Chapter Text
The city was bustling with renewed vigor. The queen’s crowing only the day before, the townspeople were rejoicing within the safety of Camelot’s walls. Talk had spread fast of the prophecy king and his sword pulled from solid stone, and a prideful hope, stronger than any kingdom before, swelled in the hearts of Arthur’s people.
Arthur himself was gazing down upon his land with a weary smile. His chest ached with joy for his people, and wept for the losses it had endured whilst he regained his station. Only just weeks ago, he had been stranded in the woods with his meager party, wondering if any survived his sister’s wrath. Even now, a scar was still visible on Elyan’s cheek, Gwaine was still unsteady on his feet, and Merlin stubbornly led Gaius by the elbow whenever he left his chambers.
Merlin.
The man was standing behind him, loudly scrubbing at the floor beneath the table. He could hear the wavy breath through his nose and the way his strokes faltered occasionally. Merlin was exhausted. Had been for a few days now.
“Why don’t you give it a rest, Merlin,” Arthur said, without turning.
Merlin huffed and sat back on his knees.
“I want the floors clean, not to have a dent worn into them.”
“Sorry,” Merlin muttered, as he rose to his feet, tossing the rag into his bucket of water. “I just thought with all the pacing you’ve been doing that you liked trenches.”
Arthur frowned, searching the window panes for an answer. “Well, I don’t.” It wasn’t the most eloquent response, but it also didn’t meet Merlin’s banter. “Ready a bath.”
Merlin deflated and shuffled out the door, barely able to pick his feet up off the ground.
The king had hoped that sending Merlin away would let him relish in the beauties of his kingdom once more, but bitterness persisted. To think that all of this fertile culture was a few sour truths away from being lost to madness.
The door to his chambers clicked shut and he turned to find, not his wife in tailored gowns nor his servant with his head bowed, but Leon, looking shaken but impressed.
“Sire,” he said with a nod of fiery curls. “There’s a dragon.”
Ever since the city was reclaimed from Morgana, Merlin was being run ragged. The castle was in disarray, Gaius was recovering from imprisonment, and Camelot had a new queen, leaving Merlin to take on several of the physician’s duties, including tending to the man himself, as well as doing extra errands for Arthur regarding recovery plans and solidifying Guinevere’s new station.
On top of all that, Arthur wasn’t exactly understanding.
Merlin could have sworn he was purposefully giving him the dirty work. Not that it would be unusual for him to do so, but Arthur was a fair man, and more often these years knew when to ease up on the torment.
Not now though.
“I need you to pack for a quest.”
Merlin raised his head from where he was draining the dirtied bathwater. “For when?”
“Overmorrow.”
Merlin waited for more context, but none came. “And what sort of quest?”
Arthur eyed him, making Merlin feel he shouldn’t have asked. “We’re hunting a beast.”
“What sort of beast?”
Arthur sighed. “A white thing,” he offered. “It flies at night and terrorizes the outlying villages.”
Merlin frowned, wiping the inside of the bare tub. “A wyvern?”
“No one’s gotten a good look at it.”
Merlin stood and wiped his hands off on his pants. “Are we sure it isn’t a great white peafowl?”
“No, Merlin, it isn’t a bird.”
“How’d you know?”
Arthur determinedly looked down at his papers and didn’t respond.
Merlin chewed on his lip. Arthur wasn’t even taking the bait to jeer with him. In fact, he was sitting at his desk with his eyes closed, looking all the part like he hadn’t just won back his kingdom and married the love of his life.
Suddenly, a possibility came to Merlin that would explain the deflated mood his king was in. “It’s a dragon.”
Arthur’s head shot up and he stared at Merlin angrily. The fury in his eyes startled him and he looked back at Arthur in confusion, which prompted the fiery man to relax his features and shake his head. He sat there in silence for some time, eyes flickering as he looked through his memories. Then, he gave a small nod. “Yes.”
Merlin couldn’t stop a breath from leaving him, the knowledge that Arthur and his men knew that there were still dragons to be slain, sending a ripple of dread over his shoulders and into his stomach.
Eventually, Arthur looked up to read Merlin’s reaction and he quickly schooled his features. “Has anyone been injured?”
Oddly, Arthur looked dissatisfied. “No.”
Sighing openly now, Merlin turned back to his work, moving the last few barrels of sullied water towards the door. Before he could manage to get himself to leave, however, a suggestion rushed out of him. “Perhaps we shouldn’t anger it then.”
“What?”
