Birthday Fic #1: Five Times Arthur didn't climb on the Round Table
It's funny how things come in threes, isn't it? I'm generally pretty hopeless about remembering birthdays, both online and IRL, but this week, THREE of my lovely friends have birthdays, and since all three of them are currently giving up their time to help me with my Paperlegends fic, I wanted to mark the occasion.
Technically, all three presents are going to be belated, but I'm starting with the one that is currently most belated, for![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
donutsweeper. She's stuck by me through multiple fandoms and (what must feel like) hundreds of fics now, and still replies to my emails. That's a real friend <3
Happy birthday, love. I know it's been a big week over there, so I hope it was a good one too.
Title: Five times Arthur didn't climb on the Round Table (and one time Merlin made him do it)
Rating: G
Warnings: Setting is between S4 and S5. Mention of canonical character death.
Notes: In a recent beta, Donutsweeper said I wasn’t allowed to have Arthur climb over the Round Table. She was absolutely right, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to try it.
Summary: Arthur is the master of self-control.
Read on AO3
1. Guinevere
Somehow, in all the drinking and feasting and chatting and general celebrations to inaugurate the first meeting of the Round Table, Arthur has lost his wife. He’s been cornered by some lord he doesn’t know from a town he hasn’t actually heard of, and is being forced to express interest in next year’s apple harvest, the weather in Mercia last year and the unfortunate reduction in the length of carrots.
Hoping his grin doesn’t look too forced, he lets his eyes slowly roam around the room, and finally finds Guinevere standing on the opposite side of the table, apparently equally trapped by a tall woman in an unfortunate orange dress.
Their eyes meet, and for a moment, Arthur seriously contemplates excusing himself, and taking the most direct path to join her, even if it is over the top of the table. As if reading his mind, Guinevere gives him a tight, amused smile and the slightest shake of her head before turning away again.
Resigning himself to his fate, Arthur forces his attention back to the man in front of him and feigns a longstanding interest in turnips.
2. Leon
Arthur is grateful for many things about Leon. His steadfast loyalty has been a great help in steadying many of Uther’s knights who might have wavered, unsure about the new, young king and all the changes he has brought. Leon has been a solid presence in Arthur’s life for as long as he can remember, and he has never shown anything but courage, devotion and a willingness to follow Arthur, no matter what.
On the other hand, he does like things to be done properly, whether Arthur considers it entirely necessary or not.
“I really think that people will figure it out for themselves,” Arthur says for the fourth time, and for the fourth time, Leon gives him an unhappy frown.
“We must make it clear to people that your favour doesn’t fall on anyone more than anyone else. If we seat Osric closer to you than his cousin Oswald, there could be all kinds of dire consequences.”
“It’s a round table, Leon!” Arthur says, with more force than he’d intended. “The whole idea of it is that everyone is equal and it shouldn’t matter where anyone sits. Maybe it would just be easier if I stood in the middle of the table and pointed people to seats at random as they come in!”
He leans into the table as though getting ready to climb onto it, but regrets it at once, seeing the way Leon’s face falls and the quill he’s holding droops a little. Apparently Arthur can either go along with the seating plan, or spend the entire afternoon - and probably the rest of the week as well - feeling guilty.
“Give that here,” he says with a sigh, gesturing for Leon to give him the parchment and quill. “I want to make sure you’re sitting next to me so I can kick you under the table.”
Leon tries to look disapproving, fails completely and smiles instead, handing over the parchment. “As you wish, sire.”
3. Gwaine
In the entire castle, the only person apart from Merlin who can bring out this level of sheer frustration in Arthur is Gwaine.
“That’s enough,” he barks, snapping his fingers.
“Oh not hardly.” There’s a wicked grin on Gwaine’s face and he’s holding up the small sheaf of papers as though it’s long-hidden treasure. “I’m barely getting started.”
“Those are private,” Arthur says, putting both hands on the table and narrowing his eyes at Gwaine. It’s a long way around the Round Table, and every time he starts in one direction, Gwaine heads in the other.
“They really should be.” Leafing through the pile, Gwaine makes a show of reading one, and then looks up at Arthur with what is probably supposed to be a mock-affectionate expression, except there is far too much amusement in his eyes for that to work. “Really, Arthur. You should leave the poetry to the bards.”
They are both moving now, circling the table, Arthur gripping the tops of the chairs as he goes, and absolutely not imagining they’re Gwaine’s neck. It’s incredibly tempting to just go straight over the top of the table to get to Gwaine and those letters that he can’t believe Guinevere kept, but he suspects that by the time he got there, Gwaine would be long gone.
