Disclaimer: I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to BBC Merlin.
Author's Note: Well, it's been awhile, but with COVID-19 pretty much shutting the world down…suffice it to say, I have some extra time on my hands (and deeply appreciate the distractions). I hope everyone who reads this is staying safe and healthy—and finds solace in escaping, at least for a little while, into the world of Arthur and Merlin. Please enjoy (starting to tie up loose ends here)!
Reviewers: All 251 of you, thank you!
Rating: T/M (for later chapters)
Summary: Winter has come to Camelot, and Destiny blows in with the snow, leaving Merlin with a few vital decisions to make…[Friendshipfic. Bromance.]
"Speech"
Personal Thoughts/Memories (Italics)
.:A Man's Measure:.
By Sentimental Star
VII: The Dragonlord's Son (Part 8)
The next few days saw the Crown Prince drifting in and out of consciousness, his body struggling to adjust to the sudden trauma it had undergone, and the just as sudden healing.
In his friend's rare moments of lucidity, Merlin (or sometimes Gaius and Gwen) battled to keep anything solid in him. They had better success with liquids, but even stews and teas sometimes caused problems, as Arthur alternately suffered through spells of pain, dizziness, and exhaustion.
Arthur did try, more for Gwen and Merlin than anyone else, since Gaius often left that charge up to them. But it caused a great deal of stress on his body. Inevitably, afterwards (and sometimes even halfway through), he fell straight asleep.
Then there was the medicine: white nettle, dandelion root, St. John's Wort, agrimony, even peppermint…all of it went into a medicinal concoction of some kind. Willow bark, too.
Every moment that they could, Merlin and Gaius dosed the Crown Prince with teas or potions made from those plants.
Each time they used a different plant, Gaius interrogated his apprentice on its characteristics, side effects, and uses. Quite apart from his magical tutelage, Gaius was determined to turn his student into a physician of the highest caliber.
Merlin absorbed it, knowing that at some point in the future, he might need it to save someone (probably Arthur).
Eventually, Gaius ran out of questions to ask him, and started in on changing the wound's dressings, creating poultices and salves, and any other practical aspects of healing trauma that he could think of to test Merlin on. He even started questioning Merlin about the uses for magic in these situations (when they were alone).
But, as Gaius pointed out (after roundly scolding Merlin on his recklessness that first night), if Merlin chose to turn his magic to healing, he would need to think about such things.
It was a grueling three days, but despite Gaius's and Gwen's repeated attempts to convince Merlin to leave, even if only for a few hours' rest, the warlock never did.
Whether explicitly or not, Arthur had requested it. Whether explicitly or not, Merlin had promised his friend he would remain.
The late nights were always Merlin's.
Gwen attended to the lesser ladies of the court in the early morning, and Gaius had other patients aside from Arthur that he needed to treat; therefore, neither could afford to lose what little sleep they managed in-between caring for Arthur and their other duties.
Merlin never objected. Indeed, he even guarded those nights somewhat jealously.
It was his time with Arthur and, while his friend slept, it also gave him the opportunity to make some rather vital decisions: he'd outright promised to tell Arthur the truth. Indeed, he'd promised it twice. But should he reveal the whole truth?
He had tried that first night. He had intended to tell Arthur everything—about the Prophecy, about Kilgharrah, and his status as the last Dragonlord. Even about his identity as a warlock.
Arthur's exhaustion, and the fact that he remained gravely ill, however, left his friend unable to comprehend much.
Now, with hindsight and knowledge of how difficult Arthur sometimes still found it to go against his father, Merlin wondered.
As it turned out, almost three nights after Sir Boris's failed assassination attempt, fate took the decision out of Merlin's hands.
IOIOIOIOIOI
(Three Days Later)
Late on the eve before Yule, Sir Bors stole through the halls of Camelot like a shadow, keeping a wary eye out for any errant servants or nobles.
He'd made himself scarce in the hours and days that had followed his older brother's failed coup, not wishing to be dragged off and interrogated in the dungeons as his brother's lackies had been. Twice a late night wanderer almost spotted him, but a convenient corner and hidden alcove provided the cover he needed until they passed him by—he had one last mission to accomplish, and did not wish to be deterred from it by any roaming members of the court.
At the final corner, Sir Bors paused, just out of sight from the Crown Prince's door…and the man stationed beside it.
Of course…Sir Leon would never leave his young monarch unguarded, Sir Bors thought with an inaudible sigh, letting his shoulders droop. Particularly not after a failed assassination attempt.
It presented a dilemma, but not overly so. Sir Leon was a good man.
