Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Whorls of smoke billowed through the air like a crowd of wraiths clutching at mortal throats. There was endless shouting and screaming. The sharp clang of metal on metal. The stench of sweat and blood. Hooves thundered across the churned-up earth, their riders merciless in their pursuit of the terrified villagers. Gray clouds cloyed thickly over the horizon, the heavens themselves draped in mourning. A woman peered out from behind a barrel, watching in horror as her neighbor was dragged through the streets by her curly blonde hair. She turned away at the last moment, shushing the baby held tight against her breast. Mercifully, the child slept, his thick lashes curled downwards over his rosy little cheeks. The tincture his mother had brewed for him was strong. In her spare hand she held a watertight basket. She tried her best not to dwell on the heart-wrenching decision she was about to make as another horde of ebony-clad knights thundered through her village.

She waited. Held her breath. Triple-checked that the coast was clear. She could not afford a single misstep. She would not consign her child to a life of servitude. She had seen the sorcerers, bound by invisible chains to their tyrant king. Had seen the deadened looks in their eyes as they served one of the cruelest men in all of Albion. She did not want this for her son. Thus, she steeled herself and darted out into the fray, a startled sparrow fluttering through a den of bloodthirsty hawks. She tore through the village, stumbling over the corpses of fallen friends as tears carved clear paths in the dirt and ash smeared across her cheeks. Still her baby slept. She hoped his dreams were filled with the tranquility they had never been afforded in the waking world. 

Though she’d fallen in love with her son the minute he first opened his eyes, she’d realized early on that he was doomed to a life of hardship. She remembered the mixture of terror and wonder that flooded her chest when his sweet blue eyes flared sunrise gold, causing his hand-sewn doll to soar across the room into his outstretched hands. From that day forth, she knew: she would do anything to protect her precious bird– even if it meant sending him far away, where he might have a chance at freedom. She had kept him and nurtured him for as long as she could, but sure as the bright day faded into perilous night, the soldiers of Essetir came for Ealdor. Cenred sought sorcerers for his army. Hunith, as the woman was called, had to let go of her precious Merlin. She felt as if someone had asked her to sever the limbs from her own body. Still, she pressed on, making for the gentle river laughing its way around the edge of a nearby forest. 

“There! Another one!” 

The voice, rough and gravelly, came from several paces behind her. She could hear the sound of hoofbeats thrumming closer. No. Not today. Not ever. She took off in a sprint, zigzagging through tipped carts, piles of crates, and other such debris to slow the approach of her pursuer. Merlin moved against her chest, making little cooing noises as he stirred awake. Just as well. She’d been spotted anyhow. She glanced down just in time to see the diamond surprise of his cornflower blue eyes staring deep into her own. His tiny smile wrenched at her heart as he closed his fists around the fabric of her dress. She pressed on. The knights tore after her. The sound of hooves was deafening in her ears, thudding along with her heartbeat. She spared a glance back just in time to witness a meaty hand coming down to close around the back of her collar. She screamed. Struggled against her assaulter’s iron grip. Then the inexplicable. 

Blue eyes flashed gold. The man’s saddle came loose, sending both him and Hunith tumbling onto the ground below. She shielded Merlin from the fall with her body and scrambled quickly to her feet. Then she was off once again, tearing through an open field– the final stretch towards the waiting river. Her baby had started to fuss, making small noises of discomfort as she bolted the final distance into the trees. She knew the men would be in hot pursuit of her soon, so she needed to act quickly. The winding riverbed was a welcome sight as she crested a short hill, the silver-blue of its waters whispering promises of safety for her only son. She knelt on the ground, opened the basket, and gently lowered Merlin inside. She tucked a piece of parchment into the folds of the blanket she had wrapped around him and pressed one last kiss to his forehead. Her tears flowed freely once again as she whispered her final farewell.

“I love you, Merlin. I hope that someday, we may meet again.” 

With that, she closed the lid of the basket and sent him floating down the river. 

“Mother protect him. Maiden grant him your kindness. Crone grant him strength.” With a final hitched sob, Hunith put her head in her hands and wept. She had no magic. Eventually, Cenred’s men would let her alone. Merlin was safe. Nothing else mattered. She could rest easy knowing that whatever happened next, her son would be free.

*****

“Elyan! Mind your sister! She’s getting quite close to the water!”

Tom finished laying out the remainder of the picnic. He’d saved up a sennight’s worth of wages for the meal. There was fresh bread, fine cheese, meats, and plenty of fruit– his children’s favorite. He set aside the pitcher of juice in a spot where it wouldn’t get knocked over and began to unpack the cutlery. On the anniversary of his late wife’s birthday, he’d always bring his children to her favorite spot by the river. This was where he’d proposed to her, blushing and anxious as any besotted young boy. It was where they used to take their son camping, teaching him how to live off the lands and the wilds so he’d know how to survive. It was where she had revealed to him that she was pregnant with a second child, and where she’d first told him of the illness working its way through her very bones.

It was a special spot. A sacred place. Tom returned to it as often as he could, bringing the children along with him to tell them stories of their mother. He could always feel Genevieve’s presence here, in the chatter of the brook and the susurrus of the leaves. Could feel her laughing as she watched over her little family with all the love and elation she had felt for them in life. He wanted his son and daughter to remember her with joy instead of sorrow. Thus the annual picnic, the stories, and the games. If Tom had anything to say about it, the young Smiths would know their mother still. 

“Gwennie, get back!” Elyan commanded, ever the bossy older brother. He was three winters her senior and made it known every chance he got.

Guinevere stuck her tongue out at him and knelt down by the riverbed. She reached her hand down to swirl her fingers in the water, delighting in the crisp, cool sensation.

Her brother heaved a sigh and tried again. “Gwennie, get back from the water, please ?” 

This time she acquiesced, placated by the gentleness of his tone. She settled by a patch of moss and began petting it absentmindedly, singing a song to herself as Elyan came to kneel down beside her. They began to chat excitedly about a flock of pheasants they’d seen earlier that day. The fat mother bird had been leading a line of fuzzy chicks across their path. Guinevere desperately wanted to take one home, but Tom had reminded her of his most favorite lesson: wild things stay in the wilds. She had nodded sagely and watched as the creatures bumbled off into the underbrush. 

“Oh!” the girl squeaked, pointing suddenly at the river, “basket!”

“I see it,” Elyan agreed. He rushed off and returned with a long stick, leaned quite far over the river bank, and began poking at something in the water.

“Oi!” called Tom good-naturedly, striding over to see what all the fuss was about, “I thought I told you two to stay back from the river.”

“But father, the basket,” Gwen protested, pointing emphatically.

He ruffled her bouncy dark curls, noting how much like her mother she looked with the sunlight dancing off her light brown skin. She leaned into his touch but gestured again to the river. Her father frowned and glanced down to where she was pointing. Sure enough, a small, tightly woven basket bobbed in the current, caught in the cradle of some reeds. It seemed sturdy and waterproof. A decent find, whether or not there was anything inside. Their current picnic basket had started to fray around the handle. Perhaps the gods– or Genevieve, even– had sent along a replacement. 

“You’re right, Gwen. Good eye. I’ll fetch it for us, shall I?” Tom suggested, scooping a child under each arm and depositing them both on the picnic blanket. They watched eagerly as their father waded across the water towards his new prize. He was surprised to find that the basket had a bit of heft to it. There was something hidden within. Carefully, he lifted it out of the reeds and carried it safely to shore. He deposited it gently in front of his children and instructed them to wait as he wiggled his fingers over the newfound treasure. “What do you reckon’s inside?”

“Flowers,” Guinevere decided.

“A kitten,” suggested Elyan. The boy had recently taken to harping on his father for a pet of some sort.

Tom chuckled softly at their guesses as he fiddled with the latch and lifted open the lid. His eyes widened when he took stock of what was inside. A tiny babe, his fists curled around a perfectly dry piece of parchment, slumbered beneath a cocoon of blankets. His eyes fluttered open as sunlight illuminated his soft features. When he noticed the young man and his children looking over him, the baby graced them with a toothless smile. He began to burble and giggle, reaching for Tom with his chubby little fingers. 

“A baby!” Elyan cried, whooping for joy. 

Guinevere seemed equally as elated. She immediately reached into her pinafore pocket to produce a white daisy she must have plucked earlier. She tucked the precious bloom behind one of the infant’s large ears– they really were enormous– and beamed with delight when he grabbed hold of one of her fingers. 

Her father frowned, scooping the babe out of the basket and fingering the note left alongside him. “Here, Elyan, Gwen. Mind the baby,” he murmured, unfurling the piece of parchment and slowly muddling through the letter. Dear kind stranger, it read,

My name is Hunith of Ealdor. If you have found my Merlin, then the King of Essetir has likely come for us. I implore you to keep an open heart and mind as I entrust the light of my life to you. I was unable to get away from the chaos and may be dead when you receive this message, so please– do not come looking for me.

Tom’s heart clenched with sympathy for the poor woman who had been forced to entrust her baby to the currents. Cenred was a vicious man– a cruel king. He did not treat his people with kindness.

Merlin is special. He was born with magic, and he is only a baby. I beg of you to have mercy and consider how the gods may look upon you if you seek to harm him. 

At this line, Tom firmly shook his head. He had never been an enemy to magic-users, and regardless, he would never even consider hurting an innocent child.

King Cenred, as I am sure you are aware, conscripts sorcerers into his army. To spare my son this painful destiny, I entrust him to your care. Please, I beg of you– find some kindness in your heart. Protect my Merlin. He deserves a better fate than the one he has been dealt. Perhaps someday, when he is older, we may be reunited once more. 

I am forever in your debt,

Hunith

Tom swallowed the lump in his throat. Somehow, this infant had floated down the river all the way to Camelot from Essetir. It couldn’t have been an easy journey. He was shocked the child had made it here in one piece. He glanced over at where his children were playing with Hunith’s baby. He startled when he noticed Merlin had begun to levitate a handful of leaves in a perfect circle around Guinevere’s head. She and Elyan looked on with awed delight, reaching out to touch the floating foliage with bright giggles. The siblings were absolutely enamored with the baby. He could already hear their pleas of, can we keep him, and, please, I’ve always wanted a brother!  

“Oh, Genevieve,” he whispered, casting his eyes to the heavens, “what have you gotten us into this time?”

A breeze danced through the nearby trees in response, stirring up the sweet scent of honeysuckle. His wife’s favorite. He heaved a sigh and knelt down to lift Merlin into his arms. The crown of leaves shifted from Guinevere’s forehead to Tom’s. He saw the gilded glow in the baby’s eyes and couldn’t keep the worry lines from forming between his eyebrows. This was dangerous. Not only would he be putting himself at risk by harboring a magical infant, but his children could end up in the crosshairs, as well. He wasn’t fully certain that his neighbors wouldn’t turn the babe in to Uther, so passing him off onto someone else wasn’t an option, and it was clear that returning him to Essetir would only lead to further peril. 

He could only see one course of action ahead of him– the one that Genevieve would have taken, brave woman that she was. He already struggled to make ends meet with two little ones. Things would be tight with the addition of a third. Still, he knew he’d regret it for the rest of his days if he left Merlin to fend for himself in the wide, dangerous world. He held out his index finger for the baby to take. The child grabbed hold eagerly and brought it into his mouth with a smile. He was such a quiet infant. Surely raising him wouldn’t be so hard.

“Elyan, Gwen,” murmured Tom, voice stilted with emotion, “say ‘hello’ to your new brother, Merlin.”

“Hello, Merlin,” the children echoed, grinning when they realized they’d spoken in unison.

Merlin burbled back at them, the gold fading from his eyes as the leaves he’d enchanted dropped back down to join their brethren in the dirt. Tom could already picture the complications this new family member was going to add to his life, but he couldn’t help the warm feeling spreading through his chest. Magic or none, a baby was a gift. Only time would tell what further blessings this strange child might bring. 

*****

Eighteen years later…

That blasted rooster. Merlin was going to kill that rooster. It didn’t even belong to his neighbors, yet they insisted on feeding it and allowing it to sit on their roof, crowing its dastardly song, preventing anyone from having even the semblance of a lie-in. He hauled himself up from his bedroll with a groan, hearing Elyan’s answering grumble from a few feet away. Knowing Tom, he’d already have the forge up and running. Gwen would be up and dressed, muttering about how brothers were the laziest layabouts in the entire kingdom. She’d have breakfast for them, though, which was evidence that she loved them after all.

“Rise and shine,” Merlin said cheerfully, nudging his brother’s prone form with his foot. 

The other man opened one eye to glare at him and pulled a pillow over his ears.

“Oh, no. There’ll be none of that. Let’s have you, lazy daisy!” The pale, gangly-limbed young man yanked the pillow out of Elyan’s grasp which earned him a kick and several curses. 

