Chapter Text
This was a waste of a perfect spring day.
The first truly warm and pleasant day of the season had made itself known this morning, summoning Arthur from his slumber in a rare peaceful moment. That is, before his memory had caught up to him, snaking up his chest and catching in his throat in cold dread.
As he stood in the courtyard, his father a statue to his left, the tranquility of the day taunted him in its sunny breeze and whisper of blooming flowers.
What he wouldn't give to be in the woods right now, secluded from every expectation and demand that had herded him here. Away from the eyes of the court, whose gazes he could feel burning into his skin from where they waited, lining the stairs like jewels on a crown.
Unable to resist his own restlessness, Arthur glanced to his left at where Morgana stood, their shared look hidden from Uther who stood a step in front of them. Her ice-blue eyes met his own desperate ones, but all the omega could offer him was a flat smile. The both of them were helpless in this.
Arthur looked away, returning his hardened stare towards the entrance of the courtyard and twitching in annoyance when there was still no one there. It had been nearly three whole candlemarks since the watchguards had reported the banners of Essetir Blue approaching from the forest, of which Arthur had been standing on the steps for nearly two. He could not imagine what was keeping the party so long, and as he finally lost his patience and turned to his father to complain, an assembly of horses trotted through the gates.
A parade of nearly three dozen approached, comprised of Essetir’s court, who wore a variety of bright jewel tones, the kingdom’s knights, and the royal family at the head. There were a little over a dozen knights, all clad in shining chainmail and deep indigo cloaks flung over the backs of their steeds. Two held the kingdom’s colors, rich cobalt fabric that rippled in the wind, the movement seeming to make the silver emblem’s wings move in flight.
The use of a dragon for Essetir’s emblem had always irked Arthur, a childish irritation that made him flush red in the face of King Balinor’s childish pettiness. A Dragonlord he may have once been, but there were no more dragons. Only a dragon conqueror that had cleared the lands of the Dragonlords’ abuse of their weapons against Albion — his father. Still, when the man had conquered Essetir some ten summers ago and remade the kingdom into his own, a dragon he had chosen.
The horses slowed to a walk, and then halted several paces from the bottom of the stairs. There was an undeniable tension in the air, one that made Arthur agitated, though he worked to not show it. He wondered — feared, really — that everyone could sense his nervousness just as he could sense the tight discomfort of the three figures leading the procession.
"How strange it is to be back in Camelot,” King Balinor said, words clipped and narrow. Arthur frowned, and though he knew he should be focused on the ruler in front of him, he could not stop his gaze from drifting to the man’s right.
Arthur had been told little of Prince Merlin. With Essetir excluded from the courts of Albion there was little gossip to forge an image from. As such, all Arthur had managed to derive from the boundless heresay of the omega was that of his supposedly witty intelligence and fae-like beauty. And of course, what had been the final nail in the coffin that sealed Arthur’s fate: his mother, Queen Hunith, had forbid him from learning magic.
Of the omega’s intelligence Arthur could not pertain from staring, but his features confirmed that at least some rumors held truth. Even still seated on his black mare, and his indigo cloak draped over much of his frame, Arthur could tell the man was tall and lithe, with ivory skin and a shock of tousled midnight-dark locks that brushed in gentle curls over his brows — to say nothing of the definition of his cheeks or strength of his jaw. Only his ears, overlarge and practically leaping from his skull, fought against his beauty.
The prince was indeed pleasing, but that meant little in the face of everything else Arthur did and did not know.
As if feeling the weight of Arthur’s gaze, Prince Merlin’s head twitched from its direction towards Uther to catch Arthur in his stare instead. The temptation to look away was great, but Arthur found he could not. Prince Merlin did not mask his expression with one of courtly pleasantness or neutrality, but instead let his first impression of his betrothed bleed through. To Arthur’s surprise, there was no open hostility, or infuriating twitter-pated infatuation that he had seen in other omegas; only a tempered mix of challenge and curiosity.
“King Balinor,” his father responded, ignoring the jab in phrase but allowing the scorn in his tone to carry along the breeze. Arthur tore his gaze away from the prince and nearly winced, the tone familiar to his ears, but King Balinor’s stony expression remained set in its coldness. “You have changed much. I should not have recognized you.”
“The world has changed,” King Balinor said simply, his eyes, a piercing blue so deep they were nearly black, sweeping to Arthur for a moment.
The royal family dismounted, and Arthur resolutely kept his stare on the king rather than the prince as they approached. The omega was opposite Morgana, at least, but Arthur could feel his eyes burning against his skin.
When the three stopped, a few steps lower than Camelot’s royalty, the customary bows and curtsies were exchanged. Curiously, King Balinor inclined his head to both Arthur and Morgana. His father did no such thing for Prince Merlin.
