Thank you to mersan123 for your review! It's comments like yours that I love to write for. I hope you all enjoy the next chapter, and please RR! It means a lot to me.
This next chapter delves into Arthur's thoughts a little more. I apologize for anything out of character, it's my first time writing as Arthur and I'm always looking to improve! At any rate, enjoy, next chapter coming soon.

Sometimes, Arthur could really, really, be a spoiled, arrogant, bratty clotpole.

"No, this won't do," the prince said, throwing down his spoon like a petulant child. "I simply can't stomach it, what even is this?" he demanded.

Merlin tried to ward off his impending headache. "It's chicken stew," he offered in what he hoped was (but really knew wasn't) a peaceful tone. "I made it twice last week and you didn't say anything then – no, my mistake, you actually said it was good, last week."

"And is this the same chicken you used for it last week, Merlin? Meat goes bad, you know, this is disgusting, I simply cannot eat it." Arthur shoved the bowl away and crossed his arms, and Merlin let out a deep, heavy sigh as he went to collect the bowl.

"It's going to take me a while to make something else."

Arthur frowned, and Merlin thought there was more to the expression than just a scowl, which he might've expected. "No, don't bother," he said flippantly. "I couldn't possibly eat anything after that." The prince got up from the table, leaving Merlin to clear up the barely touched food. The servant was frowning deeply and shaking his head, muttering things under his breath like 'arrogant prat' and 'clotpole' and 'never appreciates what's done for him'.

It was after that one that Arthur spoke again. "If you're so insistent that it's a good meal, Merlin, take it for yourself. I don't care, but if you get sick off of it, I don't want to hear it. I expect you for work anyways."

Merlin heaved a sigh, but before passing judgment, tasted the stew himself – not like he hadn't tried it fifteen times while he was making it, Prince Arthur was not an easy person to cook for. Now, just as then, Merlin thought the taste was wonderful. But it was one of his mother's recipes, so maybe he was biased? At any rate, he wasn't going to let it go to waste, there was a whole pot here. He took the lot and left Arthur's room without waiting for his dismissal, tonight. Arthur was going to be a brat about it either way, and now seemed as good an escape as any. He was ready to ignore Arthur's orders to return, but the shouts never came, so he just kept walking.

'That could have gone better,' Arthur thought, frowning to himself. 'Now I've made him mad at me… doesn't he realize how hard it was for me to let him take all of that? Heaven, I'm starved, and that was delicious. But no one ever said doing the right thing was easy – I wish he'd just appreciate it, though! Doesn't he realize I do care that he gets a square meal?'

With a sinking feeling, Arthur realized that Merlin probably didn't. And yelling at him probably hadn't helped that situation.

Arthur knew that he and Merlin couldn't be friends, because Arthur was a prince, and Merlin was just a servant. But as he'd admitted to Merlin once (and had since rarely admitted to himself, again), if he wasn't a prince, well… he thought he and Merlin might have gotten along pretty well. And, recently, he'd begun to see servants in a different light. He supposed he had Guinevere to thank for that, for opening his eyes… but, of course, what he felt for Guinevere was in no way what he felt with Merlin. To Arthur's eyes, Merlin was still very much a clumsy, bumbling idiot that didn't know when to toe the line or when to close his mouth, who fell down way too often and didn't have enough meat on his bones to keep from bruising, who seemed like a strong enough wind could just carry him away, who wore clothes so threadbare it was almost indecent and it made Arthur cringe (well, maybe not, but Merlin could afford something that didn't leave him cold all the time, right?!), who showed up late for work with exhaustion bruised eyes too often and sometimes flinched when Arthur yelled (he felt a little guilty for that, but if Merlin would just get off his lazy rear and do his job then he'd have time to sleep! And eat, too, he really was a twig, the poor- no, no I did not just think that!), who Arthur never worried about (absolutely not!).

The prince closed his eyes and, with a sigh that was much too heavy for as insignificant a worry as he kept telling himself this was, rested back down in his previously vacated chair. He pinched the bridge of his nose and opened his eyes to stare at the door, which Merlin had left open in his wake. The cause of all this worrying had started here, in this room, just a week ago. It had been a stressful week for Arthur, that had almost seen the woman he loved killed for a crime she didn't commit, when out of nowhere a sorcerer appeared to take the blame. Yes, take the blame, Arthur knew, because his feelings for Gwen were certainly not from some enchantment. They were very real. That sorcerer had appeared, taken the blame, and given Gwen her freedom again.

Arthur wasn't the thanking type, but if the old man hadn't disappeared into thin air, he thought he might would. The best he could do, it seemed, to repay this act was to actually listen to what that man, Dragoon, he'd called himself, had said to him.

'Oh, Prince Arthur, I've heard how you… mistreat your servants! They do everything for you, but do they ever get any thanks? Noooo… you're a spoiled, arrogant brat with the brains of a donkey and the face of a toad!'

Most of that speech had drawn a rise out of Arthur, and still did even now. It was certainly not true! He was the prince of Camelot, and no one had the right to speak to him that way!

'Arrogant prat.'

'Clotpole.'

'Never appreciates what's done for him…'

But there was why Arthur kept coming back to it. Because now, he heard those things from Merlin. Merlin, his own servant, who was quite honestly the person who knew Arthur best in the world. If even Merlin agreed with this stranger…

Arthur revisited his mental image of his too-tired, too-thin, and altogether too-loyal servant. If Arthur was these things, why did Merlin even bother?

'Well,' Arthur mused, 'Perhaps he thinks of me as a friend, too.' It was never something either of them said aloud, but the sentiment was there, certainly. They both knew. But what did Merlin see worth sticking around for, if Arthur was the 'spoiled prince' that he found himself constantly accused of being?

He supposed it was something he'd have to figure out.

No – it was something he'd have to disprove.

…maybe Merlin deserved a day off.