Chapter Text
Merlin had been many things throughout his service to Arthur. Punched, poisoned, drowned, thrown downstairs and into stone fireplaces.
But never, barring a few poison attempts, had he been anything even resembling the word sick.
A few hurried words with Gaius and now Merlin was huddled outside Arthur’s door. His face had been awkwardly shoved into a piece of cloth coated in something or other to temporarily clear the sinuses. Apparently, he had been sniffing for a few days, and Gaius had known to suspect something.
Merlin disagreed; he had been fine. Sleeping a little less, perhaps. Maybe, he needed to drink more water. Something simple and stupid like that.
But no matter what, Arthur could not know.
He wasn’t entirely sure why or when he had started to believe this, but it had hit him in full force. This was the sickest he had been throughout his entire service, and now not only would he be in condition to hunt down any assassins or otherwise magical threats – he could barely walk – he knew full well that Arthur did not, and would not, approve of any time of.
Especially not now.
He was Arthur Sigil carrier, after all. A role that, if he was honest with himself, should have gone to a knight of the realm or someone of that importance. Arthur certainly made fun of him enough to know that he would scuff it up or some other act. (Or melt it to pieces with accidental magic and claim it fell out his pocket and into the fireplace…Arthur might actually react better to the magic).
But that was beside the point. With this new responsibility, Merlin could never be off the clock.
Just be respectful. Then he won’t notice, he’s thick enough.
After his breathing had eased significantly, he opened the door and strolled inside. Only to see that Arthur was very much still in bed.
Unlike most mornings Merlin could not simply cry out with a ‘Rise and Shine’. His throat was too hoarse.
Merlin strolled over the window and threw open the curtains.
“Merlin?”
“Good Morning! A kingdom never waits for a lazy king.”
Arthur blinked up at him blandly, still not sitting up.
Merlin rustled through the wardrobe, throwing around just a few older tunics to add colour to the room, and pulled out the typical red with dark trousers.
Arthur still hadn’t sat up.
Merlin didn’t have time from this. His nose was going to come back with full force within minutes and there was only so long he could handle feeling like that before he collapsed into bed.
Strolling over to the bed, Merlin grabbed the coverings and yanked them onto the floor. Arthur pulled back, letting out a garbled sound, before eventually falling of the bed and lying on the ground surrounded by his red bed cloth.
“Tunic and trousers hung over the screen. I’ll be back with breakfast.” Another thing he totally did not forget to do.
His headache was already creeping back up on him again. The back of his head felt hot and tender, even though nothing was touching it.
He turned on his heel, not having the patience for Arthur’s cry of “Merlin?”
As soon as he was outside, he pressed the cloth to his face.
He felt awful. Even that brief walk and conversation had left him feeling like the world had decided earthquakes and thunderstorms were the best choice in weather that they had. His very flesh felt tender; like he had been in a long fight without armour.
As he walked towards the kitchens, his feet very nearly collapsed. He was so distracted he almost walked right past the serving stairs, and he would have missed the kitchen entirely if it hadn’t been for one of the serving maids quite literally grabbing him by the arm and shoving the tray into his hands.
“Something special on there, just for you!” The serving girl - Elenor - Merlin’s brain supplied. The simple act of looking down for a good moment he was quite convinced he was about to topple over from all the blood rushing to his head.
Sure enough, on the tray, there had clearly been placed serval extra sausages and a few tarts that very much did not seem like breakfast food.
But Merlin didn’t feel like eating. The very thought turned his stomach. Even something light, like soup, sounded physically repulsive.
“Thanks,” he muttered and began to make his way back up the stairs.
He was horribly sweaty all over. His clothes stuck to him, and he could feel heat rising uncomfortably under his hair. The desire to shave his entire head struck him with a considerable amount of force.
The way up to Arthur’s room felt shorter than usual. He wasn’t paying attention at all, not even when Gwaine leaned over a railing with a big grin on his face and a welcoming cry of “Merlin”.
He walked right past.
Upon reaching Arthurs door he pushed it open with the lower part of his arm. Not much you can do when you have a fuller-than-normal breakfast tray in your hands. Usually he would put it down, but if he did, he doubted if he would be able to pick it up again.
The door opened easily.
