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Chapter Text

Odin had attacked first. Tiny raids, little skirmishes on the border. Uther had him send out some knights to quell the disquiet, nothing more. He hadn’t thought much of it, put it down to common jealousy and was sure that the knights would scare his people away. 

And then Odin started taking territory. 

A couple of villages, just on the outskirts, but it set a dangerous precedent that Uther would not stand for. A challenge was issued, then, that the two kingdoms would fight over this last village, and that if either kingdom was able to push the other’s forces back into their own land, the territory would be theirs. Uther was confident they would, of course, win and sent Arthur just to assure it. 

That was two months ago. 

The village they had chosen was sprawling, spanning far larger than Arthur had expected. Odin’s men had already set up camp on the southern side, by their original border, and no doubt knew the layout of the land far better than Arthur. 

The first thing Arthur had done was organize a temporary truce for a few days so the peasants could pack and leave the premises. The captain he was dealing with was rough and vulgar, so said the messenger, but had a sense for justice, too. Their herald announced the next day that the peasants had four days to pack up and leave, or else risk becoming a casualty or a prisoner of war. 

Arthur had the foresight to grab one of the fleeing civilians and ask for a rough map of their village before they left. Arthur would do his best to ensure that the buildings remained intact. The rest he would make sure were resettled comfortably. He had no intention of giving up the land of his people. 

It was lonely work, but necessary. At night he was haunted by the memories of the coming days, and when he awoke he was struck with the nightmare of morning in a war zone. But at least Merlin wasn’t there. 

Merlin had protested, loudly and at great length, against Arthur’s decision to leave him behind. He had no idea how long this campaign would be and Arthur could get into trouble without Merlin there, or so Merlin argued. But the boy was young and sheltered enough not to have experienced the full horrors of war –Ealdor was but a taste, and a very small one at that– and Arthur would not be the one to introduce them to him, not at his age. 

He still made Morgana swear that she would look after Merlin in his absence. The boy could get up to all kinds of trouble and he hoped that Merlin would be dissuaded from entering the tavern unsupervised if Morgana and Guinevere spent more time with him when he was out from under Arthur’s shadow. 

The women worried so anyway, Arthur trusted that Merlin would make a worthy distraction. 

“Sire!” It was Sir Leon. 

Merlin he could send away, but Sir Leon was his second-in-command after Sir Geraint was killed in the search for Tauren. It would be foolish not to keep him. Sir Berenger usually worked in his father’s close circle, but with the Head Knight and the Second both indisposed, Arthur had placed him in charge of the remaining knights while he was away. The older knight had decades of experience and Arthur knew him to be a wise and just man. He was confident that Sir Berenger could hold down the castle while he was away. 

Presently, Arthur looked up from the crude map, mind working overtime to predict what the Knight would say. Another casualty list, perhaps, or another shortage of food after the supply line was attacked. Perhaps a cold front was coming in and they weren’t sure if they could spare the men for woodcutting. A million and one things could have gone wrong, and yet Arthur’s blood still ran cold when Sir Leon finished his report. 

“Odin’s men must have bribed our lookout towards the East,” he rushed, “They’ve ambushed the East-side camp. We’re under attack.”

Arthur got up immediately, thankful that he thought to keep his armor on from the last attack late last night. 

“Round up the men, but leave enough to thoroughly defend the main area should Odin’s men come through this way. We ride immediately!” Arthur talked while he fastened his sword belt, making way to his horse. 

Sir Leon bowed and then ran off to gather what able men were capable of riding with them. 

Arthur smiled grimly as he sat astride his horse. To war, then. 

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

Arthur panted, taking his allotted few seconds to catch his breath after dispatching his latest foe, one of the many, many knights under Odin’s flag. The chaos and carnage of the battle raged around him, and if he was to make sure that the Knights of Camelot were to win, then he had to act quickly. 

He gripped Excalibur tightly, making sure to breathe in deeply once more –blood, dust, and sweat be damned– before plunging back into the fray. 

He twirled and stabbed in the dance of death, a dance he had grown into since he was a boy and one he had taught his subordinates as best he could. There was no honor in the deaths spawned by needless battle, none to be found except in defending one’s brothers-in-arms, and he could not pretend otherwise. 

Arthur did not fear the bright glint of the sword as it sought to cut him down, nor did he shirk from the ever-present screams of the dying around him. His casualties were multiplying and Arthur would be the one to send out the notices come morning. 

Out here, so far from the heart of Camelot, they would be unable to bring back the bodies. A pyre would have to be built, at the end of it all, and the bodies burned to save the weight of the horses and men. 

It was a grim topic, but one that occupied his mind as he fought. The whole of his body was dedicated to the task, every spare thought used to analyze the fight pattern and the movement of the enemy before him, doing what he did best: killing. But occasionally his mind wandered, anything to cope with the horrors in front of him, anything to distance himself from the dying light in their eyes. He could not go catatonic while his people needed him. 

He grimaces at the blood dripping from his blade as he pulls it out of yet another soldier. 

His people would always need him. 

He shook it off once, for it would only be dirtied again, and scanned the impromptu battlefield. 

“Die, Pendragon!” someone screamed behind him, right before the cold bite of steel pierced his shoulder. 

Inexperienced, Arthur thought numbly. He grasped the hilt of his sword firmly, turning it around to face him, and plunged it behind him through the gap between his arm and his side. It struck, and it struck deeply. There was a gasp of warm breath in his ear and then the crumpling sound of a body falling. 

“My lord!” Sir Bedivere cried, appearing before him in dismay. 

“Take it out, Sir Bedivere,” Arthur instructed him calmly, doing his best to get control over his labored breaths. “I cannot raise my left arm otherwise.”

“But sire, you’ll bleed—”

“Take it out, Sir Bedivere!” Arthur barked, grinding his teeth against the pain sure to follow. “That’s an order. This fight must be won. We’ll bind it later.”

He hesitated only a moment more before setting his features and bowing his head. He quickly makes his way behind Arthur. Arthur clenches his jaw to keep from screaming, the men must not see you weak, they must not see you fall, but only exhales sharply as the sword slithers out between the scales of his chainmail. 

It’s an all-too familiar sensation for him now.

There’s the clanging and the thud of the sword as it’s thrown away amongst the rocky ground and Sir Bedivere lays a hand on his shoulder as he comes around to face him. It steadies Arthur more than he’s willing to admit. 

“For the love of Camelot,” Arthur tells him, looking at the man in his eye. He is glad the Knight survived thus far. 

“For the love of Camelot,” Sir Bedivere agrees. The knight lifts his sword up, giving the crown prince a cursory glance with worry-filled eyes, then charges into battle once more. 

Arthur meanwhile readjusts his grip on Excalibur once more, fortifies himself, and dives into battle. He dispatches three more of Odin’s men off the bat, making sure to take shallow, even breaths so as not to exacerbate the wound. It’s a struggle not to breathe hard as he roams the field, but necessary if he’s to get through this. He slew another before the tide began to turn under his watch. 

As did his health, but he had to remain strong, even as his shoulder throbbed and his breathing turned ragged. Excalibur was weighing on him, yet he held it up and faced his next opponent. One went down, and the next went fairly quickly as well, only for the next one to immediately follow after him and—

eyes, the same blue eyes, but were they darker than he remembered or–

he struck Arthur on the head with his pommel and—

a sword protruded from his chest and —

there was Leon and—

Why did Leon look so far up? —

dimly Arthur felt his head strike a rock and—

Nothing.

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

“Look after Merlin for me,” Arthur whispered into Morgana’s ear as she hugged him on the steps of the Keep. He felt her nod, but he felt compelled to continue, “I mean it. He can’t be alone tonight. He’ll try to follow.” 

Her grip tightened around his abdomen. “I understand.”

Finally, they stepped back. Arthur studied her face. Morgana knew the dangers of war. She knew that, no matter how well he was doing in his swordsmanship, this was not Ealdor. And you could not take back war. Something in him steadied and, eyes closed, he leaned his forehead against hers. 

“Be safe,” she whispered fervently. 

That was all that could be said, unfortunately. They broke apart and Arthur kissed her head. His eyes wandered until they found Guinevere. Her dress was blue today. Cornflower. The wind whipped through her hair. It seemed as if tears were in her eyes, but that could have been a trick of the light. He smiled for her, and she smiled back, but that was all they could do in front of so many people. 

Merlin was at the bottom of the stairs, Gaius by his side. The old man had a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. Gaius nodded graciously. Merlin wouldn’t meet his eye. 

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

Arthur—

woke—

he thinks. Or—

He groans and he tries to pry open his eyes, but he can’t— 

he can’t—

It’s just too bright out there. 

His whole body feels weighed down, as if all the horses in Camelot were piled onto every inch of him. And then they all decided to stampede through his head. Had Merlin accidentally opened the stables again?

