Because I think drunk Merlin is hilariously cute

He was going to kill Arthur Pendragon.

How odd. Something twitched slowly in the back of his befuddled consciousness. He snatched at it, and for many moments it eluded his grasp. Like he was trying to snatch at fog. Yes. Everything was foggy, the whole room, the whole castle. Or was that just his imagination? Foggy fog, foggy castle, foggy brain. Merlin resisted the urge to giggle. Now what was it? Something about destiny. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and a dragon flitted across his thoughts, black wings stark against the moonlight of his mind. He snatched again. Saving Arthur. That was right. He was supposed to save Arthur. But he was going to kill him instead. Or kiss him. Something like that.

What has he done to me?

Reds and golds swam through his head, wavering and distorted, like fish viewed underwater. Lilting music and melodious laughter joined the chorus of not-unpleasant buzzing in his skull, and he smiled giddily. Then there was Arthur's shining, golden head, floating, as if disembodied, in front of Merlin, looking down on him where he sat, slumped in a rickety chair. The prince did not need a crown to make him shine. No, the gentle halo of the torches was more than enough for that. Merlin had a strange and impulsive desire to reach out and touch his royal hair. He though it must be very soft, softer than lambs-wool, even. It would run like silk, or water, through his fingers. Arthur was grinning, teeth shining in perfect unison with the rest of his face. He always looked so perfect. If ever there was an angel's likeness, it would be the young Pendragon. Yet something annoyed Merlin about that grin. The prat-face. Yes, that's what Merlin had called it. He had his prat-face on. He was up to something.

Then he very happily forgot, as Arthur's warm hand was gently pressed against his, callouses dusting the back of Merlin's hand. Separating their palms was something hard and round and cold. He looked down, as the sparkling golden goblet caught his attention. He swirled it slowly, watching the radiant, ruby liquid splash around inside it, cocking his head to one side in curiosity. Absently, as had become his habit over the last few hours, he tilted his head back and poured the merry, wicked, gem-like wine down his throat in one swallow. Its manic, cackling melody joined the cacophony in his head and stomach. A vacant, crooked smile wormed its way across his features. He looked back up at Arthur, and opened his mouth to speak. How strange. Something was wrong with his mouth….. wouldn't….work properly. His tongue felt like it had been cut out of a cow and somehow sewn into the back of his throat. Idly, he wondered if the prince had poisoned him.

"I love… I'm….kill you…." He managed, his head rocking gently from side to side, in time to the pounding, rolling beat that was beginning to dominate his existence.

Arthur's roar of laughter drowned out the music for a split second. And then he was gone.

Sagging further down into his rough wooden chair, Merlin floated on the gold and crimson sea for what seemed like an eternity. This had to be the most beautiful feast he had ever seen. The crimson hangings were like an array of exquisite orchids. The army of plates like a forest of jewelled beetles. The food and guests an assortment of strange animals from across the sea. It assaulted his eyes with dizzy delights that plastered a senseless smile across his face. He could have been swept along by that haze, forever. Oh, had that hideous worry not emerged odiously from the gloom.

Where was Gaius? Why was he not here with Merlin, at his side, right now? Had he been taken prisoner? Or kidnapped? Or killed? Momentarily consumed by the thought, he launched himself out of the chair, only to find that his legs appeared to have gone the same way as his tongue. He stumbled, and sagged against a table, blinking at his own reflection in the face of a dinner-knife. He watched himself for a moment, noting the strangely flushed tone of his skin, and the lost, bewildered expression writing itself across his face. Were his ears really that big? Mentally shaking himself (with difficulty), he lurched away from the table and towards the door of the hall.

His feet seemed to carry him through the castle, along a none-too straight path of their own reckoning. And well, his brain was in no fit state to argue, was it? He had lost all sense of direction as soon as he had lost sight of the dining room. But strangely, it didn't seem to matter. His feet knew what they were doing. He hoped.

He didn't know how long he had wandered before he finally sagged against a stone wall, panting. Time had walked out of his mind, along with direction. A torch flickered dully in its bracket opposite him as he gazed at it, mesmerised. Then, without warning, it seemed to take on the shape of a writhing orange fish, flailing out of water. The shadows it cast on the walls danced to the same sinuous tune. His stomach churned. It felt as if it were full of the flaming, orange fish, dancing to that same bizarre, aquatic melody. He coughed, moaning softly. Then the nausea hit him like an ocean wave.

He leaned over gazing at the stone-flagged floor, and then rid his stomach of the rotten fish and the horrid, gaudy music that had festered there. He vomited until it was all, gloriously gone, to be replaced by dry retches and blissful stillness. But the minstrels in his head raged on. Wiping his lips on his sleeve, he straightened and leaned his head against the wall. His eyelids drooped like lead as the gushing, intoxicating tides continued to wash over him. He had long since given up trying to fight them.

"Merlin?" The sound floated, slowly, thickly towards him under the water. That word meant something. Oh, yes, his name. Or one of them. He dragged his eyelids open and looked to the right, where he thought to find the speaker. There was no-one there.

