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Arthur knows about the magic, okay?
Unsurprisingly, Merlin is terrible at hiding it, and he doesn’t appear to be very adept at it either.
Nonetheless, Arthur wishes Merlin would try for a little more discretion or at least get better at lying. It’s making covering Merlin’s tracks quite difficult when he suddenly goes silent and unsettlingly unresponsive only to abruptly blurt, “The renegade camp... it’s that way!”
Arthur, who is a paragon of patience in the face of Merlin’s... Merlinness, even gives him a chance to correct his error by prompting, “And you know this because...?”
Merlin, who clearly is incapable of thinking anything through or coming up with a convincing lie, flounders, “I know this because... because of....”
Seriously?
“I give up,” Arthur mutters. He resists the urge to drag his palm over his face in exasperation.
Thankfully, Merlin manages to magick up a footprint in the mud, which is quite pitiful but at least it’s a start. Arthur drops a heavy-handed hint or two, and then there are more footprints leading toward the location of the camp.
Arthur rolls his eyes. He’s the best hunter in the realm, and Merlin genuinely thinks he can fool him by creating tracks that weren’t previously there. Arthur can’t decide if he’s insulted or just blown away by the span of Merlin’s stupidity. Honestly, the fact that Merlin still possesses his head is shocking. Gaius definitely deserves a raise.
Well, Arthur amends, he would if he would stop shouting at Merlin about hiding his magic while the door to their chambers is wide open.
Really, they’re extremely fortunate that most of the castle staff have taken to Merlin like he’s some sort of dimwitted, endearing child who hasn’t quite grown into his limbs.
Merlin’s behavior remains decidedly odd even after they’ve caught Alvarr and reclaimed the crystal. He’s hunched over on a log with his hand over his eyes, like he’s in pain or trying to avoid notice or maybe even a little afraid of something.
Arthur frowns.
He knows he teased Merlin about being scared on their way to the camp, but he was just joking. There weren’t a lot of servants who willingly rode off into peril alongside their masters like it was just another duty to be performed, like it was no more of task than scrubbing Arthur’s mail.
Truthfully, he’d been belittling him in an attempt to drag him out of his shell, to end the strange spell of silence that had wrapped around Merlin ever since the bells first began to toll when the castle was infiltrated by the renegades.
Arthur would never admit to anyone, but he’d been missing Merlin’s prattle.
And maybe he was a little worried about him.
Because if he’s being truthful, Merlin’s been a bit off ever since the incident with the bastet, and he looks all the worse for wear after the events of the last few days.
With that in mind, Arthur orders his men to get some rest and skulks over to his servant, who doesn’t even move when Arthur lies down next to the fire. The flames cast odd, distorted shadows over Merlin’s skin, and he seems so distant, like he’s gone so far inside of himself that Arthur could never hope to reach him.
Goading Merlin has always been a good way to get a reaction, so Arthur purses his lips and says, “Merlin, check the horses are fed and watered.”
Arthur knows that putting him to work is one of the best ways to get a rise out of Merlin. He even uses that tone that drives Merlin mad, the one that makes Arthur sound like he’s bored while giving out orders that he expects to be followed without complaint. He’s sure Merlin will call him an entitled clotpole or a dollophead or some other strange insult that he’s managed to string together.
Except he doesn’t.
“Sorry,” Merlin mumbles, and his voice is sort of hoarse and raspy.
Arthur wrinkles his nose. What is he supposed to do with that response?
Nudging Merlin with his boot, Arthur says, “Not the right answer.”
Finally, Merlin looks at him. Blankly, he says, “What?”
“Something on your mind, is there?” Arthur quips, but the sarcasm is belied by the way he waits for Merlin’s reply.
It pays off when Merlin clears his throat.
Haltingly, Merlin says, “It's just...when we entered the camp...it was a trap, wasn't it? They knew we were coming.”
Arthur can tell there’s something he isn’t saying, so he presses, “Yeah. So?”
Merlin bites his lip, “How did they know?”
A pregnant pause hovers between them.
Arthur doesn’t know the renegades knew it, but he’s not the sorcerer, is he? Frankly, he doesn’t know what Merlin is trying to say, but the pensive look on his face is troubling.
“Well, they're sorcerers aren't they?” Arthur shrugs. A bit meaningfully, he leans in and says, “Probably used magic or something.”
Because why is Merlin even asking him? Arthur’s clearly never practiced magic, so how would he know what sorcerers are capable of?
If it were anyone else, he would think that they were trying to throw him off their scent, but he knows that’s not what Merlin is doing. Merlin’s not clever enough for that kind of subterfuge, obviously.
Speaking of magic, though, someone needs to keep an eye on the crystal, and Arthur doubts any wandering thieves or escaped renegades would expect it to be with Merlin, the most unthreatening thing on two legs in the entire kingdom.
Furthermore, Arthur reasons, if it’s a magical artifact, it should probably stay with someone who possesses some iota of magic, even if Merlin’s skill is negligible at best.
Arthur removes the pouch from his person. When Arthur had taken it back from Alvarr, he expected it to be heavy, like a stone, but it was deceptively light. Turning it over in his hands, he considers it briefly and says, “Now then. I need you to guard this with your life.”
He holds it out to Merlin, who doesn’t take it.
In fact, Merlin looks at the bag like it might bite him.
“Why me?”
“Because you’re a sorcerer!” Arthur wants to yell, but of course he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “I can hardly very well guard it when I'm asleep, can I?”
Merlin is particularly slow today, so he says, “Neither can I.”
Arthur shakes his head and tosses Merlin the crystal, “Who said anything about you sleeping?”
