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camelot_drabbleTitle: He says all the right things at exactly the right time
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digthewriter
Author:kleinefee92
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Arthur/Original Male Character, Arthur/Merlin
Summary: Merlin acted like he was saying goodbye shortly after Arthur began healing from the bite of the Questing Beast, and then he disappeared for a day. He came back, but Arthur has no idea where he went, or what he did while he was gone. A few months down the road, Merlin is acting strange, and Arthur feels strange - in that he doesn't really feel at all.
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 5,000
Author's Notes: Hey,digthewriter! I hope this fic helps make your holiday a little bit brighter. Lots of love and thanks go to my wonderful friend and beta, jelazakazone. This fic would not be what it is without you. Thanks also to the mods of our community, who were incredibly patient with me and my perpetual lateness, and who made this gift exchange possible. The title for this comes from Vertical Horizon's Everything You Want. I hope to, when I have the chance, post a companion piece to this fic on Ao3. It will fill in the blanks resulting from the gaps in Arthur's knowledge during this fic, and allow Merlin to have a chance to explain his side of things.
Disclaimer:Merlin is owned by the BBC and Shine. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made. Don't send us to the dungeons.
He says all the right things at exactly the right time may also be found here on Ao3.
Everyone denies it whenever he tries to bring it up, but Arthur is certain that he should be dead right now. From the moment the Questing Beast struck him down in that cave, he had known his breaths were numbered.
He wouldn’t say that he had made peace with his death, but he had known it was coming. Every day that he wakes and feels stronger is like a strange and undeserved gift, and he cannot seem to move past it.
It strikes him one day as he is practicing with the knights that the only time he feels as though he belongs in his own body anymore is when he pits himself against the strength of another. He wonders if there are other ways for him to experience that same sense of rightness. Of belonging.
Later on, as he is making his way back to his chambers, he passes an alcove and hears the faint sounds of hushed laughter and intimate whispering, and he knows.
That evening, he suggests that his father throw a tournament.
“And what purpose would this tournament serve?” Uther asks, taking a slow sip from his goblet to punctuate the query.
He prepared for this question, and answers easily. “To show the other kingdoms that the rumors of the severity of my injury have been exaggerated, and that the crown prince of Camelot is as strong as ever.”
Uther makes an approving noise, looking thoughtful, and says, “Very well.” If there is something haunted in his father’s eyes at the reminder of Arthur’s brush with death, Arthur is wise enough not to call attention to it.
---
Merlin makes his displeasure at the idea of another tournament known as plainly and obnoxiously as possible. “And don’t forget what happened at the last tournament - as if anyone actually could. Although, I suppose if someone were dense enough for something like that to slip his mind, it would be you.” Pausing to take a breath, Merlin inadvertently gives Arthur the opening he needs to interrupt him.
“Don’t you have chores you should be doing? As I recall, my armor is in need of cleaning, the stables can always use mucking out, and if you would actually look at the state of this room, you would realize what a mess you’ve allowed it to turn into.”
With a disgruntled look, Merlin says, “Right. Well, obviously you’re not going to listen to reason, so I’ll just leave you to - whatever it is you’re doing.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “If you must know, I’m writing invitations to the knights and princes of the neighboring kingdoms.”
“Of course you are,” Merlin deadpans, and then he stalks out, muttering aspersions under his breath.
Aside from raising his eyebrows, Arthur chooses not to dignify his moody manservant’s exit with a response. He has grown used to Merlin’s dramatics in the year since he first came to stay at the castle, and though he supposes he should require more decorum and obedience from the other man, he cannot bring himself to be bothered. Other than a select few, Merlin is the only one who treats Arthur like a person, rather than a title, and though he will never share this fact with his manservant, Arthur appreciates it.
Shaking off his abstraction, he returns to the task to which he had set himself before Merlin so thoroughly diverted his attention.
---
Two weeks after his initial revelation, competitors from across Albion begin pouring into Camelot, the squires of the lower-born knights who are not afforded rooms in the castle putting up tents and generally gawking at everything around them. Had Arthur ever been that wide-eyed and innocent? He finds it hard to imagine, for all that he is only twenty-one.
He feels older, when he can feel anything at all.
“Unless you want to be late to your own tournament, Sire, you should probably move away from the window and let me dress you.”
He is in trouble, isn’t he? Merlin never calls him ‘Sire’ unless he is punishing him for something. He wonders what it is about this tournament that bothers Merlin so deeply. Certainly, the most recent tournament held in Camelot yielded some unexpected excitement, but Arthur dealt with it easily enough, and not every tournament will go awry in such a spectacular manner.
When he expresses this, though, Merlin refuses to be placated. “This isn’t just a tournament - which would be bad enough, because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but sometimes people die in things like this, purely on accident - it’s an opportunity.”
“An opportunity?” Arthur asks dryly.
“Yes.”
“All right,” Arthur drawls, knowing he will regret going along with this. “What kind of opportunity, exactly?”
“For some other kingdom to send someone specifically to kill you, and sure, everyone will suspect foul play, but it’s a tournament. These things happen, and anyway, how would they prove it?” He dresses Arthur as he talks, pulling on the fabric and the leather more roughly than he normally does.
“Watch it, will you?” Arthur demands when Merlin’s actions become a bit too careless. “Need I remind you that you’re the one who will have to deal with it if something happens to my clothes?”
Merlin huffs, but grows gentler, straightening out any wrinkles his agitation may have caused. “You know, this wouldn’t even be a problem if you would just do it yourself. You’re a grown man, Arthur. I’m sure you can manage putting on your own clothes.”
“No, I couldn’t possibly,” Arthur says, his voice mockingly sweet. “If I did that, it would deprive of us the chance to share this special time together.”
With a snort, Merlin gives one last brush to the front of Arthur’s jacket and then steps away. “Go greet your guests, prat.”
“I’m sorry, were you under the impression that you were somehow exempt from this event? You’re coming with me.”
His nose wrinkling, Merlin retorts, “I was under that impression, actually. Gaius needs help preparing for the flood of patients he’s sure to get from this latest excuse for you and your knights to show how manly you are.”
“Really? Because I heard from Morgana that Guinevere helped both of you with your preparations, and there was nothing left to do.”
Merlin’s lips compress as Arthur looks on, and then he rolls his eyes. “Fine. Lead the way, my lord.”
Fighting a grin, Arthur notes, “You know, you’re the only person I’ve ever met who never fails to make that sound like an insult.”
