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Hunith dies from a fever a week before Beltane. It was quick, the messenger says. She didn’t suffer. But he won’t meet Arthur’s eyes when he says it.
It took almost three weeks to get a messenger to Camelot. At first, no one was allowed to leave the village, until they could be sure that the fever wouldn’t spread. By then, the villagers had already burnt Hunith’s body and all her belongings in an effort to prevent the fever from spreading.
“So there’s nothing left,” Merlin says, in a flat dead voice.
Most people ignore Merlin, especially in Arthur’s presence. It is as it should be. Merlin is a servant. He should be in the background. People do not look past the Crown Prince of Camelot to address his messy-haired man-servant. But the messenger doesn’t hesitate. He meets Merlin’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, sir. For your loss.”
Arthur is a little shocked when Merlin begins to laugh, a high, frantic sound that catches in his throat. He forgets the messenger entirely in the next moment, when Merlin begins choking. Eyes bulging and watering, clawing at his throat. Arthur doesn’t have a clue what Merlin could be choking on but it’s obvious he can’t breathe. Before he can grab Merlin, shake him and order him to breathe, goddammit, breathe, there’s a loud whoosh and every tapestry in the Great Hall, from the rural scenes depicting plentiful harvests to the embroidery his mother did before she married, a knight that looks suspiciously like his father returning home from battle, bursts into flames. The heat is incredible. The tapestries are huge heavy things Arthur has seen used to smother small fires before, but they go up in smoke like handkerchiefs. Not even the Pendragon crest, hanging above his father’s throne is spared.
And this is all secondary to the fact that Merlin can’t breathe.
“Merlin!”
The flames extinguish themselves when Merlin’s breath chokes off entirely.
“Merlin! Merlin, breathe! Breathe, damn it! Come on, breathe!”
Arthur shakes Merlin, yells for Sir Leon to get Gaius, get him now for God’s sake and hurry, and shakes Merlin again for good measure. He can feel Merlin’s pulse beating frantically under his hand, see it quivering in Merlin’s long neck like a frantic bird, trapped, helpless. Merlin slumps in his hands, his lips turning a ghostly ghastly grey, but his eyes are still open. His eyes are staring into Arthur’s, that incredible, impossible blue burning into Arthur’s eyes and he knows Merlin can see him, despite the tears and the darkness that must be encroaching on his vision by now. He lowers Merlin to the floor carefully, then wrenches open Merlin’s mouth to try and see just what the hell the idiot is choking on, but there’s nothing there.
“Sire?”
“Gaius, help. Help him, something… he’s choking, I don’t know on what, he just started…”
Gaius is scared. Arthur can see it and it terrifies him. Gaius doesn’t get scared. But Gaius still manages to don the cloak of professionalism he wears like Arthur dons his armor before striding into battle. Still manages to step to the straining, trembling body of his ward. It feels like hours since Merlin stopped breathing but Arthur knows it’s only been seconds, has to be because Merlin would be dead, dead, and he’s not. He’s not breathing, he’s choking, he’s blue, but he’s still somehow alive.
“What happened, Sire?”
“It’s…” Arthur glances around for the messenger but he’s gone, escorted out by Sir Leon and the two men exchange a glance. Leon nods and steps to the door, after casting one last look at the prone body of Arthur’s manservant. The doors close behind him with a heavy thud.
“Sire, quickly.” Gaius kneels and begins running his hands over Merlin’s trembling, straining body, trying to find the source of Merlin’s distress.
Arthur nods. “Hunith’s dead. I’m sorry, Gaius. But Hunith’s dead.”
Merlin makes a strangled noise from the floor, his hands scrabbling for Gaius’s robes. He somehow manages to pull himself up a bit, half-lying, half-sitting, and stares into Gaius’s eyes. His mouth moves, but no sound emerges. Both men read his lips plainly.
No.
Gaius’s eyes brighten with tears but he firms his chin and looks directly into Merlin’s haunted eyes. “Merlin, you must try and stay still.” He doesn’t look at Arthur when he speaks, too busy trying to help the boy who is like a son to him, but his next question is obviously meant for him.
