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“You are dismissed,” Arthur says sternly, not glancing back as he strides into his chambers.
Merlin pauses in the doorway, stupefied. “Sire—“ he starts, stepping forward to object.
Arthur has had a rather difficult day; they both have. Last night, a ten-year-old girl was discovered using magic to conjure up a butterfly for her crying sister. Apparently, someone deemed it necessary to report her to Uther, and she was set to be executed this afternoon. Uther, the wise and gracious king that he is, decided that Arthur should start taking charge of executions from now on, and granted him the great honor of chopping the girl’s head off as a learning experience.
Arthur had known Merlin’s opinions on the situation, just as Merlin has his. Still, he accepted the opportunity with gritted teeth. He would not pass up the chance to make his father proud. Merlin sat back and said nothing— because, really, what was there to say? Arthur stood tall and proud on his stage, watching as the crowd murmured unhappily and the knights stood guard, keeping the girl on her knees with her head on the table. The executioner raised his axe, waiting for the signal from Arthur.
But it never came. Arthur cracked under the pressure. He spun angrily on his heel, telling his father that he could not sentence her to death— that she was only a poor girl, and she mustn’t have meant any harm. For gods’ sake— it was a butterfly.
Uther, unhappy that he’d been challenged in front of his people, walked up to the balcony, stone-faced, and ordered the executioner to swing. With a loud squelch, and a shocked gasp from the crowd, Uther ushered his son back through the doors of the castle.
Safe to say, Arthur had gotten an earful of hurtful insults from his father tonight— weak and unfit to rule standing out amongst others. While Merlin understands his frustrations, Arthur rarely pushes him away so adamantly. Usually, he’d bug him for a hot bath first, or order him around until Merlin’s properly annoyed, improving Arthur’s mood significantly.
“Merlin,” Arthur turns around, his jaw set and eyes glaring harshly. Nothing Merlin hasn’t seen before. “You’re dismissed,” he repeats, clearly agitated.
Merlin doesn’t argue further. Arthur might think he’s an idiot, but he does know when to back down from a fight. If he wants to be alone, he can be alone. Truthfully, Merlin is grateful that he won’t have to deal with his attitude all night.
Merlin lets him wallow in his sadness until dinner time. He heads to the kitchen, plating up an extra large supper with few vegetables and plenty of meat— Arthur’s favorite. He even sneaks a spare dessert; not that anyone would stop him, as the crown prince’s servant. If Arthur wants dessert, he’ll receive an entire pie.
As much as Merlin complains, he really is proud of his prince. He did the right thing today— even if he received backlash for it. He stood up for what was right. And for that, he deserves an extra special meal.
He wonders if he could train Arthur, sort of like a dog. Every time he makes a decision in Merlin’s favor, he’ll get a juicy steak. If he doesn’t, he can live off of beans and carrots.
Merlin throws open the doors to Arthur’s chambers. He looks around. It’s strange— Arthur isn’t at his desk, or his window. He seems to be nowhere, until Merlin takes another step toward the dining table. There, he just about sees a tuft of blonde hair poking out behind the bed. Curious, Merlin slowly walks closer.
Arthur is sitting on the floor, back against the bed with his face buried in his knees. As Merlin approaches, he turns his head further to the side, blocking it from view. “I told you to go,” he says, voice rough but quiet. If Merlin were to guess, he’d assume that Arthur has been crying. But that can’t be. Arthur never cries.
He sets the food down on the table. “Would you rather me leave you to starve?” he attempts at a joke. Surely Arthur will laugh, or get so annoyed that he lifts his head from his knees and proves that he’s indeed scowling, not pouting.
“Yes,” he replies with a devastating sniff. “Now go away.”
“Arthur,” Merlin says as he creeps forward. He carefully takes a seat by Arthurs side, who tries his hardest to hide it as he swipes a tear from his eye. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Liar. Merlin has a pretty good idea of what this is about.