Or, no. It’s–

It’s just so bright. 

He closes his eyes against it—

When did he open his eyes?

—and yet the room still spins and it’s too bright.

“Sire?” Someone’s shouting. But—

softly?

He groans and shifts to his side—

NO—

Tears leak unbidden from his eyes as his shoulder burns white-hot—

as if he’s been branded—

and there’s hands, hands on his shoulder, hands on his head —

and it hurts, it burns, it hurts so much, and it’s too bright.

He’s clammy and burning and he can’t move, shouldn’t move, except he has to, and he rolls over, rolls to his other side this time, and—

he heaves over the side of the cot, heaving and heaving until there’s nothing but bile and then nothing after that either. 

There’s hands, again, and the brightness goes away and there’s something cold against his head, it reminds him of another time like this but he can’t remember when, fighting against the horses stampeding in his head, and the fire in his shoulder dulls, and his eyes stop flittering—

When were they fluttering?

Flittering?

Flyttering?

—and the darkness consumes him once more. 

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

“How long will we be gone? Do you know what the weather will be like?”

“Merlin.” 

“Well, I was just asking, since I’ve never been near Odin’s kingdom before. I have to know what to pack. Warm, cold, wet–”

“You’re not going.”

“Well, I guess you never know–” The shirt that Merlin had started folding dropped to the floor. He never was a great servant. “What do you mean, I’m not going? Of course I am; who else do you think is going to look after you? Sir Leon? Sir Galahad? He’s young, but I don’t think that’s any excuse–” 

“I mean it, Merlin. Whatever you may have thought... You will stay here in Camelot.”

“What complete and utter horseshit!” He said it loudly and right by an open window. Had Arthur cared about appearances at all, he would have winced. Well. If Arthur had cared about appearances, Merlin never would have made it past the first week. 

“Call it what you will. I will not move on this.”

“You’re going into a warzone, Arthur, not a duel!”

“Exactly! ” Arthur shouted. He hadn’t meant to shout. He meant to have this conversation rationally, calmly, at least on his end; he’d even remained seated so he didn’t seem threatening. But suddenly his heart was pounding, his voice was raised, and he had slammed his hand on the table. “Exactly, Merlin! Why the hell would I want you in a warzone? ” 

Arthur forgot. For a moment. He knew, he always knew, was acutely aware that this Merlin was young, so heartbreakingly young, but he had forgotten that it wasn’t his Merlin. His Merlin would have gave as much as he got, would have gotten right in his face, eyes blazing, and they both would have yelled until they were hoarse, and they still wouldn’t have gotten through anything until the next day. This Merlin– he didn’t flinch . He took a step back, however, and his face was pinched and his eyes were filled with hurt and Arthur hadn’t– He hadn’t meant it like–

“After everything–” Merlin took a breath. “After everything, do you really think me a coward?”

Merlin didn’t even know half of everything. 

“No.” He rested his head on his hand. Well. Arthur didn't know the half of it either. But Merlin was still so young. “I know you’re not a coward. But this is different.”

“That’s why I should be there.” 

“That’s why you won’t be,” Arthur snapped, jerking his eyes up sharply. 

“This is ridiculous, Arthur, I–!”

“And that is my final word on the subject. You will stay here in Camelot. You will not follow, you will not deceive, you will stay right here . If I find you, you will be sent back to Camelot with valuable knights to ensure it, where you will wait until my return for a punishment beyond reckoning.”

Perhaps despite his best efforts, Merlin had the gall to look unimpressed at his threat. Admittedly, it wouldn’t be the pyre, but Arthur could think of worse. 

“I mean it, Merlin. Stay in Camelot. Continue your training under Gaius. Keep an eye on Morgana and Guinevere. Morgana’s been having more nightmares recently.” It seemed they were regular nightmares –Arthur had confirmed it with her already– but she still needed the sleep desperately. “Consider this your day off.”

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

Arthur’s eyes open and the light is flickering. 

He thinks to turn, to better gauge his surroundings, then thinks better and stays still. 

He doesn’t remember much. Yelling, fighting, the ever-present dread lodged in his stomach, burning pain in his shoulder and then his head—

He stifles a groan; his head does not appreciate being reminded of its woes. It feels like the first time he woke up after a night of having too much drink. It feels like all of the pain of a training session with the King when he was younger has focused into his head. His head is pounding and his mouth is dry, his tongue thick and heavy and his mouth sandpaper. 

He struggles to recall much after that, and so focuses his attention to where he is. There’s a torch, that’s the first thing he notices. On the post in the center, there’s a torch flickering and no sunlight from the sheer material, so it must be night. Arthur shifts —doesn’t move, shifts— and knows instinctively that he is on a cot. For medicinal purposes, he has no doubt. There is a pillow under his head and a thin blanket overtop him, but all of his armor and under armor and undergarments have been stripped from the waist up. 

If he correctly remembers the field medic they have brought with them, he’s lucky to have even his trousers on. 

“Sire?” comes an almost hesitant voice. Arthur forces his eyes with great pains towards the speaker. It is the medic, he was correct; William, if he remembers. 

William looks him over critically, and then nods in satisfaction. “Well, you ‘aven’t blown chunks all over t’ floor, now ‘ave you? Roight good sign ‘at is, seeing as yore not lookin’ choo keen, m’lord. Now, ‘ow you feelin’ t’day, sire?”

Arthur tries to speak, but his voice is so rough that he can’t get any words out. William hums a bit, eyes roving over his face once more before turning to grab a water skin and slowly feeding him the fluid, no matter how quickly Arthur wants to drink it. 

It hits his stomach harshly and William leans away in preparation, but it passes away soon enough and then Arthur can speak. 

“What… Have I been asleep since… The ambush, this morning?” Well, almost speak. 

“T’ ambush, sire?” William cackles well enough for a man thrice his age. “‘at was nigh on t’ree days ago, m’lord. ‘ad me in a roight state myself, sire, seein’ as all you knights like t’ ‘ack yoreselves t’ bits, you do. Now, now, ‘ow you feelin’, m’lord? Light too bright? Wa’er not settlin’ roight prope’? Arm abou’ t’ fall off on you?” 

Arthur shook his head, then sucked in a breath and kept still. 

William cackled again, but replaced the rag on his forehead that made Arthur sigh in relief. 

“Yea, I wouldn’t do ‘at, m’lord. ‘ad a nasty knock on the ‘ead, you did. Gave t’ boys a prope’ froight.”

Then it hit him, all at once. 

“Three days?” He croaked. 

William nodded, going about checking his wounds. “T’ree days, ‘at’s roight. A’ll see t’ yore wounds, m’lord, ‘en go git Sir Leon. Ah fancy you’d like a prope’ report, seein’ as yore on t’ mend now.”

“Yes, thank you, William,” Arthur murmured, not willing to risk going any louder. 

William nodded absentmindedly and continued working in a dogged silence. Then he clapped his hands on his thighs, declared Arthur “close fittin’ t’ foight a ‘orse, ‘n’ jus’ as t’ick as one, choo,” and then rose to, presumably, find Sir Leon for a report on where they stand now, giving Arthur, unfortunately, time to think as well as he was able.

Three days. 

Anything could have happened. Lost. Won. The casualty list, what did it look like? How many had he lost? The thoughts danced through his head, poking and prodding his sore head until he wasn’t sure where he was.

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

Arthur looks up from where he’s lying in his bed to see Guinevere, flushed and frowning with that familiar look of love in her eyes, her mouth twitching to conceal a smile. She’s dressed in his training outfit, a loose white shirt that’s much too big for her, but she’s tucked them in expertly into his trousers, the drawstring pulled tight around her waist. Her hair is pulled back, the same hairstyle she uses for blacksmithing and fighting, but the exertion has teased some of her curls out. 

She’s as radiant as the sun. 

“Do not watch me again,” Guinevere says sternly. She obviously is taking this seriously, no matter what the smothered smile might say, but unfortunately Arthur was too wrapped up in her presence to smother his own smile. She narrows her eyes when Arhur doesn’t respond, can’t respond, really, with her eyes crinkling and her mouth making miniscule adjustments each second and the mirth in her eyes and the flush in her face. Still, it’s important to her. Arthur can respect that. 

“Then may I join you?” Her form was obviously practiced, if not that of a squire. Still, she made a fine warrior and he would be honored to spar with her. 

Guinevere makes a show of thinking it over before giving him a prim nod, the one she’s been practicing to use as Queen, the corner of her mouth still twitching, before giving him a quick kiss, nothing more than a graze of the lips. She withdraws only a few inches from his face afterwards, eyes sparkling, and Arthur is sure he could lay here for hours just counting all of the freckles on her face like stars in the sky. Their noses are almost touching. 

