vanessarama

Title: The King's Trust
Author:

vanessarama
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Uther/Merlin (Arthur/Merlin pre-slash, if you squint)
Words: about 18,000
Spoilers: Season One
Warnings: Dubious consent, veering into non-con in at least one scene. AU, diverging from canon at the end of the first episode.
Summary: Written in response to this prompt at the Merlin kinkmeme: "AU. Rather than being made Arthur's manservant, Merlin is made Uther's concubine."
Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me in any incarnation, and I am making no money from them.

Author's Note: This is my first piece of fanfiction in several years, so I apologise for any rustiness. Many thanks and much love to

vissy, who originally pointed me to the prompt and asked: "Write this one for me" and who then became my partner in crime and general cheer team while this fic took on a mind of its own. And thank you, feedbackers at the kinkmeme, for giving me the inspiration to keep going. Feedback is much appreciated. I'd forgotten how much fun this can be.

Part One is here.

The day of the tournament is fine and hot. The castle is bustling with activity; people cross corridors and courtyards, duck out of doorways and race down stairs. Everybody's busy. Merlin spends the early morning helping Gaius to prepare and pack a good supply of bandages, poultices and ointments for the day. He's looked forward to spending the afternoon watching the fighting, but he's not sure whether the King really meant that he wanted them to watch together, or whether he might have changed his mind in the interim. Edsel's knock and the curt jerk of his head towards the door clarify that, however.

"Are you going to watch the tournament today?" asks Merlin as he strides along beside Edsel.

"If I get the chance," and Edsel sounds snappish. "You better be quick up there. Try not to disturb his clothes too much, or else I'm going to have to dress him again afterwards, and I've only just finished getting him ready."

"I don't think that's what he wants me for," says Merlin.

Edsel snorts.

The King is fully dressed and magnificently cloaked when they arrive. He smiles formally as they enter.

"Edsel, thank you. You are dismissed until this evening. Enjoy the tournament."

"Thank you, your Majesty."

As Edsel disappears, the King turns to Merlin. His eyes are sparkling and there's a smile on his face; suddenly the formality is gone and he looks joyful, unfettered. Merlin's never seen him like this before; even when he's gasping or groaning out his pleasure, the King's face is at least partly shuttered. This Uther looks almost... like a boy.

"Have you eaten?" asks the King. "We have time." He indicates the laden table behind him. "Sit down, have something."

The food is bread, fruit and cheese, nothing too exciting - even the King eats moderately today, in anticipation of tonight's feast - but Merlin is hungry and falls to it willingly, all the more so because for once in the King's presence, he's not being watched. The King is standing by the window, sipping watered wine and viewing the tournament preparations.

The door opens, and Merlin looks up, startled. It's the Lady Morgana, splendid as the morning in bright silk. "My lord -" She breaks off, uncertain, when she sees Merlin.

The King waves a hand from his position by the window. "Morgana. Come in. Would you like some wine?"

Morgana's eyes are wide as she freezes by the door. "I have no wish to intrude, my lord."

"Nonsense. You are not intruding - we're just breaking our fast before we go down to the field. Please, join us."

There's a rustling as Morgana moves across the room and seats herself at the table. Merlin stands, pours her wine; he glances at the King to gauge whether he should serve her further, but at the raised eye and hand gesture retreats to his own seat again, keeping his eyes down. He wonders if the Lady Morgana has ever before entered a room to find a servant seated while his master stands. He is out of place.

Later, when he takes his seat beside the King in the stands, the feeling intensifies until it blackens the morning. The whispers and giggles from the court and spectators don't seem much louder than they were before they took their seats, but the collective gaze of the assembled knights is not easy to bear. Most of all, Merlin feels Arthur's eyes on him, making him lower his own. He doesn't know what the expression on Arthur's face means. It's not distaste, or anger, or curiosity; whatever it is, it's as impenetrable as armour.

When the tournament begins, though, it's easier. Merlin cheers and applauds with the rest of them and nobody pays attention to him. Even the regard of the King rests on him lightly for once, limited as it is to the occasional laughing glance or squeeze of his knee. For once he can fall into in the clang and flash of steel, the smell of hot metal and the shouts of the crowd, and lose himself in the hot bright day.

***

The shadows are long on the field and the crowd is milling around, spilling onto the scuffed field to buy food or drink from the vendors who've suddenly appeared; Merlin casts a longing glance backward as he follows the King to his chambers. Gaius is down there tending the wounded, and he sees Gwen giggling, biting into a ripe fruit with flowers in her hair, as he hurries past. It's been a good day and the late afternoon air is gold and still as honey.

"Bar the door," says the King as they enter his chambers. Merlin does so. When he turns back into the room, the King is stripping off his own gloves and cloak, eyes alight. "Quickly," he says. "There isn't much time. Edsel will be here soon to dress me for the feast." And with that he seizes Merlin by both wrists and drags him towards the bed; he laughs as he lets go abruptly and Merlin spills onto the bedcovers. Merlin raises himself up on his elbows indignantly, and then gasps as the King is suddenly atop him, all lips and bulk and possessive hands. He smells of sweat and the sun.

