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“You’re squinting again.” The touch on Arthur’s shoulder is gentle, but it makes him jump all the same, coming as it does when he’s deep into the second paragraph of tomorrow’s speech. He looks up to find Merlin watching him, a half smile on his face that speaks to equal parts affection and exasperation. “You know you should use more candles if you’re going to be working late; you’ll ruin your eyes.”
Night has crept up on him, it seems, as it has done so often in recent months. Arthur can’t remember the last time he paused to take a breath, but he’s fairly certain it must have been before his father died. Stretching wearily, he works the kinks out of his neck and watches his manservant light some extra candles with a wave of his hand, floating them over to cluster on the desk in front of him. How long has he been sitting here, anyway? Hours at the very least, hunched over a sheaf of parchment like a miserable monk. He’ll be growing a hump like Geoffrey’s next, and pinching his eyes the way his old nanny used to do behind her glasses. The pressures of being king are turning him into an old man.
“Rough day?” Merlin asks quietly. He takes half a step away from the desk, his hands clasped awkwardly behind his back; no matter how many times Arthur has told him to relax, he still gets self-conscious sometimes when performing magic—he claims that the sight of it makes Arthur nervous. “You seem tense.”
“No more than usual.” Arthur rubs at his forehead. “But I have to admit, I’ll be glad when all of these formalities are over.”
Merlin makes a humming sound. “I did warn you that it was going to be a lot of work,” he says, more disapproving than commiserating. “You could just have issued the proclamation and had done with it.”
“And miss out on all this entertainment?” Arthur gestures at his desk overflowing with parchment. “Never. Besides, Geoffrey was right.” Not a phrase he finds himself using very often. “Justice must not only be done but it must be seen to be done. It’s the only way I can even begin to make this work.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and when he does speak it’s only to cast an enchantment on the covers of Arthur’s bed, folding the corner of the blankets down invitingly. Arthur shifts in his seat. Perhaps the magic does make him uncomfortable, though not for the reasons that Merlin thinks. He has always found Merlin’s eyes disconcertingly attractive, and when they flare gold like that…
“Go on, then,” Merlin says, tipping his head towards the mattress. “I’ll finish up for you.”
“Hmm?” Blinking slightly, Arthur shakes himself out of his reverie. “Finish up what?”
“Your speech.” Merlin rolls his eyes. “Its obvious you’re so tired you can barely think straight, and I know what a challenge that is for you at the best of times.”
“Cheeky,” Arthur says, but there’s no bite to it. He is tired, so tired that keeping his mind on-task is clearly becoming a challenge, and his temples ache. “And who’s going to undress me while you’re busy doing that?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do that part yourself, sire,” Merlin replies, with mock dismay that doesn't fool Arthur for a moment. “Unless you’d rather I send for George, of course; I’m sure he’d be more than happy to help.”
Arthur had been hoping that Merlin would offer to do it himself, perhaps by using his magic again—but in hindsight that would probably cause more problems than it solved. “No, I think I can manage,” he says, pushing back his chair. He ruffles Merlin hair as he passes, smirking at his manservant’s feeble attempts to bat him away, then sits down on his bed and toes off his boots, pulling his shirt off over his head as he does so.
Merlin, being Merlin, has helpfully ensured that Arthur’s sleeping shift is hooked on the changing screen halfway across the room, and for a moment Arthur contemplates the distance between himself and it and wonders whether there is honestly any point in going over to retrieve it. Summer isn’t really in full swing yet, but his chambers have collected enough residual warmth that he likely won’t feel the lack until early morning, at which point he will be ready to start getting up anyway.
Before he can make up his mind one way or the other, the sleeping shirt twitches, and in another moment it is flying through the air, soaring between his grasping hands to smack him in the face.
“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur says, disentangling himself. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
“Happy to help, my lord,” Merlin says cheerily, turning over another page. He hasn’t even bothered to look up. “All in a day's work.”
Arthur shakes his head, pulling the shift on and then discarding his belt and trousers. It feels odd to be undressing without Merlin to attend him, and even odder still to be half naked and getting ready for sleep with his manservant otherwise occupied across the room. All things considered, the situation is rather too close to some of his more embarrassing fantasies for the silence to be comfortable, and he gropes for something to say that will relieve the tension.