“Clearly, it’s a gift.”
---
Welcoming the contestants is little more than a blur of faces and titles and crests until he comes to Prince Godric.
Though they were never able to spend a great deal of time with each other, the two of them had met several times throughout their childhood. Arthur had always looked up to Godric, who was, to Arthur’s young mind, the best possible example of what a prince should be. The other boy had been kind enough in their youth to allow Arthur to trail along after him when things at court became too tedious.
It has been years since the last time Arthur laid eyes on Godric, and he can say with certainty that those years have been kind to him. As a lad, Godric had always shown the potential to grow broad and tall the way his father was, but in his teen years, he had suffered from that all-too-common affliction of acne, which had distracted people from his strong features.
As it happens, Godric has lost the acne and gained in strength and stature, as young men are wont to do, and now he is every bit as beautiful as those who looked closely enough might have once predicted. His dark brown eyes are warm as they regard Arthur as carefully as Arthur regards him, and Arthur replaces the diplomatic smile he has been wearing for the past half-hour with something far more genuine.
“Prince Godric,” he says, his voice coming out lower than he originally intended. He reaches out to clasp Godric’s arm as Godric does the same. “Welcome back to Camelot. You were missed at the last tournament.”
“My apologies, Arthur. Leofric’s wife bore him an heir, and even a chance to visit your beautiful kingdom again could not have compelled me to leave.” Though Godric is older than Arthur by a few years, he is not the crown prince of his family’s kingdom. That honor goes to his older brother, Leofric, which is rather a shame. Godric has always been the brighter and more charismatic of the two brothers, though Arthur supposes Leofric is still a good man, and a compassionate one, and sometimes that is what a kingdom needs.
Not every king can lead the way his own father does. Arthur certainly won’t, as much as he loves and admires Uther.
“You’re forgiven. If you agree to go on a hunt with me before tournament begins tomorrow.”
“I look forward to it.” The wonderful thing about Godric is that Arthur has no doubt that he means every word. The man is nothing if not sincere, though without the typical naivete that accompanies such honesty.
Behind him, Merlin clears his throat pointedly, reminding Arthur that there are still people left to greet.
With a nod, Arthur tells the other prince, “As do I. If you’ll excuse me, Godric. I wouldn’t want the other guests to feel slighted.”
Godric’s gaze travels from Merlin to Arthur, a hint of amusement creeping in, and he says genially, “No, of course not. We’ll talk more later, on our hunt.”
---
They do talk more, though not a lot of hunting is accomplished at first. The entire time, Merlin follows along with a long-suffering air. He’s loaded down with their hunting gear, in addition to a meal that they stop to eat near a small stream. Arthur and Godric sit side by side against the trunk of a fallen tree, and Merlin seats himself further away, upon a small boulder.
When Arthur and Godric finish their food, Arthur goes over to Merlin and relieves him of the hunting gear, telling him that they will have more luck if Merlin stays here. “Besides, you’re still eating.”
“And what if something happens to you?” Merlin demands, unimpressed.
“What could possibly happen to me out here, Merlin? We’re still within Camelot’s borders, and besides, even if something were to happen, I’ll have Godric with me.”
“Right,” Merlin mutters, thoroughly unappeased. “Well, that’s all right, then.”
His brow furrowing, Arthur asks, “What has gotten into you? Is this about the tournament, still?”
He watches as Merlin takes a sharp breath, the way he often does before giving someone - mostly Arthur, admittedly - a piece of his mind, and then he glances at Godric and deflates. “Yeah. But you know what? It’s fine. Go kill things. I know how happy that makes you.”
Arthur gives him a measured look, certain that his manservant is holding something back, yet Merlin remains unmoved, and so what can Arthur do, aside from carry on with his plans? “You know,” he starts, backing away, “it should make you happy, too. If I didn’t go hunting so much, how would we ever be able to keep food on Camelot’s tables, with bottomless pits like you eating it all?”
Merlin looks solemn, which is not what Arthur wanted at all. “I guess it’s a good thing we’ll never have to find out.”
Once again, Godric glances between the two of them, clearly seeing something that piques his interest. He offers no insight before he and Arthur leave Merlin by the stream, choosing to actually focus on the hunt for a time. Following his example, Arthur soon finds his game bag growing full.
Before the sun sets and the world around them starts growing dim, they set out for the stream where Merlin is waiting for them - hopefully. He has a tendency to wander off and get himself into trouble, though the wandering off is not strictly required. Merlin can get himself into trouble anywhere.
The thought causes Arthur a momentary bout of panic, but he pushes it aside. When they get back to him, Merlin will be fine.
Even so, he cannot stop himself from quickening his pace somewhat.
Godric notices, because he notices everything, including the things people would rather keep to themselves. Thankfully, he is good enough not to share his observations with anyone who might use them against the pertinent individuals. He says, “You’ve changed, Arthur.”
“What makes you say that?” Arthur asks warily. Until now, the conversation between them has been light and easy. This sounds like the prelude to something complicated, which is not what he is after.
“You seem wiser. More serious. Like you’ve finally grown into your role as your father’s heir. And you care about someone outside of your knights and your family, which I always knew you could do, but had not seen until today. I’m glad I got the chance to see you this way.”
“Visit more often, and you’ll get to see me like this again,” Arthur says, keeping his tone light, because anything else would remind him too much of what the next few days are meant to help him forget.
Smiling, Godric tells him, “We’ll see.”
They find Merlin more or less the way they left him, though he has moved from the moss-covered boulder to the grass along the bank of the stream. His body is stretched out, and his arms are crossed beneath his head as he stares up at the slowly darkening sky. Were it not for the high color in his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes, he would be the picture of ease. Arthur scrutinizes his manservant more closely, wondering what made his pale cheeks so flushed, but he refrains from inquiring. What Merlin does when he is alone is his business, as long as it does not put him in danger or cause him to neglect his duties.
Merlin turns his head to casually watch their approach, and then he drags himself up from the ground. “Are you done, Sire?” ‘Sire’ again. What has he done to earn the other man’s ire this time?
“For now.” Something feels stilted in their interactions today. Stilted and wrong. If he is honest, and he does not see a reason to be otherwise in the privacy of his own thoughts, something has been wrong between them for far longer than today. It started when Merlin came to visit him shortly after Arthur began recovering from the wound given to him by the Questing Beast. His words were cryptic, and his behavior was subdued. Though he told Arthur that he would be happy to serve him until the day he died, the entire conversation felt like a goodbye. Arthur felt a sick certainty that he would not see his manservant again. He was shocked and pleased when Merlin returned a day later, exhausted and accompanied by an even wearier Gaius, but the notion that something was not right remained.
