Chapter Text
Merlin is a traitor.
A traitor masquerading as a deferent, tired husband as he makes a show of holding back a yawn and begins to insinuate to their company—ever so gently—that he might retire soon.
It is custom for royal consorts to remain at a feast until the king retires, which Arthur can’t if he doesn’t want to offend their guests, neighbouring kings visiting Camelot. Merlin, of course, has no regard for this custom. No regard that he is, in fact, doubly implicated as both royal consort and court sorcerer.
Thus, he is a traitor.
Arthur can sense it, nodding mindlessly to whatever King Orrin is droning on about, even while his genuine attention is directed towards Merlin. He can sense that Merlin is going to excuse himself soon and leave Arthur to fend for his sanity with these boresome men.
Worst of all, the feast is still in full swing, as large of an affair as it is. It doesn’t seem like there will be a lull long enough for Arthur to retire to his chambers, where he oh-so longs to be. Away from the rush and din and the shouted words of wine-drunk men.
The great hall is full of people, of food and conversation. Having so many important guests visit is tiring, no doubt, an exercise in patience for Arthur. Though he tries to hold on to what Merlin had said to him nights prior, that being able to safely host a gathering like this is an ode to the kingdom’s prosperity.
Merlin’s intelligence and cunning is awe-inspiring when it isn’t being used to subtly create the conditions that would allow him to slip away from the feast and abandon his king.
With another yawn that Arthur sees more than hears (how could he with King Eddric harking about the superiority of duck over chicken?) Merlin leans in close. Tired eyes gaze up into his, though behind it all is a spark of mischief. Merlin knows what he’s doing. “I’m getting a bit tired now.”
Arthur resists rolling his eyes, ducking his head like there’s any chance their conversation might reach other ears. “Merlin, I swear to the gods if you leave me alone with them—”
Merlin grins, surely finding Arthur’s misery to be amusing. He lays a gentle, placating hand on Arthur’s knee beneath the table and hums in consideration. “Perhaps I can stay for a few more minutes,” Merlin says, generous as ever.
This time Arthur does roll his eyes, though he’s relieved nonetheless when he turns back to his guests’ conversation and the weight on his knee stays put.
More of the night carries on like this, cacophonous and merry. The dishes at the tables have long been polished off and washed down with drink, and Arthur himself calls for a refill once more. Though Merlin is cruel enough to deny him the support of wine as he waves away the serving boy’s hand, shooting a warning glare at Arthur.
“If you must find something to occupy your hands with, let it be water,” he insists, waving his fingers idly over Arthur’s goblet. Water fills the empty space, and Arthur frowns but drinks from it, regardless.
He’s about to say something, even though he should be engaged with his guests. Is about to lean in, a little dopey, and ask Merlin if he can turn everyone else’s drinks into sleeping drafts so that the two of them might escape early. But the moment escapes him, gone as the bard finishes his song and Merlin claps, a genuine smile to match his applause.
Arthur watches, never tiring of that smile even as he tires of everything around them. And then King Rodreck is slapping him on the back, asking where his mind has been this evening, and of course, Eddric has to joke that his mind is on the bed in his chambers.
This elicits a round of laughter, because Arthur is unlucky like that, but perhaps also because he refuses to deny the claim and lie. Merlin clears his throat beside him and sets his goblet down with clearly managed falsified politeness. Truly, Arthur must remember to compliment him on how much better he’s gotten at ignoring the stupidity of nobles.
“Alright, you’re on your own now,” Merlin says, pushing away from the table before Arthur can get a word in. Arthur watches with imploring eyes as Merlin leans down, placing a quick kiss on his temple before whispering, “Try not to lose your mind.”
With that, Merlin stands straight again, the line of his shoulders beneath his night coloured tunic and gold embroidered robes betraying his exhaustion. Arthur is loathe to let the man go, these sorts of events are always more tolerable with Merlin around, but he isn’t heartless enough to make Merlin suffer any more than necessary. It may be customary for a royal consort to wait for their king, but Arthur’s terrible affliction is that he’d break any custom if Merlin so wished it.
