The Prince Regent of Camelot

by halfhardtorock

Summary:

"You're the prince? You?" the boy says, voice full of shock. Arthur's eyes narrow. The boy's eyes narrow in return, gone critical in the most insolent way possible.

 

 

The sun is like a close fire, sweating up his nape. He pulls the leather strap at his wrist with his teeth, then tosses his gauntlet.

He's unbelting his mail as he walks across the field to the woods, letting it hang loose at his knees like a sleep tunic. He wraps the tanned leather belt in his fist jerkily, promisingly. Sir Leon crouches in wait, leaning forward on his sword stuck in the ground. He watches Arthur go.

Gaius and his little pupils stand at the wood-line, watching their prince come like startled game birds, frozen in the grass before taking flight. All of them except the dark haired one, who jumps up and stands behind the old man.

Arthur rolls his eyes.

"Come here," he says impatiently when he's within speaking distance. They all stare at him, agape.

One of the little boys pulls off his hat and starts crying into it in fear.

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, stern. "You will come."

The children all swivel slowly and Gaius sighs, moves aside, casting a disapproving frown at the boy trying to duck behind him.

The boy pauses there, staring at Arthur. Unmoving. He's tall like a stubborn weed in a garden of little striplings.

Sighing, Arthur strides forward and the other boys scatter. One falls onto his back in the long grass, stunned.

"Sire, he meant nothing by it," Gaius begins but Arthur strides past him, takes the boy's firmly by the scruff of his neck.

The boy gasps, hiccups "Urgh, let go!"

Arthur growls "Well this is no little Lordling--"

"No, your highness. He's...my apprentice. He is just newly arrived, Sire. He should not have yelled what he did, but he had no idea who he was speaking to."

"You're the prince? You?" the boy says, voice full of shock. Arthur's eyes narrow. The boy's eyes narrow in return, gone critical in the most insolent way possible.

"Merlin, hold your tongue," Gaius says harshly, looking out for the boy.

Arthur fists the boy's nape, feeling the knobby bone underhand. It's enough that the boy winces at it and trots along obediently as Arthur takes him away from the others.

"But ah. You...it's not like I was wrong. You shouldn't be just swinging that around all--" the boy babbles anxiously.

Arthur leads him into a stand of oaks. Then turns him, hand to the boy's shoulder, and holds him to a tree.

The boy has a look about him. Something about the eyes. Arthur watches the boy's face turn from something almost pretty into open, ridiculous dubiousness. He quirks his brow at Arthur in judgment, even though he's breathing quickly.

"Do you commonly laugh and yell rudely at men with weapons? Did you grow up in some...odd, backwards hamlet where that kind of behavior was suitable? Do defenseless boys do this often in your village?"

The boy's expression is almost self-righteous when he says "I'm not defenseless ."

"Turn around and bare your backside," Arthur says wearily. "We'll see how defenseless you are."

The boy stares at him, mouth set. Arthur stares back, brow raised.

The boy huffs out a hard breath, "No."

So Arthur turns him easily, grabs the boy's loose breeches and tugs.

The boy yelps. Arthur pins him to the tree, unravels his fisted belt. "You must be used to this," he says.

And before the boy can talk back, he whips that little arse with his belt, his palm between the boy's shoulders, holding him still.

The boy makes choked gasps with each short blow.

 

 

He's not even winded when he's done, he's barely given the boy more than four, light strokes. But when the boy turns around, he's trembling as he jerks his breeches back up, and he's got a dark flush of color on his face.

Arthur looks at his handiwork as he cinches his belt back on.

And then he sighs, uncomfortable, cuffs the boy in the back of the head and says "There, there. I could have put you in the stocks for the night, but I went easy. It can't be half as bad as what your da must have given you daily, cheeky little thing like you."

The boy's eyes dart up to his, fix there for a curious moment and then he dashes off. Just like that. Arthur looks after him.

He walks out of the woods, a few yards away from Gaius and his students. The man pauses and shares a look with Arthur. The dark haired boy is standing in front of Gaius, head dropped forward on his shoulders, sullen in chastisement, his hands clasped neatly and obediently behind his back.

While Arthur watches Gaius lecture the boy, he sees the boy's spindly fingers sneak down from his clasped hands to rub at his hurt little arse.

Arthur meets Sir Leon in the training field once more.

Sir Leon takes his position while Arthur puts his helmet back on.

They spar for a few moments, Arthur swinging his mace, and then they pause. Arthur can hear Sir Leon start laughing softly.

"Watch it with the mace, lunkhead, you're going to brain yourself!" Sir Leon copies the boy's high-pitched voice.

They chuckle quietly together, shoulder's shaking. Then Arthur says "He has all the courage of a complete idiot. Mark my words, we'll have to keep our eye out for that one."

 

 

He brings out his small, flat box of instruments, sets it on the edge of the table.

Then he surveys his work.

When the first table in his chambers proved too small for his ambition, he had pressed old Geoffrey for one of the long, low tables in the library.

Now he has much more work room, and sprung up on the table top is Camelot's Western Woods, the long Machias Flats and the White Mountain's edge, all carved carefully out of wood.

He finds where he had left off, the quiet druid village in the 12-A sector of the tabletop. He looks through his little wooden huts and finds the tiny, unfinished goat.

Inspecting it, he opens his box by feel, draws out the glass and the small, sharp knife.

He sits, puts the glass to his eye and begins the slow work of bringing some life to the little goat's face.

 

 

He feels arms wrap loose around his shoulders, would spook if he didn't see the wink of green silk. He ignores her, blows a little wood curl off the tree he's working on.

"Your eyes will ache tomorrow, let me fetch more candles," Morgana says to him, propping her sharp chin on his shoulder so she can watch his work.

"Mmm," he says, distracted. He focuses on the small knot in the tree's side, where it will look as though large branch had been removed. A sure sign that this part of the forest is groomed, cared for, peopled.

Morgana is quiet for a long time, just watching. But then he has to displace her, sitting forward to put the tree amongst the others in his forest.

He plucks the glass from his eye, looks around at her. She walks the table, tracing the landscape of Camelot with her fingertips in the air, never touching.

"It's lovely. Is that a goat?"

He grins and settles in his chair to watch her appraisal. She pauses at the high edge of the land and puts her hand there, where the citadel will be, once he carves it.

"It's like how it must have been, before the Pendragons," she says, leaning down to peer through the trees.

"What a lawless time that must have been," he says with so much relish, she rolls her eyes.

"Just like your father. I always thought you liked the glory of battle, but it's really the battle itself you enjoy," she says. It's a scold, but he just nods once, says "Thank you, Morgana."

She smiles at him and then sweeps back around, kisses his brow before she leaves. "Will you carve me for your lawless lands?"

He looks back at her, brow quirked in amusement. And says "You would be the druid's captive. Forced to work in a swine garden."

She sticks out her tongue from the parted door and then leaves, closing it behind her.

He will look for a good piece of wood for such a carving tomorrow.

 

 

He father is...laughing.

Sir Leon looks over at Arthur, perplexed, as he walks into father's outer rooms. Arthur slows, frowning.

His father is winded by the time he is finished, and wiping his eyes dry.

"Father? Is there something wrong?"

"No, no," his father says, pouring some wine. And then he pauses and starts chuckling again, like the sound escapes him, beyond his control.

Sir Leon is slowly smiling now too, though it's mixed with apprehension.

Arthur meets his father and Uther passes him the wine and then pours a glass for himself. They both drink and his father smiles and says "Come, look for yourself."

His father unlatches and pushes open the window glass, grinning. They both look out.

Far down in the courtyard, there is some kind of rustic disturbance going on. A single, white chicken is charging around the yard, squawking and jumping and fluttering her useless wings.

Chasing it is the dark-haired boy from the other day, whose backside was pinked on Arthur's belt. As they watch, he makes a dive and disappears behind a horse trough.

Uther chuckles, almost sobered now, says "I have watched this lad chase that chicken for two hours."

Arthur snorts. Staring.

The boy comes up from behind the trough, hair stuck through with straw.

"He almost had her an hour ago, but she's rather wily, that chicken. Perhaps we should draft her into the guard."

Arthur can't help but smile now too, especially when the dark-haired boy bellows, arms waving and rushes at the bird again.

The leave the window and Sir Leon quickly peers out.

"Isn't that the boy you took your hand to, the day last?" Sir Leon asks.

Father gives him a curious look.

"It was my belt, and yes. He's not only bungling but rather sassy too," Arthur says, sitting down with his wine.

"What, pray tell my son, was his offense?" Uther asks, joining him at the table.

"He was yelling taunts at me and Sir Leon on the practice field," Arthur says, and his father breaks into a laugh again.

When he's done, he has to drink a long pull of wine. And then he asks "How came he to be in the practice field?"

"He is Gaius's new apprentice," Arthur informs him, eyebrows raised.

"Oh well. Than we shall all be accidentally poisoned by Michaelmas," his father says airily.

"No doubt," Arthur returns.

 

 

It is darkening when he leaves, long after Sir Leon. His head is full of the summer harvest numbers, so he is a bit slow to notice the boy trotting behind Gaius, who is coming to his father's chambers.

The boy notices him though, double-takes, eyes widening.

Arthur stops them with a "Did you catch that illusive hen?"

The boy's eyes cut down to the floor instantly, and he looks as chastised as a bad dog. Arthur pauses.

"You didn't, did you? What happened then?"

The boy's mouth works. Gaius sighs and waits at the door to Father's chambers. Finally, the boy says gravely "She...jumped onto a low roof and disappeared."

Arthur has to bite his tongue hard to hold in his laugh. He sterns his face.

"Then you must go in and tell the king. He is to have word of this lost livestock."

The boy's face is all open horror. Gaius clears his throat, as though to catch Arthur's attention. Arthur ignores him.

"Go on, by yourself. You are the only one to blame," Arthur says coldly, waving his hand at the door.

The boy wrings his hands, looks to Gaius for guidance.