“It’s not poetry,” he grits out instead
“No. Just love letters.” Gwaine presses them against his chest. “So romantic.”
They’ve reached the narrowest part of the hall now, both with their backs to the walls, both the same distance from the corridor back into the castle. Arthur catches the flicker of Gwaine’s eyes just in time, almost taking the chair with him as he lunges towards the doors, determined to intercept him. There’s no way he’s letting him loose in Camelot with those letters.
4. Elyan
Arthur has sometimes suspected that Elyan finds Camelot a bit much. From Guinevere’s description, he spent a lot of the last few years roaming from place to place, never stopping and never looking back. It’s something that Arthur, who’s known since he could understand these things that home will never be anywhere but Camelot, can’t really understand.
He knows the look of a man with something on his mind though, and he watches Elyan slowly circle the Round Table, his fingers trailing over the carved and inlaid wood. After a moment, Arthur gives the door a bit of a shove so that it closes loudly behind him, letting Elyan know he’s there.
“Sire.” Elyan stiffens and bows at once, some of the melancholy disappearing from his face. “Was there something you needed?”
“No, nothing.” Trying to keep his voice and pose casual, Arthur comes slowly over to the table, putting his own hand on the polished surface. “Just looking for some peace and quiet.” He holds his hand up when Elyan goes to leave. “Don’t worry. Unless you’re planning on doing some kind of song and dance on top of the table, I don’t mind if you want to stay.”
They both glance at the table, and Arthur knows when he looks back that Elyan has had the same mental image as him, the knights of Camelot in their mail and cloaks, dancing their way around the table. He’s pleased to see his smile returned, and resists the urge to suggest they give it a go.
“Gwen was always born to this life,” Elyan says, and it sounds like a non sequitur, except that Arthur knows it isn’t. “Me? I could hardly stand the town, let alone the castle. Too confining.”
“It can all get a bit much sometimes,” Arthur agrees, taking a seat and gesturing for Elyan to do the same.
“Even now, there’s so many people, so much noise all the time, so many demands, responsibilities.” He stops, looking a little embarrassed. “You must know that better than me.”
“I was born to it,” Arthur says. “Doesn’t mean I don’t understand, though. If you don’t want to stay in Camelot, there are plenty of garrisons out there that would be delighted to have someone of your skill.”
“No.” Elyan shakes his head, and the movement is firm, sure. “I mean, I need a break from it sometimes, but no. Because that’s the strange thing,” he adds, running his hands over the table and smiling to himself, “sometimes, you don’t have to be alone to be free.”
5. Percival
Percival is a good friend. A damn good friend. Really, he is. He’s a damn good friend that a person can lean on, and that’s not just because he’s twice the size of most of the people around him. Which is appropriate, because right now, Arthur is seeing two of him.
In the next room, the Samhain feast is still in full swing, the sounds of drinking and laughing carrying through from the dining hall into the throne room. The Round Table is still in the centre of the hall, left in place from the meeting earlier that day. The servants have probably been too busy with the feast to do anything with it.
Which is good, because there are chairs for Arthur to fall into when the world begins to swim and the two Percivals turn into four, then eight, all of them looking down at him with something close to worry on their face.
“Arthur?” he asks, blurring slightly until there is only one of him again. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. I just needed some air. But not outside. Cold outside. Really, really cold.”
“It’s Samhain,” Percival says, pulling up a chair next to Arthur’s. “It’s always cold.”
“Not as cold as last year. Everyone was so cold then.” There isn’t enough alcohol in the world to drown the memories of last year, of the villages wiped out by the Dorocha, of cold, stiff bodies lying on the hard ground, the earth too hard to even dig graves in.
Percival blows out a long breath, nodding mostly to himself. “I miss Lancelot too,” he says, clapping a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and making him almost fall out of the chair. “We should go back in and drink to him.”
That doesn’t feel like enough, not really. Lancelot never got to see the Round Table come to Camelot, never took his place as he should have. “No,” Arthur says, trying to get free and only managing to get to his feet unsteadily, Percival’s hand still on his shoulder. “No, tell them all to come in here. I want to tell them...tell them...” Something. He’ll think of something. He’s going to stand right here and tell them something. No, not here. That’s not enough. He’s going to stand there, right in the middle of the Round Table, and tell everyone...something. Except the table seems higher than he remembers, and Arthur is having trouble climbing onto it.
“Maybe not tonight, eh?” The grip on his shoulder tightens, and a hand closes around his arm, gently guiding him away from the table. “Let’s go have a drink with the others. For Lancelot.”
