Archive of Our Own

Winter was knocking upon autumn’s door rather early this year it seemed. Impatient and intruding like a pestering neighbor who never knew when to leave well enough alone. Merlin curses it when he feels another icy cold breeze curl around his shoulders and slice into his bones like the blade of a sword. The temperature had dropped considerably since he, Arthur and the knights had first left Camelot that morning and Merlin wishes now more than ever he would’ve heeded Gaius's warnings and brought warmer clothes. Thankfully, he was wise enough to swap his usual tunics for the few he had saved that were made with thicker material and had less holes. Originally, he only did it to satisfy Gaius. But now he’s thinking he was rather grateful he had. But when that breeze picks up again and whirls around him teasingly, the thicker tunics do nothing and the measly fire he managed to conjure up does little to provide warmth as he pauses feeding it kindling to wrap his arms around himself.

The shiver that follows is a full body shiver and he can’t help but to collapse into his own lap as he groans and fights off the chill that threatens to take hold. His teeth chatter for a moment and the cold is enough for him to curse.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself, the curse word feeling rude falling from his lips but he can’t help it. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He glances up to make sure his string of bad language hadn’t gotten any unnecessary attention. And it hasn’t. The rest are too busy setting up camp and Merlin feels momentarily bad that they are all working hard tending to the horses, throwing together tents, and gathering wood as Merlin struggles to get more than a tiny flame up and going. He wishes he could give the little dancing flame some magical motivation. It taunts him at his feet, barely tall enough to produce any warmth at all and not seeming to take to the green kindling Merlin tries to encourage it with.

“C’mon,” Merlin whispers to it through clenched teeth as he braves sticking a hand out from under his warm diaphragm to feel any heat. “Stupid thing.”

He grabs some more kindling that Elyan had left him with and gently tosses it to the fire but it seems to have the opposite effect and the servant closes his eyes and counts to three. It doesn’t help that the damn wind picks up again and Merlin lets out a louder groan as he buries into himself. The chilly breeze doesn’t die down quick enough and his teeth chatter some more and Merlin feels like his bones have turned to ice before the cold air suddenly just stops.

Merlin’s eyes are closed in anguish but he flutters them open when he feels his back become engulfed in something so pleasantly and delightfully warm he thinks the heavens have answered his prayers for once.

He tilts his chin up, seeing the long edges of a red cloak falling all around him and he’s quick to dart his hands out and grasp the edges before bringing it tightly around himself, covering his front and legs as he cuddles into the warmth with such gratitude he lets out a sigh in relief.

His eyes fall closed again when he’s surrounded by such a feeling and he can’t even open them when he hears someone take a seat on the log beside him. “Thank you,” he practically purrs and the chuckle he receives instantly tells him it’s Percival.

“You’ll catch your death out here dressed like that,” the big knight chides gently and the way he says it makes it sound like he’s chewing on something. Merlin’s piqued interest causes his eyes to spring open and blink rapidly from the cold sting as he turns to Percival stiffly, the cloak wrapped all the way up and over his mouth so all the knight sees are big, blue eyes peering up at him intently.

Percival chuckles again and Merlin notices he’s got berries in the palm of his hand. The knight plucks one out and offers it to him with a small smile. Merlin darts out a hand and quickly squirrels the berry away within the cloak. His hand travels up from inside and plops it into his mouth.

“Thank you,” Merlin says again and Percival ends up giving him a few more if only to watch with amusement as the servant hides them away quickly so as to not allow any cold within his cloaked cocoon. Percival studies him with a quirked brow before saying, “your ears and nose are red. Where’s your wool blanket?”

Merlin makes a face, “I didn’t bring it. I wasn’t expecting it to be this cold.”

“Merlin,” Percival tsks and the servant sags at what sounds like the start of the lecture, “winter’s not far off. You should know better.”

Merlin vaguely thinks that sounds alot like something Gaius would say and that the old physician would be happy to hear his ward was getting an earful on his behalf. Percival had a knack for being surprisingly caring and attentive for his rather large and domineering size. His words and actions almost always counteracted his physical persona and Merlin wasn’t the least bit surprised to see it’d be him to catch Merlin shivering helplessly first and to respond accordingly by way of his rather strong sense of protective instincts. It was like an urge, Percival had said so himself, to tend to those who were lesser in size and strength than himself. Which, if you asked Merlin, meant almost everyone else in comparison to Percival. The knight stood as tall and sturdy as an old oak tree.

“When do I ever?” the servant jokes, a little smile peeking out from under the cloak and Percival rolls his eyes, nodding.

“How are you not cold?” Merlin questions, practically glaring at Percival’s exposed arms. They don’t even appear chilled. No goosebumps, or hair sticking up or anything.

Percival glances at his arms, munching a berry as he shrugs one shoulder, “some of us have meat on our bones.”

Merlin’s glare turns upwards and the big knight laughs lightly at his own joke, “call it meat if that’s what helps ya sleep at night.”

Percival’s lip forms an O as he teases the servant by acting impressed at the implication of being a ‘thick knight’ and puts his hands up, “I’ll probably sleep better than you not freezing to death.”

Merlin sighs, huddling down further into the cloak as he stares at the fire that finally seems to be growing though be it rather slowly. Percival laughs again, reaching out to ruffle the servant’s hair as he says,

“Don’t worry. You can keep my cloak for the night.”

As he gets up and walks away to help finish setting up camp, Merlin allows himself to smile a little.

The warmth in his chest has nothing to do with the cloak.

A little while later, Percival had found himself back at Merlin’s side, this time with more apt kindling and plenty of dried grass and leaves. He gets the fire roaring, much to Merlin’s relief who had yet to leave the confinement of the blessed cloak. They chat and tease and Percival ends up telling a story from his childhood before he suddenly feels the weight of something pressing into his bicep. He stops up suddenly, turning towards Merlin with a raised brow.

The servant had slumped over into him, his body rising and falling steadily from under the cloak still wrapped securely around him. He’s tucked far enough inside that Percival can only make out the tuft of black hair resting on his bicep as Merlin quite clearly sleeps. Percival snorts quietly, not surprised but entirely amused. Merlin had a questionable habit of falling asleep easily almost anywhere at any time. It was remarkable if not a little peculiar. Usually it was a skill even Arthur envied when they all found themselves sprawled out on the forest floor.

Percival remains still under Merlin’s weight, unaffected by the sudden cuddle as he fights off a grin and continues to remove the tiny limbs from the kindling in his hand. Clearly his childhood story mixed with the welcoming warmth of his cloak had been the perfect concoction to knock the servant out.

Merlin’s a fairly light sleeper but he doesn’t stir as his body tilts forward from the lack of support and Percival has to keep adjusting and gently push him back onto his shoulder so he’ll stay upright. Leave it to Merlin to fall asleep in the less than ideal circumstances.

Eventually Elyan walks by, more kindling in his arms and he stops up at the sight as he blows air through his teeth.

“Really?” He grouses, “the two of you get to doze off while the rest of us work?”

Percival shushes him quickly, looking peeved, “you’ll wake him.”

“Wouldn’t want to do that,” Elyan whispers back sarcastically, “then he’d have to help.”

“What’s the hold up?” Gwaine suddenly asks, stepping out of the bush behind Elyan with his own arm of firewood, “did Merlin get the fire going or-… oh. What happened?” He asks, brows pinched and Percival shakes his head.

“Nothing. He was freezing. Dimwit didn’t bring his blanket and then he fell asleep while we were talking.”

“Ah,” Gwaine chimes and then a mischievous glint begins to cultivate in his eyes as he slowly and quietly rolls the wood at his feet before stalking over to Merlin like a cat. “Let’s prank him.”

“Don’t you dare,” Percival hisses, his little kindling twig turning into a makeshift weapon as he lashes out at Gwaine on Merlin’s behalf.

Gwaine shies away, frowning, “aw c’mon. Don’t be such a mother hen.”

“Don’t be such a pest,” Percival argues back quietly. “He’s tired and cold. Go pick on Elyan.”

“Do not!” Elyan exclaims though be it still in a mindful whisper but Gwaine’s already turned his devilish eyes on him. Elyan’s quick, darting away like a spooked deer and for whatever reason, Gwaine gives chase. Their commotion grows louder once they’re a distance away and Percival watches with a smirk as they stumble into the rest clumsily. Lancelot and Leon merely look annoyed while Arthur raises his voice.

There’s a slight snort from his other side and Percival glances down at the top of Merlin’s head with a raised brow. “Have you been awake this whole time?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Thanks for protecting me.”

Percival grins, “I thought you were sleeping.”

Merlin simply shrugs against the large knight’s shoulder, refusing to lift his head and Percival imagines he’s smiling somewhere within the cloak.

“If you go back to sleep, Elyan may throw a fit.”

“Elyan can bugger off,” Merlin mumbles, “I’ve got a warm blanket and a good place to rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

Percival just laughs.

+

Leon falls sick with the first snowflakes of winter.

However, unlike the gleaming crystals that land upon the ground, Leon falls fast and hard. His condition is already critical by the time he’s outside Gaius’s door. His skin is pale, so pale, and clammy. His eyes are glossed over, red rimmed and half closed, as if the poor knight didn’t even have the energy to open them. His usually well kept hair is a tousled mess upon his head and the sweat from the night before has stained his worn tunic. He becomes the Court Physician’s top priority among a mess of sickness that ravages Camelot that winter.

“He’s burning up,” Gaius elucidates, tone clipped and lips drawn in a thin line as he shifts the cool palm that rests on Leon’s sweaty brow so that the old man’s wrist is at a heated temple. Gaius hums in thought.

Merlin stands beside him, a bowl of cool water in his hands with a rag half submerged. His eyes bounce between the sick knight and his mentor anxiously, “I’ve brought fresh water.”

Gaius heaves a low sigh as he rests back on the barrel he sits on. Merlin lowers the bowl to him and the old man makes work of ringing the rag of excess water before placing the cool material upon the knight’s forehead, dabbing along his brow and temple gently. Leon barely stirs but his face relaxes at the welcoming sensation.

Merlin licks his lips, “nothing seems to be working, Gaius,” he whispers to his mentor worriedly, “what are we to do?”

“Hush now,” Gaius tells him, eyes never leaving his patient, “he may be ill and delirious but he can still hear you.”

“He’s been feverish for three days,” Merlin continues, “we need to do more, get more-”

“We’re doing all we can, Merlin.”

“But it’s not enough.”

Gaius turns to him, eyes wide yet unseeing as he snaps, “you know as well as I that’s not true. There’s infection, deep in his lungs, I fear even enough simply won’t do. Only time will tell-” Gaius pauses to rise, his body creaking with age as he reaches up to poke a bony finger into Merlin’s chest, “-time and good faith. Take heart, my dear boy. Leon is strong and able bodied. You mustn't forget that.”

Gaius turns then, away from his pondering ward and back towards the ailing knight who lies with labored breaths on a cot in the middle of the small room. The cloth upon his head takes the heat of the fever rather quickly and Gaius crumples it up once more before dipping it back into the nearby bowl.

