Guinevere and the knights—yes, even Gwaine, miracle of all miracles, will wonders never cease and all of that, even if he still grumbles under his breath all the way out the door, Merlin would never go to the archives without a sword at his back, have you ever seen him with a book in your entire life—scatter off to search the whole castle top to bottom, and so Arthur, with a last nod to Gaius, heads off to check his own chambers. Maybe it's a bit of a long shot, but it's like Leon said—the real, whole Merlin is always with Arthur, at his heels or in his shadow or half a step behind him, like a damn puppy, all the time, day and night, from the moment Arthur opens his eyes in the dawn light to the moment he climbs back into bed and shuts his eyes again, to the dim glow of the candles just before Merlin comes up and blows them out. So it would make a certain sort of sense, wouldn't it, to find all the split-up Merlins in all the spots the real, whole Merlin goes to, with Arthur every day. So. Yes. His chambers go straight to the top of that list, right?
Except Arthur never gets to check his chambers.
Because he never actually makes it to his chambers.
Hell, Arthur hardly makes it halfway down the long, wide corridor just off Gaius' chambers before he crashes, armor and all, straight into a very tall, very skinny idiot, all big blue eyes and goofy smile and enormous ears sticking out like cookpot handles from under his thick mop of dark, messy hair, and he doesn't even seem to care that Arthur just knocked him clear down to the cold stone floor.
"Arthur!" His whole, stupid face lights up, just like the real Merlin lights up, except the real Merlin doesn't light up when he sees Arthur, because the real Merlin only lights up when he's just heard the word magic. Or chocolate cake. Or baby animal. "Where on earth have you been?" He pushes himself clumsily back up on his feet and clicks his tongue at Arthur, like a mother might at a fussy, stubborn child. "Honestly! I've been looking all over for you! You can't just disappear like that!"
Arthur scowls—oh, so, now, is that it, is that right, Merlin hasbeen looking all over for Arthur, like Arthur hasn't been looking all over for him, and Merlin wouldn't even need to "look all over" for him, and he wouldn't even need to look all over for Merlin if the idiot hadn't gone and split himself into nine!
Except Arthur doesn't even get the chance to say any of that.
Because this Merlin just keeps right on going.
"Oh, never mind," he shakes his dark head and heaves a little sigh, "never mind that now, I suppose, nothing to be done, and anyway, it's—" he casts a quick glance out the high window in the wall, his big blue eyes squinted against the thick floods of golden sunlight pouring in through the dusty, clear glass, "—nearly noon, I'd say," he nods, a little, "so, come on, let's get you some lunch, you really should get some food in you before the council meeting—"
"The council meeting?" Arthur echoes, blankly, but oh, damn it, damn it all to hell, because Merlin is right, isn't he? The council. He's meant to meet with the council in an hour or so. Of course, it's not like he's never missed a council before—God knows he skived off all the time back when he was only a prince, but that was, well, back when he was only a prince, he didn't actually need to be there, even if his father insisted he did, because the whole thing didn't hinge on, well, him. Not when he was only a prince. He hasn't missed a council since he claimed his crown, but there's simply nothing else for it now. Merlin could fade away if this takes too long. Merlin could die. Arthur has no choice. He can't just pop off right in the middle of all this to debate about grain and taxes, for God's sake, this, right here, is a far more important matter than that.
Merlin is far more important than the council.
Except.
Merlin doesn't know. Does he? No, no, Merlin doesn't know he's gone and split himself into nine, Merlin doesn't know all the risks, Merlin doesn't know he could die if he doesn't put himself right again, and Arthur can't come out and say it, he just can't come right out and say it, can he? Where would he even start with that? You split yourself into nine of you because you're an absolute idiot and you're meant to be the most powerful sorcerer in the world, honestly, Merlin, it's pathetic, and right now, you're only one-ninth of a whole idiot, which is even worse, bet you haven't even got half a brain cell between all nine of you, so you've got to come back with me to Gaius so you can merge yourself back, so you can be nine-ninths, so you can be a whole idiot again, the way you usually are, but that's obviously not going to work. At all. That's just going to baffle Merlin even more, isn't it?