He does not understand what has gone so wrong between them. Before going after the beast which nearly did him in, he and Merlin had been growing quite close. Then, when Arthur awoke, things between them were strained and confusing. Merlin still cares about him. That much is obvious. What is less obvious is why he sometimes goes quiet and pensive when he looks at Arthur, and why he smiles less and worries more. Merlin had been a worrier before the incident, but now he makes the anxiety he expressed in the early days look like serenity itself.
More than ready to think about something else, Arthur says, “Come on, Merlin. We have to move quickly if we want to get back to the castle before nightfall.”
“And whose fault is that, exactly?” Merlin asks tartly.
“Probably mine,” Godric interjects apologetically before Arthur and Merlin can get going in earnest. That might be for the best. There is no reason to ruin whatever has given his friend the impression that Arthur has matured in the time since they saw each other last. “It’s been such a long time since we’ve had a chance to enjoy each other’s company, and I wasn’t ready for this afternoon to end.”
Merlin opens his mouth, then closes it. He tilts his head and swallows, and then opens his mouth again. “Right.”
Blinking, Arthur wonders if he should make a note of this moment. It is, after all, the first time he has ever seen Merlin at a loss for words.
Luckily for all involved, Godric takes no offense to Merlin’s spectacularly lacking response, and the three of them set off for the castle in mostly companionable silence. (Two thirds of their company are companionable. The remaining third is churlish.)
When they reach the castle gates, they part ways. Arthur and Godric make their way toward the kitchens, whilst Merlin heads off to do something that Arthur assumes is productive in some way, though he does not actually know. So long as he has not gone to help the wine-tasters sample the spirits for the evening feast, Arthur does not care overmuch. His manservant is a notorious lightweight, and therefore banned from indulging when the castle has guests. The kingdom has a reputation to uphold, after all.
---
Arthur bids Godric to sit beside him at the table that night, and they eat and drink together as companionably as they ever did when they were boys - or perhaps they are more companionable, given the hand that Godric places on Arthur’s thigh after his goblet has been emptied and refilled a few times.
Through it all, Merlin is a disapproving stare boring into Arthur’s back. Arthur tells himself that he does not care if Merlin cannot accept this side of him, because he shouldn’t care, and so he won’t - and there goes that internal honesty he was mildly proud of earlier.
Gradually, the revelry of the night winds down, and the people surrounding the table begin to disappear. When there are only a handful of people still remaining in the Great Hall, Arthur glances at Godric and finds his friend looking back. “Would you like to come to my chambers for another cup of wine?”
“We could do that,” Godric tells him calmly. “Or we could skip the wine, and go for what we both really want.”
The feeling of having Merlin’s gaze upon him intensifies, and it is that, more than anything, that makes Arthur murmur, “You always did have the better ideas.”
---
Godric has the best ideas.
For a handful of hours, Arthur feels more alive than he has in months.
The only part he regrets about the whole thing is that it cannot last longer, but they both require sleep if they are to be in top form tomorrow.
---
If Merlin was snippy and anxious and curiously absent in the days leading up to the tournament, he is silent and withdrawn the next morning, though his presence is impossible to ignore. He actually knocks on the door to Arthur’s chambers, which is entirely unnecessary, as Godric slipped away a few hours earlier, and Arthur’s body is nothing his manservant has not seen plenty of times before. Worse still, Merlin seems to be doing his best to avoid making eye-contact.
Arthur feels the rejection like a vise around his heart.
As distant as Merlin is this morning, he still hands Arthur a goblet that smells like something he he remembers drinking on similar occasions. It is a welcome offering, as Arthur indulged more than he should have last night, if the throbbing in his head is any indication.
He downs the concoction and proceeds to allow Merlin to get him dressed and ready for the day ahead. Moments later, his head feels blessedly clear, and his mind more alert. He does not know what is in the stuff Merlin brings him when he deems it necessary, and he cannot bring himself to care. It works better than anything Gaius has ever made for him, and the taste is surprisingly inoffensive.
When the helmet is all that remains to be put in place, Merlin finally looks Arthur in the eye. He does not look uncomfortable or disgusted or angry, the way Arthur has expected since he first allowed Godric to leave his hand upon his thigh in the dining hall. He looks sad. “I know you’ll win, so there’s no reason to tell you to do your best. But I will tell you to be careful out there, Arthur. You mean a great deal to a lot of people, and it’s not because you’re the best knight in Camelot, or because you’re the prince. It’s because you’re you.”
With that, he steps forward and places Arthur’s helmet upon his head, rather than handing it to Arthur so that he could do it himself. Then he backs away and walks out of the room, leaving Arthur standing in his wake and wondering why the simple act of letting Merlin put on his helmet had felt more intimate than anything he shared with Godric last night.
---
His father gives a brief speech before opening the tournament, and then the fighting begins.
Arthur keeps his eyes on the winners of each bout, taking note of their weaknesses and their strengths. It will be a while before he faces his first opponent, and he will doubtlessly find himself pitted against the victors of some of these fights later on.
Every once in a while, he glances at Godric, and finds him analyzing the competition as well, or looking back at Arthur. He sees Merlin lingering on the periphery of the arena, watching the fighting with an intensity he has rarely seen in his manservant’s eyes. If Arthur was less aware of Merlin’s utter ineptitude when it comes to close combat, he would say that Merlin is doing the same thing he and Godric are, but that notion is patently absurd, and he shakes it off, refocusing his attention on the knights pitted against each other on the ground below.
A few hours pass, and Arthur finally steps out into the arena. His opponent is the son of a minor lord from Ascetir, who was knighted only a few summers ago. He is good, but it will be a few more years before he can be considered great, and the fight barely gets Arthur’s blood flowing before it is over, the younger man forced to accept defeat as gracefully as one so young and so full of pride in his budding skill is able. Arthur pats the lad on the back and tells him truthfully that he did his father proud.
“I hope I’ll have the privilege of facing you again someday.”
So encouraged, the young knight straightens and gives him a more heartened smile than the small, petulant thing he had mustered earlier, and tells Arthur, “I hope so too, Your Highness.”