“Arthur, what happened?”
Arthur wants to laugh. He wants desperately to be able to laugh at Merlin’s ridiculousness. Because this is bloody ridiculous, Merlin choking to death in the middle of the Hall. But he looks so damn thin and frail, breakable, lying on the cold stones of the Great Hall and Arthur thinks helplessly this is so wrong.
“I don’t… Gaius, he just… when the messenger told him the news, he just... first he laughed. This… strange laugh. Then he couldn’t breathe. He’s choking, Gaius. What the hell is wrong with him?”
Gaius pulls a small vial of liquid from the sleeve of his robe. He forces Merlin’s mouth open and pours it in, stroking Merlin’s throat to ensure he swallows. “Sire, I don’t know. I think it might be shock. Shock from the… the news of his mother. This should calm him, help him to breathe naturally.”
Merlin thrashes on the floor at their feet and they watch in horror as Merlin begin to convulse, every muscle in his body locking down tight. His fingernails scrabble against the floor, seeking a hold, a grip and Arthur leans down and grasps Merlin’s hand. He winces at the pressure. Merlin, who can barely walk upright carrying Arthur’s crossbow suddenly has a grip of iron. The incredible strength behind it amazes him.
Merlin’s back bows so hard that only the tip of his head and the heels of his feet are on the floor. Arthur has seen men in agony like this, from poison or sorcery and he waits breathlessly to see if Merlin’s spine will snap in two.
After an endless moment, Merlin goes limp, collapsing to the floor. His hand lays in Arthur’s, and Arthur clutches it desperately, certain that Merlin is gone.
When he hears the low ragged inhale, Arthur is certain for a moment that he’s dreaming.
Gaius chuckles weakly in relief. “He’s breathing again. Whatever it was, it’s passed. Sire, we need to get him to his room. Can you ask one of the guards—“
“I’ll do it.”
Gaius looks shocked, but Arthur ignores him. He doesn’t care what people think. He doesn’t care what his men think or what Morgana thinks or what his father thinks. He’s just watched Merlin’s death throes. Again. He’ll be damned if he’s letting the little idiot out of his sight anytime soon.
Arthur crouches beside Merlin’s too-still body and gently slides one hand under Merlin’s shoulders and the other under his knees. He lifts Merlin into his arms, shocked and a little appalled at how light Merlin feels. He’s insubstantial in Arthur’s arms, like a ghost or a dream. Like a puff of wind will dispel him forever. Arthur shifts Merlin so he lays against Arthur’s chest, so that Merlin’s cheek rubs against Arthur’s shoulder. And if Arthur turns his face, rubs his cheek against the soft dark hair, smelling of herbs and dust and Merlin, well.
It’s been a rough day, after all.
He doesn’t think of Hunith as he strides after Gaius down the hallway. He doesn’t think of how proud she was of her son, serving in the royal household. How proud she was of Arthur, for coming to Ealdor’s aid against his father’s wishes. He doesn’t think about how he hoped his own mother was proud of him, and wondered if she would have looked at him with the fond, mildly exasperated look that crossed Hunith’s face whenever she looked at Merlin.
He doesn’t think of her at all.
He brushes past Gaius at the doorway to Gaius’ workroom and shoulders the door open, managing to not bang Merlin’s head on the doorframe. He thinks fleetingly he shouldn’t have bothered. Maybe a good sharp smack to the head is what Merlin needs to snap out of this. He lays Merlin on the narrow bed in the middle of the sick room and has to fight to keep himself from stroking the dark hair off that pale forehead.
“Sire, I’ll take it from here.”
Arthur nods. He knows Gaius will help. He knows it. He knows there’s nothing he can do. He doesn’t have even the miniscule amount of medical training that Gaius has given Merlin. He knows how to field-dress a wound, how to remove an arrow with a minimum of tearing, how to offer comfort to one of his knights as they lay dying. But this? Arthur’s as helpless now as Merlin is with a beautiful woman.
