Merlin had not insulted him once today. This was worse than Arthur had feared.
Arthur gave up the pretense of reading the reports before him, turning to watch his servant scrub the floor before his chamber's fireplace. Merlin paused occasionally to lean into the heat from the fire, apparently just as cold as the rest of Camelot. The servant had been perfectly polite to him all morning—not enough that it came across as sarcastic, but just enough to make things uncomfortable for the Prince. Maybe, he hoped, Merlin was just tired.
His servant certainly looked it. Merlin seemed to be wearing the same tunic from yesterday, which was unusual. He usually rotated between his red, blue, and purple tops each day. (Not that Arthur paid enough attention to his servant to really notice such things.) Looking at the dark circles under Merlin's eyes, his pale face, and the smudges of dirt across his sleeves and trousers, Arthur figured his servant had probably used his time off to help Gaius, rather than rest like he had hoped. He certainly looked worse than the day before.
Arthur returned to his reports, shuffling them across his table while he tried to gather his stomach to read further. The news of the lower town was bleak.
Eventually, Arthur was distracted from his darkening thoughts by Merlin, who was watching him anxiously over his shoulder from where he knelt on the floor. He seemed unaware that his nervous tick of twisting the duster between his hands was getting soot all over him. Arthur chose not to mention it, used to his servant looking sloppy and having to pick his battles on the matter.
"How are things looking?"
Arthur frowned. Merlin looked a little too invested in his answer, and Arthur did not feel inclined to tell his servant the worst of it.
"About how we expected. Nothing that requires us to change our current plans for the Knights."
Merlin frowned, but, thankfully, kept his opinions on the King's most recent degree, and the vagueness of Arthur's reply, to himself. He looked away and resumed his scrubbing.
"That's good."
Arthur frowned, not sure if he wanted to press the issue of Merlin's obvious displeasure any further. The choice was taken from him, anyway, as he soon found himself distracted by the voice of a servant announcing the arrival of Sir Leon. Arthur gave him permission to enter immediately and stood to greet his friend.
Sir Leon burst in, looking harried but determined, and dropped into a swift bow. The sight eased some of the tension in Arthur's shoulders. This was the most energetic he had seen his First Knight since the dragon's attacks had begun. Arthur had not realized how much it had been weighing on him to see someone like Sir Leon—who had taught Arthur practically all he knew about the Knighthood—look as despondent as Arthur had ever seen a knight be.
Before Arthur could ask what report had Sir Leon rushing to see him in such a manner, Merlin interrupted. Used to ignoring such breaches of protocol in his own chambers, Arthur allowed it.
"Does your leg still hurt, Sir Leon?"
The Knight smiled, having always been fond of Merlin's quirks.
"Not at all. I've been feeling great since you treated me."
That Merlin would be allowed to treat such a high-ranking noble as the First Knight was certainly news to Arthur. Had his servant really come so far in his apprenticeship with Gaius? Did he intend to become a fully practicing physician? Why had Arthur never thought to ask him these things?
As if to rub Arthur's ignorance in his face, Merlin stood and eyed Sir Leon with a skeptical eye.
"Gaius did all the hard work, but, still… does that mean you weren't just visibly limping as you walked in here?"
That was enough to distract Arthur from musing on his servant's career. Thinking on it, he realized Leon had been limping.
"No," Leon shifted his weight, "I've just been running across the castle, and I've been working too long without a break. You must have just confused my tiredness for a limp."
Merlin crossed his arms, a near-perfect impression of an irritated Gaius, and snorted.
"Sure, I must have. But, in that case, you won't mind me taking a quick look at your leg to make sure, right?"
At this, Leon's tone turned a bit more formal, the sort of voice that would have most servants bowing and scraping in moments.
"I don't have time for a checkup. No need to look at my leg."
Merlin sighed and folded back from his judgmental stance but did not seem entirely ready to give in.
"Why don't you sit while you give Arthur your report, and I'll take a look at your leg while you do. No time wasted, yeah?"
Knowing what his Knights were like when it came to admitting the need for medical treatment, Arthur decided to intervene.
"I certainly don't intend to take your report standing."
He gestured for Sir Leon to join him at the seat across his. The Knight did so, looking annoyed. Merlin walked to the corner of the room to fetch the medical satchel he had recently taken to carrying with him at all times—Arthur made a mental note to ask him exactly how far along he was in his training—before moving to kneel next to Sir Leon. As the servant went to roll up the trousers on the injured leg, Arthur fixed his eyes determinedly on his First Knights' face, knowing the man before him would not like his Prince to know how badly he was injured.
"What do you have for me then?"
Leon handed over the documents he had brought.
"A list of knights I would recommend be deployed to assist the lower town, as well as those I recommend lead the investigations and which should be assigned to patrols through the city."
Arthur scanned his list, noting that many senior knights had been placed on patrol duty, an odious task which would not likely be popular with them or his father. However, Arthur found himself agreeing with Sir Leon's proposal. The most low-born and empathetic knights, those most likely to want to truly help the Lower Town, were assigned to reconstruction, while the most senior (and loyal to his father) and those who tended to run hot-headed were assigned to patrol far away from the interrogation proceedings. It was not ideal, but, hopefully, it would be enough to get them through this with minimal collateral damage.