And since that sounds like a good plan, Arthur lets go of the table and lets himself be led away. More drink can’t possibly be a bad idea.
And Merlin
Not that he’s ever done so himself, but Arthur is sure there must be a more dignified way of polishing the Round Table than this. Merlin is kneeling in the middle of it, wads of cloth tied to his knees and wrapped around his feet, carefully working his way from the centre outwards. With his jacket off, hair sticking up in all directions, and string from his kneepads trailing behind him, he looks like a very diligent scarecrow.
“You never pay this much attention to the floor in my chambers,” Arthur says, lowering himself into a chair and stretching his legs out in front of him.
“I do, it’s just you make it muddy again as soon as I finish cleaning it.” Merlin’s voice is slightly muffled as he crouches lower, almost pressing his nose to the wood. “Besides, no one sees that but you and Gwen. Everyone sees this.”
Raising an eyebrow, Arthur says, “It’s a huge table, Merlin. Who’s going to notice whether all of it is shining perfectly or not?” Considering Arthur would probably notice immediately, that's not an entirely fair question, but it's no fun when Merlin doesn't rise to the bait.
“I'd notice.” Merlin straightens up, his back cracking loudly enough that it makes Arthur wince in sympathy. “And anyway, that’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
When Merlin turns to look at him, it’s with that strange, faraway look he gets sometimes, usually when he’s about to be infuriatingly right about something. “It’s a symbol, Arthur. The Round Table stands for something, for all that you’re trying to achieve here, the things that people notice and the ones they don't. And I’m not going to have it spoiled for the sake of a few hours of polishing.”
Damn it. Arthur hates it when Merlin has a point. It takes all the fun out of teasing him. And Arthur knows that he wasn't exaggerating about the hours part. From the flush on his cheeks and the stiffness as he shuffles on to the next part of the table, Arthur guesses Merlin has already been at this a while, and will be here for a while yet. Sighing, he shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair before looking around for another cloth.
“Here,” he says, holding out a hand. “Pass me the polish.” There are lords waiting to talk to him, knights waiting for orders and no doubt a hundred important things to do, but right now, he’s not sure that any of them are more important than this. Carefully, he climbs up onto the table, settling himself near the edge and taking the polish from Merlin, who has a wary, confused look on his face. “Well,” Arthur says, feeling an odd sort of satisfaction, “someone’s got to make sure you do it right.”
Technically, all three presents are going to be belated, but I'm starting with the one that is currently most belated, for
donutsweeper. She's stuck by me through multiple fandoms and (what must feel like) hundreds of fics now, and still replies to my emails. That's a real friend <3Happy birthday, love. I know it's been a big week over there, so I hope it was a good one too.
Title: Five times Arthur didn't climb on the Round Table (and one time Merlin made him do it)
Rating: G
Warnings: Setting is between S4 and S5. Mention of canonical character death.
Notes: In a recent beta, Donutsweeper said I wasn’t allowed to have Arthur climb over the Round Table. She was absolutely right, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to try it.
Summary: Arthur is the master of self-control.
Read on AO3
1. Guinevere
Somehow, in all the drinking and feasting and chatting and general celebrations to inaugurate the first meeting of the Round Table, Arthur has lost his wife. He’s been cornered by some lord he doesn’t know from a town he hasn’t actually heard of, and is being forced to express interest in next year’s apple harvest, the weather in Mercia last year and the unfortunate reduction in the length of carrots.
Hoping his grin doesn’t look too forced, he lets his eyes slowly roam around the room, and finally finds Guinevere standing on the opposite side of the table, apparently equally trapped by a tall woman in an unfortunate orange dress.
Their eyes meet, and for a moment, Arthur seriously contemplates excusing himself, and taking the most direct path to join her, even if it is over the top of the table. As if reading his mind, Guinevere gives him a tight, amused smile and the slightest shake of her head before turning away again.
Resigning himself to his fate, Arthur forces his attention back to the man in front of him and feigns a longstanding interest in turnips.
2. Leon
Arthur is grateful for many things about Leon. His steadfast loyalty has been a great help in steadying many of Uther’s knights who might have wavered, unsure about the new, young king and all the changes he has brought. Leon has been a solid presence in Arthur’s life for as long as he can remember, and he has never shown anything but courage, devotion and a willingness to follow Arthur, no matter what.
On the other hand, he does like things to be done properly, whether Arthur considers it entirely necessary or not.