“You know,” he says, padding over to his bedside cabinet. He pours some water into the ewer and begins to wash his face. “I never did ask how a peasant boy from Ealdor came to read and write so well.”
He can almost hear Merlin’s smile. “What’s the matter, sire—are you worried I’ll make you look bad in front of the court?”
“No.” Merlin would never screw up something so important to both of them; of that Arthur has no doubt. “Just curious. You must admit, it’s rather unusual.”
“My mother was an unusual woman.” For a moment, Merlin’s voice turns wistful, and Arthur hears the scratching of his quill pause mid-stroke. Hunith had been killed two winters before, cut down by a Saxon raiding party that had broken through Cenred’s borders, and Arthur knows that Merlin still feels guilty for not being able to save her. They both do, despite the fact that the failure had been no one's fault. “She learned from her father when she was a girl, and so she passed it on to me. She always said that an education was more important than a sword.”
“And safer, perhaps,” Arthur says, trying to coax the smile back, “given your appalling lack of physical skills.”
“My physical skills are just fine,” Merlin says, and this time Arthur is fairly sure he isn’t imagining the amusement in Merlin’s tone. He looks over, but Merlin is angled away from him, studying the parchment with a blandly innocent air. “It’s just that some of us prefer to fight with our brains rather than our biceps.”
Arthur snorts. “Touché," he says. "Although it would help if some of us had biceps to begin with."
His ablutions completed, the king remains standing for a moment to watch Merlin work, taking in the bent head, the teeth chewing absently on the tip of his quill where it rests against his lower lip. He can tell when Merlin reaches the most recent addition to his speech because his expression changes, going from concentrated attention to shock to something else that Arthur isn’t entirely sure how to interpret. He had been intending to keep the full extent of his gift a secret until the morning, the better to enjoy Merlin’s surprise when he discovered exactly what Arthur had in mind, but perhaps it is as well to do the thing in private. Lord knows what effect it would have on Merlin’s demonstration if he were to be distracted by feelings while attempting to work some complicated magic. It would be safer for everyone involved if he were to minimise the risk.
And maybe, too, it’s safer for Arthur’s sanity that they’re alone, without an audience, so that there is no one from whom he has to hide his thoughts except for Merlin himself—a man from whom Arthur has long ago stopped trying to hide anything of any real importance.
“Arthur.” Merlin’s voice, when he finds it, is rough and slightly shaken, his fingers trembling a little where they brush over the paper. “This—this isn’t what we talked about.”
“I thought I might as well do the thing properly,” Arthur says, shrugging. He’s aware of the throb of his heartbeat at the base of his throat, the crush of pressure in his chest. It's so very important for Merlin to understand why Arthur has done this. Please let Merlin understand why he's done this. “My father hurt a great many people with his actions, but when I was drawing up the official papers for your position, I realised…well, I hoped that this might go some way towards repairing the harm he did, to you and to your family.”
“It does more than that,” Merlin says, shaking his head. “This is—Arthur, thank you, I—why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I wasn’t entirely sure you would appreciate it,” Arthur admits, crossing back to his bed and climbing under the covers. The sheets are cool and crisp, the perfect temperature for a night like this one. He suspects that this, too, is probably sorcery. “The Dragonlord title comes with a lot of responsibility; you might have tried to talk me out of it. I thought perhaps it would be better not to give you the choice.”
“You thought I’d turn it down. You thought I’d turn this down.” He shakes the parchment for emphasis, widening his eyes, and Arthur makes a face.
“You’re very unpredictable.”
“And you’re an idiot, sire,” Merlin replies, but the thickness in his voice says something else entirely, and Arthur turns his head into the pillow and settles in to sleep, only peripherally aware of the smile still softening his mouth.
The next morning is too busy for more than the briefest of pleasantries between them; Merlin, to Arthur’s certain knowledge, must have been up with the birds, but he puts off waking the king until the last possible moment, claiming it is the only way to keep Arthur from fretting.
