Chapter Text
Merlin has been trying to sleep for long enough that the effort itself has become exhausting.
He turns onto one side for what feels like the hundredth time, then decides the mattress feels uneven and rolls onto his back again, dragging the blanket higher before kicking it away a moment later. His mind refuses to stay still. Every time he thinks he’s finally worn himself out enough to sleep, the same conversation comes creeping back and starts all over again.
Honestly, this is the last thing he needs. He’d spent most of last week telling himself he just had to get through the few miserable days he knew were coming, and then everything would start feeling normal again. He’d only just started sleeping properly when one stupid rumour came along and ruined that too.
It’s only a rumour. That is what he told himself the first time he heard it, and the explanation had seemed perfectly convincing then.
Castle servants could turn a broken cup into an assassination attempt before the pieces had even been swept from the floor. Give them the smallest scrap of information and a prince to gossip about, and they could keep themselves entertained for a week. Merlin has contributed to enough of those conversations himself to know how little substance they usually contain.
The problem is that this one contains him.
He pulls the blanket back over his feet and shuts his eyes, which only makes the memory clearer. He had been returning Arthur’s freshly mended cloak to his chambers that morning when two servants rounded the corner ahead of him, too busy talking to notice Merlin was there.
“I heard the prince might need a new personal servant.”
“Has the position opened?”
“Apparently. I was thinking of putting my name forward if it does.”
“You? He’d have you running back to the stewards before the first week was over.”
“At least I’d last longer than Thomas did.”
They’d looked up then, spotted him standing only a few yards away and fallen silent so quickly it had almost been funny. Merlin had continued walking because stopping would have only made the whole thing more embarrassing, offering them a cheerful greeting as he passed and pretending he had heard nothing more interesting than a discussion about laundry soap.
Merlin had laughed to himself afterwards. Arthur wasn’t looking for another servant. He’d have said something. Wouldn’t he? After all, Arthur had never been especially gifted at hiding what he thought.
If Merlin annoyed him, Arthur said so. If Merlin did something well, Arthur usually made it about five minutes pretending otherwise before giving in with spectacular reluctance. They argued, they bickered, Arthur complained about his terrible service with enough regularity that Merlin had stopped taking most of it seriously years ago. That was just them.
If Arthur genuinely wanted him gone, surely Merlin wouldn’t have to hear about it from passing servants carrying laundry. So Merlin had rolled his eyes and decided it was nonsense. Or at least, he’d meant to. Arthur had made that difficult.
He had spent the entire day behaving… strangely. Merlin hadn’t noticed at first because nothing Arthur did had been obvious enough to demand attention, but lying here now with the rumour working its way deeper into his thoughts, he could replay one moment after another, and suddenly none of them felt quite so harmless.
Arthur had been distracted through most of the morning, responding to Merlin’s comments a second too late and watching him whenever he seemed to think Merlin was occupied elsewhere. He had started to say something while they crossed the courtyard before falling silent halfway through the first word. Later, Merlin caught him watching from across the council chamber, only for Arthur to glance away the instant their eyes met. He still wasn’t sure what to make of the look.
Even luncheon had felt odd. Arthur had thanked him for bringing the meal, then hesitated as though another sentence was waiting somewhere behind the first before abruptly telling him he could go.
Maybe he was imagining it. Merlin desperately wanted to be imagining it. But the second conversation was harder to dismiss.
The second rumour had come near supper, when he went down to the kitchens to collect Arthur’s evening meal. He’d been outside the kitchens waiting for the tray to be finished when he’d heard his own name through the half-open door. He hadn’t meant to listen. Truly, he hadn’t. But hearing your own name has a way of rooting your feet to the floor before your conscience has a chance to object.
“Poor Merlin… Do you think he knows yet?”
“I doubt it. He was carrying the prince’s cloak around this morning as usual.”
“He lasted longer than any of the others.”
“That’s what surprises me.”
“I heard the prince’s already—”
Someone had glanced toward the doorway then, saw Merlin standing there and stopped so abruptly the rest of the room followed a moment later. Merlin had remained outside for another second, long enough to hear the scrape of a bowl and the crackle of the kitchen fire while his pulse started pounding uncomfortably in his throat. In the end, he decided standing there any longer would only make the silence more uncomfortable, so he pushed the door open and went inside. Arthur was expecting his dinner, after all.