Merlin’s older brother was full of patience and empathy in most instances. Mornings, however, were cause for war. Elyan sat up looking rumpled and disgruntled. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a yawn and swatted at his younger sibling, who was still hovering nearby. 

“‘M’ up,” he mumbled, dragging a hand over his face. 

Merlin beamed his approval and tripped on his own blankets on the way to the wash basin. He chose to diplomatically ignore Elyan’s snort of derision as he set about splashing water across his face. The boys began to scour around for clean tunics and trousers– a daily conundrum, for their corner of the cottage was always an absolute pigsty– and had just finished dressing when a soft voice called out, “I’m coming round the screen, so you had better be decent.”

“Decent? Elyan? Never,” Merlin teased. 

Elyan elbowed him in the gut and began to muss up his hair.

“Oi!” the taller man yelled, putting his brother in a headlock. 

They began to scuffle just as Guinevere emerged from the kitchens, practically glowing in the early morning light. It was unfair, really, how perfect and put together she looked. Merlin supposed it was a requirement for being the Lady Morgana’s chambermaid. For the sorry sods stuck working Tom’s forge, propriety and clothes without holes were not on the list of requirements. Gwen shook her head at her brothers’ antics, a small smile working its way across her lips.

Elyan let go of Merlin to bow before his sister. “My lady.”

She stalked over to him and swatted his arm. He laughed and tried to dance out of the way. Merlin rolled his eyes and wandered past the two of them into the kitchen, hoping to locate his morning meal. The round wooden table had two place settings for the brothers. Gwen usually either ate long before either of them were awake, or took her breakfast with her to the castle. Lady Morgana was a light sleeper and often rose fairly early. Tom was, of course, already working. They could hear the clanging of metal coming from the forge as he hammered the day away. 

Soon, Elyan and Merlin themselves would be consigned to a similar task. The men of Camelot needed their weapons. The horses needed their shoes and tack. As the most well-known blacksmiths in the upper district, they always had plenty to do. For now, however, Merlin tucked into his plate of bread and butter while Elyan and Gwen came to join him. The latter grabbed a shawl off a nearby hook, threw it around her shoulders, and swept out towards the front door. The boys bid her goodbye as she went. She tossed them a quick smile before rushing off to attend her lady.

“Shove over, then,” Elyan teased, hip-checking Merlin to make room for himself at the breakfast table. 

The cottage was far too small for two fully-grown adults, let alone three men and Guinevere. Still, they made do, laughing when they got in each other’s way, relishing in the love they shared and the roof that kept them sheltered from the rain. Tom did right by his children and they knew it. Merlin was especially grateful to the man who had taken him in when he was a baby, rescuing him from a fate worse than death. It hadn’t been easy to raise a warlock in such a small space with curious neighbors a mere hair’s breadth away. The four of them had somehow managed to keep Merlin’s secret. He knew he was safe amongst the Smiths.

The front door opened as Tom himself appeared in the entryway, sweating from his time at the forge. He was still wearing his smithy’s apron with several small hammers sticking out of the pockets. Merlin and Elyan exchanged glances and began eating at top speed as their father folded his arms across his chest. 

“It’s high time you boys got to the forge,” he said sternly.

They nodded in agreement, wolfing down the remnants of their breakfast and scurrying off to Tom’s workshop, the master blacksmith himself in tow. Merlin caught the man’s barely-concealed smile as he shooed his sons into the forge. The warlock ran off to work on some of his leftover orders from yesterday while his brother headed over to the swords. He began shrinking some of the weapons’ edges, shaping them into the sharp blades they would soon become. Merlin was hardening a set of horseshoes for one of the local merchants. He was journeying further than usual to sell his wares and needed something reliable to ensure safe travel. 

The songs of the forge echoed in Merlin’s ears as he listened to the clank of Elyan and Tom’s hammers combined with the hiss of heated metal placed carefully into a bucket of water. Soon he was sweating as he moved onto the next horseshoe and the next, heating and cooling and heating them all over again. It was a calming process once one got used to the ache and strain of handling heavy tools and metals. All of Tom’s children had long ago developed the muscles necessary to work the forge. Even Gwen would spend time working with her brothers whenever Lady Morgana sent her home early. 

“Fancy a sparring match tonight, El?” Merlin grinned, already knowing the answer.

In the name of teaching his boys to respect their craft and what it was used for, Tom had insisted that they each learn how to wield a sword. The warlock was hesitant at first, his mind going straight to the brutality of battle and the arrogance of King Uther’s knights. Eventually, his family convinced him that it would be a good idea for him to defend himself, just in case. Camelot was no friend to his kind and it would be useful for him to have a failsafe against its oppressive violence. 

“So long as you don’t mind losing,” Elyan shot back. 

This was, of course, sheer bravado. Merlin was just as adept with a blade as his brother. While Elyan favored a steely, flawless fighting style, all hard edges and swift strikes, his sibling’s resembled a courtly dance. Merlin was all intricacies and feints– fanciful footwork and viper venom. They were quite evenly matched on the battlefield. As young boys, they had dreamed of becoming Knights of Camelot. Now that they were older, they knew this could never be. They still drilled the same way the knights did, however, perhaps hoping somewhere deep down that their childhood fantasies might someday become real.

Merlin snorted and dipped another horseshoe into the nearby bucket. “I won last time,” he reminded Elyan with a small smirk. 

The other man laughed good-naturedly and went back to focusing on the task at hand. Soon, the shop bell tinkled, barely audible above all the din. The Smiths glanced up at the prospect of a new customer and relaxed when they realized it was Lancelot gracing their doorway. Their even-tempered sword fighting instructor and long-time friend waved a hand in greeting as he ambled over to inspect Tom’s latest handiwork. The family had met Lance on one of their annual pilgrimages to Genevieve’s river. A pack of bandits had accosted the group, outnumbering them three to one. Lancelot had been on his way to Camelot and happened upon the skirmish. He dove in to help and was just about to take an ax to the head when Merlin saved him with his magic. 

Lance promised to keep the warlock’s secret, earning him a permanent seat at the Smiths’ dinner table– and in Guinevere’s heart, not that she’d ever admit it. He was equally as besotted, but so far Merlin hadn’t been able to convince him to do anything about it. 

“Hello, Lancelot,” he said cheerfully, pausing in his work to greet his friend. 

“Merlin. Tom. Elyan.” Lance nodded to each of them in greeting. “I’ve some exciting news.”

Tom wiped the sweat off his brow and looked up with interest. “What’s that, then?”

Lance produced a piece of colored parchment from his pocket. It bore the Pendragon family seal. The words, Open Melee were scrawled across the top in a curling, scrolling font. He waved the paper in front of Elyan and Merlin’s faces, making it somewhat impossible for them to read it. They’d never seen him so excited about anything before in his life. Merlin lifted a hand to still his fluttering motions so they could look over the parchment together. 

“It’s an open melee– not just for nobles,” Lancelot exclaimed, his gentle voice alight with enthusiasm. “And listen to this– the winner–”

“Becomes a knight of Camelot,” Elyan breathed. 

This was unprecedented. Only noblemen were allowed to become knights. Merlin was suspicious. He wondered what in particular had made the king change his mind about one of the oldest laws in the land. He was just about to say as much when Tom reached out and plucked the parchment from Lancelot’s grasp. He read it as quickly as he could– his family hadn’t been able to afford schooling when he was a boy– and had wrinkles in his forehead by the time he’d finished.

“Did you see the part where it mentioned that the king is not responsible for anyone’s death?” he asked sharply.

Elyan and Merlin exchanged sheepish glances. Of course Tom would worry about them entering the contest. If either of them got injured, it would mean paying for treatment, plus one fewer set of hands to work the forge. This all came second to the fact that he was their father, worrying over his brood like a nervous hen. 

Merlin thought back to the last time he and his brother had tried to do something that Tom had considered ‘too dangerous.’ At fifteen and twenty winters respectively, he and Elyan had wanted to join a volunteer patrol who were tracking down a strange creature that had been stealing local livestock from Camelot’s outlying villages. Tom had forbidden them from going, but that hadn’t stopped the two fiends. The creature ended up being a troll the size of three men. Half the group ended up wounded and Elyan had walked away with a large slash across his chest. Tom had been furious. He’d refused to allow the boys to attend any sparring lessons for a fortnight. They were appropriately chastened and terribly out of shape by the time Lancelot began practicing with them again.

“The winner becomes a Knight of Camelot , father,” Elyan protested. He snatched up the parchment and jabbed the part that detailed the winner’s reward. It also included a rather hefty sum of gold pieces. “Not to mention the prize money. We could build a bigger forge with that much gold! Or even save up for a larger house!”

“It is getting rather cramped,” Merlin remarked. 

In all honesty, it had been getting cramped ever since Merlin and Elyan had hit their growth spurts. The corner of the cottage farthest from the door, behind heaping sacks of grain and flour, did not constitute a bedroom in the slightest. Money had always been tight for the Smiths, but Tom had always made ends meet as best he could. Still, his sons leapt at any chance to allow their father some rest and repayment for everything he’d done to care for his family.

Tom shook his head firmly. “We’re fine on money, boys. But If you’re keen on putting away a bit of extra, Merlin, Gaius the court physician has been looking for a new assistant. I’d much rather you do that than get yourself all banged up by a bunch of vagabonds and ruffians.” He reached over and ruffled his son’s hair fondly. 

The young man grimaced slightly. Gaius was an old friend, but he was also rather curmudgeonly and prone to getting cross with the young warlock. Merlin had visited his quarters in the past to pick up medicines and tinctures for his family when they got sick. He almost always ended up touching something he wasn’t supposed to, or knocking over the leech tank, thus having to clean it and put all the leeches back where they’d come from. 

“We’re both of age,” Elyan continued, determined to win his father over. 

“Yes, and you can do as you please, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Tom pointed out.

Merlin figured that was as close to a ‘good luck’ as they were ever going to get. He resolved to look into the assistantship with Gaius as well, if only to appease Tom. The man had really gone above and beyond as a parent for all three of his children, whether they were related to him by blood or not. He deserved to know that his youngest was keeping himself out of trouble and forging a path towards a lifelong career.

“We can start training on the double next sennight,” Lancelot suggested with a whisper. 

He, Elyan, and Merlin all grinned at one another excitedly. They were going to enter the tournament– and, gods be willing, one of them would emerge a Knight of Camelot. The warlock’s money was on his older brother. Either way, this was their chance to show those stuck-up nobles what they were truly capable of. This was going to be brilliant. He absolutely could not wait. 

*****

The clang of blade against blade reached Arthur’s ears as he looked out over the training grounds. He grimaced as he watched Sir Leon make quick work of yet another new recruit. The noble sons of Camelot were… well. Far less noble than he wished they were, to put it lightly. They cared more about posturing for fair maidens than they did about defending the kingdom. This made many of them arrogant, foolish, and very nearly inept on the battlefield. He had hoped that his father would approve his petition to seek out knights from other backgrounds, but Uther had denied the request without hesitation. He had only just managed to get him to compromise with the open melee– and only because the king was convinced that nobody save for those of high birth could possibly win.

Perhaps, the prince figured, once one man from outside the nobility was able to prove himself worthy of a knighthood, he could slowly convince his father to allow more men of non-noble birth to join his ranks. Until that day, he was stuck with the Sir Burchards of the world. Burchard was inspecting his own reflection in the face of his shield. Sometimes, Arthur wondered if he spent more time looking at himself than he did actually training. 

This was ridiculous. He was getting rather tired of running pointless drills that nobody put any effort into. 

“Again,” he muttered through gritted teeth, determined for his men to get the formations correct this time around. 

“Yes, sire,” Leon declared, looking pointedly at the other knights until they echoed his sentiments. 

There were halfhearted ‘yes, sires’ all around as they got into position for perhaps the four hundredth time that day. Yet again, their movements were sloppy, the formation was loose, and they never seemed to give it their all the way he and his First Knight always did. When Sir Kenric tossed his sword on the ground in frustration halfway through the drill, Arthur decided he’d had enough. He dismissed his men with a grimace, sighing despondently as they shouted for their squires to come collect their armor and weapons. 

He turned to face Leon, his frown deepening when he witnessed a matching expression on his loyal friend’s face. This was pointless. They both knew it, and yet here they were, training the same men with the same results day in and day out with no end in sight. Arthur carded a hand through his blond locks and lifted his blue eyes to the sky. What was the point of this? What would they gain from attempting to beat a fighting spirit into men who couldn’t care less for their kingdom or their people?

“What am I doing?” he asked miserably as he and Leon marched towards the armory side by side. 

“Training Camelot’s future to be their best,” the other man said firmly, clapping his prince on the shoulder in encouragement. 