The next few fights Arthur participates in grow progressively closer to his own level of mastery, letting him feel the life flowing through his veins. All the while, he knows that Merlin is watching, and without fail, he finds himself turning to look at him before anyone else the moment his victory is declared.
Merlin does not cheer the way he normally would, but he does nod and give Arthur a small smile, as if to say, ‘Thank you,’ or possibly, ‘Well done.’ Arthur is not sure. Perhaps it is a bit of both.
At the end of the day, he goes to meet Godric, intending to drag him away for short while before they are expected in the Great Hall. However, when he tries to draw his friend near, Godric places his hands on Arthur’s shoulders and tells him, “As much as I would love to have a repeat of last night, and maybe even the chance the turn this into something more, it wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”
“What do you mean?” Arthur asks. Then he thinks about it and wonders, “Is this because you’ll have to return home when the tournament ends?”
Godric smiles regretfully and says, “If only that were the reason. No, Arthur, if distance was all that stood between us, I could quite happily continue this for as long as we are able to overcome it. But if you would take even a moment to think about it, you and I both know that I’m not the one you truly want.”
He opens his mouth to tell Godric that the idea is ridiculous. That he does not want anyone other than him - and yet - he cannot. The words will not form on his traitorous tongue, and he is forced to remember, once again, that his friend has always seen Arthur better than he has ever seen himself. Sighing, he clasps the other prince’s hands and presses them gently. “I’m sorry.”
“I know. But you’ll be happy, and in time, I’ll find someone who cares for me the way that Merlin cares for you.”
Arthur tilts his head. “I think you have that a bit backwards, Godric. It’s me who has feelings for Merlin, not the other way around.”
With a fond chuckle, Godric says, “Why don’t you ask him that?”
“I don’t think that would be the best idea. Things with Merlin and I have been rather strange lately, and I don’t want to do anything to make matters worse.”
There is a sniff behind him, and a soft, “You’re an idiot.”
Arthur rips his hands away from Godric’s and whips around to face the newcomer, who stands a few feet away. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his eyes look exasperated and a bit moist.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Godric says quietly, and then he departs.
Cautiously, Arthur takes a step toward Merlin, his right hand stretching out of its own accord. He draws it back, not wanting to make Merlin feel crowded or threatened or - something. Anything that might ruin this fragile moment.
“Well?” Merlin asks after the silence has dragged on long enough.
“Well, what?”
“Are you going to ask?”
Stupidly, Arthur finds himself saying, “I’ve never had to ask you for your thoughts on anything before now.”
Merlin huffs and ducks his head for a half a beat before looking back at Arthur with the beginnings of a smile. “I suppose you’re right.” He drops his arms from where they had been hugging his chest, letting his arms fall down to his sides. His hands form tight fists, as though to stop himself from reaching toward Arthur in the same way Arthur had almost reached for him, and that is enough to convince Arthur to close the distance between them in a few short strides.
“So?” he starts hopefully. “Out with it. I’ve never known you to be as quiet as you have been today. It’s unnatural.”
Snorting, Merlin tells him, “I’m going to remind you of that the next time you tell me to shut up.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Arthur replies dryly. “But I believe you were about to declare your undying love for me.”
He says it as a jest, trying to lighten the mood, but Merlin shocks him, which Arthur supposes he should be used to by now. (He will never be used to it. The effect Merlin has on a person’s life is not the kind of thing one gets used to. It is, however, highly addictive.) “Yeah, I was.”
Oh. Perhaps Arthur truly is the idiot Merlin says that he is, because he should have seen something like this coming, shouldn’t he? He should have known what all those little looks and touches and unexpectedly kind words meant, and he should have known what it meant when he responded in kind, and he absolutely should have realized what it meant when he felt so bereft when all of those little things slipped away a few months ago.
“Merlin, I-”
A hand comes up to cover his mouth, and Merlin suggests, “Maybe you should wait a few days before you try to say anything, yeah?”
Moving his head back slightly, Arthur asks, “What makes you say that?”
With a pointed raise of his eyebrows, Merlin reminds him, “I’m the one who cleans your chambers.”
In other words, he knows exactly what Arthur did last night, and with whom. “Ah. You may have a point.”
“I usually do.”
“Don’t sound so smug. I’m not the one who waited until the object of his affections took up with another man before saying something.”
Shrugging, Merlin retorts, “At least I’m not the one who didn’t realize how he felt in the first place.”
“To be fair, I was still recovering from being on my deathbed, and you were sending some very mixed signals.”
Looking pained, Merlin begs him, “Please don’t remind me. Those were quite literally the worst few days of my life.”
“I’m sorry.” He means it. Though he is not above teasing Merlin, and occasionally giving in to petty anger and lashing out at him, he would never truly wish to cause him pain.
“You’re forgiven. But you have to promise me one thing.”
“Name it.”
Smiling softly, Merlin does. “Never stop being a prat.”
“What? You hate it when I act like that. You specifically told me not to be a prat before you disappeared a few months ago.”
“Yes, well, that was - complicated,” Merlin says cagily. “But I fell in love with you when you were a prat, and it would be a shame if you stopped being yourself because of something that didn’t actually happen.”
Arthur’s eyebrows draw together. “Are you ever going to tell me what all that was about?”
Smiling still, Merlin promises him, “Someday.”
It’s enough for now.
Recipient:
digthewriterAuthor:
kleinefee92Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Arthur/Original Male Character, Arthur/Merlin
Summary: Merlin acted like he was saying goodbye shortly after Arthur began healing from the bite of the Questing Beast, and then he disappeared for a day. He came back, but Arthur has no idea where he went, or what he did while he was gone. A few months down the road, Merlin is acting strange, and Arthur feels strange - in that he doesn't really feel at all.
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 5,000
Author's Notes: Hey,
digthewriter! I hope this fic helps make your holiday a little bit brighter. Lots of love and thanks go to my wonderful friend and beta, jelazakazone. This fic would not be what it is without you. Thanks also to the mods of our community, who were incredibly patient with me and my perpetual lateness, and who made this gift exchange possible. The title for this comes from Vertical Horizon's Everything You Want. I hope to, when I have the chance, post a companion piece to this fic on Ao3. It will fill in the blanks resulting from the gaps in Arthur's knowledge during this fic, and allow Merlin to have a chance to explain his side of things.Disclaimer:Merlin is owned by the BBC and Shine. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made. Don't send us to the dungeons.
He says all the right things at exactly the right time may also be found here on Ao3.