“Here,” he instructs Merlin, who's quick to take over and replace the cloth on Leon's forehead. “I’m afraid I must leave him in your care”

“What?” Merlin exclaims, cloth slipping down onto Leon’s face in his haste to turn to Gaius. The old man is quick to point it out and Merlin mutters an ‘oops’ before gently bringing the cloth back up to the knight’s forehead.

“What do you mean leave him in my care? Gaius, he needs you-”

“Everyone needs me right now, Merlin,” Gaius tells him amidst a sigh as he begins to gather up his herbs and tonics into his satchel, “Camelot is riddled in sickness and I’ve neglected the townspeople long enough. I have to tend to them.”

Merlin glances back at Leon when he hears the knight groan softly, twisting in his quilt and the warlock is quick to sooth his discomfort with shushing and a gentle press from the cold cloth. “But… Arthur would want you here. Leon’s his-... he’s his best knight, Arthur’s worried for him-”

“Arthur’s worried for his townspeople too. I’ve already discussed this with the King this morning. And it was agreed Leon will be left in your care.”

It sounds so finalized and that thought causes Merlin to huddle over Leon at his bedside, dabbing the cloth as his nervous blue eyes search the knight’s placid face, as if hoping Leon would spring up in bed and save Merlin from the great pressure of having to care for him in his time of need.

But Leon lays as still as the dead which frightens Merlin even more. Leon's deep, shaky breaths rattle his ribcage and his eyelids flutter at the discomfort the infection places in his chest. He seems so fragile like this, so meek. And Leon is a lot of things but weak is not one of them.

But Gaius leaves Merlin anyways, an encouraging hand on his shoulder as he assures his ward of the certainty he has in Merlin’s abilities. The servant thinks Gaius’s faith is misplaced, perhaps even selfishly so. The thoughts are quickly chased away when Leon seemingly comes back to life with a violent and lengthy round of coughing fits.

The knight is nearly gagging on his inability to cough up whatever it is that settles in his lungs and Merlin is quick to rush over to guide him into a sitting position and offer him a handkerchief that Leon feebly holds to his trembling lips. He hacks for what feels like far too long for the knight to not cough out his lungs and by the time the fit comes to an end he is spent ragged and moaning as Merlin lays him back onto his cot gently.

The servant takes the handkerchief, folding it and using the clean side to wipe Leon’s mouth before tossing it aside and grabbing a cup full of lukewarm water and holding it to the knight’s lips, a hand behind his head as he tilts Leon’s chin down so the water goes down the way it’s supposed to. Leon drinks, almost greedily and that causes him to splutter anyways, droplets falling to his bare chest and onto Merlin’s fingers as he sets the cup on the table and wipes at Leon’s mouth once more.

That’s when the knight turns his watery, tired eyes to the servant. They lack Leon’s usual lively glint, a dull gray where a noble blue once was and Merlin tries to offer him an encouraging smile.

“Hi,” he nearly whispers and his voice is breathless like he was the one spent.

Leon blinks sluggishly, his brows pinched in just the slightest as he regards the servant, “Merlin?”

“Yes. It’s me,” Merlin pauses before tacking on, “unfortunately.”

Leon raises a shaky brow before groaning as he attempts to sit up a bit more.

“No, you mustn’t,” Merlin stops him, “you’re very weak. You need to rest.”

“Is that not what I’ve been doing?” the knight questions wearily, voice ragged and chest heaving, “I’ve never been so idle in my life.”

Merlin smirks, palm covering Leon’s sweaty forehead, “first time for everything. What do you need? Tea? More blankets? Less blankets? A fluffed pillow? Gaius left some ivy-”

“Merlin,” Leon grumbles, eyes squinted shut as he grimaces, “I think I just-... I just need to sleep.”

“Right. Yes. Of course. You need rest.”

“I’m…. a bit chilled. Yet my body sweats.”

“That’d be the fever,” Merlin tells him simply before getting up from the knight's side. Leon watches through bleary eyes as the servant walks to the hearth where a fire roars and pulls a wool blanket hanging from a hook nearby. When Merlin returns, he places the heated blanket neatly over Leon’s body. The residue warmth that clings to the blanket from the fire instantly ignites Leon’s bones, engulfing him in a wonderful yet suffocating embrace. Leon sighs both from exhaustion and contentment.

Merlin takes a seat by the knight once more, attempting to regulate the fever with the cold cloth again. Leon’s eyes flutter shut at the soothing touch.

Once he’s fallen back into a restless sleep, Merlin is quick to get to work. Gaius will no doubt be busy from sun up til sun down with the sick villagers and it’ll be up to Merlin to make sure there’s enough medicine, food and fresh water to keep Leon one step ahead of whatever ailment had taken hold of him. Gaius could’ve been right in the sense enough simply might not do but Merlin would give more than enough to ensure Leon had a fighting chance.

He tends to Leon all day long and then well into the night. He alternates between stripping the knight of blankets and his tunic in order to lower the temperature of his body when Leon’s skin feels as though it’s seconds from bursting into flames. He redresses the knight into something soft and clean, wrapping him back up in Merlin’s own bedding when Leon shivers in the chilly air of the chambers.

Getting the knight to eat proves to be the most difficult.

“You’ve got to try, Leon,” Merlin insists, spoon touching the knight’s parched lips before Leon turns away.

“I fear I can not stomach it, Merlin.”

“It’s broth,” the servant assures him, “it won’t weigh heavy in your belly. Take sips.”

Leon grumbles in protest, shaking his head as if to rid it of its heat and aches but ultimately parts his lips for Merlin to pour a spoonful of the broth into his mouth. For a moment, it seems to go down well but when Merlin tries to pour in more, Leon is caught in a short coughing fit once more, spluttering and gurgling as he brings a shaky hand to his chest.

When the knight can breathe once more, he opens wet eyes to see Merlin still leaning into his space, spoon frozen midair and face scrunched and eyes closed under a coat of hacked up broth. It drips from his nose and chin and Leon is quick to put a hand over his own mouth.

“Merlin… I’m sorry, I-... I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine,” Merlin says quickly, grabbing a washcloth nearby and wiping his face clean, “don’t worry.”

“I do, though,” Leon sighs, eyes fluttering as he tries his best to stay awake and fluid, “I wouldn’t wish this illness on anyone. But especially not the likes of you.”

Merlin gives him a cheeky grin, holding the spoon back up to his mouth once more, “the likes of me, huh? You’re right. Arthur may be a little peeved if he’s deprived of his best servant any longer than necessary.”

Leon swallows the broth thickly, the action almost appearing painful as he shakes his head steadily, “not because of Arthur…. I don’t want you sick.”

Merlin frowns, blinking as he brings the spoon to Leon once more but the knight appears to be fading back into a feverish slumber as he falls back to his pillow, breath evening out. Before he passes out once more he repeats, “I.. don’t want… you sick.”

Days pass. How many, Merlin is unsure. Gaius comes and goes, briefly checking on Leon and applauding his ward’s good work but Merlin’s not sure what’s so good about it. Leon’s still deathly ill with little to no improvement and Merlin wonders how long the knight’s mind can go being so hot like that before his brains melt. He gets a visit from both Arthur and Guinevere. Arthur checks on his knight and Merlin can see the worry lines upon his brow. Gwen checks on Leon as well but she also places a gentle hand to Merlin’s warm cheek as she squats beside him at Leon’s cot.

“You should rest, Merlin,” she tells him softly, her voice like a gentle breeze in a room far too hot. Merlin shakes his head.

“He’ll wake soon and I need to make sure he has the tea. I’ve got honey in it and I think it helps.”

Gwen smiles sadly at him and grasps his face between her small, cool hands before turning him to face her, “you’re warm. Are you feeling alright?”

Merlin’s been so busy tending to Leon, being there at his side every drip of the candle wax that he hadn’t even given thought to how he was feeling. He was tired, that much he knew. Tired from lack of sleep and worry alike. From sleeping on a hard ground, close to Leon’s side, to being on his feet all day keeping up with tinctures and tonics for both Leon and the other patients Gaius was tending to in the villages. But tired was all he felt.

He tells Gwen this, patting her hands gently as he turns out of her grasp, “I’ll be fine. Once Leon’s back on his feet I’ll be able to catch up on some sleep before returning to Arthur.”

Gwen looks unconvinced as she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes flickering from the slumbering knight to Merlin once more. Eventually she leaves at Merlin’s insistent pleas that he’s fine, promising her he’d call for her if he began to feel any worse. He checks Leon’s forehead once more, feeling the fierce heat had seemingly dimmed at least a little in the last few days. He thinks closing his eyes for only a moment wouldn’t be so bad for anyone and tucks the warm blanket up under the knight’s chin before turning away to do just that.

There’s a warmth on his face, gentle yet heavy and Leon’s eyes scrunch up behind his lids before he attempts to open them. It’s hard to do so but not nearly as hard as it had been even just yesterday. When he’s able to open them half way he realizes the warmth on his face is the sunlight that had finally reached him from across the chambers, meaning it had to be around high noon. Leon groans, taking his hand and swiping down his face. He feels utterly disgusting. His skin is stiff with dried sweat and his hair is that of a bird’s nest on top of his head. The smell of sweat and lavender mix in a rather unpleasant concoction but he knows it’d be so much worse without the lavender and he mentally thanks Merlin for his attempt.

Leon’s able to push himself to his elbows, glancing around the room for the servant but unable to find him. That’s odd, for every time Leon did wake in the last week Merlin was always right there, seemingly never out of reach. The hearth beside his cot has gone completely cold, not even smoldering ashes remain and that tells Leon wherever Merlin went he’d been gone for quite some time. The still weary knight tosses his legs over the side of the cot, stripping his body of Merlin’s quilt and ready to search the chambers for the boy when his socked feet hit something solid on the floor. Leon’s startled to find Merlin, almost appearing collapsed had it not been for the thin blanket around his waist and bundled up jacket under his head for a makeshift pillow. The servant is breathing heavily and deeply, an even rhythm of a peaceful sleep which seems almost seems impossible given the boy is curled up on the hard wooden floor. It’s endearing yet incredibly heartbreaking and Leon cringes when he feels guilt strike him in his core. This poor boy had spent the last week dedicating all his waking hours to Leon’s health and, now it appears, even his unawaken hours. Leon wonders just how many times Merlin had slept on the floor by his bedside.

“Merlin,” Leon calls out gently but the boy doesn’t stir, clearly wrapped in a deep sleep he most likely needed. But Leon doesn’t think he could bear watching him sleep on the floor any longer.

“Merlin, wake up,” Leon reaches out a foot and gently knocks the servant’s shoulder. It’s still not enough so the knight heaves in a deep breath and summons what little energy he has to scoot closer and lean down, his hand engulfing Merlin’s shoulder as he shakes him gently.

“Merlin… c’mon lad, you can’t sleep there.”

Finally, Merlin seems to come to. He ungracefully rolls to his front, face smushed into his jacket and hair askew as he mumbles something completely incoherent. Leon smiles.

“You’ll be sore sleeping down there,” Leon teases and Merlin stills before lifting his head a bit, turning to blink bleary eyes up at the knight and saying, almost dreamily,

“Leon?”

The knight nods with a grin and Merlin sits up to his knees, rubbing his eyes before looking back at him more clearly, “Leon!”

“Yes, who else?”

