Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He was standing in front of the castle entrance, heart in his throat, gazing into the great castle in awe. Servants bustled about, their steps echoing in the large hall, every one of them going about their duties in a calculated hurry. Maidservants and laundresses greeted each other as they passed by and some, walking beside one another finding time between the spare moments they could steal between duties. The royal guards spared a gentle smile for every passing servant of the royal castle.

He had always dreamed of coming to the royal castle to serve the Prince of Camelot — now turned King Regent. 

He was a nobody from a far away village. A child unwanted even by his own father and older brothers. He hailed from Thornhill, a small, forest-ringed village on Camelot’s southwestern border, near the disputed lands with the Kingdom of Caerleon. Isolated and vulnerable. It sat nestled between the dense Wyrmwood Forest and the rolling Greystone Hills.

<TW>

When he was but a young child, Thornhill had been terrorised by bandits — taking their harvest, the meat stores, the grain. When there was nothing else left the village could offer, the bandits decided the supplies weren’t enough and came for the children.

He had heard of humans being sold as slaves or servants for money before. His own father and brothers had threatened him of it many times in the past. But never in his life had he actually expected to be sold off like cattle — torn from his, even if unwelcoming, village he had survived 11 winters in.

He remembers mothers screaming. Fathers fighting. Brothers bleeding. Some villagers tried to stop the madness. A man hurled himself at the raiders, took a blade in the belly for his son. A woman clung to her daughter, refusing to let go even as the butts of swords broke her arms. Children screamed and struggled to get to the safety of their parents.

He screamed too. Called out. Struggled as rough hands gripped his arms and dragged him through the churned dirt. His tunic tore. His cheek hit stone. He turned, reaching, crying out for help — for someone .

And there they were.

His father. And his two older brothers.

Standing by the side of the house. Watching. They didn’t speak. They didn’t move.

The younger of his brothers looked away — ashamed, maybe, or simply unwilling. His father met his gaze. Just for a second.

Then he turned his back.

And the boy knew: he’d been given up. He had never belonged.

No blade was drawn. No hand lifted in his defense. Not from them.

The bandits got what they wanted. But they never got far. Just beyond the tree line, the shrill cry of a hunting horn shattered the cold silence that had settled with the villagers’ quiet acceptance of defeat. Hooves thundered through the frost-hardened underbrush. Steel clashed against steel. He remembered the jolt of being thrown onto the back of a wagon as the raiders scattered. One of them had grabbed him in the scramble — dragging him toward the trees with a blade at his throat and desperation in his breath.

He thought that was it.

That he wasn’t going to be saved.

That he wasn’t worth saving.

But someone broke through the treeline with determination in his eyes and without hesitation. Golden cloak streaming behind him, sword flashing in the pale light — a knight came for him — not with words, but with purpose . The raider fell before he could even turn. And the knight dropped to one knee and lifted the boy with a care that didn’t belong to the cruel nobility he had heard stories of.

<->

“You’re safe now,” he said, eyes sharp but kind. “Let’s get you home.”

The boy never forgot the weight of that moment. The warmth of a borrowed cloak. The way the prince — he found out who the knight was only later — didn’t look at him like a burden, but as something worth saving .

He’d been too young then to repay it. 

But now, walking through the entrance of the Royal Castle with calloused hands and wide eyes, he knows.

He’s not here by accident.

He’s here because the man who saved him made him believe he could belong.

Though he knew he was only going to serve in the Royal Castle, and not yet as the personal manservant of the Regent King — he believed he’d get there someday.

— — — — — — 

Arthur Pendragon knew something was wrong the moment he woke up.

It wasn’t the light. The sun filtering through the high windows looked the same as always — too bright, too early. It wasn’t the cold — the bedchamber fire had long gone out, nothing new there.

No. It was the silence. The distinct lack of clattering, tripping, muttering chaos that usually accompanied the beginning of his day.

He cracked one eye open. A shadow moved at the foot of his bed — upright posture, not a speck of dust on his boots. 

Gods help him.

George .

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” the man intoned with the cheer of a funeral bell. He was standing there all proper and respectful. As if good posture could make up for being insufferable. The nerve. 

Arthur stared. “No.”

“I beg your pardon, Sire?”

“No. Whatever this is. No.”

George bowed. “I was instructed to attend to Your Highness this morning, as your manservant is—” a pause, as if the word itself were a crime, “— indisposed. ”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “ Indisposed as in dead, or indisposed as in avoiding his duties with all the cunning of a rat escaping a bath?”

George blinked. “I wouldn’t presume to comment, Sire.”

“Then presume now.”

“…Gaius informed me that your manservant was last seen heading toward the lower market quarter. Near the tavern.”

Arthur sat up so fast he knocked the water pitcher off the table. It shattered against the stone floor. George didn’t flinch, but his nostrils twitched in disapproval, as if water stains were treason.

“Sire?”

Arthur didn’t know how to vent his anger without it becoming destructive.

“Just—” He waved a hand in a vague, dismissive gesture. “Get on with whatever it is you need to do.” His voice came out flat and tired.

This was the second time this week that Merlin hadn’t been there to wake him. Not that Arthur needed help waking up—he was perfectly capable, thank you—but still. It was the principle of the thing. And at this point, he was starting to be genuinely concerned about Merlin’s drinking problem.

Who even went to a tavern first thing in the morning? Other than Gwaine, of course. But Gwaine was a lost cause. Merlin was supposed to have some sense.

Maybe that’s it, Arthur thought bitterly. Maybe he’s been spending too much time with Gwaine. He’d have to speak with him. Yes, definitely. He filed that away—he’d have words. Stern ones. This would be the last time Merlin wandered off when he clearly had duties to attend to.

Arthur shut his eyes and took a deep breath, counting to ten in his head. It didn’t help. Not in the slightest. But at least he could pat himself on the back for trying.

When he opened his eyes again, George was still there. Meticulously arranging the day’s attire like it was a sacred ritual.

Of course. George.

Everything about him was crisp, silent, and horribly efficient. The man folded a tunic like he was performing surgery. 

Arthur climbed out of the warmth of his bed, feet hitting the cold stone floor with a muted thud. He suppressed a shiver.

He crossed the room, headed for the washbasin, but of course George had already beaten him to it. The servant stood beside it, cloth in hand, waiting with that infuriatingly neutral expression.

Of course he did. He couldn’t let Arthur grab the cloth himself. That would be far too improper .

George.

At least he'd stopped trying to help Arthur wash. That had been... unpleasant for both of them. George had learned, rather quickly, that Arthur didn’t tolerate people in his space. Not like that. Not unless they were Merlin.

Arthur took the cloth from George’s outstretched hand—perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary. The man, predictably, didn’t flinch. Didn’t frown. Didn’t so much as blink.

Maybe Arthur should feel bad for him. The man had no thoughts of his own, clearly. Just moving from one task to the next like some sort of well-dressed automaton.

George turned away silently and began tidying the room— Merlin’s chores, Arthur noted sourly—as Arthur splashed cold water on his face and began wiping himself down.

It wasn’t even breakfast and the day was already off to a miserable start.

After his too-perfect breakfast, Arthur managed to leave his chambers without committing murder. A small victory.

He’d sent George off to deal with the laundry Merlin had neglected for days — a punishment disguised as responsibility. That should keep the man busy until midday, or longer if Arthur was lucky.

With about an hour left before he had to drag himself to the council chambers, Arthur veered off course and headed toward the physician’s quarters.

If Merlin wasn’t at the tavern, as Gaius had claimed, then he had some explaining to do.

And if he was at the tavern…

Arthur ground his teeth. His pathetic excuse for a manservant had better hope he sobered up before Arthur found him.

Arthur barged into the physician’s chambers without knocking. He didn’t bother with formalities — not when he was in a mood.

To his mild surprise, Gaius wasn’t there to scold him for his lack of manners. A relief, really. Though Arthur would never admit it aloud, he wasn’t exactly a fan of the man’s eyebrow of doom . If he was being honest — not that he ever would be — he was slightly afraid of it.

He crossed the room and quickly climbed the steps to Merlin’s quarters. The door creaked as he pushed it open.

Empty.

Well, empty except for the alarming amount of dust and whatever questionable life forms were probably thriving in the mess. Arthur wrinkled his nose.

And he has the nerve to call me messy. The hypocrisy is blinding.

He was about to turn on his heel and storm out when something caught his eye — a glint of metal, nearly hidden beneath a crumpled blanket on the floor.

Frowning, Arthur stepped forward and bent to retrieve it.

A dagger.

Not just any dagger. One he didn’t recognize. It was finely made — too fine for Merlin to own, certainly. The hilt was unfamiliar, its design not of Camelot make. Arthur turned it over in his hand, brows knitting together.

What in the hells was Merlin doing with this ?

Council Chambers, Late Morning

Arthur sat at the head of the round table, jaw set, hand twitching against the armrest of his chair. He wasn’t listening to the droning voice of Lord Ferris, not really. His mind kept drifting back to the dagger hidden in his boot.

He hadn’t meant to take it. Just… had. The thing had glinted at him from under Merlin’s rumpled blanket, and before he knew it, he’d tucked it away. Old, worn. Not standard issue. Definitely not something a servant should have. 

"—and while the barley yields have recovered, I still advise keeping grain rations controlled for another month," Leon was saying.

Arthur nodded vaguely, fingers drumming once before stilling again. His eyes drifted to the corner where Merlin would usually be — not that he ever had any real reason to be there, but he had a knack for showing up regardless. More often than not, Arthur dragged him along out of sheer spite. If he had to suffer through council boredom, so did Merlin. And oddly enough… It helped. Merlin would stand behind him with that maddeningly blank expression, only to lean in mid-pour of wine and whisper things like, "Careful, sire. Lord Bainbridge is one more complaint away from combusting."

Arthur sighed through his nose.

"I do have one other matter," Leon said. "There have been inquiries from the lower city. A few men — commoners — have expressed interest in training to become knights."

Silence dropped like a blade.

Lord Bainbridge gave a sharp, humorless chuckle. "What, did their chickens stop laying and now they fancy themselves warriors?"

A few of the other lords laughed under their breath. Sir Elyan stiffened, and Gwaine—already leaning back with boots crossed under the table—gave Bainbridge a glare sharp enough to cut meat.

"They may be commoners," Elyan said, "but that didn’t stop half this table from proving themselves in battle."

Bainbridge sneered. "A handful of exceptions doesn’t change centuries of tradition."

"And tradition alone doesn’t make a knight," Gwaine muttered.

Agravain raised a hand, smiling mildly. His voice, calm and respectful, carried the weight of seasoned diplomacy.

"I understand the sentiment, truly," Agravain said in that smooth, polished tone of his. "And I would never doubt Sir Leon’s judgment. But perhaps we should consider that allowing too many… unrefined elements into the knighthood may risk diluting its honor."

Arthur’s back stiffened.

"There is honor in those who bleed for Camelot," Leon said quietly.

"Indeed," Agravain replied, with calm agreement. "And yet, one must ask if discipline and loyalty can truly be taught to men who’ve never known either."

Arthur stood abruptly. Chairs creaked. The room silenced.

"I’ll allow it."

A beat passed. Then Bainbridge spluttered, "Sire?"

Arthur’s voice was low, calm — dangerously so. "There will be a preliminary program. Rigorous training. Instruction. Examinations, if need be. We’ll select only those who prove themselves capable of squiring. The rest can try again when next we open the gates."

"Sire, with all due—"

"This isn’t up for debate," Arthur cut in, sharper now. "I am the Regent King. I’ve made my decision."

Agravain offered a deferential nod, ever composed and loyal in appearance. Bainbridge looked as though he’d swallowed his own tongue. But no one dared speak again.

