Chapter Text
Spoilers for BBC’s Merlin, Seasons One-Five
Warnings: Slight Angst, Multiple Canonical/Non-canonical Character Deaths
CHAPTER WARNING: NON-GRAPHIC SEXUAL HARASSMENT, NON-GRAPHIC PHYSICAL ASSAULT, DEPICTION OF DISASSOCIATION.
Chapter 18:
Merlin knows she misses Lancelot. She misses all of her soulmates, when they aren’t at her side—it’s been a long time, now, since her arrival to Camelot. She can hardly remember what it felt like not to have met Arthur or Gwen or Leon or Lancelot, but she knows that she didn’t understand her own loneliness.
She remembers growing up feeling only dislike for her marks. She recalls sweating in the summer with her long sleeves. How she’d bitterly thought of her soulmates as the worst things that could happen to her, back when what she needed most in the world was to lay low and keep her nose down. Impending chaos, she’d thought, back then. At least she hadn’t been wrong about that.
But when she met Arthur, and Gwen so shortly after, she’d discovered something that she never had before. Not a spark, but a slowly burning coal that had been fanned into a fire. She still isn’t sure what the fire is made up of—loyalty certainly, but also the kind of friendship most people only dream of. Before Camelot, Merlin hadn’t really had many friends. She’d only had Will, and her mother.
And back then, she thought it was enough. She aimed only to avoid her soulmates, to stay abreast of the storm of trouble she knew they’d bring.
It turns out, however, that Merlin has ended up in the thick of it anyway. And after loving Gwen immediately, after growing to love Arthur, after having Lancelot understand her like no other person had, after learning to lean on Leon’s strength and give him hers in return, she wouldn’t trade her life in Camelot for all the boring peace in Ealdor.
Even Freya, who she loved in a way she’d loved no one else, she wouldn’t give up for anything. She prefers the memories of her gentle smile, of the candles in the dark and the taste of fresh strawberries, over no memories at all. The pain is worth more than the painlessness would be.
Her words will always be gray on her skin, but the desperate hope that Freya might somehow miraculously return from the grave, and her resolution to avoid potential soulmates like the plague, has started to mellow. Merlin might wish for her company, or long for the gentle weight of Freya's hand in hers, but she knows, too, that her soulmate is at peace.
Not gone; no, never gone, but she is somewhere Merlin can’t reach. And she has had to make peace with that.
These days, she knows well the pain of loss, and the worry of wondering if her soulmates are okay, but her old loneliness, when she seethed over having too many marks, and fought to understand why…that loneliness is, in many respects, faded. It still exists, like an old wound that hurts with the change of the weather, but it no longer bleeds freely. She can’t tell Arthur the whole truth, and Gwen and Leon can only know what they need to, but in Lancelot, at least, she can confide completely.
So of course, of course she misses Lancelot. But as she rides over the crest of the first hill past the meadows of Camelot, and sees him waiting near the road on a horse of his own, she suddenly realizes just how much. He looks about the same; his boots are scuffed and his smile is honest. She urges her horse into a trot, and then a canter, feeling like a giddy child.
Lancelot waves at her, looking up from his strategic spot on the edge of the trees. She waves back, excitement visible, which makes him laugh as he dismounts.
She slows as she approaches, almost fumbling as she slides off her horse but recovering her footing just in time to throw herself directly into his hug with a joy that can't be contained.
"Ough!" Lancelot huffs a laugh, lifting her up and off the ground, his presence just as warm and solid as she remembers. "Good to see you too!"
"Yes! Finally!" She squeezes back, grin splitting her face in half. He releases her, feet landing solidly back on the dirt, and steps back, looking over her as if for injuries.
"Well, you certainly look like you've been busy," Lancelot observes, grinning himself. "What has Arthur been doing, making you train with him? It looks like you've been run off your feet!"
"Oh shut it," Merlin swats his arm, rolling her eyes but unable to push the smile off her face. "You know how he is, the moron. But mostly I've been up late reading. Trying to find, uh, a good enough tracking spell, or something. I don't know, just..." she sighs, her expression finally falling somewhat. "Something to try and find Morgana, I guess. Get past whatever Morgause is using to hide from us."