It was decidedly strange being so close to a sorcerer, or one that wasn’t attacking him anyway. Without Arthur’s knowledge of the man in front of him, he could have believed him to be a regal king rather than someone who had been suffering the corruption of magic for decades. His face was aged and weathered, but in a way that described dignity and courage rather than his failings. Alabaster painted the chin of his black beard and strung through the long curls that rested under a silver crown, the only piece of finery that decorated him. Not that Arthur could particularly judge a traveling party’s attire — the trip would have taken nearly a week, slowed down by its decent size and the couple of wooden carts that had been hauled across two kingdoms.
“May I present my son, Prince Merlin,” King Balinor said, his words stale.
“You are welcome, Prince Merlin,” Uther responded routinely, though Arthur knew he did not mean anything he was saying. “This is my son, Prince Arthur.”
On his cue, Arthur stepped towards Prince Merlin and bowed before straightening. He did not smile upon meeting a set of sky blue eyes. “It is an honor, and my pleasure, to meet you.”
He could tell the other prince did not believe him. His brows twitched further up into the black curls that rested on his forehead, while the sharpness of his gaze was beginning to confirm the rumors of the omega’s intelligence.
Prince Merlin was silent for a moment, the tension on the air sweltering and threatening to turn sour in its exposure, before he finally parted his lips.
“Thank you. I look forward to strengthening our kingdoms.”
His words were just as rehearsed as Arthur’s had been.
All things considered, Merlin could not say that he had an ugly husband, but it didn’t stop the man from being a terrible bore.
When the introductions and pompous court traditions surrounding them had finally finished at the castle's entrance, his father and King Uther had retreated for a private discussion. His mother had been led to her chambers, sending Merlin a reproachful look before she left. Then Prince Arthur had offered to give him a tour of the castle, something he had rather obviously been told to do. Still, Merlin could not begrudge the man his reluctance — he also wished he was not here.
Merlin especially wished he had turned down the tour and escaped to whatever rooms he’d been assigned. Prince Arthur had spoken not a word, save to name where some door or hall led to, and he had rebuffed any attempt on Merlin’s part to begin any conversation. Even pleasantries were off the table for the prickly alpha.
So much for giving it a chance, Merlin thought bitterly, the echoes of his mind his only current companion. All his mother had been imploring of him, the weeks deliberating before the agreement and then on the way to finalize the treaty now, was to not judge the prince for his heritage. To let him speak for himself, and maybe he, and this marriage, would surprise Merlin.
Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin observed said man. Blond and broad, though not as tall as himself, he noted smugly, he fit the image of Camelot’s Crown Prince to a tee. It was almost possible to believe what was said of him; the best knight and hunter in all of Albion, or so some claimed. Almost. The best knight in Albion was a lark if he’d ever heard one.
“This is the library,” Prince Arthur said, his tone the same clipped thing it had been at the throne room, the North tower, the royal sitting room, and every other place they had had the displeasure of passing through.
This room, at least, picked at Merlin’s interest. He stopped at the entrance, though Arthur strode forward a few more steps before stopping reluctantly.
“How extensive are the shelves?” Merlin asked, stepping inside. It was darker than the rest of the castle, mustier too. No candles or fire burned in the hearth.
At this, the prince blinked. “Extensive enough.”
“Do you like to read?” Merlin tried, approaching a shelf at random and glazing over the titles. The selection was varied enough, and the books well looked after, but his favorite subject would not be available anywhere in Camelot.
“I do not have the time.”
More like he couldn’t read.
“What do you like to do instead?” Merlin tried again, more at the behest of his mother than any real interest, his tone flat.
“My duties.”
“Such as?”
Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, clearly thinking him an idiot for the question. Still, he answered, “Training, hunting, state affairs.”
This man must be as exciting as a rock.
Normally Merlin was prone to scratching and prodding, looking for roots, or poking the bear, so to speak, but that did not seem a smart option at the moment. Every step he took in Camelot felt precarious, like he walked on a narrow path at the edge of a cliff, the ancient stone crumbling under his feet. Prince Arthur gave the impression that if Merlin poked him, he would shove Merlin off the path.
But, Merlin supposed, maybe it would be better to know whether the animal simply growled or attacked before they were married in a fortnight. Not that it would change much if the response was the swipe of claws. There was no way to escape this marriage, short of running away, and that would only hurt his kingdom further.
Turning back to the bookshelf, Merlin allowed himself to examine and linger at his leisure. Arthur was very clearly stewing with impatience, but nothing he did would please the alpha — except to maybe disappear — so he ignored him.
After perusing for a few minutes, Merlin finally settled on a small tome, older and more frayed than the rest. The rattiness drew him to curiosity, and just as he looked at the title — a book of Greek poems — a voice demanded:
“What do you think you are doing?”
Merlin swung around, finding a surly looking old man glaring at him. He glanced over at Arthur, who did not look at him but did not seem concerned, and floundered. “Just, uh — ”
“I am just showing Prince Merlin the castle, Sir Geoffrey,” Arthur said flatly. “He took an interest in the library.”
Sir Geoffrey grunted, though his demeanor lost some of its aggression. Some. He gave a short bow. “You are welcome here, Prince Merlin. I am Sir Geoffrey of Monmouth, the Court Genealogist and Library Keeper.”
