Over his years in Camelot, a lot of things have sailed toward Merlin's head—books, boots, pillows, people.

This time, it's a pot.

Chucked by Cook herself after Merlin gives her the news. Arthur has decided to throw a feast. Tonight. And everyone's invited.

"Just because," he said. It was only as Merlin turned to leave that Arthur added, "Inform the serving staff, will you?"

"Coward," Merlin muttered as the door to the royal chambers swung closed behind him. Hard. The thick wood wasn't enough to obscure Arthur's chuckle.

So now Merlin's the lucky bloke to stand before Cook as her eyes glaze and she goes very still. If looks could kill, he'd be roast. And then, of course, came the pot.

Merlin ducks, and it clatters harmlessly against the hearth.

Practice makes perfect.

As he escapes down the hall, he hears Cook bellow, "You heard the man. The King wants a feast, a feast he gets, one for the ages."

Man, Merlin thinks, and grins.

For all her grouching, Merlin's sure Cook secretly loves it, the chance to work her own kind of magic. She could teach Arthur a thing or two about rallying the troops.

Later, as Merlin finishes his ill-fated mission, leaving a swathe of wide-eyed panic and hurry in his wake—in everyone from the Head Steward to the laundresses to every servant he passes—he's back in Arthur's chambers. Arthur's gotten it in his head that he'd like to wear his best tunic to the feast, the one usually reserved for when he entertains kings. Problem is, the tunic doesn't seem to want to go over his head.

It's unclear if Arthur's head has swelled (likely) or if the fabric has shrunk (less likely). Merlin wrestles with it until Arthur gets impatient and starts trying to help (he doesn't). If there were any subtle way to use magic on the collar, Merlin would. But with his luck, he'd set the shirt on fire and then Arthur would find out and then the world would end. And Merlin would be damned if Arthur found out about his magic because he got fat.

As Merlin wrestles the fabric down, Arthur tugs at the neck and exclaims, "I almost forgot. I need flowers."

"We're just full of ideas today. And these flowers are for…"

"The feast," Arthur says, as though it's obvious.

Merlin's starting to hate this feast. He flicks Arthur's fingers from the collar. "You've never needed flowers for a feast before."

"They're Gwen's favorite," Arthur says, as though this explains everything. And perhaps it does.

Merlin plays along. "Any particular sort?"

"You know, the ones with with the—" Arthur's hands go poof. "And the—" Arthur pinches the air.

He looks at Merlin expectantly.

Merlin hazards a, "The white ones?"

Arthur starts to pull the tunic back off. "Yes, those. I need them. Loads of them."

Merlin's doubtful. "Because they're Gwen's favorite."

"That's right."

Merlin opens his mouth to remind Arthur that it's almost winter. "I'll see what I can do." For Arthur, Merlin will move mountains. He can handle a few flowers.

He steps away, toward the door.

"And Merlin?"

Merlin's smile is all teeth. "Something else, Sire?"

The dress tunic splats in Merlin's face.

"This seems to have shrunk in the wash. Fetch me another."

Merlin braces against the crisp air, his steps brisk. By blind habit, his path takes him toward the small stairs that lead to his chambers. As his brain catches up to his feet, he feels the familiar ache and diverts instead to the seamstress.

"Hullo," he calls to where she's harried and half-buried behind a mountain of other last-minute requests, everyone unearthing their finest and finding it flawed. It's been too long since they've had a proper feast. "The King's porked up a bit 'round the neck and wonders if it's possible to let out a collar. For tonight."

She eyes it doubtfully but says, "Of course."

As Merlin leaves, she's already ripping out the seams.

Next, Merlin bobs down the main thoroughfare of the lower town, which teems with all manner of merchants hawking their wares. Anything you could ever want—and more—can be found here, in this glorious panoply of food and flora and fauna. Except at this time of year, when there's a distinct lack of flora.

In these past years, Camelot has blossomed.

A man steps into Merlin's path and flashes a gap-tooth grin. "A merlin for Merlin?" On his arm clings a brace of delicate, hooded hawks.

Merlin waves his thanks, but no thanks and moves along. He's no longer surprised, when people know his name. Arthur blames the neckerchief.

A few more yards and he exits, unchallenged, through the east gate. The guards are suspiciously absent from their posts. There was a time when they would not have failed to cross lances and inquire a) who he was and b) whence he goes. They would ask even though they knew exactly who he was and which whence would compel him from the castle on foot—herbs for Gaius or something ridiculous for Arthur.

Like flowers.

Now, peace has softened their stances. So much so that Merlin finds them huddled around the corner. They hardly glance up as he passes, so engrossed are they in the dice. But glance they do, and then they double-take at the neckerchief. As if it's a red flag that links Merlin to Arthur. They snap to belated attention, fumbling for discarded helmets.

As he strides past, Merlin winks. "Your secret is safe."

Relieved, they tip their helmets at him. He leaves them to their game and heads for the woods.

Arthur wouldn't be pleased, but Merlin doesn't fault them for trying to pass hours more quickly. There hasn't been trouble in Camelot for ages.

