Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin, its characters, settings, or events; all rights belong to its creators.

Cover art created by Phoebe594, who is incredibly flexible and utterly remarkable.

Trigger Warning: Talks about death. A lot.

Gaius's first thought had been that there was something with Arthur, despite the fact that he had heard nothing of the sort from the boy's father or anyone else in Camelot, including Merlin, who wouldn't usually keep that sort of thing from him. But Merlin was often the first to hear of these things and he had just recently lied to Gaius for several days about the Druid girl Freya and might even still be upset at Gaius for his part in the girl's death enough that he wouldn't be inclined to share unless absolutely necessary for Arthur's survival. And he could think of nothing short of worry for Arthur's safety that would drive Merlin to practice a single spell over and over for two days with such desperate intensity to get it right.

But then the spell finally did go right and Gaius peeked curiously through the partially open door to Merlin's bedroom at the sound of his muted exclamation.

The only effect was a single, ordinary strawberry—and a wavering smile from Merlin.

His second thought was that the foolish boy simply had a desire for strawberries and somehow thought producing one out of thin air an appropriate use of his magic; he felt a bit of relief at that, that his boy was back to himself after days spent silently grieving, hiding himself from even Gaius.

But then instead of eating the strawberry, he'd cradled it tenderly to his chest and wept, truly wept for the first time since the girl had died, with great, gasping sobs that Gaius was helpless to understand or stop.

So Gaius eventually left him to himself.

In the morning, the strawberry lay on the small table by Merlin's bed, alone next to the candle as though in a place of honor.

And Gaius didn't know what to think.

He didn't see much of the boy that day, busy as they both were, so he was never able to bring the subject up. Nevertheless, he checked again the next morning to see if the strawberry was still there.

There were two.

Another day went by without talking to his boy; the next morning, there were three.

That evening, he finally cornered Merlin. The boy was sitting on his bed, supposedly preparing to sleep but actually staring at the three bright red berries as they glowed in the candlelight, his face still and his eyes sad, when Gaius surprised him by pushing through the door.

He asked him about the strawberries.

And Merlin told him.

Finally told him the full story of the Druid girl, putting together all the pieces Gaius had already worked out and stitching them into a sad tale of curses and death and lakes and strawberries that he hadn't been able to give her.

And Gaius understood.

He understood what Merlin had lost.

He understood that Merlin hadn't felt himself able to fully grieve because nobody but Gaius could know any of it and he couldn't even share it with Gaius because of Gaius's part in her death; that Merlin wasn't angry with him, but instead concerned about hurting the old man by grieving a love whose death he'd been even partially responsible for.

(He understood that he'd failed his boy in more ways than one this time.)

He understood that Merlin was hurting and felt guilty as he always did, but never angry.

He understood that Merlin had been unable to do two things for his Freya: keep her alive, and give her strawberries, and that one of those was too big to think about so he focused on the other.

He understood Merlin's grief.

Being a physician—and an old one, at that—Gaius had seen many people grieve. He'd seen people be hollowed out by grief or broken forever or twisted beyond recognition. He'd seen people focus on nothing outside of their grief and he'd seen others focus on anything but and still others who focused on one particular thing that they connected to a time when their loved one had been alive. He'd seen people try to make those around them feel their hurt. He'd seen people try to find someone or something to blame. He'd seen people try to keep their loved ones alive in their memories and honor those memories as best they could.

Uther, for example, blamed magic and determined to eradicate it, violently and finally, and created a war that resulted in an endless cycle of hatred and fear and death and suffering.

But Merlin tried to keep Freya with him by learning to do the one thing he couldn't do for her when she was alive.

Uther reacted to his loss with anger and hatred.

Merlin reacted with love and forgiveness.

Uther, who was meant to be the just and wise ruler of a fair and prosperous land and believed himself so, shed an endless sea of blood in his grief.

Merlin, who had asked him if he was a monster and believed himself so, created strawberries in his.

How ironic, Gaius thought as he tucked in the boy who'd cried himself to sleep, and so sad: that he who thinks himself a monster should be so kind, while the reason for his suffering thinks himself righteous.

And even more so, he thought as he blew out the candle and the strawberries caught his eye, that spilt blood and strawberries should be so opposite and yet so alike in color.

So, the alternate title for this was "Merlin is Berry Sad," but that seemed . . . inappropriate? Rude? Inconsistent with the tone of the actual story? Anyway, I hope that bit of info helps lift the mood I just killed if I did my job right.

Thanks for reading through to the end! As always, reviews and critiques of all kinds are most welcome as I am always looking to improve; if you've got flames, bring 'em-just don't light a pyre under me.

Have a lovely day!

M1ssUnd3rst4nd1ng