“Come on,” he urges, nudging Arthur in the arm with a playful smile. Arthur keeps his head firmly turned away. “I’m your lover. You aren’t allowed to hide things from me anymore.” When Arthur doesn’t budge, he knocks him again, this time with his shoe. “Clotpole. Cabbage breath. Skunk brain. Sir-farts-a-lot. Sheep’s backside. Answer me. I’ll just keep staring at you until you do.”
“You’re annoying.”
“That’s me. Seriously, though,” he says, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s back. “What’s wrong? You can talk to me. That’s why I’m here. Stop being stubborn.”
Arthur finally looks at him, tears streaming down his face. Merlin wants to kill Uther for putting them there. “Father is angry with me,” he says, confirming Merlin’s suspicions. Poor Arthur, always striving for his father’s approval that he’ll never receive. Nothing with ever be enough for Uther.
“Your father is an idiot,” Merlin tells him. He knows he’s risking his head by saying that, but it’s the honest truth. “You did what you felt was right. That’s all that matters.”
“Was I wrong?” Arthur asks. His voice is laced with self-doubt and uncertainty, and it’s smaller than Merlin has ever heard it before. It’s unlike him. Arthur is always so confident in his decisions; and even if he isn’t, he pretends to be. Future kings cannot afford doubt. Others will take advantage of that too quickly.
“You’re well aware of what I think. I’m proud of you, you know. You stood up for yourself— and for the girl. For me. I appreciate it.”
“Father said it was weak. I’ll never be good enough to be king.”
There’s something about Arthur's tone that he just can’t quite put his finger on. It’s… vulnerable, almost. Like he’s telling Merlin a secret; a secret that half the castle must have heard. It’s strange. His voice sounds too soft to be coming out of Arthur’s mouth. The typical underlying anger and narcissism have completely gone.
“Your father wouldn’t know strength if it hit him in the head,” Merlin scoffs. Arthur looks at him, shocked, as if he just committed treason. He supposes he did. “What you did today— that was strong. And unbelievably brave. You disobeyed the King for the sake of others. Your father is a coward. He kills people because he’s scared of them. He was scared of a little girl. It’s not right. A king has a duty to protect his people; that is what you did. You are going to become the greatest king this land has ever seen. I know you will.”
Arthur abruptly rotates in his arms, tucking his face into Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin freezes. Slowly, he returns the hug, squeezing Arthur tightly. He must be really upset to seek out comfort like this. No one enjoys being yelled at by a parent, but Arthur even less so. It seems like that’s all Uther ever does.
He rubs a hand down Arther’s back as he lets out a sob. Merlin presses a kiss to his head— something he’s rarely allowed to do. “Oh, my tough, ruthless knight,” he can’t help but tease, smiling into his hair. He knows that Arthur won’t take it to heart. If anything, he’ll appreciate the comedic relief. If Arthur shows too many emotions without throwing in a joke to divert attention, surely he’ll explode. “It’s just me. You can let it out.”
Arthur seems to cry harder, finally letting go of his inhibitions. It’s certainly concerning. Merlin has seen him upset by his father before, but never like this. He’s never seen him cry like this— not at the death of a loved one, or a scolding, or even when he found out about Merlin’s magic. A couple unshed tears of betrayal, and that was all. Whatever is going on in Arthur’s head, it’s a lot. It cannot just be about this afternoon. These are years’ worth of frustrations coming out at once.
“If you wanted to bad-mouth the King, I wouldn’t tattle,” Merlin says. In fact, he’d rejoice. That man deserves to be knocked off his pedestal.
Arthur doesn’t seem to agree. “I just want Father to love me,” he admits, and if that isn’t the most heartbreaking thing Merlin has ever heard, he doesn’t know what is.
To hell with treason; Merlin hates the King.
Something else about that sentence pulls Merlin’s attention. Arthur’s choice of words strikes him as odd. It’s rare that he refers to his father as just that: Father. Especially when talking to a third party, it’s usually, “The King,” or, “His Majesty,” or even, “My father.” Never just Father. Not unless he’s talking to Morgana.
