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hayleysstark · 5 years

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Title: Anniversary Words: 11178 Warnings: Swearing + vomiting Summary: Arthur's birthday isn't really his favorite time of year, for obvious reasons, but Merlin is going to fix that. Provided this pesky little cold of his doesn't get in the way, of course. One-shot. Post-S4. Merlin-gets-sick-and-tries-to-hide-it fic. Arthur's probably OOC. Notes: WHY IS THIS,,,,,,,,,,,, SO LONG,,,,,,,,,, I,,,,,,,,,, AM SORRY,,,,,,,,, I JUST,,,,,,,,,, KEPT GOING? dfhjtrfghgfgf oH MY GOD i am SO SORRY like,,,,,, shut the fuck up, onceandfuturewarlock. oh, god, I'm sorry. why is this so long. oh, also, fun fact yes I did get the idea of Merlin and the others giving Arthur a sheath for Excalibur off the myth! we're going to pretend in this version that Merlin cast a thousand protective enchantments over that sheath to render Arthur practically unkillable when he wears it lmao. MERLIN IS TAKING NO CHANCES WITH HIS DUMBASS KING ALL RIGHT. ONCE AND FUTURE KING? ARTHUR PENDRAGON IS THE ONCE AND FUTURE DUMBASS AND MERLIN IS TAKING NO CHANCES WITH THIS BITCH. oh god i'm sorry this note is almost a big a disaster as this story.

Read on Fanfiction and AO3.

Merlin was up to something.

Well, all right, fine, the idiot usually was up to something—mouthing off to esteemed guests or skiving off his chores to go to the tavern or calling Arthur a prat or accidentally instigating full-scale, free-for-all, every-man-for-himself prank wars between the knights—and the fool still tried to insist, to this day, that he'd had absolutely nothing to do with any of it, and it had all just gotten a bit out of hand and it was only an accident, but Arthur knew better than to believe him—no one else in the kingdom was imbecilic enough to set his own hair on fire, and leave Gwaine covered in gravy in the courtyard and hang Percival's unmentionables from the castle battlements—

Arthur suppressed the memory with a shudder—no use dwelling on that. Best to just be grateful everything had sorted itself out in the end, and a few hours in the stocks had more than helped Merlin learn his lesson.

Well. The fact remained. Merlin was up to something.

He'd been on time every day this week, for a start—no, no, rephrase, he hadn't just been getting up on time, he'd been getting up on time without any sort of outside prompting—Gaius was gone, off treating that village in the north, struck down so suddenly and violently by that mysterious, fast-spreading fever, and hadn't been there to wake his ward—for an entire week, he hadn't been there to wake his ward—and, on top of it all, Merlin had assumed nearly all the duties of a physician while the actual physician was away, dressing wounds and brewing draughts—and hadn't said a single word about it, either—Arthur himself wouldn't even know if he hadn't seen Merlin making Gaius' usual rounds about the castle and the town—and the man still managed to keep up with his regular tasks as well, rousing Arthur and Guinevere at sunrise every morning with a tray of breakfast in his hands and a bright smile on his face.

And it wasn't just that.

Merlin had taken to disappearing lately, too—and not like the way he usually disappeared, for hours or even entire days at a time, then came back looking exhausted and pathetic and more than a little drunk—his absence these days lasted only a few moments, here and there, and he returned with a big dopey grin on his face, and then insisted he'd been right there the whole time and Arthur was just an oblivious clotpole and he wasn't grinning at all.

The worst of it was, Arthur had started to suspect that he'd dragged the knights, and Guinevere even, in on it, too.

The way everyone had taken to looking at him lately, especially when they thought he wasn't looking at them—the smiles that dropped off their faces the instant they locked eyes with him and the fleeting half-glances they exchanged when they crossed paths in the corridors and the hasty, whispered conversations they thought he didn't know about just before he rounded a corner or entered a room—Merlin was up to something, and he'd let everyone in on it except Arthur himself, and it—

—it sort of stung.

No, no, that wasn't the right word—Arthur couldn't care less—let Merlin have his secrets—his mysterious disappearances—his hushed conferences and personal jests with the knights—so long as he wasn't distracting the men from their training, or their defense of the kingdom, it didn't matter one way or the other—Arthur absolutely did not feel even the slightest bit excluded or lonely just because his servant had—what? Grown a bit closer with his knights without his notice? Stopped paying attention to him? Become a damn sight better at his job?

No. Absolutely not.

As a matter of fact, he was quite glad of it—Merlin's cheerful, inane prattle was the absolute last thing he needed at the best of times—now, with his anniversary on the morrow, he had bigger things to worry about—the preparations for the feast alone had taken up nearly a month, and the end to it all couldn't come fast enough, in his opinion.

He just wanted it all to be over.

Well, all right, truth be told, he didn't want there to be a feast at all, but he'd discovered, time and again these past few years, that ruling a kingdom meant it mattered very little what he wanted, even when what he wanted was to just not celebrate the day his father had taken the blow meant for him, and died in front of him—died because of him—just like his mother—

No.

Arthur swallowed and shut his eyes.

He was not opening that door, not tonight.

He would go to sleep—he shifted a little closer to Guinevere, seeking her steadying presence as much as her warmth—and he would not think about anything else, not his mother leaving this world so he could enter it, or his father's life drawing to a close so his could continue—no, he would not think about it—he would get this horrible feast over with, and he would be okay, and he would breathe again.

He would be okay.

Or, at least, he would make damn sure no one else knew that he wasn't.

He sank a little deeper into his pillow, and willed sleep to come.

"Rise and shine!"

Arthur swallowed a groan, shifting groggily in the sheets as the sunlight struck him, and the world behind his tightly closed eyes—rather rudely, in his opinion—turned orange. No, no, it couldn't possibly be morning—not already—he could swear it had only been moments since he'd last shut his eyes—just a few more minutes—he buried his face in the nearest pillow—just a few more minutes, and he'd drag himself up—he reached blindly for Guinevere, aching for the comfort of her skin against his, but his fingers found only empty, cold sheets, and Arthur was suddenly very awake.

"Where's Guinevere?" He sat upright, squinting slightly from the sun's dazzling glare.

"Oh, she's already up. Waiting for us, actually," Merlin said breezily, as though this didn't just answer one question, and open up about a dozen more. "Come on, then, let's have you, lazy daisy!" He even had the nerve to throw in a grin.

Arthur didn't move, only fixed the servant with his best scowl. "I've no time for your riddles, Merlin. Where is Guinevere?"

"I've just told you. Waiting for us. Hurry up and get dressed, and we'll set out." Merlin gathered up the jumble of freshly-laundered fabric from the end of the bed, and tossed it at the king.

Arthur caught the clothes deftly and frowned—this couldn't be right—his third-best tunic, and riding breeches? Either Merlin was deliberately trying to lose his job, or he'd mucked up again. Perhaps he was on the cider. "This isn't—where's my—my good cloak? My ceremonial mail?"

"Oh, you won't be needing it." The corners of Merlin's mouth twitched, threatening another smile.

"Quit fooling around, Merlin!" Arthur lobbed the clothes back at the younger man—he could hear the stocks calling the idiot's name, and it wasn't even noon. "I've a feast to attend in eight hours, and you are not helping—!"

