Merlyn's Only Hope

Tournament

The streets were buzzing with excitement, a surprisingly large number of people heading towards the stadium, waving banners of red and gold, gambling between themselves with whatever coins they could spare. Arthur had been up since sunrise, beheading dummies with precise slashes of his sword, admiring the shine of his blade against the early morning sun. It was, to the day, six months from Merlyn's arrival; some of the more roguish knights had planned a tournament between the prince and his servant. It was unofficial, of course, with most nobles deeming it unsightly, and was probably meant to make fun of Arthur, but there were still large crowds, excited to see what the servant had to offer. Uther seemed to have turned a blind eye, likely concerned with more important things such as running his kingdom. There had been many bets between noblemen, most of them against Arthur and, if he were honest, he was happy. His relationship with Merlyn, other than a few stolen kisses, hadn't changed. Frankly, he wasn't sure if he wanted it to: they both knew nothing could happen, not, at least, until he became king. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he felt anything more towards her, wasn't sure if he'd be able to wait. But that didn't matter, not now. He needed to concentrate.

When the last dummy had forgone its head, he let a sad chuckle fall from his lips. In the distance, he could hear the faint thud of something sharp hitting wood, daggers most likely. It was probably Merlyn's last efforts before they headed for the arena. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, he found himself entering the stands, slightly surprised to see the number of people who had come to see watch a battle between a prince and a servant. He was first into the ring, waving expertly at his people, letting their cheers wash over him in a wave of glory. The knights had taken time off training, although how they'd managed it, he'd never know. They took up a large portion of the crowd, booming laughter echoing around them, grinning at their prince as if all of this wasn't their fault. Many of them had sneered at the very notion of the tournament, but even some of those openly against it appeared unable to resist an opportunity to watch their prince fall on his backside.

Merlyn didn't take long to arrive, her hair tied in a high ponytail, wearing a plain black tunic and leggings. It was a contrast to his heavy chainmail, but he knew from one of their training sessions, where he'd accidentally cut through her tunic, that she wore a sort of leather armour underneath. Sir Leon, The Captain of the Guard, someone who Arthur never thought would participate willingly in this type of thing, had begrudgingly agreed to judge, a tall scoreboard on one side of the arena, the Pendragon crest emblazoned on one side and, on the other, a white dragon, swirls of blue and gold wrapped around the beautiful creature. He hadn't asked her about it, but he had a feeling that the symbol meant something more to her than the random design he'd asked her for.

She smirked at him, winking in his direction. He noticed that she was wearing a strip of green fabric around her bicep, one, he realised, that matched the colour of Morgana's dress. The ward and Gwen, her servant, were sitting in the royal box, waving at Merlyn incredibly enthusiastically. His servant reached into her boots, pulling out three daggers, throwing them high in the air and started to juggle, smiling at the uproar of the crowd. She was a natural, a performer, and, as the targets were dragged to the edge of the field, he could do nothing but openly stare at his competition. If he didn't know any better, he would have said she were beautiful.

The first round began with the sound of a half-hearted fanfare. Arthur still hadn't said a word to Merlyn, watching as she shoved the knives back in her boots, unsheathing her sword. This, he knew, was going to be fun.

His first blow was meant to strike the sword from her hand, but she dodged the swing, sending him stumbling forward, unable to do much more than stay on his feet as she slapped his back with the flat of her sword. He managed to spin around, meeting each of her blows, snickering quietly as they searched for some weakness in the other's defence. Eventually, he pinned her against the wall, but, with a sharp kick to his stomach, he was tipped off balance, allowing Merlyn to duck under his sword, kicking his feet out from underneath him. She stood above him victoriously, a sword at his throat.