Arthur pretends to feel pity, rests his arm over the boy's narrow set of shoulders, but only to draw him closer to the door. "Go on, now. Be a brave lad. Just tell him the truth. He shall probably spare you your life for your honesty."

The boy's prominent adam's apple rolls as he swallows back his fear, and then his jaw sharpens, determined, he opens the door and goes in.

Gaius gives Arthur a long, disapproving look.

Arthur waits quietly, listening. And then comes his father's long, happy laughter and Arthur grins.

"You should go in before he teases the boy to death," he says to Gaius, and holds the door for him.

 

 

"Geoffrey," he says curtly, breezing by, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"Ah, Sire--" Geoffrey stammers and rises from the piles of books at his desk. "Sire!"

Arthur makes it to the section he's looking for just as Geoffrey rounds the corner and cuts him off. The old man bars the way.

"Perhaps his majesty could tell me what he's looking for?" Geoffrey says delicately.

Arthur puts his hand on the shelf beside him, gives the man a haughty look. But Geoffrey has weathered worse from the King, and only blinks owlishly a few times, eyebrows fluttering before he says "Hm?"

Arthur deflates. "I need a book on color."

"Color?" Geoffrey asks, puzzled.

"A book on natural sources, for color," Arthur says, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "Do you have such a thing."

"Natural sources for color," Geoffrey repeats. "Natural. Sources for...color."

"Yesss," Arthur sighs, exasperated.

"Let me see," Geoffrey begins to look around at the shelves nearest him. Peering at books, he strokes his beards a few times. Then he turns to the other shelf and says "Ah-ha. Mmmm-hm. Let's see."

Arthur follows, lost.

Geoffrey takes down a book while mumbling to himself "Ah yes, mmm-hm. Yes."

Arthur perks. "Is that--?"

"Oh no. Oh no no," Geoffrey says, distractedly, replacing the book. "Ah!"

Arthur perks again.

"No. No," Geoffrey says distractedly, looking down the line of shelves.

It is only then that Arthur feels that familiar rise of murderousness. It has been this way since he was a boy, that he has felt very close to running the man through with a sword. Many times.

"Just, have it sent up to me in my rooms as soon as possible," Arthur says roughly.

"Mmm, yes yes," Geoffrey says, wandering away.

 

 

He's got his glass on, and he's very, very carefully affixing a tiny weather vane to a barn roof when there's a knock.

"Come in," he mutters, engrossed in his work.

His visitor is quiet for a long moment while he works, so when he looks up, he's surprised to find Gaius's boy there, book cinched close to his chest while he silently peers at Arthur's table.

His expression is awestruck.

"Did you do all of this yourself?" he asks. No Sire, may I ask a question? nor Sire, here is your book, may I look? Arthur sits back in his seat, removing the glass.

"Yes? Do you have something for me or are you just come into my chambers to gawk?"

The boy laughs suddenly, a burst of pleasure, and picks up one of Arthur's carvings. "Is this Ethel from the dairy? You made her a bit top-heavy, don't you think? She looks like she's about to fall over--"

Arthur stands abruptly, which makes the boy drop the little wooden Ethel on the table, the book on the floor, his hands startled open.

"I do not know how you have gotten this far in life without having your arse permanently scarred, boy," Arthur says, neatly slipping off his belt. The boy's eyes widen, watching.

"Turn around. No, not at the table. Rest your hands on the back of the chair."

It takes some force, because the boy is surly. But when Arthur finally has his arse bared again, he finds it as sweet and unblemished as the first time he took his belt to it.

He chuckles to himself, which makes the boy almost turn again, so he gives that arse a firm, teasing smack of the folded belt. The boy swallows audibly, clutches the chair back.

"When you come into my rooms, you stand to the side, eyes downcast, waiting for me to acknowledge you. You address me as Sire. You say only what needs to be said. You bow. You leave as quickly as possible," Arthur teaches him. And then he gives the boy a quick, gentled whipping. Just enough so he remembers.

When he's done, he leaves the belt on the table, picks up the book.

The boy's out of breath, pulling his breeches back up with a grimace, shivering.

"Ah, good," Arthur says, flipping through the book. "How came you by this?"

The boy doesn't answer for a few moments, but then finally stutters out "I was...r-returning a book for Gaius. Geoffrey told me to bring this to you."

Arthur flips through again and then frowns. "Weld, what on earth is Weld?"

"S'a little flowering plant, looks like fox-tails," the boy mumbles like he thinks Arthur was asking him. He's busy retying his laces with fumbly fingers.

Arthur stares at him.

"You could find this plant?" Arthur demands.

The boy looks up at him frowningly, then says "Course."

Arthur takes the boy by the shoulder. "What's your name again, saucy little brat?"

The boy's bottom lip sticks out in a small pout, and when he says "Merlin," it's grouchy, irritated.

Arthur grins. "Merlin. Come back tomorrow at the first bell. Tell Gaius you will be gone the day."

The boy's face is full of panic. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"I will bring you back in one piece, Merlin."

The boy nods stiffly and goes to leave but then pauses, turns. His shoulders are quaking.

"I won't go. Not if you are going to...to s-spank me again."

Arthur marvels. The boy can't make eye contact, but he is standing up as straight-backed as he can, which is better than most men in Arthur's presence.

He rubs his bottom lip with his thumb, amused. Then says "Fine. You have my word."

The boy shoots him a surprised look and then blushes, goes to leave the room. He struggles with the door latch like it's stuck for a few awkward moments while Arthur watches. But then he yanks it open with a little, breathless grunt and leaves.

Arthur settles back into his chair and tries to puzzle out the book's meaning. He's still reading when the room grows dark and Lucien comes to light his candles.

"Do you know what an indigo plant looks like, Lucien?" Arthur asks.

"I don't believe so, Sire," Lucien says, adding a piece of wood to the fire. It's that odd time, at the beginning of fall, when the days can be so hot, the sudden night's chill can steal into your chambers unexpected.

Arthur tosses the book on the floor beside his chair which Lucien immediately fetches, silently, and puts on the stand beside his bed where Arthur will certainly want for it later.

Arthur turns his chair around and then rests his head on the seat back. He stares at the fire as Lucien crouches to remove his boots.

"Do you know this new apprentice of Gaius's?" Arthur asks lazily.

"The gangly boy who received a royal whipping in the woods?" Lucien wonders. Arthur smirks.

"It was just a mild belting. You must be sure to challenge rumors of worse, if you hear them."

"Of course, Sire," Lucien says and bows as he leaves the room to fetch the bath.

Arthur settles and waits, fingers roaming over his work, smoothing along the long path of the river.

 

 

He expects a sulky boy this early in the morning, dragging his mulish feet, hair all pillow-mussed and eyes creased all half-asleep still.

But the boy, Merlin, meets him in the hall tripping in his haste to greet Arthur. And then all the way down through the citadel and out into the courtyard and then to the fields and the woods, the boy talks, endlessly, a happy stream of chatter like flies burring in Arthur's ear. Arthur keeps glancing back at him with disapproving looks, finally settling on saying "Lord, how you talk! And it is a stream of complete and utter nonsense, isn't it? I have no idea, for the life of me, why you think that I would be so earnestly interested in hearing about the milk cow in your home hamlet that kicked a dog in the head. For the sake of the many gods, will you please hold your blasted tongue!"

The boy goes quiet then, and when Arthur gazes back curiously, he sees the red on his cheeks like clap-marks, this mortification given just as meanly as a slap would have been. Arthur palms his own face, exasperated.

They are on a meandering trail in the forest, near the village. He pauses and takes the boy by the knobby little elbow, draws him near.

The boy won't meet his eyes, his mouth sweetly turned down. He looks completely crestfallen.

Arthur sighs "Merlin," the sound of it causing a slight unease, like something he'll be saying many times over. "Can you just point me to where the Weld is??"

The boy's mouth quirks. He points--

--at the fluffy little flowering plants all along the trail. They blow like soft feathers in the fall air.

"We have been walking in them for half an hour, haven't we?" Arthur asks, squeezing the boy's elbow sharply.

"You promised not to use the belt again," the boy reminds him hastily.

Arthur's jaw works, and then he frees him. Says "Come then, gather these flowers. Make sure to bring one with her roots to re-plant in the palace gardens. Go on."

The boy looks distrustful about being let off so easy, and with good reason. As soon as he turns and bends, Arthur bites his lip, gives him one, sound smack to his bony little bottom.

The boy yelps like a pup.

 

 

He calls for Lucien as soon as he's back at his rooms, throws off his cloak and begins searching through the little book's pages for instructions. He worries at his lip with his thumb and finger, pinching it while he reads and ponders.

"Damnable maths," he mumbles and then hears a polite throat clear.

He glances up and the boy is still there, bent forward awkwardly, back heavy with his heavy load of Weld, tied like a haystack there.

Arthur waves his hand impatiently at the floor by the door. "Leave it there," he says and puts the book on the table.

"Lucien!" he yells again, and goes behind his screen to change out of his wool tunic into a thinner work shirt.

When he comes back out, tucking it into his breeches, the boy is still there. Hovering awkwardly by the big pile of flowers.

Arthur rolls his eyes, but Lucien comes in just then and he has no time to berate the boy.

"Here, remove my boots," he tells Lucien quickly, sitting at the edge of his table. "You. Get out."

The boy's eyes widen and he looks surprised into almost saying something, but Arthur interrupts with "Yes, yes. Go."

The boy swallows, turns to leave. But then thinks twice, turns back and bows jerkily at Arthur. His face is flushed as he finally does go.

Lucien, on one knee at Arthur's feet, is turned silently to watch him leave.

When he looks back to his work without any response, Arthur says "We need to commandeer the lower kitchens. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, Sire," Lucien says, tone completely dismissing the fact that getting the lower kitchens out of the clutches of the cook and her girls would be a feat even for Arthur. Arthur grins. Lucien is all a proper manservant should be.

"Excellent. I will prepare my things and meet you there in a half-hour."

Lucien sweeps out with a bow, face placid. Arthur kneels at the Weld, plucks up a flower and sniffs it, then turns it delicately in his fingers.