Lancelot's face crinkles into a sympathetic grimace. "Still no luck, I presume."
"No." Merlin is quiet for a moment, the bitterness of regret swelling up again, before she takes a deep breath and insistently pushes it away. "But enough of that! Where should we set up? I have our promised picnic in my saddlebags."
Lancelot laughs, grabbing his horse's reins in one hand, and waves her to follow him toward the nearby path into the forest. She snags her own reins, only a few steps behind, and takes a moment to give him her own inspection. He looks like he's had more than a few late nights himself. It can't have been easy, making his way so far toward the center of Camelot without getting spotted. The bedroll strapped to his saddle and the lines of grime and sweat from travel visible on his skin suggest some amount of time sleeping rough.
"So, Nemeth, huh? How was that?"
"Better than Essetir," Lancelot replies lightly. "Not too bad for a traveller without a noble's papers. I spent some time at a blacksmith's, filling in for an apprentice who was injured by bandits, which was good work. A place to rest for a while, anyway, and add a bit of coin to my purse."
"Where were you during last winter?" Merlin's feet crunch over the leaves, only faintly audible over the sound of the horses' hooves.
"I was stuck in Essetir," he admits. "I suppose I shouldn't say stuck; I accidentally ended up rescuing some unfortunate souls from a small group of slavers, and one couple invited me to winter at their farm as long as I helped out. The farmer's wife was quite pregnant at the time they were captured, you see, and Alfie couldn't manage all the work over the long winter alone, so he'd been intending to hire some help anyhow."
"Slavers," Merlin mutters darkly, kicking at a small stone on the path.
"I know," he commiserates, glancing back. "The farm is near the southern border of Essetir; it was them I was visiting when I mentioned I was headed there in my last letter. I'd had a letter from Alfie that another slaving operation was attempting to ply their 'trade' around the towns near the farm. Since I'd taken out the other group with the help of a few locals, it seems word had gotten around that the territory was up for grabs for people of that unsavory sort. I stopped off in Cothromach to check if you'd written me back—which of course you had—and then went straight on to the south. The folks that I worked with the first time around were more than happy to help me dismantle the new group before they could become too established, and rescue the townsfolk and farmers that they'd managed to capture. After we wrapped that up, I was straight on my way down here to meet up with you, and of course here we are."
"Wow," Merlin says, mind a little boggled. "You've been busy, Lancelot."
Even banished from Camelot, he hadn't let anything stop him from making a difference for the common people all across the continent. She can't even be surprised; that's just who her soulmate is: driven and steady in his pursuit of justice and good.
"Almost as busy as you, my friend," he replies, laughing. "You mentioned the search for Morgana in your letters, but what else have you been up to?"
Merlin blows out a long sigh. "You'll never believe half of what's been going on since I saw you last. And it's hard to explain it all in a letter, so there's a load of things I haven't even mentioned. Ugh. I don't even know where to start."
"Maybe at the beginning?" Lancelot suggests.
By the time Merlin has run out of stories to tell her soulmate, they've found the grove Lancelot had scouted out, set up the picnic, and devoured most of it.
"And that rotten leatherworker? Any more trouble with him?" Lancelot is using a small knife to carefully slice one of the apples she'd brought for a sweet treat.
"Naeman? Ughhhhhhh." Merlin flops backward onto her picnic blanket, narrowly avoiding the remnants of the mini meat pies she'd liberated from under Cook Audrey's terrifying nose. "No. But mostly because I haven't had to pick anything up from him in a while. I sent George the last time Arthur had an order. Felt like a bit of a cowardly move, but I was so exhausted that day I just couldn't deal with it."
"Not cowardly," Lancelot says firmly. He wordlessly offers an apple slice, which Merlin takes with a grin, popping it into her mouth. "It's smart. If he won't harass George then fine, there's no reason you should go and let yourself be accosted."
"I guess." She chews the last bit of apple slowly and stares up through the leaves, the sunlight dappled warmly across her face. A tree root is slightly wedged into her back and it's cool enough that she needs her jacket, even in the middle of the day, but being away from the pressure and stress of the city—of court in particular—well. It's nice, to say the least. Relaxing.
The last time she felt this good, she was visiting Leon's parents. Even that was an anxious ordeal at first, but it had been really nice, once she'd relaxed.