And so, he watches his husband bid their guests goodnight, hearing Merlin say something about ‘return him to me in one piece’ a little menacingly. As Merlin turns to leave, Arthur catches his wrist, stroking his thumb over the delicate skin and tracing where his pulse runs.
“Let Leon walk you back,” Arthur says.
Merlin scoffs, but it’s a fond sound, a little teasing. “I hardly need someone to walk me down a few corridors, do I? Court sorcerer and all.” He gestures to himself with his free hand.
“Yes, yes, you are very scary and formidable, Oh Great Sorcerer, but let Leon walk you back. Please,” he adds, “there are too many people in the castle tonight.”
Merlin considers this for a moment, eyes set on Arthur, both amused and a little annoyed at the prospect of asking for help. Arthur doesn’t let his eyes slip, why would he when the tiresome world seems to hide away whenever he directs his attention to Merlin.
In a second, Merlin concedes with an exacerbated groan, one Arthur is sure would be much more petulant if he didn’t want to risk the Kings striking at the opportunity to talk to him again. “Fine, alright, you paranoid man. That’s supposed to be my job, you know,” he says, yanking his hand back playfully.
Arthur smiles, triumphant, and leans forward to attract Leon’s attention, where he blinks tiredly a few seats down. Leon sees him and rushes out of his seat, coming to stand behind Merlin like the perfect image of a knight.
“Walk him back, would you? And make sure there are at least two guards stationed outside the doors,” Arthur says. Leon nods dutifully, though Arthur can’t help but notice how the man looks worn himself. “You may retire after, but ensure the wing is secure,” he sighs.
He hears Merlin snort. “Don’t let your guests hear you’re soft on me.”
“Gods forbid,” Arthur replies, never quite able to resist an opportunity to barb at Merlin. “Leave now, traitor. I’ll see you later.”
With a much too pleased grin, Merlin takes his leave, and Arthur watches him go, sporting such heartbreak one might assume Merlin is leaving him to go fight a war. Still, he can’t help a small private laugh as he sees Merlin scolding Leon for walking behind him rather than next to him, just before the pair disappear through a discreet side door.
It seems as though Merlin has taken any tolerable qualities of the evening with him, because so soon as his flowing robes disappear from sight and that door swings shut, everything feels louder, stupider, more tiring.
Distantly, Arthur knows he’s being silly. His father would never have displayed such aversion to an event as important as this, but unfortunately, Arthur did not inherit his voracity for meaningless or cloying conversation with high-status fools.
It’s almost a shame, that the merriment of this evening is lost on him, but he’d much rather be back in his chambers, annoying Merlin.
Arthur sighs, eyes darting around the hall, seeing most guests are deep into their goblets and desserts, engaged in conversation. Every so often there’s a burst of giggles or hearty laughter, more often than not from the men at his table.
If he really must condemn himself to joining their conversation again, he’d much prefer to soften the blow with a second helping of honey cake since he’s sure the serving boy would go ratting to Merlin in a heartbeat if Arthur put forth his goblet for a refill again.
He barely has the morsel in his mouth before his guests descend upon him like birds of prey. “So,” begins Orrin, tone syrupy as he leans back in his chair with a borderline lecherous look. “How fares married life, Pendragon?”
Arthur gapes at him for a moment, the rich sweetness from the cake souring on his tongue at the prospect of discussing his marriage with these men of all people. He gets enough shit from Gwaine, he can’t imagine what this would be like. “Well enough,” he forces out eventually, taking in the bored groans and rolling eyes.
“An evasive answer,” Rodreck says, raising up his goblet with a grin, “Clever man.”
Eddric seems to disagree, waving his hand here and there with a derisive snort. “A boring man, perhaps,” he says, shoving another bite of cherry tart in his mouth. Arthur watches with a raised eyebrow, figuring he’d much rather be boring than talk to these men about Merlin in any quantity. “Don’t be a polite prude, Pendragon. We’re all men here! Surely you have more to say!”