 

 

There is pale yellow everywhere.

Lucien has a streak of it on his face. He stands to the side, arms crossed over his chest as he watches, silent.

Arthur drags his arms out of the dye and whips them dry in the air with a sweeping gesture. "Why is it so watery?" he laments.

And then he groans, smells at himself. "The vinegar is awful."

He looks around the lower kitchen, at the puddle of yellow water on the floor, the drip of it off the side of the wooden table.

The way all his shirt has taken on a faint, marigold color.

He grumbles as he looks through the little book again, finding the pages newly yellowed and stuck together. He throws it at the wall in frustration. "What went wrong!?"

Lucien picks the book up civilly, holds it and waits as Arthur stirs at the dye again, muttering to himself.

 

 

Arthur sits in bed, biting at his finger as he flips pages. He's in his sleeping gown, and he's reading in the dying firelight as Lucien gathers pillows and arranges them neatly behind him.

"Shall we try again tomorrow, my lord?" Lucien asks.

"No," Arthur sighs, falling back into the pillows, hands to his book, holding it close.

Lucien pauses, waits for him to give it up. After a moment, Arthur does, disappointed.

"Will that be all, Sire?" he asks and Arthur yawns, nods. And then says "No. I'd like you to bring the boy to me in the morning."

"The boy, Sire?" Lucien asks.

"Mmm. The...strange chap. Gaius's boy. Bring him to me, first bell."

"Yes, Sire," Lucien says, leaving the book on the table before he sweeps out.

Arthur lies there, staring at the canopy before he pushes up, goes to sit at the table.

In the silence, he sits with his knees drawn up to his chest, book perched there like a schoolboy, trying to understand the maths.

 

 

The boy shows with Lucien and his breakfast at first bell. Arthur is standing in just his sleep hose, yawning, waiting for his clothes to be fetched.

Merlin freezes half in the doorway when he sees him, eyes widening. Lucien readily perches Arthur's breakfast at the edge of the table and removes a tunic from the wardrobe, neatly helps Arthur into it. Then he finds Arthur's belt.

"Your father would like an afternoon patrol out at the river. There were bandits on the road."

"Mmmm," Arthur says affirmatively, and lets his riding coat be fitted onto him.

Then Lucien leaves silently, and Arthur sets down at his breakfast.

After a sausage, he looks back at the boy, who is still frozen there, caught.

"Gods, will you stop hovering! Sit!"

The boy comes forward, a gangly trip of limbs, and pulls out a chair with a lot of scraping ruckus before he finally sits. Arthur rolls his eyes, drinks his mead.

"What is your name again?" he asks, half-interested.

"Merlin," the boy says, staring at his food now.

"Merlin," Arthur snorts, remembering. "That's not a proper name, is it? That's a bird, a merlin."

Merlin nods, fiddling his hands at the edge of the table. "Yes, Sire."

"A man should have a proper name, like Benjamin or Harold or Peter. Not...Merlin."

Arthur drinks again and when he puts down his tankard, he spies the boy's fingers stealing across a wooden model of a church.

"Do not," Arthur says, voice raised so the boy instantly recoils, "touch that."

The boy folds his hands in his lap, looks unhappy.

Arthur continues on about the boy's ridiculous name until he finishes eating. When he's done, the boy's shoulders slump like they are weighted. His cheeks are mottled.

Arthur cleans up, tosses his napkin on his empty plate and rises. "Come then," he says heartily. "Grab the book."

The boy stands but just looks at him, face miserable.

"There," Arthur gestures towards the book by his bed. "There. Are you daft? By the bed? The book?"

Merlin goes over and grabs it, turns hugging it to his chest. His mouth is turned down, unhappy.

"Oh don't pout," Arthur rolls his eyes. But when the boy joins him at the door, he tousles his dark hair roughly. "Don't pout."

"M'not," Merlin says sharply, but he knuckles his eyes like he's close to crying.

Arthur is at a loss. Finally, he squeezes the boy's shoulder and says "There, there. You ridiculous boy. Cheer up."

 

 

The lower kitchens are how he left them, with stern orders to the grumpy cook and her girls to stay out.

Merlin looks at the mess with his mouth open in a soft O of surprise.

"Yes, well," Arthur says, clearing his throat at the yellow stains on the wall. "Can you make heads or tails of this?"

He draws Merlin by the sleeve to the pot of bright yellow water and the boy peers in, a little dip in his fine brow, face critical.

Arthur stares at the boy's face distractedly, for it is the silliest expression it has made yet, all grave and thoughtful.

The boy pushes back his sleeves to show some stick-thin arms, long and hairless, and a knot of an elbow. He reaches into the pot and does the most curious thing with his tongue, touching it to his lip as he concentrates.

He feels around in the pot and then smiles suddenly, eyes snapping to Arthur's.

"Look," he says, and pulls his hand free. His arm is stained pale yellow, looks queer in the sunlight. But on his very fingertips is thick, sludgy gold.

Arthur peers closer. "What--?"

"The bottom is covered with it! If you remove the top water, you'll have a whole lot of this thicker stuff. You can let it dry into a powder and just add oil when you want to use it!" Merlin says triumphantly.

Arthur's face must betray his hopefulness, because the boy grins, face split by it.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself," he says, and cuffs the boy's stupid head. "Your peasant knowledge has come in handy this once, don't let it go to your head."

Arthur watches the boy's face fall. He smiles, sweeps a bit of the golden paint from Merlin's fingertips and brushes it right down the boy's nose.

Merlin jerks back, annoyed, face petulant.

"Hmmm," Arthur laughs at him. "That's a bit better."

 

 

With a tiny brush, he paints the straw of the tiny huts golden, and then the hay stacks in the fields. And then the tiny braids of his milk maid.

He settles back in his chair, thumbing his lip, looking over his work.

And then he grins, grabs up his book and searches through for a recipe for Blue.

 

"Where is he?" he asks Gaius, looking in on Gaius's chambers.

Gaius shakes his head, grim. "He was to be here, Sire, but I have not seen him all morning."

"He is neglecting his work?" Arthur asks, frowning.

Gaius seems loathe to acknowledge it, but he sighs finally and nods.

Arthur snorts, shuts the door behind him.

He walks rapidly through the castle, searching for him.

After the hour is up, he finds himself irked beyond reason, his shoulders tight with it.

"Where is the boy!" he bellows out the window at Lucien, whom he sees crossing the courtyard with Arthur's cleaned armor.

"In the back field behind the citadel, Sire," Lucien calls back.

Arthur grits his teeth, ends up walking rapidly the whole way, sure that by the time he gets there, the boy will be gone already.

But he isn't. He's out there with three other boys, some mangy looking creatures, probably stable boys, playing a game in the faded grass.

He's got one of his fool neckerchiefs tied over his eyes and he's waving his arms, laughing, trying to catch one of the other boys, who plays at darting close and then running out of reach.

When the boys see Arthur, they banish themselves like nervous dogs.

Arthur strides through the dry grass towards him, stripping his belt off with sure fingers.

"Ahaha, where are you? John?" Merlin grins, arms out, feeling the air for one of the boys.

He ends up with a handful of Arthur's soft tunic for a moment, and then Arthur growls "No," and Merlin breathes in sharply.

Arthur ends up in the grass with the boy over his lap. He yanks the boy's breeches down and tries but can't quite whip him this way. So instead, he takes his own hand to the boy's backside.

"Shirking your duties," he growls, spanking him.

It's a good, long thrashing. When he is done, his face is hot and he's out of breath.

The boy rolls off his lap whimpering and flushed, eyes still covered with his red neckerchief.

Arthur looks at him, the way his mouth is gasping, the way a trickle of sweat runs from under the neckerchief, down his red face. Arthur reaches, strips the cloth off the boy's eyes.

Merlin blinks a few times, then his blue eyes open, look at Arthur, long and silent.

Arthur gets up. His palm tingles, all itchy and hot. He rubs it over his hip, staring at the boy.

The grass rustles around them. They catch their breath as Arthur slips his belt back on.

Then he offers the boy his hand. After a moment, Merlin takes it and Arthur yanks him up to his feet.

They walk back to the castle together, the boy limping a bit, wincing.

"Is it bad?" Arthur asks lightly.

"Yeah," Merlin admits, face down. "And you promised you wouldn't."

"Yes, well. Will you shirk your duties again?" Arthur asks.

Merlin soundlessly shakes his head.

"Good, if you keep your promise, I will keep mine," Arthur cuffs an arm around his shoulder, tugs him close and leads him up to his rooms.

 

 

Merlin spends the rest of the day loitering like an invalid in Arthur's bed, on his stomach, kicking his legs and happily looking through the book while Arthur carves.

"We'll have to get indigo at the market, cause it doesn't grow here. Not wild. Perhaps we can find a farmer with some! My mum would have known where to get loads of it. Loads and loads," he prattles on.

"Mmm," Arthur half-listens, then blows off the shavings on his wooden horse.

"And we should go collect the rest of what we can from the forest, cause it's near the end of when things grow, and snow will fall soon," Merlin goes on, and Arthur hears pages flipping.

"Ha!" Merlin says, voice excited. "I know this one. This one I could find easy."

Arthur sets his horse down in the druid village, inspects his work.

"The book says you can only find it in warmer valleys, but me and my mum used to go to this clearing on the mountain where the sun is close and there was a bush, no! Three whole bushes of berries! I wish we were there now. We could collect buckets and buckets of them! We could have enough to color the whole castle!"

Arthur smiles to himself, listening peacefully as he begins brushing off and working a new, raw piece of wood.

 

The air is cold, and snow fall hangs like a promise in the low, heavy clouds.

"Fetch Merlin, fetch Merlin!" Arthur shouts at a page running by, who trips in his haste to turn back and run in the opposite direction.

Arthur groans under the weight of the steaming, vinegary pot, carrying from one kitchen to the other, where there is more counter space.

He sets it down with the others, is just checking his hands for blisters before going quickly to bring the other pots off the fire. He's slowly carrying another when the boy finally appears, out of breath.