“Besides, you needed the rest,” he adds firmly, ignoring Arthur’s half-hearted attempts to berate him. He prods Arthur into his court robes, runs a comb and then absent-minded fingers through his hair, and shoves a scroll of parchment into his hand, gesturing for him to read it. “Your speech, sire, as requested,” he says. “I only had to change a few paragraphs this time. I think you’re starting to get the hang of this whole talking to people thing.”
“Very funny,” Arthur says drily, taking the scroll without unrolling it. “Did you add another section congratulating King Cenred on his backside full of pustulant boils? I thought that was very inventive of you, last time. Especially the way you worked it into my speech about the harvest like that.”
“I would never,” Merlin says, which is a lie and they both know it. “I have nothing but respect for King Cenred. Now let me go,” for Arthur had caught hold of his wrist, keeping him in place as he turned to leave, “There’s still a ridiculous amount to do, and I need to have a word with the cook about the sweetmeats. Arthur.”
But Arthur doesn’t let go, not wanting him to vanish again just yet. “Merlin. Thank you,” he says seriously, meeting the familiar blue gaze with his own. “For everything. But you do know you’re allowed to have some fun today, too, right? This is as much your achievement as it is mine.”
Merlin favours him with a tiny smile, some of the tension going out of his stance as he exhales. “I know,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “But I like having something to do. It’s what I’m used to, and it keeps me from getting nervous.”
“You? Nervous?” Arthur raises his eyebrows. “We’ve been planning this whole thing for months. What could you possibly have to be nervous about?”
“Nothing,” Merlin says darkly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
With this unsettling pronouncement, he takes his leave, and Arthur makes his way down to the Great Hall alone, passing a veritable army of servants and liveried underlings as he goes. The castle is like an overturned ant-hill, swarming with all kinds of bustle and activity, and Arthur’s progression hardly draws so much as a second glance as he passes down the main staircase and into the audience chamber.
Like the rest of the castle, the Throne Room has been heavily decorated for the day’s festivities. The throne itself has been polished to a shine, the floors thick with newly laid rushes, and the rear wall is adorned with an enormous tapestry emblazoned with a massive version of the Pendragon crest. The gilt-edged animal dominates the room, and Arthur pauses for a moment to look at it, his footsteps slowing on their path towards the antechamber at the other end of the Hall.
He has no doubt that his father would be turning over in his grave if he knew what Arthur was about to do. Balinor had been his sworn enemy, and Merlin is one of the greatest sorcerers who has ever lived, not to mention a Dragonlord into the bargain. Honouring either of them for any reason would have been anathema to Uther, no matter how many times Merlin had saved his son’s life, and Arthur has gone even further than that; if all goes well this morning, Arthur will soon be changing a law that has stood for decades, acknowledging the very real contributions that magic has made to the safety of his kingdom.
“I’m sorry, Father,” he murmurs, touching the back of the throne with one hand. “But you were the one who taught me to have the courage of my convictions, even if you had no idea what those convictions would be. In a way, this entire thing is all your fault."
There is, of course, no response, but Arthur fancies he can hear a sigh—disappointment and resignation both, a not infrequent sound that he had often heard issuing from Uther’s lips. He shakes his head at himself. First last night, now this. He really is getting old.
Inside the antechamber, the group of knights that make up the King’s Guard are waiting for him, all of them impeccably turned out in parade armour and habitual deep red cloaks. They all turn when Arthur approaches, looking mildly relieved to find him arriving on time.
“Good morning, sire,” Leon says, raising a hand in greeting. “We were beginning to think you might be late.”
“Very late,” Gwaine agrees, smirking. “Aren't you supposed to be with Merlin, helping him get ready for the big day?”
“I’ve barely seen him all morning,” Arthur admits, trying not to let on just how irritating he finds this fact. From the amused look on Sir Gwaine’s face, he’s not entirely successful. “He’s been rushing about like a flea in a fit, even though I’ve told him enough times that he doesn’t have to.”
“He’s excited, I expect,” Leon says sagely. “It’s not every day a sorcerer becomes a knight of the realm.”
“Technically, he’s becoming a mage of the realm,” Arthur corrects him; he hadn’t invented the whole damn hierarchy just so that people could go around ignoring it willy-nilly. “And he’s not the only one. Mordred’s being honoured today, too, and he’s not going around bewailing the state of the castle’s curtains.”