The kitchen had lurched back into motion the second he crossed the threshold. Someone chopping onions with unnecessary determination while Cook launched into instructions about tomorrow’s bread in a voice loud enough to carry into the courtyard. Even A kitchen maid Merlin had known for years gave him an awkward smile and asked whether he was collecting Arthur’s tray, as though he had ever entered the kitchens at that hour for any other reason.
He had considered asking what they meant, only every possible question sounded too revealing. Have you heard Arthur is replacing me? Do you know why? Has he already chosen someone? The words would have turned the rumour into something real before Merlin was prepared to face it, and there was always the chance the kitchen knew nothing beyond the same half-formed gossip he had heard that morning. Asking would only ensure the entire castle knew Merlin was worried by supper tomorrow.
He drags both hands over his face and lies there with his palms pressed against his eyes until coloured sparks move through the darkness. This is absurd. Arthur has given him every reason to trust him over the years. Arthur would tell him. Arthur wouldn’t quietly replace him while smiling across the breakfast table as though nothing had changed.
Royal households prepare for everything, including servants falling ill, leaving Camelot or eventually losing patience with princes who consider six shirts necessary for a two-day hunting trip. Perhaps the steward mentioned replacements because Arthur had asked what happened if Merlin needed help, or if his duties changed, or if—
Merlin’s thoughts stop there because none of those possibilities explain the way Arthur has been acting.
Arthur is allowed to be distracted. He has council meetings, patrol reports, training schedules and a father who can turn breakfast into a political argument without warning. Merlin knows exactly how much Arthur has on his plate because Arthur complains about most of it while Merlin is trying to dress him. But that’s another part Merlin can’t make fit. Arthur complains to him.
He complains constantly, often at length and with very little concern for whether Merlin has asked. If Merlin is late, Arthur tells him. If a boot has been polished badly, Arthur shoves it back into his hands. If Merlin speaks out of turn, leaves a shirt creased or spends too long talking to Gwen on the way back from an errand, Arthur makes his opinion known to anyone close enough to hear. He has never hidden dissatisfaction well enough for Merlin to miss it. Surely being dismissed should come with some warning. Surely Arthur would tell him himself.
The thought should reassure him, yet his chest remains tight because Arthur had looked as though he wanted to tell him something all day. Perhaps he had been trying. Perhaps each awkward pause had been Arthur searching for a polite way to say Merlin had finally exhausted whatever patience had kept him employed this long. Merlin hates how easily that explanation fits once he lets it into his head.
The thought makes Merlin’s chest ache with enough force that he sits up. He should lie down. He knows that. Morning will come whether he sleeps or not, and Arthur will complain far more sincerely if Merlin drops a breakfast tray through exhaustion. But He can’t keep lying there letting his imagination run away with him.
He reaches for the blanket, then pauses when his eyes catch a spellbook tucked beneath a stack of folded shirts. He knows there’s something in there. He remembers skimming past it months ago, some old listening charm meant to recover echoes of conversations already spoken. It had seemed interesting when he first found it, although he had never imagined having any reason to use.
Merlin stares at the book while guilt knots beneath the anxiety already occupying his stomach. No. He is not going to search through Arthur’s private conversations because a few servants enjoy gossiping. The decision lasts for all of three seconds before another thought pushes to the front of his mind: I just need to know.
Once. One spell, one search for the subject and then he can stop doing this to himself. The magic will find nothing because there is nothing to find, and Merlin can spend tomorrow feeling ashamed of the whole ridiculous evening while Arthur remains blissfully unaware of how close his servant came to losing his mind over kitchen gossip.
That is all Merlin wants. He wants proof that the servants misunderstood. He wants Arthur’s strange behaviour to have an explanation involving council business, Uther or some other problem that has nothing to do with Merlin’s position. He wants to wake tomorrow and laugh at himself for believing anyone could replace him after everything he and Arthur have survived together.
The knot of guilt in his stomach tightens as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and reaches for the spellbook. He already knows he shouldn’t do this. He also knows that if he lies back down now, he’ll spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling wondering whether tomorrow is the day Arthur finally tells him he isn’t wanted anymore. He only needs peace of mind. That’s all.
Please don’t find anything. The thought comes with a rush of anxiety that tightens his throat as he places the book across his knees and begins searching for the page. Please let this be ridiculous. Please let me feel like an idiot afterwards.
~ ✦ ~
Merlin finds the spell three pages later, tucked between a charm for locating misplaced objects and a far more complicated working designed to recover names from damaged records. The title is written in smaller script than the others: A Seeking of Recent Speech.
