Author's note: Am I overusing the word 'prat'? I'm trying to find more Merlinesque expressions and comebacks and have started to re-watch the first series just to do that, but input is always welcome.

Chapter warnings: Dealing with periods. I don't know whether a warning is really necessary but I'm putting it up anyway. There was a mention in the last chapter of it as well.

()()()

I Am the Embers of Your Fire - You Are the Breaking of My Dawn
Part 3

()()()

He receives an unimpressed glare when he enters the Prince's chambers. However, the castle is a maze. Getting here was difficult; getting here on time was impossible.

"You're late," Arthur states.

"I got lost, sire," Merlin says, adding that bit of sarcasm at the end without being able to hinder himself (not that he really tries to). The prince does not look impressed at that either. "The castle's a lot larger than I anticipated."

Curiously he looks around. The chambers are rather … bare. He wasn't exactly expecting gold shining from every surface, and albeit there are many comforts there and the bed is enormous, covered with pillows and more blankets than have ever been in his modest home in Ealdor, and there's a finely made fireplace, there are few decorations. No paintings; just a handful of red-and-gold hangings on the stone wall alongside a shield and sword also hanging there, but nothing extravagant. A chainmail is laid out on the table. All the furniture is functional rather than decorative.

Next to the table, Arthur's former manservant stands ready to attend. It's that boy the knights and Arthur had thrown knives at just a few days ago, Merlin realizes. The young man's jaw is set, there's something around his eyes: disappointment maybe. Clear dislike and resentment shines through his face when he sees Merlin walk in, and the warlock wonders if he'll have a chance to explain to him that he's not so happy with this arrangement either.

"Well, you are new here; it is to be expected. Do not let it happen again," the Prince admits but is still frowning. Apparently he'll let the excuse pass, this time. "Have you any kind of experience as a servant?"

Merlin shakes his head to that question – and the next, if he knows anything about armour (And how would he be supposed to know anything about that? He's never had any reason, or chance, to) – and the prince's frown keeps deepening. Maybe he'll get sacked right now and not have to worry about having to attend the prat anymore. He both wants and fears it to happen.

Arthur doesn't however, not yet. "We'll go through the basics, then." Merlin knots his hands behind his back, unsure where to keep them. "As my servant, you'll fetch me my meals, help me in my daily routines and attend me during knights' training. Besides cleaning and making sure my clothes are laundered, you'll also oversee my weaponry and armour, making sure they are kept topnotch, and see to my horses. You'll come with me on journeys and hunts if I see it fit, so you'll need to ride. Have you even ridden a horse?"

"Once or twice," Merlin answers honestly. He'd sometimes done it with Will when they were little and were allowed to borrow Will's father's horse. The man had worked in Cenred's service as a soldier and was rising in the ranks … but then he'd died so abruptly in a surprise attack when Merlin was eight and the horse had been sold so they could survive the following winter. "But not much."

"That's a skill that has to be polished, then. If you're ill and unable to work this must be reported to the Chief of Staff as early as possible so arrangements can be made, but don't think you're let off easily. Sickness means no payment, and if you're gone for too long I'll have to sack you. Any questions?"

A myriad is resting on the tip of his tongue. He tests out a couple of them in his head before voicing any; he doesn't want to sound completely ridiculous. But he really has no clue about a lot of things here. "Who's the Chief of Staff?" Merlin decides to ask. "And where do I find them?"

"Morris will show you that and where to find the things you need. Later," the Prince stresses the word and gestures at the other servant, while Merlin is more than ready to leave right now.

"As my manservant, you will also be trusted with keys to my chambers. Keys only I, the King and the Chief Guard also have access to. Do you understand what a responsibility that is?" Arthur leans forward, hands resting on the back of a chair. Merlin is trapped by the serious gaze, as if this is an interrogation: he feels not unlike when he was six years old and caught stealing apples with Will.

"If you are caught sticking your nose in matters you oughtn't, there'll be no softer punishment just because you're my manservant or Gaius' ward. And if you cannot handle your responsibilities properly you will be replaced without further ado. Do you understand?"

Merlin nods. "All clear, sire. Like crystal."

