An Eternity to Realise Our Dreams, Part II
For author's notes, etc, see the Master Post.
Part I
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Arthur's getting changed when Merlin walks in, which leads to some slight, undignified flailing as Arthur hurries to get the tunic wrapped around his head off so he can see who would dare barge into his rooms without announcing their presence first. When he does emerge it's with a flushed face and feeling mildly irritated. "Merlin, do you understand the concept of knocking?"
Merlin smiles sheepishly. "Yes? But you're normally with the king by now, so I don't generally bother."
He might have a point there, but, "Regardless, you should knock, just in case I'm...I'm..."
"Getting stuck in your tunic?"
"I'm beginning to think you really do like being in the stocks," Arthur says, and has to turn away from Merlin's answering grin. He can hear Merlin clattering around, clearing the table, stacking plates and making the odd uncomplimentary remark about Arthur's untidiness that he pretends not to hear, and it all seems too...well, domestic.
Morgana's like this with Gwen, he knows; he's seen them together without them knowing he's there enough times to have witnessed the simple friendship that they have when no one has any higher expectations, but the thought of having the same sort of thing with Merlin seems ridiculous. He's never quite sure how to act around Merlin, mostly because Merlin never acts the way Arthur expects him to.
"Why aren't you with Uther, anyway?" Merlin asks, intruding in on Arthur's thoughts.
"There've been reports of a wild boar, terrorising the livestock at a few of the forest villages. I took a few men and went to investigate; the search took longer than we anticipated, and we've only just returned."
"Did you find it?"
"Sort of," Arthur says, shrugging into his coat after pointedly directing Merlin's attention to it. "Honestly, you'd think you've learnt nothing about being a manservant by now."
"I'm better than I was," Merlin protests. "At least now I can tell what you want when you make those funny eyes at me."
Arthur deliberately doesn't think about what sort of eyes he's been making at Merlin, and settles for making what he hopes is an irritated noise. Merlin smiles at him again, gaze flicking over him and nodding his approval before moving away to start pulling the rumpled sheets of the bed. "What did you mean, sort of?"
"Hmm?" Arthur's already thinking ahead, preparing his report to his father, and the question catches him off-guard partway to the door.
"You said 'sort of' when I asked about the boar; did you get it?"
"We got something, but it wasn't a boar."
Merlin stands with a pillow in his hands, looking confused. "Then what was it?"
"I don't know, and neither do the knights. It may have been a boar at some point, but I'm pretty sure boars aren't meant to have a frill of horns around their necks, or blue skin."
"Ah. No." Merlin bites his lip and stares down at the pillow he's holding. Arthur firmly ignores the part of him that wants to bite Merlin's lip for him, because he has absolutely no desire to do so, least of all in a way that would result in an equally rumpled bed.
Damn it.
"Are you done with the questions?" Merlin looks up, startled, making Arthur think Merlin wasn't aware that he's still there. "Only my father would like to ask some himself."
"Sorry," Merlin says, but he doesn't look it. "You'd better go; my curiosity will keep."
"Because I live to serve your curiosity," Arthur says, rolling his eyes, but inside he feels absurdly pleased about the idea that he can tell Merlin about the process of tracking the blue creature, and the skirmish once they'd found it, and that Merlin will ask more questions than simply 'how hard was it to kill' and 'do you think there are any more'.
That Merlin will care, in short.
He makes sure to tell Merlin that he wants his favourite red coat clean for dinner that evening, just to see the amusing grimace on Merlin's face that neither of them really believe is true any more, then gets out before he says something entirely unfitting for a Crown Prince.
Keeping sight of the lines between 'servant' and 'friend' shouldn't be this hard, surely? Ah, but I didn't even realise the lines were there until I met Merlin, the logical part of his mind thinks, which is both true and worrying.
--
Merlin barely hears the door click shut after Arthur, lost in a sudden thought. The boar had been blue, he thinks, and it jars something in his memory. He clutches at it, the sheets smoothing themselves over the mattress as he tries to remember. The flowers at the equinox feast had been blue, he can recall that much, but there's something before that, something...With a sigh and a shake of his head Merlin gives it up, sure there's something just at the corner of his memory that refuses to be pulled forward
He finishes the bed then gathers up the clothes Arthur had oh-so-helpfully reminded him to get cleaned. He makes a trip to the laundry, almost stopping to chat to the women who have taken a shine to him since they found out Gwen likes him, but the call of the kitchen is too strong.
He returns to Arthur's chambers, collects the plates and makes his way down to the kitchen to hopefully beg an extra helping of stew, or even one of the fancies meant for the nobles. He leaves the plates with the potwashers and looks for one of the friendlier cooks, but then things go a bit wrong.
One of the under cooks catches sights of him and glares, setting down her knife to sweep over and get a handful of his shirt. Merlin looks at her in bafflement as she yanks him over to where several chickens are waiting to be plucked, the din of the kitchen preventing any speech between them until she hands him a bag for (he assumes) the feathers.
She leans in and shouts, probably as much to hurt Merlin's ears as to make herself heard, "you scarper off like that again, lazy twerp, and I'll tan your hide until it can be used to make leather. Get plucking!" She returns to her chopping, Merlin shocked still as he catches "stupid boy...thinks he's an upstairs servant, does he, 'stead of a kitchen boy?" as she throws him another angry look.
One thing being a warlock has taught Merlin is that the best thing you can do in unexpected circumstances is to go along with it until either people are no longer mad at you, or run like hell. Seeing as he's in a kitchen full of people bustling around, running without being seen and probably tanned is not really an option. He settles for trying to think what might have happened and ripping handfuls of feathers from the first of the chickens.
It takes less time than Merlin had imagined for Arthur to notice he's not waiting for his instructions for the rest of the evening, because the Prince cautiously enters the kitchens when Merlin is still working on his second chicken, clearly not used to venturing into this part of Camelot. He stops one of the cooks, who frowns at him before gesturing in Merlin's general direction. Arthur dodges the ordered chaos that whirls before the evening meal is served, and finally manages to get to Merlin's side.
"What on earth are you doing?" he demands, looking at the downy feathers covering Merlin's shirt and hands.
"They seem convinced that I'm a kitchen boy," Merlin replies, and feels something shift.
Arthur looks round, like he can't remember how he got down here, then looks at Merlin. "You are a-" he starts, the words getting stuck in his throat. "You are-" he tries again, swallowing hard, but to no avail.
Merlin feels a nudge, as if someone wants to get past him, but when he glances round everyone is giving him (Arthur) a wide berth. He feels it again, a little stronger, and then a third nudge which-Merlin shivers. The third passes through him, but still pushes against something. He's got the sneaking suspicion that it's his magic, a feeling which grows when Arthur blinks, frown lightening and a slight smile curling at his lips.
"If I didn't know better I'd say you'd rather pluck chickens than wait on me at dinner, Merlin."
"Only if you're going to make me wear the Hat," Merlin replies, gathering enough of his wits to reply without giving anything away. Not that Arthur would likely notice, but Merlin is slowly learning how to lie convincingly, and any practice is useful.
"I'm not that cruel, Merlin, I've already made you wear it once this week." He slings an arm over Merlin's shoulders and leads him out of the kitchens, past the under cook. Merlin watches her warily, but when she looks up she smiles at him and says, "thanks for the help, Merlin. Above and beyond the call of duty, that was."
Arthur mutters something about Merlin not knowing the meaning of the words, getting them out into the cool passageway that leads to freedom and a world without flurries of feathers or further interruptions. They're back at Arthur's chambers before Merlin thinks to ask, "What did your father have to say about the not-boar attack?"
Arthur makes a non-committal noise, searching for something in a clothes chest while Merlin stands, not really knowing what to do. "Why do you want to know?"
"Curiosity," Merlin says, and catches the tunic Arthur throws at him.
"You know, most servants don't dare ask so many questions, especially of the Crown Prince."
"Since when do I pay attention to your crown?" Arthur is silent, which Merlin takes as agreement. He helps Arthur into a fresh tunic, settling it across Arthur's shoulders before moving on to the laces at the cuffs. "Well?"
"Well what?" Arthur says irritably, but it's faked. He sighs, hand going to fiddle with the laces Merlin has just tied until he gets it slapped away. "He asked what he always asks: how hard was it to kill and might there be more around to cause problems."
"And might there be?"
"I don't know, maybe! It was a blue boar, Merlin, they aren't exactly well-documented."
"Were there no signs of a den, or whatever it is boars make?"
"A farrowing nest," Arthur replies, voice too soft for his words. Merlin frowns slightly, then notices that Arthur is staring at their hands. He finished tying the second set of laces several moments ago, and is now standing with his hands curled loosely around Arthur's wrist, thumb rubbing absent circles as they speak. He pulls his hands away, blushing hotly.
"Sorry." Merlin fumbles for Arthur's red coat, now spotlessly clean, and holds it out for Arthur, who clears his throat roughly as he slides his arms into the sleeves.
"You really are useless," he says, but it sounds like something else entirely.
"And yet you don't get another servant," Merlin replies, trying to lighten the atmosphere. Arthur doesn't look at him as Merlin straightens his collar, staring at a point over Merlin's shoulder.
"Yes, well. It seems pointless now you're almost trained."
Merlin watches him leave to join his father and the other nobles, and wonders when Arthur started acting more like a king and less like a spoilt prince. He bends to pick up the plain boots Arthur always moans about having to change for fancy court footwear, and has to clutch at the bed post to stop himself falling over as his vision abruptly goes grey.
He sees the marketplace in bright daylight, and that on its own is enough to send his mind reeling, because so far as he knows his magic doesn't include having the Sight. It reminds him of something, flickering on the edges of his memory as he grasps for it. The last remnants of Arthur's chamber visible through the images he's Seeing fade as the vision gets stronger.
People walk past Merlin, so close he's almost certain they can't see him. It becomes clear that this is the case when a man walks right through him, not noticing anything wrong. Merlin stares, shuddering at the feeling, and then forgets all about it when he sees himself. He remembers what day this is, now; his second day in Camelot, weary from the road but happy to be there at long last. The only blot on the day had been- oh. Right. Arthur.
Merlin follows himself, watches the way he had looked round in awe at the castle. He searches ahead for Arthur and the other knights, curious to see how their run-in had looked to an outsider. It doesn't take long. The poor servant holding the target comes into view first, but the other Merlin doesn't seem to notice him. Merlin frowns; he remembers looking at a stall, then walking through into the courtyard and seeing the man fall down, but he hasn't moved away.
He moves closer, steeling himself and walking right through a knot of people between himself and, uh, himself. The other Merlin is bending over the display of stone carvings, talking to the merchant behind the counter and completely messing with Merlin's memory of how the day went. The vision starts to blur and fade just as Merlin glimpses a scattering of bright blue spangles around the other version of himself, fading in and out of visibility but nonetheless there.
"No," he whispers as the image fades, and reaches for his magic, forcing himself back.
The vision solidifies again, but it takes a lot of effort for Merlin to stop it from fading again. He looks round, searching for something to make himself move on, and spots a man approaching, carrying a load of firewood. Merlin reaches for his magic again, but before he can force it out he sees his vision-self turn away and walk through into the courtyard. Moments later the sound of Arthur's voice reaches him, saying whatever it was he said when Merlin tried to stop him tormenting the other servant.
Blue spangles float in front of him, twisting in the air angrily as the edges blur and he-
-drops onto the floor, knees unable to support his weight as he gasps for air. He's never had a vision before, not even a slight premonition about the day to indicate that he might have the bloody Sight in addition to the overflow of magic he's already got to deal with. He sucks in air like a dying fish, pushing himself up with shaky arms until he feels stable enough to move himself to the chair. He sinks back into it and rubs feeling back into his strangely numb fingers.