Leon cleared his throat. "I’ll begin assembling the guidelines, then."

"Good." Arthur sat back down, clenching and unclenching his fist under the table.

He tried to focus on the rest of the reports. Trade tariffs, stone shipments, repairing the lower causeway. But his mind kept circling.

Am I doing the right thing?

His father would have scoffed. "Knighthood is for the blooded," Uther would have said. "It is earned through noble birth, not grubby hands and blind ambition."

And yet… Arthur remembered that night under the torchlight, each of them kneeling before him — Elyan, Gwaine, Lancelot, and Percival — pledging themselves not just to him, but to the idea of a better Camelot. Remembered the quiet determination in their eyes, the raw loyalty that asked for nothing in return but the chance to serve. They had believed in him, when he had barely begun to believe in himself.

Merlin would’ve rolled his eyes and made a stupid comment by now. Something like, “Well, you already let Gwaine in. How much worse could it get?”

Arthur’s lips twitched. Just barely.

He glanced at the empty space behind him again.

He was going to murder that idiot.

.

Arthur strode through the stone halls on his way to the training grounds, tension humming beneath his skin. As he rounded a corner, a small figure collided with him hard enough to make him stumble.

The boy fell to the ground with a startled yelp.

Arthur blinked down at him — young, definitely no older than sixteen, with tousled hair and wide, horrified eyes.

“S-sire,” the boy stammered.

Arthur frowned but quickly extended a hand. “Careful there.”

The boy scrambled, Arthur helped him up with a firm tug. He was slight, thin even, and clearly new. His eyes still held that shine of someone not yet used to the weight of castle life.

“What’s your name?”

“Gareth, sire.” the boy answered, eyes locked on Arthur’s with a steady, almost stubborn determination.

Arthur blinked. There was something about that look — a mixture of loyalty, awe, and sheer “I’ll prove myself no matter what” stubbornness. It was the same look Merlin always gave him. Only, Gareth was nowhere near as annoying. Yet.

Arthur rolled his eyes inwardly. “Great. Another one who thinks he’s Merlin’s sequel.” He gave a small, tight smile, then abruptly turned on his heel, muttering, “When I find that bastard, I swear…”

Training Grounds, Early Afternoon

Arthur moved through the castle corridors like a storm cloud, his temper flaring so fiercely that servants and nobles alike hurried to give him as wide a berth as possible. Whispers followed his path— Best not cross him today —and even the usually bold grew timid in his presence.

By midday, the knights of the Round Table had gathered for training. Arthur wasted no time barking orders, his voice sharp enough to cut steel.

Lancelot stood poised, his usual calm demeanor unshaken. Arthur glanced at him and inwardly bristled—there was something maddening about how effortlessly noble Lancelot was. No doubt Merlin admired that about him. Arthur shoved the thought away, unwilling to admit just how much it stung. Lancelot was a trusted knight and friend.

Gwaine, on the other hand, was grinning like a fox who just found the henhouse unlocked. “Oi, Princess,” he teased, “Nanny Merlin off duty, yeah?”

Arthur’s glare could have boiled water. “You can’t speak to me like that.”

Gwaine laughed, full of mischief and self-confidence. “Sure, sure. That’s what they all say.”

Elyan chuckled softly, always the first to join in, and opened his mouth as if to continue the teasing—only to shut it quickly under Arthur’s sharp glare.

Leon, ever the loyal knight, tried valiantly to hide his amusement, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He respected Arthur far too much to laugh openly, but the cracks of amusement in his eyes betrayed him. 

Percival, quieter than the rest, stood a little apart but listened attentively. He coughed discreetly—his subtle laughter masked well enough to avoid attention.

Arthur’s jaw clenched as he barked, “Enough! Training starts now.”

The knights groaned in unison, but Gwaine couldn’t resist one last jab. “Careful, or you’ll scare all the fun out of knighthood, Princess.”

Arthur tried to ignore it, but a faint twitch at his lips betrayed a grudging amusement. Still, he kept his focus — this was the perfect chance to blow off some steam.

. 

Arthur dropped onto the worn wooden bench—where Merlin would usually sit during training, cheering on everyone except Arthur, just to spite him. He rubbed his temples, tired and frustrated, when Gwaine swaggered over with that infuriating grin. 

“Well, well, the mighty king in a rare moment of rest. Taking a break from ruling the kingdom, or just trying to avoid the lot of us?” Gwaine teased, settling down beside him, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

Arthur shot him a glare. “You’re a pest, Gwaine.”

Gwaine just laughed, the kind of laugh that made you want to join in or at least pretend you were amused. “So, what’s actually wrong, Princess? You’re giving ‘grumpy bear’ vibes, and not the cute kind.”

Arthur hesitated, “Merlin’s been going to the tavern too often.” he muttered, “And I’m thinking about banning the friendship of a certain someone for him” he said with a sideways glance to Gwaine.

Gwaine’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, you blame me, do you? I’m the reason Merls been hitting the ale?”

Arthur nodded grimly. “You’re always dragging him along. You’re not helping.”

Gwaine nearly doubled over with laughter. “You think I can get Merlin to loosen up? Ha! I’ve been trying for months, but the lad’s got duties glued to him like a barnacle. Never seen him really let go. And to think that’s where you thought Merls was. Ridiculous!”

Arthur blinked, confused. “But… That’s where he goes all the time. Even today he-”

Gwaine smirked, still chuckling. “Only when you’re around, mate. When you show up, Merlin’s there, probably keeping an eye on you or making sure you don’t drink too much.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed as a slow realization dawned on him. Gaius was always the one bringing up the tavern excuse, as if to explain Merlin’s absence. Yet every time Merlin came back from the “tavern,” he looked disheveled—like he’d been through a storm—but never hungover. And he always denied being there. The puzzle pieces didn’t fit, and suddenly there was a lot more to think about.

There was so much he didn’t know. Or maybe he’d been too stubborn to see.

Gwaine stood, stretching lazily. “Looks like Merlin’s got his own secrets, hiding things from you.” he said, grinning slyly.

.

After the exhausting training session he had changed out of his sweat-soaked armor and bathed, but the weight of his duties felt heavier than ever.

With his father’s health declining—his mind frayed after Morgana’s betrayal—Arthur carried more burdens than just the crown. The mantle of leadership pressed on him relentlessly. Camelot looked to him now, not just as Regent King, but as the man holding the kingdom together while Uther struggled to grasp reality.

He made his way to the private chambers where his father was kept under careful watch. The corridors were quieter here, a rare calm amid the turmoil.

Inside, Gwen was tending to Uther with the same steady devotion she showed in all things. Now a lady of the court since her brother had been knighted.

“Your Grace,” Gwen greeted Arthur softly, offering a respectful nod.

Arthur nodded in return. “How is he today?”

Gwen sighed lightly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Some days better than others. But he still doesn’t recognize much beyond the present moment.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched.

She glanced at him, understanding the unspoken weight he carried. “You’ve taken on so much, Arthur. Camelot needs you now more than ever.”

He managed a tired smile. “That it does. Sometimes I wonder if I’m ready for it all.”

Gwen’s expression softened with warmth. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Arthur looked toward his father’s quiet form and then back at Gwen. “Thank you, Gwen. For everything.”

She smiled in return, steady and reassuring. “Always.”

.

The day was finally done, but Arthur’s bad mood stubbornly lingered. Merlin was still nowhere to be seen, and the silence in the chamber felt heavier than usual. Arthur sat on the edge of his bed, boots still on, the weight of the hidden dagger pressing coldly against his ankle beneath the heavy fabric of his trousers.

A soft knock sounded, and George entered promptly, carrying a neatly folded nightshirt and fresh linens. He moved with practiced efficiency—every step measured, every motion precise. 

“Your Grace,” George announced smoothly, setting the clothes down on a nearby stool, “I’m here to prepare you for bed.”

Arthur scowled. “Very well, George. Let’s get it over with.”

George’s calm, proper demeanor was somehow even more infuriating when Arthur was in a foul mood. Merlin’s chaotic presence was preferable to George’s polished perfection.

Arthur subtly slid the dagger out from his boot and tucked it beneath the pillows just before George stepped closer. He didn’t want George—or anyone—seeing the blade. The cold weight of it still filled him with dread, the same dread the dagger had stirred up in him ever since he’d taken it from Merlin’s blanket that morning. Questions about Merlin’s secrecy he’d been avoiding suddenly bubbled to the surface.

George began by helping Arthur out of his boots, his hands deft and confident. “Your boots have been well-worn today, Your Grace. It’s important to give them proper care to ensure their longevity.”

Arthur muttered a noncommittal grunt, the sharp edge of George’s meticulousness slicing through his temper like a whetstone.

“Nightshirt, Sire.” George held out the garment with an air of solemn duty.

Arthur stripped off his tunic and let George help him into the nightshirt with the precision of a knight donning armor.

“George,” Arthur grumbled, “you make this feel like a ceremony.”

George’s perfectly arched brow didn’t waver. “It is a matter of respect for the office, Sire.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, but a faint twitch at his lips betrayed a grudging amusement. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, Your Grace, here I am,” George replied smoothly as he straightened the linens on the bed. “Prepared to see you properly rested for tomorrow’s duties.”

George.

Arthur sighed, lying back onto his pillow. His fingers found the dagger hidden beneath it, and the cold steel sent a shiver up his spine.

As George left his chembers Arthur carefully pulled out the dagger, its worn handle rough against his palm. It was the same blade that had first stirred the uneasy questions about Merlin—questions Arthur had been too stubborn to face until now.

He turned the dagger over in his hand, the weight of it anchoring his thoughts.

Arthur sighed, eyes fixed on the blade as if it might suddenly confess its secrets. Merlin was always talking—too much, really—spinning stories, dropping hints, cracking jokes. Yet somehow, despite all that chatter, the man never truly revealed what he was thinking or where he vanished to when Arthur wasn’t looking.

Talks like a brook in spring, but hides more than he shows. What’s he not telling me? Arthur thought to himself.

He remembered all the times he’d complained about Merlin’s endless prattling, but now it seemed those words were just clever smoke screens. The more Merlin spoke, the less Arthur seemed to understand. It was maddening.

Arthur’s fingers tightened around the dagger for a moment. This little blade, hidden away and forgotten beneath a blanket, was the first crack in the armor Merlin carefully built around himself.

Does he even trust me?

The thought pricked at him like the cold steel against his skin.

With a slow breath, Arthur slid the dagger back beneath the pillow, careful to keep it out of sight.

He settled back into the bed, the shadows of doubt and loyalty wrestling in his mind.

I just want him to come back in the morning and wake me up. That’s all that matters.

As sleep claimed him, Arthur clung to that wish, the faint hope that tomorrow would bring answers— or at least Merlin for God's sake.

Chapter Text

Morning light filtered softly into the royal chambers, catching on the tall windows and the fine dust in the air, still and undisturbed. All was quiet—until it wasn’t.

A loud clatter. The unmistakable scrape of wood against stone. The abrupt, chaotic shuffle of boots.

Arthur didn’t open his eyes.

He knew that sound. Merlin. Of course.

There was something especially grating about the way Merlin seemed incapable of doing anything quietly. He moved like a whirlwind, humming tunelessly under his breath, knocking something over—Arthur would bet it was the washbasin again—and muttering to himself as if he were three people having a very loud argument.

Arthur kept still, face buried in his pillow, breathing slowly. Pretending to sleep.

He didn’t know why. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t want to admit it.

Ever since the night before—ever since that jarring moment of realization that Merlin had lied to him, blatantly, and Gaius had covered for him—something inside Arthur had shifted. The idea that Merlin, of all people, might be keeping something from him, something important, had left a strange pit in his stomach. An irrational dread. As if something precious had cracked, and Arthur wasn’t ready to look at the break just yet.

