Chapter Text
When Arthur thought that he wished he had the time to just be angry with Merlin, he did not think he would actually get it. Now that he had had two months of it, he wished that they could just stop. He wished that he could just stop.
Arthur knew that all the fighting was largely his fault. For the first few weeks, Merlin had tried joking around, pretending like nothing had changed between them, but even the most innocuous of comments made Arthur snap. He supposed that it was easier to be angry than to acknowledge how hurt he felt. As much as Arthur tried to pretend that Merlin rejecting him did not bother him, he was still absolutely devastated. He knew that it was Merlin’s prerogative to decide if he wanted to have a relationship with someone, but Arthur wished Merlin had just rejected him from the offset instead of stringing him along.
Arthur hated how quick to anger Merlin had made him. No one had ever made Arthur as furious as Merlin did now, and after a few weeks of self-reflection, Arthur realized it was because he was still (stupidly, hopelessly) in love with Merlin. He could never be this angry with someone he hated. Arthur felt guilty for his behavior, and he was sure that if he just stopped snapping at Merlin, they would be able to work some things out. But then, Merlin would say something—literally anything—or have the nerve to look at him funny, and Arthur would be back exactly where he had started.
The magic wasn’t why they were fighting. Save a few sensitive topics (like the dragon), Arthur was not angry about the magic. In fact, he generally enjoyed watching Merlin use it for chores behind his locked door, and it was impossible to argue with how well his broken arm had healed after Merlin’s intervention. Gaius suspected Merlin was able to fit the pieces so precisely back together, including the shattered fragments, that his arm needed to regenerate less bone. Though he had a lot of biases against magic he had to work through, Arthur knew Merlin would never hurt him with magic. It occurred to him about a month ago that Merlin could fling him across the room with so little as a thought, yet he never did, not even when he too was red in the face from yelling.
The problem wasn’t the magic; it was the lies. Despite promising Arthur that he would not lie anymore, Merlin still would not tell him where he went or what he was doing when he frequently disappeared throughout the day. He often lied and said he was helping Gaius, but when Arthur went to the physician’s chambers, Gaius often did not know where Merlin had gone. At first, he wanted to give Merlin the benefit of the doubt—assuming that maybe Merlin needed some time to himself after their arguments—but it did not take long before Merlin started showing up to work looking exhausted and wearing yesterday’s rumpled clothing. When asked about it, Merlin usually made some excuse, but after Arthur pressed for a better answer, Merlin had snapped at him and said that it was none of his business. Arthur stopped asking, but that did not mean he was any less suspicious.
Arthur tried not to think about what Merlin’s disappearances meant. He initially worried Merlin was risking his life to silently take care of some kind of threat in the shadows, but Merlin was gone so often that Arthur had to frequently dismiss the thought that Merlin was sneaking around to have some sort of illicit affair. His paranoia only worsened with Merlin constantly encouraging him to marry Mithian, as if Nemeth’s princess would somehow fill the hole Merlin had torn into his heart. Both options—Merlin endangering himself or Merlin sleeping with someone else—were unpalatable, so Arthur threw himself into training, saying that he needed to restrengthen his arm, to avoid thinking altogether.
His avoidance had unfortunately not done him any favors. Today, Nemeth was arriving to begin negotiations for Gedref, negotiations that would likely to end with a wedding. His wedding. While he knew it was a prince’s duty to marry well for the good of the kingdom, Arthur simply did not want to marry. His alternative diplomatic solutions were consistently dismissed in council meetings, and after objecting privately to his father, the king had accused him—again—of being obsessed with Merlin. He said that it would do him well to marry a woman. Afraid that his father might do something to Merlin, Arthur never uttered a word of dissent afterwards. Instead, Arthur held his breath, feeling like he was watching someone deal him a mortal wound in slow motion, all while being powerless to stop it.
He found it ironic that it was Merlin now getting him dressed for the dreaded feast to welcome Nemeth. No one else sending him off would have hurt him this badly. Arthur felt like he was getting trussed up for sale, and his clothes felt tighter than they should be.
As Merlin tugged on the hem of his overly complicated jacket to straighten it, Arthur thought about how much he hated this version of Merlin. Arthur had no idea that Merlin could be a competent servant. He was quiet, efficient, and if Arthur did not know any better, deferential. Merlin seldom met his gaze, and Arthur would be a fool to think the reason was anything but simmering anger.
Arthur had also forgotten that servants typically did not touch their masters directly could they avoid it. Merlin had stopped touching him altogether, and in general, he gave him a wide berth. The few times Arthur had tried touching Merlin, he wrenched himself away or just swatted at him, annoyed. Arthur knew that Merlin not touching him should feel like a mercy, but as Merlin simply stepped away from him, satisfied Arthur was dressed appropriately for the feast, Arthur keenly felt the loss. Watching Merlin walk over to his table and start clearing the dishes he had neglected since lunch, Arthur smoothed his jacket down with both hands despite it being perfectly fine already.