"Oh, the feast was cancelled."

Arthur stopped short. "What?"

"The feast," Merlin repeated, handing the clothes back to him. "It was cancelled."

"It can't have gotten!" Arthur yanked the garments from the other's hands, and dropped them in a heap on the wrinkled sheets before he clambered from the bed to look Merlin full in the face. "That feast was weeks in the planning! How on earth—?"

"I said we should cancel it." Merlin knelt to grab a few dirty tunics up from the floor, and stuffed them hurriedly in the laundry basket before he straightened up and grinned at Arthur. "Gwen agreed with me."

"Don't—don't be ridiculous, Merlin," Arthur sputtered—idiot really was on the cider, then. There was just no other explanation. "You're a servant. You can't just walk right up to the queen and say you think a feast should be cancelled, and—"

"But I wasn't speaking as a servant." Suddenly, Merlin wasn't smiling anymore—there was a strange, steely, steady sort of look in his eyes, and a tight, grim set to his mouth. "I was speaking as a friend."

And Arthur—

—Arthur didn't have anything to say to that.

No, actually, he had about a thousand things to say to that, starting with don't be an idiot, Merlin and maybe a we aren't friends from there, perhaps a stop being such a girl for good measure—but the words wouldn't come, sticking somewhere in the back of his throat, so he just stood there, like an utter fool, silent and still and stupidly blinking at Merlin.

"You've not been yourself lately, Arthur." Merlin hefted the basket up from the floor and set it on the edge of the bed, bracing a hand on either side to steady it. "Gwen's beginning to worry about you." He lifted his head, and locked eyes with the king. "We all are."

Arthur's face burned, mouth going dry—a furious heat blazed in his cheeks, skin scorching all the way up to his ears and down to his neck—in the vivid glow of the new dawn, there was no way Merlin didn't see the flush—how had the man noticed? How had any of them noticed? He'd done everything he could to ensure they didn't notice—done everything he could to keep his burdens to himself—to let them see would be to weigh them down—and they had all already carried so much for him—and they had all, it seemed, decided to bear still more, and it was suddenly near impossible to swallow.

"We all know this has been hard for you, Arthur," Merlin left the basket, tottering unsteadily on the edge of the bed, and took several steps closer to the king. "And we know why. We just—" he hesitated, biting down, hard, on his bottom lip. "We just wanted," he said at last, "to make things a bit easier on you."

"S-so—" Arthur finally forced himself to speak, but stumbled all the same over the words. Gods, he sounded like a—like a dollophead. "—so, the feast, it's—?"

"Cancelled," Merlin finished—a tentative smile half-tugged at the corner of his lip. "But you've still got a bit of a day ahead of you, Sire, so I'd suggest you get dressed for it." He gestured to the clothes, still scattered untidily on the unmade bed.

Logic said Arthur should probably be furious right about now—should probably order Merlin down to the stocks, if he was feeling merciful enough, and the dungeons if he wasn't—put the servant in his place, then call the feast back on—logic said he should set everything to rights—logic said he should be angry—but—oh, hell—

"Th-thank you, Merlin."

And then, like the absolute girl he was, Merlin just had to go and beam at him like he'd set the stars in the sky with his own two hands—Arthur rolled his eyes and huffed, and hoped with everything inside him that Merlin did not notice the flush returning to his cheeks—change of topic, change of topic—quick, before the idiot tried to turn things sappy—

"Where has Guinevere got to, by the way?" He grabbed the clothes up off the bed, quietly grateful for something to do with his hands, and stepped behind the dressing screen—he stripped off his trousers, and flung them over the top of the screen, biting back a grin at the sound of Merlin's furious "Just hand it to me, you prat!" from the other side.

"I told you," Merlin huffed, then coughed a little, boots slapping across the stone floor as he presumably gathered up the discarded shirt. "Waiting for us."

"Yes, you mentioned that, Merlin," Arthur rolled his eyes again, even though Merlin couldn't see him, and pulled on the fresh tunic. "But since you won't get it any other way, I suppose I'll spell it out for you – I didn't ask you what she was doing, I asked you where she was." He tugged on the breeches.

"Oh! No, I can't tell you that bit," Merlin replied, which was extremely far from reassuring. "But you'd best hurry up, if you don't want to keep her waiting." He coughed again, a bit quieter this time—from the sound of things, he tried, without much success, to muffle it behind his hand.

"Merlin," Arthur emerged from behind the dressing screen with a frown, "you can't just cancel an entire feast and make off with my queen and—"

"I didn't 'make off' with your queen!" Merlin broke in, the picture of indignation. "Gwaine did!"

"Do you—do you hear yourself?!"

"No, no, she's with the others, too!" Merlin added hastily, waving his hands wildly at Arthur, palms out, as though trying to calm an agitated horse. "Elyan and Leon and—" He snapped his mouth shut. "…you were not supposed to know all that yet."

"Merlin," Arthur raised his eyebrows, suspicion taking hold, "what are you up to?"

"Nothing!" Merlin dropped his hands back to his sides and flashed a bright smile, but the sheen of nervous sweat on his forehead belied him.

"Keeping secrets from your king is treason, Merlin," Arthur reminded him—and yes, he was using what Gwaine would call his "princess" voice, which it absolutely wasn't, thank you very much.

Merlin's grin faltered a little. "I—I am an open book, Sire."

"Good, so you can tell me exactly why you've got my knights and my queen waiting for me at an undisclosed location. And run and fetch my breakfast while you're at it," Arthur added, upon further thought. "Honestly, you can't expect me to put up with you on an empty stomach."

Merlin didn't move. "Actually, breakfast is—"

"Wait, let me guess," Arthur held up a hand to silence him. "Breakfast is waiting for us, too."

"You're catching on." In spite of everything, the corners of Merlin's lips began to twitch. "Never thought this day would come."

"Insulting your king is also treason."

"Existing is treason," Merlin muttered under his breath—ever exaggerating—and headed for the door, throwing an expectant glance at Arthur over his shoulder. "Come on, let's go. They'll get to wondering where we are if we don't show up soon."

"I give the orders, Merlin," Arthur reminded him, and stayed exactly where he was.

"Right, well, then, think of it this way," Merlin said. "The quicker you get there, the quicker you get breakfast."

"Threatening to starve your king? Also treason."

"Oh, trust me," Merlin cast a deliberate glance toward Arthur's middle, "my king is in no danger of starving."

"Merlin—!"

He didn't even get to finish his sentence before the idiot threw open the door and flung himself bodily through the gap. He tore down the corridor like hell itself nipped at his heels, so Arthur did the sensible, rational, mature, kingly thing—

—and chased after him.

Forget the stocks, Arthur decided, as his pulse picked up speed at the sudden exertion—a few hours of discomfort and rotten vegetables was far too kind a sentence—not even the dungeons were good enough at this point—he rounded the corner, and thundered down the next three flights of stairs without pause—sheer luck kept Merlin's gangly, long-limbed figure always just out of his reach, because no way had the idiot somehow gotten faster than him without his notice, no bloody way—round another bend, and Arthur realized, a second too late, just where Merlin was taking him—he stumbled, tried to stop—finally brought himself to a clumsy, skidding halt, there in the middle of the entrance hall—and he had to grab onto the banister behind him to keep upright—outside the open double doors at the other end of the hall, he caught half a glimpse of the horses, tacked up and ready—his own, spirited snow-white mare, tossing her head and snorting haughtily—next to her, Merlin's docile chestnut nag nickered softly and flicked her tail—the idiot had planned all this, hadn't he? And that same idiot had all but collapsed beside the horses, bursting into a furious fit of deep, hacking coughs—even from this distance, Arthur could see how the force of them shook his skinny frame, and he rolled his eyes heavenward.

