Scribulations

Masterlist

Sun, 13 Dec 2009 00:39:46 GMT

Merlin Fanfiction

Sea Voyage — 932 words. Promptfic.

Christmas Cracker Fic — 1,189 words.

The Journal of Geoffrey the Cat. Aged 3 years and 5 months — 1,822 words. kinkme_merlin promptfic

The Cure All — 1,800 words.

Clean — 1,053 words. kinkme_merlin promptfic.

Merlin Emrys's Biggest Fan — 4,201 words. kinkme_merlin promptfic.

Vigil — 686 words. Winner of beyond_camelot's Swords & Magic challenge.

Lady Catherine Comes To Camelot — 3,400 words. kinkme_merlin promptfic.

Torn Between Two Pressing Situations — 934 words. Promptfic.

Arthur's Map — 2,028 words. Same universe as Innovation.

Visions Of Half-Sleep — 1,174 words. Promptfic.

Innovation — PG, 798 words. Promptfic. Prequel: Arthur's Map.

Walk Of Shame — 658 words. Promptfic.

Haircut — 393 words. Promptfic.

Dear Idiot — 5,278 words.

Past History — 1,292 words.

Waiting — 1,161 words.

The Route To Advancement

1. The Route To Advancement — 4,394 words. [AOOO]

2. An Epilogue — 1,952 words. [AOOO]

3. A Day At The Tournament — 8,150 words. [AOOO]

4. A Most Unfortunate Hunt — 3,303 words. [AOOO]

Forsaking All Others — 5,941 words.

The Offer — 3,325 words.

Merlin Fanvids

What Hurts The Most

Accidentally In Love

Clean - An Arthur/Merlin Prompt Fic for Ven

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 01:10:43 GMT

Written for vensre’s kinkmeme prompt: Arthur/Merlin, clean kink. Not requirements, just a few ideas to inspire you: post-bath ogling; soft, sweet-scented hair and clean lickable skin; ritual bathing or handwashing; Arthur manipulating Merlin into taking a bath (possibly by getting him too dirty not to bathe) because he loves to see him clean; Merlin washing Arthur's face and arms with a hot or cool wet cloth as comfort, or just to feel good; getting soapy in the bath and sliding their skin together...

Er… except my version is distinctly PG rated AT BEST.

Anywho, this one is for Ven, a.k.a Inspector Clouseau, who guessed it was me even though I was being TOTALLY SUBTLE and secret and anonymous and wearing a comedy beard and dark glasses ~~and even though I wrote in the present tense.~~

Clean

“I think you do this on purpose,” Merlin says, trailing Arthur into his chambers like a wet cat, all shuffling steps and frowns as his sodden clothes cling to him.

And Arthur almost says yes, he does - only not for the reasons Merlin thinks. But instead he just shrugs off his wet tunic and laughs, normal, says, “Honestly, Merlin, I have more important things to do than dream up ways to annoy my manservant.”

Merlin scowls at him but it’s not a real scowl. Arthur has seen those, too often accompanied by arguments over who’s going first and why it is simply not acceptable for Merlin to put himself at risk for Arthur. This time, Merlin is scowling because he is wet and cold and because he didn’t want to go on the hunt in the first place, because he told Arthur it would rain and Arthur wouldn’t listen. So Arthur ignores it, tells Merlin to fetch him a clean shift while he’s waiting for the maids with the bathwater, and Merlin does – muttering all the while about stubborn Princes and black clouds as the rain beats on the window pane and the fire burns brightly in the hearth.

It doesn’t take long for the water to arrive – he is the Prince after all – and Arthur is only too happy to discard the rest of his clothes and sink into the heat of it, pretending he doesn’t see the way Merlin politely averts his eyes, cheeks pink, but keeps sneaking little glances like he sneaks sips of Arthur’s wine at dinner. It’s almost perfect, Arthur thinks, listening to the sound of the rain, the crackle of the fire and Merlin as he moves quietly about the room, picking up the discarded clothing, drifting closer and closer to the fireplace until his skin glows almost gold in the reflected light. In the gently steaming water Arthur drags the soft soap over his skin and watches Merlin as he slowly strips away the layers of mud and sweat and cold, taking away the marks of training and patrol and the hunt until there is no Prince left, only Arthur. Merlin waits, but at Arthur’s word he comes forward, eyes down, and jug in hand to pour the water over Arthur’s head as he leans forward, head bowed and eyes tight shut so that all he feels is Merlin’s warmth and the heat cascading over him.

And then he’s done, stepping out into rosy firelight, wrapping himself in the blanket Merlin holds out for him and waiting until it will sound casual enough, until he can say “you can use it too, if you like,” and not sound like it was what he wanted all along. Merlin looks surprised, like he always does, and pleased and Arthur almost forgets to look away until Merlin pauses, awkward, one arm out of his shirt already and ears red. So Arthur makes sure to heave an exasperated sigh, to roll his eyes and turn around, exaggerated, discarding his blanket and pulling on loose trousers and a worn shift, and by the time he is done, Merlin is in the water, soft splashes mixing with little contented sighs as he tries to get all of himself under at once - an impossible task, Arthur knows.

“Here, idiot,” Arthur says, scooping up the soap where it has fallen on the flagstones by the tub and dropping it into Merlin’s hands, “Make sure you wash behind your ears this time.”

Merlin’s too comfortable even to glare, just looks at Arthur from half-lidded eyes and begins to lather the soap, slowly and like it’s too much trouble, soaping along his pale arms, streaks of mud disappearing under white and the scent of lye, and then dipping his hands beneath the water, washing goosebumps from his legs, from his bony knees that stick out of the water, however much he shifts and moves. And then awkward, as he reaches around his neck, brow furrowed with effort until Arthur finds himself moving forward and dropping to his knees beside him.

“Let me,” he says, voice gruff and Merlin slides forward, knees bent and head tipped as Arthur takes the soap and smooths it over his nape, hands strong and steady as he traces the top of his spine and feels the muscles shift beneath his palms. “Head too,” he says,“I think there might be something living in there,” and Merlin grumbles a little at that, manages a half-hearted, “I do wash you know,” before he breaks off, spluttering as Arthur pours the full jug of water over him, running soapy hands through his dark hair until it sticks up every which way, until Merlin is blinking his eyes rapidly and trying to duck away. So Arthur relents, pours water until it runs clean and Merlin’s hair lies wet and flat like an otter’s pelt against his scalp, his ridiculous ears even more noticeable like this. And then Merlin shakes his head, like the cat Arthur thought he resembled when he first came in, laughing when Arthur recoils a little too late.

“Got you,” says Merlin, sleepily, sunk low in the water once more, head propped on one hand on the edge of the tub.

And the thing is, Arthur likes him like this. He likes him warm and sleepy, all scrubbed pink skin and damp hair curling delicately against his nape, smelling of soap and herbs and that something that is indefinably Merlin. He likes that he can do this for him, that the smell of the stables and the smoke of the kitchens can be washed away as easily as the mud from patrol, until they are just themselves and there is no difference between them. And he likes that when he is warm and clean, Merlin will be too tired and comfortable to wind his way back through the cold passageways to Gaius’s chambers, and that he will stay. But most of all, Arthur likes waking in the night, buried under heavy wool blankets with Merlin sleep-warm beside him, the smell of soap, damp hair and fresh linen mixing with the scent of wood smoke as Arthur presses closer, breathes in sweet, clean skin and falls asleep to the sound of the rain and the gentle rise and fall of Merlin’s breathing.

THE END

Note to self: Stop anthropomorphising inanimate objects.

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 20:36:28 GMT

Does anyone else get weirdly attached to inanimate objects? I just had a horrifying ten minutes where my telly WOULD NOT WORK. I would press the 'on' button, the little red light would come on, and then it would... go out again. Repeatedly. For normal people I'm sure this would be a time for some annoyance at missing what you were planning to watch and maybe at having to fork out for a new TV. But instead I found myself pressing the on button over and over in a "NO TELLY, DON'T LEAVE ME! WE WATCHED PRIDE AND PREJUDICE TOGETHER IN 1995." kind of a way.

Yes, I got my telly for my 11th Christmas. I am now 26. By all accounts, I fear this is an Elderly Telly. My telly had to be coaxed into the world of freeview. It needs so many cables to run digital television AND a DVD player that the back of it now resembles a branch of Dixons. Also, there is a black dot on the screen. I think it's there mainly so people can come round and say "Has David Tennant/Colin Morgan/that weather man got something on his face?" I've also lost the back to the remote control, so the battery pack is held in with sellotape. And when I take it home I have to gaffer tape the aerial to the window to get any kind of reception. But the thing is, I love my telly! I don't think I'm ready to say goodbye. I was so proud to finally have one of my own, and it came to uni with me. I even used to play Sonic the Hedgehog on it when I borrowed my brother's Sega Megadrive. I've defeated Doctor Robotnik on that telly (we'll gloss over my subsequent and less than heroic Death by Fire-Breathing Caterpillar in the Marble Zone).

I think I'm going to have to leave it on stand-by from now on. Which will destroy the planet. But I fear if I switch it off again, it may go to the great telly wasteland in the sky.

:(

Fic: Merlin Emrys's Biggest Fan (Merlin/Arthur)

Sat, 28 Nov 2009 23:43:41 GMT

Title: Merlin Emrys’s Biggest Fan
Wordcount: 4,201
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Summary: Written for the kinkmeme prompt, ‘Arthur/Merlin. Merlin is a world-famous celebrity whom Arthur has been pining after for years. He finally has a chance to meet him (screening? convention? concert? up to you), and on a whim slips him a note with his hotel and room number. Merlin unexpectedly (for both of them) takes him up on his offer. Bonus points for reincarnation!fic and Merlin teasing Arthur about his crush.’ This is a little different from the prompt – but hopefully not too much!

Huge thanks to vensre as always for her beta work, the title, and all her encouragement!

Merlin Emrys's Biggest Fan

Arthur wouldn’t say he was Merlin Emrys’s biggest fan, whatever evil little cousins called Edwin might suggest. He was just into films, that was all. And ok, so he might have all said actor’s films on DVD, and a few limited edition posters he had picked up here and there (or for Christmas), but there was nothing wrong with that. There was a reason Merlin Emrys was considered one of Britain’s most popular actors after all. And he’d been that for the past five years – ever since he’d done that TV series with Steven Spielberg (that Arthur might or might not have on video and DVD). So really, Arthur just considered himself to be Following His Career, and if he had been heard to say he had nice bone structure (he did not say cheekbones) when he was drunk on his 18th birthday, well that didn’t mean he fancied the man, it was just a little hard not to notice when you’d been looking at his picture on your notice board for the past three years.

But it was one thing to reassure himself of that when he was alone in his room and facing up to the fact that someone (possibly him) had arranged his Merlin DVDs in chronological order, it was quite another to do it when Merlin himself was standing ten feet away from him on a London street. And he was. It was really him, ubiquitous scarf flapping in the breeze as he smiled and posed for pictures with a giggling group of teenage girls. Not for the first time, Arthur found himself wishing he had a normal twelve year old sister so that he had an excuse to go and join them, instead of Morgana who was currently pulling his arm out of its socket and whining, “come on, you said the Science Museum, you promised!” as she attempted to drag him away from the tube station entrance.

Arthur would probably have given in (before the inevitable Chinese burn) but the thing was, Merlin kept looking at him. Just little glances in between answering questions and smiling for the numerous cameras that kept appearing from bags and pockets, but enough that Arthur found himself checking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t blocking a view of Keira Knightley (rumoured to be his on and off screen love interest on the set of Merlin’s latest film – not that Arthur ever read the tabloids). However, all Arthur could see was a group of Japanese students who had evidently just caught sight of Merlin and were looking ridiculously excited. So Arthur looked back and Merlin actually smiled at him, big and happy and not at all like his trademark smile. Arthur did his best to smile back, but unfortunately it probably came out more like a pained grimace as Morgana chose that moment to stamp on his foot and hiss, “I’ll tell dad you wouldn’t take me!”

“Alright, alright!” said Arthur, looking away and trying to get some feeling back in his foot, “We’re going, just…” he was about to say ‘hang on’, or possibly ‘I think you broke my toe,’ but as he looked up to speak he realised Merlin was suddenly standing a lot closer – talking to the Japanese students as he, well, Arthur would almost say he was edging closer. Except that would be weird and unlikely.

“What about you? Do you want an autograph as well?” The words were so low amongst the excited chatter surrounding them that it took Arthur a moment to realise Merlin had just spoken to him. He stopped wriggling his toes in his trainer and looked up to find Merlin stood only a foot away and grinning at him like they were sharing some kind of private joke.

Arthur gaped, then managed, “I, er, don’t have any paper.”

Merlin’s grin faltered and Arthur decided dying there and then would be an excellent option, a decision only helped by Morgana’s snort and mutter of “lame.”

“Oh,” said Merlin, turning away for a second to pose for another picture, then he looked back, frowning at Arthur like he was some sort of puzzle. Arthur could feel himself going red – and not in a cool movie star way, but in a blotchy, Arthur way that probably made him look like he had a skin disease. Which thought only made it worse of course.

“Alright,” said Merlin, once he’d finished his unsettling scrutiny of Arthur’s face, “I have some pictures back at my hotel, I could sign one and send it to you if you like – where are you staying?”

At that point Arthur forgot to be embarrassed and just stared at him, because strange men, even famous ones, did not go around offering to send you signed photos, and they most certainly didn’t ask you for your address.

“You’re staying in London, right?” said Merlin. Somewhere to his right, Arthur could see Merlin’s PA, or handler, or whatever she was, checking her watch and casting pointed looks at the side of Merlin’s head.

“Uh… yeah,” said Arthur, after a moment, “at the Marriott – with my dad and sister.”

At the mention of his sister Merlin’s eyes flickered down to Morgana and he treated her to his trademark smile, which earned him a narrow eyed glare in response. Oddly, Merlin didn’t seem to mind this at all and his smile turned into a full grin. “The Marriott it is then,” he looked back at Arthur, evidently waiting for something. Arthur just blinked at him. “So?” Merlin prompted, “Whereabouts in the Marriott? Or do I just ask for A…” he faltered slightly, then carried on, “…for a tall blonde man who’s Team Jacob and proud of it?”

“Team…?” At the last second Arthur remembered the stupid stickers Morgana had slapped on his coat that morning when some foolish woman had spotted her outside HMV and kindly given her a Twilight goodie bag – because “all little girls love Twilight!”. Morgana, who firmly rejected the notion that she was like all little girls, had immediately covered Arthur in stickers which said bizarre things like “lion and lamb”, “EC 4 BS” and, most inexplicably, “Forks.” Arthur’d thought he’d got them all off, but apparently not. He ripped it off hastily (why the hell was it sparkly?) and wondered if his face would ever revert to a normal colour. “God, no, that was… I mean, I don’t even….” Merlin seemed to be laughing at him so Arthur stopped talking and made a mental note to kill his sister (the second such note that morning).

“Merlin?” the PA woman tapped her watch and raised an eyebrow.

Merlin smiled apologetically at Arthur, “Sorry, Gwen runs me to a tight schedule.”

“Right,” said Arthur, as if he knew all about film stars and their schedules.

Merlin looked at Gwen and then back at Arthur, “So… room number?”

“Oh, right, yes.” Arthur said, feeling flustered, “I’m in 213, and my name’s Arthur Pendragon.”

Merlin smiled at him as he was jostled towards the car, “Nice to meet you, room 213, Arthur Pendragon.”

And then he was being all but pushed into the large black car, disappearing behind tinted windows as Gwen climbed in the other side, already talking to someone on her mobile about interviews and ‘windows’, and then he was gone, the car pulling out into the busy London traffic, leaving Arthur alone and slightly stunned on the pavement.

“For that,” said Morgana, “We are going to Natural History museum too.”

….

Arthur checked at the desk as soon as they got back to the hotel. Not that he expected Merlin Emrys to have sent anything yet, a large part of him didn’t even expect him to remember, but, well, stranger things had happened. But the receptionist had shaken her head apologetically, leaving Arthur to trail off to a dinner in which his father droned on about some business meeting and Morgana stole all his chips. It was, he thought two hours later as he flopped down on the bed in his hotel room, about par for the course. If Edwin were here he’d probably be laughing his ass off and pointing out that Arthur checking at the desk three times in one night was a sign of obsession or something equally stupid. Arthur flicked disconsolately through the channels – at least he had his own room this time, after years of being left to ‘mind his sister.’ This time Morgana was in a connecting room of his father’s suite, leaving Arthur a hotel room of his own for the first time in 19 years. And he fully intended to enjoy the freedom, which, for the most part, simply meant being able to watch what he wanted, and not some depressing documentary on the fate of the lesser spotted antelope, or whatever Morgana was currently saving from extinction. Arthur flicked briefly through an episode of Doctor Who, then some reality show before finding…

Hmmm.

He didn’t know if watching a Merlin Emrys film would make me feel better or worse about his humiliating afternoon, but it was Revenge of the Dragon – one of his favourites – so he let it play anyway, and tried not to think about anyone’s bone structure. He was just beginning to doze, lazily munching his way through a tube of Pringles, when the knock came on his door and he added another ‘kill Morgana’ to the list (could you kill someone three times in one day? Four, if you counted the Incident with the Animatronic Dinosaur in the Natural History Museum that afternoon). With a series of mutters, because she would absolutely not go away if he didn’t answer, Arthur dragged himself off the bed, muting the TV and leaving crisps and the duvet strewn everywhere, and stamped across to the door, yanking it open with a scowl and a “Morgana, I told you…” only to stutter incoherently into silence when he found himself face to face with Merlin Emrys.

“Hi,” said Merlin, when it became apparent Arthur wasn’t going to be doing much but staring and gaping for quite a while. He held up an envelope, “I’ve got your picture.”

“Uh…” said Arthur, eloquently.

Merlin looked up and down the corridor, then back at Arthur, quirking an eyebrow, “Can I come in?”

“Um…” Arthur managed this time, but he stood aside letting Merlin brush past him into his hotel room. Into his hotel room? What the hell? “Wasn’t the receptionist there?” he blurted out, suddenly, as Merlin looked all around the (messy) room, eyes lingering on the open door to the bathroom - where Arthur had a horrible sinking feeling he’d left all his clothes strewn about after he’d showered and changed into his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt (which he really, really wished he wasn’t wearing, not least because the t-shirt was emblazoned with a giant Mr Tickle, courtesy of Morgana).

“What?” said Merlin, eyes finally snapping back to Arthur.

“The receptionist,” Arthur said, awkwardly because Merlin seemed to be staring at his t-shirt, “For the photo.”

“Oh,” said Merlin, with a smile, “I didn’t ask – I wanted to come and give it to you myself.”

“Ok,” said Arthur, somewhat at a loss. “Thank you?”

Merlin grinned at him, before the grin turned into something much softer and Arthur felt his face heat up – because at some point tonight, he had evidently crossed over into the Twilight Zone. “So,” said Merlin, trailing one finger over the desk by his side, “Do you often give your room number to men you don’t know?”

Arthur swallowed. “Well, you asked for it,” he said, rather feebly.

Merlin looked at him from under his eyelashes, “I did, didn’t I.”

“Um…” Arthur said, yet again (his vocabulary seemed to have deserted him entirely). Merlin smiled at him, giving him what Arthur could only think was supposed to be a meaningful look. Arthur stared back. Merlin let his eyes drift over to the bed and then back at Arthur with a raise of his eyebrows. Arthur blinked.

“Oh shit!” he said, realising, “Sorry. Did you want to sit down or something?” He swept the bits of crisp that had escaped the tub onto the floor and did his best to straighten the duvet, then stood back with an awkward gesture. Merlin just stared at him for a full minute in apparent disbelief (it was probably the crisps, Arthur thought) before he flopped down on the edge of the bed with a completely unwarranted roll of his eyes.

“Do you, er, want a drink?” Arthur asked, when Merlin just carried on looking at him like he wanted to brain him with the bedside lamp.

Then Merlin sighed and shrugged his coat off. “Yes please - preferably alcoholic” and Arthur thought he must have imagined the mutter of “It’s going to be a long night.”

………

An hour and a half later Arthur thought it had turned out to be a brilliant night, as he did his best to stifle his (only slightly) drunken laughter at Merlin’s tale of Vin Diesel and the Angry Goat. Merlin had had a beer in the end, when Arthur had offered, so Arthur had thought it only polite to have one too (he always felt braver when he was tipsy). Then one beer had turned into many and before he knew it he was sprawled half across the bed, watching Merlin do impressions of his co-stars and feeling like this was all a big, slightly wobbly, dream.

“…And then Vin said,” Merlin adopted a deep, gravelly tone, “I thought this was a film about cowboys?” Arthur snorted, as Merlin went on, “And the director had to tell him that that wasn’t exactly what they’d meant by ‘Billy the Kid!’” Arthur dropped his head onto his arms and shook with laughter as Merlin flopped back down on the floor in front of the bed, chin propped on the edge and grinning at Arthur, who felt like he might be going crazy.

“Not a fan of Vin Diesel then?” said Merlin, and Arthur looked up to find his face all close and blurry. He shook his head and Merlin pushed a stray bit of hair out of his eyes – which Arthur might have thought was odd, had he been a little more sober. “Obviously not,” Merlin continued with a smile, “if you’re wanting my autograph.”

Arthur attempted to push himself up onto one elbow, but the room was distressingly swirly. “That was for my sister!” he protested.

Merlin’s smile became a smirk. “Of course it was, that’s why I spotted Revenge of the Dragon playing when I came in.”

Bugger. Apparently muting the telly did not make it invisible. Arthur noted that for future reference. “I was just flicking through the channels,” Arthur said in a tone that absolutely did not resemble Morgana in a sulk.

Merlin nodded very seriously, “That explains it then.”

“It does,” said Arthur, trying to remember what they were discussing.

“After all,” said Merlin, “who wants to watch stuff I did five years ago…”

“Three,” corrected Arthur automatically.

“Ah ha!” said Merlin. “I knew it!” He grinned, “You, Arthur Pendragon, are my biggest fan.”

“Am not!” said Arthur, belatedly, distracted by the way Merlin’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. He’d never noticed it all the times he’d seen him on the big screen (not that many) but now he couldn’t seem to notice anything else.

“Are,” said Merlin, promptly. “Come on, admit it, how many of my films have you got?”

“None,” said Arthur, wondering vaguely if this was going to like that cartoon where his nose grew every time he lied. He checked. No, still normal.

“I can just ask your sister,” said Merlin, poking him on the arm.

Arthur scowled and decided that all film stars were obviously evil and therefore naturally sympathetic to terrifying little sisters. “I have a couple.”

Merlin lunged for the desk and seized Arthur’s mobile phone (after a couple of attempts). “Morgana…” he muttered to himself, opening Arthur’s phone book before Arthur staggered drunkenly off the bed, tripped over his own feet and fell half on top of Merlin, knocking the phone from his hand more by accident than design.

“Alright,” Arthur huffed, heaving himself off and rolling on to his back next to Merlin. “I have more than that, but they’re not in chronological order.” He frowned, then played back what he’d just said. Perhaps he hadn’t meant to say that last part.

Merlin turned his head so they were looking at each other, side by side, looking like he was trying hard not to laugh, “I never imagined they were. Anything else?”

Arthur’s thought processes seemed to have slowed down to a crawl. “I have some posters, and maybe that book, with the…” he gestured vaguely, “the maps, and stuff.”

Merlin shifted up onto his elbow, looking down at Arthur. “My travels around South America?”

“Yes, that.”

Merlin frowned as if in thought, before he said, slowly and like he was relishing the words, “So really, you are kind of into me.”

Arthur did his best to glare, but it was pretty difficult when Merlin’s free hand began trailing up and down his arm. He sniffed. “Maybe a bit.”

Merlin smiled openly then. “Maybe a lot.”

Arthur managed a proper glare that time, feeling his face heat as he tried to sit up - only for Merlin to lean into and over him, effectively pinning him to the floor. “What are you…” he began, before he stopped, his brain taking a few moments to catch up with the fact that Merlin was looking as flushed as he was and, quite possibly, looking at his mouth rather a lot as well. Arthur licked his lips and Merlin’s eyes darted up to his.

All in all, this had to be quite the strangest evening of Arthur’s life.

“What…” Arthur tried again, only to trail off when Merlin leant forward, almost imperceptibly, chest warm against Arthur’s. He wished now he hadn’t had quite so much to drink, so he could actually focus on Merlin’s face and the fact that he seemed, he really seemed like he was about to… kiss him?

Then Merlin stopped.

Of course he did, thought Arthur, feeling foolish. World famous film stars did not invite themselves into your room, ply you with drinks and then kiss you. That only happened in films (and possibly Arthur’s fantasies from now on).

Except Merlin seemed to be hovering there, barely two inches from Arthur’s face and, judging from his torn expression, apparently suffering some kind of painful internal struggle. Arthur was just about to say something, anything, when Merlin seemingly made up his mind – telling Arthur firmly to “hang on,” before he clambered off him, rummaged around in the pocket of his coat and produced the kind of phone Arthur only ever saw in glass cases through shop windows.

“Right,” said Merlin, plopping back down again. He fiddled with a few buttons and then held the phone out. “What was it you were just saying about being my biggest fan?”

Arthur stared at him and tried not to think about the fact Merlin Emrys was now straddling him. “What?”

Merlin wiggled the phone about a bit. “Come on, Arthur. You were just telling me how you had all my films, and my posters, and even my travel book. Oh yes, and you wanted a signed picture.”

“I told you, that was for my…” Merlin shifted a little and Arthur’s voice became an embarrassing squeak. “Ok, ok, I…” Arthur gulped and wished he was still wearing his jeans. “I have some of your films.”

“And the posters,” prompted Merlin.

“And some posters,” said Arthur, trying to focus his hazy mind on calm oceans and clouds and things that weren’t Merlin straddling him.

“And you’re my biggest fan,” said Merlin, sounding far too gleeful for someone who must hear that kind of stuff everyday.

“I’m not your…”

Merlin mouthed “chronological order” at him and leaned forward and Arthur decided that maybe it wasn’t too far from the truth anyway – even if he would die before he’d let Edwin hear him say it. “Alright, I am.”

“Say it properly,” said Merlin, holding the phone close enough for Arthur to make out a hazy ‘record’ sign flashing red, “Say, Merlin, I am your biggest fan.”

“Merlin I am your biggest fan,” parroted Arthur dutifully, hoping this would be enough to get Merlin to move off him before Arthur completely embarrassed himself.

Merlin beamed at him. “Perfect,” he said, snapping the phone closed, “I think I’ve just found my new ringtone.”

“Why would…” was about all Arthur managed - before Merlin tossed the phone aside, leaned down and kissed him soundly. For a few blissful moments there was nothing but Merlin’s warm mouth against his, his clever fingers sliding up Arthur’s chest to his neck and the absolute, perfect feeling of it.

And then, then…

“You little shit,” said King Arthur Pendragon, suddenly feeling a lot more sober as he pulled away to see Merlin, breathless and laughing at him.

“Oh dear,” said Merlin, “All coming back to you, is it?”

“I’m going to kill you.”

Merlin scrambled quickly away, grabbing his phone, and getting to his feet before Arthur could make a somewhat uncoordinated grab for him. “But Arthur, you love me! You’re my biggest…”

“Give me that bloody phone!”

Merlin danced out of reach, smirking, “Careful Arthur, or I won’t take you to my premieres.”

Sadly it seemed Arthur’s ability to blush in the most unflattering way possible was still present and correct, no matter how many new memories were crowding into his head. “I don’t want to go to your premieres,” Arthur snapped, making another lunge for the phone, only for Merlin’s eyes to flash gold and the phone to vanish completely. “What did you just do?”

“It is gone!” said Merlin in an impressive tone, “I have transported it to another dimension, far beyond the realm of—”

“You’ve made it invisible, haven’t you?”

Merlin scowled, “You always spoil my fun. I don’t know why I go looking for you every time.”

“Well, I didn’t ask you to!” Arthur said, definitely sounding sulky this time, as he gave up on the invisible phone and flopped down on the bed, folding his arms - sober enough to feel stupidly embarrassed by the whole evening but still drunk enough to wonder if this was all some elaborate and bizarre dream. How did he go from eating Pringles, and daydreaming about signed photographs, to this? He stared at his hands and thought, vaguely, that they looked the same as they did five minutes ago – which was an odd thing to be thinking about – and then Merlin was crawling over the bed and into his lap, feeling all too real. And that was even more odd. Because it was Merlin, and then it was Merlin. And Arthur would rather die than admit he’d read his Travels in South America book nine times.

“Come on, Arthur,” Merlin said, distracting him from his thoughts as he wound his arms around his neck, “It’s not that bad, is it?”

Arthur refused to answer.

“I really will take you to all my premieres,” Merlin wheedled, trailing kisses down the side of Arthur’s face, “and get you all the limited edition posters.”

“I’ve already got most of them,” Arthur muttered.

He felt Merlin’s smile against his neck. “I bet you haven’t got the one for Moment of Truth.”

Arthur felt himself wavering. Everyone knew the Moment of Truth poster was incredibly rare. Well, everyone who was interested in that sort of thing - which Arthur wasn’t. “I suppose that would be ok,” Arthur said, magnanimously.

Merlin kissed his jaw, then his cheek, then finally reached his mouth, pressing their lips together and pushing against him until Arthur fell backwards onto the bed, which didn’t help with the ‘room moving about’ thing, now the initial sobering shock had begun to wear off, although keeping his eyes closed and kissing Merlin back seemed to help a lot.

Finally Merlin pulled away and smoothed Arthur’s hair off his forehead, smiling softly down at him as Arthur struggled to reconcile his natural desire to call him an idiot with the large part of himself that was mortifyingly starstruck at being in the presence of the real, live Merlin Emrys (in his hotel room! his brain helpfully reminded him). He suspected this sort of thing would take some getting used to.