He reads the description twice, partly to make sure he remembers it correctly and partly because beginning the spell means admitting he has decided to use it. It finds the strongest recent conversation connected to whatever subject the caster holds in mind and lets the caster hear the spoken words as though they were there. The down side is the result comes in fragments because the spell can only follow meaning instead of replaying a particular moment from beginning to end. Time simply does not preserve enough for the whole conversation to survive intact.
Merlin finds himself staring at the final line while his pulse beats harder against his throat. He tells himself that will have to enough. He is searching for one simple thing: whether Arthur has spoken to someone about replacing him. Either such a conversation exists or it doesn’t, and he doesn’t need every word to know the answer.
At least, that is the reasoning he uses while shifting the book onto the blanket and positioning himself against the wall. The room seems far too quiet now that he has committed himself, every small sound from the dying fire and the timbers overhead seeming twice as loud. He could still close the book. He could lie down, endure the rest of the night and ask Arthur directly in the morning if the fear has not worn itself out by then.
The thought of asking sends a fresh rush of anxiety through him. He imagines standing in Arthur’s chambers and trying to make the words sound casual while Arthur immediately realises how frightened he is. Worse, Arthur might answer. Merlin has spent the entire evening wanting certainty, yet the possibility of hearing the rumour confirmed to his face makes his stomach twist hard enough to leave him nauseous.
This is supposed to prevent that. He will cast the spell, find nothing and feel ashamed in private where Arthur never has to know. By breakfast he’ll be back to arguing with Arthur over something completely unimportant and stealing whatever looks best from his plate, while the whole ridiculous idea becomes something he can safely refuse to think about ever again. The picture is so ordinary that he holds onto it for several seconds, letting himself believe in it because the alternative already hurts too much.
Once he’s ready to continue, Merlin places one hand over the page and closes his eyes. The incantation is short, which somehow makes the choice feel worse; anything this intrusive ought to require hours of preparation and several opportunities to reconsider. Instead all he has to do is speak two lines and decide what he wants the magic to seek.
He draws in a breath and starts there, concentrating on Arthur, his own name, the rumours travelling through the castle and the possibility of another servant taking his place. Please let there be nothing. The thought comes back with enough force that his fingers tighten against the paper. Please let them have misunderstood. Please let me laugh at myself tomorrow.
Merlin lets himself hold onto that hope for one more second before turning his focus back to the spell, holding his intention in place and speaking before fear can stop him.
“Onwrēoh þā word. Gemyne þā spræce.”
The words have barely left his mouth before magic warms beneath his palm and moves upward through his arm in a slow, searching current. The spell folds inward, passing through his thoughts as it reaches for the meaning he has given it, and Merlin keeps his eyes closed as he concentrates harder, trying to hold Arthur’s face in his mind without letting his thoughts run away with him. He needs to keep his focus there; the echoes are fragile enough already without his concentration slipping and breaking them up even further.
Nothing happens for long enough that Merlin starts to think perhaps it isn’t going to work after all. Relief arrives so quickly that Merlin nearly laughs. His shoulders drop, the breath trapped in his chest escapes and he begins to pull his hand away from the book. Of course there is nothing. The whole castle has been entertaining itself with nonsense again, and Merlin has spent half the night frightening himself because he happened to overhear it twice.
He’s on the verge of pulling his hand away when Gwaine’s voice reaches him through the spell. “So you’re actually thinking about letting Merlin go?”
Gwaine sounds close enough that Merlin’s eyes open before he remembers there is no one in the room with him, and his stomach drops out from under him so suddenly he forgets to breathe. There could still be an explanation, he tells himself, clinging to the possibility. Gwaine may have heard the same rumour and asked Arthur directly. Arthur might laugh, deny it and complain that the castle has nothing better to discuss.
The hope Merlin had been clinging to disappears in an instant.
“How can I not?” Arthur answers. “I mean, you’ve seen how he is. He shows up late, takes at least twice as long just to complete simple tasks, and even when he’s finished, he hangs around…” The echo thins for a moment before strengthening again. “…instead of… And the way he talks to me… He’s always making some joke at my expense. He argues constantly. He steals food off my plate.”
Merlin winces before he can stop himself. There is no point pretending any of that is untrue. He is late often enough that Arthur has started assuming it before Merlin even arrives. Simple jobs do take longer than they should, particularly when Merlin keeps finding reasons to stay in Arthur’s rooms a little longer. He steals food openly enough that calling it stealing has become generous, and the way he speaks to Arthur would have had any other servant thrown from the castle within a week.