"Honestly, Merlin," he called, and let go of the banister. He crossed the entrance hall, striding out into the sun. "That was barely a sprint, and if that's all it took to take you down, maybe I ought to have you run a few drills in training tomorrow with the knights—"

"No, no!" Merlin interrupted, and hastily straightened up, fixing on a sunny grin. "No, no, nope, no training needed here. Absolutely not." He shook his head emphatically, and glanced to the horses. "You know, Sire, since we're already out here, and," he gestured to the mounts, "the stable-hand has already gone to all this trouble of saddling up our horses for us, and it's such a beautiful day—"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur said flatly, and held up a hand for silence—he just—he just needed a moment to think—if Merlin could just give him a moment—gods, the idiot really had planned all this—and he'd actually done a halfway decent job keeping it quiet—until this morning, Arthur hadn't had the faintest inkling—and damn it if he wasn't curious now as to what lay ahead—besides, best way out was straight through, and all of that. Gods knew the imbecile wouldn't rest until he'd gotten what he wanted.

"Well," Arthur drew himself up and started down the steps, breezing past Merlin and hauling himself up onto his horse in hardly half a moment, "come on, then. Don't just stand there looking like a startled stoat."

Merlin beamed, and scrambled onto his horse, a bumbling gawky jumble of messy dark hair and limbs too long for his body—when he'd pulled himself up, he cast another glance at Arthur, glowing smile still fixed on his face.

Arthur rolled his eyes, and tried very hard to pretend he hadn't noticed, as he gave his mare a nudge in the flank with the heel of his boot, and she broke into a trot out of the courtyard—the clop of hooves on the cobblestone behind him said Merlin was following close behind. As he always was.

"Where to?" Arthur glanced over his shoulder, only for a moment, as they rode through the arch marking the boundary of the courtyard. "Don't tell me this is some wild goose chase you've set me on, Merlin," he added warningly when the man hesitated.

"No, no, it's not that," Merlin's lips twitched up into another grin—how he had the energy for so many of them, and before breakfast, even, Arthur would never know. "Just—through here." He tugged lightly at the reins, pulling a pace ahead of Arthur, and guided his mount toward the woods, the trees' bare autumn branches, stark against the silver dawn sky, swaying and bowing in the strong morning wind.

Oh. Arthur brightened a bit, and sat up a little straighter in the saddle—the woods, yes, now that was a worthy destination. The thought of the loamy green depths awaiting them brought a grin to his face—already, he could feel the sun on his skin, its bright warmth beaming down through dense, ashen clouds—could smell the soil, sodden from the week's heavy rains—could hear the cheerful trills of nearby birds—the sharp cracks of fallen twigs and branches snapping underfoot—if Merlin had just told him up front this was where they'd be going—the moment they entered the ostensible shelter of the naked trees, leafless limbs arching high up over their heads, Arthur couldn't help it anymore—he laughed, full and bright and real, for the first time in what felt suddenly like years, and threw his mare into a gallop, and didn't even care about the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Merlin's lip.

Under these open skies, the formalities and the ceremonies, the titles, the customs, the tired, too-old conventions of the court seemed a distant dream, back within the castle's walls. Out here, in the golden glow of the newly-risen sun, the weight of the world's expectations left his shoulders, and he remembered how to breathe. Out here, no one looked to him for answers. Out here, no one needed him to be the king. Out here, he was just Arthur.

Fallen leaves crunched and crackled under the horses' hooves, the only sound as they wended their way through the trees—the mounts plodded leisurely along the path for nearly half an hour, and Arthur was just beginning to suspect that the idiot had gone and gotten them lost when—

"We're here!" Merlin hauled on his reins until his horse halted.

Arthur frowned and drew even with Merlin, gazing round the decidedly empty patch of forest he'd seen fit to stop in. "There's nothing here."

"Oh! Just beyond those trees," Merlin nodded at a thick clump of sturdy-looking beeches. "But we'd best leave the horses here." He swung himself out of the saddle, and staggered when he hit the ground—stumbled so bad he nearly fell, and had to press a hand to his nag's side to keep his feet.

Arthur snorted and quit his own saddle, with far more finesse. "Graceful as always, Merlin." Actually, not as always—not now that he stopped to think about it, even Merlin, clumsy as he was, had mastered the art of getting off a horse since he'd come to Camelot, and it was honestly rare to see him blunder about like that upon dismounting nowadays.

"Just one of my many gifts," Merlin grinned, and straightened back up to his full height. He set off through the trees a moment later—still a bit off-balance, if the slight, sudden lurch to the left was anything to go by.

Arthur followed after him—had to be near enough to tease if the idiot fell, after all—and swatted aside a few low-hanging branches, brushing and scratching at the unprotected skin of his face. He stepped nimbly over a tree root that sent Merlin sprawling—Arthur reached out and caught him, on instinct, by the upper arm before he could strike the ground, and righted him.

"What is wrong with you today?" Arthur demanded—the minute he took his hand away, the man swayed like a tearing tree in a fierce gale, and Arthur reflexively grabbed at him again, catching his shoulder this time, to steady him. "Even you've gotten the hang of putting one foot in front of the other by this time, haven't you?"

"Ah, s-sorry, Sire," Merlin smiled again, but something in it seemed a bit forced this time. "Dizzy."

"Dizzy?" Arthur couldn't keep back a snort. "Not going to swoon like a maiden on me, are you, Merlin? Perhaps you need to go to the fainting couch before you dirty your petticoat?"

Merlin's cheeks colored. "Maybe if you weren't such a prat—"

"Come on," Arthur cut him off, choking back another laugh at the indignant look on his face—gods, he hadn't gotten the chance to get the man this riled up in weeks, Merlin had seemed so distracted lately, "I'd like to get this over with today, you know."

"We would already be there by now if you hadn't insisted on putting up such a fuss," Merlin said, a touch testily.

"I didn't put up a fuss, you told me Gwaine had 'made off' with Guinevere because you can't explain things to save your life," Arthur reminded him, and checked that Merlin was steady on his feet before letting him go.

Arthur turned away from Merlin and plunged into the trees—if the crinkle of leaves beneath thin, worn boots was anything to go by, the idiot was right on his heels, but he didn't bother to glance back to be sure. Just up ahead, the trees thinned—several gaps appeared amongst the sturdy trunks and—oh, finally—at least now he could finally get to the bottom of all this—he put on a fresh spurt of speed, and stepped out at last beyond the final beech.

Before him stretched a glade, small but beautiful, ringed all round by more of the towering, bare-branched beeches, and the ground a carpet of colorful leaves—a bit farther on rushed a stream, clear cool water splashing persistently over the worn, wet stones, gleaming under the bright, full sun—and there, in the center of the glade, with a few wicker baskets set down beside them, on a thick scarlet quilt that must have come from the palace, and bright, beaming smiles wreathed on every warm, familiar face—

"HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!"