Arthur straightens up. "Good. One more thing. Do you know how to read or write?"

Clearly the prince expects a negative answer, since he's just a peasant, for he looks astonished when Merlin answers the opposite. "Yes, sire. I've been taught some."

For a minute, the prince regards him, silently in thought. "That might prove useful," he says at last and tells Morris to step forward. Arthur dismisses them both with the wave of a hand: "You may leave now. Return in three candle-marks; I have a council meeting to attend to. Don't be late."

There's a shadow over the other servant's face as he crosses the threshold for a final time and Merlin follows him warily. If there's any way to make Morris les angry with him, Merlin would take it. He doesn't want to start gaining enemies already.

()()()

"So how was your first day as Arthur's manservant?"

Collapsing onto the bench Merlin picks up a spoon and nearly inhales the porridge which is all the evening meal consists of. "How can anyone produce that many dirty socks in one day? And then the amount of floors he wants to have scrubbed, and mucking out the stables, not to mention the armour. Gods, how did his last manservant keep up?"

Gaius smiles kindly. "It'll get better after awhile. He's just testing you."

"Testing? Torturing is more like it," Merlin splutters.

"He's not switched manservant since he entered his twelfth winter," the physician informs him and hands him an apple, "It's new to him as well."

The almost starving warlock munches down the apple in nearly a single bite. During the busy day he had had little time to rest or eat; there was simply so much that he had to see and learn, and since the Prince had constantly had

Let the prat suffer some too then! Merlin thinks. It's only fair. "Honestly though, I really can't see why the King thought this as some kind of reward. I'd rather have, I don't know, some silver or ..."

His mentor fails at hiding his bemusement and Merlin scowls even more. "Eat up now, Merlin. You need to go to bed early so you won't wake late."

()()()

Gaius is right; it does get easier after awhile.

The while is long though, and Arthur steadily remains a prat, ordering more work to be done all the time and rarely (if ever) praising his efforts. Nearly a week passes and Merlin slowly tries to fit into the life of a servant of Camelot.

There's so much that he has to learn, and quickly; so many unspoken rules and ways of the castle staff. His days are busy and he has few moments to himself. Whenever possible, to get some privacy and get away from the staring, judging eyes of older servants, he does chores like polishing armour in Gaius' rooms. His mentor is initially not very pleased about that, but thankfully allows it as long as he's not in the way and then he often uses his own antechamber. He just needs those time to breathe and clear his mind, so that he won't go mad with the stress.

Then, there's the matter of the baths. There are some public bath chambers for the servants, simply for convenience, but they offer no privacy and he could never use them, he knows that – he'd give away his secret too easily. Carrying and heating water in his own room takes more time and energy, but it's worth it, and he's relieved no one questions it, especially not Gaius.

The other servants pose another bother – it's not directly a hindrance, but a lot of them are constantly giving him cold looks as he walks down the corridors trying to figure out where each one of them leads. Others plainly ignore him, while the rest murmur like gossip mills behind their hands. Few of them ever help when he asks, so tries to do all on his own, to show both them and Prince Arthur that he's independent and not as incompetent as they think.

Part of him understands, but part of him is so frustrated at them – instead of helping or answering his questions, they turn away, deeming him not worthy to be among them. Some have struggled for years and lives to become a servant at the castle and he … He's just arrived and already been brought to one of the highest and most sought after positions.

His saviour turns out to be Gwen. The girl always is ready to guide him to the right place and give him invaluable advice. Honestly, Merlin doesn't know what he'd have done without her.

"You still haven't met lady Morgana," Gwen bemoans one afternoon when they meet as they're both fetching food for their master and mistress respectively.

"I saw her at the feast," Merlin reminds her, recalling the tall, beautiful and somewhat intimidating woman.

"But it turned out such a disaster, with the witch and everything!"

"And me having to serve His Pratliness," the warlock sighs and Gwen looks at him incredulously.

"It's an honour," she says, wide-eyed. "Surely you know that?"

"Everybody keeps telling me that, but I'm having a hard time seeing what's honourable about washing the Prince's stinking, dirty socks."