Merlin shrugged, heart beating fast within his chest. “If it poses no threat, perhaps we should keep peace with it. It’s near impossible to slay a dragon. Would save a lot of bloodshed if we just kept it at bay.”
“I’ve done it before,” Arthur said bitterly, hands clenched into fists atop his desk.
Merlin felt nauseous. “And you barely made it back home.”
Arthur glared at him, his cool eyes looking crueler than they ought to. “We cannot allow another of these creatures to roam the land freely. It may be passive to us now, but the devastation it could bring to the kingdom should it choose not to be . . .”
Merlin shrugged, hoisting the barrels up with a grunt. “I’m sure it won't come to that.”
By the time the party left on their mission, Merlin was behind on about three days’ sleep. He’d hardly seen his bed, instead researching reinforcement spells in case repairs went awry or checking in on Gaius and his patients.
“You sure you’ll be alright without me?” he had asked, clearing away their dinner the night before departure.
Gaius huffed, handing Merlin his bowl. “I’ll be fine. You go, get some rest, Merlin. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
Merlin smiled shyly and turned away with a curt nod. He should have. He had wanted to. But he had yet to pack for Arthur’s excursion.
And now he was swaying side to side atop his horse, staring ahead at Arthur’s blurry, golden form, the light dappling the forest, shining like bursts of tiny suns in Merlin’s eyes. Gwaine was telling a far-fetched story about a dragon from years past, whilst the other knights complained about the improbability of it. Leon, especially, seemed to have taken up a silent judgment of the tall tale, having been one of the few people on their journey that had truly faced such a creature himself.
Merlin laughed through his nose, half listening. He was one of the three who had bested a dragon. Or rather, the one of the three who had actually done it.
“Something funny, Merlin?”
“Hmm?” Merlin picked his head up and blearily looked back at the bulk of the party, finding Gwaine with a wide, teasing grin on his face.
“You don’t believe me either, do you, mate?”
Leon rolled his eyes. “Believe it or not, Merlin was with us when we fought the first dragon.”
“Great!” Gwaine said, throwing his hands about in wild gestures. “Then he’ll know how impressive it was to stand beneath the bright green wings of ‘the Great One’ when I–”
“I’ve never seen a green dragon before,” Merlin butt in.
Elyan and Leon stifled their laughs and Percival smiled coyly.
“Well, perhaps there’s just the one,” Gwaine offered, picking up his reins. It was no wonder he always had to mount the calmest horse. Percival’s mare kept giving him wide eyes and pointed ears whenever his hands waved a little too far out.
“Maybe,” Merlin said, conversation falling away from him again.
He bobbed along on his horse for a good while longer, hearing naught but the distant buzz of words and the winds of his own breath. But soon, a silence coming from before him niggled his brain and he blinked up at Arthur again. He’d been silent. Hadn’t spoken since they’d left the city gates. In fact, Merlin wasn’t even sure if he’d once turned around.
The distinct lack of Arthur’s acknowledgement started to burn an ache in Merlin’s forehead and he squinted his eyes against the dipping sun as they traveled west.
Arthur watched Merlin carefully as he began building the campfire, taking note of his shuffling feet and near falls as he trudged over uneven tree roots. His hands had a slight tremor to them as they took up the flint and steel and his head dipped low each time he leaned into a strike, failing to spark the flame.
At last, the fire caught and Arthur stared even more intently. Merlin sighed and slumped backward, setting the fire starter to the side.
His eyes were tired and unfocused.
His eyes were blue.
Arthur ground his teeth as his servant rose to retrieve his bedroll, and sat up straight on his log. “Fetch some water for the horses before you rest.”
Merlin looked at him, brow furrowed and eyes pinched up against the heat. He opened his mouth, but shut it again before turning to do as he was asked.
“Let the poor man sleep,” Elyan jeered.
Arthur spun around, an excuse ready on his tongue, only to find Elyan smiling.
It was a joke.
He gave a forced smile in return as Elyan jostled his shoulder.
“Really though,” Elyan said, sobering. “I know you’ve been busy, but so has he. Had to practically drag him away from Gaius this morning.”
Arthur nodded grimly. “He’s still recovering.”
“And recovering well,” Elyan agreed.
“Thanks to Merlin.” Percival hunkered down into his bedroll, tugging his blanket over his shoulder. He rolled onto his side and tried to settle into sleep.
“Perhaps he should have stayed,” Arthur suggested, searching Elyan’s face.
The knight shrugged, tossing a twig into the fire. “You could always leave him home.”