There was no unity to the sound, absolutely none at all—Percival's deep, rumbling tones, Guinevere's sweet, clear pitch, Leon's solemn timbre, Gwaine's playful inflection, Elyan's composed but cheerful call—it was all horribly discordant and glaringly inharmonious, and the moment they were through, they, all of them, every single one, fell about laughing as if they simply couldn't stop themselves—even the ever-serious Leon cracked a grin, and Gwen pressed her hands to her mouth to quiet her giggles—

Arthur stood, struck dumb, frozen in every limb, on the edge of the glade, staring round at the knights and lady gathered on the quilt—they'd all—had they all—had they all really—?

"I think the polite thing would be to join them."

Arthur startled—he hadn't heard Merlin come up behind him—then spun round to face his grinning servant. "You—you all—?" He swallowed, hard, around the sudden block in his throat. "For—for me—?" Oh, gods forbid, but Merlin must be rubbing off on him. He was turning into an absolute girl.

"Yeah." Merlin managed, somehow, to make the single word count more than a thousand courtly speeches. "For you." His smile turned a touch softer at the edges.

"You were all in on this?" Arthur turned to survey the others—Leon and Elyan passing around skins of water and pitchers of wine while Gwaine and Percival got into some quarrel or other over a picnic basket and Guinevere, his beautiful Guinevere, shook her head and smiled fondly at them—all of them, every last one of them, they were here, they were all here, and gods, they had cancelled a feast for him, gone mucking about in the forest before sunrise for him, just to try and make him happy—

"Ooh, very good, Sire. Nothing gets past you, does it?"

Arthur didn't look at him, didn't want to tear his eyes from the party gathered on the quilt, but he could hear the smile in Merlin's voice all the same.

"Shut up, Merlin," he murmured, half to himself.

"Come on, Princess!" Gwaine called, from his place half-wrapped around the picnic basket to stop Percival getting to it—Arthur really didn't want to know the story behind it, to be honest. "Let's cut the chit-chat and get to the part where we eat!"

"Eloquent as always, Gwaine."

"'Course," Gwaine shook out his hair, and shot Elyan a broad grin. "Part of the charm, and all."

"No, Gwaine's got a point," Merlin spoke up. "We all know what Arthur's like when he's not had his breakfast."

"Shut up, Merlin!"

Guinevere laughed—laughed! Arthur stung with the betrayal—and shifted to make room for her husband and Merlin. "Come on, you two. Cook absolutely outdid herself, it's wonderful."

When Arthur had taken the seat on the quilt beside her, she added, under her breath, "It was all Merlin's idea, really." She shot the man in question a glowing look as she spoke, brown eyes bright and warm. "He came up with everything."

"Merlin?" Arthur repeated doubtfully, and raised his eyebrows, following Guinevere's gaze to throw Merlin a glance of his own—the fool wasn't even looking at them, had already begun laughing with Gwaine at something or other—one of their inside jokes, Arthur suspected, with a slight pang of something like hurt—gods knew the two of them had a lot of those, especially in recent weeks—

Wait.

Inside jokes—recent weeks—inside jokes—recent weeks—oh, gods, Arthur was an idiot. The inside jokes weren't inside jokes. And the strange disappearances—those ones that only lasted mere minutes and left Merlin with a huge, stupid grin, and wasn't he always trying to deny—? And the swift, stolen glances Guinevere and the knights had been giving him all week when they thought he wasn't looking, when they thought he wouldn't see—the secret smiles—the stifled laughter, the conversations held in hushed whispers down deserted corridors, the ones that ceased the instant he appeared and he told himself that he didn't need to know every bit of idle gossip his servant and soldiers and queen saw fit to discuss without him and—

Merlin had not been excluding him at all.

Arthur turned, sharply, to face Merlin. "This—this is—" He swept his gaze over Gwaine and Percival then, too. "This is what you've been keeping from me, isn't it? All of you!" He twisted to look at Leon and Elyan as well. "This is what's got you all acting so strange!" He came back around to Guinevere.

"Oh, well done, Arthur," Merlin said, in the tone of one teaching a small child, and swiveled away from Gwaine to look him full in the face. "You are officially—mm—let's say—one-sixteenth less the oblivious clotpole I thought you were. Excellent job, Sire. Percival, I owe you a shilling."

Elyan snorted into his drink, and tried valiantly to pass it off as a cough.

Arthur flushed. "Don't go getting any ideas, Merlin, just because you're halfway decent at keeping one little secret—!"

Merlin laughed at this, a little harder than Arthur thought the comment strictly warranted. "Oh, you have no idea, Sire."

"Oh, go on, Merlin," Gwaine nudged the man in the ribs, "you haven't even shown him the best part yet." He unwrapped himself from the picnic basket, and pushed it toward Merlin with a grunt.

"Oh," Merlin's smile got, if possible, even bigger, and he hauled the basket up onto his knee at once, flipped back the lid, reached in with both hands and—

—and pulled out an entire cake. With icing.

Arthur closed his eyes. "Merlin." He opened them again. The cake was still there.

"Sire?"

"There—" Arthur blinked. No. The cake was definitely still there. Definitely. "There's a cake."

"Well spotted, Sire."

"Merlin!" He whipped round to glare at his servant. "You can't just—just go into the kitchens, and steal an entire cake!"

"No, no, no, I didn't!" Merlin threw up his hands in an obvious effort to placate Arthur. "See, Gwaine helped, so technically, we each stole half a cake, and—!"

Percival clamped a hand to his mouth to muffle his snickers. Gwaine looked like someone had bought the Rising Sun in his name.

"—and it's your favorite, too, so you should really go on and tuck in, and I can't give it back now, anyway, because then the cook will know it was us, and she'll kill me—she can't do anything to Gwaine, but I'm not a knight, there's nothing stopping her from having a go at me, and you've seen how she can get with that ladle of hers—"

"Merlin?" Arthur raised a hand.

Merlin sputtered to an uneasy stop, and muffled a cough into his palm.

"Are you going to prattle on all day, or are you going to let somebody cut the cake at some point?"

Merlin dropped his hand from his mouth to reveal a beam.

"Why—?" Arthur felt his face turning a little red as Merlin dumped the clumsily-wrapped, slightly lumpy parcel unceremoniously down into his lap. "Why did you lot get me gifts?"

"One gift," Gwaine corrected. "We don't like you that much, Princess. 'Sides, it was all Merlin."

"No, it was not all Merlin, it was everyone. You all helped," Merlin said, whipping round to frown at the knight—he swayed a second or two, shaking and unsteady on his feet-Arthur remembered, with a stab of something like concern, that he'd said he was dizzy earlier—he wondered if Merlin had actually eaten anything with the rest of them—now that he thought about it, he distinctly remembered the man waving away a proffered slice of cake, saying he wasn't hungry—

"Gwen and I helped," Elyan corrected fiercely, pulling Arthur from his thoughts. "The rest of you lot sat around and gossiped. Like old maids."

Leon and Percival had the grace to blush. Gwaine did not.

"What are you waiting for?" He demanded of Arthur, and gestured impatiently at the parcel. "Open it!"