"Well," the girl blushes and stammers that awkward way she does sometimes when she's thrown off her guard, "when you put it that way..."

They reach a crossroad and have to part and Merlin is somewhat thankful that their conversation is put to a halt there.

()()()

He's surprised when, instead of presented with a bucketload of chores when returning to the prince's chamber that afternoon, he's told to sit by the large table. A couple of books and an empty scroll lie on the wooden surface, along with a quill and an inkpot.

"So you tell me you can read and write," the Prince says. He sounds … perplexed. Intrigued. "Who taught you?"

"My mother, sire," Merlin remembers to add the title (Arthur is annoyed enough with him as it is). "She always said it was important to know, even if I wasn't meant to be a scholar or scribe."

"Hmm."

Maybe the prince thought Gaius had taught him. It's understandable actually; peasants rarely know the art of reading, but Gaius is the court physician and for him such a skill is vital. Passing it onto his ward would only be natural.

"Write something then."

The servant hesitates to pick up the quill. He's not that apt at writing, and he's no idea what words Arthur wants on that piece of parchment. "Write what?"

"''The importance of propriety is far too often forgotten by tedious servants,'" the Prince proudly dictates.

"I won't write that – sire," Merlin protests feeling insulted but dips the quill in the ink anyway. The object is unfamiliar in his hand, so light and it's tricky to place it properly against the parchment. Nothing like writing in the mud with a stick. The first few letters are a messy jumble and his fingertips quickly get coated in dark ink.

"You really were serious when you said 'some', then," Arthur says and smirks, unwilling to admit it but he's impressed. It might take a moment for the servant to get the hang of it, but the text is readable. The Prince had made sure Morris, his former servant, had been taught to read and write by Geoffrey, the royal librarian and historian, in case situations should arise when the boy needed to know it - but already Merlin is proving to excel him. And the boy is just a peasant with no proper education or anything!

" … 'The importance of propriety is far too often exaggerated by stubborn dollopheads'," he reads off the paper and snorts, his nose wrinkling up as he makes a face. "We have to work on your sense of propriety."

And somehow, Merlin finds himself assigned to having writing lessons with the prince of Camelot. The Prince takes seat next to him, picks up his own quill and shows him how to write properly. Something about him changes then. He's not less stern, but somewhat softer and less a prat, and once he cracks up and chuckles even if the smiles are rare and he still reprimands him in an annoyed tone whenever he finds any fault in Merlin's progress.

But once two candle-marks have passed and it's dark outside, the now filled parchments are collected and the quills put down and much to Merlin's disappointment Arthur adopts his usual façade again.

"Don't forget to be on time tomorrow," he reminds the servant before Merlin is pushed out of the door without further ado.

()()()

"Why are there ink stains on your hands?" an astounded Gaius asks when he comes home that night, both physically and mentally exhausted.

Having the prince hovering on his shoulder for two candle-marks in a row only made it difficult to concentrate and his hand unsteady. The nearness of the Prince, his breath close to his ear, had been so distracting and Merlin just had wanted it over with even if part of him had wanted to stay, especially when Arthur laughed. He'd never before heard the man laugh.

"His Pratliness decided I needed to improve my grammar," he says, slightly disgruntled. "And chose of wording."

"He teaches you himself?"

"Yeah," Merlin nods, missing the incredulous look on his mentor's face, and moves to grab the bread next to the pot but Gaius waves his hands away.

"Wash those first. Without magic," the physician adds, knowing his ward's proneness to using his gift far too freely for the old man to remain calm.

"But getting rid of the ink without it will take ages!"

A bucket is placed in front of him.

"The quicker you start washing, the sooner you may eat."

Defeated, the warlock sighs and gives in.

()()()

Merlin wakes up to a dull, throbbing pain his lower abdomen. Groaning, he turns over and crawls into the blanket, curling into a ball, as if it would subdue the pain.

Damn … it's early. Merlin tries to will away the aching. But it doesn't work: it remains steady and disconcerting like the heat of a midsummer day.

Glancing upwards toward the window, he sees that the sun is barely up yet: the light is crisp and fresh, and the air is slightly chilled falling onto his chin. Groaning he shifts and tries to go back to sleep, but in vain.