Merlin has always assumed Arthur understands. The arguments are part of them, as familiar as dressing for training or walking back from council together while Arthur complains about everyone inside it. Arthur calls him an idiot. Merlin calls him a prat. Neither of them means the worst of it, and Merlin has never thought he needed to explain that.
The thought pulls him far enough away from the spell that his concentration slips with it, and by the time Merlin drags his focus back to the connection, Arthur’s voice is already breaking apart, the magic faltering as it carries only scraps through the silence. “…an inconvenience… …a nuisance.”
Merlin feels something twist painfully in his chest. A nuisance. The words keep echoing through his head long after the voices have moved on.
He had expected criticism once the conversation began, because denying the list Arthur has just given would be ridiculous. He had not expected those words. Arthur has called him useless, incompetent and impossible more times than Merlin could count, but hearing Arthur say something like that to someone else is different.
Arthur insults him every day. They both know it’s part of the joke. This doesn’t feel like a joke. It strips away all the easy humour Merlin usually hides behind and leaves him wondering how long Arthur has been tolerating him while Merlin mistook tolerance for affection.
Merlin tries to pull his attention back to the spell, but holding the connection is getting harder with Arthur’s words still going round his head. By the time Gwaine’s voice returns, even less of it is coming through. “…dragging things out… just Merlin…”
Heat rushes into Merlin’s face, humiliation joining the hurt already pressing against his chest. Even Gwaine has noticed. Merlin can imagine him shrugging, trying to excuse the problem because that is simply what Merlin is like, as though being himself has become another failing everyone else has learned to work around.
He should have realised how obvious it was. Arthur had hardly needed to explain when anyone watching them could see Merlin making simple work difficult and treating the prince’s patience as though it had no limit.
Merlin catches his concentration slipping again and pulls it back until Arthur’s voice returns. “…maybe,” He says when the spell finds him again before silence swallows the next part, leaving Merlin straining after words he can’t reach. His voice comes through again in broken pieces a moment later. “…more trouble than it’s worth… …an obligation… never asked for… …something… to put up with.”
Merlin’s breath catches painfully. For a moment he can only hear the words. Then everything they seem to mean crashes into him. More trouble than he’s worth. An obligation Arthur never asked for. Something he has to put up with. Merlin had never considered that Arthur might see him that way.
Arthur already has Uther, the crown, Camelot and half the kingdom’s expectations pressing down on him every day. Merlin has seen that pressure in the exhaustion Arthur tries to hide and the way he sometimes stands at the window after council as though the city below has become something he must physically hold together. And Merlin has added himself to it. The last thing he needs is a servant who only makes his life more difficult, and apparently Merlin has been doing exactly that.
The realisation makes his eyes burn. He has spent years telling himself that what he gives Arthur matters enough to excuse the trouble that comes with him. Loyalty, advice, protection Arthur never knows he needs— but Arthur knows nothing about most of that. From where he stands, maybe Merlin is simply a difficult servant demanding patience Arthur doesn’t have to spare. Something Arthur has spent years putting up with.
By the time Merlin manages to catch hold of the spell again, his concentration is in pieces and the connection has deteriorated with it. The voices fade far enough that he wonders whether the spell has finished, then Arthur returns in another rush of disconnected phrases, and Merlin’s fingers curl into the blanket, his heartbeat pounding harder while he waits for whatever follows.
“…he could be doing so much more…”
“…making … miserable.”
“…I can’t keep…”
Merlin goes cold, his throat closing so tightly it hurts to swallow. He had been so consumed with the possibility that Arthur might replace him because he was failing that he never considered he might actively be making Arthur unhappy. The thought hurts worse than being replaced.
Losing his position would tear apart the life Merlin has built around Arthur, but at least he could tell himself it had happened because Arthur needed something different. Making Arthur miserable means every extra conversation Merlin stretched out, every argument he prolonged and every excuse he found to remain nearby has cost Arthur something.
Merlin thinks of this morning, Arthur standing at the window with words he could not bring himself to say. He thinks of the glances across the council chamber and the way Arthur dismissed him early, then feels sick at how obvious it seems now. Arthur has been searching for a way to tell him. Perhaps guilt has been the only thing stopping him.