“Welcome back Merlin,” Arthur’s voice was dripping in sarcasm. He had (somehow) managed to dress himself but somehow had decided to simply get back into bed, with the covers still on the floor.
Merlin made sure to only bend over a little to place the breakfast tray on the side table.
He barley paid attention when Arthur looked at the tray in obvious confusion.
“Finally decided to increase my diet, Merlin?”
“Why, yes, of course,” Merlin said with only the smallest hint of sarcasm in his tone. “Even dollopheads deserve treat days.”
“Not hungry?” Arthur asked, picking up a sausage with his hands and biting into it. “There are far more sausages on this plate, and nearly a full block of cheese! What an absolute wonder.”
“Well, I’m glad you appreciated it,” Merlin found himself saying.
“My armour needs doing,” Arthur begins casually, “As does my boots and saddles. Sword as well. And mend that broken cape.”
The broken cape was not Arthur’s. At least, not originally.
On the last expedition into the woods, and the inevitable bandit attack, Gwaine’s cape had been ripped into several shreds. Tired of heading him complain, Arthur had shrugged off his own and stuffed the ripped red cape under his bum as the rode back to Camelot to try and keep him looking at least a little bit presentable.
Merlin walked out of the room and heard the crash as the boots failed to even hit the door.
The Sigil hug heavy in the front of his shirt. He had been so careful with it, creating a new pocket that lay hidden on the inside of his shirt, that held the Sigil secure. He might have lost several inches of length on the end of it, leading to more than a few unpleasant risings, but it would all be worth it in the end.
Arthur had given him this Sigil and he only worked out why a few days after.
Merlin knew what a Sigil represented; a concept he had been introduced to shortly after arriving in Camelot. A marriage proposal of the deepest and most romantic kind, a callback to the traditions of old – for those who appreciated such things.
As such, Arthur’s message was clear.
Keep it safe for my future bride.
It was rather odd that it had taken so long for Merlin to figure it out. He had actually tried to give the thing back to Arthur, leaving it inside his bedside cupboard, but when he returned to his quarters that night there was a guard outside the door.
Merlin had stared at the man as he pushed his own door open, watching suspiciously, expecting to be arrested for some meaningless – or less so – offence.
And the Sigil was lying on his bedside table, quite alone and unobtrusive. As soon as he picked it up, he heard the guard turn on his heels and leave, a light scoffing sound in his throat.
Protect it for me.
In many ways it was great news, Merlin thought as he skidded through the corridors best as he could with his addled mind, because Arthur trusted him. Or, at least, was so used to him being around that he assumed Merlin would be there when he finally wanted to propose.
Merlin sniffed loudly, and then gave a series of uncontrollable hearty coughs that seemed to reverberate through his entire body. Chest aching and throat burning, he stumbled foreword, nearly colliding with the nearest wall.
He awkwardly reached around to find his cloth, not that he thought it would particularly help, only to find that he had lost it somewhere along the way.
He tapped the Sigil that lay against his chest, right by his heart. It was all he could seem to do these days, even while working and operating on (supposedly) a fully working system, the Sigil hung below his collarbones under his neckerchief, and all he could do was tug and twist and move it.
Because it was something special. Something valuable. Something more valuable and more special than anything he had ever held in his hands.
It had become somewhat of a symbol to him. How he gave everything to the Pendragon’s (or, one in particular) and how even his skin lay the indents of his mark, carried cold against his chest.
Merlin eventually collapsed on a bench in the armoury deciding to do all of his chores in one go, starting with the boots. It wasn’t like he could move around a lot today…
The wood and bristles of the brush resembled thorns and holly in his hands, screaming as if set to burning coals. He brushed slowly, every go over seeming raw his hands further.
How could he protect anything like this?
Just two nights previous, he had been gripped with the fear of something happening whilst he was asleep, or when he was washing clothing having it fall into the washbasin. He hadn’t taken it off since, moving it from his pocket were anything could have happened to it, to tied around his neck.
Arthur had trusted him with this.
He couldn’t let him down.
This was the first step. The first step to everything. If Arthur could trust him, rely on him for something this big, then when Merlin’s magic was revealed then maybe, just maybe, he could trust him on that too.
Merlin doubled over.
But not with coughs, a burning spread from right next to his heart, shooting through his body in a burst of pain.
His head might have hit the back of the wooden brush as he nearly collapsed, but Merlin didn’t care.