“Only if you take it seriously,” she whispers. He nods in return like the dutiful husband that he is and gets another kiss, firm and excited this time. She slips away from the bed, almost taking Arthur with her, before striding back to her place in the far chamber and readying her weapon. The sword matches her perfectly, and Arthur wonders if she made it herself. Guinevere certainly could do anything she set her mind to. 

Arthur is quick to follow, picking up his own knife from the cabinet on the way. The fact that he had been previously unaware of her clearly-practiced training regiment, or the fact that he has no idea where she has been keeping a sword in their bedchambers, should make him concerned. At the very least, uncomfortable. 

But it was Guinevere. His Guinevere. A capable fighter, a just and kind leader, and the love of his life. He trusted her. If she wanted to learn the way of the sword, who was he to stop her? 

And so he took up his position, directly facing his lovely wife, as Guinevere began the drill.

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

“–lord?” The distant sound of a voice caused Arthur to look up groggily, and he found Sir Leon looking in earnestly from the entry. He must have dozed off, and the sudden change in scenery was off-putting. 

“I’m sorry, Leon, could you repeat that?” he said roughly. The scratching at his throat had him erupt into coughing, which also had the added effect of making his head pound. His second-in-command rushed to his side and carefully helped him drink from the waterskin, seeing as Arthur’s hands didn’t seem to be working properly at the moment. When the drink was taken away, Arthur finally had some of his wits about him, although there was an ache in his chest leftover from his dream. Well. Memory.  

“I said, I trust you’re feeling better, my lord,” Sir Leon said wryly. 

“Right as rain, Sir Leon. Just rested my eyes while I waited for your arrival. Don’t beat around the bush, how did the ambush fair?” 

“We won, my lord. Odin’s men have been driven back on the eastern side. There was a second attack from the west, but the reserves were able to beat them back. They were badly wounded and it was doubtful that they would last the week without reinforcements.”

Arthur’s brow knit together. He seemed to be thinking through a fog, struggling to put together any sort of complex thinking. How was he supposed to protect his men like this?

“I’m sorry, Sir Leon, you said… ‘was doubtful?’” Arthur latched onto the last statement. 

“I… yes… my lord. I saw an opportunity to run after the remaining forces. I foresaw that any delay could have meant evening the field and with your highness out of commission, how long not even William could say… I thought it best to regroup, recover what strength we had, and then make a final stand at Odin’s camp.”

“And?”

“We won, my lord. Odin’s men were pushed back beyond the border and they surrendered to clear away their men. The territory has been recovered… my lord.”

Arthur blinked in shock. This was… it was… 

“I’m impressed, Sir Leon. Your initiative was well-planned and greatly needed. Camelot owes you a debt.”

Sir Leon bowed his head with a small smile, almost sheepish at the praise. “Nonsense, my lord. It was for Camelot that I dedicated my services. Besides, it was you who carried us through the last two months.”

“And you who struck the final blow. Take the praise, Sir Leon, it was well-deserved. Bask in it now. After all, we have much to do before returning to the city.” 

“My lord?” 

“Gather the men that are still able. We need to build a proper funeral pyre for our dead. Have the surrounding buildings marked if they’ve been damaged. Then have five messengers sent out. One is to go straight to the King with the latest report and the other four is to head in each of the cardinal directions to round up the villagers and have them return.”

Sir Leon got up and bowed. “Yes, my lord. I’ll have it done at once.” 

“See that it is, Sir Leon. Quickly, if you can, I’m eager to return home and I’m sure that the villagers are, as well.” 

He smiled genuinely at that and nodded. “Yes, my lord.” 

He walked towards the entrance and then paused, turning back to Arthur. It confused him for a moment. Was there something he had forgotten? He repeated the question aloud. 

“Indeed, sire. Happy birthday.” Leon smiled once more and then disappeared into the night. 

Arthur, meanwhile, was shocked. Three days he had been asleep. Yes, Leon was right. His birthday had come and passed and Arthur hadn’t even remembered. Hadn’t wanted to, honestly, it wasn’t as if there was anything decent to celebrate on the day. 

But it was kind of Sir Leon to remember. Decent of him to remind Arthur himself. Perhaps he had only done it out of duty? Arthur was unsure, but it felt wrong to undermine Sir Leon in such a way. 

Still. 

Officially, Arthur was now one-and-twenty years of age. He had been granted the title of crown prince six months ago and had come of age. 

Unofficially, Arthur felt all one-and-thirty years of his soul, and many more beside. Living among the young had made him feel incredibly old, beyond all his years. 

Another birthday. In an odd, roundabout sort of way, Arthur had lived through another year. 

Before, there was a feast held in his honor and celebrations galore. There was a clap on the back and hands to shake and merry entertainment and wine deep into the night. 

This time, he was so concussed that he slept through it and so busy that he had not even noticed its arrival. Leon remembering had startled him. Moreover, the battle had been won and his people were safe. Arthur found that he liked this birthday much better. People close to him tended to die otherwise. 

Oh, happy birthday, indeed. 

Chapter Text

Arthur began to search taverns. Just in case, even though it was years away. He wanted to be prepared, he wanted to be ready. 

And he wanted to know his people. 

So after short hunts, those where it turns out to be just Merlin and Arthur because Arthur accidentally assigned all of his knights to various tasks before he realized it, or even after days where Arthur can afford to spend an hour or two alone in the woods, few and far in between as they are, Arthur heads to the nearest tavern. He changes out of any armor he might have, fixes the cloak around him, packs a spare, and walks towards the door, speaking to Merlin of how the crops are doing and what effect that has on the people's mood, whether the taxes are affecting his people too harshly because they had to be raised on account of some shite battle on the border or against a sorcerer. 

Like the one Arthur just got home from.

And after resettling the villagers, giving the dead their proper funeral rights, Knight or no, then getting his exhausted men to Camelot one weary step at a time, Sir Leon had all but ordered him to Gaius. 

Arthur had still checked in with Uther beforehand. 

Morgana had met him just outside the council chamber, relieved at his being home and concerned at the half-hearted attempt at a sling for his shoulder, Gwen trailing just behind her. She had pulled him into a gentle hug and while most of him was screaming MORGANA! there was a part of him that had melted in a pair of friendly arms. They were getting better, truly, they were, but after long battles, sometimes his body forgets itself. He had opened a tired eye to look at Guinevere over Morgana’s shoulder. Her brow has been furrowed, which it should never be, and he had tried for a smile to smooth it away. It didn’t quite work, but she had grinned half-heartedly back at him and he had cherished that memory all the way through Gaius’s check-up and subsequent lecture. 

Merlin had been there for that. Sitting on a chair backwards and resting his chin on his arms like a petulant child, glaring at the wounds as if the force of his stare would scare the blood away. Even Arthur could see that the boy still felt hurt at being left behind, but Arthur stood by his decision. As much as he could stand, anyway.

“Better me than you,” Arthur had murmured to Merlin. 

“You’re the Prince,” Merlin had hissed, looking absolutely scandalized. 

“And why should that matter?” Merlin’s frown had deepened, but it had been his own argument, and he couldn’t refute it. 

“You have a very severe concussion, sire!” Gaius was going on. “And you’re very lucky you were struck where you were!”

Gaius had kept up the steady stream as he walked behind, out of Arthur’s line of sight. Arthur had waited a second to make sure Gaius was still over there. Then he had subtly got Merlin’s attention, who continued to occupy his time by glaring at him, and, amidst Gaius’s lecture, started making faces. It had worked with the children the occasional noble lady brought, and Arthur had been curious if it would work on Merlin as well. 

He didn’t stop glaring, but the corner of his mouth twitched up slightly. 

And Arthur knew they’d be okay. 

That was a month ago. 

It was only recently that Arthur was allowed to begin going out, and even then only with supervision. Not like Merlin would let him leave his sight anyway, always grumbling over “the one time I leave you and you get stabbed of all things” and “you’re lucky William went with you, or else I would have killed you myself.” Arthur knows that if Gaius hadn’t thoroughly chewed him out, Merlin would have. As it was, Merlin settled for glaring and throwing more insults than usual while he always kept not more than two steps behind Arthur at all times. Arthur doesn’t think even his wetnurse had kept such a close eye. 

But he needed to get out, so the two of them went on a hunt; Arthur desperate for fresh air and using it as an opportunity to impress upon Merlin the meaning of stealth, dear Lord, be quiet, Merlin. Afterwards, Arthur recognized the nearby tavern, years ago in his future memories. 

And now Arthur and Merlin were wandering in, Arthur chatting about how the farmers’ report this month was saying how the crops were looking right as rain after Merlin remarked on how bright the sun was today. 

The bartender was the same, a few years younger, but still fond of Merlin. It had Arthur laughing this time as he ordered. Merlin had looked right pleased with himself, scowling half-heartedly at Arthur when he had started laughing. It took all of Arthur’s self control to stop, but he couldn’t help chuckling every now and again. 