“And you know,” Merlin said, settling himself more comfortably against him, and continuing as if their conversation had not just been interrupted by five minutes of kissing, “if all that’s not enough, there is one other thing to look forward to.”

“What thing?” Arthur frowned, wondering what on earth could be better than this (aside from a guaranteed cure for the hangover he was sure to have in the morning. And possibly some therapy).

But Merlin’s smile turned mischievious as he looked down at him. “Just imagine Morgana’s face.”

So Arthur did.

But, as he was to find out early the next morning, his imagination had nothing on the real thing.

The End.

Comments and constructive criticism welcome!

Fic: Vigil (for the Beyond_Camelot 'Swords & Magic' challenge)

Sat, 21 Nov 2009 13:53:33 GMT

Written for the brilliant beyond_camelotcommunity - which has set out to Merlinize Arthuriana :) This is for their first challenge, 'Swords & Magic', which is running until the 25th November. Apologies to any Arthurian scholars out there, and also sorry it's so short - I really wanted to do this challenge, but time has not been on my side!

Title: Vigil
Wordcount: 686
Rating: Gen.
Characters: Lady of the Lake, Merlin.
Warnings: Angst.
Spoilers: Very vague spoilers for various legends relating to Excalibur, Merlin, and the Lady. Slashy interpretation of the Arthur/Merlin relationship.
Summary: One take on the Lady of the Lake myth and Merlin.

Huge thanks to vensre for cheerleading this, beta reading it, and coming up with the title!! I was pretty nervous about this one, short as it is, and it wouldn't have made it online without her encouragement :)

Vigil.

In deep water, she lay and awaited the coming of her King. In the dim and dark, her fortress stood, green shrouded and rough hewn, untouched by light where Camelot shone brightly, washed clean where Camelot was dark with blood. She waited and watched as the world turned, day and night marked by the shifting of the waters, by the touch of distant sun on the still surface, by the whispering of her magic: Soon.

Then one day he came. His magic sang to hers, and it was as the burn of sunlight on her white skin, the movement of air where there had been only water and the sound of voices where there had been only silence. And she yearned for it - for light and life and a world beyond her stone prison, for the fragile memory of long days out of doors, rough stone untouched by water and the glow of candlelight on her sisters’ dark hair, for a life before this. Merlin was his name, a youth who hardly knew the power that blazed beneath awkward limbs, bright eyes and laughter, and it was for him that she left the deep water and became again a creature of light and air. She walked upon the earth and listened to the trees and grasses, remembered the prickle of heat and the sound of her voice, strange and unknown to her, and she laughed for the joy of it. As the days passed, she learned the feel of his warm skin against hers as they sat side by side on sun-baked ground, the shape of his words and the taste of his happiness when he came to her with the glow of his magic golden around him, to speak of dark creatures bested and the very air coiled at his command. And she learned also the line of his frown, and the shadow in his eyes when he came to her, diminished, and she cast her magic upon the water until he could see Avalon, and share with her the turning of the earth. And at night, she passed pale and insubstantial through the moonlit trees to gaze at Camelot - blood dark but filled with light - and wait for dawn and his coming.

It was for him that she returned once more to the deep and dark at the close of the summer, when the sun had turned mellow and the leaves gilt edged, to carry the sword he had given her, taking it almost to the gates of Avalon with the memory of his voice and the blue gold of his eyes bright within her.

Take me up, the blade whispered to her as she carried it, and she saw the birth of nations, the walls of Camelot washed clean with the gold of Merlin's magic.

Cast me away, it said, and she saw a blood soaked battlefield, and felt a grief so deep it was as if the earth itself would rend in two.

Arthur, she heard then, and in that moment the blade felt cold and sharp in her hands, the sunshine dimmed, and she knew – and if the grief was as much hers as Merlin's, the folly was hers alone.

Green-shrouded, she lay the sword in the soft reeds and she wept for the future she saw in the clean line of its blade, in the phantom hand upon the hilt and the words etched deep into the metal, but most of all, she wept for the boy who was not for her.

That night she returned to her fortress, still and dark and silent, and did not think about the pale bark of the trees in the forest above, or the smell of herbs and clean sweat on skin. She did not hear his voice when he returned to search for her, nor mark the turn of the seasons and the call of his magic to hers.

She was of the lake, and the sword and the future were hers to guard. And so she lay in the deep water, and awaited the coming of her King.

The End.

Comments and concrit welcomed :)

Fic: Lady Catherine comes to Camelot (Merlin/Arthur)

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 19:02:20 GMT

Rating: PG.
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 3,400 words.

Notes: Written for the brilliant kinkmeme prompt “Lady Catherine de Bourgh confronts Merlin about his upstart pretentions regarding her nephew.” The original prompt is here. People were kind enough to leave some nice comments about it, so I thought I would repost it at my journal!

Lady Catherine is, of course, Mr Darcy's rather terrifying aunt from the novel Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I think my Lady Catherine is probably a more distant relative though - that Uther saw once at his wedding and fervently hoped never to see again!!

Written in two parts – because I originally didn’t think I would have time to do an actual Lady Catherine confrontation!

Huge thanks to vensre for not only telling me about the prompt, but beta-reading the finished products as well :)

Part I - In which Merlin gets the best seat in the house.

Merlin had his face pressed as close to the grille as he could without actually falling face first into the Great Hall. It was possible his skin would be latticed for days to come. But frankly, it was worth it.

"Your hall is not at all as I was expecting," came the loud and disparaging tones of the King's new, and not terribly popular, guest, "the hall at Rosings Castle is quite twice the size, although your table, I’ll own, is well enough." She cast a critical eye over the long table, heaving with dishes, before taking a small sip of her soup and pursing her lips. "Not bad. A little salty, but passable."

"You are too kind my lady," said the King, looking down at his own soup like he was quite tempted to drown himself in it. "How long did you say you would be staying, Lady Catherine?"

"I would hope not more than a few days, though with your roads as shocking as they are, it may well be longer." The King took a hearty swig of his wine goblet. "I should have known the light carriage would never do. Had I brought the barouche box, this would never have happened!"

"Perhaps a broomstick would have been better," Merlin heard Morgana say lowly, in an aside to Gwen.

"What was that?" barked Lady Catherine, "Speak up gel!"

"I said perhaps the barouche would indeed have been better," said Morgana loudly, while Gwen ducked quickly behind a pillar to snort into her apron.

"Exactly so!" said Lady Catherine, then glared at the small part of Gwen still visible, "Is there something amiss with your handmaiden?"

"No my lady," said Morgana at once, "She is merely unused to being in such exalted company."

Merlin thought that might have been laying it on a bit thick, but apparently Lady Catherine thought it no more than her due. "She need not hide on my account," said Lady Catherine graciously. Morgana looked vaguely impressed. "I make it my firm rule never to notice servants," Morgana looked less impressed.

"And where is your son?" said Lady Catherine, turning suddenly back to the King who had dared to take a large mouthful of soup and had to choke briefly before answering.

"He is," a cough, "he is still on patrol, my lady."

"On patrol?" said Lady Catherine, as if she had never heard of such a thing, "At this hour?"

"The burdens of state are heavy, Lady Catherine, but Arthur is a great—"

"Humph," said Lady Catherine eloquently. Merlin bit the inside of his mouth, hard. "You must take care not to grow lax, Your Majesty!"

"I assure you, Lady Catherine, I am most certainly—"

"I have never ruled a Kingdom myself, of course," announced Lady Catherine. Merlin, and indeed everyone else, waited with baited breath. "But if I had, I'm sure I should have been a true proficient!"

It was at this promising juncture that Merlin heard the sound of someone clearing their throat, very pointedly, behind him, and he dragged his attention away, rather reluctantly it must be said, to find Arthur - a rather grumpy looking, grubby and very wet Arthur - staring at him, arms folded.

"Oh there you are," whispered Merlin, as if Arthur finding him kneeling on the floor with his face pressed to a metal grille was a perfectly normal occurrence, "I wouldn't go in there if I were you!"

"Eavesdropping again, are we Merlin?" replied the Prince, ignoring him, "What did I say about that?"

"That I should try not to get caught?" answered Merlin, with a winning smile.

"Not quite," said Arthur. A bit of brown water trailed down his cheek and Merlin pulled a face.

"You might want to get changed before you see your father, he's got—"

"Yes, thank you Merlin," snapped Arthur, irritably, "If I want your opinion... Actually, I don't think I’ll ever want your opinion."

Merlin stuck his tongue out.

"And for that," said Arthur, "You can go and fetch me a bath, and make it hot this time - I don't care how many trips it takes." Merlin glowered, as Arthur added, "I think I’ll change before I join my father," as if the idea had only just occurred to him.

"On second thoughts," said Merlin, standing up, "I've suddenly remembered that your father sent someone to look for you, not five minutes ago." Arthur looked surprised. "You should probably hurry," added Merlin, encouragingly.

Arthur gave him a suspicious look, but Merlin had been practicing his expression of limpid innocence for just such an occasion.

"Very well," said Arthur after a moment, "but I’ll want a bath afterwards!"

"Of course, sire," said Merlin with a bow.

Arthur gave him another suspicious look before he stalked off down the stairs towards the doors to the Great Hall.

Merlin took one step, then two, then three. Then he took three more - for plausible deniability - before he heard the doors to the Great Hall slam shut, and then he waited an entire second and a half before he tore back along the corridor and nearly concussed himself on the wall, trying to get back to his vantage point on the flagstones.

"And who is this?" came Lady Catherine's dulcet tones, fairly ringing with disapproval.

Merlin grinned.

It seemed he was just in time.

Part II – In which Merlin meets Lady Catherine.

Merlin thought he’d been doing pretty well avoiding Arthur so far. Ever since the Prince had burst out of the Great Hall the previous evening - after the most entertaining hour of Merlin’s life - and bellowed his name, Merlin had made the executive decision to make himself scarce.

But now, it seemed, he’d been caught fair and square. Really, he should have known better than to take a short cut through the stables, but he’d been doing so well all day and it wasn’t as if members of the royal family were known for lurking in the outbuildings in the middle of the afternoon. As it was, he’d been so busy walking backwards and keeping one eye on the doorway and the training field beyond that he’d completely failed to notice Arthur leaning casually against the wall behind him, until he’d backed straight into him and quite possibly lost several years of his life in the process.

“Ow!” Merlin said pointedly, since Arthur was practically sitting on him.

The Prince leaned down further. “What was that Merlin? I’m very sorry I tricked you and I would love to spend the week cleaning out the chamber pots?”

Merlin spat out some straw. “Really Arthur, I think you’re taking this whole thing way too seriously. I could have sworn your father had sent—”

Arthur sat on him a little more.

“All right, all right,” said Merlin hastily, “It’s possible I exaggerated the tiniest bit.” Arthur eased back a fraction and Merlin used the opportunity to wriggle on to his back and smirk, “But it was definitely worth it.” Then he yelped as Arthur grabbed a handful of dirty straw and rubbed it in his hair, while Merlin tried to push him off and get away at the same time, laughing and breathless.

He had just managed to crawl out from under Arthur and was in the process of untangling their legs when his heart actually stopped. Or possibly it just felt as though it had as Lady Catherine chose that very moment to loom out of the shadows by the stable door like the Grim Reaper.

Merlin made a noise that was most definitely not a squeak and scrambled up.

“What is the meaning of this outrageous behaviour?” said Lady Catherine, sounding as though she were about to suffer an apoplexy.

“Lady Catherine!” said Arthur, sounding horrified and struggling to his feet, “I was just— er—”

“I can see very well,” snapped Lady Catherine, eyes going from Arthur to Merlin and back again. Whatever she saw there caused her mouth to thin, alarmingly.

“You… can?” said Arthur, trying to subtly brush the straw off his tunic.

“Although I had hardly expected so brazen an act!”

Merlin hoped this wasn’t about the piece of dung he could see stuck on Arthur’s tunic.

“You!” declared Lady Catherine, disabusing Merlin of that notion as her gaze moved terrifyingly to his (hopefully innocent looking) face. Merlin blinked. “You, boy, have designs upon your master!”

There was a short silence, as Lady Catherine glared at Merlin, Merlin stared at Lady Catherine, and Arthur – who had just discovered the dung – stopped trying to get it off with a piece of straw and stared at both of them.

Then Merlin burst out laughing.

He managed at least five seconds of laughter before he realised two things. One, Lady Catherine was still glaring at him – meaning her words were not, in fact, a joke. Two, Arthur was glaring at him as well, and looking strangely hurt. Oops. He sobered abruptly.

“You find this amusing do you?” asked Lady Catherine in a glacial tone.

“Er, no,” said Merlin, adopting the kind of sombre expression he reserved for when Arthur announced they couldn’t possibly go hunting in such terrible weather, “Of course not, my lady.”

Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t think I haven’t been watching you, boy. Spying on your master! Sneaking around the castle all day and then hiding in the stables to waylay him.”

“Actually,” began Merlin, “I was—”

“I will not be interrupted!” snapped Lady Catherine. “I suppose you think by your arts and allurements to win yourself the ear of a Prince!”

“I don’t want his ear!” protested Merlin immediately.

“And you,” Lady Catherine turned to Arthur, “To encourage such wanton behaviour!”

“I assure you,” said Arthur, flushing slightly, “Merlin was just—”

“You should know better!” went on Lady Catherine, “And show a better regard for your position than to neglect your duties for sport.”

“Arthur would never neglect his duties!” said Merlin indignantly, before he could stop himself.

“Shut up, idiot,” hissed Arthur, but Merlin was most certainly not going to shut up.

“Well you wouldn’t,” he said, stoutly. He looked back at their guest. “He was just disciplining—” Lady Catherine looked like she might faint. “Er, I mean, reprimanding me.”

“In the stables?” said Lady Catherine, scandalized. “Are the shades of Camelot to be thus polluted? That you should behave with such a complete lack of decorum as to tumble servant boys in the stables,” she stopped, as if for a moment words had simply failed her, before she finished with a final, “What would your mother think?”

Arthur looked like he’d been slapped.

And really, that was about as much as Merlin was going to take.

“Lady Catherine,” he heard himself say loudly, “I’m sure Arthur could tumble me wherever and whenever he wishes and be no less a Prince for it!” To say Arthur looked taken aback at this pronouncement would have been an understatement, but Merlin ploughed onwards regardless. “And as for his mother - she would be proud to have such a son as Arthur, and care more for his happiness than his rank, as we all do!”

Lady Catherine made a derisive sound. “Of course you would say so! You hope to gain yourself a rich prize.”

“Lady Catherine,” put in Arthur, “Really you’ve got—”

“I would hope to gain Arthur,” declared Merlin, completely ignoring him “That would be more than enough for me, Prince or no.” He thought that had come out quite well, even if he did say so himself.

“You are no more than a peasant!” said Lady Catherine, looking at Merlin like he was something she might find on the stable floor, while Arthur merely gaped at him. “Do not think me ignorant of your background, boy.”

Merlin lifted his chin. “If Arthur does not object to it, then it can be nothing to you!”

“So you admit it then?” said Lady Catherine, flashing a triumphant look at Arthur.

“I admit no such thing,” said Merlin, “And I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Lady Catherine mottled alarmingly. “How dare you? Never have I been spoken to in such a—”

“Well that’s too bad,” said Merlin, deciding that he might as well go for it, as he’d gotten this far. “Because let me tell you that—” Unfortunately, the rest of his (really very impressive and devastating) point got lost when a warm and calloused palm suddenly clamped over his mouth, dragging him back against a firm chest and causing the remainder of his sentence to come out as “mmmff mmf MMMFF mmmff mff!”

“I must apologise for my manservant, my lady,” came Arthur’s voice, not sounding all that apologetic in Merlin’s opinion. “He suffers from a grave... er, mental affliction.” Merlin glared at him as best he could. “It makes him say very stupid things.” Merlin stamped on his foot. “Mostly we keep him around for the entertainment,” Arthur finished, with a wince.

Lady Catherine’s mouth tightened as she stared at Arthur. “You may think me a fool,” she said at last, “but let me assure you I am not! And I see what is going on here very clearly.”

“Mmmff mmff!” said Merlin, emphatically. Arthur’s hand tightened.

“I will not be spoken to in such a way! And by a servant.”

“Really, Lady Catherine, this has all been a terrible misunderstanding.” Arthur said, earnestly. “For which Merlin will be apologising, at length and on his knees if necessary, once I’ve decided on a suitable punishment. And once he’s, er, been to see the court physician of course.”

Merlin briefly considered biting his hand, but Lady Catherine had at least stopped gripping her cane like she was going to smack Merlin over the head with it.

“You had better hope it is a misunderstanding,” said Lady Catherine, fixing Merlin with a glare even more terrifying than her last one, “You may be innocent to the wiles of the servant class, but I am not!”

“I think I may promise you never to fall for Merlin’s wiles,” said Arthur, sounding superbly disdainful of the very idea, “should he ever be misguided enough to try any.”

Lady Catherine looked suspiciously from one to the other for a long moment. Merlin thought he better try looking mentally afflicted and went cross-eyed. This seemed to convince her far more than Arthur’s words had done, if her alarmed expression was anything to go by.

“I will be watching you both!” she said at last, “And I shall be telling your father about your manservant’s behaviour, you may be assured of that!”

“Of course, my lady.” Arthur bowed his head respectfully as with a final look the lady swept away, radiating disapproval and taking several bits of straw with her.

Arthur removed his hand from Merlin’s mouth. There was a short silence, then,

“You would so fall for my wiles,” said Merlin, crossing his arms with a pointed look, and receiving a cuff round the head for his trouble. “Ow! What was that for?”

“You are such an idiot.” said Arthur.

“I was defending you!” replied Merlin, indignant.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Well forgive me if next time I forego your services. I hope you realise you really will have to apologise to Lady Catherine. And be sincere about it.”

Merlin pulled a face before he asked - slightly nervously now Arthur had brought it up - “You don’t think your father’s going to have me killed and stuffed do you?”

Arthur snorted. “He’ll probably want to erect a statue to you in the courtyard.” Merlin gave him a look. “Oh stop worrying, Merlin. I’ll explain about the, er, misunderstanding, and you’ll apologise and clean some chamberpots, and it’ll all blow over.”

Merlin felt a little better.

“Unless it doesn’t,” went on Arthur, because he was heartless, “In which case we’ll have to send you back to Rosings Castle with her until she feels you’re suitably contrite.”

Merlin stared at him in a kind of frozen horror, until Arthur grinned and Merlin’s lungs decided to start working again.

“And as for your wiles, or lack thereof,” Arthur continued, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I hardly need to fall for them, since I can apparently tumble you wherever and whenever I please.”

Merlin threw a bit of straw at him. “That was hypothetical, you ass.”

“Was it really?” said Arthur, with an insufferable smirk. Merlin felt a traitorous flush creeping up his neck.

He sniffed instead. “You would have to start being a bit nicer to me, before there was any tumbling of any kind.”

“I see,” said Arthur, standing aside with a mocking flourish to let Merlin precede him out of the stables.

“No more of this putting me in the stocks business, or sending me off to slave for terrifying noblewomen.” Merlin went on, as they crossed the yard. Arthur nodded thoughtfully, his eyes amused. Merlin pretended to give it some more thought. “And I would want breakfast,” he decided.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “I thought I would be enough all by myself?”

The flush reached Merlin’s ears, but he replied with an airy wave of his hand. “Well, I think breakfast would be a very small reward for putting up with you all night as well.”

There was a slight moment of horror as soon as the words left his mouth and Merlin’s brain caught up and realised he had, in fact, actually said them. And then helpfully supplied a number of hazy, soft focus images to accompany the notion of ‘putting up with Arthur all night’ that Merlin could really have done without.

“Er…” he said, frozen at the threshold of the castle and staring at Arthur, who grinned like the smug prat he was and gave him an openly speculative look.

“Well then, Merlin, I suppose I’d best leave you to make yourself presentable, if you think you can manage without my presence for a few hours.” Merlin resisted the urge to stick out his tongue this time, since Arthur still had to save him from a life of servitude with Lady Catherine. Then Arthur looked him up and down, and added, “And I’ll expect you in my chambers tonight,” and Merlin forgot all about her.

“What?” It was possible his voice had come out embarrassingly squeaky.

Arthur blinked at him, innocently, “To dress me for the feast of course. Had you forgotten?”

“Oh!” said Merlin, trying to calm his wildly thumping heart, “The feast! Of course, yes, I will be there. To get you ready, I mean. For the feast. I like feasts.” He stopped talking.

Arthur’s grin became a little softer, and possibly a little more fond, and he ruffled Merlin’s hair as they headed inside. “So I’ve noticed. And thank you, by the way.” Merlin looked confused as Arthur paused and looked at him, slightly awkward. “For your completely inappropriate defence I mean.”

Merlin decided to take that as a compliment, albeit a very Arthur one. “You’re welcome.”

They passed into the entrance hall and Arthur turned for the main stairs, Merlin for Gaius’s quarters where he planned to hide for the rest of the day, lest Lady Catherine change her mind about murdering him. “Oh, and Merlin?” called Arthur. Merlin turned to see Arthur walking backwards towards the staircase, eyes on him, “You’d best come early tonight.”

“Alright?” said Merlin, with a slight shrug, wondering what he was missing.

“So we can discuss your new duties,” finished Arthur, with a quirk of his eyebrows.

Merlin opened and closed his mouth. “Wait – my what?”

But Arthur just laughed at him and took the stairs two at a time, leaving Merlin standing alone in the hall and wondering if a life of servitude with Lady Catherine was so bad a prospect after all.

The End.

Constructive criticism always welcome!!

Prompt Fic: Torn Between Two Pressing Situations (Merlin/Arthur)

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 21:05:11 GMT

Title: Torn between two pressing situations.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: Drunkeness. Some groping.
Wordcount: 934
Summary: It's Twelfth Night and Arthur is attempting to charm his father's guest, while being distracted by a drunken Merlin. Written for vensre's prompt 'torn between two pressing situations.'

Arthur was trying to concentrate on what the Lady Emma was saying, he really was, but he couldn’t help noticing that Merlin was a little drunk. He smiled charmingly at the lady and let his eyes wander for just a moment, in time to see Merlin trip over the rug near the fireplace for the fifth time in as many minutes. How much had he had anyway? The servants were allowed a little license on Twelfth Night, but Merlin could not have had more than three tankards of ale at the very most. Not this early.

“—that I would very much like to see it.”

Arthur realised with a start that Lady Emma had finished speaking and was looking at him enquiringly. Somewhere over his shoulder his father was glaring at him, a silent reminder of Arthur’s duty to charm the wife of one of their most powerful allies.

“Of course,” Arthur said at once, wondering what on earth he had just agreed to.

“You are too kind your highness; I shall look forward to it.”

Arthur did his best to look suitably gracious as he tried not to watch Merlin swaying alarmingly as he accepted another tankard from a passing servant. He cleared his throat and forced his attention back to the matter at hand. “Tell me, my lady, have you and your husband ever visited the—”

It was at that point that Merlin tripped over the rug for the sixth time, crashed into a suit of armour and fell over with a deafening clatter. King Uther swung round, his brows already drawing together and his mouth opening to speak when Arthur, with a hurried look of apology at his guest, said quickly.

“Would you excuse me, I think my manservant has been taken ill.”

“What?” his father snapped as he turned to look at him.

Arthur strode across the room to where Merlin was lying, sprawled on the rug, beaming up at him. “Look ill you idiot.” Arthur hissed.

“What?”

“Look ill.”

“Oh,” said Merlin and he suddenly flung one arm dramatically across his forehead, letting out a bloodcurdling moan worthy of a member of the Guild of Players. Indeed, Lady Helen, who was standing nearby, took several steps backwards in alarm.

“Not. That. Ill.” Said Arthur through gritted teeth.

“Oh right, sorry” whispered Merlin conspiratorially and he let his arm drop, with a thump, back to the floor, announcing, “Thank the gods, I am recovered!” in what was possibly the least convincing tone ever heard.

Arthur briefly considered leaving him there.

“Arthur, what is the meaning of this?” His father’s voice was sharp.

“I’m sorry father, Merlin is unwell. If you will allow me to take him back to his—”

“Nonsense, have one of the other servants take him back, I believe Lady Emma wishes to dance.”

“I will only be a moment,” said Arthur, taking the opportunity to drag Merlin to his feet - where he promptly slumped against Arthur’s side and began playing with the laces of his shirt. Arthur slapped his hands away and Merlin glared and reached for the laces of his breeches instead. “Really father,” Arthur managed, as he caught Merlin’s questing fingers in an iron grip, “I would be remiss in my duties as his master if I didn’t see him safely to his room.”

Uther frowned, “Really Arthur, this is—”

He stopped abruptly when Merlin gave up his struggle for Arthur’s laces and began to slide down to the floor again, leaving Arthur no choice but to hoist him over one shoulder.

“Oh dear, he does look very ill,” Morgana appeared seemingly from nowhere, an all-too-knowing glint in her eye.

“I fear he is quite delirious,” said Arthur very loudly, as Merlin hiccupped and announced to their not-inconsiderable audience that he could see Arthur’s feet.

If his father’s expression was anything to go by, nothing short of Merlin’s lingering death was going to excuse Arthur for abandoning their honoured guests. And at that moment, Arthur was almost willing to oblige him.

“Then you had best hurry,” said Uther in a tone that suggested he and Arthur would be having quite a lengthy discussion about this later. Arthur swallowed, inclining his head as much as he was able. “Of course father. My apologies Lady Emma.” He met her eyes only to see her looking back at him with something like understanding, and not a little amusement.

“Actually, he need not hurry on my account your Majesty,” she interposed smoothly, “Prince Arthur has offered to take me on a tour of the town tomorrow and I had planned to retire early.”

She smiled at Arthur, who tried not to look as though this were news to him as he said, “Yes, we had planned to set out after breakfast.”

The King’s frosty expression thawed somewhat as he looked at Lady Emma. “Then of course you must go, I would not wish you to be too fatigued to enjoy the sights of Camelot.”

Lady Emma dimpled charmingly at the King, “It is true I am not as young as I used to be your Majesty.”

“Nonsense,” protested the King gallantly, “You don’t look a day older than when I sat at your wedding feast.”

“You are too kind your Majesty,” said Lady Emma, with a blush.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Merlin, with feeling.

Arthur took this as his cue to make a swift exit – before his father got too carried away; and before Merlin concluded his less than stellar night’s service by vomiting down the back of his formal tunic.

The End.

(Accidentally Prompted) Fic: Arthur's Map (G)

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 20:52:25 GMT

Title: Arthur''s Map.
Rating: G
Warnings: None.
Wordcount: 2,028
Summary: Merlin borrows a map. But the map he borrows reveals more than was expected all round.

So, yesterday I bought myself the Merlin Sticker Album, and I was very excited to find it had a pull out map of Camelot! I might have made fun of said map a little in an email to vensre(because of the distinctly bizarre scale and lack of anything other than Locations Relevant To The Plot, and because of the Middle Earth-esque placenames). Anyway, Ven suggested that Arthur had quite obviously made the map himself, and noted the locations of his and Merlin's adventures on it! And I loved her idea so much I stole it and wrote her this fic, which she encouraged me to put up at my journal (and beta'd for me as well) :)

Incidentally, if anyone has read my 'Innovations' prompt fic, I like to imagine this is the same Merlin, just earlier, when Arthur is still Prince.

“Quick! I need a map!”

As much as it pained Arthur to admit it, Merlin bursting into his chambers was not an unusual occurrence. In fact he had done so only yesterday, when he had tripped on a loose flagstone in the corridor and fallen face first through the open door. Merlin bursting in to demand a map however, that was a little unexpected.

“A map?” Arthur asked, looking up from the Very Important Report he was most certainly not doodling on. “What on earth do you—”

He didn’t get any further as Merlin said “Ah ha,” pushed past him and seized a rolled up scroll from the alcove by Arthur’s bed. “This will do.”

‘This’ would absolutely not do, thought Arthur, as he recognized the scroll Merlin was hastily unrolling with the kind of dread usually reserved for large, slavering beasts, and Morgana with a sword. “Put that back immediately Merlin, it’s a highly classified report from—”

“No it isn’t,” said Merlin cheerfully, sweeping Arthur’s work aside to spread the parchment out on the table, “It’s a map. Look – it says ‘Camelot’ at the top and everything.”

He leaned over it, scanning it eagerly whilst Arthur wondered if it was too late to knock Merlin out and run for the hills (he would need a good head start, since Merlin was so unsettlingly good at tracking Arthur down, wherever he was). Then his manservant frowned, wrinkled his nose, and commented, “This isn’t a very good map, is it? Where are all the towns?”

Arthur tried to snatch the map away in as dignified and disinterested a manner as possible (since the knocking out option had apparently passed him by). “It’s a perfectly adequate map Merlin,” he snapped, as Merlin yanked it back out of reach and Arthur was forced to let go, lest he tear the stupid thing down the middle. Not that he cared.

“No it isn’t,” said Merlin, “Look – it’s got the grave of Morgana’s father nearly the same distance away as Cenred’s kingdom. But Morgana’s father’s grave is only a morning’s ride away, and Cenred’s castle nearly a two day journey on horseback, more if you’re walking.” Merlin picked the map up and helpfully held it out so Arthur could see.

Arthur glared. “Scale is very difficult you know.”

Merlin put it down again. “But that still doesn’t explain where all the towns are,” he went on, reasonably, “And all that’s marked on here is…” he squinted down at the map, “the handwriting is terrible by the way,” he added as an aside, as he traced some of the names with one finger, “I can’t even read half of this. I mean, that looks like—” he paused, confused, leaning forward until he was only a hairsbreadth away . “Is that Ealdor?”

Arthur tried to give his best don’t-be-ridiculous laugh, the one he practiced on Merlin at least twice a week. But Merlin wasn’t paying him the slightest bit of attention.

“And there’s the caves of Balor,” he was muttering instead, “that’s where you— And there’s Gedref – how would someone even know to—” Then he paused, going so still that Arthur stopped planning the many and varied ways he would be burning the map, and made an involuntary move towards him.