Arthur hesitated a second longer, then slowly undid the wrappings—something thin and supple rolled lazily out of the paper and twine trappings, a rich earthy brown in color—there was a faint sort of gleam at one end of it—a dragon, wrought in gold, a perfect match to the Pendragon emblem—

"A sheath," Merlin said, slightly apprehensively. "For—for Excalibur." He coughed, and motioned to the ornate sword hanging at Arthur's hip. "We—we thought you might like—?"

"It's incredible," Arthur breathed, running his fingers lightly over the fine leather, too full of wonder to mind much else, "it's—I—wow."

Somewhere above him, Guinevere laughed.

"I—" Arthur tore his eyes from the beautiful sheath, and lifted his head to look at Merlin. "Thank you."

Merlin's answering grin threatened to split his face clean in two. "Elyan and Gwen really did most of it, they're much better with leather than I am, it wouldn't have gotten done without them."

Arthur sent the two of them a small, grateful smile, and a quick nod of thanks. "It's incredible," he repeated, more for Guinevere's benefit than Elyan's, and he was rewarded when she smiled back, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of rosy pink at the praise.

"Oi!" And a grape struck Arthur square on the forehead—burst, with a loud, thoroughly unpleasant sort of squelching noise, sticky juice streaking down his temple, trickling over his cheek and all the way to his chin.

He sputtered, in what Merlin would probably have called a most un-kingly fashion, and scrubbed furiously at the syrupy liquid with the back of his hand. He didn't need to look round to see who the culprit had been. "Gwaine!"

"Well," the man sounded entirely unrepentant, "are you going to actually use the sheath, or are you just gonna stare at it some more?"

Arthur wiped the last of the juice from his face. "I don't know, let's see how I feel after we've come back to Camelot, and you've served some time on night patrol." He snapped up an abandoned cherry off a nearby plate, lobbed it at Gwaine in retaliation, and allowed himself a grin when it hit its target—he never missed.

Gwaine let out a cry of dismay as the cherry hit his head and exploded in a gummy mess of sweet red liquid running down his dark hair in a steady cascade. He raked his fingers frantically through the shaggy, stylishly-unkempt strands in vain, amid gales of uproarious laughter from the other knights, and stifled snickers from Merlin and Guinevere.

He flicked his head up again to toss a glare at Arthur. "Princess, you asked for it!"

A second later, a whole wedge of cheese had gone soaring through the air straight for Arthur, and he ducked on instinct to avoid the projectile. It landed, with a solid thunk, on the plate he'd nicked the cherry off.

"Hey, hey, no, Gwaine! What are you thinking, honestly, somebody could get seriously hurt—?!"

Arthur grabbed up a bread roll to even the score, and Sir Leon's concerns went decidedly unheard.

"Come on, you lot can do better than that!" Arthur called over his shoulder, and nudged his mare lightly in the flank with the heel of his boot, urging her on to greater speeds—the wind rushing into his face with the speed of a crossbow bolt ripped the breath from his lungs, and a loud laugh from somewhere in his chest—behind him, he could make out the thump of hoofbeats, the others hot on his tail, Merlin's old, slow nag undoubtedly bringing up the rear.

"You got a head start, Princess!" squawked the ever-competitive Gwaine, over the roar of the wind in his ears.

Arthur laughed again, and tossed a glance back at the others. Gwaine's hair, a bit of cherry juice and icing off the cake still smeared in it, much to the knight's obvious chagrin, was the first thing he could make out, and he stifled another grin at the sight—a bit farther back, he saw the rest of their party, Percival's broad bare shoulders easily visible through the sun-dappled trees, closely followed Leon's ginger-blond curls with Guinevere's rough cotton lavender dress in place of the rich silken finery she wore at court nowadays and Elyan's stocky shape half a pace behind, and Merlin—

—Merlin—?

Arthur spun round and jerked roughly on the reins—his mare, ever-faithful, stopped dead at once, smack in the middle of the path—he twisted in the saddle, seeking the dark-haired head, the worn brown jacket, the ratty red scarf—

"Where—" he nearly fell clean off his mount, and hastily steadied himself. "Where's Merlin got off to?"

Gwaine pulled up short. "What? He's right there, he's just past—" he glanced over his shoulder. "—just past Percy—" The rest of his sentence died unspoken, whatever it might have been, when he spotted the glaring lack of cheeky, badly-dressed manservant. "Hey, has—" he cleared his throat and raised his voice by a fraction, winding the thick leather reins absently round his fingers, "—has anyone seen Merlin?"

"Not since that stream back there," Guinevere called back. "He slowed down just before we cleared it, I think the race tired out the poor horse."

Arthur snorted. "Or the idiot got himself lost," All the same, he swung himself from the saddle, fisted a hand around the reins, and headed back the way they'd come, his steed nickering behind him with every step. "Right, I'll go and fetch him."

"We all ought to head back, really," Guinevere said, and slid smoothly from her steed as well. "If we want to get back to the castle by nightfall."

A second later, and the knights slipped from their saddles too, a faint murmur of assent rippling through the armored party like a wave, as they set off through the cool woods, withered leaves crunching under heavy boots and shod hooves—Arthur heard the stream before he saw it, the merry babble and gurgle of water lapping over wet stones, and he quickened his pace, a brisk, straight-backed stride through the leafless, close-growing trees—if he went quick enough, and quiet enough, he could sneak up on the idiot, give him a good scare—Merlin had this funny little screech he always did every time someone startled him, and no, Guinevere, it was not mean to laugh at him and call him a girl about it, honestly, had she ever heard the noise before, it sounded like—

Arthur cleared the final line of the trees at last, and Merlin came into his view. Except—except something wasn't right—

On hands and knees in the mud beside his chestnut mount, skinny shoulders shaking something awful under his too-big brown jacket, hands white against the dark, rich earth, a glistening line of sticky sweat streaming down his temple, pale cheeks gone red as cherries, with sick pouring from his half-open mouth in a vile, yellow-white surge—

"Merlin!"

Icy fear ripped through Arthur, sharper than an enemy's blade, and he bolted across to the bank, went to his knees beside Merlin, vaguely aware of the others thundering after him—he put a hesitant hand on one of the servant's trembling shoulders, rubbing small circles in the bony back. It seemed to take an age for the bout to pass, for the flow of sick to cease—Merlin remained, bent double, for several moments, his face inches from the leaf-strewn ground, his breath a harsh, rattling gasp in his throat.

"Gods, Merlin," Arthur whispered, "what is wrong with you?" The instant the words left his mouth, he winced—that was a terrible way to put it, that was a really terrible way to put it.

"N-nothing," Merlin shot back up, hastily uncurling from the tight ball he'd crushed his shaking body into. "Nothing, I'm f-fine." He scrubbed at a line of sick clinging to the corner of his mouth, and smiled at Arthur, actually smiled at him, with bile on his lips and dark shadows, like bruises, beneath slightly glassy eyes. "S-sorry, guess I just—uh—ate something bad, thought the strawberries tasted a bit funny—"

"You look like hell." Gwaine sounded about as incredulous as Arthur felt. "Look at yourself, mate, you look sick."