Eventually, with a sigh, he eases out of bed, pressing a hand to his stomach. He'd rather just close his eyes and sleep away the next few days. But he can't. He doesn't want Gaius to worry or the prince to get suspicious: if Merlin fails to show up for his duties, he'll probably be fired on the spot. Not that initially he'd complain about that, but …

There's been one attempt to take Arthur's life within Merlin's first week in Camelot. How many more will there be in the following weeks, months, years? (Although thinking that makes him feel odd, he shivers; something in his chest twists both with excitement and fear. He tries to ignore it, not to linger on it at all.) Someone should look after the prat; make sure he won't get himself killed. (A more logical part of his mind reminds him that he's survived without Merlin's help for some twenty years; what would a few more matter?)

But maybe, maybe, a small part of Merlin's heart wants to stay because everything can't be lies and even such a prat can't be arrogant all the way through. What Arthur needs is someone to remind him that he's a man, not just a prince, and that he has flaws but that doesn't make him less worthy. And teach him not to be so pratheaded and arrogant. It'll be tough to get it through the prince's thick skull but Merlin is stubborn, he's set his mind to this. He's determined to succeed, even if it takes time – months, maybe years. (But he tries not to linger on that notion either.)

And there's something else, a hot-and-cold feeling settling in his blood, coiling it and making his heart pump faster and his skin get goose-bumps every time the Prince talks in a certain tone, when he looks over at his manservant a certain way. Like last night, when realizing that he can write, Arthur had looked almost – proud. Not really but almost.

But it probably means nothing. To Arthur, who's oblivious, it's nothing, and it will never be more than nothing. The prat would never consider them friends and they'll never be friends; even if they somehow manage it, there'll always be a sharp line of master and servant between them, hindering them and why would Arthur even desire to form friendship with a commoner like him anyway?

Plus, Arthur is a cabbage head.

Slowly, he stands and begins rifling through his belongings for some straps of cloth. He always makes sure to have some in store for when the time of the month comes, and he wraps one around his thigh and hip to catch the blood. Then he quickly changes the bed sheets, piling the stained one beneath some dirty clothes; he'll wash that later today with the rest, then Gaius won't notice.

He doesn't know how to use his magic to get rid of pains or stop the blood completely, and wishes more than ever he could now. Having to serve Arthur today and walk around like nothing is wrong, scrub floors and polish armour and bow to courtiers, when he'd rather just crawl into a ball for the rest of the week, hide beneath thick blankets and be left alone – it'll be utter hell.

Merlin is hit by longing for his mother's herbal tea and her soothing voice, stroking his forehead. It feels all so far away and out of reach. When will he see her again and have her comforting presence push his worries away? Will she ever deem it safe enough for him to return?

Gaius is still asleep, so after putting on his boots, jacket and a neckerchief, Merlin sneaks out of the room grabbing a piece of bread on the way. The bread doesn't taste so good, dry at the edges, but he's hungry and not very picky at the moment (he's already learned that Gaius' culinary skills do not excel his mother's, unfortunately). It's early but the castle is already awake: mostly guards and the occasional servant on an early errand. The lords and ladies will sleep for a few more hours.

His feet steers him toward the kitchens. They're bustling with life and smoke and voices: the cook and a handful of maids are in full swing with preparing breakfast, chopping meat and vegetables and boiling water. The earthy, musty smell of food and smoke is somewhat soothing, and Merlin lingers in the doorway (trying to make himself as small as possible, lest the other servants may get angry at him for being in the way. That's something he's learned quickly here: stay out of the way and you'll get along better with everyone), ignoring the cook's curious looks while waiting for Arthur's tray to be prepared.

It takes barely half a candle-mark and when the tray is placed in his hands it's still early. Should he wake Arthur now, or wait? Maybe he should sneak in and place the breakfast on Arthur's table, and wait some more before waking the prince? Either way the food will probably get cold unless he uses some subtle magic but then, it wouldn't be the first time he'd done that (heating food and water is, anyway, the only kind of magic Gaius actually allows him to do).