“I’m staying.”
Gaius nods like he didn’t expect anything else, but tries to argue anyway. “Sire, there’s really nothing that—“
“I’ll make it an order if I have to, Gaius.”
Gaius sighs a little and nods again. He quickly fills a bowl with clean water and dampens a rag. Wringing it out, he lays it over Merlin’s forehead. After checking Merlin’s pulse and breathing, he begins puttering around the table where all his books and herbs are laid out, glancing over this and that, never taking his eyes off Merlin for long.
“What the hell happened to him?”
Gaius glances up from his books. “I’m not really certain, Sire. It’s possible it was shock, from the news of his mother.”
Arthur glances at Gaius a little disbelievingly. “Gaius, shock makes you pass out. It makes you cry, it makes you shake. It doesn’t cause people to choke until they turn blue.”
Gaius nods, going back to the books. “As you say, Sire. With a little luck, Merlin should be waking up soon. Perhaps we can ask him then.”
Arthur nods. He knows he’s grasping at the why, the reason for all of this as a way to keep his mind occupied. He’s at a bit of a loose end, not really sure what he should do. He only knows he can’t leave Merlin like this. He has to know Merlin will be alright. He has to know why.
“You could talk to him, Sire.”
Arthur glances over. “What?”
Gaius pauses in washing out one of his smaller cauldrons. “It is believed Sire, that people can still hear what’s going on around them when they are unconscious. It is also believed that hearing a familiar voice talking to them can bring them around.”
Arthur shrugs uncomfortably. He can’t do that, simply sit down and start talking. It’s ridiculous. He’ll just stay for a bit longer and Merlin will wake up, and everything will be fine. Then Arthur can go back to his chambers and if Merlin is feeling up to it, he will bring Arthur his supper and call him a prat and then maybe Arthur can throw a roll at his head. Arthur hasn’t thrown a roll at Merlin’s head all week.
Arthur paces a bit but he knows he’s not fooling Gaius. He never moves far from Merlin’s bedside, just a few steps to each side of it. After the hundredth trip past, he decides to hell with it. Gaius won’t tell his father if he sits by his servant’s—by his friend’s—bed and talks to him a bit.
He sits in the chair beside the bed and leans forward so he can pitch his voice low enough that Gaius won’t overhear, but that Merlin will. Gaius begins grinding some of his smellier herbs together and Arthur’s glad he won’t be at the receiving end of whatever it is Gaius is making. Hopefully Merlin will have to drink it when he wakes up. Hopefully it’ll taste really bad. Like… dung. That would be great.
“Wake up you moron. Wake up this instant.”
Nothing happens and Arthur shakes his head at himself. Merlin’s never obeyed an order in his life. Why the hell would he start now?
“Merlin, please. I know… I know you’re upset. I’m so sorry about your mother. But you’ve… you’ve got to wake up. This isn’t good. You have… you have work to do. My armor. It… it needs polishing. My hauberk is filthy and I don’t trust one of the squires to clean it properly.”
Arthur rubs a hand over his face. He has no idea what he’s talking about. But he can’t think. All he can see is Merlin clawing at his own throat. The welts stand out against the pale skin and he wants to lay his lips over them, to soothe their stinging with his tongue and…
Gaius’ hand lands on his shoulder and Arthur jerks up straight in the chair. He flashes Gaius a panicked look, like the court physician could have heard his thoughts, but Gaius simply hands Arthur a small pot of ointment and says, “For his fingers. To help with the healing and prevent fever.
Did you want me to administer it, sire?”
Arthur glances at the tiny container and shakes his head. That’s when he notices Merlin’s hands.
The tips of those long sensitive fingers are raw, the nails cracked and bleeding and there are scrapes and bruises all over his palms from flailing against the hard stone floor of the hall.
Arthur carefully picks up one of Merlin’s hands and begins dabbing the ointment, something cool and sharp-smelling, over the worst of the scrapes. Suddenly, as he smoothes the slightly greasy balm over Merlin’s palms, Arthur finds his voice.
