Things That Merlin Isn't Allowed To Do (According to Prince Arthur)
11: During Any Circumstance Fall Ill
Merlin is strangely quiet. When asked a question he shrugs or nods and hums in agreement, but the retorts are few. Arthur asks if he's feeling okay, and the reply is, "Yeah, fine. What do you want to wear today?" and the subject drops.
"Nothing too formal, there are no meetings today, thank god," Arthur says and stretches like a cat after a nap. He glances at the servant surprised when there's no ironic or mocking reply. Trying to wriggle one out of the boy, or at least heighten the mood, he adds; "That councilor, Lord Matthew, was attempting to chew my ear off yesterday; he should be glad I hadn't brought my sword."
There's no 'Well I understand him, you're a prat, sire; of course he's irritated with you.'
"Really annoying, that man," Arthur continues. "A bit like you."
In truth the councilor is the opposite of Merlin. Whereas Merlin is like a fresh ray of sunshine, the infuriating councilor is as joyous and friendly as a gloomy storm cloud, and the whole city seems to share Arthur's opinion (and fondness) of them both.
Merlin nods like he's daydreaming and far-away and walks straight into the chair placed on the other side of the table, and the things in his hands fall to the floor with a scramble of metal and pottery. The servant stumbles, manages to catch himself against the table and steadies himself. He blinks down at the objects on the floor dumbly, as if surprised to see them there.
Narrowing his eyes, Arthur stands up and walks over to him. "You're more clumsy than usual, and you're not talking back. Have you hit your head or something?"
"Yeah, so are you. I mean, more of a prat," Merlin says a couple of seconds later, much slower than his jokes usually come, and he sounds feeble and a bit hoarse. Awkwardly he kneels and starts gathering the things he's dropped. Every movement is jarred and he looks slightly dazed.
"Maybe you should take a rest," Arthur's voice floats over to him.
Merlin shakes his head jerkily. "I'm fine. Just a bit tired." He grabs the edge of the table with one hand, pulls himself almost agonizingly slowly onto his feet, only to lose his balance yet again.
Thud.
"Merlin!" Arthur shouts, rushing up Merlin's side. He goes on automatic, his pulse unwillingly picking up; he checks the boy's brow, breathing, heartbeat. It's calm and steady if a bit hoarse and Merlin looks as pale as flour – not that Arthur is around flour or kitchens or anything often enough to really compare – and Arthur pulls him up into a sitting position, the servant's head leaning against the prince's chest.
"Ow."
"Are you OK? How are you feeling? Any pain? Soreness?"
The words fall hurriedly out of the prince's mouth. Merlin didn't hit his head did he? The prince's hands flies up to examine the servant's head for any bumps or signs of damage; thankfully there's none. But the brow is warm, too warm, beneath his palm.
The warlock blinks up at him. "'m a bit dizzy…"
"Okay, put an arm around my shoulder, lean on me." Like aiding a wounded soldier, Arthur picks him up. The servant is strangely light (a million little worries flash through Arthur's mind: when was the last time Merlin ate a proper meal?) but his legs are long and won't cooperate, so it's a small struggle to get him across the room.
"You should've told me you're feeling ill, stupid!" the prince berates him, ignoring the protests as he lays the servant onto the bed. Merlin mutters something about being fine, that it's just a minor cold or something; Arthur naturally doesn't listen as he pulls the covers over the boy's frame, which suddenly looks so frail and pale and fragile, and Arthur has a minor panic attack – has Merlin always been this thin and pale? He looks like he could break like glass! What if the illness is serious? What's caused it, has he been exposed and ill for a long time and Arthur not noticed – how long has this been going on? What if he won't recover?
He has to take a couple of deep breaths to calm down and makes sure Merlin is comfortable beneath at least five thick blankets, before ordering the guard in the corridor outside to fetch Gaius. Maybe it's the urgency of the order, or the distraught look on the prince's face; the guard rushes to toward the physician's chambers without wasting a second.
As he returns to the bedside and sat carefully next to Merlin's limp body in the course of eight seconds from leaving the door, Merlin has almost fallen asleep, snuggling into the duvet. He looks so pitiful Arthur can't help himself and strokes his brow, fingertips touching his fringe. Merlin makes a kittenish sound.
"... Don't do that again," Arthur whispers, quietly, not sure if he's being heard. "I'm going to lose years of my life out of worry, just because of you. I've never had such a terrible servant in my entire life."
Merlin opens his eyes a little. He looks very, very tired and it takes awhile for him to speak, and it's not very clearly or loudly. "Y'always say…'m a terrible servant," he murmurs tiredly.
"You're almost never on time, you keep talking back, keep running into danger and risky situations and you're awful at hunting. Yeah - you're a dreadful servant."
Merlin chuckles, mirth shining in his eyes and lighting up his whole face, and Arthur's heart, but then mid-way the sound turns into a cough and Arthur continues to stroke his brow soothingly. "…You'd hate it any other way," the warlock whispers and Arthur smiles gently, silently agreeing. Any period of time with a perfect, submissive, quiet, no-talking, obedient, always-on-time servant would drive him absolutely mad, and he cannot imagine his life without the joyful, kind, unselfish, wonderful warlock by his side. He's like my other half, Arthur muses, his heart warming. When he realizes what he's just thought, heat rises to his face and he clears his throat; Merlin is vacant and half-asleep, and hopefully haven't noticed the odd behavior.
"I've called for Gaius, he should be here any minute now. He'll find out what's wrong. Did you feel ill anytime earlier today?"
"…Only 'bit tired…"
Arthur can't stop frowning, and he doesn't like that answer. He's got a feeling that Merlin is the kind of person who hides things to the last minute and puts everyone else's welfare miles before his own. If a plague struck the city, Merlin would be out there tending to them all, but if something happens to himself, he won't tell anyone, not wanting them to worry. It's an awful contradiction, Arthur thinks. He should give Merlin a proper and clear order to never again hide if he feels ill or uncomfortable. It makes Arthur worry even more.
There's a knock at the door and Gaius comes in, carrying a bag of supplies, none of which makes any sense to the prince. Arthur stands up to the physician some room, but doesn't take his eyes off the servant.
After a couple of minutes, Gaius has finished examining the patient and hearing Arthur about what he knows about Merlin's illness, and concludes: "It's nothing serious, sire. I'm going to prepare a potion which he needs to take once every morning and every night for a couple of days. He needs to be kept warm and resting and eat regularly. Don't worry, sire, he'll be fine."
Arthur exhales deeply. Merlin will be fine. Everything will be all right. As Gaius takes his leave, promising to be back within the hour with the potion, the prince resumes his position on the bedside, just sitting there sometimes stroking the now sleeping warlock's hair (it's really soft and nice), tucking in the edges of the blankets whenever Merlin seems the slightest cold or uncomfortable, and murmurs nonsense into the boy's ear. Merlin leans into his touch and seems to slowly crawl toward the prince's warm body. Arthur doesn't mind. Anyone from the outside barging in and seeing them like this would be shocked at the honest care and concern shining on the prince's face.
"You have to stop being sick," Arthur whispers, stroking back a stray lock of hair behind one of the servant's ridiculous ears. "I don't like it."