Arthur nodded at Sir Leon to acknowledge he recognized and appreciated his plan, unwilling to say as much out loud no matter how much he trusted everyone currently in his chambers. Then, Arthur turned to look at the second document Sir Leon had brought, surprised to see a list of familiar names.
"The King also requested we begin interrogations in the citadel itself. He gave me a list of past suspects or and those most at risk to be… well, who he suspects might be aligned with sorcery."
At this, Arthur quirked an eyebrow, scanning the list in more detail. He had not expected his father to accuse nobility of magic, let alone treason of this nature. To begin interrogations of such high-born citizens before looking into those living in the Lower Town was practically unheard of. This, too, would not be a popular path to take. He felt even more tired at the very thought.
Arthur continued to scan the list of names, noting those he found familiar. As he reached near the bottom of the list, however, his heart stopped. Arthur struggled to keep a straight face as Sir Leon began to describe his plans for managing the logistical challenges of managing such a large investigation. Although he knew he should be listening, Arthur found himself unable to look away from the pages he held, unaware of much beyond the feeling of crinkling of parchment between his tightening fists.
As Sir Leon continued, Arthur berated himself internally. He should have known this was a risk the second his father announced his plan. Of course, he should have. It made perfect sense, in its own terrible way.
What could he possibly do? He could not ask Sir Leon. Not here. Not now.
Arthur worked to unclench his jaw, hoping his stress was not too obvious. He nodded at the appropriate times and gave advice as needed, but found he remembered little of the conversation as soon as Sir Leon left.
Coming back to himself at the sound of his chamber doors closing, Arthur turned to look at Merlin, who was busy stuffing up his remaining bandages and poultices back into his satchel.
Arthur would figure something out. He just needed a little more time; he was sure.
Arthur had dismissed him soon after Leon had left, and while, normally, Merlin would stay around to figure out exactly what had made the Prince act so strangely after their meeting, he was now using the opportunity to hurry back to his chambers as quickly as politeness would allow. He crossed his arms around his chest and ducked his head as he walked, hoping no one would pay much attention to him. He received some odd looks from other servants but was grateful no one seemed willing to call him out on his obvious weakness.
Of course, it was not that unusual to see despondent faces walking through the castle these days, so perhaps Merlin did not stand out as much as he feared.
Still, Merlin felt nothing but relief as he made it to his bedroom without having to explain himself to anyone. He threw his satchel down as he collapsed onto his bed, wincing at the sound the bag made as it hit the floor. Immediately regretting his carelessness, Merlin reached to open the satchel and inspect the contents for possible damage, but, as he brought it closer, he found himself unable to even consider the idea.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was just his supplies, he reminded himself. Plus, Sir Leon's leg had been worse than he had thought, and he needed to restock on bandages.
The reminder he had caused the First Knight a nearly-career-ending injury did not make Merlin feel much better, but at least Sir Leon would survive relatively unscathed, if scarred. The wound would become infected if the Knight continued to avoid treatment, though, so Merlin needed to remember to follow up with him soon.
The rattling of bottles as Merlin shifted his legs reminded him of his initial problem. He could not put off opening the thing forever. He had been carrying around the same satchel for days with not a single problem until digging through the bottom to treat Leon reminded him what was inside. Suddenly refusing to open it now would be ridiculous, and a waste of supplies besides. Arthur and Gaius would never let him live it down. No, much better to get over his petty concerns and spare himself the embarrassment of having to explain such a silly fear.
"It's just a bag," Merlin whispered to himself, feeling stupid as he did so.
Finally, feeling a quick burst of courage, he quickly undid the clasp and flipped the top open. With his face turned away and eyes half-shut, Merlin quickly reached in and felt around. When his hand closed around a piece of ragged wood, Merlin knew he had what he needed. He set the offending object on his lap, feeling foolish that he could barely stand to bring himself to look at it.
Merlin contented himself with staring at his window and mapping the shape of the object in his hand. He took a moment to try to create an image in his mind from the feel of the various ridges and spikes he felt. It was obviously well-made, splinterless, and intricately detailed despite how quickly it had been carved.
Finally, once he was certain he had nearly memorized the feel of every piece of the carving, Merlin turned to look at the small statue of the dragon in his hand—the one gift Balinor had given him. Something Merlin had not even had the decency to remember he had until he stumbled upon it while digging through the dredges of his bag while treating Leon.
How could he have possibly been so ungrateful to forget he had this? The carving was a work of beauty. The dragon's face portrayed a fierce scowl, and the tail had been caught in the midst of a powerful swing. Each scale was visible in the textured carving, and yet somehow each powerful muscle underneath was equally clear.
In another life, would Merlin have been able to learn to carve like this?
Merlin sniffled. He had thought he might be more upset at such a reminder of his father, but, truly, he mostly felt numb and incredibly tired. He wanted nothing more than to spend hours admiring this gift, maybe even comparing its anatomy to what he knew of Kilgharrah's to see if it matched.
Merlin knew, though, that being caught with any example of his dragonlord ancestry would get him worse than a death sentence right now. Ignoring the thought that it felt far too similar to the burials he had been attending, Merlin dug up the floorboards under his bed and placed the carving underneath, taking one last long look at it.
If things ever got better, he swore, he would see it again.