He’s still caught on that thought when Arthur’s voice pushes through the weakening connection again, broken badly enough now that Merlin only catches a few scattered words. “…don’t want…” … “my servant…”
His heart twists around the words even before the rest arrives. The gaps widen even further, then Arthur’s voice comes through one last time, clearer than it has been since the beginning. “I can’t keep pretending this is working. Something has to change.”
That is enough. Merlin can’t sit here listening to any more of it. He tears his hand away from the page, and the magic breaks at once, Arthur’s voice vanishing until only the crackle of the fire and his own ragged breathing remain. The sudden silence feels enormous after having Arthur inside his head, and for a few seconds Merlin remains exactly where he is, one hand still lifted above the book as though he has forgotten what to do with it.
He has heard enough. Arthur is looking for someone else. He has already explained why to Gwaine in a conversation Merlin was never meant to hear, listing every failing Merlin has spent years pretending Arthur secretly found amusing.
Arthur thinks he is slow, argumentative and impossible to manage. Merlin has become an inconvenience, a nuisance, more trouble than he is worth and something Arthur is tired of having to put up with. He has made Arthur miserable, and Arthur can’t keep pretending this is working.
The spellbook remains open across Merlin’s knees while he stares at the page without seeing a single word. His hands have started shaking, and his pulse still hammers against his throat, yet the rest of him feels strangely disconnected from both. A few minutes ago he had been terrified the spell might find something. Now he sits in the dark with an answer worse than anything he had prepared himself to hear.
~ ✦ ~
Merlin has no idea how long he’s been sitting there before he remembers how to move. The room is exactly as it was before he cast the spell: fire nearly gone, shadows pressed into the corners, Gaius asleep on the other side of the wall. Somehow that makes it worse. Everything around him has carried on as though Arthur hasn’t just taken the life Merlin thought he had and quietly removed him from it.
His fingers begin to shake properly when he lowers his hand, and he presses both palms flat against the blanket, hoping the pressure will stop it, but the trembling travels into his arms instead. His throat aches with the effort of holding himself together, and when he swallows, the movement catches painfully enough that tears sting behind his eyes.
Merlin keeps staring at the page, blinking hard until the writing blurs. This is stupid.
He has survived poison, monsters, executions that came far too close and enough magical disasters to fill several lifetimes. He has watched Arthur ride into battles Merlin had no guarantee he could save him from and stood beside funeral pyres for people who deserved more years than they were given. Being replaced as a servant should barely matter beside any of that. It’s a position. Work. A title Arthur could take away as easily as Uther gave it to him in the first place.
Merlin tries to hold onto that, though he knows better than to believe it, and the first tear escapes before he can stop it, sliding hot across his cheek while he scrubs it away with the heel of his hand. His chest hurts so badly that every breath seems to catch on the way in, and embarrassment joins the misery because he has no right to feel this broken over something Arthur has every right to do.
The problem is that Merlin’s feelings for Arthur stopped being simple a long time ago. Somewhere along the way, Merlin fell completely, hopelessly in love with him. He has been for so long he can’t remember a time when he wasn’t.
He’s kept it a secret for years. Though it’s a ridiculous secret, really, considering half of Camelot has probably worked it out from the way he looks at Arthur when he forgets anyone else is there. Still, Merlin has done his best to keep it hidden beneath insults, complaints and enough eye-rolling to injure himself permanently. He has never said it aloud because saying it would make it real in a way he could no longer ignore, and because there are some truths too dangerous to place anywhere another person might reach them.
But the truth has lived inside him all the same. Merlin loves him with an embarrassing lack of restraint, through every terrible mood and impossible demand and reckless decision that has sent Merlin running after him with a spell already forming.
He loves Arthur when he is arrogant, when he is frightened, when he is trying so hard to be better than Uther that he forgets he already is. He loves the man who hands him the heavier end of everything and the man who quietly moves closer when Merlin is cold, then pretends it happened by accident.
Merlin has never expected anything to come of it. He has imagined things because apparently humiliation knows no limits even inside his own head. Sometimes Arthur smiles at him across a campfire and Merlin allows himself five reckless seconds of wondering. Sometimes their hands touch over a goblet or a sword belt and the moment stays with him for the rest of the day. There have been nights when Arthur falls asleep beside him on a journey, close enough that Merlin can feel his warmth, and Merlin lies awake wishing for something he would never dare ask for.