Arthur growls. "Where were you?? I called for you an hour ago!"

The boy takes the other side of the pot, his sleeves covering his hands, and together, they bear its weight into the other kitchen.

"S'that the onion skins?" Merlin wonders when they place the steamy pot with the others.

Arthur is out of sorts, dripping sweat, tunic slick to his chest. He glares at the boy.

But the boy's face is all bright and happy. "Come! I have to show you something!"

So Arthur follows the boy, probably on a fool's errand, across the castle in his wet shirt, to Gaius's chambers.

Gaius is working when they come in, says "Sire," dryly and turns back to his shelf of herbs.

"This had better be good, Merlin--" Arthur begins, but then the words dry up as Merlin triumphantly raises the jar.

Inside, there is a very distinct, very vibrant powder.

"Dear Lord," Arthur exhales without thinking. "How...how did you--?"

"There was a traveler in the market this morning," Gaius says from across the room, "with herbal remedies. He uses a spoon of it for a tonic to clear sputum. Merlin traded for the entire jar."

It surprises a bark of laughter out of Arthur, and Merlin's grin is wide, giddy as Arthur takes the heavy glass jar from his hands.

"Look at that," Arthur says to himself, holding it up to a candle. It's a deep, orange gold like the sun when it sinks low into the valley. Arthur sets down the jar and roughs the boy's head with a swishing gesture, grinning.

Merlin ducks away, face all grimaced and flushed.

Arthur takes the Indian Saffron with him to his room, stares at it on the table while he bathes, draped over the tub's side.

When Lucien comes with a bath sheet, he stands, arms raised from his sides for Lucien to dry him. Then he walks barefooted, sheet wrapped around his waist, to the table and opens the jar. The smell isn't spicy like he imagined, but strangely like earth and minerals.

He puts the lid back on, lets Lucien pull his sleep hose up.

"Winter is upon us," Arthur says, climbing into bed.

"Yes, Sire," Lucien agrees, pouring the bathwater out the window, a bucket at a time, his sleeves rolled back.

"Bring Merlin to me in the morning," Arthur yawns.

"Yes, Sire," Lucien says quietly again, leaves the room.

 

 

First light is pale and weak in his chambers. Arthur shivers, bed fur wrapped around him as he unlatches the window to peer out.

The glass is all crackly with frost, and when he looks out, he finds faint, aimless snowfall, drifting in the washed out sky.

He watches it briefly, then there is a knock.

"Come in," he says, and Lucien appears.

He has no breakfast with him, nor does he have Merlin at his side. Arthur rolls his eyes. "Is he still in bed? You may have to pull him out of there by his hair, he is a determined little loafer."

"No, Sire, the boy, Merlin, is to depart this morning," Lucien tells him.

Arthur tosses the fur on his bed. "Depart? For where?"

"For home, Sire," Lucien tells him soberly.

"Home?" Arthur sputters. "Where is home?"

"He is from a village called Ealdor, Sire, in Cenred's kingdom."

Arthur is at a loss for words for a long moment. He just stands there thinking. All he can think is Cenred's kingdom.

"Get my things, quickly," Arthur says, and begins stripping off his sleep hose by himself.

 

 

Gaius is lecturing Merlin with "--and if there are bandits on the road, you must give them what they ask for. Do not fight and they may leave you with your life," his hand to Merlin's shoulder.

Arthur strides in to this little domestic scene with a snapped "Come, now. With me. Now."

Merlin's eyes widen and he looks from Gaius to Arthur. Gaius gives him a sudden, short hug, says "Good luck. Send word when you have arrived."

"Yes, Gai--"

"Now, Merlin," Arthur growls.

So the boy lets out a hard sigh, looks once more at Gaius and stoops to pick up a small rucksack from the floor.

Arthur's mouth thins at the sight.

They are just in the hall when Arthur says "I do not know why you think you're leaving, but I assure you, you're not leaving. We have not even blended our saffron. I have a whole winter's work planned for you, you lazy little cur, so do not think you're just going to run off for a holiday in your hamlet now--"

"My mother's sick," Merlin says suddenly, firmly, his eyes downcast.

Arthur stops talking, considers.

"I wouldn't have left...but...but my mum," Merlin fiddles at his jacket buttons. The foolish little creature is wearing his every day coat. He's about to go off into the winter in just that and a tunic. Arthur snorts.

"Fine. Come then," Arthur says abruptly, and leads the boy to his chambers.

There, he draws out his long, grey fur coat. Whenever he wears it, it is like nothing can touch him. Even in the coldest night, it is as if he's basking near a bonfire.

Merlin looks stunned as Arthur gives it to him. "I...I can't," Merlin argues.

"You will have to. The first snow has begun to fall. It will be freezing in the woods at night. You have a long journey."

Arthur tries not to think of all the dangers between here and Merlin's home country. But his shoulder's stiffen and he asks "Do you travel with others?"

"Yes," Merlin nods, hugging the fur to him. "There are merchants I know well, going past there. I will be in good company."

"Good," Arthur says.

And then they look at each other and Merlin says "I really cannot take this--"

Just as Arthur says "When will you be back?"

They look at each other. Arthur taps his foot. "Oh," Merlin says, "I don't know. Perhaps in the spring."

Arthur coughs, nods. "Well, good. I will expect you in the spring. We will finish our work."

Merlin smiles, then looks away, embarrassed. "Yes, Sire."

"Good, good," Arthur says awkwardly and pats him on the back in goodbye. "Safe travels, Merlin."

"Thank you, Arth...Sire. F-for the fur and...yeah. Um. Bye!"

He scurries out of Arthur's chambers , dragging the fur on the stone.

Arthur sighs, hand in his hair.

The boy is absent that long winter, and then for the slow thaw of spring that follows. And then for the summer's swelter. And then he is absent that brisk, beautiful fall and for the winter that comes with freezing rain and turns the citadel into a palace of ice.

And then he is absent for five years after that.

 

 

"Father, father," Arthur talks him down quietly, gripping his arm.

"Yes? Arthur?" the King says suddenly, confused but lucid once more.

These times are brief.

Arthur looks to Sir Leon, who is still wary but recognizes the turn too.

"Yes, father. It's me. And Sir Leon. We're trying to walk you to your bed."

"Right, right," his father says, but sounds disconcerted.

There is a sharp, sudden gust of wind which has Sir Leon flailing to hold on. Arthur crouches with his back to it, teeth grit. Waiting it out.

Then he helps his father stand, and they walk carefully together, arm in arm.

"How...how did I get out here?" Uther asks faintly, gazing over his shoulder at the windy parapet.

"You were dreaming," Arthur says.

"Morgana?" Uther asks, worried.

"No, father. Morgana is not here. Not anymore." Arthur bites his lip, helping him back through the window.

 

 

Arthur closes the door to his father's chambers, meets Sir Leon in the hallway.

"He is worse," he says through grit teeth.

"Yes," Sir Leon says carefully, and they walk together.

"He'll need guards at his bedside. We cannot risk it. And call on Gaius, have him make a new tonic. Something, anything to help with these night terrors."

Sir Leon nods and moves to walk away, but Arthur takes his arm "You must not tell anyone of this, my friend. Not a soul."

Sir Leon's jaw stiffens, but he nods, says "Of course, Sire."

"Thank you, Sir Leon," Arthur says and they part.

In his chambers, he sits heavily, head rested on his hand. He waits for Lucien to come for a long while before he remembers he gave him the night off.

"Blast," he sighs to himself, flopping back in his chair. And then he tries to remove his boots on his own, which he has sweat in all evening. They seem stuck fast to his feet. He yanks at them and then tries to heel them off.

Five minutes later, he breaks into a helpless laugh, grimacing at himself.

He's acting Prince Regent of all Camelot and the lands won from King Boran in the last war. And he can't take his own boots off.

He chuckles until his eyes wet, then sloshes wine into his cup. He drinks thirstily, until his head feels light. He drops off in a stupor there, by the fire, his boots still on.

 

 

He's nursing a rather horrid headache the next morning as he strides from his chambers to his father's room, then to council and then to meet the knights in the field before he has to be back at council in the late afternoon.

He ends up on his back in the grass, knights hovering overhead.

"Let me up," he grumbles, and one takes his hand.

On his feet, he rubs at the bridge of his nose, head pounding. He has been regent for six months, and his footwork has gone to hell.

His knights know it, look at him with compassion, like he is a man more suited to a throne now than the hardship of swordplay.

Stubborn, he takes Sir Lucas down, putting his back into it and ends up shouting at the way the muscles in his shoulder pull.

Out of breath and achy, shoulder stiffening up wrong, he leaves Sir Leon with the knights charge and walks slowly back to the castle.

Lucien greets him, begins removing his armor as Arthur walks.

"I have. Council," he hisses in his chambers.

"Yes, Sire," Lucien agrees. "You also have a meeting with the Lords."

"Fuck," Arthur remembers, hair sweaty damp in his eyes. He doesn't have time to bathe, but when Lucien drags his tunic off, he quickly splashes himself with scented water, his face, under his arms, then runs his wet hands through his hair to push it off his face. The motion makes something burn in his shoulder and he freezes, wincing.

"Fuck, my shoulder," he beckons to Lucien, who comes quickly and begins a slow, firm massage at the muscle, feeling.

"It's not torn," Lucien tells him, so Arthur nods, goes to put on a clean tunic and a formal coat. Lucien nods at him and Arthur says "I'll take dinner with the Lords. Make sure there is enough ale."

And then he takes the stairs two at a time to council, knowing all the old men would look sternly at him for his lateness.

 

 

The council warns him of skirmishes in the lower forest villages with the druids. They are due to land ownership issues and possible magic use. Arthur palms his face as they silently await his thoughts, and then he just says "I will consider this, go on."

They tell him of the lowered harvest quota, how there may be some loyalty issues along the border with Mercia, farmers who had once pledged skittish allegiance to Uther but will not uphold it for a regent, Prince or no.

