Swords and Cloaks and Daggers; Also Cows
They kept following the river for the next three days. This river was wider and faster than the stream out of the Hunter's Wood, and it was barren of fish so it earned few visitors. They had decided it was unsafe to follow any thoroughfares after the incident in town, and this way they could quickly duck down below the bank for easy cover or walk in the water for a bit if there were dogs on their scent. Arthur had to admit that it was...not entirely unpalatable to have Gwaine with them. His inane chatter and dirty jokes did a good job of derailing the awkward silence that, for all the easy banter they'd developed startlingly quickly in their week or so together, occasionally still fell between him and Merlin. The trek through the vegetation never lost its of urgency and tension, but now the air between the three was filled with grudging snorts of laughter (or groans, given Gwaine's punning propensity) more often than not.
The third day's dawning revealed a sunny blue sky streaked with wispy, long clouds like an artist had used a paint-scraper to spread white paint lightly over it. The area they'd encamped in was a brighter woodland, more tropical-looking, with few tall trees and mostly low vegetation that looked almost neon green. The zone was probably just recovering from a wildfire, with these vibrantly alive little plants feeding stubbornly on the rich but ashy soil.
Currently, Arthur and Merlin were arguing heatedly about cows. Gwaine seemed content to observe and occasionally fan the flames whenever they had almost reached a consensus.
"Are you crazy? Keep a cow well fed and take it in during the winter and it'll keep you alive for 15 years, easy. You get milk every day, the manure is great for growing crops, and you can tan the hide after it dies of old age! It makes so much more sense this way." Merlin seemed to be alternating between flabbergasted and scandalized.
"Yes, but...beef."
"But–you–you're throwing away pounds and pounds of gold for a few meals! If it's a heifer you can breed it and sell the babies or raise a herd. That can keep you in fancy leather buckle-y breeches for the rest of your life."
"You separate the babies from their mothers to sell them? Isn't it kinder just to kill the adults at that point?"
"They're cows, Victor. And knowing you you probably would prefer to eat the babies."
Gwaine interjected, "Filet mignon, man." He shot a wistful gaze at nothing in particular and toasted the sky before taking a suitably reverent swig from his water flask. Arthur nodded sympathetically. Merlin couldn't see this but probably predicted it since he looked extremely flustered by their attitude and verging on flammable.
"Gods, I'm surrounded by barbarians and entitled clotpoles."
Arthur blinked. "Oh, come on. That is not a word."
"What isn't?"
"'Clotpole.'"
"No, it is. It means like a stupid person."
The always-helpful Gwaine chipped in, "I thought it was another word for your dongle. I know so many dick jokes in so many languages that I sometimes lose track."
"Oh. In that case, Gwaine, you're a clotpole."
"He is, but that's not what it means!" Merlin reiterated frustratedly. "I guess it's farm town slang?"
"Please. That doesn't sound like a thing. You definitely made that up."
"Why would it not be 'a thing' if he made it up? Aren't all things 'things'?" Gwaine was now waxing philosophical and staring with intense sadness at a nearby boulder. His contributions had also been a bit more rambling and nonsensical than usual. Arthur suspected that his current waterskin contained a bit more than water, though as to how he could have managed it Arthur had no clue.
Gwaine seemed to be in an inquisitive mood today (dangerous things, those), and when no divine edict rang out in answer to his earlier query he turned clumsily to small talk. "So, how long have you two been friends?"
Arthur huffed out a laugh. "Friends?" They weren't friends.
. . . Oh, God, they were friends.
Casual friends, but still. Arthur was so stunned by that revelation that he didn't have a comeback when Gwaine's unsteady but still mischievous grin appeared in full force. "Oh, then are you an item? Because you bicker like an old married couple."
Merlin kept his profile to Arthur. Had it been possible, Arthur would have said Merlin was looking at him out of the corner of his eye. "Please, Gwaine," he said, smirking, and though his tone was light and airy there was something venomous underneath. Or maybe just something...hurt? "I don't even know his real name."
Oh. Huh...Arthur supposed that was true. Well, of course it was true! He was a spy, and he was hiding who he really was! Plus, names had power.
Still, it wasn't like "Arthur" was an uncommon name. Quite the opposite, actually. And the current third heir to the throne of Hinay was named Victor and was only a few years older than Arthur. If he wanted to prevent Merlin from knowing he was a prince from his name, it was kind of dumb to call himself Victor. Plus, why would some country kid know what foreign royalty looked like? Oh, yeah, it wouldn't matter because he couldn't see him, anyway! All in all, it would really be easier to just use his own name.