Court Genealogist. Merlin supposed the man would be adding his own lineage into some Pendragon tome in a few weeks. The thought was a splash of cold water, as everything that brought him closer to his new reality had been the last few weeks.
Smiling weakly, Merlin inclined his head. “A pleasure to meet you, Sir Geoffrey. I imagine we will be seeing much of each other.”
The man did not seem excited about the prospect.
“Uh, may I—?” Merlin asked, holding up the book still in his hand.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Geoffrey said deferentially, all while glaring at him. Gods, if he could not even get the librarian to like him, Merlin feared for a very lonely life in the castle indeed. “Be careful with the spine of that one; it is one of the oldest in the library.”
“I will take care with it,” Merlin agreed.
“We best get on our way,” Arthur said. Merlin imagined the last of his patience had finally worn out, but it suited him just fine. He did not care to be subject to Geoffrey’s suspicious stare any longer, and so followed the prince out the doors and let the man continue to lead him on the listless tour.
The two of them had only gotten a hallway over — with three words spoken between them — when Merlin decided his own patience had run dry.
“Is it because my father is a sorcerer, or do you just treat everyone this way?”
Prince Arthur missed a step, clearly shocked, but righted himself quickly as he came to a halt.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Merlin sniffed, unamused. “So you’re just an all around prat, then?”
“You can’t talk to me like that!” the prince exclaimed, outrage twisting his handsome features.
“Excuse me, my lord, I thought I’d just follow your example.”
The man scowled, face turning flush. It matched the deep red of his tunic, making him look even more the famed Prince of Camelot.
“You’d best watch your tongue,” Arthur warned.
“For what reason?” Merlin challenged, even though he knew he was being stupid and playing with fire better left alone. “I do not care for your favor, and whether I have it or not doesn’t change my fate.”
This seemed to stump the prince, who had likely never had anyone not care about his good opinion. He blinked, still red in the face and frowning.
“You are not like any prince I have met,” Arthur said finally, his words clearly an insult, but Merlin had to suppress an amused smile, biting his cheek.
“How so?”
“You don’t act like one.”
“Maybe I’m just not a stuck-up clotpole.”
“A what?” Arthur’s face was flabbergasted, his anger forgotten for a moment in his pure confusion, and Merlin guessed royalty didn’t quite use that word. A pity, as it described most nobles.
“An idiot,” Merlin clarified bitingly. The prince’s nose flared, his indignation returning from its brief respite in full force. Something about the man changed in front of him. He seemed to take up more space, his whole body shifting and blocking the hallway.
“You may be a prince, we may be betrothed, but you hold no power here. You are in Camelot, and you cannot rely on your sorcerous father to protect you from your impudence.”
“Oh, believe me, of that I am very aware,” Merlin snarled, heart threatening to explode in the cave of his chest. He should have known the prince of this bullish kingdom would be a great brute. “And do not assume I need my father to fight my battles for me.”
“Fight your battles?” Arthur said with a snort, a mean grin lilting his face. “You couldn’t lift a dinner knife! I could take you apart with one blow.”
“I could take you with less.”
At this, his eyes narrowed, those broad shoulders tensing in anticipation. “Are you threatening me with magic?”
Fuck, sometimes he really did need to learn to hold his tongue. To cover his mistake, he scoffed, and rolled his eyes for good measure. “I would be mad to be a sorcerer and threaten the Crown Prince of Camelot with magic.”
The look the prince gave him told Merlin of how mad he clearly saw the omega, but his stance lost some of its tension, so at least Merlin hadn’t ruined the treaty in its entirety. Still, the two of them were caught in a standoffish circle, anger radiating off of them in waves. Prince Arthur did nothing to hide his scent of displeasure, the smell of burning leather overpowering, almost sticky in how it invaded Merlin’s nose. Far from prompting him to roll over and submit, however, it only earned the alpha his further ire, and Merlin knew he’d do whatever he could of his miserable life here to make Arthur’s just as miserable.
“Which way to my chambers? I think I’ll take my tour of Camelot another time.”
With someone else, he added silently.
If Prince Arthur was surprised by his question, he didn’t show it. Instead, that rough grin reappeared, flashing teeth.
“Not going to take me down, then?”
Merlin had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from turning this complete ass into a furred representation of himself.
“My chambers?” Merlin growled. Arthur gestured where they had been walking from behind him. Gods, even that was prattishly done.
“Three lefts, right at the stairs, go two flights up and it’ll be to your left.”
“Thank you,” Merlin bit out, stomping past the prince and taking care to give the man a wide berth.
How many lefts had that prat prince said again? He could have sworn it was two, or maybe three, thinking back, but Merlin had taken too many turns to remember. He couldn’t very well start over now, not with the ivory-stone walls trapping him in a labyrinth.
Merlin came upon another diverge, the large daunting hallway taunting him. Left or right? He supposed it didn’t matter what choice he made; he was lost anyway.
Taking a deep breath before releasing it through his teeth in a hissed sigh, Merlin turned right. He had passed by a few guards, but that had been before Merlin could admit he was lost. Now he wanted to smack himself upside the head for not asking the two to lead him to his chambers. Still, he was in a castle — he was bound to come across someone eventually.