"You smell so good," murmurs the King, burying his nose in the spot under Merlin's ear and kissing there. "We must be quick now, but I promise you a night to remember later." He rolls onto his side, sliding a hand into Merlin's hair, smiling teasingly as he urges his head down. "Show me how quickly you can pleasure your King."

Edsel arrives just after Merlin has unbarred the door, so conveniently that Merlin suspects he's been listening. The King is off the bed and smoothing his disarranged clothing; Merlin is still dishevelled. He's hot and itchy, frustrated and half-hard, and his neck has the peculiar not-quite-dirty feel his skin gets when it's been mouthed and licked. Also, even for a quick blowjob, that wasn't his best effort and he knows it. The heat of the late afternoon seems to have got into his blood and made his movements clumsy and sluggish. The King, on the other hand, doesn't seem to have noticed anything. In fact, he's positively jovial, apparently still buoyed by the excitement of the day.

"Ah, Edsel. Very good timing. I have only just arrived back from the tournament."

"Yes, my lord?" Edsel's tone is neutral.

"You can have the evening off, Edsel. Merlin will attend me at the feast tonight." The King catches Merlin's eye over Edsel's shoulder and winks conspiratorially at him.

"Very good, my lord," says Edsel, and pointedly doesn't look at Merlin.

***

This is only the second feast Merlin's attended since arriving in Camelot, and it's definitely been worth the wait.

For a start, this is much bigger than the feast at which he saved Arthur's life. The great hall is lined with trestle tables bearing brightly glazed wine jugs and the tables are a dazzle of candles and precious metal. There are visiting knights and nobles here, clad in fur and shining silk; there's music as they eat, and jugglers while they drink. Merlin stands behind the King's chair, properly attentive, refilling his cup as required and enjoying the spectacle. It's as impressive and interesting as the tournament in its own way.

The King limits his attentions to gesturing with his goblet, and occasionally smiling at Merlin or brushing a hand against his arm when he leans over to pour. Beyond that he ignores him, for which Merlin is grateful. He's had the King paying attention to him all day and he's reaching the end of his tether. Normally he can put up with the brushing and petting and attention because he knows it'll be over soon; an hour, maybe two at most. Today has been simultaneously wonderful and far too long. He doesn't want to cage his tongue any longer, but he must be still and calm. There's still that promised "night to remember" to come.

As the evening wears on, the King drinks more and becomes even merrier, and Merlin wonders whether he's forgotten about the promised evening activities. He certainly seems to have forgotten about Merlin. It's getting late now, and most people are moving around the hall, swooping to claim temporary seats next to cronies or co-conspirators. Many of the younger people are dancing; the Lady Morgana is laughing as she leaves the circle of dancers, her cheeks pink with exertion. The King has taken a place further down the table, laughing uproariously with a group of older knights. Many servants are seated on long benches at the far end of the hall, laughing just as cheerfully, enjoying the dancing and the playing of the minstrels. It's hot and noisy and the room smells of sweat and wine, wax and roses.

Merlin has just about decided to join the other servants at the end of the hall - the King is well served by a cluster of servants who seem to be listening to the knights jest and laugh - when his wrist is suddenly gripped. It's the Lady Morgana, fresh from dancing and her colour still high.

"Merlin! Come, sit with me."

Merlin hesitates, not sure whether this is allowed, but her sparkling eyes and the merriment he sees there persuade him. He takes the indicated seat beside her.

"Pour me some wine," she says. "And some for you, too."

The wine is wonderful. Merlin gulps it down. He's thirsty; it's so hot in the room.

"Is that good?" The Lady Morgana smiles at him. She leans forward, her fingertips just brushing the back of his hand, tenderly. "Did you enjoy the tournament?"

"Yes, my lady."

"It's so warm in here. You must be thirsty. More wine?"

The Lady smiles and tops up his goblet herself; her rings glint at him like eyes.

***

It's getting late. The dancing has died away although the minstrels are still playing; the music is gentler now.

The Lady Morgana is the most beautiful woman Merlin has ever seen, and she's sweet-voiced and sweet-scented and talks to him as if he's a real person. However, she keeps filling his goblet with more wine and urging him to drink, and he knows that's not a good idea but he can't think of a good way to refuse. When the King tries to get him to drink more than he wants to, he can distract him with a glance from under his lashes, licking his lips and reaching for him with worshipful hands. That's not a tactic Merlin can use here.

He thinks he might be a little out of his depth, but at the same time everything seems beautifully appropriate, as if he's just where he needs to be and doing what he needs to be doing. He's leaning his head lazily on his hand, elbow hard against the table. He's been talking for a while. Sometimes he looks at the Lady Morgana and her face is blurred, as if he's watching her through water or she's much further away than she is. He has a lot of things he needs to say to her, and she's paying attention. Nobody ever pays him this much attention except the King. It's wonderful.