Merlin catches it, but drops it immediately, like he’s been burned. Arthur would blame it on his servant’s clumsiness, but the expression on Merlin’s face says it’s something more.
Arthur heaves a heavy sigh and shuts his eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to unravel another Merlin-related mystery tonight, so instead he makes himself comfortable on the ground and tries to sleep.
But it’s never easy to sleep deeply in the woods, so Arthur wakes often and assesses his immediate surroundings by force of habit.
And every time Arthur stirs in the night, Merlin is still awake, stooped over, even long after he’s let the fire go out.
Merlin looks bloody terrible the next morning.
Somehow he is even paler than his usual shade of snow, and the skin beneath his eyes is smudged and dark. There’s a pained crease between his brows.
“You didn’t have to keep watch all night,” Arthur says, feeling just a bit guilty. Merlin doesn’t respond, so Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes him gently. “Merlin? All right?”
Slowly, Merlin drags his gaze up to Arthur’s. He sucks in his bottom lip and then releases it, which is very distracting, and says, “Just a headache.”
Arthur winces in sympathy, but claps Merlin’s arm and retorts blithely, “You’re a headache. Go fetch us some breakfast.”
Merlin complies without a single complaint or witless comment, which is awful, and comes back with two plates, but he only picks at his own food before offering it to Arthur.
“You’re serious?” Arthur asks. “Merlin, I know children who weigh more than you do.”
“We can’t all be quite so overfed,” Merlin counters, but there’s no heat in it. It feels more like an automatic response.
When they set off for Camelot, Merlin slumps a little in the saddle, and Arthur rides just close enough to catch him in case he were to fall off all together.
When Alvarr escapes, Merlin doesn’t come rushing to Arthur’s side to join the search.
The warning bells echo throughout the castle, and Arthur scours the citadel and lower town without Merlin trailing him. Since there’s no one to knock over a barrel or dart around a corner with no consideration for stealth, the search goes fairly quickly. It’s unsatisfying, though: Alvarr has escaped, and as a result Arthur’s mood is poor, especially since there’s no grinning idiot to lighten the tension.
After Arthur reports to his father and informs him that the guards were drugged, he goes straight to Gaius’ chambers.
There are no candles burning, and Gaius is sleeping soundly in the main work space. As much as Arthur wants to storm into Merlin’s little bedroom and make a ruckus, he forces himself to be reasonably quiet so as not to disturb the court physician, who isn’t the target of his ire.
Gently, Arthur nudges open the door and steps carefully over Merlin’s untidy piles of books, clothes, and bric-a-brac. Arthur almost snorts at the mess.
Typical.
He’s not sure what excuse he’s going to make for waking Merlin in the middle of the night, but if Arthur has to be awake at this ungodly hour, then Merlin should be, too. Perhaps he’ll ask him to fetch some wine or stoke his fire or change his sheets.
Startling Merlin seems like the best way to wake him, so Arthur prepares to rip away that thin rag of a blanket, but then he hesitates.
Because he finally gets a good look at his servant in the dark, who is tossing and turning, shivering, mumbling, clearly distressed and far from sleeping restfully.
Arthur’s mouth presses into a thin line as he studies Merlin with a critical eye.
Like he’d said earlier, Merlin hadn’t been himself for a few weeks, and now Arthur can see that it’s taken a physical toll on him. Even in the dark, he can tell that Merlin’s lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose and just generally looks unwell, like he’s run himself ragged.
Concern colors Arthur’s expression.
If Merlin keeps carrying on in this manner, he’s going to make himself sick, which just won’t do.
Who will wash Arthur’s socks then? Who will sweep the floor and fill the silences with idle chatter? Who will wake him in the morning with an obnoxious smile and some inane little ditty about sunshine and daisies?
Merlin has a number of smiles for him: cheeky, wry, silly, mocking, mushy, warm.
Arthur tries to remember the last time he’d gotten a genuine smile out of Merlin, but struggles to come up with anything.
Before Arthur can dwell on it too much, Merlin makes an unhappy noise in his sleep and presses his hands over his ears. He draws his knobby knees into his chest and curls into a pathetically small ball on the lumpy little cot.
Digging his nails into his skin, Merlin claws at his ears like they’re causing him pain.
Arthur reaches out before he realizes what he’s doing.
Gently, he takes Merlin’s hands in his own and draws them away from his face. Then he takes the tattered blanket, which had fallen aside because of Merlin’s agitated movements, and pulls it up to tuck beneath his chin and around his bony shoulders.
It’s all unbearably soft, and Arthur flushes a brilliant shade of fuchsia when his mind finally catches up with his actions.
Bloody sorcerer, Arthur thinks. If Merlin weren’t so hopelessly incompetent, Arthur might think he’d been enchanted.
Still, he finds himself loosening his cape, shaking it out, and draping it over his shivering servant for extra warmth. Immediately, Merlin burrows into the rich fabric, burying his nose in the scent, and the red brushes against his cheek and contrasts quite nicely with the paleness of his skin.
Arthur allows himself to run a hand through Merlin’s damp hair.
Merlin sighs and leans into the touch, and Arthur knows that he’s completely fucked.
A servant.
A sorcerer.
A servant who is a sorcerer.
Arthur’s really and truly outdone himself this time.
“You are a lot more trouble than you’re worth,” Arthur tells him. His voice is thick with fond irritation, and he’s hopeless, he knows it.
When he draws away, Merlin makes a faint, sleepy sound of question, and Arthur soothes, “Shhh. You’re all right. Go back to sleep.”
And Merlin, his bumbling servant, his blundering sorcerer, does.