“You’re up,” Merlin says in disbelief, a little watery laugh following, “you’re awake and sitting up and- how do you feel? Do you feel better?”

The knight holds a hand up, his head still bearing an ache before he places the hand on Merlin’s shoulder, “yes, I feel quite a bit better. And I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

Merlin pouts, waving a hand as if running himself ragged for the ill knight was no big deal, “Gaius helped too. And Gwen, when she could.”

“Mm,” Leon replies, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder appreciatively, “and yet every time I opened my eyes it was you I saw.”

Again, Merlin makes a nonchalant gesture, his knees tucked up to his chest as he attempts to appear modest. Leon heaves a sigh that almost sounds like a chuckle as he reaches out to ruffle the boy’s already messy hair. “Help me to my feet.”

Merlin scrambles up, reaching out to help the knight rise, “are you sure you’re ready to be on your feet? You’re still weak.”

Leon’s a bit breathless, just from standing, and clings to the servant like a lifeline as he wobbles a bit on his unused legs. They feel like that of a newborn fawn, frail and weak and he sighs through his nose at his current state. But, Leon knows he’s lucky to be standing at all and he’s grateful for that.

“I need to move, Merlin. I fear I was becoming part of that bed.”

Merlin chuckles, elation growing when he reaches up to feel the knight’s cool forehead. “Your fever has broken. This is great news, Leon! You’re improving.”

Leon shares his joy though a bit more reserved. “You’re a wonderful physician, Merlin. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

The servant takes it as a joke, snorting a laugh and bringing Leon over to the dining table where he can sit up properly. Merlin makes Leon his first proper meal in days and watches like a proud parent when the knight eats it all with little restraint. By the time Gaius came back, Leon had been up and at it for a few hours, the color swelling back in his cheeks and the liveliness returning to his eyes as he sat and jested with Merlin. Gaius is clearly relieved after confirming Leon to be on the mend.

By nightfall, Leon’s insistence on going back to his own chambers is overruled by both physician and apprentice and Leon is coerced into staying one more night on the cot by the hearth. He doesn’t necessarily mind, he quite likes their company, but he’s taken up enough of their time and personal items. He’s got nearly most of, if not all, of Merlin’s own quilts upon him.

He’s a little surprised, and very much concerned, but once Gaius has fallen asleep, Merlin plops himself down at the floor by Leon’s cot. The knight sits up on his elbows, turning over the side of the bed to peer down at the servant questionably.

“Merlin,” he chides softly, “what in gods name are you doing down there?”

Merlin’s on his back, arms behind his head and his jacket bundled beneath. Despite lying on a hard floor he looks utterly content at Leon’s side, like a child basking in the closeness of a trusted adult as he smiles up at Leon adorningly. “Sleeping.”

“Not on the floor,” Leon remarks, “I’m better now, remember? Go to your bed.”

“You can never be too sure,” Merlin tells him, “what if your fever comes back in the night?”

Leon graces him a half smirk, “your concern is sweet but not necessary. I’m fine, honest. The only thing troubling me at the moment is you spending another night on the floor because of me.”

Merlin’s pretty set in his ways and Leon thinks maybe he understands just a little what Gaius goes through when it comes to dealing with Merlin and perseverance. But eventually, Leon is able to convince the boy to retreat back to his own room, though be begrudgingly. Leon finds it amusing and for the first time since he first came to Gaius’s, he’s able to fall asleep peacefully.

It’s not all that surprising when Merlin falls ill the following week. Gaius and Gwen both saw it coming no matter how many times Merlin tried to convince them they were wrong. He nearly gives Arthur a heart attack when he almost collapses in the King’s chambers. Much like Leon, he falls fast and hard and Gaius finds it difficult to assure the King of good news when Arthur practically drags a pale and near delirious Merlin to his room.

“But Leon got better,” Arthur insists, failing to school his frantic features as his eyebrows furrow and lips twist in worry. Gaius adjusts Merlin comfortably on the same cot Leon had been put on, tucking a pillow under his head and pulling the thin blankets up to his chin.

“Yes, Leon did. We can only hope Merlin will do the same.”

Gaius has to threaten the King with a fork to leave, claiming they can’t risk Arthur getting sick. If Merlin pulls through like Leon had then they’d be 2 for 2 and Gaius didn’t want to risk their luck with a third.

Arthur’s forced to continue his day as any other- though it is anything but. He’s got George in Merlin’s place for the time being, another hit to the gut. And it’s Arthur’s obvious sour mood and the presence of the unliked servant that has the knights noticing something's wrong before Arthur can even fill them in. But Leon doesn’t need to hear it from Arthur to know Merlin’s fallen ill. He had hoped the servant was lucky enough to avoid the same fate he had been dealt but obviously that was wishful thinking. Leon had practically given the ailment to Merlin on a silver platter.

Before Arthur can explain, Leon has left the training fields. They watch him go with little resistance, bemused as he all but rushes headlong into the busy courtyard.

His feet carry him back to the familiar room where he had been bed bound and, at one point, felt like death itself had brushed elbows with him. He pushes open the door without much thought, manners have a time and place afterall, and stops in the middle of Gaius’s chambers upon a sight that confirms everything.

Merlin is lying in the cot Leon had occupied only a week before, still and pale and painfully ill looking, it's enough for the knight’s breath to catch in his throat. Gaius is there, and so isn’t Gwen, the both of them seated around Merlin’s lifeless looking body with concern etched on their faces. Gaius turns slowly, eyebrows raised when he sees it’s Leon who has entered his chambers and rises to greet him.

“Sir Leon, I-”

“How is he?” Leon interrupts, stepping closer to get a better view. The poor boy’s chest is rising and falling erratically, his breaths labored and rough. He is shirtless, under a thin quilt, and appears sweaty at the forehead where Gwen is pressing a wet cloth. It’s familiar to Leon, he can still remember the cool relief of the cloth upon his own skin and the clammy feeling of his sweat from the fever while he simultaneously shivered from the cold. He swallows thickly.

“He’s faring,” Gaius answers truthfully, “but not as well as I’d hoped.”

Leon looks at him like the old physician had said something insulting and Gaius is quick to continue reassuringly, “but he’s young. And has always been in rather good health. I’m confident he can pull through.”

The knight nods though his eyes dance in a pool of uncertainty as he glances up and down Merlin’s frail state. “What can I do to help?”

Gwen shoots him a skeptical look while Gaius seems almost at a loss for words, “pardon?”

“I want to help,” Leon laments, nodding again almost as if to assure himself, “what can I do?”

Gaius looks at Gwen before the knight once again. “I appreciate the offer, Leon, but I’m not sure if that’s the best course of-”

“I’m not offering.” Leon tells him sternly, “you told me, now that I have become healthy again, I would not fall sick. Not from infection in the chest. Was that not the truth?”

Gaius blinks, “it was.”

“Then it should be me, out of everyone. You’re still needed in the village. And Gwen needs to stay fit. I’ll look after Merlin.”

“That’s not-.. What about Arthur?”

Leon shakes his head and Gaius, while years older, knows when he’s been outmatched. He gives the knight a seldom nod, agreeing quietly, “alright then.”

Leon takes Gwen’s place, the maid moving hesitantly but without argument as she gives him the cloth. She watches Leon carefully, hands folded upon her abdomen and looking to Gaius for answers to the wordlessly asked question between the two of, ’what the hell is going on?’

Gaius merely shrugs and guides her from the room.

When it’s just the two of them, Leon scoffs at Merlin’s pitifully pale skin and dark purple eyes, “foolish boy. You should’ve kept your distance.”

Merlin stirs at that, particularly when the cool cloth is rejuvenated with fresh water, and peels his eyes open. It looks as though it takes great effort, like his lids weighed a ton, and when he stares up at Leon the knight takes note that his eyes have been dulled by fever. “Leon?”

“Yes,” the knight confirms, dabbing at the boy’s brow, “I thought I told you I didn’t want you to get sick.”

Merlin smirks weakly, “sorry.”

Leon returns it, “don’t worry. If anyone can kick this bug in the backside, it’d be you. You and your endless amount of luck.”

“Luck,” Merlin repeats, a chuckle diverging into a rough cough as he groans at the pain in his chest, “luck has nothing to do with it.”

Leon gives him a sad smile, one he hopes doesn’t appear as worrisome as it is, and encourages the boy to lay still, “you need to rest.”

“That sounds… alright.”

Merlin dozes off as quickly as a flame burns out in the wind. He sleeps heavily but not without fits of coughing and hacking. Leon settles in, he figures they have a long way to go.

Despite his insistent promises that he can stay by Merlin’s side, it’s simply not sensible. Not for a knight, especially one of his status. But Leon doesn’t give up his declaration of helping totally. He ends up working alongside Gwen, or switching with her when he has to attend to other matters of the kingdom. He can’t miss training, at least not all of them, and debriefings in the council room are a must. But he finds his way to Gaius’s at least once a day, a lot of times twice a day, and brings fresh water, broth from the kitchens that he thinks Merlin would like in particular, and new quilts from a woman in the village. Perhaps it’s a bit unheard of, a knight tending to an ailing servant. But Leon would be a fool to not admit that Merlin had become so much more than just that over the last few years. He wasn’t a knight, certainly not, but he fit in with the rest of them as though he were.

And, in Leon’s time of need, the one thing he remembers being a constant were those bright blue eyes and mischievous grins. He remembers, as sick as he was, that he was never alone. And perhaps Leon would admit it to no one, not even himself, but that little bit of comfort gave him some relief.

And a whole lot of hope.

Merlin can’t remember the last time he was sick. Poisoned, yes. Enchanted, maybe. But sick? He might’ve been a child. Or maybe even an infant. His mother used to say he was a lucky one. Gaius told him he had his magic to thank for that. But Merlin thinks maybe he wouldn’t have minded having been sick in the past if it gave him an inkling of what it might mean for the future. Because never has he ever felt so weak and delirious. He’s not sure how long he’s been sick, it could’ve been a few days or a few weeks. Nothing felt real, even when he was awake. It all felt like a very boring, very uncomfortable dream.

He remembers bits and pieces. The warmth of the fire, the coolness of a cloth. The wet blankets replaced by dry ones. The feel of a warm hand over hot flesh and the murmuring of hushed voices over head. He remembers glimpses of tousled blonde hair, and a long, brown braid. But none of it made sense and he didn’t have the energy to try and make it to.

So when he finally, finally, starts to feel like his old self again he’s taken aback by how real the world feels. His senses are buzzing. He can hear the fire crackle somewhere to his left and feel the sun to his right. He can feel the sweat drying under his head and taste the godawful remnants of flu in his mouth. He groans, rubbing at his eyes weakly before blinking them open.

He sees red. Vibrant, boisterous red. It almost blinds him, his eyes are that sensitive, but attempts to sit up and is shocked at how much effort that really takes. A red quilt pools upon his chest, then down into his waist. He frowns, picking at the material with two fingers. It’s too thin to be a quilt and made of much finer material. It’s a cloak. A knight’s cloak. He looks up quickly, expecting Gwaine or Lancelot and is startled to find Leon.

Leon sits at the workbench not far, a small book in his hands and glances up to see Merlin staring back at him. He smiles, large and wide and looking so relieved as he springs to his feet.

