Chapter Three
Uther himself had come down to Gaius's chambers, where the injured boy lay, and his son held a strict vigil. The angry king ranted and raged for a good hour and a half at his son for not reporting to him and other such obscenities, but gave up after realising his son's attention was focused solely on the unresponsive form in the bed. Suddenly he was quite sure Arthur hadn't listened to a word he'd said, so he stalked out again, muttering about the ridiculous idea of staying by the side of a servant. Even if that servant had saved his life.
Gwen visited often, bringing Gaius new herbs to mash into pastes, and clear, cool water to sooth the boy's fiery brow. She smiled gently at him, but he could see the sorrow, hurt and fear in her eyes as she regarded the still form of her friend. Gaius was changing the bandages now, as Gwen stoked the fire. Arthur could see the horrible wounds had begun to heal over, a scab forming from dried blood across Merlin's frail chest. After the wounds had been wrapped, he helped Gaius sit the boy up, and press a vial to his lips, forcing him to drink deeply, even in his state on unconsciousness. There was a moment he thought the boy would choke, and cold, hard fear gripped his chest in an iron fist, but he swallowed painfully under the encouragement of the physician's skilled hands.
His breathing had evened out, but each breath still felt like a terrible lifeline to the prince. Like each breath would be the boys last.
And then it struck him, as he sat there, encased in the tight, painful fear that the boy before him would die – why did he care? Merlin had lied to him; the little voice took the opportunity to remind him. Why are you sitting with a sorcerer? It screamed. Magic is evil. Magic is Evil. Merlin must be evil. But no. That didn't sit right. That couldn't be right. Merlin was about as evil as the potato broth Gaius had just handed him. He looked down at the bowl in his hands, full of the thick, gloopy soup-like substance. Frowning he stirred the gunk with the wooden spoon he was handed – it curdled densely and clung to the back of the spoon in hefty grey clumps.
Ok. Maybe the broth was pretty evil after all. He bit back a smile, grasping the spoon and bringing it to his mouth. He looked over at Merlin again, white and still on the bed. Each breath for him a herculean effort. No. This boy was not evil. He didn't have it in him to be evil. He was Merlin for god's sake. Merlin – the bumbling, stupid idiotic excuse for a manservant. His manservant. But he lied to you – the little voice hissed. He lied to you. But Arthur shook his head slowly, to clear it of the thought. What could he have possibly said? 'Oh, hey Arthur. I'm just, you know, a sorcerer by the way. Not that your Father won't chop off my head for it without a second thought or anything.'
Yeah right.
Arthur found his smile grow, and his fingers tightened around the bowl, finishing the terrible cooking quickly, so he could lace Merlin's fingers with his own once more.
He was glad he knew now. But Merlin... Merlin had an awful lot of explaining to do when he woke up.
If he wakes up.
Arthur found himself rubbing absentmindedly at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, the other hand woven into Merlin's.
"You should get some rest, Sire" – it was Gaius; draping a blanket over his shoulders as Gwen changed the cloth on Merlin's brow.
Arthur's gaze rested solely on the whitened face of his manservant, as exhaustion overcame his body and his eyes slipped closed.
The last thing he saw before he fell asleep was the light of the candles on Merlin's face. The last thing he heard was Merlin's breath rattling in his slowly heaving chest. The last thing he felt was Merlin's fingers, laced so perfectly, so tightly in his own.
Was Merlin.
Safe, Alive, Recovering.
And with a sigh of relief – not that the nightmare was over, but that it was on its way to being over. Prince Arthur of Camelot slipped into a calm, well-needed sleep.