Arthur sleeps like the dead.
It's the first time he's slept so deeply since Merlin's arrival, and he can't even say it was restful, let alone rejuvenating.
Because it was no true reprieve. He wakes feeling like death, too.
Merlin's magic, of course, is there, as it has been every morning since his arrival, and like an overeager puppy, it bounces and wriggles in delight once it knows it's been acknowledged.
Muddled and groggy, Arthur distances himself from its touch and erects his taxing mental shield. It wheezes into place, quaking with strain. Merlin's magic shudders and grumbles at him, but it doesn't invade. It turns in neat circles outside the hollow spaces within Arthur's chest and curls into itself. It does not leave. It dejectedly presses itself against the edge of his senses, lapping at his energy and will as it waits.
Hollow. That is the word. After a life of discomforts, itches, and tics—all of which he once would have loved to live without—Arthur never thought he'd feel so much lesser, shutting himself off in this way. Without the music of the Vaults or the buzz and hum of the little rebellious magics of the Lower Town to keep him company, he—
The little box of magical treasures in his wardrobe is mute, too, he realizes abruptly. The sudden well of emotion that washes over him feels like mourning. By rote, he tries to reach for the trinkets and instead accidentally allows Merlin's magic to flood in.
He slams his shield back up and lays back, drawing a deep breath in through his nose. It stings and aches, as though he's snorted water while swimming.
He misses it—his gift, as it once was. He misses it like a country boy misses the consistent cricket songs of his homeland during his first visit to the big city. The irony of such a comparison is not lost on him, but truly, in the face of Merlin's explosive, euphoric symphony, that comforting cricket song is something he'd sorely like to have back.
To have a break. To have it all go quiet and peaceful, for just a moment…
Arthur shivers from head to toe, aching, wanting, and squeezes his eyes shut.
He exhales.
How much longer can this go on? It's not even been a full week since Merlin's arrival, and Arthur feels as though an intrinsic part of himself is trapped behind his mental shield too, inaccessible and numb.
He's a shade, an echo, something not wholly here.
Inhale.
He knows Merlin's theory. He doesn't want to give it any consideration right now, not when he fears that letting go of his restraint, for more than a single instant, would send him spiraling out of control.
You just have to get through the feast, you pathetic worm, Arthur tells himself, furiously and without mercy. The feast, and then guests will begin to depart tomorrow.
One more day. Just one more. Then he can begin to experiment without fear of any onlookers or strangers beginning to ask dangerous questions. Then he can go to Gaius and ask for more help. Then he and Merlin can try to manage this.
Because this isn't managing.
Exhale.
He keeps a strict tempo with every breath until, finally, his nose no longer prickles. His head pounds like a drum. Exhaustion presses its full weight against his eyelids, and despite the blinding sunlight that woke him, he struggles to find the energy to so much as open his eyes again to face the day. Instead, he curses Merlin—and Kilgharrah too—to every last realm and ring of hell for their impromptu midnight rendezvous.
By the time he heaves himself out of bed, he's scared more than a few servants out of his chambers. A sliver thin part of him feels guilty about it, but in the end, he blames Merlin for that as well.
He doesn't know where the day goes. He drifts through it in a dense fog. Morgana, to his surprise, joins him to entertain his father's nobles, which makes the day less of a trial than the previous one, but still a trial all the same.
"Do they ever stop nattering?" Morgana whispers in an undertone to Arthur as they head back into the castle later in the afternoon. They've both just attended another friendly contest out on the training fields, as well as a small outdoor luncheon under the erected canopies. Arthur chose not to compete this time, bearing the ribbing from the others with purposeful, and sometimes vicious, courtesy. Morgana, for her part, was the picture of a court lady, mingling with everyone and politely cheering on the male competitors with the other women.
She didn't have to come. She vowed she'd have no part in these celebrations, and she broke that vow. For him.