“Arthur,” said Merlin, still un-moving, eyes fixed on some spot on the map Arthur couldn’t see. “Did you…” Merlin swallowed, “did you make this?”

“No!” Arthur scowled and withdrew his hand. Merlin becoming paralysed with horror because Arthur’s map didn’t match up to his exacting standards was downright insulting, not to mention something of an overreaction, even for Merlin.

But Merlin still wasn’t looking at him. “You did, didn’t you. That’s why it was in the…” he trailed off and looked up at the alcove by the bed where he had grabbed the scroll. The alcove Merlin had smirked at him about in the past, simply because Arthur liked to keep a few items there – none of which had any sentimental value, whatever certain manservants might suggest.

Normally, Arthur would be quite happy to deny his involvement and/or threaten Merlin with the stocks until he stopped talking about it, but something wasn’t quite right. Now he came to think of it, Merlin looked almost… scared. And all right, perhaps Arthur’s handwriting was a little horrifying sometimes, but there was nothing in his map to cause actual fear – unless it was his attempts at drawing the dragon on the royal crest at the top. “All right,” he said, in a tone that was only the smallest bit sulky, “I may, possibly, have made it. A long time ago. For a, er, training…exercise.” He leaned over to get a look at the map and Merlin flinched away. Arthur stared at him, surprised. “What is wrong with you? It’s not that bad.”

“Why have you marked these things on here?” Merlin asked in a strange voice.

Arthur flushed, and sorted through a variety of responses, trying to find the least embarrassing one. But Merlin was looking at him now, looking so ridiculously tense that Arthur found himself telling the truth, or near enough to it. “I— It’s just a record, of all the important—” all right, maybe not important, “er, dangerous places we’ve been. I mean, all of us of course. Morgana and Guinevere too. Obviously.”

Merlin still didn’t speak.

“It’s useful to know these things. For, er, future reference. And avoidance.” Arthur trailed to a halt.

Merlin licked his lips, like he was gathering courage to speak, then he pulled the map towards them again and pointed one shaky finger at the bottom, left-hand corner. “And what about this one?” he said, his voice low.

Arthur looked down at the page and— Oh. Suddenly a few things were beginning to make sense. “That’s the Isle of the Blessed,” he said, voice surprisingly steady.

Merlin nodded, just once. “Why would you…?”

Arthur took a deep breath and looked at Merlin. “Because that’s where you saved my life. Well,” he added, with a slightly rueful smile, “one of the many places, I imagine.”

Merlin met his gaze, looking so shocked that Arthur almost wished he hadn’t spoken.

“Well?” said Arthur quietly, after a moment, “Am I mistaken?”

Merlin shook his head, twice, before he found his voice. “No,” he whispered.

Arthur reached past him, gathering the map up and attempting to roll it once more. Merlin just stood there, dazed. “What did you need the map for anyway?” asked Arthur at last, when the silence had dragged on too long.

Merlin stared at him, “What? Oh,” he blinked, like he was waking up, “It was just for a bet, with Tom from the kitchens. It wasn’t…” He stopped and then blurted out, “How can you have known? You didn’t say anything. How long have you—”

“Long enough,” said Arthur. “I’m not a complete fool, Merlin, whatever you might think.” He hadn’t quite meant to add that last part.

Merlin put a hand on his sleeve, hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure it would be welcome. “I’m so sorry, Arthur,” his voice was quiet and sincere.

“Yes, well,” muttered Arthur gruffly. “At least now you can stop pretending to be cleaning my armour when you’re really napping in the hayloft.”

Merlin didn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed at this. Instead he was watching Arthur, who was still fiddling with the scroll, with an expression approaching wonder. Arthur cleared his throat and thrust the scroll at him, since he was all fingers and thumbs all of a sudden. “Do something with that, will you.”

“Like what?” said Merlin and Arthur had just opened his mouth to say “like roll it up, idiot,” when he stopped and thought about the words and wondered what Merlin could do, if he asked.

“Can you get rid of the smudges?” he asked, testing.

Merlin looked at him carefully, then down at the map. His hand was shaking, just slightly, as he reached out, waving his hand across the parchment as he whispered something and his eyes flared gold – causing Arthur to take a step back in alarm.

Merlin stopped at once, tensing, but Arthur could see the results already, his messy scribbles cleaned to legible words, the ink stark against the light background.

He let out a shaky breath, touching the map with a finger, before he met Merlin’s gaze and asked, “What else can you do?”

Merlin looked startled, and then he smiled – wide and bright and happy. “Anything you want! I could—” He reached out over the map again, bumping against Arthur in his enthusiasm. “Watch.”

Then, before Arthur’s astonished gaze, Merlin’s eyes flared gold again and the map moved. It rippled, like water, the edges limned with golden light. Merlin flexed his hand and the tiny drawings and words shifted, some moving closer, some further away, all adjusting themselves around the great castle of Camelot at the centre. But it wasn’t just movement, it was… Arthur leaned forward. The kingdom itself was coming alive in front of him. In the East the forest of Ascetir rose and formed itself into an expanse of deepest green treetops, vast and shadowy. The White Mountains in the West hardened and grew sharp, their white-tipped peaks giving way to deep valleys. And beyond them, the Isle of the Blessed shrouded itself in mist – broken only by the dim outline of broken castle walls. It was a Camelot in miniature. More than that, Arthur realised, as he watched Ealdor grow into the village he recognised, small puffs of smoke winding out of tiny cottages. His eyes found Merlin’s, and his awe must have been obvious, because Merlin’s smile became a beam, happy and proud all at once.

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, something appropriate and hopefully meaningful, but unfortunately what came out was, “That map took me ages.”

Merlin stopped beaming and looked confused, until his expression suddenly cleared. “Oh, it’s all right. You’ve still got your original map.” He looked down at the parchment and Arthur braced himself for another spell, but Merlin only looked sternly at it and said, “Go back to the other map.” The map obeyed. “There!” said Merlin, pleased. “You just have to tell it what you want now. It should obey you. Unless it’s being stubborn. In which case you might need to threaten it with a candle.”

“Right,” said Arthur, weakly.

“It should all be very straightforward,” added Merlin, confidently. “Unless it isn’t.”

“I see,” said Arthur.

There was a slightly awkward moment then. The kind of awkward moment that was bound to happen when you’d been busy doodling on a report and your secretly-magical-manservant had burst in, found your highly embarrassing and sentimental ‘adventure’ map, discovered you knew about his magic and then rendered your map semi-sentient and likely to argue with you unless you threatened to singe its corners.

“Well,” said Merlin, after a while. “Do you, er, want any dinner?”

“I do, yes,” said Arthur, trying to regain some of his royal poise. It didn’t sound very convincing, so he added, “and don’t dawdle with it, like you did my breakfast,” for good measure.

Merlin rolled his eyes – which helped Arthur feel a little more normal – and said, “Yes, sire,” in his (normally) insolent tone.

It wasn’t until Merlin had gone to the kitchens and come back with a steaming tray, and Arthur was tucking into a hearty stew while Merlin puttered about, happily using his magic to dust the surfaces and fold his clothing, that he thought of it.

“You know,” he said, thinking of the rather dramatic hour they had both suffered through, “I don’t see why you couldn’t have just magicked a map up for yourself in the first place. For the bet, I mean. Instead of coming to steal mine and causing us both a lot of bother.”

For a moment Merlin stared at him, mouth open and looking, for the first time, just a little embarrassed, before he said, “I— I didn’t think.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and ate another mouthful of stew, pushing the bread roll aside with his free hand for Merlin to eat after.

It seemed things really were back to normal at last.

The End.

when there is just not enough chocolate in the WORLD.

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 18:21:28 GMT

Do you ever feel that if one more thing happens, just ONE MORE, you will make like The Hulk and start smashing things???

Right now this is scarily possible.

The turning into a seven foot tall green man with chest hair, slightly less so. Thankfully.

ps. Dear computer, You are not allowed to start crashing. I don't care if you feel overworked or if you just had better things to do than hang around waiting while I finished that VERY IMPORTANT email. Next time you crash I will turn you back on and leave you logged in to edwardcullenisdreamy.com for EVER. And don't think I wouldn't do it. Love, Me x

Prompt Fic: Visions of Half-Sleep - Merlin/Arthur

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 22:44:02 GMT

Written for vensre's prompt, 'hypnagogia', and now posted to ras_elased's kissing prompt (of which I heartily approve) because I thought it fit!

Now i'm just sticking it on my journal as well, where all my fics go to retire.

Word count: 1,174

Warnings: None

Notes: Hypnagogia is (according to the trusty wikipedia) the state between waking and sleeping, otherwise known as 'the borderland of sleep' or a 'half-dream state.' I have interpreted it somewhat loosely...

"Hey, wake up."

Arthur frowned and opened his eyes to see Merlin, kneeling before him, his concerned face slowly swimming into focus.

“Merlin?” he mumbled, and Merlin grinned.

“I thought you were going to sleep the day away.”

Arthur grumbled something, incoherent, wondering how long he had been asleep, when training had finished. It had been far too hot, for far too long now, and practice had seemed to drag on forever that day as his Knights moved through the familiar patterns on the churned and dusty ground, squinting against the harsh sunlight. And all the while, he remembered, Merlin had been slumped in the shade of the castle wall, sleepy with the heat - an all too distracting reminder of how Arthur had left him that morning, curled in on himself, blankets thrown back to let in the too-warm air, sleep flushed.

He blinked at Merlin now, noticing for the first time that the glare of the afternoon sun had mellowed to the gold of evening, warm and comfortable against his face and arms, highlighting the flush of sunburn on Merlin’s skin.

“I thought I told you to stay in the shade,” he said, voice slurred with tiredness as he lifted a hand and gently traced his thumb along one reddened cheekbone, noting the freckles, new since that morning.

Merlin just stared at him, something strange in his blue eyes, something a little like surprise, and too much like longing. He swallowed, looking confused, and Arthur tracked the movement, eyes lingering on where the pale skin disappeared beneath the dark of his tunic.

“Arthur?” Merlin’s voice was a whisper and Arthur frowned, harder this time, because Merlin should never sound so uncertain, not anymore, and not with him. He pulled himself upwards a little, his neck stiff, letting his fingers trail across Merlin’s face to curl around his jaw, pulling him closer as he leaned forward. Merlin grabbed at Arthur’s arms as he was pulled off balance, and Arthur could feel him trembling, holding on a little too tightly. He smiled, soft, and murmured, “I’m not going to disappear you know,” before he closed the last few centimetres. Merlin was still at first, but then as Arthur kissed him again, lazy like the way they kissed in the early mornings, he opened his mouth, just a little, his fingers losing their grip on Arthur’s arms to travel upwards and slide into his hair. Arthur smiled into the kiss, breathing in the familiar scent of him, the familiar taste, as Merlin unbent further, as he sighed into his mouth, pressed himself against him, all the while whispering Arthur, Arthur between kisses.

“Emrys, Pendragon – will you get a move on!”

The voice was very loud and very annoyed. Arthur jerked back immediately - the last vestiges of sleep falling from him as he took in the worn fabric of the coach seat, the sun shining through the dirty windows and the irritated expression of their history teacher, Mr Wilson, as he loomed into view.

“If you don’t mind, we’re all waiting!”

Arthur opened and closed his mouth, wondering what the hell had just happened.

“Sorry sir,” Merlin’s voice was husky, his face determinedly turned away from Arthur so all he could glimpse was the flush on his neck and across the pale wing of his collarbone. “We won’t be a second.”

Mr Wilson glared at them both, before striding away down the aisle – shouting warnings at the rest of the sixth form group who had already vacated the coach and were currently milling around in the car park.

Sixth form. Right. A school trip to a French castle. Arthur pulled himself fully upright, the jacket that he had been using as a makeshift pillow sliding down from the window-sill, and stared at Merlin. At his friend Merlin. Who was still not looking at him.

“What—” Arthur began.

“I’m sorry, all right?” Merlin cut him off, getting to his feet and hovering, a bit awkwardly. He was wearing that stupid t-shirt Arthur had bought him for Christmas – the Monty Python one – and Arthur could remember now how he got sunburned. They had snuck off from the rest of the group as they listened to an endless talk on medieval embroidery (or something equally awful) and ended up on the battlements, leaning over as far as they could go and making up ever more ridiculous stories for the tourists wandering far below.

“What are you sorry for?” Arthur asked at last, confused and a bit annoyed that Merlin was still examining the empty luggage rack opposite with great interest.

Merlin made a weird gesture with his hands, like he always did when he was nervous. “For the…you know. I mean, I should’ve known you were just—” he broke off, biting his lip.

Arthur thought about it for a second. “Well it was certainly…” He wanted to say ‘new’, but the dream was still so vivid in this head, and Merlin, his Merlin, that Merlin, still so familiar, that he couldn’t. “…Different,” he finished instead.

Merlin looked at him, just a quick little glance. He fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt and looked out of the window at where Mr Wilson was beginning to usher his students back towards the hostel, checking names off against a list on a clipboard. In the silence Arthur pushed his rolled up jacket into his rucksack, feeling his neck twinge again and wondering if Merlin was expecting him to say something. He stood up and Merlin moved back, darting another look at him, unsure.

“Well,” said Arthur, when the awkwardness and silence had stretched a bit too long, “I suppose we’d better get—”

“Good different, or bad different?” Merlin blurted out.

Arthur stared. He wondered, vaguely, if this was supposed to be a bigger moment, an epiphany of some kind – like you get in films. He should probably be feeling shocked, he thought, or scared, or confused, or possibly in denial. But it was Merlin. Just Merlin and him on a grubby school bus and it was late and he could still remember the sight of Merlin curled up in his bed, hair stuck up everywhere, drooling on his pillow.

So he rolled his eyes, because that felt right somehow, muttered “idiot,” because the word felt familiar, and then, when Merlin opened his mouth to argue, he grabbed the front of his t-shirt, pulled him close and kissed him soundly. Merlin managed a tiny squawk of shock before he leaned into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s neck, pulling back to smile, wide and happy, and then leaning in again, kissing him over and over.

Arthur had a feeling this had always been a pretty fail-safe method of shutting Merlin up, he just wasn’t sure how he knew. But, he reasoned - as Merlin pulled away, seized his hand and dragged him off the coach, past an irate Mr Wilson and towards their hostel - that was something he could think about later.

Much later.

The End

Prompt fic: Innovation (Merlin/Arthur)

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 21:28:01 GMT

Last one - for now :)

Prompt: Innovation.

Wordcount: 798.

Warnings: Silliness.

Enough was enough.

As he passed the fourth giggling maidservant (and a cartwheeling duster) Arthur strode out into the courtyard and yelled, “MERLIN.”

There was no immediate answer, but then it was hard to hear anything over the rhythmic clinking and crashing of what appeared to be the entire contents of the castle kitchens, jostling for position in the queue for the wash-house. He huffed his annoyance and ran a hand through his hair, distracted. Immediately, the comb which had affixed itself to his shoulder for the past hour leapt into action.

“What are you…? Get off me!” The King batted it away and the comb withdrew, sulking, to his shoulder once more. How Arthur could even know a comb was sulking was another matter entirely.

He ducked under a pile of self-folding bed linens, tripped over a procession of spoons and nearly lost an eye to a particularly enthusiastic fireside poker before he located his errant Sorcerer.

“There you are!” he snapped (the comb took advantage of his brief distraction to arrange his hair into a suitably imposing style), “What the hell is going on?”

“Arthur!” Merlin beamed, even as he took in his angry King and his entourage (which now included a small brush, a cloth and a tub of polish hovering hopefully in the vicinity of his boots). “You’re looking very tidy.” Arthur felt the comb fairly quiver with pride but manfully ignored it.

“That’s entirely beside the point, what have you done to my castle?”

“It’s a self cleaning spell!” Merlin announced proudly, “I made it up myself.” (Several pairs of gauntlets applauded).

“Right,” said Arthur, unimpressed. “Is this going to be like the self-mucking stables?” It had taken a long time to get over that; projectile horse-dung could be really quite painful.

“No?” Merlin replied, not sounding quite as confident as Arthur would have liked, before he hurried on. “I mean, that was a long time ago—”

“Three weeks.”

“Exactly. Ages ago. And I’ve been practicing since then. Look, I’ll show you.” Bounding forward he grabbed Arthur’s arm and dragged him across the yard to stand beside him. Then he grinned, which Arthur found a little worrying. “Ready?” He cleared his throat and twenty broomsticks came hurrying out and paused, expectant. “Brooms, the King would like a demonstration.”

At his words a shiver went through the whole row. Several of them managed quite creditable bows and one actually fell over and had to be helped from the yard by a mop and a passing hat-stand, apparently overcome. And yes, Arthur supposed that, for broomsticks, the jig that followed was quite impressive (even if Merlin looked like an idiot conducting). And he supposed the yard did look pretty clean afterwards. But really, he couldn’t allow—

“Merlin, I absolutely cannot allow you to…”

He trailed off. Merlin was staring at him with those big eyes (which Arthur always hated). The brooms, who had moved on to some formation twirling, came slowly to a halt, and the comb paused in its tidying of the short hairs brushing his collar.

“Don’t— Don’t you like it?” Merlin asked. Behind him several saucepans and a suit of armour were peering anxiously through an archway. Arthur cleared his throat. Then he cleared it again. There was a sudden squeaking noise and he looked down to find the tub of polish and a soft cloth giving his boots a quick shine, before a broom rushed forward to remove any offending dust or leaves from around his feet.

Arthur swallowed. “Well I— I didn’t mean— That is, it was a bit of a shock.” Merlin looked a bit more hopeful. The cloth flew up and began polishing the buttons on his coat. And Arthur began to understand a little better the importance of a tactical withdrawal. “I warn you Merlin, if this gets out of control…” Merlin shook his head very seriously. At his feet two dinner forks stopped fighting and tried to look sober and reliable. “Well then,” said Arthur, clearing his throat for the third and final time, “I suppose I can allow this, as a trial, just this once.”

Whatever else he had intended to say was lost as Merlin grinned, the gauntlets and saucepans began to applaud and several broomsticks, cloths and kitchen knives tried to outdo each other with energetic cartwheeling. Arthur’s comb merely got to work creating a truly heroic and Kingly side-parting in honour of the occasion.

“You won’t regret this Arthur,” said Merlin happily.

“I’d better not,” said Arthur, trying, and failing, to sound as grumpy as he should as he ducked under a pair of flying tapestries.

“I knew you’d come round in the end.”

“Hmmf,” said the King.

“And just wait until you hear my other ideas.”

“Wait, what?”

THE END.

Prompt fic: Walk of Shame (Merlin/Arthur)

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 21:21:58 GMT

Another prompt fic!

Prompt: Walk of Shame.

Wordcount: 658

Warnings: Some bad language.

“I’ve heard it said he can level a castle with a flick of his hand.” Toby said in a hushed voice.

Thomas chuckled and poked the fire a little, sending sparks flying into the cold morning air. “Likely that’s true, although I can’t say I’ve ever seen it.”

“I wish I could see him,” said Toby, wistful. “Just once. Just so I could say I’ve seen him, seen real magic.”

Thomas smiled at him fondly and stretched, his muscles stiff and aching from a long night on guard. “Well, likely you’ll see him before too long,” he said complacently, “That’s the Mercian delegation arriving.”

Toby twisted around in time to see a group of richly apparelled men ride into the camp. A group of Knights approached them and bowed, deeply, but Toby could see no new faces among them.

“Where is he? I can’t see him.”

“Have patience lad.” Thomas laughed. He glanced across to the group, seemingly waiting for some signal. Toby didn’t dare blink lest he miss the sorcerer’s great arrival, but, to his disappointment, there was only more bowing as the horses were led away. He was about to risk turning away, only for a second, to ask Thomas what he was supposed to be looking for when one of the Mercian party stepped forward and, with a flourish, produced a horn and blew it, the noise startlingly loud in the still morning.

“That should do it,” came Thomas’s voice.

Toby gasped. “Are they— Are they summoning him?"

“In a manner of speaking.”

It was fortunate, Toby thought later, that he turned to look at Thomas at that point, or he would never have seen the tall, slight young man who shot out of the back of the King’s tent like something large and fire-breathing was chasing him. Toby’s first terrifying instinct, that this was an assassin, was somewhat undermined when the flap of the tent opened once more and a jacket flew out, hitting the young man square in the face. Bewildered, Toby looked at Thomas, who winked and placed a finger on his lips. Together they watched the young man, who seemed to be wearing his tunic inside out, hopping on one foot, then the other, as he pulled on his boots – all the while keeping up a litany of fuck, fuck, fuck.

With admirable patience Thomas waited until he had thrown on his jacket (covered in mud) and was trying to walk and lace his breeches properly at the same time before he said, “Morning, Master Merlin.”

The noise Master Merlin emitted was one Toby thought unlikely in any man, let alone a great and powerful sorcerer.

“Thomas! Er… I was— I was just—”

“Consulting with His Majesty?”

“Consulting with...? Uh, yes. Exactly.” It was at this point he noticed Toby. “Oh,” he said awkwardly. “Hello.” He looked like he wanted to offer a hand, but it seemed politeness lost out to the need to hold on to his trousers.

Toby found he didn’t much care. “You’re Merlin,” he breathed.

The man, Merlin, grinned weakly, “I’m afraid so.”

“Is it true you can fly?” blurted Toby before he could stop himself. This might be his only chance to ask, after all.

Merlin looked a bit surprised. “Well, I have been known to—”

“I think Sir Galahad and Sir Bors are coming this way,” interrupted Thomas casually, “In case you wanted to avoid a repeat of last time.” They all turned to see the two Knights making their way towards the King’s tent, accompanied by the Mercian nobles.

“You are a wise man Thomas,” said Merlin. He chewed his lip for a moment, looking down the line of tents as though assessing the time it would take to run the length of the camp. Then he looked at the two of them and said, very seriously, “You know, I’m not supposed to use my magic for frivolous purposes.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, and Merlin grinned, suddenly mischievious. “But then, if anyone asks, you can just say you didn’t see me.”

Toby had just opened his mouth to ask what on earth that meant when the air shimmered gold before his eyes and in a flash of light Merlin was gone, leaving a charge behind him, like the air before a storm.

There was a long silence.

“He can disappear,” said Toby at last, awestruck.

Thomas poked the fire a little more, watching the sparks fly, gold like Merlin’s magic. “Aye, likely that’s true. Although I can’t say I’ve ever seen it.”

THE END.

Prompt fic: Haircut (Merlin/Arthur)

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 21:15:09 GMT

Thanks to vensre, I have discovered the world of Prompt Fic - and it is proving to be ridiculous amounts of fun. So, here is the first one (hopefully I will post them all eventually, but I thought i'd start with these). Further thanks to Ven for not only giving me the brilliant prompts, but also checking these over for me :)

Prompt: Haircut

Wordcount: 393

Warnings: Blood and an unspecified battle wound!

Merlin angled the scissors carefully and cut. The matted clump of hair fell away and Merlin took a shaky breath, dropping the scissors on to the table so he could better pull the damp hair aside, run his hands across the stained skin beneath.

“It’s not deep,” he said, his voice trembling with relief.

Arthur shifted under his ministrations, impatient as always. “I told you, I’m fine. I should never have let him catch me out like that.”

“Arthur! You’re lucky he didn’t—” Merlin stopped, because the rest of the sentence was unthinkable. For a moment there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, of the wind pushing against the thin canvas of the tent and men’s voices – distant and hollow with exhaustion.

“It was too close,” he said at last, instead.

Arthur sighed, a quiet sound, and flexed his hand where it rested on his thigh – knuckles cracked with blood and dirt. In the stillness Merlin let his fingers wander, past the stickiness of blood and sweat, through damp hair, feeling the precious flesh and bone warm beneath his hand.

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice was softer then, his eyes kind as he looked at him. “I’m fine.”

Merlin dropped his hand, skimming across rough hair, warm skin and the cold bite of steel to find Arthur’s fingers with his own, tangling them together briefly before he let go and stepped back, clearing his throat. “I’d best find you a bandage.” Then, because Arthur was still looking at him, he added “You’re probably going to look a bit of a prat for a few days, but that’s nothing unusual.”

Arthur rolled his eyes at that and Merlin managed a smile – albeit a watery one – because this was what they did, after all, who they were.

“Did I ever tell you you’re the—”

“Worst manservant ever? Yes, I think you might have mentioned it.”

Merlin fetched the poultices and linens from the chest in the corner, as Arthur examined the clump of hair on the floor and began speculating over what he would do to Merlin, should he prove to have a bald patch.

Merlin protested, as he began unravelling the cloth, and Arthur smiled, a tired smile, but a smile nonetheless.

And if Merlin’s hands were still a little unsteady on Arthur’s skin as he worked, then Arthur didn’t mention it.

The End.

When amazon tempts you with shiny Merlin products...

Tue, 04 Aug 2009 14:38:19 GMT

I have just been on Amazon for the first time in ages, and, because I have possibly searched for Merlin products on there once or twicebefore, I was immediately bombarded with a huge display of soon-to-be-released Merlin products that I didn’t even know about. I’ve no doubt this is common knowledge and I have just been living in a cave (making Merlin/Arthur fan videos with the Slash Dragon) – but now I kind of want to buy them, even though I should probably spend my money on more sensible things. But, there’s an 2010 Annual, Merlin – The Complete Guide, novelisations of the episodes (with a really cute, smiling Colin Morgan on the cover), the Merlin Quest Activity Book (answer the riddles to help Arthur defeat the evil knight and win the tournament!) and the Orchestral Soundtrack…

Oh dear – I am only human. And possibly 26 years old. Maybe I will claim they’re ‘research’ for my future fics.

Dear Idiot - a Merlin/Arthur Fanfic

Fri, 03 Jul 2009 13:54:46 GMT

Modern AU featuring Immortal Merlin and loosely based on one of my favourite childhood novels ‘Daddy Long Legs’ by Jean Webster.

Arthur is at last reborn but, when he is still a baby, he is left orphaned and alone in the world. Fortunately for him he always has Merlin - even if he doesn’t always know it.

Beta’d by the wonderful vensre – without whom this fic would be at least 600 words shorter, so thank you!!

Dear Idiot

Arthur was five years old when he first learned he had a guardian. His aunt and uncle, who he had always known were not really his aunt and uncle, called him in to tell him that they had had a letter and that he would be starting school in September at the big school at the other end of the drive. Arthur had not really thought much about school before then but the school at the other end of the drive was as familiar to him as his own back garden. His aunt worked in the kitchens there and his uncle was grounds man and they lived, the three of them, in the small brick house by the big gates. For as long as he could remember Arthur had played among the wide avenues and neat playing fields of the school, retreating when it rained to the warmth and noise of the kitchen where food compensated for the loss of freedom. But now it seemed he was to join the crowds of children who he watched every morning through his bedroom window, and all thanks to the mysterious guardian.

"Why doesn't he visit us?" Arthur had asked when his aunt had finished detailing the bewildering amount of Things To Do Before September.

"Who?"

"My guardian," Arthur had said, not really interested in the state of his sock drawer at this rather auspicious moment, "Why haven't I seen him?"

His aunt smiled, distracted, and ruffled his hair, even though he was five. "It's a long way for him to travel dear, and I don't suppose he really wants little boys under his feet."

From which Arthur concluded his mysterious guardian must be really, really old.

Hence his first letter to his guardian went something like this.

Dear guardian,

Thank you for sending me to school, I'm enjoying it very much.

Love,

Arthur

PS. I'm sorry you're so old.

Which Arthur sent, along with a picture of the school he had drawn himself and tried his best to colour in with somewhat frayed and faded felt tip pens.

A week later his aunt passed him an envelope which contained a brand new packet of felt tip pens and a post it note which read,

Thank you for your sympathy, age is indeed a great burden.

Arthur immediately asked his uncle what 'burden' meant and, upon being told it meant 'carrying a great weight', wondered if his guardian was quite fat as well.

……......................

After that Arthur didn't really think about his guardian for a while. It wasn't until the following December, when Arthur was seven, that the subject came up again. His best friend Tom was going to his grandparents’ for Christmas day because, as Tom explained, you were supposed to invite people around at Christmas. Arthur thought about this for a while, looked at his felt tip pens again, and finally asked his aunt if they were going to invite his Mysterious Guardian for the holidays.

"I don't think so sweetheart," his aunt said as she measured ingredients into the large bowl on the kitchen counter.

"Because he's so old?" said Arthur confidently.

His aunt laughed, brushing back a loose strand of greying hair with a floury hand, "Old? Goodness me no, whatever gave you that idea? He's not old!"

Arthur had not expected this at all. He frowned and waited for his aunt to fetch the eggs out of the fridge. "Why is it too far for him to come then?"

"He travels a great deal, I understand," she smiled. Arthur watched the eggs break, one at a time, disappearing into the bowl.

"Where does he travel?"

"I don't think even he knows, most of the time."

Which comment led, quite naturally, to Arthur deciding his guardian must in fact be a spy.

When he returned to school in January he shared this revelation with Tom, who agreed it was the only possible explanation. As January turned into February Arthur and Tom were often to be found in the library researching the exciting life of his guardian (which Tom thought must be a code name). Once they had exhausted the library's (admittedly limited) information on secret agents the two boys then spent several rather more thrilling weeks carrying out secret missions around the school. Unfortunately their adventures came to an abrupt end when their attempts to prove that Mr Havers, the Latin master, was in fact an enemy agent resulted in them being caught on the roof of the science lab in full view of the staff room window.

The fuss that followed led to Arthur's second letter to his guardian - after the headmaster, Mr Drake, sent his own report of the incident.

Dear guardian,

Tom and me were being spies and we got caught on the roof. But Mr Drake has already told me off so you don't need to.

Love,

Arthur

Ps. Are you a spy?

Four days later a small parcel arrived.

Dear Arthur,

I am not a spy, and I disapprove strongly of your spying attempts. To that end I enclose a pair of binoculars and a bottle of invisible ink. Try not to get caught next time.

