Chapter Text
Mithian was just as ruthless in her negotiations as Arthur had expected her to be, even after he’d agreed to a full repeal of the ban on magic. It was exactly as she warned him: Mithian was thrilled for her friends; Nemeth was terribly put out to lose Merlin. Arthur couldn’t blame her, really, though he did wish she had a little more sympathy for Camelot’s financial situation.
Or at least, he did until Merlin pulled him and Guinevere aside during a break in the negotiations.
“Right,” Merlin said, in a matter-of-fact no-nonsense sort of tone. “You’ve put up a good fight, Arthur, I’m sure she’ll feel her victory was hard-won and be satisfied enough. Now stop messing about and give her what she asks for so we can all go home.”
Arthur was rendered speechless and a bit stupid with the relief of Merlin calling Camelot home. Luckily, Guinevere still had her wits about her.
“Merlin, dear, we both want that more than anything,” Guinevere said, patiently. “But we cannot bankrupt Camelot to do it. Even with your brilliant ideas—” she paused and elbowed Arthur until he wheezed out an agreement— “we’re still not in a position to offer Nemeth that much gold and grain.”
“Yes, you very much are,” Merlin said, crossing his arms. “You have me, and— forgive me, Gwen, I know there are some awful memories associated with it— you have the mage stone. It’s still back in Camelot’s vault, after all.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes; Guinevere cocked her head to one side.
Merlin sighed. “The mage stone? The artifact capable of turning lead into gold in the hands of a powerful sorcerer?” He gestured to himself with a showy sort of flourish. “Last I checked, it was still in the vaults and here’s me, a powerful sorcerer. You really don’t need to worry about gold anymore.”
“Oh,” Guinevere said. “Well, I suppose that would help.”
Arthur cleared his throat. “Even so, gold can’t make grain where there isn’t any to be had. Our people still need food, and it takes time to grow it. We can’t give Nemeth that much of our own supply; we’d start a famine if we did.”
Merlin waved a hand and scoffed. “So, I enchant a few fields to grow at three times their ordinary speed, extend the growing season, and ensure that all of our fields stay healthy and fertile. It’s no great hardship, you know. I’m quite good with plants.” Merlin’s eyes twinkled with a bit of sudden mischief. “Nearly as good as I am with tree branches.”
Arthur spluttered; Merlin cackled. Guinevere didn’t appear to take Merlin’s point— but then again, she rarely hunted with them— but rolled her eyes good-naturedly and said, “Alright, then, I can’t think of any other objections. Can you, Arthur?”
Arthur couldn’t. The negotiations were wrapped up in record time after that.
* * *
Travel, as it turned out, was much easier and more pleasant when you had magic on your side. Muddy roads dried under Merlin’s golden eyes, gravel shifted away from the horses’ hoofs, saddles were soft and comfortable no matter how long they rode, and travel rations seemed fresher and tastier— although, that last bit might have had a distinctly unmagical explanation, namely that Merlin was simply a better cook than the rest of them.
Arthur might have worried about the fact that Merlin was using so much magic under the watchful eyes of the soldiers they’d brought with them from Camelot before he managed to get back and officially overturn the ban, but his soldiers were all far too grateful to have Merlin back to care that he was technically committing treason. It probably helped that Arthur was openly asking him to use his magic, which made it plain that he did, in fact, approve.
Or maybe it had more to do with the fact that Merlin had brought a tent that unfolded by itself with a single whispered word, and that Arthur and Guinevere were both sharing that tent with him, which told its own sort of story that the soldiers were polite enough not to comment on in their earshot, but which would probably be the topic of conversation in the barracks for months. Either way, no one so much as looked at Merlin crosswise.
The end result was that they made remarkably good time, arriving back in Camelot nearly three days before they were meant to, right when most of the people were at market. They had to ride through crowded streets; it was no great hardship, of course— people tended to make way for the King, whether he was expected or not— but it did mean that the people of the Lower Towns saw the three of them returning together.
The people scented gossip the way wolves scented prey, of course, and the sound of haggling was almost immediately replaced with the sound of not-quite-inaudible whispers.
“Who’s that with the King then? Gorgeous bloke, isn’t he? Oh, if I were thirty years younger—” said one stall owner.
“If you were thirty years younger, Aggie, you’d still be old enough to be his grandmother,” said another, sounding as if she were rolling her eyes. “And either way, he’s much too fine for the likes of you. Look at that shirt! That’s silk, that is, and he’s riding shoulder to shoulder with the King and Queen. Some foreign Prince, probably, here on diplomacy.”
“You’re both half-blind,” said a harried looking woman with a shopping basket who was picking over the produce being offered up by the first speaker’s stall. “Or stupid. That’s Merlin, and that means you owe me a good deal of coin; I told you he’d come back!”
“Merlin!” someone else gasped.
“Merlin’s back! Merlin’s back!”
The people seemed to take that up as a sort of chant; the crowd forgot their gossiping for several long moments in favor of uttering several versions of what amounted to “it’s about time” and “thank the gods” and “not a moment too soon, I’d say” and “someone ought to send a runner to Gaius.”
