Arthur thinks he would rather drive an arrowhead through his own eye than experience any more of this torture.

He squints and blinks as a dagger spins through the air, every rotation that catches the light igniting a conflagration of agony behind his eyes. They burn, dry as old oats and itchy with the effort of trying to protect themselves against the onslaught.

The dagger hits its mark with a schnick and thud.

Raucous whistles and congratulatory whoops pierce the fog enveloping him. The pain recedes, and nausea crawls up Arthur's throat, a cold line of sweat trickling down his back. He blinks again, refocuses, his temples pounding an irregular beat as he retraces the dagger's path through the air. Sunlight glints blindingly off every damn metal blade, bit, and bob around him, and with some effort, he finds the target.

The last thrown knife—by Sir Kay—is only off by a few centimeters. Leon thumps the other knight on the back as he takes his place in front of his own target. Sir Edrick and his younger brother Ghislain burst into crude laughter nearby, and from the expression on Kay's face, Arthur assumes one of them has made another off-color comment. Out on the sidelines, sitting in the shade provided by several canopies, the ladies watching their cousins' and lovers' impromptu competition titter and tweet shrilly from behind gloved hands at whatever the brothers have said.

Arthur lets the commentary from his other knights and the other households' nobles wash over him. He regrets this entire endeavor. All he wants now is to crawl into bed, curl under a blanket, and burrow his face into a pillow.

Because Merlin's left Gaius' chambers, and Arthur can hardly think. His defenses, it seems, are riddled with holes that grow as the afternoon creeps on, making his foundation quake as fiercely as an overtaxed muscle after an inadvisably violent training session. His poor sleep is the likely cause, but Arthur puts some blame on his father, too, just because he's at the point where perceived grievances are much harder to swallow and dismiss.

He's not too proud to admit that assigning blame is petty and unbecoming, but it's a lot easier than giving Merlin's magic any more attention.

It's impossible not to pay it some attention, the way it tantalizes his mind. The magic shows no mercy. No sort of deference. It does as it likes, weaving lazily through the corridors of the castle, sometimes closer to him by proximity and other times further, ebbing and flowing against Arthur's mind, and still eager—ever eager—to be acknowledged.

He drowns in it. It is achingly beautiful. Lonely, too, Arthur's come to realize. Lonely in a way that hollows out his stomach and chest, where it most often tries to seek its refuge within him, slipping like a ribbon of air between his ribs.

And by the gods is it full of raw, hidden potential, even at rest.

Perhaps most especially at rest.

He's long since given up making any sort of attempt to reach out and find other sources of magic to latch onto, just for some relief. Merlin's will not let him. His nose stings as though he's snorted an entire bucketful of water every time he tries.

"...Prince Arthur has yet to—!"

Arthur barely hears his name called and throws a perfunctory smile in that general direction, hoping it is enough to satisfy.

It had been Arthur's idea to bring his knights and the other guests afield. Friendly contests always have a tendency to grease the wheels, so to speak. Even better for Arthur, as boasting men—and men finding comradery in games of skill and exertion—often lower their guard and speak far more frankly than they would any other time at court.

It had been a grand idea at the time, especially when he knew so little about some of these nobles, who lived on estates and lands in the outskirts of Camelot, out in the country or near its more porous borders, where the culture and ideals of their neighboring countries have greater influence.

The king gave Arthur a list of items and people he wanted him to focus on, of course, but Arthur had his own agenda. He and Morgana discussed it at length prior to the beginning of the festivities.

Most of the visiting nobles are heads of their respective households and, as Uther's most avid supporters, both vocally anti-magic and eager to continue supporting the current status quo. Arthur and Morgana's generation, however? The sons and daughters, younger cousins, newly raised knights and squires? The ones who may inherit seats at court and lands held in their family's name? They are his current targets. They are the ones, he thinks, he might do well to build a relationship with.

In any case, he needs to learn to differentiate between those who will follow in the footsteps of their forebears and those who have the power, compassion, and will to change things for the better. He needs allies . If not allies, he at least needs information. He doesn't quite know what he will do with the information yet—he and Morgana have very different opinions on the matter—but for now, it is information he can collect. Slowly. Carefully.

His father will not always be king, after all.

Until then, Arthur's tread must be light. Mutiny and treason are not how he wishes to ascend Camelot's throne, and he would rather die than see his people come to civil war. Whatever comes, whatever he learns, Arthur wants to be sure his meddling doesn't disrupt or endanger people's lives.