It takes a while for him to be sure he won't just fall over again if he tries to stand up and get to Gaius; the fire which was banked high has almost burnt itself out, in fact. Merlin adds another couple of logs, reasoning that Arthur can cope by himself for once before pulling himself out of the chair and slowly making his way through the castle. More than once he has to pause and lean against the wall, grateful for the cool stone to keep him on his feet.
There's something niggling at the back of his mind, something he saw, something important that floats on the periphery of his understanding. It remains elusive all the way to the physician's rooms.
--
It's late by the time Morgana manages to escape the great hall, pleading continued illness. She dismisses Gwen once she's in her nightgown, desperate to be on her own and work out her tangled thoughts. Picking up a brush from her bedside table, she seats herself on the edge of her bed, glad of the silence in her chambers. She brushes her hair slowly, mind returning to Gaius' chambers.
The physician had looked at her with ill-concealed shock after her vision, clearly attempting to think of a way to persuade her she was wrong about what she had seen. Merlin has magic. It seems so ridiculous, that the skinny boy who always seems to know exactly how to get into trouble should have magic so powerful that he thinks nothing of holding several very heavy pieces of furniture in the air while he cleans the floor beneath.
Morgana stares unseeing at her room, thoughts spinning. She feels...not angry at him, but instead...her eyes widen as she realises what she's feeling. Jealousy. Once named the emotion grows, filling her chest with an overwhelming urge to take the power from Merlin, that he doesn't deserve, that should be hers and not his, for she would do more with it, use it in far greater ways than he ever could-
The sound of the brush hitting the floor pulls Morgana out of the swirl of her thoughts, the desire for Merlin's magic fading as if it had never occurred to her. She hurriedly puts the brush down, hands shaking slightly as she climbs into bed and lies staring at the ceiling.
What is happening? She asks the vaulted stone. Her answer is a heavy silence, as if the castle wants to tell her but cannot.
In the end Gaius had bowed his head and told her all; how Merlin had been born with the power, how he needed no spells to use it, how many times he had used it to save them all. He had been trying to convince her that Merlin is not a threat, but she already knew. Nobody who would willingly serve Arthur when he could be the most powerful man in Camelot could possibly be evil, she'd joked, but Gaius' smile had been weak.
It had dawned on her, then, that Merlin really is that powerful; she'd thought Gaius was speaking from the viewpoint of someone with no magic himself, but as she sat and listened to him it became clear to her that this wasn't ignorance of what constituted powerful, or a boast on behalf of his apprentice (if Gaius had ever considered doing such a thing), but instead the bare truth.
Merlin can level Camelot if he chooses, and the idea makes Morgana shiver.
She had asked, hesitantly, as if the topic wasn't quite hers to intrude upon, in which direction Merlin's powers lie. Gaius had given her a long look before saying, "He hasn't got the Sight, if that's what you mean. Apart from that, well. Everything he's tried to do has worked." He hadn't needed to tell her what to think about that, and what it means.
Morgana turns onto her side and watches the shimmer of a sliver of moonlight on her wall, wishing for the dreams to stay away like she used to when she was a child. It's to no avail. As soon as she shuts her eyes she can feel them waiting for her to sleep, although why they bother when they can come during her waking moments is beyond her.
--
Gaius doesn't know what time it is when Merlin shakes him awake, looking terrible with deep circles under his eyes and fingertips as cold on Gaius' shoulder as if he's been out in the snow, but for Merlin to risk his most likely foul mood it must be something vital.
"Gaius. Gaius." Merlin sounds hoarse and weak. Gaius makes more of an effort to pull himself out of sleep, blinking up at the blur of tousled dark hair and pale skin that he can just about see in the dim light of Merlin's candle.
"What is't?"
"Something happened earlier."
" Wh'sort of something?"
"I had a vision, I think."
That rouses Gaius fully, making him sit up with a groan. "What sort of vision?"
Merlin sits back on his heels and runs a hand through his hair, obviously almost at the end of his strength. "The day I met Arthur, except something was different. Wrong."
Gaius sighs heavily and lowers himself back onto the bed. "It's probably just the after effects of whatever that sickness you had was, causing a bad reaction with your magic."
"But-"
"If there's one thing we can safely say, Merlin, it's that you don't have the Sight. More magic than you know what to do with, certainly, but the Sight would have manifested years ago, not suddenly one night in late April." Gaius settles himself under the blankets, already dismissing the conversation in favour of sleep. "Now go to bed.“
Merlin's either convinced or too tired to argue, but he nods tiredly and carefully makes his way to his own little room without further fuss. Gaius watches him go through rapidly closing eyelids, vaguely noting the way he has to lean against handy furniture and then the walls to keep himself upright. He puts it down to the lingering illness and the lateness of the hour, and falls back into sleep.
--
Once certain that Gaius is asleep again, Merlin slips out of his room as silently as he can and through the castle, heading downwards. He's groggy and keeps a hand on the walls as he goes, but he manages enough magic to let himself pass by the guards unnoticed.
He can feel the chill breeze from the cave before he gets within sight of the stairs down to it, breathing in the smell of wet rocks and the strange, musky scent of the dragon itself. He takes the stairs slowly, trying to think of what to say. It's been months since he was last here, the lack of magical dilemmas meaning he could forgo the confusing and often indecipherable advice of the castle's largest resident.
The dragon is waiting for him, perched on the cluster of rocks nearest to the ledge Merlin emerges out onto. Seeing it in the darkness, suddenly feeling more than a little overwhelmed and insignificant, Merlin conjures the ball of blue light that has come in useful for reading at night. He sends it up to hang over them both, then steps back hurriedly as he sees the dragon rearing up, chain clanking.
"You, young warlock, are overdue."
"I wasn't aware that I was expected," Merlin replies tiredly. "You haven't been getting inside my head lately."
"I had thought you experienced enough to know recognise when you might want to consult me, but I see that that is not the case."
Merlin thinks about arguing, and decides he hasn't the energy or the inclination. "It's late, I'm ill and not entirely sure why, and apparently I've developed the Sight. Can you please, for once, just tell me what's going on?"
"You are seeing the results of your own magic, young warlock."
"What does that mean? I've spelled myself to see the future?" No answer. "It's just my magic growing? Because if so, fine, just tell me how to cope with it." The dragon simply looks at him, its eyes glinting in the mage light. "Something I've done has backfired?"
"The threads of this weaving will only be clear to you if you look properly, Emrys."
"What does that even mean?! Can you not be helpful for once?"
"This is something you must discover on your own, young warlock; your magic will continue to grow-"
"You sound like Nimueh," Merlin says bitterly, and the dragon closes its great jaw with a snap. They haven't spoken of that since Merlin returned, although he could feel the dragon's roars of anger reverberating through the stones of Camelot for weeks.
"Everything has it's time, except when it doesn't. You will live enough times over to know this."
With that cryptic comment, it does what Merlin has come to expect and takes off, the darkness swallowing it up with each flap of leathery wings. Merlin shields his eyes against the gusts and groans, wondering why he thought the dragon would be a help where Gaius wasn't.
He trudges back up the stairs and past the bored guards, nudging one of the dice with his magic more out of habit than anything else. The dragon's comments haven't provided him with even the slightest clue of what's going on, nor provoked any ideas of how he can find out, like it sometimes does-most likely without meaning to.
The walk back to Gaius' rooms passes in a blur, Merlin avoiding walking into the walls and the guards by memory and instinct as he mulls over his conversation, insomuch as it can be called that. Gaius doesn't stir when Merlin returns, and Merlin doesn't try to wake him a second time; he has the feeling Gaius would approve even less of his nighttime visits to the dragon than he'd approve of him speaking to it in the daylight.
He lies awake, body trembling with exhaustion but unable to fall into oblivion. He doesn't entirely believe Gaius that he didn't have a vision, but then again the physician has a point about the Sight. In all the cases he's heard of, mostly from Gaius' books and whispered rumours, the Sight shows itself when the bearer is a child. Merlin shivers and wonders if this actually is the Sight, or if like Gaius says it's just his unnatural illness of a month ago a slight comeback.
The dragon's words about everything having its time strikes a mark, finally, as Merlin connects it with his vision and the way his and Arthur's past, or timeline, had almost changed.
He drops into darkness before he can reach a conclusion about what it means.
--
It's two days later, and if Merlin is feeling more confident that he hasn't suddenly developed the Sight, Morgana is being inundated with visions wherever she turns. A lesser woman would confine herself to her room and probably have a fit of the vapours, but Morgana is made of sterner stuff, not to mention incessantly curious about what's going on around the castle.
At first it seems like nothing, hearing snatches of conversation before they happen. At least it's harmless; overhearing two of Uther's councillors discussing the latest tax tallies from some of the outlying villages doesn't exactly make her heart pound like some of her nightmares, although the satisfyingly high amounts might make someone's heart race. Morgana hears the conversation when she is dressing first thing in the morning, the words sounding as clear to her as if the men are standing mere inches away.
Gwen keeps fastening her laces as if nothing is wrong, something Morgana doesn't know whether to laugh or feel superior about. That she could entertain even the idea of feeling superior to Gwen hits her a moment after the voices fade, and she hurriedly pulls Gwen in front of her to ask how she's faring on her own these days.
Much later, on her way to visit the seamstresses, she overhears the same conversation. Pausing in the corridor outside the Council room, Morgana listens carefully, feeling a quiet sense of pleasure when every word matches with what she heard earlier. It's proof that her gift is as strong as she believes it to be, although she wishes that it might show her more useful things than tax contributions. Something akin to the vision of Arthur's near-death would be more of a help, now that she knows what she's dealing with.
--
Merlin stands behind Arthur at dinner, watching Arthur try to make conversation with the taciturn noble on his left and smiling to himself. This lasts until Arthur knocks over his (thankfully empty) cup and sends it skittering across the floor, neatly hitting Merlin's toes as if Arthur had aimed. He rolls his eyes and bends to pick it up, promptly feeling the atmosphere of the room alter into something darker and altogether tenser. He straightens slowly, looking around.
The people who should be sitting at the tables have been partially replaced by different folk, some of the servants lining the wall now in a livery of brown and gold that Merlin doesn't recognise.
He gets the feeling, stepping forward to place the cup back next to Arthur, that these people aren't exactly friendly with each other, but they're willing to push their differences aside for an evening. Arthur hasn't altered, and seems just as deep in conversation as he did before Merlin picked the cup up, sparing a glance and a nod for him as he steps back into place.
No sooner is he there, hands folded in front of himself, than things seem to bend and snap back into focus. The servants are all wearing Camelot's colours, and Merlin sees the people he knows back in their rightful places. He casts a look around the hall, looking for anyone else who might have noticed the shift, but everyone seems perfectly at ease. The nasty undercurrent has gone too, making Merlin wonder what exactly was going on. Was it a vision of the future, some meeting made in awkward circumstances? Or of the past, something he hadn't been present for?
He resolves to ask Arthur as soon as he gets chance, although that might not be until later, and possibly not 'til the morning if Arthur drinks too much. Looking at the lady on his right who he's now deep in conversation with, Merlin is surprised he hasn't been called over four times by now to refill Arthur's cup; they've been talking for half an hour and Arthur's still on his first.
Finally some of the ladies call for dancing, and Arthur's seating partner is led away by her husband. Arthur himself comes to lean against the wall next to Merlin, something he's taken to doing on the excuse that Merlin is the one with the wine. He shakes his head when Merlin tilts the jug at him, though, tilting his cup in return. Merlin lifts an eyebrow at the sight of the almost full measure of wine.
"Everything okay?"
Arthur sighs. "Just because I'm not drinking doesn't mean something's wrong, Merlin."
"If you say so, Sire."
