide it. Merlin's not easy to teach.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, standing and crossing the room to sit beside Arthur on the bed. "I should have thought about it. I should have found a way to make this easier for you."

"No, it's fine," Arthur replies with a sigh, his eyes closed, and drops an arm from over his face to his side. It lands on Merlin's hand and he doesn't move it. "I should have considered it too."

"So we're both to blame then?"

"Oh no, you're to blame," he shoots back lightly, and feels Merlin flop down beside him. "But then you knew that anyway."

"Of course. Prat."

"Idiot."

They lie in silence for a short while, and there's a contented thrumming rippling into the room that Arthur knows they're both responsible for. He smiles to himself as a thought occurs to him.

"Hah. You have to tell Morgana now. She's going to hate you."

Merlin groans, and then laughs, and it's a sound that Arthur wishes he could hear more of.

He opens his eyes and turns his head, and their eyes are shining as their gazes meet.

"You ready?"

If I hadn't made me
I'd be more inclined to bow
Powers that be would have swallowed me up
But that's more than I can allow