Merlin wished he had taken greater care to heed Prince Arthur’s directions, if only because he knew the alpha would flash that smug grin like he had won something for knowing the layout of the castle he’d grown up in. His anger had gotten the best of him, clouding Merlin’s judgment and memory. Nothing had seemed more important than fleeing the hallway to prevent something idiotic from starting a war anew.
Another sigh escaped past his teeth as Merlin stopped at a window that overlooked the town. He was very high up, and could see the tops of other parapets and paths of the castle, as well as the even-further-away roofs of the people. They were all bustling about, going about their daily chores.
Merlin remembered that life so clearly, though it had been so long ago, and he had farmed with his mother, rather than took care of the needs of a city. He knew his life was privileged — never having to worry about his food or how best to stay warm — but it had been simpler then. Just a boy and his mother.
Perhaps he was letting nostalgia overwhelm him.
Merlin tore himself away from the window, thinking he would double back to where he’d seen the guards and hopefully find them again, when a voice called from his right:
“Prince Merlin!”
The source was the Lady Morgana, who was dutifully heading towards where Merlin stood, a maidservant in tow. She was still dressed in her resplendent red gown, and while the lady was no doubt beautiful, she had surprised him when Merlin had first seen her in the courtyards. The woman was almost waifish, a gaunt quality painting her face that should have instead been of a rosy hue. Merlin had to wonder if this was a recent change, her beauty too famed for it to have been anything but.
“Lady Morgana,” Merlin greeted.
“Where is Arthur, my lord?” she asked, eyes sharp and painted lips wasting no time in expressing what she saw to be wrong. “Surely he has not shown you the whole castle already?”
“Er, no— We cut it short, my lady. But I’m afraid I got lost getting back to my rooms.”
“Well, we can fix that at least,” Morgana said, gesturing for them to walk together as she began to lead him the way he came. Her maidservant fell into step behind them, and Merlin flashed her a small smile over his shoulder that she returned delicately. Morgana introduced, “This is my maidservant Gwen.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gwen.”
She dipped her head. “Thank you, my lord. It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”
“Where is your servant, Prince Merlin?”
“Just Merlin is fine, my lady. You as well, Gwen,” Merlin said, always uncomfortable with the title despite how long he had held it. “And my servant did not come with me. She has a family in Essetir, and I did not wish to take her from it.”
The bitterness in his voice was unavoidable, but at least it was subdued.
It would have been in accordance with court manners to politely avoid Merlin’s tone — such a stranger he was, and the tension still simmering between their kingdoms — but Lady Morgana did not subscribe to the notion.
“You are not happy to be in Camelot,” Morgana stated. Merlin cringed, but when he met her gaze there was no judgement or pity, just simple understanding.
“I will miss my home,” Merlin said, longing already snaking up his chest at the thought. “And I was never prepared for an arranged marriage.”
Merlin hadn’t been prepared for any marriage, if he was being truthful. Being an omega, should he marry a noble alpha — which he was — his property and kingdom would be forfeit to them. Merlin had never wanted that, had never wanted Albion’s only haven of magic to be controlled by someone who would change it.
And now, well… Essetir would go to Arthur when Balinor died, and the magic there would die along with him.
Resisting the urge to physically shake his head at the familiar confusion and despair his father’s plan caused, Merlin instead looked to Lady Morgana as she spoke.
“I am sorry,” she said sincerely. “These things are never easy, and I know it will be difficult for you. There is much suspicion surrounding your heritage, but you will settle into the court here in time.”
Merlin was surprised she would speak of his father’s magic. He imagined very few would, too afraid or mistrustful. Even Arthur had avoided the topic until Merlin had pulled it into the light.
“You are not originally from Camelot, right?” Merlin asked, remembering suddenly that she was from the House Gorlois at the border of the kingdom. She looked surprised. “How long did it take for it to start feeling like home?”
“That is a difficult question,” she said, and did not answer further, but the way her face paled told Merlin all he needed to know. After a moment, she seemed to shake herself of her burdens, and turned to Merlin with a gossipy grin. “How did you find Arthur?”
“That is a difficult question,” he repeated, stalling to try and find a description that would not find itself the buzz of the court once he’d spoken it, but also was not a complete lie. Morgana, however, caught on.
“Gwen and I will not speak of it further,” Morgana promised. “And you will not offend me by speaking your mind. I have known Arthur most of my life, and I know that he can be less than kind.”
Merlin regarded the both of them, unsure. Lady Morgana had an air of sincerity to her, and he had heard of her outspokenness against the king and court, but one could never be too careful with nobles.
“He is suspicious of me,” Merlin admitted after another long, deliberating moment. There was no reason for him to trust these two, but he could not stop how the words escaped him, desperate to be unleashed. “I worry how the next couple of weeks will go, never mind our lives.”
