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They were fighting bandits when Arthur noticed it. Merlin had been hanging back, as usual, but had been unable to escape one particularly ambitious attacker. Arthur kicked the legs out from under his own opponent swiftly, turning to warn him, but stopped dead in his tracks.
Because in the span of a few seconds, Merlin ducked a swing, grabbed a sword from the ground, parried the second attack and then slammed the butt of his borrowed sword smartly into the skull of the bandit. Arthur barely managed to block the next bandit who came his way, so busy was he gaping after his supposedly useless manservant. A manservant who pouted when they killed so much as a squirrel, but who had clearly picked up more than he let on while watching Arthur train the knights.
Unbelievable. Merlin, having potential with a sword? Beginner’s luck.
And sure, Arthur amended in his mind, Merlin wasn’t the same scrawny teenager he’d been when he’d first come to Camelot, holding a mace like it might blow up at any second. But any muscle mass he’d gained was just from carrying around laundry baskets and buckets of water for eight years.
But then came combat practice on the castle grounds.
“Ground yourself more,” Arthur found himself saying one day. “Use your back foot, make sure I can’t knock you over.”
Merlin quirked an eyebrow imperiously even as he did what he was told. “I thought this was your sword practice, sire.”
“You’re exactly right, Merlin,” replied Arthur sharply, adjusting Merlin’s stance so he blocked more of his torso. “And how can I be prepared for deadly mercenaries if my target can’t even hold his sword correctly?”
And so it went. It wasn’t even intentional, but as the weeks went by. . . Merlin improved. Damn him, he was a fast learner, and annoying about it too. If he dodged more than one attack in a practice, he was insufferable for the rest of the evening. Even if Arthur did feel a spark of pride beneath his sternum each time.
Without ever truly meaning to, Arthur had trained Merlin into a shockingly skilled swordsman. And when Merlin managed to disarm him, (only once, on a lucky move), Arthur began to wonder.
“Merlin!” he shouted on a sunny afternoon, grabbing two swords from the rack. As his servant turned around, already annoyed at his tone of voice, he tossed one over to him. He clenched his jaw at the ease with which he caught it. (Didn’t Merlin used to be clumsy?)
As Arthur stalked toward him, sword raised defensively, he began to count in his head.
One, two. . .
He swung a vicious attack at Merlin’s head, but he was right there to meet him. The clanging impact of their swords echoed across the field even as they backed away to circle each other. Some nearby squires stilled in their chores to spectate. It had become almost a regular sight, the king and his manservant going head to head.
Eleven, twelve. . .
Merlin grinned at him and stepped in to make a pass at his belly. He crowded into Arthur’s space and they traded a few blows before going back on the defensive.
Twenty-one, twenty-two. . .
Arthur circled once more, then faked for his left. Merlin fell for it just enough to be off balance, but managed to lean back and out of the way of Arthur’s next swipe.
Grounding himself, Arthur thought, satisfied. That’s better.
Thirty-one, thirty-two. . .
Without warning, Merlin twirled around him, going for Arthur’s exposed back. Only years of honing his battle instincts helped Arthur to stumble forward and out of the way. Merlin huffed a laugh that was way too cocky for his own good.
Forty-one, forty-two. . .
It was getting down to the wire now. Arthur pushed his attack fully, going swiftly to more vulnerable areas, yet still Merlin met him blow for blow.
Fifty-one, fifty-two. . .
“Getting tired, sire?” Merlin taunted.
“You wish.”
Fifty-eight-
Arthur swung at him-
Fifty-nine-
Merlin blocked once again, but was left off-kilter-
Sixty-
Arthur kicked at his heels and sent him sprawling to the ground.
“Ah well,” said Merlin, still grinning on his back, “not like I was expecting to beat King Trained to Kill Since Birth.”
Arthur offered him a hand. Merlin gripped it gladly and he hauled him up onto his feet. Arthur cleared his throat.
“Not bad,” he said, nodding. In spite of himself, Merlin beamed. And Arthur knew that he could put it off no longer.
It was only later, as he finished his dinner in his chambers, that he broached the subject with Merlin.
“I’m sure it escaped your notice, dense as you are,” Arthur drawled, ripping a chunk of bread off his roll, “but we fought for a full minute this morning.”
Merlin didn’t even look up from folding the bedsheets. “So?”
Arthur rubbed at his temples tiredly. He could not believe he was doing this. “So, you don’t know what that means?”
Merlin frowned distractedly as he fluffed the pillows. “That I’m an excellent sparring partner as well as manservant?”
“It was single combat, Merlin. A one-on-one sword duel with the king of Camelot, in which you lasted sixty seconds.”
“You mentioned.”
Arthur dragged his hands down his face. “Merlin. That qualifies you to be a knight.”
Merlin laughed as he turned, then froze as he finally saw the expression on Arthur’s face. “Wait, you’re serious. Why are you serious? You can’t be serious.”
Arthur spread his hands noncommittally.
“No, absolutely not. I am not becoming a knight. Not in a million years.”
Arthur stood up from behind his desk and came to stand in front of Merlin. “In my father’s time, this would be impossible. You should be honoured.”
“You’re really not joking,” Merlin said, awestruck, even as he searched Arthur’s face for a sign that this was a practical joke.
“You know I’m loathe to inflate that completely unfounded ego of yours,” Arthur said, stilted, “but. . . you’ve always been a wise and loyal servant to Camelot, and- to me. You would have a title. Land, even, if you wanted it.”
“Arthur.” Merlin shook his head and placed a hand on each of his shoulders. “I’m flattered, truly. But this is ridiculous. I’m not a knight. I’m your servant. And ‘Sir Merlin’ sounds awful.”
“You have got a point there.”
Merlin patted his arm again and then moved back to his chores. Over his shoulder, he said, “I could always use a raise, though!”
“You wish.”