He never asked her to bend to his father's demands, much less compromise her own morality and beliefs just to help him play host during these blasted festivities, but she has his undying gratitude. He'll have to conjure up a very thoughtful gift for such a sacrifice.
He makes a mental note to ask Guinevere next time he sees her. She'll have an idea. She always has good ideas.
"I swear I've heard more inane gossip in these few hours than I have in the last six months," Morgana continues idly. She stumbles as they reach the castle entrance and hisses a very unladylike curse. Arthur dutifully stops to allow her to use his shoulder as she balances on one leg and swipes a finger along the inner lining of her left shoe, dislodging something she'd picked up from the field.
Arthur almost teases her, but her death glare dares him to make so much as a peep. He wisely chooses not to point out that she should know better than to wear those shoes out of the castle. She always complains about those shoes. She complains to such a degree he's a little surprised Gwen hasn't put a stop to it herself, current fashions be damned.
"Now you see why I am finding some difficulty connecting to these people," Arthur says, making the excruciating effort to focus. He lowers his voice. "They are frivolous, spoiled. They speak of nothing of substance. The only useful thing I've learned today is that there may be cause to audit Lord Hereward's accounts for evidence of embezzling."
Morgana snorts and, after dropping her heel, quirks her brow at some nosy maids. "I could have told you that," she says when the maids scamper off, tittering amongst themselves. She fans herself with a gloved hand. "The man's as foul as they come and ambitious beyond reckoning. I suppose the more interesting thing to ask is: who'd you glean that information from?"
"Hereward's nephew."
Morgana's lips twist into a disbelieving grimace. "You can't mean that dunce Sir Mabon? The man is hardly qualified to hold a sword let alone read a ledger."
Arthur does not quite manage to withhold a wince. Morgana often reserves the word 'dunce' for overly flirtatious men who cannot catch a hint, but in this case…well. Mabon is not the most observant scout on the mission, shall he say.
But the man can fight. And in Uther's court, that particular talent, paired with his noble blood, is all that matters.
"No," he clarifies, "the younger. Lucan."
"Really? The quiet one?"
"Mabon only has the one brother. He is hardly six and ten," confirms Arthur. "Training to be a scholar, I think."
"He's just a boy," Morgana muses and looks behind her, toward the men and women they've left behind. Most are beginning to disperse from the field to wash up before the feast. "An attempt to curry your favor?"
"No," Arthur says definitively. "I don't think the lad has a dishonest bone in his body."
"Most interesting." She chews her lower lip and then admits, "I should not be surprised. Lucan was always bright. Brighter than either Lord Hereward or Sir Mabon ever gave him credit for."
"Brighter than we all ever gave him credit for," Arthur corrects. "And far braver than many men, to risk exposing his family in such a way. If it's true, his entire family may be ruined. And if it isn't? Making such an allegation puts his own reputation on the line."
He has to wonder what other skeletons are lurking in Lord Hereward's closet, if young Lucan has made such a point to allude to his uncle's misdeeds. An infraction such as this? It may not lead to a trend of even more deeply rooted corruption, but the possibility worries Arthur enough that he will investigate. Thoroughly.
Should it prove true, Lucan's loyalty will not go unrewarded.
Morgana's sharp eyes flash to Arthur, assessing him. She must see his conviction, for she nods and says, "Our society places so much value on our heirs and firstborns; on our knights for their joust wins and tournament prestige; our wealth and fancy titles. The gilt and garnish is all we care to see, blinding us from what truly matters."
Arthur inclines his head. "We do tend to overlook those who stand apart from those values. And turn a deaf ear to those whose ideas differ from ours." He holds Morgana's eyes, so that she knows he's speaking of her, to her, too. "That is to our detriment, not theirs."
A hint of a smile touches Morgana's lips. "And our new friend? What of his values? His ideas?"