Squaring his shoulders, Sir Bors tightened the tassels of his dark riding cloak and strode around the corner with a sort of hollow confidence. Beneath the cloak he wore his chain mail (devoid of its Camelot tabard) and carried his sword, still strapped to his hip as it had been for the past three days. When Sir Leon took note of him, he nodded to his superior, "Good eve, Sir," he greeted, dipping into a shallow bow.
When Sir Bors lifted his head, he found himself staring straight at the tip of the older knight's sword.
"Had I no assurance that you had no part to play in your brother's coup," Sir Leon stated, still pointing his blade at Sir Bors's neck, "or your written oath to that effect, your head would no longer be attached to your shoulders."
A sharp inhale, and Bors straightened up, his hand going to the hilt of his sword secreted at his hip.
But Sir Leon straightened up, too, twirling his own blade so that it faced point-down towards the floor and sheathed it with a ring of metal. A faint grin touched his lips, "Of course, with Merlin ensconced in His Highness's bedchambers, I do not have to worry overmuch."
Bors surprised himself with a small snort and relaxed, replacing his own weapon in its scabbard where he had begun to draw it out. "You will get no argument from me, my friend," he murmured, recalling the events of almost three days prior. "A most impressive duel. I am grateful I have not yet found myself on the opposite end of his blades."
Sir Leon chuckled, "An arduous task, I assure you."
Bors returned his superior's chuckle with a tight smirk, "I do not doubt it. Is the prince awake?"
Camelot's head knight lifted an eyebrow, his response delicate, "He hasbeen, yes. Why do you ask?"
A wry smile tugging at his lips, the younger knight held his hands up, palms out, "Peace, my friend. I mean your prince no harm. I wish only to speak with him."
The older knight's eyes narrowed, "My prince? I was led to believe he is yours, as well."
Smiling inscrutably, Bors responded, "In the sense that he is Merlin's prince, yes."
Sir Leon frowned, "How do you mean? I will have you know, if you endanger His Highness or Merlin—"
"My lord," Bors interrupted with a patient smile, "I assure you, I will not harm either the prince or his manservant. I swear it on my honor and promise it on my life."
Leon's lips compressed into a thin line, "May you speak true, Bors, because I swear on my life that I will not let any harm befall either one of them."
IOIOIOIOIOI
Sir Leon granted him safe passage after that, but the older knight's warning rang still in his ears as he entered Prince Arthur's bedchamber.
Slipping inside, Bors paused in the threshold and blinked at the scene before him, slightly nonplussed.
The prince's manservant had appropriated one of his master's upholstered chairs and dragged it over to the young monarch's bed. Both his booted feet had hooked over one of its arms, and he had curled his body in the nook of the other, sitting in a way that suggested long hours spent in the same position.
He had also linked his fingers with Prince Arthur's, and his wince as he adjusted his grip implied that they had remained so for far too long.
Even as Bors studied the manservant (noting, as he did, that the young man still wore his hauberk and jerkin from the feast three days prior), Merlin's free hand scrubbed tiredly over his face.
"If anyone…you should know a warrior with little sleep is no warrior at all," Bors stepped into the circle of firelight the Crown Prince's brazier cast around his bed.
Merlin started, jerking upright and stumbling to his feet. Despite his initial clumsiness, twin steel blades glinted as they leapt into his palms with a brief flare of gold.
For the second time that night, Bors found himself with a blade (two blades, in this case) at his throat.
How he ended fetched up painfully against the bed's mahogany balustrade was quite another matter.
A rueful laugh, "I should follow my own advice," he held both his hands up, revealing their empty palms.
Merlin gaped, swallowed, and whispered, "Sir Bors? I…" the younger man lowered both daggers and staggered back, balancing uneasily on the balls of his feet and blades still in hand.
Bors gave a small smile, "Peace, my friend. I meant not to alarm you."
Merlin swallowed again—hard—but nodded, "As you say, Sir Bors."
Despite being outwardly polite, he had yet to sheath his weapons; Bors took note of those quick eyes observing his every move.
"What brings you here at this time of the night, my lord? I trust that Sir Leon had a reason for allowing you entry."
The knight sighed and rubbed his aching neck, grimacing down at the thin streak of blood on his palm as he pulled it away, before taking a few steps across the floor. A faint smirk adorned his lips, but little mirth touched his eyes, "I ride tonight for Northumbria. I must inform our mother of Boris's fate."
As he neared the bed, Merlin shifted his stance so that his body occupied the space between the prince behind him and Bors in front of him. "I am afraid I do not understand…why inform me?"
A derisive snort answered him as Bors drew close, "You are Prince Arthur's manservant. Naturally, you can pass the information along. That, however, is not my purpose."