Everything was going well, the mead was cool and filling, the atmosphere jaunty and light. Then he came in. 

His presence blocked what little light was left in the day as he looked in the doorway. Everyone fell silent as he scanned the room with cold, black eyes. He grinned coldly and lumbered through the room, two men at his back, smashing dishes and holding their noses in the air as if they could look down on everyone in their way. 

What a bunch of fucking pigs. 

“Afternoon, Mary,” he crows. “Business looks good.”

Damn it all, Arthur had no idea it went back this far. It was unacceptable; he had to do a better job of looking after them. 

“We’ve been be’er.” The poor girl trembles. 

“You got my share, then, yeah?” he leers. 

She hands him a small pouch and he promptly empties it on the counter. He knocks a few of the coins around and then looks back at her. 

“Where’s the rest?” he snarls.  

“There’s nofing lef’.” Poor Mary looks close to tears.

Arthur’s already vibrating in his seat, hand itching for Excalibur. He knew he should have brought the sword in, but he had hoped that— they would have been frightened had—

The thug whips out a knife and presses it to her neck. She fumbles under the counter, looking too scared to even breathe, but Arthur’s already growling and out of his seat. 

“Do not touch her,” he seethes. Mary’s eyes dart over, paralyzed yet hopeful, and the other three look his way, too. Good. 

The leader thunders over like a bear and goes to fucking slap Arthur out of the way, what the hell. He dodges under the arm and pushes the large man. All his weight tumbles after him and he smacks into a shelf. He pulls himself back to center and grins with an edge. He is furious and right now, he’s aimed solely at Arthur. Perfect. 

“I’m gonna make you pay for that,” he chuckles darkly. 

You’re gonna pay for that. 

A bloodied sword. Blue eyes. The pull of a sword through sinew. A dark chuckle. 

“I’d like to see you try,” Arthur hears Merlin scoff into his drink. Lightweight.

Not so powerful now.

A broken chant. Green eyes. The shift of a black dress, stumbling backwards. A bloodcurdling scream. 

For fuck’s sake, Merlin–

The leader whistles and everything tunes back in. Just in time for a whole drove of the animals to amble through the door, fists at the ready and just itching for a fight. Merlin quickly gets up and moves from his seat. Good, at least Arthur taught him something. 

“Silence, Merlin. Remember what we learned about today? The importance of silence?” Arthur hissed at the boy. He had enough wits to look sheepish. Arthur already felt sore just looking at everyone. He could protect everyone and still win, right? It was only, what, one against… fifteen? They kept moving so Arthur couldn’t get a solid headcount, but it couldn’t be… too hard. Hopefully. Maybe if Merlin acted as the last line for the villagers, Arthur could focus on the fight itself. Yeah. Yeah, maybe. 

“You two have got yourselves in a bit of a pickle, haven’t you?”

Arthur froze.

He had suspected, sure, and maybe a part of him had hoped, but he never… it would be years , surely, and yet…

Arthur turned to get a better look, and—

Don’t be such a princess.

Arise, Sir Gwaine, Knight of Camelot.

I can vouch that he has a noble heart.

I think we’ve no chance. But I wouldn’t miss it for the world. 

Gwaine. He was here. Younger than Arthur ever knew him, but not by much, and clearly Gwaine all the same. Gwaine was rough and loud and oblivious. He flirted too much, drank too deeply, and always said the wrong thing. But he was a true friend and always had Arthur’s back, one of the few people not to betray him. 

Not to mention that he was good in a fight, too, and two-to-fifteen was much better odds. 

Arthur couldn’t help but grin. 

“Yeah, wouldn’t mind lending a hand, Gw–” Arthur cut himself off. Shite. “G-good sir?”

Not his most elegant save, but it was the best he had under the circumstances. Fuck, Arthur hadn’t had to rely on his memories for the proper words in months. Never in the moment at least; it was embarrassing. 

Gwaine gave him an odd look as he ambled over with his drink. He got one last sip in before handing it over to the leader. The man looked so confused, Arthur almost felt sorry for him. Gwaine smiled at the thug brightly, and then promptly punched him in the face. 

Chaos erupted. Contrary to Arthur’s fears, everyone wanted in on the violence. It may be concerning, but Arthur was thankful for the help. The women with pitchers were particularly effective and he made sure to keep an eye on them. Merlin would kill him if he got in the way of them. Gwaine was doing a marvelous job, and even Merlin was getting some good hits in. 

Unfortunately, the thug leader made sure Arthur would feel his punishment. Arthur was quick, but the leader was smart, despite all appearances otherwise. He grabbed him during a dodge and elbowed him across the face. Arthur’s ears rang and the man picked him up and barreled into a pillar with Arthur as the thin barrier between the two. There was a loud thud, as Arthur was crushed into the wood. He gasped for air, his only thought that it was good there hadn’t been a snap. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water before being able to suck in the stale, humid air of the tavern. Arthur was lucky he was as young as he was now. While he was a younger man when he died, he had several more injuries sustained over his years that would have made this much more uncomfortable than it already was. 

Or at least that was what Arthur liked to believe as he was successively kneed in the stomach and then punched in the face. 

“Arthur!” comes a faint cry over the din. 

It filters in just barely between the ringing and Arthur has the jumbled notion that Merlin is in trouble. He looks around wildly for a moment, certain that if he can just spot the boy then he should be able to, who knows, appear there to help or something. 

What really happens is that Arthur gets distracted so that the thug clamps his meaty hands on him in an even better grip in order to slug him into the table, apparently determined to either crush his ribs or his lungs, whichever gives first, but also finally allowing Arthur to get a good look at Merlin amidst the fighting. 

He’s definitely worried, but relatively unharmed from what Arthur can see as he braces against the bear of a man on top of him. Then he sees a woman gearing up with a chair behind Merlin. 

“Merlin!” he shouts as well as he’s able. “Behind you!”

Merlin turns around and ducks just in time for the chair to go flying. Women—Arthur will never underestimate them for as long as he is to live. But Merlin’s safe and so Arthur refocuses onto the task at hand. And, well, the ringing suddenly gives him an idea—

Arthur boxes the man on his ears as hard as he can and the man stumbles back, thoroughly disoriented. He looks about as well as Arthur feels. Still, he wastes no time trying to land some blows in his torso. Doesn’t work. He goes for the face, but leaves too much space open and gets kneed for his troubles back into the wall. 

Bar fight. He’s working it into his men’s schedule somehow. They spend too much time with swords, not enough time at hand-to-hand. Maybe Gwaine can teach. Oh, wait, except–

Arthur shakes himself off and then decides to go for the legs. It’ll hurt like a bitch when he falls on him, but it may just work.

It does, in fact, just work, but the bear gets angry and while Arthur is gasping for breath, he claws at him with his knife. Arthur rolls the two of them over and straddles him. The knife goes in just as Arthur grabs ahold of his vest and slams his head into the floor. Once, doesn’t work. Twice, maybe. Thrice is definite. 

He does it a fourth time just for the knife in his side. 

He’s breathing heavily when the man below him finally stills. Not dead, but definitely not getting up right now. His ears continue to ring, his body’s beginning to ache, and there’s a light throbbing coming from his side. 

Merlin rushes to his side and helps him off. “I lost sight of you. Are you okay? I swear, you ass, if you were injured again–”

Arthur waves him off. “I’ll see Gaius, don’t worry. Now let’s put these men in the stocks.”

The crowd roars in approval and basically does all the work for them. 

Arthur presses a hand into his wound as he follows them out. He finds Mary and takes her arm as the others scramble for rotten vegetables they can throw at the thugs. 

“Mary, if they ever trouble you again, send word to Camelot. Soldiers will be here within a day.”

She eyes him skeptically, but Arthur had paid when the mead had arrived, so she considers him. “‘ow can you make a promise like tha’?”

“Because I’m Arthur, the Crown Prince,” he says quietly. He cracks a grin. “Besides, I wish to make sure my favorite meadhouse stays in business.”

“Prince Arthur!” she exclaims loudly anyway. He exhales through his nose, but chuckles. He takes a few steps away, towards his horse where Gwaine and Merlin are talking, with the latter glancing over every five seconds, he wonders where the other knights went, when Arthur suddenly gets extremely light-headed and, oh, has his side been bleeding that fast the whole time and when did all that light—

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

“Where are we going exactly?” Gwaine shouts from the other horse. Arthur is laid out with him, but only because apparently Gwaine’s been riding since he was a child and Merlin is still considered new. 

“To Camelot!” Merlin calls back. “I know the physician there, he can help!”

Arthur shouldn’t even be outside Camelot. The prince is a magnet for trouble; Gaius should have insisted that he at least stay inside the city limits. Not that he would have listened, with Arthur being a stubborn ass of a prince and all, but, still. He had already come back seeing double and with no sense of coordination, not even to mention the beginnings of an infection that Gaius had to fight for two days straight. This is what happens when he decides to, just, leave Merlin behind. 