Everyone denies it whenever he tries to bring it up, but Arthur is certain that he should be dead right now. From the moment the Questing Beast struck him down in that cave, he had known his breaths were numbered.
He wouldn’t say that he had made peace with his death, but he had known it was coming. Every day that he wakes and feels stronger is like a strange and undeserved gift, and he cannot seem to move past it.
It strikes him one day as he is practicing with the knights that the only time he feels as though he belongs in his own body anymore is when he pits himself against the strength of another. He wonders if there are other ways for him to experience that same sense of rightness. Of belonging.
Later on, as he is making his way back to his chambers, he passes an alcove and hears the faint sounds of hushed laughter and intimate whispering, and he knows.
That evening, he suggests that his father throw a tournament.
“And what purpose would this tournament serve?” Uther asks, taking a slow sip from his goblet to punctuate the query.
He prepared for this question, and answers easily. “To show the other kingdoms that the rumors of the severity of my injury have been exaggerated, and that the crown prince of Camelot is as strong as ever.”
Uther makes an approving noise, looking thoughtful, and says, “Very well.” If there is something haunted in his father’s eyes at the reminder of Arthur’s brush with death, Arthur is wise enough not to call attention to it.
---
Merlin makes his displeasure at the idea of another tournament known as plainly and obnoxiously as possible. “And don’t forget what happened at the last tournament - as if anyone actually could. Although, I suppose if someone were dense enough for something like that to slip his mind, it would be you.” Pausing to take a breath, Merlin inadvertently gives Arthur the opening he needs to interrupt him.
“Don’t you have chores you should be doing? As I recall, my armor is in need of cleaning, the stables can always use mucking out, and if you would actually look at the state of this room, you would realize what a mess you’ve allowed it to turn into.”
With a disgruntled look, Merlin says, “Right. Well, obviously you’re not going to listen to reason, so I’ll just leave you to - whatever it is you’re doing.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “If you must know, I’m writing invitations to the knights and princes of the neighboring kingdoms.”
“Of course you are,” Merlin deadpans, and then he stalks out, muttering aspersions under his breath.
Aside from raising his eyebrows, Arthur chooses not to dignify his moody manservant’s exit with a response. He has grown used to Merlin’s dramatics in the year since he first came to stay at the castle, and though he supposes he should require more decorum and obedience from the other man, he cannot bring himself to be bothered. Other than a select few, Merlin is the only one who treats Arthur like a person, rather than a title, and though he will never share this fact with his manservant, Arthur appreciates it.
Shaking off his abstraction, he returns to the task to which he had set himself before Merlin so thoroughly diverted his attention.
---
Two weeks after his initial revelation, competitors from across Albion begin pouring into Camelot, the squires of the lower-born knights who are not afforded rooms in the castle putting up tents and generally gawking at everything around them. Had Arthur ever been that wide-eyed and innocent? He finds it hard to imagine, for all that he is only twenty-one.
He feels older, when he can feel anything at all.
“Unless you want to be late to your own tournament, Sire, you should probably move away from the window and let me dress you.”
He is in trouble, isn’t he? Merlin never calls him ‘Sire’ unless he is punishing him for something. He wonders what it is about this tournament that bothers Merlin so deeply. Certainly, the most recent tournament held in Camelot yielded some unexpected excitement, but Arthur dealt with it easily enough, and not every tournament will go awry in such a spectacular manner.
When he expresses this, though, Merlin refuses to be placated. “This isn’t just a tournament - which would be bad enough, because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but sometimes people die in things like this, purely on accident - it’s an opportunity.”
“An opportunity?” Arthur asks dryly.
“Yes.”
“All right,” Arthur drawls, knowing he will regret going along with this. “What kind of opportunity, exactly?”
“For some other kingdom to send someone specifically to kill you, and sure, everyone will suspect foul play, but it’s a tournament. These things happen, and anyway, how would they prove it?” He dresses Arthur as he talks, pulling on the fabric and the leather more roughly than he normally does.
“Watch it, will you?” Arthur demands when Merlin’s actions become a bit too careless. “Need I remind you that you’re the one who will have to deal with it if something happens to my clothes?”
Merlin huffs, but grows gentler, straightening out any wrinkles his agitation may have caused. “You know, this wouldn’t even be a problem if you would just do it yourself. You’re a grown man, Arthur. I’m sure you can manage putting on your own clothes.”
“No, I couldn’t possibly,” Arthur says, his voice mockingly sweet. “If I did that, it would deprive of us the chance to share this special time together.”
With a snort, Merlin gives one last brush to the front of Arthur’s jacket and then steps away. “Go greet your guests, prat.”
“I’m sorry, were you under the impression that you were somehow exempt from this event? You’re coming with me.”
His nose wrinkling, Merlin retorts, “I was under that impression, actually. Gaius needs help preparing for the flood of patients he’s sure to get from this latest excuse for you and your knights to show how manly you are.”
“Really? Because I heard from Morgana that Guinevere helped both of you with your preparations, and there was nothing left to do.”
Merlin’s lips compress as Arthur looks on, and then he rolls his eyes. “Fine. Lead the way, my lord.”
Fighting a grin, Arthur notes, “You know, you’re the only person I’ve ever met who never fails to make that sound like an insult.”
“Clearly, it’s a gift.”
---
Welcoming the contestants is little more than a blur of faces and titles and crests until he comes to Prince Godric.
Though they were never able to spend a great deal of time with each other, the two of them had met several times throughout their childhood. Arthur had always looked up to Godric, who was, to Arthur’s young mind, the best possible example of what a prince should be. The other boy had been kind enough in their youth to allow Arthur to trail along after him when things at court became too tedious.
It has been years since the last time Arthur laid eyes on Godric, and he can say with certainty that those years have been kind to him. As a lad, Godric had always shown the potential to grow broad and tall the way his father was, but in his teen years, he had suffered from that all-too-common affliction of acne, which had distracted people from his strong features.
As it happens, Godric has lost the acne and gained in strength and stature, as young men are wont to do, and now he is every bit as beautiful as those who looked closely enough might have once predicted. His dark brown eyes are warm as they regard Arthur as carefully as Arthur regards him, and Arthur replaces the diplomatic smile he has been wearing for the past half-hour with something far more genuine.
“Prince Godric,” he says, his voice coming out lower than he originally intended. He reaches out to clasp Godric’s arm as Godric does the same. “Welcome back to Camelot. You were missed at the last tournament.”