So. Keep it simple.
"No," Arthur says, at last, with a small shake of his head, "no, council's—um—canceled. Yes. That's it." He nods a bit too hard. "Rescheduled. Council's been rescheduled. Didn't you hear?" It's the dumbest lie he's ever told in his life, but Merlin is also an absolute idiot, so it should work.
"Oh." Merlin frowns. His dark brow wrinkles. "Has it? A-Arthur, no, I'm really pretty sure it's still—"
"No, no, it has," Arthur says, too quickly—is one-ninth of Merlin really a bit smarter than the real, whole Merlin? Maybe he should do the whole castle a favor, and leave him like this. No. Wait. Never mind. The fading away is still very much a thing, remember? "Which is good, very good, because," he rambles, and he can only half-hear his own words right now, as he hooks an arm around the idiot's skinny shoulders, and steers him back down the corridor, "we have to get to Gaius. Come on."
"To Gaius?" Merlin doesn't push away from Arthur, so that's good, but he does pull up to a sharp stop, his big blue eyes even bigger than usual in his thin face. Which is not good. Because he really does need to get back to Gaius. Now. "What's wrong? What's happened to you?" His enormous eyes look Arthur up and down, like he's certain he's only seconds away from finding an open, bloody wound. "Are you hurt?! Are you ill?!"
"No, no!" Arthur gets it out as quick as he can, because Merlin honestly looks like he'll rush off and declare a kingdom-wide crisis, or like maybe he won't take another damn breath until he's hauled Arthur back from the brink of death with his own bare hands. "No, I'm not hurt, I'm not ill, I'm all right, but—but you—"
Oh.
Arthur stops, his mouth still half-open, the words still on the tip of his tongue, on the corner of his lip, except he can't just tell that to this Merlin, remember? He can't just come right out and say it, can he?
"—you're not," Arthur says, finally. "You're—erm—ill." That should do it. That should work. Shouldn't it? "You're very ill. And we have to get you back to Gaius, and we'll look after you, and he'll give you some horrid draught to drink, and you can pull all your obnoxious faces and whine about how bad it tastes and—"
"Oh," Merlin actually goes limp in what looks a lot like relief—God, the idiot really was worried, wasn't he? The idiot really had gone and worked himself up into a proper tizzy about Arthur. And all while he's fading away. Stupid idiot. "Oh, no, Arthur, no, I'm sure I'm all right. Really." His mouth flicks up at the corners in a small smile.
Except.
No. It's not just a smile.
It's The Smile.
The Smile on Merlin's face every damn time Arthur shoves him back from a bloodthirsty bandit or a vicious, evil sorcerer, it's the smile on Merlin's face every time Arthur says get behind me or you're going to get yourself killed, you idiot, or stay away from there, it's dangerous, it's The Smile, The oh, look at Arthur trying to protect me, isn't he cute, because I'm obviously invincible and I can't ever get hurt Smile, and Arthur hates it, absolutely hates it, and every time he sees it, he just wants to grab Merlin and shake him and shout at him but you're not, you're not invincible, remember, you swoon like a maiden if you use too much magic and you go off on your own and you come back bruised and bloody and exhausted, and you think you're so much faster and so much stronger and so much better than a knight, but you're not, you're not, you can still get hurt, you can still die, just like anyone else in this castle, so stop acting like you can't, stop acting like you can't before you really do, you stupid, stupid—
"Merlin," Arthur huffs, "don't be an idiot. You're ill. You need to let Gaius take a look at you."
"But," Merlin blinks his big blue eyes up at Arthur, "but I'm not. Really. I promise, I feel absolutely fine. I don't need to be looked after. And certainly not by you."
Wait.