…Merlin all but fumbled his daggers when the proud knight abruptly dropped to one knee in front of him and bowed his head, "I seek an audience with Lord Emrys."
IOIOIOIOIOI
Silence pervaded the room as Merlin gaped, swallowed, gaped…and swallowed again, moistening his suddenly dry tongue. "M-My lord?" stammered, as he attempted to squash the panic that leapt into his throat.
Bors glanced up from the hands he had clasped across his knee, a smirk flitting along his lips, "Surely you do not believe I could mistake you for a mere serving boy after you tamed a dragon, my Lord?"
Merlin swallowed once more, his head swimming, "H-How…?"
"You mean…how do I know about Emrys?"
Unable to force his locked throat muscles to work, Merlin nodded.
Bors sighed, "Our mother was raised among the Druids. Although she married our father—and became Lady of Northumbria—she never gave up the Old Ways. She taught them to us, as well as the stories that accompany them. As for how I know about the dragon…" the knight smirked again, "I was not so unconscious as you and your prince seem to believe."
"…M-My prince…?"
Bors shrugged, remaining on one knee, "He was never any prince of mine. My allegiance lies….elsewhere." He gave Merlin a significant look.
Heat lit up the warlock's cheeks. The hands still holding the daggers wavered, their palms sweaty.
Gods, how did Arthur ever get used to this? I-I don't know anything about being someone's lord! I never even wanted to be…!
"…S-Sir Bors…" the knight's name came out as a croak. Merlin coughed, cleared his throat, and tried again, straightening up, "I-If I have your word you will not harm Arthur, y-you have my…leave?...to speak. A-And please stand up. Y-You do not have to…" he gestured helplessly between them…and grimaced, Th-That sounded horrible…
Fortunately, the older man had the good grace to chuckle. "By your leave, then." He stood up, straightening his riding cloak and the edges of the tunic that fringed his hauberk. Gravely, he bowed, "You have my word, Lord Emrys."
Merlin released a short breath. As Sir Bors drew himself upright and revealed his empty hands, their palms up, the younger man—at last—sheathed his two daggers.
Bors eyed him curiously, "My Lord, if I may…" Merlin nodded for him to go on. "Where is Prince Arthur's sword?"
The knight noted with amusement that the manservant colored just as deeply red as his master had a few days prior in the marketplace. Coughing to cover up a laugh, Bors offered, "You need not tell me, my Lord. It was curiosity only that drove me to speak."
With a grimace that did little to conceal his embarrassment, Merlin rubbed the back of his neck and glanced up at the nearby balustrade.
Bors followed Merlin's glance. There, hung neatly in its sheath, Prince Arthur's sword gleamed dully in the firelight. "Ah, I see," uttered softly. He turned his gaze back down to Merlin and smirked, "Not that you particularly need a sword, of course…"
They both knew he did not mean Merlin's daggers.
Unsteadily, Merlin drew in a breath. On the exhale, he squared his shoulders, "What is your business in Camelot, Sir Bors?"
Bors drew himself back sharply at the keen blue eyes that now studied him, their owner's glance less hostile than before but no less wary.
Internally, he gave a disbelieving laugh, This is why I chose to come, he wanted to say. To serve Emrys. To commit myself to a higher purpose than any of my brother's extravagant schemes. But somehow, I do not believe you are ready to hear that, yet.
Instead, he countered with a question of his own, dark eyes sharp as he sought to solve a puzzle he'd tried to figure out during the long months he'd spent in Camelot, "And what business do you have in Camelot, Lord Emrys? Even so far afield as Northumbria we have heard tales of its grief-stricken king and his vendetta against magic-kind. Why would Emrys choose to serve in such a place as this, and the king's son, at that?"
Merlin's blue eyes turned to gray steel as he quietly watched Sir Bors, "My reasons are my own, and if you wish to be privy to them, you must first prove yourself worthy. You have not, as yet."
"Very well," Bors blew out a breath and squared his shoulders, "I hope this is proof enough."
Silver light abruptly flared around Arthur's sword. As Merlin jerked around to face it, terribly startled, the sword yanked itself free of its scarlet sheath and plummeted towards the ground.
Merlin lunged for it, grabbing it by the hilt lest the blade clatter against the flagstones and bring half the castle tumbling in Arthur's room.
Whirling around to face Sir Bors, sword in hand, he caught the faintest glimpse of silver retreating into the depths of the knight's dark eyes.
When it had disappeared, Bors squarely met his disbelieving gaze, "Should you so desire it, my Lord, I can order that sword to strike me where I stand, lest my heart be untrue."
TBC