"Merlin?" The sound was on his left. Ah. Wrong direction, idiot

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen was approaching him down the corridor. A crimson dress streamed behind her, drawn tight around the waist. Raven hair rippled to her waist, held back by a simple, jewelled chain that flickered in the torchlight. If her clothes did not speak of nobility, then her straight back and raised chin certainly did. Dark brows framed her glistening, orb-like eyes, flung wide open with concern. The fog parted, just for a second. He knew her.

"M'gana" he spluttered, trying to right himself, but only managing to stumble.

"Merlin, are you alright?" She drew level with him, and quickly grabbed his arm to steady his fall. He leaned back against the wall.

"Nev…better!" It took a moment for him to get his lips to twitch into a smile. They just did not want to co-operate. She dropped her eyes to the mess at his feet and then looked pointedly back into his face. He glared at her, trying to stand once more, only to fall flush against her.

"I see," she said calmly, pushing him off her, but holding both his elbows so that he could regain some semblance of balance. "But I think I should probably take you back to Gaius. You are going to need his help in the morning."

"Morning…" he began, tilting his head as he grappled with the convoluted forest of his thoughts. She looked up at him, waiting. He could see the dancing fish-flame reflected in her eyes, spun with flecks of green and grey. If he wanted to, he could count each long lash that framed the infinite depth of her gaze.

Then, out of the leaping and swirling mist, something in him, almost primitively, realised exactly how close Morgana was standing. The mud that filled his head seemed to settle, and his thoughts suddenly ran hot and lucid, like a mountain stream set to boil. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised one hand to run his fingertips down her ivory cheekbone and across her soft, red lips. Her skin felt like silk. She searched his face, a confused frown starting to dawn across her beautiful features. It did not dissuade him, because nothing in his hazy world was clear except her. Nothing mattered except those round lips, and how nice it would feel to press his own against them. His vision started to blur as he brought his face down to meet hers. But he didn't care. By now he was used to things being blurry. Blurry was fine. Blurry was soft, like the feel of her hair as he ran his hands down her gently arching back, softer than he had ever imagined Arthur's could be. Blurry was warm, like the tiny puffs of breath that wafted against his face, swirling with the delicious, exotic scent of her. Blurry was round, like the feel of her delicate, feminine body, pressed so tightly against his, her every curve sparking an explosion in his mind. Blurry was sweet, like the scent of her floating, mystical perfume. And blurry was dark, like the blackness that closed off his senses.

Pain.

He was in some unknown, inhospitable dungeon. The hard, roughened slab beneath him was testament to that. He moaned. And someone was torturing him, to boot. Drilling a hole through his skull, apparently, and filling it with a nest of angry hornets. What could they possibly want? He wracked his aching brain for an explanation, and came up with none. He didn't have any information for them.

"Don't know anything," he groaned.

"Evidently."

That was not the voice of a torturer. Merlin cracked open his eyes, and instantly regretted it. The light stabbed at his eyeballs like daggers, multiplying the pain in his head, and he instantly closed them again. But it was enough to ascertain that he was not, in fact, in a dungeon, but his own bed. And that his apparent 'torturer', was Gaius.

The physician sighed. "Merlin," he said sternly, "you are to take this, for your headache." There was a small clunk as he placed the vial on the bedhead. To Merlin, the sound was like a cannon blast, and he flinched. "And next time you go to a banquet, do try not to drink the entire cellar."

As the explosion of noise made by the softly closing door finally began to drain from his wounded ears, Merlin reached blindly for the potion. Downing it, he grimaced at the taste, and then lay back against his pillow, waiting for the medicine to take effect. The relief could not come soon enough.

Idly, he tried to sift through his scrambled memories. Fog and wine and dancing fish flickered through his mind, and he moaned as the sickening thoughts redoubled the pounding in his head. Then there was Morgana's face. So close to his. Far too close to his. The smell of her… the taste…

No no no no no. That could NOT have happened. No way. Shocked at the memory of his own thoughts, Merlin covered his face with his hands, dreading the possibility. He would never have kissed Morgana, even if he was drunk. She was his friend. No, it must just be his imagination, or a dream. Yes, imagination and drink combined gave an odd assortment of false memories- the fish were proof of that. He ran his hands down his face, at first satisfied with his own explanation. But the doubts still danced at the back of his mind. He seemed to remember forgetting his name at one point.

Greater and more terrible possibilities launched themselves at him, striking him with momentary despair. What if he had used magic in front of someone? He simply could not remember, and it scared him nearly to death. Could he have? Was he to be executed as soon as he left the room? Can't have, he soothed, as the rational part of him finally began to emerge. Perhaps the wine had dulled his ability to sense his power, he reasoned, if he had revealed himself Uther would certainly have him clapped in irons immediately, regardless of his sobriety. But still the worries gnawed.

At the thought of the king, Arthur's face loomed out of the blackness… golden… perfect…laughing… prat-face…

… and pressing goblet after goblet after goblet of ruby-red wine into his hand.

Merlin's eyes snapped open.

He was going to kill Arthur Pendragon.