Leon and Percival exchange glances in front of him, their eyebrows raised; Gwaine is outright grinning, showing far too many teeth for Arthur’s peace of mind. Even Elyan looks hard-pressed to swallow his smile, and Arthur can usually count on him to be the sensible one. He narrows his eyes.
“What? Why are you all looking at me like that?”
“We just think it’s cute, is all,” Gwaine says, patting Arthur on the shoulder. “The way you’re trying to pretend you didn’t organise this whole thing as an excuse to shower Merlin with attention.”
“What,” Arthur repeats, more strenuously this time. “That’s—this is—that’s not what this is about.”
“Right,” Leon says, sounding unconvinced. Percival nods behind him, straight-faced and solemn as ever, and Elyan makes a polite sound of acknowledgement at the back of his throat. None of them seem remotely persuaded by Arthur’s denial.
“It isn’t!” Arthur protests. He gets the feeling that he’s fighting a losing battle here, especially since he’s not sure he believes what he is saying himself, but never let it be said that Arthur Pendragon has ever backed down from a challenge. “This is about lifting the ban on magic, making it clear that I’m serious about undoing the wrongs of the past. This has nothing whatsoever to do with Merlin.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Leon says soothingly. “It’s just that—well. You did decide to appoint him First Mage of Camelot—”
“—and he is the first sorcerer to act openly in your service—”
“—and you are reinstating the Dragonlord title wholly for his benefit—”
“—so you might as well admit it, sire,” Gwaine concludes, grinning. “We all know you’d give away half your kingdom just to see Merlin smile.”
Arthur’s cheeks are hot. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, fighting the urge to scowl. “Merlin is an old friend and a trusted advisor; he means no more and no less to me than he does to any of you.”
At that moment, the door to the antechamber swings open and Merlin himself stumbles in, his fastenings askew and his face flushed from hurrying. He’s wearing Pendragon colours today, a newly commissioned cloak of bright scarlet fastened around his neck, setting off his dark hair and the colour of his eyes, and the gold embroidered thread of the dragon at his chest makes Arthur think, inevitably, of magic. It’s the first time Arthur has seen him in his official robes, Merlin having flatly refused to change into them until the last possible moment, and although he had been intending to add more to his little speech—something biting about the perils of rumour mills and gossip-mongering—he finds that he has been temporarily struck dumb by his manservant’s appearance.
“Sorry I’m late,” Merlin says, hurrying towards them. “The cook was having a minor crisis and one of the maids may have accidentally set one of the centrepieces on fire. I say may have because, honestly, I’m not sure how it could have been an accident, but then again—”
“Stand still,” Arthur tells him, recovering in the face of this inane chatter and reaching out to take his manservant by the shoulders. He re-settles Merlin’s jacket with impatient hands, smoothing it over his chest and re-fastening the ties that have come loose along his front. Merlin is vibrating with pent-up energy, like a hunting dog cooped up in its kennel for far too long, but he stops bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet and lets Arthur fix his cloak for him, bright eyed with excitement and anticipation. Whatever Merlin might say to the contrary, Arthur knows that he loves the ridiculous pageantry of these official court functions almost as much as Arthur despises them, which—regardless of what he’d just told Gwaine and the others—is pretty much the only reason he hadn’t vetoed the whole idea the moment Geoffrey had suggested it. That, and he would never pass up a chance to see Merlin like this, wearing Arthur’s colours and with his sigil emblazoned across his chest for all to see.
“There,” Arthur says finally, stepping back. “You look presentable, at least. I told you you should have woken me earlier; if you hadn’t been busy trying to do everyone’s job except your own, you’d have been able to get yourself ready on time like a normal person.”
“Gee, thanks.” Merlin’s nose crinkles as he smiles. “It’s nice to know my efforts are appreciated.”
“Oh, they’re appreciated all right,” Gwaine assures him over Arthur’s shoulder. “Arthur appreciates you a great deal, don’t you, Arthur?”
“He was just telling us how much,” Leon agrees, and Arthur wonders whether anyone would object if he were to lock up four of his most celebrated knights for treason. “And we all think you’re very impressive.”