Most mornings, Arthur is already risen when Merlin gets to his chambers, and greets him with: "Late again, Merlin!" – grumbling the name exasperatedly, but still mentioning it and drawling it like it's somewhat important; Merlin has only been in Camelot a short while, but most servants doesn't seem to get called by name at all by their masters or mistresses. Then Arthur would go on with: "Once more and I should have you replaced for your incompetency."

Despite the threats, he's not been fired, yet. Merlin still feels on edge whenever Arthur says anything about him being kicked out, left bare-handed: the change of becoming a servant was swift and abrupt, but now Merlin isn't sure what he'd do if he lost his job. It's a kind of anchor, making a place for him in the city. Without that, what would he do?

Merlin hesitates for a moment before making his way to the prince's chambers. Waking Arthur or not, he can't just stand in the corridor with the royal food. It looks very tempting … He wonders if Arthur would notice if a tiny slice of that delicious-looking pie disappeared? There's enough to feed three fully grown men anyway …

Arriving at the prince's chambers slightly less hungry, he sneaks inside as quietly as possible. The prince is asleep, snoring into the pillows, the white and red covers pooling around his waist. In sleep, Arthur looks younger, so much less tense and somewhat vulnerable, and the arrogant shell he wears during the day has melted like snow in spring. The sunlight falls nicely onto the planes and dimples of his chest and stomach, strong and firm, the muscled body that of a well-trained warrior; the sun-kissed hair looks soft and well-kept even at disarray.

Not that Merlin observes this in particular, or anything. Quickly the servant busies himself by quietly picking out the prince's clothes for the day, his palms suddenly sweaty, pulse sped up.

This, he can already tell, will not be a good day.

()()()

No, it's not a good day.

After breakfast Merlin helped Arthur into his armour – it was difficult, his hands disobeying him all of a sudden and the man was all too close and why was he so sensitive about every slightest movement, sound, breath? It didn't help either with the prat's annoyed grumbling and glaring at him with that fixed gaze, making Merlin feel like a helpless deer trapped by two dozen hunters armed with crossbows.

It took ages to get it right and Arthur kept staring impatiently, stomping his foot once, jibing in usual pratliness about his servant's incompetence and Merlin had to . Then, he gave Merlin the order to put on the Prince's old armour (the one he hasn't used since he was sixteen and the chainmail sleeves are slightly too short for Merlin's long limbs, but otherwise it's too large on his thin frame) a helmet and grab a sword and meet the prince in the training field in half a candle-mark. Wearing it makes him feel like an utter idiot and he wonders what the other servants and the guards think when he passes them by. He catches one or two pitiful looks sent his way. Wonder if Morris had to do this, he thinks. Well, he'd not be surprised, considering the Prince's attitude – this might probably be just another way of his to torment his servants.

So here he is now, with a too-big piece of metal hanging heavily on his body, a sword weighing down his hand uncomfortably, his stomach aching and Arthur standing in front of him in battle poise, smirking.

"Well go on, Merlin. We haven't got all year."

"Why are you making me do this – why not one your knights or a castle guard; someone who actually has been trained handle a sword?" Merlin asks, incredulous.

The prince's face is hard to read, something between mischievous and secretive. Merlin really wonders what's going through the prat's head. "You're my servant and I'm the prince, so I can't see what say you have in the matter, really. Now. Raise your sword!"

Reluctantly, Merlin raises the weapon trying to copy the prince's stance, but he can't find his balance and feels all wobbly and left-footed. When the first strike comes – the prince claims he'll be careful and that he won't cut of the servant's head first thing but Merlin has his doubts – Merlin fumbles to parry the blow, and the next, and the next.

"This is stupid," he mutters. "Idiotic. You are nothing but a dollophead."

Arthur doesn't seem to hear him. (Which might just be fortunate, when the man is armed.)

