Author's Note: so uhhhh I apparently forgot to upload this chapter here when I uploaded it on AO3, like, a month ago. Whoops. xD Please enjoy 2 chapters back to back, as I did remember this time that I do, in fact, post this fic on FFN as well as AO3, lol.
Morgana descends upon him like a harpy out of myth.
Arthur has absolutely no warning before she emerges from the shadows of the next corridor, her nails automatically gripping his forearm like talons. She smoothly falls into step beside him and none-too-gently begins redirecting his path toward her chambers. The sensation of her icy magic cascading over him is disturbingly belated in coming. His frost-kissed skin wriggles and stings with unexpected overstimulation, and his vision teeters on a razor thin edge, as though one brisk gust of wind would push him head-over-heels.
"Where have you been?" Morgana hisses in his ear as she marches them down the hallways. There are a number of servants and courtiers about, and she somehow manages to keep a natural smile on her face, even as she's berating him. Her gaze covertly scans him up and down, hunting for signs of injury. "We thought you were dead or worse, Arthur Pendragon!"
Arthur takes a moment before responding. His head feels too full for his own thoughts. Several hard blinks and deep breaths, he feels a little more in control, a little less likely to burst from his own skin. "Not here," he hisses under his breath. He glares pointedly, hoping she did not notice his initial reaction to her unexpected arrival.
It's been quite some time since she's been able to sneak up on him without him noticing. He's not about to give her an excuse to gloat.
Morgana gives him a furious sideways glance, one that implies he had better provide an excuse now or he'd find himself without several digits.
So much for mercy, he muses drily.
"I was delayed, I'm sorry," he mutters aloud, nodding to Lord Edwyn as they pass. "I couldn't come back to see you immediately. I had to maintain some appearances for Father and his guests."
Morgana releases a slow breath, painted lips twitching toward a scowl. Only those who knew her well would be able to see the chip in her courtly mask. To Arthur, it was a beacon.
"Ah," she says tartly, the fire in her pale eyes stoked. Her nails unlatch from his sleeve, but she continues to hold his arm. "Uther and his guests. Come to celebrate murder and hypocrisy. Of course we must maintain appearances. "
She's argued with him again, Arthur thinks immediately. "What happened, Morgana?"
Morgana's smile becomes sharp. It would look dangerous, if Arthur did not know how brittle it truly was. "Nothing need concern you," she says.
"The man was a criminal, Morgana."
"I hardly need the reminder," Morgana snaps. When Arthur raises his eyebrows, she sighs and explains, far more soberly, "The man's mother bore witness to his public execution, without being given leave to see him beforehand."
"Oh." Arthur's heart aches for the mother, for Morgana. The executions may pain him in infinitely complicated ways because of his ability, but he still cannot imagine how it is for Morgana. She usually tries to avoid witnessing the executions as much as he does. "You saw the mother?"
Morgana gives him an odd look. "Everyone saw the mother. She made quite the scene," she says, slowly. Deliberately. "You didn't know of it?"
"No?" Arthur frowns. "Should I have?"
Morgana stares at him, and she lengthens her stride, forging forward at a faster pace. They make it to her chambers not moments later. Upon their entrance, Guinevere lurches to her feet from where she was scrubbing her mistress' floor.
"Arthur!" Guinevere cries just as Morgana hastens to close the door behind them. She wipes pruny and sud-sodden hands on the rag tied at her belt. She irritably blows away several flyaway curls that had escaped her braid. Despite her size, she pulls quite an intimidating figure when she steps forward. Arthur doesn't quite take a step back in response, but it is a near thing. "We were worried sick, you realize?" Gwen scolds. "You can't just—"
"You'll find I can 'just' anything," Arthur interrupts. His tone isn't quite stern, not with Gwen, but it does sound a bit petulant, even to his own ears. From behind him, he can hear the tcht of Morgana's disapproving tut. Arthur ignores her. "I'm the prince, if you've forgotten."
