clotpole

Arthur rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes. Grain reports beckoned, but this was a more pressing matter. “What do you think you’re doing?” He glared at the chainmail in Merlin’s arms.

Merlin sighed. “Don’t, Arthur, c’mon. I can be your consort and polish your armour at the same time.”

“What was the point of marrying you in front of all those bloody courtiers if nothing’s changed?”

“But everything’s changed,” exclaimed Merlin. “I get to kiss you whenever I want. I can hold your hand in public and not have to watch princesses fall over themselves to woo you. I get to love you openly.”

“And they still call you my manservant, not consort,” Arthur said. “Even now you’re wearing — oh, lord.”

“They’re comfortable!” Merlin scowled, but Arthur saw his stubbornness crumble. “Okay, you dollophead. You win. I’ll prance about in finery for you.”

“With that hat.”

“No.”