Wanting more has always felt dangerous, so Merlin has taught himself to live with what he has. But even if he’d never dared to hope for more, he thought what they had still meant something. That is what breaks through the hurt and leaves him struggling for breath again.
He had believed, perhaps foolishly, that somewhere between saving each other’s lives, arguing through long journeys and spending far too many evenings talking long after Merlin needed to stay, that he had become someone Arthur wanted around. He thought they had become friends.
Arthur rarely used the word, and Merlin had never asked him to, because Arthur would probably rather challenge a dragon bare-handed than discuss his feelings plainly. But he thought they both understood anyway. Apparently Merlin understood nothing.
Arthur’s complaints had always felt like part of them. Merlin arrived late, Arthur called him useless, Merlin insulted his intelligence and the day continued exactly as it should. He thought Arthur’s insults belonged to them, another piece of the strange language they had built together from arguments and grudging apologies and all the things neither of them could say directly. Merlin thought he could tell the difference between Arthur being genuinely angry and Arthur enjoying the argument far more than he would ever admit.
Now every memory feels uncertain. Perhaps Arthur meant all of it. Perhaps Merlin had convinced himself Arthur enjoyed having him around because he needed it and ignored how exhausting he had become. Maybe Arthur has only been tolerating him, waiting for Merlin to improve or leave, while Merlin kept stealing his food and stretching simple duties into conversations because he wanted another ten minutes in the same room.
The humiliation burns through him so quickly that he curls forward again, his face hot despite the cold creeping into the chamber. Merlin had thought Arthur wanted him. The words hurt even in the privacy of his own mind. He doesn’t mean wanted in the impossible way he dreams about when common sense abandons him entirely. He means wanted at breakfast, wanted beside him during long journeys, wanted in the rooms where Arthur lets the prince fall away and becomes someone only Merlin seems allowed to see. Merlin had believed that when Arthur called his name without thinking, it was because Merlin had become part of the shape of his life.
Now those few broken words have turned all of that into something else. Arthur thinks he is a nuisance. An inconvenience. More trouble than he’s worth. Merlin’s stomach twists so hard that he feels sick. Arthur already carries more than enough, however determined he is to pretend none of it gets to him. Merlin has watched the pressure wear him down and spent years trying to make things easier wherever he can, only to discover that somewhere along the way he became one more thing Arthur had to carry.
Worse, Arthur thinks Merlin is making him miserable. That one gets to him enough that a few more tears slip free before he can wipe them away. Losing his position would hurt, but the idea that his presence has made Arthur unhappy feels unbearable. Merlin has built so much of his life around protecting Arthur and giving him what little comfort he can, and all this time Arthur has apparently been waiting for a way to escape him without causing a scene.
Merlin drags the heel of his hand across his face and forces himself upright. His breathing remains uneven, though the worst of the first panic has passed, leaving him exhausted and hollow. He should close the book, lie down and let morning arrive before he tries to think about what happens next. Instead his mind reaches for the one argument that has carried him through every impossible choice since he came to Camelot. He has to stay beside Arthur.
It is his destiny. The dragon has told him often enough, usually in that infuriatingly knowing way that makes Merlin want to throw something at him. Arthur is meant to become the greatest king Albion has ever known, and Merlin is meant to guide him there. He can’t fulfil that destiny from the other side of the castle.
Arthur attracts danger with a dedication Merlin would admire if it were attached to anything less likely to get him killed. Protecting him already requires constant vigilance. A different position would make every part of that harder. Merlin would have to invent reasons to follow Arthur on hunts, patrols and journeys beyond Camelot, assuming anyone even let him. He wouldn’t be able to trail after Arthur the way he always had, with no one questioning why he was there.
That should be the most important reason. Merlin tells himself it is. Albion needs Arthur. The future needs him. Merlin has sacrificed too much and come too far to risk everything because Arthur has finally noticed his servant is terrible at serving. If Merlin loses his place beside him, the prophecy itself becomes harder to fulfil, and that is a risk he cannot accept. The argument is sensible, dutiful and almost convincing.
Underneath it lies a simpler truth Merlin cannot dress up as destiny, no matter how hard he tries. He wants to stay.
Merlin wants Arthur with a selfishness that has nothing to do with kingdoms or prophecies. He wants to see him every day. He wants the easy arguments, the private jokes and the moments when Arthur forgets anyone else is present and speaks to Merlin as though the space between prince and servant has disappeared. He wants Arthur’s voice in the morning and the tired version of his smile at night
Even if his servant is all Merlin ever gets to be, he wants it. Loving Arthur from nearby has already become the shape of Merlin’s life. Loving him from a distance sounds impossible.