In the past, Gwen would have averted her eyes, suitably chastised and flushing beet red to the very tips of her ears at the lapse in decorum. She may have even refused to engage any further in the conversation. Now, only a faint blush colors her cheeks as she places her hands on her hips and quirks an eyebrow. "Perhaps you have forgotten, my Lord?" she retorts, dry sarcasm dripping from her words. "Your ransom would be quite handsome, I imagine! Assuming we had a ransom demand at all!"
Morgana looks very smugly at Arthur as she glides across her rooms and takes a seat at her vanity. Despite the array of beautifully carved furniture adorning her dining room, she's always preferred the little padded chair there. It has been reupholstered more times than Arthur can count. Without being asked, Gwen pours Morgana a goblet of watered wine and slides it to her.
"I wasn't in any danger," Arthur says defensively, folding his arms and leaning back against one of Morgana's walls. He gently waves off the goblet Gwen proffers him and gestures for her to indulge instead. The thought of alcohol, even diluted, does not sit well with him after the experience he had earlier. "Not from Merlin."
Gwen shoots him a knowing look. He can see the questions wrangling at her tongue. Your sorcerer? she seems to ask him. He merely inclines his head and shifts one shoulder into a half-shrug. A maybe. An I don't know.
A lie both of them know he's telling himself out of an abundance of caution. Or rather, one he's telling himself to avoid what it will mean if he accepts the dragon's prophecy.
"Merlin?" Morgana echoes, tapping a fingernail against her goblet. "An uncommon name."
"He hails from a small farming village called Ealdor, just beyond our border in Essetir," Arthur says. "No older than I."
Morgana's brows rise. "And what brings him here of all places?"
Arthur shrugs, as though it is of no consequence. Some of what Merlin told him is far too personal to share without also revealing things that sit far too close to his own heart, so he summarizes for them. "Opportunities he didn't have at home, same as any young man traveling into the city from our outlying villages." Even that much leaves him feeling… off, as though he's somehow undermining the trials Merlin had undertaken during his childhood. "He will stay with Gaius, it seems. There's some relation there, on his mother's side."
"We'll be seeing him around, then," Gwen muses. She appraises Arthur with something that he can't describe. "I assume he will be looking for work?"
"I imagine Gaius will have tasks for him. They seem to get on, and Lord knows how often my father has tried to pressure Gaius into taking on another apprentice."
"And his magic?" Morgana asks, leaning forward. Her eyes dance with eager light. "What of it?"
"The impossible made possible," Arthur admits quietly. "He claims he was born with it."
Like you, he sees written in the two women's expressions.
"He speaks the truth," Arthur says, rubbing his forehead and choosing not to feel uncomfortable by their obvious scrutiny. "I can't sense anything but him. Even now, he overpowers you, Morgana, and you're standing right here. I asked him to be careful, yet he still used magic within minutes of arriving at Gaius' rooms. It—" He swallows and tries not to feel ashamed as he admits, "I lost my footing, my sense of my surroundings. People saw."
Morgana draws in a sharp breath. "So that's why."
"Why what?"
"The prisoner's mother," Morgana explains. "She…vanished from the square after the execution. It was spectacular. There was a whirlwind, and then—" She waves her hand and flashes her fingers. "Gone. None of the guards could touch her."
Fear strikes Arthur without warning, chilling his bones. "That…doesn't sound like a minor spell," he chokes out, throat dry.
Morgana shakes her head. "It wasn't. You didn't sense it? At all?"
Arthur releases an unsteady exhale, his thoughts whirling. "No," he whispers.
Despite how long it took him to accept his ability, it has become so much a part of how he views the world that the thought of it failing to alert him of nearby magic terrifies him. To be so impotent, to be so blind. It is no different than the thought of losing his sight when facing an enemy swordsman, or the thought of losing his hearing when on a dangerous hunt in the Darkling Woods.
Morgana rises to her feet, reaching for Arthur's hand. Her fingers wrap around his own and squeeze. He focuses on her smooth skin against his, the warmth of her against the perceived cold trembling in him. She must see how he draws strength from her. She must see how disoriented he feels at the revelation.