Love,

Your guardian.

But then, Arthur mused as he unpacked his new belongings, that was probably what a spy would say anyway.

........................

The first time Arthur met his guardian he was nine years old. Unfortunately his memories of the visit were somewhat hazy. It was the last week of the Easter term and his aunt and uncle had gone to Scotland to visit a friend of his aunt's, leaving Arthur to board for two weeks at the school. Arthur had been looking forward to this for quite some time and felt it was most unfair that his cold chose that particular week to develop into flu. By the Tuesday he was ensconced in the school sanatorium under the watchful eye of the Matron and feeling really very sorry for himself, his days passing in a haze of fever, hushed voices and the uncomfortable scratch of blankets on his overheated skin.

Until, when Arthur had quite lost track of the days, he awoke in the night to darkness and a cool hand on his forehead.

He coughed, a little, and managed to croak, "Am I dying?"

Somewhere to his right a man laughed softly and the hand on his forehead withdrew briefly to return with a wet cloth. "You're not dying, Arthur."

"Oh," said Arthur. He sniffed, pitifully, "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," said the man, smoothing back sweat-soaked hair.

Arthur thought about this for a moment. "Are you a doctor?"

"No."

"Then how do you know I'm not dying?"

This seemed to amuse the man even more. "Still a terrible patient I see."

Arthur didn't think this was very sympathetic at all and he found himself hoping for a second that he would die, just to prove the man wrong. Only he supposed he wouldn't be around then to appreciate the fact. So he only glared a little bit in the direction of the man and complained that he was thirsty.

The man took the cloth away then and slipped an arm around his back, helping him to a sitting position and letting him sip gratefully from a glass of water. The man smelled of outdoors and rain and Arthur looked to the window to see water streaming down the panes, glittering in the weak glow of the outdoor lights. When Arthur had drank all he could and was lying down again the man pulled the blankets more comfortably around him and looked across to the clock on the wall.

"Are you going?" asked Arthur in a small voice, before he could stop himself.

The man looked back at him and smiled, just a quirk of movement in the darkness. "Don't worry; I'll stay with you until you fall asleep."

Arthur struggled with himself for a moment, "Promise?"

"I promise. Go to sleep Arthur, you'll feel better in the morning."

In the morning the man was gone and Arthur, sitting up in bed and feeling hungry at long last, asked matron who he was.

"Your guardian," she replied easily, "We couldn't reach your aunt and uncle so Mr Drake thought it best to contact him instead. I must say," she added with a smile, "you're looking a lot better this morning."

"I am," said Arthur. Then, "Has he gone? My guardian?"

"Yes, he left earlier this morning."

Left alone Arthur stared at the chair at his bedside and the glass on the bedside table and tried, desperately, to remember the man - but all he could recall was the quiet voice and the pattern of the rain on the windows, and the knowledge that he had stayed.

.......................................

When he was eleven Arthur discovered a talent for sword-fighting, or, more specifically, fencing. This wasn't entirely surprising given that Arthur had already shown himself adept at most of the outdoor and active pursuits his school had to offer. But fencing felt different to Arthur. From the moment he first held the foil in his hand he felt as though he had re-discovered a part of himself that he hadn't even known was lost. His attempt to do justice to this in his letters met with mixed success. But where words failed, Arthur could always rely on illustrations - illustrations which mainly involved a victorious stick figure Arthur and, in case his guardian had missed the point, he added a stick figure Tom and Owen on the floor at his feet surrounded by rather a lot of red pen. To one, particularly vivid letter, his guardian replied with a book entitled 'Emergency First Aid', several rolls of bandages and a photocopied page from the School Handbook with several large arrows pointing to the section headed 'Violence against fellow students will not be tolerated.'

Perhaps he had gone a little overboard on the red pen.

.........................................

The first time Arthur had to write to his guardian for permission he was thirteen and his friend, Owen, had invited him to spend part of the summer holidays with his family in Northumberland. It was, Owen informed him, to be a shooting party - the one outdoor pursuit Arthur had never tried. Despite Arthur's excitement for the trip his aunt and uncle insisted he write to the Mysterious Guardian. Arthur duly wrote the letter, posted it and then had to wait an entire week before he returned home from school to find a package waiting for him on the kitchen table.

It contained one rather battered looking video, entitled 'Bambi' and a post it note which read:

Watch this first!

PS. If it's white, don't even think about it.

Arthur stared at the note, then at the video which sported a rather dubious looking front cover featuring cartoon animals frolicking in a forest glade.

It was another two days before he could sneak into the computer labs after school and put it on (his aunt and uncle's interest in modernity extended to one ancient television).

An hour and a half later he switched it off and mentally added baby deer, talking rabbits, skunks and birds to his list of things he could not shoot (after Anything White).

In the end he didn't shoot anything at all, just to be on the safe side.

.......................................

When he was fifteen Arthur fell in love. Sophie was in the same year as him, in the girl's school on the other side of town, and he thought she was perfect. Arthur had never really thought too much about girls before, although he became aware as he grew older that girls apparently thought a lot about him. But Sophie was different. She was mysterious, aloof and Arthur found himself, for the first time, having to work for someone's attention and to be unsure of his reception.

Not that he wrote any of this in his letters of course. There were some things he just couldn't write about - but if her name appeared, with increasing frequency, as time went on then that was something he couldn't help. His guardian never mentioned it, or her, and when Arthur wrote that he and Sophie were going camping together at the coast, in the Easter holidays after his sixteenth birthday, he only wrote, Take care, and send me a postcard.

For the first two days Arthur was too caught up in the good weather and Sophie to think about home. But on the third day he spotted a rack of postcards outside a small kiosk on the promenade and picked two which showed Sophie's favourite view of the beach. He wrote them sitting outside in the evening sun, waiting for her to finish a phone call to her father. By the time she returned he had finished the first one to his aunt and uncle and was half way through the second.

"Who's that for?" Sophie's voice made him jump.

"It's for—" Arthur stopped, since there wasn't an easy word to describe who it was for.

"Ah ha!" Sophie snatched the card. "The mysterious guardian who never bothers to visit."

Arthur flushed, "He has visited, he just... I think he's away, you know, he travels a lot."

"Or so he says," said Sophie archly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur tried to grab the card but Sophie danced out of his reach, reading aloud in a sing song voice, "Hi, Sophie and I are having a great time at the beach; it's really warm here—" She broke off with a giggle, "What is this? A travel log?"

"Give it back!"

Sophie stepped out of reach again and grabbed a pen, "How about I improve it? Dear mysterious guardian, perhaps you could explain why I haven't seen you in at least seven years?"

Arthur lunged for the card and yanked it out of her hand, scowling as Sophie raised her eyebrows mockingly.

"Oh dear, did I touch a nerve?" She flopped down in the chair. "I was only teasing. You need to lighten up, Arthur."

Arthur shoved the cards into his rucksack, his face hot. After a few minutes of silence Sophie rose gracefully from the chair and slid her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

"I really was only teasing. Your mystery man can stay a mystery for all I care."

Arthur looked down at her and her easy smile. "I know." He swallowed, and said, “It doesn't matter, just forget it."

The next day he posted the card to his aunt and uncle - but the second one stayed half finished and in his bag.

In the end of course it turned out Sophie had been teasing him all along. Six weeks later she was gone, leaving Arthur for the older, and apparently more exciting, captain of the sixth form rugby team. It was two weeks later, when Arthur was packing for Glastonbury Festival - Tom's apparently 'failsafe' method for Getting Over That Witch - that Arthur saw the postcard again, squashed and stained at the bottom of his rucksack. He pulled it out and stared at it for a long moment before putting it in the drawer in his desk with the pile of letters and post it notes that no longer stuck to anything. But when he came home, muddy and happy, four days later he remembered to print off a good, and not too drunken, photograph, writing neatly on the back, 'Me and Tom at Glastonbury Tor', and wrote a short letter.

And this time, he posted it.

........................................

It was perhaps a little ironic that his trip to Glastonbury should fuel a sudden interest in Arthurian history - given that his A Level module in Arthurian Literature had already fuelled a succession of increasingly unfunny 'Arthur' jokes and inspired Tom and Owen to always save him the only circular table in the sixth form common room. But even with this interest Arthur still surprised himself, and everyone else, when his essay won his year's prize for literature in his first year of sixth form. It wasn't that Arthur was bad at English as such; it was rather that his teachers had long assumed his talents lay outside the classroom, or in 'hitting people with swords' as Owen cheerfully put it.

It was while his aunt was still trying to decide where to hang the certificate in the tiny living room that his uncle suggested he send a copy of the essay to his guardian.

"I understand he's something of a scholar himself."

"Really?" Arthur was so surprised by this he looked away from the frame he was holding up, which resulted in his aunt very nearly nailing his thumb to the wall.

"Well," his uncle continued when his aunt had finally been persuaded to put down the hammer, "I couldn't say for certain, but he's always seemed a very learned man."

As usual Arthur pressed for more information, and as usual his uncle had no more to say on the subject. But Arthur remembered the conversation and the following week he photocopied the essay, entitled 'The Legacy of Arthur in British History and Literature' and sent it with a cover note (after removing the highly embarrassing photo from the school paper his aunt had tried to sneak in to the envelope).

Five days later he received a postcard.

I very much enjoyed your essay but I think you forgot about Merlin!!!

To which Arthur replied,

I did not forget him. King Arthur was probably based on a real figure, Merlin is almost certainly no more than a mythological construct.

Two days later Arthur was woken by the doorbell ringing at 7.30am. Stumbling to the door he wrenched it open to find the postman, looking annoyingly cheerful for such an early hour, and holding out a large parcel. Ripping off the brown paper Arthur found himself staring at a huge book boldly titled 'MERLIN: THE MAN AND THE LEGEND' above what looked like a medieval depiction of Merlin turning someone into a toad. A post it note had been affixed to the front cover, complete with an arrow pointing to Merlin's face and the comment,

I don't think the rubbish beard is historically accurate.

Flicking through the first few pages Arthur discovered his guardian had also taken it upon himself to underline the word LEGEND several times in quite thick pen and put a star next to the chapter, 'Merlin - greater than Arthur?' on the contents page.

The next day he found a left over postcard of Arthur in a heroic pose, bought at a shop in Glastonbury, and wrote,

Are you actually suggesting Merlin was a real wizard who could turn people into toads?

Two days later a postcard arrived featuring Merlin 'imparting wisdom to King Arthur' (if the small type on the back was to be believed) and bearing the message,

You Arthurs are always so sceptical.

Which, Arthur thought as he put the card away in the drawer, was quite a strange comment to make, all things considered.

….....................................

It was, however, a rather more well-thumbed copy of the book that he took to university with him just over a year later, stacking it neatly on the shelf above his desk - next to the worn copy of Malory and the brand new copy of the Historia Brittonum of Nennius that had been a leaving present from his aunt and uncle. They'd left not long ago - after his aunt had smoothed the bedcovers, checked the kitchen and bathroom and hoovered the already pristine carpet and could, finally, find nothing else to keep her there. Arthur had waved them off cheerfully enough but once their car had disappeared he had trailed slowly back up the unfamiliar staircase and stood in his room. He looked at the box of books still to be unpacked, at the half open suitcase and the bare walls and felt, for a moment, as if this whole university idea was too big for him. He could hear someone's music playing somewhere in the distance and the sound of voices in the car park, girls by the sound of it, shouting to each other over the roar of car engines.

It was so noisy that he almost didn't hear the knock at first. Even when he did he dithered for a second, wondering if Tom would actually die laughing if he could see the confident Captain of the Football Team, hovering nervously on his own doorstep. It was this that finally made him stride forward, before he could think better of it, and pull open the door to find a dark haired boy poised, one hand raised and ready to knock again.

"Hi," the boy said awkwardly after a slight pause. He looked a little flushed and Arthur wondered if he had been standing there a while too, waiting to knock, and the thought made him feel better somehow.

He attempted a smile, which may or may not have been successful. "Hi, I'm Arthur." Belatedly he held out a hand and the boy took it, looking relieved, and grinned.

"I know," When Arthur looked confused the boy hurried on, the tips of his ears red, "I mean, I think someone from Allocations mentioned you would be arriving today."

"Oh," said Arthur.

"I'm Merlin by the way," the boy offered, then laughed at Arthur's expression, "I know, don't say it. Evidently someone in the Halls Office has a warped sense of humour."

Arthur laughed at that, and shook his head disbelieving, "Please tell me you're not doing English."

"Would you believe me if I said I wasn't?"

Arthur looked at him for a second, eyes narrowed at the suddenly angelic expression. "Actually I don't think I would."

Merlin sighed dramatically, "There goes the acting career. I guess I'll have to sign up for English after all."

Arthur rolled his eyes and Merlin grinned again and said, "A few of us are going down to the student union if you— I mean, if you haven't got anything you need to be doing and want to come along?" When Arthur hesitated for a moment he added, "You don't have to, if you're busy, I just thought—" He stopped and looked so hopeful that Arthur found himself saying, without thought. "No, I'll come. It's only unpacking," he gestured round the room, "Nothing that can't wait."

He grabbed his coat and wallet and followed Merlin down the narrow corridor to where a group of five or six people were chatting self-consciously.

"Thank you, by the way." Arthur said, as they neared the group, "I wasn't sure what to—” He broke off, feeling a bit of an idiot, "I just mean, it's good to meet someone from my course." He had an awful feeling he'd gone red.

But Merlin just beamed at him, looking ridiculously happy for someone who'd just started a three year degree course. "I know," he said, "And you're very welcome."

.....................................

In his first term at university Arthur sent three postcards to his guardian, and received one in return.

October 19^th

As you can see I made it here alive. The course is going well so far (I think). As improbable as it seems I have met a real-life Merlin, a fellow English student. Our flat was even renamed Camelot by my next door neighbour Lucy - until real-life Merlin threatened to turn her into a toad in a way not unlike your favourite book. But I think you'll be pleased to hear that he seems to have made it a point of honour to defend his name-sake against any and all criticism. It makes for some interesting seminars!

Arthur

November 12^th

We had the first lot of snow here yesterday so I hope this card gets through. Merlin says it usually gets worse, but I don't see how it can get much colder than this! Unfortunately it means rugby and football are off for now - but fencing club carries on as normal, provided we can make it to practice with no broken bones. I even dragged Merlin along last week, after he tricked me into attending a poetry evening at the union bar. It turns out he is absolutely rubbish with a sword, and should not be allowed near weaponry of any kind. I've decided to claim that as a victory for King Arthur, whatever Merlin says!

Arthur

December 6th

I hope you're well? I still haven't heard from you. Things continue much the same here. Merlin was right about the snow - for which he was insufferably smug through most of November. But it's stopped being a novelty now and all most of us can think about are essays and the January exam. Lucy has bought in an industrial sized jar of coffee and settled in for the duration and even Merlin is quieter than usual. I think he managed a whole thirty minutes without speaking when we were working in his room yesterday. I did wonder if perhaps he had fallen into a coma, but sadly not. Luckily we have Nick (who lives downstairs) to drag us to the pub when he feels the levels of work have become unacceptably high.

Arthur

December 11th

Dear Arthur,

I'm sorry for not writing back to you for so long. I think we should meet. I will be in town on Thursday at 4 o'clock by the west gate of the college.

Your guardian.

.....................................

Arthur was nineteen years old when he first learned that he used to be a King. Afterwards he would remember the sting of winter air on his face, the darkening sky and the falling snow. But most of all he would remember Merlin. Merlin who stood up, a dark bundled figure against grey stone, and watched him slip and slide his way along the narrow path. Merlin whose voice shook as he spoke, his words falling into silence until there was nothing but the swirling snow, the glow of the street lamp and the anxious face before him. Then Merlin gripped his hands and there was knowledge too, a dizzying rush of memories – the flicker of candlelight on stone, the ring of steel and the smell of horses, of wine, blood and magic and the shape of snow on older walls than these.

And after, when it was done, he would remember the way Merlin looked at him - laid open, so honest and pleading and Merlin, that he would wonder how he ever mistook this familiarity between them for something new. All his life, he had thought, and remembered another, darker, night, the glitter of lamplight on rain washed windows and a cool hand on his skin.

Afterwards he would remember the words Merlin had spoken, “I’m sorry” and “I couldn’t tell you” and the way he had twisted his red scarf round and round in his hands, until it was impossibly tangled, until Arthur had had to reach out and stop Merlin’s cold hands with his own. Afterwards he would remember it all, but in that moment he only thought of the dark and the cold and Merlin - untidy, clumsy Merlin who left his books all over Arthur’s floor and was always late.

“All this time,” he had said, and the words had seemed so small next to the enormity of that knowledge, that his life could change so completely and yet not at all. He had thought, then, that he could remember another time, another moment like this – but the memory was dim and fleeting, just a snatch of gold, a voice and Merlin so uncertain before him. So he thought instead of that night, years before, of the smell of the sickroom, the scratch of blankets and the memory of the figure by his bed that had faded into something insubstantial in the days that had followed. Until, when Arthur had almost forgotten, his aunt and uncle had returned at last to take him home, in a flurry of apologies. How lucky, they had said, that the letter had reached them, and how kind of his guardian, his aunt had added, fussing over his blanket, to visit in their absence. And when Arthur was safe and warm and home, blankets worn and soft and no longer rough against his skin, he had asked for the cards and letters in the drawer, spread them across his bed and known that it was real. He needed that, he’d realised, watching the snow drift across the wall, settling in Merlin’s dark hair - needed to counter the unreality of this with the certainty of home. To open the drawer in his desk, take out everything, all of it - to spread it out and look for Merlin there.

So that night Arthur went home to the brick house at the end of the drive. In his old room, at the top of the stairs, he opened the middle drawer of his desk and took out the pile of letters, postcards and curling post-it notes. He spread them out on the floor and looked at them for a long time, smoothing out creases and frayed edges and thinking. He thought of the way he had left Merlin earlier that night, Merlin who had nodded so earnestly and said “It’s ok, of course you need— Of course. I’ll be here, don’t worry”, but who had watched him, a slight dark figure in the snow, until Arthur was out of sight. He thought of the empty chair at his bedside, of invisible ink and long afternoons in the college library with Merlin, a warm presence by his side. And he thought of the smell of leather and steel and the way the orange glow of the street lamp had looked like firelight on Merlin’s skin. He thought of a red scarf and pale hands, of old stone, new paper and Merlin, always Merlin, until he could no longer tell where one memory ended and another began. And then he smiled, because it was not so hard after all, to make it real.

As the clock on the wall ticked softly onward he gathered the papers and cards together again and put them back in the drawer. From downstairs he could hear the murmur of voices and the low buzz of the television, the whistle of a kettle and his aunt’s footsteps on the kitchen floor. Tomorrow he knew there would be questions to ask, and perhaps, to answer. But for tonight, he had one last letter to write.

Dear idiot,

As you will see from the postmark I really am at home and not doing any of the melodramatic things you have no doubt been imagining. It seems Kings, and anyone who has managed to live with you, can cope with almost anything. And really, perhaps I should have known all along. Bambi, Merlin? Seriously? I may never forgive you for that.

The next time you decide to withhold my memories from me out of some misguided sense of honour I will borrow stocks from the British Museum and see you are locked in it for at least the next three hundred years (and don’t think I don’t know you’re immortal).

I also think we need to have a serious discussion about your worrying preoccupation with your own legend.

Love,

Arthur

PS. This does not mean I’m speaking to you.

PPS. I’ll be back on Monday.

…............................….

After that Arthur never wrote to Merlin again, and Merlin never wrote to Arthur – but then, they were so rarely apart, it was hardly necessary.

THE END.

All constructive criticism very welcome!

ps. All views expressed here with regards to Merlin being a mythological construct were made up by me for this story. I am not an Arthurian scholar (and i'm sure Arthur changes his mind anyway...). Apologies to any experts out there!

Merlin expo 2009 - Series 2 news

Sat, 23 May 2009 13:20:28 GMT

I have such a cool brother. He's at the Expo in London this weekend (he writes for an anime website) and, because he is lovely, he went to the Merlin panel for me and then text me throughout with news.

So I now know that,

- Lancelot is back in series 2.

- Arthur and Gwen's romance will start, or move along, or something. Like I care. (frankly i was LESS HAPPY about this and more happy about the next one)

- There will be more shirtless Arthur

- There will be a cartoon series.

- There will be some novels.

- Merlin and Gwen become Morgana's chief confidants (but their friendship 'will be tested')

- There will be more Mordred and more about Excalibur.

- Colin and Bradley have linked their Nintendo's wirelessly (or something, i'm not good with computer stuff) and play Nintendo DS Super Mario Karts against each other in between filming apparently. Colin said he always won, Bradley disagreed. Or as my brother put it.. "the Merlin one said he always won the games but the blonde one kept shaking his head."

- Bradley spent some time filming the crowd at the expo.

I think I need to buy him a drink (or three). Also I think he was a little scared by the fangirls....

Past History - a Merlin/Arthur fanfic

Thu, 21 May 2009 19:09:49 GMT

Originally posted anonymously on merlinkinkmeme for this prompt..

Centuries have passed since Arthur's death and Merlin has lived a thousand lives since then. He's lost hope for Arthur ever returning. It's 2009 and he's working as a teacher in a school. One day a very familiar blonde boy walks into his class. Que naughty schoolboy Arthur trying to entice teacher!Merlin and lots of kinky detention sessions.

Except I failed to include any porn or kinky detention sessions and managed to post it in the wrong bit of the site...

er... yeah and my Arthur is not so much a schoolboy as a 6th former (around 17 or so). Thankfully the OP was kind enough to leave a nice comment anyway so I decided to be brave and actually post it in my journal.

Constructive criticism appreciated as always :)

Sorry about the lame title - originally it didn't have one and it was either this or 'When Reincarnation Bites You in the Ass.'

………......…..

“And the sources tell us that the King won a resounding victory and when the battle was over he immediately rode back to…”

“I have a question sir.” Merlin closed his eyes briefly as the rest of the class sniggered.

“Is this going to be a relevant question?” The blonde boy in the front row pretended to think about it for a long moment whilst the rest of the class held their breath.

“When you say he immediately rode away from battle…” Oh god. “…do you mean he just went, just like that, he didn’t…” There was a pause, just long enough for Merlin to not think about impatient hands, the smell of blood and dirt and metal and his back against grass, wrists pinned, body pressed deep into the earth by the warm, muscled weight above him. “…need to do anything else first?”

“Maybe he found himself a peasant to shag.” Jamie called out from the back row – just as Merlin knew he would. Just as everyone knew he would. In the front row Arthur Pendragon leaned back in his chair, shirt loose, tie askew and let his eyes drift slowly down Merlin’s body and smirked,

“Maybe he did.”

“Yes, thank you Jamie, Arthur.” Merlin adopted his most repressive tone and then nearly lost his train of thought when Arthur picked up the pen on his desk and almost lazily began running his thumb up and down the smooth plastic, “I…” He shook his head slightly to clear it and Arthur raised an eyebrow, “I think we should get back to the discussion in hand.”

He glanced down at his notes (because the official version was so much harder to remember than the reality), “Now, after King Arthur returned from battle he was widely expected to make his next move against Mercia. However after taking counsel with his advisors it is said he decided instead to…”

“Sir?” Merlin prayed to any gods he had ever heard of for patience.

“Yes Arthur?”

“What does ‘taking counsel’ mean exactly?” Merlin took a deep breath and said very firmly,

“It means that he discussed the matter with his royal council and took their advice. Now if we could…”

“They must have been very persuasive,” Arthur put in, sucking his pen slowly into his mouth - just like he used to when he… Merlin stopped thinking abruptly and cleared his throat.

“I’m sure they simply gave very sensible advice,” said Merlin, because in the hour and a half their argument had resounded through the castle he had given very sensible advice, even if certain idiotic Kings had refused to listen and all the official councillors had stayed as far away as possible.

“Or maybe they cheated?” suggested Arthur, removing the pen from his mouth just long enough to look at the glistening tip before pushing it back in. Merlin gripped the edge of his desk a little harder than he intended to as he snapped,

“I hardly think this is relevant to the discussion Mr Pendragon,” because it wasn’t and because he really didn’t need to think of Arthur pinned down by his magic, promising Merlin anything he wanted as he moved over his flushed body, using his lips and teeth and hands to let him know just what a very bad idea a long and dangerous campaign was in the middle of winter.

“Although we will never know the exact reason,” he continued, trying to ignore the way Arthur’s free hand traced patterns on the desk - strong, capable fingers dark against wood pale as skin, “we are told that King Arthur delayed his campaign until the following Spring, when it is written he won yet another victory with the help of the sorcerer Merlin.” He allowed himself a tiny satisfied pause, “It was Merlin who…”

“Wasn’t Merlin a bit withered and old by then Sir?”

“Right, that is it, Arthur!” There were a few sniggers from the class as Arthur Pendragon, who always so effortlessly charmed teacher and pupil alike, once again succeeded in undermining Mr Emrys’s famed patience and good temper (It had become a regular occurrence). “I do not want to hear another word from you!”

Merlin glared pointlessly as Arthur tilted his chair, looking golden and rumpled and perfect, the pink tip of his tongue just visible as he lazily moved the pen around his mouth, eyes never leaving Merlin’s face.

“And for god’s sake take that pen out of your mouth!” Merlin snapped, feeling hot and uncomfortable in his suddenly too restricting suit. Arthur removed the pen (which was good) and then licked his lips (which wasn’t).

“Thank you! Now if we could finally…”

But as usual his attempts to elaborate on Merlin the Sorcerer’s great achievements were thwarted, first by Arthur and then by the bell. Arthur smirked at him as the class started getting to their feet, shoving books into bags as the buzz of conversation rose up again. A few of them spoke to Arthur and he answered – yes he was coming to play football at lunchtime; no, he was meeting someone else sixth period. Merlin concentrated on stacking his notes neatly, eyes down, acknowledging his students with a nod as they passed by his desk on their way out, waiting for it,

“No detention today then Sir?” Merlin took a steadying breath and looked up to see the classroom empty and Arthur leaning against the edge of the desk, blazer on, hands in his trouser pockets, blue eyes fixed on Merlin with a look he could not mistake – even after centuries.

“I am not in the habit of giving out detentions for asking silly questions in class.” Merlin replied evenly, willing away the want that prickled over his skin like static.

“What would I have to do then, I wonder?” Arthur’s voice was soft, his gaze speculative as it searched Merlin’s face, moving lower, and Merlin knew he had to stop this now.

“I think you should go to your next class,” his voice was not quite as steady as it should have been and Arthur picked up on it immediately, his eyes darting back up to Merlin’s face as if, finally, sensing weakness. He was standing so close; Merlin could see the gold of his eyelashes, the fine hours old stubble shadowing his face – a younger face than he remembered but still undeniably Arthur. It would be so easy to give in, to yield to the restless energy that had consumed him for so long and which he sensed in Arthur too. It would be easy, it would be…

With a start he realised Arthur had stepped closer, one hand moving towards his face, eyes bright with something hot and disbelieving and hopeful all at once. Merlin grabbed his wrist, halting the fingers just inches from his jaw and for a moment they were frozen, staring, breath warm on each other’s faces. Merlin could feel the fast beating pulse beneath his fingers, and knew his hand was trembling. Then Arthur swallowed, the sound loud in the silent room and opened his mouth,

“Mer…”

“Go to class.” Merlin whispered quickly, forcing the hand down and away from him, stepping back, putting the solid wood of the desk between himself and Arthur. “Go. I have work to do.”

Arthur stared a few moments longer and Merlin felt the gaze, burning, against the side of his face, then he was striding towards the door, kicking a chair out of his way, slamming the door hard behind him. Merlin sat down abruptly; breathing too quickly, skin prickling with heat, notes sliding un-noticed to the floor.

One day, they both knew, Merlin would close those last few inches. One day he would give in.

But not today.

THE END

What Hurts the Most - A Merlin/Arthur Fanvideo

Sat, 09 May 2009 19:38:40 GMT

So... it turns out I fail in many and varied ways at making angsty Merlin/Arthur videos. This attempt is the result of a post by writteninhaste on MerlinxArthur suggesting 'What Hurts the Most' by Rascal Flatts for a video.

Anyway it does have a vague sort of story. It's meant to follow on from episode 13. Arthur has realised Merlin is a sorceror and tells him to leave Camelot. So Merlin rides back to Ealdor and they both angst about not telling each other how they felt. Or something like that. By the time my ancient version of Movie Maker had crashed for the 500th time this week the story had kind of become secondary to me weeping on the keyboard and threatening my laptop with blunt instruments if it didn't start co-operating for longer than 4 minutes at a time.

Also, I can't actually watch the uploaded video because my Laptop and Imeems do not agree, so please let me know if there's a problem with the link!

UPDATE: Apparently Imeems have removed ALL their fan videos so mine no longer exist *sob*. If anyone would still like to see it however I have uploaded it to Megaupload and the link is

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=YPGZJZ20

Fanfic: Waiting (Merlin/Arthur)

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 23:16:01 GMT

Slightly angsty story I wrote in about an hour so apologies if it's a bit random or for any mistakes!

Waiting

It’s almost dark when he sees the man.

Tom’s been coming here for so long now that he barely notices the ebb and flow of people anymore – the sunburnt tourists with their cameras and their guidebooks, the earnest students and the excited children for whom the crumbling walls and mossy flagstones are little more than a playground.

He was one of them once, a child primed with stories of great adventures and noble quests who walked the beaten pathways and looked across low broken walls to the sea. It’s why he comes back.

Happy memories.

So it is strange that this man should stand out where so many others do not.

He thinks it’s the camera. Or lack thereof. Or perhaps it’s the way he’s standing, a lonely silhouette against the grey expanse of sea and sky, but looking inwards, staring into the ruined hall with the expression usually directed to the view at his back.

“Hello,” the man says when he is close enough to speak.

“That was the hall,” Tom gives a nod to the dark archway and the cracked flagstones disappearing into shadow.

“I know,” the man’s voice is soft and a smile passes, sad and fleeting, across his face then.