“Look at you!” He says, almost with an air of pride, “you look like the gods themselves have breathed life back into you.”

Merlin snorts, running a hand through his slick hair as he looks around, “what are you-... where’s Gaius?”

“Out,” Leon tells him softly as he takes a seat on the nearby chair at the head of the bed, “he’ll be thrilled to see you sitting upright. You gave everyone a bit of a scare there.”

“Did I?” Merlin murmurs.

Leon hums, “how are you feeling?”

“Like…” Merlin smacks his lips, “thirsty.”

Leon’s up and gone before coming back almost too quickly. He hands Merlin a cup and there’s cool water inside. He sips it slowly.

“Thank you… what are you doing here?”

“Well I was reading,” Leon holds up the small book, “an interesting library you have here. I never would’ve thought someone could write a whole story on… flowers.”

“Those aren’t flowers,” Merlin recites, remembering all the times Gaius had corrected him in the past and smiles teasingly. “What are you really doing here?”

Leon opens and closes his mouth, his lips tugged upwards and shoulders sagging as he places the book somewhere to the side. “I think I owe you.”

Merlin looks none the wiser as he gives Leon a frown.

“For all the days you stationed yourself at my side. Only to fall ill. I couldn’t-... well, it wouldn’t have been fair to not repay the favor.”

“You owe me nothing,” Merlin tells him matter of factly, “I’m the Physician’s apprentice. Tending to you was part of the job.”

Leon shakes his head, “you slept on the floor.”

Merlin grins when words evade him. He’s not sure he and Leon are at a point where he can confess he kind of thought of the older knight as a friend of sorts. Not like Arthur, or Gwen, or even quite like Gwaine and Lancelot but a friend, nonetheless.

Merlin’s not quite ready to get to his feet but Leon feels that’s for the better anyways. They stay like that for a little while longer. Leon catches Merlin up on the happenings around the castle while he was basically comatose, filling him in on the gossip and, of course, on Arthur and all things gone wrong while being catered to by George. Merlin laughs, though a little painfully, but seems jovial in their conversation. Eventually he grows tired once more. His strength has yet to be restored and Leon encourages him to lie back down with a gentle hand to the shoulder. Merlin does so despite the protests falling from his lips.

“Do as you’re told,” Leon reprimands, “for once.”

Merlin mutters something, perhaps an insult. But Leon’s not taking the bait and waits the few moments it takes for the boy to fall back into a slumber. It’s quick, a telltale sign Merlin certainly isn’t quite back to where he needs to be. But his fever has definitely broken and his cough has subdued and the color has been brought back to his cheeks. Leon feels hopeful and relieved for the first time in days, heaving a sigh as he grabs at his cloak and pulls up to the boy’s chin. He ruffles Merlin’s black hair gently, not wanting to disturb him from the sleep he so very clearly needs.

He stays a little longer, until Gwen shows up to take over. He’s hesitant to leave but does so with much assurance than the times before.

As he goes, he thinks maybe he should’ve informed Merlin the truth. That he hadn’t stayed by the boy’s side simply out of obligation. Returned in favor or not, Leon thinks he would’ve stayed anyways.

He’ll later come to learn, when Merlin returns his cloak, that the servant already knew. It’s never quite said in words. But it never has to be. The smiles they share are brighter and their conversations just a little deeper.

And that’s enough for Leon.

+

It started with a fight.

It always started with a fight.

Or an argument, as Arthur would fervently claim. He and Gwaine got into an argument. But Merlin, even though he kept his mouth shut, knew better. He knew when all Arthur wanted to do was draw his sword and declare a duel to settle the bitter disagreement between him and his preposterous knight. Merlin could see it in the tightness of his jaw and the rigidness in his shoulders. He could picture the knuckles turning white under his gloves as he gripped his reins so tight his horse threw its head in agitation.

But Arthur would never actually put Gwaine on the sharp end of his sword, no matter how much the rebellious knight pushed and prodded at him. Though the King would certainly threaten it. But they were the empty threats of what Merlin imagined a younger brother would throw at his older brother when the latter was just tippy toeing a bit too far. And Gwaine always loved walking that line. That thin, thin line.

Merlin somehow found himself right in the middle of it, sitting on his horse as Gwaine and Arthur went at it from theirs. His eyes darted between the two nobles, his mount quiet and slack under him while Arthur’s and Gwaine’s danced with anticipation. The servant looked to the other knights for support but they seemed just as helpless to put an end to the heated discussion as him. Percival merely shrugged at him and Elyan was too busy shaking his head at them. Lancelot ignored it completely, having dismounted to tighten his cinch and Leon took the initiative to look away as if the argument was a private matter he had no business observing.

“You’re wrong, of course; what else is new?” Arthur scoffs, “I know these woods, Gwaine and that way-” he pauses to point in the other direction, “is not a shortcut. It’s thick brush and narrow, unused pathways. You're a fool to take it.”

Gwaine narrows his eyes, tossing his hair with a little smirk, “well then you don’t know these woods as well as you think because I’ve taken that way plenty of times. A little rough, yes, but shorter in comparison and will get us back to Camelot before sundown. Now wasn’t that the plan?”

“Yes, to get back before sundown. In one piece.”

“What’s the matter?” Gwaine taunts, leaning over his saddle, “scared?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, “of course not. I’m just not stupid. But be my guest, Gwaine. Take your little shortcut. We will be waiting for you back at the castle in warm clothes and with full stomachs by the time you come crawling in.”

“Fine, I will. But it’ll be you dragging your arse behind me. Who wants to join me?”

A quiet falls amongst the rest. Percival and Elyan look away, almost shamefully and Lancelot and Leon share a quick, uneasy glance and as the silence stretches on Arthur grows more smug. Smug enough Gwaine wants to kick him off his horse.

“Fine, you bunch of women. Go with the princess,” Gwaine reins his horse around, urging him forward towards his shortcut, “you lot would just slow me down anyways.”

Merlin releases a sigh through his nose. Splitting up is never a good idea, no matter the circumstances and begrudgingly he spurs his horse in Gwaine’s direction mumbling, “I’ll go.”

“Merlin!” Arthur protests, spooking his mount as he looks to his servant like Merlin had just stabbed him in the back. “You can’t choose him over me!”

Gwaine all but lights up, dropping his reins and twisting in his saddle to spread his arms wide in Merlin’s direction, “thatta boy, Merls!”

“I am not choosing Gwaine,” Merlin explains. Sometimes it felt like managing children when he was with this lot, “but he shouldn’t go alone. So I’m volunteering. That’s all.”

Gwaine slowly lowers his arms, a smile fading slightly before it consumes his face once more.

He nods, “I’ll take it.”

Arthur merely sulks, “he should go alone. Teach him a lesson.”

Merlin turns, “you don’t mean that.”

“He does!” Gwaine calls out and Arthur shrugs as the rest of his knights gather around him, the group breaking off into two.

Lancelot pulls his horse up beside Merlin’s, their legs bumping at the closeness and the knight leans over before saying, “I’ll switch with you. I know you’re eager to get back, your teeth are chattering.”

Merlin gives him a small smile, hunching in on himself, “what if Gwaine’s right? I may get there sooner than you.”

Lancelot smirks, “maybe.”

“Stay with Arthur,” Merlin tells him, “I might just wind him up more. You know how he gets after a fight with Gwaine.”

Lancelot scoffs gently, leaning away and clucking to his mare to move up to follow Arthur’s group as they disappear down the trail, “I see what you’re doing.”

“Good luck,” Merlin teases after him, trotting to catch up to Gwaine who waits for him at the mouth of his shortcut looking far too proud.

“I’m glad it’s you,” Gwaine tells him, just a hint of giddiness hidden in there somewhere, “the rest are fools.”

“We will see who’s a fool when we get home. If Arthur’s right, I fear you will never live it down.”

Gwaine looks unphased, “you’ll see, my friend. This way is shorter, I promise.” And for good measure he leans over to squeeze the back of Merlin’s neck appreciatively.

That was what felt like years ago. Maybe it was just the rough terrain or the fact the wind that blew through the trees was as cold and unforgiving as the ground their horses tripped over but Merlin was sure they were never getting back to Camelot. It wasn’t long before he and Gwaine ran into trouble. Arthur was right in some aspects, the path surely seemed unused no matter how Gwaine said otherwise. There were trees down across the path, forcing them to urge their horses through deep, mucky gullies and rushing, cold brooks. Bridges were damaged and a risk to cross and the steep hills felt like mountains, so high and slanted Merlin hung onto to his mare’s neck for dear life in fear he was going to slip right out of the saddle and tumble backwards.

It was his horse who he felt truly bad for; his mare was the one who took the brunt of it. He petted her sleek coat and promised oats and a warm stall once they were home.

Eventually, the trail evened out. Thorns and thick brush still attempted to grab at their trousers and boots and Merlin pouted at the tiny holes they left behind in his sleeve. Gwaine did his best trying to widen the path for him, casting guilty glances back at Merlin as if he had forced the servant to come with him.

“Quit it,” Merlin murmurs through trembling lips. The cold had deepened as the sun set lower behind the trees.

“What?” Gwaine asks, holding a branch and side stepping his horse so Merlin can pass through without trouble.

“Looking at me like that,” Merlin explains, bringing his jacket tighter around his frame, “I chose to come with you, remember. So stop looking like this is all your fault.”

Gwaine manages a grin though it's small and meek as he follows behind Merlin’s horse, “I fear it is my fault. You should’ve stayed with Arthur. Even if my way is shorter, it certainly isn’t any less the trouble.”

“Surely this isn’t the most treacherous journey we’ve been on together,” Merlin jokes, or attempts to but despite his chuckle his words fall flat amongst another shiver that ripples through his body as an unforgiving wind whips through the trees.

Gwaine frowns, watching as Merlin trembles in the breeze. He’s about to call it out, chide the servant for not bringing warmer clothes when suddenly the ground beneath their horses’ hooves turns wet and deep with cold mud. Merlin’s mare stumbles as she panics when her cannon bones are sucked into the soft ground and Merlin yelps as he loses his seat and a stirrup before he shifts to his left, clinging to his mount’s mane for purchase while she wrenches her legs free from the mud and gets to solid ground. Gwaine’s gelding had come to a complete stop to watch the other horse suffer through the perfidious ground before he made a smart decision to continue around the mud, walking along the embankment that surrounded it which caused Gwaine to duck from low hanging branches and sharp limbs.

Once around the muck, Gwaine reins his horse in and sits up to see Merlin has dismounted, a calming hand on his mare’s neck as the gray circles him with a lame leg. She’s tossing her head in discomfort, despite her rider’s words of comfort, and snorts when she struggles to bear weight on the leg she’s obviously twisted in the mud.

“Easy, mare,” Merlin tells her softly, stroking her dappled cheek as he gathers her reins tight and pulls her head in so she’ll stop circling him, “let me have a look.”

The servant runs a hand down her neck and shoulder until he’s bent at the waist and has her hurt leg resting in his palm, squeezing the horse’s fetlock until the mare snorts and jumps away.

“Oh, poor girl,” he murmurs, rubbing her velvety nose before looking at Gwaine, “I think she may have wrenched it.”