It was ridiculous! Months of being dragged around all over Camelot and they finally know exactly where the trouble is, where Merlin can actually know when to help him, both with and without magic, and Arthur insists he stay home. It was crazy! 

But it seemed like Arthur would get in trouble no matter what! The prince seemed determined to run directly towards a sharp object whenever he saw one, Merlin or no!

If Merlin hadn’t already thoroughly checked for enchantments earlier that year, and then realized what an unbelievable, self-sacrificing moron the prince actually was, Merlin would be concerned that someone was using magic over him. But, no, just a stupid prince doing stupid things because of his stupid heart. What a clotpole, an absolute turnip head. 

Now all Arthur had to do was wake up so Merlin could tell him. At length. Preferably with extreme violence. 

It was nice of Gwaine to accompany them back after Arthur dropped to the ground like a ragdoll and Merlin only slightly panicked before trying to get him onto his horse. 

And now they are in Camelot, in the very citadel itself, and Gwaine looks around suspiciously as he holds Arthur in a bridal carry to account for the knife wound buried in his abdomen. Merlin leads him the quickest way to Gaius’s chambers, the amount of blood seeping through making him only a little nervous, he swears. 

“Gaius!” Merlin shouts, startling the old man from his reading. “Arthur’s been stabbed.”

“Again?” he asks in astonishment, getting up immediately and clearing the table. They can work on Arthur now and then have him moved up to his chambers so someone –see: Merlin– can keep an eye on him. 

“Again,” Merlin tacks on with a grimace. 

“Come in, come in, set him down here.” Gaius waves in Gwaine and then turns to Merlin once more. “Merlin, fetch me some fresh water, towels, a needle, silk thread, and honey.” 

Merlin turns to leave, and then a thought pops into his head. “In case of infection?”

Gaius smiles at him. “In case of infection. You’re learning.”

Merlin spares a quick grin and then sprints off for the supplies. 

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

Arthur wakes up groggy, but still in one piece. For one awful moment he believes he’s back in that tent, meant to get up and plan the ambush of the least amount of casualties until the villagers get their land back. He goes to roll over, then immediately fights back tears as he groans through the ache in his stomach. Then Merlin pokes him.

He knows it’s Merlin because when Arthur swats at the hands, the voice above him says brightly, “Rise and shine, sire!”

“I can’t believe you got stabbed again,” the tired voice of Gaius sighs beside him. 

“Again?” laughs the third voice; Gwaine is behind him. It was nice to have Gwaine here. “Who is this guy?”

The eye that isn’t pressed into his pillow flickers open, surprised to observe the childish face of his best friend. Oh. Right. That was a different Gwaine. Well, a younger Gwaine at the very least. There’s a moment of silence, where presumably Merlin is waiting for him to make some grand introduction, but he just woke up, his head is pulsing in tandem with his wound as he rolls back over, and he can count on one hand how many times his own introductions  ended well when it wasn’t a royal at a feast. His eye slips shut in exhaustion. No, he’ll leave that up to Merlin, thanks. 

“Prince Arthur. You helped me save his life?”

Gwaine scoffs. “If I’d known who he was, I probably wouldn’t have. He’s a noble.”

“He’s a good man,” Merlin says quietly. Well, fuck. Arthur must be in worse shape than he thought; he feels like he’s about to cry. Or maybe it was just the renewing ache.

Gaius pokes at him, though, like mentor, like apprentice, until both of his eyes finally open. Arthur sighs and the conversation blends into the background as the old man helps him sit up slowly. 

“You’re luckier than usual this time. The knife wound is shallow and should be healed rather soon.”

“Enough to participate in the melee?” 

Gaius gives him The Eyebrow, but Arthur’s serious. He wants to compete. 

“What if I take it easy all week? I’ll only greet the incoming knights, I’ll catch up on my paperwork the rest of the time leading up. Lord knows I have enough of it. I’ll take every tonic you prepare and come down whenever you send for me. A model patient.”

“A model patient, you say?” Gaius echoes, still unconvinced. Not… unsurprising, given his record, he’ll grant him. “Somehow I doubt that. Besides, you haven’t even noticed that Gwaine and Merlin have been gone for the last five minutes.”

Startled, Arthur looks around and, yes, sure enough, they’re gone. He grins sheepishly at the physician. He sits up straighter, though, and puts one hand on his heart. “A model patient.”

Gaius hums, scanning him with a critical eye. “We’ll see.”

Arthur breaks into a grin, to which Gaius shakes his head and shuffles over to his vials. 

“When Merlin gets back, I’ll have him help you to your chambers with a few tonics to decrease the risk of infection and help with the pain. You’re on bedrest the rest of the day, however, to ensure that you don’t get stabbed again. Tomorrow you can move to your desk, but for no more than a couple hours at a time. Take it easy the next few days and I’ll check in to see how you’re healing up.”

Gaisu eyes him one last time. “I’ll leave the lecture to Merlin. He’s still angry over the last time you were stabbed.” 

Arthur grimaces. Well. This should be fun. 

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

“He’s a good man,” Merlin said quietly, eyes darting over to the injured prince. He’s still pretty out of it, so Gwaine doesn’t feel too bad about snorting in laughter. 

“If you say so,” he scoffed. Then Merlin manhandled Gwaine out of the room and into the hall, like a mother about to scold their child. What was this place, where the servants backed their masters and princes got into fights over the honor of a barkeep?

“Gwaine, I’m serious. Besides, you're a hero! The King wants to thank you in person.” Merlin, sprite of a lad, looked earnest. Gwaine almost felt bad turning him down. 

“Please, no!” Gwaine guffawed. “I’ve met a few kings. Once you’ve met one…” –he shrugged– “you’ve met ‘em all.” 

“He’ll probably give you a reward,” Merlin bribed. Gwaine could take the money, but…

“I’m not interested. Besides, I’ve got everything I need right here.” He patted his satchel. 

Merlin looked at him oddly then and that, that was the look of a castle servant. Suspicious, on guard, always with an agenda. 

“Why did you help us?” he inquired, tilting his head slightly, not unlike the baby bird he was named after. 

Gwaine shrugged. “Your chances looked between slim and none. I, uh… I guess I just kind of like the look of those odds.”

Merlin broke into a smile that could rival the sun and started laughing, right there in the middle of the hallway. And, okay, Gwaine will admit, there Merlin looked more friend-like than suspicious-servant-like. He could stick around a little while longer, just to see what happens. 

Finding out why the crown prince of Camelot of all people looked at him like they knew each other would be nice, too. 

As would a few rounds of ale. 

But a friend would be an interesting change of pace. 

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

“Well, into bed, sire, or Gaius will have me skinned alive,” Merlin said as he finished touching up the bedding. 

It seemed as though he had finally gotten all of the yelling out of his system. He had taken the whole trip back to criticize his relationship with sharp objects, going so far as to insinuate that Excalibur would get jealous of their love affairs, before moving on to threatening various forms of torture, insulting his intelligence, speed, as well as his looks, and then rounding it all out with a grumbled acquiescence that, at least this time, it was for a noble cause. It hadn’t been Merlin’s first lecture, it most certainly wouldn’t be his last, but all-in-all, they had both gotten out mostly unscathed and it seemed as though they would finally be able to move on from the border attack. 

Arthur hummed back as he looked out the window. A group had just rode in and he was curious to see if there would be any changes to the roster this time around. 

“Sir Darien hasn’t made it to the melee this year,” he commented absentmindedly. 

“Oh, yeah,” Merlin started sarcastically, “the tournament where the knights ride around hitting each other with blunt weapons for no good reason.”

Arthur chuckled but made his way over to the bed. He had made a promise to Gaius after all. 

“Little more to it than that,” he replied, stopping to gather some of his papers to look over before slipping under the covers. 

“Oh really!? All I’ve ever seen is people getting the seven bells knocked out of them so that the last man standing can be called the winner. Can’t imagine why you’d want to participate in that when you’re having so much fun getting stabbed every other day,” Merlin says scathingly, shooting in a pointed look just for good measure. Well, mostly over the attack. 

“Fair point,” Arthur conceded. “Untrue, but a fair point. The melee serves as the ultimate test of strength and courage. It’s assuring the people that you have the courage to receive a blow as well as the keen military perception in knowing when and where to hit.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same thing?”

Arthur picked up a document and scanned it half-heartedly. It’s not like it’s easy doing work when Merlin’s chattering away. 

“At any rate, it’s good fun for you and the others to see the knights —how did you put it?— getting the, ah, ‘seven bells knocked out of them’ and it also allows me to see which knights need alternate training.” 

“That might have been the smartest thing you’ve said all month!” Merlin exclaimed. 