"What?" Merlin managed a laugh, even, but something, or maybe everything, in it sounded painfully forced. "Don't be ridiculous, Gwaine, I'm fine—"

Guinevere's smooth brown hand found Merlin's forehead, pushing aside the dark fringe to place her palm flat to the skin beneath. "Merlin!" Her eyes widened. "You've a fever, you're burning up!"

No, no, that didn't make any sense, that didn't make any sense at all, how could he have gotten that sick so quickly—? Unless—a block of ice seemed to form and freeze in Arthur's stomach, frigid and heavy—unless he'd been like this all day—

"N-no," Merlin sat up on his knees, and knocked her hand aside with one of his own. "No, I'm not, Gwen, you're feeling things, I'm fine—" He pushed himself to his feet and swayed alarmingly in place.

Arthur stood up, too, and seized Merlin's arm to stop him falling, and oh, gods, he'd said he was dizzy, hadn't he, he'd said he was dizzy, and he hadn't stopped coughing all day, and he hadn't eaten a damned thing, not even a bit of that cake he'd nicked from the kitchens, and gods knew you couldn't keep Merlin from cake, and why hadn't Arthur seen—? "Merlin, you idiot, why didn't you tell me you weren't well?!" Why didn't I realize, why didn't I see, he shouldn't have had to tell me because I should have paid attention, I should have realized, I should have seen—

Merlin snatched his arm from Arthur's grip with a glower. "I am well, Arthur! I'm fine!"

"Don't be stupid, Merlin!" Arthur snarled. "You look like you're about to collapse!"

"I'm—!" The words left his lips a weak sort of rasp—his voice had gone hoarse and scratchy, and sounded painful—he winced, and rubbed at his throat, fingers pale and trembling against the rough red cloth of his favorite scarf— "I'm—I'm fine—" he shuddered, and his stumbling, shaking legs crumpled under him, and he fell.

Arthur threw his arms out, on instinct, and caught his servant before he hit the ground, reflexively pulling the bony, shivering body closer to his own—Merlin's dark-haired head dropped down onto Arthur's chest, and he sank back to his knees to lessen the unexpected weight—the proximity should have embarrassed him, would have, if Merlin hadn't been shuddering so violently against him, he could swear the man was about to burst apart where he sat—Arthur couldn't stand it—he stripped the jacket from his own shoulders, and wrapped it round Merlin's gangly frame, over the worn brown layer he already had.

"I—I'm s-sorry, Arthur," Merlin said at last, in a small and shaky sort of voice Arthur had never heard from him before, and never wanted to hear again. "I was tr-trying to give you a good anniversary, a really good anniversary—" he pushed back, pushed away from Arthur, and weaved a little where he sat. By some miracle, he stayed upright. "—I know how h-hard today must be for you, and I thought I could t-take your mind off—" he swiped miserably at his nose. "—off all of it—" he slumped a little farther in on himself, and shuddered horribly, head turned down, face hidden. "—but I g-guess I kind of—" he didn't say it so much as he slurred it, every word running together, too garbled and jumbled to be called speech, "—guess I kind of r-ruined it, huh?"

Merlin barely got the last word off his lips before his skinny, shuddering body went limp, and he collapsed into Arthur's chest.

Arthur kind of lost it. A little. Maybe.

"You really are a complete idiot, aren't you, Merlin?!"

Right, so, maybe Arthur kind of lost it a lot, and maybe there was no kind of about it, and maybe Gwaine lost it, too, if the sudden string of obscenities aimed in his direction was anything to go on, but Arthur couldn't help it—Merlin had just—all limp and pale and sweaty and shaking—oh, gods, he looked awful—what on earth had he even been thinking—?

Arthur knew—of course he knew, there was no way for him to not know at this point—Arthur knew when it came to the two of them, Merlin had developed a bad—no, alarming was the right word, more than anything—all right, then, so Merlin had developed an alarming habit of putting himself second, and Arthur knew that, knew the man in front of him would drag himself through hell if he thought it'd make Arthur happy—he thought, again, for the thousandth time since it had happened, about the sight of the thin, still body, going stiff on the cold stone floor as the Dorocha's ice took hold—but this—sweating and sniffling and shaking fit to fly apart, his long limbs trembling under the strain, too weak and dizzy to even get off his knees, with a puddle of his own sick soaking slowly into the mud, and the sorrys spilling off him like rain—the idiot had pushed himself to complete collapse, and all he'd cared about was what this would mean for Arthur—ruined it, Merlin had said, I ruined it, like he actually believed that—like he actually believed he'd done something wrong, just by getting sick, like he actually—like he actually believed he'd let Arthur down—

If anyone, Arthur thought, and his grip tightened on Merlin's too-warm body, still slouched, boneless, against his chest, if anyone's let anyone down today, it's me, it's not Merlin, it's me—

"We—" he forced himself to raise his head. To look at the others. His voice, when he tried to speak, sounded very far away in his own ears. "We need to get him back to Camelot."

Merlin didn't wake.

In the time it took them to make it back to the city, his eyes stayed stubbornly closed, his body slack as a doll—Arthur had been almost grateful for it, at first—at least the awful shivers had stopped—now, as he stumbled up the steep stone steps to Gaius' chambers and half a pace behind Gwaine, and cradling the still, motionless form of his servant in his arms, he thought he'd rather have the trembling again, horrible as it was, over this unmoving, almost deathly calm.

Arthur lowered Merlin onto the first cot he saw, huffing a little as he released the weight—he'd scarcely gotten the man settled when Guinevere spoke up—

"Water," she said, clearly, "cold water, lots of it—"

Gwaine dashed off for the pump before she could say another word.

"Help me get his clothes off," she added, to Arthur, one hand already taking hold of the rough brown fabric of Merlin's jacket, "he's burning up with fever, we need to cool him down."

Arthur didn't even think to protest—it took a bit of maneuvering to work Merlin's skinny arms out of the overlarge sleeves, to unwind the red scarf from his neck, ease the sweat-drenched blue tunic over his head—

"—his boots," Guinevere nodded to Merlin's feet, "get his boots, his socks—"

Arthur dashed to the foot of the bed, fumbled with the tarnished silver buckles, gleaming against the brown cloth, but the cold metal didn't want to give—come on, come on, come on—gods, you'd think the man had done them up with magic—Arthur's searching fingers finally found the clasp, and he flicked it open, wrenched off the wretched boots—note to self, buy Merlin boots that are easier to undo—well, first, never let Merlin think he needs to push himself until he collapses ever again, then let's do something about the boots—as Arthur tugged off Merlin's socks, Gwaine came barreling back in the door, clutching two enormous, overflowing buckets by their large handles—

"Wonderful, Gwaine, thank you," Guinevere spared him a nod and a slightly harried smile. She plunged her own kerchief in one of the buckets, pausing only to wring it out before sponging down Merlin's brow and temple. "Arthur, grab a rag and get his chest," she didn't look away from Merlin's flushed face, "his stomach, his arms, his back, too, if you can, I don't think this will be enough."