The words sounded forced, but Arthur appreciated the sentiment all the same. Leon had always believed in him. He’d even attempted to back him up when he asked his father to allow commoners to train alongside his noble knights. His loyalty was one of the few things getting the prince through these miserable training sessions. That, and the promise of the upcoming melee.

“I need to go for a ride,” he declared suddenly. “Clear my head.”

“I’ll accompany you,” offered Leon. 

Arthur nodded his thanks as his servant, George, trotted up to him obediently. Grateful for the chance to get rid of the overly-eager dogsbody, he ordered the man to ready their horses. George nodded, rushing off to find Llamrei and Oriel. Cantering through the fields outside the Darkling Woods always improved the prince’s mood. Leon would be decent company, knowing when to keep quiet and when to offer conversation as a distraction. 

In all honesty, there were many times that Arthur felt as if his First Knight were his only friend. This was not what he’d hoped for when he became Knight Commander. Instead, he longed for the sort of camaraderie and banter that had characterized the heroes in the books he’d read as a child: tales of courageous kings and the brotherhood they shared with their men. He wondered if he’d ever find such a connection, or if he was destined to fight his battles alone. 

He and Leon made it to the citadel in companionable silence. Their mare and stallion were waiting for them in front of the steps leading up to the castle. Everywhere, members of Camelot’s court made themselves busy. Merchants carried their wares, cooks gathered ingredients for meals, and servants bore baskets of laundry as they moved through the palace at a practiced pace. George handed off the reins to the two knights, exited with a bow, and scuttled off to do some set of chores or another. Probably polishing silverware. That man loved polishing possibly more than his own mother.

Arthur and Leon mounted their horses and began to head off in the direction of the Darkling Woods. They passed through the upper quarter on their way out. Tom the blacksmith was busy hammering away outside his forge. He waved at the prince as he trotted on by. Arthur waved back. He’d always liked Tom, especially since he was supremely adept at his trade. In many regards, he was better than the smiths commissioned amongst the nobility. Yet another piece of proof that common, ordinary men were capable of many wonders. 

When they came upon the fields lining the forest, they noticed a large group of men gathered there. The prince immediately noticed the glint of weaponry and the shine of makeshift armor. As he drew closer, he saw a man with light tan skin and a sharp jawline leading a drill of some sort. He moved with the expert precision of a well-trained fighter, as did the others working alongside him. They moved through the formations with the kind of concentration and passion that Arthur sought in his own knights. 

His eyes landed on a pale, willowy, lean-looking man with jet black hair wearing rather fine plating and chainmail. He wondered how a commoner had acquired such valuable armor. The man moved in a way he’d never seen before. It was almost as if he were dancing, with the sword as an extension of his arm. His footwork was solid and he copied the motions of the drill with endless grace. Every other aspect of his fighting style was entirely unique. Fascinated, Arthur urged Llamrei to take him closer. The white mare trotted forth as if she, too, were captivated by the strange sight before her. 

“Sire?” questioned Leon as he followed his prince towards the makeshift training field. He followed Arthur’s gaze and nodded once in recognition. “Ah! The training group from the upper quarter. I believe the instructor’s name is Lancelot. He arrived in Camelot almost three winters ago now. He and his men are the reason for the reduced bandit attacks on the outlying villages.”

“And who’s that?” The prince couldn’t help but ask after the dark-haired man, who had abandoned the drill to start sparring with Elyan, the blacksmith’s son.

“I’m not sure, sire,” the First Knight shrugged.

“Well,” Arthur declared suddenly, “I’m about to go and find out.”

He dismounted from Llamrei and marched towards the group of men. Some of them looked up at his arrival, but most of them were focused on the task at hand. They’d split off into pairs at this point, which gave Arthur a chance to properly examine their fighting skills. Most of them were decent, but there were a handful who were truly impressive. Among these was the aforementioned Elyan, a scruffy-looking fighter with shoulder-length brown hair, an enormous giant of a man who wielded a broadsword as if it were a twig, and, of course, the dark-haired man with the strange, graceful movements.

“Ah! It seems we might have us a new recruit,” the leader, Lancelot, called out. He evidently hadn’t recognized Arthur from such a distance. 

“I truly wish it were so,” the prince replied with a grin. 

Now that he was close enough for everyone to read his features, murmurs of shock and bewilderment began to move through the crowd. Lancelot immediately dropped down on one knee, keeping his gaze respectfully lowered. Arthur shook his head. There would be none of that today. These men were clearly worthy of respect, both on and off the battlefield. They had taken it upon themselves to defend the outer villages of Camelot and trained with each other every single day. These were the types of soldiers worthy of knighthood. He certainly planned on telling them as much. 

“There is no need for that, Lancelot,” Arthur reassured him, offering up his arm for the other man to grasp.

He did so, wide-eyed and clearly wondering what on earth the Crown Prince of Camelot was doing out on his practice field. Said prince offered him a warm smile and turned to look upon the rest of the recruits. His gaze lingered on the dark-haired man, whose sharp, graceful features caught his eye more than anything else. He felt a fluttering deep in his chest as he examined the jut of his cheekbones, the pink bow of his lush lips, and the startling crystalline blue of his wide, curious eyes. 

He whispered something to the man next to him– the one with the long hair. They grinned at each other, as if they had shared a joke between them. Camaraderie. Connection. Men who did not see each other as competitors, but rather as brothers in arms. This was what Camelot so desperately needed from her knights. Arthur wished he could recruit the lot where they stood, but he knew his father would never approve. Still– there was a way for him to ensure that at least one of these fighters was able to join his ranks.

“I couldn’t help but notice how skilled you all are with a blade,” he announced, his voice carrying across the field.

Lancelot looked as if someone had just gifted him his weight in gold. The others seemed equally as pleased to receive a direct compliment from the prince. Well, most of them, anyway. The fellow with the longer hair wrinkled his nose at Arthur’s words, while his willowy companion maintained a politely neutral expression.

“Many thanks, sire. We train every day. Our only wish is to serve Camelot as best we can,” Lancelot proclaimed with a bow.

The scruffy man snorted, which earned him an elbow in the gut from the graceful fighter. They both sported poorly-stifled smirks. Arthur arched a blond eyebrow and turned to face them with a frown. “Is something amusing?” he inquired crossly.

Lancelot looked mortified. He was glaring daggers at the two men as if he were their mother attempting to scold them on their manners. They were studiously ignoring him, facing the prince with expressions so defiant it might’ve earned them a night in the stocks, were Arthur the kind of man who enjoyed torturing the peasantry. As it were, he prided himself on his tolerance and genuine respect for the citizens of Camelot– even if that respect was not necessarily returned.

“No. Nothing,” the taller man snickered, adding, “sire” as an afterthought.

Arthur stared at him incredulously. He didn’t expect to be fawned over with men falling at his feet, but this was blatant disrespect. He was the Crown Prince, after all. What made these men dismiss him so quickly? Had he done something to encourage their ire? He’d never met either of them before in his life, yet here they were, laughing at him. 

“What’s your name?” he demanded, clenching his jaw and sticking out his chin to show that he wasn’t going to take such nonsense lying down. 

The other man met his gaze evenly, stubborn to the last. “I’m Merlin.”

“Well, Mer lin, I was going to compliment you on your fighting style, but that was before I realized you weren’t a lovestruck girl twirling about in a flower field,” Arthur drawled, earning several chuckles from the surrounding crowd. 

Merlin’s expression shifted from mild condescension to abrupt fury. He narrowed his eyes into a glower, every muscle in him tensed up as if readying for a fight. Well. If it was a fight he wanted, who was Arthur to deny him?

“Lancelot,” the prince announced, “I am considerably impressed by what I’ve seen here today. Would you do the honor of allowing Sir Leon and I to spar amongst your men?”

Lancelot’s mouth fell open, but he quickly recovered. He straightened up like a soldier awaiting a command. “The honor is all mine, sire,” he breathed. He seemed rather nervous all of a sudden, which made sense. It wasn’t every day the Crown Prince of Camelot stopped by to join a training session with a ragtag group of common brawlers, skilled as some of them were. 

Arthur tracked Merlin with his eyes as the man twirled his sword around and around, jumping around on the balls of his feet to heighten his energy levels. Despite his rudeness, the prince saw the spirit of a fighter within him. He’d make a fine knight, albeit a disobedient one. There was a part of Arthur that found Merlin refreshing. He was so used to other people tripping over themselves in their attempts to please him, telling him only what they thought he wished to hear instead of how they truly felt. It was endlessly frustrating, having to parse truths from falsehoods in every sentence uttered from a fawning noble’s treacherous mouth. 

Out here, he could tell that each man operated with the unfettered honesty of someone who hadn’t been brought up to abide by the stilted customs of a stuffy Court. These men respected one another, fought alongside one another, and clearly held no qualms about speaking their minds. Arthur had always noticed that at his father’s Council meetings, the men surrounding him only offered hearty agreements, never counterpoints or contradictions. When he became king, he did not wish to surround himself with social climbers whose only interests lay in pleasing their overlord. No. Arthur needed to be able to trust his people.

“Who would you have as your sparring partner, sire?” asked Lancelot, gesturing to his men with a sweep of his arm.

The prince pretended to consider his options, tapping his chin and pursing his lips as he examined each and every fighter. “I’ll take Merlin,” he said decisively.

The man across from frowned. “Merlin? Are you certain? He’s a little… well…”

“Mouthy?” Arthur suggested, “Rude? Unconcerned with the fact that he’s in the presence of a Crown Prince?” 

Lancelot nodded miserably. “I was going to say ‘spirited,’ but… well. Merlin’s a magnificent person with a kind heart. He just… doesn’t hold nobles in the highest regard, I’m afraid. I apologize for any offense he may have caused you, sire.”

The prince waved a hand to indicate no harm done. Truth be told, he was fascinated with this Merlin. Part of him wanted to put him in his place, yes, but mostly Arthur wanted to know what it’d be like to spar with someone who fought the way Merlin did. Insults and respectability be damned– he’d have no other opponent. Besides, it was clear by the way Lancelot spoke about him that Merlin was one of the best swordsmen of the bunch. As Crown Prince, Arthur deserved nothing but the best. 

“Merlin will do just fine,” he insisted.

Lancelot gave him a look that clearly read, it’s your funeral , nodded once, and went to tap his friend on the shoulder. Arthur watched as Merlin’s look of confusion transformed into one of determination and delight. The prince couldn’t help the sunny smile that appeared on his face as the dancer-fighter approached, wearing a matching feral grin. This was going to be fun. He caught Leon’s concerned grimace as the First Knight realized who the prince had chosen as his sparring partner. He opened his mouth to object, but Arthur made it clear that he’d have none of it.

“Leon. Why don’t you pair up with that man over there? It might be beneficial for you to practice with a larger opponent.” The suggestion was more of a command, really. He wanted Leon out of his hair, certain that the other man would intervene if things between him and Merlin got too heated.

“Excellent suggestion, sire,” Leon agreed, eyeing Merlin warily as he went to square off against the hulking stranger. 

“Merlin,” Arthur greeted as the dark-haired man went to stand across from him, dropping into a finely balanced fighting stance.

“Your royal highness,” Merlin leered, sketching an overly-exaggerated mock-bow before the prince. 

Arthur barely suppressed an eye roll at the other man’s antics. Was he trying to get himself thrown in the dungeons? Did he behave like this around other nobles? If he did, he must’ve faced the stocks several times over. No one had ever spoken to the prince like this before in his life, save for Morgana who was practically his sister. 

“Tell me, have you ever had the honor of sparring with a Knight of Camelot before?” he bantered as Lancelot called for the match to begin. 

“No, but I’m looking forward to beating one.”

Arthur and Merlin circled each other like a pair of hawks hovering over a kill. Each waited for the other to make the first move, mirroring each other’s slow, careful movements. The prince began to assess his opponent, searching for any initial weaknesses or tells. Naturally, he found none. Merlin was an enigma. Gone were the teasing, goading grins from before. Now, he was the epitome of focus, his mouth set into a hard line as his eyes blazed like twin blue flames above those ridiculously prominent cheekbones. His stance was patient yet predatory as they stepped around and around one another. 

Soon, Arthur grew tired of waiting. He lunged forth for his first strike, which his opponent parried with practiced ease. Merlin struck out in turn, quick as a whip, his blade singing through the air. By the gods, he was fast. He was back in his original defensive position before the prince could even blink. He took note of the intricately carved breastplate, somehow pristine despite the fact that it must have taken many hits protecting its wearer from harm. Once again, he reflected on how it was strange for a commoner to be wearing such fine pieces of armor. 

“Cat got your tongue?” whispered Merlin as he lunged in for a swipe at the prince’s chest.

Arthur deflected the blow and attempted a strike of his own. Merlin easily twirled out of the way, sinuous as a flowing river. 

