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Arthur approached the wooden arch that marked the entry to the festival site with increasing trepidation. Glastonbury Medieval Faire the banner read in bold, bright red letters that were styled to resemble the kind of writing he was familiar with, yet they were still nothing like the lettering they had used in Camelot. The reminder of how much time had passed between his death and his return didn’t help to ease Arthur’s nerves.
Over the past three months, he hadn’t ventured beyond the safety of Merlin’s cottage often, and each time had been nothing short of overwhelming. Despite Merlin’s best efforts to explain the modern world to him, and Arthur’s best efforts to brave it with the same courage he’d faced his reign, there was simply too much to catch up on all at once. If it had been up to Arthur, he would’ve stayed behind today as well. But Merlin had insisted, without ever truly explaining why.
“Don’t pull such a face. You’re going to love it, I promise,” said Merlin, looking back at Arthur. He was in his old servant’s garb, complete with a red neckerchief Arthur was certain he had already seen him wear over a millennium ago.
“I am not pulling a face,” retorted Arthur, after quickly schooling his expression back to neutral.
Merlin grinned. “Sure you’re not. Anyway if you’re done pouting, here we are.”
Arthur's protest caught on his tongue as Merlin stepped through the gate and made a sweeping gesture towards the grounds beyond. In front of them was a bustling village, busy as Camelot’s lower town on market day. Smells of roasting meats and fresh bread filled the air, and the faint sound of a lute and fiddle drifted over the crowd.
Struck speechless, Arthur could only stare for a long moment. An ache swelled in his chest, painful yet sweet as honey. He looked over at Merlin to find him watching him with a soft smile.
“I started coming to these faires back in the seventies. I’d heard about them for several years, but always thought it was silly, until Tiffany — the woman I was selling my vegetables to at the time — dragged me along one year. I’ve not missed a single year since.”
“It’s almost like—” Arthur couldn’t bring himself to say it.
“Yeah,” Merlin agreed, looking back at the village. “Almost like home.”
Not trusting his voice, Arthur merely nodded. His throat was tight with a feeling he couldn’t quite name. Longing, perhaps, for a home long gone. Gratitude, for the new home Merlin had made for them. Relief, because he wasn’t the only one who missed Camelot.
“Come on,” said Merlin, grabbing Arthur’s arm and pulling him into the fray.
The faire was magnificent. Arthur understood now why Merlin had insisted that they wore their old clothes — perfectly preserved, thanks to Merlin’s magic — from Camelot. Everyone was dressed in elaborate costumes that would not have looked out of place at court, from knights in full armour to ladies in vibrant, flowing gowns. There were jesters and bards, shops and taverns, and even a small forge with a blacksmith pounding away at a red-hot piece of metal.
“I didn’t realise anyone still made proper swords,” said Arthur, unable to fully contain his excitement.
“Oh they still make proper swords alright,” replied Merlin with a grin. “They don’t allow sharpened ones in the tournament though.”
Arthur snapped his head up. “Tournament? What tournament?”
“Did I not mention that?” asked Merlin, his demeanour all mock innocence even as his grin widened.
“Merlin!”
“Alright, alright,” Merlin laughed. “The specifics are a bit different, but essentially it’s a tourney much like the ones we held in Camelot.”
“Well then what are we waiting for?” Arthur exclaimed and made to stride off, only to do a complete circle-turn when he realised he didn’t know which direction to go.
Merlin chuckled. “Slow down. It’s part of the faire, but it doesn’t start until tomorrow. We can sign up for some of the workshops today though, it’s a requirement to be allowed in the tourney.”
“Workshops?” Arthur eyed Merlin dubiously.
“Axe throwing, archery, sword fighting — there’s a bit of everything, but only the one for sword fighting is mandatory to participate tomorrow. It’s for safety reasons, so people don’t harm themselves or others during the tournament because they don’t know how to handle their sword.”
“I know how to handle a sword,” scoffed Arthur with an eye-roll.
“Of course you do, but they don’t know that,” replied Merlin.
“Who’s they?”
“The organisers of the faire, dollophead. It’s their responsibility to keep their visitors safe. Would you risk allowing just anyone into a melee?”