Being his servant gave Merlin enough. It meant being beside Arthur every day, sharing all the ordinary routines Merlin had grown far too attached to. He could protect Arthur without explaining why he always happened to be there when danger found him. He had told himself that was enough because it had to be. Now even that is being taken away.
Merlin straightens and drags his sleeve across his face again, drying his cheeks as best he can. If Arthur gives the position to someone else, Merlin will lose every ordinary part of him. Someone else will enter his chambers first thing in the morning and know whether he slept. Someone else will fasten the straps at his shoulders, carry his meals and stand behind him during feasts while Arthur makes comments under his breath that no one else is supposed to hear.
Merlin will become someone Arthur only sees when their paths happen to cross. The thought of going from seeing him every day to barely seeing him at all frightens Merlin more than anything else has so far. Camelot is large enough that people can live within the same walls and go days without meeting.
Arthur will be busy, and Merlin will have no excuse to interrupt him over breakfast or follow him into council chambers carrying papers no one asked for. Eventually Arthur will become accustomed to whoever replaces Merlin, growing more familiar with them until the closeness Merlin had apparently imagined becomes real with someone else.
Perhaps they will be better at it. They will arrive on time. They will complete simple tasks without becoming distracted by magical creatures, sick villagers or the urge to spend another ten minutes arguing with Arthur for no reason beyond wanting the conversation to continue. They will keep their hands away from his food and speak with the proper respect due to a prince. Arthur will no longer have to carry the inconvenience of Merlin through every part of his day.
That thought hurts more than Merlin expects. The replacement would probably be competent, respectful and capable of completing a simple task without turning it into half a morning. Arthur might find the quiet pleasant. He might realise how much easier everything becomes when his servant listens the first time and keeps his hands away from the breakfast tray.
Merlin presses his fingers against his eyes until the pressure becomes painful. He can’t let that happen. He can’t bear the idea of losing Arthur because he failed at the one role that allowed him to remain close
The thought changes something. The hurt remains, heavy enough that Merlin suspects it will still be there tomorrow, but panic begins organising itself into something he can act on. Arthur has not dismissed him yet. The rumours had been right. Arthur is looking for a replacement, but looking is different from deciding. Merlin still has time.
The plan forms through the hurt with surprising speed, partly because Merlin needs something he can do and partly because Arthur has already given him the answer. He can fix this. Arthur’s complaints were painfully specific, which means Merlin knows exactly where to begin.
He can arrive on time. He can finish jobs quickly instead of dragging them out because Arthur happens to be nearby. He can keep his hands off Arthur’s breakfast, though that may prove difficult if there are sausages, but surely not impossible. He can stop arguing over every instruction and speak with the respect every other servant manages without apparent injury.
Merlin knows how a proper servant behaves. He has watched enough of them over the years to know exactly how they behave, even if he has rarely felt any desire to copy them. If he does better, Arthur may change his mind.
The thought makes something hopeful move beneath the pain. He pictures Arthur noticing the difference, perhaps after a few days, and deciding the problem has been fixed. Merlin doesn’t need praise. He doesn’t need Arthur to admit he had been reconsidering the position. He only needs the names of those replacements to remain a list in the steward’s office until everyone forgets why it was requested.
Merlin presses his sleeve against his face again and closes the spellbook. His hands still shake, though the trembling has weakened enough that he can carry the book back without dropping it. Tomorrow he will act normally, except better. He will smile, do what Arthur asks and keep every trace of tonight buried where Arthur cannot see it.
That may be the hardest part. Arthur notices Merlin’s moods with deeply inconvenient accuracy, particularly when Merlin needs him not to. If he walks into the chambers looking as though he has spent the night crying over Arthur’s private opinion of him, there will be questions. Merlin will have to blame tiredness, smoke from the fire or some medicinal ingredient Gaius made him grind. Preferably something that causes swollen eyes without requiring immediate treatment.
He returns to bed and lies down carefully, as though moving too quickly might undo the decision he has made. His cheek is still damp when he presses it into the pillow, and sleep feels far away, but remaining awake will only make the first task harder. Arthur’s list begins with lateness. Merlin can correct that much immediately.
Tomorrow he will arrive bright and early. He will become the servant Arthur wants. And if Merlin does everything properly, perhaps Arthur will still let him stay.