He did not want to admit how he had intentionally provoked Arthur. He had gotten what he wanted: an idea of how the alpha reacted when confronted and angered. All things considered, it had not come to blows or threats, just spittle hurled back and forth, though that had still left him on edge.
They finally came to a stop outside two doors at the top of a narrow hallway of stairs, they faced each other on the left and right. Merlin was pretty sure his was on the right.
“Try not to judge Arthur too harshly,” Morgana said with a touch of hesitance. “He is upset about the marriage, you are just a part of that. However unwilling it may be for you as well.”
Merlin nodded, though he did not believe her. Besides, even if it was more about the marriage than him, Prince Arthur had clearly assigned him the blame. Merlin was doubtful he could combat that in any meaningful way, but nor was he sure he wanted to. Despite all his mother had said about giving all of this his best outlook, Merlin knew all that was available to him was to roll with the punches. He now lived in a kingdom that would see him turned to ash if it knew the truth of him, and his betrothed would likely be the one who lit the flame. There was no making merry here.
Still, he agreed, “I will try my best, my lady. And thank you for leading me here.”
“Of course — and please just call me Morgana.”
“Morgana, then.”
She smiled. There was something predatory about it. “It’s the door on the left.”
The two omegas then turned and walked away, leaving Merlin to enter his chambers by himself.
The room was pleasant enough, a row of windows washing the small table and lush bed in mid-afternoon sunlight. The sheets were a deep green that reminded him of the forest in the summer, making Merlin desperate to go run into the woods and stay there among the foliage.
His things had already been brought up; books stacked by his bedside in neat rows and his wardrobe stuffed with its obnoxious court finery — a necessity if you wanted other nobles to take you seriously. A tray of cold meats, cheeses and bread, had been left on the table for him, along with a pitcher of water.
Stomach grumbling, Merlin put the library book on top of one of the stacks by his bedside and shoveled the food into his mouth. He hadn’t realized he was so hungry until just now, and he made quick work of the tray. He had almost polished it off when a knock came at the door.
“Come in,” Merlin called, wiping his hands on his travel trousers in an attempt to look like the prince he was supposed to be. But when the door opened, it was just his mother and father that walked in. He tensed at the sight of his father, but smiled at his mother.
“How was Prince Arthur?” his mother asked, sitting down in the chair next to him. Merlin couldn’t quite suppress the sour look that crossed his face.
“Mostly how I expected.”
His mother hummed, noncommittal. Balinor scoffed. “Like father, like son.”
“Balinor!” his mother scolded, irritation passing her usually delicate features.
“I am sorry, love, but there is no use ignoring a snake when it is preparing to strike.”
“How was council with Uther?” Merlin asked.
“The man has changed none since the Purge,” Balinor groused. “He is as self-important and mistrustful as he has ever been. Everything is such a fight, it’s a miracle the treaty has gotten this far.”
And he’s the only one truly benefitting, Merlin thought.
“I don’t understand why you insist on even making a treaty with him in the first place,” Merlin said, letting the anger of the day — the past weeks — leech into his words. Balinor had been running away from giving Merlin any real answers, and his window of trying to understand his father’s madness was closing. In two weeks Merlin would be married off and his parents would leave for their kingdom, abandoning their son behind. “Camelot gets everything! The Pendragons will have a second Purge in Essetir and I will have to stand by and watch!”
“I have told you. We cannot defeat Camelot and Nimueh, not while fighting on two different fronts. If we did nothing then she would destroy magic in both realms, such is how she misuses it.”
“But this cannot be the way!” Merlin pleaded, standing up, begging to be heard. “You cannot leave me here to the mercy of these people!”
Balinor flinched, guilt flooding his storm-blue eyes, but despite the way his face wrinkled and aged in despair at Merlin’s words, he held firm.
“This marriage may not be what you want, but Albion needs it. Magic will not survive without it.”
“Essetir will die.”
“No,” Balinor said, shaking his head. “It won’t. I promise.”
“You cannot promise that. It is impossible.”
“It will all make sense one day, Merlin.”
Balinor moved forward to cup his head, a comforting habit developed from when Merlin was little that had continued despite the height he now held over his father, but Merlin ducked away, prickling at the thought of being touched right now. Indignance and mistrust reared its head, snapping and writhing up his throat with a thousand pinpricking claws. The pain of it pushed aside the guilt at the hurt in his father’s eyes.
Merlin turned away from his parents, unable to look either of them in the eye at the moment. Coldly, he said, “I will see you at the feast later tonight. I should start getting ready.”
It was a ridiculous statement, considering the feast was still hours away, but the oddity of the venom lacing his words was enough to convince them to leave him alone.
“I’m sorry, cariad.”
The door closed behind his father, but his mother had not moved from where she sat. He still could not look her in the eye, but tilted his head towards her in acknowledgement, though he petulantly let the curls of his hair shield his face as much as possible.
After a deadened moment of silence, the queen stood up and placed a gentle palm on Merlin’s shoulder. He did not duck away like he had earlier, but Merlin was unable to stop the way his body tensed, shoulders darting to his ears.