Lancelot is quiet for a moment, the only sound a calm, slow schwick of his knife through the flesh of the apple. "I suppose I don't understand why you don't just tell Arthur. Even if there's nothing to press charges for, no reason to put him behind bars, I'm sure he'd take his business elsewhere in an instant."
"No way." Merlin instantly shuts that down. "No chance, are you kidding me? I would never hear the end of it, Lance. He already thinks I'm a helpless idiot and I'm out saving his arse twice a week; he can't actually have to save me!"
"I'm sure it's not like that, Merlin," Lancelot protests. When she looks over, his brown is drawn together with concern. "He doesn't actually think that about you. Just because he doesn't know everything—"
"He doesn't know anything," Merlin interrupts, sitting back up abruptly. She feels a pang of hurt at the thought, but in some ways, it's true. "He doesn't know me, not all of me. Not really. If he did..."
"...he wouldn't hurt you," Lancelot says lowly. He puts the apple down, searching her face for something. She isn't sure what, but she looks away anyway. "Merlin. He wouldn't hurt you because of your magic. You know that and I know that. Come on. He loves you."
"Maybe," she croaks, her throat suddenly tight. "It's just...listen. He probably wouldn't. I know he...you know. But there's no way to...to really know that I'm right, not a hundred percent. Not for sure, until I can tell him. And I can't tell him yet. I want to, but...."
"But?"
"But you know about my dreams." They're both quiet for a moment, and she sighs. "I used to dream about telling him, a lot. I really wanted to, toward the beginning, before I really knew him and, uh. Cared, so much, I guess. I thought, he's my soulmate. I should get it out of the way, tell him now. If he's going to be a real part of my life, he deserves to know, and if he reacts badly, then fine, I'll know. I can leave. Or whatever."
"But you didn't." Lancelot is looking at her, still.
"No. I told Kilgarrah I was going to, and he said it was a really bad idea. And I started dreaming about...about telling Arthur, and about this bonfire. This huge bonfire. " She shudders, remembering the smell of smoke, as real as if she'd been right there. The heat, against her skin. "I can still feel the flames. And then so many of my dreams were coming true, in different ways. I dreamed about Will dying, I dreamed about Nimueh. My mother. Remember? I even kind of dreamed about you."
"I remember." Lancelot sighs. "About picking mushrooms, and a good feeling."
"Yeah. And when I followed it into real life, I found you." Merlin clears her throat roughly, reaching her hand out. He deposits another slice of apple into her fingers silently. "And my father...when I dreamed about his death, and tried to save him, he just...died anyway. So if I tell Arthur before the time is right, I'm worried that no matter what I think might happen, somehow my dream will come true."
Lancelot puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Merlin. I don't mean to push. I just want you to be happy."
"I know." She munches on her apple. It's sweet and crisp. Just right.
Lancelot lets the moment pass before saying, "I have to say, though, magic is one thing. Telling Arthur about the rotten craftsman who is harassing his maidservant is another. You deserve better!"
"UGH!"
Lancelot accompanies Merlin as far back toward the city as possible before bidding her farewell.
"It won't be nearly so long until our next meeting, if I have my way," he calls from atop his horse.
She swings up into her own saddle with a snort of laughter. "Between your penchant for justice and my attempts to keep Arthur's dumb arse alive, I think we both know it could be a while."
"Still, I can hope!" He smiles at her, as fond as ever. "Stay safe, Merlin. And try and take a break sometimes, if you can!"
"You too!" She settles into her saddle with one last wave, and clicks her tongue. "Let's go, Donovan." Her gelding whickers and allows himself to be urged into a trot. Merlin glances over her shoulder only once, to see Lancelot sitting tall, a shadow outlined on horseback in the light of the dying sun. The image stays behind her eyelids when she looks away. It's practically the inverse of the vision she'd seen when she made the ill-fated decision to look into the Crystal of Neahtid, with her own figure and the shapes of her soulmates glowing, a connected chain holding together against the dark mist that surrounded them.
Merlin shakes the sense of deja vu away. She had a good day with Lancelot. That's all the matters. And now Gaius, Gwen, and all the rest might finally get off her back about taking some time to relax. A whole day is a lot of relaxation, after all. And Merlin has work to do.