Merlin. Of course she'd ask. Arthur flinches involuntarily. Calling attention to the young sorcerer comes with a renewed and heightened awareness of the magic that pulses its steady, electrifying beat against his skin. It takes a herculean effort not to immediately focus on tracking the magic as it scampers about the castle, following Merlin doing… whatever it is Merlin does for Gaius during the day.
Key word here being "immediately." He still turns in the magic's direction, like a hound on a scent.
Morgana notices, and her eyebrows raise. "Are you well, Arthur?"
No, he doesn't say. "Well enough."
Morgana senses the lie. She narrows her eyes at him. Now that they are in the castle proper, however, there are more people to overhear, and though she looks like she wants to raise her voice and tell him off, she faces forward and tactfully rearranges her expression into a courtly mask. "What can I do?" she murmurs.
"What you're doing now."
She doesn't look very pleased by the response, but as they reach her chambers' corridor, she presses a sororal kiss to his cheek. "We'll talk later," she says, sweeping past him. "You can't avoid it forever, Arthur."
"It's not avoiding," Arthur argues. "It's prioritizing. Maybe compartmentalizing."
Morgana's look implies she finds his statement as weak as it sounded to his own ears. "I'll see you at the feast."
Relief floods him, and he's about to thank her—probably so profusely it would weaken his argument further—until the moment she slowly, scathingly, looks him up and down, and adds, in a way only family can, "And do get some rest beforehand, will you, Arthur? You look atrocious."
~...~
Arthur loves feasts. Always has. It's not the food, nor the entertainment, nor the company so much as it is the energy. The entire castle is alive with it. It flits and sparkles about the halls like a swarm of dragonfly wings. From the youngest guard to the eldest guest, everyone is boisterous and merry, and the good cheer catches like wildfire, spreading beyond the walls and deep into the Lower Town, where vendors, innkeepers, and tavern owners alike prepare to mark down their goods and services to drive business and encourage the common folk to participate in their own celebrations.
Normally, Arthur thrives off it. Cherishes it. Bolsters others with it.
Today, he drags his feet, his mood as lackluster as dirt as he allows some nameless servant sent by the steward to help him wash and dress. The servant, to his credit, doesn't allow the prince's disposition to bring him down. The man hums without care, smiling to himself. His eyes dance, and he performs his tasks as though he hasn't heard a single foul rumor about working under Arthur's particular and fastidious supervision.
Arthur listlessly allows the servant to do his job and doesn't snap at him for his insistent humming. He instead wonders if the man has a sweetheart he'll be meeting later. Or a child at home. Perhaps he's working the feast and highly anticipates the musicians the king hired.
Arthur doesn't ask. He never does.
The speculated answers feel hazy and unreal, like they're a dream, or something out of a fairy tale, so otherworldly they baffle the mind.
The distance he puts between himself and the other castle inhabitants doesn't usually bother him. It's intentional, to protect himself and those around him. But today…something empty and chilly settles within his chest. Though he and this carefree servant exist in the same space, at the same time, he feels so far removed it's as though he is stuck looking in at himself through a hazy scrying mirror, physically leagues upon leagues away from his own body.
He…doesn't like it. There is meant to be a degree of separation from himself and his people. He is their prince; they, his subjects. The social contract between them is one rooted in protection and service. There are some checks, some balances, but always, he stands somewhat apart from them, never allowed to be one of them.
This…this isn't that. What he's feeling now is very different. Isolating. Lonely.
A vague sense of unease floats through his chest, but he cannot grip it or smother it away. It isn't very logical. He tells himself this. It's a byproduct of his poor sleep, of the fact his mind is so overtaken and his senses, so overwrought and crippled in the face of Merlin's presence, that of course he's feeling all sorts of off.
He tells himself this. Over and over again.
The repetition does little to convince him.
Arthur spends the rest of the time under the servant's impersonal ministrations looking inward, drawing whatever motivation and energy he has left to him. He's a prince, attending a feast thrown by the king. There's a performance he must commit to. And he must commit well.