Grudgingly, Arthur shook his head. Of course he wouldn’t — hadn’t, whenever he’d hosted tourneys in Camelot. Not without preliminary rounds.
“Fine,” he sighed. “Where do we sign up for this ‘workshop’, then?”
Merlin grinned. “Follow me, sire.”
The sun had set when they arrived back at Merlin’s cottage, elated but exhausted. For the first time since his return, Arthur felt like he would sleep easy.
The workshop had been laughable at first, the instructor droning on and on about different types of swords and how to grip them. Arthur had been so bored that he had nearly lost his patience. Fortunately, just when he had been about to walk away and damn the tournament, the instructor had allowed them to have a go at a row of straw-dummies to practise basic swings. The look on the man’s face when Arthur had torn through his dummy with no more than three practised blows had been worth the unfathomable boredom before.
Within minutes, the instructor had offered Arthur a practice duel, which Arthur had won all too easily. He had spent the rest of his time assisting the instructor — and no, he had not taken over, thank you very much, Merlin. For one precious hour, he had felt like he was back in Camelot, training a brand-new group of potential recruits.
“I’m glad you had fun.” Merlin’s voice brought Arthur back to the present, and he found Merlin smiling at him softly.
Arthur returned it and said, “I did.”
Merlin’s smile widened briefly, then he clapped his hands on his thighs and stood up. “Well, we should go to bed, the first round of competitions is tomorrow at ten o’clock. Archery, I believe.”
Nodding, Arthur got to his feet as well. He bid Merlin a good night and retreated into his room to ready himself for bed.
In the early days after Arthur’s return, Merlin had assisted him as he had done back in Camelot; had dressed and undressed him, explaining the new, strange garments of the modern world to him until Arthur remembered any of it, all without complaint. At first, Arthur had been grateful for the familiarity, for a known routine amidst the confusion of a world wholly changed. It hadn’t taken long, though, before his increasing knowledge of the modern world had led him to the realisation that Merlin’s manservant duties were quite thoroughly outdated, and he had refused Merlin’s offer to help him change his clothes ever since.
Now, months later, the idea that he had ever needed help with this was ridiculous. Though he did miss the closeness. The fleeting brushes of Merlin’s fingertips that traced soft tingles over his skin.
Arthur pushed the thought away with a shake of his head. Instead, he brought his mind back to the tournament ahead as he slipped under the covers. If the workshop was any indication, he wouldn’t face much competition. Most of them were as hopeless as Merlin had ever been. Except, he realised very belatedly as he was drifting off, Merlin had signed up as well, hadn’t he?
He was asleep before he could wonder why.
To Arthur’s surprise, the archery competition turned out to be an actual challenge. Admittedly, he had never been the most dedicated archer, not after learning to handle a crossbow for hunting, but he had no trouble hitting a target with accuracy. He had not, however, expected his modern-born competitors to be this good.
“You could have told me that archery is a recognised professional sport,” he groused after receiving a silver medal from a pretty, smiling woman in a dress that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a royal wardrobe.
“Where’s the fun in that?” teased Merlin as he took Arthur’s bow to return it to the faire’s armoury.
Arthur rolled his eyes, but left it at that. No matter whether there were professionals, the melee was a certain victory. He hadn’t been made Camelot’s first knight for nothing before he had been crowned King.
They bridged their time before the sword fighting tournament by watching the axe throwing contest, which Arthur had to admit was almost as impressive as some of the archers had been. The winner was a stout, brown-skinned man with a beaming, mischievous smile that reminded him of Gwaine, and a pang of loss tugged at his heart.
“Come on, we should get ready,” said Merlin, and turned away from the award ceremony.
Arthur’s gaze snapped to meet Merlin’s. The fleeting touch of grief faded as quickly as it had come in the face of Merlin’s excited expression. His happiness was so contagious Arthur found himself grinning too as he followed Merlin to the competitors’ tent.
“Are they all fighting?” asked Arthur incredulously when they entered the packed space. They couldn’t possibly all fight in one melee, there were at least fifty people here! Surely the arena would be overcrowded at this rate.
Merlin nodded, pressing a badge with a number into his hands. “It’s a very popular contest. Over here, there’s space,” he said, pointing Arthur towards a corner with his equipment.