Arthur looked up, unimpressed, and then chucked a nearby pillow at the boy as he finished his chores. 

“Hey!” he protested, but Arthur just smirked and got back to work. 

“And don’t forget I need my armor cleaned and polished for tomorrow.” 

There’s a lot of grumbling, and then rattling and clanking as Merlin gathered the armor.

“Anything else, your most humble, royal lordship?” Merlin asked with faux cheer. Arthur grinned once more as he looked over the report in his hands. 

“Yes, tell Gwaine that he’s welcome to stay. He helped save my life, it’s the least I can do.”

“Not completely a turnip head, then,” Merlin muttered under his breath, but finally he leaves and Arthur is left alone. 

For a few brief, precious moments, all is quiet except for the rustling of his papers. Arthur takes a second to savor it. He hasn’t had a moment to himself since… well, it must have been before the battle, but Arthur can’t even remember when. 

It was nice, having that time to—

“You got stabbed again!? ” Morgana cried out, bursting into his chambers.

“Good morning to you, too, Morgana. How can I help you this fine day? It’s so good to see you,” Arthur said amiably, putting down his papers and lacing his fingers over the covers. 

“Arthur, you just got back from your last sword fight, how do you expect to rule if you’re constantly on bed rest?” Morgana said in exasperation, crossing her arms. 

“Well it’s not like I’m actively looking to get stabbed all the time,” Arthur drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“No, you just get smacked around more than a drum,” she sniped back. 

“So did you just come to yell at me?” Arthur reshuffled his documents, doing his best to appear busy. Sometimes, she did just come to yell, wave her hands around, before stomping back to her own quarters, and most times Arthur let her. Other times, it was a guise for another reason. Arthur figured this time, it was the latter. 

That made her falter. She lowered her arms until she was holding herself rather than hiding clenched fists. It was an honest enough question; he didn’t mean to make her run through a myriad of emotions. 

“Morgana?” he asked gentler. 

She took in a deep breath, reconstructing herself into the noble lady she’s always been. The Queen she could have been.

“Morgana, I’m going to be okay. It takes more than your average sword to kill me.”

He would know.

“You say that like you know.” She looked up and her eyes hardened. Arthur bit his tongue to keep from moving back. He exhaled through his nose and composed himself. 

Nothing has happened yet.

“Morgana,” he finally said, “have I ever broken a promise?”

“Like you promised you’d come back from the Questing Beast?” she snapped. 

He gestured to himself. There, basically whole, definitely not dead yet. “Exactly. I’m here, aren’t I?”

Something in her deflated and she nodded, blinking rapidly. Oh, little sister. 

“It’s alright to… to feel, Morgana. I know I’m not the best example, but you’ve always been braver than I in that respect. You can talk to me, if you need to. You’re not alone in this big castle; you never were.” He beckoned her over and she moved hesitantly, almost jerkily, but she came over all the same. He took her hands in his, and then gave them a kiss before holding them in his lap. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she replied faintly, “I think so.” Her face crumbled and she pursed her lips, dropping her gaze. “I just… I worry… sometimes.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips at the confession. He knew it must have taken a lot. “I know you do. Why do you think I had Merlin stay behind for two and a half months? I figured you would need someone to fuss over.”

“I do not fuss—! ” Morgana protested immediately, but she was smiling, too. 

“I’ll take it to my grave,” he promised, fighting off the shiver that works its way down his spine at the phrase. 

But then his little sister smiled, bright as the sun. And he knew they would be okay for now. 

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

The next morning he assigned Merlin to assist any of the new knights, particularly Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan. Oswald had been one of the knights that Arthur had grown up with before he left to protect the outer villages. He was a good man and it would be a sore loss if he had died on the trip. So Arthur forced a smile and made sure Merlin had plenty of time to snoop. Merlin could put most village women out of work for the amount of busybodying he got away with. 

If Merlin praised Sir Oswald for being a better master, then Arthur would know all was well. Otherwise, he trusted Merlin’s instincts and would know to attend the melee with caution. 

But other than greeting newcomers, Arthur spent his time at his desk, quietly catching up on his work from his two months away. It was the most productive he’d ever been in this time. 

In fact, everything was going smoothly until the bill came in.

Chapter Text

Arthur wasn’t sure if he should throw something or burst out laughing. The bill was ridiculous. Preposterous! It was so Gwaine it hurt and it was so much that Uther would probably kill him. Arthur rubbed his forehead and sighed just as Merlin came in with the breakfast tray. 

“Sorry, sorry! I know I’m late!” Fuck, Merlin really was young. That almost sounded like a legitimate apology. 

“Not at all.” Arthur brushed it off. 

“Good,” Merlin sighed, fluttering about the table and getting everything prepared. 

Arthur looked at the bill, and then looked at his friend, and then looked back at the bill. Merlin had to have gone to the tavern. There was no way Merlin did not spend at least a night at the tavern. The kid looked fine… but he could always be faking it. 

“Sure you’re alright?” Arthur inquired over the bill. “Not feeling sick, unsteady…” he crooked a grin “…about to burst into song?”

Merlin seemed affronted at the accusation. “No, why?”

Just for dramatic affect, Arthur picked up the bill and straightened it out, holding it up high for all to see. And then he read it off. 

“Fourteen quarts of mead–”

“Fourteen quarts–?”

“–Three flagons of wine–”

“Flagons!? What– Wait, a–”

“–Five quarts of cider—”

“I can explain!” Merlin rushed over. 

Arthur carried on. “—Four dozen pickled eggs—”

“It was Gwaine!” he blurted out; Arthur finally put down the parchment. “He went to the tavern and, eh, couldn’t… well, couldn’t pay.”

“And I am?”

“Well, the innkeeper would string us up otherwise!”

“Then I hope he sends me over a nice roast of one of you when he’s done. I’ve been craving some chicken lately.”

“Sire!” By this point Merlin was just plain offended. “He did save your life. Technically, we both did.”

“Technically, someone also ate four dozen pickled eggs. I like to help out the local establishments, too, but that isn’t exactly cheap.”

He scuffed his boot against the floor, like a scolded child. Merlin was anything but. Mischievous little shite. “I’ll pay for it. I’m sorry.”

Arthur got up slowly, bracing himself on the desk. “Oh yes. You most certainly will. And I have just the thing.”

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

It’s later –after the shoe-shining, thank you, Prince Arthur– that Gwaine makes his excuses to Merlin, who bids him goodnight, before sneaking off to the Prince’s chambers. Well, he tries to sneak off to the Prince’s chambers. He goes vaguely in the direction. He remembers seeing Merlin and Arthur head that way. 

It takes more than one dead end, several flights of stairs, and the same corridor seen thrice, from three different points, before Gwaine finds the wing that’s crawling with guards. Well. It’s really just the two guards, but they don’t seem all that concerned when Gwaine walks up, so here’s betting that it’s not the shite King. 

Somehow, the guards recognize him. One of them knocks on the door before Gwaine can even open his mouth. “Sire? Merlin’s friend, the one from the tavern? He’s here to see you.”

“Send him in,” the prince calls, because of course his lazy royal ass couldn’t be bothered to open the door. In fact, the guard opens the door silently for Gwaine, allowing him to swagger in with a “thank you, love” before closing it shut behind him. 

“Gwaine.” The prince sounds delighted to see him, although Gwaine can see the bill on the table from here. He’s holding other documents in his hand, sitting up in his royal bed. “What brings you here? I was just looking over the news the latest participants had brought. You’ll have to pardon me if I don’t get up; I promised Gaius I would be a good little patient before the melee and I already went outdoors and greeted the knights at training today. Merlin would throw a fit if he found out I stood up right after he’s forced me to bed.”

Gwaine shifts uneasily. In his disgust with the general nobility, he had forgotten that the prince had been stabbed in the bar fight. Against the thugs. For Mary, the bartender. Shite. Right. Still, that wasn’t why he had come. So Gwaine plastered on a smile and leaned on the back of one of the dining chairs. Who the hell needs a whole dining room in their private chambers?

“Eager to get stabbed again, sire?”

Prince Arthur chuckles, grimaces, and then puts down the parchments. “Don’t make me laugh, it pulls.” His hand drifts to his side and he throws Gwaine a pained smile. “You wouldn’t be the first to accuse me of such things. Perhaps I should start taking requests. Maybe then everyone would stop being so surprised. And, please, call me Arthur. I’d much rather you insult me with my name rather than my title. I get that enough from Merlin as is.”

That makes Gwaine grin. So Merlin did have a tough side on the prince, eh? “Who knew, the prince had a sense of humor.”

“Yes, well, between Merlin latching on like a fungus and Morgana’s scathing wit at every hour in the day, you try to go along with it or else you’re swept away with the tide. Now, I’m sure you didn’t just come to talk about my sharp humor or sparkling record with blades. How can I help you? And please don’t tell me there’s another bill; I have had more than enough trouble trying to figure out how to deal with the last one.” 