Then came the sunlight.

Blinding. Direct. Merciless.

Merlin yanked back the heavy curtains with far too much enthusiasm, letting the full blaze of the morning hit Arthur square in the face.

“Rise and shine!” Merlin’s voice rang out in the most infuriatingly cheerful tone imaginable. “It’s a really beautiful, bright, and sunny day—might be the last one we get before autumn turns everything grey and miserable—and I know even a grump like you wouldn’t want to miss the chance to enjoy it!”

Arthur groaned and, without turning his head, grabbed the nearest object within arm’s reach—his pillow—and flung it at Merlin’s voice.

There was a satisfying whumph as the pillow hit its target.

“A pillow?” Merlin exclaimed, feigning deep offense. “Really? A pillow, Arthur? You’re going soft. What happened to the goblet? The hairbrush? That ornamental apple you once tried to skewer me with? You used to have standards.”

Arthur finally opened one eye. Merlin stood by the window, smug as ever, brushing nonexistent dust off his tunic.

“You’ve officially lost your edge,” Merlin continued, now arranging Arthur’s cutlery. 

“It’s disappointing, really. I might have to start looking for another noble to irritate. Maybe Leon. He’s got potential.”

Arthur sat up slowly, pushing his hair back with one hand. “Leon wouldn’t tolerate you for five minutes.”

“True. I do have that effect,” Merlin said brightly, moving on to clear the half-folded cloak on the floor and pretending to ignore Arthur’s death glare.

Arthur didn’t respond.

He just… watched.

Merlin was going about his usual duties—unfolding garments, pouring water into the basin, straightening the cluttered desk with a method known only to him. It was nothing like the rigid, painfully precise way George did it. George’s organization was clinical. Merlin’s was… functional. Thoughtless in some ways, but oddly attuned to what Arthur preferred. Like he’d memorized every habit Arthur had and tailored his mess accordingly.

And Arthur looked.

Really looked.

He saw the small things now. Things he’d never noticed—or maybe never allowed himself to notice. Like the tiredness beneath Merlin’s eyes. Not just the typical didn’t-sleep-well tired. It was deeper. The kind of weariness carried by someone who bore too much on his shoulders. 

And the limp. Subtle, but there. A slight favoring of the right leg. A stiffness in his left arm when he reached up too high.

Arthur’s chest tightened. 

Merlin rattled off the day’s schedule as he retrieved a shirt from the wardrobe. “You’ve got training with the knights at noon, right after the squire ceremony. You’ll need to give a speech. I didn’t write one for you—just so you know. So you’ll have to improvise.”

Arthur, now out of bed and seated at the table, began picking at his breakfast. “Are the swords ready?”

“Yes. Eight in total, all polished and prepped for the ceremony,” Merlin said, crossing the room. “I’m heading to the armoury too—after I get you ready—to help out and make sure everything’s in order.”

He moved from laying out Arthur’s clothes to sorting the papers scattered across the desk.

“After the ceremony and training, you’ve got a council meeting about the grain shortage,” he went on, “and then a feast at dusk because—apparently—we must all pretend we’re not teetering on the edge of famine. You’ll need to wear something with less blood smell on it for that.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “That’s your way of telling me my shirt stinks?” he asked as Merlin moved to straighten the bed.

“Oh, I’d never say that to the face of the future King,” Merlin said with mock reverence, flashing him a cheeky grin. “But yes.”

Arthur found himself staring at that grin a moment too long.

That smile. It had always gotten to him—though he’d never admit it. On any other day, that smile alone might’ve been enough to pull them back into their usual rhythm. The kind of back-and-forth they both not-so-secretly enjoyed. The kind that would’ve made Arthur forget his doubts entirely.

But not today.

Not after last night.

“What happened to your arm and leg?” Arthur asked, tone steady.

There was a pause.

A beat of silence too long to be casual.

Merlin’s expression faltered—just for a second. The smile twitched, tightened.

Then, just as fast, it returned. Bright. Harmless.

Arthur would have missed it if he hadn’t been paying close attention.

“Funny story, actually. Ha!” Merlin said, turning back to his task. “You see, I was in the lower town on an errand for Gaius and—”

“That’s not what Gaius told George,” Arthur interrupted, voice flat (rolled out the George). “The truly efficient manservant I was blessed with in your absence.”

Merlin blinked, thrown. “What?”

“Tavern,” Arthur said, his jaw clenched.

Merlin’s eyes narrowed. “I was not at the tavern! I’ve told you before Arthur, I’m not a drunkard. Just ask Gwaine!”

That surge of warmth at Merlin’s indignant defense, at the truth in his voice—it almost undid everything.

Maybe he had been paranoid. Morgana’s betrayal, (how close the crown is) the crown, the kingdom—it had all been too much. Maybe he’d been seeing ghosts where there were none. To think Arthur thought that Merlin of all people could be cunning enough to deceive him. 

“I was on an errand for Gaius,” Merlin continued. “I was attending to a sick elderly in the lower town. Gaius had told me to go the day before. He must’ve forgotten about it, that’s all.”

Arthur stared as Merlin returned to his duties. 

“And as I was saying—what happened to my arm and leg was, frankly, a masterclass in humiliation. I was walking down this alley—narrow, badly cobbled, clearly designed by someone who hates ankles—to deliver herbs, a basket, and a bowl of soup to some elderly man who definitely wasn’t going to eat it all. My hands were so full I looked like a mobile apothecary-slash-kitchen. Naturally, I slipped. Right on my arse. But not just any fall—no, I somehow managed a kind of mid-air pirouette before landing sideways like a dying swan in a play no one asked to see. The soup went flying. I’m told it hit a cat.”

The story was absurd. Very Merlin. The kind of rambling nonsense Arthur would’ve rolled his eyes at. Maybe even laughed at.

All he could think about was how to confirm the truth of Merlin’s story—without tipping him off.

He had to know.

Had to be sure.

Because now he wasn’t.

.

Arthur, after finishing breakfast and dressing for the day, left his chambers. 

With no immediate duties on his schedule, he took to wandering the castle corridors. To any passing servant or guard, it might have looked aimless. A prince stretching his legs, perhaps. Bored, perhaps.

But Arthur had a purpose.

He was thinking.

Arthur always thought better when he was moving—pacing, walking, fiddling with a dagger, doing anything but sitting still. His mind wandered otherwise. 

That’s why he struggled during council meetings, hated how the stillness seemed to trap his thoughts in amber.

His father had called it a lack of discipline. Had scolded the twitching fingers, the jiggling knee, the restlessness in his limbs.

“Sit like a prince,” Uther used to say, as he worked to train the un-princely habits out of Arthur.

So Arthur had learned how to sit, how not to fidget.

But sometimes Arthur still couldn’t help it. 

Only Merlin ever seemed to see it—and didn’t make a fuss.

Never looked at him strangely when he stood mid-conversation to pace or couldn’t keep his hands still. Merlin would just hand him something—an apple, a dagger, a rolled-up parchment—and let him fidget without a word.

Maybe Merlin understood. In his own way.

He had his own oddities. Arthur couldn’t explain it, but he knew Merlin felt… out of step, sometimes. Like he was moving to his own rhythm and didn’t much care whether the world kept up.

In the council meetings, the eye rolls, the whispered jokes, the ridiculous faces, Arthur wondered if Merlin did it all on purpose—yes, partly because he couldn’t help himself, that was just Merlin—but also… maybe because he knew. Knew of Arthur’s struggles. Knew that when the room got too quiet and the speeches too long, Arthur’s thoughts started to slide away from him like water slipping through cracks.

Once, he mimicked an entire speech with theatrical hand gestures behind Lord Eddric’s back. Arthur had nearly choked trying not to laugh.

He probably thought Arthur didn’t notice.

Arthur always noticed.

But the thing that got to him—really got to him—was that Merlin was listening. To everything. For all his snark and faces, he remembered every bit of discussion. And later, when it was just the two of them in Arthur’s chambers, Merlin would go over it all. What this noble was actually asking for. What that one had really meant. What Arthur had agreed to think about but clearly hadn’t heard right, because he’d been too busy trying not to claw his own eyes out from boredom.

And Merlin would never mock him for it. Never act like it was strange that he, the servant, was the one who remembered all the details and helped the prince sort them into something useful. He didn’t even do it out of duty. He just… did it. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like there was nothing wrong with a future King needing someone to help him line up the pieces after the room had cleared.

Merlin never said as much. Never acted like he was helping. But somehow he always stepped in just when Arthur needed it—without making it obvious, without making Arthur feel like he’d failed.

And that was what made it worse, in a way. Or better. He hadn’t decided.

Once, Arthur had asked him—more sharply than he meant to—if he ever got tired of waiting for him to stop pacing. Merlin had just shrugged and said,

“Everyone’s got something. I’d be more worried if you weren’t pacing.”

Arthur hadn’t replied. He’d been too busy hiding how that one sentence had knocked the breath out of him.

He didn’t think about it often. But it stayed with him, tucked somewhere deep within.

And now he wandered to clear his head, to sort through the noise that had been gathering since yesterday. 

Arthur wanted to believe what Merlin had told him about his whereabouts the previous day. He always did.

But the more he thought about it, the more something itched at the back of his mind.

Arthur used to joke about it all the time—how Merlin couldn’t lie to save his life.

“You’re a worse liar than you are a servant,” he’d say with that familiar smirk, and Merlin would flush and sputter and do exactly what Arthur expected: fail miserably at being convincing.

For a while, Arthur had even believed it. He thought Merlin was incapable of lying, as if it were some fixed, immutable fact of his being—like the way he never bowed properly, or how he always spoke two steps past where he should’ve stopped. Honest to a fault. Blunt. Transparent. Safe. 

It was one of those constants Arthur could count on: the sky was blue, Camelot had walls, and Merlin couldn’t tell a convincing lie to save his neck.

But a while ago—Arthur couldn’t tell when exactly—something had shifted.

It hadn’t been sudden. No dramatic turning point. Just little things. A half-second too long before answering. A joke that felt a little too forced. A limp Merlin tried to hide, and brushed off with an explanation too polished, too quick.

Arthur had noticed. Of course he had. But he told himself it didn’t matter. That Merlin was still the same. Still the fool who tripped over his own feet and said too much.

But the truth was… he wasn’t sure anymore.

Somewhere along the line, Merlin had learned how to lie. And not just lie—but lie well.

“You couldn’t keep a secret if your life depended on it!”

“You’d be surprised!”

And Arthur hated how that unsettled him.

Because it wasn’t just the lies. It was the pattern. The sudden disappearances. The injuries that came and went without cause. The strange heaviness in Merlin’s eyes when he thought no one was looking. And worst of all, the way Gaius covered for him—calm, practiced, like he’d done it before.

What if Merlin wasn’t just hiding something, but hiding everything?

At first, Arthur tried to make sense of it in the only way that did make sense. Maybe Merlin was being hurt. By someone. A nobleman abusing his power, perhaps. Arthur had seen the way some of them treated servants—especially those who didn’t know when to keep their heads down, stubborn like Merlin.

That would explain the bruises. The silences. The deflections. And Merlin… Merlin might not tell him. Not out of fear, but out of stubbornness. Out of some warped idea of protecting others, or maybe even protecting Arthur from having to act.

But that theory cracked the moment he remembered Gaius. If Merlin were being mistreated, Gaius wouldn’t just lie about it. He’d put an end to it—he wouldn’t stand by and let it happen. Not to Merlin. Not to the boy he raised like his own.

Which meant Gaius wasn’t being deceived.

He was complicit.

And if they were hiding something together… then it wasn’t about someone hurting Merlin.