“You do?” Merlin looks at Arthur, and the surprised pleasure in his eyes is enough to make the king rethink what he’d been about to say.
“Yes, well. I’d appreciate it even more if you were tidy.” Arthur plucks a strand of charred fabric from Merlin’s hair. “What was that about not screwing things up on our big day?”
Merlin flushes and looks down, his smile turning a trifle sheepish, and Arthur’s heart, treacherous organ that it is, flops over foolishly in his chest and threatens to secede. “I told you, there was an issue with one of the centrepieces. It really wasn’t my fault.”
“Most things aren’t,” Arthur says, shaking his head. Behind them, Gaius appears in the doorway, gesturing frantically for his nephew to join him, and Arthur tips his head in the old man’s direction. “There’s your cue,” he says, turning Merlin bodily and giving him a little push. “Your Lordship. Do try not to set anything else on fire before the ceremony starts.”
“Only if you promise to refrain from being a prat,” Merlin retorts, and then hurries off before Arthur can retaliate. Not for the first time, Arthur wishes he’d had the courage to lean over and kiss him in front of everyone, protocols be damned. But there will be time enough to negotiate that particular hurdle later on, once he has seen Merlin safely installed to the position that is his due.
Arthur looks over at his knights, who are staring pointedly back at him, sceptics to a man.
“All right,” he concedes, giving up. “Maybe a third of the kingdom. But only because he’s earned it.”
Despite Merlin’s dire predictions, the ceremony goes off without a hitch. There are no unexpected magical attacks or disasters, and no unnecessary insults have been scrawled in the margins of Arthur’s speech that threaten to make him laugh at inappropriate moments. Instead, his voice rings out clear and strong over the assembled court, rescinding his father’s ban on magic and ending the persecution of magic-users for good.
Afterwards, he remembers the day as a series of small moments. There is the slight sting at his heart when he catches sight of Guinevere amidst the crowd, her face radiant with happiness as she cheers loudly for her friend. Beside her, Lancelot looks, if possible, even happier, his armour shining so brightly that it has to have been polished with magic. The knight has one arm wrapped around his wife's shoulders, and he nods hesitantly at the king when their eyes meet, his smile faltering for just a moment under Arthur’s frowning gaze. Winning the heart of Arthur’s former love is one thing, but Arthur has yet to entirely forgive him for learning of Merlin’s secret before he did, and Lancelot knows it. Still, it is Arthur who helped to make today happen, not Lance, and after so many years the king supposes he can be generous. He nods back, watching Lancelot’s face light up, and feels for just a moment the singular pleasure of laying an old ghost to rest.
And then, of course, there is Merlin himself. Apparently taking his cue from Arthur's last-minute script change, instead of the butterflies they had agreed to he conjures a huge, glittering dragon for his demonstration, nearly giving the onlookers a collective heart attack. The great beast makes one circuit of the hall and then descends onto the dais, lowering its head to bow in front of the king, and after an instant of confusion Arthur bows back, sending the dragon shattering into thousands of tiny stars. The look on Merlin’s face as the chamber erupts into tumultuous applause is one that Arthur will treasure for the rest of his life.
At length, after the feasting and speechmaking are done, Arthur makes his excuses and slips away, climbing the staircase to his rooms alone for the first time since he was woken that morning. His rooms are dark, none of the servants having had the time to light the candles or see to the fire, and for a few minutes he just stands there, listening to the sounds of revelry travelling up from below. This is what it feels like, he realises, to have achieved something momentous, something that will be remembered for generations to come. It is a good feeling, but an oddly lonely one.
“Sire?” He turns, and of course there's Merlin, standing flush-cheeked and uncertain on the threshold behind him. “I noticed you left the celebrations early, and I thought—well. Are you all right?”
“Just tired,” Arthur says, although that’s not entirely true. “I needed some space to breathe.”
Merlin laughs softly, coming further into the room and closing the door behind him. “It's all a bit overwhelming, isn't it? I wasn’t expecting…I mean, I thought the people would be more resistant.”
Arthur smiles a little—he, on the other hand, had expected precisely this response, but then Merlin has always been ridiculously unaware of how much the kingdom loves him.