“I do not always understand every decision your father makes,” Hunith said, “but know that he always makes them with love. None of us would be here right now if he did not love the both of us more than anything else. You know that.”
“It’s easier to say when it’s not your life,” Merlin snorted, not bothering to chide his anger.
“I know. I know…”
“I’d really rather be alone right now, Ma.”
“Of course,” she sighed, then kissed his cheek as she turned to leave. “I love you.”
The door closed and Merlin was blissfully alone.
Bright orange was streaking through the clouds when Arthur was finished being dressed by George and on his way to the feast. With his tour of the castle to Prince Merlin being cut abruptly short, when the sun was still high in the bright cerulean sky, Arthur had had hours to himself. There hadn’t been quite enough time to train, and it would’ve been considered improperly rude since he was meant to be attending the younger prince, so the most exercise Arthur could achieve was pacing around his room.
First he had cursed Prince Merlin for asking questions outside of the time and place (which would be never, because Arthur had not wanted to gift Prince Merlin the truth of his suspicions). Then he’d cursed the omega again for having irritated him so much in the first two candlemarks of the tour that there was no saving it when it fell apart in the third.
Stewing had never led to anything good for Arthur, and his pacing had been accompanied by evergrowing anger with nowhere for it to go until his manservant had knocked on the door. George had endured Arthur’s snapping and thrown goblets with as much grace and deference as ever, and Arthur had marched out his doors still steeped in anger.
Though he would not admit it, and there was truly no point in apologizing to a servant, he was less infuriated than on edge. To have a sorcerer in the castle forced Arthur into hyper-awareness, expecting the stone walls around him to begin crumbling and cracking, corrupted by magic just like its wielders. It would be an immense relief off of his shoulders once King Balinor returned to his own kingdom, and the only sorcerers around were ones he could strike with his sword.
Not that Arthur was eager for the fortnight to pass. Suspicions from when the terms of the treaty had first been discussed were still at the forefront of his mind. What if Prince Merlin actually was a sorcerer? What if this marriage was all a ruse for one to be in the heart of Camelot and destroy it from the inside out?
Despite the insanity of agreeing to the arrangement in the first place, Arthur knew that his father shared the same concerns at least, and eyes would be kept on Merlin as much as possible. If he was a sorcerer, they would find out. But even if he truly wasn’t, Arthur would not be any more happy to have to be in his presence. Besides, he was clearly loyal to his father, and believed what he had been told of magic by the man, despite all the visible horrors of it.
Prince Merlin’s ignorance — if it truly was that — made Arthur’s teeth grind and chest burn, but his frown was quickly shoved away for something more neutral as Arthur arrived in front of the door he had been supposed to drop the prince off at. Refusing to delay the inevitable, he knocked.
“Come in,” came Prince Merlin’s voice.
Hesitation swam through Arthur, twitching his fingers back from the doorknob before he shoved the thoughts aside and stepped through the door. It was ridiculous to hesitate — something he didn’t even do in battle, but when he caught sight of Prince Merlin a similar rush of adrenaline took his breath away.
Male omegas were rare. So rare, in fact, that Merlin was only one of three that existed in all the noble courts of Albion. A handful of others lived within Camelot’s citadels, but they were peasants, and did not seem like a rarity when paired with the backdrop of the breadth of his people. What Arthur had irrevocably failed to consider was that a male omega of royal lineage would fashion differently than an alpha or beta. Merlin’s more simple travel clothes had blinded him to this notion, but his eyes were wide open now.
Sat on the window sill, Prince Merlin was the spitting image of an omega prince, reclined against the castle wall with the small tome he had taken from the library as he was bathed in the evening light. The sun illuminated the prince's lithe body, clad in a powder-blue tunic, reminiscent of robin eggs, with a high but open collar that snaked down his chest was tucked into a narrow corset. The corset itself was blue as well, but whereas the shirt was the color of the sky on a misty spring morning this was that of the night. Deep and dark, with delicate silver embroidery that traced the ribs of the corset in imitation of the stars.
The lower half of the tunic flowed out to cover his thighs in broken-up triangular cuts, which in turn rested over form-fitting black pants that led to strong black leather boots. The prince’s circlet gleamed off his forehead in the orange light, not a pure disk like his own, but spearing subtly down his forehead. Small cabochoned sapphires circled around the piece of fine silver, though several were obscured by the curls that had escaped their confines and draped longingly back over Merlin’s thick eyebrows and overlarge ears, leading Arthur back to those sharp eyes.
“Prince Arthur,” Merlin greeted, pulling him from his distraction. “I suppose you are here to escort me to the feast.”
“Yes,” Arthur answered. Swallowing, he added, “You suppose correctly.”
They stared at one another for an awkward moment, until Merlin raised his brows and walked past Arthur and out the door. Arthur turned to match his steps.
The trip was made in silence, an echo of the afternoon’s earlier walk. Arthur did not care much to break it, though he was a little surprised when Merlin kept silent. He had been keen for conversation earlier, but Arthur supposed he had gotten his fill.