“No.” Gwaine laughed. “No trouble on that front. Not right now, at least. How do you know my name?”

The prince’s smile died on his face. For a moment, Gwaine was sure he would send him away that instant. That a wall would be thrown up. Instead, he cocked his head. His brows knit together. 

“From Merlin,” he said slowly, as if tasting the words like a vintage wine, trying to tell the flavor behind the cork. “Are you sure that you aren’t the one with the head injury, Gwaine?”

“See, but that’s the thing. I didn’t tell Merlin my name until after I met you. You already knew my name. How?” 

“Perhaps you remind me of a Gwaine. Honest mistake.” That almost sounded like the truth, but he was still acting too shifty. His face looked… diplomatic. And diplomats were always trying to cover up shite. 

“No, you recognized me. I saw it in your eye. But I’ve never met you before in my life, Arthur.” 

The prince studied his face, searching for… something. Gwaine wasn’t sure what. He wasn’t sure of much with the prince, damn oxymoron, but he wanted answers. 

“No. …No, I’ve never seen you before,” he decides at last. 

“Then does my reputation precede me?” Gwaine mocked. “Does the fair lady Morgana speak of me often?”

Arthur snorted, breaking the facade for mere moments. “You couldn’t handle Morgana, believe me.”

Gwaine threw his hands in the air at last. “Then do tell, o knowledgeable one. Explain this to me.” 

“I mistook you for a friend,” Arthur fired back, “an old friend. Was I wrong?” 

Gwaine’s mock title must have riled the prince up. His face had morphed into a frown, his hands clenched at his side. He was rigid in his soft bed, looking half-tempted to draw his blade then and there. Still, it was a curious question. 

Was he wrong about… what? 

That Gwaine looked like his old friend? That Gwaine had seemed friendly? That they had the potential to become good friends? 

It didn’t explain the half-said Gwaine on the prince’s lips that day in the bar, thrumming with adrenaline and excited for a fight with someone beside him. He was different now, colder, but with that same fire coursing through his veins. Gwaine wouldn’t get any farther tonight interrogating the prince.

“I suppose only time will tell.” 

But Gwaine would get his answers eventually. 

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

Satisfied that he could at least tell Uther that the bill was dealt with —something that Arthur would definitely be docking from Merlin’s next few paychecks, it wasn’t like he would be taking all of it from the royal treasury— everything went back smoothly. Well, as smooth as it could have gone with Gwaine rushing in and demanding answers. Arthur trusted Gwaine with his life, but right now he doubted the tavern-goer would hold that highly. 

Of course, neither the bill or Gwaine was the worst part of it all. 

Of course. It never was that simple. 

Instead, Arthur gets woken up in the middle of the night because there’s been an audience called with the king that meets in half an hour and Gwaine is the offender. 

Arthur sighs, resolved to little sleep for the rest of the night, no matter how desperately needed it may be, and pulls on a shirt. He splashed his face with water, assures himself that he looks presentable for the time, and heads to the council chambers. 

He sees Sir Oswald there with Sir Ethan, looking tall and proud, and suddenly Arthur feels sick. It was true, then. Sir Oswald was dead. Arthur blinks away the film over his eyes. They would have to retrace the steps of the caravan and find the proper bodies. The two would have an honorable funeral, Arthur would see to it himself. 

And then Gwaine arrived in chains.

Arthur felt tired. Deep, deep in his soul, there was an ever present exhaustion that he could not get rid of, and it seemed to permeate every bone in his body. He closed his eyes, trying not to think of all the times people he’s known were carried through in chains. Trying not to think of the times he’s put them there. 

Gwaine was thrown to the floor, but still glared up at everyone present. 

“Sire, this man attacked me with a sword! Tried to kill me,” Not-Sir Oswald hissed. 

Arthur stayed silent. 

“Is this true?” the king demanded. 

“I stepped in to protect Merlin,” Gwaine said with a proud lift of his head. That alone should have told everyone that he was of noble descent. 

Arthur felt like he was watching the proceedings from outside his body. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could prove. He could leap out and tear the crystals from their necks, but…

“Nobility is defined by what you do, not by who you are! And these men are anything but! They are arrogant thugs!”

“Gwaine,” Arthur warned tiredly, even though he was right.

No. They wore them underneath. And there was every possibility that Arthur would get thrown off and tried for sorcery himself if he were to attempt it. He wasn’t fast enough to get there first; he was still recovering.  

Arthur could logically make the case that it was noble-on-noble violence, but then Gwaine would wonder how he knew that, and his name. He’d probably never trust him again. No, Arthur would let his people make their own choices. Even if it seemed monumentally stupid. Not dangerous, but stupid. 

Well, that was it then, wasn’t it? Gwaine would be banished and there was nothing Arthur could do. 

“…Sire. He must be made an example of!”

Well. 

“Sir Oswald, please,” Arthur stressed, rubbing his head. 

Except for making sure Gwaine does get banished. 

“Nothing less than his execution will give me satisfaction.”

Instead of killed. 

Arthur took a deep breath and stepped forward, focusing on his father. He’d done it once, he could do it again. “Father, I understand how this situation must look, it’s embarrassing. Sir Oswald is—” was “—a dear friend, and a guest of Camelot! But Gwaine is also my guest. And we may not know his lineage, but I can vouch that he has a noble heart.”

“How can you say that, when you see how he behaves?” Uther was calculating, gaze heavy and eyes piercing. Arthur subconsciously squared his shoulders and straightened under the search. 

“Gwaine saved my life, father. I beg you, if a knight’s word is his bond, then I give you mine. Gwaine is a good, noble man. He deserves clemency.”

There. There’s a moment where Arthur sees the king of old, the king spoken about in hushed whispers, the king Gaius would tell stories about when Arthur was a child, before the Purge, when Camelot’s allies were many and their sorrows few. There’s a moment where Arthur believes he sees mercy, believes that this is the man he can be proud to call his father. 

“You are banished from Camelot. If you ever return, you will pay for it with your life. You have until dawn to leave the city.”

And then that moment fades and Arthur can’t help but wonder if it would have been better if he had never been born at all, if only for his mother to have remained Queen. For surely this was no legacy that any would wish to see continued in Albion. 

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

Arthur awoke knowing in his heart that Gwaine was gone. It was too soon, anyway. Right? He had years of tavern-hopping and miscellaneous adventures before tying himself to the Knights of Camelot. 

There was a lump in his throat as he thought about the possibility that he may not be able to found the Knights of the Round Table this time; that all of their bonds were for naught and all of their adventures amounted to nothing but ash. 

They were some of the only friends he ever had, the only family who never tricked and betrayed him. Lancelot and Mordred excluded. 

He really was just that easy to betray, wasn’t he? Was anyone in his life not constantly lying to him?

Just as the thought occurred to him, who should enter his chambers but Uther Pendragon himself. Who gives Arthur a sword. His sword, from his own melee. A gift, from father to son. Who wished him luck. And bade him well. 

And left. 

Fuck. 

He breathes deeply, acutely aware of Merlin glancing over to him as Uther leaves, setting out his chainmail and armor on the table. He focuses his attention on the blade itself, testing its dullness just to be safe. It doesn’t leave a scratch on him. 

But a poorly made sword can pierce just as deep. 

Really, what kind of blade breaks off in the middle?

He scoffs to himself at the thought as he gets his chainmail over his head and begins putting on his belt. 

“You know those moments I tell you something isn’t a good idea?”

Arthur sighs as Merlin comes around with the sword in hand. “Merlin, I’m touched by your concern, truly, but—”

“I’m serious, Arthur, I think you should withdraw.” He looks so earnest, so young, and Arthur grieves silently for the loss of a childhood for an older man he once knew. 

“Look… I know how you feel about this, truly, I do. But this is how the people learn first hand if I am fit to lead them, lead their armies into battle and most importantly, if I can get them back home. I can’t afford to back out.”

“Not even with a stab wound?” Merlin joked half-heartedly, offering up the dulled blade.

Arthur chuckled and grabbed the sword in one hand, cuffing his young friend’s head with the other. “Not even with a stab wound.” 

Merlin mustered up a grin for a few seconds and then sobered up quickly. “Just… be careful.”

Arthur nodded with equal gravitas. He appreciated Merlin’s concern and knew how warranted it really was. 

He wouldn’t drop his guard. Not this time. Not ever again. 

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

The melee, it is important to know, is nothing but controlled chaos. One is constantly on their toes, always turning, always searching, always blocking. Those that are pushed off their horse must dash away to avoid the stomping hooves of their opponents and risk death. Everyone’s blade must be dulled, everyone’s senses must be sharp, and no one is your ally. 

All it is is dust and loud clanging and the constant smell of sweat and fear clogging the senses. 