Gwaine, on the other hand, was definitely noble in origin. He kept his fingernails neatly manicured and had the kind of sword skills really only trained into the children of aristocrats. Arthur wouldn't tell Gwaine his name directly because he might know what the prince of Camelot looked like, but even if Merlin snitched, Arthur didn't look all that distinctive, really. Gwaine couldn't be sure. And that was all conjecture for if Merlintold Gwaine, which was unlikely. As much as Merlin could be a clumsy oaf and couldn't handle a sword if his life depended on it, Arthur supposed he was competent enough to keep a secret.
So there was just one more thing to consider. Names had power... He thought back to that first night, to how terrifying and other Merlin had been, screaming threats and sending out waves of pure terror. But then he thought about the next night. Merlin hadn't been scary. He'd been embarrassed. And now, despite everything he'd seen, he couldn't imagine Merlin hurting him on purpose.
(This was a toxic path his thoughts were travelling, now, for two reasons. Firstly, if that were so, then why the witch-bind? But every time that came up, he successfully shoved it back down into the lake of black sludge pooling at the back of his mind with a sort of are you kidding scornful snort at himself with no elaboration. Secondly, he could actually imagine Merlin hurting him on purpose, but only in one circumstance, and somewhere along some dismal country road he'd stopped thinking of the end of the path as much more than an abstract concept. He thought about seeing his sister and Gwen, of course. He thought about pleasing his father, telling him, "Look what I managed all on my own." But the ugly part of coming home? He'd only let himself think about that seriously one time, all alone at night in his head. He'd looked up at the stars and thought one sentence: Maybe I can make him understand.)
And so, that evening when Arthur got back from gathering firewood and saw that Gwaine was gone for the moment, he dropped his sticks at Merlin's feet and didn't immediately go back for more, instead sitting down next to him on the dirt. Merlin lit the fire with a quiet thanks, having been uncharacteristically subdued the whole evening. It was hushed in the forest except for the rustling of leaves under the deep violet sky and the song of a single cricket somewhere in the undergrowth. The scene reminded Arthur of that one night before they'd come into town, the night Merlin had laid his cards on the table. Only this time, he realized, they were on the same side of the fire, not facing each other over it. Arthur exhaled. It was time for him to do the same thing: lay out his cards, at least a little bit.
He didn't look up from the fire. "Hey. Nice to meet you. I'm Arthur."
Merlin showed no visible reaction for a moment, then turned to his companion. "That wasn't a lie," he said matter-of-factly.
"No, it wasn't."
Slowly, a smile spread across the scarred face. "Gods, you're a terrible spy."
~o8o~
Toward evening Arthur found his mind wandering, partly as a way to ignore the screaming ache in his thighs and glutes. (Since Gwaine had joined without any baggage they'd been rotating who carried the pack; he was on backpack duty that day.) He fell a little behind while Gwaine and Merlin shouldered the burden of conversation and Gwaine shouldered the burden of keeping Merlin from walking into things.
The boy can barely contain his excitement. He wasn't able to sleep at all last night, but he won't let tiredness take the air out of his bulging sails. Today's the day he starts knight training! Morgana's been telling him about this for years, showing him the new moves she learned that day or teaching him the Knight's Code. He knows it by heart now. This is his birthright! Plus, after today his father might have something to ask him about at the dinner table. He's always asking Morgana what she learned or what she thinks of this or that; now Arthur will have something to say, as well! And he can't wait to rub it in Gwen's face that he's a knight (well, knight apprentice, but she doesn't know how it works) and that means he's a man now. Not that he wasn't already at the mature age of nine.
He walks onto the field and tries to put a confident swagger into his step. Morgana told him that the men will try to intimidate him, belittle him. They won't pull their punches. She even leant him her wooden practice sword for the occasion so they don't have the excuse to humiliate him more by making him use one of the unbalanced ones from the armoury.
The sword, too big for him though he'll never admit it, bangs against his legs and gets tangled between them as he tries to take long, confident strides onto the field. A few of the knights pause and look up. One mutters something to another, and they both snicker. Arthur feels his face heat up, but he won't let them get to him. They are just subjects, ultimately. To them the honor of knighthood is simply another profession, and they owe the opportunity to ply this trade and therefore their lives to his father. To him, this is his honor and his birthright.