It was about something they were doing.

That was when the darker thought crept in—one Arthur had refused to entertain until now.

What if Merlin was committing a crime?

The idea felt wrong. It sat in his chest like a stone. But it fit, didn’t it? The secretive behavior. The vanishing acts. The guilt, the shame, the hesitation—he could see it now, threaded through everything. It made sense in the worst way.

And Arthur hated how easily it slotted into place.

Because if Merlin—his Merlin, the one who always stood for what was right, even when it was foolish—if he could lie like this, deceive him this deeply… then what did that say about the man Arthur thought he knew?

And what did that say about Arthur himself, for not seeing it sooner?

He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.

Arthur paused at a narrow window overlooking the training grounds. The sun had finally crested the eastern towers, gilding the flagstones below in golden light. The clatter of swords echoed faintly from the lower yard, though the ceremony wouldn’t begin for another hour.

Arthur let the sounds ground him.

Steel on steel. Footsteps on gravel. The scrape of mail.

Familiar things. Solid things. Things that made sense.

He closed his eyes.

Whatever Merlin was hiding, Arthur would have to confront it. He was the future King. He couldn’t look the other way just because Merlin was a friend.

He shoved away from the window, hands curling into fists. This wasn’t helping.

He needed clarity. He needed—

“Good morning, my lord!”

The voice rang out clear and bright, though just a touch too loud for the quiet corridor. Arthur turned, spotting a short boy a few steps away. Round-cheeked, freckled, curls tumbling over his forehead—he looked like he’d barely grown into his tunic. The boy looked like he was caught between wanting to seem relaxed and not wanting to mess up.

It was the boy Arthur collided with the other day. 

“You’re… Gareth, right?” Arthur said, fully turning in his direction and crossing his arms. 

Gareth’s face brightened, surprised and flattered all at once. “Yes, sire!”

Arthur gave a small nod. “I’m guessing you’re new here? Getting used to the pace of things?”

Gareth hesitated—just for a beat—but then nodded quickly, his words tumbling out with the unfiltered honesty of someone who hadn’t yet learned to temper his thoughts.

“Yes, my Lord! It’s been exactly a week today since I became a servant of the castle. It’s—well, I won’t lie, it’s a lot. I’m tired all the time, and there’s so much to remember. I didn’t think I could forget how to carry a bucket, but apparently I can.” He gave a sheepish grin, then scratched the back of his neck, fingers fluttering as though searching for somewhere to land. “But I’m doing my best.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. “And? Do you like it?”

“Oh, yes,” Gareth said immediately. His voice picked up speed. “I mean—it’s hard, and I mess up a lot, but… I love it. Being here. In the citadel. I’ve dreamed about this place since I was little. Seeing the knights train, the Great Hall, the armoury—even the kitchens. It’s all so… alive. Like I finally stepped into the middle of something important.”

Arthur watched him with quiet curiosity. Gareth spoke quickly, and with increasing volume when excitement overtook him. His hands moved as he spoke—small gestures, expressive but unsure. Not practiced. Not polished. But honest.

There was something familiar in it.

Arthur noticed, too, how the boy held his gaze—directly. Unflinching. Not with defiance, but with certainty. Steady, warm, open.

Commoners didn’t usually look nobles in the eyes without permission. Least of all the Crown Prince. Arthur didn’t know if Gareth didn’t know that, or simply didn’t care—like a certain idiot he knew.

Arthur felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

Gareth’s face was nothing like Merlin’s—rounder, younger, softer—but for a moment, the way he stood there, meeting Arthur’s eyes as if it were the most natural thing in the world, made something familiar stir in his chest.

He wasn’t sure whether it irritated him or endeared him. 

A brief silence passed, not awkward. Just a moment of stillness neither of them seemed eager to break.

Then Gareth glanced behind him. “I should get going. I was headed to the armoury. I’m supposed to be helping with the preparations for the ceremony. I’ve probably already been gone too long.”

Arthur gave a single nod. “Then I won’t keep you.”

Gareth nodded quickly, stepping aside with a clumsy sort of bow—too deep, too fast. His balance wobbled. Arthur instinctively reached out, steadying him by the shoulder.

“Careful,” he said.

“Sorry, my lord!” Gareth said, cheeks flushing bright. “Still working on that.”

Arthur let out a faint huff, amused. “Well, don’t fall over in front of the Lords of our Neighbouring Kingdoms when they visit. They’ll think Camelot trains its servants with one foot in the bucket.”

Gareth’s laugh burst out of him before he could stop it—loud and surprised. He clapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry! I just—that’s… I’ll remember that.”

He backed up a few steps, his grin still wide, then turned to leave. 

Arthur watched him go—half-bouncing as he walked, curls bobbing, small but eager.

There was something about him. Something Arthur couldn’t quite place yet. But he found he was smiling as the boy disappeared around the corridor bend.

Arthur resumed his own path, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

He had more wandering to do before training. And more thoughts to chase down.

But for a moment, things felt a little less heavy.

— — — — — — 

Gareth’s heart was still in his throat by the time he turned the corner.

He didn’t think he’d actually do it—greet the prince like that. The Regent King, no less.

He’d been walking down the corridor, head full of lists when he spotted him. Arthur Pendragon. Just standing there.

And something in Gareth’s bones had told him to speak. Madness, probably. He hadn’t thought it through—just opened his mouth and let the words fly.

“Good morning, my lord!”

Mostly in hopes that The Prince wouldn’t remember him from their embarrassing first encounter from the other day where Gareth had collided with him. But Prince Arthur had remembered him.

Now, with his cheeks still warm and his ears ringing a bit, Gareth replayed every word he’d said. Every word Prince Arthur had said. He tried to hold onto the sound of it—The Prince remembering his name. Asking him questions. Smiling at him.

He hadn’t imagined that. Had he? 

Back in his village, Arthur Pendragon was a name people said with pride. Every wandering merchant, every dusty traveler who passed through seemed to carry a story.

“He has fought monsters, bandits, and magical threats on behalf of Camelot countless times — from griffins and trolls to sorcerers.” one man had said once, gesturing wildly with his drink. 

”He refused the king’s orders to raise taxes,” another had whispered around the fire. ”Said it would leave his people starving.”

“Heard he went against The King to defend a  village even though it lies outside Camelot’s borders, simply because it is the right thing to do. Because their own King wouldn’t.”

To Gareth, those stories were like songs. He’d grown up imagining them in his head when work was hard or the wind too cold. The idea of Arthur Pendragon had been shining, noble, untouchable.

And now… now he’d just talked to him. Face to face.

Gareth now saw the man for what he was—a man. He had known that, of course. Intellectually. But after years of imagining the prince as some glorious figure carved from legends, it had become easy to forget. Easy to believe in the fairytale instead of the truth.

Now it was back to earth.

Arthur Pendragon was a human. And he was a noble one.

Though, Gareth had heard some strange things since arriving. Odd little stories that didn’t match the glittering tales from his village.

Not that he judged. It was just… unexpected.

The day Gareth had arrived at the castle—exactly a week ago—he’d heard whispers the moment he stepped into the servant quarters.

The king’s manservant had been away that morning, and it seemed that news alone had shaken the entire lower staff. Servants passed the tidings to one another like wildfire, each one reacting with more dismay than the last: shock, confusion, concern, even something close to dread.

Some spoke of the prince being in a foul mood. Others described it as something worse—livid, someone had said. And when Gareth had raised an eyebrow, not quite understanding, a maid had paused to explain.

“You’d best watch out, lad,” she’d warned, lowering her voice like they were speaking of a ghost. “The prince looked livid enough to eat the first person he met this morning. Merlin—his manservant, you don’t know him, do you?—he hasn’t been there to wake him, and Prince Arthur has been looking for him since then. And everyone —from the stable boys to the highest of lords— walk on eggshells around him on these sorts of days.”

At the time, Gareth had laughed it off in his head—surely that was exaggeration. 

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—honestly—but it was difficult not to, what with how often people around the castle seemed to talk with their whole bodies.

Especially about the Prince and his manservant.

“He nearly took my head off with a goblet this morning when I got him his breakfast,” a kitchen boy had whispered, eyes wide and voice hushed, as though they were trading ghost stories. “And when he saw I wasn’t Merlin—he got even angrier! Practically chased me out his chambers in his nightshirt!”

“And have you seen the squires today?” another added. “They look like they’ve run ten drills before breakfast. I swear one of them was crying—crying!—and Sir Leon was just patting his shoulder like that’s normal.”

Gareth had taken all this in with quiet astonishment. He didn’t want to think poorly of Prince Arthur—his prince—but the tales were… colorful, to say the least.

Still, when he had bumped into the prince—quite literally—the day before, Arthur hadn’t looked livid. Just mildly irritated. Which, really, was more than fair. 

He had a right to be . A manservant’s job was to be there. Wake him up, see to his breakfast, and just generally be there when he was needed. This Merlin fellow—whoever he was—didn’t seem particularly reliable.

Maybe it’s not too late to achieve his dream of becoming the prince’s manservant, Gareth thought hopefully.

He tried to picture himself at Arthur Pendragon’s side—steadfast, prepared, always knowing the right thing to say. He’d be loyal, of course. Brave. Humble. Everything a good servant should be. And he’d never let breakfast go cold.

The image had to be briefly shelved, though, as Gareth reached the armoury and found it bustling with activity.

The squires were due to assemble within the hour, and preparations were in full swing. Two servants were already hauling fresh training swords onto the racks, a girl was counting out water flasks, and someone in the corner was arguing over whether they’d polished all the greaves or just the left ones.

Gareth rolled up his sleeves and jumped in to help. He had just finished arranging padded helms when he noticed someone at the other end of the room fiddling with a mess of poorly stacked chainmail. The man was tallish, a little gangly, with a dark mop of hair and a tunic that looked like it had lost a fight with a cauldron.

He looked harassed. And very much like he was losing the battle against the mail pile.

“Need a hand?” Gareth offered, already moving toward him.

The man looked up, startled, then grinned. “Yes. Unless you’ve mastered the ancient art of folding chainmail without bruising your fingers.”

“I haven’t,” Gareth said, crouching beside him, “but I’ve got calluses in all the right places.”

They chuckled and got to work, fingers tugging and twisting metal into a vaguely acceptable shape.

“I swear someone used this pile as a pillow,” the man muttered.

Gareth huffed a laugh. “At least you’re not dealing with the training boots. There’s a pile over there that smells like something crawled in, died, and was still worn for a week.”

That got a real laugh. “You ever tried cleaning inside the soles of those things? You need divine intervention. Or a small army.”

Gareth chuckled at that.

There was a lull in the conversation, one of those quiet moments that didn’t feel awkward, and Gareth found himself liking the man. He was easy to talk to. Warm. The kind of person you’d trust to carry the heavy end of something without making a fuss.

“Is it always like this?” Gareth asked, nodding toward the chaos.

The man snorted. “Depends. If someone sneezes near His Highness’s boots, he reschedules the entire training session.” He said, managing to make the Prince’s title sound like an insult.

Gareth blinked. “He can’t be that bad.”

The man shrugged. “Okay. Maybe not that bad. But he’s a bit dramatic.”

Gareth raised an eyebrow, amused.

“You always work in here?” Gareth asked, glancing sideways as they moved on to pairing the mails with the right gears.

The man shrugged. “I get dragged wherever I’m needed. Armoury. Stables. Kitchens sometimes. Training field, unfortunately.”

“So… you’re not one of the stable lads or kitchen hands?”

“No, not exactly,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m just assigned to a prat.”

Ah, Gareth thought. The man was assigned to an asshole noble. That made sense.