As much as he can, at any rate.

He knows it won't be easy. In Uther's Camelot, who would dare reveal they're magic sympathizers, or so much as hint as such? Who would so much as question that, maybe, magic wasn't all evil? It's not as though Arthur can take a direct poll, and he certainly can't show them what he can do, much less tell them why it matters. Besides, they were all raised during Uther's Purge. They know nothing else.

And, for all intents and purposes, Arthur is his father's son. It is too dangerous to be anything but.

Arthur doesn't have high hopes, but he does have a plan. It is a good plan for the beginning stages of a bigger plan, one only just starting to take root, for when he can do more, change more, be more.

So he'd taken them out to the training fields. He'd been eager to get out of the castle himself, especially since…well. Merlin.

He's botching it. He's failing in every aspect. Even steady sunlight is starting to incite its own dazzling and distracting episodes of blindness, during which his field of vision goes pure white and a fresh wave of cold sweat drenches him from head to foot. He's losing time. Losing sense of what is going on around him. Every second he's out in the sun brings him closer and closer to the reality of emptying his stomach of all its contents in front of everyone he's seeking to impress and investigate.

He's no longer following the plan. His main goal now is to survive the entire experience without committing a political travesty. Or social suicide. Either one would close doors Arthur cannot afford to close.

"Come on, then, Your Majesty!" calls someone nearby.

Arthur blinks hard, forcing himself to turn his attention back outward. His skin prickles with renewed vigor as he shoves away at Merlin's magic. Ghislain's face lurches in Arthur's vision, but his sharp, white-toothed smile gleams.

"I've heard so much of your prowess in the tourneys," Ghislain says, his voice rising with his quirked lips. There is no mistaking the note of envy in his voice when he says the word tourneys. He's several years Arthur's junior and has yet to come of an age when he can participate himself. "Surely you'll have your turn at the targets next?"

Arthur grits his teeth and pushes off the barrel of practice staves he's leaning against. He stubbornly ignores his swimming head and the blaze of bile up his throat.

Beside him, Kay artfully flips a dagger between his fingers and offers the hilt-end to Arthur. "Sire," he acknowledges, voice level. There's a question in his green eyes, in the firm line of his mouth, but Arthur pretends not to see it. He's fine, thank you very much.

His skin does not prickle so much as writhe like a hoard of snakes as he takes his place before the target. Merlin is near. Very near. Too near.

There's a stone the size of Camelot sitting on his chest. He can't breathe. His limbs don't feel like his own.

Curse him. Why now?

Leon moves from the place before the targets to accommodate Arthur. "You alright?" the knight asks under his breath. He's not as subtle as Kay, but he also knows Arthur better.

Arthur makes a conscious effort to breathe normally. "Why wouldn't I be," he grunts without inflection.

"You look…"

As atrociously as I feel, I'm sure , Arthur thinks. He doesn't look Leon in the eye. "Stand back, Leon," he commands.

Relying solely on muscle memory, Arthur sights and launches the dagger. It misses the bullseye by a fingerbreadth, near enough to Kay's last throw to be considered a tie. With his vision flickering like candle flame, it's a miracle it hits the right target at all.

Around him, the other men's voices grate and boom as they simper and flatter and attempt to play at modesty. "Such a target is too easy for our prince!" shouts Edrick.

Arthur shoots back banter—or maybe insults. He cannot recall what he's said even mere moments after the words leave his lips. He's so tired. His head screams into a thick void, the pressure building behind his eyes.

"How about some moving target practice?" Ghislain suggests.

Laughter roars like echoes in a canyon in Arthur's ears. "Boy!" comes a sharp call. "Boy! Are you daft? Come here!"

Arthur doesn't understand what's going on. Every sound is amplified, even that of the schnick of daggers as they fly through the air and land true, burying deep into wood. A high, reedy voice breaks through the murmur of tenor and bass, asking tentative questions. Words jumble and gargle in his ears like marbles bouncing in a half-filled rain barrel. Rust and dust coats his dry tongue, and his tunic is soaked through, the beautifully warm day becoming more and more intolerable by the second.

Arthur doesn't know when it happens or how. But suddenly, there's cruel laughter trilling and hollering around him, and there's Sir Edrick and Ghislain's derisive voices, and there's a serving boy lying facedown in the dirt.

"Hey, c'mon! That's enough!"