And then they tell him of Ingleshire, how whole villages have been overcome by the fever, left to wild dogs.

Arthur justs listens, pinching at the bridge of his nose and sighing.

"I will consider this," he tells them again, and they look back at him with mutual disapproval.

 

 

"It was like facing an impenetrable wall made of greying hair and hostility," Arthur muses and his father actually laughs, eyes bright with his amusement.

"They have always seemed this way to me too," Uther admits.

It is a good night, when his father is lucid and laughs at Arthur's jokes. There's a light knock and Gaius admits himself, smiling wanly.

"Ah, here is Gaius with your tonic," Arthur says and his father makes a face.

"Yes, I know, it is disgusting," Arthur agrees and stands to cross the room, to stop Gaius for a private word.

"Is this stronger?" he asks quietly. "He was roaming the battlements in the complete dark last night. He could have fallen to his death."

"Yes Sire," Gaius says, "I have made something much stronger. He should sleep soundly. And if he wakes, he will find his legs incapable of such a walk."

Arthur winces at the thought, but allows Gaius past to give his father his medicine.

"Ugh, this is as bad as the last," Uther complains.

"Yes, my friend, but it will ease your mind," Gaius says dryly.

"You know what would ease my mind?" Uther says to Gaius with a wide, dirty smile. "Do you remember those Lancaster sisters?"

"Well, I'll just wait in the hall," Arthur says hastily.

He leans at the wall, shoulder twinging. After a while, Gaius returns.

"He sleeps," he says, and they walk together.

"I have pulled my shoulder badly, in training," Arthur divulges, rubbing it. Gaius looks worried.

"I can put together a salve for you, Sire--"

"--it can wait til the morn," Arthur says, brooking no argument.

"Yes, Sire," Gaius allows placidly. "Then I shall have Merlin bring it up at first bell."

Arthur stops, startled. "Merlin? That mouthy little minx that was once your apprentice? He's returned?"

Gaius laughs, seemingly taking humor in something Arthur has said. And then he finally says "Yes, Sire, but he has changed much since you saw him last."

"Merlin," Arthur growls, taking pleasure in the rush of annoyance he feels, remembering how the gangly brat had left him feeling frustrated and irritable for a whole year, when he had failed to return and make sense of Arthur's book.

The memory is a fond one now, many years later, almost a lifetime ago from who he was when he could sit all evening and carve away at his hobby.

"Yes, send him to me with the salve in the morn. But after I have eaten, good Lord, I'll need my strength for that."

Gaius smiles. "Good, Sire. I believe he is keen to see you too."

"Hm," Arthur smirks before they part. "Then he is a greater fool than I remember."

Gaius's soft, hacking laugh follows him down the hall.

 

 

He has eaten, he has dressed. His shoulder is worse now, tight and corded around a deep, thumping pain. It spasms once when he lifts his spoon and he grits and bears it.

He waits as long as he can, exasperated, and then he's called to settle a matter between the castle guard and the lower town guard, who have been trading duties for the last few months, while recruitment has been down. There is not much he can do but listen and ease their frustrations with tact and compromise.

When he is done, he feels weary, his shoulder hurts and he could use something to eat. He goes back to his chambers, calling for Lucien on the way.

His door is just open when he reaches it. He presses it the rest of the way, looks in.

There is a young man there, standing alone at Arthur's table.

Arthur pauses, surprised as the man bends to inspect a book, his dark head ducked.

It strikes Arthur suddenly, that he is looking at Merlin. Not the gawky boy creature that was Merlin, who had seemed put together out of awkward lengths of green sticks, but the fully realized Merlin, who is surprisingly grown and tall, elongated like someone had taken him by the hair and pulled him like taffy.

It's a bit of a surprise, to say the least.

Arthur's staring at his swan-neck when Merlin glances up and double-takes, caught off-guard.

"S-sire," Merlin stutters.

"Did I say you could touch that?" Arthur asks. He strips off his coat, tosses it on the chair.

Merlin looks startled at the abruptness. His face is narrower now, his cheekbones etched like they've been cut sharply. And yet his mouth is sweet with color and fullness.

Arthur tears his gaze away, frowning, but it takes effort.

Merlin closes the book, casts his eyes to the floor. "My Lord," he says, voice soft and full of feeling, "it has been nearing six years since we last met."

Arthur easily feigns nonchalance. "Really? I can't recall."

Merlin glances up, expression mixed.

"Are you here for some reason, or have you just come to paw at my things?" Arthur asks him bitingly.

Merlin stiffens. "I...I have brought your salve from Gaius."

The boy had once been charged with skittery, spidery hands but now seems to have mastered them. As he takes up the little pot of salve from the table, undoes the top, Arthur watches those hands at work. They look very clever now.

Arthur turns away from the sight of them. He gestures at the table impatiently.

"Yes, well," he says. "Leave it there and go."

He goes to sit by his low fire, rigid.

Merlin lingers. Arthur can feel his gaze on his back. But then Merlin sighs "Yes, Sire," faintly and Arthur listens until the door closes behind him.

When he's gone, Arthur palms his face and curses under his breath.

 

 

The next morning's supposed to bring a fresh lot of new lords to bulk his Camelot guard, but only three appear and one is pink-cheeked and soft, just torn from his mother's teat. Arthur and Sir Leon look upon them grimly.

"We need to consider breaking the Knight's code," Sir Leon tells him as they walk back in full armor, the day a complete waste. "We haven't nearly enough to guard the citadel alone. When the winter comes, we'll need to send patrols to the border villages indefinitely if we're to keep Cenred off."

"Yes," Arthur snaps, but then softens. "Yes, I...I know. Compose a missive calling for able-bodied recruits, noble or not. I'll bring it before council at the week's end."

Sir Leon looks dubious, but nods and goes off with his task.

In the shadowy alley between the armory and the castle, Arthur leans against the stone wall, winded. His shoulder feels hot and strained.

It takes him a while to move again, and then he drags himself back to his chambers, armor clanking.

 

 

He sees Merlin again the next day, trotting across the castle towards who knows where. Arthur is with Geoffrey, who drones on about some dreaded edict Arthur ought to read before he goes before the council with his missive, and then suddenly Merlin is there, passing in the corridor, and it is too late for Arthur to school his expression. He must look completely beleaguered, wilted under Geoffrey's rambling voice. Merlin's eye catches his and with a twitchy, knowing grin, he lopes past.

Arthur can't help himself. He glances back once, rapidly, as the man disappears around a corner.

 

 

The lords want land protection from Cenred, the monks want protection from the pagans, the citizens want protection from the magic users and bandits on the roads, the farmers want protection from the landowners and everyone wants protection from the giant Scylla that's been devouring sheep and shepherds in the mountain passes.

But when he leaves his room, dressed and bathed to meet the council, Lucien stops him in the hall with a breathless "The council has left the city."

Arthur frowns, turns him into his chamber and growls "What do you mean, the council has left the city?"

"They're gone, Sire. They caught wind of your proposal and left in...in protest."

"My father's council? My council? They can't leave! They work for me!" Arthur argued, upset.

"No, Sire. They are your council, they only advise. But they may choose to...not advise."

Arthur stares at Lucien for a long time.

Lucien keeps his gaze, face grim. Arthur groans. "Where are they? Can we send some men to retrieve them?"

"Sire, I..I...perhaps these are questions for Sir Leon?" he says softly and Arthur nods sharply, marches out to find him.

 

 

"It's all falling apart," Arthur whispers, head down. Sir Leon sits stiffly beside him on a stack of hay in the quiet stables. "They won't follow me. This whole kingdom is falling apart. My council has decamped, Cenred's men have been traipsing all over my land, we have no standing army for winter's coming and there is a magical beast going unchallenged in the mountain valley, eating half the kingdom's livestock. My father.."

Arthur pauses then, having already said too much. He stares miserably out of the open stable door while Sir Leon breathes quietly, listening.

"--My father," he begins again, choking and then he catches sight of something that makes him lose his train of thought.

He gets up, goes to stand in the doorway, watching.

Merlin is walking slowly across the courtyard, bent under a massive load of purple flowers. They're all tied at his back, high and unstable like they had fallen onto him in one great heap. A mutt is barking behind him and a few curious children run along, picking up the buds that drift away.

Merlin strains, grinning and biting his lip.

Arthur leans in the door, brow furrowed, watching him pass.

 

 

He sits by his father's bedside, fingers steepled at his mouth.

His father sleeps deeply, his face lit by the new moon.

When Gaius comes, not with a tonic but to sit for a quiet hour with his book, Arthur says "I will need a new council."

Gaius pauses in his page-turning, says "I think it best. They were your father's. Perhaps Arthur Pendragon should have a council of his own."

Arthur puts his hand through his hair, shuddering. "Who would be on my council? Would you?"

Gaius looks surprised, but he says "I would. Geoffrey would."

Arthur groans.

"They are your council, Arthur. You must choose whom you trust," Gaius tells him.

Arthur stares at his father's wan face. "It seems...final."

Gaius doesn't respond, but he pats Arthur's knee once. And then he parts his book again, begins reading to himself.

Arthur writes a list late into the night, biting at his thumb, staining his fingers with ink.

 

 

"Sire, I..." Sir Leon splutters.

"Shut up," Arthur says unreasonably, cranky with his lack of sleep. "Perhaps it will seem less of an honor when you realize how much I will require of you off the field."

Sir Leon smiles, charmed anyway.

Arthur rolls his eyes, says "Don't make a fuss. You...you may tell your mother, but only because I know how you will struggle if I say not to."

Sir Leon hugs himself, grinning broadly, nodding.

"Go, for god's sake," Arthur shoos him, "I have work."

When Sir Leon leaves, Arthur looks back at the books on his table. Tome upon tome on law-making and law theory and there are still some he needs, still some that Geoffrey is pilfering away somewhere from view.

Arthur throws on his coat, takes the long journey across the castle to the library. He thinks as he goes that it may be time for him to move his chambers into the heart of the castle, where things are happening, where his council will be, where his library lies.