"It was easy in the beginning but now it's all mixed up and I don't know where I am any more. My mother said, Merlin, Gaius is the only person I trust my only son with. I think she worries 'cos I've never had a father. But I never needed one. I can look after myself and her as well. It's very hot in here. Where's the King?"

"He's fine, Merlin." The Lady Morgana's gaze glides over Merlin's shoulder, over his head, to someone standing behind him. Merlin lets his head fall back to see Prince Arthur standing behind him, one eyebrow quirked in an expression worthy of Gaius.

"What are you staring at, Arthur?" asks the Lady Morgana sweetly.

"I don't know. I'd need to have a look at Gaius' monster book to identify it."

Morgana smirks.

"I'm not surprised you can't recognise a woman when you see one, Arthur. All that time spent running about with your knights. If you don't watch out you'll end up with your father's proclivities."

Arthur's face turns darker.

"What are you doing, exactly?"

"I'm having a drink with Merlin."

"I can see that. Why are you having a drink with Merlin?"

"You can't possibly be jealous, Arthur? Merlin's practically family."

Merlin giggles. Arthur reaches forward and takes the goblet from his hand.

"Hey!" Merlin protests.

"I think you've had enough," says Arthur coldly. He yanks Merlin to his feet. Merlin hears the Lady Morgana call "Arthur!" but she already sounds as if she's a long way away. His legs are moving, although he's not sure why because he doesn't seem to be propelling them of his own accord. Arthur has a hard grip on his arm and one hand on his back, and they're moving down a corridor. Their feet slap loudly on the stone. It's cold out here.

"I have to be there! The King wants me!" Merlin insists. It is very important that Arthur understands this.

Arthur doesn't reply. His face is implacable. Merlin can smell wine on his breath.

A door swings open and Merlin's attention swings with it, and then he's shoved into a chair, jarring him all the way up his backbone.

Merlin stares at Arthur. In the firelight he can see that the prince is probably somewhat under the influence himself; his eyes are bright, his face red, and his chest is heaving.

"Servants aren't supposed to drink," says Arthur at last, his voice very controlled.

Merlin gapes. "But we just passed a whole lot of them in the hall!"

"On duty, Merlin. Servants aren't permitted to drink whilst serving."

"Oh."

"So what were you thinking?" Arthur's voice gets louder. "Don't you realise that you could get into trouble?"

"The Lady Morgana made me-"

"Oh, the Lady Morgana! You could have just reminded her of the rules! She couldn't have made you if you hadn't let her!"

"How could I remind her of the rules when I don't even know them?" Merlin knows his voice is rising ridiculously and he doesn't care; it's this or else let his magic flare out in anger. "It's not like you lot have training for us! It's not like someone gives you a book that says you can't drink on duty, and you can say no to ladies giving you wine, and oh by the way "body servant" means the king wants to sleep with you! There's no - there's no instructions!" Merlin's proud of himself for getting that word out with such emphasis. It seems very important.

Arthur is looking at him with the same strange expression Merlin's seen on his face before; his voice is low but every word falls like a slap in the quiet room.

"Are you telling me that when the King offered you the position you - you did not know what it meant?"

"How could I?" asks Merlin, confused.

"Well..." Arthur's at a loss. "Everybody knows. Everybody does know - "

"Everybody in Camelot, maybe. I'm not from Camelot. How is anybody who's not from Camelot supposed to work out what you lot are on about half the time?"

Arthur has gone still; his face is stone. Merlin knows he's crossed a line; fear pierces his belly.

"Well," says Arthur, slowly. "There's no way you can remain in the King's employ now."

"Why not?" Merlin's confused.

"Because, Merlin! Because we don't make people, I don't know about Cendred's kingdom but in Camelot we don't make people do that!"

"Do what?"

Arthur's voice is rising. "In Camelot we don't force people into servitude. We don't make servants provide us with those favours. I'm sure the King did not realise, when you accepted the position, that you did not know that. He would not wish to distress you. He's fond of you. I'll talk to him and -"

"No!"

"No?" Arthur's face is shocked.

"No! That's my job. I'm good at it. You're not taking it away! If I don't have my job I'll have to leave Camelot and I can't leave, I can't!"

There is a very long pause. Merlin feels pathetic and stupid and utterly wretched. His cheeks are hot; his ears burn with shame. His hands dangle on the ends of his wrists, too large and clumsy. His head feels stuffed with wool.

Arthur shoves a goblet into his hand, but it's not wine; it's water, beautiful shivering water, clear and cold. Suddenly Merlin has never wanted anything more in his life.

"Drink that," says Arthur, his voice rough. "You need to piss the wine out."

Merlin drinks.

***

Arthur's moving around the room fidgeting and lighting candles, and Merlin's on his second goblet of water, when there's a knock at the door. It's the Lady Morgana.

"Morgana," says Arthur. He gestures towards Merlin. "Come to do some more damage?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. I didn't give him that much."

