Merlin hates it when nobles visit. He really does. Because Arthur makes him do almost twice as many bloody chores, making sure everything is in readiness for the appearances he has to make, especially if there's an unwed maiden involved. He also hates the feasts. Not just because he has to stand around all night, carting about a wine jug to keep the royal dollophead from complaining of thirst, but he also has to deal with the damned looks.

He's almost gotten used to the looks. Sort of. Okay, not really. There's always at least a few of the visiting knights and guardsmen (and on occasion, the lords themselves) who stare at him the way starving men eye up a stuffed goose at the banquet table. And when Arthur makes him go 'round the hall to eavesdrop just a little bit, there's always a few sly hands that grab at him when he passes.

The first time he'd gotten his arse grabbed, it'd taken all his will not to upend the wine jug over the man's head, and when he returned to Arthur's side, he'd glowered at the prince the rest of the night, albeit subtly so Uther didn't see.

Gwen's informed him that it's just part of being in the royal household. Uther doesn't allow any excessive abuse of servants, but anything other than that is essentially fair game. And if a visiting noble wants to make one of the kitchen girls or serving boys a bedwarmer, the King won't protest if it keeps everyone in agreeable moods. Insofar, she hasn't been subjected to any such treatment, but that's largely because Morgana would personally geld whoever dared touch her maidservant.

Merlin wishes he was so lucky. He's not been asked to anyone's bed…yet, but he thinks that it's only a matter of time before someone works up the nerve to see if they can wrangle the prince's manservant.

"So, what's this one called again?" he asks as he gathers up Arthur's dress jacket and fine-spun shirt, his usual outfit worn to these feasts.

"Mahieu," the prince replies. "He's from one of the border provinces."

"Ah. Any comely daughters accompanying him?"

Arthur snorts. "Fortunately, no." When Merlin turns to leave, he calls, "Hold on. On the table, there's something else."

Oh, wonderful. He turns back around, expecting to see another tunic or a pair of muddy boots, but instead, there's only a single, small object. Merlin picks it up and studies it curiously. It's a cabochon garnet set in gold wire, strung on a length of shimmering gold ribbon. There's a single emblem etched in relief on either side: a dragon, exquisite in detail even to his untrained eye, from its roaring mouth to its sharp-clawed feet. "What is this for?" he asks, holding it up. When the sun shines on the garnet, it turns the colour of wine. Or blood.

"It's for you to wear at the feasts," Arthur replies without even looking up from the parchment he's writing on; from the amount of chewing he's done on his quill, Merlin would guess it's a speech of some sort. He's always shite at those.

He stares at the other man in surprise. "Why?"

Now the prince does look up, giving him the flat 'I'm not impressed by this stupidity, Merlin' look that he knows very well. "Because I said so. Wear it."

And that is definitely an order, not a suggestion; Merlin drops it atop the clothes in the basket. "Yes, sire."

Ever since the incident with the poisoned wine, Arthur hasn't made him wear that awful uniform with its stupid feathery hat, but he does have a decent jacket and shirt that he wears, and he gives his boots a swift cleaning so he doesn't have to hear any complaining about him making a poor impression.

Merlin looks at the garnet and sighs yet again. He doesn't feel comfortable wearing something that fine—there's probably a year of wages or more strung on that ribbon—but he doesn't want to deal with His Pratliness throwing a fit because he didn't. Begrudgingly, he unties his neckerchief, sets it aside, and winds the ribbon around his neck instead, tying the ends. The cabochon sits neatly against the hollow of his throat. Well, at least it doesn't look bad, he thinks, looking at his thin, wavering reflection in the window glass.

Waving to Gaius, he heads down to the kitchens to retrieve his wine jug and begins his usual duties, preparing himself for a very long night.

Tonight, however, is different. The knights and nobles that had been a little more than friendly with him before weren't quite so affable now. They're still polite, but he's not getting looked at like he's the dessert course anymore, and there's no wandering hands when he circulates around the hall. Which is both sort of confusing and a relief.

He sniffs at the wine, wondering if it's been watered down from last night and doesn't notice the arched eyebrow Uther gives him or the amused smile on Morgana's red-painted lips when he passes by their chairs on his way back to Arthur.

The next few days are…strange.

Not griffins and nearly-poisoned strange, thank the gods, but it is definitely still strange.

Lord Mahieu is still nitpicking out details of some kind of trade deal with Uther, so all of the servants are still on their best behaviour to ensure they give no reason for unhappiness. Merlin's even had to throw in and help some of the other servants get everything done, and they all give him strange looks when he does. At first, he thinks its just because he's the prince's manservant and has other duties, but it's not the first time he's pitched in.