Gwaine gets off his horse, assessing the damage for himself before feeling the leg, tsking when heat radiates through his fingers. “I’d say,” he mutters, wiping the excess mud off on his pants, “she’s certainly done something to it. She’ll probably need stall rest.”

Merlin pouts in sympathy for the creature. Out of all of Arthur’s mounts, Cricket was his favorite. Her sweet disposition and eagerness to please made her unique among the young and rowdy colts in the stables. She didn’t deserve to be in any pain, especially at his expense.

“Had I known the ground was soft…” Merlin trails off, rubbing the horse between the ears when she ducks her head and rubs her face into his chest, as if feeling sorry for herself.

“Had I not mentioned a shortcut,” Gwaine corrects, hand on the servant’s shoulder as he looks at him apologetically, “this turned out to be a hellish path. You can ride Bacchus back with me. Less weight on her leg, the better.”

Merlin’s not arguing with that. It’s better than walking his mount back on foot given the rough terrain. He turns to climb on Gwaine’s horse but is stopped when the knight grips his upper arm, grabbing his attention once more and Merlin watches as he unclips his red cloak.

“What are you doing?” the servant questions, eyebrows furrowed until Gwaine wraps the cloak around him, pulling the two ends together tightly under his chin. Merlin wants to protest, he’s ready to protest, mouth open and tongue defiant but the warmth of the cloak is overwhelming at that point and he didn’t realize just how cold he was until he’s suddenly not anymore and his nimble fingers are quick to dart out and grab hold of the ends, holding it tight around his body as he nuzzles down further into the material until all Gwaine can see are his eyes and reddened nose.

“What about you?” he mumbles from somewhere within his cocoon of warmth and Gwaine just smiles that gentle, lopsided grin; the one he seems to save for Merlin and Merlin only as a gloved hand cups the side of his head.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says lightly, squeezing affectionately before gesturing to his horse, “I’ll give you a leg up. We’re close now, believe it or not.”

Merlin’s not sure he believes him but allows Gwaine to help him up onto his horse. He scoots back enough and over the saddle to allow Gwaine the room to step into the stirrup and into the saddle in front of Merlin. Bacchus jostles slightly, obviously not totally on board with the idea of carrying two passengers but he soothes quickly when Gwaine strokes his broad neck.

Merlin takes Cricket’s reins, tugging her along with a soft cluck of his tongue as Gwaine’s horse continues onwards. The mare takes a few questionable steps and Merlin grimaces but once the ground turns solid once more and the terrain becomes more docile, she seems less uncomfortable with each step. She still favors her hurt leg but is able to hobble after them with little trouble.

Gwaine was right, to an extent. The rest of the way is short. Rocky but short. But it’s long enough for Merlin having to take refuge from the wind by using Gwaine as some sort of barrier. He knows Arthur probably wouldn’t approve, and perhaps if the others were around, Gwaine might have even teased him for being so touchy, but he doesn’t really care at that moment as he huddles into Gwaine’s back for warmth.

If Gwaine takes notice he says nothing against it, simply asks if Merlin’s doing alright to which the servant declares he’d be better around a roaring fire and something warm to drink. Gwaine agrees with a hardy laugh.

Despite it all, they do beat the rest back to Camelot. Merlin’s really not sure it’s worth the price they paid but once Cricket is cared for and tucked safely in her warm and inviting stall he indulges Gwaine by confirming he was right.

“I win.”

Merlin snorts, walking alongside the knight still draped in the cloak like a turtle peeking from his shell. “I guess you could say that.”

Gwaine grins at him, soft and fond as he throws a strong arm around Merlin’s shoulders and jostles him playfully, “thank you. For coming with me. I almost wish you hadn’t, given the hurt horse and near death climbing-”

“I wouldn’t say near death.”

Gwaine shrugs, “close enough. It was a perilous journey. One only the strongest and bravest were willing to endure.”

Merlin rolls his eyes at Gwaine’s dramatics, huffing a laugh, “you’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Gwaine teases, “but either way, I think we deserve that warm drink and roaring fire, don’t you?”

Merlin nods eagerly, “yes. Certainly.”

“My chambers then. We will wait for the rest and perhaps come up with a better tale on how our journey was not so treacherous?”

Gwaine sounds so hopeful, so carefree, and Merlin can’t wipe the smile off his face no matter how many times the wind tries to whip at it. He nods once more. A tall tale would be much more fun to tell Arthur and the others and they spend the rest of their time waiting and spinning a story just right.

When Arthur and the knights do come riding through the courtyard, Gwaine is almost beaming with mirth. Merlin thinks the mead and wine might have something to do with his good mood as well. Either way, Arthur’s face at their recount of the shortcut is almost too good to be true. It’s a win for Gwaine, even if it's technically not, but no one would know. It’s a secret kept just between Merlin and Gwaine, sealed with a subtle wink from knight to servant.

+

The nerve of some people, Elyan thinks bitterly as he protectively drags Merlin away from some should-be-grateful villagers. They’d taken the time to ride all the way out to tend to the sick of this tiny village on the outskirts of Camelot and all they want to do is criticize Merlin’s looks and make heated remarks about his age.

“He barely looks older than my son!” One villager proclaimed.

“He can’t possibly be a physician, this must be some kind of joke.”

Elyan couldn’t bear to listen to much more of it. How people in need could all but spit at the feet of someone willing to help them, selfishly at that, was beyond him. And what’s worse is that Merlin barely even reacted to it. At least, not in the way Elyan would’ve reacted. Instead of getting defensive, defiant, or belligerent, Merlin merely worked quietly despite the less than thrilled spectators that watched and judged every little move he made as he tended to their near-dead children. Elyan and Percival, the only other two knights accompanying Merlin on the trip, attempted to calm the villagers' worries with a sense of lawfulness at first but it wasn’t long before their logical skepticism turned into just blatant nastiness towards the young physician. And sure, Merlin was just that. Young. But he was skilled, incredibly so, and particularly good with his younger patients. Gaius would have never sent him if he didn’t believe Merlin capable and if the villagers couldn’t find the courage to put faith in Merlin they should’ve known better to at least put it in Gaius’s decision.

But they didn’t and eventually Elyan couldn’t simply stand by and allow Merlin to be degraded any longer. After the servant had finished tending to a sick little girl outside her hut, the comments and cruel remarks of the gathered crowd was too much, at least for Elyan, and he had stepped in with probably a bit too much force. His voice was uncharacteristically raised, face drawn in anger as he shouted at the villagers that they should’ve been ashamed of themselves and how they owed Merlin for the lives of their children.

Mean the villagers may be, dumb they were not and not a single one rose up against a Knight of Camelot though they did look cross and huffy. That’s when Elyan had steered Merlin away.

Merlin’s clutching his medicine bag, stumbling after Elyan as the knight’s hand grips his shoulder. His cheeks are pink, from being degraded by the villagers and then by Elyan stepping in on his behalf though he would be lying if he said he didn’t appreciate it. Percival follows behind them quickly as they march into the direction of their designated hut, turning to glare back at the group of villagers that watch them go.

“Pricks,” Percival mutters, “that’s like biting the hand that feeds you.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Merlin comments quietly between the two, still being led though Elyan’s grip had fallen to his elbow, “it was fine.”

“Fine?” Elyan repeats, disbelief clear as day as he whirls around on Merlin, “no one deserves to be spoken to like that but especially not someone who’s traveled all this way to aid them, even when the King advised against it.”

When word had come that an outlying village at Camelot’s borders had a sickness running rampant through their children, Arthur hesitated to send more than just Gaius’s tonics in a wagon. It’s not that Arthur didn’t care for their plight, or the fact that the majority of those to fall victim to this particular disease were children, but he feared the possibility of bringing back whatever ailment struck them, Camelot was still on the mend from its own recent plague after all. But, in the end, Merlin and Gaius had persuaded him otherwise though it wasn’t hard. Arthur was rather soft when it came to those who suffered. And Merlin was sent on his way in place of Gaius for the third time after having been successful on his own times before. It was beginning to become quite the habit but the more Merlin went the more confident in his own abilities he became.

However, he couldn’t say the same thing for the villagers he was sent to help. They always, always were anticipating Gaius and were always, always flabbergasted that his apprentice was sent in his place. Paired with their fears and anxieties from whatever plague haunted them, they were quite the force to reckon with. Their words could be cruel and their blatant display of disapproval could be seen a mile away but Merlin did little to let on just how much it all affected him. He was here for one reason and one reason only and joining the villagers in their heckling was certainly not it.

That was left up to the likes of Elyan, apparently.

Merlin almost made a request to Arthur on which knights would be accompanying him but Arthur alway seemed huffy that he was leaving to begin with and Merlin didn’t want to stir the pot for once. Depending on how far the village was, sometimes he’d have four knights, sometimes three.

Now he had two and of course one had to be Elyan.

Merlin nods in response, tilting his chin down to look at Elyan and although the knight was shorter than Merlin by a noticeable amount he always somehow managed to make himself seem bigger. Merlin would even argue that while Elyan’s physical appearance may have been small, his persona was larger than even that of Percival’s.

“I don’t disagree,” Merlin attempts to smooth over. Elyan’s temper could be synonymous with his height. “They were a bit rude but-“

“They were more than just rude,” Elyan cuts in bitterly. “They were out of line.”

“They’re scared.”

“I know,” he sighs, hands on his hips, “still doesn’t give them the right to be so hostile.”

“I think this particular situation has everyone a little on edge,” Percival tries to add, “they’re parents. Mothers and fathers fearing the worst for their children.”

Merlin nods, “yes. This is their greatest fear come true. We should be patient with them. No matter the circumstances.”

Percival gives him a sad grin, squeezing his shoulder in understanding. Elyan just glares at the both of them.

“I’ll be patient,” he tells them sourly, “but I will not allow them any more disrespect. I understand their plight is dire. But throwing stones won’t help them.”

Elyan flicks his sharp, dark eyes to Merlin, “and you don’t deserve it.”

The servant nods again. It’s hard to be anything but compliant to someone like Elyan. Gwen always claimed her brother had a rather brash way of displaying affection, hardened by the woes of a rough childhood and his travels alone and riddled with strife. One had to remind themselves that while Elyan may appear annoyed, agitated or on the brink of doing something haughty he did so not out of discontentment but rather out of something akin more towards devotion. He was a riddle made clear once you got to know him. And Merlin felt, at this point, he knew Elyan quite well.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, offering the huffy knight a grateful smirk. Elyan merely turns away, closing off the conversation abruptly as he gestures for the other two to follow along.

“C’mon, I’m hungry.”

“Oh,” Percival says lowly as he pokes Merlin in the ribs, “that’s why he’s so grouchy.”

Merlin smiles, stifling a chuckle when Elyan throws Percival a warning glare. The two share a silent laugh when they think the other knight isn’t looking,

That night Merlin’s stew had done the trick and Percival had passed out upon his bedroll in the middle of their hut almost as quickly as he had laid down. Merlin’s lying closest to the window and farthest from the dying fire in the hearth, his body turned away from the two slumbering knights as he watches the stars twinkle and shine from above in a near pitch black sky. They wink at him tauntingly and maybe he’s just that tired but Merlin thinks they’re dancing among each other joyfully.