"Drink much wine, do you, Merlin?" asks Arthur calmly.

"Not usually," answers Merlin. "Well. Not at all. Just a sip, with the King. Sometimes. When he -"

"There, Morgana. You should have watered the wine or given him ale."

Morgana's face is colouring again. "I didn't know. I'm sorry, Merlin."

Merlin looks at her beautiful, distressed face and offers her a smile. It comes out a little wider and sillier than he intended. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"Either way, he's got to sober up. Neither of you wants to incur Father's wrath tonight. It's rare that he has a good day; I don't want it wasted."

"That's what I came to tell you," says Morgana urgently. "Uther's looking for Merlin. He wants him now. I think some people saw him come up here with you -"

Arthur's face turns indignant. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

There's a pause. Merlin looks from Arthur's frowning face to Morgana's beseeching one.

Arthur's face clears. "Morgana, you need to delay my father. Tell him that you think Merlin's sick and with Gaius. That will hold him long enough for me to sober Merlin up somewhat and get him out of here. Go." Morgana's gone in a whirl of bright silk almost before he's finished speaking.

"What should I do?" asks Merlin.

"You can finish your water and then get to the garderobe." snaps Arthur. "Get rid of that wine. Make yourself vomit if you have to."

Arthur's garderobe, like the one in the King's chambers, is reached from a narrow passageway off the antechamber. Merlin steadies himself with a hand against the wall. There's an icy draft and the stone is cold; it helps to get through the haze of wine. His head is clearing, as if curtains are being slowly drawn back in his mind. He splashes his face with cold water.

As he enters the antechamber on his way back, Merlin hears raised voices. The King is in Arthur's chambers and it sounds as if they're in the middle of an argument. Merlin's surprised; how long was he in the garderobe? It didn't seem like that long a time.

"Are we to be like the Roman emperors now, dragging our favourites into the public arena and making fools of ourselves?"

"You are speaking of your own forebears, Arthur. The people from whom much of our tradition is drawn. Would you fault their wisdom?"

"For learning, governing, military tactics, no! But this is different! Was it not the licentiousness and corruption of their rulers that caused the Roman empire to fall? Being slaves to their personal pleasures, commanding no respect from their people -"

Uther's voice is cold, with scorn in it. "Are you implying that my people do not respect me? That I am not worthy in their eyes?"

Arthur's voice, in contrast, is earnest. "Father. You are the strongest and most upright man I know, and all who know you must give you the respect that is your due. But most people in your kingdom do not know you, have never had the chance, and they may fall prey to rumours and doubts. This public display of a relationship, which is not sanctioned by the bonds of family or the rules of state, may be perceived as a sign of weakness. You have always taught me that a king must not show a preference lest his enemies find a weakness to exploit. What if some rival king begins spreading rumours that your visits to the outer regions are to find boys to take to your bed? Or that you've become soft and degenerate, caring only for pleasures of the flesh? What if someone decides to kidnap Merlin, force your secrets out of him, to gain the advantage over you?" Arthur's voice becomes softer. "Please, father. Nobody is suggesting that you give him up. All I ask is that you think carefully about what you do and about how it will appear to those who do not have the chance to truly know you."

There is a long moment, during which Merlin holds his breath.

"I will speak to you tomorrow," says Uther coldly. "I have a servant to find."

"Father - "

The door thuds into place.

Merlin emerges from the antechamber to find Arthur leaning back against the table.

"Feeling better?"

"Definitely," says Merlin. "Just a little fuzzy now."

"You have to get down to your room," says Arthur, "Gaius can tell him you're not well. That way he'll leave you alone and he won't get close enough to smell the wine."

"Why were you arguing about me?" asks Merlin. "I said you didn't need to do that."

"It wasn't about you. Well," Arthur amends, "not all about you."

"You didn't need to say all that stuff about Roman emperors and respect. I thought you said you didn't want him in a bad mood?"

Arthur rolls his eyes again. "Merlin. He was already in a bad mood because he couldn't find you. If you hadn't been an idiot, he would still be having a good evening and I wouldn't be making plans behind my father's back."

"I didn't ask you to drag me up here," says Merlin. "It would've been all right if you'd left me there."

"If he'd found you drunk it would have been even worse. This way he'll only be angry for as long as he can't find out where you are. When Gaius tells him you're sick - "

"Then he'll be frustrated," snaps Merlin, tired and heartsick and cross at Arthur for interfering. "You've made things worse."

Arthur scowls. "Don't be ridiculous. I think I know my father better than you do."

"I know him better than you think," says Merlin defiantly. "Surprisingly well. He trusts me."

Arthur snorts. Merlin glares.

"All right," says Arthur after a moment. "Let's get you downstairs. The back way. And hope Morgana's got to Gaius in time."

"Even if she did, it's not as if I'm there now. Gaius won't lie to the King."

"He won't have to. Morgana's good at this kind of thing. She'll say she needs Gaius to come and help her with you or something. It'll be all right as long as we get moving." Arthur pushes the door open.