Arthur discarded the boots on the floor and bolted to the opposite end of the room to seize one of Gaius' rags, moving so fast the cluttered chambers blurred around him—he made it back to Merlin's bedside in scarcely an instant, and soaked the rag in the bucket, as Guinevere had done—he didn't stop to draw out the excess, just put it to Merlin's chest, let the water run in rivulets out over the bare skin—

Merlin twitched, and flinched at the icy rain pouring over his naked torso, a soft moan escaping through his pale lips—"Don't be such a girl, Merlin," Arthur murmured, on instinct—Guinevere glanced up, her dark eyes sweeping the scene—

"Oh, thank goodness," a shred of the tension in her pretty features seeped out, "oh, thank goodness, he's reacting to the cold, that's—that's a good sign, that's a very good sign, keep it up, Arthur."

The faintest stirrings of relief pricked at Arthur, and he nodded, dabbing lightly at the exposed stomach and ribs as he worked his way down.

"Leon, Elyan," Guinevere called, gingerly wiping down Merlin's blazing red cheeks with her kerchief, "go into Gaius' cabinets, tell me if he has any astragalus root—big, erm, brown things, lots of limbs," she added, at the knights' perplexed looks. "Get some sage, too, and keep an eye out for echinacea, big pink flowers, petals have a sort of droop to them—"

Leon and Elyan shot over to the cupboards, ripping open the creaking doors and rummaging through with feverish intensity. In seconds, Elyan had pulled out a heavy, pale brown clump covered in what appeared to be copious amounts of coarse black hair, and Guinevere shot him a tired smile.

"Fantastic, Elyan, that's exactly what I'm looking for! Gwaine," she continued, "get a fire going, and put that other bucket over it, get the water hot—"

Gwaine snatched up the bucket and sloshed over to the dark hearth with no further prompting.

"—if we can get Merlin's fever down far enough to wake him, we can get him some astragalus tea," Guinevere explained, when Elyan raised his eyebrows. "It'll work wonders, Gaius uses it all the time."

Arthur hastily returned to his own work, redoubling his efforts on cooling Merlin down—he didn't know how long he stood there, swiping at the man's burning, fevered skin—it felt like hours—certainly long enough for Gwaine to get a good fire going in the grate, long enough for Elyan and Leon to start clearing up, for lack of anything else to do, Arthur supposed—but the flush receded at last from Merlin's thin face, and Guinevere gently cleared away the last line of sweat, still clinging doggedly to his temple, a smile curving her lovely lips, before she pressed her palm to his brow.

"His fever's come down," she revealed. "I think we've done all we can for the moment."

Arthur smiled—the first time since Merlin collapsed in his arms, and it was still scarcely more than a quirk at the corner of his mouth. At the memory of it—the weight of Merlin against his chest, the horrible rasping sound of his breath as it left his lungs, the rapid, uneven flutter of his lashes as his eyes fell closed, the scorching heat of his skin as the temperature took hold, his slurred and shaking voice as he whispered his fervent apologies—Arthur couldn't keep back a wince, and the smile slipped from his face like it had never been. He scrubbed a tired hand down his slightly sunburned face at the thought of it. "How long has he been like this? Do you know?"

Guinevere frowned, her small mouth twisting up as she thought. On any other day, Arthur wouldn't have been able to keep from leaning in and kissing her at the sight—he loved her "concentration" face—but Merlin's slow, labored breathing on the bed between them wouldn't let him forget the matter at hand.

"Well," she said at last, and slowly, "I don't know, but if I had to guess, I'd say he made himself far worse than he would be, if he hadn't been working quite so hard lately."

Working hard? Horrible, burning guilt seized Arthur, blazing in his veins, bubbling up like acid in his stomach, tongues of unchecked flame scorching through his chest, searing up his throat like bile. "I—I worked him too hard?" He looked to Guinevere, in the desperate hope that she might say otherwise. "Did I—did I make him—did I work him until he was—?" Bad enough that he hadn't noticed the state of his own servant until the idiot had passed out in front of him, but worse still to think he'd put Merlin in that state to start with.

"Oh, no! No, Arthur, no," Guinevere's eyes went round—she reached across the bed, and placed her warm hand over his. "That is absolutely not what I meant at all, I promise. I don't think," she worried her lip, "well, I don't think Merlin's exactly been doing the best job looking after himself since Gaius went away. He took on Gaius' work in addition to his own for you—"

Arthur nodded. He knew that.

"—and then he threw himself into all these preparations for your anniversary, and of course he couldn't tell you about that bit—" she tightened her grasp on Arthur's hand as she spoke.

In spite of her intentions, Arthur only felt the weight on his chest grow heavier with every word—he should have seen—how had he not—? How had he not seen—? Merlin had been running himself into the ground like this ever since Gaius had gone away—and Arthur had noticed it, hadn't he—had thought—oh, gods, he'd thought how impressive it was, that Merlin managed to keep up with Gaius' job as well as his own—impressive, yes, not concerning, not worrying, not far too large and heavy a workload for one man to carry—how had he not seen—?

"—but—but this wasn't your fault," Guinevere broke in, as though she could read his mind, and shook her dark-haired head, brown curls bouncing with the movement. "Not in the slightest. Merlin's been pushing himself far too hard for far too long now. I just—" she glanced at the motionless form of Merlin between them, and there was the slightest tremble at the corner of her mouth. "I just wish I'd realized it had gotten this bad."

"No, it wasn't your fault, Guinevere," Arthur said at once—he knew the shame in her voice too well, knew her too well, and the gravity of his own blame fell back a bit in the face of the burden she had no need, no right, to bear. He squeezed her hand, and pulled his mouth up in a smile when she met his eyes. "You had no way of knowing. Merlin wasn't exactly announcing it in the city square, was he?"

Guinevere's eyes still betrayed her guilt, but her lips twitched marginally. "Perhaps he hung a banner."

Arthur huffed out a short, quiet laugh. "Perhaps."

"Erm—?" Elyan wheeled around, away from the hairy brown root still lying on the table, to look at his sister, his dark eyes wide. "Do you know how Gaius makes the tea? Leon and I have just been—we've sort of—erm—" he gestured, helplessly, to the root.

Guinevere laughed then, too, one hand jumping to her mouth to cover the sound. "Oh—oh, yes, I'm sorry," she gave Arthur's hand one last squeeze before leaving the bedside to join Elyan at the table. "Here, I'll show you…"

Merlin barely opened his eyes when Guinevere roused him to give him the tea—the fever had waned significantly, but Arthur still didn't think he was entirely lucid—he all but poured the tea down Merlin's throat himself, to the last drop, refused to let up until the cup had run completely dry.

Leaving was the absolute last thing he wanted to do just then—he owed this much to Merlin, at least, owed it to the man to stay with him until he'd finally woken—but there were, Guinevere and Leon reminded him, court matters to be taken care of, and nobles to be appeased, and Gwaine outright refused to leave Merlin's side for anything—he was in trustworthy, if not altogether capable, hands and Arthur must content himself with that—hours passed before he could return—the matins rang out before he made his way back to the physician's chambers, and he was briefly, intensely grateful to Guinevere, that she didn't try to stop him, didn't try to lead him to bed instead—perhaps she realized he wouldn't, couldn't, sleep until he'd made this right.

Gwaine put up a bit of a fight at first, but the shadows under his bloodshot eyes spoke for him, and he eventually took himself up to Merlin's room with, if not good grace, at least a less-than-courteous resignation.

