Things Merlin Isn't Allowed To Do (According to Prince Arthur)
25: Leave Camelot On Long-Term Journeys (Without Arthur)

"I just received a letter from my mother," Merlin says as he sets out breakfast for the prince, including that fruit juice he knows Arthur craves on mornings after long harsh training with the knights. "She's feeling a bit under the weather, and I haven't seen her in awhile. So I wondered if I can go visit her. Just for a week or so. I miss her terribly."

"Of course," Arthur says with a smile. He can't refuse Merlin a request like that even if he prefers having the warlock nearby: a mother is important, and he's met Merlin's. Hunith is a remarkable woman, strong, independent, sharing support and love without question or doubt. When helping Ealdor to get rid of the bandits last year she'd treated Arthur almost like a second son, or at least a nephew, ignoring his status - treating him like a man, not a prince.

She's much like her son, actually, with that I-don't-care-if-you're-royal attitude, but without calling him a prat. Not having grown up with a mother of his own, it had felt strange at first to be treated like that, but in the end Arthur had realized it was okay and maybe even wonderful. Arthur quite likes her (plus she's pretty much his mother-in-law … Or at least will be very, very soon, he's going to make sure of that!) and is genuinely interested in her wellbeing. So hearing she's ill rattles him a bit.

"Of course," he repeats. "Stay as long as you need. Make sure she recovers. And, umm. Err, never mind." He halts, awkwardness suddenly coming over him. It's not like he's admitted to anybody that he cares about his manservant's mother.

"I'll say hello from you," Merlin says with a grin, adding a teasing, "Since you're too much of a prat to do it yourself, sire."

The prince nods, thankful for the servant's ability to perceive him when Arthur can't form words. Thinking about it, it's almost eerie how well Merlin actually knows him. "Yeah, sure, whatever. Don't forget to polish my armour before you go. Or pack well enough provisions. Take it from the royal kitchens; tell them it's on me. God knows what Hunith will think if she sees how thin you are."

Later, he admits that he might've spent that afternoon staring out of his window after Merlin's back as he rides out of Camelot and beyond, and continuing to stand there, thinking, The idiot won't be gone that long; I can do fine without him. It'll be fine, it's only for a week. It's not like it's for a month or a year or anything. Only for a week ...

()()()

Considerably less than one week later...

What is it with that manservant that makes him so insufferable?

"Where are my boots? And my red jacket?" Arthur demands holding out a hand, and he wants to receive a responds like "You never learn to keep track of your own stuff, do you, prat" - but there's only a monotone "Here, sire."

Which is probably one third of the man's whole vocabulary. What's his name again? ... Something like ... George. Yeah. A rock is more lively and interesting than that man's personality.

Arthur grunts something dangerously like 'idiot' under his breath, and even if the servant hears, he's not berated, called a prat or arrogant or stupid or ANYTHING.

It's completely maddening.

The servant is usually quiet and totally obedient. But when George starts talking, he starts talking about boring things in a monotone voice (usually about stuff like brass or rocks or the state of the room, but not in a berating manner, no, never, because he's a perfect servant and would never talk lowly about his master or his master's room) and always says 'sire', and never says or does anything that might anger anyone. Well, anyone who isn't Arthur.

At least when Merlin talks it's happily, jovially and about half-interesting things, and he asks of Arthur's honest opinion and tells Arthur in earnest that, Yes, the visiting lord is a pompous ass and No, you don't have to get what you want all the time, you're not worth that even if you're a prince - strangely wise things like that, which Arthur needs to hear. It's reassuring, comforting, helpful in a time of stress or fear or uncertainty. And much of Merlin's babble also is quite adorable, even when it's about forest and squirrels and unicorns.

When George finally finds that damn jacket Arthur's already pulled on his spare one (which hasn't had its buttons polished yet) and with an angry sigh, the prince hefts his sword. The servant remains blank as he's given the duty to muck out the stables, like it's not in fact the worst, more tiresome duty a servant can get (and it's the third time in two days). Arthur marches out of the room, heading for the training fields. He needs to whack some dummies or newbie knights, get rid of all this frustration.

It's going to be a hell of a long week.

()()()

The days are so long, and the week never seems to end.

He's startled about that: he's always liked his village, and seeing his mother is wonderful. He's made sure she will recover, the illness minor. He's missed her so much and is relieved to finally be able to talk about everything that's happened in the last few months: adventures and mishaps and Arthur's prattish, bossing ways and the fear of being discovered as a warlock.