And then there, too, is Merlin, magic more radiant than the sun, blistering in its power, playful and ecstatically full of life, aflame with—

In the time it takes to blink, the passion—the thunder and the fire and the absolute maelstrom of it all—disappears into a vacuum, leaving a frigid, cold wasteland behind. Arthur's stunned stupid by the severe pivot in sensation, utterly numb and oversensitized by its retreat.

Merlin approaches the group with an expression that reflects the unfriendly fury of his magic. His uncompromising blue eyes flick at once from the boy on the ground, to the boot digging into his back….

And, finally, to Arthur.

~...~

Whatever optimism Merlin manages to reclaim for himself once he leaves the main square…it does not last.

It doesn't take more than a few steps to realize he's gotten himself hopelessly lost. Instead of coming out toward the Lower Town, where his last delivery of the day awaits him, he emerges from underneath an archway and finds himself on the opposite end of the castle. A dirt road—more a path than a true highway for traffic—leads toward a broad, open field speckled with colorful tent canopies and cramped benches. Several knights and men-at-arms, dressed in light plate and training leathers, cluster around bins of practice staves and swords situated at the closer end of the field. These, however, are not currently in use. Instead, the men casually twirl throwing daggers in their hands, sunlight glinting off the wicked blades.

Like the practice weaponry, the stationary targets set up dozens of meters away aren't in use either. Or, rather, they aren't in use any longer. Instead, a mousy-haired servant, bearing a shield too heavy for him, darts back and forth as several of the knights make sport of him. Laughing and calling jibes, they lazily hurl daggers and laugh even more uproariously when the boy flinches against the barrage.

One dagger hits the shield with enough force that the servant loses his grip, and he trips. The shield spins out of his hand, rolling end-over-end toward Merlin. He stops it with a foot, but when he looks up to address the poor boy, he sees the men have started in on him.

One of the men, a brute with pudgy hands and a broad nose, digs his boot into the boy's back. The boy winces as the man's heel—

Before Merlin can fully acknowledge what he's doing, he's leaping over the discarded shield, temper aflame. That boy can't be older than four-and-ten!

"Hey, come on!" he calls as he approaches. Protectors of the realm, my flat arse. "That's enough!" Shite stains of the realm's dirty underbelly, more like. "I think you've had your fun, so why not let him u—"

Merlin doesn't quite finish. Standing amongst the knot of noblemen, looking no different than the bullies surrounding the servant, is Arthur Pendragon. Prince and first knight of Camelot. Watching.

Doing nothing.Merlin stops dead in his tracks, numb. At first, he doesn't quite understand what he's seeing. Surely this is not appropriate behavior for the nobility? Surely Arthur himself would not allow his men to conduct themselves in such a manner?

But it seems he does. Arthur stares back at Merlin with drawn features and distant eyes. He looks ill, unsteady on his feet.

The brute stooping over the downed servant slowly turns his head to look at Merlin. His expression is incredulous, and he barks a disbelieving laugh. "Excuse me?"

Merlin tears his gaze away from Arthur and squares his jaw. "You heard me. You've had your fun, my friend."

With the same exaggerated slowness, the man removes his foot from the servant's back. The boy scrambles to his feet and darts to the sidelines, away from other heavy boots and petty men. The noble does not deign to notice. He only has eyes for Merlin. "Do I know you?"

"Doubtful," Merlin says with false cheer. "As I would not wish to associate with someone like you."

The man's eyes flash with rage, and he takes another step forward, his hand going to the empty sword belt at his waist. "How dare you. Who do you think you are?"

Merlin grins and stretches out his hand. "I'm Merlin."

The noble sneers at Merlin's hand. "Merlin." He looks Merlin up and down, ham-sized fists clenching, then laughs. It's an ugly sound. "You hardly know your place, little bird."

Merlin rolls his eyes. How very original. "'Little bird,'" he repeats in drawl. "Well, better a 'little bird' than whatever sort of man you are, to put those you're meant to protect down into the dirt." His lips quirk. "Hardly a man at all, I'd wager."

The grounds go silent as death. Even the women underneath the canopies stop whispering and stare, aghast, at Merlin's brazen insult.

The noble moves more quickly than Merlin would have given him credit for. His rough hand wraps itself around the back of Merlin's neck, and a harsh kick to the back of his knees knocks his legs out from under him. Merlin takes an instinctive, wild swing toward his attacker as he goes down, but he misses spectacularly. For his trouble, a thick fist drives into his diaphragm, and Merlin gasps as the air escapes his lungs. Before he can recover, the knight drives him into the ground in a berserk show of force. Merlin's cheek kisses the grass for only a moment before he's dragged back upright.