"What on earth are you doing back here?" Arthur grumbles up at her blearily. He has the blankets pulled up to his chin, blinking with irritation at the flood of light from the curtains in his room.
Merlin turns around, unable to help a roll of her eyes. "Waking you up, sire. It's as if we don't do this every morning—"
"But you're not supposed to be here," he interrupts, hauling himself mostly upright in order to better aim his glare. "You have the week off, remember? Shouldn't the most boring servant on earth be here mucking about right now?"
"The day," she emphasizes. "I said I needed the day off, Arthur. Or do you not remember? I always thought your head might be empty, did me telling you go in one ear and straight out the other?"
"You—!" He sputters, throwing the covers back to jump out of bed. "I'm warning you, Merlin—no! Gaius specifically told me you needed the week! I talked to Gwen about it and she organized the entire rest of the royal household to cover for you!"
"What?" Merlin snaps, pausing in the middle of tying back the curtains. "No, absolutely not! Ohhhhhhh Gaius, that old meddler! When I get my hands on him—"
"When I get my hands on you," Arthur growls, lunging forward to catch the back of her jacket. She yelps and tries to dodge out of the way, but he snaps his arm out and just barely snags a handful of fabric. "Let's go, Merlin! I am not picking up your slack just so you can piss around pretending that you're on duty!"
She protests vigorously as he physically frogmarches her out the doors of his chambers, still only partially dressed, but to no avail.
Arthur beckons the nearest guard over, as imperiously as if he was in his armor and full court regalia. "Malik, walk Merlin back to Gaius's chambers. She is not working and if she tries to tell you otherwise, ignore her. I put far too much effort into getting her time off taken care of to let it slide."
Malik salutes, unbothered by Arthur's egregious use of finger-pointing far too close to his face. He grins at Merlin when she looks at him pleadingly, and gestures down the hall. "You heard him, Merlin. Let's go. You're on vacation."
"Vacation!" Merlin protests. "Arthur, what about the castle payroll? And the planning for your father's yearly coronation anniversary? And your armor needs polishing, and I haven't sent in the commission for those new boots, and the nobles are having the agricultural council meeting in three days—"
"I can do the payroll without your meddling, thank you very much!" Arthur snaps, pointing the finger in her direction. "My father is on the mend and has been resuming his duties, plus his banquet isn't for another four months. George will take care of the armor, you can fix the boot commission when you're back, and the nobles' council will talk over each other the whole time no matter what's on the agenda and refuse to make a decision without another week of deliberation, you know that! Now stop making up excuses and go!"
Merlin groans, thinking about how behind she'll be by the time she can convince him to relent, but Arthur points down the hall threateningly and then crosses his arms to watch them go, and Malik puts a gentle hand on her shoulder and nudges her along until she finally gives in.
"I can't believe you told Arthur I needed the whole week off!" Merlin complains, throwing her arms up.
Gaius eyes her over his spectacles from his workbench, where he is poring over an anatomical text. "Yes, because you need it, you foolish girl. You need a break! I thought that since you were taking the time to go and consort with your banished soulmate against my better judgement, perhaps you might also take the time to do some real studying of magic on your own time, without being in the middle of yet another crisis situation! Arthur will still be there in a week. You could actually get something done without worrying about getting his highness's underwear scrubbed for once. You might even find time to help an old man with his work."
"Underwear!" Merlin scoffs. "I haven't been stupid enough to wash Arthur's underwear since my third week, Gaius, don't be ridiculous."
"Only because Gwen took pity on you and introduced you to the laundress," Gaius points out smugly, writing a careful note in the margins of his book.
"Whatever," she mutters. "And I spend half my time helping you when I'm not off cleaning up Arthur's messes! Cleaning those disgusting tanks, collecting herbs—there's actually no guarantee he will survive the week without me, by the way! You of all people should know that!"
"For goodness' sake, Merlin, just be grateful for once! Go and pester one of your soulmates, if you're intent on not doing anything to better your magical or medical skills!" Gaius barks, slamming down his quill. "But if you don't intend to do anything useful, make yourself scarce!"
"Fine! I will!" Merlin retorts, grabbing her satchel and throwing the strap across her body. "When something goes wrong, I'll be telling you I told you so second, right after Arthur!"