Not that it mattered much. Despite how handsome the prince was, it did not change how Arthur felt. He would simply try to maintain peace as best he could and hope Merlin would learn while in Camelot. Still, as the walk dragged on, steps echoing on darkening hallways, and Prince Merlin did not speak a single word, Arthur was strangely bereft. He had almost looked forward to whatever ridiculous statement would come from the prince’s lips next.
When they began to approach the Great Hall, Arthur held out his arm. Merlin stared at it, before flicking his eyes up in a glare. Arthur couldn’t resist rolling his eyes.
“The court will be expecting us to at least look like we’re getting along,” Arthur said shortly.
With a huff, Merlin took his arm. His touch was warm and hesitant, crinkling at the thick sleeve of Arthur's leather jacket but careful not to press into the skin underneath.
The Great Hall was already rippling with candlelight and conversation as Arthur escorted Merlin to his seat next to his own, pulling out the chair and pushing it back in once Merlin had sat down. A fresh wave of hushed murmuring accompanied their arrival, and the weight of courtly stares sat heavier upon his skin than normal, but Arthur remained unaffected and took his seat next to Merlin.
The seating arrangements had been differed with the arrival of so many nobles. Arthur and his father sat as they always did, but Morgana had been moved from Uther’s left to Merlin’s right, his parents occupying her spot to the left. The knights, both of Camelot and Essetir, took up a larger, more boisterous space than usual, merry clearly flowing from their shared drinks. Arthur would keep a close eye on them throughout the night, anxious to interrupt any possible fight before it started.
Arthur’s cup was automatically filled as he sat down, and he took a large gulp, realizing he was going to have to be the one to breach conversation with the prince as Merlin still had yet to say a word. However, just as he eased his cup down, Morgana beat him to it.
“Have you started on your book from the library?”
“Hm—? Oh, yes, it’s amazing. I only have a couple other tomes in Old Greek, so I’ve only gotten through a few poems. I’m afraid I’m not the best at the language.”
“I’d be surprised that you could read it at all,” Morgana praised. “Old Greek is one of my favorites, but I have found few in the citadel who care much for it.”
Merlin laughed, low and rich. “It is a difficult language to learn, to be fair, my lady, and not quite as useful as Latin. But it really does sound beautiful.”
“Do you have any other tomes in Greek then? I would love to pilfer them from you.”
The two chattered on like this, grating on Arthur to no end, for he had hated learning Old Greek as a boy and would likely stumble through it now. It was not his tendency to be out of his depth.
“When will the other kingdoms arrive?” Merlin asked her as servants began placing plates, thanking the servant as they did.
“The day after ‘morrow Olaf and Alined will both arrive, and then Morser and Cowen the day after.”
Merlin looked a little green at the thought, which Arthur could commiserate with, but he was at least anticipating the approaching tournament with some excitement. Essetir joining Camelot in peace through a royal wedding invited a large crowd, especially with how unknown Merlin would be as a future ruler. The kings of the other of the Five Kingdoms would not miss the opportunity for information and renewing of treaties, and his father would not miss the opportunity to display Camelot’s wealth and growing power.
“The tournament will start in five days,” Arthur added.
Somehow, seated in his own court in his own castle, the look Prince Merlin gave him at his addition made him feel out of place. It wasn’t a forceful glare, or even a raised brow, but an odd quizzical stare, as though Arthur was strange for even daring to open his mouth. He only just kept from flushing.
“Do you enjoy tournaments, Merlin?” Morgana asked, redirecting the omega's attention and saving Arthur, though he felt sour to admit it.
Merlin shrugged. “They’re okay, I guess. I don’t know — it all seems a bit pointless.”
Arthur’s nose wrinkled in annoyance. It had been a long time since he had been a part of the audience, rather than a part of the fight, but he had never loved anything as much as he had a tournament when he was a squire. It was clear that he and Merlin had less and less in common as the day wore on. He drank another mouthful of wine.
“I know what you mean,” Morgana said. “So much posturing, and the smell is—” Here, she wrinkled her nose, making Merlin laugh again. “But there will be many people to talk to, at least, what with all the kingdoms and their knights participating.”
Merlin hummed noncommittally, sipping his wine and still not paying Arthur a whit of attention. Well, not that Arthur found this conversation very interesting, and he tuned them out as he ate, only to be dragged back in when Morgana asked a question of interest.
“Who will you bet on in the tournament?”
“Bet?” Merlin repeated.
“Oh, yes. Of course it’s bad fashion for us to publicly bet like the people do, but the court loves to partake in the fun.”
“I think I’d be at a disadvantage — I’ve only seen my own knights fight before.”
“Who of them, then?” Morgana asked. Merlin’s eyes swept over where the capes of blue and red decorated the table, catching the gaze of a handsome Essetir knight with long curly hair that smiled back, lips curled like a cat.
“Gwaine,” Merlin finally answered, breaking away from who Arthur assumed was Sir Gwaine to turn to Morgana instead. “Don’t let him hear it, but he’s the best fighter I’ve ever seen.” At that commendation, Arthur glanced back over at the knight, curious. It could be an empty observation — Merlin did not seem to have any knowledge of sword fighting — but it piqued his curiosity nonetheless. Merlin continued, “Who are you wagering will win?”