Arthur scoffed.
“You’re right. He’d find a way to come along anyway.”
Guilt stirred in Arthur’s chest, the weary sway of Merlin’s gait painting how overburdened he had been recently. But then the fool came stomping back into camp, water sloshing over the edge of his buckets, and the guilt turned into something that burned, as though the fire he’d built had crawled its way into his heart.
Gwaine set up for the first watch and Merlin’s head finally found his pillow for the first time in days. Arthur watched him slink down under his covers and fall asleep almost instantly.
A sharp pain in his side startled Merlin awake and he spun upright to find, not a bandit with a dagger to his throat, nor a frantic knight with plans to flee, but Arthur, pouting down at him.
“Wha?”
“Breakfast.”
“Wha?”
Arthur didn’t bother repeating himself, instead walking off to help clear away camp.
Merlin frowned and got his bearings, rubbing sleep away from his eyes. Arthur’s mood was beginning to test his patience, but he didn’t want to add any more stress to the situation. The king was away from his vulnerable kingdom, his new queen testing regency for the first time, to face a beast whose kind had nearly destroyed all he’d ever known. The knights were able to make light of the situation, another day’s ride ahead of them before they reached the area of the sightings, and the hope of victory from the legendary defeat of the Great Dragon backing them. But Arthur had been downed in that battle, and had only just reclaimed his crown from a successful siege of power. He was at his limit, Merlin guessed, so he tried to ignore how little mind he paid to the treatment of his servant.
The chill of night still lingered in the air as Merlin knelt over the renewed fire and prepared a hearty stew, he felt some pressure against the inside of his nose and sniffled, hoping he could push through any congestion from the cold. He inhaled the steam of the stew deeply, easing his ongoing headache slightly.
Elyan and Gwaine sat with him over breakfast and whispered jokes about how overbearing Arthur was being. He shrugged them off with a snarky insult sent the king’s way and assured his knightly friends that he was doing just fine with the added pressure.
“Ready the horses, Merlin,” Arthur called from across the camp. “We’ve wasted enough time.”
Elyan clapped Merlin on the back as he pushed himself off his log and towards the party’s steeds.
The tension was uncomfortable as Arthur led his men towards the northwest edge of the Darkling Woods. Merlin carefully attended Arthur whenever he requested, offering soft, reassuring words about the battle to come. It made the king’s skin crawl.
And now the fool was stifling sniffles as the breeze picked up.
His knights weren’t making him feel any better either. He had always known his men had been close with his servant, but now more than ever, their trust in him was painfully prevalent. And he could hardly blame them.
Merlin had been a key component in the recruitment of many of them and the story of how he assisted the well remembered Lancelot was met with gratitude from his peers.
Leon respected Merlin as Arthur’s shadow, having seen just as much of his loyalty and selflessness as Arthur had as his eldest knight. Percival had long heard of Merlin before he had even bowed to the king, Lancelot having sung his praises like a proper bard. Elyan not only knew Merlin through his sister, but Merlin was also the one to help him bind his chest and talk with Gaius about other, more complicated treatments. And Gwaine . . . well Arthur was quite sure that Gwaine would go as far as to bed the man if given the chance. He was practically falling over himself in an attempt to court Merlin half the time, it was a wonder the idiot never noticed.
That, and Merlin saw to their wounds, cast their broken bones, brewed their medicines. He supported his men as much as they supported the king.
And all Arthur could think was: why?
Even now, he was at Arthur’s heels, illness creeping up on him, doing his part in their quest to find this dragon.
For the second time, actually.
Suddenly, Merlin sneezed, birds startling out of the nearby trees. Pulled out of his musings, Arthur groaned at the disturbance. He knew that this wasn’t his usual antics, them not being on a hunting trip, but he couldn’t help but be irritated by the man himself interrupting his turbulent thoughts.
Almost as if called upon by Merlin’s leaky nose, a holler sounded out from the woods, causing the knights to draw their swords. Three men, from the east, darted out of the brush brandishing curved blades and moved to force Percival and Leon down from their horses.
Gwaine turned his steed around and rode past the scuffle, snatching one of the men by the back of his coat and throwing him a few feet to the side with the momentum from his horse. Then, he swiftly dismounted and faced the recovering bandit with his sword at the ready.
Arthur stayed atop his horse, herding the bandits in towards his proficient men so that they could not take cover in the trees. He swung his sword, catching one in the arm, prompting him to turn with a snarl and target him.