Before Arthur can confirm that he truly has no interest in divulging anything more, Rodreck is chiming in again, hand stroking his off-putting beard as his eyes grow speculative. “I agree, I’m sure you have many interesting tales to tell us, after all isn’t that the purpose of a feast like this!” He gestures grandiosely to the hall, and then leans in, a conspiratorial grin plastered on his face. “Indulge us, for I am curious, what is it like being married to a sorcerer, one like him especially.”
The other two kings hum, looking at him expectantly, waiting for all sorts of answers and broad tales no doubt, but Arthur bristles. “Our marriage is like any other,” he says, tight-lipped, diplomatic.
Because what else is he meant to say? Why would he tell these men, undeserving as they are, as anyone is, that being married to Merlin and having his love is the greatest gift that could be bestowed upon a man? Better than gold and riches, better than people and lands. He isn’t going to tell them that Merlin is annoying, that he can summon fire with his fingertips but forgets the fact and burns his tunics constantly, that he leaves books in their bed, and that he kisses Arthur like he invented the act. He’d never share that Merlin’s magic is, in fact, the least interesting thing about him.
Not with these men certainly, though they’re blindly perseverant enough to not understand his reluctance.
“That can’t be true,” Eddric scoffs, flippant. “Magic equips a man with certain advantages, does it not?” and then his voice dips, like saying it hushed will make it any less insulting. “I’ve heard…they can go all night without tiring. I imagine you can hardly keep up with him, lucky man.”
His guests jostle with laughter, brim with exchanges of their theories and stolen bits of stories they’ve heard. Arthur grits his teeth, hand clenching and flexing on the table.
It’s regrettable, that these men aren’t his lords. For all that Arthur considers himself a merciful king, far removed from the standard his father set, he wouldn’t hesitate in making an example of them.
Instead, he’s forced to reckon with the crude entitlement of nobles, who only know to use their power for encouragement and protection, no mind for acting the part of nobility.
“Is it true then, Pendragon?” Orrin drawls, pulling himself out of the prurient conversation. “Can he conjure your fantasies? Weave dreams and reality together like the finest silk?”
Eddric, then, “My chief commander told me they can warm the blood, make it hot and sing so that it might elicit pleasurable reactions—”
“Nonsense!” Rodreck calls, slamming his goblet onto the table. “Nonsense, is it not, Pendragon? Though I’ve been told some of them have a connection to light, that they might even—glow, after, when they’re spent. I wonder…”
Arthur clears his throat loudly, sternly. “My husband is not a toy, gentlemen,“ he says, calmly as he can, “nor is he some common sorcerer, representative of these tales you’ve heard.”
“Certainly not…” Eddric says, and somehow that just makes Arthur feel more inclined towards an act of violence. “Remind me, what it is the…’forest folk‘ call your consort?”
Arthur takes a deep breath, tries not to let it come out in a sigh. Merlin would be so displeased if Arthur started a war with three different kingdoms not even an hour after he left.
“The Druids,” he corrects with an accidentally pointed look, “refer to him as Emrys. They revere him.”
“So they should,” Orrin nods, plucking grapes from their stems and tossing them into his mouth. Arthur’s hand clenches around his goblet, and he raises it to take a sip, not trusting himself to hold back on saying something offensive when Orrin speaks again. “He’s a pretty thing certainly. I cannot claim to have seen a man like him before…quite worthy of reverence if I do say so myself. If he weren’t yours, I’d have offered him a place in my court.”
Merlin would be so displeased if you started a war. Oh, he’d be seething. You would never hear the end of it.
“Yes, yes, he’s quite enchanting, but that is where the problem lies, does it not?” Rodreck says, his voice so pompous it grates Arthur’s ears. “Having a sorcerer in your bed is all fun and good until he starts whispering in your ear, using his magical wiles until he’s commanding the kingdom in your stead. I could never compromise myself in such a way.”