“I was thinking about Morgana,” he says, tugging at the fastenings of his cloak. “I wish—that is, it would have been nice if she had come back to Camelot for the ceremony.”
“Give her time, sire,” Merlin says. "Once she sees that you can be trusted, she'll reach out. I know she will." He takes a step forward, pushing away Arthur’s hands where they are tangled with the clasp. “Here, let me. It's still my job, after all.”
That had been the one point of contention between them this past week, and indeed since Arthur announced his plans to give Merlin a promotion: Merlin had flat-out refused to give up his old job as Arthur's manservant, despite Arthur's strident protestations.
“I can’t have the First Mage of Camelot serving in my bedchamber,” Arthur had said, trying to be reasonable. “You must see that. What will the Council say?”
“Hmm, let me think.” Merlin pretended to consider. “That you’re a pompous dollophead who can’t drag himself out of bed in the morning? That you’re a grown man who still can’t get dressed on his own?” He spread his hands, shrugging broadly. “I don’t know, sire. You know how these rumours travel.”
Eventually, Arthur had given in, and now, with Merlin puttering around, hanging up his cloak and fussing over the unlit sconces, he is selfishly glad of it, this small oasis of normalcy between them when so many other things have changed.
“Do you think I did the right thing?” he asks, surprising himself as much as Merlin with the words. “Today, I mean. Was it enough?”
“It was everything,” Merlin says seriously, abandoning the fireplace to come and help Arthur to undress. He kneels at Arthur’s feet, unlacing his boots, and looks up at him earnestly through his lashes with an expression that steals Arthur’s breath. “I know you wanted to do more, but I understand why you need to take things slowly. And—pardoning my father, removing the death penalty as punishment for magic—Arthur, what you did today was no small thing.” He sets Arthur’s boots aside and scoots closer, peeling off Arthur’s socks without his usual theatrical grimace of distaste. As always, his hands on Arthur’s skin are warm and gentle, pressing down on the tops of his feet in a strangely reverent gesture. “You are destined to be a great king, Arthur, I truly believe that. Even more so after what I saw today.”
He straightens and makes to stand up, but Arthur stills him with a touch, taking hold of Merlin’s chin between thumb and forefinger and tipping it towards him. Apart from his sister's presence, there is only one thing missing that would make the day's triumph complete, and he wonders if he dares to reach for that, also.
“I’m not so sure,” he says softly, and feels Merlin’s shiver under his hand. “I didn’t do any of this because of destiny, you know. I didn’t even do it for Camelot—at least, not entirely.”
Merlin swallows visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing along his pale throat, but he doesn’t say anything. Arthur leans closer, seeking out Merlin’s gaze and meeting it squarely.
“Don’t you want to know why I did it? Or rather, who I did it for?”
“Arthur.” The word is half a laugh, half a plea. “Sire. I wouldn’t want to presume—”
“You presume a lot of things where no one else would,” Arthur points out. “Why not this?”
Merlin doesn't answer, and Arthur thinks back to his own doubts these past few weeks. Why not this? Because he is the king; because of his father; because no matter what he does, now or in the future, there are words and deeds in Arthur’s past that he will regret for the rest of his life. Because, underneath all of that, he’s just a man, perhaps not even a very good one, and he has nothing in particular to offer Merlin that he can’t already achieve for himself. But Merlin knows all this, and he's still here, uncharacteristically tongue-tied by the touch of Arthur's fingers, and this time Arthur finds that perhaps it doesn’t take courage to kiss him after all.
Were it anyone else, anyone but Merlin, he might have paused first, anxious to make sure that this was more than some kind of imposition or duty. But Merlin is no mere servant and never has been; to believe he could ever be cowed by such trivial things as rank and custom would have been an insult to them both. Arthur doesn’t waver, and after a moment, neither does Merlin, surging up into the kiss with his hands on Arthur’s thighs, his mouth opening hot and deep beneath Arthur’s own.
“The truth is, I was kind of afraid to mention it,” he whispers, when they pause to breathe. “You've given me so much already—it seemed greedy to ask for more.”
“You don't have to ask, you idiot,” Arthur whispers back, holding him close. “I'm already yours.”