He didn’t get sick often. Did everyone else have to deal with this? With no cure? He had known Gwen to work through illness before, and she had never collapsed like he had.
Pushing himself to his feet, he took a deep shuddering breath, waving his hand to get his magic to complete the boots.
Nothing happened for a long, painful moment.
And, when it finally did, it seemed drawn out of him by force. Like the magic was stuck inside of him like honey, drawn tight into his skin and unwilling to leave.
The shoes cleaned themselves slowly, making Merlin’s breathing rougher than before.
This was more than some sneeze.
Glancing out the window, Merlin’s heart dropped as he saw that the sun had risen to midday. It would soon be time for Arthur’s lunch. But, first, he knew he had to change him out of his armour and a hundred other things.
He still had time.
His sewing needles were in his room. He needed to mend that cape. Staggering to his feet, he went to do as such.
The trapse down the corridors could have, many years ago, been connected to the idea of trying to run up a mountain.
“Merlin?” Gwen and Gaius spoke together as he walked past, taking another long sniff of whatever it was that Gaius had coated it with. Through bleary eyes he could tell it was some red-brown concoction.
Earlier that day, he had said it smelled awful.
“Oh Merlin, you look awful!”
“You do look pale.”
“’M fine, just a cold,” Merlin insisted, trying everything he could to take a hard sniff. His nose was so blocked that nothing seemed to be able to get through.
Gaius’s tonic would fix it.
“You seem to have deteriorated from this morning.” Gaius tried.
“You look about to collapse!” Came Gwen’s more adamant refusal.
“You know me, Gwen, I’m always fine. It’s just a nasty cold that I will shake in a few days. Probably caught some disease off Arthur’s socks.”
The forced a chuckle from her lips, but the scrunched expression never left her face.
“And Gaius, you known better, you say all the time that physicians should be exposed and have as many illnesses that they can while they are young and can heal properly. If anything, this will help me work.”
The old man was silent.
Merlin gave a throaty cough, fighting to stay on his feet as his vision swam before his eyes.
“Gotta go sew up Arthur’s cloak, clumsy prat.” The words came out hollow, even as he waved the red fabric in the air.
He was sure his expression held the same emptiness, even as a wobbly smile crossed his lips.
“Be careful. Stop if it gets to much, I can always help out if you need. Not to insinutate that you couldn’t do anything but-”
“It’s all fine. Just need a moment to sit down and sew.”
Every step he took, the pain seemed to intensify, spreading throughout his chest. Just a cold, just a cold.
They have nothing to worry about.
The door shut behind him hard.
The pain reverberated again, far more brutal than before, and this time Merlin caught himself on his own dresser, breathing heavily as his chest burned. His very heart seemed to be pushing itself out of his chest.
Something was wrong. This was no ordinary sickness; sickness didn’t come from just one place. It didn’t all stem from a single, painful location.
His neckerchief came off first, yanking at the hastily made tie at the back. His fingers fumbled, seeming raw. On another man, Merlin would have said the looseness and clumsy nature of limbs that were normally so poised (as long as he had eyes facing in that direction) but Merlin knew that wasn’t the case.
His shirt was harder, as it came off he could feel his muscles protesting, aching and burning from his chest to his shoulder blades, forcing him to put his arms down several times in order to lessen the pain.
A whimper escaped through his tightly closed lips. A red-hot tear from his clenched eyes.
He yanked so hard on his own shirt that it ripped at the end. He could repair it later once he found out what was wrong.
He just needed to open his eyes.
Not knowing what to expect, he braced himself, as well as he could with eyes squeezed shut in pain. An infection from a wound left untreated? A burn of some kind? A curse?
When his eyes forced themselves open, he could have gagged.
Right were the Sigil lay against his chest, the very skin seemed to have come loose, sagging and horrifically swollen. Streaks of dark, dark red spread away from the swelling like a spiders web, making the very skin look pale and sickly. It almost looked like something was growing, roots and all, under his skin, desperate to get out.
Hand shaking, he grabbed the string of the Sigil and lifted it up, peering underneath. And for once, he really did gag.
The very skin seemed burnt away, to the point that Merlin almost thought he would see bone beneath it all.
It didn’t even look like skin, the colour almost black like charred coal, not so far away from his heart.
This was no infection.
This was cold iron.