Before Gareth could ask more, the door creaked open and in stepped three knights in chainmail. Sir Leon, Gareth recognized from court. The other two he only knew by reputation—the tall, quiet one with arms like tree trunks had to be Sir Percival, and the man already leaning dramatically on a weapons rack with a roguish grin must be Sir Gwaine.

“Oi, Merls!” Sir Gwaine bellowed, grinning like a fox. 

Merls?— sighed. “Can you not announce me to the entire room?”

“Tell me you haven’t been eaten alive by that cursed pile!”

“Not yet,” Merls said. “But if I vanish, you can assume the chainmail won.”

Sir Gwaine clapped him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “Time to go put the Princess in his gown.”

Princess? 

Sir Percival gave Gareth a short, courteous nod. Gareth, quickly bowed.

Leon stepped in. “He wants you in his chambers. Now, not later.” 

“Of course he does,” Merls muttered. “Because why wouldn’t I be free at all times, whenever he needs me.” He sighed dramatically. “I swear, one day I’m going to hide in a barrel and never come out.”

“Wouldn’t help,” Gwaine said cheerfully. “We’d find you. You’ve got the stealth of a blind ox.”

“I’d say he’s already pacing holes in the rug,” Percival said. “And muttering to himself, working himself up about the ceremony.” he added with a soft laugh.

Maybe Merls is serving a high ranked squire?

Gareth was trying to keep up. This was clearly a long-running dynamic, full of inside jokes and casual insults. What threw him most was that these were knights—men who had stood with the prince on real battlefields—and they were teasing this servant like he was one of them.

Sir Gwaine turned suddenly and pointed at Gareth — as if he only just realised there was a soul standing there — “You! What’s your name?” he asked.

“Gareth, sir,” he said quickly, straightening a bit. “From Thornhill. Just started.”

Gwaine grinned. “Welcome to the lifelong circus of bruises and broken regulations, Gareth of Thornhill! I’m Gwaine.”

He gave a mock bow, nearly knocking a helmet off a rack behind him in the process. “Knight of the Round Table, professional rogue, and part-time menace to society. You’ll fit in fine.”

“Gwaine!” Merls chided with a soft chuckle and a friendly punch on the knight's shoulder.

“How old are you, Gareth?” Asked Leon, before Gareth could even start formulating a response to sir Gwaine. 

“I’m 16, sir.” He answered. 

Gwaine leaned in a bit closer, one brow cocked mischievously. “Sixteen, eh? That’s about the age I was when I got into my first tavern brawl. Just don’t take mead from a random taverner. Or do. Depends on how malicious you feel.”

Gareth blinked, unsure if he was being warned or encouraged.

“Don’t listen to him,” Leon said with a long-suffering sigh. “Unless you enjoy being banned from half the inns in Albion.”

“That’s slander,” Gwaine said, placing a hand to his heart in mock offense. “I’m only banned from a third of them.”

Percival chuckled quietly, adjusting the sword belt slung across his shoulder. “You’ll get used to this,” he said to Gareth. 

Before Gareth could respond, a calm voice echoed from the doorway.

“He’s minutes away from strangling someone.” the man said.

“I’ll be right there, Lance,” Merls called back, hastily arranging the last of the gear. “Gods, take my soul.”

“Gods, he’s just kidding,” Gwaine added with a laugh. “Don’t joke with the divine, mate. You’ll end up cursed.”

“Never knew you were so superstitious, Gwaine,” Merls said sarcastically.

“I’ll have you know I’m deeply spiritual.”

Leon snorted on his way out the door. “You mean deeply hungover.”

Merls gave the chainmail one final pat—like it might stay in place if he pretended hard enough—then turned to Gareth.

“Thanks for the help,” he said, a little out of breath but smiling. 

Gareth managed a nod, cheeks warming. “Anytime.”

“Careful what you offer,” Gwaine called over his shoulder. “He’ll have you sorting boots and hauling chamber pots by sundown.”

“I heard that,” Merls replied dryly, already moving toward the door.

Sir Percival gave Gareth a quiet, approving nod as he passed, and Leon offered a polite smile before vanishing through the doorway. Gwaine was last to leave, pausing just long enough to flash Gareth a grin and toss him a small leather pouch.

“For the bruises,” he said with a wink. “Or for bribery. Dealer’s choice.”

And then they were gone.

Gareth looked down at the pouch in his hand. Curious, he loosened the knot and peeked inside.

He let out a small breathless laugh.

It was empty.

That knight was definitely hangover.

Chapter Text

Arthur stood at the tall window in his chambers, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The glass was a little fogged near the edges—cooler outside than it looked—but sunlight still spilled in across the floor in golden sheets, catching the worn rug and the edge of the washbasin Merlin always knocked over.

He didn’t bother glancing at the mirror. He already knew what he looked like: not quite regal, not quite ready. 

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

Eight squires. A short speech. Training drills. A council meeting. A feast.

That shouldn’t have felt like too much. But lately, everything felt heavier.

Arthur uncrossed his arms and flexed his fingers at his sides.

“You are the Regent,” he muttered under his breath, trying the words on again like armor that didn’t quite fit. “You’ve stood in front of armies. You’ve fought monsters twice your size. You can give a speech.”

He frowned, eyes focusing on nothing.

Arthur had been going over the speech he had scribbled down a couple of days ago, and it was… well. He couldn’t even read most of it. His handwriting was barely intelligible on the best of days, and that day hadn’t been one of them. 

These weren’t knights—at least, not yet. They were squires, still a year or more from their formal titles. But the ceremony meant something. It was a chance to acknowledge the ones who kept going despite the weight. Who trained through pain and doubt. Who hadn’t given up.

They’d grown up watching him, following his orders, mimicking his stances on the training field. 

Arthur had started putting real thought into it a couple of years ago—ever since he’d overheard a conversation between two squires in the outer yard.

They hadn’t seen him. He’d been returning from the stables, something in his hand he couldn’t even remember now. 

“It’s like we’re nothing to them,” one boy had said. “All we do is scrub and run and train until our bones feel like dust, and still we’re just shouted at.”

“Sometimes I think about leaving,” the other had muttered. “Not because I’m not proud. But because I don’t know how much more of this I can take. It’s not like I seek praise on everything I do—just a little sign that my hard work is appreciated, you know? I don’t think they even see us as their equals.”

A sigh. “They tell us we are to be the future protectors of the realm, then treat us like shit.” 

That had stuck.

Arthur remembered pausing behind the wall, heart heavy with something he didn’t want to name. He knew what it was to feel invisible in front of the person you want to make proud, even in plain sight. He hadn’t liked hearing those words. But he’d needed to.

So he made a change.

Nothing grand. Just… effort. 

It started with one day  Arthur gathering the squires before training, thanking them for all their hard work and resilience, and presenting each of them with the very first swords they could call their own—newly forged by the royal smith, unlike the worn training blades they had always borrowed from the armoury.

It was never meant to be extravagant. A few moments carved out of the day to look each boy in the eye, to thank them properly. To see them.

It wasn’t enough to erase the burden they carried, but maybe it helped lighten it. Even if only for a day.

The older knights—his father’s knights—had not approved. They said treating squires this way would make them soft and lazy. That Arthur, as the First Knight, should train them hard both mentally and physically. That was how they had been trained.

“You’ll turn them into ladies with swords they have no courage to wield—crying at their mother’s lap about the calluses on their palms.” Sir Bedivere had mocked.

Arthur had disagreed. Not to their faces, of course. They were his father’s age and… well, sensitive. Arthur had found that though harsh training had indeed made him ambitious, it was praise, appreciation—and being seen—that had made him put his heart into that ambition.

So he went through with what he thought was right.

And afterwards, it had become a kind of ceremony, a tradition that new squires worked hard to earn the right to be part of.

He hadn’t told anyone why he’d started doing it. Not even Merlin. Especially not Merlin. The idiot would’ve said something ridiculous like, “One day, you’re going to be a great King.” with those deep-blue eyes that made Arthur feel like his soul was bare for everyone to see—and then Arthur would’ve had to throw something at him.

Still, it mattered.

Arthur exhaled again, letting that resolve settle in his chest.

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. He paced a little, boots quiet against the stone. 

His mind, traitorously, drifted back to Merlin - who was definitely late.

He could just laugh off the limp, make some cutting remark about Merlin’s clumsiness, and move on with his day.

But something didn’t sit right.

Arthur had learned to trust his instincts. And his instincts were telling him that Merlin hadn’t been in the lower town tending to a sick old man with a bowl of soup. That story—however theatrical and absurdly Merlin—felt constructed. Polished. Pre-wrapped.

And it bothered him more than it should.

He shouldn’t care this much. Servants lied all the time. Not just servants. Everyone. Lies kept the court from falling apart. But Merlin wasn’t everyone.

Merlin was supposed to be different.

And Arthur knew that that was the root of the problem. 

Merlin was supposed to be, well, Merlin. 

His ridiculous, accident-prone, impossibly stubborn manservant, whose loyalty clung to Arthur like a shadow—constant, confounding, and completely undeserved.

The one consistency he could always count on to never change. 

And now, Arthur feared it was falling apart. 

Arthur raked a hand through his hair, half-frustrated at himself.

He’d already decided: after the council meeting. It would be short—just a recap of the last session’s talk on the grain shortage. He’d have a few hours before the feast.

Enough time to slip out of the castle and into the lower town. Ask some questions. Discreetly.

But that meant getting Merlin out of the way.

Arthur scowled at himself.

He didn’t want to do it this way. Sending Merlin off on an errand to distract him from his plotting. 

But what else could he do?

Give him time off just before a feast? Merlin would know something was up. He’d ask questions. He always asked questions.

No. A task. Something practical. Harmless.

He’d send Merlin to get his formal jacket mended. The dark one with the clasp shaped like a lion’s head. It needed work anyway—the stitching had frayed across the shoulder seam.

It felt like spying. Like betrayal. Like something he would’ve mocked his younger self for even considering.

But the doubt was there. Lodged deep. Merlin had put it there, whether he meant to or not.

Arthur turned toward the door at the sound of someone entering unceremoniously—and rather noisily—into his chambers. A silver goblet hit the floor with a loud clatter.

“For the holly-puppy’s sake, why would you fall?” came Merlin’s familiar mutter, directed at the goblet as he bent down awkwardly to retrieve it, one hand still balancing Arthur’s lunch tray.

Arthur watched him with arms crossed and a long-suffering scowl as Merlin waged war against gravity—and lost.

“You’re late,” Arthur said flatly once Merlin finally gave up on the goblet and set the tray down on the table.

Merlin looked up at him, as though he hadn’t expected Arthur to be there at all.

“It was so quiet,” he said after a beat, “I thought you’d gone out to look for me again.” He crouched to retrieve the goblet. “The others told me you were livid asking for me. I’m glad to see you’ve matured into someone who waits patiently in his chambers. Well done, your highness.”

He placed the goblet beside the tray, tugged the chair back with a flourish, and gestured toward the table with mock ceremony.

“Lunch served!”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Arthur picked up the nearest object—the half-eaten apple from his writing desk—and hurled it at him.

“It’s almost noon, you fool!”

Merlin turned just in time for the apple to thud against the back of his shoulder. He yelped, stumbling forward and rubbing the spot as he rounded on Arthur.

“Ow! What was that for?”

Arthur strode past him toward the table, still fuming. “Were you planning to show up after the ceremony? Now I’ve only got five minutes to shove down whatever food I can before I have to get into my armour and make it to the training grounds on time. So unless you’ve suddenly invented a way to turn back time, don’t pretend you’ve done your duty.”

Merlin blinked, then sniffed. “No need to get dramatic. You’d think you were the one who just got hit with an apple.”

Arthur shot him a glare, dropped into the chair, and bit into a sausage, chewing it with deliberate aggression.