She doesn't tease or joke. Instead, she merely squeezes harder, reminding him of her presence.
"You must be careful, Arthur," she says, voice laden with a tone that brokers no argument. "The woman was distraught. I did not hear everything she said to Uther, but it is no secret to those who witnessed her magic: she promised vengeance for her son. 'An eye for an eye.' I fear for you."
"A premonition, 'gana?" Arthur asks, attempting a weak joke.
"Just a woman trying to remind a certain thick-headed idiot he isn't invincible," Morgana scoffs. "You were lucky with this Merlin of yours. Please do not find yourself alone in the coming days."
"I doubt that'll be difficult," Arthur says, withdrawing his hand from hers and using it to rub at his forehead. "There is much to do. Lady Helen and her retinue are late. The steward's schedule is askew, and he's beside himself."
Morgana sighs, a distasteful expression on her face. "Uther insists I attend him when she arrives."
"Will you?"
Morgana turns her distasteful expression toward Arthur, and he tries not to resent her position. Uther has a notorious soft spot for Morgana, often allowing rebellion in a way he'd never so much as consider acceptable for Arthur. As such, he'll likely be recruited for more unsavory social duties to cover for her. It's not terribly good timing, considering how much more he has on his plate now that Merlin and his unfairly incomprehensible magic are in the castle.
"Right," Arthur sighs, gathering himself. "If you have a free moment, then, will you and Gwen brainstorm some new exercises for me? Something that may help me isolate and focus my Sense on specific sources of magic? I'll get Gaius on it, too, seeing as I won't—"
"You told Gaius!? " Morgana interrupts in a near shriek, launching to her feet. "And you didn't say anything? Goddess above, Arthur! Tell me everything."
~...~
Merlin…
Merlin starts awake, the sound of his name reverberating in his mind. The whisper of a dream, of wind and freedom and thrill, flits away the moment his eyes flutter open. The hazy impression of standing at a great height—the sight of something utterly majestic hiding beyond the horizon, just out of reach—remains imprinted upon his memory.
He blinks, and for a moment, he doesn't realize where he is. He takes stock of the room. Empty cupboards, walls the color of clay, a trunk at the foot of his bed, his rucksack discarded on a small desk…
It takes longer than it should for him to reorient himself. He's in Camelot. With his great uncle. In the next room, Gaius himself resides, surrounded by bundled herbs, shining glassware, and more books than Merlin has ever seen in his life. He'd given Merlin this room in expectation of his arrival.
Merlin leans back against his pillow, marveling. He has never had a room to himself before. It's almost too much to accept, despite Gaius' gruff insistence that he never used the room for anything but extra storage. Extra storage! Merlin doesn't think he'll ever become accustomed to the city and its people's opulence.
He lingers in bed, simply for the novelty of it, but the promise of a new day soon motivates him to rise. Upon standing, he notices Gaius has left him a bucket of wash water at his door. Touched by the older man's thoughtfulness, Merlin washes up and swaps his tunic for a fresh one before ducking out of the room and descending the stairs.
Gaius raises his head when Merlin enters, blinking bleary eyes from behind wire-frame spectacles. A large tome full of swollen, yellowing pages lies open before him, its text cramped and fine. Several candle stubs dot his work bench, wax pooling in hardening clumps across the tabletop. At his elbow, he's stacked books of every shape and size into precarious piles.
"There's breakfast. Somewhere," the older man says, beginning to rise. "Let me just—"
"Don't trouble yourself," Merlin says. It's the least he can do. With minor direction from Gaius, Merlin sets up a kettle for tea and a pot—not to be confused with the potion cauldrons, of course—to begin heating up a porridge.
"Were you up all night?" Merlin asks once he's done, settling across from Gaius.
Gaius removes his spectacles and rubs his eyes. "I was researching."
"The prince's ability?" Merlin asks, curious.