Arthur complied and dropped his bundle on the free bench Merlin had indicated. When he turned to voice his thoughts on the number of people, however, Merlin was nowhere to be seen. Apparently he wasn’t going to help Arthur with this anymore either — which was fine! Totally fine.
They hadn’t brought Arthur’s actual armour for a fight with dull blades, instead opting for a leather gambeson vest and a pair of simple gauntlets. Though it was much easier to put on than a full set of plate, it took Arthur a while to struggle into the vest. Eventually, he managed to put most of it to rights, pulled on the gauntlets and pinned the number-badge to his front, before continuing to fiddle with a final buckle at the back of his neck he couldn’t quite reach.
“I got it,” said Merlin, appearing at Arthur’s side out of nowhere and fastening it with practised ease.
“Thanks,” Arthur managed, hiding the shiver that went down his spine by turning around. He raised a brow when he saw that Merlin was wearing a similar set of leather armour as himself.
Catching Arthur’s look, Merlin gave a half-hearted shrug. “What?”
“You actually signed up as well?”
“I’m not as uncoordinated as I once was, prat,” retorted Merlin, not quite managing to hide his smile.
Before Arthur could respond, the horn called for the melee fighters to enter the sparring field. With a mischievous grin, Merlin unceremoniously shoved a sword into Arthur’s hands, then promptly turned on his heels and hurried away, too quick for Arthur to follow through the mass of tournament fighters that were all shuffling towards the exit of the tent. Arthur rolled his eyes at Merlin’s antics with a fond shake of his head. Some things never changed.
He followed his opponents onto the field, blinking against the bright sunlight after the relative gloom of the tent. The hexagonal arena was delimited by the tent at the back, a raised grandstand at the opposite end, and slightly smaller stands filled to the brim with chattering spectators on the other four sides. It was easily as large as the melee grounds in Camelot, and Arthur’s earlier doubts about the number of competitors faded. There was enough space for them all to spread out without being crowded together from the get-go.
Once he had taken position near one of the wide-angled corners, Arthur let his gaze sweep over the field in search of Merlin. No sign of him. He had to be here somewhere, though, unless he had merely been pranking Arthur by pretending to participate. Even for Merlin’s standards, that would be an odd prank.
Another signal tone brought Arthur’s attention back to the impending fight as the crowd quieted in anticipation. His pulse quickened with excitement. It had been so long since he had fought for sport rather than his life.
“Let the melee … begin!” The crowd cheered as all the horns blared in unison.
Within a split-second, Arthur’s senses sharpened, his perception narrowing until he no longer heard the clamouring crowd. His only focus was on the other fighters around him as he moved.
The man closest to him had hardly begun to lift his weapon before Arthur’s blade was already at his neck. Arthur didn’t pause to watch his eyes go wide with surprise, but swung around to tap out the next opponent with a jab against his side.
He kept his blows feather light, much lighter than he would have kept them in a tourney in Camelot, or even in training sessions with new knight candidates. These people were not true fighters, and Arthur had no intention of accidentally harming anyone. Nevertheless, the thrill of combat had him soaring as he dodged and parried one swing after the other. He was in his element, here. This was what he had always done best, and even after over a millennium in Avalon, it came to him easy as breathing.
A trail of mildly stunned men and women were left in his wake as he slowly fought his way towards the centre of the sparring field. The number of fighters was diminishing rapidly, and with every person who left the arena, the remaining combatants had more space to work with.
Arthur caught sight of Merlin when there were maybe fifteen of them left. He faltered, jaw dropping open, and it was pure luck the man charging at him had terrible aim, or he would’ve failed out of the melee right then and there. Pulling himself together, he made quick work of his attacker, before putting some distance between himself and the others to collect himself. And, perhaps, to stare just a little.
Merlin was… magnificent. He wielded his sword like an extension of his own body — a lesson most of Arthur’s knights had never truly mastered. His movements were quick and precise, yet fluent, graceful in a way Arthur had never seen before, as he landed disqualifying hits on two, three, four opponents in rapid succession.
A woman stepped in front of Arthur with her sword already raised for attack. He startled, but caught himself just in time to block her swing and push her back. Now was not the time to gape at Merlin. With a quick step to the side, Arthur dashed forward, ducking beneath her still raised arm to come up behind her in a turn, the tip of his blade pressed lightly into her back.