Under Uther, the five kingdoms were like rafts that roiled on a turbulent sea. Their jagged edges, often in dispute, teemed with bandits and smugglers and forgotten castles that were commandeered by slavers or mercenaries or dog fighters. You could hardly travel the forests closest to Camelot without an armed guard.

Slowly yet steadily, Arthur has lashed the five kingdoms together more securely under treaties with bold new thinking. He offers mercenaries land, hijacks bandits and smugglers with offers of legitimate employment, and gives aid freely to anyone in the five kingdoms who requests it, regardless of borders. Even more important—he's kept his promises to the Druids, relaxing laws about magic to no longer include penalty of death. As the executions slowed and stopped, so did the attempts on Arthur's life.

This, then, is why Merlin can saunter from the gates of Camelot without fear of what lies beyond or who might take a stab (literally) at Arthur in his absence. Those who wish ill toward Camelot are rapidly becoming few and far between. Especially since Morgana has disappeared. No one has seen tattered hide nor tangled hair of her for years.

Merlin walks a safe distance into the woods and steps behind a tree as thick as a barrel. It's even cooler here, in the shadow of the trees. He waits a respectable amount of time, stamping and shivering, and thinks of somewhere warm. He sees it in his mind, a sunny field somewhere far away that undulates white in a soft breeze.

Then he reaches out and pulls.

Poof, he has an armful of blossoms, more than he can carry. They overflow to the ground, petals fluttering like snow. He's overcompensated, the forest floor in all directions ringed with petals.

Merlin can't fathom why Gwen likes these, more weed than flower. He sniffs. They don't even smell nice.

He sniffs again, nose crinkling.

Then he sneezes.

"Oh, just brilliant."

On his way back in, the guards stare.

"Where did he—?"

The other shrugs as if to say, That's Merlin.

Back in the relative warmth of the castle, Merlin dodges through a hustle and bustle of a more manic sort. Servants like himself flit hither and thither, arms laden, as though somebody tromped on an ant hill. Some shoot daggers at him, as though this is his fault.

He rounds a corner and nearly plows into a gaggle of red-clad knights who drift, aimless and useless at times like these. The ample bouquet hides his face, so perhaps in all the hubbubaloo they won't—

"Merlin. You shouldn't have." Gwaine plucks a sprig and sticks it behind his ear.

Not to be outdone, other hands reach, and Merlin dances away. "Mitts off. These are for the King." Then, just because his fingers are still frozen from his little jaunt, he adds, "You know how he gets about his flowers."

The younger knights stare.

"And poetry," Leon adds helpfully.

"Indeed." Merlin edges around them and is almost free when—

Gwaine cocks his head. "Where'd you get flowers?"

Merlin sneezes. "A cave. Obviously."

He eels under Gwaine's playful fist and is off. Not to be so easily foiled, Gwaine cuffs Elyan in the shoulder instead, which prompts Elyan to grapple him into a headlock. And then it's madness and the knights roughhouse in the hall like overgrown puppies.

Except Leon, of course, who stands tall and wise above it all.

Until someone yanks his hair.

Merlin sneezes.

And sneezes and sneezes and sneezes for hours and his eyes water and his nose runs but it's all worth it, for when Gwen spies the flowers, artfully arranged before her plate, her eyes shine with water of their own.

Arthur smiles at Merlin so big he shows his crooked tooth. Merlin will tease him about this later. For now, Merlin merely shrugs as if to say, they appeared out of nowhere, which technically they did, and scampers off because it's time for wine.

Wine makes everything better. Wine makes Arthur's eyes shine and his tongue loose and his smile so wide he doesn't even think about his tooth. It makes the nobles stop their grumbling and Sir Leon break out his lute and Sir Gwaine dust off his impressive repertoire of profane words in three tongues.

Tonight, the wine is especially good.

Merlin knows this because he sneaks gulps from Arthur's own cup before handing it back to him, much to Gwaine's delight. The wine makes Merlin's blood rush and his head spin and his heart expand so quickly it might burst. He's not sure when it happened, when Camelot became home.

Wine is also the only reason Merlin can make it through the first seven stanzas of an epic ballad about a golden king who's ushered in a golden age. The bards flock to Camelot now, looking to make a name for themselves by chronicling the legend of Arthur Pendragon and how's he's the blah of blah blah blah. Honestly, it's getting old, this endless extolling of the prolific virtues of Camelot's King.

Arthur's cabbage head doesn't need to get any bigger. Nor his neck.

So when the bard starts on stanza eight, Merlin might have something to do with the fact that his voice cracks horribly on the high note. Mortified, the man flees the room. Diva.

"Thank god," Arthur groans to Merlin, an aside. "This Arthur fellow they're going on about sounds like a total buffoon."

"I believe the word is prat, Sire."

They absolutely do not giggle. Because they are not girls.

Besides the wine, there is also a feast. Cook did not boast when she said it would be one for the ages. The pages file in and in and in, hefting trays laden with all variety of meat—oysters in civey, eels in sorry, baked trout, brawn in mustard, numbles of a hart, pigs farsed, goose in hoggepotte, venison in frumenty, and even a roast squirrel or two.