Arthur gives him a sharp look, but says nothing. They watch the dancers for a moment or two before Merlin asks, aiming for offhand and mostly getting there: "Was there a delegation here a while ago? The servants would've been in brown and gold, I think,"
"Lord Brynmor, that'd be. He and his retinue were here that week you were ill. Why do you ask?"
Merlin shrugs, looking out over the hall. "They were talking about it in the kitchens earlier," he lies, "and I was surprised I'd managed to miss it."
Arthur snorts into his cup: "I'm not." Merlin elbows him slightly, keeping a wary eye out for Uther. Arthur leans away and smiles, taking a - small, Merlin notes - swallow of his wine. "What were they saying about him?"
Uh-oh. Merlin thinks rapidly, trying to remember what was in his vision. "Nothing much. I think one of the kitchen maids mentioned she thought their uniforms ugly-"
"Which they were."
"-and that there wasn't a very good atmosphere in the castle when they were here." From the corner of his eye Merlin can see Arthur give him a sharp look, and wonders if Arthur knows just how much the servants gossip. He thinks Arthur's going to ask what that means, exactly, but instead he looks away.
"Brynmor had started taking territory that didn't belong to him, so my father invited him to the castle and made him see the error of his ways." Arthur's tone implies that Uther had done more than that; Merlin had seen a scroll, like that of a treaty, resting between the King and the richly dressed noble sitting beside him, like a reminder. He says nothing, because there is nothing he can say, just nods.
"Thanks."
"I am always eager to rectify your ignorance," Arthur replies with a grin, then claps Merlin on the shoulder as Uther beckons him over. "Although it's taking me a long time."
Merlin watches him go and feels a chill run down his spine that has nothing to do with Arthur's comment, which barely registers. Something is wrong, very wrong, but he's got no clue what. The undercurrents in his vision had been far too angry, even if Lord Brynmor had indeed been made to sign a treaty preventing him from taking any more land from his neighbours.
--
Three days later Arthur rides out at the head of Camelot's knights, all in their full armour. Merlin goes with them, riding with the other servants who know how to set up a war camp and cope with injuries until they can reach Gaius, and he gets the same feeling that something is inherently wrong with the situation. It's not the normal feeling of do we really have to go and fight, but something much darker.
When they do join with the enemy it's not even a battle, more of a skirmish. Lord Brynmor has obviously been using underhanded tactics to add to his landholdings, because in a pitched fight his knights have very little technique. Arthur's well-trained force makes easy work of their opponents, not even bothering to do anything more than knock them out unless they can't help it. Arthur himself takes Brynmor down, forcing the man to yield at the tip of his sword.
Merlin rolls his eyes at Arthur's silence when the knights get back to the hastily-made camp, noting the blood flowing down Arthur's cheek as he speaks to his men. Arthur won't ask for any help, Merlin knows, so he takes it upon himself to grab hold of Arthur in a spare moment and make him stop.
"Hold this," he orders, shoving a pot of Gaius' comfrey ointment at Arthur with one hand, using his other to grip Arthur's jaw and tilt his head to one side. Arthur goes utterly still as Merlin carefully wipes away the mostly dried blood with a damp cloth and gentle movements, barely breathing as Merlin works.
The sounds of the camp fade as Merlin takes care not to pull at the wound, vividly aware that this is another moment in which they stand on the edge of something he isn't sure either of them are ready for. Arthur is like a statue under his hands, allowing Merlin to fuss without complaining, or shouting orders to his knights like Merlin half expects him to.
Merlin tries to focus on making sure the cut won't require stitching when they get back to the castle, instead of how warm Arthur's skin feel under his fingers, but when he comes to smooth some of the healing ointment over it his hand is shaking slightly.
"There," he says past the lump in his throat, "if you can cope with being manhandled by the skinny apprentice, then maybe some of your men won't complain so much when I try to treat them."
He's turning away to help treat a man with a nasty-looking leg wound when Arthur grabs hold of him, fingers firm around his wrist and tugging him back. "Some of them have refused to be treated by you?"
"Not exactly," Merlin says slowly, not entirely sure what's in Arthur's tone but knowing it sends a thrill down his spine. "They tell me to treat the more seriously wounded first, and that they can wait to see Gaius. It's nothing, I'm used-" He knows he's said the wrong thing when Arthur's grip tightens, eyes hard. "It's nothing," he insists. "They're allowed to want to be treated by someone with more experience than me. Aren't you always saying how useless I am?" It's intended to be teasing, but comes out slightly bitter instead. Arthur drops his wrist like he's been burnt.
"I'll speak to them."
"That's not necessary," Merlin says, more sharply than he means to. He takes the pot of ointment from Arthur's hand and turns back to the knight with the leg wound, sitting against a tree stump and trying to breathe through the pain as one of the other servants carefully pulls his breeches away from the skin. He can feel Arthur still watching him, intent gaze that Merlin doesn't know how to react to. "Is that all, or do you want me to kiss it better?" he asks, trying to grin.
The knight smiles, although it turns to a grimace when Merlin starts washing the wound out as best he can. He looks round when all he gets for answer is silence, and Arthur is gone.
"He gave you a funny look and-god, ow-left, sharpish like," the knight pants, eyes squeezing shut as Merlin carefully wipes away the worst of the blood.
"Some people just can't take a joke," he says, trying to keep things light. The wound is deep, possibly to the bone, although he won't be able to tell for sure until he and Gaius can clean it properly. "As if I'd get that close to him anyway."
"None of us would," his patient says, and then faints. Merlin sighs and gestures for two of the others to come over and heave him onto a horse, directing them to be as careful as possible with the bad leg. It's not the most ideal way of getting him back to Camelot, admittedly; it means more risk that the wound won't clot, but it's the fastest way and he needs to be on Gaius' table as soon as possible.
Merlin rides at the back, next to the injured knight - Geraint, the man riding on his other side supplies - and can only see the angry set of Arthur's shoulders as he leads the bound prisoners back to the castle. Lord Brynmor is entitled to ride, although his hands are bound to the saddle; Merlin spares a moment to wonder how badly the treaty he presumes was signed has been broken, but before he can spend more than a thought on it Geraint starts listing badly to one side, and Merlin has to help him.
--
Back in Camelot Arthur leaves the rest of the group as soon as he's made sure Geraint is being taken straight up to Gaius, kicking the door to his chambers while he struggles out of his chainmail. The metal links fall in a cacophony of noise as he flings the whole thing in the general direction of the table, slumping against the wall with his hands pressed against his eyes.
There's something burning underneath his skin, something more than the usual mix of adrenaline and sharp arousal that he's used to having after a fight, and it's all because of that stupid conversation with Merlin.
He drops his hands and fumbles with the catches of his vambraces, angry with himself. He'd been trying to avoid Merlin once back in camp, not sure if his control over the burgeoning desire to touch would've survived in the aftermath of the battle, but Merlin's hands on his face and admonishing voice had put paid to that. And then his accidental revelation about the knights preferring Gaius' treatment...gods, Arthur doesn't know where to start with that.
Arthur shifts against the wall, spreading his legs slightly as the coolness from the stone seeps through his padded undercoat and into his skin, returning some clarity of thought. Being hard and wanting someone's touch isn't new to him, but being hard and wanting Merlin's hands on him is, but the thing is, right now Arthur can't bring himself to care.
He doesn't bother undoing the laces of his breeches; elegance isn't the issue here, and neither is making it last. He just shoves his hand down them, gripping himself tightly and using strong, fast strokes as he bites down on the ball of his other palm, needing the pain as much to stop himself thinking about Merlin as he does to push himself over the edge.
When he catches his breath there are vivid red marks in tender skin, testimony to how badly he'd wanted to imagine Merlin's hand instead of his own, or perhaps Merlin's mouth, probably still with that annoyingly teasing smile, just distorted as he swallowed Arthur down. It's the work of a few minutes to clean himself up and change into clean attire, years of practice having taught him speed and thoroughness.
Arthur puts himself back together, pulling his self-control around him and hoping it's going to be enough to keep him from doing something inappropriate as he goes to see how Geraint is faring. Never mind now; as he remembers the flash of protectiveness he'd felt as Merlin told him about the knights denying his aid, Arthur wonders if he shouldn't perhaps be worrying about being alone with Merlin, instead of about seeing him when both Gaius and a probably dying man are present.
This....might be a problem.
--
Helping Gaius with a patient is always nerve-wracking. On his own, and in the aftermath of a battle, Merlin is finding that he can cope pretty well. The solid education in the job of a physician that Gaius is slowly giving him helps him focus on the task at hand and not on his usual clumsiness, not to mention helps him to understand why Gaius is cautionary about using his magic when he can use his hands and his head instead.
In the physician's rooms, though, it's different. Everything speeds up and seems to happen all at once, with barely time to pause between rapid instructions. Gaius clears his table and directs the knights carrying Geraint to lay him on it, already bending over the leg before he's fully set down. In the brighter light of the candles, along with the pure sunlight streaming through the windows, Merlin can see slivers of bone poking through the mess of flesh and skin that he hadn't seen in the dim forest light.
"Merlin! Merlin!“ Gaius' shout brings him round, motioning for Merlin to take over pressing a thick cloth to the wound to help stop the bleeding. "Keep that tight." Merlin steps forward, careful to keep the edges of the wound covered with the cloth. Then, in a similar way to Geraint's injury, the edges of Merlin's vision go frayed and blurred, showing him Gaius moving away from the man on the table to pick a book of the shelf and flick through it, calling for- Merlin strains to hear the faint voice, thinking he catches hot water and possibly a splint before the vision fades. He looks to the shelf, shaking off the lingering fuzziness, and feels the chill again.
The book he'd seen Gaius pull out isn't there.
The physician moves away from checking Geraint's forehead for fever, towards the bookshelf, and Merlin closes his eyes against what he knows is coming. Gaius doesn't waste time in a fruitless search; since Merlin reordered the books, either it's in its place or it isn't. He simply alters his course towards a cupboard, collecting needle, thread, tweezers, a solid splint of ash and a large bowl that he shoves at a hovering knight and tells him to fill with water from the kettle hanging over the fire.
They work for at least an hour, until Merlin has lost count of how many times the bowl has been emptied of bloody water, of how many times he's wrung the cloth out or picked up a fresh one. A small basin next to Gaius holds shards of bone, more than Merlin had thought could possibly come from a wound that looked so simple. The sword- no, axe is more likely, he notes clinically, had gone in at an angle and shattered the bone instead of broken it clean through, making the wound much more difficult to clean up.
By the time Gaius gets the wound roughly sewn up and splinted, wrapped tight with clean bandages, Geraint is shaking and sweating with fever, his eyes flickering under their lids as he dreams of ill things. Merlin rests a cool cloth on his head, licking his own dry lips in sympathy. He looks over at Gaius, searching the bookshelves, and feels a rush of guilt.
"Gaius, I-"
"It's not your fault," he interrupts. "You didn't hide that book."
"But I reordered them." Merlin feels like he has to do something, take some of the blame he can see weighing on Gaius' shoulders.
"Enough, Merlin. You are not to blame for this; the book was here this morning, right where I put it. Now it isn't, for reasons I cannot fathom just yet."
Merlin ducks his head and focuses on cleaning the used cloths, scrubbing at them with the strong soap Gaius uses and practically shoving his magic at them to purge them of every last trace of Geraint's blood. He's hanging the last of them up to dry when Arthur knocks on the door, stepping through with a tight expression. "How is he?"
Merlin looks over at the injured man, teeth chattering from the fever, and sighs. "Not good." Arthur nods slowly, like he expected the news. "If the fever breaks tonight then he's got a better chance, but that's not a nice-looking wound."
