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It would not have worked so well or for so long, Merlin thinks ruefully, if it had not started out honestly.
That first winter in Camelot, as a peaceful gesture he made his mother’s mince pie recipe for Arthur. Peaceful, he insists, even in his own mind. He’d fought for the ingredients and the kitchen space bravely—he’d had to, Aubrey was terrifying. But, well, they had eaten it every year since he was a boy, and he might have been feeling a little homesick. Although he’d never dare admit it out loud where Arthur might hear. Prat.
Arthur had spat it out into a napkin and thought it was a joke.
Merlin had been so plainly hurt that even Arthur, bully that he was, couldn’t keep on under Merlin’s wet eyes and quivering chin. After a tense silence he unblinkingly shoved another bite of pie in his mouth like he was going off to battle. When the next day came he gave Merlin a sweet spiced cake from his own plate, slathered with rich butter and honey he insisted this was the proper winter tradition.
It had been delicious.
So the next time Arthur slings an arm over his shoulder and tells him about a (very long standing, Merlin, very important, you must pay attention now) cultural tradition in Camelot, Merlin believes him.
When they see a black cat Arthur walks backwards in a circle three times, and insists that everyone does so.
Everyone does not do so.
It had been very embarrassing explaining it to Gwen, who he is still not sure believes him about it all.
When Arthur tells him that he is holding a trial for a pig that had eaten another man’s luncheon Merlin knows better this time.
Merlin does not know better.
The pig is declared guilty, and Merlin watches Arthur with narrowed eyes. The prince blinks guilelessly back at him.
Hmm.
So when Arthur says that they will be singing at his birthday celebrations Merlin is rightfully wary.
“No,” says Arthur, “I’m not trying to get you again, I promise. You need to learn the words or it’ll be trouble. I don’t care of course, but people will think poorly of both of us if you are unwilling to celebrate.”
“It’s true,” Gwaine insists, which doesn’t actually make Merlin believe even a single bit more than he already did.
Leon sighs, his hands braced on his knees. And begins to sing. There are words, and a melody, and Leon knows it.
This time it must be true.
So as they are all in the great hall, feasting, it doesn’t seem at all out of place when the knights rise from their seats. Merlin is savvy though, and waits. Gwaine takes in a deep breath, and Merlin joins in at the last possible moment. He doesn’t want to be rude, not really—not on Arthur’s birthday. So he joins in. He’s quiet, but not quiet enough that no one hears him as the knights all silently sit down as one like nothing happened at all. His (quite nice!) voice peters out weakly, and Gwen is looking at him like he’s lost his mind.
Arthur is muffling his laughter into his goblet, and Merlin hides beneath the table. He pinches Arthur’s thigh meanly, and gets a kick for his trouble. Arthur is laughing so much it barely even hurts. Merlin steals his boot.
Hopefully everyone will be too drunk to remember.
“You wrote an entire song!?” Merlin complains especially loudly the next day. He ruthlessly pulls back Arthur’s curtains, and the blond curls up like a bug, shoving his pillow over his head. “And you got Gawine-well, that’s not a suprise-but Leon? All of them? Really!?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” Arthur’s groggy voice comes from the pile of blankets. “I got a bard to write the song.”Merlin grabs the blankets and tries to pull them away, starting a tug of war he knows he’ll lose. Instead he lets go at a particularly vicious tug and Arthur flops back with force, groaning. “My head,” he complains.
“Fine,” Merlin says sedately. “You had your laugh, your gift to yourself I suppose. A very happy birthday, sire. Do you need a potion for your hangover?”
“Oh, gods, yes,” Arthur whimpers.
What Merlin brings back is not a potion, of course, and the sounds of Arthur hacking into a basin do quite a lot to alleviate Merlin’s ire.
“I fetched the leeches myself,” he says mercilessly.
Maybe Arthur will think twice next time.
“We’re going cheese rolling,” Arthur says, and Merlin shuts the door in his face.
Later, when he is in trouble for missing the cheese rolling, he begins to suspect he’s losing his mind.
Merlin watches, horrified, as people eat nettles for fun. Arthur looks on regally, which Merlin knows is just the face he makes when he doesn’t know what else to do.
He really thought this one was a lie.
So even though he is suspicious, when Arthur tells him that of course this is what he needs to wear for the May Day celebrations he does.
Fuming, Merlin goes to his rooms to change—bells jingling with his incandescent rage the whole way—Arthur practically on the ground in tears behind him, hiccuping with laughter.
“We’re to oversee a divorce by combat today,” Arthur begins, and Merlin has had enough.
“No!” He shouts, and pushes right into Arthur’s face, finger right under his nose. “I don’t believe you, you-you fibber,” he winds up to keep going, but Arthur’s face has broken into a happy and unfairly beautiful grin. 'Fibber,' the prince mouths, delighted.
“We really are though,” Arthur insists, making a grab for Merlin’s finger and missing, holding his hand instead. Merlin flushes. Rude.
Later, watching a man sunk about three feet into a hole in the ground with a club, his lady wife running around him with a stone in a sling, Merlin instead realizes he’s the only sane person here.
“That was a touch!” Arthur cries out, the crowd cheers, and the man reluctantly hands over his club.
Merlin buries his head in his hands.