At this question, Morgana smiled, both wicked and sweet and pointed directly at Arthur. “I prefer not to let the competition know. Arthur is always unbearably smug afterwards.”
“Perhaps if you were not always wrong,” Arthur snipped. He had not lost a tournament since he was fifteen, and still Morgana hadn’t learned to not bet against him.
“Do you usually win, then?” Merlin asked. Arthur resisted rolling his eyes.
“I never lose.”
Merlin regarded him for a moment more, eyes narrowed and sharp, before turning back to Morgana.
“How much is usually wagered?”
Morgana’s further attempts to force Merlin and Arthur into conversation — for there was no other reason that she continued to tease and ask him questions she already knew the answer to — were all for naught throughout the rest of dinner. His betrothed seemed content enough to converse with the other omega, but that was where his pleasantness ended, and Arthur preferred it that way.
When dinner had ended, and dessert come and gone, the music began.
Arthur watched as knights and nobles began to dance, fabric twirling from the gentle spins of the court dances. Most of those who had vacated their seats for the entertainment were of Camelot, but a few were from Essetir. All the dancers kept to partners of their kingdom. All but two that was.
Sir Gwaine approached where Arthur, Merlin, and Morgana all sat, bowed to the last, and offered a hand. “Would my lady be partial to a dance?”
When asked, the answer was almost always no, but for some reason Morgana replied, “I would. Thank you, Sir Gwaine.”
The man’s eyes lit up with amusement at her knowing his name, his gaze flicking to Merlin, who suddenly seemed very interested in his drink. The two joined the dance, but Merlin was still flushed, which for some reason made Arthur ask:
“Would you like to dance, Prince Merlin?”
Merlin fixed him with that same stare again, the one that made him feel hopelessly out of place, but, surprisingly, nodded.
More stares and murmuring followed them as Arthur led Merlin to join the dance, the man’s slender fingers warm in his own. He had to relinquish them as they joined the figures, a new song beginning as they fell into step.
Arthur did not care much for dancing. It felt silly and stiff in comparison to the fluidity he felt with a sword and an opponent, though he had done it plenty, both learning with tutors in boyhood and dancing with the omegas of the court.
The movements still felt awkward in his limbs, but the dance was at least familiar, and Merlin kept pace with his steps easily, despite barely glancing at Arthur. He wondered if the prince liked to dance, for he seemed at ease without being aware of his partner, or if maybe he was simply acting aloof.
Arthur had offended, or been accused of offending, enough delicate omegas to recognize Merlin’s behavior. The ladies of the court would often stop speaking, or turn their noses up to affirm their silence. Morgana had done it to Arthur frequently, causing Uther to force him to apologize. A few times she had pretended just for the forced apology, and every time Arthur had simply had to grin and bear it.
“Do you intend to ignore me forever?” Arthur asked, unable to help himself. Crossing paths and stepping in turn, Merlin missed a step and glared at Arthur.
“Just returning the favor, my lord.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” Arthur argued, because he hadn’t been. He had been leading the prince around, after all.
“And what would you call your behavior earlier?”
Their palms pressed together, the dance directing them in a circle in tandem with the rest of the court. He glanced at Gwaine and Morgana, the latter catching his eye and raising her brows at him. He doubted she knew what he and Merlin were conversing about, but the challenge was clear.
“I wanted to…apologize,” Arthur said, keeping his voice low through a clenched jaw. “I did not afford you the proper respect of your station earlier.”
“And that is all you’re sorry about?” Merlin asked, face incredulous. Arthur blinked. Even Morgana had never demanded more.
“Have I offended you in some other way?”
“I hardly think that you should apologize on account of me being a prince,” Merlin said quietly, the dance bringing their faces close enough that ‘prince’ ghosted over Arthur’s cheek. They parted. “How about apologizing for being a general prat? Sincerely, that is, for if all you have for me is empty words, then I would rather that we not talk at all. Maybe you had the right of it earlier.”
“And what did I say that wasn’t true?” Arthur snapped. “Your behavior was uncourtly, and you sneered at the laws of this country.”
“They are not the laws of my country.”
“Well, we are currently in mine, not yours,” Arthur said before he could stop himself, and internally cringed. He had meant to apologize, not repeat their argument in public, but Prince Merlin was being beyond unreasonable.
At Arthur’s words, Merlin raised his brows pointedly. “Shall I expect another apology in respect to my station, or does that even matter in your kingdom?”
The music stopped, and Arthur hastily bowed, the younger prince mirroring him, though there was something sarcastic about his movements that irked Arthur’s ire further. “I will not bother apologizing when I know it will not be accepted.”
Merlin simply smiled, something trapped between cunning and amusement that lilted his pink lips. “Then I will not thank you for the dance, since we’ve agreed against empty words.”
Arthur was in the middle of deciding what to snap back, when Merlin walked away. He did not spare Arthur another glance the rest of the night.