"It was an axe," Arthur tells him, more for something to say as he moves to stand next to Geraint. "We know who it was; only one man in Brynmor's force uses an axe, and if Geraint dies he'll be punished."
Merlin blinks. "Is that necessary? He was only doing his job."
Arthur gives him a hard look. "A job expressly forbidden by the treaty his lord signed with my father." Merlin bites down on another comment, knowing it's not worth it. Arthur kneels by the bed they'd managed to move Geraint onto, resting his hand by the knight's shoulder. "Will you stay with him tonight?"
"What about-"
"I can manage, Merlin. He needs you more than I will tonight, although goodness knows where you've suddenly got all this competency from."
"He's a good apprentice," Gaius remarks, climbing down from the upper ledge. Arthur looks up at the physician, and Merlin sees the anger held fiercely in check for the first time.
"So I gather." He stands smoothly, casting one last look at Geraint before turning his whole attention to Gaius. "I am informed that unless the fever breaks it doesn't look good for him."
"If the fever breaks tonight, he will live. If not, there's nothing I can do but prolong his last few hours."
"It's just a leg wound!"
"It goes deep and ugly, your highness; I'm surprised he was conscious long enough to get off the field. Either there was something else on that axe blade or it just hadn't been cleaned in a while, but infection had set in long before you got him to me."
Arthur's jaw moves as he grits his teeth, hands clenching. "Right. And the chances of the fever breaking?"
Gaius looks at Merlin, gently testing him. Merlin looks down, then straight at Arthur. "Poor. I'll be surprised if he makes it to midnight." He glances at Gaius, sees him nodding, and goes cold inside.
"Dammit," Arthur swears. Then he frowns. "What do you mean, something else on the blade?"
"A poison, or something of that sort. It wouldn't be the first time I've seen it, and there are certain ones which can mimic a natural infection."
"Brynmor is a common soldier, when it comes down to it. He might prefer sneaking around at night and sabotaging defences to make his daylight attacks easier, but so far as I know he's not the sort to use that low a method."
Gaius shrugs. "It was only a thought. The fever set in so fast, which is entirely possible through natural processes, but it occurred to me."
"I think Brynmor has enough to deal with without being accused of using poisoned weapons," says Arthur with a trace of irony. "In fact, I'm due in the great hall for his audience with my father. Gaius, you should be with me to tell him how Geraint is."
"Take Merlin," the physician tells him, "I need to go deal with those of your men injured but still managing to wait politely."
Arthur gives Merlin a dubious look, but the preceding conversation has obviously given him some faith in Merlin's abilities as a healer, even if he still considers him useless at everything else. "Fine, come on. Just try not to make an ass of yourself. Or of me."
"I'll try my hardest," Merlin jokes, but it falls flat. He hesitates before following Arthur to the door, seeing the way Geraint's skin has paled to a chalky white. He takes a chance and takes Geraint's hand in his own, hoping Arthur is too preoccupied to pay too much attention. He sends a small spark of magic through the knight's body, closing his eyes and feeling.
A moment later he stands jerkily, breathing shallow. "Gaius?" he calls softly, The physician turns. "He's not going to last beyond the eleventh bell." Gaius doesn't question how Merlin knows, just takes in the set of his jaw and the thin line of his lips.
"I'll make him comfortable."
Merlin watches him soak a fresh cloth in cold water and replace it across Geraint's forehead. Arthur comes to stand by him, voice quiet as he asks, "What is it?"
Merlin answers in an equally hushed tone. "You see the pallor of his skin, and the way the shadows under his eyes look almost blue?" Arthur nods. "He won't last til midnight. Gaius will make it as easy for him as possible, but he's fading. I'm sorry, Arthur."
"You did your best, the both of you," he answers sincerely, and Merlin would be pleased about the praise if it weren't tempered by the dying man a few feet away. Merlin feels Arthur move away, and this time follows him. He makes a minor detour to pick up Geraint's sword, leaning against the wall where one of the other knights had put it, and holds it out to Arthur.
"I don't know if you'd need-well, anyway. Here." Arthur gives him a long look before taking it, something like respect in his eyes. Merlin swallows hard against the lump in his throat and gestures towards the door. "Your father will be waiting."
Arthur spins on his heel and leads the way without another word, Merlin following with a bowed head and heavy heart.
--
In the great hall, Morgana stands to one side and watches Lord Brynmor be escorted towards Uther, head held proud even in defeat. Her lip curls slightly as she takes in his appearance, only slightly ruffled by the skirmish and his subsequent short stay in a cell. He doesn't look like a man who has recently fought for his life, or for the lives of his knights; she knows Arthur thinks nothing of putting himself at serious risk to go to the aid of one of his men, and she recognises that the lord standing before them has none of that courage or loyalty.
"Lord Brynmor, you stand here for judgement following your deliberate breaking of a treaty between yourself and Camelot a mere month ago," Uther intones. Morgana glances across as the door opens, seeing Arthur hurrying to take his place by Uther's side, carrying a sword that she identifies as not his own. He shakes his head tersely when his father looks at him, lips pressed tightly together. Merlin, standing behind him, looks no better. Uther looks back at Brynmor, face betraying nothing.
Brynmor looks from Arthur to the king, frowning. "Your majesty-"
"Silence." Uther cuts in, lessening the height difference by moving down a step. "Arthur, what of the knight?"
"Sir Geraint won't last the night, sir. The wound is deep and grievous."
"Is this so?"
Something deep inside Morgana bristles at the distrust implied by Uther as he questions Merlin, something that is fiercely pleased that Arthur used the name of the injured knight. She fists her hands in the fabric of her skirt and tries to focus, finding it increasingly difficult as a haze penetrates her sight.
Merlin nods, speaking deferentially. "It is, my lord. Gaius is certain; the infection had set in before we could get Sir Geraint back to the castle, and the wound was too bad to repair." The calm assurance in his tone has Uther accepting his words, while Arthur casts a half-frown over his shoulder towards the normally tongue-tied and clumsy servant.
Morgana's vision goes grey as Uther questions Merlin about the rapid fever, her breaths coming short and fast as the Sight shows her-
Uther commands Brynmor's death, the full price to be paid for breaking a treaty with Camelot. As a noble he receives the dubious honour of beheading, the entire court watching from around the platform. Uther stares down at the lifeless body, one hand resting carelessly on the stone rail of the upper balcony. Down below, at the head of the retinue sent from Brynmor's estates, stands a young man. He shares features with the recently deceased, but his face is harder, his hand permanently on the pommel of his sword.
Morgana cries out silently, time speeding past her until it halts, and she Sees a battlefield, knights in the colours of Camelot and Brynmor lying dead like so many discarded dolls. Her cry becomes a scream as Arthur falls in a flash of silver and red, coming to rest alongside a crown with no owner. Uther kneels with three swords at his neck, the hard faced young man looking at him with the fire of hatred and revenge in his eyes.
Uther's voice drags Morgana back momentarily, demanding Brynmor accounts for himself. She hears the lord say "-treaty only prohibited attacks-" before she gets pulled away again.
This time Uther reaches out a hand to Brynmor, clapping him on the shoulder and calling for wine to seal the new agreement. Expressions amongst the knights vary from distrust to disinterest, the atmosphere the tenseness of men who aren't sure how they are going to work together, rather than that of looming conflict. Another rush through the years and Morgana halts at a celebration of some sort- a wedding, looking at the couple at the head table.
Uther toasts the bride, a maiden of Camelot, and her groom, the hard-faced man Morgana had watched prepare to deliver a killing blow to Uther. He smiles, accepting Uther's blessing with a bow of his head and a raised cup.
A warm hand slides against her own, firm fingers forcing her own tightly clenched ones apart so they can thread through. Morgana battles to keep a mask of polite attention on her face as she squeezes Gwen's hand in thanks, the movements hidden by her flowing skirts. The second vision fades as the heat from Gwen's skin seeps into her own clammy hand, helping her heart to calm down. It seems harder than usual to shove away the lingering effects of the vision, though; Uther's voice brings that indefinable something inside her flaring out again, angry at him.
He rules so harshly, it says. He persecutes those like you when all the while you could help him make the right decisions. Wouldn't it be better if Arthur were to rule now? He would have help, you would help him, you could make him great, and in the process such power could be yours, like you've never imagined, the power to do anything-
Morgana grips Gwen's hand with a tightness she will apologise for later, and viciously pushes away the insidious little voice. It's the same one that pushed her to jealousy about Merlin's powers, and for that alone she refuses to listen to it, even if the sheer lunacy of letting herself get caught by the Sight when standing next to Uther Pendragon had escaped her notice.
She straightens her shoulders and glares at a knight looking at her with some interest, sending him into a drill pose, eyes fixed on his lord. She's missed most of the conversation, she realises; Uther and Brynmor are arguing about some point of the treaty, and seem almost at the end of the audience.
After another few minutes of conversation, at one point calling on Arthur for confirmation about part of Camelot's borders, Uther descends the rest of the steps and extends his hand towards Brynmor. Morgana closes her eyes and watches the scene against her eyelids, opening them when she hears the page running for wine. She tugs Gwen's hand forward slightly, indicating she wishes to leave. Gwen tugs back, letting go and stepping to her side.
Morgana begins to leave, before a thought occurs. She looks over at Merlin, still standing correctly behind Arthur as he confers with his father and Brynmor over the wording of a second treaty. The apprentice shows no signs that he shared the vision with Morgana, instead looking deathly bored and sending irritated glances towards Arthur for making him stay.
Morgana leaves without hesitating any further, her question answered.
--
Arthur watches Lord Brynmor, wary for any signs that he's going to break this treaty like the previous one and kill another of Camelot's knights. Geraint's sword is awkward in Arthur's hand, the grip wrong and the length shorter than he's used to. The blade is thicker as well; it's a sword for a man who knows his strength is in his muscles, not in his speed, the way Arthur's still is.
He knows that the man speaking with his father isn't the man who committed the deed, knows that it was just another knight following orders, but that doesn't stop him from wanting to do something idiotic like challenge him, or demand reparations. It's a curious feeling, and almost entirely new, because he's used to losing knights - the force he leads now shares only seven men with the one he first took over a few years ago.
But recently he's started caring more about how and for what reason they die, and it's odd. It isn't that he's uncaring, far from it, but he's always been more...professional than this. And he doesn't know why that's changed.
No. That's a lie. He knows far too well.
Merlin cares. He doesn't train with these men, doesn't fight with them or share meals, but every time one of them gets brought to Gaius or falls on the battlefield Merlin always gets the same look on his face. He treats them gently, although not so much that they'd notice and bristle at the implication of weakness, and talks to them with a familiarity that he shouldn't be able to achieve, they being knights and he being a mere servant-apprentice.
He finds out more about Arthur's knights in the time it takes to set a broken arm or treat a wound than Arthur learns from working closely with them for months on end, and it's started to become irritating. He swaps the sword from hand to hand, ignoring both the sharp looks of Brynmor's knights and the 'why aren't we leaving?' glances Merlin keeps sending him.
Thinking about it, it's not that Merlin cares, it's that he's caring about the knights more than he's caring about Arthur. He has to be reminded about the state of Arthur's room, or that his armour needs cleaning properly, but if a knight needs a splinter removed he's there before Gaius most times. Arthur feels his face setting into a scowl and makes an effort to keep the bland court mask on his features, aware that he's probably being too harsh on Merlin but not particularly bothered.
He just-he wants Merlin to pay more attention to him, and all faults aside - and the gods know he has a few of them - Arthur's man enough to admit that much, at least.
Brynmor signs the treaty with a flourish, and Arthur moves forward to sign as witness even as he wonders why he told Merlin to stay through the night with Geraint (or as long as the knight will last, at least) when he wants more of Merlin to himself.