Still, he walks up with no small amount of relief to someone he knows, an older knight who's close to his father and has always been kind to him, talking to him when his father has banished him from the left hand to further down the banquet table because such-and-such ambassador or head of the Noble House of So-and-so must take precedence. "Sir Carroway!" he calls loudly, trying to draw himself up taller before this man who towers over him with his armored shoulders blocking out the sun. "Do you know who will be conducting my training?"
Carroway chuckles. "So eager to serve his king. If all our men were like you, Camelot would have taken the whole of the Isles by now. Come on, I'll take you to him." The boy tries not to let his immense relief show.
The knight leads him across the field to a small wooden building set to the side of the standing armory like an afterthought of the architect. The boy looks around in confusion, but he doesn't ask his guide what's going on. Showing that you don't know something is showing weakness, and he's had to do it once already.
The door's iron hinges creak as it opens, and Carroway ushers the boy through first with a wave of his hand. The construction doesn't look any more impressive from the inside. The light wood walls have the uniform clean lines of all of Camelot's older buildings and look sturdy, but they're far from smooth and the building somehow manages to have a ramshackle feel to it. Dim butter-yellow sunlight streams in from between the slats, making the room on the whole bright enough but leaving plenty of irregular shadows about it. From inside, it feels more like the architect's half-remembered dream than his afterthought. There's a table in the middle covered in unfamiliar objects. The boy has never seen any of them before in all of his years living around the knights, but he can tell at a glance that they're weapons. The walls bear useful, commonplace things like backpacks and canteens as well as a large assortment of knives (Arthur at least recognizes those).
Arthur turns around to make some comment, but the sturdy, reassuring bulk he thought was in the doorway behind him is gone. Frowning, he closes the door as quietly as possible and moves to stand and wait in the largest patch of sunlight. He's confused. This place looks like the armory, but it doesn't have the feeling of majesty or the overwhelming impression of gleaming metal, bright colors, and importance that he's come to associate with knighthood. This place feels peaceful other than a sort of ambient energy, like the building itself is dozing lightly. This is no place for a knight. Is Sir Carroway playing a trick on him? Is this part of the hazing his sister has told him about? If so, it's a weird trick to play.
Bored, he casts an eye over to the weapons table. There's one that intrigues him, a set of leather-gripped batons on either side of a thin chain. He reaches out to touch one–
"See anything you like?" inquires a wry, gravelly voice from behind him. He jumps about a meter. His heart hammers in his chest as he tastes fear like the acid bitterness on the back of your tongue from eating bad romaine. He isn't alone.
There's an old man behind him, appearing about 70 or so but not at all stooped, standing tall and proud in a nondescript brown tunic. His skin is deeply tanned, and he peers out at the boy through unwavering brown eyes set just a bit too shallow in his skull so that they give the impression of bulging. Other than that, he could have been handsome once. His smile at the boy is polite and gives nothing away.
The boy swallows his tongue, shoving the bad lettuce down his gullet. "Good morning, sir. I'm Arthur. Are you to be my teacher?"
The man moves past him, busy hands straightening the tails of something like a modified flail. He doesn't look up when he speaks, and the boy notices that when he moves, his body for the most part seems to smoothly slide between and through the patchy shadows. "I am," he answers in that same dry tone. Satisfied with the flail, he turns back to the boy. He looks down, and one eyebrow raises. He gestures at the wooden practice sword. "Oh, you won't need that."
All the boy's excitement from earlier has transmuted itself into confused wariness that aches like someone is using a blacksmith's clamps between his eyebrows and in the back of his jaw. He draws himself up as tall as he can and swallows again. "Sir? Pardon me, but my sister said–"
"Your sister is not receiving the same training you will receive," the teacher interrupts with a short, birdlike movement of his head like an aborted nod. His eyes bore into Arthur's, dark and piercing. "The firstborn is always the father's sword. The second is his dagger."
The boy doesn't fully understand what that means right now, but he does get that he's still being trained. He can still be useful to his father. And his training will be different from his sister's. Special. At the dinner table maybe his father will ask him about it even more than he asks her about hers!
The boy decides then and there that if he has to be a dagger, well, he's going to be a sharp dagger.
~o8o~
Arthur worried lately that he was going blunt. In his sheath, the knife tip scratched, scratched against the witch-bind key.