He thinks he'll succeed the moment he joins the feast and is immediately swept up by the knights in attendance. They push fresh goblets of wine into his hands and fold him into their laughter and joy with the aplomb of people who know their own people and can extend that sense of belonging without reservation.
It's easy, to fall into the routine of his performance, to keep his mask fixed and his faux festivity as high as his companions'. He greets his father with every honor afforded his position and exchanges pleasantries with everyone who seeks a moment of his time. He dances, just a little, and he thinks he may even be enjoying himself.
The entire performance is made even easier when Morgana arrives and the herald announces it is time for the first course. From the moment they sit at the high table, he and she entertain one another by shooting each other increasingly ugly grimaces and sneers across the table, each attempting to be more surreptitious than the last. It's an old game—to try not to get caught by Uther. They developed it long ago, when they were both children, in an attempt to keep the other awake during dull meetings and court sessions.
Uther does catch them, but they have become so adept at their game that he's the only one. The king doesn't chastise them publicly. Instead, he gives Arthur and Morgana a flat, unimpressed look when no one else is paying attention. Arthur muses his father must be feeling well with wine. Normally, he would not be so indulgent.
By the end of the second course, Arthur feels more comfortable, less edgy. He dares to suppose he will, in fact, survive the night.
Until Merlin's magic enters the room, pummeling him straight in the head.
For all the intensity of its proximity, Arthur knows immediately something isn't right. Tears press against his eyes at the uncomfortable dissonance screeching within him. Merlin's magic is...wrong. It's very wrong. It doesn't sing or dance or delight in its mere existence. It doesn't call or cajole Arthur to notice and share in its radiance. No, it…it skitters and shakes along his senses and his mental defenses, afraid and chastened like an abused animal, or, rather, like a wild thing leashed into formal obedience.
As though it, too, knows its bearer is in the presence of one very brutal, very unsympathetic king and must make itself as small as possible to avoid notice.
Arthur can't help but immediately stare in Merlin's direction, dread pooling in his gut like slop. What does the fool think he's doing? Serving at the feast? Surely Gaius would have thought this a terrible idea.
His father is right there.
In that moment, it doesn't matter that Uther does not share Arthur's gift. It doesn't matter Merlin is just another face in the clutter of servants working the feast, hardly worth special notice by anyone attending. It doesn't matter that, to most nobles, servants are invisible.
Dread freezes the air in his lungs.
He told Merlin to avoid the king, did he not? He told Merlin to stay away.
Merlin doesn't look in his direction, not quite. His blue eyes flick toward the high table, and he slowly, carefully, shakes his head and lowers his gaze in a demure gesture.
The message there is not nearly so comforting as Merlin intends it to be. Not the first time, Arthur wonders if the idiot does indeed have the same definition of 'self-preservation' as he does.
In his humble opinion, the answer is "not at all."
Before anyone can think too much of it, Arthur averts his attention, but the distraction has interrupted the flow of his performance. Every minute that passes thereafter feels like an hour, and fatigue swells back over him in fits and spurts.
A familiar, draining fog descends upon him. The drum in his head resumes its beat, swallowing the sound of the string quartet currently performing. Nausea begins its swift climb up from his stomach and into his throat, and he picks at the next few courses, using every remaining ounce of control to continue participating in idle conversation at the high table.
By the time the last course is set and his father stands to announce his star guest, Arthur is ready to make his excuses and beat for a hasty retreat. His leg jostles involuntarily under the table throughout his father's introduction and Lady Helen of Mora's graceful entrance. She takes her time situating herself on the dais, and Arthur cannot help a spike of ingracious irritation at the theatrics.
Surely, surely, once she is done singing and he offers her a few kind words, his social obligation is fulfilled. Surely he can—
She opens her mouth and draws in a breath. The anticipation shimmering in the air creaks and quakes, and like a blip in a running stream, like a knot in otherwise smooth wood—
There is a beat of silence, as there is silence before a storm, still as death.