"Both his and yours," Gaius responds. "You and the prince are conundrums, my boy. Had I not learned of your impact upon Prince Arthur, I would be asking you to perform more magic now, just so that I may see how you do it."
The openness with which Gaius speaks about his magic is still too new to make Merlin anything less than discomfited. He shuffles on his stool and ducks his head. "I don't know how it happens," he says softly. "I wish I did."
"So you said yesterday as well," Gaius muses. His tone is gentle, accepting, and utterly unconcerned. The lack of disappointment in Gaius' entire countenance is enough to bolster Merlin, if only a little.
"Are we…" Merlin licks his lips, dreading the answer even before so much as vocalizing the full question. "Are we really so peculiar?"
Gaius looks at Merlin as though he can see straight through him, to his very heart, eyes wise and omnipotent. "You say 'peculiar' as though it is a bad thing."
"Isn't it?" Merlin shoots off before he can check himself. He swallows over the lump growing in his throat. "And we don't have a purpose for any of it, do we?"
Gaius lifts a brow. "Who says you need one? Or, rather, who says you can't decide that for yourself?"
Merlin hesitates, uncertain how to put it to words. The question itself is inherently arrogant. It is, after all, every man's dream to make a name for himself, to leave his mark on the world. Merlin won't presume he's destined for greatness, but even still… he remembers how the world seemed to shift under his feet when he shook Arthur's hand, back out on the road, as though cresting to the climax of a great epiphany.
He wants to see that epiphany realized. More than anything. He wants—
"I just want to know why," Merlin finally answers, and it feels like he's giving up a big secret. "Why I was born this way. Why the prince has his ability and why it is so sensitive to my own. Surely there is a reason."
"Who can say," the physician says, a ponderous note in his tone. "I do not believe our paths in life are ever preordained, not when we have the power to choose our next step upon that path."
"And yet it was an accident of birth that made me what I am, isn't it?" Merlin asks. His voice cracks, and he draws in a steadying breath. "And Arthur, too, no doubt. My mother is no sorceress, and the king?" He snorts. It's a bitter sound. "Well, he certainly isn't of magic. I don't suppose I can say much about either of our other parents, but…you knew them, in some capacity, didn't you?" Merlin doesn't wait for Gaius' response. He doesn't even look the older man in the face as he asks. He isn't sure he wants to see the confirmation, denial, or pity there in his eyes. "I don't think they would have chose this for us. We certainly didn't."
Gaius sobers, withdrawing into himself momentarily. He fixes his gaze on the low burning flame underneath the porridge cauldron. "You do make a point," he says. Carefully. Slowly. "Perhaps I am too quick to dismiss that which I don't understand. I will need...well, quite a few more books, I should think."
The old physician eyes a folded piece of paper near his book. Merlin can see Hunith's spidery script within. "What did your mother tell you of your gifts?"
Merlin half shrugs. "Only that I was special. And that I should never use it where other people could see." He laughs self-deprecatingly. Homesickness strikes with a deep pang in his chest. "She'd likely switch my hide if she knew about you and the prince."
"Oh, I doubt that," Gaius chides. His eyes still look as though they're leagues away. "She was right about one thing, though: we'll both have to be careful, as Prince Arthur's abilities may inadvertently cast suspicion on us both. And yours upon him." The mist clears from his gaze, and he looks Merlin in the eye. "You can control it?"
Merlin's face heats. "To an extent. I've been using it since before I could talk. What happened yesterday…"
"I see," Gaius says, contemplative. "Well, in that case, it is fortunate you offer me an extra pair of hands. You can do some work for me while I spend more time researching a way to help you and the prince practice and hone your abilities while living in such close proximity."
Work? Gaius already has work for him? The promise of a new opportunity dispels Merlin's dark mood, and he beams, a well of gratitude ballooning within him. Even though he hails from a village that makes a habit out of helping their neighbors, he thinks Gaius has proven himself to possess the most casually generous heart he's ever seen.
