Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, his property, his friends or his enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine.
Rationally Merlin knows it's all in his imagination but night seems to fall much faster in Escetia than in Camelot. He's been pacing in his chamber for what feels like days but is probably only a couple of hours. Out of the window he can see the court preparing for sleep, citizens scurrying about carrying out the final chores of the day, getting ready for the night ahead. He can hear children laughing and mothers calling for their wayward offspring to hurry up. He can hear the menfolk exchanging the time of day, arranging times and places to meet for a flagon of Escetia's finest ale.
It takes a long time for silence to fall and Merlin thinks he must have bitten every nail to the quick by now. He studies his hand aimlessly, realising his nerves really must be as bad as he thought.
The meetings he's had with the noblemen and warriors play on his mind. He knows that somehow someone will get word to Arthur, will let the Prince of Camelot know that his loyal manservant has turned. He can't let that happen before he's had the chance to see Arthur for what could turn out to be the last time. He needs, wants, to see his master once last time before he sets in motion a chain of events that might destroy everything he's striven so hard to protect.
Sighing deeply he turns away from the window and paces slowly over to the door of his room. Placing an ear on the ancient solid oak, he strains to hear what activity may be taking place. His finely tuned hearing picks up nothing. He's sure Cenred will have placed a heavily armed guard outside his room – it's what Uther would do, he muses – but Merlin has evaded heavier security than that in the past. His motivation is strong and the warlock is unstoppable.
Opening the door as quietly as he can he's unsurprised to come face to face with what must be Cenred's largest, and possibly stupidest, guard. Merlin feigns surprise, mixed with a genuine disgust at the man's rancid breath, and offers him a hesitant smile.
"I need to speak to Cenred," he improvises. "There are things he needs to know, things I forgot to tell him." He steps confidently out of his chambers. "Don't worry," he smiles, "I know the way. You just stay there and guard the room like you were told. I'm sure that's what Cenred would tell you."
Merlin really can't believe his luck when the guard looks slightly puzzled, eyebrows creasing in the centre of his face, brow wrinkling with the effort of thought, before nodding slowly and stepping back to allow the warlock to pass unhindered.
It's takes everything Merlin has not to run down the passage way until he's out of sight of the behemoth Cenred saw fit to post outside his room. It takes a lot not to giggle at the sheer ease with which he has manoeuvred his way out of what is effective house arrest to the relative freedom of the castle.
He passes few people on his travels and although he reckons one castle is pretty much like the next, he can't find Drudwyn's chambers. He's starting to think Cenred could do with a lesson in directions when he spots a servant scuttling down a passageway carrying a tray of potion bottles and pill boxes. Merlin allows himself a small smile as he sets off in pursuit, keeping to the shadows as best he can.
The servant disappears round a corner just as Merlin hears footsteps approaching from the opposite direction. He wants to follow the servant but the footsteps are joined by voices and he knows he can't risk discovery so he ducks back behind a stone column, making himself as small as physically possible.
It's clear that his wanderings are undiscovered thus far as two knights saunter past his hiding place and he can hear the jovial banter he's so familiar with in Camelot. For a brief moment he experiences a pining for Lancelot and Gwaine and Leon, for all of them, but he knows there is no help coming from Camelot and even if there was he's made decisions that he needs to fulfil by himself.
He takes a deep breath and lets his head fall back against the cold stone wall, waiting until the knights have gone. Once he's alone again, Merlin resumes his quest. He laughs in his head. He never really thought he'd be one to go on a quest but here he is, an adventure to be had and a prize to be won. Although, he muses, he'll never let Arthur hear him refer to the prince as a prize. That would just go to his head and make him even more unbearable than ever.
The door to the court physician's chamber, once found, is dark and foreboding. Merlin glances round several times, not nervous but not entirely calm either, before placing a hand on the ancient wood. He can almost feel the history of Escetia pulsing through the grain of the oak beneath his fingers, seeping into his veins. He can tell the room beyond is empty. If anyone were to ask him how he can be so certain, he knows he wouldn't be able to answer them but he just knows. Maybe it's his magic, maybe he has excellent hearing, maybe it's his inherent ability to tune in to Arthur. Either way, he decides, it doesn't really matter.
He lets his hand drop to the cold metal handle of the door and turns it gently. He's really not surprised when the door refuses to move. Gaius, he recalls, locks his door religiously muttering about thieving scoundrels although Merlin has yet to find one of those capable of making it beyond the citadel walls.