“Hard to imagine it now I suppose,” says Tom because he can’t quite make out this stranger with the dark hair and the sad eyes who has no camera and no guide book.

“Yes,” the man says, and then looks at Tom, properly looks at him as if noticing him for the first time - or recognising him, Tom thinks, and he suddenly knows that he’s seen this man before.

“You were here last year?” Tom’s voice is uncertain for a second as he tries to remember, frowning as he struggles to recall a hot summers day, the smell of cut grass, sun cream and horses, “For the mock joust? I spoke to you then.”

“Yes,” the man replies and his mouth quirks, “Just after you were nearly mown down by the charger.”

“Good lord,” Tom wonders how he could forget that, “you’re right.” He smiles at the man as he remembers and for a moment the man smiles back, then his face shutters once more and he turns away to look out across the wall to where the sea lies flat and dark.

“What are you doing here?” Tom asks after a moment and then abruptly realises how rude the question is. For several long seconds the man doesn’t speak and Tom shifts awkwardly and wishes he would turn around so he could smile or apologise or something. But the man doesn’t move and it is only when Tom has almost given up hoping that he speaks.

“I’m waiting.”

There is no weight to the reply, no catch of breath, no tremor of emotion, no sign at all that these words mean anything – but something about the way the man stands, so contained and so still, tells Tom that they do.

“Here?” He asks because it is a foolish question and because he doesn’t know what else to say to the man.

“Here.” The man replies and then turns suddenly to look at Tom again, “Here is best.”

“And will they come?” This time the silence is even longer than before but Tom just waits, wishing he could see the expression of the man before him, face now lost in shadow. He hears the man sigh, so quietly it is almost lost in the distant rush of the sea.

“I don’t know,” His head turns briefly towards the lost hall once more and then again to Tom, “But I hope so.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom says even though he doesn’t know this man and doesn’t know why this matters. But it seems to be the right thing to say because the man smiles and his eyes, for a second, are warm.

“Thank you.”

“What will you do if he doesn’t come?” The man stares at him for a long, silent moment and Tom realises he is holding his breath, as if the answer matters to him. For a long time there is only the sound of the man’s quiet breathing, the waves and the buzz of insects in the warm summer air. Then,

“I’ll keep waiting,” Tom releases the breath he should not have been holding and the strange moment is broken, “He’ll come.” Tom swallows and nods and there is silence for a while.

“I should go.” Tom says at last, “I’m meeting people at my hotel.” It seems strange and inconsequential to speak of people and hotels when the castle walls loom dark and broken around him and the man watches him, eyes dark and somehow old.

“Of course,” the man says. “Goodbye then.” And Tom nods at him again and turns to leave.

“Don’t forget your rucksack,” the man says suddenly and Tom turns to see him holding out the worn red bag that he must have put down without even realising. He smiles,

“Thanks.”

“What would you do without me,” the man says and Tom laughs and thinks how true that is.

“See you then,” Tom says and hoists the rucksack on his shoulder.

“Yes,” says the man, “goodbye.”

And Tom hears the smile in his voice and the swell of the sea and the rustle of grass and he thinks, for a second, for just a second, he hears ‘Arthur.’

But he knows that he couldn’t have.

No-one has called him Arthur since he was a little boy. He’s been Tom for so long now that his given name is lost to all but his father. And this man couldn’t know it.

He takes the rucksack then and leaves, picking his way carefully along the path. He can see the gate now and the road, almost lost in the deepening gloom. At the top of the steps he stops and turns back, one last look at the ruins and the sea, one more memory to add to a store of them. The man is still there, just a dark shape, barely indistinguishable from the walls behind him, but Tom lifts an arm and waves anyway and he thinks the man waves back. It is full dark now and a crescent moon rises over Tintagel but he needs no moonlight to find his way through the yellowing grass and dry stony earth. The ground beneath his boots is old and familiar, worn with the footsteps of centuries.

That night he dreams of old stone and dark eyes, of halls lit by fire and the smell of leather and metal. He wakes to the smell of the sea and wonders why he dreams these things.

He wonders.

And Merlin waits.

THE END

Don't ask me why I decided he should be called Tom, I didn't want it immediately obvious who he was and I figured you don't get a lot of Arthurs nowadays so I decided he would have chosen to use his second name (Thomas I suppose), I suppose being called Arthur Pendragon today could get annoying after a while. Yep, I think those are all the rubbish excuses I can come up with...

Merlin Fanfic: The Route to Advancement: A Most Unfortunate Hunt

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 00:35:19 GMT

I know I said there would probably be no more Percy stories, but this little scene turned up and bashed me over the head repeatedly until I wrote it out. It has no real plot to speak of but I really hope it works alright anyway. I think this can probably be read on it’s own (the reference to potatoes harks back to Merlin being bashed with them while he was in the stocks, and Lord Wyldon is Percy’s somewhat overbearing father). But if you would like to read the previous three, they are….

The Route To Advancement : 1 | 2 | 3

Anyway, here it is in all its rather short and plotless (and possibly a bit random) glory - huge thanks to vensre, as always, for her brilliant beta work :)

The Route to Advancement: A Most Unfortunate Hunt

Percy had frequently heard it said that Brutus was a very stupid horse. Of course it was mainly his father who said this, but even Percy had been known to say it once or twice. All right, maybe only once (but he had deserved it). Brutus had had a habit, mostly cured now, of blowing out his stomach whilst being saddled. Naturally Percy had got wise to this very quickly - being deposited on the floor in front of half his father's guests on fair day tended to do that. But his father had not. So when, some four years earlier, Lord Wyldon had strode into the courtyard of their castle on a bright May morning and imperiously called for Brutus to be saddled for his morning hunt (his own mount being lame) Percy should really have been more worried. Even when Brutus had been led out to stand, beautifully groomed and suspiciously barrel shaped, by the mounting block Percy had not suspected. It was only when his father swung himself confidently into the saddle and Brutus suddenly deflated like a brown furry balloon that Percy realised that his morning was about to take a truly awful turn. In hindsight he knew that Brutus hadn't intended for his father to slide off into the puddle (he was, after all, just a horse) but it took a long time for his father to see it that way. Of course Percy had had to take the blame for that one - he had forgotten to repair the frayed girth, he decided - but afterwards he had looked long and hard at his horse and told him he was a very stupid horse indeed. Naturally his sister Isolda had thrown her arms around his neck and told him not to listen to Percy and Brutus had looked at Percy in a way he would have thought very smug - if he hadn't reminded himself, again, that Brutus was just a horse.

All of which had nothing whatsoever to do with how Percy and Brutus had come to be standing knee and hock deep in thick, clinging mud except to cause Percy to conclude (weighing past evidence with their present predicament) that Brutus was indeed very stupid.

They had been hunting when it happened. After a moderately successful morning Percy had dismounted with the other Knights to lead his horse along the narrow forest path to the spot where Prince Arthur had decreed they would stop, briefly, for rest and food. He'd been quite happy to drop back behind the rest of the party, enjoying the chance to stretch his legs at last, when Brutus had suddenly shied, dragging the reins from his relaxed grip and haring off through the trees like his tail was on fire. In reality, Percy thought gloomily as he tried to move and only succeeded in sinking a bit deeper into the cold mud; it was probably just a rat. Or something that looked like a rat. Or possibly just something vaguely grey and rat sized. Or even just a small leaf that Brutus had decided could, in a certain light, resemble a rat. It seemed that ever since the tournament last winter Brutus had developed a marked dislike for that particular rodent. On the one hand this meant getting him to gallop when required was no longer such a problem (although really, shouting 'rat' when everyone else shouted 'charge' could hardly be deemed much of an improvement), but unfortunately Brutus had also developed a slight tendency to see rodents at every turn. Percy thought that this could hardly be normal, even for Brutus, but Isolda had just laughed and said that a career with the travelling players likely awaited Brutus when his charging days were over. Right now, however, an illustrious career seemed a rather unlikely prospect for either of them.

He looked at Brutus, trying to ignore the feel of the mud in his boots.

"I don't know why you're looking at me - this was all your fault." Brutus, unsurprisingly, offered no comment. "And you needn't look so pleased with yourself; you're going to sink before I do."

Brutus threw his head up and down and tried to move again, before looking, rather pathetically, at Percy. Percy sighed. He supposed that really, he couldn't blame Brutus entirely for this. After all, imaginary rat or no, he might not have had to chase Brutus at all if he'd been paying attention to his horse and not admiring the way the sunlight dappled the forest floor. However he felt that being found stranded in a bog was going to be bad enough and he didn't really need to mention that part too.

It was at this point he heard the sound of someone, at last, approaching through the trees. He spared a brief moment to hope that it wasn't Sir Meurig or, even worse, Sir Rhys, when Merlin came crashing through the bushes, spied Percy, looked immensely relieved and started forward. Percy had barely had chance to say, "Be careful! It's really—" before Merlin promptly fell down the same slope as Percy, grabbed wildly at a nearby tree branch, missed and fell into the bog. "...slippery there," Percy finished, somewhat after the fact. He reached out, a little awkwardly, and helped Merlin to his feet.

"Oh," said Merlin, looking around.

"Exactly," said Percy, gloomily.

Brutus stretched out his neck and lipped softly at Merlin's collar. Merlin patted him absentmindedly. He looked even worse than Percy who had, at least, only waded into the mud. Merlin's trousers and tunic were caked all down one side but at least he didn't seem to be panicking - not that Percy had ever seen Merlin panic.

"So..." said Percy, looking at Merlin "What are the chances of us getting out of this in a heroic fashion?" Brutus sneezed and sank another inch. Merlin and Percy stared at him for a second and then looked at each other.

"Probably not good," said Merlin. He wriggled a little, experimentally, and succeeded in moving slightly closer to the bank. "But I don't think the others will be here for a while yet, " He moved fractionally again. "So perhaps if I go really slowly I can get out and then we can salvage some—" He suddenly flailed wildly and nearly fell over again before grabbing hold of a surprised looking Brutus and hanging on grimly. "Or perhaps not."

Percy looked at the thick gloop now around his knees and wondered how the King would make 'death by bog' sound honourable to his father.

"I suppose we'll just have to stay here 'til someone comes looking for us." He grimaced. "I hope it's not Sir Rhys." Sir Rhys was one of two new recruits who had joined the Knights in March and he had made his opinion of Percy's complete and utter ineptitude clear from the start.

Merlin gave him a sympathetic look (Sir Rhys's superior attitude extended to the servants) but pointed out, "Better Sir Rhys than Ar—"

"Merlin! You idiot!"

Merlin sighed. "Never mind."

Percy twisted round with some difficulty to see Prince Arthur at the top of the slope staring down at them, surrounded by Sir Meurig, Sir Edwin, the second newcomer Sir Geraint and (because this was Percy and he could expect no less) a very smug looking Sir Rhys. Percy supposed he should feel more offended that none of the Knights, the Prince least of all, could even pretend to look surprised at this turn of events. Indeed, Prince Arthur looked as though he was finding this even more amusing than the time Merlin drank three tankards of Honeymead and knocked himself out trying to open a door. Regardless of what Sir Rhys might think, Percy felt it was time to intervene.

"It was my fault Sire; Merlin was just trying to help me."

The Prince raised an eyebrow. "And you came to be in a swamp because…?"

Percy hoped his red face was slightly less obvious from the top of the slope. "I, er, thought I saw something through the trees and rode to investigate."

"And yet your vigilance didn't stretch to the enormous patch of mud in front of you?" Sir Rhys put in in an insufferably superior tone.

"Shall I throw some mud at him?" Merlin muttered, leaning in his direction as much as he was able. "I'm reasonably certain Arthur won't let him kill me after." Percy bit his lip, managing to suppress the smile that threatened. He noticed Prince Arthur was giving his manservant a look that suggested he was either excellent at lip-reading, or knew Merlin far too well.

"Well, regardless of how this occurred." The Prince's tone, and the look he gave Sir Rhys, were very final. "I suppose we ought to find a way of getting you back to the castle in one piece."

Percy tried not to feel too mortified at the ease with which the Prince and the four Knights climbed down the slope, coming to stand at the very edge of the bog. Sir Rhys, who seemed unable to help himself, gave Brutus an unfavourable look.

"I thought horses were supposed to be able to sense things like this?"

Brutus, who was probably supposed to be able to do a great many things, looked singularly unmoved by this pronouncement. In fact, Percy thought, he seemed to be eyeing an overhanging tree branch in a speculative fashion. But before Percy could make any comment in defence of his (actually quite indefensible) horse, Merlin spoke.

"Is there any chance we could hurry this up a bit? I think I'm actually sinking."

"Oh don't be ridiculous Merlin," said the Prince with a snort, "It's hardly deep enough to drown you." He stepped to the edge and thrust his hunting spear into the mud, "See? It's hardly even up to-" He struggled with the spear suddenly, only just managing to drag it back out with a loud squelch before it vanished completely. Merlin looked at him pointedly. "It's probably deeper in some places than it is in others!" The Prince snapped. Merlin rolled his eyes. Percy sank a little further.

"Right," said the Prince with a last glare at Merlin, "Edwin, go and fetch the rope from my saddlebags - I'll try and edge along the bank towards—"

"Sire!" Sir Rhys cut in in a scandalized tone, "I can hardly stand by and allow you to endanger yourself!"

The Prince looked horribly offended. "I assure you I am perfectly capable of—"

"Your Highness?" Now it was Sir Geraint's turn to interrupt. "Perhaps I should go first? As Sir Rhys says, it is hardly fitting for you to risk yourself. I'll do my utmost to get them out." He gave Merlin a warm smile that seemed to annoy the Prince even more than Sir Rhys's comment.

As Sir Edwin clambered back down the slope the Prince snatched the rope out of his hands and glared at Sir Rhys and Sir Geraint. "I shall make the attempt." He announced in his most commanding voice, "You four will stand by incase anything goes wrong."

"But Your Highness!" said Sir Rhys at the same time as Sir Geraint said, "Really Sire, I think that—"

"Oh for goodness’ sake!" interrupted Merlin loudly, "I don't care if one of you lies down and the others use you as a bridge, just will someone get us out of here."

At Merlin's outburst Sir Geraint immediately abandoned his attempt to persuade the Prince and concentrated on telling Merlin to breathe deeply and try to keep calm. Prince Arthur merely told him to stop being such an old woman but, Percy was relieved to see, promptly began to edge along the side of the bog whilst Sir Rhys hovered nervously on the bank, Sir Meurig looked completely bored and Sir Edwin just looked amused.

It was some time before the Prince got close enough to use the rope, by which time Percy and Merlin had both sunk a little further and Brutus had stopped eyeing the branch and finally begun to appreciate the gravity of the situation if the slightly nervous whinnies were anything to go by. Percy was the closest, and perhaps the easiest, to pull out although it took some minutes before he could move enough to be tugged free by the combined strength of the Prince, a length of rope and a sturdy tree. Merlin was a little more problematic. But the Prince, ignoring Sir Geraint's repeated offers to help and looking daggers at Sir Rhys when he suggested simply leaving him there, persevered. It was Percy, who felt entirely responsible for Merlin’s predicament, who suggested lashing the two thick tree branches together with rope and laying them on the surface for Merlin to use as leverage. He had seen something similar used at home, when a ride along the coast in high winds had resulted in his father’s best hat taking an unexpected detour into a patch of quicksand. Even with the temporary bridge however, there was a brief struggle when Merlin seemed slightly more concerned about leaving his trousers behind than getting out of the bog alive. The Prince solved this through the simple expedient of ignoring Merlin's protests completely and firmly hauling him out of the mud whilst Merlin squawked and hung doggedly onto his clothing. With Merlin, and his trousers, safely on dry land it remained only to salvage a soaked and somewhat belligerent Brutus. This took the combined efforts of the Knights and Merlin (even if Sir Rhys's contribution was somewhat grudging) and seemed, for a while, to be doomed to failure before Percy finally swallowed his pride and asked the Prince if he happened to have any food in his saddlebags. Once a suitable incentive was provided the men could at last, using ropes and several now-ruined cloaks, drag Brutus to safety. There was a small moment of embarrassment, narrowly averted, when Sir Rhys elbowed Brutus a little sharply and told him to stand and Brutus nearly took his fingers off, but all in all, Percy thought, things could have gone a lot worse.

It was, however, a dishevelled group that made its way slowly back to Camelot, the Prince and his manservant riding in front, with Percy and Sir Edwin just behind and Sir Geraint, Sir Rhys and Sir Meurig bringing up the rear. Brutus squelched miserably along, only cheering up when they emerged on to a wide and verdant forest path and the prospect of food presented itself once more. But even Brutus seemed better off than Merlin, who was both wet and cold and appeared to be entirely brown from his shoulders downward.

"I'm never going to get clean again," Merlin said dispiritedly, brushing at the wet and sticky mud on his sleeve. He looked sorrowfully at the Prince who was riding next to him, "I suppose I'll have to wash under the yard pump." Prince Arthur didn't say anything so Merlin repeated, "I said, I suppose I'll have to wash under the—"

"I heard you the first time Merlin." Prince Arthur cut in, ignoring the loud and disapproving tut from Sir Rhys at Merlin's forwardness.

"Oh," said Merlin. He rallied immediately. "Or I suppose I could carry a few buckets to my room and wash in those." The Prince merely looked at Merlin before quickly catching his reins to pull his horse out of the way of an low-hanging branch. Merlin looked vaguely surprised at having been so nearly knocked unconscious.

"I suppose you will." The Prince drawled, letting the reins go once more and steering his own mount along the path.

"It could take a while though." Merlin continued, in a tone that suggested he was pronouncing the imminent death of a close relative. "My room's so cold, even at this time of year." He gave a small but heartfelt sigh. "I'll likely just catch an ague and die." Prince Arthur stared resolutely forward. "And then I suppose Gaius will struggle, you know, to manage without my invaluable support." At this Sir Edwin, riding close behind, gave a snort of laughter which he quickly turned into a small cough as Merlin continued, "And my mother will miss me horribly. And I suppose you'll have to get another manservant and he'll move things about and bow all the time," - as far as Percy could tell the Prince did not look exactly horrified at this prospect - "and he'll be so perfect that you'll never be able to put him in the stocks, or call him an idiot, and every time you eat a potato you will think of me." Merlin looked nobly into the distance as if gathering his courage to face whatever awful fate awaited him at the castle pump. Prince Arthur huffed irritably and shot his manservant an extremely long-suffering look.

"Merlin, whilst I appreciate that washing in cold water is a torment beyond imagining, I think it highly unlikely you will actually die from the experience."

"You don't know that!" said Merlin, "I might have a weak constitution. You know, from all those years living in Ealdor, sleeping on the cold, hard floor and only eating meat on Sundays and—"

"Oh for heaven's sake," snapped the Prince, "If you get the worst off in the yard you can use the bath in my chambers. Anything to stop you sulking around the castle for the next six months."

"Oh no really," Merlin said in a selfless tone, "You don't have to..."

"Merlin," the Prince interrupted, warningly.

"Very well Sire," said Merlin meekly. "If you think it best."

Percy risked a look at his fellow Knights. Sir Meurig looked resigned at this exchange and Sir Geraint and Sir Edwin, deeply amused. He sighed inwardly at Sir Rhys's expression, a look of disapproval Percy was all too familiar with from his father. After four months at the castle he thought Sir Rhys would be rather more familiar with the Prince and Merlin's rather unconventional master/servant relationship, but evidently he still had some way to go.

Finally they clattered into the inner ward of the castle and Percy thought he had never been so glad to dismount. Placing himself between Sir Rhys and Brutus (who had eaten his way through several bushes and was back to eyeing the Knight somewhat hungrily), Percy stretched and thought of the hot bath, clean clothes and food that would soon be waiting for him in his chambers. Speaking of which - he looked around for Merlin and immediately spotted him trying to sneak off into the castle. He had barely managed three steps however before he was caught by Prince Arthur and turned very firmly in a rather different direction.

"He's lucky he's only got to get the worst of it off out here," laughed Sir Edwin as he followed Percy's gaze, "that water's freezing."

"He's lucky the Prince puts up with him at all!" Sir Rhys sniffed, with a disparaging look at where Prince Arthur was firmly hauling a protesting Merlin towards the pump in the castle yard. "I would never allow a servant of mine to get so above themselves as to—"

Sir Rhys's haughty tones were abruptly cut off when Brutus, who had at last succeeded in sneaking around a temporarily distracted Percy, reached out his neck and happily sank his teeth into Sir Rhys's arm. Naturally Percy very properly pulled Brutus away (almost immediately) and apologised to the incensed Sir Rhys, looking horribly shocked at his horse's unpardonable behaviour. But as he tugged his unrepentant horse towards the stables he allowed himself a (very small) smile and thought that perhaps Brutus wasn't so stupid after all.

THE END

So there it is, yet another Percy fic. I hope you enjoyed it and that it wasn't too Percy and Brutus centred (after all, these are supposed to be Merlin and Arthur stories so I always worry a bit!). All constructive criticism very welcome :)

Forsaking All Others - A Merlin Fanfic

Sun, 12 Apr 2009 14:19:09 GMT

Merlin goes home to Ealdor for two weeks and Arthur is not at all bothered by this. No really, he isn’t. Assumes kind of established relationship (as in, Arthur’s about to find out just how established it is).

This is a story I started a few months ago before real life got in the way and it got abandoned for a while. Anyway I decided to finally dust it off and finish it for my friend Rachael's birthday. It’s possibly a bit silly (or very silly) but hopefully not too OOC.

Now beta'd by vensre - huge thanks as always for her endless patience with my bizarre use of the comma and other grammatical misunderstandings :)

Forsaking All Others

It was Wednesday. Merlin was about to leave for Ealdor and Arthur was in a bad mood. As he was at pains to point out to anyone who would listen (which, thanks to said mood, was not a particularly large or enthusiastic group), these two facts were in no way related. If Merlin felt the sudden need to go haring off to Ealdor to see his mother and pick flowers, or commune with the trees, or whatever it was he was doing there, then that was of no interest to Arthur; he had (as he had told Merlin quite emphatically) plenty of things to keep him busy.

"I'll only be gone two weeks." Merlin watched Arthur pointedly reading the latest training report for a few moments with that slightly amused look that never failed to annoy Arthur, as if Merlin knew something he didn't. By this time Arthur had read the same short paragraph three times and really, there was no more to discover about Sir Gawain's latest knee injury, so he looked up.

"Merlin, we've had this conversation before. You may go for as long as you like. Perhaps I'll get a half decent manservant in your absence - they certainly couldn't be worse." He let his eyes linger on the pile of papers Merlin had neglected to tidy away the night before which were now teetering rather precariously by his elbow. Merlin grinned; as usual Arthur's attempt at cool detachment had no effect whatsoever on his manservant.

The dark-haired boy merely leant back in the chair and stretched, his grin becoming an affectionate smile as he eyed Arthur. "You're scowling."

"No I am not. Princes don't 'scowl' Merlin."

"Prats do though. They sulk too, apparently, although that might just be a rumour."

"I am not sul—" He broke off, annoyed at himself; Merlin's face was bright with suppressed laughter. "Aren't there some onions you're supposed to be hoeing in Ealdor or something?"

Merlin sighed (rather theatrically, Arthur thought) and got to his feet. "Alright alright, if you're so eager to get rid of me, I'm going. Onions wait for no man." He walked around the table towards Arthur, shrugging on his rough brown coat, and swept into creditable impression of a respectful bow. "Farewell Sire," Arthur rolled his eyes, "Don't do anything I wouldn't..."

"What? Like clean?"

"...and try not to miss me too much."

Arthur had just opened his mouth to say that he wouldn't miss Merlin at all thank you very much, when Merlin leaned down and pressed his lips against his, his hand sliding around his neck to ruffle the short hairs at the nape. Whatever impressive words Arthur had been intending to say were thus reduced to a muffled 'mmmmffff'. Merlin laughed against his mouth and kissed him again and Arthur was somewhat unnerved to discover his hands had reached up to cup Merlin's face entirely of their own accord. The kiss was just becoming interesting when Merlin pulled back, his face flushed and eyes bright. Abruptly Arthur remembered that he was annoyed with Merlin anyway and snatched his hands back. Now it was Merlin's turn to roll his eyes.

"Goodbye then, Your Highness. I'll bring you back an onion."

Before Arthur could even begin to reply to that ridiculous remark Merlin had gone, the door banging shut behind him; leaving Arthur wondering what had just happened. It was an irritatingly familiar feeling where Merlin was concerned. Arthur was used to being in charge. He was after all Crown Prince. He'd been raised to expect obedience and to lead men. Everyone had a place in the world and he had known from birth that his was at the top. Everyone knew this, but apparently they had neglected to tell Merlin. So Arthur had found himself saddled with the most disobedient, outspoken and thoroughly useless manservant in the whole of Albion and, even stranger, he had put up with it.

And then there was... this. His eyes slid sideways to the rumpled mess of sheets on the enormous bed dominating the room, the disorder further evidence that even when he was annoyed with Merlin he was not, it seemed, ever that annoyed. Staring at the evidence of his own complete lack of willpower Arthur wondered how it had got this complicated. He could remember when sex was just, well, sex. When it was a pretty maidservant and a quick tumble in some deserted alcove or workroom, or an experienced noblewoman and a discreet visit to her chambers. When it was thoughtless and easy and about lust and need - just another part of the game played at court and a perk of his noble status. More than anything it was uncomplicated, simple - a meeting of bodies before they went their separate ways.

He should have known that nothing with Merlin could ever be that straightforward. He should have suspected that just as Merlin had got under skin, had irritated and provoked and exasperated him from the very first day, so he would get under his skin in every other way if he let him. Not that he could entirely blame Merlin for this (and he'd really tried), this shift in their already unconventional relationship was as much his doing as Merlin's. He'd had a plan, a brilliant and foolproof plan, formulated after large amounts of wine which, he vaguely remembered, involved getting Merlin out of his system once and for all and then getting on with his life. Except that it seemed his manservant's complete inability to adhere to Arthur's expectations went beyond cleaning and punctuality. And so Arthur had found himself exchanging flattery and seduction for kicked shins and Merlin stealing all the bedclothes. It was annoying, to say the least. Not to mention inexplicable and entirely frustrating.

He scrunched up the report in his hand and threw it in the general direction of the fire. It bounced off and rolled on the floor - which was when Arthur remembered that he was now without a manservant to pick it up and was in danger of setting fire to the rug. He let out a long suffering sigh - only Merlin could be irritating when he wasn't even here - and crossed the room to retrieve it from where it was smouldering against the hearth. Dropping heavily back into his chair (the stack of papers on the table gave an alarming wobble) he contemplated the coming two weeks. For some bizarre and rather irritating reason Merlin seemed to be under the impression that he, Prince Arthur, was going to be sitting around pining for his manservant like some maiden in one of those interminable mawkish ballads his father's minstrels were forever murdering. In reality of course nothing could be further from the truth. Arthur had managed perfectly well before Merlin blundered into his life and rearranged all his belongings and, whatever Merlin might think, Arthur was unlikely to go into a permanent decline at being forced to endure two weeks of efficient service and having his bed all to himself. In fact the more he thought about it the more he thought this might be just what he needed. Things had been getting a little confusing with Merlin of late and with him gone Arthur could finally get some perspective on things, concentrate on his duties and train his knights. As a soft knock on the door heralded the arrival of Merlin's temporary replacement William, Arthur considered the even greater benefits of being attended competently every morning by someone he didn't have to push out of bed first.

All things considered, this visit was, he decided - as he watched William bow respectfully and begin quietly tidying - positively providential.

……………

By the following week Arthur was fairly certain his Knights were avoiding him. This was something of a puzzle to him because he'd rarely been as devoted to his duties as he had this past week. Not that he'd been neglecting his duties before of course, but now he had time to extend his usual morning training sessions by a few hours and fit a hunt into the afternoon as well. And really, it wasn't as if his Knights didn't need the practice - all the dark looks and muttering he'd had to put up with the past week was proof enough he'd let them get far too soft. Sir Owain had even had the effrontery to ask when Merlin was coming back. Arthur had reminded him, with what he hoped was a suitably freezing look, that if Merlin was here they would hardly be able to hunt as often or as successfully as they had been. When Sir Owain had seemed unable to respond to that at all, Arthur decided his point had been made.

And the hunting certainly was successful. He'd never realised just how much noise Merlin could make blundering through the undergrowth. The first hunt he had attempted without him, the day after he left, they'd brought back several deer, ten rabbits, three pheasants and four hares and the kitchen staff had all looked immensely pleased when he presented his spoils for that evening's dinner. The next time he brought back even more and, although the kitchen staff had looked a little surprised, they were still suitably impressed by his prowess. After the first six days however even Arthur had noticed that their smiles were beginning to look a little strained and then Morgana had announced that if she had to eat one more venison steak or rabbit pie she would likely stab Arthur with her fork. So Arthur had cut down the hunting to every other day and introduced tactical planning and drilling sessions in the intervening afternoons and evenings instead.

Which was roughly the time his Knights had begun to develop those sudden coughs and colds, not to mention all that dubious Personal Family Business that simply had to be attended to immediately.

His mood was not improved by the state of his chambers. It wasn't that William wasn't respectful and efficient. He was. Arthur's chambers were spotless. His meals were served on time and he hadn't had to hunt his manservant down once. It was just that, well, Arthur couldn't find anything anymore. It turned out that all this time, when Arthur thought Merlin was just throwing things into random cupboards, he was actually working to a highly individual system. Only it wasn't a system William was familiar with. William had some half baked notions of armour being kept separate from formal robes and books being kept on shelves (instead of under the bed where Arthur could reach them in the night). And as if all that wasn't trying enough his bed had become horribly uncomfortable. After two nights of tossing and turning he could only conclude his mattress had been changed (apparently to one filled with rocks). William had replaced the mattress twice now but to no avail. When he mentioned this at dinner the previous evening, hoping for some small bit of sympathy, Morgana had the audacity to smirk at him and ask him if his bed wasn't just cold - which was patently ridiculous considering he'd had William put at least two warming pans in it every evening that week.