No matter how much they fought, however, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to just let Merlin go. Relieve him of service and spare them both the headaches—spare himself the heartache. He hated fighting with Merlin, but he was still afraid of losing him entirely. Every morning, Arthur woke up wondering if today would be the day Merlin just did not show up for work. He wondered when he would wake up and Merlin wouldn’t be there, only this time, he wouldn’t be coming back.
Though he felt like Merlin would be completely justified in leaving, he suspected that he wouldn’t. Arthur wasn’t sure if it was some overwrought sense of duty or sincere belief in their allegedly shared destiny, but no matter how nasty their fights had gotten, it was apparent Merlin still cared. Merlin still did everything in his power to protect him, and it made Arthur furious that Merlin so flagrantly endangered himself to do so.
Two weeks ago, they had set out to slay some magical beast that was terrorizing small towns in the countryside. The ride out was so tense that not even Gwaine could lighten the mood with his inane jokes and chatter. Eventually, they found the creature, and after a brief melee that minorly wounded Percival, it was abundantly clear that their swords were not enough to slay it. Amidst the chaos, Merlin lured it away to kill it himself. By the time anyone noticed Merlin was missing, no one knew which way he had gone.
Night was quickly falling, and with Percival injured, Arthur and Elyan set off to find Merlin. It took almost two hours of (frantic) searching before they found Merlin hobbling back towards camp. He had taken care of the creature with no trouble, but he had tripped over a root and sprained his ankle on the way back. Arthur managed to contain his anger until they made it back to the camp, at which point Arthur laid into him. Both Percival and Elyan interrupted, telling him to go easy on Merlin; it’s not like he had intended to get lost. Gwaine, surprisingly, shot him a sympathetic look, and Arthur canned his lecture until they arrived back in Camelot two days after finding the creature’s body in the woods. When they "accidentally" came upon it, Merlin said that it must have fled to die after one of their strikes. Arthur just watched him convincingly lie and wondered just how many times he had previously believed him.
Once they arrived home, Merlin was absolutely unrepentant for slipping away to defeat the creature on his own, and Arthur was too prideful to admit that he spent those two hours searching terrified, imagining the worst case scenarios. What pushed Arthur over the edge was Merlin then had the nerve to fuss and worry over his arm, even while his own ankle was wrapped and elevated. Arthur told Merlin to take a few days off, but disobedient as ever, Merlin was back at work the following morning.
Maybe Merlin didn’t want to let him go, either.
“Sire,” Merlin started, and Arthur snapped his attention to him. “You should go.”
For once, Merlin was looking at him. He didn’t look angry or upset; he just looked tired, if not a bit resigned. There were deep bags under his eyes, and Arthur wished that he could just fix it. “Right,” Arthur agreed with a sigh. He should go, and he shouldn’t let himself be distracted by his manservant. The problem was Merlin was pretty much the only thing Arthur thought about. With each passing day, he was having more and more difficulty concealing that fact. He was morose and mercurial, and try as he may to maintain his princely composure, he knew his poor attitude was bleeding into his duties as well.
“Right,” Arthur repeated, trying to gather the mental fortitude to just go. When Merlin nodded at him before turning his attention back to his work, Arthur smoothed his jacket down again before reluctantly leaving the safety of his chambers.
As he walked towards the Great Hall, Arthur could not tamp down his bubbling anxiety. He did not want to do this. Feeling like he was marching himself to his own doom, Arthur had to remind himself to stop being so dramatic. He was a prince, after all, and he had been trained to do this since birth.
Squaring his shoulders, Arthur straightened up as he neared the doors to the Great Hall, which a pair of guards opened for him. When Arthur went to find his seat at the table, his father had yet to arrive, but Morgana was sitting in her seat directly across from his. “Are you alright?” she whispered, careful to make sure none of the nobility farther down the table could hear her.
“As alright as I’m going to be,” Arthur answered, his mouth creased in a thin line.
Morgana smiled weakly at him and promised, “I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks, Morgana,” Arthur said, immensely grateful for her support. At least he had one ally at the table.
Arthur did not have to sit in anticipation much longer before Uther and some of the straggling nobles arrived. As the king took his seat, he turned his attention to Arthur with a glower. “No more of this foolishness,” he warned with a hushed tone and a pointed finger, “You will be cordial to the princess, and you will forget about that serving boy of yours.”
“Of course, Father,” Arthur agreed. He knew it was pointless to defend himself against accusations about his “affair” with Merlin. Past experience told him that the more vehemently Arthur denied it, the less his father believed him. Each time he brought it up, however, was like salt in the wound. Arthur could not believe that he was being berated about something he never got the chance to do.