He accepted you and Arthur without question, without so much as blinking, Merlin thinks, overwhelmed. He's given you a room, a place with him, a sympathetic ear, and a job to do.
It is more than he could have asked for.
"What will you have me do?" Merlin asks eagerly.
"Deliveries, mainly. Basic herbalism, as well, eventually," Gaius says.
"I can help with research, too, if you wish," Merlin offers. "Or, um, any of your work, really. I can scribe for you. Mum taught me my letters. I'm a bit out of practice, I admit, but it shouldn't be too difficult to pick back up again."
Gaius' eyes light up. "I must say, Merlin, your mother must be extraordinarily proud."
Merlin doesn't have a response to that, but as their conversation turns to pleasant mundanity while their breakfast cooks, he thinks that maybe…maybe everything will turn out alright.
It isn't much later that Merlin finds himself laden with several parcels full of vials and ointments for Gaius' patients. He repeats Gaius' instructions in his head as he carefully maneuvers the corridors. He takes it slow, attempting to learn each passageway so he can formulate a mental map back to Gaius' tower.
One of his deliveries takes a route through the main square and out of the central buildings, and Merlin has saved the trip for last. He steps out into the brilliant sunshine with a skip in his step. It is a stunning day, with a blue cloudless sky caressing the turrets and arches of the citadel. The castle is abuzz with activity, energetic and cheerful, and he channels the atmosphere like magic, drinking it in and expelling it back into the air for others to catch and enjoy.
Merlin lingers in the square, enjoying the unseasonable warmth. All too soon, he notices how people, quite unconsciously, avoid a section of the square, skirting around as though there is an invisible barrier in place.
Merlin stares at the spot from across the square, a numbing cold creeping up his limbs as he realizes why.
This is where they set up the temporary gallows. The pyres. For public executions.
Someone died here yesterday, Merlin realizes, feeling sick to his stomach. Many someones have died here. People like me.
No. Merlin shakes off the notion, trying to shake off the pervasive dread that had taken hold of him. Not all like me. The man who died here yesterday was not a good person, and he suffered the consequences of the crimes he committed.
Merlin may not have a purpose for his magic, but he knows there is one purpose he will never choose for himself. It saddens him—angers him too—that this attempted assassin experienced such hardship that he had felt the need to choose differently.
Will it always be this way? Merlin wonders as he stares at the empty, cold cobbles. Will those who feel underfoot and small in Camelot always bear the weight of blood and fire and terror? Unseen, ignored…
Traumatized?
Merlin shudders and turns from the empty space, like all the others crossing through the square. It's yet another reminder there is a scythe hanging over his head, always threatening to swing. He can focus on taking as much joy as he can at his good fortune since arriving at Camelot—he can project as much optimism as he wants for as long as he wants—but Uther Pendragon still rules, and Uther Pendragon's hands are covered in blood.
The day is not so beautiful and bright as Merlin hurries out of the square. His mother always told him learning from the past is all well and good, but one should never linger there, for fear of falling into the habit of never looking forward to a better future.
He holds his mother's words close and tries to leave the ghosts of the past behind him, hoping to recapture some of the good mood he'd been in earlier.
The prince, Merlin reminds himself forcefully. Renewed gratitude floods him as he turns his back on the haunted section of the square. There is hope there. In him.
His is the future Merlin thinks he would do well to forward to.
~...~
Arthur did not sleep well.
His were dreams of fire and thunder; of thick, glowing red smoke and crumbling walls; of skeletal trees and smoot-stained skin. Deepthroated chuckling stalked him like a whispered rumor in the chaos. The threat of intense heat from the fires became a blockade, preventing him from finding his way. Sometimes, at the edges of his hearing, he could hear a voice calling, but it never spoke his name. It spoke another's, and it almost sounded like his own. He woke more than a few times coated in sweat before falling back into a fitful sleep.
And then, of course, there was Merlin.
His magic was everywhere. Always. Every attempt Arthur made to raise his mental defenses was met with casual disregard. The magic behaved as though it knew no master, no boundaries, and not because it refused either, but because it could never conceive of such trivial concepts.