It makes him sound young.
Arthur fills the silence with a stuttering breath. “He never plays with me. He’s always working. And I work too so that he’ll pay attention to me. We can work together. But he’s still busy. I play with the knights all day, and I got really good at it. I don’t think he’s proud of me though.”
…Incredibly young.
Merlin doesn’t quite know what’s going on. His first thought is obviously sorcery; Arthur’s brain has been cursed into that of a child’s by the girl’s mother. Revenge, obviously. Merlin can’t rule out the possibility, but he’s not certain yet. He can go running to Gaius after Arthur has been thoroughly comforted.
“You are really good at playing knights,” Merlin says with a smirk. Very good. Very handsome, as well. “Do you want to know a secret?” Arthur instantly lifts his head from his shoulder, looking up with bright eyes. He’ll take that as a yes. “I’ve always been very impressed with your swordsmanship. Even in my first week here, when you had that tournament, I was watching from the sidelines. If you ever need someone to be proud of you, just look to your left. I’ll be there, cheering you on.”
Arthur lays his head back down with a sniffle. “Thanks.”
“You’re very welcome. Now— are you feeling alright? Any strange symptoms? Lightheaded? Woozy? A weird urge to kill your father?”
Arthur turns to him as if he’s crazy. “No? Why would I kill Father?”
“No reason,” he dismisses quickly. “You just don’t seem very… yourself, at the moment,” he settles on.
Arthur seems to get what he’s hinting at, as he suddenly stares down at his hands. “I think I may have an… ailment,” he says, ears going red. An ailment? What kind of ailment? A magical one? “It happens sometimes. I would have gone to Gaius but I was embarrassed.”
Well, at least Merlin knows that this isn’t the fault of the girl, or her family. If it’s magic— which he now doubts— the curse must have been placed long ago for it to be recurring. Why place a spell that is so utterly useless?
“What is the ailment, exactly?” Merlin asks.
“I don’t know. I feel like I’ve drank too much wine, but I haven’t had any. My head’s all funny.”
“Huh,” he tilts his head to the side, examining Arthur closer. “Well it does look funny.” Far from the usual eye-roll or slap that Merlin would usually get for a comment like that, Arthur actually laughs. Or, dare Merlin say, giggles. Caught off guard, all he can do is smile, pleasantly shocked. “You know, I like you better like this. You’re less combative this way. Maybe even sweet.”
Arthur makes his usual offended expression, as if he just smelled his own socks. “I’m always sweet.”
“Are not. You’re a total knucklehead.”
“That’s not a word,” Arthur says, like he knows it for a fact.
“Is too. I just made it up. And how would you know? What are you? Five?”
Arthur thinks for a moment, then corrects him. “Seven.”
“So you are younger,” Merlin wonders out loud. His intuition is never wrong. If only Arthur ever listened to it. “And you’ve known this for a while? Is that why you wanted me out of your chambers? You knew your… condition was going to set in?”
Arthur nods, head down in shame. Merlin just can’t have that.
He sets a hand on Arthur’s, leaning in closer to speak softly to him. “I know I pick on you a lot. But I would never tease you about something so personal— so serious. You can always trust me with things that matter.”
Arthur sends him a grateful smile. “I trust you.”
Merlin returns the look. “Good. Now how about we get you out of your day clothes, then? You’re smelly.”
“I am not!”
“You are. You’re a stinky prince. But that’s alright— I’ll fetch you a bath and wash you up. You just worry about taking off your boots.”
Arthur does just that as Merlin stands, dusting off his bottom. The floor isn’t very clean. He should know— he’s the one that scrubs it. Or, is supposed to scrub it. Before Merlin leaves, he watches Arthur struggle with his boot, pulling it roughly at an angle that can’t be comfortable on his knees. He huffs, pushing his back against his bed to try and slide the heel off with his other foot. Unsuccessful, he flops back onto the floor and pouts up at Merlin. “I can’t do it.”