The King is leaning against the wall outside.

***

Merlin feels Arthur freeze, stock-still beside him. His own limbs are stiff. The King's face is immobile, eyes glittering. Hours seem to pass.

"I would ask why my servant would be hiding from me in my son's chambers," says Uther. "And I would ask why my son would lie to me."

"Father -"

"I would ask these things," continues Uther, as if Arthur had not spoken, "if I thought that I would receive a truthful answer. Until tonight I knew that my son does not lie to me. I no longer know this. And I can draw only one conclusion."

"Father, you can't possibly believe that I - that I would -"

"I no longer know what to believe."

"You wouldn't believe the truth if we told you," says Merlin, and promptly wishes he could bite his tongue off as the King turns a face of cold fury to him.

"You will come with me. And you will be silent."

"Father, please!"

"I told you that I would speak to you tomorrow," says Uther, and with that he seizes Merlin by the arm and pulls him savagely away. Merlin stumbles and rights himself. As Uther pulls him down the corridor he jerks his head back to look over his shoulder to Arthur, whose jaw is shifting, his eyes angry and hurt and shocked.

***

The King shoves Merlin through the doorway of his chambers with such force that he loses his balance and slides over the floor. He lands up against a table leg. Uther strides across, grabs his shoulder and drags him to his feet. Merlin grunts as he's pushed face down against the table, the King's hand at the top of his spine; his forehead makes contact with the wood with a clunk. His arms are by his sides, hands unable to grip anything. The table smells like beeswax.

There's a pause; Merlin can hear the King breathing harshly behind him. He ventures, "My lord-"

"Shut up." The voice is like a slap.

The King's hand leaves Merlin's neck, to begin yanking at the ties of his breeches. Merlin tries to help but the King shoves him hard, making the table jump.

"Remain still" snarls the King. He yanks Merlin's trousers, losing patience; the laces snap.

"Sire, you have to listen-"

"Shut up."

"He was telling me off, I didn't know -"

"You will remain silent or I will have your tongue cut out."

Merlin clenches his jaw. He's horribly afraid now, in a way he's never known before. His legs tremble and the fear in his belly plummets down into a pit.

The King slaps his buttocks hard, making him jump. Then there's a pressure and an intrusion; not flesh but something Merlin's never felt before. It takes him a moment to realise that it's the King's thumb, still clad in its leather glove. He's never done this with his glove on before. It's not at all comfortable; the leather is warm and supple but there are hard ridges along the seam lines and they hurt. Merlin can't resist squirming, and the King slaps him again with the hand not currently occupied with invading his arse. "Shut up," he orders, although Merlin hasn't made a sound.

The second hand is placed on him, and there's another gloved thumb sliding in beside the first. Now the burn is turning into actual pain. The King has a palm on each buttock and he's drawing his thumbs apart, prising Merlin open like a piece of fruit. Then the thumbs are gone; from the movement Merlin guesses the King's working at his own breeches, getting himself out and ready.

The King shoves inside him. It's better than the leather-clad thumbs, softer, but it's still difficult for him to work his way inside without the leisurely fingering and the salve they normally use. It seems to take forever before he's seated all the way in and begins to move. His thrusts are sharp and hard, shoving Merlin's hips up against the hard edge of the table every time. WIthout the use of his hands to anchor himself, Merlin is helpless to prevent himself being jostled, or even to thrust eagerly back against the King the way he likes, pleasing him and making him come faster.

It's only a short time before the King groans and withdraws; but before Merlin can move, his shoulders are pulled and he's sliding helplessly off the table, sprawling ungracefully at the King's feet. He's yanked to his knees and then there's a hand in his hair, tilting his head back so he has to look at the King's red and furious face, his gloved hand working at his cock, his eyes like chips of ice. Then the king groans, pulls Merlin closer, and comes all over his face, uttering a low series of grunts as he does so.

There's a pause. The smell of semen is overwhelming. The King is staring down at him, panting slightly; he runs his gloved fingers one last time over his cock, milking out the last few drops, and wipes them in Merlin's hair.

"You will not speak to my son again," says Uther. "He will be King one day. He must not fall prey to my... weakness." The last word contains such a weight of scorn and self-loathing and disgust that Merlin almost feels sorry for him.

"Get out," says the King. "Do not speak to me again until I give permission for you to do so."

Merlin gets to his feet awkwardly, pulling his breeches up and trying to get the torn strings together. He reaches a hand towards the towel which is on the table.

"No," says the King coldly. "There is no reason for you to clean yourself up. Everyone in the castle knows what you are. What you have proven yourself to be."

Merlin gives him one incredulous, furious, humiliated look before he collects himself and gets himself as quickly as possible out of the door.

***

Outside in the corridor, Merlin removes his scarf and swipes angrily at his face with it with sharp jabs; the King's come is already beginning to dry sticky on his face, and he has to rub hard. Throwing the stained cloth away would be satisfying, but he doesn't dare; any servant finding it will know who it belongs to and what it's stained with, and anyway he's not chucking out his own perfectly good clothes. He needs water. He's sore and he can feel bruises beginning to form on his hips and probably his forehead.