What? Sorry, but it sounded a bit like Merlin just put far too much stress on that last word. And it sounded like he almost laughed. Actually laughed! Like it's really so ridiculous!
"Certainly not by me?" Arthur echoes, and he can already feel the scowl as it creases his brow. All right, yes, fine, he's not Gaius, obviously, and he's certainly not Guinevere, all right, he's not good with the medical side of things, the humors and the imbalances and the potions and pastes, no, he's not good at that, he's not good at that at all. And he's certainly not like Gaius and he's not like Guinevere because he doesn't go all oh, let's wrap the poor, sick, fevered Merlin up in cotton wool and blow him kisses and coddle him like he's an actual child, but, come on, he's all right! He's far better than Gaius and Guinevere in that, actually, because Merlin could really stand a touch more tough love! Maybe Arthur's not exactly a tender nursemaid, but he can look after Merlin if he's got to! He can look after Merlin better than the idiot can look after himself! That's certain! "What's wrong with me?"
"Oh," and damn him, Merlin really does laugh, now, "oh, no, no, I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. Of course I didn't mean it like that, I just—" another little laugh slips out, and Arthur is actually, really going to tear the idiot's whole mouth off right now, "—I-I mean, it'd be so weird. You know?" He smiles—it's not The Smile, but it's a bit toon close—and the edges of his eyes crinkle up with it. "It'd be wrong."
Arthur blinks. "Wrong?" It's not meant to be a question. He doesn't want to make it a question. But that's the way it sounds.
Merlin looks like he can't believe Arthur's even got to ask. Like he can't believe Arthur just doesn't already know. Like he can't believe Arthur can't read minds. "W-Well—" he bites down on his bottom lip and chews, for a long moment or two, "well, you know, because—well—destiny. It's destiny. I'm here to look after you. Not the other way 'round. You know?"
No.
No, Arthur doesn't know, Arthur doesn't know at all, Arthur absolutely does not know, because that is a hundred thousand miles past completely ridiculous, even for Merlin, honestly, did the idiot hit his head just now when he fell, or did he come up with that all on his—
—all on his—
Oh.
Wait.
Actually.
The real Merlin could go on and on for ages about destiny if only Arthur let him—well, the real Merlin could go on and on for ages about anything if only Arthur let him, but he's learned that lesson, thank you very much, and also, that's absolutely not the point here, because the real Merlin has said all of that, the real, whole Merlin has said all of that rubbish before, all you're my destiny and I was born to serve you and I was made to protect you and I will, I swear I will, I swear I won't let anything happen to you, and I'm meant to keep you safe, I'm meant to keep you from all the danger and disaster, I'm meant to take care of you, oh, yes, Merlin has said all of that, except he's never said not the other way 'round, he's never, ever said that, ever, because Arthur would remember that, if he had, Arthur would have laughed out loud at him, if he had, so, no, Merlin has certainly never said that out loud, at least not to Arthur, but—
But what if he thinks it?
What if the real Merlin—the real, actual, Merlin, the whole Merlin, not the little bit right here in the hall, the (oh, what did Gaius call it, come on, what did Gaius call it, oh, wait, he's got it) facet—what if the real Merlin thinks that? What if the real Merlin thinks it's not the other way 'round? What if the real Merlin thinks it would be wrong if it ever was the other way 'round? What if the real Merlin thinks like that, what if the real Merlin actually thinks that?
He's never said it.
He's never said it.
But that doesn't mean he doesn't think it.
The Smile.
The oh, look at Arthur trying to protect me, isn't he cute, because I'm obviously invincible and I can't ever get hurt Smile.
That's not what The Smile means. Is it?
Arthur swallows, just a little too hard, but he shakes his head and he pulls himself back. He can't do this. He can't slip like this. The real Merlin needs him right now, the real Merlin needs him, and he needs the real Merlin, because he needs to hit him 'round the head and toss him in the stocks and maybe also the dungeons, too, for ever, ever letting himself think it would be wrong if it was the other way 'round.