He's passing the kitchens when there's a horribly disturbing clanging sound, and suddenly steamy water is rushing like a swollen river, out into the hall and over Arthur's feet. He hisses, dances about out of the way of it.

Merlin appears, slip-sliding through, going down on one palm for a second, catching himself, wincing as his hand is washed with hot water.

His shirt's wet through, and his hair is damp, heavy-curled at his nape. He looks startled to see Arthur there.

Arthur's hand clenches to take Merlin by the nape and jerk him aside.

But a queer feeling comes over Arthur. That reminder that he is looking at a man now, not a child. He feels it run through him, confusing and strange.

Merlin swallows, looks down at his mess and Arthur's water-stained boots. He says "Sire, I...oh. Em. Sorry."

Arthur gnashes his teeth, hand just dying to catch him by the scruff and--

--"Clean it up," Arthur growls and forces himself to walk away.

"Yes Sire!" Merlin calls from behind him.

 

 

They meet that night, by candlelight in the great hall. Arthur hasn't been in there for months, and it is chilly and smells odd, like old, musty rushes.

They sit around the table, looking at each other, quiet like there is sacredness here. Arthur clears his throat finally, stands.

"As my council, you are charged with the duty not only to inform me but to challenge me. There can be no kingdom without a council, there can be no King. If I am wrong, you will right me. Do you understand?"

His men nod. Sir Leon smiles. Arthur sits again, spreading his papers.

"I have a missive here that would make it possible for common men to pursue Knighthood," he pauses and looks around. "So. Ah. What say you?"

His council looks uncomfortably at one another and then Sir Justin clears his throat and he says "It would...ah," and then he pauses, frowning.

Arthur waits but when nothing more is forthcoming, he says "Go on, please. Whatever you...you need to say--"

"--it would demean us," he says with sudden passion. "We are men of noble birth. It would demean us to serve with...with common men."

They all look away, Sir Justin's mouth is turned down sharply.

Arthur swallows, says "Thank you, Sir Justin, for your candor. Is there anything else--"

"--it may be hard for the Knights like...Sir Justin, for many of the Knights, to feel a sense of brotherhood with such men," Sir Leon explains, and blushes.

Arthur palms his face, frustrated. But after a few breaths, he draws his hand away and says "Gaius, what say you?"

"I say it is a very sensible idea. In times of unrest, there are more important things than a man's pride, such as the right of his people to be safe from harm, to live through winter, to go unmolested from their homes into the world," Gaius says easily.

"Yes, but," Sir Justin interrupts. "What would be the use of survival, without pride or honor? What would be the reward of life?"

"And I say, there will be no nobility left to mention, if there are no common people to honor it," Gaius responds.

Sir Justin stands abruptly, upset. "You say queer things--"

"Enough!" Arthur barks. They quiet. Sir Justin sits once more, turned away. "When we are in council, you will consider the men you share this table with your equal. There is no dishonor in discussion, no matter how challenging it is to your beliefs."

Sir Justin looks chided, Gaius placid.

"We will reconvene tomorrow. I will consider your words," Arthur says and dismisses them.

Sir Leon tries to hang back but Arthur waves him off, and Lucien closes the door behind him.

Lucien is still as Arthur sits and thinks in the silence.

 

 

That night, he only sits with his father for a moment, because he cannot stand to look at him.

In the hall, he passes Gaius coming with Merlin, and brushes by without a word.

"Quiet," he hears Gaius hiss at his apprentice.

Arthur goes to bed, but lies awake for most of the night, thinking.

 

 

When Lucien brings his breakfast, he rubs his sleepless eyes and mutters "Did my new council decamp in the night?"

Lucien smiles when he passes Arthur a mug of fresh milk. "No, Sire."

Arthur sighs, half-relieved. "Call them. I will address them before I eat or suffer the day with a ruined appetite."

 

 

Sir Leon is still in his bed shirt, looking awkwardly caught. Sir Justin is wearing his hunting clothes and seems out of sorts, already frowning.

Gaius has his glasses on and a book before him in his hands, like perhaps he has brought an argument, a speech to read, something convincing.

Arthur settles in his chair, loose, exhausted.

"Listen," he begins, palming his face tiredly, which is not the way his father would have done it. "I have decided thusly: You will send word to your villages and shires. Every able-bodied elder son will be duty-bound to consider service."

Sir Justin stands suddenly, brash, but when Arthur removes his hand from his face and looks at him, Sir Justin sits again, mouth a grim line.

"They will not be Knighted, but they will be considered honorable men and members of the Royal Guard. They will fight and die beside you, as brothers."

The council is silent.

"That is my decision." Arthur stands and crosses his arms over his chest. "You are free to go."

Sir Justin barrels out first, angry.

When all have gone, leaving Arthur and Gaius alone, Arthur admits "I fear I may have chosen wrongly in Sir Justin."

"It is what I fear also," Gaius says, sounding regretful.

Arthur feels a great sense of helplessness, say with a defeated voice "I don't understand. I have known no knight in battle as loyal or as trustworthy as Sir Justin. I would bet my life on him."

"What is true in battle may not be true at the council table," Gaius says gently.

Arthur considers, but Gaius continues. "There is another matter, my Lord."

"Yes, what is it Gaius?" Arthur asks, straightening.

"We are nearing winter and many young men will not find a journey desirable at the snow's fall, nor the thought of leaving their families vulnerable. You may need to consider making the guard compulsory."

"I will not forcibly send men to their deaths the first year of my rule," Arthur says adamantly. "I cannot. If they will have me as king, they will come. If they will not, we will have no army and Camelot will be lost. There is really nothing else to be done."

And with that, he tries to leave the room.

"Sire," Gaius says, unruffled.

Arthur exhales, looks at him, feeling done in.

"There are...many who are loyal to you. Many more than you know."

Arthur raises an eyebrow and then nods sharply, leaves.

Lucien keeps step with him.

"Cryptic old man," Arthur mutters to himself and leaves Lucien, jogs up to his rooms alone.

 

 

Word is sent across Camelot, on horseback, delivered by Criers and offered in paper missives at Church doors, stapled to trees on the forest paths and left in tavern doorways.

Then the waiting begins. Arthur trains his men, keeping a watchful eye on Sir Justin.

At night he reads until his eyes ache, sends Lucien to bed early so he can be able-bodied enough to drag Arthur out of bed and dress him while he's asleep on his feet.

This morning, the sun is pale, winter-like. Arthur squints in the courtyard as they cross.

"There is unrest in the church, some confusion on the matter of a holy day and when its true date is," Lucien informs him on their walk.

"Right," Arthur groans long, eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Of course. Why not? Am I to hear them bickering today?"

"No, Sire," Lucien says, sounding worried. "There is no time. You hold audiences today."

"Ugh," Arthur drags his feet. "Blasted argumentative farmers."

He walks with Lucien stiffly just as Merlin comes from the opposite direction.

Arthur's too tired not to gawk, and when Merlin draws nearer, Arthur sees...red. Bright red. Splattered all over Merlin's arms, dripping from his hands.

Arthur stares at them, his long fingers spread, curled, dripping red.

He can't breathe for a second, can't think. When he finally gasps, it's a strained "Get help. Get help!--"

"'--Sire, wait," Lucien says.

But Arthur lurches, grabs Merlin's wrists, drags him towards a horse trough.

"Arthur--!" Lucien is calling but all he can hear is Merlin saying "It's all right, it's just color!"

But nothing makes sense until after Arthur is forcing Merlin's hands into the trough. The water goes rusty and Merlin's eyes are so bright.

"It's not blood," Merlin tells him hoarsely over the buzzing in Arthur's ears.

"Sire, come away," Lucien speaks rapidly, close at his side. "It's just color."

Arthur swallows, says "Color?"

"Yes," Merlin says clearly. "It's just color."

"It's color," Arthur repeats. He's still holding Merlin's wrists in the water, so when the bolt of irritation runs through him, his grip changes and Merlin winces.

"Sire," he cringes, voice tight. "Ow."

"I should take my belt--" Arthur says savagely, but then stops when Lucien hisses "Please, Sire!"

He lets Merlin go, both hands opening at once.

Merlin steps aside, rubbing at a wrist.

"Clean yourself up, for God's sake," Lucien says roughly.

Arthur turns, walks stiffly away. His hands are stained a faint pink. In the entrance to the great hall, he rubs them off quickly on his breeches.

 

 

He misses lunch, listening intently to a woman's tale of her villages demise to fever. She weeps a few times, bringing her apron to her face to cover herself. Arthur can make promises to help, to send men in the spring and to offer sanctuary to her people until the end of winter. But mostly, more importantly, he can listen in silence.

When she is brought away, he hears a man's argument with his neighbor over the encroachment of the man's goat on his field. It is like listening to little birds nattering anxiously at one another. After a while, he calls for wine and considers drinking himself into a stupor, but the neighbors are suddenly laughing and hugging and have seemingly found their own answer.

Arthur drinks the wine in two, deep pulls, waits on his next interview.

 

 

He throws his tunic off before he's in the door. And then he sits, lifts his leg so Lucien can catch it, pull his boots.

The bath smells wonderful, perfumed with something. Arthur slips in with a relieved groan, sinks in to his chin, knees up.

"This is perfect. What did you put in here?" he asks Lucien.

"I put nothing, Sire. It was Gaius's apprentice, the man in the courtyard this morning. He brought herbs from Gaius that would help you find your rest tonight."

Arthur frowns, eyes closed. Drawls "that boy. No, not a boy. Yet still so... He's making color again, Lucien. Like he thinks..."

Arthur is half-asleep when he finishes "...I don't know what he thinks."

"Nor I, Sire," Lucien reassures, and lets him nod off for a while in the deep, fragrant water.

 

 

Winter's coming hangs like a sword over his head. He falls asleep and wakes to fears that the snow has fallen in the night. The first thing he does is shove off his furs, go to the glass to rub his arm at the frost, peer out.

The whole of Camelot is turning a dull, tired brown. The trees are skeletons of their summer selves. The hills are ugly. The blanket of white was once a relief from the boring wait of fall's end. He once celebrated it, and the new games to be played, new furs and boots to be worn.