"Merlin!"

It is, of course, the last person he wants to see right now.

"Go away."

"You weren't in there very long. Are you all right? What did he say?"

"Don't come near me!" Merlin snaps. He doesn't want Arthur to see him. Or smell him.

Arthur, of course, comes closer.

"I'm not allowed to talk to you," says Merlin furiously, turning and striding down the corridor as fast as he dares with his ruined breeches held up by the same hand that's clutching his come-damp scarf.

"Well, I'm allowed to talk to you," says Arthur. "What did he say?"

"Not much," snaps Merlin. "Apart from to stay away from you." He increases his stride. Arthur easily keeps up with him.

"Does he still think that -"

Merlin doesn't reply, too furious to get the words out.

"It'll be all right," says Arthur. "I'll talk to him."

"No!" Merlin stops so abruptly that Arthur strides right past him and has to back up a few feet. He looks at Merlin and his face changes, as if he's suddenly seen the pain in Merlin's eyes. His nose is also twitching as if he's registering the evidence of what's just happened in the King's chambers and that's honestly the last straw; Merlin doesn't know what he'll do if the concern on Prince's face turns to disgust.

"I don't want you to talk to him," says Merlin, so angry that he can scarcely push the words out. It becomes easier as he goes on, though, although his voice is getting higher and louder and the hot tears are prickling in his eyes again. "I don't want you to say anything! You always do this, all of you, you interfere when things were perfectly all right before, and now you've ruined everything. I just want to be left alone!" The last word comes out ridiculously high, and Merlin takes to his heels and bolts down the corridor, not looking back.

***

The King doesn't send for him for a week.

Merlin spends the days in a haze of tension, his own muscles knotting into a rope to bind him. He stops eating, although Gaius, who clearly knows that something is going on, tries to tempt him with especially succulent dishes. Merlin knows that's what he's doing, and it makes him even tenser and angrier. He spends most of his time hunched over on his bed, reading his magic book, or doing odd chores. Cleaning the leech tank, savagely pounding herbs in the mortar, scrubbing the floor and washing laundry keeps him busy and he welcomes it. Working hard, working with his hands, is better than sleeping or reading or wanking; he lets his mind become as empty as a clean jar and then his thoughts and feelings don't bother him any more. He only leaves Gaius' rooms at night, when the castle is still and quiet like a tomb, and then he walks the corridors with his mind as smooth and blank as ice.

He's washed his scarf four times, although it was probably clean after the first time.

He'd never seen that side of the King before. Even at his angriest moments, even when he's been soured and embittered by the day, the people, the responsibilities, the King has never been cruel. But then, Merlin supposes, the King has never been angry at him before.

Gaius wisely asks him nothing; Merlin assumes that he knows, after Merlin's desperate and dishevelled entrance into his room on the night of the feast, that something bad has happened. For all he knows, the entire castle is talking about it. For all he knows, he's sacked and the King just assumes he knows and hasn't bothered to tell him.

He doesn't see Arthur during this week, or the Lady Morgana. Gwen turns up the afternoon after the feast, her anxiety clear.

"The Lady Morgana sent me to enquire after you," she says.

Merlin, who is busy macerating herbs in oil, responds with a smile which doesn't reach his eyes.

"Thank the Lady Morgana for me. I'm fine."

Gwen comes closer and puts a hand on his arm. He stops working and looks at her; the soft curls brushing her cheek, her strong hand with its short nails. She smells of healthy things; green plants, lavender, bread and the slightest hint of sweat. She smells like a world Merlin remembers from a long time ago.

"She didn't mean to get you into trouble. She just - well, she cares about people. She saw you on your own there and she wanted you to enjoy the feast."

Merlin shrugs and smiles. It feels a little more genuine this time.

"I'm fine, really. Keeping myself busy. Lots to do."

Gwen takes the hint and leaves, although not before squeezing his hand briefly.

***

On the seventh day after the feast, Edsel appears, his face without its usual cheery grin. "Merlin. His Majesty wants you."

Merlin is labelling ointment jars. He's just about given up on the King now, and Edsel's words are an unwelcome intrusion, a blotch of angry red on the clean white linen of his mind. He follows as if in a dream.

He knows he should be feeling something, he should be excited or apologetic or terrified. Perhaps he's being given another chance. But he's daubed over the cracks in his heart and he can't let go too easily. Of course it's possible that the King has talked to Prince Arthur, realised how wrong he was and is going to apologise, although Merlin is inwardly snorting at how unlikely that is. It's far more likely that he's going to get the sack. He knows that there's little possibility the King will find another position for him, despite Gaius' assurances when he first agreed to this, so long ago. More likely, he'll have to go home.

He doesn't want to go home. At the thought of leaving, for the first time in a week, he feels a prickle of something around the edges, something less hard and pure than anger.