She stomps to the door, scowling, and doesn't bother to close the door gently behind her.
"Merlin, I can't, I'm sorry," Gwen says, smiling sympathetically in the open doorway of her father's shop. "I'm on Gaius's side this time, and Arthur's. You should relax and enjoy your vacation. I don't really have time right now to go out with you, though. Maybe try Leon."
"Gwen!" Merlin moans, thudding her head into the doorjamb in despair. "Please, I'll go insane! And Arthur will probably walk straight into a ditch in the woods and die, and George will fall in with him and also die, and then we won't even know where to find their bodies."
"Merlin." Gwen laughs in disbelief. "Aren't you being a little dramatic?"
"No!" She protests. "You know what Arthur is like! Trouble finds him like a goat finds the flowers in your garden instead of the weeds. And then it eats all the flowers and the weeds are still there, and even if the goat is still hungry it won't bother eating the weeds, it'll just bleat until you feed it grain instead. Goats are horrible."
Gwen is silent for a long moment, and then bursts out laughing. "Okay, now I know you know you're being ridiculous."
Merlin feels a reluctant grin well up as it always does when she makes Gwen laugh, despite her very real annoyance. "Okay, fine. Maybe a little. But still, I have no idea what to do with a whole week off."
Gwen sighs and leans up against the door, shaking her head. "Well, I have to admit I might feel the same way. Even now that the king is recovering a little, I'm still busy every day. I think he may be recovered enough soon to take part in some of the search parties, and without Morgana to work for, I'm not sure what I'll do."
"Oh, Gwen." Merlin reaches out to squeeze her shoulder, attempting a reassuring expression. "Don't worry. You'll have a place in the royal household no matter what, with all the organizing you've been doing ever since you were Morgana's maid. Arthur knows how much work you've done, he'll make sure of it. And we'll find her. She isn't dead. I know it."
"I know." Gwen looks down. "I miss her." She takes a deep breath, pulling a smile back on. "But in the meantime, we all just have to manage. And I think you can manage a bit of time to take care of yourself for once, instead of running ragged after Arthur."
Merlin doesn't have the heart to keep complaining after the reminder of everything, so she just sighs and nods.
"Gwen!" Tom appears over Gwen's shoulder. "Oh, hello, Merlin. Gwen, I'm writing another letter to your brother to drop off at the courier. I'm thinking we can try and send it to Brixton this time, see if he's made his way east. Would you like to add anything?"
Gwen's face falls again. "Father, it's been two years. We have no idea where he is. I wish you would stop torturing yourself by writing letters that can't even be delivered."
Tom stiffens, his expression turning stony. "Guinevere, Elyan is not dead. I won't have you pretending like he is. He'll come back someday, and when he does, we'll be right here waiting for him. Excuse me, Merlin." He turns and tramps back through the open workshop into the house, full of determination.
Gwen looks after him sadly. "Sorry, Merlin. He just won't quit. It kills him every time he sends one of those awful letters."
"You have a brother?" Merlin feels a horrible wave of guilt. She hadn't even known about Gwen having a brother, had she?
"Yes." She attempts another smile, this one even shakier than the last. "Or I did. He's a few years younger than me; I helped my father raise him after mother died. He was my father's apprentice, and when he finally became a blacksmith in his own right a couple of years ago, he left to travel and find work outside of Camelot. We haven't heard from him since."
"Do you...really think he's dead?" Merlin asks, watching Gwen carefully.
"I don't know." Her eyes look watery just thinking about it, despite the brave face she's putting on. "He's the type that always gets into trouble. A bit like Arthur, actually. I want to believe he's all right, but if he is, and he just hasn't bothered to write...." She shakes her head. "I don't know."
"Yeah." Merlin shifts on her feet, wishing she could think of something actually helpful to say. "I'm sorry, Gwen, that's...that's really tough. Just...let me know if there's anything I can do to help, okay?"
"Well." Gwen looks down, crossing her arms as if to brace herself. "Thanks, Merlin. There's nothing we can really do, but I appreciate it."