Now, he presses his face to the glass, heart in his throat, and wonders at how his father did this, for so many winters.

There has been no snow fall in the night, so he goes to the fire to warm himself before Lucien arrives.

He has a day's worth of duties, but in there, somewhere in the middle, he will steal away to the high North Tower, where no one but the little swallows go, and see exactly what Merlin's been up to.

 

 

Lucien's face is pale and his eyes won't meet Arthur's when he comes in. For a heartbeat, Arthur thinks of his father and he has to sit down. He has to sit down if there is news.

"Just tell me," he says tightly. "I will not wait for some Lord to do it officially. Tell me."

Lucien sets down his breakfast, says with his clear voice "It is Sir Justin. He has...he has challenged you."

Arthur stares off at the wall for a long time.

"Challenged me?" he grits finally, more angry than he thought he could be, not this early. "To a duel? He challenges his...his Regent?"

"Sire, you must eat and meet Gaius. It is worse than that."

Arthur stands, goes for his own coat. "I cannot eat with this in my head! Where is Gaius?!"

"He's...in his chambers, I believe? Waiting for you to call him."

"Bring the wine, I will go to him now."

 

 

He doesn't knock, just pushes in.

Finds Merlin sitting in his sleep clothes at a table, hair standing up like he tumbles about in his sleep, mussing it. Arthur pauses, eyes drawn to him.

Merlin's curved back straightens, and he looks at Arthur with wide, startled eyes.

Arthur swallows, says "Where's Gaius?"

Merlin's mouth opens and closes and then Gaius comes in from his store room, carrying a large jar of something liquid black.

He looks surprised too.

"Lucien, bring us bread," Arthur sends him away and then sits down across from Merlin, beckons Gaius to sit too.

"I'll uh...I'll go to my room," Merlin says shakily, head down as he tries to get up, but Arthur says "Sit."

The man's face is so full of startled wonder, Arthur almost rolls his eyes. Gaius sits and they hold their own council.

"Tell me of Sir Justin," he says.

Gaius gives Merlin a quick look, then says "He has challenged you, Sire. Overnight, he has papered the lower town with treasonous notices, defying your rule, questioning the veracity of your reports on your father's health, doubting your ability to bring Camelot through the winter without grave misfortune."

Arthur deflates, hand to his forehead. "Dear God." He rucks his hair back in his hands, eyes tight closed in frustration. "Dear God. What...I must...they need to be removed. People can't...oh God."

"I got em," Merlin says suddenly, out of breath.

Arthur looks up at him, and the man's eyes are earnest. "I was out this morning before the cock crowed, and I gathered them all."

Arthur turns a questioning eye on Gaius, who nods serenely.

Arthur doesn't know what to say. He looks back at Merlin and Merlin's mouth twists up in an anxious smile.

Finally, Arthur clears his throat, says "Where are they?" and Merlin gets up readily, goes into his room.

He comes back with a stack in his arms that Arthur rises to take. "All of these? He put up all of these?" and the anger comes back, hot in his throat, as his eyes scan the blasphemy on the page.

The worst is the insinuation that Arthur may be imprisoning the king against his will. The pile of notices in his hands start shivering, and it takes him a moment to realize he needs to sit down.

When he does again, he rips one off the top, folds it up and puts it in his pocket.

"Burn then," he says almost soundlessly, but Merlin does it. Gathers them up and brings them to the fire and begins feeding them in.

He and Gaius sit as Arthur watches Merlin work. Then Arthur croaks, voice shaken "My father would know what to do."

When he looks back up, wipes his wrist over his eyes, Merlin is looking at him, face full of sympathy.

Arthur's jaw muscle spasms as he grits, gets up to leave.

"Thank you Gaius," Arthur says, and then looks at Merlin, whose eyes are so earnest, and offers an awkward "and...you...also," before he steps out, annoyed with himself.

 

 

"He's gone," Sir Leon says hastily, when Arthur strides into the armory. He's readying himself to pursue. Sir Kay and Sir Bastian are readying themselves too. Arthur gestures to Lucien to help him put on his chain mail.

"Sire, you...you should just let us go," Sir Leon whispers, stepping near. "Arthur--"

"Get my ride ready," Arthur tells Lucien and then gives Sir Leon and hard look.

Sir Leon backs off, nodding, strapping on his sword.

"He can't be far. He will be heading back to his father's land. He won't be expecting you to come just yet, so we may catch him in the forest. The road will be thick with travelers heading to their winter's rest," Sir Leon says as they walk out to their horses.

"Yes, that's what I'm counting on," Arthur says gravely.

 

 

The sky is steely and the air is damp as it shifts through the trees. Arthur's skin feels wetted with it, chilled deep.

They come upon Sir Justin and his men in front of a tavern, just readying to ride again.

Sir Justin's calm face goes strange with confusion when Arthur rides up.

There, in front of the horses and a tavern wench, Arthur calls "You are under arrest, for treason against the King."

There is complete silence. Not a horse whicker, nor a whistle of wind. Sir Justin's hand hovers between his hip and his horse's reins. His face looks drawn, horrible.

No one had ever told Arthur how wretched it would feel to face a man he'd once thought of as a friend. He may mourn this for a long while after.

Finally, Sir Justin's hand fists and he says, voice full of fury "I have committed no treason against King Uther."

His words are heavy with meaning. Arthur sits sharp in his seat. "You will come at your own volition, or we will tie your limbs together and drag you back."

Sir Justin's outrage is bright in his flushed face. He gets on his horse to come though, silent. But then he says "Please. Let my men go."

The men are young, only boys. Arthur looks on them, his mind rushing through scenarios. Of war. Of assassination. Of execution and uprising.

He looks at each one and growls "Go. But you are hereby banished from Camelot. Get out of my sight."

The men look sick as they jump on their horses, ride off.

"Follow them to the border," he tells Bastian and Kay. Both go, flanking Sir Justin's men.

"You must know, Arthur, that I only want what is best for Camelot," Sir Justin says at his side, as they ride back, his voice rich with his dignity.

"You are a fool," Sir Leon snarls, surprising Arthur.

Thy ride back to the citadel through the grey afternoon, three riders in Camelot red.

 

 

He walks back and forth, his father silent in sleep.

"Do I just...execute him?" he asks, voice fraught. He has yet to remove his armor.

The room smells sour, the windows shut so long. It smells like sickness and endless bedrest. Arthur groans, feels like he needs to sit or swoon.

He sits heavily at the chair that he always sits in, pulled to the bedside.

"He has been my friend since before I was old enough for a sword. But now I must..."

He stares helplessly at his father's unlined face.

"Is this what being a king means? To...harden against all the feelings I have ever known? To distrust all whom I would call my brothers? To wash my hands with a friend's blood?"

He sits back, head rested, mouth trembling.

"I wouldn't have chosen this, if I had known. I wouldn't have," he tells his father brokenly. "Damn you."

Then he gets up, walks out. Walks out across the castle, mouth twisted.

The northside is cold, empty. But when he reaches the stairs to the tower, he can see a small, faraway light burning somewhere at the top.

He climbs upwards, eyes on the light.

 

 

The tower room is flickering with little candles all along the table and window ledges.

Arthur finds here the awkward proof of his foolish boyhood hobby. Only about a fourth of it had been painted before he had hauled it up to hide it here, covered it for good all those years ago. He had thought then that perhaps when he was an old, half-mad king, with an heir and a wild pack of grandchildren, he'd take the hobby up again. Finish his masterwork. Looking at it now though makes the very nape of his neck heat in mortification.

He's waiting, chain-mailed arms crossed over his chest, when Merlin appears in the doorway, whistling, carrying a small tray full of cups.

The cups shiver when Merlin startles at the sight of him.

"What are you doing up here?" Arthur asks, voice forbidding.

But Merlin just makes a little, dubious face and says "Erm. What are you doing up here?"

Arthur, for the life of him, is at his wit's end. "I do not know what to do with you! From one thing to another, you are as bothersome, as troublesome as an itch! I cannot go through a day without wondering what you are up to, flitting about my castle somewhere, getting up to god knows what, being a complete nuisance--"

"--I haven't done anything!" Merlin argues, voice hot.

Arthur raises his eyebrows, gestures at the cups on the tray, the model of Camelot that's been altered, the candles, the whole tableaux.

"But...I mean," Merlin says, wistful. "Other than that."

"You just goad me, Merlin! Your very presence goads me!" Arthur says, exasperated, and then feels caught, realizing what he's said.

Merlin's eyes go soft, his mouth parting with his surprise.

"You always have," Arthur finishes, then puts his hands on the table, groans at himself.

"You remember," Merlin says, knowing now. "You do."

Arthur face hurts as he bites back what he wants to say. He feels the strain of that tremor his shoulders.

He stares sightlessly at the model for a long time, and then he starts to see. New colors liven the carvings. There is a whole flock of sheep now in the back field, all fluffy with real wool.

"You've changed it," Arthur says, voice rough-sounding.

"Not everything," Merlin leans beside him, a presence Arthur feels like no other. It makes his skin wake, like the space between them is how they touch.

Merlin reaches out long, spindly fingers, finding and tapping the thatched roof of the little house in a faraway land.

Arthur winces, feelings bared.

He looks to him, finds Merlin biting his lip.

In the yard of the little hut is a tiny chicken, a cow and Merlin, a little wooden boy carved out of oak, hair blacked with soot from an old fire.

"And..." Merlin says softly, moving the cow to show the little carving Arthur had made long ago of his own figure. And where he had left it. How after a year of waiting, he'd made his wooden figure do what was in his heart to do himself: he had sent it to collect the stubborn boy from his village and bring him home.

Arthur's feeling wells up like he's sinking in it. "I should take my belt to you for this," he chokes out.

Merlin's mouth melts open, his eyes go glassy, response as quick as a heartbeat. "Yes," he breathes.