Gooseflesh pebbles Arthur's arms, and suddenly, Lady Helen of Mora sings, her voice ringing through the room, filling up every last crevice and crack.
He does not stand a chance.
Arthur has heard the music from the Vaults. He has touched the broken bits and bobs he's collected and felt them reach back out to him. He has tasted magic on patrols, when rain washes in from the Valley of Fallen Kings, when mist rolls in off the Lake of Avalon. He's sensed it snuffed from the criminals on his father's pyre, torn from the world in a vicious blaze. He's felt it disappear and fade as it followed Druids, hedgewitches, and many other innocents into death. He's seen it grow in Morgana and linger in Gaius and play in Merlin.
These are things he has always sensed within himself. Things no one else can. Things he secreted away for himself alone.
This…this is different. This is everywhere. For everyone.
This magic is all-encompassing, demanding. It slips into his mind and body like an infection: untraceable, insidious, untouchable. The frigid cold steals the sense from his thoughts, and like slipping into a hot springs after a long day of training, like sliding under a warm duvet in front of the fire after a hard winter patrol, Arthur snuggles in and submits entirely to the sweet oblivion of sleep.
Sleep so deep and dark and so, so well-deserved.
The magic becomes sweet and sultry, as gentle as the sway of a rocking hammock or baby's cradle, of waves nudging against the hull of a ship out on the calm seas, of webs of spider silk flexing in the wind amongst the boughs of an oak tree.
Arthur settles deeper into the realm of dreams, the complete peace he'd been yearning for coaxing him into its soft, luxurious embrace. As generous as a mother, the magic presses its kiss against his forehead, tells him it will all be alright, and sings its enticing lullaby.
He sinks, ever further into the illusion of downy fluff and fire-warmed blankets, cozy and calm.
Safe.
It does not last.
A slight, brisk chill nips at him, and he pulls away, huddling in for warmth. It is the only warning he has before there is a crescendo of icy wind and sleet. The security of sleep is torn away from him, and icicles like serrated knives drive into every inch of him. An indescribable weight presses down on each of his limbs, his chest, his head.
He gapes like a fish out of water, struggling to breathe.
No, it is more than that. He cannot move. No matter how he tries, every muscle and nerve is suspended between his will and the force of the magic pressing down upon him. Trapped and shivering, he tries to scream into the void, but it is so mercilessly, vindictively cold, his teeth clench and his jaw trembles, locked in place. What was once sweet has gone sour and bitter and disgusting. The dark is far from a respite now. It is a thing of horror stories, its winds howling and seething with hidden monsters and ghouls, and so deep as to bear a summons to devils and Death itself.
He drowns in it. Panic rises uncomfortably slowly, clawing up from his innermost sanctuary with talons of stone, made laborious by the weight of the foul magic keeping him pinned below full consciousness. He strains and rages against it, trying with all his might to splutter and gasp so much as a single breath.
He's never sensed magic so terrible and cruel. Never, in his whole life, had he felt such malice and wrath behind it, not even when called upon to exterminate a new magical beast born of any manner of dark magics. Not even when sent to capture a rebel sorcerer, who has every reason to hate Camelot and those who rule from its castle.
And never—never—had it all been aimed, with pointed and clinical accuracy, at him.
He flounders, scrabbling for purchase up to wakefulness. But he can't—he can't…
A strike of lightning shatters an otherwise black sky. Merlin's magic is an arrow fired from a longbow, trailing a tail of flames so vibrant they sear through the space between them.
Desperate, acting more on instinct than sense, Arthur slams through his barriers and snaps his awareness out for Merlin's magic, reaching, reaching—
And like the first day they met, it floods into his empty spaces. Splinters of light break through the darkness, fracturing the hellscape of the spell's influence, and he flies for the surface.