“And in tomorrow’s tournament, you had better show Mercia we are not to be trifled with,” Uther continued.
“What?” Arthur asked, confused. Beside the fact that Arthur had broken his arm in the tournament with Mercia two months ago, there would not be another tournament until spring.
Brow furrowed, Uther ground out, “What part did you not understand?”
“Nothing, Father,” Arthur lied, “I apologize. Of course I will come out victorious.”
“Good,” Uther concluded and took a swig of the wine sitting before him.
While Arthur and Morgana were exchanging subtle concerned looks, a pair of guards opened the doors to the Great Hall, and they both glanced up at the arriving delegation from Nemeth. King Rodor was at the front, wearing a rich, dark brown fur coat. Though his silver hair was unadorned with any sort of crown or circlet to designate his position, the man commanded the space as he strode towards Uther, who stood to shake his hand. Arthur stood as well to greet the visiting king, though he could not help look at the woman walking behind him, the woman who very well might be his wife by week’s end. She was quite lovely, clad in her luxurious, white fur coat and a sweeping, white lace veil attached to an intricate gold headband that matched her necklace. As she drew closer, he could see her flawless alabaster skin, which juxtaposed beautifully against her deep brown hair and eyes.
“King Rodor, it is an honor to host you here in Camelot,” Uther said as they clasped hands. Gesturing to each, he introduced, “This is my ward, Lady Morgana, and of course, this is my son, Prince Arthur.”
After kissing Morgana’s hand, King Rodor turned to Arthur and extended his hand. “Ah, Prince Arthur.” King Rodor shook his hand and pulled him in to clap him on the back. Mischief in his eyes, the king ribbed, “I see you have already seen my lovely daughter, Mithian.”
Mithian stepped forward and offered Arthur her hand. “You’re more handsome in person than the reports suggested,” she said with an appraising glance and a smile.
Lifting her hand to kiss it, Arthur looked up and replied, “And words cannot truly encapsulate all that is your beauty.” While, yes, Mithian was quite beautiful, Arthur felt bad for the insincerity of his flirtation. There was probably a time he would have found her attractive, but he found her too small, too soft in places. He did not know when unkempt, gangly, gawky twigs with big blue eyes and a dopey lopsided grin became his type, but Arthur could not seem to shake it.
If Mithian was any the wiser, she did not show it, smiling at the prince as he pulled a chair back and gestured for her to sit with a flourish. After the princess sat and Arthur pushed her in, he took his own seat beside her. Already reaching for the full goblet of wine before him, Arthur said, “I hope the journey fared you well.”
“It was a fortunately uneventful ride through the forest, though it is considerably colder here in Camelot than it is by the coast.” Mithian pulled off her coat to hang it on the back of her chair, revealing a long sleeve white dress with gold embellishments. “Does it snow much here?”
“Not too much,” Arthur explained, taking a measured drink of wine, “It’s only just enough to coat the ground maybe a week out of the year.”
“It must be beautiful,” Mithian mused. “It hardly snows in Nemeth.”
“I am sure you will like it here in Camelot,” Uther interjected with a meaningful look at his son. “Arthur will have to show you around. Tomorrow morning, perhaps?”
Mithian shook her head and declined, “Black storm clouds followed us into Camelot. I would hate to get caught out in it tomorrow. Lady Morgana, would you mind showing me around the castle?”
“Of course, it would be my pleasure,” Morgana replied, sure that Mithian wanted the opportunity to learn more about Arthur before committing herself to marriage. After all, that’s what she would do.
Relieved that he had at least another day before he had to woo a woman he had no interest in marrying, Arthur relaxed slightly. He took another sip of wine and watched the two chat without particularly listening.
It did not take long before rows of servants filled the hall, their hands and arms full of bread still hot from the ovens, butter, cheese, jams, walnuts, apples, pears, and plums. Each step they took was in tandem with their peers, and each servant floated towards their section of the table, gracefully placing their platters along the center of the long table. As they left in timed step, Uther stood from his place at the head of the table, raising his goblet of wine. “Today we welcome King Rodor and Princess Mithian of Nemeth. May the unification of our kingdoms bring out a new age of prosperity!” Uther lifted his goblet to toast the crowd, and those in attendance lifted their own goblets and cheered.
Arthur cheered, but a quick swig of wine helped him swallow back the dread in his throat. When he set his goblet down, Mithian smiled at him and toasted him privately. Clinking their cups, Arthur was relatively certain that his practiced fake smile was convincing enough.