Of course he can’t. Merlin doubts he could have even if he was feeling like himself. Useless.
Merlin sighs, crouching down in front of him. He gently pulls off Arthur’s left boot, and then his right. While he’s here, he removes Arthur’s socks as well. He wouldn’t want him to fall and break his head while bending down to reach them.
“Thanks,” Arther says quietly. “Can you do my shirt, please?”
“A please and a thank you? Wow. I’m impressed. I guess you really were raised with manners. I wonder when you lost those.” Arthur glares at him, and Merlin just smiles innocently. “I’ll undress you when I get back, okay? Just wait for me on the bed, I’ll only be a second.”
Merlin grabs the bathtub out of the storage room across the hall. He sets it up in the middle of Arthur’s chambers, then takes his leave once more. He returns with a singular pail of water, casting a quick spell under his breath. He pours the bucket into the tub, and out comes an endless stream of water. He’s been practicing this one in case they find themselves in yet another drought. Also, it saves him climbing several flights of stairs with gallons of water in his arms.
He heats the water as he always does— with magic. Dipping a finger in the bath to ensure that it’s not too hot, Merlin smiles, victorious. He stands and makes his way over to where Arthur is perched on the edge of the bed, watching him.
“Arms up,” he orders, and Arthur complies obediently, raising his hands to the sky. Merlin tugs his shirt over his head, throwing it to the ground. “Stand,” he says, and unlaces Arthur’s trousers as he does so.
Once he’s all ready to go, Merlin helps him step into the tub. “Thanks,” Arthur says as he settles in, fully submerged under the bubbles.
“You’re welcome,” Merlin smiles, delightfully surprised. He holds Arthur’s head in his hands and begins rinsing his hair with water. “You know, I wouldn’t mind doing chores for you all the time if you were this polite about it.”
“Father says I don’t have to be nice to my servants. Only other royals.”
“Well, I don’t agree with that. It seems a bit unfair, doesn’t it? We’re people, too. Just because we aren’t rich, that doesn’t mean we don’t want to be treated with respect.”
Arthur pauses in consideration. He frowns. “I suppose. But Father doesn’t like when I do. I was friends with my maid once. She got in trouble because she picked me up when I was crying. She couldn’t be my friend after that.”
Oh. Maybe Uther’s influence on Arthur runs deeper than he thought. He was destined to be a royal pain from the moment he was born. His attitude towards those deemed lesser than him has been instilled in him since he was a child. Arthur was a sweet boy until Uther crushed his spirit.
“It’s alright,” Merlin speaks quietly, massaging soap into his skull. “I’m here now. I’m your friend— and I won’t let a silly punishment change that.”
Arthur’s expression turns distressed, eyes welling rapidly with tears. “I don’t want you to be punished.”
Oh no. He’s an idiot. Why did he imply that he would be? “Shhh,” he strokes a soapy hand down his cheek, trying to calm him down. “I won’t be punished, I swear. And even if I was, I’m pretty strong, you know? I can handle way worse than Uther could ever throw at me. I’ve been in the stocks more times than I can count. Hasn’t phased me one bit.”
He needs to shut up. In fact, if Arthur was himself, he knows he’d be telling him to do so now. It’s not Merlin’s fault— he never learned when to stop talking as a child. He knows he’s only making things worse, but it feels like he never has control over his mouth.
To his relief, Arthur only laughs. “I put you in there.”
Merlin rolls his eyes, dunking Arthur’s head into the water for only a second. “Yes, you did. It wasn’t very nice.”
Arthur just continues to giggle.
Merlin scrubs his arms and legs with soap, washing behind Arthur’s ears and between his fingers. With one final rinse, he holds Arthur’s wrist up to his own nose and says, “Smell test.” Arthur breathes in at the same time Merlin does, inhaling the flowery scent of his hair. “Mm, delicious. The baby’s all clean.”
Arthur’s amused smile quickly turns into a pout. “I’m not a baby,” he insists, crossing his arms like— well, a baby.
“What are you then?”