Yes, he enjoys himself immensely, and finds some actual relaxation time, spending time with the villagers sharing stories and jokes and laughter. But there's ... something. Like an itch he cannot quite reach.

It takes nearly five days for him to realize. Something is missing. Merlin feels happy in Ealdor, but not as happy and safe and content as in Camelot - there's something simply lacking. He feels it every morning as he wakes up feeling strangely alone, the room oddly cold, the food tastes plain and though birds are singing there's barely any sound. When looking at the fields around the village he gets suddenly reminded of golden hair and the rush of the wind reminds of a familiar voice, but it's not really there. Everything is just empty and distant and he's got this sudden urge to run back to Camelot, run, run back home.

These feelings confuses and scares him, makes him feel lost. Why is he feeling this way? Ealdor is his home! Is it not? This is the place of his mother, where he grew up, where his earliest precious memories are rooted. Yet ...

He can't stop thinking about it. His mother, of course, notices. "Merlin," she says nudging his shoulder gently. "What's on your mind? Something is clearly bothering you."

"Nothing..." Merlin mumbles, glancing through the window at the blue sky; the same blue sky a certain prince the same moment is watching just as longingly. Blue - it makes him think of eyes with the colour of the deepest ocean gazing at him earnestly, of a not-really-prattish grin and a hand taking his own ... Unknowingly he sighs, resting his chin his hand, unfocused of his surroundings.

"Nothing?"

"Just ... it feels like I'm missing something ... that's all."

He doesn't notice Hunith's knowing smile. "You have been here for a while now. I have recovered. Maybe it's time for you to go home, my son."

At this Merlin startles, twisting his head to look at his mother, eyes widening. "But this is my home!"

"Merlin," Hunith says, "I believe it's possible to have more than one home. And while you always will be welcomed here, your heart no longer truly belongs here. Is it not so?"

A faint blush rises to tinge his cheeks. Is he so obvious? "I...It's not like that, mother," he says feebly, hands falling, he doesn't know what to do with them. It's not like he doesn't care for Ealdor anymore, but there's just something ... he still loves the village and his mother, but he doesn't know how to say that he just doesn't fit in anymore; he doesn't want to hurt her, and his chest tightens, something dangerously close to longing overcoming him.

"It is," the woman says seriously. "Staying here any longer will make you unhappy. You want and you need to go back to Camelot, where you belong. With Prince Arthur. It is your home."

()()()

Uther looks up from his meal at hearing his son's request. "Fire him? Well, then, if he's ineffective ... We'll see to find another servant for you in the meantime."

It's the eighth one in five days. No one looks surprised. Really, for the sake of his household's sanity, the King hopes that mentally diseased Melvin or what's his face comes back to Camelot soon and sorts out this mess. Arthur has failed to properly have his shoes laced again and his behaviour as of late is absolutely not befitting a prince.

Arthur grunts out "Thank you, father" before leaving the room in favour of the training fields, where he can find a dummy or something to hit. Hard and repeatedly.

The guards of the citadel run up and down the city until they find a servant boy whose eyes shine with admiration at the mention of serving Prince Arthur himself. In fact when the boy realizes that he's got the chance, the guards almost have to chase the boy all the way to the castle to lead him to the right corridors and rooms, while trying to make sure the boy doesn't break things and make courtiers stumble in his excitement.

Just a few hours later, said boy flees the prince's chambers crying in despair. He did nothing wrong, he's sure! He'd not meant to spill the wine all-over the prince, or meant to make that vase fall over, it's just - one second it was standing securely in the middle of the table and the next it was balancing dangerously on the edge and he had no time to stop it! And that thing with the wardrobe was just an accident!

()()()

CLANG!

Something hard hits the wood, causing the prince to jump, blinking sluggishly. A silver plate. The smell of food drifts over him, but as of late he's not had much appetite. With a yawn he sinks down again, cheek pressed against the various important documents scattered all-over the surface. Typical. Breakfast. Which also means; a servant. And it's Friday so Merlin isn't back yet. Damn.

"Go. Away," the prince grumbles into the wood, not looking up. He's not in the mood to handle that bloody servant right now, or his stupid jokes about brass. He's sure the servant will start it soon, in a monotone voice: 'Have you heard this joke, sire? It's awesome, sire. It's truly enjoyable and I really want you to hear it, sire.' Yes, in one ... two ...

"Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the table." A hand comes into the corner of his vision, grabbing the bread. "Oh well, if you don't want breakfast I'm more than ready to take it. I'm famished."