Arthur blinks at the man, wondering what Rodreck even wants him to say in response. Yes, I’m very terrified that my husband, whose counsel I have long sought even before our marriage, whom I trust more than I trust myself, might feel the need to charm me?
Still, he can’t help the thought that once—before he knew of Merlin’s magic—he might have bristled at the idea of being enchanted. Now though, pathetically besotted as he is, the possibility inspires no fear. Even if he is enchanted, that still means Merlin wanted him enough to do so.
He doubts strongly that these men would understand the concept though, so he says the only thing he can think of. “I assure you, I have no reason to question Merlin’s loyalty or intentions.”
Orrin grins, leaning forward to smack him on his back. “The words of an enchanted man,” he jokes with a drunken laugh. Arthur can only reciprocate with a thin, disingenuous smile. “But alas, it seems you are quite taken with him. I can understand why.”
Gods spare him, if he has to hear them speak about Merlin like something to leer at again he isn’t sure he can keep his calm. No amount of lectures about diplomacy or etiquette lessons could help him then.
Arthur fidgets with the bracelet on his wrist, braided red and golden silk that Merlin made for him when they began courting. He twists it around his wrist in a desperate attempt to ground himself, wishing he could tell these men to fuck off so he can go back to Merlin. But of course, things never go Arthur’s way when he wishes it.
“Quite taken indeed, but it is inevitable for a king to grow bored,” Eddric chimes in, carrying on before Arthur can even process what new treachery he’s spewing now. “A man can only eat the same meal for so many nights, isn’t it so?”
“I—I’m sorry?” Arthur asks, because surely he isn’t hearing this right. Can drink and good food truly make a man stupid enough to say something like this?
“Come now, no need to play coy, Arthur,” Orrin says, laughing like it’s terribly amusing. “Men have needs. Pretty or not, magical or not, your consort can only do so much. He can only satisfy so many needs, no?”
What the fuck.
What the fuck.
Never in his royal tutelage was he told what to do when slimy, slithering men insinuate that he seeks company that isn’t his husband. Why did no one think to prepare him for this?
He knows how men speak of their spouses, how they speak of their conquests outside their homes like it’s something to show off, to have pride in. But never would he have expected to be asked this by men of such high standing, sovereigns who lead armies and take charge of entire kingdoms. In his own home, no less! Barely any time after his husband left the hall.
“Your silence betrays your guilt, Pendragon,” Rodreck grins, and then raises his hands in placation. “Don’t worry, we certainly won’t tell. It’s only natural to have a few sweet things tucked away. A squire here, a stableboy there, a handful of whores when the mood calls for it.”
And finally, Arthur has had enough, has reached wits end. “What you propose is absurd, that I could want—”
“Absurd?” Eddric gawks. “What is absurd is to expect yourself to stay bound to one body forever! A king may find pleasure wherever he pleases, by right!”
Arthur stares, so genuinely baffled by what’s being said to him that he has no words. The very idea of being with someone other than Merlin makes him sick, makes his stomach roll like he’s eaten something spoilt, and yet here are these men, talking of it as if it’s a given. A natural inclination.
“My, my, don’t tell us you don’t have other bodies? Other beds?” Rodreck asks, eyes wide and voice airy like it’s so difficult to believe. “I refuse to accept that no one has caught your eye, caught your interest, led you astray.”
“Of course not,” Arthur spits at last, shaking his head like it will dispel the vile notion of all this from his mind. “Merlin is the only one for me,” and then—because if they can’t understand love they can hopefully understand honour, even if they seem to have none— “I am married.”
He seems to have said an incredibly funny joke, going off how the men laugh and shriek like bumbling fools. Perhaps he should give up his crown to be the court jester instead.
“So are we!” Orrin cackles through dying laughter, slapping his thigh.
“Oh, come off it, Arthur,” Eddric says next, eyes challenging in a way that grates. Like he’s sure he can prove Arthur is just like the rest of them if he just persists enough. “There’s no need to play the honourable man here. Actually, it may well be more honourable if you just admitted that your eyes wander, just as anyone else!”