“My apologies, Arthur. Leofric’s wife bore him an heir, and even a chance to visit your beautiful kingdom again could not have compelled me to leave.” Though Godric is older than Arthur by a few years, he is not the crown prince of his family’s kingdom. That honor goes to his older brother, Leofric, which is rather a shame. Godric has always been the brighter and more charismatic of the two brothers, though Arthur supposes Leofric is still a good man, and a compassionate one, and sometimes that is what a kingdom needs.
Not every king can lead the way his own father does. Arthur certainly won’t, as much as he loves and admires Uther.
“You’re forgiven. If you agree to go on a hunt with me before tournament begins tomorrow.”
“I look forward to it.” The wonderful thing about Godric is that Arthur has no doubt that he means every word. The man is nothing if not sincere, though without the typical naivete that accompanies such honesty.
Behind him, Merlin clears his throat pointedly, reminding Arthur that there are still people left to greet.
With a nod, Arthur tells the other prince, “As do I. If you’ll excuse me, Godric. I wouldn’t want the other guests to feel slighted.”
Godric’s gaze travels from Merlin to Arthur, a hint of amusement creeping in, and he says genially, “No, of course not. We’ll talk more later, on our hunt.”
---
They do talk more, though not a lot of hunting is accomplished at first. The entire time, Merlin follows along with a long-suffering air. He’s loaded down with their hunting gear, in addition to a meal that they stop to eat near a small stream. Arthur and Godric sit side by side against the trunk of a fallen tree, and Merlin seats himself further away, upon a small boulder.
When Arthur and Godric finish their food, Arthur goes over to Merlin and relieves him of the hunting gear, telling him that they will have more luck if Merlin stays here. “Besides, you’re still eating.”
“And what if something happens to you?” Merlin demands, unimpressed.
“What could possibly happen to me out here, Merlin? We’re still within Camelot’s borders, and besides, even if something were to happen, I’ll have Godric with me.”
“Right,” Merlin mutters, thoroughly unappeased. “Well, that’s all right, then.”
His brow furrowing, Arthur asks, “What has gotten into you? Is this about the tournament, still?”
He watches as Merlin takes a sharp breath, the way he often does before giving someone - mostly Arthur, admittedly - a piece of his mind, and then he glances at Godric and deflates. “Yeah. But you know what? It’s fine. Go kill things. I know how happy that makes you.”
Arthur gives him a measured look, certain that his manservant is holding something back, yet Merlin remains unmoved, and so what can Arthur do, aside from carry on with his plans? “You know,” he starts, backing away, “it should make you happy, too. If I didn’t go hunting so much, how would we ever be able to keep food on Camelot’s tables, with bottomless pits like you eating it all?”
Merlin looks solemn, which is not what Arthur wanted at all. “I guess it’s a good thing we’ll never have to find out.”
Once again, Godric glances between the two of them, clearly seeing something that piques his interest. He offers no insight before he and Arthur leave Merlin by the stream, choosing to actually focus on the hunt for a time. Following his example, Arthur soon finds his game bag growing full.
Before the sun sets and the world around them starts growing dim, they set out for the stream where Merlin is waiting for them - hopefully. He has a tendency to wander off and get himself into trouble, though the wandering off is not strictly required. Merlin can get himself into trouble anywhere.
The thought causes Arthur a momentary bout of panic, but he pushes it aside. When they get back to him, Merlin will be fine.
Even so, he cannot stop himself from quickening his pace somewhat.
Godric notices, because he notices everything, including the things people would rather keep to themselves. Thankfully, he is good enough not to share his observations with anyone who might use them against the pertinent individuals. He says, “You’ve changed, Arthur.”
“What makes you say that?” Arthur asks warily. Until now, the conversation between them has been light and easy. This sounds like the prelude to something complicated, which is not what he is after.
“You seem wiser. More serious. Like you’ve finally grown into your role as your father’s heir. And you care about someone outside of your knights and your family, which I always knew you could do, but had not seen until today. I’m glad I got the chance to see you this way.”
“Visit more often, and you’ll get to see me like this again,” Arthur says, keeping his tone light, because anything else would remind him too much of what the next few days are meant to help him forget.
Smiling, Godric tells him, “We’ll see.”
They find Merlin more or less the way they left him, though he has moved from the moss-covered boulder to the grass along the bank of the stream. His body is stretched out, and his arms are crossed beneath his head as he stares up at the slowly darkening sky. Were it not for the high color in his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes, he would be the picture of ease. Arthur scrutinizes his manservant more closely, wondering what made his pale cheeks so flushed, but he refrains from inquiring. What Merlin does when he is alone is his business, as long as it does not put him in danger or cause him to neglect his duties.
Merlin turns his head to casually watch their approach, and then he drags himself up from the ground. “Are you done, Sire?” ‘Sire’ again. What has he done to earn the other man’s ire this time?
“For now.” Something feels stilted in their interactions today. Stilted and wrong. If he is honest, and he does not see a reason to be otherwise in the privacy of his own thoughts, something has been wrong between them for far longer than today. It started when Merlin came to visit him shortly after Arthur began recovering from the wound given to him by the Questing Beast. His words were cryptic, and his behavior was subdued. Though he told Arthur that he would be happy to serve him until the day he died, the entire conversation felt like a goodbye. Arthur felt a sick certainty that he would not see his manservant again. He was shocked and pleased when Merlin returned a day later, exhausted and accompanied by an even wearier Gaius, but the notion that something was not right remained.
He does not understand what has gone so wrong between them. Before going after the beast which nearly did him in, he and Merlin had been growing quite close. Then, when Arthur awoke, things between them were strained and confusing. Merlin still cares about him. That much is obvious. What is less obvious is why he sometimes goes quiet and pensive when he looks at Arthur, and why he smiles less and worries more. Merlin had been a worrier before the incident, but now he makes the anxiety he expressed in the early days look like serenity itself.
More than ready to think about something else, Arthur says, “Come on, Merlin. We have to move quickly if we want to get back to the castle before nightfall.”
“And whose fault is that, exactly?” Merlin asks tartly.
“Probably mine,” Godric interjects apologetically before Arthur and Merlin can get going in earnest. That might be for the best. There is no reason to ruin whatever has given his friend the impression that Arthur has matured in the time since they saw each other last. “It’s been such a long time since we’ve had a chance to enjoy each other’s company, and I wasn’t ready for this afternoon to end.”