Merlin leaned against the table, arms folded, watching Arthur chew like a man at war.

“You know,” he said conversationally, “most people would just say ‘thank you’ when their devoted servant brings them food.”

Arthur swallowed, fixed him with a look, and jabbed the sausage in his direction like a weapon.

“Most people would expect their servant to actually show up before the meal has gone cold.”

Merlin tilted his head, unbothered. “Ah, but then you wouldn’t have had the chance to rehearse your glare. And I do know how much you like rehearsing.”

Arthur set the sausage down with deliberate force. “Do you ever stop talking?”

Merlin’s grin widened. “Not when you’re listening this intently.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. He should have been focusing on the squires, on the speech, on not making a complete fool of himself in front of the council later—but Merlin had a way of consuming all the space in the room, demanding attention in the most infuriating ways.

And yet, if Merlin weren’t here, Arthur knew that the silence would still be gnawing at him.

He reached for his goblet, only to find Merlin had filled it with watered wine instead of the spiced mead Arthur preferred.

Arthur gave him a slow, dangerous look.

“Explain.”

Merlin shrugged, far too pleased with himself. “Thought you’d like to keep a clear head for your speech. Don’t worry, you’ll still be dazzling.”

Merlin finally pushed himself away from the table, muttering something under his breath about ungrateful princes, and crossed to the armour stand. He brushed a hand across the breastplate, frowning at a faint smudge that Arthur hadn’t even noticed, then began fussing with the straps.

Arthur tracked him with his eyes, chewing more slowly now. It was always like this: Merlin moving about the room as though he owned it, clattering and sighing and making himself impossible to ignore.

“You could at least wait until I’ve finished eating before you start rattling buckles in my ear,” Arthur said.

Merlin glanced back over his shoulder with a grin. “Oh, forgive me. I thought you’d want to arrive at the ceremony as something other than a half-dressed turnip. My mistake.”

Arthur set his goblet down with a little more force than necessary. “One of these days, Merlin, I’m going to—”

“—admit you’d be helpless without me?” Merlin cut in cheerfully, returning to his work before Arthur could retort.

Arthur glared at the back of his head. “—strangle you,” he finished, though even he could hear the lack of conviction in his voice.

Merlin hummed as though he hadn’t heard. 

He busied himself with setting the pieces in order—greaves, vambraces, pauldrons—arranging them like puzzle pieces on the stand.

Arthur stabbed the last bite of sausage with unnecessary force, chewed, and washed it down with a swallow of water. Enough. He pushed the plate aside, the scrape of wood against wood sharp in the quiet, and stood.

Merlin, who had been fiddling with the buckles on the armour stand, looked up expectantly. “Finished sulking, then?”

Arthur gave him a flat look as he crossed the room. “I don’t sulk. I’m not a girl like you.”

Merlin opened his mouth for a retort, then seemed to think better of it. He only sighed dramatically, lifting the breastplate from its stand. “Very well, your highness. Let us transform you into the picture of knightly perfection.”

Arthur stepped into place, squaring his shoulders as the weight of the armour settled against him piece by piece. Merlin’s fingers moved quickly, if not always gracefully, at the straps and buckles.

“You’ve tightened that unevenly,” Arthur muttered, tugging at one strap himself.

“No, I haven’t,” Merlin countered, tugging it back into place. “You just don’t like admitting I know what I’m doing.”

Arthur rolled his eyes but held his tongue, letting Merlin finish. The minutes ticked away too fast for comfort, but at last the final buckle was drawn, and Merlin stepped back with a little flourish of his hands.

Merlin reached for the cloak, holding it open as Arthur stepped slightly forward. He draped it over Arthur’s shoulders, letting the dark fabric settle with a satisfying weight.

“Hold still,” Merlin said, tugging at the clasp shaped like a lion’s head. He worked it into place, wiggling it just so, and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

Arthur’s jaw tightened, eyes focused straight ahead, every line of his face drawn in concentration. The faint crease between his brows softened only slightly when he finally let out a measured exhale.

Merlin couldn’t help himself. “Look at you, all serious and knightly. Very… imposing.”

Arthur’s glare didn’t waver, though the corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “I need to be. If I look like I’m not ready, they’ll see right through me.”

Merlin gave a small nod, more to himself than to Arthur. “Of course, Sire. Totally intimidating. Very concentrated. Truly heroic.”

Arthur adjusted the cloak again, tugging at the shoulders to get it sitting just right. Merlin stepped closer, hands hovering as though to make tiny adjustments he didn’t need, his eyes flicking up to Arthur’s face again.

“You’re ridiculous,” Arthur muttered under his breath.

“And you’re perfect,” Merlin said mockingly.

Arthur let out a short, frustrated sigh. He knew the grin and the words were mockery—Merlin never missed an opportunity—but still… something in his chest stirred, just enough to make him shift uncomfortably.

— — — — —

Arthur’s steps were steady, measured, his cloak brushing lightly against his armour, while Merlin matched him stride for stride.

“Try not to look like a storm cloud,” Merlin said with a little chuckle. 

Arthur didn’t respond, only tightened his shoulders and straightened his chin. A storm cloud, perhaps—but one that had to look composed in front of everyone.

Arthur reached the top of the training grounds steps, the sunlight spilling across the assembled squires and knights. Merlin had slipped quietly to the edge of the training grounds, where the off-duty castle workers had gathered. They had come simply to witness this short but special moment. 

Arthur’s gaze swept over the assembled squires, focused and steady. Making sure he looked in the eyes of every squire. 

”Squires,” he began, his voice clear. “Today is about the effort you put in day after day, the courage you show when the work is hard, and the resilience you carry when it feels easier to give up. You have proven yourselves worthy, not because I say so, but because you have earned it. Be proud, keep striving, and never forget that the strength you build here will one day protect the people of this kingdom. Well done, all of you.”

One by one, he gestured for them to step forward.

The first squire approached cautiously, boots clicking against the stone, eyes wide with a mixture of pride and nerves. Arthur held out the newly forged sword, the steel catching the sunlight as he passed it into the boy’s hands.

“Take it,” Arthur said simply, meeting the squire’s eyes. “This is yours now. Train hard, honor it, and remember what you are to become.”

The boy’s hands trembled slightly as he gripped the hilt, but the pride in his expression was unmistakable. A sure nod, “Thank you, Your Highness,” and he stepped aside, the sword now truly his own.

Arthur repeated the gesture with the remaining squires, each receiving their first sword from the royal smith. Some grinned broadly, others kept their faces serious, but all held the weight of the blade as a tangible mark of their achievement.

Arthur gave them a moment, letting the squires admire their new weapons. 

“Now,” he said, grabbing their attention back. “Enough slacking. Get on with the training.” 

The clang of steel echoed across the training grounds as swords met swords, boots scraped the ground, and shouts of effort filled the air. Training always had a way of steadying Arthur, grounding him. The familiarity of it—like a well-practiced dance—let him slip into the rhythm, letting his worries fade for just a while.

— — — — —

The council went smoothly, shorter than Arthur had expected. Decisions were made, tasks assigned, everything in order. 

By mid-afternoon, Arthur was back in his chambers, the familiar quiet of the room settled around him, a small relief after the bustle of training and the brief council. He glanced at Merlin, who was adjusting the armour stand with his usual meticulous care.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, voice measured but sharp, “take the dark jacket with the lion-head clasp to the tailor. The shoulder seam’s frayed. I want it properly mended before the evening feast.”

Merlin blinked. “Now? Really, Arthur? It can wait until the next feast. I could finish the other duties while I have time—”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “No. Now. You wouldn’t have needed more time if you’d actually attended to your duties on schedule. You will do it immediately.”

Merlin groaned dramatically. “Oh, of course, Arthur. Whatever your royal prattiness needs.” He mocked as he walked towards the closet to retrieve the jacket.

Arthur gave him a thin smile, sharp and pointed. “Insult me one more time and I’ll have your head on a spike. Go on. Don’t dawdle.”

Merlin huffed, muttering under his breath as he strode toward the door. “I swear, Arthur, your sense of urgency is highly selective.”

Arthur leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed, watching Merlin disappear out the door with the jacket in his hands. His chest tightened with that familiar unease, gnawing quietly at the back of his mind. 

Once Arthur was sure Merlin was gone far enough, he pushed away from the bedpost and moved toward the wardrobe, hands brushing over his belongings until they settled on a black cloak, the hood folded neatly inside. Drawing it out, he ran a hand over the fabric, checking for tears or frays, then pulled it over his shoulders. The heavy folds fell around him, obscuring his figure, the hood easily concealing his face.

He paused in the mirror for a moment, the faint reflection showing only shadowed eyes beneath the hood. Perfect. No one would recognize him leaving the castle.

Arthur drew a steadying breath. Then, with purposeful steps, he turned for the door.

Chapter Text

The lower town pressed close around Arthur, its crooked beams and uneven cobbles a world away from the ordered stone of the citadel. Roofs leaned together above him as though conspiring, their shadows hemming the narrow streets into still tighter lanes. 

The air smelled of woodsmoke and baking bread, of refuse that had not yet been swept away, of horses sweating in the late sun. It was not unpleasant, merely alive—far livelier than the cloistered halls of the castle.

Arthur kept his cloak drawn about him, though he doubted anyone here would recognize him. That was the idea, after all. 

He had come down into the lower town without escort, without the trappings of command, to follow up on a story that should never have troubled him. I must be mad, he told himself. Mad to think Merlin capable of lying about something so simple. Madder still to trail after his servant’s words as though they were a loose thread in a tapestry, waiting to be pulled. 

And yet here he was, boots damp from the mud, searching for an old man whose name he did not even know.

He stopped by a market stall, pretending to inspect a basket of apples, and asked the woman behind it whether she knew of an elderly villager who had taken ill the day before. She gave him a puzzled look, then shook her head. 

Another man, stacking firewood outside his door, furrowed his brow when Arthur pressed him with the same question. “Plenty o’ old men ‘round here, you’ll have t’ be clearer than that, m’lord.” he said before Arthur realized too late that his voice carried authority no cloak could fully hide. He forced a laugh, mumbled something about checking the wrong street, and moved on.

There was something in it—this mingling with people who did not bow, who did not stiffen as though in fear when he approached. They looked him in the eye. They spoke plainly. A little girl had darted across the road at one point, laughing as she chased a dog through a puddle, splashing him in the process. He had opened his mouth to rebuke her, then found himself smiling instead. 

He could see now that his people had forgotten his face enough not to recognise him, so long as he wore no armour and kept his hair hidden beneath his cloak. For once, the weight of his name did not press upon him. 

And, to his own surprise, he found that he quite enjoyed it. There was a strange freedom in being no one at all. Just another man walking the streets, dodging puddles, catching the scent of fresh bread as it drifted from an open oven. For a fleeting moment, he could imagine himself part of it—part of the simple rhythm of life here, where laughter and quarrels alike spilled out into the streets without fear of royal judgment.

Perhaps Merlin was right; perhaps he should come down here more often. Not to play spy on his manservant’s excuses, but simply to be among his people, to see them not as lines on a ledger or faces in a petitioning crowd, but as they lived.

He used to do that, once. Before the years had begun to press down, before duty and expectation had grown so heavy that he could scarcely breathe beneath them. There had been a time, not long ago, when slipping into the town had felt natural. Necessary, even. But somewhere along the way, the weight on his shoulders had become too much, and the distance between himself and his people had only widened.

At last, after several false turns, Arthur slowed near the market, where two elderly women sat on a bench beside a dripping cistern, baskets of washing at their feet. Their voices carried easily over the noise of traders calling their wares.

“Aldred’s been ailin’ worse this past fortnight,” one of them said, shaking her head as she wrung out a cloth. “Thought he’d go yester’day, I did. But the old goat’s stubborn as ever.”