"Tell me, peasant," the noble growls, wrenching Merlin's head back by a fistful of his hair and leaning down to breathe into his face, "do you like having your head attached to your neck?"

Merlin tries to answer with something clever, but he cannot form any words. He's still struggling to catch a full breath.

"That is enough, Sir Edrick!"

Arthur's firm hands shove between them, prying them apart, and Merlin's sent sprawling to the dirt, knees throbbing. Edrick stumbles back, face red with rage and humiliation.

"I will have this one answer for his slander against me!" the visiting knight spits toward Arthur. "And then I will have him flogged for attacking me!"

"Our house will not allow such an insult to stand!" agrees the younger man behind him. A nasty knife curls from his fist.

Arthur's face is stone, pale and utterly emotionless. Not a trace of friendliness or familiarity flickers between them, but Arthur's fingers tighten on Merlin's collar as he says, "It is not for either of you to decide how to punish my citizens while you are a guest in my father's castle."

Edrick sneers at the prince. "And his crime is not for you to judge! I demand retribution."

Arthur stands his ground, unperturbed and flippant. "His disrespect will not go unpunished."

"Disrespect? He tried to hit me! The brat goes far above his station!"

"And you continue to behave far below yours!" Arthur snaps. Two Camelotian knights, one bearing a head of thick curls and the other wearing his dark auburn hair tied into a tail, fail to hide their smug expressions at the rebuke.

"Come now," Arthur continues, and his tone has taken on a mocking, arrogant lilt, as though they are sharing an inside joke. Merlin immediately seethes and chafes at the sound of it. "I have seen enough to know I will not be bringing such a petty dispute to my father during his festival. I doubt he'd thank you for doing so either." Blazing blue eyes snap to Merlin. "Besides, this idiot is hardly worth a single second more of our time."

Merlin glares at him and opens his mouth. Arthur digs his fingers into Merlin's collarbone and returns his glare with a fierce look that screams Shut. Up.

"Prat, " Merlin mouths slowly, clearly.

Arthur's eyes narrow, nostrils flaring.

Both visiting noblemen—brothers, Merlin supposes, judging by their shared nose and wide-set eyes—don't see the exchange. The younger of the two bares his teeth. "It is our right to demand—!"

"You are in Camelot, Ghislain," Arthur interrupts, and he sounds stern and bored. "My right supersedes yours." He grips Merlin's upper arm and heaves him up, only to push him toward a few spearmen who'd come running from the guard tower. "Take this one to the dungeons," he orders them.

You've got to be kidding.

Merlin tries to catch Arthur's eye, but the prince has turned away, utterly indifferent as the guards none-too-gently force Merlin to walk between them.

Rude calls and giggles erupt from the ladies of the court the moment Merlin's back is turned. Arthur does not laugh, but even from a distance, Merlin hears his voice cutting through the others', loud with supercilious command.

Ignoring them all, Merlin sighs and rubs at a spot between his ribs. Not where Edrick had driven his fist. Somewhere… else. Somewhere beyond flesh and bone.

Disappointment has no right to be so crippling, nor does it have any right to claim him now. Arthur told him to keep his nose down. He told him he couldn't afford any sort of familiarity. He doesn't owe Merlin a single damn thing, not after already allowing him to stay in Camelot, despite everything.

Even still, Merlin still thought that maybe…

(Is it so simple as that ? the prince had asked in a quiet, lonely voice, out on the road leading to Camelot the day before, about what it would take for someone like him to become friends with someone like Merlin.

Shouldn't it be, though? Merlin had responded, daring, bold, idealistic and so damn proud).

You should have known better, mutters another sarcastic, biting voice deep within. It sounds remarkably like Will. You should not have put any sort of trust in one of them.

He'd thought Arthur was different. Merlin doesn't often read people so poorly, but the man he saw out on the training field today was decidedly not the man he met out on the road to Camelot.

And that, too, is its own disappointment.

~...~

Gaius beats Arthur to the dungeons.

The old physician's voice rings through the chilly stone corridors, sounding even bigger and grander than usual as he dresses Merlin down for not only failing to keep his head down, but also for acting like a complete buffoon.

