Chapter Text
They found the old man cold in his bed. A cold cup of tea on his bedside, untouched and half-evaporated, and a dog-eared book still open on the same page, on his petrified lap.
When it was published that the King’s Swordmaster was dead nobody mentioned that he’d been that way for a number of days, or that the only person who would have noticed him missing was the King’s own son.
As it happened, Prince Arthur hadn’t given the Swordmaster’s absence a second thought when he failed to show up to their lessons three days in a row. On the fourth day, Arthur didn’t even attend himself. He failed to provide an explanation for his lack of alarm, until pressed by his father, when he admitted he had been to the dog races.
He attended the funeral under his father’s watchful eye, but did not say a word. As they lowered the old man into the ground, Arthur’s shoulders fell even deeper than the casket. A ghost passed over his face and his frame, drawing a reluctant tear from his eye, but he quickly wiped it away as if it was never even there.
He thought he hated funerals more than he hated the man himself. Arthur felt weighed down by the ceremonial armour he’d been dressed in early that morning. He felt weighed down by the fog and the cold light and the rocks they piled around the mound. The Swordmaster had written refusing a warrior’s burial. They put him in the woods instead, a stone’s throw off the side of the road West. You might trip over him if you weren’t watching where you were going to take a piss.
Arthur undid the many clasps around him, shedding plate like dead skin. With each weight lifted the anxiety in his bones eased off, and he realised he didn’t really hate the old man. His body had already been smoothed and pale when he saw it, but he remembered where there had been colour in his chin and cheeks. War had made him soft and quiet when it had its grip on him. Peace time had had the adverse effect on the King.
Arthur remembered how, in his final weeks, his father had clung to the old man as if he were the herald of war itself. It was unclear whether he feared or hungered after it. It was as uncanny as the look in a wolf’s eye before it struck with its gnashing teeth. Nobody questioned why it struck, once the blood was flowing.
Arthur opened the window in his room, casting a glance down at the yard stretching out, green and flat, mottled with brown patches where the spring sun hadn’t reached its cold fingers yet. On the far side were the stables, and a cobbled path wrapping around, clinging tight to the outer wall as it circled back under Arthur’s window. He watched the little lives following the narrow path, conversations breaking as pairs were forced to walk in single file. The morning fog had lifted and hung lightly above his head, threatening to turn into a spray and wet his brow.
It had been a ghastly funeral. He would have to find something better to do in the mornings now that he had no Swordmaster and wouldn’t be caught dead at the races anymore. Not to mention the horrendous losing streak he’d begun as soon as he stepped foot inside. He couldn’t trust his luck, was the lesson learned.
He almost wished for another war. He’d been too small to remember the last one, except for when it claimed his mother. Now, that had been a good funeral. After this morning’s disaster, he felt an urge to go to his mother’s grave for the first time since they’d planted it. He measured the journey in his head. Three days’ ride there, another three back. Surely they’ll have found a replacement by then? It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary either. The Prince wanted to go on a Pilgrimage to his mother’s grave on the eve of his coming-of-age. Nobody would deprive a boy of his mother. Not twice.
“How was the funeral?”
Merlin’s voice was uncharacteristically tender. As he side-stepped the fallen pieces of armour, Arthur felt he treaded just as carefully towards his nerves. He would surely have been scolded for making the mess otherwise. He’d done so yesterday, and the old man had been dead then, too. What made today different?
“I’m going on a trip,” he said decisively.
“That bad?”
“I’ll need to pack for a week.”
“I can think of at least three things you’re meant to be doing instead.”
Merlin placed the empty tray he’d carried in on the table. That habit had been getting worse. Bringing something into the room with the guise of being busy.
“Postpone everything, then. Unless someone else plans on dying in the meantime.”
Merlin narrowed his eyes, approaching him to close the window, but Arthur stopped him. Merlin looked at him, expectantly.
“He’ll let me go.”
“You’re that certain?”
“You underestimate how much more appealing I am to my father when I’m out of sight. I always find myself in his good books when I return. I think I’ll need a coat—”
“I think you’re taking Master Scrow’s passing much more to heart than you’d like to admit.”
“The old man was half dead already when I was born. The last year I barely saw him out of his chair. I’ve been dueling the air half my life.” The words thickened in his mouth the longer he kept talking. He started opening drawers. “He’s…gone, and that’s the end of it. My father will find a new Swordmaster before you know it. He’ll probably send out invitations to all the old generals tomorrow.”
“They went out just before the funeral,” Merlin affirmed, surprise tinting his voice as he started gathering the fallen armour.
“Right. Even better. He’ll even have time to settle in before I’m back.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“I don’t need supervision,” said Arthur, then after a beat added, “but don’t be in the room when I ask my father.” Faced with an array of open drawers and absolutely no idea which one to look in first, he tore his eyes away. Heaving a sigh, he said, “I…really do want to be alone for a few days. If you came along, you’d give me one of your weird silences that somehow gets people to talk about their feelings or some nonsense. I don’t know how you do it. I’m honestly not interested.”