The pressure holding him back shatters, and Merlin's magic lights a conflagration of sensation within him. It surges within him like dragonfire, an all-consuming light that sings its fierce and spectacular joy for life, and then…then…
It bursts into embers, scattering sparks and cocooning him in a safety net so secure and profound a lump forms in Arthur's throat.
He's free.
His heart leaps in his chest, and with the unbidden tears comes the rest.
The noise of the real word comes rushing back to him in the sound of crashing wood and metal. His eyes fly open, and he staggers, half-deaf and blind, limbs alight with zings of pain, to his unsteady feet. He bangs his shins against his chair and nearly falls over, only to catch himself on the edge of the table. A plate corroded with rust and covered with rotting food scatters before him.
His gorge rises at the stink, but he swallows back the bile. Arms quaking, he ignores everything else and drags himself up.
The entire hall is silent as a graveyard. As grand and bright as it was during the feast, it now looks as though the entire court abandoned it to ruin centuries ago. The malicious magic wrought a dark and dank nightmare of the place. Spiderwebs drape over every available surface, and not a single candle remains lit to dispel the shadows of the night. Lumps beneath the webs stir as guests and servants alike wake from the sleeping spell Lady of Helen's song had put them under.
A chain from the fallen chandelier clinks and clangs as it swings loose above their heads. And there, before the high table, the entire iron-wrought piece lies broken atop an old woman with wispy white hair, dressed in Lady Helen's bronze gown.
Uther Pendragon surges to his feet, eyes burning with rage.
Arthur stares at the crone, aghast and sick to his stomach by the taste her curse had left behind. What is she? An imposter? An illusion?
Morgana's words return to him, about the execution a few days ago, about how a mother had watched her son die. She promised vengeance for her son, Morgana said. 'An eye for an eye.' I fear for you.
Assumptions and connections snap into a fully-formed narrative, and Arthur cannot believe how stupid he's been.
He didn't sense it. Not then, and certainly not now. This whole time, this whole damn time—
The woman raises her head to glare at him with hatred-filled eyes, and before Arthur can process what she intends to do, she lifts herself up onto her elbows, then her hands, and, in one swift movement, hurls a dagger.
He knows, innately, her dagger flies true.
It hits him then, as it does in dreams.
His gut lurches out from under him, but as Merlin's magic coalesces around him, cracking like a whip into the space between him and the dagger, he does not allow it to sweep his feet out from under him.
It's so pure, so clean and bright and good. It washes away the taint left by the imposter's curse, and Arthur…
He is not afraid. Not of this. Not any more.
He does not fight. He allows it in. His vision smudges and blurs with running ink, colors and motion fading and swimming together. Instead of triggering his vertigo, Arthur blinks and stands strong. Golden light pulses at the edges of his vision, so at odds with the imposter's sickening, wretched magic that he catches himself near laughter. His vision shimmers in an attempt to right itself, and just as the room jerks into clarity again, strong hands shove at him from the side.
Merlin's momentum carries them both over the arms of Arthur's chair, and together, they crash to the ground. The telltale schnick of a dagger hitting home sounds behind him, and Arthur flips over to see the witch's dagger sticking out from the back of the chair.
Right where his heart had been not even seconds before.
The witch heaves a rattling sigh and crumples back to the floor. Her sour magic hisses weakly against Arthur's senses and trails after her last remaining breaths like an unraveling spool of vile thread until…
It's gone.
And she is dead.
By the gods. Arthur stares at Merlin, who scrambles up onto his knees and returns his stare, chest rising and falling like a blacksmith's bellows. He looks at Arthur as though he cannot believe he's real, eyes wide and unblinking. When he finally registers Arthur's alright, relief floods the young man's face, and the tension lining his shoulders slackens as he slumps in half, bending at the waist.
"That wasn't fun," Merlin wheezes under his breath, offering a crooked, shaky smile.
Merlin's magic is not nearly so shaken by the night's events. It purrs contentedly in Arthur's chest, vibrating straight through him. Gods, it is so strong Arthur doesn't think he can gain his feet without help. Certainly not without tipping sideways, anyway.