()()()

Actually he doesn't lose any limbs, which is a pleasant surprise, but his head feels like it's been inside a giant bell afterwards; the prat took far too much pleasure in hitting the manservant's helmet repeatedly with the flat side of the blade. The duel is slow and surely pathetic and all, but Merlin's body feels heavy and tired, and when it's finally over he sinks to the ground thankful for some rest. He takes off the helmet, running a hand through his now sweaty hair. Ugh. Definitely a bad day. He drops the sword as far off as possible (but close enough to be able to pick it up again if, god forbid, the prince decides to start another match).

Thankfully, Arthur doesn't. He takes seat next to the servant; his expression and tone is slightly odd when he speaks, almost surprised. "I thought a country lad like you would have more muscle, from toiling with the earth, but you are just bones and sinew. I'm astounded you didn't back down at once. Most servants do that."

"You expected me to give up?" Merlin splutters. If it wouldn't cost him his head, Merlin would've very much enjoyed turning the prat into a frog or a donkey right now.

"Not really," the Prince says, glancing at him. "You've shown some great stubbornness and courage, and a great deal of stupidity as well."

"I am not stupid, while you will forever remain a prat, sire."

Arthur grins at him, nudging his arm with a gloved fist. "That's questionable."

"Well, it's questionable whether you will ever stop being such a dollophead," Merlin retorts, and is given a (rather hard) shove in the arm.

Obviously that's one insult too many for the hour, because the Prince tenses up and then stands, face more serious. Merlin braces himself for the inevitable. "Gather our weapons and take them to the armory along with that chainmail," Arthur orders, a tinge of annoyance to his tone, "and fetch a bath to my chambers."

()()()

As he drags himself to bed that evening Merlin is thoroughly worn out.

Between chores from Arthur, dealing with hiding his period and having to run small errands for Gaius whenever the old man sees him (the old man has an annoying tendency to do that, always snatching him no matter how busy Merlin is with work for the Prince), he's had little time for himself. The stomach cramps are worse than they've been for months.

He finds no rest, shifting uneasily and glancing up at the window, watching the dark sky sway outside the glass. Being tired but unable to sleep is pure agony, and against his will, his thoughts wander and he thinks about his new home and misses his mother with tears prickling behind his eyelids; and he thinks about Arthur, oh the giant prat, how much he loathes the cabbage head and – and how nice Arthur is sometimes as the shield around him cracks, and that the man has a nice smile, at least the kind, soft one (but it's incredibly rare) when he's about to laugh. If only he could be less arrogant and ignorant sometimes and …

()()()

Just an hour or so before the breaking of dawn, his eyes slides shut on their own accord. He's curled up in a fatal position with a faint frown on his brow.

He dreams.

It starts out part parody, part nightmare, and he tries clawing at the walls to get out but he can't. The dragon is staring at him with golden eyes. "MERLIN. MERLIN." its voice echoes, "IT IS YOUR DESTINY." from the cave which morphs into the royal great hall, the tall ceiling covered with torches and candles and coins, and the King who beheads magical beings is standing in front of him huge and regal and intimidating.

"Young warlock, you must be rewarded. You shall be my son's manservant!" he announces and the people cheer and clap hands, while the Prince, the prat, mutters and curses Merlin's stupidity and clumsiness and inconvenient magic.

Merlin turns and flees toward the doors.

But the doors are moving further and further away from him, the earth quaking and all the people in the hall are smirking at him mockingly, and piles of rusting armour and dirty socks and a hundred pratheaded Princes laughing at him all at once are building all around him, like mountains, trapping him. Panic flares up in his chest. "Let me out! Let me out!" he cries, pushing at the nearest copy of the prince who pushes him back into the chaos.

"YOU CANNOT ESCAPE YOUR DESTINY!" booms the dragon's voice over the Prince's lips, filled with fire.

But Merlin doesn't want to. Doesn't want to! Arthur's a prat, an arrogant selfish prick and why on earth should he care about him, why should he –? He wants freedom over his life, make his own choices! Everything unwanted happens to him, magic and being a freak of nature and stupid destinies thrown in his way. He wants, he needs to flee. Run. Get away. His knuckles are white, palms sweaty, his vision blurry and he's dizzy, can't find his footing, can't find anything to hold onto.

"Stop it!" he screams at the dark, "Stop it! Get away from me!"