"Vacation?" Leon laughs, looking up from where he's sharpening his sword. He sits comfortably on the stool in his quarters, leaning back against the wall and eating his breakfast off the side table. "That doesn't seem like Arthur at all. Are you sure he hasn't been possessed by some kind of ghost that used to be the head of a worker's union?"
"Not that I've noticed," Merlin grumbles from her perch on the edge of his neatly made bed. "He's being his usual prat self in basically every other way. I didn't plan for a whole week off, Leon! What am I even going to do?"
"You're always saying you need more hours in every day," Leon points out reasonably. His sword makes a measured, comfortingly familiar shing...shing...shing sound against the whetstone. "What is it you normally don't have time to do?"
"Well, I don't know—work things, mostly!" Merlin sputters.
She usually says that when a ghost is trying to possess Arthur and also probably kill him, and Uther is going mad trying to kill people who aren't responsible for the ghost, and the ghost is also sneaking out of Arthur's body when her back is turned and attempting to possess other people long enough to walk them off of buildings and bridges and that sort of thing. She says it during the kinds of events where she needs to stop Arthur from getting killed, and break whatever poor innocent person Uther is blaming out of prison, and learn the magic that will exorcise the ghost, and also do her actual job as Arthur's maidservant and her other job as Gaius's unofficial apprentice.
It isn't the same situation when she isn't allowed to do her actual job and there is no crisis threatening to imminently end Camelot's existence.
"Well," Leon is saying, "unfortunately I'm required on the training grounds in about half an hour, and my own schedule this week is full. We're running groups in a variety of the most efficient search patterns possible, trying to locate Lady Morgana."
"I know," Merlin says, feeling suddenly guilty that she's even in here complaining to her most dutiful and hardworking friend. "I'm sorry, Leon, I wish I could be more help with the search."
Leon offers her a resigned smile. "I don't know how you could be, Merlin. You and Arthur are out on horseback with the knights and guards as often as not, and you aren't even required to be there."
"Arthur requires it," she offers, and then at his knowing look, lets the excuse fall away. "I know. She's my friend. I just...."
"I know." Leon puts down his whetstone, reaching for his scabbard and sliding the long blade in with the precision of an expert. He gives her a long, serious look. "We'll find her."
"Yeah," Merlin agrees. She watches him belt on his sword and fasten his cloak, and reluctantly stands to follow him out of his chambers.
"Have a good day off," Leon teases gently. "Maybe you'll think of something to do for the rest of the week. Act like a normal young lady for once, instead of scrubbing floors, searching the woods, and letting the crown prince use you as a target for knife throwing practice. Go to the market and shop, or read a book. Have fun."
"Okay," Merlin says, resigned. She watches him stride off down the corridor, feeling utterly useless. "I'll try."
She does try, for about an hour.
The market is absolutely hopeless without Gwen or even Leon there to make admiring or snide or clueless comments to about the various wares. Gwen has good taste and is fun to shop with for almost anything, and Leon vacillates between being enthusiastically informative about things he's familiar with (weapons, armor, nice fabric, and the kind of hair ornaments his mother likes) and being cheerfully as ignorant as Merlin about everything else. Arthur doesn't know how to shop like a normal person, because practically everything he buys is either commissioned specifically for him, or given to him as a gift from some foreign dignitary or simpering noble.
Merlin herself always manages to do things wrong while shopping. She picks out colors she likes that clash horribly with everything else she owns, religiously refuses to buy dresses or anything else that might be considered actually fashionable for a young woman working in the palace because of her soulmarks, chooses fabrics based on how nice they feel instead of how useful they'll be for different seasons or activities, and can't be bothered to buy any kind of jewelry because she's too absentminded to remember to put it on.
The food stalls are the only ones she has real opinions on, and those vendors know her name and order well enough that most of the time she doesn't even really need to browse. The only remaining booths she either finds no interest in, or is doomed to frequent for Gaius every couple of days, with no need to visit otherwise.
After a while of listless wandering around in the bustling marketplace and attempting to feel like she's having fun, Merlin gives up. She finds herself wishing she'd gone off with Lancelot for the week; maybe he could have located a group of rotten scumbags to rout and she could actually be involved in something productive. Unfortunately, her soulmate will be long gone by now, putting some distance between himself and the epicenter of the country he is officially banished from.