“Sparring isn’t a time for idle chatter, Mer lin,” Arthur huffed.

Their blades crossed again, and again and again as the pair of them soon realized how evenly matched they were. Arthur’s aggressive yet calculated fighting style paired nicely against Merlin’s delicately unpredictable ebbs and flows. He really was like a dancer– lithe and graceful with a quiet inner strength that was deceptively hidden by his lean stature. The prince had initially assumed that he was scrawny, but it was evident that the man was all sinew and muscle. Arthur did not intend to underestimate him a second time. 

Time passed. Blows were landed and deflected and landed once again. The other sparring matches came to a close one by one until it was only Arthur and Merlin, staring each other down with sweat dripping off their brows. The former looked exhausted yet invigorated as he gritted his teeth with a sheer refusal to back down. There was something unfettered and wild in the latter’s sharp gaze as he waited for his next opportunity to strike. The other men gathered to watch the fierce battle as neither combatant gained the upper hand. They were perfectly balanced. It was rather uncanny. Both fighters were clearly enjoying themselves immensely and could barely hide their disappointment when Leon called out, “Sire, we really should return to the castle.”

Arthur sheathed his blade and offered his arm to Merlin. The other man eyed it suspiciously the way he’d examine a particularly large snake before accepting the gesture with a half-grin. Gone were the harsh defenses he’d thrown up in response to Arthur’s arrival. Now, he seemed genuinely delighted to have finally met his match. The prince was equally as excited. He wanted nothing more than to knight Merlin on the spot and tire him out at training the next day. Uther would throw a fit. Perhaps if the king agreed to watch some of these men fight, he’d reconsider his strict stance on commoners earning knighthoods. It was clear to Arthur that Camelot’s finest were not to be found amongst the sons of nobles– not anymore. 

“Next time, I’m taking you down… sire ,” Merlin beamed, sounding far less spiteful than before.

Arthur laughed loudly and clapped the commoner on the shoulder. “In your dreams. Lancelot, how often do you train with these men?”

Lancelot stepped forwards, covered in grime from his sparring match with the long-haired man– the one who had been making fun of him before with Merlin. “Every evening, sire. Some of us in the mornings, as well, in preparation for the upcoming melee.”

The prince beamed at the mention of the melee. He was pleased to hear that several of these men intended to enter the competition. Many of them were more than qualified to become knights, which increased the chances of a prime warrior coming out the winner. Arthur glanced over at Merlin who was chatting animatedly with Elyan. The two of them seemed thick as thieves. Was there anyone in the group that Merlin didn’t get along with? Surely his prickly personality drove most people away– or had that part of him been reserved for Arthur alone?

“Would you allow me to practice alongside you every so often? I have my own knights to attend to, of course, but it’s honestly been far too long since I’ve had this much fun.” He glanced over at Merlin, who winked. Winked. That flutter kicked up again in Arthur’s chest. Strange.

“Of course, sire– so long as it’s all right with the other men,” Lancelot explained. He exchanged significant glances with the other members of the group.

They all seemed to be in agreement, save for the man Merlin had been exchanging whispers with before. The stranger blew a strand of hair out of his face like a frustrated horse. He glared at the prince with all the disdain of a slighted nobleman, which was odd considering his plain clothes and his rowdy disposition. 

“I’d rather not have the king’s son prancing about the training grounds getting in everyone’s way,” he announced crankily.

Shockingly, Merlin was the one to leap to Arthur’s defense. “Oh, come off it, Gwaine. You’ve seen how he fights.”

Gwaine’s sour expression shifted into a fond smile. He reached over to ruffle Merlin’s dark curls, softening visibly when he realized his friend actually wanted Arthur around. The prince wondered why everyone was so defensive over their best fighter. Merlin could clearly hold his own with both his sword and his tongue. He didn’t need anyone to protect him, and yet that was what his companions were doing. They were circling around him in a tight fortification, refusing to allow any gaps in their stalwart defense. What was so special about him that made these men stick fast to his side?

“Fine,” said Gwaine after a while, “if you want to dance with the princess, that’s your business.”

Princess? Arthur opened his mouth to form a retort just as Merlin cut him off, stepping between the two men with his hands raised in a placating gesture.

“Lance– is practice over, or are you going to make us run another round of sprints?” he smirked.

The echoing groan from the crowd was enough to distract Arthur and Gwaine from their recent tiff. The latter stalked off to bother the giant man that Leon had sparred with earlier. The First Knight himself approached the prince, gesturing to where Llamrei and Oriel were waiting. The snowy mare and golden-tan stallion beat their hooves impatiently in the grass as if they were eager to return home. Begrudgingly, Arthur made off to mount his horse.

“Goodbye, your royal highness,” Merlin called, lifting his hand in a wave. Somehow, he made the title sound like an insult. He bent at the waist into a ridiculous bow, almost toppling over when Elyan came up and shoved him from behind. 

The prince laughed and waved back at him. “I’ll see you later, my Lady Merlin.”

“I’m not a– oh, you prat !” 

Merlin sprinted after Llamrei for as long as he could. Arthur looked over his shoulder to watch until the man became nought but a speck in the far distance. He smiled to himself, going over Merlin’s combat tactics in his mind. He was already conjuring up a battle plan for their next sparring match together. He was so lost in thought that Leon had to call to him twice to get his attention as they clattered over the cobblestone bridge into the citadel. 

“You seemed to enjoy yourself out there today, sire,” he repeated with a knowing smile. 

Arthur couldn’t help the look of elation glimmering in his bright azure eyes. “They’re good men, Leon. I only wish my father were there to see them fight.”

Leon inclined his head in agreement. “That Percival– the man I fought– he has the strength of a bear,” he remarked. He’d lost the match due to the fact that he’d been half-focusing on the prince the entire time, but he’d put up a good fight all the same. Percival seemed like he’d enjoyed himself immensely. Arthur couldn’t blame him. Leon was an excellent sparring partner.

The prince and his First Knight chatted amicably on their way back to the castle. Llamrei and Oriel were returned to the stables by an anxious-looking George, who was clearly wondering why they’d lingered so long on their ride but bit his tongue the way any well-trained servant should. He scuttled off with the horses, tossing a few concerned looks over his shoulder for good measure. Arthur rolled his eyes and made his way back up the palace steps with Leon at his side. A steely sort of determination began to take root within him. He decided then and there that someday, he would have Merlin, Lancelot, and all the others as his knights. It would start with the melee and end with his father somehow seeing sense. He was certain of it. He only needed to wait a little longer. 

*****

The door to the tavern swung open, admitting the sweaty group of men into the warmth and firelight. Guinevere was already seated at a corner table by the time her brothers arrived. She fidgeted nervously with her sleeves as she caught sight of Lancelot in all his battle-worn glory, his shiny hair somehow still sleek and perfect save for one tiny strand that she longed to smooth back with her fingers just so. She bit her bottom lip and yanked herself out of the daydream, hoping that the others wouldn’t catch the faint blush staining her cheeks. She sighed as her brothers occupied the stools on either side of her, Merlin on the left and Elyan on the right. They truly did smell awful. 

“How did training go today?” she asked pleasantly, wrinkling her nose as Elyan slung a heavy arm around her shoulders.

“Hmm, let’s see. How was training today, lads?” he beamed, his dark eyes sparkling with barely-concealed elation. 

The other men exchanged proud smiles. They were practically puffing out their chests and glowing. Gwen rolled her eyes and extracted herself from her brother’s sweaty clutches. Whatever strange posturing, dick-measuring nonsense they were on about, she wanted no part of it. She’d come here to have a cheerful round of drinks with her boys and gods be willing she’d make them behave. 

“What, did you lot finally sort out that ridiculous five-point double-cross formation you’ve been on about since the last four sennights?” she teased, cheerfully taking a sip of her ale.

“Actually,” Lancelot began in his delightfully soft voice, “we have some rather important news. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t believe me, but we were visited by none other than the Crown Prince himself today.”

Gwen almost spat out her drink in a very unladylike manner. She managed to hold it together somehow, disguising her shock with a demure little cough. Lance reached across the table in concern, inching forth to take her hands and then pausing as if remembering himself. No one noticed except Merlin, whose eyes glimmered with knowing as he glanced between the two of them. Guinevere resisted the urge to elbow her younger brother in the stomach. He was even worse than Elyan sometimes, honestly. 

“You were not ,” she gasped, glancing at the others for confirmation.

If Lance weren’t so earnest and honorable, she definitely would’ve accused him of pulling her leg. As it were, the man had never made fun of her in his entire life and he was looking at her with those sincere brown eyes… it had to be true. Prince Arthur had come to the training field! Her face lit up with wonder as a million questions surged forth to the tip of her tongue. What did he want? Was he impressed by their skills? Was he as handsome up close as he was from far away? She kept the last one to herself but asked the first two in rapid succession, along with several other queries about how well they’d fought and whether or not they thought he was coming back again. 

“To spar with us. Yes. Very well, and yes,” Elyan replied quickly. “In fact, he wants to return and train with us whenever he’s not with his knights.” He ruffled Gwen’s hair affectionately as she processed the new information.

Arthur Pendragon wanted to train with her brothers and their friends? She knew that Lancelot was an accomplished swordsman and that the group had been getting significantly better since he’d come along. She got to witness their prowess firsthand when she was able to attend their training sessions on occasion. They were a force to be reckoned with to be sure, but for them to receive praise directly from the Knight Commander himself? These kinds of things never happened to common folk. 

Even when the small troop had taken it upon themselves to rid the outlying villages of bandits, or chase dangerous creatures away from Camelot’s borders when the noble Knights of Camelot were too lazy to do so, they were not granted an ounce of recognition. Guinevere glowed with pride when she realized that her brothers and their friends were finally getting what they deserved. They were good men, all of them. If it were up to her, they’d be knights already. But of course it wasn’t– and it never would be. This was not the way of the world.

“And I suppose you made sure to tell the prince about how your younger sister used to beat you at swordplay when you were six-and-ten,” she said sweetly, earning a raucous bout of laughter from the crowd. “Rich of you to laugh along, Merlin,” she added, noticing her brother’s ears turning bright pink, “considering I can still beat you.”

“That was one time! And only because you cheated!” Merlin protested indignantly.

“I find it hard to believe that Guinevere would ever cheat at anything,” Lancelot declared, immediately jumping to her defense. 

Gwen beamed at him prettily then made a face at both of her brothers, who were grumbling to each other about ‘made-up nonsense’ and ‘faked twisted ankles.’ She’d only pretended to be injured because she knew Merlin had been going easy on her. To teach him a lesson about underestimating her capabilities, she’d dropped to the ground, then tripped him up with her blade when he wasn’t looking. Perhaps she would turn up at the sparring field every now and then, to show Prince Arthur what she was capable of. 

“This means one of you has to win the melee,” she realized, “now that the prince has noticed you.”

The gravity of her words settled over the table as the men exchanged wary glances. Gwaine stepped up to diffuse the tension, as he always did. “Well, lads. I would say I won’t forget you once I’m knighted, but I likely will,” he told the others, shaking his head in mock-regret.

Percival put him in a headlock and began to mess up his hair, which caused the man to protest vehemently. He scrabbled uselessly at the larger man’s muscles until Percy released him with a soft chuckle. Gwaine set about righting his so-called ‘luscious locks’ while Gwen looked on, eyes sparkling in amusement. Her gaze caught Lancelot’s and they shared a smile. Merlin shimmied himself out of his stool from where he sat between his sister and Gwaine. He made a vague gesture to the bar.

“I’ll get us a round?” he offered.

There were nods all around as he scampered off to order ales for the table. Guinevere took another sip of her own drink and set it aside. She reflected upon what it might mean for one of her brothers to win the melee. It would be one of them or Lancelot– it had to be, since they were the three most well-trained fighters out of the group. A knighthood for the upper quarter would raise people’s spirits for sure. She made a mental note to ask the other servants if they’d heard anything about the Council’s opinions on all this. If they were potentially in favor, this could change everything for the people of Camelot.

“So who d’you think it’ll be, really ?” she whispered to Lancelot. Gwen knew she could trust him to be honest with her. He always was.

“Honestly? I think it might be Merlin,” he murmured, nodding at her younger brother’s lanky frame as he attempted to balance a tray full of drinks in his arms. Ale slopped all over the place. Not for the first time, Gwen wondered how he could be so graceful on the battlefield and so clumsy everywhere else. She sighed at him fondly as yet another swill of alcohol spilled down the front of his shirt. 

“What makes you say that?” she inquired.

“Well, he was the one that the prince chose to spar with today, and–”

“Prince Arthur chose to spar with Merlin ?” Her shrill proclamation of excitement could nearly be heard over the din of the tavern.

