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“The stables need mucking, my fireplace needs sweeping, and my armor needs polishing.”
“But does it really need cleaning? I just did it last night, you must have been so busy to dirty it again so quickl--”
Merlin cuts off as he ducks the goblet thrown at him, grinning. Arthur glares at him over his quill and sends another projectile flying, but Merlin just laughs and continues to drag the bag of dirty laundry towards the door.
“So rude, sire, is such violence really necessary--”
Merlin winces as an empty inkpot smacks into his temple, and Arthur waits. But Merlin just chuckles and tosses a tired smile over his shoulder, shutting the door behind him, and Arthur relaxes. He stands up and strides to the inkpot, picking it up; it was rather heavy, but his servant hadn’t seen bothered, so he put it out of his mind. After all, Merlin has survived far worse items being lobbed at him.
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Merlin grunts as he scrubs harder at the breastplate of Arthur’s armor. Despite his teasing, the prince’s armor was dirty all along the left side, a result of a hard day’s riding around the perimeter of Camelot’s territory and bandit-related skirmishes. Just a few hours earlier, Merlin had cleaned and wrapped a small wound on Arthur’s arm from a thief’s sword. The metal was covered in streaks of mud and small scratches that Merlin was attempting to buff out.
Most servants would have scraped away the mud and left; done their duty and gone. Not Merlin, though, no, he was far too loyal. Even if Arthur never knew how many times Merlin had saved his life, the servant could show his dedication in other ways. As such, he scrubbed harder, working at the caked dirt despite his tired arms.
Merlin was very tired; though, that was nothing new. It was common for him to stay awake for days at a time, whether it was to foil an assassination attempt or simply to complete all his chores. In fact, Merlin had spent a full hour on the the next day, planning out Arthur’s schedule and arranging for his breakfast to be made, among other things. Then Arthur had found more things for him to do, and here he was, polishing soiled armor in the moonlight in the armory. Even now, he was exhausted, having stayed awake three days in a row to attend to his prince.
So, Merlin was tired, and that was to be expected. The sharp pain shooting through his skull was less anticipated, making his vision just a tad blurry. The young man tried to ignore it, hunching over the breastplate and scrubbing harder at the spots that just kept appearing on the pockmarked metal.
Suddenly, a piercing wave of agony swept through his head. Merlin hissed in pain and smalled his eyes shut, riding out the pain that felt like daggers puncturing his skull. After several moments, the pain passed, and Merlin was able to force his eyelids open.
His arm had fallen numbly to his side, the scrap of polishing fabric fluttering to the stone floor. Merlin blinked, then blinked again, sluggishly trying to drag his hand back up to the armor on his lap. His slim fingers fumbled with the leather strap before more dark spots appeared on the metal, and Merlin squinted, leaning over even further. He tried to focus his rapidly-blurring vision on another dark spot that had just appeared, swiping clumsy fingers through it.
Blood.
Merlin was able to recognize the flow of dark liquid just before darkness overtook him.
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Gwaine made his way through the castle hallways towards the armory. His nightmares of past battles had woken him up again, and since he couldn’t go back to sleep, he figured beating on a training dummy couldn’t hurt.
He nodded to the prince as he passed the man’s study, the open door giving him a view of the blonde’s head bowed over yet another legal document he was required to look at. Arthur returned the nod, and Gwaine continued on the hundred or so feet before reaching the door to the armory. Pushing the heavy oaken door open, he moved towards the rack of practice swords before seeing the dark shape on the floor.
“Merlin!”
Rushing over, Gwaine recognizes Merlin’s body on the ground, one arm slung over Arthur’s armor and a small puddle of blood near his head. Falling to his knees, Gwaine rolled Merlin over and pulled him onto his lap. Merlin was pale and the shadows under his eyes were so dark they resembled bruises; part of his hair was matted to his head, blood oozing from a rather large cut that ran from underneath his right eye, over his ear, and disappeared into his dark curls. “Merlin, please mate, open your eyes.”
A dark drop of crimson blood rolls down Merlin’s motionless cheek.
“Arthur!” Gwaine bellows, curling protectively over his friend. “ARTHUR!”
He shrieks until Arthur comes skidding into the armory, two guards not three feet behind him. The blonde hits the wall before pushing off and sliding to his knees next to Gwaine, shock and then panic in his eyes.
“Get Gaius!”
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Arthur doesn’t even realized Gwaine is speaking to him until the man drops onto the bench next to him, shoulders knocking painfully.
“--e alright, just needs a lot of rest and food. The boy’s been starving himself and keeping himself awake for days.”
“I--how’s his head?” Arthur stutters, fumbling with the neckerchief in his hands. Gaius had yanked it off of Merlin’s neck when Gwaine carried him in, along with his jacket and shirt. The manservant now lay naked but covered with a thick blanket from Arthur’s own quarters in his bed, and Arthur and Gwaine were watching over him. Gaius had carefully stitched the laceration on his temple and coaxed the boy’s throat to swallow a nutrient-rich potion to speed his body’s reawakening.
“He’s fine, Arthur. Just a little banged up and in need of a long night’s rest, and a day’s pampering.”
“But...Gwaine, I...it’s my fault.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Arthur sat back, staring at his knight in shock. Gwaine shrugged.
“What? I’m not going to argue with on that. It is your fault. You hurt him, you drove him like a workhorse. It is your fault.” The knight pushed his long hair out of his face, staring at Arthur. “But Merlin is also my best friend, and I know him well. You couldn’t have known. Merlin is very good at hiding things about himself--he could be dying and you’d never know.”
“That’s not something to be joking about,” Arthur managed weakly, the thought making him nauseous. Gwaine clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“No, it isn’t, but you know what I’m getting at. Merlin likes to internalize his pain. He’s so loyal to you, Arthur, don’t you see? He’d die for you, if not in battle than in a situation like this. He’d work until his hands fell off. You need to realized just how far Merlin would go for you, in every aspect of his life. He loves you. With all his heart.”
Arthur gaped at Gwaine. His mouth opened and closed uselessly for several seconds until a quiet whimper distracted both of them. Arthur tripped over his own feet in his haste to get up.
“Merlin?” he implored, grasping his friend’s hand tightly. The bones grated together sickeningly, and Arthur loosened his grip, realizing how thin Merlin was.
“A-Arthur?” Merlin whispered, cracking his eyes open. “What…?”
His eyes rolled crazily and he tried to rise; Arthur pressed a gentle hand to his chest.
“Shh,” he hushed, planting a soft kiss above the laceration before resting his forehead on Merlin’s. “I’m sorry, Merlin. So, so sorry.”
“I forgive you, Arthur. I always will.”
Arthur closed his eyes and pressed a chaste kiss to the lips beneath his.
“I know.”