And Arthur was now fighting for his life. 

He dodged and swerved and blocked and parried. He gave as good as he got, and then had to give more, to win, to overcome the disadvantage his wounds gave him. 

But little by little, the players trickled down to a bare few. Every Knight was his enemy and he looked around wildly for Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan’s flags. Soon no one was on horseback, but just as Arthur was pushing off the final Knight, he felt his leg get jerked down to the ground. 

Suddenly the world was spinning and for a few seconds the only sound he could hear was the harsh breathing underneath his helmet. Then the ground rose up to meet him and he sucked in air as he felt all forty pounds of armor bear into him. 

The sun glinted off the oncoming blade. Arthur panicked and quickly rolled out of the way, jumping up as his breath raced and ignoring any aches his body must be feeling. He rotated between focusing on his opponent, focusing on his surroundings, and focusing on his breathing. It’s difficult to manage and he’s still surprised when the two knights go to surround him. 

He’s breathing harshly and trying his best to keep them both in his sight while fighting off both their attacks, when there’s a sudden movement at his back. He startles and almost moves to fight him, when the Knight grabs his arm and spins him around. 

“Gwaine?” Arthur heaved under his helmet. 

There was a sharp nod and Arthur almost felt like laughing. As it was, he crowed a little bit and focused on the Knight in front of him. The body of Sir Oswald, perhaps, but not his soul. There was the death cry of not-Sir Ethan behind him and Gwaine’s presence gave him the idea. 

A long time ago, the knights all gathered together during training and taught each other some hidden tricks. Not all of them, but enough to help the others gain an edge in battle. It was fun and an exciting time for the six of them, going around and teaching the others. They would always be sure to bring it back up in their sparring sessions to always keep up with it. 

Percival focused on using one’s terrain to their advantage. Lancelot focused on agility and speed, while Leon’s skills were highlighted mainly in team building. Arthur himself was able to give a few tips on how to combat against multiple enemies solo while Elyan was fond of using trickery. Gwaine?

Gwaine had taught Arthur how to use the opponent’s sword against them. 

You’ve got to breathe, it’s all in the timing, yeah?

Arthur slowed down, just enough, breathing in deeply despite the weight on his chest. 

There’s always an opening, everyone has one. Except me, of course, but you lot definitely do. 

Arthur analyzed the man before him. They had fought before, a lifetime ago. All he had to do was find his opening and—

Flick of the wrist. Easy and simple. One well-timed flick of the wrist and there you have it! A whole new sword to call your own.

Twirl. Swish. Flick. Catch. Arthur grinned as he caught the sharpened sword in his hand. The man’s eyes widened, but before he could do a thing, Arthur plunged it through his armor. It went in smoothly, almost too smoothly, and the thug crumpled to the ground in front of him. 

Then he turned around and there was Gwaine, also carrying a sword in either hand. But Arthur was panting, and he could only carry one sword. His head was pounding and any of the energy coursing through his veins only served to make his hands shake. 

“They’ll expect us to fight to the end,” Arthur explained. Gwaine looked wary, but Arthur was happy to throw away one sword and plunge the other one into the ground. He physically could not tear his helmet off fast enough. The air is sweet and fresh after being confined and Arthur cannot get enough of it into his lungs. “You fought bravely. The field is yours.”

Gwaine sighs, he can see it under the armor, and benches his own swords before lifting up his visor. 

“How did you know it was me?” he pants, suspicion written all over his face. 

Arthur laughed as well as he could and shook his head. “No one fights like you do.”

And then Gwaine takes off his helmet and gets arrested once again. 

The best part of his day is when he gets to look into Uther’s eyes and say, “And once again, I owe Gwaine my life.”

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

“Father, please, the man saved my life on no less than two occasions!”

“Yes, and that is the only reason he is not being executed! I cannot stand for this kind of behavior.”

“The men were nothing but common thugs! Why should it matter if Gwaine fought them if it doesn’t violate the Code?”

“Because he was unaware of this when he did fight them! I will not let this go unpunished!”

“Banishment on pain of death, father? If he hadn’t been there, I could be dead!”

“…I am prepared to overlook his involvement in the melee.”

“Thank you.”

“But he must leave Camelot immediately. His banishment stands. The knights must present a united front. An attack on one is an attack on us all. The law must stand. He has until sunset, but make no mistake: Gwaine is banished.”

“…Yes… Sire.”

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

The worst part of Arthur’s day is having to break the news. Watching the joy on their faces and knowing he has to break their hearts. Breaking their hearts anyway. 

“Oh, you’ve got to speak to him, Arthur, make him change his mind.” Merlin looks outraged and Arthur wishes he could convey the fact that he just spent the last ten minutes trying to convince him. That he could spend a lifetime trying to convince him and still get nowhere. 

But Gwaine takes over. And for a second, Arthur sees the man he knighted, just as he did on the tournament fields. It was like seeing his old friend back again. Gwaine waved off the boy. “Merlin.”

“I’m sorry, Gwaine,” Arthur replied genuinely. “My father’s wrong. If it were up to me—”

“I know. You don’t need to explain yourself.” 

And that decides it for him. Arthur cannot keep having these conversations with his friends. He cannot be off to the side, unable to say anything, unable to do anything. No matter how much he loved him, Uther’s reign was corrupting their country, and Arthur didn’t know how much longer they would last. 

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

Gwaine goes to see Arthur, before he says goodbye to Merlin for the last time. Arthur’s staring out of the parapets, fingering the ring on his forefinger. He’s clearly deep in thought, but Gwaine doesn’t feel too bad about clapping him on the shoulder and startling him out of it. 

“Gw–” Arthur catches himself, again like in the bar, before blinking and finishing the thought. “Gwaine. You should be saying your goodbyes. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

“Nah, you did just enough,” Gwaine assures him. “And I am saying goodbye. I can’t believe I’m saying it, but you’re a damn good fighter, Arthur. I can see some of myself in you.”

The prince smiles vaguely, just barely here. “Thank you, Gwaine. That means a lot, coming from you. Not sure whether that’s a good thing, though…”

Gwaine just laughs, claps him on the shoulder again. “I wanted to let you know that your secret is safe –for now. Merlin vouches for you, and he hasn’t been wrong yet, so that’s good enough for me. Maybe one day we’ll be able to set the record straight. For now, keep your secrets.”

Arthur looked disturbed at Gwaine’s small speech, visibly shaken over just a few words. Gwaine smiled and Arthur returned it weakly. 

“Until next time, Princess.”

Arthur chuckled, relaxing into his previous stance. “Until next time, Sir Gwaine.”

Gwaine made a face, which made Arthur laugh out loud, and then left to find Merlin. Sunset was in a few hours, and he’d like to get some distance in before nightfall. 

- - - - -     ~*~     - - - - - 

“He would’ve made a great knight.”

“Maybe one day he will be.”

“The rules won’t allow it. Not under Uther. He believes that all knights should be noblemen. Makes them more loyal.” Arthur groans in frustration and rolls his eyes. “If I had a coin for every time a noble tried to usurp us, or kill us, or betray us, I could pay Gwaine’s tavern bill without even touching the royal treasury.”

Merlin laughs beside him as they watch Gwaine stroll out the city. But then he’s stopped. By a beautiful vision in a purple frock, adorned by flowers, and they’re flirting. It’s obvious, way too obvious for this time of day. 

“I didn’t know they were friends,” Arthur says with a little too much bite. Okay. Perhaps he wasn’t dealing with Guinevere’s choice in men as well as he thought. 

“Yeah? Why should you care?” Merlin snorts, confusion coloring his voice. Arthur looks at him, looks back at the couple, and then the look on his face registers and he backs up from the wall. 

This was dangerous territory. 

“I can’t.”

Oh, fuck.

One look at Merlin’s sly expression and Arthur is already backtracking in his mind. That was a mistake. He fucked up, big time. 

“Mmm, yeah, too bad Gwen can’t either. Girl of her standing, can’t do much better than him, can she?”

Lancelot, for one. Arthur could have a list of people before Gwaine matured in under an hour. 

“Nope! That’s the rules. According to Uther she could never consort with a nobleman.”

Arthur carefully keeps his face blank. “Merlin.”

He just grins back, the little shite. They look back and Guinevere gives Gwaine a kiss on the cheek. Arthur starts to head back inside, notices Merlin’s still staring and manhandles him into turning around and heading back with him. He nudges him a bit, just for fun, and then Merlin pushes him with all the strength in his twig arms. Somehow Merlin gets pushed farther away than Arthur, which gets him chuckling, and they trade slaps for a second before Merlin runs away towards the door. Arthur chases after him for a few steps and then slows down, laughing quietly. 

It’s something his dad would do to him and Arthur wonders privately, and not for the first time, if this is what it’s like to have a little brother. 

Merlin certainly is small enough.