She deflated with a frustrated groan, and Arthur paid her no more mind as he turned back towards Merlin. Nine fighters left.
Arthur went after a pair to his right, both so focused on each other, they didn’t notice him until he was nearly on them. Interestingly enough, once they did notice him, they promptly banded together to defend themselves. Not that it mattered; a few well-placed blows, and they were both slinking off the field.
Merlin had been equally busy in the meantime, Arthur noted, leaving the two of them with only three other opponents remaining in the arena; two women and one man. He looked over at Merlin, who met his eyes with a sly grin that had Arthur’s lips curl up as well. They didn’t need words to agree on how this was going to go down.
Arthur flicked his gaze towards the other three, who must have caught the silent conversation between him and Merlin, because they were not fighting each other. Instead the three of them had taken defensive stances with their backs to each other, their weapons raised as they watched Merlin and Arthur on their respective sides of the arena. He smiled. Then he moved.
In the corner of his eye, he saw Merlin charge the trio as well, nothing but a blur of dark leather and flashing steel, but he couldn’t let himself be distracted. The woman standing closest to him was ready for his first attack, parrying him easily and holding her ground. She was less prepared for the momentum of her own parry being used against her when Arthur let his sword travel a full backwards circle and turned its return into an upward swing, catching her in the chest with it.
He didn’t pause. Stepping around her, he refocused his attention on the second woman — who promptly raised her hands in surrender, dark eyes darting back and forth between him and Merlin.
Arthur straightened, giving her and her two brief allies a respectful nod as they left the arena. Then he turned to Merlin, and his heart skipped a beat.
Merlin was breathtaking. His cheeks were flushed, lips slightly parted as he breathed, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. He caught Arthur’s gaze and grinned, wide and boyish, which made him look so much like the cheeky youth he had been when they had first met that Arthur’s heart stuttered pathetically.
“Guess it’s just us, my lord,” he said, shifting his stance to face Arthur. “Unless of course you’d rather give up?”
“To you?” Arthur laughed and raised his sword. It was like they were back in Camelot’s marketplace, no more than boys.
Merlin’s grin grew even wider, and they just smiled at each other for one stretched out moment. In reality, it lasted no longer than a handful of heartbeats, then Merlin’s gaze sharpened abruptly.
The minuscule change in expression was Arthur’s only warning. In a flash, Merlin was on him, their blades meeting with a loud clang as Arthur parried his strike at the last moment. Goddess, he was fast!
Arthur shoved Merlin’s sword aside, and was gratified to see that Merlin was pushed back a couple of steps. Though Merlin’s attack had not lacked in force, Arthur was still stronger between the two of them — an advantage that mattered in a fight with broadswords. He didn’t give Merlin time to recover, bringing his own weapon down in a powerful swing that nearly drove Merlin to his knees, and a wave of triumph rushed through him.
It turned out to be premature not a moment later, when Merlin dove into a roll that carried him neatly out of Arthur’s reach. He was back on his feet in an instant, spinning into a move that looked remarkably like one of Gwaine’s, forcing Arthur to jump back rather than try to block it.
Triumph gave way to exhilaration. The melee itself had been fun, but now Arthur had an opponent he didn’t have to hold back against. Their eyes met briefly, sending a spark down Arthur’s back, then Merlin launched into his next advance.
The match became fiercer, now that Arthur was putting full effort into it. Blow after blow, they came up evenly matched; where Arthur was stronger, Merlin was faster and more agile. Despite the ferocity of their fight, it was as though they were caught in an intricate dance, their fluid movements synchronised in perfect balance; a push for each pull and a pull for each push. It felt right.
As enthralling as it was, though, they couldn’t keep going forever. Sooner or later, one of them had to break their equilibrium in order to gain the upper hand, and given that Arthur was already beginning to tire, he had to act soon if he wanted that to be him.
He parried the next two blows, then brought some distance between them to reassess his strategy. Or rather to think of a strategy in the first place.
“Changed your mind yet?” asked Merlin, the nonchalance of his words undermined by his panting breaths.
“About what?”
“Giving up.”
Arthur barked a laugh and shook his head. “It might take more than one blow, but I can still take you apart.”