The talons around him suddenly loosen, as if startled, and Merlin swirls around and leaps out of the nearest window. Nothing but air beneath his feet and hands as he flails wildly to grasp it, anything, anything for support, to hold onto, for safety – for anything – he just doesn't want to fall. Fall like this, freely and slam into the ground. His heart is beating wildly. His eyes tightly shut as the ground rushes towards him –

"Merlin," the dragon's voice mutters, almost admonishingly like to a naughty child, and twists into something soft: like his mother's voice which is completely bizarre to the large green body and yellow eyes, sharp teeth. "Merlin," it sighs and shakes its head – then the voice changes again, grumpier and more confusing than ever before: "Merlin, the sun is already up."

That voice has never belonged to that face before: he didn't think Gaius was green, had wings or horns or anything like that. The voice's owner shakes his shoulder, impatient, not letting go.

"Time to wake up, boy. I'm going to the market to buy some turnips."

()()()

Gaius is shaking his shoulder, violently snatching him from void dreamscapes and hurling him back into his body, where he's uncomfortable, confined, hurting and awfully tired, a dull headache beneath his temple. Merlin makes a distressed noise as he wakes.

"Oi, wake up."

Merlin tries to bat him away to no avail and buries his face in the pillow, turning away from the shadow hovering above him.

"Have you perhaps forgotten you're the Prince's manservant and thus must wake before him?"

… Prince's manservant. Wake before him. The words register like a bell from afar and the warlock peers upward, eyes opened in a crack: sunlight blinds him and he groans in pain.

Right now, Gaius is surely giving him the Dangerous Eyebrow Look (which Merlin has already gotten to know and named in his mind; it's silly he supposes, but the old man does look strangely dangerous when that eyebrow is raised, his gaze stern.) If it's one thing he's learned during his first week in Camelot, it's that Gaius is easily grumpy. Not only in the mornings. And a grumpy Gaius might very well mean more work, cold food and a quite dangerous Gaius.

"Merlin. I'm not telling you again."

"All right, all right!"

Please just go away, Merlin adds mentally. He doesn't like to be scrutinized during his time of the month: it makes him uncomfortable, feel out of his shell, afraid that anyone will see beyond the paper walls he's built around himself.

His jacket lands on his face, blocking out the morning sun and soothing his eyes a bit.

"And clean up this mess! This room looks as if it's been hit by a hurricane."

It's useless to protest, because he knows Gaius won't accept an apology like 'Sometimes I lose control of my magic when I dream.'

()()()

"…And then my armour needs to be tended to before the tournament begins."

"Is that all, sire?" Merlin asks, unable to keep the strained tone at bay.

The Prince sends him an annoyed look. "You seriously have no sense of propriety. You're lucky I'm willing to overlook it as long as you continue tend to your duties with quality – albeit what level of quality that is, is debatable - and not sack you at once."

The warlock bites his tongue to keep the sharp comeback resting on the tip of his tongue in check. Arthur is already worked up about the upcoming tournament, constantly claiming he's absolutely not nervous but three days ago there wasn't any agitation to his step or any faint worried line across his temple.

Merlin doesn't want to get cross with him, really. Just – just remind him that he's human, that's all, not completely perfect because no one is. Lately he's been even more of a prat – even if it seems impossible to believe – and begun throwing goblets. That in addition to the discomfort of the bleeding and Merlin feeling so torn between wanting to stay and check on the prat, almost concerned about him, and wanting to run, run far away and never look back and never return – it makes him stressed too, on edge just like the Prince and as of late all he's been able to say are either annoyed short replies consistent of "yes sire" and "no sire" and sarcastic remarks, and combinations of both. He can't offer the prince any comfort, ease his apprehension. Part of him is kind of glad, actually. Let the prat suffer some too! The man is otherwise so pampered and served everything on a silver platter.

Merlin nods sharply and gathers the braces thrown carelessly about the room. For a man so attachedto his armour, the prince is strangely unconcerned about his treatment of it, at least outside the training field.

"The fireplace needs sweeping. And don't forget to bring me lunch once I'm back from council meeting."

At least he doesn't demand another sparring round.

()()()