@merthurmicrofic
Word Count: 1,929 (I know, what even is micro)
Prompt: Favour
Arthur wasn't even Crown Prince by the time he was already well-versed in the honour of favours. He participated in his first duel at a fairly tender age, though that had felt more spectacle than honour, even to him back then.
After all, the teenage son of a visiting Lord was hardly a proper or honourable challenge. Uther had not been able to voice his displeasure at the loss of an ally when Arthur had thoroughly trounced the challenger five years his senior. Because after all, Lord Gedraal's son himself had issued the challenge, and Arthur's duty as a Prince and his pride as a knight had to be upheld.
Too young then to have any real suitors, he'd worn a pretty silk scarf of Morgana's, gifted him on one of those dwindling days when they were truly getting along.
It was several years before he wore a favour again that had any real meaning to him, a rare change from wearing those of Ladies and Princesses his Father could ill afford to offend with a refusal.
To Uther, the wearing of a guest's favour has always been a mere formality in the vast maze of political niceties. To Arthur, they feel as though they should be personal, or even wanted. Not something he's obligated to accept to please his Father or smooth over alliances or treaty negotiations.
He defies his King whenever he feels brave enough to, denying the favours of Ladies he finds harbor distasteful opinions, or whom he feels would wholly get the wrong idea from his acceptance.
He last wore Morgana's favour at the age of fifteen, and he thinks on that occasionally, when he feels particularly melancholy about her departure and the chasm between them.
The topic of favours has been more fun than anything, recently. Having someone to share his distaste with has been... comforting. Merlin always seems to know before Arthur can speak it. He's very good now, at blanking his expressions in front of his Father. But Merlin knows. The Prince can see it, written clear as moonlight in the manservant's night eyes; amused, teasing, wholly unrespectful of their positions.
Merlin ties the scarfs, and handkerchiefs, and silk bands with professional and practiced ease, but Arthur can almost feel the mocking comments in the air anyway, just as though he's said them. Even with the friendship that grows undeniably between them, Arthur is careful with what he says out loud about important visitors. Merlin has gotten better at holding his own tongue in that regard, but Arthur suspects it's less out of proper decorum than loyalty to Arthur himself.
Once their visits are over and normalcy falls back upon them, his responsibilities ease and he finds it comforting to know that Merlin almost always shares his opinions on their departed guests. Merlin will be bolder with his words, if only in the secrecy of Arthur's own chambers, and only when they're alone. But his agreement somehow validates what Arthur feels. Only a peasant, true. But Arthur finds more and more as the months and years pass that he values the other man's honesty, and finds encouragement in their shared views.
Lady Winfrey is abhorrent, her knowledge on every topic Arthur has tried to broach over meals - or on the walks his King expects him to escort her on - is... Lacking. Her treatment of her handmaiden is uncouth. Her fixation on fulfilling the future duties of a consort or Queen suffocates any real conversations anyone attempts to nurture with her.
There are plenty of reasons for Arthur to find her unpleasant, as a Prince or a suitor. Plenty. But he finds the reason most intent on stoking his dislike is the way she speaks about Merlin.
Arthur hasn't, for many years now, enjoyed the way many of those of status speak of those without, particularly when the subject of their derision is within earshot. He cannot change that his Father does it. But he's damn sure not going to do it himself, and spending time in the presence of his equals or those below him who do so is avoided wherever possible.
The first time she speaks, in snide and disparaging tones about the way she feels Merlin neglected to attend him properly at the first of their week of feasting, Arthur merely changes the subject. The second time, he makes it clear (politely) that his manservant more than makes up for it with other duties.
The third time he is firmer, and tells her he is more than satisfied with Merlin's service, all the while cringing inside that the man is right there and doing a rather poor impression of a deaf table.
It is twice more before Arthur drops his attempts at pleasant diversion. He isn't unkind, but he is clear and firm and will not be challenged on it. It seems enough to remind her of her place, and she is blissfully silent for the rest of the evening, bowing from their pre-arranged evening walk with claims of fatigue.
Merlin has said nothing of Arthur's strident defense of him, but he is prompt at Arthur's bedside the next morning, and the Prince's breakfast tray has extra berries and sweet breads that are still hot, not simply warm. He's brewed tea before rousing him, and sets about tidying the moment he is seated and served. He polishes quietly on the floor while Arthur performs the desk work he has been putting off all week. And he readies Arthur for an early morning hunt without his usual complaints, his eyes bright and his lips in an easy smile.
When the celebratory late afternoon dueling contest is upon them, he is diligent with Arthur's armour, the image of a perfect servant.