Merlin’s eyes flashed with mirth. “I guess we’ll have to see who can take whom apart faster.”
No sooner had he finished his sentence than he was lunging at Arthur, making him stagger back as he narrowly avoided a hit to his ribs. It was a bold move, and had Arthur reacted even a split-second slower, it might well have succeeded. As it was, it delivered Merlin on a silver platter into his range.
Arthur’s next hit landed before Merlin could regain a secure stance, throwing him off balance and into a stumble. Taking advantage of Merlin’s weakened defence, Arthur swung at him once more, blades crashing together only a hand-width from Merlin’s torso. He grinned as he advanced a third time, angling his strike so as to knock Merlin’s sword out of his hand.
Except somehow, Merlin was faster. It shouldn’t have been possible this close up, but Merlin dodged his blow, twisting mid-leap and bringing his sword down on Arthur.
The momentum of the move doubled its impact, and Arthur’s knees buckled under the unexpected force. Though he managed to deflect Merlin’s initial attack, he knew even as he tried to catch up with the second that it was over.
Merlin closed in on him quick as a snake, sliding his sword past Arthur’s with a sharp, metallic ring, until Merlin’s hilt caught on Arthur’s blade, giving him extra leverage. A twist of his wrist was all it took to wrench the weapon from Arthur’s grip and send it crashing to the ground. The edge of Merlin’s sword came to rest against Arthur’s throat ever so lightly.
A beat of stunned silence passed, then the crowd erupted into deafening cheers. Arthur looked up at Merlin standing over him with his sword still raised. Neither of them moved as they held each other’s gaze for one seemingly endless moment.
Finally, though it couldn’t have been longer than a handful of seconds, Merlin blinked as though startled, lowered his sword, and held out a hand to help Arthur up.
Arthur took it gratefully, letting himself be pulled to his feet. His breath hitched when he suddenly found himself standing chest to chest with Merlin, their faces barely two fingers apart. His gaze dropped to Merlin’s lips before he could help it. He realised his mistake a second later and hastily looked back up into Merlin’s eyes to find that he — unsurprisingly — had been caught staring. Shit.
An apology was half-formed on his tongue when Merlin looked away. Down. At Arthur’s—
“This year’s winner, fair lords and ladies; Merlin Hunithson!” The announcer’s voice cut through the charged air, startling both of them into taking a couple of hasty steps away from each other. Merlin shot Arthur a regretful glance, before turning to face the stands and waving.
This wasn’t the first time Merlin had won one of these tourneys, Arthur realised. Not by far, judging by the comfortable ease with which he accepted the applause, picking up a flower someone had thrown onto the field and sliding it behind his ear. It suited him. Brought out his eyes.
Arthur pushed the thought aside. Whatever had almost happened between them just then, this was hardly the time and place to get lost in fantasies. But later, perhaps, when they were no longer surrounded by people—
His wayward mind was interrupted by Merlin making a sweeping gesture towards him, which promptly caused the applause that had died down a little to pick up once more. He managed not to roll his eyes, summoning his best princely smile instead as he followed Merlin’s example and waved to the crowd. This, at least, he could handle.
Still, when they left the arena a few minutes later, he couldn’t help but breathe a small sigh of relief. The relative quiet of the tent was a balm to his keyed up nerves.
“We should get changed, the ceremonies start in twenty minutes,” said Merlin, sounding strangely awkward.
Arthur merely nodded. Because the tent was empty save for a handful of other tourney fighters chatting among each other, he didn’t have to search much to find where he had left his other clothes. Now to get out of this armour. He sighed, fiddling with his gauntlets, when he suddenly felt nimble fingers brush over his skin as they unbuckled the strap he had struggled with earlier.
“Thank you,” he said over his shoulder, assuming that Merlin was going to leave him to deal with the rest on his own.
He didn’t. Instead, Merlin pushed at Arthur’s shoulder to make him turn and started to undo the front buckles. It was achingly familiar to be this close to him, to feel the gentle warmth of his hands where they tugged at Arthur’s clothes. It was terrifying, because surely he would hear Arthur’s pounding heart and know and—
Nothing happened. Merlin helped him out of his gambeson and handed him his tunic, then stepped away.
“I should—” He gestured behind himself.