He thinks for a moment, before turning his nose up haughtily. “A prince.”
Of course he is. “Well then, you’re all clean, little prince. Let’s get you into your night clothes.”
Arthur beams at the nickname, raising his arms above his head as Merlin brings a towel around. He ruffles Arthur’s hair dry, then carefully assists him out of the bath.
All dressed and ready for bed, Merlin pulls down his blankets and pats the mattress, inviting Arthur to lie down. He does, burying himself in the absurd amount of layers, head hitting the pillow with a content sigh. The peace only lasts a moment as Arthur opens his eyes, staring at Merlin like he personally offended him.
“What?” Merlin asks.
“Come here.”
Merlin is here. He can’t get any here-er without climbing on top of the bed himself. Unless— that’s what he’s requesting. It can’t be. Arthur isn’t keen on physical affection. They rarely cuddle. Arthur would argue that they don’t cuddle at all, but he really does tend to get clingy mid-sleep. But, like this? When the sun is still peaking over the horizon? Never.
Arthur appears to get fed up with his indecision, grabbing him by the sleeve of his shirt and yanking him onto the bed. Merlin yelps, bracing himself with one arm on either side of Arthur. He gives him an unimpressed look. “Arthur,” he scolds.
“Come here.”
Merlin rolls his eyes at the whine, crawling over his body to settle down on the other side. Arthur smiles at him happily, immediately gravitating closer and wrapping his arms around Merlin’s waist. He curls up into Merlin’s chest, who tucks his chin over Arthur’s head.
Now this is unusual. Arthur’s presence has always been large— as a prince, and as a person. He’s important. Tough. Muscular. Everyone in the kingdom fears him. And here he is, practically hiding in Merlin’s tunic.
Merlin sets a hand to his hair, muttering a spell under his breath. In no time, all the moisture vanishes, and Arthur is left as dry as he was this afternoon. Merlin knows how he hates sleeping with wet hair. He complains constantly— won’t let him give him a bath if there isn’t time for it to dry before bed. “Feel better?”
“Mhm,” Arthur hums into his chest. “Thanks.”
Merlin responds with another kiss to the forehead, rubbing a comforting hand up and down his back. It’s completely rigid; his muscles are so tense, one would think he’s currently on the battlefield. “Do you want to relax a bit? I feel like I’m hugging a tree.”
Arthur shakes his head.
“No?” Merlin pulls back, looking at him questioningly. “Why not?”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t relax?”
Arthur just shakes his head again.
Merlin pulls at Arthur’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Why? Is something the matter? Is it about earlier?”
“No,” he replies, his voice small. “I just can’t. I’m not allowed.”
“Who said you’re not allowed?” he asks, concerned. Did his father tell him that? He’s been forbidden to relax? Why? Because he’s the prince? Princes should get to relax the most— they have servants like Merlin to run around and do all the hard work for them.
“No one,” Arthur says, to his relief. “But what if someone attacks us? I have to be ready.”
That relief is immediately crushed. Is Arthur always this uptight? Does he really never let his guard down? Ever? Merlin knew he was… hard on himself— but this is a bit much, isn’t it? “Arthur,” he says, giving him a squeeze. “You remember who I am, don’t you? I can protect you. I promise. You can take a break for a moment, it’s alright. Let me take care of you. Let me worry about our safety.”
He looks up at Merlin with doubt. “You?”
That arrogant little— “Yes, me. I save your behind every day. I’m the most powerful warlock of all time. I think I can manage one night without disaster.”
Arthur giggles in response, clearly unconvinced. Merlin barely refrains from flicking him on the forehead. Thankfully, the statue in his arms melts into a boneless pile of goo— and if that requires Merlin to mindlessly accept insults without fighting back, well, he thinks he can live with it, just this once.
“There we are, little prince,” Merlin whispers, running his fingers through his newly-dried hair. “Just relax. I have you. Everything will be alright.”
And as Arthur buries himself further into his shoulder, he thinks that maybe— just maybe— it will be.