“Hunith loved you Merlin. She loved you and she was proud of you. You must never doubt that. She told me so herself when we were in Ealdor. I was envious of you. You shouldn’t get a swelled head or anything. You’re still a useless imbecile. But I envied you your mother. How she looked at you. Like there wasn’t anything so good in the world as her son.”
Arthur pauses for a moment, scoots his chair closer to Merlin’s bedside so he can reach Merlin’s other hand. Gaius catches his eye for a moment and makes a gesture towards the door. Arthur nods and Gaius snatches up his carryall and heads for the exit. Off to get supplies, Arthur supposes.
That’s good. He doesn’t want anyone else overhearing his conversation with Merlin.
He rubs Merlin’s hand between his, smearing the ointment over the rough skin, wincing at a particular gash across the fleshy part of Merlin’s thumb.
“You know my mother died when I was born. I never knew her and yet I’ve mourned her all my life. Mourned for myself, for what I never got to have. The Crown Prince of Camelot, and yet I think… I know I would have given it all up in a heartbeat for a chance to talk to my mother just once.”
The ointment is gone, only it’s sharp cool smell remaining, but Arthur doesn’t let go of Merlin’s hand. He keeps running his fingers lightly over the soft skin. Merlin’s hands should be calloused, rough. But a blind man would think Merlin was the nobility and Arthur the servant.
“But… Merlin, I don’t know what happens when we die. But I don’t think the people we love ever leave us completely. I’ve always felt like my mother was with me somehow, just out of sight. Watching over me. And I know, I know your mother hasn’t left you either.”
Arthur encircles Merlin’s slim wrist, letting his fingers play over the delicate array of tendon and bone. He can feel Merlin’s pulse fluttering under his fingertips. It’s light and fast and Arthur gives up trying to count the beats after a moment or two.
“Merlin, this is the quietest you’ve ever been during one of our ‘talks’. I feel I should take advantage. Gaius says you can probably hear me. I know you won’t listen, you never listen to me, you stupid ass, but you damn well better hear me.”
Arthur takes a deep breath. Maybe if he spells out some home truths for Merlin, the idiot will wake up. Because this is getting ridiculous. It isn’t right. Arthur should be able to command Merlin to open his eyes and Merlin should obey, because when it comes right down to it, Merlin obeys Arthur’s every command. Well, alright. Maybe not. Maybe Merlin obeys when he damn well feels like it and if that isn’t an inconvenient habit to have in a servant, Arthur doesn’t know what is. But Arthur can’t remember a time when Merlin didn’t give Arthur exactly what he needed, even if Arthur didn’t realize what that was. And right now Arthur needs Merlin to open his eyes. Open his eyes and look at Arthur with that shocking blue gaze that said Arthur was everything Merlin would ever want, ever.
“I’ve been waiting, Merlin. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me the truth and to be quite frank, I’m sick of it. You take too damn long doing everything, whether it’s fetching my breakfast or polishing my armor and you’re taking too damn long with this too. Now I’m stuck here waiting for you to wake the hell up and you’re taking your sweet time with that. I’ve given you every opportunity but like the moron you are, you keep missing the moment. And now, because you’ve decided to have a little unexplained choking fit and an extended nap, you’re missing the moment again. So, I’m going to say this just once and then we won’t need to discuss it again. And since it’s unlikely that anyone is going to come through Gaius’ door and try to kill me, you won’t need to interrupt our little talk to save my life again, now will you?”
Arthur’s hands have a mind of their own apparently and the left hand has decided that it should continue to hold Merlin’s hand while the right strays up to stroke through Merlin’s hair, which is just as soft as Arthur always imagined. He wants to press a kiss to it, to feel those soft strands against his lips. Then he can move down slightly and kiss Merlin’s forehead. After that it’s just a quick move to Merlin’s lips.
But first he has something to say.