Arthur nodded. His skin was alight with Merlin’s fingerprints. He wanted to reel him back in to return the favour, but Merlin had already walked away.
When they left the competitors’ tent some sixteen minutes later, the rush — Merlin insisted on calling it adrenaline — had faded from Arthur’s blood, and his hyper-awareness of Merlin had dulled to its usual level.
“The ceremony is a little bigger than for the other contests,” said Merlin, as led them around the arena towards the raised grandstand.
“Bigger how?” Arthur shot him a suspicious look.
“You’ll see,” replied Merlin with a wink. Whatever awkwardness had overcome him earlier had disappeared entirely, and his returned good mood was infectious.
Arthur rolled his eyes, even as a fond smile tugged insistently at his lips. “How many times have you done this?”
A fierce blush rose to Merlin’s cheeks and all the way up to the tips of his ears. He didn’t meet Arthur’s gaze as he shrugged. “A few times.”
“Could you be any more vague?”
Merlin groaned. “Fine! Maybe … around a hundred?”
“A hundred?! And you accused me of needing all the attention!”
“Oh please, that was different,” Merlin retorted without missing a beat. “You were the Crown Prince, you already had all the attention and you still got jealous over a man you hired to pose for you!” Arthur sputtered in indignation, but Merlin didn’t give him a chance to form an actual response. “Besides, I didn’t always win. It took at least a decade before I had any skill to speak of.”
“Please, you could have used your magic.” Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Did you use your magic? Don’t think I forgot how you cheated when we first met!”
Merlin made an outraged noise. “Of course not! Accept it, prat, I beat you fair and square.”
“Fine, fine,” Arthur conceded. “A decade of failure. And since then?”
Merlin had the decency to look embarrassed. “It wasn’t fully intentional.” His expression sobered. “I came to the faires to feel… I don’t know, like home wasn’t that far gone after all. The tournaments started out as a joke between Tiffany and me, and after a few years it had turned into a tradition.”
Arthur’s heart broke a little at the casual reminder of Merlin’s long, lonely life. Without thinking, he reached for his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. He slipped a light teasing edge into his voice when he said, “Well, at least you finally appreciate the merit of a good tourney.”
It had the intended effect; Merlin laughed and shoved Arthur away by the shoulder, the hint of melancholy melting off his face. “Of course that’s what you care about, you absolute jock.”
“I don’t even know what that means, Merlin,” replied Arthur with a mock-sneer.
“It means all you care about is swinging your weapons about for the sake of swinging them about.”
“I beg your pardon! The art of—”
“Keep begging,” Merlin cut him off with a shit-eating grin. He pushed open a door to reveal narrow stairs that presumably led up into the grandstand. “It’ll have to wait though, we’re just on time for the coronation.”
Arthur stopped short. “The what?”
“What?”
“Did you just say coronation?”
“Did I?” Merlin paused and turned to give Arthur a wide-eyed, innocent look, before spinning back around and climbing the steps at a quicker pace. “Come on!”
Arthur stared, slack-jawed, at Merlin’s retreating back. Gods, what was he walking into here? There was nothing for it though; Merlin was the one who had driven them here, and Arthur had no other way of getting back to their cottage. He briefly considered just staying here, but dismissed the thought in a heartbeat. Whatever it was, Merlin clearly was excited for it, and that alone was enough to pique his curiosity.
Squaring his shoulders, he went up the stairs after Merlin. As expected, they led into the spacious box of the grandstand, where a small crowd of people in noble attire was gathered.
“Ah! We are hereby completed, I believe!” said a young, deep-skinned woman in a jewel blue dress when she spotted him. She shuffled over to a small ledge by the far wall and scanned over a piece of paper on top of it. She nodded. “Let the ceremony commence!”
Arthur shot Merlin a bewildered look, but all he got in return was an entirely unhelpful smirk. The woman in the blue dress stepped onto a wide podium at the front of the grandstand. Beside it was a small table with several items on it, including, besides several scrolls, a crown. She picked up one of the scrolls and held it out rather dramatically.
The crowd quieted.
“Honoured lords and ladies, it is time for the conclusion of our King’s Tournament!” she proclaimed loudly. “Every year, the fiercest and noblest warriors enter this contest to compete for the ultimate prize, but never before have we witnessed such extraordinary displays of skill and strength. It is my great pleasure to present to you now the best of the best; the winners of this year's tournament. In third place, with starting number twelve: Megan Jones!”