But when he wraps Lady Winfrey's yellow silk favour around Arthur's upper arm, their eyes meet, and his grin is secretive, his eyes glinting, and Arthur rolls his eyes but smirks his own amusement in return.
And if he tries just a little harder than the friendly contest calls for, to best Winfrey's brother and embarrass them both, well. Nobody could possibly know he's done it for Merlin.
That night, as Merlin tends dutifully to the fire in Arthur's hearth, warding off the Autumn chill while his Prince soaks weary muscles in a warm bath, Arthur rests his cheek against the edge of the tub, content to watch the back of his head until his bathwater loses its heat.
Merlin often gets... Almost lost, when he tends his fire. The same way he does when they walk in familiar quiet through the woods, more intent on delaying the responsibilities of the castle than catching anything. He softens, in a way, relaxes, as though nurturing and tending a fire is pleasant.
He startles even though Arthur's use of his name is hushed, but he turns with an easy smile and gets to his feet.
"Ready to get out, sire?"
He's already holding a bath towel, the largest Arthur has ever seen - he's sure even his own Father doesn't have the luxurious towels Merlin appeared with one day - and for a moment, Arthur can't express what it is he wants to say.
He stands obediently, allows Merlin to wrap him in soft cotton bearing the heat of the hearth, and it stalls his words further. The simple gesture bears more weight than any favour he has ever worn upon his arm. There are many things any good manservant should know, many duties and small tasks and considerations throughout the year and each day.
He's been through many of them, some incompetent, some passing too young from illness or accident, some competent but boring. He's never had one before who shirks his duties when it suits him, who brazenly says things he shouldn't or tells him off like an equal. He's also never had one last as long in his service as Merlin, nor whine so much and yet warm his towels on cold evenings or brew him tea without being told on days he really has to sit in a chair and perform the most boring of his Princely tasks.
As Merlin finishes towelling him thoroughly dry - no catching a chill for him - and dresses him in warm sleeping breeches and a long tunic, Arthur thinks of the nature of a person's favour and just... Says it.
"You do know that woman was an idiot?"
Merlin pauses, though whether in surprise or something else, Arthur can't tell. Dark eyes meet his, and a smirk tugs at the edges of his mouth.
"I did get that impression, Sire, her conversation skills were... Very narrow."
Arthur sorts but that wasn't quite what he meant. He doesn't miss the muted choice of words, Merlin testing the waters to see how far he'd allow him to throw pebbles.
"Boring, Merlin. The word your own narrow brain is looking for is boring."
Merlin's grin is full now, his laughter warming Arthur even further than his ministrations and his fire building. He smiles.
"But I rather meant more her... Understanding of your role."
Tactful, evasive, because honesty is hard, even with Merlin sometimes. Merlin's smile falters for a moment, but his eyes soften as he looks away, focusing on the laces of Arthur's chamber cloak as he draws it over his shoulders to further ward off the chill.
"I don't know quite what you mean, my lord. There's never been a better manservant than me. Really, you're lucky to have me."
When Arthur cannot muster the courage to agree, Merlin's cocky tone grows stronger in his place, his eyes twinkling with cheek.
"I'll have you know I could serve any House I wanted to. I could serve Kings, if I wanted to."
Arthur frowns as his manservant steps back, the touch of his fingers gone from his throat. His cloak is in place. He sits on the bed as Merlin bids him, and thick short stockings are rolled over his feet.
"But you don't want that." He says, almost a question, a thought he hadn't meant to voice.
Merlin looks at him, and for a second his expression is conflicted, as though he isn't sure which tone is right. They look at each other for a long moment, before Merlin's shoulders relax again, and he inclines his head to brush at his own tunic.
"Not yet." he answers softly, before his gaze flickers up almost shyly once more.
His dark eyes are meaningful, intent, and exposed. Arthur swallows deeply.
"Good." he replies, just as softly, just as laden with feeling, "I should hate to replace you."
The entire time that Merlin sorts his covers and settles him in bed, and moves through the room snuffing candles and closing drapes, and making sure the fire is well enough fed, the smile on his face never falters. Arthur feels the cold of the night sliding in, even wrapped as he is.
As Merlin bids him goodnight, Arthur gives him one last task.
"Take a few of those good logs to Gaius, will you? They're long dried and will burn better than whatever the forest gave him today."
Merlin's eyes do look surprised this time, in the dancing shadows of the firelight across the chamber, but when they turn to him a final time before he leaves, arms laden with precious, good quality firewood, they shine like stars.
"Thank you, Arthur."
As the door closes behind him and Arthur settles down to sleep, he thinks that the resulting heavy pull in his chest is how receiving a favour should feel.