Merlin opens his mouth, then closes it. He tilts his head and swallows, and then opens his mouth again. “Right.”
Blinking, Arthur wonders if he should make a note of this moment. It is, after all, the first time he has ever seen Merlin at a loss for words.
Luckily for all involved, Godric takes no offense to Merlin’s spectacularly lacking response, and the three of them set off for the castle in mostly companionable silence. (Two thirds of their company are companionable. The remaining third is churlish.)
When they reach the castle gates, they part ways. Arthur and Godric make their way toward the kitchens, whilst Merlin heads off to do something that Arthur assumes is productive in some way, though he does not actually know. So long as he has not gone to help the wine-tasters sample the spirits for the evening feast, Arthur does not care overmuch. His manservant is a notorious lightweight, and therefore banned from indulging when the castle has guests. The kingdom has a reputation to uphold, after all.
---
Arthur bids Godric to sit beside him at the table that night, and they eat and drink together as companionably as they ever did when they were boys - or perhaps they are more companionable, given the hand that Godric places on Arthur’s thigh after his goblet has been emptied and refilled a few times.
Through it all, Merlin is a disapproving stare boring into Arthur’s back. Arthur tells himself that he does not care if Merlin cannot accept this side of him, because he shouldn’t care, and so he won’t - and there goes that internal honesty he was mildly proud of earlier.
Gradually, the revelry of the night winds down, and the people surrounding the table begin to disappear. When there are only a handful of people still remaining in the Great Hall, Arthur glances at Godric and finds his friend looking back. “Would you like to come to my chambers for another cup of wine?”
“We could do that,” Godric tells him calmly. “Or we could skip the wine, and go for what we both really want.”
The feeling of having Merlin’s gaze upon him intensifies, and it is that, more than anything, that makes Arthur murmur, “You always did have the better ideas.”
---
Godric has the best ideas.
For a handful of hours, Arthur feels more alive than he has in months.
The only part he regrets about the whole thing is that it cannot last longer, but they both require sleep if they are to be in top form tomorrow.
---
If Merlin was snippy and anxious and curiously absent in the days leading up to the tournament, he is silent and withdrawn the next morning, though his presence is impossible to ignore. He actually knocks on the door to Arthur’s chambers, which is entirely unnecessary, as Godric slipped away a few hours earlier, and Arthur’s body is nothing his manservant has not seen plenty of times before. Worse still, Merlin seems to be doing his best to avoid making eye-contact.
Arthur feels the rejection like a vise around his heart.
As distant as Merlin is this morning, he still hands Arthur a goblet that smells like something he he remembers drinking on similar occasions. It is a welcome offering, as Arthur indulged more than he should have last night, if the throbbing in his head is any indication.
He downs the concoction and proceeds to allow Merlin to get him dressed and ready for the day ahead. Moments later, his head feels blessedly clear, and his mind more alert. He does not know what is in the stuff Merlin brings him when he deems it necessary, and he cannot bring himself to care. It works better than anything Gaius has ever made for him, and the taste is surprisingly inoffensive.
When the helmet is all that remains to be put in place, Merlin finally looks Arthur in the eye. He does not look uncomfortable or disgusted or angry, the way Arthur has expected since he first allowed Godric to leave his hand upon his thigh in the dining hall. He looks sad. “I know you’ll win, so there’s no reason to tell you to do your best. But I will tell you to be careful out there, Arthur. You mean a great deal to a lot of people, and it’s not because you’re the best knight in Camelot, or because you’re the prince. It’s because you’re you.”
With that, he steps forward and places Arthur’s helmet upon his head, rather than handing it to Arthur so that he could do it himself. Then he backs away and walks out of the room, leaving Arthur standing in his wake and wondering why the simple act of letting Merlin put on his helmet had felt more intimate than anything he shared with Godric last night.
---
His father gives a brief speech before opening the tournament, and then the fighting begins.
Arthur keeps his eyes on the winners of each bout, taking note of their weaknesses and their strengths. It will be a while before he faces his first opponent, and he will doubtlessly find himself pitted against the victors of some of these fights later on.
Every once in a while, he glances at Godric, and finds him analyzing the competition as well, or looking back at Arthur. He sees Merlin lingering on the periphery of the arena, watching the fighting with an intensity he has rarely seen in his manservant’s eyes. If Arthur was less aware of Merlin’s utter ineptitude when it comes to close combat, he would say that Merlin is doing the same thing he and Godric are, but that notion is patently absurd, and he shakes it off, refocusing his attention on the knights pitted against each other on the ground below.
A few hours pass, and Arthur finally steps out into the arena. His opponent is the son of a minor lord from Ascetir, who was knighted only a few summers ago. He is good, but it will be a few more years before he can be considered great, and the fight barely gets Arthur’s blood flowing before it is over, the younger man forced to accept defeat as gracefully as one so young and so full of pride in his budding skill is able. Arthur pats the lad on the back and tells him truthfully that he did his father proud.
“I hope I’ll have the privilege of facing you again someday.”
So encouraged, the young knight straightens and gives him a more heartened smile than the small, petulant thing he had mustered earlier, and tells Arthur, “I hope so too, Your Highness.”
The next few fights Arthur participates in grow progressively closer to his own level of mastery, letting him feel the life flowing through his veins. All the while, he knows that Merlin is watching, and without fail, he finds himself turning to look at him before anyone else the moment his victory is declared.
Merlin does not cheer the way he normally would, but he does nod and give Arthur a small smile, as if to say, ‘Thank you,’ or possibly, ‘Well done.’ Arthur is not sure. Perhaps it is a bit of both.
At the end of the day, he goes to meet Godric, intending to drag him away for short while before they are expected in the Great Hall. However, when he tries to draw his friend near, Godric places his hands on Arthur’s shoulders and tells him, “As much as I would love to have a repeat of last night, and maybe even the chance the turn this into something more, it wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”
“What do you mean?” Arthur asks. Then he thinks about it and wonders, “Is this because you’ll have to return home when the tournament ends?”
Godric smiles regretfully and says, “If only that were the reason. No, Arthur, if distance was all that stood between us, I could quite happily continue this for as long as we are able to overcome it. But if you would take even a moment to think about it, you and I both know that I’m not the one you truly want.”