So all in all it had not been the best week. And now Arthur was sitting in the Great Hall drinking on his own (his Knights seemed to have vanished from the castle completely) and feeling rather sorry for himself. It had been a horrible day. He'd got no sleep. Again. And he couldn't even escape his uncomfortable bed and go riding to pass the time because William had just finished sorting and rearranging his wardrobe and had stolen most of his clothing under the frankly questionable pretext of washing and repairing them. When he'd finally returned them (and did they smell of lavender?) Arthur had snatched them and promptly gone hunting. This had been as successful as ever but it was as if the kitchen staff couldn't even pretend to be pleased anymore. In fact he was fairly certain he'd seen several of them exchanging looks and heard someone mutter something about having to extend the pantry.

Sighing heavily he finished his goblet and immediately looked around for his servant to refill it - before remembering he had dismissed William for the rest of the day following the Lavender Incident. He was just contemplating the distance to the nearest wine jug when he noticed three maidservants walking towards him. He blinked and they resolved themselves into one slightly concerned-looking Guinevere.

"Your highness? Lady Morgana sent me to see if you needed anything?" His eyes slid past her shoulder to see Morgana sitting at the far table and looking at him with raised eyebrows. He looked back at Gwen, trying not so slump too obviously.

"Some wine please. I gave William the day off." Gwen looked a bit surprised at that but fetched a nearby jug and refilled his goblet, still frowning at him. Arthur ignored her in favour of draining the goblet and holding it out again. This time Gwen was a little slower to refill it.

"Sire? Are you sure you'd rather not retire?"

Coming from anyone else this would have seemed like insolence but Arthur just waved Gwen away. "No point." Gwen looked confused so Arthur elaborated, "Can't sleep anyway."

Whatever response Arthur had been expecting to that statement, it was not the one he got. At his words Gwen's whole face seemed to soften and she was suddenly looking at him with a world of understanding and sympathy. While Arthur was still trying, fuzzily, to work out what that was supposed to mean Gwen filled his goblet once more (although this time only halfway) and said, with a comforting smile, "I miss him too Sire." Her hand hovered for a moment somewhere near his arm as if she was about to touch him but then she seemed to think better of it and, with a curtsy, she left him.

As his brain dragged itself slowly through a number of unexpected and unwanted conclusions he saw Gwen return to Morgana's side and whisper something in her ear at which Morgana looked torn between sympathy and amusement and nodded as if Gwen's words had made perfect sense. It was at that point several things in Arthur's brain finally clicked into place and he was left with the truly horrible and humiliating conclusion that they thought he was pining. For Merlin of all people. Which of course he wasn't.

Unfortunately knowing this didn't make the sympathetic smiles and knowing looks any easier to bear. Nor did Arthur's dawning realisation, over the next day and a half, that perhaps Morgana and Gwen weren't the only ones who believed the Crown Prince was spending his evenings up on the battlements watching for his idiot manservant's return (he'd only been up there once and that was because he needed the fresh air). Suddenly the mutterings of his Knights and those encouraging smiles Gaius was forever giving him these days were beginning to make a lot more sense - and Arthur didn't like it at all. The very idea that the Crown Prince of Camelot - who, it had been proved on numerous occasions, could have anyone - was lying awake at night because his useless excuse for a servant had gone to visit his mother (thus reminding Arthur what a complete and utter girl Merlin was) was absurd. Ok, so he had introduced a few more training sessions over the last week. And those tactical planning sessions were new (but really, Arthur had to fill his evenings with something). And yes, he might have complained about his bed being uncomfortable and a little bit on the chilly side and possibly he might have mentioned to William that Merlin's way of doing things was far more to his liking and... Oh. God. He really did sound like he was pining for Merlin.

Clearly something had to be done.

It was thus on the Friday of the second week that Arthur formulated his Great Plan. Unlike his previous Merlin-related plan this plan absolutely could not fail and was (like all Arthur's plans) tactically brilliant. Indeed it was so blindingly simple and obvious that Arthur couldn't believe it had taken him so long to realise it. He blamed Merlin. Things always seemed to become so muddled when he was around.

As Arthur saw it, the problem was not so much that he had taken Merlin to his bed (although in hindsight that plan was not one of his finest), but that he had kept him there. Not that Arthur had really planned this at the time. After that first night he had just... stopped looking. Evidently this had been a mistake on his part, because he was now in the ridiculous position of having to prove to half the court that he was not besotted with an insubordinate peasant.

This was where his Plan came in.

It seemed he had gotten himself into this whole mess by falling into bed with Merlin, so he could certainly get out of it the same way. Only this time he would choose someone suitable. Someone who knew their place and knew the honour that he, Arthur, was bestowing upon them by taking them to his bed. And if the whole Court saw him favouring this person - then that was all to the good. His reputation would be saved and there would be no more sympathetic smiles or barbed comments every time he wished to organise a perfectly legitimate midnight hunt. When Merlin came back he would just have to, well, accept Arthur's decision, because Arthur absolutely did not have to explain himself to his manservant. At all.

It was another day before Arthur put his plan into action.

On the Saturday evening a feast was held in the Great Hall. Looking at the laden tables Arthur concluded that he had probably supplied all of the meat for the hundred or so guests from the previous day's hunt - a fact that only added to his determination to resolve this once and for all. He eyed the maidservants circulating through the hall, letting his gaze linger on the prettier ones. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for. A pretty dark haired girl who blushed charmingly when she felt his eyes on her but did not look away. Another hour of discreet glances whilst Morgana tried to engage him in conversation and Arthur made his move, taking his leave of Morgana and weaving through the crowd as he caught the girl's eyes with a significant look. As she followed him from the hall Arthur was gratified to see several of his Knights watching him with raised eyebrows. This was working out better than he'd hoped and once out in the corridor he grabbed the girl's arm, ignoring a passing servant to pull her into an alcove as she giggled and pressed against him. Feeling almost heady with wine and the success of his really very brilliant plan Arthur smiled down at her, pulling her even closer towards him as he bent his head, pressing his lips against hers as her arm slipped round his waist and he realised...

...that he might as well be kissing Gaius.

Arthur pulled back and gazed down at the perfectly attractive and pliant maidservant in horror (not least because that last image was truly awful, and would probably scar him forever). This was not supposed to happen. Naturally Arthur had not been planning to fall in love with the girl but he had been expecting to enjoy it. Not to feel... Actually Arthur wasn't sure what he was feeling exactly but he knew he didn't like it.

"Is there something wrong Sire?" The girl was looking at him, she sounded breathless and a little anxious, a small frown marring her otherwise perfect face. Staring down at her Arthur opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to identify the strangely hollow feeling in his stomach (he knew he couldn't possibly still be hungry). Suddenly a door opened at the far end of the corridor and Arthur caught a glimpse of an orange dress before he leapt back as though he'd been burnt. Gwen stopped, her eyes going from the Prince to the flushed maidservant and back before she swept a rigid curtsy and stalked past and Arthur thought for one unsettling moment that he was actually feeling guilty. Which was just silly because it wasn't as if he was doing anything he should feel guilty about.

He looked back at the girl, who was now watching him a little strangely. "Nothing's wrong, I just remembered that I... I mean I have to..." He thought he should probably stop babbling. "I have to go. Somewhere." And he tried not to walk too quickly away down the corridor.

It seemed his plan required a little more thought.

Another hour (and a wineskin) later he'd worked it out. Clearly it was a gender thing (the horrifying Gaius image aside). After all Merlin was a man, and whilst Arthur had not hitherto had much of a preference about whether he bedded men or women it was obvious Merlin had somehow changed that (which was another thing to blame Merlin for). Satisfied that he had rescued his plan, and resolutely ignoring the yawning chasm that was his stomach, Arthur finally retired to his cold and lumpy bed (honestly, the warming pans barely took the edge off). Tomorrow, he knew, would be much better.

Only it wasn't. Of course in hindsight the stable boy was an obvious mistake. Attempting to tumble a slim, dark haired youth was inevitably going to make him think of certain people he'd rather not think about. As for the footman... Well he had had blue eyes and Merlin had blue eyes - so that had been doomed to failure from the start. Sir Alain was a little more problematic. He was handsome, charming and had made his interest in the Prince clear from the start. But he was rather tall. And Merlin was quite tall. So it was hardly surprising that Arthur had been forced to make his excuses after only a minute of (rather pedestrian) fumbling. The squire had been no better, nor the seamstress (he was just making sure) and by the time the elegant and beautiful Lady Eleanor had boldly propositioned him, for the second time in as many days, he found he couldn't even be bothered to try. When she came looking for him after practice that afternoon, he was forced to hide in a storeroom rather than face the utter humiliation of yet another failure.

It was, he thought, almost as if someone was trying to sabotage his plan. And he knew exactly who to blame. After all, he didn't know many sorcerers, and knew even fewer with a vested interest in making sure Arthur never had sex with anyone else ever again. This whole mortifying fortnight was, he knew, somehow Merlin's doing. Once Arthur realised this he felt a little better about the whole, awful, experience and a little more inclined to kill his manservant when he at last returned to Camelot.

It was Tuesday and in a matter of hours Merlin would be back and Arthur would make him lift this ridiculous spell or curse or whatever it was he'd done and things could finally get back to normal.

……………

The first sign Arthur had of Merlin's return was the large onion he noticed sitting in the middle of his table the next evening, shortly after he returned, cold and wet, from a late patrol. Arthur stared at it for a long moment, deciding that the strange feeling in his chest was almost certainly vengeful satisfaction. He swallowed. Yes, it was definitely vengeful satisfaction. He was still staring at his onion and slowly dripping mud all over his chamber floor when the door creaked open behind him and he knew, without turning, that it was Merlin.

"I brought you an onion." Merlin's voice was irritatingly cheerful and Arthur took a moment to get his feeling of vengeful satisfaction under control before he turned to see his manservant, leaning comfortably against Arthur's door and smiling at him in a way that Arthur thought very smug and annoying indeed. "Although I almost didn't know where to put it." He grinned. "I've never seen so many clean surfaces in your rooms before - who's been looking after you while I've been away?" Arthur seemed rooted to the spot, and Merlin frowned slightly. "Arthur?" When Arthur still didn't speak, he tried again, "What are—"

"You've put a spell on me!" Arthur spared a moment to regret the truly impressive speech he'd been working on in which he presented his case in a clear and rational fashion before Merlin crumbled in the face of his relentless logic and admitted this was all his fault. As it was Merlin looked unlikely to crack anytime soon and was now staring at Arthur with his mouth hanging open, clearly questioning the Prince's sanity.

"Um... What?"

"You," Arthur jabbed Merlin very forcefully in the chest, "have put a spell on me."

Rather gallingly, Merlin was looking at him with concern. "Arthur are you alright?"

"No, I am not! I can't find anything anymore, my Knights hate me, my mattress is infested with lumps and half the servants think I'm impotent—"

"They think you're what?"

"—and Lady Eleanor has propositioned me twice now—"

"Who is-"

"—but apparently I can't take her up on it, even if I wanted to, because I'm fated to see your ridiculous face the whole time - so I had to hide from a royal guest. In a storeroom." He glared at Merlin to make sure he understood the full seriousness of this. "And now I think she's taken up with Gawain instead," he finished in a rather less impressive and possibly more sulky tone.

Merlin blinked several times, before managing, "And this is my fault because...?"

Arthur gave him The Look he reserved especially for Merlin. "I am not an idiot Merlin," Merlin opened his mouth but then closed it again hastily when he saw Arthur's expression. "I know an enchantment when I see one. This is obviously your doing." He went back to jabbing Merlin in the chest. "You wanted to make sure I... that I..." For a moment he couldn't think of a word horrible enough, "moped around the castle until you came back." He stopped, waiting for Merlin's inevitable confession. But Merlin only batted his hand away (it had somehow ended up twisted up in his shirt) and pressed his lips together for a moment, the way he did sometimes when he thought Arthur was being especially dim and annoying.

"Arthur," his tone was exasperated. "I promise I have not enchanted you."

"Oh really? What do you call all this then?" Arthur waved his hand as if to encompass the Lumpy Bed of Insomnia, the piles of lavender scented clothes and scattered papers on the floor (where he had dropped them this morning in his quest for his riding gloves) and himself, still looming over Merlin in a somewhat menacing fashion (not that Merlin looked remotely threatened).

Merlin looked slowly all around the room and Arthur had a sudden suspicion that he might actually be laughing at him. "Arthur, are you sure you didn't just miss—"

"I can sleep with whoever I want." Arthur interrupted loudly, before Merlin could say whatever absurd and insubordinate thing he had been about to say.

This time he definitely saw Merlin's mouth quirk. "Of course you can" he said soothingly. Arthur nodded, glad that Merlin understood (although he thought he might have been a little more reluctant about the idea). "We both can." Merlin added cheerfully.

"I'm glad you…" Hang on. "What do you mean we both can?" He stared at Merlin. Surely Merlin wasn't suggesting that he had...? Not that people would exactly be queuing up to sleep with Merlin, obviously. He was all skin and bone and stupid ears. And anyway Merlin wouldn't... He stopped thinking abruptly, swallowing. "You haven't...?" He decided that sentence was too awful to finish.

Merlin looked at him for an agonizingly long moment, one eyebrow raised, before finally relenting. "Of course not." Arthur relaxed fractionally. "Well not yet anyway," He ignored Arthur's sputtering. "I mean it's not like Ealdor is the best place for that. I think I'd have more luck in the castle."

"You can't." Arthur was aiming for casual but if Merlin's expression was anything to go by he might have missed it by a wide margin.

"But if you do," Merlin pointed out, in a perfectly reasonable tone, "then surely I—"

"Well I haven't!" snapped Arthur, abandoning any attempt at nonchalance. "And if I haven't, you most certainly can't."

"Oh." said Merlin, managing to look amused and perhaps a little relieved all at the same time. "Ok then, I won't."

"Good!" said Arthur, and then frowned, feeling as though the whole conversation had got away from him somehow. "I'm..." He cleared his throat. "I'm glad that's clear."

"Perfectly." replied Merlin and yes, he was definitely laughing at him. Arthur glared at his manservant for a moment before becoming aware of just how wet and muddy he was (which he couldn't really blame on Merlin but really really wanted to). Tugging his cloak loose and throwing it aside he stumped over to the chair and threw himself down into it, resolutely ignoring Merlin in favour of struggling with his boots. He was wet and cold and tired to the bone and he was still angry with Merlin, he really was, and his stupid boot would not come off. He was just contemplating cutting the damn thing off with his dagger when he felt warm hands pushing his away and Merlin was suddenly kneeling in front of him, tugging his boot off in one practiced movement and reaching for the other.

There was something both familiar and strange about the act, because this was Merlin and they had done this a hundred times before, but for the past fourteen nights someone else had knelt there and done this and Arthur had never quite realised how strange that was until now. He let his eyes linger on Merlin's slighter form, on his small frown of concentration as he worked the muddy boot free. In the flickering candlelight his face was all shadows and angles, his dark blue shirt rumpled and grubby and his hair sticking up like it always was. Almost involuntarily Arthur reached out to smooth it back, a little hesitantly as if he had forgotten how to do it, and Merlin looked up, the amusement in his eyes softened to something warm and open. As Arthur tried to withdraw his hand Merlin caught it, linking their fingers together.

"I'm glad you haven't." His voice was quiet and Arthur wondered if this was another spell - because he was finding it hard to reconcile the Merlin that had lived in his head for the last two weeks with the one before him, radiating warmth and affection, fingers entwined with his like they belonged there. Arthur stared at their joined hands and thought of all the things he ought to be saying - about spells and reputations and Merlin's place - but in the end he didn't say any of them, and then Merlin was pulling him to his feet.

"You're freezing. Let’s get you dry and then I'll see if I can find you some food." Arthur allowed himself to be manhandled to a bath (which Merlin heated with a single glance), relaxing for what seemed like the first time in weeks as he washed and then dressed, emerging to find Merlin setting out bread, meat and ale on the table. For a while there was silence, broken only by the scrape of the plate and the crackle of the fire as Arthur ate and Merlin moved quietly about the room, collecting Arthur's wet and filthy clothing, a warm presence at Arthur's back. When all the food was gone and the ale had been drunk Arthur leaned back and felt wonderfully, impossibly, comfortable.

"I hope you're going to eat the onion too. I hoed it especially for you." Merlin's voice broke into his sleepy reverie and Arthur couldn't quite suppress the smile that threatened to break out. Warm and dry and full, it suddenly didn't seem so difficult to speak.

"I'm glad you're here Merlin," he said.

Merlin stopped and looked at him then and Arthur thought that perhaps that was what had been missing from all the people he had sought out in the shadowy corners of the castle, none of them had looked at him quite like that. Then Merlin smiled at him, a genuine, happy smile, and Arthur decided that kissing Merlin was more important at that moment than any analysis of how and why this had happened. His intention must have been obvious because he had barely stood and moved towards him before Merlin was there, throwing his arms around Arthur's neck and kissing him as though he had been wanting to do this from the moment he walked in. And perhaps he had. And perhaps Arthur had too because Merlin wasn't soft like the maid, or charming and rakish like Sir Alain, but he was Merlin and it seemed that was what Arthur had been needing all along. There was a thud and a clatter as Merlin's enthusiasm took them backwards into the table, knocking Arthur's plate to the floor. Merlin pulled back for just a second to survey the damage before Arthur caught his mouth again, swallowing his words, hands fisted in the rough wool of Merlin's shirt to tug him back in as Merlin made a soft contented sound and wound his arms even more tightly around Arthur.

A long, breathless moment later, Merlin broke away to look at him, hair stuck up once more, face flushed and eyes bright with something Arthur chose not to identify (because he, unlike Merlin, was not a girl). "I should really go away more often."

Arthur glared at him, remembering the last hideous two weeks and larders collapsing under the weight of his hunting prowess; remembering sleepless nights and pointless fumblings. "Shut up Merlin," he said and tugged him impatiently towards the bed.

……………

It was fully dark when Arthur found himself drifting off to sleep, the warm weight of Merlin draped across his body. He was still not entirely sure he wasn't under some sort of enchantment. His bed had become suspiciously warm and comfortable all of a sudden and for once he felt no need to shift restlessly into the early hours of the morning.

"You know," he said suddenly, his voice slurring with tiredness, "Half the castle will still think I was pining for you."

"Well that's just silly," Merlin replied sleepily, shifting himself more comfortably against Arthur's chest. "You'd never do that."

"Of course I wouldn't," Arthur said, managing to sound grumpy and drowsy at the same time (his bed really was amazingly comfortable). "But that doesn't stop them thinking it." He brushed his fingers through Merlin's hair, then realised what he was doing and stopped. "It's really very irritating."

"Don't worry," Merlin yawned and clumsily pressed a kiss somewhere near Arthur's chin. "I'll tell them you beat me."

But Arthur was already asleep.

THE END

And there it is, complete with my attempts at some Romantic Moments in the last section (just be grateful I didn’t attempt any porn!). Constructive criticism welcome as always. :)

who needs celebrities when you can have a phonebox?

Wed, 25 Mar 2009 23:19:24 GMT

Here's the thing. I enjoy many TV shows, one of which happens to be Doctor Who. I am however aware Doctor Who is FICTIONAL and that there are no 906 year old Time Lords knocking around earth and police public call boxes are just police public call boxes. None of which explains why I spent about 20 minutes of my evening grinning like some demented loon at the sight of the TARDIS. Yes that's right - a real actual TARDIS in...er...Caernarfon.

Crap photo - but it says Caernarfon (and I felt proof was needed)

What actually happened was that I managed to get tickets to The Story of Doctor Who, a Q&A session with Julie Gardiner (executive producer), Ed Thomas (Production Designer), Euros Lyn (Director) and Barnaby Edwards (dalek operator) and that to add to the experience they had brought along a full sized TARDIS prop (which by the way is much bigger than it looks - and I don't mean just on the inside). So frankly they could all go whistle for the first half of the night because I was weirdly transfixed by a real live Icon from my childhood. Those lights! The yale lock! The little windows! (the wrong size apparently). Er...sorry...were people asking questions as well? Later of course I dragged myself away to watch the trailer they showed for Planet of the Dead (the Easter special) along with Steven Moffat's message to us, that we should make sure we had a big enough sofa to hide behind come 2010...

At the end of the evening everyone was milling about and Julie and team were happily signing autographs. Did I elbow small children out of the way to get my autograph? Did I go up to Julie and ask probing and intelligent questions about production and the future of Doctor Who? Nope. I posed for a photo by the TARDIS of course :)

The Route to Advancement: A Day at the Tournament (Merlin Fanfic)

Sat, 21 Mar 2009 16:23:34 GMT

Here is the massively overdue third (and probably final) part of what’s turned into the Route to Advancement series.

I think you probably need to have read parts 1 and 2 for this last part to make sense. They are The Route To Advancement : 1 | 2

I'm relieved to say this has now been beta'd by vensre — who has found all my missing commas, introduced me to the em-dash, pointed out my glaring continuity errors and staged an intervention between me and the ellipsis. I continue to be hugely grateful for her help! :)

I'm actually pretty nervous about posting this part — not only is it longer than any fanfic I've written before, it's also the first time I've written events that take place over more than one scene AND it's been written in many fits and starts around a lot of much-less-fun but unfortunately more important academic work. So I hope it's not horribly disjointed/boring or rampantly OOC. Anyway, after my amazing salesmanship — here it is!

NOTE: The reference to ‘that book’ means, of course, the infamous ‘Arte of Servyce’ that Arthur promised to give Merlin in the second part of the story as a guide to Perfect Manservantship.

The Route to Advancement: A Day at the Tournament

The Morning

All in all Percy thought the tournament had not been entirely disastrous thus far. True, he had only just completed the hand to hand combat trials, and true, his father had only been at Court for seventeen hours (not that Percy was counting) but the Family Honour was, as yet, still intact. Lord Wyldon, Percy's father, had arrived late the previous night. A page had been dispatched to inform Percy of his arrival, although really, Percy felt his father's clarion tones had been a perfectly adequate announcement on their own. He had hurried to the staircase overlooking the entrance hall to see one welcome sight at least. His sister Isolda stood grinning up at him, looking as much of a hoyden as she ever did with her skirts and cloak liberally spattered with mud, her hair having long since escaped whatever careful arrangement her maid had managed that morning. Unfortunately she was, of course, accompanied by their father, whose eyes were busy raking the hall as if assessing the value of the furnishings. Percy had noted, with a kind of fascinated horror, that his father had piled most of his bags into the arms of the Castle Steward — an exalted individual whom Percy had always found rather terrifying. In hindsight, however, he realized he should just have been grateful King Uther had not chosen that moment to pass through his front hall, or he might well have ended up with the sodden cloaks and hats. As it was the slightly stunned looking Steward had carried the bags to their rooms without a murmur (Percy wondered if he would ever have that kind of effect on people. He rather doubted it). He noticed that Isolda was still clutching her own slightly bulky bag which, Percy suspected from the odd clunk it made when she set it down in her chamber, contained the promised Honeymead — successfully 'liberated' from Lord Wyldon's own stores.

In return for what was really an impressive bit of looting Percy had made sure to introduce her to the Lady Morgana the following morning. The next time he had seen Isolda she was at the centre of a laughing group of noblewomen led by the Lady Morgana (attended as ever by Guinevere) who were making their way to the practice butts in the Archery Field. The grin Isolda had thrown at him as she passed went someway towards consoling Percy for the loss of her moral support when dealing with their father — not to mention the well-timed questions about the family's Noble Lineage she was wont to helpfully throw in when he launched into yet another of his interminable speeches about Duty and Responsibility. Still, his father had seemed pleased (or at least the speech had been slightly less interminable) after the combat trials that morning in which Percy had, after six matches, come in at a far from disastrous third place. So, on the whole, Percy thought the dreaded arrival had proceeded remarkably smoothly. Unless you counted the offended dignity of the Castle Steward who looked rather affronted at being told to 'stop hovering in the doorway and take himself off' once he had done them the unheard-of honour of carrying their luggage.

Of course there was still the jousting that afternoon. Apparently the jousting was new this year — which Percy felt someone might have mentioned to him earlier. But generally Percy found he preferred not to think about the jousting. In fact Percy would have liked to forget that part of the tournament entirely. Unfortunately he suspected his horse, Brutus, actually had forgotten that part despite the many lengthy conversations they'd had (well, that Percy had had, Brutus being a less than active participant) about a charger's job being to, well... charge, and how his father really would sell him this time if he didn't gallop in the right direction.

But that was this afternoon and right now Percy was enjoying a few minutes rest in the weak winter sun outside the Armoury as he checked his equipment for what could well have been the tenth time that day. Away from the crowds and the busy squires and looks and speculation he could let himself relax. Whatever did or didn't happen that afternoon, right then, with the sun on his face and the smell of leather and steel all around him, he could almost feel content...

"Merlin!"

Oh yes.

Except for that.

Percy couldn't believe that he had almost forgotten the very reason he was here, wearing his father's coat of arms and preparing to joust for the title of Champion in a royal tournament. Apparently Merlin had had a similar lapse of memory because the next thing Percy heard was not the low tones of the Perfect Manservant but the rather less refined bellow of "What?" echoing across the courtyard.

There was a pause, during which Percy didn't need to be watching to know that Prince Arthur was giving his manservant A Look. Nor did he need to be watching to suspect that Merlin was (probably) pulling a face.

"Er... I mean... yes Sire?" There were footsteps then and the sound of the Prince's drawling voice and Merlin's now-quieter replies.

Percy winced. He wondered if Merlin was bowing again. He hoped not. Percy thought he had never seen anything as unnerving as Merlin bowing. When he had witnessed the alarming spectacle at first hand, earlier that morning, Percy had wondered, for just a second, if the Prince had not found it a little unnerving too. But then Prince Arthur probably didn't feel as guilty about the whole situation as Percy did. When the Prince had strode up to him the week before, looking at his most commanding and blithely unaware that Merlin was a few paces behind grinning and giving Percy the thumbs up (which somewhat ruined the whole effect), Percy had found himself in the unexpected dilemma of whether or not to admit he had been eavesdropping on the Prince and Merlin's private conversation. Which, when he'd thought about it, he'd realised could only end with the slightly ludicrous suggestion that Merlin not have to be the Perfect Manservant (which of course he should be anyway) and possibly some information about carrots and coat-eating warhorses that Percy would prefer not to share.

Unfortunately, while his brain was doing the mental acrobatics required to work this through Prince Arthur was giving a long and impressive speech about how he had been assessing the Knights for some time (as was his ancient duty as Crown Prince) and how he had weighed up each individual's strengths and weaknesses (over many weeks) and how after much deliberation (just one of his many responsibilities) he had decided that Percy should be one of the lucky competitors. He had just finished the part about Percy bringing glory and renown to the name of Camelot (or something) when Percy realised that he could not now, under any circumstances whatsoever, reveal his knowledge of a conversation which might suggest the Prince's decision had more to do with potato shaped bruises than with the ancient Duties and Responsibilities of his Royal House. So Percy could only bow and hope he looked suitably overcome (he might have overdone that a little) and vow to somehow make it up to Merlin - who to his credit had looked as pleased as if it was him who had been given the chance to compete.

It was at this point in his musings that Merlin himself came into view, hands clutching the Prince's shield and sword at an angle perilously close to the sharp cobblestones of the courtyard floor. It was as good a time as any to start making himself useful, Percy thought, as he put his armour aside and jogged over to help, managing to catch the hilt of the sword before Merlin impaled his own foot. Merlin smiled gratefully and hoisted the shield a little higher.

"Thanks." He brushed sweaty hair out of his eyes with a now free hand and matched his pace to Percy's, smiling cheerfully. "So... how does it feel to be in third place? Have you practiced your heroic pose for the prize giving tomorrow? I think Arthur has several if you need any tips."

Percy felt a smile tugging at his lips which he manfully resisted because this was the Crown Prince they were talking about after all. "I imagine Prince Arthur has more use for his than I would. Sir Kay said he rarely loses a tournament."

"Yes, so everyone's always telling me." Merlin looked a little depressed at this and the shield slipped a little and gave an impressive scraping sound as he dragged it across stone and through some unfortunately placed horse droppings.

"Er..." Percy looked meaningfully at the shield.

"Oh. Right." Merlin hoisted it up again. Percy decided not to mention the mess now coating the bottom. Merlin gave a great gusty sigh and now that Percy really thought about it, he did look quite tired.

"You seem to be... er... working rather hard today?" Hmmmm. That had definitely sounded less insulting in Percy's head. But Merlin only quirked an eyebrow at him, amused, before suddenly adopting the pious expression of a particularly devoted religious hermit.

"My service is my life, Sir Percival," he intoned earnestly. Percy blinked. "As a humble commoner it is all I have to offer my liege lord as proof of my unfailing loyalty and devotion to his wellbeing."

There was a long moment in which Percy just stared at Merlin. Then Merlin grinned and Percy realised that it was Merlin after all. "That was... a little creepy." Again Percy thought he should learn to engage his brain before he opened his mouth but Merlin looked thrilled.

"Do you think so? I tried it on Gaius last night and he just asked me if I was sickening for something and made me drink one of his disgusting 'remedies'."

Percy felt like saying 'I'm not surprised' but thought on reflection that that would sound even worse than his 'work' comment, so he settled for, "Well it was... um... very effective."

If possible, Merlin looked even more pleased, before adding confidingly, "I haven't had chance to try it on Arthur yet."

Percy was about to ask if this had anything at all to do with The Arte of Servyce when he remembered, belatedly, that he was not supposed to know anything about any private conversations in stables so instead he managed, "Why are you..?" Actually he couldn't think of a way to finish that sentence at all. Luckily Merlin seemed to understand the rather vague wave of his hand that accompanied his words.