He has got to get a hold of himself.
--
Part III
Part I
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Arthur's getting changed when Merlin walks in, which leads to some slight, undignified flailing as Arthur hurries to get the tunic wrapped around his head off so he can see who would dare barge into his rooms without announcing their presence first. When he does emerge it's with a flushed face and feeling mildly irritated. "Merlin, do you understand the concept of knocking?"
Merlin smiles sheepishly. "Yes? But you're normally with the king by now, so I don't generally bother."
He might have a point there, but, "Regardless, you should knock, just in case I'm...I'm..."
"Getting stuck in your tunic?"
"I'm beginning to think you really do like being in the stocks," Arthur says, and has to turn away from Merlin's answering grin. He can hear Merlin clattering around, clearing the table, stacking plates and making the odd uncomplimentary remark about Arthur's untidiness that he pretends not to hear, and it all seems too...well, domestic.
Morgana's like this with Gwen, he knows; he's seen them together without them knowing he's there enough times to have witnessed the simple friendship that they have when no one has any higher expectations, but the thought of having the same sort of thing with Merlin seems ridiculous. He's never quite sure how to act around Merlin, mostly because Merlin never acts the way Arthur expects him to.
"Why aren't you with Uther, anyway?" Merlin asks, intruding in on Arthur's thoughts.
"There've been reports of a wild boar, terrorising the livestock at a few of the forest villages. I took a few men and went to investigate; the search took longer than we anticipated, and we've only just returned."
"Did you find it?"
"Sort of," Arthur says, shrugging into his coat after pointedly directing Merlin's attention to it. "Honestly, you'd think you've learnt nothing about being a manservant by now."
"I'm better than I was," Merlin protests. "At least now I can tell what you want when you make those funny eyes at me."
Arthur deliberately doesn't think about what sort of eyes he's been making at Merlin, and settles for making what he hopes is an irritated noise. Merlin smiles at him again, gaze flicking over him and nodding his approval before moving away to start pulling the rumpled sheets of the bed. "What did you mean, sort of?"
"Hmm?" Arthur's already thinking ahead, preparing his report to his father, and the question catches him off-guard partway to the door.
"You said 'sort of' when I asked about the boar; did you get it?"
"We got something, but it wasn't a boar."
Merlin stands with a pillow in his hands, looking confused. "Then what was it?"
"I don't know, and neither do the knights. It may have been a boar at some point, but I'm pretty sure boars aren't meant to have a frill of horns around their necks, or blue skin."
"Ah. No." Merlin bites his lip and stares down at the pillow he's holding. Arthur firmly ignores the part of him that wants to bite Merlin's lip for him, because he has absolutely no desire to do so, least of all in a way that would result in an equally rumpled bed.
Damn it.
"Are you done with the questions?" Merlin looks up, startled, making Arthur think Merlin wasn't aware that he's still there. "Only my father would like to ask some himself."
"Sorry," Merlin says, but he doesn't look it. "You'd better go; my curiosity will keep."
"Because I live to serve your curiosity," Arthur says, rolling his eyes, but inside he feels absurdly pleased about the idea that he can tell Merlin about the process of tracking the blue creature, and the skirmish once they'd found it, and that Merlin will ask more questions than simply 'how hard was it to kill' and 'do you think there are any more'.
That Merlin will care, in short.
He makes sure to tell Merlin that he wants his favourite red coat clean for dinner that evening, just to see the amusing grimace on Merlin's face that neither of them really believe is true any more, then gets out before he says something entirely unfitting for a Crown Prince.
Keeping sight of the lines between 'servant' and 'friend' shouldn't be this hard, surely? Ah, but I didn't even realise the lines were there until I met Merlin, the logical part of his mind thinks, which is both true and worrying.
--
Merlin barely hears the door click shut after Arthur, lost in a sudden thought. The boar had been blue, he thinks, and it jars something in his memory. He clutches at it, the sheets smoothing themselves over the mattress as he tries to remember. The flowers at the equinox feast had been blue, he can recall that much, but there's something before that, something...With a sigh and a shake of his head Merlin gives it up, sure there's something just at the corner of his memory that refuses to be pulled forward
He finishes the bed then gathers up the clothes Arthur had oh-so-helpfully reminded him to get cleaned. He makes a trip to the laundry, almost stopping to chat to the women who have taken a shine to him since they found out Gwen likes him, but the call of the kitchen is too strong.
He returns to Arthur's chambers, collects the plates and makes his way down to the kitchen to hopefully beg an extra helping of stew, or even one of the fancies meant for the nobles. He leaves the plates with the potwashers and looks for one of the friendlier cooks, but then things go a bit wrong.
One of the under cooks catches sights of him and glares, setting down her knife to sweep over and get a handful of his shirt. Merlin looks at her in bafflement as she yanks him over to where several chickens are waiting to be plucked, the din of the kitchen preventing any speech between them until she hands him a bag for (he assumes) the feathers.
She leans in and shouts, probably as much to hurt Merlin's ears as to make herself heard, "you scarper off like that again, lazy twerp, and I'll tan your hide until it can be used to make leather. Get plucking!" She returns to her chopping, Merlin shocked still as he catches "stupid boy...thinks he's an upstairs servant, does he, 'stead of a kitchen boy?" as she throws him another angry look.
One thing being a warlock has taught Merlin is that the best thing you can do in unexpected circumstances is to go along with it until either people are no longer mad at you, or run like hell. Seeing as he's in a kitchen full of people bustling around, running without being seen and probably tanned is not really an option. He settles for trying to think what might have happened and ripping handfuls of feathers from the first of the chickens.
It takes less time than Merlin had imagined for Arthur to notice he's not waiting for his instructions for the rest of the evening, because the Prince cautiously enters the kitchens when Merlin is still working on his second chicken, clearly not used to venturing into this part of Camelot. He stops one of the cooks, who frowns at him before gesturing in Merlin's general direction. Arthur dodges the ordered chaos that whirls before the evening meal is served, and finally manages to get to Merlin's side.
"What on earth are you doing?" he demands, looking at the downy feathers covering Merlin's shirt and hands.
"They seem convinced that I'm a kitchen boy," Merlin replies, and feels something shift.
Arthur looks round, like he can't remember how he got down here, then looks at Merlin. "You are a-" he starts, the words getting stuck in his throat. "You are-" he tries again, swallowing hard, but to no avail.
Merlin feels a nudge, as if someone wants to get past him, but when he glances round everyone is giving him (Arthur) a wide berth. He feels it again, a little stronger, and then a third nudge which-Merlin shivers. The third passes through him, but still pushes against something. He's got the sneaking suspicion that it's his magic, a feeling which grows when Arthur blinks, frown lightening and a slight smile curling at his lips.
"If I didn't know better I'd say you'd rather pluck chickens than wait on me at dinner, Merlin."
"Only if you're going to make me wear the Hat," Merlin replies, gathering enough of his wits to reply without giving anything away. Not that Arthur would likely notice, but Merlin is slowly learning how to lie convincingly, and any practice is useful.
"I'm not that cruel, Merlin, I've already made you wear it once this week." He slings an arm over Merlin's shoulders and leads him out of the kitchens, past the under cook. Merlin watches her warily, but when she looks up she smiles at him and says, "thanks for the help, Merlin. Above and beyond the call of duty, that was."
Arthur mutters something about Merlin not knowing the meaning of the words, getting them out into the cool passageway that leads to freedom and a world without flurries of feathers or further interruptions. They're back at Arthur's chambers before Merlin thinks to ask, "What did your father have to say about the not-boar attack?"
Arthur makes a non-committal noise, searching for something in a clothes chest while Merlin stands, not really knowing what to do. "Why do you want to know?"
"Curiosity," Merlin says, and catches the tunic Arthur throws at him.
"You know, most servants don't dare ask so many questions, especially of the Crown Prince."
"Since when do I pay attention to your crown?" Arthur is silent, which Merlin takes as agreement. He helps Arthur into a fresh tunic, settling it across Arthur's shoulders before moving on to the laces at the cuffs. "Well?"
"Well what?" Arthur says irritably, but it's faked. He sighs, hand going to fiddle with the laces Merlin has just tied until he gets it slapped away. "He asked what he always asks: how hard was it to kill and might there be more around to cause problems."
"And might there be?"
"I don't know, maybe! It was a blue boar, Merlin, they aren't exactly well-documented."
"Were there no signs of a den, or whatever it is boars make?"
"A farrowing nest," Arthur replies, voice too soft for his words. Merlin frowns slightly, then notices that Arthur is staring at their hands. He finished tying the second set of laces several moments ago, and is now standing with his hands curled loosely around Arthur's wrist, thumb rubbing absent circles as they speak. He pulls his hands away, blushing hotly.
"Sorry." Merlin fumbles for Arthur's red coat, now spotlessly clean, and holds it out for Arthur, who clears his throat roughly as he slides his arms into the sleeves.
"You really are useless," he says, but it sounds like something else entirely.
"And yet you don't get another servant," Merlin replies, trying to lighten the atmosphere. Arthur doesn't look at him as Merlin straightens his collar, staring at a point over Merlin's shoulder.
"Yes, well. It seems pointless now you're almost trained."
Merlin watches him leave to join his father and the other nobles, and wonders when Arthur started acting more like a king and less like a spoilt prince. He bends to pick up the plain boots Arthur always moans about having to change for fancy court footwear, and has to clutch at the bed post to stop himself falling over as his vision abruptly goes grey.
He sees the marketplace in bright daylight, and that on its own is enough to send his mind reeling, because so far as he knows his magic doesn't include having the Sight. It reminds him of something, flickering on the edges of his memory as he grasps for it. The last remnants of Arthur's chamber visible through the images he's Seeing fade as the vision gets stronger.
People walk past Merlin, so close he's almost certain they can't see him. It becomes clear that this is the case when a man walks right through him, not noticing anything wrong. Merlin stares, shuddering at the feeling, and then forgets all about it when he sees himself. He remembers what day this is, now; his second day in Camelot, weary from the road but happy to be there at long last. The only blot on the day had been- oh. Right. Arthur.
Merlin follows himself, watches the way he had looked round in awe at the castle. He searches ahead for Arthur and the other knights, curious to see how their run-in had looked to an outsider. It doesn't take long. The poor servant holding the target comes into view first, but the other Merlin doesn't seem to notice him. Merlin frowns; he remembers looking at a stall, then walking through into the courtyard and seeing the man fall down, but he hasn't moved away.
He moves closer, steeling himself and walking right through a knot of people between himself and, uh, himself. The other Merlin is bending over the display of stone carvings, talking to the merchant behind the counter and completely messing with Merlin's memory of how the day went. The vision starts to blur and fade just as Merlin glimpses a scattering of bright blue spangles around the other version of himself, fading in and out of visibility but nonetheless there.
"No," he whispers as the image fades, and reaches for his magic, forcing himself back.
The vision solidifies again, but it takes a lot of effort for Merlin to stop it from fading again. He looks round, searching for something to make himself move on, and spots a man approaching, carrying a load of firewood. Merlin reaches for his magic again, but before he can force it out he sees his vision-self turn away and walk through into the courtyard. Moments later the sound of Arthur's voice reaches him, saying whatever it was he said when Merlin tried to stop him tormenting the other servant.
Blue spangles float in front of him, twisting in the air angrily as the edges blur and he-
-drops onto the floor, knees unable to support his weight as he gasps for air. He's never had a vision before, not even a slight premonition about the day to indicate that he might have the bloody Sight in addition to the overflow of magic he's already got to deal with. He sucks in air like a dying fish, pushing himself up with shaky arms until he feels stable enough to move himself to the chair. He sinks back into it and rubs feeling back into his strangely numb fingers.