Arthur sat in the chair his knight vacated, staring down into Merlin's still, sleeping face. Now that there was nothing left to do—no fever to fight or tea to brew, no speeches to give or crown to wear, no meetings to hold—now that he was on his own, he couldn't hide from the truth anymore—it stared back at him, silent and accusing and so terribly stark in the flickering light of the hearth fire, casting fleeting shadows over Merlin's sharp features.

Didn't the idiot know, didn't he realize, didn't he see that nothing, certainly not some stupid day on the calendar, a day that would be there next year, and the year after that, and the year after that, didn't Merlin see that nothing in the world would ever matter so much to Arthur that he would want his servant to drive himself to his limits? Didn't Merlin see, didn't Merlin realize—didn't he—didn't he realize—?

Maybe—and the guilt flooded back in like the ocean in a storm, rising in his chest like the tide, frothing furiously in his lungs—maybe he didn't. Maybe Merlin didn't realize, maybe he didn't know, because when had Arthur ever given him cause to think otherwise—when had Arthur ever—had he ever—had he ever—?

"A-Arthur?"

"Merlin!" Arthur startled, jerked, leapt from his seat—he lifted a hand, on instinct, to Merlin's bony back to steady him while he struggled to rise from the thin mattress. "How—?" He hesitated. "How are you feeling?"

Merlin's head bobbed up at once to look at him. A tiny frown twisted his mouth as he finally pushed himself upright. "I've had better," he said, hoarsely, after a second, and a small, tired smile found its way onto his face. "What happened?"

Arthur almost laughed. It would be easier, he reflected, to tell him what hadn't. "Guinevere brought your fever down. Some sort of tea, she says Gaius uses it often, she—" he broke off abruptly as he remembered, "—she said to give you some, if you woke, hang on—" he hurried to the table, where Gwaine had apparently left the kettle, and hastily poured a steaming cup—thin coils of vapor rose off the smooth amber surface as he offered it to Merlin. "Here."

Merlin eyed it warily. "It's astragalus root, isn't it." It wasn't a question.

"I take it you don't enjoy it."

"Not in the slightest."

"Well, I'm hardly going to face Guinevere's wrath just to spare your delicate sensibilities," Arthur motioned to the cup. "Drink."

Merlin scowled, but obligingly sipped.

Near-total silence reigned for the next several minutes, nothing but the crackle of the fire, and the reluctant Merlin unhappily drinking his tea—Arthur shifted slightly in his seat—tried not to look at him—

"I'm sorry," Merlin said at last—only, he didn't say the words so much as he whispered them into his tea—it was as if he half-hoped Arthur wouldn't hear them at all.

I'm sorry, Arthur—I was trying to give you a good anniversary, a really good anniversary—I guess I kind of ruined it—Arthur's stomach jolted unpleasantly. He didn't have to ask what Merlin meant—he already knew.

But it appeared Merlin didn't need him to ask. "Today—" His free hand fisted around the blankets slung over his legs. He ran his thumb over the fraying edge. "Today isn't really a day you want to remember all that much, is it? And—and I understand—I mean, I don't, no, I don't understand, that's—that's the wrong—I only meant—"

The point, Merlin, Arthur thought—had it been any other day, he would have said it, too—but this time—this time—he shut his mouth.

"—well, today just—" Merlin swallowed. "—just isn't a good day for you."

Arthur didn't bother to answer. Merlin would know it was the truth even if he denied it until his dying breath.

"But it's—it's not—it's not right," Merlin continued, haltingly—it occurred to Arthur, for the first time, that maybe this wasn't any easier on Merlin than it was on him. "It's not right because it's your anniversary, and you deserve to have at least one good memory of your anniversary—everyone does, but especially you—forget I said that," he added, sharply, when Arthur looked at him, "that bit will just go to your head—look, I—I just meant, everyone deserves to have a good memory of their anniversary, and I thought if you had a good one," he uncurled his fingers from around the blankets, and picked at the loose threads, "I th-thought if you had a good one, it might help with the badones."

Arthur swallowed hard—damn Merlin, he thought, blinking furiously, damn the stupid idiot, being so stupid and nice and loyal and trying so hard—trying so hard for me—

"But I—" Merlin pulled him from his thoughts, still gazing into his tea, "—I guess I ruined—" His cheeks colored. It was almost as if he caught himself in the act of saying something he shouldn't. "—I guess it didn't work."

—the shake in his shoulders and the flush in his cheeks and the shadows under his eyes and guess I kind of ruined it huh—

"Merlin," he said, and it was like he couldn't stop himself, "Merlin, look at me, you didn't ruin anything."

Merlin froze. His head snapped up.

"You did give me a good memory of my anniversary today—a really good one, if I'm being honest, the best one I've ever—don't look so pleased with yourself, you're still an idiot," he tacked on hastily, when Merlin began to grin. "Did you stop, even once, to think, hmm, maybe I should tell someone I'm so ill I'm going to swoon like a maiden—"

Merlin went pink to the tips of his overlarge ears. "I did not—!"

"—no, I bet you didn't, because you're an idiot," Arthur concluded, and sat down, heavily, in the chair by the bed again.

"I wasn't that ill. I wasn't!" Merlin added when Arthur raised his eyebrows incredulously. "Besides, it was your anniversary! What was I supposed to? Skip it? I don't think so! I'd been planning it for weeks!" He appeared so indignant at the very thought, Arthur almost laughed, and let him off the hook.

"Funny thing about anniversaries, Merlin," he schooled his features into the sternest scowl he could manage, "they're an annual thing. Suppose I should have known you haven't figured that out yet, I mean, I shouldn't expect that much from you—"

Merlin huffed, and opened his mouth to retort, so Arthur hastened on.

"—but my point is, the anniversary would have been there next year, Merlin. And the year after that. You shouldn't have ignored what you needed for what you thought I did."

Merlin bit his lip. "I just—" he shifted uncomfortably on the cot. "—I wanted to make sure you were all right—"

"Thank you for that," Arthur said sincerely. "Really. Thank you, Merlin. But you should have made sure you were all right first. My anniversary may not be my favorite day, but it is just a day, and you matter far more to me than any—" Oh, no, oh, gods, the stupid idiot was grinning like a loon, abort abort abort—

"You'reanidiotandyoushouldn'thavegonemuckingabouttheforestwhenyouweresickallrightnowgobacktosleepMerlinthankyou!"

Merlin sniggered, and took a sip of tea to hide it.

Arthur didn't stop to think—he grabbed the bottom of the teacup in Merlin's hands, and tipped it up until the liquid splashed over the man's face, and he sputtered, dripping the warm liquid all over the cot.

"Arthur!"

Arthur swallowed back the laugh bubbling in his throat, and reluctantly handed Merlin the nearest dry rag—Guinevere would have his head served for dinner tomorrow night if he didn't—Merlin scrubbed the residue off his face with a grimace, and swayed slightly, a tearing tree in a fierce gale—

"Merlin?" Arthur bit down, hard, on his bottom lip to hide the grin.

"Mm?" Merlin flung the tea-drenched rag into the nearest basket, and settled slowly back on the cot.

Arthur wondered, for a minute, if he might be going too far. Nope. "So I guess you did need the fainting couch after all."

"Oh, you ass—!"

#merlin #bbc merlin #emrys' grimoire

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