He steps back slightly from the door and holds out his arm, palm facing the unrelenting door and channels his magic through his fingertips. It's second nature to him now to commit such simple acts of sorcery and he doesn't even feel the energy flow. But he hears the lock yield and when he turns the handle now, it rotates smoothly, allowing him access to the room beyond.
He's careful to close the door behind him, no need to alert passersby to his presence, and takes a few precious seconds to survey the chambers he now finds himself in. For a moment he can almost believe himself to be back in Camelot, back in the security of Gaius' chambers. But the moment doesn't last long. Drudwyn's quarters are a dark facsimile of Camelot's physician's home. His arsenal of potions and herbs seem somehow out of kilter with the healing aims of a normal physician and Merlin is uneasy at the number of medical instruments adorning the walls that seem to have very little beneficial purpose.
But his attention is quickly taken by the small bed in the far corner. There is a figure huddled under a sparse blanket and Merlin feels his heart stop briefly. He would recognise that figure anywhere, under any covering. He's served Arthur long enough to know his various sleeping positions – from the relaxed, limbs strewn around position to the taut, I'll sleep only because I have to, position the prince adopts on overnight patrols – and he knows this particular position almost too well. The figure beneath the meagre covering is currently assuming what Merlin has come to reluctantly name the I've been hurt but I don't want anyone to know about itposition.
He throws caution to the wind as he hurries across to the bed and drops unceremoniously to his knees. Pulling the blanket back from where it covers Arthur's head almost completely, Merlin has to stifle a gasp. It looks like Drudwyn has certainly been taking care of the prince but Merlin thinks he needs to talk to the physician about his definition of 'care'. Arthur's eyes are closed but beneath his eyelids there is furious activity going on. His hair is damp, matted down by a fevered sweat and his skin is cool and clammy to the touch.
"Arthur," Merlin hisses, torn between the need to wake Arthur and talk to him and the desire to let the prince sleep on and heal himself as much as possible. As Arthur fails to respond to either his voice or touch, Merlin weighs up his options. He lets his hand rest on the prince's forehead, absently stroking his thumb over Arthur's hair, sweeping it back from his face.
Arthur moans quietly and rolls ever so slightly into the touch, his features softening, giving him the appearance of peace. Merlin watches as his eyes flutter open, not missing the bewilderment and panic that flit across his face before the prince's walls are firmly back in place. He jerks his head away from Merlin's hand and pastes what Merlin supposes is meant to be a fearsome glare on his face.
"Merlin?" he croaks and the warlock winces in sympathy.
"It's okay, Arthur," He reassures the prince with a comforting hand on his arm, feeling slightly confused when Arthur grunts and pulls his arm away.
"It's not okay, Merlin," he whispers and if Merlin didn't know him better he'd swear there was a bit of a whimper in there. "It hurts."
Merlin could hit himself in the head. How could he have forgotten the treatment the prince got earlier? Yes, Drudwyn was supposed to take good care of Camelot's heir but Merlin's already decided that hasn't really happened and Arthur's arm, now he looks at it, clearly hasn't received any attention. The burn has cooled a little but the flesh is still red and angry.
"I'm sorry," Merlin replies. "I didn't think," and he gently pulls the offending limb to him. As he studies the wound he takes time to wonder why Arthur hasn't flung one of his customary retorts at his manservant. He's expecting a simple insult or more structured abuse but the easy compliance with which Arthur allows him to tend to him is worrying.
"Arthur?" he asks quietly while gently peeling the ruined fabric from ruined flesh as best he can. "How do you feel?"
Arthur seems puzzled by the question and knits his eyebrows together in gesture that Merlin would normally find endearing. "I feel…" he starts and then closes his eyes in concentration. "I feel…" he starts again. Then his eyes fly open and he fixes them on Merlin's face. "I don't know," he stutters. "I don't know how I feel! Why don't I know?"
Merlin stops his ministrations and looks to Arthur in alarm. This can't be good. There's no way a knight as highly trained as Arthur can lose his ability to feel like this.
"What d'you mean?" he enquires cautiously, suddenly aware of how frightened the prince looks.
Arthur looks around him frantically. "I don't know, Merlin!" he exclaims. "What are we doing here? And where is here?"
Merlin drops back on his heels and takes a deep breath.
"What do you remember, Arthur?" he asks, scared of the answer.