He grins, if only to himself, and wonders if the moon and the stars were the same. He had read from one of Gaius’s few books on astronomy that they weren’t. Not really. While the moon itself was made of rock, much like the Earth, the stars were simply light. Like little holes in a rickety old roof where the sun’s rays might seep through and shine upon the darkened house almost heavenly like. It was funny to think of the night sky as a roof of sorts, like the whole world was just one big hut. Merlin turns his face into his pillow to smother his amusement.

“What’s so funny?” A whispered voice asks beside him. Merlin lifts his head just enough to peek over his pillow. Elyan’s staring back at him, resting upon his back and his arms behind head. He’s kicked off the red cloak he’s used as a blanket, lying exposed in just his casual attire of tunic and trousers as he peers over at Merlin questionably.

The servant doesn’t want to admit that in his need for sleep he found humor in the most mundane of things. So instead he just says, “I forgot to pick up my room before I left. Gaius is probably fuming.”

Elyan snorts quietly so as to not disturb Percival, looking up the roof with eyes wide awake, “is that really what keeps you up at night?”

Merlin shrugs a single shoulder, though Elyan isn’t looking to see it, and continues to lie on his front in silence. After a moment, Elyan looks at him again.

“Why are you still awake?”

Merlin frowns, “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Are you kidding me?” The knight turns on his side, propping himself up on an elbow and jutting a thumb over his shoulder towards Percival. “Can you not hear that? He sounds like a horse.”

Merlin lifts his head to listen better and sure enough, Percival is snoring. It’s not obnoxiously loud or disturbing but for a light sleeper it might be disruptive.

“I don’t think I’ll be getting much sleep tonight,” Elyan explains sadly. “You should be though. Acting as Physician and all.”

Merlin flips to his back, sighing heavily through his nose as he puts his arms behind his head now, much like Elyan had been. “Not sure if sleep will help at this point. Doesn’t seem my time here has done much good.”

“What are you talking about?” Elyan asks gruffly, “your work is, well… working.”

“Not sure if working is the right way to put it,” Merlin replies, disheartened, “I’ve managed to keep the children stable. But I’m not seeing much progress, if I’m honest. I’m starting to think-…”

Elyan waits patiently but it becomes abundantly clear the servant is offering any more up for reasoning. The knight frowns, goading Merlin to continue with a kicked foot to his thighs, “starting to think what?”

Merlin hisses at him, pushing his foot back and sighing some more as he avoids Elyan’s eyes, dark with a dare to continue. “I’m….” Merlin hates to think he’s admitting this, “starting to think maybe… just maybe… the villagers are right. This time. I’ve barely worked on patients on my own back in a Camelot. And I’ve never really worked on children. Whatever this disease is, it’s susceptible only to them. Not adults. And I just… Well, I’ve never seen or heard anything like it. I don’t know if I’m right for this. They just don’t seem to be improving.”

Merlin’s staring at the stars again, their twinkling a little comfort with his confession and, after a moment, he’s a bit startled to hear nothing but silence from where Elyan laid. When he turns his head to see if the knight had turned back over to go back to sleep, he’s suddenly assaulted by a soft plush brought down upon his face with great force. It’s all soft linen and feathers, a pillow used as a weapon, but it’s enough to jolt him into griping an, “ow!”

The pillow is pulled back and Merlin looks a little bewildered at Elyan, the culprit holding the pillow as though he was ready to fire again at will.

“What was that for?” Merlin demands, put out that he’d been attacked so suddenly. But Elyan does not appear the least bit sorry.

“You were talking like those foolish townsfolk. Thought I’d knock some sense into you,”

Merlin swipes at his face, “little uncalled for but alright.”

“You’re not an idiot, Merlin.”

Merlin looks at him skeptically and Elyan rolls his eyes, “no matter what Arthur says. You’re capable. More than you know. But you’re also your own worst enemy. And that’s what will drag you down. Not your lack of skill to knowledge, but your own self doubt. You can’t see those children’s progress because it’s your progress too. Look at them from another perspective. They were nearly dead when we got here. A few days later after a visit from the all mighty Physician’s Apprentice and suddenly they’re waking up. They may not be jumping on their feet or dancing in relief quite yet. But don’t you dare say they’re not improving. Cause from where I stand, it looks like a miracle.”

Merlin fumbled for a response but found he’s at a loss. No one but Gaius had ever spoken to him about his work as acting physician and while Gaius’s words of encouragement and praises were well received they got a little redundant. It was easy, in a way, to please Gaius. He so badly wanted Merlin to be good at the skills he was teaching his young ward that sometimes Merlin thought he got tunnel vision. To hear he had done good work from someone who didn’t see the mixing of tinctures and tonics and the carefully picked herbs and research upon research of medical books but instead just the result was a little more weighted in worth. Merlin feels pleased for the first time in a long time and, dare he say, even a little proud.

“Really?” He asks a little breathlessly and maybe if he wasn’t so eager for approval, for someone to tell him he’s doing alright, he'd be a little embarrassed at how young he sounded.

Elyan grins, soft and fond as he sets his pillow down, “yes. You knucklehead. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Merlin smiles at him and for the first time since he got here he’s feeling a little lighter. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.”

“No, really.” Merlin insists, “for.. for what you said just now but also earlier. Thanks for standing up for me. You really don’t have to me, especially when I’m just a servant.”

Elyan looks deflated as he says, “you’re not just a servant, Merlin. You never were.”

Merlin’s at a loss again. The only thing he can think is that he understands why Gwen looks up to her brother so much. They’re a lot alike and he wonders if that’s more because Gwen had admired Elyan so strongly as a child rather than genetics. He vaguely wonders who it was that Elyan had looked up to. He wonders if it was Tom.

“Here.”

He’s plucked from his pondering once more by something striking him in the face. Another soft material, but it’s not a pillow this time. Merlin pinches the thin fabric between his fingers and lifts it off. The moonlight eliminates a deep maroon and Merlin already knows what it is before he sits up properly to gaze at Elyan with uncertainty.

“Don’t argue,” Elyan warns, “I saw you were chilled. We need you in tip top shape tomorrow for your patients. That means some rest and more than just your pitiful little quilt.”

Merlin lays back down, heeding to Elyan’s words and choosing not to argue as he brings the cloak up over his other blanket. Double layered like this makes his bedroll that much more welcoming and a wave a sleepiness washes over him almost instantly. He feels content, more so than even in his own bed back in a Camelot. Maybe it’s the cloak, they had become quite the object of comfort though Merlin wouldn’t admit it, or maybe it was Elyan’s encouraging words. But it didn’t matter, Merlin was just grateful he was feeling it.

“And quit stargazing.”

Merlin scoffs, turning away from the knight who snickers at himself.

“Goodnight,” Merlin bids in a lieu of a comeback and he can hear the grin in Elyan’s voice when the knight replies,

“Goodnight, Merlin.”

+

There were two kinds of Merlin when one found themselves in the early morning hours of dawn.

There was a chipper, sing-songy Merlin who’d assault you with an energetic tune that seemed to match the energy that of a small child and who could easily stir up annoyance even among the birds who had yet to tweet their morning greetings. This Merlin was commonly anticipated. He was innocently unaware of his energized state that did not match the rest of the knights. Either that or he simply didn’t care; it could go either way with Merlin. His blissful ignorance perhaps more of a choice rather than an unfortunate side effect.

But there was the other side of Merlin one might find upon waking. And that Merlin couldn’t be anymore different. He was perpetually sleepy and was usually roused with a grumpiness fit for an old geezer than a young man. Grumpy, sleepy Merlin was a result of the servant having gone far too many days and nights without proper rest. He was snappish, preferred to mutter his insults under his breath, and could barely gather the motivation to even rise from his bedroll let alone tend to the rest of the knights the morning after a night on the forest floor.

One could always pinpoint a chipper Merlin and a grumpy Merlin by the time they had risen and taken a look around their campsite. Chipper Merlin was up before the sun, having already set out for more firewood and had tea warming over a roaring fire. Grumpy Merlin could be found buried under his little quilt, tucked away on the other side of Arthur and using the King’s body as a shield from the rest of the world as he snuggled up close, whether Arthur approved or not.

He’s still hidden under his quilt on his bedroll by the time the last knight has awakened and taken his place by the fire that Lancelot had taken upon himself to tend to. Perhaps in other kingdoms, under more austere kings, Merlin would’ve been forced to come out from his cocoon-like bedding and attend to his duties as manservant. And, let it be known, there was a time when Arthur would’ve done just that. But even a blind man could clearly see the exhaustion that plagued the manservant like a physical ailment. Merlin took on far more than required of him and while Arthur could joke about him being the worst servant in all the five kingdoms it was merely that: a joke. Merlin’s duty to his King and knights knew no bounds and when the servant failed to heed to the call of an early morning like he usually did most of the time Arthur and his men knew it was for good reason.

So they wait. Patiently, or impatiently, depending on who it was, sitting and conversing in soft murmured voices so as to not disturb the usually light sleeper of a man. Gwaine grows giddy, tapping his cup of tea with a single finger as he leans back on his log to check to see if Merlin has stirred. He hasn’t, when the boy gets caught in a deep slumber he can sleep like the dead, and he lets loose a low whistle in anticipation.

“He’ll be as angry as a hornet.”

Arthur glances up from where he chews on some warm bread before casting his eyes quickly back at Merlin’s sleeping form. “He can be mad all he wants. But what he should be is grateful.”

Elyan snorts, “I don’t think he’ll see it that way, Sire.”

“God forbid,” Arthur says, “he gets to sleep in.”

“Maybe I should wake him,” Gwaine suggests with a playful grin, “Percival’s tea is shite.”

Percival looks on offended as Gwaine rises to carry out an unorganized assault on the poor, sleeping servant but before he can get far Arthur is effortlessly reaching out to stop him, a strong grip on his elbow before hauling him back to the log rather ungracefully.

“Let him sleep,” Arthur admonishes, “for when he wakes he’ll be a bear.”

Elyan smirks, “or a cub.”

There’s a round of quiet laughter before they go back to waiting patiently. The fire crackles and grumbles pleasantly in the morning dew and the critters of the woods begin to wake. The sun is shining through the branches and lighting the forest in a soft glow. It’s incredibly peaceful and not much needs to be said around the fire as the knights take in the morning air. Leon hums a tune, something familiar and uplifting but his song is cut off abruptly by the petulant groan of a soul who’s clearly come to life with the realization they’ve been left to slumber seemingly against their will.

“I can’t believe the lot of you!”

Gwaine gasps comically, whipping around to get a better view and sure enough there’s Merlin, lying on his back after having slithered from his cocoon like an animal emerging from hibernation. He’s got a lump of a pillow covering his face, almost appearing as though he were attempting to suffocate himself, and his quilt has since slipped down his waist. There’s more muffled groaning coming from the material.

“He’s awake!” Gwaine cheers, like the act really calls for celebration, and Lancelot and Percival indulge by supplying some whoops and claps. Merlin merely raises his arms before letting them fall to his chest in defeat, clearly not in the mood.

But that just makes it all the more fun.

“C’mon, Merlin,” Gwaine calls to him softly, like one would encourage a hesitant animal, “we’ve been waiting for you.”

There’s a response but it’s too muffled by his pillow for it to be coherent.

“Huh?”