Merlin suppresses another long sigh, nibbling on the end of an apple fritter from one of her favorite baker's stalls and gazing around the market wistfully. There has to be something she can get done. If she can just do one productive thing, she might be happy, and go figure out a way to laze around the way Arthur is always accusing her of doing when she's actually busy trying to save his stupid skin.
Her eyes light on a cobblers' booth selling shoes, and she has a flash of sudden genius, followed by another flash of dread. Ugh. Is she really desperate enough? She thinks back to her to-do list from that morning. There really isn't anything else she can check off of it without either being in the castle or with Arthur.
But the boots. She could put in the boot commission.
Arthur won't even realize she did it early. He'll probably think Naeman just rushed the job, if he notices the speed of the delivery at all.
But then Merlin will have to go into the leathershop.
She grits her teeth. Is it worth it, to deal with Naeman in person, just to get something, anything done today? She had intended to send George again if she could. George is extremely competent and even more diligent. He would definitely play up his servility to Naeman without even realizing he was doing it, and Naeman wouldn't be interested in harassing him the way he did her. George won't mind going; when she had him go for her before he thanked her for the opportunity to do something directly for Arthur.
But doing just one thing, just one, and therefore defying her mandated vacation, tastes to Merlin like a win. And she can handle Naeman. She's done it before. She's an immensely powerful warlock; Naeman wouldn't stand a chance against her real strength.
She hesitates for one more moment, licking her fingers of the final fritter crumbs, and then she heads for the lower town and market.
The bell above the shop door clanks as she pushes the door open, hoping that the nice young apprentice, Roderick, is in. Ideally, Naeman is also out. In a perfect world.
The world, however, is far from perfect. The voice that answers the bell is the master leatherworker himself, calling, "With you in just a tick!"
Merlin swears under her breath, already regretting the entire idea. Vacation. She's supposed to be on vacation. Why is she here? Idiot. Sometimes Arthur is right about her.
"What can I do you for—ahhhhh," Naeman says, appearing from the door behind the shop counter. "Morning, pretty. Here for the pleasure of my company?"
"Good morning, sir," Merlin intones as politely as possible. She knows how to deal with him. Slow breaths. "I'm here to commission an order for a pair of boots for Prince Arthur, to replace his old formalwear."
"Sure you are," he drawls, looking her up and down with an uncomfortably dragging gaze. "They certainly wouldn't be for you, lovely. You don't exactly dress to show off your assets. Boots included."
Merlin takes a slow, regular breath, fighting the urge to somehow either run straight out the door or otherwise hide her boots from sight. Her boots are comfortable, worn-in old things, held together by the four or five sturdy straps the cobbler back in Ealdor had included in the homely design, and the tops are folded partway down so that her favorite pair of thick white socks poke out, not quite hidden under her worn pants.
They aren't new, and they certainly aren't the kind of tailored, elaborately tooled leather that Naeman works with the fine cobbler down the street to produce, the kind that a crown prince would wear to formal gatherings at court. She couldn't afford a pair of Naeman's boots even if she wanted them, and he knows it.
Not that Arthur really prefers them himself. His everyday boots are good quality, of course, but they're plain leather and comfortably broken in and scuffed from training, riding, and getting into every kind of skirmish, no matter how many times Merlin polishes them. But only the best will do for Uther's banquet, and Arthur's old decorative pair have been in use for so long that the toes in the soles are nearly worn through.
"His highness is interested in a pair of your finest tooled leather boots," she continues, disregarding the pithy comment. "Mid-calf, the same length as his last pair. Dark brown leather, with the scrolling along the side and top and the Pendragon crest subtly worked in where appropriate for the design. Will that be possible?"
"For 'is highness Prince Arthur, of course," Naeman agrees, his tone condescending. "When will he require the order to be complete?"
"At least before his majesty the king's banquet in four months," Merlin specifies, strangling the urge to snark at the man. If she loses her temper at him and Arthur finds out, there will be hell to pay. She still hasn't forgotten the time with that blacksmith, although she maintains it wasn't really her fault.
"Mighty good, mighty good..." Naeman makes an absentminded note on a slip of paper at the counter. "I believe that'll be possible...."
"Wonderful."