Leaving means going back to Ealdor, to his mum and her warmth and understanding; but also to her worry and concern for him, and to harsh winters and not enough food or firewood. To the place where everybody's known him since birth, where he won't be Merlin any more, but part of Hunith-and-Merlin. Going back to the place where there's nothing to talk about but each other, and not enough people to avoid rehashing the same suspicions and whispers and sneers.

Leaving means no Gwen and no Gaius. Leaving means no money to earn, no independence, no privacy and no magic book. Merlin clenches his jaw. He's forged himself a life here, and he can't let it go. He needs to persuade the King to give him another chance, somehow, or at least to let him stay. He doesn't care if the King fucks him, if the King hates him, if the King has him on his knees every night, as long as he can stay in Camelot. He's Merlin, and he's meant for something greater than sowing and growing and dying unknown.

Edsel doesn't follow him into the King's chambers; he just holds the door and closes it quietly when Merlin's inside. The King is standing by the window, a tall dark figure against the light. Merlin can't see his face properly.

"Come here," says the King.

Merlin approaches the bulky figure, stopping a few feet away. The light coming through the stained glass has a colour to it, almost a texture; he hasn't seen such a thing all week, keeping to Gaius' room and the shadowed night corridors. It's as if he's left a tiny cramped existence in a jar and has been spilled into the wider world.

"Do not be afraid," says the King, sounding remote, as if he's a long way away. "Tell me why you were in my son's chambers the night of the feast."

Merlin doesn't want to let himself hope, but something begins to loosen in his chest anyway.

"I was drinking, at the feast," he says, mouth dry. "I was drinking wine. I didn't know I shouldn't. Nobody ever told me, and - Prince Arthur told me. He was angry. He took me to his room and made me drink water. Then I was in the garderobe when you came in. My lord."

There is a long pause.

"I have spoken with my son," says Uther. He steps forward, out of the light and into Merlin's space.

Merlin doesn't realise that he's trembling slightly until the King puts a hand on his shoulder, curls it around to the back of his neck. The other hand comes up to stroke down his cheek. They're ungloved; Merlin can feel the callouses.

"Arthur tells the same tale," says the King. "I believe him. My son does not lie." He pauses, and both hands are now on Merlin's face. Fingers caress under his ears, thumbs skirt his cheekbones and stroke across his lips, as if Uther wants to shape him into something new.

Merlin's tension is loosening, lessening, falling away from him; his job is safe, and the King trusts him again. He reaches forward, with the artless eagerness he's perfected over months of feigned passion, to touch the King's broad chest; but his hands are gripped tightly.

"No," says the King. "This is no longer part of your duties."

Merlin gapes at him. What? "But my lord -"

"I have spoken with my son about you," continues Uther."He has brought to my attention certain... matters which I must attend to. From today, you are relieved of your duties as my body servant." There's regret and resignation in his tone.

Merlin feels the buildup of frustration again. Oh, that interfering, arrogant prat, he's lost me my job forever now. His heart is a stone, painful and heavy.

"Prince Arthur and I are in agreement that I should never have offered you this position in the first place. No -" as Merlin opens his mouth to speak again, "it is not because of any dissatisfaction with your work. I am very pleased with you. You have offered me exemplary and loyal service. It is because you have served so faithfully and well that I wished to explain this to you myself." He releases Merlin's wrists, putting a hand on his shoulder instead. It's a formal gesture, a stranger's gesture, keeping him at arm's length.

"I realise now that you do not understand the ways of the world in the way that one born into Camelot's service would. There are issues of protocol. Of politics. The art of dissembling, guile, seeming frank yet revealing nothing - these things can hardly be expected of you, fresh from the country as you were. This was not clear when you took up your duties; until that time you were not even one of my subjects. And yet if you are to remain in the royal court, these arts will be necessary. All Camelot's servants must be versed in such matters; for a personal servant to the King, this is even more vital."

"But-" Merlin blurts. "But I can learn! My lord, I am quick to learn and -" He stops before he can add and quite good at disguising and dissembling, actually.

The King looks at him gravely. "Nevertheless, I cannot keep you. And yet you are too tempting a morsel to leave idle. Outside the court you are prey to any number of charlatans and spies; and while I am sure you will be tempted by other offers here in Camelot, I want no nobles boasting that they own what the King once had, and using you against me." He pauses. "And you did save my son's life. This is why I am awarding you into his service. From today you are to be Prince Arthur's manservant. "

Merlin can't speak. He's not sure whether the swelling in his chest is frustration or relief.

"Your duties will not be the same as those you have experienced in your current position. My son does not require such personal service. You will serve the Prince his meals, look after his wardrobe, his armour and weapons, and any other matters he may request of you. I know that you have taken an interest in the sparring and training already; this will give you the chance to learn more of those arts, and the proper services required by a knight."

"Yes, my lord," falters Merlin.