Arthur’s stomach tightened when the dark eyed woman who had surrendered to Arthur and Merlin earlier — Megan, apparently — walked to the front of the box and stepped up onto the podium.
“For your impressive swordsmanship, you are raised to the official rank of Faire Squire.” The woman in blue picked up a smaller scroll from the little table before her and handed it to Megan.
Cheers sounded from the other stands, and Megan gave a quick, almost shy bow, before retreating back into the shadows.
“In second place, with starting number thirty-six: Arthur Pendragon!”
Of course. Arthur shot Merlin a glare, before fixing a smile on his face as he approached the woman in blue. The archery prizes hadn’t required such pomp.
She smiled at him when he reached her, then read from her scroll; “With your superior skill and honourable comportment, you have proven yourself worthy of the rank of Knight of the Faire. You have to kneel for this.” She added the last bit in a low enough voice that only Arthur could hear it.
He resisted rolling his eyes and went down on one knee. In his time, he had knighted countless men, the idea that he was unfamiliar with the procedure was comical. Not that this woman had any way to know that.
Reaching behind her, she retrieved a sword that had been propped against the table. It was clearly a ceremonial weapon, with a thick, golden hilt set with several large jewels. Her grip was tight as she slowly guided it onto Arthur’s left shoulder, then the right.
“Arise, Sir Arthur, Knight of the Faire!”
Despite the fact that this was nothing more than pretence, a warm tingle spread in Arthur’s chest. He didn’t try to hide his smile as he stood.
The woman handed him a scroll much like the one Megan had received.
“Thank you, my lady,” he said with a polite bow, earning himself a flustered blush. As he stepped off the podium, he found Merlin watching him with a soft smile. There was something about his expression Arthur couldn’t quite name, something beyond fondness. Something private, almost intimate. It set Arthur's heart to beating a little faster.
“And finally,” the woman continued behind him as he walked over to where Merlin stood, “in first place, with starting number thirty-seven: Merlin Hunithson!”
The back of Merlin’s hand brushed against Arthur’s when he passed him, sending a slight shiver down Arthur’s spine. He nodded to Megan as he took Merlin’s vacated spot next to her, turning just in time to see Merlin reach the podium.
“With an unparalleled display of skill and strength, you have shown yourself to be a capable warrior and succeeded over all other challengers,” the woman began, her voice ringing out over the cheering crowd. “You have proven yourself honourable, strong, and true; all measures of a worthy king.” She took the crown from the table and raised it high above her head — probably so the audience could see it — then went on, “Thus, it is with great pride and admiration, that I hereby crown you, Merlin Hunithson, the King of the Faire!”
The crowd erupted into a frenzy of applause as Merlin bowed his head to receive the crown before straightening up to his full height, his posture proud and regal. He looked at Arthur and smiled.
Arthur’s heart skipped a beat just for the smile, then skipped another as the image of Merlin wearing a crown sunk in fully. It suited him. Better than Arthur had ever found his own crown to suit himself, a crown he had been raised to bear since childhood — but Merlin wore it like he had been born for it.
Merlin looked away, and the breath caught in Arthur’s throat rushed out of him at once. Belatedly, Arthur joined the thundering applause as Merlin waved to the people outside. It was pure impulse, then, for Arthur to shout, “Long live the King!”
Merlin’s reaction was instant, his head whipping around so fast Arthur feared it might break his neck. His stunned eyes never left Arthur, even as the crowd echoed the call throughout the arena.
He finally startled from his frozen state, when the woman in blue stepped forward again. “And with that, the King’s Tournament is at an end! The feast will begin shortly in the grand court, with one free cup of mead for all who fought in the tourney!”
At once, everyone began to move towards the exit. Only Arthur stayed where he was, never taking his eyes off Merlin as he hopped off the podium and made his way over. Neither of them spoke, crackling silence stretching between them while the last few chattering people filed out of the box, until, finally, they were the only ones left in the grandstand.
The air between them was taut with tension, thick with anticipation.
“If you’re the king,” Arthur finally managed, “does that make me your knight?”