Every head at the table turned to look at her, their expressions ranging from surprise to amusement. Some of the men still weren’t quite used to the fact that such a loud noise could come from such a sweet, dainty person. Not that she was dainty. She worked the forge most days, for goodness sakes– and scrubbed the Lady Morgana’s floors on her hands and knees. No, there wasn’t anything dainty about her, and she liked it that way. She could hold her own, just as her father and brothers had always taught her. 

“They were perfectly matched, almost as if the fight were choreographed,” Lance continued.

Gwaine nodded his agreement. “They were dancing like two young lovers at a Beltane festival.”

Merlin arrived just in time to hear this comment. “Who were two young lovers at Beltane?” he asked cheerfully.

“You and Prince Arthur,” Elyan shot back with a grin.

His brother made to cuff him over the head, remembered his tray full of ale, and laid his burden down on the table before dropping back down into his seat. Guinevere noticed that he was blushing furiously. She hummed quietly to herself and took another sip of her drink. Merlin’s preferences were a secret to many, but not to her or Elyan. They knew him far too well for that– and loved him too much for any of it to matter. Only good things could come of love, as far as she was concerned. This thought led her eyes to wander over Lancelot’s form once again. He was in the midst of an animated conversation with Percival, likely about battle tactics. 

“So how was it, to spar with Camelot’s finest?” she demanded. “Don’t spare a single detail– and please tell me you won.”

“It was a draw,” Merlin admitted with a shrug. “He’s an excellent fighter. I had my doubts, from watching some of the nobles spar every so often in the citadel. Bunch of lazy silver-spoon clotpoles, honestly. But Arthur’s different. He…”

The man went on and on for several minutes about this special feint and that incredible parry. She recognized the dreamy look in his eyes as he recounted the details of the battle. From what Guinevere could tell, it had been spectacular. The other lads added their own embellishments to the tale, calling Merlin out when he was being too humble or rolling their eyes whenever he gave the prince too much credit. All in all, it sounded like her younger brother had finally met his match.

Not for the first time, Gwen felt for her brother and his struggles with issues of the heart. She knew he’d fumbled with a stable boy or two– had caught him doing so, in fact, much to everyone’s embarrassment– and that he’d had a lover, once, for a very short period of time. It hadn’t ended well. She’d never met the man, and lucky for him because she’d have told him a thing or two for breaking Merlin’s heart the way he did. She was the only one he confided in about romance and the like. Leave it to him to fall for one of the most unattainable men in the entire kingdom. Hopefully it was simply a fleeting affair, not something that would leave him pining for months on end. Gwen hated to see him hurting.

“...and that’s when Lance told us we had to quit or everyone’d be old and gray by the time we were done.” Merlin finished his tale with a self-satisfied nod.

“I said no such thing,” Lancelot protested.

The table echoed with laughter as Merlin’s friends thumped him on the back. It sounded like he’d really proven himself out on the battlefield that day. Guinevere was proud of him. She was proud of both her brothers. She knew without a doubt that someday, one of them would become a Knight of Camelot, opening the door for common men to prove their mettle against the evils of the world. If anyone deserved this honor, it was the group sitting around her at the table. Each and every one of them were loyal to the kingdom, its citizens, and each other. The only thing they were not was noble. This, apparently, disqualified them from protecting their loved ones and their home.

They had recently started to take matters into their own hands, of course, but they never received any payment for their work. The spoils they got from the bandits went back to all the villages they’d stolen from. The people of the lower town had tried to pay Lancelot and his troop for their services, but every last man had refused. This act in particular was the one that made her the proudest of all. 

“A penny for your thoughts, fair lady,” said Lance in that gorgeous sultry voice of his. He wasn’t even trying to sound attractive. She knew he wasn’t because she knew Lancelot– but every word set her heart beating faster in her chest. He could’ve been talking about carrots or parsnips and he’d still sound like a character from one of the romance tales Lady Morgana had taken to burning in the fireplace. Other noble ladies had started gifting them to her when they learned she liked to read. Instead, she made her maidservant laugh by reading the tales aloud in ridiculously exaggerated voices. 

“Oh, I’m… I’m thinking about the melee. And about how you deserve that knighthood.” Guinevere paused. “I mean– you all do.”

Lancelot beamed like the summer sun, his eyes twinkling in the low tavern light. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair. Feel his lips on her jaw. Lean into him as he whispered delightful things into her ear…

Now she really was starting to sound like one of Morgana’s romantic heroines. She shook her head as if she could clear away such thoughts like a cloud of flies. He was not for her. Not with all the girls in the entire city fawning after him. Not with his kind, soft heart and his desire to do right by everyone. He was her friend. Nothing more. He’d always see her as Elyan’s little sister. That’s how all the men saw her. No. Lance would likely end up with Everly from the flower shop, or Adrea the merchant’s daughter. 

“You give us far too much credit, Guinevere, as always,” he said shyly.

Gwen shook her head emphatically. “Not at all. You’re worth ten of King Uther’s men.”

Lancelot looked up at her through his eyelashes and hid behind his cup of ale. She was embarrassing him. Of course she was. Elyan and Merlin always lovingly teased her for the intense, stubborn nature of her compliments. She never tolerated negative self-talk and was often ready with a kind word or ten to lift up her friends’ spirits. Her father had nicknamed her ‘sunflower’ because of her tendency to turn towards the light within her loved ones. Not that she loved Lance. Or was in love with him. Because that would be silly and pointless, since they were never, ever going to end up together. 

“Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you,” he told her. 

This time she was the one blushing. She was just about to let him know how fully he deserved to hear about his worth when Merlin knocked into her after involving himself in an overly-zealous arm-wrestling match with Elyan. She nearly spilled ale all down her front. She turned to glare at him, daggers in her eyes. He was wide-eyed and apologetic, offering to buy her a thousand replacements and take over her shifts at the forge for the next sennight. Eventually she waved him off and confiscated his drink– extra bouts of clumsiness were always a good sign that her younger brother needed to be cut off. Unfortunately, by the time she turned back to Lancelot, he’d already caught the attention of a local seamstress, who had appeared out of nowhere to chat him up. Gwen sighed and put her chin in her hands. That was that, then, wasn’t it?

Except it wasn’t because at that moment, her two brothers leaned in on either side of her, their eyes alight with mischief.

“Why, Elyan, I do believe I detect a bit of moping,” Merlin exclaimed.

Elyan looked Gwen up and down, pretended to check inside her ear, and nodded sagely. “You’re right, Merlin. Someone isn’t having a very good time.”

“Oh, come off it, you two,” their sister huffed, batting their hands away as they tried to poke and prod her. 

Brothers. She loved them to bits and pieces, but sometimes she wanted to hack them to bits and pieces. Especially when they got like this: meddlesome and nosy and absolutely infuriating.

Merlin leaned in and stage-whispered directly into her ear. “You know that I told you that he told me that he fancies you.” The words came out slower than usual and a little muddled.

Guinevere shoved at his shoulder playfully. “And you know that I told you to let it alone.”

“He likes you, Gwennie,” Elyan added conspiratorially, “and honestly, out of all the lads here, he’s the only one I think is good enough for you.”

Merlin nodded in agreement as Gwen put her head in her hands. She was determined to ignore their useless advice. Most of it involved her doing something ridiculous, anyway, like going up to Lance and ‘snogging his brains out’ or saying something along the lines of, ‘I fancy you very much, do you fancy me, as well?’ Recently they’d started insisting that Lancelot had feelings for her, which was just about the silliest thing she’d ever heard. Just as she was about ready to throw up her hands and leave, Lance himself came to her rescue.

He caught her look of distress, extracted himself from his most recent visitor, and asked if Guinevere might like a bit of air. She absolutely refused to look at her two brothers as she allowed her friend to escort her out into the street. She was sure they were making all kinds of ridiculous faces and very obviously cheering her on. They were dears, truly, and she was just about ready to throttle them both.

*****

Despite him having the longer set of legs, it was a chore for Merlin to keep up with Guinevere as she bustled through the streets on her way to the castle courtyard the next morning. His satchel dangled off his shoulders as he almost tripped on the cobblestones attempting to match his sister’s brisk pace. The sun hadn’t yet begun its slow ascent above the horizon, which meant it was far too early for him to be awake. At least he’d beaten that damned rooster. He hated that bloody bird.

Despite his craving for just a few more hours of blissful sleep, he did like wandering the city at this hour. He liked the way everything around him was bathed in a blue-gray inky sort of color, and he enjoyed watching all the candles in the little houses turn on one at a time, casting squares of golden light onto the ground below. The comforting smell of fresh bread hit his nose as they passed by the baker’s shop. Merlin’s stomach growled, reminding him that because of this excursion he’d likely be skipping breakfast. 

Gwen turned another corner, and he almost lost her as the trail of her lavender dress whisked out of sight. She really was quite quick when she set her mind to it. 

“Could we slow down a bit, maybe?” the warlock whined as he ducked under a washing line to avoid getting tangled up in a set of trousers. 

“No, Merlin, we can’t. I’m to be by Lady Morgana’s side before she wakes up, and she’s a very early riser, unlike some of us.” She shot him a pointed look, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She could never stay angry at Merlin. It was nigh impossible– especially when he still hadn’t grown into his ears and his hair was always sticking up in the mornings as if he’d come through a windstorm, or so she told him. 

He beamed at her sunnily, which he knew always won her over in the end. Sure enough, she matched his grin with one of her own and slowed her pace to accommodate him. It was his first day acting as assistant to Gaius the Court Physician, and to ensure he didn’t get lost, Tom insisted that Gwen escort him to the old man’s workshop. Merlin had protested that he could probably find it on his own, to which Elyan had replied that he couldn’t find his own left foot, let alone a tiny wooden door tucked away in some far-off alcove of an enormous castle. Thus, Merlin and Gwen had risen at the arse-crack of dawn to deliver the former to his new job. 

“Make sure you’re polite,” she was saying as they moved from the upper quarter into the wealthier portion of the city, “and that you thank him for the opportunity. It’s very kind of him to take you on like this, you know.”

“Yes, mother,” Merlin teased, poking his sister in the ribs with a grin. 

She rolled her eyes and batted his hand away. Together, they took in the sights of the nobles’ district. Here, the houses transformed from simple cottages into multi-storied manors with stables of their own and fancy gardens. There was a particularly beautiful house with large arched windows and gorgeous cream-colored rose bushes that Merlin paused to gawk at while Guinevere tugged at his arm to hurry him along. The air even smelled fresher here, likely due to the fact that neighbors weren’t stacked on top of each other like so many crates of potatoes. Perhaps if Elyan were knighted, he would be able to afford a house like one of these. 

Eventually, Gwen’s clipped pace carried them all the way to the citadel. The courtyard was already bustling with activity, even at this hour. Servants darted to and fro, preparing breakfast for their lords and ladies. Cooks ferried ingredients from the storage rooms to the kitchens while stablehands rushed off to feed and ready the horses. Plenty of folk waved to Guinevere with cheerful smiles of recognition as they rushed about with their daily tasks. Soon, Merlin would be joining them, at Gaius’ beck and call.

“This way, Merlin,” Guinevere instructed, waving him over to a small wooden door set into a nearby wall. He followed her through as she led him up a flight of stairs and past a sign that read, ‘Court Physician.’ She paused at the next door and gestured for him to knock. He did so. Before anyone could answer, Gwen pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, gathered her skirts, and hurried away, calling, “I’ll see you later! Good luck!” over her shoulder as she ran off to attend to her lady. 

“Bye, Gwen,” said Merlin with a small smile.

He yawned, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and knocked again, since Gaius had yet to come greet him. There was still no response. Puzzled, the warlock pushed against the door. It swung open, admitting him into a strange-looking room with a central table covered in all manner of scientific equipment. The shelves were chock-full of various bottles, dried herbs hung in the window facing the courtyard, and dusty books crowded every corner. 

Merlin walked in carefully, doing his best to avoid knocking anything over, which was quite the task. “Hello?” he called out softly, scanning the room to see if anyone was there.

The door to a storage room he hadn’t realized was there creaked loudly. The warlock jumped, nearly upsetting the dreaded leech tank as he whipped around to face the intruder. Thankfully, it was only Gaius, emerging with his arms full of ingredients for some sort of concoction. He arched a white eyebrow at Merlin, who was busily pretending that he had definitely not just been startled out of his skin.

“Hello, Merlin,” the old man greeted, “keeping yourself out of trouble, I hope.”

Gaius, who had been treating Merlin and his siblings since they were very small, did not only mean the regular sort of trouble. In fact, the first time he met the boy was on the fateful day when Tom took him in as a baby. Panicked and confused, he’d had no idea what to do with an infant that sent objects flying around the room whenever he started crying. Gaius had been instrumental in teaching Merlin how to control his magic. 

“Er, yes,” he offered halfheartedly, nervously tugging at his neckerchief. 