He opens his mouth to tell Godric that the idea is ridiculous. That he does not want anyone other than him - and yet - he cannot. The words will not form on his traitorous tongue, and he is forced to remember, once again, that his friend has always seen Arthur better than he has ever seen himself. Sighing, he clasps the other prince’s hands and presses them gently. “I’m sorry.”
“I know. But you’ll be happy, and in time, I’ll find someone who cares for me the way that Merlin cares for you.”
Arthur tilts his head. “I think you have that a bit backwards, Godric. It’s me who has feelings for Merlin, not the other way around.”
With a fond chuckle, Godric says, “Why don’t you ask him that?”
“I don’t think that would be the best idea. Things with Merlin and I have been rather strange lately, and I don’t want to do anything to make matters worse.”
There is a sniff behind him, and a soft, “You’re an idiot.”
Arthur rips his hands away from Godric’s and whips around to face the newcomer, who stands a few feet away. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his eyes look exasperated and a bit moist.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Godric says quietly, and then he departs.
Cautiously, Arthur takes a step toward Merlin, his right hand stretching out of its own accord. He draws it back, not wanting to make Merlin feel crowded or threatened or - something. Anything that might ruin this fragile moment.
“Well?” Merlin asks after the silence has dragged on long enough.
“Well, what?”
“Are you going to ask?”
Stupidly, Arthur finds himself saying, “I’ve never had to ask you for your thoughts on anything before now.”
Merlin huffs and ducks his head for a half a beat before looking back at Arthur with the beginnings of a smile. “I suppose you’re right.” He drops his arms from where they had been hugging his chest, letting his arms fall down to his sides. His hands form tight fists, as though to stop himself from reaching toward Arthur in the same way Arthur had almost reached for him, and that is enough to convince Arthur to close the distance between them in a few short strides.
“So?” he starts hopefully. “Out with it. I’ve never known you to be as quiet as you have been today. It’s unnatural.”
Snorting, Merlin tells him, “I’m going to remind you of that the next time you tell me to shut up.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Arthur replies dryly. “But I believe you were about to declare your undying love for me.”
He says it as a jest, trying to lighten the mood, but Merlin shocks him, which Arthur supposes he should be used to by now. (He will never be used to it. The effect Merlin has on a person’s life is not the kind of thing one gets used to. It is, however, highly addictive.) “Yeah, I was.”
Oh. Perhaps Arthur truly is the idiot Merlin says that he is, because he should have seen something like this coming, shouldn’t he? He should have known what all those little looks and touches and unexpectedly kind words meant, and he should have known what it meant when he responded in kind, and he absolutely should have realized what it meant when he felt so bereft when all of those little things slipped away a few months ago.
“Merlin, I-”
A hand comes up to cover his mouth, and Merlin suggests, “Maybe you should wait a few days before you try to say anything, yeah?”
Moving his head back slightly, Arthur asks, “What makes you say that?”
With a pointed raise of his eyebrows, Merlin reminds him, “I’m the one who cleans your chambers.”
In other words, he knows exactly what Arthur did last night, and with whom. “Ah. You may have a point.”
“I usually do.”
“Don’t sound so smug. I’m not the one who waited until the object of his affections took up with another man before saying something.”
Shrugging, Merlin retorts, “At least I’m not the one who didn’t realize how he felt in the first place.”
“To be fair, I was still recovering from being on my deathbed, and you were sending some very mixed signals.”
Looking pained, Merlin begs him, “Please don’t remind me. Those were quite literally the worst few days of my life.”
“I’m sorry.” He means it. Though he is not above teasing Merlin, and occasionally giving in to petty anger and lashing out at him, he would never truly wish to cause him pain.
“You’re forgiven. But you have to promise me one thing.”
“Name it.”
Smiling softly, Merlin does. “Never stop being a prat.”
“What? You hate it when I act like that. You specifically told me not to be a prat before you disappeared a few months ago.”
“Yes, well, that was - complicated,” Merlin says cagily. “But I fell in love with you when you were a prat, and it would be a shame if you stopped being yourself because of something that didn’t actually happen.”
Arthur’s eyebrows draw together. “Are you ever going to tell me what all that was about?”
Smiling still, Merlin promises him, “Someday.”
It’s enough for now.
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no subject
Date: 2014-12-26 05:07 pm (UTC)I loved loved loved this. From the first line, I couldn't walk away from this fic until I'd read the whole thing. This was brilliant. It's is THE canon!au fic I've been looking for all my life. I loved Godric. I loved Arthur's curiosity, his attraction and how Godric saw it before Arthur saw it himself. There are so many parts of this story that I just absolutely cherished.
Merlin looks solemn, which is not what Arthur wanted at all.
Arthur scrutinizes his manservant more closely, wondering what made his pale cheeks so flushed, but he refrains from inquiring. What Merlin does when he is alone is his business
‘Sire’ again
He does not look uncomfortable or disgusted or angry, the way Arthur has expected since he first allowed Godric to leave his hand upon his thigh in the dining hall. He looks sad.
This broke my heart. Then his speech was just perfect!
There is a sniff behind him, and a soft, “You’re an idiot.”
Thanks so much for this story. It really brightened up my day. I rarely get gifts in the Merlin fandom so this has just been absolutely brilliant! I do hope you'll write a companion piece to this. I loved the blanks where Arthur doesn't know and Merlin is hiding and I can't wait for them to come to light.
Awesome. Awesome. Awesome.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-29 04:16 pm (UTC)And you have no idea what a relief it is to know that you liked Godric. Creating OCs in fanworks is always a bit of a nerve-wracking concept.
Thank you for the awesome prompt! The companion piece is in the works.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
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Date: 2014-12-26 10:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-29 04:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-27 06:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-29 04:21 pm (UTC)I'm glad that Arthur's disconnect came through, as well as the tension between Merlin and Arthur.
As happy as I would be to say that Merlin feels comfortable sharing his magic with Arthur, now, I don't see that happening for quite some time. Uther is still the king, and magic is still banned in Camelot. I just can't see Merlin making Arthur choose between duty to his father and protecting someone he loves.
Thanks for the thoughtful comment, brunettepet.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-28 12:30 pm (UTC)"Then he backs away and walks out of the room, leaving Arthur standing in his wake and wondering why the simple act of letting Merlin put on his helmet had felt more intimate than anything he shared with Godric last night."
Oh those boys! ♥
no subject
Date: 2014-12-29 04:26 pm (UTC)Thank you, again, for such a sweet comment!
(You can't help but love Merlin and Arthur, right? They're impossible to resist.)