It takes a while for him to be sure he won't just fall over again if he tries to stand up and get to Gaius; the fire which was banked high has almost burnt itself out, in fact. Merlin adds another couple of logs, reasoning that Arthur can cope by himself for once before pulling himself out of the chair and slowly making his way through the castle. More than once he has to pause and lean against the wall, grateful for the cool stone to keep him on his feet.
There's something niggling at the back of his mind, something he saw, something important that floats on the periphery of his understanding. It remains elusive all the way to the physician's rooms.
--
It's late by the time Morgana manages to escape the great hall, pleading continued illness. She dismisses Gwen once she's in her nightgown, desperate to be on her own and work out her tangled thoughts. Picking up a brush from her bedside table, she seats herself on the edge of her bed, glad of the silence in her chambers. She brushes her hair slowly, mind returning to Gaius' chambers.
The physician had looked at her with ill-concealed shock after her vision, clearly attempting to think of a way to persuade her she was wrong about what she had seen. Merlin has magic. It seems so ridiculous, that the skinny boy who always seems to know exactly how to get into trouble should have magic so powerful that he thinks nothing of holding several very heavy pieces of furniture in the air while he cleans the floor beneath.
Morgana stares unseeing at her room, thoughts spinning. She feels...not angry at him, but instead...her eyes widen as she realises what she's feeling. Jealousy. Once named the emotion grows, filling her chest with an overwhelming urge to take the power from Merlin, that he doesn't deserve, that should be hers and not his, for she would do more with it, use it in far greater ways than he ever could-
The sound of the brush hitting the floor pulls Morgana out of the swirl of her thoughts, the desire for Merlin's magic fading as if it had never occurred to her. She hurriedly puts the brush down, hands shaking slightly as she climbs into bed and lies staring at the ceiling.
What is happening? She asks the vaulted stone. Her answer is a heavy silence, as if the castle wants to tell her but cannot.
In the end Gaius had bowed his head and told her all; how Merlin had been born with the power, how he needed no spells to use it, how many times he had used it to save them all. He had been trying to convince her that Merlin is not a threat, but she already knew. Nobody who would willingly serve Arthur when he could be the most powerful man in Camelot could possibly be evil, she'd joked, but Gaius' smile had been weak.
It had dawned on her, then, that Merlin really is that powerful; she'd thought Gaius was speaking from the viewpoint of someone with no magic himself, but as she sat and listened to him it became clear to her that this wasn't ignorance of what constituted powerful, or a boast on behalf of his apprentice (if Gaius had ever considered doing such a thing), but instead the bare truth.
Merlin can level Camelot if he chooses, and the idea makes Morgana shiver.
She had asked, hesitantly, as if the topic wasn't quite hers to intrude upon, in which direction Merlin's powers lie. Gaius had given her a long look before saying, "He hasn't got the Sight, if that's what you mean. Apart from that, well. Everything he's tried to do has worked." He hadn't needed to tell her what to think about that, and what it means.
Morgana turns onto her side and watches the shimmer of a sliver of moonlight on her wall, wishing for the dreams to stay away like she used to when she was a child. It's to no avail. As soon as she shuts her eyes she can feel them waiting for her to sleep, although why they bother when they can come during her waking moments is beyond her.
--
Gaius doesn't know what time it is when Merlin shakes him awake, looking terrible with deep circles under his eyes and fingertips as cold on Gaius' shoulder as if he's been out in the snow, but for Merlin to risk his most likely foul mood it must be something vital.
"Gaius. Gaius." Merlin sounds hoarse and weak. Gaius makes more of an effort to pull himself out of sleep, blinking up at the blur of tousled dark hair and pale skin that he can just about see in the dim light of Merlin's candle.
"What is't?"
"Something happened earlier."
" Wh'sort of something?"
"I had a vision, I think."
That rouses Gaius fully, making him sit up with a groan. "What sort of vision?"
Merlin sits back on his heels and runs a hand through his hair, obviously almost at the end of his strength. "The day I met Arthur, except something was different. Wrong."
Gaius sighs heavily and lowers himself back onto the bed. "It's probably just the after effects of whatever that sickness you had was, causing a bad reaction with your magic."
"But-"
"If there's one thing we can safely say, Merlin, it's that you don't have the Sight. More magic than you know what to do with, certainly, but the Sight would have manifested years ago, not suddenly one night in late April." Gaius settles himself under the blankets, already dismissing the conversation in favour of sleep. "Now go to bed.“
Merlin's either convinced or too tired to argue, but he nods tiredly and carefully makes his way to his own little room without further fuss. Gaius watches him go through rapidly closing eyelids, vaguely noting the way he has to lean against handy furniture and then the walls to keep himself upright. He puts it down to the lingering illness and the lateness of the hour, and falls back into sleep.
--
Once certain that Gaius is asleep again, Merlin slips out of his room as silently as he can and through the castle, heading downwards. He's groggy and keeps a hand on the walls as he goes, but he manages enough magic to let himself pass by the guards unnoticed.
He can feel the chill breeze from the cave before he gets within sight of the stairs down to it, breathing in the smell of wet rocks and the strange, musky scent of the dragon itself. He takes the stairs slowly, trying to think of what to say. It's been months since he was last here, the lack of magical dilemmas meaning he could forgo the confusing and often indecipherable advice of the castle's largest resident.
The dragon is waiting for him, perched on the cluster of rocks nearest to the ledge Merlin emerges out onto. Seeing it in the darkness, suddenly feeling more than a little overwhelmed and insignificant, Merlin conjures the ball of blue light that has come in useful for reading at night. He sends it up to hang over them both, then steps back hurriedly as he sees the dragon rearing up, chain clanking.
"You, young warlock, are overdue."
"I wasn't aware that I was expected," Merlin replies tiredly. "You haven't been getting inside my head lately."
"I had thought you experienced enough to know recognise when you might want to consult me, but I see that that is not the case."
Merlin thinks about arguing, and decides he hasn't the energy or the inclination. "It's late, I'm ill and not entirely sure why, and apparently I've developed the Sight. Can you please, for once, just tell me what's going on?"
"You are seeing the results of your own magic, young warlock."
"What does that mean? I've spelled myself to see the future?" No answer. "It's just my magic growing? Because if so, fine, just tell me how to cope with it." The dragon simply looks at him, its eyes glinting in the mage light. "Something I've done has backfired?"
"The threads of this weaving will only be clear to you if you look properly, Emrys."
"What does that even mean?! Can you not be helpful for once?"
"This is something you must discover on your own, young warlock; your magic will continue to grow-"
"You sound like Nimueh," Merlin says bitterly, and the dragon closes its great jaw with a snap. They haven't spoken of that since Merlin returned, although he could feel the dragon's roars of anger reverberating through the stones of Camelot for weeks.
"Everything has it's time, except when it doesn't. You will live enough times over to know this."
With that cryptic comment, it does what Merlin has come to expect and takes off, the darkness swallowing it up with each flap of leathery wings. Merlin shields his eyes against the gusts and groans, wondering why he thought the dragon would be a help where Gaius wasn't.
He trudges back up the stairs and past the bored guards, nudging one of the dice with his magic more out of habit than anything else. The dragon's comments haven't provided him with even the slightest clue of what's going on, nor provoked any ideas of how he can find out, like it sometimes does-most likely without meaning to.
The walk back to Gaius' rooms passes in a blur, Merlin avoiding walking into the walls and the guards by memory and instinct as he mulls over his conversation, insomuch as it can be called that. Gaius doesn't stir when Merlin returns, and Merlin doesn't try to wake him a second time; he has the feeling Gaius would approve even less of his nighttime visits to the dragon than he'd approve of him speaking to it in the daylight.
He lies awake, body trembling with exhaustion but unable to fall into oblivion. He doesn't entirely believe Gaius that he didn't have a vision, but then again the physician has a point about the Sight. In all the cases he's heard of, mostly from Gaius' books and whispered rumours, the Sight shows itself when the bearer is a child. Merlin shivers and wonders if this actually is the Sight, or if like Gaius says it's just his unnatural illness of a month ago a slight comeback.
The dragon's words about everything having its time strikes a mark, finally, as Merlin connects it with his vision and the way his and Arthur's past, or timeline, had almost changed.
He drops into darkness before he can reach a conclusion about what it means.
--
It's two days later, and if Merlin is feeling more confident that he hasn't suddenly developed the Sight, Morgana is being inundated with visions wherever she turns. A lesser woman would confine herself to her room and probably have a fit of the vapours, but Morgana is made of sterner stuff, not to mention incessantly curious about what's going on around the castle.
At first it seems like nothing, hearing snatches of conversation before they happen. At least it's harmless; overhearing two of Uther's councillors discussing the latest tax tallies from some of the outlying villages doesn't exactly make her heart pound like some of her nightmares, although the satisfyingly high amounts might make someone's heart race. Morgana hears the conversation when she is dressing first thing in the morning, the words sounding as clear to her as if the men are standing mere inches away.
Gwen keeps fastening her laces as if nothing is wrong, something Morgana doesn't know whether to laugh or feel superior about. That she could entertain even the idea of feeling superior to Gwen hits her a moment after the voices fade, and she hurriedly pulls Gwen in front of her to ask how she's faring on her own these days.
Much later, on her way to visit the seamstresses, she overhears the same conversation. Pausing in the corridor outside the Council room, Morgana listens carefully, feeling a quiet sense of pleasure when every word matches with what she heard earlier. It's proof that her gift is as strong as she believes it to be, although she wishes that it might show her more useful things than tax contributions. Something akin to the vision of Arthur's near-death would be more of a help, now that she knows what she's dealing with.
--
Merlin stands behind Arthur at dinner, watching Arthur try to make conversation with the taciturn noble on his left and smiling to himself. This lasts until Arthur knocks over his (thankfully empty) cup and sends it skittering across the floor, neatly hitting Merlin's toes as if Arthur had aimed. He rolls his eyes and bends to pick it up, promptly feeling the atmosphere of the room alter into something darker and altogether tenser. He straightens slowly, looking around.
The people who should be sitting at the tables have been partially replaced by different folk, some of the servants lining the wall now in a livery of brown and gold that Merlin doesn't recognise.
He gets the feeling, stepping forward to place the cup back next to Arthur, that these people aren't exactly friendly with each other, but they're willing to push their differences aside for an evening. Arthur hasn't altered, and seems just as deep in conversation as he did before Merlin picked the cup up, sparing a glance and a nod for him as he steps back into place.
No sooner is he there, hands folded in front of himself, than things seem to bend and snap back into focus. The servants are all wearing Camelot's colours, and Merlin sees the people he knows back in their rightful places. He casts a look around the hall, looking for anyone else who might have noticed the shift, but everyone seems perfectly at ease. The nasty undercurrent has gone too, making Merlin wonder what exactly was going on. Was it a vision of the future, some meeting made in awkward circumstances? Or of the past, something he hadn't been present for?
He resolves to ask Arthur as soon as he gets chance, although that might not be until later, and possibly not 'til the morning if Arthur drinks too much. Looking at the lady on his right who he's now deep in conversation with, Merlin is surprised he hasn't been called over four times by now to refill Arthur's cup; they've been talking for half an hour and Arthur's still on his first.
Finally some of the ladies call for dancing, and Arthur's seating partner is led away by her husband. Arthur himself comes to lean against the wall next to Merlin, something he's taken to doing on the excuse that Merlin is the one with the wine. He shakes his head when Merlin tilts the jug at him, though, tilting his cup in return. Merlin lifts an eyebrow at the sight of the almost full measure of wine.
"Everything okay?"
Arthur sighs. "Just because I'm not drinking doesn't mean something's wrong, Merlin."
"If you say so, Sire."