It was as if the physician could see right through him. He shot him a wary look as he began gathering various medicines and tinctures from his work station. 

“Thank you for the job,” Merlin blurted, suddenly remembering what Guinevere had told him. “It was very kind of you to let me apprentice with you.”

Gaius turned to look at him, his wry expression softening into a grandfatherly smile. “Yes, well. Do as I tell you, keep your magic under wraps, and all will be well. Now, where did I put that potion for the Lady Morgana?”

Eventually, the old man dug up a blueish-looking concoction and pressed it into Merlin’s hands, along with several other bottles and jars. He then held out a small piece of parchment with instructions written on it in a barely-legible scrawl. The warlock squinted at it, doing his best to make sense of what was written there. 

“You can start by making these deliveries for me. Then, when you return we’ll gather some herbs. Once we’re finished you may return to the forge,” he said, holding the door open for Merlin and sending him on his way.

The blacksmith’s son nodded obediently and gave Gaius a sheepish smile before scampering off to do his bidding. He supposed it mattered little to the physician that he had no idea where he was going. He scanned the paper again, hoping that it might’ve come with a set of directions. It hadn’t. Thus, he found himself stopping busy servants every so often to ask if they knew where such-and-such noble dwelt, or where to find Lady Something-or-Other’s chambers. By the time he made it halfway through the list, Merlin felt he had a decent grasp of the castle’s layout, which must’ve been Gaius’ intention all along. 

Satisfied, he glanced down at the very last delivery and grinned. The Lady Morgana . He would get to visit Gwen. Merlin held up a hand to stop a couple of gossiping scullery maids. They looked him up and down, appraising him swiftly. The pair must’ve decided that he was all right because they relaxed and smiled at him in a how-might-I-help-you sort of way.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you might know the way to the Lady Morgana’s chambers? I’ve a sleeping draft to deliver,” he explained, holding up the tiny glass bottle for emphasis. 

“Down that way, two rights and a left,” the woman on the left replied. 

Merlin beamed at her gratefully. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

He skipped off down the hallway, humming to himself as he went. He was so focused on reaching his destination that he absolutely didn’t notice the person walking straight towards him with their nose buried in a piece of parchment. The stranger let out a soft oof as the two of them crashed into one another. Papers went flying everywhere and Merlin barely managed to hold onto his glass bottle as he went tumbling to the floor. 

“Sorry, sorry!” he cried, just as the stranger snapped, “Watch where you’re… Merlin ?”

The warlock found himself staring into the bright blue eyes of none other than Prince Arthur Pendragon, whose look of consternation quickly shifted to one of amusement when he realized who he’d walked into. The two men blinked at each other for a few moments before breaking out into matching grins. The prince held out his arm to help his sparring partner to his feet. Merlin dusted himself off and began collecting the pieces of parchment he’d knocked out of Arthur’s hands.

“Fancy meeting you here,” the warlock teased.

The prince let out a laugh, brushing at his clothes with a small smirk. “It’s almost as if this is where I live,” he said sarcastically.

Merlin rolled his eyes and handed over the pieces of paper he’d gathered off the floor. “I know that, you absolute prat.”

As always, Arthur looked a little bit shocked at the fact that a commoner was insulting him in such a manner. Come to think of it, Merlin probably should’ve called him ‘sire,’ or offered him a bow along with ample apologies for colliding with his royal person. As he looked over the prince’s adorably bewildered expression, he decided he would do no such thing. It was likely good for him, to have someone tease him every now and then. Someone had to make sure his head didn’t grow too big for his crown.

“What are you doing here? Have you come for a rematch?” Arthur inquired, cocky as ever.

Merlin had the sudden urge to kiss that confident grin off his mouth.

Crown Prince Clotpole , he reminded himself. Arrogant arse . It worked, for the time being. 

“Not this time. I can’t very well fend off your high blows with a potion bottle, now, can I?” He shook the offending item in front of Arthur’s face.

The prince let out a laugh and ran a hand through his golden-blond hair. Merlin wondered if it was as soft and silky as it looked. It had very nearly distracted him when they’d been sparring the other day. Arthur had looked like he was wearing a crown made from sunlight.

“I suppose not. I will be wanting that rematch eventually, though. Mark my words,” he promised.

Merlin gave him a playful salute and hovered for a moment before remembering why he was wandering through the castle in the first place. “I don’t suppose you could point me towards the Lady Morgana’s chambers? This tincture’s for her.”

Arthur arched a blond eyebrow. “Running errands for Gaius, are you?”

The warlock nodded. “I’m his assistant, starting today.”

The Crown Prince’s mouth curled into a pleased sort of smile, sapphire eyes twinkling with earnest delight. “This means I’ll be seeing more of you, then?”

“Looks like it. Hope you don’t get sick of me,” Merlin teased.

“I already am,” Arthur retorted without missing a beat. 

“Sick of me?”

“Yes.”

“Ooh. You might want to see the Court Physician about that.”

The prince seemed visibly affronted by the poor quality of the joke. “That was truly terrible, Merlin,” he drawled. “Please refrain from attempting to use humor ever again in my presence.”

Their banter felt as perfect and right as their sparring. Merlin couldn’t help himself. He liked Arthur. He enjoyed poking fun at him, figuring out what made him tick, and watching that dazzling smile bloom across his face. He liked his shapely jaw, his royal nose, and his incredibly blue eyes. The prince seemed ready to relax around him, dropping whatever courtly veil prevented him from revealing his true self to others. Merlin liked that, too. He was eager to learn more about this bright, brilliant, infuriating man as their lives continued to intersect. 

“Right. Well, I best be off then,” the physician’s assistant declared.

“I’ll see you on the sparring field, Merlin.” Arthur rewarded him with another one of his genuine smiles, the pure joy causing his eyes to crinkle up in an adorable sort of way. It was unfair, really, how perfect he looked when he smiled. 

“See you.” If the warlock almost tripped on his own feet on the way to Lady Morgana’s chambers, that was nobody’s business. 

After locating what he figured was the correct door, he rapped on it thrice with his knuckles, calling out, “Lady Morgana?” in a soft, gentle voice.

The door swung open to reveal not the king’s ward, but her maidservant. Gwen had several expensive-looking gowns in various colors draped over her arms. Her amber-brown eyes widened in surprise when she saw her brother standing there in the hallway. He cleared his throat, adjusted his neckerchief, and produced the potion bottle with an overly-enthusiastic bow. Guinevere rolled her eyes and snatched the medicine out of his hands.

“Who is it, Gwen?” called a rich, heavily accented voice from inside the bedroom. 

“My brother, actually, here with your sleeping draft,” Guinevere replied.

“Elyan?” asked the Lady Morgana, sounding a tad confused.

“The other one,” Merlin corrected. “Merlin.”

“Well, don’t just stand there– please, come in. It would be an honor to meet the infamous boy-who-came-from-a-basket.”

Gwen stepped aside to grant her brother entry, mouthing, ‘behave’ at him as he stepped over the threshold. He arranged his expression into an image of sheer innocence, batting his long, dark lashes for good measure. His sister narrowed her eyes at him, not buying it for a moment. She had grown up alongside that look and all the chaos it had preceded. This time, however, Merlin really did intend to be on his best behavior. He knew how much Guinevere cared for Lady Morgana. She was just as protective over the ward as she was over her own brothers. Thus, he was determined to make a good impression.

“My lady,” he said earnestly, meeting her gaze when she turned to look at him. 

She was as beautiful up close as she was from far away, which was how Merlin had primarily seen her in the past. Her forest-green eyes glittered like twin jewels set above cheekbones that could slice through glass. Her pale heart-shaped face was framed by the obsidian rivers of her hair, which fell in gentle waves down her back. She wore a deep violet gown with trailing periwinkle sleeves. The golden embroidery around the edges spoke of riches beyond anyone’s greatest imaginings. A silver necklace rested around the column of her throat, which was dotted with a freckle or two. Her crimson lips formed a warm smile as she gave Merlin a once-over.

“Merlin. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. I’ve heard such wonderful things about you,” she beamed. “Please, sit. Make yourself comfortable.”

Despite coming from the wealthiest family in all of Camelot– and possibly all of Albion– Lady Morgana spoke to Merlin like she would an equal. Gwen had informed her brothers of this strange yet welcome habit years ago when she’d first started working at the palace. Apparently, it confused all the other maids to no end– save for Guinevere, who had become not only a loyal confidante, but a true friend to her lady. 

“Thank you, my lady.” Merlin elected a comfortable-looking peach-colored pouf to sit down on. He crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, then crossed them again. “I’ve, er. Heard wonderful things about you, as well.”

“Lies, every last one of them.” Morgana’s eyes sparkled with amusement as she draped herself over a seashell-pink armchair. She had an air of sharp wit about her that made the warlock self-conscious of his words. It was clear that she wasn’t full of herself the way most nobles tended to be. Nor did she seem the type to concern herself with appearances or rules– she had let a commoner enter her bedchambers, after all, and offered him a seat as if he were an old friend. Merlin wondered what King Uther would think if he found out. He likely wouldn’t be all too pleased. 

“I heard you posed quite the challenge to Arthur the other day in a sparring match,” Lady Morgana lilted.

Merlin shrugged nonchalantly. “He wasn’t too bad himself.” Then, feeling bold, he added, “A quarter candle-mark more and I’d have had him knocked flat on his arse.”

The king’s ward burst out into peals of laughter. “Oh, I like you. Gwen, why didn’t you bring him round earlier?”

Guinevere chuckled lightly and tucked a stray curl behind one ear. She had relaxed visibly once she realized her mistress and her brother were going to get on just fine. “Merlin’s not had a reason to be in the palace ‘till recently. He’s apprenticing for Gaius,” she explained.

“Oh! Speaking of.” Merlin produced the sleeping draft and held it out for the king’s ward to take. “This is for you.” 

She wrinkled her nose at it but accepted it all the same, rising to her feet and placing it by her bedside. She then pattered back across the floor to sit across from her companions once again, eyes alight with curiosity and cleverness. After several minutes of invigorating conversation, in which Morgana quizzed him on everything combat-related from his stances to his footwork and Merlin asked her about the historical texts she’d been reading, the two of them came to the conclusion that they rather liked one another. The blacksmith’s son enjoyed the lady’s quick mind and her brilliant sense of humor, while she in turn seemed drawn to his strange combination of earnestness and wry sarcasm.

Before he knew it, Merlin had been chatting with Morgana and Gwen long past what would be acceptable by Gaius’ standards. He stumbled to his feet stammering ample apologies and rushed out of the ward’s chambers towards the physician’s workshop at full speed. He almost ran over several startled servants on his way. As far as first days went, it wasn’t half bad. He’d already earned himself a scolding, but he had also made a friend. Lady Morgana, who had soon insisted that he refer to her merely as ‘Morgana,’ promised to visit the sparring field with Arthur some time soon. She had skills of her own that she wished to show off– and besides, she insisted, “I used to beat him when we were younger.” Merlin couldn’t wait. Perhaps she’d be able to offer him insights into the prince’s weaknesses. He had never been so excited for sparring practice before in his entire life. Perhaps the royals weren’t so terrible after all. 

*****

“I’ll yield if you yield.”

“Only if you yield first!”

“The whole point is that we do it at the same time, Mer lin!”

Arthur wiped the sweat from his brow as he felt his muscles beginning to tire. He’d been at it with Merlin for the entire practice. They’d bantered together, partnered for drills, and had eventually gone off to spar once Lancelot had instructed everyone to break off into pairs. The practice had ended with Merlin and Arthur caught in an endless battle, as was often the case, while the others looked on in awe. It had been eight sennights since the prince had started joining the commoners in their practice field. He’d had the chance to teach them new drills, sneak them spare equipment, and train them in the battle formations he used with his knights. 

Each lesson ended with him and Merlin feeling exhausted but pleased, agreeing to close out the fight with a draw. Certain that his sparring partner wouldn’t dishonor him whilst he was in the midst of surrendering, Arthur raised his hands in a placating gesture and dropped his sword to the ground. Merlin did the same, then charged him immediately afterwards, tackling him into the dirt. Here, Arthur swiftly gained the upper hand. With no weapons save for his own strength and brawn, he easily got the other man in a headlock, scrubbing his muddy fingers through curled locks of raven hair. Merlin wasn’t one to give up so easily, however. He somehow managed to weasel his way out of the prince’s grip and get in close enough to tickle Arthur. 

Panting and wheezing, the two of them tumbled around on the ground while their friends looked on and laughed. Eventually, Arthur secured his victory, straddling Merlin’s hips with his knees and pinning his wrists to the grass. It occurred to the prince all of a sudden that he’d never held his sparring partner this close before. He breathed in the salty scent of sweat, of iron, and of lavender– something so distinctly Merlin that it made his pulse start to thunder. The other man seemed just as impacted, licking his parted lips as he quirked one dark eyebrow, daring Arthur to… to do what, exactly? The prince was suddenly very aware of where their skin pressed together instead of their chainmail, and where their bodies were most snug. The weight of the moment hung in the air with startling intensity until a familiar voice caused it to shatter like glass. 