That didn't stop Arthur from trying, all night long, to keep his head above the surface. And yet, Merlin's magic persisted, slipping and weaving between his thoughts and dreams. One moment, it would fit snugly within his breast, somehow taking up every inch of space like the warmth of a good hearth. He could face his nightmares with it by his side and wonder how he'd ever existed without it. In the next breath, it was too much, much too much. It would slosh from its confines, untethered, rearing up like an immense wave off a tumultuous sea.
It was the lightning that harmonized with the thunder of his dreams, the spirit that danced among their flames, and Arthur didn't know what it meant. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
And yet…
He's the other side to your shared coin, that infuriating dragon told him not even one week past. I daresay you will know him.
How could you not?
Needless to say, Arthur was in a really poor mood the moment he woke up. In fact, Arthur was just in a poor mood in general. It didn't help that his servant—Morten, or Meldon, or maybe…Harold? Anir?—decided to open his curtains well before he could brace himself for the bombardment of sunlight streaming in through his windows. It didn't help that Arthur's head was still swimming from the torrent of battles he lost over the course of the night. It didn't help that rising from bed was a trial in it of itself, he was so exhausted.
And it didn't help at all that his father had summoned him for breakfast.
Arthur tries not to storm down the corridors toward his father's rooms, tries not to spend too much time cursing the dragon and then cursing Merlin and then cursing whatever weird twist of fate gave him his abilities in the first place.
Why, yes, Father, I do have all my horses in the stable, Arthur grumbles sarcastically—not hysterically—to himself. No, I am not sleep-deprived and one thread away from losing my mind.
No, there is most certainly not a sorcerer of intimidating power sleeping in the physician's tower underneath your very nose. What would ever make you think there was?
Merlin's remained in Gaius' chambers since Arthur's awakening, and it's just as well. In fact, it's the only thing Arthur is grateful for this morning. He needs to focus, to put on the act, and the lack of distraction from Merlin's magic moving about is most welcome.
Even so, Arthur does not feel any more or less put together by the time he reaches his father's chambers. The guards admit him without hesitation, and Arthur's ushered in without ceremony or so much as a nod of respect.
The hasty treatment does not bode well for this meeting. Arthur dredges up what defenses he can and tries to anticipate Uther's mood. He runs through a list of things he was meant to do yesterday and wonders if he's missed one. An important one.
He doesn't think so. No, he knows so. A summons like this from his father, however, implies otherwise.
The king sits at his dining table, already eating. It is a majestic spread, more than what Arthur usually indulges in before a busy day of training or politicking. An empty place is already set for Arthur, at Uther's right hand.
"Sire," Arthur says, because Uther does not deign to acknowledge others without first being acknowledged himself.
"Ah, Arthur," Uther says, as though he hasn't been watching Arthur's every step like a cat in the bird garden. "Sit. We doubtless don't have much time this morning before we must attend to our guests."
The casual bur in the words sets Arthur on edge. He maintains a smooth composure as he thanks his father and sits. His father's manservant moves like a wraith around him, and it's as if the man possesses magic himself. Food and drink, all tailored to Arthur's tastes, materializes before him in the blink of an eye.
Arthur begins tearing into a chunk of bread and cheese immediately. To do otherwise would alert his father something was amiss. And nothing is amiss. Not a thing. The food sits like lead pebbles in his stomach.
"Where were you yesterday?" Uther asks abruptly, once he's waved his manservant away.
Arthur washes his food down with some wine. A smart remark follows his swallow."I was on rotation for a morning patrol through the Forest of Ascetir," he says carefully instead. "I returned to the castle early."
Uther hums and taps his goblet, several of his rings clicking off the surface. "So I heard. And yet, I also heard you left again shortly thereafter, without an escort."