Arthur’s horse reared as the blade flew past his eyes and Arthur fell back, landing hard on the ground. His sword knocked from his grip, he scrambled backwards, frantically feeling for his weapon. The bandit stood above him, striking with vigor but remaining just out of reach. Heart pounding in his chest and limbs burning from the exertion, Arthur spotted his sword across the road, causing his stomach to drop.
Suddenly, the bandit yelped and tripped over a tree root, face slamming down into the hard dirt. Arthur continued to scoot back until his hand touched something cold. He grabbed it, took it up and brandished it expertly as he climbed back onto his feet, and brought it down onto his enemy's shoulder in one fell swoop.
Looking down, in his hand was his own familiar sword.
The king’s head snapped up and he stared into the fray, eyes darting from face to face until he found the tall profile of his servant. He was crouched down at the forest’s edge, brow drawn up in focus as he watched the knights fight.
His eyes were stubbornly blue.
Arthur growled and rejoined the battle until all three men had fallen. His gaze was locked on Merlin as the lackey trudged back onto the path to take a look at the damage. He was breathing heavily through his mouth and frowning down at the bodies. “Bandits?”
His voice was thick and stuffy. Arthur didn’t answer him, just kept staring daggers into the side of Merlin’s head.
“No,” Percival said, prodding one of the men with his sword. He lightly lifted his cowl with his blade, revealing a crest on his brooch; a stylized flower set in brass.
Arthur’s eyes snapped to the symbol and he bit his lip. “Amata.”
Percival nodded.
“What would men from Amata be doing this far south?” Elyan asked, sheathing his sword.
Arthur shook his head in exasperation. “The Sarrum has a reputation for his collection of demented creatures.”
Percival, typically a man of few words, offered his own knowledge. “He is rumored to have bedding made of griffon’s feathers and a bathhouse heated by a horde of angry wyverns.”
“Exaggerations,” Arthur replied, deep in thought, “but not too far off.”
“He’s after the dragon?”
Arthur couldn’t help himself. He scowled at Merlin, his concerned expression only confusing the king even further. Merlin stared back at him, alarmed at the extreme response.
“That’d be my guess,” Gwaine muttered, too preoccupied looking at the unique crest to notice the altercation.
Arthur redirected his attention to the dead, nudging one of them with his foot. “Dig them a grave, Merlin. We’ll travel a bit further and camp early. We’ll have to start covering our tracks if we seek to avoid The Sarrum.”
A fat lot of good that night’s rest did me, Merlin thought to himself, sarcasm practically oozing out of his ears. His biceps ached from digging, though several of the knights had aided him whilst the other’s helped Arthur plan a more discrete route, and his headache was back in full swing. It pressed against his skull like boulders on his mind and he couldn’t get that look on Arthur’s face out of his memory.
He looked up through his lashes at the man, anger bubbling up within him. Surely the king’s mood wasn’t that sour. What had Merlin done to deserve such mistreatment?
And then, when they finally stopped for the night, Merlin began to ready dinner. They were in a clearing that was obviously used for logging some years past, and Merlin was using a rather wide tree stump as a makeshift table. He’d set the large vat of water down on it and was taking account of his dry ingredients when Arthur stepped up behind him and, out of the corner of his eye, Merlin watched him shove the bucket over, deliberately.
It spilled. All down Merlin’s pant, it had. And he jumped up as Arthur mumbled a half hearted apology and sent Leon to gather more water. He stepped away, Elyan and Gwaine coming to offer rags for him to dry, leaving Merlin to make soup, sopping wet.
Merlin cursed under his breath as he worked, the knights growing antsy as they watched him. The attitude, he could understand. Being overworked, he could excuse. But this? This was on purpose.
He didn’t miss how Arthur snatched his bowl away and ate on the far side of the fire, or how he stared holes through Merlin’s skin when his back was turned and refused to meet his gaze entirely when it wasn’t. Clearly, Arthur wasn’t just fretting about the dragon, or his queen, or his kingdom. Clearly something slimy had found its way up his ass and was turning him all sour from the inside out!
Merlin huffed as he levered himself into his bedroll for the night, crossing his arms and sleeping with his back turned to the king, which he regretted almost immediately because Arthur was staring at him. Again! The knights didn’t dare steal glances his way when they took watch. His headache pinched and poked at his brain and he sniffled and snorted until the phlegm running down the back of his throat was too much and he relented to panting through his mouth as he festered.
Any time he felt as though he was getting somewhere with his destiny something would come around and ruin it. And more often than not, that something was Arthur.