Arthur lingers at the entrance to the cells, fighting a grin and reveling in the sound of Gaius going off on Merlin. It's not often Arthur remembers angering Gaius, but having been partially raised by the entirety of the household staff in lieu of a mother, Arthur does not think he's had a worse lecture from anyone but Gaius. Even Sir Ector, easily the most intimidating, formidable mentor Arthur had as a child, bowed before the sheer force of Gaius' single disapproving eyebrow.

It's nice to hear, at any rate. Merlin deserves it, if only for the headache he'd put Arthur through. Bolstering egos, soothing tempers, and quelling gossip after the debacle out on the fields took a better part of the afternoon. Disentangling himself from the group of visitors entirely took even longer. The pleasant effects of the extra goblet of wine Arthur indulged in during dinner have already dissipated. The kitchens themselves closed up hours ago, the sun long since set.

Merlin's been in the dungeons for more than half the day.

Arthur presses his forehead against the cool dungeon wall and takes a deep breath. His only desire right now is to crawl back to his chambers and fall into a stupor so deep he'd need three more manservants to wake him the following morning.

But he is here instead.

He doesn't quite know why.

He takes another deep breath in through his nose, holds, and then exhales slowly through his mouth. Underground, in this dark and damp, Merlin's magic feels…muted, grounded. Less flighty, airy, and incendiary. Tentatively, he opens his mind, dropping a few mental barriers. The humming songs of the Vaults and the dragon several floors below slam into him, then begin to harmonize with Merlin's, and it feels like stepping into a warm bath after a hard, week-long patrol in rainy conditions.

The relief is so profound his knees nearly buckle.

Arthur regains his balance and finally opens his eyes, adjusting by choice to Merlin's proximity. It isn't so bad, when he actually does have the choice. Emboldened, he steps into the dungeons.

"—and you're certainly lucky you didn't—!" Gaius must hear Arthur coming. He stops mid-tirade and turns to greet him. He immediately dips his head and bows as well as his spine allows. "Oh, your pardon, Prince Arthur."

From where he slouches against the cell wall, Merlin's head shoots up. There's straw in his hair from the meager bedding on the cot in the corner, and Arthur almost laughs, until he catches sight of the scowl on Merlin's face.

"No, I apologize for interrupting," Arthur says smoothly. He smirks at Merlin. "Seems as though most of my work is done for me. I'd come to lecture our prisoner myself."

Merlin bristles. "Typical," he mutters under his breath, leaning his head back against the wall. "Lazy as well as ignoble."

Arthur recalls how Merlin looked at him, back on the training fields, and an ugly wriggling sensation squirms in his gut. It's not temper, it's not frustration, but it's a close cousin to both.

"May I speak with him alone, Gaius?" Arthur asks flatly, struggling not to rise to Merlin's bait.

"Of course, my Lord." The physician grumbles something about being polite at Merlin and ducks out of the dungeons.

Once Gaius is gone, Arthur folds his arms and meets Merlin's gaze steadily. He does not have to wait long for Merlin to break the silence.

"Were they just words to you?" Merlin asks.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Merlin heaves a sigh and drags himself to his feet, so that he can stand eye-to-eye with Arthur. "The men you were with today. They would rather pick on a servant—a child no less—than find different entertainment. And you would let them."

Arthur swallows, mouth dry. Merlin's accusation slaps him across the face. The fool has no idea. None at all. He does not understand the political machinations that require Arthur's consideration before all else, nor does he recognize the shackles Arthur has perpetually clasped around his wrists. "I didn't—"

"But you did," Merlin insists, eyes flashing. "Is this how you hope to rule? To change minds? To change anything? By surrounding yourself with people like them?"

"Those men could have had you flogged!" Arthur retorts. "Their behavior was inexcusable, and hardly befitting their station, but you did act well out of line. Some nobility would have your tongue for the insults you threw so casually today!"

Merlin stares incredulously at him. "Do you think I care what some overgrown man-child thinks of me?"

Arthur can't decide if Merlin is more stupid or brave for continuing to slander a member of the nobility, until he remembers what Merlin said yesterday—about how he has a talent for staying alive. "You damn well should!" he exclaims. When Merlin huffs a laugh at him, Arthur shakes his head. "You're unbelievable. Self-preservation instincts, my arse."

"This isn't about me!" Merlin insists, his voice raising. "It's about you. And you allowing your people to be belittled and bullied!"

Arthur freezes, and his lips curl. "I didn't allow anything."