“Wait, why?” Merlin asks suspiciously.
“You have to scare away the Adar Llwch Gwin,” Gwaine says gamely. “They understand the human tongue, you know? So first you have to frighten them away or they’ll hear us.”
Merlin looks over at Arthur, but he’s not even watching, sat in front of the campfire, head bent down as he talks with Lancelot.
Gwaine offers up the branches again.
“I’ll do it too, I promise,” he says.
They are halfway through the bizarre little dance before he sees Arthur grinning. His hands form a serious steeple under his chin and Merlin finds that he looks especially evil in the firelight. Merlin stands up straight and pushes a laughing Gwaine arse over teakettle into a bush.
“Worth it,” cries the bush.
“It’s a race,” Arthur says, cagey.
The fact that he sounds like he’s hiding something sets Merlin’s hair on end. What fresh horror could it be that even Arthur was wary.
“A real race?” Merlin asks snottily.
“It’s a real race,” Arthur hedges, but offers no further information.
“And what do I have to wear to this race? How many bells does it have on it? Feathers?”
“Nothing-well, I mean, you can wear clothes!” Arthur looks up at the ceiling. Merlin looks as well after a long moment of silence stretches between them, but there is nothing there. “You probably should wear clothes. It’s normal.”
Merlin doubts more than ever that it is normal.
“Normal for Camelot?” He asks. “Because the nettle-eating contest was not normal, Arthur.”
“It’s a normal race, for normal people.” Arthur meets his eyes, and is clearly struggling to keep his face blank. Merlin has never quite seen this expression before, and as a great studier of Arthur’s face it throws him.
“Fine,” he says before he can think better of it, but Arthur only seems more nervous.
“Fine,” Arthur says back. “It’s this afternoon, I’ll show you where.”
“And I don’t have to do anything?”
“Just show up,” Arthur shakes his head.
Merlin backs out of Arthur’s chambers without daring to break eye contact--and he only runs into a few things along the way. He doesn’t bother to pick up the papers that scatter on the floor as his hip catches on the desk, but Arthur doesn’t make him, either.
Suspicious.
He’s on the lookout. Every corner holds a potential embarrassing threat. He’s not really worried it would hurt him, but it’s odd that Arthur seemed so out of sorts. Part of the reason Merlin kept falling for his tricks was that he said them so earnestly and casually.
Suspicious.
He doesn’t ask Gaius about it, because who knows how much of the castle Arthur has pulled into his schemes.
No one can be trusted.
They walk to the field side by side, quiet other than Arthur inanely talking about the good weather, and Merlin wonders if perhaps he has been replaced, or put under a spell of some kind. A spell that makes him awkward and strangely solicitous.
There are ribbons strewn up, and a table with prizes, so Merlin is starting to think it is a real race after all.
“And you’ll be competing then, sire?” Asks a heavyset man, looking between the two of them with a meaning Merlin cannot begin to fathom.
“Indeed,” Arthur says, and his voice cracks. “Indeed.”
“Good luck!” Says the man, and ties a green ribbon to first Arthur’s wrist, and then Merlin’s, leaving a few lengths hanging low between them.
Oh no, will Merlin have to run? Is it like in Ealdor, when you tied the ankles together? That entailed quite a lot more hopping—the length of ribbon between them seemed unusually generous in comparison. But then, eyeing the course, it looks as though there are even little obstacles involved. Knowing how competitive Arthur gets Merlin’s stomach begins to sink. Quite a lot of other pairs are gathering up at the starting line, and Arthur grimly marches them over. He sees the knights watching, and when they catch him looking Gwaine lets out a loud hoot and starts clapping.
What?
He swallows thickly, and Arthur shuffles his feet next to him, pointedly avoiding his eyes.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlefolk of Camelot!” That same man who had tied them together claps his hands, “to our forty-third annual wife-carrying race!”
Merlin whips his head over to glare at Arthur.
“Are you making fun of me?” He hisses under the sounds of the crowd cheering and hollering.
“No,” Arthur says, meeting his eyes finally, “I’m not.”
“Because that would be mean,” Merlin elaborates. “To make fun of me for that.” His head buzzed and his cheeks felt hot from more than the summer sun.
“I’m really not,” Arthur promises, and holds up his hand, one pinky finger extended. “Pinky swear.”
“Wait is that a real tradition?!” Merlin shouts, outraged, thinking back in humiliation--he’d have to apologize to Gwen.
“Merlin,” Arthur said around a laugh, flushing and rubbing the back of his neck. “I suppose I deserve that. But no, I’m really not making fun. I’m-well, I'm quite serious, you see.”
Merlin takes in the red of Arthur's ears, his pleading, nervous expression. Instead of answering Merlin swallows around the lump in his throat and hooks his pinky through Arthur’s. Between their linked hands the ribbon flutters in the breeze. They smile at each other under the blue sky for a moment, Arthur's grin is lopsided and real, and Merlin feels like he could fly.
“Alright, up you go,” Arthur says.
“Wait, what-!? Oof!” Merlin barely chokes out before he is hauled over Arthur’s broad shoulders like a sack of turnips.
“Three,” the crowd shouts,
“Two,” he can hear Gwaine above everyone else, screaming himself hoarse-
“One! Go!”