“By this time, you’d be sputtering and coming up with stupid excuses that wouldn’t work on the castle hounds, let alone on a prince, but I’d let you get away with it, because you weren’t ready to tell me. But like I said, I’m tired of waiting. I know about your magic, Merlin. I’ve known for months.” He leans forward and presses his lips to Merlin’s ear. “Do you hear me, Merlin? I know. I know you’re a sorcerer. And I don’t care. I love you anyway.”
Arthur sits back, satisfied. If anything would make Merlin open his eyes, surely it would be a declaration of both love and magic.
But as always, Merlin stymies Arthur at every turn and continues to lie unresponsive.
Arthur glares at the prone figure lying on the bed. He’s not lying or exaggerating. He does love Merlin, thinks he has since Merlin stood in front of him with the goblet in his outstretched arm and drank poison for him without flinching, so brave and scared and noble. He’s known about Merlin’s magic for almost as long.
The light that guided him from the cave had felt so familiar to him, so warm and comforting, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Then one day shortly after Merlin recovered, they had been walking down a dark corridor in the castle and Merlin, carrying the torch so they could both see, had jogged ahead of Arthur, calling back teasingly for him to keep up. Arthur had stopped dead. Merlin had come back to see why Arthur had fallen behind and Arthur had again been swept up in that feeling of warmth. He’d known in that instant who Merlin was, what he was. Once he’d realized, he’d wanted to slap himself that it had taken so long for him to notice. Merlin was appallingly bad at hiding what he was, what he could do.
Arthur had thought fleetingly of telling his father. Fleetingly because he’d realized almost instantly that Merlin was only concerned with protecting Arthur. He’d risked his life several times already for Arthur’s sake. Hell, he risked his life every day, just by living in Camelot. Arthur couldn’t reward that kind of loyalty with a death sentence. And of course he had fallen in love with the idiot.
He was also sure that Merlin was in love with him. The boy stood around making ridiculous cow-eyes at Arthur every time his back was turned and nobody went to all the trouble that Merlin went to if they didn’t have some feelings for the other person, so Arthur was fairly confident in his assessment that Merlin loved him too. As a servant, Merlin couldn’t simply walk up to Arthur and declare his undying love, so he’d been waiting for some sign from Arthur that his feelings might be welcomed. And Merlin was such a giant girl that Arthur’s confession at Merlin’s deathbed should have had the silly twit jumping up and down for joy.
So why the hell wasn’t Merlin waking up?
Arthur sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. His other never let go of Merlin’s hand. He was so tired. It was late, hours since he should have sought his bed and yet here he sat, his mind tumbling over questions and trying to piece together what had happened, just to keep from going insane with worry.
Why had Merlin started choking? That was the question Arthur wanted an answer to. That was what he wanted to understand. Every instinct he had, as a prince and a warrior and a leader, demanded he answer that question.
He runs his thumb over Merlin’s knuckles, remembering times he’d seen Merlin clench his fists in anger or frustration, or when channeling his magic. He thought idly that he’d heard of and seen some powerful sorcerers in his life, been the target of their spells and plots, but he’d never heard of any as powerful as Merlin appeared to be. Merlin’s magic was natural; an in-born gift, not something he cultivated through sacrifice and promises to dark forces. Rather like Arthur’s skill with a sword. No one had shown him how to hold the sword, how to parry a blow. He’d simply known. Understood instinctively the power that the blade gave him, and how best to use it.
Arthur’s training has always been more about control then technique. He could remember one time he almost killed another knight in a training session, simply because the other man had made some taunting comments and Arthur had lacked the ability to ignore his emotions and had instead poured them out into the fight. The anger and frustration had built in Arthur until he’d been berserk with rage, pounding on the other man’s defenses until he’d tried to yield. Arthur had ignored him and if it hadn’t been for the other men on the field at the time, he might have slit the knight’s throat. They’d held him down until Arthur had come back to himself, absolutely mortified and disgusted with his behavior. He had never lost control like that again, never let his emotions blind him to what he was capable of. He had learned to channel his anger and his rage, turn them into a better fighter.
He looks thoughtfully at his servant, at his sorcerer, and wonders if that’s it. Power and how to use it. Power and the need to control it. Merlin and all his power and all the things he can do. Yet he’s still as helpless as a babe when it comes to some things.