The other chuckled, the lines around her eyes softening into a smile. “Aye, stubborn’s right. Takes more’n a bit o’ fever to drag him off. God bless him.”

Arthur’s ears pricked at the name. Aldred. His heart gave a sudden, steadying thump. That must be him. Merlin’s sick old man.

He stepped closer, careful to school his features into polite curiosity rather than the intentness that threatened to give him away. “Forgive me,” he said lightly, “I couldn’t help but overhear. This Aldred you speak of—he lives nearby?”

The women looked up at him together. One squinted, suspicion plain in her eyes. The other, perhaps softened by his manner, nodded toward a crooked little lane across the square.

“End o’ that alley,” she said. “Poor soul can’t even stand these days, so mind ye knock gentle.”

Arthur inclined his head in thanks, forcing himself not to hurry. Relief and anticipation knotted tight in his chest as he made for the lane.

The alley was narrower than the rest, a place where even the sun seemed reluctant to enter. The buildings pressed together so tightly that he felt almost squeezed between them. 

At its end stood a sagging little house, its plaster crumbling in patches, the door warped by rain. It matched Merlin’s description perfectly, down to the way it leaned against its neighbors like a weary old man needing their support.

Arthur stood still, staring. Relief stirred faintly in his chest, but it was chased by a sharp sting of guilt. So Merlin hadn’t lied. And yet here I am, skulking through alleys like a common cutpurse, trying to catch him out. 

Arthur rapped his knuckles against the warped wood. The sound was dull, swallowed by the sodden timber. For a moment he wondered if the house was too far gone to shelter anyone at all.

Shuffling sounded within, then the door cracked open. A girl stood there, perhaps a little younger than Merlin, her round face framed by dark curls. Green eyes, bright and sharp, studied him with suspicion.

“Aye?” she asked, her voice wary. “What d’you want?”

Arthur dipped his head, forcing a polite smile, careful to keep his tone mild. “I’ve come from a ways outside the city. Heard tell a physician was here yesterday. Thought perhaps he might travel farther, if my own town had need.”

Her grip on the door eased, though she still looked at him askance. After a pause she called over her shoulder, “Grandda—there’s a man askin’ after yer physician.”

A cough answered, dry and rasping. “Let ’im in, Catrin.”

The girl stepped aside, and Arthur ducked beneath the low lintel. The room was dim, heavy with the smell of damp straw and herbs long since dried. On a pallet against the far wall lay an old man, pale and wasted, yet with eyes that gleamed clear despite the fever in his body.

“So ye’re after the physician, are ye?” he croaked, his voice rough as gravel.

Arthur inclined his head. “I heard one came to you yesterday.”

“Aye,” the old man said, managing a faint smile. “That he did. Fine healer, that one. Set me right as rain, near enough. Else I’d not be drawin’ breath today.”

Relief swept through Arthur like a tide, loosening a knot he had carried in his chest since yesterday. So Merlin told the truth after all. And he—like a fool—chased after shadows, skulking through the lower town as though sniffing out some grand deception.

“You are fortunate,” Arthur said, the words awkward in his mouth. “He is… very skilled.”

“Aye, that he is,” the man rasped.

Arthur hesitated, then pressed further to keep up his guise. “Would he travel outside the capital, do you think? To aid a smaller town?”

The girl, still standing by the hearth, let out a short laugh. “Him? Travel that far? Nay, he’s too old fer such goin’s on. But Merlin—his lad might follow ye, if ye’ve need. ”

Arthur froze. 

“Don’t you worry,” she added, a touch of pride in her voice. “He’s as good. Folk say he’ll be the one carryin’ on when the old man can’t no more. Though I haven’t seen him for a while now. Must be busy runnin’ after the prince.”

Her words blurred into a hum in his ears, as though he’d dunked his head beneath water. 

The old man gave a wheezy laugh. “Aye, that young fella with ears too big for his head. Broke my pot last time he came instead o’ Gaius—clumsy as a newborn foal. Can’t even keep hold o’ his own limbs.”

“Oy, but he’s good, grandda,” the girl said, folding her arms. “Made ye feel better, didn’t he? Yer just too stubborn t’own up ye like him well enough.”

The old man snorted. “Bah. Ye only say that ‘cause ye fancy the lad a bit too much—”

Arthur barely heard the rest. The words slid past him without shape, like leaves carried off by wind. His chest had gone too tight, his jaw clamped too hard.

It hadn’t been Merlin here yesterday.

It had been Gaius.

There was something unbearably raw in the way they spoke of Merlin—so freely, without hesitation, without question. As though Merlin simply was this constant, dependable presence in their lives.

To Arthur, he was the same—and yet not. Merlin wasn’t only the boy who fetched herbs for the sick. He was the one who hovered at Arthur’s side through councils, who bore his temper without flinching, who found him in the moments when the weight of responsibility pressed so heavily he thought it might crush him. Always there, always steady.

And yet here Arthur stood, a stranger in a crumbling doorway, learning second-hand truths about the man who knew him better than anyone. Merlin was trusted enough to mend this old man, cherished enough to be teased by a girl who smiled when she said his name.

Why, then, could Arthur not shake the sting that Merlin had given them that piece of himself and hidden it away from him?

He realized he’d been staring too long at the old man’s hands, gnarled and folded in his lap, as if the answer might be pressed into the lines of his skin. Arthur blinked hard, forcing his face into courtesy, though the shape of it felt brittle.

Arthur stood when politeness demanded, offered Aldred a respectful nod, and thanked Catrin for her kindness. The words left his mouth on instinct, though they sounded flat and brittle even to him.

He could not remember the act of walking to the door, only the way the girl’s smile lingered in his vision, bright and careless when she spoke of Merlin—as though it were the most natural thing in the world to hold him in such regard.

The door shut softly behind him.

For a moment, Arthur simply stood there in the narrow alley, the air damp with the smell of moss and smoke from neighboring hearths. He tried to draw a deep breath, but it caught halfway, leaving his chest strained.

He had thought to catch Merlin out, half-hoping to find proof of his honesty instead. But no—Merlin had lied. Not clumsily, not with that stumbling tongue he put on when caught in the act of some foolishness, but smoothly. Effortlessly. Twisting a truth into a shape that fit the moment, so neatly that Arthur had almost been content to let it rest.

Any other day, he might have left it there, too. If he’d asked Gaius about the old man, the physician would have spoken readily of Aldred’s condition—confirming the story without question. Merlin had chosen his lie well, shrewdly. As though the act of deceiving Arthur came to him as naturally as breathing.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. He pressed a palm to the rough plaster wall beside him, forcing in a slow breath.

The sounds of the lower town swelled as he walked—fishwives calling, iron ringing on anvils, children shrieking with laughter—but they reached him as though from a distance. The world bustled and churned around him, alive and untroubled, while within him lay the sharp, unwelcome knowledge that his servant, the one he relied on more than anyone, had lied to his face without so much as a flicker of hesitation.

He forced his eyes on the worn cobbles beneath his feet as he walked, as though if he looked up, the world itself might reveal some hidden truth. Had he lied before? How many times? How many moments, small or large, had Merlin bent the truth and left Arthur to believe whatever suited him?

The thought was bitter, twisting in his chest. He wanted to shake it away, to remind himself that Merlin had always been loyal, that he had saved Arthur more times than he could count. And yet—there it was, a seed of doubt taking root. A seed that he could not pluck out, no matter how he willed it.

Even as the castle came into view, rising above the rooftops like some distant, orderly world, Arthur felt smaller than he had all day. 

The city’s noise surged again, snapping him slightly out of his thoughts. Children ran past, a horse clattered over the stones, a butcher shouted his wares. Yet in Arthur’s mind, the echoes of Aldred and Catrin’s voices merged with Merlin’s own, and the certainty he had taken for granted began to feel suddenly fragile.

As he reached the gates of the castle, Arthur’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He had to know—had to understand—how many lies had been told to him before, hidden within truth, waiting to be uncovered. And, for the first time, he wondered if he truly knew Merlin at all.

— — — — — 

Arthur paced once across the length of his chambers, boots heavy on the stone floor, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

He sank onto the edge of his bed, hands still fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. The warmth of the hearth did little to settle the churn in his chest. Outside, the castle hummed with the preparations for the evening feast—people clattering about.

Merlin would be here soon. The idea of confrontation made his stomach tighten. Arthur’s mind raced through every possibility, every way the conversation could unfold. 

Arthur’s gaze flicked to the window, the fading light of the afternoon casting the castle courtyard in long shadows. He’ll be here soon. And when he comes… what will I do? Will I ask? Will I test him?

His fingers drummed on his knee, a rhythm of restless impatience. He wanted certainty. He wanted proof. He wanted to know whether the man who had lied so easily, so smoothly, could still be trusted. 

And yet part of him, the part that had always trusted Merlin without question, hesitated. Because he knew Merlin. He did, didn’t he?

Arthur moved over to his desk, brushing aside a stack of papers that had been neglected for weeks. The quill felt heavy in his hand, the ink thick and stubborn, as if even the simplest tasks resisted him. 

He tried to focus on the accounts, petitions, and letters, forcing the numbers and words to fill his mind and drown out the gnawing unease left by his afternoon in the lower town.

Merlin burst into the chamber a few minutes later, carrying Arthur’s mended jacket over one arm, his expression already set for the usual banter. 

Arthur’s fingers froze over the quill and looked up from the task he had occupied himself with. He felt the familiar pull of authority, of curiosity, of that relentless desire to understand Merlin completely.

“Ah, Sire! Look at this—” He held the jacket up like a trophy, “—good as new! Though I daresay, if you keep battering them against doorways, I’ll quit my job!”

Arthur barely registered the words. He forced a small smile, nodding, but his usual spark of amusement was absent. Merlin’s voice, the familiar rhythm of teasing and complaint, normally a comfort, grated now against the raw edge of his mind.

After a beat of not getting a response from Arthur, Merlin’s eyes narrowed as he studied Arthur, and fixed him with a look that seemed to ask, what now?

Merlin leaned casually against the doorframe, one brow raised. “Have you been sitting there like a storm cloud all afternoon? Did something tick you off, or are you just practicing your royal scowl?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, but he tried to keep his tone light. “Just tired, that’s all.”

Merlin didn’t let the matter drop. He tilted his head, a frown tugging at his features. “Tired? No. That face says something’s gnawing at you. And don’t tell me it’s the paperwork.”

Arthur’s chest tightened. He straightened in his chair, forcing his shoulders to relax. “I said I’m fine.”

Merlin stepped closer, teasing softened into something steadier. “Arthur, come on. I can see it—something’s wrong. Just tell me what it is?”

Arthur’s pulse spiked. How dare he look me in the eye and demand truth, when he’s been lying to me for Gods know how long? How dare he assume he deserves my honesty, when he won’t give me his? Anger and disbelief twisted together, hot in his chest. “I don’t need to tell you anything, Merlin. I can manage my own affairs without you prying.”

Merlin blinked, eyebrows raised. “Prying? I’m not prying—I’m trying to help. You’re my friend, Arthur. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

Friend. 

The word cracked something sharp in Arthur. He shot up from the stool, wood scraping against stone as the legs dragged. “I said I’m fine!” His voice rang off the chamber walls, louder than he intended, but he didn’t reel it back. Fists clenched, body rigid, every inch of him vibrating with tension.

Merlin stilled. Concern flickered across his face.

Arthur’s gaze lingered, searching. It looked like concern. The tilt of Merlin’s brows, the softness in his voice—it all suggested it. But then, Merlin always had that look, didn’t he? Always ready to fret, always wearing his heart so close to the surface it was impossible to ignore.