"Because," Merlin announced grandly, dumping the Prince's shield on the table in front of the steward responsible for checking and repairing the competitors' equipment (who was now staring in horror at the prominent scrape and brown muck adorning the bottom). "I am resolved to be the Perfect Manservant for the duration of this tournament!"

Percy couldn't help but notice the expressions of the steward and various other servants grouped around the table which could, at best, be described as 'somewhat sceptical'. The steward, who was now clutching the royal shield as though he were about to start weeping all over it and was actually removing the muck with his own handkerchief, had bypassed 'sceptical' completely for 'slightly unhinged laughter' — at which point Percy decided to pull Merlin away from the table and start walking quickly back towards the castle.

"After all," Merlin continued, seemingly unaware of the burning glare now being directed at the back of his head, "Arthur is the Crown Prince and I am very privileged to be in his service." Percy felt the conversation was starting to veer towards the unnerving once again.

"Yes but—"

"But nothing Percy," and here Merlin gave a little sanctimonious shake of his head which was somehow even worse than the bowing. "I take my duties as Manservant very seriously."

There was, Percy reminded himself, nothing at all remarkable in these words. Really.

"Merlin!" They had reached the courtyard again and there was the Prince looking irritated. "What are you doing? Hurry up, my horses are waiting."

Merlin turned back to Percy and heaved a long-suffering sigh.

"The trials of the Perfect Manservant are manifold Sir Percival — but I must persevere," and with that he was gone, trotting obediently behind the Prince as he stalked away towards the stable block.

Percy, left standing in the middle of the courtyard with his mouth hanging open in what he suspected was a most unflattering way, watched them turn the corner out of sight and wondered how he could feel so nervous when his father was nowhere to be seen.

The Afternoon

An hour and a half later and Percy was wondering why he had ever thought this tournament was such a good idea as he watched Prince Arthur trip over his manservant for what must have been the eighth or ninth time in the past hour.

"For pity's sake Merlin will you stop following me around."

"But you told me to! You said I should attend you immediately once I'd finished cleaning your chambers and mucked out your horses and collected your boots and—" The Prince stopped at this and Merlin walked into the back of him again — possibly taking the total into double figures. Percy thought the Prince might be gritting his teeth.

"I didn't tell you to trail around after me like a bloody lost puppy."

"But Sire..." Percy wondered briefly how Merlin managed to make those two small words sound so wounded, "I'm supposed to stay behind you. I asked the Castle Steward and he said it's royal protocol."

Prince Arthur looked as though he had a few things to say to that but by now several passers-by were staring openly and Merlin was managing to make wounded innocence into an art form so he settled for grabbing Merlin by the arm and dragging him along. "Well since you so clearly have nothing better to do, I suggest you go and see to my armour. Again!" the Prince finished triumphantly.

But apparently even this could not faze a Perfect Manservant.

"Sire, if my work has been unsatisfactory in any way..." Merlin looked completely devastated at the thought. One or two onlookers were now casting reproachful glances at the Prince, who looked a little taken aback at Merlin's tone.

"Of course it... I mean I didn't..." He stopped suddenly and glared at his manservant, who was staring at him with huge, sad eyes. "Oh shut up Merlin." He gave him an irritated shove in the direction of the armoury, ignoring his small audience who were now looking scandalised at the Prince's rather callous treatment of his servant. Percy suspected they might have been even more scandalised if they could see the grin Merlin cast at his master before he gave an elaborate bow and disappeared through the doorway to the armoury, passing a surprised looking Sir Owain (who got a bow as well just for good measure).

"What on earth's wrong with Merlin?" Sir Owain asked in apparent bewilderment.

"There is nothing whatsoever wrong with Merlin," the Prince said crossly, still glowering at the armoury door. Unfortunately Sir Owain didn't seem to notice his less than encouraging tone.

"But I've never seen him..." It was at this point that Sir Owain caught the Prince's eye and seemed to think better of whatever he had been about to say. "Er... here... before." He finished a little feebly.

The Prince was looking at Sir Owain suspiciously and Percy was wondering if he was about to point out that Merlin was in fact there most days when...

"Sir Percival?"

Percy jumped violently and nearly dropped the helm he was holding. A page was standing at the entrance to the stable yard looking at him curiously and Percy realised, with horror, that he had been quite shamelessly gawping over the wall at the main courtyard. He flushed and tried to remember what he supposed to be doing.

"Er... I was just..." The page stared at him. "I mean..." He stepped away from the incriminating wall. "Did you need to speak to me?"

"Yes sir." The page sounded bored. "I am to inform you that you have fifteen minutes before the Jousting begins." He cast a somewhat disparaging eye over Percy's charger Brutus (who appeared to be asleep). "Will you be requiring anything?"

A new horse at this late stage seemed a tall order so Percy settled for shaking his head, whilst surreptitiously prodding Brutus with his foot. Brutus woke, snorted, shook his head and resumed eating. The page appeared distinctly unimpressed.

"Very well then, sir. Please report to the competitor's enclosure when you are ready." With a final glance at Brutus — who had no respect for his master's dignity whatsoever and was blowing noisily into his feed bucket — the page turned smartly and disappeared under the archway back towards the main arena.

Pushing worrying thoughts of Princes and Perfect Manservants aside until later, Percy turned back to the stables. It was only the work of a few seconds to retrieve his gloves and shield. Retrieving Brutus took a little longer but they made it, finally, to the enclosure with a few minutes to spare. The sun was weaker now, a cold wind whipping round the castle walls and rippling the heavy canvas of the tents that stood around the tiltyard. From where he stood Percy could see his father in the stands, Isolda next to him. His fellow competitors exchanged nods as they checked buckles or hefted lances, their horses stamping, their breath like smoke in the cold air. Sir Kay was already mounted, his charger pawing the hard ground and shaking his head, eager to be moving. Everywhere he looked Knights were mounting, adjusting their grip on their lances, laughing as their horses put in showy half rears.

Unable to put off the moment any longer, Percy looked at Brutus. Brutus stared balefully back at him, as if unable to believe his owner had dragged him from his warm comfortable stable to stand in a muddy field. He risked another glance at his father and his heart sank. Lord Wyldon was glaring down at them as though already mentally drafting Brutus's Bill of Sale.

"He'll get rid of you, you know," Percy told his horse. Brutus shook his head and sneezed. "There's no use you shaking your head at me, he will! And your new owner will keep you outside all the time — and don't think he'll bring you carrots because he won't." Brutus snorted. "In fact I bet he'll keep you for pulling his cart and only feed you rotten apples and damp hay."

It was at this point Percy realised Sir Meurig was looking at him as though he were mentally unstable. He decided that he was, in fact, doomed and would likely go down in history as the only Knight to be unseated in a joust whilst completely stationary.

He mounted gloomily, firmly dragging Brutus's head up from the grass - because if he was going to be humiliated Brutus could at least do him the courtesy of not eating all the way through it.

It felt like several days, though it could not have been more than half an hour, before Percy was announced. He dug his heels hopefully into Brutus's side and Brutus consented to amble towards the correct end of the tiltyard. His opponent — who would, Percy thought, have to be Sir Meurig — nodded at him from the far end of the field, barely managing to hold his black gelding.

Percy found himself wondering if it would be painful. And not just like being referred to as Perrin for four months had been painful, but actually in a broken bones and gushing blood kind of way.

There was a long still moment as the King stood, raising his hand ready to signal the start of the match and Percy closed his eyes, praying to any gods he had ever heard of, and then opened them — to find himself looking straight at Merlin, crouched in the shadow of the royal stand.

Several things then happened at once. Merlin smiled straight at him, the King's hand dropped, and a large rat streaked out of nowhere towards Brutus — who, it transpired, could gallop after all and apparently was not overly fond of large and really quite aggressive rats snapping at his heels.

Twenty minutes later, as Brutus raced past the startled steward for the third time, Percy lifted his lance and pushed his visor back, and reflected that Brutus really really didn't like rats. At all. As he leaned across to shake Sir Edwin's hand he glanced across the tiltyard towards Merlin's hiding place. The dark shadow lurking there appeared to give him a pleased thumbs up before promptly dropping down out of sight as Prince Arthur strode past. Percy spared a thought for the Prince's armour, no doubt still lying on a bench somewhere, and wondered at the fact he felt no surprise at all.

The Evening

In a fair world his day would have ended with Brutus galloping triumphantly (if a little wildly) out of the tiltyard. In reality of course Percy had had to endure several lengthy anecdotes about his father's own Glorious Jousting Career (during which time Brutus had tried to wander off twice and both times Percy had dragged him back because really, if he had to listen to this then so did his horse) and now he was standing in the great hall, fidgeting in his court robes and trying to prevent his father talking to anyone who was not deaf or able to trace their family back at least eight generations.

He was also wondering where Merlin was. He couldn't help but notice that Prince Arthur seemed to have developed a twitch, and whilst he was loath to assume it had anything whatsoever to do with Merlin he couldn't entirely deny the possibility. Leaving his father safely in the company of Lady Cedwyn (who was both slightly deaf and could claim descent from an ancient Mercian Prince) Percy edged away, scanning the crowd for a familiar dark head. He spotted Merlin at last, carrying a fresh goblet of wine and weaving his way through the throng to where the Prince was stood talking to Gaius and several visiting nobles that Percy didn't know. Circling a group of somewhat inebriated Knights, Percy arrived in time to see Merlin proffer the cup to Prince Arthur with a deep bow — and what Percy could only describe as a flourish. The Prince snatched the goblet out of his hand with a glare that had been known to terrify even the most experienced of Knights, earning him a rather shocked look from the visiting nobles. But Merlin merely gave another, perfect, bow (causing several members of the King's council who had been conversing nearby to break off mid-sentence and stare) and took the correct two steps back, inclining his head respectfully when the Prince resumed speaking. In fact, Percy noted some minutes later, Merlin seemed to be inclining his head respectfully whenever the Prince said anything at all — something Prince Arthur had evidently decided to pretend was not happening. All his best efforts were thwarted however when Gaius, who had been watching with some concern, was finally compelled to ask Merlin if his old neck strain was troubling him again.

"Oh no sir." Gaius looked rather taken aback at being called 'sir' by the boy who had been living in his spare room for the past two years. "I merely wished to convey my proper respect for the Prince."

Gaius looked to have been rendered temporarily speechless by this announcement. The two visitors however were nodding approvingly. "Your manservant's dedication is most commendable, Your Highness," said the older of the two with a friendly nod at the Prince. Merlin immediately adopted an expression of extreme humility and fixed his eyes on the floor, by all appearances quite overcome.

Prince Arthur, whose own expression suggested that 'commendable' was quite far down the list of words he would use to describe Merlin at that moment, took several long seconds to realise he was expected to make some kind of reply. Percy suspected this might have had something to do with Merlin deciding to exchange staring at the floor for staring worshipfully (and really quite unnervingly) at the Prince instead. Prince Arthur cleared his throat several times before managing, somewhat grudgingly, "Yes... he is, er, very helpful."

"I do long to be helpful to you Sire," piped up Merlin with the air of one whose entire life was devoted to such noble aims.

Suspecting that Prince Arthur was on the verge of committing the unpardonable social crime of murdering his manservant at a royal function Percy decided to intervene, casting around desperately for a suitable diversion.

"Oh look — I think the food is arriving at last," — which, as diversions went, he knew was a little feeble but it was still infinitely better than commenting on the floral arrangements in the hall (which had been Plan B).

At the mention of food Merlin brightened considerably, instantly abandoning his worship of the Prince (which was beginning to border on disturbing) to crane his neck over the crowd to where a line of maidservants and pages were carrying trays and jugs into the hall. The food smelled delicious and Percy suddenly realised how long it had been since he had last eaten. It seemed he was not as hungry as Merlin however, who was now standing on tip-toe to better see the laden trays being circulated around the guests. Unfortunately his sudden lapse in Perfect Manservantship had not gone unnoticed. Prince Arthur was now watching him, the beginnings of what Percy thought might be a smirk on his face. Distracted as he was by the platters of chicken drumsticks coming ever closer Merlin took some moments to notice the Prince's scrutiny. It was only when he cleared his throat rather pointedly that Merlin finally turned, adopting what he clearly hoped was a winning expression.

"Well I suppose you won't be needing me for a while..."

Prince Arthur raised his eyebrows, very slowly. "Oh no Merlin, far be it for me to deprive you of your chance to be helpful."

Merlin's face fell. "But—"

"No really Merlin, I insist." The Prince's voice was smooth as silk. "After all, I wouldn't want anyone to think you had been a less than perfect manservant." Prince Arthur smirked at Merlin, who seemed to be trying to decide if glaring at his royal master would fatally damage his chances of ever sampling the pigeon pie the maid was currently offering to Gaius. Percy suspected the pigeon pie won out (marginally) when Merlin settled for glaring at the flagstones instead, one hand outstretched to hold the plate which the Prince seemed to take great enjoyment in piling high with delicacies.

As the Prince and his fellow guests ate their way through several trays of food Percy found himself hard pressed to decide which was worse — the somewhat reproachful looks the two visitors were now casting in the Prince's direction or the way Merlin was standing at the Prince's elbow, staring at the plate in his hand as if he was about to start salivating all over it.

There was, Percy thought, only one thing that could make this in any way worse (well two if you counted Brutus bursting into the hall and eating all the decorative foliage) but fortunately Percy knew this particular problem was busy outlining eight generations of illustrious ancestry.

"Percy my boy!"

Or maybe he wasn't.

With a sense of dread that had nothing to do with the way Merlin's eyes were fixed longingly on the chicken drumstick in Prince Arthur's hand, Percy turned to see the massive figure of his father striding towards him, scattering guests and servants.

"Father." He thought that might have come out a little strangled so he tried again. "Father, I was just coming to find—"

"A lot of damned useless people here tonight!" Lord Wyldon announced in what Percy thought was an unnecessarily loud voice as he pushed past a particularly affronted looking Baron and his wife.

"Father, I really don't think that—"

"So this is the Prince is it?" Lord Wyldon boomed, coming to a stop at their group. Prince Arthur was looking rather startled, the chicken drumstick halfway to his mouth.

"Er... yes. That is..." Percy took a fortifying breath and turned to the Prince (who, to Merlin's horror, quickly discarded the drumstick on the floor). "Prince Arthur, may I present my father Lord Wyldon of Eyrie's Cove. Father this is—"

"I can see who it is!" Percy wondered if it was possible to actually die of embarrassment as his father surveyed the group before him, apparently unimpressed with what he saw.

Prince Arthur was the first to recover. "Lord Wyldon." He managed a formal nod. "Welcome to Court. I, er, trust your visit here has been—"

"Enjoyable?" Lord Wyldon barked. Percy felt his heart sink somewhere in the region of his boots, "It's been tolerable I suppose. Our rooms are shockingly drafty. Shockingly drafty!" Prince Arthur looked rather taken aback at this forthright opinion; Merlin looked as though Christmas had just arrived at the castle five weeks early.

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that, did you ask the—"

"Servants?" Lord Wyldon made a dismissive noise. "Useless! The lot of them. I haven't seen a single one in my chamber all day." Percy tried to look appropriately shocked (and not at all envious) that the castle servants were able to hide from his father so effectively.

"Well, I will certainly speak to the steward, he—"

"I have already met your steward." Lord Wyldon's tone suggested it had not been a mutually rewarding experience. "Remarkably high in the instep for a servant — I wonder you let your staff get so above themselves."

"I really don't think—"

"—That I know my business?" Lord Wyldon boomed, puffing out his chest impressively.

"I—" was all the Prince was able to get out that time.

"I assure you I know it very well." Lord Wyldon's strident tones alerted the last few guests in the vicinity that hadn't already been eavesdropping. "A disobedient and disrespectful servant is like a canker in the household. You must guard against it at all costs!" He looked sternly at the Prince, taking his stunned silence for acquiescence. "I'm glad to see that you are in agreement."

It was then that Merlin made a small noise that could, possibly, have been a snort.

"And who are you?" Barked Percy's father, his gaze swivelling round.

"I'm Prince Arthur's manservant, my lord." Percy had never been so relieved to see a humble and obedient Merlin.

Lord Wyldon looked him up and down. "Then I hope you realize your good fortune, boy, to be manservant to a Prince!"

There was the smallest of pauses before Merlin answered, "Oh yes my lord." Merlin's voice was impossibly earnest. Percy released a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, allowing himself to relax, just a little. "The Prince tells me so every day."

Oh god, thought Percy.

"Quite so!" said Lord Wyldon, happily oblivious to the look the Prince was now directing at his errant manservant. "Be sure you do not forget it—"

"I don't think I can, my lord," said Merlin.

"—and cultivate a sense of humility at all times."

Merlin nodded fervently. Lord Wyldon puffed out his chest a little more. Percy recognised the beginnings of A Speech.

"A good servant must never forget what they owe to their master! Remember that, boy, and never assume you are in any way deserving of your place."

"I've never thought I deserved it my lo—"

"—Quite right too!" said Lord Wyldon in a clarion tone. He surveyed his somewhat shell-shocked audience impressively, before fixing Prince Arthur with a stern eye. "If I might offer you the benefit of my advice, Your Highness," he began, in a tone that suggested he was going to offer it whether the Prince wanted it or not. You would do well to remember—"

But they were never to know what he thought the Prince would do well to remember. As Lord Wyldon's gaze swept the group once more, apparently impervious to their less than enthralled response, there was a sudden splash and exclamation.

"Merlin — you idiot! Look what you've done!" And Percy turned to see Prince Arthur, holding his wine goblet and staring at the now sodden sleeve of his doublet.

"But I didn't even touch—" Merlin's indignant voice was effectively cut off when the Prince cuffed him lightly round the head.

"Don't make it worse for yourself! Now go and wait outside, I will deal with you in a moment."

For one horrible second Percy thought Merlin was actually going to argue, He opened his mouth, then just as suddenly shut it again when the Prince glared at him, "Oh alright." (Which Percy thought a little rude, even for Merlin). But before the Prince could issue a suitable reprimand Merlin added, "Shall I take your plate with me then, Sire?"

"What?" The Prince impatiently waved away three maidservants who had rushed to help him, armed with numerous cloths.

"Your plate. You know, in case you get hungry while you're sacking me." The Prince stared at him for a moment in apparent disbelief (which wasn't surprising considering how much he had already eaten) and Merlin instantly lowered his gaze to the plate in his hand, looking more tragic than Percy had ever seen him as he stared at the remnants of the Prince's dinner. Faced with such obvious repentance Percy was rather shocked when Prince Arthur actually rolled his eyes before summoning one of the hovering maids with an irritable jerk of his head.

"Have the kitchens send some more bread to my chambers."

"Are you sure you're not hungrier than that Sire?" Merlin was looking soulfully at the Prince as if his health was his only concern in the world. Prince Arthur, who looked distinctly unimpressed by this show of devotion, got as far as "No, I most certainly am n—" before Lord Wyldon interrupted with a pompous "If I may Your Highness—" and the Prince seemed to rapidly rethink his decision.

"Oh very well." He turned hastily to the Page. "Have the kitchens send up some of the meat as well—"

"—and some of the pastries," put in Merlin.

"—and some of the pas—" the Prince stopped suddenly and glared at his manservant who immediately hung his head.

"I'll await your judgement upstairs then Sire," Merlin said meekly.

And with that he was gone, leaving Percy wondering when the evening had gone so horribly wrong. The Prince endured a further minute and a half of Lord Wyldon's views on the Ingratitude of the Lower Classes before he excused himself regretfully, promising to follow Lord Wyldon's advice to the letter (which caused Lord Wyldon to look on the Prince with something like approval, but failed to make Percy feel any better) and then he too left, making his way through the crowd with the air of a man weighed down by the responsibilities of his station.

Left behind with his father, a strangely amused looking Gaius and two slightly dazed noble visitors, Percy found himself wondering if any tournament could be worth this. After all, he had been the one that had dragged Merlin into all this, after all. He looked at Gaius and wondered how he could look so supremely unconcerned when Merlin was probably being dismissed. Now. At this very moment. Suddenly Percy made up his mind. Taking the unprecedented step of interrupting his father, Percy said as firmly as he could,

"If you will excuse me. I have something I must attend to." He barely had chance to register that his father had, for the first time in his life, been rendered speechless with shock before he was walking swiftly towards the door.

As soon as he was clear of the hall he broke into a run, taking the stairs two at a time and desperately trying to remember the way to the Prince's chambers. In all his months at Camelot he had not, naturally, had reason to visit the royal family's private rooms but he knew roughly where to look. When he reached the top of the final staircase he was gasping for breath and the noise and warmth of the hall seemed a long way away from the dark and chilly corridors stretching away from him. Before his nerve could give out completely he strode towards the Prince's rooms, guessing their location from the faint flicker of firelight visible beneath the door. As he walked he sifted through every possible argument he could use, resolving, if necessary, to admit to the whole embarrassing eavesdropping incident (although he thought he might not mention the carrots). Finally he arrived at the heavy wooden door, his heart hammering in his chest. Screwing up his courage he knocked sharply, barely even waiting for the Prince to finish saying 'enter' before he burst in, his clever speeches instantly forgotten.

"Sire, please don't sack Merlin, he didn't mean..." He stopped. The Prince was regarding him quizzically from where he was sprawled in a chair by the fire. But Percy was more shocked by the sight of Merlin, curled up comfortably in a chair by the table, one hand suspended above a truly enormous plate of food. Percy stared. He realized his mouth was hanging open and hastily closed it.

"Er..." It seemed he had misjudged the situation somewhat. "He's... not sacked?" The Prince raised an eyebrow.

"It would seem not," he drawled. He flicked an irritated glance at Merlin who, having ascertained that no crisis was imminent, had resumed eating as noisily as possible.

"What?" Merlin asked through a mouthful of food.

The Prince, who had got the full benefit of this, looked faintly revolted. "I realize silence is a strange and unnatural state for you Merlin, but I would have thought even you could manage to make less noise when you're eating and not more."

"I," announced Merlin as he reached for another slice of bread, "am very hungry." The Prince's only response to this was a snort. Merlin looked indignant. "I am! Look at me, I'm shrivelled up with hunger." He gestured expansively towards himself with one hand while continuing to pile cheese on his bread with the other.

"And yet your tongue is unaffected I see." Merlin chose to ignore this in favour of cramming what looked like half the loaf into his mouth at once.

Stranded three steps into the room, Percy thought he might be gaping again. "But..." The Prince stopped tutting disapprovingly at Merlin and looked at Percy instead. "You said Merlin was the worst manservant you had ever had!" Merlin paused mid-chew to glare at his master but Percy wasn't finished. "My father said you should dismiss him immediately and you nodded." He thought that might have come out a little more accusingly than he had intended. "Er... Sire," he added, moderating his tone somewhat.

"Percy." Prince Arthur replied, in the condescending tone of one who often finds himself having to explain the most obvious of points to his subordinates. "Your father is a guest here at Court. As such it would have been extremely rude of me to challenge his opinions in front of his fellow nobles. As Crown Prince and one of the hosts of this tournament I must set an example and put my private feelings aside in the interests of—"

"He was scared of your father," put in Merlin helpfully.

"Yes thank you Merlin — I would hardly expect you to grasp the finer points of diplomacy and etiquette." The Prince scowled at his manservant, who merely grinned back unrepentantly and helped himself to a chicken leg as his master continued. "Did you get any use whatsoever out of that book I gave you?"

"Yes," replied Merlin indistinctly, his mouth full. The Prince raised his eyebrows in apparent disbelief.

"And that would be what exactly?" Percy winced at the sarcasm in his voice.

Merlin finished chewing and gave an enormous swallow before he replied. "Gaius's worktable had a wonky leg."

For a moment the Prince just stared at him. Then, with a shake of his head that suggested he was erasing the whole painful conversation from his mind, he turned back, his eyes coming to rest on Percy, who still hadn't moved. "Oh for goodness' sake stop hovering in the doorway, Percy, and sit down." He indicated a chair at the table opposite Merlin who waved cheerfully at him with the chicken leg. Still feeling as though he had somehow wandered into the wrong conversation, Percy sat.

"And you are the worst manservant I've ever had," the Prince added with an irritable look at the state of his table, now strewn with crumbs.

"Am not," Merlin replied.

The Prince looked pointedly at the mess. Merlin looked vaguely surprised to find anything had escaped his plate and promptly swept it all off the table onto the floor — which Percy suspected was not quite what the Prince had had in mind. But aside from an exasperated sigh Prince Arthur nobly forbore to comment and for a while there was silence in the room, broken only by the sound of Merlin chewing and the crackle of the fire. Percy found himself slumping a little in his chair — the warmth and quiet of the room after the bustle and anxiety of the day were seeping into his bones, making him relaxed and unguarded.

The strangely comfortable silence was broken at last by the Prince, "So..." Percy dragged his gaze away from the swirling flames to find Prince Arthur regarding him thoughtfully, "Does your father always... er..."

"Finish people's sentences?" Percy said without thinking. There was a sudden snort from Merlin. Percy clapped a hand over his mouth in horror, wondering if this meant he was actually going to turn into his father and deciding simultaneously that he was never ever going to tell Isolda about this.

The Prince's mouth quirked in amusement. "Yes, something like that."

Percy finally took his hand away, relieved to see that the Prince seemed to be amused by the slip and not horribly traumatised by the reminder. He smiled, tentatively, back. "I'm afraid so, Sire," he replied, sighing. "My nurse once told me he even did it at his own wedding." He paused reflectively for a moment, "She said no-one ever knew if he married my mother, himself, or old Father Eldridge the priest." Lost as he was in his own recollection it took Percy several seconds to realise that the strange noise he had heard from Prince Arthur was actually choked laughter. Merlin, who had apparently never recovered from Percy's earlier comment, had dropped his head onto the table and appeared to be crying with mirth and Percy suddenly found himself smiling in response — because, really, this whole day had been too ridiculous and he supposed, when he came to think about it, that the story did sum up his father rather well.

By the time the Prince had got a grip of himself and Merlin had managed to start breathing again (albeit with the odd hiccup) Percy was feeling significantly better, as if all the tension in him had finally dissipated. They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes and then Merlin gave an enormous yawn, hiccupped twice and pushed his (now empty) plate away.

"Quite finished are we Merlin?" The Prince asked, his voice edged with sarcasm. "You don't want the crockery as well?" Merlin pretended to consider it.

"No thank you," he said judiciously. "Although," he added with a slightly mournful look at the Prince, "I could probably have found room for some pastries."

"You're lucky I fed you at all," his master retorted.

"You have to feed me," Merlin replied imperturbably. "A nobleman has to feed his loyal and hardworking servants."

"I shall be sure to keep that in mind," replied the Prince, "In case I ever find any." Percy hoped it was a trick of the firelight then, that Merlin appeared to actually stick out his tongue at the future King, but he rather suspected it wasn't. With one final glare at his incorrigible servant Prince Arthur stood up and Percy automatically rose with him, too well trained not to recognize that the Prince wished to retire. Merlin wasn't quite so quick off the mark. With a groan he dragged himself to his feet, massaging his stomach.

"Do you need me to..?" he waved his hand vaguely.

Prince Arthur raised an eyebrow. "As flattered as I am by your obvious dedication to my wellbeing, Merlin, I think I've had quite enough of your exemplary service for one day."

"Oh good," Merlin replied, because he was, well, Merlin. "I'll go to bed then."

It seemed the Prince could not even be bothered to feign outrage at this. "Don't forget I expect you early tomorrow."

Merlin seemed to brighten up a little at this, which Percy foolishly thought a positive sign. "Of course Sire." He suddenly swept a rather alarming bow. "Another day of Perfect Manservantship awaits."

Percy noticed that Prince Arthur appeared to be suffering a painful internal struggle.

"Perhaps you needn't... er... bow quite so much tomorrow. I mean," he hurried on, "Gaius seemed so concerned about you earlier."

Merlin's eyes widened, "But Sire! People might think I'm not treating you with the respect due to your exalted stat—"

"Percy," interrupted the Prince loudly, "I imagine your father would greatly enjoy a very detailed tour of the castle before he leaves?"

He looked meaningfully at Merlin, who blanched. "Er... now you come to mention it, I think my neck has been twinging a bit—"

"Yes, I thought it might be."

"—So, er, it might be better for me to rest it after all."

"I'm so glad we understand each other Merlin." With that the Prince graciously stood aside to let them pass, smirking at Merlin as he did so. Percy, walking behind Merlin, turned at the door and nodded very correctly at the Prince.

"Goodnight then Your Highness, and thank you for your hospitality."

"Farewell my liege!" declared Merlin from somewhere behind him. It was at this point Percy abandoned his dignity entirely and dragged the other boy from the room before Prince Arthur's patience finally snapped and he killed his irrepressible manservant with the dinner tray.

Coda

It was only a few minutes later that Percy let himself into his chamber, having bid goodnight to Merlin at the east staircase. As he gratefully removed his heavy court robes and laid them carefully aside he found himself thinking about Perfect Manservants and Not-So-Perfect Manservants and he wondered if he could even tell the difference anymore. He had a fairly good idea of what his father would say, were Percy to suggest such a fanciful notion to him, but Percy thought that perhaps he didn't much care about what his father thought for once. More comfortable now in just his breeches and shirt, he crossed to the window, the fire warm at his back, and surveyed the castle battlements and the city beyond, picking out the pinpricks of light that showed the night was far from over — even for those with no claim to noble blood and no tournament to concern them. It was, he thought with faint surprise, home, and the cold stone keep of his childhood had never felt so far away as it did then as he stood watching the quiet city, his breath misting on the glass in front of him. This new life was still strange to him, it was nothing like he had expected and imagined and certainly nothing like his father had told him it would be — but he thought that it might, on recent evidence, turn out to be better than any of that. Tomorrow, he knew, he had his father to placate, a stubborn warhorse to bargain with and a tournament to complete, but right now he had nothing to do and nothing required of him and he was content to lean his head against the cool glass, remembering warmth and comfortable silences as he watched the night go by.

THE END

So there it is, Percy's swan-song! Hope it wasn't too awful or dragged on too long. As always, constructive criticism is very welcome! Thanks for sticking it out :)

UPDATE: Turns out I lied about it being the last bit...