“I really think that people will figure it out for themselves,” Arthur says for the fourth time, and for the fourth time, Leon gives him an unhappy frown.
“We must make it clear to people that your favour doesn’t fall on anyone more than anyone else. If we seat Osric closer to you than his cousin Oswald, there could be all kinds of dire consequences.”
“It’s a round table, Leon!” Arthur says, with more force than he’d intended. “The whole idea of it is that everyone is equal and it shouldn’t matter where anyone sits. Maybe it would just be easier if I stood in the middle of the table and pointed people to seats at random as they come in!”
He leans into the table as though getting ready to climb onto it, but regrets it at once, seeing the way Leon’s face falls and the quill he’s holding droops a little. Apparently Arthur can either go along with the seating plan, or spend the entire afternoon - and probably the rest of the week as well - feeling guilty.
“Give that here,” he says with a sigh, gesturing for Leon to give him the parchment and quill. “I want to make sure you’re sitting next to me so I can kick you under the table.”
Leon tries to look disapproving, fails completely and smiles instead, handing over the parchment. “As you wish, sire.”
3. Gwaine
In the entire castle, the only person apart from Merlin who can bring out this level of sheer frustration in Arthur is Gwaine.
“That’s enough,” he barks, snapping his fingers.
“Oh not hardly.” There’s a wicked grin on Gwaine’s face and he’s holding up the small sheaf of papers as though it’s long-hidden treasure. “I’m barely getting started.”
“Those are private,” Arthur says, putting both hands on the table and narrowing his eyes at Gwaine. It’s a long way around the Round Table, and every time he starts in one direction, Gwaine heads in the other.
“They really should be.” Leafing through the pile, Gwaine makes a show of reading one, and then looks up at Arthur with what is probably supposed to be a mock-affectionate expression, except there is far too much amusement in his eyes for that to work. “Really, Arthur. You should leave the poetry to the bards.”
They are both moving now, circling the table, Arthur gripping the tops of the chairs as he goes, and absolutely not imagining they’re Gwaine’s neck. It’s incredibly tempting to just go straight over the top of the table to get to Gwaine and those letters that he can’t believe Guinevere kept, but he suspects that by the time he got there, Gwaine would be long gone.
“It’s not poetry,” he grits out instead
“No. Just love letters.” Gwaine presses them against his chest. “So romantic.”
They’ve reached the narrowest part of the hall now, both with their backs to the walls, both the same distance from the corridor back into the castle. Arthur catches the flicker of Gwaine’s eyes just in time, almost taking the chair with him as he lunges towards the doors, determined to intercept him. There’s no way he’s letting him loose in Camelot with those letters.
4. Elyan
Arthur has sometimes suspected that Elyan finds Camelot a bit much. From Guinevere’s description, he spent a lot of the last few years roaming from place to place, never stopping and never looking back. It’s something that Arthur, who’s known since he could understand these things that home will never be anywhere but Camelot, can’t really understand.
He knows the look of a man with something on his mind though, and he watches Elyan slowly circle the Round Table, his fingers trailing over the carved and inlaid wood. After a moment, Arthur gives the door a bit of a shove so that it closes loudly behind him, letting Elyan know he’s there.
“Sire.” Elyan stiffens and bows at once, some of the melancholy disappearing from his face. “Was there something you needed?”
“No, nothing.” Trying to keep his voice and pose casual, Arthur comes slowly over to the table, putting his own hand on the polished surface. “Just looking for some peace and quiet.” He holds his hand up when Elyan goes to leave. “Don’t worry. Unless you’re planning on doing some kind of song and dance on top of the table, I don’t mind if you want to stay.”
They both glance at the table, and Arthur knows when he looks back that Elyan has had the same mental image as him, the knights of Camelot in their mail and cloaks, dancing their way around the table. He’s pleased to see his smile returned, and resists the urge to suggest they give it a go.
“Gwen was always born to this life,” Elyan says, and it sounds like a non sequitur, except that Arthur knows it isn’t. “Me? I could hardly stand the town, let alone the castle. Too confining.”
“It can all get a bit much sometimes,” Arthur agrees, taking a seat and gesturing for Elyan to do the same.
“Even now, there’s so many people, so much noise all the time, so many demands, responsibilities.” He stops, looking a little embarrassed. “You must know that better than me.”
“I was born to it,” Arthur says. “Doesn’t mean I don’t understand, though. If you don’t want to stay in Camelot, there are plenty of garrisons out there that would be delighted to have someone of your skill.”