Happy to let the food before them distract him, Arthur gestured for Mithian to take whatever she liked from the platters. After Mithian selected some fruit and cheese, Arthur grabbed some bread and scooped some red currant jam and soft cheese onto his plate, taking care to spread them both evenly on his bread. Between bites, they chatted about the food, and both went back for additional helpings.
Arthur did not know why he looked up at that very moment until he saw Merlin walking into the Great Hall with Gwen, grinning over some whispered joke they had likely shared outside. He really should not have noticed Merlin arriving, especially not when he was sitting next to his prospective wife, nor should have continued watching him just to see him smile. It felt like months since he had seen Merlin smile in his general direction, and jealousy twisted within him. Arthur wished he was the one who could bask in that warmth.
A clatter of a knife and fake smile from Morgana told him to stop staring. Nodding his thanks, Arthur downed the last of his wine and fiddled with the stem of the goblet. He knew his fidgeting would summon Merlin, but honestly, he could certainly use another drink.
Sure enough, Merlin’s eyes immediately found him at his seat. As the servant walked over, he wiped any lingering smile off his face, and by the time he reached Arthur, his expression was blank. Merlin leaned forward to fill his cup, and Arthur could not help but look at the pinkish scars on Merlin’s wrist, which were otherwise concealed by his sleeve unless one knew to look. He hated seeing them, watching as they tugged at his skin, yet Arthur had spent a lot of time staring at those scars. Merlin had insisted that they did not bother him, but of course, Arthur did not believe him.
When Merlin moved to top off Mithian’s cup, she turned back to thank him with a smile. “Of course,” Merlin responded lowly, though the lilt in his voice told Arthur that Merlin was smiling at her, too. As much as Arthur wanted to turn around to look, he instead took another swig of wine.
Just as they had earlier, steaming plates of roasted pheasant, potatoes, and carrots appeared before them. It was also around this time that the musicians the king had hired for dinner arrived in the Great Hall. There were four in total, two with vielles, one with a lute, and the last with a flute. Together, they played several jaunty jigs, lively enough to make some of the noblemen put down their forks and clap along to the beat, and dove right into the next song immediately after finishing the previous one.
Usually during feasts—particularly during musical numbers—Merlin would putter around or tap his foot along to the beat, making just enough noise to bother Arthur and only Arthur, but today, Merlin was suspiciously quiet. Draining his cup of wine again, he watched just how taut and stiff Merlin’s movements were when he moved to fill his goblet. Though Merlin was standing behind him, Arthur could feel the unease radiating off the man like he was a bowstring about to snap.
Trying to figure out what could be putting Merlin on edge, Arthur looked towards the band, which he had ignored in favor of dinner, and noticed that the flutist kept glancing at him. Initially figuring the man was looking at the fair princess beside him, it took Arthur a few minutes to realize that no, he was staring at Merlin.
Sensing that something was wrong, Arthur studied the man along with the rest of the band. His bandmates seemed invested in playing their instruments, smiling at the noblemen who clapped along with them, but the flutist's gaze returned to Merlin and only Merlin. Arthur tried to recall if he knew the man, but his tawny hair, round face, and stocky frame did not ring any bells.
When they finished, the crowd erupted with applause, and everyone but the flutist stopped to chat with some of the nobles who had beckoned them over. The flutist, however, slipped out with several of the servants taking empty plates to the kitchen. As the man was leaving, Merlin leaned forward and topped off their wine, despite Arthur’s goblet still being nearly entirely full. From the corner of his eye, he could see Merlin peeking into his jug and silently stepping away from the table. Merlin usually moseyed during feasts, but now, he was walking out with a purpose, taking more care to hold the wine jug than he would have had it actually been empty.
Anger flaring, Arthur watched Merlin catch Gwen as she was reentering the hall and hand her his wine jug. After a whispered excuse, Merlin walked out of the Great Hall entirely.
Something snapped within him, and after taking another gulp of wine, Arthur impulsively set his cup down on top of a fork. Goblet toppling and crashing against the wooden table, wine splattered across his jacket. A surprised yelp sounded beside him, and Arthur cringed as the remaining liquid slid down the table and dribbled into his lap. Partially protected by his napkin, Arthur did his best to sop it up, but not a moment later, a servant with a rag had materialized and started cleaning up the mess.
As he looked over at Mithian, whose left side was partially stained with splattered wine, the princess started laughing as she blotted her white dress with her napkin. “I apologize, My Lady, I will have my servant launder your dress for you.”
“Of course, not a worry,” she replied, still laughing.
Glancing around the table, Arthur saw that Morgana and King Rodor were chuckling at his expense while his father was already fuming. He blotted his thankfully dark pants with his napkin and stood. “If you will excuse me.” With a permissive nod from the princess, Arthur walked out of the Great Hall, disgusted by the damp stickiness in his pants as he went.