Read the next part in the series: A Most Unfortunate Hunt

The Route to Advancement - An Epilogue (Merlin Fanfic)

Sat, 28 Feb 2009 13:31:35 GMT

vensre - thank you so much!

The Route to Advancement - an Epilogue

Percy was, rather surprisingly, feeling quite content. Or at least he had been until precisely thirty seconds ago when a dusty and travel-stained Prince Arthur had led his equally grimy horse into the building, followed as ever by Merlin whose own horse looked as though it had been recently enjoying a mud bath (or three). It was late afternoon and Percy was in the stables, training having long since finished for the day. Some of the Knights had gone to spar in the training grounds, others to enjoy a more boisterous evening in the taverns of the lower town. But Percy had politely declined the offer to join them and it was for that reason that he now found himself crouched uncomfortably in the end stall which housed his warhorse Brutus (named by his father), an incriminating bag clutched in his hand. Percy had had many of his assumptions challenged since coming to Camelot but he was still fairly certain that sneaking down to the stables to feed his horse carrots (neatly sliced) that he had filched from the kitchens was not something a Knight of Camelot ought to be found doing. On second thoughts being found hiding in a stable with straw in his hair would probably not look very good either. He briefly considered abandoning the carrots and announcing himself to the Prince when the sound of his own name stopped him short.

"...that Percy is just as eligible as Sir Lars." It was Merlin's voice. By shuffling around slightly Percy could just about see him through a gap in the partition wall (he tried not to think about all the things his father would say if he could see him now). From his slightly restricted view he could see Merlin was as filthy as the Prince. Percy heard the jingle of metal and soft clop of hooves as the two men tied their horses loosely to the wall. Stepping back Merlin stretched, yawning hugely. He seemed to be waiting for the Prince to stop fiddling about with the reins and answer him. After what seemed an agonizingly long time to Percy, Prince Arthur came back into view.

"Yes, but Sir Lars is the more senior Knight." Leather creaked as the Prince unbuckled the girth, letting it swing down so Merlin could drag the saddle off and hang it over the nearest stable door. It looked like a well practiced routine. Merlin's only response was to roll his eyes as he dumped the saddle and picked up a brush, throwing it to the Prince. It was proof of how much Percy had learnt in the past week that this rather casual treatment of the future King no longer had the power to shock him - or at least, he amended, not entirely. When he had woken the morning after the fateful banquet he had briefly wondered if the whole drunken evening had been some kind of bizarre dream. It seemed too much to hope that the Prince had invited him on a hunt and learnt his name all in one night. But then he had spotted Merlin crossing the castle courtyard with buckets of water, looking quite as bad as he felt, but nonetheless managing a friendly (if rather pained) grin and it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world to smile back and offer to help. And then he had arrived at the training grounds to be personally greeted by the Prince – who, it transpired, would not be calling him Perrin anymore. This had made a few of the other Knights stare, but Sir Edwin had merely nodded approvingly, especially when he saw Percy fall into conversation with Merlin as the Knights walked back from the field for the midday meal. All in all it had been the most enjoyable week Percy had spent at the castle since he arrived. Not that he had completely forgotten the looming horror of his father's impending visit, but for once it had taken second place to satisfyingly long and tiring days training, riding and hunting. He had, until now, almost forgotten the problem of the coming tournament. Fortunately it seemed Merlin had not.

"What's that got to do with anything? Percy has beaten Lars twice this week, and once last week." The creak of leather and jingle of metal had now been replaced by the rhythmic strokes of the brush as Merlin and the Prince rubbed down their respective mounts.

"Merlin it's not just about who beats who on the training ground. The tournament requires a certain kind of Knight, someone who can take the pressure of fighting in front of so many people, who's prepared to put the extra hours into their training and who has the experience." He spoke as if giving his final, unassailable, view on the subject. There was a pause.

"So, someone like Percy, then?" There was a soft thump as Merlin ducked whatever it was the Prince had thrown at him.

"Is there any possibility at all that you're going to shut up about this?"

"Not until you give him a chance."

"It may have escaped your notice, Merlin, but I am not running the Brethren of Christian Charity here; I do not just 'give people chances.'"

"You gave me a chance."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did."

"No I didn't, I had you foisted on me by my father if you recall."

"Well, there you go then - look how well that turned out!"

In the rather eloquent silence that followed this astonishing claim Percy peered through the gap once more to see Prince Arthur wearing the expression of a man for whom there were, quite simply, no words. Taking advantage of his temporary inability to speak, Merlin ploughed on,

"You said yourself that he's one of the most promising of the new recruits." Percy glowed. "And you heard what Sir Edwin said about his father - he sounds even worse than yours." The Prince had recovered enough by this point to glare at his manservant. Percy noted that it had about as much effect as it usually did.

Merlin adopted a slightly wheedling tone. "Come on, Arthur. You did spend four months calling him Perrin, that's enough to earn him a whole season of tournaments." When the Prince didn't immediately refuse, merely rolling his eyes as he turned to unload the saddlebags propped against the stable wall, Merlin looked a little more hopeful. "I promise I will be the perfect manservant for the whole tournament…"

"I expect you to be that anyway," the Prince responded irritably, his voice a little muffled as he crouched low in the shadow of the door, pulling papers and weapons from the leather bags.

"You won't even know I'm there!"

"Humph," was the only response to that.

"Well... I'll clean your chambers from top to bottom! I'll even clean under the bed."

"For goodness sake Merlin I..." there was a pause as the Prince suddenly straightened, "hang on, do you mean you don't clean under—"

"Look, that's not really important," Merlin broke in rather hastily. "The point is..." the Prince was still staring at him suspiciously, "the point is he's just as eligible as anyone else and he deserves the chance and he would be really grateful and anyway..." Merlin looked as though he were casting around for the clinching argument, "...and anyway you owe me!" The Prince raised his eyebrows, temporarily diverted from the contemplation of the horrors awaiting him under his bed.

"Go on."

"Er... go on with what?" Merlin looked confused.

"Amaze me with why I, the Crown Prince of Camelot, owe you, Merlin the Idiot."

"Well..." Apparently Merlin had not anticipated this line of questioning; Percy hoped he had something good. “Because..." the Prince waited, smirking, and suddenly Merlin seemed to get a burst of inspiration. Gesturing rather forcefully towards the Prince with the stable brush he announced, completely randomly as far as Percy could tell, "You owe me because the stocks are really REALLY uncomfortable!"

Prince Arthur's eyebrows rose even higher, Merlin looked defensive, "Well they are! And might I remind you it was entirely your fault I was there in the first place" At the Prince's, quite frankly sceptical, expression, Merlin glared. "I still have bruises you know. And..." he paused, with the air of someone about to play their trump card, "...some of them are potato shaped."

Prince Arthur snorted, immediately trying to turn it into a stern clearing of the throat, but it was too late, the amusement was clear in his face as he took in his manservant's indignant expression. There was a brief silence before, "...The perfect manservant I think you said?"

Merlin pulled a face. "Well... within reason."

"Oh no," the Prince grinned at Merlin, shaking his head. Merlin began to look a little worried. "You can't go changing your mind now. I think..." he stretched the word out, clearly enjoying himself now, "I think you said I wouldn't even know you were there."

Merlin looked as though he was regretting saying anything at all, particularly when the Prince swept him with an appraising look, lingering on his muddy clothing and grimy face.

"Hmmm. We might have to do something about those clothes. Perfect Manservants don't dress like village idiots as a rule." He tipped his head consideringly, "Luckily for you I still have that ceremonial uniform you liked so much." Percy began to wonder, a little worriedly, if Merlin might actually throw the brush at the Prince's head. "Actually I might even have a book somewhere. You know, to guide you in your efforts." He pretended to think for a moment. "I think it's called The Arte of Servyce, I'm sure there's a chapter in there somewhere on serving royalty, it should give you a whole new appreciation of your privileged position."

At this point Percy's earlier premonition came true and Prince Arthur narrowly avoided getting smacked in the face with a stable brush. The Prince appeared less surprised than Percy however and merely smirked at his disobedient servant. "Tssk. I'm surprised at you Merlin! That's hardly the behaviour of a Perfect Manservant now is it?"

"I hate you."

"And there was me thinking that you lived to serve."

As Merlin glared, Prince Arthur’s smirk grew even wider. "So, do we have an agreement? I give Percy his chance to impress his father and in return I get exemplary service and spotlessly clean chambers. And that includes under the bed."

Merlin looked like he wanted to argue but the Prince raised his eyebrows challengingly and Merlin finally gave in, with somewhat bad grace. "Alright, fine. But only for the tournament." He frowned, arms folded. "And I am not wearing the hat."

"We can negotiate the hat. And I don't want to hear anymore about stocks or bruises that may or may not have existed - is that cle—" he broke off suddenly, "Oh for... I don't need to see them Merlin. Fine, I believe you. You have truly suffered. Now will you just..." There was some rustling then, Percy peered through the gap to see Merlin grinning unrepentantly and Prince Arthur piling the saddlebags into his arms with the air of a man who knows what it is to suffer and sees no reprieve coming anytime soon.

There was the rustling of straw, then, and the creak of a door, and then the Prince and his manservant were gone, their footsteps fading away into the darkening evening - leaving Percy alone with his thoughts and the unwelcome discovery that Brutus had long since finished off the bag of carrots in his hand and had made an impressive start on his coat.

THE END

Read the next part in the series: A Day at the Tournament

The Route to Advancement - A Merlin Fic

Thu, 26 Feb 2009 19:55:50 GMT

My second Merlin story! This idea just appeared in my head randomly and then had to be written, I think this is what comes of reading about early modern courts and 'advancement' and getting the ear of the King etc. Anyway here it is.

Now beta'd by the wonderful vensre - all remaining mistakes are of course my own! Also posted at merlinxarthur.

The Route to Advancement

It was Sir Edwin who gave him the idea. Percival had been at Court for four months and had just received yet another letter from his father. It was this that had taken him to the top of the North tower on a windy evening a few days earlier to stand and look out across the city to the surrounding hills, shrouded in a rainy mist. He had discovered the old staircase to the North tower in his first week in Camelot when he was still attempting to learn the labyrinth of corridors, stairs and halls. It was the one place in the castle where he could be sure of being undisturbed, or so he had thought. Lost in his rather gloomy thoughts he had completely failed to notice Sir Edwin until the older man had cleared his throat pointedly. Percy thought he might actually have levitated for a few seconds, so great was his shock at finding someone else there. He tried to turn his rather unmanly squeak into a cough but judging by Sir Edwin's rather amused smile he thought he probably hadn't been very convincing.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. You looked far away for a moment there." The older man's eyes flickered to the letter in Percy's hand. "Not bad news, I hope?"

Percy shook his head. "No, or at least not really. It's from my father." Sir Edwin nodded as if understanding a great deal from this short explanation.

"Is he still coming to Camelot for the winter tournament?"

Percy stared at him stupidly for a moment, "Er... yes. How did you..?"

Sir Edwin raised an eyebrow. "I have been known to listen when people talk to me." He turned to stare across the darkening landscape. "Do I assume his visiting is a problem for you?" He turned back to smile at Percy's look of surprise. "I know something of lords and their only sons." He grimaced ruefully. "I had the fortune of visiting one of your castles on the summer progress. I thought your father was going to demand my Seal of Nobility before he let me into the entrance hall."

At this Percy finally laughed because, really, it was all too easy to imagine his father examining the credentials of the King himself before he so much as bowed. Although only a minor lord in terms of wealth and land, his father could - as he was so fond of reminding everyone - trace his noble ancestry back for eight generations.

His tension finally dissipating, Percy had found himself handing over his father's latest missive and talking, properly talking, for what felt like the first time in weeks. It seemed Sir Edwin was not at all surprised to hear of his father's somewhat lofty expectations for his only son. Percy's duties had been impressed upon him from the earliest age; to rule his lands well, to marry into money, to prove himself a worthy soldier and to further his family's interests at court (and he suspected his father would not put them in that order). So he had been sent to Court to join the most elite fighting force in the Kingdom, the Knights of Camelot, led by the famous Prince Arthur himself. Only five months ago he would have said this was his greatest challenge; in reality it had proved to be the least of his difficulties. Percy might have been a disappointment to his father in many ways, but never at fighting. He sometimes thought he was happiest when he had a sword or a bow in his hand, when no one expected him to talk politics or pass out judgements or (worst of all) dance. It was just him and the scent of wood or steel, the ring of metal or the heavy snap of the bowstring. Unfortunately the ability to fight did not make you unique among the Prince's knights and Percy had soon found that although he had been training and fighting with the Knights of Camelot for four months, he might be here another four years before the Prince remembered his name. And now it was only three weeks until his father came for the winter tournament, the tournament for which Prince Arthur handpicked the competitors, and Percy had as much chance of being chosen as...well...as his father had of ever forgetting his second cousin (on his mother's side) had been sister-in-law to an Archbishop.

He let out a heavy sigh as he came to the end of his explanation.

Sir Edwin refolded the letter and passed it back to him, smiling sympathetically. "So, as I see it the problem is this. Your father sent you to Camelot to prove yourself a worthy Knight, make an illustrious name for yourself and further your family's interests with the King. Well you've managed the first part, you're training to join the Knights of Camelot, that's no mean feat. As for the rest..." he paused, evidently trying to think of the best way to phrase it.

Percy took pity on him. "As for the rest... Prince Arthur still thinks my name is Perrin."

"Er, yes. There is that."

"So really, unless I manage to slay some mythical beast in the next three weeks, I'm doomed."

When he put it like that it did sound rather ridiculous. Sir Edwin laughed as he turned back towards the staircase door; it was dark now and the wind around the tower was biting. Percy followed him. Even if he hadn't come up with a life-saving plan he felt rather better for having finally voiced his fears aloud. He started to say as much but Sir Edwin spoke first.

"In the absence of mythical beasts I might have another idea." He pulled open the door and they began the climb downwards, one hand on the wall to feel their way. "You need Prince Arthur to notice you, correct?"

Percy nodded before realising that Edwin couldn't see him. "Yes."

"Then I suggest you think about this logically. You've tried the usual ways. You've proven yourself a good soldier and that doesn't seem to be working. But there's one route you haven't tried." Percy frowned, trying to guess what Edwin was getting at. They had come to the lower levels of the staircase now, where torches hung intermittently in alcoves along the wall. Sir Edwin twisted round to look at Percy as he walked. "Think boy, you want to get close to the Prince, well who is the Prince closest to?" Percy thought for a moment, on the verge of giving the acceptable answer of 'the King', 'the Lady Morgana', or even a few of the more senior Knights who doubled as the Prince's favoured drinking companions. But before he could voice the thought aloud he found himself at the bottom of the staircase, Sir Edwin turning to give him an encouraging smile and clap him on his shoulder.

"Take my advice, Percy. Talk to Merlin." And with that he was gone, striding down the corridor and out of sight, his red cloak billowing behind him, leaving Percy alone and somewhat confused by the open tower door.

"Merlin?"

And that was how he found himself here, at one of the long wooden tables that lined the great hall, sitting down opposite Prince Arthur's infamous manservant. Merlin gave him a friendly smile as he slid onto the bench. It was late, the banquet to welcome Lord Ellis to court having gone on for so long that Percy had begun to wonder if they might just keep eating straight through to breakfast. Now the King had retired, most of the food had been cleared away and the remaining guests (for the most part the younger, more daring set) were grouped around the room, chatting in a desultory fashion, enjoying the ale and wine supplied by the ever present serving maids. In the gallery the minstrels were playing softly and Percy could make out Prince Arthur near the fireplace, holding forth to an admiring group of Knights and courtiers.

Just another banquet in Camelot. But this time at least Percy had a plan. Well, half a plan. Well he had been told to 'talk to Merlin' which, if not a plan, was at least something he could do that did not involve him hovering around the edges of various groups feeling awkward. He smiled back at the younger man, reaching over to help himself to the jug of ale which had been left on the table, and trying not to look like he was studying Merlin too obviously. In all his months at Camelot he had never really talked to Merlin. Percy's father, unsurprisingly, took a rather dim view of nobility 'fraternising' with the servants and whatever Percy might have felt about this - and he definitely did not agree with his father - he had assumed he was in the minority. So when he had come to Camelot he had thought things would be no different and indeed, for the most part, they weren't. But it had not taken Percy long to understand that not all servants were the same. The Lady Morgana's handmaiden, Guinevere, seemed to enjoy a privileged place with her mistress and was openly treated with trust and affection. Percy wondered briefly what his father would make of that. And then there was Merlin. He appraised the other boy briefly as he sipped his ale. Merlin was leaning forward over the table, his chin propped on one hand whilst the other held on firmly to a tankard of ale. He seemed to be watching the minstrels, humming to himself. He had been talking to Guinevere earlier but the Lady Morgana had retired not long after the King, leaving Merlin alone. Percy eyed the half full tankard wondering how much Merlin had drunk, his intolerance for alcohol was legendary, even among the Knights. When he glanced up again he found that Merlin had, disconcertingly, shifted his attention from the minstrels to Percy.

"It's, er… good ale." Percy winced inwardly at his rather inane comment, but Merlin didn't seem to notice.

"It's not as good as they make at home. In Ealdor John Tanner brews ale that would make most of you Knights pass out cold. William Shepherd drank nearly half a barrel once, then he passed out on the way home and his pipe nearly set the barn on fire." Percy blinked, not quite sure how to respond to this sudden flood of information, but Merlin just grinned at him and took another swig from his tankard, and a muffled, "What about you?" could be heard echoing from inside.

"Well only once, and that was my sister's fault for bringing the candle into the hayloft" Merlin snorted into his tankard, his eyes dancing at Percy over the rim. It was a rather human reaction, not at all courtier-like, and Percy found himself relaxing and grinning back as he realised his mistake.

"Sorry. I'm guessing you were referring to the ale, rather than my youthful indiscretions." He gestured to the jug, "I'm not sure I can beat your Ealdor brew, but we have Honeymead, which was potent enough to cause my father to regale the household with fifteen verses of 'If I were a Mayden' this Christmas past.” Merlin dropped his ale back to the table before he choked on it. "It's not something he speaks of."

Maybe it was the ale, or maybe it was the rather harrowing memory of his father singing, but Percy started to laugh and then found he couldn't stop and Merlin was joining in and really, Percy thought, he ought to thank Sir Edwin for the advice because this was definitely more fun than anything else he'd done since coming to court.

An hour later and Percy was somehow telling Merlin the whole sorry tale of his Illustrious Career as the Invisible Knight of Camelot over copious gulps of ale. Somehow they had finished the first jug and were on to their second. Merlin was nodding sympathetically. At some point he'd got ale on the table and then he'd managed to get it on his hands and sleeves and it must have seemed like a good idea to scratch his head - except now his hair was stuck up all over the place. Percy supposed briefly that he must look just as bad, he vaguely remembered waving his arm around to make a point and forgetting he was holding his tankard (his tunic still felt rather damp).

"...And now my father is coming to the tournament and I'll be lucky if the Prince can remember my name, let alone the fact I'm in Camelot at all. So much for 'Furthering the Interests of the Family'." He attempted to mimic his father's pompous tones but it came out a bit slurred and much less impressive.

Merlin nodded some more and took another gulp of ale before frowning slightly. "What do you mean, he can't remember your name?"

Percy sighed, propping his chin on his hand (and getting his elbow wet in the process). "He calls me Perrin."

Merlin sniggered and immediately tried to cover his mouth with his sleeve but Percy couldn't really blame him. It was one thing to get your name wrong but Perrin?! Why not just dub him Sir Tarquin and have done with it. Merlin dropped his hand and patted Percy consolingly on the arm (actually he missed, but Percy appreciated the thought).

"Well, he calls me idiot." Merlin paused in thought; it seemed to take a while. "But then I call him Prat, so I'm not sure it counts."

Percy supposed he should feel more scandalised at this rather blatant show of disrespect for the Prince, but four months of being referred to as 'Perrin' had caused him to think up a few choice names of his own for Prince Arthur, although unlike Merlin he would not have dreamed of speaking them aloud. Instead he waved a hand vaguely in Merlin's direction.

"But it's not as if you say that to him is it?"

"Um... no?"

"That's what I mean. You can't just talk to royalty, they're not like normal people, and I don't have all these... these..." he struggled for a second, then settled on, "courtly skills." He slumped a little on the bench. "I just want him to give me a chance to prove myself." He paused, considering. "And for him not to call me Perrin anymore."

"Arthur's not that bad." At Percy's disbelieving look Merlin shook his head, "Really he isn't, you just need to talk to him like a normal person, don't worry about all this royalty nonsense."

It was an impressively long and coherent sentence but Percy still had trouble imagining himself ever just 'talking' to Prince Arthur - who was, after all, the future King - like he would to, well, to Merlin for example. He stared morosely into the bottom of his tankard.

Merlin sighed rather dramatically. "Look this is silly, just talk to him!" He straightened up, staring blearily around the dimly lit hall. "Look, there he is. Why don't you talk to him now?" And then, right before Percy's horrified gaze, Merlin lurched to his feet and actually waved energetically across the hall shouting “Arthur!” as he did so. Percy thought this might actually be the most awful thing that had ever happened to him, even worse than setting fire to the haybarn and quite possibly worse than his father's singing.

"Merlin!" He tried to grab his arm and pull him back down but Merlin ignored him. Percy would have quite liked to hide under the table but as a Knight of Camelot he felt he ought to show more grit. He turned reluctantly and nearly fell off the bench when he saw Prince Arthur had left the group by the fire and was in fact walking towards them - although, really, he might have been coming over to murder his incorrigible manservant. Percy couldn't be sure.

Prince Arthur came to a stop beside their table. His eyes took in Percy, the half empty jug of ale, the rather wet table and his dishevelled manservant who had now slumped back down onto the bench and was smiling angelically at a Prince whose eyebrows looked in danger of disappearing into his hair. "Did you just summon me?"

If anything Merlin looked even more angelic. "Might've."

"You do realise, Merlin, that servants do not summon their masters? I seem to remember us having a similar conversation after you shouted to me from the third floor window on market day."

"You forgot your gloves."

"I doubt the whole of Camelot needed to be apprised of that fact, and certainly not by you shouting like a fishwife from the West Tower."

Merlin actually rolled his eyes at this point, Percy wondered if he was about to be thrown into the stocks. "Just sit down will you, I want to talk to you." Merlin waved vaguely at the table and Arthur, to Percy's astonishment, sighed in a long suffering kind of way and slid onto the bench beside Merlin, grimacing at the now sodden surface.

"What?" He sounded irritable and Percy couldn't really blame him, but Merlin seemed supremely unconcerned.

"I wanted you to meet someone." He nodded at Percy, who tried to stand and bow but found that his legs were somewhat wobbly.

Arthur frowned as if trying to place him. "Er... Perrin isn't it?"

Before Percy could even attempt a reply Merlin spoke. "No, it's Percy."

"What?"

"P-E-R-C-Y." Merlin pronounced it slowly and clearly (or as clearly as he was able) as if talking to someone half-witted.

Arthur glared at him. "It might have escaped your notice, Merlin, but there are a lot of Knights in Camelot, I can't be expected to get them all right."

Merlin glared back undaunted. "It might have escaped your notice, Arthur, that I have a lot of duties as your over-worked manservant. Luckily for you however I took the trouble to learn them, saving you a great deal of distress and making you feel valued as a member of the..." he paused, frowning. Percy couldn't help but think the analogy had got away from him somewhat. "Er... what was I saying?"

"I'm not sure. But I think I became a team somewhere in the middle." If Percy didn't know better he would almost think the Prince looked amused. Merlin nodded as if the Prince had made his point exactly and reached for his tankard, taking a noisy gulp. Prince Arthur eyed him with a slight frown.

"How much have you had?"

Merlin placed the tankard down on the table with an undignified thump. "It’s not that strong. Percy was telling me about Honeymead - weren't you? His sister set fire to a barn." The Prince looked rather taken aback at this unexpected revelation.

When Merlin failed to elaborate he turned to Percy, who felt compelled to wade in before his sister was forever labelled a drunken pyromaniac. "The two things aren't related, Sire, I assure you. That is, we do make Honeymead on our lands, and my sister did accidentally set fire to a barn but not... er... not because she was drunk." He could probably have phrased that better, but he was just grateful he hadn't slurred too noticeably.

The Prince raised an eyebrow. "Your sister sounds rather unusual." Percy grinned, forgetting for a moment who he was talking to.

"She is! I don't think she's forgiven me yet for becoming a Knight, it's what she wants more than anything I think. Even now I've never seen an archer to equal her, nor a horsewoman. She would have a great deal in common with the Lady Morgana I believe... er... Sire." he remembered belatedly whom he was addressing but the Prince only smiled a little ruefully,

"You must invite her to visit Court. If she is as skilled as you say, it would do Morgana good to meet her. Maybe she'll stop asking to train with my Knights if she has someone worthy to compete with. Perhaps she could even bring some of this famous mead with her." Percy smiled back, relaxing a little now his dismissal from Court no longer seemed imminent.

"She would like that very much, Sire."

"Percy likes hunting," Merlin suddenly announced. Arthur let out an exasperated sigh and tried to reach for Merlin's tankard but Merlin pulled it quickly out of reach, managing another mouthful of ale as he did so.

"Really, Merlin, Percy is a Knight. Of course he likes hunting. Not everyone is as entirely incompetent as you when it comes to the great outdoors."

"But he's really good at it. Tell him about the basilisk, Percy." Merlin was gesturing rather freely with his tankard, Prince Arthur was now eyeing it purposefully, as if waiting for his chance, but he couldn't hide his interest at Merlin's words.

"A basilisk? Within our borders?"

"Yes sire," and Percy launched into the story he had earlier told Merlin, describing how he had first heard of the beast from terrified hill dwellers, how he had ridden out with his father's men and tracked the creature for days before the final, desperate, fight. As he spoke he stared determinedly forward, pretending to ignore the tug of war that was now taking place between the Prince and his manservant as Prince Arthur tried to tug the tankard from Merlin's hand and Merlin held on tightly. Percy had just got to the part where he and his men lured the basilisk into an open clearing when the Prince finally prised his manservant's fingers from the tankard, yanking it away and placing it on the table in front of him. As Percy came to the end of his tale the Prince questioned him closely; it seemed no-one had seen a basilisk within the Kingdom's borders for decades.

"Your lands sound like prime hunting country," the Prince said when Percy had exhausted his knowledge of the creatures. "Perhaps when he are on progress next summer we might ride out to your father's castle and try our luck?"

Percy smiled with pleasure. "Of course Sire, you would be most welcome. In fact my father's latest letter makes mention of bears in the mountains in our western territory." Percy noticed Merlin's hand was now creeping across the tabletop towards his tankard, the Prince moved it further down the table without even looking, ignoring Merlin's impressive glare as he did so.

"Bears? Then we shall certainly go, it might do some of these Knights good - hunting rabbits and deer is hardly a challenge anymore. Were you at the hunt yesterday?"

"No Sire." Percy didn't add that he hadn't been asked to go. Training was for everyone, of course, but the Prince picked his own companions when he hunted in the forests around Camelot.

"Shame, you missed a good run. No matter, we are riding out again the day after tomorrow, to the west. You should come. And stop making that ridiculous noise, Merlin" - Merlin had let out an impressive groan at the mention of hunting - "It's an honour to accompany the Knights of Camelot at the hunt - isn't that right Percy?" And Percy found himself nodding and smiling across the table at the Prince and thinking that maybe Merlin had a point, he wasn't that difficult to talk to after all, not if you were talking about normal, interesting things like hunting.

It was at this promising juncture that Merlin slumped sideways, right onto the shoulder of Prince Arthur, who attempted to shrug him off and only succeeded in nearly depositing him onto the floor. The Prince yanked him back upright so that Merlin was propped, rather precariously, against him, and exchanged a resigned look with Percy before regarding his flushed and untidy manservant.

"I think, Merlin, that it's time you retired for the evening, don't you?"

Merlin blinked up at the Prince, leaning against his shoulder and smiling sleepily. "Not really."

"Hmmm. Well I'm afraid your judgement might be somewhat impaired at the moment."

"I can't go before you do, you need me to do... do..." he waved his hand a little erratically, nearly hitting the Prince in the face as he struggled for the right words "...manservanty things,” he brought out at last.

"Well, that would be a first."

"Hey!" Completely ignoring Merlin's wounded expression, the Prince shoved the bench back and stood, dragging Merlin up with him.

"Come on. The sooner you sleep this off, the sooner I can start reminding you of this evening for the rest of your life."

"Prat."

Percy had thought he was immune to any further shock but apparently he wasn't - he only hoped he wasn't gaping too obviously when Prince Arthur overlooked the immediate arrest of his unruly manservant for a light cuff around the head and an affectionate (and really there was no other word for it) mutter of 'idiot.’

"Percy, in the absence of any competent servants would you mind opening the door?" Realising the Prince was now addressing him whilst he was slumped across the table and probably gaping at him like an idiot, Percy lurched a little unsteadily to his feet and managed a (quite creditable) bow.

"Of course, Sire." Hurrying over to the heavy door and dragging it open, he watched Merlin walk into the doorframe twice before the Prince, with a rueful glance at Percy (who he now seemed to view as a fellow sufferer, which seemed a bit hard on Merlin, but was still infinitely preferable to 'Perrin'), managed to guide him through. But not before Merlin, in an extremely bad stage whisper, assured him that he would 'speak to Arthur about the tournament' before winking clumsily (it looked more like a spasm) and grinning.

As Percy watched them disappear down the dimly lit corridor, Merlin with a wave and the Prince with a more dignified nod and reminder about the forthcoming hunt, he reflected that his father had been right about something after all. Not that Percy had ever expected such a thing to happen, and not that he would ever dream of telling his father that it had, but, as tonight had proved, sometimes it really was about knowing the right people.

THE END

Read the next part in the series: An Epilogue