“No.” Elyan shakes his head, and the movement is firm, sure. “I mean, I need a break from it sometimes, but no. Because that’s the strange thing,” he adds, running his hands over the table and smiling to himself, “sometimes, you don’t have to be alone to be free.”
5. Percival
Percival is a good friend. A damn good friend. Really, he is. He’s a damn good friend that a person can lean on, and that’s not just because he’s twice the size of most of the people around him. Which is appropriate, because right now, Arthur is seeing two of him.
In the next room, the Samhain feast is still in full swing, the sounds of drinking and laughing carrying through from the dining hall into the throne room. The Round Table is still in the centre of the hall, left in place from the meeting earlier that day. The servants have probably been too busy with the feast to do anything with it.
Which is good, because there are chairs for Arthur to fall into when the world begins to swim and the two Percivals turn into four, then eight, all of them looking down at him with something close to worry on their face.
“Arthur?” he asks, blurring slightly until there is only one of him again. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. I just needed some air. But not outside. Cold outside. Really, really cold.”
“It’s Samhain,” Percival says, pulling up a chair next to Arthur’s. “It’s always cold.”
“Not as cold as last year. Everyone was so cold then.” There isn’t enough alcohol in the world to drown the memories of last year, of the villages wiped out by the Dorocha, of cold, stiff bodies lying on the hard ground, the earth too hard to even dig graves in.
Percival blows out a long breath, nodding mostly to himself. “I miss Lancelot too,” he says, clapping a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and making him almost fall out of the chair. “We should go back in and drink to him.”
That doesn’t feel like enough, not really. Lancelot never got to see the Round Table come to Camelot, never took his place as he should have. “No,” Arthur says, trying to get free and only managing to get to his feet unsteadily, Percival’s hand still on his shoulder. “No, tell them all to come in here. I want to tell them...tell them...” Something. He’ll think of something. He’s going to stand right here and tell them something. No, not here. That’s not enough. He’s going to stand there, right in the middle of the Round Table, and tell everyone...something. Except the table seems higher than he remembers, and Arthur is having trouble climbing onto it.
“Maybe not tonight, eh?” The grip on his shoulder tightens, and a hand closes around his arm, gently guiding him away from the table. “Let’s go have a drink with the others. For Lancelot.”
And since that sounds like a good plan, Arthur lets go of the table and lets himself be led away. More drink can’t possibly be a bad idea.
And Merlin
Not that he’s ever done so himself, but Arthur is sure there must be a more dignified way of polishing the Round Table than this. Merlin is kneeling in the middle of it, wads of cloth tied to his knees and wrapped around his feet, carefully working his way from the centre outwards. With his jacket off, hair sticking up in all directions, and string from his kneepads trailing behind him, he looks like a very diligent scarecrow.
“You never pay this much attention to the floor in my chambers,” Arthur says, lowering himself into a chair and stretching his legs out in front of him.
“I do, it’s just you make it muddy again as soon as I finish cleaning it.” Merlin’s voice is slightly muffled as he crouches lower, almost pressing his nose to the wood. “Besides, no one sees that but you and Gwen. Everyone sees this.”
Raising an eyebrow, Arthur says, “It’s a huge table, Merlin. Who’s going to notice whether all of it is shining perfectly or not?” Considering Arthur would probably notice immediately, that's not an entirely fair question, but it's no fun when Merlin doesn't rise to the bait.
“I'd notice.” Merlin straightens up, his back cracking loudly enough that it makes Arthur wince in sympathy. “And anyway, that’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
When Merlin turns to look at him, it’s with that strange, faraway look he gets sometimes, usually when he’s about to be infuriatingly right about something. “It’s a symbol, Arthur. The Round Table stands for something, for all that you’re trying to achieve here, the things that people notice and the ones they don't. And I’m not going to have it spoiled for the sake of a few hours of polishing.”
Damn it. Arthur hates it when Merlin has a point. It takes all the fun out of teasing him. And Arthur knows that he wasn't exaggerating about the hours part. From the flush on his cheeks and the stiffness as he shuffles on to the next part of the table, Arthur guesses Merlin has already been at this a while, and will be here for a while yet. Sighing, he shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair before looking around for another cloth.
“Here,” he says, holding out a hand. “Pass me the polish.” There are lords waiting to talk to him, knights waiting for orders and no doubt a hundred important things to do, but right now, he’s not sure that any of them are more important than this. Carefully, he climbs up onto the table, settling himself near the edge and taking the polish from Merlin, who has a wary, confused look on his face. “Well,” Arthur says, feeling an odd sort of satisfaction, “someone’s got to make sure you do it right.”