"Merlin," he says, firmly, no room to say no, "listen to me. You've got to come with me to Gaius, all right? There's a spell," because that pathetic you're ill obviously didn't work, and his pride's a bit too bruised to try another lie so soon after that, "and you're the only one in this castle who can lift it, so—"
"Oh, that's right, I almost forgot! I suppose you need me now to merge all the nine bits back?"
What?!
"Y-You know?!"
Merlin blinks up at him. Can't believe he's got the nerve to look so innocent right now. "Yes. Of course. You can sort of feel it when you're only one of nine, you know, Arthur." Damn him, he looks like he can barely fight back a smile.
"And—and you—?" Honestly, if he didn't need all nine Merlins, he'd go ahead and get Cook to chop up this one. "You didn't think to tell me you knew?!"
Merlin blinks again. "Well," he says, "you didn't ask."
"Merlin," Arthur says, seriously, "you are very lucky I don't have time to pick a new servant."
"Perhaps if you unglued yourself from Gwen every now and then, you would have the time."
"Do you want to go muck out the stables instead? That is very much an option right now, you know."
"Can't say it was very high on my list. Besides, there's already one of me doing that."
"Wait. Wait." Arthur stops. Again. "You're joking."
Merlin actually pouts at this. An actual, literal pout. Like a child. "No," he says, very sullenly, "I'm not. I can't joke, and I can't tell lies, and I can't play tricks. I'm not that bit."
Arthur does not like the sound of that, at all, because that makes it sound like there is a Merlin who can joke and tell lies and play tricks, all rolled up into one, and he's not sure if he can even handle a Snarky Liar Prankster Merlin. If Camelot can handle a Snarky Liar Prankster Merlin. But he's pretty sure this Merlin will just pout even harder if he brings that up. This Merlin seems very sore that he can't joke. "Right," he says, slowly, "well, um, which bit are you, then?"
Merlin frowns. His brow wrinkles. "Merlin," he says.
This is indescribably unhelpful.
Arthur cuffs him 'round the back of the head. "Right," he huffs, "so, you're completely useless. Go on, get back to Gaius, and I'll head over to the stables to help Sir Percival with—"
Wait. Hang on. Hang on. Half a moment here.
"Merlin," he says, slowly, "you sensed that bit of you in the stables."
"Yes." Merlin rubs at the back of his head, at the spot right where Arthur walloped him, except, not like the real Merlin, because he doesn't even toss Arthur his cute little kicked-kitten scowl. He doesn't even look all that put out, really.
"So, can you sense the others? The rest?" Arthur raises his brows. "Can you tell me where the rest of you are?"
Merlin rubs at the back of his head again. "Probably," he says.
This Merlin, Arthur decides, must be Uncooperative Merlin.
"So," Arthur says, very slowly this time, because it looks like Uncooperative Merlin needs it all spelled out for him, "can you try and sense them for me? I need to find them, Merlin."
It's like he's just said some sort of magic word. Except, he's really very certain he hasn't, because he doesn't actually know any magic words, at all, and also, the last time he ever tried to repeat one of Merlin's spells back to him, to make him see it all sounded like absolute nonsense, the real Merlin laughed at him, very uncharitably, and so hard, his knees buckled and he had to lean on the wall so he wouldn't slide down to the floor and, when he finally caught his breath, said Arthur's pronunciation was "abysmal". It was a very demoralizing moment.
But right now, it is almost like Arthur's just cast a spell, a real spell, because Uncooperative Merlin nods.
"Of course," he says, like being uncooperative is the last thing on his mind, "of course, Arthur, if you need me to do it, I will."
Oh.
Well.
If you need me to do it, I will.
Arthur is really going to have to remember that one.
"Right," he says, "come on. Let's stop in and tell Gaius I've found one before we head off."
Notes: pour one out for Arthur Pendragon. can we get an F in the chat for Arthur Pendragon