Merlin takes the pillow off his face, rubbing at his eyes tiredly as he laments in a gruff voice riddled with sleep, “I said, keep waiting.”

There goes a moment of silence where six pairs of awaiting eyes watch as the servant blinks in bemusement up at the sky, clearly still muddled in exhaustion as he adjusts. Finally he groans, “why would no one wake me?”

Arthur scoffs, “is it not obvious? Clearly you needed the sleep.”

It’s almost sweet, the way Arthur says it, but then he tacks on, “insufferable git,” and Merlin’s back to the weighed down feeling again. He huffs in irritation.

“You were tossing and turning all night, Merlin,” Lancelot says, “when did you end up getting to sleep?”

Merlin’s lips turn downwards as he ponders before shrugging, “this morning.”

Lancelot frowns, shaking his head in disappointment but Merlin’s not looking. He simply flops over to his front, hiding his face back into his bedding. “It’s hard to sleep so close to Arthur. He smells.”

“Pardon me, Merlin?” Arthur squawks, “I did the courtesy of letting you sleep in and you repay me by insults?”

“This is no courtesy. You should’ve woken me!”

“Well,” Gwaine grins, “you’re up now. Come on, lad. Let’s have ya by the fire.”

“No.”

Gwaine sets his cup down, a playful glint in his eye as he scurries over to the bedrolls and, this time, Arthur doesn’t stop him. The rest listen with little reaction as they hear ruffling and murmured curses before Gwaine comes back with a slack Merlin tossed over his shoulder. The servant looks like a sack of wheat from how limp he is and is barely awake enough to catch himself when Gwaine goes to set him by the logs. Merlin falls to his backside on a single log, glaring up at Gwaine with such heat it’s a miracle the rough knight hasn’t caught aflame.

Merlin does not appear any more awake than he had from his bedroll. His lips are in a permanent looking pout, his eyes bleary and void as he sets his sights grumpily on the fire. His hair is bedridden; messy and tousled as though someone had run their fingers through it mercilessly and his shirt is crumpled from a rough night’s sleep. He crosses his arms over his chest like an annoyed child, turning from Gwaine with disdain but the knight only chuckles, reaching out to ruffle his hair even more with a gloved hand which earns him a faulty smack from the sassy servant.

Arthur rolls his eyes, giving his manservant a pointed look but Merlin only narrows his, opting to turn away from him as well but this ultimately puts him back to facing Gwaine and he’s really not sure who he’d rather avoid more. He ends up turning around completely, back to the fire and his antics are ridiculous as much as they are humorous.

“Cranky are we, Merlin?” Leon asks with a smile in his voice but it does little to convince him to act otherwise. He simply shrugs in response before collapsing into his own lap and Arthur mutters something about being dramatic.

Lancelot fixes a cup of tea, pouring the brown liquid loudly among the quietness of the group before stepping around the fire. He taps Merlin’s shoulder kindly, offering the cup but the servant looks up only to wave it off. Lancelot tuts disapprovingly.

“Take it. Seems as though you need it the most.”

Merlin frowns, “m’ not thirsty.”

“It’s not about thirst,” Arthur says and Merlin knows glaring once more is just downright childish but it’s probably fitting given they’re treating him like a misbehaving child. He takes the cup begrudgingly, uttering a thank you as he takes a tentative sip.

“How is it?” Gwaine asks.

“Like shit.” Merlin tells him. Gwaine guffaws.

“I love when he’s a grump ass.”

Percival frowns, “I made it.”

“Oops,” Merlin mumbles, looking down at the tea apologetically, “less like shit then. I thought Arthur made it.”

Arthur curls his lip, turning up a palm in offense, “when have I ever made the tea? And why would my tea taste horrible?”

“I dunno,” Merlin grumbles, taking another sip, “maybe because you never make it.”

Arthur scoffs, looking to his men for backup but finds none. “Why are you taking your bad mood out on me?”

Merlin doesn’t reply, he simply waves Arthur off and that makes the King just plain irritated as he picks up the poking stick for the fire and uses it to poke at Merlin instead.

The servant jumps, spilling a little tea as he cusses and hits the stick away, “what the hell. Leave me alone.”

Gwaine smirks, “such a foul mouth on you when you’re fussy.”

“I’m not fussy.”

Arthur nods. “You’re always fussy when you’re overtired.”

“M’ not a baby,” Merlin grumbles but even he can hear how contradictory that sounds.

Gwaine shares a funny face with Eylan before leaning towards Merlin just a little, his lips puckered before he whistles a traditional lullaby and Merlin whips his head to look at him before knocking the knight in the shoulder, a grin threatening to take hold as he stands clumsily to escape.

“I’m kidding,” Gwaine chuckles as he reaches up to pull Merlin back down to the log, “I’m kidding. Enjoy your tea.”

For the most part, they leave him alone after that. For the most part. Gwaine is continually teasing his neck with squeezes and pokes and Elyan is no help when he stretches out to kick gently at Merlin’s feet with his own boot. But Merlin grumpily ignores them. Or he kicks Elyan back and slaps Gwaine’s hand away like it were merely a fly, whichever.

Eventually the morning lounge comes to an end though Merlin’s sour mood does not. They jostle him playfully as they go, attempting to pep him up as they assure him they’ll pick up the campsite while he gains his wits. It’s a nice gesture but Merlin can barely offer any form of appreciation. He can’t help his prickly attitude though he knows he has yet to summon the energy to try. He just feels so tired, he thinks he probably would have slept for another few good hours, and on top of that he’s sore from all his tossing and turning and he’s chilled. The autumn morning air is not as welcoming as the rest made it out to be and he grumpily slides down off the log and onto the forest floor to be that much closer to the fire. But the warmth isn’t strong enough to quite reach him and, in an action not unlike that of a child’s silent tantrum, he folds in on himself, his arms a resting place upon his knees for his face to be buried in any kind of semblance of heat he can find.

He sits like that for a long moment, the sound of the knights clamoring behind him as they gather up their bedrolls and supplies. His attempt at ignoring their obnoxious maneuvering is suddenly interrupted by something nudging his boot. He lifts his head, his salty eyes looking skyward to find Lancelot towering above him, a gentle smirk on his face and his brown eyes gleaming fondly as he outstretches his hand. In his grasp is his red cape, folded neatly and offered without a second thought. Merlin kind of wants to glare, he’s still feeling peeved for simply being sleepy, but this is Lancelot and Lancelot is nothing if not sweet and well intended so Merlin forgoes his urge for a sour response and simply takes the cape.

He unfolds it quickly, the red billowing around him as he flings it over his body and brings the top over his head. The warmth is instant and welcoming and inside of it Merlin can smell the oils and musk that makes up Lancelot. He buries himself much like he had done in his bedding, the darkness a welcoming relief from the morning’s too bright light that his eyes hadn’t adjusted to quite yet. He can hear Lancelot chuckle from outside his cloaked fortress and then feel him sitting close to Merlin on the ground. The servant pokes his face out, turning to his left and meeting Lancelot’s fond smile that seems to radiate in the early sun’s glow rather than detest it. For the first time since he rose, Merlin manages a small grin back. It’s almost impossible not to when in the presence of someone like Lancelot who is nothing but calm and patient.

“Thank you,” Merlin mumbles. Lancelot positively beams at his reaction, reaching out to rub at the top of his head playfully.

“Finally, a smile,” Lancelot jokes softly, “have I broken through your bad mood?”

Merlin shakes his head, despite his ever growing grin, and tucks his chin in the cloak, “how is it I get to sleep in and I’m still so tired?”

Lancelot chuckles sympathetically, “it only gets worse, I’m afraid. The older you get, it seems, the more tired you become. No matter how much sleep you get.”

“Words of warning from a wise old man.”

Lancelot scoffs, taking his once soothing hand and whacking the back of Merlin’s head with it gently. The servant guffaws, feigning injury as he pulls the cloak totally back over his head and Lancelot finds the whole thing rather amusing, and a bit endearing, as he goes to knock Merlin over with his shoulder. Merlin retaliates, knocking him back though he can’t see him from inside the cloak. Lancelot manages to catch him around the neck, or what he hopes is around the neck, and pulls Merlin in to assault the top of his head once again but this time with a revengeful fist.

Merlin hisses as the feeling of his already messy hair getting roughed up but before he can muster up enough strength to pull away he hears the ever dreaded voice of Gwaine somewhere close.

“Are we gaining up on Merlin?” The knight asks, and his footfalls echo closer causing Merlin to take refuge in Lancelot’s side as he begs,

“Please don’t let him-”

But it’s too late. There’s a weight upon him. Heavy, warm, and utterly crushing and Merlin can do nothing as he crumbles onto the ground. He groans and whines, he’ll admit it, and does even more so when he hears Elyan make a comment about, ‘not getting left out of this,’ and then the weight upon Merlin becomes even more intolerable. Lancelot’s up there too, the traitor, Merlin can still see his sparkling grin from where he peeks an eye out from his cloak. That’s three knights in a pile on one little, measly servant and Merlin begins to wonder what he has to do to get Arthur to save him.

He calls out for him pleadingly.

“Arthur can’t save you now, Merls,” Gwaine taunts and for good measure reaches down to pinch at the servant’s side through the cloak.

“You lot are monsters,” Merlin wheezes, “what happened to picking up?”

Someone mocks him. Elyan, he thinks, and Merlin ponders all the ways he could magically take revenge on them without being found out. Maybe take a few more inches from Elyan’s height. Or make Gwaine go bald.

He still wouldn’t do any to Lancelot. Traitor or not, Merlin could never.

Percival meangers over, being goaded by the likes of Gwaine and Elyan to join the pile on top of Merlin and the servant squawks in protest, begging them to have mercy. Percival takes pity by not joining the pile, thank the gods, but not enough pity to help Merlin. He merely takes a seat and watches the poor boy get mauled.

Eventually, Arthur and Leon make their way over and despite Gwaine promising Arthur couldn’t save him, the King does. He kicks Gwaine and Elyan off, quite literally, and Lancelot takes the hint to roll away. Merlin unravels himself from the cloak once he’s freed, lying upon his back and taking in fitful gulps of air as he feels his ribs recover from their deflation. He looks gratefully up at Arthur, “thank you.”

“Not sure you deserved it,” Arthur smirks, “are you better now?”

Merlin nods eagerly and takes the hand Leon offers him and allows the knight to pull him to his feet. He glares at Gwaine and Elyan, who have since moved on to wrestling each other like village boys in the streets. Lancelot is still on the ground, propped up on one elbow and giving Merlin a sheepish grin when the servant turns his glare to him.

“I trusted you.”

Lancelot shrugs, “it made you smile.”

“It made me light headed,” Merlin corrects but he can’t deny he does feel better. “I’m keeping this.” He bends down to swipe Lancelot’s cloak that had been left on the ground, dusting the debri from the forest floor off and wrapping it back around himself.

Lancelot doesn’t fight him. Nor does he get his cloak back for the rest of the day. But he doesn’t mind, not when Merlin’s cozied up inside and venturing back to his normal, cheerful self.

+

For Merlin, dreaming felt an awful lot like drowning.