"Oh god," Arthur's body reacts like a riot, overcome and upset. "I have arrested a brother in arms today and will probably send him to his death for treason. I will not be gentle with you."

Merlin's hand suddenly takes hold of the table, his slim knuckles white. "I know," Merlin says faintly, swallowing.

They're both breathing rapidly. It is not much they need, to bring this tension to a head.

Arthur's cock is a rigid bar in his breeches when he takes Merlin firmly by the scruff, turns him and walks him into the wall.

Merlin goes there on his toes, whining.

"Dear God, Dear god," Arthur says breathlessly, tearing at his belt with one hand, keeping Merlin's cheek to the wall with his other still on his nape. He loosens the leather and jerks it off. His mail falls heavy and loose, drags at his knees.

"U-under or over your pants?" Arthur asks, cracking the leather on the floor once to show he means to hurt him.

Merlin stiffens, but he gasps "Under," and Arthur groans, starts trying to skim the man's breeches down with his hand full of the belt.

"God let me see you," Arthur growls, and Merlin's hips hitch back when his pants slip to his knees. He's arching his pale little bum at Arthur, and Arthur makes a small noise, has to tug the boy's tunic high on his long, curving back to show it off.

He puts his palm to the back of Merlin's head, holds him in place with a clamped hand and steps aside, lifts the belt.

"Little. Brat," he grits out with the crack, the belt licking the man's arse over and over. The candles flicker at the movement, and Merlin lets out beautiful, startled whimpers.

 

His arm burns so he drops the belt and uses his hand instead and then Merlin is making other noises, sobby noises, wanking himself off to his own spanking.

Arthur can't see it, hardly knows what's happening in the storm of his own reactions, but then he realizes the man is hunching, arm tucked between his legs, arse pistoning under Arthur's slap.

Arthur goes slick under his armor, body so sweaty that a sudden curl of wintry air from the window glass makes his teeth chatter, sweat gone cold.

"Ah!" Merlin cries out, shivering, hair shaking with it. And then he slumps into the wall and Arthur slaps him twice more, softly, and staggers back.

He almost knocks over the model, running into the table. Merlin looks around worriedly, hands jerking his breeches back up and he says "Wait, Arthur. Don't!"

"I didn't mean it that way," Arthur blusters, hair wet with his sweat. He's more on edge than he was collecting Sir Justin. It makes his hands tremble, close emptily. "When I did it before. When I...took my hand to you, I didn't--"

"Oh god," Merlin breathes, knees bent, still tying his laces. "God no, Arthur. I know. I know you didn't. I didn't...like it before either. N-not when it was happening."

Arthur must look horrified, because Merlin chuckles warmly, comes to him. "No, Jesus. I don't mean I hated it. I...I liked you very much then. I was sometimes ashamed I made you angry, but it never bothered me, not really."

Arthur swallows, uncertain. Merlin touches his cheek and it makes Arthur's shoulders go tight at the awareness of how hard he still is, twitching in his breeches.

"It wasn't until later, when I...came into my manhood. I thought of you those first times I ah, you know..." Merlin blushes, sheepish, though what he is alluding to is exactly what he just did, against the wall, with Arthur's hand blushing his arse.

"Christ," Arthur breathes through his teeth, eyes tightly closed.

"Not just the first times. Many times. Many, many times. I sweated up a youth's worth of heat for you," Merlin whispers close.

"Merlin," Arthur groans and Merlin lifts his chain mail slowly, says "Let me see h-how you feel."

A hand, long fingers fiddling, finds his risen cock through his breeches. Holds on. "Oh, there you are," Merlin moans.

"Ugn," Arthur grunts, face screwed, and orgasms suddenly with a jerk.

 

 

"Come," Merlin beckons him to a corner. The sheet is there, which Arthur had once thrown over his model to protect it from the years. And there is a small mattress, which Merlin must have brought up, dragging it all the way.

He falls exhausted on it, blearily watches Merlin begin to take off his armor for him, his boots.

Merlin's faces are to be prized, the way he pouts and frowns at the struggle. Arthur smiles, eyes thin.

Finally, Merlin shoves the mail away, falls on top of him.

"Ugh, god. You're bony," Arthur complains, then ruins it by yawning.

Merlin reaches, drags the sheet over them and suddenly they're in bed together, like lovers, and it is strangely agreeable.

The candles gutter. Arthur can see his Camelot from here, sighs, hand in Merlin's hair. "I did not mean to like you so much," he tells him.

Merlin snorts. "How do you think I feel? A common boy from another kingdom, pining away for a prince who was probably busy anyway, spanking other boy's bottoms."

"Never," Arthur tells him, roughly. Then clears his throat, blushing. "There was never any other boy who could rile me to violence."

"Oh," Merlin says, nuzzling in happily. "Good."

Arthur smiles, drawing him closer. He turns to whisper at his ear. "Just you, little Merlin. Stupid bird-named boy. Stupid, lovely, insolent creature."

Merlin shivers, ear going red.

 

 

When he wakes, he is in a tower room, tangled up around a man he used to spank for amusement.

Sobered, he tries to get up, find his boots.

"You look like you're sneaking out of church," an amused voice tells him.

Arthur jerks on his boot, glances over at his new lover. Merlin is lying on his stomach, head turned to him, eyes low-lidded.

"How...how's your...?" he finds himself asking, polite and embarrassed.

"Mmmm," Merlin moans, arching a little, "Hurts still."

Arthur swallows, chastened. Begins to say "Well--" and Merlin adds "Feels nice."

Arthur gets up then, ignoring the way his cock thickens at Merlin's response.

He walks around the table of his model, eyes roving over it for a moment before he grabs up his chain mail.

"You should finish it," Merlin tells him. When Arthur looks, the man is on his feet. He'd removed his shirt in the night, and is just standing there bare-chested, all narrow with sharp shoulders and elbows, something to inspire all sorts of impossible feelings.

Arthur looks away. "Ridiculous. I can't." He picks up one of the cups from the table, curious for a second, finds it full of dried, powdery red.

He puts it down quickly.

"Why?" Merlin asks. "You always enjoyed it--"

"I enjoy a great many things," Arthur says, and then frowns at himself. "But a...a king has no time for such foolishness."

"Why?" Merlin asks, forever stubborn. "You have time for executions and audiences, for arguing with council but not for this?"

Arthur makes a face, says "Yes?" like it's obvious.

Merlin sighs hard, rolls his eyes. "It is empty, then. A king as you imagine him would only be an instrument of duty, of law and honor and--"

"Yes," Arthur says, sharp. "That is what a king is, you stupid boy!"

Merlin's mouth snaps shut. He looks like he may give up, but suddenly it opens again and he says "You are so much more than that, my Lord, and you are a great fool if you think the people would rally around and follow and love an instrument."

Arthur inhales sharply, surprised.

"You will be a great king, but not because you do everything right, but because you are Arthur Pendragon," Merlin says passionately.

Arthur stares at him.

Merlin's mouth twitches and his eyes cut away. "And...I'm not just saying that because you spank me and make me feel like I'm going to die of pleasure."

Arthur snorts, shakes his head, maddened. The heat has gone from their argument.

Quiet now, he fiddles at his old carvings, playing the goat he'd carved around a little. He doesn't look, but he knows Merlin is watching.

"If I made time...would you ah, help me?" Arthur asks.

Merlin makes a tight, excited laugh. "Yes, are you serious?"

Arthur smiles to himself, nods. "Maybe...maybe sometime then."

 

 

It snows, that very night. He leaves Merlin asleep in his bed, goes to the window to watch it fall.

For something one dreads for the months before it comes, it is unexpectedly peaceful. He watches it come slow and heavy. When a horse and a traveler pass in the torch lit courtyard, they leave behind footprints in the white.

He goes back to bed, warming his cool hand on Merlin's spanked-hot bum.

Merlin sighs in his sleep.

 

 

Sir Justin has been shaved, given a bath by the time he's brought before Arthur in the empty great hall. Arthur sits in just his tunic and hose, no need to put on airs for this. He has no crown when he rises, walks across the court to his old friend.

"You were once my brother, in every way but by name, and I have felt a great loss in your betrayal," Arthur tells him, voice soft.

Sir Leon looks away, eyes shuttering.

"The law calls what you've done treason," Arthur says, and Sir Justin's knees go out, so the guards have to hold him up. "But I think you have just been a stubborn fool."

Arthur pauses. "You are no danger to me," he says, "so go, leave Camelot. You are hereby banished."

Sir Justin's expression is all shock as he's dragged back out of the hall.

Sir Leon stands with him until the door's close, and then Arthur turns to him, puts a hand to his shoulder. "Thank you, Leon. For standing with me."

Sir Leon nods. "Of course, Sire."

 

 

The snow is waist-thick and still young men stream in from across Albion, Arthur's notice in their packs and pockets. They have lost count of how many now, and he often sees Sir Leon running to and fro between one squad and another, hair a mess from being worried in his hands.

Winter is beautiful, changes the color of the sky to a dazzling blue, Merlin's nose and ears to pink, the castle to a pale ghost in the snow-covered hills.

His father passes in his sleep, the night Arthur dreams of him walking across a lake of ice towards a distant mountain, wearing his battle armor, drawing his horse at his side.

 

 

Merlin looks up, grins.

"Shut up," Arthur says without heat, smiling a little too. He sets down, looking over their work.

"Merlin," he says, rolling his eyes, and lifts his wooden figure off of Merlin's wooden figure.

"They fell like that," Merlin laughs, begins mixing a warm ocher. When he paints a rock wall with his small brush, his tongue touches his lip in concentration.

Arthur puts his glass to his eyes, inspects the carving he's been working on.

"His hairs too long," Merlin says, not even looking.

"It's perfect," Arthur argues, appalled.

"No, his hair looks like a veil. I thought he was a nun," Merlin tells him, still painting.

Arthur looks critically at his little Gaius, bringing it close.

Then he glances up, suspicious, at Merlin.

Merlin's watching him now, head in hand, eyes soft with fondness.

"Yes, well," Arthur murmurs, pleased. "You and my belt can discuss this later."