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Summary
Years ago, when Merlin had only just started as Arthur’s manservant, Arthur found the idiot standing awkwardly in his chambers, flushed and embarrassed and smelling like the barest outer edge of heat.
“I forgot to take my herbs,” he explained, twisting his hands together. “I’m sorry. I have to--”
Arthur waved a hand to forestall any explanation. “When should I expect you back?”
“Three days ought to do it,” Merlin replied, visibly relieved. “Thank you, sire.”