Arthur leans forward, his lips brushing Merlin’s ear. He doesn’t want anyone to overhear them, should Gaius happen to return.
“It’s not your fault, Merlin. You couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t save her. But it’s not your fault. You didn’t hurt anyone. The magic didn’t hurt anyone, Merlin. Come back. It’s okay. I’m here and I’m not leaving you. Come back. You can’t hurt me, Merlin. I’m here. I love you. Come back.”
Arthur doesn’t move away. He rests his forehead against Merlin’s and waits.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed but his back aches from leaning over this way. But finally he feels the flutter of Merlin’s eyelashes against his cheek.
“Arthur?”
He sighs. Thank God.
“Merlin, you stupid ass. What the hell were you playing at?”
Merlin stares at him for a moment with such a sad look Arthur almost apologizes. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he whispers.
Arthur scoffs. “As if I would ever be afraid of a lack-brain like you. Whatever are you going on about?”
Merlin shakes his head slowly. “I was so angry. So angry at the villagers and at the messenger. At myself. At you. I was so angry and it hurt so bad, to know she died all alone. In pain and suffering and I wasn’t there, and I just wanted to make everyone hurt as bad as I did. I could feel it, I could feel the magic wanting to make it happen and I couldn’t control it. It couldn’t save my mother, but it could make everyone feel her pain, feel my pain and for a moment, I didn’t want to stop it.” Merlin stops and bites his lip before he continues, his voice low and hoarse. “What kind of person does that make me?”
Arthur smiles gently. He runs his hand through Merlin’s hair again, watching as Merlin’s eyes close to better enjoy the caress. “A normal one, you idiot. And it doesn’t matter what the magic wanted to do. You stopped it. You almost died stopping it.” He sits back, finally letting go of Merlin for the first time in what feels like hours. He ignores the cross look on Merlin’s face when Arthur lets go of his hand. “And if you ever do such a stupid thing again, you’ll spend a week in the stocks. Do I make myself clear?”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “Don’t be an ass.”
“Merlin, do we need to go over the proper forms of address that a servant must give their prince?” Arthur grins when Merlin rolls his eyes again. “Your Highness is preferred. Sire is tolerable. Prat is ignored. But ass? Merlin. I can hear the stocks calling your name.”
Merlin reaches out a hand and Arthur determinedly ignores the way it trembles. He leans forward and lets the hand snag in his tunic, tugging him downward. Once he’s within reach, it wraps around the back of his neck, holding him in place. Their foreheads are touching, noses rubbing, breathing each other’s air. For the first time since Arthur heard of Hunith’s death, he feels a fist unclench from around his heart.
“I’m so sorry about your mother, Merlin.”
Merlin lets out a shuddering breath. He takes another, and another, his breath coming faster and faster until he’s almost hyperventilating. He looks at Arthur frantically.
Arthur leans up and kisses his forehead gently. “It’s alright, Merlin. You won’t hurt me. I trust you.” And then he presses his lips to Merlin’s in their first kiss.
It’s frantic and scared and tastes of salt and loss. Merlin’s mouth opens to his immediately, his tongue twining with Arthur’s. He tastes of something sweet and good like honey and Arthur chases the taste with his tongue. He maps the contours of Merlin’s mouth, tracing over the roof of his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, pulling back to nip at the soft lips before diving in again. They kiss for what feels like hours, hands roaming over clothes and through hair. Merlin begins crying at one point and he kisses away the tears, whispering over and over that it’s alright and I’m sorry and I love you and I trust you.
When they finally pull back, Merlin’s eyes are sore-looking and bloodshot, but he exudes a sense of peace. The franticness of before is gone. Arthur rubs a thumb under his eye, wiping away the last trace of tears.
“You alright?”
Merlin nods his head at the same time he says, “No.”
Arthur chuckles. He kisses Merlin again, already addicted to his sweet taste.
“But you will be,” he promises.
Merlin smiles softly. “But I will be,” he echoes.
The End.