Arthur gives him a sharp look, but says nothing. They watch the dancers for a moment or two before Merlin asks, aiming for offhand and mostly getting there: "Was there a delegation here a while ago? The servants would've been in brown and gold, I think,"
"Lord Brynmor, that'd be. He and his retinue were here that week you were ill. Why do you ask?"
Merlin shrugs, looking out over the hall. "They were talking about it in the kitchens earlier," he lies, "and I was surprised I'd managed to miss it."
Arthur snorts into his cup: "I'm not." Merlin elbows him slightly, keeping a wary eye out for Uther. Arthur leans away and smiles, taking a - small, Merlin notes - swallow of his wine. "What were they saying about him?"
Uh-oh. Merlin thinks rapidly, trying to remember what was in his vision. "Nothing much. I think one of the kitchen maids mentioned she thought their uniforms ugly-"
"Which they were."
"-and that there wasn't a very good atmosphere in the castle when they were here." From the corner of his eye Merlin can see Arthur give him a sharp look, and wonders if Arthur knows just how much the servants gossip. He thinks Arthur's going to ask what that means, exactly, but instead he looks away.
"Brynmor had started taking territory that didn't belong to him, so my father invited him to the castle and made him see the error of his ways." Arthur's tone implies that Uther had done more than that; Merlin had seen a scroll, like that of a treaty, resting between the King and the richly dressed noble sitting beside him, like a reminder. He says nothing, because there is nothing he can say, just nods.
"Thanks."
"I am always eager to rectify your ignorance," Arthur replies with a grin, then claps Merlin on the shoulder as Uther beckons him over. "Although it's taking me a long time."
Merlin watches him go and feels a chill run down his spine that has nothing to do with Arthur's comment, which barely registers. Something is wrong, very wrong, but he's got no clue what. The undercurrents in his vision had been far too angry, even if Lord Brynmor had indeed been made to sign a treaty preventing him from taking any more land from his neighbours.
--
Three days later Arthur rides out at the head of Camelot's knights, all in their full armour. Merlin goes with them, riding with the other servants who know how to set up a war camp and cope with injuries until they can reach Gaius, and he gets the same feeling that something is inherently wrong with the situation. It's not the normal feeling of do we really have to go and fight, but something much darker.
When they do join with the enemy it's not even a battle, more of a skirmish. Lord Brynmor has obviously been using underhanded tactics to add to his landholdings, because in a pitched fight his knights have very little technique. Arthur's well-trained force makes easy work of their opponents, not even bothering to do anything more than knock them out unless they can't help it. Arthur himself takes Brynmor down, forcing the man to yield at the tip of his sword.
Merlin rolls his eyes at Arthur's silence when the knights get back to the hastily-made camp, noting the blood flowing down Arthur's cheek as he speaks to his men. Arthur won't ask for any help, Merlin knows, so he takes it upon himself to grab hold of Arthur in a spare moment and make him stop.
"Hold this," he orders, shoving a pot of Gaius' comfrey ointment at Arthur with one hand, using his other to grip Arthur's jaw and tilt his head to one side. Arthur goes utterly still as Merlin carefully wipes away the mostly dried blood with a damp cloth and gentle movements, barely breathing as Merlin works.
The sounds of the camp fade as Merlin takes care not to pull at the wound, vividly aware that this is another moment in which they stand on the edge of something he isn't sure either of them are ready for. Arthur is like a statue under his hands, allowing Merlin to fuss without complaining, or shouting orders to his knights like Merlin half expects him to.
Merlin tries to focus on making sure the cut won't require stitching when they get back to the castle, instead of how warm Arthur's skin feel under his fingers, but when he comes to smooth some of the healing ointment over it his hand is shaking slightly.
"There," he says past the lump in his throat, "if you can cope with being manhandled by the skinny apprentice, then maybe some of your men won't complain so much when I try to treat them."
He's turning away to help treat a man with a nasty-looking leg wound when Arthur grabs hold of him, fingers firm around his wrist and tugging him back. "Some of them have refused to be treated by you?"
"Not exactly," Merlin says slowly, not entirely sure what's in Arthur's tone but knowing it sends a thrill down his spine. "They tell me to treat the more seriously wounded first, and that they can wait to see Gaius. It's nothing, I'm used-" He knows he's said the wrong thing when Arthur's grip tightens, eyes hard. "It's nothing," he insists. "They're allowed to want to be treated by someone with more experience than me. Aren't you always saying how useless I am?" It's intended to be teasing, but comes out slightly bitter instead. Arthur drops his wrist like he's been burnt.
"I'll speak to them."
"That's not necessary," Merlin says, more sharply than he means to. He takes the pot of ointment from Arthur's hand and turns back to the knight with the leg wound, sitting against a tree stump and trying to breathe through the pain as one of the other servants carefully pulls his breeches away from the skin. He can feel Arthur still watching him, intent gaze that Merlin doesn't know how to react to. "Is that all, or do you want me to kiss it better?" he asks, trying to grin.
The knight smiles, although it turns to a grimace when Merlin starts washing the wound out as best he can. He looks round when all he gets for answer is silence, and Arthur is gone.
"He gave you a funny look and-god, ow-left, sharpish like," the knight pants, eyes squeezing shut as Merlin carefully wipes away the worst of the blood.
"Some people just can't take a joke," he says, trying to keep things light. The wound is deep, possibly to the bone, although he won't be able to tell for sure until he and Gaius can clean it properly. "As if I'd get that close to him anyway."
"None of us would," his patient says, and then faints. Merlin sighs and gestures for two of the others to come over and heave him onto a horse, directing them to be as careful as possible with the bad leg. It's not the most ideal way of getting him back to Camelot, admittedly; it means more risk that the wound won't clot, but it's the fastest way and he needs to be on Gaius' table as soon as possible.
Merlin rides at the back, next to the injured knight - Geraint, the man riding on his other side supplies - and can only see the angry set of Arthur's shoulders as he leads the bound prisoners back to the castle. Lord Brynmor is entitled to ride, although his hands are bound to the saddle; Merlin spares a moment to wonder how badly the treaty he presumes was signed has been broken, but before he can spend more than a thought on it Geraint starts listing badly to one side, and Merlin has to help him.
--
Back in Camelot Arthur leaves the rest of the group as soon as he's made sure Geraint is being taken straight up to Gaius, kicking the door to his chambers while he struggles out of his chainmail. The metal links fall in a cacophony of noise as he flings the whole thing in the general direction of the table, slumping against the wall with his hands pressed against his eyes.
There's something burning underneath his skin, something more than the usual mix of adrenaline and sharp arousal that he's used to having after a fight, and it's all because of that stupid conversation with Merlin.
He drops his hands and fumbles with the catches of his vambraces, angry with himself. He'd been trying to avoid Merlin once back in camp, not sure if his control over the burgeoning desire to touch would've survived in the aftermath of the battle, but Merlin's hands on his face and admonishing voice had put paid to that. And then his accidental revelation about the knights preferring Gaius' treatment...gods, Arthur doesn't know where to start with that.
Arthur shifts against the wall, spreading his legs slightly as the coolness from the stone seeps through his padded undercoat and into his skin, returning some clarity of thought. Being hard and wanting someone's touch isn't new to him, but being hard and wanting Merlin's hands on him is, but the thing is, right now Arthur can't bring himself to care.
He doesn't bother undoing the laces of his breeches; elegance isn't the issue here, and neither is making it last. He just shoves his hand down them, gripping himself tightly and using strong, fast strokes as he bites down on the ball of his other palm, needing the pain as much to stop himself thinking about Merlin as he does to push himself over the edge.
When he catches his breath there are vivid red marks in tender skin, testimony to how badly he'd wanted to imagine Merlin's hand instead of his own, or perhaps Merlin's mouth, probably still with that annoyingly teasing smile, just distorted as he swallowed Arthur down. It's the work of a few minutes to clean himself up and change into clean attire, years of practice having taught him speed and thoroughness.
Arthur puts himself back together, pulling his self-control around him and hoping it's going to be enough to keep him from doing something inappropriate as he goes to see how Geraint is faring. Never mind now; as he remembers the flash of protectiveness he'd felt as Merlin told him about the knights denying his aid, Arthur wonders if he shouldn't perhaps be worrying about being alone with Merlin, instead of about seeing him when both Gaius and a probably dying man are present.
This....might be a problem.
--
Helping Gaius with a patient is always nerve-wracking. On his own, and in the aftermath of a battle, Merlin is finding that he can cope pretty well. The solid education in the job of a physician that Gaius is slowly giving him helps him focus on the task at hand and not on his usual clumsiness, not to mention helps him to understand why Gaius is cautionary about using his magic when he can use his hands and his head instead.
In the physician's rooms, though, it's different. Everything speeds up and seems to happen all at once, with barely time to pause between rapid instructions. Gaius clears his table and directs the knights carrying Geraint to lay him on it, already bending over the leg before he's fully set down. In the brighter light of the candles, along with the pure sunlight streaming through the windows, Merlin can see slivers of bone poking through the mess of flesh and skin that he hadn't seen in the dim forest light.
"Merlin! Merlin!“ Gaius' shout brings him round, motioning for Merlin to take over pressing a thick cloth to the wound to help stop the bleeding. "Keep that tight." Merlin steps forward, careful to keep the edges of the wound covered with the cloth. Then, in a similar way to Geraint's injury, the edges of Merlin's vision go frayed and blurred, showing him Gaius moving away from the man on the table to pick a book of the shelf and flick through it, calling for- Merlin strains to hear the faint voice, thinking he catches hot water and possibly a splint before the vision fades. He looks to the shelf, shaking off the lingering fuzziness, and feels the chill again.
The book he'd seen Gaius pull out isn't there.
The physician moves away from checking Geraint's forehead for fever, towards the bookshelf, and Merlin closes his eyes against what he knows is coming. Gaius doesn't waste time in a fruitless search; since Merlin reordered the books, either it's in its place or it isn't. He simply alters his course towards a cupboard, collecting needle, thread, tweezers, a solid splint of ash and a large bowl that he shoves at a hovering knight and tells him to fill with water from the kettle hanging over the fire.
They work for at least an hour, until Merlin has lost count of how many times the bowl has been emptied of bloody water, of how many times he's wrung the cloth out or picked up a fresh one. A small basin next to Gaius holds shards of bone, more than Merlin had thought could possibly come from a wound that looked so simple. The sword- no, axe is more likely, he notes clinically, had gone in at an angle and shattered the bone instead of broken it clean through, making the wound much more difficult to clean up.
By the time Gaius gets the wound roughly sewn up and splinted, wrapped tight with clean bandages, Geraint is shaking and sweating with fever, his eyes flickering under their lids as he dreams of ill things. Merlin rests a cool cloth on his head, licking his own dry lips in sympathy. He looks over at Gaius, searching the bookshelves, and feels a rush of guilt.
"Gaius, I-"
"It's not your fault," he interrupts. "You didn't hide that book."
"But I reordered them." Merlin feels like he has to do something, take some of the blame he can see weighing on Gaius' shoulders.
"Enough, Merlin. You are not to blame for this; the book was here this morning, right where I put it. Now it isn't, for reasons I cannot fathom just yet."
Merlin ducks his head and focuses on cleaning the used cloths, scrubbing at them with the strong soap Gaius uses and practically shoving his magic at them to purge them of every last trace of Geraint's blood. He's hanging the last of them up to dry when Arthur knocks on the door, stepping through with a tight expression. "How is he?"
Merlin looks over at the injured man, teeth chattering from the fever, and sighs. "Not good." Arthur nods slowly, like he expected the news. "If the fever breaks tonight then he's got a better chance, but that's not a nice-looking wound."