A rush of cold pools in Arthur's gut. He retains his composure. Barely. He dissects his father's words quickly, reviewing the inflection behind them. He won't give away that Uther's already caught on to something Arthur did not want him to know—not after promising Merlin his meager protection—but lying to Uther will do him no favors. He does not cast about for an excuse, nor does he offer any more or less information.
"I did," Arthur says simply.
His father stares him down with hard eyes. "May I ask what was so important that you missed the initiation of the festivities?"
Arthur doesn't so much as have time to garner a response before Uther, nostrils flaring, says, "No, don't answer that. I know what you're going to say. It will not be tolerated, Arthur. You're not a child any longer. You cannot go galavanting off alone when you're bored."
Is this what his father thinks of him? As though he's capricious as a toddler? Arthur cannot hide a wince, and underneath the table, his fingers clench into fists on his lap. The word 'galavanting' smarts as though he'd taken a blow directly to the nose.
As if sensing Arthur's vulnerability, the universe sees fit to punish him further. An abrupt, throbbing pain shoots through Arthur's temples as the overall magical presence of the castle begins thrumming violently against his skull like a vibrating fiddle string.
Merlin's awake, Arthur thinks immediately, cursing inwardly, skin aflutter in the aftermath. And moving about.
His timing could be better.
"And going off alone," Uther fumes, eyes flashing with cold fire. Arthur's attention snaps back to his father as the older man shakes his head. "Without an honor guard. You should know better!"
"I stayed within sight of the castle," Arthur argues.
The king acts as though he had not heard. "Completely ignoring the risk to your safety as heir, the kingdom expects its first knight and prince to celebrate the traditions and uphold the values of our kingdom. Learning statecraft has never been your priority—and I've been far too tolerant in allowing you to find other distractions as an excuse to remove yourself from duties you consider unimportant—but it is perhaps the most important of skills you must develop if you hope to rule from this throne!"
The whiplash of emotion Arthur experiences in the wake of his father's rebuke is swift and ruthless. Relief follows. He is safe, for now. As is their new resident sorcerer. Uther suspects nothing. That should be the most important thing.
And yet…
Arthur knows better than to continue composing his own defense regarding his personal safety. He also knows better than to remind Uther that most of his day today will be spent socializing with their guests and continuing to reinforce, build upon, and renew the alliances and relationships that strengthen Camelot. He will not point out how much he accomplished yesterday despite his detour to consult with Morgana and Gwen regarding Merlin's arrival to Camelot. Or his second detour to meet Merlin outside the city. Or even his third detour to Gaius' chambers.
He accepts and absorbs the blows to his dignity and pride with muted resentment and guilt. He's not numb to them, but they don't sting as much as they used to. He's never met his father's lofty expectations of him, and he doubts he ever will. He will try not to take it too personally, as he knows his father's only goal is to inspire him—and most definitely shame him—into doing better. Trying harder. Succeeding.
It never fails to work, damn him. Arthur will leave breakfast today and do just that.
"You will not disappoint me," Uther states, leaning back and returning to his meal.
"I will not," Arthur agrees, because that is what's expected. Because there is no further discussion to be had. His father has given the order, and Arthur will obey.
Arthur does not continue eating. His plate is a mess of torn morsels. He'll regret it later, especially after a long day of hosting, but his stomach is knotted and churning. He rubs at raw arms. It doesn't help, instead igniting a swarm of too-bright light and too-hot warmth under his skin. His temples pound. "By your leave?"
"Sit. Stay," Uther demands casually. His eyes don't leave his food. "The steward reports that your manservant has requested reassignment. Again."
Arthur blinks and sits back in his chair, blank-faced. Which one is this again? He's had a constant cycle of servants working for him for as long as he can recall. Harold or Morten or Alain or whatever his name was woke him just this morning.
Uther meets his eyes, gesturing with a skewered piece of sausage. He doesn't look amused or impressed. "That is the third in as many months, Arthur."
"I do not mistreat them."
"No, not in any dishonorable way, yet they find you impossible to serve," Uther chides. "And your inability to keep a personal servant invites spies and potentially unvetted traitors into our midst. We cannot continue to cater to your whims. Upholding a standard is one thing. Being fickle is another."
