THE PERILOUS ATTRACTIVENESS OF PRINCE ARTHUR and other stories

One of the apparently fundamental laws of Camelot is that any flying object (both identified or unidentified), unless clearly directed somewhere that is nowhere in the Prince's immediate vicinity, will find some way to make an assault on his royal person. Specifically, his head.

In the past week, this has included a pigskin ball some urchins were kicking around on the street, a faceful of flowers from running into Gwen while yanking off his helmet after arms practice, a misaimed tomato meant for some poor wretch taking his turn in the stocks, an entire platter of ham and cheese some overenthusiastic servant was trying to run with, Lady Anne's flung goblet of wine rebounding off a wall, and the unfortunate Sir William's boot which had been stuck on his sprained ankle for close to half a mile.

This has, mind, entirely nothing to do with Merlin or dark sorcery or anything of the sort, even though Merlin is still chafing a little over having been wrongfully sentenced to the stocks yet again over some minor (life-saving) infraction twice the week before. Merlin is a kind, generous, selfless, and completely not petty person who does not spend nights sulking in his bed and imagining a series of completely unmagical and unfortunate (non-fatal) events befalling Arthur while studying his spellbook in the privacy of his little room in Gaius's chambers.

Well. All right, perhaps it might have a little to do with Merlin, but if it did, it was completely unintentional. An accident. Like the time he made Old Man Harold's favourite sow fly when he was three*.

* It was hardly more than a half-dozen yards, besides which nobody saw apart from his horrified mother and Old Man Harold himself, who was knocked out when the pig flew right into him, so everyone else laughed off his ravings about flying pigs as a dizzy notion brought on by the shock of an entirely mundane mishap.

Not that intentions matter. Gaius eyes him with a Significant Eyebrow on hearing about the incident with the pumpkin cart, the raspberry and cream pie, and the flock of runaway geese. Merlin can take a hint. He makes a beeline for his room to look into hypothetical ways one might accidentally curse (and thereafter intentionally uncurse) an ungrateful and annoying prince, only to be waylaid by the prince in question stomping to his chambers to wash off the spilt contents of one of Gaius' (highly malodorous) concoctions.

So Merlin is distracted from this completely non-vital task. Not a serious issue. He is a very busy person after all, and in any case he spends most of his day at Arthur's side, so he is able to act on any of the flying objects headed Arthur's way as necessary.

A sack of grain and an enraged lapdog later, Merlin is forced to concede that the objects are getting bigger and nastier, and the frequency has increased to an entirely unacceptable rate (and Arthur's temper is becoming more foul than the last potion Gaius mixed up for Morgana**.

** This involved several plants that Merlin was certain were deadly poison, and more ingredients of dubious origin/appearance/smell than anyone should ever have to contemplate, much less imbibe, and Merlin could only conclude that Gaius planned to relieve Morgana's nightmares by killing her outright. Morgana didn't die, but judging by Gwen's face when Merlin chanced to meet her in the hallway the next morning, she might have recognised the poison for what it was and wisely thrown it away instead of drinking it.

By the time Arthur has to duck a small chandelier and Gaius's Significant Eyebrow has reached (and maintained) never-before-witnessed heights, while Gwen has taken to babbling to Merlin about the possibility of swaddling Arthur up in blankets and stuffing him in a storeroom ("Not that I think he's soft or weak - that is, I meant to say his head is - he is very hard - oh!") and Morgana is starting to cast anxious looks at every beam and stone Arthur passes under in her presence, Merlin has studied every page in his spellbook three times, and is seriously contemplating finally making good on his promise to free the dragon in return for a solution. Especially since Arthur has taken to cuffing him over the head every time he has a near miss, as though blaming Merlin for the sudden attractiveness of his pratly head***.

*** Blatantly unfair. The near misses are only near misses because of Merlin's valiant and diligent efforts to discreetly divert and block with his magic where he can and throw himself at Arthur where he cannot. To be sure, the attractiveness is almost entirely Merlin's fault - that is to say, while Arthur is quite attractive in general in his own right, this attractiveness generally does not extend to inanimate objects and livestock. Just to maidens, knights, innocent country folk and hapless young wizards. Um. Scratch that. It is entirely Arthur''s fault.

The one thing that Merlin has learnt from his time in Camelot is, no matter how bad things become, it is always possible for worse to happen.

In an uncommon attack of good sense (striking him directly after Merlin, two knights, a bellowing cow and a barn door in rapid succession and nearly an unexpected loose waterwheel as well, sending everyone rolling into the muddy riverbank), Arthur decides to spend the rest of the day hiding in his bed once everyone is cleaned up and all bruises and scrapes are accounted for and treated.

Then the canopy falls down.

If he'd had time to think about it, Merlin would have realised that the canopy, being mostly light pins and heavy fabric, couldn't possibly hurt Arthur that much (as Gwen had tried to say, the prince had a very hard head indeed), but Merlin's nerves are already on a hair-trigger, resulting in the inevitable dramatic scene in which Merlin yells "No!" and flings himself onto Arthur, eyes aglow as he stops the descending curtain imperilling his prince. Then he freezes in terror.

Arthur eyes the arrested drapery hanging over their heads, eyes Merlin's face frozen just above his, and sighs. "You couldn't think of anything to do less likely to shout I AM A SORCERER? Honestly, Merlin. And when are you going to figure out how to stop this - " He pauses, looks up at the curtains again. Merin sheepishly pushes everything back to their proper positions.

They wait a little while more, glancing nervously about the room. Nothing happens.

"Ïs it over?" asks Arthur.

Merlin carefully gets out of bed and balls up a scrap of parchment, tosses it at Arthur. He misses by two yards. "I think it is."

THE END****

**** King Uther is nowhere in this story because, oddly enough, he is the only one who does not seem to find anything unusual about the many and varied ways in which the health of his son and heir has been threatened. If truth be told, he is not entirely wrong in this perception. It is only that the threats do not seem obviously magical or threatening enough to trouble him. For now.

("Stop finding new and exciting ways to rouse my father's suspicions," Arthur says, smushing Merlin's face into the pillows. Unable to answer, Merlin flails and stoically refrains from sending the pillows to beat Arthur over the head until he submits. Afterwards, they find more mutually agreeable and less suspicious ways of putting the pillows and bed to use and all is well.)