“Are you two planning on lying there all day, or will you be joining us at the tavern?” Morgana teased, twirling her braid in one hand as she sheathed her sword with the other. 

She and Guinevere had taken to joining the practices as well, much to Arthur’s chagrin. All of his qualms regarding their personal safety had been silenced when they fought him two-on-one, making quick work of the prince. He eventually stopped demanding that they leave under the condition that Uther never, ever, ever find out about any of this. The man would have his son’s head on a pike if he caught wind of what they were doing.

Leon was scandalized when the two women showed up alongside him in armor for the first time, but he too gave up his squawking once he’d witnessed their prowess in combat. It seemed that social standing wasn’t the only barrier trampled thanks to Lancelot’s group of fighters. Perhaps Arthur would someday end up knighting women right alongside his men. Morgana would make a magnificent general. Barking orders with an iron fist suited her quite well. 

“Get off me, Arthur.” Merlin scrabbled at the prince’s chest like a trapped kitten.

Arthur grinned and let him go, brushing off excess mud and grass as his friend sidled up to him and knocked him in the shoulder. The prince pushed back. They would’ve ended up wrestling all over again if it weren’t for Gwaine, who stomped over and separated the pair.

“Oi! I’ll not have my drinks delayed because you two can’t keep your hands off one another!” he bellowed, much to the delight of the others.

Merlin beamed and slung an arm around Gwaine’s shoulders, leaning on him affectionately with a beguiling smile. A pang of jealousy surged in Arthur’s chest as he witnessed the physical contact. He couldn’t fathom why. It wasn’t like Merlin was friends with him alone. In fact, the big-eared idiot somehow got along exceptionally well with everyone. The prince had started calling it ‘the Merlin effect’ in his head. With his cheerful smiles and his wide blue eyes, he had become a quick favorite amongst the kitchen staff. The scullery maids erupted into giggles whenever he walked past, and some of the squires had started making cow-eyes at him when they thought no one was looking. 

It was ridiculous, really– and it drove Arthur mad. There were lots of things that drove him mad when it came to Merlin. His limbs were gangly, his hands were fidgety, his neck was distracting on the rare occasions where he didn’t wear that silly scarf, and his mouth… no. A prince could not feel this way about one of his subjects. The two of them had become very close during the sennights leading up to the melee. According to the rules of the court, they weren’t even allowed to be friends. Arthur had no idea what would happen if his father found out he’d been training with commoners. All he knew was that it wouldn’t be pretty. Thus, he’d have to keep his distance, as painful and impossible as it felt to do so.

“That trick with the pivot you did earlier– you’ve got to teach me that.” Elyan was approaching Merlin this time, his eyes gleaming with brotherly pride.

It had taken Arthur an embarrassingly long time to figure out that Merlin was technically a Smith. He thought that the man merely worked at the forge alongside Tom and Elyan. Then he’d heard the basket story from Morgana and everything made much more sense. For example, Guinevere and Elyan seemed to have an endless array of embarrassing Merlin stories in their back pockets. This was an eternal source of amusement for Arthur. During breaks between drills, he’d demand to hear all about his sparring partner’s most ridiculous moments. He claimed it was so he could discover any hidden battle weaknesses, but really he just liked learning more about Merlin. The siblings were always more than happy to oblige. The two of them delighted in making the tips of Merlin’s ears turn pink as they recounted tale after tale of his youthful exploits. 

“To the tavern then, lads? And ladies?” Gwaine crowed, acknowledging Gwen and Morgana with a wink. 

They both ignored him pointedly, their arms linked as they flounced past him with matching looks of utter disdain. 

“Ah, I can’t. I have some work to finish up for Tom,” Merlin admitted with a grimace.

“Aw, can’t it wait till the morning?” asked Elyan, punching him in the arm for good measure. 

Merlin shook his head, eyes downcast as he began the slow process of stripping off his armor.

“Why didn’t you finish your work during the day?” Arthur demanded. He sorely wanted to go to the tavern with the others, but knew he wouldn’t enjoy himself half as much without his sparring partner there with him. 

The other man eyed him warily as he managed to wriggle out of his hauberk and chest plate. “I was with Gaius during the day,” he shrugged. “Time’s hard to come by, what with both jobs and then coming here in the evenings.”

The prince felt like an insensitive buffoon. Of course. Money was tight these days for the common men and women of Camelot, thanks to his father having raised the taxes yet again. It made sense that Merlin had picked up a second job to help support his family– and that the strain of two occupations had begun to take its toll on his free time. Arthur thought of his friend alone at the forge, silently working late into the night, illuminated by the glow of hot iron. The next words tumbled out of his mouth almost of their own accord.

“I’ll come with you.”

Merlin stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “Come with me,” he repeated, “to the forge.”

“Yes, Merlin. To make sure you don’t fall into the hot coals,” he teased, hiding his attachment behind a wall of insults. 

The other man gave him a rude gesture before exchanging glances with Leon, who shrugged his shoulders impassively as if to say, I’ve absolutely no idea what he’s on about .

“Um. All right. You can join me. If you want to,” Merlin frowned. He still seemed rather confused. 

Arthur himself was quite bewildered. What on earth had possessed him to do such a thing? Was he so desperate to spend time with his new friend that he’d follow him to his place of work, likely getting in the way while he finished the rest of his daily chores? 

A small, insignificant, supremely unhelpful voice inside of him whispered that he was excited by the prospect of alone time with Merlin. He promptly told that voice to stay quiet as he attempted to come up with some semblance of an excuse for his strange behavior. Just when he’d decided he was an idiot and that he should tell Merlin he’d changed his mind so he could go home, Morgana sidled up to him with a wry smile.

“Going to the forge, are we? To watch Merlin handle his swords?” She made the innocent question seem dirty and sinful as she wiggled her eyebrows at him suggestively.

“I am very curious about metalwork. Not that it’s any of your business , Morgana,” Arthur huffed through gritted teeth. 

The woman who was practically his sister shot him a knowing glance over her shoulder before she darted off to rejoin Guinevere, the two of them whispering to each other emphatically.

“Come along, come along. Off we go to the tavern. It’s like herding cats with you lot!” Gwaine whined, doing his best to hurry everyone along. Eventually, Percival picked the man up and hoisted him over his shoulder, if only to shut him up for a little while.

Leon seemed torn between accompanying his prince and supervising the king’s ward. Arthur decided to make his decision for him.

“Go on and enjoy yourself, Sir Leon. That’s an order,” the prince proclaimed. 

The First Knight smiled ruefully and gave him a mock-salute before jogging to catch up with the rest of the group. This left Arthur and Merlin alone on the training field. The latter turned towards the city with his head cocked to one side. His expression read, still coming? Arthur nodded and matched his pace as they walked towards the upper quarter together. The prince glanced around at the city before him as if it might help him come up with something to talk about. He tried his best to ignore the people gawking as their Crown Prince walked amongst them, casual as could be. Hopefully word wouldn’t reach Uther that he was wandering around the town with a commoner. Perhaps he should’ve brought some sort of disguise with him. He made a note to remember it for next time.

“Your chest plate,” he said at last, “and your hauberk. They’re very finely made. Where did you acquire such beautiful armor?”

A secretive, rabbity look appeared in Merlin’s eyes as he avoided the prince’s searching gaze. “I made them,” he replied casually.

Arthur stopped dead in his tracks. “ You made this ?” he scoffed, gesturing to the chest piece incredulously.

“Is it so difficult to imagine that I’m good at something besides swinging a sword around?” Merlin grumbled.

He disproved his own point somewhat by nearly tripping over an upturned crate. The prince did nothing to stifle his laughter as his sparring partner glowered at him menacingly. 

“Tom’s an excellent teacher,” the blacksmith’s son supplied with a shrug. 

There was something else to this tale– something that Merlin was keeping from Arthur. He was desperately curious to find out what it was, but figured he shouldn’t pry. Most of the time his friend was an open book– the prince honestly doubted Merlin could keep a secret if he tried– but sometimes there was a glimmer of something lurking just beneath the surface. Arthur didn’t suspect it was anything nefarious, but for some reason it bothered him that his friend didn’t wish to share it with him. 

“He must be. Perhaps I’ll have to commission you to fashion some armor for me some day. Or a sword,” he said with a grin.

Merlin half-smiled back at him and clutched his armor a little tighter against his chest. “I’d charge you triple,” he teased.

“I’ll have you know that most artisans would be honored to craft something for the Crown Prince of Camelot,” Arthur shot back. 

“Well, good for them.” Merlin’s sky blue eyes sparkled with mirth as he looked up at the prince from under his lashes.

Arthur’s breath caught in his chest at the sight. This man. This ridiculous, talented, gorgeous man was going to be the death of him. He’d thought that perhaps his feelings for Merlin were a knee-jerk reaction to something pretty and shiny that would fade over time. As the days and sennights marched on, however, it was becoming increasingly clear that this was not the case. And here he was, trotting dutifully after Merlin like some lovesick girl instead of going to the tavern with the rest of his friends. 

“Idiot,” the prince muttered to himself.

“What was that?” Merlin challenged, raising his eyebrows till they nearly reached his hairline.

“Nothing,” Arthur said quickly.

“It didn’t sound like nothing. It sounded like the word ‘idiot,’” his sparring partner accused.

The prince threw up his hands in exasperation. “Oh, now I see why your ears are so large. It’s so you can listen in on everyone’s business.”

“It’s my business if you’re calling me an idiot, you arse!”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

“Make me!”

They bickered and bantered all the way to the Smiths’ residence. There was quite a bit of shoving involved as well. Breathless with laughter, they chased each other round the back and into Tom’s workshop. Arthur looked around curiously while Merlin slipped into a chestnut brown apron and went to light the forge. The fire’s orange glow cast contrasting shadows across his jutting cheekbones, making him appear ethereal and otherworldly. The prince resisted the urge to close the distance between them and trace his jaw with his fingertips. 

“What are you working on?” he asked in an attempt to distract himself.

Merlin picked up a wide, wicked-looking blade– the kind Arthur had seen used in the kitchens to cut meat. “Set of new knives for the butcher’s wife. She’s going to give them to him on his birthday.”

He cast the finished knife aside and checked on the heat of the forge, waiting for it to reach the correct temperature. The prince wondered how many lives his sparring partner had touched with his craft. How many plows, swords, latches, and keys had experienced the steadiness of Merlin’s hands as he shaped amorphous metals into everyday objects, scattered throughout Camelot for its people to use as they saw fit. 

“You sure you don’t want to go to the Rising Sun with the others? This isn’t going to be very entertaining,” the blacksmith murmured sheepishly. 

He was staring at Arthur with a curious expression– the same one he wore on the battlefield when he was attempting to predict his sparring partner’s next move. His head was slightly tilted to one side, birdlike, and his brow was furrowed as he wrinkled his forehead.

“And listen to Gwaine’s idle prattle for an entire evening? No thank you.” The prince wrinkled his nose in disdain.

Merlin let out a soft chuckle and crouched over the forge once more. He grabbed hold of a poker and moved the coals around, muttering to himself as he did so. Heat blazed from the firepot, indicating that it was ready for use. The blacksmith took up a small, flat piece of steel between a pair of tongs and thrust it into the fire. He held it there for some time, watching the metal shift from dull gray to blazing red. 

“Melee’s in a fortnight,” Merlin said casually. “How are your knights faring?”

Arthur lifted his eyes to the ceiling. Between the endless bickering, the constant posturing, and the various levels of passive aggression between his men, the Knight Commander ended each training session feeling as if he were ready to bite someone’s head off. Unfortunately, Sir Leon and Merlin had been bearing the brunt of his frustrations. This was likely why his sparring partner was asking in the first place. Whenever Arthur attended Lancelot’s gatherings these days, he arrived in the foulest of moods. Everyone would avoid him save for Merlin, who would goad him and tease him until he was smiling again. He was endlessly grateful for the company of his newfound friend.

“Fine. They’re focusing on their drills for once, which is a welcome change. Sir Chauncey actually ran his sprints to completion yesterday. I suppose they’re as eager to win as all of you,” he replied with a regretful frown.

Arthur wasn’t too fond of the fact that he was training the upper quarter’s main competition. Whenever the nobles asked how the commoners were faring with their ‘little army of farmers playing knights,’ the prince would bite his tongue and offer a noncommittal answer. If only they knew how familiar he was with their combat tactics. He knew without a doubt that Merlin alone could knock out half his knights in a single round, let alone Merlin fighting alongside Elyan, or Gwaine, or heavens forbid, Lancelot. The group had already agreed that they’d spend the first portion of the melee allying themselves with one another to ensure that they’d all make it through the first several rounds. An honorable notion that hadn’t even occurred to any of the nobility. 