"Then what were you doing, Sire? It didn't look like much from where I was standing!"

Arthur grimaces at him, fury exploding into his tone as he hisses, "I was trying to keep your magic at arms' length! I could hardly see two meters in front of me, everything was too loud, and to be honest, Merlin, I can hardly stand to be around you, I've been getting so nauseous and lightheaded. Can you imagine that for a moment? Having your normal senses so overwhelmed and overstimulated you can't even comprehend what is happening right in front of you until it is too late to do anything about it?"

Merlin does not respond immediately, his eyes skipping across Arthur's face. An odd furrow appears between his brows. "You don't look so ill now," he muses.

Arthur stills, stunned by the observation.

"Were you blocking my…" Merlin swallows and skips over the word 'magic' and finishes, "—all day? Are you now?"

"What's it to you?" Arthur shoots back, not only petty and angry but embarrassed now too.

The sudden understanding and sympathy in Merlin's eyes rankles. "Repressing it hurts," Merlin says in a soft voice. "I tried, you know, a few times. When my mother couldn't hide how frightened she was for me. When I did something I didn't mean to, near witnesses or otherwise, and I saw the terror in her eyes. I would bury it as deeply as I could. I put it in a mental box and imagined locking it up and throwing away the key. It…it did not work, and the consequences…"

Merlin's voice breaks as he trails off and looks away, picking at the hem of one of his sleeves. There's a tapestry of old history and deep pain in the words. Even irritated as he is, Arthur has enough tact to let the matter lie. He doesn't think he wants Merlin to elaborate.

"What, then?" Arthur says instead. "Are you suggesting I drop all my defenses and let your magic stampede over me? I'm not flattering you when I say I would suffocate."

Merlin shakes his head. "No. I'm just…I know what it feels like, alright?" His eyes glimmer in the dark. "I know it isn't easy to let go. And it isn't easy to reign it in after holding back for so long. I'm just suggesting you find a way to accept what you can and can't control—and find your equilibrium, too—before it consumes you."

"From what I can tell of your magic," Arthur drawls, impulsive and snappish, "you'd best follow your own advice before offering it to others, Merlin."

Merlin recoils as though he's been struck. "Wow," he says without emotion. "You really would rather take every easy route out, wouldn't you?"

"You think having this ability is easy?" Arthur demands, temper flaring hotter and brighter. "You think battling against your magic all day is easy?"

Merlin gives Arthur a bland look. If anything, it peeves Arthur further. "That is not what I said," Merlin says. "I just think you'd do well to pull your head out of your arse every once in awhile and look around you! Listen to others! Understand that not everyone has the same life experience as you! And that, maybe, their experiences are worth something!"

Arthur doesn't think he's misjudged Merlin's magic in the least. It is chaos, wild and untamed, and the man who wields it is no better. "I understand perfectly well," he says stiffly.

Merlin's eyebrows raise. "Do you? Do you really?" he asks, disbelieving. "While we're on the subject again, since I maintain this isn't about me: did you even go to check to see if that serving boy was alright after what happened? Or did you sidle up to your noblemen and ply yourselves with fancy fruit and wine, laughing all the while at how pathetic and weak we of the peasantry are in our squalor?"

Arthur's face flushes red, heat rising up his neck. He ignores the main question Merlin posed and doesn't quite maintain a calm tone when he says, "There is an image I must maintain and expectations I must meet as prince of the realm. And that includes 'sidling up' to those who may have a seat in my court. Alliances are the backbone of our kingdom, the root of our defensive strategy and our assurance to the people we will not dissolve into war!"

Merlin doesn't look impressed. "And that's all well and good, Arthur, but perhaps, instead of catering to the spoilt ranks of your nobles, you should consider seeking the respect and love of all your people, from the lowliest servant to the most modest of bakers in the Lower Town. You might find your precious alliances mean nothing if your people cannot trust their prince to keep them safe from their own!"

Arthur doesn't know what he expected when he came down to the dungeons—perhaps a bit of a chuckle at Merlin's expense, a 'let bygones be bygones,' a chance to maybe explain in more graceful terms what exactly happened out there and what they could do about it in terms of their abilities—but it certainly isn't this.

He doesn't recognize his own voice when he says, "You can't speak to me this way."

Merlin smiles at him without humor. "This is how I'd imagine a friend would speak to you, Sire."

"A friend does not go out of their way to make a nuisance of themselves in front of important guests and then berate you for their mistakes!" Arthur spits.