He knew how that felt, believe it or not, because when he was a small child he had slipped into the river that ran alongside his village and had flailed helplessly to keep his head above the raging rapids that always seemed to have the upper hand. If it hadn’t been for Will, who had managed to nab him from a secure spot on a jutting rock, he may have sunk to the bottom of the riverbed with how much water he had taken in through his nose and mouth. In hindsight, he felt foolish for not using his magic. It was instinctual afterall and oftentimes, especially when he was young, acted out without his consent when put in situations as dire as that. But the feeling of drowning, of submerging into frigid waters and being dragged down by an invisible force, seemed to almost be enough to drown out all his senses. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t scream, fight, nothing. He had never felt so powerless, so weak, and for years to come the river would be a taunting force that would remind him, no matter how much power he wielded, there would always be something that could take it all away.

Merlin had never had an accident like that again. But the feeling never went away. It choked him in his sleep and held him down in the crushing grip of his worst nightmares. The most painful thing was that he knew he was dreaming. He knew it wasn’t real. Until it was.

His arrival to Camelot brought on a new set of dreams that felt even more real than the ones he had suffered as a boy in Ealdor. And the longer he stayed in Camelot, and the more people he lost, the people he had killed, the more the dreams grew darker and richer in detail. He could hear so clearly in his dreams, he could smell the scents of burnt flesh and spilt blood, he could taste the dirt and the mud and feel the life of those he fought slip from his fingers.

And he told no one. Not Gwen, not Gaius, certainly not Arthur. He almost told Gaius once but that had been before Morgana’s dreams had baffled the kingdom and Merlin watched in horror as Gaius mistreated her symptoms and how Gwen fought endlessly to calm her mistress. He knew the nightmares he had were not the same as Morgana’s. He and Morgana were, in fact, a lot alike, whether Kilgharrah and Gaius said otherwise, but their dreams couldn’t have been any different. Morgana’s held real purpose; warnings, blessings, futures that have yet to pass. That may never pass.

Merlin’s were nothing like that. His were curses. A punishment. They taunted him for all the wrong he had done and all the wrong he would do. He felt deserving when in their claw-like grasp but that did little to soothe him when he woke in a lather, breathing ragged and bones aching.

Over the years, he’d grown to control himself in the aftermath of his nightly torture. He’d wake abruptly and corral his panic and fear as quickly as he could. Deep breathing, pressure to his head, he had even bundled himself in a ball and rocked himself until he felt he could think clearly again.

It came in handy, these little techniques, because his dreams never discriminated where he was or who he was with. They’d seek him out whenever they saw fit. Sometimes, they'd lure him into a false sense of security. Leaving him be for nights on end and then attack when he was at peace and trusting enough to allow himself a deep slumber among those who hadn’t a clue to what plagued him in the night.

He glances from where he sits in the damp bedding of his bedroll. The fire was small, the forest was teeming with bandits, and Arthur had wanted to make a cold camp to ensure they weren’t spotted in the night but had given in when the others shivered in their agreement. The knights lay scattered around the fire, sleeping resoundingly and without a care in the world which Merlin knew was not true. They dreamt as well, he could tell in the way they twitched and turned and wondered how bad it got for them. If it got bad at all. Gwaine usually joked he only ever dreamed of food and women but the bags under his eyes some mornings told Merlin that was a lie.

There’s a presence to his left, Merlin feels it now that he’s managed to regain himself, and looks down to see Arthur laid close to his side and to Merlin’s utter horror, he is awake. It was sort of spooky, the way Arthur laid so still that from any other direction he would’ve appeared to be in a deep and restful sleep. But his eyes were open and unblinking until finally he fluttered his lids and slowly rolled to his back, peering up at Merlin in the faint firelight with such an unreadable expression it’s enough to make Merlin murmur an apology.

“Why are you sorry?” Arthur whispers and Merlin really wants to know why and how Arthur got so close to him. When they had all gone to sleep Arthur had been below him. They fanned out in a circle of sorts, the fire centered in their group so all had a chance at whatever warmth it had to offer. It was foolish to lay side by side, especially when the air was cool enough to leave goosebump upon exposed flesh.

Merlin shifts, facing Arthur a little more so to gauge his reaction. “Why are you-... how’d you get up here?”

Arthur lifts himself on his elbow, just enough to take a glance around their surroundings and Merlin wonders if maybe Arthur is as clueless to their arrangement as well before he simply frowns and shakes his head, “I moved? You were…”

Arthur gestures to Merlin with a lazily hand and the servant suddenly feels so ashamed that his face burns not from the heat of the fire or the panic in his dreams but from the embarrassment that someone had taken notice of his nightly terrors. He ducks his head, pulling his knees up and goes to groan but really it just comes out more of a tired sigh.

He can hear Arthur shifting, the shuffling of his quilt pooling around his waist as he sits up and scoots just a little closer to Merlin until the servant can feel his body heat like Arthur himself had a campfire burning within. He nudges Merlin with his shoulder, just enough to get him to drop his hands from his face, before asking in a gentle hushed tone, “tell me about it.”

“No,” Merlin says and though his voice is still in a whisper his tone is harsh and he sends a nervous glance to the rest to make sure he hasn’t woken them. Percival though is the only one awake, standing a good distance away as he guards his sleeping comrades dutifully. Merlin wonders if he heard or saw anything as well and is just being polite enough to not draw attention to it.

“Merlin,” Arthur chides, “stop being difficult. C’mon, tell me what had you tossing and turning and-...” Arthur pauses and Merlin turns to watch him consider his next words with a hint of uncertainty. “-...you were crying.”

“I was?” Merlin asks, mortified and reaches up to feel his face. Sure enough, his cheeks are partly damp and sticky, the remnants of tears having started to dry upon his face. He blinks rapidly. Arthur had caught him crying, in his sleep of all things, and Merlin dreaded the idea that he’d never live this down.

But Arthur’s not looking for material to tease or taunt, at least not tonight. In fact he looks gentled and concerned. They had had many late night conversations before and Merlin had come to learn that sleep dulled Arthur’s sharp edges like the flow of fast paced water ebbed away at a rock’s rough surface. He was less guarded like this, like the quiet and darkened hours of the night gave him the freedom to relax. It reminded Merlin of someone who had a bit too much to drink. Sleepiness worked on Arthur like a fine wine might work on a well to do noble. But if a sleep-ridden Arthur was like a drunken fool, then Merlin would not take advantage.

“It was nothing,” Merlin tells him dryly and offers a pitiful grin, “stupid dreams.”

Arthur, for a moment, looks hurt and Merlin for the life of him can’t decipher why. The King reaches out, the pad of his thumb far too soft for the hardships his hands have suffered as he taps gently at the tear stained cheek exposed to him. “Seemed more than just a dream.”

“It wasn’t,” Merlin mumbles, leaning away from Arthur’s touch. His thumb is cool despite the heat radiating off his body. “Just leave it alone, yeah? I’m sorry I woke you.”

Arthur drops his hand, knees bent and arms hung over the top as he looks away, shaking his head and Merlin feels almost a little offended but isn’t in the mood for bickering. He lays back down, pulling his still dampened quilt over him and grimaces at the idea that his own sweat has soaked his blanket that much. He’ll hate himself in the morning, more so than he does right now, and for the first time he hopes he’s still dreaming. That it isn’t reality in which he’s woken Arthur up because of his damned dreaming and beckoned him to his side without knowing it.

He turns on his side, away from Arthur and towards the fire and watches lamely as the flame dances lazily upon the logs. It’ll go out soon. Maybe Percival will add another log or maybe he’ll let it tamper out into burning coals. Merlin’s not sure what he hopes for more. Less fire means he’ll be pitched into darkness and perhaps, if another dream were to strike, no one, absolutely no one, would notice.

But no fire means no warmth and with his now ruined blanket Merlin thinks he’d appreciate a little more heat.

Merlin closes his eyes but he’s not ready to sleep. He waits to hear the telltale sign that Arthur’s packed up his stuff and shifted down back to where he had originally undone his bedroll. Only then can Merlin attempt to sleep once more. He doesn’t hear that, and for a long moment he hears nothing. He wonders behind closed eyelids what the hell Arthur is thinking. The prat is sure taking his damn time to gather his wits. He has half a mind to spring back up and shout at Arthur to go away before there’s shuffling. His blanket is taken off without warning but before Merlin can protest a cloak of red is falling above him before covering him entirely. Merlin pokes his head out from the top. It’s Arthur’s cloak, of course, and he’s placed it over the both of them as he tucks himself up behind Merlin’s back. There’s a strong arm wrapped around Merlin’s waist, tugging him backwards into the warmth of Arthur’s chest and for a moment the air is sucked right out of the servant’s lungs.

“Arthur, what are you doing?” Merlin whispers, a little frantically as he looks around at the rest. Percival is still back to, leaning up against a tree and the rest are sleeping like the dead. But they’ll wake eventually and when they do they might have some questions.

When Arthur speaks it’s like his lips are right at the shell of Merlin’s ear, his warm breath tickling and taunting all at once as he says, “you don’t have to tell me,” and the sentiment is enough to have a swelling of warmth building in the servant’s chest. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But eventually.”

For a moment, just a moment, Merlin feels like maybe they’re talking about more than just what he dreams about. But maybe Merlin’s just wishing, the hopeful bastard he is, and he can hear Gaius somewhere in the back of his mind telling him to quit it. He nods, despite himself as he settles into Arthur’s embrace. “Eventually,” he agrees.

“Promise me,” Arthur demands but it’s as soft as his finger tips that dance across Merlin’s ribs and he wonders briefly when Arthur had snuck his hands up his shirt.

“I promise.”

“Good,” Arthur hums and after a moment says, “you’re the most frustrating person I’ve ever met.”

Merlin smirks, reaching his hand down and up his own shirt to grab at Arthur’s. Their fingers laced together almost instantly, a slow swirl before Arthur manages the upper hand and grips his tightly. “Likewise,” Merlin teases and somehow he can hear Arthur grin and then feel the gust of air from his lips.

“You should sleep. You’re making breakfast in the morning and I’ll be damned if it’s as bad as your stew tonight.”

“Such an arse, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” Arthur whispers and then reassures, “I’ll wake you. If you dream some more.”

Merlin grips at the cloak with his other hand, bringing it tighter around them while simultaneously squeezing Arthur’s fingers. “Thank you.”

Arthur doesn’t respond and for a long moment Merlin thinks he has begun to fall asleep. They stay wrapped up in each other, under Arthur’s cloak for warmth, and Merlin watches as the tiny fire finally begins to die out. He closes his own eyes when the last bit of flame becomes nothing but smoke, simmering and coiling into the dark blue of the night sky. He’s almost there, fizzing out into the beginning of a slumber when he feels the press of something sweet and innocent at the exposed jut of his collar bone. It’s a kiss, if Merlin had to guess. Soft, warm lips tickling his skin ever so gently and Merlin sighs into the darkness that envelopes them.

“Goodnight.”

Merlin thinks he’d be grateful if he were to spend the rest of the night in the likes of dulled dreams and blessed if they even toed on the edge of pleasure. But, instead, he finds he doesn’t dream at all, as if being in Arthur’s embrace was enough to subdue even his own subconscious into a pliant and merciful state.

It’s the best night of sleep he’s had in years.

And the start of the best nights yet to come.