“I wish you could tell them about us.” Merlin’s grin was feral in the firelight. “Or maybe I don’t. That way it’ll be a nice surprise when we kick their noble arses.”

“What about my noble arse?” Arthur inquired with a smirk.

His sparring partner went silent as he removed the now yellow piece of metal from the forge. Setting it up on the anvil, he took hold of a hammer and began to shape it into a knife’s edge. The deafening clangs echoed throughout the workshop. The muscles in Merlin’s arms strained as he hit the steel at just the right angle to ensure it turned out the way he wanted. 

“Your royal arse, you mean,” Merlin shot back. “And… well. We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

He glanced up all of a sudden, his eyes alight with mischief. His pink tongue darted out to wet his lips as he held Arthur’s gaze. He wasn’t… no. But he couldn’t be flirting , could he? The prince discovered that every single word he’d ever known had just flown out of his head. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. Was it quite hot in here all of a sudden? Of course it was. They were in a forge. Just the two of them, alone, while Merlin’s muscles rippled and clenched as he brought the head of his hammer down, down, onto what would soon become a blade. 

“There’ll be no hard feelings when I beat you, then?” Arthur said at last, settling on bravado as he always did when he felt unsettled.

His sparring partner let out a derisive snort. “When I beat you ,” he corrected, raising his voice over the din of the hammer. 

“That’s absolutely ridiculous, Mer lin. The entire city is convinced that I’m going to win the melee. And with good reason.” The prince took a tentative step closer towards him. “I’ve been trained to kill since birth, you know.”

“Wow,” Merlin said cheerfully, “and how long have you been training to be a prat?”

Clang, clang, clang .

Arthur moved forwards until he was standing at the other man’s shoulder. He pretended to be very interested in the soon-to-be-knife, leaning forwards as he examined the blacksmith’s handiwork. It was shaping up to be a fine blade, from what the prince knew of knives, which was a decent amount. Merlin was admittedly quite talented with his craft. Perhaps the prince would take him up on a commission after all. 

“I want it to be you,” he blurted before he could second guess himself.

Merlin paused for a moment in his hammering. “You want…”

“I want you to win the melee.” I want you to be elevated to the status you deserve. I want you by my side on the battlefield. On the training grounds. In the castle. I want to court you; I want you in my bed…

It was as if a dam had burst. All the thoughts that Arthur had been keeping at bay rushed forth in an incessant flood. He wanted Merlin. Had wanted him since the moment he first laid eyes on him. He couldn’t get his sparring partner out of his mind. Whenever he left their training sessions, he found himself touching his arms, his chest, all the places where Merlin had landed a blow. He imagined what it would be like for his blade to be replaced with his hands or, gods, his mouth . They’d wrestled earlier that day and it wasn’t exertion that had taken his breath away. It was Merlin. Always Merlin. Maddening, contradictory, gorgeous Merlin, battle-worn with smudges of dirt on his cheeks or fresh-faced and laughing, ready to run through the starting drills. 

The very same man was looking at him with those precious blue eyes of his– cornflower blue. River blue, with flecks of gold that were only revealed whenever they pressed close to one another, sharing breaths, crowding each other’s space…

Before Arthur could figure out what was happening, Merlin had set his blacksmith’s tools aside. He leaned forward carefully, tentatively, constantly assessing to see if the prince would withdraw. He didn’t. He couldn’t. He wanted this more than anything he’d ever wanted in his entire life . He closed the distance between them in an instant, pressing their mouths together in a rushing tidal wave of a kiss. Their lips moved together in a passionate dance of teeth and tongues. It was like when they were sparring. It was like heaven. It was everything Arthur had ever wanted, and by the gods, he wanted so much more. 

He slipped his tongue into Merlin’s mouth. The other man responded eagerly, fighting for dominance and eventually biting down on Arthur’s lower lip. He moaned, surging closer until their bodies were slotted against each other. He felt the hardness of Merlin’s cock straining in his trousers. His own arousal rubbed against it eagerly. Eventually, tragically, Merlin pushed him away, gesturing vaguely to the half-finished knife resting upon the nearby anvil.

“I have to… I can’t…” he stammered as the prince let out an undignified whine. 

“Can’t it wait, Merlin?” Arthur growled, crowding into him and shoving that daft neckerchief aside so he could mouth at the column of his throat. 

“It’s like I… like I told the others,” he panted roughly, “this is the only time I… oh, Arthur, that’s… yes .”

There was more kissing. More hands. More grinding up against one another. It didn’t take much convincing. Merlin abandoned his metalworking tools and backed the prince away from the forge so they weren’t in danger of knocking over something important. Arthur found himself pressed up against the wall as Merlin licked and nibbled at his jawline. Their lips came together once more as they poured all their pent-up passion into one another. Soft cries of yes and please were barely audible over the crackling of the coals as the two of them lavished each other with kisses and searing touches. They were sweaty from training and from the heat of the forge, but Arthur didn’t care. All he wanted was Merlin. Merlin, lithe and wriggling beneath his touch as they lost themselves in the sensations of lust and something more, gently fluttering within the confines of the prince’s chest. 

This man was going to be the death of him– and he didn’t give a damn.

*****

Evening was fading into dusk by the time Elyan bid his friends farewell and began the short walk home from the Rising Sun. He’d left early because he felt badly for Merlin, trapped at the forge alone while the others enjoyed themselves at the tavern. Well. Technically he wasn’t alone. Prince Arthur had gone with him, much to everyone’s surprise. Elyan himself wasn’t too shocked. He’d noticed the way Arthur and Merlin made eyes at each other whenever they thought nobody was looking. The prince seemed especially besotted if the incessant teasing was anything to go by. If the eldest of Tom’s three children knew anything about men and their silly courtship rituals, it was that hair-pulling– or in this case, insults and sparring– did not mean, I want to punch you , but rather, I’d like to kiss you . 

There were multiple reasons why Merlin should not kiss Arthur. The first was that nothing could ever come of it. He was a prince and Merlin was an orphan taken in by a blacksmith. Uther would throw his brother in the dungeons at best, and execute him at worst. The second was that Merlin had magic , which the prince did not know about. Thanks to Gaius’ training since the warlock was a baby and to Tom’s gentle guidance whenever they were at home, he’d learned how to control his abilities fairly well. That didn’t mean he should go around attaching his lips to the king’s son, of all people. No. As much as he felt for the two of them, Elyan figured it could only end in tears. This was his second reason for heading home early. He didn’t want his brother getting into any funny business while he was alone in the forge with the prince.

The familiar billow of smoke from his father’s workshop was a comforting sight. He walked the final stretch across the cobblestone streets and listened for the sounds of clanging. Strangely enough, he didn’t hear anything. Concerned, he sprinted the rest of the way and pushed the door to the workshop wide open. The forge was lit, but no one was working the anvil. Instead, Merlin was standing in the corner, flushed with embarrassment, hair rumpled and neck covered in love bites with his neckerchief discarded on the floor. Arthur looked just as debauched. He yelped as the two men sprang apart from each other.

Elyan’s eyes went wide. His mouth fell open. Then he was shouting. “No! No, absolutely not, no!”

“El–” Merlin began in a pleading tone. 

His brother shook his head firmly. “No. I do not want to hear it. Arthur– sire– whoever– get out of my forge.” 

“Elyan,” the prince said gently.

“Now.”

“This isn’t– please, allow me to explain–” Arthur looked truly remorseful, which was what made this even harder for Elyan.

He wanted his brother to be happy. He really did. But how could he ever be happy with someone he wasn’t even allowed to be with? Why couldn’t he have found some nice farmer, or a stablehand, or even a squire to fall for? Why did it have to be the thrice-damned Prince of Camelot?

“Please, Elyan, don’t blame Arthur,” Merlin begged.

He had that big-eyed pouty expression on his face– the one that had always earned him extra oatcakes and bedtime stories when he was small. Elyan glowered at him to indicate that he wasn’t backing down this time. 

“I’m not blaming anyone. I just– do you know how dangerous– how stupid .” He began to pace back and forth, tearing at his hair in a way that he knew resembled his father. Gods. He was turning into Tom.

“You’re right, Elyan.” Arthur spoke up this time. “I have put Merlin at risk with my actions and I am truly sorry. But you must know that I would never let any harm come to him. I care about him far too much for that.”

Oh, hell. Oh, bloody, buggering hell. The prince had feelings for Merlin. This wasn’t just some silly back room fumble. They actually cared for one another. This was terrible. This was wonderful. This was going to get them both into so much trouble. Elyan turned to look at his brother and was rather displeased to see him glowing with elation at Arthur’s words. Yes, they were idiots, but they were idiots whose hearts were on the line, and that changed… Well, everything, really.

“That’s very honorable of you, sire, but what happens when your father finds out?” he asked, kinder this time.

The prince pressed his lips together and exchanged nervous glances with Merlin. “He won’t,” Arthur said decisively. “We’ll be careful.”

Elyan shook his head with a grimace. “No. See, you don’t understand. If the king finds out that you two have feelings for one another, you will be fine. You’ll receive a slap on the wrist. Perhaps a night or so in a cell. Merlin, on the other hand…” 

Thrown in the dungeons for months on end. Banished from Camelot. Accused of enchanting the Crown Prince. The list went on and on, each option more deadly than the last. The fools had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Or, even worse, perhaps they knew and had decided not to care. Merlin was clever and careful with his heart. He knew that giving himself over to another person would eventually mean revealing his deepest, most dangerous secret. And Arthur… well. From what Elyan could tell about the prince, he was not someone who did things halfway.

“I do understand,” Arthur protested, “truly, I do. If Merlin wants to end things for his own safety–”

“I don’t,” the warlock interrupted.

Fucking brilliant. This was definitely going on the ever-growing list titled, Reasons Merlin will Give Elyan Gray Hairs By the Time he is Thirty Winters . 

“I suppose there’s nothing I can do to keep you two apart, is there?” he asked wearily.

Arthur set his jaw while Merlin shook his head.

Elyan heaved a put-upon sigh and folded his arms across his chest. “All right. I obviously won’t tell anyone because I don’t wish to see my brother’s head on a pike. But truly, sire.” He crossed the room to stand rather uncomfortably close to the prince. “If anything happens to Merlin– anything at all– if he so much as trips and hits his head on the side of a royal table– I will find you.”

“ Elyan ,” Merlin scolded, “I’m not some maiden whose honor is in need of defending.”

“No, you’re my little brother and I love you, you absolute dollophead.” Perfect. Now he was starting to use Merlin’s own insults against him. 

The dollophead in question let out a surprised laugh as Elyan stepped away from Arthur. The prince bravely went to stand by Merlin’s side and placed a hand at his lower back. This was it, then, wasn’t it? They were doing this. Elyan’s baby brother had caught the attentions of a prince. He dragged his hand across his face in consternation and gestured to the abandoned forge. 

“You should probably finish these before sunup,” he suggested. “I’ll help.”

Merlin nodded obediently. If Elyan noticed the way his brother brushed a hand across the prince’s wrist as he moved towards the anvil, it was none of his business. Arthur cleared his throat loudly and put his hands in his pockets. 

“I, er. Best be going, then,” he announced awkwardly.

Merlin looked over at him hopefully. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yes,” the prince agreed without hesitation, “always.”

With one last longing look at Merlin, Arthur Pendragon turned on his heel and left the forge. Once he was gone, Elyan arched his eyebrows at his brother and held out a hammer for him to take. 

“So,” he began conversationally.

“No.” Merlin cut him off with a glower. “We absolutely are not having this conversation.”

Elyan couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped from his lips as he took in the furious expression on his brother’s face. To anyone else, Merlin’s stormy look would’ve seemed fearsome, but to the man who had known him since he was a mere baby in a basket, the glare was less terrifying and more amusing. It was the same face he made whenever Elyan ate the last bread roll, or Guinevere made some comment about the cuteness of his ears. 

“Fine, fine. Pretend I never asked.” Elyan snagged a piece of metal from the pile on the workbench and brought it over to the forge to heat. Merlin joined him, and soon the clank of hammers echoed through the night as the two men worked out their disagreements on the anvil. By the time the set of knives was complete, they were smiling and laughing like friends again. So it went, with brothers. Elyan knew Merlin would come around. He himself had realized that perhaps he’d been too hard on Arthur. He wasn’t fully certain what his brother’s intentions were, and vice versa, but he knew one thing: if Merlin won the melee, he could have his prince. A knight was a far more acceptable match than a commoner. Perhaps the two of them could end up together after all.