When Merlin leans in for a refill, Arthur whispers, "My compliments to Cook. She's outdone even herself."

Merlin grins, happy for once to oblige. He catches Cook as she heads out for a well-deserved rest, red-faced and sweat-soaked. The King's words infuse new life into her weary limbs, and she revives long enough to crush Merlin in a bear hug and plant a sloppy peck on his mouth. "You little bastard," she growls, then slaps his fingers from the dumplings.

The night gets better from there, Arthur in fine form. Merlin watches him, as he's wont to do. Toward the end of most feasts, he normally grows loose and languid, relaxing into the warmth of the fire and wine, the weight of the food, and the love of his people. But tonight Arthur is electric, buoyed by something within.

Merlin can hardly keep up with him, the way Arthur flits here and there like a butterfly, never alighting too long in one place. He roams the room, casting the warmth of his presence on everyone, sowing smiles on every face, in the way only he can.

Merlin's not sure he's ever seen Arthur this open, this free.

This happy.

Even as the evening winds down, much food and drink enjoyed by all, bones and fingers picked and licked clean, Arthur remains driven to some purpose. There's something he plans to do, something yet to say, that dangles on the tip of his tongue, the hidden agenda behind this feast. Merlin can see it in his every gesture. In every glance he and Gwen share.

Arthur has a secret.

He looks the way Merlin feels. About to burst.

So Merlin's not surprised when Arthur gets to his feet. He says not a word, but his action ripples through the Great Hall. Servants abandon their errands, knights quit their boasting. Faces ruddy with warmth and drink turn toward their king. Familiar faces all, knights and nobles old and new.

Arthur seems lit from within, holy fire in his eyes. He lifts his goblet. "My friends. My family."

A draft shivers Merlin's skin. Despite the fire, it's an old castle. Somehow, the cold always finds ways to sneak in. Likely someone somewhere left a door open, a pair sneaking off for a snog. With his free hand, the one not holding the bottomless jug of wine, he clutches his coat more firmly across his chest.

Arthur speaks. To the casual onlooker, it might look like he meanders, first welcoming the latest recruits of knights, then recounting Camelot's many blessings over the past year. But Merlin can see that the shape of his words build a foundation, layers upon layers that will culminate in some height.

Arthur says, "Above all, there is one thing to which I have dedicated my blood, my sweat, my tears. My every waking moment. And that one thing is peace."

With this, Merlin understands, the likely source of the sudden feast. Unbeknownst to all but a few, Arthur has undertaken secret negotiations with a rising leader in one of the Saxon tribes, a warlord by the name of Aurelius. Merlin's not supposed to know about it but of course he does. Likely Arthur hopes to unify the Saxons under Aurelius. Before you can sign a treaty, you must have someone with which to sign.

Arthur says, "In my father's day, Albion was but a dream. Together, we will make it a reality."

Merlin applauds with the rest, careful not to slosh. Definitely the Saxons. The news is good, then, although much sooner than anticipated. And strange, that Arthur wouldn't have informed the Council first.

The cold persists, a damp, creeping thing. Merlin can't seem to shake it, even edging closer to the fire, his fingers gone numb for the second time today. It's all he can do to grip the jug. Perhaps it is something he ate. Or drank, although he'd stopped tippling the cup hours ago. Someone had to be ready to help Arthur to bed.

He hasn't felt this way since…

Merlin straightens. Ice of an entirely different sort floods his spine.

Arthur says, "Together, we've already accomplished so much. We've supplanted cruelty with compassion. Fear with faith."

Some brave soul cries, "And bandits with bards!"

At this, there are chuckles.

Merlin takes the opportunity to step into Arthur's eyeline. Even merry as he is, Arthur notes the movement, so attuned they've become. Merlin cocks his head in their private code for there's something, it's serious, we need to talk.

But Arthur's eyes shift away. He pretends not to see, won't be deterred, so focused is he on his speech. He stops for no man. He's almost there, the climax in which he'll tell everyone about some unprecedented treaty he's just hashed out with the Saxons. Everything he's said so far has been leading up to this moment, all this talk of peace, even the bard's seven stanzas.

Arthur raises his goblet to its highest point. "And so I want you—my nearest and dearest friends—to be the first to hear the news."

The King's voice sounds strange and far away, as though there's cotton in Merlin's ears. The wine jug coats with grease and slips from his fingers. Horrified, Merlin watches it plummet to the floor, wine droplets like shards of glass.

Everyone jerks to the clatter, necks craning for the source of the disruption. Arthur pauses in his speech, frowning at Merlin.

That's one way to get his attention.

"Please pardon my servant. He can't hold his drink. Literally, it would seem."

People guffaw. A couple of folks step to Merlin's elbows, propping him up. His legs no longer seem to work. Merlin tries to speak but his teeth knock. There's something wrong. Something terribly, horribly wrong. Arthur, Merlin thinks, desperate, wants to scream it but his tongue is frozen to the roof of his mouth.

Arthur says, "As I was saying—"

The doors to the Great Hall wrench violently open and slam against the stones with a resounding doom.

Note: The names of food at the feast is paraphrased from a much longer passage in The Once and Future King by T.H. White.