And yet… how could he be sure? A lie had passed those lips without hesitation, smooth as any courtier’s. Would he even be able to tell if Merlin wore a mask now? Was he already?

Did he even know this man well enough to tell the difference?

Merlin’s voice was quieter now. “Arthur… I just—”

Arthur turned sharply toward the window, letting the firelight catch him from the side, a false mask of calm. “I won’t be needing your services tonight,” he said flatly. 

“You’re dismissed for tomorrow as well.”

“Arthur—”

“Out.” No emotion, no invitation. Just dismissal. 

The silence stretched until he heard the quiet shuffle of footsteps and the door closing behind him.

Arthur stood there, unmoving, until his shoulders sagged, the firelight suddenly too heavy. He felt as though ten years had been carved out of him in the span of an evening.

Chapter Text

Merlin walked the long stone corridor, Arthur’s freshly mended jacket folded carefully over his arm. The wool was still faintly warm from the seamstress’s iron, carrying with it a faint smell of lavender soap. Mistress Agnes had taken her sweet time with the repair—not because the tear was difficult, but because she had spent three hours filling the air with chatter about everything from market gossip to her cousin’s goat that had apparently terrorized half the lower town. How she could keep her needle steady while talking without pause was beyond Merlin’s understanding. It was a kind of magic he’d never master.

He shifted the jacket in his arms and quickened his pace, boots tapping lightly against the flagstones. Arthur was probably pacing his chambers by now, brow knotted, working himself into exhaustion over something or other. If not pacing, then sulking over his paperwork, grinding down his thoughts until nothing was left but a headache. The dollophead excelled at wearing himself out.

But then, Merlin couldn’t blame him—could he?

Every step he took through the corridor was a reminder of the weight pressing down on Arthur’s shoulders. Servants passed with hushed voices and careful movements, as if afraid their noise might shatter what little calm was left in Camelot. The air still carried the unease that had settled since Morgana’s betrayal—the kind that no feast or speech could quite banish.

Arthur bore it all: the rebuilding, the endless councils, the sleepless nights. And Uther’s silence—his fading, broken presence—had left Arthur to carry not just the kingdom, but the ghost of his father’s rule. Merlin could see it in every line of his face now, even when Arthur tried to hide it behind that stubborn pride of his.

And still, Arthur had found time—of all things—to start breaking his father’s laws. Word had crept through the castle like candlelight through cracks: the knighthood, once sealed away for the sons of noble blood, would soon open to common men.

Merlin slowed as he turned a corner, thumb brushing absently over the edge of Arthur’s jacket. He didn’t quite know what to feel about it. Pride, mostly. Worry, too. The council would tear into him for it, and Arthur would take every word to heart even as he pretended not to. But under the weight of all that, something else stirred—a fragile, uncertain hope Merlin didn’t dare look at too closely.

“You’re nothing but a hypocrite and a liar!”

Somewhere in the quiet rhythm of his footsteps, the corridor seemed to tilt around him.

“Morgause is lying. She’s an enchantress.”

The air thickened, the walls too close.

“Merlin-“

“It is once again clear to me that those who practice magic are evil and dangerous.”

The torches flickered like breath against the edges of another place entirely.

“Could you please slow down? Merl-“

“And that is thanks to you.”

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. Warm. Real. The corridor steadied.

Something warm touched his forearm. Merlin flinched, blinking, the stone walls of Camelot snapping back into focus. Gwen stood beside him, brow creased with concern.

“Are you alright?”

He exhaled and managed a weak smile. “Sorry. I was—thinking.”

“Well, don’t think yourself into a wall,” she teased, the warmth in her voice easing the weight that had gathered around him.

He let out a weak laugh, grateful for it. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Arthur?” She asked with a knowing look.

He gave a soft hum. “Who else?”

Gwen smiled, stepping back just enough to really look at him. “It’s been a while since we talked, hasn’t it? You haven’t been coming to my place for weeks now.”

Merlin’s lips curved guiltily. “Yeah.”

“Well?” she asked, tilting her head. “What have you been up to?”

He hesitated. There wasn’t an easy answer to that. Between late nights patching up armor and mornings chasing down errands, there had been so little time to just be. And when there was time—well, it had usually found him somewhere far from Camelot’s walls.

He could still feel the echo of yesterday’s fight in his bones—the rush of magic burning through his veins as the Barghest lunged from the mist, its form shifting, snarling, half shadow and half flesh. Resistant, furious, ancient. It had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit. Even now, his leg ached faintly where the wound had been, and his arm throbbed in the chill air.

He had been so exhausted and on the brink of unconsciousness from the blood loss that he’d had to call out for Iseldir. He woke up at the druid camp hours later, all patched up, but had to stay there longer to regain his strength. The druids, most of them, had always welcomed him with warmth—too much warmth, maybe. Their reverence still unsettled him, made him feel like he was made of glass. They meant well, but it was hard to breathe when every word around him sounded like a prayer.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve just been… busy,” he said at last, offering her an apologetic smile. “Arthur’s had me running about more than usual lately.”

“Busy,” Gwen echoed, eyebrow lifting. “You say that every time.”

“It’s true every time.”

She rolled her eyes fondly. “You could still spare an evening, though. I’ll even make stew.”

That earned a genuine grin. “Now you’re bribing me.”

“Whatever works.”

Merlin laughed, the weight in him uncoiling for the first time all day. Gwen had that way about her—she didn’t just bring light; she drew it out of others, even from those who’d long since learned to live in shadow. 

“Well, how are you doing then?” he asked. “With everything. Elyan’s knighthood, your new title… Lady Guinevere.” He said it teasingly, but softly, with the kind of fondness that made her roll her eyes.

“Oh, don’t you start,” she said, but she was smiling. “It’s… fine. Not all that different, really. Some people treat me differently, but I try not to notice.”

“Some people?”

“Well, the nobles mostly. They like to stare like I’ve wandered into the wrong hall.” Her smile turned wry. “And a few of the castle women keep asking why I still work. ‘Why not live comfortably now?’ ‘Why not find a noble husband and settle down?’”

Merlin’s eyebrows rose. “You could tell them that you already have someone in mind.”

She swatted his arm, blushing. “Merlin!”

“What? You and Lance are hardly a secret. Everyone is aware of how you swoon and sigh thinking of him.”

“It’s not—oh, you’re impossible.”

“Well, someone has to keep you humble, my lady.”

Gwen laughed. The sound of it, light and genuine, filled the corridor.

“Come by soon,” Gwen said after a pause, taking Merlin’s hand in hers. “I mean it. I know I have Elyan now, and it’s been wonderful having him back home, but it still feels a little empty when you’re gone for so long.”

“I will,” he promised.

She smiled, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before turning back the way she came. “Good. And tell Arthur not to work himself into the ground.”

“He won’t listen.”

“Tell him anyway.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving Merlin standing in the torchlight, a ghost of a smile on his lips. He turned toward Arthur’s chambers, his steps echoed softly against the stone as he started walking again.

When Merlin arrived at Arthur’s chambers, he barged in without a second thought ready to announce his arrival with the usual fanfare.

“Ah, Sire! Look at this—good as new! Though I daresay, if you keep battering them against doorways, I’ll quit my job!”

The words left his mouth before he even noticed the strange stillness in the room. There was no spark in Arthur’s eyes, just a tight lift at the corners of his mouth—no flicker of amusement at Merlin’s familiar teasing. For a moment, Merlin froze mid-step, jacket still held aloft.

Lowering the jacket, he leaned against the doorframe, trying for casual.

“Have you been sitting there like a storm cloud all afternoon? Did something tick you off, or are you just practicing your royal scowl?”

The pause stretched—longer than Merlin liked—and only then did he really see him: the tightness in Arthur’s shoulders, the flicker of frustration under his stillness, something sharp and restless straining to break through.

“Just tired, that’s all,” Arthur said, his jaw tight with barely contained strain.

“Tired? No. That face says something’s gnawing at you. And don’t tell me it’s the paperwork,” Merlin said lightly, hoping a bit of teasing might ease whatever had a hold on him.

Arthur straightened in his chair, visibly forcing his shoulders to relax. “I said I’m fine.”

Merlin hesitated. Arthur wasn’t giving in. It wasn’t just irritation; something heavier was sitting behind his eyes. Was it the council again? Merlin hadn’t heard any muttering or unrest—nothing that would explain this tension.

He stepped closer, his tone softening. “Arthur, come on. I can see it—something’s wrong. Just tell me what it is.”

The words came out gentler than he intended, heavy with the kind of concern he usually tried to hide. And then—he felt it. The shift. The way Arthur’s gaze snapped up, sharp and bright with anger that hit like a slap of heat.

“I don’t need to tell you anything, Merlin. I can manage my own affairs without you prying.”

“Prying?” Merlin echoed, brows rising in surprise. “I’m not prying—I’m trying to help. You’re my friend, Arthur. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

Whatever he said, it only seemed to make things worse. Arthur surged to his feet, the stool scraping harshly against the stone.

“I said I’m fine!”

Merlin flinched. The sound cracked through the air, too loud, too sharp. Arthur was looking at him—but not the way he usually did. There was anger, yes, but something else beneath it, something searching and furious all at once.

Merlin’s stomach sank. This wasn’t the kind of temper Arthur turned on the world when it disappointed him. This was directed at Merlin. Whatever this was—it was about him.

And that thought unsettled him more than he could say.

Arthur turned sharply toward the window, the firelight tracing the edge of his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was far too steady.

“I won’t be needing your services tonight.”

Merlin blinked. What?

“You’re dismissed for tomorrow as well.”

For a moment, Merlin couldn’t quite process it. The words sounded wrong, as if they belonged to someone else—some stranger who happened to wear Arthur’s face.

“Arthur—”

“Out.”

It wasn’t shouted. That almost made it worse. Just pure dismissal—cold and final.

Merlin stood there, the weight of the jacket suddenly unbearable. He wanted to say something—to ask what he’d done, to demand what this was really about—but Arthur didn’t look back. He just stood there, turned away, his profile caught in the flicker of firelight and shadow.

So Merlin swallowed it all: the questions, the sting, the strange ache that had opened in his chest. He set the jacket down on the nearest chair, careful not to make a sound, and stepped back.

The door felt miles away. Each step echoed louder than it should have, filling the room with the kind of silence that hummed in his ears.

When it closed behind him, the world outside felt colder.

Merlin lingered there a moment, hand resting on the doorframe, heart thudding unevenly.

What in the gods’ name had just happened?

Arthur’s anger—it wasn’t the usual kind. It wasn’t irritation or exhaustion. It was something personal. Directed.

Had Merlin missed something? Said something wrong?

His stomach twisted.

Had he given something away?

Something he’d forgotten to cover up? Some trace of magic left behind, a whisper overheard, a careless word taken the wrong way?

Had someone said something to him? Agravaine? A courtier? One of the guards?

The thought made his pulse jump, heat prickling at the back of his neck.

“Merlin?”

He startled, looking up to see one of the guards posted by Arthur’s door—Edrick, broad-shouldered and kind-eyed, an older man Merlin had shared more than a few late-night jokes with. The other, Tomas, watched quietly from his post, brow furrowed.

“You all right?” Edrick asked.

Merlin blinked at him, mind still halfway inside the room he’d just left. “What? Oh—yeah. Fine. Just… tired.”

Edrick didn’t look convinced, but he let it go. “Long day,” he said, with a faint nod.

Merlin managed a small, distracted smile before turning away. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He started down the corridor, the torchlight stretching his shadow long across the stone floor. Each step felt heavier than the last, his mind circling back again and again, to Arthur’s words and actions.

And underneath it all, that quiet, sickening question kept echoing in his chest:

What did he find out?