But it just gets stranger and stranger.

One of the kitchen girls that he's made an ally of (a necessity when he needs to avoid Cook and her wrathful, skull-thumping ladle) gives him a small plate of honey cakes, fresh from the ovens, when he retrieves Arthur's breakfast. Not for the prince, but for Merlin. And when he tries to thank her for it, she only blushes and insists it was nothing.

When Arthur announces a hunting trip, Merlin goes to the stables and finds Llamrei already saddled and readied, an eager stable boy holding her reins and almost bouncing in place. The boy waves off Merlin's thanks and darts off before he can get another word out. And all the saddlebags have already been packed up as well, full of the good food from the kitchens.

He goes to get the washing and finds it already cleaned and folded.

He goes to finish the mending and sees every bit of clothing already stitched up, neater than he's ever managed.

It's all entirely too strange.

Finally, he can't take it anymore. He corners Gwen in an empty corridor. "Alright, what's going on? I mean, have I done something?" Merlin asks desperately, and she blinks at him in surprise. "Gwen, something is going on around here, and I don't know what, but it's starting to make me very nervous, and…" He pauses for a second, one hand drifting up to touch his neck. He's worn that damned garnet since Arthur gave it to him, and the prince had spent over an hour making pointed observation of its absence until Merlin put it back on and he hasn't taken it off for the past several days. "And it's because of this thing, isn't it?"

Gwen glances sideways nervously. "Uhm…maybe. Can I look at it?" Quickly, he unties the ribbon and hands it to her, hoping she has an idea as to what the hell is going on. She stares at the garnet for a long moment before turning her gaze back up to Merlin. "And you said that Arthur…gave you this?" she asks slowly.

"Yes, and now everyone's been looking at me like I've grown another ear or something! Morgana smiles whenever she sees me, and Elinor, the new kitchen girl, she called me 'sir' today. Sir. And yesterday? Yesterday, I passed the King in the corridor, and you know what he said to me? Nothing! He didn't call me an idiot or insult me at all!" he exclaims, waving his arms for emphasis because anything else he can handle, but Uther being civil? Something is very wrong.

Gwen bites her lower lip and puts a hand to her mouth. Her shoulders tremble slightly, and it takes Merlin a moment to realise that she's trying not to laugh.

"Guinevere!"

"I'm sorry, Merlin, I just—" She stifles another giggle in her hand and holds up the ribbon, the garnet winking redly in the light. "You really don't know what this is?"

"No. Why? Is it important?" Merlin asks, suddenly dreading the answer.

Gwen sighs and takes him by the arm, pulling him out of the corridor and into an empty alcove, lowering her voice. "This is…well, it's…"

"It's a lover's token," Morgana's amused voice cuts in neatly as she sweeps over, a vision in a gown of bronze silk studded with seed pearls and citrine.

Merlin gapes at her, so stunned he forgets to bow or greet her properly. "Say again?"

She smiles like a cat licking cream, reaching out to pluck the golden ribbon from Gwen's hand, holding it up to study the seal. "Excellent work, I'm impressed," she remarks, then turns her amused gaze back to Merlin. "This—" She twists the ribbon, making the cabochon spin with it. "—is a lover's token. Nobles and royals issue them to their favourites. It means that you are to be admitted to the prince's chambers whenever you please, and that nobody else should court you unless they wish to meet Arthur in the dueling ring. It puts you a step above the other servants since you have the ear of the prince where they do not, and I imagine Uther would at least be peaceable towards you so he doesn't have to hear anything about it from Arthur. And I'm certain he's relieved that you're a man." When Merlin and Gwen both stare at her, she adds, "No bastards to muddy up the line of succession."

Oh, merciful gods. That…smug, arrogant, impetuous arse…. He stares at the dangling garnet, gritting his teeth so hard they creak. There's a part of him that wants to just curl up and purr at the idea of being Arthur's lover, but there's much, much bigger parts of him that want very badly to take that stupid golden ribbon and strangle a stupid golden prince with it. He holds out a hand, and Morgana drops the seal into his palm, her smirk fading slightly as he glares at the token as if it's done him personal harm. "Excuse me, my lady," he grinds out, and she takes a step back to let him pass.

Gwen and Morgana watch him go, and the lady looks to her maidservant. "I have the feeling that the royal family is about to be pared down," she remarks, and Gwen muffles a snort into one hand.

Arthur looks up from the pages that Father had given him for review when the door of his chambers slams open, and Merlin strides in, looking furious. "Have you never heard of knocking, Merlin?" he asks dryly.

"Well, apparently, I don't have to bother with that anymore," Merlin replies, striding up to the desk and throwing something on the desk.