Merlin held his gaze.
“I’m going to my mother’s grave,” Arthur finally admitted. Merlin seemed pleased.
“It’ll do you good,” he said, setting the armour aside and fetching a pair of socks from the topmost drawer.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll pack your bags for you,” said Merlin dismissively, but Arthur didn’t miss the knowing smile on his lips. “And don’t feel compelled to hurry back. Like you said, the new Swordmaster needs time to settle in before you can resume your lessons, and there’s the matter of packing away Master Scrow’s personal belongings in the meantime. Now that I think of it, it’ll be good to be rid of you for a few days. It’ll be busy enough without cleaning up after you as it is.”
“Merlin,” said Arthur, a laugh caught in his throat. “I do have one more job for you while I’m gone.”
Merlin rolled his eyes. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Just make sure they don’t pick the oldest one in the bunch.”
Merlin’s brows flew up. “And miss out on all the ancient wisdom of the generations? I’ll have you know Master Scrow was a fine conversationalist, for all his faults. Did he ever tell you the story about the trebuchet that got caught in the mud?”
“They had to prise it out by leveraging it against ten men in full armour. Yes, at least twenty times.”
“You don’t get stories like that from younger men.”
“I doubt my father knows anyone who still has all their teeth in their head. Just push the one with the most hair to the front, will you? Someone not yet obsolete. I’ve had quite enough of funerals for the next decade.”
“I’ll put in a special request for ‘handsome.’ Who cares if they can actually swing a sword, right?”
“Be serious, Merlin. What if there does end up being a war?”
Merlin stopped lading clothes into the bag. “With who?” he asked, surprised. “Have there been advances made on the border?”
Arthur thought back to the last few council meetings he’d actually attended. “Not that I know of.”
“Well, that’s a comfort.”
“I’m just saying, it’s a consistent possibility. I need to be prepared for anything. No distractions.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Merlin, who grimaced.
“Maybe you ought to pay attention to your lessons no matter who gives them.” He fastened the bag and threw it on the bed beside where Arthur had seated himself. “Have a safe journey,” he said. “Don’t hurry back.”
“Maybe I’ll run away,” said Arthur.
“And leave Camelot all to me?” said Merlin, scandalised. “You wouldn’t.”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t.” Arthur tossed his head back, letting the motion carry him on his back. He stared at the canopy of the bed for a long minute. “What am I meant to say to him?”
“The Swordmaster?”
“My father,” Arthur groaned. “I’ve never been good at asking him for things. He always manages to twist what I say I want into including what he wants. It’s like he forgets what I said half a second after I’m done.”
“Have you tried putting it in writing?”
“That would require him giving me the time of day to read my letters.” He balled up his fists and covered his eyes. “I’ll just grit my teeth and…stand my ground. Maybe if I agree to whatever terms he sets, he’ll forget about them by the time I come back.”
“Here’s hoping.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Just go,” said Merlin with a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Go, do what you need to do, take the time, and come back and let the pieces fall as they will. You can’t blame yourself for every change in the plan.”
“I absolutely can.”
Merlin hummed. “Is that why you’re bitter all the time?”
“I’m bitter a normal amount.”
“Come on,” said Merlin, shoving him off the bed. “Ask him at lunch. He’ll be more malleable with some post-funeral wine in him.”
“Maybe he’ll forget how much of a disappointment I’ve been all my life while he’s at it.”
“If we’re lucky.” They got up, and Arthur turned to pick out a shirt for dinner, but Merlin held him still by the elbow. Arthur faced him just in time to be caught in a hug that sent him half a step back. Merlin didn’t hug him often. He could count on one hand the number of times Arthur had actually let it happen in the two years Merlin had been working as his manservant. Every time that it happened, it felt more like Merlin needed it than Arthur, though Merlin insisted it was for his benefit. He just didn’t understand why.
Scrow was dead. It was a long time coming. Arthur couldn’t pretend he hadn’t been surprised, sure, but it wasn’t like they were friends. He had just been a constant part of his life since the age of ten. Or was it because he wanted to see his mother’s grave? Merlin’s arms tightened around him as if he could read his thoughts.
As for that, there was nothing suspicious about that. He hadn’t seen it in years, and the funeral had just reminded him of that. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t feel at least a little guilty about it, but in his defense, nobody ever brought up his mother, least of all his father. Come to think of it, he’d mentioned her more today than he had since she died.
That…didn’t feel good.
“I mean it,” said Merlin in his ear. “Do what you need to do. I’ll hold down the fort.”
Arthur found himself hugging him back.
The feeling in his chest that had been winding slowly and tightly around his ribs began to unravel, just as slowly.
“Thank you,” he said. It was so quiet he wasn’t even sure Merlin had heard, but he replied in kind with a final squeeze, then released him.
Perhaps in a world where Arthur allowed himself to have friends, Merlin was one of them.