@merthurmicrofic | sickness | 1076 words
Merlin has seen the Prince in many states, in the few months he has been serving him. He has seen him angry, seen him scared, seen him gloating, seen him tired, seen him drunk, seen him happy, has even seen him sad.
He has never seen the Prince like this. Arthur has come down with pox and has been confined to his chambers to prevent further spread of the illness amongst Camelot‘s nobles and courtiers. Merlin has been entrusted with his care-taking, which would be something of an honour if the Prince wasn’t Arthur.
Alas he is, and so everything is terrible for everyone.
Arthur is an awful patient; refusing to follow orders, unwilling to stay in bed, which means Merlin has had to bodily restrain the heir to the throne several times over the last few days.
Merlin is getting very, very sick of destiny.
“Merlin,” Arthur whines, kicking at his blankets, “give me more medicine, at once.”
Merlin continues his polishing. “No can do, Sire. You’re not due another dose for at least an hour, and Gaius says—”
Merlin looks around the room exaggeratedly. Arthur rolls his eyes. “He’s with Morgana, treating her,” Merlin says.
“I’m sure Guinevere lets Morgana have medicine whenever she asks for it,” Arthur replies, scowling.
“I can go and get Gwen, if you’d like. Let her tend to you instead.”
“Don’t you dare! Guinevere must not see me like this,” Arthur protests, and Merlin is pleased to note that the colour on his cheeks has nothing to do with his fever.
“In that case you’re stuck with me,” Merlin says, offering the Prince his brightest, most irritating smile, “and I say no more medicine.”
Arthur scoffs. “What do you know about treating sickness? A fat lot of nothing, I bet. You’re just enjoying my suffering, sadist that you are.”
“I don’t know if this malady has addled your brain, Sire, but I hope you can recall that I am Gaius’ apprentice, so I do, in fact, know a little bit about it. A great deal more than you do, anyway.”
“You can’t call me addled!”
“I didn’t say you were addled, I said I wasn’t sure if you were,” Merlin corrects.
“Right, and that’s much better.”
“Far less treasonous,” Merlin agrees, grinning.
“Merlin, please. I feel horrid.” Merlin pauses his polishing. Arthur never says please. He must be in a great deal of discomfort, to have resorted to begging like this. Begging Merlin, no less.
“I’m sure you do, Sire, and I sympathise, truly, but there is no cure that will help you feel better except time.”
Arthur groans, and throws a pillow. It lands just beside Merlin, but does not reach him. “Gods, you are so fired once I am better,” he threatens.
“If you want to fire me, go ahead, do it now. It would give me nothing but a great deal of pleasure to not be stuck here with you.”
“In that case, you’re not fired. Ever. You will work for me until you drop dead.”
“Not for long, then,” Merlin mutters.
“It wasn’t nothing. You said something disparaging, no doubt. Do you know, Merlin, what an honour it is to have your position?”
“Oh yes, looking after an itchy, irritable Prince, every young boy in the kingdom dreams of such a destiny.”
“Well I wouldn’t be irritable or itchy if you would just give me more medicine!”
Merlin sighs, cursing all the Gods of the old religion and the new, and especially the dragon. He picks up his polishing again.
“If you’re not going to do anything to help, you could at least entertain me,” Arthur says.
Merlin sends him a furious look. “I’m not a jester, you prat.”
“Look, Merlin,” Arthur says, “I’m sorry, all right? I’m in pain, and I’m bored, and you’re right, I’m irritable, and probably being petulant. I just hate inactivity. I can’t stand being cooped up in here.”
Merlin considers him for a long moment. “Why?” He asks.
“If I had nothing but free time, nothing to do but lie around and get waited on hand and foot, I would jump for joy. Anybody would!”
“I’m just not built for this kind of aimlessness. My whole life, I’ve had responsibilities, duties to the crown and to my kingdom. I’ve been training with the knights every day since I was 12. I don’t know how to just sit in a room and not do anything.”
“Of course I read. I read reports daily.”
“Not reports. Read for fun, I mean.”
Arthur’s face twists. “Not since I was a child. Besides, my hands are covered in liniment. I couldn’t turn the pages.”
“I could read to you, if you want?” Merlin offers.
Merlin sighs again. “Physicians apprentice, my Lord, of course I can read.”
“Do you do that, then? Read for fun?”
“All the time.” Mostly spell books at the moment, but he’s hardly going to tell the Prince that.
“All right then,” Arthur says. “You can read to me.”
“Ask nicely,” Merlin taunts.
“Fine, fine. Let me just—” he gets up, abandoning Arthur’s half-polished armour on the floor. He’d brought a book with him when he was informed he would be sleeping in the ante-chamber, something he would be able to read while Arthur dozed.
Merlin drags a chair to Arthur’s bedside, settles into a comfortable position. Arthur is sat up against the headboard, his bedsheets twisted around him. He looks at Merlin warily, until Merlin shows him the cover.
Arthur nods. Merlin begins to read, a fantastical tale of fairies and enchanted beasts. Arthur does not move, his whole body still, except his chest, which rises as he breathes. The room is quiet but for Merlin’s voice and the sound of the pages turning. They stay there, just like that, until Merlin feels hoarse. He looks up from the page to see Arthur’s eyes fixed upon him, his blue gaze at once soft and intense.
Merlin clears his throat. “You can have some more medicine, if you’d like,” he offers.
Arthur shakes his head. “No need.”
“Just. Keep reading. Please.”
Merlin averts his eyes before nodding, just once, his cheeks hot. He looks at the page, finds his place, and begins reading once more.