Arthur bites back a swear when he recognises the seal that he'd commissioned. He'd rather been hoping that Merlin wouldn't find out what it meant, but then again, he should have known better. For all his idiocy, Merlin is too inquisitive by half at times. "It'd still be nice if you had some form of decency," he manages to say in a passably level tone, picking up the golden ribbon and holding it up. "You weren't complaining before."

"I didn't know what it was, before!" Merlin snaps back. "I'm not—" He cuts himself off sharply, shaking his head quickly. "Take it back. I don't want it."

Arthur tightens his grip on the ribbon. "No?" he asks, trying to stifle the hurt that wants to come through. "Why?"

"I'm not a whore!"

"Merlin!" Arthur exclaims, pushing to his feet sharply; for his part, Merlin closes his mouth and almost looks chagrined for a brief second, but then his jaw gets that mutinous set again, lifting his chin defiantly. "I don't know where in the hell you got that idea, but you are not a…whore, and if anybody says so, I'll put them in the dungeons myself."

The fool boy glares at him for a few more seconds, scowling, then unfolds his arms. "Why'd you give me that? We're not…" He makes a vague gesture in the direction of the bed with one hand, the tips of his ears bright pink.

Because I wish we were. Because I wanted to break the fingers of everyone who touched you at the feast. Because every time they smiled at you, I wanted to kick their teeth in. Because you are my Merlin and I have no intention of sharing, Arthur thinks but forcibly swallows the words back. He sits back down in his chair and drums his fingers against the arm, aware of Merlin's steady gaze still fixed on him, waiting for an answer. And damn the boy, he wouldn't just let it drop. "Because…you are not for them to amuse themselves with," he says at last, the words coming out slowly. "You're not for anyone to toy with."

Merlin narrows his eyes. "Except for you?"

Damn the boy. "No," he sighs. "Not even me. But it's the best way I know of to keep you safe. Take it if you want. Or don't. You're under no obligation to do so." He draws his chair up to the desk and straightens his papers, though he's aware of Merlin's gaze burning against the top of his head. He refuses to look up, but in the edge of his vision, he sees pale fingers take the seal from the desk and bites back a smile.

What he does not expect is for the pages to be shoved aside roughly, half of them spilling onto the floor. Arthur lifts his head to ask Merlin just what the hell he's doing, but he doesn't get the chance because there's a warm mouth pressed to his.

Utterly mindless of the inkwell and parchment, Merlin crawls up to kneel on the tabletop, lacing his fingers into Arthur's hair and kissing him deeply. Arthur parts his lips almost helplessly, and a warm tongue slides in.

Merlin tastes like pomegranates, pleasantly sour and wonderfully sweet.

When Arthur reaches up to grasp at his arms, the impetuous little git crawls forward and moves to instead straddle the prince's lap, the chair creaking dangerously under their combined weight. Finally, Arthur finds the presence of mind to grasp Merlin's sharp shoulders and push him back enough to breathe, gazing up at his face. His manservant's mouth is wonderfully swollen and red, smiling, and damned if that isn't a beautiful sight. "And just what," Arthur asks, bit more breathless than he likes, "do you think you're doing, Merlin?"

"What I'm entitled to do," the young man replies cheekily as he reaches up to play with the garnet seal, now once more resting against the hollow of his throat. "You know, if you wanted a kiss, all you had to do was ask, sire."

Arthur reaches up and grasps the token, twisting the ribbon so Merlin leans in closer, so close their breath is shared between them. "Shut up, Merlin," he growls quietly. Lurching forward out of the chair, he pins Merlin flat on the table, leaning forward over him with a hand on the tabletop for balance. It's not exactly a comfortable position, but he doesn't plan on them staying there for very long. Not when there's a perfectly good bed nearby. "I'm still the prince here, you know."

"You're still a prat, too," Merlin replies, smirking even as those long legs wrap around Arthur's hips.

"Insolent."

"Dollophead."

They're going to be late for the sending-off of Lord Mahieu's party, but at this moment, Arthur doesn't care a whit about that. He's too busy admiring the sight Merlin makes, spread across the sheets on his stomach, the ends of the golden ribbon trailing over the nape of his neck. His back is marked all over with wine-coloured love bites and bruises, stark against his fair skin.

"You are not allowed to take this off again," Arthur murmurs, toying with one end of the ribbon. "Understood?"

Merlin mumbles something that might have been 'yes, sire' or could've just as well been 'kiss my arse,' his face buried in the pillows.

Smiling, Arthur kisses the crown of his head, propped up on one elbow. He's made Merlin his consort, so the hard part is over.

Now he just has to let Merlin know that he knows about the whole magic thing, and it'll all be sorted.