Merlin’s face flamed a rather delightful shade of red from the attention; he nodded and waved to a few people he clearly recognized, which managed to start up a sort of low cheer that only made his blush deepen. Arthur grinned at Merlin toothily, opened his mouth to say something about his blush, only to snap it abruptly shut when someone in the crowd said, “The King must’ve given him those silks as a bribe to get him back; everybody knows he fell to pieces without him. Didn’t even last a day before he went half-mad looking for him!” and someone else said, “A day! He didn’t last an hour!”
Arthur rather thought he ought to send a soldier after whoever said that with orders to take them to the stocks, because Merlin’s blush was exchanged for a distinctly smug sort of smile so quickly it almost seemed like magic; he was going to be insufferable, now.
Merlin preened under the attention then, instead of blushing at it, and his waves took on a particularly regal air that— Arthur had to admit— seemed almost as noble as his own.
Eventually they reached the citadel, where they were greeted by a few red-faced, panting stable boys and guards who had apparently been rounded up last-minute to meet them, since their unannounced early arrival meant Leon hadn’t been able to plan a more appropriate welcoming assembly. “Sire, My Lady,” said one of the guards, bowing low. “I—” The guard’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the third member of their party. “Merlin? You’re back!”
“Hullo, Patrick,” Merlin said, cheerfully. He handed his reins off to a stable boy who looked up at him with something like awe as soon as he was named; Merlin didn’t appear to notice. The whole thing made Arthur wonder what sort of stories were being told about Merlin amongst the servants, although he wasn’t entirely sure he actually wanted to know. It was probably the sort of thing he’d be better off imagining instead of hearing.
The guard— Patrick— stared at Merlin for several long moments, until Arthur finally cleared his throat in an attempt to move things along. Patrick remembered himself at once, snapping to attention. “My Lord,” he said, “I apologize for the lack of welcome, but the Council is in session and—”
“Oh, good,” Arthur said. “No need to send for Leon and break it up, then; we’ll just meet them there. I’ve a few announcements for the Council anyway.”
“Really, Arthur? Now?” Merlin asked, sounding amused.
“Why wait?” Arthur shrugged. “If they argue with me, I can cut them off and claim fatigue from the journey back; by the time we resume session after, they’ll probably have cooled down enough to listen.”
“That’s… alright, that’s actually a bit clever,” Merlin admitted. “By your standards, at least.”
“There’s that sharp tongue of yours we all missed,” Arthur groused.
“I have it on good authority you rather like my tongue,” Merlin said, flirting shamelessly.
Guinevere— the traitor— giggled behind her hand and made eyes at Merlin in a way that made it very plain she was remembering just how much she liked his tongue, even if she had the grace not to say so aloud and in public.
Patrick made a strange sort of choking sound, but when they looked back at him, they found he was staring at each of them in turn with unrestrained glee writ plain on his features; clearly, he hadn’t missed the low, simmering heat Merlin’s tone had promised, or the fact that it was directed at Arthur and Guinevere.
Even more clearly, he approved.
Arthur dismissed the man quickly, seized Merlin and his wife by their wrists, and half-dragged them into the castle. “That’ll be all over Camelot in an hour.”
“I’d give it about ten minutes,” Guinevere said, unrepentantly. “Besides, we were going to announce him as our Consort anyway.”
Arthur let out an aggrieved sort of grunt— he’d hoped to make the announcement with a bit more flair— and led them to the Council Chambers. The guards at the door saw them coming and opened the Chamber as soon as they drew near; Arthur strode in with his shoulders back, wearing his best kingly expression. “We—” he began.
“Merlin!” Gwaine cried, pushing away from the pillar he’d been leaning on— he clearly hadn’t been listening the last time Arthur complained about his posture during Council meetings— with an expression of the purest joy Arthur had ever seen. He scrambled forwards, stretching out his arms.
A moment later, he was shoved to the floor as Leon— Leon!— pushed him aside so he could throw himself at Merlin instead. Leon seized Merlin and wailed at the top of his lungs. “Don’t you ever leave us again!”
Arthur frankly stared. He wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact that his First Knight had been reduced to tears at the sight of Merlin and had gone to his knees to wrap his arms around Merlin’s legs while he wept… or the fact that Commander Garrison, Geoffrey, and several of the Lords who’d been forced to step up and take on some of Merlin’s responsibilities after he left looked ready to join him.
Guinevere coughed lightly, then leaned in to whisper “Something tells me they aren’t going to argue with us at all” in Arthur’s ear.
Gwaine glared at Leon for a moment before wrapping himself around the other side of Merlin’s legs. He threw back his head a moment later and started wailing about how miserable Camelot had been without him. Leon’s cries grew impressively louder, and Gwaine clearly took it as a challenge; the two seemed to be competing with each other to prove that he missed Merlin the most.
Arthur put his head in his hands and tried to remember a time when his Court still had some measure of dignity left in it. When that failed, Arthur leaned over and replied to his wife, saying, “If anyone does, I think our knights will strike them down on the spot.”