"...for a price." His eyes flicker up to meet hers, the cool brown flickering with something she can't quite interpret.
"Of course. His highness always pays commission promptly at delivery," Merlin retorts, a little offended, but Naeman is already shaking his head. He leaves his feather pen on the counter, walking around it and toward her slowly, but with an air of intent that has her mentally squeezing her magic down so that she doesn't accidentally fling him away.
"How badly do you want your master to get what he needs?" Naeman asks, voice low. His mouth twitches, flicking up into a smile that makes Merlin's skin crawl. "Will the prince be disappointed if you don't make sure 'is boots are on time?"
"...what?" She manages, eyes fixed on him warily.
"'What, sir'," he corrects silkily. "Remember? Know your place, hmm, pretty girl?"
"What, sir," Merlin repeats. Her mouth is suddenly dry. He's too close for comfort. Should she kick him? She could. But Arthur....
"You must be as sweet as you are dull, for the prince to keep you in 'is sheets," Naeman continues, unbothered. He steps closer again. "Lemme put it this way: you give me what I want, and I'll give you what you want. Prince Arthur will never have to know, an' he'll have 'is boots right when he wants them. And I'll 'ave you right where I want you." He laughs. "And when."
Merlin backs up a step, and then two, tense like a branch bent back and ready to snap, but her breath sticks in her throat. She can kill this man, right now. She can snap his neck or throw him across the room so hard that his skull smashes on impact. But Arthur will possibly murder her if she does that.
The front of the shop is empty. There are people passing in the street, just visible through the merchandise display in the window, oblivious to the inside.
Merlin steels herself to try one more time. "Sir, I'm afraid I don't know what you mean—"
Whap!
Before she can even realize what's happened, her neck has snapped to the side, her face stinging with the force of the slap. A sharp pain on her cheekbone makes itself apparent as she feels herself reach up and touch her face, utterly shocked. Her hand comes away with a smudge of blood, and her eyes go to the drip of red on the ring on his finger, his hand still raised from backhanding her.
"If I were you," Naeman is saying, somewhere in the distance, "I'd c'mere without any more pointless stupidity, and we'll go in the back for a minute or two, work out the details on the...commission." His voice is confident, not even a hint of nerves or a flicker of uncertainty.
He's done this before, Merlin realizes. This isn't the first time. The pit in her stomach that seems to have opened up out of nowhere yawns wider, and then is consumed by something else. A fury, like a beast, filling her back up like a geyser about to explode. She almost does it, almost reaches out with one hand and ends him with one flash of golden eyes, but she thinks, Arthur. Arthur means she can't kill him. It will be impossible to explain.
This man, this horrible man, has done this before. To whom? Merlin doesn't know. Girls her age, twenty or more? Girls that are younger? Lancelot was right, just the day before. She should have said something. She should have told someone.
The beast thrashes, desperate to free itself, but she grasps onto its chains for everything she's worth.
If she kills him now, it will be hard to explain his death as anything but a magical attack. She doesn't have the restraint to do it subtly. If she so much as loosens her grip on her perfect, tight control, he'll be an explosion of flesh against the wall. Uther, newly recovered and enraged by the loss of Morgana, will come down on the people of Camelot like a hammer. Innocents will be caught in the crossfire.
He's reaching out again, saying something else. Her ears are buzzing. She can't hear him, doesn't want to. His fingers pull her chin back to look at him, but Merlin isn't seeing him. She's seeing only a way out, any way out. The light in the shop comes from an old oil lamp, small but made of heavy metal, hanging a few feet in front of the door. It's just about above their heads.
He keeps talking, like she's still there in the room with him, like she isn't a maelstrom that just happens to sometimes exist in a shell of human skin, and the maelstrom swirls, tightly confined, not loosening control at all, not one bit, but just pointing that control in a certain direction. A bolt of energy like a lightning strike in a storm coalesces into being, faster than comprehension, and severs just one link the metal chain that holds the lamp aloft. The lamp falls faster and harder and more directly than any lamp should, and knocks directly into Naeman's thick head, knocking him out in a single blow.
Merlin staggers backward as he collapses to the ground, unconscious, and all of a sudden the maelstrom is a person again, and the person's chin trembles for just a moment, and then the person flees out of the shop and up the road without another look back.