Arthur grimaces and allows himself to massage his forehead. "I cannot accept a servant who cannot keep up."
He doesn't mention that he cannot—will not—trust any of the servants who have access to his rooms. Nor will he ever. Not like Morgana does Gwen. His secrets are too big to be discovered by someone he cannot trust with his very life and more. Even his knights, whom he does trust with his life, would not be eligible for the position.
The level of trust he's looking for is too much to ask for, he knows this. Even in servants curated from the best and most well-trained, it is a rare thing indeed. Besides, when one is the prince of Camelot, still young enough to be considered inexperienced and maneuverable, one cannot be too careful.
Not for the first time, Arthur envies Morgana for finding Guinevere.
"It is not difficult to accept someone who can do their job with efficiency and discretion, Arthur," Uther says with an exhaustive sigh. "A manservant is not meant to be seen or heard. He is meant to clothe you and help you appear presentable for the court. He is meant to be a point of contact with all the rest of the household servants to ensure your rooms are clean, your day runs smoothly, and you are comfortable after a long day. He is not meant to run after you nor all over kingdom come."
Arthur holds his silence, idly scratching the skin of his wrists under the tabletop as Uther studies him.
"I hope I will find no objections if I choose your next manservant," the king says finally. "Personally."
Arthur's heart drops. He has many objections and quite a few more reservations, as it happens. Anyone appointed by his father would likely report directly to him the moment Arthur's back was turned. The steward had already been bad enough, but this...This is one consequence he never thought he'd have to account for, and now, looking at his father's unwavering expression, he realizes it is one he will need to live with.
Keeping a straight face and pretending to be unfazed, he shrugs. "As you wish."
"Good," Uther says, satisfied. He pops a piece of sausage into his mouth. "This will be the last, Arthur. And I will ensure you cannot scare him away. Otherwise, you'll find yourself without a personal servant at all."
It's not the threat Uther seems to think it is. Having a blessed moment to himself, for once in his life, sounds luxurious beyond comparison. What he could do and accomplish without worrying about someone looking over his shoulder and seeing things they weren't meant to. How much time he'd save, to not have to plot how to keep his servants busier than busy so that they don't get too close.
But then his father smiles, and another chill runs down Arthur's spine. He supposes he should not underestimate his father's will in this matter.
In a flash of encroaching horror, Arthur sees what little freedom he possesses slipping through his fingers, his plans to keep safe distance between himself and his father's household staff backfiring in every single way.
If Uther notices Arthur's spectacular crash, he shows no sign. Instead, he dismisses Arthur with an infuriating nonchalance and reminder to represent the Pendragon house well.
Arthur tries not to think about how, in one breath, his father tells him he is no longer a child, then in another, treats him like one.
Arthur leaves Uther's chambers as graciously as he's able, fuming the entire time. His head no longer throbs; it rings with the effort of holding Merlin's magic at bay. When he's out of sight of his father's guard detail, he drops some of his defenses, shoulders slumping. The magic sings a joyous tune as it floods him. It's overwhelming, a crescendo of sensation and emotion that does not belong to him, and like a hound that's finally had enough excitement after greeting the master it hadn't seen all day, it turns a few circles and settles under Arthur's skin at its roaring baseline, rumbling a pur deep within.
He shudders involuntarily, pins and needles erupting up and down his limbs.
This is a day like any other, Arthur coaches himself. He takes a deep breath and imagines a wall of will sequestering his mind, his heart, his emotions and soul. The magic doesn't like being told to stay out. It is stubborn, suddenly growling and spitting its displeasure, hackles rising as it pouts and does not do as it is told.
Dammit.
No different from yesterday or the day before, Arthur tries to tell himself, chafing at the bit. He brushes away the reflexive tears burning at his eyes. Ignore it all.
He takes a deep breath and pushes away from the wall he'd leaned up against. He doesn't have time for this.
He has work to do.