Merlin's eyes narrow, but they don't seem to reflect the anger Arthur's feeling now. "Friends challenge one another," he disagrees pointedly. "It is a shame that you do not know the difference."

In that moment, Arthur is so furious words catch and latch in his throat. He spins on his heel. "You will be staying in this cell for the night," he announces to the wall, voice cold and hard. "Tomorrow, you'll have a turn in the stocks as punishment for slander against Sir Edrick. It was the mildest sentence we could agree upon."

From the corner of his eye, he sees Merlin cross his arms. "Fine."

As Arthur leaves, chest and gut burning with repressed emotion, he hears Merlin call from behind, "You're not blocking me now, are you? Or at least, not like you were before?"

They're rhetorical questions. Arthur does not acknowledge them. He doesn't so much as turn around to indicate he'd heard Merlin call after him in the first place.

Doing so would admit Merlin was right. About everything.

And Arthur thinks he's experienced enough shame for one night.

~...~

Merlin can't find it in himself to be upset when he sees the children.

Their peals of laughter ring across the way, and he laughs along as they throw spoiled fruit and vegetables at him. From the moment he sees them come with their eager smiles and messy hands, he decides to pretend he is a dastardly villain. His story changes. Sometimes, he's a pirate caught out on dangerous seas. Other times, he's a brigand with terrible jokes and an even more terrible accent, or a rogue who got into an asinine argument with a king about the nature of pie. One time, he's a troll, and another, he's a goblin. He regales with stories of his capture, coming up with creative, silly crimes he's committed, and tells them why he deserves to be freed.

These excuses, of course, incite fierce debate and a boisterous flurry of funny insults and grand-standing from the little ones. Merlin pretends each and every righteous blow is his most lethal wound, and he is seconds closer to death by the efforts of all the great heroes and heroines who've come to pass judgment on his most horrible deeds. When a new swarm of them come, he revives himself, growling and leering and giving them every excuse to holler and play right along with him.

He draws quite an audience with his dramatics. Several adults look at him with glimmers of amusement and appreciation for his contribution to their children's day. Others stare openly, as though they can hardly believe someone put into the stocks would be so bold as to lean into their humiliation and enjoy themselves while doing so.

Merlin doesn't mind. They can think what they want. As far as he's concerned, if he's stuck here for doing the right thing, he can make a mockery of his punishment and have some fun.

Arthur and his ilk can stuff it.

Between performances, when the children take a break to find more ammunition, Merlin spits pulp and seeds from his mouth and tries to avoid the impulse of shaking his head. Juice mats his hair, and he's not going to give any watching nobility the satisfaction of shaking off the excess like a muddy hound.

He's considering his next act when someone breaks free of the ring of lollygaggers near the stocks. He doesn't notice: some of the juice running down his face from his hair tickles his nose, eliciting an epic battle against a violent sneeze.

"You're rather quite good with them."

Startled, Merlin jumps and loses his battle, sneezing with enough force to jerk his entire body. His wrists and the back of his head bang painfully against the wooden stocks. He winces, cringing, and so too does the very pretty young woman who'd come up to talk with him.

"Ow," he says reflexively, his voice thick and nasally after the sneeze. He wrinkles his nose and sniffs. He'd rather lose dignity than face the threat of snot mixing with the spoiled fruit already coating his face.

"Goodness, I am so sorry!" the young woman exclaims, holding out her hands uselessly in sympathy. Her kind eyes are wide, loose curls tumbling into her face as she leans toward him. She offers him a sheepish, anxious smile that makes her eyes appear even warmer and kinder. "Did I startle you?"

"'S not a problem," Merlin says in a cheery voice. "I've only myself to blame."

The young woman bites her lip, but her concern does not last long when she sees he is not holding back on her account. Her true smile replaces the previous one, and it lights up her entire face. "I don't think that's true. I saw what you did, you know. A lot of us did."

"Ah," Merlin says, suddenly quite embarrassed. He's hyper-aware of the cramping in his legs, in his back and forearms; of the fact his bum is sticking straight out; of his filthy face and hair. He sighs, realizing there is no taking back a first impression such as this, and shifts on his feet, shuffling as though the movement might relieve some of the ache. It doesn't. "That. Yes. Rather more stupid than brave, I fear."

The young woman makes a face. "That type? They're bullies. They do not care who they tread upon, and they abuse the code of hospitality. It was nice to see you standing up to them, even though, erm—"

Merlin grins at her and jangles his wrists. The links to his shackles clang against one another. "Quite the hero, huh?" he asks.