Merlin’s eyes widened for the briefest second, then darkened with a different sort of confidence that sent another shiver over Arthur’s back. “Do you want to be?”
Without really meaning to, Arthur took a step towards him. “I would serve no other.”
A tiny gasp escaped Merlin’s mouth, and Arthur’s gaze dropped, drawn in by the minute movement as if by a magnet. At some point without him noticing, Arthur’s heart had sped up and leapt into his throat. It leapt even higher when Merlin darted out his tongue to lick his lips, leaving them wet and glistening.
“Arthur—”
His own name, spoken with such ardour, was the final straw. Before Merlin could say so much as another word, Arthur closed the distance between them, one hand wrapping around the back of Merlin’s neck as he brought their lips together in a searing kiss.
Time stopped. Everything faded save for the feeling of Merlin's soft mouth, the warmth of Merlin's body pressed close to his. Merlin's hands came up to cradle his face, pulling him in closer and deepening the kiss with a fervour that left Arthur breathless.
When they finally parted, Arthur leaned his forehead against Merlin’s, keeping his eyes closed for another moment while he tried to catch his breath. His heart was still racing.
It wasn’t until Merlin nudged his nose that he opened his eyes to see Merlin watching him with that look again.
Oh.
The realisation came with a flicker of embarrassment. He probably could have figured that out sooner. It had been fairly obvious, now that Arthur truly allowed himself to consider what Merlin might feel for him, without the filter of trying to ignore his own feelings. Merlin had always carried his heart on his sleeve.
Arthur leaned in to kiss him again, the reckless passion from before replaced with a quiet sense of contentment. Of home. He only lingered for a moment, before pulling away fully to let his eyes roam over Merlin.
Merlin’s crown had gone askew, and Arthur didn’t bother to resist the besotted smile that curled his lips as he reached out to adjust it. Perhaps it was time he wore his own heart on his sleeve, too. Even if his only reward was the slightly awe-struck expression on Merlin’s face, that alone was worth it.
“You wear it well,” he said, lowering his hand.
“Not as well as you,” replied Merlin without hesitation. “You will always be my king, Arthur.”
The surge of warmth that filled Arthur’s chest was not new, Merlin had always had a knack for reaching right down into Arthur’s core. Only this time, Arthur wasn’t starved for it. He took Merlin’s hand and squeezed it, a brief, silent acknowledgement of Merlin’s unwavering faith in him even after more than a thousand years of waiting.
Then he straightened, dispelling the solemn mood with a tilt of his head.
“Not today,” he said, his tone firm without being overly serious. He summoned a teasing smirk to his lips before continuing. “Today I am your knight, let me indulge. Now, I heard something about a cup of mead?”
Merlin blinked, briefly perplexed, then his expression softened to an indulgent smile. “Yes, there’s a feast.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” exclaimed Arthur, starting towards the stairs. “I haven’t had decent mead in ages. Oh, and I want to stop by the blacksmith’s wagon before we leave; if I am to be your knight, I need a new sword. Possibly also a shield.”
“Arthur, do you have any idea how expensive those are?” griped Merlin, but he was smiling as Arthur dragged him outside.
“Can’t you just—?” Arthur wiggled his fingers to indicate magic.
Merlin rolled his eyes. “You are incorrigible.”
“That’s a yes,” Arthur crowed.
“Is not!” protested Merlin. “And you’re not supposed to exploit your king.”
Arthur laughed. “You’re the one to talk about respecting royalty! You called me a clotpole!”
“Because you are a clotpole,” replied Merlin seriously, before pulling Arthur to a halt by their linked hands and reeling him into a kiss that sent a shiver all the way down to Arthur’s toes.
Yes, Arthur could get used to this.
After a long, blissful moment, Merlin pulled back to meet Arthur’s eyes. “So, was I right? About coming here?”
“You might have had a point,” Arthur conceded.
“I know it’s not home,” said Merlin. “But—”
“It was exactly what I needed,” interrupted Arthur, squeezing Merlin’s hand. “Now come on, I actually do want that mead. And a sword.”
Merlin laughed, bright and happy. “Still no.”
“See if you can stop me,” Arthur challenged, and darted off into the crowd. And as he ran, a laughing Merlin hot on his heels, this new, modern world really did begin to feel like home.