"It was an axe," Arthur tells him, more for something to say as he moves to stand next to Geraint. "We know who it was; only one man in Brynmor's force uses an axe, and if Geraint dies he'll be punished."
Merlin blinks. "Is that necessary? He was only doing his job."
Arthur gives him a hard look. "A job expressly forbidden by the treaty his lord signed with my father." Merlin bites down on another comment, knowing it's not worth it. Arthur kneels by the bed they'd managed to move Geraint onto, resting his hand by the knight's shoulder. "Will you stay with him tonight?"
"What about-"
"I can manage, Merlin. He needs you more than I will tonight, although goodness knows where you've suddenly got all this competency from."
"He's a good apprentice," Gaius remarks, climbing down from the upper ledge. Arthur looks up at the physician, and Merlin sees the anger held fiercely in check for the first time.
"So I gather." He stands smoothly, casting one last look at Geraint before turning his whole attention to Gaius. "I am informed that unless the fever breaks it doesn't look good for him."
"If the fever breaks tonight, he will live. If not, there's nothing I can do but prolong his last few hours."
"It's just a leg wound!"
"It goes deep and ugly, your highness; I'm surprised he was conscious long enough to get off the field. Either there was something else on that axe blade or it just hadn't been cleaned in a while, but infection had set in long before you got him to me."
Arthur's jaw moves as he grits his teeth, hands clenching. "Right. And the chances of the fever breaking?"
Gaius looks at Merlin, gently testing him. Merlin looks down, then straight at Arthur. "Poor. I'll be surprised if he makes it to midnight." He glances at Gaius, sees him nodding, and goes cold inside.
"Dammit," Arthur swears. Then he frowns. "What do you mean, something else on the blade?"
"A poison, or something of that sort. It wouldn't be the first time I've seen it, and there are certain ones which can mimic a natural infection."
"Brynmor is a common soldier, when it comes down to it. He might prefer sneaking around at night and sabotaging defences to make his daylight attacks easier, but so far as I know he's not the sort to use that low a method."
Gaius shrugs. "It was only a thought. The fever set in so fast, which is entirely possible through natural processes, but it occurred to me."
"I think Brynmor has enough to deal with without being accused of using poisoned weapons," says Arthur with a trace of irony. "In fact, I'm due in the great hall for his audience with my father. Gaius, you should be with me to tell him how Geraint is."
"Take Merlin," the physician tells him, "I need to go deal with those of your men injured but still managing to wait politely."
Arthur gives Merlin a dubious look, but the preceding conversation has obviously given him some faith in Merlin's abilities as a healer, even if he still considers him useless at everything else. "Fine, come on. Just try not to make an ass of yourself. Or of me."
"I'll try my hardest," Merlin jokes, but it falls flat. He hesitates before following Arthur to the door, seeing the way Geraint's skin has paled to a chalky white. He takes a chance and takes Geraint's hand in his own, hoping Arthur is too preoccupied to pay too much attention. He sends a small spark of magic through the knight's body, closing his eyes and feeling.
A moment later he stands jerkily, breathing shallow. "Gaius?" he calls softly, The physician turns. "He's not going to last beyond the eleventh bell." Gaius doesn't question how Merlin knows, just takes in the set of his jaw and the thin line of his lips.
"I'll make him comfortable."
Merlin watches him soak a fresh cloth in cold water and replace it across Geraint's forehead. Arthur comes to stand by him, voice quiet as he asks, "What is it?"
Merlin answers in an equally hushed tone. "You see the pallor of his skin, and the way the shadows under his eyes look almost blue?" Arthur nods. "He won't last til midnight. Gaius will make it as easy for him as possible, but he's fading. I'm sorry, Arthur."
"You did your best, the both of you," he answers sincerely, and Merlin would be pleased about the praise if it weren't tempered by the dying man a few feet away. Merlin feels Arthur move away, and this time follows him. He makes a minor detour to pick up Geraint's sword, leaning against the wall where one of the other knights had put it, and holds it out to Arthur.
"I don't know if you'd need-well, anyway. Here." Arthur gives him a long look before taking it, something like respect in his eyes. Merlin swallows hard against the lump in his throat and gestures towards the door. "Your father will be waiting."
Arthur spins on his heel and leads the way without another word, Merlin following with a bowed head and heavy heart.
--
In the great hall, Morgana stands to one side and watches Lord Brynmor be escorted towards Uther, head held proud even in defeat. Her lip curls slightly as she takes in his appearance, only slightly ruffled by the skirmish and his subsequent short stay in a cell. He doesn't look like a man who has recently fought for his life, or for the lives of his knights; she knows Arthur thinks nothing of putting himself at serious risk to go to the aid of one of his men, and she recognises that the lord standing before them has none of that courage or loyalty.
"Lord Brynmor, you stand here for judgement following your deliberate breaking of a treaty between yourself and Camelot a mere month ago," Uther intones. Morgana glances across as the door opens, seeing Arthur hurrying to take his place by Uther's side, carrying a sword that she identifies as not his own. He shakes his head tersely when his father looks at him, lips pressed tightly together. Merlin, standing behind him, looks no better. Uther looks back at Brynmor, face betraying nothing.
Brynmor looks from Arthur to the king, frowning. "Your majesty-"
"Silence." Uther cuts in, lessening the height difference by moving down a step. "Arthur, what of the knight?"
"Sir Geraint won't last the night, sir. The wound is deep and grievous."
"Is this so?"
Something deep inside Morgana bristles at the distrust implied by Uther as he questions Merlin, something that is fiercely pleased that Arthur used the name of the injured knight. She fists her hands in the fabric of her skirt and tries to focus, finding it increasingly difficult as a haze penetrates her sight.
Merlin nods, speaking deferentially. "It is, my lord. Gaius is certain; the infection had set in before we could get Sir Geraint back to the castle, and the wound was too bad to repair." The calm assurance in his tone has Uther accepting his words, while Arthur casts a half-frown over his shoulder towards the normally tongue-tied and clumsy servant.
Morgana's vision goes grey as Uther questions Merlin about the rapid fever, her breaths coming short and fast as the Sight shows her-
Uther commands Brynmor's death, the full price to be paid for breaking a treaty with Camelot. As a noble he receives the dubious honour of beheading, the entire court watching from around the platform. Uther stares down at the lifeless body, one hand resting carelessly on the stone rail of the upper balcony. Down below, at the head of the retinue sent from Brynmor's estates, stands a young man. He shares features with the recently deceased, but his face is harder, his hand permanently on the pommel of his sword.
Morgana cries out silently, time speeding past her until it halts, and she Sees a battlefield, knights in the colours of Camelot and Brynmor lying dead like so many discarded dolls. Her cry becomes a scream as Arthur falls in a flash of silver and red, coming to rest alongside a crown with no owner. Uther kneels with three swords at his neck, the hard faced young man looking at him with the fire of hatred and revenge in his eyes.
Uther's voice drags Morgana back momentarily, demanding Brynmor accounts for himself. She hears the lord say "-treaty only prohibited attacks-" before she gets pulled away again.
This time Uther reaches out a hand to Brynmor, clapping him on the shoulder and calling for wine to seal the new agreement. Expressions amongst the knights vary from distrust to disinterest, the atmosphere the tenseness of men who aren't sure how they are going to work together, rather than that of looming conflict. Another rush through the years and Morgana halts at a celebration of some sort- a wedding, looking at the couple at the head table.
Uther toasts the bride, a maiden of Camelot, and her groom, the hard-faced man Morgana had watched prepare to deliver a killing blow to Uther. He smiles, accepting Uther's blessing with a bow of his head and a raised cup.
A warm hand slides against her own, firm fingers forcing her own tightly clenched ones apart so they can thread through. Morgana battles to keep a mask of polite attention on her face as she squeezes Gwen's hand in thanks, the movements hidden by her flowing skirts. The second vision fades as the heat from Gwen's skin seeps into her own clammy hand, helping her heart to calm down. It seems harder than usual to shove away the lingering effects of the vision, though; Uther's voice brings that indefinable something inside her flaring out again, angry at him.
He rules so harshly, it says. He persecutes those like you when all the while you could help him make the right decisions. Wouldn't it be better if Arthur were to rule now? He would have help, you would help him, you could make him great, and in the process such power could be yours, like you've never imagined, the power to do anything-
Morgana grips Gwen's hand with a tightness she will apologise for later, and viciously pushes away the insidious little voice. It's the same one that pushed her to jealousy about Merlin's powers, and for that alone she refuses to listen to it, even if the sheer lunacy of letting herself get caught by the Sight when standing next to Uther Pendragon had escaped her notice.
She straightens her shoulders and glares at a knight looking at her with some interest, sending him into a drill pose, eyes fixed on his lord. She's missed most of the conversation, she realises; Uther and Brynmor are arguing about some point of the treaty, and seem almost at the end of the audience.
After another few minutes of conversation, at one point calling on Arthur for confirmation about part of Camelot's borders, Uther descends the rest of the steps and extends his hand towards Brynmor. Morgana closes her eyes and watches the scene against her eyelids, opening them when she hears the page running for wine. She tugs Gwen's hand forward slightly, indicating she wishes to leave. Gwen tugs back, letting go and stepping to her side.
Morgana begins to leave, before a thought occurs. She looks over at Merlin, still standing correctly behind Arthur as he confers with his father and Brynmor over the wording of a second treaty. The apprentice shows no signs that he shared the vision with Morgana, instead looking deathly bored and sending irritated glances towards Arthur for making him stay.
Morgana leaves without hesitating any further, her question answered.
--
Arthur watches Lord Brynmor, wary for any signs that he's going to break this treaty like the previous one and kill another of Camelot's knights. Geraint's sword is awkward in Arthur's hand, the grip wrong and the length shorter than he's used to. The blade is thicker as well; it's a sword for a man who knows his strength is in his muscles, not in his speed, the way Arthur's still is.
He knows that the man speaking with his father isn't the man who committed the deed, knows that it was just another knight following orders, but that doesn't stop him from wanting to do something idiotic like challenge him, or demand reparations. It's a curious feeling, and almost entirely new, because he's used to losing knights - the force he leads now shares only seven men with the one he first took over a few years ago.
But recently he's started caring more about how and for what reason they die, and it's odd. It isn't that he's uncaring, far from it, but he's always been more...professional than this. And he doesn't know why that's changed.
No. That's a lie. He knows far too well.
Merlin cares. He doesn't train with these men, doesn't fight with them or share meals, but every time one of them gets brought to Gaius or falls on the battlefield Merlin always gets the same look on his face. He treats them gently, although not so much that they'd notice and bristle at the implication of weakness, and talks to them with a familiarity that he shouldn't be able to achieve, they being knights and he being a mere servant-apprentice.
He finds out more about Arthur's knights in the time it takes to set a broken arm or treat a wound than Arthur learns from working closely with them for months on end, and it's started to become irritating. He swaps the sword from hand to hand, ignoring both the sharp looks of Brynmor's knights and the 'why aren't we leaving?' glances Merlin keeps sending him.
Thinking about it, it's not that Merlin cares, it's that he's caring about the knights more than he's caring about Arthur. He has to be reminded about the state of Arthur's room, or that his armour needs cleaning properly, but if a knight needs a splinter removed he's there before Gaius most times. Arthur feels his face setting into a scowl and makes an effort to keep the bland court mask on his features, aware that he's probably being too harsh on Merlin but not particularly bothered.
He just-he wants Merlin to pay more attention to him, and all faults aside - and the gods know he has a few of them - Arthur's man enough to admit that much, at least.
Brynmor signs the treaty with a flourish, and Arthur moves forward to sign as witness even as he wonders why he told Merlin to stay through the night with Geraint (or as long as the knight will last, at least) when he wants more of Merlin to himself.
He has got to get a hold of himself.
--
Part III