Arthur’s jaw sets, and briefly he wonders what Merlin might do if he were still here, if he heard this as it was happening. It would be incredibly gratifying to see the smug grins fall off these idiots’ faces when head-to-head with Merlin’s self-assured power, indeed. “I cannot dignify your comments with a response, I’m afraid. I know where my loyalties lie. My eyes do not wander.”
Not far, anyway. They might wander from the raven locks of Merlin’s hair to the stunning glow of his eyes, then to the enchanting shape of his plush lips, the broad set of his shoulders and lower still to where his lithe torso ends. But never do they wander to anyone else, the very idea unfathomable in its nature.
But despite his conviction, the degenerate kings beside him are reluctant to believe him. Rodreck laughs, dry, and looks around the hall lazily. “Him,” Rodreck says after a moment, pointing a finger at one of the serving boys poised at the far end of the hall, near the doors. “You’re telling us that if I sent that boy to your chambers tonight, you would turn him away?”
Arthur sends Rodreck an unimpressed look, stunned that the man believes what he’s asking is a genuine question. He’s sure that his eyes convey just how quickly he would turn the boy away.
“Fine, forget him,” Eddric joins in, much to Arthur’s dismay. “What about her? Young, gorgeous, of a noble family. Even dark-haired like your beloved consort!”
The woman Eddric points to is the daughter of one of his lords. His father had tried to put her forward as an option when he realised how resistant Arthur was to the idea of getting married, but evidently the effort was in vain.
Even then, his affections had been devoted entirely to Merlin, whether he was aware of it or not.
When Arthur remains quiet, because he refuses to reiterate his loyalty to men who don’t possess any, the trio breaks out in sighs.
“Good gods!” Orrin shakes his head, the mess of his hair moving this way and that. “The stubborn morality of youth! What a thing to behold—but have no misconceptions, it will fade as the loveliness of your consort does. Temptation catches up to us all, Pendragon.”
“Perhaps those of us with weak convictions,” Arthur bites. He smiles, a taunting, patronising thing he learnt from Merlin. “It’s easy for temptation to win over honour when honour is fighting a losing battle in the first place, is it not, gentlemen?”
The jarring laughter and smiles fade, daft minds made dafter with drink gauging the comment for what it is. And if Arthur was tired before, he can’t even begin to describe what he feels now. Suddenly, any diplomatic consequences seem irrelevant to him.
In his life thus far, he’s had to tolerate many irritating people. It is, after all, a qualifying standard for nobility. But this night has well and truly drained any resolve to be a good king—a good host even. He can’t bring himself to care whether he’s being welcoming or not anymore, finding no point in filtering his tone for rudeness.
Arthur leans back in his chair, poising himself to be neither involved nor flippant, a quiet form of assuredness instead.
He sighs then, unable to hold it back, and fixes his guests with an unwavering glare. “I suggest,” he begins, voice heavy with ire, though it quickly mixes with the smallest hint of amusement at seeing the trio’s expressions turn awkward, “that your curiosity ends here. My loyalty isn’t something to be debated, and my bed isn’t a playground for your amusement. You are more than welcome to discuss your own, but it must be in my absence, for I’ve grown quite weary, suddenly.”
With that, Arthur rises from the table, mind made up with very little convincing if he’s being honest. All it takes is another instance of picturing what he could be doing with his night instead. Warm and dressed down in bed, Merlin by his side.
Every joint in his body is stiff with tension and exhaustion. His eyes are heavy, the crown on his head heavier, but he forces himself to stand straight. Regal, even. “Thank you all for the conversation, it has been quite…enlightening indeed, but I’m afraid i must retire now. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
He doesn’t spare them another second, merely glancing over their struck faces before he turns on his heel and strides away. If they respond, with biddings or contempt, he doesn’t hear it, drowned out by the conversation in the hall as it picks up again. His footsteps feel as if they’re echoing on the stone floors even amidst all the drunken chatter, and the armoured clanks of his guards are resounding. He groans quietly to himself.
Why couldn’t the great hall be closer to his chambers?
.