"Wasn't fun?" Arthur repeats incredulously, inappropriate hilarity catching up with him at the terrible understatement. "Wasn't—"
"You!"
Merlin goes pale as a sheet, and his tentative smile drops like melted butter from his face. Even with a few inches between them, Arthur can feel the fine tremor erupt in Merlin's hands. The magic within them shrinks and cowers away.
Arthur hisses a grunt at its retreat and presses the heel of his palm against his sternum. A fresh rush of adrenaline clears his head, and he drops his hand, instead bracing himself against the floor so that he can prepare himself to rise.
For the king approaches with an aggressive tread and comes to stand above them both, pale eyes intent and….
Afraid. The king was afraid.
Arthur blinks, staggered anew by the sight.
"Your Majesty," Merlin murmurs, voice breaking as climbs to his feet with all the grace of a newborn fawn.
Arthur, his heart in his throat, follows at a more sedate pace, part of him convinced he might slide right back down to the floor the moment he stands. Half-formed, crazy plans and contingencies trample through his mind. His hand twitches for his sword, prepared to draw in Merlin's defense.
He will not see Merlin die today. Not after accruing a debt such as this. If his father thinks he saw something, he will convince him otherwise. He will—
"You saved my boy's life," Uther says, breathless. Arthur relaxes immediately, shocked as his father's uncharacteristically gentle gaze flits to him before returning to Merlin. He runs an assessing gaze up and down Merlin, and Arthur can see him noting his common clothing and lack of house finery. "Ah. Gaius' lad, are you not?"
"Yes, Sire," Merlin murmurs.
The king nods, as though it is only to be expected. "I must repay you for such valor."
Merlin looks as though he's swallowed a lemon. He looks as though he'd rather be anywhere else, with anyone else, and existing at any other possible second of time than the one he is currently suffering through right now. He bows his head, subservient, and clenches his trembling hands into fists at his sides. His voice is a little less tremulous when he says, "Um, no, Sire, please, that's not—"
Arthur almost steps in to take some of the attention off Merlin. Instead of responding to Merlin's more casual address with anger, Uther looks charmed by his awkward floundering.
"Don't be so modest," his father says with a growing smile. "You shall be rewarded."
"No, honestly," Merlin says, and Arthur swears, for all the knights he's trained, for all those who had trained him, he has never encountered a man so brave in his entire life because Merlin, despite his fear, looks the king in the eye. "You don't have to do that, Your Majesty."
Uther's eyes glint, and his determination compounds. The guests watch, starstruck and awed by the spectacle. It is not often such a lowborn man receives the king's favor, and certainly not in such a public setting. "No, absolutely," his father insists. "This merits something quite special."
Merlin's eyes dart to Arthur, looking for a way out, but he catches himself and carefully avoids looking at the prince again as he shuffles his feet. "It was what anyone would do. I can't accept—"
"Nonsense," the king interrupts, and this time, his tone implies he will hear no more. It is also not often that a lowborn man refuses the king's favor. Twice. Arthur knows a third refusal will not be tolerated. The disbelieving murmurs of the guests die down, and all eyes latch onto Merlin.
"You will be awarded a position in the royal household." Uther claps a hand on Arthur's shoulder. His knees threaten to buckle, but he holds steady as the king grins at him.
And somehow, Arthur knows. He knows exactly what his father will say before he says it.
"Father—"
Uther speaks right over him and announces, to the court, to the world, "You will be Prince Arthur's new manservant."
The king's guests and the rest of the court erupt into applause as Merlin and Arthur stare at each other, bemused and undoubtedly thinking the same exact thing.
What in the absolute hell.
Author's Note: ayyyy I did a fair amount of editing for this on my phone at work, so sorry if it's poorly done, lol. I need to get it out into the world, so I can get to work on wrapping this one up. Next chapter will be the last. :D
Oz out.