"In my son's service you will learn the protocols necessary to serve the King. And also-" The King cups Merlin's chin, gazing into his face. "My son will be King one day. Yet he is young. His knights are loyal even to death, but he has had little success in finding a servant who offers him the same. He needs someone who can listen without passing on what he hears, who can speak to him without judgement, who can keep his secrets. He needs the devotion and service which you have shown to me. He will need it even more than I myself, for he is the King to come."

Merlin has forgotten how the King smells over the past week; his nostrils fill with metal, leather and salt. The King's steady gaze bores into him, under the reservoir of hope he hadn't known was there, and sends it running through his veins and bones and sinews, swelling and softening him.

"I will do my best, my lord."

"You have shown such extraordinary loyalty to me, that I know you will serve my son in the manner he needs." The King smiles. "I trust you. You may go to him now."

***

Merlin doesn't go straight to the Prince's chambers, despite the King's words. He makes it down several corridors and a flight of steps, reaching one of the arched doorways leading to the courtyard before he has to stop and lean against the wall, eyes closed, the rough stone catching at his scarf. The hugeness of his relief falls upon him like rain descending; the shock of cold slapping his senses awake, the water on his cheek, and then the vividness of colour against what had been grey and dull. Under the relief there's a tumult of emotion; frustration, anger, delight, hope, wound around each other like ribbons on a maypole, too close and too tight to untangle.

The sound of boots on the stone alerts him to someone coming. Somehow, he knows whose step it is already. He opens his eyes.

"Ah, Merlin. Has my father spoken to you about your new duties?"

Arthur reaches out to clap him on the shoulder, still veiled in that faint air of arrogance; but his smile is genuine and reaches all the way to his eyes. Merlin regards him critically, looking for the father in the son. He finds him only in shadows; the fold at the corner of Arthur's eyelid, the stubborn jaw, and the slight vulnerability of his mouth.

Arthur's grin is fading under his scrutiny, doubt entering his face. "Merlin? You do know? You are willing to serve me?"

Merlin schools his features to remain blank, despite the emotions bubbling up inside him. Destiny is destiny, but that doesn't mean Arthur gets out of this scot-free. Besides, there's something he's not quite sure about, and he needs to know before he lets himself accept the shape of this new life.

"You told him!"

Arthur rears his head back, regarding Merlin quizzically. "Told who, and told what?"

"The King. Told him I didn't know what my job was, that I didn't know what he was offering me. You told him. Was it a big laugh?"

Arthur raises an eyebrow, Gaius-like.

"No. No, not much of a laugh at all, actually. Because I didn't tell him."

"You what?"

"Come on, Merlin. Do you really think I'd tell him? Make you look like an ignorant bumpkin, make him feel like a complete brute? I assume you didn't want him to know."

"No," says Merlin, low. "I didn't".

"Exactly. Hardly big laugh material. Not to mention that there are much better ways of getting a laugh, with you around. In fact, that's the only reason I asked for your service. It's got to be worth a few guffaws just watching you try to cope with my armour."

"You asked for me?"

"Of course I asked for you. It's my job to see you shape up into something vaguely suitable for service at the royal court. Although I must admit," says Arthur thoughtfully, "it was tempting to agree with my father that we'd be better off appointing you court jester."

Arthur appears to be having trouble controlling his mouth. Merlin glares.

"He never said that, the King."

"Oh, you're sure? Like I told you, Merlin, I know my father better than you do."

Time becomes loose and sags. They stand in the corridor eyeing one another.

"Anyway," says Arthur briskly. "If you're going to work for me, you'll have to actually work. None of that lolling about doing nothing."

"You think I was lolling about doing nothing, when I worked for your father?"

"I think" says Arthur deliberately, "that we are never going to talk about what you were doing when you worked for my father. In fact, I would much prefer if we never again mention that you were once in my father's service. It's totally irrelevant to your service with me. Do I make myself clear?"

Merlin lets the corners of his mouth twitch. "So... I won't be expected to share your room, then?"

"Certainly not."

"Good, because if you're anything like your father..."

"Merlin," Arthur warns.

"I was only going to say that, well... he snores."

"Merlin! My father does not snore!"

"Oh, he does."

Arthur shrugs. "Obviously you weren't actually awake and heard yourself snoring in your sleep. I should think that's far more likely."

Around them the castle is thrumming with life. Merlin hears the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the protesting groan of the water pump, the shouts of children at play. A couple of maids pass them, their arms piled with folded cloth, chattering; they bob to Arthur good-naturedly, smiling. A pair of guards clank past them, going the other way. A man in the courtyard is singing under his breath, apparently as he tends to the horses which Merlin can hear whickering and snorting softly. Beyond, from the town spread out past the castle, there's a muted hum and babble; voices, activity, animals, all the bustle of a city and all the life there. Merlin feels he could reach out and grasp it, hold the entirety of life in the palm of his hand, rich and glowing. Perhaps he could.

This is Camelot. This is where he belongs.

"I'm going to the practice fields," says Arthur lightly. "Coming?"

Merlin grins at him. They stride out into the courtyard in step.

~~~FIN~~~