"No, no!" she exclaims hastily, her face flushing as her words twist in her mouth. "That's not what I'm saying. It's just that, well…I'm glad you didn't get hurt. You wouldn't have been able to beat them, especially not with Prince Arthur there."

Merlin snorts. "Oh, I could beat them." The prince especially, he doesn't contradict aloud, a nugget of resentment worming its way free from where he'd sequestered it for later consideration.

(It's a damn bother. He doesn't understand why he can't let it go, much less why it matters so much).

The young woman cocks her head. "You think? Because you don't look like you know your way about a sword."

She seems to realize what she's said could be construed as a rather rude thing to say to a stranger and tries to trip her way through an apology. Merlin, accustomed to similar jokes at his expense from Will, only barks a genuine laugh and says, "Heavy weaponry might as well be off the board for me entirely, I agree. Bread knives and dinner forks, too, I take it?"

Sensing Merlin wasn't offended, she relaxes and nods with dramatic sincerity. "Oh, yes, the most dangerous and most fearsome of weapons indeed. But that's alright: I'm sure you've many talents and strengths in other areas outside of combat that would have impressed and awed us all with their majesty and might."

"Naturally," Merlin says without an ounce of sarcasm, absolutely delighted. Instead of feeling uncomfortable at how close they've come to touching upon his secret, he's thrilled by how easily he can brush along its edge and still speak nothing but the truth. It's a new sensation, one that makes him giddy. He can't say he's ever experienced it before. "I'm in disguise, you see."

Her laughter sparkles between them, and she puts up a hand to cover her mouth. "I can see why the children are having so much fun here with you," she says. "I've rarely seen them so entertained. You must have siblings."

Merlin shakes his head and immediately regrets it. His neck and left ear itches unbearably now that the muck caked there has cracked. "I don't. And there aren't many children in Ealdor," he says, "but after Cenred's last draft a few years ago, I often—"

"I'm sorry," the young woman interrupts. A fine furrow creases brow, and there's a sudden edge in her tone. "What did you say your name was?"

"Oh." Merlin pauses, realizing they'd never gotten around to introductions. "Merlin. I'm Merlin."

The young woman stares, then laughs so hard tears begin forming in her eyes.

Merlin blinks at her, uncomprehending. Was it his name that set her off? He supposes there is something to be said about a man named after a hawk trapped in the stocks. The irony isn't quite lost on him.

He starts to say as much, but the young woman shakes her head and wipes at her eyes with a sleeve.

"No, it's not that. It's just…Of course you're Merlin," she finally manages. The fond familiarity in the statement drops a heavy rock into the pit of Merlin's stomach. Before he can ask what she means by that, she puts out a hand. "I'm Guinevere—Gwen, actually; I prefer Gwen—the lady Morgana's maid?"

She phrases her introduction like a question. It's a bit odd, and she watches him expectantly, as though her name may mean something more to him. Morgana's is certainly a surprise. He would never have suspected such a high-ranking maidservant would want to find time to talk to some lout in the stocks. "Um," he says awkwardly. He twists his wrist and shakes her hand as best as he's able. "Good to meet you?"

"You're Gaius' new apprentice, right?" Guinevere prompts, eyes dancing. "He's a good friend to my family. We've heard of your arrival."

Merlin instantly relaxes. Of course Gaius' new ward would be a topic of discussion amongst the Pendragon household staff. That only makes sense. Rumors and gossip likely travels just as fast within the castle as it does in a village the size of Ealdor. "I suppose I am," he says, "Or, rather, I certainly hope so. He isn't terribly pleased with me at the moment, as you can imagine, but I think it'll be alright. Cheeky old man's been coming by to watch and laugh at me during breaks in his rounds."

Guinevere smiles, and behind her, Merlin can see the swarm of giggling children finally returning with their ammunition. "Ah," he says idly. "You'll have to excuse me, Guinevere. My fans await."

"Gwen," she reminds him, stepping out of range of the stocks with quick feet. "My friends call me Gwen."

Merlin beams at her, warming from the inside out. "Gwen, then," he agrees. "I'll see you around."

He doesn't watch her go, doesn't catch her looking back at him with the most peculiar expression on her face. His face, as it happens, is already completely preoccupied by the solid aim of one ruthless hero who'd come with the sole purpose of vanquishing his foe.