Arthur shoots up like an arrow sprung from the string, shouting in surprise. "Merlin!" An expression of extreme relief covers his face. "You're back!" Ignoring the servant's squawk of surprise, he practically leaps over the table and wraps his arms tightly around Merlin, nearly strangling him in the process. "Thank god. Thank god! The week's been hell. That stupid servant didn't know anything and kept calling me sire and tell horrible jokes and, and it's been awful!"

The corners of Merlin's mouth quirks in an amused smile, and he leans into the hug. "I knew you'd miss me."

The prince pulls back like remembering what he's doing. "I - no. I didn't. It's only been a week. Of course. I've been fine, not like I can take care of myself. For a week. Uhm." It's like argument that he doesn't want Merlin to be back, which is the same as lying. So Arthur goes quiet and then, after a moment's realization, lowers his arms.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," Merlin says with a goofy grin. "Oh! I know this story, it's awesome, want hear it? One day a merchant tried to sell a brass detail when-"

Horrified, Arthur clamps his hands tightly over his ears. "SHUT UP! I'm not listening, I'm not listening..."

Merlin's grin widens. "So the rumours are true."

"Rumours?"

"Yup, it's all-over the city. That you got a manservant while I was gone and he nearly drove you insane, so the king let you get another and you made him flee your chambers crying at least twice a day. Because of his sense of humour. And the third one stumbled dropping your best sword nearly on your foot but only because you were yelling at him. So you fired him too. Did you really work through eleven different servants in ... what, six days? You really are an impossible prat. The kitchen girls were talking about it all morning when I came to fetch you breakfast, and they kept patting my back and stuff, well except the head cook who told me to get out of her kitchen as fast as possible but - well, she's always yelling at me, it's no surprise. Anyway - everyone's talking about it. Apparently you're officially the Worst Master of the Week. No wonder I was getting odd looks on my way here: they must be feeling sorry for me for having to serve such a dollophead."

Arthur winces, but just slightly, because that sense of humour was just weird. And the servants had all been far too polite. And half of them also ten times clumsier than Merlin ever had been. Merlin has never spilled drink over him when he was dining with his father, or destroyed a wardrobe, or put on his armour backwards, or accidentally shot one of his knights when handing the prince his crossbow. Thankfully, the latter was just a flesh wound (but it'd been awkward to explain to Gaius why on earth sir Bors ended up with an arrow in his backside).

Merlin's grin fades at the end of the tirade, being replaced with a scowl. "And you call me the worst manservant ever!"

"Yeah but you're also my manservant and not some bootlicker. You're annoying, yes, very much so, and clumsy, and you 'forget' mucking out the stables all the time," Arthur rants, throwing his hands in the air, upset. "But you actually know how I want to be served, unlike those idiots who constantly kneel by my feet and calls me sire, sire, sire. Complete idiots! 'Let me clean your room and put all your stuff in the wrong places, sire,' - 'I've no idea where your armour is, sire,' - 'Can I kiss the ground you walk on, sire?' - It was completely horrendous! Abysmal! They don't know a thing!"

Part of Merlin feels sorry for Arthur and wanted to hug him tight and call him sweet, embarrassing things. Another part of him is clearly enjoying this, because Arthur is rarely acting like this, now pacing back and forth as he rants.

"You've suffered, haven't you?" he says, amused, and starts making the prince's bed. The room is an utter mess: one chair is thrown over, there are small things littered everywhere and there's a suspicious looking dent in the prince's wardrobe. There's also mud in a corner next to two very dirty boots (with holes in them). Merlin stifles a sigh. Scrubbing the floor will be awful. But on the other hand, he's content now, he realizes, standing in Arthur's rooms listening to Arthur's voice and feeling his presence, his scent, little details like that which makes Merlin happy.

Arthur hasn't stilled yet.

"Stupid servants, having cabbage thrown at them didn't seem to help either."

Suddenly Arthur is standing right in front of him, a threatening finger close to Merlin's nose.

"Never, Merlin, never ever become like that. You must swear to me you'll never act like those bootlickers."

The servant almost goes cross-eyed trying to keep track of the prince's hand. "...I'm not planning to be like that." A glare. "Right, I mean - I swear. I swear on your royal cotton socks that I'll never be like that. Happy now?"

"Good. If you ever act like that I'll have you thrown in the dungeons for your insolence."

"Okay," the warlock says good-naturedly and grins. Finally, Arthur's getting back to his old self, and Merlin realizes how much he's missed this. He sidles toward the table, longingly looking at the pie next to the cheese. "So, do you want that breakfast or not?"

For once, the prince doesn't mind sharing.