"Merlin?"
Arthur shook the boy's shoulders in an attempt to rouse him, then slapped him lightly on the cheek when that did nothing. "No, Merlin, don't do this to me. Come on," he pleaded to the silent form, "You can't die." He pressed his hand against Merlin's throat and felt a faint beat there, like moths against a windowpane. Weak and fading, but still there. Enough room for Arthur's hopes to dig in and hold onto. "You're not dead, Merlin, you're just faking it. All you need to do is breath." And all the prince had to do was make that happen.
He didn't like the first solution that came to mind, but time was not on his side. Delay, and Merlin would certainly die. "I'm sorry about this," he whispered, then flipped the blankets off Merlin's shoulders to reveal his bandage-swathed back. Spots of crimson had bled through the bandages here and there. The boy's skin, where it showed, was mottled with ugly black and blue, and Arthur winced at the sight. 'Still. . . '
Arthur aimed his blow just off center of Merlin's back; trying to avoid the deep cuts and bruises was a useless venture, there were so many. The hit was harder than the playful punches he threw at his knights. On Merlin's bony figure, it would probably form its own bruise come morning, but Arthur was willing to live with that. If there was a bruise to apologize for, it meant Merlin lived and that was worth all the contrition he could drum up.
Merlin shuddered, choked on a gasp of air. He sputtered for a moment until Arthur pulled him upright in a tangle of blankets and held him there until the boy's coughing fit faded into even, shallow breathing. The faint rasp of it was the best thing he had heard in ages, and he almost laughed with relief. "If you ever to that to me again, Merlin," he whispered fiercely against the boy's hair, "I will kill you. Twice. And I don't care that that didn't make any sense."
Gently, he laid Merlin back against the pillows and set about straightening the blankets and the cushions. He did a clumsy job of it when all was said and done, but what did he know about playing nursemaid? That was supposed to be Merlin's job, not the other way around.
'Of course, it wouldn't have come to this if you'd done your duty properly,' his inner voice sounded too much like his father's. Arthur did his best to banish it before collapsing back into his chair. "I suppose that if everything else goes wrong, I did one thing right," he said. Shut tight in his inner world of fevered dreams, Merlin said nothing. The prince ran his hands through his hair and stared down at his shaking fingers before pushing himself out of the chair to stalk toward the fire. His jangling nerves wouldn't let him sit still.
That had been too close. He had almost lost Merlin. Again. He took up the iron rod at the hearth and angrily poked at the fire, taking out his frustrations on the embers, hoping they would burn out like the sparks he scattered. 'Is this what fate demands of this venture? That I must trade one friend for another? Will I have to sacrifice Merlin for Morgana's sake?'
He glanced back at his friend's - yes, friend's- sleeping form, watched the gentle rise and fall of Merlin's narrow shoulders as he breathed, and decided that if fate wanted one or the other of them, he would simply have to deny it its due. Merlin would live and they would find Morgana, and everything would turn out all right in the end. It had to. He couldn't fail at everything. He sighed and let the poker drop from his fingers, turning his eyes back to the fire. 'When we find you, Morgana, you had best live a life worthy of the lives given for your sake.'
A bottle of wine had been left for him, along with a plate of bread and cheese. He ignored the food and poured himself a glass of the wine, a strong country red that would go straight to his head if he drank too much of it. Arthur shoved the cork back in the bottle and brought the cup back to Merlin's bedside, dropping into the chair with a grunt. Perhaps the wine would help calm his nerves so he could sleep for a few minutes. The boy was breathing easily now, and he was so terribly tired. He emptied the cup in two long draughts and set it aside, then settled back in the chair, turning his gaze to the dark ceiling, letting the rumble of the wind and the rhythm of Merlin's breathing soothe his whirling thoughts until his eyes closed and he drifted off.
"Arthur?" Merlin's raspy voice brought him awake again. The fire had died in the hearth and faint morning light shone through the shutters of the windows, though the wind still roared beyond them. Arthur sat up to find Merlin looking hazily about, still thick with sleep and sickness, but focused on the room around them. "Where are we?"
'Where are we?' not 'Where are you?' Arthur grinned, "Some village a hard day's ride out from Brill. A storm came up, and we had to stop."
Merlin nodded blearily as he tried to lever himself up on an elbow and winced when his arm gave out on him. He settled back against the pillows, his face almost as pale at the bedsheets. The shadows under his eyes were dark as new bruises and lines of pain creased his brow. He looked miserable.
He looked alive.
A weight rolled off Arthur's back at the sight of his living, breathing servant. He reached out and pulled the blankets over Merlin's shoulder. The boy's eyes fluttered open again, their deep blue a striking contrast to the pallor of his face. "I knew. . "
"Merlin, just. . . sleep for now. We can talk later."
Of course, Merlin would not do as he was told. He reached out with the last of his strength and caught Arthur's wrist. "Through. . . through all of it, I knew. . . you'd find me, Arthur." A faint, beatific smile graced the boy's face as his eyes slowly closed. "You've never failed me," he said as he dropped into sleep.
"You have too much faith in me," Arthur breathed as he folded Merlin's arm back onto the bed and brushed a hand over the boy's brow to check his fever. It seemed to have broken. Arthur felt the last bit of tension drain out of him, leaving him empty of everything but the need for sleep- and the knowledge that he hadn't failed at everything. In this one thing at least, Arthur Pendragon had done something right.